Mr. Carington. A tale of love and conspiracy

Front matter

■ NEW NOYELS AT THE LIBRARIES HEATHERGATE. A Novel of Scottish Life and Character. In 2 vols. crown 8vo. Ijusi out. "WHAT 'TIS TO LOVE. By the Author of " Flora Adair," "The Value of Fosters. own." 3 vols. JOHANNES OLAP. By E. de Wille. Translated by F. E. Bunnett. 3 vols. crown 8vo. "The book gives evidence of considerable capacity in every branch of a novelist's faculty. The art of description is fully exhibited ; perception of character and capacity for delineating it are obvious ; while there is great breadth and comprehensiveness in the plan of the story." — Morning Post. SEPTIMITJS. A Romance. By Nathaniel Hawthorne, Author of "The Scarlet Letter," "Transformation," &c. Second Edition. I vol. crown 8vo., cloth, extra gilt, 9s. A peculiar interest attaches to this work. It was the last thing the author wrote, and he may be said to have died as he finished it.

The Athenæum says that "The book is full of Hawthorne's most characteristic writing." "One of the best examples of Hawthorne's writing ; every page is impressed with his peculiar view of thought, conveyed in his own familiar way." — Post. HONOR BLAKE : The Story of a Plain Woman. By Mrs. Keatinge, Author of " English Homes in India," &c. 2 vols. crown 8vo. "One of the best novels we have met with for some time." — Morning Post. "A story which must do good to all, young and old, who read it." — Daily News. THOMASINA. By the Author of "Dorothy," " De Cressy," &c. % vols. crown 8vo. "A finished and delicate cabinet picture ; no line is without its purpose, but all contribute to the unity of the work.' — Athenæum. " For the delicacies of character-drawing, for play of incident, and for finish of style, we must refer our readers to the story itself." — Daily News.

" This undeniably pleasing story." — Pall Mall Gazette. Henry S. King & Co. 65 Cornhill, and 12 Paternoster Row. Mr. CARINGTON. A TALE OF LOVE AND CONSPIRACY. BY ROBERT TURNER COTTON. "In utraque fortuna paratus." VOL. II. Henry S. King & Co., 65,Cornhill; & 1 2, Paternoster Row, London. 1873. [All rights reserved.] CONTENTS. VOL. II.

Chapter I. The Silent Sisters

T<5 8' vnoKvo-o-aficvri reice Topyovas, alva itckapa, Ai 'S.apirrjhova vaiov ,7r' 'Q/tfavy ftaduSivy, Ni/o-oc Trerpriea-a-av. In a southern suburb of London, close to the river Thames, there stands — at any rate it was standing a few years ago — an old square brick house, surrounded by more than an acre of land. This land was hidden from inquisitive eyes by a brick wall eight feet high, with chevaux de frise on its summit ; and the only access to the house was by a heavily barred gate, through which few were ever seen to pass. Whoso rang the bell thereat was cautiously examined through a small grating VOL. II. E — if indeed any notice was taken of him at all : it was as often one way as the other. The grounds, which once had been a pleasant garden, were an untended wilderness. The house was built between court and garden, as the French say : but the court was toward the river, and had access thereto by an old fashioned water-gate, in the style (though of course on a far smaller scale) of those at the Tower and Somerset House.

There was a shudder in the atmosphere of the place : any one entering it might well be reminded of that Dark Tower to which Childe Roland made his way, or of that Haunted House described by Hood. People in the neighbourhood could not make it out. No trades man ever called there. The postman never had a letter to deliver. When the rate collector wanted his money it was always ready for him, thrust through the grating of the gateway in return for his receipt, no word being spoken. He was a garrulous little fellow, this rate-collector, Passmore, and he told his cronies at the Spread Eagle strange tales of the persons who paid him. Some times he caught a glimpse of an awfully old woman, with only one eye and only one tooth ; sometimes of a very beautiful girl, but with a wild look in her face that seemed to freeze him through.

