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diff --git a/old/32840-h.htm.2021-01-25 b/old/32840-h.htm.2021-01-25 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..047481b --- /dev/null +++ b/old/32840-h.htm.2021-01-25 @@ -0,0 +1,27755 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + One of Them, Vols. I and II by Charles James Lever. + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of One Of Them, by Charles James Lever + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: One Of Them + +Author: Charles James Lever + +Illustrator: Phiz. + +Release Date: June 16, 2010 [EBook #32840] +Last Updated: February 28, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ONE OF THEM *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + +<p> +<br /><br /> +</p> +<h1> +ONE OF THEM +</h1> +<p> +<br /><br /> +</p> +<h2> +By Charles James Lever. +</h2> +<p> +<br /><br /> +</p> +<h3> +With Illustrations By Phiz. +</h3> +<p> +<br /><br /> +</p> +<h4> +Boston: Little, Brown, And Company. <br /><br /> 1902. +</h4> +<p> +<br /> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" alt="frontispiece" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/titlepage.jpg" alt="titlepage" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +<br /> <br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JAMES WHITESIDE, M.P., ETC., ETC., +ETC. +</p> +<p> +My Dear Whiteside,—Amongst all the friends I can count over in my +own country, and from whom space and the accidents of life have separated, +and may separate me to the last, there is not “One of Them” for whom I +entertain a sincerer regard, united with a higher hope, than yourself; and +it is in my pride to say so openly, that I ask you to accept of this +dedication from +</p> +<p> +Your attached friend, +</p> +<p> +CHARLES LEVER. +</p> +<p> +Spezia, December 90, 1860. +</p> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<blockquote> +<p class="toc"> +<big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> +</p> +<p> +<br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> A WORD OF APOLOGY FOR MY TITLE. </a><br /><br /> +<a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>ONE OF THEM, Volume I.</b> </a><br /><br /> +<a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> A PIAZZA AFTER +SUNSET <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> THE +VILLA CAPRINI <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> TRAVELLING +ACQUAINTANCE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> VISITORS +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> ACCIDENTS +AND THEIR CONSEQUENCES <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. +</a> THE MEMBER FOR INCHABOGUE <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> MRS. PENTHONY MORRIS +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> PORT-NA-WHAPPLE +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a> A DINNER +AT THE RECTORY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> THE +LABORATORY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> A +REMITTANCE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> A +FELLOW-TRAVELLER ON THE COACH <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0013"> +CHAPTER XIII. </a> HOW THEY LIVED AT THE VILLA <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> THE BILLIARD-ROOM +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a> MRS. +PENTHONY MORRIS AT HER WRITING-TABLE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0016"> +CHAPTER XVI. </a> A SICK-ROOM <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a> A MASTER AND MAN +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a> MRS. +MORRIS AS COUNSELLOR <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. +</a> JOE'S DIPLOMACY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0020"> +CHAPTER XX. </a> A DREARY FORENOON <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a> MR. O'SHEA UPON +POLITICS, AND THINGS IN GENERAL <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0022"> +CHAPTER XXII. </a> THE PUBLIC SERVANT ABROAD <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a> BROKEN TIES <br /><br /> +<a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a> A DAY IN EARLY +SPRING <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. </a> BEHIND +THE SCENES <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a> A +DARK REMEMBRANCE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. </a> THE +FRAGMENT OF A LETTER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. +</a> THE O'SHEA AT HIS LODGINGS <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. </a> OLD LETTERS <br /><br /> +<a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. </a> TWIST, TROVER, AND +CO <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. </a> IN +THE TOILS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII. </a> A +DRIVE ROUND THE CASCINE AT FLORENCE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0033"> +CHAPTER XXXIII. </a> SIR WILLIAM IN THE GOUT <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV. </a> A WARM DISCUSSION +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV. </a> LOO +AND HER FATHER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI. </a> A +GRAVE SCENE IN LIGHT COMPANY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER +XXXVI. </a> MR. STOCMAR'S VISIT <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXXVIII. </a> VERY OUTSPOKEN ON +THE WORLD AT LARGE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX. +</a> FROM CLARA <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER +XL. </a> QUACKINBOSSIANA <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0041"> +CHAPTER XLI. </a> QUACKINBOSS AT HOME <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XLII. </a> A NEW LOCATION <br /><br /> +<a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XLIII. </a> BUNKUMVILLE +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XLIV. </a> THE +LECTURER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER XLV. </a> OF +BYGONES <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER XLVI. </a> THE +DOCTOR'S NARRATIVE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER XLVII. +</a> A HAPPY ACCIDENT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0048"> +CHAPTER XLVIII. </a> AT ROME <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER XLIX. </a> THE PALAZZO BALBI +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0050"> CHAPTER L. </a> THREE MET +AGAIN <br /><br /> <br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> <b>ONE OF THEM, +Volume II.</b> </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0051"> CHAPTER I. </a> THE +LONE VILLA ON THE ÇAMPAGNA <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0052"> CHAPTER +II. </a> A DINNER OF TWO <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0053"> +CHAPTER III. </a> SOME LAST WORDS <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0054"> CHAPTER IV. </a> FOUND OUT <br /><br /> +<a href="#link2HCH0055"> CHAPTER V. </a> THE MANAGER'S ROOM +AT THE “REGENT'S” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0056"> CHAPTER VI. </a> MR. +O'SHEA AT BADEN <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0057"> CHAPTER VII. </a> THE +COTTAGE NEAR BREGENZ <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0058"> CHAPTER VIII. +</a> CONSULTATION <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0059"> CHAPTER +IX. </a> WORDS OF GOOD CHEER <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0060"> CHAPTER X. </a> THE LETTER FROM ALFRED +LAYTON <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0061"> CHAPTER XI. </a> AN +EAGER GUEST <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0062"> CHAPTER XII. </a> CONCLUSION +<br /><br /> +</p> +</blockquote> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +A WORD OF APOLOGY FOR MY TITLE. +</h2> +<p> +Before I begin my story, let me crave my reader's indulgence for a brief +word of explanation, for which I know no better form than a parable. +</p> +<p> +There is an Eastern tale—I forget exactly where or by whom told—of +a certain poor man, who, being in extreme distress, and sorely puzzled as +to how to eke out a livelihood, bethought him to give out that he was a +great magician, endowed with the most marvellous powers, amongst others, +that of tracing out crime, and detecting the secret history of all guilty +transactions. Day after day did he proclaim to the world his wonderful +gifts, telling his fellow-citizens what a remarkable man was amongst them, +and bidding them thank Destiny for the blessing of his presence. Now, +though the story has not recorded whether their gratitude was equal to the +occasion, we are informed that the Caliph heard of the great magician, and +summoned him to his presence, for it chanced just at the moment that the +royal treasury had been broken into by thieves, and gems of priceless +value carried away. +</p> +<p> +“Find out these thieves for me,” said the Caliph, “or with your own head +pay the penalty of their crime.” + </p> +<p> +“Grant me but forty days, O king,” cried he, “and I will bring them all +before you.” + </p> +<p> +So saying, he went away, but was no sooner at home and in the solitude of +his own house than be tore his beard, beat his breast, and, humbling his +head to the ground, cried out, +</p> +<p> +“Son of a burned father was I, not to be content with poverty and a poor +existence! Why did I ever pretend to gifts that I had not, or dare to tell +men that I possessed powers that were not mine? See to what vainglory and +boastfulness have brought me. In forty days I am to die an ignominious +death!” + </p> +<p> +Thus grieving and self-accusing, the weary hours passed over, and the +night closed in only to find him in all the anguish of his sorrow; nor was +it the least poignant of his sufferings, as he bethought him that already +one of his forty days was drawing to its close, for in his heart he had +destined this period to enjoyment and self-indulgence. +</p> +<p> +Now, though aspiring to the fame of a magician, so little learning did he +possess, that it was only by recourse to a contrivance he was able to +reckon the days as they passed, and calculate how much of life remained to +him. The expedient he hit upon was to throw each night into an olive-jar a +single date, by counting which at any time he could know how many days had +elapsed. +</p> +<p> +While his own conscience smote him bitterly for the foolish deception he +had practised, there were, as it happened, others who had consciences too, +and somewhat more heavily charged than his own. These were the thieves who +had stolen the treasure, and who firmly believed in the magician's powers. +Now, it so chanced that on the very instant he was about to throw his +first date into the jar, one of the robbers had crept noiselessly to the +window, and, peering through the half-closed shutter, watched what was +doing within. Dimly lighted by a single lamp, the chamber was half +shrouded in a mysterious gloom; still, the figure of a man could be +descried, as, with gestures of sorrow and suffering, he approached a great +jar in the middle of the room and bent over it. It was doubtless an +incantation, and the robber gazed with all eagerness; but what was his +terror as he beheld the man drop something into the jar, exclaiming, as he +did so, in a loud voice, “Let Allah be merciful to us! there is one of +them!” With the speed of a guilty heart he hurried back to his +confederates, saying, “I had but placed my eye to the chink, when he knew +that I was there, and cried, 'Ha! there is one of them!'” + </p> +<p> +It is not necessary that I should go on to tell how each night a new thief +stole to the window at the same critical moment to witness the same +ceremony, and listen to the same terrible words; as little needful to +record how, when the last evening of all closed in, and the whole robber +band stood trembling without, the magician dropped upon his knees, and, +throwing in the last of his dates, cried out, “There are all of them!” The +application of the story is easy. You, good reader, are the Caliph,—the +mock magician is myself. Our tale will probably, from time to time, reveal +who may be +</p> +<p> +“One of Them.” + </p> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h1> +ONE OF THEM, Volume I. +</h1> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER I. A PIAZZA AFTER SUNSET +</h2> +<p> +One of the most depressing and languid of all objects is the aspect of an +Italian city in the full noon of a hot summer's day. The massive +buildings, fortress-like and stern, which show no touch of life and +habitation; the glaring streets, un-traversed by a single passer; the wide +piazza, staring vacantly in the broiling sun; the shop doors closed, all +evidencing the season of the siesta, seem all waiting for the hour when +long shadows shall fall over the scorched pavement, and some air—faint +though it be—of coming night recall the population to a semblance of +active existence. +</p> +<p> +With the air of a heated wayfarer, throwing open his coat to refresh +himself, the city, at last, flings wide jalousie and shutter, and the +half-baked inhabitant strolls forth to taste the “bel fresco.” It is the +season when nationalities are seen undisturbed by the presence of +strangers. No travellers are now to be met with; the heavy rumbling of the +travelling-carriage no longer thunders over the massive causeway; no +postilion's whip awakes the echoes of the Piazza; no landlord's bell +summons the eager household to the deep-arched doorway. It is the People +alone are abroad,—that gentle Italian people, quiet-looking, +inoffensive as they are. A sort of languid grace, a kind of dignified +melancholy, pervades their demeanor, not at all unpleasing; and if the +stranger come fresh from the west of Europe, with its busy turmoil and +zeal of money-getting, he cannot but experience a sense of calm and relief +in the aspect of this easily satisfied and simple population. As the gloom +of evening thickens the scene assumes more of life and movement. Vendors +of cooling drinks, iced lemonades, and such-like, move along with gay +flags flaunting over the brilliant urnlike copper that contains the +refreshing beverage. Watermelons, in all the gushing richness of color, +are at every corner, and piles of delicious fruit lie under the motley +glare from many a paper lantern. Along the quays and bridges, on wide +terraces or jutting bastions, wherever a breath of fresh air can be +caught, crowds are seated, quietly enjoying the cool hour. Not a sound to +be heard, save the incessant motion of the fan, which is, to this season, +what is the cicala to the hot hour of noon. One cannot help feeling struck +by the aspect of a people come thus to blend, like the members of one +large family. There they are, of every age and of every condition, +mingling with a sort of familiar kindliness that seems like a domesticity. +</p> +<p> +In all this open-air life, with its inseparable equality, one sees the +embers of that old fire which once kindled the Italian heart in the days +of their proud and glorious Republics. They are the descendants of those +who, in the self-same spots, discussed the acts of Doges and Senates, +haughty citizens of states, the haughtiest of all their age—and now— +</p> +<p> +Whether come by chance or detained by some accident, two English +travellers were seated one evening in front of the Café Doney, at +Florence, in contemplation of such a scene as this, listlessly smoking +their cigars; they conversed occasionally, in that “staccato” style of +conversation known to smokers. +</p> +<p> +One was an elderly, fine-looking man, of that hale and hearty stamp we +like to think English; the young fellow at his side was so exactly his +counterpart in lineament and feature that none could doubt them to be +father and son. It is true that the snow-white hair of one was represented +by a rich auburn in the other, and the quiet humor that lurked about the +father's mouth was concealed in the son's by a handsome moustache, most +carefully trimmed and curled. +</p> +<p> +The <i>café</i> behind them was empty, save at a single table, where sat a +tall, gaunt, yellow-cheeked man, counting and recounting a number of coins +the waiter had given him in change, and of whose value he seemed to +entertain misgivings, as he held them up one by one to the light and +examined them closely. In feature he was acute and penetrating, with a +mixture of melancholy and intrepidity peculiarly characteristic; his hair +was long, black, and wave-less, and fell heavily over the collar of his +coat behind; his dress was a suit of coffee-colored brown,—coat, +waistcoat, and trousers; and even to his high-peaked conical hat the same +tint extended. In age, he might have been anything from two-and-thirty to +forty, or upwards. +</p> +<p> +Attracted by an extraordinary attempt of the stranger to express himself +in Italian to the waiter, the young Englishman turned round, and then as +quickly leaning down towards his father, said, in a subdued voice, “Only +think; there he is again! The Yankee we met at Meurice's, at Spa, Ems, the +Righi, Como, and Heaven knows where besides! There he is talking Italian, +own brother to his French, and with the same success too!” + </p> +<p> +“Well, well, Charley,” said the other, good-humoredly, “it is not from an +Englishman can come the sneer about such blunders. We make sad work of +genders and declensions ourselves; and as for our American, I rather like +him, and am not sorry to meet him again.” + </p> +<p> +“You surely cannot mean that. There's not a fault of his nation that he +does not, in one shape or other, represent; and, in a word, he is a bore +of the first water.” + </p> +<p> +“The accusation of boredom is one of those ugly confessions which ennui +occasionally makes of its own inability to be interested. Now, for my +part, the Yankee does not bore me. He is a sharp, shrewd man, always eager +for information.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd call him inquisitive,” broke in the younger. +</p> +<p> +“There's an honest earnestness, too, in his manner,—a rough vigor—” + </p> +<p> +“That recalls stump-oratory, and that sledge-hammer school so popular +'down west.'” + </p> +<p> +“It is because he is intensely American that I like him, Charley. I +heartily respect the honest zeal with which he tells you that there are no +institutions, no country, no people to be compared with his own.” + </p> +<p> +“To me, the declaration is downright offensive; and I think there is a +wide interval between prejudice and an enlightened patriotism. And when I +hear an American claim for his nation a pre-eminence, not alone in +courage, skill, and inventive genius, but in all the arts of civilization +and refinement, I own I'm at a loss whether to laugh at or leave him.” + </p> +<p> +“Take my advice, Charley, don't do either; or, if you must do one of the +two, better even the last than the first.” + </p> +<p> +Half stung by the tone of reproof in these words, and half angry with +himself, perhaps, for his own petulance, the young man flung the end of +his cigar away, and walked out into the street. Scarcely, however, had he +done so when the subject of their brief controversy arose, and approached +the Englishman, saying, with a drawling tone and nasal accent, “How is +your health, stranger? I hope I see you pretty well?” + </p> +<p> +“Quite so, I thank you,” said the other cordially, as he moved a chair +towards him. +</p> +<p> +“You've made a considerable tour of it [pronounced 'tower'] since we met, +I reckon. You were bound to do Lombardy, and the silkworms, and the +rice-fields, and the ancient cities, and the galleries, and such-like,—and +you 've done them?” + </p> +<p> +The Englishman bowed assent. +</p> +<p> +“Well, sir, so have I, and it don't pay. No, it don't! It's noways +pleasing to a man with a right sense of human natur' to see a set of +half-starved squalid loafers making a livin' out of old tombs and ruined +churches, with lying stories about martyrs' thumb-nails and saints' +shin-bones. That won't make a people, sir, will it?” + </p> +<p> +“But you must have seen a great deal to interest you, notwithstanding.” + </p> +<p> +“At Genoa, sir. I like Genoa,—they 're a wide-awake, active set +there. They 've got trade, sir, and they know it.” + </p> +<p> +“The city, I take it, is far more prosperous than pleasant, for +strangers?” + </p> +<p> +“Well now, sir, that ere remark of yours strikes me as downright narrow, +and, if I might be permitted, I 'd call it mean illiberal. Why should you +or I object to people who prefer their own affairs to the pleasant task of +amusing us?” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, I only meant to observe that one might find more agreeable +companions than men intently immersed in money-getting.” + </p> +<p> +“Another error, and a downright English error too; for it's one of your +national traits, stranger, always to abuse the very thing that you do +best. What are you as a people but a hard-working, industrious, serious +race, ever striving to do this a little cheaper, and that a little +quicker, so as to beat the foreigner, and with all that you 'll stand up +and say there ain't nothing on this universal globe to be compared to +loafing!” + </p> +<p> +“I would hope that you have not heard this sentiment from an Englishman.” + </p> +<p> +“Not in them words, not exactly in them terms, but from the same platform, +stranger. Why, when you want to exalt a man for any great service to the +state, you ain't satisfied with making him a loafer,—for a lord is +just a loafer, and no more nor no less,—but you make his son a +loafer, and all his descendants forever. What would you say to a fellow +that had a fast trotter, able to do his mile, on a fair road, in two +forty-three, who, instead of keeping him in full working condition, and +making him earn his penny, would just turn him out in a paddock to burst +himself with clover, and the same with all his stock, for no other earthly +reason than that they were the best blood and bone to be found anywhere? +There ain't sense or reason in that, stranger, is there?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think the parallel applies.” + </p> +<p> +“Maybe not, sir; but you have my meaning; perhaps I piled the metaphor too +high; but as John Jacob Byles says, 'If the charge has hit you, it don't +signify a red cent what the wadding was made of.'” + </p> +<p> +“I must say I think you are less than just in your estimate of our men of +leisure,” said the Englishman, mildly. +</p> +<p> +“I ain't sure of that, sir; they live too much together, like our people +down South, and that's not the way to get rid of prejudices. They 've none +of that rough-and-tumble with the world as makes men broad-minded and +marciful and forgiving; and they come at last to that wickedest creed of +all, to think themselves the superfine salt of the earth. Now, there ain't +no superfine salt peculiar to any rank or class. Human natur' is good and +bad everywhere,—ay, sir, I 'll go further, I 've seen good in a +Nigger!” + </p> +<p> +“I'm glad to hear you say so,” said the Englishman, repressing, but not +without difficulty, a tendency to smile. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir, there 's good amongst all men,—even the Irish.” + </p> +<p> +“I feel sorry that you should make them an extreme case.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, sir,” said he, drawing a long breath, “they're main ugly,—main +ugly, that's a fact. Not that they can do <i>us</i> any mischief. Our +constitution is a mill where there's never too much water,—the more +power, the more we grind; and even if the stream do come down somewhat +stocked with snags and other rubbish upon it, the machine is an almighty +smasher, and don't leave one fragment sticking to the other when it gets a +stroke at 'em. Have you never been in the States, stranger?” + </p> +<p> +“Never. I have often planned such a ramble, but circumstances have somehow +or other always interfered with the accomplishment.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, sir, you 're bound to go there, if only to correct the wrong +impressions of your literary people, who do nothing but slander and belie +us.” + </p> +<p> +“Not latterly, surely. You have nothing to complain of on the part of our +late travellers.” + </p> +<p> +“I won't say that. They don't make such a fuss about chewing and +whittling, and the like, as the first fellows; but they go on a-sneering +about political dishonesty, Yankee sharpness, and trade rogueries, that +ain't noways pleasing,—and, what's more, it ain't fair. But as <i>I</i> +say, sir, go and see for yourself, or, if you can't do that, send your +son. Is n't that young man there your son?” + </p> +<p> +The young Englishman turned and acknowledged the allusion to himself by +the coldest imaginable bow, and that peculiarly unspeculative stare so +distinctive in his class and station. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm unreasonable proud to see you again, sir,” said the Yankee, rising. +</p> +<p> +“Too much honor!” said the other, stiffly. +</p> +<p> +“No, it ain't,—no honor whatever. It's a fact, though, and that's +better. Yes, sir, I like <i>you!</i>” + </p> +<p> +The young man merely bowed his acknowledgment, and looked even more +haughty than before. It was plain, however, that the American attached +little significance to the disdain of his manner, for he continued in the +same easy, unembarrassed tone,— +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir, I was at Lucerne that morning when you flung the boatman into +the lake that tried to prevent your landing out of the boat. I saw how you +buckled to your work, and I said to myself, 'There 's good stuff there, +though he looks so uncommon conceited and proud.'” + </p> +<p> +“Charley is ready enough at that sort of thing,” said the father, laughing +heartily; and, indeed, after a moment of struggle to maintain his gravity, +the young man gave way and laughed too. +</p> +<p> +The American merely looked from one to the other, half sternly, and as if +vainly trying to ascertain the cause of their mirth. The elder Englishman +was quick to see the awkwardness of the moment, and apply a remedy to it. +</p> +<p> +“I was amused,” said he, good-humoredly, “at the mention of what had +obtained for my son your favorable opinion. I believe that it's only +amongst the Anglo-Saxon races that pugnacity takes place as a virtue.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, sir, if a man has n't got it, it very little matters what other +qualities he possesses. They say courage is a bull-dog's property; but +would any one like to be lower than a bull-dog? Besides, sir, it is what +has made <i>you</i> great, and <i>us</i> greater.” + </p> +<p> +There was a tone of defiance in this speech evidently meant to provoke a +discussion, and the young man turned angrily round to accept the +challenge, when a significant look from his father restrained him. With a +few commonplace observations dexterously thrown out, the old man contrived +to change the channel of conversation, and then, reminded by his watch of +the lateness of the hour, he apologized for a hasty departure, and took +his leave. +</p> +<p> +“Well, was I right?” said the young man, as he walked along at his +father's side. “Is he not a bore, and the worst of all bores too,—a +quarrelsome one?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not so sure of that, Charley. It was plain he did n't fancy our +laughing so heartily, and wanted an explanation which he saw no means of +asking for; and it was, perhaps, as a sort of reprisal he made that +boastful speech; but I am deeply mistaken if there be not much to like and +respect in that man's nature.” + </p> +<p> +“There may be some grains of gold in the mud of the Arno there, if any one +would spend a life to search for them,” said the youth, contemptuously. +And with this ungracious speech the conversation closed, and they walked +on in silence. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER II. THE VILLA CAPRINI +</h2> +<p> +It was a few days after the brief scene we have just recorded that the two +Englishmen were seated, after sunset, on a little terraced plateau in +front of an antiquated villa. As they are destined to be intimate +acquaintances of our reader in this tale, let us introduce them by name,—Sir +William Heathcote and his son Charles. +</p> +<p> +With an adherence to national tastes which are rapidly fading away, they +were enjoying their wine after dinner, and the spot they had selected for +it was well chosen. From the terrace where they sat, a perfect maze of +richly wooded glens could be seen, crossing and recrossing each other in +every direction. From the depths of some arose the light spray of boiling +mountain torrents; others, less wild in character, were marked by the blue +smoke curling up from some humble homestead. Many a zigzag path of +trellis-vines straggled up the hillsides, now half buried in olives, now +emerging in all the grotesque beauty of its own wayward course. The tall +maize and the red lucerne grew luxuriously beneath the fig and the +pomegranate, while here and there the rich soil, rent with heat, seemed +unable to conceal its affluence, and showed the yellow gourds and the +melons bursting up through the fruitful earth. It was such a scene as at +once combined Italian luxuriance with the verdant freshness of a Tyrol +landscape, and of which the little territory that once called itself the +Duchy of Lucca can boast many instances. +</p> +<p> +As background to the picture, the tall mountains of Carrara, lofty enough +to be called Alps, rose, snow-capped and jagged in the distance, and upon +their summits the last rays of the setting sun now glowed with the ruddy +brilliancy of a carbuncle. +</p> +<p> +These Italian landscapes win one thoroughly from all other scenery, after +a time. At first they seem hard and stern; there is a want of soft +distances; the eye looks in vain for the blended shadows of northern +landscape, and that rustic character so suggestive of country life; but in +their clear distinctness, their marvellous beauty of outline, and in that +vastness of view imparted by an atmosphere of cloudless purity, there are +charms indisputably great. +</p> +<p> +As the elder Englishman looked upon this fair picture, he gave a faint +sigh, and said: “I was thinking, Charley, what a mistake we make in life +in not seeking out such spots as these when the world goes well with us, +and we have our minds tuned to enjoyment, instead of coming to them +careworn and weary, and when, at best, they only distract us momentarily +from our griefs.” + </p> +<p> +“And my thought,” said the younger, “was, what a blunder it is to come +here at all. This villa life was only endurable by your Italian noble, who +came here once a year to squabble with his 'Fattore' and grind his +peasants. He came to see that they gave him his share of oil and did n't +water his miserable wine; he neither had society nor sport. As to our +English country-house life, what can compare with it!” + </p> +<p> +“Even that we have over-civilized, making it London in everything,—London +hours, London company, topics, habits, tastes, all smacking of town life. +Who, I ask you, thinks of his country existence, nowadays, as a period of +quietness and tranquil enjoyment? Who goes back to the shade of his old +elms to be with himself or some favorite author that he feels to like as a +dear friend?” + </p> +<p> +“No; but he goes for famous hunting and the best shooting in Europe, it +being no disparagement to either that he gets back at evening to a capital +dinner and as good company as he 'd find in town.” + </p> +<p> +“May is of <i>my</i> mind,” said Sir William, half triumphantly; “she said +so last night.” + </p> +<p> +“And she told me exactly the reverse this morning,” said the younger. “She +said the monotony of this place was driving her mad. Scenery, she +remarked, without people, is pretty much what a panorama is, compared to a +play.” + </p> +<p> +“May is a traitress; and here she comes to make confession to which of us +she has been false,” said Sir William, gayly, as he arose to place a chair +for the young girl who now came towards them. +</p> +<p> +“I have heard you both, gentlemen,” said she, with a saucy toss of her +head, “and I should like to hear why I should not agree with each and +disagree afterwards, if it so pleased me.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh! if you fall back upon prerogative—” began Sir William. +</p> +<p> +“I have never quitted it. It is in the sovereignty of my woman's will that +I reconcile opinions seemingly adverse, and can enjoy all the splendors of +a capital and all the tameness of a village. I showed you already how I +could appreciate Paris; I mean now to prove how charmed I can be with the +solitudes of Marlia.” + </p> +<p> +“Which says, in plain English,” said the young man, “that you don't care +for either.” + </p> +<p> +“Will you condescend to be a little more gallant than my cousin, sir,” + said she, turning to Sir William, “and at least give me credit for having +a mind and knowing it?” + </p> +<p> +There was a pettish half-seriousness in her tone that made it almost +impossible to say whether she was amused or angry, and to this also the +changeful expression of her beautiful features contributed; for, though +she smiled, her dark gray eyes sparkled like one who invited a +contradiction. In this fleeting trait was the secret of her nature. May +Leslie was one of Fortune's spoiled children,—one of those upon whom +so many graces and good gifts had been lavished that it seemed as though +Fate had exhausted her resources, and left herself no more to bestow. +</p> +<p> +She had surpassing beauty, youth, health, high spirits, and immense +wealth. By her father's will she had been contracted in marriage with her +distant relative, Charles Heathcote, with the proviso that if, on +attaining the age of nineteen, she felt averse to the match, she should +forfeit a certain estate in Wales which had once belonged to the +Heathcotes, and contained the old residence of that family. +</p> +<p> +Sir William and his son had been living in the retirement of a little +German capital, when the tidings of this wardship reached them. A number +of unfortunate speculations had driven the baronet into exile from +England, and left him with a pittance barely sufficient to live in the +strictest economy. To this narrow fortune Charles Heathcote had come back, +after serving in a most extravagant Hussar regiment, and taking his part +in an Indian campaign; and the dashing' soldier first heard, as he lay +wounded in the hospital, that he must leave the service, and retire into +obscurity. If it had not been for his strong affection for his father, +Charles would have enlisted as a private soldier, and taken his chance for +future distinction, but he could not desert him at such a moment, nor +separate himself from that share of privation which should be henceforth +borne in common; and so he came back, a bronzed, brave soldier, +true-hearted and daring, and, if a little stern, no more so than might be +deemed natural in one who had met such a heavy reverse on the very +threshold of life. +</p> +<p> +Father and son were at supper in a little arbor of their garden near +Weimar, when the post brought them the startling news that May Leslie, who +was then at Malta, would be at Paris in a few days, where she expected to +meet them. When Sir William had read through the long letter of the +lawyer, giving an account of the late General Leslie's will, with its +strange condition, he handed it to his son, without a word. +</p> +<p> +The young man read it eagerly; his color changed once or twice as he went +on, and his face grew harder and sterner ere he finished. “Do you mean to +accept this wardship?” asked he, hurriedly. +</p> +<p> +“There are certain reasons for which I cannot decline it, Charley,” said +the other, mildly. “All my life long I have been Tom Leslie's debtor, in +gratitude, for as noble a sacrifice as ever man made. We were both suitors +to your mother, brother officers at the time, and well received in her +father's house. Leslie, however, was much better looked on than myself, +for I was then but a second son, while he was the heir of a very large +estate. There could not have been a doubt that his advances would have +outweighed mine in a father and mother's estimate, and as he was madly in +love, there seemed-nothing to prevent his success. Finding, however, in a +conversation with your mother, that her affections were mine, he not only +relinquished the place in my favor, but, although most eager to purchase +his troop, suffered me, his junior, to pass over his head, and thus attain +the rank which enabled me to marry. Leslie went to India, where he +married, and we never met again. It was only some seven or eight months +ago I read of his being named governor of a Mediterranean dependency, and +the very next paper mentioned his death, when about to leave Calcutta.” + </p> +<p> +“It is, then, most probable that, when making this will, he had never +heard of our reverses in fortune?” said the young man. +</p> +<p> +“It is almost certain he had not, for it is dated the very year of that +panic which ruined me.” + </p> +<p> +“And, just as likely, might never have left such a will, had he known our +altered fortunes?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not so sure of that. At all events, I can answer for it that no +change in our condition would have made Tom Leslie alter the will, if he +had once made it in our favor.” + </p> +<p> +“I have no fancy for the compact, read it how you may,” said Charles, +impatiently; “nor can I say which I like least,—the notion of +marrying a woman who is bound to accept me, or accepting a forfeit to +release her from the obligation.” + </p> +<p> +“I own it is—embarrassing,” said Sir William, after a moment's +hesitation in choosing a suitable word. +</p> +<p> +“A downright indignity, I'd call it,” said the other, warmly, “and +calculated to make the man odious in the woman's eyes, whichever lot +befell him.” + </p> +<p> +“The wardship must be accepted, at all events,” said Sir William, curtly, +as he arose and folded up the letter. +</p> +<p> +“You are the best judge of that; for if it depended upon <i>me</i>” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come, Charley,” said Sir William, in his tone of habitual kindness, +“this life of quiet obscurity and poverty that we lead here has no terrors +for <i>me</i>. I have been so long away from England that if I went back +to-morrow I should look in vain for any of my old companions. I have +forgotten the habits and the ways of home, and I have learned to submit +myself to twenty things here which would be hardships elsewhere, but I +don't like to contemplate the same sort of existence for <i>you</i>; I +want to speculate on a very different future; and if—if—Nay, +you need not feel so impatient at a mere conjecture.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, to another point,” said the young man, hastily. “We have got, as +you have just said, to know that we can live very comfortably and +contentedly here, looking after our celery and seakale, and watching our +silver groschen; are you so very certain that you 'd like to change all +this life, and launch out into an expensive style of living, to suit the +notions of a rich heiress, and, what is worse again, to draw upon <i>her</i> +resources to do it?” + </p> +<p> +“I won't deny that it will cost me severely; but, until we see her and +know her, Charley, until we find out whether she may be one whose +qualities will make our sacrifices easy—” + </p> +<p> +“Would you accept this charge if she were perfectly portionless, and +without a shilling in the world?” + </p> +<p> +“If she were Tom Leslie's daughter, do you mean?” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, any one's daughter?” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure I would, boy; and if I were only to consult my own feelings in +the matter, I 'd say that I 'd prefer this alternative to the other.” + </p> +<p> +“Then I have no more to say,” said the son, as he walked away. +</p> +<p> +Within a month after this conversation, the little cottage was shut up, +the garden wicket closed with a heavy padlock, and to any chance inquirer +after its late residents, the answer returned was, that their present +address was Place Vendôme, Paris. +</p> +<p> +“Tell me your company,” said the old adage; but, alas! the maxim had +reference to other habits than our present-day ones. With what company now +does not every man mix? Bishops discuss crime and punishment with +ticket-of-leave men; fashionable exquisites visit the resorts of thieves; +“swell people” go to hear madrigals at Covent Garden; and, as for the +Ring, it is equally the table-land to peer and pickpocket. If, then, you +would hazard a guess as to a man's manners nowadays, ask not his company, +but his whereabouts. Run your eye over the addresses of that +twice-remanded insolvent, ranging from Norfolk Street, Strand, to Berkeley +Square, with Boulogne-sur-Mer, St John's Wood, Cadiz, the New Cut, +Bermondsey, and the Edgware Road, in the interval, and say if you cannot, +even out of such slight materials, sketch off his biography. +</p> +<p> +“The style is the man,” says the adage; and we might with as much truth +say, “the street is the man.” In his locality is written his ways and +means, his manners, his morals, his griefs, joys, and ambitions. We live +in an age prolific in this lesson. Only cast a glance at the daily +sacrifices of those who, to reside within the periphery of greatness, +submit to a crushing rent and a comfortless abode. +</p> +<p> +Think of him who, to date his note “——— Street, Berkeley +Square,” denies himself honest indulgence, all because the world has come +to believe that certain spots are the “Regions of the Best,” and that they +who live there must needs be that grand English ideal,—respectable. +</p> +<p> +Dear me, what unheard-of sacrifices does it demand of humble fortunes to +be Respectable! what pinching and starving and saving! what self-denial +and what striving! what cheerless little dinner-parties to other +Respectables! what dyeing of black silks and storing of old ostrich +feathers! And how and wherefore have we wandered off in this digression! +Simply to say that Sir William Heathoote and his ward were living in a +splendid quarter of Paris, and after that rambled into Germany, and thence +to Como and down to Rome, very often delighted with their choice of +residence, enjoying much that was enjoyable, but still—shall we own +it?—never finding the exact place they seemed to want, nor exactly +the people with whom they were willing to live in intimacy. They had been +at Baden in the summer, at Como in the late autumn, at Rome in the winter, +at Castellamare in the spring,—everywhere in its season, and yet +somehow—And so they began to try that last resource of bored people,—places +out of the season and places out of common resort,—and it was thus +that they found themselves at Florence in June, and in Marlia in July. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER III. TRAVELLING ACQUAINTANCE +</h2> +<p> +About the same hour of the same evening which we have just chronicled, a +group of persons sat under some spreading chestnut-trees beside a brawling +little rivulet at the Bagni de Lucca. They were travellers, chance +acquaintances thrown together by the accidents of the road, and +entertained for each other those varied sentiments of like and dislike, +those mingled distrusts, suspicions, and beliefs, which, however +unconsciously to ourselves, are part of the education travelling +impresses, and which, when long persevered in, make up that acute but not +always amiable individual we call “an old traveller.” + </p> +<p> +We are not about to present them all to our reader, and will only beg to +introduce to his notice a few of the notabilities then present. <i>Place +aux dames!</i> then; and, first of all, we beg attention to the dark-eyed, +dark-haired, and very delicately featured woman, who, in half-mourning, +and with a pretty but fantastically costumed girl beside her, is working +at an embroidery-frame close to the river. She is a Mrs. Penthony Morris, +the wife or the widow—both opinions prevail—of a Captain +Penthony Morris, killed in a duel, or in India, or alive in the +Marshalsea, or at Baden-Baden, as may be. She is striking-looking, +admirably dressed, has a most beautiful foot, as you may see where it +rests upon the rail of the chair placed in front of her, and is, +altogether, what that very smartly dressed, much-beringed, and essenced +young gentleman near her has already pronounced her, “a stunning fine +woman.” He is a Mr. Mosely, one of those unhappy young Londoners whose +family fame is ever destined to eclipse their own gentility, for he is +immediately recognized, and drawlingly do men inquire some twenty times a +day, “Ain't he a son of Trip and Mosely's, those fellows in Bond Street?” + Unhappy Trip and Mosely! why have you rendered yourselves so great and +illustrious? why have your tasteful devices in gauze, your “sacrifices” in +challis, your “last new things in grenadine,” made such celebrity around +you, that Tom Mosely, “out for his travels,” can no more escape the shop +than if he were languishing at a customer over a “sweet article in white +tarlatan”? In the two comfortable armchairs side by side sit two +indubitable specimens, male and female, of the Anglo-Saxon family,—Mr. +Morgan, that florid man, wiping his polished bald head, and that fat lady +fanning with all her might. Are they not English? They are “out,” and, +judging from their recorded experiences, only dying to be “in” again. +“Such a set of cheating, lying, lazy set of rascals are these Italians! +Independence, sir; don't talk to me of that humbug! What they want is +English travellers to fleece and English women to marry.” Near to these, +at full length, on two chairs, one of which reclines against a tree at an +angle of about forty degrees, sits our Yankee acquaintance, whom we may as +well present by his name, Leonidas Shaver Quackinboss; he is smoking a +“Virginian” about the size of a marshal's bâton, and occasionally sipping +at a “cobbler,” which with much pains he has compounded for his own +drinking. Various others of different ranks and countries are scattered +about, and in the centre of all, at a small table with a lamp, sits a +short, burly figure, with a strange mixture of superciliousness and +drollery in his face, as though there were a perpetual contest in his +nature whether he would be impertinent or amusing. This was Mr. Gorman +O'Shea, Member of Parliament for Inchabogue, and for three weeks a Lord of +the Treasury when O'Connell was king. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0044.jpg" alt="ONE0044" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +Mr. O'Shea is fond of public speaking. He has a taste for proposing, or +seconding, or returning thanks that verges on a passion, so that even in a +private dinner with a friend he has been known to arise and address his +own companion in a set speech, adorned with all the graces and flowers of +post-prandial eloquence. Upon the present occasion he has been, to his +great delight, deputed to read aloud to the company from that magic volume +by which the Continent is expounded to Englishmen, and in whose pages they +are instructed in everything, from passports to pictures, and drilled in +all the mysteries of money, posting, police regulations, domes, dinners, +and Divine service by a Clergyman of the Established Church. In a word, he +is reciting John Murray. +</p> +<p> +To understand the drift of the present meeting, we ought to mention that, +in the course of a conversation started that day at the <i>table d'hote</i> +it was suggested that such of the company as felt disposed might make an +excursion to Marlia to visit a celebrated villa there, whose gardens alone +were amongst the great sights of Northern Italy. All had heard of this +charming residence; views of it had been seen in every print-shop. It had +its historical associations from a very early period. There were chambers +where murders had been committed, conspiracies held, confederates +poisoned. King and Kaiser had passed the night there; all of which were +duly and faithfully chronicled in “John,” and impressively recited by Mr. +Gorman O'Shea in the richest accents of his native Doric. “There you have +it now,” said he, as he closed the volume; “and I will say, it has n't its +equal anywhere for galleries, terraces, carved architraves, stuccoed +ceilings, and frescos, and all the other balderdash peculiar to these +places.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Mr. O'Shea, what profanation!” interposed Mrs. Morris; “walls +immortalized by Giotto and Cimabue!” + </p> +<p> +“Have n't they got stunning names of their own?” broke in Quackinboss. +“That's one of the smallest dodges to secure fame. You must be something +out of the common. There was a fellow up at Syracuse townland, Measles, +North Carolina, and his name was Flay Harris; they called him Flea—” + </p> +<p> +“That ceiling of the great hall was a work of Guido's, you said?” inquired +Mrs. Morris. +</p> +<p> +“A pupil of Guido's, a certain Simone Affretti, who afterwards made the +designs for the Twelve Apostles in the window of the chapter-room at +Sienna,” read out Mr. O'Shea. +</p> +<p> +“Who can vouch for one word of all that, sir?” burst in Mr. Morgan, with a +choleric warmth. “Who is to tell me, sir, that you did n't write that, or +Peter Noakes, or John Murray himself, if there be such a man.” + </p> +<p> +“I can vouch for the last,” said a pale, gentle-looking young fellow, who +was arranging the flies in a fishing-book under a tree at a little +distance. “If it will relieve you from any embarrassments on the score of +belief, I can assist you so far.” + </p> +<p> +If there was a faint irony in this speech, the mild look of the speaker +and his softened accents made it seem of the very faintest, and so even +the bluff Mr. Morgan himself appeared to acknowledge. +</p> +<p> +“As you say so, Mr. Layton, I will consent to suppose there is such a man; +not that the fact, in the slightest degree, touches my original +proposition.” + </p> +<p> +“Certainly not, Tom,” chimed in Mrs. Morgan, in a thick voice, like one +drowning. +</p> +<p> +“But if you doubt Guido, you may doubt Raphael, Titian, Michael Angelo,” + burst in Mrs. Morris, with a holy terror in her voice. +</p> +<p> +“Well, ma'am, I'm capable of all that—and worse.” + </p> +<p> +What that “worse” was there is no saying, though possibly Mr. Mosely was +trying to guess at it in the whisper he ventured to Mrs. Morris, and which +made that lady smile incredulously. +</p> +<p> +“I now, sir, rise to put the original motion,” said O'Shea, assuming that +parliamentary tone which scandal pretended he displayed everywhere but in +the House; “is it the opinion of this committee that we should all go and +visit the Villa Caprini?” + </p> +<p> +“Are we quite sure it is to be seen?” interposed Mr. Layton; “it may be +occupied, and by persons who have no fancy to receive strangers.” + </p> +<p> +“The observation strikes me as singularly narrow and illiberal, sir,” + burst in Morgan, with warmth. “Are we of the nineteenth century to be told +that any man—I don't care how he calls himself—has a vested +right in the sight or inspection of objects devised and designed and +completed centuries before he was born?” + </p> +<p> +“Well put, Tom,—remarkably well put,” smothered out Mrs. Morgan. +</p> +<p> +“Will you say, sir,” assumed he, thus cheered on to victory,—“will +you say, sir, that if these objects—frescos, bas-reliefs, or +whatever other name you give them—have the humanizing influence you +assume for them,—which, by the way, I am quite ready to dispute at +another opportunity with you or that other young gentleman yonder, whose +simpering sneer would seem to disparage my sentiment—” + </p> +<p> +“If you mean me, sir,” took up Mr. Mosely, “I was n't so much as attending +to one word you said.” + </p> +<p> +“No, Tom, certainly not,” burst in Mrs. Morgan, answering with energy some +sudden ejaculated purpose of her wrathy spouse. +</p> +<p> +“I simply meant to say,” interposed Layton, mildly, “that such a visit as +we propose might be objected to, or conceded in a way little agreeable to +ourselves.” + </p> +<p> +“A well-written note, a gracefully worded request, which nobody could do +better than Mr. Alfred Layton—” began Mrs. Morris, when a dissenting +gesture from that gentleman stopped her. “Or, perhaps,” continued she, +“Mr. Gorman O'Shea would so far assist our project?” + </p> +<p> +“My motion is to appear at the bar of the house,—I mean at the +gate-lodge,—sending in our names, with a polite inquiry to know if +we may see the place,” said Mr. O'Shea. +</p> +<p> +“Well, stranger, I stand upon your platform,” chimed in Quackinboss; “I 'm +in no manner of ways 'posted' up in your Old World doings, but I 'd say +that you 've fixed the question all straight.” + </p> +<p> +“Show-places are show-places; the people who take them know it,” blurted +out Mr. Morgan. “Ay, and what's more, they're proud of it.” + </p> +<p> +“They are, Tom,” said his wife, authoritatively. +</p> +<p> +“If you 'd give me one of them a present, for the living in it, I 'd not +take it No, sir, I 'd not,” reiterated Morgan, with a fierce energy. “What +is a man in such a case, sir, but a sort of appraiser, a kind of agent to +show off his own furniture, telling you to remark that cornice, and not to +forget that malachite chimney-piece?” + </p> +<p> +“Very civil of him, certainly,” said Layton, in his low, quiet voice, +which at the same time seemed to quiver with a faint irony. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir, not civil, only boastful; mere purse-pride, nothing more.” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing, Tom,—absolutely nothing.” + </p> +<p> +“What's before the house this evening,—the debate looks animated?” + said a fine bright-eyed boy of about fourteen, who lounged carelessly on +Layton's shoulder as he came up. +</p> +<p> +“It was a little scheme to visit the Villa Caprini, my Lord,” said Mosely, +not sorry to have the opportunity of addressing himself to a person of +title. +</p> +<p> +“How jolly, eh, Alfred? What say you to the plan?” said the boy, merrily. +</p> +<p> +Layton answered something, but in a tone too low to be overheard. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, as to that,” replied the boy, quickly, “if he be an Englishman who +lives there, surely some of us must know him.” + </p> +<p> +“The very remark I was about to make, my Lord,” smiled in Mrs. Morris. +</p> +<p> +“Well, then, we agree to go there; that 's the main thing,” said O'Shea. +“Two carriages, I suppose, will hold us; and, as to the time, shall we say +to-morrow?” + </p> +<p> +To-morrow was unanimously voted by the company, who now set themselves to +plot the details of the expedition, amidst which not the least knotty was, +who were to be the fellow-travellers with Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, a post of +danger assuredly not sought for with any heroic intrepidity, while an +equally eager intrigue was on foot about securing the presence of the +young Marquis of Agincourt and his tutor, Mr. Layton. The ballot, however, +routed all previous machinations, deciding that the young peer was to +travel with the Morgans and Colonel Quackinboss, an announcement which no +deference to the parties themselves could prevent being received with a +blank disappointment, except by Mr. Layton, who simply said,— +</p> +<p> +“We shall take care to be in time, Mrs. Morgan.” And then, drawing his +pupil's arm within his own, strolled negligently away. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER IV. VISITORS +</h2> +<p> +“I foretold all this,” said Charles Heathcote, peevishly, as a servant +presented a number of visiting-cards with a polite request from the owners +to be allowed to visit the villa and its gardens. “I often warned you of +the infliction of inhabiting one of these celebrated places, which our +inquisitive countrymen <i>will</i> see and their wives <i>will</i> write +about.” + </p> +<p> +“Who are they, Charley?” said May, gayly. “Let us see if we may not know +some of them.” + </p> +<p> +“Know them. Heaven forbid! Look at the equipages they have come in; only +cast an eye at the two leathern conveniences now before the door, and say, +is it likely that they contain any acquaintances of ours?” + </p> +<p> +“How hot they look, broiling down there! But who are they, Charley?” + </p> +<p> +“Mrs. Penthony Morris,—never heard of her; Mr. Algernon Mosely,—possibly +the Bond Street man; Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Rice Morgan, of Plwmnwrar,—however +that be pronounced; Mr. Layton and friend,—discreet friend, who will +not figure by name; Mr. Gorman O'Shea, by all the powers! and, as I live, +our Yankee again!” + </p> +<p> +“Not Quackinboss, surely?” broke in Sir William, good-humoredly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes. There he is: 'U. S. A., Colonel Leonidas Shaver Quackinboss;' and +there's the man, too, with his coat on his arm, on that coach-box.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll certainly vote for my Transatlantic friend,” said the Baronet, “and +consequently for any party of which he is a member.” + </p> +<p> +“As for me!” cried May,—“I 've quite a curiosity to see him; not to +say that it would be downright churlishness to refuse any of our +countrymen the permission thus asked for.” + </p> +<p> +“Be it so. I only stipulate for not playing cicerone to our amiable +visitors; and the more surely to escape such an indignity, I 'm off till +dinner.” + </p> +<p> +“Let Fenton wait on those gentlemen,” said the Baronet, “and go round with +them through the house and the grounds. Order luncheon also to be ready.” + There was a little, a very little, irritation, perhaps, in his voice, but +May's pleasant smile quickly dispelled the momentary chagrin, and his +good-humored face was soon itself again. +</p> +<p> +If I have not trespassed upon my reader's patience by minute descriptions +of the characters I have introduced to him, it is in the expectation that +their traits are such as, lying lightly on the surface, require little +elucidation. Nor do I ask of him to bestow more attention to their +features than he would upon those of travelling acquaintances with whom it +is his fortune to journey in company for a brief space. +</p> +<p> +Strange enough, indeed, is that intimacy of travelling acquaintanceship +—familiar without friendship, frank without being cordial. Curious +pictures of life might be made from these groups thrown accidentally +together in a steamboat or railroad, at the gay watering-place, or the +little fishing-village in the bathing-season. +</p> +<p> +How free is all the intercourse of those who seem to have taken a vow with +themselves never to meet each other again! With what humorous zest do they +enjoy the oddities of this one, or the eccentricities of that, making up +little knots and cliques, to be changed or dissolved within the day, and +actually living on the eventualities of the hour, for their confidences! +The contrasts that would repel in ordinary life, the disparities that +would discourage, have actually invited intimacy; and people agree to +associate, even familiarly, with those whom, in the recognized order of +their daily existence, they would have as coldly repelled. +</p> +<p> +There was little to bind those together whom we have represented as seated +under the chestnut-trees at the Bagni de Lucca. They entertained their +suspicions and distrusts and misgivings of each other to a liberal extent; +they wasted no charities in their estimate of each other; and wherever +posed by a difficulty, they did not lend to the interpretation any undue +amount of generosity; nay, they even went further, and argued from little +peculiarities of dress, manner, and demeanor, to the whole antecedents of +him they criticised, and took especial pains in their moments of +confidence to declare that they had only met Mr.——— for +the first time at Ems, and never saw Mrs.——— till they +were overtaken by the snow-storm on the Splugen. +</p> +<p> +Such-like was the company who now, headed by the obsequious butler, +strolled leisurely through the spacious saloons of the Villa Caprini. +</p> +<p> +Who is there, in this universal vagabondage, has not made one of such +groups? Where is the man that has not strolled, “John Murray” in hand, +along his Dresden, his Venice, or his Rome; staring at ceilings, and +gazing ruefully at time-discolored frescos,—grieved to acknowledge +to his own heart how little he could catch of a connoisseur's enthusiasm +or an antiquarian's fervor,—wondering within himself wherefore he +could not feel like that other man whose raptures he was reading, and with +sore misgivings that some nice sense had been omitted in his nature? +Wonderfully poignant and painful things are these little appeals to an +inner consciousness. How far such sentiments were distributed amongst +those who now lounged and stared through <i>salon</i> and gallery, we must +leave to the reader's own appreciation. They looked pleased, convinced, +and astonished, and, be it confessed, “bored” in turn; they were called +upon to admire much they did not care for, and wonder at many things which +did not astonish them; they were often referred to histories which they +had forgotten, if they ever knew them, and to names of whose celebrity +they were ignorant; and it was with a most honest sense of relief they saw +themselves reach the last room of the suite, where a few cabinet pictures +and some rare carvings in ivory alone claimed their attention. +</p> +<p> +“A 'Virgin and Child,' by Murillo,” said the guide. +</p> +<p> +“The ninth 'Virgin and Child,' by all that's holy!” said Mr. O'Shea. “The +ninth we have seen to-day!” + </p> +<p> +“The blue drapery, ladies and gentlemen,” continued the inexorable +describer, “is particularly noticed. It is 'glazed' in a manner only known +to Murillo.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm glad of it, and I hope the secret died with him,” cried Mr. Morgan. +“It looks for all the world like a bathing-dress.” + </p> +<p> +“The child squints. Don't he squint?” exclaimed Mosely. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, for shame!” cried Mrs. Morris. “Mr. Layton is quite shocked with your +profane criticism.” + </p> +<p> +“I did not hear it, I assure you,” said that gentleman, as he arose from a +long and close contemplation of a “St. John,” by Salvator. +</p> +<p> +“'St. John preaching in the Wilderness!'” said Quackinboss; “too tame for +my taste. He don't seem to roll up his sleeves to the work,—does +he?” + </p> +<p> +“It's not stump-oratory, surely?” said Layton, with a quiet smile. +</p> +<p> +“Ain't it, though! Well, stranger, I'm in a considerable unmixed error if +it is not! You'd like to maintain that because a man does n't rise up from +a velvet cushion and lay his hand upon a grand railing, all carved with +grotesque intricacies, all his sentiments must needs be commonplace and +vulgar; but I 'm here to tell you, sir, that you 'd hear grander things, +nobler things, and greater things from a moss-covered old tree-stump in a +western pine-forest, by the mouth of a plain, hardy son of hard toil, than +you've often listened to in what you call your place in Parliament Now, +that's a fact!” + </p> +<p> +There was that amount of energy in the way these words were uttered that +seemed to say, if carried further, the discussion might become +contentious. +</p> +<p> +Mr. Layton did not show any disposition to accept the gage of battle, but +turned to seek for his pupil. +</p> +<p> +“You 're looking for the Marquis, Mr. Layton,” asked Mrs. Morris, “ain't +you? I think you'll find him in the shrubberies, for he said all this only +bored him, and he 'd go and look for a cool spot to smoke his cigar.” + </p> +<p> +“That's what it all comes to,” said Morgan, as soon as Layton had left the +room; “that's the whole of it! You pay a fellow—a 'double first' +something or other from Oxford or Cambridge—five hundred a year to +go abroad with your son, and all he teaches him is to choose a cheroot.” + </p> +<p> +“And smoke it, Tom,” chimed in Mrs. Morgan. +</p> +<p> +“There ain't no harm in a weed, sir, I hope?” said Quackinboss. “The +thinkers of this earth are most of 'em smoking men. What do you say, sir, +to Humboldt, Niebuhr, your own Bulwer, and all our people, from John C. +Colhoun to Daniel Webster? When a man puts a cigar between his lips, he as +good as says, 'I 'm a-reflecting,—I 'm not in no ways to be broke in +upon.' It's his own fault, sir, if he does n't think, for he has in a +manner shut the door to keep out intruders.” + </p> +<p> +“Filthy custom!” muttered Mr. Morgan, with a garbled sentence, in which +the word “America” was half audible. +</p> +<p> +“What's this he's saying about eating,—this Italian fellow?” said +Mr. Mosely, as a servant addressed him in a foreign language. +</p> +<p> +“It is a polite invitation to a luncheon,” said Mrs. Morris, modestly +turning to her fellow-travellers for their decision. +</p> +<p> +“Do any of us know our host?” asked Mr. OShea. “He is a Sir William +Heathcote.” + </p> +<p> +“There was a director of the Central Trunk line of that name, who failed +for half a million sterling,” whispered Morgan; “should n't wonder if it +were he.” + </p> +<p> +“All the more certain to give us a jolly feed, if he be!” chuckled Mosely. +“I vote we accept.” + </p> +<p> +“That of course,” said Mrs. Morris. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I know him, I reckon,” drawled out Quackinboss; “and I rayther +suspect you owe this here politeness to <i>my</i> company. Yes, sir!” said +he, half fiercely, to O'Shea, upon whose face a sort of incredulous smile +was breaking,—“yes, sir!” + </p> +<p> +“Being our own countryman, sir,—an Englishman,—I suspect,” + said Mr. Morgan, with warmth, “that the hospitality has been extended to +us on wider grounds.” + </p> +<p> +“But why should we dispute about the matter at all?” mildly remarked Mrs. +Morris. “Let us say yes, and be grateful.” + </p> +<p> +“There's good sense in that,” chimed in Mosely, “and I second it.” + </p> +<p> +“Carried with unanimity,” said O'Shea, as, turning to the servant, he +muttered something in broken French. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I'm sure, I never!” mumbled Quackinboss to himself; but what he +meant, or to what new circumstance in his life's experience he alluded, +there is unhappily no explanation in this history; but he followed the +rest with a drooping head and an air of half-melancholy resignation that +was not by any means unusual with him. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER V. ACCIDENTS AND THEIR CONSEQUENCES +</h2> +<p> +When the young Marquis had made his escape from sightseeing, and all its +attendant inflictions, he was mainly bent on what he would himself have +called being “very jolly,”—that is to say, going his own way +unmolested, strolling the road he fancied, and following out his own +thoughts. Not that these same thoughts absolutely needed for their +exercise or development any extraordinary advantages of solitude and +retirement. He was no deep-minded sage, revolving worlds to come,—no +poet, in search of the inspiring influence of nature,—no subtle +politician, balancing the good and evil of some nice legislation. He was +simply one of those many thousand England yearly turns out from her public +schools of fine, dashing, free-hearted, careless boys, whose most marked +feature in character is a wholesome horror of all that is mean or shabby. +Less than a year before, he had been a midshipman in her Majesty's +gun-boat “Mosquito;” the death of an elder brother had made him a Marquis, +with the future prospect of several thousands a year. +</p> +<p> +He had scarcely seen or known his brother, so he grieved very little for +his loss, but he sorrowed sincerely over the change of fortune that called +him from his sea life and companions to an “on-shore” existence, and +instead of the gun-room and its gay guests, gave him the proprieties of +station and the requirements of high rank. One of his guardians thought he +ought to go into the Guards; another advised a university; both agreed +upon a tutor, and Mr. Layton was found, a young man of small fortune, +whose health, injured by over-reading for honors, required change of scene +and rest. They had been companions for a very short time, but had, as the +young Lord would have said, “hit it off” admirably together; that is to +say, partly from a just appreciation of his pupil, and partly out of a +natural indolence of disposition, Layton interfered very little with him, +gave him no troublesome tasks, imposed no actual studies, but contented +himself with a careful watch over the boy's disposition, a gentle, scarce +perceptible correction of his faults, and an honest zeal to develop any +generous trait in his nature, little mindful of the disappointments his +trustfulness must incur. Layton's theory was that we all become wise too +early in life, and that the world's lessons should not be too soon +implanted in a fresh unsuspecting nature. His system was not destined to +be sorely tested in the present case. Harry Montserrat, Marquis of +Agincourt, was a fortunate subject to illustrate it by. There never was a +less suspectful nature; he was frank, generous, and brave; his faults were +those of a hot, fiery temper, and a disposition to resent, too early and +too far, what with a little patience he might have tolerated or even +forgiven. +</p> +<p> +The fault, however, which Layton was more particularly guardful against, +was a certain over-consciousness of his station and its power, which +gradually began to show itself. +</p> +<p> +In his first experience of altered fortune he did nothing but regret the +past. It was no compensation to him for his careless sea-life, with all +its pleasant associations, to become of a sudden invested with station, +and treated with what he deemed over-deference. His reefer's jacket was +pleasanter “wear” than his padded frock-coat; the nimble boy who waited on +him in the gun-room he thought a far smarter attendant than his obsequious +valet; and, with all his midshipman's love of money-spending and +squandering, the charm of extravagance was gone when there were no +messmates to partake of it; nor did his well-groomed nag and his +well-dressed tiger suggest one-half the enjoyment he had often felt in a +pony ride over the cliffs of Malta, with some others of his mess, where +falls were rife and tumbles frequent. These, I say, were first thoughts, +but gradually others took their places. The enervation of a life of ease +began soon to show itself, and he felt the power of a certain station. In +the allowance his guardian made him, he had a far greater sum at his +disposal than he ever possessed before; and in the title of his rank he +soon discovered a magic that made the world beneath him very deferential +and very obliging. +</p> +<p> +“That boy has been very ill brought up, Mr. Layton; it will be your chief +care to instil into him proper notions of the place he is to occupy one of +these days,” said an old Earl, one of his guardians, and who was most +eager that every trace of his sea life should be eradicated. +</p> +<p> +“Don't let him get spoiled, Layton, because he's a Lord,” said the other +guardian, who was an old Admiral. “There's good stuff in the lad, and it +would be a thousand pities it should be corrupted.” + </p> +<p> +Layton did his best to obey each; but the task had its difficulties. As to +the boy himself, the past and the present, the good and the evil, the +frank young middy and the rich lordling, warred and contended in his +nature; nor was it very certain at any moment which would ultimately gain +the mastery. Such, without dwelling more minutely, was he who now strolled +along through shrubbery and parterre, half listless as to the way, but +very happy withal, and very light-hearted. +</p> +<p> +There was something in the scene that recalled England to his mind. There +were more trees and turf than usually are found in Italian landscape, and +there was, half hidden between hazel and alder, a clear, bright river, +that brawled and fretted over rocks, or deepened into dark pools, +alternately. How the circling eddies of a fast-flowing stream do appeal to +young hearts! what music do they hear in the gushing waters! what a story +is there in that silvery current as it courses along through waving +meadows, or beneath tall mountains, and along some dark and narrow gorge, +emblem of life itself in its light and shade, its peaceful intervals and +its hours of struggle and conflict. +</p> +<p> +Forcing his way through the brushwood that guarded the banks, the boy +gained a little ledge of rock, against which the current swept with +violence, and then careered onward over a shallow, gravelly bed till lost +in another bend of the stream. Just as Agincourt reached the rock, he +spied a fishing-rod deeply and securely fastened in one of its fissures, +but whose taper point was now bending like a whip, and springing violently +under the struggling effort of a strong fish. He was nothing of an angler. +Of honest “Izaak” and his gentle craft he absolutely knew nought, and of +all the mysteries of hackles and green drakes he was utterly ignorant; but +his sailor instinct could tell him when a spar was about to break, and +this he now saw to be the case. The strain was great, and every jerk now +threatened to snap either line or rod. He looked hurriedly around him for +the fisherman, whose interests were in such grave peril; but seeing no one +near, he endeavored to withdraw the rod. While he thus struggled, for it +was fastened with care, the efforts of the fish to escape became more and +more violent, and at last, just as the boy had succeeded in his task, a +strong spring from the fish snapped the rod near the tip, and at the same +instant snatched it from the youth's hand into the stream. Without a +second's hesitation, Agincourt dashed into the river, which rose nearly to +his shoulders, and, after a vigorous pursuit, reached the rod, but only as +the fish had broken the strong gut in two, and made his escape up the +rapid current. +</p> +<p> +The boy was toilfully clambering up the bank, with the broken rod in his +hand, when a somewhat angry summons in Italian met his ears. It was time +enough, he thought, to look for the speaker when he had gained dry land; +so he patiently fought his way upwards, and at last, out of breath and +exhausted, threw himself full length in the deep grass of the bank. +</p> +<p> +“I believe I am indebted to you, sir, for my smashed tackle and the loss +of a heavy fish besides?” said Charles Heathcote, as he came up to where +the youth was lying, his voice and manner indicating the anger that moved +him. +</p> +<p> +“I thought to have saved the rod and caught the fish too,” said the other, +half indolently; “but I only got a wet jacket for my pains.” + </p> +<p> +“I rather suspect, young gentleman, you are more conversant with a +measuring-yard than a salmon-rod,” said Heathcote, insolently, as he +surveyed the damaged fragments of his tackle. +</p> +<p> +“What do you mean by that, sir?” cried the boy, springing with a bound to +his feet, and advancing boldly towards his adversary. +</p> +<p> +“Simply that it 's not exactly the sort of sport you follow in Bond +Street,” retorted Heathcote, whose head was full of “Mosely and Trip,” and +felt certain that a scion of that great house was before him. +</p> +<p> +“You must be a rare snob not to know a gentleman when you see him,” said +Agincourt, with an insolent defiance in his look. +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps I'd be a better judge if I saw him after a good washing,” said +Heathcote, who, with one hasty glance at the river, now turned a fierce +eye on the youth. +</p> +<p> +Agincourt's gun-room experiences had not taught him to decline an offered +battle, and he threw off his cap to show that he was ready and willing to +accept the challenge, when suddenly Layton sprang between them, crying +out, “What's the meaning of all this?” + </p> +<p> +“The meaning is, that your young friend there has taken the liberty, +first, to smash my fishing-gear, and then to be very insolent to me, and +that I had very serious intentions of sending him to look for the one and +pay forfeit for the other.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, I broke his rod, and I 'll pay for it, or, if he's a gentleman, I'll +beg his pardon, or fight him,” said the boy, in a tone of ill-repressed +anger. +</p> +<p> +“When there is an evident mistake somewhere,” said Layton, gently, “it +only needs a moment of forbearance to set it right.” + </p> +<p> +“Here's how it all happened,” broke in the boy, eagerly. And in a few +words he related his chance arrival at the spot, how he had seen the rod +in what he deemed imminent danger, and how with the best intentions he had +interfered to save it. +</p> +<p> +“I beg you to accept all my excuses for what I have said to you,” said +Heathcote, with a frank and manly courtesy. “I am quite ashamed of my +ill-temper, and hope you'll forgive it.” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure I will. But what about the rod,—you can't easily get +such another in these parts?” + </p> +<p> +The boy looked eagerly at Layton as he spoke. Layton as quickly gave an +admonitory glance of caution, and the youth's instinctive good breeding +understood it. +</p> +<p> +“I think you came over with a party of friends to see the villa,” said +Heathcote, to relieve the awkward pause between them. +</p> +<p> +“Not friends, exactly; people of our hotel.” + </p> +<p> +Heathcote smiled faintly, and rejoined,— +</p> +<p> +“Some of our pleasantest acquaintances come of chance intimacies,—don't +you think so?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, for the matter of that, they 're jolly enough. There's a wonderful +Londoner, and a rare Yankee, and there's an Irishman would make the +fortune of the Haymarket.” + </p> +<p> +“You must own, Harry, they are all most kind and good-natured to you,” + said Layton, in a tone of mild half-rebuke. +</p> +<p> +“Well, ain't I just as—what shall I call it?—polite and the +like to them? Ay, Layton, frown away as much as you like, they're a rum +lot.” + </p> +<p> +“It is young gentlemen of this age who nowadays are most severe on the +manners and habits of those they chance upon in a journey, not at all +aware that, as the world is all new to them, their criticism may have for +its object things of every-day frequency.” + </p> +<p> +The youth looked somewhat vexed at this reproof, but said nothing. +</p> +<p> +“I have the same unlucky habit myself,” said Heathcote, good-humoredly. “I +pronounce upon people with wonderfully little knowledge of them, and no +great experience of the world neither; and—case in point—your +American acquaintance is exactly one of those I feel the very strongest +antipathy to. We have met at least a dozen times during the winter and +autumn, and the very thought of finding <i>him</i> in a place would decide +<i>me</i> to leave it.” + </p> +<p> +It was not Layton's business to correct what he deemed faulty in this +sentiment; but in the sharp glance he threw towards his pupil, he seemed +to convey his disapproval of it. +</p> +<p> +“'My Coach,' Mr. Layton, is dying to tell us both we are wrong, sir,” said +the boy; “he likes the 'kernal.'” And this he said with a nasal twang +whose imitation was not to be mistaken. +</p> +<p> +Though Heathcote laughed at the boy's mimicry, his attention was more +taken by the expression “my Coach,” which not only revealed the relations +of tutor and pupil between them, but showed, by its familiarity, that the +youth stood in no great awe of his preceptor. +</p> +<p> +Perhaps Layton had no fancy for this liberty before a stranger; perhaps he +felt ashamed of the position itself; perhaps he caught something in +Heathcote's quick glance towards him,—whatever it was, he was +irritated and provoked, and angrily bit his lip, without uttering a word. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, here come the sight-seers! they are doing the grounds, and the +grottos, and the marble fountains,” cried the boy, as a large group came +out from a flower-garden and took their way towards an orangery. As they +issued forth, however, Mrs. Morris stopped to caress a very large St. +Bernard dog, who lay chained at the foot of an oak-tree. Charles Heathcote +had not time to warn her of her danger, when the animal sprang fiercely at +her. Had she not fallen suddenly backward, she must have been fearfully +mangled; as it was, she received a severe wound in the wrist, and, +overcome by pain and terror together, sank fainting on the sward. +</p> +<p> +For some time the confusion was extreme. Some thought that the dog was at +liberty, and fled away in terror across the park; others averred that he +was—must be—mad, and his bite fatal; a few tried to be useful; +but Quackinboss hurried to the river, and, filling his hat with water, +sprinkled the cold face of the sufferer and washed the wound, carefully +binding it up with his handkerchief in a quick, business-like way, that +showed he was not new to such casualties. +</p> +<p> +Layton meanwhile took charge of the little girl, whose cries and screams +were heartrending. +</p> +<p> +“What a regular day of misfortunes, this!” said Agincourt, as he followed +the mournful procession while they carried the still fainting figure back +to the house. “I fancy you 'll not let another batch of sight-seers into +your grounds in a hurry.” + </p> +<p> +“The ill-luck has all befallen our guests,” said Heathcote. “Our share of +the mishap is to be associated with so much calamity.” + </p> +<p> +All that care and kindness could provide waited on Mrs. Morris, as she was +carried into the villa and laid on a bed. May Leslie took all upon +herself, and while the doctor was sent for, used such remedies as she had +near. It was at once decided that she should not be removed, and after +some delay the company departed without her; the day that had dawned so +pleasantly thus closing in gloom and sadness, and the party so bent on +amusement returned homeward depressed and dispirited. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0066.jpg" alt="ONE0066" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“They 're mean vicious, these Alp dogs, and never to be trusted,” said +Quackinboss. +</p> +<p> +“Heroines will be heroines,” said Mrs. Morgan, gruffly. +</p> +<p> +“Or rather won't be heroines when the occasion comes for it. She fainted +off like a school-girl,” growled out Morgan. +</p> +<p> +“I should think she did!” muttered Mosely, “when she felt the beast's +teeth in her.” + </p> +<p> +“A regular day of misfortunes!” repeated Agincourt. +</p> +<p> +“And we lost the elegant fine luncheon, too, into the bargain,” said +O'Shea. “Every one seemed to think it wouldn't be genteel to eat after the +disaster.” + </p> +<p> +“It is the fate of pleasure parties,” said Layton, moodily. And so they +jogged on in silence. +</p> +<p> +And thus ended a day of pleasure, as many have ended before it. +</p> +<p> +Assuredly, they who plan picnics are not animated by the spirit of an +actuary. There is a marvellous lack of calculation in their composition, +since, of all species of entertainment, there exists not one so much at +the mercy of accident, so thoroughly dependent for success on everything +going right. Like the Walcheren expedition, the “wind must not only blow +from the right point, but with a certain graduated amount of force.” What +elements of sunshine and shade, what combinations of good spirits and good +temper and good taste! what guidance and what moderation, what genius of +direction and what “respect for minorities”! We will not enter upon the +material sources of success, though, indeed, it should be owned they are +generally better looked to, and more cared for, than the moral ingredients +thus massed and commingled. +</p> +<p> +It was late when the party reached the Bagni, and, wishing each other a +half-cold good-night, separated. +</p> +<p> +And now, one last peep at the villa, where we have left the sufferer. It +was not until evening that the Heathcotes had so far recovered from the +shock of the morning's disaster and its consequences as to be able to meet +and talk over the events, and the actors in them. +</p> +<p> +“Well,” said Sir William, as they all sat round the tea-table, “what do +you say to my Yankee now? Of all that company, was there one that showed +the same readiness in a difficulty, a quick-witted aptitude to do the +right thing, and at the same time so unobtrusively and quietly that when +everything was over it was hard to say who had done it?” + </p> +<p> +“I call him charming. I'm in ecstasies with him,” said May, whose +exaggerations of praise or censure were usually unbounded. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm quite ready to own he 'came out' strong in the confusion,” said +Charles, half unwillingly; “but it was just the sort of incident that such +a man was sure to figure well in.” + </p> +<p> +“Show me the man who is active and ready-minded in his benevolence, and I +'ll show you one who has not to go far into his heart to search for +generous motives. I maintain it, Quackinboss is a fine fellow!” There was +almost a touch of anger in Sir William's voice as he said these words, as +though he would regard any disparagement of the American as an offence to +himself. +</p> +<p> +“I think Charley is a little jealous,” said May, with a sly malice; “he +evidently wanted to carry the wounded lady himself, when that great giant +interposed, and, seizing the prize, walked away as though he were only +carrying a baby.” + </p> +<p> +“I fancied it was the tutor was disappointed,” said Charles; “and the way +he devoted his cares to the little girl, when deprived of the mamma, +convinced me he was the party chiefly interested.” + </p> +<p> +“Which was the tutor?” asked May, hastily. “You don't mean the man with +all the velvet on his coat?” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; that was Mr. O'Shea, the Irish M.P., who, by the way, paid <i>you</i> +the most persevering attention.” + </p> +<p> +“A hateful creature, insufferably pretentious and impertinent! The tutor +was, then, the pale young man in black?” + </p> +<p> +“A nice, modest fellow,” broke in Sir William; “and a fine boy that young +Marquis of Agincourt. I 'm glad you asked him up here, Charles. He is to +come on Tuesday, is he not?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, I said Tuesday, because I can't get my tackle to rights before that; +and I promised to make him a fly-fisher. I owe him the reparation.” + </p> +<p> +“You included the tutor, of course, in your invitation?” asked his father. +</p> +<p> +“No. How stupid! I forgot him altogether.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh! that was too bad,” said May. +</p> +<p> +“Indeed,” cried Charles, turning towards her with a look of such malicious +significance that she blushed deeply, and averted her head. +</p> +<p> +“Let us invite them all up here for Tuesday, May,” said Sir William. “It +would be very unfair if they were to carry away only a disagreeable memory +of this visit. Let us try and efface the first unhappy impression.” + </p> +<p> +“All right,” said Charles, “and I'll dash off a few lines to Mr. Layton, I +think his name is, to say that we expect he will favor us with his company +for a few days here. Am I not generosity itself, May?” said he, in a low +whisper, as he passed behind her chair. +</p> +<p> +A blush still deeper than the first, and a look of offended pride, were +her only answer. +</p> +<p> +“I must go in search of these good people's cards, for I forget some of +their names,” said Charles; “though I believe I remember the important +ones.” + </p> +<p> +This last sally was again directed towards May, but she, apparently, did +not hear it. +</p> +<p> +“Who knows but your patient upstairs may be well enough to meet her +friends, May?” said Sir William. +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps so. I can't tell,” answered she, vaguely; for she had but heard +him imperfectly, and scarcely knew what she was replying. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER VI. THE MEMBER FOR INCHABOGUE +</h2> +<p> +Mr. O'Shea lay in his bed at the Bagni di Lucca. It was late in the +afternoon, and he had not yet risen, being one of those who deem, to +travesty the poet,— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +That the best of all ways +To shorten our days +Is to add a few hours to the night, my dear. +</pre> +<p> +In other words, he was ineffably bored and wearied, sick of the place, the +people, and himself, and only wearing over the time as one might do the +stated term of an imprisonment His agent—Mr. Mahony, the celebrated +Mr. Miles Mahony, who was agent for all the Irish gentlemen of Mr. +O'Shea's politics, and who has either estates very much encumbered, or no +estates at all—had written him that letter, which might be +stereotyped in every agent's office, and sent off indiscriminately by +post, at due intervals, to any of the clients, for there was the same +bead-roll of mishaps and calamities Ireland has been suffering under for +centuries. Take any traveller or guide-book experience of the land, and it +is a record of rain that never ceased. The Deluge was a passing April +shower compared to the national climate. Ask any proprietor, however, more +especially if a farmer, and he would tell you, “We're ruined, entirely +ruined, with the drought,”—perhaps he 'd have called it “druth.” “If +the rain doesn't fall before twenty-four hours, there will be no potatoes, +no grass, no straw, the wheat won't fill, the cattle will be destroyed,” + and so on; just as if the whole population was not soaked through like a +wet sponge, and the earth a sludge of mud and swamp, to which Holland +seems a sand-bank in comparison! Then came the runaway tenants, only +varied by those who couldn't be induced to “run” on any terms. There was +the usual “agrarian outrage,” with the increased police force quartered on +the barony in consequence, and perhaps a threat of a special commission, +with more expense besides. There was the extract of the judge's charge, +saying that he never remembered so “heavy a calendar,” the whole winding +up with an urgent appeal to send over ten or twenty pounds to repair the +chapel or the priest's house, or contribute to some local object, “at your +indifference to which there is very great discontent at this moment.” + </p> +<p> +A pleasant postcript also mentioned that a dissolution of Parliament was +daily expected, and that it would be well you 'd “come home and look after +the borough, where the Tories were working night and day to increase their +influence.” + </p> +<p> +“Bad luck to them for Tories!” muttered he, as he threw the crumpled +document from him. “I 'd have been well off to-day if it was n't for them. +There's no telling the money the contested elections cost me, while, to +make out that I was a patriot, I could n't take a place, but had to go on +voting and voting out of the purity of my motives. It was an evil hour +when I took to politics at all. Joe! Joe!” cried he, aloud, following up +the appeal with a shrill whistle. +</p> +<p> +“Tear and ages, sure the house isn't on fire!” said a man, rushing into +the room with an air and manner that little indicated the respect due from +a servant to his master; “not to say,” added he, “that it's not dacent or +becomin' to whistle after me, as if I was a tarrier or a bull-dog.” + </p> +<p> +“Hold your prate, will you?” said Mr. O'Shea. +</p> +<p> +“Why would I? 'Tis humiliated I am before all in the place.” + </p> +<p> +“Will you hold your prate?” muttered his master, in a deeper tone, while, +stretching forth his hand, he seemed in search of any missile to hurl at +his mutinous follower. +</p> +<p> +“If I do, then, it's undher protest, mind that I put it on record that I +'m only yieldin' to the 'vis magiory.'” + </p> +<p> +“What o'clock is it?” yawned out O'Shea. +</p> +<p> +“It wants a trifle of four o'clock.” + </p> +<p> +“And the day,—what's it like?” + </p> +<p> +“Blazin' hot—hotter than yesterday—'hotter than New Orleens,' +Mr. Quackinbosh says.” + </p> +<p> +“D—n Mr. Quackinbosh, and New Orleens too!” growled out O'Shea. +</p> +<p> +“With all my heart. He's always laughing at what he calls <i>my</i> Irish, +as if it was n't better than <i>his</i> English.” + </p> +<p> +“Any strangers arrived?” + </p> +<p> +“Devil a one. Ould Pagnini says he 'll be ruined entirely; there never was +such a set, he says, in the house before,—nothing called for but the +reg'lar meals, and no wine but the drink of the country, that is n't wine +at all.” + </p> +<p> +“He's an insolent scoundrel!” + </p> +<p> +“He is not. He is the dacentest man I seen since I come to Italy.” + </p> +<p> +“Will you hold your prate, or do you want me to kick you downstairs?” + </p> +<p> +“I do not!” said he, with a stern doggedness that was almost comic. +</p> +<p> +“Did you order breakfast?” + </p> +<p> +“I did, when I heard you screech out. 'There he is,' said ould Pan; 'I +wish he 'd be in the same hurry to call for his bill.'” + </p> +<p> +“Insolent rascal! Did you blacken his eye?” + </p> +<p> +“I did not” + </p> +<p> +“What did you do, then?” + </p> +<p> +“I did nothing.” + </p> +<p> +“What did you say? You're ready enough with a bad tongue when it's not +called for,—what did you say?” + </p> +<p> +“I said people called for their bills when they were lavin' a house, and +too lucky you 'll be, says I, if he pays it when he calls for it.” + </p> +<p> +This seemed too much for Mr. O'Shea's endurance, for he sprang out of bed +and hurled a heavy old olive-wood inkstand at his follower. Joe, +apparently habituated to such projectiles, speedily ducked his head, and +the missile struck the frame of an old looking-glass, and carried away a +much-ornamented but very frail chandelier at its side. +</p> +<p> +“There's more of it,” said Joe. “Damage to furniture in settin'-room, +forty-six pauls and a half.” With this sage reflection, he pushed the +fragments aside with his foot, and then, turning to the door, he took from +the hands of a waiter the tray containing his master's breakfast, +arranging it deliberately before him with the most unbroken tranquillity +of demeanor. +</p> +<p> +“Did n't you say it was chocolate I'd have instead of coffee?” said +O'Shea, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“I did not; they grumble enough about sending up anything, and I was n't +goin' to provoke them,” said Joe, calmly. +</p> +<p> +“No letters, I suppose, but this?” + </p> +<p> +“Sorra one.” + </p> +<p> +“What's going on below?” asked he, in a more lively tone, as though +dismissing an unpleasant theme. “Any one come,—anything doing?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing; they 're all off to that villa to spend the day, and not to be +back till late at night.” + </p> +<p> +“Stupid fun, after all; the road is roasting, and the place, when you get +there, not worth the trouble; but they 're so proud of visiting a baronet, +that's the whole secret of it, those vulgar Morgans and that Yankee +fellow.” + </p> +<p> +These mutterings he continued while he went on dressing, and though not +intended to be addressed to Joe, he was in no wise disconcerted when that +free-and-easy individual replied to them. +</p> +<p> +“'Your master 's not coming with us, I believe,' said Mrs. Morgan to me. +'I'm sure, however, there must have been a mistake. It 's so strange that +he got no invitation.' +</p> +<p> +“'But he did, ma'am,' says I; 'he got a card like the rest.'” + </p> +<p> +“Well done, Joe; a lie never choked you. Go on,” cried O'Shea, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“'But you see, ma'am,' says I, 'my master never goes anywhere in that kind +of promiscuous way. He expects to be called on and trated with +“differince,” as becomes a member of Parliament—' +</p> +<p> +“'For Ireland?' says she. +</p> +<p> +“'Yes, ma'am,' says I. 'We haven't as many goats there as in other parts I +'m tould of, nor the females don't ride straddle legs, with men's hats on +thim.'” + </p> +<p> +“You didn't say that?” burst in O'Shea, with a mock severity. +</p> +<p> +“I did, and more,—a great deal more. What business was it of hers +that you were not asked to the picnic? What had she to say to it? Why did +she follow me down the street the other morning, and stay watching all the +time I was in at the banker's, and though, when I came out, I made believe +I was stuffin' the bank-notes into my pocket, I saw by the impudent laugh +on her face that she knew I got nothing?” + </p> +<p> +“By the way, you never told me what Twist and Trover said.” + </p> +<p> +“I did.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, what was it? Tell it again,” said O'Shea, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“Mr. Trover said, 'Of course, whatever your master wants, just step in +there and show it to Mr. Twist;' and Mr. Twist said, 'Are you here again,' +says he, 'after the warnin' I gave you? Go back and tell your master 't is +takin' up his two last bills he ought to be, instead of passin' more.' +</p> +<p> +“' Mr. Trover, sir,' says I, 'sent me in.' +</p> +<p> +“'Well, Mr. Twist sent you out again,' says he, 'and there's your answer.' +</p> +<p> +“'Short and sweet,' says I, goin' out, and pretending to be putting up the +notes as I went.” + </p> +<p> +“Did you go down to the other fellow's,—Macapes?” + </p> +<p> +“I did; but as he seen me coming out of the other place, he only +ballyragged me, and said, 'We only discount for them as has letters of +credit on us.' +</p> +<p> +“'Well,' says I, 'but who knows that they 're not coming in the post now?' +</p> +<p> +“'We 'll wait till we see them,' says he. +</p> +<p> +“'By my conscience,' says I, 'I hope you 'll not eat your breakfast till +they come.' And so I walked away. Oh dear! is n't it a suspicious world?” + </p> +<p> +“It's a rascally world!” broke out O'Shea, with bitterness. +</p> +<p> +“It is!” assented Joe, with a positive energy there was no gainsaying. +</p> +<p> +“Is Mr. Layton gone with the rest this morning?” + </p> +<p> +“He is, and the Marquis. They 're a-horseback on two ponies not worth +fifty shilling apiece.” + </p> +<p> +“And that counter-jumper, Mosely, I'll wager he too thinks himself first +favorite for the heiress.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, then, in the name of all that's lucky, why don't you thry your own +chance?” said Joe, coaxingly. +</p> +<p> +“Is n't it because I <i>did</i> try that they have left me out of this +invitation? Is n't it because they saw I was like to be the winning horse +that they scratched me out of the race? Is n't it just because Gorman +O'Shea was the man to carry off the prize that they would n't let me enter +the lists?” + </p> +<p> +“There 's only two more as rich as her in all England,” chimed in Joe, +“and one of them will never marry any but the Emperor of Roosia.” + </p> +<p> +“She has money enough!” muttered O'Shea. “And neither father nor mother, +brother, sister, kith or kin,” continued Joe, in a tone of exultation that +seemed to say he knew of no such good luck in life as to stand alone and +friendless in the world. +</p> +<p> +“Those Heathcotes are related to her.” + </p> +<p> +“No more than they are to you. I have it all from Miss Smithers, the maid. +'We 're as free as air, Mr. Rouse,' says she; 'wherever we have a +“conceit,” we can follow it' That's plain talking, anyhow.” + </p> +<p> +“Would you marry Smithers, Joe?” said his master, with a roguish twinkle +in his eye. +</p> +<p> +“Maybe, if I knew for what; though, by my conscience, she's no beauty!” + </p> +<p> +“I meant, of course, for a good consideration.” + </p> +<p> +“Not on a bill, though,—money down,—hard money.” + </p> +<p> +“And how much of it?” asked O'Shea, with a knowing look. +</p> +<p> +“The price of that place at Einsale.” + </p> +<p> +“The 'Trout and Triangle,' Joe?” laughed out his master. “Are you still +yearning after being an innkeeper in your native town?” + </p> +<p> +“I am just that,” replied Joe, solemnly. “'T is what I 'd rather be than +Lord Mayor of Dublin!” + </p> +<p> +“Well, it is an honorable ambition, no doubt of it. Nothing can be more +reasonable, besides, than a man's desire to fill that station in life +which, to his boyish ideas, seemed high and enviable.” This speech Mr. +O'Shea delivered in a tone by which he occasionally turned to rehearse +oratorical effects, and which, by some strange sympathy, always appeared +to please his follower. “Yes, Joe,” continued he, “as the poet says, 'The +child is father of the man.'” + </p> +<p> +“You mane the man is father of the child,” broke in Joe. +</p> +<p> +“I do not, booby; I meant what I have said, and what Wordsworth said +before me.” + </p> +<p> +“The more fool he, then. It's nobody's father he 'd be. Arrah! that's the +way you always spoil a fine sintiment with something out of a poet. Poets +and play-actors never helped a man out of a ditch!” + </p> +<p> +“Will you marry this Smithers, if that be her name?” said O'Shea, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“For the place—” + </p> +<p> +“I mean as much.” + </p> +<p> +“I would, if I was treated—'raysonable,'” said he, pausing for a +moment in search of the precise word he wanted. +</p> +<p> +Mr. O'Shea sighed heavily; his exchequer contained nothing but promises; +and none knew better than his follower what such pledges were worth. +</p> +<p> +“It would be the making of you, Joe,” said he, after a brief silence, “if +I was to marry this heiress.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed, it might be,” responded the other. +</p> +<p> +“It would be the grand event of <i>your</i> life, that's what it would be. +What could I not do for you? You might be land-steward; you might be +under-agent, bailiff, driver,—eh?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” said Joe, closing his eyes, as if he desired to relish the vision +undisturbed by external distractions. +</p> +<p> +“I have always treated you as a sort of friend, Joe,—you know that.” + </p> +<p> +“I do, sir. I do, indeed.” + </p> +<p> +“And I mean to prove myself your friend too. It is not the man who has +stuck faithfully by me that I 'd desert. Where's my dressing-gown?” + </p> +<p> +“She was torn under the arm, and I gave her to be mended; put this round +you,” said he, draping a much-befrogged pelisse over his master's +shoulders. +</p> +<p> +“These are not my slippers, you stupid ass!” + </p> +<p> +“They are the ould ones. Don't you remember shying one of the others, +yesterday, at the organ-boy, and it fell in the river and was lost?” + </p> +<p> +Mr. O'Shea's brow darkened as he sat down to his meal. “Tell Pan,” said +he, “to send me up some broth and a chop about seven. I must keep the +house to-day, and be indisposed. And do you go over to Lucca, and raise me +a few Naps on my 'rose-amethyst' ring. Three will do; five would be +better, though.” + </p> +<p> +Joe sighed. It was a mission he had so often been charged with and never +came well out of, since his master would invariably insist on hearing +every step of the negotiation, and as unfailingly revenged upon his envoy +all the impertinences to which the treaty gave rise. +</p> +<p> +“Don't come back with any insolent balderdash about the stone being false, +or having a flaw in it. Holditch values it at two hundred and thirty +pounds; and, if it wasn't a family ring, I'd have taken the money. And, +mind you, don't be talking about whose it is,—it 's a gentleman +waiting for his letters—” + </p> +<p> +“Sure I know,” burst in Joe; “his remittances, that ought to be here every +day.” + </p> +<p> +“Just so; and that merely requires a few Naps—” + </p> +<p> +“To pay his cigars—” + </p> +<p> +“There's no need of more explanation. Away with you; and tell Bruno I 'll +want a saddle-horse to-morrow, to be here at the door by two o'clock.” + </p> +<p> +Joe took his departure, and Mr. O'Shea was left to his own meditations. +</p> +<p> +It may seem a small cause for depression of spirits, but, in truth, it was +always a day of deep humiliation to Mr. O'Shea when his necessities +compelled him to separate himself from that cherished relic, his +great-grandmother's ring. It had been reserved in his family, as a sort of +charm, for generations; his grand-uncle Luke had married on the strength +of it; his own father had flashed it in the eyes of Bath and Cheltenham, +for many a winter, with great success; and he himself had so significantly +pointed out incorrect items in his hotel bills, with the forefinger that +bore it, that landlords had never pressed for payment, but gone away +heart-full of the man who owned such splendor. +</p> +<p> +It would be a curious subject to inquire how many men have owed their +distinction or success in life to some small adjunct, some adventitious +appendage of this kind; a horse, a picture, a rare bronze, a statue, a +curious manuscript, a fragment of old armor, have made their owners +famous, when they have had the craft to merge their identity in the more +absorbing interest of the wondrous treasure. And thus the man that owns +the winner of the Derby, a great cup carved by Cellini, or a <i>chef-d'oeuvre</i> +of Claude or Turner, may repose upon the fame of his possession, +identified as he is with so much greatness. Oh! ye possessors of show +places, handsome wives, rare gardens, or costly gems, in what borrowed +bravery do ye meet the world! Not that in this happy category Mr. O'Shea +had his niche; no, he was only the owner of a ring—a rose-amethyst +ring—whose purity was perhaps not more above suspicion than his own. +And yet it had done him marvellous service on more than one occasion. It +had astonished the bathers at St. Leonard, and dazzled the dinner company +at Tunbridge Wells; Harrogate had winked under it, and Malvern gazed at it +with awe; and society, so to say, was divided into those who knew the man +from the ring, and those who knew the ring from the man. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER VII. MRS. PENTHONY MORRIS +</h2> +<p> +Our reader has been told how Mrs. Penthony Morris stormed the Villa +Caprini, established herself, child, maid, and Skye terrier within its +walls, and became, ere many days went over, a sort of influence in the +place. It is not in chemistry alone that a single ingredient, minute and +scarce perceptible, can change the property and alter all the quality of +the mass with which it is mingled. Human nature exhibits phenomena +precisely alike, and certain individuals possess the marvellous power of +tingeing the world they mix in, with their own hue and color, and +flavoring society with sweet or bitter, as temper induces them. The first +and most essential quality of such persons is a rapid—an actually +instinctive—appreciation of the characters they meet, even +passingly, in the world's intercourse. They have not to spell out +temperaments slowly and laboriously. To them men's natures are not written +in phonetic signs or dark symbols, but in letters large and legible. They +see, salute, speak with you, and they understand you. Not, perhaps, as old +friends know you, with reference to this or that minute trick of mind or +temper, but, with a far wider range of your character than even old +friends have taken, they know your likes and dislikes, the things you fear +and hope, the weak points you would fortify, and sometimes the strong ones +you would mask,—in a word, for all the purposes of intercourse, they +are able to estimate your strength and weakness, and all this ere, +perhaps, you have noted the accents of their voice or the color of their +eyes. +</p> +<p> +The lady of whom it is now our business to speak was one of this gifted +class. Whence she came, and how she became such, we are not about to enter +upon. She had had her share of trials, and yet was both young and +good-looking; her good looks in no wise evidencing the vestiges of any +sorrow. Whether a widowed or deserted wife, she bore bereavement +admirably; indeed, so far as one could see, she professed a very rare +ethical philosophy. Her theory was, the world was a very nice world, the +people in it very nice people; life itself a very nice thing; and that +people, generally speaking, only needed their own consent to be very happy +and contented. She had, it is true, some very able adjuncts to carry out +her system. There was scarcely an acquirement that she did not possess +reasonably well; she spoke several languages, sang, rode, drew, played +billiards most gracefully, and could manufacture the most charming +cigarettes that ever were smoked. Some of these are envied qualities, and +suggest envy; but against this she was careful to guard, and this by a +very simple method indeed. In whatever she did, tried, or attempted, she +always asked your advice. She had carefully studied the effect of the +imputed superiority of those who counsel their neighbors, and she saw in +its working one of the most tangible of all human weaknesses. The tendency +to guide and direct others is a very popular one. Generous people practise +it out of their generosity; gentle natures indulge in the practice in very +sympathy. To stern moralists it is an occasion for the hard lessons they +love to inculcate. The young are pleased with its importance; the old are +gratified to exercise their just prerogative. “Tell me how do you do +this;” or, “Teach me how to correct that;” “What would you advise in <i>my</i> +place?” or, “What reply would you give to that?” are appeals that involve +a very subtle flattery. Every man, and more decisively too, every woman, +likes to be deemed shrewd and worldly-wise. Now, Mrs. Morris had reflected +deeply over this trait, and saw to what good account care and watchfulness +might turn it. He who seeks to be guided by another makes his appeal in a +guise of humility, besides, which is always a flattery, and when this is +done artfully, with every aid from good looks and a graceful manner, +success is rarely wanting; and lastly, it is the only form of selfishness +the world neither resents nor repudiates. +</p> +<p> +He who comes to you with a perfectly finished tale of his misfortunes, +with “Finis” written on the last volume of his woes, is simply a bore; +whereas he who approaches you while the catastrophe yet hangs impending, +has always an interest attached to him. He may marry the heiress yet, he +may be arrested on that charge of forgery, obtain that Cross of the Bath, +or be shot in that duel; you are at least talking to a man Fortune has not +done with, and this much is something. +</p> +<p> +Mrs. Morris had been little more than a fortnight domesticated at the +Villa Caprini, where her weakness still detained her, and yet she had +contrived to consult Sir William about her fortune, invested, almost +entirely, in “Peruvians,” which her agent, Mr. Halker, had told her were +“excellent;” but whether the people of that name, or the country, or the +celebrated Bark, was the subject of the investment, she really professed +not to know. +</p> +<p> +To May Leslie she had confided the great secret of her heart,—an +unpublished novel; a story mainly comprised of the sad events of her own +life, and the propriety of giving which to the world was the disputed +question of her existence. +</p> +<p> +As to Charles, she had consulted him how best to disembarrass herself of +the attentions of Mr. Mosely, who was really become a persecutor. She +owned that in asking his counsel she could not impart to him all the +circumstances which he had a right to be possessed of,—she appealed +to his delicacy not to question her. So that whether wife or widow, he +knew not what she might be, and, in fact, she even made of the obscurity +another subject of his interest, and so involved him in her story that he +could think of nothing else. She managed each of these confidences with +such consummate skill that each believed himself her one sole trusted +friend, depositary of her cares, refuge of her sorrows; and while thus +insinuating herself into a share of their sympathy, she displayed, as +though by mere accident, many of her attractions, and gave herself an +opportunity of showing how interesting she was in her sorrow and how +fascinating in her joy! +</p> +<p> +The Heathcotes—father, son, and niece—were possessed of a very +ample share of the goods of fortune. They had health, wealth, freedom to +live where and how they liked. +</p> +<p> +They were well disposed towards each other and towards the world; inclined +to enjoy life, and suited to its enjoyment. But somehow, pretty much like +some mass of complicated machinery, which by default of some small piece +of mechanism—a spring, a screw, or a pinion the more—stands +idle and inert,—all its force useless, all its power unused, they +had no pursuit,—did nothing. Mrs. Morris was exactly the motive +power wanting; and by her agency interests sprang up, occupations were +created, pleasures invented. Without bustle, without even excitement, the +dull routine of the day grew animate; the hours sped glibly along. Little +Clara, too, was no small aid to this change. In the quiet monotony of a +grave household a child's influence is magical. As the sight of a +butterfly out at sea brings up thoughts of shady alleys and +woodbine-covered windows, of “the grass and the flowers among the grass,” + so will a child's light step and merry voice throw a whole flood of sunny +associations over the sad-colored quietude of some old house. Clara was +every one's companion and everywhere,—with Charles as he fished, +with May Leslie in the flower-garden, with old Sir William in the +orangery, or looking over pictures beside him in the long-galleried +library. +</p> +<p> +Mrs. Morris herself was yet too great an invalid for an active life. Her +chair would be wheeled out into the lawn, under the shade of an immense +weeping-ash, and there, during the day, as to some “general staff,” came +all the “reports” of what was doing each morning. Newspapers and books +would be littered about her, and even letters brought her to read, from +dear friends, with whose names conversation had made her familiar. A +portion of time was, however, reserved for Clara's lessons, which no plan +or project was ever suffered to invade. +</p> +<p> +It may seem a somewhat dreary invitation if we ask our readers to assist +at one of these mornings. Pinnock and Mrs. Barbauld and Mangnall are, +perhaps, not the company to their taste, nor will they care to cast up +multiplications, or stumble through the blotted French exercise. Well, we +can only pledge ourselves not to exaggerate the infliction of these evils. +And now to our task. It is about eleven o'clock of a fine summer's day, in +Italy; Mrs. Morris sits at her embroidery-frame, under the long-branched +willow; Clara, at a table near, is drawing, her long silky curls falling +over the paper, and even interfering with her work, as is shown by an +impatient toss of her head, or even a hastier gesture, as with her hands +she flings them back upon her neck. +</p> +<p> +“It was to Charley I said it, mamma,” said she, without lifting her head, +and went on with her work. +</p> +<p> +“Have I not told you, already, to call him Mr. Charles Heathcote, or Mr. +Heathcote, Clara?” + </p> +<p> +“But he says he won't have it.” + </p> +<p> +“What an expression,—'won't have it'!” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I know,” cried she, with impatience; and then laughingly said, “I +'ve forgot, in a hurry, old dear Lindley Murray.” + </p> +<p> +“I beg of you to give up that vile trash of doggerel rhyme. And now what +was it you said to Mr. Heathcote?” + </p> +<p> +“I told him that I was an only child,—'a violet on a grassy bank, in +sweetness all alone,' as the little book says.” + </p> +<p> +“And then he asked about your papa; if you remembered him?” + </p> +<p> +“No, mamma.” + </p> +<p> +“He made some mention, some allusion, to papa?” + </p> +<p> +“Only a little sly remark of how fond he must be of <i>me</i>, or <i>I</i> +of <i>him</i>.” + </p> +<p> +“And what did you answer?” + </p> +<p> +“I only wiped my eyes, mamma; and then he seemed so sorry to have given me +pain that he spoke of something else. Like Sir Guyon,— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“'He talked of roses, lilies, and the rest, +The shady alley, and the upland swelling; +Wondered what notes birds warbled in their nest, +What tales the rippling river then was telling.'” + </pre> +<p> +“And then you left him, and came away?” said her mother. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, mamma. I said it was my lesson time, and that you were so exact and +so punctual that I did not dare to be late.” + </p> +<p> +“Was it then he asked if mamma had always been your governess, Clara?” + </p> +<p> +“No; it was May that asked that question. May Leslie has a very pretty way +of pumping, mamma, though you 'd not suspect it She begins with the usual +'Are you very fond of Italy?' or 'Don't you prefer England?' and then +'What part of England?'” + </p> +<p> +Mrs. Morris bit her lip, and colored slightly; and then, laying her work +on her lap, stared steadfastly at the girl, still deeply intent on her +drawing. +</p> +<p> +“I like them to begin that way,” continued Clara. “It costs no trouble to +answer such bungling questions; and whenever they push me closer, I 've an +infallible method, mamma,—it never fails.” + </p> +<p> +“What's that?” asked her mother, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“I just say, as innocently as possible, 'I 'll run and ask mamma; I 'm +certain she 'll be delighted to tell you.' And then, if you only saw the +shame and confusion they get into, saying, 'On no account, Clara dearest. +I had no object in asking. It was mere idle talking,' and so on. Oh dear! +what humiliation all their curiosity costs them!” + </p> +<p> +“You try to be too shrewd, too cunning, Miss Clara,” said her mother, +rebukingly. “It is a knife that often cuts with the handle. Be satisfied +with discovering people's intentions, and don't plume yourself about the +cleverness of finding them out, or else, Clara,”—and here she spoke +more slowly,—“or else, Clara, they will find <i>you</i> out too.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, surely not, while I continue the thoughtless, guileless little child +mamma has made me,” said she. And the tears rose to her eyes, with an +expression of mingled anger and sorrow it was sad to see in one so young. +</p> +<p> +“Clara!” cried her mother, in a voice of angry meaning; and then, suddenly +checking herself, she said, in a lower tone, “let there be none of this.” + </p> +<p> +“Sir William asked me how old I was, mamma.” + </p> +<p> +“And you said—” + </p> +<p> +“I believed twelve. Is it twelve? I ought to know, mamma, something for +certain, for I was eleven two years ago, and then I have been ten since +that; and when I was your sister, at Brighton, I was thirteen.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you dare—” But ere she said more, the child had buried her head +between her hands, and, by the convulsive motion of her shoulders, showed +that she was sobbing bitterly. The mother continued her work, unmoved by +this emotion. She took occasion, it is true, when lifting up the ball of +worsted which had fallen, to glance furtively towards the child; but, +except by this, bestowed no other notice on her. +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Well,” cried the little girl, with a half-wild laugh, as she flung back +her yellow hair, “Anderson says,— + +“'On joy comes grief,—on mirth comes sorrow; +We laugh to-day, that we may cry to-morrow.' +</pre> +<p> +And I believe one is just as pleasant as the other,—eh, mamma? <i>You</i> +ought to know.” + </p> +<p> +“This is one of your naughty days, Clara, and I had hoped we had seen the +last of them,” said her mother, in a grave but not severe tone. +</p> +<p> +“The naughty days are much more like to see the last of <i>me</i>,” said +the child, half aloud, and with a heavy sigh. +</p> +<p> +“Clara,” said her mother, in the same calm, quiet voice, “I have made you +my friend and my confidante at an age when any other had treated you with +strict discipline and reserve. You have been taught to see life—as +my sad experience revealed it to me, too—too late.” + </p> +<p> +“And for me, too—too soon!” burst in the child, passionately. +</p> +<p> +“Here 's poor Clara breaking her heart over her exercise,” burst in Sir +William, as he came forward, and, stooping over the child, kissed her +twice on the forehead. “Do let me have a favor to-day, and let this be a +holiday.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, yes, by all means,” cried she, eagerly, clapping her hands. +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“The lizard can lie in the sun, and bask +'Mid the odor of fragrant herbs; +Little knows he of a wearisome task, +Or the French irregular verbs. + +“The cicala, too, in the long deep grass, +All day sings happily, +And I'd venture to swear +He has never a care For the odious rule of three. + +“And as for the bee, +And his industry—” + </pre> +<p> +“Oh, what a rhyme” laughed in Mrs. Morris. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, let her go on,” cried Sir William. “Go on, Clara.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“And as for the bee, +And his industry, +I distrust his toilsome hours, +For he roves up and down, +Like a 'man upon town,' +With a natural taste for flowers. +</pre> +<p> +There, mamma, no more,—not another the whole day long, I promise +you,” cried she, as she threw her arms around her neck and kissed her +affectionately. +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Oh, these doggerel rhymes +Are like nursery chimes, +That sang us to sleep long ago. +</pre> +<p> +I declare I'm forgetting already; so I'll go and look for Charley, and +help him to tie greendrakes, and the rest of them.” + </p> +<p> +“What a strange child!” said Sir William, as he looked fondly after her as +she fled across the lawn. +</p> +<p> +“I have never seen her so thoroughly happy before,” said Mrs. Morris, with +a faint sigh. “This lovely place, these delicious gardens, these charming +old woods, the villa itself, so full of objects of interest, have made up +a sort of fairy-tale existence for her which is positive enchantment. It +is, indeed, high time we should tear ourselves away from fascinations +which will leave all life afterwards a very dull affair.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, that day is very distant, I should hope,” said he, with sincere +cordiality; “indeed, my ward and myself were, this very morning, plotting +by what pretext, by what skilful devices, we could induce you to spend +your autumn with us.” + </p> +<p> +Mrs. Morris covered her face, as if to conceal her emotion, but a faint +sob was still audible from beneath her handkerchief. “Oh!” cried she, in a +faint and broken voice, “if you but knew in what a wounded heart you have +poured this balm!—if I could tell—what I cannot tell you—at +least, not yet—No, no, Sir William, we must leave this. I have +already written to my agent about letters for Alexandria and Cairo. You +know,” she added, with a sad smile, “the doctors have sentenced me to +Egypt for the winter.” + </p> +<p> +“These fellows are mere alarmists. Italy is the best climate in the world, +or, rather, it has all the climates in the world; besides, I have some +wonderful counsel to give you about your bonds. I intend that Miss Clara +shall be the great heiress of her day. At all events, you shall settle it +with May.” And so, with that dread of a scene, a sort of terror about +everything emotional,—not very unnatural in gentlemen of a certain +time of life, and with strong sanguineous temperaments,—Sir William +hurried away and left her to her own reflections. +</p> +<p> +Thus alone, Mrs. Morris took a letter from her pocket, and began to read +it. Apparently the document had been perused by her before, for she passed +hastily over the first page, scarcely skimming the lines with her eye. It +was as if to give increased opportunity for judgment on the contents that +she muttered the words as she read them. They ran thus:— +</p> +<p> +“A month or six weeks back our proposal might have been accepted, so at +least Collier thinks; but he is now in funds, has money in abundance, and +<i>you</i> know <i>what</i> he is at such moments. When Collier went to +him at his lodgings in King Street, he found him in high spirits, boasting +that he occupied the old quarters of the French Emperor,—that he had +even succeeded to his arm-chair and his writing-table. 'A splendid augury, +Tom,' said he, laughing. 'Who knows but I, too, shall be “restored” one of +these days?' After some bantering he stopped suddenly, and said, ' By the +way, what the devil brings you here? Is n't it something about Loo? They +say you want to marry her yourself, Collier,—is that true?' Not +heeding C.'s denial, given in all solemnity, he went on to show that you +could be no possible use to Collier,—that he himself could utilize +your abilities, and give your talents a fitting sphere; whereas in +Collier's set you would be utterly lost. C. said it was as good as a play +to hear his talk of all the fine things you might have done, and might yet +do, in concert. 'Then there's Clara, too,' cried he, again; 'she 'll make +the greatest hit of our day. She can come out for a season at the +Haymarket, and she can marry whoever she likes.' Once in this vein, it was +very hard to bring him back to anything like a bargain. Indeed, Collier +says he would n't hear of any but immense terms,—ridiculed the +notion of your wanting to be free, for mere freedom's sake, and jocularly +said, 'Tell me frankly, whom does <i>she</i> want to marry? or who wants +to marry <i>her!</i> I 'm not an unreasonable fellow if I 'm treated on +“the square.”' Collier assured him that you only desired liberty, that you +might take your own road in life. 'Then let her take it, by all means,' +cried he. 'I am not molesting her,—never have molested her, even +when she went so far as to call herself by another name; she need n't cry +out before she's hurt;' and so on. C. at last brought him to distinct +terms, and he said, 'She shall cut the painter for five thousand; she's +worth to me every guinea of it, and I'll not take less.' Of course, +Collier said these were impossible conditions; and then they talked away +about other matters. You know his boastful way, and how little reliance +can be laid on any statement he makes; but certain it is, Collier came +away fully impressed with the flourishing condition of his present +fortune, his intimacy with great people, and his actual influence with men +in power. That this is not entirely fabulous I have just received a most +disagreeable proof. When Collier rose to go away, he said, 'By the way, +you occasionally see Nick Holmes; well, just give him a hint to set his +house in order, for they are going to stop payment of that Irish pension +of his. It appears, from some correspondence of Lord Cornwallis that has +just turned up, Nick's pension was to be continued for a stated term of +years, and that he has been in receipt of it for the last six years +without any right whatever. It is very hard on Nick,' said he, 'seeing +that he sold himself to the devil, not at least to be his own master in +this world. I 'm sorry for the old dog on family grounds, for he is at +least one of my father-in-laws.' I quote his words as Collier gave them, +and to-day I have received a Treasury order to forward to the Lords a copy +of the letter or warrant under which I received my pension. I mean simply +to refer them to my evidence on Shehan's trial, where my testimony hanged +both father and son. If this incident shows nothing else, it demonstrates +the amount of information he has of what is doing or to be done in Downing +Street. As to the pension, I 'm not much afraid; my revelations of 1808 +would be worse than the cost of me in the budget. +</p> +<p> +“If I find that nothing can be done with Ludlow, I don't think I shall +remain here longer, and the chances are that I shall take a run as far as +Baden, and who says not over the Alps after? Don't be frightened, dear +Loo, we shall meet at the same <i>table d'hôte</i>, drink at the same +public spring, bet on the same card at <i>rouge-et-noir</i>, and I will +never betray either of us. Of your Heathcotes I can learn next to nothing. +There was a baronet of the name who ruined himself by searches after a +title—an earldom, I believe—and railroad speculations, but he +died, or is supposed to have died, abroad. At all events, your present +owners of the name keep a good house, and treat you handsomely, so that +there can be no great mistake in knowing them. Sufficient for the day is +the evil—as the old saying is; and it is a wise one if we understood +how to apply it. +</p> +<p> +“I have been twice with Hadson and Reames, but there is nothing to be +done. They say that the town does not care for a wife's book against her +husband; they have the whole story better told, and on oath, in the +Divorce Court. A really slashing volume of a husband against his wife +might, however, take; he could say a number of things would amuse the +public, and have a large sympathy with him. These are Hadson's or Reames's +words, I don't know which, for they always talk together. How odd that <i>you</i> +should have thought of the ballet for Clara just as I had suggested it! Of +course, till free of Ludlow, it is out of the question. I am sorry to seal +and send off such a disagreeable letter, dear Louisa, but who knows the +sad exigencies of this weary world better than your affectionate father, +</p> +<p> +“N. Holmes. +</p> +<p> +“I accidentally heard yesterday that there was actually a Mrs. Penthony +Morris travelling somewhere in Switzerland. Washington Irving, I believe, +once chanced upon a living Ichabod Crane, when he had flattered himself +that the name was his own invention. The complication in the present case +might be embarrassing. So bear it in mind.” + </p> +<p> +“Tant pis pour elle, whoever the other Mrs. Morris may be,” said she, +laughing, as she folded up the letter, and half mechanically regarded the +seal. “You ought to change your crest, respectable father mine,” muttered +she; “the wags might say that your portcullis was a gallows.” And then, +with a weary sigh, she closed her eyes, and fell a-thinking. +</p> +<p> +That quiet, tranquil, even-tempered category of mankind, whose present has +few casualties, and whose future is, so far as human foresight can extend, +assured to them, can form not the slightest conception of the mingled +pleasure and pain that chequer the life of “the adventurer.” The man who +consents to gamble existence, has all the violent ecstasies of joy and +grief that wait on changeful fortunes. +</p> +<p> +“Shall I hit upon the right number this time? Will red win once more? Is +the run of luck good or ill, or, it may be, exhausted?” These are +questions ever rising to his mind; and what contrivance, what preparation, +what spirit of exigency do they evoke! Theirs is a hand-to-hand conflict +with Fate; they can subsidize no legions, skulk behind no parapets; in +open field must the war be carried on; and what a cruel war it becomes +when every wound festers into a crime! +</p> +<p> +This young and pretty woman, on whose fair features not a painful line was +traced, and whose beautifully chiselled mouth smiled with a semblance of +inward peace, was just then revolving thoughts little flattering to +humanity generally. She had, all young as she was, arrived at the +ungracious conclusion that what are called the good are mere dupes, and +that every step in life's ladder only lifts us higher and higher out of +the realm of kindly sympathies and affections. Reading the great moralist +in a version of their own, such people deem all virtue “vanity,” and the +struggles and sacrifices it entails, “vexation of spirit.” Let us frankly +own that Mrs. Morris did not lose herself in any world of abstractions; +she was eminently practical, and would no more have thrown away her time +in speculations on humanity generally than would a whist-player, in the +crisis of the odd trick, have suffered his mind to wander away to the +manufactory where the cards were made, and the lives and habits of those +who made them. +</p> +<p> +And now she had to think over Sir William, of whom she was half afraid; of +Charles, whom she but half liked; and of May, whom she half envied. There +were none of them very deep or difficult to read, but she had seen enough +of life to know that many people, like fairy tales, are simple in perusal, +but contain some subtle maxim, some cunning truth, in their moral. Were +these of this order? She could not yet determine; how, therefore, should +we? And so we leave her. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER VIII. PORT-NA-WHAPPLE +</h2> +<p> +Although time has not advanced, nor any change of season occurred to tinge +the landscape with colder hues, we are obliged to ask our reader's company +to a scene as unlike the sunny land we have been sojourning in as +possible. It is a little bay on the extreme north coast of Ireland, +closely landlocked by rugged cliffs, whose basalt formation indicates a +sort of half-brotherhood with the famed Causeway. Seen from the tall +precipices above, on a summer's day, when a vertical sunlight would have +fallen on the strip of yellow crescent-like beach along which +white-crested waves slowly came and went, the spot was singularly +beautiful, and the one long, low, white cottage which faced the sea would +have seemed a most enviable abode, so peaceful, so calm it looked. Closely +girt in on three sides by rocky cliffs, whose wild, fantastic outlines +presented every imaginable form, now rising in graceful pinnacles and +minarets, now standing out in all the stern majesty of some massive +fortress or donjon keep, some blue and purple heaths might be seen +clothing the little shelves of rock, and, wherever a deeper cleft +occurred, some tall, broad-leaved ferns; but, except these, no other +vegetation was to be met with. Indeed, the country for miles around +displayed little else than the arid yellowish grass that springs from +light sandy soil, the scant pasturage of mountain sheep. Directly in front +of the bay, and with a distinctness occasionally startling, might be seen +rising up from the sea a mass of stately cliffs, which seemed like a +reflection of the Causeway. This was Staffa, something more than +thirty-odd miles off, but which, in the thin atmosphere of a calm day, +might easily be traced out from the little cove of Port-na-Whapple. +</p> +<p> +Port-na-Whapple had once been a noted spot amongst fishermen; the largest +“takes” of salmon—and of the finest fish on the coast—had been +made there. For three or four weeks in the early autumn the little bay was +the scene of a most vigorous activity, the beach covered with rude huts of +branches and boat canvas, the strand crowded with people, all busily +engaged salting, drying, or packing the fish; boats launching, or standing +in, deep-laden with their speckled freight; great fires blazing in every +sheltered nook, where the cares of household were carried on in common, +for the fishermen who frequented the place lived like one large family. +They came from the same village in the neighborhood, and, from time out of +mind, had resorted to this bay as to a spot especially and distinctively +their own. They had so identified themselves with the place that they were +only known as Port-na-Whapple men; a vigorous, stalwart, sturdy race of +fellows were they, too, that none molested or interfered with willingly. +</p> +<p> +About forty years before the time we now speak of, a new proprietor had +succeeded to the vast estate, which had once belonged to the Mark-Kers, +and he quickly discovered that the most valuable part of his inheritance +consisted in the fishing royalties of the coast. To assert a right to what +nobody ever believed was the actual property of any one in particular, was +not a very easy process. Had the Port-na-Whapple men been told that the +air they breathed, or the salt sea they traversed, were heritable, they +could as readily have believed it, as that any one should assert his claim +to the strip of sandy beach where they and their fathers before them had +fished for ages. +</p> +<p> +Sir Archibald Beresford, however, was not a man to relinquish a claim he +had once preferred; he had right and parchment on his side, and he cared +very little for prescription, or what he called the prejudices of a +barbarous peasantry. He went vigorously to work, served the trespassers +with due notice to quit, and proceeded against the delinquents at +sessions. For years and years the conflict lasted, with various and +changeful successes. Now, the landlord would seem triumphant, he had +gained his decree, taken ont his execution against the nets, the boats, +and the tackle, but when the hour of enforcing the law arrived, his +bailiffs had been beaten ignominiously from the field, and the fishermen +left in full possession of the territory. Driven to desperation by the +stubborn resistance, Sir Archy determined on a bolder stand. He erected a +cottage on the beach, and established himself there with a strong garrison +of retainers well armed, and prepared to defend their rights. +Port-na-Whapple was at length won, and although some bloody affrays did +occasionally occur between the rival parties, the fishermen were compelled +to abandon the station and seek a livelihood elsewhere. +</p> +<p> +With a confidence inspired by some years of security, Sir Archy diminished +his garrison, till at length it was his habit to come down to the bay +accompanied by only a single servant. The old feud appeared to have died +out; not, indeed, that the landlord met those signs of respect from his +tenantry which imply good understanding between them; no welcome met him +when he came, no regrets followed him when he departed, and even few of +the country people accorded the courtesy of touching their hat as they met +him passingly on the road. He was a “hard man,” however, and cared little +for such slights. At length—it was a season when he had exceeded his +usual stay at the coast—there came a period of great distress +amongst the fishermen. Day after day the boats went out and returned +empty. It was in vain that they passed days and nights at sea, venturing +far out upon that wild northern ocean,—the most treacherous in +existence,—in vain they explored the bays, more perilous still than +the open sea. Their sole subsistence was derived from the sea, and what +was to be done? Gaunt famine was stamped on many a hardy face, and strong +men dragged their limbs lazily and languidly, as if in sickness. As Sir +Archy had never succeeded in obtaining a tenant for the royalty of +Port-na-Whapple, he amused himself gaffing the salmon, which he from time +to time sent as presents to his friends; and even now, in this season of +dearth, many a well-filled hamper found its way up the steep cliffs to be +despatched to some remote corner of the kingdom. It was on one of these +days that an enormous fish—far too big for any basket—was +carefully encased in a matting, and sent off by the Coleraine coach, +labelled, “The largest ever gaffed at Port-na-Whapple.” Many an eye, half +glazed with hunger, saw the fish, and gazed on the superscription as it +was sent into the village, and looks of ominous meaning were cast over the +deep cliffs towards the little cottage below. The morning after this, +while Sir Archibald's servant was at the post for his letters, a boat +rowed into the little cove, and some men, having thrown out the anchor, +waded ashore. +</p> +<p> +“What brings you here, fellows?” cried Sir Archy, haughtily, as he met +them on the beach. +</p> +<p> +“We are come to gaff a bigger fish than yours o' yesterday,” said the +foremost, striking him on the forehead with the handle of the gaff; and he +passed the spear through his heart while he yet reeled under the blow. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0092.jpg" alt="ONE0092" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +Notwithstanding the most active exertions of the Government of the day and +the local magistrature, the authors of the foul deed were never +discovered, and although there could be no doubt they were well known to a +large population, none betrayed them. More strange still, from that day +and hour not a fish was ever taken at Port-na-Whapple! +</p> +<p> +The property had fallen into Chancery, and, the interests of the claimants +not being very closely guarded, the fishermen were again at liberty to +fish wherever they pleased. The privilege was of no value; the fish had +deserted the spot, and even when they swarmed at Carrig-a-rede, and all +along the shore, not one ever was taken there! That the place was deemed +“uncannie,” and that none frequented it, need not cause any wonder, and so +the little cottage fell into ruin, the boat-house was undermined by the +sea and carried away, and even of the little boat-pier only a few bare +piles now remained to mark the place, when at length there arrived, from +Dublin, a doctor to take charge of the Ballintray Dispensary, and, not +being able to find a habitable spot in the village, he was fain to put the +old cottage in repair, little influenced by the superstition that attached +to the unholy place. +</p> +<p> +He was an elderly man, whose family consisted of his wife and a single +servant, and who, from the day of his first arrival, showed a decided +repugnance to forming acquaintance with any, or holding other intercourse +with his neighbors than what the cares of his profession required. In +person he was tall, and even stately; his features those of a man once +handsome, but now disfigured by two red blotches over the eyes, and a +tremulousness of the nether lip, indications of long years of dissipation, +which his watery eye and shaking hand abundantly confirmed. Either, too, +from a consciousness of his infirmity, or a shame not less deeply rooted, +he never met the eyes of those he addressed, but turned his gaze either +askance or to the ground, giving him then an expression very different +from the look he wore when alone and unobserved. At such times the face +was handsome but haughty, a character of almost defiant pride in the eye, +while the angles of the mouth were slightly drawn down, as one sees in +persons of proud temperament. A few words will suffice for so much of his +history as the reader need know. Herbert Layton had the proud distinction +of being a Fellow of Trinity College, Dublin, at the age of twenty-one, +and, three years later, won, against many distinguished competitors, the +chair of medicine in the university. His whole academic career had been a +succession of triumphs, and even able men made this excuse for not +obtaining honors, that they were “in Layton's division.” His was one of +those rare natures to which acquirements the most diverse and opposite are +easy. The most critical knowledge of the classics was combined in him with +a high-soaring acquaintance with science, and while he carried away the +gold medal for verse composition, the very same week announced him as +prizeman for microscopic researches. And while he thus swept the college +of honors, he was ever foremost in all athletic games and manly exercises. +Indeed, the story goes that the gown in which he won his fellowship had +been hastily thrown over the jacket of the cricketer. If the blemish +served to afflict those who felt the truest friendship for him, it rather +contributed to exaggerate the prestige of his name that he was haughty and +even overbearing in manner; not meanly condescending to be vain of his +successes and the high eminence he had won,—far from it, no man +treated such triumphs with such supercilious levity, boldly declaring that +they were within the reach of all, and that it was a simple question of +application to any,—his proud demeanor had its source in a certain +sense of self-reliance, and a haughty conviction that the occasion had not +come—might never come—to show the world the great “stuff that +was in him;” and thus, many a rumor ran, “Layton is sorry for having taken +to medicine; it can lead to nothing: at the Bar he must have gained every +eminence, entered Parliament, risen Heaven knows to what or where. Layton +cannot conceal his dissatisfaction with a career of no high rewards.” And +thus they sought for the explanation of that demeanor which hurt the pride +of many and the sympathy of all. +</p> +<p> +Partly from the aggressive nature of the passion of self-esteem, never +satisfied if with each day it has not made further inroad, partly, +perhaps, from the estrangement of friends, wearied out by endless +pretensions, Layton at last lived utterly companionless and alone. His +habits of hard work made this the less remarkable; but stories were soon +abroad that he had abandoned himself to drink, and that the hours believed +to be passed in study were in reality spent in debauch and intoxication. +His appearance but unhappily gave some corroboration to the rumor. He had +grown careless in his dress, slouching in his walk; his pale, thoughtful +face was often flushed with a glow exercise never gives; and his clear +bright eye no longer met another's with boldness. He neglected, besides, +all his collegiate duties, his pupils rarely could obtain sight of him, +his class-room was always deserted, a brief notice “that the Regius +Professor was indisposed, and would not lecture,” remaining affixed to the +door for the entire session. +</p> +<p> +While this once great reputation was thus crumbling away, there arose +another, and, the time considered, a far more dangerous imputation. It was +the terrible period of 1807, and men said that Layton was deep in all the +designs of the Emmet party. So completely was the insurrection limited to +men of the very humbler walks in life, so destitute was the cause of all +support from persons of station or influence, that it is scarcely possible +to picture the shock—almost passing belief—of the world when +this report began to gain currency and credit. Were the public to-morrow to +learn that some great and trusted political leader was found out to be +secretly in the pay of France or Russia, it would not excite more +incredulous horror than at that day was caused by imputing rebellious +projects to Herbert Layton. +</p> +<p> +The honor of the University was too deeply involved to suffer such a +charge to be rashly circulated. The board summoned the Regius Professor to +attend before them. He returned his reply to the summons on the back of a +letter constituting him a member of the “United Irishmen,” the great rebel +association of the day. As much out of regard to their own fame, as in +pity for a rashness that might have cost him his life, they destroyed the +document and deprived him of his fellowship. +</p> +<p> +From the day that he wandered forth a ruined, houseless, destitute man, +little is known of him. At long intervals of time, men would say, “Could +that have been poor Herbert, that 'Layton,' taken up by the police for +drunkenness, or accused of some petty crime? Was it he who was charged +with sending threatening letters to this one, or making insolent demands +on that?” Another would say, “I could swear I saw Layton as a witness in +one of those pot-house trials where the course of law proceedings is made +the matter of vulgar jest.” Another met him hawking quack medicines in a +remote rural district. +</p> +<p> +It is not necessary we should follow him through these changes, each lower +than the last in degradation. We arrive by a bound at a period when he +kept a small apothecary's shop in a little village of North Wales, and +where, with seeming reformation of character, he lived discreetly, and +devoted himself assiduously to the education of an only son. +</p> +<p> +By dint of immense effort, and sacrifices the most painful, he succeeded +in entering his boy at Cambridge; but in his last year, his means failing, +he had obtained a tutorship for him,—no less a charge than that of +the young Marquis of Agincourt,—an appointment to which his college +tutor had recommended him. Almost immediately after this, a vacancy +occurring in the little village of Ballintray for a dispensary doctor, +Layton applied for the appointment, and obtained it. Few, indeed, of the +electors had ever heard of his name, but all were astonished at the ample +qualifications tendered by one willing to accept such humble duties. The +rector of the parish, Dr. Millar, was, though his junior, perhaps, the +only one well conversant with Layton's story, for he had been his +contemporary at the University. +</p> +<p> +On the two or three occasions on which they met, Dr. Millar never evinced +by the slightest allusion any knowledge of the other's antecedents. He +even, by adroit reference to English life and habits, in contradistinction +to Irish, seemed to infer that his experiences were more at home there; +and whatever might have been Layton's own secret promptings, there was +nothing in the clergyman's manner to provoke the slightest constraint or +awkwardness. +</p> +<p> +The reader is now sufficiently informed to accompany us to the little +cottage on the beach of Port-na-Whapple. It is a warm autumnal afternoon, +the air calm and still, but the great sea comes heaving in, wave swelling +after wave, as though moved by a storm. Strange contrast to that loud +thundering ocean the little peaceful cottage, whose blue smoke rises in a +thin, straight column into the air. The door is open, and a few ducks, +with their young brood, are waddling up and down the blue stone step, as +though educating their young in feats of difficulty and daring. On a +coarse wooden perch within the hall sits a very old gray parrot, so old +that his feathers have assumed a sort of half-woolly look, and his bleared +eyes only open at intervals, as though he had seen quite enough of this +world already, and could afford to take it easily. In the attitude of the +head, partially thrown forward and slightly on one side, there is a mock +air of thought and reflection, marvellously aided by a habit the creature +has of muttering to himself such little broken ends of speech as he +possesses. Layton had bought him a great many years back, having fancied +he could detect a resemblance in him to a once famed vice-provost of +Trinity, after whom he called him “Dr. Barret,” a name the bird felt proud +of, as well he might, and seemed even now, in his half dotage, to warm up +on hearing it. Through the open door of a little room adjoining might be +seen a very pale, sickly woman, who coughed almost incessantly as she bent +over an embroidery-frame. Though not much more than middle-aged, her hair +was perfectly white, and deep discolorations—the track of tears for +many a day—marked her worn cheeks. +</p> +<p> +On the opposite side of the hall, in a small room whose furniture was an +humble truckle-bed, and a few shelves with physic-bottles, the doctor was +engaged at his toilet, if by so pretentious a term we may record the few +preparations he was making to render his every-day appearance more +presentable. As he stood thus in trousers and shirt, his broad chest and +powerful neck exposed, he seemed to testify even yet to the athletic vigor +of one who was known as the best hurler and racket-player of his day. He +had been swimming a long stretch far out to sea, and air and exercise +together had effaced many of those signs of dissipation which his face +usually wore, while in his voice there was a frank boldness that only came +back to him at some rare intervals. +</p> +<p> +“I can fancy, Grace,” cried he, loud enough to be heard across the hall, +“that Millar is quite proud of his condescension. The great rector of the +parish, man of fortune besides, stooping to invite the dispensary doctor! +Twelve hundred per annum associating with eighty! To be sure he says, 'You +will only meet two friends and neighbors of mine,' as though to intimate, +'I am doing this on the sly; I don't mean to make you a guest on +field-days.'” + </p> +<p> +She muttered something, speedily interrupted by a cough; and he, not +caring to catch her words, went on:— +</p> +<p> +“It is a politeness that cuts both ways, and makes <i>me</i> as +uncomfortable as him. This waistcoat has a beggarly account of empty +button-holes; and as for my coat, nothing but a dim candle-light would +screen its deficiencies. I was a fool to accept!” cried he, impatiently. +</p> +<p> +“Don't go, Tom! don't go!” screamed the parrot, addressing him by a +familiar sobriquet. +</p> +<p> +“And why not, doctor?” said Layton, laughing at the apropos. +</p> +<p> +“Don't go! don't go!” repeated the bird. +</p> +<p> +“Give me your reasons, old boy, and not impossible is it I 'll agree with +you. What do you say, Grace?” added he, advancing to the door of his room +the better to catch her words. +</p> +<p> +“It is to them the honor is <i>done</i>, not to you,” said she, faintly, +and as though the speech cost her heavily. +</p> +<p> +“Very hard to persuade the rector of that,—very hard to convince the +man of silver side-dishes and cut decanters that he is not the patron of +him who dines off Delf and drinks out of pewter. Is this cravat too +ragged, Grace? I think I 'd better wear my black one.