A few minutes later the two women were seated in one of those tiny, low-ceiled, over-decorated apartments in which the new instinct of intimacy and mystery confined the higher classes of the period. Louis XV. had first set the example of these miniature chambers which best suited the queens of his left hand. And all over Europe, where France still set the fashion, although she was the object of attack, every one strove to make a mystery of life, although in nine cases out of ten there was no reason for it. There were no longer the spacious galleries for state pageants, no longer the throne-like beds: but boudoirs round as nests and muffled in silken hangings; furniture monstrously stuffed, consoles and pier-tables, andétagèreslittered with costly nothings. Upon the walls, pastels and portraits of much-bedecked women, wearing the same vague, coquettish smile upon their vermilion lips. Not an angle was visible, and none of the straight-backed chairs which oblige the body to maintain a respectable position, but easy-chairs everywhere, into the depths of which one sank with voluptuous deliberation,—nothing but curves to invite ease and languor. The white woodwork and delicate, tender tints which had begun to prevail in France had not yet crossed the Channel. The day of the massive, so to speak, had passed; that of simplicity had not yet dawned. It was, in short, in the daintiest of boudoirs that Esther Woodville and her new friend drank tea out of exquisite Japanese cups. A fire crackled upon the hearth; a jet of water plashed softly as it fell intoits marble basin at the feet of a nymph whose ideally slender limbs and elegant nudity were scarcely visible in the semi-obscurity that prevailed,—the image of the mistress of the house, by the celebrated Roubiliac, if we may credit indiscreet and envious tongues. A silver lamp shed a mellow radiance upon the dainty and delicate objects which littered the table,—theencasalways ready for my lady. The entire upper portion of the chamber, the panels painted by Lautherbourg, the azure ceiling where cupids sported, the marvellous great Venetian chandelier with its four hundred sparkling crystal drops,—all remained veiled in shadow, scarcely visible. A sweet but oppressive perfume, which seemed to exhale from everything, made the will languid and paralyzed the senses with a delicious stupor.
Lady Vereker had quitted her place and had taken a seat upon a tabouret close to Esther. She had captured one of the girl's hands and had riveted her gaze upon her face.
"You were saying," she began slowly, "that Lord Mowbray is in love with you."
"I said nothing of the kind. It was your ladyship who said so."
"In the first place, dear, drop 'your ladyship.' My name is Arabella. Those who love me call me Bella. Call me Bella, and I will call you Esther."
"I should not dare presume."
"Why not?"
"Such familiarity! and with one of your rank!"
"Of my age, you mean! A friend of twenty-eight years alarms one of sixteen, for you are sixteen, I believe."
"Seventeen," replied Esther with comical dignity.
"Well, I love you, and I want you to love me. Friendship is the true sentiment which unites women, the only one which relieves their delicacy of the fear of wounds, their devotion of treason. Oh, if I could but spare you some of the griefs of my life!"
"You have suffered?"
"Frightfully!" said Bella in a flippant tone which belied the tragic significance of the word. Then she continued:—
"Men are all wretches, but the worst one among them all is perhaps Lord Mowbray."
"What has he done?"
"He has accomplished everything that a man of his age can dream of in the way of forbidden and perverse actions. First, you must know that the late Lord Mowbray was the greatest libertine of his time. He was interested in that famous abbey of Medmonham with Lord Sandwich, Sir Francis Dashwood, and that abominable John Wilkes, the author of the 'Essay upon Woman,' whose soul is still more hideous than his visage. In their orgies they parodied the very ceremonies of religion. It is related that one day—one night, rather—Lord Sandwich administered the Holy Sacrament to a dog, carrying out the full rites."
"How horrible!" exclaimed Esther, clasping her hands.
"Is it not?" murmured Lady Vereker in the same tone; at the same time an imperceptible smile appeared in the corners of both pairs of lips.
"But let us leave the father in the abode for which he was certainly destined, and speak of the son. He has had as his instructor in vice hisown tutor, a Frenchman named Lebeau, who took good care to ruin his pupil in early life, the better to master him later. It was in company with this man that he made the tour of Europe, stopping for the most part in France and Italy. He was but a mere boy when he grossly deceived the daughter of the clergyman at Mowbray Park. It is said, too, that he was the instigator and confidant of the first follies of the Prince of Wales. He is fiercely hated by the king, but especially so by the queen. He and his friends make it their boast that there is not an incorruptible woman in existence. Their debauchery differs from that of their fathers in that it is savored with villany. As formerly, these young gentlemen, who call themselves Mohawks, walk the streets at night with blackened faces, quarrel with inoffensive wayfarers, stop women, strip them and either beat or cast them naked into casks of pitch which they have placed beneath sheds, and laugh until they drown the cries of their victims. As for the watchmen, they prick their legs with their swords, bind them to the door-knockers, and oblige them to light the scene with their lanterns. These are only their malicious tricks, for they do worse. More than once they have profited by popular broils, or by the quarrels which have been common since the beginning of the war, to carry away young girls, and send a father, a husband, or a troublesome lover to the shades. It is said that they are responsible for many a death, and that if one should visit the 'Folly' which Mowbray possesses near Chelsea, if one were to sound the walls which are riddled with secret passages, if one should search the cellars which the Thames is made to inundate at certain hours, perhapsone would find the explanation of the desperate cries which have been heard by night in the silence of the country; perhaps one would discover human remains, skeletons cramped into attitudes which would tell the tale of the ferocity which had abused their last agony!"
