farouche and swaggering air which they had deemed the “rigueur” before, at once fled, and in its place we found the most gentlemanlike attention and true politeness.
As soon as I was enabled to speak upon the matter, I begged Trevanion to look to poor O’Leary, who still lay upon the ground in a state of perfect unconsciousness. Captain Derigny, on hearing my wish, at once returned to the quarry, and, with the greatest difficulty, persuaded my friend to rise and endeavour to walk, which at last he did attempt, calling him to bear witness that it perhaps was the only case on record where a man with a bullet in his brain had made such an exertion.
With a view to my comfort and quiet, they put him into the cab of Le Baron; and, having undertaken to send Dupuytrien to me immediately on my reaching Paris, took their leave, and Trevanion and I set out homeward.
Not all my exhaustion and debility–nor even the acute pain I was suffering, could prevent my laughing at O’Leary’s adventure; and it required all Trevanion’s prudence to prevent my indulging too far in my recollection of it.
When we reached Meurice’s, I found Dupuytrien in waiting, who immediately pronounced the main artery of the limb as wounded; and almost as instantaneously proceeded to pass a ligature round it. This painful business being concluded, I was placed upon a sofa, and being plentifully supplied with lemonade, and enjoined to keep quiet, left to my own meditations, such as they were, till evening–Trevanion having taken upon him to apologize for our absence at Mrs. Bingham’s dejeune, and O’Leary being fast asleep in his own apartments.
CHAPTER XXXV.
EARLY RECOLLECTIONS–A FIRST LOVE.
I know of no sensations so very nearly alike, as those felt on awaking after very sudden and profuse loss of blood, and those resulting from a large dose of opium. The dizziness, the confusion, and the abstraction at first, gradually yielding, as the senses became clearer, to a vague and indistinct consciousness; then the strange mistiness, in which fact and fiction are wrapped up–the confounding of persons, and places, and times, not so as to embarrass and annoy–for the very debility you feel subdues all irritation–but rather to present a panoramic picture of odd and incongruous events more pleasing than otherwise.
Of the circumstances by which I was thus brought to a sick couch, I had not even the most vague recollection–the faces and the dress of all those I had lately seen were vividly before me; but how, and for what purpose I knew not. Something in their kindness and attention had left an agreeable impression upon my mind, and without being able, or even attempting to trace it, I felt happy in the thought. While thus the “hour before” was dim and indistinct, the events of years past were vividly and brightly pictured before me; and strange, too, the more remote the period, the more did it seem palpable and present to my imagination. For so it is, there is in memory a species of mental long-sightedness, which, though blind to the object close beside you, can reach the blue mountains and the starry skies, which lie full many a league away. Is this a malady? or is it rather a providential gift to alleviate the tedious hours of the sick bed, and cheer the lonely sufferer, whose thoughts are his only realm?
My school-boy days, in all their holiday excitement; the bank where I had culled the earliest cowslips of the year; the clear but rapid stream, where days long I have watched the speckled trout, as they swam peacefully beneath, or shook their bright fins in the gay sunshine; the gorgeous dragon-fly that played above the water, and dipped his bright wings in its ripple–they were all before me. And then came the thought of school itself, with its little world of boyish cares and emulations; the early imbibed passion for success; the ardent longing for superiority; the high and swelling feeling of the heart, as home drew near, to think that I had gained the wished for prize–the object of many an hour’s toil–the thought of many a long night’s dream; my father’s smile; my mother’s kiss! Oh! what a very world of tender memory that one thought suggests; for what are all our later successes in life–how bright soever our fortune be–compared with the early triumphs of our infancy? Where, among the jealous rivalry of some, the cold and half-wrung praise of others, the selfish and unsympathising regard of all, shall we find any thing to repay us for the swelling extacy of our young hearts, as those who have cradled and loved us grow proud in our successes? For myself, a life that has failed in every prestige of those that prophesied favourably–years that have followed on each other only to blight the promise that kind and well-wishing friends foretold–leave but little to dwell upon, that can be reckoned as success. And yet, some moments I have had, which half seemed to realize my early dream of ambition, and rouse my spirit within me; but what were they all compared to my boyish glories? what the passing excitement one’s own heart inspires in the lonely and selfish solitude, when compared with that little world of sympathy and love our early home teemed with, as, proud in some trifling distinction, we fell into a mother’s arms, and heard our father’s “God bless you, boy?” No, no; the world has no requital for this. It is like the bright day-spring, which, as its glories gild the east, display before us a whole world of beauty and promise–blighted hopes have not withered, false friendships have not scathed, cold, selfish interest has not yet hardened our hearts, or dried up our affections, and we are indeed happy; but equally like the burst of morning is it fleeting and short-lived; and equally so, too, does it pass away, never, never to return.
From thoughts like these my mind wandered on to more advanced years, when, emerging from very boyhood, I half believed myself a man, and was fully convinced I was in love.
Perhaps, after all, for the time it lasted–ten days, I think–it was the most sincere passion I ever felt. I had been spending some weeks at a small watering-place in Wales with some relatives of my mother. There were, as might be supposed, but few “distractions” in such a place, save the scenery, and an occasional day’s fishing in the little river of Dolgelly, which ran near. In all these little rambles which the younger portion of the family made together, frequent mention was ever being made of a visit from a very dear cousin, and to which all looked forward with the greatest eagerness–the elder ones of the party with a certain air of quiet pleasure, as though they knew more than they said, and the younger with all the childish exuberance of youthful delight. Clara Mourtray seemed to be, from all I was hourly hearing, the very paragon and pattern of every thing. If any one was praised for beauty, Clara was immediately pronounced much prettier–did any one sing, Clara’s voice and taste were far superior. In our homeward walk, should the shadows of the dark hills fall with a picturesque effect upon the blue lake, some one was sure to say, “Oh! how Clara would like to sketch that.” In short, there was no charm nor accomplishment ever the gift of woman, that Clara did not possess; or, what amounted pretty much to the same thing, that my relatives did not implicitly give her credit for. The constantly recurring praises of the same person affect us always differently as we go on in life. In youth the prevailing sentiment is an ardent desire to see the prodigy of whom we have heard so much–in after years, heartily to detest what hourly hurts our self-love by comparisons. We would take any steps to avoid meeting what we have inwardly decreed to be a “bore.” The former was my course; and though my curiosity was certainly very great, I had made up my mind to as great a disappointment, and half wished for the longed arrival as a means of criticising what they could see no fault in.
The wished-for evening at length came, and we all set out upon a walk to meet the carriage which was to bring the bien aime Clara among us. We had not walked above a mile when the eager eye of the foremost detected a cloud of dust upon the road at some distance; and, after a few minutes more, four posters were seen coming along at a tremendous rate. The next moment she was making the tour of about a dozen uncles, aunts, cousins, and cousines, none of whom, it appeared to me, felt any peculiar desire to surrender the hearty embrace to the next of kin in succession. At last she came to me, when, perhaps, in the confusion of the moment, not exactly remembering whether or not she had seen me before, she stood for a moment silent–a deep blush mantling her lovely cheek–masses of waving brown hair disordered and floating upon her shoulders–her large and liquid blue eyes beaming upon me. One look was enough. I was deeply –irretrievably in love.
“Our cousin Harry–Harry Lorrequer–wild Harry, as we used to call him, Clara,” said one of the girls introducing me.
She held out her hand, and said something with a smile. What, I know not–nor can I tell how I replied; but something absurd it must have been, for they all laughed heartily, and the worthy papa himself tapped my shoulder jestingly, adding,
“Never mind, Harry–you will do better one day, or I am much mistaken in you.”
Whether I was conscious that I had behaved foolishly or not, I cannot well say; but the whole of that night I thought over plans innumerable how I should succeed in putting myself forward before “Cousin Clara,” and vindicating myself against any imputation of schoolboy mannerisms that my first appearance might have caused.
The next day we remained at home. Clara was too much fatigued to walk out, and none of us would leave her. What a day of happiness that was! I knew something of music, and could sing a second. Clara was delighted at this, for the others had not cultivated singing much. We therefore spent the whole morning in this way. Then she produced her sketch-book, and I brought out mine, and we had a mutual interchange of prisoners. What cutting out of leaves and detaching of rice-paper landscapes! The she came out upon the lawn to see my pony leap, and promised to ride him the following day. She patted the greyhounds, and said Gipsy, which was mine, was the prettiest. In a word, before night fell Clara had won my heart in its every fibre, and I went to my room the very happiest of mortals.
I need not chronicle my next three days–to me the most glorious “trois jours” of my life. Clara had evidently singled me out and preferred me to all the rest. It was beside me she rode–upon my arm she leaned in walking–and, to comble me with delight unutterable, I overheard her say to my uncle, “Oh, I doat upon poor Harry! And it is so pleasant, for I’m sure Mortimer will be so jealous.”
“And who is Mortimer,” thought I; “he is a new character in the piece, of whom we have seen nothing.”
I was not long in doubt upon this head, for that very day, at dinner, the identical Mortimer presented himself. He was a fine, dashing-looking, soldier-like fellow, of about thirty-five, and with a heavy moustache, and a bronzed cheek–rather grave in his manner, but still perfectly good-natured, and when he smiled showing a most handsome set of regular teeth. Clara seemed less pleased (I thought) at his coming than the others, and took pleasure in tormenting him by a thousand pettish and frivolous ways, which I was sorry for, as I thought he did not like it; and used to look half chidingly at her from time to time, but without any effect, for she just went on as before, and generally ended by taking my arm and saying, “Come away, Harry; you always are kind, and never look sulky. I can agree with you.” These were delightful words for me to listen to, but I could not hear them without feeling for him, who evidently was pained by Clara’s avowed preference for me; and whose years–for I thought thirty-five at that time a little verging upon the patriarchal–entitled him to more respect.
