The Opera-house was very full and proportionably hot on the evening
when Coverdale and his wife visited it (it being the _début_ of the
since famous Signora Bettimartini), Alice, unused to London gaieties,
and uneasy from the suspicions she could not contrive to banish,
acquired a headache, which, when she went to bed, prevented her from
falling asleep. Thus, being anxious to court without loss of time
nature’s sweet restorer, of course she chose the most vexatious and
exciting topic she could select as a subject of thought, and began to
speculate on all the evidence she could call to mind in regard to her
husband’s relations, past and present, towards Arabella Crofton, who,
as the reader must have perceived, was just at that especial epoch poor
little Mrs. Coverdale’s _bête noire_. The first circumstance she could
recollect to form the initial link in her chain of evidence, was Harry’s
inquiry about her when Alice casually mentioned her name during the
halcyon days of their honeymoon. In this conversation, Harry had
confessed to a previous acquaintance with Miss Crofton, and when pressed
farther, added that he knew no good of her, or words to that effect. His
manner, Alice remembered, was so peculiar that her curiosity had been
at once excited, or as she mentally put it, that “naturally she felt her
husband ought immediately to have told her everything about it--_she_
had no concealments from him, she was sure.” Following up this train
of thought, another instance of this unkind and unflattering want of
confidence occurred to her--the mysterious epistle which he had received
that very afternoon, which had annoyed him so much, and about which he
had refused to afford her any explanation; and here a new idea flashed
like an infernal inspiration across her brain--could that note be in
any way connected with Miss Crofton’s arrival? “Yes! it must be so.” She
remembered when they entered the drawing-room, and she had felt surprise
at finding a stranger there, Harry seemed to take it as a matter of
course: good reason why, he knew it previously--this hateful woman, this
detestable creature, Arabella Crofton, had written to him privately,
informing him of her arrival! Oh! she saw it all; and how she would try
to wean his affections away from his poor wife--his poor, neglected,
betrayed wife! and succeed most likely--men were such fickle, wicked
things; and then it would break her heart, _that_ there could be no
question of and she should die in the course of a year--in six
months, very likely, for she wasn’t at all strong though she had a
colour--consumptive people always had brilliant complexions--think of
her poor aunt Kitty! and Harry would be sorry when it was too late,
perhaps. And so, drawing a vivid picture of her repentant husband
grieving over her untimely decease, she cried herself to sleep, bedewing
with her tears the “fickle, wicked thing,” calmly slumbering at her
side; who straightway dreamed that, being out hunting, and riding
a young thorough-bred, he had charged a brook, and that his horse,
refusing it, had pitched him head foremost into its rapid waters.
A month soon elapsed--the London season was at its height. Everybody
had been everywhere, and was going again; Grisi and Mario had arrived,
recovered from sea-sickness and British catarrh, and “surpassed
themselves” in their favourite characters. A mob of costly equipages
jostled each other round Hyde Park every afternoon; carriage-horses,
deprived of their sleep o’nights, began to grieve coachmen’s hearts
by revealing the position of their ribs; young ladies from the Country
danced away their roses and their _embonpoint_; men whose book for the
Derby was at all “shy” trembled in their patent-leather boots; the glory
of the lilacs in the squares had departed; water-carts made unpleasant
canals of the principal thoroughfares; the Honourable Mrs. Windsor Soape
had presented her youngest daughter at the last drawing-room, and tried
without success to stuff her down the throats of several eligible
eldest sons; Lady Close Shaver had inveigled an hundred and seventy
unfortunates into her hot drawing-rooms, bored them with Signor
Violini’s scientific rendering of Beethoven’s sonata in A B C minor,
poisoned them with bad ice and worse Champagne, and turned them out
to grass upon lobster salads, of which the principal feature was the
unaccountable absence of lobster: these, and many other miseries,
attendant on the “joys of our dancing days,” had been gladly suffered
by the fanatical votaries of the Juggernaut of Fashion, and still the
Coverdales lingered within the precincts of the modern Babylon. Lord
Alfred Courtland having received a summons to join his family at
Leghorn, had refused to obey it on the plea of ill health, backed by
a physician’s opinion, which cost one guinea, and was worth----! Well,
really, in this case it _was_ worth something, for it saved Lord Alfred
a lecture, and he disliked being lectured, even for his good--silly
young man! so he stayed in town, doing as other folks did, and hoping
thereby to become a man of fashion; but, as he only acted like other
people, and did nothing very clever, or very foolish, or very wrong, he
by no means succeeded in obtaining the reputation he coveted. With this
consciousness of failure before his eyes, he one night lounged dismally
out of his stall at the Opera, and was proceeding with dejected steps
along the lobby, when he suddenly encountered Horace D’Almayne, better
dressed and better pleased with himself than ever.
