COLONEL NORCOTT FEELS PATERNAL.
In a small drawing-room on the first floor of a house in
Stanwick-street, two persons were, one cold morning towards the end of
April, seated at a late and very metropolitan-looking breakfast. Of
those two persons Colonel Frederick Norcott was one. His outward man, as
regarded dress at least, had not improved since last we saw him, some
eight months ago, _flânéing_ in the grounds of Danescourt. A short and
somewhat nondescript garment, one which might once have done duty as a
shooting-jacket, but which had degenerated into a coat of many uses
(namely, one that its owner was in the habit of dressing, smoking, and,
as in the present instance, breakfasting in) was greasy and out at
elbows. The Colonel’s throat, a scraggy one, as is customary with
middle-aged gentlemen who “keep their figures,” was exposed, by reason
of an open shirt-collar, to view, and as he discontentedly munched,
with his still strong teeth, the untempting lodging-house fare provided
for him, the expression of the Colonel’s countenance was not precisely
what could be called a bright and a “shining morning face” on that warm
April day.
The “colonial lady,” seated opposite to her lord, and watching the
changes of his countenance in hopes to discover therein some sign or
token by which to regulate her remarks, was, as I before hinted, a lady
of faded and “washed out” appearance (_entre les deux âges_), willing
still, as was only natural, to be admired, but swamping all such womanly
aspirations in her deep devotion for, and her overweening appreciation
of, the man who had honoured her with his empty pockets and his
once-respected name.
“You sent that letter to the post, of course,” said the Colonel, pushing
away his chair from the table, and preparing for some of the unwelcome
business of the day. The remark was scarcely an interrogative one, for
the master of the Stanwick-street lodging had on the previous day made
known to his submissive wife the wish that she should write in his name
a certain letter on a certain subject, and it had never occurred to him
as possible that Mrs. Norcott could have delayed the duty of attending
to his wishes.
“Honor will of course answer the letter at once,” continued Fred, “and
I should not wonder (let me see, to-day is Wednesday) if she were to be
here the end of the week.”
Mrs. Norcott, a lady of an habitually pallid complexion, flushed
slightly on hearing these remarks. It was not often, to do her justice,
that she ventured on independent action, but in the instance alluded to
she had been rash enough to arrogate to herself, though in a very mild
degree, one of the most valued privileges of her sex.
“I am very sorry,” she began, endeavouring to cover her confusion by
renewed attentions to the tea-pot; “I thought that you hardly meant it.
You spoke in a hurry, and as Mr. Vavasour was here, I could not well ask
you whether I _was_ to write or not.”
Colonel Norcott rose from his chair impatiently.
“What a confounded nuisance!” he exclaimed, planting himself
autocratically upon the rug, with his back towards the empty fire-grate.
“Another day lost, and Vavasour, who--” He stopped short, not in
confusion; Fred was not the man to be easily what is called
flabbergasted, but there were limits, and very strongly marked ones too,
to his confidential intercourse with Mrs. N., and these he probably felt
that he had been on the point of overstepping.
“You ought to have known,” he went on peevishly, “that it is of
consequence to me--that I am anxious, in short, to have Honor here, and
what the d--l made you think for yourself in the matter is more than I
can guess. Come now, out with it,” he continued, growing momentarily
more irritated, and in proportion as the poor colonial heiress seemed
disposed to silence, working himself up to a determination that she
should give a reason for the fear that was in her; “out with it! I
suppose you have some excuse for not doing as I wished, and that excuse
I am standing on this rug to hear.”
Thus apostrophised, the unlucky woman had no choice but to obey, which
she prepared to do in evident trepidation and discomposure.
“Now, Frederick,” she began, putting a large bony hand to her brow, “you
really might have a little mercy on my poor ’ead” (as if, _par
parenthèse_, any man ever had much pity on a plain wife with big
fingers, who dropped her h’s and bored him with her ailments); “I’ve got
the most dreadful ’eadache, and your voice this morning does go through
it so! About Mrs. Beacham I really thought--”
“Go on, will you?” growled the Colonel.
“Well, I really thought, now I did indeed, that it would never do. In
the first place, though I didn’t see much of her ’usband, it was plain
enough to me that he’s not the kind of man to let his wife go gadding
off to London; and even if he did, why, Frederick, how in the name of
goodness are we to make her comfortable here? Unless you gave up your
bedroom--”
“O, hang that!” from Colonel Fred.
