The Turf could now no longer be a career with him. Ecarte and lansquenet were almost as much out of the question. Billiards, as Sir Walter said of literature, “might be a walking-stick, but never a crutch.” There was, then, nothing left for it but marriage. A rich heiress was his last coup; and as, in all likelihood, the thing could not be done twice, it required geat circumspection.
In England this were easy enough. The manufacturing districts were grown ambitious. Cotton lords were desirous of a more recognized nobility, and millowners could be found ready to buy a coronet at the cost of half their fortune. But from England late events had banished him, and with a most damaged reputation.
Now, carrying nobility to the Continent was like bringing coals to Newcastle, the whole length and breadth of the land being covered with counts, barons, dukes, and princes; and although English nobility stands on a different footing, there was no distinguishing the “real article” amid this mass of counterfeit.
Every Frenchman of small fortune was an emigre count. Every German, of none, was sure to be a baron. All Poles, unwashed, uncombed, and uncared for, were of the very cream of the aristocracy; and as for Italians! it was a nation of princes, with their uncles all cardinals. To be a viscount in such company was, perhaps, like Lord Castlereagh's unstarred coat, plus distingue, but certainly more modest. The milor, if not associated with boundless wealth, six carriages, two couriers, three cooks, and a groom of the chambers, the whole of the “Russie,” or the “Black Eagle,” means nothing abroad. If not bound up with all the extravagance and all the eccentricities of riches, if not dazzling by display or amazing by oddity, it is a contradiction of terms; and to be an English noble without waste, profusion, and absurdity, is to deny your country or be a counterfeit of your class.
Lord Norwood knew and felt all these things. They had often occupied his speculations and engaged his thoughts; so that, if his mind reverted to them now, it was to regard them as facts for future theory to build upon as mathematicians make use of the proofs of geometry without going over the steps which lead to conviction. No; all his present reflections took a practical form, and might be summed up in the one resolve, “I must go no further. I have done everything that a man dare do,—perhaps a little more, and yet keep his footing in the world.” That tacit verdict of “not proven,” which had been passed upon so many of his actions, might at any moment be reversed now, and a review of his life's career presented anything but a bright retrospect. Expulsion from a great school at thirteen; three years' private dissipation and secret wickedness in a clergyman's family; a dissolute regiment, from which he was given leave to sell out at Malta; two years with the Legion or Don Carlos, it mattered not which, in Spain; a year or so in London, with a weak attempt at reformation; a staff appointment in India obtained and sold; exposure partly hushed up; debts; Jews; renewals; the Fleet; the Bankruptcy Court; a few disreputable duels; an action for seduction; ending with the last affair at Newmarket, made up the grand outline, the details comprising various little episodes with which we must not trouble ourselves.
One incident, however, would come up prominently before his Lordship's mind, and, however little given to let the past usurp the thoughts which should be given to the present, it still insisted upon sharing his attention. This was no less than a little love affair in Spain with a “ballerina” of the Opera, with whom, by the aid of a young priest then studying at Saragossa, he had contracted a mock marriage. The sudden movement of a corps of the army to which he was attached gave him an opportunity of an easy divorce from his bride, and it is likely he had not twice thought of her since the event had happened. Now, however, that an intention of marrying in reality occurred to him, the incident came freshly to his mind, and he jocularly wondered if his second marriage might prove more fortunate than his first.
The hour and the place were favorable to revery. It was past midnight. All was silent and noiseless in the great palace; the sharp ticking of the clock on the mantel-piece was the only sound to be heard, save, at a long distance off, the dull, subdued flow of the Arno. The room itself, unlighted, except by the flickering wood fire, was in deep shadow; and, lulled by these influences and his mild Manilla, Norwood was free to revel in so much of dreamland as natures like his ever explore.
Who can tell whether men of this stamp know what it is to “grieve,” whether chagrin for some momentary disappointment, anger at being thwarted, is not the nearest approach to sorrow that they ever feel? The whole course of their lives seems opposed to the notion of deep or intense feeling, and the restless activity of their ingenious minds appears to deny the possibility of regrets. As for Norwood, he would have laughed at the puerility of going over the bygone; therefore, if he did recur to a former incident of his life, it was involuntary and probably induced by the accidental similarity with those which now engaged his thoughts.
“If this Dalton girl be rich,” thought he, “I might do worse. There are no relatives to make impertinent inquiries, or ask awkward questions. Hester can, and must, if I desire, assist me. Living out of England, the girl herself will have heard nothing of my doings, and in name, appearance, and air she is presentable anywhere.” He thought, too, that, as a married man, his character would be in a measure rehabilitated. It would be like entering on a new road in life; and if this could be done with a certain degree of style and outlay, he had great trust in the world's charity and forgiveness to pardon all the past. “A good house and a good cook,” thought he, “are the best witnesses to call to character I have ever met. Turtle and champagne have proved sovereign remedies for slander in all ages; and the man who can sport Lafitte in the evening, and split a pencil at twenty paces of a morning, may defy envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness.”
To find out about this girl's fortune was then his first object. As for family, his own rank was enough for both. The matter must be done quickly. The London season over, England would be pouring its myriads of talking, gossiping travellers over the Continent, and then he should be discussed, probably avoided and shunned too.