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diff --git a/41204-0.txt b/41204-0.txt index f6ffaec..5c0c8fe 100644 --- a/41204-0.txt +++ b/41204-0.txt @@ -1,25 +1,4 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 6, by Various - -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: Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 6 - -Author: Various - -Release Date: October 27, 2012 [EBook #41204] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD," VOLUME 6 *** - - - +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 41204 *** Produced by Veronika Redfern, D Alexander, Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at @@ -7253,360 +7232,4 @@ over his shoulder.) 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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: Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 6 - -Author: Various - -Release Date: October 27, 2012 [EBook #41204] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD," VOLUME 6 *** - - - - -Produced by Veronika Redfern, D Alexander, Juliet Sutherland -and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD" - - - Contents of this Volume - - _My Friend the Dutchman. By Frederick Hardman, Esq._ - - _My College Friends. No. II. Horace Leicester._ - - _The Emerald Studs. By Professor Aytoun._ - - _My College Friends. No. III. Mr W. Wellington Hurst._ - - _Christine: a Dutch Story. By Frederick Hardman, Esq._ - - _The Man in the Bell._ - - - WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS - EDINBURGH AND LONDON - - - - -TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD." - - - - -MY FRIEND THE DUTCHMAN. - -BY FREDERICK HARDMAN. - -[_MAGA._ OCTOBER 1847.] - - -"And you will positively marry her, if she will have you?" - -"Not a doubt of either. Before this day fortnight she shall be Madame -Van Haubitz." - -"You will make her your wife without acquainting her with your true -position?" - -"Indeed will I. My very position requires it. There's no room for a -scruple. She expects to live on my fortune; thinks to make a great catch -of the rich Dutchman. Instead of that I shall spend her salary. The old -story; going out for wool and returning shorn." - -The conversation of which this is the concluding fragment, occurred in -the public room of the Hotel de Hesse, in the village of Homburg on the -Hill--then an insignificant handful of houses, officiating as capital -of the important landgravate of Hesse-Homburg. The table-d'hôte had been -over some time; the guests had departed to repose in their apartments -until the hour of evening promenade should summon them to the excellent -band of music, provided by the calculating liberality of the -gaming-house keepers, and to loiter round the _brunnen_ of more or less -nauseous flavour, the pretext of resort to this rendezvous of idlers and -gamblers. The waiters had disappeared to batten on the broken meats from -the public table, and to doze away the time till the approach of supper -renewed their activity. My interlocutor, with whom I was alone in the -deserted apartment, was a man of about thirty years of age, whose dark -hair and mustaches, marked features, spare person, and complexion -bronzed by a tropical sun, entitled him to pass for a native of southern -Europe, or even of some more ardent clime. Nevertheless he answered to -the very Dutch patronymic of Van Haubitz, and was a native of Holland, -in whose principal city his father was a banker of considerable wealth -and financial influence. - -It was towards the close of a glorious August, and for two months I had -been wandering in Rhine-land. Not after the fashion of deluded Cockneys, -who fancy they have seen the Rhine when they have careered from Cologne -to Mannheim astride of a steam-engine, gaping at objects passed as soon -as perceived; drinking and paying for indifferent vinegar as -Steinberger-Cabinet, eating vile dinners on the decks of steamers, and -excellent ones in the capital hotels which British cash and patronage -have raised upon the banks of the most renowned of German streams. On -the contrary, I had early dispensed with the aid of steam, to wander on -foot, with the occasional assistance of a lazy country diligence or -rickety _einspänner_, through the many beautiful districts that lie upon -either bank of the river; pedestrianising in Rhenish Bavaria, losing -myself in the Odenwald, and pausing, when occasion offered, to pick a -trout out of the numerous streamlets that dash and meander through dell -and ravine, on their way to swell the waters of old Father Rhine. At -last, weary of solitude--scarcely broken by an occasional gossip with a -heavy German boor, village priest, or strolling student--I thirsted -after the haunts of civilisation, and found myself, within a day of the -appearance of the symptom, installed in a luxurious hotel in the free -city of Frankfort on the Maine. But Frankfort at that season is -deserted, save by passing tourists, who escape as fast as possible from -its lifeless streets and sun-baked pavements; so, after glancing over an -English newspaper at the Casino, taking one stroll in the beautiful -garden surrounding the city, and another through the Jew-quarter--always -interesting and curious, although anything but savoury at that warm -season--I gathered together my baggage and was off to Homburg. There I -could not complain of solitude, of deserted streets and shuttered -windows. It seemed impossible that the multitude of gaily dressed belles -and cavaliers, English, French, German, and Russ, who, from six in the -morning until sunset, lounged and flirted on the walks, watered -themselves at the fountains, and perilled their complexions in the -golden sunbeams, could ever bestow themselves in the two or three -middling hotels and few score shabby lodging-houses composing the town -of Homburg. Manage it they did, however; crept into their narrow cells -at night, to emerge next morning, like butterflies from the chrysalis, -gay, bright, and brilliant, and to recommence the never-varying but -pleasant round of eating, sauntering, love-making, and gambling. Homburg -was not then what it has since become. That great house of cards, the -new Cursaal, had not yet arisen; and its table-d'hôte, reading-room, and -profane mysteries of roulette and rouge-et-noir, found temporary -domicile in a narrow, disreputable-looking den in the main street, where -accommodation of all kinds, but especially for dinner, was scanty in the -extreme. The public tables at the hotels were consequently thronged, and -there acquaintances were soon made. The day of my arrival at Homburg I -was seated next to Van Haubitz; his manner was off-hand and frank; we -entered into conversation, took our after-dinner cigar and evening -stroll together, and by bed-time had knocked up that sort of intimacy -easily contracted at a watering-place, which lasts one's time of -residence, and is extinguished and forgotten on departure. Van Haubitz, -like many Continentals and very few Englishmen, was one of those -free-and-easy communicative persons who are as familiar after twelve -hours' acquaintance as if they had known you twelve years, and who do -not hesitate to confide to a three days' acquaintance the history of -their lives, their pursuits, position, and prospects. I was soon made -acquainted, to a very considerable extent, at least, with those of my -friend Van Haubitz, late lieutenant of artillery in the service of his -majesty the King of Holland. He was the youngest of four sons, and -having shown, at a very early age, a wild and intractable disposition -and precocious addiction to dissipation, his father pronounced him -unsuited to business, and decided on placing him in the army. To this -the _Junker_ (he claimed nobility, and displayed above his arms a -species of coronet, bearing considerable resemblance to a fragment of -chevaux-de-frise, which he might have been puzzled to prop with a -parchment) had no particular objection, and might have made a good -enough officer, but for his reckless, spendthrift manner of life, which -entailed negligence of duty and frequent reprimands. Extravagant beyond -measure, unable to deny himself any gratification, squandering money as -though millions were at his command, he was constantly overwhelmed with -debts and a martyr to duns. At last his father, after thrice clearing -him with his creditors, consented to do so a fourth time only on -condition of his getting transferred to a regiment stationed in the -Dutch East Indies, and remaining there until his return had the paternal -sanction. To avoid a prison, and perhaps not altogether sorry to leave a -country where his cash and credit were alike exhausted, he embarked for -Batavia. But any pleasant day-dreams he may have cherished of tropical -luxuries, of the indulgence of a _farniente_ life in a grass hammock, -gently balanced by Javan houris beneath banana shades, of spice-laden -breezes and cool sherbets, and other attributes of a Mohammedan -paradise, were speedily dissipated by the odious realities of filth and -vermin, marsh-fever and mosquitoes. He wrote to his father, describing -the horrors of the place, and begging to be released from his pledge and -allowed to return to Holland. His obdurate progenitor replied by a -letter of reproach, and swore that if he left Batavia he might live on -his pay, and never expect a stiver from the paternal strong-box, either -as gift or bequest. To live upon his pay would have been no easy matter, -even for a more prudent person than Van Haubitz. He grumbled -immoderately, swore like a pagan, but remained where he was. A year -passed and he could hold out no longer. Disregarding the paternal -displeasure, and reckless of consequences, he applied to the chief -military authority of the colony for leave of absence. He was asked his -plea, and alleged ill health. The general thought he looked pretty well, -and requested the sight of a medical certificate of his invalid state. -Van Haubitz assumed a doleful countenance and betook him to the -surgeons. They agreed with the general that his aspect was healthy: -asked for symptoms; could discover none more alarming than regularity of -pulse, sleep, appetite, and digestion, laughed in his face and refused -the certificate. The sickly gunner, who had the constitution of a -rhinoceros, and had never had a day's illness since he got over the -measles at the age of four years, waited a little, and tried the second -"dodge," usually resorted to in such cases. "Urgent private affairs" -were now the pretext. The general expressed his regret that urgent -public affairs rendered it impossible for him to dispense with the -valuable services of Lieutenant Van Haubitz. Whereupon Lieutenant Van -Haubitz passed half an hour in heaping maledictions on the head of his -disobliging commander, and then sat down and wrote an application for an -exchange to the authorities in Holland. The reply was equally -unsatisfactory, the fact being that Haubitz senior, like an implacable -old savage as he was, had made interest at the war-office for the -refusal of all such requests on the part of his scapegrace offspring. -Haubitz junior took patience for another year, and then, in a moment of -extreme disgust and ennui, threw up his commission and returned to -Europe, trusting, he told me, that after five years' absence, the -governor's bowels would yearn towards his youngest-born. In this he was -entirely mistaken; he greatly underrated the toughness of paternal -viscera. Far from killing the fatted calf on the prodigal's return, the -incensed old Hollander refused him the smallest cutlet, and, shutting -the door in his face, consigned him, with more energy than affection, to -the custody of the evil one. Van Haubitz found himself in an awkward -fix. Credit was dead, none of his relatives would notice or assist him; -his whole fortune consisted of a dozen gold Wilhelms. At this critical -moment an eccentric maiden aunt, to whom, a year or two previously, he -had sent a propitiatory offering of a ring-tailed monkey and a leash of -pea-green parrots, and who had never condescended to acknowledge the -present, departed this life, bequeathing him ten thousand florins as a -return for the addition to her menagerie. A man of common prudence, and -who had seen himself so near destitution, would have endeavoured to -employ this sum, moderate as it was, in some trade or business, or, at -any rate, would have lived sparingly till he found other resources. But -Haubitz had not yet sown all his wild-oats; he had a soul above barter, -a glorious disregard of the future, the present being provided for. He -left Holland, shaking the dust from his boots, dashed across Belgium, -and was soon plunged in the gaieties of a Paris carnival. Breakfasts at -the Rocher, dinners at the Café, balls at the opera, and the concomitant -_petits soupers_ and écarté parties with the fair denizens of the -Quartier Lorette, soon operated a prodigious chasm in the monkey-money, -as Van Haubitz irreverently styled his venerable aunt's bequest. Spring -having arrived, he beat a retreat from Paris, and established himself at -Homburg, where he was quietly completing the consumption of the ten -thousand florins, at rather a slower pace than he would have done at -that headquarters of pleasant iniquity, the capital of France. From -hints he let fall, I suspected a short time would suffice to see the -last of the legacy. On this head, however, he had been less confidential -than on most other matters, and certainly his manner of living would -have led no one to suppose he was low in the locker. Nothing was too -good for him; he drank the best of wines, got up parties and pic-nics -for the ladies, and had a special addiction to the purchase of costly -trinkets, which he generally gave away before they had been a day in his -possession. He did not gamble; he had done so, he told me, once since -he was at Homburg, and had won, but he had no faith in his luck, or -taste for that kind of excitement, and should play no more. He was -playing another game just now, which apparently interested him greatly. -A few days before myself, a young actress, who, within a very short -time, had acquired considerable celebrity, had arrived at Homburg, -escorted by her mother. Fraülein Emilie Sendel was a lively lady of -four-and-twenty or thereabouts, possessing a smart figure and pretty -face, the latter somewhat wanting in refinement. Her blue eyes, although -rather too prominent, had a merry sparkle; her cheeks had not yet been -entirely despoiled by envious rouge of their natural healthful tinge; -her hair, of that peculiar tint of red auburn which the French call a -_blonde hasardé_, was more remarkable for abundance and flexibility than -for fineness of texture. As regarded her qualities and accomplishments, -she was good-humoured and tolerably unaffected, but wilful and -capricious as a spoiled child; she spoke her own language pretty well, -with an occasional slight vulgarism or bit of greenroom slang; had a -smattering of French, and played the piano sufficiently to accompany the -ballads and vaudeville airs which she sang with spirit and considerable -freedom of style. I had met German actresses who were far more lady-like -off the stage, but there was nothing glaringly or repulsively vulgar -about Emilie, and as a neighbour at a public dinner-table, she was -amusing and quite above par. As if to vindicate her nationality, she -would occasionally look sentimental; but the mood sat ill upon her, and -never lasted long: comedy was evidently her natural line. Against her -reputation, rumour, always an inquisitive censor, often a mean libeller, -of ladies of her profession, had as yet, so far as I could learn, found -nothing to allege. Her mother, a dingy old dowager, with bad teeth, -dowdy gowns, a profusion of artificial flowers, and a strong addiction -to tea and knitting, perfectly understood the duties of duennaship, and -did propriety by her daughter's side at dinner-table and promenade. To -the heart of the daughter, Van Haubitz, almost from the first hour he -had seen her, had laid persevering and determined siege. - -During our after-dinner tête-à-tête on the day now referred to, my -friend the gunner had shown himself exceedingly unreserved, and, without -any attempt on my part to draw him out, he had elucidated, with a -frankness that must have satisfied the most inquisitive, whatever small -points of his recent history and present position he had previously left -in obscurity. The conversation began, so soon as the cloth was removed -and the guests had departed, by a jesting allusion on my part to his -flirtation with the actress, and to her gracious reception of his -attentions. - -"It is no mere flirtation," said Van, gravely. "My intentions are -serious. You may depend Mademoiselle Sendel understands them as such." - -"Serious! you don't mean that you want to marry her?" - -"Unquestionably I do. It is my only chance." - -"Your only chance!" I repeated, considerably puzzled. "Are you about to -turn actor, and do you trust to her for instruction in histrionics?" - -"Not exactly. I will explain. La Sendel, you must know, has just -terminated her last engagement, which was at a salary of ten thousand -florins. She has already received and accepted an offer of a new one, at -fifteen thousand, from the Vienna theatre. Vienna is a very pleasant -place. Fifteen thousand florins are thirty-two thousand francs, or -twelve hundred of your English pounds sterling. Upon that sum two -persons can live excellently well--in Germany at least." - -Unable to contradict any of these assertions, I held my tongue. The -Dutchman resumed. - -"You know the history of my past life; I will tell you my present -position. It is critical enough, but I shall improve it, for here," and -he touched his forehead, "is what never fails me. This letter," (he -produced an epistle of mercantile aspect, bearing the Amsterdam -post-mark), "I received last week from my eldest brother. The shabby -_schelm_ declares he will reply to no more of mine, that his efforts to -arrange matters with my father have been fruitless, and that the old -gentleman has strictly forbidden him and his brothers to hold any -communication with me, a command they seem willing enough to obey. So -much for that. And now for the finances." - -He took out his pocket-book, opened and shook it--a flimsy crumpled bit -of paper fell out. It was a note of the bank of France, for one thousand -francs. - -"My last," said he. "That gone, I am a beggar. But it won't come to -that, either, thanks to Fraülein Emilie." - -"Surely," said I, "you are too reckless of money, too extravagant and -unreflecting. Six months ago, you told me you had twenty such notes." - -"Ay, twenty-two exactly, at the end of January, when I left Amsterdam. -But whither was I bound? To Paris; and who can economise there? I've had -my money's worth, and could have had no more, had I dribbled the dirty -ten thousand florins over three years, instead of three months. I take -great credit for making it last so long. Such suppers, and balls, and -orgies, with the pleasantest fellows and prettiest actresses in Paris. -But the louis-d'or roll rapidly in that sort of society. One must be a -Russian prince, or a French _feuilletoniste_, to keep it up. I never -flinched at anything so long as the money lasted. Then, when I found -myself reduced to the last note, I got into the Frankfort mail, and -came to rusticate at this rural roulette-table. My next change will be -to conjugation and Vienna." - -"But if you had only a thousand francs on leaving Paris, and have got -them still, how have you lived since?" - -"You don't suppose these are the same? There are not many ways of -getting through money here unless one gambles, which I do not; but coin -has somehow or other a peculiar aptitude to slip through my fingers, and -the thousand francs soon evaporated. Meanwhile, I had written dozens of -letters to my brothers, who seldom answered, and to my father, who never -did. I promised reform and a respectable life, if they would either get -me a snug place with little to do and good pay, or make me a reasonable -yearly allowance, something better than the paltry three thousand -florins they doled out to me when I was in the artillery, and on which, -as I could not live, I was obliged to get in debt. They paid no -attention to my request, reasonable as it was. The best offer they made -me was five francs a-day, paid weekly, to live in a Silesian village. -This was adding insult to injury, and I left off writing to them. A few -days afterwards, taking out my purse to pay for cigars, a dollar dropped -out. It was my last. I paid it away, walked home, lay down upon my bed, -smoked and reflected. My position was gloomy enough, and the more I -looked at it, the blacker it seemed. From my undutiful relatives there -was no hope; the abominable Silesian project was evidently their -ultimatum. I had no friend to turn to, no resource left. I might -certainly have obtained the mere necessaries of life at this hotel, -where my credit was excellent, and have vegetated for a month or two, as -a man must vegetate, without ready money. But I had no fancy for such an -expedient, a mere protraction of the agony. I lay ruminating for two -hours, two such hours as I should be sorry to pass again, and then my -mind was made up. I had a brace of small travelling-pistols amongst my -baggage; these I loaded and put in my pocket; and then, leaving the -hotel and the town, I struck across the country for some distance and -plunged into a wood. There I sat down upon a grass bank, my back against -an old beech. It was evening, and the solitary little glade before me -was striped with the last sunbeams darting between the tree-trunks. I -have difficulty in defining my sensations at that moment. I was quite -resolved, did not waver an instant in my purpose, but my head was dizzy, -and I had a sickly sensation about the heart. Determined that the -physical shrinking from death should not have time to weaken my moral -determination, I hastily opened my waistcoat, felt for the pulsations of -my heart, placed the muzzle of a pistol where they were strongest, -steadying it on that spot with my left hand. Then I looked straight -before me and pulled the trigger. There was the click of the lock, but -no report; the cap was bad, and had been crushed without exploding. That -was a horrible moment. I snatched up another pistol, which lay cocked to -my hand, and thrust the muzzle into my mouth. As before, the sharp noise -of the hammer upon the nipple was the sole result. The caps had been -some time in my possession, and had become worthless through age or -damp." - -I looked at Van Haubitz, doubtful whether he was not hoaxing me. But -hitherto I had observed in him no addiction to the Munchausen vein, and -now his countenance and voice were serious: there was a slight flush on -his cheek, and he was evidently excited at the recollection of his -abortive attempt at suicide,--perhaps a little ashamed of it. I was -convinced he told the truth. - -"I do not know," he continued, "whether, had I had surer weapons with -me, I should have had courage to make a third attempt upon my life. -Honestly, I think not; the self-preservative instinct was rapidly -gaining strength. I walked slowly back to the town, my brain still -confused from the agitating moments I had passed. I was unable quite to -collect my thoughts, and felt as if I had just awakened from a long -heavy sleep. It was now dark; lights streamed from the open windows of -the gambling-rooms; the voices of the croupiers, the stir and hum of -the players and jingling of money were distinctly heard in the street -without. I have already told you I am no gambler, not from scruple, but -choice. Nevertheless, I used often to stroll up to the Cursaal for an -hour of an evening, when the play was at the highest, to look on and -chat with chance acquaintances. Mechanically, I now ascended the stairs. -On the landing-place, I found myself face to face with a man with whom I -was slightly intimate, and who, a few evenings before, had borrowed -forty francs of me. I had not seen him since, and he now returned me the -piece of gold. 'Try your luck with it,' said he; 'there is a run against -the bank to-night, everybody wins, and M. Blanc looks blue.' And he -pointed to one of the proprietors of the tables, who, however, wore a -tolerably tranquil air, knowing well that what was carried away one -night, would come back with compound interest the next. The play was -heavy at the rouge-et-noir table; a Russian and two Frenchmen--the -latter of whom, judging from their appearance, and from the complicated -array of calculations on the table before them, were professional -gamblers--extracted, at nearly every _coup_, notes or rouleaus of gold -from the grated boxes in front of the bankers. I drank a glass of water, -for my lips were dry and hot, and, placing myself as near the table as -the crowd of players and spectators permitted, watched the game. My -hand was in my pocket, the forty-franc piece still between its fingers. -But in spite of the advice of him who had paid it me, I felt no -disposition to risk the coin; not that I feared to lose it, for as my -only one it was useless, but because, as I tell you, I never had the -slightest love of gambling or expectation to win. - -"A pause occurred in the game. The cards had run out, and the bankers -were subjecting them to those complicated and ostentatious shufflings -intended to convince the players of the fairness of their dealings. -During this operation the previous silence was exchanged for eager -gossip. The game, it appeared, had come out that night in a peculiar -manner, very favourable to those who had had the address and nerve to -avail themselves of it. There had been alternate long runs upon red and -black. - -"'_Mille noms de Dieu!_' exclaimed a hoarse cracked voice just below me. -'What a series of black! Twenty-two, and only three red! And to be -unable to take advantage of it!' - -"I looked down, and recognised the grey mustache, wrinkled features, and -snuffy black coat with a ribbon of the Legion of Honour, of an old -French colonel whom you may have seen limping in and out of the Cursaal, -and who ranks amongst the antiquities of Homburg. He served under -Napoleon, was shelved at the peace, and has lived since then on a -moderate annuity, of which one-fifth procures him the barest -necessaries of existence, whilst the other four parts are annually -absorbed in the vortex of rouge-et-noir. When gambling-houses were legal -at Paris, _le colonel rapé_, the threadbare colonel, as he was called, -was one of the most punctual attendants at Frascati's and the Palais -Royal. When they were abolished, he commenced a wandering existence -amongst the German baths, and finally settled down at Homburg, giving it -the preference, as the only place where he could follow his darling -pursuit alike in winter and in summer. From the opening to the close of -the play he is seen seated at the table, a number of cards, ruled in red -and black columns, on the green cloth before him, in which he pricks -with pins the progress of the game. That evening he had been -unfortunate, and had emptied his pocket, but nevertheless continued -puncturing cards with laudable perseverance, of course discovering, like -every penniless gambler, that, had he money to stake, he should -infallibly make a fortune; predicting what colour would come out, and -indulging, when he proved a true prophet, in a little subdued blasphemy -because he was unable to profit by his acuteness. - -"'Extraordinary run! to be sure,' repeated the veteran dicer. -'Twenty-two black, and only three red! There'll be a series of red now; -I feel there will, and when I don't play myself, I'm always right. I bet -this deal begins with seven red. Who bets a hundred francs to fifty it -does not?' - -"Nobody accepted this sporting offer, or placed upon the colour which -the colonel's prophetic soul foresaw was to come out. The cards were now -shuffled and cut for dealing. The hell relapsed into silence. - -"'_Faites le jeu, Messieurs!_' was repeated in the harsh business-like -tones of the presiding demon. - -"'Red wins,' croaked the colonel. 'Seven times at the least.' - -"Nearly all the players backed the black. By an idle impulse I threw -down my forty francs, my entire fortune, upon the red. The old soldier -looked round to see the judicious individual who followed his advice, -smiled grimly, and nodded approvingly. The next moment red won. I let -the money lie, and walked into the next room. Eighty francs were of no -more use to me than forty, and I felt very sure that another turn of the -card would carry off both stake and winnings. I took up a newspaper, but -soon threw it down again, for my head was not clear enough to read, and -I felt exhausted with the emotions of the day. I was about to leave the -house when I heard a loud buzz in the card-room, and the next instant -somebody clutched my arm. It was the French colonel, in a state of -furious excitement; grinning, panting, perspiring, and stuttering with -eagerness. - -"'Seven reds!' was all he could say. 'Seven reds, Monsieur. Take up your -money.' - -"I hastened to the table. By a strange caprice of fortune, the colonel's -prophecy had come true. Red had won seven times, and my forty francs had -become five thousand. I took up my winnings, the colonel looking on with -a triumphant smile. This was suddenly exchanged for a portentous frown -and fierce twist of the grey mustache. - -"'_Mille millions de tonnerres!_ Not a dollar left to follow up that -splendid run!' And with a furious gesture, he upset his chair, and -dashed his cards upon the ground. - -"I took the hint, whether intended or not. I could not do less in return -for the five thousand francs the old gentleman had put in my pocket. - -"'If Monsieur,' I said, 'will allow me the pleasure of lending him--' - -"'_Impossible, Monsieur!_' interrupted the colonel, looking as stern as -if about to charge single-handed a whole pulk of Cossacks. But I knew my -man. He was the type of a class of which I have seen many. - -"'_Cependant, Monsieur, entre militaires_, between brother-soldiers--' - -"'_Ah! Monsieur est militaire!_' exclaimed the old gentleman, his -alarming contraction of brow and rigidity of feature instantaneously -dissolving into a smile of extreme benignity. 'That alters the case. -Certainly, between brothers in arms those little services may be -offered and accepted. Although, really, it is encroaching on Monsieur's -complaisance ... at the same time ... a hundred francs ... till -to-morrow ... quarters at some distance ... &c. &c.,' which ended in his -picking up his chair, cards, and pin, and applying all his faculties to -break the bank with ten _louis_ which I lent him, and which I need -hardly say I have not seen from that day to this. - -"Such a sudden stroke of good fortune would have made gamblers of nine -men out of ten, but I decidedly want the organ of gaming, for I have -never played since. My narrow escape from suicide had made some -impression on me, and now that I had five thousand francs in my pocket, -I looked back at the attempt as an exceedingly foolish proceeding. For a -month or more, I lived with what even you would admit to be great -economy, writing frequent letters to Amsterdam, and trying to come to -terms and an arrangement with my family. All in vain. They had no -confidence in my promises, proposed nothing I could accept, talked of -Silesian exile--roots and water in the wilderness--and the like -absurdities, until I plainly saw they were determined to cast me off, -and that if I was to be helped at all, it must be by myself. How to do -this was the puzzle. There are few things I can do, that could in any -way be rendered profitable. I can ride a horse, lay a gun, and put a -battery through its exercise; but such accomplishments are sufficiently -common not to be paid at a very high rate; and besides, I had had enough -of garrison duty, even could I have got back my commission, which was -not likely. So I put soldiering out of the question; and yet, when I had -done so, I was puzzled to think of anything better. I had no fancy to -turn rook, and rove from place to place in search of pigeons--no -uncommon resource with younger brothers of an idle turn and exhausted -means. I had fallen in with a few birds of that breed, and had come to -the conclusion that, to save themselves work and trouble, they had -adopted by far the most laborious and painful of all professions. In the -midst of my doubts and uncertainties, the fair Sendel and her mother -made their appearance. The first sight of their names upon the hotel -book was a ray of light to me. Within an hour I made up my mind to -sacrifice my independence to my necessities, and become the virtuous and -domesticated spouse of the charming and well-paid Emilie. A hint and a -dollar to the waiter placed me next her at the table-d'hôte, and I -immediately opened my intrenchments, and began a siege in due form." - -"Which you expect will soon terminate by the capitulation of the -garrison?" - -"Undoubtedly. The result of the first day or two's operations was not -very satisfactory. I rattled away, and did the amiable to a furious -extent; but the divinity was shy, and the guardian of the temple (an -old gorgon whom I shall suppress before the honeymoon is out) looked -askance at me, and pulled her daughter by the sleeve whenever she seemed -disposed to listen. They evidently thought the rattle might belong to a -snake; did me the injustice to take me for an adventurer. On the third -day, however, the ice had melted. I soon found out the cause of the -thaw. The head-waiter, whom a little well-timed liberality had rendered -my devoted slave, informed me that Madame Sendel had been making minute -inquiries concerning me of the master of the hotel. The worthy man, who -adored me because I despised _vin ordinaire_ and looked only at the -sum-total of his bills, said that I was a son of Van Haubitz, the rich -banker of Amsterdam, which was perfectly true; adding, which was rather -less so, that I was a partner in the house, and a _millionaire_. The -effect of this information upon the speculative firm of Sendel _Mère et -Fille_, was perfectly electric. Medusa smoothed her horrid locks, and -came out at that day's dinner in cherry ribbons and fresh artificials. -Emilie was all smiles and suavity, laughed at my worst jokes, nearly -burst her stays by holding her breath to raise a blush at my soft -speeches, and returned from that evening's promenade talking about the -moon, and leaning tenderly on my arm." - -"With such encouragement, I am surprised you did not propose at once." - -"So hasty a measure--oh, most unsophisticated of Britons!" replied Van, -with a look of grave pity for my simplicity--"would have greatly -perilled the success of my scheme. Sendel Senior, having only the -innkeeper's report to rely on, would have had her ungenerous suspicions -re-awakened by my precipitation, and have instituted further inquiries; -have written, probably, to some friend in Holland, and learned that the -pretender to her daughter's hand, although unquestionably a son of the -wealthy banker Van Haubitz, is excluded beyond redemption from the good -graces of that respectable pillar of Dutch finance, who has further -announced his irrevocable determination to take not the slightest notice -of him in his testamentary dispositions. The excellent Herr -Bratenbengel, whose succulent dinner we are now digesting, and whose -very laudable _Rudesheimer_ stands before us, had unwittingly laid the -foundation of my success; it was for me to raise the superstructure. Now -it was that I rejoiced at my economy since the lucky hit at the -gaming-table. The greater part of my winnings still remained to me; -golden grain, which I profusely scattered, sure that it would yield rich -harvest. I had already made a favourable impression, and this I took -care to confirm by the liberal expenditure which you, in your ignorance, -have called extravagance; by treating money as if its abundance in my -coffers made it valueless in my eyes, and by delicate generosity in the -shape of presents to mother and daughter. The trap was too well set to -prove a failure; the birds are fairly snared, and to-night, when we take -our usual romantic stroll, I shall raise the fair Sendel to the seventh -heaven of happiness by asking her to become Madame Van Haubitz." - -Although the tenor and tone of these confessions by no means tended to -elevate the Dutchman in my opinion, I could not but smile at the -coolness with which they were made, and at the skill of his manoeuvres. -There was some good about the scamp; he had his own code of honour, such -as it was, and from that he would not easily have been induced to -swerve. He would have scorned to do a dirty thing, to cheat at cards, or -leave a debt of honour unpaid; but would readily have got in debt to -tradesmen and money-lenders beyond all possibility of reimbursement. And -as regarded his present conspiracy against the celibacy and salary of -Mademoiselle Sendel, a senate of sages and logicians would have failed -to convince him of its impropriety. He looked upon it as a most -justifiable stratagem, a lawful spoiling of the spoiler, praiseworthy in -the sight of men, gods, and columns, and which he would perhaps have -boasted of to a considerable extent to many besides myself, had not -secresy been essential to the welfare of his combinations. I did not -feel myself bound to betray his plot, or to put the Sendel on her guard -against this snake amongst the roses. And whilst mentally resolving -rather to diminish than increase the intimacy which the confident and -confidential artilleryman had in great measure forced upon me, and which -I, through a sort of easy-going indolence of character, had perhaps -somewhat lightly accepted, I anticipated diversion in watching the -manoeuvres of the high contracting parties. I considered myself as a -spectator, called upon to witness an amusing comedy in real life, and -admitted behind the scenes by peculiar favour of an actor. I resolved to -watch the progress of the intrigue, and, if possible, to be present at -the _dénouement_. - -"Are you quite certain," said I to Van, "that Mademoiselle Sendel's -pecuniary position and prospects are so very favourable? The sum you -mentioned is a large one for an actress who has been so short a time on -the stage. Public report, very apt to take liberties with the reputation -of theatrical ladies, often endeavours to compensate them by magnifying -their salaries." - -Van, I may here mention, lest the reader should not have perceived it, -had a most inordinate opinion of his own abilities and acuteness. Like -certain Yankees, he "conceited" it was necessary to rise before the sun -to outwit him, and even then your chance was a poor one. He had been in -hot water all his life, never out of difficulties and scrapes--once, as -has been shown, kept from suicide by a mere accident and was now reduced -to the alternative of beggary or of marrying for a living. None of -these circumstances, which would have taken the conceit out of most men, -at all impaired his opinion of his talent and sharpness. Replying to my -observation merely by a slight shrug, and by a smile of pity for the man -who thus misappreciated his foresight, he again produced his -pocket-book, and extracted from its innermost recesses a fragment of a -German newspaper, reputed oracular in matters theatrical. This he handed -to me, tapping a particular paragraph significantly with his forefinger. -The paragraph was thus conceived:-- - -"THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE.--That promising young actress, Fraülein Emilie -Sendel--whose first appearance, in the spring of last year, at once -established her in the foremost line of the dramatic genius of the -day--has concluded her twelve months' engagement at the _Hof Theater_ of -B----, where she doubtless considered, and not without reason, that her -talents and exertions were inadequately compensated by a salary of ten -thousand florins. The gay society of that capital will sensibly feel the -loss of the accomplished and fascinating comedian, who has accepted an -engagement at Vienna, on the more suitable terms of fifteen thousand -florins, with two months' _congé_, and other advantages. Before -proceeding to ravish the eyes and ears of the pleasure-loving population -of the _Kaiser-Stadt, la belle_ Sendel is off to the baths, under the -protecting wing of the watchful guardian who has presided at all her -theatrical triumphs." - -"Clear enough, I think," said Van, when I raised my eyes from the -protracted periods of the penny-a-liner. - -I had nothing to say against the lucidity of the paragraph, nor anything -to urge, at all likely to avail, against the prosecution of Van's -designs upon the lady's hand and fifteen thousand florins, with "two -months' _congé_ and other advantages." No possible sophistry, to which I -was equal, could prove the marriage to be against his interest; and as -to trying him on the tack of delicacy--"imposition on an unprotected -woman, degrading dependence on her exertions," and so forth--I knew the -thick skin and indomitable self-conceit of the gunner would repel such -feather-shafts without feeling them, or that the utmost effect I could -expect to produce would be to get into a quarrel with the redoubtable -native of the Netherlands, a predicament in which, as a man of peace, I -was by no means anxious to find myself. So after hazarding the fruitless -hint with which the reader was made acquainted at the commencement of -this narrative, I abstained from all further intermeddling, and retired -to my apartment, leaving Van Haubitz to con the declaration with which -he was that evening to rejoice the ears of the fair and too-confiding -Sendel. - -I went to bed early that night, and saw nothing more of the Hollander -till the next morning, when I was roused from a balmy slumber at the -untimely hour of seven, by his bursting into my room with more -impetuosity than ceremony, with the gestures of a maniac and the mien of -a conqueror. Before my eyes were half open, he was more than half -through the history of his proceedings on the previous evening. His -success had been complete. Emilie had faltered, with downcast eyes, a -sweet assent. The friendly gloom of eve, and the over-arching foliage, -beneath whose shade the momentous question was put, saved her the -necessity of practising upon her lungs to produce a blush. Mamma Sendel -had bestowed her blessing upon the happy pair, and in the ardour of her -maternal accolades had nearly extinguished her future son-in-law's left -ogle with the wire stalk of an artificial passion-flower. The first -burst of benevolence over, and the effervescence of feeling a little -calmed, the bridegroom elect, who could not afford delays, pressed for -an early day. Thereupon Emilie was, of course, horror-stricken, but her -maternal relative, nothing loth to land the fish thus satisfactorily -hooked, and well aware of the impediments that sometimes arise between -cup and lip, ranged herself upon the side of the eager lover, and their -combined forces bore down all opposition. Madame Sendel at first showed -an evident hankering after a preliminary jaunt to Amsterdam and a gay -wedding, graced by the presence of the bridegroom's numerous and wealthy -family. She also testified some anxiety as to the view Van Haubitz -Senior might take of his son's matrimonial project, and as to how far he -might approve of a hasty and unceremonious wedding. But the gallant -artilleryman had an answer to everything. He pledged himself, which he -was perfectly safe in doing, that his father would not attempt in the -slightest degree to control his inclinations or interfere with his -projects, extolled the delights of an autumnal tour with his wife and -mother-in-law before returning to Holland; in short, was so plausible in -his arguments, so specious and pressing, pleaded so eloquently the -violence of his love and inutility of delay, and overruled objections -with such cogent reasoning, that he achieved a complete triumph, and it -was agreed that in one week Van Haubitz should lead his adored Emilie to -the hymeneal altar. - -"There will be a small matter to arrange with respect to Emilie," said -Madame Sendel in her blandest tones, and with affectation of -embarrassment. "She has an engagement at the Vienna theatre, which must -of course now be broken off. There is a forfeit to pay, no very heavy -sum," added she---- - -"Not a word about that," interrupted Van, whose blood curdled in his -veins at the mere idea of cancelling the engagement on which his hopes -were built. "There is no hurry for a few days. Let me once call Emilie -mine, and I take charge of all those matters." - -Emilie smiled angelically; Madame patted her considerate son-in-law on -the shoulder, and applied to her snuff-box to conceal her emotion; and -all matters of business being thus satisfactorily settled, the evening -closed in harmony and bliss. - -"Are you for Frankfort to-day?" said Van Haubitz, when he had concluded -his exulting narrative, and without giving me time for congratulations, -which I should have been at a loss to offer. "I am off, after breakfast, -to get some diamond earrings and other small matters for my adorable. I -shall be glad of your taste and opinion." - -"Diamonds!" I exclaimed. "Farewell, then, to the thousand franc note--" - -"Pooh! Nonsense! You don't suppose I throw away my last cash that way. -The Frankfort jewellers know me well, or think they do, which is the -same thing. They have seen enough of my coin since I have been at -Homburg. For them, as for my excellent mother-in-law, I am the wealthy -partner in the undoubted good firm of Van Haubitz, Krummwinkel, & Co. I -never told them so; if they choose to imagine it I am not to blame. My -credit is good. The diamonds shall be paid for--if paid for they must -be--out of Madame Van Haubitz's first quarter's salary." - -I was meditating an excuse for not accompanying my pertinacious and -unscrupulous acquaintance on his cruise against the Frankfort -Israelites, when he resumed-- - -"By the by," he said, "you will come to church with us. I have arranged -it all. Quite private, for reasons good. Nobody but yourself, Madame -Sendel, and Emilie. You shall act as father, and give away the bride." - -The start I gave, at this alarming announcement, nearly broke the bed. -This was carrying things rather too far. Not satisfied with rendering -me, by his intrusive and unsolicited confidence, a sort of tacit -accomplice in his manoeuvres, this Dutch Gil Blas would fain make me an -active participator. I drew at sight on my imagination, quickened by the -peril, for a letter received the previous evening from a dear and near -relative who lay dangerously ill at Baden-Baden, and to whose sick-bed -it was absolutely necessary I should immediately repair; and, jumping -up, I began to dress in all haste, rang furiously for the bill and a -carriage, and requested Van Haubitz to present my excuses to the ladies, -my unexpected departure at that early hour depriving me of the pleasure -of taking leave of them. The Dutchman swore all manner of -_donderwetters_ and _sacraments_ that he was grieved at my departure, -trusted I should find my friend better, and be able to return to -Frankfort in time for the marriage, but did not press me to do so, and -in reality was too exhilarated by the success of his machinations to -care a straw about the matter. And saying he must go and write to -Amsterdam, he shook me by the hand and left the room, whistling in loud -and joyous key the burthen of a Dutch march. In less than an hour I was -on the road to Frankfort, and that evening I reached Heidelberg, where -some friends of mine had passed the summer. I expected to find them -still there, but they had left for Baden-Baden. Thither I pursued them, -and--as if it were a judgment on me for my white lie to the -Dutchman--arrived there the morrow of their departure. Baden was -thinning, and they had gone down stream: I must have passed them on the -Rhine. Having strong reasons to see them before they left Germany, I -followed upon their trail. But their movements were rapid and eccentric, -and after tracking them to one or two of the minor baths, the chase led -me back to Frankfort. Here I made sure to catch them, or resolved to -give up the hunt. - -A week had been consumed in thus travelling to and fro. I had no great -fancy for returning to Frankfort, lest my friend the Dutchman should -still be there, and press his society upon me, of which, after his -recent revelations, I was anything but ambitious. Upon the whole, -however, I thought it likely he would have departed. I knew he would -accelerate his marriage as much as possible; I had been nine days -absent, which gave him ample time to get over the ceremony and leave the -neighbourhood. By way of precaution I resolved to keep pretty close in -my hotel during the period of my stay, which was not to exceed one or -two days. - -On arriving at the "White Swan," I found my friends were staying there, -but had driven over to Homburg. Unwilling to follow them, and risk -meeting my bugbear, I awaited their return, which was to take place to a -late dinner. As usual, there was much bustle at the "Swan;" many goings -and comings, several carriages in the courtyard, others in the street -packing for departure, a throng of greedy _lohn-kutschers_, warm -waiters, and bearded couriers hanging about the door, and running up and -down stairs. I entered the public room. It was past noon, and the tables -were laid for dinner, but there were only two persons in the apartment, -a gentleman and a lady. They stood at a window, outside of which a -handsome Vienna-made berline, with a count's coronet on the panels, was -being got ready for a journey. As I walked up the room, the lady turned -her head, and I was instantly struck by her resemblance to Emilie -Sendel. So strong was it that I for a moment thought I had fallen in -with the very persons I wished to avoid. A second glance convinced me -of my error. The likeness was certainly startling, but there were many -points of difference. Age and stature were the same, so were the hair -and complexion, save that the former was less ruddy, the latter paler -than in the case of the buxom Emilie. And there were grace and -refinement about this person, far beyond any to which the Dutchman's -lady-love could pretend. The expression of the interesting features was -rather pensive than gay, and there was something classical in the arch -of the eyebrow and outline of the face. The lady was plainly but richly -attired in an elegant travelling-dress, and had her hand upon the arm of -a tall and very handsome man, about forty years of age, of singularly -aristocratic but somewhat dissipated appearance. They were talking as I -entered, and a sentence or two of their conversation reached my ear. -They spoke French, with a scarcely perceptible foreign accent. - -Curious to know who these persons were, I returned to the court of the -hotel, intending to question a waiter. It was first necessary to catch -one, not easy at that busy time of day; and after several fruitless -efforts to detain the jacketed gentry, I gave up the attempt, and took -my station at the gateway. Scarcely had I done so, when a carriage drove -up at a rattling pace, a small spit of a boy in a smart green suit, and -with an ambiguous sort of coronet embroidered in silver on the front of -his cap, jumped off and opened the door, and there emerged from the -vehicle, to my infinite dismay, the inevitable Van Haubitz. Retreat was -impossible, for he saw me directly; and after handing out Madame Sendel -and her daughter, seized me vehemently by both hands. - -"Delighted to see you!" he cried; "I wish you had been a day sooner. We -were married yesterday," he added in a hurried voice, drawing me aside. -"Have left Homburg, paid everything _there_, and leave this to-morrow -for Heaven knows where. Explanations must come first (here he made a -grimace), for my purse is low, and my mother-in-law makes projects that -would ruin Rothschild. Lucky you are here to back me. Come in." - -I was fairly caught, and in a pretty dilemma. My first thought was to -knock down the Dutchman, and run for it, but reflection checked the -impulse. Stammering a confused congratulation to the bride and her -mother, and meditating an escape at all hazards, I allowed Madame Sendel -to hook herself on my arm, and lead me into the hotel in the wake of the -newly-wedded pair, who made at once for the public room. A magnificent -courier, in a Hungarian dress, with beard, belt, and hunting-knife, -strode past us into the apartment. - -"_Herr Graf_," said the man, addressing the distinguished-looking -stranger who had attracted my attention, "the horses are ready." - -The Count and his companion turned at the announcement, and found -themselves face to face with our party. There was a general start and -exclamation from the three women. The strange lady turned very pale and -visibly trembled; Madame Van Haubitz gave a slight scream; her mother -flushed as red as the poppies in her head-dress, and hung like a log -upon my arm, glaring angrily at the strangers. For one moment all stood -still; Van Haubitz and I looked at each other in bewilderment. He was -evidently struck by the extraordinary resemblance I had noticed, and -which became more manifest, now that the two ladies were seen together. - -"Come, Ameline," said the Count, who alone preserved complete -self-possession. And he hurried his companion from the room. Madame -Sendel released my arm, and letting herself fall upon a chair with an -hysterical giggle, closed her eyes and seemed preparing for a -comfortable swoon. Her daughter hastened to her assistance and untied -her bonnet; Van Haubitz grasped a decanter of water and made an alarming -demonstration of emptying it upon the full-moon countenance of his -respectable mother-in-law. I was curious to see him do it, for I had -always had my doubts whether the dowager's colours were what is -technically termed "fast." My curiosity was not gratified. Whether from -apprehension of the remedy or from some other cause, I cannot say, but -Madame Sendel abandoned her faint, and after two or three grotesque -contortions of countenance, and a certain amount of winking and -blinking, was sufficiently recovered to take a huge pinch of snuff, and -ascend the stairs to a private room, with her daughter and son-in-law -for supporters, and half-a-score waiters and chambermaids, whom her -hysterical symptoms had assembled, by way of a tail. Seeing her so well -guarded, I thought it unnecessary to add to the escort. As she left the -room, there was a clatter of hoofs outside, and looking through the -window, I saw the coroneted berline whirled rapidly away by four -vigorous posters. Just then the dinner-bell rang, and the obsequious -head-waiter, who with profound bows had assisted at the departure of the -travellers, bustled into the room. - -"Who is the gentleman who has just left?" I inquired. - -"His Excellency, Count J----," replied the man. It was the name of a -Hungarian nobleman of great wealth, and of reputation almost European as -one of the most fashionable and successful Lotharios of the dissipated -Austrian capital. - -"And his companion?" - -"The celebrated actress, Fraülein Sendel." - -Had the cunning but unlucky Van Haubitz been a regular reader of the -_Theater Zeitung_, or Journal of the Theatres, he would have seen, in -the ensuing number to that whence he derived his information respecting -Mademoiselle Sendel's confirmed popularity and advantageous engagement, -the following short but important paragraph: - - "ERRATUM.--In our yesterday's impression an error occurred, arising - from a similarity of names. It is Fraülein _Ameline_ Sendel who has - concluded with the Vienna theatre an engagement equally - advantageous to herself and the manager. Her elder sister, Fraülein - _Emilie_, continues the engagement she has already held for two - seasons, as a supernumerary _soubrette_. The amount stated - yesterday as her salary would still be correct, with the - abstraction of a zero. Talent does not always run in families." - -This good-natured paragraph, evidently from the pen of a sulky -sub-editor, smarting under a lashing for his blunder of the preceding -day, did not come to my knowledge till some time afterwards, so that -the waiter's reply to my question concerning Count J----'s -travelling-companion perplexed me greatly, and plunged me into an ocean -of conjectures. In fact, my curiosity was so strongly roused, that -instead of availing myself of the absence of the Dutchman to escape from -the hotel, I sat down to dinner, resolved not to depart till I heard the -mystery explained. I had not long to wait. Dinner was just over, when I -received a message from Van Haubitz, who earnestly desired to see me. I -found him alone, seated at a table, his chin resting on his hand, anger, -shame, and mortification stamped upon his inflamed countenance. A -tumbler half full of water stood upon the table, beside a bottle of -smelling salts; and, upon entering, I was pretty sure I heard a sound of -sobbing from an inner room, which ceased, however, when I spoke. There -had evidently been a violent scene. Its cause was explained to me by Van -Haubitz, at first in rather a confused manner, for at each attempt to -detail the circumstances he interrupted himself by bursts of fury. Owing -to this, it was some time before I could arrive at a clear understanding -of the facts of the case. When I did, I could scarcely help feeling -sorry for the unfortunate schemer, although in truth he richly deserved -the disappointment he had met. Never was there a more glaring instance -of excess of cunning overreaching itself,--for no deception had been -practised by Madame Sendel and her daughter. They doubtless gave -themselves credit for some cleverness and more good fortune in enticing -a rich banker, with more ducats than brains, into their matrimonial -nets; and doubtless Fraülein Emilie put on her best looks and gowns, her -sweetest smiles and most becoming bonnets, to lure the lion into the -toils. But neither mother nor daughter had for a moment imagined that -Van Haubitz took the latter for the celebrated and successful actress -whose name was known throughout Germany, whilst that of poor Emilie, -whose talents were of the most humble order, had scarcely ever -penetrated beyond the wings and greenroom of the theatre, where she -enacted unimportant characters for the modest remuneration of a hundred -florins a month. By no means proud of her position as an actress, which -appeared the more lowly when contrasted with her sister's brilliant -success, Emilie had seldom referred to things theatrical since her -acquaintance with Van Haubitz. On his part, the Dutchman, conscious of -his real motives and anxious to conceal them, abstained from all direct -reference to Mademoiselle Sendel's great talents and their lucrative -results, contenting himself with general compliments, which passed -current without being closely scanned. If he had never heard either his -wife or mother-in-law make mention of Ameline, it was because they were -on the worst possible terms with that young lady, who had lived, nearly -from the period of her first appearance upon the boards, under the -protection of the accomplished libertine, Count J----, over whom she was -said to exercise extraordinary influence. When she formed this -connection, Madame Sendel--who, in spite of her paint and artificial -floriculture, had very strict notions of propriety--wrote her a letter -of furious reproach, renounced her as her daughter, and prohibited -Emilie from holding any communication with her. Emilie, against whose -virtue none had ever found aught to say, sorrowfully obeyed; and, after -two or three ineffectual attempts on the part of Ameline to soften her -mother's wrath, all communication ceased between them. Their next -meeting was that at which Van Haubitz and myself were present. Its -singularity, Madame Sendel's fainting fit, and the resemblance between -the sisters, brought on inquiries and an explanation; and the Dutchman -found, to his inexpressible disgust and consternation, that he had -encumbered himself with a wife he cared nothing for, and a mother-in-law -he detested, whose joint income was largely stated at one hundred and -fifty pounds sterling per annum. In his first paroxysm of rage he -taunted them with the mistake they had made when they thought to secure -the love-sick millionaire, proclaimed himself in debt, disinherited, and -a beggar; and, finally, by the violence of his reproaches, drove them -trembling and weeping from the room. - -Van Haubitz had sent for me to implore my advice in his present -difficult position; but was so bewildered by passion, and overwhelmed by -this sudden awakening from his dream of success and prosperity, that he -was hardly in a condition to listen to reason. His regrets were so -selfish as to destroy the possibility of sympathy, and I should have -left him to his fate and his own devices, had I not thought that my so -doing would make matters worse for the poor girl who had thus -heedlessly linked herself to a fortune-hunter. So I remained; after a -while he became calmer, and we talked over plans for the future. By my -suggestion, Madame Sendel and her daughter were invited to the -conference. The old lady was sulky and frightened, and would hardly open -her lips; Emilie, on the other hand, made a more favourable impression -on me than she had ever previously done. I now saw, what I had not -before suspected, that she was really attached to Van Haubitz; hitherto, -I had taken her for a mere adventuress, speculating on his supposed -wealth. She spoke kindly and affectionately to him, smiled through the -tears brought to her eyes by his recent violence, and evidently trembled -each time her mother spoke, lest she should vent a reproach or refer to -his duplicity. She tried to speak confidently and cheerfully of the -future. They must go immediately to Vienna, she said; there she would -apply diligently to her profession; the manager had half promised her an -increase of salary after another year--she was sure she should deserve -it, and meanwhile Van Haubitz, with his abilities, could not fail to -find some lucrative employment. He must get rid of his accent, she added -with a smile (he spoke a voluble but most execrable jargon of mingled -Dutch and German), and then he might go upon the stage, where she was -certain he would succeed. This last suggestion was made timidly, as if -she feared to hurt the pride of the scapegrace by proposing such a -plan. There was not a word or an accent of reproach in all she said, and -I heartily forgave the little coquetry, affectation, and vulgarity I had -formerly remarked in her, in consideration of the intuitive delicacy and -good feeling she now displayed. Truly, thought I, it is humbling to us, -the bearded and baser moiety of humankind, to contrast our vile egotism -with the beautiful self-devotion of woman, as exhibited even in this -poor actress. - -Madame Sendel by no means acquiesced in her daughter's project. The -flesh-pots of Amsterdam had attractions for her, far superior to those -of a struggling and uncertain existence at Vienna. She evidently leaned -upon the hope of a reconciliation between Van Haubitz and his father, -and hinted pretty plainly at the effect that might be produced by a -personal interview with the obdurate banker. I could see she was -arranging matters in her queer old noddle upon the approved theatrical -principle; the penitent son and fascinating daughter-in-law throwing -themselves at the feet of the melting father, who, with handkerchief to -eyes, bestows on them a blubbering benediction and ample subsidy. To my -surprise, Van Haubitz also seemed disposed to place hope in an appeal to -his father, perhaps as a drowning man clutches at a straw. He may have -thought that his marriage, imprudent as it was, would be taken as some -guarantee of future steadiness, or at least of abstinence from the -spendthrift courses which had hitherto destroyed all confidence in him. -He could hardly expect his union with a penniless actress to reinstate -him in his father's good graces; but he probably imagined he might -extract a small annuity, as a condition of living at a distance from the -friends he had disgraced. He asked me what I thought of the plan. I of -course did not dissuade him from its adoption, and upon the whole -thought it his best chance, for I really saw no other. After some -deliberation and discussion, he seemed nearly to have made up his mind, -when I was called away to my friends, who had returned from their -excursion. - -I was getting into bed that night, when Van Haubitz knocked at my door, -and entered the room with a downcast and dejected air, very different -from his usual boisterous headlong manner. - -"I am off to Holland," he said; "'tis my only chance, bad though it be." - -"I sincerely wish you success," replied I. "In any case, do not despair; -something will turn up. You have friends in your own country, I have -heard you say. They will help you to occupation." - -He shook his head. - -"Good friends over a bottle and a dice-box," said he, "but useless at a -pinch like this. Pleasant fellows enough, but scamps like"--myself, he -was going to add, but did not. "I am come to say farewell," he -continued. "I must be off before daybreak. I have debts in Frankfort, -and if my departure gets wind, I shall have a dozen duns on my back. -Misfortunes never come alone. As for paying, it is out of the question. -Amongst us we have only about enough money to reach Amsterdam. Once -there--_à la grace de Dieu!_ but I confess my hopes are small. Thanks -for your advice--and for your sympathy too, for I saw this morning you -were sorry for me, though you did not think I deserved pity. Well, -perhaps not. God bless you." - -He was leaving the room, but returned. - -"I think you said you should stay at Coblenz before returning to -England." - -"I shall probably be there a few days towards the end of the month." - -"Good. If I succeed, you shall hear from me. What is your address -there?" - -"_Poste restante_ will find me," I replied, not very covetous of the -correspondence, and unwilling to give a more exact direction. - -Van Haubitz nodded and left me. At breakfast the next morning I learned -that the Dutch baron, as the waiter styled him, had taken his departure -at peep of day. - -The first days of October found me still at Coblenz, lingering amongst -the valleys and vineyards, and loth to exchange them for the autumnal -fogs and emptiness of London. Thither, however, I was compelled to -return; and I endeavoured to console myself for the necessity by -discovering that the green Rhine grew brown, the trees scant of leaves, -the evenings long and chilly. I had heard nothing of Van Haubitz, and -had ceased to think of him, when, walking out at dusk on the eve of the -day fixed for my departure, I suddenly encountered him. He had just -arrived by a steamboat coming up stream; his wife and mother-in-law were -with him, and they were about to enter a fifth-rate inn, which, two -months previously, he would have felt insulted if solicited to -patronise. I was shocked by the change that had taken place in all three -of them. In five weeks they had grown five years older. Emilie had lost -her freshness, her eye its sparkle; and the melancholy smile with which -she welcomed me made my heart ache. Madame Sendel's rotund cheeks had -collapsed, she looked cross and jaundiced, and more snuffy than ever. -Van Haubitz was thin and haggard, his hair and mustaches, formerly -glossy and well-trimmed, were ragged and neglected, his dress, once so -smart and carefully arranged, was soiled and slovenly. My imagination -supplied a rapid and vivid sketch of the anxieties, and disappointments, -and heart-burnings, which, more than any actual bodily privations, had -worked so great a change in so short a time. Van Haubitz started on -seeing me, and faltered in his pace, as if unwilling to enter the -shabby hotel in my presence. The hesitation was momentary. "Worse -quarters than we used to meet in," said he, with a bitter smile. "I will -not ask you into this dog-hole. Wait an instant, and I will walk with -you." - -Badly as I thought of Van Haubitz, and indisposed as I was to keep up -any acquaintance with him, I had not the heart, seeing him so miserable -and down in the world, to turn my back upon him at once. So I entered -the hotel, and waited in the public room. In a few minutes he reappeared -with the two ladies, and we all four strolled out in the direction of -the Rhine. I did not ask the Dutchman the result of his journey. It was -unnecessary. His disheartened air and general appearance told the tale -of disappointment, of humiliating petitions sternly rejected, of hopes -fled and a cheerless future. He kept silence the while we walked a -hundred yards, and then, having left his wife and mother-in-law out of -ear-shot, abruptly began the tale of his mishaps. As I conjectured, he -had totally failed in his attempt to mollify his father, who was furious -at his temerity in appearing before him, and whose rage redoubled when -he heard of his ill-omened marriage. Unfortunately for Van Haubitz, the -jeweller and some other tradesmen at Frankfort, so soon as they learned -his departure, had forwarded their accounts to the care of the -Amsterdam firm; and, although his father had not the remotest intention -of paying them, he was incensed in the extreme at the slur thus cast -upon his house and name. In short, the unlucky artilleryman at once saw -he had no chance of a single kreuzer, or of the slightest countenance -from his father. His applications to his brothers, and to one or two -more distant relatives, were equally unsuccessful. All were disgusted at -his irregularities, angry at his marriage, incredulous of his promises -of reform; and, after passing a miserable month in Amsterdam, he set out -to accompany his wife to Vienna, whither she was compelled to repair -under pain of fine and forfeiture of her engagement. Although living -with rigid economy--on bread and water, as Van Haubitz expressed -it--their finances had been utterly consumed by their stay in the Dutch -capital, and it was only by disposing of every trinket and superfluity -(and of necessaries too, I feared, when I remembered the slender baggage -that came up with them from the boat) that they had procured the means -of travelling, in the cheapest and most humble manner, and with the -disheartening certainty of arriving penniless at Vienna. Van Haubitz -told me all this, and many other details, with an air of gloomy -despondency. He was hopeless, heart-broken, desperate; and certain -circumstances of his position, which by some would have been held an -alleviation, aggravated it in his eyes. He said little of his wife; -but, from what escaped him, I easily gathered that she had shown -strength of mind, good feeling and affection for him, and was willing to -struggle by his side for a scanty and hard-earned subsistence. His cares -and irritable mood prevented his appreciating her attachment, and he -looked upon her as an encumbrance, without which he might again rise in -the world. He had always entertained a confident expectation of -enriching himself by marriage; and this hope, which had buoyed him up -under many difficulties, was now gone. - -"I have one resource left," said Van Haubitz. "I have pondered over it -for the last two days, and have almost determined on its adoption." - -"What is it?" I asked. - -"If I decide upon it," he replied, "you shall shortly know. 