THE NOVELIST.

Observer, Volume 2, Issue 45, 23 July 1881, Page 500

THE NOVELIST.

HER PHOTOGRAPH: A TALE OP THE PERIOD.

By Mrs Forkester. • WELL, my dear, am I to congratulate you ?' asks Lady Jane Kensington of her cousin, Mrs Gore. She has scarcely waited for the door to close upon the servant, so eager is she to know the worst. The two ladies are rival mothers. They used to he great friends once, and would he yet if each Avere not so terribly afraid of the other securing the better match for her daughter. In public they still smile and kiss ;^ in private they stick pins, wholesale pincushions full, into each other. A smile, charming in itself, agonising to its only beholder, dawns in Mrs Gore's face. f lt is premature to say anything just yet, perhaps ; but the Duke paid marked attention to Evelyn last night, and has invited us to spend the Cowes week on board his yacht. Now the Duke of Comilfo is not a man to do that sort of thing unless he really had serious intentions, is he ?' 'No — I should think not,' stammers poor Lady Jane, with a ghastly attempt at a smile. ' He said to me only yesterday that it was evident Evie had been very well brought up ; her style was so different from that of most girls now-a-days.' ' And what does Evie say ?' asks Lady Jane. 'Is she quite willing to accept the Duke if he proposes ?' ' Dear girl !' ejaculates Mrs Gore complacently. ' She is so sensible, has so much good feeling ! When I gave her a hint on the subject, she said at once, " I shall be entirely guided by you, dear mamma." ' Unhappy Lady Jane has a wilful daughter who, she knows, is considered fast ; and this very morning she declared her intention of marrying a younger son without a halfpenny. 'Of course the Duke is a very excellent young man, ' she murmurs ; ' but he is hardly what one would expect a girl to fall in love with — so very straitlaced and — and rather dull.' ' Most desirable qualities, my dear, in these days,' retorts Mrs Gore. 'It is dreadful to think how some men conduct themselves, Such temptations, too, as a man in his position has. I can give my darling child to him without a moment's hesitation or anxiety. Look at Lord Faircrow, now, with a charming wife, running after that impudent little actress. It positively made my blood boil to see her diamonds the other night.' 'Perhaps they were paste?' suggests Lady Jane. 'Unfortunately there was no mistaking them,' replies Mrs Gore, Avith a deep sigh. 'Well,' says Lady Jane, Avith the best grace she can command, ' I am delighted to hear the good neAvs about Evie.' ' O, but you must not consider it quite fait accompli yet,' answers the smiling mother, ' When he has proposed to her in so many words, you may rely upon being the first to hear of it.' ****** The Duke of Comilfo and his brother, Lord Bertie Wyldotes, Avere walking doAvn St. James-street together. It Avas rather an unusual occurrence : the ways, habits, and thoughts of the two being about as dissimilar as they well could be. 'Comilfo,' Lord Bertie was wont to say, 'is Avhat I call a fiddle-headed felloAV, and staying at his place is about as lively as going to the funeral of your grandmother when she hasn't left you anything. He's a prig is Comilfo, and his skin is as thick as a buffalo hide. Hang me if I think that sitting next a pretty woman inspires the least emotion of pleasure in him !' The Duke Avas not so outspoken about his "brother ; indeed he seemed to be unable to do more than shake his head Avhen Lord Bertie's name Avas mentioned before him. 'Come in with me to Cis Lovelace's for a moment,' says the younger brother, as they near the bottom of St. James-street. And the Duke, being in the middle of a sentence that he wishes to finish, complies. They find Cis lying on a sofa in his red coat — he is by way of being 'on guard ' — his SAVord and belt are on the table, and, with his heels higher than his head and a big cigar in his mouth, he is perusing a French novel. He jumps lip as they enter, aud offers them the hospitality of a brandy-and-soda. Lord Bertie has already caught up a bottle from the heap lying in the corner of the room ready for use ; the liquer-stand is open on the table. The Duke looks round the room, disgust legibly depicted on his countenance. There is really hardly any portion of the picture-covered Avails that a modest man can look at Avith complacency — Venus, Lais, Phryne, Leda, Delilah, Ariadne, and so on ad nauseam (to him). ' Fond of art ?' inquires the good-for-nothing ensign, Avith a Avink aside at Lord Bertie. 'Art? yes,' returns the Duke, in his stiffiest, iciest tones. At this moment the clock of St. James' strikes. 'By Jove ? cries - Cis, snatching up his belt and sword, 'I've got to inspect the Relief. Back directly ;' and he is off like a shot. The Duke approaches the chimneypiece. Suddenly he starts as though he had been struck. His brother, avlio is finishing the drink, does not observe the movement. Comilfo looks again, whilst the blood sloAvly rises to Ms throat and face and broAv. Is it possible ? Is he aAvake ? Can he trust his senses ? His eyes are fixed on a highly-finished photograph of an extremely pretty girl. The expression of her faoe is langurous, the attitude has a certain abandon ; it is an attitude of Avhich the Duke would not approve in a stranger ; lioav much less in the woman he had resolved to make Duchess of Comilfo ! This the girl Avhose modest demeanour and lady-like reticence had charmed him ; avlio had inspired him with such confidence ! He finds her portrait (and Avhat a portrait !) decorating the room of a young Guardsman Avhose morals are at the loAvest ebb.

