CHAPTER I.

PHANTOM FORTUNE

A Novel

BY THE AUTHOR OF "LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET," "VIXEN," ETC. ETC. ETC.

CONTENTS

I. PENELOPE

II. ULYSSES

III. ON THE WRONG ROAD

IV. THE LAST STAGE

V. FORTY YEARS AFTER

VI. MAULEVRIER'S HUMBLE FRIEND

VII. IN THE SUMMER MORNING

VIII. THERE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON

IX. A CRY IN THE DARKNESS

X. 'O BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET'

XI. 'IF I WERE TO DO AS ISEULT DID'

XII. 'THE GREATER CANTLE OF THE WORLD IS LOST'

XIII. 'SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED ALL SHALL FADE'

XIV. 'NOT YET'

XV. 'OF ALL MEN ELSE I HAVE AVOIDED THEE'

XVI. 'HER FACE RESIGNED TO BLISS OR BALE'

XVII. 'AND THE SPRING COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY'

XVIII. 'AND COME AGEN, BE IT BY NIGHT OR DAY'

XIX. THE OLD MAN ON THE FELL

XX. LADY MAULEVRIER'S LETTER-BAG

XXI. ON THE DARK BROW OF HELVELLYN

XXII. WISER THAN LESBIA

XXIII. 'A YOUNG LAMB'S HEART AMONG THE FULL-GROWN FLOCKS'

XXIV. 'NOW NOTHING LEFT TO LOVE OR HATE'

XXV. CARTE BLANCHE

XXVI. 'PROUD CAN I NEVER BE OF WHAT I HATE'

XXVII. LESBIA CROSSES PICCADILLY

XXVIII. 'CLUBS, DIAMONDS, HEARTS, IN WILD DISORDER SEEN'

XXIX. 'SWIFT, SUBTLE POST, CARRIER OF GRISLY CARE'

XXX. 'ROSES CHOKED AMONG THORNS AND THISTLES'

XXXI. 'KIND IS MY LOVE TO-DAY, TO-MORROW KIND'

XXXII. WAYS AND MEANS

XXXIII. BY SPECIAL LICENCE

XXXIV. 'OUR LOVE WAS NEW, AND THEN BUT IN THE SPRING'

XXXV. 'ALL FANCY, PRIDE, AND FICKLE MAIDENHOOD'

XXXVI. A RASTAQUOUÈRE

XXXVII. LORD HARTFIELD REFUSES A FORTUNE

XXXVIII. ON BOARD THE 'CAYMAN'

XXXIX. IN STORM AND DARKNESS

XL. A NOTE OF ALARM

XLI. PRIVILEGED INFORMATION

XLII. 'SHALL IT BE?'

XLIII. 'ALAS, FOR SORROW IS ALL THE END OF THIS'

XLIV. 'OH, SAD KISSED MOUTH, HOW SORROWFUL IT IS!'

XLV. 'THAT FELL ARREST WITHOUT ALL BAIL'

XLVI. THE DAY OF RECKONING

[Illustration: H. French, del.) (T. Symmons, sc. "The old man sat looking

at Mary in silence for some moments."--Page 171.]

CHAPTER I.

PENELOPE.

People dined earlier forty years ago than they do now. Even that salt of

the earth, the elect of society, represented by that little great world

which lies between the narrow circle bounded by Bryanstone Square on the

north and by Birdcage Walk on the south, did not consider seven o'clock

too early an hour for a dinner party which was to be followed by routs,

drums, concerts, conversazione, as the case might be. It was seven

o'clock on a lovely June evening, and the Park was already deserted, and

carriages were rolling swiftly along all the Westend squares, carrying

rank, fashion, wealth, and beauty, political influence, and intellectual

power, to the particular circle in which each was destined to illumine

upon that particular evening.

Stateliest among London squares, Grosvenor--in some wise a wonder to the

universe as newly lighted with gas--grave Grosvenor, with its heavy old

Georgian houses and pompous porticoes, sparkled and shone, not alone

with the novel splendour of gas, but with the light of many wax candles,

clustering flower-like in silver branches and girandoles, multiplying

their flame in numerous mirrors; and of all the houses in that stately

square none had a more imposing aspect than Lord Denyer's dark red brick

mansion, with stone dressings, and the massive grandeur of an Egyptian

mausoleum.

Lord Denyer was an important personage in the political and diplomatic

world. He had been ambassador at Constantinople and at Paris, and had

now retired on his laurels, an influence still, but no longer an active

power in the machine of government. At his house gathered all that was

most brilliant in London society. To be seen at Lady Denyer's evening

parties was the guinea stamp of social distinction; to dine with Lord

Denyer was an opening in life, almost as valuable as University honours,

and more difficult of attainment.

