Dame Gossip at this present pass bursts to give us a review of the
social world siding for the earl or for his countess; and her parrot cry
of ‘John Rose Mackrell!’ with her head’s loose shake over the smack of
her lap, to convey the contemporaneous tipsy relish of the rich good
things he said on the subject of the contest, indicates the kind of
intervention it would be.
To save the story from having its vein tied, we may accept the reminder,
that he was the countess’s voluble advocate at a period when her friends
were shy to speak of her. After relating the Vauxhall Gardens episode in
burlesque Homeric during the freshness of the scandal, Rose Mackrell’s
enthusiasm for the heroine of his humour set in. He tracked her to her
parentage, which was new breath blown into the sunken tradition of some
Old Buccaneer and his Countess Fanny: and, a turn of great good luck
helping him to a copy of the book of the MAXIMS FOR MEN, he would quote
certain of the racier ones, passages of Captain John Peter Kirby’s
personal adveres in various lands and waters illustrating the text, to
prove that the old warrior acted by the rule of his recommendations.
They had the repulsive attraction proper to rusty lumber swords and
truncehons that have tasted brains. They wove no mild sort of halo for
the head of a shillelagh-flourishing Whitechapel Countess descended from
the writer and doer.
People were willing to believe in her jump of thirty feet or more off a
suburban house-top to escape durance, and her midnight storming of
her lord’s town house, and ousting of him to go find his quarters at
Scrope’s hotel. He, too, had his band of pugilists, as it was known;
and he might have heightened a rageing scandal. The nobleman forbore.
A woman’s blow gracefully taken adds a score of inches to our stature,
floor us as it may: we win the world’s after-thoughts. Rose Mackrell
sketched the earl;--always alert, smart, quick to meet a combination and
protect a dignity never obtruded, and in spite of himself the laugh of
the town. His humour flickered wildly round the ridiculous position of a
prominent young nobleman, whose bearing and character were foreign to a
position of ridicule.
Nevertheless, the earl’s figure continuing to be classic sculpture, it
allied him with the aristocracy of martyrs, that burn and do not wince.
He propitiated none, and as he could not but suffer shrewdly, he gained
esteem enough to shine through the woman’s pitiless drenching of him.
During his term at Scrope’s hotel, the carousals there were quite
old-century and matter of discourse. He had proved his return to
sound sense in the dismissal of ‘the fiddler,’ notoriously the woman’s
lieutenant, or more; and nightly the revelry closed at the great gaming
tables of St. James’s Street, while Whitechapel held the coroneted
square, well on her way to the Law courts, as Abrane and Potts reported;
and positively so, ‘clear case.’ That was the coming development and
finale of the Marriage. London waited for it.
A rich man’s easy smile over losses at play, merely taught his emulous
troop to feel themselves poor devils in the pocket. But Fleetwood’s
contempt of Sleep was a marvel, superhuman, and accused them of an
inferior vigour, hard for young men to admit by the example. He never
went to bed. Issuing from Fortune’s hall-doors in the bright, lively,
summer morning, he mounted horse and was away to the hills. Or he took
the arm of a Roman Catholic nobleman, Lord Feltre, and walked with him
from the green tables and the establishment’s renowned dry still Sillery
to a Papist chapel. As it was not known that he had given his word to
abjure his religion, the pious gamblers did no worse than spread an
alarm and quiet it, by the citation of his character for having a try at
everything.
Henrietta despatched at this period the following letter to Chillon:
‘I am with Livia to-morrow. Janey starts for Wales to-morrow morning, a
voluntary exile. She pleaded to go back to that place where you had to
leave her, promising she would not come Westward; but was persuaded.
Lady Arpington approves. The situation was getting too terribly
strained. We met and passed my lord in the park.
‘He was walking his horse-elegant cavalier that he is: would not look on
his wife. A woman pulled by her collar should be passive; if she pulls
her way, she is treated as a dog. I see nothing else in the intention of
poor Janey’s last offence to him. There is an opposite counsel, and he
can be eloquent, and he will be heard on her side. How could she manage
the most wayward when she has not an idea of ordinary men! But, my
husband, they have our tie between them; it may move him. It subdues
her--and nothing else would have done that. If she had been in England a
year before the marriage, she would, I think, have understood better
how to guide her steps and her tongue for his good pleasure. She learns
daily, very quickly: observes, assimilates; she reads and has her
comments--would have shot far ahead of your Riette, with my advantages.
‘Your uncle--but he will bear any charge on his conscience as long as he
can get the burden off his shoulders. Do not fret, my own! Reperuse the
above--you will see we have grounds for hope.