'Tis a -desperate one enough." - -We had insensibly slackened our pace, and at this moment the ladies came -up. Van Haubitz made a gesture, as of impatience at the interruption. - -"Wait for me here," he said, and walked away. Without speculating upon -the motive of his absence, I stood still, and entered into conversation -with the ladies. We were on the quay. The night was mild and calm, but -overcast and exceedingly dark. A few feet below us rolled the dark mass -of the Rhine, slightly swollen by recent rains. A light from an -adjacent window illuminated the spot, and cast a flickering gleam across -the water. Unwilling to refer to their misfortunes, I spoke to Emilie on -some general topic. But Madame Sendel was too full of her troubles to -tolerate any conversation that did not immediately relate to them, and -she broke in with a long history of grievances, of the hard-heartedness -of the Amsterdam relations, the cruelty of Emilie's position, her -son-in-law's helplessness, and various other matters, in a querulous -tone, and with frightful volubility. The poor daughter, I plainly saw, -winced under this infliction. I was waiting the smallest opening to -interrupt the indiscreet old lady, and revert to common-place, when a -distant splash in the water reached my ears. The women also heard it, -and at the same instant a presentiment of evil came over us all. Madame -Sendel suddenly held her tongue and her breath; Emilie turned deadly -pale, and without saying a word, flew along the quay in the direction of -the sound. She had gone but a few yards when her strength failed her, -and she would have fallen, but for my support. There was a shout, and a -noise of men running. Leaving Madame Van Haubitz to the care of her -mother, I ran swiftly along the river side, and soon reached a place -where the deep water moaned and surged against the perpendicular quay. -Here several men were assembled, talking hurriedly and pointing to the -river. Others each moment arrived, and two boats were hastily shoved -off from an adjacent landing-place. - -"A man in the river," was the reply to my hasty inquiry. - -It was so dark that I could not distinguish countenances close to me, -and at a very few yards even the outline of objects was scarcely to be -discerned. There were no houses close at hand, and some minutes elapsed -before lights were procured. At last several boats put off, with men -standing in the bows, holding torches and lanterns high in the air. -Meanwhile I had questioned the bystanders, but could get little -information; none as to the person to whom the accident had happened. -The man who had given the alarm was returning from mooring his boat to a -neighbouring jetty, when he perceived a figure moving along the quay a -short distance in his front. The figure disappeared, a heavy splash -followed, and the boatman ran forward. He could see no one either on -shore or in the stream, but heard a sound as of one striking out and -struggling in the water. Having learned this much, I jumped into a boat -just then putting off, and bid the rowers pull down stream, keeping a -short distance from the quay. The current ran strong, and I doubted not -that the drowning man had been carried along by it. Two vigorous -oars-men pulled till the blades bent, and the boat, aided by the stream, -flew through the water. A third man held a torch. I strained my eyes -through the darkness. Presently a small object floated within a few feet -of the boat, which was rapidly passing it. It shone in the torchlight. I -struck at it with a boat-hook, and brought it on board. It was a man's -cap, covered with oilskin, and I remembered that Van Haubitz wore such a -one. Stripping off the cover, I beheld an officer's foraging cap, with a -grenade embroidered on its front. My doubts, slight before, were -entirely dissipated. - -When the search, rendered almost hopeless by the extreme darkness and -power of the current, was at last abandoned, I hastened to the hotel, -and inquired for Madame Sendel. She came to me in a state of great -agitation. Van Haubitz had not returned, but she thought less of that -than of the state of her daughter, who, since recovering from a long -swoon, had been almost crazed with anxiety. She knew some one had been -drowned, and her mind misgave her it was her husband. The foraging-cap, -which Madame Sendel immediately recognised, removed all uncertainty. The -only hope remaining was, that Van Haubitz, although carried rapidly away -by the power of the current, had been able to maintain himself on the -surface, and had got ashore at some considerable distance down the -river, or had been picked up by a passing boat. But this was a very -feeble hope, and for my own part, and for more than one reason, I -placed no reliance on it. I left Madame Sendel to break the painful -intelligence to her daughter, and went home, promising to call again in -the morning. - -As I had expected, nothing was heard of Van Haubitz, nor any vestige of -him found, save the foraging-cap I had picked up. Doubtless, the Rhine -had borne down his lifeless corpse to the country of his birth. The next -day Coblenz rang with the death of the unfortunate Dutchman. A stranger, -and unacquainted with the localities, he was supposed to have walked -over the quay by accident. I thought differently; and so I knew did -Madame Sendel and Emilie. I saw the former early the next day. She was -greatly cast down about her daughter, who had passed a sleepless night, -and was weak and suffering, but who nevertheless insisted on continuing -her journey the following morning. - -"We must go," said her mother; "if we delay, Emilie loses her -engagement, and how can we both live on my poor jointure? Weeping will -not bring him back, were he worth it. To think of the misery he has -caused us!" - -I ventured to hint an inquiry as to their means of prosecuting their -journey. The old lady understood the intention, and took it kindly. "But -she needed no assistance," she said; Van Haubitz (and this confirmed -our strong suspicion of suicide) had given their little stock of money -into his wife's keeping only a few hours before his death. - -That afternoon I left Coblenz for England. - - * * * * * - -On a certain Wednesday, about ten years after the incidents I have -sketched, I had been enjoying the excellent acting of Bouffé in two of -his best characters, and paused for a moment to speak to a friend in the -crowded lobby of the St James's Theatre. Whilst thus engaged, I became -aware that I was an object of attention to two persons, whom I had an -indistinct notion of having seen before, but when or where, or who they -might be, I had not the remotest idea. One of them was a -comfortable-looking, middle-aged man, with a bald head, a smooth, -clean-shaven face, and an incipient ventral rotundity. His complexion -was clear and wholesome, his countenance good-humoured, his whole -appearance bespoke an existence free from care, nights of sound sleep, -and days of tranquil enjoyment. His face was too sleek to be very -expressive, but there was a shrewd, quick look in the eye, and I set him -down in my mind as a wealthy German merchant or manufacturer (some small -peculiarities of costume betrayed the foreigner) come to show London to -his wife--a well-favoured dame, fat, fair, but some years short of -forty--who accompanied him, and who, as well as her better half, seemed -to honour me with very particular notice. My confabulation over, I was -leaving the theatre, when a sleek soft hand was gently passed through my -arm. It was my friend the stout foreigner. I strained my eyes and my -memory, but in vain; I felt very puzzled, and doubtless looked so, for -he smiled, and advancing his head, whispered a name in my ear. It was -that of Van Haubitz. - -I started, looked again, doubted, and was at last convinced. _Minus_ -mustache and whisker, which were closely shaven, and half his hair, of -which the remainder was considerably grizzled; _plus_ a degree of -corpulence such as I should never have thought the slender lieutenant of -artillery capable of acquiring; his heated, sunburnt complexion and -dissipated look, exchanged for a fresh colour and benevolent -placidity--the Dutchman I had left in the Rhine stood beside me in the -lobby of the French theatre. I turned to the lady: she was less changed -than her companion, and now that I was upon the track, I recognised -Emilie Sendel. By this time we were in the street. Van Haubitz handed -his wife into a carriage. - -"Come and sup with us," he said, "and I will explain." - -I mechanically obeyed, and in less than three minutes, still tongue-tied -by astonishment, I alighted at the door of a fashionable hotel in a -street adjoining Piccadilly. - -A few lines will convey to the reader the substance of the long -conversation which kept the resuscitated Dutchman and myself from our -beds for fully two hours after our unexpected meeting. I had been right -in supposing that he had thrown himself voluntarily into the river; -wrong in my belief that he meditated suicide. An excellent swimmer, he -had taken the water to get rid of his wife. He might certainly have -chosen a drier method, and have given her the slip in the night-time or -on the road; but she had shown, whenever he referred to the possibility -of their separation, such a determination to remain with him at all -risks and sacrifices, that he felt certain she would pursue him as soon -as she discovered his absence. He had formed a wild scheme of returning -to Amsterdam, and haunting his family until, through mere weariness and -vexation, they supplied him with funds for an outfit to Sumatra. There -he trusted to redeem his fortunes, as he had heard that others of no -greater abilities or better character than himself had already done. A -more extravagant project was never formed, and indeed all his acts, -during the six weeks that followed his marriage, were more or less -eccentric and ill-judged. This he admitted, when relating them to me, -and probably would not have been sorry to place them to the score of -actual mental derangement. The redeeming touch in his conduct at that, -the most discreditable period of his life, was his leaving, as I have -already mentioned, what money he had to his wife and her mother, -reserving but a few florins for his own support. With these in his -pocket, he proposed proceeding on foot to Amsterdam. After landing on -the right bank of the Rhine, he walked the greater part of the night as -the best means of drying his saturated garments. When weariness at last -compelled him to pause, it was not yet daylight, no house was open, and -he threw himself on some straw in a farmyard. He awoke in a high fever, -the result of his immersion, of exposure and fatigue, acting on a frame -heated and weakened by anxiety and mental suffering. He obtained shelter -at the neighbouring farm-house, whose kind-hearted inhabitants carefully -tended him for several weeks, during which his life was more than once -despaired of. His convalescence was long, and not till the close of the -year could he resume his journey northwards, by short stages, chiefly on -foot. Unfavourable as his prospects were, his good star had not yet set. -This very illness, as occasioning a delay, was a stroke of good fortune. -Had he at once proceeded to Holland, his family, in hopes to get rid of -him for ever, would probably have given him the small sum he needed for -an outfit to the Indian Archipelago, and he would have sailed thither -before the 31st of December, on which day his father, a joyous liver -and confirmed votary of Bacchus, ate and drank to such an extent to -celebrate the exit of the old year and commencement of the new, that he -fell down, on his way to his bed, in a thundering fit of apoplexy, and -was a corpse before morning. The day of his funeral, Van Haubitz, -footsore and emaciated, and reduced to his last pfenning, walked wearily -into the city of Amsterdam. There a great surprise awaited him. - -"Your father had not disinherited you?" I exclaimed, when the Dutchman -made a momentary pause at this point of his narrative. - -"He had left a will devising his entire property to my brothers, and not -even naming me. But a slight formality was omitted, which rendered the -document of no more value than the parchment it was drawn upon. The -signature was wanting. My father had the weakness, no uncommon one, of -disliking whatever reminded him of his mortality. He would have fancied -himself nearer his grave had he signed his will. And thus he had delayed -till it was too late. I found myself joint heir with my brothers. By far -the greater part of my father's large capital was embarked in his bank, -and in extensive financial operations, which it would have been -necessary to liquidate at considerable disadvantage, to operate the -partition prescribed by law. Seeing this, I proposed to my brothers to -admit me as partner in the firm, with the stipulation that I should -have no active share in its direction, until my knowledge of business -and steadiness of conduct gave them the requisite confidence in me. -After some deliberation they agreed to this; and three years later their -opinion of me had undergone such a change, that two of them retired to -estates in the country, leaving me the chief management of the concern." - -"And Madame Van Haubitz; when did she rejoin you?" - -"Immediately the change in my fortunes occurred. Reckless as I at that -time was, and utterly devoid of feeling as you must have thought me, I -could not remember without emotion the disinterested affection, -delicacy, and unselfishness she had exhibited on discovery of my real -circumstances. During my long illness I had had time to reflect, and -when I left my sick-bed in that rude but hospitable German farm-house, -it was as a penitent for past offences, and with a strong resolution to -atone them. Within a week after my father's funeral, I was on my way to -Vienna, to fetch Emilie to the opulent home she had anticipated when she -married me. Her joy at seeing me was scarcely increased when she heard -that I had become the rich banker she had at first thought me." - -"And Madame Sendel?" - -"Returned to Amsterdam with us. There was good about the old lady, and -by purloining her artificials, limiting her snuff, and soaking her in -tea, she was made endurable enough. Until her death, which occurred a -couple of years ago, she passed her time alternately with us and her -younger daughter." - -"She became reconciled to Mademoiselle Ameline?" - -"Ameline had been Countess J---- all the time. She was privately -married. For certain family reasons the Count had conditioned that their -union should for a while be kept secret. Seeing that her equivocal -position and her mother's displeasure preyed upon her health and -spirits, he declared his marriage. She left the stage to become a -reigning beauty in the best society of Austria, lady of half-a-dozen -castles, and sovereign mistress of as many thousand Hungarian boors." - -Van Haubitz remained some time in London, and I saw him often. He was as -much changed in character as in personal appearance. The sharp lessons -received about the period of our first acquaintance had made a strong -impression on him; and the summer tide of prosperity suddenly setting -in, had enabled him to realise good intentions and honourable resolves, -which the chill current of adversity might have frozen in the germ. Some -of those who read these lines may have occasion, when visiting the -country stigmatised by the snarling Frenchman as the land of _canards_, -_canaux_, and _canaille_, to receive cash in the busy counting-house, -and hospitality in the princely mansion of one of its most respected -bankers. None, I am well assured, will discern in their amiable and -exemplary entertainer any vestige of the disreputable impulses and evil -passions that sullied the early life of "My Friend the Dutchman." - - - - -MY COLLEGE FRIENDS. - -No. II. - -HORACE LEICESTER. - -[_MAGA._ AUGUST 1845.] - - -Oxford! Alma Mater! not to love thee were indeed the ingratitude of a -degenerate son. Let the whiners of the Conventicle rail at thee for a -mother of heretics, and the Joseph Humes of domestic economy propose to -adapt the scale of thy expenses to their own narrow notions--I uphold -thee to be the queen of all human institutions--the incarnated union of -Church and State--royal in thy revenues as in thy expenditure--thy -doctrine as orthodox as thy dinners, thy politics as sound as thy port. - -Oxford! who are they that rail at her? who dare to lift their voice -against that seat of high and holy memories? The man who boasts a -private education (so private, that his most intimate friends have never -found it out), who, innocent himself of all academic experiences and -associations, grudges to others that superiority which they never boast -indeed, but to which his secret soul bears envious witness. Or the rich -nonconformist, risen perhaps from obscurity to a rank in society which -gives him the choice of indulging either his spleen or his pride--either -to send his eldest son as a gentleman-commoner to Christ-Church, to -swallow the Thirty-nine Articles with his champagne; or to have his -fling at the Church through her universities--accusing Churchmen of -bigotry, and exclusiveness, and illiberality, because Dissenters do not -found colleges of their own. Or, worse than all, the unworthy disciple -who (like the noxious plant that has grown up beneath the shade of some -goodly tree) has drawn no nobility of soul from the associations which -surrounded his ungrateful youth: for whom all the reality and romance of -academic education were alike in vain: sneering at the honours which he -could not obtain, denying the existence of opportunities which he -neglected; the basest of approvers, he quotes to his own eternal infamy -the scenes of riot and dissipation, the alternations of idleness and -extravagance, which make up his sole recollections of university life: -and looking, without one glance of affection, upon the face of his fair -and graceful mother, makes the chance mole, or the early wrinkle, which -he traces there, the subject of his irreverent jest, forgets the -kindness of which he was unworthy, and remembers for evil the wholesome -discipline which was irksome only to such as him. - - "Non hæc jocosæ conveniunt lyræ;" - -I admit mine is not the tongue or pen for such a subject; and Oxford -has, I hope, no lack of abler champions. But it was geese, you know, who -once saved the Capitol; and I must have my hiss at the iniquitous -quackeries which people seek to perpetrate under the taking title of -University Reform. And when I, loving Oxford as I do, see some of her -own sons arrayed against her, I can only remember this much of my -philosophy--that there are cases when to be angry becomes a duty. Men -who, knowing nothing of the universities from experience, think proper -to run them down, succeed at all events in exposing one crying evil--the -absurdity of meddling with what one does not understand. We who know -better may afford to smile at once at their spite and their ignorance. -But he who lifts his voice against the mother that bore him, can fix no -darker blot upon her fame than the disgrace of having given birth to -him. - -Show me the man who did not like Oxford, and I will show you either a -sulky misanthrope or an affected ass. Many, many indeed, are the -unpleasant recollections which, in the case of nearly all of us, will -mingle with the joy with which we recall our college days. More than the -ghosts of duns departed, perhaps unpaid; more than the heart-burnings -of that visionary fellowship, for which we were beaten (we verily -believe, unfairly) by a neck; more than that loved and lost ideal of a -first class, which we deserved, but did not get (the opinions of our -examiners not coinciding in that point with our own); yes, more than all -these, comes forcibly to many minds, the self-accusing silent voice that -whispers of time wasted and talents misapplied--kind advice, which the -heat of youth misconstrued or neglected--jewels of price that once lay -strewed upon the golden sands of life, then wantonly disregarded, or -picked up but to be flung away, and which the tide of advancing years -has covered from our view for ever--blessed opportunities of acquiring -wisdom, human and divine, which never can return. - -Yet in spite of all this, if there be any man who can say that Oxford is -not to him a land of pleasant memories, "Μήτ' ἐμοὶ παρέστιος -γένοιτο"--which is, being freely translated, "May he never put his legs -under my mahogany"--that's all. I never knew him yet, and have no wish -to make his acquaintance. He may have carried off every possible -university honour for what I care; he is more hopelessly stupid, in my -view of things, than if he had been plucked fifteen times. If he was -fond of reading, or of talking about reading; fond of hunting, or -talking about hunting; fond of walking, riding, rowing, leaping, or any -possible exercise besides dancing; if he loved pleasant gardens or -solemn cloisters; learned retirement or unlearned jollification--in a -word, if he had any imaginable human sympathies, and cared for anything -besides himself, he would have liked Oxford. Men's tastes differ, no -doubt; but to have spent four years of the spring of one's life in one -of the most magnificent cities and best societies in the world, and not -to have enjoyed it--this is not a variety of taste, but its privation. - -I fancy there is a mistaken opinion very prevalent, that young and -foolish, older and wiser, are synonymous terms. Stout gentlemen of a -certain age, brimful of proprieties, shake their heads alarmingly, and -talk of the folly of boys; as if they were the only fools. And if at any -time, in the fulness of their hearts, they refer to some freak of their -own youth, they appear to do it with a sort of apology to themselves, -that such wise individuals as they are now should ever have done such -things! And as the world stands at present, it is the old story of the -Lion and the Painter; the elderly gentlemen are likely to have it their -own way; they say what they like, while the young ones are content to do -what they like. And the more absurdity a man displays in his teens (and -some, it must be confessed, are absurd enough), the more insupportable -an air of wisdom does he put on when he gets settled. As there is no -hope of these sedate gentry being sent to College again to teach the -rising generation of under-graduates the art of precocious gravity, and -still less hope of their arriving at it of themselves, perhaps there is -no harm in mooting the question on neutral ground, whether such a -consummation as that of putting old heads upon young shoulders is -altogether desirable. - -Wherefore, I, Frank Hawthorne--being of the age of nine-and-twenty, or -thereabouts, and of sound mind, and about to renounce for ever all claim -and title to be considered a young man; having married a wife, and left -sack and all other bad habits; having no longer any fellowship with -under-graduates, or army subs, or medical students, or young men about -town, or any other class of the heterogeneous irregulars who make up -"Young England"--being a perfectly disinterested party in the question, -inasmuch as having lost my reputation for youth, I have never acquired -one for wisdom--hereby raise my voice against the intolerable cant, -which assumes every man to be a harebrained scapegrace at twenty, and a -Solomon at forty-five. Youth sows wild oats, it may be; too many men in -more advanced life seem to me to sow no crop of any kind. There are -empty fools at all ages; but "an old fool"----(musty as the proverb is, -it is rather from neglect than over-application). I have known men by -the dozen, who in their youth were either empty-headed coxcombs or noisy -sots; does my reader think that any given number of additional years has -made them able statesmen, sound lawyers, or erudite divines? that -because they have become honourable by a seat in Parliament, learned by -courtesy, reverend by office, they are therefore really more useful -members of society than when they lounged the High Street, or woke the -midnight echoes of the quadrangle? Nay, life is too short for the -leopard to change his spots, or the Ethiopian his skin; one can but pare -the claws of the first, and put a suit of the last European fashion upon -the other. - -Let any man run over in his own mind the list of those school and -college companions with whom, after the lapse of ten years or so, he has -still an opportunity of occasionally renewing his acquaintance, and -judging of the effect which time has had upon their habits and -characters. In how many cases can he trace any material alteration, -beyond what results from the mere accidents of time and place? He finds, -it is to be hoped, good principles developed, warm impulses ripened into -active habits, exaggerations softened down (for I am giving him credit -for not choosing his companions, even in youth, among the vicious in -heart and principle); but if he finds in any what he can call a _change_ -at all, then I ask, in how many instances is it a change for the better? -or does he not find it rather where there was no sterling value in the -metal, which, as the gloss of youth wears off, loses its only charm? - -Thirty is the turning-point of a man's life; when marrying becomes a -now-or-never sort of business, and dinners begin to delight him more -than dancing. As I said just now, then, I stand just at the corner; and, -looking round before I turn it, I own somewhat of a shyness for the -company of those "grave and reverend seniors" who are to be my -fellow-travellers hereafter through life. There are certain points on -which I fear we are scarce prepared to agree. I must have one window -open for the first few miles of the journey at all events--that I may -look behind me. Life's a fast train, and one can't expect to be allowed -to get out at the stations; still less to ask the engineer to put back, -because we have left our youth behind us. Yet there are some things in -which I hope always to be a boy; I hope ever to prefer thoughtlessness -to heartlessness, imprudence to selfishness, impulse to calculation. It -is hard enough to part with all the fiery spirits, the glowing -imaginations, the elasticity of mind and body which we lose as age -creeps on; but if, with the bright summer weather and cloudless skies of -youth, to which we are content to bid farewell, we must lose, too, the -"sunshine of the breast"--the "bloom of heart"--then well might the poet -count him happy who died in early spring--who knew nothing of life but -its fair promises, and passed away in happy scepticism of the winter -which was to come. - -Talk of putting old heads upon young shoulders! Heaven forbid! It would -but be making them stoop prematurely. If indeed we could put young -hearts into old bodies occasionally, we might do some good; or if there -could ever be combined in some fortunate individual, throughout his -life, the good qualities peculiar to each successive climacteric; if we -could mix just enough of the acid and the bitter, which are apt to -predominate so unhappily after a long rubbing through the world, to -qualify the fiery spirit of youth, and prevent its sweetness from -cloying, the compound would undoubtedly be a very pleasant one. But -this, it is to be feared, like many other desiderata, is too good to be -attainable; and the experience which we undoubtedly want in early life, -we acquire too often at the cost of that freshness of heart, which -nature intended as a gift still more valuable. - -Nowhere does the old Stagyrite display a more consummate knowledge of -what men are made of, than in his contrasted characters of youth and -age. I wonder how many of the old gentlemen who call themselves -philosophers in this degenerate age, ever read or remember what he says -on the subject. It is a great comfort, when one is arguing against so -much collective wisdom, to feel that one has such authority to fall back -upon; and I have the less hesitation in bringing my old friend Aristotle -forward to help me, because I can assure my unlearned readers, ladies -and others, that I am not going to quote any thing nearly so grave and -sensible as modern philosophy. "Stingy, illnatured, suspicious, -selfish, narrow-minded"--these, with scarce a redeeming quality, are -some of the choice epithets which he strings together as the -characteristics of the respectable old governors and dowagers of his -day; while the young, although, as he confesses, somewhat too much the -creatures of impulse, and indebted to it for some of their virtues as -well as vices, are trustful towards others, honest in themselves, -open-handed and open-hearted, warm friends and brave enemies. It is -true, he observes, they have, in a large degree, the fault common to all -honest men, they are "easily humbugged;" an admitted failing which -perhaps may let us into the secret of their sitting down so quietly -under the imputation of a hundred others. He urges, too, elsewhere, a -fact I am not disposed to battle about, that young men do not make good -philosophers; but this is in a book which he wrote for the use of his -own son, wherein he probably thought it his duty to take the conceit out -of his heir-apparent; but if he ever allowed the young philosopher to -get a sight of the other book containing the two characters aforesaid, -it may be doubted whether he found him as "easily humbugged" afterwards. - -Remember, reader, as I said before, I claim to occupy neutral ground. If -I essay to defend youth from some injustice which it suffers at the -hands of partial judges, it is as an amateur advocate rather than an -accredited champion--for I am young no longer. If I am rash enough to -couch a lance against that venerable phantom, which, under the name of -Wisdom, hovers round grey hairs, I am but preparing a rod for my own -back--for I feel myself growing old. I admit it with a sigh; but the -sigh is not for the past only, but even more for the present. I mourn -not so much for that which Time has taken away, as for the insufficiency -of that which it brings instead. I would rejoice to be relieved from the -dominion of the hot follies of youth, if I could escape at the same time -the degrading yoke of the cooler vices of maturity. I do not find men -grow better as they grow older; wiser they may grow, but it is the -wisdom of the serpent. We scarce grow less sensual, less vain, less -eager after what we think pleasure; I would we continued as generous and -as warm. We gain the cunning to veil our passions, to regulate even our -vices according to the scale (and that no parsimonious one) which what -we call "society" allows; we lose the enthusiasm which in some degree -excused our follies, with the light-heartedness which made them -delightful. Few men among us are they who can look back upon the years -gone by, and not feel that, if these may justly be charged with folly, -the writing of the accusation that stands against their riper age is of -a graver sort. - -It is melancholy, rather than amusing, to hear men of a certain age -rail against the faults and extravagance of their juniors. Angry that -they themselves are no longer young, they visit with a rod of iron such -an intolerable offence in others. Even newspapers are always eloquent -against the disgusting immoralities of breaking knockers and bonneting -policemen. The _Times_ turns censor upon such an "ungentlemanly -outrage;" the _Weekly Despatch_ has its propriety shocked by such -"freaks of the aristocracy;" and both, in their zeal to reprobate -offences so dangerous to the best interests of society, sacrifice -somewhat of that "valuable space" which should have been devoted to the -bulletin of the health, or the history of the travels, of the "gallant -officer" who last deliberately shot his friend in a duel; or the piquant -details of the last _crim. con._, with the extraordinary disclosures -expected to be made by the "noble defendant." Society has no sympathy -with vices to which it has no temptation; it might have done foolish -things in its day, but has long ago seen the folly of them. So we make a -graceful acknowledgment of having been wrong once, for the sake of -congratulating ourselves upon being so very right now. - -Let me then, for some few moments, recall those scenes which, on the -stage of life, have passed away for ever; and forgetting, as memory -loves to do, the evil that was in them, let it be not idle repining to -lament the good. - -Oh! dark yet pleasant quadrangle, round whose wide area I might wander -now, a stranger among strangers, where are they who once gave life and -mirth to cheer those ancient walls? There were full a score of rooms, -congenial _lares_, in which no hour of day or night would have found me -other than a welcome guest. I had friends, yea, friends, within those -prison-like windows--warm hearts walled in by thy cold grey -stones--friends that had thoughts, and feelings, and pursuits in -common--who were not hospitable in words alone, suffering each other's -presence with well-concealed _ennui_--but friends in something more than -in the name. In vain, among the cold conventionalities of life, shall I -look for the warm and kindly welcome, the sympathy of feeling, the -unrestrained yet courteous familiarity of intercourse, which was part -and parcel of a college life; and if for this only I should say of -Oxford, that I shall not look upon its like again--if for this only, I -doubt whether the years of my youthful pilgrimage were altogether evil, -who shall gainsay me? Where, or in what society of wise, and orderly, -and respectable "grown-up children," shall I find the sincerity and -warm-heartedness that once were the atmosphere of my daily life? Where -is the friend of my maturer choosing, into whose house I can walk at any -time, and feel sure I am no intruder? Where is the man, among those with -whom I am by hard fate compelled to associate, who does not measure his -regard, his hospitality, his very smiles, by my income, my station in -society--anything but by myself? Older and wiser!--oh yes!--youthful -friendship is very foolish in such matters. - -But I suppose I must put up, as I best may, with the accumulating weight -of years and wisdom. It won't do to give up one's degree, and begin -again at the university, even if they leave us a university worth going -to. At all events, one could not go back and find there those "old -familiar faces" that made it what it was; and it is more pleasant to -look upon it all--the place and its old occupants--as still existing in -some dream-land or other, than to return to find an old acquaintance in -every stick and stone, while every human face and voice is strange to -us. - -Yet one does meet friends in old scenes, sometimes, when the meeting is -as unexpected as delightful. And just so, in my last visit to Oxford, -did I stumble upon Horace Leicester. We met in the quadrangle where we -had parted some six years back, just as we might if we had supped -together the night before; whereas we had been all the time hundreds of -miles asunder: and we met as unrestrainedly, only far more cordially. -Neither of us had much time to spare in Oxford, but we dined together of -course; talked over old friends, and told old stories. As to the first, -it was strange enough to moralise upon the after-fortunes of some of our -contemporaries. One--of whom, for habitual absence from lectures, and -other misdemeanours many and various, the tutors had prophesied all -manner of evil, and who had been dismissed by the Principal at his final -leave-taking, with the remark that he was the luckiest man he had ever -known, inasmuch as he had been perseveringly idle without being plucked, -and mixed up in every row without being rusticated--was now working hard -day and night as a barrister, engaged as a junior on committee business -the whole Session, and never taking a holiday except on the Derby day. -The ugliest little rascal of our acquaintance, and as stupid as a post, -was married to a pretty girl with a fortune of thirty thousand. Another, -and one of the best of us--Charley White--who united the business-habits -of a man with the frolic of a schoolboy, and who ought to have been -added to the roll of the College benefactors, as having been the founder -of the Cricket and the Whist Club, and having restored to its old place -on the river, at much cost and pains, the boat which had been withdrawn -for the last five years, and reduced the sundry desultory idlenesses of -the under-graduates into something like method and order--Charley White -was now rector of a poor and populous parish in Yorkshire, busily -engaged in building a new church and schools, opening Provident -Societies, and shutting up beer-shops, and instructing the rising -generation of his parishioners in catechism and cricket alternately. -While the steadiest (I was very near saying the only steady man) among -our mutual acquaintance, who looked at every sixpence before he spent -it, checked his own washing-lists, went to bed at ten o'clock, and was, -in short, an exemplary character (he was held out to me, on my first -entrance, as a valuable acquaintance for any young man, but I soon -despaired of successfully imitating so bright a model)--well, this -gentleman having been taken into partnership, somewhat prematurely -perhaps on the strength of the aforesaid reputation, by his father's -firm--they were Liverpool merchants of high standing--had thought -proper, disgusted probably with the dissipations and immoralities of -trade, to retire to America in search of purity and independence, -without going through the form of closing his accounts with the house. -The Liverpudleians, indeed, according to Horace's account, gave a -somewhat ugly name to the transaction; he had been cashier to the firm, -they said, who were minus some tens of thousands thereby; but as the -senior partner was known to have smoked cigars at a preparatory school -(thereby showing what he _would_ have done had he been sent to Oxford), -whereas our friend was always "a steady man," I leave the reader to -judge which party is entitled to the most credit. - -It was after we had separated that a friend of mine, not an Oxford man, -who had dined with us, and appeared much amused by some of Horace's -reminiscences, asked me the very puzzling question, "Was your friend -Leicester what they call a '_rowing_ man' at College?" Now, I protest -altogether against the division of under-graduates into reading men and -rowing men, as arbitrary and most illogical; there being a great many -who have no claim to be reckoned either in one class or the other, and a -great many who hover between both. And this imaginary distinction, -existing as it notoriously does at Oxford, and fostered and impressed -upon men by the tutors (often unintentionally, or with the very best -intentions), is productive in many cases of a great deal of harm. A man -(or _boy_ if you please) is taught to believe, upon his very first -entrance, that one of these characters will infallibly cling to him, and -that he has only to choose between the two. For the imaginary division -creates a real one; in many colleges, a man who joins a boat's crew, or -a cricket club, or goes out now and then with the harriers, is looked -upon with suspicion by the authorities at once; and by a very natural -consequence, a man who wants to read his five or six hours a-day -quietly, finds that some of his pleasantest companions look upon him as -a slow coach. So, probably before the end of his first term, he is -hopelessly committed, at nineteen, to a consistency of character rarely -met with at fifty. If he lays claim to the reputation of a reading man, -and has an eye to the loaves and fishes in the way of scholarships and -fellowships, he is compelled, by the laws of his _caste_, to renounce -some of the most sensible and healthful amusements which a university -life offers. He must lead a very humdrum sort of life indeed. It is not -enough that he should be free from the stains of vice and immorality; -that his principles and habits should be those of a gentleman; that he -should avoid excesses, and be observant of discipline; this the -university would have a right to expect from all who are candidates for -her honours and emoluments. But there is a conventional character which -he must put on besides this. I say "put on;" because, however natural it -may be to some men, it cannot possibly be so to all. His exercise must -be taken at stated times and places: it must consist principally of -walking, whether he be fond of it or not, varied occasionally by a -solitary skiffing expedition down the river, or a game of billiards with -some very steady friend on the sly. His dress must exhibit either the -negligence of a sloven (in case he be an aspirant for very high honours -indeed), or the grave precision of a respectable gentleman of forty. He -must eschew all such vanities as white trousers and well-cut boots. He -must be profoundly ignorant of all university intelligence that does not -bear in some way on the schools; must be utterly indifferent what boat -is at the head of the river, or whether Drake's hounds are fox or -harriers. He must never be seen out of his rooms, except at lecture, -before two o'clock, and never return to a wine-party after chapel. His -judgment of the merits of port and sherry must be confined principally -to the fact of one being red and the other white, and the compounding of -punch must be to him a mystery unfathomable. Now, if he can be, or -assume to be, all this, then he will be admitted into the most orthodox -and steady set in his college; and if he have, besides, an ordinary -amount of scholarship, and tact enough to talk judiciously about his -books and his reading, he may get up a very fair reputation indeed. And -when at his final examination he makes, as nine-tenths of such men do -make, a grand crash, and his name comes out in the third or fourth -class, or he gets "gulfed" altogether--it is two to one but his friends -and his tutor look upon him, and talk of him, as rather an ill-used -individual. He was "unlucky in his examination"--"the essay did not suit -him"--they were "quite surprised at his failure"--"his health was not -good the last term or two"--"he was too nervous." These are cases which -have occurred in every man's experience: men read ten hours a-day, with -a watch by their side, cramming in stuff that they do not understand, -are talked about as "sure firsts" till one gets sick of their very -names, assume all the airs which really able men seldom do assume, and -take at last an equal degree with others who have been acquiring the -same amount of knowledge with infinitely less pretension, and who, -without moping the best part of their lives in an artificial existence, -will make more useful members of society in the end. "How was it," said -an old lady in the country to me one day, "that young Mr C---- did not -get a first class? I understand he read very hard, and I know he refused -every invitation to dinner when he was down here in the summer -vacation?" "That was the very reason, my dear madam," said I; "you may -depend upon it." She stared, of course; but I believe I was not far out. - -Let men read as much as they will, and as hard as they will, on any -subjects for which they have the ability and inclination; but never let -them suppose they are to lay down one code of practice to suit all -tempers and constitutions. Cannot a man be a scholar, and a gentleman, -and a good fellow at the same time? - -And, after all, where is the broad moral distinction between these -_soi-disant_ steady men, and those whom they are pleased to consider as -"rowing" characters? it has always seemed to me rather apocryphal. If a -man thinks proper to amuse himself with a chorus in his own rooms at one -o'clock in the morning, it seems hardly material whether it be Greek or -English--Sophocles or Tom Moore. It's a matter of taste, and tastes -differ. Nor do I think the morality of Horace or Aristophanes, or the -theology of Lucretius, so peculiarly admirable, as to render them, _per -se_, fitter subjects for the exclusive exercise of a young man's -faculties than "the Pickwick Papers," or "The Rod and the Gun." I have -heard--(I never saw, nor will I believe it)--of the profanity of certain -sporting under-graduates, who took into chapel the racing calendar, -bound in red morocco, instead of a prayer-book; I hold it to have been -the malicious fiction of some would-be university reformer; but, even if -true, I am not sure that I much prefer that provident piety which I have -noticed getting up its Greek within the same walls by means of a -Septuagint and Greek liturgy. Religion is one thing, classical learning -another, and sporting information another; all totally distinct, and -totally different; the first immeasurably above the other two, but -standing equidistant from both. It does not make a man one whit the -better to know that Coræbus won the cup at Olympia B.C. 776, than it -does to know that Priam did _not_ win the St Leger at Doncaster A.D. -1830; from all I can make out, the Greeks on the turf at present are not -much worse than their old namesakes; I dare say there was a fair amount -of black-legism on both occasions. Men injure their moral and physical -health by reading as much as by other things; it takes quite as much out -of a man, and puts as little in him to any good purpose, to get up his -logic as to pull in an eight-oar. - -Besides, if one is to read and enter into the spirit of a dozen -different authors, one dull monotonous round of physical existence seems -ill-fitted to call out the requisite variety of mental powers. I hold -that there are divers and sundry fit times, and places, and states of -mind, suited to different lines of reading. If a man is at work upon -history, by all means let him sport oak rigidly against all visitors; -let him pile up his authorities and references on every vacant chair all -round him, and get a clear notion of it by five or six hours' -uninterrupted and careful study. Or, if he has a system of philosophy to -get up, let him sit down with his head cool, his window open (not the -one looking into quad.), let him banish from his mind all minor matters, -and not break off in the chain of argument so long as he can keep his -brain clear and his eyes open. Even then, a good gallop afterwards, or a -cigar and a glass of punch, with some lively fellow who is no -philosopher, will do him far more good than a fagging walk of so many -measured miles, with the studious companion whose head is stuffed as -full of such matter as his own, and whose talk will be of disputed -passages, and dispiriting anticipations of a "dead floorer" in the -schools. But if a man wants to make acquaintance with such books as -Juvenal, or Horace, or Aristophanes, he may surely do it to quite as -good purpose, and with far more relish, basking under a tree in summer, -or with a friend over a bottle in winter. - -The false tone of society of which I have been speaking had its -influence upon Horace Leicester. Coming up to the university from a -public school, with a high character, a fair amount of scholarship, and -a host of acquaintances, he won the good-will at once of dons and of -under-graduates, and bid fair to be as universal a favourite at college -as he had been at Harrow. Never did a man enter upon an academic life -under happier auspices, nor, I believe, with a more thorough -determination to enjoy it in every way. He did not look upon his -emancipation from school discipline as a license for idleness, nor -intend to read the less because he could now read what he pleased, and -when he pleased. For, not to mention that Horace was ambitious, and had -at one time an eye to the class list--he had a taste for reading, and a -strong natural talent to appreciate what he read. But if he had a taste -for reading, he had other tastes as well, and, as he thought, not -incompatible; much as he admired his Roman namesake, he could not devote -his evenings exclusively to his society, but preferred carrying his -precepts into practice occasionally with more modern companions; and he -had no notion that during the next four years of his life he was to take -an interest in no sports but those of the old Greeks and Romans, and -mount no horse but Pegasus. For a term or two, Leicester got on very -well; attended lectures, read steadily till one or two o'clock, when -there was nothing particular going on, kept a horse, hired an alarm, and -seldom cut morning chapel, or missed a meet if within reasonable -distance. It was a course of life which, in after days, he often -referred to with a sigh as having been most exemplary; and I doubt -whether he was far wrong. But it did not last. For a time his -gentlemanly manners, good humour, and good taste, carried it off with -all parties; but it was against the ordinary routine, and could not hold -up against the popular prejudice. The reading men eyed his top-boots -with suspicion; the rowing men complained he was growing a regular -_sap_, always sporting oak when they wanted him. Then his wine-parties -were a source of endless tribulation to him. First of all, he asked all -those with whom he was most intimate among his old schoolfellows to meet -each other, adding one or two of his new acquaintances: and a pretty -mess he made of it. Men who had sat on the same form with him and with -each other at Harrow, and had betrayed no such marked differences in -their tastes as to prevent their associating very pleasantly there, at -Oxford, he found, had been separated wide as the poles by this -invisible, but impassable, line of demarcation: to such a degree, -indeed, that although all had called upon Horace, as they had upon each -other, before it seemed decided on which side they were to settle, yet -when they now met at his rooms, they had become strangers beyond a mere -civil recognition, and had not a single subject to converse upon in -common. In fact, they were rather surprised than pleased to meet at all; -and it was in vain their host tried to get them to amalgamate. Many -seemed to take a pleasure in showing how decidedly they belonged to one -set or the other. One would talk of nothing on earth besides hunting, -and sat silent and sulky when Horace turned the conversation; another -affected an utter ignorance of all that was going on in the University -that was not connected with class-lists, scholarships, &c. What provoked -him most was, that some of those who gave themselves the most pedantic -airs, and would have been double first-class men undeniably, if talking -could have done it, were those whose heads he well knew were as empty as -the last bottle, and which made him think that some men must take to -reading at Oxford, simply because they had faculties for nothing else. - -At all events, Horace found the mixed system would not answer for -entertaining his friends. So the next time he asked a few of the reading -men, some of whom he knew used to be good fellows, together; and as he -really had a kindred taste with them on many subjects, he found an hour -or so pass away very pleasantly: when just as he was passing the wine -about the third round, and his own brilliancy and good-humour were -beginning to infect some of his guests--so that one grave genius of -twenty had actually so far forgotten himself as to fill a bumper by -mistake--up jumped the senior man of the party, and declaring that he -had an engagement to walk with a friend at seven, politely took his -leave. This was the signal for a general dispersion; in vain did Horace -assure them they should have some coffee in the course of an hour, and -entreat some one or two to return. Off they all went, with sundry smiles -and shakes of the head, and left their unfortunate host sitting alone in -his glory over the first glass of a newly opened bottle of claret. - -I happened to be crossing the quadrangle from chapel in company with -Savile, at the moment when Leicester put his head out of his window as -if to inquire of the world in general what on earth he was to do with -himself for the next hour or two. Savile he hailed at once, and begged -him to come up; and though I knew but little of him, and had never been -in his rooms before, still, as I was one or two terms his senior, there -was nothing contrary even to Oxford etiquette in my accompanying Savile. -We laughed heartily when he explained his disappointment. Savile tried -to comfort him by the assurance that, as he had an hour to spare, he -would sit down and help him to finish a bottle or two of claret with a -great deal of pleasure; and was inclined to attribute the failure of the -evening, in a great measure, to his name not having been included in -the list of invitations--an omission by which he declared all parties -had been the losers; Horace's reading friends standing very much in need -of some one to put a little life into them, and himself, as a candidate -for a degree, having missed a fair opportunity of meeting, among so many -choice fellows, some one to "put him up to the examiners' dodges." But -Leicester was irrecoverably disgusted. Nothing, he declared, would ever -induce him to ask a party of reading men to his rooms again; and from -that hour he seemed to eschew fellowship with the whole fraternity. Not -that he became idle all at once; on the contrary, I believe, for some -time he worked on steadily, or at least tried to work; but he was -naturally fond of society, and having failed to find what he wanted, was -reduced to make the best of such as he could find. So he gradually -became acquainted with a set of men who, whatever their good qualities -might be, had certainly no claim whatever to be considered hard readers, -and who would have considered a symposium which broke up at seven -o'clock as unsatisfactory as a tale without a conclusion. Amongst these, -his gentlemanly manners and kindness of heart made him beloved, while -his talents gave him a kind of influence; and, though he must have felt -occasionally that he was not altogether in his right place, and that, -besides his popular qualities, he had higher tastes and endowments with -which the majority of his companions could hardly sympathise, he was -too light-hearted to philosophise much on the subject, and contented -himself with enjoying his popularity, occasionally falling back upon his -own resources, and keeping up, in a desultory kind of way, his -acquaintance with scholarship and literature. The reading men of course -looked upon him as a lost sheep; the tutors shook their heads about him; -if he did well, it was set down as the result of accident; while all his -misdoings were labouring in his vocation. For, agreeably to the grand -division aforesaid, Horace was now set down as a "rowing-man;" and he -soon made the discovery, and did more thereupon to deserve the character -than he ever would have done otherwise. He was very willing to go on in -his own way, if all parties would but let him alone; he was not going to -be made a proselyte to long walks, and toast and water, nor had he any -conscientious abhorrence of supper-parties; and, as his prospects in -life were in no way dependent upon a class or a scholarship, and he -seemed to be tacitly repudiated by the _literati_ of his college, young -and old, on account of some of his aforesaid heterodox notions on the -subject of study, he accustomed himself gradually to set their opinions -at defiance; while the moderate reading, which encouragement and -emulation had made easy at school, became every day more and more -distasteful. - -Horace's tottering reputation was at last completely overset in the eyes -of the authorities by a little affair which was absurd enough, but in -which he himself was as innocent as they were. It happened that a -youthful cousin of his, whose sole occupation for the last twelve months -of his life had been the not over-profitable one of waiting for a -commission, had come up to Oxford for two or three days, pursuant to -invitation, to see a little of the manners and customs of the -inhabitants. I think he had some slight acquaintance with our then -vice-principal--a good-natured, easy man--and Horace had got leave for -him to occupy a set of very small, dark rooms, which, as the college was -not very full, had been suffered to remain vacant for the last two or -three terms; they were so very unattractive a domicile that the last -Freshman to whom they were offered as a Hobson's choice, was currently -reported, in the plenitude of his disgust, to have taken his name off -the books _instanter_. It is not usual to allow strangers to sleep -within college walls at all; but our discipline was somewhat lax in -those days. So Mr Carey had a bed put up for him in the aforesaid -quarters. He was, of course, duly _fêted_, and made much of by Horace -and his friends; and a dozen of us sat down to a capital dinner in the -rooms of the former, on the strength of having to entertain a "stranger -from the country;" the hospitality of Oxford relaxing its rules even in -favour of under-graduates upon such occasions. It must have been -somewhere towards the next morning, when two or three of us accompanied -young Carey down to No. 8; and, after chatting with him till he was half -undressed, left him, as we thought, safe and quiet. However, soon after -we had retired, some noisy individual in the same staircase thought -proper to give a view-hollo out of his window, for the purpose of -wishing the public good-night. Now there was one of the Fellows, a -choleric little old gentleman, always in residence, holding some office, -in which there was as little to do, and as much to get as might be, and -who seldom troubled himself much about college discipline, and looked -upon under-graduates with a sort of silent contempt; never interfering -with them, as he declared himself, so long as they did not interfere -with him. But one point there was, in which they did interfere with his -personal comfort occasionally, and whereby his peace of mind and rest of -body were equally disturbed. Mr Perkins always took a tumbler of negus -at ten precisely, and turned in as the college clock struck the quarter -past; by the half-hour he was generally asleep, for his digestion was -good and his cares few. But his slumbers were not heavy, and anything -like a row in the quadrangle infallibly awoke him, and then he was like -a lion roused. He was wont to jump up, throw up his window, thrust out a -red face and a white nightcap, and after listening a few seconds for -the chance of the odious sounds being repeated, would put the very -pertinent question usual in such circumstances, to which one so seldom -gets an equally pertinent reply--"Who's that?" In case this intimation -of Mr Perkins being wide awake proved sufficient, as it often did, to -restore quiet, then after the lapse of a few more seconds the head and -the nightcap disappeared, and the window was shut down again. But if the -noise was continued, as occasionally it was out of pure mischief, then -in a minute or two the said nightcap would be seen to emerge hastily -from the staircase below, in company with a dressing-gown and slippers, -and Mr Perkins in this disguise would proceed to the scene of -disturbance as fast as his short legs could carry him. He seldom -succeeded in effecting a capture; but if he had that luck, or if he -could distinguish the tone of any individual voice so as to be able to -identify the performer, he had him up before the "seniority" next -morning, where his influence as one of the senior fellows insured a -heavy sentence. But he had been engaged in so many unsuccessful chases -of the kind, and his short orations from his window so often elicited -only a laugh, though including sometimes brief but explicit threats of -rustication against the noisy unknown, strengthened by little expletives -which, when quoted by under-graduates, were made to sound somewhat -doubtfully--that at last he altered his tactics, and began to act in -silence. And so he did, when upon opening his window he saw a light in -the ground-floor rooms of the staircase whence the sounds proceeded on -the evening in question. Carey, by his own account, was proceeding -quietly in his preparations for bed, singing to himself an occasional -stanza of some classical ditty which he had picked up in the course of -the evening, and admiring the power of the man's lungs in the room above -him, when he heard a short quick step, and then a double rap at his -door. He was quite sufficiently acquainted, by this time, with the ways -of the place, not to be much surprised at the late visit, and at the -same time to consider it prudent to learn the name and _status_ of his -visitor before admitting him; so he retorted upon Mr Perkins, quite -unconsciously, his own favourite query--"Who's that?" his first and -obvious impression being that it was one of the party he had just -quitted, coming probably in the plenitude of good fellowship, to bring -him an invitation to wine or breakfast next day. - -"It's me, sir--open the door," was the reply from a deep baritone, which -the initiated would never have mistaken. - -"Who are you?" said Carey again. - -"My name is Perkins, sir: have the goodness to let me in." He was -getting more angry, and consequently more polite. - -"Perkins," said Carey, pausing in his operations, in the vain endeavour -to recall the name among the score or two to whom he had been -introduced. "I'm just in bed--were you up at Leicester's?" - -"Open the door, sir, if you please, immediately," and then came what our -friend took for a smothered laugh, but was really a sort of shiver, for -there was a draft in the passage playing all manner of pranks with the -dressing-gown, and Mr Perkins was getting cold. - -An indistinct notion came into Carey's mind, that some one who had met -him in College might have taken him for a Freshman, and had some -practical joke in view; so he contented himself with repeating that he -was going to bed, and could let no one in. - -"I tell you, sir, I'm Mr Perkins; don't you know me?" - -"I wish you a very good night, Mr Perkins." - -"What's your name, sir? eh? You impudent young puppy, what's your -infernal name? I'll have you rusticated, you dog--do you hear me, sir?" - -On a sudden it struck Carey that this might possibly be a domiciliary -visit from one of the authorities, and that his best plan was to open -the door at once, though what had procured him such an honour he was at -a loss to imagine. He drew back the spring lock, therefore, and the next -moment stood face to face with the irate Mr Perkins. - -His first impulse was to laugh at the curious figure before him; but -when demands for his name, and threats of unknown penalties, were -thundered forth upon him with no pause for a reply, then he began to -think that he had made a mistake in opening the door at all--that he -might get Leicester into a scrape if not himself--and as his person was -as unknown to Mr Perkins as that gentleman's to him, it struck him that -if he could give him the slip at once it would be all right. In a moment -he blew out his solitary candle, bolted through the open door, all but -upsetting his new acquaintance, whom he left storming in the most -unconnected manner, alone, and in total darkness. Up to Leicester's -rooms he rushed, related his adventure, and was rather surprised that -his cousin did not applaud it as a very clever thing. - -What Mr Perkins thought or said to himself, what degree of patience he -exhibited in such trying circumstances, or in what terms he -apostrophised his flying enemy, must ever remain a secret with himself. -Five minutes after, Solomon the porter, summoned from his bed just as he -had made himself snug once more after letting out Horace's out-college -friends, confronted Mr Perkins in about as sweet a temper as that worthy -individual himself, with this difference, that one was sulky and the -other furious. - -"Who lives in the ground-floor on the left in No. 8?" - -"What, in 'Coventry?' Why, nobody, sir." - -"Nobody! you stupid old sinner, you're asleep." - -"No, sir, I ain't," and Solomon flashed his lantern in Mr Perkins's face -as if to ascertain whether _his_ eyes were open. Mr Perkins started -back, and Solomon turned half round as if to disappear again. - -"Who lives there, Solomon, I ask you? Do you mean to tell me you don't -know? You are not fit----" - -"I knows every gentleman's rooms well enough: nobody hasn't lived in -them as you means not these four terms. Mr Pears kept his fox in 'em one -time, till the vice-principal got wind of him. There may be some varmint -in 'em now for all I knows--they a'n't fit for much else." - -"There's some confounded puppy of a Freshman in them now--at least there -was--and he lives there too." - -"I know there _be'n't_," said the persevering Solomon. And, without -deigning a word more, he set off with his lantern towards the place in -dispute, followed by Mr Perkins, who contented himself with an angry -"Now you'll see." - -"Ay, now we shall see," replied Solomon, as, somewhat to Mr Perkins's -astonishment, they found the oak sported. Having made a selection from a -huge bunch of keys, the porter succeeded, after some fumbling, in -getting the door open. The room bore no traces of recent occupation. -Three or four broken chairs and a rickety table were the only -furniture: as far as the light of Solomon's lantern could penetrate, it -looked the very picture of desolation. Solomon chuckled. - -"There _is_ a man living here. I'll swear there is. He was undressing -when I came. Look in the bedroom." - -They opened the door, and saw a bare feather-bed and bolster, the usual -_matériel_ in an unoccupied college chamber. "Seeing's believing," said -the porter. - -But, with Mr Perkins, seeing was not believing. He saw Solomon, and he -saw the empty room, but he did not believe either. But he had evidently -the worst side of the argument as it stood, so he wished the porter a -sulky good-night, and retreated. - -The fact was, that the noisy gentleman in the rooms above, as soon as he -caught the tones of Mr Perkins's voice at Carey's door, had entered into -the joke with exceeding gusto, well aware that the visit was really -intended as a compliment to his own vocal powers. Carey's sudden bolt -puzzled him rather; but as soon as he heard Mr Perkins's foot-steps take -the direction of the porter's lodge, he walked softly down-stairs to the -field of action, and, anticipating in some degree what would follow, -bundled up together sheets, blankets, pillow, dressing apparatus, and -all other signs and tokens of occupation, and made off with them to his -own rooms, sporting the oak behind him, and thus completing the -mystification. - -As the facts of the case were pretty sure to transpire in course of -time, Horace took the safe course of getting his cousin out of college -next morning, and calling on Mr Perkins with a full explanation of the -circumstances, and apologies for Carey as a stranger unacquainted with -the police regulations of their learned body, and the respect due -thereto. Of course the man in authority was obliged to be gracious, as -Leicester could not well be answerable for all the faults of his family; -but there never from that time forth happened a row of any kind with -which he did not in his own mind, probably unconsciously, associate poor -Horace. - -Whether my readers will set down Horace Leicester as a rowing man or -not, is a point which I leave to their merciful consideration: a reading -man was a title which he never aspired to. He took a very creditable -degree in due season, and was placed in the fourth class with a man who -took up a very long list of books, and was supposed to have read himself -stupid. - -"He ought to have done a good deal more," said one of the tutors; "he -had it in him." "I think he was lucky not to have been plucked, myself," -said Mr Perkins; "he was a very noisy man." - - - - -THE EMERALD STUDS - -A REMINISCENCE OF THE CIRCUIT. - -BY PROFESSOR AYTOUN. - -[_MAGA._ AUGUST 1847.] - - -CHAPTER I. - -"Hallo, Tom! Are you not up yet? Why, man, the judges have gone down to -the court half an hour ago, escorted by the most ragged regiment of -ruffians that ever handled a Lochaberaxe." - -Such was my matutinal salutation to my friend Thomas Strachan, as I -entered his room on a splendid spring morning. Tom and I were early -college allies. We had attended, or rather, to speak more correctly, -taken out tickets for the different law classes during the same -sessions. We had fulminated together within the walls of the Juridical -Society on legal topics which might have broken the heart of Erskine, -and rewarded ourselves diligently thereafter with the usual relaxations -of a crab and a comfortable tumbler. We had aggravated the same grinder -with our deplorable exposition of the Pandects; and finally assumed, on -the same day, the full-blown honours of the Advocate's wig and gown. Nor -did our fraternal parallel end there: for although we had walked the -boards of the Parliament House with praiseworthy diligence for a couple -of sessions, neither of us had experienced the dulcet sensation which is -communicated to the palm by the contact of the first professional -guinea. In vain did we attempt to insinuate ourselves into the good -graces of the agents, and coin our intellects into such jocular remarks -as are supposed to find most favour in the eyes of facetious -practitioners. In vain did I carry about with me, for a whole week, an -artificial process most skilfully made up; and in vain did Tom compound -and circulate a delectable ditty, entitled "The Song of the -Multiplepoinding." Not a single solicitor would listen to our wooing, or -even intrust us with the task of making the simplest motion. I believe -they thought me too fast, and Tom too much of a genius; and, therefore, -both of us were left among the ranks of the briefless army of the stove. -This would not do. Our souls burned within us with a noble thirst for -legal fame and fees. We held a consultation (without an agent) at the -Rainbow, and finally determined that since Edinburgh would not hear us, -Jedburgh should have the privilege of monopolising our maiden eloquence -at the ensuing justiciary circuit. Jedburgh presents a capital field to -the ambition of a youthful advocate. Very few counsel go that way; the -cases are usually trifling, and the juries easily bamboozled. It has -besides this immense advantage--that should you by any accident happen -to break down, nobody will in all probability be the wiser for it, -provided you have the good sense to ingratiate yourself with the -circuit-clerk. - -Tom and I arrived at Jedburgh the afternoon before the circuit began. I -was not acquainted with a human being within the parliamentary -boundaries of that respectable borough, and therefore experienced but a -slight spasm of disappointment when informed by the waiter at the inn, -that no inquiries had yet been made after me, on the part of writers -desirous of professional assistance. Strachan had been wiser. Somehow or -other, he had got a letter of introduction to one Bailie Beerie, a -notable civic dignitary of the place; and, accordingly, on presenting -his credentials, was invited by that functionary to dinner, with a hint -that he "might maybe see a wheen real leddies in the evening." This -pointed so plainly to a white choker and dress boots, that Strachan -durst not take the liberty of volunteering the attendance of his friend; -and accordingly I had been left alone to wile away, as I best might, the -tedium of a sluggish evening. Before starting, however, Tom pledged -himself to return in time for supper; as he entertained a painful -conviction that the party would be excessively slow. - -So long as it was light, I amused myself pretty well by strolling along -the banks of the river, and enunciating a splendid speech for the panel -in an imaginary case of murder. However, before I reached the peroration -(which was to consist of a vivid picture of the deathbed of a despairing -jury-man, conscience-stricken by the recollection of an erroneous -verdict), the shades of evening began to close in; the trouts ceased to -leap in the pool, and the rooks desisted from their cawing. I returned -to discuss my solitary mutton at the inn; and then, having nothing to -do, sat down to a moderate libation, and an odd number of the -_Temperance Magazine_, which valuable tract had been left for the -reformation of the traveller by some peripatetic disciple of Father -Mathew. - -Nine o'clock came, but so did not Strachan. I began to wax wroth, -muttered anathemas against my faithless friend, rang for the waiter, -and--having ascertained the fact that a Masonic Lodge was that evening -engaged in celebrating the festival of its peculiar patron--I set out -for the purpose of assisting in the pious and mystic labours of the -Brethren of the Jedburgh St Jeremy. At twelve, when I returned to my -quarters, escorted by the junior deacon, I was informed that Strachan -had not made his appearance, and accordingly I went to bed. - -Next morning I found Tom, as already mentioned, in his couch. There was -a fine air of negligence in the manner in which his habiliments were -scattered over the room. One glazed boot lay within the fender, whilst -the other had been chucked into a coal-scuttle; and there were evident -marks of mud on the surface of his glossy kerseymeres. Strachan himself -looked excessively pale, and the sole rejoinder he made to my -preliminary remark was, a request for soda-water. - -"Tom," said I, inexpressibly shocked at the implied confession of the -nature of his vespers--"I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself! Have -you no higher regard for the dignity of the bar you represent, than to -expose yourself before a Jedburgh Bailie?" - -"Dignity be hanged!" replied the incorrigible Strachan. "Bailie Beerie -is a brick, and I won't hear a word against him. But, O Fred! if you -only knew what you missed last night! Such a splendid woman--by Jove, -sir, a thoroughbred angel. A bust like one of Titian's beauties, and the -voice of a lovelorn nightingale!" - -"One of the Misses Beerie, I presume. Come, Tom, I think I can fill up -your portrait. Hair of the auburn complexion, slightly running into the -carrot--skin fair, but freckled--greenish eyes--red elbows--culpable -ankles--elephantine waist--and sentiments savouring of the Secession." - -"Ring the bell for the waiter, and hold your impious tongue. You never -were farther from the mark in your life. The wing of the raven is not -more glossy than her hair--and oh, the depth and melting lustre of those -dark unfathomable eyes! Waiter! a bottle of soda-water, and you may put -in a thimbleful of cognac." - -"Come, Tom!--none of your ravings. Is this an actual Armida, or a new -freak of your own imagination?" - -"_Bonâ fide_--an angel in everything, barring the wings." - -"Then how the deuce did such a phenomenon happen to emerge at the -Bailie's?" - -"That's the very question I was asking myself during the whole time of -dinner. She was clearly not a Scotswoman. When she spoke, it was in the -sweet low accents of a southern clime; and she waved away the proffered -haggis with an air of the prettiest disgust!" - -"But the Bailie knew her?" - -"Of course he did. I got the whole story out of him after dinner, and, -upon my honour, I think it is the most romantic one I ever heard. About -a week ago, the lady arrived here without attendants. Some say she came -in the mail-coach--others in a dark travelling chariot and pair. -However, what matters it? the jewel can derive no lustre or value from -the casket!" - -"Yes--but one always likes to have some kind of idea of the setting. Get -on." - -"She seemed in great distress, and inquired whether there were any -letters at the post-office addressed to the Honourable Dorothea Percy. -No such epistle was to be found. She then interrogated the landlord, -whether an elderly lady, whose appearance she minutely described, had -been seen in the neighbourhood of Jedburgh; but except old Mrs -Slammingham of Summertrees, who has been bed-ridden for years, there was -nobody in the county who at all answered to the description. On hearing -this, the lady seemed profoundly agitated--shut herself up in a private -parlour, and refused all sustenance." - -"Had she not a reticule with sandwiches, Tom?" - -"Do not tempt me to commit justifiable homicide--you see I am in the act -of shaving.