It was during the quarter of an hour before dinner that a group of

persons, mostly personages, congregated round Lord Denyer's

chimney-piece, naturally trending towards the social hearth, albeit it

was the season for roses and lilies rather than of fires, and the hum of

the city was floating in upon the breath of the warm June evening

through the five tall windows which opened upon Lord Denyer's balcony.

The ten or twelve persons assembled seemed only a sprinkling in the large

lofty room, furnished sparsely with amber satin sofas, a pair of Florentine

marble tables, and half an acre or so of looking glass. Voluminous amber

draperies shrouded the windows, and deadened the sound of rolling wheels,

and the voices and footfalls of western London. The drawing rooms of those

days were neither artistic nor picturesque--neither Early English nor Low

Dutch, nor Renaissance, nor Anglo-Japanese. A stately commonplace

distinguished the reception rooms of the great world. Upholstery stagnated

at a dead level of fluted legs, gilding, plate glass, and amber satin.

Lady Denyer stood a little way in advance of the group on the hearthrug,

fanning herself, with her eye on the door, while she listened languidly

to the remarks of a youthful diplomatist, a sprig of a lordly tree, upon

the last _début_ at Her Majesty's Theatre.

'My own idea was that she screamed,' said her ladyship. 'But the new

Rosinas generally do scream. Why do we have a new Rosina every year,

whom nobody ever hears of afterwards? What becomes of them? Do they die,

or do they set up as singing mistresses in second-rate watering-places?'

hazarded her ladyship, with her eye always on the door.

She was a large woman in amethyst satin, and a gauze turban with a

diamond aigrette, a splendid jewel, which would not have misbeseemed the

head-gear of an Indian prince. Lady Denyer was one of the last women who

wore a turban, and that Oriental head-dress became her bold and massive

features.

Infinitely bored by the whiskerless attaché, who had entered upon a

disquisition on the genius of Rossini as compared with this new man

Meyerbeer, her ladyship made believe to hear, while she listened

intently to the confidential murmurs of the group on the hearthrug, the

little knot of personages clustered round Lord Denyer.

'Indian mail in this morning,' said one--'nothing else talked of at the

club. Very flagrant case! A good deal worse than Warren Hastings.

Quite clear there must be a public inquiry--House of Lords--criminal

prosecution.'

'I was told on very good authority, that he has been recalled, and is

now on his passage home,' said another man.

Lord Denyer shrugged his shoulders, pursed up his lips, and looked

ineffably wise, a way he had when he knew very little about the subject

under discussion.

'How will _she_ take it, do you think?' inquired Colonel Madison, of the

Life Guards, a man about town, and an inveterate gossip, who knew

everybody, and everybody's family history, down to the peccadilloes of

people's great grandmothers.

'You will have an opportunity of judging,' replied his lordship, coolly.

'She's to be here this evening.'

'But do you think she'll show?' asked the Colonel. 'The mail must have

brought the news to her, as well as to other people--supposing she knew

nothing about it beforehand. She must know that the storm has burst. Do

you think she'll----'

'Come out in the thunder and lightning?' interrupted Lord Denver; 'I'm

sure she will. She has the pride of Lucifer and the courage of a lion.

Five to one in ponies that she is here before the clock strikes seven!'

'I think you are right. I knew her mother, Constance Talmash. Pluck was

a family characteristic of the Talmashes. Wicked as devils, and brave as

lions. Old Talmash, the grandfather, shot his valet in a paroxysm of

_delirium tremens_,' said Colonel Madison. 'She's a splendid woman, and

she won't flinch. I'd rather back her than bet against her.'

'Lady Maulevrier!' announced the groom of the chambers; and Lady Denyer

moved at least three paces forward to meet her guest.

The lady who entered, with slow and stately movements and proudly

balanced head, might have served for a model as Juno or the Empress

Livia. She was still in the bloom of youth, at most seven-and-twenty,

but she had all the calm assurance of middle-age. No dowager, hardened

by the varied experiences of a quarter of a century in the great world,

could have faced society with more perfect coolness and self-possession.

She was beautiful, and she let the world see that she was conscious of

her beauty, and the power that went along with it. She was clever, and

she used her cleverness with unfailing tact and unscrupulous audacity.

She had won her place in the world as an acknowledged beauty, and one of

the leaders of fashion. Two years ago she had been the glory and delight

of Anglo-Indian society in the city of Madras, ruling that remote and

limited kingdom with a despotic power. Then all of a sudden she was

ordered, or she ordered her physician to order her, an immediate

departure from that perilous climate, and she came back to England with

her three-year-old son, two Ayahs, and four European servants, leaving

her husband, Lord Maulevrier, Governor of the Madras Presidency, to

finish the term of his service in an enforced widowhood.

