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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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MODERN honeymoons—as I lately had occasion to observe—are of very short duration. In repeating the remark, however, I do not mean to impugn the faith or affection of either man or woman, but simply to state a fact with reference to the time which is now generally devoted to the "month"—as it is called—of sweetness, and which rarely exceeds a week or ten days—nay, is often very much less.
Of this class, at all events, was the honeymoon of Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort Fitz-Poodle, who were married about the end of last October, and did not set out on a continental tour or migrate farther than Reigate, where they only remained three days, and then returned to town to take possession of their new house in Wilton-crescent.
The locality of their future residence had been the subject of much amicable discussion between Mr. and Mrs.Beaufort Fitz-Poodle, while they were lovers only. The lady liked this quarter because it was fashionable, because she had friends there, and because, if she had any leaning from the Established Church (which she denied as strenuously as if she wore a mitre), it was rather in favour of the sect known as "The Decorative Christians." The gentleman also acknowledged his predilection for Belgravia "on account," he said—and his words were remembered—"of its being almost in the country, while it was, in point of fact, in the very middle of town." When so much unanimity existed, all that remained was to find a suitable house, and this anybody may have in London at the very shortest notice, provided there be no objection to pay for the accommodation. Now Mr. Beaufort Fitz-Poodle had plenty of money, and —singularly enough—was liberal in the use of it, so the question of rent, with all its concomitants, was soon disposed of, and Wilton-crescent rejoiced in another important addition to its respectability.
There are some people who take the greatest delight in furnishing their houses themselves, and leave nothing but the supply to the upholsterers. Mrs. Fitz-Poodle was a lady whose tendencies inclined that way—I have said something to this effect already—and it was in a great degree owing to her desire to indulge her taste for decoration that the wedding tour was so greatly abbreviated. Had Mr. Fitz-Poodle's wishes been alone consulted, I believe he would have postponed their return until the leaves were quite off the trees, for—as he made no scruple of saying—he was passionately fond of the country; but, whatever were his own inclinations, like a good husband—as I think he was, notwithstanding what others have said—he sacrificed them to his wife's fantasy, and abandoned the downs of Reigate for the level of Belgravia, apparently, without a sigh. Mrs. Fitz-Poodle was speedily in her element, amid damask curtains, Aubusson carpets, tapestried portières, carved chairs (including a prie-dieu of exquisite workmanship, for her boudoir), buhl cabinets, marqueterie tables, encaustic tiles, India mattings, and all the requisite paraphernalia for the ornamentation and convenience of her ménage. Being thus engaged, the dullness of November was unheeded, her only regret arising from the difficulty of obtaining more than two hours of positive daylight in each of the twenty-four for the proper selection of patterns. Neither were the long evenings a bore, though nobody was in town, for what she bought during the day supplied her with plenty of occupation in examining and arranging at night.
With Mr. Fitz-Poodle the case was not exactly the same. He was pleased, as most men are, to see his house well-furnished, but he had no great genius for domestic embellishment, neither did he revel—as it were—in Panklibanons and Pantechnicons, as if the only real good in life was household furniture. Still, in compliance with his wife's wishes, he accompanied her, for a whole fortnight at least, in her daily drives about town in search of objects of luxury and virtù, but at the expiration of that time he began to tire of this kind of chasse, and would willingly have exchanged it for more legitimate sport at the cover's side. But it was too soon to announce that desire; he must give up his hunting and shooting this year—that he knew—but before the next season came round—thus he mused, after dinner, while Mrs. Fitz-Poodle was testing by a bright light the comparative brilliancy of striped satins and figured silks—he would have a snug box in a good sporting country, and take a little of what he called pleasure at that time of the year. The partner of his bosom would also, he thought, have had enough of her present occupation long before then, so with this prospect in view he submitted to the existing privation. As he did not, however, intend to pass the whole of the interval in upholstery warehouses and china-shops, he cast about for some plausible device to release him from a constant attendance which—I must confess the truth—in spite of his wife's great personal attractions, began to be a little Irksome.
Having alluded to the beauty of Mrs. Fitz-Poodle, I may as well pause in my story for a moment to describe it. In the gallery of the Luxembourg in Paris, there is, or was a few years ago, a small picture of Sainte Geneviève, seated on a mound in a flowery meadow, with her distaff in her hand, guarding a flock of sheep. She is represented as exquisitely fair, with eyes of that clear but decided blue which you see on the corolla of the Myosotis, and with long-flowing hair, between flaxen and brown, on which a ray of sunshine seems to linger. Her features are small and faultless in expression—that is to say, if placidity be what you like best in the female countenance; and supposing the features to be the index of the mind, it is as well to marry a woman with that expression. You may be beaten off your guard more suddenly, be more madly enthralled—if you choose to suppose so—by a dark-haired brunette with damask cheek and flashing eyes, hut the probability is that, at the end of three months, you will not be quite so much your own master as if you had wedded a blonde. I say "the probability," because, after all, calculations based on physiognomy alone are not absolute certainties, and I have known two or three fair ones who had wills of their own, and did not refrain from exercising them. To return, however, to the Sainte Geneviève of the Luxembourg. She was as like Mrs. Fitz-Poodle as one lily resembles another, with this advantage in favour of the mortal, that she was not ideal. On the other hand, to avoid the charge of exaggeration, I will say that the canonised wife of Clovis had, in a moral point of view, a slight advantage over Mrs. Beaufort Fitz-Poodle, who, though very near it, was not quite a saint. I presume it was on account of the likeness he fancied he saw between the two, that when Mr. Beaufort Fitz-Poodle was in Paris last spring, being already engaged, he had a copy made of the Luxembourg picture which he afterwards gave to his bride, who, the first thing she did when she went to Wilton-crescent, hung it up in her boudoir.
