"Fie, for shame!" cries the old lady so exceedingly smartly dressed in the corner, whom one who did not see her face, or remark her figure, but who only looked at her gay clothing, would take to be twenty-three, though forty added to it would be within the mark--I mean the old lady with the nutmeg-grater face, so like the portrait of Hans Holbein's grand-aunt, which figures in many of his wood-cuts, but, especially in the accouchement of the Burgomaster's wife of Nuremburg. "Fie, for shame! What a very improper thing for a young lady, like Miss Rose Tracy, to make an appointment with her father's head-gardener. It is a breach of three of the Commandments!" (Let the reader sort them.) "It is indecent, dangerous, abominable, terrible, disgraceful, contrary to all the rules and regulations of society! What a shocking girl she must be!"
I will not defend her; I know that all the old ladies, in whatever garments, whether bifurcate or circumambient, will reasonably cry out upon Rose Tracy; but let us for a moment hear what it was that induced her to perform that which the philosophers and critics of Lambeth, and especially those nearest to the door of the famous peripatetic school of the Bricklayers'-arms, would call "a very young trick."
"Well, Arthur, what news do you bring us from the other side of the hills?" asked General Tracy, when his brother appeared at the dinner-table, on the second day after the departure of his last guest.
"Why, that the Abbey estate is certainly to be sold," replied Mr. Tracy. "I met Sir William at the court-house; and he informed me that it was his intention to dispose of the property in lots. He was particularly civil, and said, whatever arrangement might be necessary, either for my convenience or that of this part of the county, he would willingly make: so that the land required for the new road from H---- to Northferry, will not cost more than the mere worth of the ground at a valuation. I have seldom met with a more gentlemanly man, at least in manners."
"The heart may be a very different affair," said General Tracy.
"Of that we may discover something more in a few days," answered the other brother; "for I have asked him hereto settle the whole of this affair with me, as the Germans sayunter vier Augen; and he comes here on Friday next, to spend a few days."
Emily made no remark. She would have been very well satisfied to be without the company of Sir William Winslow; for from all she had at different times heard of him, she had not conceived a high opinion of him. But she cared little about the matter, Rose, however, was alarmed and agitated on Chandos's account; and she conjured up all sorts of fears--lest she should not have an opportunity of giving him notice of his brother's coming--lest he should not be able to avoid him--lest they should meet and quarrel, and a thousand otherlests, with which it is unnecessary to embarrass the page.
Turn we rather to the early hour at which she hastened down to her little marble basin, where her gold-fish were certainly not expecting her at that precise moment. Some one else was, however; and in that expectation he had taken care that no such interruptions should occur as on the preceding day. Dear Emily's graceful limbs were still in soft repose too, or at least not clad in any presentable garments; and, therefore the two had all the world of the little glade to themselves.
Rose, however, trembled more with agitation than fear. There were doubts in her mind, doubts as to her conduct, doubts as to her feelings; and those doubts were continually asking, "What stirred the bosom of the Rose so powerfully?" a very unpleasant question, which she was not inclined to answer.
Chandos saw the agitation, and thought it very beautiful; for it made her eye sparkle, and the colour of her cheek vary, and gave a quivering eagerness to the half-open lips. Admiration was the first feeling as he saw her come; but then some degree of anxiety to know the cause of her emotion succeeded, and he advanced a step or two to meet her.
"Oh, Mr. Winslow," said Rose, as she approached; "I fear you must think this very strange of me; but I made you a promise that if ever I saw any likelihood of your being discovered, I would give you immediate notice; and I must keep my promise before anything else."
"And does such a likelihood exist?" asked Chandos, in some alarm; "does any one suspect?"
"Oh no," replied Rose; "but your brother is down at Winslow Abbey, or in the neighbourhood; and my father has asked him here for a few days. He comes on Friday."
Chandos mused for a moment or two; and at length a faint and melancholy smile came upon his fine countenance. "I know not well what to do," he said at length, in a thoughtful tone, looking up in Rose's face as if for counsel.
"I thought it would embarrass you very much," she answered; "and I was most anxious to tell you yesterday; but some obstacle always presented itself, so that I was obliged to risk a step, which I am afraid will make you think me a strange, rash girl."
"A strange, rash girl!" said Chandos, gazing at her till her eyelids fell, and the colour came up in her cheek. "A kind, noble, generous one, rather; who will not let cold ceremonies stand in the way of a good action, or mere forms prevent the fulfilment of a promise." He took her hand and pressed his lips upon it; and then, looking into her eyes, he added abruptly--"O, Rose, I love you dearly--too dearly for my own peace, perhaps--and yet why should I fear? Rasher love than mine has been successful; and one gleam of hope, one word of encouragement will be enough to give me energy to sweep away all the difficulties, to overcome all the obstacles, which seem so formidable at a distance--nay, dear one, do not tremble and turn pale; surely you must have felt before now that I love you--you must have seen even on that first day of our meeting, which we both remember so well, that I could love you, should love you, if we were to meet again."
"I must go," said Hose in a low voice; "indeed, I must go."
"Not yet," said Chandos, detaining her gently. "Sit down upon this bench and hear me but for a moment; for my whole future fate is in your hands, and by your words now will be decided whether by efforts, stimulated and ennobled by love, I raise myself high in the world's esteem, and recover that position in society of which I have been unjustly deprived; or whether I linger on through a despairing life without expectation or exertion, and leave my wayward fate to follow its own course, without an attempt to mend it."