She returned to be the delight of London society. She threw open the

family mansion in Curzon Street to the very best people, but to those

only. She went out a great deal, but she was never seen at a second-rate

party. She had not a single doubtful acquaintance upon her visiting

list. She spent half of every year at the family seat in Scotland, was a

miracle of goodness to the poor of her parish, and taught her boy his

alphabet.

Lord Denyer came forward while his wife and Lady Maulevrier were shaking

hands, and greeted her with more than his usual cordiality. Colonel

Madison watched for the privilege of a recognising nod from the

divinity. Sir Jasper Paulet, a legal luminary of the first brilliancy,

likely to be employed for the Crown if there should be an inquiry into

Lord Maulevrier's conduct out yonder, came to press Lady Maulevrier's

hand and murmur a tender welcome.

She accepted their friendliness as a matter of course, and not by the

faintest extra quiver of the tremulous stars which glittered in a

circlet above her raven hair did she betray her consciousness of the

cloud that darkened her husband's reputation. Never had she appeared

gayer, or more completely satisfied with herself and the world in which

she lived. She was ready to talk about anything and everything--the

newly-wedded queen, and the fortunate Prince, whose existence among us

had all the charm of novelty--of Lord Melbourne's declining health--and

Sir Robert Peel's sliding scale--mesmerism--the Oxford Tracts--the

latest balloon ascent--the opera--Macready's last production at Drury

lane--Bulwer's new novel--that clever little comic paper, just

struggling into popularity--what do you call the thing--_Punch?_--yes,

_Punch, or the London Charivari_--a much more respectable paper than its

Parisian prototype.

Seated next Lord Denyer, who was an excellent listener, Lady

Maulevrier's vivacity never flagged throughout the dinner, happily not

so long as a modern banquet, albeit more ponderous and not less

expensive. From the turtle to the pines and strawberries, Lady

Maulevrier held her host or her right-hand neighbour in interested

conversation. She always knew the particular subjects likely to interest

particular people, and was a good listener as well as a good talker. Her

right-hand neighbour was Sir Jasper Paulet, who had been allotted to the

pompous wife of a court physician, a lady who had begun her married life

in the outer darkness of Guildford Street, Bloomsbury, with a household

consisting of a maid-of-all-work and a boy in buttons, with an

occasional interregnum of charwoman; and for whom all the length and

breadth of Harley Street was now much too small.

Sir Jasper was only decently civil to this haughty matron, who on the

strength of a card for a ball or a concert at the palace once in a

season affected to be on the most intimate terms with Royalty, and knew

everything that happened, and every fluctuation of opinion in that

charmed circle. The great lawyer's left ear was listening greedily for

any word of meaning that might fall from the lips of Lady Maulevrier;

but no such word fell. She talked delightfully, with a touch-and-go

vivacity which is the highest form of dinner-table talk, not dwelling

with a heavy hand upon any one subject, but glancing from theme to theme

with airy lightness. But not one word did she say about the governor of

Madras; and at this juncture of affairs it would have been the worst

possible taste to inquire too closely after his lordship's welfare.

So the dinner wore on to its stately close, and just as the solemn

procession of flunkeys, long as the shadowy line of the kings in

'Macbeth,' filed off with the empty ice-dishes, Lady Maulevrier said

something which was as if a shell had exploded in the middle of the

table.

'Perhaps you are surprised to see me in such good spirits,' she said,

beaming upon her host, and speaking in those clear, perfectly finished

syllables which are heard further than the louder accents of less

polished speakers, 'but you will not wonder when I let you into the

secret. Maulevrier is on his way home.'

'Indeed!' said Lord Denyer, with the most benignant smile he could

command at such short notice. He felt that the muscles round his eyes

and the corners of his mouth were betraying too much of his real

sentiments. 'You must be very glad.'

'I am gladder than I can say,' answered Lady Maulevrier, gaily. 'That

horried climate--a sky like molten copper--an atmosphere that tastes of

red-hot sand--that flat barren coast never suited him. His term of

office would expire in little more than a year, but I hardly think he

could have lived out the year. However, I am happy to say the mail that

came in to-day--I suppose you know the mail is in?' (Lord Denyer

bowed)--'brought me a letter from his Lordship, telling me that he has

sent in his resignation, and taken his passage by the next big ship that

leaves Madras. I imagine he will be home in October.'

'If he have a favourable passage,' said Lord Denyer. 'Favoured by your

good wishes the winds and the waves ought to deal gently with him.'

