MRS. HAUGHTON AT HOME MISCELLANEOUSLY. LITTLE PARTIES ARE USEFUL IN
BRINGING PEOPLE TOGETHER. ONE NEVER KNOWS WHOM ONE MAY MEET.
Great kingdoms grew out of small beginnings. Mrs. Haughton’s social
circle was described from a humble centre. On coming into possession
of her easy income and her house in Gloucester Place, she was naturally
seized with the desire of an appropriate “visiting acquaintance.” The
accomplishment of that desire had been deferred awhile by the excitement
of Lionel’s departure for Paris, and the IMMENSE TEMPTATION to which the
attentions of the spurious Mr. Courtenay Smith had exposed her widowed
solitude: but no sooner had she recovered from the shame and anger with
which she had discarded that showy impostor, happily in time, than the
desire became the more keen; because the good lady felt that with a mind
so active and restless as hers, a visiting acquaintance might be her
best preservative from that sense of loneliness which disposes widows to
lend the incautious ear to adventurous wooers. After her experience of
her own weakness in listening to a sharper, and with a shudder at her
escape, Mrs. Haughton made a firm resolve never to give her beloved son
a father-in-law. No, she would distract her thoughts--she would have a
VISITING ACQUAINTANCE. She commenced by singling out such families as
at various times had been her genteelest lodgers--now lodging elsewhere.
She informed them by polite notes of her accession of consequence and
fortune, which she was sure they would be happy to hear; and these
notes, left with the card of “Mrs. Haughton, Gloucester Place,”
necessarily produced respondent notes and correspondent cards.
Gloucester Place then prepared itself for a party. The ci-devant lodgers
urbanely attended the summons. In their turn they gave parties. Mrs.
Haughton was invited. From each such party she bore back a new draught
into her “social circle.” Thus, long before the end of five years, Mrs.
Haughton had attained her object. She had a “VISITING ACQUAINTANCE!” It
is true that she was not particular; so that there was a new somebody at
whose house a card could be left, or a morning call achieved--who could
help to fill her rooms, or whose rooms she could contribute to fill in
turn. She was contented. She was no tuft-hunter. She did not care for
titles. She had no visions of a column in the Morning Post. She wanted,
kind lady, only a vent for the exuberance of her social instincts; and
being proud, she rather liked acquaintances who looked up to, instead
of looking down on her. Thus Gloucester Place was invaded by tribes not
congenial to its natural civilised atmosphere. Hengists and Horsas,
from remote Anglo-Saxon districts, crossed the intervening channel, and
insulted the British nationality of that salubrious district. To most of
such immigrators, Mrs. Haughton, of Gloucester Place, was a personage
of the highest distinction. A few others of prouder status in the world,
though they owned to themselves that there was a sad mixture at Mrs.
Haughton’s house, still, once seduced there, came again--being persons
who, however independent in fortune or gentle by blood, had but a small
“visiting acquaintance” in town; fresh from economical colonisation on
the Continent or from distant provinces in these three kingdoms. Mrs.
Haughton’s rooms were well lighted. There was music for some, whist for
others; tea, ices, cakes, and a crowd for all.
At ten o’clock-the rooms already nearly filled, and Mrs. Haughton, as
she stood at the door, anticipating with joy that happy hour when the
staircase would become inaccessible--the head attendant, sent with the
ices from the neighbouring confectioner, announced in a loud voice: “Mr.
Haughton--Mr. Darrell.”
At that latter name a sensation thrilled the assembly--the name so much
in every one’s mouth at that period, nor least in the mouths of the
great middle class, on whom--though the polite may call them “a sad
mixture,” cabinets depend--could not fail to be familiar to the ears
of Mrs. Haughton’s “visiting acquaintance.” The interval between his
announcement and his ascent from the hall to the drawing-room was busily
filled up by murmured questions to the smiling hostess: “Darrell! what!
the Darrell! Guy Darrell! greatest man of the day! A connection of
yours? Bless me, you don’t say so?” Mrs. Haughton began to feel nervous.
Was Lionel right? Could the man who had only been a lawyer at the back
of Holborn really be, now, such a very, very great man--greatest man of
the day? Nonsense!
“Ma’am,” said one pale, puff-cheeked, flat-nosed gentleman, in a very
large white waistcoat, who was waiting by her side till a vacancy in
one of the two whist-tables should occur. “Ma’am, I’m an enthusiastic
admirer of Mr. Darrell. You say he is a connection of yours? Present me
to him.”
Mrs. Haughton nodded flutteringly, for, as the gentleman closed his
request, and tapped a large gold snuff-box, Darrell stood before
her--Lionel close at his side, looking positively sheepish. The great
man said a few civil words, and was gliding into the room to make way
for the press behind him, when he of the white waistcoat, touching Mrs.
