To the Swan's Nest, very differently tenanted from what we saw it at
the opening of our story, we have now to conduct our reader. Its present
occupant--“the acquisition to any neighborhood,” as the house-agent
styled him--was Colonel Sewell.
Lady Lendrick had taken the place for her son on finding that Sir
William would not extend his hospitality to him. She had taken the
precaution not merely to pay a year's rent in advance, but to make a
number of changes in the house and its dependencies, which she hoped
might render the residence more palatable to him, and reconcile him in
some degree to its isolation and retirement.
The Colonel was, however, one of those men--they are numerous enough
in this world--who canvass the mouth of the gift-horse, and have few
scruples in detecting the signs of his age. He criticised the whole
place with a most commendable frankness. It was a “pokey little hole.”
It was dark; it was low-ceilinged. It was full of inconveniences.
The furniture was old-fashioned. You had to mount two steps into the
drawing-room and go down three into the dining-room. He had to cross
a corridor to his bath-room, and there was a great Tudor window in the
small breakfast-parlor, that made one feel as if sitting in a lantern.
As for the stables, “he would n't put a donkey into them.” No light,
no ventilation,--no anything, in short. To live surrounded with so many
inconveniences was the most complete assertion of his fallen condition,
and, as he said, “he had never realized his fall in the world till he
settled down in that miserable Nest.”
There are men whose especial delight it is to call your attention to
their impaired condition, their threadbare coat, their patched shoes,
their shabby equipage, or their sorry dwelling, as though they were
framing a sort of indictment against Fate, and setting forth the
hardships of persons of merit like them being subjected to this
unjustifiable treatment by Fortune.
“I suppose you never thought to see me reduced to this,” is the burden
of their song; and it is very strange how, by mere repetition and
insistence, these people establish for themselves a sort of position,
and oblige the world to yield them a black-mail of respect and
condolence.
“This was not the sort of tipple I used to set before you once on a
time, old fellow,” will be uttered by one of whose hospitalities you
have never partaken. “It was another guess sort of beast I gave you for
a mount when we met last,” will be said by a man who never rose above
a cob pony; and one is obliged to yield a kind of polite assent to such
balderdash, or stand forward as a public prosecutor and arraign the
rascal for a humbug.
In this self-commiseration Sewell was a master, and there was not
a corner of the house he did not make the butt of his ridicule,--to
contrast its littleness and vulgarity with the former ways and
belongings of his own once splendor.
“You're capital fellows,” said he to a party of officers from the
neighboring garrison, “to come and see me in this dog-hole. Try and find
a chair you can sit on, and I 'll ask my wife if we can give you some
dinner. You remember me up at Rangoon, Hobbes? Another guess sort of
place, wasn't it? I had the Rajah's palace and four elephants at my
orders. At Guzerat, too, I was the Resident, and, by Jove, I never
dreamed of coming down to this!”
Too indolent or too indifferent to care where or how she was lodged, his
wife gave no heed to his complaints, beyond a little half-supercilious
smile as he uttered them. “If a fellow will marry, however, he deserves
it all,” was his usual wind-up to all his lamentations; and in this he
seemed to console himself by the double opportunity of pitying himself
and insulting his wife.
All that Colonel Cave and his officers could say in praise of the spot,
its beauty, its neatness, and its comfort, were only fresh aliment to
his depreciation, and he more than half implied that possibly the place
was quite good enough for _them_, but that was not exactly the question
at issue.
Some men go through life permitted to say scores of things for which
their neighbor would be irrevocably cut and excluded from society.
Either that the world is amused at their bitterness, or that it is
regarded as a malady, far worse to him who bears than to him who
witnesses it,--whatever the reason,--people endure these men, and make
even a sort of vicious pets of them. Sewell was of this order, and a
fine specimen too.
All the men around him were his equals in every respect, and yet there
was not one of them who did not accept a position of quiet, unresisting
inferiority to him for the sake of his bad temper and his bad tongue. It
was “his way,” they said, and they bore it.
He was a consummate adept in all the details of a household; and his
dinners were perfection, his wine good, and his servants drilled to
the very acme of discipline. These were not mean accessories to any
pretension; and as they sat over their claret, a pleasanter and more
social tone succeeded than the complaining spirit of their host had at
first promised.
