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(Harvard University Library) Routledge 1893
TWO, BY TRICKS.
TWO, BY TRICKS
A Novel
By EDMUND YATES
AUTHOR OF
'BROKEN TO HARNESS,' 'BLACK SHEEP,' 'THE YELLOW FLAG,' ETC.
'Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family'
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, LIMITED
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL
MANCHESTER AND NEW YORK
Cordially Inscribed
TO
JOSEPH CHARLES PARKINSON.
CONTENTS.
CHAP
I. On The Grand Tier.
II. Lady Forestfield At Home.
III. Waiting.
IV. This Lot To Be Sold.
V. Nouveaux Riches.
VI. A Little Dinner.
VII. The Morning After.
VIII. In Defence.
IX. The Old Love.
X. On The Watch.
XI. An Unexpected Arrival.
XII. An Odd Friendship.
XIII. In The Avenue Marigny.
XIV. Uffington's Bargain.
XV. Five-o'clock Tea.
XVI. At Woodburn.
XVII. Uffington's Errand.
XVIII. Husband And Wife.
XIX. Released.
XX. Coming Up To Time.
TWO, BY TRICKS
CHAPTER I.
ON THE GRAND TIER.
It was the week after Ascot, and town was full. Society, which had
been amusing itself with the cancans of the season--such as how the
Duke of Pimlico, who had been hitherto regarded as the greatest screw
in the world, buying his coats from Hyam's, and his hats from the
peripatetic Israelites in the streets, dining off a fried sole and
half a pint of Hungarian wine, and driving a horse so starved and weak
that even Lord ---- would have spared it, had suddenly taken to giving
splendid banquets to Royalty, and lighting up the ancestral hall with
more wax candles than his grace's father-in-law, the eminent
tallow-chandler, had ever sold in a week; how the slim and
good-looking Charles Bedford, while playing whist at the Tattenham,
had been discovered, not merely with two aces on his lap, but, like
the heathen Chinee, with twenty-four packs secreted on various
portions of his person; how the noble Master of the Buckhounds had
given one of the best boxes at Ascot to pretty Mrs. Delamere, whose
husband was away on a scientific expedition inspecting the Fauna and
Flora of Central Asia,--society had discussed all these matters, and
wanted something new to talk about. It was going to have it.
It was hot everywhere in London that night, but hottest of all at the
Opera. Outside, the air was thick and heavy, tainted by vegetable
refuse from the neighbouring market, laden with fetid odours from the
surrounding coffee-shops, taverns, and crapulous dens; inside, the eye
was distracted by the constant fluttering of the fans in the boxes and
from the area of the stalls, and the ear tortured by the stifled groan
of the obese foreigners who line the outer ring of the pit, sweltering
terribly.
There were many foreigners present that night: slim, olive-skinned,
black-muzzled Spaniards, with close blue-black hair growing low down
on their foreheads, and with their forefingers stained by constant
contact with the cigarette; plethoric pudgy Germans, long-bearded and
bald-headed, beating time with dumpy hands, ring-bedecked, and not too
clean; lively volatile Italians, musical fanatics, who winced at a
false note, and shrieked out 'Sh--sh!' in shrillest anger when any of
their neighbours attempted conversation. Other foreigners in the
boxes--ambassadors these. The Turk, with his crimson fez, in such
contrast with his dead-white face; the Russian, who sits with sated
eyes and palled ears, looking at indeed, but not regarding, what is
going on before him, and thinking of the days when Taglioni danced and
Malibran sang; the Frenchman, smiling and chattering with the full
knowledge that his own recall is imminent, and that the members of the
government which he served might be at any moment displaced, and would
be only too thankful if they escaped massacre. A subscription night
this, with Patti in the _Barbiere_, with royal highnesses and a serene
transparency on a visit for a few weeks, in the royal box; with
Philippa Marchioness of Mont-Serrat, with her luxuriant ringlets,
looking like a vignette from the Book of Beauty of the year '42, on
the grand tier; and with Tom Lydyeard in the fifth row of the stalls,
yawning as though his head were coming off.