‘He should have looked down on her! No tears from her eyes, but her eyes
were tears. She does not rank among beautiful women. She has her moments
for outshining them--the loveliest of spectres! She caught at my heart.
I cannot forget her face looking up for him to look down. A great
painter would have reproduced it, a great poet have rendered the
impression. Nothing short of the greatest. That is odd to say of one so
simple as she. But when accidents call up her reserves, you see mountain
heights where mists were--she is actually glorified. Her friend--I
do believe a friend--the Mr. Woodseer you are to remember meeting
somewhere--a sprained ankle--has a dozen similes ready for what she is
when pain or happiness vivify her. Or, it may be, tender charity. She
says, that if she feels for suffering people, it is because she is the
child of Chillon’s mother. In like manner Chillon is the son of Janey’s
father.
‘Mr. Woodseer came every other evening. Our only enlivenment. Livia
followed her policy, in refusing to call. We lived luxuriously; no
money, not enough for a box at the opera, though we yearned--you can
imagine. Chapters of philosophy read out and expounded instead. Janey
likes them. He sets lessons to her queer maid--reading, writing,
pronunciation of English. An inferior language to Welsh, for poetical
purposes, we are informed. So Janey--determining to apply herself
to Welsh, and a chameleon Riette dreading that she will be taking a
contrary view of the honest souls--as she feels them to be--when again
under Livia’s shadow.
‘The message from Janey to Scrope’s hotel was despatched half-an-hour
after we had driven in from the park; fruit of a brown meditation. I
wrote it--third person--a single sentence. Arrangements are made for
her to travel comfortably. It is funny--the shops for her purchases of
clothes, necessaries, etc., are specified; she may order to any extent.
Not a shilling of money for her poor purse. What can be the secret of
that? He does nothing without an object. To me, uniformly civil, no
irony, few compliments. Livia writes, that I am commended for keeping
Janey company. What can be the secret of a man scrupulously just with
one hand, and at the same time cruel with the other? Mr. Woodseer says,
his wealth:--“More money than is required for their needs, men go into
harness to Plutus,”--if that is clever.
‘I have written my husband--as Janey ceases to call her own; and it was
pretty and touching to hear her “my husband.”--Oh! a dull letter. But he
is my husband though he keeps absent--to be longed for--he is my husband
still, my husband always. Chillon is Henrietta’s husband, the world
cries out, and when she is flattered she does the like, for then it is
not too presumptuous that she should name Henrietta Chillon’s wife.
In my ears, husband has the sweeter sound. It brings an angel from
overhead. Will it bring him one-half hour sooner? My love! My dear! If
it did, I should be lisping “husband, husband, husband” from cock-crow
to owl’s cry. Livia thinks the word foolish, if not detestable. She and
I have our different opinions. She is for luxury. I choose poverty and
my husband. Poverty has its beauty, if my husband is the sun of it. Elle
radote. She would not have written so dull a letter to her husband
if she had been at the opera last night, or listened to a distant
street-band. No more--the next line would be bleeding. He should have
her blood too, if that were her husband’s--it would never be; but if
it were for his good in the smallest way. Chillon’s wish is to give his
blood for them he loves. Never did woman try more to write worthily to
her absent lord and fall so miserably into the state of dripping
babe from bath on nurse’s knee. Cover me, my lord; and love, my cause
for--no, my excuse, my refuge from myself. We are one? Oh! we are
one!--and we have been separated eight and twenty days.
‘HENRIETTA KIRBY-LEVELLIER.’
That was a letter for the husband and lover to receive in a foreign land
and be warmed.
The tidings of Carinthia washed him clean of the grimy district where
his waxen sister had developed her stubborn insensibility;--resembling
craziness, every perversion of the refinement demanded by young
Englishmen of their ladies; and it pacified him with the belief that
she was now at rest, the disturbed history of their father and mother
at rest as well; his conscience in relation to the marriage likewise at
rest. Chillon had a wife. Her writing of the welcome to poverty stirred
his knowledge of his wife’s nature. Carinthia might bear it and harden
to flint; Henrietta was a butterfly for the golden rays. His thoughts,
all his energies, were bent on the making of money to supply her need
for the pleasure she flew in--a butterfly’s grub without it. Accurately
so did the husband and lover read his wife--adoring her the more.
Her letter’s embracing close was costly to them. It hurried him to
the compromise of a debateable business, and he fell into the Austrian
Government’s terms for the payment of the inheritance from his father;
calculating that--his sister’s share deducted-money would be in hand to
pay pressing debts and enable Henrietta to live unworried by cares
until he should have squeezed debts, long due and increasing, out of the
miserly old lord, his uncle. A prospect of supplies for twelve months,
counting the hack and carriage Henrietta had always been used to,
seemed about as far as it was required to look by the husband hastening
homeward to his wife’s call. Her letter was a call in the night.
