There was a time when a man in search of the pleasures of gossip sought
the society of ladies. The man knows better now. He goes to the
smoking-room of his club.
Doctor Wybrow lit his cigar, and looked round him at his brethren in
social conclave assembled. The room was well filled; but the flow of
talk was still languid. The Doctor innocently applied the stimulant
that was wanted. When he inquired if anybody knew the Countess Narona,
he was answered by something like a shout of astonishment. Never (the
conclave agreed) had such an absurd question been asked before! Every
human creature, with the slightest claim to a place in society, knew
the Countess Narona. An adventuress with a European reputation of the
blackest possible colour—such was the general description of the woman
with the deathlike complexion and the glittering eyes.
Descending to particulars, each member of the club contributed his own
little stock of scandal to the memoirs of the Countess. It was doubtful
whether she was really, what she called herself, a Dalmatian lady. It
was doubtful whether she had ever been married to the Count whose widow
she assumed to be. It was doubtful whether the man who accompanied her
in her travels (under the name of Baron Rivar, and in the character of
her brother) was her brother at all. Report pointed to the Baron as a
gambler at every “table” on the Continent. Report whispered that his
so-called sister had narrowly escaped being implicated in a famous
trial for poisoning at Vienna—that she had been known at Milan as a spy
in the interests of Austria—that her “apartment” in Paris had been
denounced to the police as nothing less than a private
gambling-house—and that her present appearance in England was the
natural result of the discovery. Only one member of the assembly in the
smoking-room took the part of this much-abused woman, and declared that
her character had been most cruelly and most unjustly assailed. But as
the man was a lawyer, his interference went for nothing: it was
naturally attributed to the spirit of contradiction inherent in his
profession. He was asked derisively what he thought of the
circumstances under which the Countess had become engaged to be
married; and he made the characteristic answer, that he thought the
circumstances highly creditable to both parties, and that he looked on
the lady’s future husband as a most enviable man.
Hearing this, the Doctor raised another shout of astonishment by
inquiring the name of the gentleman whom the Countess was about to
marry.
His friends in the smoking-room decided unanimously that the celebrated
physician must be a second “Rip-van-Winkle,” and that he had just
awakened from a supernatural sleep of twenty years. It was all very
well to say that he was devoted to his profession, and that he had
neither time nor inclination to pick up fragments of gossip at
dinner-parties and balls. A man who did not know that the Countess
Narona had borrowed money at Homburg of no less a person than Lord
Montbarry, and had then deluded him into making her a proposal of
marriage, was a man who had probably never heard of Lord Montbarry
himself. The younger members of the club, humouring the joke, sent a
waiter for the “Peerage”; and read aloud the memoir of the nobleman in
question, for the Doctor’s benefit—with illustrative morsels of
information interpolated by themselves.
“Herbert John Westwick. First Baron Montbarry, of Montbarry, King’s
County, Ireland. Created a Peer for distinguished military services in
India. Born, 1812. Forty-eight years old, Doctor, at the present time.
Not married. Will be married next week, Doctor, to the delightful
creature we have been talking about. Heir presumptive, his lordship’s
next brother, Stephen Robert, married to Ella, youngest daughter of the
Reverend Silas Marden, Rector of Runnigate, and has issue, three
daughters. Younger brothers of his lordship, Francis and Henry,
unmarried. Sisters of his lordship, Lady Barville, married to Sir
Theodore Barville, Bart.; and Anne, widow of the late Peter Norbury,
Esq., of Norbury Cross. Bear his lordship’s relations well in mind,
Doctor. Three brothers Westwick, Stephen, Francis, and Henry; and two
sisters, Lady Barville and Mrs. Norbury. Not one of the five will be
present at the marriage; and not one of the five will leave a stone
unturned to stop it, if the Countess will only give them a chance. Add
to these hostile members of the family another offended relative not
mentioned in the “Peerage,” a young lady—”
A sudden outburst of protest in more than one part of the room stopped
the coming disclosure, and released the Doctor from further
persecution.