In speaking thus this strange woman was completely transformed. Lately so flippant and sceptical, as were the women of her time, who scarcely ever spoke without an accompanying smile, she had become more tragic than Siddons. She spoke in a low, swift, sibilant tone close into Esther's face, filling her with fear, magnetizing her with her dark glance, and crushing her hands in her grip of iron almost without knowing it. Esther seemed quite terrified. Thereupon Bella resumed, in a soft, imploring voice,—
"And such is the man who pretends to love you, who perhaps makes your heart beat at this moment. But I will save you. Your embarrassment, your emotion, have told me their story. Have done with it all, and cast yourself upon the bosom of a true friend. Tell me all."
These final words, which ought to have assured Lady Vereker's victory, were just the ones which compromised her. Her eyes betrayed an all too anxious, too passionate desire to learn the truth! Like lightning a suspicion crossed Esther's mind: Does Lady Vereker love Lord Mowbray?
"You appear to know him exceedingly well," she said.
The words were uttered so unexpectedly that for a moment Bella was thrown off her guard. Her cleverly tinted face concealed her internal emotions, but a twitching of the lips, a rapid fluttering of the eyelids, did not escape Esther,who had become all at once dangerously keen, as is the case of every woman who suspects and wishes to know.
"She is lying!" thought Esther, though aloud she said:—
"Lord Mowbray was present at mydébut. As so many other gentlemen did, he sent me flowers, verses, and jewels; and—and that is all."
"She's lying!" thought Lady Vereker in her turn.
And both were correct. Lady Vereker forbore to tell Esther of the hold she had once had upon Lord Mowbray—a hold which she had not yet despaired of regaining, while Esther would not admit to Lady Vereker that she had rashly replied to one of Lord Mowbray's notes and already began to find it difficult to defend herself against his assiduities.
Without being the dupes of each other, but enlightened, the one by the experiences of life, the other by the precocious instinct of combat, thecomédienneof the fashionable world and thecomédienneof the theatre pressed each other's hands with tender interest and smiled amiably into each other's eyes.
Eleven o'clock chimed from the tall clock placed opposite the fireplace. To its faint, silvery tones, which vibrated for some moments upon the atmosphere of the silent chamber, neighboring clocks, repeating the hour, seemed to make echo with their melancholy voices.
"Already eleven o'clock!" exclaimed Esther, starting to her feet. "I must go; I should be at home at this moment!"
"The crowd has not yet dispersed," answered Lady Vereker; "listen to their shouts."
Lady Vereker's mansion was situated upon Park Lane, at that day a lonesome part of the town, whither gentlemen were wont to come in the early morning to cross swords in order to get up an appetite, and instead frequently succeeded in turning their stomachs inside out. Bella approached one of the windows. Upon the faint, luminous grayness of the sky were sketched the outlines of Hyde Park wrapped in profound sleep, but the glow of the bonfires flushed the southern horizon, and from time to time savage outcries crossed the calmness of the night.
"They are delirious over their Rodney," said Bella with a shrug; "neither a chair nor a coach will be able to pass through St. James's, and the other side of the Green Park is deserted at this hour; we should risk being attacked there. Ah, me! how fortunate are common women! Theycan go everywhere. But why should we not change our attire? My women will accommodate us with gowns.Pardieu!that would be charming!"
Lady Vereker uttered her little oath in French. The idea of the masquerade pleased her immensely, and without waiting for Esther's acquiescence she began to put it in execution.
At the expiration of a quarter of an hour they were equipped as women of the lower class.
"Esther," exclaimed Lady Bella, "you look like a Soho dressmaker! And I, Fanchette, what do I look like?"
"I dare not say," replied the maid; "all that I can assure your ladyship is that in my gown you are—worse than I."
"Exactly as I desire to look," replied Lady Vereker with a burst of laughter at the impertinence.
Thereupon she started off, taking Esther by the arm, and forbidding even a footman to follow her. For that matter, her people seemed accustomed to the strange caprices of their mistress.
Upon reaching Piccadilly they passed suddenly from the shadow and silence into the tumult and violent glare of the bonfires. Many a joke was levelled at them as they passed. One man wearing clerical attire, and who seemed completely intoxicated, approached them, declaring that by Jupiter they were deucedly pretty girls and he would have a kiss from each! In order to escape him the two women ran down St. James Street, where the crowd separated them from the enterprising clergyman.
"A churchman!" panted Esther. "Can you believe it?"
"No, my dear: it was the Duke of Norfolk;he whom they call 'Jockey Norfolk.' His mania is for disguising himself as a country curate, and running about town and making a fool of himself. When he is dead-drunk people profit by his condition to rob him."
"What a horrible person!"
"On the contrary, I assure you that when he is sober he is most amiable."
In the neighborhood of St. James's the mobgrew denser and more excited. There were beggar-women holding their new-born infants at arms' length, chairmen, sailors, thieves of all ages, recognizable by their skulking air and their sly, sharp glances, and finally a sprinkling of gentlemen, come hither after a good dinner to give vent to their political passions, or simply to amuse themselves by hustling the women and making a noise generally. The crowd laughed and vociferated, and threw stones at the windows of a grand mansion which belonged to one of the king's ministers. They applauded each successful shot, and howled over the failures.
At last all the ministerial windows were broken except one, which remained intact, protected by two caryatides which advanced like sentinels, supporting the roof; and against this single window were all the efforts directed, as if the detested minister were standing behind the sash, or as if the crushing of that bit of glass were going to cover the enemies of England with confusion and terminate the war at a blow.
The assailants excited each other by constantly crying, "Be bold, Tommy!" "At it again, Jack!" "Pluck up there, old boy!"
Suddenly a figure bounded from the midst of the crowd, a long arm was extended, a stone whizzed through the air, and the window so long protected was shattered, and fell into a thousand pieces. A yell of triumph burst from a hundred throats, and every eye was turned upon the hero. He was a great, lank, awkward fellow with a pug-nose, a cold, impertinent eye, thin lips and blinking eyelids, who testified the satisfaction in his achievement simply by a fleeting smile of coarse disdain.