Besides, there were his yet untried Inventions. The new gunpowder
testing at Croridge promised to provide Henrietta with many of the
luxuries she could have had, and had abandoned for his sake. The new
blasting powder and a destructive shell might build her the palace she
deserved. His uncle was, no doubt, his partner. If, however, the profits
were divided, sufficient wealth was assured. But his uncle remained a
dubious image. The husband and lover could enfold no positive prospect
to suit his wife’s tastes beyond the twelve months.
We have Dame Gossip upon us. --One minute let mention be of the
excitement over Protestant England when that rumour disseminated,
telling of her wealthiest nobleman’s visit to a monastery, up in the
peaks and snows; and of his dwelling among the monks, and assisting in
all their services day and night, hymning and chanting, uttering not one
word for one whole week: his Papistical friend, Lord Feltre, with him,
of course, after Jesuit arts had allured him to that place of torrents
and lightnings and canticles and demon echoes, all as though expressly
contrived for the horrifying of sinners into penitence and confession
and the monkish cowl up to life’s end, not to speak of the abjuration of
worldly possessions and donation of them into the keeping of the shaven
brothers; when either they would have settled a band of them here in
our very midst, or they would have impoverished--is not too strong a
word--the country by taking the money’s worth of the mines, estates,
mansions, freehold streets and squares of our metropolis out of it
without scruple; rejoicing so to bleed the Protestant faith. Underrate
it now--then it was a truly justifiable anxiety: insomuch that you heard
people of station, eminent titled persons, asking, like the commonest
low Radicals, whether it was prudent legislation to permit of the
inheritance of such vast wealth by a young man, little more than a boy,
and noted for freaks. And some declared it could not be allowed for
foreign monks to have a claim to inherit English property. There was a
general consent, that if the Earl of Fleetwood went to the extreme of
making over his property to those monks, he should be pronounced insane
and incapable. Ultimately the world was a little pacified by hearing
that a portion of it was entailed, Esslemont and the Welsh mines.
So it might be; but what if he had no child! The marriage amazing
everybody scarcely promised fruit, it was thought. Countess Livia, much
besought for her opinion, scouted the possibility. And Carinthia
Jane was proclaimed by John Rose Mackrell (to his dying day the
poor gentleman tried vainly to get the second syllable of his name
accentuated) a young woman who would outlive twice over the husband she
had. He said of his name, it was destined to pass him down a dead
fish in the nose of posterity, and would affect his best jokes; which
something has done, or the present generation has lost the sense of
genuine humour.
Thanks to him, the talk of the Whitechapel Countess again sprang up,
merrily as ever; and after her having become, as he said, ‘a desiccated
celebrity,’ she outdid cabinet ministers and naughty wives for a living
morsel in the world’s mouth. She was denounced by the patriotic party as
the cause of the earl’s dalliance with Rome.
The earl, you are to know, was then coasting along the Mediterranean, on
board his beautiful schooner yacht, with his Lord Feltre, bound to make
an inspection of Syrian monasteries, and forget, if he could, the face
of all faces, another’s possession by the law.
Those two lords, shut up together in a yacht, were advised by their
situation to be bosom friends, and they quarrelled violently, and were
reconciled, and they quarrelled again; they were explosive chemicals;
until the touch of dry land relieved them of what they really fancied
the spell of the Fiend. For their argumentative topic during confinement
was Woman, when it was not Theology; and even off a yacht, those are
subjects to kindle the utmost hatred of dissension, if men are not
perfectly concordant. They agreed upon land to banish any talk of Women
or Theology, where it would have been comparatively innocent; so they
both desiring to be doing the thing they had sworn they would not do,
the thoughts of both were fastened on one or the other interdicted
subject. They hardly spoke; they perceived in their longing minds,
that the imagined spell of, the Fiend was indeed the bile of the sea,
secreted thickly for want of exercise, and they both regretted the days
and nights of their angry controversies; unfit pilgrims of the Holy
Land, they owned.
To such effect, Lord Fleetwood wrote to Gower Woodseer, as though there
had been no breach between them, from Jerusalem, expressing the wish
to hear his cool wood-notes of the philosophy of Life, fresh drawn from
Nature’s breast; and urgent for an answer, to be addressed to his hotel
at Southampton, that he might be greeted on his return home first by his
‘friend Gower.’
He wrote in the month of January. His arrival at Southampton was on the
thirteenth day of March; and there he opened a letter some weeks old,
the bearer of news which ought by rights to make husbands proudly happy.