"Oh do not do so, Chandos," replied Rose Tracy, raising her eyes for the first time to his. "Make those great and generous efforts; put forth all the powers of a fine, high mind; control by strong determination the adverse circumstances that seem to have set so strongly against you; and depend upon it you will be enabled to stem the torrent which seems now so black and overwhelming."
She spoke eagerly, enthusiastically; and her words were full of hope to Chandos Winslow's ear--of hope; because he felt that such interest could not be without its share of love; ay, and the very figure which in her eagerness she used, recalled to his mind the swimming of the stream near Winslow Abbey, which in its consequences had brought him even where he then was.
"I will stem the torrent, Rose," he answered, "I will swim the stream; but I must have hope to welcome me to the other bank. I came hither with a dream of other things; but you have given me new objects, new inducements. Take them not from me, Rose; for the light you have given, once extinguished, and all would be darkness indeed."
"What would you have me say?" answered Rose, holding out her hand to him frankly. "Were I to make any promises, were I to enter into any engagements without my father's consent, you yourself would disapprove, if you did not blame, and would not value a boon improperly granted, or would always remember I had failed in one duty, and doubt whether I would perform others well. You must not, Chandos, no, you must not ask me to say or do anything that would lower me in your opinion:" and she added, in an under tone, "I value it too highly."
"Not for the world," cried Chandos eagerly; "for even to ask it would sink me in your esteem; but only tell me this, Rose, only give me this hope--say, if I return qualified in point of fortune and expectations, openly to ask your hand of your father, and gain his consent, may I then hope?"
The colour varied beautifully in her cheek, and this time she did not look up; but, with her eyes bent down on the pebbles at her feet, she said in a low, but distinct voice, "The objection shall not come from me--I must not say more, Chandos," she continued in a louder tone; "you must not ask me to say more. I know not on what your hopes and expectations of success are founded; but you shall have my best wishes and prayers."
"Thanks, thanks, dearest," answered Chandos, kissing her hand: "my hopes are not altogether baseless of advancement in any course I choose to follow. I have had an education which fits me for almost any course; and although I know that, in this hard world, the possession of wealth is the first great means of winning wealth, that poverty is the greatest bar to advancement in a country which professes that the road to high station is open to every one, still I have quite enough to sustain myself against the first buffets of the world. A relation, thank God, left me independent. My father's will adds property, which, when sold, will amount to eight or ten thousand pounds more; and with the dear hopes that you have given me, I will instantly choose some course, which upon due consideration may seem to lead most rapidly to the end in view. I have relations, too, powerful and willing, I believe, to serve me; and with their aid and my own efforts I do not fear."
"But what will you do at present?" said Rose anxiously. "If your brother comes, of course he will recognise you. I have heard he is very violent in temper, and I fear--"
"Nay, have no fears," answered Chandos; "We must not meet at present. But I stipulated with your father for a month's leave of absence at this season of the year; and, although I have lingered on here, if the truth must be told, to sun myself in the light of those dear eyes from day to day, yet I almost resolved to spend one month, at least, of every year, resuming my right character, in London. I will now claim your father's promise, as little remains to be done here. Long ere I return, my brother will be gone; and by that time too I shall have fixed upon my future course of life, so as to communicate to you all my schemes for the future. I will speak to Mr. Tracy this very morning: and to-morrow, if he does not object, will take my departure. But before then I shall see you again; is it not so, Rose?"
"I dare say it will be so," she answered, with a faint smile: "there has been seldom a day when we have not met. I begin to judge very badly of myself; but I can assure you, I had no notion of what you were thinking of till--till within these last few days, or I should have acted differently, perhaps."
"Ob, do not say so," replied her lover. "Why would you make me believe you less kind, less gentle than you have shown yourself? Why say that if you had known how great was the happiness you gave, you would have deprived me of the brightest consolation I could have, under many sorrows and disappointments."
"If it consoled you I shall be more contented with myself," said Rose. "But now I must go, Chandos; for indeed if any one were to catch me sitting here talking to you, I should die of shame."
"All that could then be done," answered her lover, "would be to tell, that Thomas Acton is Chandos Winslow, and to say how he and Rose Tracy met one bright day many months ago, and how she passed hours leaning upon his arm amongst gay bright folks, who little suspected that he would one day turn out a gardener."
Rose laughed, and gave him her hand, only to be covered with parting kisses; and, while she walked thoughtfully and with a much moved heart back to the house, Chandos paused for full a quarter-of-an-hour to gaze upon a bright and beautiful view, full of summer sunshine, and life and light, which had suddenly opened before him in the world of fancy. Oh what immense and uncountable wealth lies hid in the chambers of a castle in the air! In youth we are all chameleons, and our lands and tenements are as unsubstantial as our food.
When he had lived in cloudland for a while, Chandos went round the grounds, gave various orders, directions, and explanations; and then, following the path which Rose had pursued--he loved to put his feet on the same spots where hers had trod--he too went up to the house, and desired to speak with Mr. Tracy.