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, the black one,” said she, coughing painfully. +</p> +<p> +“After all, it is no grand occasion,—a little party of four.” + </p> +<p> +“What a swell! what a swell!” shrieked the parrot. +</p> +<p> +“Ain't I? By Jove,” laughed Layton, “the doctor is marvellous in his +remarks to-day.” + </p> +<p> +“There, I have done my best with such scanty 'properties,'” said he, as he +turned away from the glass. “The greatest peril to a shabby man is the +self-imposed obligation to show he is better than he looks. It is an +almost invariable blunder.” + </p> +<p> +She muttered something inaudibly, and, as usual, he went on with his own +thoughts. +</p> +<p> +“One either assumes a more dictatorial tone, or takes more than his share +of the talk, or is more apt to contradict the great man of the company,—at +least <i>I</i> do.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't go, Tom! don't! don't!” called out Dr. Barret. +</p> +<p> +“Not go?—after all these splendid preparations!” said Layton, with a +laugh. “After yourself exclaiming, 'What a swell!'” + </p> +<p> +“It 'll never pay,—never pay,—never pay!” croaked out Poll. +</p> +<p> +“That I'm sure of, doctor. I never knew one of these politic things that +did; but yet we go on through life practising them in the face of all +their failure, dancing attendance at levées, loitering in antechambers, +all to be remembered by some great man who is just as likely to hate the +sight of us. However, this shall be my last transgression.” + </p> +<p> +The faint female voice muttered some indistinct words about what he “owed +to himself,” and the “rightful station that belonged to him;” but he +speedily cut the reflection short as he said: “So long as a man is poor as +I am, he can only hold his head high by total estrangement from the world. +Let him dare to mix with it, and his threadbare coat and patched shoes +will soon convince him that they will extend no equality to him who comes +among them in such beggarly fashion. With what authority, I ask, can he +speak, whose very poverty refutes his sentiments, and the simple question +stands forth unanswerable: 'If this man knew so much, why is he as we see +him?'” + </p> +<p> +“This is, then, to say that misfortune is never unmerited. Surely you do +not mean that, Herbert?” said she, with an eagerness almost painful. +</p> +<p> +“It is exactly what I would say,—that for all the purposes of +worldly judgments upon men, there is no easier rule than to assume that +they who fail deserve failure. Richelieu never asked those who sought high +command, 'Are you skilful in the field? are you clever in strategy?' but' +'Are you lucky?'” + </p> +<p> +A deep sigh was her only answer. +</p> +<p> +“I wonder who Millar's fourth man is to be? Colonel Karstairs, I know, is +one; a man of importance to me, Grace,” said he, laughing; “a two-guinea +subscriber to the dispensary! How I wish I were in a more fitting spirit +of submissiveness to my betters; and, by ill fortune, this is one of my +rebellious days!” + </p> +<p> +“Don't go, Tom! Don't go, I say!” yelled out Poll. +</p> +<p> +“Prophet of evil, and evil prophet, hold your tongue! I will go,” said he, +sternly, and as if answering a responsible adviser; and setting his hat +on, with a certain air of dogged defiance, he left the house. +</p> +<p> +His wife arose, and with feeble steps tottered to the door of the cottage +to look after him. A few steps brought him to the foot of the cliff, up +the steep face of which a zigzag path led upwards for fully four hundred +feet, a narrow track trodden by the bare feet of hardy mountaineers into +some semblance of a pathway, but such as few denizens of towns would +willingly have taken. Layton, however, stepped along like one whose foot +was not new to the heather; nay, the very nature of the ascent, the +bracing air of the sea, and something in the peril itself of the way, +seemed to revive in the man his ancient vigor; and few, seeing him from +the beach below, as he boldly breasted the steep bluff, or sprang lightly +over some fissured chasm, would have deemed him one long since past the +prime of life,—one who had spent more than youth, and its ambitions, +in excess. +</p> +<p> +At first, the spirit to press onward appeared to possess him entirely; but +ere he reached the half ascent, he turned to look down on the yellow strip +of strand and the little cottage, up to whose very door-sill now the foam +seemed curling. Never before had its isolation seemed so complete. Not a +sail was to be seen seaward, not even a gull broke the stillness with his +cry; a low, mournful plash, with now and then a rumbling half thunder, as +the sea resounded within some rocky cavern, were the only sounds, and +Layton sat down on a mossy ledge, to drink in the solitude in all its +fulness. Amidst thoughts of mingled pain and pleasure, memories of +long-past struggles, college triumphs and college friendships, came dreary +recollections of dark reverses, when the world seemed to fall back from +him, and leave him to isolation. Few had ever started with more ambitious +yearnings,—few with more personal assurances of success. Whatever he +tried he was sure to be told, “<i>There</i> lies your road, Layton; <i>that</i> +is the path will lead you to high rewards.” He had, besides,—strange +inexplicable gift,—that prestige of superiority about him that made +men cede the place to him, as if by prescription. “And what had come of it +all?—what had come of it all?” he cried out aloud, suddenly awaking +out of the past to face the present. “Why have I failed?” asked he wildly +of himself. “Is it that others have passed me in the race? Have my +successes been discovered to have been gained by trick or fraud? Have my +acquirements been pronounced mere pretensions? These, surely, cannot be +alleged of one whose fame can be attested by almost every scientific and +literary journal of the empire. No, no! the explanation is easier,—the +poet was wrong,—Fortune <i>is</i> a Deity, and some men are born to +be unlucky.” + </p> +<p> +With a sudden start he arose, and rallied from these musings. He quickly +bethought himself of his engagement, and continued his way upward. When he +reached the tableland at top, it wanted but a few minutes of five o'clock, +and five was the hour for which he was invited, and there was yet two +miles to walk to the Rectory. Any one who has lived for a considerable +space estranged from society and its requirements, will own to the sense +of slavery impressed by a return to the habits of the world. He will feel +that every ordinance is a tyranny, and the necessity of being dressed for +this, or punctual for that, a downright bondage. +</p> +<p> +Thus chafing and irritable, Layton walked along. Never was man less +disposed to accept hospitality as a polite attention, and more than once +did he halt, irresolute whether he should not retrace his steps towards +home. “No man,” thought he, “could get off more cheaply. They would +ascribe it all to my ignorance. What should a poor devil with eighty +pounds a year know of politeness? and when I had said, <i>I</i> had +forgotten the invitation, they would forget <i>me!</i>” + </p> +<p> +Thus self-accusing and self-disparaging, he reached the little avenue +gate, which by a trim gravel walk led up to the parsonage. The neat lodge, +with its rustic porch, all overgrown with a rich japonica,—the +well-kept road, along whose sides two little paved channels conducted the +water,—the flower-plats at intervals in the smooth emerald turf, +were all assurances of care and propriety; and as Layton marked them, he +muttered, “This is one of the lucky ones.” + </p> +<p> +As Layton moved on with laggard step, he halted frequently to mark some +new device or other of ornamental gardening. Now it was a tasteful group +of rock-work, over which gracefully creepers hung in festoons; now it was +a little knot of flowering shrubs, so artfully intermingled as to seem as +though growing from a single stem; now a tiny fishpond could be descried +through the foliage; even the rustic seats, placed at points of commanding +view, seemed to say how much the whole scene had been planned for +enjoyment, and that every tint of foliage, every undulation of the sward, +every distant glimpse caught through a narrow vista, had all been artfully +contrived to yield its share of pleasure. +</p> +<p> +“I wonder,” muttered he, bitterly, to himself,—“I wonder when this +man preaches on a Sunday against wealth and its temptations, reminding +others that out of this world men take nothing, but go out upon their new +pilgrimage naked and poor, does he ever turn a thought to all these +things, so beautiful now, and with that vitality that will make them +beautiful years and years after he himself has become dust? I have little +doubt,” added he, hurriedly, “that he says all this, and believes it too. +Here am I, after just as many determinations to eat no man's salt, nor sit +down to any board better than my own,—here I am to-day creeping like +a poor parasite to a great man's table,—ay, he is a great man to <i>me!</i> +</p> +<p> +“How strange is the casuistry, too, with which humble people like myself +persuade themselves that they go into the world against their will; that +they do so purely from motives of policy, forgetting all the while how +ignoble is the motive they lay claim to. +</p> +<p> +“The old Roman moralist told us that poverty had no heavier infliction in +its train than that it made men ridiculous, but I tell him he is wrong. It +makes men untrue to themselves, false to their own hearts, enemies to +their own convictions, doing twenty things every day of their lives that +they affect to deem prudent, and know to be contemptible. I wish my worthy +host had left me unnoticed!” + </p> +<p> +He was at last at the door, and rang the bell with the impatient boldness +of one chafing and angry with himself. There was a short delay, for the +servants were all engaged in the dining-room, and Layton rang again. +</p> +<p> +“Dr. Millar at home?” asked he, sternly, of the well-powdered footman who +stood before him. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; he's at dinner.” + </p> +<p> +“At dinner! I was invited to dinner!” + </p> +<p> +“I know, sir; and the doctor waited for half an hour beyond the time; but +he has only gone in this moment.” + </p> +<p> +It is just possible, in Layton's then frame of mind, that he had turned +away and left the house, never to re-enter it, when a slight circumstance +determined him to the opposite. This was the footman's respectful manner +as he took the hat from his hand, and threw wide the door for him to pass +onward. Ay, it is ever so! Things too trivial and insignificant for notice +in this life are every hour influencing our actions and swaying our +motives. Men have stormed a breach for a smile, and gone out in black +despair with life just for a cold word or a cold look. So much more +quickly does the heart influence than the head, even with the very +cleverest amongst us. +</p> +<p> +As Layton entered the dining-room, his host rose to receive him, and, with +a polished courtesy, apologized for having gone to table before his +arrival. “I gave you half an hour, doctor, and I would have given you +longer, but that I am aware a physician is not always master of his time. +Colonel Karstairs you are acquainted with. Let me present you to Mr. +Ogden. Dr. Layton, Mr. Ogden.” + </p> +<p> +There is no manner that so impresses the world with the idea of +self-sufficiency and pretension as that of the bashful man contending +against his own diffidence; and this same timidity, that one would imagine +so easily rubbed off by contact with the world, actually increases with +age, and, however glossed over by an assumed ease and a seeming +indifference, lives to torment its possessor to his last day. Of this +Layton was an unhappy victim, and while imbued with a consummate +self-esteem, he had a painful consciousness of the criticism that his +manner and breeding might call forth. The result of this conflict was to +render him stern, defiant, and even overbearing,—traits which +imparted their character even to his features in first intercourse with +strangers. +</p> +<p> +“I don't know how Halford managed it,” said Mr. Ogden, as he reseated +himself at table, “but I 've heard him say that his professional +engagements never lost him a dinner.” + </p> +<p> +Simple as were these words, they contained a rebuke, and the air of the +man that uttered them did not diminish their significance. +</p> +<p> +Mr. Ogden was a thin, pale, pock-marked man, with an upstanding head of +gray hair, a very high and retreating forehead, and a long upper lip,—one +of those men in whom the face, disproportionately large for the head, +always gives the impression of a self-sufficient nature. He had a harsh, +sharp voice, with an articulation of a most painful accuracy, even his +commonplaces being enunciated with a sort of distinct impressiveness, as +though to imply that his copper was of more value than another man's gold. +Nor was this altogether a delusion; he had had a considerable experience +of mankind and the world, and had contrived to pass his bad money on them +as excellent coin of the realm. He was—and it is very distinctive in +its mark—one of those men who always live in a class above their +own, and, whatever be the recognition and the acceptance they have there, +are ever regarded by their rightful equals as something peculiarly +privileged and superior. +</p> +<p> +“My Lord” would have called him a useful man; his friends all described +him as “influential.” But he was something greater than either,—he +was a successful man. We are constantly told that the efficiency of our +army is mainly owing to the admirable skill and ability of its petty +officers. That to their unobtrusive diligence, care, and intelligence we +are indebted for all those qualities by which a force is rendered +manageable, and victories are won. Do we not see something very similar in +our Bureaucracy? Is not our Government itself almost entirely in the hands +of “petty officers”? The great minister who rises in his place in +Parliament, the exponent of some grand policy, the author of some +extensive measure, is, after all, little more than the mouthpiece of some +“Mr. Ogden” in Downing Street; some not very brilliant or very +statesmanlike personage, but a man of business habits, every-day +intelligence, and long official traditions,—one of those three or +four men in all England who can say to a minister, “It can't be done,” and +yet give no reason why. +</p> +<p> +The men of this Ogden stamp are, in reality, great influences in a country +like ours, where frequent changes of government require that the +traditions of office should be transmitted through something higher and +more responsible than mere clerks. They are the stokers who keep the fires +alight and the steam up till a new captain comes aboard, and, though +neither commanders nor pilots, they <i>do</i> manage to influence the +course of the ship, by the mere fact that they can diminish the force of +her speed or increase its power without any one being very well aware of +how or wherefore. +</p> +<p> +Such men as these are great people in that dingy old house, whose frail +props without are more than emblems of what goes on within. Of their very +offices men speak as of the Holy of Holies; places where none enter +fearlessly save secretaries of state, and at whose door inferior mortals +wipe their feet with heart-sinking fear and lowness of spirit, rehearsing +not unfrequently the abject words of submissiveness with which they are to +approach such greatness. +</p> +<p> +It is curious, therefore, to see one of these men in private life. One +wishes to know how M. Houdin will look without his conjuring-rod, or what +Coriolanus will do in plain clothes; for, after all, he must come into the +world unattended with his belongings, and can no more carry Downing Street +about with him than could Albert Smith carry “China” to a dinner-party. +</p> +<p> +And now the soup has been brought back, and the fish, somewhat cold and +mangled, to be sure, has been served to Dr. Layton; the servant has helped +him to an admirable glass of sherry, and the dinner proceeds pleasantly +enough,—not, however, without its casualties. But of these the next +chapter will tell us. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER IX. A DINNER AT THE RECTORY +</h2> +<p> +These are men who have specialities for giving admirable “little dinners,” + and little dinners are unquestionably the <i>ne plus ultra</i> of social +enjoyment. To accomplish these there are far more requirements necessary +than the world usually wots of. They are not the triumphs of great houses, +with regiments of yellow plush and gold candelabra; they affect no vast +dining-rooms, nor a private band. They are, on the contrary, the +prerogatives of moderate incomes, middle-aged or elderly hosts, usually +bachelors, with small houses, furnished in the perfection of comfort, +without any display, but where everything, from the careful disposal of a +fire-screen to the noiseless gait of the footman, shows you that a certain +supervision and discipline prevail, even though you never hear an order +and rarely see a servant. +</p> +<p> +Where these people get their cooks, I never could make out! It is easy +enough to understand that fish and soup, your sirloin and your woodcock, +could be well and carefully dressed, but who devised that exquisite little +<i>entrée</i>, what genius presided over that dish of macaroni, that +omelette, or that soufflé? Whence, besides, came the infinite taste of the +whole meal, with its few dishes, served in an order of artistic elegance? +And that butler, too,—how quiet, how observant, how noiseless his +ministration; how steady his decanter hand! Where did they find <i>him?</i> +And that pale sherry, and that Chablis, and that exquisite cup of Mocha? +Don't tell me that you or I can have them all as good,—that you know +his wine-merchant, and have the receipt for his coffee. You might as well +tell me you could sing like Mario because you employ his hairdresser. No, +no; they who accomplish these things are peculiar organizations. They have +great gifts of order and system, the nicest perceptions of taste, +considerable refinement, and no small share of sensuality. They possess a +number of high qualities in miniature, and are, so to say, “great men seen +through the wrong end of a telescope.” + </p> +<p> +Of this the Rev. Dr. Millar was a pleasing specimen. With that +consciousness of having done everything possible for your comfort which +makes a good host, he had a racy gratification in quietly watching your +enjoyment. Easily and unobtrusively marking your taste for this or +preference for that, he would contrive that your liking should be +gratified, as though by mere accident, and never let you know yourself a +debtor for the attentions bestowed upon you. It was his pride to have a +perfect establishment: would that all vanity were as harmless and as +pleasurable to others! And now to the dinner, which, in our digression, we +are forgetting. +</p> +<p> +“Try these cutlets, doctor,” interposed the host. “It is a receipt I +brought back with me from Provence; I think you 'll find them good.” + </p> +<p> +“An over-rich, greasy sort of cuisine is the Provençale,” remarked Ogden. +</p> +<p> +“And yet almost every good cook of France comes from that country,” said +Layton. +</p> +<p> +Ogden raised his large double eye-glass to look at the man who thus dared +to “cap” a remark of his. +</p> +<p> +“I wish we could get out of the bastard French cookery all the clubs give +us nowadays,” said the Colonel. “You neither see a good English joint nor +a well-dressed entrée.” + </p> +<p> +“An emblem of the alliance,” said Layton, “where each nation spoils +something of its own in the effort to be more palatable to its neighbor.” + </p> +<p> +“Apparently, then, Sir, the great statesmen who promoted this policy are +not fortunate enough to enjoy your sanction?” said Ogden, with an insolent +air. +</p> +<p> +“My sanction is scarcely the word for it. They have not, certainly, my +approval.” + </p> +<p> +“I hope you like French wines, though, doctor,” said the host, eager to +draw the conversation into some easier channel. “Taste that Sauterne.” + </p> +<p> +“It only wants age to be perfect,” said the doctor, sipping. “All these +French white wines require more time than the red.” + </p> +<p> +Ogden again looked through his glass at the dispensary doctor who thus +dared to give judgment on a question of such connoisseurship; and then, +with the air of one not easily imposed on, said,— +</p> +<p> +“You have travelled much abroad, perhaps?” + </p> +<p> +Layton bowed a silent assent. +</p> +<p> +“I think I saw a German diploma amongst the papers you forwarded to our +committee?” said Karstairs. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, I am a doctor of medicine of Gottingen.” + </p> +<p> +“A university, I verily believe, only known to Englishmen through +Canning's doggerel,” said Ogden. +</p> +<p> +“I trust not, sir. I hope that Blumenbach's name alone would rescue it +from such oblivion.” + </p> +<p> +“I like the Germans, I confess,” broke in the Colonel. “I served with +Arentschild's Hanoverians, and never knew better or pleasanter fellows.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, I by no means undervalue Germans!” said Ogden. “I think we, at this +very moment, owe to them no small gratitude for suggesting to us the +inestimable practice of examination for all public employment.” + </p> +<p> +“In my mind, the greatest humbug of an age of humbug!” said Layton, +fiercely. +</p> +<p> +“Nay, doctor, you will, I 'm certain, recall your words when I tell you +that my friend here, Mr. Ogden, is one of the most distinguished promoters +of that system.” + </p> +<p> +“The gentleman would confer a far deeper obligation upon me by sustaining +than by withdrawing his thesis,” said Ogden, with a sarcastic smile. +</p> +<p> +“To undertake the task of sustaining the cause of ignorance against +knowledge,” said Layton, quietly, “would be an ungrateful one always. In +the present case, too, it would be like pitting myself against that +gentleman opposite. I decline such an office.” + </p> +<p> +“So, then, you confess that such would be your cause, sir?” said Ogden, +triumphantly. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir; but it would partake so much the appearance of such a struggle, +that I cannot accept it. What I called a humbug was the attempt to test +men's fitness for the public service by an examination at which the most +incapable might distinguish himself, and the ablest not pass. The system +of examination begot the system of 'grinding,'—a vulgar term for a +more vulgar practice, and a system the most fatal to all liberal +education, limiting study to a question-and-answer formula, and making +acquirements only desirable when within the rubric of a Government +commission. Very different would have been the result if the diploma of +certain recognized educational establishments had been required as +qualification to serve the State; if the law ran, 'You shall be a graduate +of this university, or that college, or possess the licentiate degree of +that school.'” + </p> +<p> +“Your observations seem, then, rather directed against certain +commissioners than the system they practise?” said Odgen, sarcastically. +</p> +<p> +“Scarcely, sir. My experience is very limited. I never met but one of +them!” + </p> +<p> +The Colonel laughed heartily at this speech,—he could n't help it; +and even the host, mortified as he was, gave a half-smile. As for Ogden, +his pale face grew a shade sicklier, and his green eyes more fishy. +</p> +<p> +“To question the post-office clerk or the landing waiter,” continued +Layton, with fresh warmth,—for when excited he could rarely control +himself,—“to test some poor aspirant for eighty pounds per annum in +his knowledge of mathematics or his skill in physical geography, while you +make governors that cannot speak correctly, and vice-governors whose +despatches are the scorn of Downing Street; to proclaim that you want your +tide-waiter to be a moral philosopher, but that the highest offices in the +State may be held by any political partisan active enough, troublesome +enough, and noisy enough to make himself worth purchase; you demand +logarithms and special geometry from a clerk in the Customs, while you +make a mill-owner a cabinet minister on the simple showing of his +persevering; and your commissioners, too,—'Quis custodiet, ipsos +custodes!'” + </p> +<p> +“You probably, however, submitted to be examined, once on a time, for your +medical degree?” asked Ogden. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; and that ordeal once passed, I had ample leisure to unlearn the +mass of useless rubbish required of me, and to address myself to the real +cares of my profession. But do you suppose that if it were demanded of me +to subject myself to another examination to hold the humble post I now +fill, that I should have accepted it?” + </p> +<p> +“I really cannot answer that question,” said Ogden, superciliously. +</p> +<p> +“Then I will, sir. I would not have done so. Eighty pounds a year is a +very attractive bribe, but it may require too costly a sacrifice to win +it.” + </p> +<p> +“The neighborhood is a very poor one,” struck in Millar, “and, indeed, if +it had not been for the strenuous exertions of my friend Colonel Karstairs +here, we should never have raised the forty pounds which gives us the +claim for as much more in the presentments.” + </p> +<p> +“And yet you got two hundred and thirty for a regatta in June last!” said +Layton, with a quiet smile. +</p> +<p> +“The way of the world, doctor; the way of the world! Men are never stingy +in what regards their own amusements!” + </p> +<p> +“That is the port, doctor; the other is Lafitte,” said the rector, as he +saw Layton hesitate about a choice. +</p> +<p> +And now the talk took a capricious turn, as it will do occasionally, in +those companies where people are old-fashioned enough to “sit” after +dinner, and let the decanter circulate. Even here, however, conversation +could not run smoothly. Ogden launched into the manufacture of wines, the +chemistry of adulterations, and the grape disease, on every one of which +Layton found something to correct him,—some slip or error to set +right,—an annoyance all the more poignant that Karstairs seemed to +enjoy it heartily. From fabricated wines to poisons the transition was +easy, and they began to talk of certain curious trials wherein the medical +testimony formed the turning-point of conviction. Here, again, Layton was +his superior in information, and made the superiority felt. Of what the +most subtle tests consisted, and wherein their fallacy lay, he was +thoroughly master, while his retentive memory supplied a vast variety of +curious and interesting illustration. +</p> +<p> +Has our reader ever “assisted” at a scene where the great talker of a +company has unexpectedly found himself confronted by some unknown, +undistinguished competitor, who, with the pertinacity of an actual +persecution, will follow him through all the devious windings of an +evening's conversation, ever present to correct, contradict, amend, or +refute? In vain the hunted martyr seeks out some new line of country, or +starts new game; his tormentor is ever close behind him. Ogden wandered +from law to literature. He tried art, scientific discovery, religious +controversy, agriculture, foreign travel, the drama, and field sports; and +Layton followed him through all,—always able to take up the theme +and carry it beyond where the other had halted. If Millar underwent all +the tortures of an unhappy host at this, Karstairs was in ecstasy. He had +been spending a week at the Rectory in Ogden's company, and it seemed a +sort of just retribution now that this dictatorial personage should have +met his persecutor. Layton, always drinking deeply as the wine came to +him, and excited by a sort of conflict which for years back he had never +known, grew more and more daring in his contradictions, less deferential, +and less fearful of offending. Whatever little reserve he had felt at +first, oozed away as the evening advanced. The law of physics is the rule +of morals, and as the swing of the pendulum is greater in proportion to +the retraction, so the bashful man, once emancipated from his reserve, +becomes the most daringly aggressive to mortals. Not content with +refuting, he now ridiculed; his vein of banter was his richest, and he +indulged it in all the easy freedom of one who defied reprisals. Millar +tried once or twice to interpose, and was at last fain to suggest that, as +the decanters came round untouched, they should adjourn to coffee. +</p> +<p> +Ogden rose abruptly at the intimation, and, muttering something inaudible, +led the way into the drawing-room. +</p> +<p> +“You have been too hard upon him, doctor,” whispered Karstairs, as he +walked along at Layton's side. “You should be more careful; he is a man of +note on the other side of the Channel; he was a Treasury Lord for some six +months once, and is always in office somewhere. I see you are rather sorry +for this yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“Sorry! I 'm sorry to leave that glorious Madeira, which I know I shall +never taste again,” said Layton, sternly. +</p> +<p> +“Are you a smoker, Dr. Layton?” said the host. “If so, don't forget this +house gives all a bachelor's privileges. Try these cheroots.” + </p> +<p> +“Liberty Hall!” chimed in the Colonel, with a vacant laugh. +</p> +<p> +“Not a bad name for your dining-room, Millar,” said Ogden, bitterly. +</p> +<p> +A slight shrug was the parson's answer. +</p> +<p> +“Is this man a frequent guest here?” he asked again, in a low whisper. +</p> +<p> +“It is his first time. I need scarcely say, it shall be his last,” replied +Millar, as cautiously. +</p> +<p> +“I felt for you, Millar. I felt what pain he must have been giving you, +though, for myself, I pledge you my word it was most amusing; his +violence, his presumption, the dictatorial tone in which he affirmed his +opinions, were high comedy. I was half sorry when you proposed coffee.” + </p> +<p> +Under pretence of admiring some curiously carved chessmen, Karstairs had +withdrawn the doctor into a small room adjoining; but, in reality, his +object was the friendly one of suggesting greater caution and more reserve +on his part. +</p> +<p> +“I don't say,” whispered he,—“I don't say that you were n't right, +and he wrong in everything. I know nothing about false quantities in +Latin, or German metaphysics, or early Christian art. You may be an +authority in all of them. All I say is, <i>he</i> is a great Government +official, and <i>you</i> are a village doctor.” + </p> +<p> +“That was exactly why I couldn't let slip the opportunity,” broke in +Layton. “Let me tell you an incident I once witnessed in my old days of +coach travelling. I was going up from Liverpool to London in the 'Umpire,' +that wonderful fast coach that astonished the world by making the journey +in thirty-six hours. I sat behind the coachman, and was struck by the +appearance of the man on the box-seat, who, though it was the depth of +winter, and the day one of cutting sleet and cold wind, wore no upper +coat, or any protection against the weather. He was, as you may imagine, +speedily wet through, and presented in his dripping and soaked habiliments +as sorry a spectacle as need be. In fact, if any man's external could +proclaim want and privation, his did. The signs of poverty, however, could +not screen him from the application of 'Won't you remember the coachman, +sir?' He, with no small difficulty,—for he was nearly benumbed with +cold,—extricated a sixpence from his pocket and tendered it. The +burly driver flung it contemptuously back to him with insult, and +sneeringly asked him how he could dare to seat himself on the box when he +was travelling like a pauper? The traveller never answered a word; a +slight flush, once, indeed, showed how the insult stung him, but he never +uttered a syllable. +</p> +<p> +“'If I had you down here for five minutes, I 'd teach you as how you 'd +set yourself on the box-seat again!' cried coachee, whose passion seemed +only aggravated by the other's submission. Scarcely were the words spoken, +when the dripping traveller began to descend from the coach. He was soon +on the ground, and almost as he touched it the coachman rushed upon him. +It was a hand-to-hand conflict, which, however, could not have lasted four +minutes. The stranger not only 'stopped' every blow of the other, but +followed each 'stop' by a well-sent-in one of his own, dealt with a force +that, judging from his size, seemed miraculous. With closed eyes, a +smashed jaw, and a disabled wrist, the coachman was carried away; while +the other, as he drank off a glass of cold water, simply said, 'If that +man wishes to know where to find me again, tell him to ask for Tom Spring, +Crane Alley, Borough Road!'” + </p> +<p> +Karstairs followed the anecdote with interest, but, somehow—for he +was not a very brilliant man, though “an excellent officer”—missed +the application. “Capital—excellent—by Jove!” cried he. “I 'd +have given a crown to have seen it.” + </p> +<p> +Layton turned away in half ill-humor. +</p> +<p> +“And so it was Tom Spring himself?” said the Colonel. “Who 'd have guessed +it?” + </p> +<p> +Layton made no reply, but began to set the chessmen upon the board at +random. +</p> +<p> +“Is this another amongst your manifold accomplishments, sir?” asked Ogden, +as he came up to the table. +</p> +<p> +“I play most games,” said Layton, carelessly; “but it's only at billiards +that I pretend to any skill.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm a very unworthy antagonist,” said Ogden; “but perhaps you will +condescend to a game with me,—at chess, I mean?” + </p> +<p> +“With pleasure,” said Layton, setting the pieces at once. He won the first +move, and just as he was about to begin he stopped, and said, “I wish I +knew your strength.” + </p> +<p> +“The players give me a knight, and generally beat me,” said Ogden. +</p> +<p> +“Oh! I understand. Will you allow me to fetch a cheroot? I move king's +knight's pawn one square.” He arose as he spoke, and walked into the +adjoining room. +</p> +<p> +Ogden moved his queen's pawn. +</p> +<p> +Layton, from the adjoining room, asked the move, and then said, “King's +bishop to knight's first square;” meanwhile continuing to search for a +cigar to his liking. +</p> +<p> +“Do you purpose to continue the game without seeing the board?” asked +Ogden, as he bit his lip with impatience. +</p> +<p> +“Not if you prefer otherwise,” said Layton, who now came back to his +place, with his cigar fully lighted. +</p> +<p> +“You see what an inexorable enemy I have, Millar,” said Ogden, with an +affected laugh; “he will not be satisfied unless my defeat be +ignominious.” + </p> +<p> +“Is it so certain to be a defeat, George?” said the rector. “Chess was +always your great game. I remember how the Windsor Club entertained you on +the occasion of your victory over that Swiss player, Eshwald.” + </p> +<p> +“And so you have beaten Eshwald,” broke in Layton, hastily. “We must give +no quarter here.” And with this he threw away his cigar, and bent down +over the board. +</p> +<p> +“We shall only disturb them, Karstairs; come along into the drawing-room, +and let us talk parish business,” said the rector. “Our little dinner has +scarcely gone off so well as I had expected,” said Millar, when they were +alone. “I meant to do our doctor a service, by asking him to meet Odgen, +who has patronage and influence in every quarter; but I suspect that this +evening will be remembered grievously against him.” + </p> +<p> +“I confess I was highly amused at it all, and not sorry to see your friend +Ogden so sorely baited. You know well what a life he has led us here for +the last week.” + </p> +<p> +“A hard hitter sometimes, to be sure,” said the rector, smiling; “but a +well-meaning man, and always ready for a kind action. I wish Layton had +used more moderation,—more deference towards him.” + </p> +<p> +“Your Madeira did it all, Millar. Why did you give the fellow such +insinuating tipple as that old '31 wine?” + </p> +<p> +“I can't say that I was not forewarned,” continued Millar. “I was told, on +his coming down to our neighborhood, to be careful of him. It was even +intimated to me that his ungovernable and overbearing temper had wrecked +his whole fortune in life; for, of course, one can easily see such a man +ought not to be sentenced to the charge of a village dispensary.” + </p> +<p> +“No matter how clever you are, there must be discipline; that's what I've +always told the youngsters in my regiment.” + </p> +<p> +The rector sighed; it was one of those hopeless little sighs a man +involuntarily heaves when he finds that his companion in a <i>tête-à-tête</i> +is always “half an hour behind the coach.” + </p> +<p> +“I intended, besides,” resumed Millar, “that Ogden should have recommended +to the Government the establishment of a small hospital down here; an +additional fifty or sixty pounds a year would have been a great help to +Layton.” + </p> +<p> +“And of course he 'll do it, when you ask him,” said the hearty Colonel. +“Now that he has seen the man, and had the measure of his capacity, he 'll +be all the readier to serve him.” + </p> +<p> +“The cleverest of all my school and college companions sacrificed his +whole career in life by shooting the pheasant a great minister had just +'marked.' He was about to be invited to spend a week at Drayton; but the +invitation never came.” + </p> +<p> +“I protest, Millar, I don't understand that sort of thing.” + </p> +<p> +“Have you never felt, when walking very fast, and eagerly intent upon some +object, that if an urchin crossed your path, or came rudely against you, +it was hard to resist the temptation of giving him a box on the ear? I +don't mean to say that the cases are parallel, but great people do, +somehow, acquire a habit of thinking that the road ought always to be +cleared for <i>them</i>, and they will not endure whatever interferes with +their wishes.” + </p> +<p> +“But don't you think if you gave Layton a hint—” + </p> +<p> +“Is n't that like it? Hear that—-” + </p> +<p> +A loud burst of laughter from the adjoining room cut short the colloquy, +and Layton's voice was heard in a tone of triumph, saying, “I saw your +plan—I even let you follow it up to the last, for I knew you were +checkmated.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm off my play; I have not touched a chessman these three years,” said +Ogden, pettishly. +</p> +<p> +“Nor I for three times three years; nor was it ever my favorite game.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm coming to crave a cup of tea from you, Millar,” said Ogden, entering +the drawing-room, flushed in the cheek, and with a flurried manner. +</p> +<p> +“Who won the game?” asked the Colonel, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Dr. Layton was the conqueror; but I don't regard myself as an ignoble +foe, notwithstanding,” said Ogden, with a sort of look of appeal towards +the doctor. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll give you a bishop and play you for—” He stopped in some +confusion, and then, with an effort at a laugh, added, “I was going to say +fifty pounds, quite forgetting that it was possible you might beat me.” + </p> +<p> +“And yet, sir, I have the presumption to think that there are things which +I could do fully as well as Dr. Layton.” + </p> +<p> +Layton turned hastily round from the table, where, having half filled a +large glass with brandy, he was about to fill up with soda-water; he set +down the unopened soda-water bottle, and, drinking off the raw spirit at a +draught, said,— +</p> +<p> +“What are they? Let's hear them, for I take the challenge; these gentlemen +be my witnesses that I accepted the gage before I knew your weapon.” Here +he replenished his glass, and this time still higher than before, and +drank it off. “You have, doubtless, your speciality, your pet subject, art +or science, what is it? Or have you more than one? You're not like the +fellow that Scott tells us could only talk of tanned leather,—eh, +Millar, you remember that anecdote?” + </p> +<p> +The rector started with that sort of spasm that unobtrusive men feel when +first accosted familiarly by those almost strangers to them. +</p> +<p> +“Better brandy than this I never tasted,” said Layton, now filling out a +bumper, while his hand shook so much that he spilled the liquor over the +table; “and, as Tom Warrendar used to say, as he who gives you unpleasant +advice is bound in honor to lend you money, so he who gives you light +claret, if he be a man of honor, will console you with old brandy +afterwards; and you are a man of honor, Millar, and a man of conscience, +and so is our colonel here,—albeit nothing remarkable in other +respects; and as for that public servant, as he likes to call himself,—the +public servant, if I must be candid,—the public servant is neither +more nor less than—” Here he stretched out his arm to its full +length, to give by the gesture greater emphasis to what he was about to +utter, and then staring half wildly, half insolently around him, he sank +down heavily into a deep armchair, and as his arms dropped listlessly +beside him, fell back insensible. +</p> +<p> +“I will say that I never felt deeper obligation to a brandy-bottle; it is +the first enjoyable moment of the whole evening,” said Ogden, as he sat +down to the tea-table. +</p> +<p> +In somewhat less than half an hour afterwards, Layton awoke with a sort of +start, and looked wildly and confusedly around him. What or how much he +remembered of the events of the evening, is not possible to say, as, with +a sudden spring to his feet, he took his hat, and with a short +“good-night,” left the house, and hurried down the avenue. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER X. THE LABORATORY +</h2> +<p> +There was a small closet-like room in Layton's cottage which he had fitted +up, as well as his very narrow means permitted, as a laboratory. +Everything in it was, of course, of the very humblest kind; soda-water +flasks were fashioned into retorts, and even blacking-jars held strange +chemical mixtures. Here, however, he spent most of his time in the search +of some ingredient by which he hoped to arrest the progress of all +spasmodic disease. An accidental benefit he had himself derived from a +certain salt of ammonia had suggested the inquiry, and for years back this +had constituted the main object of all his thoughts. Determined, if his +discovery were to prove a success, it should burst upon the world in all +its completeness, he had never revealed to any one but his son the object +of his studies. Alfred, indeed, was made participator of his hopes and +ambitions; he had seen all the steps of the inquiry, and understood +thoroughly the train of reasoning on which the theory was based. The young +man's patience in investigation and his powers of calculation were of +immense value to his father, and Layton deeply regretted the absence of +the one sole assistant he could or would confide in. A certain impatience, +partly constitutional, partly from habits of intemperance, had indisposed +the old man to those laborious calculations by which chemical discovery is +so frequently accompanied, and these he threw upon his son, who never +deemed any labor too great, or any investigation too wearisome, if it +should save his father some part of his daily fatigue. It was not for +months after Alfred's departure that Layton could re-enter his study, and +resume his old pursuits. The want of the companionship that cheered him, +and the able help that seconded all his efforts, had so damped his ardor, +that he had, if not abandoned his pursuit, at least deferred its +prosecution indefinitely. At last, however, by a vigorous effort, he +resumed his old labor, and in the interest of his search he soon regained +much of his former ambition for success. +</p> +<p> +The investigations of chemistry have about them all the fluctuating +fortunes of a deep and subtle game. There are the same vacillations of +good and bad luck; the same tides of hope and fear; the almost certain +prospect of success dashed and darkened by failure; the grief and +disappointment of failure dispelled by glimpses of bright hope. So many +are the disturbing influences, so subtle the causes which derange +experiment, where some infinitesimal excess or deficiency, some minute +accession of heat or cold, some chance adulteration in this or that +ingredient, can vitiate a whole course of inquiry, requiring the labor of +weeks to be all begun again, that the pursuit at length assumes many of +the features of a game, and a game only to be won by securing every +imaginable condition of success. +</p> +<p> +Perhaps this very character was what imparted to Layton's mind one of the +most stimulating of all interests; at all events, he addressed himself to +his task like one who, baffled and repulsed as he might be, would still +not acknowledge defeat. As well from the indefatigable ardor he showed, as +from the occasional bursts of boastful triumph in anticipation of a great +success in store, his poor ailing wife had grown to fancy that his pursuit +was something akin to those wonderful researches after the elixir vitae, +or the philosopher's stone. She knew as little of his real object as of +the means he employed to attain it, but she could see the feverish +eagerness that daily gained on him, mark his long hours of intense +thought, his days of labor, his nights of wakefulness, and her fears were +that these studies were undermining his strength and breaking up his +vigor. +</p> +<p> +It was, then, with a grateful joy at her heart she saw him invited to the +Rectory,—admitted once more to the world of his equals, and the +notice of society. She had waited hour by hour for his return home, and it +was already daybreak ere she heard him enter the cottage, and repair to +his own room. Who knows what deep and heartfelt anxieties were hers as she +sought her bed at last? What sorrowful forebodings might not have +oppressed her? What bitter tears have coursed along her worn cheeks? for +his step was short and impatient as he crossed the little hall, and the +heavy slam of his door, and the harsh grating of the lock, told that he +was ruffled and angry. The morning wore on heavily,—drearily to her, +as she watched and waited, and at last she crept noiselessly to the door, +and tapped at it gently. +</p> +<p> +“Who's there? Come in!” cried he, roughly. +</p> +<p> +“I came only to ask if you would not have your breakfast,” said she, +timidly. “It is already near eleven o'clock.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0120.jpg" alt="ONE0120" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“So late, Grace?” said he, with a more kindly accent, as he offered her a +seat. “I don't well know how the time slipped over; not that I was engaged +in anything that interested me,—I do not believe I have done +anything whatever,—no, nothing,” muttered he, vaguely, as his +wearied eye ranged over the table. +</p> +<p> +“You are tired to-day, Herbert, and you need rest,” said she, in a soft, +gentle tone. “Let this be a holiday.” + </p> +<p> +“Mine are all holidays now,” replied he, with an effort at gayety. Then +suddenly, with an altered voice, he added: “I ought never to have gone +there last night, Grace. I knew well what would come of it. I have no +habits, no temper, no taste, for such associates. What other thoughts +could cross me as I sat there, sipping their claret, than of the cold +poverty that awaited me at home? What pleasure to me could that short hour +of festivity be, when I knew and felt I must come back to this? And then, +the misery, the insult of that state of watchfulness, to see that none +took liberties with me on the score of my humble station.” + </p> +<p> +“But surely, Herbert, there is not any one—” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know that,” broke he in. “He who wears finer linen than you is +often a terrible tyrant, on no higher or better ground. If any man has +been taught that lesson, <i>I</i> have! The world has one easy formula for +its guidance. If you be poor, you must be either incompetent or +improvident, or both; your patched coat and shabby hat are vouchers for +one or the other, and sleek success does not trouble itself to ask which.” + </p> +<p> +“The name of Herbert Layton is a sure guarantee against such +depreciation,” said she, in a voice tremulous with pride and emotion. +</p> +<p> +“So it might, if it had not earned a little extra notoriety in police +courts,” said he, with a laugh of intense bitterness. +</p> +<p> +“Tell me of your dinner last night,” said she, eager to withdraw him from +the vein she ever dreaded most. “Was your party a pleasant one?” + </p> +<p> +“Pleasant!—no, the very reverse of pleasant! We had discussion +instead of conversation, and in lieu of those slight differences of +sentiment which flavor talk, we had stubborn contradictions. All <i>my</i> +fault, too, Grace. I was in one of <i>my</i> unhappy humors, and actually +forgot I was a dispensary doctor and in the presence of an ex-Treasury +Lord, with great influence and high acquaintances. You can fancy, Grace, +how boldly I dissented from all he said.” + </p> +<p> +“But if you were in the right, Herbert—” + </p> +<p> +“Which is exactly what I was not; at least, I was quite as often in the +wrong. My amusement was derived from seeing how powerless he was to expose +the fallacies that outraged him. He was stunned by a fire of blank +cartridge, and obliged to retreat before it. But now that it's all over, I +may find the amusement a costly one. And then, I drank too much wine—” + She gave a heavy sigh, and turned away to hide her look. “Yes,” resumed +he, with a fierce bitterness in his tone, “the momentary flush of +self-esteem—Dutch courage, though it be—is a marvellous +temptation to a poor, beaten-down, crushed spirit, and wine alone can give +it; and so I drank, and drank on.” + </p> +<p> +“But not to excess,” said she, in a half-broken whisper. +</p> +<p> +“At least to unconsciousness. I know nothing of how or when I quitted the +Rectory, nor how I came down the cliffs and reached this in safety. The +path is dangerous enough at noonday with a steady head and a cautious +foot, and yet last night assuredly I could not boast of either.” + </p> +<p> +Another and a deeper sigh escaped her, despite her efforts to stifle it. +</p> +<p> +“Ay, Grace, the doctor was right when he said to me, 'Don't go there.' How +well if I had but taken his advice! I am no longer fit for such +associates. They live lives of easy security,—they have not the +cares and struggles of a daily conflict for existence; we meet, therefore, +on unequal grounds. Their sentiments cost them no more care than the +French roll upon their breakfast-table. They can afford to be wrong as +they can afford debt, but the poor wretch like myself, a bare degree above +starvation, has as little credit with fine folk as with the huckster. I +ought never to have gone there! Leave me now,” added he, half sternly; +“let me see if these gases and essences will not make me forget humanity. +No, I do not care for breakfast,—I cannot eat!” + </p> +<p> +With the same noiseless step she had entered, she now glided softly from +the room, closing the door so gently that it was only when he looked round +that he was aware of being alone. For a moment or two he busied himself +with the objects on the table; he arranged phials and retorts, he lighted +his stove, he stood fanning the charcoal till the red mass glowed +brightly, and then, as though forgetting the pursuit he was engaged in, he +sat down upon a chair, and sank into a dreamy revery. +</p> +<p> +Another low tap at the door aroused him from his musings, and the low +voice he knew so well gently told him it was his morning to attend the +dispensary, a distance fully three miles off. More than one complaint had +been already made of his irregularity and neglect, and, intending to pay +more attention in future, he had charged his wife to keep him mindful of +his duties. +</p> +<p> +“You will scarcely reach Ballintray before one o'clock, Herbert,” said +she, in her habitually timid tone. +</p> +<p> +“What if I should not try? What if I throw up the beggarly office at once? +What if I burst through this slavery of patrons and chairmen and boards? +Do you fancy we should starve, Grace?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, no, Herbert,” cried she, eagerly; “I have no fears for our future.” + </p> +<p> +“Then your courage is greater than mine,” said he, bitterly, and with one +of the sudden changes of humor which often marked him. “Can't you +anticipate how the world would pass sentence on me, the idle debauchee, +who would not earn his livelihood, but must needs forfeit his subsistence +from sheer indolence?—ay, and the world would be right too. He who +breaks stones upon the highroad will not perform his task the better +because he can tell the chemical constituent of every fragment beneath his +hammer. Men want common work from common workmen, and there are always +enough to be found. I'll set out at once.” + </p> +<p> +With this resolve, uttered in a tone she never gainsaid or replied to, he +took his hat and left the cottage. +</p> +<p> +There is no more aggressive spirit than that of the man who, with the full +consciousness of great powers, sees himself destined to fill some humble +and insignificant station, well knowing the while the inferiority of those +who have conquered the high places in life. Of all the disqualifying +elements of his own character, his unsteadiness, his want of thrift, +perseverance, or conduct, his deficiency in tact or due courtesy, his +stubborn indifference to others,—of all these he will take no +account as he whispers to his heart, +</p> +<p> +“I passed that fellow at school!—I beat this one at college!—how +often have I helped yonder celebrity with his theme!—how many times +have I written his exercise for that great dignitary!” Oh, what a deep +well of bitterness lies in the nature of one so tried and tortured, and +how cruel is the war that he at last wages with the world, and, worse +again, with his own heart! +</p> +<p> +Scarcely noticing the salutations of the country people, as they touched +their hats to him on the road, or the more familiar addresses of the +better-to-do farmers as they passed, Layton strode onwards to the little +village where his dispensary stood. +</p> +<p> +“Yer unco late, docther, this morning,” said one, in that rebukeful tone +the northern Irishman never scruples to employ when he thinks he has just +cause of complaint. +</p> +<p> +“It's na the way to heal folk to keep them waitin' twa hours at a closed +door,” said another. +</p> +<p> +“I'se warrant he's gleb eneuch to call for his siller when it's due to +him,” said a third. +</p> +<p> +“My gran'mither is just gane hame; she would na bide any longer for yer +comin',” said a pert-looking girl, with a saucy toss of her head. +</p> +<p> +“It's na honest to take people's money and gie naething for it,” said an +old white-haired man on crutches; “and I 'll just bring it before the +board.” + </p> +<p> +Layton turned an angry look over the crowd, but never uttered a word. +Pride alone would have prevented him from answering them, had he not the +deeper motive that in his conflict with himself he took little heed of +what they said. +</p> +<p> +“Where's the key, Sandy?” cried he, impatiently, to an old cripple who +assisted him in the common work of the dispensary. +</p> +<p> +The man came close and whispered something secretly in his ear. +</p> +<p> +“And carried the key away, do you say?” asked Layton, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Just so, sir. There was anither wi' him,—a stranger,—and he +was mair angry than his rev'rance, and said, 'What can ye expec'? Is it +like that a man o' his habits could be entrusted with such a charge as +this?” + </p> +<p> +“And Dr. Millar—what did he reply?” + </p> +<p> +“Na much; he just shook his head this way, and muttered, 'I hoped for +better,—I hoped for better!' I dinna think they 'd have taken away +the key, but that old Jonas Graham kem up at the time, and said, 'It's +mair than a month since we seen him'—yourself he meant—'down +here, and them as has the strength for it would rather gae all the gait to +Coleraine than tak their chance o' him.' For a' that,” said Sandy, “I +opened the dispensary door, and was sarvin' out salts and the like, when +the stranger said, 'Is it to a cretur like that the people are to trust +their health? Just turn the key in the door, Millar, and you'll certainly +save some one from being poisoned this morning.' And so he did, and here +we are.” And poor Sandy turned a rueful look on the surrounders as he +finished. +</p> +<p> +“I can't cure you as kings used to cure the evil, long ago, by royal +touch, good people,” said Layton, mockingly; “and your guardians, or +governors, or whatever they call themselves, have shut me out of my own +premises. I am a priest cut off from his temple.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm na come here to ask for charity,” said a stout old fellow, who stood +alongside of a shaggy mountain pony; “I 'm able to pay ye for a' your +docther's stuff, and your skill besides.” + </p> +<p> +“Well spoken, and like a man of independence,” said Layton. “Let us open +the treaty with a gill of brandy, and you shall tell me your case while I +am sipping it.” And with these words he led the way into a public-house, +followed by the farmer, leaving the crowd to disperse when and how they +pleased. +</p> +<p> +Whatever the nature of those ailments now so confidentially imparted, they +were long enough in narration not only to require one, or two, or three +gills, but a full bottle of strong mountain whiskey, of which it is but +fair to say the farmer took his share. Layton's powers as a talker were +not long in exercise ere they gained their due influence over his +companion. Of the very themes the countryman deemed his own, he found the +doctor knew far more than himself; while by his knowledge of life and +human nature generally, he surprised his listener, who actually could not +tear himself away from one so full of anecdote and observation. +</p> +<p> +Partly warned by the lateness of the hour—for already the market was +over and the streets deserted—and partly by the thick utterance of +his companion, whose heavy, bloodshot eye and sullen look now evidenced +how deeply he had exceeded, the farmer at last arose to go away. +</p> +<p> +“You 're not 'flitting.' as you call it hereabouts,” said Layton, half +stupidly, “you're not thinking of leaving me alone to my own company, are +you?” + </p> +<p> +“I maun be thinkin' of home; it's more than twalve miles o' a mountain +that's afore me. There's na anither but yoursel' had made me forget it a' +this while,” said the farmer, as he buttoned his coat and prepared for the +road. “Just tell me now what's to pay for the bit o' writin' ye gav' me.” + </p> +<p> +“You 've had a consultation, my friend,—not a visit, but a regular +consultation. You've not been treated like the outer populace, and only +heard the oracles from afar, but you have been suffered to sit down beside +the augur, to question him, and to drink with him. Pay,—nothing to +pay! I'll cure your boy, there's my word on't. These cases are +specialities with me. Bell used to say, 'Ask Layton to look at that fellow +in such a ward; he's the only one of us understands this sort of thing. +Layton will tell us all about it.' And I 'm Layton! Ay, sir, this poor, +shabby, ill-dressed fellow that you see before you is that same Herbert +Layton; so much for brains and ability to work a man's way in life! Order +another quart of Isla whiskey, man,—that's my fee; at least it shall +be to-day. Tell them to send me pen, ink, and paper, and not disturb me; +tell them, besides—no, nevermind, I'll tell them that! And now, +good-day, my honest fellow. <i>You</i> 've been <i>my</i> physician to-day +as much as <i>I</i> have been <i>yours</i>. You have cured a sick heart—cheated +it, at least—out of one paroxysm, and so, a good journey, and safe +home to you. Send me news of your boy, and good-bye.” And his head dropped +as he spoke; his arms fell heavily at his sides; and he appeared to have +sunk into a profound sleep. The stupor was but brief; the farmer was not +well out of the village when Layton, calling for a basin of cold water, +plunged his face and part of his head in it, baring his brawny throat, and +bathing it with the refreshing liquid. As he was thus employed, he caught +sight of his face reflected in a much-cracked mirror over the fireplace, +and stood gazing for a few seconds at his blotched and bloated +countenance. +</p> +<p> +“A year or two left still, belike,” muttered he. “Past insuring, but still +seaworthy, or, at least”—and here his voice assumed an intense +mockery in tone,—“at least, capable of more shipwreck!” The sight of +the writing-materials on the table seemed to recall him to something he +had half forgotten, and, after a pause of reflection, he arranged the +paper before him and sat down to write. +</p> +<p> +With the ease of one to whom composition was familiar, he dashed off a +somewhat long letter; but though he wrote with great rapidity, he recurred +from time to time to the whiskey-bottle, drinking the strong spirits +undiluted, and, to all seeming, unmoved by its potency. “There,” cried he, +as he finished, “I have scuttled my own ship; let's see what will come of +it.” + </p> +<p> +He called for the landlord to give him wax and a seal. Neither were to be +had, and he was fain to put up with a wafer. The letter closed and +addressed, he set out homewards; scarcely, however, beyond the outskirts +of the village, than he turned away from the coast and took the road +towards the Rectory. It was now the early evening, one of those brief +seasons when the wind lulls and a sort of brief calm supervenes in the +boisterous climate of northern Ireland. Along the narrow lane he trod, +tall foxgloves and variegated ferns grew luxuriantly, imparting a +half-shade to a scene usually desolate and bare; and Layton lingered along +it as though its calm seclusion soothed him. At last he found himself at a +low wall, over which a stile led to a little woodland path. It was the +Rectory; who could mistake its trim neatness, the order and elegance which +pervaded all its arrangements? Taking this path, he walked leisurely +onward, till he came to a small flower-garden, into which three windows +opened, their sashes reaching to the ground. While yet uncertain whether +to advance or retire, he heard Ogden's sharp voice from within the room. +His tone was loud, and had the vibration of one speaking in anger. “Even +on your own showing, Millar, another reason for getting rid of him. <i>You</i> +can't be ambitious, I take it, of newspaper notoriety, or a controversy in +the public papers. Now, Layton is the very man to drag you into such a +conflict. Ask for no explanations, inquire for no reasons, but dismiss him +by an act of your board. Your colonel there is the chairman; he could n't +refuse what you insist upon, and the thing will be done without your +prominence in it.” + </p> +<p> +Millar murmured a reply, but Layton turned away without listening to it, +and made for the hall door. “Give this to your master,” said he, handing +the letter to the servant, and turned away. +</p> +<p> +The last flickerings of twilight guided him down the steep path of the +cliff, and, wearied and tired, he reached home. +</p> +<p> +“What a wearisome day you must have had, Herbert!” said his wife, as she +stooped for the hat and cane he had thrown beside him on sitting down. +</p> +<p> +“I must n't complain, Grace,” said he, with a sad sort of smile. “It is +the last of such fatigues.” + </p> +<p> +“How, or what do you mean?” asked she, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“I have given it up. I have resigned my charge of the dispensary. Don't +ask any reasons, girl,” broke he in, hastily, “for I scarcely know them +myself. All I can tell you is, it is done.” + </p> +<p> +“I have no doubt you were right, Herbert,” began she. “I feel assured—” + </p> +<p> +“Do you? Then, by Heaven! you have a greater confidence in me than <i>I</i> +have in myself. I believe I was more than two parts drunk when I did it, +but doubtless the thought will sober me when I awake to-morrow morning; +till when, I do not mean to think of it.” + </p> +<p> +“You have not eaten, I 'm sure.” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot eat just yet, Grace; give me a cup of tea, and leave me. I shall +be better alone for a while.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XI. A REMITTANCE +</h2> +<p> +“A letter,—a long letter from Alfred,” said Layton's wife, as she +knocked at his door on the following morning. “It has been lying for four +days at the office in Coleraine. Only think, Herbert, and I fretting and +fretting over his silence.” + </p> +<p> +“Is he well?” asked he, half gruffly. +</p> +<p> +“Quite well, and so happy; in the midst of kind friends, and enjoying +himself, as he says he thought impossible when absent from his home. Pray +read it, Herbert. It will do you infinite good to see how cheerfully he +writes.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; it is enough that I know the boy is well. As to being happy, it +is the affair of an hour, or a day, with the luckiest of us.” + </p> +<p> +“There are so many kind messages to you, and so many anxious inquiries +about the laboratory. But you must read them. And then there is a bank +order he insists upon your having. Poor fellow! the first money he has +ever earned—” + </p> +<p> +“How much is it, Grace?” asked he, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“It is for twenty pounds, Herbert,” said she, in a faltering accent, +which, even weak as it was, vibrated with something like reproach. +</p> +<p> +“Never could it be more welcome,” said he, carelessly. “It was thoughtful, +too, of the boy; just as if he had known all that has happened here.” And +with this he opened the door, taking hurriedly from her hand the letter +and the money-order. “No; not this. I do not want his letter,” said he, +handing it back to her, while he muttered over the lines of the bank +check. “Why did he not say,—or order?” said he, half angrily. “This +necessitates my going to Coleraine myself to receive it. It seems that I +was overrating his thoughtfulness, after all.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Herbert!” said she, pressing both her hands over her heart, as though +an acute pain shot through it. +</p> +<p> +“I meant what I have said,” said he, roughly; “he might have bethought him +what are twelve weary miles of road to one like me, as well as that my +clothes are not such as suit appearance in the streets of a town. It was +<i>not</i> thoughtful of him, Grace.” + </p> +<p> +“The poor dear boy's first few pounds; all that he could call his own—” + </p> +<p> +“I know that,” broke he in, harshly; “and in what other way could they +have afforded him a tithe of the pleasure? It was a wise selfishness +suggested the act; that is all you can say of it.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, but let me read you how gracefully and delicately he has done it, +Herbert; how mindful he was not to wound one sentiment—” + </p> +<p> +“'Pay to Herbert Layton, Esquire,'” read he, half aloud, and not heeding +her speech. “He ought to have added 'M. D.'; it is as 'the doctor' they +should know me down here. Well, it has come right opportunely, at all +events. I believe I was the owner of some fifteen shillings in the world.” + </p> +<p> +A deep, tremulous sigh was all her answer. +</p> +<p> +“Fifteen and ninepence,” muttered he, as he counted over the pieces in his +hand. “Great must be the self-reliance of the man who, with such a sum for +all his worldly wealth, insults his patrons and resigns his office,—eh, +Grace?” + </p> +<p> +There was in his tone a blended mockery and seriousness that he often +used, and which, by the impossibility of answering, always distressed her +greatly. +</p> +<p> +“It is clear you do not think so,” said he, harshly. “It is evident you +take the vulgar view of the incident, and condemn the act as one dictated +by ill temper and mere resentment. The world is always more merciful than +one's own fireside, and the world will justify me.” + </p> +<p> +“When you have satisfied your own conscience, Herbert—” + </p> +<p> +“I'll take good care to make no such appeal,” broke he in. “Besides,” + added he, with a bitter levity, “men like myself have not one, but fifty +consciences. Their after-dinner conscience is not their waking one next +morning; their conscience in the turmoil and bustle of life is not their +conscience as they lie out there on the white rocks, listening to the lazy +plash of the waves. Not to say that, after forty, every man's conscience +grows casuistical,—somewhat the worse for wear, like himself.” + </p> +<p> +It was one of Layton's pastimes to sport thus with the feelings of his +poor wife, uttering at random sentiments that he well knew must pain her +deeply; and there were days when this spirit of annoyance overbore his +reason and mastered all his self-control. +</p> +<p> +“What pleasant little sketches Alfred gives of his travelling +acquaintances!” said she, opening the letter, and almost asking to be +invited to read it. +</p> +<p> +“These things have no value from one as untried in life as he is,” broke +he in, rudely. “One only learns to decipher character by the time the +world has become very wearisome. Does he tell you how he likes his task? +How does he fancy bear-leading?” + </p> +<p> +“He praises Lord Agincourt very much. He calls him a fine, generous boy, +with many most attaching qualities.” + </p> +<p> +“They are nearly all such in that class in very early life, but, as Swift +says, the world is full of promising princes and bad kings.” + </p> +<p> +“Lord Agincourt would appear to be very much attached to Alfred.” + </p> +<p> +“So much the worse; such friendships interfere with the work of tuition, +and they never endure after it is over. To be sure, now and then a tutor +is remembered, and if he has shown himself discreet about his pupil's +misdeeds, reserved as to his shortcomings, and only moderately rebukeful +as to his faults, such virtue is often rewarded with a bishopric. What have +we here, Grace? Is not that a row-boat rounding the point yonder, and +heading into the bay?” + </p> +<p> +So rare an event might well have caused astonishment; for since the place +had been deserted by the fishermen, the landlocked waters of the little +cove had never seen the track of a boat. +</p> +<p> +“Who can it be?” continued he; “I see a round hat in the stern-sheets. +Look, he is pointing where they are to land him, quite close to our door +here.” Stimulated by an irrepressible curiosity, Herbert arose and walked +out; but scarcely had he reached the strand when he was met by Colonel +Karstairs. +</p> +<p> +“I could n't trust my gouty ankles down that precipice, doctor,” cried he +out; “and although anything but a good sailor, I came round here by water. +What a charming spot you have here, when one does reach it!” + </p> +<p> +“It is pretty; and it is better,—it is solitary,” said Layton, +coldly; for somehow he could not avoid connecting the Colonel with a scene +very painful to his memory. +</p> +<p> +“I don't think I ever saw anything more beautiful,” said Karstairs, as he +gazed around him. “The wild, fantastic outlines of those rocks, the +variegated colors of the heath blossom, the golden strand, and the cottage +itself, make up a fairy scene.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me show you the interior, though it dispel the illusion,” said +Layton, as he moved towards the door. +</p> +<p> +“I hope my visit is not inconvenient,” said Karstairs, as he entered and +took a seat; “and I hope, besides, when you hear the object of it, you +will, at least, forgive me.” He waited for a reply of some sort, but +Layton only bowed his head stiffly, and suffered him to continue: “I am a +sorry diplomatist, doctor, and have not the vaguest idea of how to +approach a point of any difficulty; but what brought me here this morning +was simply this: you sent that letter”—here he drew one from his +pocket, and handed it to Layton—“to our friend the rector.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; it is my hand, and I left it myself at the parsonage.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, now, Millar has shown it to no one but myself,—indeed, he +placed it in my hands after reading it; consequently, its contents are +unknown save to our two selves; there can, therefore, be no difficulty in +your withdrawing it. You must see that the terms you have employed towards +him are not such as—are not civil, I mean; in fact, they are not +fair. He is an excellent fellow, and sincerely your friend, besides. Now, +don't let a bit of temper get the mastery over better feeling, nor do not, +out of a momentary pique, throw up your appointment. None of us, nowadays, +can afford to quarrel with his bread-and-butter; and though you are +certainly clever enough and skilful enough not to regard such an humble +place as this, yet, remember, you had a score of competitors when you +looked for it. Not to say that we all only desire to know how to be of +service to you, to make your residence amongst us agreeable, and—and +all that sort of thing, which you can understand far better than I can say +it!” Nor, to do the worthy Colonel justice, was this a very difficult +matter, seeing that, in his extreme confusion and embarrassment, he +stammered and stuttered at every word, while, to increase his difficulty, +the manner of Layton was cold and almost stately. +</p> +<p> +“Am I to suppose, sir,” said he, at length, “that you are here on the part +of Dr. Millar?” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; nothing of the kind. Millar knows, of course, the step I have +taken; perhaps he concurs in it; indeed, I 'm sure he does. He is your +sincere well-wisher, doctor,—a man who really wants to be your +friend.” + </p> +<p> +“Too much honor,” said Layton, haughtily. “Not to say how arduous the task +of him who would protect a man against himself; and such I opine to be the +assumed object here.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm sure, if I had as much as suspected how you would have taken my +interference,” said the Colonel, more hurt by Layton's tone than by his +mere words, “I 'd have spared myself my mission.” + </p> +<p> +“You had no right to have anticipated it, sir. It was very natural for you +to augur favorably of any intervention by a colonel,—a C.B., with +other glorious distinctions—in regard to a poor dispensary doctor, +plodding the world wearily, with a salary less than a butler's. You had +only to look down the cliff, and see the humble cottage where he lived, to +calculate what amount of resistance could such a man offer to any proposal +that promised him bread.” + </p> +<p> +“I must say, I wish you would not mistake me,” broke in Karstairs, with +warmth. +</p> +<p> +“I am not stating anything with reference to you, sir; only with respect +to those judgments the world at large would pronounce upon <i>me</i>.” + </p> +<p> +“Am I to conclude, then,” said the Colonel, rising, and evidently in +anger,—“am I to conclude, then, that this is your deliberate act, +that you wish to abide by this letter, that you see nothing to recall nor +retract in its contents?” + </p> +<p> +Layton bowed an assent +</p> +<p> +“This is too bad—too bad,” muttered the Colonel, as he fumbled for +his gloves, and dropped them twice over in his confusion. “I know well +enough where the sting lies: you are angry with Ogden; you suspect that he +has been meddling. Well, it's no affair of mine; you are the best judge. +Not but a little prudence might have shown you that Ogden was a dangerous +man to offend,—a very dangerous man; but of course you know best. I +have only to ask pardon for obtruding my advice unasked, a stupid act +always, but I 'm right sorry for it.” + </p> +<p> +“I am very grateful for the intention, sir,” said Layton, with dignity. +</p> +<p> +“That 's all I can claim,” muttered the Colonel, whose confusion increased +every moment. “It was a fool's errand, and ends as it ought. Good-bye!” + </p> +<p> +Layton arose and opened the door with a respectful air. +</p> +<p> +Karstairs offered his hand, and, as he grasped the other's warmly, said, +“I wish you would let me talk this over with your wife, Layton.” + </p> +<p> +The doctor drew haughtily back, and, with a cold stare of astonishment, +said: “I have addressed you by your title, sir; <i>I</i> have mine. At all +events, there is nothing in your station nor in my own to warrant this +familiarity.” + </p> +<p> +“You are quite right,—perfectly right,—and I ask pardon.” + </p> +<p> +It was a liberty never to be repeated, and the bronzed weatherbeaten face +of the old soldier became crimson with shame as he bowed deeply and passed +out. +</p> +<p> +Layton walked punctiliously at his side till he reached the boat, neither +uttering a word; and thus they parted. Layton stood for a moment gazing +after the boat. Perhaps he thought that Karstairs would turn his head +again towards the shore; perhaps—who knows?—he hoped it. At all +events, the old Colonel never once looked back, and the boat soon rounded +the point and was lost to view. +</p> +<p> +There are men so combative in their natures that their highest enjoyment +is derived from conflict with the world,—men whose self-esteem is +never developed till they see themselves attacking or attacked. Layton was +one of this unhappy number, and it was with a sort of bastard heroism that +he strolled back to the cottage, proud in the thought of how he stood, +alone and friendless, undeterred by the enmity of men of a certain +influence and station. +</p> +<p> +He was soon in his laboratory and at work, the reaction imparting a great +impulse to his energy. He set to work with unwonted vigor and +determination. Chemical investigation has its good and evil days,—its +periods when all goes well, experiments succeed, tests answer, and results +respond to what was looked for; and others when disturbing causes +intervene, gases escape, and retorts smash. This was one of the former; +and the subtle essence long sought after by Layton, so eagerly desired, +and half despaired of, seemed at last almost within reach. A certain salt, +an ingredient very difficult of preparation, was, however, wanting to his +further progress, and it was necessary that he should provide himself with +it ere he advanced any further. To obtain this without any adulterating +admixture and in all purity was essential to success; and he determined to +set out immediately for Dublin, where he could himself assist in its +preparation. +</p> +<p> +“What good luck it was, Grace,” said he, as he entered the room where she +sat awaiting dinner for him,—“what good luck that the boy should +have sent us this money! I must go up to Dublin to-morrow, and without it +I must have given up the journey.” + </p> +<p> +“To Dublin!” said she, in a half-frightened voice, for she dreaded—not +without reason—the temptations he would be exposed to when +accidentally lifted above his usual poverty. +</p> +<p> +“Ay, girl; I want a certain 'cyanuret' of which you have never heard, nor +can help me to any knowledge of, but which a Dublin chemist that I know of +will assist me to procure; and with this salt I purpose to make myself a +name and reputation that even Mr. Ogden will not dare to dispute. I shall, +I hope, have discovered what will render disease painless, and deprive +operation of all its old terrors. If my calculations be just, a new era +will dawn upon medical science, and the physician come to the sick man as +a true comforter. My discovery, too, is no empyric accident for which I +can give no reason, nor assign no cause, but the result of patient +investigation, based upon true knowledge. My appeal will be to the men of +science, not to popular judgments. I ask no favor; I seek no patronage. +Herbert Layton would be little likely to find either; but we shall see if +the name will not soar above both favor and patronage, and rank with the +great discoverers, or, better again, with the great benefactors of +mankind.” + </p> +<p> +Vainglorious and presumptuous as this speech was,—uttered, too, in a +tone boastful as the words themselves,—it was the mood which +Layton's wife loved to see him indulge. If for nothing else than it was +the reverse of the sardonic and bitter raillery he often practised,—a +spirit of scoff in which he inveighed against the world and himself,—it +possessed for her an indescribable charm. It represented her husband, +besides, in what she loved to think his true character,—that of a +noble, enthusiastic man, eagerly bent upon benefiting his fellows. To her +thinking, there was nothing of vanity,—no overweening conceit in all +these foreshadowings of future fame; nay, if anything, he understated the +claims he would establish upon the world's gratitude. +</p> +<p> +With what eager delight, then, did she listen! how enchanting were the +rich tones of his voice as he thus declaimed! +</p> +<p> +“How it cheers my heart, Herbert, when I hear you speak thus! how bright +everything looks when you throw such sunlight around you!” + </p> +<p> +“'Is this the debauchee,—is this the fellow we have been reading of +in the reports from Scotland Yard? Methinks I hear them whispering to +each other. Ay, and that haughty University, ashamed of its old injustice, +will stoop to share the lustre of the man it once expelled.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, think of the other and the better part of your triumph!” cried she, +eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“The best part of all will be the vengeance on those who have wronged me. +What will these calumniators say when it is a nation does homage to my +success?” + </p> +<p> +“There are higher and better rewards than such feelings,” said she, half +reproachfully. +</p> +<p> +“How little you know of it!” said he, in his tone of accustomed +bitterness. “The really high and great rewards of England are given to +wealth, to political intrigue, to legal success. It's your banker, your +orator, or your scheming barrister, who win the great prizes in our State +Lottery. Find out some secret by which life can be restored to the +drowned, convert an atmosphere of pestilence into an air of health and +vigor, discover how an avalanche may be arrested in its fall, and, if you +be an Englishman, you can do nothing better with your knowledge than sell +it to a company, and make it marketable through shareholders. Philanthropy +can be quoted on 'Change like a Welsh tin-mine or a patent fuel company; +and if you could raise the dead, make a 'limited liability' scheme of it +before you tell the world your secret.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Herbert, it was not thus you were wont to speak.” + </p> +<p> +“No, Grace,” said he, in a tone of gentle, sorrowful meaning; “but there +is no such misanthrope as the man who despises himself.” And with this he +hastened to his room and locked the door. It was while carelessly and +recklessly he scattered the harsh words by which he grieved her most that +he now and then struck some chord that vibrated with a pang of almost +anguish within him, uttering aloud some speech which from another he would +have resented with a blow. Still, as the criminal is oftentimes driven to +confess the guilt whose secret burden is too heavy for his heart, +preferring even the execration of mankind to the terrible isolation of +secrecy, so did he feel a sort of melancholy satisfaction in discovering +how humbly and meanly he appeared before himself. +</p> +<p> +“A poor man's pack is soon made, Grace,” said he, with a sad smile, as he +entered the room, where she was busily engaged in the little preparations +for his journey. +</p> +<p> +“Tom, don't go! don't go! don't!” screamed out the parrot, wildly. +</p> +<p> +“Only listen to the creature,” said he; “he 's at his warnings again. I +wish he would condescend to be more explanatory and less oracular.” + </p> +<p> +She only smiled, without replying. +</p> +<p> +“Not but he was right once, Grace,” said Layton, gravely. “You remember +how he counselled me against that visit to the Rectory.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't! don't!” croaked out the bird, in a low, guttural voice. +</p> +<p> +“You are too dictatorial, doctor, even for a vice-provost. I will go.” + </p> +<p> +“All wrong! all wrong!” croaked the parrot. +</p> +<p> +“By Jove! he has half shaken my resolution,” said Layton, as he sat down +and drew his hand across his brow. “I wish any one would explain to me why +it is that he who has all his life resented advice as insult, should be +the slave of his belief in omens.” This was uttered in a half-soliloquy, +and he went on: “I can go back to at least a dozen events wherein I have +had to rue or to rejoice in this faith.” + </p> +<p> +“I too would say, Don't go, Herbert,” said she, languidly. +</p> +<p> +“How foolish all this is!” said be, rising; “don't you know the old +Spanish proverb, Grace, 'Good luck often sends us a message, but very +rarely calls at the door herself?' meaning that we must not ask Fortune to +aid us without our contributing some effort of our own. I will go, Grace. +Yes, I will go. No more auguries, doctor,” said he, throwing a +handkerchief playfully over the bird and then withdrawing it,—a +measure that never failed to enforce silence. “This time, at least,” said +he, “I mean to be my own oracle.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XII. A FELLOW-TRAVELLER ON THE COACH +</h2> +<p> +The morning was raw, cold, and ungenial, as Layton took his outside seat +on the coach for Dublin. For sake of shelter, being but poorly provided +against ill weather, he had taken the seat behind the coachman, the place +beside him being reserved for a traveller who was to be taken up outside +the town. The individual in question was alluded to more than once by the +driver and the guard as “the Captain,” and in the abundance of fresh hay +provided for his feet, and the care taken to keep his seat dry, there were +signs of a certain importance being attached to his presence. As they +gained the foot of a hill, where the road crossed a small bridge, they +found the stranger awaiting them, with his carpet-bag; he had no other +luggage, but in his own person showed unmistakable evidence of being well +prepared for a journey. He was an elderly man, short, square, and +thick-set, with a rosy, cheerful countenance, and a bright, merry eye. As +he took off his hat, punctiliously returning the coachee's salute, he +showed a round, bald head, fringed around the base by a curly margin of +rich brown hair. So much Layton could mark,—all signs, as he read +them, of a jovial temperament and a healthy constitution; nor did the few +words he uttered detract from the impression: they were frank and +cheerful, and their tone rich and pleasing to the ear. +</p> +<p> +The stranger's first care on ascending to his place was to share a very +comfortable rug with his neighbor, the civility being done in a way that +would have made refusal almost impossible; his next move was to inquire if +Layton was a smoker, and, even before the answer, came the offer of a most +fragrant cigar. The courtesy of the offered snuff-box amongst our +grandfathers is now replaced by the polite proffer of a cigar, and, simple +as the act of attention is in itself, there are some men who are perfect +masters in the performance. The Captain was of this category; and although +Layton was a cold, proud, off-standing man, such was the other's tact, +that, before they had journeyed twenty miles in company, an actual +intimacy had sprung up between them. +</p> +<p> +There is no pleasanter companionship to the studious and reading man than +that of a man of life and the world, one whose experience, drawn entirely +from the actual game of life, is full of incident and adventure. The +Captain had travelled a great deal and seen much, and there was about all +his observations the stamp of a mind that had learned to judge men and +things by broader, wider rules than are the guides of those who live in +more narrow spheres. +</p> +<p> +It was in discoursing on the political condition of Ireland that they +reached the little village of Cookstown, about a mile from which, on a +slight eminence, a neat cottage was observable, the trim laurel hedge that +separated it from the road being remarkable in a country usually deficient +in such foliage. +</p> +<p> +“A pretty spot,” remarked Layton, carelessly, “and, to all seeming, +untenanted.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, it seems empty,” said the other, in the same easy tone. +</p> +<p> +“There's never been any one livin' there, Captain, since <i>that</i>,” + said the coachman, turning round on his seat, and addressing the stranger. +</p> +<p> +“Since what?” asked Layton, abruptly. +</p> +<p> +“He is alluding to an old story,—a very old story, now,” rejoined +the other. “There were two men—a father and son—named Shehan, +taken from that cottage in the year of Emmet's unhappy rebellion, under a +charge of high treason, and hanged.” + </p> +<p> +“I remember the affair perfectly: Curran defended them. If I remember +aright, too, they were convicted on the evidence of a noted informer.” + </p> +<p> +“The circumstance is painfully impressed on my memory, by the fact that I +have the misfortune to bear the same name; and it is by my rank alone that +I am able to avoid being mistaken for him. My name is Holmes.” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure,” cried Layton, “Holmes was the name; Curran rendered it +famous on that day.” + </p> +<p> +The coachman had turned round to listen to this conversation, and at its +conclusion touched his hat to the Captain as if in polite acquiescence. +</p> +<p> +By the time they had reached Castle Blayney, such had been the Captain's +success in ingratiating himself into Layton's good opinion, that the +doctor had accepted his invitation to dinner. +</p> +<p> +“We shall not dine with the coach travellers,” whispered the stranger, +“but at a small house I 'll show you just close by. I have already ordered +my cutlet there, and there will be enough for us both.” + </p> +<p> +Never was speech less boastful; a most admirable hot dinner was ready as +they entered the little parlor, and such a bottle of port as Layton +fancied he had never tasted the equal. By good luck there was ample time +to enjoy these excellent things, as the mail was obliged to await at this +place for an hour or more the arrival of a cross-post. A second and a third +brother of the same racy vintage succeeded; and Layton, warmed by the +generous wine, grew open and confidential, not only in speaking of the +past, but also to reveal all his hopes for the future, and the object of +his journey. Though the Captain was nothing less than a man of science, he +could fathom sufficiently the details the other gave to see that the +speaker was no ordinary man, and his discovery no small invention. +</p> +<p> +“Ay,” said the doctor, as, carried away by the excitement of the wine, he +grew boastful and vain, “you 'll see, sir, that the man who sat shivering +beside you on the outside of the mail without a great-coat to cover him, +will, one of these days, be recognized as amongst the first of his nation, +and along with Hunter and Bell and Brodie will stand the name of Herbert +Layton!” + </p> +<p> +“You had a very distinguished namesake once, a Fellow of Trinity—” + </p> +<p> +“Myself, sir, none other. I am the man!” cried he, in a burst of +triumphant pride. “I am—that is, I was—the Regius Professor of +Medicine; I was Gold Medallist in 18—; then Chancellor's Prizeman; +the following year I beat Stack and Naper,—you 've heard of <i>them</i>, +I 'm sure, on the Fellowship bench; I carried away the Verse prize from +George Wolffe; and now, this day,—ay, sir, this day,—I don't +think I 'd have eaten if you had not asked me to dine with you.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come,” said the Captain, pushing the decanter towards him, “there +are good days coming. Even in a moneyed point of view, your discovery is +worth some fifteen or twenty thousand pounds.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd not sell it for a million; it shall be within the reach of the +humblest peasant in the land the day I have perfected the details. It +shall be for Parliament—the two Houses of the nation—to reward +me, or I 'll never accept a shilling.” + </p> +<p> +“That's a very noble and high-spirited resolve. I like you for it; I +respect you for it,” said the Captain, warmly. +</p> +<p> +“I know well what had been my recognition if I had been born a German or a +Frenchman. It is in England alone scientific discovery brings neither +advancement nor honor. They pension the informer that betrays his +confederates, and they leave the man of intellect to die, as Chatterton +died, of starvation in a garret. Is n't that true?” + </p> +<p> +“Too true,—too true, indeed!” sighed the Captain, mournfully. +</p> +<p> +“And as to the Ireland of long ago,” said Layton, “how much more wise her +present-day rulers are than those who governed her in times past, and +whose great difficulty was to deal with a dominant class, and to induce +them to abate any of the pretensions which years of tried loyalty would +seem to have confirmed into rights! I speak as one who was once a 'United +Irishman,'” said he. +</p> +<p> +Laying down the glass he was raising to his lips, the Captain leaned +across the table and grasped Layton's hand; and although there was nothing +in the gesture which a bystander could have noticed, it seemed to convey a +secret signal, for Layton cried out exultingly,— +</p> +<p> +“A brother in the cause!” + </p> +<p> +“You may believe how your frank, outspoken nature has won upon me,” said +he, “when I have confided to you a secret that would, if revealed, +certainly cost me my commission, and might imperil my life; but I will do +more, Layton, I will tell you that our fraternity exists in full vigor,—not +here, but thousands of miles away,—and England will have to reap in +India the wrongs she has sown in Ireland.” + </p> +<p> +“With this I have no sympathy,” burst in Layton, boldly. “Our association—at +least, as I understood it—was to elevate and enfranchise Ireland, +not humiliate England. It was well enough for Wolfe Tone and men of his +stamp to take this view, but Nielson and myself were differently minded, +and <i>we</i> deemed that the empire would be but the greater when all who +served it were equals.” + </p> +<p> +Was it that the moment was propitious, was it that Layton's persuasive +power was at its highest, was it that the earnest zeal of the man had +carried conviction with his words? However it happened, the Captain, after +listening to a long and well-reasoned statement, leaned his head +thoughtfully on his hand, and said,— +</p> +<p> +“I wish I had known you in earlier days, Layton. You have placed these +things before me in a point I have never seen them before, nor do I +believe that there are ten men amongst us who have. Grant me a favor,” + said he, as if a sudden thought had just crossed him. +</p> +<p> +“What is it?” asked Layton. +</p> +<p> +“Come and stay a week or two with me at my little cottage at Glasnevin; I +am a bachelor, and live that sort of secluded life that will leave you +ample time for your own pursuits.” + </p> +<p> +“Give me a corner for my glass bottles and a furnace, and I 'm your man,” + said Layton, laughingly. +</p> +<p> +“You shall make a laboratory of anything but the dinner-room,” cried +Holmes, shaking hands on the compact, and thus sealing it. +</p> +<p> +The guard's horn soon after summoned them to their places, and they once +more were on the road. +</p> +<p> +The men who have long waged a hand-to-hand combat with fortune, unfriended +and uncheered, experience an intense enjoyment when comes the moment in +which they can pour out all their sorrows and their selfishness into some +confiding ear. It is no ordinary pleasure with them to taste the sympathy +of a willing listener. Layton felt all the ecstasy of such a moment, and +he told not alone of himself and his plans and his hopes, but of his son +Alfred,—what high gifts the youth possessed, and how certain was he, +if common justice should be but accorded to him, to win a great place in +the world's estimation. +</p> +<p> +“The Captain” was an eager listener to all the other said, and never +interrupted, save to throw in some passing word of encouragement, some +cheering exhortation to bear up bravely and courageously. +</p> +<p> +Layton's heart warmed with the words of encouragement, and he confided +many a secret source of hope that he had never revealed before. He told +how, in the course of his labors, many an unexpected discovery had burst +upon him,—now some great fact applicable to the smelting of metals, +now some new invention available to agriculture. They were subjects, he +owned, he had not pursued to any perfect result, but briefly committed to +some rough notes, reserving them for a time of future leisure. +</p> +<p> +“And if I cannot convince the world,” said he, laughingly, “that they have +neglected and ignored a great genius, I hope, at least, to make <i>you</i> +a convert to that opinion.” + </p> +<p> +“You see those tall elms yonder?” said Holmes, as they drew nigh Dublin. +“Well, screened beneath their shade lies the little cottage I have told +you about. Quiet and obscure enough now, but I 'm greatly mistaken if it +will not one day be remembered as the spot where Herbert Layton lived when +he brought his great discovery to completion.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you really think so?” cried Layton, with a swelling feeling about the +heart as though it would burst his side. “Oh, if I could only come to feel +that hope myself! How it would repay me for all I have gone through! How +it would reconcile me to my own heart!” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XIII. HOW THEY LIVED AT THE VILLA +</h2> +<p> +The Heathcotes had prolonged their stay at Marlia a full month beyond +their first intention. It was now November, and yet they felt most +unwilling to leave it. To be sure, it was the November of Italy in one of +its most favored spots. The trees had scarcely began to shed their leaves, +and were only in that stage of golden and purple transition that showed +the approach of winter. The grass was as green, and the dog-roses as +abundant, as in May; indeed, it was May itself, only wanting the fireflies +and the violets. One must have felt the languor of an Italian summer, with +its closed-shutter existence, its long days of reclusion, without +exercise, without prospect, almost without light, to feel the intense +delight a bright month of November can bring, with its pathways dry, its +rivulets clear, its skies cloudless and blue,—to be able to be about +again, to take a fast canter or a brisk walk, is enjoyment great as the +first glow of convalescence after sickness. Never are the olive-trees more +silvery; never does the leafy fig, or the dark foliage of the orange, +contrast so richly with its golden fruit. To enjoy all these was reason +enough why the Heathcotes should linger there; at least, they said that +was their reason, and they believed it. Layton, with his pupil, had +established himself in the little city of Lucca, a sort of deserted, +God-forgotten old place, with tumble-down palaces, with strange iron +“grilles” and quaint old armorial shields over them; he said they had gone +there to study, and <i>he</i> believed it. +</p> +<p> +Mr. O'Shea was still a denizen of the Panini Hotel at the Bagni,—from +choice, he said, but <i>he</i> did not believe it; the Morgans had gone +back to Wales; Mr. Mosely to Bond Street; and Quackinboss was off to “do” + his Etruscan cities, the “pottery, and the rest of it;” and so were they +all scattered, Mrs. Penthony Morris and Clara being, however, still at the +villa, only waiting for letters to set out for Egypt. Her visit had been +prolonged by only the very greatest persuasions. “She knew well—too +bitterly did she know—what a blank would life become to her when she +had quitted the dear villa.” “What a dreary awaking was in store for +them.” “What a sad reverse to poor Clara's bright picture of existence.” + “The dear child used to fancy it could be all like this!” “Better meet the +misery at once than wait till they could not find strength to tear +themselves away.” Such-like were the sentiments uttered, sometimes +tearfully, sometimes in a sort of playful sadness, always very gracefully, +by the softest of voices, accompanied by the most downcast of long-fringed +eyelids. +</p> +<p> +“I am sure I don't know how May will manage to live without her,” said +Charles, who, be it confessed, was thinking far more of his own sorrows +than his cousin's; while he added, in a tone of well-assumed indifference, +“We shall all miss her!” + </p> +<p> +“Miss her,” broke in Sir William; “by George! her departure would create a +blank in the society of a city, not to speak of a narrow circle in a +remote country-house.” As for May herself, she was almost heart-broken at +the thought of separation. It was not alone the winning graces of her +manner, and the numberless captivations she possessed, but that she had +really such a “knowledge of the heart,” she had given her such an insight +into her own nature, that, but for her, she had never acquired; and poor +May would shudder at the thought of the ignorance with which she had been +about to commence the voyage of life, until she had fortunately chanced +upon this skilful pilot. But for Mrs. Morris it was possible, nay, it was +almost certain, she should one day or other have married Charles +Heathcote,—united herself to one in every way unsuited to her, “a +good-tempered, easy-natured, indolent creature, with no high ambitions,—a +man to shoot and fish, and play billiards, and read French novels, but not +the soaring intellect, not the high intelligence, the noble ascendancy of +mind, that should win such a heart as yours, May.” How strange it was that +she should never before have recognized in Charles all the blemishes and +shortcomings she now detected in his character! How singular that she had +never remarked how selfish he was, how utterly absorbed in his own +pursuits, how little deference he had for the ways or wishes of others, +and then, how abrupt, almost to rudeness, his manners! To be sure, part of +this careless and easy indifference might be ascribed to a certain sense +of security; “he knows you are betrothed to him, dearest; he is sure you +must one day be his wife, or, very probably, he would be very different,—more +of an ardent suitor, more eager and anxious in his addresses. Ah, there it +is! men are ever so, and yet they expect that we poor creatures are to +accept that half fealty as a full homage, and be content with that small +measure of affection they deign to accord us! That absurd Will has done it +all, dear child. It is one of those contracts men make on parchment, quite +forgetting that there are such things as human affections. You must marry +him, and there's an end of it!” + </p> +<p> +Now, Charles, on his side, was very fond of his cousin. If he was n't in +love with her, it was because he did n't very well understand what being +in love meant; he had a notion, indeed, that it implied giving up hunting +and coursing, having no dogs, not caring for the Derby, or even opening +“Punch” or smoking a cigar. Well, he could, he believed, submit to much, +perhaps all, of these, but he could n't, at least he did n't fancy he +could, be “spooney.” He came to Mrs. Morris with confessions of this kind, +and she undertook to consider his case. +</p> +<p> +Lastly, there was Sir William to consult her about his son and his ward. +He saw several nice and difficult points in their so-called engagement +which would require the delicate hand of a clever woman; and where could +he find one more to the purpose than Mrs. Penthony Morris? +</p> +<p> +With a skill all her own, she contrived to have confidential intercourse +almost every day with each of the family. If she wished to see Sir +William, it was only to pretend to write a letter, or look for some volume +in the library, and she was sure to meet him. May was always in her own +drawing-room, or the flower-garden adjoining it; and Charles passed his +day rambling listlessly about the stables and the farm-yard, or watching +the peasants at their work beneath the olive-trees. To aid her plans, +besides, Clara could always be despatched to occupy and engage the +attention of some other. Not indeed, that Clara was as she used to be. Far +from it. The merry, light-hearted, capricious child, with all her strange +and wayward ways, was changed into a thoughtful, pensive girl, loving to +be alone and unnoticed. So far from exhibiting her former dislike to +study, she was now intensely eager for it, passing whole days and great +part of the night at her books. There was about her that purpose-like +intentness that showed a firm resolve to learn. Nor was it alone in this +desire for acquirement that she was changed, but her whole temper and +disposition seemed altered. She had grown more gentle and more obedient. +If her love of praise was not less, she accepted it with more graceful +modesty, and appeared to feel it rather as a kindness than an acknowledged +debt. The whole character of her looks, too, had altered. In place of the +elfin sprightliness of her ever-laughing eyes, their expression was soft +even to sadness; her voice, that once had the clear ringing of a melodious +bell, had grown low, and with a tender sweetness that gave to each word a +peculiar grace. +</p> +<p> +“What is the matter with Clara?” said Sir William, as he found himself, +one morning, alone with Mrs. Morris in the library. “She never sings now, +and she does not seem the same happy creature she used to be.” + </p> +<p> +“Can you not detect the cause of this, Sir William?” said her mother, with +a strange sparkle in her eyes. +</p> +<p> +“I protest I cannot. It is not, surely, that she is unhappy here?” + </p> +<p> +“No, no, very far from that.” + </p> +<p> +“It cannot be ill health, for she is the very picture of the contrary.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no,” said her mother again. +</p> +<p> +“What can it be?” + </p> +<p> +“Say, rather, who?” broke in Mrs. Morris, “and I 'll tell you.” + </p> +<p> +“Who, then? Tell me by all means.” + </p> +<p> +“Mr. Layton. Yes, Sir William, this is <i>his</i> doing. I have remarked +it many a day back. You are aware, of course, how sedulously he endeavors +to make himself acceptable in another quarter?” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean? What quarter? Surely you do not allude to my ward?” + </p> +<p> +“You certainly do not intend me to believe that you have not seen this, +Sir William?” + </p> +<p> +“I declare not only that I have never seen, but never so much as suspected +it. And have <i>you</i> seen it, Mrs. Morris?” + </p> +<p> +“Ah! Sir William, this is our woman's privilege, though really in the +present case it did not put the faculty to any severe test.” + </p> +<p> +For a moment or two he made no reply, and then said, “And Charles—has +Charles remarked it?” + </p> +<p> +“I really cannot tell you. His manner is usually so easy and indifferent +about everything, that, whether it comes of not seeing or never caring, I +cannot pretend to guess.” + </p> +<p> +“I asked the young man here, because he was with Lord Agincourt,” began +Sir William, who was most eager to offer some apologies to himself for any +supposed indiscretion. “Agincourt's guardian, Lord Sommerville, and myself +have had some unpleasant passages in life, and I wished to show the boy +that towards <i>him</i> I bore no memory of the ills I received from his +uncle. In fact, I was doubly civil and attentive on that account; but as +for Mr. Layton,—isn't that his name?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; Alfred Layton.” + </p> +<p> +“Layton came as the lad's tutor,—nothing more. He appeared a +pleasing, inoffensive, well-bred young fellow. But surely, Mrs. Morris, my +ward has given him no encouragement?” + </p> +<p> +“Encouragement is a strong word, Sir William,” said she, smiling archly; +“I believe it is only widows who give encouragement?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, well,” said he, hurriedly, and not caring to smile, for he was in +no jesting mood, “has she appeared to understand his attentions?” + </p> +<p> +“Even young ladies make no mistakes on that score,” said she, in the same +bantering tone. +</p> +<p> +“And I never to see it!” exclaimed he, as he walked hurriedly to and fro. +“But I ought to have seen it, eh, Mrs. Morris?—I ought to have seen +it. I ought, at least, to have suspected that these fellows are always on +the lookout for such a chance as this. Now I suppose you 'll laugh at me +for the confession, but my attention was entirely engaged by watching our +Irish friend.” + </p> +<p> +“The great O'Shea!” exclaimed Mrs. Morris, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“And to tell you the truth, I never could exactly satisfy myself whether +he came here to ogle my ward, or win Charley's half-crowns at billiards.” + </p> +<p> +“I imagine, if you asked him, he 'd say he was in for the 'double event,'” + said she, with a laugh. +</p> +<p> +“And, then, Mrs. Morris,” added he, with a sly smile, “if I must be +candid, I fancied, or thought I fancied, his attentions had another +object.” + </p> +<p> +“Towards me!” said she, calmly, but in an accent as honest, as frank, and +as free from all concern as though speaking of a third person. “Oh, that +is quite true. Mr. Layton also made his little quiet love to me as college +men do it, and I accepted the homage of both, feeling that I was a sort of +lightning-conductor that might rescue the rest of the building.” + </p> +<p> +Sir William laughed as much at the arch quietness of her manner as her +words. “How blind I have been all this time!” burst he in, angrily, as he +reverted to the subject of his chagrin. “I suppose there's not another man +living would not have seen this but myself.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no,” said she, gently; “men are never nice observers in these +matters.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, better late than never, eh, Mrs. Morris? Better to know it even +now. Forewarned,—as the adage says,—eh?” + </p> +<p> +In these little broken sentences he sought to comfort himself, while he +angled for some consolation from his companion; but she gave him none,—not +a word, nor a look, nor a gesture. +</p> +<p> +“Of course I shall forbid him the house.” + </p> +<p> +“And make a hero of him from that moment, and a martyr of her,” quietly +replied she. “By such a measure as this you would at once convert what may +be possibly a passing flirtation into a case of love.” + </p> +<p> +“So that I am to leave the course free, and give him every opportunity to +prosecute his suit?” + </p> +<p> +“Not exactly. But do not erect barriers just high enough to be surmounted. +Let him come here just as usual, and I will try if I cannot entangle him +in a little serious flirtation with myself, which certainly, if it +succeed, will wound May's pride, and cure her of any weakness for him.” + </p> +<p> +Sir William made no reply, but he stared at the speaker with a sort of +humorous astonishment, and somehow her cheek flushed under the look. +</p> +<p> +“These are womanish artifices, which you men hold cheaply, of course; but +little weapons suit little wars, Sir William, and such are our campaigns. +At all events, count upon my aid till Monday next.” + </p> +<p> +“And why not after?” + </p> +<p> +“Because the Peninsular and Oriental packet touches at Malta on Saturday, +and Clara and I must be there in time to catch it.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh no; we cannot spare you. In fact, we are decided on detaining you. May +would break up house here and follow you to the Pyramids,—the Upper +Cataracts,—anywhere, in short. But leave us you must not.” + </p> +<p> +She covered her face with her handkerchief, and never spoke, but a slight +motion of her shoulders showed that she was sobbing. “I have been so +uncandid with you all this time,” said she, in broken accents. “I should +have told you all,—everything. I ought to have confided to you the +whole sad story of my terrible bereavement and its consequences; but I +could not. No, Sir William, I could not endure the thought of darkening +the sunshine of all the happiness I saw here by the cloud of my sorrows. +When I only saw faces of joy around me, I said to my heart, 'What right +have I, in my selfishness, to obtrude here?' And then, again, I bethought +me, 'Would they admit me thus freely to their hearth and home if they knew +the sad, sad story?' In a word,” said she, throwing down the handkerchief, +and turning towards him with soft and tearful eyes, “I could not risk the +chance of losing your affection, for you might have censured, you might +have thought me too unforgiving,—too relentless!” + </p> +<p> +Here she again bent down her head, and was lost in an access of fresh +afflictions. +</p> +<p> +Never was an elderly gentleman more puzzled than Sir William. He felt that +he ought to offer consolation, but of what nature or for what calamity he +could n't even guess. It was an awkward case altogether, and he never +fancied awkward cases at any time. Then he had that unchivalric sentiment +that elderly gentlemen occasionally will have,—a sort of half +distrust of “injured women.” This was joined to a sense of shame that it +was usually supposed by the world men of his time of life were always the +ready victims of such sympathies. In fact, he disliked the situation +immensely, and could only muster a few commonplace remarks to extricate +himself from it. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0152.jpg" alt="ONE0152" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“You'll let me tell you everything; I know you will,” said she, looking +bewitchingly soft and tender through her tears. +</p> +<p> +“Of coarse I will, my dear Mrs. Morris, but not now,—not to-day. You +really are not equal to it at this moment.” + </p> +<p> +“True, I am not!” said she, drying her eyes; “but it is a promise, and you +'ll not forget it.” + </p> +<p> +“You only do me honor in the confidence,” said he, kissing her hand. +</p> +<p> +“A thousand pardons!” cried a rich brogue. And at the same moment the +library door was closed, and the sound of retreating steps was heard along +the corridor. +</p> +<p> +“That insufferable O'Shea!” exclaimed she. “What will he not say of us?” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XIV. THE BILLIARD-ROOM +</h2> +<p> +Mr. O'Shea had a very happy knack at billiards. It was an accomplishment +which had stood him more in stead in life than even his eloquence in the +House, his plausibility in the world, or his rose-amethyst ring. That +adventurous category of mankind, who have, as Curran phrased it, “the +title-deeds of their estates under the crown of their hats,” must, out of +sheer necessity, cultivate their natural gifts to a higher perfection than +that well-to-do, easy-living class for whom Fortune has provided “land and +beeves,” and are obliged to educate hand, eye, and hearing to an amount of +artistic excellence of which others can form no conception. Now, just as +the well-trained singer can modulate his tones, suiting them to the space +around him, or as the orator so pitches his voice as to meet the ears of +his auditory, without any exaggerated effort, so did the Member for Inch +measure out his skill, meting it to the ability of his adversary with a +graduated nicety as delicate as that of a chemist in apportioning the +drops of a precious medicament. +</p> +<p> +It was something to see him play. There was a sort of lounging elegance,—a +half purpose-like energy, dashed with indolence,—a sense of power, +blended with indifference,—a something that bespoke the caprice of +genius, mingled with a spirit that seemed to whisper that, after all, +“cannons” were only vanity, and “hazards” themselves but vexation of +spirit. He was, though a little past his best years, a good-looking +fellow,—a thought too pluffy, perhaps, and more than a thought too +swaggering and pretentious; but somehow these same attributes did not +detract from the display of certain athletic graces of which the game +admits, for, after all, it was only Antinous fallen a little into flesh, +and seen in his waistcoat. +</p> +<p> +It was mainly to this accomplishment he owed the invitations he received +to the villa. Charles Heathcote, fully convinced of his own superiority at +the game, was piqued and irritated at the other's success; while Sir +William was, perhaps, not sorry that his son should receive a slight +lesson on the score of his self-esteem, particularly where the price +should not be too costly. The billiard-room thus became each evening the +resort of all in the villa. Thither May Leslie fetched her work, and Mrs. +Morris her crochet needles, and Clara her book; while around the table +itself were met young Heathcote, Lord Agincourt, O'Shea, and Layton. Of +course the stake they played for was a mere trifle,—a mere nominal +prize, rather intended to record victory than reward the victors,—just +as certain taxes are maintained more for statistics than revenue,—and +half-crowns changed hands without costing the loser an afterthought; so at +least the spectators understood, and all but one believed. Her quiet and +practised eye, however, detected in Charles Heathcote's manner something +more significant than the hurt pride of a beaten player, and saw under all +the external show of O'Shea's indifference a purpose-like energy, little +likely to be evoked for a trifling stake. Under the pretext of marking the +game, a duty for which she had offered her services, she was enabled to +watch what went forward without attracting peculiar notice, and she could +perceive how, from time to time, Charles and O'Shea would exchange a brief +word as they passed,—sometimes a monosyllable, sometimes a nod,—and +at such times the expression of Heathcote's face would denote an increased +anxiety and irritation. It was while thus watching one evening, a chance +phrase she overheard confirmed all her suspicions,—it was while +bending down her head to show some peculiar stitch to May Leslie that she +brought her ear to catch what passed. +</p> +<p> +“This makes three hundred,” whispered Charles. +</p> +<p> +“And fifty,” rejoined O'Shea, as cautiously. +</p> +<p> +“Nothing of the kind,” answered Charles, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“You 'll find I 'm right,” said the other, knocking the balls about to +drown the words. “Are you for another game?” asked he, aloud. +</p> +<p> +“No; I 've bad enough of it,” said Charles, impatiently, as he drew out +his cigar-case,—trying to cover his irritation by searching for a +cigar to his liking. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm your man, Inch-o'-brogue,” broke in Agincourt; for it was by this +impertinent travesty of the name of his borough he usually called him. +</p> +<p> +“What, isn't the pocket-money all gone yet?” said the other, +contemptuously. +</p> +<p> +“Not a bit of it, man. Look at that,” cried he, drawing forth a long silk +purse, plumply filled. “There's enough to pay off the mortgage on an Irish +estate, I 'm sure!” + </p> +<p> +While these freedoms were being interchanged, Charles Heathcote had left +the room, and strolled out into the garden. Mrs. Morris, affecting to go +in search of something for her work, took occasion also to go; but no +sooner had she escaped from the room than she followed him. +</p> +<p> +Why was it, can any one say, that May Leslie bestowed more than ordinary +attention on the game at this moment, evincing an interest in it she had +never shown before? Mr. O'Shea had given the young Marquis immense odds; +but he went further, he played off a hundred little absurdities to +increase the other's chances,—he turned his back to the table,—he +played with his left hand,—he poked the balls without resting his +cue,—he displayed the most marvellous dexterity, accomplishing +hazards that seemed altogether beyond all calculation; for all crafty and +subtle as he was, vanity had got the mastery over him, and his +self-conceit rose higher and higher with every astonished expression of +the pretty girl who watched him. While May could not restrain her +astonishment at his skill, O'Shea's efforts to win her praise redoubled. +</p> +<p> +“I'll yield to no man in a game of address,” said he, boastfully: “to ride +across country, to pull a boat, to shoot, fish, fence, or swim—There, +my noble Marquis, drop your tin into that pocket and begin another game. I +'ll give you eighty-five out of a hundred.” + </p> +<p> +“Is n't he what Quackinboss would call a 'ternal swaggerer, May?” cried +Agincourt. +</p> +<p> +“He is a most brilliant billiard-player,” said May, smiling courteously, +with a glance towards the recess of the window, where Layton was leaning +over Clara's chair and reading out of the book she held in her hand. “How +I wish you would give me some lessons!” added she, still slyly stealing a +look at the window. +</p> +<p> +“Charmed,—only too happy. You overwhelm me with the honor, Miss +Leslie, and my name is not O'Shea if I do not make you an admirable +player, for I've remarked already you have great correctness of eye.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed!” + </p> +<p> +“Astonishing; and with that, a wonderfully steady hand.” + </p> +<p> +“How you flatter me!” + </p> +<p> +“Flatter? Ah, you little know me, Miss Leslie!” said he, as he passed +before her. +</p> +<p> +May blushed, for at that moment Layton had lifted his eyes from the book +and turned them full upon her. So steadfastly did he continue to look, +that her cheek grew hotter and redder, and a something like resentment +seemed to possess her; while he, as though suddenly conscious of having in +some degree committed himself, held down his head in deep confusion. +</p> +<p> +May Leslie arose from her seat, and, with a haughty toss of her head, drew +nigh the table. +</p> +<p> +“Are you going to join us, May?” cried the boy, merrily. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm going to take my first lesson, if Mr. O'Shea will permit me,” said +she; but the tone of her voice vibrated less with pleasure than +resentment. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm at my lessons, too, May,” cried Clara, from the window. “Is it not +kind of him to help me?” + </p> +<p> +“Most kind,—most considerate!” said May, abruptly; and then, +throwing down the cue on the table, she said, “I fancy I have a headache. +I hope you 'll excuse me for the present.” And almost ere Mr. O'Shea could +answer, she had left the room. Clara speedily followed her, and for a +minute or two not a word was uttered by the others. +</p> +<p> +“I move that the house be counted,” cried the Member for Inch. “What has +come over them all this evening? Do <i>you</i> know, Layton?” + </p> +<p> +“Do <i>I</i> know? Know what?” cried Alfred, trying to arouse himself out +of a revery. +</p> +<p> +“Do you know that Inch-o'-brogue has not left me five shillings out of my +last quarter's allowance?” said the boy. +</p> +<p> +“You must pay for your education, my lad,” said O'Shea. “I did n't get +mine for nothing. Layton there can teach you longs and shorts, to scribble +nonsense-verses, and the like; but for the real science of life, 'how to +do <i>them</i> as has done <i>you</i>,' you must come to fellows like me.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, there is much truth in <i>that</i>,” said Layton, who, not having +heard one word the other had spoken, corroborated all of it, out of pure +distraction of mind. +</p> +<p> +The absurdity was too strong for Agincourt and O'Shea, and they both +laughed out. “Come,” said O'Shea, slapping Layton on the shoulder, “wake +up, and roll the balls about. I 'll play you your own game, and give you +five-and-twenty odds. There's a sporting offer!” + </p> +<p> +“Make it to me,” broke in Agincourt. +</p> +<p> +“So I would, if you weren't pumped out, my noble Marquis.” + </p> +<p> +“And could you really bring yourself to win a boy's pocket-money,—a +mere boy?” said Layton, now suddenly aroused to full consciousness, and +coming so close to O'Shea as to be inaudible to the other. +</p> +<p> +“Smallest contributions thankfully received, is <i>my</i> motto,” said +O'Shea. “Not but, as a matter of education, the youth has gained a deuced +sight more from <i>me</i> than <i>you!</i>” + </p> +<p> +“The reproach is just,” said Layton, bitterly. “I <i>have</i> neglected my +trust,—grossly neglected it,—and in nothing more than +suffering him to keep <i>your</i> company.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh! is that your tone?” whispered the other, still lower. “Thank your +stars for it, you never met a man more ready to humor your whim.” + </p> +<p> +“What's the 'Member' plotting?” said Agincourt, coming up between them. +“Do let <i>me</i> into the plan.” + </p> +<p> +“It is something he wishes to speak to <i>me</i> about tomorrow at eleven +o'clock,” said Layton, with a significant look at O'Shea, “and which is a +matter strictly between ourselves.” + </p> +<p> +“All right,” said Agincourt, turning back to the table again, while +O'Shea, with a nod of assent, left the room. +</p> +<p> +“We must set to work vigorously to-morrow, Henry,” said Layton, laying his +hand on the boy's shoulder. “You have fallen into idle ways, and the fault +is all my own. For both our sakes, then, let us amend it.” + </p> +<p> +“Whatever you like, Alfred,” said the boy, turning on him a look of real +affection; “only never blame yourself if you don't make a genius of me. I +was always a stupid dog!” + </p> +<p> +“You are a true-hearted English boy,” muttered Layton, half to himself, +“and well deserved to have fallen into more careful hands than mine. +Promise me, however, all your efforts to repair the past.” + </p> +<p> +“That I will,” said he, grasping the other's hand, and shaking it in token +of his pledge. “But I still think,” said he, in a slightly broken voice, +“they might have made a sailor of me; they 'll never make a scholar!” + </p> +<p> +“We must get away; we must leave this,” said Layton, speaking half to +himself. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm sorry for it,” replied the boy. “I like the old villa, and I like +Sir William and Charley, and the girls too. Ay, and I like that trout +stream under the alders, and that jolly bit of grass land where we have +just put up the hurdles. I say, Layton,” added he, with a sigh, “I wonder +when shall we be as happy as we have been here?” + </p> +<p> +“Who knows?” said Layton, sorrowfully. +</p> +<p> +“I'm sure <i>I</i> never had such a pleasant time of it in my life. Have +you?” + </p> +<p> +“<i>I</i>—I don't know,—that is, I believe not. I mean—never,” + stammered out Layton, in confusion. +</p> +<p> +“Ha! I fancied as much. I thought you didn't like it as well as <i>I</i> +did.” + </p> +<p> +“Why so?” asked Layton, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“It was May put it into my head the other morning. She said it was +downright cruelty to make you come out and stop here; that you could n't, +with all your politeness, conceal how much the place bored you!” + </p> +<p> +“She said this?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; and she added that if it were not for Clara, with her German lessons +and her little Venetian barcarolles, you would have been driven to +desperation.” + </p> +<p> +“But you could have told her, Henry, that I delighted in this place; that +I never had passed such happy days as here.” + </p> +<p> +“I did think so when we knew them first, but latterly it seemed to me that +you were somehow sadder and graver than you used to be. You didn't like to +ride with us; you seldom came down to the river; you'd pass all the +morning in the library; and, as May said, you only seemed happy when you +were giving Clara her lesson in German.” + </p> +<p> +“And to whom did May say this?” + </p> +<p> +“To me and to Clara. +</p> +<p> +“And Clara,—did she make any answer?” + </p> +<p> +“Not a word. She got very pale, and seemed as though she would burst out +a-crying. Heaven knows why! Indeed, I 'm not sure the tears were n't in +her eyes, as she hurried away; and it was the only day I ever saw May +Leslie cross.” + </p> +<p> +“I never saw her so,” said Layton, half rebukefully. +</p> +<p> +“Then you didn't see her on that day, that's certain! She snubbed Charley +about his riding, and would n't suffer Mrs. Morris to show her something +that had gone wrong in her embroidery; and when we went down to the large +drawing-room to rehearse our tableau,—that scene you wrote for us,—she +refused to take a part, and said, 'Get Clara; she 'll do it better!'” + </p> +<p> +“And it was thus our little theatricals fell to the ground,” said Layton, +musingly; “and I never so much as suspected all this!” + </p> +<p> +“Well,” said the boy, with a hesitating manner, “I believe I ought not to +have told you. I 'm sure she never intended I should; but somehow, after +our tiff—” + </p> +<p> +“And did <i>you</i> quarrel with her?” asked Layton, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Not quarrel, exactly; but it was what our old commander used to call a +false-alarm fire; for I thought her unjust and unfair towards you, and +always glad when she could lay something or other to your charge, and I +said so to her frankly.” + </p> +<p> +“And she?” + </p> +<p> +“She answered me roundly enough. 'When you are a little older, young +gentleman,' said she, 'you 'll begin to discover that our likings and +dislikings are not always under our own control.' She tried to be very +calm and cool as she said it, but she was as pale as if going to faint +before she finished.” + </p> +<p> +“She said truly,” muttered Layton to himself; “our impulses are but the +shadows our vices or virtues throw before them.” Then laying his arm on +the boy's shoulder, he led him away, to plan and plot out a future course +of study, and repair all past negligence and idleness. +</p> +<p> +Ere we leave this scene, let us follow Mrs. Morris, who, having quitted +the house, quickly went in search of Charles Heathcote. There was that in +the vexed and angry look of the young man, as he left the room, that +showed her how easy it would be in such a moment to become his confidante. +Through the traits of his resentment she could read an impatience that +could soon become indiscretion. “Let me only be the repository of any +secret of his mind,” muttered she,—“I care not what,—and I ask +nothing more. If there be one door of a house open,—be it the +smallest,—it is enough to enter by.” + </p> +<p> +She had not to go far in her search. There was a small raised terrace at +the end of the garden,—a favorite spot with him,—and thither +she had often herself repaired to enjoy the secret luxury of a cigar; for +Mrs. Morris smoked whenever opportunity permitted that indulgence without +the hazard of forfeiting the good opinion of such as might have held the +practice in disfavor. Now, Charles Heathcote was the only confidant of +this weakness, and the mystery, small as it was, had served to establish a +sort of bond between them. +</p> +<p> +“I knew I should find you here,” said she, stealing noiselessly to his +side, as, leaning over the terrace, he stood deep in thought. “Give me a +cigar.” + </p> +<p> +He took the case slowly from his pocket, and held it towards her in +silence. +</p> +<p> +“How vastly polite! Choose one for me, sir,” said she, pettishly. +</p> +<p> +“They 're all alike,” said he, carelessly, as he drew one from the number +and offered it. +</p> +<p> +“And now a light,” said she, “for I see yours has gone out, without your +knowing it. Pray do mind what you 're doing; you've let the match fall on +my foot. Look there!” + </p> +<p> +And he did look, and saw the prettiest foot and roundest ankle that ever +Parisian coquetry had done its uttermost to grace; but he only smiled half +languidly, and said, “There's no mischief done—to either of us!” the +last words being muttered to himself. Her sharp ears, however, had caught +them; and had he looked at her then, he would have seen her face a deep +crimson. “Is the play over? Have they left the billiard-room?” asked he. +</p> +<p> +“Of course it is over,” said she, mockingly. “Sportsmen rarely linger in +the preserves where there is no game.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you think of that same Mr. O'Shea? You rarely mistake people. +Tell me frankly your opinion of him,” said he, abruptly. +</p> +<p> +“He plays billiards far better than <i>you</i>,” said she, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm not talking of his play, I 'm asking what you think of him.” + </p> +<p> +“He's your master at whist, écarté, and piquet. I <i>think</i> he's a +better pistol shot; and he says he rides better.” + </p> +<p> +“I defy him. He's a boastful, conceited fellow. Take his own account, and +you 'll not find his equal anywhere. But still, all this is no answer to +my question.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, but it is, though. When a man possesses a very wide range of small +accomplishments in a high degree of perfection, I always take it for +granted that he lives by them.” + </p> +<p> +“Just what I thought,—exactly what I suspected,” broke he in, +angrily. “I don't know how we ever came to admit him here, as we have. +That passion May has for opening the doors to every one has done it all.” + </p> +<p> +“If people will have a menagerie, they must make up their mind to meet +troublesome animals now and then,” said she, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“And then,” resumed he, “the absurdity is, if I say one word, the reply +is, 'Oh, you are so jealous!'” + </p> +<p> +“Naturally enough!” was the cool remark. +</p> +<p> +“Naturally enough! And why naturally enough? Is it of such fellows as +Layton or O'Shea I should think of being jealous?” + </p> +<p> +“I think you might,” said she, gravely. “They are, each of them, very +eager to succeed in that about which you show yourself sufficiently +indifferent; and although May is certainly bound by the terms of her +father's will, there are conditions by which she can purchase her +freedom.” + </p> +<p> +“Purchase her freedom! And is that the way she regards her position?” + cried he, trembling with agitation. +</p> +<p> +“Can you doubt it? Need you do more than ask yourself, How do you look on +your own case? And yet you are not going to bestow a great fortune. I 'm +certain that, do what you will, your heart tells you it is a slave's +bargain.” + </p> +<p> +“Did May tell you so?” said he, in a voice thick with passion. +</p> +<p> +“No.” + </p> +<p> +“Did she ever hint as much?” + </p> +<p> +“No.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you believe that any one ever dared to say it?” + </p> +<p> +“As to that, I can't say; the world is very daring, and says a great many +naughty things without much troubling itself about their correctness.” + </p> +<p> +“It may spare its censure on the present occasion, then.” + </p> +<p> +“Is it that you will not exact her compliance?” + </p> +<p> +“I will not.” + </p> +<p> +“How well I read you,” cried she, catching up his cold and still reluctant +hand between both her own; “how truly I understood your noble, generous +nature! It was but yesterday I was writing about you to a very dear +friend, who had asked me when the marriage was to take place, and I said: +'If I have any skill in deciphering character, I should say, Never. +Charles Heathcote is not the man to live a pensioner on a wife's rental; +he is far more likely to take service again as a soldier, and win a +glorious name amongst those who are now reconquering India. His daring +spirit chafes against the inglorious idleness of his present life, and I +'d not wonder any morning to see his place vacant at the breakfast-table, +and to hear he had sailed for Alexandria.'” + </p> +<p> +“You do me a fuller justice than many who have known me longer,” said he, +pensively. +</p> +<p> +“Because I read you more carefully,—because I considered you without +any disturbing element of self-interest; and if I was now and then angry +at the lethargic indolence of your daily life, I used to correct myself +and say, 'Be patient; his time is coming; and when the hour has once +struck for him, he 'll dally no longer!'” + </p> +<p> +“And my poor father—” + </p> +<p> +“Say, rather, your proud father, for he is the man to appreciate your +noble resolution, and feel proud of his son.” + </p> +<p> +“But to leave him—to desert him—” + </p> +<p> +“It is no eternal separation. In a year or two you will rejoin him, never +to part again. Take my word for it, the consciousness that his son is +accomplishing a high duty will be a strong fund of consolation for +absence. It is to mistake him to suppose that he could look on your +present life without deep regret.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah! is that so?” cried he, with an expression of pain. +</p> +<p> +“He has never owned as much to me; but I have read it in him, just as I +have read in <i>you</i> that you are not the man to stoop to an +ignominious position to purchase a life of ease and luxury.” + </p> +<p> +“You were right there!” said he, warmly. +</p> +<p> +“Of course I was. I could not be mistaken.” + </p> +<p> +“You shall not be, at all events,” said he, hurriedly. “How cold your hand +is! Let us return to the house.” And they walked back in silence to the +door. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XV. MRS. PENTHONY MORRIS AT HER WRITING-TABLE +</h2> +<p> +It was late on that same night,—very late. The villa was all quiet +and noiseless as Mrs. Morris sat at her writing-table, engaged in a very +long letter. The epistle does not in any way enter into our story. It was +to her father, in reply to one she had just received from him, and solely +referred to little family details with which our reader can have no +interest, save in a passing reference to a character already before him, +and of whom she thus wrote:— +</p> +<p> +“And so your alchemist turns out to be the father of my admirer, Mr. +Alfred Layton. I can sincerely say your part of the family is the more +profitable, for I should find it a very difficult problem to make five +hundred pounds out of mine! Nor can I sufficiently admire the tact with +which you rescued even so much from such a wreck! I esteem your cleverness +the more, since—shall I confess it, dear papa?—I thought that +the man of acids and alkalies would turn out to be the rogue and you the +dupe! Let me hasten, therefore, to make the <i>amende honorable</i>, and +compliment you on your new character of chemist. +</p> +<p> +“In your choice, too, of the mode of disembarrassing yourself of his +company, you showed an admirable wisdom; and you very justly observe, +these are not times when giving a dog a bad name will save the trouble of +hanging him, otherwise an exposure of his treasonable principles might +have sufficed. Far better was the method you selected, while, by making <i>him</i> +out to be mad, you make <i>yourself</i> out to be benevolent. You have +caught, besides, a very popular turn of the public mind at a lucky +conjuncture. There is quite a vogue just now for shutting up one's +mother-in-law, or one's wife, or any other disagreeable domestic +ingredient, on the plea of insanity; and a very clever physician, with +what is called 'an ingenious turn of mind,' will find either madness or +arsenic in any given substance. You will, however, do wisely to come +abroad, for the day will come of a reaction, and 'the lock-up' system will +be converted into the 'let-loose,' and a sort of doomsday arrive when one +will be confronted with very unwelcome acquaintances.” + </p> +<p> +As she had written thus far, a very gentle voice at her door whispered, +“May I come in, dearest?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, darling, is it you?” cried Mrs. Morris, throwing a sheet of paper +over her half-written epistle. “I was just writing about you. My sweet +May, I have a dear old godmother down in Devonshire who loves to hear of +those who love <i>me</i>; and it is such a pleasure, besides, to write +about those who are happy.” + </p> +<p> +“And you call me one of them, do you?” said the girl, with a deep sigh. +</p> +<p> +“I call you one who has more of what makes up happiness than any I have +ever known. You are very beautiful,—nay, no blushing, it is a woman +says it; so handsome, May, that it is downright shame of Fortune to have +made you rich too. You should have been left to your beauty, as other +people are left to their great connections, or their talents, or their +Three per Cents; and then you are surrounded by those who love you, May,—a +very commendable thing in a world which has its share of disagreeable +people; and, lastly, to enjoy all these fair gifts, you have got youth.” + </p> +<p> +“I shall be nineteen on the fourth of next month, Lucy,” said the other, +gravely; “and it was just about that very circumstance that I came to +speak to you.” + </p> +<p> +Mrs. Morris knew thoroughly well what the speech portended, but she looked +all innocence and inquiry. +</p> +<p> +“You are aware, Lucy, what my coming of age brings with it?” said the +girl, half pettishly. +</p> +<p> +“That you become a great millionnaire, dearest,—a sort of female +Rothschild, with funds and stocks in every land of the earth.” + </p> +<p> +“I was not speaking of money. I was alluding to the necessity of deciding +as to my own fate in life. I told you that by my father's will I am bound +to declare that I accept or reject Charles Heathcote within six months +after my coming of age.” + </p> +<p> +“I do not, I confess, see anything very trying in that, May. I conclude +that you know enough of your own mind to say whether you like him or not. +You are not strangers to each other. You have been domesticated together—” + </p> +<p> +“That 's the very difficulty,” broke in May. “There has been intimacy +between us, but nothing like affection,—familiarity enough, but no +fondness.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps that's not so bad a feature as you deem it,” said the other, +dryly. “Such a tame, table-land prospect before marriage may all the +better prepare you for the dull uniformity of wedded life.” + </p> +<p> +May gave a slight sigh, and was silent, while the other continued,— +</p> +<p> +“Being very rich, dearest, is, of course, a great resource, for you can, +by the mere indulgence of your daily caprices, give yourself a sort of +occupation, and a kind of interest in life.” + </p> +<p> +May sighed again, and more heavily. +</p> +<p> +“I know this is not what one dreams of, my dear May,” resumed she, “and I +can well imagine how reluctant you are to seek happiness in toy terriers +or diamond earrings; but remember what I told you once before was the +great lesson the world taught us, that every joy we compass in this life +is paid for dearly, in some shape or other, and that the system is one +great scheme of compensations, the only wisdom being, to be sure you have +got at last what you have paid for.” + </p> +<p> +“I remember your having said that,” said May, thoughtfully. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; it was in correction of a great mistake you had made, May, when you +were deploring the fate of some one who had contracted an unequal +marriage. It was then that I ventured to tell you that what the world +calls a misalliance is the one sure throw for a happy union.” + </p> +<p> +“But you did n't convince me!” said May, hastily. +</p> +<p> +“Possibly not. I could not expect you to look on life from the same sad +eminence I have climbed to; still I think you understood me when I showed +you that as air and sunlight are blessings which we enjoy without an +effort, so affection, gained without sacrifice, elicits no high sense of +self-esteem,—none of that self-love which is but the reflex of real +love.” + </p> +<p> +“Charles would, then, according to your theory, be eminently happy in +marrying me, for, to all appearance, the sacrifice would be considerable,” + said May, with a half-bitter laugh. +</p> +<p> +“<i>My</i> theory only applies to <i>us</i> dear May; as for men, they +marry from a variety of motives, all prompted by some one or other feature +of their selfishness: this one for fortune, that for family influence, the +other because he wants a home, and so on.” + </p> +<p> +“And not for love at all?” broke in May. +</p> +<p> +“Alas! dearest, the man who affords himself the pleasure of being in love +is almost always unable to indulge in any other luxury. It is your tutor +creature, there, like Layton, falls in love!” + </p> +<p> +May smiled, and turned away her head; but the crimson flush of her cheek +soon spread over her neck, and Mrs. Morris saw it. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” resumed she, as if reflecting aloud, “love is the one sole +dissipation of these student men, and, so to say, it runs through the +dull-colored woof of their whole after-life, like a single gold thread +glittering here and there at long intervals, and it gives them those +dreamy fits of imaginative bliss which their quiet helpmates trustfully +ascribe to some intellectual triumph. And it is in these the poor curate +forgets his sermon, and the village doctor his patient, thinking of some +moss-rose he had plucked long ago!” + </p> +<p> +“Do you believe that, Loo?” asked the girl, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“I know it, dear; and what's more, it is these very men are the best of +husbands, the kindest and the tenderest. The perfume of an early love +keeps the heart pure for many a long year after. Let us take Layton, for +instance.” + </p> +<p> +“But why Mr. Layton? What do we know about him?” + </p> +<p> +“Not much, certainly; but enough to illustrate our meaning. It is quite +clear he is desperately in love.” + </p> +<p> +“With whom, pray?” Asked May. And her face became crimson as she spoke. +</p> +<p> +“With a young lady who cannot speak of him without blushing,” said Mrs. +Morris, calmly; and continued: “At first sight it does seem a very cruel +thing to inspire such a man with a hopeless passion, yet, on second +thought, we see what a stream of sunlight this early memory will throw +over the whole bleak landscape of his after-life. You are his torture now, +but you will be his benefactor in many a dark hour of the dreary +pilgrimage before him. There will be touches of tenderness in that ode he +'ll send to the magazine; there will be little spots of sweet melancholy +in that village story; men will never know whence they found their way +into the curate's heart. How little aware are they that there's a corner +there for old memories, embalmed amongst holier thoughts,—a withered +rose-leaf between the pages of a prayer-book!” + </p> +<p> +May again sighed, and with a tremor in the cadence that was almost a sob. +</p> +<p> +“So that,” resumed the other, in a more flippant voice, “you can forgive +yourself for your present cruelty, by thinking of all the benefits you are +to bestow hereafter, and all this without robbing your rightful lord of +one affection, one solitary emotion, he has just claim to. And that, my +sweet May, is more than you can do with your worldly wealth, for, against +every check you send your banker, the cashier's book will retain the +record.” + </p> +<p> +“You only confuse me with all this,” said May, pettishly. “I came for +counsel.” + </p> +<p> +“And I have given you more,—I have given you consolation. I wish any +one would be as generous with <i>me!