One Of Them

“There are the lights of Ostend. What a capital passage we have made! I can’t express to you,” said he, with more animation, “what a relief it is to me to feel myself on the soil of the Continent. I don’t know how it affects others, but to me it seems as if there were greater scope and a freer room for a man’s natural abilities there.”

“I suppose you think we are cursed with ‘respectability’ at home.”

“The very thing I mean,” said he, gayly; “there’s nothing I detest like it.”

“Colonel Paten,” cried the steward, collecting his fees.

“Are you Colonel?” asked Stocmar, in a whisper.

“Of course I am, and very modest not to be Major-General. But here we are, inside the harbor already.”

Were we free to take a ramble up the Rhine country, and over the Alps to Como, we might, perhaps, follow the steps of the two travellers we have here presented to our reader. They were ultimately bound for Italy, but in no wise tied by time or route. In fact, Mr. Stocmar’s object was to seek out some novelties for the coming season. “Nihil humanum a me alienum puto” was his maxim. All was acceptable that was attractive. He catered for the most costly of all publics, and who will insist on listening to the sweetest voices and looking at the prettiest legs in Europe. He was on the lookout for both. What Ludlow Paten’s object was the reader may perhaps guess without difficulty, but there was another “transaction” in his plan not so easily determined. He had heard much of Clara Hawke, – to give her her true name, – of her personal attractions and abilities, and he wished Stocmar to see and pronounce upon her. Although he possessed no pretension to dispose of her whatever, he held certain letters of her supposed mother in his keeping which gave him a degree of power which he believed irresistible. Now, there is a sort of limited liability slavery at this moment recognized in Europe, by which theatrical managers obtain a lease of human ability, for a certain period, under nonage, and of which Paten desired to derive profit by letting Clara out as dancer, singer, comedian, or “figurante,” according to her gifts; and this, too, was a purpose of the present journey.

The painter or the sculptor, in search of his model, has no higher requirements than those of form and symmetry; he deals solely with externals, while the impresario most carry his investigations far beyond the category of personal attractions, and soar into the lofty atmosphere of intellectual gifts and graces, bearing along with him, at the same time, a full knowledge of that public for whom he is proceeding; that fickle, changeful, fanciful public, who sometimes, out of pure satiety with what is best, begin to long for what is second-rate. What consummate skill must be his who thus feels the pulse of fashion, recognizing in its beat the indications of this or that tendency, whether “society” soars to the classic “Norma,” or descends to the tawdry vulgarisms of the “Traviata”! No man ever accepted more implicitly than Mr. Stocmar the adage of “Whatever is, is best.” The judgment of the day with him was absolute. The “world” a toujours raison, was his creed. When that world pronounced for music, he cried, “Long live Verdi!” when it decided for the ballet, his toast was, “Legs against the field!” Now, at this precise moment, this same world had taken a turn for mere good looks, – if it be not heresy to say “mere” to such a thing as beauty, – and had actually grown a little wearied of roulades and pirouettes; and so Stocmar had come abroad, to see what the great slave market of Europe could offer him.

Let us suppose them, therefore, pleasantly meandering along through the Rhineland, while we turn once more to those whom we have left beyond the Alps.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE FRAGMENT OF A LETTER

The following brief epistle from Mrs. Morris to her father will save the reader the tedious task of following the Heathcote family through an uneventful interval, and at the same time bring him to that place and period in which we wish to see him. It is dated Hôtel d’Italie, Florence: —

“Dear Papa, – You are not to feel any shock or alarm at the black margin and wax of this epistle, though its object be to inform you that I am a widow, Captain Penthony Morris having died some eight months back in Upper India; but the news has only reached me now. In a word, I have thought it high time to put an end to this mythical personage, whose cruel treatment of me I had grown tired of recalling, and, I conclude, others of listening to. Now, although it may be very hard on you to go into mourning for the death of one who never lived, yet I must bespeak your grief, in so far as stationery is concerned, and that you write to me on the most woe-begone of cream-laid, and with the most sorrow-struck of seals.

