The Man of Fortune: a story of the present day

Front matter

Lorenza's Boudoir. E nl:. THE MAN OF FORTUNE. $ Stora as % |mwt gag. BY ALBANY FONBLANQUE, Jun., Esq. AT7THOB OP "HOW WE AEE GOVERNED." " Be ready for all changes in thy fortune ; Be constant when they happen ; but, above all, Mostly distrust good fortune's BOothing Bmile; There lurks the danger, though we least suspect it." Havahd. LONDON: EOUTLEDGE, WARNES, AND ROUTLEDGE, FAERINGDON STREET. NEW YOBK : 56, WALKEE STREET. 1859. {The Author reserves the right of translation.'] CONTENTS. C-I__P. PAGE I. FALSEHOOD 1 II. FAITH 18 III. MASKS AND FACES 27 IV. A LONG ENGAGEMENT 44 V. A VERT GOOD FAMILY 54 VI. BOADICEA 63 VII. WINNINGS AND LOSINGS 75 VIII. HOW HUGH TBEVOE MET WITH AN ACCIDENT . 91 IX. ROUGE ET NOIE 107 X. A VISITOR AT THE GRANGE 119 XI. DON RAMON AT THE HALL 136 XII. SPRINGETT, ATTOBNET-AT-LAW 153 XIII.

FORGERY 169 XIV. COMING BACK 187 XV. A SCENE AT THE OPERA 198 XVI. FOE BETTER AND WORSE 208 XVII. WEDDING BELLS 226 XVIII. REFLECTIONS 237 XIX. THE EBB OF THE TIDE 248 XX. WRITING FOR THE PRESS • 268 xxi. don ramon's courtship 276 XXII. A DISCOVERY CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGB XXIII. ASSIZE INTELLIGENCE 305 XXIV. TREVOR 11. TREVOR 321 xxv. sister martha's story 351 xxvi. retribution 365 xxvii. a proposal 378 xxviii. nelly's myrtle

Chapter I. Falsehood

! I cannot tell at what instant the voice died away. The hand of the singer remained poised over the yet quivering chords; the last drop of the flood of melody she had poured into the air seemed still to hang upon her lips ; and her eyes, turned skyward, appeared to he following the flight of the fading cadence as it rose, and was lost in the blue silence. He — with his whole soul entranced, steeped in the poetry of the scene, and the hour — gazed into the depths of her languid orbs, and saw his heaven there. The lake — like a sapphire lost amidst the mountains — lay at their feet. Its tiny billows kissed a shore prismatic with fruit and flowers, whilst its bosom reflected like a mirror, the rugged crags of the mighty Alps, which, crowned with their diadems of eternal snow, towered majestically in the distance.

The waters were dancing with their first light rip ple, for the evening breeze had but thrice fanned the B cheek of the singer, and caressingly waved the long silken tresses which hung o'er her companion's face and brow, mingling them in effective contrast with his light, almost boyish curls, as his head rested upon her bosom. There was not a sound to be heard when the last sigh of the dream-like song passed from her lips ; when it passed he could not tell, for the note — so sweet, so clear, so touching — had been prolonged so tenderly, had absorbed his senses so completely, that, had that evening lasted for a life, had her fair hand never quitted the chords, her eyes never turned from their upward gaze, and so continued unbroken the spell that had stolen over him, he would have asked no other joy, no other fate, than to have remained for ever, basking in the heaven of her beauty, with the undying memory of her voice enrapturing his soul.

It was a wild, restless, unquiet spirit which had once beaten in that now tranquil heart. He had been a clever, headstrong boy ; was an unsettled volatile man. His mind was an untidy workshop, where odd scraps of beginnings and endings of things unfinished, unconsidered, lay jumbled together Avith out any connecting links, any continuity of plan, to give them vitality, and shape them to a purpose. Young, ardent, active and fickle, he required a constant succession of excitement. Time only served FALSEHOOD ! 3 to increase his reckless yearning for new pleasures, new scenes, fresh influences to carry his mind from what, perhaps, but a few days before, he had con sidered perfection. Not that he was what the world calls blase ; far from it— he was activity and enthusiasm itself. At one time he would walk fifty miles across the moun tains to visit a holy spring ; at another, he would not pass a yard out of his way to see the finest disposition of nature, or the most splendid creation of art.

