The question we left Kate Crane considering in the last chapter she
decided thus:--
“I should like to visit Mrs. Leonard,” she said slowly. “I feel the
truth of all you urge--but there are difficulties in the way; Mr. Crane
would greatly disapprove of such a proceeding on my part.”
“He need never know it,” suggested D’Almayne, in a voice little above a
whisper.
“He need not,” returned Kate, calmly, “but I have since my marriage made
it a point of conscience never to do anything which I should object to
Mr. Crane’s hearing of; I still consider the rule a good one, and am
disinclined to break through it.”
“Does not your sensitive conscience,” rejoined D’Almayne, “lead you to
refine rather too much, until, adhering to the form of goodness, you in
a great degree lose the substance, and thus, by a chivalrous scruple of
never disobeying your husband, miss an opportunity of doing real
good, by which you would neutralise the injury which Mr. Crane’s
_peculiarities_ may otherwise inflict upon this unfortunate family? I
think, if you reflect on this for a minute, your excellent sense will
convince you that your amiable but romantic scruple is fallacious.”
Kate did reflect, and apparently her convictions assumed the shape
D’Almayne had predicted, for she replied in a less assured voice than
that in which she had formerly addressed him--
“Mr. D’Almayne, you have spoken more honestly and openly to-day than you
have ever done before, and I will treat you with equal frankness. You
were acquainted with Mr. Crane before I had ever heard his name; you
appear to know him well; you have alluded generally to his good points,
and have pointed out his weak ones with equal talent and perspicuity. I
neither admit nor deny your statements--but, in the individual instance
before us, I believe that you are right. You have been very kind in this
matter; you first introduced this poor Mrs. Leonard to my notice; you
have since taken much disinterested trouble on her account; you possess
great tact, and have divined the happiness it affords me to assist
those who, from misfortune and poverty, have fallen from the rank of
gentlewomen;--therefore, in this matter, I feel you have a claim to work
with me; for the first time, therefore, I will repose confidence in you.
I wish to visit this poor lady--how am I to accomplish it without my
husband’s knowledge?”
Horace D’Almayne had won his point, Horace D’Almayne was happy! yet he
did not clap his hands, neither did he hurrah wildly, nor dance a lively
measure around Kate Crane, whom he believed he had circumvented in a
different manner; but he forced his imperturbable countenance into an
expression of philanthropic benevolence and gratitude, and arranged with
Mrs. Crane a plan by which, during her husband’s daily worship in the
temple of Mammon his god--an edifice more familiarly known in the good
city of London as the Stock Exchange--she should visit unfortunate Mrs.
Leonard, and witness with her own eyes how justly the prince of this
world (who is identical with the monarch of a lower kingdom still)
distributes his subjects’ property.
About this time all the members of this disunited party assembled, and
jointly and severally ended their day’s enjoyment (?) by returning home
tired, dejected, and suffering more or less from that ailment which
defies those guinea-pigs, “the faculty”--an ailment as rife in St.
James’s as are cholera and smallpox within the precincts of St.
Giles’s--an ailment which, thanks to those bitter curses, the forms,
ceremonies, requirements, and prejudices of society, afflicts and hangs
heavily on many an honest man and loving woman--an ailment indigenous
even in our glorious constitution, and which has as many _aliases_ as
shapes, the spleen, _ennui_, but truest name of all, the _Heart-ache!_
“_Ogni Medaglia ha il suo reverso_,” there is no rule without its
exception! Horace D’Almayne was the exception to this particular
rule--he was not troubled with heart-ache, because, in the metaphysical
sense of the word, he did not possess a heart; but nature had made it up
to him by giving him a very clear head, and thus it reasoned:--
“Yes, my pretty Kate, _tout va bien_; you have grown civil, almost
kind--not yet affectionate, but that is to come. Yet she is clever;
doubts, suspects me!--what children women are, even clever women; once
appeal to their feelings, their impulses--bah! their reason lies captive
before you--they are puppets in your hand. _Ah! c’est bien drôle cette
petite existence ici bas!_ for the rest, all goes well; the beautiful
Kate shall compromise herself--the millionaire shall open wider his
purse strings--the bank wins for me--the little Alfred plays my game--_courage,
Horace!_ thy star is in the ascendant, you will die a rich man
yet!”
