IN our penal settlements nothing is more common than to find the places
of honor and distinction filled by men who were once convicts, and who
may date the favorable turn of their fortune to the day of their having
transgressed the law. So in certain Continental cities are individuals
to be found occupying conspicuous stations, and enjoying a large share
of influence, whose misdeeds at home first made them exiles, and who,
leaving England in shame, are received abroad with honor. There is this
difference between the two cases; for while the convict owes all his
future advancement to his own efforts at reformation, the absentee
obtains his “brevet” of character by the simple fact of his extradition.
He shakes off his rascalities as he does his rheumatism, when he quits
the foggy climate of England, and emerges spotless and without stain
upon the shores of Ostend or Boulogne.
To do this, however, he must not bear a plebeian name, nor pertain to
the undistinguishable herd of vulgar folk. He must belong to some family
of mark and note, with peers for his uncles and peeresses for cousins;
nor is he always safe if he himself be not a member of an hereditary
legislature. We have been led to these reflections by having to
chronicle the arrival in Florence of Lord Norwood; a vague and confused
murmur of his having done something, people knew not what, in England
having preceded him. Some called him “poor Norwood,” and expressed
sorrow for him; others said he was a capital fellow, up to everything,
and that they were delighted at his coming. A few, of very tender and
languishing virtue themselves, wondered if they ought to meet him as
before; but the prevailing impression was charitable. The affair
at Graham's might have been exaggerated, the Newmarket business was
possibly a mistake. “Any man might owe money, and not be able to
pay it,” was a sentiment pretty generally repeated and as generally
believed; and, in fact, if to be tried by one's peers be an English
privilege, the noble Viscount here enjoyed it at the hands of a jury
unimpeachable on the score of equality.
We are far from suggesting that Norwood's character as a “shot” had any
concern with this mild verdict; but certain it is, his merits in this
capacity were frequently remembered, and always with honorable mention.
“No man plays ecarte better,” said Haggerstone, while as yet the
Viscount's arrival was unknown, and as he discussed the rumors upon him
before a group of listening Englishmen at the door of the “Club”. “No
man plays ecarte better, nor with better luck!” added he, with a chuckle
that was intended to convey a meaning beyond the mere words.
“Has he been a large winner, then?” asked one of the bystanders,
respectfully, looking to the Colonel for information; for, in a certain
set, he was regarded as the most thoroughly conversant man with all the
faults and follies of high life.
“No man wins invariably, sir, except Brooke Morris, perhaps,” replied
he, always happy at the opportunity to quote the name of a man of
fashion in a tone of familiarity.
“That was the Mo-Mo-Morris that ruined Hopeton, was n't it?” broke in
Purvis, quite forgetting that the individual he addressed was reported
to have a share in the transaction. Haggerstone, however, did not deign
a reply, but puffed his cigar in perfect contempt of his questioner.
“Who is this coming up here?” said one; “he looks like a new arrival.
He is English, certainly; that frock has a London cut there's no
mistaking.”
“By Jove, it's Norwood!” cried Haggerstone, edging away, as he
spoke, from the group. Meanwhile, the noble Viscount, a well-dressed,
well-whiskered man, of about thirty, came leisurely forward, and
touching his hat familiarly, said,
“Ha! you here, Haggerstone! What is Florence doing?”
“Pretty much as it always did, my Lord. I don't think its morals have
improved since you knew it a few years ago.”
“Or you wouldn't be here, Haggy, eh?” said the Viscount, laughing at his
own joke. “Not suit your book if it took a virtuous turn, eh?”
“I plead guilty, my Lord. I believe I do like to shoot folly as it
flies.”
“Ah, yes! And I've seen you taking a sitting shot at it too, Haggy,”
said the other, with a heartier laugh, which, despite of the Colonel's
efforts not to feel, brought a crimson flush to his cheek.
“Is there any play going on, Haggy?”
“Nothing that you would call play, my Lord; a little whist for Nap
points, a little ecarte, a little piquet, and, now and then, we have a
round game at Sabloukoff's.”
“Poor old fellow! and he 's alive still? And where 's the Jariominski?”
“Gone back to Russia.”