</i>” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, you are not angry with me!” cried the girl, earnestly. +</p> +<p> +“Angry! no, dearest, a passing moment of selfish regret is not anger, but +it is of <i>you</i>, not of <i>me</i>, I would speak; tell me everything. +Has Charles spoken to you?” + </p> +<p> +“Not a word. It may be indifference, or it may be that, in a sense of +security about the future, he does not care to trouble himself.” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, scarcely that,” said the other, thoughtfully. +</p> +<p> +“Whatever the cause, you will own it is not very flattering to <i>me</i>,” + said she, flushing deeply. +</p> +<p> +“And Mr. Layton,—is <i>he</i> possessed of the same calm philosophy? +Has he the same trustful reliance on destiny?” said Mrs. Morris, who, +apparently examining the lace border of her handkerchief, yet stole a +passing glance at the other's face. +</p> +<p> +“How can you ask such a question? What is <i>he</i> to <i>me</i>, or <i>I</i> +to <i>him?</i> If he ever thought of me, besides, he must have remembered +that the difference of station between us presents an insurmountable +objection.” + </p> +<p> +“As if Love asked for anything better,” cried Mrs. Morris, laughingly. +“Why, dearest, the passion thrives on insurmountable objections, just the +way certain fish swallow stones, not for nutriment, but to aid digestion +by a difficulty. If he be the man I take him for, he must hug an obstacle +to his heart as a Heaven-sent gift. Be frank with me, May,” said she, +passing her arm affectionately round her waist; “confess honestly that he +told you as much.” + </p> +<p> +“No; he never said that,” muttered she, half reluctantly. “What he said +was that if disparity of condition was the only barrier between us,—if +he were sure, or if he could even hope, that worldly success could open an +avenue to my heart—” + </p> +<p> +“That he 'd go and be Prime Minister of England next session. +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +'If doughty deeds +My lady please!' +</pre> +<p> +That was his tone, was it? Oh dear! and I fancied the man had something +new or original about him. Truth is, dearest, it is in love as in war,—there +are nothing but the same old weapons to fight with, and we are lost or won +just as our great-great-grandmothers were before us.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish you would be serious, Lucy,” said the girl, half rebukefully. +</p> +<p> +“Don't you know me well enough by this time to perceive that I am never +more thoughtful than in what seems my levity? and this on principle, too, +for in the difficulties of life Fancy will occasionally suggest a remedy +Reason had never hit upon, just as sportsmen will tell you that a wild, +untrained spaniel will often flush a bird a more trained dog had never +'marked.' And now, to be most serious, you want to choose between the +eligible man who is sure of you, and the most unequal suitor who despairs +of his success. Is not that your case?” + </p> +<p> +May shook her head dissentingly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, it is sufficiently near the issue for our purpose. Not so? Come, +then, I 'll put it differently. You are balancing whether to refuse your +fortune to Charles Heathcote or yourself to Alfred Layton; and my advice +is, do both.” + </p> +<p> +May grew very pale, and, after an effort to say something, was silent. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, dearest, between the man who never pledges to pay and him who offers +a bad promissory note, there is scant choice, and I 'd say, take neither.” + </p> +<p> +“I know how it will wound my dear old guardian, who loves me like a +daughter,” began May. But the other broke in,— +</p> +<p> +“Oh! there are scores of things one can do in life to oblige one's +friends, but marriage is not one of them. And then, bethink you, May, how +little you have seen of the world; and surely there is a wider choice +before you than between a wearied lounger on half-pay and a poor tutor.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; a poor tutor if you will, but of a name and family the equal of my +own,” said May, hastily, and with a dash of temper in the words. +</p> +<p> +“Who says so? Who has told you that?” + </p> +<p> +“He himself. He told me that though there were some painful circumstances +in his family history he would rather not enter upon, that, in point of +station, he yielded to none in the rank of untitled gentry. He spoke of +his father as a man of the very highest powers.” + </p> +<p> +“Did he tell you what station he occupied at this moment?” + </p> +<p> +“No. And do you know it?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” said Mrs. Morris, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“Will you not tell me, Lucy?” asked May, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“No; there is not any reason that I should. You have just said, 'What is +Mr. Layton to me, or I to him?' and in the face of such a confession why +should I disparage him?” + </p> +<p> +“So, then, the confession would disparage him?” + </p> +<p> +“It might.” + </p> +<p> +“This reserve is not very generous towards me, I must say,” said the girl, +passionately. +</p> +<p> +“It is from generosity to you that I maintain it,” said the other, coldly. +</p> +<p> +“But if I were to tell you that the knowledge interests me deeply; that by +it I may possibly be guided in a most eventful decision?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, if you mean to say, 'Alfred Layton has asked me to marry him, and my +reply depends upon what I may learn about his family and their station '—” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; I have not said that,” burst in May. +</p> +<p> +“Not said, only implied it. Still, if it be what you desire me to +entertain, I will have no concealments from you.” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot buy your secret by a false pretence, Loo; there is no such +compact as this between Layton and myself. Alfred asked me—” + </p> +<p> +“Alfred!” said Mrs. Morris, repeating the name after her, and with such a +significance as sent all the color to the girl's cheek and forehead,—“Alfred! +And what did Alfred ask you?” + </p> +<p> +“I scarcely know what I am saying,” cried May, as she covered her face +with her hands. +</p> +<p> +“Poor child!” cried Mrs. Morris, tenderly, “I can find my way into your +heart without your breaking it. Do not cry, dearest. I know as well all +that he said as if I had overheard him saying it! The world has just its +two kinds of suitors,—the one who offers us marriage in a sort of +grand princely fashion, and the other who, beseechingly proclaiming his +utter unworthiness, asks us to wait,—to wait for an uncle or a +stepmother's death; to wait till he has got this place in the colonies, or +that vicarage in Bleakshire; to wait till he has earned fame and honor, +and Heaven knows what; till, in fact, he shall have won a wreath of laurel +for his brows, and we have attained to a false plait for ours!” She paused +a second or two to see if May would speak, but as she continued silent, +Mrs. Morris went on: “There are few stock subjects people are more +eloquent in condemning than what are called long engagements. There are +some dozen of easy platitudes that every one has by heart on this theme; +and yet, if the truth were to be told, it is the waiting is the best of +it,—the marriage is the mistake! That faint little flickering hope +that lighted us on for years and years is extinguished at the church door, +and never relighted after; so that, May, my advice to you is, never +contract a long engagement until you have made up your mind not to marry +at the end of it! My poor, poor child! why are you sobbing so bitterly? +Surely I have said nothing to cause you sorrow?” + </p> +<p> +May turned away without speaking, but her heaving shoulders betrayed how +intensely she was weeping. +</p> +<p> +“May <i>I</i> see him,—may <i>I</i> speak with him, May?” said Mrs. +Morris, drawing her arm affectionately around her waist. +</p> +<p> +“To what end,—with what view?” said the girl, suddenly and almost +haughtily. +</p> +<p> +“Now that you ask me in that tone, May, I scarcely know. I suppose I meant +to show him how inconsiderate, how impossible his hopes were; that there +was nothing in his station or prospects that could warrant this +presumption. I suppose I had something of this sort on my mind, but I own +to you now, your haughty glance has completely routed all my wise +resolutions.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps you speculated on the influence of that peculiar knowledge of his +family history you appear to be possessed of?” said May, with some pique. +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps so,” was the dry rejoinder. +</p> +<p> +“And which you do not mean to confide to <i>me?</i>” said the girl, +proudly. +</p> +<p> +“I have not said so. So long as you maintained that Mr. Layton was to you +nothing beyond a mere acquaintance, my secret, as you have so grandly +called it, might very well rest in my own keeping. If, however, the time +were come that he should occupy a very different place in your regard—” + </p> +<p> +“Instead of saying 'were come,' Loo, just say, 'If the time might come,” + said May, timidly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, then, 'if the time <i>might</i> come,' I <i>might</i> tell all that +I know about him.” + </p> +<p> +“But then it might be too late. I mean, that it might come when it could +only grieve, and not guide me.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, if I thought <i>that</i>, you should never know it! Be assured of one +thing, May: no one ever less warred against the inevitable than myself. +When I read, 'No passage this way,' I never hesitate about seeking another +road.” + </p> +<p> +“And I mean to go mine, and without a guide either!” said May, moving +towards the door. +</p> +<p> +“So I perceived some time back,” was the dry reply of Mrs. Morris, as she +busied herself with the papers before her. +</p> +<p> +“Good-night, dear, and forgive my interruption,” said May, opening the +door. +</p> +<p> +“Good-night, and delightful dreams to you,” said Mrs. Morris, in her own +most silvery accents. And May was gone. +</p> +<p> +The door had not well closed when Mrs. Morris was again, pen in hand, +glancing rapidly over what she had written, to catch up the clew. This was +quickly accomplished, and she wrote away rapidly. It is not “in our brief” + to read that letter; nor would it be “evidence;” enough, then, that we say +it was one of those light, sparkling little epistles which are thrown off +in close confidence, and in which the writer fearlessly touches any theme +that offers. She sketched off the Heathcotes with a few easy graphic +touches, giving a very pleasing portraiture of May herself, ending with +these words:— +</p> +<p> +“Add to all these attractions a large estate and a considerable sum in the +funds, and then say, dear pa, is not this what Ludlow had so long been +looking for? I am well aware of his pleasant habit of believing nothing, +nor any one, so that you must begin by referring him to Doctors' Commons, +where he can see the will. General Leslie died in 18—, and left Sir +William Heathcote sole executor. When fully satisfied on the money +question, you can learn anything further from me that you wish; one thing +only I stipulate for, and that is, to hold no correspondence myself with +L. Of course, like as in everything else, he'll not put any faith in this +resolution; but time will teach him at last. The negotiation must be +confided to your own hands. Do not employ Collier nor any one else. Be +secret, and be speedy, for I plainly perceive the young lady will marry +some one immediately after learning a disappointment now impending. +Remember, my own conditions are: all the letters, and that we meet as +utter strangers. I ask nothing more, I will accept nothing less. As +regards Clara, he cannot, I suspect, make any difficulty; but that may be +a question for ulterior consideration. Clara is growing up pretty, but has +lost all her spirits, and will, in a few months more, look every day of +her real age. I am sadly vexed about this; but it comes into the long +category of the things to be endured.” + </p> +<p> +The letter wound up with some little light and flippant allusions to her +father's complaints about political ingratitude:— +</p> +<p> +“I really do forget, dear papa, which are our friends; but surely no party +would refuse your application for a moderate employment. The only creature +I know personally amongst them is the Colonial Sec., and he says, 'They +'ve left me nothing to give but the bishoprics.' Better that, perhaps, +than nothing, but could you manage to accept one? <i>that</i> is the +question. There is an Irish M.P. here—a certain O'Shea—who +tells me there are a variety of things to give in the West Indies, with +what he calls wonderful pickings—meaning, I suppose, stealings. Why +not look for one of these? I 'll question my friend the Member more +closely, and give you the result. +</p> +<p> +“It was odd enough, a few months ago, O'S., never suspecting to whom he +was talking, said, 'There was an old fellow in Ireland, a certain Nick +Holmes, could tell more of Government rogueries and rascalities than any +man living; and if I were he, I 'd make them give me the first good thing +vacant, or I 'd speak out.' Dear papa, having made so much out of silence, +is it not worth while to think how much eloquence might be worth? +</p> +<p> +“Your affectionate daughter, +</p> +<p> +“Lucy M.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XVI. A SICK-ROOM +</h2> +<p> +It was a severe night of early winter,—one of those stormy intervals +in which Italy seems to assume all the rigors of some northern land, with +an impetuosity derived from her own more excitable latitude. The rain beat +against the windows with distinct and separate plashes, and the wind +rattled and shook the strong walls with a violence that seemed +irresistible. +</p> +<p> +In a large old room of a very old palace at Lucca, Alfred Layton walked to +and fro, stopping every now and then to listen to some heightened effort +of the gale without, and then resuming his lonely saunter. There were two +large and richly ornamented fireplaces, and in one of them a small fire +was burning, and close to this stood a table with a shaded lamp, and by +these frail lights a little brightness was shed over this portion of the +vast chamber, while the remainder was shrouded in deep shadow. As the +fitful flashes of the wood-fire shone from time to time on the walls, +little glimpses might be caught of a much-faded tapestry, representing +some scenes from the “Æneid;” but on none of these did Layton turn an eye +nor bestow a thought, for he was deep in sorrowful reflections of his own,—cares +too heavy to admit of any passing distraction. He was alone, for Agincourt +had gone to spend the day at the “Caprini,” whither Alfred would have +accompanied him but for a letter which the morning's post had brought to +his hands, and whose contents had overwhelmed him with sorrow. +</p> +<p> +It was from his mother, written from a sick-bed, and in a hand that +betokened the most extreme debility. And oh! what intense expression there +is in these weak and wavering lines, wherein the letters seemed to vibrate +still with the tremulous motion of the fevered fingers!—what a deep +significance do we attach to every word thus written! till at length, +possessed of every syllable and every stop, we conjure up the scene where +all was written, and feel as though we heard the hurried breathing of the +sick-room. She had put off writing week after week, but now could defer no +longer. It was upwards of two months since his father had left her to go +to Dublin, and, from the day he went, she had never heard from him. A +paragraph, however, in a morning paper, though not giving his name, +unmistakably alluded to him as one who had grievously fallen from the high +and honorable station he had once occupied, and spoke of the lamentable +reverse that should show such a man in the dock of a police-court on the +charge of insulting and libelling a public character in a ribald handbill. +The prisoner was so hopelessly sunk in drunkenness, it added, that he was +removed from the court, and the examination postponed. +</p> +<p> +By selling one by one the little articles of furniture she had, she +contrived, hitherto, to eke out a wretched support, and it was only when +at last these miserable resources had utterly failed her that she was +driven to grieve her son with her sad story. Nor was the least touching +part of her troubles that in which she spoke of her straits to avoid being +considered an object of charity by her neighbors. The very fact of the +rector having overpaid for a few books he had purchased made her +discontinue to send him others, so sensitive had misery made her. And yet, +strangely enough, there did not exist the same repugnance to accept of +little favors and trifling kindnesses from the poor people about her, of +whom she spoke with a deep and affectionate gratitude. Her whole heart +was, however, full of one thought and one hope,—to see her dear son +before she died. It was a last wish, and she felt as though indulging it +had given her the energy which had prolonged her life. Doubts would cross +her mind from time to time if it were possible for him to come; if he +could be so far his own master as to be able to hasten to her; and even if +doing so, he could be yet in time; but all these would give way before the +strength of her hope. +</p> +<p> +“That I should see you beside my bed,—that you should hold my hand +as I go hence,—will be happiness enough to requite me for much +sorrow!” wrote she. “But if this may not be, and that we are to meet no +more here, never forget that in my last prayer your name was mingled, and +that when I entreated forgiveness for myself, I implored a blessing for <i>you!</i>” + </p> +<p> +“That letter was written on the Monday before; and where had he been on +that same Monday evening?” asked he of himself. “How had he been occupied +in those same hours when she was writing this? Yes, that evening he was +seated beside May Leslie at the piano, while she played and sang for him. +They had been talking of German songwriters, and she was recalling here +and there such snatches of Uhland and Schiller as she could remember; +while Clara, leaning over the back of his chair, was muttering the words +when May forgot them, and in an accent the purest and truest. What a happy +hour was that to <i>him!</i> and to <i>her</i> how wretched, how +inexpressibly wretched, as, alone and friendless, she wrote those faint +lines!” + </p> +<p> +Poor Layton felt very bitterly the thought that, while he was living in an +easy enjoyment of life, his mother, whom he loved dearly, should be in +deep want and suffering. +</p> +<p> +In the easy carelessness of a disposition inherited from his father, he +had latterly been spending money far too freely. His constant visits to +Marlia required a horse, and then, with all a poor man's dread to be +thought poor, he was ten times more liberal to servants than was called +for, and even too ready to join in whatever involved cost or expense. +Latterly, too, he had lost at play; small sums, to be sure, but they were +the small sums of a small exchequer, and they occurred every day, for at +the game of pool poor Layton's ball was always the first on the retired +list; and the terrible Mr. O'Shea, who observed a sort of reserve with +Charles Heathcote, made no scruple of employing sharp practice with the +tutor. +</p> +<p> +He emptied the contents of his purse on the table, and found that all his +worldly wealth was a trifle over fifteen pounds, and of this he was +indebted to Charles Heathcote some three or four,—the losses of his +last evening at the “Caprini.” What was to be done? A journey to Ireland +would cost fully the double of all he possessed, not to say that, once +there, he would require means. So little was he given to habits of +personal indulgence, that he had nothing—absolutely nothing—to +dispose of save his watch, and that was of little value; a few books, +indeed, he possessed, but their worth, even if he could obtain it, would +have been of no service. With these embarrassing thoughts of his poverty +came also others, scarcely less fraught with difficulty. How should he +relieve himself of his charge of Lord Agincourt? There would be no time to +write to his guardians and receive their reply. He could not leave the boy +in Italy; nor dare he, without the consent of his relatives, take him back +to England. How to meet these difficulties he knew not, and time was +pressing,—every hour of moment to him. Was there one, even one, +whose counsel he could ask, or whose assistance he could bespeak? He ran +over the names of those around him, but against each, in turn, some +insuperable objection presented itself. There possibly had been a time he +might have had recourse to Sir William, frankly owning how he was +circumstanced, and bespeaking his aid for the moment; but of late the old +Baronet's manner towards him had been more cold and reserved than at +first,—studiously courteous, it is true, but a courtesy that +excluded intimacy. As to Charles, they had never been really friendly +together, and yet there was a familiarity between them that made a better +understanding more remote than ever. +</p> +<p> +While he revolved all these troubles in his head, he walked up and down +his room with the feverish impatience of one to whom rest was torture. At +last, even the house seemed too narrow for his restless spirit, and, +taking his hat, he went out, careless of the swooping rain, nor mindful of +the cold and cutting wind as it swept down from the last spur of the +Apennines. As the chill rain drenched him, there seemed almost a sense of +relief in the substitution of a bodily suffering to the fever that burned +in his brain, and seeking out the bleakest part of the old ramparts, he +stood breasting the storm, which had now increased to a perfect hurricane. +</p> +<p> +“The rain cannot beat upon one more friendless and forlorn,” muttered he, +as he stood shivering there; the strange fascination of misery suggesting +a sort of bastard heroism to his spirit. “The humblest peasant in that +dreary Campagna has more of sympathy and kindness than I have. He has +those poor as himself and powerless to aid, but willing to befriend him.” + There was ever in his days of depression a fierce revolt in his nature +against the position he occupied in the world. The acceptance on +sufferance, the recognition accorded to his pupil being his only claim to +attention, were painful wounds to a haughty temperament, and, with the +ingenuity of a self-tormentor, he ascribed every reverse he met in life to +his false position. He accepted it, no doubt, to be able to help those who +had made such sacrifices for him, and yet even in this it was a failure. +There lay his poor mother, dying of very want, in actual destitution, and +he could not help—could not even be with her! +</p> +<p> +Though his wet clothes, now soaked with half-frozen drift, sent a deadly +chill through him, the fever of his blood rendered him unconscious of it, +and his burning brain seemed to defy the storm, while in the wild raging +of the elements he caught up a sort of excitement that sustained him. For +more than two hours he wandered about in that half-frenzied state, and at +length, benumbed and exhausted, he turned homeward. To his surprise, he +perceived, as he drew near, that the windows were all alight, and a red +glow of a large wood-fire sent its mellow glare across the street; but +greater was his astonishment on entering to see the tall figure of a man +stretched at full length on three chairs before the fire, fast asleep, a +carpet-bag and a travelling-cloak beside him. +</p> +<p> +Never was Layton less disposed to see a stranger and play the host to any +one, and he shook the sleeper's shoulder in a fashion that speedily awoke +him; who, starting up with a bound, cried out, “Well, Britisher, I must +say this is a kinder droll way to welcome a friend.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Colonel, is it you?” said Layton. “Pray forgive my rudeness. But +coming in as I did, without expecting any one, wet and somewhat tired—” + He stopped and looked vacantly about him, as though not clearly +remembering where he was. +</p> +<p> +Quackinboss had, however, been keenly examining him while he spoke, and +marked in his wildly excited eyes and flushed cheeks the signs of some +high excitement “You ain't noways right; you 're wet through and cold, +besides,” said he, taking his hand in both his own. “Do you feel ill?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; that is—I feel as if—I—had—lost my way,” + muttered he, with long pauses between the words. +</p> +<p> +“There 's nothing like bed and a sound sleep for that,” said the other, +gently; while, taking Layton's arm, he led him quietly along towards the +half-open door of his bedroom. Passively surrendering himself to the +other's care, Alfred made no resistance to all he dictated, and, removing +his dripping clothes, he got into bed. +</p> +<p> +“It is here the most pain is now,” said he, placing his palm on his +temple,—“here, and inside my head.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish I could talk to that servant of yours; he don't seem a very bright +sort of creetur, but I could make him of use.” With this muttered remark, +Quackinboss walked back into the sitting-room, where Layton's man was now +extinguishing the lights and the fire. “You have to keep that fire in, I +say—fire—great fire—hot water. Understand me?” + </p> +<p> +“'Strissimo! si,” said the Tuscan, bowing courteously. +</p> +<p> +“Well, then, do you fetch some lemons—lemons. You know lemons, don't +you?” + </p> +<p> +A shrug was the unhappy reply. +</p> +<p> +“Lemong—lemong! You know <i>them?</i>” + </p> +<p> +“Limoni! oh si.” And he made the sign of squeezing them; and then, +hastening out of the room, he speedily reappeared with lemons and other +necessaries to concoct a drink. +</p> +<p> +“That's it,—bravo, that's it! Brew it right hot, my worthy fellow,” + said Quackinboss, with a gesture that implied the water was to be boiled +immediately. He now returned to Layton, whom he found sitting up in the +bed, talking rapidly to himself, but with all the distinctness of one +perfectly collected. +</p> +<p> +“By Marseilles I could reach Paris on Tuesday night, and London on +Wednesday. Isn't there a daily packet for Genoa?” asked he, as Quackinboss +entered. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I guess there's more than 's good of 'em,” drawled out the other; +“ill-found, ill-manned, dirty craft as ever I put foot in!” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, but they leave every day, don't they?” asked Layton, impatiently. +</p> +<p> +“I ain't posted up in their doin's, nor I don't want to, that's a fact. We +went ashore with a calm sea and a full moon, coming up from Civita-Vecchia—” + </p> +<p> +Layton burst into a laugh at the strange pronunciation,—a wild, +unearthly sort of laugh that ended in a low, faint sigh, after which he +lay back like one exhausted. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0006" id="linkimage-0006"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0182.jpg" alt="ONE0182" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“I 'm a-goin' to take a little blood from you, I am!” said Quackinboss, +producing a lancet which, from its shape and size, seemed more conversant +with horse than human practice. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll not be bled! How am I to travel a journey of seven, eight, or ten +days and nights, if I 'm bled?” cried the sick man, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“I 've got to bleed you, and I 'll do it!” said Quackinboss, as, taking +ont his handkerchief, he tore a long strip, like a ribbon, from its +border. +</p> +<p> +“Francesco—Francesco!” screamed out Layton, wildly, “take this man +away; he has no right to be here. I 'll not endure it. Leave me—go—leave +me!” screamed he, angrily. +</p> +<p> +There was that peculiar something about the look of Quackinboss that +assured Francesco it would be as well not to meddle with him; and, like +all his countrymen, he was quick to read an expression and profit by his +knowledge. Even to the sick man, too, did the influence extend, and the +determinate, purpose-like tone of his manner enforced obedience without +even an effort. +</p> +<p> +“I was mystery-man for three years among the Choctaws,” said he, as he +bound up Layton's arm, “and I 'll yield to no one livin' how to treat a +swamp fever, and that's exactly what you 've got.” While the blood +trickled from the open vein he continued to talk on in the same strain. “I +'ve seen a red man anoint hisself all over with oil, and set fire to it, +and then another stood by with a great blanket to wrap him up afore he was +more than singed, and it always succeeded in stoppin' the fever. It +brought it out to the surface like. Howsomever, it's only an Indian's +fixin', and I don't like it with a white man. How d' ye feel now,—better?” + </p> +<p> +A muttering, dissatisfied sound, but half articulate, seemed to say, “No +better.” + </p> +<p> +“It ain't to be expected yet,” said Quackinboss. “Lie down, and be quiet a +bit.” + </p> +<p> +Although the first effect of the bleeding seemed to calm the sufferer and +arrest his fever, the symptoms of the malady came back in full force +afterwards, and, ere day broke, he was raving wildly. At one moment he +fancied he was at work in the laboratory with his father, and he ran over +great calculations of mental arithmetic with a marvellous volubility; then +he was back in his chambers at Trinity, but he could not find his books; +they were gone—lost—no, not lost, he suddenly remembered that +he had sold them—sold them to send a pittance to his poor sick +mother. “It's a sad story, every part of it,” whispered he in +Quackinboss's ear, while he clutched him closely with his hands. “It was a +great man was lost, mark you; and in a great shipwreck even the fragments +of the wreck work sad destruction, and, of course, none will say a word +for him. But remember, sir, I am his son, and will not hear a syllable +against him, from you nor any other.” From this he abruptly broke off to +speak of O'Shea, and his late altercation with him. “I waited at home all +the morning for him, and at last got a note to say that he had forgotten +to tell me of an appointment he had made to ride out with Miss Leslie, but +he 'll be punctual to the hour to-morrow. So it's better as it is, +Colonel, for you 'll be here, and can act as my friend,—won't you? +Your countrymen understand all these sort of things so well. And then, if +I be called away suddenly to England, don't tell them,” whispered he, +mysteriously,—“don't tell them at the villa whither I 've gone. They +know nothing of me nor of my family; never heard of my ruined father, nor +my poor, sick, destitute mother, dying of actual want,—think of +that,—while I was playing the man of fortune here, affecting every +extravagance,—yes, it was you yourself said so; I overheard you in +the garden, asking why or how was it, with such ample means, I would +become a tutor.” + </p> +<p> +It was not alone that these words were uttered in a calm and collected +tone, but they actually recalled to the American a remark he had once made +about Layton. “Well,” said he, as if some apology was called for, “it +warn't any business of mine, but I was sorry to see it.” + </p> +<p> +“But you didn't know—you couldn't know,” cried the other, eagerly, +“that I had no choice; my health was breaking. I had overworked my head; I +could n't go on. Have you ever tried what it is to read ten hours a day? +Answer me that.” + </p> +<p> +“No; but I've been afoot sixteen out of the twenty-four for weeks +together, on an Indian trail; and that's considerable worse, I take it.” + </p> +<p> +“Who cares for mere fatigue of body?” said Layton, contemptuously. +</p> +<p> +“And who says it's mere fatigue of body?” rejoined the other, “when every +sense a man has is strained and stretched to breakin', his ear to the +earth, and his eyes rangin' over the swell of the prairies, till his brain +aches with the strong effort; for, mark ye, Choctaws isn't Pawnees: they +'re on you with a swoop, just like a white squall in the summer time.” + There is no saying how far Quackinboss, notwithstanding all his boasted +skill in physic, might have been tempted to talk on about a theme he loved +so well, when he was suddenly admonished, by the expression of Layton's +face, that the sick man was utterly unconscious of all around him. The +countenance had assumed that peculiar stern and stolid gaze which is so +markedly the characteristic of an affected brain. +</p> +<p> +“There,” muttered Quackinboss to himself, “I 've been a-talkin' all this +time to a poor creetur as is ravin' mad; all I 've been doin' is to make +him worse.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XVII. A MASTER AND MAN +</h2> +<p> +Who owns the smart tandem that trips along so flippantly over the slightly +frosted road from the Bagni towards Lucca? What genius, cunning in +horseflesh, put that spicy pair together, perfect matches as they are in +all but color, for the wheeler is a blood chestnut, and the leader a +bright gray, with bone and substance enough for hunters? They have a sort +of lithe and wiry action that reminds one of the Hungarian breed, and so, +indeed, a certain jaunty carriage of the head, and half wild-looking +expression of eye, bespeak them. The high dog-cart, however, is +unmistakably English, as well as the harness, with its massive mountings +and broad straps. What an air of mingled elegance and solidity pervades +the entire! It is, as it were, all that such an equipage can pretend to +compass,—lightness, speed, and a dash of sporting significance being +its chief characteristics. +</p> +<p> +It is not necessary to present you to the portly gentleman who holds the +ribbons, all encased as he is in box-coats and railway wrappers; you can +still distinguish Mr. O'Shea, and as unmistakably recognize his man Joe +beside him. The morning is sharp, clear, and frosty, but so perfectly +still that the blue smoke of Mr. O'Shea's cigar hangs floating in the air +behind him, as the nimble nags spin along at something slightly above +thirteen miles an hour. Joe, too, solaces himself with the bland weed, but +in more primitive fashion, from a short “dudeen” of native origin: his hat +is pressed down firmly over his brows, and his hands, even to the wrists, +deeply encased in his pockets, for Joe, be it owned, is less amply +supplied with woollen comforts than his master, and feels the morning +sharp. +</p> +<p> +“Now, I call this a very neat turn-out; the sort of thing a man might not +be ashamed to tool along through any town in Europe,” said O'Shea. +</p> +<p> +“You might show it in Sackville Street!” said Joe, proudly. +</p> +<p> +“Sackville Street?” rejoined O'Shea, in an accent of contemptuous +derision. “Is there any use, I wonder, in bringing you all over the +world?” + </p> +<p> +“There is not,” said the other, in his most dogged manner. +</p> +<p> +“If there was,” continued O'Shea, “you'd know that Dublin had no place +amongst the great cities of Europe,—that nobody went there,—none +so much as spoke of it. I 'd just as soon talk of Macroom in good +society.” + </p> +<p> +“And why would n't you talk of Macroom? What's the shame in it?” asked the +inexorable Joe. +</p> +<p> +“There would be just the same shame as if I was to bring you along with me +when I was asked out to dinner!” + </p> +<p> +“You might do worse,” was the dry reply. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm curious to hear how.” + </p> +<p> +“Troth, you might; and easy too,” said Joe, sententiously. +</p> +<p> +These slight passages did not seem to invite conversation, and so, for +above a mile or two, nothing was spoken on either side. At last Mr. O'Shea +said,— +</p> +<p> +“I think that gray horse has picked up a stone; he goes tenderly near +side.” + </p> +<p> +“He does not; he goes as well as you do,” was Joe's answer. +</p> +<p> +“You're as blind as a bat, or you'd see he goes lame,” said O'Shea, +drawing up. +</p> +<p> +“There, he's thrown it now; it was only a bit of a pebble,” said Joe, as +though the victory was still on his side. +</p> +<p> +“Upon my life, I wonder why I keep you at all,” burst out O'Shea, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“So do I; and I wonder more why I stay.” + </p> +<p> +“Does it ever occur to you to guess why?” + </p> +<p> +“No; never.” + </p> +<p> +“It has nothing to say to being well fed, well lodged, well paid, and well +cared for?” + </p> +<p> +“No; it has not,” said Joe, gravely. “The bit I ate, I get how I can; +these is my own clothes, and sorrow sixpence I seen o' your money since +last Christmas.” + </p> +<p> +“Get down,—get down on the road this instant. You shall never sit +another mile beside me.” + </p> +<p> +“I will not get down. Why would I, in a strange counthry, and not a +farthin' in my pocket!” + </p> +<p> +“Have a civil tongue, then, and don't provoke me to turn you adrift on the +world.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't want to provoke you.” + </p> +<p> +“What beastly stuff is that you are smoking?” said O'Shea, as a whole +cloud from Joe's pipe came wafted across him. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis n't bastely at all. I took it out of your own bag this morning.” + </p> +<p> +“Not out of the antelope's skin?” asked O'Shea, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; out of the hairy bag with the little hoofs on it.” + </p> +<p> +A loud burst of laughter was O'Shea's reply, and for several seconds he +could not control his mirth. +</p> +<p> +“Do you know what you're smoking! It's Russian camomile!” + </p> +<p> +“Maybe it is.” + </p> +<p> +“I got it to make a bitter mixture.” + </p> +<p> +“It's bitther, sure enough, but it has a notion of tobacco too.” + </p> +<p> +O'Shea again laughed out, and longer than before. +</p> +<p> +“It's just a chance that you were n't poisoned,” said he, at last. “Here—here's +a cigar for you, and a real Cuban, too, one that young Heathcote never +fancied would grace your lips.” + </p> +<p> +Joe accepted the boon without acknowledgment; indeed, he scrutinized the +gift with an air of half-depreciation. +</p> +<p> +“You don't seem to think much of a cigar,” said O'Shea, testily. +</p> +<p> +“When I can get no betther,” said Joe, biting off the end. +</p> +<p> +O'Shea frowned and turned away. It was evident that he had some difficulty +in controlling himself, but he succeeded, and was silent. The effort, +however, could not be sustained very long, and at last he said, but in a +slow and measured tone,— +</p> +<p> +“Shall I tell you a home-truth, Master Joe?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, if you like.” + </p> +<p> +“It is this, then: it is that same ungracious and ungrateful way with +which you, and every one like you in Ireland, receive benefits, disgusts +every stranger.” + </p> +<p> +“Benefits!” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, benefits,—I said benefits.” + </p> +<p> +“Sure, what's our own isn't benefits,” rejoined Joe, calmly. +</p> +<p> +“Your own? May I ask if the contents of that bag were your own?” + </p> +<p> +“'T is at the devil I 'm wishin' it now,” said Joe, putting his hand on +his stomach. “Tis tearing me to pieces, it is, bad luck to it!” + </p> +<p> +O'Shea was angry, but such was the rueful expression of Joe's face that he +laughed out again. +</p> +<p> +“Now he's goin' lame if you like!” cried Joe, with a tone of triumph that +said, “All the mishaps are not on <i>my</i> side.” + </p> +<p> +O'Shea pulled up, and knowing, probably, the utter inutility of employing +Joe at such a moment, got down himself to see what was amiss. +</p> +<p> +“No, it's the off leg,” cried Joe, as his master was carefully examining +the near one. +</p> +<p> +“I suppose he must have touched the frog on a sharp stone,” said O'Shea, +after a long and fruitless exploration. +</p> +<p> +“I don't think so,” said Joe; “'t is more like to be a dizaze of the bone,—one +of thim dizazes of the fetlock that's never cured.” + </p> +<p> +A deeply uttered malediction was O'Shea's answer to the pleasant +prediction. +</p> +<p> +“I never see one of them recover,” resumed Joe, who saw his advantage; +“but the baste will do many a day's slow work—in a cart.” + </p> +<p> +“Hold your prate, and be hanged to you!” muttered O'Shea, as between anger +and stooping, he was threatened with a small apoplexy. “Move them on +gently for a few yards, till I get a look at him.” + </p> +<p> +Joe leisurely moved into his master's place, and bestowed the rug very +comfortably around his legs. This done, with a degree of detail and delay +that seemed almost intended to irritate, he next slowly arranged the reins +in his fingers, and then, with a jerk of his whip-hand, sending out the +lash in a variety of curves, he brought the whipcord down on the leader +with a “nip” that made him plunge, while the wheeler, understanding the +hint, started off at full swing. So sudden and unexpected was the start, +that O'Shea had barely time to spring out of the way to escape the wheel. +Before, indeed, he had thoroughly recovered his footing, Joe had swept +past a short turning of the road, leaving nothing but a light train of +dust to mark his course. +</p> +<p> +“Stop! pull up! stop! confound you!” cried O'Shea, with other little +expletives that print is not called on to repeat, and then, boiling with +passion, he set off in pursuit. When he had gained the angle of the road, +it was only to catch one look at his equipage as it disappeared in the +distance; the road, dipping suddenly, showed him little more than a torso +of the “faithful Joe,” diminishing rapidly to a head, and then vanishing +entirely. +</p> +<p> +“What a scoundrel! what a rascal!” cried O'Shea, as he wiped his forehead; +and then, with his fist clenched and upraised, “registered a vow,” as Mr. +O'Connell used to say, of unlimited vengeance. If this true history does +not record the full measure of the heart-devouring anger of O'Shea, it is +not from any sense of its being undeserved or unreasonable, for, after +all, worthy reader, it might have pushed even <i>your</i> patience to have +been left standing, of a sharp November morning, on a lonely road, while +your carriage was driven off by an insolent “flunkey.” + </p> +<p> +As he was about midway between the Bagni and the town of Lucca, to which +he was bound, he half hesitated whether to go on or to return. There was +shame in either course,—shame in going back to recount his +misadventure; shame in having to call Joe to a reckoning in Lucca before a +crowd of strangers, and that vile population of the stable-yard, with +which, doubtless, Joe would have achieved popularity before his master +could arrive. +</p> +<p> +Of a verity the situation was embarrassing, and in his muttered comments +upon it might be read how thoroughly his mind took in every phase of its +difficulty. “How they 'll laugh at me up at the Villa! It will last Sir +William for the winter; he 'll soon hear how I won the trap from his son, +and he 'll be ready with the old saw, 'Ah! ill got, ill gone!' How young +Heathcote will enjoy it; and the widow,—if she be a widow,—won't +she caricature me, as I stand halloaing out after the runaway rascal? Very +hard to get out of all this ridicule without something serious to cover +it. That's the only way to get out of a laughable adventure; so, Master +Layton, it's all the worse for <i>you</i> this morning.” In this train of +thought was he deeply immersed as a peasant drove past in his light +“calesina.” O'Shea quickly hailed the man, and bargained with him for a +seat to Lucca. +</p> +<p> +Six weary miles of a jolting vehicle did not contribute much to restore +his calm of mind, and it was in a perfect frenzy of anger he walked into +the inn-yard, where he saw his carriage now standing. In the stables his +horses stood, sheeted up, but still dirty and travel-stained. Joe was +absent. “He had been there five minutes ago; he was not an instant gone; +he had never left his horses till now; taken such care of them,—watered, +fed, groomed, and clothed them; he was a treasure,—there was not his +like to be found.” These, and suchlike, were the eulogies universally +bestowed by the stable constituency upon one whom O'Shea was at the same +time consigning in every form to the infernal gods! The grooms and helpers +wore a half grin on their faces as he passed out, and again he muttered, +“All the worse for <i>you</i>, Layton; you'll have to pay the reckoning.” + </p> +<p> +He was not long in finding the Barsotti Palace, where Layton lodged; an +old tumble-down place it was, with a grass-grown, mildewed court, and some +fractured statues, green with damp, around it. The porter, indicating with +a gesture of his thumb where the stranger lived, left O'Shea to plod up +the stairs alone. +</p> +<p> +It was strange enough that it should then have occurred to him, for the +first time, that he had no definite idea about what he was coming for. +Layton and he had, it is true, some words, and Layton had given him time +and place to continue the theme; but in what way? To make Layton reiterate +in cold blood something he might have uttered in anger, and would probably +retract, if called upon courteously,—this would be very poor policy. +While, on the other hand, to permit him to insinuate anything on the score +of his success at play might be even worse again. It was a case for very +nice management, and so O'Shea thought, as, after arriving at a door +bearing Layton's name on a visiting-card, he took a turn in the lobby to +consider his course of proceeding. The more he thought over it, the more +difficult he found it; in fact, at last he saw it to be one of those cases +in which the eventuality alone can decide the line to take, and so he gave +a vigorous pull at the bell, determined to begin the campaign at once. +</p> +<p> +The door was not opened immediately, and he repeated his summons still +louder. Scarcely had the rope quitted his hand, however, when a heavy bolt +was drawn back, the door was thrown wide, and a tall athletic man, in +shirt and trousers, stood before him. +</p> +<p> +“Well, stranger, you arn't much distressed with patience, that's a fact,” + said a strongly nasal accent, while the speaker gave a look of very fierce +defiance at the visitor. +</p> +<p> +“Am I speaking to Colonel Quackinboss?” asked O'Shea, in some surprise. +</p> +<p> +“Well, sir, if it ain't him, it's some one in <i>his</i> skin, I'm +thinkin'.” + </p> +<p> +“My visit was to Mr. Layton,” said the other, stiffly. “Is he at home?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; but he 's not a-goin' to see you.” + </p> +<p> +“I came here by his appointment.” + </p> +<p> +“That don't change matters a red cent, stranger; and as I said a'ready, he +ain't a-goin' to see you.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, then I 'm to understand that he has placed himself in <i>your</i> +hands? You assume to act for him?” said O'Shea, stiffly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, if you like to take it from that platform, I 'll offer no +objection,” said Quackinboss, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“Am I, or am I not, to regard you as a friend on this occasion?” said +O'Shea, authoritatively. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll tell you a secret, stranger; you 'll not be your own friend if you +don't speak to me in another tone of voice. I ain't used to be halloaed +at, I ain't.” + </p> +<p> +“One thing at a time, sir,” said O'Shea. “When I have finished the +business which brought me here, I shall be perfectly at your service.” + </p> +<p> +“Now I call that talkin' reasonable. Step inside, sir, and take a seat,” + said Quackinboss, whose manner was now as calm as possible. +</p> +<p> +Whatever irritation O'Shea really felt, he contrived to subdue it in +appearance, as he followed the other into the room. +</p> +<p> +O'Shea was not so deficient in tact that he could not see his best mode of +dealing with the American was to proceed with every courtesy and +deference, and so, as he seated himself opposite him, he mentioned the +reason of his coming there without anything like temper, and stated that +from a slight altercation such a difference arose as required either an +explanation or a meeting. +</p> +<p> +“He can't go a-shooting with you, stranger; he 's struck down this +morning,” said Quackinboss, gravely, as the other finished. +</p> +<p> +“Do you mean he 's ill?” + </p> +<p> +“I s'pose I do, when I said he was down, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“This is most unfortunate,” broke in O'Shea. “My duties as a public man +require my being in England next week. I hoped to have settled this little +matter before my departure. I see nothing for it but to beg you will in +writing—a few lines will suffice—corroborate the fact of my +having presented myself here, according to appointment, and mention the +sad circumstances by which our intentions, for I believe I may speak of +Mr. Layton's as my own, have been frustrated.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, now, stranger, we are speakin' in confidence here, and I may just +as well observe to you that of all the weapons that fit a man's hands, the +pen is the one I 'm least ready with. I 'm indifferent good with firearms +or a bowie, but a pen, you see, cuts the fingers that hold it just as +often as it hurts the enemy, and I don't like it.” + </p> +<p> +“But surely, where the object is merely to testify to a plain +matter-of-fact—” + </p> +<p> +“There ain't no such things on the 'arth as plain matters of fact, sir,” + broke in Quackinboss, eagerly. “I've come to the middle period of life, +and I never met one of 'em!” + </p> +<p> +O'Shea made a slight, very slight movement of impatience at these words; +but the other remarked it, and said,— +</p> +<p> +“We 'll come to that presently, sir. Let us just post up this account of +Mr. Layton's, first of all.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think there is anything further to detain me here,” said O'Shea, +rising with an air of stiff politeness. +</p> +<p> +“Won't you take something, sir,—won't you liquor?” asked +Quackinboss, calmly. +</p> +<p> +“Excuse me; I never do of a morning.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm sorry for it. I was a-thinkin', maybe you 'd warm up a bit with a +glass of something strong. I was hopin' it's the cold of the day chilled +you!” + </p> +<p> +“Do you mean this for insult, sir?” said O'Shea. “I ask you, because, +really, your use of the English language is of a kind to warrant the +question.” + </p> +<p> +“That 's where I wanted to see you, sir. You 're coming up to a good +boilin'-point now, stranger,” said Quackinboss, with a pleased look. +</p> +<p> +“Is he mad, is he deranged?” muttered O'Shea, half aloud. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir. We Western men are little liable to insanity; our lives are too +much abroad and open-air lives for that. It's your thoughtful, reflective, +deep men, as wears a rut in their mind with thinkin'; them 's the fellows +goes mad.” + </p> +<p> +O'Shea's stare of astonishment at this speech scarcely seemed to convey a +concurrence in the assertion, and he made a step towards the door. +</p> +<p> +“If you're a-goin', I've nothing more to say, sir,” said Quackinboss. +</p> +<p> +“I cannot see what there is to detain me here!” said the other, sternly. +</p> +<p> +“There ain't much, that's a fact,” was the cool reply. “There's nothing +remarkable in them bottles; it's new brandy and British gin; and as for +myself, sir, I can only say I must give you a bill payable at sight,—whenever +we may meet again, I mean; for just now this young man here can't spare +me. I 'm his nurse, you see. I hope you understand me?” + </p> +<p> +“I believe I do.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, that's all right, stranger, and here's my hand on 't.” And even +before O'Shea was well aware, the other had taken his hand in his strong +grasp and was shaking it heartily. O'Shea found it very hard not to laugh +outright, but there was a meaning-like determination in the American's +manner that showed it was no moment for mirth. +</p> +<p> +It was, however, necessary to say something to relieve a very awkward +pause, and so he observed,— +</p> +<p> +“I hope Mr. Layton's illness is not a serious one. I saw him, as I +thought, perfectly well two days back.” + </p> +<p> +“He's main bad, sir; very sick,—very sick, indeed.” + </p> +<p> +“You have a doctor, I suppose?” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir. I have some experience myself, and I 'm just a-treatin' him by +what I picked up among people that have very few apothecaries,—the +Mandan Indians.” + </p> +<p> +“Without being particular, I must own I 'd prefer a more civilized course +of physic,” said O'Shea, with a faint smile. +</p> +<p> +“Very likely, stranger; and if you had a dispute, you 'd rather, mayhap, +throw it into a law court, and leave it to three noisy fellows to quarrel +over; while <i>I</i>'d look out for two plain fellows, with horny hands +and honest hearts, and say, 'What's the rights o' this, gentlemen?'” + </p> +<p> +“I wish you every success, I'm sure,” said O'Shea, bowing. +</p> +<p> +“The same to you, sir,” said the other, in a sing-song tone. “Good-bye.” + </p> +<p> +When O'Shea had reached the first landing, he stopped, and, leaning +against the wall, laughed heartily. “I hope I 'll be able to remember all +he said,” muttered he, as he fancied himself amusing some choice company +by a personation of the Yankee. “The whole thing was as good as a play! +But,” added he, after a pause, “I 'm not sorry it's over, and that I have +done with him!” Very true and heartfelt was this last reflection of the +Member for Inch,—a far more honest recognition than even the hearty +laugh he had just enjoyed,—and then there came an uneasy +afterthought, that asked, “What could he mean by talking of a long bill, +payable at some future opportunity? Surely he can't imagine that we 're to +renew all this if we ever meet again. No, no, Colonel, your manners and +your medicine may be learned amongst the Mandans, but they won't do here +with us!” And so he issued into the street, not quite reassured, but +somewhat more comforted. +</p> +<p> +So occupied was his mind with the late scene, that he had walked fully +half-way back to his inn ere he bestowed a thought upon Joe. Wise men were +they who suggested that the sentence of a prisoner should not immediately +follow the conclusion of his trial, but ensue after the interval of some +two or three days. In the impulse of a mind fully charged with a long +narrative of guilt there is a force that seeks its expansion in severity; +whereas, in the brief respite of even some hours, there come doubts and +hesitations and regrets and palliations. In a word, a variety of +considerations unadmitted before find entrance now to the mind, and are +suffered to influence it. +</p> +<p> +Now, though Mr. O' Shea's first and not very unnatural impulse was to give +Joe a sound thrashing and then discharge him, the interval we have just +described moderated considerably the severity of this resolve. In the +first place, although the reader may be astonished at the assertion, Joe +was one very difficult to replace, since, independently of his aptitude to +serve as groom, valet, or cook, he was deeply versed in all the personal +belongings of his master. He had been with him through long years of +difficulty, and aided him in various ways, from corrupting the virtuous +freeholders of Inchabogue to raising an occasional supply on the +rose-amethyst ring. Joe had fought for him and lied for him, with a +zealous devotion not to be forgotten. Not, indeed, that he loved his +master more, but that he liked the world less, and Joe found a sincere +amount of pleasure in seeing how triumphantly their miserable pretensions +swayed and dominated over mankind. And, lastly, he had another attribute, +not to be undervalued in an age like ours,—he had no wages! It is +not to be understood that he served O'Shea out of some sense of heroic +devotion or attachment: no; Joe lived, as they say in India, on “loot”. +When times were prosperous,—that is, when billiards and blind-hookey +smiled, and to his master's pockets came home small Californias of +half-crowns and even sovereigns,—Joe prospered also. He drank boldly +and freely from the cup when brimful, but the half-empty goblet he only +sipped at. When seasons of pressure set in, Joe's existence was maintained +by some inscrutable secret of his own; for, be it known that on O'Shea's +arrival at an hotel, his almost first care was to announce, “You will +observe my servant is on board wages; he pays for himself;” and Joe would +corroborate the myth with a bow. Bethink yourself, good reader, had you +been the Member for Inch, it might have been a question whether to +separate from such a follower. +</p> +<p> +By the fluctuations of O'Shea's fortunes, Joe's whole conduct seemed +moulded. When the world went well with his master, his manner grew +somewhat almost respectful; let the times grow worse, Joe became +indifferent; a shade lower, and he was familiar and insolent; and, by long +habit, O'Shea had come to recognize these changes as part of the condition +of a varying fortune. +</p> +<p> +Little wonder was it that Joe grew to speak of his master and himself as +one, complaining, as he would, “We never got sixpence out of our property. +'T is the ruin of us paying that annuity to our mother;” and so on. +</p> +<p> +Now, these considerations, and many others like them, weighed deeply on +O'Shea's mind, as he entered the room of the hotel, angry and irritated, +doubtless, but far from decided as to how he should manifest it. Indeed, +the deliberation was cut short, for there stood Joe before him. +</p> +<p> +“I thought I was never to see your face again,” said O'Shea, scowling at +him. “How dare you have the insolence to appear before me?” + </p> +<p> +“Is n't it well for you that I 'm alive? Ain't you lucky that you 're not +answering for my death this minute?” said the other, boldly. “And if I did +n't drive like blazes, would I be here now? Appear before you, indeed! I'd +like to know who you 'd be appearin' before, if I was murthered with them +bitthers you gave me?” + </p> +<p> +“Lying scoundrel! you think to turn it all off in this manner. You commit +a theft first, and if the offence had killed you, it's no more than you +deserved. Who told you to steal the contents of that bag, sir?” + </p> +<p> +“The devil, I suppose, for I never felt pain like it,—twistin' and +tearin' and torturin' me as if you had a pinchers in my inside, and were +nippin' me to pieces!” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm glad of it,—heartily glad of it.” + </p> +<p> +“I know you are,—I know you well. 'T is a corpse you 'd like to see +me this minute.” + </p> +<p> +“So that I never set eyes on you, I don't care what becomes of you.” + </p> +<p> +“That 's enough,—enough said. I 'm goin'.” + </p> +<p> +“Go, and be———!” + </p> +<p> +“No, I won't. I 'll go and earn my livin'; and I 'll have my carakter, +too,—eleven years last Lady-day; and I 'll be paid back to my own +counthry; and I'll have my wages up to Saturday next; and the docther's +bill, here, for all the stuff I tuk since I came in; and when you are +ready with all this, you can ring for me.” And with his hands clasped over +his stomach, and in a half-bent position, Joe shuffled out and left his +master to his own reflections. +</p> +<p> +The world is full of its strange vicissitudes, and in nothing more +remarkably than the way people are reconciled, ignore the past, and start +afresh in life to incur more disagreements, and set to bickering again. +Great kings and kaisers indulge in this pastime; profound statesmen and +politicians do very little else. What wonder, then, if the declining sun +saw the smart tandem slipping along towards the Bagni, with the O'Shea and +his man sitting side by side in pleasant converse! They were both smoking, +and seemed like men who enjoyed their picturesque drive, and the +inspiriting pace they travelled at. +</p> +<p> +“When I 'll singe these 'cat hairs' off, and trim him a little about the +head, he 'll look twice as well,” said Joe, with his eye on the leader. +“It's a pity to see a collar on him.” + </p> +<p> +“We 'll take him down to Rome, and show him off over the hurdles,” said +his master, joyfully. +</p> +<p> +“I was just thinkin' of that this minute; wasn't that strange now?” + </p> +<p> +“We 'll have to go, for they 're going to break up house here, and go off +to Rome for the winter.” + </p> +<p> +“How will we settle with Pan?” said Joe, thoughtfully. +</p> +<p> +“A bill, I suppose.” + </p> +<p> +Joe shook his head doubtingly. “I 'm afraid not.” + </p> +<p> +“Go I will, and go I must,” said O'Shea, resolutely. “I 'm not going to +lose the best chance I ever had in life for the sake of a beggarly +innkeeper.” + </p> +<p> +“Why would you? Sure, no one would ask you! For, after all, 't is only +drivin' away, if we 're put to it I don't think he 'd overtake us.” + </p> +<p> +“Not if we went the same pace you did this morning, Joe,” said O'Shea, +laughing; and Joe joined pleasantly in the laugh, and the event ceased to +be a grievance from that instant. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XVIII. MRS. MORRIS AS COUNSELLOR +</h2> +<p> +The breakfast at the Villa Caprini always seemed to recall more of +English daily life and habit than any other event of the day. It was not +only in the luxuriously spread table, and the sideboard arrayed with that +picturesque profusion so redolent of home, but there was that gay and +hearty familiarity so eminently the temper of the hour, and that pleasant +interchange of news and gossip, as each tore the envelope of his letter, +or caught some amusing paragraph in his paper. +</p> +<p> +Mrs. Penthony Morris had a very wide correspondence, and usually +contributed little scraps of intelligence from various parts of the +Continent. They were generally the doings and sayings of that cognate +world whose names require no introduction, and even those to whom they are +unfamiliar would rather hear in silence than own to the ignorance. The +derelicts of fashion are the staple of small-talk; they are suggestive of +all the little social smartness one hears, and of that very Brummagem +morality which assumes to judge them. In these Mrs. Morris revelled. No +paragraph of the “Morning Post” was too mysteriously worded for her powers +of interpretation; no asterisks could veil a name from her piercing gaze. +Besides, she had fashioned a sort of algebraic code of life which +wonderfully assisted her divination, and being given an unhappy marriage, +she could foretell the separation, or, with the data of a certain old +gentleman's visits to St. John's Wood, could predict his will with an +accuracy that seemed marvellous. As she sat, surrounded with letters and +notes of all sizes, she varied the tone of her intelligence so artfully as +to canvass the suffrage of every listener. Now it was some piece of court +gossip, some “scandal of Queen Elizabeth,” now a curious political +intrigue, and now, again, some dashing exploit of a young soldier in +India. But whether it told of good or evil fortune, of some deeply +interesting event or some passing triviality, her power of narrating it +was considerable, as, with a tact all her own, she selected some one +especial individual as chief listener. After a number of short notices of +London, Rome, and Paris, she tossed over several letters carelessly, +saying,— +</p> +<p> +“I believe I have given you the cream of my correspondence. Stay, here is +something about your old sloop the 'Mosquito,' Lord Agincourt; would you +like to hear of how she attacked the forts at the mouth of the—oh, +how shall I attack it?—the Bhageebhahoo? This is a midshipman's +letter, written the same evening of the action.” + </p> +<p> +Though the question was addressed very pointedly, the boy never heard it, +but sat deeply engaged in deciphering a very jagged handwriting in a +letter before him. It was one of those scratchy, unfinished specimens of +penmanship which are amongst the luxuries persons of condition +occasionally indulge in. Seeing his preoccupation, Mrs. Morris did not +repeat her question, but suffered him to pursue his researches +undisturbed. He had just begun his breakfast when the letter arrived, and +now he ceased to eat anything, but seemed entirely engrossed by his news. +At last he arose abruptly, and left the room. +</p> +<p> +“I hope Agincourt has not got any bad tidings,” said Sir William; “he +seems agitated and uneasy.” + </p> +<p> +“I saw his guardian's name—Sommerville—on the envelope,” said +Mrs. Morris. “It is, probably, one of those pleasant epistles which wards +receive quarterly to remind them that even minors have miseries.” + </p> +<p> +The meal did not recover its pleasant tone after this little incident, and +soon after they all scattered through the house and the grounds, Mrs. +Morris setting out for her usual woodland walk, which she took each +morning. A half-glance the boy had given her as he quitted the room at +breakfast-time, induced her to believe that he wanted to consult her about +his letter, and so, as she entered the shrubbery, she was not surprised to +find Lord Agincourt there before her. +</p> +<p> +“I was just wishing it might be your footstep I heard on the gravel,” said +he, joining her. “May I keep you company?” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure, provided you don't make love to me, which I never permit in +the forenoon.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, I have other thoughts in my head,” said he, sighing drearily; “and +you are the very one to advise me what to do. Not, indeed, that I have any +choice about that, only how to do it, that's the question.” + </p> +<p> +“When one has the road marked out, it's never very hard to decide on the +mode of the journey,” said she. “Tell me what your troubles are.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0007" id="linkimage-0007"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0202.jpg" alt="ONE0202" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“Troubles you may well call them,” said he, with a deeper sigh. “There, +read that—if you can read it—for the old Earl does not grow +more legible by being older.” + </p> +<p> +“'Crews Court,'” read she, aloud. “Handsome old abbey it must be,” added +she, remarking on a little tinted sketch at the top of the letter. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, that's a place of mine. I was born there,” said the boy, half +proudly. +</p> +<p> +“It's quite princely.” + </p> +<p> +“It's a fine old thing, and I 'd give it all this minute not to have had +that disagreeable letter.” + </p> +<p> +“'My dear Henry,'” began she, in a low, muttering voice, “'I have heard +with—with'—not abomination—oh no, 'astonishment—with +astonishment, not unmixed with'—it can't be straw—is it straw?—no, +it is 'shame,—not unmixed with shame, that you have so far forgiven—forgotten'—oh, +that's it—'what was done to yourself.'” + </p> +<p> +“No, 'what was due to yourself,'” interrupted he; “that's a favorite word +of his, and so I know it.” + </p> +<p> +“'To become the—the'—dear me, what can this be with the +vigorous G at the beginning?—'to become'—is it really the +Giant?—'to become the Giant'—” + </p> +<p> +The boy here burst into a fit of laughing, and, taking the letter from +her, proceeded to read it out. +</p> +<p> +“I have spelt it all over five times,” said he, “and I know it by heart. +'I have heard with astonishment, not unmixed with shame, that you have so +far forgotten what was due to yourself as to become the Guest of one who +for so many years was the political opponent and even personal enemy of +our house. Your ignorance of family history cannot possibly be such as +that you are unaware of the claims once put forward by this same Sir +William Heathcote to your father's peerage, or of the disgraceful law +proceedings instituted to establish his pretensions.' As if I ever heard a +word of all this before! as if I knew or cared a brass button about the +matter!” burst he in. “'Had your tutor'—here comes in my poor coach +for <i>his</i> turn,” said Agincourt—“'had your tutor but bestowed +proper attention to the instructions written by my own hand for his +guidance.—We never could read them; we have been at them for hours +together, and all we could make out was, 'Let him study hazard, roulette, +and all other such games;' which rather surprised us, till we found out it +was 'shun,' and not 'study,' and 'only frequent the fast society of each +city he visits,' which was a mistake for 'first.'” + </p> +<p> +“Certainly the noble Lord has a most ambiguous calligraphy,” said she, +smiling; “and Mr. Layton is not so culpable as might be imagined.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah!” cried the boy, laughing, “I wish you had seen Alfred's face on the +day he received our first quarter's remittance, and read out: 'You may +drag on me like a mouse, if you please,' which was intended to be, 'draw +upon me to a like amount, if you please;' and it was three weeks before we +could make that out! But let me go on—where was I? Oh, at +'guidance.' 'Recent information has, however, shown me that nothing could +have been more unfortunate than our choice of this young man, his father +being one of the most dangerous individuals known to the police, a man +familiar with the lowest haunts of crime, a notorious swindler, and a +libeller by profession. In the letter which I send off by this day's post +to your tutor I have enclosed one from his father to myself. It is not +very likely that he will show it to you, as it contains the most insolent +demands for an increase of salary—“as some slight, though inadequate, +compensation for an office unbecoming my son's rank, insulting to his +abilities, and even damaging to his acquirements.” I give you this in his +own choice language, but there is much more in the same strain. The man, +it would appear, has just come out of a lunatic asylum, to which place his +intemperate habits had brought him; and I may mention that his first act +of gratitude to the benevolent individual who had undertaken the whole +cost of his maintenance there was to assault him in the open street, and +give him a most savage beating. Captain Hone or Holmes—a +distinguished officer, as I am told—is still confined to his room +from the consequences.'” + </p> +<p> +“How very dreadful!” said Mrs. Morris calmly. “Shocking treatment! for a +distinguished officer too!” + </p> +<p> +“Dreadful fellow he must be,” said the boy. “What a rare fright he must +have given my old guardian! But the end of it all is, I 'm to leave +Alfred, and go back to England at once. I wish I was going to sea again; I +wish I was off thousands of miles away, and not to come home for years. To +part with the kind, good fellow, that was like a brother to me, this way,—how +can I do it? And do you perceive, he has n't one word to say against +Alfred? It's only that he has the misfortune of this terrible father. And, +after all, might not that be any one's lot? You might have a father you +couldn't help being ashamed of.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course,” said she; “I can fancy such a case easily enough.” + </p> +<p> +“I know it will nearly kill poor Alfred; he 'll not be able to bear it. +He's as proud as he is clever, and he'll not endure the tone of the Earl's +letter. Who knows what he 'll do? Can <i>you</i> guess?” + </p> +<p> +“'Not in the least. I imagine that he 'll submit as patiently as he can, +and look out for another situation.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, there you don't know him!” broke in the boy: “he can't endure this +kind of thing. He only consented to take me because his health was +breaking up from hard reading; he wanted rest and a change of climate. At +first he refused altogether, and only gave way when some of his college +dons over-persuaded him.” + </p> +<p> +She smiled a half-assent, but said nothing. +</p> +<p> +“Then there's another point,” said he, suddenly: “I'm sure his Lordship +has not been very measured in the terms of his letter to him. I can just +fancy the tone of it; and I don't know how poor Alfred is to bear that.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear boy, you'll learn one of these days—and the knowledge will +come not the less soon from your being a Peer—that all the world is +either forbearing or overbearing. You must be wolf or lamb: there's no +help for it.” + </p> +<p> +“Alfred never told me so,” said he, sternly. +</p> +<p> +“It's more than likely that he did not know! There are no men know less of +life than these college creatures; and there lies the great mistake in +selecting such men for tutors for our present-day life and its accidents. +Alexandre Dumas would be a safer guide than Herodotus; and Thackeray teach +you much more than Socrates.” + </p> +<p> +“If I only had in my head one-half of what Alfred knew, I 'd be well +satisfied,” said the boy. “Ay, and what's better still, without his +thinking a bit about it.” + </p> +<p> +“And so,” said she, musingly, “you are to go back to England?” + </p> +<p> +“That does not seem quite settled, for he says, in a postscript, that Sir +George Rivers, one of the Cabinet, I believe, has mentioned some +gentleman, a 'member of their party,' now in Italy, and who would probably +consent to take charge of me till some further arrangements could be come +to.” + </p> +<p> +“Hold your chain till a new bear-leader turned up!” said she, laughing. +“Oh dear! I wonder when that wise generations of guardians will come to +know that the real guide for the creatures like you is a woman. Yes, you +ought to be travelling with your governess,—some one whose ladylike +tone and good manners would insensibly instil quietness, reserve, and +reverence in your breeding, correct your bad French, and teach you to +enter or leave a room without seeming to be a housebreaker!” + </p> +<p> +“I should like to know who does that?” asked he, indignantly. +</p> +<p> +“Every one of you young Englishmen, whether you come fresh from Brasenose +or the Mess of the Forty-something, you have all of you the same air of +bashful bull-dogs!” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, come, this is too bad; is this the style of Charles Heathcote, for +instance?” + </p> +<p> +“Most essentially it is; the only thing is that, the bulldog element +predominating in his nature, he appears the less awkward in consequence.” + </p> +<p> +“I should like to bear what you 'd say of the O'Shea.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Mr. O'Shea is an Irishman, and <i>their</i> ways bear the same +relation to general good breeding that rope-dancing does to waltzing.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll take good care not to ask you for any description of myself,” said +he, laughingly. +</p> +<p> +“You are very wrong then, for you should have heard something excessively +flattering,” was her reply. “Shall I tell you who your new protector is to +be?” cried she, after a moment's pause; “I have just guessed it: the +O'Shea himself!” + </p> +<p> +“O'Shea! impossible; how could you imagine such a thing?” + </p> +<p> +“I'm certain I'm right. He is always talking of his friend Sir George +Rivers—he calls him Rivers,—who is Colonial Secretary, and who +is to make him either Bishop of Barbadoes or a Gold Stick at the Gambia; +and you 'll see if I 'm not correct, and that the wardship of a young +scapegrace lordling is to be the retaining fee of this faithful follower +of his party. Of course, there will be no question of tutorship; in fact, +it would have such an unpleasant resemblance to the farce and Mr. O'Toole, +as to be impossible. You will simply be travelling together. It will be +double harness, but only one horse doing the work!” + </p> +<p> +“I never can make out whether you 're in jest or in earnest,” said he, +pettishly. +</p> +<p> +“I'm always in earnest when I'm jesting; that's the only clue I can give +you.” + </p> +<p> +“But all this time we have been wandering away from the only thing I +wanted to think of,—how to part with dear Alfred. You have told me +nothing about that.” + </p> +<p> +“These are things which, as the French say, always do themselves, and, +consequently, it is better never to plan or provide for; and, remember, as +a maxim, whenever the current is carrying you the way you want to go, put +in your oar as little as possible. And as to old associations, they are +like old boots: they are very pleasant wear, but they won't last forever. +There now, I have given you quite enough matter to think over: and so, +good-bye.” + </p> +<p> +As Agincourt turned his steps slowly towards the house, he marvelled with +himself what amount of guidance she had given him. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XIX. JOE'S DIPLOMACY +</h2> +<p> +MR. O'Shea's man was not one to put his light under a bushel; so, when he +received at the post-office a very portentous-looking letter, heavily +sealed, and marked “On Her Majesty's Service,” he duly stopped the two or +three English loungers he saw about to show them the document, on pretence +of asking if any demand for postage could be made; if it had not been +wrongfully detained; if they thought it had been opened and read; and so +on,—all these inquiries having for their object to inform the +general public that the Member for Inch was in close relation and +correspondence with Downing Street. +</p> +<p> +In sooth, the letter had as significant an external as any gentleman in +pursuit of a place might have desired. In color, texture, and fashion +there was nothing wanting to its authenticity, and it might, without any +disparagement to its outside, have named Mr. O'Shea a Governor of the +Bahamas, or a Mahogany Commissioner at Ruatan. It was, in fact, a document +that, left negligently in the way, might have made a dun appeasable, and a +creditor patient. There were few men it might not in some degree have +imposed on, but of that few the O'Shea himself was one. He knew well—too +well—that it foretold neither place nor employment; that it was the +shell of a very small kernel; nothing more, in short, than a note from an +old friend and schoolfellow, then acting as the Private Secretary of a +Cabinet Minister,—one who, indeed, kept his friend O'Shea fully +informed as to everything that fell vacant, but, unhappily, accompanied +the intelligence with a catalogue of the applicants, usually something +like the list of the Smiths in a Directory. +</p> +<p> +So little impatient was O'Shea for the contents, that he had half eaten +his breakfast and looked through “Punch” before he broke the seal. The +enclosure was from the hand of his friend Tom Radwell, but whose peculiar +drollery it was to correspond in the form of a mock despatch. The note, +therefore, though merely containing gossip, was written with all attention +to margin and calligraphy, and even in places affected the solemn style of +the Office. It was headed “Secret and Confidential,” and opened thus:— +</p> +<p> +“Sir,—By your despatch of the 18th ult, containing four enclosures,—three +protested bills, and your stepmother's I O for 18L. 5s.,—I am +induced to believe that no material change has occurred in the situation +of your affairs,—a circumstance the more to be deplored, inasmuch as +her Majesty's Government cannot at this moment, with that due regard +imposed on them for the public service, undertake either to reconsider +your claims, or by an extraordinary exercise of the powers vested in them +by the Act of Teddy the Tiler, chap. 4, secs. 9 and 10, appoint you in the +way and manner you propose. So much, my dear Gorman, old Rivers declared +to me this morning, confidentially adding, I wish that Irish party would +understand that, when we could buy them altogether in a basket, as in +O'Connell's day, the arrangement was satisfactory; but to have to purchase +them separately—each potato by himself—is a terrible loss of +time, and leads to no end of higgling. Why can't you agree amongst +yourselves,—make your bargain, and then divide the spoils quietly? +It is the way your forefathers understood the law of commonage, and nobody +ever grumbled that his neighbor had a cow or a pig too many! The English +of all this is, they don't want you just now, and they won't have you, for +you 're an article that never kept well, and, even when bonded, your loss +by leakage is considerable. +</p> +<p> +“Every Irishman I ever met makes the same mistake of offering himself for +sale when the commodity is not wanted. If you see muffs and boas in Regent +Street in July, ain't they always ticketed 'a great sacrifice'? Can't you +read the lesson? But so it is with you. You fancy you 'll induce people to +travel a bad road by putting up a turnpike. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm sorry to say all this to you, but I see plainly politics will not do +any longer as a pursuit. It is not only that all appointments are so +scrutinized nowadays, but that every man's name in a division is weighed +and considered in a fashion that renders a mere majority of less moment +than the fact of how it was composed. If I cannot manage something for you +in the West Indies, you must try Cheltenham. +</p> +<p> +“Rivers has just sent for me. +</p> +<p> +“'What of your friend O'Shea? Did n't you tell me he was in the north of +Italy?' +</p> +<p> +“'Yes,' said I; 'he's getting up the Italian question. He has accumulated +a mass of facts which will astonish the House next session.' +</p> +<p> +“'Confound his facts!' muttered he. 'Here has been Lord Sommerville with +me, about some young ward of his. I don't well understand what he wants, +or what he wishes me to do; but the drift is, to find some one—a +gentleman, of course—who would take charge of the boy for a short +time; he is a marquis, with large expectations, and one day or other will +be a man of mark.' +</p> +<p> +“I tried the dignity tone, but old Rivers interrupted me quickly,— +</p> +<p> +“'Yes, yes, of course. Mere companionship, nothing more. Sound O'Shea upon +it, and let me hear.' +</p> +<p> +“Here, then, my dear Gorman, is the 'opening' you so long have looked for; +and if <i>you</i> cannot turn such a position to good profit, <i>who</i> +can? Nor are you the man I take you for, if you 're not married into the +family before this day twelvemonth! There is no time to be lost, so +telegraph back at once. A simple 'Yes' will do, if you accept, which I +sincerely hope you will. All the minor arrangements you may safely trust +to <i>me</i>.” + </p> +<p> +When Mr. O'Shea had read thus far, he arose, and, walking with head erect +and well thrown-out chest towards the looking-glass, he desired to “take +stock” of his appearance, and to all semblance was not displeased at the +result. He was autumnalizing, it is true; tints were mellowing, colors +more sombre; but, on the whole, there was nothing in the landscape, viewed +at due distance and with suitable light, to indicate much ravage from +Time. Your hard-featured men, like mountains in scenery, preserve the same +appearance unchanged by years. It is your genial fellow, with mobile +features, that suffers so terribly from age. The plough of Time leaves +deep furrows in the arable soil of such faces. As in those frescos which +depend altogether on color, the devastations of years are awfully felt; +when black degenerates into gray, mellow browns grow a muddy yellow, and +the bright touches that “accentuated” expression are little else than +unmeaning blotches! If the Member for Inch had not travelled far upon the +dreary road, I am bound in truth to own that he had begun the journey. A +light, faint silvering showed on his whiskers, like the first touch of +snow on an Alpine fern in October. The lines that indicated a ready +aptitude for fun had deepened, and grown more marked at the angles at the +mouth,—a sad sign of one whose wit was less genial and more biting +than of yore. Then—worst of all—he had entered upon the +pompous lustre wherein men feel an exaggerated self-importance, imagine +that their opinions are formed, and their character matured. Nothing is so +trying as that quarantine period, and both men and women make more +egregious fools of themselves in it than in all the wild heydey of early +youth. Mr. O'Shea, however, was an Irishman, and, in virtue of the fact, +he had a light, jaunty, semi-careless way with him, which is a sort of +electroplate youth, and looks like the real article, though it won't prove +so lasting. +</p> +<p> +“I must have a look into the Peerage,” said he, as he turned to the bulky +volume that records the alliances and the ages of the “upper ten thousand +“:— +</p> +<p> +“'Lady Maria Augusta Sofronia Montserrat, born '—oh, by the powers, +that won't do!—'born 1804.' Oh, come, after all, it's not so bad; +'died in '46.—Charlotte Rose Leopoldine, died in infancy.—Henrietta +Louisa, born 1815; married in 1835 to Lord Julius de Raby; again married +to Prince Beerstenshoften von Hahnsmarkt, and widowed same year, 1846.' +I'll put a mark against her. And there's one more, 'Juliana de Vere, +youngest daughter, born '26 '—that's the time of day!—born +'26, and no more said. The paragraph has yet to be filled with, 'Married +to the O'Shea, Member of Parliament for Inchabogue, High Sheriff of +Tipperary, and head of the ancient copt known as O'Meadhlin Shamdoodhlin +Naboklish O'Shea'—I wonder if they 'd put it in—'formerly +Kings of Tulloch Reardhin and Bare-ma-bookle, and all the countries west +of the Galtee Mountains.' If pedigree would do it, O'Shea may call himself +first favorite! And now, Miss Leslie,” continued he, aloud, “you have no +time to lose; make your bidding quickly, or the O'Shea will be knocked +down to another purchaser. As Eugene Aram says, 'I 'm equal to either +fortune.'” + </p> +<p> +“Well,” said Joe, entering the room, and approaching his master +confidentially, “is it a place?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing of the kind; a friendly letter from a member of the Cabinet,” + replied he, carelessly. +</p> +<p> +“Devil take them! It isn't friendship we want; it's something to live on.” + </p> +<p> +“You are a low-minded, mercenary creature,” said O'Shea, oratorically. “Is +our happiness in this life, our self-respect, our real worth, dependent +upon the accident of our station, or upon the place we occupy in the +affections of men,—what we possess of their sympathy and love? I +look around me, and what do I see?” + </p> +<p> +“Sorra bit of me knows,” broke in Joe. +</p> +<p> +Unmindful of the interruption, O'Shea continued: “I see the high places +occupied by the crafty, the subtle, and the scheming.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish we had one of them,” muttered Joe. +</p> +<p> +“I see that humble merit shivers at the door, while insolent pretension +struts proudly in.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, and more power to him, if he's able,” grumbled out the other. +</p> +<p> +“I see more,” said O'Shea, raising his voice, and extending his arm at +full length,—“I see a whole nation,—eight millions of men,—great, +glorious, and gifted,—men whose genius has shed a lustre over the +dull swamp of their oppressors' nature, but who one day, rising from her +ashes—” + </p> +<p> +“Ah! by my conscience, I knew it was comin'; and I said to myself, 'Here's +the phaynix!'” + </p> +<p> +“Rising from her ashes like the Megatherion of Thebes. Where are you now, +Master Joe?” said he, with an insolent triumph in his look. +</p> +<p> +“I 'd just as soon have the phaynix,” said Joe, doggedly. “Go on.” + </p> +<p> +“How can I go on? How could any man? Demosthenes himself would stand +confused in presence of such vulgar interruptions. It is in such +temperaments as yours men of genius meet their worst repulses. You are at +once the <i>feræ naturæ</i> of humanity, and the pestilential atmosphere +that poisons—that poisons—” + </p> +<p> +“Oh! there you are 'pounded '! Poisons what?” + </p> +<p> +“Poisons the pellucid rills which should fertilize the soul of man! I'm +never pounded. O'Connell himself had to confess that he never saw my equal +in graceful imagery and figurative embellishment. 'Listening to O'Shea,' +says he, 'is like watching a juggler with eight balls flying round and +about him. You may think it impossible he 'll be in time, but never one of +them will he fail to catch.' That's what <i>I</i> call oratory. Why is it, +I ask, that, when I rise in the house, you 'd hear a pin drop?” + </p> +<p> +“Maybe they steal out on their tiptoes,” said Joe, innocently. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir, they stand hushed, eager, anxious, as were the Greeks of old to +catch the words of Ulysses. I only wish you saw old P——— +working away with his pencil while I 'm speaking.” + </p> +<p> +“Making a picture of you, maybe!” + </p> +<p> +“You are as insolent as you are ignorant,—one of those who, in the +unregenerate brutality of their coarse nature, repel the attempts of all +who would advocate the popular cause. I have said so over and over again. +If you would constitute yourself the friend of the people, take care to +know nothing of them; neither associate with them, nor mix in their +society: as Tommy Moore said of Ireland, 'It's a beautiful country to live +out of.'” + </p> +<p> +“And <i>he</i> was a patriot!” said Joe, contemptuously. +</p> +<p> +“There are no patriots among those who soar above the miserable limits of +a nationality. Genius has no concern with geographies. To think for the +million you must forget the man.” + </p> +<p> +“Say that again. I like the sound of that,” cried Joe, admiringly. +</p> +<p> +“If anything could illustrate the hopelessness of your class and condition +in life,” continued O'Shea, “it is yourself. There you are, daily, hourly +associating with one whose sentiments you hear, whose opinions you learn, +whose judgments you record; one eagerly sought after in society, revered +in private, honored in the Senate; and what have you derived from these +unparalleled advantages? What can you say has been the benefit from these +relations?” + </p> +<p> +“It's hard to say,” muttered Joe, “except, maybe, it's made me a +philosopher.” + </p> +<p> +“A philosopher!—you a philosopher!” + </p> +<p> +“Ay; isn't it philosophy to live without wages, and work without pay? 'Tis +from yourself I heerd that the finest thing of all is to despise money.” + </p> +<p> +“So it is,—so it would be, I mean, if society had not built up that +flimsy card edifice it calls civilization. Put out my blue pelisse with +the Astrachan collar, and my braided vest; I shall want to go over to the +Villa this morning. But, first of all, take this to the telegraph-office: +'The O'Shea accepts.'” + </p> +<p> +“Tear and ages! what is it we've got?” asked Joe, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“'The O'Shea accepts,'—four words if they charge for the 'O.' Let me +know the cost at once.” + </p> +<p> +“But why don't you tell me where we're going? Is it Jamaica or Jerusalem?” + </p> +<p> +“Call your philosophy to your aid, and be anxious for nothing,” said +O'Shea, pompously. “Away, lose no more time.” + </p> +<p> +If Joe had been the exponent of his feelings, as he left the room, he +would probably have employed his favorite phrase, and confessed himself +“humiliated.” He certainly did feel acutely the indignity that had been +passed upon him. To live on a precarious diet and no pay was bad enough, +but it was unendurable that his master should cease to consult with and +confide in him. Amongst the shipwrecked sufferers on a raft, gradations of +rank soon cease to be remembered, and of all equalizers there is none like +misery! Now, Mr. O'Shea and his man Joe had, so to say, passed years of +life upon a raft. They had been storm-tossed and cast away for many a day. +Indeed, to push the analogy further, they had more than once drawn lots +who should be first devoured; that is to say, they had tossed up whose +watch was to go first to the pawnbroker. Now, was it fair or reasonable, +if his master discovered a sail in the distance, or a headland on the +horizon, that he should conceal the consoling fact, and leave his +fellow-sufferer to mourn on in misery? Joe was deeply wounded; he was +insulted and outraged. +</p> +<p> +From the pain of his personal wrongs he was suddenly aroused by the +telegraph clerk's demand for thirty francs. +</p> +<p> +“Thirty francs for four words?” + </p> +<p> +“You might send twenty for the same sum,” was the bland reply. +</p> +<p> +“Faix, and so we will,” said Joe. “Give me a pen and a sheet of paper.” + </p> +<p> +His first inspirations were so full of vengeance that he actually +meditated a distinct refusal of whatever it was had been offered to his +master, and his only doubt was how to convey the insolent negative in its +most outrageous form. His second and wiser thoughts suggested a little +diplomacy; and though both the consideration and the mode of effectuating +it cost no small labor, we shall spare the reader's patience, and give him +the result arrived at after nearly an hour's exertion, the message +transmitted by Joe running thus:— +</p> +<p> +“Send the fullest particulars about the pay and the name of the place we +'re going to. +</p> +<p> +“O'Shea.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think there will be many secrets after I see the answer to that; +and see it I will, if I tear it open!” said Joe, sturdily, as he held his +way back to the inn. +</p> +<p> +A rather warm discussion ensued on the subject of his long absence, O'Shea +remarking that for all the use Joe proved himself he might as well be +without a servant, and Joe rejoining that, for the matter of pay and +treatment, <i>he</i> might be pretty nearly as well off if he had no +master; these polite passages being interchanged while the O'Shea was +busily performing with two hair-brushes, and Joe equally industriously +lacing his master's waistcoat, with an artistic skill that the valet of a +corpulent gentleman alone attains to, as Joe said a hundred times. +</p> +<p> +“I wonder why I endure you,” said O'Shea, as he jauntily settled his hat +on one side of his head, and carefully arranged the hair on the other. +</p> +<p> +“And you 'll wondher more, when I 'm gone, why I did n't go before,” was +Joe's surly rejoinder. +</p> +<p> +“How did you come by that striped cravat, sir?” asked O'Shea, angrily, as +he caught sight of Joe in front. +</p> +<p> +“I took it out of the drawer.” + </p> +<p> +“It's mine, then!” + </p> +<p> +“It was wonst I did n't suppose you 'd wear it after what the widow woman +said of you up at the Villa,—that Mrs. Morris. 'Here 's the O'Shea,' +says she, 'masquerading as a zebra;' as much as to say it was another +baste you was in reality.” + </p> +<p> +“She never dared to be so insolent” + </p> +<p> +“She did; I heard it myself.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't believe you; I never do believe one word you say.” + </p> +<p> +“That's exactly what I hear whenever I say you 're a man of fine fortune +and good estate; they all cry out, 'What a lying rascal he is!'” + </p> +<p> +O'Shea made a spring towards the poker, and Joe as rapidly took up a +position behind the dressing-glass. +</p> +<p> +“Hush!” cried O'Shea, “there's some one at the door.” + </p> +<p> +And a loud summons at the same time confirmed the words. With a ready +instinct Joe speedily recovered himself, and hastened to open it. +</p> +<p> +“Is your master at home?” asked a voice. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, Heathcote, is it you?” exclaimed O'Shea; “Just step into the next +room, and I 'll be with you in a second or two. Joe, show Captain +Heathcote into the drawing-room.” + </p> +<p> +“I wondher what's the matter with him?” said Joe, confidentially, as he +came back. “I never see any one look so low.” + </p> +<p> +“So much the better,” said O'Shea, merrily; “it's a sign he's coming to +pay money. When a man is about to put you off with a promise, he lounges +in with an easy, devil-may-care look that seems to say, 'It's all one, old +fellow, whether you have an I O or the ready tin.'” + </p> +<p> +“There's a deal of truth in that,” said Joe, approvingly, and with a look +that showed how pleasurable it was to him to hear such words of wisdom. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XX. A DREARY FORENOON. +</h2> +<p> +O'Shea swaggered into the room where Heathcote was standing to await him, +in the attitude of one who desired to make his visit as brief as might be. +</p> +<p> +“How good of you to drive over to this dreary spot,” began the Member, +jauntily, “where the blue devils seem to have their especial home. I 'm +hipped and bored here as I never was before. Come, sit down; have you +breakfasted?” + </p> +<p> +“Three hours ago.” + </p> +<p> +“Take some luncheon, then; a glass of sherry, at least.” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing—thanks—it's too early.” + </p> +<p> +“Won't you have even a weed?” said he, opening a cigar-box. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm provided,” said the other, showing the half of a still lighted +cigar. “I came over this morning, hoping to catch you at home, and make +some sort of settlement about our little transactions together.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear fellow, you surely can't think it makes any matter between <i>us</i>. +I hope you know that it is entirely a question for your own convenience. +No man has more experience of what it is to be 'hit hard,' as they say. +When I first came out, I got it. By Jove! did n't I get it, and at both +sides of the head too. It was Mopus's year, when the Yorkshire Lass ran a +dead heat with Skyrocket for the Diddlesworth. I stood seventeen to one, +in thousands! think of that,—seventeen thousand pounds to one +against the filly. It was thought so good a thing that Naylor—old +Jerry, as they used to call him—offered me a clean thousand to let +him take half the wager. But these are old stories now, and they only bore +you; in fact, it was just to show you that every man has his turn—” + </p> +<p> +“I own frankly,” broke in Heathcote, “I am far too full of selfish cares +to take a proper interest in your story. Just tell me if these figures are +correct?” And he turned to look out for a particular page in a small book. +</p> +<p> +“Confound figures! I wish they never were invented. If one only thinks of +all the hearty fellows they 've set by the ears, the close friendships +they have severed, the strong attachments they have broken, I declare one +would be justified in saying it was the devil himself invented +arithmetic.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish he 'd have made it easier when he was about it,” said Heathcote. +</p> +<p> +“Excellent, by Jove!—how good! 'Made it easier'—capital!” + cried O'Shea, laughing with a boisterous jollity that made the room ring. +“I hope I 'll not forget that. I must book that <i>mot</i> of yours.” + </p> +<p> +Heathcote grew crimson with shame, and, in an angry impulse, pitched his +cigar into the fire. +</p> +<p> +“That's right,” broke in O'Shea; “these are far better smoking than your +cheroots; these are Hudson's 'Grand Viziers,' made especially for Abba +Pasha's own smoking.” + </p> +<p> +Heathcote declined coldly, and continued his search through his note-book. +</p> +<p> +“It was odd enough,” said O'Shea, “just as you came in I was balancing in +my own mind whether I 'd go over to the Villa, or write to you.” + </p> +<p> +“Write to me!” said the other, reddening. +</p> +<p> +“Don't be scared; it was not to dun you. No; I was meditating whether it +was quite fair of me to take that trap and the nags. <i>You</i> like that +sort of thing; it suits you too. Now, I 'm sobering down into the period +of Park phaetons and George the Fourths: a low step to get in, and a deep, +well-cushioned seat, with plenty of leg room; that's more my style. As +Holditch says, 'The O'Shea wants an armchair upon C springs and Collinge's +patent' Free and easy that, from a rascally coachmaker, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't want the horses. I have no use for them. I 'm not quite clear +whether you valued the whole thing at two hundred and fifty or three +hundred and fifty?” + </p> +<p> +“We said, two fifty,” replied O'Shea, in his silkiest of tones. +</p> +<p> +“Be it so,” muttered Heathcote; “I gave two hundred for the chestnut horse +at Tattersall's.” + </p> +<p> +“He was dear,—too dear,” was the dry reply. +</p> +<p> +“Esterhazy called him the best horse he ever bred.” + </p> +<p> +“He shall have him this morning for a hundred and twenty.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, well,” burst in Heathcote, “we are not here to dispute about that. I +handed you, as well as I remember, eighty, and two hundred and thirty +Naps.” + </p> +<p> +“More than that, I think,” said O'Shea, thoughtfully, and as if laboring +to recollect clearly. +</p> +<p> +“I'm certain I'm correct,” said Heathcote, haughtily. “I made no other +payments than these two,—eighty and two hundred and thirty.” + </p> +<p> +“What a memory I have, to be sure!” said O'Shea, laughingly. “I remember +now, it was a rouleau of fifty that I paid away to Layton was running in +my head.” + </p> +<p> +Heathcote's lip curled superciliously, but it was only for a second, and +his features were calm as before. “Two thirty and eighty make three +hundred and ten, and three fifty—” + </p> +<p> +“Two fifty for the trap!” broke in O'Shea. +</p> +<p> +“Ah! to be sure, two fifty, make altogether five hundred and sixty Naps, +leaving, let me see—ninety-four—sixty-one—one hundred +and twelve—” + </p> +<p> +“A severe night that was. You never won a game!” chimed in O'Shea. +</p> +<p> +“—One hundred and twelve and seventy, making three hundred and +thirty-seven in all. Am I right?” + </p> +<p> +“Correct as Cocker, only you have forgotten your walk against time, from +the fish-pond to the ranger's lodge. What was it,—ten Naps, or +twenty?” + </p> +<p> +“Neither. It was five, and I paid it!” was the curt answer. +</p> +<p> +“Ain't I the stupidest dog that ever sat for a borough?” said O'Shea, +bursting out into one of his boisterous laughs. “Do you know, I'd have +been quite willing to have bet you a cool hundred about that?” + </p> +<p> +“And you 'd have lost,” said Heathcote, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“Not a doubt of it, and deserved it too,” said he, merrily. +</p> +<p> +“I have brought you here one hundred and fifty,” said Heathcote, laying +down three rouleaux on the table, “and, for the remainder, my note at +three months. I hope that may not prove inconvenient?” + </p> +<p> +“Inconvenient, my boy! never say the word. Not to mention that fortune may +take a turn one of these days, and all this California find its way back +to its own diggings.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't mean to play any more.” + </p> +<p> +“Not play any more! Do you mean to say that, because you have been once +repulsed, you 'll never charge again? Is that your soldier's pluck?” + </p> +<p> +“There is no question here of my soldier's pluck. I only said I 'd not +play billiards.” + </p> +<p> +“May I ask you one thing? How can you possibly expect to attain excellence +in any pursuit, great or small, when you are so easily abashed?” + </p> +<p> +“May I take the same liberty with you, and ask how can it possibly concern +any one but myself that I have taken this resolution?” + </p> +<p> +“There you have me! a hazard and no mistake! I may be your match at +billiards; but when it comes to repartee, you are the better man, +Heathcote.” + </p> +<p> +Coarse as the flattery was, it was not unpleasing. Indeed, in its very +coarseness there was a sort of mock sincerity, just as the stroke of a +heavy hand on your shoulder is occasionally taken for good fellowship, +though you wince under the blow. Now Heathcote was not only gratified by +his own smartness, but after a moment or two he felt half sorry he had +been so “severe on the poor fellow.” He had over-shotted his gun, and +there was really no necessity to rake him so heavily; and so, with a sort +of blundering bashfulness, he said,— +</p> +<p> +“You 're not offended; you 're not angry with me?” + </p> +<p> +“Offended! angry! nothing of the kind. I believe I am a peppery sort of +fellow,—at least, down in the West there they say as much of me; but +once a man is my friend,—once that I feel all straight and fair +between us,—he may bowl me over ten times a day, and I 'll never +resent it.” + </p> +<p> +There was a pause after this, and Heathcote found his position painfully +awkward. He did not fancy exactly to repudiate the friendship thus +assumed, and he certainly did not like to put his name to the bond; and so +he walked to the window and looked out with that half-hopeless vacuity +bashful men are prone to. +</p> +<p> +“What's the weather going to do?” said he, carelessly. “More rain?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course, more rain! Amongst all the humbugs of the day, do you know of +one equal to the humbug of the Italian climate? Where's the blue sky they +rave about?” + </p> +<p> +“Not there, certainly,” said Heathcote, laughing, as he looked up at the +leaden-colored canopy that lowered above them. +</p> +<p> +“My father used to say,” said O'Shea, “that it was all a mistake to talk +about the damp climate of Ireland; the real grievance was, that when it +rained it always rained dirty water!” + </p> +<p> +The conceit amused Heathcote, and he laughed again. +</p> +<p> +“There it comes now, and with a will too!” And at the same instant, with a +rushing sound like hail, the rain poured down with such intensity as to +shut out the hills directly in front of the windows. +</p> +<p> +“You 're caught this time, Heathcote. Make the best of it, like a man, and +resign yourself to eat a mutton-chop here with me at four o'clock; and if +it clears in the evening, I 'll canter back with you.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no, the weather will take up; this is only a shower. They 'll expect +me back to dinner, besides. Confound it, how it does come down!” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, faith!” said O'Shea, half mournfully, “I don't wonder that you are +less afraid of the rain than a bad dinner.” + </p> +<p> +“No, it's not that,—nothing of the kind,” broke in Heathcote, +hurriedly; “at another time I should be delighted! Who ever saw such rain +as that!” + </p> +<p> +“Look at the river too. See how it is swollen already.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah! I never thought of the mountain torrents,” said Heathcote, suddenly. +</p> +<p> +“They 'll be coming down like regular cataracts by this time. I defy any +one to cross at Borgo even now. Take my advice, Heathcote, and reconcile +yourself to old Pan's cookery for to-day.” + </p> +<p> +“What time do you dine?” + </p> +<p> +“What time will suit you? Shall we say four or five?” + </p> +<p> +“Four, if you'll permit me. Four will do capitally.” + </p> +<p> +“That's all right And now I 'll just step down to Panini myself, and give +him a hint about some Burgundy he has got in the cellar.” + </p> +<p> +Like most men yielding to necessity, Heathcote felt discontented and +irritated, and no sooner was he alone than he began to regret his having +accepted the invitation. What signified a wetting? He was on horseback, to +be sure, but he was well mounted, and it was only twelve miles,—an +hour or an hour and a quarter's sharp canter; and as to the torrents, up +to the girths, perhaps, or a little beyond,—it could scarcely come +to swimming. Thus he argued with himself as he walked to and fro, and +chafed and fretted as he went. It was in this irritated state O'Shea found +him when he came back. +</p> +<p> +“We 're all right. They 've got a brace of woodcock below stairs, and some +Pistoja mutton; and as I have forbidden oil and all the grease-pots, we +'ll manage to get a morsel to eat.” + </p> +<p> +“I was just thinking how stupid I was to—to—to put you to all +this inconvenience,” said he, hastily changing a rudeness into an apology. +</p> +<p> +“Isn't it a real blessing for me to catch you?” cried O'Shea. “Imagine me +shut up here by myself all day, no one to speak to, nothing to do, nothing +to read but that old volume of the 'Wandering Jew,' that I begin to know +by heart, or, worse again, that speech of mine on the Italian question, +that whenever I 've nearly finished it the villains are sure to do +something or other that destroys all my predictions and ruins my argument. +What would have become of me to-day if you had n't dropped in?” + </p> +<p> +Heathcote apparently did not feel called upon to answer this inquiry, but +walked the room moodily, with his hands in his pockets. +</p> +<p> +O'Shea gave a little faint sigh,—such a sigh as a weary pedestrian +may give, as, turning the angle of the way, he sees seven miles of +straight road before him, without bend or curve. It was now eleven +o'clock, and five dreary hours were to be passed before dinner-time. +</p> +<p> +Oh, my good reader, has it been amongst your life's experiences to have +submitted to an ordeal of this kind,—to be caged up of a wet day +with an unwilling guest, whom you are called on to amuse, but know not how +to interest; to feel that you are bound to employ his thoughts, with the +sad consciousness that in every pause of the conversation he is cursing +his hard fate at being in your company; to know that you must deploy all +the resources of your agreeability without even a chance of success, your +very efforts to amuse constituting in themselves a boredom? It is as great +a test of temper as of talent. Poor O'Shea, one cannot but pity you! To be +sure, you are not without little aids to pass time, in the shape of cards, +dice, and such-like. I am not quite sure that a travelling roulette-table +is not somewhere amongst your effects. But of what use are they all <i>now?</i> +None would think of a lecture on anatomy to a man who had just suffered +amputation. +</p> +<p> +No, no! play must not be thought of,—it must be most sparingly +alluded to even in conversation,—and so what remains? O'Shea was not +without reminiscences, and he “went into them like a man.” He told scenes +of early Trinity College life; gave sketches of his contemporaries, one or +two of them now risen to eminence; he gave anecdotes of Gray's Inn, where +he had eaten his terms; of Templar life, its jollities and its gravities; +of his theatrical experiences, when he wrote the “Drama” for two weekly +periodicals; of his like employ when he reported prize-fights, boat-races, +and pigeon-matches for “Bell's Life.” He then gave a sketch of his +entrance into public life, with a picture of an Irish election, dashed off +spiritedly and boldly; but all he could obtain from his phlegmatic +listener was a faint smile at times, and a low muttering sound, that +resolved itself into, “What snobs!” + </p> +<p> +At last he was in the House, dealing with great names and great events, +which he ingeniously blended up with Bellamy's and the oyster suppers +below stairs; but it was no use,—they, too, were snobs! It was all +snobbery everywhere. Freshmen, Templars, Pugilists, Scullers, County +Electors, and House of Commons celebrities,—all snobs! +</p> +<p> +O'Shea then tried the Turf,—disparagingly, as a great moralist +ought. They were, as he said, a “bad lot;” but he knew them well, and they +“could n't hurt <i>him</i>.” He had a variety of curious stories about +racing knaveries, and could clear up several mysterious circumstances, +which all the penetration of the “Ring” had never succeeded in solving. +Heathcote, however, was unappeasable; and these, too,—trainers, +jockeys, judges, and gentlemen,—they were all snobs! +</p> +<p> +It was only two o'clock, and there were two more mortal hours to get +through before dinner. With a bright inspiration he bethought him of +bitter beer. Oh, Bass! ambrosia of the barrack-room, thou nectar of the +do-nothings in this life, how gracefully dost thou deepen dulness into +drowsiness, making stupidity but semi-conscious! What a bond of union art +thou between those who have talked themselves out, and would without thy +consoling froth, become mutually odious! Instead of the torment of +suggestiveness which other drinks inspire, how gloriously lethargic are +all thy influences, how mind-quelling, and how muddling! +</p> +<p> +There is, besides, a vague notion prevalent with your beer-drinker, that +there is some secret of health in his indulgence,—that he is +undergoing a sort of tonic regimen, something to make him more equal to +the ascent of Mont Blanc, or the defeat of the Zouaves, and he grows in +self-esteem as he sips. It is not the boastful sentiment begotten of +champagne, or the defiant courage of port, but a dogged, resolute, +resistant spirit, stout in its nature and bitter to the last! +</p> +<p> +And thus they sipped, and smoked, and said little to each other, and the +hours stole over, and the wintry day darkened apace, and, at last, out of +a drowsy nap over the fire, the waiter awoke them, to say dinner was on +the table. +</p> +<p> +“You were asleep!” said O'Shea, to his companion. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, 'twas your snoring set me off!” replied Heathcote, stretching +himself, as he walked to the window. “Raining just as hard as ever!” + </p> +<p> +“Come along,” said the other, gayly. “Let us see what old Fan has done for +us.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXI. MR. O'SHEA UPON POLITICS, AND THINGS IN GENERAL +</h2> +<p> +It was a most appetizing little dinner that was now set before the O'Shea +and Charles Heathcote. The trout from Castellano and the mutton from +Pistoja were each admirable; and a brace of woodcocks, shot in the first +snowstorm on the Carrara mountains, were served in a fashion that showed +the cook had benefited by English teachings. +</p> +<p> +“There are worse places than this, after all!” said O'Shea, as he sat at +one side of the fire, Heathcote opposite, and a small table liberally +covered with decanters between them. +</p> +<p> +“Wonderful Burgundy this,” said Heathcote, gazing at his glass in the +light. “What does he call it?” + </p> +<p> +“He calls it Lafitte. These fellows think all red wines come from the +Bordeaux country. Here it is,—marked seven francs.” + </p> +<p> +“Cheap at double the price. My governor will take every bottle of it.” + </p> +<p> +“Not before I leave, I hope,” said O'Shea, laughing. “I trust he 'll +respect what they call vested interests.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, by the way,” said the other, indolently, “you <i>are</i> going?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes. Our party are getting uneasy, and I am constantly receiving letters +pressing me to return to England.” + </p> +<p> +“Want you in the House, perhaps?” said Heathcote, as he puffed his cigar +in lazy enjoyment. +</p> +<p> +“Just so. You see, a parliamentary session is a sort of campaign in which +every arm of warfare is needed. You want your great guns for the grand +battles, your dashing cavalry charges for emergencies, and your light +skirmishers to annoy the enemy and disconcert his advance.” + </p> +<p> +“And which are <i>you?</i>” asked the other, in a tone of bantering +indifference. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I 'm what you might call a mounted rifleman,—a dash of the +dragoon with a spice of the sharpshooter.” + </p> +<p> +“Sharp enough, I take it,” muttered Heathcote, who bethought him of the +billiard-table, and the wonderful “hazards” O'Shea used to accomplish. +</p> +<p> +“You understand,” resumed the Member, confidentially, “I don't come out on +the Budget, or Reform, or things of that kind; but I lie by till I hear +some one make a blunder or a mistake, no matter how insignificant, and +then I 'm down on him, generally with an anecdote—something he +reminds me of—and for which I 'm sure to have the laugh against him. +It's so easy, besides, to make them laugh; the worst jokes are always +successful in the House of Commons.” + </p> +<p> +“Dull fellows, I suppose?” chimed in Heathcote. +</p> +<p> +“No, indeed; not that. Go down with six or eight of them to supper, and +you'll say you never met pleasanter company. 'T is being caged up there +all together, saying the same things over and over, that's what destroys +them.” + </p> +<p> +“It must be a bore, I take it?” sighed out Heathcote. +</p> +<p> +“I'll tell you what it is,” said O'Shea, as, in a voice of deepest +confidence, he leaned over the table and spoke,—“I 'll tell you what +it is. Did you ever play the game called Brag, with very little money in +your pocket?” + </p> +<p> +Heathcote nodded what might mean assent or the opposite. +</p> +<p> +“That's what Parliament is,” resumed O'Shea. “You sit there, night after +night, year after year, wondering within yourself, 'Would it be safe for +me to play this hand? Shall I venture now?' You know well that if you <i>do</i> +back your luck and lose, that it's all up with you forever, so that it's +really a mighty serious thing to risk it. At last, maybe, you take +courage. You think you 've got the cards; it's half-past two o'clock; the +House is thin, and every one is tired and sleepy. Up you get on your legs +to speak. You're not well down again, till a fellow from the back benches, +you thought sound asleep, gets up and tears all you said to tatters,—destroys +your facts, scatters your inferences, and maybe laughs at your figures of +speech.” + </p> +<p> +“Not so pleasant, that,” said Heathcote, languidly. +</p> +<p> +“Pleasant! it's the devil!” said O'Shea, violently; “for you hear the pen +scratching away up in the reporters' gallery, and you know it will be all +over Europe next morning.” + </p> +<p> +“Then why submit to all this?” asked Heathcote, more eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Just as I said awhile ago; because you might chance upon a good card, and +'brag' on it for something worth while. It's all luck.” + </p> +<p> +“Your picture of political life is not fascinating,” said Heathcote, +coldly. +</p> +<p> +“After all, do you know, I like it,” resumed O'Shea. “As long as you 've a +seat in the House, there's no saying when you might n't be wanted; and +then, when the session's over, and you go down to the country, you are the +terror of all the fellows that never sat in Parliament. If they say a word +about public matters, you put them down at once with a cool 'I assure you, +sir, that's not the view we take of it in the House.'” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd say, 'What's that to <i>me?</i>'” + </p> +<p> +“No, you would n't,—not a bit of it; or, if you did, nobody would +mind you, and for this reason,—it's the <i>real</i> place, after +all. Why do you pay Storr and Mortimer more than another jeweller? Just +because you're sure of the article. There now, that's how it is!” + </p> +<p> +“There's some one knocking at the door, I think,” said Heathcote; but at +the same instant Joe's head appeared inside, with a request to be +admitted. “'T is the telegraph,” said he, presenting a packet. +</p> +<p> +“I have asked for a small thing in Jamaica, some ten or twelve hundred a +year,” whispered O'Shea to his friend. “I suppose this is the reply.” And +at the same time he threw the portentous envelope carelessly on the table. +</p> +<p> +Either Heathcote felt no interest in the subject, or deemed it proper to +seem as indifferent as his host, for he never took any further notice of +the matter, but smoked away as before. +</p> +<p> +“You need n't wait,” said O'Shea to Joe, who still lingered at the door. +“That fellow is bursting with curiosity now,” said he, as the man retired; +“he 'd give a year's wages to know what was inside that envelope.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed!” sighed out Heathcote, in a tone that showed how little he +sympathized with such eagerness. +</p> +<p> +If O'Shea was piqued at this cool show of indifference, he resolved to +surpass it by appearing to forget the theme altogether; and, pushing the +bottle across the table, he said, “Did I ever tell you how it was I first +took to politics?” + </p> +<p> +“No, I think not,” said Heathoote, listlessly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, it was a chance, and a mere chance; this is the way it happened. +Though I was bred to the Bar, I never did much at the law; some say that +an agreeable man, with a lively turn in conversation, plenty of anecdote, +and a rich fancy, is never a favorite with the attorneys; the rascals +always think that such a man will never make a lawyer, and though they 'll +listen to his good stories by the hour in the Hall, devil a brief they 'll +give him, nor so much as a 'declaration.' Well, for about five years I +walked about in wig and gown, joking and quizzing and humbugging all the +fellows that were getting business, and taking a circuit now and again, +but all to no good; and at last I thought I 'd give it up, and so my +friends advised me, saying, 'Get something under the Government, Gorman; a +snug place with a few hundreds a year, and be sure take anything that 's +offered you to begin with.' +</p> +<p> +“Now there was a room in Dublin Castle—it's the second down the +corridor off the private stairs—that used to be called the +Poker-room. It may be so still, for anything I know, and for this reason: +it was there all the people expecting places or appointments were +accustomed to wait. It was a fine, airy, comfortable room, with a good +carpet, easy-chairs, and always an excellent fire; and here used to meet +every day of their lives the same twenty or five-and-twenty people, one +occasionally dropping off, and another coming in, but so imperceptibly and +gradually that the gathering at last grew to be a sort of club, where they +sat from about eleven till dark every day, chatting pleasantly over public +and private events. It was thus found necessary to give it a kind of +organization, and so we named for President the oldest,—that is, the +longest expectant of place,—who, by virtue of his station, occupied +the seat next the fire, and alone, of all the members, possessed the +privilege of poking it. The poker was his badge of office; and the last +act of his official life, whenever promotion separated him from us, was to +hand the poker to his successor, with a solemn dignity of manner and a few +parting words. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0008" id="linkimage-0008"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0232.jpg" alt="ONE0232" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +I verily believe that most of us got to be so fond of the club that it was +the very reverse of a pleasure when we had to leave it to become, maybe, a +Police Inspector at Skibbereen, Postmaster at Tory Island, or a Gauger at +Innismagee; and so we jogged on, from one Viceroy to another, very happy +and contented. Well, it was the time of a great Marquis,—I won't say +who, but he was the fast friend of O'Connell,—and we all of us +thought that there would be plenty of fine things given away, and the +poker-room was crammed, and I was the President, having ascended the +throne two years and a half before. It was somewhere early in March; a +cold raw day it was. I had scarcely entered the club, than a messenger +bawled out, 'Gorman O'Shea,—Mr. Gorman O'Shea.' 'Here he is,' said +I. 'Wanted in the Chief Secretary's office,' said he, 'immediately.' I +gave a knowing wink to the company around the fire, and left the room. +Three mortal hours did I stand in the ante-room below, seeing crowds pass +in and out before I was called in; and then, as I entered, saw a little +wizened, sharp-faced man standing with his back to the fire paring his +nails. He never so much as looked at me, but said in a careless, muttering +sort of way,— +</p> +<p> +“'You're the gentleman who wishes to go as resident magistrate to +Oackatoro, ain't you?' +</p> +<p> +“'Well, indeed, sir, I'm not quite sure,' I began. +</p> +<p> +“'Oh yes, you are,' broke he in. 'I know all about you. Your name has been +favorably mentioned to the office. You are Mr. O'Gorman—' +</p> +<p> +“'Mr. Gorman O'Shea,' said I, proudly. +</p> +<p> +“'The same thing, Gorman O'Shea. I remember it now. Your appointment will +be made out: five hundred a year, and a retiring pension after six years; +house, and an allowance for monkeys.' +</p> +<p> +“'A what?' asked I. +</p> +<p> +“'The place is much infested with a large species of oorang-outang, and +the governor gives so much per head for destroying them. Mr. Simpson, in +the office, will give you full information. You are to be at your post by +the 1st of August.' +</p> +<p> +“'Might I make bold to ask where Whackatory is?' +</p> +<p> +“'Oackatoro, sir,' said he, proudly, 'is the capital of Fighi. I trust I +need not say where that is.' +</p> +<p> +“'By no means,' said I, modestly; and, muttering my thanks for the +advancement, I backed out, almost deranged to think that I did n't know +where I was going. +</p> +<p> +“'Where is it? What is it? How much is it, O'Shea?' cried thirty ardent +voices, as I entered the club. +</p> +<p> +“'It's five hundred a year,' said I, 'without counting the monkeys. It's a +magistrate's place; but may a gooseberry skin make a nightcap for me if I +know where the devil it is!' +</p> +<p> +“'But you have accepted!' cried they out, all together. +</p> +<p> +“'I have,' said I. 'I'm to be at Fighi, wherever that is, by the 1st of +August. And now,' said I, turning to the fire, and taking up the poker, +'there is nothing for me to do but resign this sacred symbol of my office +into the hands of my successor.' +</p> +<p> +“Where's O'Dowd?' shouted out the crowd. And they awoke out of a pleasant +sleep a little old fellow that never missed his day for two years at the +club. +</p> +<p> +“'Gentlemen,' said I, in a voice trembling with feeling, 'the hour is come +when my destiny is to separate me from you forever; an hour that is +equally full of the past and the future, and has even no small share of +present emotions. If ever there were a human institution devised to cement +together the hearts and affections of men, to bind them into one +indissoluble mass, and blend their instincts into identity, it is the club +we have here. Here we stand, like the departed spirits at the Styx, +waiting for the bark of Charon to ferry us over. To what, however? Is it +to some blessed elysium of a Poor Law Commissioner's place, or is it to +some unknown fate in a distant land, with five hundred a year and an +allowance for monkeys? That's the question, there's the rub! as Hamlet +says.' After dilating at large on this, I turned to O'Dowd. 'To your +hands,' said I, 'I commit this venerable relic: keep it, guard it, honor +it, and preserve it. Remember,' said I, 'that when you stir those coals it +is the symbol of keeping alive in the heart the sparks of an undying hope; +that though they may wet the slack and water the cinders of our nature, +the fire within us will still survive, red, glowing, and generous. Is n't +that as fine, as great, glorious, and free, I ask you?' +</p> +<p> +“'Who is that fellow that's talking there, with a voice like Lablache?' +asked a big man at the door; and then, as the answer was whispered in his +ear, he said, 'Send him out here to me.' +</p> +<p> +“Out I went, and found myself face to face with O'Connell. +</p> +<p> +“'I want a man to stand for Drogheda to-morrow; the gentleman I expected +cannot arrive there possibly before three. Will you address the electors, +and speak till he comes? If he isn't there by half-past three, you shall +be returned!' +</p> +<p> +“'Done!' said I. And by five o'clock on the following evening Gorman +O'Shea was at the top of the poll and declared Member for Drogheda! That +was, I may say, the first lift I ever got from Fortune. May I never!” + exclaimed O'Shea, half angrily,—“may I never, if he's not asleep—and +snoring! These Saxons beat the world for stupidity.” + </p> +<p> +The Member now suddenly bethought him that it would be a favorable moment +to read his telegram, and so he tore open the envelope, and held it to the +light. It was headed as usual, and addressed in full, showing that no +parsimony defrauded him of his full title. The body of the despatch was, +however, brief enough, and contained only one word, “Bosh!” It was clear, +bold, and unmistakably “Bosh!” Could insolence go further than that? To +send such a message a thousand miles, at the cost of one pound fourteen +and sixpence! +</p> +<p> +“What the deuce? you've nearly upset the table!” cried Heathcote, waking +suddenly up, as O'Shea with a passionate gesture had thrown one of the +decanters into the other's lap. +</p> +<p> +“I was asleep, like yourself, I suppose,” said the Member, roughly. “I +must say, we are neither of us the very liveliest company.” + </p> +<p> +“It was that yarn of yours about attacking monkeys with a poker, or some +stuff of that kind, set me off,” yawned Heathcote, drearily. “I had not +felt the least sleepy till then.” + </p> +<p> +“Here, let us fill our glasses, and drink to the jolly time that is coming +for us,” said O'Shea, with all his native recklessness. +</p> +<p> +“With all my heart; but I wish I could guess from what quarter it's +coming,” said Heathcote, despondingly. +</p> +<p> +If neither felt much disposed to converse, they each drank deeply; and +although scarcely more than a word or two would pass between them, they +sat thus, hour after hour, till it was long past midnight. +</p> +<p> +It was after a long silence between them that Heathcote said: “I never +tried so hard in my life to get drunk, without success. I find it won't +do, though; I'm just as clearheaded and as low-spirited as when I +started.” + </p> +<p> +“Bosh!” muttered O'Shea, half dreamily. +</p> +<p> +“It's no such thing!” retorted Heathcote. “At any ordinary time one bottle +of that strong Burgundy would have gone to my head; and see, now I don't +feel it.” + </p> +<p> +“Maybe you 're fretting about something. It's perhaps a weight on your +heart—” + </p> +<p> +“That's it!” sighed out the other, as though the very avowal were an +inexpressible relief to him. +</p> +<p> +“Is it for a woman?” asked O'Shea. +</p> +<p> +The other nodded, and then leaned his head on his hand. +</p> +<p> +“Upon my conscience, I sometimes think they 're worse than the Jews,” said +the Member, violently; “and there's no being 'up to them.'” + </p> +<p> +“It's our own fault, then,” cried Heathcote; “because we never play fairly +with them.” + </p> +<p> +“Bosh!” muttered O'Shea, again. +</p> +<p> +“I defy you to deny it,” cried he, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“I 'd like a five-pound note to argue it either way,” said O'Shea. +</p> +<p> +As if offended by the levity of the speech, Heathcote turned away and said +nothing. +</p> +<p> +“When you get down to Rome, and have some fun over those ox-fences, you +'ll forget all about her, whoever she is,” said O'Shea. +</p> +<p> +“I'm for England to-morrow, and for India next week, if they 'll have me.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, if that's not madness—” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir, it is not,” broke in Heathoote, angrily; “nor will I permit you +or any other man to call it so.” + </p> +<p> +“What I meant was, that when a fellow had <i>your</i> prospects before +him, India ought n't to tempt him, even with the offer of the +Governor-Generalship.” + </p> +<p> +“Forgive me my bad temper, like a good fellow,” cried Heathoote, grasping +the other's hand; “but, in honest truth, I have no prospects, no future, +and there is not a more hopeless wretch to be found than the man before +you.” + </p> +<p> +O'Shea was very near saying “Bosh!” once more, but he coughed it under. +</p> +<p> +Like all bashful men who have momentarily given way to impatience, Charles +Heathoote was over eager to obtain his companion's good will, and so he +dashed at once into a full confession of all the difficulties that beset, +and all the cares that surrounded him. O'Shea had never known accurately, +till now, the amount of May Leslie's fortune, nor how completely she was +the mistress of her own fate. Neither had he ever heard of that strange +provision in the will which imposed a forfeit upon her if unwilling to +accept Charles Heathcote as her husband,—a condition which he +shrewdly judged to be the very surest of all ways to prevent their +marriage. +</p> +<p> +“And so you released her?” cried he, as Heathoote finished his narrative. +</p> +<p> +“Released her! No. I never considered that she was bound. How could I?” + </p> +<p> +“Upon my conscience,” muttered the O'Shea, “it is a hard case—a +mighty hard case—to see one's way in; for if, as you say, it's not a +worthy part for a man to compel a girl to be his wife just because her +father put it in his will, it's very cruel to lose her only because she +has a fine property.” + </p> +<p> +“It is for no such reason,” broke in Heathoote, half angrily. “I was +unwilling—I am unwilling—that May Leslie should be bound by a +contract she never shared in. +</p> +<p> +“That's all balderdash!” cried O'Shea, with energy. +</p> +<p> +“What do you mean, sir?” retorted the other, passionately. +</p> +<p> +“What I mean is this,” resumed he: “that it's all balderdash to talk of +the hardship of doing things that we never planned out for ourselves. +Sure, ain't we doing them every moment of our lives? Ain't I doing +something because you contrived it? and ain't you doing something else +because I left it in your way?” + </p> +<p> +“It comes to this, then, that you 'd marry a girl who did n't care for +you, if the circumstances were such as to oblige her to accept you?” + </p> +<p> +“Not absolutely,—not unreservedly,” replied O'Shea. +</p> +<p> +“Well, what is the reservation? Let us hear it.” + </p> +<p> +“Her fortune ought to be suitable.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, this is monstrous!” + </p> +<p> +“Hear me out before you condemn me. In marriage, as in everything else, +you must take it out in malt or in meal: don't fancy that you 're going to +get love and money too. It's only in novels such luck exists.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm very glad I do not share your sentiments,” said Charles, sternly. +</p> +<p> +“They 're practical, anyway. But now to another point. Here we are, +sitting by the fire in all frankness and candor. Answer me fairly two +questions: Have you given up the race?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, then, have you any objection if I enter for the stakes myself?” + </p> +<p> +“You! Do you mean that you would propose for May Leslie?” + </p> +<p> +“I do; and, what's more, I don't despair of success, either.” + </p> +<p> +An angry flush rose to Heathcote's face, and for a moment it seemed as if +his passion was about to break forth; but he mastered it, and, rising +slowly, said: “If I thought such a thing possible, it would very soon cure +me of <i>one</i> sorrow.” After a pause, he added: “As for <i>me</i>, I +have no permission to give or to withhold. Go, by all means, and make your +offer. I only ask one thing: it is, that you will honestly tell me +afterwards how it has been received.” + </p> +<p> +“That I pledge my word to. Where do you stop in Paris?” + </p> +<p> +“At the Windsor.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, you shall have a despatch from me, or see myself there, by Saturday +evening; one or the other I swear to.” + </p> +<p> +“Agreed. I'll not wish you success, for that would be hypocritical, but I +'ll wish you well over it!” And with this speech, uttered in a tone of +jeering sarcasm, Heathcote said good-bye, and departed. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXII. THE PUBLIC SERVANT ABROAD. +</h2> +<p> +We scarcely thought that the distinguished public servant, Mr. Ogden, was +likely to occupy once more any portion of our readers' attention; and yet +it so fell out that this useful personage, being on the Continent getting +up his Austria and Northern Italy for the coming session, received a few +lines from the Earl of Sommerville, half mandatory, half entreating, +asking him to find out the young Marquis of Agincourt, and take him back +with him to England. +</p> +<p> +Now the Earl was a great man, for he was father-in-law of a Cabinet +Minister, and related to half the leaders of the party, so that Mr. Ogden, +however little the mission suited his other plans, was fain at once to +accept it, and set out in search of his charge. +</p> +<p> +We need not follow him in his pursuit through Lombardy and the Legations, +down to Tuscany and Lucca, which latter city he reached at the close of a +cold and dreary day of winter, cheered to him, however, by the certainty +that he had at length come up with the object of his chase. +</p> +<p> +It was a habit with Quackinboss, whenever he sent out Layton's servant on +an errand, to leave the house door ajar, that the sick man might not be +disturbed by the loud summons of the bell; and so on the evening in +question was it found by Mr. Ogden, who, after some gentle admonitions by +his knuckles and some preparatory coughs, at last groped his way into the +interior, and eventually entered the spacious sitting-room. Quackinboss +had dined, and was seated at his wine beside an ample fireplace, with a +blazing wood-fire. An old-fashioned screen sheltered him from the draught +of the ill-fitting windows, while a comfortable buffalo rug was stretched +under his feet. The Colonel was in his second cigar, and in the drowsy +mood of its easy enjoyment, when the harsh accents of Mr. Ogden's voice +startled him, by asking, “Can you inform me if Lord Agincourt lives here?” + </p> +<p> +“You 're a Britisher now, I expect?” said the Colonel, as he slowly puffed +out a long volume of smoke, but never moved from his seat. +</p> +<p> +“My question having the precedence, sir, it will be, perhaps, more regular +to answer it first,” said Ogden, with a slow pertinacity. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0009" id="linkimage-0009"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0242.jpg" alt="ONE0242" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“Well, I ain't quite sure o' that, stranger.” drawled out the other. “Mine +was a sort of an amendment, and so might be put before the original +motion.” + </p> +<p> +The remark chimed in well with the humor of one never indisposed to +word-fencing, and so he deferred to the suggestion, told his name and his +object in coming. “And now, sir,” added he, “I hope not to be deemed +indiscreet in asking an equal candor from you.” + </p> +<p> +“You ain't a doctor?” asked Quackinboss. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir; not a physician, at least.” + </p> +<p> +“That's a pity,” said Quackinboss, slowly, as he brushed the ashes off his +cigar. “Help yourself, stranger; that's claret, t'other's the country +wine, and this is cognac,—all three bad o' their kind; but, as they +say here to everything, 'Come si fa, eh? Come si fa!'” + </p> +<p> +“It is not from any disparagement of your hospitality, sir,” said Ogden, +somewhat pompously, “that I am forced to recall you to my first question.” + </p> +<p> +“Come si fa!” repeated Quackinboss, still ruminating over the philosophy +of that expression, one of the very few he had ever succeeded in +committing to memory. +</p> +<p> +“Am I to conclude, sir, that you decline giving me the information I ask?” + </p> +<p> +“I ain't in a witness-box, stranger. I 'm a-sittin' at my own fireside. I +'m a-smokin' my Virginian, where I 've a right to, and if <i>you</i> +choose to come in neighborly-like, and take a liquor with me, we 'll talk +it over, whatever it is; but if you think to come Holy Office and the +Inquisition over Shaver Quackinboss, you 've caught the wrong squirrel by +the tail, Britisher, you have!” + </p> +<p> +“I must say, sir, you have put a most forced and unfair construction upon +a very simple circumstance. I asked you if the Marquis of Agincourt +resided here?” + </p> +<p> +“And so you ain't a doctor?” said Quackinboss, pensively. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir; I have already told you as much.” + </p> +<p> +“Bred to the law, belike?” + </p> +<p> +“I <i>have</i> studied, sir, but not practised as a lawyer.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, now, I expected you was!” said Quackinboss, with an air of +self-satisfaction. “You chaps betray yourselves sooner than any other +class in all creation; as Flay Harris says: 'A lawyer is a fellow won't +drink out of the bung-hole, but must always be for tapping the cask for +himself.' You ain't long in these parts?” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir; a very short time, indeed,” said Ogden, drearily. +</p> +<p> +“You needn't sigh about it, stranger, though it is main dull in these +diggin's! Here's a people that don't understand human natur'. What I mean, +sir, is, human natur' means goin' ahead; doin' a somewhat your father and +your grandfather never so much as dreamt of. But what are these critturs +about? Jest showin' the great things that was done centuries before they +was born,—what pictures and statues and monuments their own +ancestors could make, and of which they are jest showmen, nothing more!” + </p> +<p> +“The Arts are Italy's noblest inheritance,” said Ogden, sententionsly. +</p> +<p> +“That ain't my platform, stranger. Civilization never got anything from +painters or sculptors. They never taught mankind to be truthful or patient +or self-denyin' or charitable. You may look at a bronze Hercules till you +'re black in the face, and it will never make you give a cent to a lame +cripple. I 'll go further again, stranger, and I 'll say that there ain't +anything has thrown so many stumblin'-blocks before pro-gress as what you +call the Arts, for there ain't the equal o' them to make people idlers. +What's all that loafing about galleries, I ask ye, but the worst of all +idling? If you want them sort of emotions, go to the real article, sir. +Look at an hospital, that's more life-like than Gerard Dow and his +dropsical woman,—ay, and may touch your heart, belike, before you +get away.” + </p> +<p> +“Though your conversation interests me much, sir, you will pardon my +observing that I feel myself an intruder.” + </p> +<p> +“No, you ain't; I'm jest in a talkin' humor, and I'd rather have <i>you</i> +than that Italian crittur, as don't understand me.” + </p> +<p> +“Even the flattery of your observation, sir, cannot make me forget that +another object claims my attention.” + </p> +<p> +“For I 've remarked,” resumed Quackinboss, as if in continuation of his +speech, “that a foreigner that don't know English wearies after a while in +listenin', even though you 're tellin' him very interesting things.” + </p> +<p> +“I perceive, sir,” said Ogden, rising, “that I have certainly been +mistaken in the address. I was told that at the Palazzo Barsotti—” + </p> +<p> +“Well, you 're jest there; that's what they call this ramshackle old crazy +consarn. Their palaces, bein' main like their nobility, would be all the +better for a little washin' and smartenin' up.” + </p> +<p> +“You can perhaps, however, inform me where Lord Agincourt <i>does</i> +live?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, he lives, as I may say, a little promiscuous. If he ain't <i>here</i>. +it's because he's <i>there!</i> You understand?” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot say very confidently that I do understand,” said Ogden, slowly. +</p> +<p> +“It was well as you was n't a practisin' lawyer, Britisher, for you ain't +smart! that's a fact. No, sir; you ain't smart!” + </p> +<p> +“Your countrymen's estimate of that quality has a high standard, sir,” + said Ogden, haughtily. +</p> +<p> +“What do you mean by my countrymen?” asked the other, quickly. +</p> +<p> +“I ventured to presume that you were an American,” said Ogden, with a +supercilious smile. +</p> +<p> +“Well, stranger, you were main right; though darn me con-siderable if I +know how you discovered it. Don't you be a-goin', now that we 're gettin' +friendly together. Set down a bit. Maybe you 'd taste a morsel of +something.” + </p> +<p> +“Excuse me, I have just dined.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, mix a summut in your glass. It's a rare pleasure to me, stranger, +to have a chat with a man as talks like a Christian. I'm tired of 'Come si +fa,'—that's a fact, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“I regret that I cannot profit by your polite invitation,” said Ogden, +bowing stiffly. “I had been directed to this house as the residence of +Lord Agincourt and his tutor; and as neither of them live here—” + </p> +<p> +“Who told you that? There's one of them a-bed in that room there; he's +caught swamp-fever, and it's gone up to the head. He's the tutor,—poor +fellow.” + </p> +<p> +“And the Marquis?” + </p> +<p> +“The Marquis! he's a small parcel to have such a big direction on him, +ain't he? He's at a villa, a few miles off; but he 'll be over here +to-morrow morning.” + </p> +<p> +“You are quite sure of that?” asked Ogden. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir,” said Quackinboss, drinking off his glass, and nodding, in +token of salutation. +</p> +<p> +“I must beg you to accept my excuses for this intrusion on my part,” began +Ogden. +</p> +<p> +“Jest set you down there again; there's a point I 'd like to be cleared up +about I 'm sure you 'll not refuse me. Jest set down.” + </p> +<p> +Ogden resumed his seat, although with an air and manner of no small +disinclination. +</p> +<p> +“No wine, thank you. Excuse me,” said he, stiffly, as Quackinboss tried to +fill his glass. +</p> +<p> +“You remarked awhile ago,” said Quackinboss, slowly, and like a man +weighing all his words, “that I was an American born. Now, sir, it ain't a +very likely thing that any man who was ever raised in the States is goin' +to deny it. It ain't, I say, very probable as he 'd say I'm a Chinese, or +a Mexican, or a Spaniard; no, nor a Britisher. Whatever we do in this +life, stranger, one thing, I suppose, is pretty certain,—we don't +say the worst of ourselves. Ain't that your platform, sir?” + </p> +<p> +“I agree to the general principle.” + </p> +<p> +“Agreein', then, to the gen'ral principle, here's where we go next, for I +ain't a-goin' to let you off, Britisher; I 've got a harpoon in you now, +and I 'll tow you after me into shoal water; see if I don't. Agreein', as +we say, to the gen'ral principle, that no man likes to make his face +blacker than it need be, what good could it do me to say that I wasn't +born a free citizen of the freest country of the universe?” + </p> +<p> +“I am really at a loss to see how I am interested in this matter. I have +not, besides, that perfect leisure abstract discussion requires. You will +forgive me if I take my leave.” He moved hastily towards the door as he +spoke, followed by Quackinboss, whose voice had now assumed the full tones +and the swelling modulations of public oratory. +</p> +<p> +“That great land, sanctified by the blood of the pilgrim fathers, and +whose proudest boast it is that from the first day, when the star-spangled +banner of Freedom dallied with the wind and scorned the sun, waving its +barred folds over the heads of routed enemies,—to that glorious +consummation, when, from the rugged plains of New England to the golden +groves of Florida—” + </p> +<p> +“Good-bye, sir,—good-evening,” said Ogden, passing out and gaining +the landing-place. +</p> +<p> +“—One universal shout, floating over the Atlantic waters, proclaimed +to the Old World that the 'Young' was alive and kickin'—” + </p> +<p> +“Good-night,” cried Ogden, from the bottom of the stairs; and Quackinboss +re-entered his chamber and banged the door after him, muttering something +to himself about Lexington and Concord, Columbus and Quincy Adams. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXIII. BROKEN TIES +</h2> +<p> +It was a sorrowful morning at the Villa Caprini on the 22d of November. +Agincourt had come to take his last farewell of his kind friends, half +heart-broken that he was not permitted even to see poor Layton before he +went. Quackinbose, however, was obdurate on the point, and would suffer no +one to pass the sick man's door. Mr. Ogden sat in the carriage as the boy +dashed hurriedly into the house to say “Good-bye.” Room after room he +searched in vain. No one to be met with. What could it mean?—the +drawing-room, the library, all empty! +</p> +<p> +“Are they all out, Fenton?” cried he, at last. +</p> +<p> +“No, my Lord, Sir William was here a moment since, Miss Leslie is in her +room, and Mrs. Morris, I think, is in the garden.” + </p> +<p> +To the garden he hurried off at once, and just caught sight of Mrs. Morris +and Clara, as, side by side, they turned the angle of an alley. +</p> +<p> +“At last!” cried he, as he came up with them. “At last I have found some +one. Here have I been this half-hour in search of you all, over house and +grounds. Why, what's the matter?—what makes you look so grave?” + </p> +<p> +“Don't you know?—haven't you heard?” cried Mrs. Morris, with a sigh. +</p> +<p> +“Heard what?” + </p> +<p> +“Heard that Charles has gone off,—started for England last night, +with the intention of joining the first regiment ordered for India.