Kitabı oku: «The Daltons; Or, Three Roads In Life. Volume I», sayfa 19

CHAPTER XXIV. A MIDNIGHT RECEPTION

IT was past midnight, the Opera was just over, and the few privileged guests who were permitted to pay their visits to Lady Hester Onslow were assembled in the little drawing-room and boudoir sacred to these exclusive receptions. Nothing could be in stronger contrast than the gorgeous splendor of the apartment and the half-dressed, careless, lounging ease of the men as they stretched themselves on the ottomans, lounged on the sofas, or puffed their cigars, alike indifferent to the place and the presence of two ladies who, dressed in the very perfection of “toilette,” did the honors of the reception.

Lady Hester, who wore a small embroidered velvet cap, coquettishly set on one side of the head, and a species of velvet jacket, such as is common in Greece, lay upon a sofa beneath a canopy of pink silk covered with lace; a most splendidly ornamented hooka, the emerald mouthpiece of which she held in her hand, stood on a little cushion beside her; while grouped around in every attitude that taste and caprice suggested on chairs, on cushions, squabs, “Prie-Dieu” and other drawing-room devices of a like nature were some half-dozen men, whose air and bearing pronounced them long habituated to all the usages of society. One stamp of feature and style pervaded all; pale, dark-eyed, black-bearded, and weary-looking, they seemed as though they were tired of a life of dissipation, and yet utterly incapable of engaging in any other.

All born to high rank, some to large fortune, they found that no other career was open to them except vice in one shape or other. The policy of their rulers had excluded them from every road of honorable ambition; neither as statesmen nor soldiers could they hope to win fame or glory. Their habits of life and the tone of society gave no impulse to the cultivation of science or literature. The topics discussed in their circle never by chance adverted to a book; and there they were, with heads whose development indicated all that was intellectual, with brows and foreheads that betokened every gift of mental excellence, wearing away life in the dullest imaginable routine of dissipation, their minds neglected, their hearts corrupted, enervated in body, and deprived of all energy of character; they wore, even in youth, the exhausted look of age, and bore in every lineament of their features the type of lassitude and discontent.

In the adjoining room sat Kate Dalton at a tea-table. She was costumed for we cannot use any milder word in a species of “moyen-age” dress, whose length of stomacher and deep-hanging sleeves recalled the portraits of Titian’s time; a small cap covered the back of her head, through an aperture in which the hair appeared, its rich auburn masses fastened by a short stiletto of gold, whose hilt and handle were studded with precious stones; a massive gold chain, with a heavy cross of the same metal, was the only ornament she wore. Widely different as was the dress from that humble guise in which the reader first knew her, the internal change was even greater still; no longer the bashful, blushing girl, beaming with all the delight of a happy nature, credulous, light-hearted, and buoyant, she was now composed in feature, calm, and gentle-mannered; the placid smile that moved her lips, the graceful motion of her head, her slightest gestures, her least words, all displaying a polished ease and elegance which made even her beauty and attraction secondary to the fascination of her manner. It is true the generous frankness of her beaming eyes was gone; she no longer met you with a look of full and fearless confidence: the cordial warmth, the fresh and buoyant sallies of her ready wit, had departed, and in their place was a timid reserve, a cautious, shrinking delicacy, blended with a quiet but watchful spirit of repartee, that flattered by the very degree of attention it betokened.

