There was Helen, reclining in more than semi-nudity on the couch to which her languishing and wanton looks invited the enamoured Phrygian youth, who was hastily laying aside his armour after a combat with the Greeks.
There was Messalina—that imperial harlot, whose passions were so insatiable and whose crimes were so enormous,—issuing from a bath to join her lover, who impatiently awaited her beneath a canopy in a recess, and which was surmounted by the Roman diadem.
Then there were pictures representing the various amours of Jupiter,—Leda, Latona, Semele, and Europa—the mistresses of the god—all drawn in the most exciting attitudes, and endowed with the most luscious beauties.
But if those creations of art were sufficient to inflame the passions of even that age when the blood seems frozen in the veins, how powerful must have been the effect produced by those living, breathing, moving houris who were now engaged in a rapid and exciting dance to the most ravishing music.
They were six in number, and all dressed alike, in a drapery so light and gauzy that it was all but transparent, and so scanty that it afforded no scope for the sweet romancing of fancy, and left but little need for guesses.
But if their attire were thus uniform, their style of beauty was altogether different.
We must, however, permit the Marquis to describe them to Greenwood—which he did in whispers.
“That fair girl on the right,” he said, “with the brilliant complexion, auburn hair, and red cherry lips, is from the north—a charming specimen of Scotch beauty. Mark how taper is her waist, and yet how ample her bust! She is only nineteen, and has been in my house for the last three years. Her voice is charming; and she sings some of her native airs with exquisite taste. The one next to her, with the brown hair, and who is somewhat stout in form, though, as you perceive, not the less active on that account, is an English girl—a beauty of Lancashire. She is twenty-two, and appeared four years ago on the stage. From thence she passed into the keeping of a bishop, who took lodgings for her in Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury. The Right Reverend Prelate one evening invited me to sup there; and three days afterwards she removed to my house.”
“Not with the consent of the bishop, I should imagine?” observed Greenwood, laughing.
“Oh! no—no,” returned the Marquis, chuckling and coughing at the same time. “The one who is next to her—the third from the left, I mean—is an Irish girl. Look how beautifully she is made. What vigorous, strong, and yet elegantly formed limbs! And what elasticity—what airy lightness in the dance! Did you observe that pirouette? How the drapery spread out from her waist like a circular fan! Is she not a charming creature?”
“She is, indeed!” exclaimed Greenwood. “Tall, elegant, and graceful.”
“And her tongue is just tipped with enough of the Irish accent—I cannot call it brogue in so sweet a being—to render her conversation peculiarly interesting. And now mark her smile! Oh! the coquette—what a roguish look! Has she not wickedness in those sparkling black eyes?”
“She seems an especial favourite, methinks,” whispered Greenwood.
“Yes—I have a sneaking preference for her, I must admit,” answered the Marquis. “But I also like my little French girl, who is dancing next to Kathleen. Mademoiselle Anna is an exquisite creature—and such a wanton! What passion is denoted by her burning glances! How graceful are her movements: survey her now—she beats them all in that soft abandonment of limb which she just displayed. Her mother was a widow, and sold the lovely Anna to a French Field-Marshal, when she was only fifteen. The Field-Marshal, who was also a duke and enormously rich, placed her in a magnificent mansion in the Chaussée d’Antin, and settled a handsome sum upon her. But, at his death, she ran through it all, became involved in debt, and was glad to accept my offers two years ago.”
“She is very captivating,” said Greenwood. “How gracefully she rounds her dazzling white arms!”
“And how well she throws herself into the most voluptuous attitudes—and all, too, as if unstudied!” returned the Marquis. “The beauty next to her is a Spaniard. The white drapery, in my opinion, sets off her clear, transparent, olive skin, to the utmost advantage. The blood seems to boil in her veins: she is all fire—all passion. How brilliant are her large black eyes! Behold the glossy magnificence of her raven hair! Tall—straight as an arrow—how commanding, and yet how graceful is her form! And when she smiles—now—you can perceive the dazzling whiteness of her teeth. Last of all I must direct your attention to my Georgian—”
“A real Georgian?” exclaimed Greenwood.