“Don’t mention the poor girl’s name; it’s too bad to make a joke of
that part of the business; she has behaved nobly under shameful
provocation; there is but one excuse for Montbarry—he is either a
madman or a fool.” In these terms the protest expressed itself on all
sides. Speaking confidentially to his next neighbour, the Doctor
discovered that the lady referred to was already known to him (through
the Countess’s confession) as the lady deserted by Lord Montbarry. Her
name was Agnes Lockwood. She was described as being the superior of the
Countess in personal attraction, and as being also by some years the
younger woman of the two. Making all allowance for the follies that men
committed every day in their relations with women, Montbarry’s delusion
was still the most monstrous delusion on record. In this expression of
opinion every man present agreed—the lawyer even included. Not one of
them could call to mind the innumerable instances in which the sexual
influence has proved irresistible in the persons of women without even
the pretension to beauty. The very members of the club whom the
Countess (in spite of her personal disadvantages) could have most
easily fascinated, if she had thought it worth her while, were the
members who wondered most loudly at Montbarry’s choice of a wife.
While the topic of the Countess’s marriage was still the one topic of
conversation, a member of the club entered the smoking-room whose
appearance instantly produced a dead silence. Doctor Wybrow’s next
neighbour whispered to him, “Montbarry’s brother—Henry Westwick!”
The new-comer looked round him slowly, with a bitter smile.
“You are all talking of my brother,” he said. “Don’t mind me. Not one
of you can despise him more heartily than I do. Go on, gentlemen—go
on!”
But one man present took the speaker at his word. That man was the
lawyer who had already undertaken the defence of the Countess.
“I stand alone in my opinion,” he said, “and I am not ashamed of
repeating it in anybody’s hearing. I consider the Countess Narona to be
a cruelly-treated woman. Why shouldn’t she be Lord Montbarry’s wife?
Who can say she has a mercenary motive in marrying him?”
Montbarry’s brother turned sharply on the speaker. “_I_ say it!” he
answered.
The reply might have shaken some men. The lawyer stood on his ground as
firmly as ever.
“I believe I am right,” he rejoined, “in stating that his lordship’s
income is not more than sufficient to support his station in life; also
that it is an income derived almost entirely from landed property in
Ireland, every acre of which is entailed.”
Montbarry’s brother made a sign, admitting that he had no objection to
offer so far.
“If his lordship dies first,” the lawyer proceeded, “I have been
informed that the only provision he can make for his widow consists in
a rent-charge on the property of no more than four hundred a year. His
retiring pension and allowances, it is well known, die with him. Four
hundred a year is therefore all that he can leave to the Countess, if
he leaves her a widow.”
“Four hundred a year is _not_ all,” was the reply to this. “My brother
has insured his life for ten thousand pounds; and he has settled the
whole of it on the Countess, in the event of his death.”
This announcement produced a strong sensation. Men looked at each
other, and repeated the three startling words, “Ten thousand pounds!”
Driven fairly to the wall, the lawyer made a last effort to defend his
position.
“May I ask who made that settlement a condition of the marriage?” he
said. “Surely it was not the Countess herself?.”
Henry Westwick answered, “It was the Countess’s brother”; and added,
“which comes to the same thing.”
After that, there was no more to be said—so long, at least, as
Montbarry’s brother was present. The talk flowed into other channels;
and the Doctor went home.
But his morbid curiosity about the Countess was not set at rest yet. In
his leisure moments he found himself wondering whether Lord Montbarry’s
family would succeed in stopping the marriage after all. And more than
this, he was conscious of a growing desire to see the infatuated man
himself. Every day during the brief interval before the wedding, he
looked in at the club, on the chance of hearing some news. Nothing had
happened, so far as the club knew. The Countess’s position was secure;
Montbarry’s resolution to be her husband was unshaken. They were both
Roman Catholics, and they were to be married at the —el in Spanish
Place. So much the Doctor discovered about them—and no more.
