"DARK AND DREARY"
The pea-soup thickness of a London fog is melting into drizzling rain.
The lamp-posts and area railings in Mayfair are dripping with wet, like
the bare copses and leafless hedges miles off in the country. It is a
raw, miserable day, and particularly detestable in this odious town, as
a tall old gentleman seems to think who has just emerged from his hotel
into the chill, moist atmosphere; and whose well-wrapped-up exterior,
faultless goloshes, and neat umbrella denote one of that class who are
seldom to be met with in the streets during the winter season. As he
picks his way along the sloppy pavement, he turns to scan the action of
every horse that splashes by, and ventures, moreover, on sundry peeps
under passing bonnets with a pertinacity, and, at the same time, an air
of unconsciousness that prove how habit can become second nature. The
process generally terminates in disappointment, not to say disgust, and
Sir Harry Beverley--for it is no less a person than the Somersetshire
Baronet--walks on, apparently more and more dissatisfied with the world
in general at every step he takes. As he paces through Grosvenor-square
he looks wistfully about him, as though for some means of escape. He
seems bound on an errand for which he has no great fancy, and once or
twice he is evidently on the point of turning back. Judging by his
increase of pace in South Audley-street, his courage would appear to be
failing him rapidly; but the aspect of Chesterfield House, the glories
of which he remembers well in its golden time, reassures him; and with
an inward ejaculation of "poor D'Orsay!" and a mental vision of that
extraordinary man, who conquered the world with the aid only of his
whiskers and his cab-horse, Sir Harry walks on. "They are pleasant to
look back upon," thinks the worn old "man of the world"--"those days of
Crocky's and Newmarket, and cheerful Melton, with its brilliant gallops,
and cozy little dinners, and snug parties of whist. London, too, was
very different in my time. Society was not so large, and _we_" (meaning
the soliloquist and his intimate friends) "could do what we liked. Ah!
if I had my time to come over again!" and something seems to knock at
Sir Harry's heart, as he thinks, if indeed he could live life over once
more, how differently he would spend it. So thinks every man who lives
for aught but doing good. It is dreadful at last to look along the
valley that was once spread before us so glad and sunny, teeming with
corn, and wine, and oil, and to see how barren we have left it. Count
your good actions on your fingers, as the wayfarer counts the miles he
has passed, or the trader his gains, or the sportsman his successes--can
you reckon one a day? a week? a month? a year? And yet you will want a
large stock to balance those in the other scale. Man is a reasoning
being and a free agent: he makes a strange use of both privileges.
At last Sir Harry stops in front of a neat little house with the
brightest of knockers and the rosiest of muslin curtains, and flowers in
its windows, and an air of cheerful prettiness even in this dull dark
day.
A French servant, clean and sunshiny as French servants always are,
answers the visitor's knock, and announces that "Monsieur" has been "de
Service"; or in other words, that Captain Ropsley has that morning come
"off guard." Whilst the Baronet divests himself of his superfluous
clothing in an outer room, let us take a peep at the Guardsman in his
luxurious little den.
Ropsley understands comfort thoroughly, and his rooms are as tastefully
furnished and as nicely arranged as though there were present the genius
of feminine order to preside over his retreat. Not that such is by any
means the case. Ropsley is well aware that he owes much of his success
in life to the hardness of his heart, and he is not a man to throw away
a single point in the game for the sake of the sunniest smile that ever
wreathed a fair false face. He is no more a man of pleasure than he is
a man of business, though with him pleasure is business, and business is
pleasure. He has a sound calculating head, a cool resolute spirit, an
abundance of nerve, no sentiment, and hardly any feeling whatever. Just
the man to succeed, and he does succeed in his own career, such as it
is. He has established a reputation for fashion, a position in the
world; with a slender income he lives in the highest society, and on the
best of everything; and he has no one to thank for all these advantages
but himself. As he lies back in the depths of his luxurious armchair,
smoking a cigar, and revelling in the coarse witticisms of Rabelais,
whose strong pungent satire and utter want of refinement are admirably
in accordance with his own turn of mind, a phrenologist would at once
read his character in his broad but not prominent forehead, his cold,
cat-like, grey eye, and the habitual sneer playing round the corners of
an otherwise faultless mouth. Handsome though it be, it is not a face
the eye loves to look upon. During the short interval that elapses
between his servant's announcement and his visitor's entrance, Ropsley
has time to dismiss Rabelais completely from his mind, to run over the
salient points of the conversation which he is determined to have with
Sir Harry, and to work out "in the rough" two or three intricate
calculations, which are likely somewhat to astonish that hitherto
unconscious individual. He throws away his cigar, for he defers to the
prejudices of the "old school," and shaking his friend cordially by the
hand, welcomes him to town, stirs the fire, and looks, as indeed he
feels, delighted to see him.