“And Maretti?”
“In Saint Angelo, I believe.”
“And that little Frenchman what was his name? his father was a Marshal
of the Empire.”
“D'Acosta.”
“The same. Where is he?”
“Shot himself this spring.”
“Pretty girl, his sister. What became of her?”
“Some one told me that she had become a Soeur de Charite.”
“What a pity! So they 're all broken up, I see.”
“Completely so.”
“Then what have you got in their place?”
“Nothing fast, my Lord, except, perhaps, your friends the Onslows.”
“Yes; they 're going it, I hear. Is n't there a rich niece, or cousin,
or something of that sort, with them?”
“They've got a prettyish girl, called Dalton; but as to her being rich,
I think it very unlikely, seeing that her family are living in Germany
in a state of the very closest poverty.”
“And Master George, how does he carry on the war?” said the Viscount,
who seemed quite heedless of the other's correction.
“He plays a little peddling ecarte now and then; but you can see that he
has burned his fingers, and dreads the fire. They say he 's in love with
the Dalton girl.”
“Of course he is, if they live in the same house; and he 's just the
kind of fool to marry her, too. Who 's that little fellow, listening to
us?”
“Purvis, my Lord; don't you remember him? He's one of the Ricketts's
set.”
“To be sure I do. How are you, Purvis? You look so young and so fresh, I
could not persuade myself it could be my old acquaintance.”
“I 've taken to homoe-homoe-homoe-homo--” Here he opened his mouth wide,
and gasped till he grew black in the face.
“What's the word? Give it him, Haggy. It's all up with him,” said the
Viscount.
“Homoeopathy, eh?”
“Just so. Homeo-hom--”
“Confound it, man, can't you be satisfied? when you're once over the
fence, you need n't go back to leap it. And how is the dear what's her
name Agathe? no, Zoe, how is she?”
“Quite well, my Lord, and would be cha-cha-cha-rmed to see you.”
“Living in that queer humbug still, eh?”
“In the Vill-ino, my Lord, you mean?”
“Egad! she seems the only thing left; like the dog on the wreck, eh,
Haggy?”
“Just so, my Lord,” said the other, with a complacent laugh.
“What a mass of old crockery she must have got together by this
time!” said the Viscount, yawning with a terrible recollection of her
tiresomeness.
“You came out with a yacht, my Lord?” asked Haggerstone.
“Pretty well, for a man that they call ru-ru-ruined,” said Purvis,
laughing.
Norwood turned a look of angry indignation at him, and then, as if
seeing the unworthiness of the object, merely said,
“A yacht is the only real economy nowadays. You get rid at once of all
trains of servants, household, stable people; even the bores of your
acquaintance you cut off. By-by, Purvis.” And, with a significant wink
at Haggerstone, he passed across the street, in time to overtake Onslow,
who was just passing.
“I think I ga-ga-gave it him there,” cried Purvis, with an hysteric
giggle of delight; who, provided that he was permitted to fire his shot,
never cared how severely he was himself riddled by the enemy's fire.
Meanwhile, the Viscount and his friend were hastening forward to the
Mazzarini Palace, as totally forgetful of Purvis as though that valuable
individual had never existed.
We may take this opportunity to mention, that when the rumors which
attributed a grand breach of honorable conduct to Lord Norwood had
arrived at Florence, Sir Stafford, who never had any peculiar affection
for the Viscount, declared himself in the very strongest terms on the
subject of his offending, and took especial pains to show the marked
distinction between occasions of mere wasteful extravagance and
instances of fraudulent and dishonest debt.
It was in vain he was told that the rigid rule of English morality is
always relaxed abroad, and that the moral latitude is very different in
London and Naples. He was old-fashioned enough to believe that honor
is the same in all climates; and having received from England a very
detailed and specific history of the noble Lord's misdoings, he firmly
resolved not to receive him.