“Well met, my lord; I was just wishing for an agreeable companion,” was
his complimentary salutation. “I am naturally a sociable animal; if you
have no better employment, will you take pity on me for an hour or so?”
Deeply impressed with such unexpected condescension, and overcome by
the transcendant cut of D’Almayne’s waistcoat, nothing remained for Lord
Alfred but gratefully to consent; which he accordingly did. Linking his
arm in that of his companion, D’Almayne continued:--
“You are looking _triste, ennuyé_; has Grisi developed a cold, or
Cerito a corn? is it opera or ballet which has thus bored you?”
“Neither one nor the other,” was the reply; “though even operas cease to
excite after one has grown accustomed to them.”
“Yes! that is true; except to an educated musician” (and D’Almayne
looked as if he humbly trusted that he was equal to Mendelssohn, at the
very least), “I can conceive they grow tedious; but,” he continued, “you
should seek some more exciting amusement: mix in clever, witty society;
do things--see things; in fact, enjoy life as a young man with such
advantages of person and of station should do.”
“It may seem easy to you, who have achieved a reputation in the _beau
monde_, and can command any society you please, to accomplish this; but
it is the reverse of easy for a young man in these days, even if he have
a handle to his name, to persuade people that he has anything in him; in
fact I think a title stands rather in a young fellow’s way on entering
London life; people have somehow taken to connect the ideas of a lord
and a fool, until I believe they begin to think the terms synonymous!”
“What a frightfully democratic opinion for one of your order to
promulgate!” returned D’Almayne, smiling at the disconsolate tone in
which Lord Alfred spoke; “really you ought to have been born on the
other side of the Channel; but I think I perceive your difficulty: you
do not care to be admitted into society merely for your rank, but wish
to achieve a distinctive social reputation for yourself; is it not so?”
“Yes! you have expressed my ideas exactly; a great deal better than I
could have done myself,” was the reply. “And now tell me in what way is
this desirable consummation to be effected.”
“Nothing is more easy. In the first place you require self-confidence;
let people see that you think yourself a fine fellow, and they will
begin to think so too. In the next place, take a decided line of some
kind, and adhere to it steadily; but, in order to be able to do so, be
careful, ere you select it, that it is in accordance with your natural
dispositions and tastes.”
“Good general maxims,” returned Lord Alfred; “and now to apply them to
the particular instance.”
D’Almayne paused for a moment ere he replied--
“If you really wish me to constitute myself your Mentor, you must allow
me more opportunities of enjoying your society than I have hitherto
possessed, and then, from time to time, I dare say I may be able to give
you a few hints which you may find practically beneficial; and as there
is nothing like making use of the present occasion, what say you to
allowing me to introduce you to a kind of private club, where I and a
few of my particular set sometimes meet after the Opera, and while away
an hour or two with a hand at whist or écarté, or exchange our ideas
on the topics of the day over a game of billiards; the stakes are,
of course, suited to the measure of our purses, my own being an
uncomfortably shallow one. We are close to the entrance, shall we turn
in?”
After a moment’s hesitation, the result of an indefinite notion that he
was about to do something wrong, Lord Alfred consented; and D’Almayne
knocked at the door of what looked like a good private house. The portal
unclosed, and immediately shut again by some mysterious agency, for,
when they entered, no domestic was visible; and they proceeded along
a passage to a second door covered with red baize, with a glass eye,
placed Cyclop-like in the middle of its forehead, through which a human
face observed them for a moment, then disappeared, and the red baize
door opened and admitted them of its own accord, as the outer one had
set it the example. Following his companion up a flight of stone stairs,
at the top of which yet another baize door with a Cyclopian optic
presented itself, Lord Alfred Courtland heard the sounds of laughing
and conversation, and in another moment found himself in a large,
well-lighted apartment, round which were dispersed sundry small tables,
at which were seated, in groups of three or four, from a dozen
to fifteen men, all of whom were recruiting exhausted nature with
Champagne, pine-apple ice, or more substantial viands, if their tastes
inclined them thereunto. Placing himself at an unoccupied table,
D’Almayne inquired in his most insinuating tone--“Champagne, Claret,
Johannisberg--what is your pet vanity, my lord?--_c’est affreux_, the
inefficient ventilation of that Opera-house. I am positively famished
with thirst, and must drown my enemy before Horace is himself again.”
