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

“I’ll see if my Lady be visible,” said George, as he threw the “Morning Post” to his friend, and hastily quitted the chamber.

Norwood was no sooner left alone than he proceeded to take a leisurely survey of the apartment, in the course of which his attention was arrested by a water-color drawing, representing a young girl leaning over a balcony, and which he had no difficulty in at once guessing to be Kate Dalton. There was something in the character of her beauty an air of almost daring haughtiness that seemed to strike his fancy; for, as he gazed, he drew himself up to his full height, and seemed to assume in his own features the proud expression of the portrait.

“With a hundred thousand and that face one might make you a viscountess, and yet not do badly, either,” said he to himself; and then, as if satisfied that he had given time enough to a mere speculative thought, he turned over the visiting-cards to see the names of the current acquaintance: “Midchekoff, Estrolenka, Janini, Tiverton, Latrobe, the old set; the Ricketts, too, and Haggerstone. What can have brought them here? Oh, there must have been a ball, for here are shoals of outsiders, the great Smith-Brown-and-Thompson community; and here, on the very smallest of pasteboards, in the very meekest of literals, have we our dear friend ‘Albert Jekyl.’ He ‘ll tell me all I want to know,” said Norwood, as he threw himself back on the comfortable depth of a well-cushioned chair, and gave way to a pleasant revery.

When George Ouslow had informed Lady Hester of Norwood’s arrival, he hastened to Sir Stafford’s apartment to tell him how completely the Viscount had exonerated himself from any charge that might be made to his discredit; not, indeed, that George understood one syllable of the explanation, nor could trace anything like connection between the disjointed links of the narrative. He could only affirm his own perfect conviction in Norwood’s honor, and hoped an equal degree of faith from his father. Fortunately for his powers of persuasiveness, they were not destined to be so sorely tried; for Sir Stafford had just walked out, and George, too eager to set all right about Norwood, took his hat and followed, in the hope of overtaking him.

Lady Hester was already dressed, and about to enter the drawing-room, when George told her that Norwood was there; and yet she returned to her room and made some changes in her toilet, slight, and perhaps too insignificant to record, but yet of importance enough to occupy some time, and afford her an interval for thoughts which, whatever their nature, served to flush her cheek and agitate her deeply.

It is an awkward thing, at any time, to meet with the person to whom you once believed you should have been married; to see, on the terms of mere common acquaintance, the individual with whose fate and fortune you at one time fancied your own was indissolubly bound up, for weal or woe, for better or for worse. To exchange the vapid commonplaces of the world; to barter the poor counters of that petty game called society, with her or him with whom you have walked in all the unbounded confidence of affection, speculating on a golden future, or glorying in a delicious dream of present bliss; to touch with ceremonious respect that hand you have so often held fast within your own; to behold with respectful distance that form beside which you have sat for hours, lost in happy fancies; to stand, as it were, and trace out with the eye some path in life we might have followed, wondering whither it would have led us, if to some higher pinnacle of gratified ambition, if to disappointments darker than those we have ever known, speculating on a future which is already become a past, and canvassing within our hearts the follies that have misled and the faults that have wrecked us! Such are among the inevitable reminiscences of meeting; and they are full of a soft and touching sorrow, not all unpleasing, either, as they remind us of our youth and its buoyancy. Far otherwise was the present case. Whatever might have been the bold confidence with which Lady Hester protested her belief in Norwood’s honor, her own heartfelt knowledge of the man refuted the assertion. She knew thoroughly that he was perfectly devoid of all principle, and merely possessed that conventional degree of fair dealing indispensable to association with his equals. That he would do anything short of what would subject him to disgrace she had long seen; and perhaps the unhappy moment had come when even this restraint was no longer a barrier. And yet, with all this depreciating sense of the man, would it be believed she had once loved him! ay, with as sincere an affection as she was capable of feeling for anything.

‘T is true, time and its consequences had effaced much of this feeling. His own indifference had done something, her new relations with the world had done more; and if she ever thought of him now, it was with a degree of half terror that there lived one man who had so thoroughly read all the secrets of her heart, and knew every sentiment of her nature.

Norwood was sitting in a chair as she entered, amusing himself with the gambols of a little Blenheim spaniel, whose silver collar bore the coronet of the Russian prince. He never perceived Lady Hester until she was close beside him, and in an easy, half-indifferent tone, said,

“How d’ ye do, my Lord?”

“What, Hester!” said he, starting up, and taking her hand in both his own.

She withdrew it languidly, and seating herself, not upon the sofa to which he wished to lead her, but in a chair, asked when he had arrived, and by what route.

“I came out in a yacht; stopping a few days at Gibraltar, and a week at Malta.”

“Had you pleasant weather?”

“After we got clear of the Channel, excellent weather.”

“You came alone, I suppose?”

“Quite alone.”

