The Daltons; Or, Three Roads In Life. Volume I

“By the way,” said Mrs. Ricketts, hastily, “let him inquire into that affair of Lord Norwood.”

“No necessity, madam. The affair is in ‘Bell’s Life,’ with the significant question, ‘Where is he?’ But he can learn the particulars, at all events.” And he made a note in the book.

“How dreadful all this, and how sad to think Florence should be the resort of such people!”

“If it were not for rapparees and refugees, madam, house-rent would be very inexpensive,” said the Colonel, in a subdued voice; while, turning to the Pole, he added, “and if respectability is to be always a caricature, I’d as soon have its opposite. I suppose you do not admit the Viscount, madam?”

“He has not ventured to present himself,” said Mrs. Ricketts, proudly. “I hope that there is, at least, one sanctuary where virtue can live unmolested.” And, as she spoke, she looked over at Martha, who was working away patiently; but whether happy in the exclusive tariff aforesaid, or somewhat tired of “protection,” we are unable to say.

“What has he do?” asked the Count.

“He has done the ‘ring’ all round, I believe,” said Haggerstone, chuckling at a joke which he alone could appreciate.

“Dey do talk of play in England!” said the Pole, contemptuously. “Dey never do play high, wit there leetle how do you call ‘em? bets, of tree, four guinea, at ecarte. But in Polen we have two, tree, five tousand crowns on each card. Dere, crack! you lose a fortune, or I do win one! One evening at Garowidsky’s I do lose one estate of seventeen million florins, but I no care noting for all dat! I was ver rich, wit my palaces and de mayorat how you call dat?”

Before this question could be answered, the servant threw open the double door of the salon, and announced, “Milordo Norwood!” A shell might have burst in the apartment and not created much more confusion. Mrs. Ricketts gave a look at Martha, as though to assure herself that she was in safety. Poor Martha’s own fingers trembled as she bent over her frame. Haggerstone buttoned up his coat and arranged his cravat with the air of a man so consummate a tactician that he could actually roll himself in pitch and yet never catch the odor; while Purvis, whose dread of a duel list exceeded his fear of a mad dog, ensconced himself behind a stand of geraniums, where he resolved to live in a state of retirement until the terrible Viscount had withdrawn. As for the Count, a preparatory touch at his moustache, and a slight arrangement of his hair, sufficed him to meet anything; and as these were the ordinary details of his daily toilet, he performed them with a rapidity quite instinctive.

To present oneself in a room where one’s appearance is unacceptable is, perhaps, no slight test of tact, manner, and effrontery; to be actually indifferent to the feelings around is to be insensible to the danger; to see the peril, and yet appear not to notice it, constitutes the true line of action. Lord Norwood was perfect in this piece of performance, and there was neither exaggerated cordiality nor any semblance of constraint in his manner as he advanced to Mrs. Ricketts, and taking her hand, pressed it respectfully to his lips.

“This salutation,” said he, gayly, “is a commission from Lord Kennycroft, your old and constant admirer. It was his last word as we parted: ‘Kiss Mrs. Ricketts’s hand for me, and say I am faithful as ever.’”

“Poor dear Lord! General, here is Lord Norwood come to see us.”

“How good of him how very kind! Just arrived from the East, my Lord?” said he, shaking Foglass by the hand in mistake.

“No, sir; from Malta.” He wouldn’t say England, for reasons. “Miss Ricketts, I am most happy to see you and still occupied with the fine arts? Haggy, how d’ye do? Really it seems to me like yesterday since I sat here last in this delightful arm-chair, and looked about me on all these dear familiar objects. You ‘ve varnished the Correggio, I think?”

“The Vandyk, my Lord.”

“To be sure the Vandyk. How stupid I am! Indeed, Lady Foxington said that not all your culture would ever make anything of me.”

“How is Charlotte?” asked Mrs. Ricketts, this being the familiar for Lady F.

“Just as you saw her last. Thinner, perhaps, but looking admirably.”

“And the dear Duke how is he?”

“Gouty always gouty but able to be about.”

“I am so glad to hear it. It is so refreshing to talk of old friends.”

“They are always talking of you. I’m sure, ‘Zoe’ forgive me the liberty Zoe Ricketts is an authority on every subject of taste and literature.”