It is of little consequence, provided a man be not depressingly hideous, whether he is handsome or plain; some of the cleverest fellows of the present day are about the ugliest, and I need not go further than the House of Commons—than the Treasury bench, in particular—to prove what I say; although if I were in want of something more than mere cleverness it is certainly not there I should go to seek for it. Male beauty then, being quite a secondary consideration in comparison with mental charms, it is only because I want a companion-portrait to that of Mrs. Beaufort Fitz-Poodle that I trace the lineaments of her spouse. Indeed, if I had been confined to those whom the world calls "good-looking," this second sketch would not have been attempted, for he had no claim to the distinction. It is very possible, even under these circumstances, that I might have fitted him also with a Dromio in the shape of a saint, but perhaps the selection would have been invidious. I shall, therefore, simply say that he was a tall, spare, long-limbed, wiry kind of man, with hard, angular features, a sharp nose, what is called "a mouth full of teeth," small searching eyes obliquely set in his head, harsh, sandy eyebrows, strong iron-grey hair which no persuasion (or tongs) could induce to curl, and that the only personal foppery in which he indulged was the cultivation of a considerable quantity of yellowish beard and whiskers, which met under his chin. I can scarcely think it was vanity—though it might have been—which made him sit to Mayall for a daguerreotype, but he paid that excellent artist a visit a few days before his marriage, and we need not say that the resemblance was second nature. It is probable that, had it been less like and rather more flattering, Mrs. Fitz-Poodle would have been better pleased with the portrait. However, she accepted the present very philosophically, and seldom opened the case to look at it. "It was of no use doing so," she said, "when the other was always there."
Always! If it had been so! However, I will not anticipate. I have adverted already to the period of the year when the furnishing excitement of Mrs. Fitz-Poodle was in full flow, and the delight of her husband in being compelled to witness it rather on the ebb. Dreams, although we disbelieve in them as portents—we wise ones—have still some influence over our waking thoughts. If the vision of the night has been cheerful, serenity sits on our brow next day; if gloomy, we are not, perhaps, such very pleasant companions as usual. If conscience depends upon digestion, as many imagine, dreams may have something to do with temper. The complex machine called Man is not so well put together as to be always in perfect order. I will, therefore, ascribe to a dream,—in which looking-glasses, chairs and tables, sofa-pillows, footstools, doormats, window-blinds, wardrobes, washing-stands, and upholsterers' men played very conspicuous, but very confused and contradictory parts beneath the pia mater of Mr. Fitz-Poodle one night,—the sense of unwillingness which he felt on the following morning—it was, to the best of ray belief, on the 20th of November—to accompany his wife to Messrs. Jehoshaphat Brothers in Bond-street, to choose a small gold-and-white cabinet, there being some there, "such loves of things," just arrived from Paris. There might have been some other reason—it is so ungracious to expose all a person's motives—but, at any rate, I shall imagine it was a dream that made him say, when the prototype of Sainte Geneviève had just finished her description of the cabinets, which she had only just had a glimpse of, "I am very much afraid, my love, that I can't go with you to-day."
"Not go with me, Beaufort!" exclaimed the Belgravian Saint. "Why, what have you got to do?"
"To do?" asked Beaufort, using iteration in his turn, in the absence of a more direct reply, which was not quite ready.
"Yes. What prevents you from going?"
"Why, the fact is,"—this was said with hesitation, the dream, I dare say, still bothering him—" the fact is, I have another engagement."
"You did not mention it last night when I first spoke to you about the cabinet."
"I did not recollect it then; but happening to see the day of the month, over the chimney-piece there, I was reminded that this was the first meeting of our council for the season, when there is always a good deal to do."
"Council? what council?"
"The council of my society."
"I did not know you belonged to any society. I thought those things were always given up when gentlemen married!"
"Not the scientific ones, Eliza," said Beaufort, smiling. "The Botanical, for instance, is quite a ladies' society; so is mine."
"And which is yours?"
"Oh, the Zoological." Here he became more animated. "I shall take a double subscription this year, for we expect a good many rare animals, and you can oblige more friends on the Sunday afternoon. The meeting to-day will be interesting—the first of the season always is—we generally get letters from our agents at a distance respecting fresh purchases. We expect a Mydaus meliceps, that is, a Java polecat; by-the-by, it is one of the most vulgar-looking animals in existence; then we are to have a Galago Moholi, one of the Lemuridae, from the Limpopo river in South Africa;—a Wombat from Port Jackson;—and a Dumba, or four-horned sheep, from Nepaul, which I am exceedingly anxious to see."
"It does not appear to me," observed the saintly Genevieve's likeness, with something in her tone not quite so heavenly as the expression of her celestial eyes—when tranquil—" it does not appear to me, Beaufort, that your expectations are raised particularly high. Vulgar-looking polecats and bats and sheep seem to me not so very attractive."
"I can assure you, Eliza, you are mistaken. That polecat now is a perfect desideratum. The Wombat—it is not a bat, my love, nothing of the sort, but a Marsupian, its scientific name is Pliascolomys—well, the Wombat is a very desirable animal—we have not had one these twenty years. And as for the Dumba, if we get that, we shall be very fortunate. Every breed of sheep is a subject of interest, not only to the man of science, but to the agriculturist, the manufacturer, and the general consumer. We can't introduce varieties enough. I am amazingly fond of all kinds of sheep, and whenever we live in the country I shall certainly kill my own mutton."
"Very well, Beaufort. I had no idea of disparaging your collection, only the things you named seemed common enough to me. But then I am not at all scientific—and, indeed, until now, I didn't know that you were."
"Neither am I, Eliza. I just know a little. Enough to interest me in the subject. Nothing more."
"I like beautiful animals," said the lady, "though, perhaps, I can't call them all by their right names——"
"By-the-by," interrupted her husband, desirous of giving a turn to the conversation, "I have had a note from Wimbush about a pair of carriage-horses; he tells me that they are just what I think you will like: magnificent steppers, just the same colour, height, and action, a perfect match. I must look in there, too. If they answer the description he gives, I shall not stand out about the price." It was Mrs. Fitz-Poodle's turn now to smile, and she did so very sweetly, looking more like Sainte Geneviève than ever; the "magnificent steppers" had reconciled her to the solitary drive. But, before she went out, she wrote a letter to her cousin, Adela Cunninghame, whom she shortly expected from Devonshire, on a visit; and, as that young lady was in her perfect confidence, she mentioned—incidentally—that Mr. Fitz-Poodle was gone to attend a meeting of the Zoological Council, and that she was, "for the first time since her wedding-day—alone!"