He travelled as no one else travelled ; now in all the pomp and state of "a British milord" — now in the blouse and with the knapsack of a German student — now wasting his time, dawdling, and lounging at hackneyed spas — now risking his life in the wildest, most unfrequented districts of the countries through which he passed. Always changing, ever violent in his fancies, perpetually knocking down one idol to make room for another. His talents were like the pieces of tinsel and glass in the slide of a kaleidoscope, capable of combining into beautiful fancies and rich designs — but then there was this untameable restlessness, ever ready to unsettle them as soon as formed. To such a disposition as this how sweet must have been rest ! — perfect, delicious rest ! — when it came ! He loved — rashly and violently, of course — as suited b his character ; but the very rashness and violence of his flame, under the influence of her who had created it, served to purify and tame him.

Passion died away, and the small still voice of happiness awoke in the empty chambers of his heart. Alas ! empty chambers of his heart ! There is a certain shell or crust which time and the jostling of the world hardens around a man's mind more or less thickly, and which must be removed in some way before the more delicate seeds of love, poetry, or art can grow into blossom. With some people a thousand things will soften it ; with others you may work away with a pick-axe with out chipping off a single particle. The contem plation of nature in all its loveliness, of art in all its splendour, had touched this husk on our hero, and it fell. His wild, headstrong nature became softened, refined, and thoroughly prepared to receive that pas sion, which was soon to fill it to overflowing. The poetry of the air he breathed opened a thousand channels to his yearning heart.

Love touched it, and the willing waters welled forth, bearing away all memory upon their flow. And now, retired from the world, miles even from the little village from whence their few wants were supplied — upon the shores of the lake which lay beneath them — a condensed drop of the blue heaven FALSEHOOD ! 5 — in the light of those eyes, into which he had looked away his heart — in the music of that voice, which had silenced the memories of years — in an atmosphere perfumed by the kiss that had drawn his soul away — his life became a dream without a waking. And so the sun rose, the lake rippled, and the day went by. Hour after hour, day after day, he breathed the pure mountain air, unbroken by any sound save the note of some wild bird as it whirled along, and the low murmur of the lake. Flowers and fruits bloomed around him, in all the luxuriant fragrance of a land for which summer and nature have robbed the world, to make it a throne for loveliness.

In the first bloom of his new existence, united for ever to the goddess of his adoration, how should he think of broken ties, forgotten vows, forsaken home ? And so the sun rose, the lake rippled, and the day went by. Sometimes, when the spell of the presence of her who had enchained him was for a time removed, would the cold finger of conscience tap at his heart, and awaken recollections of love, of care, of tender watchfulness. Angry demons were such thoughts, tearing and uprooting the flowers of his newly blooming paradise ! Recollections of old ties, warning, beckoning hands, which once might have saved him, had he not turned from them when they were fresh and potent to move him with their unforgotten influence, came over him. Time and distance — short time and short distance — robbed them of their power ; they became less and less reproachful, less and less frequent in their appeals ; and, like a sail upon the ocean, like a star in the morning, they faded away and were forgotten.

And so the sun rose, the lake rippled, and the day went by. He had ceased to essay to write to those once so near and dear to him. Letter after letter had he written, which, after re-perusal, was certain to be thrown aside and destroyed. Letters came for him from home to the little village. Old greetings, once so welcome, struck strangely upon his heart ; he could not answer them — they were directed, intended for his old self; his old self was dead — dead as the home-gathered violets they contained; and so the seals remained unbroken. Why should he answer them — the time had long passed by for doing so? Fear and conjecture had brought all the sorrow that could be brought. The tale was told without his telling it. Why repeat it ? What was he that they should grieve for him — a fickle, dishonoured man, unworthy of their regard.