The talk was chiefly professional. Pipeclay will ever assert its
pre-eminence, and with reason, for it is a grand leveller; and Digges,
who joined three months ago, may have the Army List as well by heart
as the oldest major in the service: and so they discussed, Where was
Hobson? what made Jobson sell out? how did Bobson get out of that scrape
with the paymaster? and how long will Dobson be able to live at his
present rate in that light-cavalry corps? Everything that fell from them
showed the most thorough intimacy with the condition, the fortune, and
the prospects of the men they discussed,--familiarity there was enough
of, but no friendship. No one seemed to trouble himself whether the
sick-leave or the sell-out meant hopeless calamity,--all were dashed
with a species of well-bred fatalism that was astonished with nothing,
rejoiced at nothing, repined at nothing.
“I wish Trafford would make up his mind!” cried one. “Three weeks ago he
told me positively he would leave, and now I hear he offered Craycroft
three thousand pounds to retire from the majority.”
“That 's true; Craycroft told me so himself; but old Joe is a wily bird,
and he 'll not be taken so easily.”
“He's an eldest son now!” broke in another. “What does he care whether
he be called major or captain?”
“An eldest son!” cried Sewell, suddenly; “how is that? When I met him at
the Cape, he spoke of an elder brother.”
“So he had, then, but he's 'off the hooks.'”
“I don't think it matters much,” said the Colonel. “The bulk of the
property is disentailed, and Sir Hugh can leave it how he likes.”
“That's what I call downright shameful,” said one; but he was the
minority, for a number of voices exclaimed,--“And perfectly right; that
law of primogeniture is a positive barbarism.”
While the dispute waxed warm and noisy, Sewell questioned the Colonel
closely about Trafford,--how it happened that the entail was removed,
and why there was reason to suppose that Sir Hugh and his son were not
on terms of friendship.
Cave was frank enough when he spoke of the amount of the fortune and the
extent of the estate, but used a careful caution in speaking of family
matters, merely hinting that Trafford had gone very fast, spent a deal
of money, had his debts twice paid by his father, and was now rather
in the position of a reformed spendthrift, making a good character for
prudence and economy.
“And where is he?--not in Ireland?” asked Se well, eagerly.
“No; he is to join on Monday. I got a hurried note from him this
morning, dated Holyhead. You said you had met him?”
“Yes, at the Cape; he used to come and dine with us there occasionally.”
“Did you like him?”
“In a way. Yes, I think he was a nice fellow,--that is, he might be made
a nice fellow, but it was always a question into what hands he fell; he
was at the same time pliant and obstinate. He would always imitate,--he
would never lead. So he seemed to me; but, to tell you the truth, I left
him a good deal to the women; he was too young and too fresh for a man
like myself.”
“You are rather hard on him,” said Cave, laughing; “but you are partly
right. He has, however, fine qualities,--he is generous and trustful to
any extent.”
“Indeed!” said Sewell, carelessly, as he bit off the end of a cigar.
“Nothing would make him swerve from his word; and if placed in a
difficulty where a friend was involved, his own interests would be the
last he 'd think of.”
“Very fine, all that. Are you drinking claret?--if so, finish that
decanter, and let's have a fresh bottle.”
Cave declined to take more wine, and he arose, with the rest, to repair
to the drawing-room for coffee.
It was not very usual for Sewell to approach his wife or notice her in
society; now, however, he drew a chair near her as she sat at the fire,
and in a low whisper said, “I have some pleasant news for you.”
“Indeed!” she said coldly,--“what a strange incident!”
“You mean it is a strange channel for pleasant news to come through,
perhaps,” said he, with a curl of his lip.
“Possibly that is what I meant,” said she, as quietly as before.
“None of these fine-lady airs with me, Madam,” said he, reddening with
anger; “there are no two people in Europe ought to understand each other
better than we do.”
“In that I quite agree with you.”
“And as such is the case, affectations are clean thrown away, Madam; we
_can_ have no disguises for each other.”
A very slight inclination of her head seemed to assent to this remark,
but she did not speak.
