A SKETCH FROM BABYLON.
Madame Mélanie was a milliner much affected in aristocratic and financial circles.
Finance sympathises with Hungary, Poland, and oppressed nationalities, and Mélanie appertained to this section of mortality. Moreover, she made dresses beautifully, and the employment of her gratified the double sentiments of charity and vanity.
Mélanie was the daughter of a French maid-servant, in the service of a Hungarian lady. Brought up in her maternal profession—for her sire was not known—she lived under the roof of her Hungarian mistress till what she was pleased to call the “Hongarian Strockle.” Of this event she narrated striking scenes. Assuming to herself the name of her mistress, whom she had betrayed, she told how Haynau had threatened her with chastisement, and how, barefooted, she had reached a place of safety. More than once she had been invited to publish her adventures, but she was far too wise. Her ancient nobility obtained for her much greater consideration as a seamstress, and a better livelihood than Kossuth himself could procure; and in the humility of her station she was more free from detection than in a more elevated sphere.
She had begun poorly enough—working away gradually, and accumulating capital by labour and saving, by gifts from her patronesses, and also by occasionally abstracting small pieces of jewellery and money from the aristocratic dressing-rooms to which, in her capacity as a distressed noblewoman, she obtained freer access than others of her equals. True, she soon gave up the latter pursuit. Not only was it dangerous, but increasing business, by removing her from want, enabled her to resist temptation. Still she derived considerable emolument from what Italian servants term “incerti.” She did not object, for a consideration, to usurp the office of the Postmaster-General, nor did she refuse the shelter of her roof when business or charity required an interview between opulent monades of opposite sexes. On the whole, Madame Mélanie is a deserving creature. The sums she spends in alms astound the more credulous of her customers. She has sent more than one packet of linen to the lying-in hospital of the parish, and the initial “M., through a friend,” for Garibaldi’s muskets, has been traced to the same benefic source. She will not marry again, for she never can forget the Count of her early days, when they lived and loved in Hungary; but a French courier, about three years younger than herself, dwells in her house under the designation of adopted son, keeps her accounts, and transacts business with her solicitor.
Such was the person let loose in her respectable household by that careful mother, Lady Coxe. ’Ungary has done much for many disreputable foreigners. The respectability of a few has floated the depravity of the many.
On the credit of a lying assumption, Madame Mélanie had access to the homes and toilet-tables of England which would be denied to any respectable Englishwoman of the same class, however deserving.
“Good morning, Mélanie,” said Lady Coxe, as she lay back in herchaise longue.
“Good morning, miladi—always socharmanteandgracieuse.”
“Git along, Mélanie,” replied miladi, playfully: when away from her daughters she laid aside that staidness of demeanour maintained before them towards her inferiors.
“Mélanie, we are going to Lady Ilminster’sdejooner.”
“Miladi go everywhere fashionable.”
“Oh yes, Mélanie, and I don’t know ’ow ever I shall be able to bear up against it. I feel so exhausted.”
“Oh, miladi does not care herself.”
“What can I do, Mélanie?—I feel so weak!”
“Miladi look very pale.”
“I think I must send for Dr Leadbitter.”
“If miladi would take a little drop of port-wine once or twice in the day.”
“You really think so, Mélanie?”
“Yes truly, miladi.”
“Just like a good creature open that cupboard. I always keep a bottle there in case Sir Jehoshaphat should drop in; you will find a glass. Per’aps there are two. Bring them, Mélanie, and take a glass yourself.”
The seamstress did as she was bid, and, placing the decanter and glasses respectfully on the table and in the manner of a skilled practician, she sat herself down in the same deferential attitude near her employer.
Lady Coxe took a bumper; then she took another, and declared herself better.
Madame Mélanie’s first glass was not half emptied.
“Well, Mélanie, what would you advise about my dress for this party? You know it is to be very shwosi.”
“Miladi shall be the best dressed and the youngest-looking miladi in the house.”
“Git along, Mélanie,” retorted miladi, stealthily filling herself another bumper.
A flush pervaded the cheek of the matron. Perhaps it was of pride.
“Miladi, I recommend moire antique—magenta, with quilled ribbons—chapeau of blonde with magenta trimmings—parasol to match.”
“Your taste is so good, Mélanie.”
“Magenta so well become miladi. Bootiful complexion—she young as Miss Constance.”
“Oh, you flattering thing! but what will you give my daughters—the Miss Coxes.”
“Oh, I talk to them myself. They not be Miss Coxe long, I think. Miss Florence make a very nice bride, and Miss Constance bootiful Comtesse.”
“Git along; but what do you mean? Fill your glass.” Lady Coxe as a fugleman showed the way.
“They tell me such a ’andsome man want to marry her—noble and rich.”
“English or furrin, Mélanie?”
“Not English.”
“You know ’im to be rich?”
“Oh yes, I know him rich. Miladi know poor woman like me obliged to make affair with all sort of people. One of my customers, Mademoiselle Dulaugier of Opera Comique. I send all her bill to Comte Rabelais, and he pay, what you call, on the nail.”
“Very satisfactory,” responded Lady Coxe. “Let me ’ope Constance may be the means of leading ’im to better things.”
“Indeed, let us hope so,” said Mélanie, and this time she held her glass to her lips for some seconds, though the liquid within was not much diminished.
“Nothing is settled, believe me, Mélanie. But then the world is talking of it.”
“Of nothing else. Who occupy London so much as your family, miladi? The Duchesse of Wiltshire, when I go to her, say to me, ‘Mélanie, tell me all about that bootiful Miladi Coques and her bootiful family. None so bootiful as the mother.’”
At this moment the door admitted Florence and Constance.
Mélanie rose in admiration.
“What bootiful colour! What roses in cheeks.”
The girls acknowledged her salute, and the rose left the cheek of Constance.
Mélanie whispered Lady Coxe, “I will make for Mademoiselle Constance bootiful dress like used to wear La Dulaugier—the Comte’s own choice.”
“Mélanie is come to take orders for Lady Ilminster’s dejooner.”
“I shall have a very simple dress,” said Florence.
“And so shall I,” chimed in Constance, in a voice low and tremulous.
“Impossible!” broke in the seamstress—“impossible!”
“Nonsense!” said Lady Coxe.
