The manager of the Grand Theatrical Exhibition gazed on the blind sailor, and did not know him from Adam!
CHAPTER IX
The aboriginal man-eater, or pocket-cannibal, is susceptible of the refining influences of Civilization. He decorates his lair with the skins of his victims; he adorns his person with the spoils of those whom he devours. Mr. Losely, introduced to Mr. Poole’s friends, dresses for dinner; and, combining elegance with appetite, eats them up.
Elated with the success which had rewarded his talents for pecuniary speculation, and dismissing from his mind all thoughts of the fugitive Sophy and the spoliated Rugge, Jasper Losely returned to London in company with his new friend, Mr. Poole. He left Arabella Crane to perform the same journey unattended; but that grim lady, carefully concealing any resentment at such want of gallantry, felt assured that she should not be long in London without being honoured by his visits.
In renewing their old acquaintance, Mrs. Crane had contrived to establish over Jasper that kind of influence which a vain man, full of schemes that are not to be told to all the world, but which it is convenient to discuss with some confidential friend who admires himself too highly not to respect his secrets, mechanically yields to a woman whose wits are superior to his own.
It is true that Jasper, on his return to the metropolis, was not magnetically attracted towards Podden Place; nay, days and even weeks elapsed, and Mrs. Crane was not gladdened by his presence. But she knew that her influence was only suspended,—not extinct. The body attracted was for the moment kept from the body attracting by the abnormal weights that had dropped into its pockets. Restore the body thus temporarily counterpoised to its former lightness, and it would turn to Podden Place as the needle to the Pole. Meanwhile, oblivious of all such natural laws, the disloyal Jasper had fixed himself as far from the reach of the magnet as from Bloomsbury’s remotest verge in St. James’s animated centre. The apartment he engaged was showy and commodious. He added largely to his wardrobe, his dressing-case, his trinket box. Nor, be it here observed, was Mr. Losely one of those beauish brigands who wear tawdry scarves over soiled linen, and paste rings upon unwashed digitals. To do him justice, the man, so stony-hearted to others, loved and cherished his own person with exquisite tenderness, lavished upon it delicate attentions, and gave to it the very best he could afford. He was no coarse debauchee, smelling of bad cigars and ardent spirits. Cigars, indeed, were not among his vices (at worst the rare peccadillo of a cigarette): spirit-drinking was; but the monster’s digestion was still so strong that he could have drunk out a gin-palace, and you would only have sniffed the jasmine or heliotrope on the dainty cambric that wiped the last drop from his lips. Had his soul been a tenth part as clean as the form that belied it, Jasper Losely had been a saint! His apartments secured, his appearance thus revised and embellished, Jasper’s next care was an equipage in keeping; he hired a smart cabriolet with a high-stepping horse, and, to go behind it, a groom whose size had been stunted in infancy by provident parents designing him to earn his bread in the stables as a light-weight, and therefore mingling his mother’s milk with heavy liquors. In short, Jasper Losely set up to be a buck about town: in that capacity Dolly Poole introduced him to several young gentlemen who combined commercial vocations with sporting tastes; they could not but participate in Poole’s admiring and somewhat envious respect for Jasper Losely. There was indeed about the vigorous miscreant a great deal of false brilliancy. Deteriorated from earlier youth though the beauty of his countenance might be, it was still undeniably handsome; and as force of muscle is beauty in itself in the eyes of young sporting men, so Jasper dazzled many a gracilis puer, who had the ambition to become an athlete, with the rare personal strength which, as if in the exuberance of animal spirits, he would sometimes condescend to display, by feats that astonished the curious and frightened the timid,—such as bending a poker or horseshoe between hands elegantly white, nor unadorned with rings,—or lifting the weight of Samuel Dolly by the waistband, and holding him at arm’s length, with a playful bet of ten to one that he could stand by the fireplace and pitch the said Samuel Dolly out of the open window. To know so strong a man, so fine an animal, was something to boast of. Then, too, if Jasper had a false brilliancy, he had also a false bonhommie: it was true that he was somewhat imperious, swaggering, bullying; but he was also off-hand and jocund; and as you knew him, that sidelong look, that defying gait (look and gait of the man whom the world cuts), wore away. In fact, he had got into a world which did not cut him, and his exterior was improved by the atmosphere.