Perhaps our reader will not feel pleased with us for saying that she was more beautiful now than before; that intercourse with the world, dress, manners, the tact of society, the stimulus of admiration, the assured sense of her own charms, however they may have detracted from the moral purity of her nature, had yet invested her appearance with higher and more striking fascinations. Her walk, her courtesy, the passing motion of her hand, her attitude as she sat, were perfect studies of grace. Not a trace was left of her former manner; all was ease, pliancy, and elegance. Two persons were seated near her: one of these, our old acquaintance, George Onslow; the other was a dark, sallow-visaged man, whose age might have been anything from thirty-five to sixty, for, while his features were marked by the hard lines of time, his figure had all the semblance of youth. By a broad blue ribbon round his neck he wore the decoration of Saint Nicholas, and the breast of his coat was covered with stars, crosses, and orders of half the courts of Europe. This was Prince Midchekoff, whose grandfather, having taken an active part in the assassination of the Emperor Paul, had never been reconciled to the Imperial family, and was permitted to reside in a kind of honorable banishment out of Russia; a punishment which he bore up under, it was said, with admirable fortitude. His fortune was reputed to be immense, and there was scarcely a capital of Europe in which he did not possess a residence. The character of his face was peculiar, for while the forehead and eyes were intellectual and candid, the lower jaw and mouth revealed his Calmuck origin, an expression of intense, unrelenting cruelty being the impression at once conveyed by the thin, straight, compressed lips, and the long, projecting chin, seeming even longer from the black-pointed beard he wore. There was nothing vulgar or common-place about him; he never could have passed unobserved anywhere, and yet he was equally far from the type of high birth. His manners were perfectly well bred; and although he spoke seldom, his quiet and attentive air and his easy smile showed he possessed the still rarer quality of listening well.

There was another figure, not exactly of this group, but at a little distance off, beside a table in a recess, on which a number of prints and drawings were scattered, and in the contemplation of which he affected to be absorbed; while, from time to time, his dark eyes flashed rapidly across to note all that went forward. He was a tall and singularly handsome man, in the dress of a priest. His hair, black and waving, covered a forehead high, massive, and well developed; his eyes were deep-set, and around the orbits ran lines that told of long and hard study, for the Abbe D’Esmonde was a distinguished scholar; and, as a means of withdrawing him for a season from the overtoil of reading, he had been attached temporarily as a species of Under-secretary to the Mission of the “Nonce.” In this guise he was admitted into all the society of the capital, where his polished address and gentle manner soon made him a general favorite.

Equally removed from the flippant levity of the abbe as a class, and the gross and sensual coarseness of the “old priest,” D’Esmonde was a perfect man of the world, so far as taking a lively interest in all the great events of politics, watching eagerly the changeful features of the times, and studying acutely the characters of the leading men, at whose dictates they were modified. Its pleasures and amusements, too, he was willing to partake of moderately and unobtrusively; but he held himself far apart from all those subjects of gossip and small-talk which, in a society of lax morality, occupy so considerable a space, and in which the great dignitaries who wear scarlet and purple stockings are often seen to take a lively and animated share. Some ascribed this reserve to principle; others called it hypocrisy; and some, again, perhaps with more truth, deemed it the settled line of action of one who already destined himself for a high and conspicuous station, and had determined that his character should add weight and dignity to his talents.

It might have been thought that he was a singular guest to have been admitted to receptions like the present; but Jekyl, who managed everything, had invited him, on the principle, as he said, that a gourmand has a decanter of water always beside him at dinner, “not to drink, but because it looks temperate.” The abbe’s presence had the same effect; and, certainly, his calm and dignified demeanor, his polished address, and cultivated tone, were excellent certificates of good character for the rest.

At the tea-table the conversation languished, or only went forward at intervals. Onslow’s French was not fluent, and he was silent from shame. Kate felt that she ought not to take the lead; and the Prince, habitually reserved, spoke very little, and even that in the discursive, unconnected tone of a man who was always accustomed to find that any topic he started should be instantly adopted by the company.

The cold and steady stare with which he surveyed her would, but a short time back, have covered her face with a blush; she could not have borne unabashed the glance of searching, almost insolent meaning he bestowed upon her; but now, whatever her heart might have felt, her features were calm and passionless; nor did she in the slightest degree show any consciousness of a manner that was costing Onslow a struggle whether to laugh at or resent.

In one sense these two men were rivals, but each so impressed with proud contempt for the other, their rivalry was unknown to both. Kate, however, with her woman’s tact, saw this, and knew well how her least smile or slightest word inclined the balance to this side or to that. The Prince was inveighing against the habit of wintering in Italy as one of the most capital blunders of the age.