“You will ruin Constance, Mélanie,” retorted Florence.
“Mademoiselle Constance will marry a rich man, and think nothing of the trifles she spends now,” responded Mélanie, somewhat tartly.
“You know what to make,” said Lady Coxe, in a voice that admitted of no reply.
With an obsequious courtesy Mélanie left the room, and Constance, retiring to her own chamber, threw herself on her bed and wept bitterly.
It was dusk when Mélanie left the house—that dangerous summer dusk, when that is seen which you wish concealed, but when you can with difficulty perceive what you wish to discover.
Mélanie wended her way towards Grosvenor Street, where she resided. As she reached the corner of the Square, however, she stopped at the corner of Charles Street, under a gas-lamp.
She did not wait many minutes when a Clarence stopped at the crossing.
A man jumped out. It was Count Rabelais.
Holding open the door of the carriage, he admitted the dressmaker, who took her seat next a woman already inside. Jumping in again with a bow, the Count gave an order to the coachman, who dashed off under the gas-lamp.
Augustus Bromley, who was passing at the moment, saw the whole transaction, as well as the face of the third occupant. It was that of Madame Carron. For the first time an idea entered his mind, how much like the face of the Count was to that of the actress.
Hurrying homeward to write a line of excuse to a friend with whom he was engaged to dine, he seated himself not many minutes later in a stall of the St James’s Theatre.
The first play, a short one, was over, and in the next Madame Carron was to appear. Her part that night involved one or two songs, and a piano was wheeled into the orchestra.
Bromley, who was sitting at one end, could see Madame Carron in the wings with Angelo Magens, a pianist and composer of some celebrity. They were together engaged earnestly over a sheet of music paper, beating time and giving or demanding explanation.
At length Bromley perceived that the play was about to begin, from Madame Carron plucking at her skirts, and from Mr Magens’s appearance in the orchestra. The musician turned round, and, at a signal from Bromley, came to the neighbourhood of his stall, and leaned over to speak to him.
“How d’ye do, Angelo?” asked Bromley. “Ages since I’ve seen you. How are Mrs Angelo and Adelaide?”
“Quite well, thank you, Mr Bromley. How well you’re looking!”
“Rather hard at work, that’s all.”
“I can understand that, in your important avocations.”
“By the way, Angelo, do you know the Carron well?”
“Well, Mr Bromley, she’s been very kind to a poor man like me.”
“Do you think we’ve time to go round and have a glass of sherry?”
“Not now; at the end of the next act;” and the bell rang for the curtain to rise. As it rose, Bromley perceived behind Madame Carron the figure of Rabelais.
The act was soon over, and Magens came for his glass of sherry. Bromley led him to the public-house adjoining, and the liquor was poured out.
As they both sipped it, Bromley again began, “How well she did that last scene!”
“Admirably; she is a wonderful woman!”
“Indeed she is, Magens. By the way, where is Monsieur Carron?”
“Oh! he is dead, I believe.”
“Then is that story true about her?”
“If you have heard anything against her reputation, I can undertake to declare it false.”
Little Magens, when under the united influence of sentiment and sherry, could be very fiery.
He was a grateful homuncule.
“Ofcoursenot,” rejoined his interrogator. “I mean that other story.”
“Are you trying to pump me, Mr Bromley?”
“It would take a cleverer man than me to do that, Angelo—another glass—there’s lots of time. We’ve only been five minutes, and theentr’acteat a French play is never less than a quarter of an hour. (Glasses filled.) You were saying—”
“Well, the only story I have ever heard is about her family. They say, with I do not know what foundation, that she is of a good family, and is devoting all her profits to the support of it. She certainly does not live in the style of a person earning the immense salaries she receives.”
“Rabelais, I suppose, knows all about it.”
Magens shook his head, swallowed the remainder of his glass, and silently led the way back to the theatre.
“By the way, do you know anything of Madame Mélanie, the seamstress? She is much employed by actresses, I believe? A young lady was asking me, whether she made Mademoiselle Dulaugier’s ballet-dresses.”
“I know her very little myself. Mrs Magens knows her.”
“Well, Magens, good evening. Can you come and dine with me to-morrow at the Garrick?”
“To-morrow, I am engaged here all the evening, and I suppose your hours are fashionable.”
“Well, another day.”
When he resumed his stall, Bromley perceived that a box near the stage was newly filled.
He looked up, and there was Lady Coxe and her three daughters.
Near Constance sat the Count. Her eye caught his, and she blushed deeply.
Bromley went revolving in his mind many things. At length he made up his mind, and sauntered into the box.
The Count greeted him with unusual civility. Lady Coxe invited him to a chair next her.
“Mr Bromley,” she whispered, “do me a favour. The Congte is most anxious to go to Lady Ilminster’s. Can you, do you think—can you manage this?”
“Impossible, my dear Lady Coxe. I have already exceeded my powers.”
A wink, supposed to be imperceptible, announced to the Count the result of the negotiation. A dead silence ensued. When Bromley left the box, no effort was made to detain him.
It was early the following afternoon when Bromley took a light dinner at his club. The waiters, as they brought him portions of soup and fish, speculated on the causes which induced Mr Bromley to dine at four o’clock. In the hall he had left a carpet-bag containing six bottles of sherry and two of whisky, one of Curaçoa, and one of pale brandy.
He was not long at his dinner. Having finished, he sent for a cab, and, placing in it his carpet-bag, desired the driver to take him to the Strand to a celebrated fish-shop. Here he bought two lobsters, two bundles of dried sprats, a pork-pie, a Bologna sausage, two loaves of brown bread, and a pound of butter. The civil shopman, at Bromley’s request, sent out for some fine Spanish onions, which were added to the packet. With these provisions Bromley ordered himself to Kennington.
The driver at length drew up as directed at a nursery garden. Here Bromley alighted, paid his fare, and, shouldering his baggage, walked up the garden path.
“Is Mrs Magens at home?” he asked a maid-servant.
“Yes, sir, she’s up-stairs.”
“Will you tell her I’m here? How are you, my dear?”
“Very well, thank you, sir. It’s some time since we saw you.”
“Yes, my dear, and I think you’ve grown. Will you take some of these parcels, while I take the others, and put them in the drawing-room?”
“It looks as if it held good things, sir.”
