Volume 2 — CHAPTER XV. COLONEL NORCOTT FEELS PATERNAL.

In a small drawing-room on the first floor of a house in Stanwick-street, two persons were, one cold morning towards the end of April, seated at a late and very metropolitan-looking breakfast. Of those two persons Colonel Frederick Norcott was one. His outward man, as regarded dress at least, had not improved since last we saw him, some eight months ago, flânéing in the grounds of Danescourt. A short and somewhat nondescript garment, one which might once have done duty as a shooting-jacket, but which had degenerated into a coat of many uses (namely, one that its owner was in the habit of dressing, smoking, and, as in the present instance, breakfasting in) was greasy and out at elbows. The Colonel’s throat, a scraggy one, as is customary with middle-aged gentlemen who “keep their figures,” was exposed, by reason of an open shirt-collar, to view, and as he discontentedly munched, with his still strong teeth, the untempting lodging-house fare provided for him, the expression of the Colonel’s countenance was not precisely what could be called a bright and a “shining morning face” on that warm April day.

The “colonial lady,” seated opposite to her lord, and watching the changes of his countenance in hopes to discover therein some sign or token by which to regulate her remarks, was, as I before hinted, a lady of faded and “washed out” appearance (entre les deux âges), willing still, as was only natural, to be admired, but swamping all such womanly aspirations in her deep devotion for, and her overweening appreciation of, the man who had honoured her with his empty pockets and his once-respected name.

“You sent that letter to the post, of course,” said the Colonel, pushing away his chair from the table, and preparing for some of the unwelcome business of the day. The remark was scarcely an interrogative one, for the master of the Stanwick-street lodging had on the previous day made known to his submissive wife the wish that she should write in his name a certain letter on a certain subject, and it had never occurred to him as possible that Mrs. Norcott could have delayed the duty of attending to his wishes.

“Honor will of course answer the letter at once,” continued Fred, “and I should not wonder (let me see, to-day is Wednesday) if she were to be here the end of the week.”

Mrs. Norcott, a lady of an habitually pallid complexion, flushed slightly on hearing these remarks. It was not often, to do her justice, that she ventured on independent action, but in the instance alluded to she had been rash enough to arrogate to herself, though in a very mild degree, one of the most valued privileges of her sex.

“I am very sorry,” she began, endeavouring to cover her confusion by renewed attentions to the tea-pot; “I thought that you hardly meant it. You spoke in a hurry, and as Mr. Vavasour was here, I could not well ask you whether I was to write or not.”

Colonel Norcott rose from his chair impatiently.

“What a confounded nuisance!” he exclaimed, planting himself autocratically upon the rug, with his back towards the empty fire-grate. “Another day lost, and Vavasour, who—” He stopped short, not in confusion; Fred was not the man to be easily what is called flabbergasted, but there were limits, and very strongly marked ones too, to his confidential intercourse with Mrs. N., and these he probably felt that he had been on the point of overstepping.

“You ought to have known,” he went on peevishly, “that it is of consequence to me—that I am anxious, in short, to have Honor here, and what the d—l made you think for yourself in the matter is more than I can guess. Come now, out with it,” he continued, growing momentarily more irritated, and in proportion as the poor colonial heiress seemed disposed to silence, working himself up to a determination that she should give a reason for the fear that was in her; “out with it! I suppose you have some excuse for not doing as I wished, and that excuse I am standing on this rug to hear.”

Thus apostrophised, the unlucky woman had no choice but to obey, which she prepared to do in evident trepidation and discomposure.

“Now, Frederick,” she began, putting a large bony hand to her brow, “you really might have a little mercy on my poor ’ead” (as if, par parenthèse, any man ever had much pity on a plain wife with big fingers, who dropped her h’s and bored him with her ailments); “I’ve got the most dreadful ’eadache, and your voice this morning does go through it so! About Mrs. Beacham I really thought—”

“Go on, will you?” growled the Colonel.

“Well, I really thought, now I did indeed, that it would never do. In the first place, though I didn’t see much of her ’usband, it was plain enough to me that he’s not the kind of man to let his wife go gadding off to London; and even if he did, why, Frederick, how in the name of goodness are we to make her comfortable here? Unless you gave up your bedroom—”

“O, hang that!” from Colonel Fred.

