CHAPTER XII.
It was early the following afternoon when Bromley took a light dinner at his club. The waiters, as they brought him portions of soup and fish, speculated on the causes which induced Mr Bromley to dine at four o’clock. In the hall he had left a carpet-bag containing six bottles of sherry and two of whisky, one of Curaçoa, and one of pale brandy.
He was not long at his dinner. Having finished, he sent for a cab, and, placing in it his carpet-bag, desired the driver to take him to the Strand to a celebrated fish-shop. Here he bought two lobsters, two bundles of dried sprats, a pork-pie, a Bologna sausage, two loaves of brown bread, and a pound of butter. The civil shopman, at Bromley’s request, sent out for some fine Spanish onions, which were added to the packet. With these provisions Bromley ordered himself to Kennington.
The driver at length drew up as directed at a nursery garden. Here Bromley alighted, paid his fare, and, shouldering his baggage, walked up the garden path.
“Is Mrs Magens at home?” he asked a maid-servant.
“Yes, sir, she’s up-stairs.”
“Will you tell her I’m here? How are you, my dear?”
“Very well, thank you, sir. It’s some time since we saw you.”
“Yes, my dear, and I think you’ve grown. Will you take some of these parcels, while I take the others, and put them in the drawing-room?”
“It looks as if it held good things, sir.”
“You’re a knowing young creature, my dear. Just go and tell your mistress I am here.”
Bromley knew it would be a long time before mistress would make her appearance. As he sat in the little sitting-room, 12 feet by 8, he heard cries for warm water. “Jane, where’s the soap?—My brush, Jane, quick!—Where are them pins?” which told how the lady was occupied.
Half an hour at least must elapse before the appearance of Mrs Magens, and this period Bromley divided between reading the ‘Era,’ which lay on the table, and drumming thereon.
Mr Angelo Magens was the natural son of a rackety Irish peer; at least so report said, and there was circumstantial evidence in support of the theory. Angelo had brothers, but they were not a bit like himself. Lord Rattlecormick had never taken any notice of them as he had of Angelo. The cast of Angelo’s face was decidedly Rattlecormick, and so was his character—quiet in manner, but reckless and thoughtless, a mixture of good nature, common sense, loose principle, and imprudence. From his childhood Angelo had lived exclusively with Lord Rattlecormick, with the exception of a short interval, during which his patron had managed to thrust him into the Navy. The life did not suit young Angelo, accustomed as he was to the rough luxury of Castle Rattlecormick, the good-natured and reckless liberality of the peer, who acted in loco parentis, and boon companions, who enlivened that patrician hearth.
So young Magens one morning left H.M.S. Bruiser in Cork Roads without leave, and betook himself without invitation to the House of Rattlecormick, to pass his time in warbling songs to the crowd of guests, to perform odd jobs on the premises, and to unfit himself for doing his duty in that state of life to which it might please Providence to call him.
Thus days and years passed, till Angelo was about twenty. He had picked up a certain knowledge of music. The village priest, skilled in thorough bass, had taught him the mysteries of counterpoint. Nature had blessed him with an agreeable tenor voice, and a rather agreeable manner, and a very decided taste for alcohol. Just at this particular juncture, Lord Rattlecormick died. As might have been expected, no will was found. Angelo was thrown on his own resources—viz., one hundred pounds, the remnant of divers tips from his patron, a suit of clothes or two, and such expectations as might be warranted by the extensive acquaintance and clientela of his late father or patron.
