What Will He Do With It? (Belford)/Book 4/Chapter 10
CHAPTER X.
"Is there a heart that never loved
Nor felt soft woman's sigh?"
The dignified serenity of Gloucester Place, Portman Square, is agitated by the intrusion of a new inhabitant. A house in that favored 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 neighbors. 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-colored ground—festoon borders, and that the mouldings of the shutters have been gilt. 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 intrusted to his young cousin, had, in complimentary and cordial language, claimed the right to provide for her comfortable and honorable subsistence; and announced that, henceforth, £800 a year would be placed quarterly to her account at Mr. Darrell's banker, and that an additional sum of £1200 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 elegancies by which she is surrounded. A very winning countenance—lively eyes, that in themselves may be overquick 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 gentle-woman of convention; she might evince the deficiencies of an imperfect third-rate education; but she was saved from vulgarity by a certain undefinable grace of 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 was 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 afterward, 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 favorable prognostic of "tin," he watched her to her door, and sent his groom in the course of the evening to make discreet inquiries in the neighborhood. 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 adventure more that day; but a day or two afterward 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 honor 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 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 'tis 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 any body 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 honor 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 he 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 the earlier morning of his life, ere he had sold out of the Guards, and brought himself out of jail; a lord, or an honorable at least, and 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-lay—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 door-way. 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 know 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 Life-guardsmen—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 toward 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; 'tis 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 toward Lionel,) and letting the eyes rest there while he spoke, repeated,
"Particular friend of Charles Haughton's—the only one of his particular friends whom I never had the honor 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 insnare 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 honor 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! Good-day, 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 man of the world, Colonel Morley was consummate) again raised those small, slow eyes—this time toward 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 color, 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 in views and intentions, that perhaps you will do me the very great favor not to force upon him, against his own wishes, the acquaintance of—that very good-looking person."
Mrs. Haughton pouted, but 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 run over me, Lionel,—and then spoke so kindly about your dear father."
"Oh, that is the person! I supposed so," cried Lionel, kissing his mother, who was inclined to burst into tears. "I can explain it all now, Colonel Morley. Any one who says a kind word about my father warms my mother's heart to him at once. Is it not so, mother dear?"
"And long be it so," said Colonel Morley, with graceful earnestness; "and may such be my passport to your confidence, Mrs. Haughton. Charles was my old schoolfellow—a little boy when I and Darrell were in the sixth form; and pardon me if I add that if that gentleman was ever Charles Haughton's particular friend, he could scarcely have been a very wise one. For, unless his appearance greatly belie his years he must have been little more than a boy when Charles Haughton left Lionel fatherless."
Here, in the delicacy of tact, seeing that Mrs. Haughton looked ashamed of the subject, and seemed aware of her imprudence, the Colonel rose, with the request—cheerfully granted—that Lionel might be allowed to come to breakfast with him the next morning.