“Well,” thought I, one evening, as this game had been carried rather farther than usual, “I hope she is content now, for certainly Mortimer is jealous;” and the result proved it, for the whole of the following day he absented himself, and never came back till late in the evening. He had been, I found, from a chance observation I overheard, at the bishop’s palace, and the bishop himself, I learned, was to breakfast with us in the morning.
“Harry, I have a commission for you,” said Clara. “You must get up very early to-morrow, and climb the Cader mountain, and bring me a grand bouquet of the blue and purple heath that I liked so much the last time I was there. Mind very early, for I intend to surprise the bishop to-morrow with my taste in a nosegay.”
The sun had scarcely risen as I sprang from my bed, and started upon my errand. Oh! the glorious beauty of that morning’s walk. As I climbed the mountain, the deep mists lay upon all around, and except the path I was treading, nothing was visible; but before I reached the top, the heavy masses of vapour were yielding to the influence of the sun; and as they rolled from the valleys up the mountain sides, were every instant opening new glens and ravines beneath me–bright in all their verdure, and speckled with sheep, whose tingling bells reached me even where I stood.
I counted above twenty lakes at different levels, below me; some brilliant, and shining like polished mirrors; others not less beautiful, dark and solemn with some mighty mountain shadow. As I looked landward, the mountains reared their huge crests, one above the other, to the farthest any eye could reach. Towards the opposite side, the calm and tranquil sea lay beneath me, bathed in the yellow gold of a rising sun; a few ships were peaceably lying at anchor in the bay; and the only thing in motion was a row-boat, the heavy monotonous stroke of whose oars rose in the stillness of the morning air. Not a single habitation of man could I descry, nor any vestige of a human being, except that mass of something upon the rock far down beneath be one, and I think it is, for I see the sheep-dog ever returning again and again to the same spot.
My bouquet was gathered; the gentian of the Alps, which is found here, also contributing its evidence to show where I had been to seek it, and I turned home.
The family were at breakfast as I entered; at least so the servants said, for I only remembered then that the bishop was our guest, and that I could not present myself without some slight attention to my dress. I hastened to my room, and scarcely had I finished, when one of my cousins, a little girl of eight years, came to the door and said,
“Harry, come down; Clara wants you.”
I rushed down stairs, and as I entered the breakfast parlour, stood still with surprise. The ladies were all dressed in white, and even my little cousin wore a gala costume that amazed me.
“My bouquet, Harry; I hope you have not forgotten it,” said Clara, as I approached.
I presented it at once, when she gaily and coquettishly held out her hand for me to kiss. This I did, my blood rushing to my face and temples the while, and almost depriving me of consciousness.
“Well, Clara, I am surprised at you,” said Mortimer. “How can you treat the poor boy so?”
I grew deadly pale at these words, and, turning round, looked at the speaker full in the face. Poor fellow, thought I, he is jealous, and I am really grieved for him; and turned again to Clara.
“Here it is–oh! how handsome, papa,” said one of the younger children, running eagerly to the window, as a very pretty open carriage with four horses drew up before the house.
“The bishop has taste,” I murmured to myself, scarcely deigning to give a second look at the equipage.
Clara now left the room, but speedily returned–her dress changed, and shawled as if for a walk. What could all this mean?–and the whispering, too, what is all that?–and why are they all so sad?–Clara has been weeping.
“God bless you, my child–good by,” said my aunt, as she folded her in her arms for the third time.
“Good by, good by,” I heard on every side. At length, approaching me, Clara took my hand and said–
“My poor Harry, so we are going to part. I am going to Italy.”
“To Italy, Clara? Oh! no–say no. Italy! I shall never see you again.”
“Won’t you wear this ring for me, Harry? It is an old favourite of yours–and when we meet again”–
“Oh! dearest Clara,” I said, “do not speak thus.”
“Good by, my poor boy, good by,” said Clara hurriedly; and, rushing out of the room, she was lifted by Mortimer into the carriage, who, immediately jumping in after her, the whip cracked, the horses clattered, and all was out of sight in a second.
“Why is she gone with him?” said I, reproachfully, turning towards my aunt.
“Why, my dear, a very sufficient reason. She was married this morning.”
This was my first love.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
WISE RESOLVES.
Musing over this boyish adventure, I fell into a deep slumber, and on awakening it took me some minutes before I could recall my senses sufficiently to know where I was. The whole face of things in my room was completely changed. Flowers had been put in the china vases upon the tables–two handsome lamps, shaded with gauzes, stood upon the consoles –illustrated books, prints, and caricatures, were scattered about. A piano-forte had also, by some witchcraft, insinuated itself into a recess near the sofa–a handsome little tea service, of old Dresden china, graced a marquetry table–and a little picquet table stood most invitingly beside the fire. I had scarcely time to turn my eyes from one to the other of these new occupants, when I heard the handle of my door gently turn, as if by some cautious hand, and immediately closed my eyes and feigned sleep. Through my half-shut lids I perceived the door opened. After a pause of about a second, the skirt of a white muslin dress appeared–then a pretty foot stole a little farther–and at last the slight and graceful figure of Emily Bingham advanced noiselessly into the room. Fear had rendered her deadly pale; but the effect of her rich brown hair, braided plainly on either side of her cheek, suited so well the character of her features, I thought her far handsomer than ever. She came forward towards the table, and I now could perceive that she had something in her hand resembling a letter. This she placed near my hand –so near as almost to touch it. She leaned over me–I felt her breath upon my brow, but never moved. At this instant, a tress of her hair, becoming unfastened, fell over upon my face. She started–the motion threw me off my guard, and I looked up. She gave a faint, scarce audible shriek, and sank into the chair beside me. Recovering, however, upon the instant, she grasped the letter she had just laid down, and, having crushed it between her fingers, threw it into the fire. This done–as if the effort had been too much for her strength–she again fell back upon her seat, and looked so pale I almost thought she had fainted.
Before I had time to speak, she rose once more; and now her face was bathed in blushes, her eyes swam with rising tears, and her lips trembled with emotion as she spoke.
“Oh, Mr. Lorrequer, what will you–what can you think of this? If you but knew–;” and here she faltered and again grew pale, while I with difficulty rising from the sofa, took her hand, and led her to the chair beside it.
“And may I not know?” said I; “may I not know, my dear”–I am not sure I did not say dearest–“Miss Bingham, when, perhaps, the knowledge might make me the happiest of mortals?”
This was a pretty plunge as a sequel to my late resolutions. She hid her face between her hands, and sobbed for some seconds.
“At least,” said I, “as that letter was destined for me but a few moments since, I trust that you will let me hear its contents.”
“Oh no–not now–not now,” said she entreatingly; and, rising at the same time, she turned to leave the room. I still held her hand, and pressed it within mine. I thought she returned the pressure. I leaned forward to catch her eye, when the door was opened hastily, and a most extraordinary figure presented itself.
It was a short, fat man, with a pair of enormous moustaches, of a fiery red; huge bushy whiskers of the same colour; a blue frock covered with braiding, and decorated with several crosses and ribbons; tight pantaloons and Hessian boots, with long brass spurs. He held a large gold-headed cane in his hand, and looked about with an expression of very equivocal drollery, mingled with fear.
“May I ask, sir,” said I, as this individual closed the door behind him, “may I ask the reason for this intrusion?”
“Oh, upon my conscience, I’ll do–I’m sure to pass muster now,” said the well-known voice of Mr. O’Leary, whose pleasant features began to dilate amid the forest of red hair he was disguised in. “But I see you are engaged,” said he, with a sly look at Miss Bingham, whom he had not yet recognised; “so I must contrive to hide myself elsewhere, I suppose.”
“It is Miss Bingham,” said I, “who has been kind enough to come here with her maid, to bring me some flowers. Pray present my respectful compliments to Mrs. Bingham, and say how deeply I feel her most kind attention.”
Emily rose at the instant, and recovering her self-possession at once, said–
“You forget, Mr. Lorrequer, it is a secret from whom the flowers came; at least mamma hoped to place them in your vases without you knowing. So, pray, don’t speak of it–and I’m sure Mr. O’Leary will not tell.”
If Mr. O’Leary heard one word of this artful speech, I know not, but he certainly paid no attention to it, nor the speaker, who left the room without his appearing aware of it.
“Now that she is gone–for which heaven be praised,” said I to myself; “let me see what this fellow can mean.”
As I turned from the door, I could scarcely avoid laughing aloud at the figure before me. He stood opposite a large mirror, his hat on one side of his head, one arm in his breast, and the other extended, leaning upon his stick; a look of as much ferocity as such features could accomplish had been assumed, and his whole attitude was a kind of caricature of a melo-dramatic hero in a German drama.
“Why, O’Leary, what is all this?”
“Hush, hush,” said he, in a terrified whisper–“never mention that name again, till we are over the frontier.”
“But, man, explain–what do you mean?”
“Can’t you guess,” said he drily.
“Impossible; unless the affair at the saloon has induced you to take this disguise, I cannot conceive the reason.”
