CHAPTER XXXVIII.—SOME OF THE JOYS OF OUR DANCING DAYS.
Lady Tattersall Trottemout lived in the Brompton and Kensington region, and knew everybody. Her deceased papa had walked into Manchester some fifty years since, with a good head on his shoulders, and fourpence-halfpenny in his breeches-pocket. Being tired with his walk, he sat down in Manchester, and rested there for the space of forty years, during which time, by a process peculiar to that city, his fourpence-halfpenny grew into an hundred and forty thousand pounds. Unto him was born, in lawful wedlock, one only daughter, the subject of the present brief memoir, who, on his retirement to “t’ Oud Churchyard” (as, in his Lancashire dialect, he was accustomed to denominate his final resting-place in the burial-ground of the Collegiate Church), inherited the fourpence-halfpenny and its compound interest; with which, when her mourning for her father was ended, she purchased Sir Tattersall Trottemout. This noble baronet, who was by no means worth the price she gave for him, had been essentially a fast man, and had run through everything he could lay his “blood-red hand” upon—his own fortune and the fortunes of several of his relations included—and when they were all gone and spent, he ran through his reputation; which last “rapid act” did not take him long, as that “bubble” was not as “wide as a church-door, nor deep as a draw-well,” when he began upon it. Thus, finding himself under a cloud and in difficulties—the only things he had yet encountered which he could not run through (the good old days of “pinking” one’s tailor instead of paying him being unfortunately past)—Sir T. T. felt that his time was come, and that he must prepare his mind for another—that is, a married—life. So, ætatis forty-five, he went into dock, dyed his hair and whiskers, purchased a new set of teeth, laid in a stock of patent leather boots, and ran down to Manchester to captivate an heiress. The respectable owner of the enlarged and embellished fourpence-halfpenny had, at that epoch, been about one year under the turf which his future son-in-law had been on for above twenty; and his orphan daughter, of sweet nineteen, was immediately smitten and wounded by the aristocratic appearance and distinguished manners of the broken-down titled blackleg who sought her... fortune. She, being then a simple-minded, honest girl, absurd as it may appear, loved the creature; and, despite the advice of several kind-hearted, strong-headed, fearfully vulgar old men, who were her trustees, guardians, legal advisers, &c. &c. (policemen, so to speak, appointed by the lamented deceased to prevent his developed fourpence-halfpenny being prematurely reduced to its pristine elements), this young lady vowed she would marry Sir Tattersall Trottemout—and did so. But, as the baronet’s talent for running through any amount of cash was rumoured even at Manchester, the ancient policemen tied up the fourpence-halfpenny so tightly that nobody could manufacture ducks and drakes with it—not even Sir Tat. Trott.: so, after a few abortive attempts, that ornament to his order gave up his evil courses, and settled down quietly on cigars, brandy and water, and whist with half-crown points—a notable example of the reformatory powers of matrimony. His lady-wife went through the usual agreeable process of awaking from “Love’s young dream,” and discovering that, after the manner of Caliban, she had, in her simplicity,—
“Made a wonder of a poor drunkard,”
she, like a sensible woman, resolved to put up with her bad bargain, keep her husband in respectable order, and create or discover some fresh interest in life for herself. In accordance with this determination, she restricted the marital cigars and brandy and water to certain definite limits; tested several phases of London society; and then took her line, and chose her associates accordingly. Being an intellectual woman, and having literary taste up to a certain point, she affected the society of artists of all classes, and in every department of art. Thus, at her soirees, you might meet literary men of various species: historians, novelists, journalists, critics, et hoc genus omne; painters, sculptors, musicians; the leading actors of the day, male and female,—in fact, all the celebrities whom the London season delighteth to honour. But, knowing that talent requires an intelligent audience, Lady Tattersall Trottemout associated a certain proportion of the profanum vulgus to worship her collected divinities. Her parties, therefore, soon became noted as the most agreeable of their kind; and to one of these meetings, in which dancing was to be the chief feature of the evening, were our friends in Park Lane invited. Harry had promised Alice that, if it were possible, he would return to escort her to this notable gathering; however, on the appointed evening, ten o’clock arrived, but no Coverdale. Alice was rather frightened and considerably annoyed, but Kate persuaded her that there was no just cause for alarm; and so, leaving a note for Harry, begging him to join them, if he should arrive in time to make it worth while to do so, they proceeded to the “spacious mansion” of Lady Tattersall Trottemout.
