Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/37

26 one of those ﬁfty-six stories just now promised to committees, showing the way in which, when my gracious Sovereign is pleased to ask the Opinion of the People, divers of the said people proceed to condense the opinion into Members of Parliament. Hear a tale of woman’s love and man’s treachery.

They were  happy  enough,  the  Halgovers; and why should  they  not  have  been  happy? Nice house, enough  money,  good  health,  not  so  stupid as to  bore  other  people,  not  so  clever  to  be  bored by other  people,  high  principles,  chimneys  that didn’t smoke,  street-keeper  remorseless  to  street- organists — what more  could  a couple  of  reasonable people want? In truth,  they  enjoyed  life  very much.

Arabella, possessing  both  good  looks  and  certain moneys, had  had  divers  offers,  and  made  her free choice  in  wedding  Maurice  Halgover — a fine, large, handsome  fellow,  who  looked  Somebody. That he  did  look  so  was  chiefly  due  to  the  magnificent effect  of  his  head,  which  was  big,  and covered with  masses  of  superb,  clustering,  dark hair, which  he  did  not  pat  and  plaster  down  and keep short  and  close,  after  the  fashion  of  pick-pockets and  swells,  but  lifted  it  up  and  out,  like Jupiter, giving  unto  himself  a kind  of  glorious mane. Also he  had  a very  fine,  soft  long  beard, of a highly  strokable  character,  and  very  good moustaches, which  matched  his  beard  and  hair, and had  not  fallen  into  the  cire, and  yellow  leaf.

Halgover was  not  careless  about  all  these  advantages, and  did  not  let  them  run  wild,  as  do certain  gifted  and  dirty  artists  whom  I have had the  happiness  to  know. He cultivated  the exterior of  his  head,  and  had  great  ivory-backed brushes, and  small  ivory-backed  brushes,  and  all kinds of  combs  and  silver  tongs,  and  delicate hair-oils, and  the  rest  of  the  toilette-apparatus which the  late  Sir  Charles  Napier  of  India  did not conceive  an  absolute  necessity  of  life,  though any valet  could  have  told  him  better. It was  this hair— or rather  the  head  and  its  noble  appearance — that fascinated  Arabella  Kinglington,  and  eventually turned  her  into  Arabella  Halgover. She got into  her  own  head  a notion  that  Maurice  was  a great  creature. He was  really  only  a big  creature, but lady  language  is  like  the  new  Government rifles, any  lock  fits  to  any  stock,  and  any  stock fits to  any  barrel,  and  lady  adjectives  are  especially famous  for  easily  sticking.

Arabella married  him,  and  still  preserved  her romance of  his  greatness. They loved,  and  lived together, or  whatever  the  song  says,  for  ever  so many  years,  four  or  five,  and  Arabella  continued to reverence  her  great  creature. She would actually sit  and  look  admiringly  at  him,  in  evenings, an  unheard-of  matrimonial  feat,  and  what she spent  in  having  him  painted,  and  photographed, and  sketched,  and  busted,  nobody  knows. Maurice was  stuck  up  in  every  corner  of  the  house, besides being  hung  over  the  fire-places,  and  shut up in  cases  on  the  tables,  and  perched  on  a pedestal in the  conservatory,  and  profiled  in  medallion  in the  library. Every mode  in  which  the  head  which looked like  Somebody  could  be  perpetuated,  was tried by  the  faithful  Arabella. She certainly  rather bored her  friends  with  her  superfluous  laudation  of Maurice’s  attractions,  but  it  was  a very  pleasant sight  to  see  her  admiration  and  fondness,  and nobody but  he  who  grew  spiteful  at  the  happiness of Eden,  or  one  of  his  children,  would  have  wished to disturb  so  harmless  and,  I may  say,  virtuous  a state  of  things.

Nevertheless, such  a demon  there  was.

Mind, this  is  not  a tale  of  seduction,  or  anything of  that  sort; and,  so,  if  this  explanation makes the  story  too  flat  for  the  readers  of  the novels of  the  day,  they  had  best  go  on  to  the  next article.

“I cannot  stand  it,”  said  Osprey  Hawke,  on  the steps of  the  Reform  Club,  Pall  Mall  (he  is  not  a member,  you  need  not  get  the  list  “to  see  whom that’s  a shy  at,”  Major),  “and  something  must  be done,  Fred. I am — word escaped  our  reporter — if, after  dinner,  she  didn’t  ask  me  to  step  into  the little drawing-room  with  her,  and  then,  pointing out her  husband’s  great  head  as  he  leaned  over  the back of  a chair,  chattering  rubbish,  she  didn’t  say, 'Isn't it  statuesque?’ ”

“You had  an  exceedingly  good  dinner,  and you are  an  ungrateful  party,”  said  Fred  (who  is a member),  going  into  the  club  with  a disgust that did  him  honour.

“I don’t care,”  said  Hawke,  talking  to  himself.

They say  that  when  you  talk  to  yourself,  evil spirits listen  and  answer. I don’t know  anything about  this,  but  Hawke  had  hardly  spoken and lit  a cigar,  preparatory  to  walking  off,  when  a gentleman  came  out  of  the  club,  and  they  got into conversation. The gentleman  gave  him  a bit of news.

“Well, he  might  have  told  me,”  said  Hawke, “considering that  I was  dining  there  to-day.”

And having  received  this  deadly  injury,  he became  more  resolved  upon  his  plan,  which  involved revenge.

The general  election  was  close  at  hand.

Four days  later,  Mr. Maurice Halgover  and  Mr. Osprey  Hawke  were  together  in  a private  room  at the  Blue  hotel  at  Stackleborough.

I alluded in  my  first  line  to  the  black  fiend Ambition. Spare me  the  necessity  of  any  long story. Halgover’s ambition,  greatly  stirred  and fanned by  his  wife’s  admiration,  had  set  him  on entering  the  House  of  Commons. The great creature was  sure  to  make  a glorious  success. Mrs. Arabella  Halgover  had  a private  conviction that when  the  senate  beheld  that  magnificent head, there  would  be  a general  shout  to  the  great creature to  take  the  reins  of  Government. She did not  exactly  say  this,  but  looked  forward  to see  a leading  article  in  the  Times, beginning, “Mr. Halgover’s splendid  speech  last  night  has made the  man,  and  saved  the  state.”  It  may come yet — who  knows? The Emperor  of  the French is  thought  to  have  turned  out  a first-class General.

The gentleman  at  the  club  had  arranged  the business (I  repeat  that  there  is  no  petition,  so  you need  not  look  so  very  wise,  Major),  and  Mr. Halgover had  placarded  Stackleborough,  and  was  now down to  see  his  intended  constituents.

“I am so  glad  to  find  you  here,  old  fellow,” said  Halgover,  greeting  Hawke. “Very kind of  you  to  come. How long  have  you  been down?”