Sir Harry admires his young friend much, there is something akin in
their two natures; but the acquired shrewdness of the elder man is no
match for the strong intellect and determined will of his junior.
"I have come up as you desired, my dear fellow," said the Baronet, "and
brought Constance with me. We are at ----'s Hotel, where, by the way,
they've got a deuced bad cook: and having arrived last night, here I am
this morning."
Ropsley bowed, as he always did, at the mention of Miss Beverley's name;
it was a queer sort of half-malicious little bow. Then looking her
father straight in the face with his cold bright eye, he said,
abruptly--"We've got into a devil of a mess, and I required to see you
immediately."
Sir Harry started, and turned pale. It was not the first "devil of a
mess" by a good many that he had been in, but he felt he was getting too
old for the process, and was beginning to be tired of it.
"Those bills, I suppose," he observed, nervously; "I expected as much."
Ropsley nodded. "We could have met the two," said he, "and renewed the
third, had it not been for Green's rascality and Bolter's failure.
However, it is too late to talk of all that now; read that letter, Sir
Harry, and then tell me whether you do not think we are what Jonathan
calls 'slightly up a tree.'"
He handed the Baronet a lawyer's letter as he spoke. The latter grew
paler and paler as he proceeded in its perusal; at its conclusion he
crushed it in his hand, and swore a great oath.
"I can do nothing more," he said, in a hoarse voice; "I am dipped now
till I cannot get another farthing. The estate is so tied up with those
accursed marriage-settlements, that I must not cut a stick of timber at
my own door. If Bolter had paid we could have gone on. The villain!
what right had he to incur liabilities he could not meet, and put honest
men in the hole?"
"What right, indeed?" answered the Guardsman, with a quiet smile, that
seemed to say he thought the argument might apply to other cases than
that of poor Bolter. "I am a man of no position, Sir Harry, and no
property; if I go I shall scarcely be missed. Now with you it is
different: your fall would make a noise in the world, and a positive
crash down in Somersetshire" (the Baronet winced). "However, we should
neither of us like to lose caste and character without an effort. Is
there _nothing_ can be done?"
Sir Harry looked more and more perplexed. "Time," he muttered, "time;
if we could only get a little time. Can't you see these fellows, my dear
Ropsley, and talk to them a little, and show them their own interests?
I give you carte blanche to act for me. I must trust all to you. I
don't see my way."
Ropsley pushed a wide red volume, something like an enlarged
betting-book, across the table. It was his regimental order-book, and
on its veracious columns was inscribed the appalling fact that "leave of
absence had been granted to Lieutenant and Captain Ropsley for an
indefinite period, on _urgent private affairs_." Sir Harry's hand
trembled as he returned it. He had been so accustomed to consult his
friend and confederate on all occasions, he had so completely acquired
the habit of deferring to his judgment and depending on his energy, that
he felt now completely at a loss as he thought of the difficulties he
should have to face unassisted and alone. It was with unconcealed
anxiety that he gasped out, "D---- it, Ropsley, you don't mean to leave
the ship just at the instant she gets aground!"
"I have only secured my retreat, like a good general," answered Ropsley,
with a smile; "but never fear, Sir Harry, I have no intention of leaving
you in the lurch. Nevertheless, you are a man of more experience than
myself, you have been at this sort of thing for a good many years:
before we go any further, I should like to ask you once more, is there
no plan you can hit upon, have you nothing to propose?"
"Nothing, on my honour," answered Sir Harry. "I am at my wits' end.
The money must be got, and paid too, for these fellows won't hear of a
compromise. I can't raise another farthing. You must have been cleared
out long ago. Ropsley, it strikes me we are both beaten out of the
field."
"Not yet, Sir Harry," observed Ropsley, quietly; "I have a plan, if you
approve of it, and think it can be done."
"By Jove! I always said you were the cleverest fellow in England,"
burst out poor Sir Harry, eagerly grasping at the shadow of a chance.
"Let us have it, by all means. Approve of it! I'll approve of anything
that will only get us clear of this scrape. Come, out with it, Ropsley.
What is it?"