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish to Heaven he 'd have taken me with him!” cried the boy, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Very possibly,” said she, dryly; “but Charles was certainly to blame for +leaving a home of happiness and affection in this abrupt way. I don't see +how poor Sir William is ever to get over it, not to speak of leaving May +Leslie. I hope, Agincourt, this is not the way you 'll treat the young +lady you 're betrothed to.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll never get myself into any such scrape, depend on't. Poor Charley!” + </p> +<p> +“Why not poor May?” whispered Mrs. Morris. +</p> +<p> +“Well, poor May, too, if she cared for him; but I don't think she did.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, what a shame to say so! I 'm afraid you young gentlemen are brought +up in great heresies nowadays, and don't put any faith in love.” + </p> +<p> +Had the boy been an acute observer, he would have marked how little the +careless levity of the remark coincided with the assumed sadness of her +former manner; but he never noticed this. +</p> +<p> +“Well,” broke in the boy, bluntly, “why not marry him, if she cared for +him? I don't suppose you 'll ask me to believe that Charley would have +gone away if she had n't refused him?” + </p> +<p> +“What a wily serpent it is!” said Mrs. Morris, smiling; “wanting to wring +confidences from me whether I will or no.” + </p> +<p> +“No. I 'll be hanged if I <i>am</i> wily,—am I, Clara?” + </p> +<p> +What Clara answered was not very distinct, for her face was partly covered +with her handkerchief. +</p> +<p> +“There, you see Clara is rather an unhappy witness to call to character. +You 'd better come to me for a reputation,” said Mrs. Morris, laughingly. +</p> +<p> +“It's no matter, I'm going away now,” said he, sorrowfully. +</p> +<p> +“Going away,—where?” + </p> +<p> +“Going back to England; they 've sent a man to capture me, as if I was a +wild beast, and he's there at the door now,—precious impatient, too, +I promise you, because I 'm keeping the post-horses waiting.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, make him come in to luncheon. He's a gentleman,—isn't he?” + </p> +<p> +“I should think he is! A great political swell, too, a something in the +Admiralty, or the Colonies, or wherever it is.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, just take Clara, and she 'll find out May for you, and send your +travelling-companion into the garden here. I'll do the honors to him till +lunch-time.” And Mrs. Morris now turned into a shady walk, to think over +what topics she should start for the amusement of the great official from +Downing Street. +</p> +<p> +If we were going to tell tales of her,—which we are not,—we +might reveal how it happened that she had seen a good deal of such sort of +people, at one era of her life, living in a Blue-Book atmosphere, and +hearing much out of “Hansard.” We merely mention the fact; as to the how, +it is not necessary to refer to it. Not more are we bound to say why she +did not retain for such high company what, in French, is called “the most +distinguished consideration,”—why, on the contrary, she thought and +pronounced them the most insupportable of all bores. Our readers cannot +fail to have remarked and appreciated the delicate reserve we have +unvaryingly observed towards this lady,—a respectful courtesy that +no amount of our curiosity could endanger. Now, “charming women,” of whom +Mrs. M. was certainly one, have a great fondness for little occasional +displays of their fascinations upon strangers. Whether it is that they are +susceptible of those emotions of vanity that sway smaller natures, or +whether it be merely to keep their fascinations from rusting by want of +exercise, is hard to say; but so is the fact, and the enjoyment is all the +higher when, by any knowledge of a speciality, they can astonish their +chance acquaintance. For what Lord Agincourt had irreverently styled the +“great political swell,” she therefore prepared herself with such memories +as some years of life had stored for her. “He'll wonder,” thought she, +“where I came by all my Downing Street slang. I 'll certainly puzzle him +with my cant of office.” And so thinking, she walked briskly along in the +clear frosty air over the crisped leaves that strewed the walk, till she +beheld a person approaching from the extreme end of the alley. +</p> +<p> +The distance between them was yet considerable, and yet how was it that +she seemed to falter in her steps, and suddenly, clasping her heart with +both hands, appeared seized with a sort of convulsion? At the same instant +she threw a terrified glance on every side, and looked like one prepared +for sudden flight. To these emotions, more rapid in their course than it +has taken time to describe them, succeeded a cold, determined calm, in +which her features regained their usual expression, though marked by a +paleness like death. +</p> +<p> +The stranger came slowly forward, examining the trees and flowers as he +passed along, and peering with his double eye-glass to read the names +attached to whatever was rarest. Affecting to be gathering flowers for a +bouquet, she stooped frequently, till the other came near, and then, as he +removed his hat to salute her, she threw back her veil and stood, silent, +before him. +</p> +<p> +“Madam! madam!” cried he, in a voice of such intense agony as showed that +he was almost choked for utterance. “How is this, madam?” said he, in a +tone of indignant demand. “How is this?” + </p> +<p> +“I have really no explanation to offer, sir,” said she, in a cold, low +voice. “My astonishment is great as your own; this meeting is not of my +seeking. I need scarcely say so much.” + </p> +<p> +“I do not know that!—by Heaven I do not!” cried he, in a passion. +</p> +<p> +“You are surely forgetting, sir, that we are no longer anything to each +other, and thus forgetting the deference due to me as a stranger?” + </p> +<p> +“I neither forget nor forgive!” said he, sternly. +</p> +<p> +“Happily, sir, you will not be called upon to do either. I no longer bear +your name—” + </p> +<p> +“Oh that you had never borne it!” cried he, in agony. +</p> +<p> +“There is at least one sentiment we agree in, sir,—would that I +never had!” said she; and a slight—very slight—tremor shook +the words as she spoke them. +</p> +<p> +“Tell me at once, madam, what do you mean by this surprise? I know all +your skill in <i>accidents</i>,—what does this one portend?” + </p> +<p> +“You are too flattering, sir, believe me,” said she, with an easy smile. +“I have plotted nothing,—I have nothing to plot,—at least, in +which you are concerned. The unhappy bond that once united us is loosed +forever; but I do not see that even harsh memories are to suggest bad +manners.” + </p> +<p> +“I am no stranger to your flippancy, madam. You have made me acquainted +with all your merits.” + </p> +<p> +“You were going to say virtues, George,—confess you were?” said she, +coquettishly. +</p> +<p> +“Gracious mercy, woman! can you dare—” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Mr. Ogden,” broke she in, gently, “I can dare to be that which +you have just told me was impossible for you,—forgetful and +forgiving.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, madam, this is, indeed, generous!” said be, with a bitter mockery. +</p> +<p> +“Well, sir, it were no bad thing if there were a little generosity between +us. Don't fancy that all the forgiveness should come from <i>you</i>; +don't imagine that <i>I</i> am not plaintiff as well as defendant.” Then, +suddenly changing her tone to one of easy indifference, she said, “And so +your impression is, sir, that the Cabinet will undergo no change?” + </p> +<p> +She looked hurriedly round as she spoke, and saw Sir William Heathcote +coming rapidly towards them. +</p> +<p> +“Sir William, let me present to you Mr. Ogden, a name you must be familiar +with in the debates,” said she, introducing them. +</p> +<p> +“I hope Lord Agincourt has not been correct in telling me that you are +pressed for time, Mr. Ogden. I trust you will give us at least a day.” + </p> +<p> +“Not an hour, not a minute, sir. I mean,” added he, ashamed of his +violence, “I have not an instant to spare.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll scarcely profit by leaving us this morning,” resumed Sir William. +“The torrents between this and Massa are all full, and perfectly +impassable.” + </p> +<p> +“Pray accept Sir William's wise counsels, sir,” said she, with the +sweetest of all smiles. +</p> +<p> +A stern look, and a muttered something inaudible, was all his reply. +</p> +<p> +“What a dreary servitude must political life be, when one cannot bestow a +passing hour upon society!” said she, plaintively. +</p> +<p> +“Mr. Ogden could tell us that the rewards are worthy of the sacrifices,” + said Sir William, blandly. +</p> +<p> +“Are they better than the enjoyments of leisure, the delights of +friendship, and the joys of home?” asked she, half earnestly. +</p> +<p> +“By Heaven, madam!” cried Ogden, and then stopped; when Sir William broke +in,— +</p> +<p> +“Mrs. Morris is too severe upon public men. They are rarely called on to +make such sacrifices as she speaks of.” + </p> +<p> +While thus talking, they had reached the terrace in front of the house, +where Agincourt was standing between May and Clara, holding a hand of +each. +</p> +<p> +“Are you ready?” asked Ogden, abruptly. +</p> +<p> +“Ready; but very sorry to go,” said the boy, bluntly. +</p> +<p> +“May we not offer you some luncheon, Mr. Ogden? You will surely take a +glass of wine with us?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing, sir, nothing. Nothing beneath the same roof with this woman,” + muttered he, below his breath; but her quick ears caught the words, and +she whispered,— +</p> +<p> +“An unkind speech, George,—most unkind!” + </p> +<p> +While Agincourt was taking his last affectionate farewells of the girls +and Sir William, Mr. Ogden had entered the carriage, and thrown himself +deeply back into a corner. Mrs. Morris, however, leaned over the door, and +looked calmly, steadfastly at him. +</p> +<p> +“Won't you say good-bye?” said she, softly. +</p> +<p> +A look of insulting contempt was all his answer. +</p> +<p> +“Not one kind word at parting? Well, I am better than you; here's my +hand.” And she held out her fair and taper fingers towards him. +</p> +<p> +“Fiend,—not woman!” was his muttered expression as he turned away. +</p> +<p> +“And a pleasant journey,” said she, as if finishing a speech; while +turning, she gave her hand to Agincourt: “Yes, to be sure, you may take a +boy's privilege, and give me a kiss at parting,” said she; while the +youth, blushing a deep crimson, availed himself of the permission. +</p> +<p> +“There they go,” said Sir William, as the horses rattled down the avenue; +“and a finer boy and a grumpier companion it has rarely been my lot to +meet with. A thousand pardons, my dear Mrs. Morris, if he is a friend of +yours.” + </p> +<p> +“I knew him formerly,” said she, coldly. “I can't say I ever liked him.” + </p> +<p> +“I remember his name,” said Sir William, in a sort of hesitating way; +“there was some story or other about him,—either his wife ran away, +or he eloped with somebody's wife.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm sure it must have been the former,” said Mrs. Morris, laughing. +“Poor gentleman, he does not give one the impression of a Lothario. But +whom have we here? The O'Shea, I declare! Look to your heart, May dearest; +take my word for it, he never turned out so smartly without dreams of +conquest.” Mr. O'Shea cantered up at the same moment, followed by Joe in a +most accurate “get up” as groom, and, dismounting, advanced, hat in hand, +to salute the party. +</p> +<p> +There are blank days in this life of ours in which even a pleasant visitor +is a bore,—times in which dulness and seclusion are the best +company, and it is anything but a boon to be broken in upon. It was the +O'Shea's evil fortune to have fallen on one of these. It was in vain he +recounted his club gossip about politics and party to Sir William; in vain +he told Mrs. Morris the last touching episode of town scandal; in vain, +even, did he present a fresh bouquet of lily-of-the-valley to May: each in +turn passed him on to the other, till he found himself alone with Clara, +who sat sorrowfully over the German lesson Layton was wont to help her +with. +</p> +<p> +“What's the matter with you all?” cried he, half angrily, as he walked the +room from end to end. “Has there any misfortune happened?” + </p> +<p> +“Charley has left us, Agincourt is just gone, the pleasant house is broken +up; is not that enough to make us sad?” said she, sorrowfully. +</p> +<p> +“If you ever read Tommy Moore, you 'd know it was only another reason to +make the most of the friends that were left behind,” said he, adjusting +his cravat at the glass, and giving himself a leer of knowing recognition. +“That's the time of day, Clara!” + </p> +<p> +She looked at him, somewhat puzzled to know whether he had alluded to his +sentiment, his whiskers, which he was now caressing, or the French clock +on the mantelpiece. +</p> +<p> +“Is that one of Layton's?” said he, carelessly turning over a +water-colored sketch of a Lucchese landscape. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” said she, replacing it carefully in a portfolio. +</p> +<p> +“He won't do many more of them, I suspect.” + </p> +<p> +“How so?—why?—what do you mean?” cried she, grasping his arm, +while a death-like paleness spread over her features. +</p> +<p> +“Just that he's going as fast as he can. What's the mischief! is it +fainting she is?” + </p> +<p> +With a low, weak sigh, the girl had relaxed her hold, and, staggering +backwards, sunk senseless on the floor. O'Shea tugged violently at the +bell: the servant rushed in, and immediately after Mrs. Morris herself; +but by this time Clara had regained consciousness, and was able to utter a +few words. +</p> +<p> +“I was telling her of Layton's being so ill,” began he, in a whisper, to +Mrs. Morris. +</p> +<p> +“Of course you were,” said she, pettishly. “For an inconvenience or an +indiscretion, what can equal an Irishman?” + </p> +<p> +The speech was uttered as she led her daughter away, leaving the luckless +O'Shea alone to ruminate over the politeness. +</p> +<p> +“There it is!” cried he, indignantly. “From the 'Times' down to the Widow +Morris, it's the same story,—the Irish! the Irish!—and it's no +use fighting against it. Smash the Minister in Parliament, and you 'll be +told it was a speech more adapted to an Irish House of Commons; break the +Sikh squares with the bayonet, and the cry is 'Tipperary tactics.' Isn't +it a wonder how we bear it! I ask any man, did he ever hear of patience +like ours?” + </p> +<p> +It was just as his indignation had reached this crisis that May Leslie +hurriedly came into the room to search for a locket Clara had dropped when +she fainted. While O'Shea assisted her in her search, he bethought whether +the favorable moment had not arrived to venture on the great question of +his own fate. It was true, he was still smarting under a national +disparagement; but the sarcasm gave a sort of reckless energy to his +purpose, and he mattered, “Now, or never, for it!” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose it was a keepsake,” said he, as he peered under the tables +after the missing object. +</p> +<p> +“I believe so. At least, the poor child attaches great value to it.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh dear!” sighed O'Shea. “If it was an old bodkin that was given me by +one I loved, I 'd go through fire and water to get possession of it.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed!” said she, smiling at the unwonted energy of the protestation. +</p> +<p> +“I would,” repeated he, more solemnly. “It's not the value of the thing +itself I 'd ever think of. There's the ring was wore by my +great-grandmother Ram, of Ram's Mountain; and though it's a rose-amethyst, +worth three hundred guineas, it's only as a family token it has merit in +my eyes.” + </p> +<p> +Now this speech, discursive though it seemed, was artfully intended by the +Honorable Member, for while incidentally throwing out claims to blood and +an ancestry, it cunningly insinuated what logicians call the <i>à fortiori</i>,—how +the man who cared so much for his grandmother would necessarily adore his +wife. +</p> +<p> +“We must give it up, I see,” said May. “She has evidently not lost it +here.” + </p> +<p> +“And it was a heart, you say!” sighed the Member. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, a little golden heart with a ruby clasp.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh dear! And to think that I've lost my own in the self-same spot” + </p> +<p> +“Yours! Why, had you a locket too?” + </p> +<p> +“No, my angel!” cried he, passionately, as he clasped her hand, and fell +on his knee before her, “but my heart,—a heart that lies under your +feet this minute! There, don't turn away,—don't! May I never, if I +know what's come over me these two months back! Night or day, it is the +one image is always before me,—one voice always in my ears.” + </p> +<p> +“How tiresome that must be!” said she, laughing merrily. “There, pray let +go my hand; this is only folly, and not in very good taste, either.” + </p> +<p> +“Folly, you call it? Love is madness, if you like. Out of this spot I 'll +never stir till I know my fate. Say the word, and I'm the happiest man or +the most abject creature—You 're laughing again,—I wonder how +you can be so cruel!” + </p> +<p> +“Really, sir, if I regard your conduct as only absurd, it is a favorable +view of it,” said she, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“Do, darling of my soul! light of my eyes! loadstar of my whole destiny!—do +take a favorable view of it,” said he, catching at her last words. +</p> +<p> +“I have certainly given you no pretence to make me ridiculous, sir,” said +she, indignantly. +</p> +<p> +“Ridiculous! ridiculous!” cried he, in utter amazement. “Sure it's my hand +I 'm offering you. What were you thinking of?” + </p> +<p> +“I believe I apprehend you aright, sir, and have only to say, that, +however honored by your proposal, it is one I must decline.” + </p> +<p> +“Would n't you tell me why, darling? Would n't you say your reasons, my +angel? Don't shake your head, my adored creature, but turn this way, and +say, 'Gorman, your affection touches me: I see your love for me; but I 'm +afraid of you: you 're light and fickle and inconstant; you 're spoiled by +flattery among the women, and deference and respect amongst the men. What +can I hope from a nature so pampered?'” + </p> +<p> +“No, in good truth, Mr. O'Shea, not one of these objections have occurred +to me; my answer was dictated by much narrower and more selfish +considerations. At all events, sir, it is final; and I need only appeal to +your sense of good-breeding never to resume a subject I have told you is +distasteful to me.” And with a heightened color, and a glance which +certainly betokened no softness, she turned away and left him. +</p> +<p> +“Distasteful! distasteful!” muttered he over her last words. “Women! +women! women! there's no knowing ye—the devil a bit! What you 'd +like, and what you would n't is as great a secret as the philosopher's +stone! Heigho!” sighed he, as he opened his cravat, and drew in a long +breath. “I did n't take a canter like that, these five years, and it has +sent all the blood to my head. I hope she 'll not mention it. I hope she +won't tell it to the widow,” muttered he, as he walked to the window for +air. “<i>She's</i> the one would take her own fun out of it. Upon my +conscience, this is mighty like apoplexy,” said he, as, sitting down, he +fanned himself with a book. +</p> +<p> +“Poor Mr. O'Shea!” said a soft voice; and, looking up, he saw Mrs. Morris, +as, leaning over the back of his chair, she bent on him a look half +quizzical and half compassionate. “Poor Mr. O'Shea!” + </p> +<p> +“Why so? How?” asked he, with an affected jocularity. “Well,” said she, +with a faint sigh, “you 're not the first man has drawn a blank in the +lottery.” “I suppose not,” muttered he, half sulkily. “Nor will it prevent +you trying your luck another time,” said she, in the same tone. +</p> +<p> +“What did she say? How did she mention it?” whispered he, confidentially. +</p> +<p> +“She did n't believe you were serious at first; she thought it a jest. Why +did you fall on your knees? it's never done now, except on the stage.” + </p> +<p> +“How did I know that?” cried he, peevishly. “One ought to be proposing +every day of the week to keep up with the fashions.” + </p> +<p> +“If you had taken a chair at her side, a little behind hers, so as not to +scrutinize her looks too closely, and stolen your hand gently forward, as +if to touch the embroidery she was at work on, and then, at last, her +hand, letting your voice grow lower and softer at each word, till the +syllables would seem to drop, distilled from your heart—” + </p> +<p> +“The devil a bit of that I could do at all,” cried he, impatiently. “If I +can't make the game off the balls,” said he, taking a metaphor from his +billiard experiences, “I 'm good for nothing. But will she come round? Do +you think she'll change?” + </p> +<p> +“No; I 'm afraid not,” said she, shaking her head. “Faix! she might do +worse,” said he, resolutely. “Do you know that she might do worse? If the +mortgages was off, O'Shea-Ville is seventeen hundred a year; and, for +family, we beat the county.” + </p> +<p> +“I 've no doubt of it,” replied she, calmly. “There was ancestors of mine +hanged by Henry the Second, and one was strangled in prison two reigns +before,” said he, proudly. “The O'Sheas was shedding their blood for +Ireland eight centuries ago! Did you ever hear of Mortagh Dhub O'Shea?” + </p> +<p> +“Never!” said she, mournfully. +</p> +<p> +“There it is,” sighed he, drearily; “mushrooms is bigger, nowadays, than +oak-trees.” And with this dreary reflection he arose and took his hat. +</p> +<p> +“Won't you dine here? I'm sure they expect you to stop for dinner,” said +she; but whether a certain devilry in her laughing eye made the speech +seem insincere, or that his own distrust prompted it, he said,— +</p> +<p> +“No, I 'll not stop; I could n't eat a bit if I did.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come, you mustn't take it to heart in this way,” said she, +coaxingly. +</p> +<p> +“Do you think you could do anything for me?” said he, taking her hand in +his; “for, to tell truth, it's my pride is hurt. As we say in the House of +Commons, now that my name is on the Bill, I 'd like to carry it through. +You understand that feeling?” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps I do,” said she, doubtfully, while, throwing herself into a +chair, she leaned back, so as to display a little more than was absolutely +and indispensably necessary of a beautifully rounded ankle and instep. Mr. +O'Shea saw it, and marked it. There was no denying she was pretty,—pretty, +too, in those feminine and delicate graces which have special attractions +for men somewhat hackneyed in life, and a “little shoulder-sore with the +collar” of the world. As the Member gazed at the silky curls of her rich +auburn hair, the long fringes that shadowed her fair cheeks, and the +graceful lines of her beautiful figure, he gave a sigh,—one of those +a man inadvertently heaves when contemplating some rare object in a +shop-window, which his means forbid him to purchase. It was only as he +heaved a second and far deeper one, that she looked up, and with an arch +drollery of expression all her own, said, as if answering him, “Yes, you +are quite right; but you know you could n't afford it.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean,—not afford what?” cried he, blushing deeply. +</p> +<p> +“Nor could I, either,” continued she, heedless of his interruption. +</p> +<p> +“Faith, then,” cried he, with energy, “it was just what I was thinking +of.” + </p> +<p> +“But, after all,” said she, gravely, “it wouldn't do; privateers must +never sail in company. I believe there's nothing truer than that.” + </p> +<p> +He continued to look at her, with a strange mixture of admiration and +astonishment. +</p> +<p> +“And so,” said she, rising, “let us part good friends, who may hope each +to serve the other one of these days. Is that a bargain?” And she held out +her hand. +</p> +<p> +“I swear to it!” cried he, pressing his lips to her fingers. “And now that +you know my sentiments—” + </p> +<p> +“Hush!” cried she, with a gesture of warning, for she heard the voices of +servants in the corridor. “Trust me; and good-bye!” + </p> +<p> +“One ought always to have an Irishman amongst one's admirers,” said she, +as, once more alone, she arranged her ringlets before the glass; “if +there's any fighting to be done, he's sure not to fail you.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXIV. A DAY IN EARLY SPRING +</h2> +<p> +That twilight of the year called spring, most delightful of all seasons, +is scarcely known in Italy. Winter dies languidly away, and summer bursts +forth at once, and in a few days the trees are clothed in full foliage, +the tall grass is waving, and panting lizards sun themselves on the rocks +over which so lately the mountain torrent was foaming. There are, however, +a few days of transition, and these are inexpressibly delicious. The balmy +air scented with the rose and the violet stirs gently through the +olive-trees, shaking the golden limes amidst the dark leaves, and carrying +away the sweet perfume on its breath; rivulets run bright and clear +through rocky channels, mingling their murmurs with the early cicala. The +acacia sheds its perfume on the breeze,—a breeze so faint, as though +it loved to linger on its way; and so, above, the lazy clouds hang upon +the mountains, or float in fragments out to sea, as day wears on. What +vitality there is in it all!—the rustling leaves, the falling water, +the chirping birds, the softly plashing tide, all redolent of that happy +season,—the year's bright youth. +</p> +<p> +On such a day as this Alfred Layton strolled languidly through the grounds +of Marlia. Three months of severe illness had worn him to a shadow, and he +walked with the debility of one who had just escaped from a sick-room. The +place was now deserted. The Heathcotes had gone to Rome for the winter, +and the Villa was shut up and untenanted. It had been a cherished wish of +poor Layton to visit the spot as soon as he could venture abroad; and +Quackinboss, the faithful friend who had nursed him through his whole +illness, had that day yielded to his persuasion and brought him there. +</p> +<p> +Who could have recognized the young and handsome youth in the broken-down, +feeble, careworn man who now leaned over the palings of a little +flower-garden, and gazed mournfully at a rustic bench beneath a lime-tree? +Ay, there it was, in that very spot, one chapter of his life was finished. +It was there she had refused him! He had no right, it is true, to have +presumed so highly; there was nothing in his position to warrant such +daring; but had she not encouraged him? That was the question; he believed +so, at least. She had seen his devotion to her, and had not repulsed it. +Nay, more, she had suffered him to speak to her of feelings and emotions, +of hopes and fears and ambitions, that only they are led to speak who talk +to willing ears. Was this encouragement, or was it the compassionate pity +of one, to him, so friendless and alone? May certainly knew that he loved +her. She had even resented his little passing attentions to Mrs. Morris, +and was actually jealous of the hours he bestowed on Clara; and yet, with +all this, she had refused him, and told him not to hope that, even with +time, her feeling towards him should change. “How could it be otherwise?” + cried he to himself. “What was I, to have pretended so highly? Her husband +should be able to offer a station superior to her own. So thought she, +too, herself. How her words ring in my ears even yet: 'I <i>do</i> love +rank'! Yes, it was there, on that spot, she said it. I made confession of +my love, and she, in turn, told me of <i>hers</i>; and it was the world, +the great and gorgeous prize, for which men barter everything. And then +her cold smile, as I said, 'What is this same rank you prize so highly; +can I not reach it—win it?' 'I will not waste youth in struggle and +conflict,' said she. 'Ha!' cried I, 'these words are not yours. I heard +them one short week ago. I know your teacher now. It was that +false-hearted woman gave you these precious maxims. It was not thus you +spoke or felt when first I knew you, May.' 'Is it not well,' said she, +'that we have each grown wiser?' I heard no more. I have no memory for the +passionate words I uttered, the bitter reproaches I dared to make her. We +parted in anger, never to meet again; and then poor Clara, how I hear her +faint, soft voice, as she found me sitting there alone, forsaken, as she +asked me, 'May I take these flowers?' and oh! how bitterly she wept as I +snatched them from her hand, and scattered them on the ground, saying, +'They were not meant for you!' 'Let me have one, dear Alfred,' said she, +just then; and she took up a little jasmine flower from the walk. 'Even +that you despise to give is dear <i>to me!</i> And so I kissed her on the +forehead, and said, 'Good-bye.' Two partings,—never to meet again!” + He covered his face with his hands, and his chest heaved heavily. +</p> +<p> +“It's main dreary in these diggin's here,” cried Quackinboss, as he came +up with long strides. “I 've been a-lookin' about on every side to find +some one to open the house for us, but there ain't a crittur to be found. +What 's all this about? You haven't been a-cryin', have you?” + </p> +<p> +Alfred turned away his head without speaking. +</p> +<p> +“I'll tell you what it is, Layton,” said he, earnestly, “there's no manner +of misfortune can befall in life that one need to fret over, but the death +of friends, or sickness; and as these are God's own doin', it is not for +us to say they 're wrong. Cheer up, man; you and I are a-goin' to fight +the world together.” + </p> +<p> +“You have been a true friend to me,” said Layton, grasping the other's +hand, while he held his head still averted. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I mean to, that's a fact; but you must rouse yourself, lad. We're +a-goin' 'cross seas, and amongst fellows that, whatever they do with their +spare time, give none of it to grief. Who ever saw John C. Colhoun cry? +Did any one ever catch Dan Webster in tears?” + </p> +<p> +“I was n't crying,” said Layton; “I was only saddened to see again a spot +where I used to be so happy. I was thinking of bygones.” + </p> +<p> +“I take it bygones is very little use if they don't teach us something +more than to grieve over 'em; and, what's more, Layton,—it sounds +harsh to say it,—but grief, when it's long persisted in, is +downright selfishness, and nothing else.” + </p> +<p> +Layton slipped his arm within the other's to move away, but as he did so +he turned one last look towards the little garden. +</p> +<p> +“I see it all now,” said Quackinboss, as they walked along; “you've been +and met a sweetheart down here once on a time, that's it. She's been what +they call cruel, or she's broke her word to you. Well, I don't suppose +there's one man livin'—of what might be called real men—as has +n't had something of the same experience. Some has it early, some late, +but it's like the measles, it pushes you main hard if you don't take it +when you 're young. There's no bending an old bough,—you must break +it.” + </p> +<p> +There was a deep tone of melancholy in the way the last words were uttered +that made Layton feel his companion was speaking from the heart. +</p> +<p> +“But it's all our own fault,” broke in Quackinboss, quickly; “it all comes +of the way we treat 'em.” + </p> +<p> +“How do you mean?” asked Layton, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“I mean,” said the other, resolutely, “we treat 'em as reasonable beings, +and they ain't. No, sir, women is like Red-men; they ain't to be +persuaded, or argued with; they 're to be told what is right for 'em, and +good for 'em, and that's all. What does all your courting and coaxing a +gal, but make her think herself something better than all creation? Why, +you keep a-tellin' her so all day, and she begins to believe it at last. +Now, how much better and fairer to say to her, 'Here's how it is, miss, +you 've got to marry me, that's how it's fixed.' She 'll understand that.” + </p> +<p> +“But if she says, 'No, I won't'?” + </p> +<p> +“No, no,” said Quackinboss, with a half-bitter smile, “she 'll never say +that to the man as knows how to tell her his mind. And as for that +courtship, it's all a mistake. Why, women won't confess they like a man, +just to keep the game a-movin'. I'm blest if they don't like it better +than marriage.” + </p> +<p> +Layton gave a faint smile, but, faint as it was, Quackinboss perceived it, +and said,— +</p> +<p> +“Now, don't you go a-persuadin' yourself these are all Yankee notions and +such-like. I'm a-talkin' of human natur', and there ain't many as knows +more of that article than Leonidas Shaver Quackinboss. All you Old-World +folk make one great mistake, and nothing shows so clearly as how you 're a +worn-out race, used up and done for. You live too much with your emotions +and your feelin's. Have you never remarked that when the tap-root of a +tree strikes down too far, it gets into a cold soil? And from that day +for'ard you 'll never see fruit or blossom more. That's just the very +thing you 're a-doin'. You ain't satisfied to be active and thrivin' and +healthful, but you must go a-specu-latin' about why you are this, and why +you ain't t' other. Get work to do, sir, and do it.” + </p> +<p> +“It is what I intend,” said Layton, in a low voice. +</p> +<p> +“There ain't nothing like labor,” said Quackinboss, with energy; “work +keeps the devil out of a man's mind, for somehow there's nothing that +black fellow loves like loafing. And whenever I see a great, tall, +well-whiskered chap leaning over a balcony in a grand silk dressing-gown, +with a gold stitched cap on his head, and he a-yawning, I say to myself, +'Maybe I don't know <i>who 's</i> at your elbow now;' and when I see one +of our strapping Western fellows, as he has given the last stroke of his +hatchet to a pine-tree, and stands back to let it fall, wiping the honest +sweat from his brow, as his eyes turn upward over the tree-tops to +something higher than them, I say to my heart, 'All right, there; he knows +who it was gave him the strength to lay that sixty-foot stem so low.'” + </p> +<p> +“You say truly,” muttered Layton. +</p> +<p> +“I know it, sir; I 've been a-loafing myself these last three years, and I +'ve run more to seed in that time than in all my previous life; but I mean +to give it up.” + </p> +<p> +“What are your plans?” asked Layton, not sorry to let the conversation +turn away from himself and his own affairs. +</p> +<p> +“My plans! They are ours, I hope,” said Quackinboss. “You're a-coming out +with me to the States, sir. We fixed it all t' other night, I reckon ! I +'m a-goin' to make your fortune; or, better still, to show you how to make +it for yourself.” + </p> +<p> +Layton walked on in moody silence, while Quackinboss, with all the zealous +warmth of conviction, described the triumphs and success he was to achieve +in the New World. +</p> +<p> +A very few words will suffice to inform our reader of all that he need +know on this subject. During Layton's long convalescence poor Quackinboss +felt his companionable qualities sorely taxed. At first, indeed, his task +was that of consoler, for he had to communicate the death of Alfred's +mother, which occurred in the early days of her son's illness. The +Rector's letter, in conveying the sad tidings, was everything that +kindness and delicacy could dictate, and, with scarcely a reference to his +own share in the benevolence, showed that all care and attention had +waited upon her last hours. The blow, however, was almost fatal to Layton; +and the thought of that forlorn, deserted death-bed clung to him by day, +and filled his dreams by night. +</p> +<p> +Quackinboss did his utmost, not very skilfully nor very adroitly, perhaps, +but with a hearty sincerity, to combat this depression. He tried to +picture a future of activity and exertion,—a life of sterling labor. +He placed before his companion's eyes the objects and ambitions men +usually deem the worthiest, and endeavored to give them an interest to +him. Met in all his attempts by a dreary, hopeless indifference, the +kind-hearted fellow reflected long and deeply over his next resource; and +so one day, when Layton's recovered strength suggested a hope for the +project, he gave an account of his own neglected youth, how, thrown when a +mere boy upon the world, he had never been able to acquire more than a +smattering of what others learn at school. “I had three books in the +world, sir,—a Bible, Robinson Crusoe, and an old volume of +Wheatson's Algebra. And from a-readin' and readin' of 'em over and over, I +grew to blend 'em all up in my head together. And there was Friday, just +as much a reality to me as Father Abraham; and I thought men kept all +their trade reckoning by simple equations. I felt, in fact, as if there +was no more than these three books in all creation, and out of them a man +had to pick all the wisdom he could. Now, what I 'm a-thinkin' is that +though I 'm too old to go to school, maybe as how you 'd not refuse to +give me a helpin' hand, by readin' occasionally out of those languages I +only know by name? Teachin' an old fellow like me is well-nigh out of the +question; but when a man has got a long, hard-earned experience of human +natur', it's a main pleasant thing to know that oftentimes the thoughts +that he is struggling with have occurred to great minds who know how to +utter them; and so many an impression comes to be corrected, or mayhap +confirmed, by those clever fellows, with their thoughtful heads.” + </p> +<p> +There was one feature in the project which could not but gratify Layton; +it enabled him to show his gratitude for the brotherly affection he had +met with, and he accepted the suggestion at once. The first gleam of +animation that had lighted his eyes for many a day was when planning out +the line of reading he intended them to follow. Taking less eras of +history than some of the great men who had illustrated them, he thought +how such characters would be sure to interest one whose views of life were +eminently practical, and so a great law-giver, a legislator, a great +general, or orator, was each evening selected for their reading. If it +were not out of our track, we might tell here how much Layton was amused +by the strange, shrewd commentaries of his companion on the characters of +a classic age; or how he enjoyed the curious resemblances Quackinboss +would discover between the celebrities of Athens and Rome and the great +men of his own country. And many a time was the reader interrupted by such +exclamations as, “Ay, sir, just what J. Q. Adams would have said!” or, +“That 's the way our John Randolph would have fixed it!” + </p> +<p> +But Quackinboss was not satisfied with the pleasure thus afforded to +himself, for, with native instinct, he began to think how all such stores +of knowledge and amusement might be utilized for the benefit of the +possessor. +</p> +<p> +“You must come to the States, Layton,” he would say. “You must let our +people hear these things. They 're a main sharp, wide-awake folk, but they +ain't posted up about Greeks and Romans. Just mind me, now, and you'll do +a fine stroke of work, sir. Give them one of these pleasant stories out of +that fellow there, Herod—Herod—what d'ye call him?” + </p> +<p> +“Herodotus?” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, that's he; and then a slice out of one of those slapping speeches you +read to me t' other night. I'm blessed if the fellow did n't lay it on +like Point Dexter himself; and wind up all with what we can't match, a +comic scene from Aristophanes. You see I have his name all correct. I +ain't christened Shaver if you don't fill your hat with Yankee dollars in +every second town of the Union.” + </p> +<p> +Layton burst out into a hearty laugh at what seemed to him a project so +absurd and impossible; but Quackinboss, with increased gravity, continued,— +</p> +<p> +“Your British pride, mayhap, is offended by the thought of lecturin' to us +Western folk; but I am here to tell you, sir, that our own first men—ay, +and you 'll not disparage <i>them</i>—are a-doin' it every day. It's +not play-actin' I 'm speaking of. They don't go before a crowded theatre +to play mimic with face or look or voice or gesture. They 've got a +something to tell folk that's either ennobling or instructive. They've got +a story of some man, who, without one jot more of natural advantages than +any of those listening there, made himself a name to be blessed and +remembered for ages. They've to show what a thing a strong will is when +united with an honest heart; and how no man, no matter how humble he be, +need despair of being useful to his fellows. They 've got many a lesson +out of history to give a people who are just as ambitious, just as +encroaching, and twice as warlike as the Athenians, about not neglecting +private morality in the search after national greatness. What is the +lecturer but the pioneer to the preacher? In clearing away ignorance and +superstition, ain't he making way for the army of truth that's coming up? +Now I tell you, sir, that ain't a thing to be ashamed of!” + </p> +<p> +Layton was silent; not convinced, it is true, but restrained, from respect +for the other's ardor, from venturing on a reply too lightly. Quackinboss, +after a brief pause, went on:— +</p> +<p> +“Well, it is possible what I said about the profit riled you. Well, then, +don't take the dollars; or take them, and give them, as some of our +Western men do, to some object of public good,—if you 're rich +enough.” + </p> +<p> +“Rich enough! I'm a beggar,” broke in Layton, bitterly, “I 'm at this +instant indebted to you for more than, perhaps, years of labor may enable +me to repay.” + </p> +<p> +“I put it all down in a book, sir,” said Quackinboss, sternly, “and I +threw it in the fire the first night you read out Homer to me. I said to +myself, 'You are well paid, Shaver, old fellow. You never knew how your +heart could be shaken that way, and what brave feelings were lying there +still, inside of it.'” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, dear friend, it is not thus I 'm to acquit my debt Even the moneyed +one—” + </p> +<p> +“I tell you what, Layton,” said Quackinboss, rising, and striking the +table with his clenched fist, “there's only one earthly way to part us, +and that is by speaking to me of this. Once, and forever, I say to you, +there's more benefit to a man like me to be your companion for a week, +than for <i>you</i> to have toiled, and fevered, and sweated after gold, +as I have done for thirty hard years.” + </p> +<p> +“Give me a day or two to think over it,” said Layton, “and I 'll tell you +my resolve.” + </p> +<p> +“With all my heart! Only, I would ask you not to take my showing of its +goodness, but to reason the thing well out of your own clear head. Many a +just cause is lost by a bad lawyer; remember that” And thus the discussion +ended for the time. +</p> +<p> +The following morning, when they met at breakfast, Layton took the +other's hand, and said,— +</p> +<p> +“I 've thought all night of what you 've said, and I accept,—not +without many a misgiving as regards myself, but I accept.” + </p> +<p> +“I'd not take ten thousand dollars for the engagement, sir,” said +Quackinboss, as he wrung Layton's hand. “No, sir, I 'd not take it, for +even four cities of the Union.” + </p> +<p> +Although thus the project was ratified between them, scarcely a day passed +that Layton did not experience some compunction for his pledge. Now, it +was a repugnance to the sort of enterprise he was about to engage in, the +criticisms to which he was to expose himself, and the publicity he was to +confront; nor could all his companion's sanguine assurances of success +compensate him for his own heartfelt repugnance to try the ordeal. +</p> +<p> +“After all,” thought he, “failure, with all its pangs of wounded +self-love, will only serve to show Quackinboss how deeply I feel myself +his debtor when I am content to risk so much to repay him.” + </p> +<p> +Such was the bond he had signed, such his struggles to fulfil its +obligations. One only condition he stipulated for,—he wished to go +to Ireland before setting out for the States, to see the last +resting-place of his poor mother ere he quitted his country, perhaps +forever. Dr. Millar, too, had mentioned that a number of letters were +amongst the few relics she had left, and he desired, for many reasons, +that these should not fall into strangers' hands. As for Qnackinboss, he +agreed to everything. Indeed, he thought that as there was no use in +reaching the States before “the fall,” they could not do better than +ramble about Ireland, while making some sort of preparation for the coming +campaign. +</p> +<p> +“How sad this place makes me!” said Layton, as they strolled along one of +the leaf-strewn alleys. “I wish I had not come here.” + </p> +<p> +“That's just what I was a-thinkin' myself,” said the other. “I remember +coming back all alone once over the Michigan prairie, which I had +travelled about eight months before with a set of hearty companions, and +whenever I 'd come up to one of the spots where our tent used to be +pitched, and could mark the place by the circle of greener grass, with a +burned-up patch where the fire stood, it was all I could do not to burst +out a-cryin' like a child! It's a main cruel thing to go back alone to +where you 've once been happy in, and there 's no forgettin' the misery of +it ever after.” + </p> +<p> +“That's true,” said Layton; “the pleasant memories are erased forever. Let +us go.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXV. BEHIND THE SCENES +</h2> +<p> +It is amongst the prerogatives of an author to inform his reader of many +things which go on “behind the scenes” of life. Let me, therefore, ask +your company, for a brief space, in a small and not ill-furnished chamber, +which, deep in the recesses of back scenes, dressing-rooms, scaffolding, +and machinery, is significantly entitled, by a painted inscription, +“Manager's Room.” Though the theatre is a London one, the house is small. +It is one of those West-End speculations which are occasionally graced by +a company of French comedians, a monologist, or a conjurer. There is all +the usual splendor before the curtain, and all the customary squalor +behind. At the present moment—for it is growing duskish of a +November day, and rehearsal is just over—the general aspect of the +place is dreary enough. The box fronts and the lustre are cased in brown +holland, and, though the curtain is up, the stage presents nothing but a +chaotic mass of disjointed scenery and properties. Tables, chairs, musical +instruments, the half of a boat, a throne, and a guillotine lie littered +about, amidst which a ragged supernumerary wanders, broom in hand, but +apparently hopeless of where or how to begin to reduce the confusion to +order. +</p> +<p> +The manager's room is somewhat more habitable, for there is a good carpet, +warm curtains, and an excellent fire, at which two gentlemen are seated, +whose jocund tones and pleasant faces are certainly, so far as outward +signs go, fair guarantees that the world is not dealing very hardly with +them, nor they themselves much disgusted with the same world. One of these—the +elder, a middle-aged man somewhat inclined to corpulency, with a florid +cheek, and clear, dark eye—is the celebrated Mr. Hyman Stocmar; +celebrated, I say, for who can take up the morning papers without reading +his name and knowing his whereabouts; as thus: “We are happy to be able to +inform our readers that Mr. Stocmar is perfectly satisfied with his after +season at the 'Regent's.' Whatever other managers may say, Mr. Stocmar can +make no complaint of courtly indifference. Her Majesty has four times +within the last month graced his theatre with her presence. Mr. Stocmar is +at Madrid, at Vienna, at Naples. Mr. Stocmar is in treaty with Signor +Urlaccio of Turin, or Mademoiselle Voltarina of Venice. He has engaged the +Lapland voyagers, sledge-dogs and all, the Choctaw chiefs, or the +Californian lecturer, Boreham, for the coming winter. Let none complain of +London in November so long as Mr. Hyman Stocmar caters for the public +taste;” and so on. To look at Stocmar's bright complexion, his ruddy glow, +his well-filled waistcoat, and his glossy ringlets,—for, though +verging on forty, he has them still “curly,”—you'd scarcely imagine +it possible that his life was passed amongst more toil, confusion, +difficulty, and distraction than would suffice to kill five out of any +twenty, and render the other fifteen deranged. I do not mean alone the +worries inseparable from a theatrical direction,—the fights, the +squabbles, the insufferable pretensions he must bear, the rivalries he +must reconcile, the hates he must conciliate; the terrible existence of +coax and bully, bully and coax, fawn, flatter, trample on, and outrage, +which goes on night and day behind the curtain,—but that his whole +life in the world is exactly a mild counterpart of the same terrible +performance; the great people, his patrons, being fifty times more +difficult to deal with than the whole corps itself,—the dictating +dowagers and exacting lords, the great man who insists upon Mademoiselle +So-and-so being engaged, the great lady who will have no other box than +that occupied by the Russian embassy, the friends of this tenor and the +partisans of that, the classic admirers of grand music, and that larger +section who will have nothing but comic opera, not to mention the very +extreme parties who only care for the ballet, and those who vote the +“Traviata” an unclean thing. What are a lover's perjuries to the lies such +a man tells all day long?—lies only to be reckoned by that machine +that records the revolutions of a screw in a steamer. His whole existence +is passed in promises, excuses, evasions, and explanations; always paying +a small dividend to truth, he barely escapes utter bankruptcy, and by a +plausibility most difficult to distrust, he obtains a kind of half-credit,—that +of one who would keep his word if he could. +</p> +<p> +By some strange law of compensation, this man, who sees a very dark side +of human nature,—sees it in its low intrigues, unworthy pursuits, +falsehoods, and depravities,—who sees even the “great” in their +moods of meanness,—this man, I say, has the very keenest relish for +life, and especially the life of London. He knows every capital of Europe: +Paris, from the Chaussée d'Antin to the Boulevard Mont-Parnasse; Vienna, +from the Hof to the Volksgarten; Rome, from the Piazza di Spagna to the +Ghetto; and yet he would tell you they are nothing, all of them, to that +area between Pall Mall and the upper gate of Hyde Park. He loves his +clubs, his dinners, his junketings to Richmond or Greenwich, his short +Sunday excursions to the country, generally to some great artiste's villa +near Fulham or Chiswick, and declares to you that it is England alone +offers all these in perfection. Is it any explanation, does it give any +clew to this gentleman's nature, if I say that a certain aquiline +character in his nose, and a peculiar dull lustre in the eye, recall that +race who, with all the odds of a great majority against them, enjoy a +marvellous share of this world's prosperity? Opposite to him sits one not +unworthy—even from externals—of his companionship. He is a +very good-looking fellow, with light brown hair, his beard and moustaches +being matchless in tint and arrangement: he has got large, full blue eyes, +a wide capacious forehead, and that style of head, both in shape and the +way in which it is set on, which indicate a frank, open, and courageous +nature. Were it not for a little over-attention to dress, there is no +“snobbery” about him; but there is a little too much velvet on his +paletot, and his watch trinkets are somewhat in excess, not to say that +the gold head of his cane is ostentatiously large and striking. This is +Captain Ludlow Paten, a man about town, known to and by everybody, very +much asked about in men's circles, but never by any accident met in +ladies' society. By very young men he is eagerly sought after. It is one +of the best things coming of age has in its gift is to know Paten and be +able to ask him to dine. Older ones relish him full as much; but his great +popularity is with a generation beyond that again: the mediaevals, who +walk massively and ride not at all; the florid, full-cheeked, slightly +bald generation, who grace club windows of a morning and the coulisses at +night. These are his “set,” <i>par excellence</i>, and he knows them +thoroughly. As for himself or his family, no one knows, nor, indeed, wants +to know anything. The men he associates with chiefly in life are all +“cognate numbers,” and these are the very people who never trouble their +heads about a chance intruder amongst them; and although some rumor ran +that his father was a porter at the Home Office, or a tailor at Blackwall, +none care a jot on the matter: they want him; and he could n't be a whit +more useful if his veins ran with all the blood of all the Howards. +</p> +<p> +There is a story of him, however, which, though I reveal to you, is not +generally known. He was once tried for a murder. It was a case of +poisoning in Jersey, where the victim was a well-known man of the Turf, +and who was murdered by the party he had invited to spend a Christmas with +him. Paten was one of the company, and included in the accusation. Two +were banged; Paten and another, named Collier, acquitted. Paten's name was +Hunt, but he changed it at once, and, going abroad, entered the Austrian +service, where, in eight years, he became a lieutenant. This was enough +for probation and rank, and so he returned to England as Captain Ludlow +Paten. Stocmar, of course, knew the story: there were half a dozen more, +also, who did, but they each and all knew that poor Paul was innocent; +that there was n't a fragment of evidence against him; that he lost—actually +lost—by Hawke's death; that he was carried tipsy to bed that night +two hours before the murder; that he was so overcome the next morning by +his debauch that he was with difficulty awakened; that the coroner thought +him a downright fool, he was so stunned by the event; in a word, though he +changed his name to Paten, and now wore a tremendous beard, and affected a +slightly foreign accent, these were disguises offered up to the mean +prejudices of the world rather than precautions of common safety and +security. +</p> +<p> +Though thus Paten's friends had passed this bill of indemnity in his +favor, the affair of Jersey was never alluded to, by even his most +intimate amongst them. It was a page of history to be carefully wafered up +till that reckoning when all volumes are ransacked, and no blottings nor +erasures avail! As for himself, who, to look at him, with his bright +countenance, to hear the jocund ring of his merry laugh—who could +ever imagine such a figure in a terrible scene of tragedy? What could such +a man have to do with any of the dark machinations of crime, the +death-struggle, the sack, the silent party that stole across the grass at +midnight, and the fish-pond? Oh, no! rather picture him as one who, +meeting such details in his daily paper, would hastily turn the sheet to +seek for pleasanter matter; and so it was he eschewed these themes in +conversation, and even when some celebrated trial would for the moment +absorb all interest, giving but one topic in almost every circle, Paten +would drop such commonplaces on the subject as showed he cared little or +nothing for the event. +</p> +<p> +Let us now hear what these two men are talking about, as they sat thus +confidentially over the fire. Stocmar is the chief speaker. He does not +smoke of a morning, because many of his grand acquaintances are averse to +tobacco; as for Paten, the cigar never leaves his lips. +</p> +<p> +“Well, now for his story!” cried Paten. “I 'm anxious to hear about him.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm sorry I can't gratify the curiosity. All I can tell you is where I +found him. It was in Dublin. They had a sort of humble Cremorne there,—a +place little resorted to by the better classes; indeed, rarely visited +save by young subs from the garrison, milliners, and such other lost +sheep; not very wonderful, after all, seeing that the rain usually +contrived to extinguish the fireworks. Having a spare evening on my hands, +I went there, and, to my astonishment, witnessed some of the most +extraordinary displays in fireworks I had ever seen. Whether for beauty of +design, color, and precision, I might declare them unequalled. 'Who's your +pyrotechnist?' said I to Barry, the proprietor. +</p> +<p> +“'I can't spare him, Mr. Stocmar,' said he, 'so I entreat you don't carry +him off from me.' +</p> +<p> +“'Oh!' cried I, 'it was mere curiosity prompted the question. The man is +well enough here, but he would n't do for us. We have got Giomelli, and +Clari—' +</p> +<p> +“'Not fit to light a squib for him,' said he, warming up in his enthusiasm +for his man. 'I tell you, sir, that fellow would teach Giomelli, and every +Italian of them all. He's a great man, sir,—a genius. He was, once +on a time, the great Professor of a University; one of the very first +scientific men of the kingdom, and if it was n't for '—here he made +a sign of drinking—'he 'd perhaps be this day sought by the best in +the land.' +</p> +<p> +“Though interested by all this, I only gave a sort of incredulous laugh in +return, when he went on:— +</p> +<p> +“'If I was quite sure you 'd not take him away—if you 'd give me +your word of honor for it—I'd just show him to you, and you 'd see—even +tipsy as he's sure to be—if I'm exaggerating.' +</p> +<p> +“'What is he worth to you, Barry?' said I. +</p> +<p> +“'He 's worth—not to reckon private engagements for fireworks in +gentlemen's grounds, and the like,—he 's worth from seven to eight +pounds a week.' +</p> +<p> +“'And you give him—' +</p> +<p> +“'Well, I don't give him much. It would n't do to give him much; he has no +self-control,—no restraint He'd kill himself,—actually kill +himself.' +</p> +<p> +“'So that you only give him—' +</p> +<p> +“'Fourteen shillings a week. Not but that I am making a little fund for +him, and occasionally remitted his wife—he had a wife—a pound +or so, without his knowledge.' +</p> +<p> +“'Well, he's not too dear at that,' said I. 'Now let me see and speak with +him, Barry, and if I like him, you shall have a fifty-pound note for him. +You know well enough that I needn't pay a sixpence. I have fellows in my +employment would track him out if you were to hide him in one of his +rocket-canisters; so just be reasonable, and take a good offer.' +</p> +<p> +“He was not very willing at first, but he yielded after a while, and so I +became the owner of the Professor, for such they called him.” + </p> +<p> +“Had he no other name?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; an old parrot, that he had as a pet, called him Tom, and so we +accepted that name; and as Tom, or Professor Tom, he is now known amongst +us.” + </p> +<p> +“Did you find, after all, that you made a good bargain?” + </p> +<p> +“I never concluded a better, though it has its difficulties; for, as the +Professor is almost an idiot when perfectly sober, and totally insensible +when downright drunk, there is just a short twilight interval between the +two, when his faculties are in good order.” + </p> +<p> +“What can he do at this favorable juncture?” + </p> +<p> +“What can he not? is the question. Why, it was he arranged all the scores +for the orchestra after the fire, when we had not a scrap left of the +music of the 'Maid of Cashmere.' It was he invented that sunrise, in the +last scene of all, with the clouds rolling down the mountains, and all the +rivulets glittering as the first rays touch them. It was he wrote the +third act of Linton's new comedy; the catastrophe and all were his. It was +he dashed off that splendid critique on Ristori, that set the town in a +blaze; and then he went home and wrote the parody on 'Myrra' for the +Strand, all the same night, for I had watered the brandy, and kept him in +the second stage of delirium till morning.” + </p> +<p> +“What a chance! By Jove! Stocmar, you are the only fellow ever picks up a +gem of this water!” + </p> +<p> +“It's not every man can tell the stone that will pay for the cutting, +Paten, remember that. I 've had to buy this experience of mine dearly +enough.” + </p> +<p> +“Are you not afraid that the others will hear of him, and seduce him by +some tempting offer?” + </p> +<p> +“I have, in a measure, provided against that contingency. He lives here, +in a small crib, where we once kept a brown bear; and he never ventures +abroad, so that the chances are he will not be discovered.” + </p> +<p> +“How I should like to have a look at him!” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing easier. Let us see, what o'clock is it? Near five. Well, this is +not an unfavorable moment; he has just finished his dinner, and not yet +begun the evening.” Ringing the bell, as he spoke, he gave orders to a +supernumerary to send the Professor to him. +</p> +<p> +While they waited for his coming, Stocmar continued to give some further +account of his life and habits, the total estrangement from all +companionship in which he lived, his dislike to be addressed, and the +seeming misanthropy that animated him. At last the manager, getting +impatient, rang once more, to ask if he were about to appear. +</p> +<p> +“Well, sir,” said the man, with a sort of unwillingness in his manner, “he +said as much as that he was n't coming; that he had just dined, and meant +to enjoy himself without business for a while.” + </p> +<p> +“Go back and tell him that Mr. Stocmar has something very important to +tell him; that five minutes will be enough.—You see the stuff he's +made of?” said the manager, as the man left the room. +</p> +<p> +Another, and nearly as long a delay ensued, and at last the dragging sound +of heavy slipshod feet was heard approaching; the door was rudely opened, +and a tall old man, of haggard appearance and in the meanest rags, +entered, and, drawing himself proudly up, stared steadfastly at Stocmar, +without even for an instant noticing the presence of the other. +</p> +<p> +“I wanted a word,—just one word with you, Professor,” began the +manager, in an easy, familiar tone. +</p> +<p> +“Men do not whistle even for a dog, when he 's at his meals,” said the old +man, insolently. “They told you I was at my dinner, did n't they?” + </p> +<p> +“Sorry to disturb you, Tom; but as two minutes would suffice for all I had +to say—” + </p> +<p> +“Reason the more to keep it for another occasion,” was the stubborn reply. +</p> +<p> +“We are too late this time,” whispered Stocmar across towards Paten; “the +fellow has been at the whiskey-bottle already.” + </p> +<p> +With that marvellous acuteness of hearing that a brain in its initial +state of excitement is occasionally gifted with, the old man caught the +words, and, as suddenly rendered aware of the presence of a third party, +turned his eyes on Paten. At first the look was a mere stare, but +gradually the expression grew more fixed, and the bleared eyes dilated, +while his whole features became intensely eager. With a shuffling but +hurried step he then moved across the floor, and, coming close up to where +Paten stood, he laid his hands upon his shoulders, and wheeled him rudely +round, till the light of the window fell full upon him. +</p> +<p> +“Well, old gent,” said Paten, laughing, “if we are not old friends, you +treat me very much as though we were.” + </p> +<p> +A strange convulsion, half smile, half grin, passed over the old man's +face, but he never uttered a word, but stood gazing steadily on the other. +</p> +<p> +“You are forgetting yourself, Tom,” said Stocmar, angrily. “That gentleman +is not an acquaintance of yours.” + </p> +<p> +“And who told <i>you</i> that?” said the old man, insolently. “Ask himself +if we are not.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm afraid I must give it against you, old boy,” said Paten, +good-humoredly. “This is the first time I have had the honor to meet you.” + </p> +<p> +“It is not!” said the old man, with a solemn and even haughty emphasis. +</p> +<p> +“I could scarcely have forgotten a man of such impressive manners,” said +Paten. “Will you kindly remind me of the where and how you imagine us to +have met?” + </p> +<p> +“I will,” said the other, sternly. “You shall hear the where and the how. +The where was in the High Court, at Jersey, on the 18th of January, in the +year 18—; the how, was my being called on to prove the death, by +corrosive sublimate, of Godfrey Hawke. Now, sir, what say you to my +memory,—is it accurate, or not?” + </p> +<p> +Had not Paten caught hold of a heavy chair, he would have fallen; even as +it was, he swayed forward and backward like a drunken man. +</p> +<p> +“And you—you were a doctor in those days, it seems,” said he, with +an affected laugh, that made his ghastly features appear almost horrible. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; they accused <i>me</i> of curing folk, just as they charged <i>you</i> +with killing them. Calumnious world that it is,—lets no man escape!” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0010" id="linkimage-0010"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0280.jpg" alt="ONE0280" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“After all, my worthy friend,” said Paten, as he drew himself haughtily +up, and assumed, though by a great effort, his wonted ease of manner, “you +are deceived by some chance resemblance, for I know nothing about Jersey, +and just as little of that interesting little incident you have alluded +to.” + </p> +<p> +“This is even more than you attempted on the trial. You never dreamed of +so bold a stroke as that, there. No, no, Paul Hunt, I know you well: +that's a gift of mine,—drunk or sober, it has stuck to me through +life,—I never forget a face,—never!” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come, old Tom,” said Stocmar, as he drew forth a sherry decanter +and a large glass from a small recess in the wall, “this is not the +kindliest way to welcome an old friend or make a new one. Taste this +sherry, and take the bottle back with you, if you like the flavor.” + Stocmar's keen glance met Paten's eyes, and as quickly the other +understood his tactique. +</p> +<p> +“Good wine, rare wine, if it was n't so cold on the stomach,” said the old +man, as he tossed off the second goblet. Already his eyes grew wild and +bloodshot, and his watery lip trembled. “To your good health, gentlemen +both,” said he, as he finished the decanter. “I'm proud you liked that +last scene. It will be finer before I 've done with it; for I intend to +make the lava course down the mountain, and be seen fitfully as the red +glow of the eruption lights up the picture.” + </p> +<p> +“With the bay and the fleet all seen in the distance, Tom,” broke in +Stocmar. +</p> +<p> +“Just so, sir; the lurid glare—as the newspaper fellows will call it—over +all. Nothing like Bengal-lights and Roman-candles; they are the poetry of +the modern drama. Ah! sir, no sentiment without nitrate of potash; no +poetry if you have n't phosphorus.” And with a drunken laugh, and a leer +of utter vacancy, the old man reeled from the room and sought his den +again. +</p> +<p> +“Good Heavens, Stocmar! what a misfortune!” cried Paten, as, sick with +terror, he dropped down into a chair. +</p> +<p> +“Never fret about it, Paul. That fellow will know nothing of what has +passed when he wakes to-morrow. His next drunken bout—and I 'll take +care it shall be a deep one—will let such a flood of Lethe over his +brain that not one single recollection will survive the deluge. You saw +why I produced the decanter?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; it was cleverly done, and it worked like magic. But only think, +Stocmar, if any one had chanced to be here—it was pure chance that +there was not—and then—” + </p> +<p> +“Egad! it might have been as you say,” said Stocmar; “there would have +been no stopping the old fellow; and had he but got the very slightest +encouragement, he had been off at score.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXVI. A DARK REMEMBRANCE +</h2> +<p> +On a sea like glass, and with a faint moonlight streaking the calm water, +the “Vivid,” her Majesty's mail-packet, steamed away for Ostend. There +were very few passengers aboard, so that it was clearly from choice two +tall men, wrapped well up in comfortable travelling-cloaks, continued to +walk the deck, till the sandy headlands of Belgium could be dimly descried +through the pinkish gray of the morning. They smoked and conversed as they +paced up and down, talking in low, cautious tones, and even entirely +ceasing to speak when by any chance a passing sailor came within earshot. +</p> +<p> +“It is, almost day for day, nine years since I crossed over here,” said +one, “and certainly a bleaker future never lay before any man than on that +morning!” + </p> +<p> +“Was <i>she</i> with you, Ludlow?” asked the other, whose deep voice +recalled the great Mr. Stocmar. “Was <i>she</i> with you?” + </p> +<p> +“No; she refused to come. There was nothing I did n't do, or threaten to +do, but in vain. I menaced her with every sort of publicity and exposure. +I swore I 'd write the whole story,—giving a likeness of her from +the miniature in my possession; that I 'd give her letters to the world in +fac-simile of her own hand; and that, while the town rang with the tragedy +as the newspapers called it, they should have a dash of melodrama, or high +comedy too, to heighten the interest. All in vain; she braved everything—defied +everything.” + </p> +<p> +“There are women with that sort of masculine temperament—” + </p> +<p> +“Masculine you call it!” cried the other, scoffingly; “you never made +such a blunder in your life. They are entirely and essentially womanly. +You 'd break twenty men down, smash them like rotten twigs, before you +'d succeed in turning one woman of this stamp from her fixed will. I +'ll tell you another thing, too, Stocmar,” added he, in a lower voice: +“they do not fear the world the way men do. Would you believe it? +Collins and myself left the island in a fishing-boat, and she—the +woman—went coolly on board the mail-packet with her maid and child, +and sat down to breakfast with the passengers, one of whom had actually +served on the jury.” + </p> +<p> +“What pluck! I call that pluck.” + </p> +<p> +“It's more like madness than real courage,” said the other, peevishly; and +for some minutes they walked on side by side without a word. +</p> +<p> +“If I remember rightly,” said Stocmar, “she was not put on her trial?” + </p> +<p> +“No; there was a great discussion about it, and many blamed the Crown +lawyers for not including her; but, in truth, there was not a shadow of +evidence to be brought against her. His treatment of her might have +suggested the possibility of any vengeance.” + </p> +<p> +“Was it so cruel?” + </p> +<p> +“Cruel is no word for it. There was not an insult nor an outrage spared +her. She passed one night in the deep snow in the garden, and was carried +senseless into the house at morning, and only rallied after days of +treatment. He fired at her another time.” + </p> +<p> +“Shot her!” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, shot her through the shoulder,—sent the bullet through here,—because +she would not write to Ogden a begging letter, entreating him to assist +her with a couple of hundred pounds.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, that was too gross!” exclaimed Stocmar. +</p> +<p> +“He told her, 'You 've cost me fifteen hundred in damages, and you may +tell Ogden he shall have you back again for fifty.'” + </p> +<p> +“And she bore all this?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know what you mean by bearing it. She did not stab him. Some say +that Hawke was mad, but I never thought so. He had boastful fits at times, +in which he would vaunt all his villanies, and tell you of the infamies he +had done with this man and that; but they were purely the emanations of an +intense vanity, which left him unable to conceal anything. Imagine, for +instance, his boasting how he had done the 'Globe' office out of ten +thousand, insured on his first wife's life,—drowned when bathing. I +heard the story from his own lips, and I 'll never forget his laugh as he +said, 'I 'd have been in a hole if Mary had n't.'” + </p> +<p> +“That was madness, depend on 't.” + </p> +<p> +“No; I think not. It was partly vanity, for he delighted above all things +to create an effect, and partly a studied plan to exercise an influence by +actual terror, in which he had a considerable success. I could tell you of +a score of men who would not have dared to thwart him; and it was at last +downright desperation drove Tom Towers and Wake to”—he hesitated, +faltered, and, in a weak voice, added,—“to do it!” + </p> +<p> +“How was it brought about?” whispered Stocmar, cautiously. +</p> +<p> +Paten took out his cigar-case, selected a cigar with much care, lighted +it, and, after smoking for some seconds, began: “It all happened this way: +we met one night at that singing-place in the Haymarket. Towers, Wake, +Collins, and myself were eating an oyster supper, when Hawke came in. He +had been dining at the 'Rag,' and had won largely at whist from some young +cavalry swells, who had just joined. He was flushed and excited, but not +from drinking, for he said he had not tasted anything but claret-cup at +dinner. 'You're a mangy-looking lot,' said he, 'with your stewed oysters +and stout,' as he came up. 'Why, frozen-out gardeners are fine gentlemen +in comparison. Are there no robberies going on at the Ottoman,—nothing +doing down at Grimshaw's?' +</p> +<p> +“'You 're very bumptious about belonging to the “Rag,” Hawke.' said +Towers; 'but they 'll serve you the same trick they did <i>me</i> one of +these days.' +</p> +<p> +“'No, sir, they 'll never turn <i>me</i> out,' said Hawke, insolently. +</p> +<p> +“'More fools they, then,' said the other; 'for you can do <i>ten</i> +things for <i>one</i> that I can; and, what's more, you <i>have</i> done +them.' +</p> +<p> +“'And will again, old boy, if that's any comfort to you,' cried Hawke, +finishing off the other's malt. 'Waiter, fetch me some cold oysters, and +score them to these gentlemen,' said he, gayly, taking his place amongst +us. And so we chaffed away, about one thing or another, each one +contributing some lucky or unlucky hit that had befallen him; but Hawke +always bringing up how he had succeeded here, and what he had won there, +and only vexed if any one reminded him that he had been ever 'let in' in +his life. +</p> +<p> +“'Look here,' cried he, at last; 'ye're an uncommon seedy lot, very much +out at elbows, and so I 'll do you a generous turn. I 'll take ye all over +to my cottage at Jersey for a week, house and grub you, and then turn you +loose on the island, to do your wicked will with it.' +</p> +<p> +“'We take your offer—we say, Done!' cried Collins. +</p> +<p> +“'I should think you do! You've been sleeping under the colonnade of the +Haymarket these last three nights,' said he to Collins, 'for want of a +lodging. There's Towers chuckling over the thought of having false keys to +all my locks; and Master Paul, yonder,' said he, grinning at me, 'is in +love with my wife. Don't deny it, man; I broke open her writing-desk t' +other day, and read all your letters to her; but I'm a generous dog; and, +what's better,' added he, with an insolent laugh, 'one as bites, too—eh, +Paul?—don't forget that.' +</p> +<p> +“'Do you mean the invitation to be real and <i>bonâ fide?</i>' growled out +Towers; 'for I 'm in no jesting humor.' +</p> +<p> +“'I do,' said Hawke, flourishing out a handful of banknotes; 'there's +enough here to feed five times as many blacklegs; and more costly guests +a man can't have.' +</p> +<p> +“'You'll go, won't you?' said Collins, to me, as we walked home together +afterwards. +</p> +<p> +“'Well,' said I, doubtingly, 'I don't exactly see my way.' +</p> +<p> +“'By Jove!' cried he, 'you <i>are</i> afraid of him.' +</p> +<p> +“'Not a bit,' said I, impatiently. 'I 'm well acquainted with his boastful +habit: he's not so dangerous as he 'd have us to believe.' +</p> +<p> +“'But will you go?—that's the question,' said he, more eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“'Why are you so anxious to know?' asked I, again. +</p> +<p> +“'I 'll be frank with you,' said he, in a low, confidential tone. 'Towers +wants to be certain of one thing. Mind, now,' added be, 'I 'm sworn to +secrecy, and I 'm telling you now what I solemnly swore never to reveal; +so don't betray me, Paul. Give me your hand on it.' And I gave him my +hand. +</p> +<p> +“Even after I had given him this pledge, he seemed to have become +timorous, and for a few minutes he faltered and hesitated, totally unable +to proceed. At last he said, half inquiringly,— +</p> +<p> +“'At all events, Paul, <i>you</i> cannot like Hawke?' +</p> +<p> +“'Like him! there is not the man on earth I hate as I hate <i>him!</i>' +</p> +<p> +“'That's exactly what Towers said: “Paul detests him more than we do.”' +</p> +<p> +“The moment Collins said these words the whole thing flashed full upon me. +They were plotting to do for Hawke, and wanted to know how far I might be +trusted in the scheme. +</p> +<p> +“'Look here, Tom,' said I, confidentially; 'don't tell me anything. I +don't want to be charged with other men's secrets; and, in return, I'll +promise not to pry after them. “Make your little game,” as they say at +Ascot, and don't ask whether I'm in the ring or not. Do you understand +me?' +</p> +<p> +“'I do, perfectly,' said he. 'The only point Towers really wanted to be +sure of is, what of <i>her?</i> What he says is, there's no telling what a +woman will do.' +</p> +<p> +“' If I were merely to give an opinion,' said I, carelessly, 'I 'd say, no +danger from that quarter; but, mind, it's only an opinion.' +</p> +<p> +“'Wake says you'd marry her,' said he, bluntly, and with an abruptness +that showed he had at length got courage to say what he wanted. +</p> +<p> +“'Tom Collins,' said I, seriously, 'let us play fair; don't question me, +and I 'll not question <i>you</i>.' +</p> +<p> +“'But you 'll come along with us?' asked he, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“'I 'm not so sure of that, now,' said I; 'but if I do, it's on one only +condition.' +</p> +<p> +“'And that is—' +</p> +<p> +“'That I 'm to know nothing, or hear nothing, of whatever you 're about. I +tell you distinctly that I 'll not pry anywhere, but, in return, treat me +as a stranger in whose discretion you cannot trust.' +</p> +<p> +“'You like sure profits and a safe venture, in fact,' said he, sneeringly. +</p> +<p> +“'Say one half of that again, Collins,' said I, 'and I'll cut with the +whole lot of you. I ask no share. I 'd accept no share in your gains +here.' +</p> +<p> +“'But you 'll not peach on us, Paul?' said he, catching my hand. +</p> +<p> +“'Never,' said I, 'as long as you are on the square with <i>me</i>.' +</p> +<p> +“After this, he broke out into the wildest abuse of Hawke, making him out—as +it was not hard to do—the greatest villain alive, mingling the +attack with a variety of details of the vast sums he had latterly been +receiving. 'There are,' he said, 'more than two thousand in hard cash in +his hands at this moment, and a number of railway shares and some Peruvian +bonds, part of his first wife's fortune, which he has just recovered by a +lawsuit.' So close and accurate were all these details, so circumstantial +every part of the story, that I perceived the plan must have been long +prepared, and only waiting for a favorable moment for execution. With this +talk he occupied the whole way, till I reached my lodgings. +</p> +<p> +“'And now, Paul,' said he, 'before we part, give me your word of honor +once more.' +</p> +<p> +“'There 's my pledge,' said I, 'and there 's my hand. So long as I hear +nothing, and see nothing, I know nothing.' And we said good-night, and +separated. +</p> +<p> +“So long as I was talking with Collins,” continued Paten,—“so long, +in fact, as I was taking my own side in the discussion,—I did not +see any difficulty in thus holding myself aloof from the scheme, and not +taking any part whatever in the game played out before me; but when I +found myself alone in my room, and began to conjure up an inquest and a +trial, and all the searching details of a cross-examination, I trembled +from head to foot. I remember to this hour how I walked to and fro in my +room, putting questions to myself aloud, and in the tone of an examining +counsel, till my heart sickened with fear; and when at last I lay down, +wearied but not sleepy, on my bed, it was to swear a solemn vow that +nothing on earth should induce me to go over to Jersey. +</p> +<p> +“The next day I was ill and tired, and I kept my bed, telling my servant +to let no one disturb me on any pretext. Towers called, but was not +admitted. Collins came twice, and tried hard to see me, but my man was +firm, so that Tom was fain to write a few words on a card, in pencil: 'H. +is ill at Limmer's; but it is only del. tremens, and he will be all right +by Saturday. The boat leaves Blackwall at eleven. Don't fail to be in +time.' This was Thursday. There was no time to lose, if I only knew what +was best to be done. I 'll not weary you with the terrible tale of that +day's tortures; how I thought over every expedient in turn, and in turn +rejected it; now I would go to Hawke, and tell him everything; now to the +Secretary of State at the Home Office; now to Scotland Yard, to inform the +police; then I bethought me of trying to dissuade Towers and the others +from the project; and at last I resolved to make a 'bolt' of it, and set +out for Ireland by the night mail, and lie hid in some secluded spot till +all was over. About four o'clock I got up, and, throwing on my +dressing-gown, I walked to the window. It was a dark, dull day, with a +thin rain falling, and few persons about; but just as I was turning away +from the window I saw a tall, coarse-looking fellow pass into the +oyster-shop opposite, giving a glance up towards me as he went; the next +minute a man in a long camlet cloak left the shop, and walked down the +street; and, muffled though he was from head to foot, I knew it was +Towers. +</p> +<p> +“I suppose my conscience wasn't all right, for I sank down into a chair as +sick as if I 'd been a month in a fever. I saw they had set a watch on me, +and I knew well the men I had to deal with. If Towers or Wake so much as +suspected me, they 'd make all safe before they ventured further. I looked +out again, and there was the big man, with a dark blue woollen comforter +round his throat, reading the advertisements on a closed shutter, and then +strolling negligently along the street. Though his hat was pressed down +over his eyes, I saw them watching me as he went; and such was my terror +that I fancied they were still gazing at me after he turned the corner. +</p> +<p> +“Fully determined now to make my escape, I sat down and wrote a few lines +to Collins, saying that a relation of mine, from whom I had some small +expectations, was taken suddenly ill, and sent for me to come over and see +him, so that I was obliged to start for Ireland by that night's mail. I +never once alluded to Jersey, but concluded with a kindly message to all +friends, and a hasty good-bye. +</p> +<p> +“Desiring to have my servant out of the way, I despatched him with this +note, and then set about making my own preparations for departure. It was +now later than I suspected, so that I had barely time to pack some clothes +hastily into a carpet-bag, and cautiously descended the stairs with it in +my hand, opened the street door and issued forth. Before I had, however, +gone ten yards from the door, the large man was at my side, and in a gruff +voice offered to carry my bag. I refused as roughly, and walked on towards +the cab-stand. I selected a cab, and said Euston Square; and as I did so, +the big fellow mounted the box and sat down beside the driver. I saw it +was no use, and, affecting to have forgotten something at my lodgings, I +got out, paid the cab, and returned home. How cowardly! you'd say. No, +Stocmar, I knew my men: it was <i>not</i> cowardly. I knew that, however +they might abandon a project or forego a plan, they would never, never +forgive a confederate that tried to betray them. No, no,” muttered he, +below his breath; “no man shall tell me it was cowardice. +</p> +<p> +“When I saw that there was no way to turn back, I determined to go forward +boldly, and even eagerly, trusting to the course of events to give me a +chance of escape. I wrote to Collins to say that my relative was better, +and should not require me to go over; and, in short, by eleven o'clock on +the appointed Saturday, we all assembled on the deck of the 'St Helier,' +bound for Jersey. +</p> +<p> +“Never was a jollier party met for an excursion of pleasure,—all but +Hawke himself; he came aboard very ill, and went at once to his berth. He +was in that most pitiable state, the commencing convalescence of delirium +tremens, when all the terrors of a deranged mind still continue to disturb +and distress the recovering intellect. As we went down one by one to see +him, he would scarcely speak, or even notice us. At times, too, he seemed +to have forgotten the circumstance which brought us all there, and he +would mutter to himself, 'It was no good job gathered all these fellows +together. Where can they be going to? What can they be after?' We had just +sat down to dinner, when Towers came laughing into the cabin. 'What do you +think,' said he to me, 'Hawke has just told me confidentially? He said, “I +'m not at all easy about that lot on deck,”—meaning you all. “The +devil doesn't muster his men for mere drill and parade, and the moment I +land in the island I 'll tell the police to have an eye on them.”' We +laughed heartily at this polite intention of our host, and joked a good +deal over the various imputations our presence might excite. From this we +went on to talk over what was to be done if Hawke should continue ill, all +being agreed that, having come so far, it would be impossible to forego +our projected pleasure: and at last it was decided that I, by virtue of +certain domestic relations ascribed to me, should enact the host, and do +the honors of the house, and so they filled bumpers to the Regency, and I +promised to be a mild Prince. +</p> +<p> +“'There's the thing for Godfrey,' said Towers, as some grilled chicken was +handed round; and taking the dish from the waiter, he carried it himself +to Hawke, and remained while he ate it. 'Poor devil!' said he, as he came +back, 'he seems quite soft-hearted about my little attentions to him. He +actually said, “Thank you, old fellow.''” + </p> +<p> +Perhaps our reader will thank us if we do not follow Paten through a +narrative in which the minutest detail was recorded, nor any, even the +most trivial, incident forgotten, graven as they were on a mind that was +to retain them to the last. All the levities they indulged in during the +voyage,—which was, in fact, little other than an orgie from the hour +they sailed to that they landed, dashed with little gloomy visits to that +darkened sick berth where Hawke lay,—all were remembered, all +chronicled. +</p> +<p> +The cottage itself—The Hawke's Nest, as it was whimsically called—he +described with all the picturesque ardor of an artist. It was truly a most +lovely spot, nestled down in a cleft between the hills, and so shut in +from all wintry influences that the oranges and myrtles overgrew it as +though the soil were Italy. The grounds were of that half-park, +half-garden order, which combines greensward and flowering border, and +masses into one beauteous whole the glories of the forest-tree with the +spray-like elegance of the shrub. There was a little lake, too, with an +island, over whose leafy copper beeches a little Gothic spire appeared,—an +imitation of some richly ornamented shrine in Moorish Spain. What was it +that in this dark story would still attract him to the scenery of this +spot, making him linger and dally in it as though he could not tear +himself away? Why would he loiter in description of some shady alley, some +woodbine-trellised path, as though the scene had no other memories but +those of a blissful bygone? In fact, such was the sort of fascination the +locality seemed to exercise over him, that his voice grew softer, the +words faltered as he spoke them, and once he drew his hand across his +eyes, as though to wipe away a tear. +</p> +<p> +“Was it not strange, Stocmar,” broke he suddenly in, “I was never able to +see her one moment alone? She avoided it in fifty ways! Hawke kept his +room for two days after we arrived, and we scarcely ever saw her, and when +we did, it was hurriedly and passingly. Godfrey, too, he would send for +one of us,—always one, mark you, alone; and after a few muttering +words about his suffering, he 'd be sure to say, 'Can <i>you</i> tell me +what has brought them all down here? I can't get it out of my head that +there ain't mischief brewing.' Now each of us in turn had heard this +speech, and we conned it over and over again. 'It's the woman has put this +notion in his head,' said Towers. 'I 'll take my oath it came from <i>her</i>. +Look to <i>that</i>, Paul Hunt,' said he to me, 'for you have influence in +that quarter.' I retorted angrily to this, and very high words passed +between us; in fact, the altercation went so far that, when we met at +dinner, we never addressed or noticed each other. I 'll never forget that +dinner. Wake seemed to range himself on Towers's side, and Collins looked +half disposed to take mine; everything that was said by one was sure to be +capped by some sharp impertinence by another, and we sat there +interchanging slights and sneers and half-covert insolences for hours. +</p> +<p> +“If there had been a steamer for Southampton, I 'd have started next +morning. I told Collins so when I went to my room; but he was much opposed +to this, and said, 'If we draw back now, it must be with Towers and Wake,—all +or none!' We passed nearly the entire night in discussing the point, and +could not agree on it. +</p> +<p> +“I suppose that Hawke must have heard how ill we all got on together. +There was a little girl—a daughter by his first wife—always in +and out of the room where we were; and though in appearance a mere infant, +the shrewdest, craftiest little sprite I ever beheld. Now this Clara, I +suspect, told Hawke everything that passed. I know for certain that she +was in the flower-garden, outside the window, during a very angry +altercation between Towers and myself, and when I went up afterwards to +see Hawke he knew the whole story. +</p> +<p> +“What a day that was! I had asked Loo to let me speak a few words with her +alone, and, after great hesitation, she promised to meet me in the garden +in the evening. I had determined on telling her everything. I was resolved +to break with Towers and Wake, and I trusted to her clear head to advise +how best to do it. The greater part of the morning Towers was up in +Hawke's room; he had always an immense influence over Godfrey; he knew +things about him none others had ever heard of, and, when he came +downstairs, he took the doctor—it was your old Professor, that mad +fellow—into the library, and spent full an hour with him. When +Towers came out afterwards, he seemed to have got over his angry feeling +towards me, and, coming up in all seeming frankness, took my arm, and led +me out into the shrubbery. +</p> +<p> +“'Hawke is sinking rapidly,' said he; 'the doctor says he cannot possibly +recover.' +</p> +<p> +“'Indeed!' said I, amazed. 'What does he call the malady?' +</p> +<p> +“'He says it's a break-up,—a general smash,—lungs, liver, +brain, all destroyed; a common complaint with fellows who have lived +hard.' He looked at me steadily, almost fiercely, as he said this, but I +seemed quite insensible to his gaze. 'He 'll not leave <i>her</i> a +farthing,' added he, after a moment. +</p> +<p> +“'The greater villain he, then,' said I. 'It was for <i>him</i> she ruined +herself.' +</p> +<p> +“'Yes, yes, that was all true enough once; but <i>now</i>, Master Paul,—now +there's another story, you know.' +</p> +<p> +“'If you mean under the guise of a confidence to renew the insults you +dared to pass upon me yesterday,' said I, 'I tell you at once I 'll not +bear it.' +</p> +<p> +“'Can't you distinguish between friendship and indifference?' said he, +warmly. 'I don't ask you to trust me with your secrets, but let us talk +like men, not like children. Hawke intends to alter his will to-morrow. It +had been made in her favor; at least, he left her this place here, and +some small thing he had in Wales; he's going to change everything and +leave all to the girl.' +</p> +<p> +“'It can't be a considerable thing, after all,' said I, peevishly, and not +well knowing what I said. +</p> +<p> +“'Pardon me,' broke he in; 'he has won far more than any of us suspected. +He has in hard cash above two thousand pounds in the house, a mass of +acceptances in good paper, and several bonds of first-rate men. I went +over his papers this morning with him, and saw his book, too, for the +Oaks,—a thing, I suppose, he had never shown to any living man +before. He has let us all in there, Paul; he has, by Jove! for while +telling us to put all upon Jeremy, he 's going to win with Proserpine!' +</p> +<p> +“I confess the baseness of this treachery sickened me. +</p> +<p> +“'"How Paul will storm, and rave, and curse me when he finds it out,” said +he; “but there was no love lost between us.” He never liked you, Hunt,—never.' +</p> +<p> +“'It's not too late yet,' said I, 'to hedge about and save ourselves.' +</p> +<p> +“'No, there's time still, especially if <i>he</i> “hops the twig.” Now,' +said he, after a long pause, 'if by any chance he were to die to-night, <i>she</i> +'d be safe; she'd at least inherit some hundreds a year, and a good deal +of personal property.' +</p> +<p> +“'There's no chance of <i>that</i>, though,' said I, negligently. +</p> +<p> +“'Who told you so, Paul?' said he, with a cunning cast of his eye.' That +old drunken doctor said he 'd not insure him for twenty-four hours. A rum +old beast he is! Do you know what he said to me awhile ago? “Captain,” + said he, “do you know anything about chemistry?” “Nothing whatever,” said +I. “Well,” said he, with a hiccup,—for he was far gone in liquor,—“albumen +is the antidote to the muriate; and if you want to give him a longer line, +let him have an egg to eat”.'” + </p> +<p> +“Good Heavens! Do you mean that he suspected—” + </p> +<p> +“He was dead drunk two minutes afterwards, and said that Hawke was dying +of typhus, and that he'd certify under his hand. 'But no matter about <i>him</i>,' +said he, impatiently. 'If Hawke goes off to-night, it will be a good thing +for all of us. Here's this imp of a child!' muttered he, below his breath; +'let us be careful.' And so we parted company, each taking his own road. +</p> +<p> +“I walked about the grounds alone all day,—I need not tell you with +what a heavy heart and a loaded conscience, and only came back to dinner. +We were just sitting down to table, when the door opened, and, like a +corpse out of his grave, Hawke stole slowly in, and sat down amongst us. +He never spoke a word, nor looked at any one. I swear to you, so terrible +was the apparition, so ghastly, and so death-like, that I almost doubted +if he were still living. +</p> +<p> +“'Well done, old boy! there 's nothing will do you such good as a little +cheering up,' cried Towers. +</p> +<p> +“'<i>She</i>'s asleep,' said he, in a low, feeble voice, 'and so I stole +down to eat my last dinner with you.' +</p> +<p> +“'Not the last for many a year to come,' said Wake, filling his glass. +'The doctor says you are made of iron.' +</p> +<p> +“'A man of mettle, I suppose,' said he, with a feeble attempt to laugh. +</p> +<p> +“'There! isn't he quite himself again?' cried Wake. 'By George! he 'll see +us all down yet!' +</p> +<p> +“'Down where?' said Hawke, solemnly. And the tone and the words struck a +chill over us. +</p> +<p> +“We did not rally for some time, and when we did, it was with an effort +forced and unnatural. Hawke took something on his plate, but ate none of +it, turning the meat over with his fork in a listless way. His wine, too, +he laid down when half-way to his lips, and then spat it out over the +carpet, saying to himself something inaudible. +</p> +<p> +“'What's the matter, Godfrey? Don't you like that capital sherry?' said +Towers. +</p> +<p> +“'No,' said he, in a hollow, sepulchral voice. +</p> +<p> +“'We have all pronounced it admirable,' went on the other. +</p> +<p> +“'It burns,—everything burns,' said the sick man. +</p> +<p> +“I filled him a glass of iced water and handed it to him, and Towers gave +me a look so full of hate and vengeance that my hand nearly let the +tumbler drop. +</p> +<p> +“'Don't drink cold water, man!' cried Towers, catching his arm; 'that is +the worst thing in the world for you.' +</p> +<p> +“'It won't poison me, will it?' said Hawke. And he fixed his leaden, glazy +gaze on Towers. +</p> +<p> +“'What the devil do you mean?' cried he, savagely. 'This is an ugly jest, +sir.' +</p> +<p> +“The sick man, evidently more startled by the violence of the manner than +by the words themselves, looked from one to the other of us all round the +table. +</p> +<p> +“'Forgive me, old fellow,' burst in Towers, with an attempt to laugh; 'but +the whole of this day, I can't say why or how, but everything irritates +and chafes me. I really believe that we all eat and drink too well here. +We live like fighting-cocks, and, of course, are always ready for +conflict.' +</p> +<p> +“We all did our best to forget the unpleasant interruption of a few +minutes back, and talked away with a sort of over-eagerness. But Hawke +never spoke; there he sat, turning his glazed, filmy look from one to the +other, as though in vain trying to catch up something of what went +forward. He looked so ill—so fearfully ill, all the while, that it +seemed a shame to sit carousing there around him, and so I whispered to +Collins; but Towers overheard me, and said, +</p> +<p> +“'All wrong. <i>You</i> don't know what tough material he is made of. This +is the very thing to rally him,—eh, Godfrey?' cried he, louder. 'I +'m telling these fellows that you 'll be all the better for coming down +amongst us, and that when I've made you a brew of that milk-punch you are +so fond of—' +</p> +<p> +“'It won't burn my throat, will it?' whined out the sick man. +</p> +<p> +“'Burn your throat! not a bit of it; but warm your blood up, give +energy to your heart, and brace your nerves, so that before the bowl is +finished you 'll sing us “Tom Hall;” or, better still, “That rainy day I +met her,”— +</p> +<pre> +“That rainy day I met her, +When she tripped along the street, +And, with petticoat half lifted, +Showed a dainty pair of feet.” + </pre> +<p> +“'How does it go?' said he, trying to catch the tune. +</p> +<p> +“A ghastly grin—an expression more horrible than I ever saw on a +human face before—was Hawke's recognition of this appeal to him, +and, beating his fingers feebly on the table, he seemed trying to recall +the air. +</p> +<p> +“'I can't stand this any longer,' whispered Wake to me; 'the man is +dying!' +</p> +<p> +“'Confound you for a fool!' said Towers, angrily. 'You 'll see what a +change an hour will make in him. I 've got the receipt for that milk-punch +up in my room. I 'll go and fetch it' And with this he arose, and hastily +left the room. +</p> +<p> +“'Where's Tom?' said the sick man, with a look of painful eagerness. +'Where is he?' +</p> +<p> +“'He's gone for the receipt of the milk-punch; he's going to make a brew +for you!' said I. +</p> +<p> +“'But I won't take it. I 'll taste nothing more,' said he, with a marked +emphasis. 'I 'll take nothing but what Loo gives me,' muttered he, below +his breath. And we all exchanged significant looks with each other. +</p> +<p> +“'This will never do,' murmured Wake, in a low voice. 'Say something—tell +a story—but let us keep moving.' +</p> +<p> +“And Collins began some narrative of his early experiences on the Turf. +The story, like all such, was the old burden of knave and dupe,—the +man who trusted and the man who cheated. None of us paid much attention to +the details, but drank away at our wine, and sent the decanters briskly +round, when suddenly, at the mention of a horse being found dead in his +stall on the morning he was to have run, Hawke broke in with 'Nobbled! +Just like me!' +</p> +<p> +“Though the words were uttered in a sort of revery, and with a bent-down +head, we all were struck dumb, and gazed ruefully at each other. 'Where's +Towers all this time?' said Collins to me, in a whisper. I looked at my +watch, and saw that it was forty-four minutes since he left the room. I +almost started up from my seat with terror, as I thought what this long +absence might portend. Had he actually gone off, leaving us all to the +perils that were surrounding us? Was it that he had gone to betray us to +the law? I could not speak from fear when the door opened, and he came in +and sat down in his place. Though endeavoring to seem easy and +unconcerned, I could mark that he wore an air of triumph and success that +he could not subdue. +</p> +<p> +“'Here comes the brew,' said he, as the servant brought in a large smoking +bowl of fragrant mixture. +</p> +<p> +“'I 'll not touch it!' said Hawke, with a resolute tone that startled us. +</p> +<p> +“'What! after giving me more than half an hour's trouble in preparing it,' +said Towers. 'Come, old fellow, that is not gracious.' +</p> +<p> +“'Drink it yourselves!' said Hawke, sulkily. +</p> +<p> +“'So we will, after we have finished this Burgundy,' said Towers. 'But, +meanwhile, what will <i>you</i> have? It's poor fun to sit here with an +empty glass.' And he filled him out a goblet of the milk-punch and placed +it before him. 'Here's to the yellow jacket with black sleeves,' said he, +lifting his glass; 'and may we see him the first “round the corner.”' +</p> +<p> +“'First “round the corner!”' chorused the rest of us. And Hawke, catching +up the spirit of the toast, seized his glass and drank it off. +</p> +<p> +“'Iknew he 'd drink his own colors if he had one leg in the grave!' said +Towers. +</p> +<p> +“The clock on the mantelpiece struck ten at the moment. It was the hour I +was to meet her in the shrubbery; and so, pretending to go in search of my +cigar-case, I slipped away and left them. As I was passing behind Hawke's +chair, he made a gesture to me to come near him. I bent down my head to +him, and he said, 'It won't do this time; she 'll not meet you, Paul.' +These were the last words I ever heard him speak.” + </p> +<p> +When Paten had got thus far, he walked away from his friend, and, leaning +his arm on the bulwark, seemed overwhelmed with the dreary retrospect. He +remained thus for a considerable time, and only rallied as Stocmar, +drawing his arm within his, said, “Come, come, this is no fresh sorrow +now. Let me hear the remainder.” + </p> +<p> +“He spoke truly,” said he, in a broken voice. “She never came! I walked +the grounds for above an hour and a half, and then I came back towards the +cottage. There was a light in her room, and I whistled to attract her +notice, and threw some gravel against the glass, but she only closed the +shutters, and did not mind me. I cannot tell you how my mind was racked +between the actual terror of the situation and the vague dread of some +unknown evil. What had produced this change in <i>her?</i> Why had <i>she</i> +broken with me? Could it be that Towers had seen her in that long interval +he was absent from the table, and, if so, to what intent? She always hated +and dreaded him; but who could tell what influence such a man might +acquire in a moment of terrible interest? A horrible sense of jealousy—not +the less maddening that it was shadowy and uncertain—now filled my +mind; and—would you believe it?—I thought worse of Towers for +his conduct towards me than for the dreadful plot against Hawke. Chance +led me, as I walked, to the bank of the little lake, where I stood for +some time thinking. Suddenly a splash—too heavy for the spring of a +fish—startled me, and immediately after I heard the sound of some +one forcing his way through the close underwood beside me. Before I had +well rallied from my astonishment, a voice I well knew to be that of +Towers, cried out,— +</p> +<p> +“'Who 's there?—who are you?' +</p> +<p> +“I called out, 'Hunt,—Paul Hunt!' +</p> +<p> +“'And what the devil brings you here, may I ask?' said he, insolently, but +in a tone that showed he had been drinking deeply. +</p> +<p> +“It was no time to provoke discord; it was a moment that demanded all we +could muster of concession and agreement, and so I simply told how mere +accident had turned my steps in this direction. +</p> +<p> +“'What if I said I don't believe you, Paul Hunt?' retorted he, savagely. +'What if I said that I see your whole game in this business, and know +every turn and every trick you mean to play us?' +</p> +<p> +“If you had not drunk so much of Godfrey's Burgundy,' said I, 'you 'd +never have spoken this way to an old friend.' +</p> +<p> +“'Friend be———!' cried he, savagely. 'I know no friends +but the men who will share danger with you as well as drink out of the +same bottle. Why did you leave us this evening?' +</p> +<p> +“'I'll be frank with you, Tom,' said I. 'I had made a rendezvous with +Louisa; but she never came.' +</p> +<p> +“'Why should she?' muttered he, angrily. 'Why should she trust the man who +is false to his pals?' +</p> +<p> +“'That I have never been,' broke I in. 'Ask Hawke himself. Ask Godfrey, +and he'll tell you whether I have ever dropped a word against you.' +</p> +<p> +“'No, he would n't,' said he, doggedly. +</p> +<p> +“'I tell you he would,' cried I. 'Let us go to him this minute.' +</p> +<p> +“'I 'd rather not, if the choice were given me,' said he, with a horrid +laugh. +</p> +<p> +“'Do you mean,' cried I, in terror,—'do you mean that it is all +over?' +</p> +<p> +“'All over!' said he, gravely, and as though his clouded faculties were +suddenly cleared. 'Godfrey knows all about it by this time,' muttered he, +half to himself. +</p> +<p> +“'Would to Heaven we had never come here!' burst I in, for my heart was +breaking with anguish and remorse. 'How did it happen, and where?' +</p> +<p> +“'In the chair where you last saw him. We thought he had fallen asleep, +and were for having him carried up to bed, when he gave a slight shudder +and woke up again. +</p> +<p> +“Where's Loo?” cried he, in a weak voice; and then, before we could +answer, he added, “Where 's Hunt?” + </p> +<p> +“'"Paul was here a moment ago; he 'll be back immediately.” + </p> +<p> +“'He gave a laugh,—such a laugh I hope never to hear again. Cold as +he lies there now, that terrible grin is on his face yet. You 've done it +this time, Tom,” said he to me, in a whisper. “What do you mean?” said I. +“Death!” said he; “it's all up with <i>me,—your</i> time is coming.” + And he gave a ghastly grin, sighed, and it was over.' +</p> +<p> +“We both sat down on the damp ground, and never spoke for nigh an hour. At +last Tom said, 'We ought to be back in the house, and trying to make +ourselves useful, Paul.' +</p> +<p> +“I arose, and walked after him, not knowing well whither I was going. When +we reached the little flower-garden, we could see into the dining-room. +The branch of wax-candles were still lighted, but burnt down very low. All +had left; there was nothing there but the dead man sitting up in his +chair, with his eyes staring, and his chin fallen. 'Craven-hearted +scoundrels!' cried Towers. 'The last thing I said was to call in the +servants, and say that their master had fainted; and see, they have run +away out of sheer terror. Ain't these hopeful fellows to go before the +coroner's inquest?' I was trembling from head to foot all this while, and +had to hold Towers by the arm to support myself. 'You are not much +better!' said he, savagely. 'Get to bed, and take a long sleep, man. Lock +your door, and open it to none till I come to you.' I staggered away as +well as I could, and reached my room. Once alone there, I fell on my knees +and tried to pray, but I could not. I could do nothing but cry,—cry, +as though my heart would burst; and I fell off asleep, at last, with my +head on the bedside, and never awoke till the next day at noon. Oh!” cried +he, in a tone of anguish, “do not ask me to recall more of this dreadful +story; I'd rather follow the others to the scaffold, than I 'd live over +again that terrible day. But you know the rest,—the whole world +knows it. It was the 'Awful Tragedy in Jersey' of every newspaper of +England; even to the little cottage, in the print-shop windows, the +curiosity of the town was gratified. The Pulpit employed the theme to +illustrate the life of the debauchee; and the Stage repeated the incidents +in a melodrama. With a vindictive inquisitiveness, too, the Press +continued to pry after each of us, whither we had gone, and what had +become of us. I myself, at last, escaped further scrutiny by the +accidental circumstance of a pauper, called Paul Hunt, having died in a +poor-house, furnishing the journalist who recorded it one more occasion +for moral reflection and eloquence. Collins lived, I know not how or +where. She sailed for Australia, but I believe never went beyond the +Cape.” + </p> +<p> +“And you never met her since?” + </p> +<p> +“Never.” + </p> +<p> +“Nor have you held any correspondence together?” + </p> +<p> +“None, directly. I have received some messages; one to that purport I have +already told you. Indeed, it was but t' other day that I knew for certain +she was in Europe.” + </p> +<p> +“What was she in appearance,—what style and manner of person?” + </p> +<p> +“You shall guess before I tell you,” said Paten, smiling sadly. +</p> +<p> +“A dark-eyed, dark-haired woman,—brunette,—tall,—with a +commanding look,—thin lips,—and strongly marked chin.” + </p> +<p> +“Here,” said he, approaching the binnacle lantern, and holding out a +miniature he had drawn from his breast,—“here you can recognize the +accuracy of your description.” + </p> +<p> +“But can that be like her?” + </p> +<p> +“It is herself; even the careless ease of the attitude, the voluptuous +indolence of the 'pose,' is all her own.” + </p> +<p> +“But she is the very type of feminine softness and delicacy. I never saw +eyes more full of gentle meaning, nor a mouth more expressive of womanly +grace.” + </p> +<p> +“There is no flattery in the portrait; nay, it wants the great charm she +excelled in,—that ever changeful look as thoughts of joy or sadness +would flash across her.” + </p> +<p> +“Good Heavens!” cried Stocmar. “How hard it is to connect this creature, +as she looks here, with such a story!” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, my friend, these have been the cruel ones, from the earliest time we +hear of. The more intensely they are womanly, the more unrelenting their +nature.” + </p> +<p> +“And what do you mean to do, Ludlow? for I own to you I think she is a +hard adversary to cope with.” + </p> +<p> +“I' ll marry her, if she 'll have me.” + </p> +<p> +“Have you? Of course she will.” + </p> +<p> +“She says not; and she generally keeps her word.” + </p> +<p> +“But why should you wish to marry her, Ludlow? You have already told me +that you know nothing of her means, or how she lives; and, certainly, the +memories of the past give small guarantee for the future. As for myself, I +own to you, if there was not another woman—” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, nay,” broke in Paten, “you have never seen her,—never spoken +to her.” + </p> +<p> +“You forget, my dear fellow, that I have passed a life in an atmosphere of +mock fascinations; that tinsel attractions and counterfeit graces would +all fail with me.” + </p> +<p> +“But who says they are factitious?” cried Paten, angrily. “The money that +passes from hand to hand, as current coin, may have some alloy in its +composition a chemist might call base, but it will not serve to stamp it +as fraudulent. I tell you, Stocmar, it is the whole fortune of a man's +life to be associated with such a woman. They can mar or make you.” + </p> +<p> +“More likely the first,” muttered Stocmar. And then added aloud, “And as +to her fortune, you actually know nothing.” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing beyond the fact that there's money somewhere. The girl or she, I +can't say which, has it.” + </p> +<p> +“And of course, in your eyes, it 's like a pool at écarté: you don't +trouble your head who are the contributors?” + </p> +<p> +“Not very much if I win, Stocmar!” said he, resuming at once all the +wonted ease of his jovial manner. +</p> +<p> +Stocmar walked the deck in deep thought. The terrible tale he had just +heard, though not new in all its details, had impressed him fearfully, +while at the same time he could not conceive how a man so burdened with a +horrible past could continue either to enjoy the present or speculate on +the future. +</p> +<p> +At last he said, “And have you no dread of recognition, Ludlow? Is the +danger of being known and addressed by your real name not always uppermost +with you?” + </p> +<p> +“No, not now. When I first returned to England, after leaving the Austrian +service, I always went about with an uneasy impression upon me,—a +sort of feeling that when men looked at me they were trying to remember +where and when and how they had seen that face before; but up to this none +have ever discovered me, except Dell the detective officer, whom I met one +night at Cremorne, and who whispered me softly, 'Happy to see you, Mr. +Hunt. Have you been long in England?' I affected at first not to +understand him, and, touching his hat politely, he said: 'Well, Sir,—Jos. +Dell. If you remember, I was <i>there</i> at the inquest.' I invited him +to share a bottle of wine with me at once, and we parted like old friends. +By the way,” added he, “there was that old pyrotechnist of yours,—that +drunken rascal,—<i>he</i> knew me too.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, you 're not likely to be troubled with another recognition from +him, Ludlow.” + </p> +<p> +“How so? Is the fellow dead?” + </p> +<p> +“No; but I 've shipped him to New York by the 'Persia.' Truby, of the +Bowery Theatre, has taken a three years' lease of him, and of course +cocktails and juleps will shorten even that.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>That</i> is a relief, by Jove!” cried Paten. “I own to you, Stocmar, +the thought of being known by that man lay like a stone on my heart. Had +you any trouble in inducing him to go?” + </p> +<p> +“Trouble? No. He went on board drunk; he 'll be drunk all the voyage, and +he 'll land in America in the same happy state.” + </p> +<p> +Paten smiled pleasantly at this picture of beatitude, and smoked on. +“There's no doubt about it, Stocmar,” said he, sententiously, “we all of +us do make cowards of ourselves quite needlessly, imagining that the world +is full of us, canvassing our characters and scrutinizing our actions, +when the same good world is only thinking of itself and its own affairs.” + </p> +<p> +“That is true in part, Ludlow. But let us make ourselves foreground +figures, and, take my word for it, we 'll not have to complain of want of +notice.” + </p> +<p> +Paten made a movement of impatience at this speech, that showed how little +he liked the sentiment, and then said,— +</p> +<p> +“There are the lights of Ostend. What a capital passage we have made! I +can't express to you,” said he, with more animation, “what a relief it is +to me to feel myself on the soil of the Continent. I don't know how it +affects others, but to me it seems as if there were greater scope and a +freer room for a man's natural abilities there.” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose you think we are cursed with 'respectability' at home.” + </p> +<p> +“The very thing I mean,” said he, gayly; “there's nothing I detest like +it.” + </p> +<p> +“Colonel Paten,” cried the steward, collecting his fees. +</p> +<p> +“Are you Colonel?” asked Stocmar, in a whisper. +</p> +<p> +“Of course I am, and very modest not to be Major-General. But here we are, +inside the harbor already.” + </p> +<p> +Were we free to take a ramble up the Rhine country, and over the Alps to +Como, we might, perhaps, follow the steps of the two travellers we have +here presented to our reader. They were ultimately bound for Italy, but in +no wise tied by time or route. In fact, Mr. Stocmar's object was to seek +out some novelties for the coming season. “Nihil humanum a me alienum +puto” was his maxim. All was acceptable that was attractive. He catered +for the most costly of all publics, and who will insist on listening to +the sweetest voices and looking at the prettiest legs in Europe. He was on +the lookout for both. What Ludlow Paten's object was the reader may +perhaps guess without difficulty, but there was another “transaction” in +his plan not so easily determined. He had heard much of Clara Hawke,—to +give her her true name,—of her personal attractions and abilities, +and he wished Stocmar to see and pronounce upon her. Although he possessed +no pretension to dispose of her whatever, he held certain letters of her +supposed mother in his keeping which gave him a degree of power which he +believed irresistible. Now, there is a sort of limited liability slavery +at this moment recognized in Europe, by which theatrical managers obtain a +lease of human ability, for a certain period, under nonage, and of which +Paten desired to derive profit by letting Clara out as dancer, singer, +comedian, or “figurante,” according to her gifts; and this, too, was a +purpose of the present journey. +</p> +<p> +The painter or the sculptor, in search of his model, has no higher +requirements than those of form and symmetry; he deals solely with +externals, while the impresario most carry his investigations far beyond +the category of personal attractions, and soar into the lofty atmosphere +of intellectual gifts and graces, bearing along with him, at the same +time, a full knowledge of that public for whom he is proceeding; that +fickle, changeful, fanciful public, who sometimes, out of pure satiety +with what is best, begin to long for what is second-rate. What consummate +skill must be his who thus feels the pulse of fashion, recognizing in its +beat the indications of this or that tendency, whether “society” soars to +the classic “Norma,” or descends to the tawdry vulgarisms of the +“Traviata”! No man ever accepted more implicitly than Mr. Stocmar the +adage of “Whatever is, is best.” The judgment of the day with him was +absolute. The “world” <i>a toujours raison</i>, was his creed. When that +world pronounced for music, he cried, “Long live Verdi!” when it decided +for the ballet, his toast was, “Legs against the field!” Now, at this +precise moment, this same world had taken a turn for mere good looks,—if +it be not heresy to say “mere” to such a thing as beauty,—and had +actually grown a little wearied of roulades and pirouettes; and so Stocmar +had come abroad, to see what the great slave market of Europe could offer +him. +</p> +<p> +Let us suppose them, therefore, pleasantly meandering along through the +Rhineland, while we turn once more to those whom we have left beyond the +Alps. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXVII. THE FRAGMENT OF A LETTER +</h2> +<p> +The following brief epistle from Mrs. Morris to her father will save the +reader the tedious task of following the Heathcote family through an +uneventful interval, and at the same time bring him to that place and +period in which we wish to see him. It is dated Hôtel d'Italie, Florence:— +</p> +<p> +“Dear Papa,—You are not to feel any shock or alarm at the black +margin and wax of this epistle, though its object be to inform you that I +am a widow, Captain Penthony Morris having died some eight months back in +Upper India; but the news has only reached me now. In a word, I have +thought it high time to put an end to this mythical personage, whose cruel +treatment of me I had grown tired of recalling, and, I conclude, others of +listening to. Now, although it may be very hard on you to go into mourning +for the death of one who never lived, yet I must bespeak your grief, in so +far as stationery is concerned, and that you write to me on the most +woe-begone of cream-laid, and with the most sorrow-struck of seals. +</p> +<p> +“There was, besides, another and most cogent reason for my being a widow +just now. The Heathcotes are here, on their way to Rome, and, like all +English people, eager to go everywhere, do everything, and know everybody; +the consequence is eternal junketing and daily dinner-parties. I need not +tell you that in such a caravanserai as this is, some one would surely +turn up who should recognize me; so there was nothing for it but to kill +Captain M. and go into crape and seclusion. As my bereavement is only a +sham, I perform the affliction without difficulty. Our mourning, too, +becomes us, and, everything considered, the incident has spared us much +sight-seeing and many odious acquaintances. +</p> +<p> +“As it is highly important that I should see and consult you, you must +come out here at once. As the friend and executor of poor 'dear Penthony,' +you can see me freely, and I really want your advice. Do I understand you +aright about Ludlow? If so, the creature is a greater fool than I thought +him. Marrying him is purely out of the question. Of all compacts, the +connubial demands implicit credulity; and if this poor man's tea were to +disagree with him, he 'd be screaming out for antidotes before the +servants, and I conclude that he cannot expect <i>me</i> to believe in <i>him</i>. +The offer you have made him on my part is a great and brilliant one, and, +for the life of me, I cannot see why he should hesitate about it, though +I, perhaps, suspect it to be this. Like most fast men,—a very +shallow class, after all,—his notion is that life, like a +whist-party, requires an accomplice. Now, I would beg him to believe this +is not the case, and that for two people who can play their cards so well +as we can, it is far better to sit down at separate tables, where no +suspicion of complicity can attach to us. I, at least, understand what +suits my own interest, which is distinctly and emphatically to have +nothing to do with him. You say that he threatens,—threatens to +engulf us both. If he were a woman, the menace would frighten me, but men +are marvellously conservative in their selfishness, and so I read it as +mere threat. +</p> +<p> +“It is, I will say, no small infliction to carry all this burden of the +past through a present rugged enough with its own difficulties. To feel +that one can be compromised, and, if compromised, ruined at any moment,—to +walk with a half-drawn indictment over one,—to mingle in a world +where each fresh arrival may turn out accuser,—is very, very +wearisome, and I long for security. It is for this reason I have decided +on marrying Sir William instead of his son. The indiscretion of a man of +his age taking a wife of mine will naturally lead to retirement and +reclusion from the world, and we shall seek out some little visited spot +where no awkward memories are like to leave their cards on us. I have +resigned myself to so much in life, that I shall submit to all this with +as good a grace as I have shown in other sacrifices. Of course L. can +spoil this project,—he can upset the boat,—but he ought to +remember, if he does, that he was never a good swimmer. Do try and impress +this upon him; there are usually some flitting moments of every day when +he is capable of understanding a reason. Catch one of these, dear pa, and +profit by it. It is by no means certain that Miss L. would accept him; +but, certainly, smarting as she is under all manner of broken ties, the +moment is favorable, and the stake a large one. Nor is there much time to +lose, for it seems that young Heathcote cannot persuade the Horse Guards +to give him even a 'Cornetcy,' and is in despair how he is to re-enter the +service; the inevitable consequence of which will be a return home here, +and, after a while, a reconciliation. It is only wise people who ever know +that the science of life is opportunity, everything being possible at some +one moment, which, perhaps, never recurs again. +</p> +<p> +“I scarcely know what to say about Clara. She has lost her spirits, though +gained in looks, and she is a perfect mope, but very pretty withal. She +fancies herself in love with a young college man lately here, who won all +the disposable hearts in the place, and might have had a share even in +mine, if he had asked for it. The greater fool he that he did not, since +he wanted exactly such guidance as I could give to open the secret door of +success to him. By the way, has his father died, or what has become of +him? In turning over some papers t'other day, the name recurred with some +far from pleasant recollections associated with it. Scientific folk used +to tell us that all the constituents of our mortal bodies became consumed +<i>every</i> seven years of life. And why, I ask, ought we not to start +with fresh memories as well as muscles, and ignore any past beyond that +short term of existence? I am perfectly convinced it is carrying alone +bygones, whether of events or people, that constitutes the greatest ill of +life. One so very seldom repents of having done wrong, and is so very, +very sorry to have lost many opportunities of securing success, that +really the past is all sorrow. +</p> +<p> +“You have forgotten to counsel me about Clara. The alternative lies +between the stage and a convent. Pray say which of the two, in these +changeful times, gives the best promise of permanence; and believe me +</p> +<p> +“Your affectionate daughter, +</p> +<p> +“Louisa.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXVIII. THE O'SHEA AT HIS LODGINGS. +</h2> +<p> +A very brief chapter will suffice to record the doings of two of our +characters, not destined to perform very foreground parts in the present +drama. We mean Mr. O'Shea and Charles Heathcote. They had established +themselves in lodgings in a certain locality called Manchester Buildings, +much favored by some persons who haunt the avenues of “the House,” and are +always in search of “our Borough Member.” Neither the aspect of their +domicile, nor their style of living, bespoke flourishing circumstances. +O'Shea, indeed, had returned to town in cash, but an unlucky night at the +“Garottoman” had finished him, and he returned to his lodgings one morning +at daybreak two hundred and seventeen pounds worse than nothing. +</p> +<p> +Heathcote had not played; nay, he had lived almost penuriously; but in a +few weeks all his resources were nigh exhausted, and no favorable change +had occurred in his fortunes. At the Horse Guards he had been completely +unsuccessful. He had served, it is true, with distinction, but, as he had +quitted the army, he could not expect to be restored to his former rank, +while, by the rules of the service, he was too old to enter as a +subaltern. And thus a trained soldier, who had won fame and honor in two +campaigns, was, at the age of twenty-six, decided to be superannuated. It +was the chance meeting of O'Shea in the street, when this dilemma was +mentioned, that led to their ultimate companionship, for the Member at +once swore to bring the case before the House, and to make the country +ring from end to end with the enormity. Poor Heathcote, friendless and +alone at the moment, caught at the promise, and a few days afterwards saw +them domesticated as chums at No.—, in the locality already +mentioned. +</p> +<p> +“You 'll have to cram me, Heathcote, with the whole case. I must be able +to make an effective speech, narrating all the great exploits you have +done, with everywhere you have been, before I come to the grievance, and +the motion for 'all the correspondence between Captain Heathcote and the +authorities at the Horse Guards, respecting his application to be +reinstated in the army.' I 'll get a special Tuesday for the motion, and I +'ll have Howley in to second me, and maybe we won't shake the Treasury +benches! for you see the question opens everything that ever was, or could +be, said about the army. It opens Horse Guards cruelty and +irresponsibility, those Bashi-Bazouks that rule the service like despots; +it opens the purchase system from end to end; it opens the question of +promotion by merit; it opens the great problem of retirement and +superannuation. By my conscience! I think I could bring the Thirty-nine +Articles into it, if I was vexed.” + </p> +<p> +The Member for Inch had all that persuasive power a ready tongue and an +unscrupulous temper supply, and speedily convinced the young soldier that +his case would not alone redound to his own advancement but become a +precedent, which should benefit hundreds of others equally badly treated +as himself. +</p> +<p> +It was while thus conning over the project, O'Shea mentioned, in deepest +confidence, the means of that extraordinary success which, he averred, had +never failed to attend all his efforts in the House, and this was, that he +never ventured on one of his grand displays without a previous rehearsal +at home; that is, he assembled at his own lodgings a supper company of his +most acute and intelligent friends—young barristers, men engaged on +the daily or weekly press—the smart squib-writers and caricaturists +of the day—alive to everything ridiculous, and unsparing in their +criticism; and by these was he judged in a sort of mock Parliament formed +by themselves. To each of these was allotted the character of some noted +speaker in the House, who did his best to personate the individual by +every trait of manner, voice, and action, while a grave, imposing-looking +man, named Doran, was a capital counterfeit of the “Speaker.” + </p> +<p> +O'Shea explained to Heathcote that the great advantage of this scheme +consisted in the way it secured one against surprises; no possible +interruption being omitted, nor any cavilling objection spared to the +orator. “You'll see,” he added, “that after sustaining these assaults, the +attack of the real fellows is only pastime.” + </p> +<p> +The day being fixed on, the company, numbering nigh twenty, assembled, and +Charles Heathcote could not avoid observing that their general air and +appearance were scarcely senatorial. O'Shea assured him gravity would soon +succeed to the supper, and dignity come in with the whiskey-punch. This +was so far borne out that when the cloth was removed, and a number of +glasses and bottles were distributed over the blackened mahogany, a grave +and almost austere bearing was at once assumed by the meeting. Doran also +took his place as Speaker, his cotton umbrella being laid before him as +the mace. The orders of the day were speedily disposed of, and a few +questions as to the supply of potables satisfactorily answered, when +O'Shea arose to bring on the case of the evening,—a motion “for all +the correspondence between the authorities of the Horse Guards and Captain +Heathcote, respecting the application of the latter to be reinstated in +the service.” + </p> +<p> +The Secretary-at-War, a red-faced, pimply man, subeditor of a Sunday +paper, objected to the production of the papers; and a smart +sparring-match ensued, in which O'Shea suffered rather heavily, but at +last came out victorious, being allowed to state the grounds for his +application. +</p> +<p> +O'Shea began with due solemnity, modestly assuring the House that he +wished the task had fallen to one more competent than himself, and more +conversant with those professional details which would necessarily occupy +a large space in the narrative. +</p> +<p> +“Surely the honorable member held a commission in the Clare Fencibles.” + </p> +<p> +“Was not the honorable member's father a band-master in the Fifty-fourth?” + cried another. +</p> +<p> +“To the insolent interruptions which have met me,” said O'Shea, +indignantly— +</p> +<p> +“Order! order!” + </p> +<p> +“Am I out of order, sir?” asked he of the Speaker. +</p> +<p> +“Clearly so,” replied that functionary. “Every interruption, short of a +knock-down, is parliamentary.” + </p> +<p> +“I bow to the authority of the chair, and I say that the ruffianly +allusions of certain honorable members 'pass by me like the idle wind, +that I regard not.'” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-312" id="linkimage-312"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0312.jpg" alt="ONE0312" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“Where 's that from? Take you two to one in half-crowns you can't tell,” + cried one. +</p> +<p> +“Done!” “Order! order!” “Spoke!” with cries of “Goon!” here convulsed the +meeting; after which O'Shea resumed his discourse. +</p> +<p> +“When, sir,” said he, “I undertook to bring under the notice of this +House, and consequently before the eyes of the nation, the case of a +distinguished officer, one whose gallant services in the tented field, +whose glorious achievements before the enemy have made his name famous in +all the annals of military distinction, I never anticipated to have been +met by the howls of faction, or the discordant yells of disappointed and +disorderly followers—mere condottieri—of the contemptible +tyrant who now scowls at me from the cross-benches.” + </p> +<p> +Loud cheers of applause followed this burst of indignation. +</p> +<p> +An animated conversation now ensued as to whether this was strictly +parliamentary; some averring that they “had heard worse,” others deeming +it a shade too violent, O'Shea insisting throughout that there never was a +sharp debate in the House without far blacker insinuations, while in the +Irish Parliament such courtesies were continually interchanged, and very +much admired. +</p> +<p> +“Was n't it Lawrence Parsons who spoke of the 'highly gifted blackguard on +the other side?'” and “Didn't John Toler allude to the 'ignorant and +destitute spendthrift who now sat for the beggarly borough of Athlone?'” + cried two or three advocates of vigorous language. +</p> +<p> +“There's worse in Homer,” said another, settling the question on classical +authority. +</p> +<p> +The discussion grew warm. What was, and what was not, admissible in +language was eagerly debated; the interchange of opinion, in a great +measure, serving to show that there were few, if any, freedoms of speech +that might not be indulged in. Indeed, Heathcote's astonishment was only +at the amount of endurance exhibited by each in turn, so candid were the +expressions employed, so free from all disguise the depreciatory +sentiments entertained. +</p> +<p> +In the midst of what had now become a complete uproar, and while one of +the orators, who by dint of lungs had overcome all competitors, was +inveighing against O'Shea as “a traitor to his party, and the scorn of +every true Irishman,” a fresh arrival, heated and almost breathless, +rushed into the room. +</p> +<p> +“It's all over,” cried he; “the Government is beaten. The House is to be +dissolved on Wednesday, and the country to go to a general election.” + </p> +<p> +Had a shell fallen on the table, the dispersion could not have been more +instantaneous. Barristers, reporters, borough agents, and penny-a-liners, +all saw their harvest-time before them, and hurried away to make their +engagements; and, in less than a quarter of an hour, O'Shea was left alone +with his companion, Charles Heathcote. +</p> +<p> +“Here's a shindy!” cried the ex-M. P., “and the devil a chance I have of +getting in again, if I can't raise five hundred pounds.” + </p> +<p> +Heathcote never spoke, but sat ruminating over the news. +</p> +<p> +“Bad luck to the Cabinet!” muttered O'Shea. “Why would they put that +stupid clause into their Bill? Could n't they wait to smuggle it in on a +committee? Here I am clean ruined and undone, just as I was on the road to +fame and fortune. And I can't even help a friend!” said he, turning a +pitiful look at Heathcote. +</p> +<p> +“Don't waste a thought about me!” said Heathcote, good-humoredly. +</p> +<p> +“But I will!” cried O'Shea. “I 'll go down to the Horse Guards myself. +Sure I'm forgetting already,” added he, with a sigh, “that we 're all +'out;' and now, for a trifle of five hundred, there's a fine chance lost +as ever man had. You don't know anybody could accommodate one with a loan,—of +course, on suitable terms?” + </p> +<p> +“Not one,—not one!” + </p> +<p> +“Or who 'd do it on a bill at three months, with our own names?” + </p> +<p> +“None!” + </p> +<p> +“Is n't it hard, I ask,—isn't it cruel,—just as I was making a +figure in the House? I was the 'rising man of the party,'—so the +'Post' called me,—and the 'Freeman' said, 'O'Shea has only to be +prudent, and his success is assured.' And wasn't I prudent? Didn't I keep +out of the divisions for half the session? Who's your father's banker, +Heathcote?” + </p> +<p> +“Drummonds, I believe; but I don't know them.” + </p> +<p> +“Murther! but it is hard! five hundred,—only five hundred. A real +true-hearted patriot, fresh for his work, and without engagements, going +for five hundred! I see you feel for me, my dear fellow,” cried he, +grasping Heathcote's hand. “I hear what your heart is saying this minute: +'O'Shea, old boy, if I had the money, I 'd put it in the palm of your +hand without the scratch of a pen between us.'” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not quite so certain I should,” muttered the other, half sulkily. +</p> +<p> +“But I know you better than you know yourself, and I repeat it. You 'd +say, 'Gorman O'Shea, I 'm not the man to see a first-rate fellow lost for +a beggarly five hundred. I 'd rather be able to say one of these days, +“Look at that man on the Woolsack,—or, maybe, Chief Justice in the +Queen's Bench—well, would you believe it? if I hadn't helped him one +morning with a few hundreds, it's maybe in the Serpentine he 'd have been, +instead of up there.”' And as we 'd sit over a bottle of hock in the +bay-window at Richmond, you 'd say, 'Does your Lordship remember the night +when you heard the House was up, and you had n't as much as would pay your +fare over to Ireland?'” + </p> +<p> +“I'm not so certain of <i>that</i>, either,” was the dry response of +Heathcote. +</p> +<p> +“And of what <i>are</i> you certain, then?” cried O'Shea, angrily; “for I +begin to believe you trust nothing, nor any one.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll tell you what I believe, and believe firmly too,—which is, +that a pair of fellows so completely out at elbows as you and myself had +far better break stones on a highroad for a shilling a day than stand +cudgelling their wits how to live upon others.” + </p> +<p> +“That is not my sentiment at all,—<i>suum cuique</i>,—stone-breaking +to the hard-handed; men of our stamp, Heathcote, have a right—a +vested right—to a smoother existence.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, time will tell who is right,” said Heathcote, carelessly, as he put +on his hat and walked to the door. A half-cold good-bye followed, and they +parted. +</p> +<p> +Hour after hour he walked the streets, unmindful of a thin misty rain that +fell unceasingly. He was now completely alone in the world, and there was +a sort of melancholy pleasure in the sense of his desolation. “My poor +father!” he would mutter from time to time; “if I could only think that he +would forget me! if I could but bring myself to believe that after a time +he would cease to sorrow for me!” He did not dare to utter more, nor even +to himself declare how valueless he deemed life, but strolled listlessly +onward, till the gray streaks in the murky sky proclaimed the approach of +morning. +</p> +<p> +Was it with some vague purpose or was it by mere accident that he found +himself standing at last near the barracks at Knightsbridge, around the +gate of which a group of country-looking young fellows was gathered, while +here and there a sergeant was seen to hover, as if speculating on his +prey? It was a time in which more than one young man of station had +enlisted as a private, and the sharp eye of the crimp Boon scanned the +upright stature and well-knit frame of Heathcote. +</p> +<p> +“Like to be a dragoon, my man?” said he, with an easy, swaggering air. +</p> +<p> +“I have some thought of it,” said the other, coldly. +</p> +<p> +“You 've served already, I suspect,” said the sergeant, in a more +respectful tone. +</p> +<p> +“For what regiment are you enlisting?” asked Heathcote, coldly, +disregarding the other's inquiry. +</p> +<p> +“Her Majesty's Bays,—could you ask better? But here's my officer.” + </p> +<p> +Before Heathcote had well heard the words, his name was called out, and a +slight, boyish figure threw his arms about him. +</p> +<p> +“Charley, how glad I am to see you!” cried he. +</p> +<p> +“Agincourt!—is this you?” said Heathcote, blushing deeply as he +spoke. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, I have had my own way at last; and I'm going to India too.” + </p> +<p> +“I am not,” said Heathcote, bitterly. “They 'll not have me at the Horse +Guards; I am too old, or too something or other for the service, and +there's nothing left me but to enter the ranks.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Charley,” cried the other, “if you only knew of the breaking heart +you have left behind you!—if you only knew how <i>she</i> loves +you!” + </p> +<p> +Was it that the boyish accents of these few words appealed to Heathcote's +heart with all the simple force of truth?—was it that they broke in +upon his gloom so unexpectedly,—a slanting sun-ray piercing a dark +cloud? But so it is, that he turned away, and drew his hand across his +eyes. +</p> +<p> +“I was off for a day's hunting down in Leicestershire,” said Agincourt. “I +sent the nags away yesterday. Come with me, Charley; we shall be back +again to-morrow, and you 'll see if my old guardian won't set all straight +with the War-Office people for you. Unless,” added he, in a half-whisper, +“you choose in the mean while to put your trust in what I shall tell you, +and go back again.” + </p> +<p> +“I only hope that I may do so,” said Heathcote, as he wrung the other's +hand warmly, “and I'd bless the hour that led me here this morning.” + </p> +<p> +It was soon arranged between them that Agincourt should drive round by +Heathcote's lodgings and take him up, when he had packed up a few things +for the journey. O'Shea was so sound asleep that he could scarcely be +awakened to hear his companion say “good-bye.” Some vague, indistinct idea +floated before him that Heathcote had fallen upon some good fortune, and, +as he shook his hand, he muttered,— +</p> +<p> +“Go in and win, old fellow; take all you can get, clear the beggars out, +that's <i>my</i> advice to you.” And with these sage counsels he turned on +his pillow, and snored away once more. +</p> +<p> +“Wasn't that Inch-o'-brogue I heard talking to you?” asked Agincourt. +</p> +<p> +“Yes. The poor fellow, like myself, is sorely hard up just now.” + </p> +<p> +“My old governor must get him something. We 'll think of him on our +return; so jump in, Charley, or we shall be late for the train.” + </p> +<p> +How contagious was that happy boy's good humor, and how soon did his +light-heartedness impart its own quality to Heathcote's spirits. As they +whirled along through the brisk fresh air of the morning, the youth +recounted all that passed with him since they met,—no very great or +stirring events were they, it is true, but they were <i>his</i>,—and +they were his first experiences of dawning manhood; and, oh! let any of +us, now plodding along wearily on the shady side of life, only bethink us +of the joyful sunshine of our youth, when the most commonplace incidents +came upon us with freshness, and we gloried in the thought of having a +“part,” an actual character to play, in that grand drama they call the +World. +</p> +<p> +We would not, if we could, recall his story; we could not hope that our +reader would listen as pleasurably as did Heathcote to it; enough that we +say they never felt the miles go over, nor, till their journey was ended, +had a thought that they were already arrived at their destination. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXIX. OLD LETTERS +</h2> +<p> +The little cottage at Port-na-Whapple, to which Alfred Layton had +repaired to collect the last few relics of his poor mother, had so +completely satisfied all his longings for quiet seclusion, that he +lingered on there in a sort of dreamy abstractedness far from unpleasing. +Quackinboss was with him, but never was there a companion less obtrusive. +The honest American delighted in the spot; he was a fisherman, and soon +became acquainted with all the choice places for the take of salmon, while +he oftentimes strolled inland and whipped the mountain streams with no +small success. In fact, the gun, the rod, and a well-trained greyhound +amply supplied all the demands of the household; and never was there a +life less crossed by outward cares than theirs. Whether the Colonel +believed or not that Layton was deeply engaged in his studies, he affected +to think so, and made a point of interfering as little as possible with +the other's time. If by a chance word now and then he would advert to +their projected trip to America, he never pressed the theme, nor seemed in +any way to evince over-eagerness regarding it. Indeed, with a delicacy of +truest refinement, he abstained from making Layton ever feel himself +constrained by the deep obligations he owed him, so that nothing could be +freer than their intercourse; the only theme of gloom between them being +the fate of Layton's father, of which, notwithstanding all their efforts, +they could obtain no tidings. From the day when he quitted the asylum, and +was pronounced “cured,” nothing was known of him. Dr. Millar had assisted +in all their inquiries with a most friendly interest, and endeavored to +induce Alfred to accept the hospitalities of the vicarage; but this he +declined, making weak health his apology. The vicar, however, did not +cease to show his constant attention, feeling deeply interested in the +youth. In nothing did he evince this sentiment more than the trouble he +gave himself to collect the scattered papers and documents of the old +Professor. The old man—accustomed ever to an existence of emergency—was +in the habit of pledging his private papers and his own writings for small +sums here and there through the country; and thus researches which had +cost months of labor, investigations of deepest import, were oftentimes +pawned at a public for a few shillings. Scarcely a day went over without +some record being brought in by a farmer or a small village tradesman; +sometimes valueless, sometimes of great interest. Now and then they would +be violent and rebellious pasquinades against men in power,—his +supposed enemies,—versified slanders upon imaginary oppressors. +</p> +<p> +Neither imbued with Alfred's taste nor influenced by the ties of blood, +Quackinboss took a pleasure in poring over these documents which the young +man could not feel. The Professor, to him, seemed the true type of +intellectual power, and he had that bold recklessness of all consequences +which appealed strongly to the Yankee. He was, as he phrased it, an +“all-mighty smasher,” and would have been a rare man for Congress! All +Alfred's eagerness to possess himself of his father's papers was soon +exceeded by the zeal of Quackinboss, who, by degrees, abandoned gun and +rod to follow out his new pursuit. If he could not estimate the value of +deep scientific calculations and researches, he was fully alive to the +sparkling wit and envenomed satire of the various attacks upon +individuals; and so enamored was he of these effusions, that many of the +verse ones he had committed to memory. +</p> +<p> +Poor Alfred! what a struggle was his, as Quackinboss would recite some +lines of fearful malignity, asking him, the while “if all English +literature could show such another 'tarnal screamer' as his own parent? +Warn't he a 'right-down scarification'? Did n't he scald the hides of them +old hogs in the House of Lords? Well, I 'm blest if Mr. Clay could a-done +it better!” To the young man's mild suggestions that his father's fame +would rest upon very different labors, Quackinboss would hastily offer +rejoinder, “No, sir, chemicals is all very well, but human natur' is a +grander study than acids and oxides. What goes on in a man's heart is a +main sight harder reading than salts and sediments.” + </p> +<p> +The Colonel had learned in the course of his wanderings that a farmer who +inhabited one of the lone islands off the coast was in possession of an +old writing-desk of the Professor,—the pledge for a loan of three +pounds sterling,—a sum so unusually large as to imply that the +property was estimated as of value. It was some time before the weather +admitted of a visit to the spot, but late of a summer's evening, as Alfred +sat musingly on the door-sill of the cottage, Quackinboss was seen +approaching with an old-fashioned writing-desk under his arm, while he +called out, “Here it is; and without knowin' the con-tents, I 'd not swap +the plunder for a raft of timber!” + </p> +<p> +If the moment of examining the papers was longed for by the impatient +Quackinboss with an almost feverish anxiety, what was his blank +disappointment at finding that, instead of being the smart squibs or +bitter invectives he delighted in, the whole box was devoted to documents +relating to a curious incident in medical jurisprudence, and was labelled +on the inner side of the lid, “Hawke's case, with all the tests and other +papers.” + </p> +<p> +“This seems to have been a great criminal case,” said Alfred, “and it must +have deeply interested my father, for he has actually drawn out a +narrative of the whole event, and has even journalized his share in the +story. +</p> +<p> +“'Strange scene that I have just left,' wrote he, in a clear, exact hand. +'A man very ill—seriously, dangerously ill—in one room, and a +party—his guests—all deeply engaged at play in the same house. +No apparent anxiety about his case,—scarcely an inquiry; his wife—if +she be his wife, for I have my misgivings about it—eager and +feverish, following me from place to place, with a sort of irresolute +effort to say something which she has no courage for. Patient worse,—the +case a puzzling one; there is more than delirium tremens here. But what +more? that's the question. Remarkable his anxiety about the sense of +burning in the throat; ever asking, “Is that usual? is it invariable?” + Suspicion, of course, to be looked for; but why does it not extend to <i>me</i> +also? Afraid to drink, though his thirst is excruciating. Symptoms all +worse; pulse irregular; desires to see me alone; his wife, unwilling, +tries by many pretexts to remain; he seems to detect her plan, and bursts +into violent passion, swears at her, and cries out, “Ain't you satisfied? +Don't you see that I 'm dying?”' +</p> +<p> +“'We have been alone for above an hour. He has told me all; she is not his +wife, but the divorced wife of a well-known man in office. Believes she +intended to leave him; knows, or fancies he knows, her whole project. Rage +and anger have increased the bad symptoms, and made him much worse. Great +anxiety about the fate of his child, a daughter of his former wife; +constantly exclaiming, “They will rob her! they will leave her a beggar, +and I have none to protect her.” A violent paroxysm of pain—agonizing +pain—has left him very low. +</p> +<p> +“'"What name do you give this malady, doctor?” he asks me. +</p> +<p> +“'"It is a gastric inflammation, but not unaccompanied by other symptoms.” + </p> +<p> +“'"How brought on?” + </p> +<p> +“'"No man can trace these affections to primary causes.” + </p> +<p> +“'"I can,—here, at least,” breaks he in. “This is poison, and <i>you</i> +know it. Come, sir,” he cried, “be frank and honest with one whose moments +are to be so few here. Tell me, as you would speak the truth in your last +hour, am I not right?” + </p> +<p> +“'"I cannot say with certainty. There are things here I am unable to +account for, and there are traits which I cannot refer to any poisonous +agency.” + </p> +<p> +“'"Think over the poisons; you know best. Is it arsenic?” + </p> +<p> +“'"No, certainly not.” + </p> +<p> +“'"Nor henbane, nor nicotine, nor nitre, nor strychnine,—none of +these?” + </p> +<p> +“'"None.” + </p> +<p> +“'"How subtle the dogs have been!” muttered he. “What fools they make of +you, with all your science! The commonest money-changer will detect a +spurious shilling, but you, with all your learning, are baffled by every +counterfeit case that meets you. Examine, sir; inquire, investigate well,” + he cried; “it is for your honor as a physician not to blunder here.” + </p> +<p> +“'"Be calm; compose yourself. These moments of passion only waste your +strength.” + </p> +<p> +“'"Let me drink,—no, from the water-jug; they surely have not +drugged <i>that!