With all George Onslow's affection and respect for his father, he could
not help feeling that this was a mere prejudice, one of the lingering
remnants of a past age; a sentiment very respectable, perhaps, but
totally inapplicable to present civilization, and quite impracticable in
society. In fact, as he said himself, “Who is to be known, if this rule
be acted on? What man or, further still, what woman of fashionable life
will stand this scrutiny? To attempt such exclusiveness, one should
retire to some remote provincial town, some fishing-village of
patriarchal simplicity; and, even there, what security was there against
ignoble offendings? How should, he stand the ridicule of his club and
his acquaintance if he attempted to assume such a standard?” These
arguments were strengthened by his disbelief, or rather his repugnance
to believe the worst of Norwood; and furthermore, supported by Lady
Hester's open scorn for all such “hypocritical trumpery,” and her avowal
that the Viscount should be received, by her, at least. Exactly as of
old, George Onslow's mind was in a state of oscillation and doubt
now leaning to this side, now inclining to that when the question was
decided for him, as it so often is in like cases, by a mere accident;
for, as he loitered along the street, he suddenly felt an arm introduced
within his own. He turned hastily round and saw Norwood, who, with, all
his customary coolness, asked after each member of the family, and at
once proposed to pay them a visit.
Of all men living, none were less suited than Onslow for assuming any
part, or taking any decisive line, which could possibly be avoided, or
even postponed. He hated, besides, to do an ungracious thing anywhere,
or to any one. It might be, thought he, that Norwood's scrape could all
be explained away. Perhaps, after all, the thing is a mere trifle; and
if he were to take the decided line of cutting a man without due cause,
the consequences might be most injurious. These, and fifty such-like
scruples, warred within him, and so engaged his attention that he
actually heard not one word of all that “town gossip” which Norwood
was retailing for his amusement. At last, while following out his own
thoughts, George came to the resolution of finding out at once the
precise position in which Norwood stood, and to this end asked the last
news from Newmarket.
Norwood's coolness never forsook him at a question whose very suddenness
was somewhat awkward.
“Bad enough,” said he, with an easy laugh. “We have all of us been 'hit
hard.' Knolesby has lost heavily. Burchester, too, has had a smasher;
and I myself have not escaped. In fact, George, the 'Legs' have had it
all their own way. I suppose you heard something about it out here?”
“Why, yes; there were reports--”
“Oh, hang reports, man! Never trust to old women's tales. And that
confounded fellow, Haggerstone, I 'm certain, has been spreading all
kinds of stories. But the facts are simple enough.”
“I 'm heartily glad you say so; for, to tell you the truth, Norwood, my
father is one of the prejudiced about this affair, and I 'm dying to be
able to give him a full explanation of the whole.”
“Ah, Sir Stafford, too, among the credulous!” said Norwood, slowly. “I
could scarcely have supposed so. No matter; only I did fancy that he
was not exactly the person to form hasty conclusions against any man's
character. However, you may tell him for, as for myself, I 'll not
condescend to explain to any one but you the thing is a very simple
one. There was a mare of Hopeton's, a Brockdon filly, entered for the
Slingsby, and a number of us agreed to 'go a heavy thing' upon her
against the field. A bold coup always, George, that backing against
the field. Never do it, my boy, and particularly when you 've a set of
rascally foreign Legs banded against you, Poles and Hungarian fellows,
George; the downiest coves ever you met, and who, in their confounded
jargon, can sell you before your own face. Nothing like John Bull, my
boy. Straight, frank, and open John forever! Hit him hard and he 'll hit
you again; but no treachery, no stab in the dark. Oh, no, no! The turf
in England was another thing before these Continental rascals came
amongst us. I was always against admitting them within the ring. I
black-balled a dozen of them at the Club. But see what perseverance
does; they're all in now. There's no John-Bull feeling among our
set, and we 're paying a smart price for it. Never trust those German
fellows, George. Out of England there is no truth, no honor. But, above
all, don't back against the field; there are so many dodges against you;
so many 'dark horses' come out fair. That 's it, you see; that 's
the way I got it so heavily; for when Ruxton came and told me that
'Help-me-Over' was dead lame, I believed him. A fetlock lameness is no
trifle, you know; and there was a swelling as large as my hand around
the coronet. The foreign fellows can manage that in the morning, and
the horse will run to win the same day. I saw it myself. Ah, John
Bull forever! No guile, no deceit in him. Mind me, George, I make this
confession for you alone. I 'll not stoop to repeat it. If any man
dare to insinuate anything to my discredit, I 'll never give myself the
trouble of one word of explanation, but nail him to it, twelve paces,
and no mistake. I don't think my right hand has forgot its cunning. Have
him out at once, George; parade him on the spot, my boy; that 's the
only plan. What! is this your quarter?” asked he, as they stopped at the
entrance of the spacious palace. “I used to know this house well of old.