“We forget,” said he, “that, in our present civilization, art is always first and nature second, as we see evidenced in all the results of agriculture. It is not the most fertile soil, but the highest-labored one which produces the best fruits. So with respect to climate, we never bear in mind that, where nature does most, man always does least.”

“According to that rule, Prince, we should winter at St. Petersburg, and spend the dog-days at Calcutta,” said Kate, smiling.

“So we should,” replied he; “the appliances to resist heat or cold, of man’s invention, are far better adapted to enjoyment than the accidental variations of climate.”

“In my country,” said Onslow, tartly, “men study less how to avoid the inclemencies of weather than to become indifferent to them. Hunting, shooting, and deer-stalking are very sure methods to acquire this.”

The Prince paid no attention to the remark, but turned the conversation into another channel, by asking Kate if she had ever read Fourier’s book. From this he wandered away to the characteristic differences of national music, thence to the discoveries then making in Central America, and lastly, engaged her in an animated discussion of the question of slavery. On none of these points was he deeply or even well informed, but he possessed that fluency and facility which intercourse with society confers; and as all his knowledge was derived from men, and not from books, it bore a certain stamp of originality about it that secured attention. Not, indeed, from George Onslow; he was the most bored of men. None of the topics were his topics. Of Tattersall’s, the Guards’ Club, the society of London, the odds on the “Derby,” he could have discoursed well and pleasantly. From what was “wrong” with the Sa’nbucca filly to what was not right with Lady Flutterton’s niece, he could have told you everything; but all these other themes were, in his estimation, but sheer pedantry, and, indeed, they only lacked a little knowledge a very little would have sufficed to be so.

“He is gone,” said the Prince, with a caustic smile which revealed a plan; “gone at last.”

“So, then, this was a device of yours, Prince,” said she, laughing. “I really must call my cousin back and tell him so.”

“No, no,” said he, seriously. “I have won my battle, let me profit by my victory. Let me speak to you on another subject.” He drew his chair a little nearer to the table as he spoke, and laid his arm on it. Kate’s heart beat fast and full; and the color came and went rapidly in her cheek. A vague sense of fear, of shame, and of triumphant pride were all at conflict within her. There was but one theme in the world that could have warranted such a commencement, so serious, so grave, so purpose-like. Was this, then, possible?

The glittering stars all a blaze of brilliants that shone beside her seemed an emblem of that high state which was now within her reach; and what a torrent of varied emotions rushed through her heart! Of home, of her father, of Nelly, of Frank; and, lastly, what thoughts of George, poor George, whom she knew loved her, and to whom, without loving, she was not altogether indifferent. “Do not be agitated, Mademoiselle,” said the prince, laying the slightest touch of his jewelled fingers on her arm. “I ask a little patience and a little calm consideration for what I am about to say.”

“Is that really like an Irish peasant’s cottage, Miss Daiton?” said the abbe, as he held before her a drawing of one, in all the details of its most striking misery.

“Yes, perfectly; not exaggerated in the least,” said she, hurriedly blushing alike at the surprise and the interruption.

“You have no such misery, Monsieur le Prince, in Russia, I believe?” remarked the priest, with a courteous bend of the head.

“We are well governed, sir; and nothing displays it more palpably than that no man forgets his station,” said the prince, with an insolent hauteur that made Kate blush over neck and forehead, while D’Esmonde stood calm and passionless under the sarcasm.

“So I have always heard, sir,” said he, blandly. “I remember, when at Wredna – ”

“You have been at Wredna?” asked the Prince, in an altered voice.