On the day of the wedding, after a feeble struggle with himself, he
actually sacrificed his patients and their guineas, and slipped away
secretly to see the marriage. To the end of his life, he was angry with
anybody who reminded him of what he had done on that day!
The wedding was strictly private. A close carriage stood at the church
door; a few people, mostly of the lower class, and mostly old women,
were scattered about the interior of the building. Here and there
Doctor Wybrow detected the faces of some of his brethren of the club,
attracted by curiosity, like himself. Four persons only stood before
the altar—the bride and bridegroom and their two witnesses. One of
these last was an elderly woman, who might have been the Countess’s
companion or maid; the other was undoubtedly her brother, Baron Rivar.
The bridal party (the bride herself included) wore their ordinary
morning costume. Lord Montbarry, personally viewed, was a middle-aged
military man of the ordinary type: nothing in the least remarkable
distinguished him either in face or figure. Baron Rivar, again, in his
way was another conventional representative of another well-known type.
One sees his finely-pointed moustache, his bold eyes, his
crisply-curling hair, and his dashing carriage of the head, repeated
hundreds of times over on the Boulevards of Paris. The only noteworthy
point about him was of the negative sort—he was not in the least like
his sister. Even the officiating priest was only a harmless,
humble-looking old man, who went through his duties resignedly, and
felt visible rheumatic difficulties every time he bent his knees. The
one remarkable person, the Countess herself, only raised her veil at
the beginning of the ceremony, and presented nothing in her plain dress
that was worth a second look. Never, on the face of it, was there a
less interesting and less romantic marriage than this. From time to
time the Doctor glanced round at the door or up at the galleries,
vaguely anticipating the appearance of some protesting stranger, in
possession of some terrible secret, commissioned to forbid the progress
of the service. Nothing in the shape of an event occurred—nothing
extraordinary, nothing dramatic. Bound fast together as man and wife,
the two disappeared, followed by their witnesses, to sign the
registers; and still Doctor Wybrow waited, and still he cherished the
obstinate hope that something worth seeing must certainly happen yet.
The interval passed, and the married couple, returning to the church,
walked together down the nave to the door. Doctor Wybrow drew back as
they approached. To his confusion and surprise, the Countess discovered
him. He heard her say to her husband, “One moment; I see a friend.”
Lord Montbarry bowed and waited. She stepped up to the Doctor, took his
hand, and wrung it hard. He felt her overpowering black eyes looking at
him through her veil. “One step more, you see, on the way to the end!”
She whispered those strange words, and returned to her husband. Before
the Doctor could recover himself and follow her, Lord and Lady
Montbarry had stepped into their carriage, and had driven away.
Outside the church door stood the three or four members of the club
who, like Doctor Wybrow, had watched the ceremony out of curiosity.
Near them was the bride’s brother, waiting alone. He was evidently bent
on seeing the man whom his sister had spoken to, in broad daylight. His
bold eyes rested on the Doctor’s face, with a momentary flash of
suspicion in them. The cloud suddenly cleared away; the Baron smiled
with charming courtesy, lifted his hat to his sister’s friend, and
walked off.
The members constituted themselves into a club conclave on the church
steps. They began with the Baron. “Damned ill-looking rascal!” They
went on with Montbarry. “Is he going to take that horrid woman with him
to Ireland?” “Not he! he can’t face the tenantry; they know about Agnes
Lockwood.” “Well, but where _is_ he going?” “To Scotland.” “Does _she_
like that?” “It’s only for a fortnight; they come back to London, and
go abroad.” “And they will never return to England, eh?” “Who can tell?
Did you see how she looked at Montbarry, when she had to lift her veil
at the beginning of the service? In his place, I should have bolted.
Did _you_ see her, Doctor?” By this time, Doctor Wybrow had remembered
his patients, and had heard enough of the club gossip. He followed the
example of Baron Rivar, and walked off.
“One step more, you see, on the way to the end,” he repeated to
himself, on his way home. “What end?”