For some time, little Mrs. Coverdale was sufficiently amused by observing the appearance, manners, and customs of the various notabilities, as they were pointed out to her by no less a personage than her hostess, who, attracted by the simple beauty of her new acquaintance, and the evident pleasure and interest she took in all that was going on around her, actually devoted to her ten minutes of the valuable time in which, on such occasions, a clever mistress of the house is expected, and actually contrives, to say and do something civil to an hundred and fifty human beings, all prepared to magnify any accidental neglect into an intended slight, and to resent it accordingly. But, ere ten minutes had well elapsed, an illustrious stranger arrived, who was so intensely foreign that he could not be prevailed upon to speak or understand any language of which the deepest philologists present were able to make head or tail, and who, in his consequent bewilderment, had seated himself on the music-stool, with his back towards the key-board of the pianoforte—thereby establishing a complete blockade of that harmonious and indispensable instrument, which no representations in French, German, or Italian, could induce him to relinquish: so a breathless female aide-de-camp, in flaxen ringlets and white muslin, hurried up to report this frightful dilemma to the commandress-in-chief, who, with the greatest presence of mind, dispatched her to summon Count Cacklewitz, the young Hungarian patriot, who, it was generally believed, could speak everything, even his own language, and then hastened in person to raise the siege of the piano-forte. Alice, thus deserted, fell into the hands of a tall, gaunt, blue woman, rejoicing in a red nose and a long fluent tongue, who began to talk high art to her, and confused her about transcendentalism and Carlyle,—the Oxford Graduate (viz., Turner’s single and singular disciple, wonderful Mr. Buskin), and pre-Raphaelism,—the meaning of Tennyson, when he condescends to be obscure (for he can write real poetry, which “he who runs may read” and feel),—and of the dark Brownings, and Macaulay and the romance of history, and many other hackneyed pseudo-literary topics of the day, until our unlucky little heroine lapsed into that state of mental incapacity usually described as not knowing whether one is standing on one’s head or one’s heels. Then began vocal music, which mercifully silenced Alice’s strong-minded persecutor; and a rather raffish baritone gentleman, who wanted shearing dreadfully, and was all voice, eyes, and feathers, like a lean bird, accosted a singularly hard-featured, middle-aged German lady, as “Oh! thou beloved one!” to which she made an appropriately tender soprano reply; and the company listened with much forbearance, for quite ten minutes, to the united affections of this interesting couple, detailed to an accompaniment now rapturous, now pathetic, at the end of which period they both suddenly exalted their voices, bellowed their love at each other in one final outburst of sympathetic insanity, and subsided into a refreshing silence. Then a young lady in a pink sash informed the company that her brain was on fire, her heart consuming, and her digestive organs generally in a state of spontaneous combustion, because her fatherland writhed in the grasp of tyrants—“tra la, tra lira la!”—which unpleasant state of affairs was much applauded by hairy exiles, with microscopic washing bills, which they never paid, and a monomania in regard to freedom, which they never obtained, but which had kept them in hot water (the only water they patronized) from their youth upwards. Lastly, a very mild young gentleman of England excited himself about some “Rivar! rivar! shining rivar!” into which pellucid stream he kept putting his foot “deeper and deeper still,” until every one was so sorry for him, that the whole party appeared on the verge of hysterics, and were forced to conceal their emotion behind fans, flounced pocket-handkerchiefs, and white-gloved hands. Then the votaries of Terpsichore stood at ease upon their light fantastic toes (except in the cases of tightly-shod martyrs), and polking was the order of the night—at which period Alice looked about and wondered what had become of Lord Alfred Courtland, who had said a great deal on the subject of the delight he expected in dancing with her, and had engaged her hand for the first polka.
Now, whether any strictly moral reader, with that bad opinion of poor human nature which very strict morality usually induces, has decided that “every woman is at heart a rake,” and believed our little heroine about to prove herself a “dreadful creature,” and transfer her affections from her lawful husband to her unlawful admirer, we do not know; but if any reader has set his (or her) heart on such a consummation, we are sorry to be obliged to inform him that he is mistaken. Alice considered Lord Alfred a good-natured agreeable boy, whose conversation served to amuse her, and to whose society she had become accustomed; she would a thousand times rather have talked to Harry at any time, but Harry was not always attainable—indeed, the chances were generally against her seeing anything of him from breakfast till dinner-time, and then Lord Alfred became a very good and safe substitute.