“You’re a knowing young creature, my dear. Just go and tell your mistress I am here.”
Bromley knew it would be a long time before mistress would make her appearance. As he sat in the little sitting-room, 12 feet by 8, he heard cries for warm water. “Jane, where’s the soap?—My brush, Jane, quick!—Where are them pins?” which told how the lady was occupied.
Half an hour at least must elapse before the appearance of Mrs Magens, and this period Bromley divided between reading the ‘Era,’ which lay on the table, and drumming thereon.
Mr Angelo Magens was the natural son of a rackety Irish peer; at least so report said, and there was circumstantial evidence in support of the theory. Angelo had brothers, but they were not a bit like himself. Lord Rattlecormick had never taken any notice of them as he had of Angelo. The cast of Angelo’s face was decidedly Rattlecormick, and so was his character—quiet in manner, but reckless and thoughtless, a mixture of good nature, common sense, loose principle, and imprudence. From his childhood Angelo had lived exclusively with Lord Rattlecormick, with the exception of a short interval, during which his patron had managed to thrust him into the Navy. The life did not suit young Angelo, accustomed as he was to the rough luxury of Castle Rattlecormick, the good-natured and reckless liberality of the peer, who actedin loco parentis, and boon companions, who enlivened that patrician hearth.
So young Magens one morning left H.M.S. Bruiser in Cork Roads without leave, and betook himself without invitation to the House of Rattlecormick, to pass his time in warbling songs to the crowd of guests, to perform odd jobs on the premises, and to unfit himself for doing his duty in that state of life to which it might please Providence to call him.
Thus days and years passed, till Angelo was about twenty. He had picked up a certain knowledge of music. The village priest, skilled in thorough bass, had taught him the mysteries of counterpoint. Nature had blessed him with an agreeable tenor voice, and a rather agreeable manner, and a very decided taste for alcohol. Just at this particular juncture, Lord Rattlecormick died. As might have been expected, no will was found. Angelo was thrown on his own resources—viz., one hundred pounds, the remnant of divers tips from his patron, a suit of clothes or two, and such expectations as might be warranted by the extensive acquaintance and clientela of his late father or patron.
He set up as a music-master. He composed pretty little songs, popular from their melodies. He even aspired to an opera, and was not wholly unsuccessful. Once he hired a theatre for himself, and was wholly unsuccessful. At one time he was poor, at another time he was not rich; but one day he would have nothing, the next a considerable sum of money. He was like those figures one sees in a bottle, which go dancing up and down according to the pressure on the cover. The accidents of his fortune were abrupt and immoderate. Now at the bottom of the bottle with a sudden fall—now at the top with as unexpected a rebound—seldom in the centre, but when there wriggling and twisting and curveting,—discontented for mediocrity, and burning to risk great success or great disaster on the turn of the nearest die. But with increasing years the taste of Angelo for alcohol increased, specially with reference to sherry. He had a mania for that particular beverage, and he passed but few hours of the day without appealing to that cherished friend. He was well known at the public-houses of the metropolis,—at some of them, I fear, too well known to insure the gratification of his tastes. He was always convivial, however; always hospitable, always willing to accept hospitality. When in funds he would volunteer a glass of sherry at his own expense; when not in the best plight, he would volunteer it at yours. In early days Augustus’s friends often declared that Angelo had led him into expenses and extravagance. It may be so; but in justice to his memory, Augustus often declared his belief that not a sixpence more was spent for Angelo than Angelo ever spent for him.
His wife was a very different kind of person. The daughter of a chemist at Worcester, and possessed of a good voice, the musical festivals, and the love of Church dignitaries for thears musica, had indicated music as her profession. As a little girl, her talents in this respect had made her a favourite in the cathedral town, and she could with veracity boast acquaintance with bishops, deans, and canons, whose names sounded oddly enough when coming from her lips. Nevertheless these worthy and guileless men had contributed to her education, proudly looking forward to the time when her rich contralto should resound through their own cathedral, and they should share in the plaudits showered on their pupil andprotégée. So they sent her to study in London,—and she did study in London. She came out in London; sang in an oratorio, and created a sensation. But Kate Robins was a peculiar person. She was the daughter of a chemist, and in her physical composition there was much oxygen of a certain quality—not enough, however, to feed the vestal flame. Moreover, she was very pretty, with an arch smile. She sang little songs with ineffable grace. So no wonder she studied the doctrine of affinities. A cathedral town presented but few attractions. Deans were atoms of a nature not sufficiently volatile. She found the obstacles in the way of Platonism so numerous as to be absolutely insurmountable. So she assumed the toga affected by her equivalents in Babylon. She drove in little carriages, and radiated in fine linen. She accepted engagements at theatres, took parts where a good leg, an arch smile, and a rich voice were everything requisite; earned a good livelihood from her art, and a considerable amount of pocket-money from her artlessness.
Hers was a pleasant Bohemian life till she was five-and-thirty. The bishops and the deans, the friends of her youth, were replaced—in another fashion, be it understood—by the young nobles, the friends of her womanhood. As the spiritual peerage had contributed to the formation, so did the temporal assist in the completion of her education. This went on very well for some time. But at length the contralto rather deteriorated; the arch smile partook rather of the stereotype. Managers were no longer so eager. Dukes began to cease their visits to her greenroom. Scarlet and fine linen are expensive in the absence of means to purchase them. Kate Robins found her assets running low; while several tradesmen, heretofore satisfied by the dukes, were not so civil as formerly. So, taking a judicious resolution, she determined on a provincial tour, relying for rural successes on her fading reputation. She planned with a friendly author an attractive entertainment. She engaged Magens, who had then just culminated, as her accompanyist, and she sallied forth with Angelo from Babylon to fresh fields and pastures new. For economy’s sake they occupied the same apartments, till, for propriety’s sake, they assumed the same name. They went the round of England and Ireland earning a livelihood and realising a good round sum, not sufficient, however, to meet their joint liabilities. Therefore, as assets would go farther when legally united than when filtered by division, as union in fact is force, Angelo obtained from the Church a benediction on the marriage already practically solemnised, turned his wife’s brevet rank into substantive rank; and having thus consolidated their names and their liabilities, went through the Insolvent Court like a man, and, in purging himself, whitewashed his wife’s account-book simultaneously with her reputation. From that moment Mrs Magens collapsed into private life. A long and severe illness deprived her of all that remained of looks, voice, and attraction. She became a good wife, a prudent housekeeper, endeavoured to remedy by self-denial the dilapidations inflicted by sherry on their small means, incited her husband to exertion, made his house as pleasant as possible, and retained nothing of her former life but an unattractive girl she designated her niece, and a dramatic phraseology.