Amongst a crowd of persons who were waiting to get into the train, at the--station of--railway, was one exceedingly well dressed young man in deep mourning. He was tall, perhaps standing six feet in height, or a little more, exceedingly broad over the chest, with long and powerful arms, and a small waist. His features were fine, and the expression of his countenance though very grave, was engaging and noble. He had a first-class ticket, and got into a carriage in which were already three other passengers. One was a tall middle-aged man, with a dull-coloured handkerchief, high up, upon his chin; another, a young dandified looking person, not very gentlemanly in appearance; and the third, was a short personage, with an air of great importance, a tin case, and a large roll of papers and parchments, tied up with a piece of green ribbon. His face was round, his figure was round, his legs were round, and his hands were round. In short, he would have looked like a congeries of dumplings, if it had not been for the colour of his countenance, which equalled that of an autumnal sun seen through a London fog. Round and rosy countenances are not generally the most expressive; and there was but one feature in that of this worthy personage, which redeemed it from flat insipidity. That was the eye; black, small, twinkling, ever in motion, it was one of the shrewdest, cunningest little eyes that ever rolled in a human head. There was not a vestige of eyebrow above it--nothing but a scalded red line. There was very little eyelash around it, but yet it is wonderful how it twinkled, without any accessories: a fixed star, shining by its own light; and yet the simile is not a good one, for it was anything but fixed, glancing from person to person, and object to object as fast as it could go.
When the stranger entered the carriage, this round gentleman was holding forth to him in the dark handkerchief, upon some subject which seemed to be provocative of that very troublesome quality, calledeloquence; but, nevertheless, without for one moment interrupting his declamation, he had in an instant investigated every point of his new fellow-traveller's exterior, while he was getting in, and had doubtless made his own comments thereon, with proper sagacity.
"It matters not one straw, my dear Sir," said the round man, with infinite volubility, "whether it be the broad gauge or the narrow gauge, whether it be well-constructed or ill-constructed, whether well-worked or ill-worked, what are its facilities, whence it comes, whither it goes, or any other accidental circumstance whatever. It is a railroad, my dear Sir--a railroad,in esseorin posse; and a man of sense never considers a railroad, except under one point of view, videlicet, as a speculation. That is the only question for any man--How is it as a speculation? Is it up or down? Has it had itsup?--And here I must explain what I mean by having itsup. Every railroad that can be conceived, will, and does rise in the market, to a certain height, at some time. Let me explain: By a certain height, I mean a height above its real value. Well, it is sure to reach that height at some time. All things are relative, of course. For instance, and by way of illustration: Suppose some ingenious surveyor, with the assistance of an engineer in some repute--say, Brunel, Cubit, Vignoles--and a railway solicitor, were to start the project of a railway to the Canary Islands. A number of stupid fellows would at once say, 'That is impossible!' and scrip would be very low. But then the projectors would wisely put a number of influential names in the direction. The least scrap of writing in the world, will suffice to justify you in putting a man's name in the direction; and if you cannot get that, you take it for granted that he will support so excellent a scheme, and put him on without. Well,the rail to the Canary Islandsis before the public for some time--scrip very low--perhaps no quotations--but two or three knowing ones are well aware that it will haveits up, and they buy. It gets rumoured that Rothschild has bought, or Goldschmid has bought, or any other great name has bought; scrip begins to rise. The bill goes in to the Board of Trade--not the slightest chance of its being recommended--never mind! There's an immense deal of bustle, an immense deal of talk: one man says, it is folly; another, that it is a bubble--but then comes some one and says, 'Look at Rothschild, look at Goldschmid, look at the list of directors.' Scrip goes up! People begin to bet upon its passing the Board. Scrip goes up! The last minute before the decision arrives; and then, or at some period before or after, it may be said to have itsup. Then all wise men sell, and scrip goes down. If it is a very bad job, it goes down, down, down, till the whole thing bursts. If, however, it is feasible, with good and sturdy men concerned, it will go on varying, sometimes high, sometimes low, for months or years. But I would never advise any one to have to do with such a line as that. The very worst and most impracticable are always the best speculations."
"I do not understand that," said the man in the dull handkerchief. "I made ten thousand clear in one day by the Birmingham, which, after all, is the best line going."
"You might have made a hundred thousand if it had been the worst," answered the man of rounds. "You say you don't understand it. I will explain--I am always ready to explain. On uncertain lines, very uncertain indeed, there is always the most fluctuation. Now the business of a speculator is to take advantage of fluctuations. You will say it is not safe, perhaps; but that is a mistake. The speculation in the bad-line business can be reduced to a mathematical certainty, as I proved to the worthy gentleman with whom I have been a doing a little business this morning, Mr. Tracy, of Northferry. He preferred good lines, and thought them both safer and more right and proper, and all that sort of thing. So I only dealt with the safeness; for, after all, that is the question with a speculator; and I showed him that the very worst lines have their up at some time; it may not be very great, but the difference between it and the down is greater always than in good lines. 'Suppose, my dear Sir,' I said, 'that the fifty-pound share is at first at ninety per cent. discount; then is the time to buy. You never suppose that it will rise to par; but when the surveying is all done, the notices are served, the forms all complied with, and after a tremendous bustle--always make a tremendous bustle, it tells on the market--and, after a tremendous bustle, you have got your bill into the Board of Trade, the share is sure to go up till it sticks at seventy or seventy-five per cent, discount. Then sell as fast as possible, and you gain more than cent. per cent. upon your outlay.' There is no scheme so bad upon the face of the earth that it cannot be raised full ten per cent. with a little trouble. Let a man start a line to the moon, and if I do not bring it up ten per cent. from the first quotations, my name is not Scriptolemus Bond."
