WHEN Lord Norwood arrived at the Mazzarini Palace, he was surprised not
to find the usual half-dozen carriages of the habitues drawn up in the
courtyard, and still more so to learn that her Ladyship did not receive
that evening. He ascended to George Onslow's apartment, and discovered
that he had dined with Prince Midchekoff, and not yet returned. Not
knowing how to spend the hours, so much earlier than those of his
usually retiring to rest, he lighted a cigar, and threw himself on a
sofa before the fire.
The reveries of men who live much in the world are seldom very
agreeable. The work of self-examination comes with a double penalty when
it is rarely exercised, and the heavy arrears of time are formidable
scores to confront. Lord Norwood was no exception to this theory. Not
that he was one to waste time or temper in self-reproaches. The bygone
was essentially with him the “irrevocable.” It might, it is true,
occasionally suggest a hint for the future, but it never originated a
sorrow for the past. His philosophy was a very brief code, and comprised
itself in this, “that he did n't think well of himself, but thought
worse of all others.” All that he had seen of life was duplicity,
falsehood, selfishness, and treachery. In different stations these
characteristics took different forms; and what was artfully cloaked in
courtesy by the lord was displayed in all its naked deformity by the
plebeian.
He might have conducted himself respectably enough had he been rich, at
least he fervently believed so; but he was poor, and therefore driven to
stratagems to maintain his position in society. Cheated by his guardians
and neglected by his tutor, he was sent into the world half ruined,
and wholly ignorant, to become at first a victim, and afterwards the
victimizer. With no spirit of retributive vengeance, there was nothing
of reprisal in his line of conduct, he simply thought that such was the
natural and inevitable course of events, and that every man begins as
dupe, and ends as knave. The highest flight of the human mind, in his
esteem, was successful hypocrisy; and although without the plastic wit
or the actual knowledge of life which are required well to sustain a
part, he had contrived to impose upon a very large number of persons who
looked up to his rank; for, strange enough, many who would not have been
duped by a commoner, fell easy victims to the arts of “my Lord.”
The value of his title he understood perfectly. He knew everything it
could, and everything it could not, do for him. He was aware that the
aristocracy of England would stand by one of their order through many
vicissitudes, and that he who is born to a coronet has a charmed life,
in circumstances where one less noble must perish ingloriously. He knew,
too, how, for very shame's sake, they would screen one of themselves,
and by a hundred devices seem to contradict before the world what they
lament over behind its back; and, lastly, he knew well that he had
always a title and a lineage to bestow, and that the peerage was the
great prize among the daughters of men.
Now, latterly, he had been pushing prerogative somewhat too far. He
had won large sums from young men not out of their teens; he had been
associated in play transactions with names less than reputable; and,
finally, having backed a stable to an immense amount at Newmarket, had
levanted on the day of his losing. He had done the act deliberately and
calmly. It was a coup which, if successful, replaced him in credit and
affluence; if a failure, it only confirmed the wavering judgment of his
set, and left him to shift for the future in a different sphere; for,
while a disgraced viscount is very bad company for viscounts, he is
often a very welcome guest amongst that amiably innocent class who think
the privileges of the aristocracy include bad morals with blue ribbons.
The Turf could now no longer be a career with him. Ecarte and lansquenet
were almost as much out of the question. Billiards, as Sir Walter said
of literature, “might be a walking-stick, but never a crutch.” There
was, then, nothing left for it but marriage. A rich heiress was his last
coup; and as, in all likelihood, the thing could not be done twice, it
required geat circumspection.
In England this were easy enough. The manufacturing districts were grown
ambitious. Cotton lords were desirous of a more recognized nobility,
and millowners could be found ready to buy a coronet at the cost of half
their fortune. But from England late events had banished him, and with a
most damaged reputation.
Now, carrying nobility to the Continent was like bringing coals to
Newcastle, the whole length and breadth of the land being covered with
counts, barons, dukes, and princes; and although English nobility stands
on a different footing, there was no distinguishing the “real article”
amid this mass of counterfeit.
Every Frenchman of small fortune was an emigre count. Every German, of
none, was sure to be a baron. All Poles, unwashed, uncombed, and uncared
for, were of the very cream of the aristocracy; and as for Italians!
it was a nation of princes, with their uncles all cardinals. To be a
viscount in such company was, perhaps, like Lord Castlereagh's unstarred
coat, plus distingue, but certainly more modest. The milor, if not
associated with boundless wealth, six carriages, two couriers, three
cooks, and a groom of the chambers, the whole of the “Russie,” or
the “Black Eagle,” means nothing abroad. If not bound up with all the
extravagance and all the eccentricities of riches, if not dazzling by
display or amazing by oddity, it is a contradiction of terms; and to
be an English noble without waste, profusion, and absurdity, is to deny
your country or be a counterfeit of your class.