But the first polka was over, and a valse à deux temps followed it, neither of which Alice danced, and still no Harry, no Lord Alfred appeared; and in despair she was obliged to say Yes to a heavy cornet in the Life-Guards, who was big enough to eat her, and polked like a polite young elephant. Glad to escape without being squeezed to death or trampled under foot by this ponderous young warrior, Alice had just found a seat, when D’Almayne and Lord Alfred lounged in; the latter immediately joined her, and claimed her promise to dance with him; but Alice was tired and bored, and feeling that it was in some degree owing to him that she had become so, and that he ought to have been there sooner, she replied coldly—
“I promised to reserve the first dance for you, my lord, but the first dance has been over some time, and several others have followed; I do not feel disposed to dance at present.”
Of course, Lord Alfred endeavoured to excuse himself, and when Alice declined dancing, said, “Very well, then he should sit still too—all the night, if she pleased, for he certainly should not dance with any one else.” So, after she had teased him until he very nearly lost the little good temper which the events of the earlier part of the evening had left him, she took compassion on him, and danced with him twice consecutively; but when he urged her to do so a third time, she refused; and on his pressing her, told him plainly, that as her husband was away she felt bound to be more than usually particular, and that it was not étiquette to dance the whole evening with one gentleman; at which rebuff his lordship was pleased to take offence, and leading her to a seat, he bowed and left her. Deserted by his lady-love, and swindled out of his money by his pseudo-friends, this victimised young nobleman looked about for his protector and adviser—at once patron and parasite—Horace D’Almayne, but for some time without success; when at length he did discover him, he was engaged in such an earnest private conversation with some gentleman unknown, that Lord Alfred felt it would be ill-bred to interrupt them; accordingly, he lounged through the rooms, resisting several introductions to “great heiresses” and “loveliest girls in London,” all declared to be dying to dance with him, wandered listlessly into the refreshment-room, drank a tumbler of Champagne and sodawater, and was thinking seriously of turning sulky and going home to bed, when D’Almayne seized him by the arm, exclaiming—
“Alfred, mon cher, where have you hidden yourself? I’ve been hunting for you for the last half hour. Why have you left la belle Coverdale?”
“Oh, yes! that is good! looking for me, indeed, when I passed you twice close enough almost to brush against your elbow, and you never even saw me, so engrossed were you plotting treason with some party unknown,” was the captious reply.
“Ungrateful! when it was for your interest I was exerting myself,” returned D’Almayne, reproachfully; “but you do not explain why you have quitted la belle Alice; you really are not sufficiently attentive; no pretty woman likes to be neglected.”
“She’s a little fickle, heartless coquette, and I’ll let her see that I’m not so completely her slave as she appears to imagine,” answered Lord Alfred, snappishly, at the same time filling his glass with Champagne; “she refused to dance with me more than twice because it was not étiquette, and she wished to be extra particular because her husband was not here. I don’t think he’d overwhelm her with his attentions if he were, unless he means to alter very much. No: the fact is, she is out of humour, and chooses to vent it on me; it would just serve her right if I were to go home, and leave her to her own devices.”
“Do nothing of the kind, mon cher; but listen to me, and—excuse me, but don’t drink any more Champagne, or you’ll do something absurd; your comic friend brewed that Sherry-cobbler too strong. Go quietly back to the Coverdale; try and persuade her to dance, but if she refuses, show no annoyance, and get her to allude again to her husband: then carelessly and incidentally, as if you had no design in what you were saying, suggest that she would scarcely be so particular, if she knew what a naughty boy he had been in Italy, and having excited her curiosity, tell her the following little anecdote.”
As a bevy of men entered the refreshment-room at that moment, D’Almayne, linking his arm with that of Lord Alfred, led him aside, and made to him a communication, the nature of which will appear in the due course of this history. Lord Alfred seemed surprised, and, to his credit be it spoken, even pained, by the information thus afforded him; and when D’Almayne had concluded, his auditor remained a minute or so buried in thought, then he asked abruptly—
“You are sure there is still some clandestine understanding between them—you are quite certain?”
