NOT even Mademoiselle Celestine herself, nor the two London footmen now
condemned to exhibit their splendid proportions to the untutored gaze
of German rustics, could have chafed and fretted under the unhappy
detention at Baden with a greater impatience than did George Onslow,
a young Guardsman, who often fancied that London, out of season, was
a species of Palmyra; who lived but for the life that only one capital
affords; who could not credit the fact that people could ride, dress,
dine, and drive anywhere else, was lamentably “ill bestowed” among the
hills and valleys, the winding glens and dense pine forests of a little
corner of Germany.
If he liked the excitement of hard exercise, it was when the pleasure
was combined with somewhat of peril, as in a fox-hunt, or heightened by
the animation of a contest, in a rowing-match. Scenery, too, he cared
for, when it came among the incidents of a deer-stalking day in the
Highlands. Even walking, if it were a match against time, was positively
not distasteful; but to ride, walk, row, or exert himself, for the mere
exercise, was in his philosophy only a degree better than a sentence
to the treadmill, the slavery being voluntary not serving to exalt the
motive.
To a mind thus constituted, the delay at Baden was intolerable.
Lady Hester's system of small irritations and provocations rendered
domesticity and home life out of the question. She was never much given
to reading at any time, and now books were not to be had; Sydney was so
taken up with studying German, that she was quite uncompanionable. Her
father was too weak to bear much conversation; and as for Grounsell,
George always set him down for a quiz: good-hearted in his way, but a
bit of a bore, and too fond of old stories. Had he been a young lady, in
such a predicament, he would have kept a journal, a pretty martyrology
of himself and his feelings, and eked out his sorrows between Childe
Harold and Werther. Had he been an elderly one, he would have written
folios by the post, and covered acres of canvas with dogs in worsted,
and tigers in Berlin wool. Alas! he had no such resources. Education had
supplied him with but one comfort and consolation, a cigar; and so he
smoked away incessantly: sometimes as he lounged out of the window,
after breakfast, in all the glory of an embroidered velvet cap, and a
gorgeous dressing-gown; sometimes as he sauntered in the empty saloon,
or the deserted corridors, in the weed-grown garden, in the dishabille
of a many-pocketed shooting-jacket and cork-soled shoes; now, as he
lounged along the dreary streets, or passed along the little wooden
bridge, wondering within himself how much longer a man could resist the
temptation that suggested a spring over the balustrade into the dark
pool beneath.
He had come abroad partly for Sydney's sake, partly because, having
“gone somewhat too fast” in town, an absence had become advisable. But
now, as he sauntered about the deserted streets of the little village,
not knowing how long the durance might last, without an occupation,
without a resource, both his brotherly love and prudence began to
fail him, and he wished he had remained behind, and taken the chances,
whatever they might be, of his creditors' forbearance. His moneyed
embarrassments involved nothing dishonorable; he had done no more than
what some score of very well-principled young men have done, and are
doing at this very hour, ay, good reader, and will do again, when you
and I have gone where all our moralizing will not deceive any more, he
had contracted debts, the payment of which must depend upon others; he
had borrowed what no efforts of his own could restore; he had gambled,
and lost sums totally disproportionate to his fortune; but, in all these
things, he was still within the pale of honorable conduct, at least, so
said the code under which he lived, and George believed it.
Sir Stafford, who only learned about the half of his son's liabilities,
was thunderstruck at the amount. It was scarcely a year and a half ago
that he had paid all George's debts, and they were then no trifle; and
now he saw all the old items revived and magnified, as if there was only
one beaten road to ruin, and that began at Crocky's, and ended at “the
Bench.” The very names of the dramatis personae were the same. It
was Lazarus Levi lent the money, at sixty per cent; it was another
patriarch, called Gideon Masham, discounted the same. A lucky viscount
had once more “done the trick” at hazard; and if Cribbiter had not
broken down in training, why Madame Pompadour had, and so the same
result came about. George Onslow had got what Newmarket men call a
“squeeze,” and was in for about seven thousand pounds.
Nothing is more remarkable in our English code social, than the
ingenuity with which we have contrived to divide ranks and classes of
men, making distinctions so subtle that only long habit and training
are able to appreciate. Not alone are the gradations of our nobility
accurately defined, but the same distinctions prevail among the
“untitled” classes, and even descend to the professional and trading
ranks; so that the dealer in one commodity shall take the pas of
another; and he who purveys the glass of port for your dessert, would
be outraged if classed with him who contributed the Stilton! These
hair-splittings are very unintelligible to foreigners; but, as we hold
to them, the presumption is, that they suit us; and I should not have
stopped now to bestow a passing notice on the system, if it were not
that we see it, in some cases, pushed to a degree of extreme resembling
absurdity, making even of the same career in life a sliding-scale
of respectability; as, for instance, when a young gentleman of good
expectations and fair fortune has outraged his guardians and his friends
by extravagance, he is immediately removed from the Guards, and drafted
into the Infantry of the Line; if he misbehaves there, they usually
send him to India; is he incorrigible, he is compelled to remain in some
regiment there; or, in cases of inveterate bad habits, he exchanges into
the Cape Rifles, and gets his next removal from the knife of a Caffre.