IN marriage, as in miracles, ce n'est que le premier pas qui coûte. Having once broken the ice about engagements that must be kept, Mr. Fitz-Poodle found no difficulty in discovering what they were, or, at all events, in announcing their existence. Not that he was in the slightest degree tired of the constant society of his beautiful wife, but, he argued, when she is so entirely absorbed in things that I don't care about, it can't make much difference to her whether I am always at her side or not. The Zoological Society had proved so very good a card that he made it his regular cheval de bataille; when once they began it seemed as if the meetings in Hanover-square were continually taking place, and if Mr. Fitz-Poodle attended all he named, and worked on the council as assiduously as he said he did, it must clearly have been only want of capacity that prevented him from rivalling the scientific fame of Professor Owen. You must observe, that I am far from saying he did not attend; only I agree with his wife in thinking that it was—to say the least of it —rather extraordinary he should suddenly manifest so strong an inclination for a pursuit of which he had never even spoken before they were married.
If the lady brooded over this thought rather oftener than wisdom would have counselled—for her husband did not make her a propitiatory cadeau every time he kept an "engagement"—it is possible its more frequent recurrence to her mind was owing to the intimacy of her correspondence with Adela Cunninghame, who, in the true spirit of feminine friendship, threw out a number of suggestive ideas which did not much improve the original aspect of the question.
As we shall presently make the acquaintance of that charming "jeune personne" it may not be amiss to say something about her beforehand.
Adela Cunninghame and Eliza Coryton had been brought up in Devonshire together, at the house of Adela's mother, the parents of Eliza having died while she was still an infant, leaving her a very sufficient fortune. Like Hermia and Helena, they had "grown together," and if their occupations were not precisely the same as those of the Athenian maidens, if the Devonshire damsels did not "sit on one cushion," creating "both one flower, both on one sampler," it was merely because samplers have become obsolete, and modern young ladies occupy themselves in a different way. In other respects the parallel held better, their studies and amusements being for the most part alike. In one thing, however, they differed. Adela was fonder of reading than her cousin, and the books she preferred were those which most excited her imagination. She eagerly devoured every work that fell in her way of which the theme was supernatural, and a large library, in which there were many rare and curious volumes (the late Mr. Cunninghame, her father, having been an unsparing collector), afforded her, when she could steal there unknown to her mother, who was a very matter-of-fact sort of person, a great deal of delightful, because prohibited, entertainment. To a certain extent, Eliza shared in Adela's discoveries. The more energetic and passionate nature of Adela gave her considerable influence over the yielding character of Eliza, who, without equal courage to speculate as wildly, was equally prone to superstition, and the consequence was, that when Adela abandoned her mind to any new or singular idea, she impressed it sooner or later on that of her cousin. For instance, in the matter of religious worship, it was Adela who first inspired Eliza with admiration for the candlesticks and credence-tables of the Decorative Christians, and had the former changed her religion entirely, instead of stopping half-way, there is no doubt that the latter would have followed her example. If Adela had resolved on being a nun, the same day would have seen Eliza take the veil.
Circumstances, however, separated the cousins at rather a critical moment, family affairs obliging Miss Coryton to take up her residence for a time with a paternal uncle in London, and it was during the period of their arrangement that Mr. Beaufort Fitz-Poodle—(he had taken the latter name for an estate, as you or I would do to-morrow)—fell in love with her, and she put on a Brussels lace veil instead of a conventual one. An illness had prevented Adela from being present at her cousin's marriage, but she was recovering fast at the time I first alluded to her, and about the middle of December was able to come to town, "her own room"—as Eliza wrote to say—being quite ready to receive her.
The meeting between the cousins was most affectionate, for they had been separated more than a twelvemonth, and though letters had passed between them at least twice a week, there were still thousands of those things to say that are never put down on paper. As it so happened that Mr. Fitz-Poodle was absent from home when Miss Cunninghame arrived in Wilton-crescent, the interval until it was time to dress for dinner was fully occupied in the discussion of confidential matters. Eliza's marriage was, of course, the principal theme for Adela's questioning; when she first saw him, whether he fell in love at first sight, how it came to pass altogether, what he really was like, whether she thought she should be perfectly happy, and so forth, repetitions all of them, and all previously answered; hut asked and replied to now with all the effect of novelty. Les affaires de ménage came next on the tapis, and Mrs. Fitz-Poodle promised herself much pleasure in showing her cousin all the domestic arrangements she had made, not that they were by any means complete, "for," observed Eliza, "you have no idea, until you begin, what an immense deal of time it takes to fit up a house properly; and you know, Adela, I have it all to do myself, for Beaufort, as I think I told i you, does not go with me now to the different shops and places so regularly as he did at first."
"I remember perfectly well, Eliza," replied Miss Cunninghame; "he attends scientific meetings and things of that sort. However, men's tastes are sometimes very different from ours; they have occupations, too, which we take no interest in; so, before I pronounce any opinion on this subject, I shall judge from my own observation. I have been studying Lavater a great deal more than ever, and I don't think I can be deceived now by any one's physiognomy."
This little grievance apart, Eliza confessed that she had nothing in the world to complain of; on the contrary, Beaufort did everything he could to make her happy: he was very generous, refused her nothing she expressed a wish for, and was always contriving some agreeable surprise. "It was only yesterday morning," she said, "that I was admiring a beautiful little Dresden china clock, which I thought Mrs. Jehoshaphat asked too much money for—though I meant to have had it, and went in the course of the day to tell her so, but when I got there it was gone—a gentleman, she said, had come in, paid the price she put upon it, and taken it away in a common cab; well, I was a good deal disappointed and could almost have cried, it was such a darling little dear, and, what do you think, when I came home, the first thing I saw on my dressing-table was the identical clock. Beaufort had never uttered a syllable about what he meant to do, but went at once and bought it."
"That," observed Adela, "is, I admit, a very fine trait of character; but, after all, it may be only the result of a particular idiosyncrasy."
