THE STRICTEST CONFIDENCE
KEEPING A SECRET--LADY MOUNT HELICON “AT HOME”--A CHAPTER OF
FINANCE--WHY LACQUERS WENT TO THE BALL--EXOTICS IN A
CONSERVATORY--MRS. BLACKLAMB AND HER CAVALIER--IMPORTANT
DISCLOSURES--A LONG WAY OFF, AND FARTHER THAN THAT
You must be an individual of an equally sanguine temperament and
confiding disposition, if you believe that what you impart to your
neighbour in the modern Babylon under seal of the strictest secrecy,
might not as well be published in the leading article of the _Times_
newspaper. How “things get about” is one of those inexplicable
mysteries for which nobody is able or willing to account. Some people
lay it to servants--some to the amiable generosity in imparting
information for which the fair sex are so remarkable; the latter,
again, say that “every bit of scandal in London originates at those
horrid clubs!” but few will allow that Rumour owes a large portion of
her ubiquity to that organisation of mankind which makes a secret
utterly valueless unless shared with another. What is the use of
knowing something we must not tell? In the strictest confidence, of
course, it was told us under promise that we would not breathe a
syllable to a single soul--we only make an exception in your favour
under the same solemn obligation. You, of course, in mysterious
conclave with Tom, will bear in mind our prohibition, and, acting as
we have done, Tom shall become a party to the treason. Still upon
oath, it will not be long, we think, before Jack and Harry are
empowered to join chorus, and whilst our cherished mystery becomes
patent to the world in general, we ourselves feel completely absolved
from the consequences of our breach of trust. In the whole of Lady
Mount Helicon’s crowded rooms to-night, we believe Blanche herself is
the only person that is not aware of her own precarious position; and
the girl, happy in her ignorance, looks brighter and more blooming
than usual, though _the world_ will admire her less on this occasion
than it has ever done before. Yes, this is one of Lady Mount Helicon’s
“At Homes,” with a small italicised “_Dancing_” in the corner; and a
very brilliant affair it is, as the hostess herself is fully
persuaded:--the front and back drawing-room, and the boudoir beyond
that, are thrown open and lighted with dazzling brilliancy, whilst a
softer lustre shed upon the conservatory and balcony, craftily covered
in for the purpose, lures to those irresistible man-traps without
betraying their insidious design. Below stairs, libraries and
school-rooms and other resorts, devoted in every-day life to far more
practical uses, are now cleared and emptied for the reception of
shawls, cloaks, and coverings, and the production of countless cups of
tea and glasses of lemonade. Lady Mount Helicon’s own maid, in a
toilette of gorgeous magnificence, presides over this department,
casting the while glances of covert scorn and envy at a younger and
prettier assistant in a more becoming cap, on whom the dandies, as
they enter, impress with unnecessary circumlocution the propriety
of taking great care of their gregos, paletôts, and other
sheep’s-clothing. In the dining-room preparations are making for a
“stand-up supper” of unparalleled luxury, but we think it right to
warn the champagne-drinking guests, that on passing the door in the
morning we spied several hampers of that popular fluid, labelled with
the _maker’s name_, and much as we admire its chemical preparation and
laudable cheapness, we are concerned to admit that “the splendid
sparkling of that house at 45_s._” always disarranges our internal
economy for several days after an indulgence in its delights. Mount
Helicon himself never drinks his mother’s champagne, and to his
abstinence he attributes his own unfailing health. At Dinadam’s, or
Lord Long-Acre’s, or Wassailworth, he does not by any means practise
the same self-denial. Still it is doubtless good enough for a ball,
and what with the young ladies, and the old gentlemen, and the
servants, will experience a very fair consumption. A bearded band
meanwhile is in waiting up-stairs, elaborately dressed, and from the
conductor in white kid gloves to _the Piccolo_ in a chin-tuft,
rejoicing in boots of jetty brilliancy, and neckcloths dazzling with
starch. The whole establishment is so utterly at variance with its
usual routine, and the house looks so entirely changed when thus
stripped and lighted for reception, that if the old lord, who never
permitted these _bouleversements_, could but come back, he would
scarcely recognise his former home, and would unquestionably be glad
to return to the quiet of his family vault. The presiding genius of
the scene, the hostess herself, is already at her post. A very capital
dressmaker, an abundance of well-selected jewellery, and a mysterious
compound much enhancing the beauty of the human hair, have turned her
out a very personable dame, and as she stands in the middle of her
ball-room, as yet “monarch of all she surveys,” and spreads her
rustling folds, and buttons her well-fitting gloves, the possibility
of her marrying again seems no such absurdity after all, nor does she
herself look upon such an event as by any means a remote contingency.