</i> What are you doing there?” + </p> +<p> +“'"I was decanting the tea into a small bottle, that I might take it home +and test it.” + </p> +<p> +“'"And so,” said he, sighing, “with all your boasted skill, it is only +after death you can pronounce. It is to aid the law, not to help the +living, you come. Be it so. But mind, sir,” cried he, with a wild energy, +“they are all in it,—all. Let none escape. And these were my +friends!” said he, with a smile of inexpressible sorrow. “Oh, what friends +are a bad man's friends! You swear to me, doctor, if there has been foul +play it shall be discovered. They shall swing for it Don't you screen +them. No mumbling, sir; your oath,—your solemn sworn oath! Take +those keys and open that drawer there,—no, the second one; fetch me +the papers. This was my will two months ago,” said he, tearing open the +seals of an envelope. “You shall see with your own eyes how I meant by +her. You will declare to the world how you read in my own hand that I had +left her everything that was not Clara's by right. Call her here; send for +her; let her be present while you read it aloud, and let her see it burned +afterwards.” + </p> +<p> +“'It was long before I could calm him after this paroxysm. At length he +said: “What a guilty conscience will be yours if this crime pass +unpunished!” + </p> +<p> +“'"If there be a crime, it shall not,” said I, firmly. +</p> +<p> +“'"If it were to do,” muttered he, in a low voice, “I 'd rather they 'd +have shot me; these agonies are dreadful, and all this lingering too! Oh! +could you not hasten it now? But not yet!” cried he, wildly. “I have to +tell you about Clara. They may rob her of all here, but she will be rich +after all. There is that great tract in America, in Ohio, called 'Peddar's +Clearings;' don't forget the name. Peddar's Clearings, all hers; it was +her mother's fortune. Harvey Winthrop, in Norfolk, has the titles, and is +the guardian when I am dead.''” + </p> +<p> +“Why, I know that 'ere tract well; there's a cousin of mine, Obadiah B. +Quackinboss, located there, and there ain't finer buckwheat in all the +West than is grown on that location. But go on, let's hear about this sick +fellow.” + </p> +<p> +“This is an account of chemical tests, all this here,” said Alfred, +passing over several leaves of the diary. “It seems to have been a +difficult investigation, but ending at last in the detection of corrosive +sublimate.” + </p> +<p> +“And it killed him?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; he died on the third evening after this was written. Here follows +the whole story of the inquest, and a remarkable letter, too, signed 'T. +Towers.' It is addressed to my father, and marked 'Private and Secret': +'The same hand which delivers you this will put you in possession of +five hundred pounds sterling; and, in return, you will do whatever +is necessary to make all safe. There is no evidence, except yours, of +consequence; and all the phials and bottles have been already disposed +of. Be cautious, and stand fast to yours,—T. T.' On a slip wafered to +this note was written: 'I am without twenty shillings in the world; my +shoes are falling to pieces, and my coat threadbare; but I cannot do +this.' But what have we here?” cried Alfred, as a neatly folded note +with deep black margin met his eyes. It was a short and most gracefully +worded epistle in a lady's hand, thanking Dr. Layton for his unremitting +kindness and perfect delicacy in a season of unexampled suffering. “I +cannot,” wrote she, “leave the island, dearly associated as it is with +days of happiness, and now more painfully attached to my heart by +the most terrible of afflictions, without tendering to the kindest of +physicians my last words of gratitude.” The whole, conveyed in lines +of strictly conventional use, gave no evidence of anything beyond a due +sense of courtesy, and the rigid observance of a fitting etiquette. It +was very polished in style, and elegant in phraseology; but to have +been written amid such scenes as she then lived in, it seemed a perfect +marvel of unfeeling conduct. +</p> +<p> +“That 'ere woman riles me considerable,” said Quackinboss; “she doesn't +seem to mind, noways, what has happened, and talks of goin' to a new +clearin' quite uncon-sarned like. I ain't afraid of many things, but I 'm +darned extensive if I 'd not be afeard of her! What are you a-por-ing over +there?” + </p> +<p> +“It is the handwriting. I am certain I have seen it before; but where, +how, and when, I cannot bring to mind.” + </p> +<p> +“How could you, sir? Don't all your womankind write that sort of +up-and-down bristly hand, more like a prickly-pear fence than a +Christian's writin'? It's all of a piece with your Old-World civilization, +which tries to make people alike, as the eggs in a basket; but they ain't +like, for all that. No, sir, nor will any fixin' make 'em so!” + </p> +<p> +“I have certainly seen it before,” muttered Layton to himself. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm main curious to know how your father found out the 'pyson,'—ain't +it all there?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, it was a long and very intricate chemical investigation.” + </p> +<p> +“Did he bile him?” + </p> +<p> +“Boil him? No,” said he, with difficulty restraining a laugh;' 'certainly +not.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, they tell me, sir, there ain't no other sure way to discover it. +They always bile 'em in France!” + </p> +<p> +“I am so puzzled by this hand,” muttered Alfred, half aloud. +</p> +<p> +Quackinboss, equally deep in his own speculations, proceeded to give an +account of the mode of inquiry pursued by Frenchmen of science in cases of +poisoning, which certainly would have astonished M. Orfila, and was only +brought back from this learned disquisition by Layton's questioning him +about “Peddar's Clearings.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir,” said he, “it is con-siderable of a tract, and lies between two +rivers. There 's the lines for a new city—Pentacolis—laid down +there; and the chief town, 'Measles,' is a thriving location. My cousin, +O. B. Quackinboss, did n't stump out less than eighty dollars an acre for +his clearin', and there's better land than his there.” + </p> +<p> +“So far as appears, then, this is an extensive property which is spoken of +here?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, sir, I expect it's a matter of half a million of dollars now, +though, mayhap, twenty thousand bought it fifteen or sixteen years back.” + </p> +<p> +“I wonder what steps my father took in this affair? I 'll be very curious +to know if he interested himself in the matter; for, with his indolent +habits, it is just as likely that he never moved in it further.” + </p> +<p> +“A 'tarnal shame, then, for him, sir, when it was for a child left alone +and friendless in the world; and I'm thinkin' indolence ain't the name to +give it.” + </p> +<p> +For a moment an angry impulse to reply stirred Layton's blood, but he +refrained, and said nothing. +</p> +<p> +“I'll go further,” resumed the American, “and I'll say that if your father +did neglect this duty, you are bound to look to it. Ay, sir, there ain't +no ways in this world of getting out of what we owe one to another. We are +most of us ready enough to be 'generous,' but few take trouble to be +'just.'” + </p> +<p> +“I believe you are right,” said Layton, reflectively. +</p> +<p> +“I know it, sir,—I know it,” said the other, resolutely. “There's a +sort of flattery in doing something more than we are obliged to do which +never comes of doing what is strict fair. Ay,” added he, after a moment, +“and I 've seen a man who 'd jump into the sea to save a fellow-creature +as would n't give a cent to a starving beggar on dry land.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll certainly inquire after this claim, and you 'll help me, +Quackinboss?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; and there ain't no honester man in all the States to deal with +than Harvey Winthrop. I was with him the day he cowhided Senator Jared +Boles, of Massachusetts, and when I observed, 'I think you have given him +enough,' he said, 'Well, sir, though I have n't the honor of knowing <i>you</i>, +if that be your conscientious opinion, I 'll abstain from going further;' +and he did, and we went into the bar together, and had a mint julep.” + </p> +<p> +“The trait is worth remembering,” said Layton, dryly. “Here's another +reason to cross the Atlantic,” cried he, with something of his former +energy of voice and look. +</p> +<p> +“Here's a great cause to sustain and a problem to work out. Shall we go at +once?” + </p> +<p> +“There's the 'Asia' to sail on Wednesday, and I 'm ready,” said +Quackinboss, calmly. +</p> +<p> +“Wednesday be it, then,” cried Layton, with a gayety that showed how the +mere prospect of activity and exertion had already cheered him. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXX. TWIST, TROVER, AND CO. +</h2> +<p> +They whose notions of a banker are formed on such home models as Overend +and Gurney and Drummond, and the other princes o' that ilk, will be +probably not a little shocked to learn by what inferior dignitaries the +great craft is represented abroad; your English banker in a foreign city +being the most extraordinary agglomeration of all trades it is well +possible to conceive, combining within himself very commonly the duties of +house-agent, wine-merchant, picture-dealer, curiosity-vendor, with +agencies for the sale of india-rubber shoes, Cuban cigars, and cod-liver +oil. He will, at a moment's notice, start you with a whole establishment +from kitchen to stable, and, equally ready to do the honors of this world +or the next, he will present you in society, or embalm you with every +careful direction for your conveyance “homeward.” Well judging that in +dealing thus broadly with mankind a variety of tastes and opinions must be +consulted, they usually hunt in couples, one doing the serious, the other +taking the light comedy parts. The one is the grave, calm, sensible man, +with his prudent reserves and his cautious scruples; the other, a careless +dog, who only “discounts” out of fun, and charges you “commission” in mere +pastime and lightness of heart. +</p> +<p> +Imagine the heavy father and the light rake of comedy conspiring for some +common object, and you have them. Probably the division-of-labor science +never had a happier illustration than is presented by their agreement. +Who, I ask you,—who can escape the double net thus stretched for his +capture? Whatever your taste or temperament, you must surely be +approachable by one or the other of these. +</p> +<p> +What Trover cannot, Twist will be certain to accomplish; where Twist +fails, there Trover is sovereign. “Ah, you 'll have to ask <i>my</i> +partner about that,” is the stereotyped saying of each. It was thus these +kings of Brentford sniffed at the same nosegay, the world, and, sooth to +say, to their manifest self-satisfaction and profit. If the compact worked +well for all the purposes of catching clients, it was more admirable still +in the difficult task of avoiding them. Strange and exceptional must his +station in life be to whom the secret intelligences of Twist or Trover +could not apply. Were we about to dwell on these gentlemen and their +characteristics, we might advert to the curious fact that though their +common system worked so smoothly and successfully, they each maintained +for the other the most disparaging opinion, Twist deeming Trover a light, +thoughtless, inconsiderate creature, Trover returning the compliment by +regarding his partner as a bigoted, low-minded, vulgar sort of fellow, +useful behind the desk, but with no range of speculation or enterprise +about him. +</p> +<p> +Our present scene is laid at Mr. Trover's villa near Florence. It stands +on the sunny slope of Fiezole, and with a lovely landscape of the Val d' +Arno at its feet. O ye gentles, who love to live at ease, to inhale an air +odorous with the jasmine and the orange-flower,—to gaze on scenes +more beautiful than Claude ever painted,—to enjoy days of cloudless +brightness, and nights gorgeous in starry brilliancy, why do ye not all +come and live at Fiezole? Mr. Trover's villa is now to let, though this +announcement is not inserted as an advertisement. There was a rumor that +it was once Boccaccio's villa. Be that as it may, it was a pretty, +coquettish little place, with a long terrace in front, under which ran an +orangery, a sweet, cool, shady retreat in the hot noon-time, with a +gushing little fountain always rippling and hissing among rock-work. The +garden sloped away steeply. It was a sort of wilderness of flowers and +fruit-trees, little cared for or tended, but beautiful in the wild +luxuriance of its varied foliage, and almost oppressive in its wealth of +perfume. Looking over this garden, and beyond it again, catching the +distant domes of Florence, the tall tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, and the +massive block of the Pitti, was a small but well-proportioned room whose +frescos were carried from wall to ceiling by a gentle arch of the +building, in which were now seated three gentlemen over their dessert. Mr. +Trover's guests were our acquaintances Stocmar and Ludlow Paten. The +banker and the “Impresario” were very old friends; they had done “no end +of shrewd things” together. Paten was a new acquaintance. Introduced +however by Stocmar, he was at once admitted to all the intimacy of his +host, and they sat there, in the free indulgence of confidence, discussing +people, characters, events, and probabilities, as three such men, long +case-hardened with the world's trials, well versed in its wiles, may be +supposed to do. Beneath the great broad surface of this life of ours, with +its apparent impulses and motives, there is another stratum of hard stern +realities, in which selfish motives and interested actions have their +sphere. These gentlemen lived entirely in this layer, and never +condescended to allude to what went on elsewhere. If they took a very +disparaging view of life, it was not so much the admiration they bestowed +on knavery as the hearty contempt they entertained for whatever was +generous or trustful. Oh, how they did laugh at the poor “muffs” who +believed in anything or any one! To listen to them was to declare that +there was not a good trait in the heart, nor an honest sentiment which had +not its origin in folly. And the stupid dog who paid his father's debts, +and the idiot that beggared himself to portion his sisters, and the +wretched creature who was ruined by giving security for his friend, all +figured in a category despised and ridiculed! +</p> +<p> +“Were they happy in this theory?” you ask, perhaps. It is very hard to +answer the question. They were undoubtedly what is called “jolly;” they +laughed much, and seemed marvellously free from care and anxiety. +</p> +<p> +“And so, Trover,” said Stocmar, as he sipped his claret luxuriously,—“and +so you tell me this is a bad season with you out here,—few +travellers, no residents, and little stirring in the way of discounts and +circular notes.” + </p> +<p> +“Wretched! miserable!” cried the banker. “The people who come out from +England nowadays are mostly small twenty-pounders, looking sharp to the +exchanges, and watching the quotations like money-brokers.” + </p> +<p> +“Where are the fast men all gone to? That is a problem puzzles me much,” + said Paten. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0011" id="linkimage-0011"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0330.jpg" alt="ONE0330" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“They have gone over to Puseyism, and stained glass, and Saint Winifred's +shin-bones, and early Christian art,” broke in Stocmar. “I know them well, +and their velvet paletots cut in the mediaeval fashion, and their hair cut +straight over the forehead.” + </p> +<p> +“How slow a place must become with such fellows!” sighed Paten. +</p> +<p> +“The women are mostly pretty; they dress with a sort of quaint coquetry +very attractive, and they have a kind of demure slyness about them, with a +fascination all its own.” + </p> +<p> +“We have the exact type you describe here at this moment now,” said the +banker. “She never goes into society, but steals furtively about the +galleries, making copies of old Giottos, and such-like, and even +penetrating into the monasteries with a special permission from the +Cardinal-Secretary to examine the frescos.” + </p> +<p> +“Is she young? Is she pretty?” asked Stocmar. +</p> +<p> +“She is both, and a widow, I believe,—at least, her letters come to +the bank addressed Mrs. Penthony Morris.” + </p> +<p> +Paten started, but a slight kick under the table from Stocmar recalled +him to caution and self-possession. +</p> +<p> +“Tell us more about her, Trover; all that you know, in fact.” + </p> +<p> +“Five words will suffice for that. She lives here with the family of a +certain Sir William Heathcote, and apparently exercises no small influence +amongst them; at least, the tradespeople tell me they are referred to her +for everything, and all the letters we get about transfers of stock, and +suchlike, are in <i>her</i> hand.” + </p> +<p> +“You have met her, and spoken with her, I suppose?” asked Stocmar. +</p> +<p> +“Only once. I waited upon her, at her request, to confer with her about +her daughter, whom she had some intention of placing at the Conservatoire +at Milan, as a preparation for the stage, and some one had told her that I +knew all the details necessary.” + </p> +<p> +“Have you seen the girl?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, and heard her sing. Frightened enough she was, poor thing; but she +has a voice like Sontag's, just a sort of mellow, rich tone they run upon +just now, and with a compass equal to Malibran's.” + </p> +<p> +“And her look?” + </p> +<p> +“Strikingly handsome. She is very young; her mother says nigh sixteen, but +I should guess her at under fifteen certainly. I thought at once of +writing to <i>you</i>, Stocmar, when I saw her. I know how eagerly <i>you</i> +snatch up such a chance as this; but as you were on your way out, I +deferred to mention her till you came.” + </p> +<p> +“And what counsel did you give her, Trover?” + </p> +<p> +“I said, 'By all means devote her to the Opera. It is to women, in our +age, what the career of politics is to men, the only royal road to high +ambition.'” + </p> +<p> +“That is what I tell all my young prime donne,” said Stocmar. “I never +fail to remind them that any débutante may live to be a duchess.” + </p> +<p> +“And they believe you?” asked Paten. +</p> +<p> +“To be sure they do. Why, man, there is an atmosphere of credulity about a +theatre that makes one credit anything, except what is palpably true. +Every manager fancies he is making a fortune; every tenor imagines he is +to marry a princess; and every fiddler in the orchestra firmly believes in +the time when a breathless audience will be listening to <i>his</i> +'solo.'” + </p> +<p> +“I wish, with all my heart, I was on the stage, then,” exclaimed Paten. “I +should certainly like to imbibe some of this sanguine spirit.” + </p> +<p> +“You are too old a dram-drinker, Ludlow, to be intoxicated with such light +tipple,” said Stocmar. “You have tasted of the real 'tap.'” + </p> +<p> +“That have I,” said he, with a sigh that told how intensely he felt the +words; and then, as if to overcome the sad impression, he asked, “And the +girl, is she to take to the stage?” + </p> +<p> +“I believe Stocmar will have to decide the point; at least, I told her +mother that he was on his way to Italy, and that his opinion on such a +matter might be deemed final. Our friend here,” continued Trover, as he +pointed laughingly to Stocmar,—“our friend here buys up these +budding celebrities just as Anderson would a yearling colt, and, like him +too, would reckon himself well paid if one succeed in twenty.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, one in fifty, Trover,” broke in Stocmar. “It is quite true. Many a +stone does not pay for the cutting; but as we always get the lot cheap, we +can afford to stand the risk.” + </p> +<p> +“She's a strange sort of woman, this Mrs. Morris,” said Trover, after a +pause, “for she seems hesitating between the Conservatoire and a convent.” + </p> +<p> +“Is the girl a Catholic?” + </p> +<p> +“No; but her mother appears to consider that as a minor circumstance; in +fact, she strikes me as one of those people who, when they determine to go +to a place, are certain to cut out a road for themselves.” + </p> +<p> +“That she is!” exclaimed Paten. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, then, you are acquainted with her?” cried Trover. +</p> +<p> +“No, no,” said he, hurriedly. “I was merely judging from your description +of her. Such a woman as you have pictured I can imagine, just as if I had +known her all my life.” + </p> +<p> +“I should like to see both mother and daughter,” broke in Stocmar. +</p> +<p> +“I fancy she will have no objection; at least, she said to me, 'You will +not fail to inform me of your friend Mr. Stocmar's arrival here;' and I +promised as much.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, you must arrange our meeting speedily, Trover, for I mean to be at +Naples next week, at Barcelona and Madrid the week after. The worthy +Public, for whose pleasure I provide, will, above all things, have +novelty,—excellence, if you can, but novelty must be procured them.” + </p> +<p> +“Leave it to me, and you shall have an interview tomorrow or the day +after.” + </p> +<p> +A strange telegraphic intelligence seemed to pass from Paten to the +manager, for Stocmar quickly said, “By the way, don't drop any hint that +Paten is with me; he has n't got the best of reputations behind the +scenes, and it would, perhaps, mar all our arrangements to mention him.” + </p> +<p> +Trover put a finger to his lips in sign of secrecy, and said, “You are +right there. She repeatedly questioned me on the score of your own +morality, Stocmar, expressing great misgivings about theatrical folk +generally.” + </p> +<p> +“Take my word for it, then, the lady is a fast one herself,” said Stocmar; +“for, like the virtuous Pangloss, she knows what wickedness is.” + </p> +<p> +“It is deuced hard to say what she is,” broke in Trover. “My partner, +Twist, declares she must have been a stockbroker or a notary public. She +knows the whole share-list of Europe, and can quote you the 'price +current' of every security in the Old World or the New; not to say that +she is deeply versed in all the wily relations between the course of +politics and the exchanges, and can surmise, to a nicety, how every spoken +word of a minister can react upon the money-market.” + </p> +<p> +“She cannot have much to do with such interests, I take it,” said Paten, +in assumed indifference. +</p> +<p> +“Not upon her own account, certainly,” replied Trover; “but such is her +influence over this old Baronet, that she persuades him to sell out here, +and buy in there, just as the mood inclines her.” + </p> +<p> +“And is he so very rich?” asked Stocmar. +</p> +<p> +“Twist thinks not; he suspects that the money all belongs to a certain +Miss Leslie, the ward of Sir William, but who came of age a short time +back.” + </p> +<p> +“Now, what may her fortune be?” said Stocmar, in a careless tone; “in +round numbers, I mean, and not caring for a few thousands more or less.” + </p> +<p> +“I have no means of knowing. I can only guess it must be very large. It +was only on Tuesday last she bought in about seven-and-twenty thousand +'Arkansas New Bonds,' and we have an order this morning to transfer +thirty-two thousand more into Illinois 'Sevens.'” + </p> +<p> +“All going to America!” cried Paten. “Why does she select investment +there?” + </p> +<p> +“That's the widow's doing. She says that the Old World is going in for a +grand smash. That Louis Napoleon will soon have to throw off the mask, and +either avow himself the head of the democracy, or brave its vengeance, and +that either declaration will be the signal for a great war. Then she +assumes that Austria, pushed hard for means to carry on the struggle, will +lay hands on the Church property of the empire, and in this way outrage +all the nobles whose families were pensioned off on these resources, thus +of necessity throwing herself on the side of the people. In a word, she +looks for revolution, convulsion, and a wide-spread ruin, and says the +Yankees are the only people who will escape. I know little or nothing of +such matters myself, but she sent Twist home t' other day in such a state +of alarm that he telegraphed to Turin to transfer all his 'Sardinians' +into 'New Yorkers,' and has been seriously thinking of establishing +himself in Broadway.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish she 'd favor me with her views about theatrical property,” said +Stocmar, with a half sneer, “and what is to become of the Grand Opera in +the grand smash.” + </p> +<p> +“Ask her, and she'll tell you,” cried Trover. “You'll never pose her with +a difficulty; she 'll give you a plan for paying off the national debt, +tell you how to recruit the finances of India, conduct the Chinese war, or +oppose French intrigues in Turkey, while she stitches away at her Berlin +work. I give you my word, while she was finishing off the end of an +elephant's snout in brown worsted, t' other day, she restored the Murats +to Naples, gave Sicily to Russia, and sent the Pope, as head of a convict +establishment, to Cayenne.” + </p> +<p> +“Is she a little touched in the upper story?” asked Stocmar, laying his +finger on his forehead. +</p> +<p> +“Twist says not. Twist calls her the wiliest serpent he ever saw, but not +mad.” + </p> +<p> +“And now a word about the daughter,” cried Stocmar. “What's the girl +like?” + </p> +<p> +“Pretty,—very pretty; long eyelashes, very regular features, a +beautiful figure; and the richest auburn hair I ever saw, but, with all +that, none of the mother's <i>esprit</i>,—no smartness, no +brilliancy. In fact, I should call her a regular mope.” + </p> +<p> +“She is very young, remember,” broke in Stocmar. +</p> +<p> +“That's true; but with such a clever mother, if she really had any +smartness, it would certainly show itself. Now, it is not only that she +displays no evidence of superior mind, but she wears an air of depression +and melancholy that seems like a sort of confession of her own +insufficiency, so Twist says, and Twist is very shrewd as to character.” + </p> +<p> +“I can answer for it, he's devilish close-fisted as to money,” said +Stocmar, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“I remember,” chimed in Trover; “he told me that you came into the bank +with such a swaggering air, and had such a profusion of gold chains, +rings, and watch-trinkets, that he set you down for one of the swell-mob +out on a tour.” + </p> +<p> +“Civil, certainly,” said Stocmar, “but as little flattering to his own +perspicuity as to myself. But I'll never forget the paternal tone in which +he whispered me afterwards, 'Whenever you want a discount, Mr. Stocmar, +from a stranger,—an utter stranger,—don't wear an opal pin set +in brilliants; it don't do, I assure you it don't'.” Stocmar gave such a +close imitation of the worthy banker's voice and utterance, that his +partner laughed heartily. +</p> +<p> +“Does he ever give a dinner, Trover?” asked Stocmar. +</p> +<p> +“Oh yes, he gives one every quarter. Our graver clients, who would not +venture to come up here, dine with him, and he treats them to sirloins and +saddles, with Gordon's sherry and a very fruity port, made especially, I +believe, for men with good balances to their names.” + </p> +<p> +“I should like to be present at one of these festivals.” “You have no +chance, Stocmar; he'd as soon think of inviting the <i>corps de ballet</i> +to tea. I myself am never admitted to such celebrations.” + </p> +<p> +“What rogues these fellows are, Ludlow!” said Stocmar. “If you and I were +to treat the world in this fashion, what would be said of us! The real +humbugs of this life are the fellows that play the heavy parts.” And with +this reflection, whose image was derived from his theatrical experiences, +he arose, to take his coffee on the terrace. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXI. IN THE TOILS +</h2> +<p> +Mrs. Morris gave directions that when a gentleman should call to inquire +for her he should be at once introduced, a brief note from Mr. Trover +having apprised her that Mr. Stocmar had just arrived, and would wait upon +her without further delay. There was not in her air or manner the +slightest trait of inquietude or even impatience; as she sat there, still +stitching away at her Berlin elephant, she seemed an emblem of calm, +peaceful contentedness. Her half-mourning, perhaps, sobered down somewhat +the character of her appearance; but these lilac-colored ribbons +harmonized well with her fair skin, and became her much. +</p> +<p> +With a tact all her own, she had carefully avoided in the arrangement of +her room any of those little artistic effects which, however successful +with the uninitiated, would be certain of a significant appreciation from +one familiar with stage “get up” and all the suggestive accessories of the +playhouse. “No,” thought she,—“no half-open miniatures, no +moss-roses in Bohemian glass—not even a camellia—on my +work-table for Mr. Stocmar.” Even Lila, her Italian greyhound, was +dismissed from her accustomed cushion on that morning, lest her presence +might argue effect. +</p> +<p> +She knew well that such men as Stocmar have a sort of instinctive +appreciation of a locality, and she determined he should have the fewest +possible aids to his interpretation of herself. If, at certain moments, a +terrible dread would cross her mind that this man might know all her +history, who she was, and in what events mixed up, she rallied quickly +from these fears by recalling how safe from all discovery she had lived +for several years back. Indeed, personally, she was scarcely known at all, +her early married life having been passed in almost entire reclusion; +while, later on, her few acquaintances were the mere knot of men in +Hawke's intimacy. +</p> +<p> +There was also another reflection that supplied its consolation: the +Stocmars of this world are a race familiar with secrets; their whole +existence is passed in hearing and treasuring up stories in which honor, +fame, and all future happiness are often involved; they are a sort of lay +priesthood to the “fast” world, trusted, consulted, and confided in on all +sides. “If he should know me,” thought she, “it is only to make a friend +of him, and no danger can come from that quarter.” Trover's note said, +“Mr. Stocmar places his services at your feet, too proud if in any way +they can be useful to you;” a mere phrase, after all, which might mean +much or little, as it might be. At the same time she bore in mind that +such men as Stocmar were as little addicted to rash pledges as Cabinet +ministers. Too much harassed and worried by solicitation, they usually +screened themselves in polite generalities, and never incurred the +embarrassment of promising anything, so that, thus viewed, perhaps, he +might be supposed as well-intentioned towards her. +</p> +<p> +Let us for a moment—a mere moment—turn to Stocmar himself, as +he walked up and down a short garden alley of Trover's garden with Paten +by his side. +</p> +<p> +“Above all things, remember, Stocmar, believe nothing she tells you, if +she only tell it earnestly. Any little truth she utters will drop out +unconsciously, never with asseveration.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm prepared for that,” replied he, curtly. +</p> +<p> +“She 'll try it on, too, with fifty little feminine tricks and graces; and +although you may fancy you know the whole armory, <i>pardi!</i> she has +weapons you never dreamed of.” + </p> +<p> +“Possibly,” was the only rejoinder. +</p> +<p> +“Once for all,” said Paten,—and there was impatience in his tone,—“I +tell you she is a greater actress than any of your tragedy queens behind +the footlights.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't you know what Talleyrand said to the Emperor, Ludlow? 'I think your +Majesty may safely rely upon me for the rogueries.'” + </p> +<p> +Paten shook his head dissentingly; he was very far from feeling the combat +an equal one. +</p> +<p> +Stocmar, however, reminded him that his visit was to be a mere +reconnaissance of the enemy, which under no circumstances was to become a +battle. “I am about to wait upon her with reference to a daughter she has +some thoughts of devoting to the stage,—<i>voilà tout</i> I never +heard of <i>you</i> in my life,—never heard of for,—know +absolutely nothing of her history, save by that line in the 'Times' +newspaper some six weeks ago, which recorded the death of Captain Penthony +Morris, by fever, in Upper India.” + </p> +<p> +“That will do; keep to that,” cried Paten more cheerfully, as he shook his +friend's hand and said good-bye. +</p> +<p> +Your shrewd men of the world seldom like to be told that any circumstance +can arise which may put their acuteness to the test; they rather like to +believe themselves always prepared for every call upon their astuteness. +Stocmar therefore set out in a half-irritation, which it took the three +miles of his drive to subdue. +</p> +<p> +“Mrs. Penthony Morris at home?” asked he of the discreet-looking English +servant whom Sir William's home prejudices justly preferred to the mongrel +and moustachioed domestics of native breed. +</p> +<p> +“At home for Mr. Stocmar, sir,” said the man, half inquiring, as he bowed +deferentially, and then led the way upstairs. +</p> +<p> +When Stocmar entered the room, he was somewhat disappointed. Whether it +was that he expected to see something more stately, haughty, and majestic, +like Mrs. Siddons herself, or that he counted upon being received with a +certain show of warmth and welcome, but the lady before him was slight, +almost girlish in figure, blushed a little when he addressed her, and, +indeed, seemed to feel the meeting as awkward a thing as need be. +</p> +<p> +“I have to thank you very gratefully, sir,” began she, “for condescending +to spare me a small portion of time so valuable as yours. Mr. Trover says +your stay here will be very brief.” + </p> +<p> +“Saturday, if I must, Friday, if I can, will be the limit, madam,” said +he, coldly. +</p> +<p> +“Indeed!” exclaimed she. “I was scarcely prepared for so short a visit; +but I am aware how manifold must be your engagements.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, madam. Even these seasons, which to the world are times of +recreation and amusement, are, in reality, to us periods of active +business occupation. Only yesterday I heard a barytone before breakfast, +listened to the grand chorus in the 'Huguenots' in my bath, while I +decided on the merits of a ballerina as I sat under the hands of my +barber.” + </p> +<p> +“And, I venture to say, liked it all,” said she, with an outbreak of frank +enjoyment in his description. +</p> +<p> +“Upon my life, I believe you are right,” said he. “One gets a zest for a +pursuit till everything else appears valueless save the one object; and, +for my own part, I acknowledge I have the same pride in the success of my +new tenor or my prima donna, as though I had my share in the gifts which +secure it.” + </p> +<p> +“I can fancy all that,” said she, in a low, soft voice. And then, stealing +a look of half admiration at her visitor, she dropped her eyes again +suddenly, with a slight show of confusion. +</p> +<p> +“I assure you,” continued he, with warmth, “the season I brought out +Cianchettoni, whenever he sang a little huskily I used to tell my friends +I was suffering with a sore-throat.” + </p> +<p> +“What a deal of sympathy it betrays in your nature!” said she, with a +bewitching smile. “And talking of sore-throats, don't sit there in the +draught, but take this chair, here.” And she pointed to one at her side. +</p> +<p> +As Stocmar obeyed, he was struck by the beauty of her profile. It was +singularly regular, and more youthful in expression than her full face. He +was so conscious of having looked at her admiringly that he hastened to +cover the awkwardness of the moment by plunging at once into the question +of business. “Trover has informed me, madam,” began he, “as to the +circumstances in which my very humble services can be made available to +you. He tells me that you have a daughter—” + </p> +<p> +“Not a daughter, sir,” interrupted she, in a low, confidential voice, “a +niece,—the daughter of a sister now no more.” + </p> +<p> +The agitation the words cost her increased Stocmar's confusion, as though +he had evidently opened a subject of family affliction. Yes, her +handkerchief was to her eyes, and her shoulders heaved convulsively. “Mr. +Stocmar,” said she, with an effort which seemed to cost her deeply, +“though we meet for the first time, I am no stranger to your character. I +know your generosity, and your high sense of honor. I am well aware how +persons of the highest station are accustomed to confide in your +integrity, and in that secrecy which is the greatest test of integrity. I, +a poor friendless woman, have no claim to prefer to your regard, except in +the story of my misfortunes, and which, in compassion to myself, I will +spare you. If, however, you are willing to befriend me on trust,—that +is, on the faith that I am one not undeserving of your generosity, and +entitled at some future day to justify my appeal to it,—if, I say, +you be ready and willing for this, say so, and relieve my intense anxiety; +or if—” + </p> +<p> +“Madam!” broke he in, warmly, “do not agitate yourself any more. I pledge +myself to be your friend.” + </p> +<p> +With a bound she started from her seat, and, seizing his hand, pressed it +to her lips, and then, as though overcome by the boldness of the action, +she covered her face and sobbed bitterly. If Stocmar muttered some +unmeaning commonplaces of comfort and consolation, he was in reality far +more engrossed by contemplating a foot and ankle of matchless beauty, and +which, in a moment so unguarded, had become accidentally exposed to view. +</p> +<p> +“I am, then, to regard you as my friend?” said she, trying to smile +through her tears, while she bent on him a look of softest meaning. She +did not, however, prolong a situation so critical, but at once, and with +an impetuosity that bespoke her intense anxiety, burst out into the story +of her actual calamities. Never was there a narrative more difficult to +follow; broken at one moment by bursts of sorrow, heart-rending regrets, +or scarce less poignant expressions of a resignation that savored of +despair. There had been something very dreadful, and somebody had been +terribly cruel, and the world—cold-hearted and unkind as it is—had +been even unkinder than usual. And then she was too proud to stoop to this +or accept that. “You surely would not have wished me to?” cried she, +looking into his eyes very meltingly. And then there was a loss of fortune +somehow and somewhere; a story within a story, like a Chinese puzzle. And +there was more cruelty from the world, and more courage on her part; and +then there were years of such suffering,—years that had so changed +her. “Ah! Mr. Stocmar, you would n't know me if you had seen me in those +days!” Then there came another bewitching glance from beneath her long +eyelashes, as with a half-sigh she said, “You now know it all, and why my +poor Clara must adopt the stage, for I have concealed nothing from you,—nothing!” + </p> +<p> +“I am to conclude, then, madam,” said he, “that the young lady herself has +chosen this career?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing of the kind, my dear Mr. Stocmar. I don't think she ever read a +play in her life; she has certainly never seen one. Of the stage, and its +ambitions and triumphs, she has not the very vaguest notion, nor do I +believe, if she had, would anything in the world induce her to adopt it.” + </p> +<p> +“This is very strange; I am afraid I scarcely understand you,” broke he +in. +</p> +<p> +“Very probably not, sir; but I will endeavor to explain my meaning. From +the circumstances I narrated to you awhile ago, and from others which it +is unnecessary for me to enter upon, I have arrived at the conclusion that +Clara and I must separate. She has reached an age in which either her +admissions or her inquiries might prove compromising. My object would +therefore be to part with her in such a manner as might exclude our +meeting again, and my plan was to enter her as a pupil at the +Conservatoire, either at Bologna or Milan, having first selected some one +who would assume the office of her guardian, as it were, replacing me in +my authority over her. If her talents and acquirements were such as to +suit the stage, I trusted to the effect of time and the influence of +companionship to reconcile her to the project.” + </p> +<p> +“And may I ask, madam, have you selected the person to whom this precious +treasure is to be confided?—the guardian, I mean.” + </p> +<p> +“I have seen him and spoken with him, sir, but have not yet asked his +acceptance of the trust.” + </p> +<p> +“Shall I be deemed indiscreet if I inquire his name?” + </p> +<p> +“By no means, sir. He is a gentleman of well-known character and repute, +and he is called—Mr. Stocmar.” + </p> +<p> +“Surely, madam, you cannot mean me?” cried he, with a start. +</p> +<p> +“No other, sir. Had I the whole range of mankind to choose from, you would +be the man; you embrace within yourself all the conditions the project +requires; you possess all the special knowledge of the subject; you are a +man of the world fully competent to decide what should be done, and how; +you have the character of being one no stranger to generous motives, and +you can combine a noble action with, of course, a very inadequate but +still some personal advantage. This young lady will, in short, be yours; +and if her successes can be inferred from her abilities, the bribe is not +despicable.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us be explicit and clear,” said Stocmar, drawing his chair closer to +her, and talking in a dry, businesslike tone. “You mean to constitute me +as the sole guide and director of this young lady, with full power to +direct her studies, and, so to say, arbitrate for her future in life.” + </p> +<p> +“Exactly,” was the calm reply. +</p> +<p> +“And what am I to give in return, madam? What is to be the price of such +an unlooked-for benefit?” + </p> +<p> +“Secrecy, sir,—inviolable secrecy,—your solemnly sworn pledge +that the compact between us will never be divulged to any, even your +dearest friend. When Clara leaves me, you will bind yourself that she is +never to be traced to me; that no clew shall ever be found to connect us +one with the other. With another name who is to know her?” + </p> +<p> +Stocmar gazed steadfastly at her. Was it that in a moment of forgetfulness +she had suffered herself to speak too frankly, for her features had now +assumed a look of almost sternness, the very opposite to their expression +hitherto. +</p> +<p> +“And can you part with your niece so easily as this, madam?” asked he. +</p> +<p> +“She is not my niece, sir,” broke she in, with impetuosity; “we are on +honor here, and so I tell you she is nothing—less than nothing—to +me. An unhappy event—a terrible calamity—bound up our lot for +years together. It is a compact we are each weary of, and I have long told +her that I only await the arrival of her guardian to relieve myself of a +charge which brings no pleasure to either of us.” + </p> +<p> +“You have given me a right to be very candid with you, madam,” said +Stocmar. “May I adventure so far as to ask what necessity there can +possibly exist for such a separation as this you now contemplate?” + </p> +<p> +“You are evidently resolved, sir, to avail yourself of your privilege,” + said she, with a slight irritation of manner; “but when people incur a +debt, they must compound for being dunned. You desire to know why I wish +to part with this girl? I will tell you. I mean to cutoff all connection +with the past; and she belongs to it. I mean to carry with me no memories +of <i>that</i> time; and she is one of them. I mean to disassociate myself +from whatever might suggest a gloomy retrospect; and this her presence +does continually. Perhaps, too, I have other plans,—plans so +personal that your good breeding and good taste would not permit you to +penetrate.” + </p> +<p> +Though the sarcasm in which these last words were uttered was of the +faintest, Stocmar felt it, and blushed slightly as he said: “You do me but +justice, madam. I would not presume so far! Now, as to the question +itself,” said he, after a pause, “it is one requiring some time for +thought and reflection.” + </p> +<p> +“Which is what it does not admit of, sir,” broke she in. “It was on Mr. +Trover's assurance that you were one of those who at once can trust +themselves to say 'I will,' or 'I will not,' that I determined to see you. +If the suddenness of the demand be the occasion of any momentary +inconvenience as to the expense, I ought to mention that she is entitled +to a few hundred pounds,—less, I think, than five,—which, of +course, could be forthcoming.” + </p> +<p> +“A small consideration, certainly, madam,” said he, bowing, “but not to be +overlooked.” He arose and walked the room, as though deep in thought; at +last, halting before her chair, and fixing a steady but not disrespectful +gaze on her, he said, “I have but one difficulty in this affair, madam, +but yet it is one which I know not how to surmount.” + </p> +<p> +“State it, sir,” said she, calmly. +</p> +<p> +“It is this, madam: in the most unhappy newness of our acquaintance I am +ignorant of many things which, however anxious to know, I have no distinct +right to ask, so that I stand between the perils of my ignorance and the +greater perils of possible presumption.” + </p> +<p> +“I declare to you frankly, sir, I cannot guess to what you allude. If I +only surmised what these matters were, I might possibly anticipate your +desire to hear them.” + </p> +<p> +“May I dare, then, to be more explicit?” asked he, half timidly. +</p> +<p> +“It is for you, sir, to decide upon that,” said she, with some +haughtiness. +</p> +<p> +“Well, madam,” said he, boldly, “I want to know are you a widow?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir,” said she, with a calm composure. +</p> +<p> +“Am I, then, to believe that you can act free and uncontrolled, without +fear of any dictation or interference from others?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“I mean, in short, madam, that none can gainsay any rights you exercise, +or revoke any acts you execute?” + </p> +<p> +“Really, sir, I cannot fancy any other condition of existence, except it +be to persons confined in an asylum.” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, madam, you are wrong there,” said he, smiling; “the life of every +one is a network of obligations and ties, not a whit the less binding that +they are not engrossed on parchment, and attested by three witnesses; +liberty to do this, or to omit that, having always some penalty as a +consequence.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, sir, spare me these beautiful moralizings, which only confuse my poor +weak woman's head, and just say how they address themselves to me.” + </p> +<p> +“Thus far, madam: that your right over the young lady cannot be contested +nor shared?” + </p> +<p> +“Certainly not. It is with me to decide for her.” + </p> +<p> +“When, with your permission, I have seen her and spoken with her, if I +find that no obstacle presents itself, why then, madam, I accept the +charge—” + </p> +<p> +“And are her guardian,” broke she in. “Remember, it is in that character +that you assume your right over her. I need not tell a person of such tact +as yours how necessary it will be to reply cautiously and guardedly to all +inquiries, from whatever quarter coming, nor how prudent it will be to +take her away at once from this.” + </p> +<p> +“I will make arrangements this very day. I will telegraph to Milan at +once,” said he. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, dear!” sighed she, “what a moment of relief is this, after such a +long, long period of care and anxiety!” + </p> +<p> +The great sense of relief implied in these words scarcely seemed to have +extended itself to Mr. Stocmar, who walked up and down the room in a state +of the deepest preoccupation. +</p> +<p> +“I wish sincerely,” said he, half in soliloquy,—“I wish sincerely we +had a little more time for deliberation here; that we were not so hurried; +that, in short, we had leisure to examine this project more fully, and at +length.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Mr. Stocmar,” said she, blandly, looking up from the embroidery +that she had just resumed, “life is not a very fascinating thing, taken at +its best; but what a dreary affair it would be if one were to stop every +instant and canvass every possible or impossible eventuality of the +morrow. Do what we will, how plain is it that we can prejudge nothing, +foresee nothing!” + </p> +<p> +“Reasonable precautions, madam, are surely permissible. I was just +imagining to myself what my position would be if, when this young lady had +developed great dramatic ability and every requirement for theatrical +success, some relative—some fiftieth cousin if you like, but some +one with claim of kindred—should step forward and demand her. What +becomes of all my rights in such a case?” + </p> +<p> +“Let me put another issue, sir. Let me suppose somebody arriving at Dover +or Folkestone, calling himself Charles Stuart, and averring that, as the +legitimate descendant of that House, he was the rightful King of England. +Do you really believe that her Majesty would immediately place Windsor at +his disposal; or don't you sincerely suppose that the complicated question +would be solved by the nearest policeman?” + </p> +<p> +“But she might marry, madam?” + </p> +<p> +“With her guardian's consent, of course,” said she, with a demure coquetry +of look and manner. “I trust she has been too well brought up, Mr. +Stocmar, to make any risk of disobedience possible.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, yes,” muttered he, half impatiently, “it's all very well to talk of +guardians' consent; but so long as she can say, 'How did you become my +guardian? What authority made you such? When, where, and by whom +conferred?'—” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Mr. Stocmar, your ingenuity has conjured up an Equity lawyer +instead of an artless girl not sixteen years of age! Do, pray, explain to +me how, with a mind so prone to anticipate difficulties, and so rife to +coin objections,—how, in the name of all that is wonderful, do you +ever get through the immense mass of complicated affairs your theatrical +life must present? If, before you engage a prima donna, you are obliged to +trace her parentage through three generations back, to scrutinize her +baptismal registry and her mother's marriage certificate, all I can say is +that a prime minister's duties must be light holiday work compared with +the cares of <i>your</i> lot.” + </p> +<p> +“My investigations are not carried exactly so far as you have depicted +them,” said he, good-humoredly; “but, surely, I 'm not too exacting if I +say I should like some guarantee.” + </p> +<p> +“I beg your pardon, Mr. Stocmar,” said she, interrupting him with a laugh, +“but may I ask if you are married?” + </p> +<p> +“No, madam. I am a bachelor.” + </p> +<p> +“You probably intend, however, at some future time to change your state. +I'm certain you don't mean to pass all your life in the egotism of +celibacy.” + </p> +<p> +“Possibly not, madam. I will not say that I am beyond the age of being +fascinated or being foolish.” + </p> +<p> +“Just what I mean, sir. Well, surely, in such a contingency, you 'd not +require the lady to give you what you have just called a guarantee that +she 'd not run away from you?” + </p> +<p> +“My trust in her would be that guarantee, madam.” + </p> +<p> +“Extend the same benevolent sentiment to me, sir. <i>Trust</i> me. I ask +for no more.” And she said this with a witchery of look and manner that +made Mr. Stocmar feel very happy and very miserable, twice over, within +the space of a single minute. +</p> +<p> +Poor Mr. Stocmar, what has become of all your caution, all your craft, and +all the counsels so lately given you? Where are they now? Where is that +armor of distrust in which you were to resist the barbed arrow of the +enchantress? Trust her! It was not to be thought of, and yet it was +exactly the very thing to be done, in spite of all thought and in defiance +of all reason. +</p> +<p> +And so the “Stocmar” three-decker struck her flag, and the ensign of the +fast frigate floated from her masthead! +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXII. A DRIVE ROUND THE CASCINE AT FLORENCE +</h2> +<p> +“Here's another note for you, Stocmar,” said Paten, half peevishly, as +they both sat at breakfast at the Hôtel d'Italie, and the waiter entered +with a letter. “That's the third from her this morning.” + </p> +<p> +“The second,—only the second, on honor,” said he, breaking the seal, +and running his eye over the contents. “It seems she cannot see me to-day. +The Heathcote family are all in grief and confusion; some smash in America +has involved them in heavy loss. Trover, you may remember, was in a fright +about it last night. She'll meet me, however, at the masked ball to-night, +where we can confer together. She's to steal out unperceived, and I'm to +recognize her by a yellow domino with a little tricolored cross on the +sleeve. Don't be jealous, Ludlow, though it does look suspicious.” + </p> +<p> +“Jealous! I should think not,” said the other, insolently. +</p> +<p> +“Come, come, you 'll not pretend to say she is n't worth it, Ludlow, nor +you 'll not affect to be indifferent to her.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish to Heaven I <i>was</i> indifferent to her; next to having never +met her, it would be the best thing I know of,” said he, rising, and +walking the room with hurried steps. “I tell you, Stocmar, if ever there +was an evil destiny, I believe that woman to be mine. I don't think I love +her, I cannot say to my own heart that I do, and yet there she is, +mistress of my fate, to make me or mar me, just as she pleases.” + </p> +<p> +“Which means, simply, that you are madly in love with her,” said Stocmar. +</p> +<p> +“No such thing; I 'd do far more to injure than to serve her this minute. +If I never closed my eyes last night, it was plotting how to overreach +her,—how I should wreck her whole fortune in life, and leave her as +destitute as I am myself.” + </p> +<p> +“The sentiment is certainly amiable,” said Stocmar, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“I make no pretence to generosity about her,” said Paten, sternly; “nor is +it between men like you and myself fine sentiments are bandied.” + </p> +<p> +“Fine sentiments are one thing, master, an unreasonable antipathy is +another,” said Stocmar. “And it would certainly be too hard if we were to +pursue with our hatred every woman that could not love us.” + </p> +<p> +“She <i>did</i> love me once,—at least, she said so,” broke in +Paten. +</p> +<p> +“Be grateful, therefore, for the past. I know I'd be very much her debtor +for any show of present tenderness, and give it under my hand never to +bear the slightest malice whenever it pleased her to change her mind.” + </p> +<p> +“By Heaven! Stocmar,” cried Paten, passionately, “I begin to believe you +have been playing me false all this time, telling her all about me, and +only thinking of how to advance your own interests with her.” + </p> +<p> +“You wrong me egregiously, then,” said Stocmar, calmly. “I am ready to +pledge you my word of honor that I never uttered your name, nor made a +single allusion to you in any way. Will that satisfy you?” + </p> +<p> +“It ought,” muttered he, gloomily; “but suspicions and distrusts spring up +in a mind like mine just as weeds do in a rank soil. Don't be angry with +me, old fellow.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not angry with you, Ludlow, except in so far as you wrong yourself. +Why, my dear boy, the pursuit of a foolish spite is like going after a bad +debt. All the mischief you could possibly wish this poor woman could never +repay <i>you</i>.” + </p> +<p> +“How can <i>you</i> know that without feeling as I feel?” retorted he, +bitterly. “If I were to show you her letters,” began he; and then, as if +ashamed of his ignoble menace, he stopped and was silent. +</p> +<p> +“Why not think seriously of this heiress she speaks of? I saw her +yesterday as she came back from riding; her carriage was awaiting her at +the Piazza del Popolo, and there was actually a little crowd gathered to +see her alight.” + </p> +<p> +“Is she so handsome, then?” asked he, half listlessly. +</p> +<p> +“She is beautiful; I doubt if I ever saw as lovely a face or as graceful a +figure.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll wager my head on't, Loo is handsomer; I 'll engage to thrust my +hand into the fire if Loo's foot is not infinitely more beautiful.” + </p> +<p> +“She has a wonderfully handsome foot, indeed,” muttered Stocmar. +</p> +<p> +“And so you have seen it,” said Paten, sarcastically. “I wish you 'd be +frank with me, and say how far the flirtation went between you.” + </p> +<p> +“Not half so far as I wished it, my boy. That's all the satisfaction you +'ll get from me.” + </p> +<p> +This was said with a certain irritation of manner that for a while imposed +silence upon each. +</p> +<p> +“Have you got a cheroot?” asked Paten, after a while; and the other flung +his cigar-case across the table without speaking. +</p> +<p> +“I ordered that fellow in Geneva to send me two thousand,” said Paten, +laughing; “but I begin to suspect he had exactly as many reasons for not +executing the order.” + </p> +<p> +“Marry that girl, Ludlow, and you 'll get your 'bacco, I promise you,” + said Stocmar, gayly. +</p> +<p> +“That's all easy talking, my good fellow, but these things require time, +opportunity, and pursuit. Now, who's to insure me that they 'd not find +out all about <i>me</i> in the mean while? A woman does n't marry a man +with as little solicitation as she waltzes with him, and people in real +life don't contract matrimony as they do in the third act of a comic +opera.” + </p> +<p> +“Faith, as regards obstacles, I back the stage to have the worst of it,” + broke in Stocmar. “But whose cab is this in such tremendous haste,—Trover's? +And coming up here too? What's in the wind now?” + </p> +<p> +He had but finished these words when Trover rushed into the room, his face +pale as death, and his lips colorless. +</p> +<p> +“What's up?—what's the matter, man?” cried Stocmar. +</p> +<p> +“Ruin's the matter—a general smash in America—all securities +discredited—bills dishonored—and universal failure.” + </p> +<p> +“So much the worse for the Yankees,” said Paten, lighting his cigar +coolly. +</p> +<p> +A look of anger and insufferable contempt was all Trover's reply. +</p> +<p> +“Are you deep with them?” asked Stocmar, in a whisper to the banker. +</p> +<p> +“Over head and ears,” muttered the other; “we have been discounting their +paper freely all through the winter, till our drawers are choke-full of +their acceptances, not one of which would now realize a dollar.” + </p> +<p> +“How did the news come? Are you sure of its being authentic?” + </p> +<p> +“Too sure; it came in a despatch to Mrs. Morris from London. All the +investments she has been making lately for the Heathcotes are clean swept +away; a matter of sixty thousand pounds not worth as many penny-pieces.” + </p> +<p> +“The fortune of Miss Leslie?” asked Stocmar. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; she can stand it, I fancy, but it's a heavy blow too.” + </p> +<p> +“Has she heard the news yet?” + </p> +<p> +“No, nor Sir William either. The widow cautioned me strictly not to say a +word about it. Of course, it will be all over the city in an hour or so, +from other sources.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean to do, then?” + </p> +<p> +“Twist is trying to convert some of our paper into cash, at a heavy +sacrifice. If he succeed, we can stand it; if not, we must bolt to-night.” + He paused for a few seconds, and then, in a lower whisper, said, “Is n't +she game, that widow? What do you think she said? 'This is mere panic, +Trover,' said she; 'it's a Yankee roguery, and nothing more. If I could +command a hundred thousand pounds this minute, I 'd invest every shilling +of it in their paper; and if May Leslie will let me, you 'll see whether I +'ll be true to my word.'” + </p> +<p> +“It's easy enough to play a bold game on one's neighbor's money,” said +Stocmar. +</p> +<p> +“She'd have the same pluck if it were her own, or I mistake her much. Has +<i>he</i> got any disposable cash?” whispered Trover, with a jerk of his +thumb towards Paten. +</p> +<p> +“Not a sixpence in the world.” + </p> +<p> +“What a situation!” said Trover, in a whisper, trembling with agitation. +“Oh, there's Heathcote's brougham,—stopping here too! See! that's +Mrs. Morris, giving some directions to the servant. She wants to see you, +I'm sure.” + </p> +<p> +Stocmar, making a sign to Trover to keep Paten in conversation, hurried +from the room just in time to meet the footman in the corridor. It was, as +the banker supposed, a request that Mr. Stocmar would favor her with “one +minute” at the door. She lifted her veil as he came up to the window of +the carriage, and in her sweetest of accents said,— +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0012" id="linkimage-0012"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0358.jpg" alt="ONE0358" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“Can you take a turn with me? I want to speak to you.” + </p> +<p> +He was speedily beside her; and away they drove, the coachman having +received orders to make one turn of the Cascine, and back to the hotel. +</p> +<p> +“I'm deep in affairs this morning, my dear Mr. Stocmar,” began she, as +they drove rapidly along, “and have to bespeak your kind aid to befriend +me. You have not seen Clara yet, and consequently are unable to pronounce +upon her merits in any way, but events have occurred which require that +she should be immediately provided for. Could you, by any possibility, +assume the charge of her to-day,—this evening? I mean, so far as to +convey her to Milan, and place her at the Conservatoire.” + </p> +<p> +“But, my dear Mrs. Morris, there is an arrangement to be fulfilled,—there +is a preliminary to be settled. No young ladies are received there without +certain stipulations made and complied with.” + </p> +<p> +“All have been provided for; she is admitted as the ward of Mr. Stocmar. +Here is the document, and here the amount of the first half-year's +pension.” + </p> +<p> +“'Clara Stocmar,'” read he. “Well, I must say, madam, this is going rather +far.” + </p> +<p> +“You shall not be ashamed of your niece, sir,” said she, “or else I +mistake greatly your feeling for her aunt.” Oh! Mr. Stocmar, how is it +that all your behind-scene experiences have not hardened you against such +a glance as that which has now set your heart a-beating within that +embroidered waistcoat? “My dear Mr. Stocmar,” she went on, “if the world +has taught me any lesson, it has been to know, by an instinct that never +deceives, the men I can dare to confide in. You had not crossed the room, +where I received you, till I felt you to be such. I said to myself, 'Here +is one who will not want to make love to me, who will not break out into +wild rhapsodies of passion and professions, but who will at once +understand that I need his friendship and his counsel, and that'”—here +she dropped her eyes, and, gently suffering her hand to touch his, +muttered, “and that I can estimate their value, and try to repay it.” Poor +Mr. Stocmar, your breathing is more flurried than ever. So agitated, +indeed, was he, that it was some seconds ere he became conscious that she +had entered upon a narrative for which she had bespoken his attention, and +whose details he only caught some time after their commencement. “You thus +perceive, sir,” said she, “the great importance of time in this affair. +Sir William is confined to his room with gout, in considerable pain, and, +naturally enough, far too much engrossed by his sufferings to think of +anything else; Miss Leslie has her own preoccupations, and, though the +loss of a large sum of money may not much increase them, the disaster will +certainly serve to engage her attention. This is precisely the moment to +get rid of Clara with the least possible <i>éclat</i>; we shall all be in +such a state of confusion that her departure will scarcely be felt or +noticed.” + </p> +<p> +“Upon my life, madam,” said Stocmar, drawing a long breath, “you frighten—you +actually terrify me; you go to every object you have in view with such +energy and decision, noting every chance circumstance which favors you, so +nicely balancing motives, and weighing probabilities with such cool +accuracy, that I feel how we men are mere puppets, to be moved about the +board at your will.” + </p> +<p> +“And for what is the game played, my dear Mr. Stocmar?” said she, with a +seductive smile. “Is it not to win some one amongst you?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, by Jove! if a man could only flatter himself that he held the right +number, the lottery would be glorious sport.” + </p> +<p> +“If the prize be such as you say, is not the chance worth something?” And +these words were uttered with a downcast shyness that made every syllable +of them thrill within him. +</p> +<p> +“What does she mean?” thought he, in all the flurry of his excited +feelings. “Is she merely playing me off to make use of me, or am I to +believe that she really will—after all? Though I confess to +thirty-eight—I am actually no more than forty-two—only a +little bald and gray in the whiskers, and—confound it, she guesses +what is passing through my head.—What <i>are</i> you laughing at; +do, I beg of you, tell me truly what it is?” cried he, aloud. +</p> +<p> +“I was thinking of an absurd analogy, Mr. Stocmar; some African traveller—I'm +not sure that it is not Mungo Park—mentions that he used to estimate +the depth of the rivers by throwing stones into them, and watching the +time it took for the air bubbles to come up to the surface. Now, I was +just fancying what a measure of human motives might be fashioned out of +the interval of silence which intervenes between some new impression and +the acknowledgment of it. You were gravely and seriously asking yourself, +'Am I in love with this woman?'” + </p> +<p> +“I was,” said he, solemnly. +</p> +<p> +“I knew it,” said she, laughing. “I knew it.” + </p> +<p> +“And what was the answer—do you know <i>that</i> too?” asked he, +almost sternly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, the answer was somewhat in this shape: 'I don't half trust her!'” + </p> +<p> +They both laughed very joyously after this, Stocmar breaking out into a +second laugh after he had finished. +</p> +<p> +“Oh! Mr. Stocmar,” cried she, suddenly, and with an impetuosity that +seemed beyond her control, “I have no need of a declaration on your part. +I can read what passes in <i>your</i> heart by what I feel in my own. We +have each of us seen that much of life to make us afraid of rash ventures. +We want better security for our investments in affection than we used to +do once on a time, not alone because we have seen so many failures, but +that our disposable capital is less. Come now, be frank, and tell me one +thing,—not that I have a doubt about it, but that I 'd like to hear +it from yourself,—confess honestly, you know who I am and all about +me?” + </p> +<p> +So sudden and so unexpected was this bold speech, that Stocmar, well +versed as he was in situations of difficulty, felt actually overcome with +confusion; he tried to say something, but could only make an indistinct +muttering, and was silent. +</p> +<p> +“It required no skill on my part to see it,” continued she. “Men so well +acquainted with life as you, such consummate tacticians in the world's +strategies, only make one blunder, but you all of you make <i>that</i>: +you always exhibit in some nameless little trait of manner a sense of +ascendancy over the woman you deem in your power. You can't help it. It's +not through tyranny, it's not through insolence,—it is just the +man-nature in you, that's all.” + </p> +<p> +“If you read us truly, you read us harshly too,” began he. But she cut him +short, by asking,— +</p> +<p> +“And who was your informant? Paten, was n't it?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, I heard everything from <i>him</i>,” said he, calmly. +</p> +<p> +“And my letters—have you read <i>them</i> too?” + </p> +<p> +“No. I have heard him allude to them, but never saw them.” + </p> +<p> +“So, then, there is some baseness yet left for him,” said she, bitterly, +“and I 'm almost sorry for it. Do you know, or will you believe me when I +tell it, that, after a life with many reverses and much to grieve over, my +heaviest heart-sore was ever having known that man?” + </p> +<p> +“You surely cared for him once?” + </p> +<p> +“Never, never!” burst she out, violently. “When we met first, I was the +daily victim of more cruelties than might have crushed a dozen women. His +pity was very precious, and I felt towards him as that poor prisoner we +read of felt towards the toad that shared his dungeon. It was one living +thing to sympathize with, and I could not afford to relinquish it, and so +I wrote all manner of things,—love-letters I suppose the world would +call them, though some one or two might perhaps decipher the mystery of +their meaning, and see in them all the misery of a hopeless woman's heart. +No matter, such as they were, they were confessions wrung out by the rack, +and need not have been recorded as calm avowals, still less treasured up +as bonds to be paid off.” + </p> +<p> +“But if you made him love you—” + </p> +<p> +“Made him love me!” repeated she, with insolent scorn; “how well you know +your friend! But even <i>he</i> never pretended <i>that</i>. My letters in +his eyes were I O U's, and no more. Like many a one in distress, I +promised any rate of interest demanded of me; he saw my misery, and +dictated the terms.” + </p> +<p> +“I think you judge him hardly.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps so. It is little matter now. The question is, will he give up +these letters, and on what conditions?” + </p> +<p> +“I think if you were yourself to see him—” + </p> +<p> +“<i>I</i> to see him! Never, never! There is no consequence I would not +accept rather than meet that man again.” + </p> +<p> +“Are you not taking counsel from passion rather than your real interest +here?” + </p> +<p> +“I may be; but passion is the stronger. What sum in money do you suppose +he would take? I can command nigh seven hundred pounds. Would that +suffice?” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot even guess this point; but if you like to confide to me the +negotiation—” + </p> +<p> +“Is it not in your hands already?” asked she, bluntly. “Have you not come +out here for the purpose?” + </p> +<p> +“No, on my honor,” said he, solemnly; “for once you are mistaken.” + </p> +<p> +“I am sorry for it. I had hoped for a speedier settlement,” said she, +coldly. “And so, you really came abroad in search of theatrical novelties. +Oh dear!” sighed she, “Trover said so; and it is <i>so</i> confounding +when any one tells the truth!” + </p> +<p> +She paused, and there was a silence of some minutes. At last she said: +“Clara disposed of, and these letters in my possession, and I should feel +like one saved from shipwreck. Do you think you could promise me these, +Mr. Stocmar?” + </p> +<p> +“I see no reason to despair of either,” said he; “for the first I have +pledged myself, and I will certainly do all in my power for the second.” + </p> +<p> +“You must, then, make me another promise: you must come back here for my +wedding.” + </p> +<p> +“Your wedding!” + </p> +<p> +“Yes. I am going to marry Sir William Heathcote,” said she, sighing +heavily. “His debts prevent him ever returning to England, and +consequently I ran the less risk of being inquired after and traced, than +if I were to go back to that dear land of perquisition and persecution.” + </p> +<p> +“The world is very small nowadays,” muttered Stocmar. “People are known +everywhere.” + </p> +<p> +“So they are,” said she, quickly. “But on the Continent, or at least in +Italy, the detectives only give you a nod of recognition; they do not +follow you with a warrant, as they do at home. This makes a great +difference, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“And can you really resign yourself, at <i>your</i> age and with <i>your</i> +attractions, to retire from the world?” said he, with a deep earnestness +of manner. +</p> +<p> +“Not without regret, Mr. Stocmar. I will not pretend it But remember, what +would life be if passed upon a tightrope, always poising, always +balancing, never a moment without the dread of a fall, never a second +without the consciousness that the slightest divergence might be death! +Would you counsel me to face an existence like this? Remember, besides, +that in the world we live in, they who wreck character are not the +calumnious, they are simply the idle,—the men and women who, having +nothing to do, do mischief without knowing. One remarks that nobody in the +room knew that woman with the blue wreath in her hair, and at once she +becomes an object of interest. Some of the men have admired her; the women +have discovered innumerable blemishes in her appearance. She becomes at +once a topic and a theme,—where she goes, what she wears, whom she +speaks to, are all reported, till at length the man who can give the clew +to the mystery and 'tell all about her' is a public benefactor. At what +dinner-party is he not the guest?—what opera-box is denied him?—where +is the coterie so select at which his presence is not welcome so long as +the subject is a fresh one? They tell us that society, like the Church, +must have its 'autos da fé,' but one would rather not be the victim.” + </p> +<p> +Stocmar gave a sigh that seemed to imply assent. +</p> +<p> +“And so,” said she, with a deeper sigh, “I take a husband, as others take +the veil, for the sake of oblivion.” + </p> +<p> +While she said this, Stocmar's eyes were turned towards her with a most +unfeigned admiration. He felt as he might have done if a great actress +were to relinquish the stage in the climax of her greatest success. He +wished he could summon courage to say, “You shall not do so; there are +grander triumphs before you, and we will share them together;” but somehow +his “nerve” failed him, and he could not utter the words. +</p> +<p> +“I see what is passing in your heart, Mr. Stocmar,” said she, plaintively. +“You are sorry for me,—you pity me,—but you can't help it. +Well, that sympathy will be my comfort many a day hence, when you will +have utterly forgotten me. I will think over it and treasure it when many +a long mile will separate us.” + </p> +<p> +Mr. Stocmar went through another paroxysm of temptation. At last he said, +“I hope this Sir William Heathcote is worthy of you,—I do trust he +loves you.” + </p> +<p> +She held her handkerchief over her face, but her shoulders moved +convulsively for some seconds. Was it grief or laughter? Stocmar evidently +thought the former, for he quickly said, “I have been very bold,—very +indiscreet. Pray forgive me.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, yes, I do forgive you,” said she, hurriedly, and with her head +averted. “It was <i>my</i> fault, not <i>yours</i>. But here we are at +your hotel, and I have got so much to say to you! Remember we meet +to-night at the ball. You will know me by the cross of ribbon on my +sleeve, which, if you come in domino, you will take off and pin upon your +own; this will be the signal between us.” + </p> +<p> +“I will not forget it,” said he, kissing her hand with an air of devotion +as he said “Good-bye!” + </p> +<p> +“I saw her!” whispered a voice in his ear. He turned; and Paten, whose +face was deeply muffled in a coarse woollen wrapper, was beside him. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXIII. SIR WILLIAM IN THE GOUT +</h2> +<p> +SIR William Heathcote in his dressing-room, wrapped up with rugs, and his +foot on a stool, looked as little like a bridegroom as need be. He was +suffering severely from gout, and in all the irritable excitement of that +painful malady. +</p> +<p> +A mass of unopened letters lay on the table beside him, littered as it was +with physic bottles, pill-boxes, and a small hand-bell. On the carpet +around him lay the newspapers and reviews, newly arrived, but all +indignantly thrown aside, uncared for by one too deeply engaged in his +sufferings to waste a thought upon the interests of the world. +</p> +<p> +“Not come in yet, Fenton?” cried he, angrily, to his servant. “I 'm +certain you 're mistaken; go and inquire of her maid.” + </p> +<p> +“I have just asked mamselle, sir, and she says her mistress is still out +driving.” + </p> +<p> +“Give me my colchicum; no, the other bottle,—that small phial. But +you can't drop them. There, leave it down, and send Miss Leslie here.” + </p> +<p> +“She is at the Gallery, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course she is,” muttered he, angrily, below his breath; “gadding, like +the rest. Is there no one can measure out my medicine? Where's Miss +Clara?” + </p> +<p> +“She's in the drawing-room, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“Send her here; beg her to do me the favor,” cried he, subduing the +irritation of his manner, as he wiped his forehead, and tried to seem calm +and collected. +</p> +<p> +“Did you want me, grandpapa?” said the young girl, entering, and +addressing him by the title she had one day given him in sportiveness, and +which he liked to be called by. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” said he, roughly, for his pain was again upon him. “I wanted any +one that would be humane enough to sit with me for a while. Are you steady +enough of hand to drop that medicine for me, child?” + </p> +<p> +“I think so,” said she, smiling gently. +</p> +<p> +“But you must be certain, or it won't do. I 'd not like to be poisoned, my +good girl. Five-and-twenty drops,—no more.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll count them, sir, and be most careful,” said she, rising, and taking +the bottle. +</p> +<p> +“Egad, I scarcely fancy trusting you,” said he, half peevishly. “A giddy +thing like you would feel little remorse at having overdone the dose.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, grandpapa!” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, of course you 'd not do it purposely. But why am I left to such +chances? Why is n't your mother here? There are all my letters, besides, +unread; and they cannot, if need were, be answered by this post.” + </p> +<p> +“She said that she 'd be obliged to call at the bank this morning, sir, +and was very likely to be delayed there for a considerable time.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm sure I cannot guess why. It is Trover and Twist 's duty to attend to +her at once. They would not presume to detain <i>her</i>, Oh! here comes +the pain again! Why do you irritate me, child, by these remarks? Can't you +see how they distress me?” + </p> +<p> +“Dear grandpapa, how sorry I am! Let me give you these drops.” + </p> +<p> +“Not for the world! No, no, I 'll not be accessary to my own death. If it +come, it shall come at its own time. There, I am not angry with you, +child; don't get so pale; sit down here, beside me. What's all this story +about your guardian? I heard it so confusedly last night, during an attack +of pain, I can make nothing of it.” + </p> +<p> +“I scarcely know more of it myself, sir. All I do know is that he has come +out from England to take me away with him, and place me, mamma says, at +some Pensionnat.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; this mustn't be,—this is impossible! You belong to us, dear +Clara. I 'll not permit it Your poor mamma would be heart-broken to lose +you.” + </p> +<p> +Clara turned away, and wiped two large tears from her eyes; her lips +trembled so that she could not utter a word. +</p> +<p> +“No, no,” continued he; “a guardian is all very well, but a mother's +rights are very different,—and such a mother as yours, Clara! Oh! by +Jove! that <i>was</i> a pang! Give me that toast-and-water, child!” + </p> +<p> +It was with a rude impatience he seized the glass from her hand, and drank +off the contents. “This pain makes one a downright savage, my poor Clara,” + said he, patting her cheek, “but old grandpapa will not be such a bear +to-morrow.” + </p> +<p> +“To-morrow, when I'm gone!” muttered she, half dreamily. +</p> +<p> +“And his name? What is it?” + </p> +<p> +“Stocmar, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“Stocmar,—Stocmar? never heard of a Stocmar, except that theatrical +fellow near St. James's. Have you seen him, child?” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir. I was out walking when he called.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, do the same to-morrow,” cried he, peevishly, for another twitch of +gout had just crossed him. “It's always so,” muttered he; “every annoyance +of life lies in wait for the moment a man is laid up with gout, just as if +the confounded malady were not torture enough by itself. There's Charley +going out as a volunteer to India, for what or why no one can say. If +there had been some insurmountable obstacle to his marriage with May, he +'d have remained to overcome it; but because he loves her, and that she +likes <i>him</i>—By Jove, that was a pang!” cried he, wiping his +forehead, after a terrible moment of pain. “Isn't it so, Clara?” he +resumed. “<i>You</i> know better than any of us that May never cared for +that tutor fellow,—I forget his name; besides, that's an old story +now,—a matter of long ago. But he <i>will</i> go. He says that even +a rash resolve at six-and-twenty is far better than a vain and hopeless +regret at six-and-forty; but I say, let him marry May Leslie, and he need +neither incur one nor the other. And so this guardian's name is Harris?” + </p> +<p> +“No, grandpapa, Stocmar.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, to be sure. I was confounding him with another of those stage people. +And what business has he to carry you off without your mother's consent?” + </p> +<p> +“Mamma <i>does</i> consent, sir. She says that my education has been so +much neglected that it is actually indispensable I should study now.” + </p> +<p> +“Education neglected! what nonsense! Do they want to make you a Professor +of the Sorbonne? Why, child, without any wish to make you vain, you know +ten times as much as half the collegiate fellows one meets, what with +languages, and music, and drawing, and all that school learning of mamma's +own teaching. And then that memory of yours, Clara; why, you seem to me to +forget nothing.” + </p> +<p> +“I remember but too well,” muttered she to herself. +</p> +<p> +“What was it you said, child? I did not catch it,” said he. And then, not +waiting for her reply, he went on: “And all your high spirits, my little +Clara, where are they gone? And your odd rhymes, that used to amuse me so? +You never make them now.” + </p> +<p> +“They do not cross my mind as they used to do,” said she, pensively. +</p> +<p> +“You vote them childish, perhaps, like your dolls?” said he, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“No, not that. I wish with all my heart I could go back to the dolls and +the nursery songs. I wish I could live all in the hour before me, making +little dramas of life, with some delightful part for myself in each, and +only to be aroused from the illusion to join a real world. Just as +enjoyable.” + </p> +<p> +“But surely, child, you have not reached the land of regrets already?” + said he, fondly drawing her towards him with his arm. +</p> +<p> +She turned her head away, and drew her hand across her eyes. +</p> +<p> +“It is very early to begin with sorrow, my dear child,” said he, +affectionately. “Let me hope that it's only an April cloud, with the +silver lining already peeping through.” + </p> +<p> +A faint sob broke from her, but she did not speak. +</p> +<p> +“I 'd ask to be your confidant only in thinking I could serve you, dearest +Clara. Old men like myself get to know a good deal of life without any +study of it.” + </p> +<p> +She made a slight effort to disengage herself from his arm, but he held +her fast; and, after a moment, she leaned her head upon his shoulder and +burst out crying. +</p> +<p> +At this critical instant the door opened, and Mrs. Morris entered. +Scarcely inside the room, she stood like one spell-bound, unable to move +or speak; her features, flushed by exercise, became pale as death, her +lips actually livid. “Am I indiscreet?” asked she, in a voice scarcely +other than a hiss of passion. “Do I interrupt a confidence, Sir William?” + </p> +<p> +“I am not sure that you do,” said he, good-humoredly. “Though I was +pressing Clara to accept me as a counsellor, I 'm not quite certain I was +about to succeed.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed!” said Mrs. Morris, sarcastically. “<i>My</i> theory about young +ladies excludes secrets altogether. It assumes them to be candid and +open-hearted. They who walk openly and on the high-road want little +guidance beyond the dictates of a right purpose. Go to your room, Clara, +and I 'll be with you presently.” These latter words were spoken in +perfect calm, and obeyed at once. Mrs. Morris was now alone with Sir +William. +</p> +<p> +The Baronet felt ill at ease. With a perfect consciousness of honorable +motives, there is an awkwardness in situations which seem to require +explanation, if not excuse, and he waited, in a sort of fidgety +impatience, that she should say something that might enable him to state +what had occurred between Clara and himself. +</p> +<p> +“I hope you are better than when I left you this morning?” said she, as +she untied her bonnet and seated herself in front of him. +</p> +<p> +“Scarcely so; these pains recur at every instant, and my nerves are +shattered with irritability.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm sorry for it, for you have need of all your firmness; bad news has +come from America.” + </p> +<p> +“Bad news? What sort of bad news? Is there a war—” + </p> +<p> +“A war!” said she, contemptuously. “I wish it <i>was</i> a war! It's far +worse than war. It's general bankruptcy. All the great houses breaking, +and securities utterly valueless.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, bad enough, no doubt, but it does not immediately concern <i>us</i>,” + said he, quickly. +</p> +<p> +“Not concern us! Why, what have we been doing these last months but buying +into this share-market? Have we not invested largely in Kansas stock, in +Iroquois and in Texan bonds?” + </p> +<p> +Whether he had not originally understood the transfers in which he had +borne his part, or whether the pain of his seizure had effaced all memory +of the events, he now sat bewildered and astounded, like one suddenly +aroused from a deep sleep, to listen to disastrous news. +</p> +<p> +“But I don't understand,” cried he. “I cannot see how all this has been +done. I heard you and Trover discussing it together, and I saw innumerable +colored plans of railroads that were to be, and cities that must be, and I +remember something about lands to be purchased for two dollars and re-sold +for two hundred.” + </p> +<p> +“And, by all that, you have confessed to know everything that <i>I</i> +did,” said she, firmly. “It was explained to you that, instead of muddling +away upon mortgage at home, some thirty or even forty per cent might be +realized in the States. I showed you the road by risking whatever little +fortune I possessed, and you followed. Now we have each of us lost our +money, and there 's the whole story.” + </p> +<p> +“But it's May's money I 've lost!” cried he, with a voice of anguish. +</p> +<p> +“I don't suppose it matters much to whom it belonged once,” said she, +dryly. “The gentlemen into whose hands it falls will scarcely burden +themselves to ask whence it came.” + </p> +<p> +“But I had no right to gamble May Leslie's fortune!” burst he in. +</p> +<p> +“We have no time for the ethical part of the question at present,” said +she, calmly. “Our concern is with how we are to save the most we can. I +have just seen the names of two houses at New York, which, if aided in +time, will be able to stand the torrent, and eventually pay everything. To +save their credit here will require about eighteen thousand pounds. It is +our interest—our only hope, indeed—to rescue them. Could you +induce May to take this step?” + </p> +<p> +“Induce May to peril another large portion of her fortune!” cried he, in +horror and astonishment. +</p> +<p> +“Induce her to arrest what might proceed to her ruin,” whispered she, in a +low, distinct voice. “If these American securities are forfeited, there +will be no money forthcoming to meet the calls for the Spanish railroads, +no resources to pay the deposit on the concessions in Naples. You seem to +forget how deep our present engagements are. We shall need above thirty +thousand pounds by the 1st of March,—fully as much more six weeks +later.” + </p> +<p> +The old man clasped his hands convulsively, and trembled from head to +foot. +</p> +<p> +“You know well how ignorant she is of all we have done, all we are doing,” + said he, with deep emotion. +</p> +<p> +“I know well that no one ever labored and worked for <i>my</i> benefit as +I have toiled for <i>hers</i>. My endeavor was to triple, quadruple her +fortune, and if unforeseen casualties have arisen to thwart my plans, I am +not deterred by such disasters. I wish I could say as much for <i>you</i>.” + </p> +<p> +The ineffable insolence of her manner as she uttered this taunt, far from +rousing the old man's anger, seemed only to awe and subdue him. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” continued she, “I am only a woman, and, as a woman, debarred from +all those resorts where information is rife and knowledge attainable; but +even working darkly, blindly, as I must, I have more reliance and courage +than some men that I wot of!” + </p> +<p> +He seemed for a moment to struggle hard with himself to summon the spirit +to reply to her; for an instant he raised his head haughtily, but as his +eyes met hers they fell suddenly, and he muttered in a half-broken voice, +“I meant all for the best!” + </p> +<p> +“Well,” cried she, after a brief pause, “it is no time for regrets, or +recriminations either. It is surely neither your fault nor mine that the +cotton crop is a failure, or that discounts are high in Broadway. When May +comes in, you must explain to her what has happened, and ask her leave to +sell out her Sardinian stock. It is a small sum, to be sure, but it will +give us a respite for a day or two, and then we shall think of our next +move.” + </p> +<p> +She left the room as she said this, and anything more utterly hopeless +than the old Baronet it would be difficult to imagine. Bewildered and +almost stunned by the difficulties around him, a sort of vague sense of +reliance upon <i>her</i> sustained him so long as she was there. No +sooner, however, had she gone, than this support seemed withdrawn, and he +sat, the very picture of dismay and discomfiture. +</p> +<p> +The project by which the artful Mrs. Morris had originally seduced him +into speculation was no other than to employ Miss Leslie's fortune as the +means of making advantageous purchases of land in the States, and of +discounting at the high rate of interest so freely given in times of +pressure in the cities of the Union. To suffer a considerable sum to lie +unprofitably yielding three per cent at home, when it might render thirty +by means of a little energy and a little skill, seemed actually absurd; +and not a day used to go over, in which she would not compute, from the +recorded rates of the exchanges, the large gains that might have been +realized, without, as she would say, “the shadow of a shade of risk.” Sir +William had once gambled on 'Change and in railroad speculations the whole +of a considerable estate; and the old leaven of speculation still worked +within him. If there be a spirit which no length of years can efface, no +changes of time eradicate, it is the gamester's reliance upon fortune. +Estranged for a long period as he had lived from all the exciting +incidents of enterprise, no sooner was the picture of gain once more +displayed before him than he eagerly embraced it. +</p> +<p> +“Ah!” he would say to himself, “if I had but had the advantage of <i>her</i> +clear head and shrewd power of calculation long ago, what a man I might be +to-day! That woman's wit of hers puts all mere men's acuteness to the +blush.” It is not necessary to say that the softest of blue eyes and the +silkiest of brown hair did not detract very largely from the influences of +her mental superiority; and Sir William was arrived at that precise lustre +in which such fascinations obtain their most undisputed triumphs. +</p> +<p> +Poets talk of youth as the impressionable age; they rave about its ardor, +its impetuous, uncalculating generosity, and so forth; but for an act of +downright self-forgetting devotion, for that impulsive spirit that takes +no counsel from calm reason, give us an elderly gentleman,—anything +from sixty-four to fourscore. These are the really ardent and tender +lovers,—easy victims, too, of all the wiles that beset them. +</p> +<p> +Had any grave notary, or deep plotting man upon 'Change suggested to Sir +William the project of employing his ward's fortune with any view to his +own profit, the chances are that the hint would have been rejected as an +outrage, and the suggester insulted; but the plan came from rosy lips, +whispered by the softest of voices; and even the arithmetic was jotted +down by fingers so taper and so white that he lost sight of the multiples +in his admiration of the calculator. His first experiences, besides, were +all great successes. Kansas scrip went up to a fabulous premium. When he +sold out his Salt Lake Fives, he realized cent per cent. These led him on. +That “ardor nummi” which was not new in the days of the Latin poet, is as +rife in <i>our</i> time as it was centuries ago. +</p> +<p> +Let us also bear in mind that there is something very fascinating to a man +of a naturally active temperament to be recalled, after years of +inglorious leisure, to subjects of deep and stirring interest; he likes +the self-flattery of being equal to such themes, that his judgment should +be as sound, his memory as clear, and his apprehension as ready as it used +to be. Proud man is the old fox-hunter that can charge his “quickset” at +fourscore; but infinitely prouder the old country gentleman who, at the +same age, fancies himself deep in all the mysteries of finance, and +skilled in the crafty lore of the share-market. +</p> +<p> +And, last of all, he was vexed and irritated by Charley's desertion of +him, and taunted by the tone in which the young man alluded to the widow +and her influence in the family. To be taught caution, or to receive +lessons in worldly craft from one very much our junior, is always a trial +of temper; and so did everything conspire to make him an easy victim to +her machinations. +</p> +<p> +And May,—what of her? May signed her name when and wherever she was +told, concurred with everything, and, smiling, expressed her gratitude for +all the trouble they were taking on her behalf. Her only impression +throughout was that property was a great source of worry; and what a +fortunate thing it was for her to have met with those who understood its +interests, and could deal with its eventualities! Of her large fortune she +actually knew nothing. Little jests would be bandied, at breakfast and +dinner, about May being the owner of vast tracts in the far West, +territories wide as principalities, with mines here and great forests +there, and so on, and sportive allusions to her one day becoming the queen +of some far-away land beyond the sea. Save in such laughing guise as this +she never approached the theme, nor cared for it. +</p> +<p> +Between May and Clara a close friendship had grown up. Besides the tastes +that united them, there was another and a very tender bond that linked +their hearts together. They were confidantes. May told Clara that she +really loved Charles Heathcote, and never knew it till they were +separated. She owned that if his careless, half-indifferent way had piqued +her, it was only after she had been taught to resent it. She had once even +regarded it as the type of his manly, independent nature, which she now +believed to be the true version of his character; and then there was a +secret—a real young-lady secret—between them, fastest of all +the bonds that ever bound such hearts together. +</p> +<p> +May fancied or imagined that young Layton had gone away, trusting that +time was to plead for him, and that absence was to appeal in his behalf. +Perhaps he had said so; perhaps he hoped it; perhaps it was a mere dream +of her own. Who knows these things? In that same court of Cupid fancies +are just as valid as affidavits, and the vaguest illusions quite as much +evidence as testimony taken on oath. +</p> +<p> +Now, amongst all the sorrows that a young lady loves best to weep over, +there is not one whose ecstasy can compare with the affliction for the +poor fellow who loves her to madness, but whose affection she cannot +return. It is a very strange and curious fact—and fact it is—that +this same tie of a rejected devotion will occasionally exact sacrifices +just as great as the most absorbing passion. +</p> +<p> +To have gained a man's heart, as it were, in spite of him,—to have +become the depositary of all his hopes, and yet not given him one scrap of +a receipt for his whole investment,—has a wonderful attraction for +the female nature. It is the kind of debt of honor she can appreciate best +of all, and, it must be owned, it is one she knows how to deal with in a +noble and generous spirit To the man so placed with regard to her she will +observe an undying fidelity; she will defend him at any cost; she will +uphold him at any sacrifice. Now, May not only confessed to Clara that +Layton had made her the offer of his heart, but she told how heavily on +her conscience lay the possible—if it were so much as possible—sin +of having given him any encouragement. +</p> +<p> +“You must write to the poor fellow for me, Clara. You must tell him from +me—from myself, remember—that it would be only a cruelty to +suffer him to cherish hope; that my self-accusings, painful enough now, +would be tortures if I were to deceive him. I'm sure it is better, no +matter what the anguish be, to deal thus honestly and fairly; and you can +add that his noble qualities will be ever dwelt on by me—indeed, you +may say by both of us—with the very deepest interest, and that no +higher happiness could be than to hear of his success in life.” + </p> +<p> +May said this and much more to the same purpose. She professed to feel for +him the most sincere friendship, faintly foreshadowing throughout that it +was not the least demerit on his part his being fascinated by such +attractions as hers, though they were, in reality, not meant to captivate +him. +</p> +<p> +I cannot exactly say how far Clara gave a faithful transcript of her +friend's feelings, for I never saw but a part of the letter she wrote; but +certainly it is only fair to suppose, from its success, that it was all +May could have desired. +</p> +<p> +The epistle had followed Layton from an address he had given in Wales to +Dublin, thence to the north of Ireland, and finally overtook him in +Liverpool the night before he sailed for America. +</p> +<p> +He answered it at once. He tendered all his gratitude for the kind +thoughtfulness that had suggested the letter. He said that such an +evidence of interest was inexpressibly dear to him at a moment when +nothing around or about him was of the cheeriest. He declared that, going +to a far-away land, with an uncertain future before him, it was a great +source of encouragement to him to feel that good wishes followed his +steps; that he owned, in a spirit of honest loyalty, that few as were the +months that had intervened, they were enough to convince him of the +immense presumption of his proffer. “You will tell Miss Leslie,” wrote he, +“that in the intoxication of all the happiness I lived in at the villa, I +lost head as well as heart. It was such an atmosphere of enjoyment as I had +never breathed before,—may never breathe again. I could not stop to +analyze what it was that imparted such ecstasy to my existence, and, +naturally enough, tendered all my homage and all my devotion to one whose +loveliness was so surpassing! If I was ever unjust enough to accuse her of +having encouraged my rash presumption, let me now entreat her pardon. I +see and own my fault.” + </p> +<p> +The letter was very long, but not always very coherent. There was about it +a humility that smacked more of wounded pride than submissiveness, and +occasionally a sort of shadowy protest that, while grateful for proffered +friendship, he felt himself no subject for pity or compassion. To use the +phrase of Quackinboss, to whom he read it, “it closed the account with +that firm, and declared no more goods from that store.” + </p> +<p> +But there was a loose slip of paper enclosed, very small, and with only a +few lines written on it. It was to Clara herself. “And so you have kept +the slip of jessamine I gave you on that day,—gave you so +ungraciously too. Keep it still, dear Clara. Keep it in memory of one who, +when he claims it of you, will ask you to recall that hour, and never +again forget it!” + </p> +<p> +This she did <i>not</i> show to May Leslie; and thus was there one secret +which she treasured in her own heart, alone. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXIV. A WARM DISCUSSION +</h2> +<p> +“I knew it,—I could have sworn to it,” cried Paten, as he listened +to Stocmar's narrative of his drive with Mrs. Morris. “She has just done +with <i>you</i> as with fifty others. Of course you 'll not believe that +you can be the dupe,—she 'd not dare to throw her net for such a +fish as you. Ay, and land you afterwards, high and dry, as she has done +with scores of fellows as sharp as either of us.” + </p> +<p> +Stocmar sipped his wine, half simpering at the passionate warmth of his +companion, which, not without truth, he ascribed to a sense of jealousy. +</p> +<p> +“I know her well,” continued Paten, with heightened passion. “I have +reason to know her well; and I don't believe that this moment you could +match her for falsehood in all Europe. There is not a solitary spot in her +heart without a snare in it.” + </p> +<p> +“Strange confession this, from a lover,” said Stocmar, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“If you call a lover one that would peril his own life to bring shame and +disgrace on hers, I am such a man.” + </p> +<p> +“It is not more than a week ago you told me, in all seriousness, that you +would marry her, if she 'd have you.” + </p> +<p> +“And I say it again, here and now; and I say more, that if I had the legal +right over her that marriage would give me, I'd make her rue the day she +outraged Ludlow Paten.” + </p> +<p> +“It was Paul Hunt that she slighted, man,” said Stocmar, half sneeringly. +“You forget that.” + </p> +<p> +“Is this meant for a threat, Stocmar?” + </p> +<p> +“Don't be a fool,” said the other, carelessly. “What I meant was, that +other times had other interests, and neither she, nor you, nor, for that +matter, I myself, want to live over the past again.” + </p> +<p> +Paten threw his cigar angrily from him, and sat brooding and moody; for +some time nothing was heard between them save the clink of the decanter as +they filled their glasses, and passed the wine. +</p> +<p> +“Trover's off,” mattered Paten, at last. +</p> +<p> +“Off! Whereto?” + </p> +<p> +“To Malta, I believe; and then to Egypt—anywhere, in short, till the +storm blows over. This American crash has given them a sharp squeeze.” + </p> +<p> +“I wonder who'll get that Burgundy? I think I never drank such Chambertin +as that he gave us t' other night.” + </p> +<p> +“I'd rather pick up that pair of Hungarian chestnuts. They are the true +'Yucker' breed, with nice straight slinging action.” + </p> +<p> +“His pictures, too, were good.” + </p> +<p> +“And such cigars as the dog had! He told me, I think, he had about fifteen +thousand of those Cubans.” + </p> +<p> +“A vulgar hound!—always boasting of his stable, or his cellar, or +his conservatory! I can't say I feel sorry for him.” + </p> +<p> +“Sorry for him! I should think not. The fellow has had his share of good +fortune, living up there at that glorious villa in luxury. It's only fair +he should take his turn on the shady side of the road.” + </p> +<p> +“These Heathcotes must have got it smartly too from the Yankees. They +invested largely there of late.” + </p> +<p> +“So Trover told me. Almost the last words he said were: 'The man that +marries that girl for an heiress, will find he has got a blind nut Her +whole fortune is swept away.'” + </p> +<p> +“I wonder is that true.” + </p> +<p> +“I feel certain it is. Trover went into all sorts of figures to show it. +I'm not very much up in arithmetic, and so could n't follow him; but I +gathered that they 'd made their book to lose, no matter how the match +came off. That was to be expected when they trusted such things to a +woman.” + </p> +<p> +Another and a longer pause now ensued between them; at length Paten broke +it abruptly, saying, “And the girl—I mean Clara—what of her?” + </p> +<p> +“It's all arranged; she is to be Clara Stocmar, and a pensionnaire of the +Conservatoire of Milan within a week.” + </p> +<p> +“Who says so?” asked Paten, defiantly. +</p> +<p> +“Her mother—well, you know whom I mean by that title—proposed, +and I accepted the arrangement. She may, or may not, have dramatic +ability; like everything else in life, there is a lottery about it. If she +really do show cleverness, she will be a prize just now. If she has no +great turn of speed, as the jocks say, she 'll always do for the Brazils +and Havannah. They never send <i>us</i> their best cigars, and, in return, +<i>we</i> only give <i>them</i> our third-rate singers!” + </p> +<p> +It was evident in this speech that Stocmar was trying, by a jocular tone, +to lead the conversation into some channel less irritating and +disputatious; but Paten's features relaxed nothing of their stern +severity, and he looked dogged and resolute as before. +</p> +<p> +“I think, Stocmar,” said he, at length, “that there is still a word +wanting to that same bargain you speak of. If the girl's talents are to be +made marketable, why should not I stand in for something?” + </p> +<p> +“You,—you, Ludlow!” cried the other. “In the name of all that is +absurd, what pretext can <i>you</i> have for such a claim?” + </p> +<p> +“Just this: that I am privy to the robbery, and might peach if not bought +up.” + </p> +<p> +“You know well this is mere blind menace, Ludlow,” said the other, +good-humoredly; “and as to letting off squibs, my boy, don't forget that +you live in a powder-magazine.” + </p> +<p> +“And what if I don't care for a blow-up? What if I tell you that I 'd +rather send all sky-high to-morrow than see that woman succeed in all her +schemes, and live to defy me?” + </p> +<p> +“As to that,” said Stocmar, gravely, “the man who neither cares for his +own life or character can always do damage to those of another; there is +no disputing about that.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I am exactly such a man, and <i>she</i> shall know it.” Not a word +was spoken for several minutes, and then Paten resumed, but in a calmer +and more deliberate tone, “Trover has told me everything. I see her whole +scheme. She meant to marry that old Baronet, and has been endeavoring, by +speculating in the share-market, to get some thousands together; now, as +the crash has smashed the money part of the scheme, the chances are it +will have also upset the marriage. Is not that likely?” + </p> +<p> +“That is more than I can guess,” said Stocmar, doubtingly. +</p> +<p> +“<i>You</i> can guess it, just as <i>I</i> can,” said Paten, half angrily. +“She's not the woman to link her fortune with a ruined man. Can't you +guess <i>that?</i>” Stocmar nodded, and Paten went on: “Now, <i>I</i> +mean to stand to win on either event,—that's <i>my</i> book.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't understand you, Paul.” + </p> +<p> +“Call me Ludlow, confound you,” said Paten, passionately, “or that +infernal name will slip out some day unawares. What I would say is, that, +if she wishes to be 'My Lady,' she must buy <i>me</i> off first. If she +'ll consent to become my wife,—that is the other alternative.” + </p> +<p> +“She'll never do that,” said Stocmar, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“How do you know,—did she tell you so?” + </p> +<p> +“Certainly not.” + </p> +<p> +“You only know it, then, from your intimate acquaintance with her +sentiments,” said he, sneeringly. +</p> +<p> +“How I know, or why I believe it, is my own affair,” said Stocmar, in some +irritation; “but such is my conviction.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, it is not mine,” said Paten, filling up his glass, and drinking it +slowly off. “I know her somewhat longer—perhaps somewhat better—than +you do; and if I know anything in her, it is that she never cherishes a +resentment when it costs too high a price.” + </p> +<p> +“You are always the slave of some especial delusion, Ludlow,” said +Stocmar, quietly. “You are possessed with the impression that she is +afraid of you. Now, my firm persuasion is, that the man or woman that can +terrify <i>her</i> has yet to be born.” + </p> +<p> +“How she has duped you!” said Paten, insolently. +</p> +<p> +“That may be,” said he. “There is, however, one error I have not fallen +into,—I have not fancied that she is in love with me.” + </p> +<p> +This sally told; for Paten became lividly pale, and he shook from head to +foot with passion. Careful, however, to conceal the deep offence the +speech had given him, he never uttered a word in reply. Stocmar saw his +advantage, and was silent also. At last he spoke, but it was in a tone so +conciliatory and so kindly withal, as to efface, if possible, all +unpleasant memory of the last speech. “I wish you would be guided by me, +Ludlow, in this business. It is not a question for passion or +vindictiveness; and I would simply ask you, Is there not space in the +world for both of you, without any need to cross each other? Must your +hatred of necessity bridge over all distance, and bring you incessantly +into contact? In a word, can you not go your road, and let her go hers, +unmolested?” + </p> +<p> +“Our roads lie the same way, man. I want to travel with her,” cried Paten. +</p> +<p> +“But not in spite of her!—not, surely, if she declines your +company!” + </p> +<p> +“Which <i>you</i> assume that she must, and I am as confident that she +will not.” + </p> +<p> +Stocmar made an impertinent gesture at this, which Paten, quickly +perceiving, resented, by asking, in a tone of almost insult, “What do you +mean? Is it so very self-evident that a woman must reject me? Is that your +meaning?” + </p> +<p> +“Any woman that ever lived would reject the man who pursues her with a +menace. So long as you presume to wield an influence over her by a threat, +your case must be hopeless.” + </p> +<p> +“These are stage and behind-scene notions,—they never were gleaned +from real life. Your theatrical women have little to lose, and it can't +signify much to them whether a story more or less attach to their names. +Threats of exposure would certainly affright them little; but your woman +living in the world, holding her head amongst other women, criticising +their dress, style, and manner,—think of <i>her</i> on the day that +the town gets hold of a scandal about her! Do you mean to tell <i>me</i> +there's any price too high to pay for silencing it?” + </p> +<p> +“What would you really take for those letters of hers, if she were +disposed to treat for them?” + </p> +<p> +“I offered them once to old Nick Holmes for two thousand pounds. I 'd not +accept that sum now.” + </p> +<p> +“But where or how could she command such an amount?” + </p> +<p> +“That 's no affair of mine. I have an article in the market, and I 'm not +bound to trouble myself as to the straits of the purchaser. Look here, +Hyman Stocmar,” said he, changing his voice to a lower tone, while he laid +his hand on the other's arm,—“look here. You think me very +vindictive and very malignant in all this, but if you only knew with what +insults she has galled me, what cruel slights she has passed upon me, you +'d pity rather than condemn me. If she would have permitted me to see and +speak to her,—if I could only be able to appeal to her myself,—I +don't think it would be in vain; and, if I know anything of myself, I +could swear I 'd bear up with the crudest thing she could utter to me, +rather than these open outrages that come conveyed through others.” + </p> +<p> +“And if that failed, would you engage to restore her letters?—for +some possible sum, I mean, for you know well two thousand is out of the +question. She told me she could command some six or seven hundred pounds. +She said so, believing that I really came to treat with her on the +subject.” + </p> +<p> +Paten shook his head dissentingly, but was silent. At last he said: “She +must have much more than this at her command, Stocmar. Hawke's family +never got one shilling by his death; they never were able to trace what +became of his money, or the securities he held in foreign funds. I +remember how Godfrey used to go on about that girl of his being one day or +other the greatest heiress of her time. Take <i>my</i> word for it, Loo +could make some revelations on this theme. Come,” cried he, quickly, as a +sudden thought flashed across him, “I 'll tell you what I 'll do. You are +to meet her this evening at the masked ball. Let me go in your place. I +'ll give you my solemn promise not to abuse the opportunity, nor make any +scandal whatever. It shall be a mere business discussion between us; so +much for so much. If she comes to terms, well. If she does not agree to +what I propose, there's no harm done. As I said before, there shall be no +publicity,—no scene.” + </p> +<p> +“I can't accede to this, Ludlow. It would be a gross breach of faith on my +part,” said Stocmar, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“All your punctilio, I remark, is reserved for <i>her</i> benefit,” said +Paten, angrily. “It never occurs to you to remember that <i>I</i> am the +injured person.” + </p> +<p> +“I only think of the question as it displays a man on one side, and a +woman on the other. Long odds in favor of the first, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“You think so!” said Paten, with a sneer. “By Jove! how well you judge +such matters! I can't help wondering what becomes of all that subtlety and +sharpness you show when dealing with stage folk, when you come to treat +with the world of every-day life. Why, I defy the wiliest serpent of the +ballet to overreach you, and yet you suffer this woman to wind you round +her finger!” + </p> +<p> +“Well, it is a very pretty finger!” laughed Stocmar. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, but to have you at her feet in this fashion!” + </p> +<p> +“And what a beautiful foot too!” cried Stocmar, with enthusiasm. +</p> +<p> +Something that sounded like a malediction was muttered by Paten as he +arose and walked the room with passionate strides. “Once more, I say,” + cried he, “let me take your place this evening, or else I 'll call on this +old fool,—this Sir William Heathcote,—and give him the whole +story of his bride. I 'm not sure if it's not the issue would give me most +pleasure. I verily believe it would.” + </p> +<p> +“It's a smart price to pay for a bit of malice too!” said Stocmar, musing. +“I must say, there are some other ways in which the money would yield me +as much pleasure.” + </p> +<p> +“Is it a bargain, Stocmar? Do you say yes?” cried Paten, with heightened +excitement. +</p> +<p> +“I don't see how I can agree to it,” broke in the other. “If she +distinctly tells me that she will not meet you—” + </p> +<p> +“Then she shall, by———!” cried Paten, confirming the +determination by a terrible oath. “Look out now, Stocmar, for a scene,” + continued he, “and gratify yourself by the thought it is all your own +doing. Had you accepted my proposal, I 'd have simply gone in your place, +made myself known to her without scandal or exposure, and, in very few +words, declared what my views were, and learned how far she'd concur with +them. You prefer an open rupture before the world. Well, you shall have +it!” + </p> +<p> +Stocmar employed all his most skilful arguments to oppose this course. He +showed that, in adopting it, Paten sacrificed every prospect of +self-interest and advantage, and, for the mere indulgence of a cruel +outrage, that he compromised a position of positive benefit. The other, +however, would not yield an inch. The extreme concession that Stocmar, +after a long discussion, could obtain was, that the interview was not to +exceed a few minutes, a quarter of an hour at furthest; that there was to +be no <i>éclat</i> or exposure, so far as he could pledge himself; and +that he would exonerate Stocmar from all the reproach of being a willing +party to the scheme. Even with these stipulations, Stocmar felt far from +being reconciled to the plan, and declared that he could never forgive +himself for his share in it. +</p> +<p> +“It is your confounded self-esteem is always uppermost in your thoughts,” + said Paten, insolently. “Just please to remember you are no foreground +figure in this picture, if you be any figure at all. I feel full certain +<i>she</i> does not want you,—I 'll take my oath <i>I</i> do not,—so +leave us to settle our own affairs our own way, and don't distress +yourself because you can't interfere with them.” + </p> +<p> +With this rude speech, uttered in a tone insolent as the words, Paten +arose and left the room. Scarcely had the door closed after him, however, +than he reopened it, and said,— +</p> +<p> +“Only one word more, Stocmar. No double,—no treachery with me here. +I 'll keep my pledge to the very letter; but if you attempt to trick or to +overreach me, I 'll blow up the magazine.” + </p> +<p> +Before Stocmar could reply, he was gone. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXV. LOO AND HER FATHER +</h2> +<p> +Mrs. Morris, supposed to be confined to her room with a bad headache, was +engaged in dressing for the masked ball, when a small twisted note was +delivered to her by her maid. +</p> +<p> +“Is the bearer of this below stairs?” asked she, eagerly. “Show him in +immediately.” + </p> +<p> +The next moment, a short, burly figure, in a travelling-dress, entered, +and, saluting her with a kiss on either cheek, unrolled his woollen +comforter, and displayed the pleasant, jocund features of Mr. Nicholas +Holmes. +</p> +<p> +“How well you are looking, papa!” said she. “I declare I think you grow +younger!” + </p> +<p> +“It's the good conscience, I suppose,” said he, laughing. “That and a good +digestion help a man very far on his road through life. And how are you, +Loo?” + </p> +<p> +“As you see,” said she, laughingly. “With some of those family gifts you +speak of, I rub on through the world tolerably well.” + </p> +<p> +“You are not in mourning, I perceive. How is that?” asked he, looking at +the amber-colored silk of her dress. +</p> +<p> +“Not to-night, papa, for I was just dressing for a masked ball at the +Pergola, whither I was about to go on the sly, having given out that I was +suffering from headache, and could not leave my room.” + </p> +<p> +“Fretting over poor Penthony, eh?” cried he, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“Well, of course that might also be inferred. Not but I have already got +over my violent grief. I am beginning to be what is technically called +'resigned.'” + </p> +<p> +“Which is, I believe, the stage of looking out for another!” laughed he +again. +</p> +<p> +She gave a little faint sigh, and went on with her dressing. “And what +news have you for me, papa? What is going on at home?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing,—absolutely nothing, dear. You don't care for political +news?” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0013" id="linkimage-0013"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0382.jpg" alt="ONE0382" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“Not much. You know I had a surfeit of Downing Street once. By the way, +papa, only think of my meeting George!” + </p> +<p> +“Ogden,—George Odgen?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, it was a strange accident. He came to fetch away a young lad that +happened to be stopping with us, and we met face to face—fortunately, +alone—in the garden.” + </p> +<p> +“Very awkward that!” muttered he. +</p> +<p> +“So it was; and so he evidently felt it. By the way, how old he has grown! +George can't be more than—let me see—forty-six. Yes, he was +just forty-six on the 8th of August. You 'd guess him fully ten years +older.” + </p> +<p> +“How did he behave? Did he recognize you and address you?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; we talked a little,—not pleasantly, though. He evidently is +not forgiving in his nature, and you know he had never much tact,—except +official tact,—and so he was flurried and put out, and right glad to +get away.” + </p> +<p> +“But there was no <i>éclat</i>,—no scandal?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course not. The whole incident did not occupy ten minutes.” + </p> +<p> +“They 've been at me again about my pension,—<i>his</i> doing, I'm +sure,” muttered he,—“asking for a return of services, and such-like +rubbish.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't let them worry you, papa; they dare not push you to publicity. It's +like a divorce case, where one of the parties, being respectable, must +submit to any terms imposed.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, that's my own view of it, dear; and so I said, 'Consult the secret +instructions to the Under-Secretary for Ireland for an account of services +rendered by N. H.'” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll hear no more of it,” said she, flippantly. “What of Ludlow? Where +is he?” + </p> +<p> +“He's here. Don't you know that?” + </p> +<p> +“Here! Do you mean in Florence?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; he came with Stocmar. They are at the same hotel.” + </p> +<p> +“I declare I half suspected it,” said she, with a sort of bitter laugh. +“Oh, the cunning Mr. Stocmar, that must needs deceive me!” + </p> +<p> +“And you have seen him?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; I settled about his taking Clara away with him. I want to get rid of +her,—I mean altogether,—and Stocmar is exactly the person to +manage these little incidents of the white slave-market. But,” added she, +with some irritation, “that was no reason why you should dupe <i>me</i>, +my good Mr. Stocmar! particularly at the moment when I had poured all my +sorrows into your confiding breast!” + </p> +<p> +“He's a very deep fellow, they tell me.” + </p> +<p> +“No, papa, he is not. He has that amount of calculation—that putting +this, that, and t' other together, and seeing what they mean—which +all Jews have; but he makes the same blunder that men of small craft are +always making. He is eternally on the search after motives, just as if +fifteen out of every twenty things in this life are not done without any +motive at all!” + </p> +<p> +“Only in Ireland, Loo,—only in Ireland.” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, papa, in Ireland they do the full twenty,” said she, laughing. “But +what has brought Ludlow here? He has certainly not come without a motive.” + </p> +<p> +“To use some coercion over you, I suspect.” + </p> +<p> +“Probably enough. Those weary letters,—those weary letters!” sighed +she. “Oh, papa dear,—you who were always a man of a clear head and a +subtle brain,—how did you fall into the silly mistake of having your +daughter taught to write? Our nursery-books are crammed with cautious +injunctions,—'Don't play with fire,' &c,—and of the real +peril of all perils not a word of warning is uttered, and nobody says, +'Avoid the inkstand.'” + </p> +<p> +“How could you have fallen into such a blunder?” said he, half peevishly. +</p> +<p> +“I gave rash pledges, papa, just as a bankrupt gives bad bills. I never +believed I was to be solvent again.” + </p> +<p> +“We must see what can be done, Loo. I know he is very hard up for money +just now; so that probably a few hundreds might do the business.” + </p> +<p> +She shook her head doubtingly, but said nothing. +</p> +<p> +“A fellow-traveller of mine, unacquainted with him personally, told me +that his bills were seen everywhere about town.” + </p> +<p> +“Who is your companion?” + </p> +<p> +“An Irishman called O'Shea.” + </p> +<p> +“And is the O'Shea here too?” exclaimed she, laughingly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; since he has lost his seat in the House, England has become too hot +for him. And, besides,” added he, slyly, “he has told me in confidence +that if 'the party,' as he calls them, should not give him something, he +knows of a widow somewhere near this might suit him. 'I don't say that +she's rich, mind you,' said he, 'but she's 'cute as a fox, and would be +sure to keep a man's head above water somehow.'” + </p> +<p> +Mrs. Morris held her handkerchief to her mouth, but the sense of the +ridiculous could not be suppressed, and she laughed out. +</p> +<p> +“What would I not have given to have heard him, papa!” said she, at last +</p> +<p> +“Well, it really <i>was</i> good,” said he, wiping his eyes; for he, too, +had indulged in a very hearty laugh, particularly when he narrated all the +pains O'Shea had been at to discover who Penthony Morris was, where he +came from, and what fortune he had. “'It was at first all in vain,' said +he, 'but no sooner did I begin to pay fellows to make searches for me, +than I had two, or maybe three Penthony Morrises every morning by the +post; and, what's worse, all alive and hearty!'” + </p> +<p> +“What did he do under these distressing circumstances?” asked she, gayly. +</p> +<p> +“He said he 'd give up the search entirely. 'There 's no such bad hunting +country,' said he, 'as where there's too many foxes, and so I determined I +'d have no more Penthony Morrises, but just go in for the widow without +any more inquiry.'” + </p> +<p> +“And have you heard the plan of his campaign?” asked she. +</p> +<p> +“He has none,—at least, I think not. He trusts to his own +attractions and some encouragement formerly held out to him.” + </p> +<p> +“Indiscreet wretch!” said she, laughing; “not but he told the truth there. +I remember having given him something like what lawyers call a retainer.” + </p> +<p> +“Such a man might be very troublesome, Loo,” said he, cautiously. +</p> +<p> +“Not a bit of it, papa; he might be very useful, on the contrary. Indeed, +I'm' not quite certain that I have not exactly the very service on which +to employ him.” + </p> +<p> +“Remember, Loo,” said he, warmly, “he's a shrewd fellow in <i>his</i> +way.” + </p> +<p> +“In <i>his</i> way' he is, but <i>his</i> way is not <i>mine</i>,” said +she, with a saucy toss of the head. “Have you any idea, papa, of what may +be the sort of place or employment he looks for? Is he ambitious, or has +adversity taught him humility?” + </p> +<p> +“A good deal depends upon the time of the day when one talks to him. Of a +morning he is usually downcast and depressed; he 'd go out as a magistrate +to the Bahamas or consul to a Poyais republic. Towards dinner-time he +grows more difficult and pretentious; and when he has got three or four +glasses of wine in, he would n't take less than the Governorship of a +colony.” + </p> +<p> +“Then it's of an evening one should see him.” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, I should say not, Loo. I would rather take him at his cheap moment.” + </p> +<p> +“Quite wrong, papa,—quite wrong. It is when his delusions are +strongest that he will be most easily led. His own vanity will be the most +effectual of all intoxications. But you may leave him to <i>me</i> without +fear or misgiving.” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose so,” said he, dryly. And a silence of some minutes ensued. “Why +are you taking such pains about your hair, Loo,” asked he, “if you are +going in domino?” + </p> +<p> +“None can ever tell when or where they must unmask in this same life of +ours, papa,” said she, laughingly; “and I have got such a habit of +providing for casualties that I have actually arranged my papers and +letters in the fashion they ought to be found in after my death.” + </p> +<p> +Holmes sighed. The thought of such a thing as death is always unwelcome to +a man with a light auburn wig and a florid complexion, who wants to cheat +Fate into the notion that he is hale and hearty, and who likes to fancy +himself pretty much what he was fifteen or twenty years ago. And Holmes +sighed with a feeling of compassionate sorrow for himself. +</p> +<p> +“By the way, papa,” said she, in a careless, easy tone, “where are you +stopping?” + </p> +<p> +“At the Hôtel d'Italie, my dear.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you think,—had n't you better come here?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't exactly know, nor do I precisely see how.” + </p> +<p> +“Leave all that to me, papa. You shall have an invitation,—'Sir +William Heathcote's compliments,' &c,—all in due form, in the +course of the day, and I 'll give directions about your room. You have no +servant, I hope?” + </p> +<p> +“None.” + </p> +<p> +“So much the better; there is no guarding against the garrulity of that +class, and all the craftiest stratagems of the drawing-room are often +undermined in the servants'-hall. As for yourself, you know that you +represent the late Captain's executor. You were the guardian of poor dear +Penthony, and his oldest friend in the world.” + </p> +<p> +“Knew him since he was so high!” said he, in a voice of mock emotion, as +he held out his extended palm about two feet above the floor. +</p> +<p> +“That will give you a world of trouble, papa, for you 'll have to prepare +yourself with so much family history, explaining what Morrises they were, +how they were Penthonys, and so on. Sir William will torture you about +genealogies.” + </p> +<p> +“I have a remedy for that, my dear,” said he, slyly. “I am most painfully +deaf! No one will maintain a conversation of a quarter of an hour with me +without risking a sore throat; not to say that no one can put delicate +questions in the voice of a boatswain.” + </p> +<p> +“Dear papa, you are always what the French call 'at the level of the +situation,' and your deafness will be charming, for our dear Baronet and +future husband has a most inquisitive turn, and would positively torture +you with interrogatories.” + </p> +<p> +“He 'll be more than mortal if he don't give in, Loo. I gave a Lunacy +Commissioner once a hoarseness that required a course of the waters at +Vichy to cure; not to say that, by answering at cross purposes, one can +disconcert the most zealous inquirer. But now, my dear, that I am in +possession of my hearing, do tell me something about yourself and your +plans.” + </p> +<p> +“I have none, papa,—none,” said she, with a faint sigh. “Sir William +Heathcote has, doubtless, many, and into some of them I may perhaps enter. +He intends, for instance, that some time in March I shall be Lady +Heathcote; that we shall go and live—I'm not exactly sure where, +though I know we 're to be perfectly happy, and, not wishing to puzzle +him, I don't ask how.” + </p> +<p> +“I have no doubt you will be happy, Loo,” said he, confidently. “Security, +safety, my dear, are great elements of happiness.” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose they are,” said she, with another sigh; “and when one has been +a privateer so long, it is pleasant to be enrolled in the regular navy, +even though one should be laid up in ordinary.” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, nay, Loo, no fear of that!” + </p> +<p> +“On the contrary, papa, every hope of it! The best thing I could ask for +would be oblivion.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Loo,” said he, impressively, “the world has not got one half so +good a memory as you fancy. It is our own foolish timidity—what +certain folk call conscience—that suggests the idea how people are +talking of us, and, like the valet in the comedy, we begin confessing our +sins before we 're accused of them!” + </p> +<p> +“I know that is <i>your</i> theory, papa,” said she, laughing, “and that +one ought always to 'die innocent.'” + </p> +<p> +“Of course, my dear. It is only the jail chaplain benefits by what is +called 'a full disclosure of the terrible tragedy.'” + </p> +<p> +“I hear my carriage creeping up quietly to the door,” said she, listening. +“Be sure you let me see you early tomorrow. Good-night.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXVI. A GRAVE SCENE IN LIGHT COMPANY +</h2> +<p> +Moralists have often found a fruitful theme in the utter barrenness of all +the appliances men employ for their pleasures. What failures follow them, +what weariness, what satiety and heart-sickness! The feast of Belshazzar +everywhere! +</p> +<p> +To the mere eye nothing could be more splendid, nothing more suggestive of +enjoyment, than the Pergola of Florence when brilliantly lighted and +thronged with a gay and merry company. Character figures in every variety +fancy or caprice could suggest—Turks, Styrians, Highlanders, Doges, +Dervishes, and Devils—abounded, with Pifferari from Calabria, +Muleteers, Matadors, and Conjurers; Boyards from Tobolsk jostled Male +Crusaders, and Demons that might have terrified St. Anthony flitted past +with Sisters of Charity! Strange parody upon the incongruities of our +every-day life, costume serving but to typify the moral incompatibilities +which are ever at work in our actual existence! for are not the people we +see linked together—are not the social groupings we witness—just +as widely separated by every instinct and every sentiment as are these +characters in all their motley? Are the two yonder, as they sit at the +fireside, not as remote from each other as though centuries had rolled +between them? They toil along, it is true, together; they drag the same +burden, but with different hopes and fears and motives. Bethink you “the +friends so linked together” are like-minded? No, it is all masquerade; and +the motley is that same easy conventionality by which we hope to escape +undetected and unknown! +</p> +<p> +Our business now is not with the mass of this great assemblage; we are +only interested for two persons,—one of whom, a tall figure in a +black domino, leans against a pillar yonder, closely scrutinizing each +new-comer that enters, and eagerly glancing at the sleeve of every yellow +domino that passes. +</p> +<p> +He has been there from an early hour of the evening, and never left it +since. Many a soft voice has whispered some empty remark on his +impassiveness; more than once a jesting sarcasm has been uttered upon his +participation in the gayety around; but he has never replied, but with +folded arms patiently awaited the expected one. At last he is joined by +another, somewhat shorter and stouter, but dressed like him, who, bending +close to his ear, whispers,— +</p> +<p> +“Why are you standing here,—have you not seen her?” + </p> +<p> +“No; she has never passed this door.” + </p> +<p> +“She entered by the stage, and has been walking about this hour. I saw her +talking to several, to whom, to judge by their gestures, her remarks must +have been pointed enough; but there she is,—see, she is leaning on +the arm of that Malay chief. Join her; you know the signal.” + </p> +<p> +Paten started suddenly from his lounging attitude, and cleft his way +through the crowd, little heeding the comments his rude persistence called +forth. As he drew nigh where the yellow domino stood, he hesitated and +glanced around him, as though he felt that every eye was watching him, and +only after a moment or so did he seem to remember that he was disguised. +At last he approached her, and, taking her sleeve in his hand, unpinned +the little cross of tricolored ribbon and fastened it on his own domino. +With a light gesture of farewell she quickly dismissed her cavalier and +took his arm. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0014" id="linkimage-0014"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0392.jpg" alt="ONE0392" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +As he led her along through the crowd, neither spoke, and it was only at +last, as seemingly baffled to find the spot he sought for, she said,— +</p> +<p> +“All places are alike here. Let us talk as we walk along.” + </p> +<p> +A gentle pressure on her arm seemed to assent, and she went on:— +</p> +<p> +“It was only at the last moment that I determined to come here this +evening. You have deceived me. Yes; don't deny it. Paten is with you here, +and you never told me.” + </p> +<p> +He muttered something that sounded like apology. +</p> +<p> +“It was unfair of you,” said she, hurriedly, “for I was candid and open +with you; and it was needless, besides, for we are as much apart as if +hundreds of miles separated us. I told you already as much.” + </p> +<p> +“But why not see him? He alone can release you from the bond that ties +you; he may be more generous than you suspect.” + </p> +<p> +“He generous! Who ever called him so?” + </p> +<p> +“Many who knew him as well as you,” cried he, suddenly. +</p> +<p> +With a bound she disengaged her arm from him, and sprang back. +</p> +<p> +“Do not touch me; lay so much as a finger on me, and I 'll unmask and call +upon this crowd for protection!” cried she, in a voice trembling with +passion. “I know you now.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me speak with you a few words,—the last I shall ever ask,” + muttered he, “and I promise all you dictate.” + </p> +<p> +“Leave me—leave me at once,” said she, in a mere whisper. “If you do +not leave me, I will declare aloud who you are.” + </p> +<p> +“Who <i>we</i> are; don't forget yourself,” muttered he. +</p> +<p> +“For that I care not. I am ready.” + </p> +<p> +“For mercy's sake, Loo, do not,” cried he, as she lifted her hand towards +the strings of her mask. “I will go. You shall never see me more. I came +here to make the one last reparation I owe you, to give you up your +letters, and say good-bye forever.” + </p> +<p> +“That you never did,—never!” cried she, passionately. “You came +because you thought how, in the presence of this crowd, the terror of +exposure would crush my woman's heart, and make me yield to any terms you +pleased.” + </p> +<p> +“If I swear to you by all that I believe is true—” + </p> +<p> +“You never did believe; your heart rejected belief. When I said I knew +you, I meant it all: I do know you. I know, besides, that when the +scaffold received one criminal, it left another, and a worse, behind. For +many a year you have made my life a hell. I would not care to go on thus; +all your vengeance and all the scorn of the world would be light compared +to what I wake to meet each morning, and close my eyes to, as I sleep at +night.” + </p> +<p> +“Listen to me, Loo, but for one moment. I do not want to justify myself. +You are not more wretched than I am,—utterly, irretrievably +wretched!” + </p> +<p> +“Where are the letters?” said she, in a low whisper. +</p> +<p> +“They are here,—in Florence.” + </p> +<p> +“What sum will you take for them?” + </p> +<p> +“They shall be yours unbought, Loo, if you will but hear me. +</p> +<p> +“I want the letters; tell me their price.” + </p> +<p> +“The price is simply one meeting—one opportunity to clear myself +before you—to show you how for years my heart has clung to you.” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot buy them at this cost. Tell me how much money you will have for +them.” + </p> +<p> +“It is your wish to outrage, to insult me, then?” muttered he, in a voice +thick with passion. +</p> +<p> +“Now you are natural; now you are yourself; and now I can speak to you. +Tell me your price.” + </p> +<p> +“Your shame!—your open degradation! The spectacle of your exposure +before all Europe, when it shall have been read in every language and +talked of in every city.” + </p> +<p> +“I have looked for that hour for many a year, Paul Hunt, and its arrival +would be mercy, compared with the daily menace of one like <i>you</i>.” + </p> +<p> +“The story of the murder again revived; the life you led, the letters +themselves revealing it; the orphan child robbed of her inheritance; the +imposture of your existence abroad here!—what variety in the scenes! +what diversity in the interests!” + </p> +<p> +“I am far from rich, but I would pay you liberally, Paul,” said she, in a +voice low and collected. +</p> +<p> +“Cannot you see, woman, that by this language you are wrecking your last +hope of safety?” cried he, insolently. “Is it not plain to you that you +are a fool to insult the hand that can crush you?” + </p> +<p> +“But I <i>am</i> crushed; I can fall no lower,” whispered she, +tremulously. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, dearest Loo, if you would forgive me for the past!” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot—I cannot!” burst she out, in a voice scarcely above a +whisper. “I have done all I could, but I cannot!” + </p> +<p> +“If you only knew how I was tempted to it, Loo! If you but heard the snare +that was laid for me!” + </p> +<p> +A scornful toss of her head was all her answer. +</p> +<p> +“It is in my consciousness of the wrong I have done you that I seek this +reparation, Loo,” said he, eagerly. “When I speak otherwise, it is my +passion gives utterance to the words. My heart is, however, true to you.” + </p> +<p> +“Will you let me have my letters, and at what cost? I tell you again, I am +not rich, but I will pay largely, liberally here.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me confess it, Loo,” said he, in a trembling tone, “these letters are +the one last link between us. It is not for a menace I would keep them,—so +help me Heaven, the hour of <i>your</i> shame would be that of <i>my</i> +death,—but I cling to them as the one tie that binds my fate to +yours. I feel that when I surrender them, that tie is broken; that I am +nothing to you; that you would hear my name unmoved, and see me pass +without a notice. Bethink you, then, that you ask me for what alone +attaches me to existence.” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot understand such reasonings,” said she, coldly. “These letters +have no other value save the ruin they can work me. If not employed to +that end, they might as well blacken in the fire or moulder into dust. You +tell me you are not in search of any vengeance on me, and it is much to +say, for I never injured you, while you have deeply injured <i>me</i>. +Why, therefore, not give up what you own to be so useless?” + </p> +<p> +“For the very reason I have given you, Loo; that, so long as I hold them, +I have my interest in your heart, and you cannot cease to feel bound up +with my destiny.” + </p> +<p> +“And is not this vengeance?” asked she, quietly. “Can you picture to your +mind a revenge more cruel, living on from day to day, and gathering force +from time?” + </p> +<p> +“But to me there is ever the hope that the past might come back again.” + </p> +<p> +“Never—never!” said she, resolutely. “The man who has corrupted a +woman's heart may own as much of it as can feel love for him; but he who +has held up to shame the dishonor he has provoked must be satisfied with +her loathing and her hate.” + </p> +<p> +“And you tell me that these are my portion?” said he, sternly. +</p> +<p> +“Your conscience can answer how you have earned them.” + </p> +<p> +They walked along side by side in silence for some time, and at last she +said, “How much better, for both of us, to avoid words of passion or +remembrances of long ago.” + </p> +<p> +“You loved me once, Loo,” broke he in, with deep emotion. +</p> +<p> +“And if I once contracted a debt which I could not pay you now, would you +insult me for my poverty, or persecute me? I do not think so, Ludlow.” + </p> +<p> +“And when I have given them to you, Loo, and they are in your hands, how +are we to meet again? Are we to be as utter strangers to each other?” said +he, in deep agitation. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” replied she, “it is as such we must be. There is no hardship in +this; or, if there be, only what one feels in seeing the house he once +lived in occupied by another,—a passing pang, perhaps, but no more.” + </p> +<p> +“How you are changed, Loo!” cried he. +</p> +<p> +“How silly would it be for the trees to burst out in bud with winter! and +the same folly were it for us not to change as life wears on. Our spring +is past, Ludlow.” + </p> +<p> +“But I could bear all if you were not changed to me,” cried he, +passionately. +</p> +<p> +“Far worse, again. I am changed to myself, so that I do not know myself,” + said she. +</p> +<p> +“I know well how your heart reproaches me for all this, Loo,” said he, +sorrowfully; “how you accuse me of being the great misfortune of your +life. Is it not so?” + </p> +<p> +“Who can answer this better than yourself?” cried she, bitterly. +</p> +<p> +“And yet, was it not the whole aim and object of my existence to be +otherwise? Did I not venture everything for your love?” + </p> +<p> +“If you would have me talk with you, speak no more of this. You have it in +your power to do me a great service, or work me a great injury; for the +first, I mean to be more than grateful; that is, I would pay all I could +command; for the last, your recompense must be in the hate you bear me. +Decide which path you will take, and let me face my future as best I may.” + </p> +<p> +“There is one other alternative, Loo, which you have forgotten.” + </p> +<p> +“What is it?” + </p> +<p> +“Can you not forgive me?” said he, almost sobbing as he spoke. +</p> +<p> +“I cannot,—I cannot,” said she. “You ask me for more than any human +heart could yield. All that the world can heap upon me of contempt would +be as nothing to what I should feel for myself if I stooped to that. No, +no; follow out your vengeance if it must be, but spare me to my own +heart.