Passmore always found somebody to treat him with grog after a visit to the Red House, as it was commonly called. It was the mystery of the neighbour hood. Let us unveil that mystery. I have never quite understood why poor Phorcus, son of Sea and Earth, was condemned to have six such objectionable daughters — the three Graiae, who were born very old, and had among them but one eye and one tooth, which they lent each other on great occasions ; and the three Gorgones, who had a sort of wild beauty, only their hairs were snakes, and they had marvellous biting and scratching faculties. TrUe the legend must be, for are not the descendants of the Phorcydes among us ? Who has not seen the appalling ugliness of old Pephredo, the still more appalling beauty of Medusa ? Can there be a Congress or Conspiracy without them ?

Do they not fire cities and disestablish churches ? Are they not rampant in conversaziones and loquacious in reviews ? At about four on a winter's afternoon, there sat three daughters of Phorcus in a room on the ground-floor of the Red House, overlook ing the courtyard that abutted on the river. It was a dreary day : snow fell, and turned to mud : the fog was so thick that omnibuses were lost in the streets, and all the cabmen had gone home to their gin and pipes. The floor of the room in which these three persons sat was of stone, uncarpeted : a small fire flickered in a huge grate : two tallow candles burnt upon the table, feebly fighting the fog which forced its way through cracks and crannies and chinks innumerable. The old decaying timbers of the house creaked omi nously in the wind. A huge spider, hairy legged, with a body the size of a florin, walked about the deal table.

The weird sisters were silent. Two of them were elder daughters of Phorcus : one belonged to the younger family. All three were in long black dresses, sombre and without ornament : on the front of each dress was a number sewn in white. Those numbers were 8, n, 13. They were used as substitutes for names, and denoted order of standing in that secret society known as the " Silent Sisters." Number Eight was in the seat of honour. She was a woman somewhere between sixty and seventy, with an expression of countenance so painfully bland that it recalled that rhyme of childhood : " ' Will you walk into my parlour?' Said the spider to the fly." Her hair was white ; her voice was soft ; she held her head on one side ; her hands were slightly tremulous. You would never have imagined her the cruellest woman in England.

You would never conceive what those glassy old eyes had witnessed, what that low soft voice had commanded. Number Eleven looked a century old. Her head shook with chronic paralysis. She had fewer teeth than any legendary daughter of Phorcus. Her eyes were green, her lips blue, and her cheeks the colour of adipocere. Any story of ghoul or vampire might well be be lieved in this old woman's presence. One would not like to touch her hand, dreading the moisture of the charnel-house. Number Thirteen was young twenty-two perhaps. She was very tall and rather ungainly in her build. Her hair was yellow ; her face and hands sallow and freckled ; but her eyes were the most remarkable of her features. They looked quite different ways, and the left was considerably larger than the right, and of a different colour.

The left was a cat's grey : the right was a gipsy's black. Number Thirteen, for the rest, seemed incapable of sitting still an instant. She fidgeted perpetually, and was evidently anxious to break the silence. With much alacrity she sprang from her seat when a small bell tinkled. She took up a candle, opened a door at the back, and admitted the daugh ter of Phorcus whom we must know as Number Six, though the figure appeared not on the dress she was then wearing. Number Six was about twenty-eight, I should judge. She was dressed in blue serge, with anchor buttons, and a straw hat. She brought in with her a rather large black bag. She was a woman decidedly handsome, but with a touch of wildness. She took the seat vacated for her by Number Eight, opened the bag, and placed its contents on the table.

There was some bread and cold meat, and an immense budget of letters. " I am not hungry," said Six. " I lunched with Count Vllassoffsky. If you will eat I will just glance through the despatches, for which I have not yet had time." Eight, Eleven, and Thirteen went sharply to work on their coarse fare. Perhaps they wished they had been with Six at Vllassoff sky's in Piccadilly. But they dared not say so. The despotism of equality is stern. While three of the Silent Sisters are eating their frugal meal, and the fourth is perusing her despatches, it may be as well to say a little more about them, and their allies, the Free Brothers. The four members of the secret sisterhood whom I have attempted to describe were all of different nations. Eight was English ; a widow ; a woman of some property.