*****
The morning after the Horticultural Fête, Coverdale suggested to his
wife that they had, in his opinion, spent sufficient time and money in
the gay metropolis, and that agricultural and manorial duties called him
to the country forthwith; but Alice pleaded so earnestly for only one
week more of dissipation, with Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s _soirée
dansante_ at the end of it, that Harry could not find it in his heart
to refuse her. Scarcely had he yielded the point, when a letter arrived
from Tom Rattleworth, Magistrate, and Master of Fox-hounds, to inform
him that, owing to the baneful influence of a certain grand seigneur in
the neighbourhood, it was proposed to enclose a common and turn a
road, which would destroy a favourite fox cover, and give Coverdale
half-a-mile further to drive to the nearest railway-station--that the
matter was to be decided at the next meeting of Magistrates--that he
(Thomas) had striven tooth and nail to get up an opposition, in which he
had been tolerably successful, and that he considered it only required
Coverdale’s presence to prevent the evil altogether. Thus urged, Harry
had but one course to pursue, viz., commend his wife to Mrs. Crane’s
safe custody, and start for Coverdale Park forthwith, promising to
return in time for “Lady Tat. Trott.’s benefit,” as he was pleased
to term it. Alice at first opposed his going, but when she found the
question resolved itself into one of these alternatives, either that
she must let him go alone, or give up her ball and accompany him, her
opposition ceased. So Harry packed his carpet-bag and departed--and
the hours rolled by on their patent noiseless wheels, until the time
appointed for that notable solemnity, Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s
_soirée dansante_, arrived.
On that day Lord Alfred Courtland invited to a quiet dinner, at his
comfortable bachelor lodgings, Horace D’Almayne, Monsieur Guillemard,
and a youth who, because he was in every particular Lord Alfred’s exact
opposite, was an especial crony of his.
Jack Beaupeep, _ætatis_ twenty-five, was a clerk in a public office
with a salary of £150 per annum, on which, by means of his talents,
he contrived to live at the rate of----anything under a thousand. As,
however, we shall not have very much to do with him in the course of
this history, we will spare the reader further details by summing up
his character in the two expressive words, “fast” and “funny.” Everybody
knows a fast, funny man; and his was a bad case of the complaint. At
a quarter to eight, P.M., on the day in question, this excellent young
buffoon of private life betook himself to Lord Alfred’s lodgings, and
finding himself first in the field, looked around with a practised eye
for the best means of turning the situation to comic effect. First he
perceived a valuable statuette of Venus, as she appeared before the
discovery of the art of dress-making, for which his innate sense of
propriety led him to improvise a petticoat, by means of a doyley and
a small portion of the red tape of old England, purloined from her
Britannic Majesty’s stores that morning, and secreted by the delinquent
for any possible exigencies of practical jesting. Having attired this
young lady to his satisfaction, he obligingly bestowed on her a real
Havannah cigar, which, thrust through an opening left by the sculptor
in her clenched hand, with the end resting against her ambrosial lips,
resembled a speaking-trumpet, and gave her that “ship-ahoy!” kind of
appearance with which early engravers were pleased to endow Fame. He
then wrote and watered on the pedestal of the statuette thus embellished
a label, bearing the inscription, “_Eugénie_, Empress of the French,”
murmuring to himself, “Delicate little compliment to the illustrious
foreigner who is coming.” Next he availed himself of a pair of
boxing-gloves; “unearthing,” as he termed it, the rolls inserted in
two of the dinner napkins, and substituting for them these elementary
instructors in the noble art of self-defence; and, lastly, espying the
cruet-stand, he had just time to reverse the contents of the pepper and
sugar casters, and confuse _all_ the sauces, when to him entered Lord
Alfred Courtland.