--At last the landlady, who is a most respectable person, and -who felt deeply interested at the desolate situation of the poor young -lady, ventured to solicit an interview. She was admitted. There are -moments when the sympathy of even the humblest friend is precious. Miss -Percy felt grateful for the interest so displayed, and confided the tale -of her griefs to the matronly bosom of the hostess." - -"And she told you?" - -"No,--but she told Bailie Beerie. That active magistrate thought it his -duty to interfere. He waited upon Miss Percy, and from her lips he -gathered the full particulars of her history. Percy is not her real -name, but she is the daughter of an English peer of very ancient family. -Her father having married a second time, Dorothea was exposed to the -persecutions of a low-minded vulgar woman, whose whole ideas were of -that mean and mercenary description which characterise the Caucasian -race. Naomi Shekels was the offspring of a Jew, and she hated, whilst -she envied, the superior charms of the noble Norman maiden. But she had -gained an enormous supremacy over the wavering intellect of the elderly -Viscount; and Dorothea was commanded to receive, with submission, the -addresses of a loathsome apostate, who had made a prodigious fortune in -the railways." - -"One of the tribe of Issachar?" - -"Exactly. A miscreant whose natural function was the vending of cast -habiliments. Conceive, Fred, what the fair young creature must have felt -at the bare idea of such shocking spousals! She besought, prayed, -implored,--but all in vain. Mammon had taken too deep a root in the -paternal heart,--the old coronet had been furbished up by means of -Israelitish gold, and the father could not see any degradation in -forcing upon his child an alliance similar to his own." - -"You interest me excessively." - -"Is it not a strange tale?" continued Thomas, adjusting a false collar -round his neck. "I knew you would agree with me when I came to the -pathetic part. Well, Fred, the altar was decked, the ornaments ready, -the Rabbi bespoke----" - -"Do you mean to say, Strachan, that Lady Dorothea was to have been -married after the fashion of the Jews?" - -"I don't know exactly. I think Beerie said it was a Rabbi; but that may -have been a flight of his own imagination. However, somebody was ready -to have tied the nuptial knot, and all the joys of existence, and its -hopes, were about to fade for ever from the vision of my poor Dorothea!" - -"_Your_ Dorothea!" cried I in amazement. "Why, Tom--you don't mean to -insinuate that you have gone that length already?" - -"Did I say mine?" repeated Strachan, looking somewhat embarrassed. "It -was a mere figure of speech: you always take one up so uncommonly -short.--Nothing remained for her but flight, or submission to the cruel -mandate. Like a heroic girl, in whose veins the blood of the old -crusaders was bounding, she preferred the former alternative. The only -relation to whom she could apply in so delicate a juncture, was an aged -aunt, residing somewhere in the north of Scotland. To her she wrote, -beseeching her, as she regarded the memory of her buried sister, to -receive her miserable child; and she appointed this town, Jedburgh, as -the place of meeting." - -"But where's the aunt?" - -"That's just the mysterious part of the business. The crisis was so -imminent that Dorothea could not wait for a reply. She disguised -herself,--packed up a few jewels which had been bequeathed to her by her -mother,--and, at the dead of night, escaped from her father's mansion. -Judge of her terror when, on arriving here, panting and perhaps pursued, -she could obtain no trace whatever of her venerable relative. Alone, -inexperienced and unfriended, I tremble to think what might have been -her fate, had it not been for the kind humanity of Beerie." - -"And what was the Bailie's line of conduct?" - -"He behaved to her, Fred, like a parent. He supplied her wants, and -invited her to make his house her home, at least until the aunt should -appear. But the noble creature would not subject herself to the weight -of so many obligations. She accepted, indeed, his assistance, but -preferred remaining here until she could place herself beneath -legitimate guardianship. And doubtless," continued Strachan with -fervour, "her good angel is watching over her." - -"And this is the whole story?" - -"The whole." - -"Do you know, Tom, it looks uncommonly like a piece of deliberate -humbug!" - -"Your ignorance misleads you, Fred. You would not say so had you seen -her. So sweet--so gentle--with such a tinge of melancholy resignation in -her eye, like that of a virgin martyr about to suffer at the stake! No -one could look upon her for a moment and doubt her purity and truth." - -"Perhaps. But you must allow that we are not living exactly in the age -of romance. An elopement with an officer of dragoons is about the -farthest extent of legitimate enterprise which is left to a modern -damsel; and, upon my word, I think the story would have told better, had -some such hero been inserted as a sort of counterpoise to the Jew. But -what's the matter? Have you lost anything?" - -"It is very odd!" said Strachan, "I am perfectly certain that I had on -my emerald studs last night. I recollect that Dorothea admired them -exceedingly. Where on earth can I have put them?" - -"I don't know, I'm sure. I suspect, Tom, you and the Bailie were rather -convivial after supper. Is your watch wound up?" - -"Of course it is. I assure you you are quite wrong. It was a mere matter -of four or five tumblers. Very odd this! Why--I can't find my watch -neither!" - -"Hallo! what the deuce! Have we fallen into a den of thieves? This is a -nice beginning to our circuit practice." - -"I could swear, Fred, that I put it below my pillow before I went to -sleep. I remember, now, that it was some time before I could fit in the -key. What can have become of it?" - -"And you have not left your room since?" - -"No, on my word of honour!" - -"Pooh--pooh! Then it can't possibly be gone. Look beneath the bolster." - -But in vain did we search beneath bolster, mattress, and blankets; yea, -even downwards to the fundamental straw. Not a trace was to be seen of -Cox Savoury's horizontal lever, jewelled, as Tom pathetically remarked, -in four special holes, and warranted to go for a year without more than -a minute's deviation. Neither were the emerald studs, the pride of -Strachan's heart, forthcoming. Boots, chambermaid, and waiter were -collectively summoned--all assisted in the search, and all asseverated -their own integrity. - -"Are ye sure, sir, that ye brocht them hame?" said the waiter, an acute -lad, who had served his apprenticeship at a commercial tavern in the -Gorbals; "Ye was gey an' fou when ye cam in here yestreen." - -"What do you mean, you rascal?" - -"Ye ken ye wadna gang to bed till ye had anither tumbler." - -"Don't talk trash! It was the weakest cold-without in the creation." - -"And then ye had a sair fecht on politics wi' anither man in the -coffee-room." - -"Ha! I remember now--the bagman, who is a member of the League! Where is -the commercial villain?" - -"He gaed aff at sax preceesely, this morning, in his gig, to Kelso." - -"Then, by the head of Thistlewood!" cried Strachan, frantically, "my -ticker will be turned into tracts against the Corn-laws!" - -"Hoot na!" said the waiter, "I canna think that. He looked an unco -respectable-like man." - -"No man can be respectable," replied the aristocratic Thomas, "who -sports such infernal opinions as I heard him utter last night. My poor -studs! Fred--they were a gift from Mary Rivers before we quarrelled, and -I would not have lost them for the universe! Only think of them being -exposed for sale at a free-trade bazaar!" - -"Come, Tom--they may turn up yet." - -"Never in this world, except at a pawnbroker's. I could go mad to think -that my last memorial of Mary is in all probability glittering in the -unclean shirt of a bagman!" - -"Had you not better apply to the Fiscal?" - -"For what purpose? Doubtless the scoundrel has driven off to the nearest -railway, and is triumphantly counting the mile-posts as he steams to -his native Leeds. No, Fred. Both watch and studs are gone beyond the -hope of redemption." - -"The loss is certainly a serious one." - -"No doubt of it: but a thought strikes me. You recollect the edict, -_nautæ_, _caupones_, _stabularii_? I have not studied the civil law for -nothing, and am clearly of opinion that in such a case the landlord is -liable." - -"By Jove! I believe you are right. But it would be as well to turn up -Shaw and Dunlop for a precedent before you make any row about it. -Besides, it may be rather difficult to establish that you lost them at -the inn." - -"If they only refer the matter to my oath, I can easily settle that -point," replied Strachan. "Besides, now that I think of it, Miss Percy -can speak to the watch. She asked me what o'clock it was just before we -parted on the stairs." - -"Eh, what! Is the lady in this house?" - -"To be sure--did I not tell you so?" - -"I say, Tom--couldn't you contrive to let one have a peep at this angel -of yours?" - -"Quite impossible. She is the shyest creature in the world, and would -shrink from the sight of a stranger." - -"But, my dear Tom----" - -"I can't do it, I tell you; so it's no use asking me." - -"Well, I must say you are abominably selfish. But what on earth are you -going to do with that red-and-blue Joinville? You can't go down to court -without a white neckcloth." - -"I am not going down to court." - -"Why, my good fellow! what on earth is the meaning of this?" - -"I am not going down to court, that's all. I say, Fred, how do I look in -this sort of thing?" - -"Uncommonly like a cock-pheasant in full plumage. But tell me what you -mean?" - -"Why, since you must needs know, I am going up-stairs to breakfast with -Miss Percy." - -So saying, Mr Strachan made me a polite bow, and left the apartment. I -took my solitary way to the court-house, marvelling at the extreme -rapidity of the effect which is produced by the envenomed darts of -Cupid. - - -CHAPTER II. - -On entering the court, I found that the business had commenced. An -enormous raw-boned fellow, with a shock of the fieriest hair, and hands -of such dimensions that a mere glimpse of them excited unpleasant -sensations at your windpipe, was stationed at the bar, to which, from -previous practice, he had acquired a sort of prescriptive right. - -"James M'Wilkin, or Wilkinson, or Wilson," said the presiding judge, in -a tone of disgust which heightened with each successive alias, "attend -to the indictment which is about to be preferred against you." - -And certainly, if the indictment contained a true statement of the -facts, James M'Wilkin, or Wilkinson, or Wilson, was about as -thoroughpaced a marauder as ever perambulated a common. He was charged -with sheep-stealing and assault; inasmuch as, on a certain night -subsequent to the Kelso fair, he, the said individual with the plural -denominations, did wickedly and feloniously steal, uplift, and away take -from a field adjoining to the Northumberland road, six wethers, the -property, or in the lawful possession, of Jacob Gubbins, grazier, then -and now, or lately, residing in Morpeth; and, moreover, on being -followed by the said Gubbins, who demanded restitution of his property, -he, the said M'Wilkin, &c. had, in the most brutal manner, struck, -knocked down, and lavished divers kicks upon the corporality of the -Northumbrian bumpkin, to the fracture of three of his ribs, and -otherwise to the injury of his person. - -During the perusal of this formidable document by the clerk, M'Wilkin -stood scratching his poll, and leering about him as though he considered -the whole ceremony as a sort of solemn joke. I never in the course of my -life cast eyes on a more nonchalant or unmitigated ruffian. - -"How do you say, M'Wilkin?" asked the judge; "are you guilty or not -guilty?" - -"Not guilty, aff course. D'ye tak me for a fule?" and M'Wilkin flounced -down upon his seat, as though he had been an ornament to society. - -"Have you a counsel?" asked the judge. - -"De'il ane--nor a bawbee," replied the free-booter. - -Acting upon the noble principle of Scottish jurisprudence, that no man -shall undergo his trial without sufficient legal advice, his lordship in -the kindest manner asked me to take charge of the fortunes of the -forlorn M'Wilkin. Of course I made no scruples; for, so long as it was -matter of practice, I should have felt no hesitation in undertaking the -defence of Beelzebub. I therefore leaned across the dock, and exchanged -a few hurried sentences with my first client. - -"Why don't you plead guilty?" - -"What for? I've been here before. Man, I'm thinking ye're a saft ane!" - -"Did you not steal the sheep?" - -"Ay--that's just the question. Let them find that out." - -"But the grazier saw you?" - -"I blackened his e'es." - -"You'll be transported to a dead certainty." - -"Deevil a fears, if ye're worth the price o' half a mutchkin. I'm -saying--get me a Hawick jury, and it's a' richt. They ken me gey and -weel thereabouts." - -Although I was by no means satisfied in my own mind that an intimate -acquaintance with M'Wilkin and his previous pursuits would be a strong -recommendation in his favour to any possible assize, I thought it best -to follow his instructions, and managed my challenges so well that I -secured a majority of Hawickers. The jury being sworn in, the cause -proceeded; and certainly, before three witnesses had been examined, it -appeared to me beyond all manner of doubt, that, in the language of Tom -Campbell, my unfortunate client was - - "Doom'd the long coves of Sydney isle to see," - -as a permanent addition to that cultivated and Patagonian population. -The grazier stood to his story like a man, and all efforts to break him -down by cross-examination were fruitless. There was also another hawbuck -who swore to the sheep, and was witness to the assault; so that, in -fact, the evidence was legally complete. - -Whilst I was occupied in the vain attempt to make Gubbins contradict -himself, there had been a slight commotion in the court-room. On looking -round afterwards, I was astonished to behold my friend Strachan seated -in the Magistrate's box, next to a very pretty and showily-dressed -woman, to whom he was paying the most marked and deliberate attention. -On the other side of her was an individual in a civic chain, whose fat, -pursy, apoplectic appearance, and nose of the colour of an Orleans plum, -thoroughly realised my mental picture of the Bailie. His small, -blood-shot eyes twinkled with magisterial dignity and importance; and he -looked, beside Miss Percy--for I could not doubt that it was she--like a -satyr in charge of Florimel. - -The last witness for the crown, a very noted police-officer from -Glasgow, was then put into the box, to prove a previous conviction -against my friend M'Wilkin. This man bore a high reputation in his -calling, and was, indeed, esteemed as a sort of Scottish Vidocq, who -knew by headmark every filcher of a handkerchief between Caithness and -the Border. He met the bold broad stare of the prisoner with a kind of -nod, as much as to assure him that his time was very nearly up; and then -deliberately proceeded to take a hawk's-eye view of the assembly. I -noticed a sort of quiet sneer as he glanced at the Magistrate's box. - -"Poor Strachan!" thought I. "His infatuation must indeed be palpable, -since even a common officer can read his secret in a moment." - -I might just as well have tried to shake Ailsa Craig as to make an -impression upon this witness; however, heroically devoted to my trust, I -hazarded the attempt, and ended by bringing out several additional -tales of turpitude in the life and times of M'Wilkin. - -"Make room there in the passage! The lady has fainted," cried the macer. - -I started to my feet, and was just in time to see Miss Percy conveyed -from the court, in an apparently inanimate state, by the Bailie and the -agitated Strachan. - -"Devilish fine-looking woman that!" observed the Advocate-Depute across -the table. "Where did your friend Mr Strachan get hold of her?" - -"I really don't know. I say--are you going to address the jury for the -crown?" - -"It is quite immaterial. The case is distinctly proved, and I presume -you don't intend to speak?" - -"I'm not so sure of that." - -"Oh, well,--in that case I suppose I must say a word or two. This closes -the evidence for the crown, my lord;" and the Depute began to turn over -his papers, preparatory to a short harangue. - -He had just commenced his speech, when I felt a hand laid upon my -shoulder. I looked around: Strachan was behind me, pale and almost -breathless with excitement. - -"Fred--can I depend upon your friendship?" - -"Of course you can. What's the row?" - -"Have you ten pounds about you?" - -"Yes--but what do you mean to do with them? Surely you are not going to -make a blockhead of yourself by bolting?" - -"No--no! give me the money--quick!" - -"On your word of honour, Tom?" - -"On my sacred word of honour!--That's a good fellow--thank you, Fred;" -and Strachan pocketed the currency. "Now," said he, "I have just one -other request to make." - -"What's that?" - -"Speak against time, there's a dear fellow! Spin out the case as long as -you can, and don't let the jury retire for at least three quarters of an -hour. I know you can do it better than any other man at the bar." - -"Are you in earnest, Tom?" - -"Most solemnly. My whole future happiness--nay, perhaps the life of a -human being depends upon it." - -"In that case I think I shall tip them an hour." - -"Heaven reward you, Fred! I never can forget your kindness!" - -"But where shall I see you afterwards?" - -"At the hotel. Now, my dear boy, be sure that you pitch it in, and, if -possible, get the judge to charge after you. Time's all that's -wanted--adieu!" and Tom disappeared in a twinkling. - -I had little leisure to turn over the meaning of this interview in my -mind, for the address of my learned opponent was very short and pithy. -He merely pointed out the clear facts, as substantiated by evidence, -and brought home to the unhappy M'Wilkin; and concluded by demanding a -verdict on both charges contained in the indictment against the -prisoner. - -"Do you wish to say anything, sir?" said the judge to me, with a kind of -tone which indicated his hope that I was going to say nothing. Doubtless -his lordship thought that, as a very young counsel, I would take the -hint; but he was considerably mistaken in his man. I came to the bar for -practice--I went on the circuit with the solemn determination to speak -in every case, however desperate; and it needed not the admonition of -Strachan to make me carry my purpose into execution. What did I care -about occupying the time of the court? His lordship was paid to listen, -and could very well afford to hear the man who was pleading for M'Wilkin -without a fee. I must say, however, that he looked somewhat disgusted -when I rose. - -A first appearance is a nervous thing, but there is nothing like going -boldly at your subject. "_Fiat experimentum in corpore vili_" is a -capital maxim in the Justiciary Court. The worse your case, the less -chance you have to spoil it; and I never had a worse than M'Wilkin's. - -I began by buttering the jury on their evident intelligence and the high -functions they had to discharge, which of course were magnified to the -skies. I then went slap-dash at the evidence; and, as I could say -nothing in favour of my client, directed a tremendous battery of abuse -and insinuation against his accuser. - -"And who is this Gubbins, gentlemen, that you should believe this most -incredible, most atrocious, and most clumsy apocrypha of his? I will -tell you. He is an English butcher--a dealer in cattle and in -bestial--one of those men who derive their whole subsistence from the -profits realised by the sale of our native Scottish produce. This is the -way in which our hills are depopulated, and our glens converted into -solitudes. It is for him and his confederates--not for us--that our -shepherds watch and toil, that our herds and flocks are reared, that the -richness of the land is absorbed! And who speaks to the character of -this Gubbins? You have heard the pointless remarks made by my learned -friend upon the character of my unfortunate client; but he has not dared -to adduce in this court one single witness in behalf of the character of -his witness. Gentlemen, he durst not do it! Gubbins has deponed to you -that he bought those sheep at the fair of Kelso, from a person of the -name of Shiells, and that he paid the money for them. Where is the -evidence of that? Where is Shiells to tell us whether he actually sold -these sheep, or whether, on the contrary, they were not stolen from him? -Has it been proved to you, gentlemen, that M'Wilkin is not a friend of -Shiells--that he did not receive notice of the theft--that he did not -pursue the robber, and, recognising the stolen property by their mark, -seize them for the benefit of their owner? No such proof at least has -been led upon the part of the crown, and in the absence of it, I ask you -fearlessly, whether you can possibly violate your consciences by -returning a verdict of guilty? Is it not possible--nay, is it not -extremely probable, that Gubbins was the actual thief? Was it not his -interest, far more than M'Wilkin's, to abstract those poor unhappy -sheep, because it is avowedly his trade to fill the insatiable maw of -the Southron? And in that case, who should be at the bar? Gubbins! -Gubbins, I say, who this day has the unparalleled audacity to appear -before an enlightened Scottish jury, and to give evidence which, in -former times, might have led to the awful consequence of the execution -of an innocent man! And this is what my learned friend calls evidence! -Evidence to condemn a fellow-countryman, gentlemen? No--not to condemn a -dog!" - -Having thus summarily disposed of Gubbins, I turned my artillery against -the attendant drover and the policeman. The first I indignantly -denounced as either an accomplice or a tool: the second I smote more -severely. Policemen are not popular in Hawick; and, knowing this, I -contrived to blacken the Scottish Vidocq as a bloodhound. - -But by far the finest flight of fancy in which I indulged was reserved -for the peroration. I was not quite sure of the effect of my commentary -on the evidence, and therefore thought it might be advisable to touch -upon a national law. - -"And now, gentlemen," said I, "assuming for one moment that all my -learned friend has said to you is true--that the sheep really belonged -to this Gubbins, and were taken from him by M'Wilkin--let us calmly and -deliberately consider how far such a proceeding can be construed into a -crime. What has my unfortunate client done that he should be condemned -by a jury of his countrymen? What he stands charged with is simply -this--that he has prevented an Englishman from driving away the produce -of our native hills. And is this a crime? It may be so, for aught I -know, by statute; but sure I am, that in the intention, to which alone -you must look, there lies a far deeper element of patriotism than of -deliberate guilt. Think for one moment, gentlemen, of the annals of -which we are so proud--of the ballads still chanted in the hall and in -the hamlet--of the lonely graves and headstones that are scattered all -along the surface of the southern muirs. Do not these annals tell us how -the princes and the nobles of the land were wont to think it neither -crime nor degradation to march with their retainers across the Borders, -and to harry with fire and sword the fields of Northumberland and -Durham? Randolph and the Bruce have done it, and yet no one dares to -attach the stigma of dishonour to their names. Do not our ballads tell -how at Lammas-tide, - - 'The doughty Earl of Douglas rade - Into England to fetch a prey?' - -And who shall venture to impeach the honour of the hero who fell upon -the field of Otterbourne? Need I remind you of those who have died in -their country's cause, and whose graves are still made the object of -many a pious pilgrimage? Need I speak of Flodden, that woeful place, -where the Flowers of the Forest were left lying in one ghastly heap -around their king? Ah, gentlemen! have I touched you now? True, it was -in the olden time that these things were done and celebrated; but -remember this, that society may change its place, states and empires may -rise and be consolidated, but patriotism still lives enduring and -undying as of yore! And who shall dare to say that patriotism was not -the motive of M'Wilkin? Who shall presume to analyse or to blame the -instinct which may have driven him to the deed? Call him not a -felon--call him rather a poet; for over his kindling imagination fell -the mighty shadow of the past. Old thoughts, old feelings, old impulses, -were burning in his soul. He saw in Gubbins, not the grazier, but the -lawless spoiler of his country; and he rose, as a Borderer should, to -vindicate the honour of his race. He may have been mistaken in what he -did, but the motive, at least, was pure. Honour it then, gentlemen, for -it is the same motive which is at all times the best safeguard of a -nation's independence; and do honour likewise to yourselves by -pronouncing a unanimous verdict of acquittal in favour of the prisoner -at the bar!" - -By the time I had finished this harangue, I was wrought up to such a -pitch of enthusiasm, that I really considered M'Wilkin in the light of -an extremely ill-used individual, and the tears stood in my eyes as I -recapitulated the history of his wrongs. Several of the jury, too, began -to get extremely excited, and looked as fierce as falcons when I -reminded them of the field of Flodden. But my hopes were considerably -damped when I heard the charge of his lordship. With all respect for the -eminent senator who that day presided on the bench, I think he went -rather too far when he designated my maiden-effort a rhapsody which -could only be excused on account of the inexperience of the gentleman -who uttered it. Passing from that unpleasant style of stricture, he went -_seriatim_ over all the crimes of M'Wilkin, and very distinctly -indicated his opinion that a more consummate ruffian had seldom figured -in the dock. When he concluded, however, there was a good deal of -whispering in the jury-box, and at last the gentlemen of the assize -requested permission to retire. - -"That was a fine flare-up of yours, Freddy," said Anthony Whaup, the -only other counsel for the prisoners upon the circuit. "You came it -rather strong, though, in the national line. I don't think our venerable -friend overhead half likes your ideas of international law." - -"Why, yes--I confess he gave me a tolerable wigging. But what would you -have me do? I must have said some thing." - -"Oh, by Jove, your were perfectly right! I always make a point of -speaking myself; and I can assure you that you did remarkably well. It -was a novel view, but decidedly ingenious, and may lead to great -results. If that fellow gets off, you may rely upon it there will be -some bloodshed again upon the Border." - -"And a jolly calendar, of course, for next circuit. I say, Anthony,--how -many cases have you got?" - -"Two thefts with habit and repute, a hamesucken, rather a good forgery, -and an assault with intent to commit." - -"Long?" - -"Rather--but poor pay. I haven't sacked more than nine guineas -altogether. Gad!" continued Anthony, stretching himself, "this is slow -work. I'd rather by a great deal be rowing on the canal." - -"Hush! here come the jury." - -They entered, took their seats, and each man in succession answered to -his name. I stole a glance at M'Wilkin. He looked as leonine as ever, -and kept winking perseveringly to the Hawickers. - -"Now, gentlemen," said the clerk of court, "what is your verdict?" - -The foreman rose. - -"The jury, by a majority, find the charges against the prisoner NOT -PROVEN." - -"Hurrah!" shouted M'Wilkin, reckless of all authority. "Hurrah! I -say--you counsellor in the wig--ye shanna want a sheep's head thae three -years, if there's ane to be had on the Border!" - -And in this way I gained my first acquittal. - - -CHAPTER III. - -I found Strachan in his room with his face buried in the bed-clothes. He -was kicking his legs as though he suffered under a violent fit of the -toothache. - -"I say, Tom, what's the matter? Look up, man! Do you know I've got that -scoundrel off?" - -No answer. - -"Tom, I say? Tom, you dunderhead--what do you mean by making an ass of -yourself this way? Get up, for shame, and answer me!" - -Poor Strachan raised his head from the coverlet. His eyes were -absolutely pink, and his cheeks of the tint of a lemon. - -"O Fred, Fred!" said he with a series of interjectional gasps, "I am the -most unfortunate wretch in the universe. All the hopes I had formerly -cherished are blighted at once in the bud! She is gone, my friend--gone -away from me, and, alas! I fear, for ever!" - -"The deuce she has! and how?" - -"Oh what madness tempted me to lead her to the court?--what infatuation -it was to expose those angelic features to the risk of recognition! Who -that ever saw those dove-like eyes could forget them?" - -"I have no objection to the eyes--they were really very passable. But -who twigged her?" - -"An emissary of her father's--that odious miscreant who was giving -evidence at the trial." - -"The policeman? Whew! Tom!--I don't like that." - -"He was formerly the land-steward of the Viscount;--a callous, cruel -wretch, who was more than suspected of having made away with his wife." - -"And did he recognise her?" - -"Dorothea says that she felt fascinated by the glitter of his cold grey -eye. A shuddering sensation passed through her frame, just as the poor -warbler of the woods quivers at the approach of the rattle-snake. A -dark mist gathered before her sight, and she saw no more until she awoke -to consciousness within my arms." - -"Very pretty work, truly! And what then?" - -"In great agitation, she told me that she durst tarry no longer here. -She was certain that the officer would make it his business to track -her, and communicate her hiding-place to her family; and she shook with -horror when she thought of the odious Israelitish bridegroom. 'The -caverns of the deep green sea--the high Tarpeian rock--the Leucadian -cliff of Sappho,' she said, 'all would be preferable to that! And yet, O -Thomas, to think that we should have met so suddenly, and that to part -for ever!' 'Pon my soul, Fred, I am the most miserable of created -beings." - -"Why, what on earth has become of her?" - -"Gone--and I don't know whither. She would not even apprise the Bailie -of her departure, lest she might leave some clue for discovery. She -desired me to see him, to thank him, and to pay him for her,--all of -which I promised to do. With one kiss--one deep, burning, agonised -kiss--which I shall carry with me to my grave--she tore herself away, -sprang into the postchaise, and in another moment was lost to me for -ever!" - -"And my ten pounds?" said I, in a tone of considerable emotion. - -"Would you have had me think twice," asked Strachan indignantly, -"before I tendered my assistance to a forlorn angel in distress, even -though she possessed no deeper claims on my sympathy? I thought, -Frederick, you had more chivalry in your nature. You need not be uneasy -about that trifle; I shall be in funds some time about Christmas." - -"Humph! I thought it was a P. P. transaction, but no matter. And is this -all the clue you have got to the future residence of the lady?" - -"No,--she is to write me from the nearest post-town. You will see, Fred, -when the letter arrives, how well worthy she is of my adoration." - -I have found, by long experience, that it is no use remonstrating with a -man who is head-over-ears in love. The tender passion affects us -differently, according to our constitutions. One set of fellows, who are -generally the pleasantest, seldom get beyond the length of flirtation. -They are always at it, but constantly changing, and therefore manage to -get through a tolerable catalogue of attachments before they are finally -brought to book. Such men are quite able to take care of themselves, and -require but little admonition. You no doubt hear them now and then -abused for trifling with the affections of young women--as if the latter -had themselves the slightest remorse in playing precisely the same -game!--but in most cases such censure is undeserved, for they are quite -as much in earnest as their neighbours, so long as the impulse lasts. -The true explanation is, that they have survived their first passion, -and that their faith is somewhat shaken in the boyish creed of the -absolute perfectibility of woman. The great disappointment of life does -not make them misanthropes--but it forces them to caution, and to a -closer appreciation of character than is usually undertaken in the first -instance. They have become, perhaps, more selfish--certainly more -suspicious, and though often on the verge of a proposal, they never -commit themselves without an extreme degree of deliberation. - -Another set seem designed by nature to be the absolute victims of woman. -Whenever they fall in love, they do it with an earnestness and an -obstinacy which is actually appalling. The adored object of their -affections can twine them round her finger, quarrel with them, cheat -them, caricature them, or flirt with others, without the least risk of -severing the triple cord of attachment. They become as tame as -poodle-dogs, will submit patiently to any manner of cruelty or caprice, -and in fact seem rather to be grateful for such treatment than -otherwise. Clever women usually contrive to secure a captive of this -kind. He is useful to them in a hundred ways, never interferes with -their schemes, and, if the worst comes to the worst, they can always -fall back upon him as a _pis-aller_. - -My friend Tom Strachan belonged decidedly to this latter section. Mary -Rivers, a remarkably clever and very showy girl, but as arrant a flirt -as ever wore rosebud in her bosom, had engrossed the whole of his heart -before he reached the reflecting age of twenty, and kept him for nearly -five years in a state of uncomplaining bondage. Not that I believe she -ever cared about him. Tom was as poor as a church-mouse, and had nothing -on earth to look to except the fruits of his professional industry, -which, judging from all appearances, would be a long time indeed in -ripening. Mary was not the sort of person to put up with love in a -cottage, even had Tom's circumstances been adequate to defray the rent -of a tenement of that description: she had a vivid appreciation, not -only of the substantials but of the higher luxuries of existence. But -her vanity was flattered at having in her train at least one devoted -dangler, whom she could play off, whenever opportunity required, against -some more valuable admirer. Besides, Strachan was a man of family, tall, -good-looking, and unquestionably clever in his way: he also danced the -polka well, and was useful in the ball-room or the picnic. So Mary -Rivers kept him on in a kind of blissful dream, just sunning him -sufficiently with her smiles to make him believe that he was beloved, -but never allowing matters to go so far as to lead to the report that -they were engaged. Tom asked for nothing more. He was quite contented -to indulge for years in a dream of future bliss, and wrote during the -interval a great many more sonnets than summonses. Unfortunately sonnets -don't pay well, so that his worldly affairs did not progress at any -remarkable ratio. And he only awoke to a sense of his real situation, -when Miss Rivers, having picked a quarrel with him one day in the -Zoological Gardens, announced on the next to her friends that she had -accepted the hand of a bilious East India merchant. - -Tom made an awful row about it--grew as attenuated and brown as an -eel--and garnished his conversation with several significant hints about -suicide. He was, however, saved from that ghastly alternative by being -drafted into a Rowing Club, who plied their gondolas daily on the Union -Canal. Hard exercise, beer, and pulling had their usual sanatory effect, -and Tom gradually recovered his health, if not his spirits. - -It was at this very crisis that he fell in with this mysterious Miss -Percy. There was an immense hole in his affections which required to be -filled up; and, as nature abhors a vacuum, he plugged it with the image -of Dorothea. The flight, therefore, of the fair levanter, after so brief -an intercourse, was quite enough to upset him. He was in the situation -of a man who is informed over-night that he has succeeded to a large -fortune, and who gets a letter next morning explaining that it is a -mere mistake. I was therefore not at all astonished either at his -paroxysms or his credulity. - -We had rather a dreary dinner that day. The judges always entertain the -first day of circuit, and it is considered matter of etiquette that the -counsel should attend. Sometimes these forensic feeds are pleasant -enough; but on the present occasion there was a visible damp thrown over -the spirits of the party. His lordship was evidently savage at the -unforeseen escape of M'Wilkin, and looked upon me, as I thought, with -somewhat of a prejudiced eye. Bailie Beerie and the other magistrates -seemed uneasy at their unusual proximity to a personage who had the -power of death and transportation, and therefore abstained from emitting -the accustomed torrent of civic facetiousness. One of the sheriffs -wanted to be off on a cruise, and another was unwell with the gout. The -Depute Advocate was fagged; Whaup surly as a bear with a sore ear, on -account of the tenuity of his fees; and Strachan, of course, in an -extremely unconversational mood. So I had nothing for it but to eat and -drink as plentifully as I could, and very thankful I was that the claret -was tolerably sound. - -We rose from table early. As I did not like to leave Tom to himself in -his present state of mind, we adjourned to his room for the purpose of -enjoying a cigar; and there, sure enough, upon the table lay the -expected missive. Strachan dashed at it like a pike pouncing upon a -parr; I lay down upon the sofa, lit my weed, and amused myself by -watching his physiognomy. - -"Dear suffering angel!" said Tom at last, with a sort of whimper, -"Destiny has done its worst! We have parted, and the first fond dream of -our love has vanished before the cold and dreary dawn of reality! O my -friend--we were like the two birds in the Oriental fable, each doomed to -traverse the world before we could encounter our mate--we met, and -almost in the same hour the thunderbolt burst above us!" - -"Yes--two very nice birds," said I. "But what does she say in the -letter?" - -"You may read it," replied Tom, and he handed me the epistle. It was -rather a superior specimen of penmanship, and I don't choose to -criticise the style. Its tenor was as follows:-- - - "I am hardly yet, my dear friend, capable of estimating the true - extent of my emotions. Like the buoyant seaweed torn from its - native bed among the submarine forest of the corals, I have been - tossed from wave to wave, hurried onwards by a stream more - resistless than that which sweeps through the Gulf of Labrador, and - far--far away as yet is the wished-for haven of my rest. Hitherto - my life has been a tissue of calamity and woe. Over my head since - childhood, has stretched a dull and dreary canopy of clouds, - shutting me out for ever from a glimpse of the blessed sun. Once, - and but once only have I seen a chasm in that envious veil--only - once and for a few, a _very_ few moments, have I gazed upon the - blue empyrean, and felt my heart expand and thrill to the glories - of its liquid lustre. That once--oh, Mr Strachan, can I ever forget - it?--that once comprises the era of the few hours which were the - silent witnesses of our meeting! - - "Am I weak in writing to you thus? Perhaps I am; but then, Thomas, - I have never been taught to dissemble. Did I, however, think it - probable that we should ever meet again--that I should hear from - your lips a repetition of that language which now is chronicled in - my soul--it may be that I would not have dared to risk an avowal - so candid and so dear! As it is, it matters not. You have been my - benefactor, my kind consoler--my friend. You have told me that you - love; and in the fulness and native simplicity of my heart, I - believe you. And if it be any satisfaction to you to know that - your sentiments have been at least appreciated, believe that of - all the pangs which the poor Dorothea has suffered, this last - agony of parting has been incomparably the most severe. - - "You asked me if there was no hope. Oh, my Thomas! what would I - not give could I venture to answer, yes? But it cannot be! You are - young and happy, and will yet be fortunate and beloved: why, - then, should I permit so fair an existence to be blighted by the - upas-tree of destiny under which I am doomed to languish? You - shall not say that I am selfish--you shall not hereafter reproach - me for having permitted you to share a burden too great for both - of us to carry. You must learn the one great lesson of existence, - to submit and to forget! - - "I am going far away, to the margin of that inhospitable shore - which receives upon its rocks the billows of the unbroken - Atlantic--or haply, amongst the remoter isles, I shall listen to - the sea-mew's cry. Do not weep for me. Amidst the myriad of bright - and glowing things which flutter over the surface of this green - creation, let one feeble, choking, overburdened heart be - forgotten! Follow me not--seek me not--for, like the mermaid on - the approach of the mariner, I should shrink from the face of man - into the glassy caverns of the deep. - - "Adieu, Thomas, adieu! Say what you will for me to the noble and - generous Beerie. Would to heaven that I could send him some token - in return for all his kindness! But a good and gallant heart is - its own most adequate reward. - - "They are putting to the horses--I can hear the rumble of the - chariot! Oh, once more, dear friend--alas, too inexpressibly - dear!--take my last farewell. Adieu--my heart is breaking as I - write the bitter word!--forget me." - - "DOROTHEA." - -"Do you wonder at my sorrow now?" said Strachan, as I laid down the -passionate epistle. - -"Why, no. It is well got up upon the whole, and does credit to the -lady's erudition. But I don't see why she should insist so strongly upon -eternal separation. Have you no idea whereabouts that aunt of hers may -happen to reside?" - -"Not the slightest." - -"Because, judging from her letter, it must be somewhere about Benbecula -or Tiree. I shouldn't even wonder if she had a summer box on St Kilda." - -"Right! I did not think of that--you observe she speaks of the remoter -isles." - -"To be sure, and for half a century there has not been a mermaid seen to -the east of the Lewis. Now, take my advice, Tom--don't make a fool of -yourself in the meantime, but wait until the Court of Session rises in -July. That will allow plenty of time for matters to settle; and if the -old Viscount and that abominable Abiram don't find her out before then, -you may depend upon it they will abandon the search. In the interim, the -lady will have cooled. Walks upon the sea-shore are uncommonly dull -without something like reciprocal sentimentality. The odds are, that the -old aunt is addicted to snuff, tracts, and the distribution of flannel, -and before August, the fair Dorothea will be yearning for a sight of her -adorer. You can easily gammon Anthony Whaup into a loan of that yacht of -his which he makes such a boast of; and if you go prudently about it, -and flatter him on the score of his steering, I haven't the least doubt -that he will victual his hooker and give you a cruise in it for -nothing." - -"Admirable, my dear Fred! We shall touch at all the isles from Iona to -Uist; and if Miss Percy be indeed there--" - -"You can carry her off on five minutes' notice, and our long friend will -be abundantly delighted. Only, mind this! If you want my candid opinion -on the wisdom of such an alliance, I should strongly recommend you to -meddle no farther in the matter, for I have my doubts about the -Honourable Dorothea, and----" - -"Bah, Fred! Doubts after such a letter as that? Impossible! No, my dear -friend--your scheme is admirable--unexceptionable, and I shall certainly -act upon it. But oh--it is a weary time till July!" - -"Merely a short interval of green pease and strawberries. I advise you, -however, to fix down Whaup as early as you can for the cruise." - -The hint was rapidly taken. We sent for our facetious friend, ordered -supper, and in the course of a couple of tumblers, persuaded him that -his knowledge of nautical affairs was not exceeded by that of T. P. -Cooke, and that he was much deeper versed in the mysteries of -sky-scraping than Fenimore Cooper. Whaup gave in. By dint of a little -extra persuasion, I believe we might have coaxed him into a voyage for -Otaheite; and before we parted for the evening it was agreed that -Strachan should hold himself in readiness to start for the Western -Islands about the latter end of July--Whaup being responsible for the -provisions and champagne, whilst Tom pledged himself to cigars. - - -CHAPTER IV. - -I never ascertained the exact amount of the sum which Tom handed over to -the Bailie. It must, however, have been considerable, for he took to -retrenching his expenditure, and never once dropped a hint about the ten -pounds which I was so singularly verdant as to lend him. The summer -session stole away as quickly as its predecessors, though not, in so far -as I was concerned, quite as unprofitably, for I got a couple of -Sheriff-court papers to draw in consequence of my M'Wilkin appearance. -Tom, however, was very low about himself, and affected solitude. He -would not join in any of the strawberry lunches or fish dinners so -attractive to the junior members of the bar; but frequented the -Botanical Gardens, where he might be seen any fine afternoon, stretched -upon the bank beside the pond, concocting sonnets, or inscribing the -name of Dorothea upon the monument dedicated to Linnæus. - -Time, however, stole on. The last man who was going to be married got -his valedictory dinner at the close of the session. Gowns were thrown -off, wigs boxed up, and we all dispersed to the country wheresoever our -inclination might lead us. I resolved to devote the earlier part of the -vacation to the discovery of the town of Clackmannan--a place of which I -had often heard, but which no human being whom I ever encountered had -seen. Whaup was not oblivious of his promise, and Strachan clove unto -him like a limpet. - -We did not meet again until September was well-nigh over. In common with -Strachan, I had adopted the resolution of changing my circuit, and -henceforth adhering to Glasgow, which, from its superior supply of -criminals, is the favourite resort of our young forensic aspirants. So I -packed my portmanteau, invoked the assistance of Saint Rollox, and -started for the balmy west. - -The first man I met in George's Square was my own delightful Thomas. He -looked rather thin; was fearfully sun-burned; had on a pair of canvass -trousers most wofully bespattered with tar, and evidently had not shaved -for a fortnight. - -"Why, Tom, my dear fellow!" cried I, "can this possibly be you? What the -deuce have you been doing with yourself? You look as hairy as Robinson -Crusoe." - -"You should see Whaup,--he's rather worse off than Friday. We have just -landed at the Broomielaw, but I was obliged to leave Anthony in a tavern -for fear we should be mobbed in the street. I'm off by the rail to -Edinburgh, to get some decent toggery for us both. Lend me a pound-note, -will you?" - -"Certainly--that's eleven, you recollect. But what's the meaning of all -this? Where is the yacht?" - -"Safe--under twenty fathoms of dark blue water, at a place they call the -Sneeshanish Islands. Catch me going out again, with Anthony as -steersman!" - -"No doubt he is an odd sort of Palinurus. But when did this happen?" - -"Ten days ago. We were three days and nights upon the rock, with nothing -to eat except two biscuits, raw mussels and tangle!" - -"Mercy on us! and how did you get off?" - -"In a kelp-boat from Harris. But I haven't time for explanation just -now. Go down, like a good fellow, to the Broomielaw, No. 431--you will -find Anthony enjoying himself with beef steaks and bottled stout, in the -back parlour of the Cat and Bagpipes. I must refer you to him for the -details." - -"One word more--you'll be back to the circuit?" - -"Decidedly. To-morrow morning: as soon as I can get my things -together." - -"And the lady--what news of her?" - -The countenance of Strachan fell. - -"Ah, my dear friend! I wish you had not touched upon that string--you -have set my whole frame a-jarring. No trace of her--none--none! I fear I -shall never see her more!" - -"Come! don't be down-hearted. One never can tell what may happen. -Perhaps you may meet her sooner than you think." - -"You are a kind-hearted fellow, Fred. But I've lost all hope. Nothing -but a dreary existence is now before me, and--but, by Jupiter, there -goes the starting bell!" - -Tom vanished, like Aubrey's apparition, with a melodious twang, and a -perceptible odour of tar; and so, being determined to expiscate the -matter, I proceeded towards the Broomielaw, and in due time became -master of the locality of the Cat and Bagpipes. - -"Is there a Mr Whaup here?" I inquired of Mrs M'Tavish, the landlady, -who was filling a gill-stoup at the bar. - -"Here you are, old chap!" cried the hilarious voice of Anthony from an -inner apartment. "Turn to the right, steer clear of the scrubbing -brushes, and help yourself to a mouthful of Guinness." - -I obeyed. Heavens, what a figure he was! His trousers were rent both at -the knees and elsewhere, and were kept together solely by means of -whip-cord. His shirt had evidently not benefited by the removal of the -excise duties upon soap, and was screened from the scrutiny of the -beholder by an extempore paletot, fabricated out of sail-cloth, without -the remotest apology for sleeves. - -Anthony, however, looked well in health, and appeared to be in -tremendous spirits. - -"Tip us your fin, my old coxs'un!" said he, winking at me over the rim -of an enormous pewter vessel which effectually eclipsed the lower -segment of his visage. "Blessed if I ain't as glad to see you as one of -Mother Carey's chickens in a squall." - -"Come, Anthony! leave off your nautical nonsense, and talk like a man of -the world. What on earth have you and Tom Strachan been after?" - -"Nothing on earth, but a good deal on sea, and a trifle on as -uncomfortable a section of basalt as ever served two unhappy buccaniers -for bed, table, and sofa. The chillness is not off me yet." - -"But how did it happen?" - -"Very simply: but I'll tell you all about it. It's a long story, though, -so if you please I shall top off with something hot. I'm glad you've -come, however, for I had some doubts how far this sort of original -Petersham would inspire confidence as to my credit in the bosom of the -fair M'Tavish. It's all right now, however, so here goes for my yarn." - -But I shall not follow my friend through all the windings of his -discourse, varied though it certainly was, like the adventures of the -venerated Sinbad. Suffice it to say, that they were hardly out of sight -of the Cumbraes before Tom confided the whole tale of his sorrows to the -callous Anthony, who, as he expressed it, had come out for a lark, and -had no idea of rummaging the whole of the west coast and the adjacent -islands for a petticoat. Moved, however, by the pathetic entreaties of -Strachan, and, perhaps, somewhat reconciled to the quest by the dim -vision of an elopement, Anthony magnanimously waived his objections, and -the two kept cruising together in a little shell of a yacht, all round -the western Archipelago. Besides themselves, there were only a man and a -boy on board. - -"It was slow work," said Anthony,--"deucedly slow. I would not have -minded the thing so much if Strachan had been reasonably sociable; but -it was rather irksome, you will allow, when, after the boy had brought -in the kettle, and we had made everything snug for the night, Master -Strachan began to maunder about the lady's eyes, and to tear his hair, -and to call himself the most miserable dog in existence. I had serious -thoughts, at one time, of leaving him ashore on Mull or Skye, and making -off direct to the Orkneys; but good-nature was always my foible, so I -went on, beating from one place to another, as though we had been -looking for the wreck of the Florida. - -"I'll never take another cruise with a lover so long as I live. Tom led -me all manner of dances, and we were twice fired at from farm-houses -where he was caterwauling beneath the windows with a guitar. It seems he -had heard that flame of his sing a Spanish air at Jedburgh. Tom must -needs pick it up, and you have no idea how he pestered me. Go where we -would, he kept harping on that abominable ditty, in the hope that his -mistress might hear him; and, when I remonstrated on the absurdity of -the proceeding, he quoted the case of Blondel, and some trash out of -Uhland's ballads. Serenading on the west coast is by no means a pleasant -pastime. The nights are as raw as an anchovy, and the midges -particularly plentiful. - -"Well, sir, we could find no trace of the lady after all. Strachan got -into low spirits, and I confess that I was sometimes sulky--so we had an -occasional blow-up, which by no means added to the conviviality of the -voyage. One evening, just at sundown, we entered the Sound of -Sneeshanish--an ugly place, let me tell you, at the best, but especially -to be avoided in any thing like a gale of wind. The clouds in the -horizon looked particularly threatening, and I got a little anxious, for -I knew that there were some rocks about, and not a lighthouse in the -whole of the district. - -"In an hour or two it grew as dark as a wolf's throat. I could not for -the life of me make out where we were, for the Sound is very narrow in -some parts, and occasionally I thought that I could hear breakers ahead. - -"'Tom,' said I, 'Tom, you lubber!--for our esteemed friend was, as -usual, lying on the deck, with a cigar in his mouth, twangling at that -eternal guitar--'take hold of the helm, will you, for a minute, while I -go down and look at the chart.' - -"I was as cold as a cucumber; so, after having ascertained, as I best -could, the bearings about the Sound, I rather think I _did_ stop below -for one moment--but not longer--just to mix a glass of swizzle by way of -fortification, for I didn't expect to get to bed that night. All of a -sudden I heard a shout from the bows, bolted upon deck, and there, sure -enough, was a black object right ahead, with the surf shooting over it. - -"'Luff, Tom! or we are all dead men;--Luff, I say!' shouted I. I might -as well have called to a millstone. Tom was in a kind of trance. - -"'O Dorothea!' said our friend. - -"'To the devil with Dorothea!' roared I, snatching the tiller from his -hand. - -"'It was too late. We went smash upon the rock, with a force that sent -us headlong upon the deck, and Strachan staggered to his feet, bleeding -profusely at the proboscis. - -"Down came the sail rattling about our ears, and over lurched the yacht. -I saw there was no time to lose, so I leaped at once upon the rock, and -called upon the rest to follow me. They did so, and were lucky to escape -with no more disaster than a ruffling of the cuticle on the basalt; for -in two minutes more all was over. Some of the timbers had been staved in -at the first concussion. She rapidly filled,--and down went, before my -eyes, the Caption, the tidiest little craft that ever pitched her -broadside into the hull of a Frenchman!" - -"Very well told indeed," said I, "only, Anthony, it does strike me that -the last paragraph is not quite original. I've heard something like it -in my younger days, at the Adelphi. But what became of you afterwards?" - -"Faith, we were in a fix, as you may easily conceive. All we could do -was to scramble up the rocks,--which, fortunately, were not too -precipitous,--until we reached a dry place, where we lay, huddled -together, until morning. When light came, we found that we were not on -the main land, but on a kind of little stack in the very centre of the -channel, without a blade of grass upon it, or the prospect of a sail in -sight. This was a nice situation for two members of the Scottish bar! -The first thing we did was to inquire into the state of provisions, -which we found to consist of a couple of biscuits, that little Jim, the -boy, happened to have about him. Of course we followed the example of -the earlier navigators, and confiscated these _pro bono publico_. We -had not a drop of alcohol among us, but, very luckily, picked up a small -keg of fresh water, which, I believe, was our salvation. Strachan did -not behave well. He wanted to keep half-a-dozen cigars to himself; but -such monstrous selfishness could not be permitted, and the rest of us -took them from him by force. I shall always blame myself for having -weakly restored to him a cheroot." - -"And what followed?" - -"Why, we remained three days upon the rock. Fortunately the weather was -moderate, so that we were not absolutely washed away, but for all that -it was consumedly cold of nights. The worst thing, however, was the -deplorable state of our larder. We finished the biscuits the first day, -trusting to be speedily relieved; but the sun set without a vestige of a -sail, and we supped sparingly upon tangle. Next morning we were so -ravenous that we could have eaten raw squirrels. That day we subsisted -entirely upon shell-fish, and smoked out all our cigars. On the third we -bolted two old gloves, buttons and all; and, do you know, Fred, I began -to be seriously alarmed about the boy Jim, for Strachan kept eyeing him -like an ogre, began to mutter some horrid suggestions as to the -propriety of casting lots, and execrated his own stupidity in being -unprovided with a jar of pickles." - -"O Anthony--for shame!" - -"Well--I'm sure he was thinking about it, if he did not say so. However, -we lunched upon a shoe, and for my own part, whenever I go upon another -voyage, I shall take the precaution of providing myself with pliable -French boots--your Kilmarnock leather is so very intolerably tough! -Towards evening, to our infinite joy, we descried a boat entering the -Sound. We shouted, as you may be sure, like demons. The Celtic -Samaritans came up, and, thanks to the kindness of Rory M'Gregor the -master, we each of us went to sleep that night with at least two gallons -of oatmeal porridge comfortably stowed beneath our belts. And that's the -whole history." - -"And how do you feel after such unexampled privation?" - -"Not a hair the worse. But this I know, that if ever I am caught again -on such idiotical errand as hunting for a young woman through the -Highlands, my nearest of kin are at perfect liberty to have me cognosced -without opposition." - -"Ah--you are no lover, Anthony. Strachan, now, would go barefooted -through Stony Arabia for the mere chance of a casual glimpse at his -mistress." - -"All I can say, my dear fellow, is, that if connubial happiness cannot -be purchased without a month's twangling on a guitar and three -consecutive suppers upon seaweed, I know at least one respectable young -barrister who is likely to die unmarried. But I say, Fred, let us have -a coach and drive up to your hotel. You can lend me a coat, I suppose, -or something of the sort, until Strachan arrives; and just be good -enough, will you, to settle with Mrs M'Tavish for the bill, for, by all -my hopes of a sheriffship, I have been thoroughly purged of my tin." - -The matter may not be of any especial interest to the public; at the -same time I think it right to record the fact that Anthony Whaup owes me -seven shillings and eightpence unto this day. - - -CHAPTER V. - -"That is all I can tell you about it," said Mr Hedger, as he handed me -the last of three indictments, with the joyful accompaniment of the -fees. "That is all I can tell you about it. If the _alibi_ will hold -water, good and well--if not, M'Closkie will be transported." - -Hedger is the very best criminal agent I ever met with. There is always -a point in his cases--his precognitions are perfect, and pleading, under -such auspices, becomes a kind of realised romance. - -"By the way," said he, "is there a Mr Strachan of your bar at circuit? I -have a curious communication from a prisoner who is desirous to have him -as her counsel." - -"Indeed! I am glad to hear it. Mr Strachan is a particular friend of -mine, and will be here immediately. I shall be glad to introduce you. Is -it a heavy case?" - -"No, but rather an odd one--a theft of money committed at the Blenheim -hotel. The woman seems a person of education, but, as she obstinately -refuses to tell me her story, I know very little more about it than is -contained in the face of the indictment." - -"What is her name?" - -"Why you know that is a matter not very easily ascertained. She called -herself Euphemia Saville when brought up for examination, and of course -she will be tried as such. She is well dressed, and rather pretty, but -she won't have any other counsel than Mr Strachan; and singularly -enough, she has positively forbidden me to send him a fee on the ground -that he would take it as an insult." - -"I should feel particularly obliged if the whole public would take to -insulting me perpetually in that manner! But really this is an odd -history. Do you think she is acquainted with my friend?" - -Hedger winked. - -"I can't say," said he, "for, to tell you the truth, I know nothing -earthly about it. Only she was so extremely desirous to have him -engaged, that I thought it not a little remarkable. I hope your friend -won't take offence if I mention what the woman said?" - -"Not in the least, you may be sure of that. And, _apropos_, here he -comes." - -And in effect Whaup and Strachan now walked into the counsel's -apartment, demure, shaven, and well dressed--altogether two very -different-looking individuals from the tatterdemalions of yesterday. - -"Good morning, Fred," cried Whaup; "Servant, Mr Hedger--lots of work -going, eh? Are the pleas nearly over yet?" - -"Very nearly, I believe, Mr Whaup. Would you have the kindness to----" - -"Oh, certainly," said I. "Strachan, allow me to introduce my friend Mr -Hedger, who is desirous of your professional advice." - -"I say, Freddy," said Whaup, looking sulkily at the twain as they -retired to a window to consult, "what's in the wind now? Has old Hedger -got a spite at any of his clients?" - -"How should I know? What do you mean?" - -"Because I should rather think," said Anthony, "that in our friend -Strachan's hands the lad runs a remarkably good chance of a sea voyage -to the colonies, that's all." - -"Fie for shame, Anthony! You should not bear malice." - -"No more I do--but I can't forget the loss of the little Caption all -through his stupid blundering; and this morning he must needs sleep so -long that he lost the early train, and has very likely cut me out of -business for the sheer want of a pair of reputable trousers." - -"Never mind--there is a good time coming." - -"Which means, I suppose, that you have got the pick of the cases? Very -well: it can't be helped, so I shall even show myself in court by way of -public advertisement." - -So saying, my long friend wrestled himself into his gown, adjusted his -wig knowingly upon his cranium, and rushed toward the court-room as -vehemently as though the weal of the whole criminal population of the -west depended upon his individual exertions. - -"Freddy, come here, if you please," said Strachan, "this is a very -extraordinary circumstance! Do you know that this woman, Euphemia -Saville, though she wishes me to act as her counsel, has positively -refused to see me!" - -"Very odd, certainly! Do you know her?" - -"I never heard of the name in my life. Are you sure, Mr Hedger, that -there is no mistake?" - -"Quite sure, sir. She gave me, in fact, a minute description of your -person, which perhaps I may be excused from repeating." - -"Oh, I understand," said Tom, fishingly; "complimentary, I -suppose--eh?" - -"Why yes, rather so," replied Hedger hesitatingly; and he cast at the -same time a glance at the limbs of my beloved friend, which convinced me -that Miss Saville's communication had, somehow or other, borne reference -to the shape of a parenthesis. "But, at all events, you may be sure she -has seen you. I really can imagine no reason for an interview. We often -have people who take the same kind of whims, and you have no idea of -their obstinacy. The best way will be to let the Crown lead its -evidence, and trust entirely to cross-examination. I shall take care, at -all events, that her appearance shall not damage her. She is well -dressed, and I don't doubt will make use of her cambric handkerchief." - -"And a very useful thing that same cambric is," observed I. "Come, Tom, -my boy, pluck up courage! You have opportunity now for a grand display; -and if you can poke in something about chivalry and undefended -loveliness, you may be sure it will have an effect on the jury. There is -a strong spice of romance in the composition of the men of the Middle -Ward." - -"The whole thing, however, seems to me most mysterious." - -"Very; but that is surely an additional charm. We seldom find a chapter -from the Mysteries of Udolfo transferred to the records of the -Justiciary Court of Scotland." - -"Well, then, I suppose it must be so. Fred, will you sit beside me at -the trial? I'm not used to this sort of thing as yet, and I possibly may -feel nervous." - -"Not a bit of you. At any rate I shall be there, and of course you may -command me." - -In due time the case was called. Miss Euphemia Saville ascended the trap -stair, and took her seat between a pair of policemen with exceedingly -luxuriant whiskers. - -I must allow that I felt a strong curiosity about Euphemia. Her name was -peculiar; the circumstances under which she came forward were unusual; -and her predilection for Strachan was tantalising. Her appearance, -however, did little to solve the mystery. She was neatly, even elegantly -dressed in black, with a close-fitting bonnet and thick veil, which at -first effectually obscured her countenance. This, indeed, she partially -removed when called upon to plead to the indictment; but the law of no -civilised country that I know of is so savage as to prohibit the use of -a handkerchief, and the fair Saville availed herself of the privilege by -burying her countenance in cambric. I could only get a glimpse of some -beautiful black braided hair and a forehead that resembled alabaster. To -all appearance she was extremely agitated, and sobbed as she answered to -the charge. - -The tender-hearted Strachan was not the sort of man to behold the -sorrows of his client without emotion. In behalf of the junior members -of the Scottish bar I will say this, that they invariably fight tooth -and nail when a pretty girl is concerned, and I have frequently heard -bursts of impassioned eloquence poured forth in defence of a pair of -bright eyes or a piquant figure, in cases where an elderly or wizened -dame would have run a strong chance of finding no Cicero by her side. -Tom accordingly approached the bar for the purpose of putting some -questions to his client, but not a word could he extract in reply. -Euphemia drew down her veil, and waved her hand with a repulsive -gesture. - -"I don't know what to make of her," said Strachan; "only she seems to be -a monstrous fine woman. It is clear, however, that she has mistaken me -for somebody else. I never saw her in my life before." - -"Hedger deserves great credit for the way he has got her up. Observe, -Tom, there is no finery about her; no ribbons or gaudy scarfs, which are -as unsuitable at a trial as at a funeral. Black is your only wear to -find favour in the eyes of a jury." - -"True. It is a pity that so little attention is paid to the æsthetics of -criminal clothing. But here comes the first witness--Grobey, I think, -they call him--the fellow who lost the money." - -Mr Grobey mounted the witness-box like a cow ascending a staircase. He -was a huge, elephantine animal of some sixteen stone, with bushy -eyebrows and a bald pate, which he ever and anon affectionately caressed -with a red and yellow bandana. Strachan started at the sound of his -voice, surveyed him wistfully for a moment, and then said to me in a -hurried whisper-- - -"As I live, Fred, that is the identical bagman who boned my emerald -studs at Jedburgh!" - -"You don't mean to say it?" - -"Fact, upon my honour! There is no mistaking his globular freetrading -nose. Would it not be possible to object to his evidence on that -ground?" - -"Mercy on us! no.--Reflect--there is no conviction." - -"True. But he stole them nevertheless. I'll ask him about them when I -cross." - -Mr Grobey's narrative, however, as embraced in an animated dialogue with -the public prosecutor, threw some new and unexpected light upon the -matter. Grobey was a traveller in the employment of the noted house of -Barnacles, Deadeye, and Company, and perambulated the country for the -benevolent purpose of administering to deficiency of vision. In the -course of his wanderings he had arrived at the Blenheim, where, after a -light supper of fresh herrings, toasted cheese, and Edinburgh ale, -assisted, _more Bagmannorum_, by several glasses of stiff -brandy-and-water, he had retired to his apartment to sleep off the -labours of the day. Somnus, however, did not descend that night with -his usual lightness upon Grobey. On the contrary, the deity seemed -changed into a ponderous weight, which lay heavily upon the chest of the -moaning and suffocated traveller; and notwithstanding a paralysis which -appeared to have seized upon his limbs, every external object in the -apartment became visible to him as by the light of a magic lantern. He -heard his watch ticking, like a living creature, upon the dressing-table -where he had left it. His black morocco pocket-book was distinctly -visible beside the looking-glass, and two spectral boots stood up amidst -the varied shadows of the night. Grobey was very uncomfortable. He began -to entertain the horrid idea that a fiend was hovering through his -chamber. - -All at once he heard the door creaking upon its hinges. There was a -slight rustling of muslin, a low sigh, and then momentary silence. -"What, in the name of John Bright, can that be?" thought the terrified -traveller; but he had not to wait long for explanation. The door opened -slowly--a female figure, arrayed from head to foot in robes of virgin -whiteness, glided in, and fixed her eyes, with an expression of deep -solemnity and menace, upon the countenance of Grobey. He lay breathless -and motionless beneath the spell. This might have lasted for about a -minute, during which time, as Grobey expressed it, his very entrails -were convulsed with fear. The apparition then moved onwards, still -keeping her eyes upon the couch. She stood for a moment near the window, -raised her arm with a monitory gesture to the sky, and then all at once -seemed to disappear as if absorbed in the watery moonshine. Grobey was -as bold a bagman as ever flanked a mare with his gig-whip, but this -awful visitation was too much. Boots, looking-glass, and table swam with -a distracting whirl before his eyes; he uttered a feeble yell, and -immediately lapsed into a swoon. - -It was bright morning when he awoke. He started up, rubbed his eyes, and -endeavoured to persuade himself that it was all an illusion. To be sure -there were the boots untouched, the coat, the hat, and the portmanteau; -but where--oh where--were the watch and the plethoric pocket-book, with -its bunch of bank-notes and other minor memoranda? Gone--spirited away; -and with a shout of despair old Grobey summoned the household. - -The police were straightway taken into his confidence. The tale of the -midnight apparition--of the Demon Lady--was told and listened to, at -first with somewhat of an incredulous smile; but when the landlord -stated that an unknown damosel had been sojourning for two days at the -hotel, that she had that morning vanished in a hackney-coach without -leaving any trace of her address, and that, moreover, certain spoons of -undeniable silver were amissing, Argus pricked up his ears, and after -some few preliminary inquiries, issued forth in quest of the fugitive. -Two days afterwards the fair Saville was discovered in a temperance -hotel; and although the pocket-book had disappeared, both the -recognisable notes and the watch were found in her possession. A number -of pawn-tickets, also, which were contained in her reticule, served to -collect from divers quarters a great mass of _bijouterie_, amongst which -were the Blenheim spoons. - -Such was Mr Grobey's evidence as afterwards supplemented by the police. -Tom rose to cross-examine. - -"Pray, Mr Grobey," said he, adjusting his gown upon his shoulders with a -very knowing and determined air, as though he intended to expose his -victim--"Pray, Mr Grobey, are you any judge of studs?" - -"I ain't a racing man," replied Grobey, "but I knows an oss when I sees -it." - -"Don't equivocate, sir, if you please. Recollect you are upon your -oath," said Strachan, irritated by a slight titter which followed upon -Grobey's answer. "I mean studs, sir--emerald studs for example?" - -"I ain't. But the lady is," replied Grobey. - -"How do you mean, sir?" - -"'Cos there vos five pair on them taken out of pawn with her tickets." - -"How do you know that, sir?" - -"'Cos I see'd them." - -"Were you at Jedburgh, sir, in the month of April last?" - -"I was." - -"Do you recollect seeing me there?" - -"Perfectly." - -"Do you remember what passed upon that occasion?" - -"You was rather confluscated, I think." - -There was a general laugh. - -"Mr Strachan," said the judge mildly, "I am always sorry to interrupt a -young counsel, but I really cannot see the relevancy of these questions. -The court can have nothing to do with your communications with the -witness. I presume I need not take a note of these latter answers." - -"Very well, my lord," said Tom, rather discomfited at being cut out of -his revenge on the bagman, "I shall ask him something else;" and he -commenced his examination in right earnest. Grobey, however, stood -steadfast to the letter of his previous testimony. - -Another witness was called; and to my surprise the Scottish Vidocq -appeared. He spoke to the apprehension and the search, and also to the -character of the prisoner. In his eyes she had long been chronicled as -habit and repute a thief. - -"You know the prisoner, then?" said Strachan rising. - -"I do. Any time these three years." - -"Under what name is she known to you?" - -"Betsy Brown is her real name, but she has gone by twenty others." - -"By twenty, do you say?" - -"There, or thereabouts. She always flies at high game; and, being a -remarkably clever woman, she passes herself off for a lady." - -"Have you ever seen her elsewhere than in Glasgow?" - -"I have." - -"Where?" - -"At Jedburgh." - -I cannot tell what impulse it was that made me twitch Strachan's gown at -this moment. It was not altogether a suspicion, but rather a -presentiment of coming danger. Strachan took the hint and changed his -line. - -"Can you specify any of her other names?" - -"I can. There are half-a-dozen of them here on the pawn-tickets. Shall I -read them?" - -"If you please." - -"One diamond ring, pledged in name of Lady Emily Delaroche. A garnet -brooch and chain--Miss Maria Mortimer. Three gold seals--Mrs Markham -Vere. A watch and three emerald studs--the Honourable Dorothea -Percy----" - -There was a loud shriek from the bar, and a bustle--the prisoner had -fainted. - -I looked at Strachan. He was absolutely as white as a corpse. - -"My dear Tom," said I, "hadn't you better go out into the open air?" - -"No!" was the firm reply; "I am here to do my duty, and I'll do it." - -And in effect, the Spartan boy with the fox gnawing into his side did -not acquit himself more heroically than my friend. The case was a clear -one, no doubt, but Tom made a noble speech, and was highly complimented -by the Judge upon his ability. No sooner, however, had he finished it -than he left the Court. - -I saw him two hours afterwards. - -"Tom," said I, "about these emerald studs--I think I could get them back -from the Fiscal." - -"Keep them to yourself. I'm off to India." - -"Bah!