"Ah, but I can tell you of something that proves he is not always following his own inclination, but acting contrary to it. It is a curious fact that Beaufort does not appear to be fond of dogs, although he is, I believe, a great sportsman. They are useful to him in the field, and that, I fancy, is all he cares about them. In the house I am sure he can't endure them, for he as much as said so one day. Well, I was reading an odd advertisement in the Times the other morning, just after he had bought the pair of carriage-horses I told you of. It was about some Dalmatian dogs, which the advertiser said were 'as beautifully spotted as leopards, gracefully formed, with the spring or action of little tigers, as playful as lambs, and most sagacious,' adding, rather absurdly, that they were 'an ornament for ladies or gentlemen.' I was amused by the description, and just said I supposed the way the ornament should be worn was behind the carriage. Beaufort said nothing, only smiled in a peculiar way he has, but he wrote into Yorkshire, where the dogs were to be obtained, and three days afterwards, when the coachman brought the carriage round, there was the prettiest Dalmatian you ever saw in your life, with my name on his collar!"
I think most people will agree with me that these things—notwithstanding Miss Cunninghame's philosophical conjecture—showed Beaufort Fitz-Poodle to be a very good-natured fellow, and fully bore out the general character given him by his wife. Judgment, however, had yet to be passed upon him by a more critical arbiter.
IF a warm, perhaps some might have called it an eager, welcome awaited Adela Cunninghame, that circumstance was not likely to operate unfavourably against the person who offered it, for in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, attentions paid to ourselves outweigh all other considerations. But the hundredth case, in this instance, was that which concerned Mr. Fitz-Poodle. Miss Cunninghame was not at all insensible to the kindness of his demonstrations, and had she not relied upon her fatal skill in physiognomy, all would have gone as her cousin, or her cousin's husband, desired. But that Helvetian prig, Lavater, had so inoculated her with the infallibility of his rules, that a moral dissection would have failed to overthrow her impressions, which were always rapidly, and you may, therefore, guess how fairly made. With such physiognomists a single obnoxious feature very often mars the effect of all the rest. Now Mr. Fitz-Poodle had nothing in his face that you could admire, and several points were decidedly objectionable. His sharp nose, his small eyes, his sandy eyebrows, his large teeth, his wiry hair, and his yellow whiskers, were severally objects of dislike to Miss Cunninghame—particularly those last named—and, taken in combination, she thought them detestable. It was her custom, after setting down every departure from her standard of beauty at its very lowest moral value, to compare the individual whom she scrutinised to one or other of the inferior animals. The comparison she made on this occasion was not flattering to the party concerned.
"Very like a wolf!" was her silent remark. "I must observe his habits."
People who have a fixed idea always contrive to make everything square with it. Mr. Fitz-Poodle was blest with a very good appetite;—that told against him. He ate fast, or, as she phrased it, voraciously; another item, per contra. Then, she noticed, he had a decided predilection for mutton; he preferred côtelettes en papillotte to ris de veau, rognons au vin de champagne to rissoles, and declared, as he carved a haunch of Southdown, that he thought it immeasurably superior to venison. Now you or I might have avowed similar preferences in the hearing of Miss Adela Cunninghame, and yet her conclusions would have been wholly different, because, having made up her mind in the first instance that Mr. Fitz-Poodle resembled a wolf, she was only alive to illustrations that tended to support her theory. After dinner it was the same: instead of sitting quietly round the fire, he was restless, and, according to her view of the matter, "prowled" about the drawing-rooms, though, poor fellow, it was only in his anxiety to show her a number of pretty objets belonging to her cousin that lay on different tables. Then, again, when Eliza played and sang "While gazing on the moon's light," he struck up the most discordant noise that ever was heard, not by way of refrain, that Adela was convinced of, but from an impulse of uncontrollable antagonism to the lunar orb, from which she drew another inference. At last, when he sat quiet in an easy-chair, his lair she mentally called it, she watched his face as he silently looked with a pleased expression at his pretty wife, and detected in his twinkling eyes and the upturned corners of his wide mouth a resemblance "really painful to think of."
"How do you like Adela?" asked Mrs. Fitz-Poodle of her husband when they went up-stairs.
"A very handsome girl," was his reply, "though with rather a strange, dreamy expression in those large eyes of hers."
"But what do you think of her in other respects?"
"Really I can hardly tell: she spoke so little that I can form no estimate of her powers of mind. To judge only by her silence, I should say she was very reserved; but then, on the other hand, she seems to listen so attentively, to watch—as it were—for everything that falls from one's lips, that I am inclined to think she could speak if she chose; whether to the purpose or beside it must be determined hereafter."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Fitz-Poodle, smiling, "I thought Adela would puzzle you! Now, I'll let you into a little secret. She has been studying you all the evening. She is a wonderful physiognomist; her skill in detecting character is something quite extraordinary."
"Well, I gave her a long sitting this evening, for every time I looked at her I observed her eyes were fixed upon me. The likeness ought to be a good one; I hope it will be flattering."
"You may depend upon this, Beaufort: it will be perfectly true. I never knew Adela make a mistake of this kind in her life. I rely most implicitly on her judgment." "An additional reason, dearest, for me to desire her favourable opinion."
"Oh, I did not mean that, Beaufort. Nothing, you know, can shake my faith in you!"
As "the bird in the cage" pursued Yorick till the image assumed its most expressive form, so it happened with Adela Cunninghame when she reached her own room and was left alone. The little lupine traits with which she had begun to invest the disposition of Mr. Fitz-Poodle, wore larger and more decisive proportions the longer she dwelt upon them. I have said that her course of reading had been desultory, and directed almost entirely by her inclination towards the marvellous. Old French editions of such authors as Bodin, Cornelius Agrippa, Wierius,
Vincent and Fincel, were amongst the volumes in the late Mr. Cunning-hame's curiously-assorted library, and so completely was Adela imbued with the spirit in which those worthies wrote, that there was little related by them which she did not receive for truth. Everything in nature, she argued to herself, returns in one round, at longer or shorter intervals; what once has been, may, assuredly, be again; certain epidemical diseases which, to all appearance, have been extinct for centuries, suddenly return in their old destructive shape, none can tell why or how. If this be the case in the physical, why not in the moral world? The mind of man is no less subject to disease than the body: the same bad desires that actuated people centuries ago may spring up again, and with those desires the means of carrying them into effect. That there were, not more than forty years since, such beings as Vampires, Adela knew (from the Notes to the Giaour), and if they existed, what was to prevent other beings equally fearful from existing also? Had she not read in Wierius the famous process which took place at Besançon in the year 1571, before the Inquisitor Borin, when Pierre Burgot and Michel Verdun confessed themselves to be loups-garoux, acknowledging that they had danced before the Evil One, each with a green-wax candle in his hand, had been anointed with a certain salve, and were straightway transformed into wolves and endowed with incredible swiftness? Did not Peter Marmot say that he had frequently witnessed the changes of men into wolves in Savoy? Was there not at Padua, a place famous at all times for magic as well as classical learning, a well-known lycanthropist who, being pursued by men on horseback while in his transformed shape, was caught and had his paws cut off, and when he recovered his natural form did he not crawl about the streets of Padua a mutilated cripple, without either hands or feet? Adela's memory teemed with similar instances, all proved by the most competent witnesses, many of whom were the parties themselves. Such being the fact—and she trembled to think of it—what was to hinder people, if they were so minded, from becoming wehr-wolves in the nineteenth century as well as in the fifteenth? We had gone back lately to many of the customs of our ancestors, and this practice was just as likely to be revived as any other. Did not almost every man you met in society own that he was completely blasé, that he wanted a new excitement, something to happen to him that had never occurred before —and why should not Mr. Fitz-Poodle be one of these men? Her cousin's peace of mind, so she went on—not very logically—to argue, was at stake in the matter, and she resolved to leave no stone unturned until her suspicions were either confirmed or altogether disproved.