She carefully avoided doing her duty to her children, in order to do her duty to the future republic of Europe. She sent cheques to assassins and mob orators until the day when the Silent Sisters found her out ; with them she passed an apprenticeship to conspiracy, and was now obliged to expend her money under their direction. Eleven was a Parisienne, and was supposed to have been blessed by Robespierre as he passed to his fate on the 28th of July, 1794. She was a girl then, and on her way to be married as the tombercau passed with its load of human ordure ; now she was deeply venerated by reason of that benediction. She was a saint of the democratic church. Its most infallible pope had canonized her by a word. She could not have been hideous years ago : for though devoid of money, she had married — and outlived — three husbands.

Thirteen was Italian — Neapolitan indeed, though without any of the beauty frequent in lotos-eating Parthenope. Those who have visited Naples must, however, have noticed that there is some fine well-developed ugliness in that city, as indeed in most parts of Italy. 'Tis all very well for Byron to exclaim, " I like the women too (forgive my folly)," and to talk of " the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze," and " the high dame's brow :" but I guess he greatly preferred the healthier and purer and less easily withered beauty of the English. He says just before that he "likes to dine on becafico :" if he had been kept upon them for a week, how he would have longed for a rump-steak and oysters ! For my own part I have seen Englishwomen lovelier than any Madonna of Rafaelle's, than any face that Guido has painted.

I do not think an English girl could be uglier than this young conspirator from Naples. Six, who is poring over her letters, who is handsome in a wild way, whose eyes seem first to fascinate and then to frighten, is Russian. She was born a serf. Now, after ten years passed in the chief European cities, she is recognised by her colleagues — both Free Brothers and Silent Sisters — as one of their most useful instruments. She can talk many languages ; she can act many parts. She is already higher in the association than Eight, who is wealthy ; than Eleven, who has received the blessing of Robespierre ; than Thirteen, who has in her veins the blood of Bourbon. The Free Brothers and Silent Sisters had hitherto done little business in England ; but these four of the sisterhood had recently come over on a special mission.

The organization of the two Societies is a curious development of the principle of the Sheikh al Jebal or Old Man of the Mountain, who maddened his followers with hachish, whence they came to be called assassins. The maddening potion of these conspirators was the dream of liberty, but in trying to obtain it, they subjected themselves to the most rigorous despotism. Every member possessed absolute command over members of lower grade. The male and female guilds were separately numbered : but Number One was the same in both, and was entirely unknown to any members of either Society except Number Two in each. Whether Number One was man or woman remained a profound secret. No Llama or Mikado was ever fenced round by more impenetrable mysteries. What brought to this country four Sisters and two or three Brothers was Prince Oistravieff 's residence here.

Hunted out of every country in Europe, he thought himself safe in England. But the allied societies of conspirators would not leave him alone, for revenge was sworn against him, and he was known to be an Imperial favourite, and it was thought that he might be meddling in matters political. So Oistravieff was systematically pursued. Doubtless Number One had his reasons for giving the order. Number Six at any rate had good reasons for carrying it out. Ten years before she was Paulovna, daughter of Ivan, a pretty girl ready to be married. Even in wintry Russia there are pretty girls. Serfdom still existed : this child could not marry her Demetrius without leave from the Prince, her master and her father's master. Old Ivan went to Opotchka, where lived the Prince's steward or bailiff — an old man endowed with obsequious loyalty to his master's family.

Unfortunately the Prince was shooting in the neighbourhood, and was to sleep at the steward's house ; the old scoundrel kept the girl waiting till he returned ; the result has already been indicated. When Demetrius her lover and Ivan her brother fiercely remonstrated, the Prince was already beyond their reach, and the steward coolly ordered them to be flogged. Ivan Ivanovich was a Free Brother already : Demetrius joined him : both were now in England. Oistravieff, always a terrified man, would have been driven wild with terror had he known his position. When Six had finished her letters, and her companions their meagre meal, she condescended to give them some news. She had been at the house of Count Vllassoffsky, a Pole, Number Four among the Free Brothers, a daring and resolute hater of monarchs.

