Читать книгу Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil Blas - Charles James Lever - Страница 18

Not that he knew, indeed, the extent, or anything approaching the extent, to which his fortune was wrecked. All that he could surmise on the subject was founded on the increased difficulty he found in raising money—a circumstance his pliant solicitor invariably explained by that happy phrase, the “tightness of the money market.” This completely satisfied Sir Dudley, who, far from attributing it to his own almost exhausted resources, laid all the blame upon some trickery of foreign statesmen, some confounded disturbance in Ireland, something that the Foreign Secretary had done, or would not do; and that thus the money folk would not trust a guinea out of their fingers. In fact, it was quite clear that to political intrigue and cabinet scheming all Sir Dudley's difficulties might fairly be traced!

It was just at this time that the Count Radchoffsky arrived once more in London in charge of a special mission, no longer the mere secretary of embassy, driving about in his quiet cab, but an envoy extraordinary, with cordons and crosses innumerable. He was exactly the kind of man for Broughton's “set,” so that he soon made his acquaintance, and was presented by him to Lady Broughton as a most agreeable fellow, and something very distinguished in his own country.

She received him admirably: remembered to have met him, she thought, at Lord Edenbury's but he corrected her by saying it was at the Duke of Clifton's—a difference of testimony at which Broughton laughed heartily, saying, in his usual rough way, “Well, it is pretty clear you didn't make much impression on each other.”

The Russian noble was a stranger to the turf. In the details of arranging the approaching race, in apportioning the weights and ages and distances, Broughton passed his whole mornings for a month, sorely puzzled at times by the apathy of his Northern friend, who actually never obtruded an opinion, or expressed a wish for information on the subject.

Sir Dudley's book was a very heavy one too. What “he stood to win” was a profound secret; but knowing men said that if he lost, it would be such a “squeeze” as had not been known at Newmarket since the Duke of York's day.

Such an event, however, seemed not to enter into his own calculations; and so confident was he of success that he could not help sharing his good fortune with his friend Radchoffsky, and giving him something in his own book. The count professed himself everlastingly grateful, but confessed that he knew nothing of racing matters, and that, above all, his Majesty the Emperor would be excessively annoyed if a representative of his in any way interfered with the race; in fact, the honor of the Czar would be tarnished by such a proceeding. Against such reasonings there could be no opposition; and Broughton only took to himself all the benefits he had destined for his friend.

At last the eventful day came; and although Sir Dudley had arranged that Lady Broughton should accompany him to the course, she was taken with some kind of nervous attack that prevented her leaving her bed. Her husband was provoked at this ill-timed illness, for he was still vain of her appearance in public; but knowing that he could do nothing for hysterics, he sent for Doctor Barham, and then with all speed he started for the race.

Among the friends who were to go along with him, the count had promised to make one; but despatches—that admirable excuse of diplomatists, from the great secretary to the humblest unpaid attaché—despatches had just arrived; and if he could manage to get through his business early enough, “he'd certainly follow.”

Scarcely had Sir Dudley reached the ground when a carriage drove up to the stand, and a gentleman descended in all haste. It was Mr. Taperton, his solicitor—his trusty man of loans and discounts for many a day, “Eh, Tappy!” cried Broughton, “come to sport a fifty on the filly?”

“Walk a little this way, Sir Dudley,” said he, gravely; and his voice soon convinced the hearer that something serious was in the wind.

“What's the matter, man? You look as if Cardinal was dead lame.”

“Sir Dudley, you must start from this at once. Holdsworth has taken proceedings on the bills; Lord Corthern has foreclosed; the whole body of the creditors are up; and you 'll be arrested before you leave the field!”

If the threat had conveyed the ignominious penalty of felony, Broughton could not have looked more indignant. “Arrested! You don't mean that we cannot raise enough to pay these rascals?”

“Your outstanding bills are above twenty thousand, sir.”

“And if they be; do you tell me that with my estate—”

“My dear Sir Dudley, how much of it is unencumbered? What single portion, save the few hundreds a year of Lady Broughton's jointure, is not sunk under mortgage? But this is no time for discussion; get into the chaise with me; we 'll reach London in time for the mail; to-morrow you can be in Boulogne, and then we shall have time at least for an arrangement.”