'By Jove,' exclaims Lord Bertie, coming up and looking over his shoulder, ' that's a thundering good likeness !' 'Of av horn?' asks the Duke, in an indistinct voice, hoping against hope that there may exist some other girl avlio bears a Avonderful resemblance to his intended bride. 'Miss Gore,' answers Lord Bertie. 'Why, you know her ; I saAV you riding Avith her yesterday. ' Is Mr Lovelace a friend of hers ?' inquires Comilfo coldly. '0, Cis ! he is every woman's friend. They all love him.' The Duke calmly plucks Miss Gore from his breast and tramples her under foot (figuratively speaking, of course). He turns to go. ' Where are you off to ?' asks his brother. ' I promised to meet the secretary of the Tea and Toast Society at half-past five,' answers Comilfo. ' All right. Give my love to him !" says the irreverent scoffer, Lord Bertie. ****** Mrs Gore is building castles of highest altitude for the habitation of her daughter, the future Duchess of Comilfo, Avhen a note is brought to her. She recognises the handwriting of her intended son-in-law, and, smiling, breaks the seal. In the space of a few seconds the smile has disappeared, and a ghastly greenish look has taken its place. These are the words that have produced the metamorphosis : — ' Dear Mrs Gore, — I am about to leave England in my yacht for some months. I shall therefore be unable to have the pleasure of entertaining you and Miss Gore during the CoAves Aveek. Should you think my conduct requires explanation, permit me to refer you to the chimneypiece in Mr Cecil Lovelace's room. — Yours truly, COIVIILFO.' Mrs Gore is beside herself. But Avhat, in the name of Fortune, can it all mean? What dreadful mistakes are they and the Duke the victims of ? 'Mr Cecil Lovelace's chimneypiece ! Her brain tin-eat ens to give Avay if this is not cleared up at once. Her daughter has just started for the How ; she despatches a footman after her at once to beg she will return. Plalf an hour later Miss Evie comes in, blushing and rosy ; she expects to find the Duke closeted Avith mamma, and waiting to be happy. Her mother's white face terrifies her. Without a Avord Mrs Gore puts the letter into her hand. Evie reads it and looks up bewildered. 'Mr Cecil Lovelace !' she exclaims. ' Why, I hardly ever spoke two Avords to him ! Don't you remember, mamma, you told me he had no money, and that I was not to dance "with him more than once in an evening ?' ' Can this be some terrible revenge of his ?' cries the distracted mother. Immediately after lunch she orders the brougham and drives to Mr Lovelace's rooms. She liappens to knoAV Avhere they are, from dealing at the shop beneath them. She bids the servant ask for Mr Lovelace. ' Not at home,' is the answer. Mrs Gore beckons the Avoman to the carriage door. 'Is any one in Mr Lovelace's rooms? 1 ,she inquires. 'No, ma'am — my lady,' returns the Avoman, impressed by the poAvdered footman even more than by the distinguished air of the visitor. 'I Avill just go uj> and leave a. line for him,' says Mrs Gore, struck by a bold idea. The woman, thinking of the art-gallery upstairs, hesitates. 'It Avill be all right, ' observes Mrs Gore, Avith an affable smile, signing to the footman to open the door, She mounts the stairs and enters the sitting-room, and Avhilst the Avoman searches for pen, ink, and paper, Avalks in a desultory Avay to the chimneypiece. With rage and agony she beholds the portrait of her daughter languishing in its velvet frame. An a\vf ul thought seizes her. Has her good, Avell-brought-up, sensible girl deceived her ? The Avoman retires. Mrs Gore hears her ascend the stairs. In a moment she transfers the picture to her pocket, slips softly doAvnstairs, and is in her brougham. ' Hullo !' remarks Cis Lovelace, coming in and finding one of his Avorks of art missing. And then he iirvokes an exhaustive blessing on the head of Avhichever of his friends has played this joke upon him. ' Nash !' he .shouts to his servant, ' find out avlio has been here this afternoon.' Nash goes and returns. 'Captain A., Mr 8., and Lord C, sir,' he says. '0, and if you please, sir, a lady called and left a note,' ' What lady ? Where's the note ?' 'A helderly lady, sk 1 , and she asked for a pen and ink. ' ' Hang the elderly lady !' said Cis, and straightAvay consigned her and her letter to the limbo to Avhich, in his gay young mind, all old women belong, At one a. in., Avhen he came in again, there was a note lying on the table. Having read it, he gaA'e vent to a long loav whistle. ' Another scrape, Cis ?' asked a man considerably his senior, avlio had come in Avith him. ' Read that, ' remarked Cis, tossing the note to his friend. '"Sir"' (read the latter, aloud),— '"Be good enough to inform me in Avhat manner you became possessed of the photograph of my daughter, which I found on, and took from, your chimneypiece, to-day."' ' The old she-devil ! Who can have told her ?' cried Cis ; and then, with a sudden inspiration, ' Comilfo, for a thou !' ' I should be even Avith her and him too," remarked his friend. 1 Hoav V ' Where did you get the photo ?' 'At O'Donnel's. I gave five guineas for it.' His friend dreAV a pen and ink toAvards him, and began to Avrite. ' Send her this, Cis,' he remarked when he had finished. ' " Madam," ' read Cis, '" I purchased Miss Gore's picture of O'Donnel in West DaAvdleystreet, and as it is noAV my property, I request that you will return it to me Avithout delay. If not, I shall be compelled to take measures to recover it." That's rather a strong order, isn't it ?' laughed Cis. • If vain women choose to have their photo-