But soon the knocker is at work, the chariot wheels are clattering in
the street, and stentorian voices, louder in proportion to their
indistinctness, announce the fast-arriving guests. Unlike a country
ball, the feathers of the ladies require but little shaking after a
short drive from the next street, nor, fresh from their own impartial
mirrors, need they hazard the opinion of perhaps an unbecoming
reflector; so they troop up-stairs with small delay, their glossy
locks, white shoulders, and gossamer draperies showing to the greatest
advantage in the well-lighted ball-room. The earliest arrivals of
course receive the most affectionate greeting, proportionately
decreased as the plot thickens, till the shake by both hands, and
graceful little compliment about “looking so well,” subsides into a
stately courtesy and the coldest welcome good-breeding, not
hospitality, will admit. At last all individual figures are well-nigh
lost in the crush. A mass of charming dresses and well-made coats are
swaying and struggling in the doorways, the band is pealing forth a
melody of Paradise, and the votaries of the quadrille are striving to
adhere to their superstitious evolutions by treading on each other’s
toes, entangling each other’s dresses, begging each other’s pardon,
and generally complaining of the heat of the atmosphere and crowded
state of the room. It is at this juncture that “General Bounce” and
“Miss Kettering” make their appearance, the General having placed a
guard upon his lips, and neither during the dinner nor the drive
hinted at his misgivings and inner discomfiture. “Poor Blanche!” he
mutters, as he follows her up the wide, stately staircase; “she’ll
know it soon enough, if it’s true--zounds! a girl like that would be a
prize without a penny--the young fellows now-a-days are not like what
_we_ used to be.” And as the General arrived at this conclusion he
bowed his bald head nearly into Lady Mount Helicon’s bosom, in return
for her stately, measured greeting. That greeting, both to himself and
Blanche, was colder than usual; the girl, frank and unconscious, did
not perceive the change, but her uncle caught himself saying, almost
aloud, “Zounds! is it possible that this old cat knows it too?” The
music ceased, the dancers walked about, the wrongly-paired ones
looking for “mamma,” or “my aunt,” inwardly longing to get rid of each
other, and glancing in every direction for their own particular
vanities, the more fortunate couples likewise keeping a sharp look-out
for the chaperons, but this in order to avoid them, and hinting that
“It’s much cooler on the staircase,” or “Have you seen the
conservatory?” to prolong the delicious interview. The tea-room begins
to fill, and incautious youth presses that domestic beverage on beauty
nothing loth, nor reflects that charming as are those ringlets
drooping over the cup, and rosy as are the lips that whisper their
soft affirmative, it would be as well that he should distinctly know
his own mind as to whether he would like this celestial being to make
tea for him during the rest of his life, and whether it would be
always as sweet as it is now. For the first time in her experience of
a London season Blanche, begins to think it a “stupid ball.” She has
not yet been asked to dance; and spoilt by her previous successes, she
feels hurt at the neglect. “The best men,” as they are called, have
not yet, indeed, arrived--if, as is somewhat uncertain, they will come
at all, for they sometimes throw Lady Mount Helicon over; and “Mount”
himself is still detained at the “House.” But there are plenty of
beardless dandies and gay young guardsmen, who are far more prone to
dance; and yet they all seem to keep aloof. To be sure, whenever they
_have_ asked her formerly she has always been “engaged”; but she would
like to stand up now, even with young Deadlock, if it was only for
“the look of the thing.” However, she hangs contentedly on the
General’s arm, and “bides her time.” It is not long coming. A tall,
good-looking man, with features expressive only of a kind disposition