"You must have made a good thing of it, Mr. Bond, I suppose," said the man in the handkerchief.
"Pretty well, pretty well!" answered the other with a shrewd wink of the eye; "not quite up to Hudson yet; but I shall soon be a head of him, for he does nothing but dabble with paltry good lines. I have enough in this box to make three men's fortunes;" and he rapped the tin case by his side.
How the real Charlatan does vary its operations in different ages! This same man, a century ago, would have been selling pills and powders at a fair. His attention, however, was at this point called in another direction, by the tall, elegant stranger in mourning, who had lately come in, inquiring in a quiet tone, "Pray, Sir, does Mr. Arthur Tracy speculate much in railroads?"
"No man more," answered Mr. Scriptolemus Bond. "Are you acquainted with him, Sir?"
"I have seen and conversed with him several times," replied the other; "but we are no farther acquainted."
"Well, Sir, Mr. Tracy is a lucky man," said Mr. Bond; "he has several hundred thousands of pounds in some of the most promising speculations going. Too much in the good lines, indeed, to get as much out of it as possible; but he has this morning, at my suggestion, embarked in an excellent affair. 'The diagonal North of England and John-o'-Groats-House Railway.' The fifty-pound share is now at seventeen and sixpence, and I'll stake my reputation that in six weeks it will be up at five pounds; for a great number of capital people are only waiting to come in when they see it on the rise. Now the very fact of Mr. Tracy having taken five hundred shares will raise them ten or twelve shillings in the market; so that he might sell to-morrow, and be a gainer of fifty per cent. Oh, I never advise a bad speculation. I am always sure, quite sure. Would you like to embark a few hundred pounds in the same spec as your friend, Sir? I have no doubt I could get you shares at the same rate, or within a fraction, if you decide at once. To-morrow they will probably be up to twenty or five-and-twenty. How many shall I say, Sir?" and Mr. Scriptolemus took out his note-book.
"None, I thank you," answered Chandos Winslow; "I never speculate."
"Humph!" said the other; and turning to the dandified young man in the corner, he applied to him with better success. The youth's ears had been open all the time, and the oratory displayed had produced the greater effect, because it was not addressed immediately to him.
No further conversation took place between Chandos Winslow and Mr. Scriptolemus Bond. The latter found that he was not of the stuff of which gentlemen of his cloth make conveniences, and, what is more, discovered it at once. Indeed, it is wonderful what tact a practised guller of the multitude displays in selecting the materials for his work.
At the London terminus, the young gentleman got into a cabriolet, and took his way to a small quiet hotel in Cork-street, and remained thinking during the evening a great deal more of Mr. Scriptolemus Bond and his sayings and doings, than of anything else on earth, except Rose Tracy. It was not that the prospect of making rapidly large sums of money by the speculations of the day had any great effect upon him, although it must be owned that such hopes would have been very attractive in conjunction with that bright image of Rose Tracy, had it not been for certain prejudices of habit and education. But he had a higher flying ambition; he longed not only to win wealth for Rose Tracy's sake, but to win it with distinction, in the straightforward, open paths of personal exertion. He did not wish that his marriage with her should be brought about like the denouement of a third-rate French comedy, by a lucky hit upon the Bourse. It was the words which Mr. Bond had spoken regarding the large speculations of Mr. Tracy which surprised and somewhat alarmed him. He knew well that the railroad mania was the fever of the day, that it affected every rank and every profession, that neither sex and no age but infancy was free; but he was sorry to find that Rose's father was infected with the disease in so serious a form. What might be the consequences of a mistake in such a course, to her he loved best! How great was the probability of a mistake on the part of a man in Mr. Tracy's position! He was removed from all sources of immediate information; he had few means of ascertaining the feasibility of the schemes in which he engaged; he had no means of ascertaining the characters of those with whom he was associated. Young as he was, Chandos saw dangers great and probable in such a course; and not knowing the almost omnipotent power of a popular passion over the minds of men, he could not conceive how a person of Mr. Tracy's sense, blessed with affluence, in need of nothing, with but two daughters to succeed to wealth already great, could yield himself to such infatuation.
The next morning passed in visits to several of his old friends and some of his mother's relations. His story, as far as regarded his father's will, was already known, and he was received everywhere with kindness--apparent, if not real; for it is a mistake to suppose that the world is so impolitic as to show its selfishness in a way to ensure contempt. One or two were really kind, entered warmly into his feelings and his wishes, and consulted as to how his interests were best to be served, his objects most readily to be gained. A cousin of his mother's, an old lady with a large fortune at her disposal, wrote at once to her nephew, one of the ministers, who had a good number of daughters, begging him to espouse the cause of Chandos Winslow, and obtain for him some employment in which his abilities would have room to display themselves. An answer, however, was not to be expected immediately; and Chandos went back to his solitary hotel with gratitude for the kindness he had met with, but nevertheless with spirits not raised.
Several days passed dully. The hopes of youth travel by railroad, but fulfilment goes still by the waggon. He found petty impediments at every step: people out whom he wanted to see; hours wasted by waiting in ante-rooms; ministers occupied all day long; friends who forgot what they had promised to remember, and were very much ashamed to no effect. To a man who seeks anything of his fellow-men, there is always a terrible consumption of time. Sometimes it is accidental on the part of those who inflict it--sometimes, alas! though by no means always--it is in a degree intentional, for there is a pleasure in keeping application waiting. It prolongs our importance.