This is Tom Lydyeard, the tall well-bred-looking man with the red
beard turning silver at the roots, and the fair hair in which the
parting is rather broader than it used to be. Not so young or so
active as on that cheerless April morning when he marched across
Waterloo-bridge with his regiment on their way to join the troops in
the Crimea; but a handsome fellow yet, with a well-preserved figure
and a keen eye. Tom has preserved his figure better than his temper,
which, on occasions, is apt to be remarkably short; 'Hansom and
Growler' is the nickname which this combination of good looks and bad
temper has obtained for poor Tom from some of the junior members of
the Rag, where he grumbles about the wine and the cooking, snaps at
the waiters, and requires all the cajolery of St. Kevin, pleasantest
of Irish army-doctors, to keep him within bounds.
Tom is evidently not best pleased at the present moment. The man in
the stall next to his is a very stout Italian, with lustreless black
gloves on his hands and a square diamond brooch in the middle of his
plaited shirt-front, who is mopping himself with a purple-silk
handkerchief, and with whom Tom Lydyeard is horribly disgusted.
'Can't think what they let such brutes into the place for!' he says to
himself, looking over rather than at his dripping neighbour. 'Gad,
what a comfort he would have been in the Row this morning when the
dust was blowing! I can't imagine what has come to this place; one
scarcely ever sees a soul one knows--a lot of foreigners and City
people; not like the old stamp of men whom one could always rely upon
finding in the stalls, or in the omnibus-box at the old house when the
curtain for the ballet went up. They were a better style, those
fellows; what they call the "old school,"--_vieille école, bonne
école_,--and that sort of thing. Men go now to that reeking Alhambra,
and think they enjoy it. What a queer thing it is to think that so few
of the old set are left! There is one of them though, by Jove!' he
muttered with a start. 'I haven't seen him for twenty years, but I'd
lay my life that's Uffington.'
The man by whom he was attracted looked up at the same instant, and
their eyes met. The stranger's cheeks flushed, and for a moment he
made as if he would turn away; but when he saw that Tom Lydyeard had
left his stall he stopped, and the next moment they were shaking hands
with more effusion than is usually shown in present society.
He was a man of middle height, with small regular features, keen black
eyes, thick black hair and moustache, small hands and feet, and a
youthful, almost a boyish, figure. At a distance you might have
guessed him five-and-twenty; and it was only when you looked closely
at him that you noticed the lines round the eyes and deep indented
furrows stretching from the nostrils to the corner of the mouth,
which, like the ground-swell on the shore, told of the storms that had
been. In the year '51 Nugent Uffington was looked upon as one of the
likeliest young fellows in town, though he had nothing in the world
beyond his handsome face, some two hundred a year, and his commission
in the Grenadiers. Every one, however, was kind to the cheery
good-looking lad; men lent him money and horses, women smiled upon
him, and manoeuvring mothers, when they had no more daughters of their
own to provide for, enlisted themselves in Nugent's service, and
actually tried to procure for him some of the season's prizes. It was
said at one time that he might have married Miss Amelia M'Craw, the
prettier of the twin Scotch heiresses, who in their marriage gave up
to the peerage what was meant for themselves. Good-natured Mrs.