She had lunched ; Six being a silent sister whose special talent was society, was obliged to break the abstemious rules of the order, and eat luncheon and dinner now and then in an Epicurean fashion. Whether she in consequence en dured ayenbite of inwyt does not appear. " Prince Oistravieff returns to London this week," she said to her associates ; " he has been in the north ; some accident has happened to him : he is now at an hotel at Carlisle, where a doctor is attending upon him. I am very glad he is not killed." This information Six had obtained from the Polish Count, who was supposed to be most loyal to the Czar, and was on the most intimate terms with Prince Oistravieff. " Can we get hold of him now ? " said Eleven, with a guillotine glare in her eyes. It is time, I think." " Yes," said Six.

" It is time. I have arranged all with brother Number Four. I am going to pretend to be what I suppose the Prince would say I ought to be — or perhaps I am. I shall dress magnificently : there are dresses enough upstairs — I am to have a low carriage and pair of ponies : I am going to buy jewelry and perfumes and gloves in Bond Street : the Prince, who is to stay at the Clarendon, cannot fail to see me. Count Vllassoffsky will tell him I am a wicked woman ; I am to be called Lily Page ; I am to bring him home here. There, that is the plot." " If we get him here all will be well,' said Thirteen ; and saying it, glared horribly. I suspect she had in her mind some notion of inflicting on the luckless Russian some terrible personal punishment. The Count had arranged with Six that a carriage and ponies should come to the Red House two days later ; he thought it well that the Town should talk about her, and that Oistravieff should hear her name from others beside himself.

So a perfect equipage, drawn by a pair of lovely little Exmoors, was driven down by a groom of the smallest dimensions ; a Tiger Tim — " Tallest of boys or shortest of men, Who stood in his stockings just four feet ten " — and who was Number Seventy-Five among the Free Brothers. Miss Lily Page, in a costume of light-brown velvet with pale blue fringes and ribbons, and abundant lace and jewelry, caused no slight sensation as she drove in the Park, using her parasol whip quite skilfully — as she turned into Bond Street for some shopping. In two or three days, during which time she appeared in as many dresses, she was famous. Everybody asked who she was. Who indeed ! That much-read journal of VOL. II. c gossip and garrulity, the Sunday Cynic, gave a charming biography of her under the classic title of Aphrodite Misthote ; it was a purely imaginary memoir, and gave her noble birth and strange adventures — but did not give her address.

This was Vllassoffsky's inspiration : he gave Jack Raven of the Savage Club the information and a five-pound note, and the editor of the Sunday Cynic gave a cheque for three guineas for the article. Jack Raven lay in bed all through Sunday, after an un usually moist supper on Saturday night. There was a war breaking out at the time ; there were monarchs in danger, and premiers in disgrace : and if you were to look back at a file of the Times, you would be surprised at the vast importance of the events chronicled thereon, and forming the themes of leaders by gentlemen of un questionable omniscience. For all that, Lily Page was the chief topic of conversation among the loquacious inhabitants of Club land. You should have seen the bowwindows of White's and Brooks's when she drove her ponies down the classic street of Saint James.

" By Jove," said old Lord Seabrooke, who had seen a good many handsome women, good and bad, in his long irregular life, " that is a. fine girl. She makes me feel young again." " You are lucky, my lord," said Tudor Trevor, the famous Welsh poet, who has announced but not yet published A Trillion Triads. "I am only a boy, yet I feel too old to renew my youth by seeing that pretty young person." The ladies whom " this pretty young person " surpassed as to the style of her equipage, the speed of her ponies, the smallness of her groom, were unanimous in her condemnation. She certainly was not pretty — that point was settled in limine. " I cannot think," said the Lady Barbara, who had six daughters as tall as life guardsmen to marry, " what young men can see in such a creature as that. She has neither beauty nor style — nothing but impudence.