But the other, not heeding the interruption, went on:

“I remember, when at Wredna, to have heard an anecdote which strikingly illustrates the rigid obedience yielded to power, and the condition of public opinion at the same time. A manumitted slave, who was raised to high rank and wealth by the favor of the Czar, had returned to Wredna in the capacity of governor. A short time after his arrival he was tormented by applications and letters from a woman in great poverty who asserted that she was his mother. Fedeorovna, of course in secret, proved the truth of her assertion; but the only answer she received was a significant caution to be silent, and not appeal to a relationship which could only prove offensive. Perhaps incredulous of the authentic character of so cruel a reply, perhaps stung to angry indignation by it, she carried the humble basket of fruit and vegetables that she hawked for a livelihood before the door of the great mansion where her son resided; but, instead of advertising her wares, as is customary in these Muscovite markets, by some picture of a saint or some holy inscription, she carried a little placard, with the inscription, ‘The Mother of Alexovitch,’ the name of the Governor. A crowd soon gathered around this singular booth, heralded by so strange an announcement, and as speedily the police resorted to the spot, and carried the offender before the judge. The defence was the simple one that she had merely averred the truth. I need not weary you with the mockery of investigation that followed; the result is all I need tell. This woman was knouted and sent away to Siberia. So much for the Governor. As for the governed, they were enthusiastic in praise of his justice and clemency; for he might have ordered her to be beheaded.”

“Do you tell the story as a fact, sir?” said the Prince, whose dark cheek became almost green in its sallowness as he spoke.

“I tell it distinctly as a fact. The Papa who received the woman’s confession repeated the tale on his own deathbed, from whence it reached me.”

“Priests can be liars, whether Greek or Roman,” said the Prince, in a voice almost suffocated with passion; and then, suddenly checking the course of his anger, he turned to Kate with a sickly smile, and said, “Mademoiselle will pardon a rudeness in her presence which nothing short of so gross a calumny could have elicited.”

“I will furnish you with all the names to-morrow, Monsieur le Prince,” said D’Esmonde, in a whisper; and sauntered away into the adjoining room.

“You look pale, Miss Dalton,” said the Prince.

“That shocking story – ”

“Which of course you don’t believe.”

“The Abbe D’Esmonde I have always heard to be a person of strict veracity and of extreme caution.”

“Be careful of him, Miss Dalton. It is not without good reason that I say this.”

There was a degree of solemnity in the way he uttered these words that made Kate thoughtful and serious. Unaccustomed to see, in society, anything but features of pleasure and amusement, she was suddenly awakened to the conviction that its calm waters covered rocks and quicksands as perilous as stormier seas. Could people so full of amiabilities be dangerous acquaintances? Was there poison in this charmed cup? Was the doubt which sprang to her mind But she had not time for the inquiry, as the Prince offered her his arm to the supper-room.

CHAPTER XXV. A “LEVANTER.”

IN our penal settlements nothing is more common than to find the places of honor and distinction filled by men who were once convicts, and who may date the favorable turn of their fortune to the day of their having transgressed the law. So in certain Continental cities are individuals to be found occupying conspicuous stations, and enjoying a large share of influence, whose misdeeds at home first made them exiles, and who, leaving England in shame, are received abroad with honor. There is this difference between the two cases; for while the convict owes all his future advancement to his own efforts at reformation, the absentee obtains his “brevet” of character by the simple fact of his extradition. He shakes off his rascalities as he does his rheumatism, when he quits the foggy climate of England, and emerges spotless and without stain upon the shores of Ostend or Boulogne.

To do this, however, he must not bear a plebeian name, nor pertain to the undistinguishable herd of vulgar folk. He must belong to some family of mark and note, with peers for his uncles and peeresses for cousins; nor is he always safe if he himself be not a member of an hereditary legislature. We have been led to these reflections by having to chronicle the arrival in Florence of Lord Norwood; a vague and confused murmur of his having done something, people knew not what, in England having preceded him. Some called him “poor Norwood,” and expressed sorrow for him; others said he was a capital fellow, up to everything, and that they were delighted at his coming. A few, of very tender and languishing virtue themselves, wondered if they ought to meet him as before; but the prevailing impression was charitable. The affair at Graham’s might have been exaggerated, the Newmarket business was possibly a mistake. “Any man might owe money, and not be able to pay it,” was a sentiment pretty generally repeated and as generally believed; and, in fact, if to be tried by one’s peers be an English privilege, the noble Viscount here enjoyed it at the hands of a jury unimpeachable on the score of equality.