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you know the insults you cast upon me?” cried he, savagely. “Are you +aware that it is to my own ears you speak these words?” + </p> +<p> +“Do not quarrel with me because I deal honestly by you,” said she, firmly. +“I will not promise that I cannot pay. Remember, too, Ludlow, that what I +ask of you I do not ask from your generosity. I make no claim to what I +have forfeited all right. I simply demand the price you set upon a certain +article of which to <i>me</i> the possession is more than life. I make no +concealment from you. I own it frankly—openly.” + </p> +<p> +“You want your letters, and never to hear more of <i>me</i>!” said he, +sternly. +</p> +<p> +“What sum will you take for them?” said she, in a slow, whispering voice. +</p> +<p> +“You ask what will enable you to set me at defiance forever, Loo! Say it +frankly and fairly. You want to tear your bond and be free.” + </p> +<p> +She did not speak, and he went on,— +</p> +<p> +“And you can ask this of the man you abhor! you can stoop to solicit him +whom, of all on earth, you hate the most!” + </p> +<p> +Still she was silent. +</p> +<p> +“Well,” said he, after a lengthened pause, “you shall have them. I will +restore them to you. I have not got them here,—they are in England,—but +I will fetch them. My word on it that I will keep my pledge. I see,” added +he, after an interval, in which he expected she would speak, but was still +silent,—“I see how little faith you repose in a promise. You cannot +spare one word of thanks for what you regard as so uncertain; but I can +endure this, for I have borne worse. Once more, then, I swear to you, you +shall have your letters back. I will place them myself in your hands, and +before witnesses too. Remember that, Loo—before witnesses!” And with +these words, uttered with a sort of savage energy, he turned away from +her, and was soon lost in the crowd. +</p> +<p> +“I have followed you this hour, Loo,” said a low voice beside her. +</p> +<p> +She turned and took the speaker's arm, trembling all over, and scarcely +able to keep from falling. +</p> +<p> +“Take me away, father,—take me away from this,” said she, faintly. +“I feel very ill.” + </p> +<p> +“It was Paten was with you. I could not mistake him,” said Holmes. “What +has occurred between you?” + </p> +<p> +“I will tell you all when I get home,” said she, still speaking faintly. +And now they moved through the motley crowd, with sounds of mirth and +words of folly making din around them. Strange discrepant accents to fall +on hearts as full as theirs! “How glad I am to breathe this fresh cold +night air,” cried she, as they gained the street. “It was the heat, the +noise, and the confusion overcame me, but I am better now.” + </p> +<p> +“And how have you parted with him?” asked her father, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“With a promise that sounds like a threat,” said she, in a hollow voice. +“But you shall hear all.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXVI. MR. STOCMAR'S VISIT +</h2> +<p> +It was not without trepidation that Mr. Stocmar presented himself, the +morning after the events we have recorded, at the residence of Sir William +Heathcote. His situation was, indeed, embarrassing; for not only had he +broken faith with Mrs. Morris in permitting Paten to take his place at the +ball, but as Paten had started for England that same night without even +communicating with him, Stocmar was completely puzzled what to do, and how +to comport himself. +</p> +<p> +That she would receive him haughtily, disdainfully even, he was fully +prepared for; that she would reproach him—not very measuredly too—for +his perfidy regarding Paten, he also expected. But even these difficulties +were less than the embarrassment of not knowing how her meeting with Paten +had been conducted, and to what results it had led. More than once did he +stop in the street and deliberate with himself whether he should not turn +back, hasten to his hotel, and leave Florence without meeting her. Nor was +he quite able to say why he resisted this impulse, nor how it was that, in +defiance of all his terrors, he found himself at length at her door. +</p> +<p> +The drawing-room into which he was shown was large and splendidly +furnished. A conservatory opened from one end, and at the other a large +folding glass door gave upon a spacious terrace, along which a double line +of orange-trees formed an alley of delicious shade. Scarcely had Stocmar +passed the threshold than a very silvery voice accosted him from without. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, do come here, dear Mr. Stocmar, and enjoy the delightful freshness of +this terrace. Let me present a very old friend of my family to you,—Captain +Holmes. He has just returned from India, and can give you the very latest +news of the war.” And the gentlemen bowed, and smiled, and looked silly at +each other. “Is not all this very charming, Mr. Stocmar?—at a +season, too, when we should, in our own country, be gathering round +coal-fires and screening ourselves from draughts. I am very angry with +you,—very,” whispered she, as she gave him her hand to kiss, “and I +am not at all sure if I mean ever to be friends with you again.” + </p> +<p> +And poor Mr. Stocmar bowed low and blushed, not through modesty, indeed, +but delight, for he felt like the schoolboy who, dreading to be punished, +hears he is to be rewarded. +</p> +<p> +“But I <i>am</i> forgiven, am I not?” muttered he. +</p> +<p> +“Hush! Be cautious,” whispered she. “Here comes Sir William Heathcote. +Can't you imagine yourself to have known him long ago?” + </p> +<p> +The hint was enough; and as the old Baronet held out his hand with his +accustomed warmth, Stocmar began a calculation of how many years had +elapsed since he had first enjoyed the honor of shaking that hand. This is +a sort of arithmetic elderly gentlemen have rather a liking for. It is +suggestive of so many pleasant little platitudes about “long ago,” with +anecdotic memories of poor dear Dick or Harry, that it rarely fails to +interest and amuse. And so they discussed whether it was not in '38 or +'39,—whether in spring or in autumn,—if Boulter—“poor +Tom,” as they laughingly called him—had not just married the widow +at that time; and, in fact, through the intervention of some mock dates +and imaginary incidents, they became to each other like very old friends. +</p> +<p> +Those debatable nothings are of great service to Englishmen who meet as +mere acquaintances; they relieve the awkwardness of looking out for a +topic, and they are better than the eternal question of the weather. Sir +William had, besides, a number of people to ask after, and Stocmar knew +everybody, and knew them, too, either by some nickname, or some little +anecdotic clew very amusing to those who have lived long enough in the +world to be interested by the same jokes on the same people,—a time +of life, of course, not ours, dear reader, though we may come to it one +day; and Captain Holmes listened to the reminiscences, and smiled, and +smirked, and “very true'd,” to the great enjoyment of the others; while +Mrs. Morris stole noiselessly here and there, cutting camellias for a +bouquet, but not unwatchful of the scene. +</p> +<p> +“I hope and trust I have been misinformed about your plans here, Mr. +Stocmar,” said Sir William, who was so happy to recall the names of former +friends and acquaintances. “You surely do not mean to run away from us so +soon?” + </p> +<p> +A quick glance from Mrs. Morris telegraphed his reply, and he said, “I am +most unfortunately limited for time. I shall be obliged to leave +immediately.” + </p> +<p> +“A day or two you could surely spare us?” said Heathcote. +</p> +<p> +Stocmar shook his head with a deploring smile, for another glance, quick +as the former, had given him his instructions. +</p> +<p> +“I have told you, Sir William, how inexorable he is about Clara; and +although at first I stoutly opposed his reasonings, I am free to own that +he has convinced me his plan is the true one; and as he has made all the +necessary arrangements,—have you not, Mr. Stocmar?—and they +are charming people she will be with,—he raves about them,” said +she, in a sort of whisper, while she added, still lower, “and I partly +explained to him my own projected change,—and, in fact, it is better +as it is,—don't you think so?” and thus hurrying Sir William along,—a +process not unlike that by which an energetic rider hustles a lazy horse +through heavy ground,—she at least made him feel grateful that he +was not called upon for any increased exercise of his judgment. And then +Stocmar followed, like another counsel in the same brief,—half +jocularly, to be sure, and like one not required to supply more than some +illustrative arguments. He remarked that young ladies nowadays were +expected to be models of erudition,—downright professors; no +smatterings of French and Italian, no water-color sketches touched up by +the master,—“they must be regular linguists, able to write like De +Sévigné, and interpret Dante.” In a word, so much did he improve the +theme, that he made Sir William shudder at the bare thought of being +domesticated with so much loose learning, and thank his stars that he had +been born in a generation before it. Not but the worthy Baronet had his +own secret suspicions that Clara wanted little aid from all their +teachings; his firm belief being that she was the most quick-witted, +gifted creature ever existed, and it was in a sort of triumphant voice he +asked Mrs. Morris, “Has Mr. Stocmar seen her?” + </p> +<p> +“Not yet,” said she, dryly. “Clara is in my room. Mr. Stocmar shall see +her presently; for, as he insists on leaving this to-morrow—” + </p> +<p> +“To-morrow—-to-morrow!” cried Sir William, in amazement. +</p> +<p> +And then Stocmar, drawing close to Sir William, began confidentially to +impart to him how, partly from over-persuasion of certain great people, +partly because he liked that sort of thing, he had got into theatrical +management. “One must do something. You know,” said he, “I hate farming, +never was much of a sportsman, had no turn for politics; and so, by Jove! +I thought I 'd try the stage. I mean, of course, as manager, director, +'impresario,' or whatever you call it. I need not tell you it's a costly +amusement, so far as expense goes. I might have kept the best house in +town, and the best stables in Leicestershire, for far less than I have +indulged my dramatic tastes; but I like it: it amuses, it interests me!” + And Stocmar drew himself up and stuck his hands into his +waistcoat-pockets, as though to say, “Gaze, and behold a man rich enough +to indulge a costly caprice, and philosophic enough to pay for the +pleasure that rewards him.” “Yes, sir,” he added, “my last season, though +the Queen took her private box, and all my noble friends stood stanchly to +me, brought me in debt no less than thirteen thousand seven hundred +pounds! That's paying for one's whistle, sir,—eh?” cried he, as +though vain of his own defeat. +</p> +<p> +“You might have lost it in the funds, and had no pleasure for it,” said +Sir William, consolingly. +</p> +<p> +“The very remark I made, sir. The very thing I said to Lord Snaresby. I +might have been dabbling in those Yankee securities, and got hit just as +hard.” + </p> +<p> +Sir William made a wry face, and turned away. He hoped that Captain Holmes +had not overheard the allusion; but the Captain was deep in “Galignani,” + and heard nothing. +</p> +<p> +“It is this,” continued Stocmar, “recalls me so suddenly to England. We +open on the 24th, and I give you my word of honor we have neither tenor, +basso, nor barytone engaged, nor am I quite sure of my prima donna.” + </p> +<p> +“Who ever was?” whispered Mrs. Morris, slyly; and then added aloud, “Come +now, and let me present Clara to you. We'll return presently, Sir +William.” And, so saying, she slipped her arm within Stocmar's and led him +away. +</p> +<p> +“Who is that Captain Holmes?” asked he, as they walked along. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, a nobody; an old muff.” + </p> +<p> +“Is he deaf, or is it mere pretence?” + </p> +<p> +“Deaf as a post.” + </p> +<p> +“I know his face perfectly. I 've seen him about town for years back.” + </p> +<p> +“Impossible! He has been collecting revenue, distressing Talookdars, or +Ryots, or whatever they are, in India, these thirty-odd years. It was some +one you mistook for him.” She had her hand on the lock of the door as she +said this. She paused before opening it, and said, “Remember, you are her +guardian,—your word is law.” And they entered. +</p> +<p> +Stocmar was certainly not prepared for the appearance of the young girl +who now rose to receive him with all the practised ease of the world. She +was taller, older-looking, and far handsomer than he expected, and, as +Mrs. Morris said, “Your guardian, Clara,” she courtesied deeply, and +accepted his salutation at once with deference and reserve. +</p> +<p> +“I am in the most painful of all positions,” began he, with a courteous +smile. “My first step in your acquaintance is as the ungracious herald of +a separation from all you love.” + </p> +<p> +“I have been prepared, sir, for your intentions regarding me,” said she, +coldly. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0015" id="linkimage-0015"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0404.jpg" alt="ONE0404" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“Yes, Mr. Stocmar,” broke in Mrs. Morris, quickly, “though Clara is very +young, she is thoroughly aware of our circumstances; she knows the +narrowness of our fortune, and the necessity we are under of effort for +our future support. Her own pride and her feeling for me are sufficient +reasons for keeping such matters secret. She is not ignorant of the world, +little as she has seen of it, and she comprehends that our acceptance with +our friends is mainly dependent on our ability to dispense with their +assistance.” + </p> +<p> +“Am I to be a governess, sir?” asked Clara, with a calm which the +deathlike paleness of her face showed to have cost her dearly. +</p> +<p> +“A governess! a governess!” repeated he, looking at Mrs. Morris for his +cue, for the suddenness of the question had routed all his preparations. +“I think not,—I should hope not; indeed, I am enabled to say, there +is no thought of that.” + </p> +<p> +“If so,” continued Clara, in the same calm tone, “I should like to be with +very young children. I am not afraid of being thought menial.” + </p> +<p> +“Clara,” broke in Mrs. Morris, harshly, “Mr. Stocmar has already assured +you that he does not contemplate this necessity.” She looked towards him +as she spoke, and he at once saw it was his duty to come up to the rescue, +and this he did with one of those efforts all his own. He launched forth +boldly into generalities about education and its advantages; how, with the +development of the mind and the extension of the resources, came new +fields of exercise, fresh realms of conquest. “None of us, my dear young +lady,” cried he, “not the worldliest nor the wisest of us, can ever tell +when a particular acquirement will be the key-stone of our future +fortune.” He illustrated his theory with copious instances. “There was +Mademoiselle Justemar, whom nobody had ever imagined to be an artiste, +came out as Alice one evening that the prima donna was ill, and took the +whole town by storm. There was that little creature, Violetta; who ever +fancied she could dance till they saw her as Titania? Every one knew of +Giulia Barducci, taken from the chorus, to be the greatest Norma of the +age.” + </p> +<p> +He paused and looked at her, with a stare of triumph in his features; his +expression seemed to say, “What think you of that glorious Paradise I have +led you to look at?” + </p> +<p> +“It is very encouraging indeed, sir,” said Clara, dryly, but with no +semblance of irony,—“very encouraging. There is, then, really no +reason that one day I might not be a rope-dancer.” + </p> +<p> +“Clara,” cried Mrs. Morris, severely, “you must curb this habit, if you +will not do better by abandoning it altogether. The spirit of repartee is +the spirit of impertinence.” + </p> +<p> +“I had really hoped, mamma,” said she, with an air of simplicity, “that, +as all Mr. Stocmar's illustrations were taken from the stage, I had caught +the spirit of his examples in giving one from the circus.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll be sworn you're fond of riding,” cried Stocmar, eager to relieve a +very awkward crisis even by a stupid remark. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; and I am very clever in training. I know the whole 'Bauchet' +system, and can teach a horse his 'flexions,' and the rest of it.—Well, +but, mamma,” broke she in, apologetically, “surely my guardian ought to be +aware of my perfections; and if <i>you</i> won't inform him, <i>I</i> +must.” + </p> +<p> +“You perceive, sir,” said Mrs. Morris, “that when I spoke of her +flippancy, I was not exaggerating.” + </p> +<p> +“You may rely upon it, Mr. Stocmar,” continued Clara, “mamma's description +of me was only justice.” + </p> +<p> +Stocmar laughed, and hoped that the others would have joined him; but +in this he was unhappily disappointed: they were even graver than before; +Mrs. Morris showing, in her heightened color, a degree of irritation, +while Clara's pale face betrayed no sign of emotion. +</p> +<p> +“You are to leave this to-morrow, Clara,” said Mrs. Morris, coldly. +</p> +<p> +“Very well, mamma,” was the quiet answer. +</p> +<p> +“You don't seem very eager to know for whither,” said Stocmar, smiling. +“Are all places alike to you?” + </p> +<p> +“Pretty much so, sir,” said she, in the same voice. +</p> +<p> +“You were scarcely prepared for so much philosophy, I 'm sure, Mr. +Stocmar,” said Mrs. Morris, sneeringly. “Pray confess yourself surprised.” + </p> +<p> +“Call it ignorance, mamma, and you'll give it the right name. What do <i>I</i> +know of the world, save from guide and road books? and, from the little I +have gleaned, many a village would be pleasanter to me than Paris.” + </p> +<p> +“More philosophy, sir. You perceive what a treasure of wisdom is about to +be intrusted to your charge.” + </p> +<p> +“Pray bear that in mind, sir,” said Clara, with a light laugh; “and don't +forget that though the casket has such a leaden look, it is all pure +gold.” + </p> +<p> +Never was poor Stocmar so puzzled before. He felt sailing between two +frigates in action, and exposed to the fire of each, though a +non-combatant; nor was it of any use that he hauled down his flag, and +asked for mercy,—they only loaded and banged away again. +</p> +<p> +“I must say,” cried he at last, “that I feel very proud of my ward.” + </p> +<p> +“And I am charmed with my guardian,” said she, courtesying, with an air +that implied far more of grace than sincerity in its action. +</p> +<p> +Mrs. Morris bit her lip, and a small red spot on her cheek glowed like a +flame. +</p> +<p> +“I have explained fully to Mr. Stocmar, Clara,” said she, in a cold, calm +tone, “that from to-morrow forward your allegiance will be transferred +from <i>me</i> to <i>him</i>; that with him will rest all authority and +direction over you; that, however interested—naturally interested—I +must continue to feel in your future, <i>he</i>, and <i>he</i> alone, must +be its arbiter. I repeat this now, in his presence, that there may be no +risk of a misconception.” + </p> +<p> +“Am I to write to you, mamma?” asked the girl, in a voice unmoved as her +own. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, you will write; that is, I shall expect to hear from you in reply to +my letters. This we will talk over together.” + </p> +<p> +“Am I to correspond with you, sir?” said she, addressing Stocmar in the +same impassive way. +</p> +<p> +“Oh! by all means. I shall take it as the greatest of favors. I shall be +charmed if you will honor me so far.” + </p> +<p> +“I ask, sir,” continued she, “because I may chance to have companions in +the place to which I am going; and, even to satisfy <i>their</i> scruples, +one ought to have some belongings.” + </p> +<p> +There was not the shadow of irritation in the manner in which these words +were spoken; and yet Stocmar heard them with a strange thrill of pity, and +Mrs. Morris grew pale as she listened to them. +</p> +<p> +“Clara,” said Mrs. Morris, gravely, “there are circumstances in our +relations to each other which you will only learn when we have parted. I +have committed them to writing for your own eye alone. They will explain +the urgency of the step I am now taking, as much for <i>your</i> sake as +for <i>mine</i>. When you have read and carefully pondered over that +paper, you will be convinced that this separation is of necessity.” + </p> +<p> +Clara bowed her head in assent, but did not speak. +</p> +<p> +“You will also see, Clara,” resumed she, “that it is very far from likely +the old relations between us will ever again be resumed. If we do meet +again,—an event that may or may not happen,—it will be as some +distant cousins,—some who have ties of kindred between them, and no +more.” + </p> +<p> +Clara nodded again, but still in silence. +</p> +<p> +“You see, sir,” said Mrs. Morris, turning towards Stocmar, while her eyes +flashed angrily,—“you see, sir, that I am handing over to your care +a model of obedience,—a young lady who has no will save that of +those in authority over her,—not one rebellious sentiment of +affection or attachment in her nature.” + </p> +<p> +“And who will ever strive to preserve your good opinions, sir, by +persevering in this wise course,” said Clara, with a modest courtesy. +</p> +<p> +If any one could have read Mr. Stocmar's heart at that moment, he would +have detected no very benevolent feelings towards either mother or +daughter, while he sincerely deplored his own fate at being in such +company. +</p> +<p> +“Don't you think, mamma,” said the girl, with an easy smile, “that, +considering how recently we have known this gentleman, we have been +sufficiently explicit and candid before him, and that any pretence of +emotion in his presence would be most unbecoming? He will, I am sure, +forgive us the omission. Won't you, sir?” + </p> +<p> +Stocmar smiled and bowed, and blushed and looked miserable. +</p> +<p> +“<i>You</i> have been very candid, at all events, Clara,” said Mrs. +Morris; “and Mr. Stocmar—or I mistake him much—must have +acquired a considerable insight into the nature of his charge. Sir William +expects to see you at dinner to-day, Clara,” added she, in an easier tone. +“He hopes to be well enough to come to table; and as it will be your last +evening here—” + </p> +<p> +“So it will,” said the girl, quickly; “and I must fetch down Beethoven +with me, and play his favorites for him once more.” + </p> +<p> +Mrs. Morris raised her eyebrows with an expressive look at Stocmar, and +led him from the room. Scarcely had the door closed, when the girl threw +herself, half kneeling, on the sofa, and sobbed as if her very heart was +breaking. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXVIII. VERY OUTSPOKEN ON THE WORLD AT LARGE +</h2> +<p> +And there came a next morning to all this. Oh, these same next mornings +of life!—strange leaves in that book of our daily existence, now dark +and black-lettered, now bright in all the glories of golden tracery! +For so is it, each day is a fresh page to be written “with chalk or +charcoal,” as it may be. +</p> +<p> +Two travelling-carriages took their way from Florence on that morning,—one +for Bologna, with Mr. Stocmar and Clara; the other for Rome, with the +Heathcotes, Captain Holmes having his place in the rumble. Old soldier +that he was, he liked the open-air seat, where he could smoke his cigar +and see the country. Of all those who journeyed in either, none could vie +with him in the air of easy enjoyment that he wore; and even the smart +Swiss maid at his side, though she might have preferred a younger +companion, was fain to own, in her own peculiar English, that he was full +of little bounties (bontés) in her regard. And when they halted to bait, +he was so amiable and full of attentions to every one, exerting the very +smallest vocabulary to provide all that was needed; never abashed by +failure or provoked by ridicule; always good-tempered, always gay. It was +better than colchicum to Sir William to see the little fat man washing the +salad himself at the fountain, surrounded by all the laughing damsels of +the hostel, who jeered him on every stage of his performance; and even +May, whose eyes were red with crying after Clara, had to laugh at the +disasters of his cookery and the blunders of his Italian. And then he +gossiped about with landlords and postboys, till he knew of every one who +had come or was coming; what carriages, full of Russian Princes, could not +get forward for want of horses, and what vetturinos, full of English, had +been robbed of everything. He had the latest intelligence about Garibaldi, +and the names of the last six Sicilian Dukes shot by the King of Naples. +Was he not up, too, in his John Murray, which he read whenever +Mademoiselle Virginia was asleep, and sold out in retail at every change +of post-horses? +</p> +<p> +Is it not strange that this is exactly the sort of person one needs on a +journey, and yet is only by the merest accident to be chanced upon? We +never forget the courier, nor the valet, nor the soubrette, but the really +invaluable creature,—the man who learns the name of every village, +the value of all coinage, the spot that yields good wine, the town where +the peaches are fullest of flavor, or the roses richest in perfume; we +leave him to be picked up at hazard, if picked up at all. It is an +unaccountable prejudice that makes the parasite unpopular. For who is it +that relieves life of much of its asperities,—who is it that +provides so unceasingly that our capon should be well roasted and our +temper unruffled,—who, like him, to secure all the available +advantages of the road, and, when disasters <i>will</i> occur, to make +them food for laughter? +</p> +<p> +How patient, how self-sacrificing, how deferential to caprices and +indulgent to whims is the man whose daily dinner you pay for! If you would +see humanity in holiday attire, look out for one like <i>him</i>. How +blandly does he forgive the rascalities of <i>your</i> servants and the +robberies of <i>your</i> tradesmen! No fretfulness about trifles +disfigures the calm serenity of his features. He knows that if the +travelling-carriage be thought heavy, it is only two leaders the more are +required; if the wine be corked, it is but ordering another bottle. Look +at life from his point of view, and it is surprising how little there is +to complain of. It would be too much to say that there was not +occasionally a little acting in all this catholic benevolence and +universal satisfaction, but no more, perhaps, than the fervor of a lawyer +for his client,—that <i>nisi prius</i> enthusiasm marked five +guineas on the brief. +</p> +<p> +The Captain understood his part like an artist; and through all the +condescending forgiveness he bestowed on the shortcomings of inns and +innkeepers, he suffered, ever half imperceptibly, to peer out the habits +of a man accustomed to the best of everything, who always had been +sedulously served and admirably cared for. His indulgence was thus +generosity, not ignorance, and all irritability in such a presence would +stand rebuked at once. +</p> +<p> +Sir William declared he had never seen his equal,—such temper, such +tact, such resources in difficulty, such patience under all trials. May +pronounced him charming. He could obtain something eatable in the veriest +desolation, he could extract a laugh out of disasters that seemed to defy +drollery; and, lastly, Mrs. Morris herself averred “that he was unlike +every old Indian she had ever seen, for he seemed not to know what +selfishness meant,—but so, indeed, 'poor Penthony' had always +described him.” And here she would wipe her eyes and turn away in silence. +</p> +<p> +As they rolled along the road, many a little scheme was devised for +detaining him at Rome, many a little plot laid for making him pass the +carnival with them. Little knew they the while, how, seated in the rumble +close behind, he too revolved the self-same thoughts, asking himself by +what means he could secure so pleasant a harbor of refuge. Will it not +occasionally occur in life that some of those successes on which we pride +ourselves have been in a measure prepared by others, and that the +adversary has helped us to win the game we are so vain of having scored? +</p> +<p> +“Well, how do you like them?” said Mrs. Morris, as she smoked her +cigarette at the end of the little garden at Viterbo, after Sir William +and May had said good-night,—“how do you like them, pa?” + </p> +<p> +“They 're wonderful,—they 're wonderful!” said the Captain, puffing +his weed. “It's a long time since I met anything so fresh as that old +Baronet.” + </p> +<p> +“And with all that,” said she, “his great vanity is to think he knows 'the +world.'” + </p> +<p> +“So he may, my dear. I can only say it is n't <i>your</i> world nor <i>mine</i>,” + replied he, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“And yet there is a class in which such men as he are the clever ones, +where their remarks are listened to and their observations treasured, and +where old ladies in turbans and bird-of-paradise feathers pronounce them +'such well-informed men.' Isn't that the phrase, pa?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, that's the phrase. An old article of the 'Quarterly' committed to +memory, some of Dr. Somebody's predictions about the end of the world, and +Solomon's proverbs done into modern English, make a very well-informed +man.” + </p> +<p> +“And a most insupportable bore, besides. After all, papa,” said she, “it +is in the landlocked creeks, the little waveless bays, that one must seek +his anchorage, and not in the breezy roadsteads nor the open ocean. I've +thought over the matter a good deal lately, and I believe that to be the +wise choice.” + </p> +<p> +“You are right, Loo,” said he; “ease is the great thing,—ease and +security! What settlement can he make?” + </p> +<p> +“A small one; just enough to live on. The son would be better in that +respect, but then I should n't like it; and, besides, he would live as +long as myself,—longer, perhaps,—and you know one likes to +have a look forward, though it be ever so far away off.” + </p> +<p> +“Very true,—very true,” said he, with a mild sigh. “And this Miss +Leslie,” added he, after a while; “she 'll marry, I suppose?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh yes; her fortune will still be considerable,—at least, I hope +so. That man Trover has taken all the papers away with him, but he 'll +turn up some day or other. At all events, there will be quite enough to +get her a Roman Count or a Sicilian Duke; and as they are usually sent to +the galleys or shot in a few years, the endurance is not prolonged. These +are Trover's cigars, ain't they? I know them well.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; it was your friend Stocmar filled my case yesterday.” + </p> +<p> +“Another of the would-be shrewd ones!” said she, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“I did n't fancy him much,” said he. +</p> +<p> +“Nor I, either; he is <i>such</i> a snob. Now, one can't live with a snob, +though one may dine with him, smoke, flirt, ride, and chat with him. Is it +not so?” + </p> +<p> +“Perfectly true.” + </p> +<p> +“Sir William is not snobbish. It is his one redeeming quality.” + </p> +<p> +“I see that. I remarked it the first day we met.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh dear! oh dear!” sighed she, drearily, “what a tame, poor, commonplace +thing life becomes when it is reduced to English cookery for health, and +respectability for morals! I could marry Stocmar if I pleased, papa.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course you could.” + </p> +<p> +“Or O'Shea,—'the O'Shea,'” said she, with a laugh. “How droll to be +the <i>she</i> of that species! I could have <i>him</i> also.” + </p> +<p> +“Not also, but either, dear,” said the Captain, correcting her. +</p> +<p> +“I meant that, papa,” laughed she in, “though, perhaps—perhaps poor +Mr. Ogden might n't see that your objection was called for.” And then they +both laughed once more at the droll conceit. “We are to be married on some +day before Lent,” said she, after a pause. “I must positively get an +almanac, papa, or I shall make confusion in my dates.” + </p> +<p> +“The Lent begins late this year,” remarked he. +</p> +<p> +“Does it? So much the better, for there is much to be thought of. I trust +to you for the settlements, papa. You will have to be inexorable on every +stage of the proceedings; and as for me, I know nothing of business,—never +did, never could.” + </p> +<p> +“But that is not exactly the character you have figured in here of late.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, papa dear,” cried she, “do you imagine, if reason or judgment were to +be invoked, that Sir William would ever marry me? Is it not because he is +blind to every inconsistency and every contradiction that the poor man has +decided on this step?” + </p> +<p> +“Where do you mean to live? Have you any plans on that score?” + </p> +<p> +“None, except where there are fewest English; the smallest possible +population of red whiskers and red petticoats, and the least admixture of +bad tongues and Balmoral boots. If we cannot find such a spot, then a +city,—a large city, where people have too many resources to be +obliged to amuse themselves with scandal.” + </p> +<p> +“That's true; I have always remarked that where the markets were good, and +fish especially abundant, people were less censorious. In small +localities, where one eats kid every day, the tendency to tear your +neighbor becomes irresistible. I 'm convinced that the bad tongue of +boarding-house people may be ascribed to the bad diet.” + </p> +<p> +“Perfectly true, papa; and when you dine with us, you shall have no excuse +for malevolence. There,” said she, throwing away the end of her cigar, “I +can't afford to light another one this evening, I have got so few of those +delicious Cubans. Oh dear,” sighed she, “what a strange destiny is mine! +Whenever I enter the marriage state, it must always be with a connection +where there are no small vices, and <i>I</i> fond of them!” + </p> +<p> +And so saying, she drew her shawl around her, and strolled lazily towards +the house, while the Captain, selecting another cheroot, sat himself down +in a snug spot in the arbor to muse, and meditate, and moralize after his +fashion. Had any one been there to mark him as he gazed upwards at the +starry sky, he might readily have deemed him one lost in heavenly +contemplation, deep in that speculative wisdom that leaves the frontier of +this narrow life far, far behind, and soars to realms nobler, vaster, +grander. But not so were his thoughts; they were earthy of the earthiest, +craft and subtlety crossed and recrossed them, and in all their complex +web not one chord was to be found which could vibrate with an honest wish +or a generous aspiration. There was not, nevertheless, a ruddier +complexion, a brighter eye, a merrier voice, or a better digestion than +his in Christendom. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXIX. FROM CLARA +</h2> +<p> +It was just as Alfred Layton stepped into the boat to row out to the +“Asia,” bound for New York, that a letter from Clara was placed in his +hands. He read it as they rowed along,—read it twice, thrice over. +It was a strange letter—at least, he thought so—from one so +very young. There was a tone of frankness almost sisterly, but there was, +in alluding to the happy past, a something of tenderness half shadowed +forth that thrilled strangely through his heart. How she seemed to love +those lessons he had once thought she felt to be mere tasks! How many +words he had uttered at random,—words of praise or blame, as it +might be; she had treasured all up, just as she had hoarded the flowers he +had given her. What a wondrous sensation it is to feel that a chance +expression we have used, a few stray words, have been stored up as +precious memories! Is there any flattery like it? What an ecstasy to feel +that we could impart value to the veriest commonplace, and, without an +effort, without even a will, sit enthroned within some other heart! +</p> +<p> +What wisdom there was in that old fable of the husbandman, who bequeathed +the treasure to his sons to be discovered by carefully turning over the +soil of their land, delving and digging it industriously! How applicable +is the lesson it teaches to what goes on in our daily lives, where, ever +in search of one form of wealth, our labors lead us to discover some other +of which we knew nothing! Little had Alfred Layton ever suspected that, +while seeking to gain May's affection, he was winning another heart; +little knew he that in that atmosphere of love his deep devotion made, she—scarcely +more than a child—lived and breathed, mingling thoughts of him +through all the efforts of her mind, till he became the mainspring of +every ambition that possessed her. And now he knew it all. Yes, she +confessed, as one never again fated to meet him, that she loved him. “If,” + wrote she, “it is inexpressible relief to me to own this, I can do so with +less shame that I ask no return of affection; I give you my heart, as I +give that which has no value, save that I feel it is with you, to go along +with you through all the straits and difficulties of your life, to nourish +hope for your success and sorrow for your failure, but never to meet you +more.... Nor,” said she, in another place, “do I disguise from myself the +danger of this confession. They say it is man's nature to despise the gift +which comes unasked,—the unsought heart is but an undesired realm. +Be it so. So long as the thought fills me that <i>you</i> are its lord, so +long as to myself I whisper vows of loyalty, I am not worthless in my own +esteem. I can say, '<i>He</i> would like this; <i>he</i> would praise me +for that; some word of good cheer would aid me here; how joyously <i>he</i> +would greet me as I reached this goal!” + </p> +<p> +“Bravely borne, dear Clara! would requite me for a cruel sacrifice. You +are too generous to deny me this much, and I ask no more. None of us can +be the worse of good wishes, none be less fortunate that daily blessings +are entreated for us. Mine go with you everywhere and always.” + </p> +<p> +These lines, read and re-read so often, weighed heavily on Layton's heart; +and she who wrote them was never for an instant from his thoughts. At +first, sorrow and a sense of self-reproach were his only sentiments; but +gradually another feeling supervened. There is not anything which supplies +to the heart the want of being cared for. There is that companionship in +being loved, without which life is the dreariest of all solitudes. As we +are obliged to refer all our actions to a standard of right and wrong, so +by a like rule all our emotions must be brought before another court,—the +heart that loves us; and he who has not this appeal is a wretched outlaw! +This Layton now began to feel, and every day strengthened the conviction. +The last few lines of the letter, too, gave an unspeakable interest to the +whole. They ran thus:— +</p> +<p> +“I know not what change has come over my life, or is to come, but I am to +be separated from my mother, intrusted to a guardian I have never seen +till now, and sent I know not whither. All that I am told is that our +narrow fortune requires I should make an effort for my own support. I am +grateful to the adversity that snatches me from a life of thought to one +of labor. The weariness of work will be far easier to bear than the +repinings of indolence. Self-reproach will be less poignant, too, when not +associated with self-indulgence; and, better than all, a thousand times +better, I shall feel in my toil some similitude to him whom I love,—feel, +when my tired brain seeks rest, some unseen thread links my weariness to +his, and blends our thoughts together in our dreams, fellow-laborers at +least in life, if not lovers!” + </p> +<p> +When he had read thus far, and was still contemplating the lines, a small +slip, carefully sealed in two places, fell from the letter. It was +inscribed “My Secret.” Alfred tore it open eagerly. The contents were very +brief, and ran thus:— +</p> +<p> +“She whom I had believed to be my mother is not so. She is nothing to me. +I am an orphan. I know nothing of those belonging to me, nor of myself, +any more than that my name is <i>not</i>, 'Clara Morris.'” + </p> +<p> +Layton's first impulse, as he read, was to exclaim, “Thank God, the dear +child has no tie to this woman!” The thought of her being her daughter was +maddening. And then arose the question to his mind, by what link had they +been united hitherto? Mrs. Morris had been ever to him a mysterious +personage, for whom he had invented numberless histories, not always to +her advantage. But why or through what circumstances this girl had been +associated with her fortunes, was a knot he could find no clew to. There +arose, besides, another question, why should this connection now cease, by +what change in condition were they to be separated, and was the separation +to be complete and final? Clara ought to have told him more; she should +have been more explicit. It was unfair to leave him with an unsolved +difficulty which a few words might have set clear. He was half angry with +her for the torture of this uncertainty, and yet—let us own it—in +his secret heart he hugged this mystery as a new interest that attached +him to life. Let a man have ever so little of the gambler in his nature,—and +we have never pictured Layton as amongst that prudent category,—and +there will be still a tendency to weigh the eventualities of life, as +chances inclining now to this side, now to that “I was lucky in that +affair,” “I was unfortunate there,” are expressions occasionally heard +from those who have never played a card or touched a dice-box. And where +does this same element play such a part as when a cloud of doubt and +obscurity involves the fate of one we love? +</p> +<p> +For the first few days of the voyage Layton thought of nothing but Clara +and her history, till his mind grew actually confused with conflicting +guesses about her. “I must tell Quackinboss everything. I must ask his aid +to read this mystery, or it will drive me mad,” said he, at last. “He has +seen her, too, and liked her.” She was the one solitary figure he had met +with at the Villa which seemed to have made a deep impression upon him; +and over and over again the American had alluded to the “'little gal' with +the long eyelashes, who sang so sweetly.” + </p> +<p> +It was not very easy to catch the Colonel in an unoccupied moment. Ever +since the voyage began he was full of engagements. He was an old +Transatlantic voyager, deep in all the arts and appliances by which such +journeys are rendered agreeable. Such men turn up everywhere. On the +Cunard line they organize the whist-parties, the polka on the poop-deck, +the sweepstakes on the ship's log, and the cod-fishing on the banks. On +the overland route it is they who direct where tents are to be pitched, +kids roasted, and Arabs horsewhipped. By a sort of common accord a degree +of command is conceded to them, and their authority is admitted without +dispute. Now and then a rival will contest the crown, and by his party +divide the state; but the community is large enough for such schism, +which, after all, is rarely a serious one. The Pretender, in the present +case, had come on board by the small vessel which took the pilot away,—a +circumstance not without suspicion, and, of course, certain of obtaining +its share of disparaging comments, not the less that the gentleman's +pretensions were considerable, and his manners imposing. In fact, to use a +vulgarism very expressive of the man, “he took on” immensely. He was very +indignant at not finding his servant expecting him, and actually out of +himself on discovering that a whole stateroom had not been engaged for his +accommodation. With all these disappointing circumstances, it was curious +enough how soon he reconciled himself to his condition, submitting with +great good-humor to all the privations of ordinary mortals; and when, on +the third or fourth day of the voyage, he deigned to say that he had drunk +worse Madeira, and that the clam soup was really worthy of his approval, +his popularity was at once assured. It was really pleasant to witness such +condescension, and so, indeed, every one seemed to feel it. All but one, +and that one was Quackinboss, who, from the first moment, had conceived a +strong dislike against the new arrival, a sentiment he took no pains to +conceal or disguise. +</p> +<p> +“He's too p'lite,—he 's too civil by half, sir,—especially +with the women folk,” said Quackinboss; “they ain't wholesome when they +are so tarnation sweet. As Senator Byles says, 'Bunkum won't make +pie-crust, though it 'll serve to butter a man up.' Them's my own +sentiments too, sir, and I don't like that stranger.” + </p> +<p> +“What can it signify to you, Colonel?” said Layton. “Why need you trouble +your head about who or what he is?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll be bound he's one of them as pays his debts with the topsail sheet, +sir. He's run. I 'm as sartain o' that fact as if I seen it. Whenever I +see a party as won't play whist under five-guinea points, or drink +anything cheaper than Moët at four dollars a bottle, I say look arter that +chap, Shaver, and you'll see it's another man's money pays for him.” + </p> +<p> +“But, after all,” remonstrated Layton, “surely you have nothing to do with +him?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, sir, I 'm not downright convinced on that score. He's a-come from +Florence; he knows all about the Heathcotes and Mrs. Morris, and the other +folk there; and he has either swindled <i>them</i>, or they 've been +a-roguing some others. That's <i>my</i> platform, sir, and I'll not change +one plank of it.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come,” said Layton, laughingly, “for the first time in your life +you have suffered a prejudice to override your shrewd good sense. The man +is a snob, and no more.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, sir, I 'd like to ask, could you say worse of him? Ain't a snob a +fellow as wants to be taken for better bred or richer or cleverer or more +influential than he really is? Ain't he a cheat? Ain't he one as says, 'I +ain't like that poor publican yonder, I 'm another guess sort of crittur, +and sit in quite another sort of place?' Jest now, picture to your own +mind how pleasant the world would be if one-fourth, or even one-tenth, of +its inhabitants was fellows of that stamp!” + </p> +<p> +It was only after two or three turns on the deck that Layton could subdue +the Colonel's indignation sufficiently to make him listen to him with calm +and attention. With a very brief preamble he read Clara's letter for him, +concluding all with the few lines inscribed “My Secret.” “It is about this +I want your advice, dear friend,” said he. “Tell me frankly what you think +of it all.” + </p> +<p> +Quackinboss was always pleased when asked his advice upon matters which at +first blush might seem out of the range of his usual experiences. It +seemed such a tribute to his general knowledge of life, that it was a very +graceful species of flattery, so that he was really delighted by this +proof of Layton's confidence in his acuteness and his delicacy, and in the +exact proportion of the satisfaction he felt was he disposed to be diffuse +and long-winded. +</p> +<p> +“This ain't an easy case, sir,” began he; “this ain't one of those +measures where a man may say, 'There's the right and there's the wrong of +it;' and it takes a man like Shaver Quackinboss—a man as has seen +snakes with all manner o' spots on 'em—to know what's best to be +done.” + </p> +<p> +“So I thought,” mildly broke in Layton,—“so I thought.” + </p> +<p> +“There's chaps in this world,” continued he, “never sees a difficulty +nowhere; they 'd whittle a hickory stick with the same blade as a piece of +larch timber, sir; ay, and worse, too, never know how they gapped their +knife for the doin' it! You 'd not believe it, perhaps, but the wiliest +cove ever I seen in life was an old chief of the Mandans, Aï-ha-ha-tha, +and his rule was, when you 're on a trail, track it step by step; never +take short cuts. Let us read the girl's letter again.” And he did so +carefully, painstakingly, folding it up afterwards with slow deliberation, +while he reflected over the contents. +</p> +<p> +“I 'in a-thinkin',” said he, at last,—“I 'm a-thinkin' how we might +utilize that stranger there, the fellow as is come from Florence, and who +may possibly have heard something of this girl's history. <i>He</i> don't +take to me; nor, for the matter o' that, do <i>I</i> to <i>him</i>. But +that don't signify; there's one platform brings all manner of folk +together,—it's the great leveller in this world,—Play. Ay, +sir, your English lord has no objection to even Uncle Sam's dollars, +though he 'd be riled con-siderable if you asked him to sit down to meals +with him. I 'll jest let this crittur plunder me a bit; I'll flatter him +with the notion that he's too sharp and too spry for the Yankee. He's +always goin' about asking every one, 'Can't they make a game o' brag?' +Well, I 'll go in, sir. <i>He</i> shall have his game, and I'll have +mine.” + </p> +<p> +Layton did not certainly feel much confidence in the plan of campaign thus +struck out; but seeing the pleasure Quackinboss felt in the display of +his acuteness, he offered no objection to the project. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir,” continued Quackinboss, as though reflecting aloud, “once these +sort of critturs think a man a flat, they let out all about how sharp they +are themselves; they can't help it; it's part of their shallow natur' to +be boastful. Let us see, now, what it is we want to find out: first of +all, the widow, who she is and whence she came; then, how she chanced to +have the gal with her, and who the gal herself is, where she was raised, +and by whom; and, last of all, what is't they done with her, how they 've +fixed her. Ay, sir,” mused he, after a pause, “as Senator Byles says, 'if +I don't draw the badger, I 'd beg the honorable gentleman to b'lieve that +his own claws ain't sharp enough to do it!' There's the very crittur +himself, now, a-smokin',” cried he; “I'll jest go and ask him for a weed.” + And, so saying, Quackinboss crossed the deck and joined the stranger. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XL. QUACKINBOSSIANA +</h2> +<p> +On the morning on which the great steamer glided within the tranquil +waters of Long Island, Quackinboss appeared at Layton's berth, to announce +the fact, as well as report progress with the stranger. “I was right, +sir,” said he; “he's been and burnt his fingers on 'Change; that's the +reason he's here. The crittur was in the share-market, and got his soup +too hot! You Britishers seem to have the bright notion that, when you've +been done at home, you 'll be quite sharp enough to do us here, and so, +whenever you make a grand smash in Leadenhall Street, it's only coming +over to Broadway! Well, now, sir, that's considerable of a mistake; we +understand smashing too,—ay, and better than folk in the old +country. Look you here, sir; if I mean to lose my ship on the banks, or in +an ice-drift, or any other way, I don't go and have her built of strong +oak plank and well-seasoned timber, copper-fastened, and the rest of it; +but I run her up with light pine, and cheap fixin's everywhere. She not +only goes to pieces the quicker, but there ain't none of her found to tell +where it happened, and how. That's how it comes <i>we</i> founder, and +there 's no noise made about it; while one of your chaps goes bumpin' on +the rocks for weeks, with fellows up in the riggin', and life-boats takin' +'em off, and such-like, till the town talks of nothing else, and all the +newspapers are filled with pathetic incidents, so that the very fellows +that calked her seams or wove her canvas are held up to public +reprobation. That's how you do it, sir, and that's where you 're wrong. +When a man builds a cardhouse, he don't want iron fastenings. I've +explained all to that crittur there, and he seems to take it in +wonderful.” “Who is he—what is he?” asked Layton. +</p> +<p> +“His name's Trover; firm, Trover, Twist, and Co., Frankfort and Florence, +bankers, general merchants, rag exporters, commission agents, doing a bit +in the picture line and marble for the American market, and sole agents +for the sale of Huxley's tonic balsam. That's how he is,” said the +Colonel, reading the description from his note-book. +</p> +<p> +“I never heard of him before.” + </p> +<p> +“He knows you, though,—knew you the moment he came aboard; said you +was tutor to a lord in Italy, and that he cashed you circular notes on +Stanbridge and Sawley. These fellows forget nobody.” + </p> +<p> +“What does he know of the Heathcotes?” + </p> +<p> +“Pretty nigh everything. He knows that the old Baronet would be for makin' +a fortune out of his ward's money, and has gone and lost a good slice of +it, and that the widow has been doin' a bit of business in the +share-market, in the same profitable fashion,—not but she's a rare +wide-awake 'un, and sees into the 'exchanges' clear enough. As to the gal, +he thinks she sold her—” + </p> +<p> +“Sold her! What do you mean?” cried Layton, in a voice of horror. +</p> +<p> +“Jest this, that one of those theatrical fellows as buys singing-people, +and gets 'em taught,—it's all piping-bullfinch work with 'em,—has +been and taken her away; most probably cheap, too, for Trover said she was +n't nowise a rare article; she had a will of her own, and was as likely to +say 'I won't,' as 'I will.'” + </p> +<p> +“Good heavens! And are things like this suffered,—are they endured +in the age we live in?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir. You've got all your British sympathies very full about negroes +and 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' you 're wonderful strong about slavery and our +tyrants down South, and you 've something like fifty thousand born ladies, +called governesses, treated worse than housemaids, and some ten thousand +others condemned to what I won't speak of, that they may amuse you in your +theatres. I can tell you, sir, that the Legrees that walk St. James's +Street and Piccadilly are jest as black-hearted as the fellows in Georgia +or Alabama, though they carry gold-headed walking-sticks instead of +cow-hides.” + </p> +<p> +“But sold her!” reiterated Layton. “Do you mean to say that Clara has been +given over to one of these people to prepare her for the stage?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; he says his name's Stocmar,—a real gentleman, he calls +him, with a house at Brompton, and a small yacht at Cowes. They 've rather +good notions about enjoying themselves, these theatre fellows. They get a +very good footing in West End life, too, by supplying countesses to the +nobility.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no!” cried Layton, angrily; “you carry your prejudices against birth +and class beyond reason and justice too.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I suspect not, sir,” said Quackinboss, slowly. “Not to say that I +was n't revilin', but rather a-praisin' 'em, for the supply of so much +beauty to the best face-market in all Europe. If I were to say what's the +finest prerogatives of one of your lords, I know which I 'd name, sir, and +it would n't be wearin' a blue ribbon, and sittin' on a carved oak bench +in what you call the Upper House of Parliament.” + </p> +<p> +“But Clara—what of Clara?” cried Layton, impatiently. +</p> +<p> +“He suspects that she's at Milan, a sort of female college they have +there, where they take degrees in singin' and dancin'. All I hope is that +the poor child won't learn any of their confounded lazy Italian notions. +There's no people can prosper, sir, when their philosophy consists in <i>Come +si fa? Come si fa?</i> means it's no use to work, it's no good to strive; +the only thing to do in life is to lie down in the shade and suck oranges. +That's the real reason they like Popery, sir, because they can even go to +heaven without trouble, by paying another man to do the prayin' for 'em. +It ain't much trouble to hire a saint, when it only costs lighting a +candle to him. And to tell me that's a nation wants liberty and free +institutions! No man wants liberty, sir, that won't work for his bread; no +man really cares for freedom till he's ready to earn his livin', for this +good reason, that the love of liberty must grow out of personal +independence, as you'll see, sir, when you take a walk yonder.” And he +pointed to the tall steeples of New York as he spoke. But Layton cared +little for the discussion of such a theme; his thoughts had another and a +very different direction. +</p> +<p> +“Poor Clara!” muttered he. “How is she to be rescued from such a destiny?” + </p> +<p> +“<i>I</i>'d say by the energy and determination of the man who cares for +her,” said Quackinboss, boldly. “<i>Come si fa?</i> won't save her, that's +certain.” + </p> +<p> +“Can you learn anything of the poor child's history from this man, or does +he know it?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, sir,” drawled out the Colonel, “that ain't so easy to say. Whether +a man has a partic'lar piece of knowledge in his head, or whether a quartz +rock has a streak of gold inside of it, is things only to be learned in +the one way,—by hammering,—ay, sir, by hammering! Now, it +strikes me this Trover don't like hammering; first of all, the sight of +you here has made him suspicious—” + </p> +<p> +“Not impossible is it that he may have seen you also, Colonel,” broke in +Layton. +</p> +<p> +“Well, sir,” said the other, drawing himself proudly up, “and if he had, +what of it? You don't fancy that <i>we</i> are like the Britishers? You +don't imagine that when we appear in Eu-rope that every one turns round +and whispers, 'That's a gentleman from the United States'? No, sir, it is +the remarkable gift of our people to be cosmopolite. We pass for Russian, +French, Spanish, or Italian, jest as we like, not from our skill in +language, which we do not all possess, so much as a certain easy imitation +of the nat-ive that comes nat'ral to us. Even our Western people, sir, +with very remarkable features of their own, have this property; and you +may put a man from Kentucky down on the Boulevard de Gand to-morrow, and +no one will be able to say he warn't a born Frenchman!” + </p> +<p> +“I certainly have not made that observation hitherto,” said Layton, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“Possibly not, sir, because your national pride is offended by our never +imitating <i>you!</i> No, sir, we never do that!” + </p> +<p> +“But won't you own that you might find as worthy models in England as in +France or Italy?” + </p> +<p> +“Not for us, sir,—not for us. Besides, we find ourselves at home on +the Continent; we don't with <i>you</i>. The Frenchman is never taxing us +with every little peculiarity of accent or diction; he 's not always +criticising our ways where they differ from his own. Now, your people do, +and, do what we may, sir, they will look on us as what the Chinese call +'second chop.' Now, to my thinking, we are first chop, sir, and you are +the tea after second watering.” + </p> +<p> +They were now rapidly approaching the only territory in which an +unpleasant feeling was possible between them. Each knew and felt this, and +yet, with a sort of national stubbornness, neither liked to be the one to +recede first. As for Layton, bound as he was by a debt of deep gratitude +to the American, he chafed under the thought of sacrificing even a +particle of his country's honor to the accident of his own condition, and +with a burning cheek and flashing eye he began,— +</p> +<p> +“There can be no discussion on the matter. Between England and America +there can no more be a question as to supremacy—” + </p> +<p> +“There, don't say it; stop there,” said Quackinboss, mildly. “Don't let us +get warm about it. I may like to sit in a rockin'-chair and smoke my weed +in the parlor; you may prefer to read the 'Times' at the drawing-room +fire; but if we both agree to go out into the street together, sir, we can +whip all cre-ation.” + </p> +<p> +And he seized Layton's hand, and wrung it with an honest warmth that there +was no mistaking. +</p> +<p> +“And now as to this Mr. Trover,” said Layton, after a few minutes. “Are we +likely to learn anything from him?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, sir,” said the Colonel, lazily, “I 'm on his track, and I know his +footmarks so well now that I 'll be sure to detect him if I see him again. +He 's a-goin' South, and so are <i>we</i>. He's a-looking out for land; +that's exactly what <i>we're</i> arter!” + </p> +<p> +“You have dropped no hint about our lecturing scheme?” asked Layton, +eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“I rayther think not, sir,” said the other, half indignant at the bare +suspicion. “We 're two gentlemen on the search after a good location and a +lively water-power. We 've jest heard of one down West, and there's the +whole cargo as per invoice.” And he gave a knowing wink and look of +mingled drollery and cunning. +</p> +<p> +“You are evidently of opinion that this man could be of use to us?” said +Layton, who was well aware how fond the American was of acting with a +certain mystery, and who therefore cautiously abstained from any rash +assault upon his confidence. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir, that's <i>my</i> ticket; but I mean to take my own time to lay +the bill on the table. But here comes the small steamers and the boats for +the mails. Listen to that bugle, Britisher. That air is worth all Mozart. +Yes, sir,” said he proudly, as he hummed,— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“There's not a man beneath the moon, +Nor lives in any land he +That hasn't heard the pleasant time +Of Yankee doodle dandy! + +“In coolin' drinks, and clipper ships, +The Yankee has the way shown! +On land and sea 't is he that whips +Old Bull and all creation.” + </pre> +<p> +Quackinboss gradually dropped his voice, till at the concluding line the +words sank into an undistinguishable murmur; for now, as it were, on the +threshold of his own door, he felt all the claim of courtesy to the +stranger. Still it was not possible for him to repress the proud delight +he felt in the signs of wealth and prosperity around him. +</p> +<p> +“There,” cried he, with enthusiasm, “there ain't a land in the universe—that's +worth calling a land—has n't a flag flying yonder! There's every +color of bunting, from Lapland to Shanghai, afloat in them waters, sir; +and yet you 'll not have to go back two hundred years, and where you see +the smoke risin' from ten thousand human dwellin's there was n't one +hearth nor one home! The black pine and the hemlock grew down those grassy +slopes where you see them gardens, and the red glare of the Indian's fire +shone out where the lighthouse now points to safety and welcome! It ain't +a despicable race as has done all that! If that be not the work of a great +people, I 'd like to hear what is!” He next pointed out to Layton the +various objects of interest as they presented themselves to view, +commenting on the very different impressions such a scene of human energy +and activity is like to produce than those lands of Southern Europe from +which they had lately come. “You 'll never hear <i>Come si fa?</i> here, +sir,” said he, proudly. “If a man can't fix a thing aright, he 'll not +wring his hands and sit down to cry over it, but he 'll go home to think +of it at his meals, and as he lies awake o' nights; and he 'll ask himself +again and again, 'If there be a way o' doin' this, why can't <i>I</i> find +it out as well as another?'” + </p> +<p> +It was the Colonel's belief that out of the principle of equality sprang +an immense amount of that energy which develops itself in inventive +ability; and he dilated on this theory for some time, endeavoring to show +that the subdivision of ranks in the Old World tended largely to repress +the enterprising spirit which leads men into paths previously untrodden. +“That you 'll see, sir, when you come to mix with our people. And now, a +word of advice to you before you begin.” + </p> +<p> +He drew his arm within Layton's as he said this, and led him two or three +turns on the deck in silence. The subject was in some sort a delicate one, +and he did not well see how to open it without a certain risk of +offending. “Here's how it is,” said he at last. “Our folk isn't your folk +because they speak the same language. In <i>your</i> country, your station +or condition, or whatever you like to call it, answers for you, and the +individual man merges into the class he belongs to. Not so here. <i>We</i> +don't care a red cent about your rank, but we want to know about you +yourself! Now, you strangers mistake all that feeling, and call it +impertinence and curiosity, and such-like; but it ain't anything of the +kind! No, sir. It simply means what sort of knowledge, what art or science +or labor, can you contribute to the common stock? Are you a-come amongst +us to make us wiser or richer or thriftier or godlier; or are you just a +loafer,—a mere loafer? My asking <i>you</i> on a rail-car whence you +come and where you 're a-goin' is no more impertinence than my inquirin' +at a store whether they have got this article or that! I want to know +whether you and I, as we journey together, can profit each other; whether +either of us mayn't have something the other has never heard afore. He +can't have travelled very far in life who has n't picked up many an +improvin' thing from men he didn't know the names on, ay, and learned many +a sound lesson, besides, of patience, or contentment, forgiveness, and the +like; and all that ain't so easy if people won't be sociable together!” + </p> +<p> +Layton nodded a sort of assent; and Quackinboss continued, in the same +strain, to point out peculiarities to be observed, and tastes to be +consulted, especially with reference to the national tendency to invite to +“liquor,” which he assured Layton by no means required a sense of thirst +on his part to accede to. “You ain't always charmed when you say you are, +in French, sir; and the same spirit of politeness should lead you to +accept a brandy-smash without needing it, or even to drink off a cocktail +when you ain't dry. After all,” said he, drawing a long breath, like one +summing up the pith of a discourse, “if you're a-goin' to pick holes in +Yankee coats, to see all manner of things to criticise, condemn, and sneer +at, if you 're satisfied to describe a people by a few peculiarities which +are not pleasin' to you, go ahead and abuse us; but if you 'll accept +honest hospitality, though offered in a way that's new and strange to you,—if +you 'll believe in true worth and genuine loyalty of character, even +though its possessor talk somewhat through the nose,—then, sir, I +say, there ain't no fear that America will disappoint you, or that you 'll +be ill-treated by Americans.” With this speech he turned away to look +after his baggage and get ready to go ashore. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLI. QUACKINBOSS AT HOME +</h2> +<p> +Though Quackinboss understood thoroughly well that it devolved upon him to +do the honors of his country to the “Britisher,” he felt that, in honest +fairness, the stranger ought to be free to form his impressions, without +the bias that would ensue from personal attentions, while he also believed +that American institutions and habits stood in need of no peculiar favor +towards them to assert their own superiority. +</p> +<p> +“Don't be on the look-out, sir, for Eu-ropean graces,” he would say, “in +this country, for the men that have most of 'em ain't our best people; and +don't mistake the eagerness with which everybody will press you to admire +America for any slight towards the old country. We all like her, sir; and +we'd like her better if she wasn't so fond of saying she's ashamed of us.” + </p> +<p> +These were the sort of warnings and counsels he would drop as he guided +Layton about through the city, pointing out whatever he deemed most worthy +of curiosity, or whatever he conceived might illustrate the national +character. It was chiefly on the wealth of the people, their untiring +industry, and the energy with which they applied themselves to +money-getting, that he laid stress; and he did this with a degree of +insistence that betrayed an uneasy consciousness of how little sympathy +such traits meet with from the passing traveller. +</p> +<p> +“Mayhap, sir, you 'd rather see 'em loafing?” said he one day in a moment +of impatience, as Layton half confessed that he 'd like to meet some of +the men of leisure. “Well, you 'll have to look 'em up elsewhere, I +expect. I 'll have to take you a run down South for that sort of cattle,—and +that's what I mean to do. Before you go before our people, sir, as a +lecturer, you 'll have to study 'em a little, that's a fact! When you come +to know 'em, you 'll see that it's a folk won't be put off with chaff when +they want buckwheat; and that's jest what your Eu-ropeans think to do. I +will take a trip to the Falls first; I 'd like to show you that +water-power. We start away on Monday next.” + </p> +<p> +Layton was not sorry to leave New York. The sight of that ever busy +multitude, that buzzing hive of restless bees, was only addling to one who +never regarded wealth save as a stage to something farther off. He was +well aware how rash it would be to pronounce upon a people from the mere +accidents of chance intercourse, and he longed to see what might give him +some real insight into the character of the nation. Besides this, he felt, +with all the poignant susceptibility of his nature, that he was not +himself the man to win success amongst them. There was a bold rough +energy, a daring go-ahead spirit, that overbore him wherever he went. They +who had not travelled spoke more confidently of foreign lands than he who +had seen them. Of the very subjects he had made his own by study, he heard +men speak with a confidence he would not have dared to assume; and lastly, +the reserve which serves as a sanctuary to the bashful man was invaded +without scruple by any one who pleased it. +</p> +<p> +If each day's experience confirmed him in the impression that he was not +one to gain their suffrages, he was especially careful to conceal this +discouraging conviction from Quackinboss, leaving to time, that great +physician, to provide for the future. Nor was the Colonel himself, be it +owned, without his own misgivings. He saw, to his amazement, that the +qualities which he had so much admired in Layton won no approval from his +countrymen; the gifts, which by reading and reflection he had cultivated, +seemed not to be marketable commodities; there were no buyers,—none +wanted them. Now Quackinboss began to think seriously over their project, +deeply pained as he remembered that it was by his own enthusiastic +description of his countrymen the plan had first met acceptance. Whether +it was that the American mind had undergone some great change since he had +known it, or that foreign travel had exaggerated, in his estimation, the +memory of many things he had left behind him; but so it was, the Colonel +was amazed to discover that with all the traits of sharp intelligence and +activity he recognized in his countrymen, there were yet some features in +the society of the old continent that he regretted and yearned after. +Again and again did he refer to Italy and their life there; even the +things he had so often condemned now came up, softened by time and +distance, as pleasant memories of an era passed in great enjoyment If any +passing trait in the scenery recalled the classic land, he never failed to +remark it, and, once launched upon the theme, he would talk away for hours +of the olive-woods, the trellised vines, the cottages half hid amidst the +orange-groves, showing how insensibly the luxurious indolence he had +imbibed lingered like a sort of poison in his blood. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir,” said he, one day, as with an amount of irritation he +acknowledged the fatal fascination of that land of dreamy inactivity, +“it's <i>my</i> notion that Italy is a pasture where no beast ought to be +turned out that's ever to do any work again. It ain't merely that one does +nothing when he 's there, but he ain't fit for anything when he leaves it. +I know what I 'd have thought of any man that would have said to me, +'Shaver Quackinboss, you 'll come out of them diggin's lazy and indolent. +You 'll think more of your ease than you ought, and you 'll be more +grateful for being jest left alone to follow your own fancies than for the +best notion of speculation that ever was hit upon.' And that's exactly +what I 've come to! I don't want a fellow to tell me where I can make +thirty or forty thousand dollars; I 've lost all that spring in me that +used to make me rise early and toil late. What I call happiness now is to +sit and smoke with one of your sort of an afternoon, and listen to stories +of chaps that lived long ago, and worked their way on in a world a +precious sight harder to bully than our own. Well now, sir, I say, that +ain't right, and it ain't nat'ral, and, what's more, I ain't a-goin' to +bear it. I mean to be stirrin' and active again, and you 'll see it.” + </p> +<p> +It was a few days after he had made this resolve that he said to Layton,— +</p> +<p> +“Only think who I saw at the bar this morning. That fellow we came over +with in the passage out; he was a-liquoring down there and treating all +the company. He comes up to me, straight on end, and says,— +</p> +<p> +“'Well, old 'oss, and how do <i>you</i> get on?' +</p> +<p> +“'Bobbish-like,' says I, for I was minded to be good-humored with him, and +see what I could get out of him about hisself. +</p> +<p> +“'Where's the young 'un I saw with you aboard?' says he. +</p> +<p> +“'Well,' said I, 'he ain't very far off, when he's wanted.' +</p> +<p> +“'That's what he ain't,' said he; 'he ain't wanted nowhere.' When he said +this I saw he was very 'tight,' as we call it,—far gone in liquor, I +mean. +</p> +<p> +“'Have you found out that same water-power you were arter?' said he. +</p> +<p> +“'No,' said I. 'It's down West a man must go who has n't a bag full of +dollars. Everything up hereabouts is bought up at ten times its worth.' +</p> +<p> +“'Well, look sharp after the young 'un,' said he, laughing; 'that's <i>my</i> +advice to you. Though you're Yankee, he 'll be too much for you in the +end.' He said this, drinking away all the time, and getting thicker in his +speech at every word. +</p> +<p> +“'I ain't a man to neglect a warnin',' says I, in a sort of whisper, 'and +if <i>you</i> mean friendly by me, speak out.' +</p> +<p> +“'And ain't that speaking out,' says he, boldly, 'when I say to a fellow I +scarcely know by sight, “Mind your eye; look out for squalls!” I wonder +what more he wants? Does he expect me to lend him money?' said he, with an +insolent laugh. +</p> +<p> +“'No,' said I, in the same easy way, 'by no manner o' means; and if it's +myself you allude to, I ain't in the vocative case, sir. I 've got in that +old leather pocket-book quite enough for present use.' +</p> +<p> +“'Watch it well, then; put it under your head o' nights, that's all,' said +he, hiccuping; 'and if you wake up some morning without it, don't say the +fault was Oliver Trover's.' This was a-tellin' me his name, which I +remembered the moment I heard it. +</p> +<p> +“'You 'll take a brandy-smash or a glass of bitters with <i>me</i> now, +sir?' said I, hopin' to get something more out of him; but he wouldn't +have it. He said, with a half-cunning leer, 'No more liquor, no more +liquor, and no more secrets! If you was to treat me to all in the bar, you +'d get nothing more out of Noll Trover.'” + </p> +<p> +“But what does the fellow mean by his insinuations about me?” said Layton, +angrily. “I never knew him, never met him, never so much as heard of him!” + </p> +<p> +“What does that signify if he has heard of <i>you</i>, and suspects you to +know something about <i>him?</i> He ain't all right, that's clear enough; +but our country is so full of fellows like that, it ain't easy work +tracking 'em.” + </p> +<p> +Layton shrugged his shoulders with an indifference, as though to say the +matter did not interest him; but Quackinboss rejoined quickly, “I 've a +notion that it concerns us, sir. I heerd his inquiry about all the lines +down South, and asking if any one knew a certain Harvey Winthrop, down at +Norfolk.” + </p> +<p> +“Winthrop—Winthrop? Where have I heard that name?” + </p> +<p> +“In that book of your father's,—don't you remember it? It was he was +mentioned as the guardian of that young girl, the daughter of him as was +pisoned at Jersey.” + </p> +<p> +“And is this man Trover in search of Winthrop?” asked Layton, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, he's a-lookin' arter him, somehow, that's certain; for when +somebody said, 'Oh, Harvey Winthrop ain't at Norfolk now,' he looked quite +put out and amazed, and muttered something about having made all his +journey for nothing.” + </p> +<p> +“It is strange, indeed, that we should have the same destination, and +stranger still would it be if we should be both on the same errand.” + </p> +<p> +“Well,” said Quackin boss, after a long pause, “I've been a-rolling the +log over and over, to see which way to cut it, and at last, I believe, I +'ve found the right side o' it. You and I must quarrel.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean?” asked Layton, in astonishment. +</p> +<p> +“I mean jest this. I must take up the suspicion that he has about <i>you</i>, +and separate from you. It may be to join <i>him</i>. He's one of your +Old-World sort, that's always so proud to be reckoned 'cute and smart, +that you 've only to praise his legs to get his leggin's. We'll be as +thick as thieves arter a week's travelling, and I 'll find out all that +he's about. Trust Old Shaver, sir, to get to windward of small craft like +that!” + </p> +<p> +“I own to you frankly,” said Layton, “that I don't fancy using a rogue's +weapons even against a rogue.” + </p> +<p> +“Them's not the sentiments of the men that made laws, sir,” said +Quackinboss. “Laws is jest rogues' weapons against rogues. You want to do +something you have n't no right to, and straight away you discover that +some fellow was so wide awake once that he made a statute against it, ay, +and so cleverly too, that he first imagined every different way you could +turn your dodge, and provided for each in turn.” + </p> +<p> +Layton shook his head in dissent, but could not repress a faint smile. +</p> +<p> +“Ain't it roguery to snare partridges and to catch fish, for the matter o' +that?” said he, with increased warmth. “Wherever a fellow shows hisself +more 'cute than his neighbors, there's sure to be an outcry 'What a rogue +he is!'” + </p> +<p> +“Your theory would be an indictment against all mankind,” said Layton. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir, for <i>I</i> only call him a rogue that turns his sharpness to +bad and selfish ends. Now, that's not the case with him as hunts down +varmint: he's a-doin' a good work, and all the better that he may get +scratched for his pains.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, what is your plan?” said Layton, rather fearful of the length into +which his friend's speculations occasionally betrayed him. +</p> +<p> +“Here it is, sir,” said the Colonel. “I'll come down upon that crittur at +Detroit, where I hear he's a-goin', and flatter him by saying that he was +all right about <i>you</i>.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed!” said Layton, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir,” said the other, gravely. “I'll say to him, 'Stranger, you <i>are</i> +a wide-awake 'un, that's a fact.' He'll rise to <i>that</i>, like a +ground-shark to a leg of pork,—see if he don't,—and he 'll go +on to ask about <i>you</i>; that will give me the opportunity to give a +sketch of myself, and a more simple, guileless sort of bein' you 've not +often heerd of than I 'll turn out to be. Yes, sir, I 'm one as suspects +no ill of anybody, jest out of the pureness of my own heart. When we get +on to a little more intimacy, I mean to show him twenty thousand dollars I +'ve got by me, and ask his advice about investin' 'em. I guess pretty nigh +what he'll say: 'Give 'em over to me.' Well, I 'll take a bit of time to +consider about that. There will be, in consequence, more intimacy and more +friendship atween us: but arter he's seen the money, he 'll not leave me; +human natur' could n't do <i>that!</i>” + </p> +<p> +“Shall I tell you fairly,” said Layton, “that I not only don't like your +scheme, but that I think it will not repay you?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, sir,” said Quackinboss, drawing himself up, “whenever you see <i>me</i> +baitin' a rat-trap, I don't expect you 'll say, 'Colonel, ain't that mean? +Ain't <i>you</i> ashamed of yourself to entice that poor varmint there to +his ruin? Why don't you explain to him that if he wants that morsel of +fried bacon, it will cost him pretty dear?'” + </p> +<p> +“You forget that you're begging the question. You're assuming, all this +time, that this man is a rogue and a cheat.” + </p> +<p> +“I am, sir,” said he, firmly, “for it's not at this time o' day Shaver +Quackinboss has to learn life. All the pepperin' and lemon-squeezin' in +the world won't make a toad taste like a terrapin: that crittur's gold +chains don't impose upon <i>me!</i> You remember that he was n't aboard +four-and-twenty hours when I said, 'That sheep's mangy.'” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps I like your plan the less because it separates us,” said Layton, +who now perceived that the Colonel seemed to smart under anything that +reflected on his acuteness. +</p> +<p> +“That's jest what galls me too,” said he, frankly. “It's been all sunshine +in my life, since we 've been together. All the book-learnin' you 've got +has stolen into your nature so gradually as to make part of yourself, but +what you tell me comes like soft rain over a dry prairie, and changing the +parched soil into something that seems to say, 'I 'm not so barren, after +all, if I only got my turn from fortune.' You 've shown me one thing, that +I often had a glimmerin' of, but never saw clearly till you pointed it +out, that the wisest men that ever lived felt more distrust of themselves +than of their fellows. But we only part for a while, Layton. In less than +a month we 'll meet again, and I hope to have good news for you by that +time.” + </p> +<p> +“Where are we to rendezvous, then?” asked Layton, for he saw how fruitless +would be the attempt at further opposition. +</p> +<p> +“I'll have the map out this evening, and we 'll fix it,” said the Colonel. +“And now leave me to smoke, and think over what's afore us. There's great +thoughts in that bit of twisted 'bacco there, if I only have the wit to +trace 'em. Every man that has had to use his head in life finds out by the +time he's forty what helps him to his best notions. Bonaparte used to get +into a bath to think, Arkwright went to bed, and my father, Methuselah +Grip Quackinboss, said he never was so bright as standing up to his neck +in the mill-race, with the light spray of the wheel comin' in showers over +him. 'I feel,' says he, 'as if I was one-half Lord Bacon and the other +John C. Colhoun.' Now my brain-polisher is a long Cuban, a shady tree, and +a look-out seaward,—all the better if the only sails in sight be far +away.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLII. A NEW LOCATION +</h2> +<p> +After a great deal of discussion it was agreed between Layton and the +Colonel that they should meet that day month at St. Louis. Layton was to +employ the interval in seeing as much as he could of the country and the +people, and preparing himself to appear before them at the first favorable +opportunity. Indeed, though he did not confess it, he yielded to the +separation the more willingly, because it offered him the occasion of +putting into execution a plan he for some time had been ruminating over. +In some measure from a natural diffidence, and in a great degree from a +morbid dread of disappointing the high expectations Quackinboss had formed +of the success he was to obtain, Layton had long felt that the presence of +his friend would be almost certain to insure his failure. He could neither +venture to essay the same flights before him, nor could he, if need were, +support any coldness or disinclination of his audience were Quackinboss +there to witness it. In fact, he wanted to disassociate his friend from +any pain failure should occasion, and bear all alone the sorrows of +defeat. +</p> +<p> +Besides this, he felt that, however personally painful the ordeal, he was +bound to face it. He had accepted Quackinboss's assistance under the +distinct pledge that he was to try this career. In its success was he to +find the means of repaying his friend; and so confidently had the Colonel +always talked of that success, it would seem mere wilfulness not to +attempt it. +</p> +<p> +There is not, perhaps, a more painful position in life than to be obliged +to essay a career to which all one's thoughts and instincts are opposed; +to do something against which self-respect revolts, and yet meet no +sympathy from others,—to be conscious that any backwardness will be +construed into self-indulgence, and disinclination be set down as +indolence. Now this was Alfred Layton's case. He must either risk a signal +failure, or consent to be thought of as one who would rather be a burden +to his friends than make an honorable effort for his own support. He was +already heavily in the Colonel's debt; the thought of this weighed upon +him almost insupportably. It never quitted him for an instant; and, worse +than all, it obtruded through every effort he made to acquit himself of +the obligation; and only they who have experienced it can know what pain +brain labor becomes when it is followed amidst the cares and anxieties of +precarious existence; when the student tries in vain to concentrate +thoughts that <i>will</i> stray away to the miserable exigencies of his +lot, or struggle hopelessly to forget himself and his condition in the +interest of bygone events or unreal incidents. Let none begrudge him the +few flitting moments of triumph he may win, for he has earned them by many +a long hour of hardship! +</p> +<p> +The sense of his utter loneliness, often depressing and dispiriting, was +now a sort of comfort to him. Looking to nothing but defeat, he was glad +that there was none to share in his sorrows. Of all the world, he thought +poor Clara alone would pity him. Her lot was like his own,—the same +friendlessness, the self-same difficulty. Why should he not have her +sympathy? She would give it freely and with her whole heart. It was but to +tell her, “I am far away and unhappy. I chafe under dependence, and I know +not how to assert my freedom. I would do something, and yet I know not +what it is to be. I distrust myself, and yet there are times when I feel +that one spoken word would give such courage to my heart that I could go +on and hope.” Could she speak that word to him? was his ever present +thought. He resolved to try, and accordingly wrote her a long, long +letter. Full of the selfishness of one who loved, he told her the whole +story of his journey, and the plan that led to it. “I have patience enough +for slow toil,” said he, “but I do not seek for the success it brings. I +wanted the quick prosperity that one great effort might secure, and time +afterwards to enjoy the humble fortune thus acquired. With merely enough +for life, Clara, I meant to ask you to share it. Who are as friendlessly +alone as we are? Who are so bereft of what is called home? Say, have you a +heart to give me,—when I can claim it,—and will you give it? I +am low and wretched because I feel unloved. Tell me this is not so, and in +the goal before me hope and energy will come back to me.” Broken and +scarce coherent at times, his letter revealed one who loved her ardently, +and who wanted but her pledge to feel himself happy. He pressed eagerly to +know of her own life,—what it was, and whether she was contented. +Had she learned anything of the mystery that surrounded her family, or +could she give him the slightest clew by which he could aid her in the +search? He entreated of her to write to him, even though her letter should +not be the confirmation of all he wished and prayed for. +</p> +<p> +The very fact of his having written this to Clara seemed to rally his +spirits. It was at least a pledge to his own heart. He had placed a goal +before him, and a hope. +</p> +<p> +“I am glad to see you look cheerier,” said Quackinboss, as they sat +talking over their plans. “The hardest load a man ever carried is a heavy +heart, and it's as true as my name's Shaver, that one gets into the habit +of repinin' and seein' all things black jest as one falls into any other +evil habit. Old Grip Quackinboss said, one day, to Mr. Jefferson, 'Yes, +sir,' says he, 'always hearty, sir,—always cheery. There 's an old +lady as sweeps the crossin' in our street, and I give her a quarter-dollar +to fret for me, for it's a thing I've sworn never to do for myself.'” + </p> +<p> +“Well,” said Layton, gayly, “you 'll see I 've turned over a new leaf; and +whatever other thoughts you shall find in me, causeless depression shall +not be of the number.” + </p> +<p> +“All right, sir; that's my own platform. Now here's your instructions, for +I 'm a-goin'. I start at seven-forty, by the cars for Buffalo. That spot +down there is our meetin'-place,—St. Louis. It looks mighty +insignificant on the map, there; but you 'll see it's a thrivin' location, +and plenty of business in it. You 'll take your own time about being +there, only be sure to arrive by this day month; and if I be the man I +think myself, I 'll have news to tell you when you come. This crittur, +Trover, knows all about that widow Morris, and the girl, too,—that +Clara,—you was so fond of. If I have to tie him up to a tree, sir, I +'ll have it out of him! There 's five hundred dollars in that bag. You 'll +not need all of it, belike, if you keep clear of 'Poker' and Bully-brag; +and I advise you to, sir,—I do,” said he, gravely. “It takes a man +to know life, to guess some of the sharp 'uns in our river steamers. +There's no other dangers to warn you of here, sir. Don't be riled about +trifles, and you 'll find yourself very soon at home with us.” + </p> +<p> +These were his last words of counsel as he shook Layton's hand at parting. +It was with a sad sense of loneliness Layton sat by his window after +Quackinboss had gone. For many a month back he had had no other friend or +companion: ever present to counsel, console, or direct him, the honest +Yankee was still more ready with his purse than his precepts. Often as +they had differed in their opinions, not a hasty word or disparaging +sentiment had ever disturbed their intercourse; and even the Colonel's +most susceptible spot—that which touched upon national +characteristics—never was even casually wounded in the converse. In +fact, each had learned to see with how very little forbearance in matters +of no moment, and with how slight an exercise of deference for differences +of object and situation, English and American could live together like +brothers. +</p> +<p> +There was but one thought which embittered the relations between them, in +Layton's estimation. It was the sense of that dependence which destroyed +equality. He was satisfied to be deeply the debtor of his friend, but he +could not struggle between what he felt to be a fitting gratitude, and +that resolute determination to assert what he believed to be true at any +cost. He suspected, too,—and the suspicion was a very painful one,—that +the Colonel deemed him indolent and self-indulgent. The continued +reluctance he had evinced to adventure on the scheme for which they came +so far, favored this impression. +</p> +<p> +As day after day he travelled along, one thought alone occupied him. At +each place he stopped came the questions, Will this suit? Is this the spot +I am in search of? It was strange to mark by what slight and casual events +his mind was influenced. The slightest accident that ruffled him as he +arrived, an insignificant inconvenience, a passing word, the look of the +place, the people, the very aspect of the weather, were each enough to +assure him he had not yet discovered what he sought after. It was towards +the close of his fifth day's ramble that he reached the small town of +Bunkumville. It was a newly settled place, and, like all such, not +over-remarkable for comfort or convenience. The spot had been originally +laid out as the centre of certain lines of railroad, and intended to have +been a place of consequence; but the engineers who had planned it had +somehow incurred disgrace, the project was abandoned, and instead of a +commercial town, rich, populous, and flourishing, it now presented the +aspect of a spot hastily deserted, and left to linger out an existence of +decline and neglect. There were marks enough to denote the grand projects +which were once entertained for the place,—great areas measured off +for squares, spacious streets staked off; here and there massive “blocks” + of building; three or four hotels on a scale of vast proportion, and an +assembly-room worthy of a second-rate city. With all this, the population +was poor-looking and careworn. No stir of trade or business to be met +with. A stray bullock-car stole drearily along through the deep-rutted +streets, or a traveller significantly armed with rifle and revolver rode +by on his own raw-boned horse; but of the sights and sounds of town life +and habits there were none. Of the hotels, two were closed; the third was +partially occupied as a barrack, by a party of cavalry despatched to +repress some Indian outrages on the frontier. Even the soldiers had +contracted some of the wild, out-of-the-world look of the place, and wore +their belts over buckskin jackets, that smacked more of the prairie than +the parade. The public conveyance which brought Layton to the spot only +stopped long enough to bait the horses and refresh the travellers; and it +was to the no small surprise of the driver that he saw the “Britisher” ask +for his portmanteau, with the intention of halting there. “Well, you ain't +a-goin' to injure your constitution with gayety and late hours, stranger,” + said he, as he saw him descend; “that's a fact.” + </p> +<p> +Nor was the sentiment one that Layton could dispute, as, still standing +beside his luggage in the open street, he watched the stage till it +disappeared in the distant pine forest. Two or three lounging, +lazy-looking inhabitants had, meanwhile, come up, and stood looking with +curiosity at the new arrival. +</p> +<p> +“You ain't a valuator, are you?” asked one, after a long and careful +inspection of him. +</p> +<p> +“No,” said Layton, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“You 're a-lookin' for a saw-mill, I expect,” said another, with a keen +glance as he spoke. +</p> +<p> +“Nor that, either,” was the answer. +</p> +<p> +“I have it,” broke in a third; “you 've got 'notions' in that box, there, +but it won't do down here; we 've got too much bark to hew off before we +come to such fixin's.” + </p> +<p> +“I suspect you are not nearer the mark than your friends, sir,” said +Layton, still repressing the slightest show of impatience. +</p> +<p> +“What'll you lay, stranger, I don't hit it?” cried a tall, thin, +bold-looking fellow, with long hair falling over his neck. “You're a +preacher, ain't you? You're from the New England States, I 'll be bound. +Say I 'm right, sir, for you know I am.” + </p> +<p> +“I must give it against you, sir, also,” said Layton, preserving his +gravity with an effort that was not without difficulty. “I do not follow +any one of the avocations you mention; but, in return for your five +questions, may I make bold to ask one? Which is the hotel here?” + </p> +<p> +“It's yonder,” said the tall man, pointing to a large house, handsomely +pillared, and overgrown with the luxuriant foliage of the red acanthus; +“there it is. That's the Temple of Epicurus, as you see it a-written up. +You ain't for speculatin' in that sort, are you?” + </p> +<p> +“No,” said Layton, quietly; “I was merely asking for a house of +entertainment.” + </p> +<p> +“You 're a Britisher, I reckon,” said one of the former speakers; “that 's +one of <i>their</i> words for meat and drink.” + </p> +<p> +Without waiting for any further discussion of himself, his country, or his +projects, Layton walked towards the hotel. From the two upper tiers of +windows certain portions of military attire, hung out to air or to dry, +undeniably announced a soldierly occupation; cross-belts, overalls, and +great-coats hung gracefully suspended on all sides. Lower down, there was +little evidence of habitation; most of the windows were closely shuttered, +and through such as were open Layton saw large and lofty rooms, totally +destitute of furniture and in part unfinished. The hall-door opened upon a +spacious apartment, at one side of which a bar had been projected, but the +plan had gone no further than a long counter and some shelves, on which +now a few bottles stood in company with three or four brass candlesticks, +a plaster bust, wanting a nose, and some cooking-utensils. On the counter +itself was stretched at full length, and fast asleep, a short, somewhat +robust man, in shirt and trousers, his deep snoring awaking a sort of +moaning echo in the vaulted room. Not exactly choosing to disturb his +slumbers, if avoidable, Layton pushed his explorations a little further; +but though he found a number of rooms, all open, they were alike empty and +unfinished, nor was there a creature to be met with throughout. There was, +then, nothing for it but to awaken the sleeper, which he proceeded to, at +first by gentle, but, as these failed, by more vigorous means. +</p> +<p> +“Don't! I say,” growled out the man, without opening his eyes, but seeming +bent on continuing his sleep; “I 'll not have it; let me be,—that's +all.” + </p> +<p> +“Are you the landlord of this hotel?” said Layton, with a stout shake by +the shoulder. +</p> +<p> +“Well, then, here's for it, if you will!” cried the other, springing up, +and throwing himself in an instant into a boxing attitude, while his eyes +glared with a vivid wildness, and his whole face denoted passion. +</p> +<p> +“I came here for food and lodging, and not for a boxing-match, my friend,” + said Layton, mildly. +</p> +<p> +“And who said I was your friend?” said the other, fiercely: “who told <i>you</i> +that we was raised in the same diggins? and what do you mean, sir, by +disturbin' a gentleman in his bed?” + </p> +<p> +“You'll scarcely call that bench a bed, I think?” said Layton, in an +accent meant to deprecate all warmth. +</p> +<p> +“And why not, sir? If you choose to dress yourself like a checker-board, I +'m not going to dispute whether you have a coat on. It's <i>my</i> bed, +and I like it. And now what next?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm very sorry to have disturbed you; and if you can only tell me if +there be any other hotel in this place—” + </p> +<p> +“There ain't; and there never will be, that's more. Elsmore's is shut up; +Chute Melchin 's a-blown his brains out; and so would <i>you</i> if you 'd +have come here. Don't laugh, or by the everlastin' rattlesnake, I 'll +bowie you!” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0016" id="linkimage-0016"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0444.jpg" alt="ONE0444" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +The madly excited look of the man, his staring eyes, retreating forehead, +and restless features made Layton suspect he was insane, and he would +gladly have retired from an interview that promised so little success; but +the other walked deliberately round, and, barring the passage to the door, +stood with his arms crossed before him. +</p> +<p> +“You think I don't know you, but I do; I heerd of you eight weeks ago; I +knew you was comin', but darm me all blue if you shall have it. Come out +into the orchard; come out, I say, and let's see who's the best man. <i>You</i> +think you 'll come here and make this like the Astor House, don't ye? and +there 'll be five or six hundred every night pressing up to the bar for +bitters and juleps, just because you have the place? But I say Dan Heron +ain't a-goin' to quit; he stands here like old Hickory in the mud-fort, +and says, try and turn me out.” + </p> +<p> +By the time the altercation had reached thus far, Layton saw that a crowd +of some five-and-twenty or thirty persons had assembled outside the door, +and were evidently enjoying the scene with no common zest. Indeed, their +mutterings of “Dan 's a-givin' it to him,” “Dan 's full steam up,” and so +on, showed where their sympathies inclined. Some, however, more +kindly-minded, and moved by the unfriended position of the stranger, +good-naturedly interposed, and, having obtained Layton's sincere and +willing assurance that he never harbored a thought of becoming proprietor +of the Temple, nor had he the very vaguest notion of settling down at +Bunkumville in any capacity, peace was signed, and Mr. Heron consented to +receive him as a guest. +</p> +<p> +Taking a key from a nail on the wall, Dan Heron preceded him to a small +chamber, where a truckle-bed, a chair, and a basin on the floor formed the +furniture; but he promised a table, and if the stay of the stranger +warranted the trouble, some other “fixin's” in a day or two. +</p> +<p> +“You can come and eat a bit with me about sun-down,” said Dan, doggedly, +as he withdrew, for he was not yet quite satisfied what projects the +stranger nursed in his bosom. +</p> +<p> +Resolved to make the best of a situation not over-promising, to go with +the humor of his host so far as he could, and even, where possible, try +and derive some amusement from his eccentricities, Layton presented +himself punctually at meal-time. The supper was laid out in a large +kitchen, where an old negress officiated as cook. It was abundant and +savory; there was every imaginable variety of bread, and the display of +dishes was imposing. The circumstance was, however, explained by Heron's +remarking that it was the supper of the officers of the detachment they +were eating, a sudden call to the frontier having that same morning +arrived, and to this lucky accident were they indebted for this abundance. +</p> +<p> +An apple-brandy “smash” of Mr. Heron's own devising wound up the meal, and +the two lighted their cigars, and in all the luxurious ease of their +rocking-chairs, enjoyed their post-prandial elysium. +</p> +<p> +“Them boots of yours is English make,” was Mr. Heron's first remark, after +a long pause. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, London,” was the brief reply. +</p> +<p> +“I 've been there; I don't like it.” + </p> +<p> +Layton muttered some expression of regret at this sentiment; but the other +not heeding went on:— +</p> +<p> +“I 've seen most parts of the world, but there ain't anything to compare +with this.” + </p> +<p> +Layton was not certain whether it was the supremacy of America he +asserted, or the city of Bunkumville in particular, but he refrained from +inquiring, preferring to let the other continue; nor did he seem at all +unwilling. He went on to give a half-connected account of a migratory +adventurous sort of life at home and abroad. He had been a cook on +shipboard, a gold-digger, an auctioneer, a showman, dealt in almost every +article of commerce, smuggled opium into China and slaves into New +Orleans, and with all his experiences had somehow or other not hit upon +the right road to fortune. Not, indeed, that he distrusted his star,—far +from it. He believed himself reserved for great things, and never felt more +certain of being within their reach than at this moment. +</p> +<p> +“It was I made this city we 're in, sir,” said he, proudly. “I built all +that mass yonder,—Briggs Block; I built the house we 're sitting in; +I built that Apollonicon, the music-hall you saw as you came in, and I +lectured there too; and if it were not for an old 'rough' that won't keep +off his bitters early of a mornin', I 'd be this day as rich as John Jacob +Astor: that's what's ruined me, sir. I brought him from New York with me +down here, and there 's nothing from a bird-cage to a steam-boiler that +fellow can't make you when he's sober,—ay, and describe it too. If +you only heerd him talk! Well, he made a telegraph here, and set two +saw-mills a-goin', and made a machine for getting the salt out of that +lake yonder, and then took to manufacturing macaroni and gunpowder, and +some dye-stuff out of oak bark; and what will you say, stranger, when I +tell you that he sold each of these inventions for less than gave him a +week's carouse? And now I have him here, under lock and key, waiting till +he comes to hisself, which he's rather long about this time.” + </p> +<p> +“Is he ill?” asked Layton. +</p> +<p> +“Well, you can't say exactly he's all right; he gave hisself an ugly gash +with a case-knife on the neck, and tried to blow hisself up arter with +some combustible stuff, so that he's rather black about the complexion; +and then he's always a-screechin' and yellin' for drink, but I go in at +times with a heavy whip, and he ain't unreasonable then.” + </p> +<p> +“He's mad, in fact,” said Layton, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“I only wish you and I was as sane, stranger,” said the other. “There +ain't that place on the globe old Poll, as we call him, could n't make a +livin' in; he's a man as could help a minister with his discourse, or +teach a squaw how to work moccasins. I don't know what <i>your</i> trade +is, but I 'll be bound he knows something about it <i>you</i> never heerd +of.” + </p> +<p> +Mr. Heron went on to prove how universally gifted his friend was by +mentioning how, on his first arrival, he gave a course of lectures on a +plan which assuredly might have presented obstacles to many. It was only +when the room was filled, and the public itself consulted, that the theme +of the lecture was determined; so that the speaker was actually called +upon, without a moment for preparation, to expatiate upon any given +subject. Nor was the test less trying that the hearers were plain +practical folk, who usually propounded questions in which they possessed +some knowledge themselves. How to open a new clearing, what treatment to +apply to the bite of the whipsnake, by what contrivance to economize water +in mills, how to tan leather without oak bark,—such and such-like +were the theses placed before him, matters on which the public could very +sufficiently pronounce themselves. Old Poll, it would seem, had sustained +every test, and come through every ordeal of demand victorious. While the +host thus continued to expatiate on this man's marvellous gifts, Layton +fell a-thinking whether this might not be the very spot he sought for, and +this the audience before whom he could experiment on as a public speaker. +It was quite evident that the verdict could confer little either of +distinction or disparagement: success or failure were, as regarded the +future, not important. If, however, he could succeed in interesting them at +all,—if he could make the themes of which they had never so much as +heard in any way amusing or engaging,—it would be a measure of what +he might attain with more favorable hearers. He at once propounded his +plan to Mr. Heron, not confessing, however, that he meditated a first +attempt, but speaking as an old and practised lecturer. +</p> +<p> +“What can you give 'em, sir? They 're horny-handed and flat-footed folk +down here, but they 'll not take an old hen for a Bucks county chicken, I +tell <i>you!</i>” + </p> +<p> +“I am a little in your friend Poll's line,” said Layton, good-humoredly. +“I could talk to them about history, and long ago; what kind of men ruled +amongst Greeks and Romans; what sort of wars they waged; how they +colonized, and what they did with the conquered. If my hearers had +patience for it, I could give them some account of their great orators and +poets.” + </p> +<p> +Heron shook his head dissentingly, and said Poll told 'em all that, and +nobody wanted it, till he came to them chaps they call the gladiators, and +showed how they used to spar and hit out. “Was n't it grand to see him, +with his great chest and strong old arms, describin' all their movements, +and how much they trusted to activity, imitating all from the wild beast,—not +like our boxers, who make fighting a reg'lar man's combat. You couldn't +take up that, could you?” + </p> +<p> +“I fear not,” said Layton, despondingly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, tell 'em something of the old country in a time near their own. +They 'd like to hear about their greatgrandfathers and grandmothers.” + </p> +<p> +“Would they listen to me if I made Ireland the subject,—Ireland just +before she was incorporated with England, when, with a Parliament of her +own, she had a resident gentry, separate institutions, and strong traits +of individual nationality?” + </p> +<p> +“Tell 'em about fellows that had strong heads and stout hands, that, +though they mightn't always be right in their opinions, was willing and +ready to fight for 'em. Give 'em a touch of the way they talked in their +House of Parliament; and if you can bring in a story or two, and make 'em +laugh,—it ain't a'ways easy to do,—but if you <i>can</i> do +it, you may travel from Cape Cod to the Gulf of Mexico and never change a +dollar.” + </p> +<p> +“Here goes, then! I 'll try it!” said Layton, at once determined to risk +the effort. “When can it be?” + </p> +<p> +“It must be at once, for there 's a number of 'em a-goin' West next week. +Say to-morrow night, seven o'clock. Entrance, twelve cents; first chairs, +five-and-twenty. No smokin' allowed, except between the acts.” + </p> +<p> +“Take all the arrangements on yourself, and give me what you think fair of +our profits,” said Layton. +</p> +<p> +“That's reasonable; no man can say it ain't. What's your name, stranger?” + </p> +<p> +“My name is Alfred—But never mind my name; announce me as a +Gentleman from England.” + </p> +<p> +“Who has lectured before the Queen and Napoleon Bonaparte.” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, that I have never done.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, but you might, you know; and if you didn't, the greater loss +theirs.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps so; but I can't consent—” + </p> +<p> +“Just leave them things to me. And now, one hint for yourself: when you +'re a-windin' up, dash it all with a little soft sawder, sayin' as how you +'d rather be addressin' <i>them</i> than the Emperor of Roosia; that the +sight of men as loves liberty, and knows how to keep it, is as good as +Peat's vegetable balsam, that warms the heart without feverin' the blood; +and that wherever you go the 'membrance of the city and its enlightened +citizens will be the same as photographed on your heart; that there's men +here ought to be in Congress, and women fit for queens! And if you throw +in a bit of the star-spangled—you know what—it 'll do no +harm.” + </p> +<p> +Layton only smiled at these counsels, offered, however, in a spirit far +from jesting; and after a little further discussion of the plan, Heron +said, “Oh, if we only could get old Poll bright enough to write the +placards,—that's what he excels in; there ain't his equal for +capitals anywhere.” + </p> +<p> +Though Layton felt very little desire to have the individual referred to +associated with him or his scheme, he trusted to the impossibility of the +alliance, and gave himself no trouble to repudiate it; and after a while +they parted, with a good-night and hope for the morrow. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLIII. BUNKUMVILLE +</h2> +<p> +“You would n't believe it,—no one would believe it,” said Mr. Heron, +as he hastily broke in upon Layton the next morning, deep in preparations +for the coming event “There 's old Poll all spry and right again; he asked +for water to shave himself, an invariable sign with him that he was +a-goin' to try a new course.” + </p> +<p> +Layton, not caring to open again what might bear upon this history, merely +asked some casual question upon the arrangements for the evening; but +Heron rejoined: “I told Poll to do it all. The news seemed to revive him; +and far from, as I half dreaded, any jealousy about another taking his +place, he said, 'This looks like a promise of better things down here. If +our Bunkumville folk will only encourage lecturers to come amongst them, +their tone of thinking and speaking will improve. They 'll do their daily +work in a better spirit, and enjoy their leisure with a higher zest.'” + </p> +<p> +“Strange sentiments from one such as you pictured to me last night.” + </p> +<p> +“Lord love ye, that's his way. He beats all the Temperance 'Postles about +condemning drink. He can tell more anecdotes of the mischief it works, +explain better its evil on the health, and the injury it works in a man's +natur', than all the talkers ever came out of the Mayne Convention.” + </p> +<p> +“Which scarcely says much for the force of his convictions,” said Layton, +smiling. +</p> +<p> +“I only wish he heard you say so, Britisher; if he would n't chase you up +a pretty high tree, call <i>me</i> a land crab! I remember well, one +night, how he lectured on that very point and showed that what was +vulgarly called hypocrisy was jest neither more nor less than a diseased +and exaggerated love of approbation,—them's his words; I took 'em +down and showed 'em to him next morning, and all he said was, 'I suppose I +said it arter dinner.'” + </p> +<p> +“Am I to see your friend and make his acquaintance?” asked Layton. +</p> +<p> +“Well,” said the other, with some hesitation, “I rayther suspect not; he +said as much that he did n't like meeting any one from the old country. +It's my idea that he warn't over well treated there, somehow, though he +won't say it.” + </p> +<p> +“But as one who has never seen him before, and in all likelihood is never +to see him again—” + </p> +<p> +“No use; whenever he makes up his mind in that quiet way he never changes, +and he said, 'I 'll do all you want, only don't bring me forward. I have +my senses now, and shame is one of 'em!'” + </p> +<p> +“You increase my desire to see and know this poor fellow.” + </p> +<p> +“Mayhap you're a-thinkin', Britisher, whether, if you could wile him away +from me, you could n't do a good stroke of work with him down South,—eh? +wasn't that it?” + </p> +<p> +“No, on my word; nothing of the kind. My desire was simply to know if I +could n't serve him where he was, and where he is probably to remain.” + </p> +<p> +“Where he is sartainly to remain, I 'd say, sir,—sartainly to +remain! I 'd rayther give up the Temple, ay, and all the fixin's, than I +'d give up that man. There ain't one spot in creation he ain't fit for. +Take him North, and he 'll beat all the Abolitionists ever talked; bring +him down to the old South State, and hear him how he 'll make out that the +Bible stands by slavery, and that Blacks are to Whites what children are +to their elders,—a sort of folk to be fed, and nourished, and looked +arter, and, maybe, cor-rected a little betimes. Fetch him up to Lowell, +and he 'll teach the factory folk in their own mills; and as to the art of +stump-raisin', rotation of crops in a new soil, fattenin' hogs, and curin' +salmon, jest show me one to compare with him!” + </p> +<p> +“How sad that such a man should be lost!” said Layton, half to himself. +</p> +<p> +But the other overheard him, and rejoined: “It's always with some +sentiment of that kind you Britishers work out something for your own +benefit. You never conquer a new territory except to propagate trial by +jury and habeas corpus. Now look out here, for I won't stand you 're +steppin' in 'tween <i>me</i> and old Poll.” + </p> +<p> +It was not enough for Layton to protest that he harbored no such +intentions. Mr. Heron's experiences of mankind had inspired very different +lessons than those of trust and confidence, and he secretly determined +that no opportunity should be given to carry out the treason he dreaded. +</p> +<p> +“When the lecturin'-room is a-clean swept out and dusted, the table +placed, and the blackboard with a piece of chalk ahind it, and the bills +a-posted, setting forth what you 're a-goin' to stump out, there ain't no +need for more. If <i>you</i> 've got the stuff in you to amuse our folk, +you 'll see the quarter dollars a-rollin' in, in no time! If they think, +however, that you 're only come here to sell 'em grit for buckwheat, darm +me considerable, but there's lads here would treat you to a cowhide!” + </p> +<p> +Layton did not hear this alternative with all the conscious security of +success, not to say that it was a penalty on failure far more severe and +practical than any his fears had ever anticipated. Coldness he was +prepared for, disapprobation he might endure, but he was not ready to be +treated as a cheat and impostor because he had not satisfied the +expectancies of an audience. +</p> +<p> +“I half regret,” said he, “that I should not have learned something more +of your public before making my appearance to them. It may not be, +perhaps, too late.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I suspect it <i>is</i> too late,” said the other, dryly. “They +won't stand folks a-postin' up bills, and then sayin' 'There ain't no +performance.' You 're not in the Haymarket, sir, where you can come out +with a flam about sudden indisposition, and a lie signed by a 'pottecary.” + </p> +<p> +“But if I leave the town?” + </p> +<p> +“I wouldn't say you mightn't, if you had a balloon,” said the other, +laughing; “but as to any other way, I defy you!” + </p> +<p> +Layton was not altogether without the suspicion that Mr. Heron was trying +to play upon his fears, and this was exactly the sort of outrage that a +mind like his would least tolerate. It was, to be sure, a wild, +out-of-the-world kind of place; the people were a rough, +semi-civilized-looking set; public opinion in such a spot <i>might</i> +take a rude form; what they deemed unequal to their expectations, they <i>might</i> +construe as a fraud upon their pockets; and if so, and that their judgment +should take the form he hinted at—Still, he was reluctant to accept +this version of the case, and stood deeply pondering what line to adopt. +</p> +<p> +“You don't like it, stranger; now that's a fact,” said Heron, as he +scanned his features. “You 've been a-thinkin', 'Oh, any rubbish I like +will be good enough for these bark-cutters. What should such fellows know, +except about their corn crops and their saw-mills? <i>I</i> needn't +trouble my head about what I talk to 'em.' But now, you see, it ain't so; +you begin to perceive that Jonathan, with his sleeves rolled up for work, +is a smart man, who keeps his brains oiled and his thoughts polished, like +one of Platt's engines, and it won't do to ask him to make French rolls +out of sawdust!” + </p> +<p> +Layton was still silent, partly employed in reviewing the difficulty of +his position, but even more, perhaps, from chagrin at the tone of +impertinence addressed to him. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir,” said Heron, continuing an imaginary dialogue with himself,—“yes, +sir; that's a mistake more than one of your countrymen has fallen into. As +Mr. Clay said, it 's so hard for an Englishman not to think of us as +colonists.” + </p> +<p> +“I 've made up my mind,” said Layton, at last “I 'll not lecture.” + </p> +<p> +“Won't you? Then all I can say is, Britisher, look out for a busy +arternoon. I told you what our people was. I warned you that if they +struck work an hour earlier to listen to a preacher, it would fare ill +with him if he wanted the mill to turn without water.” + </p> +<p> +“I repeat, I 'll not lecture, come what may of it,” said Layton, firmly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, it ain't so very hard to guess what <i>will</i> come of it,” + replied the other. +</p> +<p> +“This is all nonsense and folly, sir,” said Layton, angrily. “I have taken +no man's money; I have deceived no one. Your people, when I shall have +left this place, will be no worse than when I entered it.” + </p> +<p> +“If that 's your platform, stranger, come out and defend it; we 'll have a +meetin' called, and I promise you a fair hearin'.” + </p> +<p> +“I have no account to render to any. I am not responsible for my conduct +to one of you!” said Layton, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“You're a-beggin' the whole +question, stranger; so jest keep these arguments for the meetin'.” + </p> +<p> +“Meeting! I will attend no meeting! Whatever be your local ways and +habits, you have no right to impose them upon a stranger. I am not one of +you; I will not be one of you.” + </p> +<p> +“That's more of the same sort of reasonin'; but you 'll be chastised, +Britisher, see if you ain't!” + </p> +<p> +“Let me have some sort of conveyance, or, if need be, a horse. I will +leave this at once. Any expenses I have incurred I am ready to pay. You +hear me?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, I hear you, but that ain't enough. You 're bound by them bills, as +you 'll see stickin' up all through the town, to appear this evening and +deliver a lecture before the people of this city—” + </p> +<p> +“One word for all, I 'll not do it.” + </p> +<p> +“And do you tell me, sir, that when our folk is a-gatherin' about the +assembly rooms, that they 're to be told to go home ag'in; that the +Britisher has changed his mind, and feels someways as if he didn't like +it?” + </p> +<p> +“That may be as it can; my determination is fixed. You may lecture +yourself; or you can, perhaps, induce your friend—I forget his name—to +favor the company.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, sir, if old Poll's strength was equal to it, the public would n't +have to regret <i>you</i>. It ain't one of <i>your</i> stamp could replace +<i>him</i>, that I tell you.” + </p> +<p> +A sudden thought here flashed across Layton's mind, and he hastened to +profit by it. +</p> +<p> +“Why not ask him to take my place? I am ready, most ready, to requite his +services. Tell him, if you like, that I will pay all the expenses of the +evening, and leave him the receipts. Or say, if he prefer, that I will +give him thirty, forty, ay, fifty dollars, if he will relieve me from an +engagement I have no mind for.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, that does sound a bit reasonable,” said the other, slowly; “though, +mayhap, he 'll not think the terms so high. You would n't say eighty, or a +hundred, would you? He 's proud, old Poll, and it's best not to offend him +by a mean offer.” + </p> +<p> +Layton bit his lip impatiently, and walked up and down the room without +speaking. +</p> +<p> +“Not to say,” resumed Heron, “that he's jest out of a sick-bed; the +exertion might give him a relapse. The contingencies is to be calc'lated, +as they say on the railroads.” + </p> +<p> +“If it be only a question between fifty and eighty—” + </p> +<p> +“That's it,—well spoken. Well, call it a hundred, and I'm off to see +if it can't be done.” And without waiting for a reply, Heron hastened out +of the room as he spoke. +</p> +<p> +Notwithstanding the irritation the incident caused him, Layton could not, +as soon as he found himself alone, avoid laughing at the absurdity of his +situation. +</p> +<p> +If he never went the full length of believing in the hazardous +consequences Mr. Heron predicted, he at least saw that he must be prepared +for any mark of public disfavor his disappointment might excite; and it +was just possible such censure might assume a very unpleasant shape. The +edicts of Judge Lynch are not always in accordance with the dignity of the +accused, and though this consideration first forced him to laugh, his +second thoughts were far graver. Nor were these thoughts unmixed with +doubts as to what Quackinboss would say of the matter. Would he condemn +the rashness of his first pledge, or the timidity of his retreat; or would +he indignantly blame him for submission to a menace? In the midst of these +considerations, Heron reentered the room. +</p> +<p> +“There, sir; it's all signed and sealed. Old Poll's to do the work, and +you 're to be too ill to appear. That will require your stayin' here till +nightfall; but when the folks is at the hall, you can slip through the +town and make for New Lebanon.” + </p> +<p> +“And I am to pay—how much did you say?” + </p> +<p> +“What you proposed yourself, sir. A hundred dollars.” + </p> +<p> +“At eight o'clock, then, let me have a wagon ready,” said Layton, too much +irritated with his own conduct to be moved by anything in that of his +host. He therefore paid little attention to Mr. Heron's account of all the +ingenuity and address it had cost him to induce old Poll to become his +substitute, nor would he listen to one word of the conversation reported +to have passed on that memorable occasion. What cared he to hear how old +Poll looked ten years younger since the bargain? He was to be dressed like +a gentleman; he was to be in full black; he was to resume all the dignity +of the station he had once held; while he gave the public what he had +hitherto resolutely refused,—some account of himself and his own +life. Layton turned away impatiently at these details; they were all +associated with too much that pained to interest or to please him. +</p> +<p> +“The matter is concluded now, and let me hear no more of it,” said he, +peevishly. “I start at eight.” And with this he turned away, leaving no +excuse to his host to remain, or resume an unpalatable subject. +</p> +<p> +“Your wagon shall be here at the hour, and a smart pair of horses to bowl +you along, sir,” said Heron, too well satisfied on the whole to be annoyed +by a passing coldness. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLIV. THE LECTURER +</h2> +<p> +Alfred Layton's day dragged drearily along, watching and waiting for the +hour of departure. Close prisoner as he was, the time hung heavily on his +hands, without a book or any sort of companionship to beguile its +weariness. He tried various ways to pass the hours; he pondered over a +faintly colored and scarce traceable map on the walls. It represented +America, with all the great western annexations, in that condition of +vague obscurity in which geographers were wont to depict the Arctic +regions. He essayed to journalize his experiences on the road; but he lost +patience in recording the little incidents which composed them. He +endeavored to take counsel with himself about his future; but he lost +heart in the inquiry, as he bethought him how little direction he had ever +given hitherto to his life, and how completely he had been the sport of +accident. +</p> +<p> +He was vexed and angry with himself. It was the first time he had been +called upon to act by his own guidance for months back, and he had made +innumerable mistakes in the attempt. Had Quackinboss been with him, he +well knew all these blunders had been avoided. This reflection pained him, +just as it has pained many a gifted and accomplished man to think that +life and the world are often more difficult than book-learning. +</p> +<p> +He was too much out of temper with the town to interest himself in what +went on beneath his windows, and only longed for night, that he might +leave it never to return. At last the day began to wane, the shadows fell +longer across the empty street, some cawing rooks swept over the tree-tops +to their homes in the tall pines, and an occasional wagon rolled heavily +by, with field implements in it,—sign all that the hours of labor +had drawn to a close. “I shall soon be off,” muttered he; “soon hastening +away from a spot whose memory will be a nightmare to me.” In the gray +half-light he sat, thinking the thought which has found its way into so +many hearts. What meaning have these little episodes of loneliness? What +are the lessons they are meant to teach? Are they intended to attach us +more closely to those we love, by showing how wearily life drags on in +absence from them; or are they meant as seasons of repose, in which we may +gain strength for fresh efforts? +</p> +<p> +Mr. Heron broke in upon these musings. He came to say that crowds were +hurrying to the lecture-room, and in a few minutes more Layton might steal +away, and, reaching the outskirts of the town, gain the wagon that was to +convey him to Lebanon. +</p> +<p> +“You 'll not forget this place, I reckon,” said he, as he assisted Layton +to close and fasten up his carpet-bag. “You'll be proud, one of these +days, to say, 'I was there some five-and-twenty, or maybe thirty, years +back. There was only one what you 'd call a first-rate hotel in the town; +it was kept by a certain Dan Heron, the man that made Bunkumville, who +built Briggs Block and the Apollonicon. I knew him.' Yes, sir, I think I +hear you sayin' it.” + </p> +<p> +“I half suspect you are mistaken, my friend,” said Layton, peevishly. “I +live in the hope never to hear the name of this place again, as assuredly +I am determined never to speak of it.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, you Britishers can't help envy, that's a fact,” said Heron, with a +sigh that showed how deeply he felt this unhappy infirmity. “Take a glass +of something to warm you, and let's be movin'. I'll see you safe through +the town.” + </p> +<p> +Layton thankfully accepted his guidance, and, each taking a share of the +luggage, they set forth into the street. Night was now fast falling, and +they could move along without any danger of detection; but, besides this, +there were few abroad, the unaccustomed attraction of the lecture-room +having drawn nearly all in that direction. Little heeding the remarks by +which Heron beguiled the way, Layton moved on, only occupied with the +thought of how soon he would be miles away from this unloved spot, when +his companion suddenly arrested his attention by grasping his arm, as he +said, “There; did you hear that?” + </p> +<p> +“Hear what?” asked Layton, impatiently. +</p> +<p> +“The cheerin', the shoutin'! That's for old Poll. It's the joy of our folk +to see the old boy once more about. It would be well for some of our +public men if they were half as popular in their own States as he is with +the people down here. There it is again!” + </p> +<p> +Layton was not exactly in the fit humor to sympathize with this success, +and neither the lecturer nor his audience engaged any large share of his +good-will; he, therefore, merely muttered an impatient wish to get along, +while he quickened his own pace in example. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I never heerd greater applause than that. They 're at it again!” + </p> +<p> +A wild burst of uproarious enthusiasm at the same moment burst forth and +filled the air. +</p> +<p> +“There ain't no mockery there, stranger,” said Heron; “that ain't like the +cheer the slaves in the Old World greet their kings with, while the police +stands by to make a note of the men as has n't yelled loud enough.” This +taunt was wrung from him by the insufferable apathy of Layton's manner; +but even the bitterness of the sneer failed to excite retort. +</p> +<p> +“Is this our shortest road?” was all the reply he made. +</p> +<p> +“No; this will save us something,” said Heron, with the quickness of one +inspired by a sudden thought; and at the same instant he turned into a +narrow street on his left. +</p> +<p> +They walked briskly along for a few minutes without speaking, when, +suddenly turning the angle of the way, they found themselves directly in +front of the assembly-room, from whose three great doors the light +streamed boldly out across the great square before it. The place seemed +densely thronged, and even on the pillars outside persons were grouped, +anxious at this cheap expedient to participate in the pleasure of the +lecture. By this time all was hushed and quiet, and it was evident by the +rapt attention of the audience that all were eagerly bent on listening to +the words of the speaker. +</p> +<p> +“Why have we come this way?” asked Layton, peevishly. +</p> +<p> +“Jest that you might see that sight yonder, sir,” said Heron, calmly; +“that you might carry away with you the recollection of a set of +hard-worked, horny-handed men, laborin' like Turks for a livin', and yet +ready and willin' to give out of their hard earnin's to listen to one +able to instruct or improve 'em. That's why you come this way, stranger. +Ain't the reason a good one?” + </p> +<p> +Layton did not reply, but stood watching with deep interest the scene of +silent, rapt attention in the crowded room, from which now not the +slightest sound proceeded. Drawn by an attraction he could not explain, he +slowly mounted the steps and gained a place near the door, but from which +he was unable to catch sight of the lecturer. He was speaking; but, partly +from the distance, and in part from the low tones of his voice, Layton +could not hear his words. Eager to learn by what sort of appeal an +audience like this could be addressed,—curious to mark the tone by +which success was achieved,—he pushed vigorously onward till he +reached one of the columns that supported the roof of the hall, and which, +acting as a conductor, conveyed every syllable to his ears. The lecturer's +voice, artificially raised to reach the limits of the room, was yet full, +strong, and sonorous, and it was managed with all the skill of a practised +speaker. He had opened his address by mentioning the circumstances which +had then brought him before them. He explained that but from an adverse +incident—a passing indisposition—they were on that night to +have heard one of those accomplished speakers who had won fame and honor +in the old country. There was a reserve and delicacy in the mention of the +circumstances by which he became the substitute for this person that +struck Layton forcibly; he was neither prepared for the sentiment nor the +style of the orator; but, besides, there was in the utterance of certain +words, and in an occasional cadence, something that made his heart beat +quicker, and sent a strange thrill through him. +</p> +<p> +The explanation over, there was a pause,—a pause of silence so +perfect that as the speaker laid down the glass of water he had been +drinking, the sound was heard throughout the room. He now began, his voice +low, his words measured, his manner subdued. Layton could not follow him +throughout, but only catch enough to perceive that he was giving a short +sketch of the relative conditions of England and Ireland antecedent to the +Union. He pictured the one, great, rich, powerful, and intolerant, with +all the conscious pride of its own strength, and the immeasurable contempt +for whatever differed from it; the other, bold, daring, and defiant, not +at all aware of its inability to cope with its more powerful neighbor in +mere force, but reposing an unbounded trust in its superior quickness, its +readiness of resource, its fertility of invention. He dwelt considerably +on those Celtic traits by which he claimed for Irishmen a superiority in +all those casualties of life which demand promptitude and +ready-wittedness. +</p> +<p> +“The gentleman who was to have occupied this chair tonight,” said he, +raising his voice, so as to be heard throughout the room, “would, I doubt +not, have given you a very different portrait, and delivered a very +different judgment. You would at this moment have been listening to a +description of that great old country we are all so proud of, endeavoring, +with all the wise prudence of a careful mother, to train up a wayward and +capricious child in the paths of virtue and obedience. But you will bear +more patiently with me; you will lend me a more favorable hearing and a +kindlier sympathy, for America, too, was a runaway daughter, and though it +was only a Gretna Green match you first made with Freedom, you have lived +to see the marriage solemnized in all form, and acknowledged by the whole +world.” + </p> +<p> +When the cheer which greeted these words had subsided, he went on to +glance at what might possibly have been the theme of the other lecturer: +“I am told,” said he,—“for I never saw him,—that he was a young, a +very young man. But to speak of the scenes to which I am coming, it is +not enough to have read, studied, and reflected. A man should have done +more; he ought to have seen, heard, and acted. These confessions are +bought dearly, for it is at the price of old age I can make them; but is +it not worth old age to have heard Burke in all the majestic grandeur +of his great powers,—to have listened to the scathing whirlwind of +Grattan's passion,—to have sat beneath the gallery when Flood denounced +him, and that terrible duel of intellect took place, far more moving +than the pistol encounter that followed it? Ay, I knew them all! I have +jested with Parsons, laughed with Toler, laughed and wept both with poor +Curran. You may find it difficult to believe that he who now addresses +you should ever have moved in the class to which such men pertained. You +here, whose course of life, sustained by untiring toil and animated by +a spirit of resolute courage, moves ever upward, who are better to-day +than yesterday, and will to-morrow be farther on the road than to-day, +who labor the soil of which your grandchildren will be the proud +possessors, may have some difficulty in tracing a career of continued +descent, and will be slow to imagine how a man could fall from a station +of respectability and regard, and be—such as I am!” + </p> +<p> +Just as the speaker had uttered these words, a cry, so wild and piercing +as to thrill through every heart, resounded through the building; the +great mass of men seemed to heave and swell like the sea in a storm. It +was one of those marvellous moments in which human emotions seem whispered +from breast to breast, and men are moved by a strange flood of sympathy; +and now the crowd opened, like a cleft wave, to give passage to a young +man, who with a strength that seemed supernatural forced his way to the +front. There was that in his wild, excited look that almost bespoke +insanity, while he struggled to effect his passage. +</p> +<p> +Astonished by the scene of commotion in front of him, and unable to divine +its cause, the lecturer haughtily asked, “Who comes here to disturb the +order of this meeting?” The answer was quickly rendered, as, springing +over the rail that fenced the stage, Alfred cried out, “My father! my +father!” and, throwing his arms around him, pressed him to his heart. As +for the old man, he stood stunned and speechless for a moment, and then +burst into tears. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLV. OF BYGONES +</h2> +<p> +Were we at the outset instead of the close of our journey, we could not +help dwelling on the scene the lecture-room presented as the discovery +became whispered throughout the crowd. Our goal is, however, now almost in +sight, and we must not tarry. We will but record one thought, as we say +that they who were accustomed to associate the idea of fine sympathies +with fine clothes and elegance of manner, would have been astonished at +the instinctive delicacy and good breeding of that dense mass of men. Many +were disappointed at the abrupt conclusion of a great enjoyment, nearly +all were moved by intense curiosity to know the history of those so +strangely brought together again, and yet not one murmured a complaint, +not one obtruded a question; but with a few words of kindly greeting, a +good wish, or a blessing, they stole quietly away and left the spot. +</p> +<p> +Seated side by side in a room of the inn, old Layton and his son remained +till nigh daybreak. How much had they to ask and answer of each other! +Amidst the flood of questions poured forth, anything like narrative made +but sorry progress; but at length Alfred came to hear how his father had +been duped by a pretended friend, cheated out of his discovery, robbed of +his hard-won success, and then denounced as an impostor. +</p> +<p> +“This made me violent, and then they called me mad. A little more of such +persecution and their words might have come true. +</p> +<p> +“I scarcely yet know to what I am indebted for my liberation. I was a +patient in Swift's Hospital, when one day came the Viceroy to visit it, +and with him came a man I had met before in society, but not over +amicably, nor with such memories as could gratify. 'Who is this?' cried +he, as he saw me at work in the garden. 'I think I remember his face.' The +keeper whispered something, and he replied, 'Ah! indeed!' while he drew +near where I was digging. 'What do you grow here?' asked he of me, in a +half-careless tone. 'Madder,' shouted I, with a yell that made him start; +and then, recovering himself, he hastened off to report the answer to the +Viceroy. +</p> +<p> +“They both came soon after to where I was. The Viceroy, with that +incaution which makes some people talk before the insane as though they +were deaf, said, in my hearing, 'And so you tell me he was once a Fellow +of Trinity?' 'Yes, my Lord,' said I, assuming the reply, 'a Regius +Professor and a Medallist, now a Madman and a Pauper. The converse is the +gentleman at your side. <i>He</i> began as a fool, and has ended as a Poor +Law Commissioner!' They both turned away, but I cried out, 'Mr. Ogden, one +word with you before you go.' He came back. 'I have been placed here,' +said I, 'at the instance of a man who has robbed me. I am not mad, but I +am friendless. The name of my persecutor is Holmes. He writes himself +Captain Nicholas Holmes—' +</p> +<p> +“He would not hear another word, but hurried away without answering me. I +know no more than that I was released ten days after,—that I was +turned out in the streets to starve or rob. My first thought was to find +out this man Holmes. To meet and charge him with his conduct towards me, +in some public place, would have been a high vengeance; but I sought him +for weeks in vain, and at last learned he had gone abroad. +</p> +<p> +“How I lived all that time I cannot tell you; it is all to me now like a +long and terrible dream. I was constantly in the hands of the police, and +rarely a day passed that I had not some angry altercation with the +authorities. I was in one of these one morning, when, half stupefied with +cold and want, I refused to answer further. The magistrate asked, 'Has he +any friends? Is there no one who takes any interest in him?' The constable +answered, 'None, your worship; and it is all the better, he would only +heap disgrace on them!' +</p> +<p> +“It was then, for the first moment of my life, the full measure of all I +had become stood plainly before me. In those few words lay the sentence +passed upon my character. From that hour forth I determined never to utter +my name again. I kept this pledge faithfully, nor was it difficult; few +questioned, none cared for me. I lived—if that be the word for it—in +various ways. I compounded drugs for chemists, corrected the press for +printers, hawked tracts, made auction catalogues, and at last turned +pyrotechnist to a kind of Vauxhall, all the while writing letters home +with small remittances to your mother, who had died when I was in the +madhouse. In a brief interval of leisure I went down to the North, to +learn what I might of her last moments, and to see where they had laid +her. There was a clergyman there who had been kind and hospitable towards +me in better days, and it was to his house I repaired.” + </p> +<p> +He paused, and for some minutes was silent. At length he said,— +</p> +<p> +“It is strange, but there are certain passages in my life, not very +remarkable in themselves, that remain distinct and marked out, just as one +sees certain portions of landscape by the glare of lightning flashes in a +thunderstorm, and never forgets them after. Such was my meeting with this +Mr. Millar. He was distributing bread to the poor, with the assistance of +his clerk, on the morning that I came to his door. The act, charitable and +good in itself, he endeavored to render more profitable by some timely +words of caution and advice; he counselled gratitude towards those who +bestowed these bounties, and thrift in their use. Like all men who have +never known want themselves, he denied that it ever came save through +improvidence. He seemed to like the theme, and dwelt on it with pleasure, +the more as the poor sycophants who received his alms eagerly echoed back +concurrence in all that he spoke disparagingly of themselves. I waited +eagerly till he came to a pause, and then I spoke. +</p> +<p> +“'Now,' said I, 'let us reverse this medal, and read it on the other side. +Though as poor and wretched as any of those about, I have not partaken of +your bounty, and I have the right to tell you that your words are untrue, +your teaching unsound, and your theory a falsehood. To men like us, +houseless, homeless, and friendless, you may as well preach good breeding +and decorous manners, as talk of providence and thrift. Want is a disease; +it attacks the poor, whose constitutions are exposed to it; and to lecture +us against its inroads is like cautioning us against cold, by saying “Take +care to wear strong boots,—mind that you take your greatcoat,—be +sure that you do not expose yourself to the night air.” You would be +shocked, would you not, to address such sarcastic counsels to such poor, +barefoot, ragged creatures as we are? And yet you are not shocked by +enjoining things fifty times more absurd, five hundred times more +difficult. Thrift is the inhabitant of warm homesteads, where the abundant +meal is spread upon the board and the fire blazes on the hearth. It never +lives in the hovel, where the snowdrift lodges in the chimney and the rain +beats upon the bed of straw!' +</p> +<p> +“'Who is this fellow?' cried the Rector, outraged at being thus replied +to. 'Where did he come from?' +</p> +<p> +“'From a life of struggle and hardship,' said I, 'that if <i>you</i> had +been exposed to and confronted with, you had died of starvation, despite +all your wise saws on thrift and providence.' +</p> +<p> +“'Gracious mercy!' muttered he, 'can this be—' and then he stopped; +and beckoning me to follow him into an inner room, he retired. +</p> +<p> +“'Do I speak to Dr. Layton?' asked he, curtly, when we were alone. +</p> +<p> +“'I was that man,' said I. 'I am nothing now.' +</p> +<p> +“'By what unhappy causes have you come to this?' +</p> +<p> +“'The lack of that same thrift you were so eloquent about, perhaps. I was +one of those who could write, speak, invent, and discover; but I was never +admitted a brother of the guild of those who save. The world, however, has +always its compensations, and I met thrifty men. Some of them stole my +writings, and some filched my discoveries. They have prospered, and live +to illustrate your pleasant theory. But I have not come here to make my +confessions; I would learn of you certain things about what was once my +home.' +</p> +<p> +“He was most kind,—he would have been more than kind to me had I let +him; but I would accept of nothing. 'I did not even break bread under his +roof, though I had fasted for a day and a half. He had a few objects left +with him to give me, which I took,—the old pocket-book one of them,—and +then I went away.” + </p> +<p> +The old man's narrative was henceforth one long series of struggles with +fortune. He concealed none of those faults by which he had so often +wrecked his better life. Hating and despising the companionship to which +his reduced condition had brought him, he professed to believe there was +less degradation in drunkenness than in such association. Through all he +said, in fact, there was the old defiant spirit of early days, a scornful +rejection of all assistance, and even, in failure and misery, a +self-reliance that seemed invincible. He had come to America by the +invitation of a theatrical manager, who had failed, leaving him in the +direst necessity and want. +</p> +<p> +The dawn of day found him still telling of his wayward life, its sorrows, +its struggles, and defeats. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLVI. THE DOCTOR'S NARRATIVE +</h2> +<p> +Old Layton never questioned his son whither they were going, or for what, +till the third day of their journeying together. Such, indeed, was the +preoccupation of his mind, that he travelled along unmindful of new places +and new people, all his thoughts deeply engaged by one single theme. Brief +as this interval was, what a change had it worked in his appearance! +Instead of the wild and haggard look his features used to wear, their +expression was calm, somewhat stern, perhaps, and such as might have +reminded one who had seen him in youth of the Herbert Layton of his +college days. He had grown more silent, too, and there was in his manner +the same trait of haughty reserve which once distinguished him. His habits +of intemperance were abandoned at once, and without the slightest +reference to motive or intention he gave his son to see that he had +entered on a new course in life. +</p> +<p> +“Have you told me where we are going, Alfred, and have I forgotten it?” + said he, on the third day of the journey. +</p> +<p> +“No, father; so many other things occurred to us to talk over that I never +thought of this. It is time, however, I should tell you. We are going to +meet one who would rather make your acquaintance than be the guest of a +king.” + </p> +<p> +The old man smiled with a sort of cold incredulity, and his son went on to +recount how, in collecting the stray papers and journals of the “Doctor,” + as they styled him between them, this stranger had come to conceive the +greatest admiration for his bold energy of temperament and the superior +range of his intellect. The egotism, so long dormant in that degraded +nature, revived and warmed up as the youth spoke, and he listened with +proud delight at the story of all the American's devotion to him. +</p> +<p> +“He is a man of science, then, Alfred?