It was the Embassy in Templeton's time. Very snug it used to be. Glad to
see you 've banished all those maimed old deities that used to line
the staircase, and got rid of that tiresome tapestry, too. Pretty
vases those; fresh-looking that conservatory, they 're always strong in
camellias in Florence. This used to be the billiard-room. I think you've
made a good alteration; it looks better as a salon. Ah, I like this,
excellent taste that chintz furniture; just the thing for Italy, and
exactly what nobody thought of before!”
“I'll see if my Lady be visible,” said George, as he threw the “Morning
Post” to his friend, and hastily quitted the chamber.
Norwood was no sooner left alone than he proceeded to take a leisurely
survey of the apartment, in the course of which his attention was
arrested by a water-color drawing, representing a young girl leaning
over a balcony, and which he had no difficulty in at once guessing to be
Kate Dalton. There was something in the character of her beauty an air
of almost daring haughtiness that seemed to strike his fancy; for, as
he gazed, he drew himself up to his full height, and seemed to assume in
his own features the proud expression of the portrait.
“With a hundred thousand and that face one might make you a viscountess,
and yet not do badly, either,” said he to himself; and then, as if
satisfied that he had given time enough to a mere speculative thought,
he turned over the visiting-cards to see the names of the current
acquaintance: “Midchekoff, Estrolenka, Janini, Tiverton, Latrobe, the
old set; the Ricketts, too, and Haggerstone. What can have brought them
here? Oh, there must have been a ball, for here are shoals of outsiders,
the great Smith-Brown-and-Thompson community; and here, on the very
smallest of pasteboards, in the very meekest of literals, have we our
dear friend 'Albert Jekyl.' He 'll tell me all I want to know,”
said Norwood, as he threw himself back on the comfortable depth of a
well-cushioned chair, and gave way to a pleasant revery.
When George Ouslow had informed Lady Hester of Norwood's arrival, he
hastened to Sir Stafford's apartment to tell him how completely the
Viscount had exonerated himself from any charge that might be made to
his discredit; not, indeed, that George understood one syllable of
the explanation, nor could trace anything like connection between the
disjointed links of the narrative. He could only affirm his own perfect
conviction in Norwood's honor, and hoped an equal degree of faith from
his father. Fortunately for his powers of persuasiveness, they were not
destined to be so sorely tried; for Sir Stafford had just walked out,
and George, too eager to set all right about Norwood, took his hat and
followed, in the hope of overtaking him.
Lady Hester was already dressed, and about to enter the drawing-room,
when George told her that Norwood was there; and yet she returned to
her room and made some changes in her toilet, slight, and perhaps too
insignificant to record, but yet of importance enough to occupy some
time, and afford her an interval for thoughts which, whatever their
nature, served to flush her cheek and agitate her deeply.
It is an awkward thing, at any time, to meet with the person to whom you
once believed you should have been married; to see, on the terms of mere
common acquaintance, the individual with whose fate and fortune you at
one time fancied your own was indissolubly bound up, for weal or woe,
for better or for worse. To exchange the vapid commonplaces of the
world; to barter the poor counters of that petty game called society,
with her or him with whom you have walked in all the unbounded
confidence of affection, speculating on a golden future, or glorying in
a delicious dream of present bliss; to touch with ceremonious respect
that hand you have so often held fast within your own; to behold with
respectful distance that form beside which you have sat for hours, lost
in happy fancies; to stand, as it were, and trace out with the eye some
path in life we might have followed, wondering whither it would have
led us, if to some higher pinnacle of gratified ambition, if to
disappointments darker than those we have ever known, speculating on a
future which is already become a past, and canvassing within our hearts
the follies that have misled and the faults that have wrecked us! Such
are among the inevitable reminiscences of meeting; and they are full of
a soft and touching sorrow, not all unpleasing, either, as they remind
us of our youth and its buoyancy. Far otherwise was the present case.