FALSEHOOD ! 7 They would forget him — had forgotten him by this time. Why write ? And so the sun rose, the lake rippled, and the day went by. He resolved that he would remain for ever in the land that had re-created him with her, the type and essence of the clime. He would give up the past, throw it off like a garment, and think only of the present. The future bore some dark shadows re flected from that past, so the future was forgotten also. He was very, very happy — drowsily, thoughtlessly happy — so full of content, so steeped in tranquil enjoyment of his new life, that the thought never occurred to him to doubt for a moment that his rap ture was shared ; he took that for granted. She who could create so much bliss for him must be happy. She was all the world to him; the whole universe was too poor to form a royal mantle for her beauty.

His adoration (fervent as it was) he took to be but an echo of her own. Had she not told him so a thousand times ? Was not her very soul his own ! — Soul ? The soul of a thing of tinsel ! — a puppet of borrowed smiles, of lip-deep words, of practised blandishments — a clever snare, with beauty and a sweet voice, to hide the springs and hinges — a soul devoted to the worship of the god "Self," under whose chariot-wheels she would cast all the feelings, all the welfare, of mankind, if they would bring her an hour's pleasure. A woman into whose cold veins the warmth of her sunny birthland had never entered — possessing a beauty and a grace capable of in spiring the most ardent passions, and a heart as cold and selfish as it was crafty and unscrupulous. But he — poor infatuated fool ! — blinded with her loveliness and her art, how should he lift the veil ?

He saw nothing but her beauty, and had created for it a soul and an affection for him that was equally pure, equally elevated. He feasted his gaze upon her face — he drank in the magic of her voice. All else was a dream. One day was like another — another link of the past unfastened — another link of the chain that bound him forged — till at» last, her purpose completed, having gained an ascendency over him that she deemed sufficiently strong for her purpose, she began to think it was full time to enjoy the pleasures of the position, to gain which she had endured the, to her, tedious monotony of their bridal seclusion. A few well-turned hints, tender doubts cast upon his love, sad misgivings softly whispered that he feared to acknowledge his bride before the world, soon had the desired effect in turning the fickle current of his nature.

Kissing away the tear which hung like a FALSEHOOD ! 9 gem upon the long lashes of the eyes, so sweetly, sorrowfully upturned to his face, and then hidden in his bosom, he swore that the world should no longer be denied the opportunity of venting its admiration of her transcendent charms, or its envy of him for possessing them. In three days they were on their way to Rome, where indeed he kept his word, for the splendid hospitality of the young Englishman and the sur passing loveliness of his bride were the themes of every tongue. Their palace became the very shrine of pleasure, and numberless were the votaries who crowded to worship the Divinity who presided there. Pride now began to mingle with his love, and his chief delight became to surround her with an ad miring crowd, and exult in the tribute and homage lavished upon the cold, haughty beauty.

But still the sweetest hours of his life were spent, as of old, alone with his idol. She, on her side, could be happiest apart from him, and never lost an opportunity of being so ! At length, so marked an alteration took place in the demeanonr of his wife, that blind, infatuated as he was, he could not but remark it. Many of his countrymen, residents in Rome, who had sought the acquaintance and filled the " salons " of his wife, began to shun her society, and to cool towards him, apparently without a cause ; and strange looks and whispers, of which he became conscious that he was the centre, surrounded him wherever he went. He became sick, and weary of the excitement which had so lately charmed him. Balls and fetes palled upon him — the swarm of flatterers who sur rounded his wife began to give him uneasiness — her constant absence, and altered manner towards him, struck coldly on his heart.

