I had reached quite a new phase of my career. The boy who had set out
in life from the little house at Clapham with a distinctly suburban
appearance was now hardly recognisable. I was twenty-three years of
age. I knew that I had a certain romantic distinction of appearance,
for I had been constantly reminded of the fact by women of society who
made it their business to secure as good-looking cavaliers as
possible. Someone had once said in my hearing that I was like the
young Disraeli. Poor Lady Pebworth, in beginning what she conceived to
be the patronage of an obscure youth, had been caught in her own trap,
and had thrown modesty and virtue to the winds in an overmastering
infatuation; she would likewise have discarded prudence had I been in
the mind to allow her to do so. I am quite aware of the charge of
coxcombry which will be made against me for writing in such a way
about my conquests, but when a man sets forth to tell the history of
his life he must make up his mind to be impervious to two accusations
which are sure to be thrown at the head of the truthful memoirist,
namely, those of vanity and exaggeration. When we reflect that no
novelist or diarist has ever yet dared to paint a truly analytical
picture of a human career it is evident how amazingly difficult such a
performance must be, and there are few who would be willing to risk
the fury of mankind by giving an accurate description of their lives
and actions.
Jean Jacques Rousseau certainly made a pretence of doing so, but we
read his incomplete memorials with a solemn wink and our tongue in our
cheek. His dissipations and weaknesses, which he parades with such an
ostentation of candour, he knows are not such as to bring down any
great obloquy. Perhaps there is philosophy at the foundation of such
an attitude on the part of society at large. An absolute ingenuousness
on the subject of our failings might breed too broad a tolerance to
suit the present views of humanity. I myself have no intention of
admitting the public into the inner sanctuary where dwell my most
esoteric emotions. The philosopher wisely avoids the company of those
who, indifferent to the opportunities of learning, are ready to
practise the habits of street urchins at a sight foreign to the daily
life of the streets. Jean Jacques’ drama was always legitimate.
Lady Pebworth undoubtedly was the victim of a great passion.
Fortunately, she was possessed of a lord and master who was of an
unsuspicious nature, otherwise I am afraid that in spite of all my
discretion she would have landed me in the Divorce Court. The Peeress
and the stockbroker’s clerk would have made a meal for many a prurient
appetite.
My income was three hundred pounds a year, more or less, and with the
instincts of my race I had begun to speculate in a safe, quiet sort of
way.
I made no boast of the nearness of my relation to the Gascoyne family
in such society as I obtained entrance to. I was anxious for the
matter to remain unknown.
I woke one morning to read in the social intelligence that Lady
Gascoyne had been safely delivered of a son. The news was not the
shock it might have been, as I had known for some time that she was in
an interesting condition. The child would have to be removed as well
as his father.
It was a task that might well tax the ingenuity of any man. I thought
the matter over carefully, day after day. I knew their house, which
overlooked the Green Park, and sat for hours gazing at the windows as
if they might be expected to furnish inspiration.
Lord Gascoyne was now twenty-six years of age. Without being in any
way a prig—in fact, he was a man of some gallantry—he had a great
sense of his responsibilities, and was leaving the Guards in order to
manage his huge estates the better. He and his wife were little heard
of. Despite the fact of her American birth, she was the genuine great
lady as opposed to the pinchbeck imposition. Her happiness was not
measured by the amount of social noise she could make. Everything
about her and her husband was correct, and with the exception of the
extreme good looks of both probably somewhat dull.
They belonged to the inner sanctuary of English aristocracy, and I
could not at the moment see how I was to scale the fortress of their
exclusiveness. I knew that they had been perfectly ready to entertain
and make much of the young Gascoynes. Harry Gascoyne had told me as
much, but this was a very different thing from welcoming the son of
the Hebrew commercial traveller. They might not be so easy to
conciliate as Miss Gascoyne.
Lord and Lady Gascoyne’s entertainments were not made a feature of in
the newspapers. It was a privilege to attend them, and the entrée to
Lady Gascoyne’s drawing-room was a passport to any society.
Lady Pebworth, I knew, visited them, and had been a guest at
Hammerton, but I did not think it very probable she would be able to
introduce me, and I was not quite sure that I cared about owing my
introduction to her.