“How do you get on without your dear friend Effingdale, or your ‘familiar,’ Upton?”

Norwood colored a little at a question the drift of which he felt thoroughly, but tried with a laugh to evade an answer.

“Are they in England? I thought I read their names at the Newmarket meeting?” asked she, after waiting in vain for a reply.

“Yes; they were both at Newmarket,” replied he, shortly.

“Was it a good meeting?”

“I can scarcely say so,” rejoined he, attempting a laugh. “My book turned out very unfortunately.”

“I heard so,” was the short reply; and in a tone so dry and significant that a dead silence followed.

“Pretty spaniel, that,” said Norwood, trying a slight sortie into the enemy’s camp. “A present, I suppose, from Midchekoff?”

“Yes.”

“It is not clean bred, however, no more than his late master. Have you seen much of the Prince?”

“He comes here every evening, after the Opera.”

“What a bore that must be he is a most insufferable proser.”

“I must say I disagree with you; I reckon him excessively agreeable.”

“How changed you must be, Hes – Lady Hester.”

“I believe I am, my Lord.”

“And yet you look the same the very same as when we sauntered for hours through the old woods at Dipsley.” She blushed deeply; less, perhaps, at the words, than at the look which accompanied them.

“Is this your newly found niece or cousin?” said Norwood, as he pointed to the portrait of Kate Dal ton.

“Yes. Is n’t she pretty?”

“The picture is.”

“She is much handsomer, however, a charming creature in every respect, as you will confess when you see her.”

“And for what high destiny is she meant? Is she to be a Russian Princess, a Duchessa of Italy, or the goodwife of an untitled Englishman?”

“She may have her choice, I believe, of either of the three – .”

“Happy girl!” said he half scornfully; “and when may I hope to behold so much excellence?”

“To-day, if you like to dine here.”

“I should like it much but but – ”

“But what?”

“It’s better to be frank at once, Hester,” said he, boldly, “and say that I feel you are grown very cold and distant toward me. This is not your old manner, this not exactly the reception I looked for. Now, if you have any cause for this, would it not be better and fairer to speak it out openly than continue to treat me in this slighting fashion? You are silent, so there is something; pray let’s hear it.”

“What of Newmarket?” said she, in a low voice, so faint as almost to be a whisper.

“So that’s it,” said he, as he folded his arms and looked steadfastly at her.

There was something in the cold and steady gaze he bestowed upon her that abashed, if not actually alarmed, Lady Hester. She had seen the same look once or twice before, and always as the prelude to some terrible evidence of his temper.

“Lady Hester,” said he, in a low, distinct, and very slow voice, as though he would not have her lose a word he spoke, “the explanation which a man would ask for at the peril of his life ought not, in common justice, to be quite costless to a lady. It is perfectly possible that you may not care for the price, be it so; only I warn you that if you wish for any information on the subject you allude to, I will inquire whether – ”

Here he dropped his voice, and whispered two or three words rapidly in her ear, after which she lay back, pale, sick, and almost fainting, without strength to speak or even to move.

“Do not say, or still less feel, that this contest is of my provoking. Never was any man less in the humor to provoke hostilities, and particularly from old friends. I have just had bad luck, the very worst of bad luck. I have lost everything but my head; and even that, cool and calculating as it is, may go too if I be pushed too far. Now you have a frank and free confession from me. I have told you more than I would to any other living, more, perhaps, than I ought even to you.”

“Then what do you intend to do here?” asked she, faintly.

“Wait wait patiently for awhile. Fix upon anyone that I can discover mutters a syllable to my discredit, and shoot him as I would a dog.”

“There may be some who, without openly discussing, will shun your society, and avoid your intercourse.”

“Sir Stafford, for instance,” said he, with an insolent laugh. She nodded slightly, and he went on: “My Lady’s influence will, I am certain, set me right in that quarter.”

“I may be unequal to the task.”

“You can at least try, madam.”

“I have tried, Norwood. I have gone the length of declaring that I disbelieved every story against you, that I reposed the most implicit faith in your honor, and that I would certainly receive you and admit your visits as heretofore.”

“And, of course, you’ll keep your word?”

“If you exact it.”

“Of course I shall! Hester, this is no time for quibbling. I ‘ve got into a mess, the worst of all the bad scrapes which have ever befallen me. A little time and a little management will pull me through but I must have both; nor is it in such a place, and with such a society as this, a man need fear investigation. I came here, as formerly one went to live ‘within the rules.’ Let me, at least, have the benefit of the protection for condescending to the locality.”

“Sir Stafford, my Lady,” said a servant, throwing open the door; and the old Baronet entered hastily, and, without deigning to notice Lord Norwood, walked straight up to Lady Hester, and said a few words in a low voice.

