“Is not his love for you a reason?”
“No,” said Violet, pausing, — and speaking the word in the lowest possible whisper. “If he did not love me, that, if known to me, should be a reason why I should not marry him. Ten men may love me, — I don’t say that any man does — “
“He does.”
“But I can’t marry all the ten. And as for that business of saving him — “
“You know what I mean!”
“I don’t know that I have any special mission for saving young men. I sometimes think that I shall have quite enough to do to save myself. It is strange what a propensity I feel for the wrong side of the post.”
“I feel the strongest assurance that you will always keep on the right side.”
“Thank you, my dear. I mean to try, but I’m quite sure that the jockey who takes me in hand ought to be very steady himself. Now, Lord Chiltern — “
“Well, — out with it. What have you to say?”
“He does not bear the best reputation in this world as a steady man. Is he altogether the sort of man that mammas of the best kind are seeking for their daughters? I like a roué myself; — and a prig who sits all night in the House, and talks about nothing but church-rates and suffrage, is to me intolerable. I prefer men who are improper, and all that sort of thing. If I were a man myself I should go in for everything I ought to leave alone. I know I should. But you see, — I’m not a man, and I must take care of myself. The wrong side of a post for a woman is so very much the wrong side. I like a fast man, but I know that I must not dare to marry the sort of man that I like.”
“To be one of us, then, — the very first among us; — would that be the wrong side?”
“You mean that to be Lady Chiltern in the present tense, and Lady Brentford in the future, would be promotion for Violet Effingham in the past?”
“How hard you are, Violet!”
“Fancy, — that it should come to this, — that you should call me hard, Laura. I should like to be your sister. I should like well enough to be your father’s daughter. I should like well enough to be Chiltern’s friend. I am his friend. Nothing that any one has ever said of him has estranged me from him. I have fought for him till I have been black in the face. Yes, I have, — with my aunt. But I am afraid to be his wife. The risk would be so great. Suppose that I did not save him, but that he brought me to shipwreck instead?”
“That could not be!”
“Could it not? I think it might be so very well. When I was a child they used to be always telling me to mind myself. It seems to me that a child and a man need not mind themselves. Let them do what they may, they can be set right again. Let them fall as they will, you can put them on their feet. But a woman has to mind herself; — and very hard work it is when she has a dragon of her own driving her ever the wrong way.”
“I want to take you from the dragon.”
“Yes; — and to hand me over to a griffin.”
“The truth is, Violet, that you do not know Oswald. He is not a griffin.”
“I did not mean to be uncomplimentary. Take any of the dangerous wild beasts you please. I merely intend to point out that he is a dangerous wild beast. I daresay he is noble-minded, and I will call him a lion if you like it better. But even with a lion there is risk.”
“Of course there will be risk. There is risk with every man, — unless you will be contented with the prig you described. Of course there would be risk with my brother. He has been a gambler.”
“They say he is one still.”
“He has given it up in part, and would entirely at your instance.”
“And they say other things of him, Laura.”
“It is true. He has had paroxysms of evil life which have well-nigh ruined him.”
“And these paroxysms are so dangerous! Is he not in debt?”
“He is, — but not deeply. Every shilling that he owes would be paid; — every shilling. Mind, I know all his circumstances, and I give you my word that every shilling should be paid. He has never lied, — and he has told me everything. His father could not leave an acre away from him if he would, and would not if he could.”
“I did not ask as fearing that. I spoke only of a dangerous habit. A paroxysm of spending money is apt to make one so uncomfortable. And then — “
“Well.”
“I don’t know why I should make a catalogue of your brother’s weaknesses.”
“You mean to say that he drinks too much?”
“I do not say so. People say so. The dragon says so. And as I always find her sayings to be untrue, I suppose this is like the rest of them.”
“It is untrue if it be said of him as a habit.”
“It is another paroxysm, — just now and then.”
“Do not laugh at me, Violet, when I am taking his part, or I shall be offended.”
“But you see, if I am to be his wife, it is — rather important.”
“Still you need not ridicule me.”
“Dear Laura, you know I do not ridicule you. You know I love you for what you are doing. Would not I do the same, and fight for him down to my nails if I had a brother?”
“And therefore I want you to be Oswald’s wife; — because I know that you would fight for him. It is not true that he is a — drunkard. Look at his hand, which is as steady as yours. Look at his eye. Is there a sign of it? He has been drunk, once or twice, perhaps, — and has done fearful things.”
“It might be that he would do fearful things to me.”
“You never knew a man with a softer heart or with a finer spirit. I believe as I sit here that if he were married to-morrow, his vices would fall from him like old clothes.”
“You will admit, Laura, that there will be some risk for the wife.”
“Of course there will be a risk. Is there not always a risk?”
“The men in the city would call this double-dangerous, I think,” said Violet. Then the door was opened, and the man of whom they were speaking entered the room.