--go down to the Highlands for a month." - -Tom did so; purveyed himself a kilt; met an heiress at the Inverness -Meeting, and married her. He is now the happy father of half-a-dozen -children, and a good many of us would give a trifle for his practice. -But to this day he is as mad as a March hare if an allusion is made in -his presence to any kind of studs whatsoever. - - - - -MY COLLEGE FRIENDS. - -No. III. - -MR W. WELLINGTON HURST. - -[_MAGA._ JANUARY 1846.] - - -It would probably puzzle Mr William Wellington Hurst, as much as any -man, to find out on what grounds I placed him on the list of my College -friends; for certainly our intimacy was hardly sufficient to warrant -such a liberty; and he was one of those happy individuals who would -never have suspected that it could be out of gratitude for much -amusement afforded me by sundry of his sayings and doings. But so it is; -and it happens, that while the images of many others of my -companions--very worthy good sort of fellows, whom I saw more or less of -nearly every day--have vanished from my memory, or only flit across -occasionally, like shadows, the full-length figure of Mr W. Wellington -Hurst, exactly as he turned out, after a satisfactory toilet, in the -patent boots and scarf of many colours, stands fixed there like a -daguerreotype--more faithful than flattering. - -My first introduction to him was by running him down in a skiff, when I -was steering the College eight--not less to his astonishment than our -own gratification. It is (or used to be) perfectly allowable, by the -laws of the river, if, after due notice, these small craft fail to get -out of your way; but it is not very easy to effect. However, in this -instance, we went clean over him, very neatly indeed. The men helped him -into our boat, just as his own sunk from under him; and he accepted a -seat by my side in the stern-sheets, with many apologies for being so -wet, appearing considerably impressed with a sense of my importance, and -still more of my politeness. When we reached Sandford, I prescribed a -stiff tumbler of hot brandy and water, and advised him to run all the -way home, to warm himself, and avoid catching cold; and, from that time, -I believe he always looked upon me as a benefactor. The claim, on my -part, certainly rested on a very small foundation originally; it was -strengthened afterwards by a less questionable act of patronage. Like -many other under-graduates of every man's acquaintance in those days, -Hurst laboured under the delusion, that holding two sets of reins in a -very confused manner, and flourishing a long whip, was driving; and that -to get twenty miles out of Oxford in a "team," without an upset, or an -imposition from the proctor, was an _opus operatum_ of the highest -possible merit. To do him justice, he laboured diligently in the only -exercise which he seemed to consider strictly academical--he spent an -hour every morning, standing upon a chair, "catching flies," as he -called it, and occasionally flicking his scout, with a tandem whip; and -practised incessantly upon tin horns of all lengths, with more zeal than -melody, until he got the erysipelas in his lower lip, and a hint of -rustication from the tutors. Yet he was more ambitious than successful. -His reputation on the road grew worse and worse every day. He had a -knack of shaving turnpike gates, and cutting round corners on one wheel, -and getting his horses into every possible figure but a straight line, -which made every mile got over without an accident almost a miracle. At -last, after taking a four-in-hand over a narrow bridge, at the bottom of -a hill, pretty much in the Olympic fashion--all four abreast--men got -rather shy of any expeditions of the kind in his company. There was -little credit in it, and a good deal of danger. First, he was reduced to -soliciting the company of freshmen, who were flattered by any proposal -that sounded _fast_. But they, too, grew shy, after one or two ventures; -and poor Hurst soon found a difficulty in getting a companion at all. He -was a liberal fellow enough, and not pushed for a guinea when his -darling science was concerned: so he used to offer to "sport the team" -himself; but even when he condescended to the additional self-devotion -of "standing a dinner and champagne," he found that the closest -calculators among his sporting acquaintance had as much regard for their -necks as their pockets. - -To this inglorious position was his fame as a charioteer reduced, when -Horace Leicester and myself, early in his third term, had determined -somewhat suddenly to go to see a steeple-chase about twelve miles off, -where Leicester had some attraction besides the horses, in the shape of -a pretty cousin; (_two_, he told me, and bribed me with the promise of -an introduction to "the other," but she did not answer to sample at -all.) We had engaged a very nice mare and stanhope, which we knew we -could depend upon, when, the day before the race, the chestnut was -declared lame, and not a presentable four-legged animal was to be hired -in Oxford. Hurst had engaged his favourite pair of greys (which would -really go very well with any other driver) a week beforehand, but had -been canvassing the last batch of freshmen in vain for an occupant of -the vacant seat. A huge red-headed north-country man, who had never seen -a tandem in his life, but who, as far as pluck went, would have ridden -postilion to Medea's dragons, was listening with some apparent -indecision to Hurst's eloquence upon the delights of driving, just as we -came up after a last unsuccessful search through the livery stables; and -the pair were proceeding out of college arm in arm, probably to look at -the greys, when Leicester, to my amusement, stepped up with--"Hurst, -who's going with you to B----?" - -"I--why, I hardly know yet; I think Sands here will, if"---- - -"I'll go with you then, if you like; and if you've got a cart,[1] -Hawthorne can come too, and it will be very jolly." - - [1] "_Carts_" of that day held three. - -If the university had announced their intention of creating him a B.A. -by diploma, without examination, Hurst could hardly have looked more -surprised and delighted. Leicester, it should be borne in mind, was one -of the most popular men in the college--a sort of _arbiter elegantiarum_ -in the best set. Hurst knew very little of him, but was no doubt highly -flattered by his proposal. From coaxing freshmen to come out by the -bribe of paying all expenses, to driving to B---- steeple-chase side by -side with Horace (my modesty forbids me to include myself), was a step -at once from the ridiculous to the sublime of tandemizing. For this -advancement in life, he always, I fancy, considered himself indebted to -me, as I had originally introduced him to Leicester's acquaintance; and -when we both accepted an invitation, which he delivered himself of with -some hesitation, to breakfast in his rooms on the morning of the -expedition, his joy and gratitude appeared to know no bounds. It is not -usual, be it remembered, for a junior man in college to ask a senior to -a party from whom he has never received an invitation himself; but -hunting and tandem-driving are apt occasionally to set ordinary -etiquette at defiance. "Don't ask a lot of men, that's all--there's a -good fellow," said Horace, whose good-natured smile, and off-hand and -really winning manner, enabled him to carry off, occasionally, a degree -of impudence which would not have been tolerated from others--"I hate a -large formal breakfast party of all things; it disgusts me to see a -score of men jostling each other over tough beefsteaks." - -"I asked Sands yesterday," apologised Hurst. "I thought perhaps he would -come out with me; but I daresay I can put him off, if"---- - -"Oh! on no account whatever; you mean the carroty freshman I saw you -with just now? Have him by all means; it will be quite refreshing to -meet any man so regularly green. So there will be just four of us; eight -o'clock, I suppose? it won't do to be much later." - -And Horace walked off, having thus arranged matters to his own -satisfaction and his host's. I was an interested party in the business, -however, and had my own terms to make. "You've disposed of me rather -coolly," said I; "you don't surely imagine that at my time of life I'm -going to trust my neck to that fellow's abominable driving?" - -"Make your mind easy, Frank; William Wellington sha'n't finger a -riband." - -"Nonsense, Leicester; you can't treat a man in that kind of way--not to -let him drive his own team. Hurst _is_ a bit of an ass, certainly; but -you can't with any decency first ask a man for a seat, and then refuse -to give him up the reins." - -"Am I in the habit, sir, of doing things in the very rude and -ungentlemanly style you insinuate?" And Horace looked at me with mock -dignity for a second or two, and then burst into a laugh. "Leave it to -me, Hawthorne, and I'll manage it to the satisfaction of all parties: -I'll promise you that Hurst shall have a capital day's fun, and your -valuable neck shall be as safe as if you were tried by a Welsh jury." - -With this indefinite assurance I was obliged to be content; and -accordingly, at half-past eight the next morning, after a very correct -breakfast, we mounted the tandem-cart at the college back-gates, got the -leader hitched on, as usual, a mile out of the city, for fear of -proctors, and were bowling merrily along, in the slight frost of an -autumn morning, towards B----. Leicester took the driving first, by -Hurst's special request, after one or two polite but faint refusals, the -latter sitting by his side; while I occupied, for the present, the queer -little box which in those days was stuck on behind, (the more modern -carts, which hold four, are an improvement introduced into the -University since my driving days). With wonderful gravity and importance -did Leicester commence his lectures on the whip to his admiring -companion: I almost think he began in the approved style, with a slight -allusion to the Roman _biga_, and deduced the progress of the noble -science from Ericthonius down to "Peyton and Ward." I have a lively -recollection of a comparison between Automedon of the Homeric times, and -"Black Will" of Oxford celebrity--the latter being decided as only -likely to be less immortal, because there was no Homer among the -contemporary under-graduates. A good deal was lost to me, no doubt, from -my position behind; but Hurst seemed to suck it all in with every -disposition to be edified. From the history of his subject, Horace -proceeded, in due course, to the theory, from theory to facts, from -facts to illustrations. In the practical department, Horace, I suspect, -like many other lecturers, was on his weakest ground; for his own -driving partook of the general under-graduate character. - -"You throw the lash out so--you see--and bring it back sharp, so--no, -not _so_ exactly--so--hang the thing, I can't do it now; but that's the -principle, you understand--and then you take up your double thong, -so--pshaw, I did it very well just now--to put it into the wheeler, -so--ah, I missed it then, but that's the way to do it." - -He put me considerably in mind of a certain professor of chemistry, -whose lectures on light and heat I once was rash enough to attend, who, -after a long dry disquisition which had nearly put us all to sleep, used -to arouse our attention to the "beautiful effects" produced by certain -combinations, which he would proceed to illustrate, as he said, by a -"little experiment." But, somehow or other, these little experiments -always, or nearly always, failed: and after the room had been darkened, -perhaps, for five minutes or so, in order to give the exhibition full -effect, the result would be, a _fizz_ or two, a faint blue light, and a -stink, varying according to circumstances, but always abominable. "It's -very odd, John," the discomfited operator used to exclaim to his -assistant; "very odd; and we succeeded so well this morning, too: it's -most unaccountable: I'm really very sorry, gentlemen, but I can assure -you, this very same experiment we tried to-day with the most beautiful -result; didn't we, John?" "We did, sir," was John's invariably dutiful -reply; and so the audience took John's word for it, and the experiment -was considered to have been, virtually, successful. - -So we rattled on to the ground: Leicester occasionally putting the reins -into his companion's hand, teaching him to perform some impossible -movement with his third finger, and directing his attention to -non-existent flies, which he professed to remove from the leader, out -of sheer compassion, with the point of the whip. - -"You are sure you wouldn't like to take the reins now? Well, you'll -drive home then, of course? Hawthorne, will you try your hand now? -Hurst's going to take up the tooling when we come back." - -"No, thank you," said I; "I won't interfere with either of your -performances."--"And if Hurst does drive home," was my mental -determination, expressed to Leicester as far as a nod could do it, "I'll -walk." - -There was no difficulty in finding out the localities: the field in -which the winning-flag was fixed was not far from the turnpike road, and -conspicuous enough by the crowd already there collected. Of course, -pretty nearly all the sporting characters among the gownsmen were there, -the distance from the University being so trifling. Mounted on that -seedy description of animal peculiar to Oxford livery-stables, which can -never by any possibility be mistaken for anything but a hired affair, -but will generally go all day, and scramble through almost anything; -with showily mounted jockey-whips in their hands, bad cigars (at two -guineas a-pound) in their mouths, bright blue scarfs, or something -equivalent, round their necks--their neat white cords and tops (things -which they _did_ turn out well in Oxford) being the only really -sportsmanlike article about them; flattering themselves they looked -exceedingly knowing, and, in nine cases out of ten, being deceived -therein most lamentably; clustered together in groups of four or five, -discussing the merits of the horses, or listening, as to an oracle, to -the opinion of some Oxford horse-dealer, delivered with insolent -familiarity--here were the men who drank out of a fox's head, and -recounted imaginary runs with the Heythrop. Happy was he amongst them, -and a positive hero for the day, who could boast a speaking acquaintance -with any of those anomalous individuals, at present enshrouded in -great-coats, but soon to appear in all the varieties of jockey costume, -known by the style and title of "gentlemen riders;" who could point out, -confidentially, to his admiring companions, "Jack B----," and "Little -M----," and announce, from authority, how many ounces under weight one -was this morning, and how many blankets were put upon the other the -night before, to enable him to come to the scales at all. Here and -there, more plainly dressed, moving about quickly on their own -thorough-breds, or talking to some neighbouring squire who knew the -ground, were the few really sporting men belonging to the University; -who kept hunters in Oxford, simply because they were used to keep them -at home, and had been brought up to look upon fox-hunting as their -future vocation. Lolling on their saddles, probably voting it all a -bore, were two or three tufts, and their "tail;" and stuck into all -sorts of vehicles, lawful and unlawful, buggies, drags, and tandems, -were that ignoble herd, who, like myself, had come to the steeple-chase, -just because it was the most convenient idleness at hand, and because -other men were going. There were all sorts of people there besides, of -course: carriages of all grades of pretension, containing pretty bonnets -and ugly faces, in the usual proportion; "all the beauty and fashion of -the neighbourhood," nevertheless, as the county paper assured us; and as -I may venture to add, from personal observation, a very fair share of -its disreputability and blackguardism besides. - -After wandering for a short time among these various groups, Leicester -halted us at last in front of one of those old-fashioned -respectable-looking barouches, which one now so seldom sees, in which -were seated a party, who turned out to consist of an uncle and aunt, and -the pair of cousins before alluded to. Hurst and I were duly introduced; -a ceremony which, for my own part, I could have very readily excused, -when I discovered that the only pair of eyes in the party worth -mentioning bestowed their glances almost exclusively on Horace, and any -attempt at cutting into the conversation in that quarter was as -hopeless, apparently, as ungracious. Our friend's taste in the article -of cousins was undeniably correct; Flora Leicester was a most desirable -person to have for a cousin; very pretty, very good-humoured, and (I am -sure she was, though I pretend to no experience of the fact) very -affectionate. If one could have put in any claim of kindred, even in the -third or fourth degree, it would have been a case in which to stickle -hard for the full privileges of relationship. As matters stood, it was -trying enough to the sensibilities of us unfortunate bystanders, whose -cousins were either ugly or at a distance; for the rest of our new -acquaintances were not interesting. The younger sister was shy and -insipid; the squire like ninety-nine squires in every hundred; and the -lady-mother in a perpetual state of real or affected nervous agitation, -to which her own family were happily insensible, but which taxed a -stranger's polite sympathies pretty heavily. Though constantly in the -habit, as she assured me, of accompanying her husband to race-courses, -and enjoying the sport, she was always on the look-out for an accident, -and was always having, as she said, narrow escapes; some indeed so very -narrow, that, according to her own account, they ought to have had, by -every rule of probability, fatal terminations. In fact, her tone might -have led one to believe that she looked upon herself as an ill-used -woman in getting off so easily--at least she was exceedingly angry when -the younger daughter ventured to remark, _en pendant_ to one of her most -thrilling adventures, that "there was no great danger of an upset when -the wheel stuck fast." Not content with putting her head out of the -carriage every five minutes, to see if her own well-trained bays were -standing quiet, as they always did, there was not a restive horse or -awkward rider on the ground but attracted the good lady's ever watchful -sense of danger. "He'll be thrown! I'm sure he will! foolish man, why -don't he get off!" "Oh, oh! there they go! they're off, those horrid -horses! they'll never stop 'em!" Such were the interjections, -accompanied with extraordinary shudderings and drawings of the breath, -with which Mrs John Leicester, her eyes fixed on some distant point, -occasionally broke in upon the general conversation, sometimes with a -vehemence that startled even her nephew and eldest daughter, though, to -do them justice, they paid very little attention to any of us. - -Just as I was meditating something desperate, in order to relieve myself -from the office of soother-general of Mrs Leicester's imaginary terrors, -and to bring Flora's sunny face once more within my line of vision (she -had been turning the back of her bonnet upon me perseveringly for the -last ten minutes), a general commotion gave us notice that the horses -were started, and the race begun. The hill on which we were stationed -was close to the winning-post, and commanded a view of pretty nearly the -whole ground from the start. The race was, I suppose, pretty nearly -like other steeple-chases, and there is the less need for me to describe -it, because a very full and particular account appeared in the _Bell's -Life_ next ensuing. The principal impressions which remain on my mind, -are of a very smart gentleman in black and crimson, mounted on a very -powerful bay, who seemed as if he had been taking it easy, who came in -first, and after having been sufficiently admired by an innocent public, -myself among the number, as the winner, turned out to have gone on the -right hand instead of the left of some flag or other, and to have lost -the race accordingly; and of a very dirty-looking person, who arrived -some minute or two afterwards without a cap, whose jacket was green and -his horse grey, so far as the mud left any colour visible, and who, to -the great disappointment of the ladies especially, turned out to be the -real hero after all. - -We had made arrangements to have an independent beefsteak together after -the race, in preference to joining the sporting ordinary announced as -usual on such occasions; but the squire insisted on Leicester bringing -us both to dine with his party at five. After a few modest and -conscientious scruples on my part, at intruding on the hospitality of -comparative strangers, and a strong private remonstrance from Hurst, on -the impropriety of sitting down to dinner with ladies in a surtout and -white cords, we accepted the invitation, and betook ourselves to kill -the intervening hour or so as we best could. - -"Well, Horace," said I, as Hurst went off to make his apology for a -toilette--"how are you going to settle about the driving home?" - -"Oh! never fear; I'll manage it: I have just seen Miller and Fane; -they've got a drag over here, and there's lots of room inside; so -they've promised to take Hurst home with them, if we can only manage to -leave him behind: they are going to dine here, and are sure not to go -home till late; and we must be off early, you know, because I have some -men coming to supper; so we'll leave our friend behind, somehow or -other. A painful necessity, I admit; but it must be done, even if I have -to lock him up in the stable." - -Leicester seemed to have more confidence in his own resources than I -had; but he was in too great a state of excitement to listen to any -demurrers of mine on the point, and hurried us off to join his friends. -Ushered into the drawing-room A.1. of the Saracen's Head, we found _la -bella_ Flora awaiting us alone, the rest of the family being not as yet -visible. There was not the slightest necessity for inquiring whether she -felt fatigued, for she was looking even more lovely than in the morning; -or whether she had been amused or not, for if the steeple-chase had not -delighted her, something else had, for there was a radiant smile on her -face which could not be mistaken. Hurst was cut short rather abruptly in -a speech which appeared tending towards a compliment, by Leicester's -inquiring--"My good fellow, have you seen the horses fed?" - -"No, upon my word," said Hurst, "I"---- - -"Well, I have then; but I wish you would just step across the yard, and -see if that stupid ostler has rubbed them dry, as I told him. You -understand those things, I know, Hurst--the fellows won't humbug you -very easily; as to Hawthorne, I wouldn't trust him to see to anything of -the sort. Flora here knows more about a horse than he does." - -Any compliment to Hurst's acuteness in the matter of horse-flesh was -sure to have its effect, and he walked off with an air of some -importance to discharge his commission. - -"Now, then," said Horace eagerly, "we have got rid of him for ten -minutes, which was all I wanted; if you please, Flora dear, we must have -your cleverness to help us in a little difficulty." - -"Indeed!" said Miss Leicester, colouring a little, as her cousin, in his -eagerness, seized her hand in both of his--"what scrape have you got -into now, Horace, and how can I possibly help you?" - -"Oh, I want you to hit upon some plan for keeping that fellow Hurst here -after we are gone." - -"Upon my word!" - -"Stay; you don't know what I mean. I'll tell you why--if he drives home -to Oxford, he'll infallibly upset us; and drive he must if he goes home -with us, because, in fact, the team is his, and I drove them all the way -here, and it's his turn back, you see." - -"Then why, in the multitude of absurdities which you Oxonians -perpetrate--I beg your pardon, Mr Hawthorne--but why need you have come -out in a tandem at all, with a man who can't drive?" - -"Simply, Flora, because I had no other way of coming at all." - -"It was very absurd in us, Miss Leicester, I allow," said I, "but you -know what an attraction a steeple-chase is, to your cousin especially; -and after having made up his mind to come--altogether, you see, it would -have been a disappointment"--(to all parties, I had a mind to add, but I -thought the balance was on my side without it.) - -"After all," said Horace, "I shouldn't care a straw to run the chance, -as far as I am concerned. I dare say the horses will go home straight -enough, if he'll only let them: or if he wouldn't, I shouldn't mind -knocking him off the box at once--by accident; but Frank here is rather -particular, and I promised him I would not let Hurst drive. I thought -once, if we had dined by ourselves, of persuading him he was drunk, and -sending him home in a fly; but I am afraid, as matters stand, that plea -is hardly practicable." - -"Could I persuade him to let you or Mr Hawthorne drive, do you think?" - -Horace looked at her as if he thought, as I dare say he did, that his -cousin Flora could, if she were so minded, persuade a man to do -anything; so I was compelled, somewhat at the expense of my reputation -for gallantry, to assure them both, that if Ulysses of old, among his -various arts and accomplishments, had piqued himself upon his -tandem-driving, his vanity would have stopped his ears effectually, and -the Syren might have sung herself hoarse before he would have given up -the reins. - -"I'll give the Boots half-a-crown to steal his hat," said Horace, "and -start while he is looking for it." - -"Stay," said his cousin; "I dare say it may be managed." But I thought -she looked disappointed. "Did you know we were all going to the -B---- theatre to-night?" - -"No! really! what fun!" - -"No fun for you; for you must start early, as you said just now. The -owners of the horses here patronise a play, and they have made papa -promise to go, and so we must, I suppose, and"---- - -"Oh! we'll all go, of course," said Horace decidedly.--"You'll stay and -go, won't you, Hawthorne?" - -"You forget your supper party," said I. - -"Oh! hang it, they'll take care of themselves, so long as the supper's -there; they won't miss me much." - -"Didn't I hear something of your being confined to college after nine?" - -"Ah, yes; I believe I am--but it won't matter much for once; I'll call -on the dean to-morrow, and explain." - -"No, no, Horace, that won't do; you and Mr Hawthorne must go home like -good boys," said Flora, with a smile only half as merry as usual, "and -Mary and I will persuade Mr Hurst to stay and go to the theatre with -us." - -"Oh! confound it!"--Horace began. - -"Hush! here comes papa; remember this is my arrangement; you ought to be -very much obliged, instead of beginning to swear in that way; I'm sure -Mr Hawthorne is very grateful to me for taking so much interest in the -question of his breaking his neck, if you are not. Oh! papa," she -continued, "do you know that we shall lose all our beaux to-night; they -have some horrid supper party to go back to, and we shall have to go to -the play by ourselves!" - -Most of the Squire's sympathies were at this moment absorbed in the fact -that dinner was already four minutes late, so that he had less to spare -for his daughter's disappointment than Mrs Leicester, who on her arrival -took up the lamentation with all her heart. She attacked her nephew at -once upon the subject, whose replies were at first wavering and evasive, -till he caught Flora's eye, and then he answered with a dogged sort of -resolution, exceedingly amusing to me who understood his position, and -at last got quite cross with his aunt for persisting in her entreaties. -I declared, for my part, that I was dependent on Horace's movements; -that, if I could possibly have anticipated the delightful evening which -had awaited us, every other arrangement should have given way, &c. &c.; -when Hurst's reappearance turned the whole force of Mrs Leicester's -persuasions upon him, backed, too, as she was by both her daughters. -"Won't _you_ stay, Mr Hurst? Must you go too? Will you be so shabby as -to leave us?" How could any man stand it? William Wellington Hurst could -not, it was very plain. At first he looked astonished; wondered why on -earth we couldn't all stay; then protested he couldn't think of letting -us go home by ourselves; a piece of self-devotion which we at once -desired might not be thought of; then hesitated--he was meditating, no -doubt, on the delight of driving--how was he to get home? the inglorious -occupant of the inside of a drag; or the solitary tenant of a fly -(though I suggested he might drive that if he pleased); couldn't -Leicester go home, and I and he follow together? I put in a decided -negative; he looked from Mrs Leicester's anxious face to Flora's, and -surrendered at discretion. We were to start at eight precisely in the -tandem, and Miller and his party, who were sure to wait for the play, -were to pick up Mr Wellington Hurst as a supernumerary passenger at some -hour unknown. And so we went to dinner. Mrs Leicester marched off in -triumph with her new capture, as if fearful he might give her the slip -after all, and committed Flora to my custody. I was charitable enough, -however, in consideration of all circumstances, to give up my right of -sitting next to her to Horace, and established myself on the other side -of the table, between Mrs Leicester and her younger daughter; and a hard -post I had of it. Mary would not talk at all, and her mamma would do -nothing else; and she was one of those pertinacious talkers, too, who, -not content with running on themselves, and leaving you to put in an -occasional interjection, inflict upon you a cross-examination in its -severest form, and insist upon a definite and rational answer to every -question. However, availing myself of those legitimate qualifications of -a witness, an unlimited amount of impudence, and a determination not to -criminate myself, I got on pretty tolerably. Who did I think her -daughter Flora like? I took the opportunity of diligently examining that -young lady's features for about four minutes--not in the least to her -confusion, for she scarcely honoured me with a glance the whole -time--and then declared the resemblance to mamma quite startling. Mary? -Oh, her father's eyes decidedly; upon which the squire, whose pet she -appeared to be--I suppose it was the contrast between her quietness and -Mrs Leicester's incessant fidgetting that was so delightful--laughed, -and took wine with me. Then she took up the subject of my private tastes -and habits. Was I fond of riding? Yes. Driving? Pretty well. Reading? -Very. Then she considerately hoped that I did not read much by -candle-light--above all by an oil-lamp--it was very injurious. I assured -her that I would be cautious for the future. Then she offered me a -receipt for eye-water, in case I suffered from weakness arising from -over-exertion of those organs;--declined, with thanks. Hoped I did not -read above twelve hours a-day; some young men, she had heard, read -sixteen, which she considered as really inconsistent with a due regard -to health. I assured her that our sentiments on that point perfectly -coincided, and that I had no tendency to excesses of that kind. At last -she began to institute inquiries about certain under-graduates with -whose families she was acquainted; and the two or three names which I -recognised being hunting men, I referred her to Hurst as quite _au fait_ -in the sporting circles of Oxford, and succeeded in hooking them into a -conversation which effectually relieved me. - -Leicester, as I could overhear, had been still rather rebellious against -going home before the play was over, and was insisting that his being -in college by nine was not really material; nor did he appear -over-pleased, when, in answer to an appeal from Flora, I said plainly, -that the consequences of his "knocking in" late, when under sentence of -strict confinement to the regular hour, might not be pleasant--a fact, -however, which he himself, though with a very bad grace, was compelled -to admit. - -At last the time arrived for our party to separate: Horace and I to -return to Oxford, and the others to adjourn to see _Richard the Third_ -performed at the B---- theatre, under the distinguished patronage of the -members of the H---- Hunt. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and as -Hurst accompanied us to the stable-yard to "start us," as he -complacently phrased it, it was clear that he was suffering, like a -great many unfortunate individuals in public and private life, under an -overweening sense of his own importance. "You'll have an uncommon -pleasant drive of it; upon my word you will," he remarked; "it wouldn't -do for me to say I would not stay, you know, as Miss Leicester--Mrs -Leicester, that is--seemed to make such a point of it; but really"---- - -"Oh, come, Hurst," said I, "don't pretend to say you've made any -sacrifice in the matter; I know you are quite delighted; I'm sure I -should have liked to stay of all things, only it would have been uncivil -to our friend here to send him home by himself from his own party." - -"Oh! hang it, I don't mean to call it a sacrifice; I have no doubt I -shall have a very pleasant evening; only I wish we could all have -stayed, and driven home together afterwards." - -"You may keep Hawthorne with you now, if you like," said Horace, who was -not in the best of tempers; "I can take the horses home myself." - -"No, no, that would be hardly fair," said I. - -"Oh! no--off with you both," said Hurst; "stay, Leicester, you'll find -the grey go more pleasantly if you drive him from the cheek; I'll alter -it in a second." - -"Have the goodness just to let them alone, my good fellow; as I'm to -drive, I prefer putting them my own way, if you have no objection." - -"Well, as you please; good-night." - -"Miller's coming to my rooms when he gets home; if you like to look in -with him, you'll find some supper, I dare say." - -Horace continued rather sulky for the first few miles, and only opened -to anathematise, briefly but comprehensively, steeple-chases, tandems, -deans and tutors, and "fellows like Hurst." I thought it best to let him -cool down a little; so, after this ebullition, we rattled on in silence -as long as his first cigar lasted. - -"Come," said I, as I gave him a light, "we got rid of our friend's -company pretty cleverly, thanks to your cousin." - -"Ay, I told you I'd take care of that; ha, ha! poor Hurst! he little -bargained, when he ordered his team, how precious little driving he was -to get out of it; a strong instance of the vanity of human expectations. -I wish him joy of it, stuck up in an old barn, as I suppose he is by -this time, gaping at a set of strolling players; how Flora will laugh at -him! I really shouldn't wonder if she were to tell him, before the -evening is over, how nicely he has been humbugged, just for the fun of -it!" - -"At all events," said I, "I think we must have a laugh at him to-night -when he comes home; though he's such a good-tempered fellow, it's rather -a shame, too." - -It was very plain, however, that it was not quite such a good joke to -Master Horace himself as he was trying to make out; and that, in point -of fact, he would have considerably preferred being seated, as Hurst -probably was at that moment, by his pretty cousin's side in the B---- -theatre, wherever and whatever that might chance to be (even with the -full expectation of being laughed at afterwards), to holding the reins -of the best team that ever was turned out of Oxford. - -We reached Oxford just in time to hear the first stroke of "Old Tom." By -the time I joined Leicester in his rooms, supper was ready, and most of -the party assembled. The sport of the day was duly discussed; those who -knew least about such matters being proportionately the most noisy and -positive in giving their opinions. One young hero of eighteen, fresh -from Winchester, in all the importance of a probationary Fellow of New -College, explained for our benefit, by the help of the forks and -salt-cellars, the line which the horses undoubtedly ought to have taken, -and which they did not take; until one of his old schoolfellows, who was -present, was provoked to treat us to an anecdote of the young -gentleman's first appearance in the hunting-field--no longer ago than -the last term--when he mistook the little rough Scotch terrier that -always accompanied ----'s pack for the fox, and tally-ho'd him so -lustily as to draw upon himself sundry very energetic, but not very -complimentary, remarks from the well-known master of the hounds. By -degrees Leicester recovered his usual good-humour; and supper passed -over, and several songs had been sung with the usual amount of applause -(except one very sentimental one which had no chorus), and we had got -pretty deep into punch and politics, without Hurst's name having once -been mentioned by either of us. A knock at the oak, and in walked Fane. - -"So you're come back at last?" said Horace. "Sit down, if you can find -room. Allow me to introduce your left-hand neighbour--Powell of -Merton,--Fane, one of our brightest ornaments; quite the _spes gregis_ -we consider him; passed his little go, and started a pink only last -week; give him a glass of punch. Perhaps you are not aware we've been -drinking your health. But, by the way, Fane, where's our friend -Wellington?" - -"Who?" said Fane; "what on earth are you talking about?" - -"Wellington Hurst; didn't _you_ bring him home with you?" - -"Certainly not; didn't you bring him home?" - -"No; Miller promised me he should have a seat inside your drag, because -we could not wait for him; did you stay to the play?" - -"Yes, and capital fun it was; by the way, the last time I saw your -friend Hurst was mounted up in a red baise place that was railed off for -the patrons and patronesses, as they called them; there he was in the -front row, doing the civil to a very odd-looking old dowager in bright -blue velvet, with a neck like an ostrich." - -"Thank you," said Leicester, "that's my aunt." - -"Well, on that ground, we'll drink her health," said Fane, whose -coolness was proverbial. "There was Hurst, however, sitting between her -and an uncommonly pretty girl, with dark hair and eyes, dressed in--let -me see"---- - -"Never mind; it was one of my cousins, I suppose," interposed Horace, -who was engaged in lighting a cigar at the candle, apparently with more -zeal than success. - -"Well, we'll drink _her_ health for her own sake, if you have no -particular objection. I've no doubt the rest of the company will take my -word for her being the prettiest girl on the ground to-day; Hurst would -second me if he were here, for I never saw a man making love more -decidedly in my life." - -"Stuff!" said Horace, pitching his cigar into the fire; "pass that -punch." - -"What! jealous, Leicester?" said two or three of the party--"preserved -ground, eh?" - -"Not at all, not at all," said Horace, trying with a very bad grace to -laugh off his evident annoyance; "at all events, I don't consider Hurst -a very formidable poacher; but what I want to know is, how he didn't -come home with Miller and your party?" - -"Miller said he was coming up directly, so you can ask him; I really -heard nothing of it. Hark, there are steps coming up the staircase now." - -It proved to be Miller himself, followed by the under-porter, a -good-tempered fellow, who was the factotum of the under-graduates at -late hours, when the ordinary staff of servants had left college for the -night. - -"How are you, Leicester?" said he, as he walked straight to the little -pantry, or "scouts' room," immediately opposite the door, which forms -part of the usual suite of college apartments; "come here, Bob." - -"Where's Hurst?" was Horace's impatient query. - -"Wait a bit," replied Miller from inside, where he was rattling the -plates in the course of investigating the remains of the supper--he was -not the man to go to bed supperless after a twelve miles' drive. "Here, -Bob," he continued, as he emerged at last with a cold fowl--"take this -fellow down with you, and grill him in no time; here's a lump of -butter--and Harvey's sauce--and--where do you keep the pickled -mushrooms, Leicester? here they are--make a little gravy; and here, -Bob--it's a cold night--here's a glass of wine; now you'll drink Mr -Leicester's health, and vanish." - -Bob drank the toast audibly, floored his tumbler of port at two gulps, -and departed. - -"Now," said Horace, "do just tell me--what _is_ become of Hurst? how -didn't you bring him home?" - -"Confound it!" said Miller, as he looked into all the jugs--"no whisky -punch?" - -"Oh, really I forgot it; here's bishop, and that brandy punch is very -good. But how didn't he come home with you?" - -"Forgot it!" soliloquised Miller pathetically. - -"Forgot it? how the deuce came you to forget it? and how will he come -now?" rejoined Horace. - -"How came _you_ to forget it? I was talking about the whisky punch," -said Miller, as we all roared with laughter. "I couldn't bring Hurst, -you know, if he wouldn't come. He left the playhouse even before we did, -with some ladies--and we came away before it was over--so I sent up to -tell him we were going to start in ten minutes, and had a place for him; -and the Boots came down and said they had just had supper in, and the -gentleman could not possibly come just yet. Well, I sent up again, just -as we were ready harnessed, and then he threatened to kick Boots down -stairs." - -"What a puppy!" said Horace. - -"I don't quite agree with you there: I don't pretend to much sentiment -myself, as you are all aware; but with a lady _and_ a supper in the -case, I should feel perfectly justified in kicking down stairs any Boots -that ever wore shoes, if he hinted at my moving prematurely." - -Miller's unusual enthusiasm amused us all except Horace. "Gad," said he, -at last, "I hope he won't be able to get home to-night at all!" In this -friendly wish he was doomed to be disappointed. It was now long past -twelve o'clock; the out-college members of the party had all taken their -leave; Miller and Fane, having finished their grilled chicken at a -little table in the corner, had now drawn round the fire with the three -or four of us who remained, and there was a debate as to the expediency -of brewing more punch, when we heard a running step in the Quadrangle, -which presently began to ascend the staircase in company with a not very -melodious voice, warbling in a style which bespoke the owner's high -state of satisfaction. - -"Hush! that's Hurst to a certainty!" - - "Queen of my soul, whose starlike eyes - Are all the light I seek"---- - -(Here came an audible stumble, as if our friend were beginning his way -down again involuntarily by half-a-dozen steps at a time.) "Hallo! -Leicester! just lend us a candle, will you? The lamp is gone out, and -it's as dark as pitch; I've dropped my hat." - -"Open the door, somebody," said Horace; and Hurst was admitted. He -looked rather confused at first, certainly; for the sudden transition -from outer darkness into a small room lighted by a dozen wax candles -made him blink, and our first greeting consisting of "ha--ha's" in -different keys, was perhaps somewhat embarrassing; but he recovered -himself in a second. - -"Well," said he, "how are you all? glad you got home safe, Hawthorne; -hope I didn't keep you waiting, Miller? you got the start of me, all of -you, coming home; but really I spent an uncommon jolly evening." - -"Glad to hear it," said Leicester, with a wink to us. - -"Yes;--'pon my life; I don't know when I ever spent so pleasant a one;" -and, with a sort of chuckle to himself, Hurst filled a glass of punch. - -"What did you think of _Richard the Third_?" said I. - -"Oh! hang the play! there might have been six Richards in the field for -all I can say: I was better engaged." - -"Ay," said Fane, "I rather fancy you were." - -"We had a very pleasant drive home," said I, willing to effect a -diversion in favour of Leicester, who was puffing desperately at his -cigar in a savage kind of silence;--"and a capital supper afterwards; I -wish you had been with us." - -"And I had a very jolly drive too: I got a gig, and galloped nearly all -the way; and a very good supper, too, before I started; but I won't -return your compliment; we were a very snug party without you. Upon my -word, Leicester, your eldest cousin is one of the very nicest girls I -ever met: the sort of person you get acquainted with at once, and so -very lively and good-humoured--no nonsense about her." - -"I'll make a point of letting her know your good opinion," replied -Horace, in a tone conveying pretty plainly a rebuke of such presumption. -But it was lost upon Hurst. - -"Probably you need not trouble yourself," said Fane: "I dare say he has -let her know it himself already." - -"No--really no"--said Hurst, as if deprecating anything so decided; "but -Miss Leicester is a _very_ nice girl; clever, I should say, decidedly; -there's a shade of--one can hardly call it rusticity--about her manner; -but I like it, myself--I like it." - -"Do you?"--said Horace, very drily. - -"Oh! a season in London would take all that off." And Hurst began to -quaver again-- - - "Queen of my soul, whose"-- - -"I'll tell you what," said Horace, rising, and standing with his back to -the fire, with his hands under his coat-tails--"You may not be aware of -it, but you're rather drunk, Hurst." - -"Drunk!" said Hurst; "no, that's quite a mistake; three glasses, I think -it was, of champagne at supper; and you men have sat here drinking punch -all the evening; if anybody's drunk, it's not me." - -Hurst's usually modest demeanour was certainly so very much altered as -to justify, in some measure, Leicester's supposition; but I really -believe Flora Leicester's bright eyes had more to answer for in that -matter than the champagne, whether the said three glasses were more or -less. - -However, as Horace's temper was evidently not improving, Miller, Fane, -and myself wished him good night, and Hurst came with us. We got him -into Fane's rooms, and then extracted from him a full history of the -adventures of that delightful evening, to our infinite amusement, and -apparently to his own immense satisfaction. It was evident that Miss -Flora Leicester had made an impression, of which I do not give that -young lady credit for being in the least unconscious. - -The impression, however, like many others of its kind, soon wore off, I -fancy; for the next time I saw Mr Wellington Hurst, he had returned to -his usual frame of mind, and appeared quite modest and deferential; but -it will not perhaps surprise my readers any more than it did myself, -that Horace was never fond of referring to our drive to the -steeple-chase at B----, and did not appear to appreciate, as keenly as -before, the trick we had played Hurst in leaving him behind; while all -the after-reminiscences of the latter bore reference, whenever it was -possible, to his favourite date--"That day when you and I and Leicester -had that team to B---- together." - - - - -CHRISTINE - -A DUTCH STORY. - -FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME D'ARBOUVILLE - -BY FREDERICK HARDMAN, ESQ. - -[_MAGA._ DECEMBER 1847.] - - -It was the hour of sunrise. Not the gorgeous sunrise of Spain or Italy, -when the horizon's ruddy blaze suddenly revives all that breathes, when -golden rays mingle with the deep azure of a southern sky, and nature -bursts into vitality and vigour, as if light gave life. The sun rose -upon the chilly shores of Holland. The clouds opened to afford passage -to a pale light, without heat or brilliancy. Nature passed insensibly -from sleep to waking, but continued torpid when ceasing to slumber. No -cry or joyous song, no flight of birds, or bleating of flocks, hail the -advent of a new day. On the summit of the dykes, the reed-hedges bend -before the breeze, and the sea-sand, whirled over the slight obstacle, -falls upon the meadows, covering their verdure with a moving veil. A -river, yellow with the slime of its banks, flows peaceably and patiently -towards the expectant ocean. Seen from afar, its waters and its shore -appear of one colour, resembling a sandy plain; save where a ray of -light, breaking upon the surface, reveals by silvery flashes the passage -of the stream. Ponderous boats descend it, drawn by teams of horses, -whose large feet sink into the sand as they advance leisurely and -without distress to the goal of their journey. Behind them strides a -peasant, whip on shoulder; he hurries not his cattle, he looks neither -at the stream that flows, nor at the beasts that draw, nor at the boat -that follows; he plods steadily onwards, trusting to perseverance to -attain his end. - -Such is a corner of the picture presented to the traveller in Holland, -the country charged, it would seem, more than any other, to enforce -God's command to the waters, _Thou shalt go no farther!_ This silent -repose of creatures and things, this mild light, these neutral tints and -vast motionless plains, are not without a certain poetry of their own. -Wherever space and silence are united, poetry finds place; she loves all -things more or less, whether smiling landscape or dreary desert; light -of wing, a trifle will detain and support her--a blade of grass often -suffices. And Holland, which Butler has called a large ship always at -anchor, has its beauties for the thoughtful observer. Gradually one -learns to admire this land at war with ocean and struggling daily for -existence; those cities which compel the waters to flow at their -ramparts' foot to follow the given track, and abide in the allotted bed; -then those days of revolt, when the waves would fain reconquer their -independence, when they overflow, and inundate, and destroy, and at -last, constrained by the hand of man, subside and again obey. - -As the sun rose, a small boat glided rapidly down the stream. It had a -single occupant, a tall young man, lithe, skilful, and strong, who, -although apparently in haste, kept near the shore, following the -windings of the bank, and avoiding the centre of the current, which -would have accelerated his progress. At that early hour the fields were -deserted; the birds alone had risen earlier than the boatman, whose -large hat of grey felt lay beside him, whilst his brown locks, tossed -backward by the wind, disclosed regular features, a broad open forehead, -and eyes somewhat thoughtful, like those of the men of the north. His -costume denoted a student from a German university. One gathered from -his extreme youth that his life had hitherto passed on academic benches, -and that it was still a new and lively pleasure to him to feel the -freshness of morning bathe his brow, the breeze play with his hair, the -stream bear along his bark. He hastened, for there are times when we -count the hours ill; when we outstrip and tax them with delay. Then, if -we cannot hurry the pace of time, we prefer at least to wait at the -appointed spot. It calms impatience, and seems a commencement of -happiness. - -When the skiff had rounded a promontory of the bank, its speed -increased, as if the eye directing it had gained sight of the goal. At a -short distance the landscape changed its character. A meadow sloped down -to the stream, fringed by a thick hedge of willows, half uprooted and -bending over the water. The boat reached the shadow of the trees, and -stopping there, rocked gently on the river, secured by a chain cast -round a branch. The young man stood up and looked anxiously through the -foliage; then he sang, in a low tone, the burthen of a ballad, a -love-plaint, the national poetry of all countries. His voice, at first -subdued, as if not to break too suddenly the surrounding silence, -gradually rose as the song drew to a close. The clear mellow notes -escaped from the bower of drooping leaves, and expired without echo or -reply upon the surface of the pasture. Then he sat down and contemplated -the peaceful picture presented to his view. The grey sky had that -melancholy look so depressing to the joyless and hopeless; the cold dull -water rolled noiselessly onward; to the left, the plain extended afar -without variety of surface. A few windmills reared their gaunt arms, -waiting for wind; and the wind, too weak to stir them, passed on and -left them motionless. To the right, at the extremity of the little -meadow, stood a square house of red bricks and regular construction, -isolated, silent, and melancholy. The thick greenish glass of the -windows refused to reflect the sunbeams; the roof supported gilded vanes -of fantastical form; the garden was laid out in formal parterres. A few -tulips, drooping their heavy heads, and dahlias, propped with white -sticks, were the sole flowers growing there, and these were hemmed in -and stifled by hedges of box. Trees, stunted and shabby, and with -dust-covered leaves, were cut into walls and into various eccentric -shapes. At the corners of the formal alleys, whose complicated windings -were limited to a narrow space, stood a few plaster figures. One of -these alleys led to the willow hedge. There nature resumed her rights; -the willows grew free and unrestrained, stretching out from the land and -drooping into the water; their inclined trunks forming flying-bridges, -supported but at one end. The bank was high enough for a certain space -to intervene between the stream and the horizontal stems. A few -branches, longer than the rest, swept the surface of the river, and were -kept in constant motion by its current. - -Beneath this dome of verdure the boat was moored, and there the young -man mused, gazing at the sky--melancholy as his heart--and at the -stream, in its course uncertain as his destiny. A few willow leaves -fluttered against his brow, one of his hands hung in the water, a gentle -breeze stirred his hair; nameless flowerets, blooming in the shelter of -the trees, gave out a faint perfume, detectable at intervals, at the -wind's caprice. A bird, hidden in the foliage, piped an amorous note, -and the student, cradled in his skiff, awaited his love. Ungrateful that -he was! he called time a laggard, and bid him speed; he was insensible -to the charm of the present hour. Ah! if he grows old, how well will he -understand that fortune then lavished on him the richest treasures of -life--hope and youth! - -Suddenly the student started, stood up, and, with outstretched neck, and -eyes riveted on the trees, he listened, scarce daring to breathe. The -foliage opened, and the face of a young girl was revealed to his gaze. -"Christine!" he exclaimed. - -Christine stepped upon the trunk of the lowest tree, and seated herself -with address on this pliant bench, which her weight, slight as it was, -caused to yield and rock. One of her hands, extended through the -branches that drooped towards the water, reached that of her lover, who -tenderly clasped it. Then she drew herself up again, and the tree, less -loaded, seemed to obey her will by imitating her movement. The young man -sat in his boat, with eyes uplifted towards the willow on which his love -reposed. - -Christine Van Amberg had none of the distinguishing features of the -country of her birth. Hair black as the raven's wing formed a frame to a -face full of energy and expression. Her large eyes were dark and -penetrating; her eyebrows, strongly marked and almost straight, would -perhaps have imparted too decided a character to her young head, if a -charming expression of candour and _naïveté_ had not given her the -countenance of a child rather than of a woman. Christine was fifteen -years of age. A slender silver circlet bound her brow and jet-black -tresses--a holiday ornament, according to her country's custom: but her -greatest festival was the sight of her lover. She wore a simple muslin -dress of a pale blue colour; a black silk mantle, intended to envelop -her figure, was placed upon her hair, and fell back upon her shoulders, -as if the better to screen her from the gaze of the curious. Seated on a -tree trunk, surrounded by branches and beside the water, like -Shakespeare's Ophelia, Christine was charming. But although young, -beautiful, and beloved, deep melancholy was the characteristic of her -features. Her companion, too, gazed mournfully at her, with eyes to -which the tears seemed about to start. - -"Herbert," said the young girl, stooping towards her lover, "Herbert, be -not so sad! we are both too young to despair of life. Herbert! better -times will come." - -"Christine! they have refused me your hand, expelled me your dwelling; -they would separate us entirely: they will succeed, to-morrow -perhaps!..." - -"Never!" exclaimed the young girl, with a glance like the lightning's -flash. But, like that flash, the expression of energy was momentary, and -gave way to one of calm melancholy. - -"If you would, Christine, if you would! ... how easy were it to fly -together, to unite our destinies on a foreign shore, and to live for -each other, happy and forgotten!... I will lead you to those glorious -lands where the sun shines as you see it in your dreams--to the summit -of lofty mountains whence the eye discovers a boundless horizon--to -noble forests with their thousand tints of green, where the fresh breeze -shall quicken your cheek, and sweep from your memory these fogs, this -humid clime, these monotonous plains. Our days shall pass blissfully in -a country worthy of our loves." - -As Herbert spoke, the young girl grew animated; she seemed to see what -he described, her eager eye sought the horizon as though she would -over-leap it, her lips parted as to inhale the mountain breeze. Then she -passed her hand hastily across her eyes, and sighed deeply. "No!" she -exclaimed; "no, I must remain here!... Herbert, it is my country: why -does it make me suffer? I remember another sky, another land,--but no, -it is a dream! I was born here, and have scarcely passed the boundary of -this meadow. My mother sang too often beside my cradle the ballads and -boleros of her native Seville; she told me too much of Spain, and I love -that unknown land as one pines after an absent friend!" - -The young girl glanced at the river, over which a dense fog was -spreading. A few rain-drops pattered amongst the leaves; she crossed her -mantle on her breast, and her whole frame shivered with sudden chill. - -"Leave me, Christine, you suffer!--return home, and, since you reject my -roof and hearth, abide with those who can shelter and warm you." - -A sweet smile played upon Christine's lips. "My beloved," she said, -"near you I prefer the chilling rain, this rough branch, and the biting -wind, to my seat in the house, far from you, beside the blazing chimney. -Ah! with what joy and confidence would I start on foot for the farthest -corner of the earth, your arm my sole support, your love my only wealth. -But...." - -"What retains you, Christine? your father's affection, your sisters' -tenderness, your happy home?" - -The young girl grew pale. "Herbert, it is cruel to speak thus. Well do I -know that my father loves me not, that my sisters are often unkind, that -my home is unhappy; I know it, indeed I know it, and I will follow -you.... If my mother consents!" - -Herbert looked at his mistress with astonishment. "Child!" he exclaimed, -"such consent will never leave your mother's lips. There are cases where -strength and resolution must be found in one's own heart. Your mother -will never say yes." - -"Perhaps!" replied Christine, slowly and gravely. "My mother loves me; I -resemble her in most things, and her heart understands mine. She knows -that Scripture says a woman shall leave her father and mother to follow -her husband; she is in the secret of our attachment, and, since our door -has been closed against you, I have not shed a tear that she has not -detected and replied to by another. You misjudge my mother, Herbert! -Something tells me she has suffered, and knows that a little happiness -is essential to life as the air we breathe. Nor would it surprise me, if -one day, when embracing me, as she does each night when we are alone, -she were to whisper: Begone, my poor child!" - -"I cannot think it, Christine. She will bid you obey, be comforted, -forget!" - -"Forget! Herbert, my mother forgets nothing. To forget is the resource -of cowardly hearts. No,--none will bid me forget." - -And once more a gloomy fire flashed in Christine's eyes, like the rapid -passage of a flame which illumines and instantly expires. It was a -revelation of the future rather than the expression of the present. An -ardent soul dwelt within her, but had not yet cast off all the -encumbrances of childhood. It struggled to make its way, and at times, -succeeding for a moment, a word or cry revealed its presence. - -"No--I shall not forget," added Christine; "I love you, and you love me, -who am so little loved! You find me neither foolish, nor fantastical, -nor capricious; you understand my reveries and the thousand strange -thoughts that invade my heart. I am very young, Herbert; and yet, here, -with my hand in yours, I answer for the future. I shall always love -you! ... and see, I do not weep. I have faith in the happiness of our -love; how? when? I know not,--it is the secret of my Creator, who would -not have sent me upon earth only to suffer. Happiness will come when He -deems right, but come it will! Yes,--I am young, full of life, I have -need of air and space; I shall not live enclosed and smothered here. The -world is large, and I will know it; my heart is full of love, and will -love for ever. No tears, dearest! obstacles shall be overcome, they must -give way, for I will be happy!" - -"But why delay, Christine? My love! my wife! an opportunity lost may -never be regained. A minute often decides the fate of a lifetime. -Perhaps, at this very moment, happiness is near us! A leap into my boat, -a few strokes of the oar, and we are united for ever!... Perhaps, if -you again return to land, we are for ever separated. Christine, come! -The wind rises: beneath my feet is a sail that will quickly swell and -bear us away rapidly as the wings of yon bird." - -Tears flowed fast over Christine's burning cheeks. She shuddered, looked -at her lover, at the horizon, thought of liberty; she hesitated, and a -violent struggle agitated her soul. At last, hiding her face amongst the -leafage of the willow, she clasped her arms round its stem, as if to -withhold herself from entering the boat, and in a stifled voice muttered -the words,--"My mother!" A few seconds afterwards, she raised her pallid -countenance. - -"If I fled," said she gently, "to whom would my mother speak of her dear -country? Who would weep with her when she weeps, if I were gone? She has -other children, but they are gay and happy, and do not resemble her. -Only my mother and myself are sad in our house. My mother would die of -my absence. I must receive her farewell blessing or remain by her side, -chilled like her by this inclement climate, imprisoned in yonder walls, -ill-treated by those who love me not. Herbert, I will not fly, I will -wait!" And she made a movement to regain the strand. - -"One instant,--yet one second,--Christine! I know not what chilling -presentiment oppresses my heart. Dearest,--if we were to meet no more! -If this little corner of earth were our last trysting-place--these -melancholy willows the witnesses of our eternal separation! Is it--can -it be--the last happy hour of my life that has just slipped by?" - -He covered his face with his hands, to conceal his tears. Christine's -heart beat violently--but she had courage. - -Letting herself drop from the tree, she stood upon the bank, separated -from the boat, which could not come nearer to shore. - -"Adieu, Herbert!" said she, "one day I will be your wife, faithful and -loving. It shall be, for I will have it so. Let us both pray God to -hasten that happy day. Adieu, I love you! Adieu, and till our next -meeting, for I love you!" - -The barrier of reeds and willows opened before the young girl. A few -small branches crackled beneath her tread; there was a slight noise in -the grass and bushes, as when a bird takes flight; then all was silence. - -Herbert wept. - - * * * * * - -The clock in the red brick house struck eight, and the family of Van -Amberg the merchant were mustered in the breakfast-room. Christine was -the only absentee. Near the fire stood the head of the family--Karl Van -Amberg--and beside him his brother, who, older than himself, yielded the -prerogative of seniority, and left him master of the community. Madame -Van Amberg was working near a window, and her two elder daughters, -fair-haired, white-skinned Dutchwomen, prepared the breakfast. - -Karl Van Amberg, the dreaded chief of this family, was of lofty stature; -his gait was stiff; his physiognomy passionless. His face, whose -features at first appeared insignificant, denoted a domineering temper. -His manners were cold. He spoke little; never to praise, but often in -terms of dry and imperious censure. His glance preceded his words and -rendered them nearly superfluous, so energetically could that small -sunken grey eye make itself understood. With the sole aid of his own -patience and ambition, Karl Van Amberg had made a large fortune. His -ships covered the seas. Never loved, always respected, his credit was -everywhere excellent. Absolute monarch in his own house, none dreamed of -opposing his will. All were mute and awed in his presence. At this -moment, he was leaning against the chimney-piece. His black garments -were very plain, but not devoid of a certain austere elegance. - -William Van Amberg, Karl's brother, was quite of an opposite character. -He would have passed his life in poverty, subsisting on the scanty -income left him by his parents, had not Karl desired wealth. He placed -his modest fortune in his brother's hands, saying, "Act as for -yourself!" Attached to his native nook of land, he lived in peace, -smoking and smiling, and learning from time to time that he was a richer -man by a few hundred thousand francs. One day, he was told that he -possessed a million; in reply, he merely wrote, "Thanks, Karl; it will -be for your children." Then he forgot his riches, and changed nothing in -his manner of life, even adhering in his dress to the coarse materials -and graceless fashion of a peasant dreading the vicinity of cities. His -youthful studies had consisted of a course of theology. His father, a -fervent Catholic, destined him for the church; but it came to pass, as a -consequence of his indecision of character, that William neither took -orders nor married, but lived quietly in his brother's family. The -habitual perusal of religious books sometimes gave his language a -mystical tone, contrasting with the rustic simplicity of his exterior. -This was his only peculiarity; otherwise he had nothing remarkable but -his warm heart and strong good sense. He was the primitive type of his -family: his brother was an example of the change caused by -newly-acquired wealth. - -Madame Van Amberg, seated at the window, sewed in silence. Her -countenance had the remains of great beauty, but she was weak and -suffering. A single glance sufficed to fix her birthplace far from -Holland. Her black hair and olive tint betrayed a southern origin. -Silently submissive to her husband, his iron character had pressed -heavily upon this delicate creature. She had never murmured; now she was -dying, but without complaint. Her look was one of deep melancholy. -Christine, her third daughter, resembled her. Of dark complexion, like -her mother, she contrasted strongly with her rosy-cheeked sisters. M. -Van Amberg did not love Christine. Rough and cold, even to those he -secretly cherished, he was severe and cruel to those he disliked. He had -never been known to kiss Christine. Her mother's were the only caresses -she knew, and even those were stealthily and tearfully bestowed. The two -poor women hid themselves to love each other. - -At intervals, Madame Van Amberg coughed painfully. The damp climate of -Holland was slowly conducting to her grave the daughter of Spain's -ardent land. Her large melancholy eyes mechanically sought the -monotonous horizon, which had bounded her view for twenty years. Fog and -rain surrounded the house. She gazed, shivered as if seized with deadly -cold, then resumed her work. - -Eight o'clock had just struck, and the two young Dutchwomen, who, -although rich heiresses, waited upon their father, had just placed the -tea and smoked beef upon the table, when Karl Van Amberg turned abruptly -to his wife. - -"Where is your daughter, madam?" - -He spoke of Christine, whom the restless gaze of Madame Van Amberg -vainly sought through the fog veiling the garden. At her husband's -question, the lady rose, opened the door, and, leaning on the banister, -twice uttered her daughter's name. There was no reply; she grew pale, -and again looked out anxiously through the fog. - -"Go in, Madame," was the surly injunction of Gothon, the old servant -woman, who knelt on the hall flags, which she had flooded with soap and -water, and was now vigorously scrubbing,--"Go, in, Madame; the damp -increases your cough, and Mademoiselle Christine is far enough away! The -bird flew before daybreak." - -Madame Van Amberg cast a mournful glance across the meadow, where -nothing moved, and into the parlour, where her stern husband awaited -her; then she went in and sat down at the table, around which the -remainder of the family had already placed themselves. No one spoke. All -could read displeasure upon M. Van Amberg's countenance, and none dared -attempt to change the course of his ideas. His wife kept her eyes fixed -upon the window, hoping her daughter's return. Her lips scarcely tasted -the milk that filled her cup; visible anguish increased the paleness of -her sweet, sad countenance. - -"Annunciata, my dear, take some tea," said her brother-in-law. "The day -is chill and damp, and you seem to suffer." - -Annunciata smiled sadly at William. For sole answer she raised to her -lips the tea he offered her, but the effort was too painful, and she -replaced the cup upon the table. M. Van Amberg looked at nobody; he ate, -his eyes fixed upon his plate. - -"Sister," resumed William, "it is a duty to care for one's health, and -you, who fulfil all your duties, should not neglect that one." - -A slight flush tinged the brow of Annunciata. Her eyes encountered those -of her husband, which he slowly turned towards her. Trembling, almost -weeping, she ceased her attempts to eat. And the silence was again -unbroken, as at the commencement of the meal. At last steps were heard -in the passage, the old servant grumbled something which did not reach -the parlour, then the door opened, and Christine entered; her muslin -dress damp with fog, her graceful curls disordered by the wind, her -black mantle glittering with a thousand little rain-drops. She was -crimson with embarrassment and fear. Her empty chair was beside her -mother; she sat down, and hung her head; none offered aught to the -truant child, and the silence continued. Yielding to maternal anxiety, -Madame Van Amberg took a handkerchief and wiped the moisture from -Christine's forehead and hair; then she took her hands to warm them in -her own. For the second time M. Van Amberg looked at his wife. She let -Christine's hands fall, and remained downcast and motionless as her -daughter. M. Van Amberg rose from table. A tear glistened in the -mother's eyes on seeing that her daughter had not eaten. But she said -nothing, and returning