“Nothing farther from it, my dear friend; much worse than that.”
“Out with it, then, at once.”
“She’s come–she’s here–in this very house–No. 29, above the entre sol.”
“Who is here, in No. 29, above the entre sol?”
“Who, but Mrs. O’Leary herself. I was near saying bad luck to her.”
“And does she know you are here?”
“That is what I can’t exactly say,” said he, “but she has had the Livre des Voyageurs brought up to her room, and has been making rather unpleasant inquiries for the proprietor of certain hieroglyphics beginning with O, which have given me great alarm–the more, as all the waiters have been sent for in turn, and subjected to long examination by her. So I have lost no time, but, under the auspices of your friend Trevanion, have become the fascinating figure you find me, and am now Compte O’Lieuki, a Pole of noble family, banished by the Russian government, with a father in Siberia, and all that; and I hope, by the end of the week, to be able to cheat at ecarte, and deceive the very police itself.”
The idea of O’Leary’s assuming such a metamorphosis was too absurd not to throw me into a hearty fit of laughing, in which the worthy emigre indulged also.
“But why not leave this at once,” said I, “if you are so much in dread of a recognition?”
“You forget the trial,” added O’Leary, “I must be here on the 18th or all my bail is forfeited.”
“True–I had forgot that. Well, now, your plans?”–
“Simply to keep very quiet here till the affair of the tribunal is over, and then quit France at once. Meanwhile, Trevanion thinks that we may, by a bold stratagem, send Mrs. O’Leary off on a wrong scent, and has requested Mrs. Bingham to contrive to make her acquaintance, and ask her to tea in her room, when she will see me, en Polonais, at a distance, you know–hear something of my melancholy destiny from Trevanion–and leave the hotel quite sure she has no claim on me. Meanwhile, some others of the party are to mention incidentally having met Mr. O’Leary somewhere, or heard of his decease, or any pleasant little incident that may occur to them.”
“The plan is excellent,” said I, “for in all probability she may never come in your way again, if sent off on a good errand this time.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” said O’Leary; “and I am greatly disposed to let her hear that I’m with Belzoni in Egypt, with an engagement to spend the Christmas with the Dey of Algiers. That would give her a very pretty tour for the remainder of the year, and show her the pyramids. But, tell me fairly, am I a good Pole?”
“Rather short,” said I, “and a little too fat, perhaps.”
“That comes from the dash of Tartar blood, nothing more; and my mother was a Fin,” said he, “she’ll never ask whether from Carlow or the Caucasus. How I revel in the thought, that I may smoke in company without a breach of the unities. But I must go: there is a gentleman with a quinsey in No. 9, that gives me a lesson in Polish this morning. So good-by, and don’t forget to be well enough to-night, for you must be present at my debut.”
O’Leary had scarcely gone, when my thoughts reverted to Emily Bingham. I was not such a coxcomb as to fancy her in love with me; yet certainly there was something in the affair which looked not unlike it; and though, by such a circumstance, every embarrassment which pressed upon me had become infinitely greater, I could not dissemble from myself a sense of pleasure at the thought. She was really a very pretty girl, and improved vastly upon acquaintance. “Le absens ont toujours torts” is the truest proverb in any language, and I felt it in its fullest force when Trevanion entered my room.
“Well, Lorrequer,” said he, “your time is certainly not likely to hang heavily on your hands in Paris, if occupation will prevent it, for I find you are just now booked for a new scrape.”
“What can you mean?” said I, starting up.
“Why, O’Leary, who has been since your illness, the constant visiter at the Binghams–dining there every day, and spending his evenings–has just told me that the mamma is only waiting for the arrival of Sir Guy Lorrequer in Paris to open the trenches in all form; and from what she has heard of Sir Guy, she deems it most likely he will give her every aid and support to making you the husband of the fair Emily.”
“And with good reason, too,” said I; “for if my uncle were only given to understand that I had once gone far in my attentions, nothing would induce him to break off the match. He was crossed in love himself when young, and has made a score of people miserable since, in the benevolent idea of marrying them against every obstacle.”
“How very smart you have become,” said Trevanion, taking a look round my room, and surveying in turn each of the new occupants. “You must certainly reckon upon seeing your fair friend here, or all this propriete is sadly wasted.”
This was the time to explain all about Miss Bingham’s visit; and I did so, of course omitting any details which might seem to me needless, or involving myself in inconsistency.
Trevanion listened patiently to the end–was silent for some moments –then added–
“And you never saw the letter?”
“Of course not. It was burned before my eyes.”
“I think the affair looks very serious, Lorrequer. You may have won this girl’s affections. It matters little whether the mamma be a hacknied match-maker, or the cousin a bullying duellist. If the girl have a heart, and that you have gained it”–
“Then I must marry, you would say.”
“Exactly so–without the prompting of your worthy uncle, I see no other course open to you without dishonour. My advice, therefore, is, ascertain–and that speedily–how far your attentions have been attended with the success you dread–and then decide at once. Are you able to get as far as Mrs. Bingham’s room this morning? If so, come along. I shall take all the frais of la chere mamma off your hands, while you talk to the daughter; and half-an-hour’s courage and resolution will do it all.”
Having made the most effective toilet my means would permit, my right arm in a sling, and my step trembling from weakness, I sallied forth with Trevanion to make love with as many fears for the result as the most bashful admirer ever experienced, when pressing his suit upon some haughty belle–but for a far different reason.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE PROPOSAL.
On reaching Mrs. Bingham’s apartments, we found that she had just left home to wait upon Mrs. O’Leary, and consequently, that Miss Bingham was alone. Trevanion, therefore, having wished me a safe deliverance through my trying mission, shook my hand warmly, and departed.
I stood for some minutes irresolutely, with my hand upon the lock of the door. To think that the next few moments may decide the fortune of one’s after life, is a sufficiently anxious thought; but that your fate may be so decided, by compelling you to finish in sorrow what you have begun in folly, is still more insupportable. Such, then, was my condition. I had resolved within myself, if the result of this meeting should prove that I had won Miss Bingham’s affections, to propose for her at once in all form, and make her my wife. If, on the other hand, I only found that she too had amused herself with a little passing flirtation, why then, I was a free man once more: but, on catechising myself a little closer, also, one somewhat disposed to make love de novo.
With the speed of lightning, my mind ran over every passage of our acquaintance–our first meeting–our solitary walks–our daily, hourly associations–our travelling intimacy–the adventure at Chantraine; –There was, it is true, nothing in all this which could establish the fact of wooing, but every thing which should convince an old offender like myself that the young lady was “en prise,” and that I myself –despite my really strong attachment elsewhere–was not entirely scathless.
“Yes,” said I, half aloud, as I once more reviewed the past, “it is but another chapter in my history in keeping with all the rest–one step has ever led me to a second, and so on to a third; what with other men have passed for mere trifles, have ever with me become serious difficulties, and the false enthusiasm with which I ever follow any object in life, blinds me for the time, and mistaking zeal for inclination, I never feel how little my heart is interested in success, till the fever of pursuit is over.”
These were pleasant thoughts for one about to throw himself at a pretty girl’s feet, and pour out his “soul of love before her;” but that with me was the least part of it. Curran, they say, usually picked up his facts in a case from the opposite counsel’s statements; I always relied for my conduct in carrying on any thing, to the chance circumstances of the moment, and trusted to my animal spirits to give me an interest in whatever for the time being engaged me.
I opened the door. Miss Bingham was sitting at a table, her head leaning upon her hands–some open letters which lay before her, evidently so occupying her attention, that my approach was unheard. On my addressing her, she turned round suddenly, and became at first deep scarlet, then pale as death: while, turning to the table, she hurriedly threw her letters into a drawer, and motioned me to a place beside her.
After the first brief and common-place inquiry for my health, and hopes for my speedy recovery, she became silent; and I too, primed with topics innumerable to discuss–knowing how short my time might prove before Mrs. Bingham’s return–could not say a word.
“I hope, Mr. Lorrequer,” said she, at length, “that you have incurred no risque by leaving your room so early.”
“I have not,” I replied, “but, even were there a certainty of it, the anxiety I laboured under to see and speak with you alone, would have overcome all fears on this account. Since this unfortunate business has confined me to my chamber, I have done nothing but think over circumstances which have at length so entirely taken possession of me, that I must, at any sacrifice, have sought an opportunity to explain to you”–here Emily looked down, and I continued–“I need scarcely say what my feelings must long since have betrayed, that to have enjoyed the daily happiness of living in your society, of estimating your worth, of feeling your fascinations, were not the means most in request for him, who knew, too well, how little he deserved, either by fortune or desert, to hope, to hope to make you his; and yet, how little has prudence or caution to do with situations like this.” She did not guess the animus of this speech. “I felt all I have described; and yet, and yet, I lingered on, prizing too dearly the happiness of the present hour, to risque it by any avowal of sentiments, which might have banished me from your presence for ever. If the alteration of these hopes and fears have proved too strong for my reason at last, I cannot help it; and this it is which now leads me to make this avowal to you.” Emily turned her head away from me; but her agitated manner showed how deeply my words had affected her; and I too, now that I had finished, felt that I had been “coming it rather strong.”
