In the following spring a vexatious incident occurred in Warwick Street.
The highly-considered county member, who was the yearly tenant of Mr.
Rodney’s first floor, and had been always a valuable patron, suddenly
died. An adjourned debate, a tough beefsteak, a select committee still
harder, and an influenza caught at three o’clock in the morning in an
imprudent but irresistible walk home with a confidential Lord of the
Treasury, had combined very sensibly to affect the income of Mr. Rodney.
At first he was sanguine that such a desirable dwelling would soon find
a suitable inhabitant, especially as Mr. Waldershare assured him that he
would mention the matter to all his friends. But time rolled on, and the
rooms were still vacant; and the fastidious Rodneys, who at first would
only listen to a yearly tenant, began to reduce their expectations.
Matters had arrived at such a pass in May, that, for the first time in
their experience, they actually condescended to hoist an announcement of
furnished apartments.
In this state of affairs a cab rattled up to the house one morning, out
of which a young gentleman jumped briskly, and, knocking at the
door, asked, of the servant who opened it, whether he might see the
apartments. He was a young man, apparently not more than one or two and
twenty, of a graceful figure, somewhat above the middle height, fair,
with a countenance not absolutely regular, but calm and high-bred. His
dress was in the best taste, but to a practised eye had something of a
foreign cut, and he wore a slight moustache.
“The rooms will suit me,” he said, “and I have no doubt the price you
ask for them is a just one;” and he bowed with high-bred courtesy to
Sylvia, who was now in attendance on him, and who stood with her pretty
hands in the pretty pockets of her pretty apron.
“I am glad to hear that,” said Sylvia. “We have never let them before,
except to a yearly tenant.”
“And if we suit each other,” said the gentleman, “I should have no great
objection to becoming such.”
“In these matters,” said Sylvia, after a little hesitation, “we give and
receive references. Mr. Rodney is well known in this neighbourhood and
in Westminster generally; but I dare say,” she adroitly added, “he has
many acquaintances known to you, sir.”
“Not very likely,” replied the young gentleman; “for I am a foreigner,
and only arrived in England this morning;” though he spoke English
without the slightest accent.
Sylvia looked a little perplexed; but he continued: “It is quite just
that you should be assured to whom you are letting your lodgings. The
only reference I can give you is to my banker, but he is almost too
great a man for such matters. Perhaps,” he added, pulling out a case
from his breast pocket, and taking out of it a note, which he handed to
Sylvia, “this may assure you that your rent will be paid.”
Sylvia took a rapid glance at the hundred-pound-note, and twisting it
into her little pocket with apparent _sangfroid_, though she held it
with a tight grasp, murmured that it was quite unnecessary, and then
offered to give her new lodger an acknowledgment of it.
“That is really unnecessary,” he replied. “Your appearance commands from
me that entire confidence which on your part you very properly refuse to
a stranger and a foreigner like myself.”
“What a charming young man!” thought Sylvia, pressing with emotion her
hundred-pound-note.
“Now,” continued the young gentleman, “I will return to the station to
release my servant, who is a prisoner there with my luggage. Be pleased
to make him at home. I shall myself not return probably till the
evening; and in the meantime,” he added, giving Sylvia his card, “you
will admit anything that arrives here addressed to Colonel Albert.”
The settlement of Colonel Albert in Warwick Street was an event of
no slight importance. It superseded for a time all other topics of
conversation, and was discussed at length in the evenings, especially
with Mr. Vigo. Who was he? And in what service was he colonel? Mr.
Rodney, like a man of the world, assumed that all necessary information
would in time be obtained from the colonel’s servant; but even men of
the world sometimes miscalculate. The servant, who was a Belgian, had
only been engaged by the colonel at Brussels a few days before his
departure for England, and absolutely knew nothing of his master, except
that he was a gentleman with plenty of money and sufficient luggage.
Sylvia, who was the only person who had seen the colonel, was strongly
in his favour. Mr. Rodney looked doubtful, and avoided any definite
opinion until he had had the advantage of an interview with his new
lodger. But this was not easy to obtain. Colonel Albert had no wish
to see the master of the house, and, if he ever had that desire, his
servant would accordingly communicate it in the proper quarter. At
present he was satisfied with all the arrangements, and wished neither
to make nor to receive remarks. The habits of the new lodger were
somewhat of a recluse. He was generally engaged in his rooms the whole
day, and seldom left them till the evening, and nobody, as yet, had
called upon him. Under these circumstances, Imogene was instructed
to open the matter to Mr. Waldershare when she presided over his
breakfast-table; and that gentleman said he would make inquiries about
the colonel at the Travellers’ Club, where Waldershare passed a great
deal of his time. “If he be anybody,” said Mr. Waldershare, “he is sure
in time to be known there, for he will be introduced as a visitor.” At
present, however, it turned out that the “Travellers’” knew nothing of
Colonel Albert; and time went on, and Colonel Albert was not introduced
as a visitor there.
After a little while there was a change in the habits of the colonel.
One morning, about noon, a groom, extremely well appointed, and having
under his charge a couple of steeds of breed and beauty, called at
Warwick Street, and the colonel rode out, and was long absent, and after
that, every day, and generally at the same hour, mounted his horse.
Mr. Rodney was never wearied of catching a glimpse of his distinguished
lodger over the blinds of the ground-floor room, and of admiring the
colonel’s commanding presence in his saddle, distinguished as his seat
was alike by its grace and vigour.
In the course of a little time, another incident connected with the
colonel occurred which attracted notice and excited interest. Towards
the evening a brougham, marked, but quietly, with a foreign coronet,
stopped frequently at Mr. Rodney’s house, and a visitor to the colonel
appeared in the form of a middle-aged gentleman who never gave his name,
and evaded, it seemed with practised dexterity, every effort, however
adroit, to obtain it. The valet was tried on this head also, and replied
with simplicity that he did not know the gentleman’s name, but he was
always called the Baron.
In the middle of June a packet arrived one day by the coach, from the
rector of Hurstley, addressed to Endymion, announcing his father’s
dangerous illness, and requesting him instantly to repair home. Myra was
too much occupied to write even a line.