Mr. Losely professed to dislike general society. Drawing rooms were insipid; clubs full of old fogies. “I am for life, my boys,” said Mr. Losely,
“‘Can sorrow from the goblet flow,
Or pain from Beauty’s eye?’”
Mr. Losely, therefore, his hat on one side, lounged into the saloons of theatres, accompanied by a cohort of juvenile admirers, their hats on one side also, and returned to the pleasantest little suppers in his own apartment. There “the goblet” flowed; and after the goblet, cigars for some, and a rubber for all.
So puissant Losely’s vitality, and so blest by the stars his luck, that his form seemed to wax stronger and his purse fuller by this “life.” No wonder he was all for a life of that kind; but the slight beings who tried to keep up with him grew thinner and thinner, and poorer and poorer; a few weeks made their cheeks spectral and their pockets a dismal void. Then as some dropped off from sheer inanition, others whom they had decoyed by their praises of “Life” and its hero came into the magic circle to fade and vanish in their turn.
In a space of time incredibly brief, not a whist-player was left upon the field: the victorious Losely had trumped out the last; some few whom Nature had endowed more liberally than Fortune still retained strength enough to sup—if asked;
“But none who came to sup remained to play.”
“Plague on it,” said Losely to Poole, as one afternoon they were dividing the final spoils, “your friends are mightily soon cleaned out: could not even get up double dummy last night; and we must hit on some new plan for replenishing the coffers. You have rich relations; can’t I help you to make them more useful?”
Said Dolly Poole, who was looking exceedingly bilious, and had become a martyr to chronic headache,
“My relations are prigs! Some of them give me the cold shoulder, others—a great deal of jaw. But as for tin, I might as well scrape a flint for it. My uncle Sam is more anxious about my sins than the other codgers, because he is my godfather, and responsible for my sins, I suppose; and he says he will put me in the way of being respectable. My head’s splitting—”
“Wood does split till it is seasoned,” answered Losely. “Good fellow, uncle Sam! He’ll put you in the way of tin; nothing else makes a man respectable.”
“Yes,—so he says; a girl with money—”
“A wife,—tin canister! Introduce me to her, and she shall be tied to you.”
Samuel Dolly did not appear to relish the idea of such an introduction. “I have not been introduced to her myself,” said he. “But if you advise me to be spliced, why don’t you get spliced yourself? a handsome fellow like you can be at no loss for an heiress.”
“Heiresses are the most horrid cheats in the world,” said Losely: “there is always some father, or uncle, or fusty Lord Chancellor whose consent is essential, and not to be had. Heiresses in scores have been over head and ears in love with me. Before I left Paris, I sold their locks of hair to a wig maker,—three great trunksful. Honour bright. But there were only two whom I could have safely allowed to run away with me; and they were so closely watched, poor things, that I was forced to leave them to their fate,—early graves! Don’t talk to me of heiresses, Dolly; I have been the victim of heiresses. But a rich widow is an estimable creature. Against widows, if rich, I have not a word to say; and to tell you the truth, there is a widow whom I suspect I have fascinated, and whose connection I have a particular private reason for deeming desirable! She has a whelp of a son, who is a spoke in my wheel: were I his father-in-law, would not I be a spoke in his? I’d teach the boy ‘life,’ Dolly.” Here all trace of beauty vanished from Jasper’s face, and Poole, staring at him, pushed away his chair. “But,” continued Losely, regaining his more usual expression of levity and boldness, “but I am not yet quite sure what the widow has, besides her son, in her own possession; we shall see. Meanwhile, is there—no chance of a rubber to-night?”
“None; unless you will let Brown and Smith play upon tick.”
“Pooh! but there’s Robinson, he has an aunt he can borrow from?”
“Robinson! spitting blood, with an attack of delirium tremens! You have done for him.”
“‘Can sorrow from the goblet flow?”’ said Losely. “Well, I suppose it can—when a man has no coats to his stomach; but you and I, Dolly Poole, have stomachs thick as peajackets, and proof as gutta-percha.”
Poole forced a ghastly smile, while Losely, gayly springing up, swept his share of booty into his pockets, slapped his comrade on the back, and said, “Then, if the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain! Hang whist, and up with rouge-et-noir! I have an infallible method of winning; only it requires capital. You will club your cash with mine, and I ‘ll play for both. Sup here to night, and we’ll go to the Hell afterwards.”