“I hoped, Mr. Lorrequer,” said she, at length, “I hoped, I confess, to have had an opportunity of speaking with you.” Then, thought I, the game is over, and Bishop Luscombe is richer by five pounds, than I wish him. –“Something, I know not what, in your manner, led me to suspect that your affections might lean towards me; hints you have dropped, and, now and then, your chance allusions strengthened the belief, and I determined, at length, that no feeling of maidenly shame on my part should endanger the happiness of either of us, and I determined to see you; this was so difficult, that I wrote a letter, and that letter, which might have saved me all distressing explanation, I burned before you this morning.”
“But, why, dearest girl,”–here was a plunge–“why, if the letter could remove any misconstruction, or could be the means of dispelling any doubt–why not let me see it?”
“Hear me out,” cried she, eagerly, and evidently not heeding my interruption, “I determined if your affections were indeed”–a flood of tears here broke forth, and drowned her words; her head sank between her hands, and she sobbed bitterly.
“Corpo di Baccho!” said I to myself, “It is all over with me; the poor girl is evidently jealous, and her heart will break.”
“Dearest, dearest Emily,” said I, passing my arm round her, and approaching my head close to her’s, “if you think that any other love than yours could ever beat within this heart–that I could see you hourly before me–live beneath your smile, and gaze upon your beauty–and, still more than all–pardon the boldness of the thought–feel that I was not indifferent to you.”–
“Oh! spare me this at least,” said she, turning round her tearful eyes upon me, and looking most bewitchingly beautiful. “Have I then showed you this plainly?”
“Yes, dearest girl! That instinct which tells us we are loved has spoken within me. And here in this beating heart”–
“Oh! say not more,” said she, “if I have, indeed, gained your affections”–
“If–if you have,” said I, clasping her to my heart, while she continued to sob still violently, and I felt half disposed to blow my brains out for my success. However, there is something in love-making as in fox-hunting, which carries you along in spite of yourself; and I continued to pour forth whole rhapsodies of love that the Pastor Fido could not equal.
“Enough,” said she, “it is enough that you love me and that I have encouraged your so doing. But oh! tell me once more, and think how much of future happiness may rest upon your answer–tell me, may not this be some passing attachment, which circumstances have created, and others may dispel? Say, might not absence, time, or another more worthy”–
This was certainly a very rigid cross-examination when I thought the trial was over; and not being exactly prepared for it, I felt no other mode of reply than pressing her taper fingers alternately to my lips, and muttering something that might pass for a declaration of love unalterable, but, to my own ears, resembled a lament on my folly.
“She is mine now,” thought I, “so we must e’en make the best of it; and truly she is a very handsome girl, though not a Lady Jane Callonby. The next step is the mamma; but I do not anticipate much difficulty in that quarter.”
“Leave me now,” said she, in a low and broken voice; “but promise not to speak of this meeting to any one before we meet again. I have my reasons; believe me they are sufficient ones, so promise me this before we part.”
Having readily given the pledge required, I again kissed her hand and bade farewell, not a little puzzled the whole time at perceiving that ever since my declaration and acceptance Emily seemed any thing but happy, and evidently struggling against some secret feeling of which I knew nothing. “Yes,” thought I, as I wended my way along the corridor, “the poor girl is tremendously jealous, and I must have said may a thing during our intimacy to hurt her. However, that is all past and gone; and now comes a new character for me: my next appearance wil be ‘en bon mari.'”
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THOUGHTS UPON MATRIMONY IN GENERAL, AND IN THE ARMY IN PARTICULAR–THE KNIGHT OF KERRY AND BILLY M’CABE.
“So,” thought I, as I closed the door of my room behind me, “I am accepted–the die is cast which makes me a Benedict: yet heaven knows that never was a man less disposed to be over joyous at his good fortune!” What a happy invention it were, if when adopting any road in life, we could only manage to forget that we had ever contemplated any other! It is the eternal looking back in this world that forms the staple of all our misery; and we are but ill-requited for such unhappiness by the brightest anticipations we can conjure up for the future. How much of all that “past” was now to become a source of painful recollection, and to how little of the future could I look forward with even hope!
Our weaknesses are much more constantly the spring of all our annoyances and troubles than even our vices. The one we have in some sort of subjection: we are perfectly slaves to the others. This thought came home most forcibly to my bosom, as I reflected upon the step which led me on imperceptibly to my present embarrassment. “Well, c’est fini, now,” said I, drawing upon that bountiful source of consolation ever open to the man who mars his fortune–that “what is past can’t be amended;” which piece of philosophy, as well as its twin brother, that “all will be the same a hundred years hence,” have been golden rules to me from my childhood.
The transition from one mode of life to another perfectly different has ever seemed to me a great trial of a man’s moral courage; besides that the fact of quitting for ever any thing, no matter how insignificant or valueless, is always attended with painful misgivings. My bachelor life had its share of annoyances and disappointments, it is true; but, upon the whole it was a most happy one–and now I was about to surrender it for ever, not yielding to the impulse of affection and love for one without whom life were valueless to me, but merely a recompense for the indulgence of that fatal habit I had contracted of pursuing with eagerness every shadow that crossed my path. All my early friends –all my vagrant fancies–all my daydreams of the future I was now to surrender–for, what becomes of any man’s bachelor friends when he is once married? Where are his rambles in high and bye-ways when he has a wife? and what is left for anticipation after his wedding except, perhaps, to speculate upon the arrangement of his funeral? To a military man more than to any other these are serious thoughts. All the fascinations of an army life, in war or peace, lie in the daily, hourly associations with your brother officers–the morning cigar, the barrack-square lounge–the afternoon ride–the game of billiards before dinner–the mess (that perfection of dinner society)–the plans for the evening–the deviled kidney at twelve–forming so many points of departure whence you sail out upon your daily voyage through life. Versus those you have that awful perversion of all that is natural–an officer’s wife. She has been a beauty when young, had black eyes and high complexion, a good figure, rather inclined to embonpoint, and a certain springiness in her walk, and a jauntiness in her air, that are ever sure attractions to a sub in a marching regiment. She can play backgammon, and sing “di tanti palpiti,” and, if an Irishwoman, is certain to be able to ride a steeple-chase, and has an uncle a lord, who (en parenthese) always turns out to be a creation made by King James after his abdication. In conclusion, she breakfasts en papillote–wears her shoes down at heel–calls every officer of the regiment by his name –has a great taste for increasing his majesty’s lieges, and delights in London porter. To this genus of Frow I have never ceased to entertain the most thrilling abhorrence; and yet how often have I seen what appeared to be pretty and interesting girls fall into something of this sort! and how often have I vowed any fate to myself rather than become the husband of a baggage-waggon wife!
Had all my most sanguine hopes promised realizing–had my suit with Lady Jane been favourable, I could scarcely have bid adieu to my bachelor life without a sigh. No prospect of future happiness can ever perfectly exclude all regret at quitting our present state for ever. I am sure if I had been a caterpillar, it would have been with a heavy heart that I would have donned my wings as a butterfly. Now the metamorphosis was reversed: need it be wondered if I were sad?
So completely was I absorbed in my thoughts upon this matter, that I had not perceived the entrance of O’Leary and Trevanion, who, unaware of my being in the apartment, as I was stretched upon a sofa in a dark corner, drew their chairs towards the fire and began chatting.
“Do you know, Mr. Trevanion,” said O’Leary, “I am half afraid of this disguise of mine. I sometimes think I am not like a Pole; and if she should discover me”–
“No fear of that in the world; your costume is perfect, your beard unexceptionable. I could, perhaps, have desired a little less paunch; but then”–
“That comes of fretting, as Falstaff says; and you must not forget that I am banished from my country.”
“Now, as to your conversation, I should advise you saying very little –not one word in English. You may, if you like, call in the assistance of Irish when hard pressed?
“I have my fears on that score. There is no knowing where that might lead to discovery. You know the story of the Knight of Kerry and Billy McCabe?”
“I fear I must confess my ignorance–I have never heard of it.”
“Then may be you never knew Giles Daxon?”
“I have not had that pleasure either.”
“Lord bless me, how strange that is! I thought he was better known than the Duke of Wellington or the travelling piper. Well, I must tell you the story, for it has a moral, too–indeed several morals; but you’ll find that out for yourself. Well, it seems that one day the Knight of Kerry was walking along the Strand in London, killing an hour’s time, till the house was done prayers, and Hume tired of hearing himself speaking; his eye was caught by an enormous picture displayed upon the wall of a house, representing a human figure covered with long dark hair, with huge nails upon his hands, and a most fearful expression of face. At first the Knight thought it was Dr. Bowring; but on coming nearer he heard a man with a scarlet livery and a cocked hat, call out, ‘Walk in, ladies and gentlemen–the most vonderful curiosity ever exhibited–only one shilling–the vild man from Chippoowango, in Africay–eats raw wittles without being cooked, and many other surprising and pleasing performances.’
“The knight paid his money, and was admitted. At first the crowd prevented his seeing any thing–for the place was full to suffocation, and the noise awful–for, besides the exclamations and applause of the audience, there were three barrel-organs, playing ‘Home, sweet Home!’ and ‘Cherry Ripe,’ and the wild man himself contributed his share to the uproar. At last, the Knight obtained, by dint of squeezing, and some pushing a place in the front, when, to his very great horror, he beheld a figure that far eclipsed the portrait without doors.
