THERE are two great currents which divide public opinion in the whole
world, and all mankind may be classed into one or other of these
wide categories, “the people who praise, and the people who abuse
everything.” In certain sets, all is as it ought to be, in this life.
Everybody is good, dear, and amiable. All the men are gifted and
agreeable; all the women fascinating and pretty. An indiscriminate
shower of laudations falls upon everything or everybody, and the only
surprise the bearer feels is how a world, so chuck full of excellence,
can possibly consist with what one reads occasionally in the “Times” and
the “Chronicle.”
The second category is the Roland to this Oliver, and embraces those who
have a good word for nobody, and in whose estimation the globe is one
great penal settlement, the overseers being neither more nor less than
the best-conducted among the convicts. The chief business of these
people in life is to chronicle family disgraces and misfortunes, to
store their memories with defalcations, frauds, suicides, disreputable
transactions at play, unfair duels, seductions, and the like, and to be
always prepared, on the first mention of a name, to connect its owner,
or his grandmother, with some memorable blot, or some unfortunate event
of years before. If the everlasting laudations of the one set make
life too sweet to be wholesome, the eternal disparagement of the other
renders it too bitter to be enjoyable; nor would it be easy to say
whether society suffers more from the exercise of this mock charity on
the one side, or the practice of universal malevolence on the other.
Perhaps our readers will feel grateful when we assure them that we are
not intent upon pushing the investigation further. The consideration
was forced upon us by thinking of Colonel Haggerstone, who was a
distinguished member of class No. 2. His mind was a police sheet, or
rather like a page of that celebrated “Livre Noir,” wherein all the
unexpiated offences of a nation are registered. He knew the family
disasters of all Europe, and not a name could be mentioned in society
to which he could not tag either a seduction, a fraud, a swindle, or a
poltroonery; and when such revelations are given prosaically, with all
the circumstances of date, time, and place, unrelieved by the slightest
spice of wit or imagination, but simply narrated as “Memoires pour
servir a l'Histoire” of an individual, the world is very apt to accept
them as evidences of knowledge of life, rather than what they really
are, proofs of a malignant disposition. In this way, Haggerstone seemed
to many the mere “old soldier,” and nothing more; whereas, if nature had
given him either fancy or epigrammatic smartness, he would have been set
down for the incarnation of slander.
It may seem strange that Lady Hester, who had lived a good deal in the
world, should never have met a character of this type, but so it was;
she belonged to a certain “fast set” in society, who seem to ask for a
kind of indemnity for all they do, by never, on any occasion, stopping
to criticise their neighbors. This semblance of good nature is a better
defensive armor than the uninitiated know of, enlisting all loose
sympathies with its possessor, and even gaining for its advocates that
great floating majority who speak much and think little.
In London, Haggerstone would have at once appeared the very worst
“ton,” and she would have avoided the acquaintance of a man so unhappily
gifted; but here, at Baden, with nothing to do, none to speak to, he
became actually a prize, and she listened to him for hours with pleasure
as he recounted all the misdeeds of those “dear, dear friends” who had
made up her own “world.” There was at heart, too, the soothing flattery
that whispered, “He can say nothing of me; the worst he can hint is,
that I married a man old enough to be my father, and if I did, I am
heartily sorry for the mistake.”
He was shrewd enough soon to detect the family differences that
prevailed, and to take advantage of them, not by any imprudent or
ill-advised allusion to what would have enlisted her Ladyship's pride
in opposition, but by suggesting occupations and amusements that he saw
would be distasteful to the others, and thus alienate her more and more
from their companionship. In fact, his great object was to make Lady
Hester a disciple of that new school which owns Georges Sand for its
patron, “and calls itself Lionue.” It would be foreign to our purpose
here were we to stop and seek to what social causes this new sect owes
existence. In a great measure it may be traced to the prevailing taste
of men for club life, to that lounging ease which exacts no tribute of
respect or even attention, but suffers men to indulge their caprices to
any extent of selfishness; thus unfitting them for ladies' society,
or only such society as that of ladies condescending enough to unsex
themselves, and to talk upon themes and discuss subjects that usually
are reserved for other audiences.