We are far from suggesting that Norwood’s character as a “shot” had any concern with this mild verdict; but certain it is, his merits in this capacity were frequently remembered, and always with honorable mention.

“No man plays ecarte better,” said Haggerstone, while as yet the Viscount’s arrival was unknown, and as he discussed the rumors upon him before a group of listening Englishmen at the door of the “Club”. “No man plays ecarte better, nor with better luck!” added he, with a chuckle that was intended to convey a meaning beyond the mere words.

“Has he been a large winner, then?” asked one of the bystanders, respectfully, looking to the Colonel for information; for, in a certain set, he was regarded as the most thoroughly conversant man with all the faults and follies of high life.

“No man wins invariably, sir, except Brooke Morris, perhaps,” replied he, always happy at the opportunity to quote the name of a man of fashion in a tone of familiarity.

“That was the Mo-Mo-Morris that ruined Hopeton, was n’t it?” broke in Purvis, quite forgetting that the individual he addressed was reported to have a share in the transaction. Haggerstone, however, did not deign a reply, but puffed his cigar in perfect contempt of his questioner.

“Who is this coming up here?” said one; “he looks like a new arrival. He is English, certainly; that frock has a London cut there’s no mistaking.”

“By Jove, it’s Norwood!” cried Haggerstone, edging away, as he spoke, from the group. Meanwhile, the noble Viscount, a well-dressed, well-whiskered man, of about thirty, came leisurely forward, and touching his hat familiarly, said,

“Ha! you here, Haggerstone! What is Florence doing?”

“Pretty much as it always did, my Lord. I don’t think its morals have improved since you knew it a few years ago.”

“Or you wouldn’t be here, Haggy, eh?” said the Viscount, laughing at his own joke. “Not suit your book if it took a virtuous turn, eh?”

“I plead guilty, my Lord. I believe I do like to shoot folly as it flies.”

“Ah, yes! And I’ve seen you taking a sitting shot at it too, Haggy,” said the other, with a heartier laugh, which, despite of the Colonel’s efforts not to feel, brought a crimson flush to his cheek.

“Is there any play going on, Haggy?”

“Nothing that you would call play, my Lord; a little whist for Nap points, a little ecarte, a little piquet, and, now and then, we have a round game at Sabloukoff’s.”

“Poor old fellow! and he ‘s alive still? And where ‘s the Jariominski?”

“Gone back to Russia.”

“And Maretti?”

“In Saint Angelo, I believe.”

“And that little Frenchman what was his name? his father was a Marshal of the Empire.”

“D’Acosta.”

“The same. Where is he?”

“Shot himself this spring.”

“Pretty girl, his sister. What became of her?”

“Some one told me that she had become a Soeur de Charite.”

“What a pity! So they ‘re all broken up, I see.”

“Completely so.”

“Then what have you got in their place?”

“Nothing fast, my Lord, except, perhaps, your friends the Onslows.”

“Yes; they ‘re going it, I hear. Is n’t there a rich niece, or cousin, or something of that sort, with them?”

“They’ve got a prettyish girl, called Dalton; but as to her being rich, I think it very unlikely, seeing that her family are living in Germany in a state of the very closest poverty.”

“And Master George, how does he carry on the war?” said the Viscount, who seemed quite heedless of the other’s correction.

“He plays a little peddling ecarte now and then; but you can see that he has burned his fingers, and dreads the fire. They say he ‘s in love with the Dalton girl.”

“Of course he is, if they live in the same house; and he ‘s just the kind of fool to marry her, too. Who ‘s that little fellow, listening to us?”