Ancient geographers have decided, we are not aware on what grounds, that
there is a place between “H--ll and Connaught.” Modern discovery, with
more certitude, has shown one between the Guards and the Line, a species
of military purgatory, where, after a due expiation of offences, the
sinner may return to the paradise of the Household Brigade without ever
transgressing the Inferno of a marching regiment. This half-way stage is
the “Rifles.” So long as a young fashionable falls no lower, he is
safe. There is no impugnment of his character, no injury that cannot
be repaired. Now, George Onslow had reached so far; he was compelled to
exchange into the --th, then quartered in Ireland. It is true he did not
join his regiment; his father had interest enough somewhere to obtain a
leave of absence for his son, and First Lieutenant Onslow, vice Ridgway
promoted, was suffered to amuse himself howsoever and wheresoever he
pleased.
The “exchange,” and the reasons for which it was effected, were both
unpleasant subjects of reflection to George; and as he had few others,
these continued to haunt him, till at last he fancied that every one was
full of the circumstance, each muttering as he passed, “That 's Onslow,
that was in the Coldstreams.” Lady Hester, indeed, did not always
leave the matter purely imaginary, but threw out occasional hints about
soldiers who never served, except at St. James's or Windsor, and who
were kept for the wonderment and admiration of foreign sovereigns when
visiting England, just as Suffolk breeders exhibit a “punch,” or a
Berkshire farmer will show a hog, for the delectation of swine fanciers.
Where children show toys, kings show soldiers, and ours are considered
very creditable productions of the kind; but Lady Hester averred, with
more of truth than she believed, that a man of spirit would prefer a
somewhat different career. These currents, coming as they did in season
and out of season, did not add to the inducements for keeping the house,
and so George usually left home each day, and rarely returned to it
before nightfall.
It is true he might have associated with Haggerstone, who, on being
introduced, made the most courteous advances to his intimacy; but George
Onslow was bred in a school whose first lesson is a sensitive shrinking
from acquaintance, and whose chief characteristic is distrust. Now he
either had heard, or fancied he had heard, something about Haggerstone.
“The Colonel was n't all right,” somehow or other. There was a story
about him, or somebody of his set, and, in fact, it was as well to be
cautious; and so the young Guardsman, who would have ventured his
neck in a steeplechase, or his fortune on a “Derby,” exhibited all
the deliberative wisdom of a judge as to the formation of a passing
acquaintance.
If we have been somewhat prolix in explaining the reasons of the young
gentleman's solitude, our excuse is, that he had thereby conveyed, not
alone all that we know, but all that is necessary to be known, of his
character. He was one of a class so large in the world that few people
could not count some half-dozen, at least, similar amongst their
acquaintance; and all of whom would be currently set down as incapables,
if it were not that now and then, every ten years or so, one of these
well-looking, well-bred, indolent dandies, as if tired of his own
weariness, turns out to be either a dashing soldier, with a heart
to dare, and a head to devise the boldest achievements, or a politic
leader, with resources of knowledge, and a skill in debate, to confront
the most polished and practised veteran in “the Commons.”
Our own experiences of our own day show that these are no paradoxical
speculations. But we must not pursue the theme further; and have only to
add, that the reader is not to believe that George Onslow formed one of
these brilliant exceptions. Whether the fault lies more in himself or in
us, we must not inquire.
If his lonely walks did not suggest any pleasant reveries, the post did
not bring any more agreeable tidings. Dry statements from Mr. Orson, his
lawyer, every young man about town has his lawyer nowadays, about the
difficulty of arranging his affairs, being the chief intelligence he
received, with, from time to time, a short and pithy epistle from a
certain noble creditor, Lord Norwood, who, although having won very
large sums from Onslow, never seemed in such pressing difficulty as
since his good fortune.
The viscount's style epistolary was neither so marked by originality,
nor so worthy of imitation, that it would be worth communicating; but
as one of his letters bears slightly upon the interests of our story,
we are induced to give it; and being, like all his correspondence, very
brief, we will communicate it in extenso.