to the window, resumed her sewing. Christine -remained at table, preserving her frightened and abashed attitude. The -two eldest girls hastened to remove the breakfast things. - -"Do you not see what Wilhelmina and Maria are about? Can you not help -them?" - -At her father's voice, Christine hastily rose, seized the cups and -teapot, and hurried to and fro from parlour to pantry. - -"Gently! You will break something!" cried M. Van Amberg. "Begin in time, -to finish without hurry." - -Christine stood still in the middle of the room. Her two sisters smiled -as they passed her, and one of them muttered--for nobody spoke aloud in -M. Van Amberg's presence--"Christine will hardly learn housekeeping by -looking at the stars and watching the river flow!" - -"Now, then, Mademoiselle, you are spoiling everything here!" said the -old servant, who had just come in; "go and change that wet gown, which -ruins all my furniture." - -Christine remained where she was, not daring to stir without the -master's order. - -"Go," said M. Van Amberg. - -The young girl darted from the room and up the stairs, reached her -chamber, threw herself upon the bed and burst into tears. Below, Madame -Van Amberg continued to sew, her head bent over her work. When the cloth -was removed, Wilhelmina and Maria placed a large jug of beer, glasses, -long pipes, and a store of tobacco, upon the mahogany table, and pushed -forward two arm-chairs, in which Karl and William installed themselves. - -"Retire to your apartment, madam," said M. Van Amberg, in the imperious -tone habitual to him when he addressed his wife,--"I have to discuss -matters which do not concern you. Do not leave the house; I will call -you by-and-by; I wish to speak with you." - -Annunciata bowed in token of obedience, and left the room. Wilhelmina -and Maria approached their father, who silently kissed their pretty -cheeks. The two brothers lit their pipes, and remained alone. William -was the first to speak. - -"Brother Karl!" said he, resting his arms upon the table, and looking M. -Van Amberg in the face, "before proceeding to business, and at risk of -offending you, I must relieve my heart. Here, all fear you, and counsel, -the salutary support of man, is denied you." - -"Speak, William," coldly replied M. Van Amberg. - -"Karl, you treat Annunciata very harshly. God commands you to protect -her, and you allow her to suffer, perhaps to die, before your eyes, -without caring for her fate. The strong should sustain the weak. In our -native land, we owe kindness to the stranger who cometh from afar. The -husband owes protection to her he has chosen for his wife. For all these -reasons, brother, I say you treat Annunciata ill." - -"Does she complain?" said M. Van Amberg, filling his glass. - -"No, brother; only the strong resist and complain. A tree falls with a -crash, the reed bends noiselessly to the ground. No, she does not -complain, save by silence and suffering, by constant and passive -obedience, like that of a soulless automaton. You have deprived her of -life, the poor woman! One day she will cease to move and breathe; she -has long ceased to live!" - -"Brother, there are words that should not be inconsiderately spoken, -judgments that should not be hastily passed, for fear of injustice." - -"Do I not know your whole life, Karl, as well as my own, and can I not -therefore speak confidently, as one well informed?" - -M. Van Amberg inhaled the smoke of his pipe, threw himself back in his -arm-chair, and made no reply. - -"I know you as I know myself," resumed William, gently, "although our -hearts were made to love and not to resemble each other. When you found -our father's humble dwelling too small, I said nothing; you were -ambitious; when a man is born with that misfortune or blessing, he must -do like the birds, who have wings to soar; he must strive to rise. You -departed; I pressed your hand, and reproached you not; it is right that -each man should be happy his own way. You gained much gold, and gave me -more than I needed. You returned married, and I did not approve your -marriage. It is wiser to seek a companion in the land where one's days -are to end; it is something to love the same places and things, and then -it is only generous to leave one's wife a family, friends, well-known -objects to gaze upon. It is counting greatly on one's-self to take sole -charge of her happiness. Happiness sometimes consists of so many things! -Often an imperceptible atom serves as base to its vast structure: for my -part I do not like presumptuous experiments on the hearts of others. In -short, you married a foreigner, who perishes with cold in this country, -and sighs, amidst our fogs, for the sun of Spain. You committed a still -greater fault--Forgive me, brother; I speak plainly, in order not to -return to this subject." - -"I am attending to you, William; you are my elder brother." - -"Thanks for your patience, Karl. No longer young, you married a very -young woman. Your affairs took you to Spain. There you met a needy -Spanish noble, to whom you rendered a weighty service. You were always -generous, and increasing wealth did not close your hand. This noble had -a daughter, a child of fifteen. In spite of your apparent coldness, you -were smitten by her beauty, and you asked her of her father. Only one -thing struck you--that she was poor and would be enriched by the -marriage. A refusal of your offer would have been ingratitude to a -benefactor. They gave you Annunciata, and you took her, brother, without -looking whether joy was in her eyes, without asking the child whether -she willingly followed you, without interrogating her heart. In that -country the heart is precocious in its awakening ... perhaps she left -behind her some youthful dream ... some early love.... Forgive me, Karl; -the subject is difficult to discuss." - -"Change it, William," said M. Van Amberg, coldly. - -"Be it so. You returned hither, and when your business again took you -forth upon the ocean, you left Annunciata to my care. She lived many -years with me in this house. Karl, her youth was joyless and sad. -Isolated and silent, she wore out her days without pleasure or variety. -Your two eldest daughters, now the life of our dwelling, were then in -the cradle. They were no society to their mother; I was a very grave -companion for that young and beautiful creature. I have little reading -and knowledge, no imagination; I like my quiet arm-chair, my old books, -and my pipe. I at first allowed myself to believe--because I loved to -believe it--that Annunciata resembled me--that tranquillity and a -comfortable dwelling would suffice for her happiness, as they sufficed -for mine. But at last I understood--what you, brother, I fear, have -never comprehended--that she was not born to be a Dutch housewife. In -the first place, the climate tortured her. She constantly asked me if -finer summers would not come,--if the winters were always so -rigorous,--the fogs so frequent. I told her no, that the year was a bad -one; but I told her a falsehood, for the winters were always the same. -At first she tried to sing her Sevillian romances and boleros, but soon -her song died away and she wept, for it reminded her too much of her own -native land. Silent and motionless she sat, desiring, as I have read in -the Bible,--'The wings of the dove to fly away and be at rest.' Brother, -it was a melancholy sight. You know not how slowly the winter evenings -passed in this parlour. It was dark at four, and she worked by -lamp-light till bed-time. I endeavoured to converse, but she knew -nothing of the things I knew, and I was ignorant of those that -interested her. I saw at last that the greatest kindness was to leave -her to herself. She worked or was idle, wept or was calm, and I averted -my eyes to give her the only consolation in my power,--a little liberty. -But it was very sad, brother!" - -There was a moment's silence, broken by M. Van Amberg. "Madame Van -Amberg was in her own dwelling," said he, severely, "with her children, -and under the protection of a devoted friend. Her husband toiled in -foreign parts to increase the fortune of the family; she remained at -home to keep house and educate her daughters; all that is very natural." -And he filled his pipe. - -"True," replied William; "but still she was unhappy. Was it a crime? God -will decide. Leave her to His justice, Karl, and let us be merciful! -During your long absence, chance conducted hither some Spaniards whom -Annunciata had known in her childhood, and amongst them the son of an -old friend of her father's. Oh! with what mingled joy and agitation did -the dear child welcome her countrymen! What tears she shed in the midst -of her joy ... for she had forgotten how to be happy, and every emotion -made her weep. How eagerly she heard and spoke her native tongue! She -fancied herself again in Spain; for a while she was almost happy. You -returned, brother, and you were cruel; one day, without explaining your -motives, you shut your door upon the strangers. Tell me, why would you -not allow fellow-countrymen, friends, a companion of her childhood, to -speak to your wife of her family and native land? Why require complete -isolation, and a total rupture with old friends? She obeyed without a -murmur, but she suffered more than you thought. I watched her closely; -I, her old friend. Since that fresh proof of your rigour, she is sadder -than before. A third time she became a mother; it was in vain; her -unhappiness continued. Brother, your hand has been too heavy on this -feeble creature." - -M. Van Amberg rose, and slowly paced the room. "Have you finished, -William?" said he; "this conversation is painful, let it end here; do -not abuse the license I give you." - -"No; I have yet more to say. You are a cold and severe husband, but that -is not all; you are also an unjust father. Christine, your third -daughter, is denied her share of your affection, and by this partiality -you further wound the heart of Annunciata. Christine resembles her; she -is what I can fancy her mother at fifteen--a lively and charming -Spaniard; she has all her mother's tastes; like her she lives with -difficulty in our climate, and although born in it, by a caprice of -nature she suffers from it as Annunciata suffered. Brother, the child is -not easy to manage; independent, impassioned, violent in all her -impressions, she has a love of movement and liberty which ill agrees -with our regular habits, but she has also a good heart, and by appealing -to it you might perhaps have tamed her wild spirit. For Christine you -are neither more nor less than a pitiless judge. Her childhood was one -long grief. And thus, far from losing her wild restlessness, she loves -more than ever to be abroad and at liberty; she goes out at daybreak; -she looks upon the house as a cage whose bars hurt her, and you vainly -endeavour to restrain her. Brother, if you would have obedience, show -affection. It is a power that succeeds when all others fail. Why prevent -her marrying the man she loves? Herbert the student is not rich, nor is -his alliance brilliant; but they love each other!" - -M. Van Amberg, who had continued his walk, now stopped short, and coldly -replied to his brother's accusations: "Christine is only fifteen, and I -do my duty by curbing the foolish passion that prematurely disturbs her -reason. As to what you call my partiality, you have explained it -yourself by the defects of her character. You, who reproach others as -pitiless judges, beware yourself of judging too severely. Every man acts -according to his internal perceptions, and all things are not good to be -spoken. Empty your glass, William, and if you have finished your pipe, -do not begin another. The business I had to discuss with you will keep -till another day; it is late, and I am tired. It is not always wise to -rake up the memories of the past. I wish to be alone a while. Leave me, -and tell Madame Van Amberg to come to me in a quarter of an hour." - -"Why not say, 'Tell Annunciata?' Why, for so long a time, has that -strange sweet name never passed your lips?" - -"Tell Madame Van Amberg I would speak with her, and leave me, brother," -replied Karl sternly. - -William felt he had pushed Karl Van Amberg's patience to its utmost -limit; he got up and left the room. At the foot of the stairs he -hesitated a moment, then ascended, and sought Annunciata in Christine's -chamber. It was a narrow cell, shining with cleanliness, and containing -a few flowers in glasses, a wooden crucifix, with chaplets of beads -hanging on it, and a snow-white bed; a guitar (it was her mother's) was -suspended on the wall. From the window was seen the meadow, the river, -and the willows. Christine sat on the foot of the bed, still weeping; -her mother was beside her, offering her bread and milk, with which -Christine's tears mingled. Annunciata kissed her daughter's eyes, and -then furtively wiped her own. On entering, William stood for a few -moments at the door, mournfully contemplating this touching picture. - -"My brother, my good brother," cried Annunciata, "speak to my child! She -has forgotten prayer and obedience; her heart is no longer submissive, -and her tears avail nothing, for she murmurs and menaces. Ask her, -brother, by whom it was told her that life is joy? that we live only to -be happy? Talk to her of duty, and give her strength to accomplish it!" - -"Your husband inquires for you, sister. Go, I will remain with -Christine." - -"I go, my brother," replied Annunciata. Approaching the little mirror -above the chimney-piece, she washed the tear-stains from her eyes, -pressed her hand upon her heart to check its throbbings, and when her -countenance had resumed its expression of calm composure, she descended -the stairs. Gothon was seated on the lower steps. - -"You spoil her, madame," said she roughly to her mistress; "foolish ears -need sharp words. You spoil her." - -Gothon had been in the house before Annunciata, and had been greatly -displeased by the arrival of her master's foreign lady, whose authority -she never acknowledged. But she had served the Van Ambergs' mother, and -therefore it was without fear of dismissal that she oppressed, after her -own fashion, her timid and gentle mistress. - -Annunciata entered the parlour and remained standing near the door as if -waiting an order. Her husband's countenance was graver and more gloomy -than ever. - -"Can no one hear us, madam? Are you sure we are alone?" - -"Quite alone, sir," replied the astonished Annunciata. - -M. Van Amberg recommenced his walk. For some moments he said nothing. -His wife, her hand resting on the back of an arm-chair, silently awaited -his pleasure. At last he again spoke. - -"You bring up your daughter Christine badly; I left her to your care and -guidance, and you do not watch over her. Do you know where she goes and -what she does?" - -"From her childhood, sir," replied Annunciata gently, pausing between -each phrase, "Christine has loved to live in the open air. She is -delicate, and requires sun and liberty to strengthen her. Till now you -have allowed her to live thus; I saw no harm in letting her follow her -natural bent. If you disapprove, sir, she will obey your orders." - -"You bring up your daughter badly," coldly repeated M. Van Amberg. "She -will dishonour the name she bears." - -"Sir!!" exclaimed Annunciata, her cheeks suffused with the deepest -crimson; her eyes emitting a momentary but vivid flash. - -"Look to it, madam, I will have my name respected, that you know! You -also know I am informed of whatever passes in my house. Your daughter -secretly meets a man to whom I refused her hand; this morning, at six -o'clock, they were together on the river bank!" - -"My daughter! my daughter!" cried Annunciata in disconsolate tones. "Oh! -it is impossible! She is innocent! she shall remain so! I will place -myself between her and evil, I will save my child! I will take her in my -arms, and close her ears to dangerous words. My daughter, I will say, -remain innocent, remain honoured, if you would not see me die!" - -With unmoved eye M. Van Amberg beheld the mother's emotion. Beneath his -frozen gaze, Annunciata felt embarrassed by her own agitation; she made -an effort to calm herself; then, with clasped hands, and eyes filled -with tears, which she would not allow to flow, she resumed, in a -constrained voice: - -"Is this beyond doubt, sir?" - -"It is," replied M. Van Amberg: "I never accuse without certainty." - -There was a moment's silence. M. Van Amberg again spoke. - -"You will lock Christine in her room, and bring me the key. She will -have time to reflect, and I trust reflection will be of service to her; -in a prolonged seclusion she will lose that love of motion and liberty -which leads her into harm; the silence of complete solitude will allay -the tumult of her thoughts. None shall enter her room, save Gothon, who -shall take her her meals, and return me the key. This is what I have -decided upon as proper." - -Madame Van Amberg's lips opened several times to speak, but her courage -failed her. At last she advanced a pace or two. - -"But I, sir, I," said she in a stifled voice, "_I_ am to see my child!" - -"I said no one," replied M. Van Amberg. - -"But she will despair, if none sustain her. I will be severe with her; -you may be assured I will! Let me see her, if only once a-day. She may -fall ill of grief, and who will know it? Gothon dislikes her. For pity's -sake, let me see Christine! For a minute only, a single minute." - -M. Van Amberg once more stood still, and fixed upon his wife a look that -made her stagger. "Not another word!" he said. "I allow no discussion, -madam. No one shall see Christine; do you hear?" - -"I will obey," replied Annunciata. - -"Convey my orders to your daughter. At dinner bring me the key of her -room. Go." - -Madame Van Amberg found Christine alone, seated on her bed, and -exhausted by long weeping. Her beautiful face, at times so energetic, -wore an expression of profound and touching dejection. Her long hair -fell in disorder on her shoulders, her figure was bent, as if weighed -down by grief: her rosary had fallen from her half-open hand; she had -tried to obey her mother and to pray, but had been able only to weep. -Her black mantle, still damp with rain, lay upon a table, a few willow -sprays peeping from its silken folds. Christine eyed them with mingled -love and melancholy. She thought it a century since she saw the sun -rise on the river, on the old trees, and on Herbert's skiff. Her mother -slowly approached her. - -"My child," said she, "where were you at daybreak this morning?" - -Christine raised her eyes to her mother's face, looked at her, but did -not answer. Annunciata repeated her question without change of word or -tone. Then Christine let herself slide from the bed to the ground, and -kneeled before her mother. - -"I was seated," she said, "upon the trunk of a willow that overhangs the -stream. I was near Herbert's boat." - -"Christine!" exclaimed Madame Van Amberg, "can it be true? Oh, my child, -could you so infringe the commands laid upon you! Could you thus forget -my lessons and advice! Christine, you thought not of me when you -committed that fault!" - -"Herbert said to me, 'Come, you shall be my wife, I will love you -eternally, you shall be free and happy; all is ready for our marriage -and our flight; come!' I replied, 'I will not leave my mother!' Mother, -you have been my safeguard; if it be a crime to follow Herbert, it is -the thought of you alone that prevented my committing it. I would not -leave my mother!" - -A beam of joy illumined Annunciata's countenance. Murmuring a -thanksgiving to God, she raised her kneeling child and seated her by her -side. - -"Speak to me, Christine," she said, "open your heart, and tell me all -your thoughts. Together we will regret your faults, and seek hope for -the future. Speak, my daughter; conceal nothing." - -Christine laid her head upon her mother's shoulder, put one of her -little hands in hers, sighed deeply, as though her heart were too -oppressed for words, and spoke at last with effort and fatigue. - -"Mother," she said, "I have nothing to confess that you do not already -know. I love Herbert. He is but a poor student, intrusted to my father's -care, but he has a noble heart--like mine, somewhat sad. He knows much, -and he is gentle to those who know nothing. Poor, he is proud as a king: -he loves, and he tells it only to her who knows it. My mother, I love -Herbert! He asked my hand of my father, whose reply was a smile of -scorn. Then he was kept from me, and I tried to exist without seeing -him. I could not do it. I made many _neuvaines_ on the rosary you gave -me. I had seen you weep and pray, mother, and I said to myself--Now that -I weep as she does, I must also pray like her. But it happened once, as -day broke, that I saw a small boat descend the stream, then go up again, -and again descend; from time to time a white sail fluttered in the air -as one flutters a kerchief to a departing friend. My thoughts, then as -now, were on Herbert; I ran across the meadow--I reached the -stream--Mother, it was he! hoping and waiting my coming. Long and -mournfully we bewailed our separation; fervently we vowed to love until -death. This morning Herbert, discouraged and weary of waiting a change -in our position, urged me to fly with him. I might have fled, mother, -but I thought of you and remained. I have told you all; if I have done -wrong, forgive me, dearest mother!" - -With deep emotion Madame Van Amberg listened to her daughter, and -remained buried in reflection, when Christine paused. She felt that the -young girl's suffering heart needed gentle lessons, affectionate advice; -and, instead of these, she was the bearer of a sentence whose severity -must aggravate the evil--she was compelled to deny her sick child the -remedies that might have saved her. - -"You love him very dearly, then," said she at last, fixing a long -melancholy look on her daughter's countenance. - -"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Christine, "I love him with all my soul! My life -is passed in expecting, seeing, remembering him! I could never make you -understand how entirely my heart is his. Often I dream of dying for him, -not to save his life, that were too easy and natural, but uselessly at -his command." - -"Hush! Christine, hush! you frighten me," cried Annunciata, placing both -hands upon her daughter's mouth. By a quick movement Christine -disengaged herself from her mother's arms. - -"Ah!" she exclaimed, "you know not what it is to love as I do! My father -could never let himself be loved thus!" - -"Be silent, my child! be silent!" repeated Annunciata energetically. -"Oh, my daughter! how to instil into your heart thoughts of peace and -duty! Almighty Father! bless my weak words, that they may touch her -soul! Christine, hear me!" - -Annunciata took her daughter's hands, and compelled her to stand before -her. "My child," she said, "you know nothing of life; you walk at -random, and are about to wander from the right path. All young hearts -have been troubled as yours is now. The noble ones have struggled and -triumphed; the others have fallen! Life is no easy and pleasant passage; -its trials are many and painful--its struggles severe; believe me, for -us women there is no true happiness beyond the bounds of duty. And when -happiness is not our destiny, many great things still remain to us. -Honour, the esteem of others, are not mere empty words. Hear me, beloved -child! That God whom from your infancy I have taught you to love, do you -not fear offending him? Seek Him, and you will find better consolation -than I can offer. Christine, we love in God those from whom we are -severed on earth. He, who in his infinite wisdom imposed so many -fetters on the heart of woman, foresaw the sacrifices they would entail, -and surely he has kept treasures of love for hearts that break in -obedience to duty." - -Annunciata rapidly wiped the tears inundating her fine countenance; then -clasping Christine's arm-- - -"On your knees, my child! on our knees both of us before the Christ I -gave you! 'Tis nearly dark, and yet we still discern Him--his arms -seeming to open for us. Bless and save and console my child, oh merciful -God! Appease her heart; make it humble and obedient!" - -Her prayer at an end, she rose, and throwing her arms round Christine, -who had passively allowed herself to be placed on her knees and lifted -up again, she embraced her tenderly, pressed her to her heart, and -bathed her hair with tears. "My daughter," she murmured between her -kisses, "my daughter, speak to me! Utter one word that I may take with -me as a hope! My child, will you not speak to your mother?" - -"Mother, I love Herbert!" was Christine's reply. - -Annunciata looked despairingly at her child, at the crucifix upon the -wall, at the darkening sky seen through the open window. The dinner-bell -rang. Madame Van Amberg made a strong effort to collect and express her -ideas. - -"M. Van Amberg," said she in broken voice, "orders you to remain in your -room. I am to take him the key. You are to see no one. The hour is come, -and he expects me." - -"A prisoner!" cried Christine; "A prisoner,--alone, all day! Death -rather than that!" - -"He will have it so," repeated Annunciata mournfully; "I must obey. He -will have it so." And she approached the door, casting upon Christine a -look of such ineffable love and grief, that the young girl, fascinated -by the gaze, let her depart without opposition. The key turned in the -lock, and Annunciata, supporting herself by the banister, slowly -descended. She found M. Van Amberg alone in the parlour. - -"You have been a long time up stairs," said he. "Have you convinced -yourself that your daughter saw the student Herbert this morning?" - -"She did," murmured Annunciata. - -"You have told her my orders?" - -"I have done so." - -"Where is the key?" She gave it him. - -"Now to dinner," said M. Van Amberg, walking into the dining-room. -Annunciata endeavoured to follow him, but her strength failed her, and -she sank upon a chair. - -M. Van Amberg sat down alone to his dinner. - - * * * * * - -"A prisoner!" repeated Christine in her solitude; "apart from all! shut -up! Yon meadow was too wide a range; the house too spacious a prison. I -must have a narrower cell, with more visible walls--a straiter -captivity! They deprive me of the little air I breathed--the scanty -liberty I found means to enjoy!" - -She opened the window to its full extent; leaned upon the sill, and -looked at the sky. It was very dark; heavy clouds hid the stars; no -light fell upon the earth; different shades of obscurity alone marked -the outlines of objects. The willows, so beautiful when Herbert and the -sun were there, were now a black and motionless mass; dead silence -reigned around. In view of nature thus lifeless and lightless, hopes of -happiness could hardly enter the heart. Christine was in a fever: she -felt oppressed and crushed by unkindly influences, by the indifference -of friends, by a tyrant's will, even by the cold and mournful night. The -young girl's heart beat quickly and rebelliously. - -"Be it so!" she exclaimed aloud; "let them have their way! They may -render me unhappy; I will not complain. They sanctify my love by -persecution. Happy, I should perhaps have been ashamed to love so much. -But they rob me of air and liberty; I suffer; I weep. Ah! I feel proud -that my heart still throbs with joy in the midst of so many evils. My -sufferings will hallow my love, will compel the respect of those who -scoffed and slighted it. Herbert! dear Herbert! where are you at this -moment? Do you joyfully anticipate to-morrow's dawn: are you busy with -your boat, preparing it for its early cruise? Or do you sleep, dreaming -of the old willows in the meadow, hearing the waters murmur through -their branches, and the voice of Christine promising her return? But no; -it cannot be; our hearts are too united for their feelings thus to -differ! You are sad, my love, and you know not why; I am sad with -knowledge of our misfortune--'tis the sole difference separation can -establish between us. When shall we meet again, Herbert? Alas! I know -not, but meet we surely shall. If God lets me live, he will let me love -you." - -Christine shut the window and threw herself on her bed without -undressing. It was cold; she wrapped herself in her mantle, and -gradually her head sank upon her breast. Her hands, at first pressed -against each other, opened and fell by her sides. She dropped asleep, -like an infant, in the midst of her tears. - -The first sun-rays, feeble though they were, awoke Christine, who sprang -hastily from her couch. "Herbert waits for me!" she exclaimed. At her -age memory is better for joy than for sorrow. For her the dawn of day -was still a rendezvous of love. The next moment she awoke to the -consciousness of her captivity. She went to the window, leaned out as on -the previous evening, and looked mournfully around. In a corner of the -heavens was a glow of light, intercepted by billows of cloud. The pale -foliage of the willows shivered in the breeze, which ruffled the leaves -without bending the branches; the long fine grass of the meadow was seen -through a veil of fog, as yet undispelled by the sun. The sounds of -awakening nature had scarce begun, when a white sail stood out upon the -surface of the stream, gliding lightly along like the open wing of a -graceful bird. It passed to and fro in front of the meadow; was lowered -before the trees, and then again displayed, bending the boat's gunwale -to the water's surface, hovering continually around a point of the bank, -as though confined within the circle of an invisible fascination. At -long intervals the wind brought a faint and scarce perceptible sound, -like the last notes of a song; then the little bark again manoeuvred, -and its sail flapped in the air. The pale tints of dawn gave way to the -warmer sunbeams; passengers appeared upon the bank; trading boats -ascended the river; the windows of the red brick house opened as if to -inhale the morning air. The boat lowered its sail, and floated slowly -away at the will of the current. Christine looked after it and wept. - -Twice during that day, Gothon opened the door of the young girl's -chamber, and brought her a frugal meal. Twice did Gothon depart without -uttering a word. The whole day passed in silence and solitude. Christine -knew not how to get rid of the weary hours. She knelt before the -crucifix, her alabaster rosary in her hand, her head raised towards the -cross, and prayed. But her prayer was for Herbert, to see him again; she -never dreamed of praying to forget him. Then she took down the guitar, -passed round her neck the faded blue ribbon, tied on it at Seville, and -which her mother would never allow to be changed. She struck a few -chords of the songs she best loved; but her voice was choked, and her -tears flowed more abundantly when she tried to sing. She collected the -little sprays of willow, and placed them in a book to dry and preserve -them. But the day was very long; and the poor child fluttered in her -prison like a caged bird, with an anguish that each moment increased. -Her head burned, her bosom throbbed. At last night came. Seated near the -open window, the cold calmed her a little. They brought her no light, -and time passed more slowly than ever. She went to bed, but, deprived of -her accustomed exercise, tormented by a thousand anxieties, she could -not sleep; she got up, walked about in the darkness, and again lay down; -slumber still avoided her. This time her eyes, red with tears and -watchfulness, beheld the sun rise without illusion; she did not for a -moment forget her captivity, but looked mournfully out at the little -sail which, faithful to its rendezvous, came each morning with the sun. -Again, none but Gothon disturbed her solitude. During another long day, -Christine, alternately desponding and excited, walked, wept, lamented, -and prayed. Night came again. Nothing broke the silence; the lights in -the red house were extinguished one after the other. Profound darkness -covered the earth. Christine remained at her window, insensible to cold. -Suddenly she started: she heard her name pronounced in low tones at the -foot of the wall. She listened. - -"Christine, my daughter!" repeated the voice. - -"Mother," exclaimed Christine, "you out in this dreadful weather! I -conjure you to go in!" - -"I have been two days in bed, my child; I have been unwell; to-night I -am better; I felt it impossible to remain longer without seeing you, who -are my life, my strength, my health! Oh! you were right not to leave me; -it would have killed me. Are you well, dear Christine? Have you all you -require? How do you live, deprived of my caresses?" - -"Dearest mother, for heaven's sake, go in! The night is damp and cold; -it will be your death!" - -"Your voice warms me; it is far from you that I feel chill and faint. -Dearest child, my heart sends you a thousand kisses." - -"I receive them on my knees, mother, my arms extended towards you. But, -when shall I see you again?" - -"When you submit, and promise to obey; when you no longer seek him you -are forbidden to see, and whom you must forget. My daughter, it is your -duty." - -"Oh mother, I thought your heart could better understand what it never -felt. I thought you respected the true sentiments of the soul, and that -your lips knew not how to utter the word 'forget.' If I forgot, I should -be a mere silly child, capricious, unruly, unworthy your tenderness. If -my malady is without remedy, I am a steadfast woman, suffering and -self-sacrificing. Good God! how is it you do not understand that?" - -"I understand," murmured Annunciata, but in so low a tone that she was -sure her daughter could not hear her. - -"Mother," resumed Christine, "go to my father! summon up that courage -which fails you when you alone are concerned; speak boldly to him, tell -him what I have told you; demand my liberty, my happiness." - -"I!" exclaimed Annunciata in terror; "I brave M. Van Amberg, and oppose -his will!" - -"Not oppose, but supplicate! compel his heart to understand what mine -experiences; force him to see and hear and feel that my life may cease, -but not my love. Who can do it, if you cannot? I am a captive. My -sisters know not love, my uncle William has never known it. It needs a -woman's voice to express a woman's feelings." - -"Christine, you know not what you ask. The effort is above my strength." - -"I ask a proof of my mother's love; I am sure she will give it me." - -"I shall die in so doing. M. Van Amberg can kill me by a word." - -Christine started and trembled. "Do not go, then, dearest mother. -Forgive my egotism; I thought only of myself. If my father has such -terrible power, avoid his anger. I will wait, and entreat none but God." - -There was a brief pause. "Christine," said Madame Van Amberg, "since I -am your only hope, your sole reliance, and you have called me to your -aid, I will speak to him. Our fate is in the hands of heaven." - -Annunciata interrupted herself by a cry of terror; a hand rudely grasped -her arm; M. Van Amberg, without uttering a word, dragged her to the -house door, compelled her to enter, took out the key, and made her pass -before him into the parlour. A lamp burned dimly upon the table, its oil -nearly exhausted; at times it emitted a bright flash, and then suddenly -became nearly extinguished. The corners of the room were in darkness, -the doors and windows closed, perfect silence reigned; the only object -on which a strong light fell, was the countenance of M. Van Amberg. It -was calm, cold, motionless. His great height, the piercing look of his -pale grey eyes, the austere regularity of his features, combined to give -him the aspect of an implacable judge. - -"You would speak with me, madam," said he to Annunciata; "I am here, -speak!" - -On entering the parlour, Annunciata let herself fall into a chair. Her -clothes streamed with water; her hair, heavy with rain, fell upon her -shoulders; her extreme paleness gave her the appearance of a corpse -rather than of a living creature. Terror obliterated memory, even of -what had just occurred; her mind was confused; she felt only that she -suffered horribly. Her husband's voice and words restored the chain of -her ideas; the poor woman thought of her child, made a violent effort, -rallied her strength, and rose to her feet. - -"Now then," she murmured, "since it must be so!" - -M. Van Amberg waited in silence, his arms crossed upon his breast, his -eyes fixed upon his wife; he stood like a statue, assisting neither by -word nor gesture the poor creature who trembled before him. Annunciata -looked long at him before speaking; she hoped that at sight of her -tears and sufferings, M. Van Amberg would remember he had loved her. She -threw her whole soul into her eyes, but not a muscle of her husband's -countenance moved. He waited for her to break silence. - -"I need your indulgence," she at last said; "it costs me a fearful -effort to address you. In general I do but answer; I am unaccustomed to -speak first, and I am afraid. I dread your anger; have compassion on a -trembling woman, who would fain be silent, and who must speak. -Christine's happiness is in your hands. The poor child implores me to -soften your rigour.... Did I refuse, not a creature upon earth would -intercede for her. This is why I venture to petition you, sir." - -M. Van Amberg continued silent. Annunciata wiped the tears from her -cheeks and resumed with more courage. - -"She is much to be pitied; she has inherited the faults you blame in me. -Believe me, sir, I have laboured hard to check them in the bud. I have -striven, exhorted, punished, have spared neither advice nor prayers, but -all in vain. God has not been pleased to spare me this new grief. Her -nature is unchangeable; she is to blame, but she is also much to be -pitied. Christine loves with all her soul. Women die of such love as -hers, and when they do not die, they suffer frightfully. For pity's -sake, sir, let her marry him she loves!" - -Annunciata covered her face with her hands, and awaited in an agony of -anxiety her husband's reply. - -"Your daughter," said M. Van Amberg, "is still a child; she has -inherited, as you say, a character that needs restraint. I will not -yield to the first caprice that traverses her silly head. Herbert is -only two-and-twenty; we know nothing of his character. Your daughter -requires a protector, and a judicious guide. Herbert has neither family, -fortune, nor position. He shall never be the husband of a woman who -bears the name of Mademoiselle Van Amberg!" - -"Sir!" cried Annunciata, clasping her hands and breathless with emotion, -"Sir! the best guidance for a woman's life is a union with the man she -loves! It is her best safeguard, it strengthens her against the cares of -the world. I entreat you, Karl!" exclaimed Madame Van Amberg, falling -upon her knees, "have compassion on my daughter! Do not render duty a -torture; do not exact from her too much courage! We are weak creatures: -we have need both of love and virtue. Place her not in the terrible -necessity of choosing between them. Pity, Karl, pity!" - -"Madam," cried M. Van Amberg, and this time his frame was agitated by a -slight nervous trembling, "Madam, you are very bold to speak to me thus! -You! you! to dare to hold such language to me! Silence! and teach your -daughter not to hesitate in her choice between good and evil. Do that, -instead of weeping uselessly at my feet." - -"Yes, it is bold of me, sir, thus to address you; but I have found -courage in suffering. I am ill,--in pain,--my life is worthless, save as -a sacrifice--let my child take it, I will speak for her! Her fate is in -your hands, do not crush her by a cruel decision! An absolute judge and -master should be guarded in word and deed, for a reckoning will be asked -of him! Be merciful to my child!" - -M. Van Amberg approached his wife, took her arm, placed his other hand -on her mouth, and said:-- - -"Silence! I command you; no such scenes in my house, no noise and -whimpering. Your daughters sleep within a few yards of you, do not -disturb their repose. Your servants are above, do not awaken them. -Silence! you had no business to speak; I was wrong to listen to you. -Never dare again to discuss my orders; it is I whom your children must -obey, I whom you must obey yourself. Retire to your apartment, and -to-morrow let me find you what you yesterday were." - -M. Van Amberg had regained his usual calmness. He walked slowly from the -room. - -"Oh, my daughter!" exclaimed Annunciata, despairingly, "nothing can I do -for you! Merciful Father! what will become of me, placed between him and -her, both inflexible in their resolves!" - -The lamp which feebly illuminated this scene of sorrow, now suddenly -went out and left the unhappy mother in profound darkness. The rain beat -against the windows,--the wind howled,--the house clock struck four. - -Christine had seen M. Van Amberg seize Annunciata's arm, and lead her -away with him; afterwards, she had distinguished, through the slight -partitions of the house, a faint echo as of mingled sobs, entreaties, -and reproaches. She understood that her fate was deciding,--that her -poor mother had devoted herself for her, and was face to face with the -stern ruler whose look alone she usually dared not brave. Christine -passed the night in terrible anxiety, abandoning herself alternately to -discouragement and to joyful hopes. At her age it is not easy to -despair. Fear, however, predominated over every other emotion, and she -would have given years of existence to learn what had passed. But the -day went by like the previous one. She saw none but Gothon. Her she -ventured to question, but the old servant had orders not to answer. - -Another day elapsed. Christine's solitude was still unbroken, no -friendly voice reached her ear, no kindly hand lifted the veil shrouding -her future. The poor girl was exhausted, she had not even the energy of -grief. She wept without complaint, almost without a murmur. Night came, -and she fell asleep, exhausted by her sorrow. She had scarcely slept an -hour when she was awakened by the opening of the door, and Gothon, lamp -in hand, approached her bed. "Get up Mademoiselle," said the servant, -"and follow me." - -Christine dressed herself as in a dream, and hastily followed Gothon, -who conducted her to her mother's room, opened the door, and drew back -to let her pass. A sad spectacle met the young girl's eyes. Annunciata, -pale and almost inanimate, lay in the agonies of death. Her presentiment -had not deceived her; suffering and agitation had snapped the slender -strings that bound her to the earth. The light of the lamp fell full -upon her features, whose gentle beauty pain was impotent to deface. -Resignation and courage were upon her countenance, over which came a -gleam of joy when Christine appeared. Wilhelmina and Maria knelt and -wept at the foot of their mother's bed. William stood a little apart, -holding a prayer-book, but his eyes had left the page to look at -Annunciata, and two large tears trembled on their lids. M. Van Amberg, -seated beside his wife's pillow, had his face shaded by his hand, so -that none could see its expression. - -With a piercing cry, Christine rushed to Madame Van Amberg, who received -her in her arms. "Mother!" she cried, her cheek against Annunciata's, -"it is I who have killed you! For love of me you have exceeded your -strength." - -"No, my beloved, no," replied Annunciata, kissing her daughter between -each word, "I die of an old and incurable malady. But I die happy, since -I once more clasp you in my arms." - -"And they did not let me nurse you!" cried Christine, indignantly -raising her head; "they concealed your illness! They let me weep for -other sorrows than yours, my mother!" - -"Dearest child," replied Annunciata gently, "this crisis has been very -sudden; two hours ago they knew not my danger, and I wished to fulfil my -religious duties before seeing you. I wished to think only of God. Now I -can abandon myself to the embraces of my children." And she clasped her -weeping daughters to her heart. "Dear children," said she, "God is full -of mercy to the dying, and sanctifies a mother's benediction. I bless -you, my daughters; remember and pray for me." - -The three young girls bowed their heads upon their mother's hand, and -replied by tears alone to this solemn farewell. - -"My good brother," resumed Annunciata to William, "my good brother, we -have long lived together, and to me you have ever been a devoted friend, -indulgent and gentle. I thank you, brother!" - -William averted his head to conceal his tears, but a deep sob escaped -him, and he turned his venerable face towards Annunciata. - -"Do not thank me, sister," he said, "I have done little for you. I loved -you, that is certain, but I could not enliven your solitude. My sister, -you will still live for the happiness of us all." - -Annunciata gently shook her head. Her glance sought her husband, as if -she would fain have addressed her last words to him. But they expired on -her lips. She looked at him timidly, sadly, and then closed her eyes, to -check the starting tears. She grew visibly weaker, and as death -approached, a painful anxiety took possession of her. Resigned, she was -not calm. It was ordained her soul should suffer and be troubled to the -end. The destiny of one of her daughters disturbed her last moments; she -dared not pronounce the name of Christine, she dared not ask compassion -for her; a thousand conflicting doubts and fears agitated her poor -heart. She died as she had lived, repressing her tears, concealing her -thoughts. From time to time she turned to her husband, but his head -continued sunk upon his hand; not one look of encouragement could she -obtain. At last came the spasm that was to break this frail existence. -"Adieu! Adieu!" she murmured in unintelligible accents. Her eyes no -longer obeyed her, and none could tell whom they sought. William -approached his brother, and placed his hand upon his shoulder. "Karl!" -he whispered in tones audible but to him he addressed, "she is dying! -Have you nothing to say to a poor creature who has so long lived with -you and suffered by you? Living, you loved her not; do not let her die -thus! Fear you not, Karl, lest this woman, oppressed and slighted by -you, should expire with a leaven of resentment in her heart? Crave her -pardon before she departs." - -For an instant all was silent. M. Van Amberg stirred not. Annunciata, -her head thrown back, seemed to have already ceased to exist. On a -sudden, she moved, raised herself with difficulty, leaned over towards -M. Van Amberg, and groped for his hand as though she had been blind. -When she found it, she bowed her face upon it, kissed it twice, and -expired in that last kiss. - -"On your knees!" cried William, "on your knees, she is in heaven! let us -implore her intercession!" And all knelt down. - -Of all the prayers addressed to God by man during his life of trial, not -one is more solemn than that which escapes the desolate heart, when a -beloved soul flies from earth to heaven, to stand, for the first time, -in the presence of its Creator. - -M. Van Amberg rose from his knees. - -"Leave the room!" said he to his brother and daughters, "I would be -alone with my wife." - -Alone, beside the bed of his dead wife, Karl Van Amberg gazed upon the -pale countenance, to which death had restored all the beauty of youth. A -tear, left there by human suffering, a tear which none other was to -follow, glittered upon the clay-cold cheek; one arm still hung out of -bed, as when it held his hand; the head was in the position in which it -had kissed his fingers. He gazed at her, and the icy envelope that bound -his heart was at last broken. "Annunciata!" he exclaimed, "Annunciata!" - -For fifteen years that name had not passed his lips. Throwing himself on -his wife's corpse, he clasped her in his arms and kissed her forehead. - -"Annunciata!" he cried, "can you not feel this kiss of peace and love! -Annunciata, we have both suffered terribly! God did not grant us -happiness. I loved you from the first day that I saw you, a joyous child -in Spain, till this sad moment that I press you dead upon my heart. Oh -Annunciata, how great have been our sufferings!" - -Karl Van Amberg wept. - -"Repose in peace, poor woman!" he murmured; "may you find in heaven the -repose denied you upon earth!" And with trembling hand he closed -Annunciata's eyes. Then he knelt down beside her. - -"Almighty God!" he said, "I have been severe. Be thou merciful!" - - * * * * * - -When, at break of day, M. Van Amberg left the chamber of death, his face -had resumed its habitual expression; his inflexible soul, for a moment -bowed, had regained its usual level. To Annunciata had been given the -last word of love, the last tear of that heart of adamant. To the eyes -of all he reappeared as the stern master and father, the man on whose -brow no sorrow left a trace. His daughters bowed themselves upon his -passage, William spoke not to him, order and regularity returned to the -house. Annunciata was buried without pomp or procession. She left, to -revisit it no more, the melancholy abode where her suffering soul had -worn out its mortal envelope; she ceased to live, as a sound ceases to -be heard, as a cloud passes, as a flower fades; nothing stopped or -altered because she went. If any mourned her, they mourned in silence; -if they thought of her, they proclaimed not their thoughts; her name was -no more heard; only the interior of the little red house was rather more -silent, and M. Van Amberg's countenance appeared to all more rigid than -before. During the day, Christine's profound grief obeyed the iron will -that weighed on each member of the family. The poor child was silent, -worked, sat at table, lived on as if her heart had not been crushed; but -at night, alone in the little room where her mother had so often wept -with her, she gave free course to grief; she invoked her mother, spoke -to her, extended her arms to her, and would fain have left the earth to -be with her in heaven. "Take me to you, dear mother!" she would exclaim. -"Deprived of you, apart from him, I cannot live! Since I saw you die, I -no longer fear death." - -Since the death of Annunciata, Christine was allowed her liberty, M. Van -Amberg doubtless thinking, and with reason, that she would make no use -of it during her first grief. Or, perhaps, with his wife's corpse -scarcely cold, he hesitated to recur to the severity that had caused her -so many tears. Whatever his motive, Christine was free, at least to all -appearance. The three sisters, in deep mourning, never passed the -threshold; they sat all day at work near the low window of the parlour, -supped with their uncle and father, then retired to bed. During the long -hours of their silent work, Christine often thought of her lover. She -dared not attempt to see him; she would have expected to hear her -mother's voice murmur in her ear,--"My daughter, it is too soon to be -happy! Mourn me yet a little, alone and without consolation." - -One morning, after a night of tears, Christine fell into a tardy -slumber, broken by dreams. Now it was her mother, who took her in her -arms, and flew with her towards heaven. "I will not let you live," said -Annunciata, "for life is sorrow. I have prayed of God to let you die -young, that you may not weep as I have wept!" - -The next instant she beheld herself clothed in white and crowned with -flowers. Herbert was there, love sparkling in his eyes. "Come, my -betrothed!" he said, "life is joy! My love shall guard you from all -evil; come, we will be happy!" - -She started up, awakened by a sudden noise in her chamber. The window -was open, and on the floor lay a pebble with a letter attached. Her -first impulse was to fly to the window; a bush stirred in the direction -of the river, but she saw no one. She snatched up the letter, she -guessed it was Herbert's writing. It seems as if one never saw for the -first time the writing of him one loves; the heart recognises as if the -eyes had already seen it. Christine was alone, a beam of the rising sun -tinted the summits of the willows, and hope and love revived in the -young girl's heart, as she read what follows: - -"Christine, I can write but a few lines; a long letter, difficult to -conceal, might never reach you. Hear me with your heart, and guess what -I am unable to write. As you know, dearest, my family intrusted me to -your father, and gave him all authority over me. He can employ me at his -will, and according to the convenience of his commercial establishments. -Christine, I have just received orders to embark in one of his ships, -sailing for Batavia." - -A cry escaped Christine's lips, and her eyes, suffused with tears, -devoured the subsequent lines. - -"Your father places the immensity of ocean between us; he separates us -for ever. We are to meet no more! Christine, has your heart, since I -last saw you, learned to comprehend those words? No, my adored -Christine, we must live or die together! Your poor mother is no more; -your presence is no longer essential to the happiness of any one. Your -family is pitiless and without affection for you. Your future is gloom -and unhappiness. Come, then, let us fly together. In the Helder are -numerous ships; they will bear us far from the scene of our sufferings. -All is foreseen and arranged. Christine, my life depends on your -decision. For ever separated! ... subscribe to that barbarous decree, -and I terminate an existence which henceforward would be all bitterness! -And you, Christine! will you love another, or live without love? Oh! -come! I have suffered so much without you! I summon you, I await you, -Christine! my bride! At midnight--on the riverbank--I will be there! and -a world of happiness is before us. Come, dear Christine, come!" - -As Christine read, her tears fell fast on Herbert's letter. She -experienced a moment of agonising indecision. She loved passionately, -but she was young and innocent, and love had not yet imparted to her -pure soul the audacity that braves all things. The wise counsels heard -in her father's house, uncle William's pious exhortations, the holy -prayers she had learned from her infancy upwards, resounded in her -ears; the Christ upon her wooden crucifix seemed to look at her; the -beads of her rosary were still warm with the pressure of her fingers. - -"Oh! my dream! my dream!" she exclaimed; "Herbert who calls his bride! -my mother claiming her daughter! With him, life and love! With her, -death and heaven!..." And Christine sobbed aloud. For an instant she -tried calmly to contemplate an existence in that melancholy house, -weeping for Herbert, growing old without him, without love, within those -gloomy walls, where no heart sympathised with hers. The picture was too -terrible; she felt that such a future was unendurable. She wept -bitterly, kissed her rosary, her prayer-book, as if bidding adieu to all -that had witnessed the innocence of her early years. Then her heart beat -violently. The fire of her glance dried her tears. She looked out at the -river, at the white sail which seemed to remind her of her vows of love; -she gave one last sob, as if breaking irrevocably the links between her -past and future. The image of her mother was no longer before her. -Christine, abandoned to herself, followed the impulse of her passionate -nature; she wept, trembled, hesitated, and at last exclaimed,-- - -"At midnight, I will be there!" - -Then she wiped her tears, and remained quite still for a few moments, to -calm her violent agitation. A vast future unrolled itself before her; -liberty would be hers; a new world was revealed to her eyes; a new life -began for her. - -At last night came. A lamp replaced the fading daylight. The window was -deserted for the table. William and Karl Van Amberg came in. The former -took a book; his brother busied himself with commercial calculations. -The lamp gave a dull light; all was silent, sad, and monotonous in the -apartment. The clock slowly told the successive hours. When its hammer -struck ten, there was a movement round the table; books were shut, work -was folded. Karl Van Amberg rose; his two eldest daughters approached -him, and he kissed their foreheads in silence. Christine no longer a -captive, but still in disgrace, bowed herself before her father. Uncle -William, grown drowsy over his book, put up his spectacles, muttering a -"good-night." The family left the parlour, and the three sisters -ascended the wooden staircase. At her chamber door, Christine felt a -tightness at her heart. She turned and looked after her sisters. -"Good-night, Wilhelmina! good-night, Maria!" - -The sisters turned their heads. By the faint light of their tapers -Christine saw them smile and kiss their hands to her. Then they entered -their rooms without speaking. Christine found herself alone. She opened -her window; the night was calm; at intervals clouds flitted across the -moon, veiling its brightness. Christine made no preparations for -departure; she only took her mother's rosary, and the blue ribbon so -long attached to the guitar; then she wrapped herself in her black -mantle and sat down by the window. Her heart beat quick, but no distinct -thought agitated her mind. She trembled without terror; her eyes were -tearful, but she felt no regret. For her, the hour was rather solemn -than sad; the struggle was over, and she was irrevocably decided. - -At last midnight came; each stroke of the clock thrilled Christine's -heart; for an instant she stood still, summoning strength and courage; -then, turning towards the interior of the room,-- - -"Adieu, my mother!" she whispered. Many living creatures dwelt under -that roof. It seemed to Christine as if she left her only who was no -longer there. "Adieu, my mother!" she repeated. - -Then she stepped out of the window; a trellis, twined with creepers, -covered the wall. With light foot and steady hand, Christine descended, -aiding herself by the branches, and pausing when they cracked under her -tread or grasp. The stillness was so complete that the slightest sound -assumed importance. Christine's heart beat violently; at last she -reached the ground, raised her head, and looked at the house. Her -father's window was still lighted. Again she shuddered with -apprehension; then, feeling more courage for a minute's daring than for -half an hour's precautions, she darted across the meadow and arrived -breathless at the clump of willows. Before plunging into it, she again -looked round. All was quiet and deserted; she breathed more freely and -disappeared amongst the branches. Leaning upon the old tree, the witness -of her former rendezvous, she whispered, so softly that none but a lover -could hear, "Herbert, are you there?" - -A cautious oar skimmed the water; a well-known voice replied. The boat -approached the willow; the young student stood up and held out his arms -to Christine, who leaped lightly into the skiff. In an instant, they -were out of the willow-shaded inlet; in another, the sail--the signal of -their loves--was hoisted to the breeze; the bark sped swiftly over the -water, and Herbert, scarce daring to believe his happiness, was seated -at Christine's feet. His hand sought hers; he heard her weep, and he -wept for sympathy. Both were silent, agitated, uneasy, and happy. - -But the night was fine, the moon shed its softest light, the ripple of -the stream had a harmony of its own, the light breeze cooled their -cheeks, the sail bent over them like the wing of an invisible being; -they were young, they loved, it was impossible that joy should not -revive in their hearts. - -"Thanks, Christine, thanks!" exclaimed Herbert, "thanks a thousand -times for so much devotedness, for such confidence and love! Oh how -beautiful will life now appear! We are united for ever!" - -"For ever!" repeated Christine, her tears flowing afresh. For the first -time she felt that great happiness, like great grief, expresses itself -by tears. Her hand in Herbert's, her eyes raised to heaven, she gazed -upon bright stars and fleecy clouds, sole and silent witnesses of her -happiness. Presently she was roused from this sweet reverie. - -"See there, Herbert!" she exclaimed; "the sail droops along the mast, -the wind has fallen, we do not advance." - -Herbert took the oars, and the boat cut rapidly through the water. -Wrapped in her mantle, Christine sat opposite, and smiled upon him. -Onwards flew the boat, a track of foam in its wake. Daylight was still -distant; all things favoured the fugitives. Again Christine broke -silence. - -"Herbert, dear Herbert, do you hear nothing?" - -Herbert ceased to row, and listened. "I hear nothing," he said, "save -the plash of the river against its banks." He resumed the oars; again -the boat moved rapidly forward. Christine was pale; half risen from her -seat, her head turned back, she strove to see, but the darkness was too -great. - -"Be tranquil, best beloved," said Herbert with a smile. "Fear creates -sounds. All is still." - -"Herbert," cried Christine, this time starting up in the boat, "I am not -mistaken! I hear oars behind us ... pause not to listen ... row, for -Heaven's love, row!" - -Her terror was so great, she seemed so sure of what she said, that -Herbert obeyed in silence, and a sensation of alarm chilled his heart. -Christine seated herself at his feet. - -"We are pursued!" she said; "the noise of your own oars alone prevented -your hearing. A boat follows us." - -"If it be so," Herbert cried, "what matter! That boat does not bear -Christine--is not guided by a man who defends his life, his happiness, -his love. My arm will weary his, his bark will not overtake mine." And -Herbert redoubled his efforts. The veins of his arms swelled to -bursting; his forehead was covered with sweat-drops. The skiff clove the -waters as though impelled by wings. Christine remained crouched at the -young man's feet, pressing herself against him, as to seek refuge. - -Other oars, wielded by stalwart arms, now struck the water not far from -Herbert's boat. The young student heard the sound; he bent over his oars -and made desperate efforts. But he felt his strength failing; as he -rowed he looked with agony at Christine; no one spoke, only the noise of -the two boats interrupted the silence. Around, all was calm and serene -as when the fugitives set out. But the soul of the young girl had -passed from life to death; her eyes, gleaming with a wild fire, followed -with increasing terror each movement of Herbert's; she saw by the -suffering expression of his countenance, that little hope of escape -remained. Still he rowed with the energy of despair; but the fatal bark -drew nearer, its shadow was seen upon the water, it followed hard in the -foamy track of Herbert's boat. Christine stood up and looked back; just -then the moon shone out, casting its light full upon the pale, -passionless features of M. Van Amberg. Christine uttered a piercing cry. - -"My father!" she cried; "Herbert, 'tis my father!" - -Herbert also had recognised his pursuer. The youth had lived too long in -Karl Van Amberg's house not to have experienced the strange kind of -fascination which that man exercised over all around him. Darkness had -passed away to reveal to the fugitives the father, master, and judge! - -"Stop, Herbert!" cried Christine, "we are lost, escape is impossible! Do -you not see my father?" - -"Let me row!" replied Herbert, disengaging himself from Christine, who -had seized his arm. He gave so violent a pull with the oars, that the -skiff bounded out of the water and seemed to gain a little on its -pursuer. - -"Herbert," cried Christine, "I tell you we are lost! 'Tis my father, and -resistance is useless! God will not work a miracle in our favour! -Herbert, I will not return to my father's house! Let us die together, -dear Herbert!" - -And Christine threw herself into her lover's arms. The oars fell from -the young man's hands; with a cry of anguish he pressed Christine -convulsively to his heart. For a single instant he thought of obeying -her, and of plunging with her into the dark tide beneath; but Herbert -had a noble heart, and he repelled the temptation of despair. The next -moment a violent shock made the boat quiver, and M. Van Amberg stepped -into it. Instinctively Herbert clasped Christine more tightly, and -retreated, as if his strength could withhold her from her father--as if, -in that little boat, he could retreat far enough not to be overtaken. -With a vigorous arm, M. Van Amberg seized Christine, whose slender form -bent like a reed over his shoulder. - -"Have mercy on her!" cried the despairing Herbert; "I alone am guilty! -Punish her not, and I promise to depart, to renounce her! Pity, sir! -pity for Christine!" - -He spoke to a deaf and silent statue. Wresting Christine's hand from the -student's grasp, M. Van Amberg stepped back into his boat, and pushed -Herbert's violently with his foot. Yielding to the impulse, the boats -separated; one was pulled swiftly up the river, whilst the other, -abandoned to itself, was swept by the current in a contrary direction. -Erect on the prow of his bark, his head thrown back, his arms folded on -his breast, M. Van Amberg fixed a terrible look upon Herbert and then -disappeared in the darkness. All was over. The father had taken his -daughter, and no human power could henceforward tear her from his arms. - -Within a week from that fatal night, the gates of a convent closed upon -Christine Van Amberg. - - * * * * * - -On the frontier of Belgium, on the summit of a hill, stands a large -white building of irregular architecture, a confused mass of walls, -roofs, angles, and platforms. At the foot of the hill is a village, -whose inhabitants behold with a feeling of respect the edifice towering -above their humble dwellings. For there is seen the belfry of a church, -and thence is heard unceasingly the sound of pious bells, proclaiming -afar that on the mountain's summit a few devout souls pray to God for -all men. The building is a convent; the poor and the sick well know the -path leading to the hospitable threshold of the Sisters of the -Visitation. - -To this convent was Christine sent. To this austere dwelling, the abode -of silence and self-denial, was she, the young, the beautiful, the -loving, pitilessly consigned. It was as though a gravestone had suddenly -closed over her head. With her, the superior of the convent received -the following letter:-- - - "MADAME LA SUPÉRIEURE,--I send you your niece, Christine Van - Amberg, and beg you to oblige me by keeping her with you. I intend - her to embrace a religious life; employ the influence of your wise - counsels to predispose her to it. Her misconduct compels me to - exclude her my house; she requires restraint and watching, such as - are only to be found in a convent. Be pleased, dear and respected - kinswoman, to receive her under your roof; the best wish that can - be formed for her is, that she may make up her mind to remain there - for ever. Should she inquire concerning a young man named Herbert, - you may inform her that he has sailed to Batavia, whence he will - proceed to our most remote settlements. - - "I am, with respect, _Madame la Supérieure_, your kinsman and - friend, - - "KARL VAN AMBERG." - -Five years had elapsed since the date of this letter, when one day the -convent gate opened to admit a stranger, who craved to speak with the -superior. The stranger was an old man; a staff sustained his feeble -steps. Whilst waiting in the parlour, he looked about him with surprise -and emotion, and several times he passed his hand across his eyes as if -to brush away a tear. "Poor, poor child!" he muttered. When the superior -appeared behind the grating, he advanced quickly towards her. - -"I am William Van Amberg," he said, "the brother of Karl Van Amberg. I -come, madam, to fetch Christine, his daughter and my niece." - -"You come very late!" replied the superior; "sister Martha-Mary is on -the eve of pronouncing her vows." - -"Martha-Mary!--I do not know the name!" said William Van Amberg; "I seek -Christine--my niece Christine." - -"Christine Van Amberg, now sister Martha-Mary, is about to take the -veil." - -"Christine a nun! Oh, impossible! Madame, they have broken the child's -heart; from despair only would she take the veil; they have been -cruel--they have tortured her; but I bring her liberty and the certainty -of happiness,--permission to marry him she loves. Let me speak to her -and she will quickly follow." - -"Speak to her then; and let her depart if such be her will." - -"Thanks, madam,--a thousand thanks! Send me my child, send me my -Christine--with joy and impatience I await her." - -The superior retired. Left alone, William again contemplated the -melancholy abode in which he found himself, and the more he gazed, the -sadder his heart became. He would fain have taken Christine in his arms, -as he did when she was little, and have fled with her from those chilly -walls and dismal gratings. - -"Poor child!" he repeated, "what a retreat for the bright years of your -youth!... How you must have suffered! But console thyself, dearest -child, I am here to rescue thee!" - -He remembered Christine as a wild young girl, delighting in liberty, -air, and motion; then as an impassioned woman, full of love and -independence. And a smile crossed the old man's lips as he thought of -her burst of joy, when he should say to her,--"You are free, and Herbert -waits to lead you to the altar!" His heart beat as it had never beaten -in the best days of his youth; he counted the minutes and kept his eyes -fixed upon the little door through which Christine was to come. He could -not fold her in his arms, the grating prevented it, but at least he -should see and hear her. Suddenly all his blood rushed to his heart, for -the hinges creaked and the door opened. A novice, clothed in white, -slowly advanced; he looked at her, started back, hesitated, and -exclaimed: "Oh God! is that Christine?" - -William had cherished in his heart the memory of a bright-eyed, sunburnt -girl, alert and lively, quick and decided in her movements, running -more often than she walked, like the graceful roe that loves the -mountain-steeps. He beheld a tall young woman, white and colourless as -the robes that shrouded her; her hair concealed under a thick linen -band, her slender form scarcely to be distinguished beneath the heavy -folds of her woollen vestments. Her movements were slow, her black eyes -veiled by an indescribable languor; a profound calm was the -characteristic of her whole being--a calm so great, that it resembled -absence of life. One might have thought her eyes looked without seeing, -that her lips could not open to speak, that her ears listened without -hearing. Sister Martha-Mary was beautiful, but her beauty was not of the -earth--it was the beauty of infinite repose,--of a calm that nothing -could disturb. - -The old man was touched to the bottom of his soul; the words expired on -his lips, and he extended his hands towards Christine. On beholding her -uncle, Martha-Mary endeavoured to smile, but moved not, and said -nothing. - -"Oh my child!" cried William at last, "how you must suffer here!" - -Martha-Mary gently shook her head, and the tranquil look she fixed upon -her uncle, protested against his supposition. - -"Is it possible that five years have thus changed my Christine! My heart -recognises you, my child, not my eyes! They have compelled you to great -austerities, severe privations?" - -"No." - -"A cruel bondage has weighed heavily upon you?" - -"No." - -"You have been ill then?" - -"No." - -"Your poor heart has suffered too much, and has broken. You have shed -many tears?" - -"I remember them no longer." - -"Christine! Christine! do you live? or has the shade of Annunciata risen -from the grave? Oh my child! in seeing you, I seem to see her corpse, -extended on the bed of death!" - -Martha-Mary raised her large eyes to heaven; she joined her hands, and -murmured, "My mother!" - -"Christine, speak to me! weep with me! you frighten me by your calm and -silence.... Ah! in my trouble and emotion, I have as yet explained -nothing.... Listen: my brother Karl, by the failure of a partner, -suddenly found his whole fortune compromised. To avoid total ruin he was -obliged to embark immediately for the colonies. He set sail expecting to -return in a few years; but his affairs prolong his absence, and his -return is indefinitely postponed. His two eldest daughters are with him. -To me, who am too old to follow him, too old to remain alone, he has -given Christine. I would not accept the precious charge, my child, -without the possibility of rendering you happy. I implored permission to -marry you to Herbert. You are no longer a rich heiress: your father -gone, you need protection, and that of an old man cannot long avail you. -In short, your father has agreed to all I asked: he sends you, as a -farewell gift, your liberty and his consent to your marriage.... -Christine! you are free, and Herbert awaits his bride!" - -The long drapery of the novice was slightly agitated, as if the limbs it -covered trembled; she remained some seconds without speaking, and then -replied, "It is too late! I am the affianced of the Lord!" - -William uttered a cry of grief, and looked with alarm at the pale calm -girl, who stood immovable before him. - -"Christine!" he cried, "you no longer love Herbert?" - -"I am the affianced of the Lord!" repeated the novice, her hands crossed -upon her breast, her eyes raised to heaven. - -"Oh my God! my God!" cried William, weeping bitterly, "my brother has -killed his child! Her soul has been sad even unto death! Poor victim of -severity, tell me, Christine, tell me, what has passed within you, -during your abode here?" - -"I saw others pray, and I prayed also. There was a great stillness, and -I was silent; none wept, and I dried my tears; a something, at first -cold, then soothing, enveloped my soul. The voice of God made itself -heard to me, and I listened; I loved the Lord, and gave myself to Him." - -Then, as if fatigued with speaking so much, Martha-Mary relapsed into -silence, and into that absorbing meditation which rendered her -insensible to surrounding things. Just then a bell tolled. The novice -started, and her eyes sparkled. - -"God calls me!" she said; "I go to pray!" - -"Christine! my daughter, will you leave me thus?" - -"Hear you not the bell? It is the hour of prayer." - -"But, Christine, dearest child, I came to take you hence." - -"I shall never leave these walls!" said Martha-Mary, gliding slowly -away. As she opened the parlour door, she turned towards William; her -eyes fixed upon him with a sad and sweet expression; her lips moved, as -if to send him a kiss; then she disappeared. William made no attempt to -detain her; his head was pressed against the grating, and big tears -chased each other down his cheeks. How long he remained thus plunged in -mournful reflection, he noted not. He was roused by the voice of the -superior, who seated herself, wrapped in her black robes, on the other -side of the grating. - -"I foresaw your grief," she said. "Our sister Martha-Mary refuses to -follow you." - -With a despairing look, William answered the nun. - -"Alas! alas!" he said, "the child I so dearly loved met me without joy, -and left me without regret." - -"Listen, my son," resumed the superior; "listen to me.