Samuel Dolly had the most perfect confidence in his friend’s science in the art of gambling, and he did not, therefore, dissent from the proposal made. Jasper gave a fresh touch to his toilet, and stepped into his cabriolet. Poole cast on him a look of envy, and crawled to his lodging,—too ill for his desk, and with a strong desire to take to his bed.
CHAPTER X
“Is there a heart that never loved,
Nor felt soft woman’s sigh?”
If there be such a heart, it is not in the breast of a pocketcannibal. Your true man-eater is usually of an amorous temperament:
he can be indeed sufficiently fond of a lady to eat her up. Mr. Losely makes the acquaintance of a widow. For further particulars inquire within.
The dignified serenity of Gloucester Place, Portman Square, is agitated by the intrusion of a new inhabitant. A house in that favoured locality, which had for several months maintained “the solemn stillness and the dread repose” which appertain to dwellings that are to be let upon lease, unfurnished, suddenly started into that exuberant and aggressive life which irritates the nerves of its peaceful neighbours. The bills have been removed from the windows; the walls have been cleaned down and pointed; the street-door repainted a lively green; workmen have gone in and out. The observant ladies (single ones) in the house opposite, discover, by the help of a telescope, that the drawing-rooms have been new papered, canary-coloured ground, festoon borders; and that the mouldings of the shutters have been gilded. Gilt shutters! that looks ominous of an ostentatious and party-giving tenant. Then carts full of furniture have stopped at the door; carpets, tables, chairs, beds, wardrobes,—all seemingly new, and in no inelegant taste,—have been disgorged into the hall. It has been noticed, too, that every day a lady of slight figure and genteel habiliments has come, seemingly to inspect progress; evidently the new tenant. Sometimes she comes alone; sometimes with a dark-eyed, handsome lad, probably her son. Who can she be? what is she? what is her name? her history? has she a right to settle in Gloucester Place, Portman Square? The detective police of London is not peculiarly vigilant; but its defects are supplied by the voluntary efforts of unmarried ladies. The new comer was a widow; her husband had been in the army; of good family; but a mauvais sujet; she had been left in straitened circumstances with an only son. It was supposed that she had unexpectedly come into a fortune, on the strength of which she had removed from Pimlico into Gloucester Place. At length, the preparations completed, one Monday afternoon the widow, accompanied by her son, came to settle. The next day a footman, in genteel livery (brown and orange), appeared at the door. Then, for the rest of the week, the baker and butcher called regularly. On the following Sunday, the lady and her son appeared at church.
No reader will be at a loss to discover in the new tenant of No.—Gloucester Place the widowed mother of Lionel Haughton. The letter for that lady which Darrell had entrusted to his young cousin had, in complimentary and cordial language, claimed the right to provide for her comfortable and honourable subsistence; and announced that henceforth L800 a year would be placed quarterly to her account at Mr. Darrell’s banker, and that an additional sum of L1200 was already there deposited in her name, in order to enable her to furnish any residence to which she might be inclined to remove. Mrs. Haughton therewith had removed to Gloucester Place.
She is seated by the window in her front drawing-room, surveying with proud though grateful heart the elegances by which she is surrounded. A very winning countenance: lively eyes, that in themselves may be over-quick and petulant; but their expression is chastened by a gentle kindly mouth. And over the whole face, the attitude, the air, even the dress itself, is diffused the unmistakable simplicity of a sincere natural character. No doubt Mrs. Haughton has her tempers and her vanities, and her little harmless feminine weaknesses; but you could not help feeling in her presence that you were with an affectionate, warm-hearted, honest, good woman. She might not have the refinements of tone and manner which stamp the high-bred gentlewoman of convention; she might evince the deficiencies of an imperfect third-rate education: but she was saved from vulgarity by a certain undefinable grace or person and music of voice,—even when she said or did things that well-bred people do not say or do; and there was an engaging intelligence in those quick hazel eyes that made you sure that she was sensible, even when she uttered what was silly.