Lord Norwood knew and felt all these things. They had often occupied his
speculations and engaged his thoughts; so that, if his mind reverted to
them now, it was to regard them as facts for future theory to build upon
as mathematicians make use of the proofs of geometry without going over
the steps which lead to conviction. No; all his present reflections took
a practical form, and might be summed up in the one resolve, “I must go
no further. I have done everything that a man dare do,--perhaps a little
more, and yet keep his footing in the world.” That tacit verdict of “not
proven,” which had been passed upon so many of his actions, might at
any moment be reversed now, and a review of his life's career presented
anything but a bright retrospect. Expulsion from a great school at
thirteen; three years' private dissipation and secret wickedness in a
clergyman's family; a dissolute regiment, from which he was given
leave to sell out at Malta; two years with the Legion or Don Carlos,
it mattered not which, in Spain; a year or so in London, with a weak
attempt at reformation; a staff appointment in India obtained and
sold; exposure partly hushed up; debts; Jews; renewals; the Fleet; the
Bankruptcy Court; a few disreputable duels; an action for seduction;
ending with the last affair at Newmarket, made up the grand outline,
the details comprising various little episodes with which we must not
trouble ourselves.
One incident, however, would come up prominently before his Lordship's
mind, and, however little given to let the past usurp the thoughts
which should be given to the present, it still insisted upon sharing his
attention. This was no less than a little love affair in Spain with a
“ballerina” of the Opera, with whom, by the aid of a young priest then
studying at Saragossa, he had contracted a mock marriage. The sudden
movement of a corps of the army to which he was attached gave him an
opportunity of an easy divorce from his bride, and it is likely he had
not twice thought of her since the event had happened. Now, however,
that an intention of marrying in reality occurred to him, the incident
came freshly to his mind, and he jocularly wondered if his second
marriage might prove more fortunate than his first.
The hour and the place were favorable to revery. It was past midnight.
All was silent and noiseless in the great palace; the sharp ticking of
the clock on the mantel-piece was the only sound to be heard, save, at a
long distance off, the dull, subdued flow of the Arno. The room itself,
unlighted, except by the flickering wood fire, was in deep shadow; and,
lulled by these influences and his mild Manilla, Norwood was free to
revel in so much of dreamland as natures like his ever explore.
Who can tell whether men of this stamp know what it is to “grieve,”
whether chagrin for some momentary disappointment, anger at being
thwarted, is not the nearest approach to sorrow that they ever feel?
The whole course of their lives seems opposed to the notion of deep
or intense feeling, and the restless activity of their ingenious minds
appears to deny the possibility of regrets. As for Norwood, he would
have laughed at the puerility of going over the bygone; therefore, if
he did recur to a former incident of his life, it was involuntary and
probably induced by the accidental similarity with those which now
engaged his thoughts.
“If this Dalton girl be rich,” thought he, “I might do worse. There are
no relatives to make impertinent inquiries, or ask awkward questions.
Hester can, and must, if I desire, assist me. Living out of England,
the girl herself will have heard nothing of my doings, and in name,
appearance, and air she is presentable anywhere.” He thought, too, that,
as a married man, his character would be in a measure rehabilitated. It
would be like entering on a new road in life; and if this could be done
with a certain degree of style and outlay, he had great trust in the
world's charity and forgiveness to pardon all the past. “A good house
and a good cook,” thought he, “are the best witnesses to call to
character I have ever met. Turtle and champagne have proved sovereign
remedies for slander in all ages; and the man who can sport Lafitte in
the evening, and split a pencil at twenty paces of a morning, may defy
envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness.”
To find out about this girl's fortune was then his first object. As
for family, his own rank was enough for both. The matter must be done
quickly. The London season over, England would be pouring its myriads of
talking, gossiping travellers over the Continent, and then he should be
discussed, probably avoided and shunned too.
Even already certain unmistakable signs of coolness announced themselves
amongst the men of his acquaintance.
George Onslow avoided play when in his company. Treviliani, one of Lady
Hester's chief danglers, and the patron of the Turf in Tuscany, would
n't even allude to a horse before him. Prince Midchekoff went further,
and actually, save on rare occasions, omitted him from his dinner
list. Now, although Norwood averred that he detested _petit jeu_, hated
spooney talk about racing, and dreaded the tiresome display of a
“Tartar feast,” these were all threatening indications, and he saw their
meaning. He would willingly have fastened upon some one man, fixed a
quarrel on him, and shot him. He had more than once in life adopted this
policy with success; but here it would have been inapplicable, and the
public opinion he sought to bring on his own side would have been only
more inevitably arrayed against him.
“In what a mess does the want of money involve a man!” thought he, as
he lay before the half-dying embers of the wood fire. “Had I won my bets
on 'Chanticleer,' or had I but backed 'Amontillado,' how different had
my position been to-day! That the simple change of one name for another
in my betting-book the mere hazard of a choice, of a horse, too should
influence a man's whole life, is a pretty fair instance of what the
world is! Had I 'come right,' I should now be the favored guest of some
noble duke, shooting his grace's pheasants, drinking his Burgundy, and
flirting with his daughters. Fortune willed it otherwise, and here I
am, actually plotting a match with a nameless girl to rescue myself from
utter ruin. Three weeks ago I would not have believed that this could
happen; and who can tell what another three weeks may bring forth?
perhaps, already, there is mischief brewing. What if my Lady's refusal
to receive this evening may have some signification in it? Haggerstone
is too courteous by half, and Jekyl has never called upon me since my
arrival!” He laughed ironically as he said this, and added, “It is a
bold game, after all, for them to play! Reprisals to two of them, at
least might prove awkward; and as for 'Master Albert,' he lives but
on general sufferance. There has been a long run of luck against me;
nothing but ill-fortune since the day I might have married Hester, and
yet hung back, and that very same year she marries another, and inherits
an immense fortune in India. What a blow to each of us! Such has been
my lot through life; always backing the loser till the very moment when
luck changes, and his turn comes to win.”