"My dear Sir, I am very sorry to have detained you," said a high officer one day, running into the waiting room and shaking his hand; "but I have had pressing business all the morning, and now I must ask you to call on me to-morrow about two, for I am forced to run away upon a matter that cannot be delayed."
What had he been doing for the last hour? What was he going to do? He had been reading the newspaper. He was going to trifle with a pretty woman.
A fortnight passed, and on the second Saturday of his stay in London, Chandos, who loved music, went with a friend, a young guardsman, to the opera. During the first act, for they were both enthusiasts in their way, neither Chandos nor Captain Parker saw or heard anything but what was going on upon the stage--I call him Captain Parker by a licence common to those who write such books as this; for in reality his name was not Parker, though in other respects the tale is true. At the end of the first act, as usually happens with young men, they began to look round the house from their station below in search of friendly or of pretty faces. "There is my aunt, Lady Mary," said Parker; "I must go up and speak with her for a minute. Will you come, Winslow? I will introduce you. My two young cousins are very handsome, people think."
"Not to-night," said Chandos; "I am out of spirits, Parker, and unfit for fair ladies' sweet companionship."
Parker accordingly went away alone, and spent some time in his aunt's box. Chandos looked up once, and saw bright eyes and a glass turned to where he sat in the pit. "Parker is telling my story," he thought; and an unpleasant feeling of being talked about made him turn away his eyes and look at some other people. A few minutes after, his friend rejoined him, and sat out the opera; then went to speak with some other party; and Chandos, who was in a mood to be bored by a ballet, and to detest even Cerito, walked slowly out. There were a good many people going forth, and a crush of carriages. Lady Mary Parker's carriage was shouted forth. (There may be another Lady Mary Parker; I believe there is.) The lady advanced with her two daughters: the servant was at the carriage-door: a chariot dashed violently up, and, as her carriage had not drawn close to the curb, on account of another that was before, cut in, jamming the footman, and almost running down the old lady. Chandos started forward, caught the intruding horses' heads, and forced them back, the coachman, as such cattle will sometimes do, cutting at him with his whip. Of the latter circumstance Chandos took but little notice, the police interfering to make the coachman keep back when the mischief was done, according to the practice of the London police; but he instantly approached Lady Mary, expressing a hope in very courteous terms, that she was neither hurt, nor much alarmed.
"Oh, no! Mr. Winslow," said the lady, leaning on her eldest daughter; "but I fear my poor servant is. He was jammed between the carriages."
Ere Chandos could say anything in return, some one pushed roughly against him, exclaiming, "Get out of the way, fellow!" and the next moment Lord Overton was before him.
"What do you mean, Sir?" cried Chandos, turning upon him fiercely, and for an instant forgetting the presence of women.
"I mean that you are an impertinent, blackguard," replied Lord Overton. "I hope, Lady Mary, my fellow did not frighten you. He is rather too quick."
"So quick, my lord, that he should be discharged very quickly," said Lady Mary Parker, taking Chandos's arm unoffered, and walking with him to the side of her carriage. The young ladies followed; a question was asked of the footman, who said he was a little hurt, but not much; and the door was shut.
Before the vehicle drove on, however, the ladies within had the satisfaction, if it was one, of seeing Chandos Winslow lead Lord Overton towards his carriage by the nose.
Let us write an essay upon noses. Each organ of the human body, but more especially an organ of sensation, has a sort of existence apart--a separate sphere of being from the great commonwealth of which it is a member, just as every individual has his own peculiar ties and relationships distinct from the body of society, though affecting it sympathetically and remotely. Each organ has its affections and its pleasures; its misfortunes and its pains; its peculiarities, generic and individual; its own appropriate history, and its unchangeable destiny and fate. As the eye is supposed (wrongly) to be the most expressive of organs, so is the nose of man the most impressible. Tender in its affections, enlarged in its sympathies, soft in its character, it is in this foul and corrupt world more frequently subject to unpleasant than to pleasant influences. During one season of the year alone does nature provide it with enjoyments; and during the long cold winter it is pinched and maltreated by meteoric vicissitudes. It is a summer-bird; a butterfly; a flower, blossoming on the waste of man's countenance, but inhaling (not exhaling) odours during the bright period when other flowers are in bloom. During the whole of the rest of the year its joys are factitious, and whether they proceed from Eau de Portugal, bouquet à la Reine, or Jean Marie Farina, it is but a sort of hot-house life the nose obtains, produced by stoves and pipes, till summer comes round again.
Like all the sensitive, the nose is perhaps the most unfortunate of human organs. Placed in an elevated situation, it is subject to all the rude buffets of the world; its tender organization is always subject to disgusts. Boreas assails it; Sol burns it; Bacchus inflames it. Put forward as a leader in the front of the battle, men follow it blindly on a course which it is very often unwilling to pursue, and then blame it for every mischance. Whatever hard blows are given, it comes in for more than its share; and, after weeping tears of blood, has to atone for the faults of other members over which it has no control. The fists are continually getting it into scrapes; its bad neighbour, the tongue, brings down indignation upon it undeserved; the eyes play it false on a thousand occasions; and the whole body corporate is continually poking it into situations most repugnant to its better feelings. The poor, unfortunate nose! verily, it is a sadly misused organ. It matters not whether it be hooked or straight, long or short, turned-up or depressed, a bottle, a bandbox, a sausage, or the ace of clubs; Roman, Grecian, English, French, German, or Calmuc, the nose is ever to be pitied for its fate below.