"Is that you, William?" said Bella to him. "Fine occupation for Lord Chatham's son!"
Young William Pitt turned sharply and bent his keen gaze upon the person who had thus apostrophized him. He recognized her and a swift flush stained his pallid cheeks.
"Let me alone," he muttered; "I was only having some fun!" And walking off, he was soon lost in the crowd.
"That boy will never be anything but a ne'er-do-well," said Lady Vereker with a shrug.
Three years later "that boy" became Prime Minister of England, and such a Prime Minister as England had never had before him.
Meanwhile the crowd waxed more turbulent. The ferocity born of pleasure, the longing to destroy, peculiar to such huge assemblies of Englishmen, begin to make themselves manifest.
As there were no more windows to break, what was to be done?
"Pull down the house!" was the cry. "Get a beam and we will set our shoulders to it! Here are twenty good men of like mind! No: fetch some straw and fagots! Set fire to the door! Let us smoke the rats out of their trap!"
A score of figures appeared, ghastly, sinister, suggesting pillage. In the general disorder the libertines grew bolder. The shrieks of women burst from obscure corners, followed by long, brutal laughter.
"I am terrified! I feel as if I were going to faint," gasped Esther.
Although she affected a show of courage, Lady Vereker was beginning to quail.
"Indeed, I did very wrong to come here," shesaid; "let us try to retrace our steps or gain a side street."
But it was too late. The mob increased with every moment. The crowds of new arrivals pressed down upon them, cutting off the retreat of those who sought to escape the turmoil.
"I am stifling!" cried Esther wildly, as she lost her footing.
At this moment a cry arose:—
"The Guards! the Guards!"
The solid earth trembled beneath the gallop of the troop which had just turned the corner of Pall Mall and were charging up the street. Amidst the frightful tumult there came a second of silence and stupor, during which was heard the ring of hoofs as they struck the pavement and the commands of the officers:—
"Right about! Forward! Draw sabres!"
There was a click of steel and glimmer of blades. An indescribable panic ensued. The people, of late so buoyant, now mad with terror, rushed towards the nearest exit—that is, to some place of safety—with such savage energy and with so formidable an impulse that iron railings were rent before them. Esther felt herself wrenched from Bella so suddenly and with such brutal force that it was a miracle that her arm which encircled Lady Vereker's waist was not left behind her. The human tide hurled her against a house and would have crushed her against the wall had not other human bodies intervened and saved her from the violence of the shock. She found herself at the head of a flight of six stairs without having set foot upon one of them. A large door stood open before her. Twenty persons were projected along with her into the interior in asolid mass, entering the house like an inundation. Esther was saved; the horrible fear which had paralyzed every nerve was relieved, and her heart began to beat again. At the same time, through the open door and high above the desperate cries of those who still struggled in the street, she heard the ringing voice of an officer commanding a halt. The Riot Act was being read, and an occasional fragment of the coldly menacing phrases reached even her ear.
The place into which Esther had been cast was a spacious vestibule, into which surged fresh arrivals without ceasing, despite the efforts of the footmen and of a man who fretted and fumed, and gave useless and inexecutable orders. This man, the proprietor of the place, was Mr. Brooks, and the house was the famous club which bore his name. Poor Mr. Brooks endeavored to confine the crowd to the vestibule, which he was forced to yield to it, as one yields to a conflagration; but already under the pressure of the mass Esther had been thrust into a second antechamber. The air was close and stifling; the situation became critical, while the second danger threatened to become worse than the first.
Suddenly a little door was thrown open, and some one laid hold upon her. In the next instant the door was closed, and the girl found herself in the depths of an arm-chair, where she swooned.
Not entirely, however; she felt in a half-conscious way that some one slapped her hands and blew in her face. A voice murmured, "Some water! Cold water, quick!" Then the person left her, for she felt that she was alone again. Suddenly a great hubbub filled the house. In the street without, now quite deserted, the cavalryswept by like a whirlwind. Then all was silence. With eyes closed, and in a state of semi-consciousness, Esther believed herself alone, when all at once, but a few steps from her, a word was pronounced in an angry tone.
"A doublet!"
Oaths and stifled exclamations accompanied the word. Brought to her senses by curiosity and apprehension, Esther opened her eyes and beheld a remarkable spectacle. It was a vast hall lighted by several lamps suspended from the ceiling. The light, gathered by immense reflectors of tin, fell full upon a long table placed in the centre of the apartment. This table was covered with a green cloth crossed with white lines. Seven or eight men were seated about it, each one having at his side a bowl full of gold pieces and a small tray bearing a cup of tea, a glass, and a flask of brandy. They were engaged in a game of faro.
Nothing could have been more singular than their appearance and attire. Nearly every man wore a large straw hat to screen his eyes from the dazzling light, and perhaps to mask his emotions at the same time; but the most ridiculous part of it was that two or three of the younger gamesters had seen fit to decorate their hats with flowers and ribbons after the fashion of the shepherdesses in the opera. Certain persons, attired with studied refinement, wore leathern cuffs to avoid soiling the lace at their wrists. God save the mark! They would consent to lose a castle in the course of an evening, but would hesitate to spoil a pair of Chantilly ruffles. Others seemed to have lost all respect for themselves. One young man who sat opposite Esther, a sort of good-natured athlete,with big, sensual jaws, and whose tanned face, especially his brow and glance, shone with intelligence and audacity, was so negligent in his attire that his hairy chest appeared beneath his open shirt. Another, an older man, wore his coat turned inside out, through superstitious fancy, as every one was aware; while more than one, with hands concealed beneath the table, feverishly fingered some sort of talisman.
These men appeared to have heard nothing,—neither the cries of the mob, the invasion of the house, the charge of the Guards, nor the entrance of a strange woman into the very room where they were playing. What mattered it all to them? What did it all amount to in comparison with a doublet? As infatuated as Horace's wise man, the end of the world would not have interrupted their game.