Whatever might have been the bold confidence with which Lady Hester
protested her belief in Norwood's honor, her own heartfelt knowledge of
the man refuted the assertion. She knew thoroughly that he was perfectly
devoid of all principle, and merely possessed that conventional degree
of fair dealing indispensable to association with his equals. That he
would do anything short of what would subject him to disgrace she
had long seen; and perhaps the unhappy moment had come when even this
restraint was no longer a barrier. And yet, with all this depreciating
sense of the man, would it be believed she had once loved him! ay, with
as sincere an affection as she was capable of feeling for anything.
'T is true, time and its consequences had effaced much of this feeling.
His own indifference had done something, her new relations with the
world had done more; and if she ever thought of him now, it was with
a degree of half terror that there lived one man who had so thoroughly
read all the secrets of her heart, and knew every sentiment of her
nature.
Norwood was sitting in a chair as she entered, amusing himself with
the gambols of a little Blenheim spaniel, whose silver collar bore the
coronet of the Russian prince. He never perceived Lady Hester until she
was close beside him, and in an easy, half-indifferent tone, said,
“How d' ye do, my Lord?”
“What, Hester!” said he, starting up, and taking her hand in both his
own.
She withdrew it languidly, and seating herself, not upon the sofa to
which he wished to lead her, but in a chair, asked when he had arrived,
and by what route.
“I came out in a yacht; stopping a few days at Gibraltar, and a week at
Malta.”
“Had you pleasant weather?”
“After we got clear of the Channel, excellent weather.”
“You came alone, I suppose?”
“Quite alone.”
“How do you get on without your dear friend Effingdale, or your
'familiar,' Upton?”
Norwood colored a little at a question the drift of which he felt
thoroughly, but tried with a laugh to evade an answer.
“Are they in England? I thought I read their names at the Newmarket
meeting?” asked she, after waiting in vain for a reply.
“Yes; they were both at Newmarket,” replied he, shortly.
“Was it a good meeting?”
“I can scarcely say so,” rejoined he, attempting a laugh. “My book
turned out very unfortunately.”
“I heard so,” was the short reply; and in a tone so dry and significant
that a dead silence followed.
“Pretty spaniel, that,” said Norwood, trying a slight sortie into the
enemy's camp. “A present, I suppose, from Midchekoff?”
“Yes.”
“It is not clean bred, however, no more than his late master. Have you
seen much of the Prince?”
“He comes here every evening, after the Opera.”
“What a bore that must be he is a most insufferable proser.”
“I must say I disagree with you; I reckon him excessively agreeable.”
“How changed you must be, Hes--Lady Hester.”
“I believe I am, my Lord.”
“And yet you look the same the very same as when we sauntered for hours
through the old woods at Dipsley.” She blushed deeply; less, perhaps, at
the words, than at the look which accompanied them.
“Is this your newly found niece or cousin?” said Norwood, as he pointed
to the portrait of Kate Dal ton.
“Yes. Is n't she pretty?”
“The picture is.”
“She is much handsomer, however, a charming creature in every respect,
as you will confess when you see her.”
“And for what high destiny is she meant? Is she to be a Russian
Princess, a Duchessa of Italy, or the goodwife of an untitled
Englishman?”
“She may have her choice, I believe, of either of the three--.”
“Happy girl!” said he half scornfully; “and when may I hope to behold so
much excellence?”
“To-day, if you like to dine here.”
“I should like it much but but--”
“But what?”
“It's better to be frank at once, Hester,” said he, boldly, “and say
that I feel you are grown very cold and distant toward me. This is not
your old manner, this not exactly the reception I looked for. Now, if
you have any cause for this, would it not be better and fairer to speak
it out openly than continue to treat me in this slighting fashion? You
are silent, so there is something; pray let's hear it.”
“What of Newmarket?” said she, in a low voice, so faint as almost to be
a whisper.
“So that's it,” said he, as he folded his arms and looked steadfastly at
her.