He set up as a music-master. He composed pretty little songs, popular from their melodies. He even aspired to an opera, and was not wholly unsuccessful. Once he hired a theatre for himself, and was wholly unsuccessful. At one time he was poor, at another time he was not rich; but one day he would have nothing, the next a considerable sum of money. He was like those figures one sees in a bottle, which go dancing up and down according to the pressure on the cover. The accidents of his fortune were abrupt and immoderate. Now at the bottom of the bottle with a sudden fall—now at the top with as unexpected a rebound—seldom in the centre, but when there wriggling and twisting and curveting,—discontented for mediocrity, and burning to risk great success or great disaster on the turn of the nearest die. But with increasing years the taste of Angelo for alcohol increased, specially with reference to sherry. He had a mania for that particular beverage, and he passed but few hours of the day without appealing to that cherished friend. He was well known at the public-houses of the metropolis,—at some of them, I fear, too well known to insure the gratification of his tastes. He was always convivial, however; always hospitable, always willing to accept hospitality. When in funds he would volunteer a glass of sherry at his own expense; when not in the best plight, he would volunteer it at yours. In early days Augustus’s friends often declared that Angelo had led him into expenses and extravagance. It may be so; but in justice to his memory, Augustus often declared his belief that not a sixpence more was spent for Angelo than Angelo ever spent for him.
His wife was a very different kind of person. The daughter of a chemist at Worcester, and possessed of a good voice, the musical festivals, and the love of Church dignitaries for the ars musica, had indicated music as her profession. As a little girl, her talents in this respect had made her a favourite in the cathedral town, and she could with veracity boast acquaintance with bishops, deans, and canons, whose names sounded oddly enough when coming from her lips. Nevertheless these worthy and guileless men had contributed to her education, proudly looking forward to the time when her rich contralto should resound through their own cathedral, and they should share in the plaudits showered on their pupil and protégée. So they sent her to study in London,—and she did study in London. She came out in London; sang in an oratorio, and created a sensation. But Kate Robins was a peculiar person. She was the daughter of a chemist, and in her physical composition there was much oxygen of a certain quality—not enough, however, to feed the vestal flame. Moreover, she was very pretty, with an arch smile. She sang little songs with ineffable grace. So no wonder she studied the doctrine of affinities. A cathedral town presented but few attractions. Deans were atoms of a nature not sufficiently volatile. She found the obstacles in the way of Platonism so numerous as to be absolutely insurmountable. So she assumed the toga affected by her equivalents in Babylon. She drove in little carriages, and radiated in fine linen. She accepted engagements at theatres, took parts where a good leg, an arch smile, and a rich voice were everything requisite; earned a good livelihood from her art, and a considerable amount of pocket-money from her artlessness.
Hers was a pleasant Bohemian life till she was five-and-thirty. The bishops and the deans, the friends of her youth, were replaced—in another fashion, be it understood—by the young nobles, the friends of her womanhood. As the spiritual peerage had contributed to the formation, so did the temporal assist in the completion of her education. This went on very well for some time. But at length the contralto rather deteriorated; the arch smile partook rather of the stereotype. Managers were no longer so eager. Dukes began to cease their visits to her greenroom. Scarlet and fine linen are expensive in the absence of means to purchase them. Kate Robins found her assets running low; while several tradesmen, heretofore satisfied by the dukes, were not so civil as formerly. So, taking a judicious resolution, she determined on a provincial tour, relying for rural successes on her fading reputation. She planned with a friendly author an attractive entertainment. She engaged Magens, who had then just culminated, as her accompanyist, and she sallied forth with Angelo from Babylon to fresh fields and pastures new. For economy’s sake they occupied the same apartments, till, for propriety’s sake, they assumed the same name. They went the round of England and Ireland earning a livelihood and realising a good round sum, not sufficient, however, to meet their joint liabilities. Therefore, as assets would go farther when legally united than when filtered by division, as union in fact is force, Angelo obtained from the Church a benediction on the marriage already practically solemnised, turned his wife’s brevet rank into substantive rank; and having thus consolidated their names and their liabilities, went through the Insolvent Court like a man, and, in purging himself, whitewashed his wife’s account-book simultaneously with her reputation. From that moment Mrs Magens collapsed into private life. A long and severe illness deprived her of all that remained of looks, voice, and attraction. She became a good wife, a prudent housekeeper, endeavoured to remedy by self-denial the dilapidations inflicted by sherry on their small means, incited her husband to exertion, made his house as pleasant as possible, and retained nothing of her former life but an unattractive girl she designated her niece, and a dramatic phraseology.