“Oh, Norwood again!” said Onslow, as he looked at the seal, and read the
not very legible autograph in the corner. “My noble friend does not give
a very long respite;” and biting his lips in some impatience, he opened
the paper, and read:
DEAR ONSLOW, Orson has paid me the two thousand, as you
ordered, but positively refuses the seventeen hundred and
eighty, the Ascot affair, because I cannot give up the
original two bills for twelve hundred passed to me for that
debt. I told him that they were thrown into the fire being
devilishly tempted to illustrate the process with himself
six months ago, when you gave the renewals; but all won't
do, the old prig persists in his demand, to comply with
which is clearly impossible, for I have not even preserved
the precious ashes of the incremation. I don't doubt but
that, legally speaking, and in pettifogging parlance, he is
all correct but between men of honor such strictness is
downright absurdity and, as Dillhurst says, “something
more.” Now, my dear boy, you must write to him and at once,
too for I 'm in a bad book about “Chanticleer” who is to
win, it seems, after all and say that he is acting in direct
opposition to your wishes, as of course he is; that the
money must be paid without more chaffing. The delay has
already put me to great inconvenience, and I know how you
will be provoked at his obstinacy. You 've heard, I suppose,
that Brentwood is going to marry Lydia Vaughan. She has
thirty thousand pounds, which is exactly what Jack lost last
winter. Crosbie says he ought to “run away from her after
the start as he carries no weight:” which is somewhat of
my own opinion. What any man has to do with a wife nowadays,
with the funds at eighty-two, and a dark horse first
favorite for the Oaks, is more than I know. Doncaster has
levanted, and the Red-House folk will smart for it. He would
back Hayes's lot, and there 's nothing can ever set him
right again. By the way, Orson hints that if I give him a
release, or something of that sort, with respect to the
bills, he 'd pay the cash; but this is only a dodge to make
a case for lawyers' parchments, stamps, and so forth; so I
won't stand it. Your writing to him will do the whole thing
at once. What a jolly world it would be, old fellow, if the
whole race of Orsons were carried off by the cholera, or
anything akin! They are the greatest enemies to human peace
in existence.
Believe me, yours most faithfully,
NORWOOD.
P. S. I half fancy Baden is empty by this; but if you chance
upon a little fellow Heaven knows to whom he belongs, or
whence he comes, called Albert Jekyl, will you tell him that
I 'll forward the twenty pounds whenever I win the Oaks, or
marry Miss Home Greville, or any other similar piece of good
fortune. When he lent me the cash, I don't believe he was
the owner of as much more in the world; but it suited him to
have a viscount in his debt a devilish bad investment, if he
knew but all. The chances, therefore, are that he has
foundered long ago, and you will be spared the trouble of
the explanation; but if he survive, say something
apologetic, for letter-writing and foreign postage are only
making bad worse.
Although, unquestionably, the postscript of this elegant epistle was the
part which reflected most severely upon the writer's good feeling and
sense of honor, George Onslow was more struck by what related to his own
affairs, nor was it till after the lapse of some days that he took
the trouble of considering the paragraph, or learning the name of the
individual referred to. Even then all that he could remember was, that
he had seen or heard the name “somewhere,” and thus, very possibly,
the whole matter would have glided from his memory, if accident had not
brought up the recollection.
Returning one evening later than usual from his solitary walk, he found
that the hotel was closed, the door strongly secured, and all the usual
precautions of the night taken, in the belief that the inmates were
already safe within doors. In vain he knocked and thundered at the
massive panels; the few servants occupied rooms at a distance, and heard
nothing of the uproar. He shouted, he screamed, he threw gravel against
the windows, and, in his zeal, smashed them too. All was fruitless;
nobody stirred, nor could he detect the slightest sign of human presence
in the vast and dreary-looking building before him. The prospect was
not a pleasant one, and a December night in the open air was by no means
desirable; and yet, where should he turn for shelter? The other hotels
were all closed and deserted, and even of the private houses not one
in twenty was inhabited. Resolving to give himself one chance more for
admission, he scaled the paling of the garden, and reached the rear of
the hotel; but here all his efforts proved just as profitless as the
former, and he was at last about to abandon all hope, when he caught
sight of a faint gleam of light issuing from a small window on the first
floor. Having failed to attract notice by all his cries and shouts, he
determined to reach the window, to which, fortunately, a large vine,
attached to the wall, offered an easy access. George was an expert
climber, and in less than a minute found himself seated on the
window-sill, and gazing into a room by the aperture between the
half-closed shutters. His first impression on looking in was that it was
a servant's room. The bare, whitewashed walls; the humble, uncurtained
bed; three chairs of coarse wood, all strengthened this suspicion, even
to the table, covered by a coarse table-cloth, and on which stood a meal
if meal it could be called an anchorite might have eaten on Friday. A
plate of the common brown bread of the country was balanced by a little
dish of radishes, next to which stood a most diminutive piece of Baden
cheese, and a capacious decanter of water, a long-wicked tallow candle
throwing its gloomy gleam over the whole. For a moment or two George was
unable to detect the owner of this simple repast, as he was engaged in
replenishing his fire; but he speedily returned, and took his place at
the table, spreading his napkin before him, and surveying the board with
an air of self-satisfaction such as a gourmand might bestow upon the
most perfect petit diner. In dress, air, and look, he was thoroughly
gentlemanlike; a little foppish, perhaps, in the arrangement of his
hair, and somewhat too much display in the jewelled ornaments that
studded his neckcloth. Even in his attitude, as he sat at the table,
there was a certain air of studied elegance that formed a curious
contrast with the miserable meal before him. Helping himself to a
small portion of cheese, and filling out a goblet of that element which
neither cheers nor inebriates, he proceeded to eat his supper. Onslow
looked on with a mingled sense of wonder and ridicule, and while half
disposed to laugh at the disparity of the entertainment and him who
partook of it, there was something in the scene which repressed his
scorn and rendered him even an interested spectator of what went
forward.