“A real Georgian,” answered the Marquis; “and, as Byron describes his Katinka, ‘white and red.’ Her large melting blue eyes are full of voluptuous, lazy, indolent, but not the less impassioned love. Her dark brown hair is braided in a manner to display its luxuriance, and yet leave the entire face clear for you to admire its beauty. Look at that fine oval countenance: how pure is the red—how delicate the white! Nature has no artificial auxiliaries there! And now when she casts down her eyes, mark how the long, silken black lashes, slightly curling, repose upon the white skin beneath the eyes. Is not that a charming creature? The symmetry of her form is perfect. Her limbs are stout and plump; but how slender are her ankles, and how exquisitely turned her wrists! Then look at her hand. What beautiful, long taper fingers! How sweet are her movements—light, yet languishing at the same time!”
“What is the name of that beauty?” asked Greenwood.
“Malkhatoun,” replied the Marquis; “which means The Full Moon. That was the name of the wife of Osman, the founder of the Ottoman empire.”
“And how did you procure such a lovely creature?” inquired Greenwood, enraptured with the beauty of the oriental girl.
“Six months ago I visited Constantinople,” answered the Marquis of Holmesford; “and in the Slave-Market I beheld that divinity. Christians are not allowed to purchase slaves; but a convenient native merchant was found, who bought her for me. I brought her to England; and she is well contented to be here. Her own apartment is fitted up in an oriental style; she has her Koran, and worships Alla at her leisure; and when I make love to her, she swears by the Prophet Mahommed that she is happy here. The romance of the thing is quite charming.”
“Of course she cannot speak English?” said Greenwood interrogatively.
“I beg your pardon,” answered the Marquis. “She has an English master, who is well acquainted with Persian, which she speaks admirably; and I can assure you that she is a most willing pupil. But of that you shall judge for yourself presently.”
During this conversation, the dance proceeded.
Nothing could be more voluptuous than that spectacle of six charming creatures, representing the loveliness of as many different countries, engaged in a pas de six in which each studied how to set off the graces of her form to the utmost advantage.
The genial warmth of the apartment—the delicious perfume of the flowers—the brilliancy of the light—the exciting nature of the pictures—and the enchantment of that dance in which six beings of the rarest beauty were engaged,—filled the mind of Greenwood with an ecstatic delirium.
Not the rich and luscious loveliness of Diana Arlington, whom circumstances had made his own,—not the matured and exuberant charms of Eliza Sydney, who had escaped his snares,—not the bewitching beauty of Ellen Monroe, from whose brow he had plucked the diadem of purity,—nor the licentious fascinations of Lady Cecilia Harborough, who sold herself to him for his gold,—not all these had so stirred his heart, so inflamed his ardent imagination, as the spectacle which he now beheld.
At length the dance terminated.
The Marquis then advanced towards the stage, accompanied by Greenwood, and said, “Many thanks, young ladies, for this entertainment. Allow me to present an intimate friend of mine—a gentleman whom I am anxious to initiate in the mysteries of
Holmesford House.”
Greenwood bowed; the six beauties returned his salutation; and the Marquis then proposed to adjourn to the ante-room, where supper was served up.
The ladies descended from the platform by a flight of steps on one side.
“I shall give my arm to Kathleen,” said the Marquis. “Do you escort whomever you fancy. There are no jealousies here.”
Without hesitation, Greenwood advanced towards the charming Malkhatoun, who took the arm which he presented to her, with a sweet smile—as if of gratitude for the preference.
As Greenwood thus stepped forward to meet her, he now for the first time observed the orchestra, which was situated in a large recess on the right of the stage, and had consequently been unseen by him from the place which he had originally occupied at the other end of the saloon.
The party now proceeded to the ante-room before mentioned.
There a magnificent repast was served up.
They all seated themselves at table, Kathleen next to the Marquis, and Malkhatoun by the side of Greenwood.