I can hardly forgive Chandos Winslow for fingering so rudely the nasal organ of Viscount Overton. It was of considerable extent, and very tangible qualities: an inviting nose, it must be said, which offered almost as many temptations to an insulted man as that of a certain gentleman in Strasburg to the trumpeter's wife. So much must be said in Chandos's favour; but yet it was cruel, harsh, almost cowardly. The poor nose could not defend itself; and yet he had the barbarity to pinch the helpless innocent between his iron finger and thumb for full three seconds and a half. Pain and amazement kept the owner of the nose from putting forth his own powers to avenge it for the same space; and indeed it would have been to little purpose had he attempted such a thing, for he was no more capable of defending his nose against Chandos Winslow, than the nose was of defending itself.
At length the grasp of his antagonist relaxed, and the peer exclaimed aloud, "Police! police! You scoundrel, I will give you in charge."
"That you can do if you please," answered Chandos, with a sneer; "but methinks your honour will somewhat suffer. There, Sir, is my card, if you wish to know who it is has punished your impertinence."
The police were very busy at a little distance; and the noble lord, left to his own resources, exclaimed, "Your card, fellow! Do you suppose I do not know you--a low vagabond dressed up as a gentleman!--Police! I say."
A crowd had gathered round, and two gentlemen in anticipation of the arrival of the police, were investigating the contents of the peer's pockets, when a tall, thin, gentlemanly man, one Sir Henry d'Estragon, a Lieutenant-Colonel in the service, well known about Wimbledon and Molesey, and who had even reminiscences of Primrose Hill when there was such a place unpolluted, pushed his way through, crying, "Why, Winslow, what is the matter? How do you do, my dear fellow? Here seems a row. What is going on?"
"Perhaps, d'Estragon, you can persuade this person, whose nose I have just had the pleasure of pulling," replied Chandos Winslow, "that I am not a low vagabond dressed up like a gentleman. He is not inclined to take my card, but calls for the police."
"Rather strange," said Sir Henry d'Estragon. "I thought it was Lord Overton: but I must be mistaken."
"No Sir, you are not," replied the peer; "but I have every reason to believe this person to be an impostor."
"Pooh!" said the officer, turning away with a scoff. "Come, Winslow; if he chooses policemen for his friends on such occasions, we had better get away. Here they come."
"Stay a moment, Sir," said Lord Overton; "if you will be answerable that this person is--"
"Mr. Chandos Winslow, my lord," replied Sir Henry, "second son of my old friend Sir Harry Winslow, whom I had the honour of accompanying in 'twenty-seven, when he shot Michael Burnsley. I have nothing more to say, except that there is the gentleman's card. Any friend of yours will find me with him till twelve to-morrow. But if you prefer the police, you must send them after us. Goodnight, my lord."
Lord Overton took the tendered card; and Sir Henry, putting his arm through that of Chandos, walked away up Charles-street, while the policemen came up and inquired what was the matter; but got no satisfactory answer.
The next morning Sir Henry d'Estragon sat at breakfast with Chandos Winslow in his hotel, making himself very comfortable with all the etcæteras of an English breakfast, when Lord George Lumley was announced; and, as Chandos knew no such person, the object of his visit was not difficult to divine. All formal courtesies were gone through in a very formal manner; and then, after a single instant's pause, and a look at a patent-leather boot, Lord George addressed himself to the business in hand.
"I have the honour, Mr. Winslow," he said, "of bearing you a message from my friend, Lord Overton. It would seem a very strange misconception took place last night, according to Lord Overton's account, from whom I required a full explanation of the whole circumstances, as I never undertake anything of this kind, without having made myself master of the facts."
Sir Henry d'Estragon showed some signs of an impatience, which was not decreased when Lord George went on to say: "Lord Overton mistook you, it would appear, for a person in an inferior station, very like you; I myself see no reason why mutual apologies should not set the whole matter to rights; but--"
"We have no apologies to make, my dear lord," replied Sir Henry; "your friend called Mr. Winslow an impertinent blackguard, in the presence of three ladies; adding, afterwards, some very insulting language. Under those circumstances, my friend pulled his nose--he always does; it is a habit he has--and there we rest satisfied: if Lord Overton is not satisfied, it is another thing."
"I will only add one word," said Chandos, "on my own part, and then leave you two gentlemen to settle the matter; as, when I have put myself in the hands of another, I have no farther right to interfere. What I have simply to say, is this: that the language and manner of Lord Overton towards me is not to be justified or excused by the plea that he mistook me for any one else, for it was ungentlemanly and unjustifiable towards any man, who gave him no offence, let that man's situation be what it would. And now, gentlemen, I will leave you." And he walked into the neighbouring room.
In about five minutes after, Sir Henry d'Estragon came in to him and said, "Lord George requires, on the part of his friend, that you should say you are sorry for having pulled his nose. I have already given a general refusal; but Lord George is peacefully as well as valiantly disposed; and, therefore, wishes the proposal to be submitted to you, with a hint at the same time, that he does not know whether his principal will be contented with the terms; but that he shall withdraw from the business, if Lord Overton is not. What say you? Do not let me bias you."
"I shall certainly not say that I am sorry," replied Chandos; "for if I did, I should tell a lie. I think it was the only fitting punishment for Lord Overton's conduct, though perhaps, less than he merited."