“The race is just coming off! how can I leave? I'm a steward; besides, I have a tremendous book. Do you know how many thousands I stand to win here?”

“To lose, you mean,” said the solicitor. “You 're sold!” The words were whispered so low as to be almost inaudible; but Broughton actually staggered as he heard them.

“Sold! how? what? Impossible, man! Who could sell me?”

“Only one man, perhaps, but he has done it! Is it true you have backed Calliope?”

“Yes!” said he, staring wildly.

“She was found hamstrung this morning in the stable, then,” said Taperton; “if you want to hear further particulars, you must ask your friend the Count Radchoffsky!”

“The scoundrel! the black-hearted villain! I see it all!” cried Broughton. “Come, Taperton, let us start! I'll go with you; by Jove, you have found a way to make me eager for the road!”

The lawyer read in the bloodshot eye and flushed face the passion for vengeance that was boiling within him, but he never spoke as they moved on and entered the carriage.

It was full three hours before the expected time of his return, when the chaise in which they travelled drew up at the Clarendon, and Broughton, half wild with rage, dashed upstairs to the suite of splendid rooms he occupied.

“Oh, dear, Sir Dudley,” cried the maid, as she saw him hastening along the corridor, “oh, I 'm sure, sir, how you 'll alarm my lady if she sees you so flurried!”

“Stand out of the way, woman!” said he, roughly, endeavoring to push her to one side, for she had actually placed herself between him and the door of the drawing-room.

“Surely, sir, you'll not terrify my lady! Surely, Sir Dudley—”

Despite her cries, for they had now become such, Broughton pushed her rudely from the spot, and entered the room.

Great was his astonishment to find Lady Broughton, whom he had left so ill, not only up, but dressed as if for the promenade; her face was flushed, and her eye restless and feverish; and her whole manner exhibited the highest degree of excitement.

Broughton threw down his hat upon the table, and then, returning to the door, locked and bolted it.

“Good Heavens, Dudley!” exclaimed she, in a voice of terror, “what has happened?”

“Everything!” said he; “utter ruin! The whole crew of creditors are in full chase after me, and in a few hours we shall be stripped of all we possess.”

She drew a long full breath as she listened; and had her husband been in a mood to mark it, he might have seen how lightly his terrible tidings affected her.

“I must fly! Taperton—he's in the carriage below—says France, at least for some weeks, till we can make some compromise or other; but I have one debt that must be acquitted before I leave.”

There was a terrible significance in the words, and she was sick to the heart as she asked, “What, and to whom?”

“Radchoffsky!” cried he, savagely; “that scoundrel whom I trusted like a brother!”

Lady Broughton fell back, and for a moment her motionless limbs and pallid features seemed like fainting; but with a tremendous effort rallying herself, she said, “Go on!”

“He betrayed me—told every circumstance of my book! And the mare I had backed for more than thirty thousand is dying this instant; so that I am not only ruined, but dishonored!”

She sat with wide staring eyes and half-open lips while he spoke, nor did she seem, in the fearful confusion of her fear, to understand fully all he said.

“Have I not spoken plainly?” said he, angrily. “Don't you comprehend me when I say that to-morrow I shall be branded as a defaulter at the settling? But enough of this. Tell Millar to get a portmanteau ready for me. I 'll start this evening; the interval is short enough for all I have to do.” As he spoke, he hastened to his bedroom, and, providing himself with a case containing his duelling-pistols, he hurried downstairs, ordering the postilion to drive to the Russian Embassy.

The carriage was scarce driven from the door when Lady Broughton, taking a key from her pocket, opened a small door which led from the drawing-room into her dressing-room, from which the count walked forth—his calm features unruffled and easy as though no emotion had ever stirred them.

“You heard what Broughton said?” whispered she, in an accent of faltering agitation.

“Oui, parbleu, every word of it!” replied he, laughing gently. “The people of the house might almost have heard him.”