There was something in the cold and steady gaze he bestowed upon her
that abashed, if not actually alarmed, Lady Hester. She had seen the
same look once or twice before, and always as the prelude to some
terrible evidence of his temper.
“Lady Hester,” said he, in a low, distinct, and very slow voice, as
though he would not have her lose a word he spoke, “the explanation
which a man would ask for at the peril of his life ought not, in common
justice, to be quite costless to a lady. It is perfectly possible that
you may not care for the price, be it so; only I warn you that if you
wish for any information on the subject you allude to, _I_ will inquire
whether--”
Here he dropped his voice, and whispered two or three words rapidly
in her ear, after which she lay back, pale, sick, and almost fainting,
without strength to speak or even to move.
“Do not say, or still less feel, that this contest is of my provoking.
Never was any man less in the humor to provoke hostilities, and
particularly from old friends. I have just had bad luck, the very worst
of bad luck. I have lost everything but my head; and even that, cool and
calculating as it is, may go too if I be pushed too far. Now you have a
frank and free confession from me. I have told you more than I would to
any other living, more, perhaps, than I ought even to you.”
“Then what do you intend to do here?” asked she, faintly.
“Wait wait patiently for awhile. Fix upon anyone that I can discover
mutters a syllable to my discredit, and shoot him as I would a dog.”
“There may be some who, without openly discussing, will shun your
society, and avoid your intercourse.”
“Sir Stafford, for instance,” said he, with an insolent laugh. She
nodded slightly, and he went on: “My Lady's influence will, I am
certain, set me right in that quarter.”
“I may be unequal to the task.”
“You can at least try, madam.”
“I have tried, Norwood. I have gone the length of declaring that I
disbelieved every story against you, that I reposed the most implicit
faith in your honor, and that I would certainly receive you and admit
your visits as heretofore.”
“And, of course, you'll keep your word?”
“If you exact it.”
“Of course I shall! Hester, this is no time for quibbling. I 've got
into a mess, the worst of all the bad scrapes which have ever befallen
me. A little time and a little management will pull me through but I
must have both; nor is it in such a place, and with such a society as
this, a man need fear investigation. I came here, as formerly one went
to live 'within the rules.' Let me, at least, have the benefit of the
protection for condescending to the locality.”
“Sir Stafford, my Lady,” said a servant, throwing open the door; and
the old Baronet entered hastily, and, without deigning to notice Lord
Norwood, walked straight up to Lady Hester, and said a few words in a
low voice.
Affecting to occupy himself with the books upon the table, Norwood
watched the dialogue with keen but stealthy glances, and then, as the
other turned suddenly round, said,
“How d' ye do, Sir Stafford? I am glad to see you looking so well.”
“I thank you, my Lord; I am perfectly well,” said he, with a most
repelling coldness.
“You are surprised to see me in Florence, for certain,” said the other,
with a forced laugh.
“Very much surprised to see you here, my Lord,” was the abrupt reply.
“Ha! ha! ha! I thought so!” cried Norwood, laughing, and pretending not
to feel the point of the remark. “But, nowadays, one flits about the
world in slippers and dressing-gown, and travelling inflicts no fatigue.
I only left England ten days ago.”
“The post comes in seven, my Lord,” said Sir Stafford. “I have had
letters this morning, written this day week, and which give the last
events in Town Life up to the very hour.”
“Indeed! and what's the news, then?” said he, negligently.
“If your Lordship will favor me with your company for a few minutes,
I may be able to enlighten you,” said Sir Stafford, moving towards the
door.
“With the greatest pleasure. Good-bye, Lady Hester,” said he, rising.
“You said seven o'clock dinner, I think?”
“Yes,” replied she, but in a voice almost inarticulate from shame and
terror.
“Now, Sir Stafford, I 'm at your orders,” said the Viscount, gayly,
as he left the room, followed by the old man, whose crimson cheek and
flashing eye bespoke the passion which was struggling within him.
Of the two who now entered Sir Stafford's library, it must be owned that
Lord Norwood was, by many degrees, the more calm and collected. No one,
to have looked at him, could possibly have supposed that any question of
interest, not to say of deep moment, awaited him; and as he carried
his eyes over the well-filled shelves and the hand some fittings of
the chamber, nothing could be more naturally spoken than the few
complimentary expressions on Sir Stafford's good taste and judgment.