Suddenly — as all his measures were taken — he resolved to quit the Imperial City and its fascinations. He communicated this intention to his wife. There was no occasion for deceit now — she had gained all she desired — a name, position, wealth — the fruit had been plucked, the tree that bore it might wither — her real heart spoke at last. " If he were weary of society, he could give it up. Why ask her to do so ? She was not weary. If his health required change — hers did not ! Why ask her to quit a scene she loved ? Let him please him self — go or stay. She would remain." Hitherto he had been the slave of her slightest fancies — his pleasure had been to create pleasure for her — his every wish, to discover her wishes and minister to them. This was his first request, and thus was it answered !

FALSEHOOD ! 11 Amazed by a reply so contrary to all that he had expected, some moments passed ere he could frame a remonstrance. When he did, the beauteous face before him met his expostulations, and subsequently his reproaches, with the same unmoved, placid loveli ness with which it had received his most endearing words of affection. "Why should he recount," she said,- in those melting, low accents that once had fallen like dew upon his fevered heart, "all he had done, all that he had renounced for her ? Did he grudge what he had given unasked? He had vowed that he loved her far better than self — that he would give up all self for her. Had he meant what he said, or were they only words ? Let her be happy when and where she pleased, and let him be the same. Why not ?" Hate is akin to love.

We may love where we have hated, and hate where we have loved. Time has often merged the one into the other ; but contempt is unchangeable. Contempt, which strengthened into absolute loathing for the cold-hearted thing that had ensnared him merely as a sacrifice to her all-exacting selfishness, began to chase every spark of affection from his bosom. He had worshipped her as the acme of all that was refined and noble ; the mask fell, and he found her all that was most degraded and mean. Worst of all, for his headstrong, ardent nature, he found that he had been deceived. The recollection of a thousand circumstances, words, looks, smiles, unnoticed and unthought of as they passed, but kindred to his present feelings, came back, like a flood that had burst its barriers, upon his memory, and clung to that magnet "jealousy," which attracts from oblivion every congenial particle.

Every hour that passed made the breach between them wider, and, on account of his usual conduct towards her, more apparent. There was nothing upon which his anger could break itself. The calm sneer, and silent shrug, which formed her sole replies to his wild torrent of reproaches, drove him almost mad. There was one man, a Mexican — handsome, rich, and profligate — upon whom all eyes were directed as the rupture between the young Englishman and his Italian bride got wind amongst their friends. One day after a fearful scene, in which the wife had taunted the husband for his unmanly violence, and he had rushed from her presence, not daring to remain, lest his anger should deal with death, he encountered this man entering the house he had quitted, as he thought, for the last time. He returned, followed him to the chamber he had just left, heard his own name uttered with a scoff, and FALSEHOOD ! 13 received with a laugh of derision.

In that moment he learnt his fate. He dashed the seducer to the earth, and, in his ungovernable rage, spurned the senseless form of his wife, as she fell fainting on the body of her lover. The next morning at sunrise they met again, each with a fierce resolve that only one should return. They fought a la barriire. Two marks were made upon the ground, from which they were to advance towards each other, and fire when they pleased. Step by step they approached with deadly weapons in their hands, and deadlier purpose flashing in their eyes. At the twelfth step the Mexican discharged his pistol, and his bullet struck his opponent in the right shoulder, causing his arm to fall powerlessly by his side. With a bitter smile the Englishman transferred his pistol to his left hand, and, taking deliberate aim at his hated rival's heart, fired.

A sharp cry, a piercing shriek, a heavy fall struck upon his ear ; the earth swam from beneath his feet, and for a time his senses forsook him. Whilst in the very zenith of his happiness, a few days after his marriage, he had executed a deed, according to the law of the country, acknowledging the beautiful Italian as his wife, and securing to her an annuity. This instrument and a considerable sum of ready money, with a few bitter lines, declaring that he had left her for ever, she found on a table by her bed-side when she awoke on the morning of the duel. Money — as the seed from which all her pleasures sprung — was especially welcome to her, and it was with a complacent smile that she slowly tore in pieces the last written words of the man she had so cruelly wronged, and sneeringly thanked him for the means, his wealth and absence would afford her, of pursuing her own inclinations as best suited her sel fish nature.