Esther felt that her presence was as unperceived as though a charm had rendered her invisible, like the living being whose terrible fate had conducted him on board of the phantom ship. Therefore without a qualm of fear she permitted herself to enjoy the novel scene.
At this moment the banker'scôteauraked in all the stakes, the rare and fortunate result of drawing two similar cards from his right and left.
"Used up!" exclaimed a stout man with a prodigious sigh, his bowl being empty. In the speaker Esther recognized Stephen Fox, whom she had seen at Drury Lane. His brother, Charles James, the eminent orator, the man with the open shirt, gayly smote his shoulder.
"Shylock will make you a loan," he said; "you have more than a pound of flesh to offer him as security!"
Instead of a laugh, Charley's joke was received with a grunt of approbation.
One man alone seemed insensible to the incidents of the game. This was a gentleman of some sixty years, dressed in accordance with the latest Parisianmode. In him Esther recognized George Selwyn, who had been one of the most amiable, one of the wittiest men of his time, but was now absorbed and besotted by a passion more potent than that of gaming.
Up to this time the actress had not seen the banker, whose back was turned to her and who had not uttered a word. At this moment, however, the following disdainful words escaped him: "Ten thousand pounds, and no more! What a shame that I should have played for such low stakes!"
Esther started at sound of that voice, which she had heard not more than twice, but which she recognized instantly. It was Lord Mowbray, that terrible Mowbray, against whose love she had been warned!
A man entered the room and approached her with a glass of water in his hand.
"I see that you are better," he said. "Never mind; drink this to secure your recovery."
Esther hesitated. Still fluttered by the discovery which she had just made, she could not but be mindful of Lady Vereker's warning words. How many times had she read in romances and journals strange narratives of young girls being rendered helpless by narcotics! Ought she to drink, to trust this unknown man? She looked at him, and her perplexity increased. Another enigma to decipher: a generous sentiment pictured upon an evil countenance.
In fact, all the passions seemed to have left their trace upon that worn, pallid, haggard face. His age was uncertain, his condition ambiguous; his accent even sounded a note of doubt upon the nationality of the individual, offering no clew. Was he of middle age or old; valet or gentleman; English or a foreigner? One surprising thing was that the hard, bold manner which might well be habitual vanished before an expression of interest which seemed sincere. As he noted the girl's hesitation a trace of sadness passed over his coarsened features, almost ennobling them.
"I am not thirsty," she said, loath to wound the feelings of one who had already shown her consideration.
And he, regaining his accustomed composure, placed the glass upon a console.
Softly as Esther had spoken, Lord Mowbray had heard her. He turned and bent his stupefied gaze upon her. Esther, alone, in the torn garments of a serving maid, half fainting, in the card-room of the Brooks Club! Assuredly there was food in plenty for his surprise. What fate had sent his prey into his very clutches? Fortune, it is said, never comes single-handed! After the doublet, this fairest flower! And he was just the man to profit by his luck.
"Gentlemen," he said, rising as he spoke, "circumstances oblige me to—"
A cry of indignation interrupted his words, while three or four hands were placed upon his shoulders, forcibly obliging him to resume his seat.
"The game is not over." "We won't permit it!" "Wait until you win another ten thousand!" "This is not fair!"
"So be it!" answered Mowbray with a smile; "only permit me to say one word to Lebeau."
The man who had brought the glass of water approached upon hearing his name, and Lord Mowbray hastily whispered a phrase in a foreign tongue in his ear. Thereupon Lebeau, as we may now call him, returned to the girl.
"The street is free," he said, "but, now that the Guards have passed, the disorder may begin again. If you wish to profit by the lull to make your way home, the minutes are precious. Do you feel strong enough to walk?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Then come."
Esther rose and obeyed him, this time without hesitation. The momentary excitement occasioned by the doublet having subsided, the gamblers had remarked her presence. The glances directed towards her betrayed their curiosity. Despite her disguise, she might be recognized; consequently the necessity of escaping as speedily as possible presented itself. But she did not forget that Lebeau was her guide, the accursed mentor of the greatest libertine in England. The young lord had whispered to his former tutor; evidently the hurried words had reference to her. Therefore she saw the necessity of being upon her guard, ready to fly at the slightest suspicious movement. Meanwhile her heart beat with fear, curiosity and, perhaps, with delight; for it must be admitted that she adored an adventure.
So they went out. The din of the riot came to them from a distance. The street was empty; the night was beautiful and calm. The lights in the lanterns were flickering in their sconces andexpiring. The minister's house with its broken windows was guarded by soldiery.
Preceded by a page who carried a torch, Lebeau took the way towards Westminster. It seemed marvellous that he should know so well the location of Miss Woodville's abode.
"Will it please you to give me your arm?" he asked in a slightly changed, humble tone.
She passed her arm within his. Lebeau quickly drew his cocked hat down over his eyes to conceal his glance, and sustained the young girl with an almost tender solicitude, but with discretion and respect.
Thus they walked some distance in silence. At last he began:—
"You distrusted me at first."
She tried to protest, but he added:—
"Oh, you were quite right. Be on your guard. Life is full of snares. I have an intimate acquaintance with my brother man, and I find him bad."
Was he speaking of mankind in general, or of some one in particular? Esther was upon the point of inquiring when they halted in Tothill Street before a low door, upon which Lebeau knocked loudly.
"Some one is coming," he said; "I hear steps in the garden. You have escaped a menacing danger. I do not speak of being crushed beneath the hoofs of the horses; that would be as nothing compared with the other. You are saved, but the peril may threaten you again at any moment. However, it does not signify.You are in my care."