Waddledot Hepburn gave three dances (at the command of the Marchioness
of Melton) in order that the young people might be thrown together;
and old Waddledot himself used to lean across the railings by
Apsley House regarding them caracoling in the distant Row with a
'Bless-you,-my-children!' kind of aspect. But, as fate would have it,
in the month of June that year Mr. Mudge, whose father and grandfather
had made an enormous fortune by converting old rags into shoddy-cloth
in the village of Batley, Yorkshire, came to town to see the Great
Exhibition, bringing with him his wife and letters of introduction to
the members for the county and several leading spirits among the
commercial magnates who were just beginning to colonise the now
plutocratic region of Tyburnia. The people who asked them out to
dinner did not think much of Mr. Mudge, who was a fat, stupid,
good-looking man of a common type, but they (the male portion at
least) found Mrs. Mudge very charming. She was a Canadian blonde, very
pretty and piquante, whom Alfred Mudge had met when on a business
excursion to Montreal, had a captivating way of saying saucy things
with a tinge of French accent, and was sometimes full of sentiment, at
others full of raillery, but always coquettish in the highest degree.
After Nugent Uffington had seen Julie Mudge once or twice, he left off
thinking about Miss M'Craw and her hundred thousand pounds, though,
indeed, that heavily-ingoted lady had never occupied many of his
thoughts; after he had met Julie half a dozen times, he thought of no
one else. Julie was very much taken by the appearance and manners of
Captain Uffington, who belonged to quite a different world from any
which she had known. She did not care for Alfred Mudge; but she had no
intention of doing him any harm; that was all Nugent Uffington could
get out of her after assailing her with more numerous and more
delicate temptations than ever beset St. Antony. This continued for
three weeks, and Nugent, who had never given so much attention to any
matter before, and who was becoming exhausted, thought of retiring
from the pursuit, when one night after Alfred had started off to dine
with the Bellowsmenders' Company in the City, and Julie had announced
to him her intention of going to bed at eight o'clock as some
compensation for unwonted dissipation, a note came from Lady Rosemount
saying that she had stalls at the French plays, where M. Levassor was
then giving his delightful entertainment, and nothing would so please
her as that her dear Mrs. Mudge should keep her company. Julie
pondered for an instant. She knew that Lady Rosemount was a great
friend of Nugent Uffington's, and would probably arrange for his
attendance; but she wanted to see M. Levassor, and as Alfred had
deserted her for the Bellowsmenders, she could see no reason why she
could not accept such innocent amusement. Lady Rosemount called for
her at half-past eight. They found Nugent Uffington on escort duty at
the theatre-door, and as they walked up the stairs they were stopped
by an altercation between the checktaker and a lady and gentleman
immediately preceding them, as to the number of a certain box. The
lady was gorgeously dressed in a cerise-coloured satin and a
voluminous crinoline, as was the fashion in those days, very much
_decollétée_, with diamonds on her neck and in her ears, and a liberal
allowance of rouge and bismuth on her cheeks and chin. The gentleman
who was with her seemed very angry at not being permitted immediate
access to the theatre; but reference had to be made to another
official, and in the mean time he stepped by to let the Rosemount
party pass; in doing so he presented under the bright flare of the
gaslight his full face, the full face of Mr. Alfred Mudge, who,
instead of carousing with carnival Bellowsmenders, was acting
as escort to the notorious Miss Leggat of the Theatre Royal,
Hatton-garden.
The next day Mrs. Mudge, accompanied by her maid and Captain
Uffington, crossed the Channel and proceeded by long stages to
Switzerland. At the Hôtel Beau Rivage at Ouchy they remained during
the summer and autumn months, and only left it to settle down into a
pretty quaint old châlet in the neighbourhood of Lausanne. There was
the usual three-days' scandal in town, where some laughed, some
shrugged their shoulders, and all had a secret delight that Nugent
Uffington, of whom, as a popular man, they had naturally been envious,
had come to grief. Mr. Alfred Mudge brought an action in the Divorce
Court, which he would probably have gained but for the intervention of
the Queen's Proctor, who had heard of the petitioner's intimacy with
Miss Leggat, an intimacy which had cost Mr. Mudge two or three
thousand pounds, which the lady had duly divided with her complacent
husband, Mr. Tapps, the leader of the orchestra.
