CHAPTER XXIX. THE TWO VISCOUNTESSES
When the new Viscount had dismissed Mr. Spicer, he set out to visit his sister-in-law. Any one who has been patient enough to follow the stages of this history will readily imagine that he did not address himself to the task before him with remarkable satisfaction. If it had been a matter to be bought off by money, he would readily have paid down a good round sum as forfeit. It was no use fortifying himself, as he tried to do, by all the commonplaces he kept repeating to his own heart, saying, “She ain't my guardian. I'm no ward to be responsible to her. She can exercise no control over me or my property. She 's the dowager, and no more.” All the traditions of his younger brother life rose up in rebellion against these doctrines, and he could think of her as nothing but the haughty Viscountess, who had so often pronounced the heaviest censures upon his associates and his mode of living. A favorite theory of his was it, also, in olden time, to imagine that, but for Georgina, Lackington would have done this, that, and t'other for him; that she it was who thwarted all his brother's generous impulses, and brought him to look with stern disfavor on his life of debt and dissipation. These memories rushed now fully to his mind, and, assuredly, added no sentiment of pleasure to his expectation of the meeting. More than once did he come to a halt, and deliberate whether, seeing how unpleasant such an interview must prove, he need incur the pain of it. “I could write to her, or I could send Lizzy to say that I was confined to bed, and ill. Would n't that be a flare up! By Jove! if I could only see the match as it came off between them, I 'd do that. Not but I know Georgy would win; she 'd come out so strong as 'Grande Dame;' the half-bred 'un would have no chance. Still, there would be a race, and a close one, for Lizzy has her own turn of speed; and if she had the breeding—” And as he got thus far in his ruminations, he had reached the Palazzo Gondi, where his sister-in-law lived. With a sort of sullen courage he rang the bell, and was shown in; her Ladyship was dressing, but would be down in a moment.
Beecher had now some minutes alone, and he passed them scrutinizing the room and its appurtenances. All was commoner and more homely than he looked for. Not many indications of comfort; scarcely any of luxury. What might this mean? Was her settlement so small as to exact this economy, or was it a voluntary saving? If so, it was the very reverse of all her former tastes, for she was essentially one who cultivated splendor and expense. This problem was still puzzling him, when the door opened, and she entered. He advanced rapidly to meet her, and saluted her on each cheek. There was a strange affectation of cordiality on each side. Prize-fighters shake hands ere they double them up into catapults for each other's heads; but the embrace here was rather more like the kiss the victim on the scaffold bestows upon his executioner.
Seated side by side on the sofa, for a few minutes neither uttered a word; at last she said, in a calm, low voice, “We had hoped to see you before this,—he looked anxiously for your coming.”
Beecher heaved a heavy sigh; in that unhappy delay was comprised all the story of his calamities. And how to begin—how to open the narrative?
“I wrote as many as five letters,” resumed she; “some addressed to Fordyce's, others to the care of Mr. Davenport Dunn.”
“Not one of them ever reached me.”
“Very strange, indeed,” said she, with the smile of faintest incredulity; “letters so seldom miscarry nowadays. Stranger, still, that none of your other correspondents should have apprised you of your brother's state; there was ample time to have done it.”
“I know nothing of it I vow to Heaven I had not the slightest suspicion of it!”
“Telegraphs, too, are active agencies in these days, and I wrote to Fordyce to use every exertion to acquaint you.”