In his early youth, Bromley had nursed thoughts of studying music, and hence his first acquaintance with Magens. Through his agency the young man had made the acquaintance of gentlemen and ladies acquainted with the theatrical profession, not all of them of the highest caste. One whole winter he had spent in their exclusive society. He had learnt their ways, their tastes, their virtues, and their weaknesses. Lobsters were amongst the tastes of Mrs Magens. She cultivated them with a sauce which was a virtue; while her devotion to sprats, or to boiled onions, may be classed among the more venial weaknesses of that estimable matron.
At length the door creaked up-stairs, and a rustling overhead betokened that such preparations were completed as she had undertaken for Bromley’s reception. A note in G was heard quavering—as though in innocence of heart.
“Bravo, my songstress,” murmured, or rather soliloquised, Bromley. “Now for the roulade;” and there sure enough it came. “And now for Floreski as she comes down-stairs.”
The thoughts of no medium could have been more rapid. The voice, or rather the remnant of a voice, descended the stairs slowly and musingly, warbling that well-known and beautiful romance,
“Adieu, my Floreski, for ever,And welcome the sorrows I prove.Why, Fate, still delights thou to severTwo bosoms united by love?”
“Adieu, my Floreski, for ever,And welcome the sorrows I prove.Why, Fate, still delights thou to severTwo bosoms united by love?”
“Adieu, my Floreski, for ever,And welcome the sorrows I prove.Why, Fate, still delights thou to severTwo bosoms united by love?”
“Adieu, my Floreski, for ever,
And welcome the sorrows I prove.
Why, Fate, still delights thou to sever
Two bosoms united by love?”
The last notes floated in the air as the door opened, and in rushed Mrs Magens nicely got up in a drab silk dress.
“How d’yedo, Mr Bromley, my kyind friend?” She held out both hands, and emphasised the “do,” after the manner of genteel comedy.
“Charming as ever, or may I be freckled,” responded Bromley, in the same tone.
“’Tis ages since we met. Let me look at ye.” She drew him towards the window, and scanned his features anxiously.
“A shade of care has fallen across that brow since last we met. Let’s see how long ago is it? A year—no—can it be? Time spares us not, Mr Bromley.”
“It spares the beautiful Magens.”
“Flatterer—the same as ever—the same gay-hearted, kyind——”
“A truce, I beseech ye,” broke in Bromley. “In yonder basket I have brought an offering I fain would make your household deities—some few articles, little luxuries, sent me from the country.”
The country always served as a veil in which to envelope Bromley’s presents to Mrs Magens. Had he avowed the purchase, she would have been offended or feigned offence.
But the country saved her pride.
“From the country, Mr Bromley—from some kyind old aunt, I warrant me, or, mayhap, a grandmother. Jane!”
“Women are ever thoughtful, lady,” responded Bromley.
Jane entered the room.
“Open the basket, maiden.”
“I knowed as it was full of good things.”
“Pity the poor vulgarian!”
“Ingins, I do declare!” cried the maiden. “My, what fine ingins!”
“The produce of your land, doubtless, Mr Bromley.”
“And sprats—oh my!”
The mouth of Mrs Magens was watering beyond concealment.
“And lobsters—oh my, what lobsters!”
Mrs Magens could stand it no longer.
“The cares of a household do not degrade a woman, Mr Bromley. B’ your leave, I’ll go and see them lobsters properly served up.”
“Perhaps you will allow me to partake your meal?”
“Of course,” screeched Mrs Magens from the adjacent kitchen, where, had Bromley seen her, he would have discovered the skirts of her garment already pinned round the waist of the neat-handed Phyllis.
It was not very long before the repast was ready, and Bromley sat, opposite his hostess, at a little table spread with a clean cloth, decorated with some spoons rescued from Mr Commissioner, a nickel cruet-stand, and two carnations.
“I do love this new Russian fashion,” observed Mrs Magens, as a species of grace.
Half a lobster fell before her.
“In that carpet-bag, I have ventured to bring, for Angelo, a few bottles of sherry, of a particular quality, lately sent me by some friends from the country.”
“How very thoughtful! Don’t trouble yourself—allow me.” The phraseology was less flowery, and the bottle was soon uncorked.
At length the meal was over. The onions had been discussed—a portion of the feast had been reserved for Angelo—another portion allotted to Jane—candles were introduced—Bromley was allowed to light a cigar, and to mix a glass of whisky and water—even Mrs Magens sipped a glass of toddy, and the room was soon as redolent as a tap.
“Now, Mr Bromley, I daresay, when in that brilliant world which your position throws open to you—in that world of beauties and nobles, you often long for the repose of an evening like this, passed equably in gentle converse, and with a frugal but wholesome meal to which fatigue has lent an appetite and friendship a relish.”
“Very true, Mrs Magens. And your society is especially delightful. Angelo, poor man, is deprived of it. He is very busy.”
“Very much so. The Fates are propitious.”
“I hope he is making a pot of money.”
“Fie, what a word! Heaven ever befriends the just.”
“Money is wanted at present, Mrs Magens. In these days, a man with a good income is not a rich man.”
“Indeed, it is true—too true. The extravagance of the age is hawful.”
Sometimes Mrs Magens was off her guard, and as uncertain about her aspirates as a beginner in the Greek tongue.
“It is indeed,” answered Bromley, “awful——”
“Awful,” repeated Mrs Magens, correcting herself.
“Dress is ruinous for ladies.”
“Yet gaudy attire is no evidence of a soundheart.”
Thehwas inserted this time with aslam.
“Very true, often the reverse; but it is no less ruinous.”
“The sums lavished on it are enormous, Mr Bromley.”
“I daresay many ladies in your profession spend large sums on their toilettes.”
“Enormous; why, there’s Miss Sepop of the Bower has a new dress every night. Mrs Macvey of the Blackfriars is never satisfied without embroidery all round.”