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing of the kind.” + </p> +<p> +“He is, at least, one of those quick-minded fellows who in this stirring +country adapt to their purpose discoveries they have had no share in +making; is he not?” + </p> +<p> +“Scarcely even that. He is a man of ordinary faculties, many prejudices, +but of a manly honesty of heart I have never seen surpassed.” + </p> +<p> +“Then he is poor,” said the old man, sarcastically. +</p> +<p> +“I know little of his circumstances, but I believe they are ample.” + </p> +<p> +“Take my word for it, boy, they are not,” said the other, with a bitter +smile. “Fortune is a thrifty goddess, and where she bestows a generous +nature she takes care it shall have nothing to give away.” + </p> +<p> +“I trust your precept will not apply to this case, at all events. I have +been his pensioner for nigh a year back: I am so still. I had hoped, +indeed, by this project of lecturing—” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, nay, boy, no success could come of that. Had you been a great name +in your own country, and come here heralded by honors won already, they +would have given you a fair hearing and a generous recompense, but they +will not take as money the unstamped metal; they will not stoop to accept +what the old country sends forth without acknowledgment, as good enough +for <i>them</i>. Believe me, this race is prouder than our own, and it is +not by unworthy sneers at them that we shall make them less vainglorious.” + </p> +<p> +“I scarcely know them, but for the sake of that one man I owe them a deep +affection,” said Alfred, warmly. +</p> +<p> +“I have a scheme for you,” said the old man, after a pause; “but we will +talk of it later on. For the present, I want you to aid me in a plan of my +own. Ever since I have been in this country I have endeavored to find out +a person whose name alone was known to me, and with whom I gave a solemn +promise to communicate,—a death-bed promise it was, and given under +no common circumstances. The facts were these:— +</p> +<p> +“I was once upon a time, when practising as a physician at Jersey, sent +for to attend a patient taken suddenly and dangerously ill. The case was a +most embarrassing one. There were symptoms so incongruous as to reject the +notion of any ordinary disease, and such as might well suggest the +suspicion of poisoning, and yet so skilfully and even patiently had the +scheme been matured, the detection of the poison during life was very +difficult. My eagerness in the inquiry was mistaken by the patient for a +feeling of personal kindness towards himself,—an error very familiar +to all medical men in practice. He saw in my unremitting attention and +hourly watching by his bedside the devotion of one like an old friend, and +not the scientific ardor of a student. +</p> +<p> +“It is just possible that his gratitude was the greater, that the man was +one little likely to conciliate good feeling or draw any sympathy towards +him. He was a hard, cold, selfish fellow, whose life had been passed +amongst the worst classes of play-men, and who rejected utterly all +thought of truth or confidence in his old associates. I mention this to +show how, in a very few days, the accident of my situation established +between us a freedom and a frankness that savored of long acquaintance. +</p> +<p> +“In his conversations with me he confessed that his wife had been divorced +from a former husband, and, from circumstances known to him, he believed +she desired his death. He told me of the men to whom in particular his +suspicions attached, and the reasons of the suspicions; that these men +would be irretrievably ruined if his speculations on the turf were to +succeed, and that there was not one of them would not peril his life to +get sight of his book on the coming Derby. I was curious to ascertain why +he should have surrounded himself with men so obviously his enemies, and +he owned it was an act prompted by a sort of dogged courage, to show them +that he did not fear them. Nor was this the only motive, as he let out by +an inadvertence; he cherished the hope of detecting an intrigue between +one of his guests and his wife, as the means of liberating himself from a +tie long distasteful to him. +</p> +<p> +“One of the party had associated himself with him in this project, and +promised him all his assistance. Here was a web of guilt and treachery, +entangled enough to engage a deep interest! For the man himself, I cared +nothing; there was in his nature that element of low selfishness that is +fatal to all sense of sympathy. His thoughts and speculations ranged only +over suspicions and distrusts, and the only hopes he ever expressed were +for the punishment of his enemies. Scarcely, indeed, did a visit pass in +which he did not compel me to repeat a solemn oath that the mode of his +death should be explored, and his poisoners—if there were such—be +brought to trial. As he drew nigh his last, his sufferings gave little +intervals of rest, and his mind occasionally wandered. Even in his +ravings, however, revenge never left him, and he would break out into wild +rhapsodies in imitation of the details of justice, calling on the +prisoners, and by name, to say whether they would plead guilty or not; +asking them to stand forward, and then reciting with hurried impetuosity +the terms of an indictment for murder. To these there would succeed a +brief space of calm reason, in which he told me that his daughter—a +child by a former wife—was amply provided for, and that her fortune +was so far out of the reach of his enemies that it lay in America, where +her uncle, her guardian, resided. He gave me his name and address, and in +my pocket-book—this old and much-used pocket-book that you see—he +wrote a few tremulous lines, accrediting me to this gentleman as the one +sole friend beside him in his last struggles. As he closed the book, he +said, 'As you hope to die in peace, swear to me not to neglect this, nor +leave my poor child a beggar.' And I swore it. +</p> +<p> +“His death took place that night; the inquest followed on the day after. +My suspicions were correct; he had died of corrosive sublimate; the +quantity would have killed a dozen men. There was a trial and a +conviction. One of them, I know, was executed, and, if I remember aright, +sentence of transportation passed on another. The woman, however, was not +implicated, and her reputed lover escaped. My evidence was so conclusive +and so fatal that the prisoners' counsel had no other resource than to +damage my credit by assailing my character, and in his cross-examination +of me he drew forth such details of my former life, and the vicissitudes +of my existence, that I left the witness-table a ruined man. It was not a +very difficult task to represent a life of poverty as one of ignominy and +shame. The next day my acquaintances passed without recognizing me, and +from that hour forth none ever consulted me. In my indignation at this +injustice I connected all who could have in any way contributed to my +misfortune, and this poor orphan child amongst the rest. Had I never been +engaged in that ill-starred case, my prospects in life had been reasonably +fair and hopeful. I was in sufficient practice, increasing in repute, and +likely to succeed, when this calamitous affair crossed me. +</p> +<p> +“Patience under unmerited suffering was never amongst my virtues, and in +various ways I assailed those who had attacked me. I ridiculed the lawyer +who had conducted the defence, sneered at his law, exposed his ignorance +of chemistry, and, carried away by that fatal ardor of acrimony I never +knew how to restrain, I more than suggested that, when he appealed to +Heaven in the assertion of his client's innocence, he held in his +possession a written confession of his guilt. For this an action of libel +was brought against me; the damages were assessed at five hundred pounds, +and I spent four years in a jail to acquit the debt. Judge, then, with +what memories I ever referred to that event of my life. It was, perhaps, +the one solitary incident in which I had resisted a strong temptation. I +was offered a large bribe to fail in my analysis, and yet it cost me all +the prosperity it had taken years of labor to accomplish! +</p> +<p> +“Imprisonment had not cooled my passion. The first thing which I did +when free was to dramatize the trial for one of those low pot-houses +where Judge and Jury scenes are represented; and so accurately did I +caricature my enemy, the counsel, that he was actually laughed out +of court and ruined. If I could have traced the other actors in the +terrible incident, I would have pursued them with like rancor; but I +could not: they had left England, and gone Heaven knows where or how! +As to the orphan girl, whose interest I had sworn to watch over, any +care for her now would only have insulted my own misery; my rage was +blind and undiscriminating, and I would not be guided by reason. It was, +therefore, in a spirit of unreflecting vengeance that I never took any +steps regarding her, but preserved, even to this hour, a letter to her +guardian,—it is there, in that pocket-book,—which might perhaps have +vindicated her right to wealth and fortune. 'No,' thought I, 'they have +been <i>my</i> ruin; I will not be the benefactor of one of them!' +</p> +<p> +“I kept my word; and even when my own personal distresses were greatest, I +would not have raised myself out of want at the price of relinquishing +that revenge. I have lived to think and feel more wisely,” said he, after +a pause; “I have lived to learn the great lesson that every mishap of my +life was of my own procuring, and that self-indulgence and a vindictive +spirit are enough to counterbalance tenfold more than all the abilities I +ever possessed. The world will no more confide its interests to men like +me than they will take a tiger for a house-dog. I want to make some +reparation for this wrong, Alfred. I want to seek out this person I have +spoken of, and, if this girl still live, to place her in possession of her +own. You will help me in this, will you not?” + </p> +<p> +It was not without a burning impatience that young Layton had listened to +his father's narrative; he was eager to tell him that his friend the +Colonel had already addressed himself to the enterprise, all his interests +being engaged by the journals and letters he had collected when in +Ireland. Alfred now, in a few hurried words, related all this, and told +how, at that very hour, Quackinboss was eagerly prosecuting the inquiry. +“He has gone down to Norfolk in search of this Winthrop,” said he. +</p> +<p> +“He will not find him there,” said old Layton. “He left Norfolk, for the +Far West, two years back. He settled at Chicago, but he has not remained +there. So much I have learned, and it is all that is known about him.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us go to Chicago, then,” said Alfred. +</p> +<p> +“It is what I would advise. He is a man of sufficient note and mark to be +easily traced. It is a well-known name, and belongs to a family much +looked up to. These are my credentials, if I should ever chance to come up +with him.” + </p> +<p> +As he spoke, he unclasped a very old and much-worn leather pocket-book, +searching through whose pages he at last found what he sought for. It was +a leaf, scrawled over in a trembling manner, and ran thus: “Consult the +bearer of this, Dr. Layton, about Clara; he is my only friend at this +dreadful hour, and he is to be trusted in all things. Watch well that they +who have murdered <i>me</i> do not rob <i>her</i>. He will tell you—” + It concluded thus abruptly, but was signed firmly, “Godfrey Hawke, Nest, +Jersey,” with the date; and underneath, “To Harvey Winthrop, Norfolk, D. +S.” + </p> +<p> +“This would be a meagre letter of credit, Alfred, to most men; but I have +heard much of this same Winthrop. All represent him as a fine-hearted, +generous fellow, who has done already much to trace out his niece, and +restore to her what she owns. If we succeed in discovering him, I mean to +offer my services to search out the girl. I saw, a short time before I +left England, one of the men who were implicated in the murder. I knew him +at once. The threat of reviving the old story of shame will soon place him +in my power, if I can but find him; and through <i>him</i> I am confident +we shall trace <i>her</i>.” + </p> +<p> +To understand the ardor with which the old man entered upon this inquiry, +one must have known the natures of those men to whom the interest of such +a search has all the captivation of a game. It was, to his thinking, like +some case of subtle analysis, in which the existence of a certain +ingredient was to be tested; it was a problem requiring all his acuteness +to solve, and he addressed himself to the task with energy and zeal. The +young man was not slow to associate himself in the enterprise; and in his +desire for success there mingled generous thoughts and more kindly +sympathies, which assuredly did not detract from the interest of the +pursuit. +</p> +<p> +The theme engrossed all their thoughts; they discussed it in every +fashion, speculated on it in every shape, pictured to themselves almost +every incident and every stage of the inquiry, imagining the various +obstacles that might arise, and planning how to overcome them. Thus +journeying they arrived at Chicago, but only to learn that Winthrop had +left that city, and was now established farther to the westward, at a +place called Gallina. Without halting or delay they started for Gallina. +The road was a new and a bad one, the horses indifferent, and the stages +unusually long. It was on the fourth evening of the journey that they +arrived at a small log-house on the skirt of a pine wood, at which they +were given to expect fresh horses. They were disappointed, however, for +the horses had already been sent to bring up two travellers from Gallina, +and who had taken the precaution of securing a rapid transit. +</p> +<p> +“We are here, then, for the night,” said old Layton, with a faint sigh, as +he endeavored to resign himself to the delay. +</p> +<p> +“Here they come!” said the host of the log-hut, as the rattle of a heavy +wagon was heard from the dense wood. “Our sheriff don't let the moss grow +under his feet. Listen to the pace he 's coming.” + </p> +<p> +Seated, with his son beside him, on the wooden bench before the door, the +old man watched the arrival of the newcomers. The first to descend from +the wagon was a man somewhat advanced in life, but hale and stout, with a +well-bronzed face, and every semblance of a vigorous health. He saluted +the host cordially, and was received with a sort of deference only +accorded to men of official station. He was followed by a younger man, but +who displayed, as he moved, evident signs of being fatigued by the +journey. +</p> +<p> +“Come, Seth,” said the elder, “let us see what you have got for our +supper, for we must be a-moving briskly.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, sheriff, there ain't much,” said the host; “and what there is you +'ll have to share with the two gentlemen yonder; they've just come East, +and are waitin' for you to get a morsel to eat.” + </p> +<p> +“Always glad to chance on good company,” said the sheriff, saluting the +strangers as he spoke; and while they were interchanging their greetings, +the host laid the table, and made preparation for the meal. “I must look +after my fellow-traveller,” said the sheriff; “he seems so tired and +jaded. I half fear he will be unable to go on to-night.” + </p> +<p> +He speedily returned with good tidings of his friend, and soon afterwards +the party took their places at the supper-table. +</p> +<p> +The sheriff, like his countrymen generally, was frank and outspoken; he +talked freely of the new-settled country, its advantages and its +difficulties, and at last, as the night closed in, he made another visit +to his friend. +</p> +<p> +“All right, Seth,” said he, as he came back; “we shall be able to push on. +Let them 'hitch' the nags as soon as may be, for we 've a long journey +before us.” + </p> +<p> +“You're for the Lakes, I reckon?” said Seth, inquiringly. +</p> +<p> +“Farther than that.” + </p> +<p> +“Up to Saratoga and the Springs, maybe?” + </p> +<p> +“Farther still.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, you ain't a-goin' to New York at this time of year, sheriff?” + </p> +<p> +“That am I, and farther still, Seth; I am going to the old country, where +I have n't been for more than thirty years, and where I never thought to +go again.” + </p> +<p> +“You might visit worse lands, sir,” said old Layton, half resentfully. +</p> +<p> +“You mistook my meaning, stranger,” said the other, “if you thought my +words reflected on England. There is only one land I love better.” + </p> +<p> +The honest speech reconciled them at once, and with a hearty shake-hands +and a kindly wished good journey, they separated. +</p> +<p> +“Did you remark that man who accompanied the sheriff?” said Layton to his +son, as they stood at the door watching the wagon while it drove away. +</p> +<p> +“Not particularly,” said Alfred. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I did my best to catch sight of him, but I could not. It struck me +that he was less an invalid than one who wanted to escape observation; he +wore his hat slouched over his eyes, and covered his mouth with his hand +when he spoke.” + </p> +<p> +The young man only smiled at what he deemed a mere caprice of suspicion, +and the subject dropped between them. After a while, however, the father +said,— +</p> +<p> +“What our host has just told me strengthens my impression. The supposed +sick man ate a hearty supper, and drank two glasses of stiff +brandy-and-water.' +</p> +<p> +“And if he did, can it concern us, father?” said Alfred, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, boy, if we were the cause of the sudden indisposition. He was tired, +perhaps, when he arrived, but I saw no signs of more than fatigue in his +movements, and I observed that, at the first glance towards us, he hurried +into the inner room and never reappeared till he left. I 'm not by any +means certain that the fellow had not his reasons for avoiding us.” + </p> +<p> +Rather treating this as the fancy of one whose mind had been long the prey +of harassing distrusts than as founded on calmer reason, Alfred made no +answer, and they separated for the night without recurring to the subject. +</p> +<p> +It was late on the following day they reached Gallina. The first question +was, if Harvey Winthrop lived there? “Yes; he is our sheriff,” was the +answer. They both started, and exchanged looks of strange meaning. +</p> +<p> +“And he left this yesterday?” asked old Layton. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir. An Englishman came two days back with some startling news for +him,—some say of a great fortune left him somewhere,—and he's +off to England to make out his claim.” + </p> +<p> +Old Layton and his son stood speechless and disconcerted. These were the +two travellers who had passed them at the log-hut, and thus had they spent +some hours, without knowing it, in the company of him they had been +travelling hundreds of miles to discover. +</p> +<p> +“And his friend knew us, and avoided us, Alfred,” said old Layton. “Mark +that fact, boy, and observe that, where there is ground for fear in one +heart, there is reason for hope in some other. We must follow them at +once.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLVII. A HAPPY ACCIDENT +</h2> +<p> +Having written a hurried letter to Quackinboss acquainting him with the +causes which should prevent him from keeping his rendezvous at St. Louis, +and informing him how he had met with his father, he briefly mentioned +that they were about to return to New York with all speed, in the hope of +coming up with Winthrop before he sailed for England. “Come what may,” he +added, “we shall await you there. We long to meet you, and add your +counsels to our own.” This letter he addressed to St Louis, and posted at +once. +</p> +<p> +It was ten days after this they reached New York. Their journey had been +delayed by a series of accidents,—a railroad smash at Detroit +amongst the number; and when they arrived at the capital, it was to learn +that the “Asia” had sailed that very morning for Liverpool, and at the +agent's office they found that Mr. Harvey Winthrop was a passenger, and +with him a certain Mr. Jacob Trover. +</p> +<p> +“Trover!” repeated Alfred, “he came out in the same ship with us, and it +was in his company Quackinboss went down to the South, fully convinced +that the man was the agent in some secret transaction.” + </p> +<p> +As he stood looking at the name on the agent's list with that unreasoning +steadfastness that in a difficulty often attaches us to the incident which +has first awakened us to a sense of embarrassment, he heard a +well-remembered voice behind him exclaim, “What! sailed this mornin'? +Well, darn me considerable, if that ain't takin' the ropes of us!” He +turned, and it was Quackinboss. After the heartiest of greetings on both +sides, Alfred presented his father to his friend. +</p> +<p> +“Well, sir,” said the Colonel, impressively, “there ain't that man livin' +I want to shake the hand of as I do yours. I know you, sir, better, +mayhap, than that youth beside you. I have studied your character in your +writin's, and I 'm here to say there ain't your superior, if there be your +equal, in your country or mine.” + </p> +<p> +“This opinion will make our intimacy very difficult,” said the old man, +smiling. “I can scarcely hope to keep up the delusion, even for +twenty-four hours.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir, you can,” replied the Colonel; “jest talk the way you write.” + </p> +<p> +“You have seen this, I suppose?” said Alfred, pointing to the list of the +lately departed passengers, and desirous of engaging his friend in another +theme. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, and gone with Winthrop too,” said the Colonel. “You would n't +believe how he doubled on me, that man Trover. I thought I had him too. We +were a-travellin' together as thick as thieves, a-tellin' each other all +our bygones in life and our plans for the future, and at last as good as +agreed we 'd go partners in a mill that was for sale, about three miles +from Carthage. But he wanted to see the water-power himself, and so we +left the high-road, and set out to visit it. At our arrival, as we was +gettin' out of the wagon, he sprained his ankle, and had to be helped into +the house. +</p> +<p> +“'I am afraid,' said he, 'there's more mischief than a sprain here; have +you any skill as a surgeon?' +</p> +<p> +“'Well,' said I, 'I ain't so bad about a fracture or dislocashin, and, +what's better, I 've got a note-book with me full of all manner of +receipts for washes and the like.' It was your journal, Dr. Layton, that I +spoke of. It was, as you may remember, filled with hints about useful +herbs and odd roots, and so on, and there was all about that case of a man +called Hawke as was poisoned at Jersey,—a wonderful trial that had a +great hold upon me, as your son will tell you another time,—but I +did n't think of <i>that</i> at the moment; but turnin' to the part about +sprains, I began to read him what you said: '“You must generally leech at +first,” says he,' I began; '“particularly where there is great pain with +swellin'.”' +</p> +<p> +“'Ah! I thought so,' sighed he; 'only how are we to get leeches in a place +like this, and who is to apply them?' +</p> +<p> +“'I 'll engage to do both within half an hour.' said I; and I put on my +hat and set out. +</p> +<p> +“Now, I war n't sorry, you see, for the accident. I thought to myself, +'Here's a crittur goin' to be laid up ten days or a fortnight; I'll have +all the care o' him, and it's strange if he won't let out some of his +secrets between whiles. I 'm curious to know what's a-brought him out +here; he's not travellin' like one afraid of being pursued; he goes about +openly and fearlessly, but he's always on the sharp, like a fellow that +had somethin' on his mind, if one could only come at it. If there's +anythin' one can be sure of, it is that a man with a heavy conscience will +try to relieve himself of the load; he's like a fellow always changin' the +ballast of his boat to make her sail lighter, or a crittur that will be +a-movin' his saddle, now on the withers, now on the croup, but it won't +do, never a bit, when there's a sore back underneath.' It was reflectin' +over these things I fell into a sort of dreamy way, and did n't remember +about the leeches for some time. At last I got 'em, and hastened back to +the inn. +</p> +<p> +“'There's a note for you, sir, at the bar,' said the landlord. I took it, +and read:— +</p> +<p> +“'Dear Colonel,—Thinking a little fresh air might serve me, I have +gone out for a short drive.—Yours, till we meet again, +</p> +<p> +“'J. T.' +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir, he was off; and worse, too, had carried away with him that +great book with all the writin' in, and that account of Hawke's poison +in'. I started in pursuit as quick as they could get me a wagon hitched, +but I suppose I took the wrong road. I went to Utica, and then turned +north as far as Albany, but I lost him. Better, perhaps, that I did so; I +was riled considerable, and I ain't sure that I mightn't have done +somethin' to be sorry for. Ain't it wonderful how ill one takes anythin' +that reflects on one's skill and craftiness?—just as if such +qualities were great ones; I believe, in my heart, we are readier to +resent what insults our supposed cleverness than what is an outrage on our +honesty. Be that as it may, I never came up with him after, nor heard of +him, till I read his name in that sheet.” + </p> +<p> +“His theft of that book, connected with his companionship with Winthrop, +suggests strongly the thought that his business here is the same as our +own,” said the doctor. +</p> +<p> +“That's the way I reasoned it too,” said the Colonel. +</p> +<p> +“It is not impossible, besides, that he had some suspicion of your own +object in this journey. Did the name of Winthrop ever come up in +conversation between you?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes. I was once describin' my brother's location down in Ohio,—I +did it a purpose to see if he would show any signs of interest about +Peddar's Clearin's and Holt's Acre,—and then I mentioned, as if by +chance, one Harvey Winthrop. +</p> +<p> +“'Oh, there was a man of that name in Liverpool once,' said he, 'but he +died about two years gone.' +</p> +<p> +“'Did he?' said I, lookin' him hard. +</p> +<p> +“'Yes,' said he,—' of a quinsy.' +</p> +<p> +“It was as good as a play the way we looked at each other arter this. It +was jest a game of chess, and I said, 'Move,' and he said, 'It ain't me to +move,—it's <i>your</i> turn.' And there we was.” + </p> +<p> +“The fellow was shrewd, then?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir, arter his fashion.” + </p> +<p> +“We must follow him, that's certain. They will reach Liverpool by the 10th +or 12th. When can we sail from this?” + </p> +<p> +“There's a packet sails on Wednesday next; that's the earliest.” + </p> +<p> +“That must do, then. Let them be active as they may, they will scarcely +have had time for much before we are up with them.” + </p> +<p> +“It's as good as a squirrel-hunt,” said Quackinboss. “I 'm darned if it +don't set one's blood a-bilin' out of sheer excitement. What do you reckon +this chap's arter?” + </p> +<p> +“He has, perhaps, found out this girl, and got her to make over her claim +to this property; or she may have died, and he has put forward some one to +personate her; or it is not improbable he may have arranged some marriage +with himself, or one of his friends, for her.” + </p> +<p> +“Then it ain't anythin' about the murder?” asked the Colonel, half +disappointedly. +</p> +<p> +“Nothing whatever; that case was disposed of years ago. Whatever guilt may +attach to those who escaped, the law cannot recognize now. They were +acquitted, and they are innocent.” + </p> +<p> +“That may be good law, sir, but it's strange justice. If I owed you a +thousand dollars, and was too poor to pay it, I 'm thinkin' you 'd have it +out of me some fine day when I grew rich enough to discharge the debt.” + </p> +<p> +Layton shook his head in dissent at the supposed parallel. +</p> +<p> +“Ain't we always a-talkin' about the fallibility of our reason and the +imperfection of our judgments? And what business have we, then, to say, +'There, come what will tomorrow of evidence or proof, my mind is made up, +and I 'm determined to know nothin' more than I know now'?” + </p> +<p> +“What say you to the other side of the question,—that of the man +against whom nothing is proven, but who, out of the mere obscurity that +involves a crime, must live and die a criminal, just because there is no +saying what morning may not bring an accusation against him? As a man who +has had to struggle through a whole life against adverse suspicions, I +protest against the doctrine of not proven! The world is too prone to +think the worst to make such a practice anything short of an insufferable +tyranny.” + </p> +<p> +With a delicacy he was never deficient in, Quackinboss respected the +personal application, and made no reply. +</p> +<p> +“Calumny, too,” continued the old man, whose passion was now roused, “is +conducted on the division-of-labor principle. One man contributes so much, +and another adds so much more; some are clever in suggesting the motive, +some indicate the act; others are satisfied with moralizing over human +frailties, and display their skill in showing that the crime was nothing +exceptional, but a mere illustration of the law of original sin. And all +these people, be it borne in mind, are not the bad or the depraved, but +rather persons of reputable lives, safe opinions, and even good +intentions. Only imagine, then, what the weapon becomes when wielded by +the really wicked. I myself was hunted down by honorable men,—gentlemen +all of them, and of great attainments. Has <i>he</i> told you my story?” + said he, pointing to his son. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; and I only say that it could n't have happened in our country +here.” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure it could,” retorted the other, quickly; “the only difference +is, that you have made Lynch law an institution, and we practise it as a +social accident.” + </p> +<p> +Thus chatting, they reached the hotel where they were to lodge till the +packet sailed. +</p> +<p> +The short interval before their departure passed off agreeably to all. +Quackinboss never wearied at hearing the doctor talk, and led him on to +speak of America, and what he had seen of the people, with an intense +interest. +</p> +<p> +“Could you live here, sir?” asked Quackinboss, at the close of one of +these discussions. +</p> +<p> +“It is my intention to live and die here,” said the doctor. “I go back to +England now, that this boy may pay off a long load of vengeance for me. +Ay, Alfred, you shall hear my long-cherished plan at once. I want you to +become a fellow of that same University which drove me from its walls. +They were not wrong, perhaps,—at least, I will not now dispute their +right,—but I mean to be more in the right than they were. My name +shall stand upon their records associated with their proudest +achievements, and Layton the scholar, Layton the discoverer, eclipse the +memory of Layton the rebel.” + </p> +<p> +This was the dream of many a year of struggle, defeat, and depression; and +now that it was avowed, it seemed as though his heart were relieved of a +great load of care. As for Alfred, the goal was one to stimulate all his +energies, and he pledged himself fervently to do his utmost to attain it. +</p> +<p> +“And I must be with you the day you win,” cried Quackinboss, with an +enthusiasm so unusual with him that both Layton and his son turned their +glances towards him, and saw that his eyes were glassy with tears. Ashamed +of his emotion, he started suddenly up, saying, “I'll go and book our +berths for Wednesday next.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLVIII. AT ROME +</h2> +<p> +Let us now return to some of the actors in our drama who for a while back +have been playing out their parts behind the scenes. The Heathcote family, +consisting of Sir William and his ward, May Leslie, Mrs. Morris and her +late husband's friend, Captain Holmes, were domesticated in a sumptuous +residence near the “Pincian,” but neither going out into the world nor +themselves receiving visitors. Sir William's health, much broken and +uncertain as it was, formed the excuse for this reclusion; but the real +reason was the fact, speedily ascertained by the Captain, and as speedily +conveyed to his daughter, that “Society” had already decided against them, +and voted the English family at the Palazzo Balbi as disfranchised. +</p> +<p> +Very curious and very subtle things are the passively understood decrees +of those who in each city of Europe call themselves the “World.” The +delicate shades by which recognition is separated from exclusion; the fine +tints, perceptible only to the eyes of fashion, by which certain frailties +are relieved from being classed with grave derelictions; the enduring +efficacy of the way in which the smell of the roses will cling to the +broken vase of virtue and rescue its fragments from dishonor,—are +all amongst the strangest and most curious secrets of our civilization. +</p> +<p> +Were it not for a certain uniformity in the observances, one might be +disposed to stigmatize as capricious the severity occasionally displayed +here, while a merciful lenity was exhibited there; but a closer +examination will show that some fine discriminating sense is ever at work, +capable of distinguishing between genteel vice and the wickedness that +forgets conventionalities. As in law, so in morals, no man need criminate +himself, but he who does so by an inadvertence is lost. Now the Heathcotes +were rich, and yet lived secluded. The world wanted not another count in +the indictment against them. A hundred stories were circulated about them. +They had come to place the “girl” in a convent. Old Sir William had +squandered away all her fortune, and the scheme now was to induce her to +turn Catholic and take the veil. “The old fool”—the world is +complimentary on these occasions—was going to marry that widow, whom +he had picked up at Leamington or Ems or Baden-Baden. If the Captain had +not kept the Hell in the Circus, he was the very double of the man who had +it. At all events, it was better not to have him in the Club; and so the +banker, who was to have proposed, withdrew him. +</p> +<p> +It may be imagined that some very palpable and sufficient cause was at +work to induce society thus to stand on the defensive towards these +new-comers. Nothing of the kind. All the evidence against them was +shadowy; all the charges such as denied detail. They were an odd set, they +lived in a strange fashion, they knew nobody; and to accusations like +these even spotless integrity must succumb. +</p> +<p> +Dressed in a <i>robe de chambre</i> that would have made the fortune of a +French Vaudeville actor, with a gold-tasselled fez, and slippers to match, +the Captain sat, smoking a splendid meerschaum, in a well-cushioned chair, +while his daughter was engaged at her embroidery, opposite to him. Though +it was midwinter, the sun streamed in through the orange-trees on the +terrace, and made a rainbow of the spray that dashed from the marble +fountain. The room itself combined all the sumptuous luxury we understand +by the word “comfort,” with the graceful elegance of a Southern existence. +There were flowers and fresh air, and the song of birds to be enjoyed on +the softest of sofas and the best carpeted of floors. +</p> +<p> +A large goblet of some amber-colored drink, in which a rock of pure ice +floated, stood at the Captain's elbow, and he sipped and puffed, with his +head thrown well back, in an attitude that to smokers must have some +Elysian ecstasy. Nor was his daughter the least ornamental part of the +situation; a morning dress of white muslin, tastefully trimmed with +sky-blue ribbons, and a rich fall of Brussels lace over her head, making a +very charming picture of the graceful figure that now bent over the +embroidery-frame. +</p> +<p> +“I tell you it won't do, Loo,” said he, removing his pipe, and speaking in +a firm and almost authoritative voice. “I have been thinking a great deal +over it, and you must positively get away from this.” + </p> +<p> +“I know that too,” said she, calmly; “and I could have managed it easily +enough but for this promised visit of Charles. He comes through on his way +to Malta, and Sir William would not hear of anything that risked the +chance of seeing him.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd rather risk that than run the hazards we daily do in this place,” + said he, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“You forget, papa, that <i>he</i> knows nothing of these hazards. He is +eager to see his son, for what he naturally thinks may be the last time. I +'m sure I did my best to prevent the meeting. I wrote to Lord Agincourt; I +wrote to Charles himself. I represented all the peril the agitation might +occasion his father, and how seriously the parting might affect a +constitution so impressionable as his, but to no purpose; he coldly +replies, 'Nothing short of my father's refusal to see me shall prevent my +coming to see him,' or 'embrace him,' or—I forget the words, but the +meaning is, that come he will, and that his arrival may be counted on +before the end of the week.” + </p> +<p> +“What stay will he make?” + </p> +<p> +“He speaks of three or four days at farthest. We can learn the limit easily +enough by the time of the P. and O. steamer's sailing. Ask for it at the +banker's.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't call in there now,” said he, peevishly. “Since they took down my +name for the Club-ballot, I have not gone to the bank.” + </p> +<p> +She sighed heavily; there was more than one care on her heart, and that +sigh gathered in a whole group of anxieties. +</p> +<p> +“They have got up all sorts of stories about us; and it is always out of +these false attacks of scandal comes the real assault that storms the +citadel.” + </p> +<p> +She sighed again, but did not speak. +</p> +<p> +“So long as Heathcote keeps the house and sees nobody, all may go on well; +but let him be about again, able to ramble amongst the galleries and +churches, he is certain to meet some amiable acquaintance, who will +startle him with a few home truths. I tell you again, we are banqueting +over a powder-magazine; and even as to the marriage itself, I don't like +it. Are you aware of the amount he is able to settle? I couldn't believe +my eyes when I read the draft. It is neither more nor less than eight +thousand pounds. Fancy taking such a husband for eight thousand pounds!” + </p> +<p> +“You scarcely put the case fairly, papa,” said she, smiling; “the eight +thousand is the compensation for losing him.” + </p> +<p> +“Are you in love with him, then?” asked he, with a sarcastic twinkle of +the eye. +</p> +<p> +“I don't think so,—at least, not to desperation.” + </p> +<p> +“It is scarcely for the sake of being 'My Lady.'” + </p> +<p> +“Oh dear, no; <i>that</i> is a snobbery quite beyond me. Now, I neither +marry for the title, nor the man, nor his money, nor his station; but out +of that mass of motives which to certain women have the force of a +principle. I can explain what I mean, perhaps, by an illustration: Were +you to tell a fashionable physician, in first-rate practice, that if he +got up out of bed at midnight, and drove off two miles to a certain corner +of Regent's Park, where under a particular stone he 'd find a guinea, it +is more than certain he 'd not stir; but if you sent for the same man to a +case of illness, he'd go unhesitatingly, and accept his guinea as the due +recompense of his trouble. This is duty, or professional instinct, or +something else with a fine name, but it's not gold-seeking. There now, +make out my meaning out of my parable, as best you may. And, after all, +papa, I'm not quite sure that I intend to marry him.” + </p> +<p> +“Why, what do you mean?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, pray don't be frightened. I merely meant to say that there was an +eventuality which might rescue me from this necessity. I have told you +nothing about it hitherto, dear papa, because I inherit your own wholesome +dislike to entertaining my friends with what may turn out mere moonshine. +Now, however, that the project has a certain vitality in it, you shall +hear it.” + </p> +<p> +Holmes drew his chair close to her, and, laying down his pipe, prepared to +listen with all attention. +</p> +<p> +“If I hate anything,” said she, half peevishly, “it is to talk of the +bygone, and utter the names of people that I desire never to hear again. +It can't be helped, however; and here goes. After the events in Jersey, +you remember I left the island and came abroad. There were all sorts of +confusion about H.'s affairs. The law had taken possession of his papers, +placed seals on everything, and resisted my application to remove them, on +the vexatious plea that I was not his wife, and could not administer as +such. A long litigation ensued, and at last my marriage was admitted, and +then I took out probate and received a few thousand pounds, and some +little chance property; the bulk of his fortune was, however, in America, +and settled on Clara by a will, which certain writings showed was in the +possession of her uncle, now nominated to be her guardian, a certain +Harvey Winthrop, of Norfolk, Virginia. I opened a correspondence with him, +and suggested the propriety of leaving Clara with me, as I had always +regarded her as my own child, and hinting at the appropriateness of some +allowance for her maintenance and education. He replied with promptitude +and much kindness, expressed great sympathy for my late loss, and made a +very liberal settlement for Clara. +</p> +<p> +“All went on peaceably and well for two years, when one morning came a +letter from Winthrop of a most alarming nature. Without any positive +charge, it went on to say that he had, for reasons which his delicacy +would prefer to spare me, decided on himself assuming the guardianship of +his niece, and that if I would kindly come to London, or name any +convenient place on the Continent for our meeting, he would punctually +present himself at the time agreed on. Of course I guessed what had +occurred,—indeed, it had always been a matter of astonishment to me +how long I had been spared; at all events, I determined on resistance. I +wrote back a letter, half sorrow, half indignation; I spoke of the dear +child as all that remained of consolation to my widowed heart; I said that +though it was in his competence to withhold from me the little pittance +which served to relieve some of the pressure of our narrow means, yet I +would not separate myself from my darling child, even though at the cost +of sharing with her a mere sufficiency for support. I told him, besides, +that he should never hear from me more, nor would all his efforts enable +him to trace us. It was then I became Mrs. Penthony Morris. I suppose +Winthrop was sorry for his step; at least, by a variety of curious +advertisements in English papers, he suggested that some accommodation +might be arranged, and entreated me to renew intercourse with him. There +were many reasons why I could not agree to this. Clara, too, was of great +use to me. To a lone woman in the world, without any definite belongings, +a child is invaluable. The advertisements were continued, and even rewards +offered for such information as might lead to my discovery. All in vain: +he never succeeded in tracing me, and at length gave up the pursuit. +</p> +<p> +“I must now skip over some years which have no bearing on this incident, +and come to a period comparatively recent, when, in the transaction of +certain purchases of American securities, I came unexpectedly on the +mention of a new railroad line through a district whose name was familiar +to me. I set myself to think where, when, and how I had heard of this +place before, and at last remembered it was from H———, +who used to talk of this property as what would one day make his daughter +a great heiress. My moneyed speculations had led me into much intimacy +here with a banker, Mr. Trover, over whom an accidental discovery gave me +absolute power. It was no less than a forgery he had committed on my name, +and of which, before relinquishing the right to take proceedings against +him, I obtained his full confession in writing. With this tie over the +man, he was my slave; I sent him here and there at my pleasure, to buy, +and sell, and gain information, and so on, and, above all, to obtain a +full account of the value of this American property, where it lay, and how +it was occupied. It was in the midst of these inquiries came a great +financial crash, and my agent was obliged to fly. At first he went to +Malta; he came back, but, after a few weeks, he set out for the States. He +was fully in possession of the circumstances of this property, and Clara's +right to it, and equally so of my determination that she should never +inherit it. We had, on one of the evenings he was here, a long +conversation on the subject, and he cunningly asked me,— +</p> +<p> +“'How was the property settled in reversion?' +</p> +<p> +“It was a point I never knew, for I never saw H.'s will. +</p> +<p> +“'The will was made four years before his death; might he not have made a +later one on his death-bed?—might he not have bequeathed the estate +in reversion to yourself in case she died?—might she not have died?' +</p> +<p> +“All these he asked, and all of them had been my own unceasing thoughts +for years back. It was a scheme I had planned and brooded over days and +nights long. It was to prepare the road for it that I sent away Clara, +and, under the name of Stocmar, had her inscribed at the Conservatoire of +Milan. Was it that Trover had read my secret thoughts, or had he merely +chanced upon them by mere accident? I did not dare to ask him, for I felt +that by his answer <i>I</i> should be as much in <i>his</i> power as he +was in mine. +</p> +<p> +“'I have often imagined there might be such a will,' said I; 'there is no +reason to suppose it is not in existence. Could it not be searched for and +found?' +</p> +<p> +“He understood me at once, and replied,— +</p> +<p> +“'Have you any of Hawke's handwriting by you?' +</p> +<p> +“'A quantity,' said I; 'and it is a remarkable hand, very distinctive, and +not hard to imitate,—at least, by any one skilled in such +accomplishments.' +</p> +<p> +“He blushed a little at the allusion, but laughed it off. +</p> +<p> +“'The girl could have died last year; she might have been buried,—where +shall we say?' added he, carelessly. +</p> +<p> +“'At Meisner, in the Tyrol,' said I, catching at the idea that just struck +me, for my maid died in that place, and I had got the regular certificate +of her death and burial from the Syndic, and I showed him the document. +</p> +<p> +“'This is admirable,' said he; 'nothing easier than to erase this name and +insert another.' +</p> +<p> +“'I cannot hear of such a thing, Mr. Trover,' said I; 'nor can I, after +such a proposal, suffer the paper to leave my hands.' And with this I gave +it to him. +</p> +<p> +“'I could not dream of such an act, madam,' said he, with great +seriousness; 'it would amount to a forgery. Now for one last question,' +said he, after a little interval of silence: 'what would you deem a +suitable reward to the person who should discover this missing will, and +restore this property to the rightful owner? Would twenty per cent on the +value appear to you too much?' +</p> +<p> +“'I should say that the sum was a high one, but if the individual +acquitted himself with all the integrity and all the delicacy the +situation demanded, never by even an implication involving any one who +trusted him, conducting the transaction to its end on his own +responsibility and by his own unaided devices, why, then, it is more than +probable that I would judge the reward to be insufficient.' +</p> +<p> +“So much, dear papa, will put you in possession of the treaty then +ratified between us. I was to supply all the funds for present expenses; +Mr. Trover to incur all the perils. He was invested with full powers, in +fact, to qualify himself for Botany Bay; and I promised to forward his +views towards a ticket of leave if the worst were to happen him. It was a +very grave treaty very laughingly and playfully conducted. Trover had just +tact enough for the occasion, and was most jocose wherever the point was a +perilous one. From the letters and papers in my possession, he found +details quite ample enough to give him an insight into the nature of the +property, and also, what he deemed of no small importance, some knowledge +of the character of this Mr. Winthrop, Clara's uncle. This person appeared +to be an easy-tempered, good-natured man, not difficult to deal with, nor +in any way given to suspicion. Trover was very prompt in his proceedings. +On the evening after our conversation he showed me the draft of Hawke's +will, dated at Jersey, about eight days before his death. It was then, for +the first time, I learned that Trover knew the whole story, and who <i>I</i> +was. This rather disconcerted me at first. There are few things more +disconcerting than to find out that a person who has for a long +intercourse never alluded to your past history, has been all the while +fully acquainted with it. The way he showed his knowledge of the subject +was characteristic In pointing out to me Hawke's signature, he remarked,— +</p> +<p> +“'I have made the witnesses—Towers, who was executed, and Collier, +who, I have heard, died in Australia.' +</p> +<p> +“'How familiar you are with these names, sir!' said I, curiously. +</p> +<p> +“'Yes, madam,' said he; 'I edited a well-known weekly newspaper at that +time, and got some marvellous details from a fellow who was on the spot.' +</p> +<p> +“I assure you, papa, though I am not given to tremors, I shuddered at +having for my accomplice a man that I could not deceive as to my past +life. It was to be such an open game between us that, in surrendering all +the advantages of my womanly arts, I felt I was this man's slave, and yet +he was a poor creature. He had the technical craft for simulating a +handwriting and preparing a false document, but was miserably weak in +providing for all the assaults that must be directed against its +authenticity. +</p> +<p> +“His plan was, armed with what he called an attested copy of H.'s will, to +set out for America and discover this Mr. Winthrop. Cleverly enough, he +had bethought him of securing this gentleman's co-operation by making him +a considerable inheritor under the will. In fact, he charged the estate +with a very handsome sum in his favor, and calculated on all the +advantages of this bribe; and without knowing it, Mr. Winthrop was to be +'one of us.' +</p> +<p> +“He sailed in due time, but I heard no more of him; and, indeed, I began +to suspect that the two bank-notes I had given him, of one hundred each, +had been very unprofitably invested, when by this day's post a letter +reaches me to say that success had attended him throughout. By a mere +accidental acquaintance on a railroad, he 'fell in' with—that's his +phrase, which may mean that he stole—some very curious documents +which added to his credit with Winthrop. He describes this gentleman as +exactly what he looked for, and with this advantage, that having latterly +been somewhat unfortunate in speculation, he was the more eager to repair +his fortune by the legacy. He says that only one embarrassing circumstance +occurred, and this was that Winthrop determined at once on coming over to +England, so that the authenticity of the will should be personally +ascertained by him, and all his own proceedings in the matter be made +sure. 'For this purpose,' he writes, 'we shall sail from this place by the +first steamer for Liverpool, where let me have a letter addressed to the +Albion to say where you are to be found. Winthrop's first object will be +to meet you, and you must bethink you well what place you will deem most +suitable for this purpose. Of course the more secluded and private the +better. I have explained to him that so overwhelmed were you by the +terrible event of H.'s death you had never entered the world since; and, +in fact, so averse to anything that might recall the past that you had +never administered to the will, nor assumed any of your rights to +property, and it would be well for him, if he could, to arouse you out of +this deadly lethargy, and call you back to something like existence. This +explained why I had taken the journey out to America to meet him.' You +will perceive, papa, that Mr. Trover knows how to lie 'with the +circumstance,' and is not unitarian in his notions of falsehood. +</p> +<p> +“I am far from liking this visit of Mr. Winthrop. I wish from my heart +that his scruples had been less nice, and that he had been satisfied to +eat his cake without inquiring whether every one else had got his share; +but, as he is coming, we must make the best of it. And now, what advice +have you to give me? Of course, we cannot suffer him to come here.” + </p> +<p> +“Certainly not, Loo. We must have out the map, and think it over. Does +Trover tell you what amount the property may be worth?” + </p> +<p> +“He says that there are three lots. Two have been valued at something over +a million of dollars; the third, if the railroad be carried through it, +will be more valuable still. It is, he says, an immense estate and in high +productiveness. Let us, however, think of our cards, papa, and not the +stake; there is much to provide. I have no certificate of my marriage with +Hawke.” + </p> +<p> +“That must be thought of,” said he, musingly. +</p> +<p> +“Clara, too, must be thought of,—married, if possible, to some one +going abroad,—to Australia or New Zealand. Perhaps O'Shea.” And she +burst out a-laughing at the thought. +</p> +<p> +“Or Paten. I 'd say Ludlow—” + </p> +<p> +A look of sickly aversion crossed his daughter's face at the suggestion, +and she said,— +</p> +<p> +“Nothing on earth would induce, me to consent to it.” + </p> +<p> +The Captain might have regarded this as a woman's weakness, but he said +nothing. +</p> +<p> +“It will be very difficult for me to get away at this moment too,” said +she, after a pause. “I don't fancy being absent while young Heathcote is +here. He will be making all manner of inquiries about Clara,—where +she is, with whom, and for what? If I were on the spot, I could suppress +such perquisitions.” + </p> +<p> +“After all, dear Loo, the other is the great event I conclude, if all goes +smoothly about this work, you 'll never dream of the marriage with Sir +William?” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps not,” said she, roguishly. “I am not so desperately in love as to +do an imprudence. There is, however, much to be thought of, papa. In a few +days more Ludlow is to be back here with my letters, more than ever +necessary at this moment, when any scandal might be fatal. If he were to +know anything of this accession of fortune, his demands would be +insupportable.” + </p> +<p> +“No doubt of that. At the same time, if he merely hears that your marriage +with the Baronet is broken off, he will be more tractable. How are you to +obtain these letters?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know,” said she, with a stolid look. +</p> +<p> +“Are you to buy them?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know.” + </p> +<p> +“He will scarcely surrender them out of any impulse of generosity?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know,” said she, again; and over her features there was a sickly +pallor that changed all their expression, and made her look even years +older than she was. He looked at her compassionately, for there was that +in her face that might well have challenged pity. +</p> +<p> +“But, Loo, dearest,” said he, encouragingly, “place the affair in my +hands, and see if I cannot bring it to a good ending.” + </p> +<p> +“He makes it a condition to treat with none but myself, and there is a +cowardice in this of which he knows all the advantage.” + </p> +<p> +“It must be a question of money, after all. It is a matter of figures.” + </p> +<p> +“He would say not. At the very moment of driving his hardest bargain he +would interpose some reference to what he is pleased to call 'his +feelings.' I told him that even Shylock did not insult his victim with a +mock sympathy, nor shed false tears over the pain his knife was about to +inflict.” + </p> +<p> +“It was not the way to conciliate him, Loo.” + </p> +<p> +“Conciliate him! Oh, how you know him!” She pressed her hands over her +face as she spoke, and when she withdrew them the cheeks were scalded with +tears. +</p> +<p> +“Come, come, Loo, this is scarcely like yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“There, it's over now,” said she, smiling, with a half-sad look, as she +pushed her hair back, as though to suffer the cool air to bathe her +forehead. “Oh dear!” sighed she out, “if I only could have foreseen all +the perils before me, I might have borne with George Ogden, and lived and +died what the world calls respectable.” + </p> +<p> +He gave a little sigh too, which might have meant that he agreed with her, +or that the alternative was a hard one, or that respectability was a very +expensive thing for people of small means, or a little of all three +together, which was most probable, since the Captain rarely dealt in +motives that were not sufficiently mixed. +</p> +<p> +“And now, papa,” said she, “use your most ingenious devices to show me how +I am to answer all these engagements, and while I meet Mr. Winthrop in +Switzerland, contrive also to be on guard here, and on outpost duty with +Mr. Ludlow Paten.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll do it, Loo,—you 'll do it, or nobody else will,” said he, +sipping his iced drink, and gazing on her approvingly. +</p> +<p> +“What would you say to Bregenz for our rendezvous with Winthrop?” said +she, bending over the map. “It is as quiet and forgotten a spot as any I +know of.” + </p> +<p> +“So it is, Loo; and one of the very few where the English never go, or, at +least, never sojourn.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish we could manage to find a small house or a cottage there. I should +like to be what dramatists call 'discovered' in a humbly furnished +chamber, living with my dear old father, venerable in years and virtues.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, it ought not to be difficult to manage. If you like, I 'll set off +there and make the arrangements. I could start this evening.” + </p> +<p> +“How good of you! Let me think a little over it, and I will decide. It +would be a great comfort to me to have you here when Charles Heathcote +comes. I might need your assistance in many ways, but perhaps—Yes, +you had better go; and a pressing entreaty on your part for me to hasten +to the death-bed of my 'poor aunt' can be the reason for my own hurried +departure. Is it not provoking how many embarrassments press at the same +moment? It is an attack front, rear, and on the flanks.” + </p> +<p> +“You 're equal to it, dear,—you 're equal to it,” said he, with the +same glance of encouragement. +</p> +<p> +“I almost think I should go with you, papa,—take French leave of +these good people, and evacuate the fortress,—if it were not that +next week I expect Ludlow to be back here with the letters, and I cannot +neglect <i>that</i>. Can you explain it to me?” cried she, more eagerly,—“there +is not one in this family for whom I entertain the slightest sense of +regard,—they are all less than indifferent to me,—and yet I +would do anything, endure anything, rather than they should learn my true +history, and know all about my past life; and this, too, with the +certainty that we were never to meet again.” + </p> +<p> +“That is pride, Loo,—mere pride.” + </p> +<p> +“No,” said she, tremulously, “it is shame. The consciousness that one's +name is never to be uttered but in scorn in those places where once it was +always spoken of in honor,—the thought that the fair fame we had +done so much to build up should be a dreary ruin, is one of the saddest +the heart can feel; for, let the world say what it will, we often give all +our energies to hypocrisy, and throw passion into what we meant to be mere +acting. Well, well, enough of moralizing, now for action. You will want +money for this trip, papa; see if there be enough there.” And she opened +her writing-desk, and pushed it towards him. +</p> +<p> +The Captain took out his double eye-glass, and then, with due +deliberation, proceeded to count over a roll of English notes fresh from +the bank. +</p> +<p> +“In funds, I see, Loo,” said he, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“It is part of the last three hundred I possess in the world. I drew it +out yesterday, and, as I signed the check, I felt as might a sailor going +over the side as his ship was sinking. Do you know,” said she, hurriedly, +“it takes a deal of courage to lead the life I have done.” + </p> +<p> +“No doubt,—no doubt,” muttered he, as he went on counting. +“Forty-five, fifty, fifty-five—” + </p> +<p> +“Take them all, papa; I have no need of them. Before the month ends I mean +to be a millionnaire or 'My Lady.'” + </p> +<p> +“I hope not the latter, Loo; I hope sincerely not, dearest. It would be a +cruel sacrifice, and really for nothing.” + </p> +<p> +“A partnership in an old-established house,” said she, with a mocking +laugh, “is always something; but I won't prejudge events, nor throw my +cards on the table till I have lost the game. And <i>à propos</i> to +losing the game, suppose that luck should turn against us,—suppose +that we fail to supply some essential link in this chain of fortune,—suppose +that Trover should change his mind and sell us,—suppose, in short, +anything adverse you please,—what means are remaining to you, papa? +Have you enough to support us in some cheap unfrequented spot at home or +abroad?” + </p> +<p> +“I could get together about two hundred and forty pounds a year, not +more.” + </p> +<p> +“One could live upon that, could n't one?” asked she. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, in a fashion. With a number of privations you have never +experienced, self-denial in fifty things you have never known to be +luxuries, with a small house and small habits and small acquaintances, one +could rub through, but no more.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, how I should like to try it!” cried she, clasping her hands together. +“Oh, what would I not give to pass one year—one entire year of life—without +the ever-present terror of exposure, shame, and scorn,—to feel that +when I lie down to rest at night a knock at the street door should not +throw me into the cold perspiration of ague, or the coming of the postman +set my heart a-throbbing, as though the missive were a sentence on me! Why +cannot I have peace like this?” + </p> +<p> +“Poverty has no peace, my dear Loo. It is the poorest of all wars, for it +is the pettiest of all objects. It would break my heart to see you engaged +in such a conflict.” + </p> +<p> +And the Captain suffered his eyes to range over the handsome room and its +fine furniture, while his thoughts wandered to a French cook, and that +delicious “Château Margaux” he had tasted yesterday. +</p> +<p> +Did she read what was passing in his mind, as, with a touch of scorn in +her manner, she said, “Doubtless you know the world better,” and left the +room? +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLIX. THE PALAZZO BALBI +</h2> +<p> +The household of the Palazzo Balbi was unusually busy and active. There +was a coming and a parting guest. Sir William himself was far too much +occupied by the thoughts of his son's arrival to bestow much interest upon +the departure of Captain Holmes. Not that this ingenious gentleman had +failed in any of the requirements of his parasitical condition, nay, he +had daily improved the occasion of his presence, and ingratiated himself +considerably in the old Baronet's favor; but it is, happily, the lot of +such people to be always forgotten where the real affections are in play. +They while away a weary day, they palliate the small irritations of daily +life, they suggest devices to cheat ennui, but they have no share in +deeper sentiments; we neither rejoice nor weep with them. +</p> +<p> +“Sorry for your friend's illness!”—“Sincerely trust you may find him +better!”—or, “Ah, it is a lady, I forgot; and that we may soon see +you on this side of the Alps again!”—“Charming weather for your +journey! “—“Good-bye, good-bye!” + </p> +<p> +And with this he shook his hand cordially enough, and forgot him. +</p> +<p> +“I'm scarcely sorry he's gone,” said May, “he was <i>so</i> deaf! And +besides, papa, he was too civil,—too complaisant. I own I had become +a little impatient of his eternal compliments, and the small scraps out of +Shelley and Keats that he adapted to my address.” + </p> +<p> +“All the better for Charley, that,” said the old Baronet “You'll bear his +rough frankness with more forgiveness after all this sugary politeness.” + He never noticed how this random speech sent the blood to her cheeks, and +made her crimson over face and neck; nor, indeed, had he much time to +bestow on it, for the servant opened the door at the instant, and +announced, “Captain Heathcote.” In a moment the son was in his father's +arms. “My boy, my dear boy,” was all the old man could say; and Charles, +though determined to maintain the most stoical calm throughout the whole +visit, had to draw his hand across his eyes in secret. +</p> +<p> +“How well you look, Charley,—stouter and heavier than when here. +English life and habits have agreed with you, boy.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir. If I can manage to keep my present condition, I 'm in good +working trim for a campaign; and you—tell me of yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“There is little to say on that subject. When men live to my term, about +the utmost they can say is, that they are here.” + </p> +<p> +Though he tried to utter these words in a half-jocular tone, his voice +faltered, and his lips trembled; and as the young man looked, he saw that +his father's face was careworn and sad, and that months had done the work +of years on him since they parted. Charles did his utmost to treat these +signs of sorrow lightly, and spoke cheerfully and even gayly. +</p> +<p> +“I'd go with your merry humor, boy, with all my heart, if you were not +about to leave us.” + </p> +<p> +Was it anything in the interests thus touched on, or was it the chance +phrase, “to leave <i>us</i>,” that made young Heathcote become pale as +death while he asked, “How is May?” + </p> +<p> +“Well,—quite well; she was here a moment back. I fancied she was in +the room when you came in. I'll send for her.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; time enough. Let us have a few more minutes together.” + </p> +<p> +In a sort of hurried and not very collected way, he now ran on to talk of +his prospects and the life before him. It was easy to mark how the assumed +slap-dash manner was a mere mask to the bitter pain he felt and that he +knew he was causing. He talked of India as though a few days' distance,—of +the campaign like a hunting-party; the whole thing was a sort of eccentric +ramble, to have its requital in plenty of incident and adventure. He even +assumed all the vulgar slang about “hunting down the niggers,” and coming +back loaded with “loot,” when the old man threw his arm around him, and +said,— +</p> +<p> +“But not to me, Charley,—not to <i>me</i>.” + </p> +<p> +The chord was touched at last. All the pretended careless ease was gone, +and the young man sobbed aloud as he pressed his father to his breast. The +secret which each wanted to keep to his own heart was out, and now they +must not try any longer a deception. +</p> +<p> +“And why must it be, Charley? what is the urgent cause for deserting me? I +have more need of you than ever I had. I want your counsel and your +kindness; your very presence—as I feel it this moment—is worth +all my doctors.” + </p> +<p> +“I think you know—I think I told you, I mean—that you are no +stranger to the position I stood in here. You never taught me, father, +that dependence was honorable. It was not amongst your lessons that a life +of inglorious idleness was becoming.” As with a faltering and broken +utterance he spoke these words, his confusion grew greater and greater, +for he felt himself on the very verge of a theme that he dreaded to touch; +and at last, with a great effort, he said, “And besides all this, I had no +right to sacrifice another to my selfishness.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't understand you, Charley.” + </p> +<p> +“Maybe not, sir; but I am speaking of what I know for certain. But let us +not go back on these things.” + </p> +<p> +“What are they? Speak out, boy,” cried he, more eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“I see you are not aware of what I thought you knew. You do not seem to +know that May's affections are engaged,—that she has given her heart +to that young college man who was here long ago as Agincourt's tutor. They +have corresponded.” + </p> +<p> +“Corresponded!” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, I know it all, and she will not deny it,—nor need she, from +all I can learn. He is a fine-hearted fellow, worthy of any girl's love. +Agincourt has told me some noble traits of him, and he deserves all his +good fortune.” + </p> +<p> +“But to think that she should have contracted this engagement without +consulting me,—that she should have written to him—” + </p> +<p> +“I don't see how you can reproach her, a poor motherless girl. How could +she go to you with her heart full of sorrows and anxieties? She was making +no worldly compact in which she needed your knowledge of life to guide +her.” + </p> +<p> +“It was treachery to us all!” cried the old man, bitterly, for now he saw +to what he owed his son's desertion of him. +</p> +<p> +“It was none to <i>me</i>; so much I will say, father. A stupid compact +would have bound her to her unhappiness, and this she had the courage to +resist.” + </p> +<p> +“And it is for this I am to be forsaken in my old age!” exclaimed he, in +an accent of deep anguish. “I can never forgive her,—never!” + </p> +<p> +Charles sat down beside him, and, with his arm on the old man's shoulder, +talked to him long in words of truest affection. He recalled to his mind +the circumstances under which May Leslie first came amongst them, the +daughter of his oldest, dearest friend, intrusted to his care, to become +one day his own daughter, if she willed it. +</p> +<p> +“Would you coerce her to this? Would you profit by the authority you +possess over her to constrain her will? Is it thus you would interpret the +last dying words of your old companion? Do not imagine, father, that I +place these things before you in cold blood or indifference. I have my +share of sorrow in the matter.” He was going to say more, but he stopped +himself, and, arising, walked towards the window. “There she is!” cried +he, “on the terrace; I'll go and meet her.” And with this he went out. +</p> +<p> +It is not impossible that the generous enthusiasm into which Charles +Heathcote had worked himself to subdue every selfish feeling about May +enabled him to meet her with less constraint and difficulty. At all +events, he came towards her with a manner so like old friendship that, +though herself confused, she received him with equal cordiality. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0017" id="linkimage-0017"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0504.jpg" alt="ONE0504" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“How like old times, May, is all this!” said he, as, with her arm within +his own, they strolled under a long vine trellis. “If I had not to +remember that next Wednesday I most be at Malta, I could almost fancy I +had never been away. I wonder when we are to meet again? and where, and +how?” + </p> +<p> +“I'm sure it is not I that can tell you,” said she, painfully; for in the +attempt to conceal his emotion his voice had assumed a certain accent of +levity that wounded her deeply. +</p> +<p> +“The where matters little, May,” resumed he; “but the when is much, and +the how still more.” + </p> +<p> +“It is fortunate, then, that this is the only point I can at all answer +for, for I think I can say that we shall meet pretty much as we part.” + </p> +<p> +“What am I to understand by that, May?” asked he, with an eagerness that +forgot all dissimulation. +</p> +<p> +“How do you find papa looking?” asked she, hurriedly, as a deep blush +covered her face. “Is he as well as you hoped to see him?” + </p> +<p> +“No,” said he, bluntly; “he has grown thin and careworn. Older by ten +years than I expected to find him.” + </p> +<p> +“He has been much fretted of late; independently of being separated from +<i>you</i>, he has had many anxieties.” + </p> +<p> +“I have heard something of this; more, indeed, than I like to believe +true. Is it possible, May, that he intends to marry?” + </p> +<p> +She nodded twice slowly, without speaking. +</p> +<p> +“And his wife is to be this Mrs. Morris,—this widow that I remember +at Marlia, long ago?” + </p> +<p> +“And who is now here domesticated with us.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you know of her? What does any one know of her?” asked he, +impatiently. +</p> +<p> +“Absolutely nothing,—that is, of her history, her family, or her +belongings. Of herself I can only say that she is supreme in this house; +her orders alone are obeyed. I have reason to believe that papa confides +the gravest interests to her charge, and for myself, I obey her by a sort +of instinct.” + </p> +<p> +“But you like her, May?” + </p> +<p> +“I am too much afraid of her to like her. I was at first greatly attracted +by fascinations perfectly new to me, and by a number of graceful +accomplishments, which certainly lent a great charm to her society. But +after a while I detected, or I fancied that I detected, that all these +attractions were thrown out as lures to amuse and occupy us, while she was +engaged in studying our dispositions and examining our natures. Added to +this, I became aware of the harshness she secretly bestowed upon poor +Clara, whose private lectures were little else than tortures. This latter +completely estranged me from her, and, indeed, was the first thing which +set me at work to consider her character. From the day when Clara left +this—” + </p> +<p> +“Left this, and for where?” cried he. +</p> +<p> +“I cannot tell you; we have never heard of her since. She was taken away +by a guardian, a certain Mr. Stocmar, whom papa seemed to know, or at +least thought he had met somewhere, many years ago. It was shortly after +the tidings of Captain Morris's death this gentleman arrived here to claim +her.” + </p> +<p> +“And her mother,—was she willing to part with her?” + </p> +<p> +“She affected great sorrow—fainted, I think—when she read the +letter that apprised her of the necessity; but from Clara herself I +gathered that the separation was most grateful to her, and that for some +secret cause I did not dare to ask—even had she known to tell—they +were not to meet again for many, many years.” + </p> +<p> +“But all that you tell me is unnatural, May. Is there not some terrible +mystery in this affair? Is there not some shameful scandal beneath it +all?” + </p> +<p> +A heavy sigh seemed to concur with what he said. +</p> +<p> +“And can my father mean to marry a woman of whose past life he knows +nothing? Is it with all these circumstances of suspicion around her that +he is willing to share name and fortune with her?” + </p> +<p> +“As to that, such is her ascendancy over him, that were she to assure him +of the most improbable or impossible of events he 'd not discredit her. +Some secret dread of what you would say or think has delayed the marriage +hitherto; but once you have taken your leave and are fairly off,—not +to return for years,—the event will no longer be deferred.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, May, how you grieve me! I cannot tell you the misery you have put +into my heart.” + </p> +<p> +“It is out of my own sorrow I have given you to drink,” said she, +bitterly. “You are a man, and have a man's career before you, with all its +changeful chances of good or evil; I, as a woman, must trust my hazard of +happiness to a home, and very soon I shall have none.” + </p> +<p> +He tried to speak, but a sense of choking stopped him, and thus, without a +word on either side, they walked along several minutes. +</p> +<p> +“May,” said he, at last, “do you remember the line of the poet,— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“'Death and absence differ but in name'?” + </pre> +<p> +“I never heard it before; but why do you ask me?” + </p> +<p> +“I was just thinking that in parting moments like this, as on a death-bed, +one dares to speak of things which from some sense of shame one had never +dared to touch on before. Now, I want to carry away with me over the seas +the thought that your lot in life is assured, and your happiness, so far +as any one's can be, provided for. To know this, I must force a confidence +which you may not wish to accord me; but bethink you, dear May, that you +will never see me more. Will you tell me if I ask about <i>him?</i>” + </p> +<p> +“About whom?” asked she, in unfeigned astonishment, for never were her +thoughts less directed to Alfred Layton. +</p> +<p> +“May,” said he, almost angrily, “refuse me if you will, but let there be +no deceit between us. I spoke of Layton.” + </p> +<p> +“Ask what you please, and I will answer you,” said she, boldly. +</p> +<p> +“He is your lover, is he not? You have engaged yourself to him?” + </p> +<p> +“No.” + </p> +<p> +“It is the same thing. You are to be his wife, when this, that, or t'other +happens?” + </p> +<p> +“No.” + </p> +<p> +“In a word, if there be no compact, there is an understanding between +you?” + </p> +<p> +“Once more, no!” said she, in the same firm voice. +</p> +<p> +“Will you deny that you have received letters from him, and have written +to him again?” + </p> +<p> +An angry flush covered the girl's cheek, and her lip trembled. For an +instant it seemed as if an indignant answer would break from her; but she +repressed the impulse, and coolly said, “There is no need to deny it. I +have done both.” + </p> +<p> +“I knew it,—I knew it!” cried he, in a bitter exultation. “You might +have dealt more frankly with me, or might have said, 'I am in no wise +accountable to <i>you</i>, I recognize no right in you to question me.' +Had you done this, May, it would have been a warning to me; but to say, +'Ask me freely, I will tell you everything,'—was this fair, was this +honest, was it true-hearted?” + </p> +<p> +“And yet I meant it for such,” said she, sorrowfully. “I may have felt a +passing sense of displeasure that you should have heard from any other +than myself of this correspondence; but even that is passed away, and I +care not to learn from whom you heard it. I have written as many as three +letters to Mr. Layton. This is his last to <i>me</i>.” She took at the +same moment a letter from her pocket, and handed it towards him. +</p> +<p> +“I have no presumption to read your correspondence, May Leslie,” said he, +red with shame and anger together. “Your asking me to do so implies a +rebuke in having dared to speak on the subject, but it is for the last +time.” + </p> +<p> +“And is it because we are about to part, Charles, that it must be in +anger?” said she; and her voice faltered and her lip trembled. “Of all +your faults, Charles, selfishness was not one, long ago.” + </p> +<p> +“No matter what I was long ago; we have both lived to see great changes in +ourselves.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, let us be friends,” said she, taking his hand cordially. “I know +not how it is with you, but never in my life did I need a friend so much.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, May, how can I serve you?” + </p> +<p> +“First read that letter, Charles. Sit down there and read it through, and +I 'll come back to you by the time you 've finished it.” + </p> +<p> +With a sort of dogged determination to sacrifice himself, no matter at +what cost, Charles Heathcote took the letter from her, and turned away +into another alley of the garden. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0018" id="linkimage-0018"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0506.jpg" alt="ONE0506" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER L. THREE MET AGAIN +</h2> +<p> +When, on the following morning, Charles Heathcote repaired to the hotel +where he had left his friend Lord Agincourt, he was surprised to hear the +sound of voices and laughter as he drew nigh the room; nor less astonished +was he, on entering, to discover O'Shea seated at the breakfast-table, and +manifestly in the process of enjoying himself. Had there been time to +retire undetected, Heathcote would have done so, for his head was far too +full of matters of deep interest to himself to desire the presence of a +stranger, not to say that he had a communication to make to his friend +both delicate and difficult. O'Shea's quick glance had, however, caught +him at once, and he cried out, “Here's the very man we wanted to make us +complete,—the jolliest party of three that ever sat down together.” + </p> +<p> +“I scarcely thought to see you in these parts,” said Heathcote, with more +of sulk than cordiality in the tone. +</p> +<p> +“Your delight ought to be all the greater, though, maybe, it is n't! You +look as glum as the morning I won your trap and the two nags.” + </p> +<p> +“By the way, what became of them?” asked Heathcote. +</p> +<p> +“I sold the chestnut to a young cornet in the Carabineers. He saw me ride +him through all the bonfires in Sackville Street the night the mob beat +the police, and he said he never saw his equal to face fire; and he was +n't far wrong there, for the beast was stone blind.” + </p> +<p> +“And the gray?” + </p> +<p> +“The gray is here, in Rome, and in top condition; and if I don't take him +over five feet of timber, my name is n't Gorman.” A quick wink and a sly +look towards Agincoort conveyed to Heathcote the full meaning of this +speech. +</p> +<p> +“And you want a high figure for him?” asked he. +</p> +<p> +“If I sell him,—if I sell him at all; for you see, if the world goes +well with me, and I have a trump or two in my hand, I won't part with that +horse. It's not every day in the week that you chance on a beast that can +carry fifteen stone over a stiff country,—ay, and do it four days in +the fortnight!” + </p> +<p> +“What's his price?” asked Agincourt. +</p> +<p> +“Let him tell you,” said O'Shea, with a most expressive look at Heathcote. +“He knows him as well or better than I do.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” said Heathcote, tantalizing him on purpose; “but when a man sets +out by saying, 'I don't want to sell my horse,' of course it means, 'If +you will have him, you must pay a fancy price.'” + </p> +<p> +If O'Shea's expression could be rendered in words, it might be read thus: +“And if that be the very game I'm playing, ain't you a downright idiot to +spoil it?” + </p> +<p> +“Well,” said Agincourt, after a pause, “I 'm just in the sort of humor +this morning to do an extravagant thing, or a silly one.” + </p> +<p> +“Lucky fellow!” broke in Heathcote, “for O'Shea's the very man to assist +you to your project.” + </p> +<p> +“I am!” said O'Shea, firmly and quickly; “for there's not the man living +has scattered his money more freely than myself. Before I came of age, +when I was just a slip of a boy, about nineteen—” + </p> +<p> +“Never mind the anecdote, old fellow,” said Heathcote, laughingly, as he +laid his hand on the other's shoulder. “Agincourt has just confessed +himself in the frame of mind to be 'done.' Do him, therefore, by all +means. Say a hundred and fifty for the nag, and he 'll give it, and keep +your good story for another roguery.” + </p> +<p> +“Isn't he polite?—isn't he a young man of charming manners and +elegant address?” said O'Shea, with a strange mixture of drollery and +displeasure. +</p> +<p> +“He's right, at all events,” said Agincourt, laughing at the other's face; +“he's right as regards me. I 'll give you a hundred and fifty for the +horse without seeing him.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, mother of Moses! I wish your guardian was like you.” + </p> +<p> +“Why so? What do you mean?” + </p> +<p> +“I mean this,—that I wish he 'd buy me, too, without seeing me!” And +then, seeing that by their blank looks they had failed to catch his +meaning, he added, “Is n't he one of the Cabinet now?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, he is Colonial Secretary.” + </p> +<p> +“That 's the very fellow I want. He 's giving away things every day, that +any one of them would be the making of me.” + </p> +<p> +“What would you take?” + </p> +<p> +“Whatever I 'd get. There's my answer. Whatever I 'd get I'd be a Bishop, +or a Judge, or a boundary Commissioner, or a Treasurer,—I 'd like to +be that best,—or anything in reason they could offer a man of good +family, and who had a seat in the House.” + </p> +<p> +“I think you might get him something; I'm sure you might,” said Heathcote. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I can try, at all events. I 'll write to-day.” + </p> +<p> +“Will you really?” + </p> +<p> +“I give you my word on it. I 'll say that, independently of all personal +claims of your own, you 're an intimate and old friend, whose advancement +I will accept as a favor done to myself.” + </p> +<p> +“That's the ticket. But mind no examination,—no going before the +Civil Service chaps. I tell you fairly, I would n't take the +Governor-Generalship of India if I had to go up for the +multiplication-table. I think I see myself sitting trembling before them, +one fellow asking me, 'Who invented “pitch and toss”?' and another +inquiring 'Who was the first man ever took pepper with oysters?'” + </p> +<p> +“Leave all that to Agincourt,” said Heathcote; “he'll explain to his +guardian that you were for several sessions a distinguished member of the +House—” + </p> +<p> +“'T was I that brought 'crowing' in. I used to crow like a cock when old +Sibthorp got up, and set them all off laughing.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll mention your public services—” + </p> +<p> +“And don't say that I 'm hard up. Don't make it appear that it 's because +I 'm out at the elbows I 'm going, but just a whim,—the way +Gladstone went to Greece the other day; that's the real dodge, for they +keep the Scripture in mind up in Downing Street, and it's always the 'poor +they send empty away.'” + </p> +<p> +“And you'll dine with us here, at seven?” said Agincourt, rising from the +table. +</p> +<p> +“That 's as much as to say, 'Cut your lucky now, Gorman; we don't want you +till dinner-time.'” + </p> +<p> +“You forget that he has got the letter to write about you,” said +Heathcote. “You don't want him to lose a post?” + </p> +<p> +“And the gray horse?” + </p> +<p> +“He's mine; I 've bought him.” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose you 've no objection to my taking a canter on him this +morning?” + </p> +<p> +“Ride him, by all means,” said Agincourt, shaking his hand cordially while +he said adieu. +</p> +<p> +“Why did you ask him to dinner to-day?” said Heathcote, peevishly. “I +wanted you to have come over and dined with us. My father is eager to see +you, and so is May.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us go to tea, then. And how are they?—how is he looking?” + </p> +<p> +“Broken,—greatly broken. I was shocked beyond measure to see him so +much aged since we met, and his spirits gone,—utterly gone.” + </p> +<p> +“Whence is all this?” + </p> +<p> +“He says that I deserted him,—that he was forsaken.” + </p> +<p> +“And is he altogether wrong, Charley? Does not conscience prick you on +that score?” + </p> +<p> +“He says, too, that I have treated May as cruelly and as unjustly; also, +that I have broken up their once happy home. In fact, he lays all at <i>my</i> +door.” + </p> +<p> +“And have you seen <i>her?</i>” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, we had a meeting last night, and a long talk this morning; and, +indeed, it was about that I wanted to speak to you when I found O'Shea +here. Confound the fellow! he has made the thing more difficult than ever, +for I have quite forgotten how I had planned it all.” + </p> +<p> +“Planned it all! Surely there was no need of a plan, Charley, in anything +that you meant to say to <i>me?</i>” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, but there was, though. You have very often piqued me by saying that +I never knew my own mind from one day to another, that you were always +prepared for some change of intention in me, and that nothing would +surprise you less than that I should 'throw you over' the very day before +we were to sail for India.” + </p> +<p> +“Was I very, very unjust, Charley?” said he, kindly. +</p> +<p> +“<i>I</i> think you were, and for this reason: he who is master of his own +fate, so far as personal freedom and ample fortune can make him, ought not +to judge rashly of the doubts and vacillations and ever changing purposes +of him who has to weigh fifty conflicting influences. The one sufficiently +strong to sway others may easily take his line and follow it; the other is +the slave of any incident of the hour, and must be content to accept +events, and not mould them.” + </p> +<p> +“I read it all, Charley. You 'll not go out?” + </p> +<p> +“I will not.” + </p> +<p> +Agincourt repressed the smile that was fast gathering on his lips, and, in +a grave and quiet voice, said, “And why?” + </p> +<p> +“For the very reason you have so often given me. She cares for me; she has +told me so herself, and even asked me not to leave them! I explained to +her that I had given you not only a promise, but a pledge, that, unless +you released me, I was bound in honor to accompany you. She said, 'Will +you leave this part of the matter to <i>me?</i>' and I answered, 'No, I'll +go frankly to him, and say, “I'm going to break my word with you: I have +to choose between May Leslie and you, and I vote for her.''” + </p> +<p> +“What a deal of self-sacrifice it might have saved you, Charley,” said he, +laughing, “had you seen this telegram which came when I had sat down to +breakfast.” It came from the Horse Guards, sent by some private friend of +Agincourt' s, and was in these words: “The row is over, no more drafts for +India, do not go.” + </p> +<p> +Heathcote read and re-read the paper for several minutes. “So, then, for +once I have luck on my side. My resolve neither wounds a friend nor hurts +my own self-esteem. Of course <i>you</i> 'll not go?” + </p> +<p> +“Certainly not. I 'll not go out to hunt the lame ducks that others have +wounded.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll let me take this and show it to my father,” said Heathcote. “He +shall learn the real reason of my stay hereafter, but for the present this +will serve to make him happy; and poor May, too, will be spared the pain +of thinking that in yielding to her wish I have jeopardized a true +friendship. I can scarcely believe all this happiness real, Agincourt. +After so long a turn of gloom and despondency, I cannot trust myself to +think that fortune means so kindly by me. Were it not for one unhappy +thought,—one only,—I could say I have nothing left to wish +for.” + </p> +<p> +“And what is that?—Is it anything in which I can be of service to +you?” + </p> +<p> +“No, my dear fellow; if it were, I'd never have said it was a cause for +sorrow. It is a case, however, equally removed from your help as from +mine. I told you some time back that my father, yielding to a game of +cleverly played intrigue, had determined to marry this widow, Mrs. +Penthony Morris, whom you remember. So long as the question was merely +mooted in gossip, I could not allude to it; but when he wrote himself to +me on the subject, I remonstrated with him as temperately as I was able. I +adverted to their disproportion of age, their dissimilarity of habits; +and, lastly, I spoke out and told him that we knew nothing, any of us, of +this lady, her family, friends, or connections; that though I had inquired +widely, I never met the man who could give me any information about her, +or had ever heard of her husband. I wrote all this, and much more of the +same kind, in the strain of frank confidence a son might employ towards +his father, particularly when they had long lived together in relations of +the dearest and closest affection. I waited eagerly for his answer. Some +weeks went over, and then there came a letter, not from him, but from her. +The whole mischief was out: he had given her my letter, and said, 'Answer +it.' I will show you her epistle one of these days. It is really clever. +There wasn't a word of reproach,—not an angry syllable in the whole +of it She was pained, fretted, deeply fretted by what I had written, but +she acknowledged that I had, if I liked to indulge them, reasonable +grounds for all my distrusts, though, perhaps, it might have been more +generous to oppose them. At first, she said, she had resolved to satisfy +all my doubts by the names and circumstances of her connections, with +every detail of family history and fortune; but, on second thoughts, her +pride revolted against a step so offensive to personal dignity, and she +had made up her mind to confine these revelations to my father, and then +leave his roof forever. 'Writing,' continued she, 'as I now do, without +his knowledge of what I say,—for, with a generous confidence in me +that I regret is not felt in other quarters, he has refused to read my +letter,—I may tell you that I shall place my change of purpose on +such grounds as can never possibly endanger your future relations with +your father. He shall never suspect, in fact, from anything in my conduct, +that my departure was influenced in the slightest degree by what has +fallen from <i>you</i>. The reasons I will give him for my step will refer +solely to circumstances that refer to myself. Go back, therefore, in all +confidence and love, and give your whole affection to one who needs and +who deserves it! +</p> +<p> +“There was, perhaps, a slight tendency to dilate upon what ought to +constitute my duties and regards; but, on the whole, the letter was well +written and wonderfully dispassionate. I was sorely puzzled how to answer +it, or what course to take, and might have been more so, when my mind was +relieved by a most angry epistle from my father, accusing me roundly, not +only of having wilfully forsaken him, but having heartlessly insulted the +very few who compassionated his lonely lot, and were even ready to share +it. +</p> +<p> +“This ended our correspondence, and I never wrote again till I mentioned +my approaching departure for India, and offered, if he wished it, to take +Italy on my way and see him once more before I went. To this there came +the kindest answer, entreating me to come and pass as many days as I could +with him. It was all affection, but evidently written in great depression +of mind and spirits. There were three lines of a postscript, signed +'Louisa,' assuring me that none more anxiously looked forward to my visit +than herself; that she had a pardon to crave of me, and would far rather +sue for it in person than on paper. 'As you <i>are</i> coming,' said she, +'I will say no more, for when you <i>do</i> come you will both pity and +forgive me.'” + </p> +<p> +As Heathcote had just finished the last word, the door of the room was +quietly opened, and O'Shea peeped in. “Are you at the letter? for, if you +are, you might as well say, 'Mr. Gorman O'Shea was never violent in his +politics, but one of those who always relied upon the good faith and good +will of England towards his countrymen.' That's a sentence the Whigs +delight in, and I remark it's the sure sign of a good berth.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, yes, I 'll book it; don't be afraid,” said Agincourt, laughing; and +the late member for Inch retired, fully satisfied. “Go on, Charley; tell +me the remainder.” + </p> +<p> +“There is no more to tell; you have heard all. Since I arrived I have not +seen her. She has been for two days confined to bed with a feverish cold, +and, apprehending something contagious, she will not let May visit her. I +believe, however, it is a mere passing illness, and I suppose that +to-morrow or next day we shall meet.” + </p> +<p> +“And <i>how?</i> for that, I own, is a matter would puzzle me +considerably.” + </p> +<p> +“It will all depend upon her. She must give the key-note to the concert. +If she please to be very courteous and affable, and all the rest of it, +talk generalities and avoid all questions of real interest, I must accept +that tone, and follow it If she be disposed to enter upon private and +personal details, I have only to be a listener, except she give me an +opportunity to speak out regarding the marriage.” “And you will?” + </p> +<p> +“That I will. I suspect, shrewdly, that she is mistaken about our +circumstances, and confounds May Leslie's means with ours. Now, when she +knows that my father has about five hundred a year in the world for +everything, it is just possible that she may rue her bargain, and cry +'off.'” + </p> +<p> +“Scarcely, I think,” said Agincourt. “The marriage would give her station +and place at once, if she wants them.” + </p> +<p> +“What if O'Shea were to supplant Sir William? I half suspect he would +succeed. He hasn't a sixpence. It's exactly his own beat to find some one +willing to support him.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I 'll back myself to get him a place. I 'll not say it will be +anything very splendid or lucrative, but something he shall have. Come, +Charley, leave this to me. Let O'Shea and myself dine <i>tête-à-tête</i> +to-day, and I 'll contrive to sound him on it.” + </p> +<p> +“I mean to aid you so far, for I know my father would take it ill were I +to dine away from home,—on the first day too; but I own I have no +great confidence in your plan, nor any unbounded reliance on your +diplomacy.” + </p> +<p> +“No matter, I'll try it; and, to begin, I'll start at once with a letter +to Downing Street I have never asked for anything yet, so I 'll write like +one who cannot contemplate a refusal.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish you success, for all our sakes,” said Charles; and left him. +</p> +<p> +END OF VOL. I. <a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +ONE OF THEM, Volume II. +</h2> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0051" id="link2HCH0051"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER I. THE LONE VILLA ON THE ÇAMPAGNA. +</h2> +<p> +About half-way between Rome and Albano, and something more than a mile off +the high-road, there stands on a little swell of the Çampagna a ruined +villa, inhabited by a humble family of peasants, who aid their scanty +means of support by showing to strangers the view from the house-top. It +is not, save for its extent, a prospect in any way remarkable. Rome +itself, in the distance, is not seen in its most imposing aspect, and the +Çampagna offers little on which the eye cares to rest long. +</p> +<p> +The “Villa of the Four Winds,” however, is a place sought by tourists, and +few leave Rome without a visit to it. These are, of course, the excursions +of fine days in the fine season, and never occur during the dark and +gloomy months of midwinter. It was now such a time. The wind tore across +the bleak plain, carrying fitful showers of cold rain, driving cattle to +their shelter, and sending all to seek a refuge within doors; and yet a +carriage was to be seen toiling painfully through the deep clay of the +by-road which led from the main line, and making for the villa. After many +a rugged shake and shock, many a struggling effort of the weary beasts, +and many a halt, it at length reached the little paved courtyard, and was +speedily surrounded by the astonished peasants, curious to see the +traveller whose zeal for the picturesque could bid defiance to such +weather. +</p> +<p> +As the steps were let down, a lady got out, muffled in a large cloak, and +wearing the hood over her head, and hastily passed into the little kitchen +of the house. Scarcely had she entered, than, throwing off her cloak, she +said, in a gay and easy voice, “I have often promised myself a visit to +the villa when there would be a grand storm to look at. Don't you think +that I have hit on the day to keep my pledge?” The speech was made so +frankly that it pleased the hearers, nowise surprised, besides, at any +eccentricity on the part of strangers; and now the family, young and old, +gathered around the visitor, and talked, and questioned, and admired her +dress and her appearance, and told her so, too, with a pleasant candor not +displeasing. They saw she was a stranger, but knew not from where. Her +accent was not Roman; they knew no more; nor did she give much time for +speculating, as she contrived to make herself at home amongst them by +ingratiating herself imperceptibly into the good graces of each present, +from the gray-headed man to whom she discoursed of cattle and their winter +food, to the little toddling infant, who would insist upon being held upon +her lap. +</p> +<p> +The day went on, and yet never a lull came in the storm that permitted a +visit to the roof to see the lightning that played along the distant +horizon. She betrayed no impatience, however; she laughingly said she was +very comfortable at the fireside, and could afford to wait. She expected +her brother, it is true, to have met her there, and more than once +despatched a messenger to the door to see if he could not descry a +horseman on the high-road. The same answer came always back: nothing to be +seen for miles round. +</p> +<p> +“Well,” said she, good-humoredly, “you must give me a share of your +dinner, for my drive has given me an appetite, and I will still wait here +another hour.” + </p> +<p> +It would have made a pleasing picture as she sat there,—her fair and +beautiful features graced with that indescribable charm of expression +imparted by the wish to please in those who have made the art to please +their study; to have seen her surrounded by those bronzed and seared and +careworn looks, now brightened up by the charm of a spell that had often +worked its power on their superiors; to have marked how delicately she +initiated herself into their little ways, and how marvellously the +captivation of her gentleness spread its influence over them. In their +simple piety they likened her to the image of all that embodies beauty to +their eyes, and murmured to each other that she was like the Madonna. A +cruel interruption to their quiet rapture was now given by the clattering +sound of a horse's feet, and, immediately after, the entrance of a man +drenched to the skin, and dripping from the storm. After a few hasty words +of greeting, the strangers ascended the stairs, and were shown into a +little room, scantily furnished, but from which the view they were +supposed to come for could be obtained. +</p> +<p> +“What devotion to come out in such weather!” said she, when they were +alone. “It is only an Irishman, and that Irishman the O'Shea, could be +capable of this heroism.” + </p> +<p> +“It's all very nice making fun of a man when he's standing like a soaked +sponge,” said he; “but I tell you what, Mrs. Morris, the devil a Saxon +would do it. It's not in them to risk a sore-throat or a pain in the back +for the prettiest woman that ever stepped.” + </p> +<p> +“I have just said so, but not so emphatically, perhaps; and, what is more, +I feel all the force of the homage as I look at you.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, laugh away,” said he. “When a woman has pretty teeth or good legs, +she does n't want much provocation to show them. But if we are to stay any +time here, could n't we have a bit of fire?” + </p> +<p> +“You shall come down to the kitchen presently, and have both food and +fire; for I'm sure there's something left, though we 've just dined.” + </p> +<p> +“Dined?—where?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, eaten, if you like the word better; and perhaps it is the more +fitting phrase. I took my plate amongst these poor people, and I assure +you there was a carrot soup by no means bad. Sir William's <i>chef</i> +would have probably taken exception to the garlic, which was somewhat in +excess, and there was a fishy flavor, also slightly objectionable. They +called it 'baccala.'” + </p> +<p> +“Faith, you beat me entirely!” exclaimed O'Shea. “I can't make you out at +all, at all.” + </p> +<p> +“I assure you,” resumed she, “it was quite refreshing to dine with people +who ate heartily, and never said an ill word of their neighbors. I regret +very much that you were not of the party.” + </p> +<p> +“Thanks for the politeness, but I don't exactly concur with the regret.” + </p> +<p> +“I see that this wetting has spoiled your temper. It is most unfortunate +for me that the weather should have broken just as I wanted you to be in +the very best of humors, and with the most ardent desire to serve me.” + </p> +<p> +If she began this speech in a light and volatile tone, before she had +finished it her manner was grave and earnest. +</p> +<p> +“Here I am, ready and willing,” said he, quickly. “Only say the word, and +see if I 'm not as good as my promise.” + </p> +<p> +She took two or three turns of the room without speaking; then wheeling +round suddenly, she stood right in front of where he sat, her face pale, +and her whole expression that of one deeply occupied with one purpose. +</p> +<p> +“I don't believe,” said she, in a slow, collected voice, “that there +exists a more painful position than that of a woman who, without what the +world calls a natural protector, must confront the schemes of a man with +the inferior weapons of her sex, and who yet yearns for the privilege of +setting a life against a life.” + </p> +<p> +“You'd like to be able to fight a duel, then?” asked he, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“Yes. That my own hand might vindicate my own wrong, I 'd consent freely +to lose it the hour after.” + </p> +<p> +“That must needs have been no slight injury that suggests such a +reparation.” + </p> +<p> +She only nodded in reply. +</p> +<p> +“It is nothing that the Heathcotes—” + </p> +<p> +“The Heathcotes!” broke she in, with a scornful smile; “it is not from +such come heavy wrongs. No, no; they are in no wise mixed up in what I +allude to, and if they had been, I would need no help to deal with them. +The injury I speak of occurred long ago,—years before I knew you. I +have told you,”—here she paused, as if for strength to go on,—“I +have told you that I accept your aid, and on your own conditions. Very few +words will suffice to show for what I need it. Before I go further, +however, I would ask you once more, are you ready to meet any and every +peril for my sake? Are you prepared to encounter what may risk even your +life, if called upon? I ask this now, and with the firm assurance that if +you pledge your word you will keep it.” + </p> +<p> +“I give you my solemn oath that I'll stand by you, if it lead me to the +drop before the jail.” + </p> +<p> +She gave a slight shudder. Some old memories had, perhaps, crossed her at +the moment; but she was soon self-possessed again. +</p> +<p> +“The case is briefly this. And mind,” said she, hurriedly, “where I do not +seem to give you full details, or enter into clear explanations, it is not +from inadvertence that I do so, but that I will tell no more than I wish, +nor will I be questioned. The case is this: I was married unhappily. I +lived with a man who outraged and insulted me, and I met with one who +assumed to pity me and take my part. I confided to him my miseries, the +more freely that he had been the witness of the cruelties I endured. He +took advantage of the confidence to make advances to me. My heart—if +I had a heart—would not have been difficult to win. It was a theft +not worth guarding against. Somehow, I cannot say wherefore, this man was +odious to me, more odious than the very tyrant who trampled on me; but I +had sold myself for a vengeance,—yes, as completely as if the devil +had drawn up the bond and I had signed it. My pact with myself was to be +revenged on him, come what might afterwards. I have told you that I hated +this man; but I had no choice. The whole wide world was there, and not +another in it had ever offered to be my defender; nor, indeed, did he. No, +the creature was a coward; he only promised that if he found me as a waif +he would shelter me; he was too cautious to risk a finger in my cause, and +would only claim what none disputed with him. And I was abject enough to +be content with that, to be grateful for it, to write letters full of more +than gratitude, protesting—Oh, spare me! if even yet I have shame to +make me unable to repeat what, in my madness, I may have said to him. I +thought I could go on throughout it all, but I cannot. The end was, my +husband died; yes! he was dead! and this man—who I know, for I have +the proofs, had shown my letters to my husband—claimed me in +marriage; he insisted that I should be his wife, or meet all the shame and +exposure of seeing my letters printed and circulated through the world, +with the story of my life annexed. I refused, fled from England, concealed +myself, changed my name, and did everything I could to escape discovery; +but in vain. He found me out; he is now upon my track; he will be here—here, +at Rome—within the week, and, with these letters in his hand, repeat +his threat, he says, for the last time, and I believe him.” The strength +which had sustained her up to this now gave way, and she sank heavily to +the ground, like one stricken by a fit. It was some time before she +rallied; for O'Shea, fearful of any exposure, had not called others to his +aid, but, opening the window, suffered the rude wind to blow over her face +and temples. “There, there,” said she, smiling sadly, “it is but seldom I +show so poor a spirit, but I am somewhat broken of late. Leave me to rest +my head on this chair, and do not lift me from the ground yet. I 'll be +better presently. Have I cut my forehead?” + </p> +<p> +“It is but a slight scratch. You struck the foot of the table in your +fall.” + </p> +<p> +“There,” said she, making a mark with the blood on his wrist, “it is thus +the Arabs register the fidelity of him who is to avenge them. You will not +fail me, will you?” + </p> +<p> +“Never, by this hand!” cried he, holding it up firmly clenched over his +head. +</p> +<p> +“It's the Arab's faith, that if he wash away the stain before the depth of +vengeance is acquitted, he is dishonored; there's a rude chivalry in the +notion that I like well.” She said this in his ear as he raised her from +the ground and placed her on a chair. “It is time you should know his +name,” said she, after a few minutes' pause. “He is called Ludlow Paten. I +believe he is Captain Paten about town.” + </p> +<p> +“I know him by repute. He's a sort of swell at the West-End play clubs. He +is amongst all the fast men.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, he's fashionable,—he's very fashionable.” + </p> +<p> +“I have heard him talked of scores of times as one of the pleasantest +fellows to be met with.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm certain of it. I feel assured that he must be a cheerful companion, +and reasonably honest and loyal in his dealings with man. He is of a class +that reserve all their treachery and all their baseness for where they can +be safely practised; and, strange enough, men of honor know these things,—men +of unquestionable honor associate freely with fellows of this stamp, as if +the wrong done to a woman was a venial offence, if offence at all.” + </p> +<p> +“The way of the world,” said OShea, with a half sigh. +</p> +<p> +“Pleasant philosophy that so easily accounts for every baseness and even +villany by showing that they are popular. But come, let us be practical. +What's to be done here?—what do you suggest?” + </p> +<p> +“Give me the right to deal with him, and leave the settlement to <i>me</i>.” + </p> +<p> +“The right—that is—” She hesitated, flushed up for an instant, +and then grew lividly pale again. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” said he, taking his place at her side, and leaning an arm on the +back of her chair, “I thought I never saw your equal when you were gay and +light-hearted, and full of spirits; but I like you better, far better now, +and I 'd rather face the world with you than—” + </p> +<p> +“I don't want to deceive you,” said she, hurriedly, and her lips quivered +as she spoke; “but there are things which I cannot tell you,—things +of which I could not speak to any one, least of all to him who says he is +willing to share his fate with me. It is a hard condition to make, and yet +I must make it.” + </p> +<p> +“Put your hand in mine, then, and I 'll take you on any conditions you +like.” + </p> +<p> +“One word more before we close our bargain. It might so happen—it is +far from unlikely—that the circumstances of which I dare not trust +myself to utter a syllable may come to your ears when I am your wife, when +it will be impossible for you to treat them as calumnies, and just as idle +to say that you never heard of them before. How will you act if such a +moment comes?” + </p> +<p> +“Answer me one plain question first. Is there any man living who has power +over you—except as regards these letters, I mean?” + </p> +<p> +“None.” + </p> +<p> +“There is, then, no charge of this, that, or t' other?” + </p> +<p> +“I will answer no more. I have told you fairly that if you take me for +your wife you most be prepared to stand in the breach between me and the +world, and meet whatever assails me as one prepared. Are you ready for +this?” + </p> +<p> +“I'm not afraid of the danger—” + </p> +<p> +“So, then, your fears are only for the cause?” + </p> +<p> +It was with the very faintest touch of scorn these words were spoken; but +he marked it, and reddened over face and forehead. +</p> +<p> +“When that cause will have become my own, you 'll see that I 'll hesitate +little about defending it.” + </p> +<p> +“That's all that I ask for, all that I wish. This is strange courtship,” + said she, trying to laugh; “but let us carry it through consistently. I +conclude you are not rich; neither am I,—at least, for the present; +a very few weeks, however, will put me in possession of a large property. +It is in land in America. The legal formalities which are necessary will +be completed almost immediately, and my co-heir is now coming over from +the States to meet me, and establish his claim also. These are all +confidences, remember, for I now speak to you freely; and, in the same +spirit that I make them, I ask <i>you</i> to trust me,—to trust me +fully and wholly, with a faith that says, 'I will wait to the end—to +the very end! '” + </p> +<p> +“Let this be my pledge,” said he, taking her hand and kissing it. “Faith!” + said he, after a second or two, “I can scarcely believe in my good luck. +It seems to be every moment so like a dream to think that you consent to +take me; just, too, when I was beginning to feel that fortune had clean +forgotten me. You are not listening to me, not minding a word I say. What +is it, then, you are thinking of?” + </p> +<p> +“I was plotting,” said she, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“Plotting,—more plotting! Why can't we go along now on the +high-road, without looking for by-paths?” + </p> +<p> +“Not yet,—not yet awhile. Attend to me, now. It is not likely that +we can meet again very soon. My coming out here to-day was at great risk, +for I am believed to be ill and in bed with a feverish cold. I cannot +venture to repeat this peril, but you shall hear from me. My maid is to be +trusted, and will bring you tidings of me. With to-morrow's post I hope to +learn where Paten is, and when he will be here. You shall learn both +immediately, and be prepared to act on the information. Above all things, +bear in mind that though I hate this man, all my abhorrence of him is +nothing—actually nothing—to my desire to regain my letters. +For them I would forego everything. Had I but these in my possession, I +could wait for vengeance, and wait patiently.” + </p> +<p> +“So that from himself personally you fear nothing?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing. He cannot say more of me than is open to all the world to say—” + She stopped, and grew red, for she felt that her impetuosity had carried +her further than she was aware. “Remember once more, then, if you could +buy them, steal them, get them in any way,—I care not how, that my +object is fulfilled,—the day you place them in this hand it is your +own!” + </p> +<p> +He burst out into some rhapsody of his delight, but checked himself as +suddenly, when he saw that her face had assumed its former look of +preoccupation. +</p> +<p> +“Plotting again?” asked he, half peevishly. +</p> +<p> +“I have need to plot,” said she, mournfully, as she leaned her head upon +her hand; and now there came over her countenance a look of deepest +sorrow. “I grow very weary of all this at times,” said she, in a faint and +broken voice; “so weary that I half suspect it were better to throw the +cards down, and say, 'There! I 've lost! What's the stake?' I believe I +could do this. I am convinced I could, if I were certain that there was +one man or one woman on the earth who would give me one word of pity, or +bestow one syllable of compassion for my fall.” + </p> +<p> +“But surely your daughter Clara—” + </p> +<p> +“Clara is not my daughter; she is nothing to me,—never was, never +can be. We are separated, besides, never to meet again, and I charge you +not to speak of her.” + </p> +<p> +“May I never! if I can see my way at all. It 's out of one mystery into +another. Will you just tell me—” + </p> +<p> +“Ask me nothing. You have heard from me this day what I have never told +another. But I have confidence in your good faith, and can say, 'If you +rue your bargain, there is yet time to say so,' and you may leave this as +free as when you entered it.” + </p> +<p> +“You never mistook a man more. It's not going back I was thinking of; but +surely I might ask—” + </p> +<p> +“Once for all, I will not be questioned. There never lived that man or +woman who could thread their way safely through difficulties, if they +waited to have every obstacle canvassed and every possible mystery +explained. You must leave me to my own guidance here; and one of its first +conditions is, not to shake my confidence in myself.” + </p> +<p> +“Won't you even tell me when we 're to be one?” + </p> +<p> +“What an ardent lover it is!” said she, laughing. “There, fetch me my +shawl, and let me see that you know how to put it properly on my +shoulders. No liberties, sir! and least of all when they crush a Parisian +bonnet. The evening is falling already, and I must set off homewards.” + </p> +<p> +“Won't you give me a seat in the carriage with you? Surely, you 'd not see +me ride back in such a downpour as that.” + </p> +<p> +“I should think I would. I 'd leave you to go it on foot rather than +commit such an indiscretion. Drive back to Rome with Mr. O'Shea alone! +What would the world say? What would Sir William Heathcote say, who +expects to make me Lady Heathcote some early day next month?” + </p> +<p> +“By the way, I heard that story. An old fellow, called Nick Holmes, told +me—” + </p> +<p> +“What old Nick told you could scarcely be true. There, will you order the +carriage to the door, and give these good people some money? Ain't you +charmed that I give you one of a husband's privileges so early? Don't dare +to answer me; an Irishman never has the discretion to reply to a liberty +as he ought. Is that poor beast yours?” asked she, as they gained the +door, and saw a horse standing, all shivering and wretched, under a frail +shed. +</p> +<p> +“He was this morning, but I had the good luck to sell him before I took +this ride.” + </p> +<p> +“I must really compliment you,” said she, laughing heartily. “A gentleman +who makes love so economically ought to be a model of order when a +husband.” And with this she stepped in, and drove away. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0052" id="link2HCH0052"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER II. A DINNER OF TWO +</h2> +<p> +The O'Shea returned to Rome at a “slapping pace.” He did his eight miles +of heavy ground within forty minutes. But neither the speed nor the storm +could turn his thoughts from the scene he had just passed through. It was +with truth he said that he could not give credit to the fact of such good +fortune as to believe she would accept him; and yet the more he reflected +on the subject, the more was he puzzled and disconcerted. When he had last +seen her, she refused him,—refused him absolutely and flatly; she +even hinted at a reason that seemed unanswerable, and suggested that, +though they might aid each other as friends, there could be no +copartnership of interests. “What has led her to this change of mind, +Heaven knows. It is no lucky turn of fortune on my side can have induced +it; my prospects were never bleaker. And then,” thought he, “of what +nature is this same secret, or rather these secrets, of hers, for they +seem to grow in clusters? What can she have done? or what has Penthony +Morris done? Is he alive? Is he at Norfolk Island? Was he a forger, or +worse? How much does Paten know about her? What power has he over her +besides the possession of these letters? Is Paten Penthony Morris?” It was +thus that his mind went to and fro, like a surging sea, restless and not +advancing. Never was there a man more tortured by his conjectures. He knew +that she might marry Sir William Heathcote if she liked; why, then, prefer +himself to a man of station and fortune? Was it that he was more likely to +enact the vengeance she thirsted for than the old Baronet? Ay, that was a +reasonable calculation. She was right there, and he 'd bring Master Paten +“to book,” as sure as his name was O'Shea. That was the sort of thing he +understood as well as any man in Europe. He had been out scores of times, +and knew how to pick a quarrel, and to aggravate it, and make it perfectly +beyond all possibility of arrangement, as well as any fire-eater of a +French line regiment. That was, perhaps, the reason of the widow's choice +of him. If she married Heathcote, it would be a case for lawyers: a great +trial at Westminster, and a great scandal in the papers. “But with me it +will be all quiet and peaceable. I 'll get back her letters, or I 'll know +why.” + </p> +<p> +He next bethought him of her fortune. He wished she had told him more +about it,—how it came to her,—was it by settlement,—was +it from the Morrises? He wished, too, it had not been in America; he was +not quite sure that property there meant anything at all; and, lastly, he +brought to mind that though he had proposed for dozens of women, this was +the only occasion he was not asked what he could secure by settlement, and +how much he would give as pin-money. No, on that score she was delicacy +itself, and he was one to appreciate all the refinement of her reserve. +Indeed, if it came to the old business of searches, and showing titles, +and all the other exposures of the O'Shea family, he felt that he would +rather die a bachelor than encounter them. “She knew how to catch me! 'A +row to fight through, and no questions asked about money, O'Shea,' says +she. 'Can you resist temptation like that?'” + </p> +<p> +As he alighted at the hotel, he saw Agincourt standing at a window, and +evidently laughing at the dripping, mud-stained appearance he presented. +</p> +<p> +“I hope and trust that was n't the nag I bought this morning,” said he to +O'Shea, as he entered the room. +</p> +<p> +“The very same; and I never saw him in finer heart. If you only +witnessed the way he carried me through those ploughed fields out there! +He's strong in the loins as a cart-horse.” + </p> +<p> +“I must say that you appear to have ridden him as a friend's horse. He +seemed dead beat, as he was led away.” + </p> +<p> +“He's fresh as a four-year old.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, never mind, go and dress for dinner, for you're half an hour behind +time already.” + </p> +<p> +O'Shea was not sorry to have the excuse, and hurried off to make his +toilet. +</p> +<p> +Freytag was aware that his guest was a “Milor',” and the dinner was very +good, and the wine reasonably so; and the two, as they placed a little +spider-table between them before the fire, seemed fully conscious of all +the enjoyment of the situation. +</p> +<p> +Agincourt said, “Is not this jolly?” And so it was. And what is there +jollier than to be about sixteen or seventeen years of age, with good +health, good station, and ample means? To be launched into manhood, too, +as a soldier, without one detracting sense of man's troubles and cares,—to +feel that your elders condescend to be your equals, and will even accept +your invitation to dinner!—ay, and more, practise towards you all +those little flatteries and attentions which, however vapid ten years +later, are positive ecstasies now! +</p> +<p> +But of all its glorious privileges there is not one can compare with the +boundless self-confidence of youth, that implicit faith not alone in its +energy and activity, its fearless contempt for danger, and its +indifference to hardships, but, more strange still, in its superior +sharpness and knowledge of life! Oh dear! are we not shrewd fellows when +we matriculate at Christ Church, or see ourselves gazetted Cornet in the +Horse Guards Purple? Who ever equalled us in all the wiles and schemes of +mankind? Must he not rise early who means to dupe us? Have we not a +registered catalogue of all the knaveries that have ever been practised on +the unsuspecting? Truly have we; and if suspicion were a safeguard, +nothing can harm us. +</p> +<p> +Now, Agincourt was a fine, true-hearted, generous young fellow,—manly +and straightforward,—but he had imbibed his share of this tendency. +He fancied himself subtle, and imagined that a nice negotiation could not +be intrusted to better hands. Besides this, he was eager to impress +Heathcote with a high opinion of his skill, and show that even a regular +man of the world like O'Shea was not near a match for him. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm not going to drink that light claret such an evening as this,” said +O'Shea, pushing away his just-tasted glass. “Let us have something a shade +warmer.” + </p> +<p> +“Ring the bell, and order what you like.” + </p> +<p> +“Here, this will do,—'Clos Vougeot,'” said O'Shea, pointing out to +the waiter the name on the wine carte.” + </p> +<p> +“And if that be a failure, I 'll fall back on brandy-and-water, the refuge +of a man after bad wine, just as disappointed young ladies take to a +convent. If you can drink that little tipple, Agincourt, you 're right to +do it. You 'll come to Burgundy at forty, and to rough port ten years +later; but you 've a wide margin left before that. How old are you?” + </p> +<p> +“I shall be seventeen my next birthday,” said the other, flushing, and not +wishing to add that there were eleven months and eight days to run before +that event should come off. +</p> +<p> +“That's a mighty pretty time of life. It gives you a clear four years for +irresponsible follies before you come of age. Then you may fairly count +upon three or four more for legitimate wastefulness, and with a little, +very little, discretion, you never need know a Jew till you're +six-and-twenty.” + </p> +<p> +“I beg your pardon, my good fellow,” said the other, coloring, half +angrily; “I've had plenty to do with those gents already. Ask Nathan +whether he has n't whole sheafs of my bills. My guardian only allows me +twelve hundred a year,—a downright shame they call it in the +regiment, and so I wrote him word. In fact, I told him what our Major +said, that with such means as mine I ought to try and manage an exchange +into the Cape Rifles.” + </p> +<p> +“Or a black regiment in the West Indies,” chimed in O'Shea, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“No, confound it, he did n't say that!” + </p> +<p> +“The Irish Constabulary, too, is a cheap corps. You might stand that.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't mean to try either,” said the youth, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“And what does Nathan charge you?—say for a 'thing' at three +months?” + </p> +<p> +“That all depends upon the state of the money-market,” said Agincourt, +with a look of profoundest meaning. “It is entirely a question of the +foreign exchanges, and I study them like a stockbroker. Nathan said one +day, 'It's a thousand pities he's a Peer; there's a fellow with a head to +beat the whole Stock Exchange.'” + </p> +<p> +“Does he make you pay twenty per cent, or five-and twenty for short +dates?” + </p> +<p> +“You don't understand it at all. It's no question of that kind. It's +always a calculation of what gold is worth at Amsterdam, or some other +place, and it's a difference of, maybe, one-eighth that determines the +whole value of a bill.” + </p> +<p> +“I see,” said O'Shea, puffing his cigar very slowly. “I have no doubt that +you bought your knowledge on these subjects dearly enough.” + </p> +<p> +“I should think I did! Until I came to understand the thing, I was always +'outside the ropes,' always borrowing with the 'exchanges against me,'—you +know what I mean?” + </p> +<p> +“I believe I do,” said O'Shea, sighing heavily. “They have been against me +all my life.” + </p> +<p> +“That's just because you never took trouble to study the thing. You rushed +madly into the market whenever you wanted money, and paid whatever they +asked.” + </p> +<p> +“I did indeed! and, what's more, was very grateful if I got it.” + </p> +<p> +“And I know what came of that,—how that ended.” + </p> +<p> +“How?” + </p> +<p> +“Why, you dipped your estate, gave mortgages, and the rest of it.” + </p> +<p> +O'Shea nodded a full assent. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, <i>I</i> know the whole story; I 've seen so much of this sort of +thing. Well, old fellow,” added he, after a pause, “if I 'd been +acquainted with you ten or fifteen years ago, I could have saved you from +all this ruin.” + </p> +<p> +O'Shea repressed every tendency to a smile, and nodded again. +</p> +<p> +“I 'd have said to you, 'Don't be in a hurry, watch the market, and I 'll +tell you when to “go in.''” + </p> +<p> +“Maybe it's not too late yet, so give me a word of friendly advice,” said +O'Shea, with a modest humility. “There are few men want it more.” + </p> +<p> +There was now a pause of several minutes; O'Shea waiting to see how his +bait had taken, and Agincourt revolving in his mind whether this was not +the precise moment for opening his negotiation. At last he said,— +</p> +<p> +“I wrote that letter I promised you. I said you were an out-and-outer as +to ability, and that they could n't do better than make you a Governor +somewhere, though you 'd not be disgusted with something smaller. I 've +been looking over the vacancies; there's not much open. Could you be a +Mahogany Commissioner at Honduras?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, so far as having had my legs under that wood for many years with +pleasure to myself and satisfaction to my friends, perhaps I might.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you know what I 'd do if I were you?” + </p> +<p> +“I have not an idea.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd marry,—by Jove, I would!—I 'd marry!” + </p> +<p> +“I 've thought of it half a dozen times,” said he, stretching out his hand +for the decanter, and rather desirous of escaping notice; “but, you see, +to marry a woman with money,—and of course it's that you mean,—there's +always the inquiry what you have yourself, where it is, and what are the +charges on it. Now, as you shrewdly guessed awhile ago, I dipped my +estate,—dipped it so deep that I begin to suspect it won't come up +again.” + </p> +<p> +“But look out for a woman that has her fortune at her own disposal.” + </p> +<p> +“And no friends to advise her.” + </p> +<p> +O'Shea's face, as he said this, was so absurdly droll that Agincourt +laughed aloud. “Well, as you observe, no friends to advise her. I suppose +you don't care much for connection,—I mean rank?” + </p> +<p> +“As for the matter of family, I have enough for as many wives as +Bluebeard, if the law would let me have them.” + </p> +<p> +“Then I fancy I know the thing to suit you. She's a stunning pretty woman, +besides.” + </p> +<p> +“Where is she?” + </p> +<p> +“At Rome here.” + </p> +<p> +“And who is she?” + </p> +<p> +“Mrs. Penthony Morris, the handsome widow, that's on a visit to the +Heathcotes. She must have plenty of tin, I can answer for that, for old +Nathan told me she was in all the heavy transfers of South American +shares, and was a buyer for very large amounts.” + </p> +<p> +“Are you sure of that?” + </p> +<p> +“I can give my word on it. I remember his saying one morning, 'The widow +takes her losses easily; she minds twelve thousand pounds no more than I +would a five-pound note.” + </p> +<p> +“They have a story here that she's going to marry old Heathcote.” + </p> +<p> +“Not true,—I mean, that she won't have him.” + </p> +<p> +“And why? It was clear enough she was playing that game for some time +back.” + </p> +<p> +“I wanted Charley to try his chance,” said Agincourt, evading the +question; “but he is spooney on his cousin May, I fancy, and has no mind +to do a prudent thing.” + </p> +<p> +“But how am I to go in?” said O'Shea, timidly. “If she's as rich as you +say, would she listen to a poor out-at-elbows Irish gentleman, with only +his good blood to back him?” + </p> +<p> +“You 're the man to do it,—the very man.” + </p> +<p> +O'Shea shook his head. +</p> +<p> +“I say you 'd succeed. I 'd back you against the field.” + </p> +<p> +“Will you make me a bet on it?” + </p> +<p> +“With all my heart! What shall it be?” + </p> +<p> +“Lay me a hundred to one, in tens, and I give you my solemn word of honor +I 'll do my very best to lose my wager and win the widow.” + </p> +<p> +“Done! I 'll bet you a thousand pounds to ten; book it, with the date, and +I 'll sign it.” + </p> +<p> +While Agincourt was yet speaking, O'Shea had produced a small note-book, +and was recording the bet. Scarcely had he clasped the little volume +again, when the waiter entered, and handed him a note. +</p> +<p> +O'Shea read it rapidly, and, finishing off his glass, refilled and drank +it. “I must leave you for half an hour,” said he, hastily. “There's a +friend of mine in a bit of a scrape with one of these French officers; but +I 'll be back presently.” + </p> +<p> +“I say, make your man fight. Don't stand any bullying with those fellows.” + </p> +<p> +O'Shea did not wait for his counsels, but hurried off. +</p> +<p> +“This way, sir,” whispered a man to him, as he passed out into the court +of the hotel; “the carriage is round the corner.” + </p> +<p> +He followed the man, and in a few minutes found himself in a narrow +by-street, where a single carriage was standing. The glass was quietly let +down as he drew near, and a voice he had no difficulty in recognizing, +said, “I have just received a most urgent letter, and I must leave Rome +tomorrow at daybreak, for Germany. I have learned, besides, that Paten is +at Baden. He was on his way here, but stopped to try his luck at the +tables. He has twice broken the bank, and swears he will not leave till he +has succeeded a third time. We all well know how such pledges finish. But +you must set off there at once. Leave to-morrow night, if you can, and by +the time you arrive, or the day after, you 'll find a letter for you at +the post, with my address, and all your future directions. Do nothing with +Paten till you hear; mind that,—nothing. I have not time for another +word, for I am in terror lest my absence from the house should be +discovered. If anything imminent occur, you shall hear by telegraph.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me drive back with you; I have much to say, much to ask you,” said +he, earnestly. +</p> +<p> +“On no account. There, good-bye; don't forget me.” + </p> +<p> +While he yet held her hand, the word was given to drive on, and his +farewell was lost in the rattling of the wheels over the pavement. +</p> +<p> +“Well, have you patched it up, or is it a fight?” asked Agincourt when he +entered the room once more. +</p> +<p> +“You'll keep my secret, I know,” said O'Shea, in a whisper. “Don't even +breathe a word to Heathcote, but I 'll have to leave this to-morrow, get +over the nearest frontier, and settle this affair.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'd like some cash, would n't you?—at all events, I am your +debtor for that horse. Do you want more?” + </p> +<p> +“There, that's enough,—two hundred will do,” said O'Shea, taking the +notes from his fingers; “even if I have to make a bolt of it, that will be +ample.” + </p> +<p> +“This looks badly for your wager, O'Shea. It may lose you the widow, I +suspect.” + </p> +<p> +“Who knows?” said O'Shea, laughing. “Circular sailing is sometimes the +short cut on land as well as sea. If you have any good news for me from +Downing Street, I 'll shy you a line to say where to send; and so, +good-bye.” + </p> +<p> +And Agincourt shook his hand cordially, but not without a touch of envy as +he thought of the mission he was engaged in. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0053" id="link2HCH0053"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER III. SOME LAST WORDS +</h2> +<p> +While Agincourt and O'Shea thus sat and conversed together, there was +another fireside which presented a far happier picture, and where old Sir +William sat, with his son and May Leslie, overjoyed to think that they +were brought together again, and to separate no more. Charles had told +them that he had determined never to leave them, and all their thoughts +had gone back to the long, long ago, when they were so united and so +happy. There was, indeed, one theme which none dared to touch. It was ever +and anon uppermost in the mind of each, and yet none had courage to +adventure on it, even in allusion. It was in one of the awkward pauses +which this thought produced that a servant came to say Mrs. Morris would +be glad to see Charles in her room. He had more than once requested +permission to visit her, but somehow now the invitation had come +ill-timed, and he arose with a half impatience to obey it. +</p> +<p> +During the greater part of that morning Charles Heathcote had employed +himself in imagining by what process of persuasion, what line of argument, +or at what price he could induce the widow herself to break off the +engagement with his father. The guarded silence Sir William had maintained +on the subject since his son's arrival was to some extent an evidence that +he knew his project could not meet approval. Nor was the old man a +stranger to the fact that May Leslie's manner to the widow had long been +marked by reserve and estrangement. This, too, increased Sir William's +embarrassment, and left him more isolated and alone. “How shall I approach +such a question and not offend her?” was Charles's puzzle, as he passed +her door. So full was he of the bulletins of her indisposition, that he +almost started as he saw her seated at a table, writing away rapidly, and +looking, to his thinking, as well as he had ever seen her. +</p> +<p> +“This is, indeed, a pleasant surprise,” said he, as he came forward. “I +was picturing to myself a sick-room and a sufferer, and I find you more +beautiful than ever.” + </p> +<p> +“You surely could n't imagine I 'd have sent for you if I were not +conscious that my paleness became me, and that my dressing-gown was very +pretty. Sit down—no, here—at my side; I have much to say to +you, and not very long to say it. If I had not been actually overwhelmed +with business, real business too, I 'd have sent for you long ago. I could +imagine with very little difficulty what was uppermost in your mind +lately, and how, having determined to remain at home, your thoughts would +never quit one distressing theme,—you know what I mean. Well, I +repeat, I could well estimate all your troubles and difficulties on this +head, and I longed for a few minutes alone with you, when we could speak +freely and candidly to each other, no disguise, no deception on either +side. Shall we be frank with each other?” + </p> +<p> +“By all means.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, then, you don't like this marriage. Come, speak out honestly your +mind.” + </p> +<p> +“Why, when I think of the immense disproportion in age; when I see on one +side—” + </p> +<p> +“Fiddle faddle! if I were seventy, it wouldn't make it better. I tell you +I don't want fine speeches nor delicate evasions; therefore be the blunt, +straightforward fellow you used to be, and say, 'I don't like it at all.'” + </p> +<p> +“Well, here goes, I do <i>not</i> like it at all.” + </p> +<p> +“Neither do I,” said she, lying back listlessly in her chair, and looking +calmly at him. “I see what is passing in your mind, Charles. I read your +thoughts in their ebb and flow, and they come to this: 'Why have you taken +such consummate pains about an object you would regret to see +accomplished? To what end all your little coquetries and graces, and so +forth?' Well, the question is reasonable enough, and I 'll give you only +one answer. It amused me, and it worried others. It kept poor May and +yourself in a small fever, and I have never through life had self-command +enough to deny myself the pleasure of terrifying people at small cost, +making them fancy they were drowning in two feet of water.” + </p> +<p> +“I hope May is grateful; I am sure I am,” said Charles, stiffly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, if you have not been in the past, I intend you to be so for the +future. I mean to relinquish the great prize I had so nearly won; to give +up the distinguished honor of being your stepmother, with all the rights +and privileges I could have grouped around that station. I mean to +abdicate all my power; to leave the dear Heathcotes to the enjoyment of +such happiness as their virtues and merits cannot fail to secure them, +under the simple condition that they will forget me, or, if that be more +than they can promise, that they will never make me the subject of their +discussions, nor bring up my name, either in praise or blame. Now +understand me aright, Charles,” said she, earnestly; “this is no request +prompted by any pique of injured pride or wounded self-love. It is not +uttered in the irritation of one who feels rejected by you. It is a grave +demand, made as the price of an important concession. I exact that my name +be not spoken, or, if uttered by others in your presence, that it be +unacknowledged and unnoticed. It is no idle wish, believe me; for who are +the victims of the world's calumnies so often as the friendless, whose +names call forth no sponsor? They are the outlaws that any may wound, or +even kill, and their sole sanctuary is oblivion.” + </p> +<p> +“I think you judge us harshly,” began Charles. +</p> +<p> +But she stopped him. +</p> +<p> +“No, far from it. I know you all by this time. You are far more generously +minded than your neighbors, but there is one trait attaches to human +nature everywhere. Every one exaggerates any peril he has passed through, +and every man and woman is prone to blacken the character of those who +have frightened them. Come, I 'll not discuss the matter further. I have +all those things to pack up, and some notes to write before I go.” + </p> +<p> +“Go! Are you going away so soon?” + </p> +<p> +“To-morrow, at daybreak. I have got tidings of a sick relative, an old +aunt, who was very fond of me long ago, and who wishes to have me near +her. I should like to see May, and, indeed, Sir William, but I believe it +will be better not: I mean that partings are gratuitous sorrows. You will +say all that I wish. You will tell them how it happened that I left so +hurriedly. I 'm not sure,” added she, smiling, “that your explanation will +be very lucid or very coherent, but the chances are, none will care to +question you too closely. Of course you will repeat all my gratitude for +the kindness I have met here. I have had some of my happiest days with +you,” added she, as if thinking aloud,—“days in which I half forgot +the life of trouble that was to be resumed on the morrow. And, above all, +say,” said she, with earnestness, “that; when they have received my debt +of thanks they are to wipe out my name from the ledger, and remember me no +more.” + </p> +<p> +Charles Heathcote was much moved by her words. The very calm she spoke in +had all its effect, and he felt he knew not what of self-accusation as he +thought of her lonely and friendless lot. He could not disabuse his mind +of the thought that it was through offended pride she was relinquishing +the station she had so long striven to attain, and now held within her +very grasp. “She is not the selfish creature I had deemed her; she is far, +far better than I believed. I have mistaken her, misjudged her. That she +has gone through much sorrow is plain; that there may be in her story +incidents which she would grieve to see a town talk, is also likely; but +are not all these reasons the more for our sympathy and support, and how +shall we answer to ourselves, hereafter, for any show of neglect or +harshness towards her?” + </p> +<p> +While he thus reflected, she had turned to the table and was busy writing. +</p> +<p> +“I have just thought of sending a few farewell lines to May,” said she, +talking away as her pen ran along the paper. “We all of us mistake each +other in this world; we are valued for what we are not, and deemed +deficient in what we have.” She stopped, and then crumpling up the +half-written paper in her hand, said: “No, I'll not write,—at least, +not now. You 'll tell her everything,—ay, Charles, everything!” + </p> +<p> +Here she fixed her eyes steadfastly on him, as though to look into his +very thoughts. “You and May Leslie will be married, and one of your +subjects of mysterious talk when you 're all alone will be that strange +woman who called herself Mrs. Penthony Morris. What wise guesses and +shrewd conjectures do I fancy you making; how cunningly you 'll put +together fifty things that seem to illustrate her story, and yet have no +bearing upon it; and how cleverly you 'll construct a narrative for her +without one solitary atom of truth. Well, she 'll think of you, too, but +in a different spirit, and she will be happier than I suspect if she do +not often wish to live over again the long summer days and starry nights +at Marlia.” + </p> +<p> +“May is certain to ask me about Clara, where she is, and if we are likely +to see her again.” + </p> +<p> +“And you 'll tell her that as I did not speak of her, your own delicacy +imposed such a reserve that you could not ask these questions. Good-bye. +But that I want to be forgotten, I 'd give you a keepsake. Good-bye,—and +forget me.” + </p> +<p> +She turned away at the last word, and passed into an inner room. Charles +stood for an instant or two irresolute, and then walked slowly away. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0054" id="link2HCH0054"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER IV. FOUND OUT. +</h2> +<p> +Quackinboss and the Laytons came back in due time to England, and at once +hastened to London. They had traced Winthrop and Trover at Liverpool, and +heard of their having left for town, and thither they followed them in all +eagerness. The pursuit had now become a chase, with all its varying +incidents of good or bad fortune. Each took his allotted part, going out +of a morning on his especial beat, and returning late of an evening to +report his success or failure. +</p> +<p> +Quackinboss frequented all the well-known haunts of his countrymen, hoping +to chance upon some one who had seen Winthrop, or could give tidings of +him. Old Layton—the doctor, as we shall for the remainder of our +brief space call him—was more practical. He made searches for +Hawke's will at Doctors' Commons, and found the transcript of a brief +document irregularly drawn, and disposing of a few thousand pounds, but +not making mention of any American property. He next addressed himself to +that world-known force, so celebrated in all the detection of crime; he +described the men he sought for, and offered rewards for their discovery, +carefully protesting the while that nothing but a vague suspicion attached +to them. +</p> +<p> +As for Alfred, he tried to take his share in what had such interest for +the others. He made careful notes of the points assigned to him for +investigation; he learned names and addresses, and references to no end; +he labored hard to imbue himself with the zeal of the others, but it would +not do. All his thoughts, hopes, and wishes had another direction, and he +longed impatiently for an opportunity to make his escape from them, and +set out for Italy and discover Clara. His only clew to her was through +Stocmar; but that gentleman was abroad, and not expected for some days in +London. Little did the doctor or Quackinboss suspect that Alfred's first +call on every morning was at the private entrance of the Regent's Theatre, +and his daily question as invariably the same demand, “When do you expect +Mr. Stocmar in town?” + </p> +<p> +Poor fellow! he was only bored by that tiresome search, and hated every +man, woman, and child concerned in the dismal history; and yet no other +subject was ever discussed, no other theme brought up amongst them. In +vain Alfred tried to turn the conversation upon questions of public +interest; by some curious sympathy they would not be drawn away into that +all-absorbing vortex, and, start from what point they might, they were +certain to arrive at last at the High Court of Jersey. +</p> +<p> +It was on one evening, as they sat together around the fire, that, by dint +of great perseverance and consummate skill, Alfred had drawn them away to +talk of India and the war there. Anecdotes of personal heroism succeeded, +and for every achievement of our gallant fellows at Lucknow, Quackinboss +steadily quoted some not less daring exploit of the Mexican war. Thus +discussing courage, they came at last to the nice question,—of its +characteristics in different nations, and even in individuals. +</p> +<p> +“In cool daring, in confronting peril with perfect collectedness, and such +a degree of self-possession as confers every possible chance of escape on +its possessor, a woman is superior to us all,” said the doctor, who for +some time had been silently reflecting. “One case particularly presents +itself to my mind,” resumed he. “It was connected with that memorable +trial at Jersey.” + </p> +<p> +Alfred groaned heavily, and pushed back his chair from the group. +</p> +<p> +“The case was this,” continued the old man: “while the police were eagerly +intent on tracing out all who were implicated in the murder, suspicion +being rife on every hand, every letter that passed between the supposed +confederates was opened and read, and a strict watch set over any who were +believed likely to convey messages from one to the other. +</p> +<p> +“On the evening of the inquest—it was about an hour after dark—the +window of an upper room was gently opened, and a woman's voice called out +to a countryman below, 'Will you earn half a crown, my good man, and take +this note to Dr. Layton's, in the town?' He agreed at once, and the letter +and the bribe were speedily thrown into his hat. Little did the writer +suspect it was a policeman in disguise she had charged with her +commission! The fellow hastened off with his prize to the magistrate, who, +having read the note, resealed it, and forwarded it to me. Here it is. I +have shown it to so many that its condition is become very frail, but it +is still readable. It was very brief, and ran thus:— +</p> +<p> +“Dear Friend,—My misery will plead for me if I thus address you. I +have a favor to ask, and my broken heart tells me you will not refuse me. +I want you to cut me off a lock of my darling's hair. Take it from the +left temple, where it is longest, and bring it to-morrow to his forlorn +widow, +</p> +<p> +“'Louisa Hawke.' +</p> +<p> +“From the moment they read that note, the magistrates felt it an outrage +to suspect her. I do not myself mean to implicate her in the great guilt,—far +from it; but here was a bid for sympathy, and put forward in all the +coolness of a deliberate plan; for the policeman himself told me, years +after, that she saw him at Dover, and gave him a sovereign, saying +jocularly, 'I think you look better when dressed as a countryman.' Now, I +call this consummate calculation.” + </p> +<p> +As he was speaking, Quackinboss had drawn near the candles, and was +examining the writing. +</p> +<p> +“I wonder,” said be, “what the fellows who affect to decipher character in +handwriting would say to this? It's all regular and well formed.” + </p> +<p> +“Is it very small? Are the letters minute?—for that, they allege, is +one of the indications of a cruel nature,” said Alfred. “They show a +specimen of Lucrezia Borgia's, that almost requires a microscope to read +it.” + </p> +<p> +“No,” said Quackinboss; “that's what they call a bold, free hand; the +writing, one would say, of a slapdash gal that was n't a-goin' to count +consequences.” + </p> +<p> +“Let <i>me</i> interpret her,” said Alfred, drawing the candles towards +him, and preparing for a very solemn and deliberate judgment. “What's +this?” cried he, almost wildly. “I know this hand well; I could swear to +it. You shall see if I cannot.”' And, without another word, he arose, and +rushed from the room. Before the doctor or Quackinboss could recover from +their astonishment, Alfred was back again, holding two notes in his hand. +“Come here, both of you, now,” cried he, “and tell me, are not these in +the same writing?” They were several short notes,—invitations or +messages from Marlia about riding-parties, signed Louisa Morris. “What do +you say to that? Is that word 'Louisa' written by the same hand or not?” + cried Alfred, trembling from head to foot as he spoke. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0019" id="linkimage-0019"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0550.jpg" alt="ONE0550" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“'Tarnal snakes if it ain't!” broke out Quackinboss; “and our widow woman +was the wife of that murdered fellow Hawke.” + </p> +<p> +“And Clara his daughter!” muttered Alfred, as he covered his face with his +hands to hide his emotion. +</p> +<p> +“These were written by the same person, that's clear enough,” said the +doctor, closely scrutinizing every word and every letter; “there are marks +of identity that cannot be disputed. But who is this widow you speak of?” + </p> +<p> +Alfred could only stammer out, “He 'll tell you all,” as he pointed to +Quackinboss, for a faintish sick sensation crept over his frame, and he +shook like one in the cold stage of an ague. The American, however, gave a +very calm and connected narrative of their first meeting with Mrs. +Penthony Morris and her supposed daughter at Lucca; how that lady, from a +chance acquaintance with the Heathcotes, had established an intimacy, and +then a friendship there. +</p> +<p> +“Describe her to me,—tell me something of her appearance,” burst in +the old man with impatience; for as his mind followed the long-sought-for +“trail,” his eagerness became beyond his power of control. “Blue eyes, +that might be mistaken for black, or dark hazel, had she not? and the +longest of eyelashes, the mouth full and pouting, but the chin sharply +turned, and firm-looking? Am I right?” + </p> +<p> +“That are you, and teeth as reg'lar as a row of soldiers.” + </p> +<p> +“Her foot, too, was perfect. It had been modelled scores of times by +sculptors, and there were casts of it with a Roman sandal, or naked on a +plantain-leaf, in her drawing-room. You've seen her foot?” + </p> +<p> +“It was a grand foot! I <i>have</i> seen it,” said the American; “and if I +was one as liked monarchy, I 'd say it might have done for a queen to +stand on in front of a throne.” + </p> +<p> +“What was her voice like?” asked the old man, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Low and soft, with almost a tremor in it when she asked some trifling +favor,” said Alfred, now speaking for the first time. +</p> +<p> +“Herself,—her very self. I know her well, by <i>that!</i>” cried the +old man, triumphantly. “I carried those trembling accents in my memory for +many and many a day. Go on, and tell me more of her. Who was this same +Morris,—when, how, and where were they married?” + </p> +<p> +“We never knew; none of us ever saw him. Some said he was living, and in +China or India. Some called her a widow. The girl Clara was called hers—” + </p> +<p> +“No. Clara was Hawke's. She must have been Hawke's daughter by his first +wife, the niece of this Winthrop.” + </p> +<p> +“She's the great heiress, then,” broke in Quackinboss; “she's to have +Peddar's Clearings, and the whole of that track beside Grove's River. +There ain't such another fortune in all Ohio.” + </p> +<p> +“And this was poor Clara's secret,” said Alfred to Quackinboss, in a +whisper, “when she said, 'I only know that I am an orphan, and that my +name is not Clara Morris.'” + </p> +<p> +“Do <i>you</i> think, then, sir, that such a rogue as that fellow Trover +went out all the way to the Western States to make out that gal's right to +these territories?” asked Quackinboss, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“Not a bit of it. He went to rob her, to cheat her, to put forward some +false claim, to substitute some other in her place,” cried old Layton. +“Who is to say if he himself be not the man Morris, and the husband of our +fair friend? He may have fifty names, for aught we know, and Morris be one +of them.” + </p> +<p> +“You told me that Clara had been made over to a certain Mr. Stocmar, to +prepare her for the stage.” said Alfred to the American. But before he +could reply the doctor broke in,— +</p> +<p> +“Stocmar,—Hyman Stocmar, of the Regent's?” + </p> +<p> +“The same. Do you know him, father?” + </p> +<p> +“That do I, and well too. What of him?” + </p> +<p> +“It was to his care this young lady was intrusted,” said Alfred, blushing +at the very thought of alluding to her. +</p> +<p> +“If there should be dealings with Stocmar, let them be left to <i>me</i>.” + said the doctor, firmly. “I will be able to make better terms with him +than either of you.” + </p> +<p> +“I s'pose you're not going to leave a gal that's to have a matter of a +million of dollars to be a stage-player? She ain't need to rant, and +screech, and tear herself to pieces at ten or fifteen dollars a night and +a free benefit.” + </p> +<p> +“First to find her, then to assert her rights,” said the doctor. +</p> +<p> +“How <i>are</i> we to find her?” asked Alfred. +</p> +<p> +“I will charge myself with that task, but we must be active too,” said the +doctor. “I half suspect that I see the whole intrigue,—why this +woman was separated from the young girl, why this fellow Trover was sent +across the Atlantic, and what means that story of the large fortune so +suddenly left to Winthrop.” + </p> +<p> +“I only know him slightly, sir,” said Quackinboss, breaking in, “but no +man shall say a word against Harvey P. Winthrop in my hearing.” + </p> +<p> +“You mistake me,” rejoined the doctor. “It would be no impugnment of my +honesty that some one bequeathed me an estate,—not that I think the +event a likely one. So far as I can surmise, Winthrop is the only man of +honor amongst them.” + </p> +<p> +“Glad to bear you say so, sir,” said the Colonel, gravely. “It's a great +victory over national prejudices when a Britisher gets to say so much for +one of our people. It's the grand compensation you always have for your +inferiority, to call our sharpness roguery.” + </p> +<p> +It was a critical moment now, and it needed all Alfred's readiness and +address to separate two combatants so eager for battle. He succeeded, +however, and, after some commonplace conversation, contrived to carry his +father away, on pretence of an engagement. +</p> +<p> +“You should have let <i>me</i> smash him,” muttered the old man, bitterly, +as he followed him from the room. “You should have given me fifteen +minutes,—ay, ten. I 'd not have asked more than ten to present him +with a finished picture of his model Republican, in dress, manner, morals, +and demeanor. I'd have said, 'Here is what I myself have seen—'” + </p> +<p> +“And I would have stopped you,” broke in Alfred, boldly, “and laid my hand +on Quackinboss's shoulder, and said, 'Here is what I have known of +America. Here is one who, without other tie than a generous pity, nursed +me through the contagion of a fever, and made recovery a blessing to me by +his friendship after,—who shared heart and fortune with me when I +was a beggar in both.'” + </p> +<p> +“You are right, boy,—you are right. How hard it is to crush the old +rebellious spirit in one's nature, even after we have lived to see the +evil it has worked us!” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0055" id="link2HCH0055"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER V. THE MANAGER'S ROOM AT THE “REGENT'S.” + </h2> +<p> +At an early hour the next morning the two Laytons presented themselves at +the private door of the “Regents.” Mr. Stocmar had returned that morning +from Paris; he had been to bed for an hour, and was now dressed and up, +but so busily engaged that he had left positive orders to be denied to all +except to a certain high personage in the royal household, and a noble +Lord, whose name he had given to the porter. +</p> +<p> +“We are not either of these,” said the doctor, smiling, “but I am a very +old friend, whom he did not know was in England. I have been scores of +times here with him; and to prove how I know my way through flats and +side-scenes, I 'll just step up to his room without asking you to conduct +me.” These pleadings were assisted considerably by the dexterous +insinuation of a sovereign into the man's hand; and Layton passed in, with +his son after him. +</p> +<p> +True to his word, and not a little to Alfred's astonishment, the doctor +threaded his way through many a dark passage and up many a frail stair, +till he reached the well-known, well-remembered door. He knocked sharply, +but, without waiting for reply, turned the handle and entered. Stocmar, +who stood at the table busily breaking the seals of a vast heap of +letters, turned suddenly around and stared at the strangers with mingled +surprise and displeasure. +</p> +<p> +“I gave positive orders that I could not receive strangers,” said he, +haughtily. “May I ask what is the meaning of this intrusion?” + </p> +<p> +“You shall know in a few moments, sir,” said the old man, deliberately +taking a seat, and motioning to his son to do the same. “My business could +be transacted with yourself alone, and it would be useless referring me to +a secretary or a treasurer. I have come here with my son—” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, the old story!” broke in Stocmar. “The young gentleman is +stage-struck; fancies that his Hamlet is better than Kean's or Macready's; +but I have no time for this sort of thing. The golden age of prodigies is +gone by, and, at all events, I have no faith in it. Make an apothecary of +him, clerk in a gas-works, or anything you please, only don't come here to +bother me, you understand; my time is too full for these negotiations.” + </p> +<p> +“Have you done?” said the old man, fiercely. +</p> +<p> +“Done with <i>you</i>, certainly,” said Stocmar, moving towards the bell. +</p> +<p> +“That you have not. You have not even begun with me yet. I perceive you do +not remember me.” + </p> +<p> +“Remember you! I never saw you before, and I trust most sincerely I may +never have that pleasure again. Anything wrong with the old party here?” + whispered he, as he turned to Alfred, and touched his finger significantly +to his forehead. +</p> +<p> +“Be quiet, boy!” cried Layton, fiercely, as his son started up to resent +the insolence; “he shall soon learn whether there be or not. Our time, +sir, if not so profitable as yours, has its value for ourselves, so that I +will briefly tell you what I came for. I want the addresses of two persons +of your acquaintance.” + </p> +<p> +“This is beyond endurance. Am I to be the victim of every twaddling old +bore that requires an address? Are you aware, sir, that I don't keep an +agency office?” + </p> +<p> +With a calm self-possession which amazed his son, the old man quietly +said, “I want this address,—and this.” And he handed Stocmar a card +with two names written in pencil. +</p> +<p> +“Clara Hawke'—and who is Clara Hawke? I never heard of her till now; +and 'Mrs. Hawke' too? My good friend, this is some self-delusion of yours. +Take him away quietly, young gentleman, or my patience will not stand this +any longer. I 'll send for a policeman.” + </p> +<p> +“There is one already in waiting, sir,” said old Layton, fiercely, “and +with a warrant for the apprehension of Mr. Hyman Stocmar. Ay, sir, our +laws give many a wide margin to rascality, but slave-dealing is not +legalized on our soil. Keep your laughter for the end, and see whether it +will be so mirthful. Of that crime I mean to accuse you in an open court, +the victim being myself. So, then, I have refreshed your memory a little; +you begin to recognize me now. Ay, sir, it is the professor, your old +slave, stands before you, whom, after having starved and cheated, you put +drunk on board a sailing-ship, and packed off to America; sold, too, +deliberately sold, for a sum of money. Every detail of this transaction is +known to me, and shall be attested by competent witnesses. My memory is a +better one than you suspect. I forget nothing, even to the day and the +hour I last stood in this room. Yes,” cried he, turning to his son and +addressing him, “I was summoned here to be exhibited as a spectacle to a +visitor, and who, think you, was the distinguished friend to whose +scrutiny I was to be subjected? He was one who himself had enjoyed his +share of such homage,—he was no less a man than the famous Paul +Hunt, tried at Jersey for the murder of Godfrey Hawke, and how acquitted +the world well knows; and he it was who sat here, the dear friend of the +immaculate Mr. Stocmar,—Mr. Stocmar, the chosen associate of lords +and ladies, the favored guest of half the great houses in London. Oh, what +a scandal and a disgrace is here! You 'd rather face the other charge, +with all its consequences, than this one. Where is your laughter now, +Stocmar? Where that jocose humor you indulged in ten minutes ago?” + </p> +<p> +“Look here, my good friend,” cried Stocmar, suddenly starting up from his +chair, while the great drops of sweat hung on his forehead and trickled +along his pale cheeks; “don't fancy that you can pit yourself against <i>me</i> +before the public. I have station, friends, and patrons in the highest +ranks in England.” + </p> +<p> +“My name of Herbert Layton will suffice for all that I shall ask of it. +When the true history of our connection shall be written and laid before +the world, we shall see which of us comes best out of the ordeal.” + </p> +<p> +“This, then, is a vengeance!” said Stocmar, trembling from head to foot. +</p> +<p> +“Not if you do not drive me to it. There never were easier terms to escape +a heavy penalty. Give me the address of these persons.” + </p> +<p> +“But I know nothing of them. I have not, amongst my whole acquaintance, +one named Hawke.” + </p> +<p> +The old man made no reply, and looked puzzled and confused. Stocmar saw +his advantage, and hastily added,— +</p> +<p> +“I am ready to pledge you my oath to this.” + </p> +<p> +“Ask him, then, for the address of Mrs. Penthony Morris, father, and of +the young lady her reputed daughter,” interposed Alfred. +</p> +<p> +“Ay, what say you to this?” + </p> +<p> +“What I say is, that I am not here to be questioned as to the whereabouts +of every real or imaginary name you can think of.” + </p> +<p> +“Restive again, Stocmar? What, are you so bent on your own ruin that you +will exhaust the patience of one who never could boast too much of that +quality? I tell you that if I leave this room without a full and explicit +answer to my demand,—and in writing, too, in your own hand,—you'll +not see me again except as your prosecutor in a court of justice. And now, +for the last time, where is this woman?” + </p> +<p> +“She was in Italy; at Rome all the winter,” said Stocmar, doggedly. +</p> +<p> +“I know that. And now?” + </p> +<p> +“In Germany, I believe.” + </p> +<p> +“That is, you <i>know</i>, and the place too. Write it there.” + </p> +<p> +“Before I do so, you 'll give me, under your own hand, a formal release +from this trumpery charge, whose worst consequence would be my appearing +in public to answer it.” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing of the kind; not a line to that effect. I 'll keep it over you +till the whole of the business we are engaged in be completed. Ay, sir, +you shall not be exposed to the evil temptation to turn upon me. We have +affairs to settle which will require our meeting with this woman, and as +we live in an age of telegraphs, you shall not be able to warn her that we +are coming; for if you do, I swear to you more solemnly than you swore +awhile back to me, that I 'll bring such disgrace upon your head that you +'ll walk the streets of this city as wretched an object as <i>I</i> was +when I slept in that dog-hole behind the fire-engine.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll do nothing with me by your threats, old man.” + </p> +<p> +“Everything, all I ask, by what my threats can accomplish. Remember, +besides, all that we require of you will only serve to shorten a road that +we are determined to go. You can only help us so far. The rest lies with +ourselves.” + </p> +<p> +“Her address is Gebhardts-Berg, Bregenz,” said Stocmar, in a low muttering +voice. +</p> +<p> +“Write it, sir; write it there,” said the doctor, pointing to a sheet of +paper on the table. +</p> +<p> +“There, is that enough?” said Stocmar, as he wrote the words, and flung +down the pen. +</p> +<p> +“No, there is yet the other. Where is Clara Hawke?” + </p> +<p> +“As to her, I may as well tell you she is bound to me by an indenture; I +have been at the charge of her instruction, and can only be repaid by her +successes hereafter—” + </p> +<p> +“More of the slave market!” broke in the doctor. “But to the question. Who +sold her to you? She had neither father nor mother. With whom did you make +your compact? Bethink you these are points you 'll have to answer very +openly, and with reporters for the daily press amongst the company who +listen to you. Such treaties being made public may lead to many an awkward +disclosure. It were wiser not to provoke them.” + </p> +<p> +“I do not see why I am to incur a positive loss of money—” + </p> +<p> +“Only for this reason, that as you thought proper to buy without a title, +you may relinquish without compensation. But come, we will deal with you +better than you deserve. If it be, as I believe, this young lady's lot to +inherit a large fortune, I will do my utmost to induce her to repay you +all that you have incurred in her behalf. Will that satisfy you?” + </p> +<p> +“It might, if I were not equally certain that you have not the slightest +grounds for the expectation. I know enough of her story to be aware that +there is not one from whom she expects a shilling.” + </p> +<p> +“Every day and hour brings us great surprises; nothing was less looked for +by the great Mr. Stocmar this morning than a visit from me, and yet it has +come to pass.” + </p> +<p> +“And in whose interest, may I ask, are you taking all this trouble?—how +is it incumbent on you to mix yourself up in questions of a family to +which you do not belong, nor are even known to?” + </p> +<p> +“If I can only fashion to myself a pretext for your question, I would +answer it; but to the matter,—write the address there.” And he +pointed to the paper. +</p> +<p> +Stocmar obeyed, and wrote, “The Conservatoire, at Milan.” + </p> +<p> +“I may warn you,” added he, “that Mademoiselle Clara Stocmar, for as such +is she inscribed, will not be given up to you, or to any one save myself, +or by my order.” + </p> +<p> +“I am aware of that, and therefore you will write this order. Mr. Stocmar, +you need not be told by me that the fact of this girl being an English +subject once admitted, the law of this country will take little heed of +the regulations of a musical academy; save yourself this publicity, and +write as I tell you.” + </p> +<p> +Stocmar wrote some hurried lines and signed them. “Will that do?” + </p> +<p> +“Perfectly,” said he, folding up both papers, and placing them in his +pocket. “Now, Mr. Stocmar, thus far has been all business between us. You +have done me a small service, and for it I am willing to forgive a great +wrong; still, it is a fair bargain. Let us see, however, if we cannot +carry our dealings a little further. Here is a case where a dreadful +scandal will be unburied, and one of the most fearful crimes be brought +again before public notice, to herald the narrative of an infamous fraud. +I am far from suspecting or insinuating that you have had any great part +whatever in these transactions, but I know that when once they have become +town talk, Hyman Stocmar will figure as a prominent name throughout. He +will not appear as a murderer or a forger, it is true, but he will stand +forward the intimate friend of the worst characters in the piece, and have +always some small petty share of complicity to answer for. Is it not worth +while to escape such an open exposure as this? What man—least of +all, what man moving where you do—could court such scandal?” + </p> +<p> +Stocmar made no answer, but, leaning his head on his hand, seemed lost in +thought. +</p> +<p> +“I can show you how to avoid it all. I will point ont the way to escape +from the whole difficulty.” + </p> +<p> +“How do you mean?” cried Stocmar, suddenly. +</p> +<p> +“Leave the knaves and come over to the honest men; or desert the losing +side and back the winner, if you like that better. In plain English, tell +me all you know of this case, and of every one concerned in it. Give me +your honest version of the scheme,—how it has been done and by whom. +You know Trover and Hunt well; say what were their separate shares. I will +not betray your confidence; and if I can, I will reward it.” + </p> +<p> +“Let your son leave us. I will speak to you alone,” said Stocmar, in a +faint whisper. +</p> +<p> +Alfred, at a signal from his father, stepped quietly away, and they were +alone. +</p> +<p> +It was late in the afternoon when the doctor arose to take his departure, +and, though somewhat wearied, his look was elated, and his face glowed +with an expression of haughty satisfaction, such as it might have worn +after a collegiate triumph years and years ago. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0056" id="link2HCH0056"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER VI. MR. O'SHEA AT BADEN +</h2> +<p> +Although Mr. O'Shea be not one of the most foreground figures in this +piece, we are obliged to follow his fortunes for a brief space, and at a +moment when our interests would more naturally call us in another +direction. Thus, at a dinner-party, will it occasionally happen that our +attention is engaged on one side, while our sympathies incline to the +other; so, in life, the self-same incident continues to occur. We have +said that he had many a sore misgiving about the enterprise he was engaged +in. He felt that he was walking completely in the dark, and towards what +he knew not. Mrs. Morris was, doubtless, a clever pilot, but she <i>might</i> +mistake the course, she <i>might</i> go wrong in her soundings, and, +lastly, she <i>might</i> chance to be on the shore when the ship was +scuttled. These were dire mistrusts, not to say very ungallant suspicions, +to haunt the heart and the head of a bridegroom; but—alas! that we +must own it—Mr. O'Shea now occupied that equatorial position in life +equally distant from the zones of youth and age, where men are most +worldly, and disposed to take the most practical views of whatever touches +their interests. It was very hard for him to believe that a woman of such +consummate cleverness as the widow had ever written a line that could +compromise her. He took a man's view of the question, and fancied that a +cool head is always cool, and a calculating heart always alive to its +arithmetic. These letters, therefore, most probably referred to money +transactions; they were, in fact, either bills, or securities, or promises +to pay, under circumstances, possibly, not the pleasantest to make public. +In such affairs he had always deemed a compromise the best course; why had +she not given him a clearer insight into his mission? In fact, he was +sailing with sealed orders, to be opened only on reaching a certain +latitude. “At all events, I can do nothing till she writes to me;” and +with this grain of comfort he solaced himself as he went along his road, +trying to feel at ease, and doing his utmost to persuade himself that he +was a lucky fellow, and “on the best thing” that had ever turned up in his +life. +</p> +<p> +It is unpleasant for us to make the confession, but in his heart of hearts +Mr. O'Shea thought of a mode of guiding himself through his difficulties, +which assuredly was little in keeping with the ardor of a devoted lover. +The ex-Member for Inch was a disciple of that sect—not a very narrow +one—which firmly believes that men have a sort of masonic +understanding amongst them always to be true to each other against a +woman, and that out of a tacit compact of mutual protection they will +always stand by each other against the common enemy. If, therefore, he +could make Paten's acquaintance, be intimate with him, and on terms of +confidence, he might learn all the bearings of this case, and very +probably get no inconsiderable insight into the fair widow's life and +belongings. +</p> +<p> +Amidst a vast conflict of such thoughts as these he rolled along over the +Splügen Alps, down the Via Mala, and arrived at last at Baden. The season +was at its full flood. There were a brace of kings there, and a whole +covey of Serene Highnesses, not to speak of flocks of fashionables from +every land of Europe. There was plenty of gossip,—the gossip of +politics, of play, of private scandal. The well-dressed world was amusing +itself at the top of its bent, and every one speaking ill of his neighbor +to his own heart's content. Whatever, however, may be the grand event of +Europe,—the outbreak of a war, or a revolution, the dethronement of +a king, or the murder of an emperor,—at such places as these the +smallest incident of local origin will far out-top it in interest; and so, +although the world at this moment had a very fair share of momentous +questions at issue, Baden had only tongues and ears for one, and that was +the lucky dog that went on breaking the bank at rouge-et-noir about twice +a week. +</p> +<p> +Ludlow Paten was the man of the day. Now it was his equipage, his horses; +now it was the company he entertained at dinner yesterday, the fabulous +sum he had given for a diamond ring, the incredible offer he had made for +a ducal palace on the Rhine. Around these and such-like narratives there +floated a sort of atmosphere of an imaginative order: how he had made an +immense wager to win a certain sum by a certain day, and now only wanted +some trifle of ten or twelve thousand pounds to complete it; how, if he +continued to break the bank so many times more, M. Bennasset, the +proprietor, was to give him fifty thousand francs a year for life to buy +him off, with twenty other variations on these themes as to the future +application of the money, some averring it was to ransom his wife from the +Moors, and others, as positively, to pay off a sum with which he had +absconded in his youth from a great banking-house in London; and, last of +all, a select few had revived the old diabolic contract on his behalf, and +were firm in declaring that after he retired to his room at night he was +heard for hours counting over his gains, and disputing with the Evil One, +who always came for his share of the booty, and rigidly insisted on having +it in gold. Now, it was strange enough that these last, however wild the +superstructure of their belief, had really a small circumstance in their +favor, which was that Paten had been met with three or four times in most +unfrequented places, walking with a man of very wretched appearance and +most forbidding aspect, who covered his face when looked at, and was only +to be caught sight of by stealth. The familiar, as he was now called, had +been seen by so many that all doubt as to his existence was quite removed. +</p> +<p> +These were the stories which met O'Shea on his arrival, and which formed +the table-talk of the hotel he dined in; narratives, of course, graced +with all the illustrative powers of those who told them. One fact, +however, impressed itself strongly on his mind,—that with a man so +overwhelmed by the favors of Fortune, any chance of forming acquaintance +casually was out of the question. If he were cleaned out of his last +Napoleon, one could know him readily enough; but to the fellow who can +break the bank at will, archdukes and princes are the only intimates. His +first care was to learn his appearance. Nor had he long to wait; the +vacant chair beside the croupier marked the place reserved for the great +player, whose game alone occupied the attention of the bystanders, and +whose gains and losses were all marked and recorded by an expectant public. +“Here he comes! That is he, leaning on the Prince of Tours, the man with +the large beard!” whispered a person in O'Shea's hearing; and now a full, +large man, over-weighty, as it seemed, for his years, pushed the crowd +carelessly aside, and seated himself at the table. The low murmur that +went round showed that the great event of the evening was about to “come +off,” and that the terrible conflict of Luck against Luck was now to be +fought out. +</p> +<p> +More intent upon regarding the man himself than caring to observe his +game, O'Shea stationed himself in a position to watch his features, scan +their whole expression, and mark every varying change impressed upon them. +His experience of the world had made him a tolerable physiognomist, and he +read the man before him reasonably well. “He is not a clever fellow,” + thought he, “he is only a resolute one; and, even as such, not persistent. +Still, he will be very hard to deal with; he distrusts every man.” Just as +O'Shea was thus summing up to himself, an exclamation from the crowd +startled him. The stranger had lost an immense “coup;” the accumulation of +five successful passes had been swept away at once, and several minutes +were occupied in counting the enormous pile of Napoleons he had pushed +across the table. +</p> +<p> +The player sat apparently unmoved; his face, so far as beard and moustache +permitted it to be seen, was calm and impassive; but O'Shea remarked a +fidgety uneasiness in his hands, and a fevered impatience in the way he +continued to draw off and on a ring which he wore on his finger. The game +began again, but he did not bet; and murmuring comments around the room +went on, some averring that he was a bad loser, who never had nerve for +his reverses, and others as stoutly maintaining that he was such a +consummate master of himself that he was never carried away by impulse, +but, seeing fortune unfavorable, had firmness enough to endure his present +defeat, and wait for a better moment. Gradually the interest of the +bystanders took some other direction, and Paten was unobserved, as he sat, +to all seeming, inattentive to everything that went on before him. +Suddenly, however, he placed twenty thousand francs in notes upon the +table, and said, “Red.” The “Black” won; and he pushed back his chair, +arose, and strolled carelessly into another room. +</p> +<p> +O'Shea followed him; he saw him chatting away pleasantly with some of his +most illustrious friends, laughingly telling how unfortunate he had been, +and in sportive vein declaring that, from the very fact of her sex, a man +should not trust too much to Fortune. “I 'll go and play dominoes with the +Archduchess of Lindau,” said he, laughing; “it will be a cheap pleasure +even if I lose.” And he moved off towards a smaller <i>salon</i>, where +the more exclusive of the guests were accustomed to assemble. +</p> +<p> +Not caring to attract attention by appearing in a company where he was not +known to any, O'Shea sauntered out into the garden, and, tempted by the +fresh night air, sat down. Chilled after a while, he resolved to take a +brisk walk before bed-time, and set out in the avenue which leads to +Lichtenthal. He had plenty to think of, and the time favored reflection. +On and on he went at a smart pace, the activity of mind suggesting +activity of body, and, before he knew it, had strolled some miles from +Baden, and found himself on the rise of the steep ascent that leads to +Eberstein. He was roused, indeed, from his musings by the passage of a +one-horse carriage quite close to him, and which, having gained a piece of +level ground, drew up. The door was quickly opened, and a man got out; the +moonlight was full upon his figure, and O'Shea saw it was Paten. He looked +around for a second or two, and then entered the wood. O'Shea determined +to explore the meaning of the mystery, and, crossing the low edge, at once +followed him. Guided by the light of the cigar which Paten was smoking, +O'Shea tracked him till he perceived him to come to a halt, and +immediately after heard the sound of voices. The tone was angry and +imperious on both sides, and, in intense eagerness, O'Shea drew nigher and +nigher. +</p> +<p> +“None of your nonsense with me,” said a firm and resolute voice. “I know +well how much you believe of such trumpery.” + </p> +<p> +“I tell you again that I do believe it. As certain as I give you money, so +certain am I to lose. Thursday week I gave you five Naps; I lost that same +night seventy thousand francs; on Wednesday last the same thing; and +to-night two thousand Napoleons are gone. You swore to me, besides, so +late as yesterday, that if I gave you twenty Louis, you 'd leave Baden, to +go back to England.” + </p> +<p> +“So I would, but I 've lost it. I went in at roulette, and came out +without sixpence; and I'm sure it was not lending brought bad luck upon <i>me</i>.” + added he, with a bitter laugh. +</p> +<p> +“Then may I be cursed in all I do, if I give you another fraction! You +think to terrify me by exposure; but who 'll stand that test best,—the +man who can draw on his banker for five thousand pounds, or the outcast +who can't pay for his dinner? Let the world know the worst of me, and say +the worst of me, I can live without it, and you may die on a dunghill.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I 'm glad we 're come to this at last. Baden shall know to-morrow +morning the whole story, and you will see how many will sit down at the +same table with you. You 're a fool—you always were a fool—to +insult a man as reckless as I am. What have I to lose? They can't try <i>me</i> +over again any more than <i>you</i>. But you can be shunned and cut by +your fine acquaintances, turned out of clubs, disowned on every hand—” + </p> +<p> +“Look here, Collier,” broke in Paten; “I have heard all that rubbish fifty +times from you, but it does n't terrify me. The man that can live as I do +need never want friends or acquaintances; the starving beggar it is who +has no companionship. Let us start fair to-morrow, as you threaten, and at +the end of the week let us square accounts, and see who has the best of +it.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll go into the rooms when they are most crowded, and I 'll say, 'The +man yonder, who calls himself Ludlow Paten, is Paul Hunt, the accomplice +of Towers, that was hanged for the murder of Godfrey Hawke, at Jersey. My +name is Collier; I never changed it. I, too, was in the dock on that day. +Here we stand,—he in fine clothes, and I in rags, but not so very +remote as externals bespeak us.'” + </p> +<p> +“In two hours after I 'd have you sent over the frontier with a gendarme, +as a vagabond, and without means of support, and I 'd be travelling post +to Italy.” + </p> +<p> +“To see the widow, I hope; to persecute the wretched woman who once in her +life thought you were not a scoundrel.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, and marry her, too, my respected friend, if the intelligence can give +you pleasure to hear it. I 'm sorry we can't ask you to the wedding.” + </p> +<p> +“No, that you 'll not; she knows you, and while you cheated every one of +<i>us, she</i> discovered you to be the mean fellow you are,—ready, +as she said, to have a share in every enterprise, provided you were always +spared the peril. Do you recognize the portrait there, Paul Hunt, and can +you guess the painter?” + </p> +<p> +“If she ever made the speech, she 'll live to rue it.” + </p> +<p> +“Not a bit of it, man. That woman is your master. You did your very best +to terrify her, but you never succeeded. She dares you openly; and if I +have to make the journey on foot, I 'll seek her out in Italy, and say, +'Here is one who has the same hate in his heart that you have, and has +less hold on life; help him to our common object.' It's not a cool head +will be wanting in such a moment; so, look out ahead, Master Paul.” + </p> +<p> +“You hint at a game that two can play at.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, but you 're not one of them. You were always a coward.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0020" id="linkimage-0020"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0570.jpg" alt="ONE0570" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +A savage oath, and something like the noise of a struggle, followed. +Neither spoke; but now O'Shea could distinctly mark, by the crashing of +the brushwood, that they had either both fallen to the ground, or that one +had got the other under. Before he could resolve what course to take, the +sharp report of a pistol rung out, the hasty rustle of a man forcing +through the trees followed, and then all was still. It was not till after +some minutes that he determined to go forward. A few steps brought him to +the place, where in a little alley of the wood lay a man upon his face. He +felt his wrist, and then, turning him on his back, laid his hand on the +heart. All was still; he was warm, as if in life, but life had fled +forever! A faint streak of moonlight had now just fallen upon the spot, +and he saw it was Ludlow Paten who lay there. The ball had entered his +left side, and probably pierced the heart, so instantaneous had been his +death. While O'Shea was thus engaged in tracing the fatal wound, a heavy +pocket-book fell from the breast-pocket. He opened it; its contents were a +packet of letters, tied with a string; he could but see that they bore the +address of Paul Hunt, but he divined the rest. They were <i>hers</i>. The +great prize, for which he himself was ready to risk life, was now his own; +and he hastened away from the place, and turned with all speed towards +Baden. +</p> +<p> +It was not yet daybreak when he got back, and, gaining his room, locked +the door. He knew not why he did so, but in the fear and turmoil of his +mind he dreaded the possibility of seeing or being seen. He feared, +besides, lest some chance word might escape him, some vague phrase might +betray him as the witness of a scene he resolved never to disclose. +Sometimes, indeed, as he sat there, he would doubt the whole incident, and +question whether it had not been the phantasm of an excited brain; but +there before him on the table lay the letters; there they were, the +terrible evidences of the late crime, and perhaps the proofs of guilt in +another too! +</p> +<p> +This latter thought nearly drove him distracted. There before him lay what +secured to him the prize he sought for, and yet what, for aught he knew, +might contain what would render that object a shame and a disgrace. It lay +with himself to know this. Once in her possession, he, of course, could +never know the contents, or if by chance discovery came, it might come too +late. He reasoned long and anxiously with himself; he tried to satisfy his +mind that there were cases in which self-preservation absolved a man from +what in less critical emergencies had been ignominious to do. He asked +himself, “Would not a man willingly burn the documents whose production +would bring him to disgrace and ruin? and, by the same rule, would not one +eagerly explore those which might save him from an irreparable false step? +At all events,” thought he, “Fortune has thrown the chance in my way, and +so—” He read them. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0057" id="link2HCH0057"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER VII. THE COTTAGE NEAR BREGENZ +</h2> +<p> +There was something actually artistic in the choice old Holmes had made +for his daughter's residence near Bregenz. It was an old-fashioned +farmhouse, with a deep eave, and a massive cornice beneath it. A wooden +gallery ran the entire length, with a straggling stair to it, overgrown +with a very ancient fig-tree, whose privilege it was to interweave through +the balustrades, and even cross the steps at will, the whole nearly hidden +by the fine old chestnut-trees which clothe the Gebhardts-Berg to its very +summit. It was the sort of spot a lone and sorrowing spirit might have +sought out to weep away unseen, to commune with grief in solitude, and +know nothing of a world she was no more to share in. The simple-hearted +peasants who accepted them as lodgers asked no reason for their selection +of the place, nor were they likely, in their strange dialect, to be able +to discuss the point with others, save their neighbors. The chief room, +which had three windows opening on a little terrace, looked out upon a +glorious panorama of the Swiss Alps, with the massive mountains that lead +to the Splugen; and it was at one of these Mrs. Morris—or rather, to +give her that name by which for the last few pages of our story she may be +called, Mrs. Hawke—now sat, as the sun was sinking, watching with an +unfeigned enjoyment the last gorgeous tints of declining day upon the snow +peaks. +</p> +<p> +Perhaps at that moment the sense of repose was the most grateful of all +sensations to her, for she had passed through a long day of excitement and +fatigue. Like a great actress who had, in her impersonation of a difficult +part, called forth all her powers of voice, look, and gesture, straining +every fibre to develop to the utmost the passion she would convey, and +tearing her very heart to show its agony, she was now to feel the terrible +depression of reaction, the dreary void of the solitude around her, and +the death-like stillness of her own subdued emotions. But yet, through all +this, there was a rapturous enjoyment in the thought of a task +accomplished, an ordeal passed. +</p> +<p> +On that same morning it was Trover had arrived with Mr. Winthrop, and her +first meeting took place with the friend of her late husband,—perhaps +the one living being whom alone of all the world she felt a sort of terror +at seeing. The fear he inspired was vague, and not altogether reasonable; +but it was there, and she could not master it. Till she met him, indeed, +it almost overcame her; but when she found him a mild old man, of gentle +manners and a quiet presence, unsuspecting and frank, and extending +towards her a compassionate protection, she rallied quickly from her +fears, and played out her part courageously. +</p> +<p> +How affecting was her grief! It was one of those touching pictures which, +while they thrill the heart, never harrow the feelings. It was sorrow made +beautiful, rather than distressing. Time, of course, long years, had +dulled the bitterness of her woe, and only cast the sombre coloring of +sadness over a nature that might have been—who knows?—made for +joy and brightness. Unused to such scenes, the honest American could only +sit in a sort of admiring pity of such a victim to an early sorrow; so +fair a creature robbed of her just meed of this world's happiness, and by +a terrible destiny linked with an awful event! And how lovely she was +through it all, how forgiving of that man's cruelty! He knew Hawke well, +and he was no stranger to the trials a woman must have gone through who +had been chained to his coarse and brutal nature; and yet not a harsh word +fell from her, not a syllable of reproach or blame. No; she had all manner +of excuses to make for him, in the evil influences by which he was +surrounded, the false and bad men who assumed to be his friends. +</p> +<p> +It was quite touching to hear her allude to the happiness of their early +married life,—their contentment with humble fortune, their willing +estrangement from a world of luxury and display, to lead an existence of +cultivated pursuits and mutual affection. Winthrop was moved as he +listened, and Trover had to wipe his eyes. +</p> +<p> +Of the dreadful event of her life she skilfully avoided details, dwelling +only on such parts of it as might illustrate her own good qualities, her +devotion to the memory of one of whom she had much to pardon, and her +unceasing affection for his child. If the episode of that girl's illness +and death was only invented at the moment of telling, it lost nothing by +the want of premeditation; and Winthrop's tears betrayed how he took to +heart the desolate condition of that poor bereaved woman. +</p> +<p> +“I had resolved,” said she, “never to avail myself of this fortune. To +what end could I desire wealth? I was dead to the world. If enough +remained to support me through my lonely pilgrimage, I needed no more. The +simple life of these peasants here offered me all that I could now care +for, and it was in this obscure spot I meant to have ended my days, +unnoticed and unwept. My dear father, however, a distinguished officer, +whose services the Government is proud to acknowledge, had rashly involved +himself in some speculations; everything went badly with him, and he +finished by losing all that he had laid by to support his old age. In this +emergency I bethought me of that will; but even yet I don't believe I +should have availed myself of its provisions if it were not that my father +urged me by another and irresistible argument, which was that in not +asserting my own claim, I was virtually denying yours. 'Think of +Winthrop,' said he. 'Why should he be defrauded of his inheritance because +you have taken a vow of poverty?' He called it a vow of poverty,” said +she, smiling through her tears, “since I wore no better dress than this, +nor tasted any food more delicate than the rough fare of my peasant +neighbors.” + </p> +<p> +If the costume to which she thus directed their attention was simple, it +was eminently becoming, being, in reality, a sort of theatrical travesty +of a peasant's dress, made to fit perfectly, and admitting of a very +generous view of her matchless foot and ankle; insomuch, indeed, that Mr. +Winthrop could not help feeling that if poverty had its privations, it +could yet be eminently picturesque. +</p> +<p> +If Winthrop wished from time to time to ask some question about this, or +inquire into that, her answers invariably led him far afield, and made him +even forget the matter he had been eager about. A burst of emotion, some +suddenly recalled event, some long-forgotten passage brought back to mind +in a moment, would extricate her from any difficulty; and as to dates,—those +awful sunk rocks of all unprepared fiction,—how could she be asked +for these,—she, who really could not tell the very year they were +then living in, had long ceased to count time or care for its onward +course? There were things he did not understand; there were things, too, +that he could not reconcile with each other; but he could not, at such a +moment, suggest his doubts or his difficulties, nor be so heartless as to +weary that poor crushed and wounded spirit by prolonging a scene so +painful. +</p> +<p> +When he arose to take his leave, they were like old friends. With a +delicate tact all her own, she distinguished him especially from Mr. +Trover; and while she gave Winthrop both her hands in his, she bestowed +upon his companion a very cold smile and a curtsey. +</p> +<p> +“Are they gone,—positively gone?” asked she of her father, who now +entered the room, after having carefully watched the whole interview from +a summer-house with a spy-glass. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, dear; they are out on the road. I just overheard the American, as he +closed the wicket, remark, 'She's the most fascinating creature I ever +talked to!'” + </p> +<p> +“I hope I am, papa. When one has to be a serpent, one ought surely to have +a snake's advantages! What a dear old creature that American is! I really +have taken a great liking to him. There is a marvellous attraction in the +man that one can deceive without an effort, and, like the sheep who come +begging to be eaten, only implores to be 'taken in again.'” + </p> +<p> +“I never took my eyes off him, and I saw that you made him cry twice.” + </p> +<p> +“Three times, papa,—three times; not to speak of many false attacks +of sensibility that went off in deep sighs and chokings. Oh dear! am I not +wearied? Fetch me a little lemonade, and put one spoonful—only one—of +maraschino in it. That wretch Trover almost made me laugh with his absurd +display of grief. I 'll not have him here to-morrow.” + </p> +<p> +“And is Winthrop to come to-morrow?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; and this evening too. He comes to-night to tea; he is so anxious to +know you, papa; he has such a pleasant theory about that dear old man +covered with wounds and honors, and devoting his declining year's to +console his poor afflicted child. You have put too much maraschino in +this.” + </p> +<p> +“One spoonful, on honor; but I mean to treat myself more generously. Well, +I 'm heartily glad that the interview is over. It was an anxious thing to +have before one, and particularly not knowing what manner of man he might +be.” + </p> +<p> +“That was the real difficulty. It 's very hard to 'play up' to an unknown +audience!” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd not have asked them back this evening, Loo. It will be too much for +you.” + </p> +<p> +“I did not do so. It was Winthrop himself begged permission to come; but +he promised that not a syllable of business was to transpire, so that I +have only to be very charming, which, of course, costs nothing.” + </p> +<p> +“I gather that all went smoothly on this morning. No difficulty anywhere?” + </p> +<p> +“None whatever. The account Trover gave us is fully borne out. The +property is immense. There are, however, innumerable legal details to be +gone through. I can't say what documents and papers we shall not have to +produce; meanwhile our American friend most generously lays his purse at +our disposal, and this blank check is to be filled at my discretion.” + </p> +<p> +“'Barnet and King,'” read he; “an excellent house. 'Please to pay to Mrs. +Hawke, or order.' Very handsome of him, this, Loo; very thoughtful.” + </p> +<p> +“Very thoughtful; but I'd as soon Trover had not been present; he's a +greedy, grabbing sort of creature, and will insist upon a large discount +out of it.” + </p> +<p> +“Make the draft the bigger, darling; the remedy is in your own hands.” + </p> +<p> +“Strange there should be no letter from O'Shea. I was full certain we +should have heard something before this.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps we may by this post, dear. It ought to have arrived by this +time.” + </p> +<p> +“Then go and see, by all means. How I hate a post that comes of an +evening! One ought to begin the day with one's letters; they are the evil +fates, whose machinations all our efforts are directed against. They are, +besides, the whispering of the storm that is brewing afar off, but is sure +to overtake us. One ought to meet them with a well-rested brain and +refreshed spirit, not wearied and jaded and unstrung by the day's toil.” + </p> +<p> +And the Captain prepared to obey, but not without a variety of precautions +against catching cold, which seemed somewhat to try his daughter's +patience. +</p> +<p> +“You really,” said she, with a half-bitter smile, “take very little +account of the anxiety I must feel about my future husband.” + </p> +<p> +“Nonsense, dear; the O'Shea is not to be thought of. It would really be a +gross misuse of wealth to share it with such a man.” + </p> +<p> +“So it might, if one were free to choose. But it's the old story, papa,” + said she, with a sigh. “To be cured of the ague, one is willing to take +arsenic. There, you are surely muffled enough now; lose no more time, and, +above all things, don't get into a gossiping mood, and stay to talk with +Trover, or be seduced by Mr. Winthrop's juleps, but come back at once, for +I have a sort of feverish foreboding over me that I cannot control.” + </p> +<p> +“How silly that is, dear!—to have a stout heart on the high seas and +grow cowardly in the harbor.” + </p> +<p> +“But <i>are</i> we in the harbor? Are we so <i>very</i> certain that the +voyage is over?” said she, with increased eagerness, “But pray go for the +letters, or I will myself.” + </p> +<p> +He set out at last, and she watched him as he shut the wicket and crossed +out upon the high-road; and then, all alone as she sat, she burst into a +passionate flood of tears. Was this the relief of a nature strained like +an over-bent bow? Was it the sorrowful outburst of a spirit which, however +bold and defiant to the world, was craven to itself; or was it simply that +fear had mastered her, and that she felt the approach of the storm that +was to shipwreck her? +</p> +<p> +She must have been partly stunned by her sorrow, for she sat, no longer +impatient, nor watching eagerly for his return, but in a sort of +half-lethargic state, gazing out unconsciously into the falling night that +now closed in fast around her. +</p> +<p> +It is neither a weak nor an ignorant theory that ascribes, even to the +most corrupt natures, moments of deepest remorse, sincere and true, +aspirations after better things, and a willingness to submit to the +severest penalties of the past, if only there be a “future” in store for +them. Who can tell us what of these were now passing through the mind of +her who sat at that window, brooding sorrowfully? +</p> +<p> +“Here 's a letter for you, Loo, and a weighty one too,” said Holmes, +entering the room, and approaching her before she was aware. “It was +charged half a dollar extra, for overweight. I trust you 'll say it was +worth the money.” + </p> +<p> +“Fetch a light! get me a candle!” cried she, eagerly; and she broke the +seal with hands all trembling and twitching. “And leave me, papa; leave me +a moment to myself.” + </p> +<p> +He placed the candles at her side, and stole away. She turned one glance +at the address, “To Mrs. Hawke,” and she read in that one word that the +writer knew her story. But the contents soon banished other thoughts; they +were her own long-coveted, long-sought letters; there they were now before +her, time-worn and crumpled, records of a terrible season of sorrow and +misery and guilt! She counted them over and over; there were twenty-seven; +not one was missing. She did not dare to open them; and even in her +happiness to regain them was the darkening shadow of the melancholy period +when they were written,—the long days of suffering and the nights of +tears. So engrossed was she by the thought that they were now her own +again, that the long tyranny of years had ended and the ever-impending +shame departed, that she could not turn to learn how she came by them, nor +through whom. At length this seemed to flash suddenly on her mind, and she +examined the envelope, and found a small sealed note, addressed, as was +the packet, “Mrs. Hawke.” O'Shea's initials were in the corner. It +contained but one line, which ran thus:— +</p> +<p> +“I have read the enclosed.—G. O'S.” + </p> +<p> +Then was it that the bitterness of her lot smote her with all its force, +and she dropped down upon her knees, and, laying her head on the chair, +sobbed as if each convulsive beat would have rent her very heart. +</p> +<p> +Oh, the ineffable misery of an exposed shame! the terrible sense that we +are to meet abroad and before the world the stern condemnation our +conscience has already pronounced, and that henceforth we are to be +shunned and avoided! There is not left to us any longer one mood of mind +that can bring repose. If we are depressed, it is in the mourning of our +guilt we seem to be dressed; if for a moment we assume the air of +light-heartedness, it is to shock the world by the want of feeling for our +shame! It is written that we are to be outcasts and live apart! +</p> +<p> +“May I come in, Loo?” said a low voice from the half-opened doorway. It +was her father, asking for the third time before she heard him. +</p> +<p> +She uttered a faint “Yes,” and tried to rise; but her strength failing, +she laid her head down again between her hands. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0021" id="linkimage-0021"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/ONE0580.jpg" alt="ONE0580" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“What is this, darling?” he said, stooping down over her. “What bad +tidings have you got there? Tell me, Loo, for I may be able to lighten +your sorrow for you.” + </p> +<p> +“No,” said she, calmly, “that you cannot, for you cannot make me unlive +the past! Read that.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I see nothing very formidable in this, dear. I can't suppose that +it is the loss of such a lover afflicts you. He has read them. Be it so. +They are now in your own hands, and neither he nor any other will ever +read them again. It would have been more interesting had he told us how he +came by them; that was something really worth knowing; for remember, Loo,—and +it is, after all, the great point,—these are documents you were +ready and willing to have bought up at a thousand pounds, or even more. +Paten often swore he 'd have three thousand for them, and there they are +now, safe in your own keeping, and not costing you one shilling. Stay,” + said he, laughing, “the postage was about one-and-sixpence.” + </p> +<p> +“And is it nothing to cost me open shame and ignominy? Is it nothing that, +instead of one man, two now have read the dark tracings of my degraded +heart? Oh, father, even <i>you</i> might feel for the misery of exposure!” + </p> +<p> +“But it is not exposure: it is the very opposite; it is, of all things, +the most secret and secure. When these letters are burned, what accusation +remains against you? The memory of two loose men about town. But who 'll +believe them, or who cares if they be believed? Bethink you that every one +in this world is maligned by somebody, and finds somebody else to credit +the scandal. Give me a bishop to blacken to-morrow, and see if I won't +have a public to adopt the libel. No, no, Loo; it's a small affliction, +believe me, that one is able to dispose of with a lucifer-match. Here, +girl, give them to me, and never waste another thought on them.” + </p> +<p> +“No,” said she, resolutely, “I 'll not burn them. Whatever I may ask of +the world to think of me, I do not mean to play the hypocrite to myself. +Lend me your hand, and fetch me a glass of water. I cannot meet these +people tonight. You must go over to the inn, and say that I am ill,—call +it a headache,—and add that I hope by to-morrow I shall be quite +well again.” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, nay, let them come, dear, and the very exertion will cheer you. You +promised that American to sing him one of his nigger melodies,—don't +forget that.” + </p> +<p> +“Go and tell them that I have been obliged to take to bed, father,” said +she, in a hollow voice. “It is no falsehood to call me very ill.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Loo,” said he, caressingly, “all this is so unlike yourself. You, +that never lacked courage in your life! <i>you</i>, that never knew what +it was to be faint-hearted!” + </p> +<p> +“Well, you see me a coward at last,” said she, in a faint voice. “Go and +do as I bade you, father; for this is no whim, believe me.” + </p> +<p> +The old man muttered out some indistinct grumblings, and left the room on +his errand. +</p> +<p> +She had not been many minutes alone when she heard the sharp sounds of +feet on the gravel, and could mark the voices of persons speaking together +with rapidity. One she quickly recognized as her father's, the other she +soon knew to be Trover's. The last words he uttered as he reached the door +were, “Arrested at once!” + </p> +<p> +“Who is to be arrested at once?” cried she, rushing wildly to the door. +</p> +<p> +“We, if we are caught!” said Holmes. “There's no time for explanation now. +Get your traps together, and let us be off in quick time.” + </p> +<p> +“It is good counsel he gives you,” said Trover. “The game is up, and +nothing but flight can save us. The great question is, which way to go.” + </p> +<p> +She pressed her hands to her temples for a moment, and then, as if +recalled, by the peril, to her old activity of thought and action, said,— +</p> +<p> +“Let Johann fetch his cousin quickly; they both row well, and the boat is +ready at the foot of the garden. We can reach Rorschach in a couple of +hours, and make our way over to St. Gall.” + </p> +<p> +“And then?” asked Trover, peevishly. +</p> +<p> +“We are, at least, in a mountain region, where there are neither railroads +nor telegraphs.” + </p> +<p> +“She is right. Her plan is a good one, Trover,” broke in Holmes. “Go fetch +what things you mean to take with you, and come back at once. We shall be +ready by that time.” + </p> +<p> +“If there be danger, why go back at all?” said she. “Remember, I know +nothing of the perils that you speak of, nor do I ask to know till we are +on the road out of them. But stay here, and help us to get our pack made.” + </p> +<p> +“Now you are yourself again! now I know you, Loo,” said Holmes, in a tone +of triumph. +</p> +<p> +In less than half an hoar after they were skimming across the Lake of +Constance as fast as a light skiff and strong arms could bear them. The +night was still and calm, though dark, and the water without a ripple. +</p> +<p> +For some time after they left the shore scarcely a word was spoken amongst +them. At last Holmes whispered something in his daughter's ear, and she +rejoined aloud,— +</p> +<p> +“Yes, it is time to tell me now; for, though I have submitted myself to +your judgment in this hasty flight, I am not quite sure the peril was as +imminent as you believed it What did you mean by talking of an arrest? Who +could arrest us? And for what?” + </p> +<p> +“You shall hear,” said Trover; “and perhaps, when you have heard, you 'll +agree that I was not exaggerating our danger.” + </p> +<p> +Not wishing to impose on our reader the minute details into which he +entered, and the narrative of which lasted almost till they reached the +middle of the lake, we shall give in a few words the substance of his +story. While dressing for dinner at the inn, he saw a carriage with four +posters arrive, and, in a very few minutes after, heard a loud voice +inquiring for Mr. Harvey Winthrop. Suddenly struck by the strangeness of +such a demand, he hastened to gain a small room adjoining Winthrop's, and +from which a door communicated, by standing close to which he could +overhear all that passed. +</p> +<p> +He had but reached the room and locked the door, when he heard the sounds +of a hearty welcome and recognition exchanged within. The stranger spoke +with an American accent, and very soon placed the question of his +nationality beyond a doubt. +</p> +<p> +“You would not believe,” said he, “that I have been in pursuit of you for +a matter of more than three thousand miles. I went down to Norfolk and to +St Louis, and was in full chase into the Far West, when I found I was on +the wrong tack; so I 'wore ship' and came over to Europe.” After +satisfying, in some degree, the astonishment this declaration excited, he +went on to tell how he, through a chance acquaintance at first, and +afterwards a close friendship with the Laytons, came to the knowledge of +the story of the Jersey murder, and the bequest of the dying man on his +daughter's behalf, his interest being all the more strongly engaged +because every one of the localities was familiar to him, and his own +brother a tenant on the very land. All the arts he had deployed to trace +out the girl's claim, and all the efforts, with the aid of the Laytons, he +had made to find out Winthrop himself, he patiently recounted, mentioning +his accidental companionship with Trover, and the furtive mode in which +that man had escaped him. It was, however, by that very flight Trevor +confirmed the suspicion he had attached to him, and so the stranger +continued to show that from the hour of his escape they had never “lost +the track.” How they had crossed the Atlantic he next recorded,—all +their days spent in discussing the one theme; no other incident or event +ever occupying a moment's attention. “We were certain of two things,” said +he: “there was a deep snare, and that girl was its victim.” He confessed +that if to himself the inquiry possessed a deep interest, with old Layton +it had become a passion. +</p> +<p> +“At last,” continued Trover, “he began to confess that their hopes fell, +and each day's discomfiture served to chill the ardor that had sustained +them, when a strange and most unlooked-for light broke in upon them by the +discovery of a few lines of a note written by you to Dr. Layton himself +years before, and, being produced, was at once recognized as the +handwriting of Mrs. Penthony Morris.” + </p> +<p> +“Written by <i>me!</i> How could I have written to him? I never heard of +him,” broke she in. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, he was the doctor who attended Hawke in his last illness, and it +appeared you wrote to beg he would cut off a lock of hair for you, and +bring it to you.” + </p> +<p> +“I remember that,” said she, in a hollow voice, “though I never remembered +his name was Layton. And he has this note still?” + </p> +<p> +“You shall hear. No sooner had his son—” + </p> +<p> +“You cannot mean Alfred Layton?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; the same. No sooner had he declared that he knew the hand, than they +immediately traced you in Mrs. Penthony Morris, and knowing that Stocmar +had become the girl's guardian, they lost no time in finding him out. I +was too much flurried and terrified at this moment to collect clearly what +followed, but I gathered that the elder Layton held over him some threat +which, if pushed to execution, might ruin him. By means of this menace, +they made Stocmar confess everything. He told who Clara was, how he had +gained possession of her, under what name she went, and where she was then +living. Through some influence which I cannot trace, they interested a +secretary of state in their case, and started for the Continent with +strong letters from the English authorities, and a detective officer +specially engaged to communicate with the foreign officials, and permit, +when the proofs might justify, of an arrest.” + </p> +<p> +“How much do they know, then?” asked she, calmly. +</p> +<p> +“They know everything. They know of the forged will, the false certificate +of death, and Winthrop has confirmed the knowledge. Fortunately, I have +secured the more important document I hastened to his room while they were +yet talking, opened his desk, and carried away the will. As to the +certificate, the Laytons and the detective had set off for Meisner the +moment after reaching Bregenz, to establish its forged character.” + </p> +<p> +“Who cares for that?” said she, carelessly. “It is a trifling offence. +Where is the other,—the will?” + </p> +<p> +“I have it here,” said he, pointing to his breast-pocket +</p> +<p> +“Let us make a bonfire, then,” said she, “for I, too, have some +inconvenient records to get rid of. I thought of keeping them as memories, +but I suspect I shall need no reminders.” + </p> +<p> +While Trover tore the forged will in pieces, she did the like by the +letters, and, a match being applied to the fragments, the flames rose up, +and in a few seconds the blackened remnants were carried away by the +winds, and lost. +</p> +<p> +“So, then, Mr. Trover,” said she, at length, “Norfolk Island has been +defrauded of your society for this time. By the way, papa, is not this Dr. +Layton your friend as well as mine?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, Loo, he is the man of ozone and vulcanized zinc, and I don't know +what else. I hoped he had died ere this.” + </p> +<p> +“No, papa, they don't die. If you remark, you 'll see that the people +whose mission it is to torment are wonderfully long-lived, and if I were +an assurance agent, I 'd take far more account of men's tempers than their +gout tendencies and dropsies. Was there any allusion to papa, Mr. Trover?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; old Layton seems to have a warrant, or something of the kind, +against him, on a grave charge, but I had no mind to hear what.” + </p> +<p> +“So that, I suppose,” said she, laughing, “I am the only 'innocent' in the +company; for <i>you</i> know, Mr. Trover, that I forged nothing, falsified +nothing; I was betrayed, by my natural simplicity of character, into +believing that a fortune was left me. I never dreamed that Mr. Trover was +a villain.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know how you take it so easily. We have escaped transportation, +it is true, but we have not escaped public shame and exposure,” said +Trover, peevishly. +</p> +<p> +“She's right, though, Trover,—she's right. One never gets in the true +frame of mind to meet difficulties till one is able to laugh a little at +them.” + </p> +<p> +“Not to mention,” added she, “that there is a ludicrous side in all +troubles. I wonder how poor dear Mr. Winthrop bears his disappointment, +worse than mine, in so far that he has travelled three thousand miles to +attain it.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, he professes to be charmed. I heard him say, 'Well, Quackinboss, I 'm +better pleased to know that the poor girl is alive than to have a million +of dollars left me. +</p> +<p> +“You don't say the stranger was Quackinboss, the dear Yankee we were all +so fond of long ago at Marlia, and whom I never could make in love with +me, though I did my very best? Oh, father, is it not provoking to think of +all the old friends we are running away from? Colonel Quackinboss, Dr. +Layton, and Alfred! every one of them so linked to us by one tender +thought or another. What a charming little dinner we might have had +to-morrow; the old doctor would have taken me in, whispering a little +doleful word, as we went, about the Hawke's Nest, and long ago; and you +and he would have had your scientific talk afterwards!” + </p> +<p> +How old Holmes laughed at the pleasant conceit! It was really refreshing +to see that good old man so cheery and light of heart; the very boat shook +with his jollity. +</p> +<p> +“Listen!—do listen!” said Trover, in an accent of terror. “I'm +certain I heard the sound of oars following us.” + </p> +<p> +“Stop rowing for a moment,” said she to the boatmen; and as the swift +skiff glided noiselessly along, she bent down her head to listen. “Yes,” + said she, in a low, quiet voice, “Trover is right; there is a boat in +pursuit, and they, too, have ceased pulling now, to trace us. Ha! there +they go again, and for Lindau too; they have heard, perhaps, the stroke of +oars in that direction.” + </p> +<p> +“Let our fellows pull manfully, then, and we are safe,” cried Trover, +eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“No, no,” said she, in the same calm, collected tone. “The moon has set, +and there will be perfect darkness till the day breaks, full two hours +off. We must be still, so long as they are within hearing of us. I know +well, Trover, what a tax this imposes on your courage, but it can't be +helped.” + </p> +<p> +“Just so, Trover,” chimed in Holmes. “She commands here, and there must be +no mutiny.” + </p> +<p> +The wretched man groaned heavily, but uttered no word of reply. +</p> +<p> +“I wish that great chemical friend of yours, papa,—the wonderful Dr. +Layton,—had turned his marvellous mind to the invention of invisible +fire. I am dying for a cigar now, and I am afraid to light one.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't think of it, for mercy's sake!” broke in Trover. +</p> +<p> +“Pray calm yourself, I have not the slightest fancy for being overtaken by +this interesting party, nor do I think papa has either,—not that our +meeting could have any consequence beyond mere unpleasantness. If they +should come up with us, I am as ready to denounce the deceitful Mr. Trover +as any of them.” + </p> +<p> +“This is very poor jesting, I must say,” muttered he, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“You'll find it, perhaps, a very serious earnest if we're caught.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come, Loo, forgive him; he certainly meant all for the best. I 'm +sure you did, Trover,” said old Holmes, with the blandest of voices. +</p> +<p> +“Why, what on earth do you mean?” cried he. “You are just as deep in the +plot as I am. But for you, how should I have known about Hawke's having +any property in America, or that he had any heir to it?” + </p> +<p> +“I am not naturally suspicious, Trover,” said she, with mock gravity, “but +I declare I begin to believe you are a bad man,—a very bad man!” + </p> +<p> +“I hope and trust not, Loo,” said old Holmes, fervently; “I really hope +not.” + </p> +<p> +“It is no common baseness that seeks for its victim the widow and the +fatherless. Please to put that rug under my feet, Trover. There are +barristers would give their eye-tooth for such an opening for invective. I +have one fat friend in my eye would take the brief for mere pleasure of +blackguarding you. You know whom I mean, papa.” + </p> +<p> +“You may push a joke too far, Mrs. Morris,—or Mrs. Hawke, rather,” + said Trover, rudely, “for I don't know by which name you will be pleased +to be known in future.” + </p> +<p> +“I am thinking very seriously of taking a new one, Trover, and the +gentleman who is to share it with me will probably answer all your +inquiries on that and every other subject. I trust, too, that he will meet +us to-morrow.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, if I were Trover, I'd not pester him with questions,” said Holmes, +laughingly. +</p> +<p> +“Don't you think they might take to their oars again, now?” asked Trover, +in a very beseeching tone. +</p> +<p> +“Poor Mr. Trover!” said she, with a little laugh. “It is really very hard +on him! I have a notion that this night's pleasuring on the Lake of +Constance will be one of the least grateful of his recollections.” Then +turning to the boatmen, she bade them “give way” with a will, and pull +their best for Rorschach. +</p> +<p> +From this time out nothing was said aloud, but Holmes and his daughter +spoke eagerly together in whispers, while Trover sat apart, his head +turned towards where the shadow of large mountains indicated the shore of +the lake. +</p> +<p> +“A'n't you happy now, Mr. Trover?” said she, at length, as the boat glided +into a little cove, where a number of fishing-craft lay at anchor. “A'n't +you happy?” + </p> +<p> +Either smarting under what he felt the sarcasm of her question, or too +deeply immersed in his own thoughts, he made no reply whatever, but as the +boat grated on the shingly beach he sprang out and gained the land. In +another minute the boatmen had drawn the skiff high and dry, on the sand, +and assisted the others to disembark. +</p> +<p> +“How forgetful you are of all gallant attentions!” said she, as Trover +stood looking on, and never offering any assistance whatever. “Have you +got any silver in your purse, papa?” + </p> +<p> +“I can't see what these pieces are,” said Holmes, trying to peer through +the darkness. +</p> +<p> +“Pay these people, Trover,” said she, “and be liberal with them. Remember +from what fate they have saved you.” And as she spoke she handed him her +purse. “We'll saunter slowly up to the village, and you can follow us.” + </p> +<p> +Trover called the men around him, and proceeded to settle their fare, +while Holmes and his daughter proceeded at an easy pace inland. +</p> +<p> +“How much was there in your purse, Loo?” asked Holmes. +</p> +<p> +“Something under twenty Napoleons, papa; but it will be quite enough.” + </p> +<p> +“Enough for what, dear?” + </p> +<p> +“Enough to tempt poor Mr. Trover. We shall never see more of him.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you really think so?” + </p> +<p> +“I am certain of it. He was thinking of nothing else than how to make his +escape all the time we were crossing the lake, and I, too, had no more +pressing anxiety than how to get rid of him. Had I offered him a certain +sum, we should have had him for a pensioner as long as he lived, but by +making him steal the money I force him to be his own security that he 'll +never come back again. It was for this that I persisted in acting on his +fears in the boat; the more wretched we made him the cheaper he became, +and when he heaved that last heavy sigh, I took ten Napoleons off his +price.” + </p> +<p> +Holmes had to stop walking, and hold his hands to his sides with laughter. +The device seemed to him about the best practical joke he had ever heard +of. Then ceasing suddenly, he said,— +</p> +<p> +“But what if he were to go back to the others, Loo, and turn approver +against us?” + </p> +<p> +“We are safe enough on that score. He has nothing to tell them that they +do not know already. They have got to the bottom of all the mystery, and +they don't want him.” + </p> +<p> +“Still it seems to me, Loo, that it might have been safer to keep him +along with us,—under our eye, as it were.” + </p> +<p> +“Not at all, papa. It is as in a shipwreck, where the plank that will save +two will sink with three. The stratagem that will rescue <i>us</i> would +be probably marred by <i>him</i>, and, besides, he'll provide for his own +safety better than we should.” + </p> +<p> +Thus talking, they entered the little village, where, although not yet +daybreak, a small <i>café</i> was open,—one of those humble +refreshment-houses frequented by peasants on their way to their daily +toil. +</p> +<p> +“Let us breakfast here,” said she, “while they are getting ready some +light carriage to carry us on to St. Grail. I have an old friend there, +the prior of the monastery, who used to be very desirous to convert me +long ago. I intend to give him a week or ten days' trial now, papa; and he +may also, if he feel so disposed, experiment upon <i>you</i>.” + </p> +<p> +It was in this easy chit-chat they sat down to their coffee in the little +inn at Rorschach. They were soon, however, on the road again, sealed in a +little country carriage drawn by a stout mountain pony. +</p> +<p> +“Strange enough all this adventure seems,” said she, as they ascended the +steep mountain on foot, to relieve the weary beast. “Sometimes it appears +all like a dream to me, and now, when I look over the lake there, and see +the distant spires of Bregenz yonder, I begin to believe that there is +reality in it, and that we are acting in a true drama.” + </p> +<p> +Holmes paid but little attention to her words, wrapped up as he was in +some details he was reading in a newspaper he had carried away from the <i>Café</i>. +</p> +<p> +“What have you found to interest you so much there, papa?” asked she, at +last. +</p> +<p> +Still he made no reply, but read on. +</p> +<p> +“It can scarcely be that you are grown a politician again,” continued she, +laughingly, “and pretend to care for Austria or for Italy.” + </p> +<p> +“This is all about Paten,” said he, eagerly. “There's the whole account of +it.” + </p> +<p> +“Account of what?” cried she, trying to snatch the paper from him. +</p> +<p> +“Of his death.” + </p> +<p> +“His death! Is he dead? Is Paten dead?” She had to clutch his arm as she +spoke to support herself, and it was only with the greatest difficulty +that she kept her feet. “How was it? Tell me how he came by his death. Was +it O'Shea?” + </p> +<p> +“No, he was killed. The man who did it has given himself up, alleging that +it was in an altercation between them; a pistol, aimed at his own breast, +discharged its contents in Paten's.” + </p> +<p> +She tore the paper from his hand, and, tottering over to a bank on the +roadside, bent down to read it. Holmes continued to talk over the event +and all the details, but she did not hear what he said. She had but senses +for the lines she was perusing. +</p> +<p> +“I thought at first it was O'Shea in some disguise. But it cannot be; for +see, they remark here that this man has been observed loitering about +Baden ever since Paten arrived. Oh, here's the mystery,” cried she. “His +name is Collier.” + </p> +<p> +“That was an old debt between them,” said Holmes. +</p> +<p> +“I hope there will be no discovery as to Paten's real name. It would so +certainly revive the old scandal.” + </p> +<p> +“We can scarcely expect such good luck as that, Loo. There is but one +thing to do, dear; we must put the sea between us and our calumniators.” + </p> +<p> +“How did O'Shea come by the letters if he had no hand in it?” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps he had; perhaps it was a concerted thing; perhaps he bought up +the letters from Collier afterwards. Is it of the least consequence to us +how he got them?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, Collier might have read them,” said she, in a hollow voice; and as +Holmes, startled by the tones, turned round, he saw that she had a +sickening faintness over her, and that she trembled violently. +</p> +<p> +“Where's your old courage, Loo?” said he, cheeringly. “Paten is gone, +Collier has a good chance of being sent after him, and here we are, almost +the only actors left of the whole drama.” + </p> +<p> +“That's true, papa, very true; and as we shall have to play in the +afterpiece, the sooner we get the tragedy out of our heads the better.” + </p> +<p> +They remounted the carriage, and went on their way. There, where the +beech-trees bend across the road, it is there they have just disappeared! +The brisk tramp of the pony can be heard even yet; it grows fainter and +fainter, and only the light train of dust now marks their passage. They +are gone; and we are to see them no more! +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0058" id="link2HCH0058"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER VIII. CONSULTATION +</h2> +<p> +Every host has had some experience of the fact that there are guests of +whom he takes leave at the drawing-room door, and others who require that +he should accompany them to the very frontier of his kingdom, and only +part with as they step into their carriage. The characters of a story +represent each of these classes. Some make their exit quietly, +unobtrusively; they slip away with a little gesture of the hand, or a mere +look to say adieu. Others arise with a pretentious dignity from their +places, and, in the ruffle of their voluminous plumage, seem to say, “When +we spread out our wings for flight, the small birds may flutter away to +their nests.” It is needless that we should tell our readers that we have +reached that critical moment. The dull roll of carriages to the door, and +the clank of the let-down steps tell that the hour of departure has +arrived, and that the entertainer will very soon be left all alone, +without “One of Them.” + </p> +<p> +As in the real world, no greater solecism can be committed than to beg the +uprising guest to reseat himself, nor is there any measure more certain of +disastrous failure; so in fiction, when there is a move in the company, +the sooner they all go the better. +</p> +<p> +While I am painfully impressed with this fact,—while I know and feel +that my last words must be very like the leave-takings of that tiresome +button-holder who, great-coated and muffled himself, will yet like to +detain you in the cold current of a doorway,—I am yet sensible of +the deference due to those who have indulgently accompanied me through my +story, and would desire to leave no questions unanswered with regard to +those who have figured before him. +</p> +<p> +Mr. Trover, having overheard the dialogue which had such an intimate +bearing on his own fortunes, lost no time, as we have seen, in quitting +the hotel at Bregenz; and although Winthrop expected to see him at dinner, +he was not surprised to hear that he had left a message to say he had gone +over to the cottage to dine with Mrs. Hawke. It was with an evident sense +of relief that the honest American learned this fact. There was something +too repulsive to his nature in the thought of sitting down at the same +table in apparent good fellowship with the man whom he knew to be a +villain, and whose villany a very few hours would expose to the world; but +what was to be done? Quackinboss had insisted on the point; he had made +him give a solemn pledge to make no change in his manner towards Trover +till such tine as the Laytons had returned with full and incontestable +proofs of his guilt. +</p> +<p> +“We'll spoil everything, sir,” said Quackinboss, “if we harpoon him in +deep water. We must go cautiously to work, and drive him up, gradually, +towards the shallows, where, if one miss, another can strike him.” + </p> +<p> +Winthrop was well pleased to hear that the “chase” was at least deferred, +and that he was to dine <i>tète-à-tête</i> with his true-hearted +countryman. +</p> +<p> +Hour after hour went over, and in their eager discussion of the +complicated intrigue they had unravelled, they lost all recollection of +Trover or his absence. It was the character of the woman which absorbed +their entire thoughts; and while Winthrop quoted her letters, so full of +beautiful sentiments, so elevated, and so refined, Quackinboss related +many little traits of her captivating manner and winning address. +</p> +<p> +“It's all the same in natur', sir,” said he, summing up. “Where will you +see prettier berries than on the deadly nightshade? and do you think that +they was made to look so temptin' for nothing? Or wasn't it jest for a +lesson to us to say, 'Be on your guard, stranger; what's good to look at +may be mortal bad to feed on.' There's many a warnin' in things that don't +talk with our tongues, but have a language of their own.” + </p> +<p> +“Very true all that, sir,” resumed the other; “but it was always a puzzle +to me why people with such good faculties would make so bad a use of +them.” + </p> +<p> +“Ain't it all clear enough they was meant for examples,—jest that +and no more? You see that clever fellow yonder; he can do fifty things you +and I could n't; he has got brains for this, that, and t'other. Well, if +he's a rogue, he won't be satisfied with workin' them brains God has given +him, because he has no right sense of thankfulness in his heart, but he +'ll be counterfitin' all sorts of brains that he has n't got at all: these +are the devil's gifts, and they do the devil's work.” + </p> +<p> +“I know one thing,” said Winthrop, doggedly, “it is that sort of folk make +the best way in life.” + </p> +<p> +“Clear wrong—all straight on end—unsound doctrine that, sir. +We never think of countin' the failures, the chaps that are in jail, or at +the galleys, or maybe hanged. We only take the two or three successful +rogues that figure in high places, and we say, 'So much for knavery'. Now +let me jest ask you, How did they come there? Was n't it by pretend in' to +be good men? Wasn't it by mock charity, mock patriotism, mock sentiment in +fifty ways, supported now and then by a bit of real action, just as a +forger always slips a real gold piece amongst his counterfeits? And what +is all this but sayin' the way to be prosperous is to be good—” + </p> +<p> +“Or to seem good!” broke in Winthrop. +</p> +<p> +“Well, sir, the less we question seemin' the better! I 'd rather be taken +in every day of the week than I 'd go on doubtin' every hour of the day, +and I believe one must come very nigh to either at last.” + </p> +<p> +As they thus chatted, a light post-carriage rolled into the inn yard, and +Dr. Layton and Alfred hastily got out and made for the apartment of their +friends. +</p> +<p> +“Just as I said,—just as I foretold,—the certificate forged, +without giving themselves the trouble to falsify the register,” broke in +Layton. “We have seen the book at Meisner, and it records the death of a +certain serving-woman, Esther Baumhardt, who was buried there seven years +ago. All proves that these people, in planning this knavery, calculated on +never meeting an opponent.” + </p> +<p> +“Where is this Mr. Trover?” said Alfred. “I thought we should find him +here in all the abandonment of friendly ease.” + </p> +<p> +“He dined at the cottage with his other friends,” said Winthrop, “for the +which I owe him all my gratitude, for I own to you I had sore misgivings +about sitting down with him.” + </p> +<p> +“I could n't have done it,” broke in the old doctor. “My first mouthful +would have choked me. As it is, while I wait to denounce his guilt, I have +an uneasy sense of complicity, as though I knew of a crime and had not +proclaimed it to the world.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, sir,” said Quackinboss, and with a sententious slowness, “I ain't +minded like either of you. <i>My</i> platform is this: Rogues is varmin; +they are to the rest of mankind what wolves and hyenas is to the domestic +animals. Now, it would not be good policy or good sport to pison these +critturs. What they desarve is to be hunted down! It is a rare stimulus to +a fellow's blood to chase a villain. Since I have been on this trail I +feel a matter of ten years younger.” + </p> +<p> +“And I am impatient to follow up the chase,” said the doctor, who in his +eagerness walked up and down the room with a fretful anxiety. +</p> +<p> +“Remember,” said Alfred, “that however satisfied we ourselves may be on +every point of these people's culpability, we have no authority to arrest +them, or bring them to justice. We can set the law in motion, but not +usurp its action.” + </p> +<p> +“And are they to be let go free?” asked Quackinboss. “Is it when we have +run 'em to earth we 're to call off the dogs and go home?” + </p> +<p> +“He's right, though, Colonel,” said Winthrop. “Down in our country, +mayhap, we 'd find half a dozen gentlemen who'd make Mr. Trover's trial a +very speedy affair; but here we must follow other fashions.” + </p> +<p> +“Our detective friend says that he'll not leave them till you have +received authority from home to demand their extradition,” said the +doctor. “I take it for granted forgery is an offence in every land in +Europe, and, at all events, no State can have any interest in wishing to +screen them.” + </p> +<p> +While they thus talked, Alfred Layton rang the bell, and inquired if Mr. +Trover had returned. +</p> +<p> +The waiter said, “No.” + </p> +<p> +“Why do you ask?” said the doctor. “It just occurred to me that he might +have seen us as we drove up. He knows the Colonel and myself well.” + </p> +<p> +“And you suspect that he is off, Alfred?” + </p> +<p> +“It is not so very unlikely.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us down to the cottage, then, and learn this at once,” said +Quackinboss; “I 'd be sore riled if he was to slip his cable while we +thought him hard aground.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” said the doctor. “We need not necessarily go and ask for him; +Winthrop can just drop in to say a 'good-evening,' while we wait +outside.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish you had chosen a craftier messenger,” said Winthrop, laughing. And +now, taking their hats, they set out for the Gebhardts-Berg. +</p> +<p> +Alfred contrived to slip his arm within that of Quackinboss, and while the +others went on in front, he sauntered slowly after with the Colonel. He +had been anxiously waiting for a moment when they could talk together, and +for some days back it had not been possible. If the others were entirely +absorbed in the pursuit of those who had planned this scheme of fraud, +Alfred had but one thought,—and that was Clara. It was not as the +great heiress he regarded her, not as the owner of a vast property, all at +her own disposal; he thought of the sad story that awaited her,—the +terrible revelation of her father's death, and the scarcely less harrowing +history of her who had supplied the place of mother to her. “She will have +to learn all this,” thought he, “and at the moment that she hears herself +called rich and independent, she will have to hear of the open shame and +punishment of one who, whatever the relations between them, had called her +her child, and assumed to treat her as her own.” + </p> +<p> +To make known all these to Quackinboss, and to induce him, if he could, to +regard them in the same light that they appeared to himself, was young +Layton's object. Withoat any preface he told all his fears and anxieties. +He pictured the condition of a young girl entering life alone, heralded by +a scandal that would soon spread over all Europe. Would not any poverty +with obscurity be better than fortune on such conditions? Of what avail +could wealth be, when every employment of it would bring up an odious +history? and lastly, how reconcile Clara herself to the enjoyment of her +good fortune, if it came associated with the bitter memory of others in +suffering and in durance? If he knew anything of Clara's heart, he thought +that the sorrow would far outweigh the joy the tidings of her changed +condition would bring her; at least, he hoped that he had so read her +nature aright, and it was thus that he had construed it. +</p> +<p> +If Quackinboss had none of that refined appreciation of sentiment which in +a certain measure is the conventionality of a class, he had what is +infinitely and immeasurably superior, a true-hearted sympathy with +everything human. He was sorely sorry for “that widow-woman.” He had +forgotten none of the charms she threw around their evenings at Marlia +long ago, and he was slow to think that these fascinations should always +be exercised as snares and deceptions, and, last of all, as he said, “We +have never heard <i>her</i> story yet,—we know nothing of how she +has been tried.” + </p> +<p> +“What is it, then, that you propose to do?” asked the Colonel, at the end +of a somewhat rambling and confused exposition by young Layton. +</p> +<p> +“Simply this: abandon all pursuit of these people; spare them and spare +ourselves the pain and misery of a public shame. Their plot has failed; +they will never attempt to renew it in any shape; and, above all, let not +Clara begin the bright path before her by having to pass through a shadow +of suffering and sorrow.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, there is much in what you say; and now that we have run the game to +earth, I have my misgivings that we were not yielding ourselves more to +the ardor of the pursuit than stimulated by any love of justice.” + </p> +<p> +While they were thus talking, the others had passed the little wicket and +entered the garden of the cottage. Struck by the quietness and the +unlighted windows, they knocked hastily at the door. A question and answer +revealed all, and the doctor called out aloud, “They are off! They are +away!” + </p> +<p> +Young Layton pressed Quackinboss's hand, and whispered, “Thank Heaven for +it!” + </p> +<p> +If Winthrop laughed heartily at an escape that struck him as so cleverly +effected, the doctor, far more eager in pursuit than the others, passed +into the house to interrogate the people,—learn when and how and in +what direction they had fled, and trace, if so it might be, the cause of +this sudden departure. +</p> +<p> +“See,” cried he, as the others entered the drawing-room,—“see what a +sudden retreat it has been! They were at their coffee; here is her shawl, +too, just as she may have thrown it off; and here a heap of papers and +letters, half burned, on the hearth.” + </p> +<p> +“One thing is clear enough,” said Alfred; “they discovered that they had +lost the battle, and they have abandoned the field.” + </p> +<p> +“What do I see here?” cried the doctor, as he picked up a half-burned +sheet of paper from the mass. “This is my own writing—my application to +the Patent Office, when I was prosecuting my discovery of corrugated +steel! When and how could it have come here?” + </p> +<p> +“Who can 'My dear father' be?” asked Quackinboss, examining a letter which +he had lifted from the floor. “Oh, here's his name: 'Captain Nicholas +Holmes'—” + </p> +<p> +“Nick Holmes!” exclaimed the doctor; “the fellow who stole my invention, +and threw me into a madhouse! What of him? Who writes to him as 'dear +father'?” + </p> +<p> +“Our widow, no less,” said the Colonel. “It is a few lines to say she is +just setting out for Florence, and will be with him within the week.” + </p> +<p> +“And this scoundrel was her father!” muttered the old doctor. “Only think +of all the scores that we should have had to settle if we had had the luck +to be here an hour ago! I thrashed him once in the public streets, it's +true, but we are far from being quits yet. Come, let's lose no time, but +after them at once.” + </p> +<p> +Alfred made no reply, but turned a look on Quackinboss, as thongh to +bespeak his interference. +</p> +<p> +“Well, sir,” said the Colonel, slowly, “so long as the pursuit involved a +something to find out, no man was hotter arter it than I was; but now that +we know all, that we have baffled our adversaries and beaten 'em, I ain't +a-goin' to distress myself for a mere vengeance.” + </p> +<p> +“Which means that these people are to go at large, free to practise their +knaveries on others, and carry into other families the misery we have seen +them inflict here. Is that your meaning?” asked the doctor, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“I can't tell what they are a-goin' to do hereafter, nor, maybe, can you +either, sir. It may be, that with changed hearts they 'll try another way +of livin'; it may be that they 'll see roguery ain't the best thing; it +may be—who's to say how?—that all they have gone through of +trouble and care and anxiety has made them long since sick of such a +wearisome existence, and that, though not very strong in virtue, they are +right glad to be out of the pains of vice, whatever and wherever they may +be. At all events, Shaver Quackinboss has done with 'em, and if it was +only a-goin' the length of the garden to take them this minute, I 'd jest +say, 'No, tell 'em to slope off, and leave me alone.'” + </p> +<p> +“Let me tell you, sir, these are not your home maxims, and, for my part, I +like Lynch law better than lax justice,” said the doctor, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“Lynch law has its good and its bad side,” said Quackinboss, “and, mayhap, +if you come to consider the thing coolly, you 'll see that if I was +rejecting rigid legality here, it was but to take the benefit of Judge +Lynch, only this time for mercy, and not for punishment.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, there is something in that!” cried the doctor. “You have made a +stronger case for yourself than I looked for; still, I owed that fellow a +vengeance!” + </p> +<p> +“It's the only debt a man is dishonored in the payin', sir. You know far +more of life than I do, but did you ever meet the man yet that was sorry +for having forgiven an injury? I'm not sayin' that he mightn't have felt +disappointed or discouraged by the result,—his enemy, as he'd call +him, mightn't have turned out what he ought; but that ain't the question: +did you <i>ever</i> see one man who could say, after the lapse of years, +'I wish I had borne more malice,—I'm sorry I was n't more cruel'?” + </p> +<p> +“Let them go, and let us forget them,” said the old man, as he turned and +left the room. +</p> +<p> +Young Layton grasped the Colonel's hand, and shook it warmly, as he said, +“This victory is all your own.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0059" id="link2HCH0059"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER IX. WORDS OF GOOD CHEER +</h2> +<p> +When the key-note of some long-sought mystery has sounded, there is a +strange fascination in going over and over the theme, now wondering why we +had not been more struck by this or that fact, how we could have +overlooked the importance of this incident or that coincidence. Trivial +events come up to memory as missing links in the chain of proof, and small +circumstances and chance words are brought up to fill the measure of +complete conviction. +</p> +<p> +It was thus that this party of four sat almost till daybreak talking over +the past. Each had some era to speak of as especially his own. Winthrop +could tell of Godfrey Hawke when he came a young man to the States, and +married his niece, the belle and the heiress of her native city. He +remembered all the praises bestowed upon the young Englishman's manners +and accomplishments, together with the graver forebodings of others, who +had remarked his inordinate love of play and his indifference as to the +company in which he indulged it. Next came the doctor, with his +recollections of the man broken down by dissipation and excess, and at +last dying of poison. There was but little, indeed, to recall the handsome +Godfrey Hawke in the attenuated figure and distorted countenance of that +miserable debauchee; but there were chance traits of manner that brought +up the man to Winthrop's mind. There were also on the scene his beautiful +wife, at that time in the fulness of her beauty. What a charm of +gentleness, too, did she possess!—how meekly and patiently did she +bear herself under provocations that seemed too great for human endurance! +The doctor had to own that she actually forfeited some of his sympathy by +the impression she gave him of being one deficient in a nice sense of +self-esteem, and wanting in that element of resistance without which there +is no real dignity of nature. “She seemed to me,” said he, “too craven, +too abject by half,—one of those who are born to be the subject of a +tyranny, and who, in their very submission, appear to court the wanton +cruelty of an 'oppressor'. How rightly I read her!” cried he; “how truly I +deciphered the inscription on her heart! and yet, I'll be sworn, no man +living could have detected under that mask of gentleness this woman of +long-pondering craft, this deeply designing plotter!” + </p> +<p> +“Quackinboss and I saw her under another aspect,” said Alfred. “She was +depressed and sad, but only so much so as gave an added charm to the grace +of her captivations, and made her every effort to please appear somewhat +of a sacrifice of herself for those around her.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, ain't it strange, gentlemen,” said Quackinboss, “but it's a fact, +she never deceived <i>me?</i> I remember the day of our visit at Marlia; +after that adventure with the dog she fainted, and I took her up in my +arms and carried her to the house. I thought, by course, she was +insensible. Not a bit of it; she rallied enough to open her eyes, and give +me one of the most wonderful looks ever I see in my life. It was just like +saying, 'Shaver, are you quite certain that you have n't got in your arms +one of the loveliest creatures as ever was formed? Are you sure, Shaver +Quackinboss, that you are ever to have such another piece of luck as +this?' And so certain was I that I heerd these very words in my ear, that +I said aloud, 'Darn me pale blue if I don't wish the house was half a mile +away!' And the words wasn't well out than she burst out a-laughin',—such +a hearty, joyous laugh, too, that I knew in my heart she had neither pain +nor ache, and was only a-foxin'. Well, gentlemen, we always had a way of +lookin' at each other arter that was quite peculiar; it was sayin', +'Never fear, all's on honor here.' That was, at least, how I meant it, and +I have a notion that she understood me as well. I have a strong notion +that we understand these women critturs better than you Britishers!” + </p> +<p> +“You must leave <i>me</i> out of the category of the shrewd ones, +however,” said Winthrop. “I saw her but once in my life, and yet I never +came away from a visit with the same amount of favorable impression. She +met me like an old friend, but at the same time there was a delicacy and +reserve about her that seemed to say, 'It is for <i>you</i> to ratify this +compact if you like. When <i>you</i> sign the treaty, it is finished.'” + </p> +<p> +From the discussion of the past they proceeded to the future, upon which +all felt that Winthrop could speak with most authority, since he was +Clara's kinsman and guardian. +</p> +<p> +“What do you mean to do by the gal, sir?” asked the Colonel. +</p> +<p> +“I intend to see her as soon as I can, give her the good news of her +accession to fortune, and leave her to choose whether she will come back +with me to the States, or would prefer that I should remain with her in +Europe.” + </p> +<p> +“And ain't there any other alternative possible in the case, sir?” asked +Quackinboss. “Does n't it strike you as just possible that she might say +'No' to each of these proposals, and fix another one for herself?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't quite understand you, Colonel,” said the other. +</p> +<p> +“I ain't a-goin' to talk riddles, sir. What I mean is, that the young +woman may have other thoughts in her head than either of your plans; and +now I 'll call upon my honor'ble friend, Mr. Alfred Layton, to address the +House.” + </p> +<p> +Crimson with shame and confusion, young Layton turned an imploring look at +Quackinboss; but the Colonel was indifferent to the appeal, and waved his +hand as if bespeaking silence. +</p> +<p> +“It is rather for me to speak here,” said the doctor. “My son has to begin +life with a large arrear of his father's faults to redeem. He has to +restore to our name, by conduct and honorable bearing, the fair repute +that once attached to it. Honest industry is the safe and sure road to +this, and there is no other. He has promised to try and bring back to me +in <i>his</i> name the suffrages of that university which I forfeited in +<i>mine</i>. If he succeed, he will have made me proud of him.” + </p> +<p> +“I like that,” broke in Quackinboss. “Square it all first with them +critturs in the college, and then think of a wife. Go at it, sir, and work +like a nigger; there ain't nothing will give you such courage as the very +fatigue of a hard day's work. When you lie down at night so dead beat that +you could n't do more, you 'll feel that you 've earned your rest, and you +'ll not lie awake with misgivin's and fancies, but you 'll sleep with a +good conscience, and arise refreshed the next mornin'.” + </p> +<p> +“Alfred and I settled it all between us last night,” said the doctor. +“There was but one point we could not arrange to our satisfaction. We are +largely indebted to you—” + </p> +<p> +“Stop her!” cried the Colonel, as though he were giving the word from the +paddle-box of a steamer,—“stop her! I ain't in a humor to be angry +with any one. I feel as how, when the world goes so well as it has done +lately with us all, that it would be main ungrateful to show a peevish or +discontented spirit, and I don't believe that there 's a way to rile me +but one,—jest one,—and you 've a-hit on 't. Yes, sir, you have!” + </p> +<p> +Quackinboss began his speech calmly enough, but before he finished it his +voice assumed a hard and harsh tone very rare with him. +</p> +<p> +“Remember, my dear and true-hearted friend,” broke in Alfred, “that it's +only of one debt we are eager to acquit ourselves. Of all that we owe you +in affection and in gratitude, we are satisfied to stand in your books as +long as we live.” + </p> +<p> +“I ain't a-goin' to square accounts,” said the Colonel; “but if I was, I +know well that I'd stand with a long balance ag'in' me. Meat and drink, +sir, is good things, but they ain't as good for a man as liberal thoughts, +kind feelin's, and a generous trust in one's neighbor. Well, I 've picked +up a little of all three from that young man there, and a smatterin' of +other things besides that I 'd never have lamed when barking oak in the +bush.” + </p> +<p> +Old Layton shook his head in dissent, and muttered,— +</p> +<p> +“You may cancel the bond, but we cannot forget the debt.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me arbitrate between you,” said Winthrop. +</p> +<p> +“Leave the question at rest till this day twelvemonth. Let each give his +word not to approach it; and then time, that will have taught us many a +thing in the mean while, will supply the best expedient.” + </p> +<p> +They gave their hands to each other in solemn pledge, and not a word was +uttered, and the compact was ratified. +</p> +<p> +“We shall leave this for England to-night,” said the doctor. +</p> +<p> +“Not, surely, till you come as far as Milan first?” asked Winthrop. +</p> +<p> +“He's right,—he 's quite right!” said Quackinboss. “If a man has a +Polar voyage afore him, it 's no way to harden his constitution by passin' +a winter at Palermo. Ain't I right, sir?” + </p> +<p> +It was not difficult to see that Alfred Layton did not yield a very +willing assent to this arrangement; but he stole away from the room +unperceived, and carried his sorrow with him to his chamber. He had +scarcely closed his door, however, when he heard Quackinboss's voice +outside. +</p> +<p> +“I ain't a-comin' to disturb you,” said he, entering; “but I have a word +or two to say, and, mayhap, can't find another time to say it. You 'll be +wantin' a trifle or so to begin with before you can turn to earn something +for yourself. You 'll find it there in that pocket-book,—look to it +now, sir, I'll have no opposition,—it's the best investment ever I +had. You 'll marry this girl; yes, there ain't a doubt about that, and +mayhap, one of these days I 'll be a-comin to you to ask favorable terms +for my cousin Obadiah B. Quackinboss, that's located down there in your +own diggin's, and you 'll say, 'Well, Colonel, I ain't forgotten old +times; we was thick as thieves once on a time, and so fix it all your own +way.'” + </p> +<p> +Alfred could but squeeze the other's hand as he turned away, his heart too +full for him to speak. +</p> +<p> +“I like your father, sir,” resumed Quackinboss; “he's a grand fellow, and +if it war n't for some of his prejudices about the States, I 'd say I +never met a finer man.” + </p> +<p> +Young Layton saw well how by this digression the American was adroitly +endeavoring to draw the conversation into another direction, and one less +pregnant with exciting emotions. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir, he ain't fair to us,” resumed the Colonel. “He forgets that we +'re a new people, and jest as hard at work to build up our new +civilization as our new cities.” + </p> +<p> +“There's one thing he never does, never can forget,—that the +warmest, fastest friend his son ever met with in life came from your +country.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, sir, if there be anything we Yankees are famed for, it is the +beneficial employment of our spare capital. We don't sit down content with +three-and-a-half or four per cent interest, like you Britishers, we look +upon <i>that</i> as a downright waste; and it's jest the same with our +feelin's as our dollars, though <i>you</i> of the old country don't think +so. We can't afford to wait thirty, or five-and-thirty years for a +friendship. We want lively sales, sir, and quick returns. We want to know +if a man mean kindly by us afore we 've both of us got too old to care for +it. That 's how I come to like you first, and I war n't so far out in +thinkin' that I 'd made a good investment.” + </p> +<p> +Alfred could only smile good-humoredly at the speech, and the other went +on,— +</p> +<p> +“You Britishers begin by givin' us Yankees certain national traits and +habits, and you won't let us be anything but what you have already +fashioned us in your own minds. But, arter all, I'd have you to remember +we are far more like your people of a century back than you yourselves +are. We ain't as mealy-mouthed and as p'lite and as smooth-tongued as the +moderns. But if we 're plain of speech, we are simple of habit; and what +you so often set down as rudeness in us ain't anything more than our wish +to declare that we ain't in want of any one's help or assistance, but we +are able to shift for ourselves, and are independent.” + </p> +<p> +Quackinboss arose, as he said this, with the air of a man who had +discharged his conscience of a load. He had often smarted under what he +felt to be the unfair appreciation of the old doctor for America, and he +thought that by instilling sounder principles into his son's mind, the +seed would one day or other produce good fruit. +</p> +<p> +From this he led Alfred to talk of his plans for the future. It was his +father's earnest desire that he should seek collegiate honors in the +university which had once repudiated himself. The old man did not +altogether arraign the justice of the act, but he longed to see his name +once more in a place of honor, and that the traditions of his own triumphs +should be renewed in his son's. +</p> +<p> +“If I succeed,” said Alfred, “it will be time enough afterwards to say +what next.” + </p> +<p> +“You'll marry that gal, sir, and come out to the States. I see it all as +if I read it in a book.” + </p> +<p> +Alfred shook his head doubtfully, and was silent. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I 'm a-goin' to Milan with Harvey Winthrop; and when I see the +country, as we say, I 'll tell you about the clearin'.” + </p> +<p> +“You'll write to me too?” + </p> +<p> +“That I will. It may be that she won't have outright forgotten me, and if +so, she 'll be more friendly with me than an uncle she has never seen nor +known about. I 'll soon find out if her head's turned by all this good +luck, or if, as I hope, the fortune has fallen on one as deserved it. +Mayhap she 'll be for goin' over to America at once; mayhap she 'll have a +turn for doing it grand here, in Europe. Harvey Winthrop says she 'll have +money enough to buy up one of these little German States, and be a +princess if she likes; at all events you shall hear, and then in about a +month hence look out for me some fine evening, for I tell you, sir, I've +got so used to it now, that I can't get through the day without a talk +with you; and though the doctor and I do have a bout now and then over the +Yankees, I 'd like to see the man who 'd abuse America before him, and say +one word against England in the face of Shaver Quackinboss.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0060" id="link2HCH0060"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER X. THE LETTER FROM ALFRED LAYTON +</h2> +<p> +When Sir William Heathcote learned that Mrs. Morris had quitted his +house, gone without one word of adieu, his mind reverted to all the +bygone differences with his son, and to Charles did he at once ascribe +the cause of her sudden flight. His health was in that state in which +agitation becomes a serious complication, and for several days he was +dangerously ill, violent paroxysms of passion alternating with long +intervals of apathy and unconsciousness. The very sight of Charles in +his room would immediately bring on one of his attacks of excitement, +and even the presence of May Leslie herself brought him no alleviation +of suffering. It was in vain that she assured him that Mrs. Morris +left on reasons known only to herself; that even to May herself she had +explained nothing, written nothing. The old man obstinately repeated his +conviction that she had been made the victim of an intrigue, and that +Charles was at the bottom of it. How poor May strove to combat this +unjust and unworthy suspicion, how eagerly she defended him she loved, +and how much the more she learned to love for the defending of him. +Charles, too, in this painful emergency, displayed a moderation and +self-control for which May had never given him credit. Not a hasty +word or impatient expression escaped him, and he was unceasing in every +attention to his father which he could render without the old man's +knowledge. It was a very sad household; on every side there was +sickness and sorrow, but few of those consolations that alleviate pain +or lighten suffering. Sir William desired to be left almost always alone; +Charles walked moodily by himself in the garden; and May kept her +room, and seldom left it. Lord Agincourt came daily to ask after them, +but could see no one. Even Charles avoided meeting him, and merely sent +him a verbal message, or a few hasty lines with a pencil. +</p> +<p> +Upwards of a week had passed in this manner, when, among the letters from +the post, which Charles usually opened and only half read through, came a +very long epistle from Alfred Layton. His name was on the corner of the +envelope, and, seeing it, Charles tossed the letter carelessly across the +table to May, saying, in a peevish irony, “You may care to see what your +old admirer has to say; as for me, I have no such curiosity.” + </p> +<p> +She paid no attention to the rude speech, and went on with her breakfast. +</p> +<p> +“You don't mean to say,” cried he, in the same pettish tone, “that you +don't care what there may be in that letter? It may have some great piece +of good fortune to announce. He may have become a celebrity, a rich man,—Heaven +knows what. This may contain the offer of his hand. Come, May, don't +despise destiny; break the seal and read your fate.” + </p> +<p> +She made no answer, but, rising from the table, left the room. +</p> +<p> +It was one of those days on which young Heathcote's temper so completely +mastered him that in anger with himself he would quarrel with his dearest +friend. Fortunately, they were now very rare with him, but when they did +come he was their slave. When on service and in the field, these were the +intervals in which his intrepid bravery, stimulated to very madness, had +won him fame and honor; and none, not even himself, knew that some of his +most splendid successes were reckless indifference to life. His friends, +however, learned to remark that Heathcote was no companion at such times, +and they usually avoided him. +</p> +<p> +He sat on at the breakfast-table, not eating, or indeed well conscious +where he was, when the door was hastily thrown open, and Agincourt +entered. “Well, old fellow,” cried he, “I have unearthed you at last. Your +servants have most nobly resisted all my attempts to force a passage or +bribe my way to you, and it was only by a stratagem that I contrived to +slip past the porter and pass in.” + </p> +<p> +“You have cost the fellow his place, then,” said Charles, rudely; “he +shall be sent away to-day.” + </p> +<p> +“Nonsense, Charley; none of this moroseness with me.” + </p> +<p> +“And why not with <i>you?</i>” cried the other, violently. “Why not with +<i>you?</i> You'll not presume to say that the accident of your station +gives you the privilege of intruding where others are denied? You 'll not +pretend that?” + </p> +<p> +A deep flush covered the young man's face, and his eyes flashed angrily; +but just as quickly a softened expression came over his countenance, and +in a voice of mingled kindness and bantering, he said, “I 'll tell you +what I 'll pretend, Charley; I'll pretend to say that you love me too +sincerely to mean to offend me, even when a harsh speech has escaped you +in a moment of haste or anger.” + </p> +<p> +“Offend you!” exclaimed Heathcote, with the air of a man utterly puzzled +and confused,—“offend you! How could I dream of offending you? You +were not used to be touchy, Agincourt; what, in the name of wonder, could +make you fancy I meant offence?” + </p> +<p> +The look of his face, the very accent in which he spoke, were so +unaffectedly honest and sincere that the youth saw at once how +unconsciously his rude speech had escaped him, and that not a trace of it +remained in his memory. +</p> +<p> +“I have been so anxious to see you, Charley,” said he, in his usual tone, +“for some days back. I wanted to consult you about O'Shea. My uncle has +given me an appointment for him, and I can't find out where he is. Then +there 's another thing; that strange Yankee, Quackinboss,—you +remember him at Marlia, long ago. He found out, by some means, that I was +at the hotel here, and he writes to beg I 'll engage I can't say how many +rooms for himself and some friends who are to arrive this evening. I don't +think you are listening to me, are you?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, I hear you,—go on.” + </p> +<p> +“I mean to clear out of the diggin's if these Yankees come, and you must +tell me where to go. I don't dislike the 'Kernal,' but his following would +be awful, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, quite so.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean by 'Yes'? Is it that you agree with me, or that you +haven't paid the slightest attention to one word I've said?” + </p> +<p> +“Look here, Agincourt,” said Charley, passing his arm inside the other's, +and leading him up and down the room. “I wish I had not changed my mind; I +wish I had gone to India. I have utterly failed in all that I hoped to +have done here, and I have made my poor father more unhappy than ever.” + </p> +<p> +“Is he so determined to marry this widow, then?” + </p> +<p> +“She is gone. She left us more than a week ago, without saying why or for +whither. I have not the slightest clew to her conduct, nor can I guess +where she is.” + </p> +<p> +“When was it she left this?” + </p> +<p> +“On Wednesday week last.” + </p> +<p> +“The very day O'Shea started.” + </p> +<p> +They each looked steadfastly at the other; and at last Agincourt said,— +</p> +<p> +“Would n't that be a strange solution of the riddle, Charley? On the last +night we dined together you may remember I promised to try what I could +make of the negotiation; and so I praised the widow, extolled her beauty, +and hinted that she was exactly the clever sort of woman that helps a man +on to fortune.” + </p> +<p> +“How I wish I had gone to India!” muttered Charles, and so immersed in his +own cares as not to hear one word the other was saying. +</p> +<p> +“If I were to talk in that way, Charley, you 'd be the very first to call +out, What selfishness! what an utter indifference to all feelings but your +own! You are merely dealing with certain points that affect yourself, and +you forget a girl that loves you.” + </p> +<p> +“Am I so sure of that? Am I quite certain that an old attachment—she +owned to me herself that she liked him, that tutor fellow of yours—has +not a stronger hold on her heart than I have? There 's a letter from him. +I have n't opened it I have a sort of half suspicion that when I do read +it I 'll have a violent desire to shoot him. It is just as if I knew that, +inside that packet there, was an insult awaiting me, and yet I 'd like to +spare myself the anger it will cause me when I break the seal; and so I +walk round the table and look at the letter, and turn it over, and at last—” + With the word he tore open the envelope, and unfolded the note. “Has he +not given me enough of it? One, two, three, ay, four pages! When a man +writes at such length, he is certain to be either very tiresome or very +disagreeable, not to say that I never cared much for your friend Mr. +Layton; he gave himself airs with us poor unlettered folk—” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come, Charley; if you were not in an ill mood, you 'd never say +anything so ungenerous.” + </p> +<p> +It was possible that he felt the rebuke to be just, for he did not reply, +but, seating himself in the window, began to read the letter. More than +once did Agincourt make some remark, or ask some question. Of even his +movements of impatience Heathcote took no note, as, deeply immersed in the +contents of the letter, he continued to read on. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I'll leave you for a while, Charley,” said he, at last; “perhaps I +may drop in to see you this evening.” + </p> +<p> +“Wait; stay where you are!” said Heathcote, abruptly, and yet not lifting +his eyes from the lines before him. “What a story!—what a terrible +story!” muttered he to himself. Then beckoning to Agincourt to come near, +he caught him by the arm, and in a low whisper said, “Who do you think she +turns out to be? The widow of Godfrey Hawke!” + </p> +<p> +“I never so much as heard of Godfrey Hawke.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, I forgot; you were an infant at the time. But surely you must have +heard or read of that murder at Jersey?—a well-known gambler, named +Hawke, poisoned by his associates, while on a visit at his house.” + </p> +<p> +“And who is she?” + </p> +<p> +“Mrs. Penthony Morris. Here's the whole story. But begin at the +beginning.” + </p> +<p> +Seated side by side, they now proceeded to read the letter over together, +nor did either speak a word till it was finished. +</p> +<p> +“And to be so jolly with all that on her mind!” exclaimed Agincourt. “Why, +she most have the courage of half a dozen men.” + </p> +<p> +“I now begin to read the meaning of many things I never could make out her +love of retirement,—she, a woman essentially of the world and +society, estranging herself from every one; her strange relations with +Clara, a thing which used to puzzle me beyond measure; and lastly, her +remarkable injunction to me when we parted, her prayer to be forgotten, +or, at least, never mentioned.” + </p> +<p> +“You did not tell me of that.” + </p> +<p> +“Nor was it my intention to have done so now; it escaped me +involuntarily.” + </p> +<p> +“And what is to become of Clara?” + </p> +<p> +“Don't you see that she has found an uncle,—this Mr. Winthrop,—with +whom, and our friend Quackinboss, she is to arrive at Rome to-night or +to-morrow?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, these are the friends for whom I was to bespeak an apartment; so, +then, I 'll not leave my hotel. I 'm delighted to have such neighbors.” + </p> +<p> +“May ought to go and meet her; she ought to bring her here, and of course +she will do so. But, first of all, to show her this letter; or shall I +merely tell her certain parts of it?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd let her read every line of it, and I 'd give it to Sir William +also.” + </p> +<p> +Charles started at the counsel; but after a moment he said, “I believe you +are right. The sooner we clear away these mysteries, the sooner we shall +deal frankly together.” + </p> +<p> +“I have come to beg your pardon, May,” said Charles, as he stood on the +sill of her door. “I could scarcely hope you 'd grant it save from very +pity for me, for I have gone through much this last day or two. But, +besides your pardon, I want your advice. When you have read over that +letter,—read it twice,—I 'll come back again.” + </p> +<p> +May made him no answer, but, taking the letter, turned away. He closed the +door noiselessly, and left her. Whatever may be the shock a man +experiences on learning that the individual with whom for a space of time +he has been associating on terms of easy intimacy should turn out to be +one notorious in crime or infamous in character, to a woman the revulsion +of feeling under like circumstances is tenfold more painful. It is not +alone that such casualties are so much more rare, but in the confidences +between women there is so much more interchange of thought and feeling +that the shock is proportionately greater. That a man should be arraigned +before a tribunal is a stain, but to a woman it is a brand burned upon her +forever. +</p> +<p> +There had been a time when May and Mrs. Morris lived together as sisters. +May had felt all the influence of a character more formed than her own, +and of one who, gifted and accomplished as she was, knew how to extend +that influence with consummate craft. In those long-ago days May had +confided to her every secret of her heart,—her early discontents +with Charles Heathcote; her pettish misgivings about the easy confidence +of his security; her half flirtation with young Layton, daily inclining +towards something more serious still. She recalled to mind, too, how Mrs. +Morris had encouraged her irritation against Charles, magnifying all his +failings into faults, and exaggerating the natural indolence of his nature +into the studied indifference of one “sure of his bond.” And last of all +she thought of her in her relations with Clara,—poor Clara, whose +heart, overflowing with affection, had been repelled and schooled into a +mere mockery of sentiment. +</p> +<p> +That her own fortune had been wasted and dissipated by this woman she well +knew. Without hesitation or inquiry, May had signed everything that was +put before her, and now she really could not tell what remained to her of +all that wealth of which she used to hear so much and care so little. +</p> +<p> +These thoughts tracked her along every line of the letter, and through all +the terrible details she was reading; the woman herself, in her craft and +subtlety, absorbed her entire attention. Even when she had read to the +end, and learned the tidings of Clara's fortune, her mind would +involuntarily turn back to Mrs. Penthony Morris and her wiles. It was in +an actual terror at the picture her mind had drawn of this deep designing +woman that Charles found her sitting with the letter before her, and her +eyes staring wildly and on vacancy. +</p> +<p> +“I see, May,” said he, gently taking her hand, and seating himself at her +side, “this dreadful letter has shocked <i>you</i>, as it has shocked <i>me</i>; +but remember, dearest, we are only looking back at a peril we have all +escaped. She has <i>not</i> separated us; she has not involved us in the +disgrace of relationship to her; she is not one of us; she is not anything +even to poor Clara; and though we may feel how narrowly we have avoided +all our dangers, let us be grateful for that safety for which we really +contributed nothing ourselves. Is it not so, dearest May? We have gained +the harbor, and never knew that we had crossed a quicksand.” + </p> +<p> +“And, after all, Charles, painful as all this is now, and must be when +remembered hereafter, it is not without its good side. We will all draw +closer to each other, and love more fondly where we can trust implicitly.” + </p> +<p> +“And you forgive me, May?” + </p> +<p> +“Certainly not—if you assume forgiveness in that fashion!” + </p> +<p> +Now, though this true history records that May Leslie arose with a deep +flush upon her cheek, and her massy roll of glossy hair somewhat +dishevelled, there is no mention of what the precise fashion was in which +Charles Heathcote sued out his pardon; nor, indeed, with our own narrow +experiences of such incidents, do we care to hazard a conjecture. +</p> +<p> +“And now as to my father, May. How much of this letter shall we tell him?” + </p> +<p> +“All; every word of it. It will pain him, as it has pained us, or even +more; but, that pain once over, he will come back, without one reserved +thought, to all his old affection for us, and we shall be happy as we used +to be.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0061" id="link2HCH0061"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XI. AN EAGER GUEST +</h2> +<p> +When Lord Agincoort returned to his hotel, he was astonished to see +waiters passing in and out of his apartment with trays covered with +dishes, decanters of wine, and plates of fruit; but as he caught the deep +tone of O'Shea's voice from within, he quickly understood how that +free-and-easy personage was making himself at home. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, it is here you are!” said Agincourt, entering; “and Charley and I +have been just speculating whether you might not have been expiating some +of your transgressions in an Austrian jail.” + </p> +<p> +“I am here, as you perceive,” said the O'Shea, wiping his lips with his +napkin, “and doing indifferently well, too. By the way they treat me, I 'm +given to believe that your credit stands well with the hotel people.” + </p> +<p> +“When did you arrive?” + </p> +<p> +“An hour ago; just in time to make them roast that hedgehog. They call it +a sucking-pig, but I know it's a hedgehog, though I was eight-and-forty +hours without eating.” + </p> +<p> +“How was that?” + </p> +<p> +“This way,” said he, as he drew out the lining of his pockets, and showed +that they were perfectly empty. “I just left myself enough for the +diligence fare from Bologna, and one roll of bread and a pint of wine as I +started; since that I have tasted nothing but the pleasures of hope. Don't +talk to me, therefore, or talk away, but don't expect me to answer you for +fifteen minutes more.” + </p> +<p> +Agincourt nodded, and seated himself at the table, in quiet contemplation +of the O'Shea's performance. “I got an answer to my letter about you,” + said he, at length, and rather curious to watch the struggle between his +hunger and his curiosity. +</p> +<p> +O'Shea gave a nod, as though to say “Proceed;” but Agincourt said nothing. +</p> +<p> +“Well, go on!” cried O'Shea, as he helped himself to half a duck. +</p> +<p> +“It's a long-winded sort of epistle,” said Agincourt, now determined to +try his patience to the uttermost. “I 'll have to show it to you.” + </p> +<p> +“Is it Yes or No?” asked O'Shea, eagerly, and almost choking himself with +the effort to speak. +</p> +<p> +“That's pretty much how you take it. You see, my uncle is one of those +formal old fellows trained in official life, and who have a horror of +doing anything against the traditions of a department—” + </p> +<p> +“Well, well, well! but can't he say whether he 'll give me something or +not?” + </p> +<p> +“So he does say it, but you interrupt me at every moment. When you have +read through his letter, you 'll be able to appreciate the difficulties of +his position, and also decide on what you think most conducive to your own +interests.” + </p> +<p> +O'Shea groaned heavily, as he placed the remainder of the duck on his +plate. +</p> +<p> +“What of your duel? How did it go off?” + </p> +<p> +“Beautifully.” + </p> +<p> +“Did your man behave well?” + </p> +<p> +“Beautifully.” + </p> +<p> +“Was he hit?” + </p> +<p> +A shake of the head. +</p> +<p> +“Was the Frenchman wounded?” + </p> +<p> +“Here—flesh wound—nothing serious.” + </p> +<p> +“That's all right. I'll leave you now, to finish your lunch in quiet. You +'ll find me on the Pincian when you stroll out.” + </p> +<p> +“Look here! Don't go! Wait a bit! I want you to tell me in one word,—can +I get anything or not?” + </p> +<p> +The intense earnestness of his face as he spoke would have made any +further tantalizing such a cruelty that Agincourt answered frankly, “Yes, +old fellow, they 've made you a Boundary Commissioner; I forget where, but +you're to have a thousand a year, and some allowances besides.” + </p> +<p> +“This is n't a joke? You 're telling me truth?” asked he, trembling all +over with anxiety. +</p> +<p> +“On honor,” said Agincourt, giving his hand. +</p> +<p> +“You 're a trump, then; upon my conscience, you 're a trump. Here I am +now, close upon eight-and-thirty,—I don't look it by five years, but +I am,—and after sitting for four sessions in Parliament, not a man +did I ever find would do me a hand's turn, but it 's to a brat of a boy I +owe the only bit of good fortune of my whole life. That's what I call +hard,—very hard.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't perceive that it's very complimentary to myself, either,” said +Agincourt, struggling to keep down a laugh. But O'Shea was far too full of +his own cares to have any thought for another's, and he went on muttering +below his breath about national injustice and Saxon jealousy. +</p> +<p> +“You 'll accept this, then? Shall I say so?” + </p> +<p> +“I believe you will! I'd like to see myself refuse a thousand a-year and +pickings.” + </p> +<p> +“I suspect I know what you have in your mind, too. I 'll wager a pony that +I guess it. You 're planning to marry that pretty widow, and carry her out +with you.” + </p> +<p> +O'Shea grew crimson over face and forehead, and stared at the other almost +defiantly, without speaking. +</p> +<p> +“Ain't I right?” asked Agincourt, somewhat disconcerted by the look that +was bent upon him. +</p> +<p> +“You are not right; you were never more wrong in your life.” + </p> +<p> +“May be so; but you 'll find it a hard task to persuade me so.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't want to persuade you of anything; but this I know, that you 've +started a subject there that I won't talk on with you or any one else. Do +you mind me now? I 'm willing enough to owe you the berth you offered me, +but not upon conditions; do you perceive—no conditions.” + </p> +<p> +This was not a very intelligible speech, but Agincourt could detect the +drift of the speaker, and caught him cordially by the hand, and said, “If +I ever utter a word that offends you, I pledge my honor it will be through +inadvertence, and not intention.” + </p> +<p> +“That will do. I 'm your debtor, now, and without misgivings. I want to +see young Heathcote as soon as I can. Would I find him at home now?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll get him over here to dine with us. We 'll have a jolly evening +together, and drink a boundless success to the Boundary Commissioner. If I +don't mistake, too, there 's another good fellow here would like to be one +of us.” + </p> +<p> +“Another! who can he be?” + </p> +<p> +“Here he comes to answer for himself.” And, as he spoke, Quackinboss +lounged into the room, with his hands deep in his trousers-pockets, and +his hat on his head. +</p> +<p> +“Well, sir, I hope I see you in good health,” said he to Agincourt. +“You've grown a bit since we met last, and you ain't so washy-lookin' as +you used to be.” + </p> +<p> +“Thanks. I 'm all right in health, and very glad to see you, besides. Is +not my friend here an old acquaintance of yours,—the O'Shea?” + </p> +<p> +“The O'Shea,” said Quackinboss, slowly, laying great stress upon the +definite article. +</p> +<p> +“The O'Shea! Yes, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“You may remember that we met at Lucca some time back,” said O'Shea, who +felt that the moment was embarrassing and unpleasant. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir. 'The Shaver' recollects you,” said he, in a slow, drawling +tone; “and if I ain't mortal mistaken, there's a little matter of account +unsettled between us.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not aware of any dealings between us,” said O'Shea, haughtily. +</p> +<p> +“Well, sir, <i>I</i> am, and that comes pretty much to the same thing. You +came over to Lucca one day to see young Layton, and you saw me, and we had +a talk together about miscellaneous matters, and we didn't quite agree, +and we parted with the understandin' that we 'd go over the figures +again, and make the total all right. I hope, sir, you are with me in all +this?” + </p> +<p> +“Perfectly. I remember it all now. I went over to settle a difference I +had had with Layton, and you, with that amiable readiness for a fight that +distinguishes your countrymen, proposed a little row on your own account; +something—I forget what it was now—interfered with each of us +at the time, but we agreed to let it stand over and open for a future +occasion.” + </p> +<p> +“You talk like a printed book, sir. It's a downright treat to hear you. Go +on,” said the Colonel, seriously. +</p> +<p> +“It's my turn now,” broke in Agincourt, warmly, “and I must say, I +expected both more good sense and more generosity from either of you than +to make the first moment of a friendly meeting the occasion of remembering +an old grudge. You 'll not leave this room till you have shaken hands, and +become—what you are well capable of being—good friends to each +other.” + </p> +<p> +“I have no grudge against the Colonel,” said O'Shea, frankly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, sir,” said Quackinboss, slowly, “I'm thinkin' Mr. Agincourt is +right. As John Randolf of Roanoke said, 'The men who are ready to settle +matters with the pistol are seldom slow to set them right on persuasion.' +Here 's my hand, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll both dine with me to-day, I hope,” said Agincourt. “My friend +here,” added he, taking O'Shea's arm, “has just received a Government +appointment, and we are bound to 'wet his commission' for him in some good +claret.” + </p> +<p> +They accepted the hospitable proposal readily, and now, at perfect ease +together, and without one embarrassing thought to disturb their +intercourse, they sat chatting away pleasantly for some time, when +suddenly Quackinboss started up, saying, “Darn me a pale pink, if I +haven't forgot all that I came about. Here 's how it was.” And as he +spoke, he took Agincourt to one side and whispered eagerly in his ear. +</p> +<p> +“But they know it all, my dear Colonel,” broke in Agincourt. “Charles +Heathcote has had the whole story in a long letter from Layton. I was with +him this morning when the post arrived, and I read the letter myself; and, +so far from entertaining any of the doubts you fear, they are only +impatient to see dear Clara once more and make her 'One of Them.'” + </p> +<p> +“Well, sir, I 'm proud to know it,” said the Colonel, “not only because it +was my own readin' of 'em, but whenever I hear anything good or generous, +I feel as if—bein' a human crittur myself—I came in for some +of the credit of it. The doubt was never mine, sir. It was my friend, Mr. +Harvey Winthrop, that thought how, perhaps, there might be a scruple, or a +hesitation, or a sort of backwardness about knowin' a gal with such a +dreadful story tacked to her. 'In Eu-rôpe, sir,' says he, 'they won't have +them sort of things; they ain't like our people, who are noways displeased +at a bit of notoriety. +</p> +<p> +“There!—look there!—the whole question is decided already,” + said Agincourt, as he drew the other towards the window and pointed to the +street below. “There go the two girls together; they have driven off in +that carriage, and Clara has her home once more in the midst of those who +love her.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm bound to say, sir,” said Quackinboss, after a moment's pause, “that +you Britishers are a fine people. You have, it is true, too many class +distinctions and grades of rank among you, but you have a main hearty +sympathy that teaches you to deal with human sufferin' as a thing that +makes all men kindred; and whenever it's your lot to have to do a +kindness, you double the benefit by the delicacy you throw into it.” + </p> +<p> +“That's a real good fellow,” said O'Shea, as Quackinboss quitted the room. +</p> +<p> +“Is he not?” cried Agincourt. “If I ever harbor an ungenerous thought +about Yankees, I know how to correct it, by remembering that he 's 'One of +Them.'” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0062" id="link2HCH0062"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XII. CONCLUSION +</h2> +<p> +Most valued reader, can you number amongst your life experiences that very +suggestive one of revisiting some spot where you had once sojourned +pleasantly, with scarcely any of the surroundings which first embellished +it? With all the instruction and self-knowledge derivable from such an +incident, there is a considerable leaven of sorrow, and even some +bitterness. It is so very hard to believe that we are ourselves more +changed than all around. We could have sworn that waterfall was twice as +high, and certainly the lake used not to be the mere pond we see it; and +the cedars,—surely these are not the cedars we were wont to sit +under with Marian long ago? Oh dear! when I think that I once fancied I +could pass my life in this spot, and now I am actually impatient for +day-dawn that I may leave it! +</p> +<p> +With something of this humor three persons sat at sunset under the old +beech-trees at the Bagni di Lucca. They were characters in this true +history that we but passingly presented to our reader, and may well have +lapsed from his memory. They were Mr. and Mrs. Morgan and Mr. Mosely, who +had by the merest accident once more met and renewed acquaintance. +</p> +<p> +“My wife remembered you, sir, the moment you entered the <i>table d'hôte</i> +room. She said, 'There 's that young man of Trip and Mosely's, that we saw +here—was it three years ago?'” + </p> +<p> +“Possibly,” was the dry response. “My memory is scarcely so good.” + </p> +<p> +“You know I never forget a face, Tom,” broke in the lady. +</p> +<p> +“I constantly do,” said Mosely, tartly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, but you must see so many people every day of your life, such hordes +passing in and passing out, as I said to Morgan, it's no wonder at all if +he can't remember us.” + </p> +<p> +Mr. Mosely had just burned his finger with a lucifer-match, and mattered +something not actually a benediction. +</p> +<p> +“Great changes over Italy—indeed, over all Europe—since we met +last here,” said Morgan, anxious to get discussion into a safer region. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, the Italians are behaving admirably; they 've shown the world that +they are fully capable of winning their liberty, and knowing how to employ +it.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't believe it, sir,—bigoted set of rascals,—it's all +pillage,—simple truth is, the Governments were all too good for +them.” + </p> +<p> +“You're right, Tom; perfectly right.” + </p> +<p> +“He 'll not have many to agree with him, then; of that, madam, be well +assured. The sympathies of the whole world are with these people.” + </p> +<p> +“Sympathies!—I like to hear of sympathies! Why won't sympathies mend +the holes in their pantaloons, sir, and give them bread to eat?” + </p> +<p> +Mosely arose with impatience, and began to draw on his gloves. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, don't go for a moment, sir,” broke in the lady. “I am so curious to +hear if you know what became of the people we met the last time we were +here?” + </p> +<p> +“Which of them?” + </p> +<p> +“Well—indeed, I'd like to hear about all of them.” + </p> +<p> +“I believe I can tell you, then. The Heathcotes are living in Germany. The +young man is married to Miss Leslie, but no great catch either, for she +lost about two-thirds of her fortune in speculation; still, they've got a +fine place on the Elbe, near Dresden, and I saw them at the Opera there a +few nights ago.” + </p> +<p> +“And that young fellow—Layton, or Leighton—” + </p> +<p> +“Layton. He made a good thing of it. He married the girl they called Miss +Hawke, with a stunning fortune; their yacht is waiting for them now at +Leghorn. They say he's the first astronomer of the day. I can only tell +you, that if his wife be like her picture in this year's Exhibition, she +'s the handsomest woman in England. I heard it all from Colonel +Quackinboss.” + </p> +<p> +“And so you met Quackinboss?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, he came out from England in Layton's schooner, and is now gone down +to join Garibaldi. He says, 'Come si fa?' is n't such a poor devil as he +once thought him; and if they do determine to strike a blow for freedom, +an American ought to be 'One of Them.'” + </p> +<p> +THE END. <br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of One Of Them, by Charles James Lever + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ONE OF THEM *** + +***** This file should be named 32840-h.htm or 32840-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/8/4/32840/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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