“It was a man nearly naked, covered with long, shaggy hair, that grew even over his nose and cheek bones. He sprang about, sometimes on his feet, sometimes, all-fours, but always uttering the most fearful yells, and glaring upon the crowd, in a manner that was really dangerous. The Knight did not feel exactly happy at the whole proceeding, and began heartily to wish himself back in the ‘House,’ even upon a committee of privileges, when, suddenly, the savage gave a more frantic scream than before, and seized upon a morsel of raw beef, which a keeper extended to him upon a long fork, like a tandem whip–he was not safe, it appears, at close quarters;–this he tore to pieces eagerly and devoured in the most voracious manner, amid great clapping of hands, and other evidences of satisfaction from the audience. I’ll go, now, thought the Knight: for, God knows whether, in his hungry moods, he might not fancy to conclude his dinner by a member of parliament. Just at this instant, some sounds struck upon his ear that surprised him not a little. He listened more attentively; and, conceive if you can, his amazement, to find that, amid his most fearful cries, and wild yells, the savage was talking Irish. Laugh, if you like; but it’s truth I am telling you; nothing less than Irish. There he was, jumping four feet high in the air, eating his raw meat: pulling out his hair by handfuls; and, amid all this, cursing the whole company to his heart’s content, in as good Irish as ever was heard in Tralee. Now, though the Knight had heard of red Jews and white Negroes, he had never happened to read any account of an African Irishman; so, he listened very closely, and by degrees, not only the words were known to him, but the very voice was familiar. At length, something he heard, left no further doubt upon his mind, and, turning to the savage, he addressed him in Irish, at the same time fixing a look of most scrutinizing import upon him.
“‘Who are you, you scoundrel’ said the Knight.
“‘Billy M’Cabe your honour.’
“‘And what do you mean by playing off these tricks here, instead of earning your bread like an honest man?’
“‘Whisht,’ said Billy, ‘and keep the secret. I’m earning the rent for your honour. One must do many a queer thing that pays two pound ten an acre for bad land.’
“This was enough: the Knight wished Billy every success, and left him amid the vociferous applause of a well satisfied audience. This adventure, it seems, has made the worthy Knight a great friend to the introduction of poor laws; for, he remarks very truly, ‘more of Billy’s countrymen might take a fancy to a savage life, if the secret was found out.'”
It was impossible for me to preserve my incognito, as Mr. O’Leary concluded his story, and I was obliged to join in the mirth of Trevanion, who laughed loud and long as he finished it.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
A REMINISCENCE.
O’Leary and Trevanion had scarcely left the room when the waiter entered with two letters–the one bore a German post-mark, and was in the well-known hand of Lady Callonby–the other in a writing with which I was no less familiar–that of Emily Bingham.
Let any one who has been patient enough to follow me through these “Confessions,” conceive my agitation at this moment. There lay my fate before me, coupled, in all likelihood, with a view of what it might have been under happier auspices–at least so in anticipation did I read the two unopened epistles. My late interview with Miss Bingham left no doubt upon my mind that I had secured her affections; and acting in accordance with the counsel of Trevanion, no less than of my own sense of right, I resolved upon marrying her, with what prospect of happiness I dared not to think of!
Alas! and alas! there is no infatuation like the taste for flirtation –mere empty, valueless, heartless flirtation. You hide the dice-box and the billiard queue, lest your son become a gambler–you put aside the racing calendar, lest he imbibe a jockey predilection–but you never tremble at his fondness for white muslin and a satin slipper, far more dangerous tastes though they be, and infinitely more perilous to a man’s peace and prosperity than all the “queens of trumps” that ever figured, whether on pasteboard or the Doncaster. “Woman’s my weakness, yer honor,” said an honest Patlander, on being charged before the lord mayor with having four wives living; and without having any such “Algerine act” upon my conscience, I must, I fear, enter a somewhat similar plea for my downfallings, and avow in humble gratitude, that I have scarcely had a misfortune through life unattributable to them in one way or another. And this I say without any reference to country, class, or complexion, “black, brown or fair,” from my first step forth into life, a raw sub. in the gallant 4_th, to this same hour, I have no other avowal, no other confession to make. “Be always ready with the pistol,” was the dying advice of an Irish statesman to his sons: mine, in a similar circumstance, would rather be “Gardez vous des femmes,” and more especially if they be Irish.
There is something almost treacherous in the facility with which an Irish girl receives your early attentions and appears to like them, that invariably turns a young fellow’s head very long before he has any prospect of touching her heart. She thinks it so natural to be made love to, that there is neither any affected coyness nor any agitated surprise. She listens to your declaration of love as quietly as the chief justice would to one of law, and refers the decision to a packed jury of her relatives, who rarely recommend you to mercy. Love and fighting, too, are so intimately united in Ireland, that a courtship rarely progresses without at least one exchange of shots between some of the parties concerned. My first twenty-four hours in Dublin is so pleasantly characteristic of this that I may as well relate it here, while the subject is before us; besides, as these “Confessions” are intended as warnings and guides to youth, I may convey a useful lesson, showing why a man should not “make love in the dark.”
It was upon a raw, cold, drizzling morning in February, 18__, that our regiment landed on the North-wall from Liverpool, whence we had been hurriedly ordered to repress some riots and disturbances then agitating Dublin.
We marched to the Royal Barracks, our band playing Patrick’s Day, to the very considerable admiration of as naked a population as ever loved music. The __th dragoons were at the same time quartered there–right pleasant jovial fellows, who soon gave us to understand that the troubles were over before we arrived, and that the great city authorities were now returning thanks for their preservation from fire and sword, by a series of entertainments of the most costly, but somewhat incongruous kind–the company being scarce less melee than the dishes. Peers and playactors, judges and jailors, archbishops, tailors, attorneys, ropemakers and apothecaries, all uniting in the festive delight of good feeding, and drinking the “glorious memory”–but of whom half the company knew not, only surmising “it was something agin the papists.” You may smile, but these were pleasant times, and I scarcely care to go back there since they were changed. But to return. The __th had just received an invitation to a ball, to be given by the high sheriff, and to which they most considerately said we should also be invited. This negociation was so well managed that before noon we all received our cards from a green liveried youth, mounted on a very emaciated pony–the whole turn-out not auguring flatteringly of the high sheriff’s taste in equipage.
We dined with the __th, and, as customary before going to an evening party, took the “other bottle” of claret that lies beyond the frontier of prudence. In fact, from the lieutenant-colonel down to the newly-joined ensign, there was not a face in the party that did not betray “signs of the times” that boded most favourably for the mirth of the sheriff’s ball. We were so perfectly up to the mark, that our major, a Connemara man, said, as we left the mess-room, “a liqueure glass would spoil us.”
In this acme of our intellectual wealth, we started about eleven o’clock upon every species of conveyance that chance could press into the service. Of hackney coaches there were few–but in jingles, noddies, and jaunting-cars, with three on a side and “one in the well,” we mustered strong–Down Barrack-street we galloped, the mob cheering us, we laughing, and I’m afraid shouting a little, too–the watchmen springing their rattles, as if instinctively at noise, and the whole population up and awake, evidently entertaining a high opinion of our convivial qualities. Our voices became gradually more decorous, however, as we approached the more civilized quarter of the town; and with only the slight stoppage of the procession to pick up an occasional dropper-off, as he lapsed from the seat of a jaunting-car, we arrived at length at our host’s residence, somewhere in Sackville-street.
Had our advent conferred the order of knighthood upon the host, he could not have received us with more “empressement.” He shook us all in turn by the hand, to the number of eight and thirty, and then presented us seriatim to his spouse, a very bejewelled lady of some forty years–who, what between bugles, feathers, and her turban, looked excessively like a Chinese pagoda upon a saucer. The rooms were crowded to suffocation–the noise awful–and the company crushing and elbowing rather a little more than you expect where the moiety are of the softer sex. However, “on s’habitue a tout,” sayeth the proverb, and with truth, for we all so perfectly fell in with the habits of the place, that ere half an hour, we squeezed, ogled, leered, and drank champagne like the rest of the corporation.
“Devilish hot work, this,” said the colonel, as he passed me with two rosy-cheeked, smiling ladies on either arm; “the mayor–that little fellow in the punch-coloured shorts–has very nearly put me hors de combat with champagne; take care of him, I advise you.”
Tipsy as I felt myself, I was yet sufficiently clear to be fully alive to the drollery of the scene before me. Flirtations that, under other circumstances, would demand the secrecy and solitude of a country green lane, or some garden bower, were here conducted in all the open effrontery of wax lights and lustres; looks were interchanged, hands were squeezed, and soft things whispered, and smiles returned; till the intoxication of “punch negus” and spiced port, gave way to the far greater one of bright looks and tender glances. Quadrilles and country dances–waltzing there was none, (perhaps all for the best)–whist, backgammon, loo–unlimited for uproar–sandwiches, and warm liquors, employed us pretty briskly till supper was announced, when a grand squeeze took place on the stairs–the population tending thitherward with an eagerness that a previous starvation of twenty-four hours could alone justify. Among this dense mass of moving muslin, velvet and broad-cloth, I found myself chaperoning an extremely tempting little damsel, with a pair of laughing blue eyes and dark eyelashes, who had been committed to my care and guidance for the passage.
“Miss Moriarty, Mr. Lorrequer,” said an old lady in green and spangles, who I afterwards found was the lady mayoress.
“The nicest girl in the room,” said a gentleman with a Tipperary accent, “and has a mighty nice place near Athlone.”