“I am as certain as a man can be of any clandestine proceeding to which he is not a party,” was the reply; “you are aware of what I observed on the occasion of the Horticultural Fête. I now relate to you the antecedents; you are no longer a child, but sufficiently a man of the world to draw your own deductions.” The adroit flattery on the weak point told: faith in truth and honour would argue a want of knowledge of life; so with a slight laugh, assumptive of an omniscience in evil, he replied, “I was willing to give him the benefit of a doubt, if it were possible; but, as you say, the thing is clear enough; and now, how is this to advantage me?”
“Do you ask?” was the surprised rejoinder; “I thought you told me just now that the cruel fair one had snubbed you, by throwing her duty to her husband at your head; so it occurred to my simplicity that this information, properly applied, would prevent a recurrence of such rebuff.”
“But surely you would never have me tell her, and her own husband the hero of the adventure!” expostulated Lord Alfred.
“Listen, mon cher, one moment,” was D’Almayne’s reply, spoken in a low, impressive voice; “I do not wish you to follow any particular line of conduct; I have no interest to serve, no desire to gratify, by your doing or abstaining from anything; but when you tell me you desire to gain such and such a social position, and ask my advice as to the best way of attaining your wishes, I, as your friend, point out the means to you—it is for you to judge whether they are such as you choose to employ. You must now excuse me: I see some old acquaintances of mine, to whose memory I am anxious to recall myself.”
“Then you really advise me to tell her!” exclaimed Lord Alfred, seizing D’Almayne’s arm in his eagerness and indecision.
“I really advise nothing of the kind, mon cher,” was the reply; “I have already cautioned you against that abrupt plain-speaking of yours; you should divest yourself of that rustic habit. You could scarcely sin more deeply against good taste and good breeding than to go to la belle Coverdale, and bring a railing accusation against her husband, nor could you divine a plan more certain to frustrate your hopes and wishes; but if, grieving over her misplaced confidence, you philanthropically incline to hint to her that he is scarcely the immaculate ascetic her imagination depicts, c’est tout autre chose! and now you must excuse me;” and as he spoke, he gently freed his coat-sleeve from Lord Alfred’s grasp, and regarding him with a half-sarcastic, half-compassionate, but wholly irritating smile, he turned and quitted the spot.
Thus left to his own reflections, which were none of the most agreeable, Lord Alfred paused for a few moments in indecision; then, with a hand tremulous from excitement, again replenished his glass, tossed down the Champagne, and returned to the dancing-room.
During her admirer’s absence, Alice had, for want of some more interesting occupation, been conversing with Arabella Crofton, using all her skill to try to elicit some particulars of her acquaintance with Harry in Italy, in which endeavour she had been most adroitly foiled by the quiet self-possession of the ci-devant governess, who told her most readily all she did not care to learn, and nothing that she did. As Lord Alfred approached, an individual was introduced to Miss Crofton, who desired the honour of her hand for the next polka, which desire that young lady obligingly gratified, thus affording his lordship an opportunity of seating himself by Alice, of which he instantly availed himself.
“It is never right to believe in a fair lady’s nay,” he began, “so I have returned to afford you an opportunity of confessing your change of mind with a good grace; come, they are just going to begin a new polka, let us take our places.”
“If ladies do always change their minds, I am going to be the interesting exception which proves the rule,” was Alice’s reply.
“How provokingly and unnaturally obstinate you are to-night, Mrs. Coverdale! You pretend to be fond of dancing, and yet, because I ask you, you resolve to sit still!”
“I have already told you my reason,” rejoined Alice; “in Mr. Coverdale’s absence I do not choose to dance the whole evening with any one gentleman.”
“What a pattern wife you are!” was the reply; “you give up your own amusement, and destroy all my pleasure, out of regard for the ghost of a scruple, which I dare say has never entered Mr. Coverdale’s brain; really, the patient Griselda was nothing compared to you.”