Affecting to occupy himself with the books upon the table, Norwood watched the dialogue with keen but stealthy glances, and then, as the other turned suddenly round, said,

“How d’ ye do, Sir Stafford? I am glad to see you looking so well.”

“I thank you, my Lord; I am perfectly well,” said he, with a most repelling coldness.

“You are surprised to see me in Florence, for certain,” said the other, with a forced laugh.

“Very much surprised to see you here, my Lord,” was the abrupt reply.

“Ha! ha! ha! I thought so!” cried Norwood, laughing, and pretending not to feel the point of the remark. “But, nowadays, one flits about the world in slippers and dressing-gown, and travelling inflicts no fatigue. I only left England ten days ago.”

“The post comes in seven, my Lord,” said Sir Stafford. “I have had letters this morning, written this day week, and which give the last events in Town Life up to the very hour.”

“Indeed! and what’s the news, then?” said he, negligently.

“If your Lordship will favor me with your company for a few minutes, I may be able to enlighten you,” said Sir Stafford, moving towards the door.

“With the greatest pleasure. Good-bye, Lady Hester,” said he, rising. “You said seven o’clock dinner, I think?”

“Yes,” replied she, but in a voice almost inarticulate from shame and terror.

“Now, Sir Stafford, I ‘m at your orders,” said the Viscount, gayly, as he left the room, followed by the old man, whose crimson cheek and flashing eye bespoke the passion which was struggling within him.

Of the two who now entered Sir Stafford’s library, it must be owned that Lord Norwood was, by many degrees, the more calm and collected. No one, to have looked at him, could possibly have supposed that any question of interest, not to say of deep moment, awaited him; and as he carried his eyes over the well-filled shelves and the hand some fittings of the chamber, nothing could be more naturally spoken than the few complimentary expressions on Sir Stafford’s good taste and judgment.

“I shall not ask you to be seated, my Lord,” said the old Baronet, whose tremulous lip and shaking cheek showed how deep-felt was his agitation. “The few moments of interview I have requested will be, I have no doubt, too painful to either of us, nor could we desire to prolong them. To me, I own, they are very, very painful.”

These hurried, broken, and unconnected sentences fell from him as he searched for a letter among a number of others that littered the table.

Lord Norwood bowed coldly, and, without making any reply, turned his back to the fire, and waited in patience.

“I have, I fear, mislaid the letter,” said Sir Stafford, whose nervous anxiety had now so completely mastered him that he threw the letters and papers on every side without perceiving it.

The Viscount made no sign, but suffered the search to proceed without remark.

“It was a letter from Lord Effingdale,” continued the Baronet, still busied in the pursuit, “a letter written after the Newmarket settling, my Lord; and if I should be unfortunate enough not to find it, I must only trust to my memory for its contents.”

Lord Norwood gave another bow, slighter and colder than the former, as though to say that he acquiesced perfectly, without knowing in what.

“Ah! here it is! here it is!” cried Sir Stafford, at last detecting the missing document, which he hastily opened and ran his eyes over. “This letter, my Lord,” continued he, “announces that, in consequence of certain defalcations on your part, the members of the ‘Whip Club’ have erased your Lordship’s name from their list, and declared you incapacitated from either entering a horse, or naming a winner for the stakes in future. There, there, my Lord, is the paragraph, coupled with what you will doubtless feel to be a very severe but just comment on the transaction.”

Norwood took the letter and read it leisurely, as leisurely and calmly as though the contents never concerned him, and then, folding it up, laid it on the chimney-piece beside him.

“Poor Effingdale!” said he, smiling; “he ought to spell better, considering that his mother was a governess. He writes ‘naming’ with an ‘e.’ Didn’t you remark that?”

But as Sir Stafford paid no attention to the criticism, he went on:

“As to the ‘Whip,’ I may as well tell you, that I scratched my own name myself. They are a set of low ‘Legs,’ and, except poor Effy, and two or three others of the same brilliant stamp, not a gentleman amongst them.”

“The defalcation is, however, true?” asked Sir Stafford.

“If you mean to ask whether a man always wins at Doncaster or Newmarket, the question is of the easiest to answer.”

“I certainly presume that he always pays what he loses, my Lord,” replied Sir Stafford, coloring at the evasive impertinence of the other.

“Of course he does, when he has it, Sir Stafford; but that is a most essential condition, for the ‘Turf’ is not precisely like a mercantile pursuit.”

Sir Stafford winced under the flippant insolence with which this was spoken.

“There is not exactly a fair way to calculate profit, nor any assurance against accidental loss. A horse, Sir Stafford, is not an Indiaman; a betting man is, therefore, in a position quite exceptional.”

“If a man risks what he cannot pay, he is dishonorable,” said Sir Stafford, in a short, abrupt tone.

