[CHAPTER XVIII]
THE STRICTEST CONFIDENCE
KEEPING A SECRET—LADY MOUNT HELICON “AT HOME”—A CHAPTER OF FINANCE—WHY LACQUERS WENT TO THE BALL—EXOTICS IN A CONSERVATORY—MRS. BLACKLAMB AND HER CAVALIER—IMPORTANT DISCLOSURES—A LONG WAY OFF, AND FARTHER THAN THAT
You must be an individual of an equally sanguine temperament and confiding disposition, if you believe that what you impart to your neighbour in the modern Babylon under seal of the strictest secrecy, might not as well be published in the leading article of the Times newspaper. How “things get about” is one of those inexplicable mysteries for which nobody is able or willing to account. Some people lay it to servants—some to the amiable generosity in imparting information for which the fair sex are so remarkable; the latter, again, say that “every bit of scandal in London originates at those horrid clubs!” but few will allow that Rumour owes a large portion of her ubiquity to that organisation of mankind which makes a secret utterly valueless unless shared with another. What is the use of knowing something we must not tell? In the strictest confidence, of course, it was told us under promise that we would not breathe a syllable to a single soul—we only make an exception in your favour under the same solemn obligation. You, of course, in mysterious conclave with Tom, will bear in mind our prohibition, and, acting as we have done, Tom shall become a party to the treason. Still upon oath, it will not be long, we think, before Jack and Harry are empowered to join chorus, and whilst our cherished mystery becomes patent to the world in general, we ourselves feel completely absolved from the consequences of our breach of trust. In the whole of Lady Mount Helicon’s crowded rooms to-night, we believe Blanche herself is the only person that is not aware of her own precarious position; and the girl, happy in her ignorance, looks brighter and more blooming than usual, though the world will admire her less on this occasion than it has ever done before. Yes, this is one of Lady Mount Helicon’s “At Homes,” with a small italicised “Dancing” in the corner; and a very brilliant affair it is, as the hostess herself is fully persuaded:—the front and back drawing-room, and the boudoir beyond that, are thrown open and lighted with dazzling brilliancy, whilst a softer lustre shed upon the conservatory and balcony, craftily covered in for the purpose, lures to those irresistible man-traps without betraying their insidious design. Below stairs, libraries and school-rooms and other resorts, devoted in every-day life to far more practical uses, are now cleared and emptied for the reception of shawls, cloaks, and coverings, and the production of countless cups of tea and glasses of lemonade. Lady Mount Helicon’s own maid, in a toilette of gorgeous magnificence, presides over this department, casting the while glances of covert scorn and envy at a younger and prettier assistant in a more becoming cap, on whom the dandies, as they enter, impress with unnecessary circumlocution the propriety of taking great care of their gregos, paletôts, and other sheep’s-clothing. In the dining-room preparations are making for a “stand-up supper” of unparalleled luxury, but we think it right to warn the champagne-drinking guests, that on passing the door in the morning we spied several hampers of that popular fluid, labelled with the maker’s name, and much as we admire its chemical preparation and laudable cheapness, we are concerned to admit that “the splendid sparkling of that house at 45s.” always disarranges our internal economy for several days after an indulgence in its delights. Mount Helicon himself never drinks his mother’s champagne, and to his abstinence he attributes his own unfailing health. At Dinadam’s, or Lord Long-Acre’s, or Wassailworth, he does not by any means practise the same self-denial. Still it is doubtless good enough for a ball, and what with the young ladies, and the old gentlemen, and the servants, will experience a very fair consumption. A bearded band meanwhile is in waiting up-stairs, elaborately dressed, and from the conductor in white kid gloves to the Piccolo in a chin-tuft, rejoicing in boots of jetty brilliancy, and neckcloths dazzling with starch. The whole establishment is so utterly at variance with its usual routine, and the house looks so entirely changed when thus stripped and lighted for reception, that if the old lord, who never permitted these bouleversements, could but come back, he would scarcely recognise his former home, and would unquestionably be glad to return to the quiet of his family vault. The presiding genius of the scene, the hostess herself, is already at her post. A very capital dressmaker, an abundance of well-selected jewellery, and a mysterious compound much enhancing the beauty of the human hair, have turned her out a very personable dame, and as she stands in the middle of her ball-room, as yet “monarch of all she surveys,” and spreads her rustling folds, and buttons her well-fitting gloves, the possibility of her marrying again seems no such absurdity after all, nor does she herself look upon such an event as by any means a remote contingency. But soon the knocker is at work, the chariot wheels are clattering in the street, and stentorian voices, louder in proportion to their indistinctness, announce the fast-arriving guests. Unlike a country ball, the feathers of the ladies require but little shaking after a short drive from the next street, nor, fresh from their own impartial mirrors, need they hazard the opinion of perhaps an unbecoming reflector; so they troop up-stairs with small delay, their glossy locks, white shoulders, and gossamer draperies showing to the greatest advantage in the well-lighted ball-room. The earliest arrivals of course receive the most affectionate greeting, proportionately decreased as the plot thickens, till the shake by both hands, and graceful little compliment about “looking so well,” subsides into a stately courtesy and the coldest welcome good-breeding, not hospitality, will admit. At last all individual figures are well-nigh lost in the crush. A mass of charming dresses and