Mrs. Haughton turned from the interior of the room to the open window. She is on the look-out for her son, who has gone to call on Colonel Morley, and who ought to be returned by this time. She begins to get a little fidgety, somewhat cross. While thus standing and thus watchful, there comes thundering down the street a high-stepping horse, bay, with white legs; it whirls on a cabriolet,—blue, with vermilion wheels; two hands, in yellow kid gloves, are just seen under the hood. Mrs. Haughton suddenly blushes and draws in her head. Too late! the cabriolet has stopped; a gentleman leans forward, takes off his hat, bows respectfully. “Dear, dear!” murmurs Mrs. Haughton, “I do think he is going to call: some people are born to be tempted; my temptations have been immense! He is getting out; he knocks; I can’t say, now, that I am not at home,—very awkward! I wish Lionel were here! What does he mean, neglecting his own mother, and leaving her a prey to tempters?”
While the footman is responding to the smart knock of the visitor, we will explain how Mrs. Haughton had incurred that gentleman’s acquaintance. In one of her walks to her new house while it was in the hands of the decorators, her mind being much absorbed in the consideration whether her drawing-room curtains should be chintz or tabouret,—just as she was crossing the street, she was all but run over by a gentleman’s cabriolet. The horse was hard-mouthed, going at full speed. The driver pulled up just in time; but the wheel grazed her dress, and though she ran back instinctively, yet when she was safe on the pavement, the fright overpowered her nerves, and she clung to the street-post almost fainting. Two or three passers-by humanely gathered round her; and the driver, looking back, and muttering to himself, “Not bad-looking; neatly dressed; lady-like; French shawl; may have tin; worth while perhaps!” gallantly descended and hastened to offer apologies, with a respectful hope that she was not injured.
Mrs. Haughton answered somewhat tartly, but being one of those good-hearted women who, apt to be rude, are extremely sorry for it the moment afterwards, she wished to repair any hurt to his feelings occasioned by her first impulse; and when, renewing his excuses, he offered his arm over the crossing, she did not like to refuse. On gaining the side of the way on which her house was situated, she had recovered sufficiently to blush for having accepted such familiar assistance from a perfect stranger, and somewhat to falter in returning thanks for his politeness.
Our gentleman, whose estimate of his attractions was not humble, ascribed the blushing cheek and faltering voice to the natural effect produced by his appearance; and he himself admiring very much a handsome bracelet on her wrist, which he deemed a favourable prognostic of “tin,” watched her to her door, and sent his groom in the course of the evening to make discreet inquiries in the neighbourhood. The result of the inquiries induced him to resolve upon prosecuting the acquaintance thus begun. He contrived to learn the hours at which Mrs. Haughton usually visited the house, and to pass by Gloucester Place at the very nick of time. His bow was recognizing, respectful, interrogative,—a bow that asked “How much farther?” But Mrs. Haughton’s bow respondent seemed to declare, “Not at all!” The stranger did not venture more that day; but a day or two afterwards he came again into Gloucester Place on foot. On that occasion Mrs. Haughton was with her son, and the gentleman would not seem to perceive her. The next day he returned; she was then alone, and just as she gained her door, he advanced. “I beg you ten thousand pardons, madam; but if I am rightly informed, I have the honour to address Mrs. Charles Haughton!”
The lady bowed in surprise.
“Ah, madam, your lamented husband was one of my most particular friends.”
“You don’t say so!” cried Mrs. Haughton. And looking more attentively at the stranger, there was in his dress and appearance something that she thought very stylish; a particular friend of Charles Haughton’s was sure to be stylish, to be a man of the first water. And she loved the poor Captain’s memory; her heart warmed to any “particular friend of his.”
“Yes,” resumed the gentleman, noting the advantage he had gained, “though I was considerably his junior, we were great cronies; excuse that familiar expression; in the Hussars together—”
“The Captain was not in the Hussars, sir; he was in the Guards.”
“Of course he was; but I was saying—in the Hussars, together with the Guards, there were some very fine fellows; very fine; he was one of them. I could not resist paying my respects to the widowed lady of so fine a fellow. I know it is a liberty, ma’am, but ‘t is my way. People who know me well—and I have a large acquaintance—are kind enough to excuse my way. And to think that villanous horse, which I had just bought out of Lord Bolton’s stud (200 guineas, ma’am, and cheap), should have nearly taken the life of Charles Haughton’s lovely relict! If anybody else had been driving that brute, I shudder to think what might have been the consequences; but I have a wrist of iron. Strength is a vulgar qualification,—very vulgar; but when it saves a lady from perishing, how can one be ashamed of it? But I am detaining you. Your own house, Mrs. Haughton?”