“I see that you cannot enter into a theme so very different from all your habits and pursuits. You think there is a kind of bankruptcy when a man gets a little behind with his bets. You don’t see that all these transactions are on ‘honor,’ and that if one does ‘bolt,’ he means to ‘book up’ another time. There was George, your own son – ”

“What of him? what of George?” cried Sir Stafford, with a convulsive grasp of the chair, while the color fled from his cheek, and he seemed ready to faint with emotion.

“Oh, nothing in the world to cause you uneasiness. A more honorable fellow never breathed than George.”

“Then, what of him? How comes his name to your lips at such a discussion as this? Tell me, this instant, my Lord. I command I entreat you!”

And the old man shook like one in an ague; but Norwood saw his vantage-ground, and determined to use it unsparingly. He therefore merely smiled, and said, “Pray be calm, Sir Stafford. I repeat that there is nothing worthy of a moment’s chagrin. I was only about to observe that if I had the same taste for scandal-writing as poor Effy, I might have circulated a similar story about your son George. He left England, owing me a good round sum, for which, by the way, I was terribly ‘hard up;’ and although the money was paid eventually, what would you have thought of me what would the world have thought of him if I had written such an epistle as this?”

And as he spoke, his voice and manner warmed into a degree of indignant anger, in which, as if carried away, he snatched the letter from the chimney-piece and threw it into the fire. The act was unseen by Sir Stafford, who sat with his head deeply buried between his hands, a low faint groan alone bespeaking the secret agony of his heart.

“My son has, then, paid you? He owes nothing, my Lord?” said he, at last, looking up, with a countenance furrowed by agitation.

“Like a trump!” said Norwood, assuming the most easy and self-satisfied manner. “My life upon George Onslow! Back him to any amount, and against the field anywhere! A true John Bull! no humbug, no nonsense about him! straightforward and honorable, always!”

“Your position is, then, this, my Lord,” said Sir Stafford, whose impatience would not permit him to listen longer, “you have quitted England, leaving for future settlement a number of debts, for which you have not the remotest prospect of liquidation.”

“Too fast, you go too fast!” said the Viscount, laughing.

“Lord Effingdale writes the amount at thirty thousand pounds, and adds that, as a defaulter – ”

“There’s the whole of it,” broke in Norwood. “You ring the changes about that one confounded word, and there is no use in attempting a vindication. ‘Give a dog a bad name,’ as the adage says. Now, I took the trouble this very morning to go over the whole of this tiresome business with George. I explained to him fully, and, I hope, to his entire satisfaction, that I was simply unfortunate in it, nothing more. A man cannot always ‘ride the winner; ‘I ‘m sure I wish I could. Of course, I don’t mean to say that it ‘s not a confounded ‘bore’ to come out here and live in such a place as this, and just at the opening of the season, too, when town is beginning to fill; but ‘needs must,’ we are told, ‘when a certain gent sits on the coach-box.’”

Sir Stafford stood, during the whole of this speech, with his arms folded and his eyes fixed upon the floor. He never heard one word of it, but was deeply intent upon his own thoughts. At length he spoke in a full, collected, and firm voice: “Lord Norwood I am, as you have told me, perfectly unfitted to pronounce upon transactions so very unlike every pursuit in which my life has been passed. I am alike ignorant of the feelings of those who engage in them, and of the rules of honor by which they are guided; but this I know, that the man whom his equals decline to associate with at home is not recognizable abroad; and that he who leaves his country with shame, cannot reside away from it with credit.”

“This would be a very rude speech, Sir Stafford Onslow, even with the palliative preface of your ignorance, if our relative ages admitted any equality between us. I am the least bellicose of men, I believe I can say I may afford to be so. So long, therefore, as you confine such sentiments to yourself, I will never complain of them; but if the time comes that you conceive they should be issued for general circulation – ”

“Well, my Lord, what then?”

“Your son must answer for it, that’s all!” said Norwood; and he drew himself up, and fixed his eye steadily on the distant wall of the room, with a look and gesture that made the old man sick at heart. Norwood saw how “his shot told,” and, turning hastily round, said: “This interview, I conclude, has lasted quite long enough for either of us. If you have any further explanations to seek for, let them come through a younger man, and in a more regular form. Good-morning.”

Sir Stafford bowed, without speaking, as the other passed out.

To have seen them both at that moment, few would have guessed aright on which side lay all the disgrace, and where the spirit of rectitude and honor.

Sir Stafford, indeed, was most miserable. If the Viscount’s mock explanations did not satisfy a single scruple of his mind, was it not possible they might have sufficed with others more conversant with such matters? Perhaps he is not worse than others of his own class. What would be his feelings if he were to involve George in a quarrel for such a cause? This was a consideration that pressed itself in twenty different forms, each of them enough to appall him. “But the man is a defaulter; he has fled from England with ‘shame,’” was the stubborn conviction which no efforts of his casuistry could banish; and the more he reflected on this, the less possible seemed anything like evasion or compromise.