Occupied with such thoughts, she had forgot, for a moment, the occurrence of the day before, and the fact now flashed upon her that a life dear to her was in peril. It was not that of her husband ! She arose quickly, and obtained sufficient intel ligence of his movements to enable her to follow the direction he had taken ; the experience of her event ful life but too surely pointed out the spot to which he had repaired. She discovered from some boatmen that two parties had crossed the Tiber, and from their description she had no difficulty in recognising her husband, her lover, and their seconds. They had hired the boats in ordinary use at the ferry; there was but one left, and that from lono disuse had become crazy and unsafe. In this frail bark, by means of heavy bribes, she induced some FALSEHOOD ! 15 fishermen to attempt the passage of the river with her.

They had barely gained the centre of the stream when'the report of fire-arms was heard. Something — call it presentiment, or call it instinct — that mysterious voice, which is never heard save in truth, told her all. She sprang from the seat where she had crouched, as every movement of the rowers seemed to threaten instant destruction to the rotten boat, and with a wild shriek fell back upon the gun wale, weighing it down to the water's edge. It was well for her, — for all whose lives were perilled to serve her, — that she remained insensible, having received a violent blow on the temple as she fell ; had she remained conscious, her wild gestures would have sunk the already half-swamped boat over and over again. As it was, it was with the greatest difficulty, and danger, that the fishermen slowly and steadily punted it to the opposite shore.

All this was unknown to him who, but a few yards distant from where the boat had landed, rose from the earth to which he had fallen, as though in a trance, and, still entranced, fled from the blood stained spot ; and though a female form clashed past him within a yard of where he stood, and flung itself with a long, low wail of anguish upon the lifeless form of his adversary, he saw her not, nor heeded her. He fled the country, and as he passed rapidly through city after city, where the first days of his fatal journey had been spent, the painful reaction from the fever of his fierce revenge, came upon" him. His wound was not a severe one, and was soon healed ; but oh ! the agony inflicted upon his soul by the stern gaze of the man he felt he had murdered, as he stood with folded arms to receive his fire.

He had done no more than he had a right to do, according to the strict rules of the duel they had fought. He had taken no advantage, that his adversary would not have used, had their positions been reversed, and yet he felt that, in acting as he had done, he had acted as a felon. As he approached nearer and nearer to his home in his rapid flight, his thoughts became more and more bitter, for they brought back to his recollection what his path through life might once have been, and what it must be now. A path which affection had thickly strewn with flowers, upon which innocent love had shed its purest and holiest beams, from which the fondest care had extracted every thorn and smoothed away every obstacle, — by his own act he had trampled upon its flowers, robbed it of its sun shine, and strewn it with ashes !

Had his sorrows fallen singly upon him, probably they would have affected him more severely. As it was, their over whelming force carried away his shallow nature into FALSEHOOD ! 17 utter recklessness. He had lost all; disgrace and misery seemed inevitable ; he was stunned by the heavy hand of misfortune. Fate had sported with him ; in return, he determined to sport with Fate. One day, urged by a curiosity he could not repress, he read in an Italian newspaper a detailed account of the duel. It was as exaggerated and full of vain conjectures as such things generally are ; but he found, to his unspeakable joy, that his adversary's life was not despafred of. He learnt, moreover, that his wife was dead! — stricken down by fever, caused — so ran the account — by anxiety, and the fatigue of daily, and nightly watching by the couch of her wounded husband!