In his early youth, Bromley had nursed thoughts of studying music, and hence his first acquaintance with Magens. Through his agency the young man had made the acquaintance of gentlemen and ladies acquainted with the theatrical profession, not all of them of the highest caste. One whole winter he had spent in their exclusive society. He had learnt their ways, their tastes, their virtues, and their weaknesses. Lobsters were amongst the tastes of Mrs Magens. She cultivated them with a sauce which was a virtue; while her devotion to sprats, or to boiled onions, may be classed among the more venial weaknesses of that estimable matron.
At length the door creaked up-stairs, and a rustling overhead betokened that such preparations were completed as she had undertaken for Bromley’s reception. A note in G was heard quavering—as though in innocence of heart.
“Bravo, my songstress,” murmured, or rather soliloquised, Bromley. “Now for the roulade;” and there sure enough it came. “And now for Floreski as she comes down-stairs.”
The thoughts of no medium could have been more rapid. The voice, or rather the remnant of a voice, descended the stairs slowly and musingly, warbling that well-known and beautiful romance,
“Adieu, my Floreski, for ever,
And welcome the sorrows I prove.
Why, Fate, still delights thou to sever
Two bosoms united by love?”
The last notes floated in the air as the door opened, and in rushed Mrs Magens nicely got up in a drab silk dress.
“How d’ye do, Mr Bromley, my kyind friend?” She held out both hands, and emphasised the “do,” after the manner of genteel comedy.
“Charming as ever, or may I be freckled,” responded Bromley, in the same tone.
“’Tis ages since we met. Let me look at ye.” She drew him towards the window, and scanned his features anxiously.
“A shade of care has fallen across that brow since last we met. Let’s see how long ago is it? A year—no—can it be? Time spares us not, Mr Bromley.”
“It spares the beautiful Magens.”
“Flatterer—the same as ever—the same gay-hearted, kyind——”
“A truce, I beseech ye,” broke in Bromley. “In yonder basket I have brought an offering I fain would make your household deities—some few articles, little luxuries, sent me from the country.”
The country always served as a veil in which to envelope Bromley’s presents to Mrs Magens. Had he avowed the purchase, she would have been offended or feigned offence.
But the country saved her pride.
“From the country, Mr Bromley—from some kyind old aunt, I warrant me, or, mayhap, a grandmother. Jane!”
“Women are ever thoughtful, lady,” responded Bromley.
Jane entered the room.
“Open the basket, maiden.”
“I knowed as it was full of good things.”
“Pity the poor vulgarian!”
“Ingins, I do declare!” cried the maiden. “My, what fine ingins!”
“The produce of your land, doubtless, Mr Bromley.”
“And sprats—oh my!”
The mouth of Mrs Magens was watering beyond concealment.
“And lobsters—oh my, what lobsters!”
Mrs Magens could stand it no longer.
“The cares of a household do not degrade a woman, Mr Bromley. B’ your leave, I’ll go and see them lobsters properly served up.”
“Perhaps you will allow me to partake your meal?”
“Of course,” screeched Mrs Magens from the adjacent kitchen, where, had Bromley seen her, he would have discovered the skirts of her garment already pinned round the waist of the neat-handed Phyllis.
It was not very long before the repast was ready, and Bromley sat, opposite his hostess, at a little table spread with a clean cloth, decorated with some spoons rescued from Mr Commissioner, a nickel cruet-stand, and two carnations.
“I do love this new Russian fashion,” observed Mrs Magens, as a species of grace.
Half a lobster fell before her.
“In that carpet-bag, I have ventured to bring, for Angelo, a few bottles of sherry, of a particular quality, lately sent me by some friends from the country.”
“How very thoughtful! Don’t trouble yourself—allow me.” The phraseology was less flowery, and the bottle was soon uncorked.