“How did you come here, my Lord?” whispered Haggerstone.

“The new opera broke down, and there is no house open before twelve,” was the hasty reply.

“Is Jemima married, my Lord?”

“No. There ‘s something or other wrong about the settlements. Who’s the foreigner, Haggy?”

“A Pole. Petrolaffsky.”

“No, no not a bit of it. I know him,” said the other, rapidly; then, turning to Mrs. Ricketts, he grew warmly interested in the private life and adventures of the nobility, for all of whom she entertained a most catholic affection.

It was, indeed, a grand field-day for the peerage; even to the “Pensioners” all were under arms. It was a review such as she rarely enjoyed, and certainly she “improved the occasion.” She scattered about her noble personages with the profusion of a child strewing wild-flowers. There were Dukes she had known from their cradles; Marchionesses with whom she had disported in childhood; Earls and Viscounts who had been her earliest playmates; not to speak of a more advanced stage in her history, when all these distinguished individuals were suppliants and suitors. To listen to her, you would swear that she had never played shuttlecock with anything under an Earl, nor trundled a hoop with aught below a Lord in Waiting! Norwood fooled her to the top of her bent. To use his own phrase, “he left her easy hazards, and everything on the balls.” It is needless to state that, in such pleasant converse, she had no memory for the noble Viscount’s own transgressions. He might have robbed the Exchequer, or stolen the Crown jewels, for anything that she could recollect! and when, by a seeming accident, he did allude to Newmarket, and lament his most “unlucky book,” she smiled complacently, as though to say that he could afford himself even the luxury of being ruined, and not care for it.

“Florence is pretty much as it used to be, I suppose,” said he; “and one really needs one’s friends to rebut and refute foolish rumors, when they get abroad. Now, you ‘ll oblige me by contradicting, if you ever hear, this absurd story. I neither did win forty thousand from the Duke of Stratton, nor shoot him in a duel for non-payment.” Both these derelictions were invented on the moment. “You ‘ll hear fifty other similar offences laid to my charge; and I trust to you and the Onslows for the refutation. In fact, it is the duty of one’s own class to defend ‘their order.’”

Mrs. Ricketts smiled blandly, and bowed, bowed as though her gauze turban had been a coronet, and the tinsel finery jewelled strawberry leaves! To be coupled with the Onslows in the defence of a viscount was a proud thought. What if it might be made a grand reality?

“Apropos of the Onslows, my Lord,” said she, insidiously, “you are very intimate with them. How is it that we have seen so little of each other? Are we not congenial spirits?”

“Good Heavens! I thought you were like sisters. There never were people so made for each other. All your tastes, habits, associations forgive me, if I say your very, antipathies are alike; for you both are unforgiving enemies of vulgarity. Depend upon it, there has been some underhand influence at work. Rely on ‘t, that evil tongues have kept you apart.” This he said in a whisper, and with a sidelong glance towards where Haggerstone sat at ecarte with the Pole.

“Do you really think so?” asked she, reddening with anger, as she followed the direction of his eyes.

“I can hit upon no other solution of the mystery,” said he, thoughtfully; “but know it I will, and must. You know, of course, that they can’t endure him?”

“No, I never heard that.”

“It is not mere dislike, it is actual detestation. I have striven to moderate the feeling. I have said, ‘True enough, the man is bad ton, but you needn’t admit him to anything like intimacy. Let him come and go with the herd you receive at your large parties, and, above all, never repeat anything after him, for he has always the vulgar version of every incident in high life.’”

Mrs. Ricketts raised her arched eyebrows and looked astonished; but it was a feeling in which acquiescence was beautifully blended, and the Viscount marked it well.

“You must tell me something of this Miss Dalton,” said he, drawing his chair closer; “they affect a kind of mystery about her. Who is she? What is she?”

“There are various versions of her story abroad,” said Mrs. Ricketts, who now spoke like the Chief Justice delivering a charge. “Some say that she is a natural daughter of Sir Stafford’s; some aver that she is the last of a distinguished family whose fortune was embezzled by the Onslows; others assert that she is a half-sister of Lady Hester’s own; but who ought to know the truth better than you, my Lord?”

“I know absolutely nothing. She joined them in Germany; but where, when, and how, I never heard.”