With these words he turned upon his heel and vanished just as the door was thrown open. Esther found herself confronted by the more severe than anxious face of her cousin Reuben. With his youthful air, his light, fluffy hair and sombre eyes, he resembled one of those avenging angels whom the Lord sent to the guilty cities to pronounce their doom when the hour of repentance had passed and that of retribution had sounded.
"At last!" he muttered in a bitter tone.
"Were you alarmed about me? Has not a man been sent here with a message from Lady Vereker?"
"Yes," answered Reuben with a derisive sneer;"that woman, whose very name is a reproach and a scandal, has had the goodness to assure us that you were in her charge. A strange guardian! Daniel was safer in the lions' den than Esther Woodville under Lady Vereker's wing!"
"You have no idea what has happened? All London is insane over Rodney's victory. They are fighting and breaking windows; the streets are full of soldiers."
"But what means this disguise?"
"I swear to you it was the only means of passing through the crowds."
"I should be glad to believe you," said Reuben, enveloping her in a glance of fire. "Oh, Esther! You who bear the predestined name, the chaste name of the woman who saved the people of God, you who ought to be as pure as the fountain of Gihon, as fresh as the rose of Sharon!"
But Esther abbreviated the biblical effusion.
"I must hasten to relieve my aunt's mind," she said.
"I have advised her to retire without waiting for you."
"That was wise. Good night, Reuben."
"Good night. I am going to pray."
"And I—am going to bed and to sleep."
But she did not sleep as readily as she had anticipated. The events of the day and evening, Sir Joshua's guests, the gamblers at Brooks's with their shepherd hats, the dangers encountered, her new friend Bella, the mysterious personage who had, as it seemed, received orders to plan her ruin, yet had protected her,—all these conflicting subjects created a tumult in her brain.
She cogitated upon the singular destiny which had cast her between the love of a Reuben andthat of a Lord Mowbray, between a saint and a demon.
And when at last she sank into the unconsciousness of sleep, between these two personalities, equally imperious and passionate, but actuated by an opposite sentiment, there glided the pale, melancholy visage of Francis Monday.
It was late on the following morning ere Lord Mowbray's valet ventured to enter his lordship's chamber. The daylight fell upon the red and swollen eyelids of the sleeper, who opened his eyes and uttered an oath. It was evident that the young nobleman was not in his best humor.
"Is that you, Oliver?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Who is in the antechamber?"
"Your lordship's tailor, who has come to try on the plum-colored coat with the jonquil trimmings; the little glove-woman from Piccadilly, who insists upon a word with your lordship; and Capt. Hackman, who has already called twice to inquire for your lordship."
"Let the tailor wait. Tell the Captain that I shall require his services later, and let him see to it that he brings two fellows of the determined sort along with him. As for the glove-woman, send her away. Because one shows these creatures some little attention of an evening when one is drunk, they think they have rights. Nothing could be more ridiculous, Oliver."
"Assuredly not, my lord."
"Is Lebeau there?"
"Mons. Lebeau has this instant come in."
"Ask him to come to me."
A moment later the former tutor and present factotum of Lord Mowbray smilingly entered thechamber like a man who expects to receive his quietus with a bare bodkin and is disposed to make the best of it.
His lordship addressed him in French.
"Eh bien, Lebeau?"
"Eh bien, my lord? Did you not receive my message by the little page from Brooks's?"
"Of course I did, and I was furious at such a mischance. Here had fate cast her into my very arms, and your cursed bungling let her escape!"
"Say, rather, the accident of fate, my lord. I was just in the act of putting the little one into a coach, when a band of ruffians, hotly pursued by the soldiers, fell upon us and knocked me down. When I regained my feet, Miss Woodville had vanished, and I was a prisoner in the hands of the guards. In vain I assured them that I was attached to your lordship's service. All that I was able to inform you was that I had failed."
Lord Mowbray looked his confidant full in the eyes.
"You are decidedly growing old," he said.
"That may be."
"Yes, you are growing old, and worse than that. Your compatriots have it that when the devil is old he turns hermit. Are you doing likewise? As God is my judge, Lebeau, I believe you are becoming virtuous."
Lebeau affected an offended air.
"My lord," he retorted, "I believe myself above such a suspicion. My past record answers for me."
"You are joking, but I am serious. Do you know the thought that has suggested itself to me, more especially since yesterday?"
"I cannot fancy, my lord."
"Well, that you are playing me false!"
With folded arms, Lebeau calmly regarded the speaker.
"Playing you false?" he echoed steadily. "For what reason?"
"That is what I wish to know."
"That would be folly on my part. Have you ever known me to commit deliberate treason? Does not my livelihood depend upon you? Are not my pleasures the remnants of yours? Have I not reared you as my own child? If I love anything in this world, it should assuredly be you."
"Then why do you oppose my course with Esther, when she loves me and is ready to yield? I have even feigned to believe you a bungler in order not to believe you a traitor and unfaithful to me. You, who have arranged all my intrigues—why do you oppose this one?"
"I have told you that the affair is full of peril."
"On account of the cousin Reuben?"
"Precisely."
"A psalm-singing hypocrite!"
"You do not know him. The man has a will of iron, and he loves Esther. In a different epoch he would have been capable of subverting a monarchy, and he would set London on fire if his passion, which he regards as sent from on high, should command him to do it. Young as he is, there are hundreds of fanatics who follow and obey him, and I advise Capt. Hackman and his men not to try issues with that legion of fools!"
"You quite fire me to carry the adventure to the issue at all events."
"Then may the devil protect your lordship! As for myself, I have sermonized quite enough for a man of my stamp. In any case, my lord, the receipts of last night's game must have recompensed you for the miscalculations of love. In that regard we have another proverb in our language. When I left the club Fortune seemed to be smiling upon you."