This young nobleman’s appearance had considerably changed since first
we had the pleasure of describing him. By abstruse study, and unflagging
attention to the sayings and doings of men-about-town, he had acquired
many noble attributes--he could lounge and dawdle, and walk with a
pert yet lazy roll in his gait, as of a tipsy dancing-master, or of a
cock-sparrow afflicted with sciatica; he could lisp as though his very
tongue was too about-town-ish to speak plain, unadulterated English;
he could make play with his eyes half shut, like a timid girl, or stare
with them offensively wide open, like an insolent coxcomb, though he was
not quite perfect in this last manœuvre as yet. Also, his clothes were
large and loose enough for himself and half another man-about-town
besides; and he had a bunch of baby’s toys, modelled in gold, dangling
from his watch-chain--Lilliputian house furniture, and a gun, and a
sword, and a pistol to match, and a little man in armour with impossible
features, accompanied by a horrid little skull of the same after his
decease, with two of his little golden marrow-bones crossed under it, as
if they were saying their prayers; there was likewise a ridiculous fish,
which wagged its tail, and a fox’s mask, as it is “knowing” to term the
physiognomy of that astute quadrupedal martyr; the whole to conclude
with a limp and jointed Punchinello, or Tomfool, as a _pendant _(in
every sense of the word) to the fool of larger growth who wore these
childish absurdities. Thus attired and adorned, Lord Alfred Courtland
withdrew one white hand from a pocket of his liberal trousers, and,
laying it on Beaupeep’s shoulder, with a want of energy, general
lassitude, and fish-out-of-water-ishness of manner, which did him
infinite credit, drawled forth--
“Ah! my dear fellar! this is very good of you, to come at such short
notice!”
“Not at all, not at all,” was the brisk reply, for Beaupeep did not go
in for, or revere, the all-to-pieces style, but rather made it a theme
for playful jesting; “when I got your invite, I just scribbled off
a line to Palmerston to say I’d dine with him to-morrow instead of
to-day.”
Lord Alfred quietly raised his eyebrows, while, nothing abashed,
Beaupeep continued--
“It’s very jolly to be on those terms with a man like ‘Pam.,’ and I
consider it quite sufficient recompense for my unwearying devotion to my
public duties.”
“It really won’t do with me, my dear Jack,” interrupted Lord Alfred, in
a tone of affectionate remonstrance; “reflect how long we’ve known each
other!”
“By the way,” recommenced Jack, ignoring the interruptional rebuke,
“talking of ‘Pam.’ puts me in mind of the Foreign Office, which, not
unnaturally, leads to the inquiry of who may be the illustrious ‘Mossoo’
who is to make our fourth to-day?”
“Monsieur Guillemard! oh, he is a very gentlemanly and intelligent
Frenchman, and a particular friend of Horace D’Almayne’s.”
“But _what_ is he?” continued Beaupeep, pertinaciously; “is he a noble
political exile, or a _perruquier_ from the _Palais Royal_, who can’t
meet his liabilities? does he gain a frugal living by imparting a
knowledge of his native tongue in six lessons, at half-a-crown each?
or----”
“Hush! here he is,” interrupted Lord Alfred, as a smart rat-tat-tat at
the house-door announced an arrival; “he has something to do with the
funds, and the financial interests, and the Rothschilds, and all that
mysterious pounds, shillings, and pence business, in regard to which I
have, I am afraid, no clearly defined ideas.”
“Except to spend ’em first, and make your governor shell-out
afterwards, you lucky beggar you!” was the plainly audible aside, as the
servant announced Monsieur Guillemard and Mr. D’Almayne.