Alice was annoyed by his pertinacity, and, considering this speech impertinent, was about to repeat her refusal in terms which would have enlightened his lordship very considerably on these points, when it flashed across her that he might have taken rather too much Champagne; and the idea having occurred to her, his flushed face and excited manner confirmed it. Having sufficient liking for him to wish to prevent him from making himself ridiculous, she good-naturedly resolved to engross his conversation herself, and, aware of what she conceived to be the true state of the case, not to take offence at anything he might say, intending to read him a lecture on the following day. In accordance with this resolution, she replied—
“I consider it a great compliment to be compared to the patient Grisel, more particularly as I was not of opinion that she and I had very many qualities in common. By the way,” she continued, seeking to change the subject, and taking the first idea that occurred to her, “what do you think of the lady whose chair you are occupying? I have never asked your opinion of Miss Arabella Crofton.”
The question was a most unfortunate one. Alice’s continued refusal to dance with him had annoyed Lord Alfred, and wounded his vanity; the reason of her refusal was her absurd devotion (as he considered it) to her husband; and now she, as it were, held the cup of revenge to his lips by the question she had asked him. Up to this point his better nature had struggled with the temptation successfully, but now it had acquired an additional strength, and overcame him.
“I wonder you should care to know my ideas on the subject,” he said; and as he proceeded to work out Horace D’Almayne’s suggestions, his tone and manner unconsciously assumed a resemblance to that excellent young man’s sarcastic and suggestive delivery: “Miss Crofton is merely a recent and very slight acquaintance of mine; you should apply to Mr. Coverdale—he could tell you many much more interesting particulars of her history than I am able to communicate, if he were willing to do so.”
All temptations to do things foolish or wrong are orthodoxly supposed to come from the Prince of Darkness; if it be so, the fact speaks very highly for the intellectual capacity of that sable potentate, as the said temptations invariably adapt themselves in a most wonderful manner to the various weaknesses and inconsistencies of our nature. Thus, as Alice’s speech had, unintentionally on her part, appealed to Lord Alfred’s leading foible—vanity, so, in turn, did his reply re-act upon Alice’s vulnerable points—jealousy of Arabella Crofton, and consequent curiosity as to her former relations with Harry Coverdale. Accordingly, forgetting time, place, proprieties, even her doubt in regard to the perfect sobriety of the person she was addressing, in the overpowering interest of the question, she asked, hurriedly—
“Why do you say that? to what do you refer? has Mr. Coverdale ever told you anything on the subject?”
Lord Alfred smiled at the effect which his hint had produced; though, when he marked his victim’s eager eye and trembling lip, his good feeling made one last appeal, and he half resolved to leave D’Almayne’s communication untold. Had he been completely himself, the good resolution would have been formed and adhered to; but he had “put an enemy into his mouth to steal away his brains,” and was no longer able to control his impulses; so, by an effort, he silenced the voice of conscience, and replied—“I shall break no confidence by telling you why I supposed Mr. Coverdale better ‘up’ in Miss Crofton’s previous history than I am, for he never mentioned her name in my presence; indeed, now I come to think of it, it is a subject he always studiously avoids; but my information relates to certain romantic passages said to have occurred in Italy.”
“In Italy!” exclaimed Alice, aghast at this apparent realisation of all her vague fears and suspicions. “Go on,” she continued, impatiently; “I can listen to no hints aspersing my husband’s character; if you have anything to say against him, do not insinuate it, but speak out plainly and honestly.”
“Really, you mistake me,” was the reply; “I have no accusation to bring against Mr. Coverdale: but your question recalled to my mind an anecdote which I heard lately, and I was amused at your requiring information from me which your own husband was so much better able to afford.”
“And what was this remarkable anecdote? Pray let me have the benefit of hearing it, my lord,” rejoined Alice, in vain trying to look and speak in an unconcerned manner.
