"You do not know him. The man has a will of iron, and he loves Esther.

In a different epoch he would have been capable of subverting a monarchy, and he would set London on fire if his pa.s.sion, which he regards as sent from on high, should command him to do it. Young as he is, there are hundreds of fanatics who follow and obey him, and I advise Capt. Hackman and his men not to try issues with that legion of fools!"

"You quite fire me to carry the adventure to the issue at all events."

"Then may the devil protect your lordship! As for myself, I have sermonized quite enough for a man of my stamp. In any case, my lord, the receipts of last night's game must have recompensed you for the miscalculations of love. In that regard we have another proverb in our language. When I left the club Fortune seemed to be smiling upon you."

"Yes, and I continued to win until daybreak. Poor Charles Fox hadn't a guinea to his name. Moreover, he was hopelessly intoxicated, and, to cap the climax, had an important speech to deliver to-day. We bound up his head in cold cloths and left him in a chair as well as could be expected. I scrupled about ruining him, for it is said that his furniture will be seized next week; but he does not seem to mind. I won twenty thousand pounds and remained alone with Lord Stavondale. It was raining, and we watched the day dawn across the wet windows. I a.s.sure you it is a very ugly sight to see. Stavondale pointed out two drops of water of about equal density slowly coursing over the pane. 'I will wager,' he said, 'that _that_ one will touch the sash first.' 'I'll take you,' said I. 'How much?' said he. 'My night's winnings,' said I. Just at that moment a devilish drop, which some inequality in the gla.s.s turned from its course, joined Stavondale's drop, which came in with a rush, and I lost my twenty thousand pounds. What consoled me for my loss was the novelty of the invention. This racing drops across a window pane is every whit as amusing as pitting horses against each other at Newmarket."

Here chocolate was brought in at the same time with his lordship's journals.

"See if there is anything in the papers," he commanded.

Lebeau glanced through the _Morning Chronicle_ and the _Gentleman's Magazine_, and several other gazettes of the same description, which included magazines both matrimonial and sentimental.

"Let us see," said he; "'In a certain house in the neighborhood of the Thames--' Your lordship knows that this has reference to the House of Commons."

"Pa.s.s over politics."

"Here is a book announced from the pen of Mr. Bryant, the antiquarian, who is so well informed concerning events from the origin of the world to the Deluge. Fancy considering nothing of importance _after_ the Deluge! His work is disposed of in three words,--'Heavy, tiresome, pedantic.' c.u.mberland's romance is also treated in three words,--'Refined, sensible, and tender.'"

"Pa.s.s over literature."

"The condemned of the week: 'Sarah Hoggs, to be hanged for stealing a piece of cloth that was spread out to dry; Laurence Williamson, to the same penalty for having cut down sundry young trees; item, Annie Smith, to one year's imprisonment for having taken forty shillings in the presence of witnesses; item, Florence Dunk, to be hanged for having taken five shillings privately; item, William Morton, to transportation for having a.s.sa.s.sinated his father.'"

"Pa.s.s over all that. What society news is there?"

"'Major T---- has again been detected in cheating at cards; he has been requested not to appear at Almack's again.'"

"That's Topham, the editor of the _World_!" exclaimed his lordship.

"Bah! in a week's time he will be back again and everybody will be shaking hands with him."

"'Lady B---- has eloped with her husband's groom; his lordship will be consoled by the society of Mlle. Annette, the little French dancer.'"

"Is there nothing else?"

"Nothing but two duels, three abductions, five or six bankruptcies, several fires, and a charade in verse.--Ah!"

"Well, what is it?"

"George Barrington, the gentleman-sharper, has been arrested at Edinburgh!"

"Barrington! a charming fellow! I recollect one evening at Ranelagh, when he showed me how he purloined a snuff-box, and as payment for the lesson he took my watch. And here he is under lock and key! Poor boy!"

"You need not pity him. He will plead his cause so eloquently that he will be acquitted, as he has been many a time."

"In truth, he is a very Cicero among thieves. And the advertis.e.m.e.nts?"