graphs hawked about, they must take the consequences, ' retorted the other. After some persuasion, Cis consented to send the note.

Mrs Gore was distracted ; she flew to O'Donnel. He had taken it of Blank, the photographer, he said, thinking it a saleable article, and Mr Lovelace had bought it. He bought a great many photographs there, some coloured, some plain. ' But I never saw this photograph of you before, Evelyn,' cried her mother, when they were back in the brougham. ' You must know something about it. I would not have allowed you to go about to the world in that attitude on any account.' 'It must have been taken when the others were,' answered Evelyn, tearfully; 'the dress is the same. You know, mamma, how that horrid man will insist on putting you into all sorts of attitudes, and he wont allow anyone to be present, so that one has no idea how one looks. They never sent us a proof of that one at all.' A Duke lost, and for the sake of a horrid, odious, unprincipled, good-for-nothing photographer! Mrs Gore drove to Blank's studio in a fury. But that individual was very hoitytoity indeed — told her there was nothing to prevent his selling as many copies of Miss Gore's photograph as he pleased ; and the unfortunate lady went away worsted and discomfited. Then there was Cis Lovelace to be propitiated, or the story of her going to his rooms and abstracting the likeness would be all over London, and perhaps in those dreadful papers. First of all, howevor, the matter must be explained to the Duke. Was it too late ? Mrs. Gore drove home, wrote a letter to Comilfo, and took it herself to his house in her carriage. Here she had the anguish of learning that the Duke had left for Gravesend to join his yacht the night before, and had given strict orders that no letter or message of any kind was to be forwarded to him until he wrote. Mrs Gore would have given the man five pounds to send her letter, but lie was incorruptible. Fifty pounds would not have compensated him for the loss of his pleasant sinecure, so he was respectful, but firm as rock. Crushed by dispair, Mrs Gore sent a civil note asking Mr Lovelace to call upon her at once. And Cis, who, as I like to put it, knew not fear, or, as his friends coarsely said, had the cheek of the old gentleman himself, called in Eton-square that very afternoon. He behaved charmingly, regretted that Mrs Gore and her daughter should have suffered annoyance through him, assured her that he bought the picture simply as a work of art and from an enthusiastic admiration for the beautiful, and begged Mrs Gore to accept it from him. That was impossible, she said ; but it was equally impossible for him to take live guineas in return for it. I never quite discovered how they ultimately settled the matter, but Mrs Gore always spoke civilly of Cis after that day.

'My dearest love,' cries Lady Kensington, rushing into Mrs Gore's boudoir a day or two later, ' what is this I hear about the Duke of Comilfo going off abroad at a moment's notice ? Is it not 2^ssible that Evie can have refused him !' ' O, ' cried Mrs Gore, bursting into tears, her pride and courage scattered to the winds, ' what wretch invented ■photography !'