“Yes, sir, I have just taken it, but the workmen have not finished. I am not yet settled here.”
“Charming situation! My friend left a son, I believe? In the army already?”
“No, sir, but he wishes it very much.”
“Mr. Darrell, I think, could gratify that wish.”
“What! you know Mr. Darrell, that most excellent generous man. All we have we owe to him.”
The gentleman abruptly turned aside,—wisely; for his expression of face at that praise might have startled Mrs.
Haughton. “Yes, I knew him once. He has had many a fee out of my family. Goodish lawyer; cleverish man; and rich as a Jew. I should like to see my old friend’s son, ma’am. He must be monstrous handsome with such parents!”
“Oh, sir, very like his father. I shall be proud to present him to you.”
“Ma’am, I thank you. I will have the honour to call—”
And thus is explained how Jasper Losely has knocked at Mrs. Haughton’s door; has walked up her stairs; has seated himself in her drawing-room, and is now edging his chair somewhat nearer to her, and throwing into his voice and looks a degree of admiration which has been sincerely kindled by the aspect of her elegant apartments.
Jessica Haughton was not one of those women, if such there be, who do not know when a gentleman is making up to them. She knew perfectly well that with a very little encouragement her visitor would declare himself a suitor. Nor, to speak truth, was she quite insensible to his handsome person, nor quite unmoved by his flatteries. She had her weak points, and vanity was one of them. Nor conceived she, poor lady, the slightest suspicion that Jasper Losely was not a personage whose attentions might flatter any woman. Though lie had not even announced a name, but, pushing aside the footman, had sauntered in with as familiar an ease as if he had been a first cousin; though he had not uttered a syllable that could define his station, or attest his boasted friendship with the dear defunct, still Mrs. Haughton implicitly believed that she was with one of those gay chiefs of ton who had glittered round her Charlie in that earlier morning of his life, ere he had sold out of the Guards, and bought himself out of jail; a lord, or an honourable at least; and she was even (I shudder to say) revolving in her mind whether it might not be an excellent thing for her dear Lionel if she could prevail on herself to procure for him the prop and guidance of a distinguished and brilliant father-in-law,—rich, noble, evidently good-natured, sensible, attractive. Oh! but the temptation was growing more and more IMMENSE! when suddenly the door opened, and in sprang Lionel crying out, “Mother dear, the Colonel has come with me on purpose to—”
He stopped short, staring hard at Jasper Losely. That gentleman advanced a few steps, extending his hand, but came to an abrupt halt on seeing Colonel Morley’s figure now filling up the doorway. Not that he feared recognition: the Colonel did not know him by sight, but he knew by sight the Colonel. In his own younger day, when lolling over the rails of Rotten Row, he had enviously noted the leaders of fashion pass by, and Colonel Morley had not escaped his observation. Colonel Morley, indeed, was one of those men who by name and repute are sure to be known to all who, like Jasper Losely in his youth, would fain learn something about that gaudy, babbling, and remorseless world which, like the sun, either vivifies or corrupts, according to the properties of the object on which it shines. Strange to say, it was the mere sight of the real fine gentleman that made the mock fine gentleman shrink and collapse. Though Jasper Losely knew himself to be still called a magnificent man,—one of royal Nature’s Lifeguardsmen; though confident that from top to toe his habiliments could defy the criticism of the strictest martinet in polite costume, no sooner did that figure, by no means handsome and clad in garments innocent of buckram but guilty of wrinkles, appear on the threshold than Jasper Losely felt small and shabby, as if he had been suddenly reduced to five feet two, and had bought his coat out of an old clothesman’s bag.
Without appearing even to see Mr. Losely, the Colonel, in his turn, as he glided past him towards Mrs. Haughton, had, with what is proverbially called the corner of the eye, taken the whole of that impostor’s superb personnel into calm survey, had read him through and through, and decided on these two points without the slightest hesitation,—“a lady-killer and a sharper.”