At first the conversation languished somewhat, the ladies being abashed and reserved in the presence of a stranger; but as they grew warmed by degrees with the generous wine, their tongues were unlocked; and in half an hour they rattled and chatted away as if they had never known restraint.
They laughed and displayed their beautiful teeth: their eyes flashed fire, or became voluptuously melting: and their cheeks were animated with the hues of the rose.
Even the fair Mohammedan did not refuse the sparkling champagne which effervesced so deliciously over the brim of the crystal glass.
The Scotch and Irish girls warbled the sweetest snatches of song which Greenwood had ever heard; and then the French damsel rose and gave admirable imitations of Taglioni’s, Ellsler’s, and Duvernay’s respective styles of dancing—throwing, however, into her movements and attitudes a wantonness which even the most exciting efforts of those artistes never displayed.
It was now nearly two in the morning; and Greenwood intimated to the Marquis his wish to retire.
“Just as you please,” replied the old voluptuary, who had drawn Kathleen upon his knee, and was toying with her as if they were unobserved: “but if you like to accept of a bed here, there is one at your service—and,” he added, in a whisper, “you need not be separated from Malkhatoun.”
“Is your lordship in earnest?” asked Greenwood also in a low tone, while joy flashed from his eyes.
“Certainly I am,” replied the Marquis. “Do you think that I brought you hither merely to tantalize you?”
Greenwood smiled, and then redoubled his attentions towards the charming Georgian, who returned his smiles, and seemed to consider herself honoured by his caresses.
On a signal from the Marquis, the Scotch, English, French, and Spanish girls withdrew.
“One glass of wine in honour of those houris who have just left us!” cried the nobleman, who was already heated with frequent potations, and inflamed by the contiguity of his Hibernian mistress.
“With pleasure,” responded Greenwood.
The toast was drunk; and then the Marquis whispered something to Greenwood, pointing at the same time to the door which opened into the bathing rooms.
The member of Parliament nodded an enraptured assent.
“There is a constant supply of hot water, kept ready for use,” observed the nobleman. “Each room is provided with a marble bath; and vases of eau-de-cologne afford the means of cooling the water and imparting to it a delicious perfume at the same time. You will also find wines, fruits, and all species of delicate refreshments there; and adjoining each bath-room is a bed-chamber. With Malkhatoun as your companion, you may imagine yourself a Sultan in the privacy of his harem; and, remember, that no soul will intrude upon you in that joyous retreat.”
Greenwood presented his hand to Malkhatoun, and led her away in obedience to the nobleman’s suggestion.
The door by which they left the ante-room admitted them into a passage dimly lighted with a single lamp, and where several doors opened into the bathing apartments.
Into one of those rooms Greenwood and the beautiful Georgian passed.
Shortly afterwards the Marquis and Kathleen entered another.
Here we must pause: we dare not penetrate farther into the mysteries of Holmesford House.
CHAPTER CLXXIII.
THE ADIEUX.
Our narrative must now take a leap of several months.
It was the middle of October.
Once more in the vicinity of Count Alteroni’s mansion near Richmond, a handsome young man and a beautiful dark-eyed maiden were walking together.
Need we say that they were Richard and the charming Isabella?
The countenances of both wore an expression of melancholy; but that indication of feeling was commingled with the traces of other emotions.
Richard’s eyes beamed with ardour, and his lips denoted stern resolution: Isabella’s bewitching features showed that her generous soul entertained warm and profound hope, even though the cloud sate upon her brow.
“Yes, my adored one,” said Richard, gazing tenderly upon her, “it is decided! To-morrow I embark on this expedition. But I could not quit England without seeing you once more, dearest Isabella; and for two or three days have I vainly wandered in this neighbourhood with the hope of meeting you—alone.”
“Oh! Richard, had I for one moment divined that you were so near, I should have come to you,” answered the Princess; “and this you know well! If I have hitherto discouraged clandestine meetings and secret correspondence—save on one or two occasions—it was simply because you should not have reason to think lightly of me;—but you are well aware, Richard, that my heart is thine—unchangeably thine,—and that my happiest moments are those I pass with thee!”