well-made coats are swaying and struggling in the doorways, the band is pealing forth a melody of Paradise, and the votaries of the quadrille are striving to adhere to their superstitious evolutions by treading on each other’s toes, entangling each other’s dresses, begging each other’s pardon, and generally complaining of the heat of the atmosphere and crowded state of the room. It is at this juncture that “General Bounce” and “Miss Kettering” make their appearance, the General having placed a guard upon his lips, and neither during the dinner nor the drive hinted at his misgivings and inner discomfiture. “Poor Blanche!” he mutters, as he follows her up the wide, stately staircase; “she’ll know it soon enough, if it’s true—zounds! a girl like that would be a prize without a penny—the young fellows now-a-days are not like what we used to be.” And as the General arrived at this conclusion he bowed his bald head nearly into Lady Mount Helicon’s bosom, in return for her stately, measured greeting. That greeting, both to himself and Blanche, was colder than usual; the girl, frank and unconscious, did not perceive the change, but her uncle caught himself saying, almost aloud, “Zounds! is it possible that this old cat knows it too?” The music ceased, the dancers walked about, the wrongly-paired ones looking for “mamma,” or “my aunt,” inwardly longing to get rid of each other, and glancing in every direction for their own particular vanities, the more fortunate couples likewise keeping a sharp look-out for the chaperons, but this in order to avoid them, and hinting that “It’s much cooler on the staircase,” or “Have you seen the conservatory?” to prolong the delicious interview. The tea-room begins to fill, and incautious youth presses that domestic beverage on beauty nothing loth, nor reflects that charming as are those ringlets drooping over the cup, and rosy as are the lips that whisper their soft affirmative, it would be as well that he should distinctly know his own mind as to whether he would like this celestial being to make tea for him during the rest of his life, and whether it would be always as sweet as it is now. For the first time in her experience of a London season Blanche, begins to think it a “stupid ball.” She has not yet been asked to dance; and spoilt by her previous successes, she feels hurt at the neglect. “The best men,” as they are called, have not yet, indeed, arrived—if, as is somewhat uncertain, they will come at all, for they sometimes throw Lady Mount Helicon over; and “Mount” himself is still detained at the “House.” But there are plenty of beardless dandies and gay young guardsmen, who are far more prone to dance; and yet they all seem to keep aloof. To be sure, whenever they have asked her formerly she has always been “engaged”; but she would like to stand up now, even with young Deadlock, if it was only for “the look of the thing.” However, she hangs contentedly on the General’s arm, and “bides her time.” It is not long coming. A tall, good-looking man, with features expressive only of a kind disposition and a general air of self-satisfaction, bows and sidles and screws himself towards Blanche and her chaperon, receiving as his natural homage the smiles of the old ladies on whose toes he is treading, and regardless of the imploring looks of the young ones who hope he is going to ask them to dance. His glossy hair is curled distinctly in five rows, which, according to Lord Mount Helicon’s account, betokens weighty intentions; and it is no other than our friend Captain Lacquers, who has dined temperately, abjured his usual cigar, and come here for the especial purpose of meeting Miss Kettering. A bow, an indistinct murmur about “not engaged,” and “honour,” and “delighted,” and the couple are off, tripping gracefully round amongst the whirling confusion of the Valse des Fantassins, truly “a mighty maze, but not without a plan.”
To explain the intentions of our rotatory hussar, we must take the liberty of putting the clock back a few hours—an impossibility only permitted to the novelist—and record a conversation which took place between Lacquers and his friend Sir Ascot that very afternoon, in a secluded window of the Godiva Club.
“Well out of this business about Miss Kettering,” said the latter, who was becoming more communicative since he had found so little difficulty in speaking his mind to Blanche on a previous occasion. “You’ve heard of the smash? Not a penny, after all. Downright swindling, I call it—that old Bounce must be a deep one. They tell me that, except the life-interest of the house in Grosvenor Square, she hasn’t a brass farthing. It’s frightful to think of,” added the old head on young shoulders, scanning with rigid attention his companion’s face, in which concern was more apparent than surprise.
“Poor thing, poor thing” rejoined Lacquers; “I had no idea it was so bad as that. They told me she was sure to have Newton-Hollows, at any rate. She must feel it sadly, poor girl; I wonder how she looks since it all came out.”
“Oh, I fancy very few people know it as yet,” suggested Sir Ascot, who was somewhat uncharitable in his conclusions. “I daresay they’ll try to brazen it out, at least till the end of the season. They may if they like, for all I care. I never knew any good come of these half-bred ones, and I’ll have nothing more to do with them!”
Lacquers heard as though he heard him not. He was trying to think, and his well-cut features were gathered into an expression of hopeless perplexity, at which his companion could scarce forbear laughing outright. At last he had recourse to the never-failing moustache; and drawing inspiration from its touch, he began—
“Uppy, you’re a safe fellow—eh?—wouldn’t throw a fellow over, and put him in the hole, you know. You’ve got some brains, too—made a capital book on the Ascot Stakes. Now you understand finance and arithmetic, and that—what should you say a married fellow could live upon? Of course he wouldn’t require so many luxuries as a single one; but what do you think, now, a fellow like me, for instance, could do with?”
Sir Ascot looked completely taken aback. “Why, you’d never be such a fool as to think of——”