"Sit down, Sir Harry," said Ropsley, for the Baronet was pacing
nervously up and down the room; "let us talk things over quietly, and in
a business-like manner. Ever since the day that I came over to Beverley
from Everdon--(by the way, that was the first good bottle of claret I
drank in Somersetshire)--ever since that day you and I have been
intimate friends. I have profited by your experience and great
knowledge of the world; and you, I think, have derived some advantage
from my energy and painstaking in the many matters with which we have
been concerned. I take all the credit of that affair about the mines in
Argyllshire, and it would be affectation on my part to pretend I did not
know I had been of great use to you in the business."
"True enough, my dear fellow," answered the Baronet, looking somewhat
alarmed; "if I had not sold, as you advised, I should have been 'done'
that time, and I confess in all probability--" "ruined," the Baronet
was going to say, but he checked himself, and substituted the
expression, "much hampered now."
"Well, Sir Harry," resumed his friend, "you and I are men of the world;
we all know the humbug fellows talk about friendship and all that. It
would be absurd for us to converse in such a strain, but yet a man has
his likes and dislikes. You are one of the few people I care for, and I
will do for you what I would not do for any other man on earth."
Sir Harry stared. Though by no means a person of much natural
penetration, he had yet an acquired shrewdness, the effect of long
intercourse with his fellow-creatures, which bade him as a general rule
to mistrust a kindness; and he looked now as if he scented a _quid pro
quo_ in the generous expressions of his associate.
Ropsley kept his cold grey eye fixed on him, and proceeded--"I have
already said, I am a 'man of straw,' and if I _go_ it matters little to
any one but myself. They will ask after me for two days in the
bow-window at White's, and there will be an end of it. I sell out,
which will not break my heart, as I hate soldiering; and I start quietly
for the Continent, where I go to the devil my own way, and at my own
pace. _Festina lente_; I am a reasonable man, and easily satisfied.
You will allow that this is not your case."
Poor Sir Harry could only shuffle uneasily in his chair, and bow his
acquiescence.
"Such being the state of affairs," proceeded Ropsley, and the hard grey
eye grew harder than ever, and seemed to screw itself like a gimlet into
the Baronet's working physiognomy; "such being the state of affairs, of
course any sacrifice I make is offered out of pure friendship, regard,
and esteem for yourself. Psha! it's nonsense talking like that! My
dear fellow, I like you; I always have liked you; the pleasantest hours
of my life have been spent in your house, and I'll see you out of this
scrape, if I ruin myself, stock, lock, and barrel, for it!"
Sir Harry flushed crimson with delight and surprise; yet the latter
feeling predominated more than was pleasant, as he recollected the
old-established principle of himself and his clique, "Nothing for
nothing, and very little for a halfpenny."
"Now, Sir Harry, I'll tell you what I will do. Five thousand will clear
us for the present. With five thousand we could pay off the necessary
debts, take up that bill of Sharon's, and get a fresh start. When they
saw we were not completely floored, we could always renew, and the turn
of the tide would in all probability set us afloat again. Now the
question is, _how_ to get at the five thousand? It will not come out of
Somersetshire, I _think_?"
Sir Harry shook his head, and laughed a hard, bitter laugh. "Not five
thousand pence," he said, "if it was to save me from hanging to-morrow!"
"And you really do not know which way to turn?"
"No more than a child," answered Sir Harry. "If you fail me, I must
give in. If you can help me, and _yourself too_, out of this scrape,
why, I shall say what I always did--that you are the cleverest of
fellows and the best of friends."
"I think it can be done," said the younger man, but he no longer looked
his friend in the face; and a faint blush, that faded almost on the
instant, passed over his features. He had one card left in his hand; he
had kept it to the last; he thought he ought to play it now. "I have
never told you, Sir Harry, that I have a few acres in Ireland, strictly
tied up in the hands of trustees, but with their consent I have power to
sell. It is all the property I have left in the world; it will raise
the sum we require, and--it shall follow the rest."
This was true enough. Gambler, libertine, man of pleasure as he was,
Ropsley had always kept an eye to the main chance. It was part of his
system to know all sorts of people, and to be concerned in a small way
with several speculative and money-making schemes. After the passing of
the Irish Encumbered Estates Bill, it so happened that a fortunate
investment at Newmarket had placed a few loose thousands to the credit
side of our Guardsman's account at Cox and Co.'s. He heard casually of
a capital investment for the same, within a day's journey of Dublin, as
he was dining with a party of stock-jobbing friends in the City. Six
hours afterwards Ropsley was in the train, and in less than six weeks
had become the proprietor of sundry remunerative Irish acres, the same
which he was now prepared unhesitatingly to sacrifice in the cause of
gratitude, which with this philosopher, more than most men, might be
fairly termed "a lively sense of benefits to come."