“Purvis, my Lord; don’t you remember him? He’s one of the Ricketts’s set.”

“To be sure I do. How are you, Purvis? You look so young and so fresh, I could not persuade myself it could be my old acquaintance.”

“I ‘ve taken to homoe-homoe-homoe-homo – ” Here he opened his mouth wide, and gasped till he grew black in the face.

“What’s the word? Give it him, Haggy. It’s all up with him,” said the Viscount.

“Homoeopathy, eh?”

“Just so. Homeo-hom – ”

“Confound it, man, can’t you be satisfied? when you’re once over the fence, you need n’t go back to leap it. And how is the dear what’s her name Agathe? no, Zoe, how is she?”

“Quite well, my Lord, and would be cha-cha-cha-rmed to see you.”

“Living in that queer humbug still, eh?”

“In the Vill-ino, my Lord, you mean?”

“Egad! she seems the only thing left; like the dog on the wreck, eh, Haggy?”

“Just so, my Lord,” said the other, with a complacent laugh.

“What a mass of old crockery she must have got together by this time!” said the Viscount, yawning with a terrible recollection of her tiresomeness.

“You came out with a yacht, my Lord?” asked Haggerstone.

“Pretty well, for a man that they call ru-ru-ruined,” said Purvis, laughing.

Norwood turned a look of angry indignation at him, and then, as if seeing the unworthiness of the object, merely said,

“A yacht is the only real economy nowadays. You get rid at once of all trains of servants, household, stable people; even the bores of your acquaintance you cut off. By-by, Purvis.” And, with a significant wink at Haggerstone, he passed across the street, in time to overtake Onslow, who was just passing.

“I think I ga-ga-gave it him there,” cried Purvis, with an hysteric giggle of delight; who, provided that he was permitted to fire his shot, never cared how severely he was himself riddled by the enemy’s fire. Meanwhile, the Viscount and his friend were hastening forward to the Mazzarini Palace, as totally forgetful of Purvis as though that valuable individual had never existed.

We may take this opportunity to mention, that when the rumors which attributed a grand breach of honorable conduct to Lord Norwood had arrived at Florence, Sir Stafford, who never had any peculiar affection for the Viscount, declared himself in the very strongest terms on the subject of his offending, and took especial pains to show the marked distinction between occasions of mere wasteful extravagance and instances of fraudulent and dishonest debt.

It was in vain he was told that the rigid rule of English morality is always relaxed abroad, and that the moral latitude is very different in London and Naples. He was old-fashioned enough to believe that honor is the same in all climates; and having received from England a very detailed and specific history of the noble Lord’s misdoings, he firmly resolved not to receive him.

With all George Onslow’s affection and respect for his father, he could not help feeling that this was a mere prejudice, one of the lingering remnants of a past age; a sentiment very respectable, perhaps, but totally inapplicable to present civilization, and quite impracticable in society. In fact, as he said himself, “Who is to be known, if this rule be acted on? What man or, further still, what woman of fashionable life will stand this scrutiny? To attempt such exclusiveness, one should retire to some remote provincial town, some fishing-village of patriarchal simplicity; and, even there, what security was there against ignoble offendings? How should, he stand the ridicule of his club and his acquaintance if he attempted to assume such a standard?” These arguments were strengthened by his disbelief, or rather his repugnance to believe the worst of Norwood; and furthermore, supported by Lady Hester’s open scorn for all such “hypocritical trumpery,” and her avowal that the Viscount should be received, by her, at least. Exactly as of old, George Onslow’s mind was in a state of oscillation and doubt now leaning to this side, now inclining to that when the question was decided for him, as it so often is in like cases, by a mere accident; for, as he loitered along the street, he suddenly felt an arm introduced within his own. He turned hastily round and saw Norwood, who, with, all his customary coolness, asked after each member of the family, and at once proposed to pay them a visit.