The hint was not lost upon me, and I speedily began to faire l’amiable to my charge; and before we reached the supper room, learned certain particulars of her history, which I have not yet forgot. She was, it seems, sister to a lady then in the room, the wife of an attorney, who rejoiced in the pleasing and classical appellation of Mr. Mark Anthony Fitzpatrick; the aforesaid Mark Anthony being a tall, raw-boned, black-whiskered, ill-looking dog, that from time to time contrived to throw very uncomfortable looking glances at me and Mary Anne, for she was so named, the whole time of supper. After a few minutes, however, I totally forgot him, and, indeed, every thing else, in the fascination of my fair companion. She shared her chair with me, upon which I supported her by my arm passed round the back; we eat our pickled salmon, jelly, blanc mange, cold chicken, ham, and custard; off the same plate, with an occasional squeeze of the finger, as our hands met–her eyes making sad havoc with me all the while, as I poured my tale of love–love, lasting, burning, all-consuming–into her not unwilling ear.
“Ah! now, ye’r not in earnest?”
“Yes, Mary Anne, by all that’s”–
“Well, there now, don’t swear, and take care–sure Mark Anthony is looking.”
“Mark Anthony be–”
“Oh! how passionate you are; I’m sure I never could live easy with you. There, now, give me some sponge cake, and don’t be squeezing me, or they’ll see you.”
“Yes, to my heart, dearest girl.”
“Och, it’s cheese you’re giving me,” said she, with a grimace that nearly cured my passion.
“A cottage, a hut, with you–with you,” said I, in a cadence that I defy Macready to rival–“what is worldly splendour, or the empty glitter of rank.”
I here glanced at my epaulettes, upon which I saw her eyes rivetted.
“Isn’t the ginger beer beautiful,” said she, emptying a glass of champagne.
Still I was not to be roused from my trance, and continued my courtship as warmly as ever.
“I suppose you’ll come home now,” said a gruff voice behind Mary Anne.
I turned and perceived Mark Anthony with a grim look of peculiar import.
“Oh, Mark dear, I’m engaged to dance another set with this gentleman.”
“Ye are, are ye?” replied Mark, eyeing me askance. “Troth and I think the gentleman would be better if he went off to his flea-bag himself.”
In my then mystified intellect this west country synonyme for a bed a little puzzled me.
“Yes sir, the lady is engaged to me: have you any thing to say to that?”
“Nothing at present, at all,” said Mark, almost timidly.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” sobbed Mary Anne; “they’re going to fight, and he’ll be killed–I know he will.”
For which of us this fate was destined, I stopped not to consider, but amid a very sufficient patting upon the back, and thumping between the shoulders, bestowed by members of the company who approved of my proceedings. The three fiddles, the flute, and bassoon, that formed our band, being by this time sufficiently drunk, played after a fashion of their own, which by one of those strange sympathies of our nature, imparted its influence to our legs, and a country dance was performed in a style of free and easy gesticulation that defies description. At the end of eighteen couple, tired of my exertions–and they were not slight –I leaned my back against the wall of the room, which I now, for the first time, perceived was covered with a very peculiar and novel species of hanging–no less than a kind of rough, green baize cloth, that moved and floated at every motion of the air. I paid little attention to this, till suddenly turning my head, something gave way behind it. I felt myself struck upon the back of the neck, and fell forward into the room, covered by a perfect avalanche of fenders, fire-irons, frying-pans, and copper kettles, mingled with the lesser artillery of small nails, door keys, and holdfasts. There I lay amid the most vociferous mirth I ever listened to, under the confounded torrent of ironmongery that half-stunned me. The laughter over, I was assisted to rise, and having drank about a pint of vinegar, and had my face and temples washed in strong whiskey punch–the allocation of the fluids being mistaken, I learned that our host, the high sheriff, was a celebrated tin and iron man, and that his salles de reception were no other than his magazine of metals, and that to conceal the well filled shelves from the gaze of his aristocratic guests, they were clothed in the manner related; which my unhappy head, by some misfortune, displaced, and thus brought on a calamity scarcely less afflicting to him than to myself. I should scarcely have stopped to mention this here, were it not that Mary Anne’s gentle nursing of me in my misery went far to complete what her fascination had begun; and although she could not help laughing at the occurrence, I forgave her readily for her kindness.
“Remember,” said I, trying to ogle through a black eye, painted by the angle of a register grate–“remember, Mary Anne, I am to see you home.”
“Oh! dear, sir, sure I don’t know how you can manage it–”
Here Mark Anthony’s entrance cut short this speech, for he came to declare that some of the officers had taken his coach, and was, as might be supposed, in a towering passion.
“If, sir,” said I, with an air of the most balmy courtesy–“If I can be of any use in assisting you to see your friends home–”
“Ah! then, ye’r a nice looking article to see ladies home. I wish you seen yourself this minute,” said he.
As I felt it would be no breach of the unities–time, place, and every thing considered–to smash his skull, I should certainly have proceeded to do so, had not a look of the most imploring kind from Mary Anne restrained me. By this time, he had taken her under the arm, and was leading her away. I stood irresolute, till a glance from my charmer caught me; when I rallied at once, and followed them down stairs. Here the scene was the full as amusing as above; the cloaking, shawling, shoeing, &c., of the ladies being certainly as mirth-moving a process as I should wish to see. Here were mothers trying to collect their daughters, as a hen her chickens, and as in that case, the pursuit of one usually lost all the others; testy papas swearing, lovers leering, as they twisted the boas round the fair throats of their sweethearts; vows of love, mingling with lamentations for a lost slipper, or a stray mantle. Sometimes the candles were extinguished, and the melee became greater, till the order and light were restored together. Meanwhile, each of our fellows had secured his fair one, save myself, and I was exposed to no small ridicule for my want of savoir faire. Nettled at this, I made a plunge to the corner of the room, where Mary Anne was shawling; I recognized her pink sash, threw her cloak over her shoulders, and at the very moment that Mark Anthony drew his wife’s arm within his, I performed the same by my friend, and followed them to the door. Here, the grim brother-in-law turned round to take Mary Anne’s arm, and seeing her with me, merely gave a kind of hoarse chuckle, and muttered, “Very well, sir: upon my conscience you will have it, I see.” During this brief interval, so occupied was I in watching him, that I never once looked in my fair friend’s face; but the gentle squeeze of her arm, as she leaned upon me, assured me that I had her approval of what I was doing.
What were the precise train of my thoughts, and what the subjects of conversation between us, I am unfortunately now unable to recollect. It is sufficient to remember, that I could not believe five minutes had elapsed, when we arrived at York-street. “Then you confess you love me,” said I, as I squeezed her arm to my side.
“Then, by this kiss,” said I, “I swear, never to relinquish.”–
What I was about to add, I am sure I know not; but true it is, that a certain smacking noise here attracted Mr. Mark Anthony’s attention, who started round, looked as full in the face, and then gravely added, “Enough is as good as a feast. I wish you pleasant drames, Mr. Larry Kar, if that’s your name; and you’ll hear from me in the morning.”
“I intend it,” said I. “Good night, dearest; think of–” The slam of the street door in my face spoiled the peroration, and I turned towards home.
By the time I reached the barracks, the united effects of the champagne, sherry, and Sheffield iron, had, in a good measure subsided, and my head had become sufficiently clear to permit a slight retrospect of the evening’s amusement.
From two illusions I was at least awakened:–First, the high sheriff’s ball was not the most accurate representation of high society; secondly, I was not deeply enamoured of Mary Anne Moriarty. Strange as it may seem, and how little soever the apparent connexion between those two facts, the truth of one had a considerable influence in deciding the other. N’importe, said I, the thing is over; it was rather good fun, too, upon the whole–saving the “chute des casseroles;” and as to the lady, she must have seen it was a joke as well as myself. At least, so I am decided it shall be; and as there was no witness to our conversation, the thing is easily got out of.
The following day, as I was dressing to ride out, my servant announced no less a person than Mr. Mark Anthony Fitzpatrick, who said “that he came upon a little business, and must see me immediately.”
Mr. Fitzpatrick, upon being announced, speedily opened his negociation by asking in very terse and unequivocal phrase, my intentions regarding his sister-in-law. After professing the most perfect astonishment at the question, and its possible import, I replied, that she was a most charming person, with whom I intended to have nothing whatever to do.
“And maybe you never proposed for her at the ball last night?”
“Propose for a lady at a ball the first time I ever met her!”
“Just so. Can you carry your memory so far back? or, perhaps I had better refresh it;” and he here repeated the whole substance of my conversation on the way homeward, sometimes in the very words I used.
“But, my dear sir, the young lady could never have supposed I used such language as this you have repeated?”
“So, then, you intend to break off? Well, then, it’s right to tell you that you’re in a very ugly scrape, for it was my wife you took home last night–not Miss Moriarty; and I leave you to choose at your leisure whether you’d rather be defendant in a suit for breach of promise or seduction; and, upon my conscience, I think it’s civil in me to give you a choice.”
What a pretty disclosure was here! So that while I was imaging myself squeezing the hand and winning the heart of the fair Mary Anne, I was merely making a case of strong evidence for a jury, that might expose me to the world, and half ruin me in damages. There was but one course open–to make a fight for it; and, from what I saw of my friend Mark Anthony, this did not seem difficult.
I accordingly assumed a high tone–laughed at the entire affair–said it was a “way we had in the army”–that “we never meant any thing by it,” &c. &c.
In a few minutes I perceived the bait was taking. Mr. Fitzpatrick’s west country blood was up: all thought of the legal resource was abandoned; and he flung out of the room to find a friend, I having given him the name of “one of ours” as mine upon the occasion.