"Yes, and I continued to win until daybreak. Poor Charles Fox hadn't a guinea to his name. Moreover, he was hopelessly intoxicated, and, to cap the climax, had an important speech to deliver to-day. We bound up his head in cold cloths and left him in a chair as well as could be expected. I scrupled about ruining him, for it issaid that his furniture will be seized next week; but he does not seem to mind. I won twenty thousand pounds and remained alone with Lord Stavondale. It was raining, and we watched the day dawn across the wet windows. I assure you it is a very ugly sight to see. Stavondale pointed out two drops of water of about equal density slowly coursing over the pane. 'I will wager,' he said, 'thatthatone will touch the sash first.' 'I'll take you,' said I. 'How much?' said he. 'My night's winnings,' said I. Just at that moment a devilish drop, which some inequality in the glass turned from its course, joined Stavondale's drop, which came in with a rush, and I lost my twenty thousand pounds. What consoled me for my loss was the novelty of the invention. This racing drops across a window pane is every whit as amusing as pitting horses against each other at Newmarket."
Here chocolate was brought in at the same time with his lordship's journals.
"See if there is anything in the papers," he commanded.
Lebeau glanced through theMorning Chronicleand theGentleman's Magazine, and several other gazettes of the same description, which included magazines both matrimonial and sentimental.
"Let us see," said he; "'In a certain house in the neighborhood of the Thames—' Your lordship knows that this has reference to the House of Commons."
"Pass over politics."
"Here is a book announced from the pen of Mr. Bryant, the antiquarian, who is so well informed concerning events from the origin of the world to the Deluge. Fancy considering nothing of importanceafterthe Deluge! His work is disposed of in three words,—'Heavy, tiresome, pedantic.' Cumberland's romance is also treated in three words,—'Refined, sensible, and tender.'"
"Pass over literature."
"The condemned of the week: 'Sarah Hoggs, to be hanged for stealing a piece of cloth that was spread out to dry; Laurence Williamson, to the same penalty for having cut down sundry young trees; item, Annie Smith, to one year's imprisonment for having taken forty shillings in the presence of witnesses; item, Florence Dunk, to be hanged for having taken five shillings privately; item, William Morton, to transportation for having assassinated his father.'"
"Pass over all that. What society news is there?"
"'Major T—— has again been detected in cheating at cards; he has been requested not to appear at Almack's again.'"
"That's Topham, the editor of theWorld!" exclaimed his lordship. "Bah! in a week's time he will be back again and everybody will be shaking hands with him."
"'Lady B—— has eloped with her husband's groom; his lordship will be consoled by the society of Mlle. Annette, the little French dancer.'"
"Is there nothing else?"
"Nothing but two duels, three abductions, five or six bankruptcies, several fires, and a charade in verse.—Ah!"
"Well, what is it?"
"George Barrington, the gentleman-sharper, has been arrested at Edinburgh!"
"Barrington! a charming fellow! I recollect one evening at Ranelagh, when he showed me how he purloined a snuff-box, and as payment for thelesson he took my watch. And here he is under lock and key! Poor boy!"
"You need not pity him. He will plead his cause so eloquently that he will be acquitted, as he has been many a time."
"In truth, he is a very Cicero among thieves. And the advertisements?"
"The alchemist Woulfe announces for sale an elixir which is a panacea for every malady. Samuel Wollmer will loan money to sons-of-family in embarrassment. As he is actuated by pure love of humanity, his terms will be very moderate. Mrs. Cresswell offers false hair, masks, and red pomade for the lips. Oh, oh! here's a gentleman of middle age who desires to meet a young lady of good appearance and amiable disposition, but discreet and lively. He'll find her," added Lebeau gravely. "I am convinced that his advertisement will be answered."
During this time Oliver had dressed and prepared his master, and had tried on the plum-colored coat with the jonquil trimmings. Every trace of the night's fatigue had disappeared; the fresh hue of early youth bloomed again upon Lord Mowbray's cheek. As he was about to go out he gave his final orders to Oliver.
"You will buy for me 'The Tests of Character'; also, you will ask for the fashionable romance, 'The Cadenas.' You will inquire about the new wax which has just been invented by the Prince of Wales; they say it is marvellous. Now let us go and have a game of bowls, after which we will take a turn in the fencing-school."
Lord Mowbray slipped his arm into that of Lebeau, and in this attitude they went out together, which seemed to announce the return ofconfidence and friendly feeling. Mons. Lebeau was an adept in the art of pleasing, and in order to make good his return to grace he employed all the resources of his wit, which was by no means of mediocre quality. A curious fellow was this same Lebeau, who had almost ceased to be a Frenchman without wholly becoming an Englishman. He had distinguished himself among the tutors who were furnished to lordlings and who were termed "bear-keepers." He was clever, knew the world, was "up" in literature, could recite from the poets, and in case of need was able to turn a verse as easily as one twirled a snuff-box. He had had a tragedy produced and hissed off the stage somewhere, for he had tasted the cup of a man of letters, living by dedications to the great and by writing homilies for churchmen, rich in skekels but poor in intellect. He would frequently say, "Had I delivered all the sermons which I have written, I should be a cardinal." In turn, doctor upon a vessel of the East India Company, actor, professor of mathematics, courier to an ambassador, Parisian correspondent to a German prince who boasted thirty-three subjects, what callings had he not fulfilled? By what sallies had he not attempted fortune? His life resembled one of those old-fashioned romances, filled, as it was, with adventures which we should consider impossible. An event upon which he never cared to enlarge—some sort of an irregular duel with a personage of dignity—had obliged him to leave his native land. In a London brothel he had made the acquaintance of the late Lord Mowbray, who had taken him into his service on condition that he would procure him something new in the way ofemotion. "I am bored to death," explained his lordship; "amuse me. I have used up every resource and am used up myself; invent some plan to revive me. Bear in mind your ability as an author and make my life a poem of delights, an unedited romance. Instead of committing your fancies to paper, realize them with my guineas and for my benefit. To begin with, there is my villa, my 'Folly,' which is being built at Chelsea. Give your orders: the mason, the painter, the upholsterer will obey you." Lebeau accepted the engagement and acquitted himself to the perfect satisfaction of his new patron.