“I shall not ask you to be seated, my Lord,” said the old Baronet, whose
tremulous lip and shaking cheek showed how deep-felt was his agitation.
“The few moments of interview I have requested will be, I have no doubt,
too painful to either of us, nor could we desire to prolong them. To me,
I own, they are very, very painful.”
These hurried, broken, and unconnected sentences fell from him as he
searched for a letter among a number of others that littered the table.
Lord Norwood bowed coldly, and, without making any reply, turned his
back to the fire, and waited in patience.
“I have, I fear, mislaid the letter,” said Sir Stafford, whose nervous
anxiety had now so completely mastered him that he threw the letters and
papers on every side without perceiving it.
The Viscount made no sign, but suffered the search to proceed without
remark.
“It was a letter from Lord Effingdale,” continued the Baronet, still
busied in the pursuit, “a letter written after the Newmarket settling,
my Lord; and if I should be unfortunate enough not to find it, I must
only trust to my memory for its contents.”
Lord Norwood gave another bow, slighter and colder than the former, as
though to say that he acquiesced perfectly, without knowing in what.
“Ah! here it is! here it is!” cried Sir Stafford, at last detecting the
missing document, which he hastily opened and ran his eyes over. “This
letter, my Lord,” continued he, “announces that, in consequence of
certain defalcations on your part, the members of the 'Whip Club'
have erased your Lordship's name from their list, and declared you
incapacitated from either entering a horse, or naming a winner for the
stakes in future. There, there, my Lord, is the paragraph, coupled with
what you will doubtless feel to be a very severe but just comment on the
transaction.”
Norwood took the letter and read it leisurely, as leisurely and calmly
as though the contents never concerned him, and then, folding it up,
laid it on the chimney-piece beside him.
“Poor Effingdale!” said he, smiling; “he ought to spell better,
considering that his mother was a governess. He writes 'naming' with an
'e.' Didn't you remark that?”
But as Sir Stafford paid no attention to the criticism, he went on:
“As to the 'Whip,' I may as well tell you, that I scratched my own name
myself. They are a set of low 'Legs,' and, except poor Effy, and two or
three others of the same brilliant stamp, not a gentleman amongst them.”
“The defalcation is, however, true?” asked Sir Stafford.
“If you mean to ask whether a man always wins at Doncaster or Newmarket,
the question is of the easiest to answer.”
“I certainly presume that he always pays what he loses, my Lord,”
replied Sir Stafford, coloring at the evasive impertinence of the other.
“Of course he does, when he has it, Sir Stafford; but that is a most
essential condition, for the 'Turf' is not precisely like a mercantile
pursuit.”
Sir Stafford winced under the flippant insolence with which this was
spoken.
“There is not exactly a fair way to calculate profit, nor any assurance
against accidental loss. A horse, Sir Stafford, is not an Indiaman; a
betting man is, therefore, in a position quite exceptional.”
“If a man risks what he cannot pay, he is dishonorable,” said Sir
Stafford, in a short, abrupt tone.
“I see that you cannot enter into a theme so very different from all
your habits and pursuits. You think there is a kind of bankruptcy when
a man gets a little behind with his bets. You don't see that all these
transactions are on 'honor,' and that if one does 'bolt,' he means to
'book up' another time. There was George, your own son--”
“What of him? what of George?” cried Sir Stafford, with a convulsive
grasp of the chair, while the color fled from his cheek, and he seemed
ready to faint with emotion.
“Oh, nothing in the world to cause you uneasiness. A more honorable
fellow never breathed than George.”
“Then, what of him? How comes his name to your lips at such a discussion
as this? Tell me, this instant, my Lord. I command I entreat you!”
And the old man shook like one in an ague; but Norwood saw his
vantage-ground, and determined to use it unsparingly. He therefore
merely smiled, and said, “Pray be calm, Sir Stafford. I repeat that
there is nothing worthy of a moment's chagrin. I was only about to
observe that if I had the same taste for scandal-writing as poor Effy,
I might have circulated a similar story about your son George. He
left England, owing me a good round sum, for which, by the way, I was
terribly 'hard up;' and although the money was paid eventually, what
would you have thought of me what would the world have thought of him if
I had written such an epistle as this?”