I detest such low-bred minxes. They would have been well flogged when I was young." Thus did the Town, male and female, criticize Lily Page. Her aim was reached at any rate : when Prince Oistravieff, slightly battered, contrived to come to London, and settle at the Clarendon, he heard the name of this questionable new comer from every mouth.

Chapter II. Lily Page

Benedict. A breath, a beauty, a delight, a phantasy, A creature that's half hornet and half butterfly . . You have seen such. Raphael. Ay, and they are not innocent. This gay young thing is innocent and beautiful ; She is all butterfly — a flower with wings to her — A bit of sunrise with a soul. The Comedy of Dreams. London is always thankful for a sensation. It is a city drab in summer and soot clouded in winter. It was very thankful for Lily Page. She was a butterfly mys tery. She flitted through the avenues of fashion at the most fashionable hours, and then vanished untraceably. She was the talk of the hour — the radiant bubble on the surface of the social stream. Girls asked awkwardly who was Lily Page, and got no definite reply. Boys merely conjectured, but were not so simple as to ask questions of their respectable elders.

Elderly gentlemen of a rakish tendency, who I regret to say were not unknown in London a dozen years ago, though they now have happily disappeared or become members of School Boards, used to try all manner of methods to follow that rapid pony carriage. But if Lily Page saw a horseman following her, she tired him out by driving into districts the most uncivilized, and nobody succeeded in tracing her to that Red House where she dwelt with Eight and Eleven and Thirteen. A likeness of Lily Page, if I remember aright, was popular in those days, though it certainly could not have been taken from her ; anyway she was the Town's chief talk. Everybody wondered who in the world she could be, and foreign affairs did not receive anything like decent attention. The gay old First Minister, lounging across the Park of an afternoon, caught sight of Miss Lily, and thanked heaven the Commons of Eng land had something besides his policy to think about.

He was not altogether without curiosity as to who and whence she was. He had written gay rhymes in his youthful diplomatic days, and flirted in many a conservatory with a flower between his lips. This new apparition amused the boyish statesman, to whom might well be applied the saying, — " Whom the gods love die young." Lily Page drove about London at the electric hours, and vanished at the gateway of the Red House at the proper time. Then she became Six once more, and kept her subordinates in order, and enjoyed that tyranny which lies at the basis of all folk with a passion for liberty and equality. This girl was born for a better fate : but MR. CARINGTON. the one great anguish of her life had turned her from a woman to a Fury : and she was not improved by her initiation in conspiracy. Prince Oistravieff had returned to town a little dilapidated — to write metaphorically.

His nose, which had always evinced a preference rather for one side of the face than the other, had manifestly decided which was the right direction to take. Oistravieff was not improved by that blow from Frank's strong arm ; he would have chal lenged his assailant, but he averred that somebody gave him opportune information that Frank was not of noble birth. So the Oistravieff, who had a princely disdain for canaille, told his acquaintance that he thought no more of the affair than of an accidental bite of a dog. Evidently he held the great patrician theory, that a blow from a superior is a compliment, a blow from an inferior an accident. When the Prince took up his quarters at the Clarendon, where, be sure, he received that warm welcome which innkeepers have for all men, but specially for Princes, he had an early call from his friend Count Vllassoffsky.

They had experiences to ex change. The Prince had been in the country ; it was terribly dull ; your English Earl is slow and torpid ; your English misses are as icy as their winters. The Prince had nothing to communicate. He was glad to be back in London, though of course London was the dreariest capital in Europe. London was stagnant ; he had serious thoughts of trying New York or San Francisco for a change. The Count, on the other hand, assured him that London was not altogether so dull as usual. He had heard of several conspiracies in progress, one against the Czar, and another against the Emperor of MR. CARINGTON. the French, and a third against the Pope. He meant to have an evening reception of conspirators and conspiratrici only. " Conspiratrici," quoth Vllassoffsky, " are next in interest to cantatrici.