“Whom do you consider the best dressmaker, Mrs Magens? your taste is so good.”
“Why, for myself, I should say, Madame Mélanie Mickiewicz. She is generally known as Madame Mélanie. Poor thing! She is a Hungarian princess. Her story is harrowing—harrowing—Ha’nau——”
“I think I have heard it—poor thing! Do you know her?”
“Intimately—a charming person—quite the lady.”
“I suppose she has lots of stories—of experience.”
“Delightful creature. She was telling me the other day of the awful effects this extravagance produces on the high-born and wealthy. Many young ladies run up bills of enormous amounts, trusting to their marriage for the means of payment. But gentlemen do not marry.”
“And their bills run on.”
“Exactly—you have hit my very thought. There is one family, she tells me, where mother and daughters are deeply in debt to her, none of them daring to confide in the others for fear that the father and husband—a very strict man—should discover their embarrassments.”
“Did she tell you who they were, Mrs Magens?”
“No; but she would if I asked her, in a moment.”
“I daresay, Mrs Magens, your own dresses amount to no small sum.”
“Oh, I am so very ’umble.”
“But have you no little bill with your friend, no little sum Angelo ignores?”
“How cunning you are, Mr Bromley! However, it don’t amount to a very large figure.”
“By the way, is not Madame Mélanie a friend of Madame Carron’s? I see them driving together.”
“Yes; I believe they knew each other in Hungary. There, again, Madame Carron is deeply in debt to her.”
“But I thought she made such enormous sums. Does she owe more than you, Mrs Magens?”
“Oh, my liability is not more than what you would call a ‘pony,’ Mr Bromley.”
“But how does Madame Carron manage to contract debts?”
“She is obliged to dress expensively for her parts, and she is very charitable, especially to some worthless relative who absorbs all her income.”
“A husband?”
“No, a brother, I believe; although Mélanie is so charming a person it is horrible to be under an obligation to her.”
“Well, Mrs Magens, I daresay we can find some way of relieving you from yours.”
“I could never think of such a thing, Mr Bromley.”
“Well, do me a little favour; we are old friends, Mrs Magens. Find out the name of the family who are so much indebted, and of Madame Carron’s brother. Write to me.”
“Certainly, I will. There’s a knock. Won’t you stay to see Angelo?”
The door opened, and Mélanie entered the room.
Lady Ilminster was a very charming woman—kind, gracious, and good-natured. Very rich herself, the wife of a rich man, she delighted in throwing about her the pleasures which wealth confers, and in inviting others to share them.
She was sensuous; that is to say, she loved good things. She loved to gaze on pretty and happy faces, and the harmony of colours. She loved the sound of music, the smell of flowers, the gliding sensation of a boat; nay, she was not averse to a good dinner, and quaffed iced champagne, not to excess, butà discrétion. She had no children herself, and so surrounded herself with those who loved her. These were not toadies, but men of equal rank, whose tastes chimed in with her own. At first she was accused of flirting; but the scandal soon subsided, for it was pure scandal. Even had there been any foundation, a hostess so bountiful would soon have overcome the charge; but with Lady Ilminster there were no thoughts of evil. She did a thousand things others could not do. She rode, she drove, she even smoked, as fancy prompted her; but she was faithful to her lord, though, perhaps, her example stimulated in others freedoms of which she disapproved. Like many women whose conduct is pure, her conversation was not the reflex of her conduct.
The party Lady Ilminster gave was to be, as Lady Coxe had declared, very “shwosi.” Her recovery from indisposition was the pretext assigned—one of those excuses the hospitable find when, for the sake of pleasure to others, or for the maintenance of their social renown, they think fit to display their leading quality.
Preparations had been made, astounding in their extravagance and beauty. The grounds, which sloped down to the river were covered with flowers, tents, and temporary palaces. Lady Ilminster had taste enough to draw that delicate line which separates fairy-land from a tea-garden.
In one of these temporary structures a large party of young ladies and gentlemen were assembled eating ices and drinking tea. Lady Coxe was presiding in her magenta dress, nodding from the heat, and fanning with magenta fan her magenta countenance. Florence was talking merrily with a young guardsman; but the conversation generally assumed that tone which, as Mr Whiting describes it, smacks less of the lady than of the reduplicate Φ.
“Let us take up our position here,” said one young lady to her partner; “I hate being with the swells.”
Lady Coxe heard this; her face more magenta than ever. She ranked herself with the nobility.
“Did you see Croquet in the park yesterday,” asked another, “with the prettiest pony?”
“Yes; but not such a habit as Julia Fitzwiggins,” burst in a third. “What a waist she has!”
“Quite like an hour-glass,” illustrates a guardsman, aloud.
“I doubt if it be all real,” interposed another young lady.
“What are you talking of?” asked the guardsman.
“Of course the rest must be filled with sand,” retorts the first.
“A sand-glass in every respect,” murmured Whiting.
Lady Coxe nods, puffs, fans, and smiles, not quite understanding what Mr Whiting meant.
“Toole, who makes her habits, declares she pads them with brown paper,” resumed the guardsman.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t purchase a waist at that price,” rejoined the partner.
“You’ve a very pretty little one of your own, Lady Janet.”
Oh, young ladies, young ladies, why are you in such haste for the freedom and abundance of married life? Why compete for magenta dresses with I won’t say what? Why adopt the language of I won’t say whom? You may attract young men from the society of the first by using the phraseology of the second, but will you retain them with you? They may in time give up Richmond dinners and midnight orgies with Thaïs, for a quiet meal, loving looks, and worthy sentiments with Lucretia. If this will not attract them, so much the worse for them and so much the better for Lucretia. But Lucretia will never win them by the arts of Thaïs. Thaïs, on her own ground, will always beat Lucretia. She knows her weapons better. However far Lucretia may go, she can never come up to Thaïs. Thaïs has a grammar of her own, a syntax, and a prosody—winged words and winged actions. Lucretia may study the accidence, she can never master the rhetoric. Lucretia may unveil her ankle, Thaïs blushes not if her garter be exposed. Think you Lord Tom Noddy will marry Lucretia if she shows him her garter? Thaïs dresses expensively. Thousands will not pay her milliner’s bills. But at the end of six months or a year Lord Tom Noddy leaves her, and she retrenches.