“Having obtained the privilege of considering you my Mentor, I cannot
do better than avail myself of your valuable taste and experience in
the selection of a beverage,” returned Lord Alfred, falling into his
companion’s humour with that dangerous facility which was at once his
bane and his greatest charm. So Champagne and ice, and biscuits, all
first-rate of their kind, were brought and discussed; and during the
demolition thereof, one or two intimates of D’Almayne, faultless in mien
and manners, lounged up, and were introduced to his lordship, and drank
wine dreamily, and talked smart nothings with a sleepy wittiness as of
inspired dormice; and otherwise exhibited symptoms of that life-weary,
all-to-pieces condition which very young men believe in as the _ne plus
ultra_ of modern dandyism; and Lord Alfred’s heart leaped within him
as he thought that now he had at last really begun “life,” and was in
a fair way to become a man-about-town. Such wonderful beings are we,
_ætatis_ nineteen!
When a man is thirsty nothing is easier than to drink a bottle of
Champagne without knowing it, perhaps even till the next morning;
I never heard of the delusion lasting longer. Whether Lord Alfred
Courtland drank more or less than a bottle on the occasion in question,
history relateth not, but certainly, when he rose and strolled into the
billiard-room, he felt considerably exhilarated, and eager to
achieve something “fast,” which might tend to impress his incipient
“about-townishness” in the minds of his fashionable acquaintances. Thus,
hearing the rattle of dice in a further apartment, he, to D’Almayne’s
surprise and amusement, declared billiards a bore, and whist “slow,” and
“voted” for something with a little more fun in it. So, “Dante-like,”
entering the infernal regions, they very soon “knew a bank whereon”
much “wild _time_” had been wasted, and an immense crop of wild oats
sown;--and off which certain proprietors had reaped many golden sheaves,
while the sowers themselves had gained only experience, teaching them
how to take care of their money, about the time when their money was
all gone, which must have been more improving than consolatory to the
“cleaned-out ones.” Then first upon Lord Alfred’s youthful ear fell
the command, diabolical in its persuasive eloquence, “_Faites le jeu,
messieurs!_” then timidly, and with feelings akin to those of mediæval
youths who, in the good old feudal times, signed uncomfortable compacts
with the Evil One, which never turned out satisfactorily for them even
in this world, did Lord Alfred stake his first guinea, and unfortunately
lose it. We say unfortunately, for had he won, and so come, seen, and
conquered, he might have listened to the appeals of conscience which
just then were striving to make a coward of this neophyte man about
town; but, as matters stood, he felt a stern necessity to vindicate the
_sang froid_ with which he could support a run of ill luck; and playing
again--won, doubled his stake--won; then, against D’Almayne’s advice,
staked his winnings on “_le rouge_,” and that colour proved successful;
and then the gambler-spirit came upon him, and he played with a fierce
eagerness, and drank more Champagne, and played again, until two hours
later D’Almayne almost forced him away from the table, and took him
home, flushed and excited, a winner of one hundred pounds! Poor boy! as
he left that haunt of sordid vice and idle folly, he believed that he
had done something clever, and spirited, and manly, and longed for the
next evening, when he might again distinguish himself; but could he have
foreseen half the consequences of this, his first step in evil, or the
sorrow he was thereby bringing upon true hearts that loved him, he would
have shrunk from again crossing the threshold, as though it were indeed
that of the hell which in their unseemly jesting men term it.
Rising late the next morning, he was informed that a gentleman was
waiting to see him, and on entering the sitting-room, found Horace
D’Almayne in an easy-chair and an elegant attitude.
“I was anxious about you, _mon cher_” (they had grown wonder fully
familiar over their Champagne), “you appeared so much excited last
night,” he began, uncrossing his graceful legs, clad in a seraphic pair
of _Blin et Fils chef-d’œuvres_.
“Sure such a pair were never seen!”
“You seemed so carried away by your enthusiasm that I thought you would
not sleep, and thus ventured to call at this unreasonable hour to see
how you were getting on.”