“There was, besides, another and most cogent reason for my being a widow just now. The Heathcotes are here, on their way to Rome, and, like all English people, eager to go everywhere, do everything, and know everybody; the consequence is eternal junketing and daily dinner-parties. I need not tell you that in such a caravanserai as this is, some one would surely turn up who should recognize me; so there was nothing for it but to kill Captain M. and go into crape and seclusion. As my bereavement is only a sham, I perform the affliction without difficulty. Our mourning, too, becomes us, and, everything considered, the incident has spared us much sight-seeing and many odious acquaintances.

“As it is highly important that I should see and consult you, you must come out here at once. As the friend and executor of poor ‘dear Penthony,’ you can see me freely, and I really want your advice. Do I understand you aright about Ludlow? If so, the creature is a greater fool than I thought him. Marrying him is purely out of the question. Of all compacts, the connubial demands implicit credulity; and if this poor man’s tea were to disagree with him, he ‘d be screaming out for antidotes before the servants, and I conclude that he cannot expect me to believe in him. The offer you have made him on my part is a great and brilliant one, and, for the life of me, I cannot see why he should hesitate about it, though I, perhaps, suspect it to be this. Like most fast men, – a very shallow class, after all, – his notion is that life, like a whist-party, requires an accomplice. Now, I would beg him to believe this is not the case, and that for two people who can play their cards so well as we can, it is far better to sit down at separate tables, where no suspicion of complicity can attach to us. I, at least, understand what suits my own interest, which is distinctly and emphatically to have nothing to do with him. You say that he threatens, – threatens to engulf us both. If he were a woman, the menace would frighten me, but men are marvellously conservative in their selfishness, and so I read it as mere threat.

“It is, I will say, no small infliction to carry all this burden of the past through a present rugged enough with its own difficulties. To feel that one can be compromised, and, if compromised, ruined at any moment, – to walk with a half-drawn indictment over one, – to mingle in a world where each fresh arrival may turn out accuser, – is very, very wearisome, and I long for security. It is for this reason I have decided on marrying Sir William instead of his son. The indiscretion of a man of his age taking a wife of mine will naturally lead to retirement and reclusion from the world, and we shall seek out some little visited spot where no awkward memories are like to leave their cards on us. I have resigned myself to so much in life, that I shall submit to all this with as good a grace as I have shown in other sacrifices. Of course L. can spoil this project, – he can upset the boat, – but he ought to remember, if he does, that he was never a good swimmer. Do try and impress this upon him; there are usually some flitting moments of every day when he is capable of understanding a reason. Catch one of these, dear pa, and profit by it. It is by no means certain that Miss L. would accept him; but, certainly, smarting as she is under all manner of broken ties, the moment is favorable, and the stake a large one. Nor is there much time to lose, for it seems that young Heathcote cannot persuade the Horse Guards to give him even a ‘Cornetcy,’ and is in despair how he is to re-enter the service; the inevitable consequence of which will be a return home here, and, after a while, a reconciliation. It is only wise people who ever know that the science of life is opportunity, everything being possible at some one moment, which, perhaps, never recurs again.

“I scarcely know what to say about Clara. She has lost her spirits, though gained in looks, and she is a perfect mope, but very pretty withal. She fancies herself in love with a young college man lately here, who won all the disposable hearts in the place, and might have had a share even in mine, if he had asked for it. The greater fool he that he did not, since he wanted exactly such guidance as I could give to open the secret door of success to him. By the way, has his father died, or what has become of him? In turning over some papers t’other day, the name recurred with some far from pleasant recollections associated with it. Scientific folk used to tell us that all the constituents of our mortal bodies became consumed every seven years of life. And why, I ask, ought we not to start with fresh memories as well as muscles, and ignore any past beyond that short term of existence? I am perfectly convinced it is carrying alone bygones, whether of events or people, that constitutes the greatest ill of life. One so very seldom repents of having done wrong, and is so very, very sorry to have lost many opportunities of securing success, that really the past is all sorrow.

“You have forgotten to counsel me about Clara. The alternative lies between the stage and a convent. Pray say which of the two, in these changeful times, gives the best promise of permanence; and believe me

“Your affectionate daughter,

“Louisa.”