Very little time was lost, for before three o’clock that afternoon a meeting was fixed for the following morning at the North Bull; and I had the satisfaction of hearing that I only escaped the malignant eloquence of Holmes in the King’s Bench, to be “blazed” at by the best shot on the western circuit. The thought was no way agreeable, and I indemnified myself for the scrape by a very satisfactory anathema upon the high sheriff and his ball, and his confounded saucepans; for to the lady’s sympathy for my sufferings I attributed much of my folly.
At eight the next morning I found myself standing with Curzon and the doctor upon that bleak portion of her majesty’s dominion they term the North Bull, waiting in a chilly rain, and a raw fog, till it pleased Mark Anthony Fitzpatrick, to come and shoot me–such being the precise terms of our combat, in the opinion of all parties.
The time, however, passed on, and half-past eight, three quarters, and at last nine o’clock, without his appearing; when, just as Curzon had resolved upon our leaving the ground, a hack jaunting-car was seen driving at full speed along the road near us. It came nearer and at length drew up; two men leaped off and came towards us; one of whom, as he came forward, took off his hat politely, and introduced himself as Mr. O’Gorman, the fighting friend of Mark Anthony.
“It’s a mighty unpleasant business I’m come upon, gentlemen,” said he, “Mr. Fitzpatrick has been unavoidedly prevented from having the happiness to meet you this morning–”
“Then you can’t expect us, sir, to dance attendance upon him here to-morrow,” said Curzon, interrupting.
“By no manner of means,” replied the other, placidly; “for it would be equally inconvenient for him to be here then. But I have only to say, maybe you’d have the kindness to waive all etiquette, and let me stand in his place.”
“Certainly and decidedly not,” said Curzon. “Waive etiquette!–why, sir, we have no quarrel with you; never saw you before.”
“Well, now, isn’t this hard?” said Mr. O’Gorman, addressing his friend, who stood by with a pistol-case under his arm; “but I told Mark that I was sure they’d be standing upon punctilio, for they were English. Well, sir,” said he, turning towards Curzon, “there’s but one way to arrange it now, that I see. Mr. Fitzpatrick, you must know, was arrested this morning for a trifle of L140. If you or your friend there, will join us in the bail we can get him out, and he’ll fight you in the morning to your satisfaction.”
When the astonishment this proposal had created subsided, we assured Mr. O’Gorman that we were noways disposed to pay such a price for our amusement–a fact that seemed considerably to surprise both him and his friend–and adding, that to Mr. Fitzpatrick personally, we should feel bound to hold ourselves pledged at a future period, we left the ground, Curzon laughing heartily at the original expedient thus suggested, and I inwardly pronounced a most glowing eulogy on the law of imprisonment for debt.
Before Mr. Fitzpatrick obtained the benefit of the act, we were ordered abroad, and I have never since heard of him.
CHAPTER XL.
THE TWO LETTERS.
From the digression of the last chapter I was recalled by the sight of the two letters which lay during my reverie unopened before me. I first broke the seal of Lady Callonby’s epistle, which ran thus:
“Munich, La Croix Blanche,
“My dear Mr. Lorrequer–I have just heard from Kilkee, that you are at length about to pay us your long promised visit, and write these few lines to beg that before leaving Paris you will kindly execute for me the commissions of which I enclose a formidable list, or at least as many of them as you can conveniently accomplish. Our stay here now will be short, that it will require all your despatch to overtake us before reaching Milan, Lady Jane’s health requiring an immediate change of climate. Our present plans are, to winter in Italy, although such will interfere considerably with Lord Callonby, who is pressed much by his friends to accept office. However, all this and our other gossip I reserve for our meeting. Meanwhile, adieu, and if any of my tasks bore you, omit them at once, except the white roses and the Brussels veil, which Lady Jane is most anxious for.
“Sincerely yours,
“Charlotte Callonby.”
How much did these few and apparently common-place lines convey to me? First, my visit was not only expected, but actually looked forward to, canvassed–perhaps I might almost whisper to myself the flattery–wished for. Again, Lady Jane’s health was spoken of as precarious, less actual illness–I said to myself–than mere delicacy requiring the bluer sky and warmer airs of Italy. Perhaps her spirits were affected–some mental malady–some ill-placed passion–que sais je? In fact my brain run on so fast in its devisings, that by a quick process, less logical than pleasing, I satisfied myself that the lovely Lady Jane Callonby was actually in love, with whom let the reader guess at. And Lord Callonby too, about to join the ministry–well, all the better to have one’s father-in-law in power–promotion is so cursed slow now a-days. And lastly, the sly allusion to the commissions–the mechancete of introducing her name to interest me. With such materials as these to build upon, frail as they may seem to others, I found no difficulty in regarding myself as the dear friend of the family, and the acknowledged suitor of Lady Jane.
In the midst, however, of all my self-gratulation, my eye fell upon the letter of Emily Bingham, and I suddenly remembered how fatal to all such happy anticipations it might prove. I tore it open in passionate haste and read–
“My dear Mr. Lorrequer–As from the interview we have had this morning I am inclined to believe that I have gained your affections, I think that I should ill requite such a state of your feeling for me, were I to conceal that I cannot return you mine–in fact they are not mine to bestow. This frank avowal, whatever pain it may have cost me, I think I owe to you to make. You will perhaps say, the confession should have been earlier; to which I reply, it should have been so, had I known, or even guessed at the nature of your feelings for me. For–and I write it in all truth, and perfect respect for you–I only saw in your attentions the flirting habits of a man of the world, with a very uninformed and ignorant girl of eighteen, with whom as it was his amusement to travel, he deemed it worth his while to talk. I now see, and bitterly regret my error, yet deem it better to make this painful confession than suffer you to remain in a delusion which may involve your happiness in the wreck of mine. I am most faithfully your friend,
“Emily Bingham.”
What a charming girl she is, I cried, as I finished the letter; how full of true feeling, how honourably, how straight-forward: and yet it is devilish strange how cunningly she played her part–and it seems now that I never did touch her affections; Master Harry, I begin to fear you are not altogether the awful lady-killer you have been thinking. Thus did I meditate upon this singular note–my delight at being once more “free” mingling with some chagrin that I was jockied, and by a young miss of eighteen, too. Confoundedly disagreeable if the mess knew it, thought I. Per Baccho–how they would quiz upon my difficulty to break off a match, when the lady was only anxious to get rid of me.
This affair must never come to their ears, or I am ruined; and now, the sooner all negociations are concluded the better. I must obtain a meeting with Emily. Acknowledge the truth and justice of all her views, express my deep regret at the issue of the affair, slily hint that I have been merely playing her own game back upon her; for it would be the devil to let her go off with the idea that she had singed me, yet never caught fire herself; so that we both shall draw stakes, and part friends.
This valiant resolution taken, I wrote a very short note, begging an interview, and proceeded to make as formidable a toilet as I could for the forthcoming meeting; before I had concluded which, a verbal answer by her maid informed me, that “Miss Bingham was alone, and ready to receive me.”
As I took my way along the corridor, I could not help feeling that among all my singular scrapes and embarassing situations through life, my present mission was certainly not the least–the difficulty, such as it was, being considerably increased by my own confounded “amour propre,” that would not leave me satisfied with obtaining my liberty, if I could not insist upon coming off scathless also. In fact, I was not content to evacuate the fortress, if I were not to march out with all the honours of war. This feeling I neither attempt to palliate nor defend, I merely chronicle it as, are too many of these confessions, a matter of truth, yet not the less a subject for sorrow.
My hand was upon the lock of the door. I stopped, hesitated, and listened. I certainly heard something. Yes, it is too true–she is sobbing. What a total overthrow to all my selfish resolves, all my egotistical plans, did that slight cadence give. She was crying–her tears for the bitter pain she concluded I was suffering–mingling doubtless with sorrow for her own sources of grief–for it was clear to me that whoever may have been my favoured rival, the attachment was either unknown to, or unsanctioned by the mother. I wished I had not listened; all my determinations were completely routed and as I opened the door I felt my heart beating almost audibly against my side.
In a subdued half-light–tempered through the rose-coloured curtains, with a small sevres cup of newly-plucked moss-roses upon the table–sat, or rather leaned, Emily Bingham, her face buried in her hands as I entered. She did not hear my approach, so that I had above a minute to admire the graceful character of her head, and the fine undulating curve of her neck and shoulders, before I spoke.
“Miss Bingham,” said I–
She started–looked up–her dark blue eyes, brilliant though tearful, were fixed upon me for a second, as if searching my very inmost thoughts. She held out her hand, and turning her head aside, made room for me on the sofa beside her. Strange girl, thought I, that in the very moment of breaking with a man for ever, puts on her most fascinating toilette –arrays herself in her most bewitching manner, and gives him a reception only calculated to turn his head, and render him ten times more in love than ever. Her hand, which remained still in mine, was burning as if in fever, and the convulsive movement of her neck and shoulders showed me how much this meeting cost her. We were both silent, till at length, feeling that any chance interruption might leave us as far as ever from understanding each other, I resolved to begin.
“My dear, dear Emily,” I said, “do not I entreat of you add to the misery I am this moment enduring by letting me see you thus. Whatever your wrongs towards me, this is far too heavy a retribution. My object was never to make you wretched, if I am not to obtain the bliss, to strive and make you happy.”