Haughton’s arm, and staring Darrell full in the face, said, very loud:
“In these anxious times, public men dispense with ceremony. I crave an
introduction to Mr. Darrell.” Thus pressed, poor Mrs. Haughton, without
looking up, muttered out: “Mr. Adolphus Poole--Mr. Darrell,” and turned
to welcome fresh comers.
“Mr. Darrell,” said Mr. Poole, bowing to the ground, “this is an
honour.”
Darrell gave the speaker one glance of his keen eye, and thought to
himself: “If I were still at the bar I should be sorry to hold a brief
for that fellow.” However, he returned the bow formally, and, bowing
again at the close of a highly complimentary address with which
Mr. Poole followed up his opening sentence, expressed himself “much
flattered,” and thought he had escaped; but wherever he went through
the crowd, Mr. Poole contrived to follow him, and claim his notice by
remarks on the affairs of the day--the weather--the funds--the crops.
At length Darrell perceived, sitting aloof in a corner, an excellent man
whom indeed it surprised him to see in a London drawing-room, but who,
many years ago, when Darrell was canvassing the enlightened constituency
of Ouzelford, had been on a visit to the chairman of his committee--an
influential trader--and having connections in the town--and, being a
very high character, had done him good service in the canvass. Darrell
rarely forgot a face, and never a service. At any time he would have
been glad to see the worthy man once more, but at that time he was
grateful indeed.
“Excuse me,” he said bluntly to Mr. Poole, “but I see an old friend.” He
moved on, and thick as the crowd had become, it made way, with respect
as to royalty for the distinguished orator. The buzz of admiration as
he passed--louder than in drawing-rooms more refined--would have had
sweeter music than Grisi’s most artful quaver to a vainer man--nay, once
on a time to him. But--sugar plums come too late! He gained the corner,
and roused the solitary sitter.
“My dear Mr. Hartopp, do you not remember me--Guy Darrell?”
“Mr. Darrell!” cried the ex-mayor of Gatesboro’, rising, “who could
think that you would remember me?”
“What! not remember those ten stubborn voters, on whom, all and singly,
I had lavished my powers of argument in vain? You came, and with the
brief words, ‘John--Ned--Dick--oblige me--vote for Darrell!’ the men
were convinced--the votes won. That’s what I call eloquence”--(sotto
voce--“Confound that fellow! still after me!” Aside to Hartopp)--“Oh!
may I ask who is that Mr. What’s-his-name--there--in the white
waistcoat?”
“Poole,” answered Hartopp. “Who is he, sir? A speculative man. He is
connected with a new Company--I am told it answers. Williams (that’s my
foreman--a very long head he has too) has taken shares in the Company,
and wanted me to do the same, but ‘tis not in my way. And Mr. Poole may
be a very honest man, but he does not impress me with that idea. I have
grown careless; I know I am liable to be taken in--I was so once--and
therefore I avoid ‘Companies’ upon principle--especially when they
promise thirty per cent., and work copper mines--Mr. Poole has a copper
mine.”
“And deals in brass--you may see it in his face! But you are not in
town for good, Mr. Hartopp? If I remember right, you were settled at
Gatesboro’ when we last met.”
“And so I am still--or rather in the neighbourhood. I am gradually
retiring from business, and grown more and more fond of farming. But I
have a family, and we live in enlightened times, when children require a
finer education than their parents had. Mrs. Hartopp thought my daughter
Anna Maria was in need of some ‘finishing lessons’--very fond of the
harp is Anna Maria--and so we have taken a house in London for six
weeks. That’s Mrs. Hartopp yonder, with the bird on her head--bird of
paradise, I believe; Williams says birds of that kind never rest. That
bird is an exception--it has rested on Mrs. Hartopp’s head for hours
together, every evening since we have been in town.”
“Significant of your connubial felicity, Mr. Hartopp.”
“May it be so of Anna Maria’ s. She is to be married when her education
is finished--married, by the by, to a son of your old friend Jessop, of
Ouzelford; and between you and me, Mr. Darrell, that is the reason why
I consented to come to town. Do not suppose that I would have a
daughter finished unless there was a husband at hand who undertook to be
responsible for the results.”
“You retain your wisdom, Mr. Hartopp; and I feel sure that not even your
fair partner could have brought you up to London unless you had decided
on the expediency of coming. Do you remember that I told you the day you
so admirably settled a dispute in our committee-room, ‘it was well you
were not born a king, for you would have been an irresistible tyrant’?”
“Hush! hush!” whispered Hartopp, in great alarm, “if Mrs. H. should
hear you! What an observer you are, sir. I thought I was a judge of
character--but I was once deceived. I dare say you never were.”
“You mistake,” answered Darrell, wincing, “you deceived! How?”