“Well, but unless you did, there’s no place for her to sleep in but the
attic next to mine. I would let her have mine,” continued the
good-natured woman, “but that’s small and wretched enough; however,
there’s no use, I’m certain, in talking of it, for Mr. Beacham would as
soon see her go up in a balloon as set off by herself to London.”
Apparently, the Colonel was a little taken aback by the force of his
wife’s arguments, for he paused a while before he replied, and then
said, almost hesitatingly:
“The only thing would be to say that I am ill. Honor would come directly
then. That blockhead of a horse-breaker has scruples of conscience about
that disgusting crack over the skull he gave me, and would never refuse
his wife leave to come, if he had the most remote idea that I was still
suffering from the effects of the blow.”
There could scarcely be a stronger proof of the melancholy fact that
poor Bessie was not now for the first time cognisant of her husband’s
tricks and dodges than the little surprise she evinced at Colonel
Fred’s spirited suggestion. She listened at first in silence, thinking
over in her mind the pros and cons regarding the chances of successfully
carrying out his plans: while not for a moment did it occur to her to
raise an objection on high moral grounds to the trap which was about to
be set for the unwary. The class of wives of which Mrs. Norcott is the
type are, as a rule, a cowardly class; and, moreover, they are women
who, taking _perhaps_ too lowly an estimate of themselves, and
_certainly_ too high a one of their partners, are ready to buy the rare
smiles, and equally rare meed of approbation which falls to their lot,
by a mean and truculent subserviency, which in reality gains for them
neither affection nor esteem. As is usual, however, with persons who are
destitute of moral courage, Mrs. Norcott would have gladly compromised
with her conscience, and changed the whole lie for a half one.
“If it had only been last week,” she said musingly, “when you had that
bad cold upon your chest, it might have been done quite easily.”
“Easily! Of course it could, and so I suppose it can now. Come, let us
have the table cleared. Gad, how dirty the lodging-house drab is before
the small hours come round again! I say, Polly,” to the parlour-maid,
who entered in answer to the summons of the bell, and whom, being
rather good-looking, he took the trouble to lecture--“I say, Polly, what
is soap a pound, and hair-brushes? What do you think you were given such
pretty hair for, if it was never to be oiled? If I were you--”
But here poor patient Bessie interposed, not angrily; she carried her
blind idolatry of her profligate husband to the extent of wishing him to
be pleased--_coute qui coute_; but the owner of the house, a person of
strict principles, had spoken seriously to her about the Colonel’s free
manner with her maidens, so, to avoid a greater annoyance to her big,
spoiled, selfish tyrant, the self-sacrificing Bessie suggested that
Polly had better be allowed to “take away” in peace. The operation,
however, being over, the Colonel returned to the charge, namely, the
letter to his daughter, which he had so much at heart. As regarded
Honor’s probable discomfort in the attic which, in Stanwick-street, she
would be condemned to occupy, he had an argument all ready for his use.
Honor was passionately fond of riding, and, as Arthur Vavasour had told
him, could ride both boldly and gracefully. Now, the parsimony which was
conspicuous in the Tyburnian lodging did not pervade--and, indeed, might
be said to be in some measure the consequence of extravagance in--other
branches of Colonel Norcott’s expenditure. He kept two horses--_screws_
in reality, though producing a good effect in the eyes of the
uninitiated--on the remnant of poor Bessie’s overrated fortune. On one
of these horses it was his purpose, should he be so fortunate as to
obtain Mr. Beacham’s consent to his wife’s visit, to mount the beautiful
girl (for _girl_ in appearance and manner Honor still was) in the Park,
and among the crowds whom her unprincipled father nothing doubted would
do due homage to her loveliness.
“It is all nonsense about her being uncomfortable,” he said decidedly.
“What does a fine, handsome, healthy girl care about discomfort? Honor
will like to see a little of life: why, she has never--you would hardly
believe in such absurdity--seen a play or an opera in her life! And she
is deuced fond of music, and sings, Vavasour says, like--like anything.
So now sit down, there’s a good soul, and write the letter. You must
make me out devilish seedy, and all that kind of thing. See how well you
can do it, now;” and he patted her broad, bony shoulders with a
fascinating semblance of affection that Bessie, even under still less
auspicious circumstances, would have found it impossible to withstand.
She was about, under that delightful compulsion, to commit a very
unworthy act, but “the _man_ beguiled” her; and Mrs. Frederick Norcott,
not for the first time, laid aside for the Colonel’s sake her lingering
scruples, and did as she was bid.