and a general air of self-satisfaction, bows and sidles and screws
himself towards Blanche and her chaperon, receiving as his natural
homage the smiles of the old ladies on whose toes he is treading, and
regardless of the imploring looks of the young ones who hope he is
going to ask them to dance. His glossy hair is curled distinctly in
five rows, which, according to Lord Mount Helicon’s account, betokens
weighty intentions; and it is no other than our friend Captain
Lacquers, who has dined temperately, abjured his usual cigar, and come
here for the especial purpose of meeting Miss Kettering. A bow, an
indistinct murmur about “not engaged,” and “honour,” and “delighted,”
and the couple are off, tripping gracefully round amongst the whirling
confusion of the _Valse des Fantassins_, truly “a mighty maze, but not
without a plan.”
To explain the intentions of our rotatory hussar, we must take the
liberty of putting the clock back a few hours--an impossibility only
permitted to the novelist--and record a conversation which took place
between Lacquers and his friend Sir Ascot that very afternoon, in a
secluded window of the Godiva Club.
“Well out of this business about Miss Kettering,” said the latter, who
was becoming more communicative since he had found so little
difficulty in speaking his mind to Blanche on a previous occasion.
“You’ve heard of the smash? Not a penny, after all. Downright
swindling, I call it--that old Bounce must be a deep one. They tell me
that, except the life-interest of the house in Grosvenor Square, she
hasn’t a brass farthing. It’s frightful to think of,” added the old
head on young shoulders, scanning with rigid attention his companion’s
face, in which concern was more apparent than surprise.
“Poor thing, poor thing” rejoined Lacquers; “I had no idea it was so
bad as that. They told me she was sure to have Newton-Hollows, at any
rate. She must feel it sadly, poor girl; I wonder how she looks since
it all came out.”
“Oh, I fancy very few people know it as yet,” suggested Sir Ascot, who
was somewhat uncharitable in his conclusions. “I daresay they’ll try
to brazen it out, at least till the end of the season. They may if
they like, for all I care. I never knew any good come of these
_half-bred_ ones, and _I’ll_ have nothing more to do with them!”
Lacquers heard as though he heard him not. He was trying to think, and
his well-cut features were gathered into an expression of hopeless
perplexity, at which his companion could scarce forbear laughing
outright. At last he had recourse to the never-failing moustache; and
drawing inspiration from its touch, he began--
“Uppy, you’re a safe fellow--eh?--wouldn’t throw a fellow over, and
put him in the hole, you know. You’ve got some brains, too--made a
capital book on the Ascot Stakes. Now you understand finance and
arithmetic, and that--what should _you_ say a married fellow could
live upon? Of course he wouldn’t require so many luxuries as a single
one; but what do you think, now, a fellow like _me_, for instance,
could do with?”
Sir Ascot looked completely taken aback. “Why, you’d never be such a
fool as to think of----”
“That’s neither here nor there, old boy,” interrupted Lacquers; “of
course if I _do_ you shall have the earliest intelligence. But come,
here’s a book and a pencil; let’s see how the thing would work with
good management and strict economy. _Strict economy_, you know, of
course.” Lacquers had a great idea, _in theory_, of strict economy. So
the young man sat down, and went deep into the various items of rent,
and stable expenses, and opera-boxes and pin-money, and cigars and
travelling; Sir Ascot arriving at the conclusion that a quiet couple
might manage to exist upon something over two thousand a year; whilst
Lacquers thought it was to be done, with _strict economy_, of course,
for about five hundred less; but as they both entirely overlooked an
indispensable item termed “housekeeping,” we think it needless to
record their calculations for the benefit of the inexperienced.