We are to have some good singers at both houses this season. London will be gayer than usual." " I am glad of it," said Oistravieff gloomily. His nose still pained him. He felt hatred for all things English after con tact with one prompt English fist. Frank Noel had given him acute Anglophobia. " You will see," said the Count gaily. " My friend, you are bored. Ring the bell, and look at Bond Street through the sparkling atmosphere of a glass of Heidseck. Have you heard of the Lady with the Ponies ? Of course not. She is our latest theme of gossip. It is nearly her time to drive this way," he added, looking at a watch the size of a half-sovereign which he carried set in a ring on his finger. "Who is this wonder?" asked the Prince, with less languor than usual. " What do you know about her ?"

" What all London knows — and that is, nothing. She is a new comer ; no one can find out where she lives ; she may be a lady — she may be anything you please. She is spoken of as Lily Page. She is amaz ingly pretty. By the way, there she is." The Prince and the Count were standing by the window. The 1 narrow street was crowded with carriages. Lily Page's fairy equipage was stopped right in front of the hotel. She looked up at the moment, quite unconsciously. " I have seen some one very like that girl," said Oistravieff. " She is handsome. Let us go down and take a stroll." " The fish is hooked," thought Vllassoffsky. Six got from him an accurate account of all that happened, and was advised to be very shy and coy, if he attempted to throw him self in her path. She took the advice. A week passed ; some days beyond a week ; all the while Prince Oistravieff passed his afternoons in watching for Lily Page, in following her.

She purposely gave him his opportunity at last, though he fancied it was all accident. It was just at the corner of Pall Mall and St. James's Street ; she was driving towards Piccadilly ; the Prince came out of Sams's shop. The lady dropped her whip — pulled up her ponies. Of course Oistravieff picked it up in a moment. She rewarded him with a charming smile, and drove away. After that, he had a bowing acquaintance with her. She was shy and haughty. Still he contrived to ingratiate himself, very dexterously as he imagined — and his little manœuvres were not unwatched ; and the fast young quidnuncs of the west decided that the Russian was going ahead with Lily Page. She was always so quietly courteous to him when he got a chance of speech, that he scarce knew what to say. One day he took the Count into council.

" I cannot understand that girl," he said. " Who is she ? What is she ?" " Do you want to know ? Ask her to dine with you at Richmond." " She would think it an insult." " Pshaw ? Well, shall / ask her — I, who have never spoken to her ?" " Would you venture ? " "Would I ,not ? Have I lived so long to be afraid of a girl ? Come, I'll bet you a dinner at the Star and Garter, for the three of us, that she accepts." •• Done," said Oistravieff. We, who happen to be behind the scenes, know that according to the law of wagers this bet was void, as it was a preliminary certainty for Vllassoffsky. However, the Prince was only too glad to lose his bet and pay for a dinner ; and it was arranged that the Count should drive him down in his mail-phaeton, and that the lady should meet them there. It turned out one of those bright crisp afternoons which sometimes occur amid even a London winter.

The Count drove round to the Clarendon from Piccadilly, and took the Prince across Wimbledon Common and through Richmond Park, to the famous hotel. It is not crowded in January; but perchance you may get a better dinner and ampler attendance when this is the case. Vllassoff sky had not left the matter to chance, but had taken the trouble to drive down, choose his room, order his dinner in the most artistic style. He did this because he intensely admired this heroic Silent Sister ; he knew her history, approved her revenge. A Polish noble was not likely to feel pity for a Russian scoundrel like Oistravieff. So, when they reached the Star and Garter, there was a room ready, a fire burning, bouquets of exotic flowers on the table, everything enjoyable. The Epicurism of the north had been remembered ; on a sideboard were appetizing dishes — caviare, raw boar's ham in slices, oysters, anchovies, tunny, flanked by small flasks of inflamma tory liqueurs.