Of all men living, none were less suited than Onslow for assuming any part, or taking any decisive line, which could possibly be avoided, or even postponed. He hated, besides, to do an ungracious thing anywhere, or to any one. It might be, thought he, that Norwood’s scrape could all be explained away. Perhaps, after all, the thing is a mere trifle; and if he were to take the decided line of cutting a man without due cause, the consequences might be most injurious. These, and fifty such-like scruples, warred within him, and so engaged his attention that he actually heard not one word of all that “town gossip” which Norwood was retailing for his amusement. At last, while following out his own thoughts, George came to the resolution of finding out at once the precise position in which Norwood stood, and to this end asked the last news from Newmarket.

Norwood’s coolness never forsook him at a question whose very suddenness was somewhat awkward.

“Bad enough,” said he, with an easy laugh. “We have all of us been ‘hit hard.’ Knolesby has lost heavily. Burchester, too, has had a smasher; and I myself have not escaped. In fact, George, the ‘Legs’ have had it all their own way. I suppose you heard something about it out here?”

“Why, yes; there were reports – ”

“Oh, hang reports, man! Never trust to old women’s tales. And that confounded fellow, Haggerstone, I ‘m certain, has been spreading all kinds of stories. But the facts are simple enough.”

“I ‘m heartily glad you say so; for, to tell you the truth, Norwood, my father is one of the prejudiced about this affair, and I ‘m dying to be able to give him a full explanation of the whole.”

“Ah, Sir Stafford, too, among the credulous!” said Norwood, slowly. “I could scarcely have supposed so. No matter; only I did fancy that he was not exactly the person to form hasty conclusions against any man’s character. However, you may tell him for, as for myself, I ‘ll not condescend to explain to any one but you the thing is a very simple one. There was a mare of Hopeton’s, a Brockdon filly, entered for the Slingsby, and a number of us agreed to ‘go a heavy thing’ upon her against the field. A bold coup always, George, that backing against the field. Never do it, my boy, and particularly when you ‘ve a set of rascally foreign Legs banded against you, Poles and Hungarian fellows, George; the downiest coves ever you met, and who, in their confounded jargon, can sell you before your own face. Nothing like John Bull, my boy. Straight, frank, and open John forever! Hit him hard and he ‘ll hit you again; but no treachery, no stab in the dark. Oh, no, no! The turf in England was another thing before these Continental rascals came amongst us. I was always against admitting them within the ring. I black-balled a dozen of them at the Club. But see what perseverance does; they’re all in now. There’s no John-Bull feeling among our set, and we ‘re paying a smart price for it. Never trust those German fellows, George. Out of England there is no truth, no honor. But, above all, don’t back against the field; there are so many dodges against you; so many ‘dark horses’ come out fair. That ‘s it, you see; that ‘s the way I got it so heavily; for when Ruxton came and told me that ‘Help-me-Over’ was dead lame, I believed him. A fetlock lameness is no trifle, you know; and there was a swelling as large as my hand around the coronet. The foreign fellows can manage that in the morning, and the horse will run to win the same day. I saw it myself. Ah, John Bull forever! No guile, no deceit in him. Mind me, George, I make this confession for you alone. I ‘ll not stoop to repeat it. If any man dare to insinuate anything to my discredit, I ‘ll never give myself the trouble of one word of explanation, but nail him to it, twelve paces, and no mistake. I don’t think my right hand has forgot its cunning. Have him out at once, George; parade him on the spot, my boy; that ‘s the only plan. What! is this your quarter?” asked he, as they stopped at the entrance of the spacious palace. “I used to know this house well of old. It was the Embassy in Templeton’s time. Very snug it used to be. Glad to see you ‘ve banished all those maimed old deities that used to line the staircase, and got rid of that tiresome tapestry, too. Pretty vases those; fresh-looking that conservatory, they ‘re always strong in camellias in Florence. This used to be the billiard-room. I think you’ve made a good alteration; it looks better as a salon. Ah, I like this, excellent taste that chintz furniture; just the thing for Italy, and exactly what nobody thought of before!”