"The alchemist Woulfe announces for sale an elixir which is a panacea for every malady. Samuel Wollmer will loan money to sons-of-family in embarra.s.sment. As he is actuated by pure love of humanity, his terms will be very moderate. Mrs. Cresswell offers false hair, masks, and red pomade for the lips. Oh, oh! here's a gentleman of middle age who desires to meet a young lady of good appearance and amiable disposition, but discreet and lively. He'll find her," added Lebeau gravely. "I am convinced that his advertis.e.m.e.nt will be answered."

During this time Oliver had dressed and prepared his master, and had tried on the plum-colored coat with the jonquil tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. Every trace of the night's fatigue had disappeared; the fresh hue of early youth bloomed again upon Lord Mowbray's cheek. As he was about to go out he gave his final orders to Oliver.

"You will buy for me 'The Tests of Character'; also, you will ask for the fashionable romance, 'The Cadenas.' You will inquire about the new wax which has just been invented by the Prince of Wales; they say it is marvellous. Now let us go and have a game of bowls, after which we will take a turn in the fencing-school."

Lord Mowbray slipped his arm into that of Lebeau, and in this att.i.tude they went out together, which seemed to announce the return of confidence and friendly feeling. Mons. Lebeau was an adept in the art of pleasing, and in order to make good his return to grace he employed all the resources of his wit, which was by no means of mediocre quality. A curious fellow was this same Lebeau, who had almost ceased to be a Frenchman without wholly becoming an Englishman. He had distinguished himself among the tutors who were furnished to lordlings and who were termed "bear-keepers." He was clever, knew the world, was "up" in literature, could recite from the poets, and in case of need was able to turn a verse as easily as one twirled a snuff-box. He had had a tragedy produced and hissed off the stage somewhere, for he had tasted the cup of a man of letters, living by dedications to the great and by writing homilies for churchmen, rich in skekels but poor in intellect. He would frequently say, "Had I delivered all the sermons which I have written, I should be a cardinal." In turn, doctor upon a vessel of the East India Company, actor, professor of mathematics, courier to an amba.s.sador, Parisian correspondent to a German prince who boasted thirty-three subjects, what callings had he not fulfilled? By what sallies had he not attempted fortune? His life resembled one of those old-fashioned romances, filled, as it was, with adventures which we should consider impossible. An event upon which he never cared to enlarge--some sort of an irregular duel with a personage of dignity--had obliged him to leave his native land. In a London brothel he had made the acquaintance of the late Lord Mowbray, who had taken him into his service on condition that he would procure him something new in the way of emotion. "I am bored to death," explained his lordship; "amuse me. I have used up every resource and am used up myself; invent some plan to revive me. Bear in mind your ability as an author and make my life a poem of delights, an unedited romance. Instead of committing your fancies to paper, realize them with my guineas and for my benefit. To begin with, there is my villa, my 'Folly,' which is being built at Chelsea. Give your orders: the mason, the painter, the upholsterer will obey you." Lebeau accepted the engagement and acquitted himself to the perfect satisfaction of his new patron.

It was he who first invented those marvellous traps by means of which the table disappeared after the first course and came up again laid with a fresh service, which relieved the guests of the espionage of the attendants. It was he, again, who devised, or revived from ancient usage, the perfumed rain, the hail of roses; who offered to his master's friends a _fete_ such as Cleopatra gave, a Trimalcion supper and a Borgian night festival; who realized for enchanted senses a corner of the Orient, a dream of the Thousand and One Nights, while the snowflakes fell and the wintry wind outside swept over the denuded country. And Lord Mowbray had the satisfaction of saying to those who congratulated him, "This is a mere nothing."

His friends in their jealousy often said to him, "Lebeau is robbing you." Whereupon he would shrug his shoulders and reply, "How can you expect such a clever fellow not to be a little bit of a swindler?"