CHAPTER XI
Lord Chiltern
The reader has been told that Lord Chiltern was a red man, and that peculiarity of his personal appearance was certainly the first to strike a stranger. It imparted a certain look of ferocity to him, which was apt to make men afraid of him at first sight. Women are not actuated in the same way, and are accustomed to look deeper into men at the first sight than other men will trouble themselves to do. His beard was red, and was clipped, so as to have none of the softness of waving hair. The hair on his head also was kept short, and was very red, — and the colour of his face was red. Nevertheless he was a handsome man, with well-cut features, not tall, but very strongly built, and with a certain curl in the corner of his eyelids which gave to him a look of resolution, — which perhaps he did not possess. He was known to be a clever man, and when very young had had the reputation of being a scholar. When he was three-and-twenty grey-haired votaries of the turf declared that he would make his fortune on the race-course, — so clear-headed was he as to odds, so excellent a judge of a horse’s performances, and so gifted with a memory of events. When he was five-and-twenty he had lost every shilling of a fortune of his own, had squeezed from his father more than his father ever chose to name in speaking of his affairs to any one, and was known to be in debt. But he had sacrificed himself on one or two memorable occasions in conformity with turf laws of honour, and men said of him, either that he was very honest or very chivalric, — in accordance with the special views on the subject of the man who was speaking. It was reported now that he no longer owned horses on the turf; — but this was doubted by some who could name the animals which they said that he owned, and which he ran in the name of Mr. Macnab, — said some; of Mr. Pardoe, — said others; of Mr. Chickerwick, — said a third set of informants. The fact was that Lord Chiltern at this moment had no interest of his own in any horse upon the turf.
But all the world knew that he drank. He had taken by the throat a proctor’s bull-dog when he ha
d been drunk at Oxford, had nearly strangled the man, and had been expelled. He had fallen through his violence into some terrible misfortune at Paris, had been brought before a public judge, and his name and his infamy had been made notorious in every newspaper in the two capitals. After that he had fought a ruffian at Newmarket, and had really killed him with his fists. In reference to this latter affray it had been proved that the attack had been made on him, that he had not been to blame, and that he had not been drunk. After a prolonged investigation he had come forth from that affair without disgrace. He would have done so, at least, if he had not been heretofore disgraced. But we all know how the man well spoken of may steal a horse, while he who is of evil repute may not look over a hedge. It was asserted widely by many who were supposed to know all about everything that Lord Chiltern was in a fit of delirium tremens when he killed the ruffian at Newmarket. The worst of that latter affair was that it produced the total estrangement which now existed between Lord Brentford and his son. Lord Brentford would not believe that his son was in that matter more sinned against than sinning. “Such things do not happen to other men’s sons,” he said, when Lady Laura pleaded for her brother. Lady Laura could not induce her father to see his son, but so far prevailed that no sentence of banishment was pronounced against Lord Chiltern. There was nothing to prevent the son sitting at his father’s table if he so pleased. He never did so please, — but nevertheless he continued to live in the house in Portman Square; and when he met the Earl, in the hall, perhaps, or on the staircase, would simply bow to him. Then the Earl would bow again, and shuffle on, — and look very wretched, as no doubt he was. A grown-up son must be the greatest comfort a man can have, — if he be his father’s best friend; but otherwise he can hardly be a comfort. As it was in this house, the son was a constant thorn in his father’s side.
“What does he do when we leave London?” Lord Brentford once said to his daughter.
“He stays here, papa.”
“But he hunts still?”
“Yes, he hunts, — and he has a room somewhere at an inn, — down in Northamptonshire. But he is mostly in London. They have trains on purpose.”
“What a life for my son!” said the Earl. “What a life! Of course no decent person will let him into his house.” Lady Laura did not know what to say to this, for in truth Lord Chiltern was not fond of staying at the houses of persons whom the Earl would have called decent.
General Effingham, the father of Violet, and Lord Brentford had been the closest and dearest of friends. They had been young men in the same regiment, and through life each had confided in the other. When the General’s only son, then a youth of seventeen, was killed in one of our grand New Zealand wars, the bereaved father and the Earl had been together for a month in their sorrow. At that time Lord Chiltern’s career had still been open to hope, — and the one man had contrasted his lot with the other. General Effingham lived long enough to hear the Earl declare that his lot was the happier of the two. Now the General was dead, and Violet, the daughter of a second wife, was all that was left of the Effinghams. This second wife had been a Miss Plummer, a lady from the city with much money, whose sister had married Lord Baldock. Violet in this way had fallen to the care of the Baldock people, and not into the hands of her father’s friends. But, as the reader will have surmised, she had ideas of her own of emancipating herself from Baldock thraldom.
Twice before that last terrible affair at Newmarket, before the quarrel between the father and the son had been complete, Lord Brentford had said a word to his daughter, — merely a word, — of his son in connection with Miss Effingham.