After the ceremony of introducing the volatile Jack to the new comers
had been performed, that individual immediately attached himself, and
devoted his conversation to Monsieur Guillemard, whom he persisted in
addressing as “Mossoo le Comte,” and whom he seemed to imagine just
caught in some very foreign country indeed, and ignorant of the simplest
English manners and customs; a delusion to which that gentleman’s
limited acquaintance with Bindley Murray’s, or, indeed, any other
British grammar, lent some slight colouring.
“I think I observed, Mossoo le Comte, that you came in a Hansom cab?”
remarked Jack.
“Yers, we promenaded in a ver handsome carb, a handsome hors also; you
shall drive some much more handsome hors in your street than with us,”
was the reply.
“The native British cab is a great and noble product of the liberal
institutions of this free and happy land,” returned Jack, oratorically;
“if an Englishman chooses to walk, an enlightened legislature not only
allows him to do so, but provides him with a granite pavement to walk
upon; if he chooses to ride, the legislature has a cab awaiting his
slightest wink--a mere contraction of the eyelid, Mossoo le Comte,
obtains for the wearied Englishman a luxurious vehicle, a swift and
steady horse, and a skilful driver, prepared to convey him one mile
in any conceivable direction, for the trifling outlay of sixpence
sterling.”
“With the advantage of studying the _patois_ of Billingsgate in for the
money, when the cabman returns thanks for his fare,” added D’Almayne.
Jack Beaupeep favoured him with a glance of inquiry which, if it had
been framed in words, would have run thus--“Are you a knave or a fool?”
Apparently deciding in favour of the former hypothesis, he resumed--
“The additional attraction to which you so perspicuously allude, my dear
sir, involves yet another striking peculiarity--viz., this driver,
who so carefully conducts you through the crowded thoroughfares of our
colossal metropolis, is no servile hireling, no parasitical serf to
crouch at your feet, but a man, sir--a freeborn Briton--with as much
vested right in ‘Rule Britannia’ as yourself. Sir! when a dissatisfied
cabman alludes to my eyes and limbs, I open widely those aspersed
optics, proudly draw up those vituperated limbs, and rejoice that he and
I are fellow-countrymen!”
“My dear Jack, we’re not upon the hustings; we have none of us the
slightest intention of coming in for anywhere; and dinner has been
served for the last five minutes,” suggested his host, mildly.
Favouring him with a melodramatic scowl, which, at “Sadler’s Wells” or
the “Victoria,” would, in theatrical parlance, have “brought down the
house,” Jack exclaimed--
“Is it thus a haughty aristocracy strives to trample on the honest poor
man! it is not well in ye, my lord, and before an illustrious foreigner,
too; alas, my country!”--then perceiving that Guillemard was regarding
him with a glance which evinced extreme doubts as to his sanity, that
D’Almayne was looking supercilious, and Lord Alfred annoyed at his
absurdity, Jack experienced the proud conviction that he had attained
his object--viz., to astonish, confuse, and discomfit everybody.
Having done so, he dropped the heroic, and condescended to make himself
agreeable after the fashion of ordinary mortals, which, as he was really
clever and well-informed, he succeeded in doing to a degree that, in
great measure, effaced his previous misconduct from the recollection of
his associates. He prefaced his reformation, however, by contriving to
seat Guillemard by one of the boxing-gloved napkins, a manœuvre which
elicited from that perplexed foreigner the exclamation, “_Mais que
diable!_ vot shall zies be?” and a reproving “Jack, you idiot, how can
you!” from Lord Alfred, who was equally amused and scandalised at his
friend’s absurdities. But a Frenchman’s tact is seldom long at fault;
and by the time Guillemard had extricated the boxing-glove from its
envelope, he continued--
“_Ah, je comprends_, I apprehend! Monsieur Jacques Pipbo! _il est
gai, il est farceur_, he vos play vot you call von practicable joke,
_n’est-ce-pas, Milor?--bien comique!_ ver fonney, ha! ha!”