At length the meal was over. The onions had been discussed—a portion of the feast had been reserved for Angelo—another portion allotted to Jane—candles were introduced—Bromley was allowed to light a cigar, and to mix a glass of whisky and water—even Mrs Magens sipped a glass of toddy, and the room was soon as redolent as a tap.
“Now, Mr Bromley, I daresay, when in that brilliant world which your position throws open to you—in that world of beauties and nobles, you often long for the repose of an evening like this, passed equably in gentle converse, and with a frugal but wholesome meal to which fatigue has lent an appetite and friendship a relish.”
“Very true, Mrs Magens. And your society is especially delightful. Angelo, poor man, is deprived of it. He is very busy.”
“Very much so. The Fates are propitious.”
“I hope he is making a pot of money.”
“Fie, what a word! Heaven ever befriends the just.”
“Money is wanted at present, Mrs Magens. In these days, a man with a good income is not a rich man.”
“Indeed, it is true—too true. The extravagance of the age is hawful.”
Sometimes Mrs Magens was off her guard, and as uncertain about her aspirates as a beginner in the Greek tongue.
“It is indeed,” answered Bromley, “awful——”
“Awful,” repeated Mrs Magens, correcting herself.
“Dress is ruinous for ladies.”
“Yet gaudy attire is no evidence of a sound heart.”
The h was inserted this time with a slam.
“Very true, often the reverse; but it is no less ruinous.”
“The sums lavished on it are enormous, Mr Bromley.”
“I daresay many ladies in your profession spend large sums on their toilettes.”
“Enormous; why, there’s Miss Sepop of the Bower has a new dress every night. Mrs Macvey of the Blackfriars is never satisfied without embroidery all round.”
“Whom do you consider the best dressmaker, Mrs Magens? your taste is so good.”
“Why, for myself, I should say, Madame Mélanie Mickiewicz. She is generally known as Madame Mélanie. Poor thing! She is a Hungarian princess. Her story is harrowing—harrowing—Ha’nau——”
“I think I have heard it—poor thing! Do you know her?”
“Intimately—a charming person—quite the lady.”
“I suppose she has lots of stories—of experience.”
“Delightful creature. She was telling me the other day of the awful effects this extravagance produces on the high-born and wealthy. Many young ladies run up bills of enormous amounts, trusting to their marriage for the means of payment. But gentlemen do not marry.”
“And their bills run on.”
“Exactly—you have hit my very thought. There is one family, she tells me, where mother and daughters are deeply in debt to her, none of them daring to confide in the others for fear that the father and husband—a very strict man—should discover their embarrassments.”
“Did she tell you who they were, Mrs Magens?”
“No; but she would if I asked her, in a moment.”
“I daresay, Mrs Magens, your own dresses amount to no small sum.”
“Oh, I am so very ’umble.”
“But have you no little bill with your friend, no little sum Angelo ignores?”
“How cunning you are, Mr Bromley! However, it don’t amount to a very large figure.”
“By the way, is not Madame Mélanie a friend of Madame Carron’s? I see them driving together.”
“Yes; I believe they knew each other in Hungary. There, again, Madame Carron is deeply in debt to her.”
“But I thought she made such enormous sums. Does she owe more than you, Mrs Magens?”
“Oh, my liability is not more than what you would call a ‘pony,’ Mr Bromley.”
“But how does Madame Carron manage to contract debts?”
“She is obliged to dress expensively for her parts, and she is very charitable, especially to some worthless relative who absorbs all her income.”
“A husband?”
“No, a brother, I believe; although Mélanie is so charming a person it is horrible to be under an obligation to her.”
“Well, Mrs Magens, I daresay we can find some way of relieving you from yours.”
“I could never think of such a thing, Mr Bromley.”
“Well, do me a little favour; we are old friends, Mrs Magens. Find out the name of the family who are so much indebted, and of Madame Carron’s brother. Write to me.”
“Certainly, I will. There’s a knock. Won’t you stay to see Angelo?”
The door opened, and Mélanie entered the room.