"Bravo!" said Sir Henry; and returning again into the sitting room, he remained for about ten minutes in consultation with Lord George Lumley, and then notified to Chandos, that all was arranged for a meeting on the day after the next.
At seven o'clock in the morning--it was just gray daylight--a post-chaise and a travelling-chariot were seen drawn up, near the mill, on Wimbledon Common. At the distance of about five hundred yards stood five persons, of whom Chandos Winslow and Viscount Overton were the principals. Chandos was cool and calm, though there was some little degree of hesitation in his own mind regarding his conduct. Lord Overton was considerably excited, and eyed his adversary with a steady look and a frowning brow. Lord George Lumley made one more effort to bring about a reconciliation; but the peer repelled even his own friend haughtily, saying aloud, so that no one could avoid hearing him: "I tell you, Lumley, the time is past. I would accept no apology now, if it were offered; and pray take care that there be no foolery: for it is my determination not to quit this spot, till one or the other of us cannot fire a shot."
Such a declaration was well calculated to remove any doubt from Chandos's mind. D'Estragon placed him very scientifically, spoke a word or two of caution and direction, and then retired with Lord George to give the signal. The distance was eight paces; the ground flat and unencumbered; both men very cool and steady; for Lord Overton had grown calm, as soon as he was in position; and the "one, two, three," were pronounced in a clear, loud voice. Both pistols were fired in an instant. Chandos Winslow's hat was knocked off his head, and fell a step or two behind; but he stood firm. On the contrary Lord Overton wavered on his feet, though no one saw where the ball had taken effect; and then dropped slowly down, with a motion as unlike a stage death as possible. The surgeon and the seconds all ran up; and Chandos Winslow, after pausing for a moment, followed more slowly. D'Estragon, however, met him, as he came near, saying: "Come along, come along! he has got sufficient." And, taking him by the arm, he hurried him towards the chaise, into which they both got.
"Cork-street," he said to Winslow's boy; and, putting his head out of the window, he called to the man with the other horses, "You had better get up there as near as you can to those gentlemen."
Chandos leaned back in his carriage with very painful sensations at his heart: he felt what it is for two men to meet full of life and energy, and but one to go away again. At that moment he would have given almost all he possessed on earth, that he had not fired.
"Is he dead?" he inquired at length.
"No, he was not when we came away," said d'Estragon, gravely, "but hurt quite badly enough for you to be off, my dear fellow, and me too. Just drop me at my house as we go by; and then get this fellow to take you another stage out of town. It will be better for us to go separately; for I have known awkward consequences from two men travelling together under such circumstances."
The arrangement he proposed was followed, as far at least as dropping him at his own house was concerned; but Chandos then returned to the hotel, and remained for nearly half-an-hour in sad thought. He had scarcely the heart to fly; but after a while, recalling the unpleasant image of long imprisonment before trial, he made up his mind to his course, and quitted London by one of the few stage coaches remaining. About ten days were spent in retirement at one of the small villages which are found scattered over the country within about twenty miles of London, and then he made his way back towards Winslow Abbey. He had heard no news of his antagonist's fate after he had left him with his friend and the surgeon on Wimbledon Common. In a country paper, indeed, he had seen, copied from a London paper, an account of the duel, in which the facts were of course misstated, without being altogether false. If newspapers would content themselves with telling the plain truth or the plain lie about anything, they would be beneficial or harmless; but it is the mixture of both which often renders them dangerous and detrimental, ay, sometimes even after nineteen years. From the journal which fell into his hands, all he gathered was that Lord Overton had been carried to his own house, supposed to be in a dying state, while the peer's conduct towards himself was grossly exaggerated by a democratic paper, for the purpose of crying down the aristocracy. He was grieved, anxious, remorseful; for he could not exculpate himself from all blame. He knew that Lord Overton had just cause to think that he was assuming a character which did not belong to him; and all the motives which had actuated before and during the duel seemed to vanish into thin air when he came calmly and without passion to examine his own conduct. In vain he asked himself if he could stand and be insulted without resentment in the presence of persons nearly strangers to him. In vain he thought that no law required him to remain passive and be shot at by a man who declared his determination of not quitting the ground till one fell. In vain he argued, that having put his honour into the hands of a friend, he was bound to abide by whatever determination that friend came to. He felt that he might have done better, and that by not doing so he had endangered, if not taken, the life of a fellow-creature.
It was with a heavy heart then that, after having quitted the railroad and the cross coach, and left his baggage to be sent to the little public-house at Northferry, he walked on in the garments of an inferior station, which he had resumed, towards the ancient seat of his family, wishing to see his half-brother, Lockwood, and obtain further information upon many points before he proceeded to Mr. Tracy's.
The sun had set before he reached the park; and walking slowly along under a row of broad chestnuts which bordered the paling on the east, he approached Lockwood's house, thoughtful, and perhaps more sad than when he had first visited it. But the house was all dark, and he rapped and tried the door in vain. Then thinking that perhaps the person he sought had gone up to the Abbey, he crossed the wide savannahs and groves of tall trees, and came upon the house towards the eastern angle. There were lights in several of the rooms, and a suspicion that his brother might be at the house crossed his mind. How to ascertain the fact without discovering himself, became the next question; but the night was very dark, the tall windows came down to within three feet of the ground of the terrace; the wind was high and noisy, so as to cover the sound of his footfalls, and in most of the rooms the curtains seemed not to have been drawn. He would look in, he thought, and see who were the tenants.