I have already adverted to the arbitrary influence of past events over our dreams: sometimes the subject most occupies them that has been latest in our waking thoughts—sometimes our imaginations are at work, in sleep, upon things for years forgotten. In Adela's case, the idea that Mr. Beaufort Poodle might be a wehr-wolf became, in the visions of the night, an absolute certainty. He appeared to her then with all his fell nature fully developed: she saw him in wolfish guise with a long swirling tail, careering after the sheep in the Green Park, hunting down his victims, swinging them over his shoulder, leaping the iron railings, defying the gatekeeper in the most violent language (as wolves—in dreams— are in the habit of doing), and galloping into the drawing-room at Wilton-crescent, where, casting his prey on the carpet, he mangled it in the most furious manner, howling all the while a hideous song, the words of which she recognised as German; anon he paused, and, addressing his wife, who did not seem at all disturbed by the scene, requested her, in the gentlest accents, to play while he danced a polka with Miss Cunninghame; and under some inexplicable fascination she found herself clasped round the waist by one gory paw, while the other waved in the air the fragments of what he called—and she literally laughed in her dream at his words—a gigot au naturel; suddenly the Dalmatian dog rushed into the room barking violently, but the sounds he uttered resembled the tones of a church-bell—Mr. Fitz-Poodle relinquished his grasp, turned fiercely on the dog which continued to bark, and-Adela awoke, the pendule on the chimney-piece striking twelve. She slept again, and again she dreamt of her host, "more or less of a wolf," as she said to herself, all the night through.
With a mind predisposed to certain conclusions before she went to bed, and haunted in her sleep by the same notions, outrageously exaggerated, it was no wonder when she went down to breakfast that her cousin told her she was not looking well, and that Mr. Fitz-Poodle feared she had passed a bad night. He shook hands with her cordially as he spoke, but the squeeze he gave was very faintly returned; indeed, it was all she could do to suppress a shudder at his touch; she controlled her emotion, however, and sat down. During breakfast, on hospitable designs intent, he pressed her to taste a variety of nice things with which the table was covered, but the recollection of "that gigot" had completely taken away her appetite; neither did she seem more disposed to talk than to eat, and Mr. Fitz-Poodle began to think he had some up-hill work before him. However, he good-naturedly persevered in the endeavour to entertain his guest until the Times was brought in, and then, like every other husband and host in the kingdom, he gave his mind to public affairs, and the ladies withdrew to discuss and arrange theirs.
The same question which Mrs. Fitz-Poodle had put to her husband the night before, she now asked of her cousin. What did she think of him?
"I would rather," answered Adela—" I would much rather not give any opinion," This was exactly the way to make Mrs. Fitz-Poodle still more anxious to obtain it.
"You need not be afraid, Adela, of saying how much you admire him. I shall not be the least jealous!"
"I should imagine not," returned Miss Cunninghame, very gravely.
"Good gracious, Adela! what do you mean?" exclaimed her cousin, almost ready to cry.
"Simply that I have not fallen in love with your husband."
"Ah, but I am sure you mean something else. What is it you don't like him for?"
"I never said I did not like him."
"No, but you looked as if you thought so. And now I recollect, you did not speak to him all breakfast-time, except just to say 'Yes' or 'No.' Oh, Adela, do tell me!"
"Eliza," said Miss Cunninghame in a mysterious tone, "listen to me quietly. I don't pretend to be infallible; none of us are so; but I am not, as you are aware, without penetration. I hope and trust that Mr. Fitz-Poodle may be all your fancy pictures him, but appearances, I grieve to remark, are greatly against him. I am desirous, however, of studying him still closer before I deliver my verdict, and on that account I should prefer not to say anything at present."
"Oh, this is worse than if you said he was ever so bad. Is there any- body else, do you think, that he—was he ever engaged to—oh, pray what is it, Adela?" And Mrs. Fitz-Poodle, unable to restrain her feelings any longer, fairly burst into tears.
"You must not cry, Eliza," said Miss Cunninghame, soothingly; "it may not, after all, be what my fears imagine."
"I ho-o-o-pe n-n-o-ot," sobbed Mrs. Fitz-Poodle; though what her cousin really feared she had not the least idea.
"Now, answer me one or two questions, dear!"
"Ye-e-e-s,—if—I—ca-a-n." "Do you remember the day of the month wlien he went out by himself that first time?"
"Oh ye-e-s. It was the twe-e-en-tieth of No-vember."
"You have the Gregorian calendar, I think! Is that it on the prie-dieu? Give it me, dear. The 8th, I know, is the 'Holy Relics,'— the 11th, 'St. Martin,'—what is the 20th?—Let me see." She ran her finger down the column, glanced at the saint's day, and closed the book. "This is, indeed, remarkable," she said. "The 20th is the day of St. Loup!"
"What is there remarkable in that?" asked Eliza, innocently.
"Poor dear!" said Adela, in an undertone; "it may be as well not to tell her just yet."