“I ‘ll soon be able to inform you, my Lord, on every detail of the matter,” said she, proudly. “Our kind friend, yonder, Mr. Foglass, has undertaken to discover everything. Mr. F., will you touch his arm forme, Martha?” and, the gentleman being aroused to consciousness, now arose, and approached Mrs. Ricketts’s chair, “may I be permitted to take a glance at your note-book?” This speech was accompanied by a pantomimic gesture which he quickly understood. “I wish to show you, my Lord,” said she, addressing the Viscount, “that we proceed most methodically in our searches after title, as I sometimes call it ha, ha, ha! Now, here is the precious little volume, and this will explain the degree of accuracy such an investigation demands. This comes of living abroad, my Lord,” added she, with a smile. “One never can be too cautious, never too guarded in one’s intimacies. The number of dubious people one meets with, the equivocal characters that somehow obtain a footing in society here, I really must ask you to decipher these ingenious hieroglyphics yourself.” And she handed the book to his Lordship.

He took it courteously at the spot she opened it; and as his eyes fell upon the page, a slight very slight flush rose to his cheek, while he continued to read the lines before him more than once over. “Very explicit, certainly!” said he, while a smile of strange meaning curled his lip; and then, closing the book, he returned it to the lady’s hand; not, however, before he had adroitly torn out the page he had been looking at, and which contained the following words: “Norwood’s affair the precise story of the N. M. business if cut in England, and scratched at the ‘Whip.’”

“I cannot sufficiently commend either your caution or your tact, Mrs. Ricketts,” said he, bowing urbanely. “Without a little scrutiny of this kind our salons would be overrun with blacklegs and bad characters!”

It was now late, late enough for Lady Hester, and the Viscount rose to take his leave. He was perfectly satisfied with the results of his visit. He had secretly enjoyed all the absurdities of his hostess, and even stored up some of her charming flights for repetition elsewhere. He had damaged Haggerstone, whose evil-speaking he dreaded, and, by impugning his good breeding, had despoiled him of all credit. He had seen the Polish Count in a society which, even such as it was, was many degrees above his pretensions; and although they met without recognition, a masonic glance of intelligence had passed between them; and, lastly, he had made an ally of the dear Zoe herself, ready to swear to his good character, and vouch for the spotless honor of all his dealings on turf or card-table.

“Has he explained the Newmarket affair, madam?” said Haggerstone, as the door closed on the Viscount’s departure.

“Perfectly, Colonel; there is not the shadow of a suspicion against him.”

“And so he was not scr-scr-scratched at the ‘Whip’?” cried Purvis, emerging from his leafy retreat.

“Nothing of the kind, Scroope.”

“A scratch, but not a wound, perhaps,” said Haggerstone, with a grin of malice.

“I am ver happy please ver moosh,” said the Count, “for de sake of de order. I am republiquecain, but never forget I ‘m de noble blood!”

“Beautiful sentiment!” exclaimed Mrs. Ricketts, enthusiastically. “Martha, did you hear what the Count said? General, I hope you didn’t lose it?”

“I was alway for de cause of de people,” said the Count, throwing back his hair wildly, and seeming as if ready to do battle at a moment’s warning.

“For an anti-monarchist, he turns up the king wonderfully often at ecarte” said Haggerstone, in a low muttering, only overheard by Martha.

“I don’t think the demo-demo-demo” But before Purvis had finished his polysyllabic word, the company had time to make their farewell speeches and depart. Indeed, as the servant came to extinguish the lamps, he found the patient Purvis very red in the face, and with other signs of excitement, deeply seated in a chair, and as if struggling against an access of suffocation.

What the profound sentiment which he desired to enunciate might therefore be, is lost to history, and this true narrative is unable to record.

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE VISCOUNT’S VISION

WHEN Lord Norwood arrived at the Mazzarini Palace, he was surprised not to find the usual half-dozen carriages of the habitues drawn up in the courtyard, and still more so to learn that her Ladyship did not receive that evening. He ascended to George Onslow’s apartment, and discovered that he had dined with Prince Midchekoff, and not yet returned. Not knowing how to spend the hours, so much earlier than those of his usually retiring to rest, he lighted a cigar, and threw himself on a sofa before the fire.