“Really I think I had better not tell you; you ladies are apt to be a little jealous sometimes without reasonable cause. ‘Where ignorance is bliss,’ you know——” He paused with a tantalising smile, then seeing from Alice’s manner that she was not in a humour to be trifled with, he continued—“Well, I see you mean to hear it, so I may as well tell you at once—not that there is anything very wonderful to tell. You must know that, some three or four years ago, Miss Crofton, being then younger and handsomer than she is now (she is not my style, but many people consider her vastly attractive still), was living as governess with a family of the name of Muir, and in that capacity accompanied them to Florence. John Muir, the eldest son, was an old college friend of Mr. Coverdale’s, and meeting by chance in Switzerland, they joined forces, and spent two or three months at Florence, making occasional excursions into the adjoining country. Everything progressed with cheerfulness and serenity in this Italian Arcadia, until one fine day the eldest Miss Muir eloped with an individual who represented himself as a Neapolitan count, and proved to be merely either valet or courier to the same. This broke up the party, and Mr. Coverdale took his leave; but scarcely had he been gone twelve hours, when, lo and behold, Miss Crofton, who had been much blamed for not having looked after the eloped-with young lady more closely (I suppose she was looking after somebody else), suddenly disappeared. After hunting about Florence in vain, Pater Familias Muir somehow obtained a clue to the lady’s whereabouts, following which he reached a village some thirty miles distant, where he discovered Miss Crofton, and, if my informant did not err, Mr. Coverdale also. Whether it had been his intention to place her in that position now so much more worthily filled, or whether he proposed an arrangement of a less permanent character, history telleth not; suffice it to add, as the books say, that the eloquent representations of Pater Muir induced the lady to return with him to Florence, whence he instantly dispatched her to England under some safe escort, while Mr. Coverdale pursued his onward course to Turkey and the East.” He paused, but as Alice made no reply, merely concealing her countenance behind a voluminous fan, somewhat smaller than a peacock’s expanded tail, he continued—“Such was the historiette related to me; but scandal-mongers are so given to exaggerate, that I dare say it is not half true, so do not worry yourself about it, my dear Mrs. Coverdale.”
This consolatory codicil was added because his lordship heard, or fancied he heard, a sound analogous to a repressed sob proceed from behind the fan, and this pseudo-profligate young nobleman carried a very tender heart under his embroidered waistcoat.
On receiving this confirmation of her worst, nay, more than her worst, fears, Alice’s first impulse was to give way to a flood of tears—an impulse so strong that, unable entirely to check it, the sob which Lord Alfred had partially overheard was the result. The story chimed in with her jealous suspicions so exactly, that it never for a moment occurred to her to question the truth of it; on the contrary, it would have required the clearest evidence of its falsehood to make her disbelieve it. Having by a great effort repressed her tears, her next impulse was to prevent any one, especially Lord Alfred, from perceiving how deeply his intelligence had affected her. Accordingly she turned to him, and replied in as careless a tone as she could summon—
“A very pretty bit of scandal, truly; and, as you say, worth as much, or as little rather, as scandal usually is; however, the tale has served to amuse me and put me in a good humour; so, as you seem to have set your heart upon another dance, I suppose I must exercise my woman’s privilege in your favour, and change my mind. They are going to waltz—shall we begin?”
Surprised and delighted at the success of his experiment, and almost inclined to attribute supernatural wisdom to Horace D’Almayne, Lord Alfred hastily offered his arm to his enslaver, and in another minute they were whirling round the room in all the giddy excitement of a rapid waltz. While the dance was still proceeding, a tall, striking-looking man entered the room, and shading his eyes from the unaccustomed brilliancy of the lights, carefully scrutinised the dancers, until his glance fell upon the figures of Alice and Lord Alfred, when a shade came over his handsome features, and leaning his shoulder against the side of a doorway, he remained with his eyes tracking the evolutions of two of the figures glancing before him. After he had remained motionless for some minutes, absorbed in his own thoughts, which were, apparently, of no over-pleasant nature, a gentle touch on the arm aroused him, and, looking round, he perceived Arabella Crofton. She was about to address him, but by a warning gesture he silenced her, and she remained standing silently beside him until, in a low, stem voice, he asked abruptly—
“How often has she been dancing with him?”
“Three times, I believe; but I assure you—”
“Hush!” continued Coverdale in the same stem, impressive voice, which was just above a whisper; “I want facts, not comments. Has she danced with any one else since he has been here?”
“Not that I am aware of,” was the reply. “She danced with a young guardsman before he came.”
“And since?”
“They have been either dancing or talking together, except for about ten minutes, during the last two hours.”
Coverdale made no reply, but his lips became more sternly compressed, and the shade on his brow grew deeper, until the dance concluded, then muttering—
“This must not go on: I shall make her come away”—he strode across the room to where (her late partner bending gracefully over her, and talking about nothing with the deepest empressement) his wife was seated.