Certain clever men liked this liberty, these receptions were a kind of
free port, where all could be admitted duty free. Nothing was forbidden
in this wide tariff, and so conversation, emancipated from the
restriction of better society, permitted a thousand occasions of
display, that gradually attracted people to these reunions, and made all
other society appear cold, formal, and hypocritical by contrast. This
new invention had not reached England when Lady Hester quitted it, but
she listened to a description of its merits with considerable interest.
There were many points, too, in which it chimed in with her notions. It
had novelty, liberty, and unbounded caprice amongst its recommendations;
and lastly, it was certain to outrage the “Onslows.” It was a “part”
which admitted of any amount of interpolations. Under its sanction she
would be free to say anything, know any one, and go anywhere. Blessed
immunity that permitted all and denied nothing!
With all the vulgar requirements of “Lionism” she was already
sufficiently conversant. She could ride, drive, shoot, and fence; was
a very tolerable billiard-player, and could row a little. But with the
higher walks of the craft she had made no acquaintance; she had not
learned to swim, had never smoked, and was in dark ignorance of that
form of language which, half mystical and all-mischievous, is in vogue
with the members of this sect. That she could acquire all these
things rapidly and easily the colonel assured her, and, by way
of “matriculating,” reminded her of her challenge respecting the
pistol-shooting, for which he had made every preparation in the garden
of the hotel.
True to his word, he had selected a very pretty alley, at the end of
which rose a wall sufficiently high to guard against accidents from
stray shots. On a table were displayed, in all the dandyism such
objects are capable of, a handsome case of pistols, with all the varied
appliances of kid leather for wadding, bullet-moulds, rammers, hammers,
screws, and rests, even to a russia-leather bound note-book, to record
the successes, nothing had been forgotten; and Lady Hester surveyed with
pleasure preparations which at least implied an anxious attention to her
wishes.
“Only fancy the barbarism of the land we live in,” said he; “I have sent
emissaries on every side to seek for some of those plaster images so
common in every city of Europe, but in vain. Instead of your ladyship
cutting off Joan of Arc's head, or sending your bullet through some
redoubtable enemy of England, you must waste your prowess and skill
upon an ignoble jar of porcelain, or a vase of Bohemian glass; unless,
indeed, my last messenger shall have proved more fortunate, and I
believe such is the case.” As he spoke, his servant came up with a small
parcel carefully enveloped in paper.
“I have got this figure, sir,” said he, “with the greatest difficulty,
and only indeed by pretending we wanted it as an ornamental statue. The
little fellow of the toy-shop parted with it in tears, as if it had been
his brother.”
“It is very beautiful!” said Lady Hester, as she surveyed a small wooden
statue of Goethe's “Marguerite,” in the attitude of plucking the petals
of a flower to decide upon her lover's fidelity.
“A mere toy!” said Haggerstone. “These things are carved by every child
in the Black Forest. Does your Ladyship think you could hit the feather
of her cap without hurting the head?”
“I couldn't think of such profanation,” replied she; “there is really
something very pretty in the attitude and expression. Pray let us
reserve her for some less terrible destiny.”
But the colonel persisted in assuring her that these were the commonest
knick-knacks that adorned every peasant's cabin, that every boor with a
rusty knife carved similar figures, and in the midst of his explanations
he placed the statue upon a little stone pillar about twenty paces off.
Lady Hester's objection had been little more than a caprice; indeed, had
she been convinced that the figure was a valuable work of art, she
would have felt rather flattered than otherwise at the costliness of the
entertainment provided for her. Like Cleopatra's pearl, it would have
had the charm of extravagance at least; but she never gave the colonel
credit for such gallantry, and the more readily believed all he said on
the subject.
Colonel Haggerstone proceeded to load the pistols with all that pomp and
circumstance so amusingly displayed by certain people on like occasions.
The bullets, encased in little globes of chamois, carefully powdered
with emery, were forced down the barrels by a hammer, the hair trigger
adjusted, and the weapon delivered to Lady Hester with due solemnity.
“If I go wide of the mark, Colonel, I beg you to remember that I have
not had a pistol in my hand for above three years; indeed, it must be
nearly four years since I shot a match with Lord Norwood.”
“Lord Norwood! indeed!” said Haggerstone. “I wasn't aware that your
Ladyship had ever been his antagonist.”