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE O’SHEA AT HIS LODGINGS

A very brief chapter will suffice to record the doings of two of our characters, not destined to perform very foreground parts in the present drama. We mean Mr. O’Shea and Charles Heathcote. They had established themselves in lodgings in a certain locality called Manchester Buildings, much favored by some persons who haunt the avenues of “the House,” and are always in search of “our Borough Member.” Neither the aspect of their domicile, nor their style of living, bespoke flourishing circumstances. O’Shea, indeed, had returned to town in cash, but an unlucky night at the “Garottoman” had finished him, and he returned to his lodgings one morning at daybreak two hundred and seventeen pounds worse than nothing.

Heathcote had not played; nay, he had lived almost penuriously; but in a few weeks all his resources were nigh exhausted, and no favorable change had occurred in his fortunes. At the Horse Guards he had been completely unsuccessful. He had served, it is true, with distinction, but, as he had quitted the army, he could not expect to be restored to his former rank, while, by the rules of the service, he was too old to enter as a subaltern. And thus a trained soldier, who had won fame and honor in two campaigns, was, at the age of twenty-six, decided to be superannuated. It was the chance meeting of O’Shea in the street, when this dilemma was mentioned, that led to their ultimate companionship, for the Member at once swore to bring the case before the House, and to make the country ring from end to end with the enormity. Poor Heathcote, friendless and alone at the moment, caught at the promise, and a few days afterwards saw them domesticated as chums at No. – , in the locality already mentioned.

“You ‘ll have to cram me, Heathcote, with the whole case. I must be able to make an effective speech, narrating all the great exploits you have done, with everywhere you have been, before I come to the grievance, and the motion for ‘all the correspondence between Captain Heathcote and the authorities at the Horse Guards, respecting his application to be reinstated in the army.’ I ‘ll get a special Tuesday for the motion, and I ‘ll have Howley in to second me, and maybe we won’t shake the Treasury benches! for you see the question opens everything that ever was, or could be, said about the army. It opens Horse Guards cruelty and irresponsibility, those Bashi-Bazouks that rule the service like despots; it opens the purchase system from end to end; it opens the question of promotion by merit; it opens the great problem of retirement and superannuation. By my conscience! I think I could bring the Thirty-nine Articles into it, if I was vexed.”

The Member for Inch had all that persuasive power a ready tongue and an unscrupulous temper supply, and speedily convinced the young soldier that his case would not alone redound to his own advancement but become a precedent, which should benefit hundreds of others equally badly treated as himself.

It was while thus conning over the project, O’Shea mentioned, in deepest confidence, the means of that extraordinary success which, he averred, had never failed to attend all his efforts in the House, and this was, that he never ventured on one of his grand displays without a previous rehearsal at home; that is, he assembled at his own lodgings a supper company of his most acute and intelligent friends – young barristers, men engaged on the daily or weekly press – the smart squib-writers and caricaturists of the day – alive to everything ridiculous, and unsparing in their criticism; and by these was he judged in a sort of mock Parliament formed by themselves. To each of these was allotted the character of some noted speaker in the House, who did his best to personate the individual by every trait of manner, voice, and action, while a grave, imposing-looking man, named Doran, was a capital counterfeit of the “Speaker.”

O’Shea explained to Heathcote that the great advantage of this scheme consisted in the way it secured one against surprises; no possible interruption being omitted, nor any cavilling objection spared to the orator. “You’ll see,” he added, “that after sustaining these assaults, the attack of the real fellows is only pastime.”

The day being fixed on, the company, numbering nigh twenty, assembled, and Charles Heathcote could not avoid observing that their general air and appearance were scarcely senatorial. O’Shea assured him gravity would soon succeed to the supper, and dignity come in with the whiskey-punch. This was so far borne out that when the cloth was removed, and a number of glasses and bottles were distributed over the blackened mahogany, a grave and almost austere bearing was at once assumed by the meeting. Doran also took his place as Speaker, his cotton umbrella being laid before him as the mace. The orders of the day were speedily disposed of, and a few questions as to the supply of potables satisfactorily answered, when O’Shea arose to bring on the case of the evening, – a motion “for all the correspondence between the authorities of the Horse Guards and Captain Heathcote, respecting the application of the latter to be reinstated in the service.”