“And is it true?” asked she, while a cold sickness crept over her, and her mouth was shaken convulsively.

“I believe so,” said he, calmly.

“Oh, Alexis, do not say so!” cried she, in an agony of grief; “or, least of all, in such a voice as that.”

He shrugged his shoulders; and then, after a moment's pause, said, “I confess myself quite unprepared for this show of affection, madame—”

“Not so, Alexis. It is for you I am concerned; for your honor as a gentleman; for your fair fame among men—”

“Pardon, madame, if I interrupt you; but the defence of my honor must be left to myself—”

“If I had but thought this of you—”

“It is never too late for repentance, madame. I should be sorry to think I could deceive you.”

“Oh, it is too late, far too late!” cried she, bursting into tears. “Let us go! I must never see him again! I would not live over that last half-hour again to save me from a death of torture!”

“Allow me, then,” said he, taking her shawl and draping it on her shoulders. “The carriage is ready;” and with these words, spoken with perfect calm, he presented his arm and led her from the room.

To return to Sir Dudley. On arriving at the Russian Embassy, he could learn nothing of the whereabouts of him he sought; a young secretary, however, with whom he had some intimacy, drawing him to one side, whispered, “Wait here a moment; I have a strange revelation to make you—but in confidence, remember, for it must not get abroad.” The story was this: Count Radchoffsky had been, on his recall from the Embassy, detected in some Polish intrigue, and ordered to absent himself from the capital and preserve a life of strict retirement, under police “surveillance;” from this, he had managed to escape and reach England, with forged credentials of Envoy Extraordinary; the mission being an invention of his own, to gain currency in the world and obtain for him loans of large sums from various houses in the “City.” “As he knows,” continued Broughton's informant, “from his former experience, the day of our courier's expected arrival, he has up to this lived fearlessly and openly; but the despatch having reached us through the French cabinet sooner than he expected, his plot is revealed. The great difficulty is to avoid all publicity; for we must have no magisterial interference, no newspaper or police notoriety; all must be done quietly, and he must be shipped off to Russia without a rumor of the affair getting abroad.”

Broughton heard all this with the dogged satisfaction of a man who did not well know whether to be pleased or otherwise that an object of personal vengeance had been withdrawn from him.

But not accustomed to dwell long on any subject where the main interest of his own line of action was wanting, he drove home to his hotel to hasten the preparations for his departure. On his arrival at the Clarendon, a certain bustle and movement in the hall and on the stairs attracted his attention, and before he could inquire the cause, a half whisper, “There he is; that's Sir Dudley!” made him turn round; the same instant a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and a man said, “I arrest you, Sir Dudley Broughton, at the suit of Messrs. Worrit and Sneare, Lombard Street.”

“Be calm; don't make any resistance,” whispered Taperton in his ear; “come upstairs.” They passed on, and entered the drawing-room, where everything appeared in disorder. As for Broughton, he was bewildered and stupefied by all he had gone through, and sat in a chair staring vacantly at the groups around him, evidently unable, through the haze of his disordered faculties, to see clearly how, and in what, he was interested in the affair.

“Where's my lady?” whispered Taperton to the valet, who stood almost as spell-bound as his master.

“Gone, sir; she's gone,” said the man, in a faint voice.

“Gone where, scoundrel?” said Sir Dudley, jumping up and seizing him by the throat with both hands, while he roared out the words with a savage vehemence that startled all the room.

“Gone away, Sir Dudley,” said the half-choking man; “I saw her drive off in a chaise and pair with Count Radchoffsky.”

Broughton let go his hold, and fell heavily upon his face to the ground. A surgeon was called in, who at once perceived that the attack was one of apoplexy. For that night and part of the next day his recovery was almost hopeless; for, though repeatedly bled, he gave no signs of returning animation, but lay heaving, at intervals, long, heavy sighs, and respiring with an effort that seemed to shake the strong frame in convulsions.