"And where did he say he was going to?" "To a meeting of the Council of the Zoological Society."
"Zoological, indeed! Well?"
"What, Adela, have you any doubt about his having attended the council?"
"None in the world, dear. My firm impression is that he did go."
"Oh, I'm so glad! Then you don't think he went to see—anybody —that is to say any former—acquaintance?"
"Um! Not in the way you mean. It's not at all unlikely he met with some old friends that day. How long was he away?"
"I can't exactly say, for I was out myself all the afternoon. Probably four or five hours."
"He came home before you?"
"Oh yes; I found him in the library."
"Did he seem tired—exhausted?"
"I think he said he was rather tired. I know-he told me they had had a good deal to do at the meeting."
"Um! What sort of a day was it?"
"Very gloomy and dark. I know I had a great deal of trouble in choosing the silk for those very curtains. They were obliged to light the gas at Tiwlls', and I said that would never do for green, so I put off buying the curtains and went to look at some cabinets at Mrs. Jehoshaphat's."
"Were his boots and—and—his—other things muddy—as if they had been splashed?"
"I don't remember—I did not look; but I dare say they were, for he observed that the streets were uncommonly dirty, and that had helped to tire him."
"The streets? You are sure he didn't say the 'fields'?"
"Dear me, no! What should take him into the fields on a dark, foggy November day?"
"Well, if not the fields, he might have come home across the Park. However, of course he'd say the streets. Now tell me, Eliza, what did he do at dinner?"
"How do you mean?"
"Did he eat with his usual appetite?"
"Yes, I think so. No! now I recollect, he didn't. He sent away his soup without tasting it. He said it was smoked;—if it was, I never discovered it. I'm not sure whether he had fish or not, but I perfectly remember he wouldn't take any ham and chicken. As to sweet things, he never touches them."
"Was he gay, or the reverse?" "At first he seemed jaded and out of spirits—I fancied because he had not gone with me. But he ordered some champagne, and then he rallied amazingly; indeed, he made himself particularly agreeable."
"What did he talk about?"
"Oh, everything. About the weather and the war, the storm in the Black Sea, the battle of Inkerman—all the things that were going on, you know—about the country and the hunting-season-"
"Ah! Is he very fond of hunting?"
"I believe he is. Then, I remember, he wanted me to go down to Brighton—he said it was lust the right time of the year."
"What for?"
"Oh, for the place, to be sure."
"You didn't go, I think?"
"No, I said I could not spare the time."
"And he seemed disappointed?"
"Well, I don't know. He is fond of Brighton. He likes galloping across the Downs. He says there's nothing like it."
"What! he actually confesses so much?"
"I don't understand you, Adela. I see nothing remarkable to confess in that. I like a good canter myself. You remember how we used to ride about Dartmoor. Beaufort talks about buying a cottage somewhere there for the summer. He says I must select the spot, as I know the country. I have told him a good deal about Dartmoor."
"And he wants to try the mutton there as well as at Brighton, I suppose?"
"What a strange idea! I only talked to him of the wild scenery. But I am glad you have given the conversation a turn, for I can't tell why you have been asking all these questions."
"A turn, Eliza," said Miss Cunninghame, solemnly. "No! it's not a turn. I am coming more to the point.—How do you amuse yourselves generally of an evening?"
"Oh, sometimes I play, and Beaufort listens; then I take my work, and he reads to me."
"What does he read?"
"Novels and biography, or, if we have nothing new from Mudie's, he takes down a volume of natural history."
"Natural history—um! A coincidence."
"And poetry, too. Is that a coincidence?"
"It depends on circumstances. Whose poetry does he prefer?"
"Byron's generally; so do I. Beaufort reads very well. He has such a fine voice. We are going through the 'Tales.' The last he read was 'Mazeppa.' I declare I was quite terrified with that fearful account of the flight of the steed through the forest, with the wolves so close behind."
"Quite natural, was it not?" said Adela, in a sepulchral voice.
"Quite."
"Do you ever consider the meaning of that picture?" abruptly asked Miss Cunninghame, pointing to the Sainte Geneviève.
"The meaning of it, Adela? Beaufort had it copied in Paris because he thought the saint's face was so like mine."
"Was that all? And thosemdash;victims!"
"Victims! Good gracious! Where?"
"Those lambs and their sainted shepherdess. A type! a type! Oh, Eliza, take care!"
"Take care of what? Of whom?"
"Of your husband!"
"You frighten me again. Your manner is so strange. Why should I take care of Beaufort?"
"Must I tell you the dreadful secret? Be it so! Bend down your head. Let no one else hear my words. I strongly suspect that Mr. Fitz-Poodle—nearer—nearer—that Mr. Fitz-Poodle is nothing more nor less than—"
A tap at the door interrupted the communication which Miss Cunninghame was about to make.
"Who's there?" asked Mrs. Fitz-Poodle.
"It's only me, m'm—Frost," replied a female voice.
"My maid," said Mrs. Fitz-Poodle to Adela. "What do you want?"
"If you please, m'm, it's a letter for Miss Cunninghame, and master."
"Let her come in," said Adela, in answer to an inquiring look from her cousin. Frost entered, presented the letter, which Adela hastily tore open, and went on:
"—And master wishes most particularly to speak to you, m'm, for a few minutes, when you are disengaged."
"Will you excuse me, Adela?" said Mrs. Fitz-Poodle; but Miss Cunninghame was so absorbed by her letter that she did not hear the question till it was repeated.
"I beg your pardon, Eliza. Oh, yes! Go—by all means!"
WHEN Mrs. Fitz-Poodle descended to the library she found her husband walking to and fro, apparently in some agitation.
"What is the matter, Beaufort?" she eagerly asked.
"I have had some disagreeable news, Eliza. A relation of mine, young Arthur Mervyn, of the 20th Dragoons, has got into a serious scrape, and I am afraid it will go hard with him unless something can be done immediately."
"Pray tell me, how?"