The Secretary-at-War, a red-faced, pimply man, subeditor of a Sunday paper, objected to the production of the papers; and a smart sparring-match ensued, in which O’Shea suffered rather heavily, but at last came out victorious, being allowed to state the grounds for his application.

O’Shea began with due solemnity, modestly assuring the House that he wished the task had fallen to one more competent than himself, and more conversant with those professional details which would necessarily occupy a large space in the narrative.

“Surely the honorable member held a commission in the Clare Fencibles.”

“Was not the honorable member’s father a band-master in the Fifty-fourth?” cried another.

“To the insolent interruptions which have met me,” said O’Shea, indignantly —

“Order! order!”

“Am I out of order, sir?” asked he of the Speaker.

“Clearly so,” replied that functionary. “Every interruption, short of a knock-down, is parliamentary.”

“I bow to the authority of the chair, and I say that the ruffianly allusions of certain honorable members ‘pass by me like the idle wind, that I regard not.’”

“Where ‘s that from? Take you two to one in half-crowns you can’t tell,” cried one.

“Done!” “Order! order!” “Spoke!” with cries of “Goon!” here convulsed the meeting; after which O’Shea resumed his discourse.

“When, sir,” said he, “I undertook to bring under the notice of this House, and consequently before the eyes of the nation, the case of a distinguished officer, one whose gallant services in the tented field, whose glorious achievements before the enemy have made his name famous in all the annals of military distinction, I never anticipated to have been met by the howls of faction, or the discordant yells of disappointed and disorderly followers – mere condottieri – of the contemptible tyrant who now scowls at me from the cross-benches.”

Loud cheers of applause followed this burst of indignation.

An animated conversation now ensued as to whether this was strictly parliamentary; some averring that they “had heard worse,” others deeming it a shade too violent, O’Shea insisting throughout that there never was a sharp debate in the House without far blacker insinuations, while in the Irish Parliament such courtesies were continually interchanged, and very much admired.

“Was n’t it Lawrence Parsons who spoke of the ‘highly gifted blackguard on the other side?’” and “Didn’t John Toler allude to the ‘ignorant and destitute spendthrift who now sat for the beggarly borough of Athlone?’” cried two or three advocates of vigorous language.

“There’s worse in Homer,” said another, settling the question on classical authority.

The discussion grew warm. What was, and what was not, admissible in language was eagerly debated; the interchange of opinion, in a great measure, serving to show that there were few, if any, freedoms of speech that might not be indulged in. Indeed, Heathcote’s astonishment was only at the amount of endurance exhibited by each in turn, so candid were the expressions employed, so free from all disguise the depreciatory sentiments entertained.

In the midst of what had now become a complete uproar, and while one of the orators, who by dint of lungs had overcome all competitors, was inveighing against O’Shea as “a traitor to his party, and the scorn of every true Irishman,” a fresh arrival, heated and almost breathless, rushed into the room.

“It’s all over,” cried he; “the Government is beaten. The House is to be dissolved on Wednesday, and the country to go to a general election.”

Had a shell fallen on the table, the dispersion could not have been more instantaneous. Barristers, reporters, borough agents, and penny-a-liners, all saw their harvest-time before them, and hurried away to make their engagements; and, in less than a quarter of an hour, O’Shea was left alone with his companion, Charles Heathcote.

“Here’s a shindy!” cried the ex-M. P., “and the devil a chance I have of getting in again, if I can’t raise five hundred pounds.”

Heathcote never spoke, but sat ruminating over the news.

“Bad luck to the Cabinet!” muttered O’Shea. “Why would they put that stupid clause into their Bill? Could n’t they wait to smuggle it in on a committee? Here I am clean ruined and undone, just as I was on the road to fame and fortune. And I can’t even help a friend!” said he, turning a pitiful look at Heathcote.