So, harmony being established, they ate, drank, and were merry;
Champagne, Moselle, Rhine wines, French wines, wines with names we know
but cannot pronounce, wines with names we do not know and could not
spell if we did, were produced, and done justice to, during dinner and
dessert; and then they quietly settled down to Claret at 80s. the dozen,
which tasted best, as they agreed, out of tumblers; Fribourg’s finest
cigars also made their appearance and were not neglected; and for some
time these four lords of the creation enjoyed life undisturbed. But
Frenchmen seldom sit long over their wine. D’Almayne had too many
schemes, which required a cool head to carry them out, to venture to
inflame his brain with the juice of the grape; and by ten o’clock Lord
Alfred proposed a hand at piquet, to while away an hour or so, until
it should be time to adjourn to Lady Tattersall Trottemout’s ball,
to which Mentor and his pupil were invited; so Guillemard and his
host began to play, Jack Beaupeep and his companion watching them,
and betting half-crowns on the varying chances of the game. At first,
fortune seemed inclined to befriend Lord Alfred, for he won three times
consecutively; and Jack, who, as he observed, was resolved “to back
the thorough-bred colt,” realised capital to the amount of
seven-and-sixpence.
“_Ah! bah!_ Horace, _mon cher!_ you shall bet wis me _contre moi-même!_
I cannot play for a so little stake, he does not agree wis me!”
exclaimed Monsieur Guillemard, tossing down the cards pettishly.
“Let us double them, Monsieur,” began Lord Alfred, eagerly; “I was just
going to propose it when you spoke; nothing is more _ennuyant_ than
playing for inadequate stakes.”
“_Mais oui!_ you have reason, my Lord. Horace, _mon ami_, mix me _de
Veau sucrée_ wis a Ouinam Laque ice in him; I have thirst; he makes hot
this evening.”
“Not a bad idea, only I’ve a better one,” rejoined Lord Alfred; “brew
some Sherry-cobbler, Jack; ring the bell, and order the materials: it’s
your deal, Monsieur Guillemard.”
Sherry-cobbler is _not_ a safe thing to play piquet upon, especially
when your opponent confines himself to _eau sucrée_. Lord Alfred lost,
grew excited, doubled the stakes again and lost, trebled them and won,
then played on recklessly against a run of ill-luck, until D’Almayne
interfered.
“It is twelve o’clock, Alfred, _mon cher_; we shall be late for Lady
Tatt.’s.”
“----Lady Tatt.!” was the uncomplimentary reply; “I shall not go.”
D’Almayne leaned over him, and observing in a whisper, “You forget _la
belle Alice_ is expecting you,” drew the cards from his reluctant hand.
Rising sulkily, Lord Alfred walked with a slightly unsteady step to a
writing-table, took pen and ink, and hastily tracing a few words, handed
the paper to Monsieur Guillemard--it was a cheque for £500!
“Ring for the brougham, D’Almayne,” he continued; “Monsieur Guillemard,
you must give me my revenge at an early opportunity; good night,
Jack;” then turning away with a laugh, as he perceived that youthful
legislator, who had “gone in” for Sherry-cobbler rather too zealously,
fast asleep on the sofa, he retired to his dressing-room to remove, as
far as he was able, the outward effects of wine and excitement.
As he quitted the apartment, D’Almayne, after a hasty glance at the
“used up” Jack, drew Guillemard aside, and speaking French, said in an
eager whisper, “You are much too precipitate, and will ruin everything;
what could persuade you to win so large a sum from him at one sitting?”
“You conceive it that I am too impressed! _Regarde!_ One gave to me this
_billet_ at the dinner-table,” was the reply.
Hastily snatching it, D’Almayne read as follows:--
“---- Street, Eleven, p.m.
“Prince Ratrapski, the Russian nobleman, has been playing deeply; has
had a run of unparalleled luck, and _broken the bank_; unless you can
come by £500 immediately, there will be an unpleasant exposure, and
D’Almayne and yourself will be, before morning, the tenants of a
debtor’s prison, with
“Your devoted,
“Le Roux.”