“Well,” said Lacquers, when he had finished his arithmetic and put his
betting-book once more into his pocket, “I think it can be done--I
believe a fellow _ought_ to marry, you know; what does Shakespeare say
about ‘Solitude being born a twin’? it certainly sobers him”--(Sir
Ascot smiled as he admitted that was undoubtedly a strong
argument)--“and altogether married fellows get into more respectable
habits. Look at a breakfast in a country-house; you see all the
married ones up and dressed with the lark, while the single men come
dawdling down at all hours. Yes, there’s a good deal to be said on
both sides, like a Chancery lawsuit; but I’ll think it over, Uppy, my
boy, I’ll think it over.” And Lacquers did think it over, and arrived
at a conclusion as honourable to his heart as it was antagonistic to
that worldly wisdom by which all with whom he associated thought it
right to regulate their every action. Here was a man spoilt by the
accident of personal beauty and good birth and position. From his
earliest boyhood he had never been taught that there was any ulterior
object in life save to shine in society, if not intellectually, why,
physically, with a handsome person and fine clothes--a far more
effectual passport than all the talents to the good graces of the
world. What wonder that the tree grew up as it had been bent? what
wonder that the hussar had scarcely two ideas beyond his uniform and
his betting-book, and his seat upon a horse? that he looked on the
world at large as the butterfly on the sunny square enclosed by the
garden wall--a mere stage for display, a mere hot-bed for physical
enjoyment, to be got the most out of during the bright, gaudy hours of
noon; and afterwards--why, afterwards, when the sun goes down and the
chill dews of evening clog his fading wings--the butterfly must do the
best he can, and perish as he may. With such an education, the sole
manly quality left was courage, and it was only the touchstone of a
gentle face like Blanche’s that brought out the latent generosity of a
character overlaid with faults, for which its training was more to
blame than its organisation. We are obliged to confess that Lacquers
was vain, thoughtless, self-opinionated, frivolous, ignorant, and
empty-headed, but there _was_ some good in him, and it was brought
out, as it always will be when it exists at all, by a woman’s smile,
and, above all, by a woman’s misfortunes.
Lacquers made up his mind that he would marry Blanche Kettering
without a sixpence. The young lady’s consent he rather prematurely
counted on as a matter of course, but in making this resolution he
deserves some credit for the readiness with which he was prepared to
sacrifice all that to him was precious in life, at the feet of his
lady-love. He was a younger brother, and, it is needless to add,
considerably involved--of course he must bid farewell to all those
amusements and pursuits which have hitherto constituted his actual
existence. No more Derbys and Hamptons, and Richmond breakfasts, and
Greenwich dinners, all vanities enticing enough in their way--no more
stalls at the opera, and supper-parties in the suburbs, likewise
vanities of a more dangerous tendency--no more hunting in
Leicestershire and deer-stalking in Scotland, yachting at Cowes and
philandering at Paris--all these must be given up; and worse than all,
the profession he delights in, the regiment he is devoted to, must be
offered at the shrine of domestic respectability. That these would be
privations no man could feel more keenly than Lacquers, yet was he
prepared to go through with it, and had it been necessary, we firmly
believe he would have cut off his very moustaches and laid them at the
feet of Blanche Kettering! Therefore it was that he appeared on the
evening in question at Lady Mount Helicon’s ball; therefore it was
that his manner had assumed a softness and diffidence which made
Blanche confess to herself, as she leaned on his arm in the intervals
of the dance, that he was “really very much improved”; and therefore
it was that he suggested the old excuse of “looking at the flowers in
the conservatory,” and skilfully availing himself of a general rush
down-stairs connected with supper, managed to entice his partner into
a secluded corner of that love-making retreat, which had indeed been
already occupied by several pairs for the same purpose, and having
furnished her with a cup of tea, and himself with an ice to keep them
both quiet, he entered with much circumlocution on one of those
embarrassing interviews such as, we are quite sure, no lady who
condescends to glance over these pages but must have experienced at
least _once_ before she had been out two seasons.