"Yes, it shall follow the rest," he repeated, stirring the fire
vigorously, and now looking studiously _away_ from the man he was
addressing,--"Sir Harry, you are a man of the world--you know me
thoroughly, we cannot humbug each other. Although I would do much for
your sake, you cannot think that a fellow sacrifices his last farthing
simply because he and his confederate have made a mistake in their
calculations. No, Sir Harry, your honour is dear to me as my own--nay,
dearer, for I now wish to express a hope that we may become more nearly
connected than we have ever been before, and that the ties of
relationship may give me a right, as those of friendship have already
made it a pleasure, to assist you to the best of my abilities."
Sir Harry opened his mouth and pushed his chair back from the fire.
Hampered, distressed, ruined as he was, it _did_ seem a strong measure
thus to sell Constance Beverley, so to speak, for "a mess of pottage";
and the bare idea of such a contract for the moment took away the
Baronet's breath. Not that the notion was by any means a strange one to
his mind; for the last two or three years, during which he had
associated so much with the Guardsman, and had so many opportunities of
appreciating his talents, shrewdness, and attractive qualities, the
latter had been gradually gaining a complete ascendancy over his mind
and character. Sir Harry was like a child in leading-strings in the
hands of his confederate; and it had often occurred to him that it would
be very pleasant, as as well as advantageous, always to have this
mainstay on which to rely--this "ready-reckoner," and man of
inexhaustible resources, to consult on every emergency. Vague ideas had
sometimes crossed the Baronet's brain, that it was just possible his
daughter might be brought to _like_ well enough to marry (for _loving_
was not a word in her father's vocabulary) an agreeable man, into whose
society she was constantly thrown; and then, as Constance was an
heiress, and the Baronet himself would be relieved from divers pecuniary
embarrassments on her marriage, by the terms of a certain settlement
with which we have nothing to do--why, it would be a delightful
arrangement for all parties, and Ropsley could come and live at
Beverley, and all be happy together.
Such were the ideas that vaguely floated across the Baronet's mind in
those moments of reflection of which he allowed himself so few; but he
was a father, and a kind one, with all his faults; and it had never yet
entered his head either to force his daughter's inclinations, or even to
encourage with his own influence any suitor who was not agreeable to the
young lady. He was fond of Constance, in his own way--fonder than of
anything in the world, save his own comfort, and a very stirring and
closely-contested race at Newmarket. So he looked, as indeed he felt,
somewhat taken aback by Ropsley's proposal, which his own instinct as a
gentleman told him was peculiarly ill-timed.
He laughed nervously, and thanked his friend for his kindness.
"With regard to--Miss Beverley," he stammered; "why--you know, my dear
Ropsley,--business is business, and pleasure is pleasure. I--I--had no
wish,--at least I had not made up my mind--or rather, I had no absolute
intention that my daughter should settle so early in life. You are
aware she is an heiress--a very great heiress" (Ropsley was indeed, or
they would not have been at this point of discussion now), "and she
might look to making a great match; in fact, Constance Beverley might
marry anybody. Still, I never would thwart her inclinations; and if you
think, my dear fellow, you can make yourself agreeable to her, why, I
should make no objections, as you know there is no man that I should
individually like better for a son-in-law than yourself."
Ropsley rose, shook his new papa cordially by the hand, rang for
luncheon, and rather to the Baronet's discomfiture, seemed to look upon
it at once as a settled thing.
"My business will not take long," said he, helping his guest to a large
glassful of sherry. "You do not go abroad for another week; I can make
all my arrangements, _our_ arrangements, I should say, by that time. Why
should we not travel together? My servant is the best courier in
Europe; you will have no trouble whatever, only leave it all to me."
Sir Harry hated trouble. Sir Harry liked the Continent. The scheme was
exactly suited to his tastes and habits; so it was settled they should
all start at once--a family party.
And where is the young lady all this time? the prime origin of so much
scheming, the motive power of all this mechanism? In the front
drawing-room of the gloomy hotel she sits over the fire, buried deep in
thought--to judge by her saddened countenance--not of the most cheering
description. Above the fire-place hangs a large engraving of Landseer's
famous Newfoundland dog, that "Member of the Humane Society" whom he has
immortalised with his pencil. The lady sighs as she gazes on the broad,
honest forehead, the truthful, intelligent face, the majestic attitude
denoting strength in repose. Either the light is very bad in this room,
or the glass over that engraving is dim and blurred, and the dog seems
crouching in a mist, or are Constance Beverley's dark eyes dimmed with
tears?