Youth and bold remedies, however, favored him, and on the third morning he awoke, weak and weary, like one who had just reached convalescence after a long and terrible fever. His features, his gestures, his very voice, were all altered; there was a debility about him—mental and physical—that seemed like premature decay; and they who knew the bold, high-spirited man of a few days before could never have recognized him in the simple-looking, vacant, and purposeless invalid who sat there, to all seeming, neither noticing nor caring what happened around him. It is true, indeed, few essayed the comparison. Of those who visited him, the greater number were creditors curious to speculate on his recovery; there were a couple of reporters, too, for gossiping newspapers desirous of coining a paragraph to amuse the town; but no friends—not a man of those who dined, and drank, and drove, and played with him. In fact his fate was soon forgotten even in the very circles of which he had been the centre; nor did his name ever meet mention, save in some stale report of a bankruptcy examination, or a meeting of creditors to arrange for the liquidation of his debts.

The wasteful, heedless extravagance of his mode of living was urged even to vindictiveness by his creditors, so that for three years he remained a prisoner in the Fleet; and it was only when they saw he had no feeling of either shame or regret at his imprisonment that an arrangement was at last agreed to, and he was liberated—set free to mix in a world in which he had not one tie to bind, or one interest to attach him!

From that hour forth none ever knew how far his memory retained the circumstances of his past life; he never certainly mentioned them to any of those with whom he formed companionship, nor did he renew acquaintance with one among his former friends. By great exertions on the part of his lawyers, almost a thousand a year was secured to him from the wreck of his great fortune—the proceeds of a small estate that had belonged to his mother.

On this income he lived some time in total seclusion, when, to the astonishment of all, he was again seen about town, in company with men of the most equivocal character—noted gamblers at hells, “Legs of Newmarket,” and others to whom report attributed bolder and more daring feats of iniquity. While it was a debated point among certain fashionables of the clubs how far he was to be recognized by them, he saved them all the difficulty, by passing his most intimate friends without a bow or the slightest sign of recognition. A stern, repulsive frown never left his features; and he whose frank, light-hearted buoyancy had been a proverb, was grave and silent, rarely admitting anything like an intimacy, and avoiding whatever could be called a friendship.

After a while he was missed from his accustomed haunts, and it was said that he had purchased a yacht and amused himself by sea excursions. Then there came a rumor of his being in the Carlist insurrection in Spain—some said with a high command; and afterwards he was seen in a French voltigeur regiment serving in Africa. From all these varied accidents of life he came back to London, frequenting, as before, the same play resorts, and betting sums whose amount often trenched upon the limits of the bank. If, in his early life, he was a constant loser, now he invariably won; and he was actually the terror of hell-keepers, whose superstitious fears of certain “lucky ones” are a well-known portion of their creed.

As for himself, he seemed to take a kind of fiendish sport in following up this new turn of fortune. It was like a Nemesis on those who had worked his ruin. One man in particular, a well-known Jew money-lender of great wealth, he pursued with all the vindictive perseverance of revenge. He tracked him from London to Brighton, to Cheltenham, to Leamington, to Newmarket, to Goodwood; he followed him to Paris, to Brussels; wherever in any city the man opened a table for play, there was Broughton sure to be found.

At last, by way of eluding all pursuit, the Jew went over to Ireland—a country where of all others fewest resources for his traffic presented themselves; and here again, despite change of name and every precaution of secrecy, Broughton traced him out; and, on the night when I first met him, he was on his return from a hell on the Quays where he had broken the bank and arisen a winner of above two thousand pounds.

The peculiar circumstances of that night's adventure are easily told. He was followed from the play table by two men, witnesses of his good fortune, who saw that he carried the entire sum on his person; and from his manner—a feint I found he often assumed—they believed him to be drunk. A row was accordingly organized at the closing of the play, the lights were extinguished, and a terrible scene of tumult and outrage ensued, whose sole object was to rob Broughton of his winnings.

After a desperate struggle, in which he received the wound I have mentioned, he escaped by leaping from a window into the street—a feat too daring for his assailants to imitate. The remainder is already known; and I have only again to ask my reader's indulgent pardon for this long episode, without which, however, I felt I could not have asked his companionship on board the “Firefly.”