The reveries of men who live much in the world are seldom very agreeable. The work of self-examination comes with a double penalty when it is rarely exercised, and the heavy arrears of time are formidable scores to confront. Lord Norwood was no exception to this theory. Not that he was one to waste time or temper in self-reproaches. The bygone was essentially with him the “irrevocable.” It might, it is true, occasionally suggest a hint for the future, but it never originated a sorrow for the past. His philosophy was a very brief code, and comprised itself in this, “that he did n’t think well of himself, but thought worse of all others.” All that he had seen of life was duplicity, falsehood, selfishness, and treachery. In different stations these characteristics took different forms; and what was artfully cloaked in courtesy by the lord was displayed in all its naked deformity by the plebeian.

He might have conducted himself respectably enough had he been rich, at least he fervently believed so; but he was poor, and therefore driven to stratagems to maintain his position in society. Cheated by his guardians and neglected by his tutor, he was sent into the world half ruined, and wholly ignorant, to become at first a victim, and afterwards the victimizer. With no spirit of retributive vengeance, there was nothing of reprisal in his line of conduct, he simply thought that such was the natural and inevitable course of events, and that every man begins as dupe, and ends as knave. The highest flight of the human mind, in his esteem, was successful hypocrisy; and although without the plastic wit or the actual knowledge of life which are required well to sustain a part, he had contrived to impose upon a very large number of persons who looked up to his rank; for, strange enough, many who would not have been duped by a commoner, fell easy victims to the arts of “my Lord.”

The value of his title he understood perfectly. He knew everything it could, and everything it could not, do for him. He was aware that the aristocracy of England would stand by one of their order through many vicissitudes, and that he who is born to a coronet has a charmed life, in circumstances where one less noble must perish ingloriously. He knew, too, how, for very shame’s sake, they would screen one of themselves, and by a hundred devices seem to contradict before the world what they lament over behind its back; and, lastly, he knew well that he had always a title and a lineage to bestow, and that the peerage was the great prize among the daughters of men.

Now, latterly, he had been pushing prerogative somewhat too far. He had won large sums from young men not out of their teens; he had been associated in play transactions with names less than reputable; and, finally, having backed a stable to an immense amount at Newmarket, had levanted on the day of his losing. He had done the act deliberately and calmly. It was a coup which, if successful, replaced him in credit and affluence; if a failure, it only confirmed the wavering judgment of his set, and left him to shift for the future in a different sphere; for, while a disgraced viscount is very bad company for viscounts, he is often a very welcome guest amongst that amiably innocent class who think the privileges of the aristocracy include bad morals with blue ribbons.

The Turf could now no longer be a career with him. Ecarte and lansquenet were almost as much out of the question. Billiards, as Sir Walter said of literature, “might be a walking-stick, but never a crutch.” There was, then, nothing left for it but marriage. A rich heiress was his last coup; and as, in all likelihood, the thing could not be done twice, it required geat circumspection.

In England this were easy enough. The manufacturing districts were grown ambitious. Cotton lords were desirous of a more recognized nobility, and millowners could be found ready to buy a coronet at the cost of half their fortune. But from England late events had banished him, and with a most damaged reputation.

Now, carrying nobility to the Continent was like bringing coals to Newcastle, the whole length and breadth of the land being covered with counts, barons, dukes, and princes; and although English nobility stands on a different footing, there was no distinguishing the “real article” amid this mass of counterfeit.

Every Frenchman of small fortune was an emigre count. Every German, of none, was sure to be a baron. All Poles, unwashed, uncombed, and uncared for, were of the very cream of the aristocracy; and as for Italians! it was a nation of princes, with their uncles all cardinals. To be a viscount in such company was, perhaps, like Lord Castlereagh’s unstarred coat, plus distingue, but certainly more modest. The milor, if not associated with boundless wealth, six carriages, two couriers, three cooks, and a groom of the chambers, the whole of the “Russie,” or the “Black Eagle,” means nothing abroad. If not bound up with all the extravagance and all the eccentricities of riches, if not dazzling by display or amazing by oddity, it is a contradiction of terms; and to be an English noble without waste, profusion, and absurdity, is to deny your country or be a counterfeit of your class.