“Well, but unless you did, there’s no place for her to sleep in but the attic next to mine. I would let her have mine,” continued the good-natured woman, “but that’s small and wretched enough; however, there’s no use, I’m certain, in talking of it, for Mr. Beacham would as soon see her go up in a balloon as set off by herself to London.”

Apparently, the Colonel was a little taken aback by the force of his wife’s arguments, for he paused a while before he replied, and then said, almost hesitatingly:

“The only thing would be to say that I am ill. Honor would come directly then. That blockhead of a horse-breaker has scruples of conscience about that disgusting crack over the skull he gave me, and would never refuse his wife leave to come, if he had the most remote idea that I was still suffering from the effects of the blow.”

There could scarcely be a stronger proof of the melancholy fact that poor Bessie was not now for the first time cognisant of her husband’s tricks and dodges than the little surprise she evinced at Colonel Fred’s spirited suggestion. She listened at first in silence, thinking over in her mind the pros and cons regarding the chances of successfully carrying out his plans: while not for a moment did it occur to her to raise an objection on high moral grounds to the trap which was about to be set for the unwary. The class of wives of which Mrs. Norcott is the type are, as a rule, a cowardly class; and, moreover, they are women who, taking perhaps too lowly an estimate of themselves, and certainly too high a one of their partners, are ready to buy the rare smiles, and equally rare meed of approbation which falls to their lot, by a mean and truculent subserviency, which in reality gains for them neither affection nor esteem. As is usual, however, with persons who are destitute of moral courage, Mrs. Norcott would have gladly compromised with her conscience, and changed the whole lie for a half one.

“If it had only been last week,” she said musingly, “when you had that bad cold upon your chest, it might have been done quite easily.”

“Easily! Of course it could, and so I suppose it can now. Come, let us have the table cleared. Gad, how dirty the lodging-house drab is before the small hours come round again! I say, Polly,” to the parlour-maid, who entered in answer to the summons of the bell, and whom, being rather good-looking, he took the trouble to lecture—“I say, Polly, what is soap a pound, and hair-brushes? What do you think you were given such pretty hair for, if it was never to be oiled? If I were you—”

But here poor patient Bessie interposed, not angrily; she carried her blind idolatry of her profligate husband to the extent of wishing him to be pleased—coute qui coute; but the owner of the house, a person of strict principles, had spoken seriously to her about the Colonel’s free manner with her maidens, so, to avoid a greater annoyance to her big, spoiled, selfish tyrant, the self-sacrificing Bessie suggested that Polly had better be allowed to “take away” in peace. The operation, however, being over, the Colonel returned to the charge, namely, the letter to his daughter, which he had so much at heart. As regarded Honor’s probable discomfort in the attic which, in Stanwick-street, she would be condemned to occupy, he had an argument all ready for his use. Honor was passionately fond of riding, and, as Arthur Vavasour had told him, could ride both boldly and gracefully. Now, the parsimony which was conspicuous in the Tyburnian lodging did not pervade—and, indeed, might be said to be in some measure the consequence of extravagance in—other branches of Colonel Norcott’s expenditure. He kept two horses—screws in reality, though producing a good effect in the eyes of the uninitiated—on the remnant of poor Bessie’s overrated fortune. On one of these horses it was his purpose, should he be so fortunate as to obtain Mr. Beacham’s consent to his wife’s visit, to mount the beautiful girl (for girl in appearance and manner Honor still was) in the Park, and among the crowds whom her unprincipled father nothing doubted would do due homage to her loveliness.

“It is all nonsense about her being uncomfortable,” he said decidedly. “What does a fine, handsome, healthy girl care about discomfort? Honor will like to see a little of life: why, she has never—you would hardly believe in such absurdity—seen a play or an opera in her life! And she is deuced fond of music, and sings, Vavasour says, like—like anything. So now sit down, there’s a good soul, and write the letter. You must make me out devilish seedy, and all that kind of thing. See how well you can do it, now;” and he patted her broad, bony shoulders with a fascinating semblance of affection that Bessie, even under still less auspicious circumstances, would have found it impossible to withstand. She was about, under that delightful compulsion, to commit a very unworthy act, but “the man beguiled” her; and Mrs. Frederick Norcott, not for the first time, laid aside for the Colonel’s sake her lingering scruples, and did as she was bid.