“We came to plain speaking many a day ago,” said he, with increased
bitterness in his tone. “I don't see why we are to forego the advantage
of it now,--do you?”
“By no means. Speak as plainly as you wish; I am quite ready to hear
you.”
“You have managed, however, to make people observe us,” muttered he,
between his teeth,--“it's an old trick of yours, Madam. You can play
martyr at the shortest notice.” He rose hastily and moved to another
part of the room, where a very noisy group were arranging a party for
pool at billiards.
“Won't you have me?” cried Sewell, in his ordinary tone. “I'm a perfect
boon at pool; for I am the most unlucky dog in everything.”
“I scarcely think you'll expect us to believe _that_,” said Cave, with a
glance of unmistakable admiration towards Mrs. Sewell.
“Ay,” cried Sewell, fiercely, and answering the unspoken
sentiment,--“ay, sir, and _that_,”--he laid a stern emphasis on the
word,--“and _that_ the worst luck of all.”
“I 've been asking Mrs. Sewell to play a game with us, and she says she
has no objections,” said a young subaltern, “if Colonel Sewell does not
dislike it.”
“I'll play whist, then,” said Sewell. “Who 'll make a rubber?--Cave,
will you? Here's Houghton and Mowbray,--eh?”
“No, no,” said Mowbray,--“you are all too good for me.”
“How I hate that,--too good for me,” said Sewell. “Why, man, what
better investment could you ask for your money than the benefit of good
teaching? Always ride with the best hounds, play with the best players,
talk with the best talkers.”
“And make love to the prettiest women,” added Cave, in a whisper, as
Mowbray followed Mrs. Sewell into the billiard-room.
“I heard you, Cave,” whispered Sewell, in a still lower whisper;
“there's devilish little escapes my ears, I promise you.” The bustle and
preparation of the card-table served in part to cover Cave's confusion,
but his cheek tingled and his hand shook with mingled shame and
annoyance.
Sewell saw it all, and knew how to profit by it. He liked high play,
to which Cave generally objected; but he well knew that on the present
occasion Cave would concur in anything to cover his momentary sense of
shame.
“Pounds and fives, I suppose,” said Sewell; and the others bowed, and
the game began.
As little did Cave like three-handed whist, but he was in no mood to
oppose anything; for, like many men who have made an awkward speech, he
exaggerated the meaning through his fears, and made it appear absolutely
monstrous to himself.
“Whatever you like,” was therefore his remark; and he sat down to the
game.
Sewell was a skilled player; but the race is no more to the swift in
cards than in anything else,--he lost, and lost heavily. He undervalued
his adversaries too, and, in consequence, he followed up his bad luck
by increased wagers. Cave tried to moderate the ardor he displayed,
and even remonstrated with him on the sums they were staking, which, he
good-humoredly remarked, were far above his own pretensions; but
Sewell resented the advice, and replied with a coarse insinuation about
winners' counsels. The ill-luck continued, and Sewell's peevishness and
ill-temper increased with every game. “What have I lost to you?” cried
he, abruptly, to Cave; “it jars on my nerves every time you take out
that cursed memorandum, so that all I can do is not to fling it into the
fire.”
“I'm sure I wish you would, or that you would let me do it,” said Cave,
quietly.
“How much is it?--not short of three hundred, I'll be bound.”
“It is upwards of five hundred,” said Cave, handing the book across the
table.
“You'll have to wait for it, I promise you. You must give me time, for
I am in all sorts of messes just now.” While Cave assured him that
there was no question of pressing for payment,--to take his own perfect
convenience,--Sewell, not heeding him, went on: “This confounded place
has cost me a pot of money. My wife, too, knows how to scatter her
five-pound notes; in short, we are a wasteful lot. Shall we have one
rubber more, eh?”
“As you like. I am at your orders.”
“Let us say double or quits, then, for the whole sum.”
Cave made no reply, and seemed not to know how to answer.
“Of course, if you object,” said Sewell, pushing back his chair from the
table, as though about to rise, “there's no more to be said.”
“What do _you_ say, Houghton?” asked Cave.
“Houghton has nothing to say to it; _he_ hasn't won twenty pounds from
me,” said Sewell, fiercely.