The rooms nearest to him he knew were those inhabited by the keeper, Garbett, and his wife; and passing on along the principal front, he paused at what had been called in his boyish days the little drawing-room. There were candles on the table, and two men within, one holding a light in his hand, the other mounted on a ladder, pasting printed numbers upon the old family pictures, previous to a sale. The next room, the great drawing-room, was dark; but the music-room beyond displayed to his eyes a tall, dry-looking person, in a frock coat and a yellow waistcoat, probably an auctioneer, striking the keys of an old piano which had stood there since his mother's days. Then came the boudoir, without lights, and a little ante-room, also in darkness. Beyond was the small study, the furniture of which had been bequeathed to himself, and in it was a faint light, which, when he looked through the windows, he perceived was afforded by the open door of the library adjoining. Going on a few steps, he paused and gazed, not doubting that if Lockwood was at the Abbey he would be there; but no such figure presented itself.
At the large table sat Mr. Faber, the late Sir Harry Winslow's secretary, and probably his son, with writing materials before him; and--opposite one of the large gothic bookcases, with a candle on a small table at his side--was Roberts, the steward. He was busily engaged with a set of strange-looking iron instruments on a ring, in what seemed to be picking the lock of one of the drawers, a range of which ran between the book-shelves above, and a row of cupboards below. The next instant, while Chandos was still gazing, the drawer was pulled out, and Roberts took forth a whole handful of papers. He threw one after the other down into a basket at his side with very little consideration, till suddenly he paused, looked earnestly at one of the few which remained in his hand, and then seemed moved by stronger emotions than Chandos had ever before observed in his calm and little perturbable countenance. The moment after he said something to Mr. Faber, and then Chandos heard him distinctly say, "Call him, call him."
The young secretary rose from the table, paused to look earnestly at the paper in the steward's hands, and then left the room. Roberts sat down and wrote, looking from time to time at the paper as if he were copying something inscribed upon it; and at the end of perhaps two minutes, Mr. Faber returned. As he entered the room his eyes turned towards the window where Chandos stood, and he suddenly lifted his hand and pointed. It was evident that he saw somebody looking in; but Chandos was sure that in the darkness, and at the distance at which he stood, his features could not be distinguished. He was agitated, and his thoughts troubled with all he had seen. He felt convinced that his brother was in the house, and had been sent for by Roberts. He feared an encounter with Sir William at that moment and in that garb. He feared himself and his own vehemence--it was a lesson he had lately learned; and hurrying away, he plunged into the woods, crossed the park again, and sought a village about two miles distant, where a little inn was to be found.
Entering with as composed an air as possible, Chandos Winslow asked for a room and some tea; and having been accommodated at once, for persons dressed like himself were frequent and honoured guest, he sat down to think.
What was the meaning, he asked himself, of the scene he had just beheld at the Abbey? It was evident that the drawers of the bookcases which had been left to him with all their contents of every kind, had been opened without his consent or knowledge. All that those two rooms contained, of every kind and description whatsoever, had been left to him by his father's will. The papers which he had seen taken out might be of infinite importance to him. Who could tell what might be done with them? Roberts he believed to be perfectly honest. Faber, though very weak, was kind and gentle; but his brother he felt he could not depend upon. His notions of right and wrong were anything but strict; and his ideas of his own privileges and rights distorted by that species of haughty selfishness, which makes despots of crowned monarchs and tyrants and unjust men in every walk of life, might induce him to read the legacy to his brother in a very different sense from the plain one, and lead him to take possession of the papers which had been found by his steward and his secretary.
Chandos thought long--sadly--seriously. There are despairing moments, when all earthly things seem nothing. When the objects of hope and desire appear valueless--when we feel tired out with the struggle against fate, and are inclined to give it up and let all things take their chance. Those are dangerous moments. Let every man beware of them. They are the first symptoms of the worst kind of mental malady--apathy; and without prompt and speedy remedies, the disease will get such a hold that it will be with difficulty cast off. Chandos felt it creeping upon him, as he had once felt it before. It seemed as if his destiny was to misfortune; as if nothing could go right with him; as if every effort, every hope failed. What was the use of prolonging the strife? What mattered it how the papers, the furniture, the books, the busts, the pictures, were disposed of? Why should he play out a losing game? Were it not better to spread out his cards upon the board, and let his adversary make the most of them?
But, happily, like a ray of light breaking through the storm clouds--like the first smile of summer after winter--like an angel sent to comfort, the image of Rose Tracy rose up before his memory. For her was the struggle. She was the spirit of hope to him; and the strife against fortune was renewed. Every possession--every chance became an object worth preserving, as Rose Tracy presented herself to thought, and for her he resolved to neglect no effort which he had power to make. The first thing he decided upon was to let Roberts, at least, know that he was aware of what had taken place; and, calling for pen and ink and paper, he wrote him a short formal note, to the following effect:--
Sir,
I am much surprised to find that the drawers of the bookcases left to me by my father's will, together with everything that the library and adjoining study contain, of every kind whatsoever, have been opened with pick-locks, without my consent. I write this merely to remind you that you are accountable to me, and only to me, for everything that you may have found in those drawers, and to insist that the papers of which you have taken possession, be given into the hands of no one but
Your obedient servant,
Chandos Winslow.