“That’s a case,” said Mrs. Blacklamb, as she swept down to supper on
Lord Mount Helicon’s arm, her dark, haughty features writhing with
something between a smile and a sneer, while she caught a glimpse of
Blanche’s well-cut profile, and one of Lacquers’s faultless boots in a
mirror opposite their retreat. “Will it _be_, do you think?” she added
with a softening expression, for all women warm towards a love-affair,
and even Mrs. Blacklamb, with her many faults, was a very woman,
perhaps rather too much so, in her heart of hearts.
“I hope not,” replied Mount, with a smile into his companion’s face.
“I’m very much in love with her myself. If it hadn’t been for ‘the
Division’ I should have been where Lacquers is at this moment. Look
what my patriotism has cost me, but I don’t regret it _now_,” and he
emphasised the monosyllable with an almost imperceptible pressure of
the arm that hung upon his own, a movement that had little effect on
Mrs. Blacklamb, with whom flirtation (whatever that comprehensive word
may mean) was the daily business of life.
“Why, you know you would have married her, and too happy if she had
only been the catch you all thought she was,” replied the lady. “I
must say I could not help being delighted, though I was sorry for
_her_, poor girl, to see you all ‘getting out’ just as you do when
some racehorse breaks down, trying which could be first to pull
himself clear of the scrape, and leave his neighbours in the lurch.
Major D’Orville behaved _shamefully_, and you still worse, for she
really was fond of _you_.”
“Mount’s” imperturbable good-humour was proof against quizzing, so the
sneer fell harmless, and he replied carelessly, “Fond? of course she
was, but not so _very_ fond--no. Mrs. Blacklamb, I’m easily imposed
on by ladies. I think it’s my diffidence that stands so much in my
way; even where my affections are most irrevocably engaged, where I
worship is hopeless constancy, and I feel my heart breaking, and
my--my--my hair coming out of curl, I dare not ask my enslaver more
than whether she will have a glass of wine. Give Mrs. Blacklamb some
champagne, and I’ll have a little sherry, if you please;” so the pair
went on jesting and philandering and making fools of each other and of
themselves, but they troubled their heads no more about the couple in
the conservatory; and when “Mount” deserted his fair companion and
returned into the ball-room, as he said, “to dance just once with Miss
Kettering, in common decency,” he sought her in vain, for she was
gone.
“Uncle Baldwin,” said Blanche, when they reached home, and lingered a
moment in the drawing-room before retiring--“Uncle Baldwin, I’ve got
something to say to you.” Blanche blushed and hesitated, and looked at
the little white satin shoe she was resting on the fender in every
possible point of view. “To-night at the ball, I--that’s to say,
Captain Lacquers--in short, I dare say you remarked--in the
conservatory, you know--Oh, Uncle Baldwin, _he proposed_ to me,” and
Blanche, half-laughing, half-crying, and blushing over her neck and
shoulders, hid her face on the breast of the General’s coat, as she
used to do when she had been a naughty little girl and repented, ten
years ago.
“Zounds! Blanche, what did you say?” burst out the General, in a
terrible taking, as he thought now everything must come out. “Yes or
No, my darling, don’t keep me in suspense--which is it, heads or
tails? in or out? I mean, Yes or No?”
“No!” whispered Blanche, to the General’s inexpressible relief, who
cooled down into a prolonged _whew_, like the escape of steam from a
safety-valve; but it was rather difficult to say it, he seemed so
sorry and so patient and considerate. “Do you know, Uncle Baldwin, I
never thought so highly of Captain Lacquers as I do to-night.”