For ten years Julie and Nugent lived in the little Swiss châlet, a
guilty life of course, but a thoroughly happy one. They were rich
enough to satisfy all their wants, for, in addition to his small
income and the price of his commission, she had five hundred a year,
and they were devoted to each other. No boy and girl in their first
delicious dream, which is never to be renewed, though its every detail
haunts our latest memories; no sharers of that bliss beyond all which
the minstrel has told; no two who were linked in one heavenly
tie--were more all in all to each other than this pair of sinners. The
ex-Guardsman was never dull; occasionally he had cheery letters from
friends in England telling him of what was going on there; but he knew
that on the day of his flight with Julie he had renounced all his old
life, and his chief amusement was in shooting and in fishing, of which
at most seasons of the year there was abundance in the neighbourhood.
Well-regulated people will be pleased to hear that Nemesis, which is
always supposed to await such evil-doers, came down upon them at last.
One autumn night, as they were crossing the lake after dining at the
Beau Rivage with an American gentleman and his family, a sudden storm
swept down and overset their little boat. Nugent came to the surface
at once, and, being a splendid swimmer, struck out, swimming round and
round in search of Julie. The night was very dark, and it is probable,
encumbered by the weight of her clothing, she never rose; it is
certain that Nugent never saw her again, and that his own life was
only saved by his being dragged on to the bottom of the boat, when
half-dead with exhaustion, by the servant, who had already found a
refuge there.
When Nugent Uffington recovered from the illness consequent upon the
cold and exhaustion, he broke up the little establishment at the
châlet and disappeared, no one knew where. Letters were occasionally
read from men who thought they had seen him, but they were from such
diverse latitudes that no reliance could be placed upon them; and when
his nephew Sir Mark Uffington died, the lawyers did not know where to
write to Nugent to tell him of his succession. That was the key-note
struck by Tom Lydyeard in their conversation.
'Heard you were lost, my dear boy, and scarcely a possible chance of
ever seeing you again; private detectives, and all that kind of thing,
hunting for you all over the globe--been to Australia after you, some
one said, and didn't find you there.'
'No,' said Uffington, with a slight smile. 'I had been in Australia,
but when the agent went out there to search for me I was living in a
little place in Brittany, where there was wonderful sport, but where I
never saw an English newspaper, not even _Galignani_; and even if I
had seen the announcement of poor young Mark's death, I doubt whether
I should have felt any impulse to hurry over here and claim his
place.'
'Do you act upon impulse?' asked Tom Lydyeard.
'Always,' said Langton quickly. 'Three weeks ago the impulse seized
me, and I came over here; and,' he added, shrugging his shoulders
drearily, 'it looks as if in a very short time it would seize me
again, and send me off to the uttermost ends of the earth.'
'You don't know many people here?' said Tom Lydyeard, observing his
friend's eyes wandering round the house.
'Beyond yourself not a soul,' said Uffington; 'tell me who they are.'
'Gad,' said Tom Lydyeard, 'you have given me a pretty difficult task,
though I have scarcely missed a London season since--since you went
away. I haven't much acquaintance with the Jews, Turks, and infidels
of whom this audience seems to be composed.'
'There seems to be an undue proportion of the tribes scattered about
the house,' said Uffington, after another look round, 'and, as you
say, of foreigners generally. Who are these people, and how do they
get here?'
'Who are they?--diamond merchants, owners of newspapers, riggers of
stock, promoters and projectors, which is modern English for swindlers
and thieves. How do they get here?--through the money they have made.
Look round the grand tier, and you will scarcely see half a dozen
English faces, and certainly not two with any high-bred look about
them. Don't you remember how different it was in the old time under
Lumley's management, when you used to wait regularly every night to
see Carlotta and Perrot dance the Truandaise?'
'Don't mention those times!' muttered Uffington, shrinking as though
he had been struck. Then, as though to change the conversation, he
said: 'There is a pretty woman--very pretty and _distinguée_-looking
too--in the fourth box from the stage; who is she?'