--Five years ago, -there came to this convent a young girl overwhelmed with grief and sunk -in terrible despair; her entrance here was to her a descent into the -tomb. During one entire year, none saw her but with tears on her face. -Only God knows how many tears the eyes must shed before a broken spirit -regains calm and resignation; man cannot count them. This young girl -suffered much; in vain we implored pardon for her, in vain we summoned -her family to her relief. She might say, as is written in the -psalm,--'_I am weary with my groaning: mine eye is consumed because of -grief._' What could we do, save pray for her, since none would receive -her back!..." - -"Alas!" cried William, "your letters never reached us. My brother was -beyond sea; and I, having then no hope of changing his determination,--I -had quitted his empty and melancholy house." - -"Man abandoned her," continued the superior, "but God looked upon His -servant, and comforted her soul. If He does not see fit to restore -strength to her body, exhausted by suffering--His will be done! Perhaps -it would now be wise and generous to leave her to that love of God which -she has attained after so many tears; perhaps it would be prudent to -spare her fresh shocks." - -"No! no!" interrupted William, "I cannot give up, even to God, this last -relic of my family, the sole prop of my old age. I will try every means -to revive in her heart its early sentiments. Give me Christine for a few -days only! Let me conduct her to the place of her birth, to the scenes -where she loved. She is deaf to my entreaties, but she will obey an -order from you; bid her return for a while beneath her father's roof! -Should she still wish it, after this last attempt, I will restore her -hither." - -"Take her, my son," replied the superior; "I will bid her follow. If God -has indeed spoken to her soul, no worldly voice will move her. If it be -otherwise, may she return no more to the cloister, but be blessed -wherever she goes! Adieu, my son; the peace of the Lord be with you!" - -Hope revived in the heart of William Van Amberg; it seemed to him as -if--the convent threshold once passed--Christine would revert to her -former character--to her youth and love. He believed he was about to -remove his beloved child for ever from these gloomy walls, and with -painful impatience he awaited her coming. Soon a light step was heard in -the corridor; William threw open the door, Christine was there, and no -grating now separated her from her uncle. - -"My beloved Christine!" exclaimed William; "at last, then, you are -restored to me; at last I can press you to my heart! Come, we will -return to our own country, and revisit the house where we all dwelt -together." - -Sister Martha-Mary was still paler than at her first interview with -William. If any expression was discernible upon that calm countenance, -it was one of sadness. She allowed herself to be taken by the hand and -conducted to the convent gate; but when the gate was opened, and, -passing into the open air, she encountered the broad daylight and the -fresh breeze, she tottered and leaned for support against the wall. Just -then the sun rent the clouds, and threw its golden beams on plain and -mountain; the air was clear and transparent, and the flat and monotonous -horizon acquired beauty from the burst of light. - -"See, my daughter!" said William; "see how lovely is the earth! How soft -is the air we breathe! How good it is to be free, and to move towards -that immense horizon!" - -"Oh, my dear uncle!" replied the novice; "how beautiful are the heavens! -See how the sun shines above our heads! It is in heaven that his glory -should be admired! His rays are already dim and feeble when they touch -the earth!" - -William led Christine to a carriage; they got in, and the horses set -off. Long did the gaze of the novice remain fixed on her convent's -walls; when these were hidden from her by the windings of the road, she -closed her eyes and seemed to sleep. During the journey, William -endeavoured in vain to make her converse; she had forgotten how to -express her thoughts. When compelled to reply, fatigue overwhelmed her; -her whole existence was concentrated in her soul, and detached entirely -from the external world. At intervals she would say to herself, "How -long the morning is! Nothing marks the hours; I have not heard a single -bell to-day!" - -At last they reached the red house, and the carriage drove into the -court, where the grass grew between the stones. Gothon came out to -receive them, and Martha-Mary, leaning on her uncle's arm, entered the -parlour where the family of Van Amberg had so often assembled. The room -was deserted and cold; no books or work gave it the look of habitation; -abandoned by its last occupants, it awaited new ones. Christine slowly -traversed this well-known apartment, and sat down upon a chair near the -window. It was there her mother had sat for twenty years; there had her -childhood passed at the knees of Annunciata. - -William opened the window, showed her the meadow, the willows, and the -river. Christine looked at them in silence, her head resting on her -hand, her eyes fixed on the horizon. For a long while William stood -beside her, then he placed his hand on her shoulder and pronounced her -name. She rose and followed him. They ascended the stairs, traversed the -gallery, and William opened a door. "Your mother's room," said he to -Christine. The novice entered and paused in the middle of the chamber; -tears flowed from her eyes, she clasped her hands and prayed. - -"My daughter," said William, "_she_ ardently desired your happiness." - -"She has obtained it!" replied the novice. - -The old man felt a profound sadness come over him. It was like pressing -to his heart a corpse to which his love restored neither breath nor -warmth. Martha-Mary approached her mother's bed, knelt down, and kissed -the pillow that had supported the dying head of Annunciata. - -"Mother," she murmured, "soon we shall meet again." - -William shuddered. He took Christine's hand, and led her to the room she -had formerly occupied. The little white-curtained bed was still there, -the guitar hung against the wall, Christine's favourite volumes filled -the shelves of her modest book-case; through the open window were seen -the willows and the river. Martha-Mary noticed none of these things: the -wooden crucifix was still upon the wall; she rapidly approached it, -knelt, bowed her head upon the feet of Christ, closed her eyes and -breathed deeply, like one finding repose after long fatigue. Like the -exile returning to his native land, like the storm-tossed mariner -regaining the port, she remained with her brow resting upon her -Saviour's feet. - -Standing by her side, William looked on in tearful silence. Farther off, -Gothon wiped her eyes with her apron. Several hours elapsed. The house -clock struck, the birds sang in the garden; the wind rustled among the -trees; in the lofty pigeon-house the doves cooed; the cock crowed in the -poultry-yard. None of these loved and familiar sounds could divert -Martha-Mary from her devout meditation. Sick at heart, her uncle -descended to the parlour. He remained there long, plunged in gloomy -reflections. Suddenly hasty steps were heard; a young man rushed into -the room, and into William's arms. - -"Christine! Christine!" cried Herbert; "where is Christine? Is it not a -dream? M. Van Amberg gives me Christine!... Once more in my native land, -and Christine mine!" - -"Karl Van Amberg gives, but God refuses her to you!" replied William, -mournfully. Then he told Herbert what had passed at the convent, and -since their arrival at the house: he gave a thousand details--he -repeated them a thousand times, but without convincing Herbert of the -melancholy truth. - -"It is impossible!" cried the young man; "if Christine is alive, if -Christine is here, to the first word uttered by her lover, Christine -will reply." - -"God grant it!" exclaimed William; "my last hope is in you." - -Herbert sprang up the stairs, his heart too full of love to have room -for fear. Christine free, was for him Christine ready to become his -wife. He hastily opened her chamber door; but then he paused, as if -petrified, upon the threshold. The day was closing in, and its fading -light fell upon Martha-Mary, whose form stood out like a white shadow -from the gloom of the room. She was still on her knees, her head resting -on the feet of Christ, her fragile person lost in the multiplied folds -of her conventual robes. She heard not the opening of the door, and -Herbert stood gazing at her, till a flood of tears burst from his eyes. -William took his hand and silently pressed it. - -"I am frightened!" said Herbert, in a low tone. "That is not my -Christine! A phantom risen from the earth, or an angel descended from -heaven, has taken her place!" - -"No, she is no longer Christine!" replied William, sadly. - -For a few moments more Herbert stood in mournful contemplation. Then he -exclaimed--"Christine, dear Christine!" - -At the sound of his voice the novice started, rose to her feet, and -pronounced his name. As in former days, when her lover called -"Christine!" Martha-Mary replied "Herbert!" - -The young man's heart beat violently; he stood beside the novice, he -took her hands. "It is I, it is Herbert!" he said, kneeling down before -her. - -The novice fixed her large black eyes upon him with a long inquiring -gaze; a slight flush passed across her brow; then she became pale as -before, and said gently to Herbert--"I thought not to see you again upon -earth." - -"Dear Christine! tears and suffering have long been our portion; but -happy days at last dawn upon us! My love! my bride! we will never part -again!" - -Martha-Mary extricated her hands from those of Herbert, and retreated -towards the image of Christ. - -"I am the bride of the Lord," she said in trembling accents. "He expects -me." - -Herbert uttered a cry of grief. - -"Christine! dear Christine! remember our oft-repeated pledges, our -loves, our tears, our hopes. You left me vowing to love me always. -Christine, if you would not have me die of despair, remember the past!" - -Martha-Mary's eyes continued riveted on the crucifix; her hands, -convulsively clasped, were extended towards it. - -"Gracious Lord!" she prayed, "speak to his heart as you have spoken to -mine! It is a noble heart, worthy to love you. Stronger than I, Herbert -may survive, even after much weeping! Console him, oh Lord!" - -"Christine! my first and only love! sole hope and joy of my life! do you -thus abandon me? That heart, once entirely mine, is it closed to me for -ever?" - -Her gaze upon the crucifix, her hands still joined, the novice, as if -able to speak only to her God, gently replied:--"Lord! he suffers as I -suffered! shed upon him the balm wherewith you healed my wounds! Leaving -him life, take his soul as you have taken mine. Give him that ineffable -peace which descends upon those thou lovest!" - -"Oh Christine! my beloved!" cried Herbert, once more taking her hand, -"do but look at me! turn your eyes upon me and behold my tears! Dearest -treasure of my heart! you seem to slumber! Awake! Have you forgotten our -tender meetings, the willows bending over the stream, the boat in which -we sailed a whole night, dreaming the joy of eternal union? See! the -moon rises as it rose that night. We were near each other as now; but -then they tore us asunder, and now we are free to be together! -Christine, have you ceased to love? Is all forgotten?" - -William took her other hand. "Dear child," he said, "we entreat you not -to leave us! To you we look for happiness; remain with us, Christine." - -One hand in the hands of Herbert, the other in those of William, the -novice slowly and solemnly replied: - -"The corpse that reposes in the tomb lifts not the stone to re-enter the -world. The soul that has seen heaven, does not leave it to return to -earth. The creature to whom God has said, 'Be thou the spouse of -Christ,' does not quit Christ to unite herself to a man; and she who is -about to die should turn her affections from mortal things!" - -"Herbert!" cried William, "be silent! Not another word! I can scarcely -feel the throbbing of her pulse! She is paler even than when I first saw -her behind the convent grating. We give her pain. Enough, Herbert, -enough! Better yield her to God upon earth, than send her to Him in -heaven!" - -The old man placed the almost inanimate head of Martha-Mary upon his -shoulder, and pressed her to his heart as a mother embraces her child. -"Recover yourself, my daughter," he said; "I will restore you to the -house of God." - -Martha-Mary turned her sad and gentle gaze upon her uncle, and her hand -feebly pressed his. Then addressing herself to Herbert: - -"You, Herbert," she said, in a scarcely audible voice--"you, who will -live, do not abandon him!" - -"Christine!" cried Herbert, on his knees before his betrothed. -"Christine! do we part for ever?" - -The novice raised her eyes to heaven. - -"Not for ever!" she replied. - -Some days afterwards the convent gates opened to receive sister -Martha-Mary. They closed upon her for the last time. With feeble and -unsteady step the novice traversed the cloisters to prostrate herself on -the altar-steps. The superior came to her. - -"Oh my mother!" exclaimed Christine, the fountain of whose tears was -opened, and who wept as in the days of her childhood, "I have seen him -and left him! To thee I return, oh Lord! Faithful to my vows, I await -the crown that shall consecrate me thy spouse. Thy voice alone shall -henceforward reach my ears; I come to sing thy praises, to pray and -serve thee until the end of my life!--Holy mother, prepare the robe of -serge, the white crown, the silver cross; I am ready!" - -"My daughter," replied the superior, "you are very ill--much exhausted -by so many shocks; will you not delay the ceremony of profession?" - -"No, holy mother! no; delay it not! I would die the bride of the -Lord!... And I have little time!" replied sister Martha-Mary. - - - - -THE MAN IN THE BELL. - -[_MAGA._ NOVEMBER 1821.] - - -In my younger days, bell-ringing was much more in fashion among the -young men of ---- than it is now. Nobody, I believe, practises it there -at present except the servants of the church, and the melody has been -much injured in consequence. Some fifty years ago, about twenty of us -who dwelt in the vicinity of the Cathedral, formed a club, which used to -ring every peal that was called for; and, from continual practice and a -rivalry which arose between us and a club attached to another steeple, -and which tended considerably to sharpen our zeal, we became very -Mozarts on our favourite instruments. But my bell-ringing practice was -shortened by a singular accident, which not only stopped my performance, -but made even the sound of a bell terrible to my ears. - -One Sunday, I went with another into the belfry to ring for noon -prayers, but the second stroke we had pulled showed us that the clapper -of the bell we were at was muffled. Some one had been buried that -morning, and it had been prepared, of course, to ring a mournful note. -We did not know of this, but the remedy was easy. "Jack," said my -companion, "step up to the loft, and cut off the hat;" for the way we -had of muffling was by tying a piece of an old hat, or of cloth (the -former was preferred), to one side of the clapper, which deadened every -second toll. I complied, and mounting into the belfry, crept as usual -into the bell, where I began to cut away. The hat had been tied on in -some more complicated manner than usual, and I was perhaps three or four -minutes in getting it off; during which time my companion below was -hastily called away--by a message from his sweetheart, I believe--but -that is not material to my story. The person who called him was a -brother of the club, who, knowing that the time had come for ringing for -service, and not thinking that any one was above, began to pull. At this -moment I was just getting out, when I felt the bell moving; I guessed -the reason at once--it was a moment of terror; but by a hasty and almost -convulsive effort, I succeeded in jumping down, and throwing myself on -the flat of my back under the bell. - -The room in which it was, was little more than sufficient to contain it, -the bottom of the bell coming within a couple of feet of the floor of -lath. At that time I certainly was not so bulky as I am now, but as I -lay it was within an inch of my face. I had not laid myself down a -second, when the ringing began.--It was a dreadful situation. Over me -swung an immense mass of metal, one touch of which would have crushed me -to pieces; the floor under me was principally composed of crazy laths, -and if they gave way, I was precipitated to the distance of about fifty -feet upon a loft, which would, in all probability, have sunk under the -impulse of my fall, and sent me to be dashed to atoms upon the marble -floor of the chancel, an hundred feet below. I remembered--for fear is -quick in recollection--how a common clockwright, about a month before, -had fallen, and, bursting through the floors of the steeple, driven in -the ceilings of the porch, and even broken into the marble tombstone of -a bishop who slept beneath. This was my first terror, but the ringing -had not continued a minute, before a more awful and immediate dread came -on me. The deafening sound of the bell smote into my ears with a thunder -which made me fear their drums would crack: there was not a fibre of my -body it did not thrill through. It entered my very soul; thought and -reflection were almost utterly banished; I only retained the sensation -of agonising terror. Every moment I saw the bell sweep within an inch of -my face; and my eyes--I could not close them, though to look at the -object was bitter as death--followed it instinctively in its -oscillating progress until it came back again. It was in vain I said to -myself that it could come no nearer at any future swing than it did at -first; every time it descended, I endeavoured to shrink into the very -floor to avoid being buried under the down-sweeping mass; and then, -reflecting on the danger of pressing too weightily on my frail support, -would cower up again as far as I dared. - -At first my fears were mere matter of fact. I was afraid the pulleys -above would give way, and let the bell plunge on me. At another time, -the possibility of the clapper being shot out in some sweep, and dashing -through my body, as I had seen a ramrod glide through a door, flitted -across my mind. The dread also, as I have already mentioned, of the -crazy floor, tormented me; but these soon gave way to fears not more -unfounded, but more visionary, and of course more tremendous. The -roaring of the bell confused my intellect, and my fancy soon began to -teem with all sort of strange and terrifying ideas. The bell pealing -above, and opening its jaws with a hideous clamour, seemed to me at one -time a ravening monster, raging to devour me; at another, a whirlpool -ready to suck me into its bellowing abyss. As I gazed on it, it assumed -all shapes; it was a flying eagle, or rather a roc of the Arabian -story-tellers, clapping its wings and screaming over me. As I looked -upward into it, it would appear sometimes to lengthen into indefinite -extent, or to be twisted at the end into the spiral folds of the tail of -a flying dragon. Nor was the flaming breath or fiery glance of that -fabled animal wanting to complete the picture. My eyes, inflamed, -blood-shot, and glaring, invested the supposed monster with a full -proportion of unholy light. - -It would be endless were I to merely hint at all the fancies that -possessed my mind. Every object that was hideous and roaring presented -itself to my imagination. I often thought that I was in a hurricane at -sea, and that the vessel in which I was embarked tossed under me with -the most furious vehemence. The air, set in motion by the swinging of -the bell, blew over me, nearly with the violence, and more than the -thunder, of a tempest; and the floor seemed to reel under me, as under a -drunken man. But the most awful of all the ideas that seized on me were -drawn from the supernatural. In the vast cavern of the bell hideous -faces appeared, and glared down on me with terrifying frowns, or with -grinning mockery still more appalling. At last, the devil himself, -accoutred as in the common description of the evil spirit, with hoof, -horn, and tail, and eyes of infernal lustre, made his appearance, and -called on me to curse God and worship him, who was powerful to save me. -This dread suggestion he uttered with the full-toned clangour of the -bell. I had him within an inch of me, and I thought on the fate of the -Santon Barsisa. Strenuously and desperately I defied him and bade him -begone. Reason, then, for a moment, resumed her sway, but it was only to -fill me with fresh terror, just as the lightning dispels the gloom that -surrounds the benighted mariner, but to show him that his vessel is -driving on a rock, where she must inevitably be dashed to pieces. I -found I was becoming delirious, and trembled lest reason should utterly -desert me. This is at all times an agonising thought, but it smote me -then with tenfold agony. I feared lest, when utterly deprived of my -senses, I should rise--to do which I was every moment tempted by that -strange feeling which calls on a man, whose head is dizzy from standing -on the battlement of a lofty castle, to precipitate himself from it, and -then death would be instant and tremendous. When I thought of this, I -became desperate. I caught the floor with a grasp which drove the blood -from my nails; and I yelled with the cry of despair. I called for help, -I prayed, I shouted, but all the efforts of my voice were of course -drowned in the bell. As it passed over my mouth, it occasionally echoed -my cries, which mixed not with its own sound, but preserved their -distinct character. Perhaps this was but fancy. To me, I know, they then -sounded as if they were the shouting, howling, or laughing of the -fiends with which my imagination had peopled the gloomy cave which swung -over me. - -You may accuse me of exaggerating my feelings; but I am not. Many a -scene of dread have I since passed through, but they are nothing to the -self-inflicted terrors of this half hour. The ancients have doomed one -of the damned, in their Tartarus, to lie under a rock, which every -moment seems to be descending to annihilate him--and an awful punishment -it would be. But if to this you add a clamour as loud as if ten thousand -furies were howling about you--a deafening uproar banishing reason, and -driving you to madness--you must allow that the bitterness of the pang -was rendered more terrible. There is no man, firm as his nerves may be, -who could retain his courage in this situation. - -In twenty minutes the ringing was done. Half of that time passed over me -without power of computation,--the other half appeared an age. When it -ceased, I became gradually more quiet, but a new fear retained me. I -knew that five minutes would elapse without ringing, but, at the end of -that short time, the bell would be rung a second time, for five minutes -more. I could not calculate time. A minute and an hour were of equal -duration. I feared to rise, lest the five minutes should have elapsed, -and the ringing be again commenced, in which case I should be crushed, -before I could escape, against the walls or framework of the bell. I -therefore still continued to lie down, cautiously shifting myself, -however, with a careful gliding, so that my eye no longer looked into -the hollow. This was of itself a considerable relief. The cessation of -the noise had, in a great measure, the effect of stupifying me, for my -attention, being no longer occupied by the chimeras I had conjured up, -began to flag. All that now distressed me was the constant expectation -of the second ringing, for which, however, I settled myself with a kind -of stupid resolution. I closed my eyes, and clenched my teeth as firmly -as if they were screwed in a vice. At last the dreaded moment came, and -the first swing of the bell extorted a groan from me, as they say the -most resolute victim screams at the sight of the rack, to which he is -for a second time destined. After this, however, I lay silent and -lethargic, without a thought. Wrapt in the defensive armour of -stupidity, I defied the bell and its intonations. When it ceased, I was -roused a little by the hope of escape. I did not, however, decide on -this step hastily, but, putting up my hand with the utmost caution, I -touched the rim. Though the ringing had ceased, it still was tremulous -from the sound, and shook under my hand, which instantly recoiled as -from an electric jar. A quarter of an hour probably elapsed before I -again dared to make the experiment, and then I found it at rest. I -determined to lose no time, fearing that I might have lain then already -too long, and that the bell for evening service would catch me. This -dread stimulated me, and I slipped out with the utmost rapidity, and -arose. I stood, I suppose, for a minute, looking with silly wonder on -the place of my imprisonment, penetrated with joy at escaping, but then -rushed down the stony and irregular stair with the velocity of -lightning, and arrived in the bell-ringers' room. This was the last act -I had power to accomplish. I leant against the wall, motionless and -deprived of thought, in which posture my companions found me, when, in -the course of a couple of hours, they returned to their occupation. - -They were shocked, as well they might, at the figure before them. The -wind of the bell had excoriated my face, and my dim and stupified eyes -were fixed with a lack-lustre gaze in my raw eyelids. My hands were torn -and bleeding; my hair dishevelled; and my clothes tattered. They spoke -to me, but I gave no answer. They shook me, but I remained insensible. -They then became alarmed, and hastened to remove me. He who had first -gone up with me in the forenoon, met them as they carried me through the -churchyard, and through him, who was shocked at having, in some -measure, occasioned the accident, the cause of my misfortune was -discovered. I was put to bed at home, and remained for three days -delirious, but gradually recovered my senses. You may be sure the bell -formed a prominent topic of my ravings, and if I heard a peal, they were -instantly increased to the utmost violence. Even when the delirium -abated, my sleep was continually disturbed by imagined ringings, and my -dreams were haunted by the fancies which almost maddened me while in the -steeple. My friends removed me to a house in the country, which was -sufficiently distant from any place of worship, to save me from the -apprehensions of hearing the church-going bell; for what Alexander -Selkirk, in Cowper's poem, complained of as a misfortune, was then to me -as a blessing. Here I recovered; but, even long after recovery, if a -gale wafted the notes of a peal towards me, I started with nervous -apprehension. I felt a Mohammedan hatred to all the bell tribe, and -envied the subjects of the Commander of the Faithful the sonorous voice -of their Muezzin. Time cured this, as it does the most of our follies; -but even at the present day, if, by chance, my nerves be unstrung, some -particular tones of the cathedral bell have power to surprise me into a -momentary start. - - -PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH. - - - - -Transcriber's Note - - -Apparent printer's errors and archaic spelling have been retained, -unless stated below. - -Punctuation markup has been made consistent. - -"_" surrounding text represents italics. - -In the original, pages are numbered 1-100 three times consecutively. -In this Transcriber's Note, they have been differentiated by -using 1a-100a, 1b-100b, 1c-100c. - -Page 58a, "cause" changed to "case". (In due time the case was called.) - -Page 60a, "eat" changed to "ate". (... and he would have sailed thither -before the 31st of December, on which day his father, a joyous liver and -confirmed votary of Bacchus, ate and drank to such an extent to -celebrate the exit of the old year and commencement of the new, that he -fell down, on his way to his bed, in a thundering fit of apoplexy, and -was a corpse before morning.) - -Page 67a, "Μητ' ἐμοὶ παρέστιος γένοιτο" has been changed to "Μήτ' ἐμοὶ -παρέστιος γένοιτο". - -Page 25b, "raw" changed to "law". (I was not quite sure of the effect of -my commentary on the evidence, and therefore thought it might be -advisable to touch upon a national law.) - -Page 67c, "Amburg" changed to "Amberg" for consistency. (With a vigorous -arm, M. Van Amberg seized Christine, whose slender form bent like a reed -over his shoulder.) - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 6, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD," VOLUME 6 *** - -***** This file should be named 41204-0.txt or 41204-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/2/0/41204/ - -Produced by Veronika Redfern, D Alexander, Juliet Sutherland -and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net - - -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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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: Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 6 - -Author: Various - -Release Date: October 27, 2012 [EBook #41204] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD," VOLUME 6 *** - - - - -Produced by Veronika Redfern, D Alexander, Juliet Sutherland -and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD" - - - Contents of this Volume - - _My Friend the Dutchman. By Frederick Hardman, Esq._ - - _My College Friends. No. II. Horace Leicester._ - - _The Emerald Studs. By Professor Aytoun._ - - _My College Friends. No. III. Mr W. Wellington Hurst._ - - _Christine: a Dutch Story. By Frederick Hardman, Esq._ - - _The Man in the Bell._ - - - WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS - EDINBURGH AND LONDON - - - - -TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD." - - - - -MY FRIEND THE DUTCHMAN. - -BY FREDERICK HARDMAN. - -[_MAGA._ OCTOBER 1847.] - - -"And you will positively marry her, if she will have you?" - -"Not a doubt of either. Before this day fortnight she shall be Madame -Van Haubitz." - -"You will make her your wife without acquainting her with your true -position?" - -"Indeed will I. My very position requires it. There's no room for a -scruple. She expects to live on my fortune; thinks to make a great catch -of the rich Dutchman. Instead of that I shall spend her salary. The old -story; going out for wool and returning shorn." - -The conversation of which this is the concluding fragment, occurred in -the public room of the Hotel de Hesse, in the village of Homburg on the -Hill--then an insignificant handful of houses, officiating as capital -of the important landgravate of Hesse-Homburg. The table-d'hte had been -over some time; the guests had departed to repose in their apartments -until the hour of evening promenade should summon them to the excellent -band of music, provided by the calculating liberality of the -gaming-house keepers, and to loiter round the _brunnen_ of more or less -nauseous flavour, the pretext of resort to this rendezvous of idlers and -gamblers. The waiters had disappeared to batten on the broken meats from -the public table, and to doze away the time till the approach of supper -renewed their activity. My interlocutor, with whom I was alone in the -deserted apartment, was a man of about thirty years of age, whose dark -hair and mustaches, marked features, spare person, and complexion -bronzed by a tropical sun, entitled him to pass for a native of southern -Europe, or even of some more ardent clime. Nevertheless he answered to -the very Dutch patronymic of Van Haubitz, and was a native of Holland, -in whose principal city his father was a banker of considerable wealth -and financial influence. - -It was towards the close of a glorious August, and for two months I had -been wandering in Rhine-land. Not after the fashion of deluded Cockneys, -who fancy they have seen the Rhine when they have careered from Cologne -to Mannheim astride of a steam-engine, gaping at objects passed as soon -as perceived; drinking and paying for indifferent vinegar as -Steinberger-Cabinet, eating vile dinners on the decks of steamers, and -excellent ones in the capital hotels which British cash and patronage -have raised upon the banks of the most renowned of German streams. On -the contrary, I had early dispensed with the aid of steam, to wander on -foot, with the occasional assistance of a lazy country diligence or -rickety _einspnner_, through the many beautiful districts that lie upon -either bank of the river; pedestrianising in Rhenish Bavaria, losing -myself in the Odenwald, and pausing, when occasion offered, to pick a -trout out of the numerous streamlets that dash and meander through dell -and ravine, on their way to swell the waters of old Father Rhine. At -last, weary of solitude--scarcely broken by an occasional gossip with a -heavy German boor, village priest, or strolling student--I thirsted -after the haunts of civilisation, and found myself, within a day of the -appearance of the symptom, installed in a luxurious hotel in the free -city of Frankfort on the Maine. But Frankfort at that season is -deserted, save by passing tourists, who escape as fast as possible from -its lifeless streets and sun-baked pavements; so, after glancing over an -English newspaper at the Casino, taking one stroll in the beautiful -garden surrounding the city, and another through the Jew-quarter--always -interesting and curious, although anything but savoury at that warm -season--I gathered together my baggage and was off to Homburg. There I -could not complain of solitude, of deserted streets and shuttered -windows. It seemed impossible that the multitude of gaily dressed belles -and cavaliers, English, French, German, and Russ, who, from six in the -morning until sunset, lounged and flirted on the walks, watered -themselves at the fountains, and perilled their complexions in the -golden sunbeams, could ever bestow themselves in the two or three -middling hotels and few score shabby lodging-houses composing the town -of Homburg. Manage it they did, however; crept into their narrow cells -at night, to emerge next morning, like butterflies from the chrysalis, -gay, bright, and brilliant, and to recommence the never-varying but -pleasant round of eating, sauntering, love-making, and gambling. Homburg -was not then what it has since become. That great house of cards, the -new Cursaal, had not yet arisen; and its table-d'hte, reading-room, and -profane mysteries of roulette and rouge-et-noir, found temporary -domicile in a narrow, disreputable-looking den in the main street, where -accommodation of all kinds, but especially for dinner, was scanty in the -extreme. The public tables at the hotels were consequently thronged, and -there acquaintances were soon made. The day of my arrival at Homburg I -was seated next to Van Haubitz; his manner was off-hand and frank; we -entered into conversation, took our after-dinner cigar and evening -stroll together, and by bed-time had knocked up that sort of intimacy -easily contracted at a watering-place, which lasts one's time of -residence, and is extinguished and forgotten on departure. Van Haubitz, -like many Continentals and very few Englishmen, was one of those -free-and-easy communicative persons who are as familiar after twelve -hours' acquaintance as if they had known you twelve years, and who do -not hesitate to confide to a three days' acquaintance the history of -their lives, their pursuits, position, and prospects. I was soon made -acquainted, to a very considerable extent, at least, with those of my -friend Van Haubitz, late lieutenant of artillery in the service of his -majesty the King of Holland. He was the youngest of four sons, and -having shown, at a very early age, a wild and intractable disposition -and precocious addiction to dissipation, his father pronounced him -unsuited to business, and decided on placing him in the army. To this -the _Junker_ (he claimed nobility, and displayed above his arms a -species of coronet, bearing considerable resemblance to a fragment of -chevaux-de-frise, which he might have been puzzled to prop with a -parchment) had no particular objection, and might have made a good -enough officer, but for his reckless, spendthrift manner of life, which -entailed negligence of duty and frequent reprimands. Extravagant beyond -measure, unable to deny himself any gratification, squandering money as -though millions were at his command, he was constantly overwhelmed with -debts and a martyr to duns. At last his father, after thrice clearing -him with his creditors, consented to do so a fourth time only on -condition of his getting transferred to a regiment stationed in the -Dutch East Indies, and remaining there until his return had the paternal -sanction. To avoid a prison, and perhaps not altogether sorry to leave a -country where his cash and credit were alike exhausted, he embarked for -Batavia. But any pleasant day-dreams he may have cherished of tropical -luxuries, of the indulgence of a _farniente_ life in a grass hammock, -gently balanced by Javan houris beneath banana shades, of spice-laden -breezes and cool sherbets, and other attributes of a Mohammedan -paradise, were speedily dissipated by the odious realities of filth and -vermin, marsh-fever and mosquitoes. He wrote to his father, describing -the horrors of the place, and begging to be released from his pledge and -allowed to return to Holland. His obdurate progenitor replied by a -letter of reproach, and swore that if he left Batavia he might live on -his pay, and never expect a stiver from the paternal strong-box, either -as gift or bequest. To live upon his pay would have been no easy matter, -even for a more prudent person than Van Haubitz. He grumbled -immoderately, swore like a pagan, but remained where he was. A year -passed and he could hold out no longer. Disregarding the paternal -displeasure, and reckless of consequences, he applied to the chief -military authority of the colony for leave of absence. He was asked his -plea, and alleged ill health. The general thought he looked pretty well, -and requested the sight of a medical certificate of his invalid state. -Van Haubitz assumed a doleful countenance and betook him to the -surgeons. They agreed with the general that his aspect was healthy: -asked for symptoms; could discover none more alarming than regularity of -pulse, sleep, appetite, and digestion, laughed in his face and refused -the certificate. The sickly gunner, who had the constitution of a -rhinoceros, and had never had a day's illness since he got over the -measles at the age of four years, waited a little, and tried the second -"dodge," usually resorted to in such cases. "Urgent private affairs" -were now the pretext. The general expressed his regret that urgent -public affairs rendered it impossible for him to dispense with the -valuable services of Lieutenant Van Haubitz. Whereupon Lieutenant Van -Haubitz passed half an hour in heaping maledictions on the head of his -disobliging commander, and then sat down and wrote an application for an -exchange to the authorities in Holland. The reply was equally -unsatisfactory, the fact being that Haubitz senior, like an implacable -old savage as he was, had made interest at the war-office for the -refusal of all such requests on the part of his scapegrace offspring. -Haubitz junior took patience for another year, and then, in a moment of -extreme disgust and ennui, threw up his commission and returned to -Europe, trusting, he told me, that after five years' absence, the -governor's bowels would yearn towards his youngest-born. In this he was -entirely mistaken; he greatly underrated the toughness of paternal -viscera. Far from killing the fatted calf on the prodigal's return, the -incensed old Hollander refused him the smallest cutlet, and, shutting -the door in his face, consigned him, with more energy than affection, to -the custody of the evil one. Van Haubitz found himself in an awkward -fix. Credit was dead, none of his relatives would notice or assist him; -his whole fortune consisted of a dozen gold Wilhelms. At this critical -moment an eccentric maiden aunt, to whom, a year or two previously, he -had sent a propitiatory offering of a ring-tailed monkey and a leash of -pea-green parrots, and who had never condescended to acknowledge the -present, departed this life, bequeathing him ten thousand florins as a -return for the addition to her menagerie. A man of common prudence, and -who had seen himself so near destitution, would have endeavoured to -employ this sum, moderate as it was, in some trade or business, or, at -any rate, would have lived sparingly till he found other resources. But -Haubitz had not yet sown all his wild-oats; he had a soul above barter, -a glorious disregard of the future, the present being provided for. He -left Holland, shaking the dust from his boots, dashed across Belgium, -and was soon plunged in the gaieties of a Paris carnival. Breakfasts at -the Rocher, dinners at the Caf, balls at the opera, and the concomitant -_petits soupers_ and cart parties with the fair denizens of the -Quartier Lorette, soon operated a prodigious chasm in the monkey-money, -as Van Haubitz irreverently styled his venerable aunt's bequest. Spring -having arrived, he beat a retreat from Paris, and established himself at -Homburg, where he was quietly completing the consumption of the ten -thousand florins, at rather a slower pace than he would have done at -that headquarters of pleasant iniquity, the capital of France. From -hints he let fall, I suspected a short time would suffice to see the -last of the legacy. On this head, however, he had been less confidential -than on most other matters, and certainly his manner of living would -have led no one to suppose he was low in the locker. Nothing was too -good for him; he drank the best of wines, got up parties and pic-nics -for the ladies, and had a special addiction to the purchase of costly -trinkets, which he generally gave away before they had been a day in his -possession. He did not gamble; he had done so, he told me, once since -he was at Homburg, and had won, but he had no faith in his luck, or -taste for that kind of excitement, and should play no more. He was -playing another game just now, which apparently interested him greatly. -A few days before myself, a young actress, who, within a very short -time, had acquired considerable celebrity, had arrived at Homburg, -escorted by her mother. Fralein Emilie Sendel was a lively lady of -four-and-twenty or thereabouts, possessing a smart figure and pretty -face, the latter somewhat wanting in refinement. Her blue eyes, although -rather too prominent, had a merry sparkle; her cheeks had not yet been -entirely despoiled by envious rouge of their natural healthful tinge; -her hair, of that peculiar tint of red auburn which the French call a -_blonde hasard_, was more remarkable for abundance and flexibility than -for fineness of texture. As regarded her qualities and accomplishments, -she was good-humoured and tolerably unaffected, but wilful and -capricious as a spoiled child; she spoke her own language pretty well, -with an occasional slight vulgarism or bit of greenroom slang; had a -smattering of French, and played the piano sufficiently to accompany the -ballads and vaudeville airs which she sang with spirit and considerable -freedom of style. I had met German actresses who were far more lady-like -off the stage, but there was nothing glaringly or repulsively vulgar -about Emilie, and as a neighbour at a public dinner-table, she was -amusing and quite above par. As if to vindicate her nationality, she -would occasionally look sentimental; but the mood sat ill upon her, and -never lasted long: comedy was evidently her natural line. Against her -reputation, rumour, always an inquisitive censor, often a mean libeller, -of ladies of her profession, had as yet, so far as I could learn, found -nothing to allege. Her mother, a dingy old dowager, with bad teeth, -dowdy gowns, a profusion of artificial flowers, and a strong addiction -to tea and knitting, perfectly understood the duties of duennaship, and -did propriety by her daughter's side at dinner-table and promenade. To -the heart of the daughter, Van Haubitz, almost from the first hour he -had seen her, had laid persevering and determined siege. - -During our after-dinner tte--tte on the day now referred to, my -friend the gunner had shown himself exceedingly unreserved, and, without -any attempt on my part to draw him out, he had elucidated, with a -frankness that must have satisfied the most inquisitive, whatever small -points of his recent history and present position he had previously left -in obscurity. The conversation began, so soon as the cloth was removed -and the guests had departed, by a jesting allusion on my part to his -flirtation with the actress, and to her gracious reception of his -attentions. - -"It is no mere flirtation," said Van, gravely. "My intentions are -serious. You may depend Mademoiselle Sendel understands them as such." - -"Serious! you don't mean that you want to marry her?" - -"Unquestionably I do. It is my only chance." - -"Your only chance!" I repeated, considerably puzzled. "Are you about to -turn actor, and do you trust to her for instruction in histrionics?" - -"Not exactly. I will explain. La Sendel, you must know, has just -terminated her last engagement, which was at a salary of ten thousand -florins. She has already received and accepted an offer of a new one, at -fifteen thousand, from the Vienna theatre. Vienna is a very pleasant -place. Fifteen thousand florins are thirty-two thousand francs, or -twelve hundred of your English pounds sterling. Upon that sum two -persons can live excellently well--in Germany at least." - -Unable to contradict any of these assertions, I held my tongue. The -Dutchman resumed. - -"You know the history of my past life; I will tell you my present -position. It is critical enough, but I shall improve it, for here," and -he touched his forehead, "is what never fails me. This letter," (he -produced an epistle of mercantile aspect, bearing the Amsterdam -post-mark), "I received last week from my eldest brother. The shabby -_schelm_ declares he will reply to no more of mine, that his efforts to -arrange matters with my father have been fruitless, and that the old -gentleman has strictly forbidden him and his brothers to hold any -communication with me, a command they seem willing enough to obey. So -much for that. And now for the finances." - -He took out his pocket-book, opened and shook it--a flimsy crumpled bit -of paper fell out. It was a note of the bank of France, for one thousand -francs. - -"My last," said he. "That gone, I am a beggar. But it won't come to -that, either, thanks to Fralein Emilie." - -"Surely," said I, "you are too reckless of money, too extravagant and -unreflecting. Six months ago, you told me you had twenty such notes." - -"Ay, twenty-two exactly, at the end of January, when I left Amsterdam. -But whither was I bound? To Paris; and who can economise there? I've had -my money's worth, and could have had no more, had I dribbled the dirty -ten thousand florins over three years, instead of three months. I take -great credit for making it last so long. Such suppers, and balls, and -orgies, with the pleasantest fellows and prettiest actresses in Paris. -But the louis-d'or roll rapidly in that sort of society. One must be a -Russian prince, or a French _feuilletoniste_, to keep it up. I never -flinched at anything so long as the money lasted. Then, when I found -myself reduced to the last note, I got into the Frankfort mail, and -came to rusticate at this rural roulette-table. My next change will be -to conjugation and Vienna." - -"But if you had only a thousand francs on leaving Paris, and have got -them still, how have you lived since?" - -"You don't suppose these are the same? There are not many ways of -getting through money here unless one gambles, which I do not; but coin -has somehow or other a peculiar aptitude to slip through my fingers, and -the thousand francs soon evaporated. Meanwhile, I had written dozens of -letters to my brothers, who seldom answered, and to my father, who never -did. I promised reform and a respectable life, if they would either get -me a snug place with little to do and good pay, or make me a reasonable -yearly allowance, something better than the paltry three thousand -florins they doled out to me when I was in the artillery, and on which, -as I could not live, I was obliged to get in debt. They paid no -attention to my request, reasonable as it was. The best offer they made -me was five francs a-day, paid weekly, to live in a Silesian village. -This was adding insult to injury, and I left off writing to them. A few -days afterwards, taking out my purse to pay for cigars, a dollar dropped -out. It was my last. I paid it away, walked home, lay down upon my bed, -smoked and reflected. My position was gloomy enough, and the more I -looked at it, the blacker it seemed. From my undutiful relatives there -was no hope; the abominable Silesian project was evidently their -ultimatum. I had no friend to turn to, no resource left. I might -certainly have obtained the mere necessaries of life at this hotel, -where my credit was excellent, and have vegetated for a month or two, as -a man must vegetate, without ready money. But I had no fancy for such an -expedient, a mere protraction of the agony. I lay ruminating for two -hours, two such hours as I should be sorry to pass again, and then my -mind was made up. I had a brace of small travelling-pistols amongst my -baggage; these I loaded and put in my pocket; and then, leaving the -hotel and the town, I struck across the country for some distance and -plunged into a wood. There I sat down upon a grass bank, my back against -an old beech. It was evening, and the solitary little glade before me -was striped with the last sunbeams darting between the tree-trunks. I -have difficulty in defining my sensations at that moment. I was quite -resolved, did not waver an instant in my purpose, but my head was dizzy, -and I had a sickly sensation about the heart. Determined that the -physical shrinking from death should not have time to weaken my moral -determination, I hastily opened my waistcoat, felt for the pulsations of -my heart, placed the muzzle of a pistol where they were strongest, -steadying it on that spot with my left hand. Then I looked straight -before me and pulled the trigger. There was the click of the lock, but -no report; the cap was bad, and had been crushed without exploding. That -was a horrible moment. I snatched up another pistol, which lay cocked to -my hand, and thrust the muzzle into my mouth. As before, the sharp noise -of the hammer upon the nipple was the sole result. The caps had been -some time in my possession, and had become worthless through age or -damp." - -I looked at Van Haubitz, doubtful whether he was not hoaxing me. But -hitherto I had observed in him no addiction to the Munchausen vein, and -now his countenance and voice were serious: there was a slight flush on -his cheek, and he was evidently excited at the recollection of his -abortive attempt at suicide,--perhaps a little ashamed of it. I was -convinced he told the truth. - -"I do not know," he continued, "whether, had I had surer weapons with -me, I should have had courage to make a third attempt upon my life. -Honestly, I think not; the self-preservative instinct was rapidly -gaining strength. I walked slowly back to the town, my brain still -confused from the agitating moments I had passed. I was unable quite to -collect my thoughts, and felt as if I had just awakened from a long -heavy sleep. It was now dark; lights streamed from the open windows of -the gambling-rooms; the voices of the croupiers, the stir and hum of -the players and jingling of money were distinctly heard in the street -without. I have already told you I am no gambler, not from scruple, but -choice. Nevertheless, I used often to stroll up to the Cursaal for an -hour of an evening, when the play was at the highest, to look on and -chat with chance acquaintances. Mechanically, I now ascended the stairs. -On the landing-place, I found myself face to face with a man with whom I -was slightly intimate, and who, a few evenings before, had borrowed -forty francs of me. I had not seen him since, and he now returned me the -piece of gold. 'Try your luck with it,' said he; 'there is a run against -the bank to-night, everybody wins, and M. Blanc looks blue.' And he -pointed to one of the proprietors of the tables, who, however, wore a -tolerably tranquil air, knowing well that what was carried away one -night, would come back with compound interest the next. The play was -heavy at the rouge-et-noir table; a Russian and two Frenchmen--the -latter of whom, judging from their appearance, and from the complicated -array of calculations on the table before them, were professional -gamblers--extracted, at nearly every _coup_, notes or rouleaus of gold -from the grated boxes in front of the bankers. I drank a glass of water, -for my lips were dry and hot, and, placing myself as near the table as -the crowd of players and spectators permitted, watched the game. My -hand was in my pocket, the forty-franc piece still between its fingers. -But in spite of the advice of him who had paid it me, I felt no -disposition to risk the coin; not that I feared to lose it, for as my -only one it was useless, but because, as I tell you, I never had the -slightest love of gambling or expectation to win. - -"A pause occurred in the game. The cards had run out, and the bankers -were subjecting them to those complicated and ostentatious shufflings -intended to convince the players of the fairness of their dealings. -During this operation the previous silence was exchanged for eager -gossip. The game, it appeared, had come out that night in a peculiar -manner, very favourable to those who had had the address and nerve to -avail themselves of it. There had been alternate long runs upon red and -black. - -"'_Mille noms de Dieu!_' exclaimed a hoarse cracked voice just below me. -'What a series of black! Twenty-two, and only three red! And to be -unable to take advantage of it!' - -"I looked down, and recognised the grey mustache, wrinkled features, and -snuffy black coat with a ribbon of the Legion of Honour, of an old -French colonel whom you may have seen limping in and out of the Cursaal, -and who ranks amongst the antiquities of Homburg. He served under -Napoleon, was shelved at the peace, and has lived since then on a -moderate annuity, of which one-fifth procures him the barest -necessaries of existence, whilst the other four parts are annually -absorbed in the vortex of rouge-et-noir. When gambling-houses were legal -at Paris, _le colonel rap_, the threadbare colonel, as he was called, -was one of the most punctual attendants at Frascati's and the Palais -Royal. When they were abolished, he commenced a wandering existence -amongst the German baths, and finally settled down at Homburg, giving it -the preference, as the only place where he could follow his darling -pursuit alike in winter and in summer. From the opening to the close of -the play he is seen seated at the table, a number of cards, ruled in red -and black columns, on the green cloth before him, in which he pricks -with pins the progress of the game. That evening he had been -unfortunate, and had emptied his pocket, but nevertheless continued -puncturing cards with laudable perseverance, of course discovering, like -every penniless gambler, that, had he money to stake, he should -infallibly make a fortune; predicting what colour would come out, and -indulging, when he proved a true prophet, in a little subdued blasphemy -because he was unable to profit by his acuteness. - -"'Extraordinary run! to be sure,' repeated the veteran dicer. -'Twenty-two black, and only three red! There'll be a series of red now; -I feel there will, and when I don't play myself, I'm always right. I bet -this deal begins with seven red. Who bets a hundred francs to fifty it -does not?' - -"Nobody accepted this sporting offer, or placed upon the colour which -the colonel's prophetic soul foresaw was to come out. The cards were now -shuffled and cut for dealing. The hell relapsed into silence. - -"'_Faites le jeu, Messieurs!_' was repeated in the harsh business-like -tones of the presiding demon. - -"'Red wins,' croaked the colonel. 'Seven times at the least.' - -"Nearly all the players backed the black. By an idle impulse I threw -down my forty francs, my entire fortune, upon the red. The old soldier -looked round to see the judicious individual who followed his advice, -smiled grimly, and nodded approvingly. The next moment red won. I let -the money lie, and walked into the next room. Eighty francs were of no -more use to me than forty, and I felt very sure that another turn of the -card would carry off both stake and winnings. I took up a newspaper, but -soon threw it down again, for my head was not clear enough to read, and -I felt exhausted with the emotions of the day. I was about to leave the -house when I heard a loud buzz in the card-room, and the next instant -somebody clutched my arm. It was the French colonel, in a state of -furious excitement; grinning, panting, perspiring, and stuttering with -eagerness. - -"'Seven reds!' was all he could say. 'Seven reds, Monsieur. Take up your -money.' - -"I hastened to the table. By a strange caprice of fortune, the colonel's -prophecy had come true. Red had won seven times, and my forty francs had -become five thousand. I took up my winnings, the colonel looking on with -a triumphant smile. This was suddenly exchanged for a portentous frown -and fierce twist of the grey mustache. - -"'_Mille millions de tonnerres!_ Not a dollar left to follow up that -splendid run!' And with a furious gesture, he upset his chair, and -dashed his cards upon the ground. - -"I took the hint, whether intended or not. I could not do less in return -for the five thousand francs the old gentleman had put in my pocket. - -"'If Monsieur,' I said, 'will allow me the pleasure of lending him--' - -"'_Impossible, Monsieur!_' interrupted the colonel, looking as stern as -if about to charge single-handed a whole pulk of Cossacks. But I knew my -man. He was the type of a class of which I have seen many. - -"'_Cependant, Monsieur, entre militaires_, between brother-soldiers--' - -"'_Ah! Monsieur est militaire!_' exclaimed the old gentleman, his -alarming contraction of brow and rigidity of feature instantaneously -dissolving into a smile of extreme benignity. 'That alters the case. -Certainly, between brothers in arms those little services may be -offered and accepted. Although, really, it is encroaching on Monsieur's -complaisance ... at the same time ... a hundred francs ... till -to-morrow ... quarters at some distance ... &c. &c.,' which ended in his -picking up his chair, cards, and pin, and applying all his faculties to -break the bank with ten _louis_ which I lent him, and which I need -hardly say I have not seen from that day to this. - -"Such a sudden stroke of good fortune would have made gamblers of nine -men out of ten, but I decidedly want the organ of gaming, for I have -never played since. My narrow escape from suicide had made some -impression on me, and now that I had five thousand francs in my pocket, -I looked back at the attempt as an exceedingly foolish proceeding. For a -month or more, I lived with what even you would admit to be great -economy, writing frequent letters to Amsterdam, and trying to come to -terms and an arrangement with my family. All in vain. They had no -confidence in my promises, proposed nothing I could accept, talked of -Silesian exile--roots and water in the wilderness--and the like -absurdities, until I plainly saw they were determined to cast me off, -and that if I was to be helped at all, it must be by myself. How to do -this was the puzzle. There are few things I can do, that could in any -way be rendered profitable. I can ride a horse, lay a gun, and put a -battery through its exercise; but such accomplishments are sufficiently -common not to be paid at a very high rate; and besides, I had had enough -of garrison duty, even could I have got back my commission, which was -not likely. So I put soldiering out of the question; and yet, when I had -done so, I was puzzled to think of anything better. I had no fancy to -turn rook, and rove from place to place in search of pigeons--no -uncommon resource with younger brothers of an idle turn and exhausted -means. I had fallen in with a few birds of that breed, and had come to -the conclusion that, to save themselves work and trouble, they had -adopted by far the most laborious and painful of all professions. In the -midst of my doubts and uncertainties, the fair Sendel and her mother -made their appearance. The first sight of their names upon the hotel -book was a ray of light to me. Within an hour I made up my mind to -sacrifice my independence to my necessities, and become the virtuous and -domesticated spouse of the charming and well-paid Emilie. A hint and a -dollar to the waiter placed me next her at the table-d'hte, and I -immediately opened my intrenchments, and began a siege in due form." - -"Which you expect will soon terminate by the capitulation of the -garrison?" - -"Undoubtedly. The result of the first day or two's operations was not -very satisfactory. I rattled away, and did the amiable to a furious -extent; but the divinity was shy, and the guardian of the temple (an -old gorgon whom I shall suppress before the honeymoon is out) looked -askance at me, and pulled her daughter by the sleeve whenever she seemed -disposed to listen. They evidently thought the rattle might belong to a -snake; did me the injustice to take me for an adventurer. On the third -day, however, the ice had melted. I soon found out the cause of the -thaw. The head-waiter, whom a little well-timed liberality had rendered -my devoted slave, informed me that Madame Sendel had been making minute -inquiries concerning me of the master of the hotel. The worthy man, who -adored me because I despised _vin ordinaire_ and looked only at the -sum-total of his bills, said that I was a son of Van Haubitz, the rich -banker of Amsterdam, which was perfectly true; adding, which was rather -less so, that I was a partner in the house, and a _millionaire_. The -effect of this information upon the speculative firm of Sendel _Mre et -Fille_, was perfectly electric. Medusa smoothed her horrid locks, and -came out at that day's dinner in cherry ribbons and fresh artificials. -Emilie was all smiles and suavity, laughed at my worst jokes, nearly -burst her stays by holding her breath to raise a blush at my soft -speeches, and returned from that evening's promenade talking about the -moon, and leaning tenderly on my arm." - -"With such encouragement, I am surprised you did not propose at once." - -"So hasty a measure--oh, most unsophisticated of Britons!" replied Van, -with a look of grave pity for my simplicity--"would have greatly -perilled the success of my scheme. Sendel Senior, having only the -innkeeper's report to rely on, would have had her ungenerous suspicions -re-awakened by my precipitation, and have instituted further inquiries; -have written, probably, to some friend in Holland, and learned that the -pretender to her daughter's hand, although unquestionably a son of the -wealthy banker Van Haubitz, is excluded beyond redemption from the good -graces of that respectable pillar of Dutch finance, who has further -announced his irrevocable determination to take not the slightest notice -of him in his testamentary dispositions. The excellent Herr -Bratenbengel, whose succulent dinner we are now digesting, and whose -very laudable _Rudesheimer_ stands before us, had unwittingly laid the -foundation of my success; it was for me to raise the superstructure. Now -it was that I rejoiced at my economy since the lucky hit at the -gaming-table. The greater part of my winnings still remained to me; -golden grain, which I profusely scattered, sure that it would yield rich -harvest. I had already made a favourable impression, and this I took -care to confirm by the liberal expenditure which you, in your ignorance, -have called extravagance; by treating money as if its abundance in my -coffers made it valueless in my eyes, and by delicate generosity in the -shape of presents to mother and daughter. The trap was too well set to -prove a failure; the birds are fairly snared, and to-night, when we take -our usual romantic stroll, I shall raise the fair Sendel to the seventh -heaven of happiness by asking her to become Madame Van Haubitz." - -Although the tenor and tone of these confessions by no means tended to -elevate the Dutchman in my opinion, I could not but smile at the -coolness with which they were made, and at the skill of his manoeuvres. -There was some good about the scamp; he had his own code of honour, such -as it was, and from that he would not easily have been induced to -swerve. He would have scorned to do a dirty thing, to cheat at cards, or -leave a debt of honour unpaid; but would readily have got in debt to -tradesmen and money-lenders beyond all possibility of reimbursement. And -as regarded his present conspiracy against the celibacy and salary of -Mademoiselle Sendel, a senate of sages and logicians would have failed -to convince him of its impropriety. He looked upon it as a most -justifiable stratagem, a lawful spoiling of the spoiler, praiseworthy in -the sight of men, gods, and columns, and which he would perhaps have -boasted of to a considerable extent to many besides myself, had not -secresy been essential to the welfare of his combinations. I did not -feel myself bound to betray his plot, or to put the Sendel on her guard -against this snake amongst the roses. And whilst mentally resolving -rather to diminish than increase the intimacy which the confident and -confidential artilleryman had in great measure forced upon me, and which -I, through a sort of easy-going indolence of character, had perhaps -somewhat lightly accepted, I anticipated diversion in watching the -manoeuvres of the high contracting parties. I considered myself as a -spectator, called upon to witness an amusing comedy in real life, and -admitted behind the scenes by peculiar favour of an actor. I resolved to -watch the progress of the intrigue, and, if possible, to be present at -the _dnouement_. - -"Are you quite certain," said I to Van, "that Mademoiselle Sendel's -pecuniary position and prospects are so very favourable? The sum you -mentioned is a large one for an actress who has been so short a time on -the stage. Public report, very apt to take liberties with the reputation -of theatrical ladies, often endeavours to compensate them by magnifying -their salaries." - -Van, I may here mention, lest the reader should not have perceived it, -had a most inordinate opinion of his own abilities and acuteness. Like -certain Yankees, he "conceited" it was necessary to rise before the sun -to outwit him, and even then your chance was a poor one. He had been in -hot water all his life, never out of difficulties and scrapes--once, as -has been shown, kept from suicide by a mere accident and was now reduced -to the alternative of beggary or of marrying for a living. None of -these circumstances, which would have taken the conceit out of most men, -at all impaired his opinion of his talent and sharpness. Replying to my -observation merely by a slight shrug, and by a smile of pity for the man -who thus misappreciated his foresight, he again produced his -pocket-book, and extracted from its innermost recesses a fragment of a -German newspaper, reputed oracular in matters theatrical. This he handed -to me, tapping a particular paragraph significantly with his forefinger. -The paragraph was thus conceived:-- - -"THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE.--That promising young actress, Fralein Emilie -Sendel--whose first appearance, in the spring of last year, at once -established her in the foremost line of the dramatic genius of the -day--has concluded her twelve months' engagement at the _Hof Theater_ of -B----, where she doubtless considered, and not without reason, that her -talents and exertions were inadequately compensated by a salary of ten -thousand florins. The gay society of that capital will sensibly feel the -loss of the accomplished and fascinating comedian, who has accepted an -engagement at Vienna, on the more suitable terms of fifteen thousand -florins, with two months' _cong_, and other advantages. Before -proceeding to ravish the eyes and ears of the pleasure-loving population -of the _Kaiser-Stadt, la belle_ Sendel is off to the baths, under the -protecting wing of the watchful guardian who has presided at all her -theatrical triumphs." - -"Clear enough, I think," said Van, when I raised my eyes from the -protracted periods of the penny-a-liner. - -I had nothing to say against the lucidity of the paragraph, nor anything -to urge, at all likely to avail, against the prosecution of Van's -designs upon the lady's hand and fifteen thousand florins, with "two -months' _cong_ and other advantages." No possible sophistry, to which I -was equal, could prove the marriage to be against his interest; and as -to trying him on the tack of delicacy--"imposition on an unprotected -woman, degrading dependence on her exertions," and so forth--I knew the -thick skin and indomitable self-conceit of the gunner would repel such -feather-shafts without feeling them, or that the utmost effect I could -expect to produce would be to get into a quarrel with the redoubtable -native of the Netherlands, a predicament in which, as a man of peace, I -was by no means anxious to find myself. So after hazarding the fruitless -hint with which the reader was made acquainted at the commencement of -this narrative, I abstained from all further intermeddling, and retired -to my apartment, leaving Van Haubitz to con the declaration with which -he was that evening to rejoice the ears of the fair and too-confiding -Sendel. - -I went to bed early that night, and saw nothing more of the Hollander -till the next morning, when I was roused from a balmy slumber at the -untimely hour of seven, by his bursting into my room with more -impetuosity than ceremony, with the gestures of a maniac and the mien of -a conqueror. Before my eyes were half open, he was more than half -through the history of his proceedings on the previous evening. His -success had been complete. Emilie had faltered, with downcast eyes, a -sweet assent. The friendly gloom of eve, and the over-arching foliage, -beneath whose shade the momentous question was put, saved her the -necessity of practising upon her lungs to produce a blush. Mamma Sendel -had bestowed her blessing upon the happy pair, and in the ardour of her -maternal accolades had nearly extinguished her future son-in-law's left -ogle with the wire stalk of an artificial passion-flower. The first -burst of benevolence over, and the effervescence of feeling a little -calmed, the bridegroom elect, who could not afford delays, pressed for -an early day. Thereupon Emilie was, of course, horror-stricken, but her -maternal relative, nothing loth to land the fish thus satisfactorily -hooked, and well aware of the impediments that sometimes arise between -cup and lip, ranged herself upon the side of the eager lover, and their -combined forces bore down all opposition. Madame Sendel at first showed -an evident hankering after a preliminary jaunt to Amsterdam and a gay -wedding, graced by the presence of the bridegroom's numerous and wealthy -family. She also testified some anxiety as to the view Van Haubitz -Senior might take of his son's matrimonial project, and as to how far he -might approve of a hasty and unceremonious wedding. But the gallant -artilleryman had an answer to everything. He pledged himself, which he -was perfectly safe in doing, that his father would not attempt in the -slightest degree to control his inclinations or interfere with his -projects, extolled the delights of an autumnal tour with his wife and -mother-in-law before returning to Holland; in short, was so plausible in -his arguments, so specious and pressing, pleaded so eloquently the -violence of his love and inutility of delay, and overruled objections -with such cogent reasoning, that he achieved a complete triumph, and it -was agreed that in one week Van Haubitz should lead his adored Emilie to -the hymeneal altar. - -"There will be a small matter to arrange with respect to Emilie," said -Madame Sendel in her blandest tones, and with affectation of -embarrassment. "She has an engagement at the Vienna theatre, which must -of course now be broken off. There is a forfeit to pay, no very heavy -sum," added she---- - -"Not a word about that," interrupted Van, whose blood curdled in his -veins at the mere idea of cancelling the engagement on which his hopes -were built. "There is no hurry for a few days. Let me once call Emilie -mine, and I take charge of all those matters." - -Emilie smiled angelically; Madame patted her considerate son-in-law on -the shoulder, and applied to her snuff-box to conceal her emotion; and -all matters of business being thus satisfactorily settled, the evening -closed in harmony and bliss. - -"Are you for Frankfort to-day?" said Van Haubitz, when he had concluded -his exulting narrative, and without giving me time for congratulations, -which I should have been at a loss to offer. "I am off, after breakfast, -to get some diamond earrings and other small matters for my adorable. I -shall be glad of your taste and opinion." - -"Diamonds!" I exclaimed. "Farewell, then, to the thousand franc note--" - -"Pooh! Nonsense! You don't suppose I throw away my last cash that way. -The Frankfort jewellers know me well, or think they do, which is the -same thing. They have seen enough of my coin since I have been at -Homburg. For them, as for my excellent mother-in-law, I am the wealthy -partner in the undoubted good firm of Van Haubitz, Krummwinkel, & Co. I -never told them so; if they choose to imagine it I am not to blame. My -credit is good. The diamonds shall be paid for--if paid for they must -be--out of Madame Van Haubitz's first quarter's salary." - -I was meditating an excuse for not accompanying my pertinacious and -unscrupulous acquaintance on his cruise against the Frankfort -Israelites, when he resumed-- - -"By the by," he said, "you will come to church with us. I have arranged -it all. Quite private, for reasons good. Nobody but yourself, Madame -Sendel, and Emilie. You shall act as father, and give away the bride." - -The start I gave, at this alarming announcement, nearly broke the bed. -This was carrying things rather too far. Not satisfied with rendering -me, by his intrusive and unsolicited confidence, a sort of tacit -accomplice in his manoeuvres, this Dutch Gil Blas would fain make me an -active participator. I drew at sight on my imagination, quickened by the -peril, for a letter received the previous evening from a dear and near -relative who lay dangerously ill at Baden-Baden, and to whose sick-bed -it was absolutely necessary I should immediately repair; and, jumping -up, I began to dress in all haste, rang furiously for the bill and a -carriage, and requested Van Haubitz to present my excuses to the ladies, -my unexpected departure at that early hour depriving me of the pleasure -of taking leave of them. The Dutchman swore all manner of -_donderwetters_ and _sacraments_ that he was grieved at my departure, -trusted I should find my friend better, and be able to return to -Frankfort in time for the marriage, but did not press me to do so, and -in reality was too exhilarated by the success of his machinations to -care a straw about the matter. And saying he must go and write to -Amsterdam, he shook me by the hand and left the room, whistling in loud -and joyous key the burthen of a Dutch march. In less than an hour I was -on the road to Frankfort, and that evening I reached Heidelberg, where -some friends of mine had passed the summer. I expected to find them -still there, but they had left for Baden-Baden. Thither I pursued them, -and--as if it were a judgment on me for my white lie to the -Dutchman--arrived there the morrow of their departure. Baden was -thinning, and they had gone down stream: I must have passed them on the -Rhine. Having strong reasons to see them before they left Germany, I -followed upon their trail. But their movements were rapid and eccentric, -and after tracking them to one or two of the minor baths, the chase led -me back to Frankfort. Here I made sure to catch them, or resolved to -give up the hunt. - -A week had been consumed in thus travelling to and fro. I had no great -fancy for returning to Frankfort, lest my friend the Dutchman should -still be there, and press his society upon me, of which, after his -recent revelations, I was anything but ambitious. Upon the whole, -however, I thought it likely he would have departed. I knew he would -accelerate his marriage as much as possible; I had been nine days -absent, which gave him ample time to get over the ceremony and leave the -neighbourhood. By way of precaution I resolved to keep pretty close in -my hotel during the period of my stay, which was not to exceed one or -two days. - -On arriving at the "White Swan," I found my friends were staying there, -but had driven over to Homburg. Unwilling to follow them, and risk -meeting my bugbear, I awaited their return, which was to take place to a -late dinner. As usual, there was much bustle at the "Swan;" many goings -and comings, several carriages in the courtyard, others in the street -packing for departure, a throng of greedy _lohn-kutschers_, warm -waiters, and bearded couriers hanging about the door, and running up and -down stairs. I entered the public room. It was past noon, and the tables -were laid for dinner, but there were only two persons in the apartment, -a gentleman and a lady. They stood at a window, outside of which a -handsome Vienna-made berline, with a count's coronet on the panels, was -being got ready for a journey. As I walked up the room, the lady turned -her head, and I was instantly struck by her resemblance to Emilie -Sendel. So strong was it that I for a moment thought I had fallen in -with the very persons I wished to avoid. A second glance convinced me -of my error. The likeness was certainly startling, but there were many -points of difference. Age and stature were the same, so were the hair -and complexion, save that the former was less ruddy, the latter paler -than in the case of the buxom Emilie. And there were grace and -refinement about this person, far beyond any to which the Dutchman's -lady-love could pretend. The expression of the interesting features was -rather pensive than gay, and there was something classical in the arch -of the eyebrow and outline of the face. The lady was plainly but richly -attired in an elegant travelling-dress, and had her hand upon the arm of -a tall and very handsome man, about forty years of age, of singularly -aristocratic but somewhat dissipated appearance. They were talking as I -entered, and a sentence or two of their conversation reached my ear. -They spoke French, with a scarcely perceptible foreign accent. - -Curious to know who these persons were, I returned to the court of the -hotel, intending to question a waiter. It was first necessary to catch -one, not easy at that busy time of day; and after several fruitless -efforts to detain the jacketed gentry, I gave up the attempt, and took -my station at the gateway. Scarcely had I done so, when a carriage drove -up at a rattling pace, a small spit of a boy in a smart green suit, and -with an ambiguous sort of coronet embroidered in silver on the front of -his cap, jumped off and opened the door, and there emerged from the -vehicle, to my infinite dismay, the inevitable Van Haubitz. Retreat was -impossible, for he saw me directly; and after handing out Madame Sendel -and her daughter, seized me vehemently by both hands. - -"Delighted to see you!" he cried; "I wish you had been a day sooner. We -were married yesterday," he added in a hurried voice, drawing me aside. -"Have left Homburg, paid everything _there_, and leave this to-morrow -for Heaven knows where. Explanations must come first (here he made a -grimace), for my purse is low, and my mother-in-law makes projects that -would ruin Rothschild. Lucky you are here to back me. Come in." - -I was fairly caught, and in a pretty dilemma. My first thought was to -knock down the Dutchman, and run for it, but reflection checked the -impulse. Stammering a confused congratulation to the bride and her -mother, and meditating an escape at all hazards, I allowed Madame Sendel -to hook herself on my arm, and lead me into the hotel in the wake of the -newly-wedded pair, who made at once for the public room. A magnificent -courier, in a Hungarian dress, with beard, belt, and hunting-knife, -strode past us into the apartment. - -"_Herr Graf_," said the man, addressing the distinguished-looking -stranger who had attracted my attention, "the horses are ready." - -The Count and his companion turned at the announcement, and found -themselves face to face with our party. There was a general start and -exclamation from the three women. The strange lady turned very pale and -visibly trembled; Madame Van Haubitz gave a slight scream; her mother -flushed as red as the poppies in her head-dress, and hung like a log -upon my arm, glaring angrily at the strangers. For one moment all stood -still; Van Haubitz and I looked at each other in bewilderment. He was -evidently struck by the extraordinary resemblance I had noticed, and -which became more manifest, now that the two ladies were seen together. - -"Come, Ameline," said the Count, who alone preserved complete -self-possession. And he hurried his companion from the room. Madame -Sendel released my arm, and letting herself fall upon a chair with an -hysterical giggle, closed her eyes and seemed preparing for a -comfortable swoon. Her daughter hastened to her assistance and untied -her bonnet; Van Haubitz grasped a decanter of water and made an alarming -demonstration of emptying it upon the full-moon countenance of his -respectable mother-in-law. I was curious to see him do it, for I had -always had my doubts whether the dowager's colours were what is -technically termed "fast." My curiosity was not gratified. Whether from -apprehension of the remedy or from some other cause, I cannot say, but -Madame Sendel abandoned her faint, and after two or three grotesque -contortions of countenance, and a certain amount of winking and -blinking, was sufficiently recovered to take a huge pinch of snuff, and -ascend the stairs to a private room, with her daughter and son-in-law -for supporters, and half-a-score waiters and chambermaids, whom her -hysterical symptoms had assembled, by way of a tail. Seeing her so well -guarded, I thought it unnecessary to add to the escort. As she left the -room, there was a clatter of hoofs outside, and looking through the -window, I saw the coroneted berline whirled rapidly away by four -vigorous posters. Just then the dinner-bell rang, and the obsequious -head-waiter, who with profound bows had assisted at the departure of the -travellers, bustled into the room. - -"Who is the gentleman who has just left?" I inquired. - -"His Excellency, Count J----," replied the man. It was the name of a -Hungarian nobleman of great wealth, and of reputation almost European as -one of the most fashionable and successful Lotharios of the dissipated -Austrian capital. - -"And his companion?" - -"The celebrated actress, Fralein Sendel." - -Had the cunning but unlucky Van Haubitz been a regular reader of the -_Theater Zeitung_, or Journal of the Theatres, he would have seen, in -the ensuing number to that whence he derived his information respecting -Mademoiselle Sendel's confirmed popularity and advantageous engagement, -the following short but important paragraph: - - "ERRATUM.--In our yesterday's impression an error occurred, arising - from a similarity of names. It is Fralein _Ameline_ Sendel who has - concluded with the Vienna theatre an engagement equally - advantageous to herself and the manager. Her elder sister, Fralein - _Emilie_, continues the engagement she has already held for two - seasons, as a supernumerary _soubrette_. The amount stated - yesterday as her salary would still be correct, with the - abstraction of a zero. Talent does not always run in families." - -This good-natured paragraph, evidently from the pen of a sulky -sub-editor, smarting under a lashing for his blunder of the preceding -day, did not come to my knowledge till some time afterwards, so that -the waiter's reply to my question concerning Count J----'s -travelling-companion perplexed me greatly, and plunged me into an ocean -of conjectures. In fact, my curiosity was so strongly roused, that -instead of availing myself of the absence of the Dutchman to escape from -the hotel, I sat down to dinner, resolved not to depart till I heard the -mystery explained. I had not long to wait. Dinner was just over, when I -received a message from Van Haubitz, who earnestly desired to see me. I -found him alone, seated at a table, his chin resting on his hand, anger, -shame, and mortification stamped upon his inflamed countenance. A -tumbler half full of water stood upon the table, beside a bottle of -smelling salts; and, upon entering, I was pretty sure I heard a sound of -sobbing from an inner room, which ceased, however, when I spoke. There -had evidently been a violent scene. Its cause was explained to me by Van -Haubitz, at first in rather a confused manner, for at each attempt to -detail the circumstances he interrupted himself by bursts of fury. Owing -to this, it was some time before I could arrive at a clear understanding -of the facts of the case. When I did, I could scarcely help feeling -sorry for the unfortunate schemer, although in truth he richly deserved -the disappointment he had met. Never was there a more glaring instance -of excess of cunning overreaching itself,--for no deception had been -practised by Madame Sendel and her daughter. They doubtless gave -themselves credit for some cleverness and more good fortune in enticing -a rich banker, with more ducats than brains, into their matrimonial -nets; and doubtless Fralein Emilie put on her best looks and gowns, her -sweetest smiles and most becoming bonnets, to lure the lion into the -toils. But neither mother nor daughter had for a moment imagined that -Van Haubitz took the latter for the celebrated and successful actress -whose name was known throughout Germany, whilst that of poor Emilie, -whose talents were of the most humble order, had scarcely ever -penetrated beyond the wings and greenroom of the theatre, where she -enacted unimportant characters for the modest remuneration of a hundred -florins a month. By no means proud of her position as an actress, which -appeared the more lowly when contrasted with her sister's brilliant -success, Emilie had seldom referred to things theatrical since her -acquaintance with Van Haubitz. On his part, the Dutchman, conscious of -his real motives and anxious to conceal them, abstained from all direct -reference to Mademoiselle Sendel's great talents and their lucrative -results, contenting himself with general compliments, which passed -current without being closely scanned. If he had never heard either his -wife or mother-in-law make mention of Ameline, it was because they were -on the worst possible terms with that young lady, who had lived, nearly -from the period of her first appearance upon the boards, under the -protection of the accomplished libertine, Count J----, over whom she was -said to exercise extraordinary influence. When she formed this -connection, Madame Sendel--who, in spite of her paint and artificial -floriculture, had very strict notions of propriety--wrote her a letter -of furious reproach, renounced her as her daughter, and prohibited -Emilie from holding any communication with her. Emilie, against whose -virtue none had ever found aught to say, sorrowfully obeyed; and, after -two or three ineffectual attempts on the part of Ameline to soften her -mother's wrath, all communication ceased between them. Their next -meeting was that at which Van Haubitz and myself were present. Its -singularity, Madame Sendel's fainting fit, and the resemblance between -the sisters, brought on inquiries and an explanation; and the Dutchman -found, to his inexpressible disgust and consternation, that he had -encumbered himself with a wife he cared nothing for, and a mother-in-law -he detested, whose joint income was largely stated at one hundred and -fifty pounds sterling per annum. In his first paroxysm of rage he -taunted them with the mistake they had made when they thought to secure -the love-sick millionaire, proclaimed himself in debt, disinherited, and -a beggar; and, finally, by the violence of his reproaches, drove them -trembling and weeping from the room. - -Van Haubitz had sent for me to implore my advice in his present -difficult position; but was so bewildered by passion, and overwhelmed by -this sudden awakening from his dream of success and prosperity, that he -was hardly in a condition to listen to reason. His regrets were so -selfish as to destroy the possibility of sympathy, and I should have -left him to his fate and his own devices, had I not thought that my so -doing would make matters worse for the poor girl who had thus -heedlessly linked herself to a fortune-hunter. So I remained; after a -while he became calmer, and we talked over plans for the future. By my -suggestion, Madame Sendel and her daughter were invited to the -conference. The old lady was sulky and frightened, and would hardly open -her lips; Emilie, on the other hand, made a more favourable impression -on me than she had ever previously done. I now saw, what I had not -before suspected, that she was really attached to Van Haubitz; hitherto, -I had taken her for a mere adventuress, speculating on his supposed -wealth. She spoke kindly and affectionately to him, smiled through the -tears brought to her eyes by his recent violence, and evidently trembled -each time her mother spoke, lest she should vent a reproach or refer to -his duplicity. She tried to speak confidently and cheerfully of the -future. They must go immediately to Vienna, she said; there she would -apply diligently to her profession; the manager had half promised her an -increase of salary after another year--she was sure she should deserve -it, and meanwhile Van Haubitz, with his abilities, could not fail to -find some lucrative employment. He must get rid of his accent, she added -with a smile (he spoke a voluble but most execrable jargon of mingled -Dutch and German), and then he might go upon the stage, where she was -certain he would succeed. This last suggestion was made timidly, as if -she feared to hurt the pride of the scapegrace by proposing such a -plan. There was not a word or an accent of reproach in all she said, and -I heartily forgave the little coquetry, affectation, and vulgarity I had -formerly remarked in her, in consideration of the intuitive delicacy and -good feeling she now displayed. Truly, thought I, it is humbling to us, -the bearded and baser moiety of humankind, to contrast our vile egotism -with the beautiful self-devotion of woman, as exhibited even in this -poor actress. - -Madame Sendel by no means acquiesced in her daughter's project. The -flesh-pots of Amsterdam had attractions for her, far superior to those -of a struggling and uncertain existence at Vienna. She evidently leaned -upon the hope of a reconciliation between Van Haubitz and his father, -and hinted pretty plainly at the effect that might be produced by a -personal interview with the obdurate banker. I could see she was -arranging matters in her queer old noddle upon the approved theatrical -principle; the penitent son and fascinating daughter-in-law throwing -themselves at the feet of the melting father, who, with handkerchief to -eyes, bestows on them a blubbering benediction and ample subsidy. To my -surprise, Van Haubitz also seemed disposed to place hope in an appeal to -his father, perhaps as a drowning man clutches at a straw. He may have -thought that his marriage, imprudent as it was, would be taken as some -guarantee of future steadiness, or at least of abstinence from the -spendthrift courses which had hitherto destroyed all confidence in him. -He could hardly expect his union with a penniless actress to reinstate -him in his father's good graces; but he probably imagined he might -extract a small annuity, as a condition of living at a distance from the -friends he had disgraced. He asked me what I thought of the plan. I of -course did not dissuade him from its adoption, and upon the whole -thought it his best chance, for I really saw no other. After some -deliberation and discussion, he seemed nearly to have made up his mind, -when I was called away to my friends, who had returned from their -excursion. - -I was getting into bed that night, when Van Haubitz knocked at my door, -and entered the room with a downcast and dejected air, very different -from his usual boisterous headlong manner. - -"I am off to Holland," he said; "'tis my only chance, bad though it be." - -"I sincerely wish you success," replied I. "In any case, do not despair; -something will turn up. You have friends in your own country, I have -heard you say. They will help you to occupation." - -He shook his head. - -"Good friends over a bottle and a dice-box," said he, "but useless at a -pinch like this. Pleasant fellows enough, but scamps like"--myself, he -was going to add, but did not. "I am come to say farewell," he -continued. "I must be off before daybreak. I have debts in Frankfort, -and if my departure gets wind, I shall have a dozen duns on my back. -Misfortunes never come alone. As for paying, it is out of the question. -Amongst us we have only about enough money to reach Amsterdam. Once -there--_ la grace de Dieu!_ but I confess my hopes are small. Thanks -for your advice--and for your sympathy too, for I saw this morning you -were sorry for me, though you did not think I deserved pity. Well, -perhaps not. God bless you." - -He was leaving the room, but returned. - -"I think you said you should stay at Coblenz before returning to -England." - -"I shall probably be there a few days towards the end of the month." - -"Good. If I succeed, you shall hear from me. What is your address -there?" - -"_Poste restante_ will find me," I replied, not very covetous of the -correspondence, and unwilling to give a more exact direction. - -Van Haubitz nodded and left me. At breakfast the next morning I learned -that the Dutch baron, as the waiter styled him, had taken his departure -at peep of day. - -The first days of October found me still at Coblenz, lingering amongst -the valleys and vineyards, and loth to exchange them for the autumnal -fogs and emptiness of London. Thither, however, I was compelled to -return; and I endeavoured to console myself for the necessity by -discovering that the green Rhine grew brown, the trees scant of leaves, -the evenings long and chilly. I had heard nothing of Van Haubitz, and -had ceased to think of him, when, walking out at dusk on the eve of the -day fixed for my departure, I suddenly encountered him. He had just -arrived by a steamboat coming up stream; his wife and mother-in-law were -with him, and they were about to enter a fifth-rate inn, which, two -months previously, he would have felt insulted if solicited to -patronise. I was shocked by the change that had taken place in all three -of them. In five weeks they had grown five years older. Emilie had lost -her freshness, her eye its sparkle; and the melancholy smile with which -she welcomed me made my heart ache. Madame Sendel's rotund cheeks had -collapsed, she looked cross and jaundiced, and more snuffy than ever. -Van Haubitz was thin and haggard, his hair and mustaches, formerly -glossy and well-trimmed, were ragged and neglected, his dress, once so -smart and carefully arranged, was soiled and slovenly. My imagination -supplied a rapid and vivid sketch of the anxieties, and disappointments, -and heart-burnings, which, more than any actual bodily privations, had -worked so great a change in so short a time. Van Haubitz started on -seeing me, and faltered in his pace, as if unwilling to enter the -shabby hotel in my presence. The hesitation was momentary. "Worse -quarters than we used to meet in," said he, with a bitter smile. "I will -not ask you into this dog-hole. Wait an instant, and I will walk with -you." - -Badly as I thought of Van Haubitz, and indisposed as I was to keep up -any acquaintance with him, I had not the heart, seeing him so miserable -and down in the world, to turn my back upon him at once. So I entered -the hotel, and waited in the public room. In a few minutes he reappeared -with the two ladies, and we all four strolled out in the direction of -the Rhine. I did not ask the Dutchman the result of his journey. It was -unnecessary. His disheartened air and general appearance told the tale -of disappointment, of humiliating petitions sternly rejected, of hopes -fled and a cheerless future. He kept silence the while we walked a -hundred yards, and then, having left his wife and mother-in-law out of -ear-shot, abruptly began the tale of his mishaps. As I conjectured, he -had totally failed in his attempt to mollify his father, who was furious -at his temerity in appearing before him, and whose rage redoubled when -he heard of his ill-omened marriage. Unfortunately for Van Haubitz, the -jeweller and some other tradesmen at Frankfort, so soon as they learned -his departure, had forwarded their accounts to the care of the -Amsterdam firm; and, although his father had not the remotest intention -of paying them, he was incensed in the extreme at the slur thus cast -upon his house and name. In short, the unlucky artilleryman at once saw -he had no chance of a single kreuzer, or of the slightest countenance -from his father. His applications to his brothers, and to one or two -more distant relatives, were equally unsuccessful. All were disgusted at -his irregularities, angry at his marriage, incredulous of his promises -of reform; and, after passing a miserable month in Amsterdam, he set out -to accompany his wife to Vienna, whither she was compelled to repair -under pain of fine and forfeiture of her engagement. Although living -with rigid economy--on bread and water, as Van Haubitz expressed -it--their finances had been utterly consumed by their stay in the Dutch -capital, and it was only by disposing of every trinket and superfluity -(and of necessaries too, I feared, when I remembered the slender baggage -that came up with them from the boat) that they had procured the means -of travelling, in the cheapest and most humble manner, and with the -disheartening certainty of arriving penniless at Vienna. Van Haubitz -told me all this, and many other details, with an air of gloomy -despondency. He was hopeless, heart-broken, desperate; and certain -circumstances of his position, which by some would have been held an -alleviation, aggravated it in his eyes. He said little of his wife; -but, from what escaped him, I easily gathered that she had shown -strength of mind, good feeling and affection for him, and was willing to -struggle by his side for a scanty and hard-earned subsistence. His cares -and irritable mood prevented his appreciating her attachment, and he -looked upon her as an encumbrance, without which he might again rise in -the world. He had always entertained a confident expectation of -enriching himself by marriage; and this hope, which had buoyed him up -under many difficulties, was now gone. - -"I have one resource left," said Van Haubitz. "I have pondered over it -for the last two days, and have almost determined on its adoption." - -"What is it?" I asked. - -"If I decide upon it," he replied, "you shall shortly know. 'Tis a -desperate one enough." - -We had insensibly slackened our pace, and at this moment the ladies came -up. Van Haubitz made a gesture, as of impatience at the interruption. - -"Wait for me here," he said, and walked away. Without speculating upon -the motive of his absence, I stood still, and entered into conversation -with the ladies. We were on the quay. The night was mild and calm, but -overcast and exceedingly dark. A few feet below us rolled the dark mass -of the Rhine, slightly swollen by recent rains. A light from an -adjacent window illuminated the spot, and cast a flickering gleam across -the water. Unwilling to refer to their misfortunes, I spoke to Emilie on -some general topic. But Madame Sendel was too full of her troubles to -tolerate any conversation that did not immediately relate to them, and -she broke in with a long history of grievances, of the hard-heartedness -of the Amsterdam relations, the cruelty of Emilie's position, her -son-in-law's helplessness, and various other matters, in a querulous -tone, and with frightful volubility. The poor daughter, I plainly saw, -winced under this infliction. I was waiting the smallest opening to -interrupt the indiscreet old lady, and revert to common-place, when a -distant splash in the water reached my ears. The women also heard it, -and at the same instant a presentiment of evil came over us all. Madame -Sendel suddenly held her tongue and her breath; Emilie turned deadly -pale, and without saying a word, flew along the quay in the direction of -the sound. She had gone but a few yards when her strength failed her, -and she would have fallen, but for my support. There was a shout, and a -noise of men running. Leaving Madame Van Haubitz to the care of her -mother, I ran swiftly along the river side, and soon reached a place -where the deep water moaned and surged against the perpendicular quay. -Here several men were assembled, talking hurriedly and pointing to the -river. Others each moment arrived, and two boats were hastily shoved -off from an adjacent landing-place. - -"A man in the river," was the reply to my hasty inquiry. - -It was so dark that I could not distinguish countenances close to me, -and at a very few yards even the outline of objects was scarcely to be -discerned. There were no houses close at hand, and some minutes elapsed -before lights were procured. At last several boats put off, with men -standing in the bows, holding torches and lanterns high in the air. -Meanwhile I had questioned the bystanders, but could get little -information; none as to the person to whom the accident had happened. -The man who had given the alarm was returning from mooring his boat to a -neighbouring jetty, when he perceived a figure moving along the quay a -short distance in his front. The figure disappeared, a heavy splash -followed, and the boatman ran forward. He could see no one either on -shore or in the stream, but heard a sound as of one striking out and -struggling in the water. Having learned this much, I jumped into a boat -just then putting off, and bid the rowers pull down stream, keeping a -short distance from the quay. The current ran strong, and I doubted not -that the drowning man had been carried along by it. Two vigorous -oars-men pulled till the blades bent, and the boat, aided by the stream, -flew through the water. A third man held a torch. I strained my eyes -through the darkness. Presently a small object floated within a few feet -of the boat, which was rapidly passing it. It shone in the torchlight. I -struck at it with a boat-hook, and brought it on board. It was a man's -cap, covered with oilskin, and I remembered that Van Haubitz wore such a -one. Stripping off the cover, I beheld an officer's foraging cap, with a -grenade embroidered on its front. My doubts, slight before, were -entirely dissipated. - -When the search, rendered almost hopeless by the extreme darkness and -power of the current, was at last abandoned, I hastened to the hotel, -and inquired for Madame Sendel. She came to me in a state of great -agitation. Van Haubitz had not returned, but she thought less of that -than of the state of her daughter, who, since recovering from a long -swoon, had been almost crazed with anxiety. She knew some one had been -drowned, and her mind misgave her it was her husband. The foraging-cap, -which Madame Sendel immediately recognised, removed all uncertainty. The -only hope remaining was, that Van Haubitz, although carried rapidly away -by the power of the current, had been able to maintain himself on the -surface, and had got ashore at some considerable distance down the -river, or had been picked up by a passing boat. But this was a very -feeble hope, and for my own part, and for more than one reason, I -placed no reliance on it. I left Madame Sendel to break the painful -intelligence to her daughter, and went home, promising to call again in -the morning. - -As I had expected, nothing was heard of Van Haubitz, nor any vestige of -him found, save the foraging-cap I had picked up. Doubtless, the Rhine -had borne down his lifeless corpse to the country of his birth. The next -day Coblenz rang with the death of the unfortunate Dutchman. A stranger, -and unacquainted with the localities, he was supposed to have walked -over the quay by accident. I thought differently; and so I knew did -Madame Sendel and Emilie. I saw the former early the next day. She was -greatly cast down about her daughter, who had passed a sleepless night, -and was weak and suffering, but who nevertheless insisted on continuing -her journey the following morning. - -"We must go," said her mother; "if we delay, Emilie loses her -engagement, and how can we both live on my poor jointure? Weeping will -not bring him back, were he worth it. To think of the misery he has -caused us!" - -I ventured to hint an inquiry as to their means of prosecuting their -journey. The old lady understood the intention, and took it kindly. "But -she needed no assistance," she said; Van Haubitz (and this confirmed -our strong suspicion of suicide) had given their little stock of money -into his wife's keeping only a few hours before his death. - -That afternoon I left Coblenz for England. - - * * * * * - -On a certain Wednesday, about ten years after the incidents I have -sketched, I had been enjoying the excellent acting of Bouff in two of -his best characters, and paused for a moment to speak to a friend in the -crowded lobby of the St James's Theatre. Whilst thus engaged, I became -aware that I was an object of attention to two persons, whom I had an -indistinct notion of having seen before, but when or where, or who they -might be, I had not the remotest idea. One of them was a -comfortable-looking, middle-aged man, with a bald head, a smooth, -clean-shaven face, and an incipient ventral rotundity. His complexion -was clear and wholesome, his countenance good-humoured, his whole -appearance bespoke an existence free from care, nights of sound sleep, -and days of tranquil enjoyment. His face was too sleek to be very -expressive, but there was a shrewd, quick look in the eye, and I set him -down in my mind as a wealthy German merchant or manufacturer (some small -peculiarities of costume betrayed the foreigner) come to show London to -his wife--a well-favoured dame, fat, fair, but some years short of -forty--who accompanied him, and who, as well as her better half, seemed -to honour me with very particular notice. My confabulation over, I was -leaving the theatre, when a sleek soft hand was gently passed through my -arm. It was my friend the stout foreigner. I strained my eyes and my -memory, but in vain; I felt very puzzled, and doubtless looked so, for -he smiled, and advancing his head, whispered a name in my ear. It was -that of Van Haubitz. - -I started, looked again, doubted, and was at last convinced. _Minus_ -mustache and whisker, which were closely shaven, and half his hair, of -which the remainder was considerably grizzled; _plus_ a degree of -corpulence such as I should never have thought the slender lieutenant of -artillery capable of acquiring; his heated, sunburnt complexion and -dissipated look, exchanged for a fresh colour and benevolent -placidity--the Dutchman I had left in the Rhine stood beside me in the -lobby of the French theatre. I turned to the lady: she was less changed -than her companion, and now that I was upon the track, I recognised -Emilie Sendel. By this time we were in the street. Van Haubitz handed -his wife into a carriage. - -"Come and sup with us," he said, "and I will explain." - -I mechanically obeyed, and in less than three minutes, still tongue-tied -by astonishment, I alighted at the door of a fashionable hotel in a -street adjoining Piccadilly. - -A few lines will convey to the reader the substance of the long -conversation which kept the resuscitated Dutchman and myself from our -beds for fully two hours after our unexpected meeting. I had been right -in supposing that he had thrown himself voluntarily into the river; -wrong in my belief that he meditated suicide. An excellent swimmer, he -had taken the water to get rid of his wife. He might certainly have -chosen a drier method, and have given her the slip in the night-time or -on the road; but she had shown, whenever he referred to the possibility -of their separation, such a determination to remain with him at all -risks and sacrifices, that he felt certain she would pursue him as soon -as she discovered his absence. He had formed a wild scheme of returning -to Amsterdam, and haunting his family until, through mere weariness and -vexation, they supplied him with funds for an outfit to Sumatra. There -he trusted to redeem his fortunes, as he had heard that others of no -greater abilities or better character than himself had already done. A -more extravagant project was never formed, and indeed all his acts, -during the six weeks that followed his marriage, were more or less -eccentric and ill-judged. This he admitted, when relating them to me, -and probably would not have been sorry to place them to the score of -actual mental derangement. The redeeming touch in his conduct at that, -the most discreditable period of his life, was his leaving, as I have -already mentioned, what money he had to his wife and her mother, -reserving but a few florins for his own support. With these in his -pocket, he proposed proceeding on foot to Amsterdam. After landing on -the right bank of the Rhine, he walked the greater part of the night as -the best means of drying his saturated garments. When weariness at last -compelled him to pause, it was not yet daylight, no house was open, and -he threw himself on some straw in a farmyard. He awoke in a high fever, -the result of his immersion, of exposure and fatigue, acting on a frame -heated and weakened by anxiety and mental suffering. He obtained shelter -at the neighbouring farm-house, whose kind-hearted inhabitants carefully -tended him for several weeks, during which his life was more than once -despaired of. His convalescence was long, and not till the close of the -year could he resume his journey northwards, by short stages, chiefly on -foot. Unfavourable as his prospects were, his good star had not yet set. -This very illness, as occasioning a delay, was a stroke of good fortune. -Had he at once proceeded to Holland, his family, in hopes to get rid of -him for ever, would probably have given him the small sum he needed for -an outfit to the Indian Archipelago, and he would have sailed thither -before the 31st of December, on which day his father, a joyous liver -and confirmed votary of Bacchus, ate and drank to such an extent to -celebrate the exit of the old year and commencement of the new, that he -fell down, on his way to his bed, in a thundering fit of apoplexy, and -was a corpse before morning. The day of his funeral, Van Haubitz, -footsore and emaciated, and reduced to his last pfenning, walked wearily -into the city of Amsterdam. There a great surprise awaited him. - -"Your father had not disinherited you?" I exclaimed, when the Dutchman -made a momentary pause at this point of his narrative. - -"He had left a will devising his entire property to my brothers, and not -even naming me. But a slight formality was omitted, which rendered the -document of no more value than the parchment it was drawn upon. The -signature was wanting. My father had the weakness, no uncommon one, of -disliking whatever reminded him of his mortality. He would have fancied -himself nearer his grave had he signed his will. And thus he had delayed -till it was too late. I found myself joint heir with my brothers. By far -the greater part of my father's large capital was embarked in his bank, -and in extensive financial operations, which it would have been -necessary to liquidate at considerable disadvantage, to operate the -partition prescribed by law. Seeing this, I proposed to my brothers to -admit me as partner in the firm, with the stipulation that I should -have no active share in its direction, until my knowledge of business -and steadiness of conduct gave them the requisite confidence in me. -After some deliberation they agreed to this; and three years later their -opinion of me had undergone such a change, that two of them retired to -estates in the country, leaving me the chief management of the concern." - -"And Madame Van Haubitz; when did she rejoin you?" - -"Immediately the change in my fortunes occurred. Reckless as I at that -time was, and utterly devoid of feeling as you must have thought me, I -could not remember without emotion the disinterested affection, -delicacy, and unselfishness she had exhibited on discovery of my real -circumstances. During my long illness I had had time to reflect, and -when I left my sick-bed in that rude but hospitable German farm-house, -it was as a penitent for past offences, and with a strong resolution to -atone them. Within a week after my father's funeral, I was on my way to -Vienna, to fetch Emilie to the opulent home she had anticipated when she -married me. Her joy at seeing me was scarcely increased when she heard -that I had become the rich banker she had at first thought me." - -"And Madame Sendel?" - -"Returned to Amsterdam with us. There was good about the old lady, and -by purloining her artificials, limiting her snuff, and soaking her in -tea, she was made endurable enough. Until her death, which occurred a -couple of years ago, she passed her time alternately with us and her -younger daughter." - -"She became reconciled to Mademoiselle Ameline?" - -"Ameline had been Countess J---- all the time. She was privately -married. For certain family reasons the Count had conditioned that their -union should for a while be kept secret. Seeing that her equivocal -position and her mother's displeasure preyed upon her health and -spirits, he declared his marriage. She left the stage to become a -reigning beauty in the best society of Austria, lady of half-a-dozen -castles, and sovereign mistress of as many thousand Hungarian boors." - -Van Haubitz remained some time in London, and I saw him often. He was as -much changed in character as in personal appearance. The sharp lessons -received about the period of our first acquaintance had made a strong -impression on him; and the summer tide of prosperity suddenly setting -in, had enabled him to realise good intentions and honourable resolves, -which the chill current of adversity might have frozen in the germ. Some -of those who read these lines may have occasion, when visiting the -country stigmatised by the snarling Frenchman as the land of _canards_, -_canaux_, and _canaille_, to receive cash in the busy counting-house, -and hospitality in the princely mansion of one of its most respected -bankers. None, I am well assured, will discern in their amiable and -exemplary entertainer any vestige of the disreputable impulses and evil -passions that sullied the early life of "My Friend the Dutchman." - - - - -MY COLLEGE FRIENDS. - -No. II. - -HORACE LEICESTER. - -[_MAGA._ AUGUST 1845.] - - -Oxford! Alma Mater! not to love thee were indeed the ingratitude of a -degenerate son. Let the whiners of the Conventicle rail at thee for a -mother of heretics, and the Joseph Humes of domestic economy propose to -adapt the scale of thy expenses to their own narrow notions--I uphold -thee to be the queen of all human institutions--the incarnated union of -Church and State--royal in thy revenues as in thy expenditure--thy -doctrine as orthodox as thy dinners, thy politics as sound as thy port. - -Oxford! who are they that rail at her? who dare to lift their voice -against that seat of high and holy memories? The man who boasts a -private education (so private, that his most intimate friends have never -found it out), who, innocent himself of all academic experiences and -associations, grudges to others that superiority which they never boast -indeed, but to which his secret soul bears envious witness. Or the rich -nonconformist, risen perhaps from obscurity to a rank in society which -gives him the choice of indulging either his spleen or his pride--either -to send his eldest son as a gentleman-commoner to Christ-Church, to -swallow the Thirty-nine Articles with his champagne; or to have his -fling at the Church through her universities--accusing Churchmen of -bigotry, and exclusiveness, and illiberality, because Dissenters do not -found colleges of their own. Or, worse than all, the unworthy disciple -who (like the noxious plant that has grown up beneath the shade of some -goodly tree) has drawn no nobility of soul from the associations which -surrounded his ungrateful youth: for whom all the reality and romance of -academic education were alike in vain: sneering at the honours which he -could not obtain, denying the existence of opportunities which he -neglected; the basest of approvers, he quotes to his own eternal infamy -the scenes of riot and dissipation, the alternations of idleness and -extravagance, which make up his sole recollections of university life: -and looking, without one glance of affection, upon the face of his fair -and graceful mother, makes the chance mole, or the early wrinkle, which -he traces there, the subject of his irreverent jest, forgets the -kindness of which he was unworthy, and remembers for evil the wholesome -discipline which was irksome only to such as him. - - "Non hc jocos conveniunt lyr;" - -I admit mine is not the tongue or pen for such a subject; and Oxford -has, I hope, no lack of abler champions. But it was geese, you know, who -once saved the Capitol; and I must have my hiss at the iniquitous -quackeries which people seek to perpetrate under the taking title of -University Reform. And when I, loving Oxford as I do, see some of her -own sons arrayed against her, I can only remember this much of my -philosophy--that there are cases when to be angry becomes a duty. Men -who, knowing nothing of the universities from experience, think proper -to run them down, succeed at all events in exposing one crying evil--the -absurdity of meddling with what one does not understand. We who know -better may afford to smile at once at their spite and their ignorance. -But he who lifts his voice against the mother that bore him, can fix no -darker blot upon her fame than the disgrace of having given birth to -him. - -Show me the man who did not like Oxford, and I will show you either a -sulky misanthrope or an affected ass. Many, many indeed, are the -unpleasant recollections which, in the case of nearly all of us, will -mingle with the joy with which we recall our college days. More than the -ghosts of duns departed, perhaps unpaid; more than the heart-burnings -of that visionary fellowship, for which we were beaten (we verily -believe, unfairly) by a neck; more than that loved and lost ideal of a -first class, which we deserved, but did not get (the opinions of our -examiners not coinciding in that point with our own); yes, more than all -these, comes forcibly to many minds, the self-accusing silent voice that -whispers of time wasted and talents misapplied--kind advice, which the -heat of youth misconstrued or neglected--jewels of price that once lay -strewed upon the golden sands of life, then wantonly disregarded, or -picked up but to be flung away, and which the tide of advancing years -has covered from our view for ever--blessed opportunities of acquiring -wisdom, human and divine, which never can return. - -Yet in spite of all this, if there be any man who can say that Oxford is -not to him a land of pleasant memories, "+Mt' emoi parestios -genoito+"--which is, being freely translated, "May he never put his legs -under my mahogany"--that's all. I never knew him yet, and have no wish -to make his acquaintance. He may have carried off every possible -university honour for what I care; he is more hopelessly stupid, in my -view of things, than if he had been plucked fifteen times. If he was -fond of reading, or of talking about reading; fond of hunting, or -talking about hunting; fond of walking, riding, rowing, leaping, or any -possible exercise besides dancing; if he loved pleasant gardens or -solemn cloisters; learned retirement or unlearned jollification--in a -word, if he had any imaginable human sympathies, and cared for anything -besides himself, he would have liked Oxford. Men's tastes differ, no -doubt; but to have spent four years of the spring of one's life in one -of the most magnificent cities and best societies in the world, and not -to have enjoyed it--this is not a variety of taste, but its privation. - -I fancy there is a mistaken opinion very prevalent, that young and -foolish, older and wiser, are synonymous terms. Stout gentlemen of a -certain age, brimful of proprieties, shake their heads alarmingly, and -talk of the folly of boys; as if they were the only fools. And if at any -time, in the fulness of their hearts, they refer to some freak of their -own youth, they appear to do it with a sort of apology to themselves, -that such wise individuals as they are now should ever have done such -things! And as the world stands at present, it is the old story of the -Lion and the Painter; the elderly gentlemen are likely to have it their -own way; they say what they like, while the young ones are content to do -what they like. And the more absurdity a man displays in his teens (and -some, it must be confessed, are absurd enough), the more insupportable -an air of wisdom does he put on when he gets settled. As there is no -hope of these sedate gentry being sent to College again to teach the -rising generation of under-graduates the art of precocious gravity, and -still less hope of their arriving at it of themselves, perhaps there is -no harm in mooting the question on neutral ground, whether such a -consummation as that of putting old heads upon young shoulders is -altogether desirable. - -Wherefore, I, Frank Hawthorne--being of the age of nine-and-twenty, or -thereabouts, and of sound mind, and about to renounce for ever all claim -and title to be considered a young man; having married a wife, and left -sack and all other bad habits; having no longer any fellowship with -under-graduates, or army subs, or medical students, or young men about -town, or any other class of the heterogeneous irregulars who make up -"Young England"--being a perfectly disinterested party in the question, -inasmuch as having lost my reputation for youth, I have never acquired -one for wisdom--hereby raise my voice against the intolerable cant, -which assumes every man to be a harebrained scapegrace at twenty, and a -Solomon at forty-five. Youth sows wild oats, it may be; too many men in -more advanced life seem to me to sow no crop of any kind. There are -empty fools at all ages; but "an old fool"----(musty as the proverb is, -it is rather from neglect than over-application). I have known men by -the dozen, who in their youth were either empty-headed coxcombs or noisy -sots; does my reader think that any given number of additional years has -made them able statesmen, sound lawyers, or erudite divines? that -because they have become honourable by a seat in Parliament, learned by -courtesy, reverend by office, they are therefore really more useful -members of society than when they lounged the High Street, or woke the -midnight echoes of the quadrangle? Nay, life is too short for the -leopard to change his spots, or the Ethiopian his skin; one can but pare -the claws of the first, and put a suit of the last European fashion upon -the other. - -Let any man run over in his own mind the list of those school and -college companions with whom, after the lapse of ten years or so, he has -still an opportunity of occasionally renewing his acquaintance, and -judging of the effect which time has had upon their habits and -characters. In how many cases can he trace any material alteration, -beyond what results from the mere accidents of time and place? He finds, -it is to be hoped, good principles developed, warm impulses ripened into -active habits, exaggerations softened down (for I am giving him credit -for not choosing his companions, even in youth, among the vicious in -heart and principle); but if he finds in any what he can call a _change_ -at all, then I ask, in how many instances is it a change for the better? -or does he not find it rather where there was no sterling value in the -metal, which, as the gloss of youth wears off, loses its only charm? - -Thirty is the turning-point of a man's life; when marrying becomes a -now-or-never sort of business, and dinners begin to delight him more -than dancing. As I said just now, then, I stand just at the corner; and, -looking round before I turn it, I own somewhat of a shyness for the -company of those "grave and reverend seniors" who are to be my -fellow-travellers hereafter through life. There are certain points on -which I fear we are scarce prepared to agree. I must have one window -open for the first few miles of the journey at all events--that I may -look behind me. Life's a fast train, and one can't expect to be allowed -to get out at the stations; still less to ask the engineer to put back, -because we have left our youth behind us. Yet there are some things in -which I hope always to be a boy; I hope ever to prefer thoughtlessness -to heartlessness, imprudence to selfishness, impulse to calculation. It -is hard enough to part with all the fiery spirits, the glowing -imaginations, the elasticity of mind and body which we lose as age -creeps on; but if, with the bright summer weather and cloudless skies of -youth, to which we are content to bid farewell, we must lose, too, the -"sunshine of the breast"--the "bloom of heart"--then well might the poet -count him happy who died in early spring--who knew nothing of life but -its fair promises, and passed away in happy scepticism of the winter -which was to come. - -Talk of putting old heads upon young shoulders! Heaven forbid! It would -but be making them stoop prematurely. If indeed we could put young -hearts into old bodies occasionally, we might do some good; or if there -could ever be combined in some fortunate individual, throughout his -life, the good qualities peculiar to each successive climacteric; if we -could mix just enough of the acid and the bitter, which are apt to -predominate so unhappily after a long rubbing through the world, to -qualify the fiery spirit of youth, and prevent its sweetness from -cloying, the compound would undoubtedly be a very pleasant one. But -this, it is to be feared, like many other desiderata, is too good to be -attainable; and the experience which we undoubtedly want in early life, -we acquire too often at the cost of that freshness of heart, which -nature intended as a gift still more valuable. - -Nowhere does the old Stagyrite display a more consummate knowledge of -what men are made of, than in his contrasted characters of youth and -age. I wonder how many of the old gentlemen who call themselves -philosophers in this degenerate age, ever read or remember what he says -on the subject. It is a great comfort, when one is arguing against so -much collective wisdom, to feel that one has such authority to fall back -upon; and I have the less hesitation in bringing my old friend Aristotle -forward to help me, because I can assure my unlearned readers, ladies -and others, that I am not going to quote any thing nearly so grave and -sensible as modern philosophy. "Stingy, illnatured, suspicious, -selfish, narrow-minded"--these, with scarce a redeeming quality, are -some of the choice epithets which he strings together as the -characteristics of the respectable old governors and dowagers of his -day; while the young, although, as he confesses, somewhat too much the -creatures of impulse, and indebted to it for some of their virtues as -well as vices, are trustful towards others, honest in themselves, -open-handed and open-hearted, warm friends and brave enemies. It is -true, he observes, they have, in a large degree, the fault common to all -honest men, they are "easily humbugged;" an admitted failing which -perhaps may let us into the secret of their sitting down so quietly -under the imputation of a hundred others. He urges, too, elsewhere, a -fact I am not disposed to battle about, that young men do not make good -philosophers; but this is in a book which he wrote for the use of his -own son, wherein he probably thought it his duty to take the conceit out -of his heir-apparent; but if he ever allowed the young philosopher to -get a sight of the other book containing the two characters aforesaid, -it may be doubted whether he found him as "easily humbugged" afterwards. - -Remember, reader, as I said before, I claim to occupy neutral ground. If -I essay to defend youth from some injustice which it suffers at the -hands of partial judges, it is as an amateur advocate rather than an -accredited champion--for I am young no longer. If I am rash enough to -couch a lance against that venerable phantom, which, under the name of -Wisdom, hovers round grey hairs, I am but preparing a rod for my own -back--for I feel myself growing old. I admit it with a sigh; but the -sigh is not for the past only, but even more for the present. I mourn -not so much for that which Time has taken away, as for the insufficiency -of that which it brings instead. I would rejoice to be relieved from the -dominion of the hot follies of youth, if I could escape at the same time -the degrading yoke of the cooler vices of maturity. I do not find men -grow better as they grow older; wiser they may grow, but it is the -wisdom of the serpent. We scarce grow less sensual, less vain, less -eager after what we think pleasure; I would we continued as generous and -as warm. We gain the cunning to veil our passions, to regulate even our -vices according to the scale (and that no parsimonious one) which what -we call "society" allows; we lose the enthusiasm which in some degree -excused our follies, with the light-heartedness which made them -delightful. Few men among us are they who can look back upon the years -gone by, and not feel that, if these may justly be charged with folly, -the writing of the accusation that stands against their riper age is of -a graver sort. - -It is melancholy, rather than amusing, to hear men of a certain age -rail against the faults and extravagance of their juniors. Angry that -they themselves are no longer young, they visit with a rod of iron such -an intolerable offence in others. Even newspapers are always eloquent -against the disgusting immoralities of breaking knockers and bonneting -policemen. The _Times_ turns censor upon such an "ungentlemanly -outrage;" the _Weekly Despatch_ has its propriety shocked by such -"freaks of the aristocracy;" and both, in their zeal to reprobate -offences so dangerous to the best interests of society, sacrifice -somewhat of that "valuable space" which should have been devoted to the -bulletin of the health, or the history of the travels, of the "gallant -officer" who last deliberately shot his friend in a duel; or the piquant -details of the last _crim. con._, with the extraordinary disclosures -expected to be made by the "noble defendant." Society has no sympathy -with vices to which it has no temptation; it might have done foolish -things in its day, but has long ago seen the folly of them. So we make a -graceful acknowledgment of having been wrong once, for the sake of -congratulating ourselves upon being so very right now. - -Let me then, for some few moments, recall those scenes which, on the -stage of life, have passed away for ever; and forgetting, as memory -loves to do, the evil that was in them, let it be not idle repining to -lament the good. - -Oh! dark yet pleasant quadrangle, round whose wide area I might wander -now, a stranger among strangers, where are they who once gave life and -mirth to cheer those ancient walls? There were full a score of rooms, -congenial _lares_, in which no hour of day or night would have found me -other than a welcome guest. I had friends, yea, friends, within those -prison-like windows--warm hearts walled in by thy cold grey -stones--friends that had thoughts, and feelings, and pursuits in -common--who were not hospitable in words alone, suffering each other's -presence with well-concealed _ennui_--but friends in something more than -in the name. In vain, among the cold conventionalities of life, shall I -look for the warm and kindly welcome, the sympathy of feeling, the -unrestrained yet courteous familiarity of intercourse, which was part -and parcel of a college life; and if for this only I should say of -Oxford, that I shall not look upon its like again--if for this only, I -doubt whether the years of my youthful pilgrimage were altogether evil, -who shall gainsay me? Where, or in what society of wise, and orderly, -and respectable "grown-up children," shall I find the sincerity and -warm-heartedness that once were the atmosphere of my daily life? Where -is the friend of my maturer choosing, into whose house I can walk at any -time, and feel sure I am no intruder? Where is the man, among those with -whom I am by hard fate compelled to associate, who does not measure his -regard, his hospitality, his very smiles, by my income, my station in -society--anything but by myself? Older and wiser!--oh yes!--youthful -friendship is very foolish in such matters. - -But I suppose I must put up, as I best may, with the accumulating weight -of years and wisdom. It won't do to give up one's degree, and begin -again at the university, even if they leave us a university worth going -to. At all events, one could not go back and find there those "old -familiar faces" that made it what it was; and it is more pleasant to -look upon it all--the place and its old occupants--as still existing in -some dream-land or other, than to return to find an old acquaintance in -every stick and stone, while every human face and voice is strange to -us. - -Yet one does meet friends in old scenes, sometimes, when the meeting is -as unexpected as delightful. And just so, in my last visit to Oxford, -did I stumble upon Horace Leicester. We met in the quadrangle where we -had parted some six years back, just as we might if we had supped -together the night before; whereas we had been all the time hundreds of -miles asunder: and we met as unrestrainedly, only far more cordially. -Neither of us had much time to spare in Oxford, but we dined together of -course; talked over old friends, and told old stories. As to the first, -it was strange enough to moralise upon the after-fortunes of some of our -contemporaries. One--of whom, for habitual absence from lectures, and -other misdemeanours many and various, the tutors had prophesied all -manner of evil, and who had been dismissed by the Principal at his final -leave-taking, with the remark that he was the luckiest man he had ever -known, inasmuch as he had been perseveringly idle without being plucked, -and mixed up in every row without being rusticated--was now working hard -day and night as a barrister, engaged as a junior on committee business -the whole Session, and never taking a holiday except on the Derby day. -The ugliest little rascal of our acquaintance, and as stupid as a post, -was married to a pretty girl with a fortune of thirty thousand. Another, -and one of the best of us--Charley White--who united the business-habits -of a man with the frolic of a schoolboy, and who ought to have been -added to the roll of the College benefactors, as having been the founder -of the Cricket and the Whist Club, and having restored to its old place -on the river, at much cost and pains, the boat which had been withdrawn -for the last five years, and reduced the sundry desultory idlenesses of -the under-graduates into something like method and order--Charley White -was now rector of a poor and populous parish in Yorkshire, busily -engaged in building a new church and schools, opening Provident -Societies, and shutting up beer-shops, and instructing the rising -generation of his parishioners in catechism and cricket alternately. -While the steadiest (I was very near saying the only steady man) among -our mutual acquaintance, who looked at every sixpence before he spent -it, checked his own washing-lists, went to bed at ten o'clock, and was, -in short, an exemplary character (he was held out to me, on my first -entrance, as a valuable acquaintance for any young man, but I soon -despaired of successfully imitating so bright a model)--well, this -gentleman having been taken into partnership, somewhat prematurely -perhaps on the strength of the aforesaid reputation, by his father's -firm--they were Liverpool merchants of high standing--had thought -proper, disgusted probably with the dissipations and immoralities of -trade, to retire to America in search of purity and independence, -without going through the form of closing his accounts with the house. -The Liverpudleians, indeed, according to Horace's account, gave a -somewhat ugly name to the transaction; he had been cashier to the firm, -they said, who were minus some tens of thousands thereby; but as the -senior partner was known to have smoked cigars at a preparatory school -(thereby showing what he _would_ have done had he been sent to Oxford), -whereas our friend was always "a steady man," I leave the reader to -judge which party is entitled to the most credit. - -It was after we had separated that a friend of mine, not an Oxford man, -who had dined with us, and appeared much amused by some of Horace's -reminiscences, asked me the very puzzling question, "Was your friend -Leicester what they call a '_rowing_ man' at College?" Now, I protest -altogether against the division of under-graduates into reading men and -rowing men, as arbitrary and most illogical; there being a great many -who have no claim to be reckoned either in one class or the other, and a -great many who hover between both. And this imaginary distinction, -existing as it notoriously does at Oxford, and fostered and impressed -upon men by the tutors (often unintentionally, or with the very best -intentions), is productive in many cases of a great deal of harm. A man -(or _boy_ if you please) is taught to believe, upon his very first -entrance, that one of these characters will infallibly cling to him, and -that he has only to choose between the two. For the imaginary division -creates a real one; in many colleges, a man who joins a boat's crew, or -a cricket club, or goes out now and then with the harriers, is looked -upon with suspicion by the authorities at once; and by a very natural -consequence, a man who wants to read his five or six hours a-day -quietly, finds that some of his pleasantest companions look upon him as -a slow coach. So, probably before the end of his first term, he is -hopelessly committed, at nineteen, to a consistency of character rarely -met with at fifty. If he lays claim to the reputation of a reading man, -and has an eye to the loaves and fishes in the way of scholarships and -fellowships, he is compelled, by the laws of his _caste_, to renounce -some of the most sensible and healthful amusements which a university -life offers. He must lead a very humdrum sort of life indeed. It is not -enough that he should be free from the stains of vice and immorality; -that his principles and habits should be those of a gentleman; that he -should avoid excesses, and be observant of discipline; this the -university would have a right to expect from all who are candidates for -her honours and emoluments. But there is a conventional character which -he must put on besides this. I say "put on;" because, however natural it -may be to some men, it cannot possibly be so to all. His exercise must -be taken at stated times and places: it must consist principally of -walking, whether he be fond of it or not, varied occasionally by a -solitary skiffing expedition down the river, or a game of billiards with -some very steady friend on the sly. His dress must exhibit either the -negligence of a sloven (in case he be an aspirant for very high honours -indeed), or the grave precision of a respectable gentleman of forty. He -must eschew all such vanities as white trousers and well-cut boots. He -must be profoundly ignorant of all university intelligence that does not -bear in some way on the schools; must be utterly indifferent what boat -is at the head of the river, or whether Drake's hounds are fox or -harriers. He must never be seen out of his rooms, except at lecture, -before two o'clock, and never return to a wine-party after chapel. His -judgment of the merits of port and sherry must be confined principally -to the fact of one being red and the other white, and the compounding of -punch must be to him a mystery unfathomable. Now, if he can be, or -assume to be, all this, then he will be admitted into the most orthodox -and steady set in his college; and if he have, besides, an ordinary -amount of scholarship, and tact enough to talk judiciously about his -books and his reading, he may get up a very fair reputation indeed. And -when at his final examination he makes, as nine-tenths of such men do -make, a grand crash, and his name comes out in the third or fourth -class, or he gets "gulfed" altogether--it is two to one but his friends -and his tutor look upon him, and talk of him, as rather an ill-used -individual. He was "unlucky in his examination"--"the essay did not suit -him"--they were "quite surprised at his failure"--"his health was not -good the last term or two"--"he was too nervous." These are cases which -have occurred in every man's experience: men read ten hours a-day, with -a watch by their side, cramming in stuff that they do not understand, -are talked about as "sure firsts" till one gets sick of their very -names, assume all the airs which really able men seldom do assume, and -take at last an equal degree with others who have been acquiring the -same amount of knowledge with infinitely less pretension, and who, -without moping the best part of their lives in an artificial existence, -will make more useful members of society in the end. "How was it," said -an old lady in the country to me one day, "that young Mr C---- did not -get a first class? I understand he read very hard, and I know he refused -every invitation to dinner when he was down here in the summer -vacation?" "That was the very reason, my dear madam," said I; "you may -depend upon it." She stared, of course; but I believe I was not far out. - -Let men read as much as they will, and as hard as they will, on any -subjects for which they have the ability and inclination; but never let -them suppose they are to lay down one code of practice to suit all -tempers and constitutions. Cannot a man be a scholar, and a gentleman, -and a good fellow at the same time? - -And, after all, where is the broad moral distinction between these -_soi-disant_ steady men, and those whom they are pleased to consider as -"rowing" characters? it has always seemed to me rather apocryphal. If a -man thinks proper to amuse himself with a chorus in his own rooms at one -o'clock in the morning, it seems hardly material whether it be Greek or -English--Sophocles or Tom Moore. It's a matter of taste, and tastes -differ. Nor do I think the morality of Horace or Aristophanes, or the -theology of Lucretius, so peculiarly admirable, as to render them, _per -se_, fitter subjects for the exclusive exercise of a young man's -faculties than "the Pickwick Papers," or "The Rod and the Gun." I have -heard--(I never saw, nor will I believe it)--of the profanity of certain -sporting under-graduates, who took into chapel the racing calendar, -bound in red morocco, instead of a prayer-book; I hold it to have been -the malicious fiction of some would-be university reformer; but, even if -true, I am not sure that I much prefer that provident piety which I have -noticed getting up its Greek within the same walls by means of a -Septuagint and Greek liturgy. Religion is one thing, classical learning -another, and sporting information another; all totally distinct, and -totally different; the first immeasurably above the other two, but -standing equidistant from both. It does not make a man one whit the -better to know that Corbus won the cup at Olympia B.C. 776, than it -does to know that Priam did _not_ win the St Leger at Doncaster A.D. -1830; from all I can make out, the Greeks on the turf at present are not -much worse than their old namesakes; I dare say there was a fair amount -of black-legism on both occasions. Men injure their moral and physical -health by reading as much as by other things; it takes quite as much out -of a man, and puts as little in him to any good purpose, to get up his -logic as to pull in an eight-oar. - -Besides, if one is to read and enter into the spirit of a dozen -different authors, one dull monotonous round of physical existence seems -ill-fitted to call out the requisite variety of mental powers. I hold -that there are divers and sundry fit times, and places, and states of -mind, suited to different lines of reading. If a man is at work upon -history, by all means let him sport oak rigidly against all visitors; -let him pile up his authorities and references on every vacant chair all -round him, and get a clear notion of it by five or six hours' -uninterrupted and careful study. Or, if he has a system of philosophy to -get up, let him sit down with his head cool, his window open (not the -one looking into quad.), let him banish from his mind all minor matters, -and not break off in the chain of argument so long as he can keep his -brain clear and his eyes open. Even then, a good gallop afterwards, or a -cigar and a glass of punch, with some lively fellow who is no -philosopher, will do him far more good than a fagging walk of so many -measured miles, with the studious companion whose head is stuffed as -full of such matter as his own, and whose talk will be of disputed -passages, and dispiriting anticipations of a "dead floorer" in the -schools. But if a man wants to make acquaintance with such books as -Juvenal, or Horace, or Aristophanes, he may surely do