Quick as breathing had been the effect thus severally produced on Mrs. Haughton’s visitors, which it has cost so many words to describe,—so quick that the Colonel, without any apparent pause of dialogue, has already taken up the sentence Lionel left uncompleted, and says, as he bows over Mrs. Haughton’s hand, “Come on purpose to claim acquaintance with an old friend’s widow, a young friend’s mother.”
MRS. HAUGHTON.—“I am sure, Colonel Morley, I am very much flattered. And you, too, knew the poor dear Captain; ‘t is so pleasant to think that his old friends come round us now. This gentleman, also, was a particular friend of dear Charles’s.”
The Colonel had somewhat small eyes, which moved with habitual slowness. He lifted those eyes, let them drop upon Jasper (who still stood in the middle of the room, with one hand still half-extended towards Lionel), and letting the eyes rest there while he spoke, repeated,
“Particular friend of Charles Haughton,—the only one of his particular friends whom I never had the honour to see before.”
Jasper, who, whatever his deficiency in other virtues, certainly did not lack courage, made a strong effort at self-possession, and without replying to the Colonel, whose remark had not been directly addressed to himself, said in his most rollicking tone, “Yes, Mrs. Haughton, Charles was my particular friend, but,” lifting his eyeglass, “but this gentleman was,” dropping the eyeglass negligently, “not in our set, I suppose.” Then advancing to Lionel, and seizing his hand, “I must introduce myself,—the image of your father, I declare! I was saying to Mrs. Haughton how much I should like to see you; proposing to her, just as you came in, that we should go to the play together. Oh, ma’am, you may trust him to me safely. Young men should see Life!” Here Jasper tipped Lionel one of those knowing winks with which he was accustomed to delight and ensnare the young friends of Mr. Poole, and hurried on: “But in an innocent way, ma’am, such as mothers would approve. We’ll fix an evening for it when I have the honour to call again. Good morning, Mrs. Haughton. Your hand again, sir (to Lionel). Ah, we shall be great friends, I guess! You must let me take you out in my cab; teach you to handle the ribbons, eh? ‘Gad, my old friend Charles was a whip. Ha! Ha! Goodday, good-day!”
Not a muscle had moved in the Colonel’s face during Mr. Losely’s jovial monologue. But when Jasper had bowed himself out, Mrs. Haughton, courtesying, and ringing the bell for the footman to open the street-door, the man of the world (and, as a man of the world, Colonel Morley was consummate) again raised those small slow eyes,—this time towards her face,—and dropped the words,
“My old friend’s particular friend is—not bad looking, Mrs. Haughton!”
“And so lively and pleasant,” returned Mrs. Haughton, with a slight rise of colour, but no other sign of embarrassment. “It may be a nice acquaintance for Lionel.”
“Mother!” cried that ungrateful boy, “you are not speaking seriously? I think the man is odious. If he were not my father’s friend, I should say he was—”
“What, Lionel?” asked the Colonel, blandly, “was what?”
“Snobbish, sir.”
“Lionel, how dare you?” exclaimed Mrs. Haughton. “What vulgar words boys do pick up at school, Colonel Morley.”
“We must be careful that they do not pick up worse than words when they leave school, my dear madam. You will forgive me, but Mr. Darrell has so expressly—of course, with your permission—commended this young gentleman to my responsible care and guidance; so openly confided to me his views and intentions,—that perhaps you would do me the very great favour not to force upon him, against his own wishes, the acquaintance of—that very good-looking person.”
Mrs. Haughton pouted, and kept down her rising temper. The Colonel began to awe her.
“By the by,” continued the man of the world, “may I inquire the name of my old friend’s particular friend?”
“His name? upon my word I really don’t know it. Perhaps he left his card; ring the bell, Lionel.”
“You don’t know his name, yet you know him, ma’am, and would allow your son to see LIFE under his auspices! I beg you ten thousand pardons; but even ladies the most cautious, mothers the most watchful, are exposed to—”
“Immense temptations,—that is—to—to—”
“I understand perfectly, my dear Mrs. Haughton.”
The footman appeared. “Did that gentleman leave a card?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Did not you ask his name when he entered?”
“Yes, ma’am, but he said he would announce himself.” When the footman had withdrawn, Mrs. Haughton exclaimed piteously, “I have been to blame, Colonel; I see it. But Lionel will tell you how I came to know the gentleman,—the gentleman who nearly ran over me, Lionel, and then spoke so kindly about your dear father.”