'That,' said Tom Lydyeard, after looking through his glass, 'is Lady
Forestfield; she is a daughter of Lord Stortford's, and married
Forestfield about two years ago.'
'I recollect Lady Stortford,' said Uffington; 'she was our
contemporary, a very sweet woman. Is she alive?'
'No; she died last year,' said Tom Lydyeard. Then added under his
breath, 'Thank God!'
Uffington heard the words and looked sharply round, but Tom Lydyeard's
eyes were hidden by his glass, and his uplifted hands covered that
tell-tale of any emotion--the mouth.
Nugent Uffington then made a long inspection of the box, and at its
conclusion said, I can now recognise many traces of her mother in Lady
Forestfield. She is the same [Greek: Boôpis `'Eze], and seems to
have the same splendid hair. What is her husband like?'
'Forestfield is a cool cynical sensualist, the type of a race very
common in the present day, who is always very quiet and apparently
unimpassioned, and yet I believe that a wickeder little wretch does
not walk.'
'He doesn't treat his wife well, then?'
'My dear fellow, no one treats his wife well nowadays; it isn't the
fashion. I suppose, if anything, Forestfield may be looked upon as
rather an exemplary person, as he doesn't care to beat his wife or
_afficher_ his infidelities as many of these youths do; but he is
notoriously unfaithful for all that, and I have sometimes seen my lady
looking very sad indeed.'
'She cares for him, then?'
'She--well, she did; most people would say she does--but I have my own
ideas on that point.'
'Poor child!' said Uffington, with a sigh; then added quickly, 'Who is
that just come into the box?'
Tom Lydyeard looked up, and saw a gentlemanly-looking young man, with
fair curling hair, fresh complexion, blue eyes, and white teeth,
talking to Lady Forestfield's companion, the Duchess of Melrose.
After his inspection, Lydyeard put down his glass, and commencing with
'Gad,' given with a peculiarly rich smack, continued, 'that's Gustave
de Tournefort, a young Frenchman of good birth, who has been over
here, off and on, for the last two years; he sings well, and that sort
of thing, and, what is odd for a Frenchman, rides very straight to
hounds. He had rooms at Leamington last winter near Forestfield's
place, and they say his going was very good indeed.'
'Poor child!' repeated Uffington, with his glasses still upon Lady
Forestfield.
'Yes, quite; isn't he?' said Tom Lydyeard, who only caught the last
word. 'They call him "_l'enfant terrible_," and say, for all that mild
and innocent look of his, that he is the very mischief when he takes a
fancy. See! this is Forestfield coming this way.'
As he spoke there advanced towards them a small slight man, with
delicate effeminate features, sunken eyes, and a hard cruel mouth. He
nodded to Lydyeard and stared rather insolently at Uffington as he
passed.
'I don't like that man's looks,' said Uffington. 'I have studied
physiognomy a good deal in the course of my wanderings, and I scarcely
ever saw a more secretive, untrustworthy face. I should think that
poor girl yonder must sooner or later have a bad time with such a
man.'
* * * * * *
Nugent Uffington would not have said differently had he seen and heard
what was passing in the box on the grand tier. M. de Tournefort
chatted very pleasantly with the Duchess of Melrose, who had been
accustomed to admiration for thirty years, and who still enjoyed it;
but when another gentleman came into the box, the Frenchman ceded the
chair by her grace's side, and, taking advantage of an opportunity
when the duchess and the new-comer were in animated conversation about
the diamonds of the ambassadress opposite, managed to whisper in Lady
Forestfield's ear,
'We have been watched, and Forestfield knows all!'
A bright flush mantled over her neck and mounted to the roots of her
hair; then faded away, leaving her whiter than before. The hand
holding her glass trembled, and her lips twitched convulsively; but
after a minute she managed to regain her self-control, and without
looking at him, she said, in a voice which he alone could hear, the
one word, 'Go!'