“If he thinks of it I shall be glad to see him on the subject. You may tell him so.” That had been the first word. He had just then resolved that the affair in Paris should be regarded as condoned, — as among the things to be forgotten. “She is too good for him; but if he asks her let him tell her everything.” That had been the second word, and had been spoken immediately subsequent to a payment of twelve thousand pounds made by the Earl towards the settlement of certain Doncaster accounts. Lady Laura in negotiating for the money had been very eloquent in describing some honest, — or shall we say chivalric, — sacrifice which had brought her brother into this special difficulty. Since that the Earl had declined to interest himself in his son’s matrimonial affairs; and when Lady Laura had once again mentioned the matter, declaring her belief that it would be the means of saving her brother Oswald, the Earl had desired her to be silent. “Would you wish to destroy the poor child?” he had said. Nevertheless Lady Laura felt sure that if she were to go to her father with a positive statement that Oswald and Violet were engaged, he would relent and would accept Violet as his daughter. As for the payment of Lord Chiltern’s present debts; — she had a little scheme of her own about that.
Miss Effingham, who had been already two days in Portman Square, had not as yet seen Lord Chiltern. She knew that he lived in the house, that is, that he slept there, and probably eat his breakfast in some apartment of his own; — but she knew also that the habits of the house would not by any means make it necessary that they should meet. Laura and her brother probably saw each other daily, — but they never went into society together, and did not know the same sets of people. When she had announced to Lady Baldock her intention of spending the first fortnight of her London season with her friend Lady Laura, Lady Baldock had as a matter of course — “jumped upon her,” as Miss Effingham would herself call it.
“You are going to the house of the worst reprobate in all England,” said Lady Baldock.
“What; — dear old Lord Brentford, whom papa loved so well!”
“I mean Lord Chiltern, who, only last year, — murdered a man!”
“That is not true, aunt.”
“There is worse than that, — much worse. He is always — tipsy, and always gambling, and always — But it is quite unfit that I should speak a word more to you about such a man as Lord Chiltern. His name ought never to be mentioned.”
“Then why did you mention it, aunt?”
Lady Baldock’s process of jumping upon her niece, — in which I think the aunt had generally the worst of the exercise, — went on for some time, but Violet of course carried her point.
“If she marries him there will be an end of everything,” said Lady Baldock to her daughter Augusta.
“She has more sense than that, mamma,” said Augusta.
“I don’t think she has any sense at all,” said Lady Baldock; — “not in the least. I do wish my poor sister had lived; — I do indeed.”
Lord Chiltern was now in the room with Violet, — immediately upon that conversation between Violet and his sister as to the expediency of Violet becoming his wife. Indeed his entrance had interrupted the conversation before it was over. “I am so glad to see you, Miss Effingham,” he said. “I came in thinking that I might find you.”
“Here I am, as large as life,” she said, getting up from her corner on the sofa and giving him her hand. “Laura and I have been discussing the affairs of the nation for the last two days, and have nearly brought our discussion to an end.” She could not help looking, first at his eye and then at his hand, not as wanting evidence to the truth of the statement which his sister had made, but because the idea of a drunkard’s eye and a drunkard’s hand had been brought before her mind. Lord Chiltern’s hand was like the hand of any other man, but there was something in his eye that almost frightened her. It looked as though he would not hesitate to wring his wife’s neck round, if ever he should be brought to threaten to do so. And then his eye, like the rest of him, was red. No; — she did not think that she could ever bring herself to marry him. Why take a venture that was double-dangerous, when there were so many ventures open to her, apparently with very little of danger attached to them? “If it should ever be said that I loved him, I would do it all the same,” she said to herself.
“If I did not come and see you here, I suppose that I should never see you,” said he, seating himsel
f. “I do not often go to parties, and when I do you are not likely to be there.”
“We might make our little arrangements for meeting,” said she, laughing. “My aunt, Lady Baldock, is going to have an evening next week.”
“The servants would be ordered to put me out of the house.”
“Oh no. You can tell her that I invited you.”
“I don’t think that Oswald and Lady Baldock are great friends,” said Lady Laura.
“Or he might come and take you and me to the Zoo on Sunday. That’s the proper sort of thing for a brother and a friend to do.”
“I hate that place in the Regent’s Park,” said Lord Chiltern.
“When were you there last?” demanded Miss Effingham.
“When I came home once from Eton. But I won’t go again till I can come home from Eton again.” Then he altered his tone as he continued to speak. “People would look at me as if I were the wildest beast in the whole collection.”
“Then,” said Violet, “if you won’t go to Lady Baldock’s or to the Zoo, we must confine ourselves to Laura’s drawing-room; — unless, indeed, you like to take me to the top of the Monument.”
“I’ll take you to the top of the Monument with pleasure.”
“What do you say, Laura?”
“I say that you are a foolish girl,” said Lady Laura, “and that I will have nothing to do with such a scheme.”
“Then there is nothing for it but that you should come here; and as you live in the house, and as I am sure to be here every morning, and as you have no possible occupation for your time, and as we have nothing particular to do with ours, — I daresay I shan’t see you again before I go to my aunt’s in Berkeley Square.”
“Very likely not,” he said.
“And why not, Oswald?” asked his sister.
He passed his hand over his face before he answered her. “Because she and I run in different grooves now, and are not such meet playfellows as we used to be once. Do you remember my taking you away right through Saulsby Wood once on the old pony, and not bringing you back till tea-time, and Miss Blink going and telling my father?”
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