“Very kind and friendly of you, I’m sure,” returned Lord Alfred, quite
overcome by such unhoped-for condescension on the part of his model
Mentor. “I suppose I did get rather excited, but I’m all right again
this morning,--at least I shall be,” he continued, as a dizzy swimming
in the head obliged him to grasp a chair-back for support, “as soon as I
have had a cup of coffee.”
“Or if I might suggest, a bottle of Seltzer-water with a suspicion of
Cognac in it, is a much more efficient substitute: allow me to brew for
you;--may I ring the bell?”
Receiving the permission he sought, Horace acted accordingly, and
when the servant appeared, desired him (on a glance from Lord Alfred,
delegating all authority to him) to bring a bottle of Seltzer-water,
brandy, and a lemon. Possessed of these _desiderata_, he commenced
shredding off two or three delicate little spiral circles of lemon-peel,
like yellow watch-springs, then dropping these into a Brobdignagian
tumbler, warranted not to run over under any severity of effervescence,
he added thereunto a liqueur glass full of the purest (and strongest)
Cognac. Unwiring the Seltzer-water, he allowed it to draw its own cork
(for thus, under his skilful control, did the operation appear to be
performed), and, forcing it to explode into the tumbler, he presented
the beverage, foaming wildly, to Lord Alfred, who, at the risk of
immediate suffocation, drank it off in that rabid condition, and
providentially surviving, declared himself greatly benefited by the
treatment. Having thus re-invigorated his patient’s exhausted frame,
D’Almayne proceeded to perform the same friendly office by his mind, and
very good counsel did he bestow upon him--only that his advice had
this peculiarity, viz., that whilst in words he recommended Lord
Alfred Courtland to bend his steps in a northerly direction, that young
nobleman felt an unaccountable conviction that by proceeding due south,
he should raise himself in the estimation of his Mentor and of all other
men of spirit. Thus he heard, with a complacent smile, that D’Almayne
was surprised at the manner in which he had carried all before him at
the gaming-table on the previous evening; that every one imagined him
to be an old hand at such matters; and one individual, who was generally
supposed to make a very decent living by gambling, had declared his
conviction that Lord Alfred played on a system, and a deucedly clever
system too!--At all of which D’Almayne appeared alarmed and uneasy, and
assured his friend that it was a very dangerous talent for a young man,
and that it would be a great relief to his mind if Lord Alfred would
promise never to go there again; to which his lordship replied by
lighting a cigar, handing the box to his Mentor, and asking him whether
he considered him such an irreclaimable muff as not to be able to win
or lose a matter of a hundred pounds without making a ninny of himself.
Declaring himself innocent of any such disrespectful innuendo, D’Almayne
also lighted a cigar (it being impossible in these piping times to
do anything without plenty of puffing), and these new allies grew
loquacious and confidential; but with this difference, that Lord Alfred
gave his confidence, and Horace obligingly received the sacred deposit.
Thus, after a fair amount of the horticultural cruelty, yclept “beating
about the bush,” had been committed, that good young man was made
acquainted with the “secret sorrow,” which, as the reader is aware, was
with much success performing the part of the “worm i’ the bud” to Lord
Alfred’s “damask cheek.” As soon as Mentor thoroughly understood
the state of the case, which he did in an incredibly short space of
time--tact being so strongly developed in him that it almost amounted to
intuition--he followed the advice of Polly in the “Beggar’s Opera,” by
“pondering well” before he ventured to prescribe for the complaint
of his Telemachus. Having sat with bent brows until his cigar was
exhausted, he flung the end into the grate, smoothed his beloved
moustaches, and then spoke oracularly:--
“You see, _mon cher_,” he began, “you are taking to the _rôle_ of a
_flâneur_, what you call a man-about-town, full early for an Englishman;
thus, the chief thing you want is self-confidence, without which a man
can neither do proper justice to himself nor to his position. Now it
seems to me the best thing for you would be to get some pretty woman
of good station to take you in hand; you must try and establish a
flirtation with somebody.”
“_Cui bono?_” inquired Telemachus; “the governor would never stand me
marrying for--oh! not for the next five years!”