He returned to his home ; he no longer felt the brand of Cain burning upon his brow ; and as far as the consequences of his acts were concerned, his position in that home was unchanged. He kept his own secret; and the false name, which for a whim he had adopted when first he left England, protected him from discovery. But, notwithstanding all this, home was home no longer. There were the same four walls, and there was the same fireside, the same voices to welcome him, and the same hearts to love him ; but it was Home no longer ! c

Chapter II

faith ! Midnight ! — when the leaves had first begun to turn — when summer, like her full-blown flowers, was at her highest splendour, and nearest to her fall. Midnight ! Far away from the sleepless heaving of the great town, that lay like a cruel dragon, vomiting flame from a hundred smoking nostrils — breathing forth dust and ashes far and wide — scaring away the fresh bloom of the country from the sunken cheeks and pinched-up brows of its slaves — shelter ing vice, and imprisoning poverty, beneath the foul shadow of its dark wings. Far away — though the glare of the fiery breath gleamed like a stormy sunset above the distant woods — in the quiet midnight, lulled to rest by the songs of the nightingale, the old Hall stood like an enchanted palace, which the first beam of the morrow's sun like the kiss of the Prince in the fairy tale, would awaken into busy life again.

It was a fine old place, in a fine old park, sheltered by fine old trees — fine old oaks, as sombre and stately as the old rooks who stuffed ragged nests into the FAITH ! 19 forks of their wide-spreading branches. Many a change had those old trees known, from the time when they first struck root in the ground — puny saplings, bent and worried by the wind — till now, when they stood like a double row of mighty giants, guarding the broad avenue which led to Trevor Hall. Many a tale could be told by those old trees and woods, of days when their present master's ancestry were in their cradles. Perhaps, in the moanings of the night wind, those old trees did send out voices known only to themselves, as their branches mingled, and their green heads stooped together as though they whispered. There were signs, moreover, which you and I could read — a gap here and there in the row, not amongst the oldest, but where the trees were in their prime.

In the woods, too, the bushes and young shoots nearly hid the smooth stumps of great timber oaks, that had been cut down and sold, for what had shortened the days, and bartered the soul of one whom the old trees had known, long ago, to spare even the violets that blossomed at their roots, that they might brighten the spots where summer had scattered them. There was yet another story in the woods and trees — a prop to sustain a fallen limb, a band of iron girding a splintering trunk. There was clear evidence of care and veneration in the lopping of their withered c branches, and the faultless condition of the roadway which lay below them. Some trees had been felled in the plantations, and lately too ; but they did not leave the land they had grown upon, but rose again for a good purpose. Neat white cottages, with cheer ful little gardens, elbowed out wretched hovels from patches of waste land, where, if the old wood had not lost its power of perception, it might know that it had brought comfort and kindness where miseries and hatred had lurked before.

In the plantations there had been quagmires and marshes, in which the roots of the trees lay rotting, making them rank and old before their time. There was a bright stream now, dashing along merrily. When the long-imprisoned waters first found their liberty, they had no idea of being checked by a mill wheel that they found in their way; so they whisked it round so briskly, that the new mill began to prosper, and the young girl who had listened to love upon their newly-blossoming banks, soon became the miller's little wife. The Hall was, like the trees, massive and stately, and, like them, bore also the traces of its own history. There were niches and pedestals within and without, but there were no statues. There was a spacious picture-gallery, but few paintings, and those quite modern, though the oak panelling bore the marks of FAITH ! 21 hundreds of ancient frames.

There were stags' heads and antlers in every passage, but there were no deer in the park. The rooms were all well and handsomely furnished, but there was no mark of age upon anything save the wainscoting and stained glass in some of the windows. The library alone bore out the antiquity of the place : you might see there, shelves upon shelves of old books, with an old coat of arms upon the back of each — two dark old portraits in black oaken frames, frowning at you; rusty armour on the walls, old carvings on the ceiling, old small panes of glass in the windows — so that when you entered it from the rest of the house, it seemed as if you had stepped back three hundred years. The only thing that would strike the most minute examination as being modern, was the door, the hinges and nails of which were rusted, and of mediæval workmanship, whilst the wood-work was comparatively new.