It was he who first invented those marvellous traps by means of which the table disappeared after the first course and came up again laid with a fresh service, which relieved the guests of the espionage of the attendants. It was he, again, who devised, or revived from ancient usage, the perfumed rain, the hail of roses; who offered to his master's friends afêtesuch as Cleopatra gave, a Trimalcion supper and a Borgian night festival; who realized for enchanted senses a corner of the Orient, a dream of the Thousand and One Nights, while the snowflakes fell and the wintry wind outside swept over the denuded country. And Lord Mowbray had the satisfaction of saying to those who congratulated him, "This is a mere nothing."
His friends in their jealousy often said to him, "Lebeau is robbing you." Whereupon he would shrug his shoulders and reply, "How can you expect such a clever fellow not to be a little bit of a swindler?"
Let us give an example of one of his surprising devices. As Lord Mowbray was strolling one evening along the Cheyne Walk by the water hewas suddenly seized by three or four ruffians, stripped of his clothing, bound, gagged, and finally thrown into the river. There he gave all up for lost, and, believing himself at death's door, fainted away. He recovered, to find himself at the bottom of a gigantic pie, whence he emerged, to the profound astonishment of a dozen or more of his friends who had assembled for supper.
"What do you think of that for a new sensation, my lord?" inquired Lebeau modestly.
"You own no equal!" exclaimed Mowbray enthusiastically. "I would not part with you for ten thousand pounds!"
But Lebeau inspired contrary sentiments in poor Lady Mowbray, who saw in him her husband's evil genius. When he was about she lost all hope of reclaiming her faithless spouse. A slow fever having succeeded the birth of her only son, she made no effort to live. Why should she? Her son would be enticed from her, as her husband had been. The child, as by some inconceivable hereditary repugnance, avoided her, fled her caresses. She herself, to her deep mortification, never experienced that mysterious and potent attachment which eternally binds the existence of mother and child; and it was under these cruel conditions of life that Lady Mowbray, overwhelmed with misery, weary of suffering, and longing for rest, sank into the arms of death.
She expired unpitied, conjugal love in the higher ranks of society being regarded as a ridiculous anomaly. However, the cynical joy of Lord Mowbray, even in that epoch of irony and indifference, caused a shudder among the less delicate. Henceforth he was in no way hampered. A career of untrammelled debauchery lay open before him;but an unexpected event arrested him with ruthless abruptness. He suddenly disappeared, and the circumstances of his taking-off, at once ignoble and sinister, finally became known in the social walks where he had been best known. He had lost his life in attempting to experiment upon himself in the mysterious sensations which, he was informed, attended the final convulsions of those doomed to die by hanging. Whether through mismanagement or crime, the cord had not been cut in time, and Death still guarded his secret from the one who had essayed to violate it.
Among the deceased nobleman's papers were found sundry instructions for the education of his son, among which one doctrine, far worse than atheism, was drawn up in cold, dry, incisive terms, to suit the custom of the time.
"Man," it maintained, "should live in accordance with nature. Now, nature commands us to flee pain and seek pleasure. Certain philosophers of antiquity have clearly perceived this truth, and that, too, at an epoch when the human mind was not yet encumbered and obscured by vain prejudices. But they have not ventured to demonstrate their theory even unto the end; they have imagined a substance called the soul, the tendencies of which are at constant variance with those of the body. They have arrayed pleasure in the guise of virtue, and have thus opened the way for the Christian folly. Christianity is the most formidable opponent of happiness, and during long ages has rendered the world well-nigh uninhabitable. From infancy we are imbued with the mawkish doctrines; I, myself, have had the utmost difficulty in relieving myself of the yoke and I have but imperfectlysucceeded. That is why, should I die before my son has attained his majority, I expressly desire that he shall grow up without receiving the teachings of any religion whatsoever. Later he will understand these aberrations when he comes to a full appreciation of the long series of human errors. Let his mind be developed, stocked with facts, and ornamented with agreeable reflections; let him be schooled in all that pertains to bodily exercise where strength and address are required. By increasing his vigor, his passions will increase and consequently his relish for life. Let him be instructed not to govern or struggle with himself, but to follow in all things the only instinct which can be his certain guide,—that which attracts man to pleasure. Monsieur Lebeau appears to me a man of the world and the one best fitted to take charge of this education."
The will of the dead man was duly accomplished. The young man was reared in the school of evil and became a curious, experimental subject for his master. The late Lord Mowbray had been a reclaimed fanatic; after his own fashion he preached as do nearly all of his compatriots. Lebeau contented himself with observation, and consigned these observations to a certain manuscript, written in French, which was entitled: "A Treatise on Pleasure; or, A Rational Journal of a Young English Nobleman. To be published one hundred years after my death."
Lebeau remarked many things; among others these:—
"This youth, reared in the very lap of happiness, was not happy. The pleasure which formed his daily lessons seemed to him stale and forced. Over and beyond the delights which were multipliedfor him and almost imposed upon him, he dreamed of others to which he could not attain, thereby proving that the true vocation of man is the unattainable, the unreal. He was bred according to nature, that is to say, after the fashion of savages; his joys revolved in the narrow, wretched circle in which the primitive inhabitants of the globe vegetate. Five or six thousand years of civilization have delicately undermined, modelled, and ameliorated this block of confused sensations which we represent. The thousand constraints which man has imposed upon himself, and his privations, voluntary or obligatory, not to mention his griefs, have refined him, perfected his organs of pleasure, increased his faculty of happiness an hundred-fold. Suppress these constraints, these tests, these combats, and you leave him but the swift, bestial joys in which the aborigines, our ancestors, forgot for a moment in the obscurity of their caverns the frightful misery of their existence. Young Mowbray at twenty years of age had run the gamut of fallacious love. He had learned the principles of gallantry and debauchery as one learns Latin; but never having trembled, wept, nor suffered, he was totally ignorant of genuine love."