“I cannot chide you, dearest, for that fine feeling which has made you discourage clandestine meetings and secret correspondence,” said Richard, gazing with mingled admiration and rapture upon the angelic countenance of Isabella; “but now that circumstances are about to change,—now that I shall be far away from thee, beloved girl,—that restriction must in some degree be removed, and you will permit me to write to you from time to time.”
“It would be an absurd affectation and a ridiculous prudery, were I to refuse you,” replied Isabella. “Yes, dear Richard—write to me;—and write often,” she added, tears starting into her eyes.
“A thousand thanks, Isabella, for this kind permission—this proof of your love. And, oh! to whatever perils I am about to oppose myself face to face,—in whatever dangers I may be involved,—whatever miseries or privations I may be destined to endure,—the thought of you, my own adored Isabella, will make all seem light! But I do not anticipate much difficulty in the attainment of our grand object. General Grachia, Colonel Morosino, and the other chiefs of this enterprise, have so well, so prudently, so cautiously digested all the measures necessary to ensure success, that failure is scarcely possible. The tyranny of the Grand Duke and of his shameless Ministry has reduced the Castelcicalans to despair. We have three fine vessels; and twelve hundred devoted patriots will form the expedition. The moment we land, we shall be welcomed with enthusiasm. And if an opportunity should serve for me to show myself worthy of the confidence that General Grachia and his colleagues have placed in me,—if,” continued Richard, his handsome countenance now lighted up with a glow of heroic enthusiasm,—“if the aid of my feeble efforts can in any way demonstrate my zeal in favour of the constitutional cause, be well assured, dearest Isabella, that it is not an idle boaster, nor a braggart coward who now assures thee that he will not dishonour the service in which he has embarked.”
“Of that I feel convinced, Richard,” exclaimed the Italian lady, whose soul caught the enthusiasm which animated her lover. “But you
know not the wild hopes—the exalted visions which have at times filled my imagination, since I heard a few weeks ago that you were one of the chiefs of this enterprise, the preparations for which were communicated to my father. For you are doubtless aware that General Grachia has made my father acquainted with his intentions and projects——”
“Which the Prince discountenances,” added Richard, with a sigh. “Nevertheless, he is perhaps right: but if we succeed, Isabella—oh! if we succeed, your father becomes the sovereign of a great and enlightened people! Then—what hope will remain for me?”
“Providence will not desert us, Richard,” answered Isabella. “Said I not ere now that the wildest hopes—the most exalted visions have dazzled my imagination? I will not describe them to you, Richard; but need I confess that they are connected with yourself? The dying words of our poor friend Mary Anne have made an impression upon me which I can never forget.”
“I can well divine all the hopes and aspirations which her prophetic language was calculated to excite,” returned Markham; “for there have been moments when I was weak enough to yield to the same influence myself. But the future is with the Almighty; and He must ordain our happiness or our misery! I must now leave you, my beloved Isabella:—when I am away thou wilt think of me often?”
“Oh! Richard, will you really depart? will you venture on this expedition, so fraught with danger?” cried Isabella, now giving way to her grief as the moment of separation drew nigh. “I told you to hope—I wished to console you; but it is I who require consolation when about to say farewell to you! Oh! Richard, if you knew what anguish now fills my heart, you would be enabled to estimate all my love for you!”
“I do—I do, adored Isabella!” ejaculated Markham, pressing her to his breast. “How devotedly—how faithfully you have loved me, I never can forget! When spurned from your father’s house—overwhelmed with the most cruel suspicions, your love remained unchanged; and in many a bitter, bitter hour, have I derived sweet solace from the conviction that thy heart was mine! Oh! Isabella, God in his mercy grant that I may return from this enterprise with some honour to myself! It is not that I am influenced by motives of selfish ambition;—it is that I may remove at least one of the hundred obstacles which oppose our union. And now adieu, my angel—my dearly-beloved Isabella: adieu—adieu!”
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 33