“Whatever you like, then,” said Cave, in a tone in which it was easy to
see irritation was with difficulty kept under, and the game began.
The game began in deep silence. The restrained temper of the players and
the heavy sum together impressed them, and not a word was dropped. The
cards fell upon the table with a clear, sharp sound, and the clink of
the counters resounded through the room, the only noises there.
As they played, the company from the billiard-room poured in and drew
around the whist-table, at first noisily enough; but seeing the deep
preoccupation of the players, their steadfast looks, their intense
eagerness, made more striking by their silence, they gradually lowered
their voices, and at last only spoke in whispers and rarely.
The first game of the rubber had been contested trick by trick, but
ended by Cave winning it. The second game was won by Sewell, and the
third opened with his deal.
As he dealt the cards, a murmur ran through the bystanders that
the stake was something considerable, and the interest increased in
consequence. A few trifling bets were laid on the issue, and one of
the group, in a voice slightly raised above the rest, said, “I'll back
Sewell for a pony.”
“I beg you will not, sir,” said Sewell, turning fiercely round. “I'm in
bad luck already, and I don't want to be swamped altogether. There, sir,
your interference has made me misdeal,” cried he, passionately, as he
flung the cards on the table.
Not a word was said as Cave began his deal. It was too plain to every
one that Sewell's temper was becoming beyond control, and that a word or
a look might bring the gravest consequences.
“What cards!” said Cave, as he spread his hand on the table: “four
honors and nine trumps.” Sewell stared at them, moved his fingers
through them to separate and examine them, and then, turning his head
round, he looked behind. It was his wife was standing at the back of his
chair, calm, pale, and collected. “By Heaven!” cried he, savagely, “I
knew who was there as well as if I saw her. The moment Cave spread out
his cards, I 'd have taken my oath that _she_ was standing over me.”
She moved hastily away at the ruffianly speech, and a low murmur of
indignant anger filled the room. Cave and Houghton quitted the table,
and mingled with the others; but Sewell sat still, tearing up the
cards one by one, with a quiet, methodical persistence that betrayed no
passion. “There!” said he, as he threw the last fragment from him, “you
shall never bring good or bad luck to any one more.” With the ease
of one to whom such paroxysms were not un-frequent, he joined in the
conversation of a group of young men, and with a familiar jocularity
soon set them at their ease towards him; and then, drawing his arm
within Cave's, he led him apart, and said: “I 'll go over to the Barrack
to-morrow and breakfast with you. I have just thought of how I can
settle this little debt.”
“Oh, don't distress yourself about that,” said Cave. “I beg you will not
let it give you a moment's uneasiness.”
“Good fellow!” said Sewell, clapping him on the shoulder; “but I
have the means of doing it without inconvenience, as I 'll show you
to-morrow. Don't go yet; don't let your fellows go. We are going to have
a broil, or a devilled biscuit, or something.” He walked over and rang
the bell, and then hastily passed on into a smaller room, where his wife
was sitting on a sofa, an old doctor of the regiment seated at her side.
“I won't interrupt the consultation,” said Sewell, “but I have just one
word to say.” He leaned over the back of the sofa, and whispered in her
ear, “Your friend Trafford is become an eldest son. He is at the
Bilton Hotel, Dublin; write and ask him here. Say I have some
cock-shooting,--there are harriers in the neighborhood. Are you
listening to me, Madam?” said he, in a harsh hissing voice, for she had
half turned away her head, and her face had assumed an expression of
sickened disgust. She nodded, but did not speak. “Tell him that I've
spoken to Cave--he'll make his leave all right--that I 'll do my best
to make the place pleasant to him, and that--in fact, I needn't toy to
teach you to write a sweet note. You understand me, eh?”
“Oh, perfectly,” said she, rising; and a livid paleness now spread over
her face, and even her lips were bloodless.
“I was too abrupt with my news. I ought to have been more considerate;
I ought to have known it might overcome you,” said he, with a sneering
bitterness. “Doctor, you 'll have to give Mrs. Se well some cordial,
some restorative,--that's the name for it. She was overcome by some
tidings I brought her. Even pleasant news will startle us occasionally.
As the French comedy has it, _La joie fait peur_;” and with a listless,
easy air, he sauntered away into another room.