Let us give an example of one of his surprising devices. As Lord Mowbray was strolling one evening along the Cheyne Walk by the water he was suddenly seized by three or four ruffians, stripped of his clothing, bound, gagged, and finally thrown into the river. There he gave all up for lost, and, believing himself at death's door, fainted away. He recovered, to find himself at the bottom of a gigantic pie, whence he emerged, to the profound astonishment of a dozen or more of his friends who had a.s.sembled for supper.

"What do you think of that for a new sensation, my lord?" inquired Lebeau modestly.

"You own no equal!" exclaimed Mowbray enthusiastically. "I would not part with you for ten thousand pounds!"

But Lebeau inspired contrary sentiments in poor Lady Mowbray, who saw in him her husband's evil genius. When he was about she lost all hope of reclaiming her faithless spouse. A slow fever having succeeded the birth of her only son, she made no effort to live. Why should she? Her son would be enticed from her, as her husband had been. The child, as by some inconceivable hereditary repugnance, avoided her, fled her caresses. She herself, to her deep mortification, never experienced that mysterious and potent attachment which eternally binds the existence of mother and child; and it was under these cruel conditions of life that Lady Mowbray, overwhelmed with misery, weary of suffering, and longing for rest, sank into the arms of death.

She expired unpitied, conjugal love in the higher ranks of society being regarded as a ridiculous anomaly. However, the cynical joy of Lord Mowbray, even in that epoch of irony and indifference, caused a shudder among the less delicate. Henceforth he was in no way hampered. A career of untrammelled debauchery lay open before him; but an unexpected event arrested him with ruthless abruptness. He suddenly disappeared, and the circ.u.mstances of his taking-off, at once ign.o.ble and sinister, finally became known in the social walks where he had been best known. He had lost his life in attempting to experiment upon himself in the mysterious sensations which, he was informed, attended the final convulsions of those doomed to die by hanging. Whether through mismanagement or crime, the cord had not been cut in time, and Death still guarded his secret from the one who had essayed to violate it.

Among the deceased n.o.bleman's papers were found sundry instructions for the education of his son, among which one doctrine, far worse than atheism, was drawn up in cold, dry, incisive terms, to suit the custom of the time.

"Man," it maintained, "should live in accordance with nature. Now, nature commands us to flee pain and seek pleasure. Certain philosophers of antiquity have clearly perceived this truth, and that, too, at an epoch when the human mind was not yet enc.u.mbered and obscured by vain prejudices. But they have not ventured to demonstrate their theory even unto the end; they have imagined a substance called the soul, the tendencies of which are at constant variance with those of the body.

They have arrayed pleasure in the guise of virtue, and have thus opened the way for the Christian folly. Christianity is the most formidable opponent of happiness, and during long ages has rendered the world well-nigh uninhabitable. From infancy we are imbued with the mawkish doctrines; I, myself, have had the utmost difficulty in relieving myself of the yoke and I have but imperfectly succeeded. That is why, should I die before my son has attained his majority, I expressly desire that he shall grow up without receiving the teachings of any religion whatsoever. Later he will understand these aberrations when he comes to a full appreciation of the long series of human errors. Let his mind be developed, stocked with facts, and ornamented with agreeable reflections; let him be schooled in all that pertains to bodily exercise where strength and address are required. By increasing his vigor, his pa.s.sions will increase and consequently his relish for life. Let him be instructed not to govern or struggle with himself, but to follow in all things the only instinct which can be his certain guide,--that which attracts man to pleasure. Monsieur Lebeau appears to me a man of the world and the one best fitted to take charge of this education."

The will of the dead man was duly accomplished. The young man was reared in the school of evil and became a curious, experimental subject for his master. The late Lord Mowbray had been a reclaimed fanatic; after his own fashion he preached as do nearly all of his compatriots. Lebeau contented himself with observation, and consigned these observations to a certain ma.n.u.script, written in French, which was ent.i.tled: "A Treatise on Pleasure; or, A Rational Journal of a Young English n.o.bleman. To be published one hundred years after my death."

Lebeau remarked many things; among others these:--

"This youth, reared in the very lap of happiness, was not happy. The pleasure which formed his daily lessons seemed to him stale and forced.