And as he spoke, his voice and manner warmed into a degree of indignant
anger, in which, as if carried away, he snatched the letter from the
chimney-piece and threw it into the fire. The act was unseen by Sir
Stafford, who sat with his head deeply buried between his hands, a low
faint groan alone bespeaking the secret agony of his heart.
“My son has, then, paid you? He owes nothing, my Lord?” said he, at
last, looking up, with a countenance furrowed by agitation.
“Like a trump!” said Norwood, assuming the most easy and self-satisfied
manner. “My life upon George Onslow! Back him to any amount, and against
the field anywhere! A true John Bull! no humbug, no nonsense about him!
straightforward and honorable, always!”
“Your position is, then, this, my Lord,” said Sir Stafford, whose
impatience would not permit him to listen longer, “you have quitted
England, leaving for future settlement a number of debts, for which you
have not the remotest prospect of liquidation.”
“Too fast, you go too fast!” said the Viscount, laughing.
“Lord Effingdale writes the amount at thirty thousand pounds, and adds
that, as a defaulter--”
“There's the whole of it,” broke in Norwood. “You ring the changes
about that one confounded word, and there is no use in attempting a
vindication. 'Give a dog a bad name,' as the adage says. Now, I took the
trouble this very morning to go over the whole of this tiresome business
with George. I explained to him fully, and, I hope, to his entire
satisfaction, that I was simply unfortunate in it, nothing more. A man
cannot always 'ride the winner; 'I 'm sure I wish _I_ could. Of course,
I don't mean to say that it 's not a confounded 'bore' to come out here
and live in such a place as this, and just at the opening of the season,
too, when town is beginning to fill; but 'needs must,' we are told,
'when a certain gent sits on the coach-box.'”
Sir Stafford stood, during the whole of this speech, with his arms
folded and his eyes fixed upon the floor. He never heard one word of
it, but was deeply intent upon his own thoughts. At length he spoke in
a full, collected, and firm voice: “Lord Norwood I am, as you have told
me, perfectly unfitted to pronounce upon transactions so very unlike
every pursuit in which my life has been passed. I am alike ignorant of
the feelings of those who engage in them, and of the rules of honor by
which they are guided; but this I know, that the man whom his equals
decline to associate with at home is not recognizable abroad; and that
he who leaves his country with shame, cannot reside away from it with
credit.”
“This would be a very rude speech, Sir Stafford Onslow, even with the
palliative preface of your ignorance, if our relative ages admitted any
equality between us. I am the least bellicose of men, I believe I can
say I may afford to be so. So long, therefore, as you confine such
sentiments to yourself, I will never complain of them; but if the time
comes that you conceive they should be issued for general circulation--”
“Well, my Lord, what then?”
“Your son must answer for it, that's all!” said Norwood; and he drew
himself up, and fixed his eye steadily on the distant wall of the room,
with a look and gesture that made the old man sick at heart. Norwood saw
how “his shot told,” and, turning hastily round, said: “This interview,
I conclude, has lasted quite long enough for either of us. If you have
any further explanations to seek for, let them come through a younger
man, and in a more regular form. Good-morning.”
Sir Stafford bowed, without speaking, as the other passed out.
To have seen them both at that moment, few would have guessed aright on
which side lay all the disgrace, and where the spirit of rectitude and
honor.
Sir Stafford, indeed, was most miserable. If the Viscount's mock
explanations did not satisfy a single scruple of his mind, was it not
possible they might have sufficed with others more conversant with such
matters? Perhaps he is not worse than others of his own class. What
would be his feelings if he were to involve George in a quarrel for
such a cause? This was a consideration that pressed itself in twenty
different forms, each of them enough to appall him. “But the man is
a defaulter; he has fled from England with 'shame,'” was the stubborn
conviction which no efforts of his casuistry could banish; and the more
he reflected on this, the less possible seemed anything like evasion or
compromise.