But if Lucretia rivals Thaïs in her dress, Lord Tom Noddy knows that, if he marries her, six months will not see the end of it. Sir Cresswell Cresswell even cannot untie the knots of ribbon and the tangles of lace which figure on that long lithographed linear document, and the lands of Noddy will soon melt in the basilisk smiles of furbelowed Lucretia.
Thaïs is a dashing river, which receives a thousand tributaries, the drainings of the country and the sewers of the town, till it is lost in a morass or absorbed in the ocean. But Lucretia should be a gentle brook, pure from its source, content to murmur innocently and calmly onward, reflecting the light of heaven in its pellucid waters, till it mingles with and strengthens a stronger current than itself. To such as these, tranquil and tranquillising, will man return for happiness and peace, when, jaded with the roar of cities and the struggle of life, he seeks to reconcile his existence with his Creator, to pursue and accomplish his allotted task before the night cometh.
“’Owde do?” said Lady Coxe, blandly, as Bromley appeared for the first time.
Drawing a chair near the table, he took his seat near Constance.
“You are very late,” she began.
“I have had so much to do to-day; some one ought to write a Song of the Shirt for me. Scratch, scratch, scratch—in lieu of stitch, stitch, stitch.”
“But recollect all the good you are doing,” answered Constance.
“Yes, that is a reflection which conveys great comfort to me.”
Augustus smiled somewhat in his answer.
“Why are you always sarcastic?”
“I feel I am very sincere.”
“You are never in earnest.”
“You think so; you will find I am in earnest in some things.”
“’Owde do?” said Lady Coxe.
The couple looked up at the new-comer—it was the Count.
“Oh, Congte, I did not know you were asked.”
“I go to St James’s Club to read papers and meet Gorillian Minister. He great friend Lady Ilminster—bring me and present me.”
“You dance this waltz with me,” said Bromley hurriedly to Constance.
She was pale and red by turns, and heard not what he said.
Touching her hand slightly, he repeated his observation.
With an effort she answered—
“Oh yes; of course, I remember.”
The music struck up in the distance, and the whole party left for a distant lawn dedicated to dancing.
A circle was formed. A band was stationed in a kiosk, and the first strains had just begun, when Lady Ilminster beckoned to Augustus.
“Do you know that Count Rabelais?”
“A little.”
“He is not a friend of yours?”
“No, I cannot say he is.”
“The Gorillian Minister brought him. I have asked Madame Carron to come and superintend some charades. She told me that an acquaintance of hers, Count Rabelais, was a capital actor, and I asked Don Marmosetto Uran y Babon to bring him. Now the Bushman Minister, who hates Don Marmosetto, tells me this Count is very disreputable.”
“Well, it can’t be helped now he’s here. You had better set him at charades.”
Augustus returned for his partner. There she was, twirling in the arms of the Count.
“He has asked her to take a turn, but no. There they are stopping opposite, as though to avoid me. Shall I go and take her away, and kick the Count? No good.”
The waltz was over, and Bromley, with entire self-possession, walked over to Constance.
“You have disappointed me this time, Miss Coxe,” he said, good-naturedly. “Will you dance the next quadrille?”
“Mademoiselle is already engaged to me,” grinned the Count.
“Then perhaps the waltz after that.”
Bromley looked steadily at the Count, in a manner the latter did not seem to admire.
“Oh yes, yes,” almost screamed Constance, whose countenance during this scene had betrayed the emotion she underwent.
Bromley, with a slight bow, turned away. He cannot, this time, deny his knowledge of her being engaged to me.
He directed his steps to the room used as a theatre, which abutted on the garden. A verandah outside was covered in for a greenroom. The large oriel window was to serve as a stage. Entering the house by the ordinary doorway, he proceeded to the body of the theatre. He arranged a few of the ornaments, and then sat down to muse.
There is certainly nothing so discreditable as eavesdropping. Nothing can justify it, and no possible excuse can be alleged in palliation of such an offence; but in this life the best of us occasionally commit an unjustifiable action. We have all of us said foolish things which, in the retirement of our bed-clothes, flash across us, and make us burn with shame. We have all put up from friends with affronts which we should have resented; for, alas! in this age we are as afraid of being called tetchy as of being considered dishonourable.
We have all of us, except myself and you, kind reader—we have all of us, at least once in our lives, been the authors of some little act which Paley would not have approved, and Butler would have refused to ratify.
So, on this occasion, Bromley was guilty of a great moral offence. He heard voices—voices not unknown to him—and he listened.
“Not dancing, Achille?” spoke a voice in French.
“The dancing is suspended for a tombola, and I come to pay my homage to my sister.”
“Hush, Achille, for Heaven’s sake! We may be overheard.”
“And if so?”
“The object of my life would be at an end. Yes, Achille, my pride is foolish, ridiculous. To it I have sacrificed my life, my position, nay, my love. When my mother commended you to me as the heir—the ruined heir of our house—it was my resolve that you should once again resume the place my father had forfeited. It might have been done sooner, Achille, in time even for me to enjoy the sweets of life. Already had my pen achieved more than success, when that fatal passion which has destroyed us before, displayed itself in you. For you I have slaved and worn out my life. For you have I polluted my existence by publicity. For you, or rather, for our name, I have sacrificed the hopes and joys of a household. Even now, ruined as we are, my daily labour supplies your extravagance. If once the stage could be connected with your name, Achille, my heart would break.”
“This is all very well, belle dame—very pretty and very dramatic. The charades have not yet commenced. I meant to say that, if overheard calling you my sister, all would perceive the joke.”
“It must end some day, Achille. Heaven make you kinder to that lovely girl than to me. When once you are married I shall retire to beautiful Italy.”
“The dream of actresses.”
“Thank you, Achille. The actress will not sully your name by her presence.”
“Ah, bah! cousine. Once married to the little Cogues, and, actress or no actress, you share the booty.”
“Achille, the pride that has enabled me to support you in affluence will not admit of your affluence to support me. It is you who have chosen the way to riches by marriage. Opposed to it at first, I yielded to your wishes, though I had offered to you many a more honourable career. I presented to you that detestable woman Mélanie to inform you of the girl’s movements and her friends. I disliked, I loathed the intrigue, but it was undertaken, and it must be accomplished, for my strength is giving way.”