[Illustration: 134]
The piercing cold of the night at length admonished him that
he should provide for his own admission into the hotel; and although
nothing was now easier than to make his presence known, yet he felt a
natural reluctance at the pain he must occasion to the stranger,
whose frugal mode of living and humble interior would be thus so
unceremoniously exposed. “The chances are,” thought George, “that these
privations are only endurable because they are practised in secret, and
at no sacrifice of worldly estimation. How can I then or what right have
I to inflict the torture of an exposure upon this young man, whoever
he is!” The conclusion was very rapidly come to, and not less speedily
acted upon; for he determined to spend the night, if need be, in
the open air, rather than accept an alternative so painful in its
consequences. His resolutions had usually not long to await their
accomplishment; and, turning his back to the window, and disdaining the
slow process by which he had gained the ascent, he sprang with one leap
down to the ground: in doing so, however, his elbow struck the window,
and at the same instant that he reached the earth, the shivered
fragments of a pane of glass came clattering after him. In a moment the
sash was thrown open, and a head appeared above. “I have smashed the
window,” cried George, in French, “as the only means of being heard.
They have locked me out of the hotel, and I don't fancy spending a
winter's night in walking the streets of Baden.”
“You're an Englishman,” said the voice from above, in English.
“Yes; but I don't see what that has to do with the matter,” replied
Onslow, testily; “even a Laplander might prefer shelter in such a
season.”
“If you 'll have the goodness to come round to the front door,” said
the voice, one of the very softest and meekest of voices, “I shall have
great pleasure in opening it for you.” And at the same time the unknown
held forth his candle in polite guidance to the other's steps.
“Thanks, thanks; never mind the light. I know the way perfectly,” said
George, not a little ashamed at the contrast between his own gruffness
and the courtesy of the stranger whose window he had broken.
Onslow had barely time to reach the front door of the inn, when it was
opened for him, and he saw before him a very dapper little figure, who
with a profusion of regrets at not having heard him before, offered his
candle a wax one on this occasion for George's accommodation. Protesting
that the broken pane was not of the slightest inconvenience, that the
room was a small dressing-closet, that it was not worth a moment's
thought, and so forth, he permitted Onslow to escort him to the door of
his room, and then wished him a good-night. The scene scarcely occupied
the time we have taken to relate it, and yet in that very short space
George Onslow had opportunity to see that the unknown had all the easy
deportment and quiet breeding of one accustomed to good society. There
was, perhaps, a little excess of courtesy, at least according to that
school of politeness in which Onslow had been taught; but this might be
the effect of living abroad, where such a tone usually prevailed. The
urbanity was not exactly cold enough for George's notions. “No matter;
he 's no snob, that 's clear,” thought he; “and even if he were,
he's done me good service.” And with this blending of selfishness and
speculation he went to sleep, and slept soundly, too, not harassed by
even a thought of him who passed an hour in the effort to repair his
broken window, and shivered the rest of the night through from the
insufficiency of his skill.
Blessed immunity theirs, who so easily forget the pain they occasion
others, and who deem all things trifles that cost themselves
no afterthought of regret. Happy the nature that can, without
self-repining, spill the wine over Aunt Betty's one “peach-colored
satin,” or, in careless mood, pluck the solitary flower of her only
geranium. Enviable stoicism that mislays the keepsake of some poor
widow, or lames the old curate's cob, the fond companion of many
rambles. These, whatever others think, are very enviable traits, and
enable the possessors to wear placid countenances, and talk in most
meritorious strain on the blessings of equanimity and the excellent
fruits of a well-trained mind.