'Ah, we have done with the old days of Greek story, when Neptune was

open to feminine influence,' sighed her ladyship. 'My poor Ulysses has

no goddess of wisdom to look after him.'

'Perhaps not, but he has the most charming of Penelopes waiting for him

at home.'

'A Penelope who goes to dinners, and takes life pleasantly in his

absence. That is a new order of things, is it not?' said her ladyship,

laughingly. 'I hope my poor Ulysses will not come home thoroughly broken

in health, but that our Sutherlandshire breezes will set him up again.'

'Rather an ordeal after India, I should think,' said Lord Denyer.

'It is his native air. He will revel in it.'

'Delicious country, no doubt,' assented his lordship, who was no

sportsman, and who detested Scotland, grouse moors, deer forests, salmon

rivers included.

His only idea of a winter residence was Florence or Capri, and of the

two he preferred Capri. The island was at that time little frequented by

Englishmen. It had hardly been fashionable since the time of Tiberius,

but Lord Denyer went there, accompanied by his French chef, and a dozen

other servants, and roughed it in a native hotel; while Lady Denyer

wintered at the family seat among the hills near Bath, and gave herself

over to Low Church devotion, and works of benevolence. She made herself

a terror to the neighbourhood by the strictness of her ideas all through

the autumn and winter; and in the spring she went up to London, put on

her turban and her diamonds, and plunged into the vortex of West-End

society, where she revolved among other jewelled matrons for the season,

telling herself and her intimates that this sacrifice of inclination was

due to his lordship's position. Lady Denyer was not the less

serious-minded because she was seen at every aristocratic resort, and

wore low gowns with very short sleeves, and a great display of mottled

arm and dimpled elbow.

Now came her ladyship's smiling signal for the withdrawal of that fairer

half of the assembly which was supposed to be indifferent to Lord

Denyer's famous port and Madeira. She had been throwing out her gracious

signals unperceived for at least five minutes before Lady Maulevrier

responded, so entirely was that lady absorbed in her conversation with

Lord Denyer; but she caught the look at last, and rose, as if moved by

the same machinery which impelled her hostess, and then, graceful as a

swan sailing with the current, she drifted down the room to the distant

door, and headed the stately procession of matronly velvet and diamonds,

herself at once the most regal and the most graceful figure in that bevy

of fair woman.

In the drawing-room nobody could be gayer than Lady Maulevrier, as she

marked the time of Signor Paponizzi's saltarello, exquisitely performed

on the Signor's famed Amati violin--or talked of the latest

scandal--always excepting that latest scandal of all which involved her

own husband--in subdued murmurs with one of her intimates. In the

dining-room the men drew closer together over their wine, and tore Lord

Maulevrier's character to rags. Yea, they rent him with their teeth and

gnawed the flesh from his bones, until there was not so much left of him

as the dogs left of Jezebel.

He had been a scamp from his cradle, a spendthrift at Eton and Oxford, a

blackleg in his manhood. False to men, false to women. Clever? Yes,

undoubtedly, just as Satan is clever, and as unscrupulous as that very

Satan. This was what his friends said of him over their wine. And now he

was rumoured to have sold the British forces in the Carnatic provinces

to one of the native Princes. Yes, to have taken gold, gold to an amount

which Clive in his most rapacious moments never dreamt of, for his

countrymen's blood. Tidings of dark transactions between the Governor

and the native Princes had reached the ears of the Government, tidings

so vague, so incredible, that the Government might naturally be slow to

believe, still slower to act. There were whispers of a woman's

influence, a beautiful Ranee, a creature as fascinating and as

unscrupulous as Cleopatra. The scandal had been growing for months past,

but it was only in the letters received to-day that the rumour had taken

a tangible shape, and now it was currently reported that Lord Maulevrier

had been recalled, and would have to answer at the bar of the House of

Lords for his misdemeanours, which were of a much darker colour than

those acts for which Warren Hastings had been called to account fifty

years before.

Yet in the face of all this, Lady Maulevrier bore herself as proudly as

if her husband's name were spotless, and talked of his return with all

the ardour of a fond and trusting wife.

'One of the finest bits of acting I ever saw in my life,' said the court

physician. 'Mademoiselle Mars never did anything better.'

'Do you really think it was acting?' inquired Lord Denyer, affecting a

youthful candour and trustfulness which at his age, and with his

experience, he could hardly be supposed to possess.

'I know it,' replied the doctor. 'I watched her while she was talking of

Maulevrier, and I saw just one bead of perspiration break out on her

upper lip--an unmistakable sign of the mental struggle.'