“Oh, Harry”–this was the first time she had ever so called me–“how like you, to think of me–of me, at such a time, as if I was not the cause of all our present unhappiness–but not wilfully, not intentionally. Oh, no, no–your attentions–the flattery of your notice, took me at once, and, in the gratification of my self-esteem, I forgot all else. I heard, too, that you were engaged to another, and believing, as I did, that you were trifling with my affections, I spared no effort to win your’s. I confess it, I wished this with all my soul.”
“And now,” said I, “that you have gained them”–Here was a pretty sequel to my well matured plans!–“And now Emily”–
“But have I really done so?” said she, hurriedly turning round and fixing her large full eyes upon me, while one of her hands played convulsively through my hair–“have I your heart? your whole heart?”
“Can you doubt it, dearest,” said I, passionately pressing her to my bosom; and at the same time muttering, “What the devil’s in the wind now; we are surely not going to patch up our separation, and make love in earnest.”
There she lay, her head upon my shoulder, her long, brown, waving ringlets falling loosely across my face and on my bosom, her hand in mine. What were her thoughts I cannot guess–mine, God forgive me, were a fervent wish either for her mother’s appearance, or that the hotel would suddenly take fire, or some other extensive calamity arise to put the finishing stroke to this embarassing situation.
None of these, however, were destined to occur; and Emily lay still and motionless as she was, scarce seeming to breathe, and pale as death. What can this mean, said I, surely this is not the usual way to treat with a rejected suitor; if it be, why then, by Jupiter the successful one must have rather the worst of it–and I fervently hope that Lady Jane be not at this moment giving his conge to some disappointed swain. She slowly raised her long, black fringed eyelids, and looked into my face, with an expression at once so tender and so plaintive, that I felt a struggle within myself whether to press her to my heart, or–what the deuce was the alternative. I hope my reader knows, for I really do not. And after all, thought I, if we are to marry, I am only anticipating a little; and if not, why then a “chaste salute,” as Winifred Jenkins calls it, she’ll be none the worse for. Acting at once upon this resolve, I leaned downwards, and passing back her ringlets from her now flushed cheek, I was startled by my name, which I heard called several times in the corridor. The door at the same instant was burst suddenly open, and Trevanion appeared.
“Harry, Harry Lorrequer,” cried he, as he entered; then suddenly checking himself, added “a thousand, ten thousand pardons. But–”
“But what,” cried I passionately, forgetting all save the situation of poor Emily at the moment, “what can justify–”
“Nothing certainly can justify such an intrusion,” said Trevanion, finishing my sentence for me, “except the very near danger you run this moment in being arrested. O’Leary’s imprudence has compromised your safety, and you must leave Paris within an hour.”
“Oh, Mr. Trevanion,” said Emily, who by this time had regained a more befitting attitude, “pray speak out; what is it? is Harry–is Mr. Lorrequer, I mean, in any danger?”
“Nothing of consequence, Miss Bingham, if he only act with prudence, and be guided by his friends. Lorrequer, you will find me in your apartments in half an hour–till then, adieu.”
While Emily poured forth question after question, as to the nature and extent of my present difficulty, I could not help thinking of the tact by which Trevanion escaped, leaving me to make my adieux to Emily as best I might–for I saw in a glance that I must leave Paris at once. I, therefore, briefly gave her to understand the affair at the salon –which I suspected to be the cause of the threatened arrest–and was about to profess my unaltered and unalterable attachment, when she suddenly stopped me.
“No, Mr. Lorrequer, no. All is over between us. We must never meet again–never. We have been both playing a part. Good by–good by: do not altogether forget me–and once more, Harry good by.”
What I might have said, thought, or done, I know not; but the arrival of Mrs. Bingham’s carriage at the door left no time for any thing but escape. So, once more pressing her hand firmly to my lips, I said–“au revoir, Emily, au revoir, not good by,” and rushing from the room, regained my own, just as Mrs. Bingham reached the corridor.
CHAPTER XLI.
MR. O’LEARY’S CAPTURE.
Does she really care for me? was my first question to myself as I left the room. Is this story about pre-engaged affections merely a got up thing, to try the force of my attachment for her? for, if not, her conduct is most inexplicable; and great as my experience has been in such affairs, I avow myself out maneuvered. While I thought over this difficulty, Trevanion came up, and in a few words, informed me more fully upon what he hinted at before. It appeared that O’Leary, much more alive to the imperative necessity of avoiding detection by his sposa, than of involving himself with the police, had thrown out most dark and mysterious hints in the hotel as to the reason of his residence at Paris; fully impressed with the idea that, to be a good Pole, he need only talk “revolutionary;” devote to the powers below, all kings, czars, and kaisers; weep over the wrongs of his nation; wear rather seedy habiliments, and smoke profusely. The latter were with him easy conditions, and he so completely acted the former to the life, that he had been that morning arrested in the Tuilleries gardens, under several treasonable charges–among others, the conspiracy, with some of his compatriots to murder the minister of war.
However laughable such an accusation against poor O’Leary, one circumstance rendered the matter any thing but ludicrous. Although he must come off free of this grave offence, yet, the salon transaction would necessarily now become known; I should be immediately involved, and my departure from Paris prevented.
“So,” said Trevanion, as he briefly laid before me the difficulty of my position, “you may perceive that however strongly your affections may be engaged in a certain quarter, it is quite as well to think of leaving Paris without delay. O’Leary’s arrest will be followed by yours, depend upon it; and once under the surveillance of the police, escape is impossible.”
“But, seriously, Trevanion,” said I, nettled at the tone of raillery he spoke in, “you must see that there is nothing whatever in that business. I was merely taking my farewell of the fair Emily. Her affections have been long since engaged, and I–”
“Only endeavouring to support her in her attachment to the more favoured rival. Is it not so?”
“Come, no quizzing. Faith I began to feel very uncomfortable about parting with her, the moment that I discovered that I must do so.”
“So I guessed,” said Trevanion, with a dry look, “from the interesting scene I so abruptly trespassed upon. But you are right; a little bit of tendresse is never misplaced, so long as the object is young, pretty, and still more than all, disposed for it.”
“Quite out; perfectly mistaken, believe me. Emily not only never cared for me; but she has gone far enough to tell me so.”
“Then, from all I know of such matters,” replied he, “you were both in a very fair way to repair that mistake on her part. But hark! what is this?” A tremendous noise in the street here interrupted our colloquy, and on opening the window, a strange scene presented itself to our eyes. In the middle of a dense mass of moving rabble, shouting, yelling, and screaming, with all their might, were two gens d’armes with a prisoner between them. The unhappy man was followed by a rather well-dressed, middle-aged looking woman, who appeared to be desirous of bestowing the most covam publico endearments upon the culprit, whom a second glance showed us was O’Leary.
“I tell you, my dear madam, you are mistaken,” said O’Leary, addressing her with great sternness of manner and voice.
“Mistaken! Never, never. How could I ever be mistaken in that dear voice, those lovely eyes, that sweet little nose?”
“Take her away; she’s deranged,” said O’Leary to the gens d’armes. “Sure, if I’m a Pole, that’s enough of misfortune.”
“I’ll follow him to the end of the earth, I will.”
“I’m going to the galleys, God be praised,” said O’Leary.
“To the galleys–to the guillotine–any where,” responded she, throwing herself upon his neck, much less, as it seemed, to his gratification, than that of the mob, who laughed and shouted most uproariously.
“Mrs. Ram, ain’t you ashamed?”
“He calls me by my name,” said she, “and he attempts to disown me. Ha! ha! ha! ha!” and immediately fell off into a strong paroxysm of kicking, and pinching, and punching the bystanders, a malady well known under the name of hysterics; but being little more than a privileged mode, among certain ladies, of paying off some scores, which it is not thought decent to do in their more sober moments.
“Lead me away–anywhere–convict me of what you like,” said he, “but don’t let her follow me.”
The gens d’armes, who little comprehended the nature of the scene before them, were not sorry to anticipate a renewal of it on Mrs. Ram’s recovery, and accordingly seized the opportunity to march on with O’Leary, who turned the corner of the Rue Rivoli, under a shower of “meurtriers” and “scelerats” from the mob, that fell fortunately most unconsciously upon his ears.
The possibility of figuring in such a procession contributed much to the force of Trevanion’s reasonings, and I resolved to leave Paris at once.
“Promise me, then, to involve yourself in no more scrapes for half-an-hour. Pack every thing you shall want with you, and, by seven o’clock, I shall be here with your passport and all ready for a start.”
With a beating brain, and in a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, I threw my clothes hither and thither into my trunk; Lady Jane and Emily both flitting every instant before my imagination, and frequently an irresolution to proceed stopping all my preparations for departure, I sat down musing upon a chair, and half determined to stay where I was, coute qui coute. Finally, the possibility of exposure in a trial, had its weight. I continued my occupation till the last coat was folded, and the lock turned, when I seated myself opposite my luggage, and waited impatiently for my friend’s return.
EBOOK EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:
Devilish hot work, this, said the colonel Empty, valueless, heartless flirtation
Enough is as good as a feast
Finish in sorrow what you have begun in folly Gardez vous des femmes, and more especially if they be Irish Jaunting-cars, with three on a side and “one in the well” Mistaking zeal for inclination
Other bottle of claret that lies beyond the frontier of prudence Packed jury of her relatives, who rarely recommend you to mercy There is no infatuation like the taste for flirtation