“Marrying before you’re one-and-twenty! My dear fellow, what can have
put such a frightful idea into your head!” exclaimed Mentor, aghast at
the supposition. “No, no; marriage is the last thing I should dream of
recommending, except quite as a _dernier ressort_. For which reason,
I was about to add, that the best practice to set you at ease with
yourself, and therefore with other people, will be to devote your
attentions to some pretty and fashionable married woman;--there! don’t
look so awfully scandalized; of course I only mean a sentimental
and platonic affair--just enough to excite and interest you into
self-oblivion. When you once forget your _ipsissimus ego_--when, as that
punning friend of yours, Mr. Coverdale, would say, you cease to mind
your _I_--all your anxieties in regard to popular opinion will vanish,
and you will soon find that with your face, figure, address, and
position, Lord Alfred Courtland will become the admired of all admirers.
And that reminds me that Mrs. Coverdale would be just the person for
that purpose;--she is very pretty, moves in good society, and, _entre
nous_, is smitten with you already!”
“But really--of course I don’t set up to be any better than my
neighbours,” stammered the poor boy, colouring at the possibility
of being suspected of such slow attributes as good feeling and right
principle, and yet unable entirely to silence the promptings of his
better nature;--“of course I don’t set up for a saint; but Harry
Coverdale is an old friend and schoolfellow, and one of the best
creatures in the world; I should not like--that is, I really
couldn’t--But, I beg your pardon, I don’t think I exactly understand
your meaning.”
“I don’t think you do,” returned D’Almayne, his sarcastic tone
expressing such unmistakable contempt that Lord Alfred actually winced
as if in pain.
“I don’t think you have the faintest glimmer of my meaning. You don’t
suppose I intend you to order a chaise and four, and run off with pretty
Mrs. Coverdale to the Continent, do you? My ideas are much less
alarming, I can assure you! _par exemple_--your friend Harry is a
physical force man; he is a mighty hunter, a dead shot; he loves only
his dogs and his horses; but requires a Joe Manton to ensure him good
sport, and a pretty wife to sit at the head of his table: Mrs.
Coverdale, on the other hand, has a soul--reads Tennyson, feels her
husband’s neglect, and pines for some one who will appreciate her and
sympathize with her; you, in the kindness of your heart, pity her, and
knowing you can afford her the consolations of congeniality, obligingly
make up for her good man’s deficiency; therefore, you read poetry with
her, explain the obscure passages which neither she, you, nor any one
else can understand; her mind reposes on your superior intelligence; she
trusts you, and confides to you important secrets,--the exact age of her
dearest female friend, whom she suspects of designs upon your heart, the
dress she is going to wear at the next fancy ball,--and eventually, with
heightened colour and averted eyes, the history of that ring with the
turquoise forget-me-not, together with a biographical sketch of the
noble giver--showing how he lived pathetically, and died in the odour of
heroism, fighting at the head of his regiment in the Punjaub, the centre
of a select circle of slaughtered foemen; which latter confidence may be
considered as the latchkey to the fair lady’s heart, ensuring you
admittance at all times and seasons.”
“And having attained this agreeable position, how long do you expect so
pleasant a state of things to last, and what is to be the end of it?”
inquired Telemachus.
“Oh! until she has got rid of her romance, and you of your diffidence;
by which time you will have grown mutually tired of each other, and the
London season will have come to an end,” was Mentor’s oracular reply.
Telemachus mused, lit a fresh cigar, and mused again. He liked the idea,
had a faint suspicion it might be wrong, but was quite sure it would be
very pleasant. Mentor, thinking this a promising frame of mind in which
to leave his pupil, would not weaken the force of his argument by vain
repetitions, so made an engagement to meet again in the evening, and
departed. And while _les petites moustaches noires_ wounded female
hearts as he passed down courtly St. James’s Street, the spirit of the
good young man, their wearer, glowed within him, and--
“As he walked by himself,
He talked to himself,
And thus to himself said he!”
“Ha! ha! Milord Courtland, you are mine--your purse, your credit, your
influence--all are mine! But what a child it is! what a baby! _Sacré!_
at his age I was winning twenty pounds a day at billiards in New
Orleans!--And you, Harry Coverdale, _mon ami_, I will teach you to watch
me with black looks when I am conversing with _la belle millionaire_;
you had better attend to your own wife now--young, pretty, and
neglected! _Le petit_ Alfred has a fair game before him, if he have but
wit to play it--yes! all goes as it should! fortune fills the sails!
there is a cool head and a steady hand at the helm: _vogue la galère!_”