“Mélanie is a cleverer woman than you, Adelgonde. She has shown me a way to success that you would never have dreamt of.”
“Indeed! I hope it is honourable.”
“Honourable, inasmuch as it profits her as well as myself.”
“What is it?”
Bromley bent forward to listen, but the Count spoke in too low a tone.
“Good heaven! Achille! Have you stooped to this?” cried the actress.
“Come, no heroics, belle dame. I hear the music of the dance, and I go to pulverise my rival.”
“Have we fallen as low as this?” murmured the actress. Bromley heard a window open, the retreating steps of the Count, and the chords of the distant music. Noiselessly he left the theatre, and hurried to the lawn.
The Count had reached Constance about a minute before him. She was standing with her mother apart from the dance. No one was near the group as Bromley approached.
“This is my dance, Miss Constance,” he observed, offering his arm.
“Forgive me, Monsieur Bromley. It is mine.”
“You must be mistaken, Count. You yourself heard the engagement.”
“One word apart, Monsieur Bromley.”
“Certainly.” The two retired to a grove adjacent.
“You recollect the compact we made, my friend, the night of the ball at Conisbro’ House.”
“I recollect the compact you proposed.”
“My part of it is complete, I dare say, with your assistance. Rely on me as regards la petite belle-sœur la Florence. Mademoiselle Constance, with the consent of Miladi Cogues and her own, is my affianced bride.”
“Indeed, Monsieur le Comte! till this moment I believed she was mine. You will pardon me in your turn, but for such a statement I must, under the circumstances, demand a little corroboration—especially as the waltz is already begun.”
Taking the Count’s arm, he forced rather than persuaded him to the spot where Lady Coxe and her daughter were still standing. Constance was pale as death—Lady Coxe a deep magenta.
“Lady Coxe, the Count tells me I may congratulate you on having secured him as a son-in-law. May I do so?”
“’E ’as my full consent.”
“And, Miss Constance, may I offer you my felicitations?”
“Y—y——” The word was never completed, for Constance fell to the ground.
As the Count hurried with the crowd to assist the swooning girl, a strong arm took his, and a firm voice whispered in her ear. “Your place is not here; it is with your sister in the theatre.”
Rabelais turned towards the young man with the eyes of a frightened ape, and slunk away.
In a few minutes Bromley had lifted Constance into her carriage, and, with Florence and Lady Coxe, was driving towards London.
The skirts had much contracted for the occasion.
“Did ’e tell any one but you?” asked Lady Coxe, in an anxious whisper.
“No one.”
“Then, for ’eaven’s sake, don’t breathe it to Sir Joshphat, and take the carriage on for Dr Leadbitter.”
Bromley bowed reassuringly, and hurried on, in the family coach, to Bedford Square.
Dr Leadbitter was at home, and Constance was raving in a fever.
There is a wonderful inclination to practical paradox in the human mind. If a man be dull, the world charitably sets him down as sound. If he be clever, the world, with equal charity, sets him down as unscrupulous. If a man be courteous, he is instantly condemned as designing; if brutal, lauded as straightforward.
But if this natural impulse to moral compensation be the general bias of the human intellect, it assumes twofold force in the special case of medical men. Perhaps with such men personal characteristics are more prominently displayed; perhaps the confidence of the patient reposing in the individuality of his advisers gives a factitious importance to minor peculiarities.
Be it how it may, you have never yet seen an Asclepiad whose manners were not, in some respect, different from those of his fellow-creatures.
Great or small, clever or stupid, he has managed to inspire confidence, or to impose successfully on some circle of patients, however contracted.
Amongst these he is an authority. His individual influence is so great, that but little trust is reposed in his art when practised by another.
If in large practice, his patients consider him deserving of it; if in small practice, they esteem him an ill-used man. He is their guide and their friend as well as their philosopher; godfather to their children, trustee to their settlements, legatee to their wills. He is present at theirbirthsand deaths, generally at their weddings. He knows their pecuniary difficulties, their family quarrels; the husband’s distrust, or the wife’s jealousy; the son’s folly, and the daughter’s infatuation. He can go down the street and schedule out each house as to its specific non-observance of the decalogue. He can tell you who steals, who commits murder, or who commits any other sin of the first magnitude.
There are thousands of little secrets confided to the diary of a physician; thousands of fees to his pocket, for little occurrences which, like the fees, go no further than himself.
By the highest he is treated almost as an equal; by the wisest he is respected as a man of science and of power. If not profoundly versed in our constitution, he knows us in our moments of weakness, and that knowledge alone makes him the master of most of us.
But before we admit him to this position, we minutely examine his qualities, or accept the judgment of them passed by the universal suffrage of mortal men.
Science of anatomy is sufficient for the surgeon; but science of the world is the best passport for the medical man.
We require him to cure our bodies—most doctors can do that.
But we occasionally require from him medicaments for our minds. This requires the skill of a man of the world.
From such premises we conclude that perfection in art is not the keystone of medical fame. The serpent was dedicated to Æsculapius, the emblem of his foresight as well as of his craft. Nor would the symbol misrepresent the physicians of Babylon.
Sir Erasistratus will be enabled to discover that Duke Antiochus is fearfully in love with Countess Stratonice. Sir Paulus will gain favour with the patrons of art by the number of statues decorating his country-place at Ægina. Sir Democritus exposes somnambulism, mesmerism, homœopathy, and spirit-rapping. Dr Andrew Machaon displays administrative qualities in the army medical department; while Sir Podalirius, K.C.B., after exhibiting geniality at the mess-table and intrepidity in the field, marries the daughter of King Damætas, and sets up in Grosvenor Square. Dr Chrysippus, who has not yet attained the purple, manages to oppose the dogmatists, and to soar into practice by his agreeable conversation and sparkling jests. Heraclitus is the man-hater, declines to visit sovereigns, and frightens poor women into new diseases by a savage laugh and peremptory brutality. Sir Oribasius, who ushers young peers into the world, endears himself to the mothers by affectionate epithets and profuse gossip; and Sir Sextus Empiricus drives a flourishing trade and a chariot by periodic journeys to the equator, and the administration of stimulants to statesmen. All have some quality independent of their art. Few rely on their craft, and their craft alone, for practice or popularity, competency or knighthood. Writers require anars celare artem; physicians an art to thrust their skill into prominence. In France this is considered charlatanerie; in England it is styled humbug. Yet what great man is, consciously or unconsciously, free from this vice?