As these thoughts passed through his mind, weariness, the silence of the
hour, the darkened room, induced slumber; and although once or twice he
made a half-effort to arouse himself and go home, the listless feeling
gained the mastery, and he dropped off to sleep. The uneasy consciences
have oftentimes very easy slumbers. Norwood's was of the calmest; not a
dream, not one flitting fancy disturbed it.
It was already nigh day as he lay thus, when the dull roll of wheels
beneath the window in part awoke him; at least, it so far aroused him
that he remembered where he was, and fancied that it might be George
Onslow, on the return from his dinner-party. He lay for some minutes
expecting to hear his step upon the stair, and see him enter the room;
but as all seemed to resume its wonted quiet, he was dozing off again,
when he heard the sound of a hand upon the lock of the door.
It is one of the strange instincts of half-slumber to be often more
alive to the influence of subdued and stealthy sounds than to louder
noises. The slightest whisperings, the low murmurings of a human voice,
the creaking of a chair, the cautious drawing back of a curtain will jar
upon and arouse the faculties that have been insensible to the rushing
flow of a cataract or the dull booming of the sea.
Slight as were the sounds now heard, Norwood started as he listened to
them, and, at once arousing himself, he fixed his eyes upon the door, in
which the handle was seen to turn slowly and cautiously. The impression
that it was a robber immediately occurred to him, and he determined to
lie still and motionless, to watch what might happen. He was not
wanting in personal courage, and had full confidence in his strength and
activity.
The door at last opened; at first, a very little, and slowly, then
gradually more and more, till, by the mysterious half-light to which his
eyes had grown accustomed, Norwood could see the flounces of a female
dress, and the small, neat foot of a woman beneath it. The faint,
uncertain flame of the fire showed him thus much, but left the remainder
of the figure in deep shadow.
Whether from excess of caution, or that she was yet hesitating what
course to take, she remained for some seconds motionless; and Norwood,
who had subdued his breathing to the utmost, lay in the deep shadow,
speculating on the upshot of an adventure from which he promised
himself, at least, an amusing story. The deep black lace which fell over
the arched instep indicated a degree of rank in the wearer that gave a
piquancy to the incident, and imparted a zest to the curiosity of a
man who probably knew no higher pleasure in life than in possessing the
secrets of his acquaintance.
He had time to run over in his mind a dozen little speculations of who
she was, ere she stirred; and at last, as if with change of purpose, he
saw, or fancied that he saw, the door beginning slowly to close. Whether
this was a mere trick of his excited imagination or not, a sudden
gesture of impatience on his part threw down one of the cushions of the
sofa. A slight shriek so slight as to be barely heard broke from the
female, and she banged the door to. Norwood reached it with a spring;
but although, as he wrenched it open, he could yet hear the rustling of
a woman's dress in the passage, the sharp sound of a door hastily shut
and locked defied all thought of pursuit, and he stood pondering over
what had happened, and almost doubtful of its reality.
“At least, the fair visitor belongs to the family; that much I may rely
upon,” said he, as he lighted a candle to explore the locality a little
closer. The corridor, however, abruptly stopped at a small door, which
was locked on the inside; but to what portion of the house it led he
could not even conjecture. He was not a very unlikely man to trace the
clew of such an adventure as this seemed to be. It was one of
those incidents with which his course of life had made him somewhat
conversant; and few were better able to fill up from conjecture every
blank of such a history. Nor was he one to shrink from any suspicion,
no matter how repugnant to every thought of honor, nor how improbable to
every mind less imbued with vice than his own.
For a moment or two, however, he almost doubted whether the whole might
not have been a dream, so sudden, so brief, so trackless did it all
appear. This doubt, was, however, quickly resolved, as his eyes fell
upon the floor, where a small fragment of a lace dress lay, as it was
caught and torn off in the closing door. Norwood took it up, and sat
down to examine it with attention.
“Point d'Alencon,” said he, “bespeaks no vulgar wearer; and such is
this! Who could have thought of George Onslow playing Lothario! But this
comes of Italy. And now to find her out.” He ran over to himself half a
dozen names, in which were nearly as many nationalities, but some doubt
accompanied each. “No matter,” thought he, “the secret will keep.”
He suddenly remembered, at the instant, that he had promised an
acquaintance to pass some days with him in the Maremma, shooting; and,
not sorry to have so good a reason for a few days' absence, he arose
and set out towards his hotel, having first carefully placed within
his pocketbook the little fragment of lace, a clew to a mystery he was
resolved to explore hereafter.