Had not Lady Hester been herself anxious to hide the confusion the
allusion to the viscount always occasioned her, she could not have
failed to remark how uncomfortably astonished was Haggerstone at the
mention of that name. Nervously eager to do something anything that
might relieve her embarrassment she pulled the trigger; but the aim was
an erring one, and no trace of the bullet to be seen.
“There 's no use in looking for it, Colonel Haggerstone,” said she,
pettishly; “I'm certain I was very wide of the mark.”
“I 'm positive I saw the plaster drop from the wall somewhere
hereabouts,” said the complaisant Colonel, pointing to a spot close
beside the figure. “Yes, and the twigs are broken here.”
“No matter; I certainly missed, and that's quite enough. I told you I
should, before I fired; and when one has the anticipation of failure, it
is so easy to vindicate the impression.”
[Illustration: 094]
It was in evident chagrin at her want of success that she spoke, and all
her companion's flatteries went for nothing. Meanwhile, he presented the
second pistol, which, taking hastily, and without giving herself time
for an aim, she discharged with a like result.
“I 'll not try again,” said she, pettishly. “Either the pistols don't
suit me, or the place or the light is bad. Something is wrong, that's
certain.”
Haggerstone bit his lip in silence, and went on reloading the pistols
without trusting himself to reply. A little conflict was going on within
him, and all his intended flatteries for her Ladyship were warring with
the desire to display his own skill, for he was a celebrated shot, and
not a little vain of the accomplishment. Vanity carried the day at last,
and taking up the weapon, he raised it slowly to a level with his eye. A
second or two he held it thus, his hand steady as a piece of marble.
“I have taken my aim, and now you may give the word for me to fire when
you please,” said he, turning his eyes from the object, and looking
straight at Lady Hester.
She stared at him as if to reassure herself of the direction of his
glance, and then called out “Fire!” The shot rang out clear and sharp;
with it arose a shrill cry of agony, and straight before them, at the
foot of the pillar, lay something which looked like a roll of clothes,
only that by its panting motion it indicated life. Haggerstone sprang
forward, and to his horror discovered the dwarf, Hans Roeckle, who, with
his arm broken, lay actually bathed in blood. With his remaining hand he
clasped the little statue to his bosom, while he muttered to himself the
words “Gerettet! saved! saved!”
While Lady Hester hurried for assistance, Haggerstone bound up the
bleeding vessels with his handkerchief; and in such German as he could
command, asked how the accident had befallen.
A few low muttering sounds were all the dwarf uttered, but he kissed the
little image with a devotion that seemed like insanity. Meanwhile the
colonel's servant, coming up, at once recognized Hans, and exclaimed,
“It is the little fellow of the toy-shop, sir. I told you with what
reluctance he parted with this figure. He must be mad, I think.”
The wild looks and eager expressions of the dwarf, as he clutched the
image and pressed it to his heart, seemed to warrant the suspicion; and
Haggerstone thought he could read insanity in every line of the poor
creature's face. To the crowd that instantaneously gathered around the
inn door, and which included many of his friends and acquaintances, Hans
would give no other explanation of the event than that it was a mere
accident; that he was passing, and received the shot by chance; nothing
more.
“Is he not mad, or a fool?” asked Haggerstone of the innkeeper.
“Neither, sir; Hans Roeckle is an old and respected burgher of our town,
and although eccentric and odd in his way, is not wanting for good sense
or good nature.”
“Ay! ay!” cried two or three of his townsfolk, to whom the landlord
translated the Colonel's question; “Hans is a kind-hearted fellow, and
if he loves his dolls and wooden images over-much, he never lacks in
affection for living creatures.”
While these and such-like observations were making around him, the
dwarf's wounds were being dressed by his friend, Ludwig Kraus, an
operation of considerable pain, that the little fellow bore with heroic
tranquillity. Not a word of complaint, not a syllable of impatience
escaped him; and while from his half-closed lips a low, muttered
exclamation of “Saved! saved!” came forth from time to time, the
bystanders deemed it the utterance of gratitude for his own escape with
life.
But once only did any expression of irritation burst from him, it was
when Haggerstone pulled out his purse, and with an ostentatious display
of munificence asked him to name his recompense. “Take me home; take me
hence!” said Hans, impatiently. “Tell the rich 'Englander' that there
are wounds for which sorrow would be an ample cure, but there are others
which insult is sure to fester.”