Has Bumcombe no place in our social, political, scientific, or ecclesiastical system?
Some few have tried the narrow, narrow path. They labour in their youth, they labour in their manhood. “They live forgotten—they die forlorn.” An hospital is the scene of their triumphs, a parish-rate forms their emolument. The parson and the overseer compose their society, and the blessings of the poor their fame.
Yet there are first-rate men amidst the great physicians of Babylon.
Heaven bless them! How would the young Babylonians be born without them, or how could the Babylonian ladies take their strong waters innocuously?
But Dr Leadbitter was an exception to every rule.
He was devoted to the science of medicine. It absorbed his whole mind; and, indeed, together with dinners and the price-list, formed the staple of his conversation.
He lived near an hospital; and spent a useful life, pleasantly to himself, in constant attention to revolting diseases.
The hospital had been endowed chiefly from his own purse—an expenditure owning a double origin in his charity and his love of science.
Hitherto he had never been permitted to sate himself sufficiently in the least agreeable works of his profession. His universal popularity had induced his colleagues in other hospitals to take from him this portion of his duties. To Dr Leadbitter this indulgence was purgatory. The dirtier the patient, the more complicated his disorder, the more grateful was the treatment to this worthy man. Pity and love of science formed a curious combination in his phrenology. His professional skill, therefore, had reached a height where envy had ceased to criticise or malice to detract. Yet, unknowingly to himself, he possessed other than technical qualities; and these caused him to be sought after by those whose search is considered honourable.
In his career Leadbitter had studied deeply and variously. In his ideas every knowledge tended to enhance the value of his heart.
So intimate is the connection of our moral and physical structure, that to the eye of the accomplished physician few disorders of our frame can be disconnected from some indirect and intellectual cause. As mental emotions form the features of manhood, so is the innermost thought of man betrayed by some external indication.
Those best practised to command expression can ill disguise their feelings from the true physiologist. The smile is forced that dissembles anger, the gravity overcharged that suppresses mirth.
However perfect the acting, there are some, even among mortals, to whose far-seeing eye acting can never compete with nature. Such a one was Dr Leadbitter, fat, foolish, as he looked. In him intuitive perception was refined by rare and delicate study. To know the diseases of a singer he would hear her song, of an orator his speech. He would examine the portrait of a statesman, and study his biography, then tell you his organic disorders. Nor was his rare skill unknown or unappreciated. To him would the singer and statesman repair, as a last resource, glad to stand in his anteroom and vie with a pauper for an audience.
Yet Leadbitter, though astute, was simple. He made more by speculation than by his profession.
His kindness of heart and his passion for disagreeable affections gave to the pauper, in his eyes, a higher value than the statesman. He might have been a baronet, but he had no wife to urge him thereunto. A comfortable dinner was his sole vice, a few good cases his only desire.
He wore the traditional black clothes and white neckcloth, the capacious watch in the capacious fob. He carried the rattan with the gold knob, and, at times, even buckles in his shoes.
A little flower or sprig bedecked his upper button-hole. His walk was a trot, and a smile ever on his lips.
Moreover, nothing could be more commonplace than his ordinary conversation. A few truisms, parliamentary interjections, many technical references. His action was as that of one feeling a pulse, and he was always in a hurry to turn away and leave the room.
“Won’t you have a glass of wine, Mr Bromley?” asked the doctor, hospitably.
“Thanks, I am going to dine later.”
“Commodeque, Erasistratus dixit, sæpe, interiore parte humorem non requirente, os et fauces requirere.”
Dr Leadbitter lost no time in getting into the carriage.
The doctor overcame the gourmet, and, though at dinner, the voice of duty and of friendship prevailed.
“My dear doctor,” said Bromley, “Miss Constance has fallen very ill. She fell to the ground at Lady Ilminster’s breakfast. She was insensible all the way home. I suppose they have put her to bed, for I drove off at once for you.”
“Hear, hear!” responded the doctor.
“Now, doctor, between ourselves, I think Miss Constance has something on her mind.”
“Hear, hear! Eros, I suppose. Soon cured.”
“Something more than that.”
“Nothing cryptogamic, I hope?”
“I have a moral certainty of the cause, but no legal evidence yet. If you will accept my assurance without seeking any corroboration, I will tell you my surmises—to me certainties—which, perhaps, may guide you in your treatment.”
“Hear, hear!”
“My impression is that Lady Coxe and Miss Constance Coxe are deeply in debt to Madame Mélanie the dressmaker. They are afraid to own it to Sir Jehoshaphat. Count Rabelais has got possession of the secret, and holds itin terroremover Constance.
“He has conciliated the friendship and advocacy of Lady Coxe—perhaps by the same means; and he has extorted from Constance a promise of marriage. Now, what would you advise?
“The whole thing should be told to Sir Jehoshaphat. Yet, I think, he would never forgive Lady Coxe, whatever treatment he might pursue towards his daughter. I have known him from boyhood. His temperament is bilious and nervous. About money matters, though more than liberal, he is obdurate.”
“At any rate, it would be better avoided, for the present at least.”
“Hear, hear!”
“I should think the woman Mélanie might be frightened for having inveigled a girl under age.”
“Hear, hear! But suppose Lady Coxe knew of her daughter’s debts?”
“But perhaps she does not. As soon as I can get my surmises into shape, I will, with your permission, consult you.”
“Hear, hear! Come to me directly you have any news—day or night. Meanwhile, I will pursue the soothing system—calming draughts. I shall tell Lady Coxe at once that I know the whole story. That will keep her quiet.”
By this time the carriage had again arrived in Grosvenor Square.
“How is Miss Constance?”
“Very bad, sir.”
“Hear, hear!” murmured the doctor, mournfully.
Constance was in a high fever. Bromley found a letter on his table. He opened it. It was but a few lines.
“My dear Friend,—The family is that of Sir J. Coxe, Bart., M.P., the banker. Her ladyship owes about £2000; her daughter Constance about £900. The rest of the news I hope to obtain in a day or two.—Yours very sincerely,