Arabella Read online

  It was at this stage in his career that two circumstances occurred which seemed to hold out hopes of delivery. A fortunate evening playing faro for modest stakes encouraged him to think that his luck had turned again; and Chuffy Wivenhoe, earwigged by a jockey at Tattersall’s, passed on to him the name of the certain bet thus disclosed. It really seemed as though Providence was at last aiding Bertram. It would be madness not to bet a substantial amount on the horse, for if it won he would have solved all his difficulties at one blow, and would have enough money left over to pay for his fare back to Yorkshire on the stage-coach. When Wivenhoe laid his own bet, he followed suit, and tried not to think of the predicament he would be in on settling-day if that infallible jockey had for once in his life been mistaken in his judgement.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Bertram,’ said Wivenhoe, as they strolled out of the subscription-room together, ‘if you should care for it, I’ll take you along with me to the Nonesuch Club tonight: all the go, y’know, and devilish exclusive, but they’ll let you in if you come with me.’

  ‘What is it?’ Bertram asked.

  ‘Oh, faro and hazard, for the most part! It was started by some of the great guns only this year, because Watier’s is becoming damned flat: they say it won’t last much longer – never been the same since Brummell had to run for it! The Nonesuch is devilish good sport, I can tell you. There ain’t many rules, for one thing, and though most of the men bet pretty heavily, the patrons fixed the minimum stake at twenty guineas, and there’s only one faro-table. What’s more, it ain’t a shabby business enterprise, like half the gaming-clubs, and if you want to play hazard you appoint the croupier from amongst your set, and someone will always volunteer to call the odds. None of these paid croupiers and groom-porters, which make the Great-Go more like a hotel than a social club. The whole idea is to make it a friendly affair, keep out the scaff and raff, and do away with all the rules and regulations which get to be such a dead bore! For instance, there’s no damned syndicate running the faro-bank: they take it in turns, the well-breeched swells, like Beaumaris, and Long Wellesley Pole, and Golden Ball, and Petersham, and the rest of that set. Oh, it’s the Pink of the Mode, I can tell you – top-of-the-trees!’

  ‘I’d like to go with you,’ Bertram said, ‘only – Well, the fact is I’m none too plump in the pocket just now! Had a shocking run of luck!’

  ‘Oh, no need to fret over that!’ said his insouciant friend. ‘I keep telling you it ain’t like Watier’s! No one cares whether you bet twenty guineas or a hundred! You come: a man’s luck is bound to change if he sticks to it – one of the things my governor told me, and he should know!’

  Bertram was undecided, but since he was already engaged to dine at Long’s Hotel with Lord Wivenhoe there was no need for him to return a definite answer to the invitation until he had thought it over rather more carefully. His lordship said that he should depend upon him, and there the matter for the moment rested.

  It was not to be supposed that Bertram’s protracted sojourn in London was causing his sister no anxiety. Arabella was very anxious indeed, for although she was not taken into his confidence she could not doubt, from his appearance, that he was spending money far more lavishly than the winning of a hundred pounds in a lottery justified him in doing. She seldom set eyes on him, and when they did meet she could not think that he was looking well. Late nights, unaccustomed potations, and worry, were taking their toll. But when she told him that he was looking fagged to death, and implored him to return to Yorkshire, he was able to retort with a good deal of truth that she was not particularly blooming herself. It was true. Her bright colour had faded a little, and her eyes had begun to seem a trifle large for her face, etched in, as they were, with shadows. Lord Bridlington, observing this, ascribed it to the absurd exigencies of a London season, and moralised on the folly of females with social ambitions. His mother, who had not failed to take note of the fact that her charge was no longer driving in the Park so frequently with Mr Beaumaris, and had developed a habit of evading his visits to the house, drew more correct conclusions, but failed signally to induce Arabella to confide in her. Whatever Frederick chose to say, Lady Bridlington was by this time convinced that the Nonpareil was very much in earnest, and she could not imagine what could be holding Arabella back from encouraging his advances. Divining that her reasons would be quite inexplicable to the good lady, Arabella preferred to keep her own counsel.

  It had not escaped the notice of the Nonpareil that his tiresome love was not enjoying her customary good-looks and spirits, nor was it unknown to him that she had lately refused three advantageous offers of marriage, since the rejected suitors made no secret of the fact that their hopes were quite cut-up. She had excused herself from dancing with him at Almack’s, but three times during the course of the evening he had been aware that her eyes were following him.

  Mr Beaumaris, rhythmically drawing Ulysses’ flying ear through his hand – a process which reduced Ulysses to a state of blissful idiocy – said meditatively: ‘It is a melancholy reflection, is it not, that at my age I can be such a fool?’

  Ulysses, his eyes half-closed, his senses swooning in ecstasy, gave a sigh which his god might, if he chose, interpret as one of sympathy.

  ‘What if she proves to be the daughter of a tradesman?’ said Mr Beaumaris. ‘I do owe something to my name, you know. It might even be worse, and surely I am too old to be losing my head for a pretty face!’

  Since his hand was still, Ulysses nudged him. Mr Beaumaris resumed his steady pulling of that shameful ear, but said: ‘You are quite right: it is not her pretty face. Do you believe her to be entirely indifferent to me? Is she really afraid to confess the truth to me? She must not be – no, Ulysses, she must not be! Let us look on the darker side! Is she ambitious to acquire a title? If that is so, why, then, has she sent poor Charles to the rightabout? You believe her to be aiming higher? But she cannot suppose that Witney will come up to scratch! Nor do I think that your suspicions are correct, Ulysses.’

  Ulysses, catching the note of severity in his voice, cocked an anxious eye at him. Mr Beaumaris took his muzzle in his hand, and gently shook it. ‘What do you advise me to do?’ he asked. ‘It appears to me that I have reached Point Non Plus. Should I –’ He broke off, and rose suddenly to his feet, and took a turn about the room. ‘What a saphead I am!’ he said. ‘Of course! Ulysses, your master is a fool!’ Ulysses jumped up to place his forepaws against those elegant pantaloons, and uttered a protesting bark. All this walking about the room, when Mr Beaumaris might have been better employed, was not at all to his taste. ‘Down!’ commanded Mr Beaumaris. ‘How many more times am I to request you not to sully the purity of my garments by scrabbling at them with your ignoble, and probably dirty, paws? Ulysses, I shall be leaving you for a space!’

  Ulysses might find this a little beyond him, but he fully understood that his hour of bliss was at an end, and so lay down in an attitude of resignation. Mr Beaumaris’s subsequent actions filled him with vague disquiet, for although he was unacquainted with the significance of portmateaux, some instinct warned him that they boded no good to little dogs. But these inchoate fears were as nothing when compared to the astonishment, chagrin, and dismay suffered by that peerless gentleman’s gentleman, Mr Painswick, when he apprehended that his employer proposed to leave town without the support and expert ministration of a valet whom every Tulip of Fashion has at one time or another attempted to suborn from his service. He had accepted with equanimity the information that his master was going out of town for perhaps as much as a week, and was already laying out, in his mind, the raiment suitable for a sojourn at Wigan Park, or Woburn Abbey, or Belvoir, or perhaps Cheveley, when the full horror of the event burst upon him. ‘Put up enough shirts and neckcloths to last me for seven days,’ said Mr Beaumaris. ‘I’ll travel in riding-dress, but you may as well pack the clothes I have on, in case I should need them. I shan’t take you with me.’