“Oh, a long story, sir. It was an elderly man--the most agreeable,
interesting companion--a vagabond nevertheless--and such a pretty
bewitching little girl with him, his grandchild. I thought he might have
been a wild harumscarum chap in his day, but that he had a true sense of
honour”--(Darrell, wholly uninterested in this narrative, suppressed a
yawn, and wondered when it would end).
“Only think, sir, just as I was saying to myself, ‘I know character--I
never was taken in,’ down comes a smart fellow--the man’s own son--and
tells me--or rather he suffers a lady who comes with him to tell
me--that this charming old gentleman of high sense of honour was a
returned convict--been transported for robbing his employer.”
Pale, breathless, Darrell listened, not unheeding now. “What was the
name of--of--”
“The convict? He called himself Chapman, but the son’s name was
Losely--Jasper.”
“Ah!” faltered Darrell, recoiling. “And you spoke of a little girl?”
“Jasper Losely’s daughter; he came after her with a magistrate’s
warrant. The old miscreant had carried her off,--to teach her his own
swindling ways, I suppose.”
“Luckily she was then in my charge. I gave her back to her father, and
the very respectable-looking lady he brought with him. Some relation, I
presume.”
“What was her name, do you remember?”
“Crane.”
“Crane!--Crane!” muttered Darrell, as if trying in vain to tax his
memory with that name. “So he said the child was his daughter--are you
sure?”
“Oh, of course he said so, and the lady too. But can you be acquainted
with their, sir?”
“I?--no! Strangers to me, except by repute. Liars--infamous liars! But
have the accomplices quarrelled--I mean the son and father--that the
father should be exposed and denounced by the son?”
“I conclude so. I never saw them again. But you believe the father
really was, then, a felon, a convict--no excuse for him--no extenuating
circumstances? There was something in that man, Mr. Darrell, that made
one love him--positively love him; and when I had to tell him that I had
given up the child he trusted to my charge, and saw his grief, I felt a
criminal myself.”
Darrell said nothing, but the character of his face was entirely
altered--stern, hard, relentless--the face of an inexorable judge.
Hartopp, lifting his eyes suddenly to that countenance, recoiled in awe.
“You think I was a criminal!” he said, piteously.
“I think we are both talking too much, Mr. Hartopp, of a gang of
miserable swindlers, and I advise you to dismiss the whole remembrance
of intercourse with any of them from your honest breast, and never to
repeat to other ears the tale you have poured into mine. Men of honour
should crush down the very thought that approaches them to knaves.”
Thus saying, Darrell moved off with abrupt rudeness, and passing quickly
back through the crowd, scarcely noticed Mrs. Haughton by a retreating
nod, nor heeded Lionel at all, but hurried down the stairs. He was
impatiently searching for his cloak in the back parlour, when a voice
behind said: “Let me assist you, sir--do:” and turning round with
petulant quickness, he beheld again Mr. Adolphus Poole. It requires an
habitual intercourse with equals to give perfect and invariable control
of temper to a man of irritable nerves and frank character; and though,
where Daxrell really liked, he had much sweet forbearance, and where
he was indifferent much stately courtesy, yet, when he was offended, he
could be extremely uncivil. “Sir,” he cried almost stamping his foot,
“your importunities annoy me I request you to cease them.”
“Oh, I ask your pardon,” said Mr. Poole, with an angry growl. “I have
no need to force myself on any man. But I beg you to believe that if I
presumed to seek your acquaintance, it was to do you a service sir--yes,
a private service, sir.” He lowered his voice into a whisper, and laid
his finger on his nose: “There’s one Jasper Losely, sir--eh? Oh, sir,
I’m no mischief-maker. I respect family secrets. Perhaps I might be of
use, perhaps not.”
“Certainly not to me, sir,” said Darrell, flinging the cloak he had now
found across his shoulders, and striding from the house. When he entered
his carriage, the footman stood waiting for orders. Darrell was long in
giving them. “Anywhere for half an hour--to St. Paul’s, then home.” But
on returning from this objectless plunge into the City, Darrell pulled
the check-string: “To Belgrave Square--Lady Dulcett’s.”
The concert was half over; but Flora Vyvyan had still guarded, as she
had promised, a seat beside herself for Darrell, by lending it for the
present to one of her obedient vassals. Her face brightened as she saw
Darrell enter and approach. The vassal surrendered the chair. Darrell
appeared to be in the highest spirits; and I firmly believe that he was
striving to the utmost in his power--what? to make himself agreeable to
Flora Vyvyan? No; to make Flora Vyvyan agreeable to himself. The man did
not presume that a fair young lady could be in love with him; perhaps he
believed that, at his years, to be impossible. But he asked what seemed
much easier, and was much harder--he asked to be himself in love.