Lord Norwood knew and felt all these things. They had often occupied his speculations and engaged his thoughts; so that, if his mind reverted to them now, it was to regard them as facts for future theory to build upon as mathematicians make use of the proofs of geometry without going over the steps which lead to conviction. No; all his present reflections took a practical form, and might be summed up in the one resolve, “I must go no further. I have done everything that a man dare do, – perhaps a little more, and yet keep his footing in the world.” That tacit verdict of “not proven,” which had been passed upon so many of his actions, might at any moment be reversed now, and a review of his life’s career presented anything but a bright retrospect. Expulsion from a great school at thirteen; three years’ private dissipation and secret wickedness in a clergyman’s family; a dissolute regiment, from which he was given leave to sell out at Malta; two years with the Legion or Don Carlos, it mattered not which, in Spain; a year or so in London, with a weak attempt at reformation; a staff appointment in India obtained and sold; exposure partly hushed up; debts; Jews; renewals; the Fleet; the Bankruptcy Court; a few disreputable duels; an action for seduction; ending with the last affair at Newmarket, made up the grand outline, the details comprising various little episodes with which we must not trouble ourselves.

One incident, however, would come up prominently before his Lordship’s mind, and, however little given to let the past usurp the thoughts which should be given to the present, it still insisted upon sharing his attention. This was no less than a little love affair in Spain with a “ballerina” of the Opera, with whom, by the aid of a young priest then studying at Saragossa, he had contracted a mock marriage. The sudden movement of a corps of the army to which he was attached gave him an opportunity of an easy divorce from his bride, and it is likely he had not twice thought of her since the event had happened. Now, however, that an intention of marrying in reality occurred to him, the incident came freshly to his mind, and he jocularly wondered if his second marriage might prove more fortunate than his first.

The hour and the place were favorable to revery. It was past midnight. All was silent and noiseless in the great palace; the sharp ticking of the clock on the mantel-piece was the only sound to be heard, save, at a long distance off, the dull, subdued flow of the Arno. The room itself, unlighted, except by the flickering wood fire, was in deep shadow; and, lulled by these influences and his mild Manilla, Norwood was free to revel in so much of dreamland as natures like his ever explore.

Who can tell whether men of this stamp know what it is to “grieve,” whether chagrin for some momentary disappointment, anger at being thwarted, is not the nearest approach to sorrow that they ever feel? The whole course of their lives seems opposed to the notion of deep or intense feeling, and the restless activity of their ingenious minds appears to deny the possibility of regrets. As for Norwood, he would have laughed at the puerility of going over the bygone; therefore, if he did recur to a former incident of his life, it was involuntary and probably induced by the accidental similarity with those which now engaged his thoughts.

“If this Dalton girl be rich,” thought he, “I might do worse. There are no relatives to make impertinent inquiries, or ask awkward questions. Hester can, and must, if I desire, assist me. Living out of England, the girl herself will have heard nothing of my doings, and in name, appearance, and air she is presentable anywhere.” He thought, too, that, as a married man, his character would be in a measure rehabilitated. It would be like entering on a new road in life; and if this could be done with a certain degree of style and outlay, he had great trust in the world’s charity and forgiveness to pardon all the past. “A good house and a good cook,” thought he, “are the best witnesses to call to character I have ever met. Turtle and champagne have proved sovereign remedies for slander in all ages; and the man who can sport Lafitte in the evening, and split a pencil at twenty paces of a morning, may defy envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness.”

To find out about this girl’s fortune was then his first object. As for family, his own rank was enough for both. The matter must be done quickly. The London season over, England would be pouring its myriads of talking, gossiping travellers over the Continent, and then he should be discussed, probably avoided and shunned too.

Even already certain unmistakable signs of coolness announced themselves amongst the men of his acquaintance.

George Onslow avoided play when in his company. Treviliani, one of Lady Hester’s chief danglers, and the patron of the Turf in Tuscany, would n’t even allude to a horse before him. Prince Midchekoff went further, and actually, save on rare occasions, omitted him from his dinner list. Now, although Norwood averred that he detested petit jeu, hated spooney talk about racing, and dreaded the tiresome display of a “Tartar feast,” these were all threatening indications, and he saw their meaning. He would willingly have fastened upon some one man, fixed a quarrel on him, and shot him. He had more than once in life adopted this policy with success; but here it would have been inapplicable, and the public opinion he sought to bring on his own side would have been only more inevitably arrayed against him.