"Arthur," said Mr. Fitz-Poodle, "is a very good fellow in the main, but he is one of those young men whom you ladies call 'romantic' and 'impulsive'—that is to say, he is apt to do the first thing that comes into his head without at all considering the consequences. In this instance he has been quarrelling with his commanding officer, and has had the imprudence to send him a challenge. Any other man but Colonel Walton would have put Mervyn under arrest and brought him to a court-martial at once, and as sure as fate he would have lost his commission. Walton, however, happens to be an old friend of mine—in fact, is under considerable obligations to me—and writes me word that, although the provocation he received was great, and the offence—in a military sense—a very flagrant one, utterly subversive, you know, of all discipline, he has only privately confined Mervyn to his room for the present, in the hope that he will make him an apology."
"Which, of course, he will do," said Mrs. Fitz-Poodle.
"Ah, that's the misfortune of his character," returned her husband. "Arthur is very proud, and never likes to acknowledge himself in the wrong. But I fancy he must give in this time, or his prospects will be ruined for life."
"What was the quarrel about?"
"It arose out of the great cause of quarrel amongst men—young men in particular. While Arthur was on detachment, a few months ago, he thought proper to fall violently in love with some country beauty, a girl of excellent family, Walton says, hut with scarcely any fortune. It seems they were engaged—Mervyn never told me a word about the matter— but as he is only a lieutenant, and depends entirely upon what his father allows him, all thoughts of marriage were out of the question until he got his troop. Somehow or other the affair got wind in the regiment—young men, you know, don't always keep their own counsel—and reached the commanding officer's ears. Well, under ordinary circumstances, this was no business of the colonel's, but when Walton found that Arthur was always asking for short leave, and got a hint, besides, of the use he made of it—I need not tell you what that was—he began to fear that in one of his impulsive moods the young lieutenant might bring back a wife to head-quarters, and as he knew that such a step would mortally offend old Mr. Mervyn, who is a great disciplinarian in his family, he point blank refused Arthur's last application for leave of absence, and told him, moreover, the reason why. Arthur did not take this intimation in good part: he said Colonel Walton might refuse him leave if he chose, but he had no right to interfere with his private concerns, and that, as he had made up his mind on the subject, he should go without his permission. Walton mildly but firmly warned him against such a step, observing, good-humouredly, however, that he was still too much of a boy to be trusted. This remark, which was perfectly true, greatly irritated Arthur: he went to his barracks and wrote a most furious letter to Colonel Walton, calling him a tyrant and I don't know what else, and winding up by demanding the satisfaction which was due from one gentleman to another. Walton in reply, as I have already mentioned, sent word to Arthur to keep his room till he was in a more temperate mood, intimating that he should then expect to hear from him in a different strain. This is the state of affairs at present. Walton has waited three days, but as the foolish fellow has shown no signs of amendment, he begins to have some apprehension lest Arthur should carry his threat into execution and go off in quest of his inamorata, in which case the whole story must be told, and it will be all up with the young entêté. Knowing, however, that I have more influence over Mervyn than most people, Walton has asked me to run down to Canterbury and see if I can't bring him to reason. I am sorry to be called away just as your cousin has arrived, but it can't be helped, and I hope I shall be able to get back by to-morrow night, or the next day at latest. There is no occasion to let any one know why I leave town—I mean, you need not tell Miss Cunninghame even, as it might be awkward for Arthur in case he should come to the house while she is staying here."
"I shall tell nobody the reason, and Adela is not at all inquisitive. You never saw her before, did you?"
"What a question, Eliza! Of course I never did. Why do you ask?"
"Only,—only,—because I had a sort of—of fancy that she knew something about you."
"I don't see how that is possible, unless she happens to be gifted with second sight. What did she say of me then?"
"Oh, we were talking about you, and Adela asked me what your pursuits were, and whether you were fond of sporting, and what we did in the evening when we were alone,—and then—she—she advised me to—to take care of you."
"Ha! ha! ha! Is that all, Eliza? I hope you will take care of me. I'm sure I shall always take care of you. But we didn't want your cousin to remind us so soon of our marriage vow. She is a little too apprehensive. But I suppose it is because she is so fond of you, so I shall not quarrel with her on that account. Now, dearest, I must be off. The cab is at the door, I see, and Lucas is putting in my carpetbag. Make any excuse you like to Adela, and say I was obliged to go in a great hurry. One kiss,—another,—one more,—good-by."
And thus, unconsciously imitating the Corsair when he left Medora, Mr. Fitz-Poodle departed on his friendly mission. The offhand frankness of her husband's manner, and the natural construction he put upon Miss Cunninghame's words, completely reassured Mrs. Fitz-Poodle, and banished from her mind an uneasy thought which had begun to lurk there. As soon as the cab drove off she returned to her boudoir, but Adela was no longer there. She then wont to her cousin's room, and, after knocking twice, the door was unlocked by Adela herself, who was very pale, and appeared as if she had been crying.
"Good gracious, Adela!" she exclaimed, "has anything happened to make you uncomfortable? How is my aunt?"
"Oh, very well, dear, I believe. I have heard nothing to the contrary."
"I thought—perhaps," said Mrs. Fitz-Poodle, slightly hesitating, "that—as you had—received a letter—and looked so—so ill—that something might have happened."
"So there has, Eliza! I am agonised with apprehension—all your poor cousin's hopes and expectations are at this moment trembling on the verge of a precipice—the destroying sword now hangs but by a single thread! Those are his very words!"
"Whose words, Adela? You distract me! What evil is impending? What is it you dread?"
"I had intended to have reserved this secret for a calmer, happier moment—but fate is stronger than human will. It will astonish you, Eliza, when I announce the fact, unbreathed as yet to any ear, that I am —an affianced one! Yes, Eliza, three months ago I pledged my maiden troth!"
"Goodness! And is this the cause of your present sorrow? Where is your-the gentleman?"
"Where? I know not! In a dungeon, perhaps! Fatally expiating his cr—no, not a crime—at the worst but an offence caused by his love for me."
"Dear me! has he k-k-killed anybody, Adela?"
"Not yet, Eliza!"
"But if he is in prison, dear, he can't get at any one to kill, unless it is the gaoler who brings him his black bread and pitcher of water daily— that's what they do, I believe;—but then he must have done something to get put there. What was it? Oh, do tell me!"
"Read that missive!" said Adela. "I did not say he was actually incarcerated, though it may be so!" Mrs. Fitz-Poodle removed a very damp cambric handkerchief from a Crumpled letter that was lying on the bed, and having smoothed out the creases, read as follows:
"Idol of My Heart!