All at once towards Lebeau, that man of infinite complaisance, he experienced a sense of secret resistance. It was upon the day when first he was smitten by the charms of Miss Woodville. A will seemed to interpose between him and the object of his desire, seeming to say: "All women, but notthis one!"
Was it not sufficient that she had become dearer to him than all others?
In her turn Esther had been awakened, as she was every morning, by a sort of dull buzzing, which for a space continued and finally died away. It was Reuben droning the morning prayers in the lower hall in presence of his mother and the aged servant, Maud. She raised herself upon her elbow and glanced about her with an expression of disgust. However, there was nothing displeasing to the sight about the chamber. To be sure, the appointments were of the simplest description, and the walls were bare; but everything exhaled the perfection of neatness and propriety. The window opened upon extensive meadows, called Tothill Fields, where some years later rose the quarter known as Pimlico. On this side no building intercepted the light of day; consequently the fresh, pure radiance of morning flooded the room, flecking the draperies and white furniture. But Esther for a long time had indulged herself in a dream of luxury and grandeur. It seemed to her that each night renewed for her special benefit the story of Cinderella. During the entire evening she walked in her glory beneath the fire of glances, like a little queen, envied, admired, adored, tasting, as an homage more enduring than the applause of men, the jealousy of her comrades. The curtain having fallen, the beautiful costume replaced by a modest gown of some dark stuff, she escaped from the scene of her triumph withher arm firmly locked in that of Mrs. Marsham. When she awoke in the morning there was nothing to prevent her from believing that it had all been a dream, and that she was after all only an ordinary little being destined to set a good example to her neighbors, and be the joy of some commonplace, honest husband. What was there in store for her but to share this insipid existence, take her part in the usual housework, and listen to the babble of her aunt, who represented simple, tender devotion, as Reuben was the exponent of the suspicious and fierce kind? But patience! It would not be long ere emancipation would lend her wings to escape from this irksome prison.
More than ever this morning was she disposed to view her surroundings with a disapproving and dissatisfied eye. When should she have a boudoir like Lady Vereker's, and a gilded coach, a footman with a plumed hat, a great nobleman for her husband, subject to her caprices, sighing at her feet, and breathing soft nothings in the pretty, affected language, mingled with French, which the heroes in the fashionable plays made use of? Like Lord Mowbray, she deceived herself on the score of love, but after a different fashion. He saw in it but the satisfaction of the senses; she, the triumph of vanity. To be forever and a day the personage she appeared to be three evenings out of the week, from seven o'clock until ten; to be in reality ingenuous, anxious, coquettish, and impassioned; to play the comedy, and play it to the life, amidst men who were by no means acting; to heave real sighs, shed genuine tears, commit actual follies,—such was her idea of happiness, which would have been perverse had it not been childish.
Scarcely was she dressed ere she received a tender missive from Lady Vereker which informed her of the result of their evening's frolic. One of her ladyship's cousins, an officer in the Guards, had rescued her from her dilemma. For hours she had sought her companion; then she had gone home, "heaping reproaches upon herself and calling herself every manner of barbarous name." For she felt in her heart that "she should never taste of perfect bliss if separated from her incomparable friend, and that it would be inhuman long to deprive her of her presence." This jargon, which passed in the fashionable world of that day, was new to Esther, and she replied in a similar vein, assuring her noble protectress that, had she listened to the dictates of her heart, she would have flown to her: but circumstances obliged her to defer the joy for which she sighed so ardently; the circumstances being a guitar lesson, a newrôleto study, and a second sitting with Sir Joshua.
In fact, the guitar master, Mr. O'Flannigan, shortly made his appearance upon horseback, the animal being as lean and lanky as himself. He was an Irish gentleman, descended from the kings of his native land. He was wont to prate of vast domains which had fallen two centuries before his birth into the hands of the English. Thanks to the revolt of the American colonies, which Ireland was preparing to imitate, Mr. O'Flannigan had hopes of regaining his family rights and possessions. Meanwhile he rambled about London, darned his own stockings, and gave music lessons. Moreover, he occasionally relieved old Hopkins, the prompter at Drury Lane Theatre; but whatever he did, he did with innatenobility and elegance. He could bow with a grace almost equal to that of any Frenchman, having passed one week of his youth in Paris, "the capital of elegance and good taste."
It was averred that, like the majority of his countrymen, he must have kissed the famous Blarney stone which communicates to the lips which have pressed it the gift of suave falsehood. But the persons who spoke in that way were his enemies. And who has not an enemy? Mr. O'Flannigan possessed his share of those troublesome individuals, although he had obliged at least three of them to bite the dust.
"What! Three men stretched upon the ground? Three men killed by you single-handed?"
"All of that, miss!"
His brow clouded at the recollection; he declined to enlarge upon the subject; whereupon, since no one wished to wound his feelings by insisting upon details, he would recount the entire dreadful tale even unto the bitter end. One was an Italian, of the princely house of Castellamare; he understood the secret thrust, you know,—the famous secret thrust! Poor man! His death had served no great purpose. To-day the violets bloom upon his grave. Another was a German baron,—a boor who, in passing Mr. O'Flannigan, had knocked over his glass of milk with the tip of his sword and had not known enough to beg his pardon,—a man so tall and stout that he could not have passed through yonder door; yet this Colossus had fallen before little O'Flannigan!