“Probably not, my dear,” grunted the General, “you never knew before
he thought so highly of you. But, Blanche, as we are here, and--and
it’s not very late--zounds! they’ve put that clock on again--well,
dear, I too have got something to tell you; but mine, I am sorry to
say, is bad news. Prepare yourself, my dear Blanche. I’m sure you will
bear it well, my little pet, and as long as I have a roof over my head
you will have a home; but, in short, it’s no use mincing the matter,
Blanche, you’re not an heiress after all--you won’t have a sixpence
beyond what I can leave you, and that’s little enough, heaven knows.
They’ve found your mother’s will, my dear, and a most unfair and
unreasonable will it is; but still, my pretty Blanche, it makes you a
penniless young lady, after all!”
“Is that the worst?” answered Blanche, looking up with an air of
immense relief, though she had turned deadly pale; “is that all, Uncle
Baldwin? dear me, I’m not worse off than half the other girls I know.
We shall leave this house, I suppose,” she added, looking round at the
ample room and its stately furniture, jumping at once to conclusions,
as young ladies will do, “and we shall live entirely at
Newton-Hollows, and I shall be there all the time my garden looks most
beautiful; but we shan’t have to send away Mrs. Delaval, shall we?”
(The General winced.) “And when will it all be settled? and when shall
we go?”
“Blanche, you’re a diamond,” said the General, his eyes filling with
tears; “you’ve the pluck of ten women. You ought to have commanded the
Kedjerees. Go to bed now, my dear, and to-morrow we’ll look things
boldly in the face, and see what is best to be done.” So the General
stumped off with his bed-candle, more than ever doating on his niece,
more than ever persuaded that she inherited her sterling qualities
from his side of the house, and not from that “poor, foolish old
Kettering,” as he called him, and more than ever indignant with all
the young men of his acquaintance, except Lacquers, for not being on
their knees to Blanche. “They’ve no energy; they’ve no devotion;
zounds! they’ve no chivalry amongst ’em--none whatever! If I was such
a fellow as any one of these, ’gad, I’d go to bed and never get up
again;” with which soliloquy the General proceeded to divest himself
of his ball-going attire, and prepared for his refuge from all the
ills of life.
To those who are conversant with the habits of ladies, it is needless
to mention that Blanche did not, by any means, follow her uncle’s
excellent advice and example, in betaking herself to immediate repose.
The fair sex will easily comprehend how she sought Mrs. Delaval’s
room, and how the two ladies sat up in “their wrappers” and consoled
each other, and talked it all over, backwards and forwards, and came
to no very logical conclusions; and, above all, how the proposal and
its reception were quite as engrossing a topic, and were quite as much
dwelt on as the loss of Blanche’s fine fortune; nor will it escape
their observation that Mary’s greater worldly experience would clearly
foresee the substitution of one cousin for another in this revolution
amongst the Kettering possessions, and how a marriage between the two
was the only plan to make everything right; and how the fair young
face, with its kind eyes, that had haunted her so long, was farther
from her now than ever. She knew, of course, long ago, that it was
hopeless and impossible--that must surely have been a great
consolation! When a child cries for the moon, and a cloud comes and
covers up the coveted bauble, and hides it away, the urchin has small
comfort in being told that it is just as near the object of its
desires as when it could see it, and look, and long, and stretch its
tiny hands. When the beggar-maiden sets her affections on King
Cophetua, without a hope, in these days, of the famous fabulous
_mésalliance_ being perpetrated, the fact that it does not, in
reality, remove him one iota farther than before from her humble self,
helps but little to assuage the pang inflicted on her infatuated heart
by his Majesty’s nuptials with one of his own degree. The impossible
may be increased in love, if not in logic, and Mary was lying awake
and desponding, long after Blanche had forgotten all the excitement
and changes of the evening in happy, dreamless slumbers.