"Little did I think this hand would ever pen aught but tidings of joy to thee! Yet destiny has willed it otherwise. Evil even now is hovering with outstretched wings above the head of your devoted one. All our hopes and expectations are at this moment—"
(Perhaps, as this paragraph has been already mentioned, there is no occasion for repeating the "precipice" and the " destroying sword!")
"I had arranged for another brief hour of happiness with thee, my Adela (by the express-train at 8.30 a.m. on the 13th), but tyrannous authority interposed its ban and marred the smiling scene. Maddened by disappointment, I said something, I know not what, words of menacing import, nay—more—I put them on paper, and defied my persecutor to the outrance. With cynical coldness he refused to raise the gauntlet I had thrown down, and prated of paternal behests. I was of unyielding spirit—thanks to my love for thee—and, though unfettered, I am now— a captive! Surrounded as I am by his myrmidons, I dare not venture to say more at present, but at the first unwatched moment I will write again. At the worst, I can but hurl defiance in his teeth again, and fly to those arms which are the haven of Adela's fond and faithful shipwrecked lover."
"You see, Eliza, what a fearful strait he is in!" observed Miss Cunninghame—as I must still call her.
"Upon my word," said Mrs. Fitz-Poodle, "I don't see anything very clearly. I can't make out what it's all about. He seems to have been threatening to knock somebody down, and then—I should say—jumped overboard, and—perhaps—swam ashore, and was taken up for a smuggler!"
"Your penetration," said Adela, scornfully, "does you infinite credit. A smuggler, indeed! Henceforth I shall confine my sorrows to my own bosom."
"I'm sure I didn't mean to offend you, Adela," returned Mrs. Fitz- Poodle, meekly; "but really I couldn't understand the letter."
"Enough," said Miss Cunninghame; "we will speak of it no more. All I request is that you will not name the subject to Mr. Fitz-Poodle."
"I came to tell you, Adela—only when I saw you had been crying I forgot it—that Beaufort has been suddenly obliged to go out of town. I hope you will have better news—whatever it relates to—before he comes back."
"Gone out of town!" muttered Miss Cunninghame, in a tone too low for her cousin to hear what she said; " can instinct have forewarned him of my prescience? Or, perchance, an access of fearful appetite!"
"What do you say, dear? I thought I heard the word 'appetite!' Luncheon, I dare say, is quite ready. Shall we go down? Come, kiss me, Adela. You know I never could bear not to be friends with you. There, that's a dear! I dare say it will be all right."
To do Miss Cunninghame justice I must say that she did kiss her cousin most affectionately. Though exaltée to the last degree, and, as we have seen, apt to indulge in the most absurd fancies, she always acted, as she thought, "for the best," in which endeavour, when common sense and discretion happen to be absent, people frequently reverse their intentions. She was right, however, about one thing. Mrs. Fitz-Poodle, with all her affection, was not a counsellor for such a case as that of Adela Cunninghame; indeed, unless this young lady Rad unbosomed herself a little more plainly, I don't know whose advice could have done her any' good. But it was not in her nature "to descend," as she said, "to common-place details"—and, therefore, she resolved to wait till another post should bring her better tidings—or worse.
Having come to this conclusion, she very wisely accepted her cousin's invitation to dry her tears and go down to luncheon; and whether philosophy or hunger prevailed, or whether some inspiration kept up her spirits, I know not, but she certainly did behave at that meal as if she were not "an affianced one," with a lover in most mysterious difficulties.
Shall I follow the cousins throughout the occupations of the day— accompany them to Mrs. Jehoshaphat's, and the fifty other charming shops that were Mrs. Fitz-Poodle's delight—break in upon their tête-à-tête at dinner—take a stall beside them at Albert Smith's fifteen hundredth representation (given, I believe, on that night)—and then tell you that Miss Biddy Fudge was quite right when she said that a laugh would revive her under the pressure of romantic woe, and that Adela Cunninghame followed her example? Imagine these things, and imagine what Time, the old coralline, is always at work about—for ever constructing new edifices, for ever effacing the past; no respecter is he of either joy or sorrow; his lightest touch produces change.
QUARREL with him as we may, no one in Mr. Fitz-Poodle's household would be likely to object to the change which he wrought there in little more than twenty-four hours from the time of that gentleman's abrupt departure for Canterbury. It was just six o'clock in the evening of the following day, and Mrs. Fitz-Poodle and her cousin—having once more visited half the shops in London—were sitting in the library by firelight, waiting for letters by the day-mail. Adela, whose thoughts insensibly assumed a gloomier complexion as the moment of expectation drew near, had fallen into the train by which she first startled Mrs. Fitz-Poodle, and was narrating, as an induction, no doubt, to something even less pleasant, the delectable history of Gilles Gamier, the notorious loup-garou who was executed for lycanthropy at Dôle, in the year 1574, when the "visitors' bell" was rung violently, a noise of footsteps in the hall followed almost Immediately, the library-door flew open, and more than one person entered the apartment. It was too dark to distinguish faces, but Mrs. Fitz-Poodle had no difficulty in recognising her husband's voice:
"Where are you, Eliza? Oh, here! I hope we're in time for dinner. I've brought an unexpected guest. It's all right, dearest—too long a story to tell just now—let me introduce my friend—don't make a mistake in the dark and salute the wrong person, Arthur—ha! ha! ha!— Mrs. Fitz-Poodle, this is my cousin, Mr. Mervyn, of the 20th Dragoons—Miss Cunninghame, I think this gentleman is known to you already!"
As a spasmodic novel-writer would say: "A faint shriek was heard, and the next moment Adela would have fallen to the ground if Arthur Mervyn had not rushed forward and caught her fainting form in his arms."
Preston salts, eau-de-Cologne, and—and a few tender whispers, rendered the tableau of revival quite perfect. It is scarcely necessary to say that Mr. Fitz-Poodle promised "to make things pleasant" to Arthur Mervyn and Adela Cunninghame, or that he kept his word.
WHEN Adela Cunninghame retired to rest that night, her last words were:
"That I should have taken that dear, kind, good Fitz-Poodle for a wehr-wolf. Thank Heaven, I never told Eliza!"
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