Over and beyond the delights which were multiplied for him and almost imposed upon him, he dreamed of others to which he could not attain, thereby proving that the true vocation of man is the unattainable, the unreal. He was bred according to nature, that is to say, after the fashion of savages; his joys revolved in the narrow, wretched circle in which the primitive inhabitants of the globe vegetate. Five or six thousand years of civilization have delicately undermined, modelled, and ameliorated this block of confused sensations which we represent. The thousand constraints which man has imposed upon himself, and his privations, voluntary or obligatory, not to mention his griefs, have refined him, perfected his organs of pleasure, increased his faculty of happiness an hundred-fold. Suppress these constraints, these tests, these combats, and you leave him but the swift, b.e.s.t.i.a.l joys in which the aborigines, our ancestors, forgot for a moment in the obscurity of their caverns the frightful misery of their existence. Young Mowbray at twenty years of age had run the gamut of fallacious love. He had learned the principles of gallantry and debauchery as one learns Latin; but never having trembled, wept, nor suffered, he was totally ignorant of genuine love."

All at once towards Lebeau, that man of infinite complaisance, he experienced a sense of secret resistance. It was upon the day when first he was smitten by the charms of Miss Woodville. A will seemed to interpose between him and the object of his desire, seeming to say: "All women, but not _this one_!"

Was it not sufficient that she had become dearer to him than all others?

CHAPTER VI.

THE HOUSE IN TOTHILL FIELDS.

In her turn Esther had been awakened, as she was every morning, by a sort of dull buzzing, which for a s.p.a.ce continued and finally died away.

It was Reuben droning the morning prayers in the lower hall in presence of his mother and the aged servant, Maud. She raised herself upon her elbow and glanced about her with an expression of disgust. However, there was nothing displeasing to the sight about the chamber. To be sure, the appointments were of the simplest description, and the walls were bare; but everything exhaled the perfection of neatness and propriety. The window opened upon extensive meadows, called Tothill Fields, where some years later rose the quarter known as Pimlico. On this side no building intercepted the light of day; consequently the fresh, pure radiance of morning flooded the room, flecking the draperies and white furniture. But Esther for a long time had indulged herself in a dream of luxury and grandeur. It seemed to her that each night renewed for her special benefit the story of Cinderella. During the entire evening she walked in her glory beneath the fire of glances, like a little queen, envied, admired, adored, tasting, as an homage more enduring than the applause of men, the jealousy of her comrades. The curtain having fallen, the beautiful costume replaced by a modest gown of some dark stuff, she escaped from the scene of her triumph with her arm firmly locked in that of Mrs. Marsham. When she awoke in the morning there was nothing to prevent her from believing that it had all been a dream, and that she was after all only an ordinary little being destined to set a good example to her neighbors, and be the joy of some commonplace, honest husband. What was there in store for her but to share this insipid existence, take her part in the usual housework, and listen to the babble of her aunt, who represented simple, tender devotion, as Reuben was the exponent of the suspicious and fierce kind?

But patience! It would not be long ere emanc.i.p.ation would lend her wings to escape from this irksome prison.

More than ever this morning was she disposed to view her surroundings with a disapproving and dissatisfied eye. When should she have a boudoir like Lady Vereker's, and a gilded coach, a footman with a plumed hat, a great n.o.bleman for her husband, subject to her caprices, sighing at her feet, and breathing soft nothings in the pretty, affected language, mingled with French, which the heroes in the fashionable plays made use of? Like Lord Mowbray, she deceived herself on the score of love, but after a different fashion. He saw in it but the satisfaction of the senses; she, the triumph of vanity. To be forever and a day the personage she appeared to be three evenings out of the week, from seven o'clock until ten; to be in reality ingenuous, anxious, coquettish, and impa.s.sioned; to play the comedy, and play it to the life, amidst men who were by no means acting; to heave real sighs, shed genuine tears, commit actual follies,--such was her idea of happiness, which would have been perverse had it not been childish.