Red Pottage

Red Pottage

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Red Pottage, by Mary Cholmondeley
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Title: Red Pottage
Author: Mary Cholmondeley
Release Date: February 2, 2005 [EBook #14885]
Language: English
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Red Pottage
By
Mary Cholmondeley

AUTHOR OF
"THE DANVERS JEWELS"
"After the Red Pottage comes the exceeding bitter cry"
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1900

TO
VICTORIA
Good things have not kept aloof,
* * * * *
I have not lack'd thy mild reproof, Nor golden largesse of thy praise.

RED POTTAGE
CHAPTER I
In tragic life, God wot, No villain need be! Passions spin the plot: We
are betray'd by what is false within. --GEORGE MEREDITH.
"I can't get out," said Sterne's starling, looking through the bars of his
cage.
"I will get out," said Hugh Scarlett to himself, seeing no bars, but half
conscious of a cage. "I will get out," he repeated, as his hansom took
him swiftly from the house in Portman Square, where he had been
dining, towards that other house in Carlton House Terrace, whither his

thoughts had travelled on before him, out-distancing the trip-clip-clop,
trip-clip-clop of the horse.
It was a hot night in June. Hugh had thrown back his overcoat, and the
throng of passers-by in the street could see, if they cared to see, "the
glass of fashion" in the shape of white waistcoat and shirt front,
surmounted by the handsome, irritated face of their owner, leaning
back with his hat tilted over his eyes.
Trip-clip-clop went the horse.
A great deal of thinking may be compressed into a quarter of an hour,
especially if it has been long eluded.
"I will get out," he said again to himself with an impatient movement. It
was beginning to weary him, this commonplace intrigue which had
been so new and alluring a year ago. He did not own it to himself, but
he was tired of it. Perhaps the reason why good resolutions have earned
for themselves such an evil repute as paving-stones is because they are
often the result, not of repentance, but of the restlessness that dogs an
evaporating pleasure. This liaison had been alternately his pride and his
shame for many months. But now it was becoming something
more--which it had been all the time, only he had not noticed it till
lately--a fetter, a clog, something irksome, to be cast off and pushed out
of sight. Decidedly the moment for the good resolution had arrived.
"I will break it off," he said again. "Thank Heaven, not a soul has ever
guessed it."
How could any one have guessed it?
He remembered the day when he had first met her a year ago, and had
looked upon her as merely a pretty woman. He remembered other days,
and the gradual building up between them of a fairy palace. He had
added a stone here, she a stone there, until suddenly it became--a prison.
Had he been tempter or tempted? He did not know. He did not care. He
wanted only to be out of it. His better feelings and his conscience had
been awakened by the first touch of weariness. His brief infatuation had

run its course. His judgment had been whirled--he told himself it had
been whirled, but it had really only been tweaked--from its centre, had
performed its giddy orbit, and now the check-string had brought it back
to the point from whence it had set out, namely, that she was merely a
pretty woman.
"I will break with her gradually," he said, like the tyro he was, and he
pictured to himself the wretched scenes in which she would abuse him,
reproach him, probably compromise herself, the letters she would write
to him. At any rate, he need not read them. Oh! how tired he was of the
whole thing beforehand. Why had he been such a fool? He looked at
the termination of the liaison as a bad sailor looks at an inevitable sea
passage at the end of a journey. It must be gone through, but the
prospect of undergoing it filled him with disgust.
A brougham passed him swiftly on noiseless wheels, and the woman in
it caught a glimpse of the high-bred, clean-shaved face, half savage,
half sullen, in the hansom.
"Anger, impatience, and remorse," she said to herself, and finished
buttoning her gloves.
"Thank Heaven, not a soul has