it to quite as -good purpose, and with far more relish, basking under a tree in summer, -or with a friend over a bottle in winter. - -The false tone of society of which I have been speaking had its -influence upon Horace Leicester. Coming up to the university from a -public school, with a high character, a fair amount of scholarship, and -a host of acquaintances, he won the good-will at once of dons and of -under-graduates, and bid fair to be as universal a favourite at college -as he had been at Harrow. Never did a man enter upon an academic life -under happier auspices, nor, I believe, with a more thorough -determination to enjoy it in every way. He did not look upon his -emancipation from school discipline as a license for idleness, nor -intend to read the less because he could now read what he pleased, and -when he pleased. For, not to mention that Horace was ambitious, and had -at one time an eye to the class list--he had a taste for reading, and a -strong natural talent to appreciate what he read. But if he had a taste -for reading, he had other tastes as well, and, as he thought, not -incompatible; much as he admired his Roman namesake, he could not devote -his evenings exclusively to his society, but preferred carrying his -precepts into practice occasionally with more modern companions; and he -had no notion that during the next four years of his life he was to take -an interest in no sports but those of the old Greeks and Romans, and -mount no horse but Pegasus. For a term or two, Leicester got on very -well; attended lectures, read steadily till one or two o'clock, when -there was nothing particular going on, kept a horse, hired an alarm, and -seldom cut morning chapel, or missed a meet if within reasonable -distance. It was a course of life which, in after days, he often -referred to with a sigh as having been most exemplary; and I doubt -whether he was far wrong. But it did not last. For a time his -gentlemanly manners, good humour, and good taste, carried it off with -all parties; but it was against the ordinary routine, and could not hold -up against the popular prejudice. The reading men eyed his top-boots -with suspicion; the rowing men complained he was growing a regular -_sap_, always sporting oak when they wanted him. Then his wine-parties -were a source of endless tribulation to him. First of all, he asked all -those with whom he was most intimate among his old schoolfellows to meet -each other, adding one or two of his new acquaintances: and a pretty -mess he made of it. Men who had sat on the same form with him and with -each other at Harrow, and had betrayed no such marked differences in -their tastes as to prevent their associating very pleasantly there, at -Oxford, he found, had been separated wide as the poles by this -invisible, but impassable, line of demarcation: to such a degree, -indeed, that although all had called upon Horace, as they had upon each -other, before it seemed decided on which side they were to settle, yet -when they now met at his rooms, they had become strangers beyond a mere -civil recognition, and had not a single subject to converse upon in -common. In fact, they were rather surprised than pleased to meet at all; -and it was in vain their host tried to get them to amalgamate. Many -seemed to take a pleasure in showing how decidedly they belonged to one -set or the other. One would talk of nothing on earth besides hunting, -and sat silent and sulky when Horace turned the conversation; another -affected an utter ignorance of all that was going on in the University -that was not connected with class-lists, scholarships, &c. What provoked -him most was, that some of those who gave themselves the most pedantic -airs, and would have been double first-class men undeniably, if talking -could have done it, were those whose heads he well knew were as empty as -the last bottle, and which made him think that some men must take to -reading at Oxford, simply because they had faculties for nothing else. - -At all events, Horace found the mixed system would not answer for -entertaining his friends. So the next time he asked a few of the reading -men, some of whom he knew used to be good fellows, together; and as he -really had a kindred taste with them on many subjects, he found an hour -or so pass away very pleasantly: when just as he was passing the wine -about the third round, and his own brilliancy and good-humour were -beginning to infect some of his guests--so that one grave genius of -twenty had actually so far forgotten himself as to fill a bumper by -mistake--up jumped the senior man of the party, and declaring that he -had an engagement to walk with a friend at seven, politely took his -leave. This was the signal for a general dispersion; in vain did Horace -assure them they should have some coffee in the course of an hour, and -entreat some one or two to return. Off they all went, with sundry smiles -and shakes of the head, and left their unfortunate host sitting alone in -his glory over the first glass of a newly opened bottle of claret. - -I happened to be crossing the quadrangle from chapel in company with -Savile, at the moment when Leicester put his head out of his window as -if to inquire of the world in general what on earth he was to do with -himself for the next hour or two. Savile he hailed at once, and begged -him to come up; and though I knew but little of him, and had never been -in his rooms before, still, as I was one or two terms his senior, there -was nothing contrary even to Oxford etiquette in my accompanying Savile. -We laughed heartily when he explained his disappointment. Savile tried -to comfort him by the assurance that, as he had an hour to spare, he -would sit down and help him to finish a bottle or two of claret with a -great deal of pleasure; and was inclined to attribute the failure of the -evening, in a great measure, to his name not having been included in -the list of invitations--an omission by which he declared all parties -had been the losers; Horace's reading friends standing very much in need -of some one to put a little life into them, and himself, as a candidate -for a degree, having missed a fair opportunity of meeting, among so many -choice fellows, some one to "put him up to the examiners' dodges." But -Leicester was irrecoverably disgusted. Nothing, he declared, would ever -induce him to ask a party of reading men to his rooms again; and from -that hour he seemed to eschew fellowship with the whole fraternity. Not -that he became idle all at once; on the contrary, I believe, for some -time he worked on steadily, or at least tried to work; but he was -naturally fond of society, and having failed to find what he wanted, was -reduced to make the best of such as he could find. So he gradually -became acquainted with a set of men who, whatever their good qualities -might be, had certainly no claim whatever to be considered hard readers, -and who would have considered a symposium which broke up at seven -o'clock as unsatisfactory as a tale without a conclusion. Amongst these, -his gentlemanly manners and kindness of heart made him beloved, while -his talents gave him a kind of influence; and, though he must have felt -occasionally that he was not altogether in his right place, and that, -besides his popular qualities, he had higher tastes and endowments with -which the majority of his companions could hardly sympathise, he was -too light-hearted to philosophise much on the subject, and contented -himself with enjoying his popularity, occasionally falling back upon his -own resources, and keeping up, in a desultory kind of way, his -acquaintance with scholarship and literature. The reading men of course -looked upon him as a lost sheep; the tutors shook their heads about him; -if he did well, it was set down as the result of accident; while all his -misdoings were labouring in his vocation. For, agreeably to the grand -division aforesaid, Horace was now set down as a "rowing-man;" and he -soon made the discovery, and did more thereupon to deserve the character -than he ever would have done otherwise. He was very willing to go on in -his own way, if all parties would but let him alone; he was not going to -be made a proselyte to long walks, and toast and water, nor had he any -conscientious abhorrence of supper-parties; and, as his prospects in -life were in no way dependent upon a class or a scholarship, and he -seemed to be tacitly repudiated by the _literati_ of his college, young -and old, on account of some of his aforesaid heterodox notions on the -subject of study, he accustomed himself gradually to set their opinions -at defiance; while the moderate reading, which encouragement and -emulation had made easy at school, became every day more and more -distasteful. - -Horace's tottering reputation was at last completely overset in the eyes -of the authorities by a little affair which was absurd enough, but in -which he himself was as innocent as they were. It happened that a -youthful cousin of his, whose sole occupation for the last twelve months -of his life had been the not over-profitable one of waiting for a -commission, had come up to Oxford for two or three days, pursuant to -invitation, to see a little of the manners and customs of the -inhabitants. I think he had some slight acquaintance with our then -vice-principal--a good-natured, easy man--and Horace had got leave for -him to occupy a set of very small, dark rooms, which, as the college was -not very full, had been suffered to remain vacant for the last two or -three terms; they were so very unattractive a domicile that the last -Freshman to whom they were offered as a Hobson's choice, was currently -reported, in the plenitude of his disgust, to have taken his name off -the books _instanter_. It is not usual to allow strangers to sleep -within college walls at all; but our discipline was somewhat lax in -those days. So Mr Carey had a bed put up for him in the aforesaid -quarters. He was, of course, duly _fted_, and made much of by Horace -and his friends; and a dozen of us sat down to a capital dinner in the -rooms of the former, on the strength of having to entertain a "stranger -from the country;" the hospitality of Oxford relaxing its rules even in -favour of under-graduates upon such occasions. It must have been -somewhere towards the next morning, when two or three of us accompanied -young Carey down to No. 8; and, after chatting with him till he was half -undressed, left him, as we thought, safe and quiet. However, soon after -we had retired, some noisy individual in the same staircase thought -proper to give a view-hollo out of his window, for the purpose of -wishing the public good-night. Now there was one of the Fellows, a -choleric little old gentleman, always in residence, holding some office, -in which there was as little to do, and as much to get as might be, and -who seldom troubled himself much about college discipline, and looked -upon under-graduates with a sort of silent contempt; never interfering -with them, as he declared himself, so long as they did not interfere -with him. But one point there was, in which they did interfere with his -personal comfort occasionally, and whereby his peace of mind and rest of -body were equally disturbed. Mr Perkins always took a tumbler of negus -at ten precisely, and turned in as the college clock struck the quarter -past; by the half-hour he was generally asleep, for his digestion was -good and his cares few. But his slumbers were not heavy, and anything -like a row in the quadrangle infallibly awoke him, and then he was like -a lion roused. He was wont to jump up, throw up his window, thrust out a -red face and a white nightcap, and after listening a few seconds for -the chance of the odious sounds being repeated, would put the very -pertinent question usual in such circumstances, to which one so seldom -gets an equally pertinent reply--"Who's that?" In case this intimation -of Mr Perkins being wide awake proved sufficient, as it often did, to -restore quiet, then after the lapse of a few more seconds the head and -the nightcap disappeared, and the window was shut down again. But if the -noise was continued, as occasionally it was out of pure mischief, then -in a minute or two the said nightcap would be seen to emerge hastily -from the staircase below, in company with a dressing-gown and slippers, -and Mr Perkins in this disguise would proceed to the scene of -disturbance as fast as his short legs could carry him. He seldom -succeeded in effecting a capture; but if he had that luck, or if he -could distinguish the tone of any individual voice so as to be able to -identify the performer, he had him up before the "seniority" next -morning, where his influence as one of the senior fellows insured a -heavy sentence. But he had been engaged in so many unsuccessful chases -of the kind, and his short orations from his window so often elicited -only a laugh, though including sometimes brief but explicit threats of -rustication against the noisy unknown, strengthened by little expletives -which, when quoted by under-graduates, were made to sound somewhat -doubtfully--that at last he altered his tactics, and began to act in -silence. And so he did, when upon opening his window he saw a light in -the ground-floor rooms of the staircase whence the sounds proceeded on -the evening in question. Carey, by his own account, was proceeding -quietly in his preparations for bed, singing to himself an occasional -stanza of some classical ditty which he had picked up in the course of -the evening, and admiring the power of the man's lungs in the room above -him, when he heard a short quick step, and then a double rap at his -door. He was quite sufficiently acquainted, by this time, with the ways -of the place, not to be much surprised at the late visit, and at the -same time to consider it prudent to learn the name and _status_ of his -visitor before admitting him; so he retorted upon Mr Perkins, quite -unconsciously, his own favourite query--"Who's that?" his first and -obvious impression being that it was one of the party he had just -quitted, coming probably in the plenitude of good fellowship, to bring -him an invitation to wine or breakfast next day. - -"It's me, sir--open the door," was the reply from a deep baritone, which -the initiated would never have mistaken. - -"Who are you?" said Carey again. - -"My name is Perkins, sir: have the goodness to let me in." He was -getting more angry, and consequently more polite. - -"Perkins," said Carey, pausing in his operations, in the vain endeavour -to recall the name among the score or two to whom he had been -introduced. "I'm just in bed--were you up at Leicester's?" - -"Open the door, sir, if you please, immediately," and then came what our -friend took for a smothered laugh, but was really a sort of shiver, for -there was a draft in the passage playing all manner of pranks with the -dressing-gown, and Mr Perkins was getting cold. - -An indistinct notion came into Carey's mind, that some one who had met -him in College might have taken him for a Freshman, and had some -practical joke in view; so he contented himself with repeating that he -was going to bed, and could let no one in. - -"I tell you, sir, I'm Mr Perkins; don't you know me?" - -"I wish you a very good night, Mr Perkins." - -"What's your name, sir? eh? You impudent young puppy, what's your -infernal name? I'll have you rusticated, you dog--do you hear me, sir?" - -On a sudden it struck Carey that this might possibly be a domiciliary -visit from one of the authorities, and that his best plan was to open -the door at once, though what had procured him such an honour he was at -a loss to imagine. He drew back the spring lock, therefore, and the next -moment stood face to face with the irate Mr Perkins. - -His first impulse was to laugh at the curious figure before him; but -when demands for his name, and threats of unknown penalties, were -thundered forth upon him with no pause for a reply, then he began to -think that he had made a mistake in opening the door at all--that he -might get Leicester into a scrape if not himself--and as his person was -as unknown to Mr Perkins as that gentleman's to him, it struck him that -if he could give him the slip at once it would be all right. In a moment -he blew out his solitary candle, bolted through the open door, all but -upsetting his new acquaintance, whom he left storming in the most -unconnected manner, alone, and in total darkness. Up to Leicester's -rooms he rushed, related his adventure, and was rather surprised that -his cousin did not applaud it as a very clever thing. - -What Mr Perkins thought or said to himself, what degree of patience he -exhibited in such trying circumstances, or in what terms he -apostrophised his flying enemy, must ever remain a secret with himself. -Five minutes after, Solomon the porter, summoned from his bed just as he -had made himself snug once more after letting out Horace's out-college -friends, confronted Mr Perkins in about as sweet a temper as that worthy -individual himself, with this difference, that one was sulky and the -other furious. - -"Who lives in the ground-floor on the left in No. 8?" - -"What, in 'Coventry?' Why, nobody, sir." - -"Nobody! you stupid old sinner, you're asleep." - -"No, sir, I ain't," and Solomon flashed his lantern in Mr Perkins's face -as if to ascertain whether _his_ eyes were open. Mr Perkins started -back, and Solomon turned half round as if to disappear again. - -"Who lives there, Solomon, I ask you? Do you mean to tell me you don't -know? You are not fit----" - -"I knows every gentleman's rooms well enough: nobody hasn't lived in -them as you means not these four terms. Mr Pears kept his fox in 'em one -time, till the vice-principal got wind of him. There may be some varmint -in 'em now for all I knows--they a'n't fit for much else." - -"There's some confounded puppy of a Freshman in them now--at least there -was--and he lives there too." - -"I know there _be'n't_," said the persevering Solomon. And, without -deigning a word more, he set off with his lantern towards the place in -dispute, followed by Mr Perkins, who contented himself with an angry -"Now you'll see." - -"Ay, now we shall see," replied Solomon, as, somewhat to Mr Perkins's -astonishment, they found the oak sported. Having made a selection from a -huge bunch of keys, the porter succeeded, after some fumbling, in -getting the door open. The room bore no traces of recent occupation. -Three or four broken chairs and a rickety table were the only -furniture: as far as the light of Solomon's lantern could penetrate, it -looked the very picture of desolation. Solomon chuckled. - -"There _is_ a man living here. I'll swear there is. He was undressing -when I came. Look in the bedroom." - -They opened the door, and saw a bare feather-bed and bolster, the usual -_matriel_ in an unoccupied college chamber. "Seeing's believing," said -the porter. - -But, with Mr Perkins, seeing was not believing. He saw Solomon, and he -saw the empty room, but he did not believe either. But he had evidently -the worst side of the argument as it stood, so he wished the porter a -sulky good-night, and retreated. - -The fact was, that the noisy gentleman in the rooms above, as soon as he -caught the tones of Mr Perkins's voice at Carey's door, had entered into -the joke with exceeding gusto, well aware that the visit was really -intended as a compliment to his own vocal powers. Carey's sudden bolt -puzzled him rather; but as soon as he heard Mr Perkins's foot-steps take -the direction of the porter's lodge, he walked softly down-stairs to the -field of action, and, anticipating in some degree what would follow, -bundled up together sheets, blankets, pillow, dressing apparatus, and -all other signs and tokens of occupation, and made off with them to his -own rooms, sporting the oak behind him, and thus completing the -mystification. - -As the facts of the case were pretty sure to transpire in course of -time, Horace took the safe course of getting his cousin out of college -next morning, and calling on Mr Perkins with a full explanation of the -circumstances, and apologies for Carey as a stranger unacquainted with -the police regulations of their learned body, and the respect due -thereto. Of course the man in authority was obliged to be gracious, as -Leicester could not well be answerable for all the faults of his family; -but there never from that time forth happened a row of any kind with -which he did not in his own mind, probably unconsciously, associate poor -Horace. - -Whether my readers will set down Horace Leicester as a rowing man or -not, is a point which I leave to their merciful consideration: a reading -man was a title which he never aspired to. He took a very creditable -degree in due season, and was placed in the fourth class with a man who -took up a very long list of books, and was supposed to have read himself -stupid. - -"He ought to have done a good deal more," said one of the tutors; "he -had it in him." "I think he was lucky not to have been plucked, myself," -said Mr Perkins; "he was a very noisy man." - - - - -THE EMERALD STUDS - -A REMINISCENCE OF THE CIRCUIT. - -BY PROFESSOR AYTOUN. - -[_MAGA._ AUGUST 1847.] - - -CHAPTER I. - -"Hallo, Tom! Are you not up yet? Why, man, the judges have gone down to -the court half an hour ago, escorted by the most ragged regiment of -ruffians that ever handled a Lochaberaxe." - -Such was my matutinal salutation to my friend Thomas Strachan, as I -entered his room on a splendid spring morning. Tom and I were early -college allies. We had attended, or rather, to speak more correctly, -taken out tickets for the different law classes during the same -sessions. We had fulminated together within the walls of the Juridical -Society on legal topics which might have broken the heart of Erskine, -and rewarded ourselves diligently thereafter with the usual relaxations -of a crab and a comfortable tumbler. We had aggravated the same grinder -with our deplorable exposition of the Pandects; and finally assumed, on -the same day, the full-blown honours of the Advocate's wig and gown. Nor -did our fraternal parallel end there: for although we had walked the -boards of the Parliament House with praiseworthy diligence for a couple -of sessions, neither of us had experienced the dulcet sensation which is -communicated to the palm by the contact of the first professional -guinea. In vain did we attempt to insinuate ourselves into the good -graces of the agents, and coin our intellects into such jocular remarks -as are supposed to find most favour in the eyes of facetious -practitioners. In vain did I carry about with me, for a whole week, an -artificial process most skilfully made up; and in vain did Tom compound -and circulate a delectable ditty, entitled "The Song of the -Multiplepoinding." Not a single solicitor would listen to our wooing, or -even intrust us with the task of making the simplest motion. I believe -they thought me too fast, and Tom too much of a genius; and, therefore, -both of us were left among the ranks of the briefless army of the stove. -This would not do. Our souls burned within us with a noble thirst for -legal fame and fees. We held a consultation (without an agent) at the -Rainbow, and finally determined that since Edinburgh would not hear us, -Jedburgh should have the privilege of monopolising our maiden eloquence -at the ensuing justiciary circuit. Jedburgh presents a capital field to -the ambition of a youthful advocate. Very few counsel go that way; the -cases are usually trifling, and the juries easily bamboozled. It has -besides this immense advantage--that should you by any accident happen -to break down, nobody will in all probability be the wiser for it, -provided you have the good sense to ingratiate yourself with the -circuit-clerk. - -Tom and I arrived at Jedburgh the afternoon before the circuit began. I -was not acquainted with a human being within the parliamentary -boundaries of that respectable borough, and therefore experienced but a -slight spasm of disappointment when informed by the waiter at the inn, -that no inquiries had yet been made after me, on the part of writers -desirous of professional assistance. Strachan had been wiser. Somehow or -other, he had got a letter of introduction to one Bailie Beerie, a -notable civic dignitary of the place; and, accordingly, on presenting -his credentials, was invited by that functionary to dinner, with a hint -that he "might maybe see a wheen real leddies in the evening." This -pointed so plainly to a white choker and dress boots, that Strachan -durst not take the liberty of volunteering the attendance of his friend; -and accordingly I had been left alone to wile away, as I best might, the -tedium of a sluggish evening. Before starting, however, Tom pledged -himself to return in time for supper; as he entertained a painful -conviction that the party would be excessively slow. - -So long as it was light, I amused myself pretty well by strolling along -the banks of the river, and enunciating a splendid speech for the panel -in an imaginary case of murder. However, before I reached the peroration -(which was to consist of a vivid picture of the deathbed of a despairing -jury-man, conscience-stricken by the recollection of an erroneous -verdict), the shades of evening began to close in; the trouts ceased to -leap in the pool, and the rooks desisted from their cawing. I returned -to discuss my solitary mutton at the inn; and then, having nothing to -do, sat down to a moderate libation, and an odd number of the -_Temperance Magazine_, which valuable tract had been left for the -reformation of the traveller by some peripatetic disciple of Father -Mathew. - -Nine o'clock came, but so did not Strachan. I began to wax wroth, -muttered anathemas against my faithless friend, rang for the waiter, -and--having ascertained the fact that a Masonic Lodge was that evening -engaged in celebrating the festival of its peculiar patron--I set out -for the purpose of assisting in the pious and mystic labours of the -Brethren of the Jedburgh St Jeremy. At twelve, when I returned to my -quarters, escorted by the junior deacon, I was informed that Strachan -had not made his appearance, and accordingly I went to bed. - -Next morning I found Tom, as already mentioned, in his couch. There was -a fine air of negligence in the manner in which his habiliments were -scattered over the room. One glazed boot lay within the fender, whilst -the other had been chucked into a coal-scuttle; and there were evident -marks of mud on the surface of his glossy kerseymeres. Strachan himself -looked excessively pale, and the sole rejoinder he made to my -preliminary remark was, a request for soda-water. - -"Tom," said I, inexpressibly shocked at the implied confession of the -nature of his vespers--"I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself! Have -you no higher regard for the dignity of the bar you represent, than to -expose yourself before a Jedburgh Bailie?" - -"Dignity be hanged!" replied the incorrigible Strachan. "Bailie Beerie -is a brick, and I won't hear a word against him. But, O Fred! if you -only knew what you missed last night! Such a splendid woman--by Jove, -sir, a thoroughbred angel. A bust like one of Titian's beauties, and the -voice of a lovelorn nightingale!" - -"One of the Misses Beerie, I presume. Come, Tom, I think I can fill up -your portrait. Hair of the auburn complexion, slightly running into the -carrot--skin fair, but freckled--greenish eyes--red elbows--culpable -ankles--elephantine waist--and sentiments savouring of the Secession." - -"Ring the bell for the waiter, and hold your impious tongue. You never -were farther from the mark in your life. The wing of the raven is not -more glossy than her hair--and oh, the depth and melting lustre of those -dark unfathomable eyes! Waiter! a bottle of soda-water, and you may put -in a thimbleful of cognac." - -"Come, Tom!--none of your ravings. Is this an actual Armida, or a new -freak of your own imagination?" - -"_Bon fide_--an angel in everything, barring the wings." - -"Then how the deuce did such a phenomenon happen to emerge at the -Bailie's?" - -"That's the very question I was asking myself during the whole time of -dinner. She was clearly not a Scotswoman. When she spoke, it was in the -sweet low accents of a southern clime; and she waved away the proffered -haggis with an air of the prettiest disgust!" - -"But the Bailie knew her?" - -"Of course he did. I got the whole story out of him after dinner, and, -upon my honour, I think it is the most romantic one I ever heard. About -a week ago, the lady arrived here without attendants. Some say she came -in the mail-coach--others in a dark travelling chariot and pair. -However, what matters it? the jewel can derive no lustre or value from -the casket!" - -"Yes--but one always likes to have some kind of idea of the setting. Get -on." - -"She seemed in great distress, and inquired whether there were any -letters at the post-office addressed to the Honourable Dorothea Percy. -No such epistle was to be found. She then interrogated the landlord, -whether an elderly lady, whose appearance she minutely described, had -been seen in the neighbourhood of Jedburgh; but except old Mrs -Slammingham of Summertrees, who has been bed-ridden for years, there was -nobody in the county who at all answered to the description. On hearing -this, the lady seemed profoundly agitated--shut herself up in a private -parlour, and refused all sustenance." - -"Had she not a reticule with sandwiches, Tom?" - -"Do not tempt me to commit justifiable homicide--you see I am in the act -of shaving.--At last the landlady, who is a most respectable person, and -who felt deeply interested at the desolate situation of the poor young -lady, ventured to solicit an interview. She was admitted. There are -moments when the sympathy of even the humblest friend is precious. Miss -Percy felt grateful for the interest so displayed, and confided the tale -of her griefs to the matronly bosom of the hostess." - -"And she told you?" - -"No,--but she told Bailie Beerie. That active magistrate thought it his -duty to interfere. He waited upon Miss Percy, and from her lips he -gathered the full particulars of her history. Percy is not her real -name, but she is the daughter of an English peer of very ancient family. -Her father having married a second time, Dorothea was exposed to the -persecutions of a low-minded vulgar woman, whose whole ideas were of -that mean and mercenary description which characterise the Caucasian -race. Naomi Shekels was the offspring of a Jew, and she hated, whilst -she envied, the superior charms of the noble Norman maiden. But she had -gained an enormous supremacy over the wavering intellect of the elderly -Viscount; and Dorothea was commanded to receive, with submission, the -addresses of a loathsome apostate, who had made a prodigious fortune in -the railways." - -"One of the tribe of Issachar?" - -"Exactly. A miscreant whose natural function was the vending of cast -habiliments. Conceive, Fred, what the fair young creature must have felt -at the bare idea of such shocking spousals! She besought, prayed, -implored,--but all in vain. Mammon had taken too deep a root in the -paternal heart,--the old coronet had been furbished up by means of -Israelitish gold, and the father could not see any degradation in -forcing upon his child an alliance similar to his own." - -"You interest me excessively." - -"Is it not a strange tale?" continued Thomas, adjusting a false collar -round his neck. "I knew you would agree with me when I came to the -pathetic part. Well, Fred, the altar was decked, the ornaments ready, -the Rabbi bespoke----" - -"Do you mean to say, Strachan, that Lady Dorothea was to have been -married after the fashion of the Jews?" - -"I don't know exactly. I think Beerie said it was a Rabbi; but that may -have been a flight of his own imagination. However, somebody was ready -to have tied the nuptial knot, and all the joys of existence, and its -hopes, were about to fade for ever from the vision of my poor Dorothea!" - -"_Your_ Dorothea!" cried I in amazement. "Why, Tom--you don't mean to -insinuate that you have gone that length already?" - -"Did I say mine?" repeated Strachan, looking somewhat embarrassed. "It -was a mere figure of speech: you always take one up so uncommonly -short.--Nothing remained for her but flight, or submission to the cruel -mandate. Like a heroic girl, in whose veins the blood of the old -crusaders was bounding, she preferred the former alternative. The only -relation to whom she could apply in so delicate a juncture, was an aged -aunt, residing somewhere in the north of Scotland. To her she wrote, -beseeching her, as she regarded the memory of her buried sister, to -receive her miserable child; and she appointed this town, Jedburgh, as -the place of meeting." - -"But where's the aunt?" - -"That's just the mysterious part of the business. The crisis was so -imminent that Dorothea could not wait for a reply. She disguised -herself,--packed up a few jewels which had been bequeathed to her by her -mother,--and, at the dead of night, escaped from her father's mansion. -Judge of her terror when, on arriving here, panting and perhaps pursued, -she could obtain no trace whatever of her venerable relative. Alone, -inexperienced and unfriended, I tremble to think what might have been -her fate, had it not been for the kind humanity of Beerie." - -"And what was the Bailie's line of conduct?" - -"He behaved to her, Fred, like a parent. He supplied her wants, and -invited her to make his house her home, at least until the aunt should -appear. But the noble creature would not subject herself to the weight -of so many obligations. She accepted, indeed, his assistance, but -preferred remaining here until she could place herself beneath -legitimate guardianship. And doubtless," continued Strachan with -fervour, "her good angel is watching over her." - -"And this is the whole story?" - -"The whole." - -"Do you know, Tom, it looks uncommonly like a piece of deliberate -humbug!" - -"Your ignorance misleads you, Fred. You would not say so had you seen -her. So sweet--so gentle--with such a tinge of melancholy resignation in -her eye, like that of a virgin martyr about to suffer at the stake! No -one could look upon her for a moment and doubt her purity and truth." - -"Perhaps. But you must allow that we are not living exactly in the age -of romance. An elopement with an officer of dragoons is about the -farthest extent of legitimate enterprise which is left to a modern -damsel; and, upon my word, I think the story would have told better, had -some such hero been inserted as a sort of counterpoise to the Jew. But -what's the matter? Have you lost anything?" - -"It is very odd!" said Strachan, "I am perfectly certain that I had on -my emerald studs last night. I recollect that Dorothea admired them -exceedingly. Where on earth can I have put them?" - -"I don't know, I'm sure. I suspect, Tom, you and the Bailie were rather -convivial after supper. Is your watch wound up?" - -"Of course it is. I assure you you are quite wrong. It was a mere matter -of four or five tumblers. Very odd this! Why--I can't find my watch -neither!" - -"Hallo! what the deuce! Have we fallen into a den of thieves? This is a -nice beginning to our circuit practice." - -"I could swear, Fred, that I put it below my pillow before I went to -sleep. I remember, now, that it was some time before I could fit in the -key. What can have become of it?" - -"And you have not left your room since?" - -"No, on my word of honour!" - -"Pooh--pooh! Then it can't possibly be gone. Look beneath the bolster." - -But in vain did we search beneath bolster, mattress, and blankets; yea, -even downwards to the fundamental straw. Not a trace was to be seen of -Cox Savoury's horizontal lever, jewelled, as Tom pathetically remarked, -in four special holes, and warranted to go for a year without more than -a minute's deviation. Neither were the emerald studs, the pride of -Strachan's heart, forthcoming. Boots, chambermaid, and waiter were -collectively summoned--all assisted in the search, and all asseverated -their own integrity. - -"Are ye sure, sir, that ye brocht them hame?" said the waiter, an acute -lad, who had served his apprenticeship at a commercial tavern in the -Gorbals; "Ye was gey an' fou when ye cam in here yestreen." - -"What do you mean, you rascal?" - -"Ye ken ye wadna gang to bed till ye had anither tumbler." - -"Don't talk trash! It was the weakest cold-without in the creation." - -"And then ye had a sair fecht on politics wi' anither man in the -coffee-room." - -"Ha! I remember now--the bagman, who is a member of the League! Where is -the commercial villain?" - -"He gaed aff at sax preceesely, this morning, in his gig, to Kelso." - -"Then, by the head of Thistlewood!" cried Strachan, frantically, "my -ticker will be turned into tracts against the Corn-laws!" - -"Hoot na!" said the waiter, "I canna think that. He looked an unco -respectable-like man." - -"No man can be respectable," replied the aristocratic Thomas, "who -sports such infernal opinions as I heard him utter last night. My poor -studs! Fred--they were a gift from Mary Rivers before we quarrelled, and -I would not have lost them for the universe! Only think of them being -exposed for sale at a free-trade bazaar!" - -"Come, Tom--they may turn up yet." - -"Never in this world, except at a pawnbroker's. I could go mad to think -that my last memorial of Mary is in all probability glittering in the -unclean shirt of a bagman!" - -"Had you not better apply to the Fiscal?" - -"For what purpose? Doubtless the scoundrel has driven off to the nearest -railway, and is triumphantly counting the mile-posts as he steams to -his native Leeds. No, Fred. Both watch and studs are gone beyond the -hope of redemption." - -"The loss is certainly a serious one." - -"No doubt of it: but a thought strikes me. You recollect the edict, -_naut_, _caupones_, _stabularii_? I have not studied the civil law for -nothing, and am clearly of opinion that in such a case the landlord is -liable." - -"By Jove! I believe you are right. But it would be as well to turn up -Shaw and Dunlop for a precedent before you make any row about it. -Besides, it may be rather difficult to establish that you lost them at -the inn." - -"If they only refer the matter to my oath, I can easily settle that -point," replied Strachan. "Besides, now that I think of it, Miss Percy -can speak to the watch. She asked me what o'clock it was just before we -parted on the stairs." - -"Eh, what! Is the lady in this house?" - -"To be sure--did I not tell you so?" - -"I say, Tom--couldn't you contrive to let one have a peep at this angel -of yours?" - -"Quite impossible. She is the shyest creature in the world, and would -shrink from the sight of a stranger." - -"But, my dear Tom----" - -"I can't do it, I tell you; so it's no use asking me." - -"Well, I must say you are abominably selfish. But what on earth are you -going to do with that red-and-blue Joinville? You can't go down to court -without a white neckcloth." - -"I am not going down to court." - -"Why, my good fellow! what on earth is the meaning of this?" - -"I am not going down to court, that's all. I say, Fred, how do I look in -this sort of thing?" - -"Uncommonly like a cock-pheasant in full plumage. But tell me what you -mean?" - -"Why, since you must needs know, I am going up-stairs to breakfast with -Miss Percy." - -So saying, Mr Strachan made me a polite bow, and left the apartment. I -took my solitary way to the court-house, marvelling at the extreme -rapidity of the effect which is produced by the envenomed darts of -Cupid. - - -CHAPTER II. - -On entering the court, I found that the business had commenced. An -enormous raw-boned fellow, with a shock of the fieriest hair, and hands -of such dimensions that a mere glimpse of them excited unpleasant -sensations at your windpipe, was stationed at the bar, to which, from -previous practice, he had acquired a sort of prescriptive right. - -"James M'Wilkin, or Wilkinson, or Wilson," said the presiding judge, in -a tone of disgust which heightened with each successive alias, "attend -to the indictment which is about to be preferred against you." - -And certainly, if the indictment contained a true statement of the -facts, James M'Wilkin, or Wilkinson, or Wilson, was about as -thoroughpaced a marauder as ever perambulated a common. He was charged -with sheep-stealing and assault; inasmuch as, on a certain night -subsequent to the Kelso fair, he, the said individual with the plural -denominations, did wickedly and feloniously steal, uplift, and away take -from a field adjoining to the Northumberland road, six wethers, the -property, or in the lawful possession, of Jacob Gubbins, grazier, then -and now, or lately, residing in Morpeth; and, moreover, on being -followed by the said Gubbins, who demanded restitution of his property, -he, the said M'Wilkin, &c. had, in the most brutal manner, struck, -knocked down, and lavished divers kicks upon the corporality of the -Northumbrian bumpkin, to the fracture of three of his ribs, and -otherwise to the injury of his person. - -During the perusal of this formidable document by the clerk, M'Wilkin -stood scratching his poll, and leering about him as though he considered -the whole ceremony as a sort of solemn joke. I never in the course of my -life cast eyes on a more nonchalant or unmitigated ruffian. - -"How do you say, M'Wilkin?" asked the judge; "are you guilty or not -guilty?" - -"Not guilty, aff course. D'ye tak me for a fule?" and M'Wilkin flounced -down upon his seat, as though he had been an ornament to society. - -"Have you a counsel?" asked the judge. - -"De'il ane--nor a bawbee," replied the free-booter. - -Acting upon the noble principle of Scottish jurisprudence, that no man -shall undergo his trial without sufficient legal advice, his lordship in -the kindest manner asked me to take charge of the fortunes of the -forlorn M'Wilkin. Of course I made no scruples; for, so long as it was -matter of practice, I should have felt no hesitation in undertaking the -defence of Beelzebub. I therefore leaned across the dock, and exchanged -a few hurried sentences with my first client. - -"Why don't you plead guilty?" - -"What for? I've been here before. Man, I'm thinking ye're a saft ane!" - -"Did you not steal the sheep?" - -"Ay--that's just the question. Let them find that out." - -"But the grazier saw you?" - -"I blackened his e'es." - -"You'll be transported to a dead certainty." - -"Deevil a fears, if ye're worth the price o' half a mutchkin. I'm -saying--get me a Hawick jury, and it's a' richt. They ken me gey and -weel thereabouts." - -Although I was by no means satisfied in my own mind that an intimate -acquaintance with M'Wilkin and his previous pursuits would be a strong -recommendation in his favour to any possible assize, I thought it best -to follow his instructions, and managed my challenges so well that I -secured a majority of Hawickers. The jury being sworn in, the cause -proceeded; and certainly, before three witnesses had been examined, it -appeared to me beyond all manner of doubt, that, in the language of Tom -Campbell, my unfortunate client was - - "Doom'd the long coves of Sydney isle to see," - -as a permanent addition to that cultivated and Patagonian population. -The grazier stood to his story like a man, and all efforts to break him -down by cross-examination were fruitless. There was also another hawbuck -who swore to the sheep, and was witness to the assault; so that, in -fact, the evidence was legally complete. - -Whilst I was occupied in the vain attempt to make Gubbins contradict -himself, there had been a slight commotion in the court-room. On looking -round afterwards, I was astonished to behold my friend Strachan seated -in the Magistrate's box, next to a very pretty and showily-dressed -woman, to whom he was paying the most marked and deliberate attention. -On the other side of her was an individual in a civic chain, whose fat, -pursy, apoplectic appearance, and nose of the colour of an Orleans plum, -thoroughly realised my mental picture of the Bailie. His small, -blood-shot eyes twinkled with magisterial dignity and importance; and he -looked, beside Miss Percy--for I could not doubt that it was she--like a -satyr in charge of Florimel. - -The last witness for the crown, a very noted police-officer from -Glasgow, was then put into the box, to prove a previous conviction -against my friend M'Wilkin. This man bore a high reputation in his -calling, and was, indeed, esteemed as a sort of Scottish Vidocq, who -knew by headmark every filcher of a handkerchief between Caithness and -the Border. He met the bold broad stare of the prisoner with a kind of -nod, as much as to assure him that his time was very nearly up; and then -deliberately proceeded to take a hawk's-eye view of the assembly. I -noticed a sort of quiet sneer as he glanced at the Magistrate's box. - -"Poor Strachan!" thought I. "His infatuation must indeed be palpable, -since even a common officer can read his secret in a moment." - -I might just as well have tried to shake Ailsa Craig as to make an -impression upon this witness; however, heroically devoted to my trust, I -hazarded the attempt, and ended by bringing out several additional -tales of turpitude in the life and times of M'Wilkin. - -"Make room there in the passage! The lady has fainted," cried the macer. - -I started to my feet, and was just in time to see Miss Percy conveyed -from the court, in an apparently inanimate state, by the Bailie and the -agitated Strachan. - -"Devilish fine-looking woman that!" observed the Advocate-Depute across -the table. "Where did your friend Mr Strachan get hold of her?" - -"I really don't know. I say--are you going to address the jury for the -crown?" - -"It is quite immaterial. The case is distinctly proved, and I presume -you don't intend to speak?" - -"I'm not so sure of that." - -"Oh, well,--in that case I suppose I must say a word or two. This closes -the evidence for the crown, my lord;" and the Depute began to turn over -his papers, preparatory to a short harangue. - -He had just commenced his speech, when I felt a hand laid upon my -shoulder. I looked around: Strachan was behind me, pale and almost -breathless with excitement. - -"Fred--can I depend upon your friendship?" - -"Of course you can. What's the row?" - -"Have you ten pounds about you?" - -"Yes--but what do you mean to do with them? Surely you are not going to -make a blockhead of yourself by bolting?" - -"No--no! give me the money--quick!" - -"On your word of honour, Tom?" - -"On my sacred word of honour!--That's a good fellow--thank you, Fred;" -and Strachan pocketed the currency. "Now," said he, "I have just one -other request to make." - -"What's that?" - -"Speak against time, there's a dear fellow! Spin out the case as long as -you can, and don't let the jury retire for at least three quarters of an -hour. I know you can do it better than any other man at the bar." - -"Are you in earnest, Tom?" - -"Most solemnly. My whole future happiness--nay, perhaps the life of a -human being depends upon it." - -"In that case I think I shall tip them an hour." - -"Heaven reward you, Fred! I never can forget your kindness!" - -"But where shall I see you afterwards?" - -"At the hotel. Now, my dear boy, be sure that you pitch it in, and, if -possible, get the judge to charge after you. Time's all that's -wanted--adieu!" and Tom disappeared in a twinkling. - -I had little leisure to turn over the meaning of this interview in my -mind, for the address of my learned opponent was very short and pithy. -He merely pointed out the clear facts, as substantiated by evidence, -and brought home to the unhappy M'Wilkin; and concluded by demanding a -verdict on both charges contained in the indictment against the -prisoner. - -"Do you wish to say anything, sir?" said the judge to me, with a kind of -tone which indicated his hope that I was going to say nothing. Doubtless -his lordship thought that, as a very young counsel, I would take the -hint; but he was considerably mistaken in his man. I came to the bar for -practice--I went on the circuit with the solemn determination to speak -in every case, however desperate; and it needed not the admonition of -Strachan to make me carry my purpose into execution. What did I care -about occupying the time of the court? His lordship was paid to listen, -and could very well afford to hear the man who was pleading for M'Wilkin -without a fee. I must say, however, that he looked somewhat disgusted -when I rose. - -A first appearance is a nervous thing, but there is nothing like going -boldly at your subject. "_Fiat experimentum in corpore vili_" is a -capital maxim in the Justiciary Court. The worse your case, the less -chance you have to spoil it; and I never had a worse than M'Wilkin's. - -I began by buttering the jury on their evident intelligence and the high -functions they had to discharge, which of course were magnified to the -skies. I then went slap-dash at the evidence; and, as I could say -nothing in favour of my client, directed a tremendous battery of abuse -and insinuation against his accuser. - -"And who is this Gubbins, gentlemen, that you should believe this most -incredible, most atrocious, and most clumsy apocrypha of his? I will -tell you. He is an English butcher--a dealer in cattle and in -bestial--one of those men who derive their whole subsistence from the -profits realised by the sale of our native Scottish produce. This is the -way in which our hills are depopulated, and our glens converted into -solitudes. It is for him and his confederates--not for us--that our -shepherds watch and toil, that our herds and flocks are reared, that the -richness of the land is absorbed! And who speaks to the character of -this Gubbins? You have heard the pointless remarks made by my learned -friend upon the character of my unfortunate client; but he has not dared -to adduce in this court one single witness in behalf of the character of -his witness. Gentlemen, he durst not do it! Gubbins has deponed to you -that he bought those sheep at the fair of Kelso, from a person of the -name of Shiells, and that he paid the money for them. Where is the -evidence of that? Where is Shiells to tell us whether he actually sold -these sheep, or whether, on the contrary, they were not stolen from him? -Has it been proved to you, gentlemen, that M'Wilkin is not a friend of -Shiells--that he did not receive notice of the theft--that he did not -pursue the robber, and, recognising the stolen property by their mark, -seize them for the benefit of their owner? No such proof at least has -been led upon the part of the crown, and in the absence of it, I ask you -fearlessly, whether you can possibly violate your consciences by -returning a verdict of guilty? Is it not possible--nay, is it not -extremely probable, that Gubbins was the actual thief? Was it not his -interest, far more than M'Wilkin's, to abstract those poor unhappy -sheep, because it is avowedly his trade to fill the insatiable maw of -the Southron? And in that case, who should be at the bar? Gubbins! -Gubbins, I say, who this day has the unparalleled audacity to appear -before an enlightened Scottish jury, and to give evidence which, in -former times, might have led to the awful consequence of the execution -of an innocent man! And this is what my learned friend calls evidence! -Evidence to condemn a fellow-countryman, gentlemen? No--not to condemn a -dog!" - -Having thus summarily disposed of Gubbins, I turned my artillery against -the attendant drover and the policeman. The first I indignantly -denounced as either an accomplice or a tool: the second I smote more -severely. Policemen are not popular in Hawick; and, knowing this, I -contrived to blacken the Scottish Vidocq as a bloodhound. - -But by far the finest flight of fancy in which I indulged was reserved -for the peroration. I was not quite sure of the effect of my commentary -on the evidence, and therefore thought it might be advisable to touch -upon a national law. - -"And now, gentlemen," said I, "assuming for one moment that all my -learned friend has said to you is true--that the sheep really belonged -to this Gubbins, and were taken from him by M'Wilkin--let us calmly and -deliberately consider how far such a proceeding can be construed into a -crime. What has my unfortunate client done that he should be condemned -by a jury of his countrymen? What he stands charged with is simply -this--that he has prevented an Englishman from driving away the produce -of our native hills. And is this a crime? It may be so, for aught I -know, by statute; but sure I am, that in the intention, to which alone -you must look, there lies a far deeper element of patriotism than of -deliberate guilt. Think for one moment, gentlemen, of the annals of -which we are so proud--of the ballads still chanted in the hall and in -the hamlet--of the lonely graves and headstones that are scattered all -along the surface of the southern muirs. Do not these annals tell us how -the princes and the nobles of the land were wont to think it neither -crime nor degradation to march with their retainers across the Borders, -and to harry with fire and sword the fields of Northumberland and -Durham? Randolph and the Bruce have done it, and yet no one dares to -attach the stigma of dishonour to their names. Do not our ballads tell -how at Lammas-tide, - - 'The doughty Earl of Douglas rade - Into England to fetch a prey?' - -And who shall venture to impeach the honour of the hero who fell upon -the field of Otterbourne? Need I remind you of those who have died in -their country's cause, and whose graves are still made the object of -many a pious pilgrimage? Need I speak of Flodden, that woeful place, -where the Flowers of the Forest were left lying in one ghastly heap -around their king? Ah, gentlemen! have I touched you now? True, it was -in the olden time that these things were done and celebrated; but -remember this, that society may change its place, states and empires may -rise and be consolidated, but patriotism still lives enduring and -undying as of yore! And who shall dare to say that patriotism was not -the motive of M'Wilkin? Who shall presume to analyse or to blame the -instinct which may have driven him to the deed? Call him not a -felon--call him rather a poet; for over his kindling imagination fell -the mighty shadow of the past. Old thoughts, old feelings, old impulses, -were burning in his soul. He saw in Gubbins, not the grazier, but the -lawless spoiler of his country; and he rose, as a Borderer should, to -vindicate the honour of his race. He may have been mistaken in what he -did, but the motive, at least, was pure. Honour it then, gentlemen, for -it is the same motive which is at all times the best safeguard of a -nation's independence; and do honour likewise to yourselves by -pronouncing a unanimous verdict of acquittal in favour of the prisoner -at the bar!" - -By the time I had finished this harangue, I was wrought up to such a -pitch of enthusiasm, that I really considered M'Wilkin in the light of -an extremely ill-used individual, and the tears stood in my eyes as I -recapitulated the history of his wrongs. Several of the jury, too, began -to get extremely excited, and looked as fierce as falcons when I -reminded them of the field of Flodden. But my hopes were considerably -damped when I heard the charge of his lordship. With all respect for the -eminent senator who that day presided on the bench, I think he went -rather too far when he designated my maiden-effort a rhapsody which -could only be excused on account of the inexperience of the gentleman -who uttered it. Passing from that unpleasant style of stricture, he went -_seriatim_ over all the crimes of M'Wilkin, and very distinctly -indicated his opinion that a more consummate ruffian had seldom figured -in the dock. When he concluded, however, there was a good deal of -whispering in the jury-box, and at last the gentlemen of the assize -requested permission to retire. - -"That was a fine flare-up of yours, Freddy," said Anthony Whaup, the -only other counsel for the prisoners upon the circuit. "You came it -rather strong, though, in the national line. I don't think our venerable -friend overhead half likes your ideas of international law." - -"Why, yes--I confess he gave me a tolerable wigging. But what would you -have me do? I must have said some thing." - -"Oh, by Jove, your were perfectly right! I always make a point of -speaking myself; and I can assure you that you did remarkably well. It -was a novel view, but decidedly ingenious, and may lead to great -results. If that fellow gets off, you may rely upon it there will be -some bloodshed again upon the Border." - -"And a jolly calendar, of course, for next circuit. I say, Anthony,--how -many cases have you got?" - -"Two thefts with habit and repute, a hamesucken, rather a good forgery, -and an assault with intent to commit." - -"Long?" - -"Rather--but poor pay. I haven't sacked more than nine guineas -altogether. Gad!" continued Anthony, stretching himself, "this is slow -work. I'd rather by a great deal be rowing on the canal." - -"Hush! here come the jury." - -They entered, took their seats, and each man in succession answered to -his name. I stole a glance at M'Wilkin. He looked as leonine as ever, -and kept winking perseveringly to the Hawickers. - -"Now, gentlemen," said the clerk of court, "what is your verdict?" - -The foreman rose. - -"The jury, by a majority, find the charges against the prisoner NOT -PROVEN." - -"Hurrah!" shouted M'Wilkin, reckless of all authority. "Hurrah! I -say--you counsellor in the wig--ye shanna want a sheep's head thae three -years, if there's ane to be had on the Border!" - -And in this way I gained my first acquittal. - - -CHAPTER III. - -I found Strachan in his room with his face buried in the bed-clothes. He -was kicking his legs as though he suffered under a violent fit of the -toothache. - -"I say, Tom, what's the matter? Look up, man! Do you know I've got that -scoundrel off?" - -No answer. - -"Tom, I say? Tom, you dunderhead--what do you mean by making an ass of -yourself this way? Get up, for shame, and answer me!" - -Poor Strachan raised his head from the coverlet. His eyes were -absolutely pink, and his cheeks of the tint of a lemon. - -"O Fred, Fred!" said he with a series of interjectional gasps, "I am the -most unfortunate wretch in the universe. All the hopes I had formerly -cherished are blighted at once in the bud! She is gone, my friend--gone -away from me, and, alas! I fear, for ever!" - -"The deuce she has! and how?" - -"Oh what madness tempted me to lead her to the court?--what infatuation -it was to expose those angelic features to the risk of recognition! Who -that ever saw those dove-like eyes could forget them?" - -"I have no objection to the eyes--they were really very passable. But -who twigged her?" - -"An emissary of her father's--that odious miscreant who was giving -evidence at the trial." - -"The policeman? Whew! Tom!--I don't like that." - -"He was formerly the land-steward of the Viscount;--a callous, cruel -wretch, who was more than suspected of having made away with his wife." - -"And did he recognise her?" - -"Dorothea says that she felt fascinated by the glitter of his cold grey -eye. A shuddering sensation passed through her frame, just as the poor -warbler of the woods quivers at the approach of the rattle-snake. A -dark mist gathered before her sight, and she saw no more until she awoke -to consciousness within my arms." - -"Very pretty work, truly! And what then?" - -"In great agitation, she told me that she durst tarry no longer here. -She was certain that the officer would make it his business to track -her, and communicate her hiding-place to her family; and she shook with -horror when she thought of the odious Israelitish bridegroom. 'The -caverns of the deep green sea--the high Tarpeian rock--the Leucadian -cliff of Sappho,' she said, 'all would be preferable to that! And yet, O -Thomas, to think that we should have met so suddenly, and that to part -for ever!' 'Pon my soul, Fred, I am the most miserable of created -beings." - -"Why, what on earth has become of her?" - -"Gone--and I don't know whither. She would not even apprise the Bailie -of her departure, lest she might leave some clue for discovery. She -desired me to see him, to thank him, and to pay him for her,--all of -which I promised to do. With one kiss--one deep, burning, agonised -kiss--which I shall carry with me to my grave--she tore herself away, -sprang into the postchaise, and in another moment was lost to me for -ever!" - -"And my ten pounds?" said I, in a tone of considerable emotion. - -"Would you have had me think twice," asked Strachan indignantly, -"before I tendered my assistance to a forlorn angel in distress, even -though she possessed no deeper claims on my sympathy? I thought, -Frederick, you had more chivalry in your nature. You need not be uneasy -about that trifle; I shall be in funds some time about Christmas." - -"Humph! I thought it was a P. P. transaction, but no matter. And is this -all the clue you have got to the future residence of the lady?" - -"No,--she is to write me from the nearest post-town. You will see, Fred, -when the letter arrives, how well worthy she is of my adoration." - -I have found, by long experience, that it is no use remonstrating with a -man who is head-over-ears in love. The tender passion affects us -differently, according to our constitutions. One set of fellows, who are -generally the pleasantest, seldom get beyond the length of flirtation. -They are always at it, but constantly changing, and therefore manage to -get through a tolerable catalogue of attachments before they are finally -brought to book. Such men are quite able to take care of themselves, and -require but little admonition. You no doubt hear them now and then -abused for trifling with the affections of young women--as if the latter -had themselves the slightest remorse in playing precisely the same -game!--but in most cases such censure is undeserved, for they are quite -as much in earnest as their neighbours, so long as the impulse lasts. -The true explanation is, that they have survived their first passion, -and that their faith is somewhat shaken in the boyish creed of the -absolute perfectibility of woman. The great disappointment of life does -not make them misanthropes--but it forces them to caution, and to a -closer appreciation of character than is usually undertaken in the first -instance. They have become, perhaps, more selfish--certainly more -suspicious, and though often on the verge of a proposal, they never -commit themselves without an extreme degree of deliberation. - -Another set seem designed by nature to be the absolute victims of woman. -Whenever they fall in love, they do it with an earnestness and an -obstinacy which is actually appalling. The adored object of their -affections can twine them round her finger, quarrel with them, cheat -them, caricature them, or flirt with others, without the least risk of -severing the triple cord of attachment. They become as tame as -poodle-dogs, will submit patiently to any manner of cruelty or caprice, -and in fact seem rather to be grateful for such treatment than -otherwise. Clever women usually contrive to secure a captive of this -kind. He is useful to them in a hundred ways, never interferes with -their schemes, and, if the worst comes to the worst, they can always -fall back upon him as a _pis-aller_. - -My friend Tom Strachan belonged decidedly to this latter section. Mary -Rivers, a remarkably clever and very showy girl, but as arrant a flirt -as ever wore rosebud in her bosom, had engrossed the whole of his heart -before he reached the reflecting age of twenty, and kept him for nearly -five years in a state of uncomplaining bondage. Not that I believe she -ever cared about him. Tom was as poor as a church-mouse, and had nothing -on earth to look to except the fruits of his professional industry, -which, judging from all appearances, would be a long time indeed in -ripening. Mary was not the sort of person to put up with love in a -cottage, even had Tom's circumstances been adequate to defray the rent -of a tenement of that description: she had a vivid appreciation, not -only of the substantials but of the higher luxuries of existence. But -her vanity was flattered at having in her train at least one devoted -dangler, whom she could play off, whenever opportunity required, against -some more valuable admirer. Besides, Strachan was a man of family, tall, -good-looking, and unquestionably clever in his way: he also danced the -polka well, and was useful in the ball-room or the picnic. So Mary -Rivers kept him on in a kind of blissful dream, just sunning him -sufficiently with her smiles to make him believe that he was beloved, -but never allowing matters to go so far as to lead to the report that -they were engaged. Tom asked for nothing more. He was quite contented -to indulge for years in a dream of future bliss, and wrote during the -interval a great many more sonnets than summonses. Unfortunately sonnets -don't pay well, so that his worldly affairs did not progress at any -remarkable ratio. And he only awoke to a sense of his real situation, -when Miss Rivers, having picked a quarrel with him one day in the -Zoological Gardens, announced on the next to her friends that she had -accepted the hand of a bilious East India merchant. - -Tom made an awful row about it--grew as attenuated and brown as an -eel--and garnished his conversation with several significant hints about -suicide. He was, however, saved from that ghastly alternative by being -drafted into a Rowing Club, who plied their gondolas daily on the Union -Canal. Hard exercise, beer, and pulling had their usual sanatory effect, -and Tom gradually recovered his health, if not his spirits. - -It was at this very crisis that he fell in with this mysterious Miss -Percy. There was an immense hole in his affections which required to be -filled up; and, as nature abhors a vacuum, he plugged it with the image -of Dorothea. The flight, therefore, of the fair levanter, after so brief -an intercourse, was quite enough to upset him. He was in the situation -of a man who is informed over-night that he has succeeded to a large -fortune, and who gets a letter next morning explaining that it is a -mere mistake. I was therefore not at all astonished either at his -paroxysms or his credulity. - -We had rather a dreary dinner that day. The judges always entertain the -first day of circuit, and it is considered matter of etiquette that the -counsel should attend. Sometimes these forensic feeds are pleasant -enough; but on the present occasion there was a visible damp thrown over -the spirits of the party. His lordship was evidently savage at the -unforeseen escape of M'Wilkin, and looked upon me, as I thought, with -somewhat of a prejudiced eye. Bailie Beerie and the other magistrates -seemed uneasy at their unusual proximity to a personage who had the -power of death and transportation, and therefore abstained from emitting -the accustomed torrent of civic facetiousness. One of the sheriffs -wanted to be off on a cruise, and another was unwell with the gout. The -Depute Advocate was fagged; Whaup surly as a bear with a sore ear, on -account of the tenuity of his fees; and Strachan, of course, in an -extremely unconversational mood. So I had nothing for it but to eat and -drink as plentifully as I could, and very thankful I was that the claret -was tolerably sound. - -We rose from table early. As I did not like to leave Tom to himself in -his present state of mind, we adjourned to his room for the purpose of -enjoying a cigar; and there, sure enough, upon the table lay the -expected missive. Strachan dashed at it like a pike pouncing upon a -parr; I lay down upon the sofa, lit my weed, and amused myself by -watching his physiognomy. - -"Dear suffering angel!" said Tom at last, with a sort of whimper, -"Destiny has done its worst! We have parted, and the first fond dream of -our love has vanished before the cold and dreary dawn of reality! O my -friend--we were like the two birds in the Oriental fable, each doomed to -traverse the world before we could encounter our mate--we met, and -almost in the same hour the thunderbolt burst above us!" - -"Yes--two very nice birds," said I. "But what does she say in the -letter?" - -"You may read it," replied Tom, and he handed me the epistle. It was -rather a superior specimen of penmanship, and I don't choose to -criticise the style. Its tenor was as follows:-- - - "I am hardly yet, my dear friend, capable of estimating the true - extent of my emotions. Like the buoyant seaweed torn from its - native bed among the submarine forest of the corals, I have been - tossed from wave to wave, hurried onwards by a stream more - resistless than that which sweeps through the Gulf of Labrador, and - far--far away as yet is the wished-for haven of my rest. Hitherto - my life has been a tissue of calamity and woe. Over my head since - childhood, has stretched a dull and dreary canopy of clouds, - shutting me out for ever from a glimpse of the blessed sun. Once, - and but once only have I seen a chasm in that envious veil--only - once and for a few, a _very_ few moments, have I gazed upon the - blue empyrean, and felt my heart expand and thrill to the glories - of its liquid lustre. That once--oh, Mr Strachan, can I ever forget - it?--that once comprises the era of the few hours which were the - silent witnesses of our meeting! - - "Am I weak in writing to you thus? Perhaps I am; but then, Thomas, - I have never been taught to dissemble. Did I, however, think it - probable that we should ever meet again--that I should hear from - your lips a repetition of that language which now is chronicled in - my soul--it may be that I would not have dared to risk an avowal - so candid and so dear! As it is, it matters not. You have been my - benefactor, my kind consoler--my friend. You have told me that you - love; and in the fulness and native simplicity of my heart, I - believe you. And if it be any satisfaction to you to know that - your sentiments have been at least appreciated, believe that of - all the pangs which the poor Dorothea has suffered, this last - agony of parting has been incomparably the most severe. - - "You asked me if there was no hope. Oh, my Thomas! what would I - not give could I venture to answer, yes? But it cannot be! You are - young and happy, and will yet be fortunate and beloved: why, - then, should I permit so fair an existence to be blighted by the - upas-tree of destiny under which I am doomed to languish? You - shall not say that I am selfish--you shall not hereafter reproach - me for having permitted you to share a burden too great for both - of us to carry. You must learn the one great lesson of existence, - to submit and to forget! - - "I am going far away, to the margin of that inhospitable shore - which receives upon its rocks the billows of the unbroken - Atlantic--or haply, amongst the remoter isles, I shall listen to - the sea-mew's cry. Do not weep for me. Amidst the myriad of bright - and glowing things which flutter over the surface of this green - creation, let one feeble, choking, overburdened heart be - forgotten! Follow me not--seek me not--for, like the mermaid on - the approach of the mariner, I should shrink from the face of man - into the glassy caverns of the deep. - - "Adieu, Thomas, adieu! Say what you will for me to the noble and - generous Beerie. Would to heaven that I could send him some token - in return for all his kindness! But a good and gallant heart is - its own most adequate reward. - - "They are putting to the horses--I can hear the rumble of the - chariot! Oh, once more, dear friend--alas, too inexpressibly - dear!--take my last farewell. Adieu--my heart is breaking as I - write the bitter word!--forget me." - - "DOROTHEA." - -"Do you wonder at my sorrow now?" said Strachan, as I laid down the -passionate epistle. - -"Why, no. It is well got up upon the whole, and does credit to the -lady's erudition. But I don't see why she should insist so strongly upon -eternal separation. Have you no idea whereabouts that aunt of hers may -happen to reside?" - -"Not the slightest." - -"Because, judging from her letter, it must be somewhere about Benbecula -or Tiree. I shouldn't even wonder if she had a summer box on St Kilda." - -"Right! I did not think of that--you observe she speaks of the remoter -isles." - -"To be sure, and for half a century there has not been a mermaid seen to -the east of the Lewis. Now, take my advice, Tom--don't make a fool of -yourself in the meantime, but wait until the Court of Session rises in -July. That will allow plenty of time for matters to settle; and if the -old Viscount and that abominable Abiram don't find her out before then, -you may depend upon it they will abandon the search. In the interim, the -lady will have cooled. Walks upon the sea-shore are uncommonly dull -without something like reciprocal sentimentality. The odds are, that the -old aunt is addicted to snuff, tracts, and the distribution of flannel, -and before August, the fair Dorothea will be yearning for a sight of her -adorer. You can easily gammon Anthony Whaup into a loan of that yacht of -his which he makes such a boast of; and if you go prudently about it, -and flatter him on the score of his steering, I haven't the least doubt -that he will victual his hooker and give you a cruise in it for -nothing." - -"Admirable, my dear Fred! We shall touch at all the isles from Iona to -Uist; and if Miss Percy be indeed there--" - -"You can carry her off on five minutes' notice, and our long friend will -be abundantly delighted. Only, mind this! If you want my candid opinion -on the wisdom of such an alliance, I should strongly recommend you to -meddle no farther in the matter, for I have my doubts about the -Honourable Dorothea, and----" - -"Bah, Fred! Doubts after such a letter as that? Impossible! No, my dear -friend--your scheme is admirable--unexceptionable, and I shall certainly -act upon it. But oh--it is a weary time till July!" - -"Merely a short interval of green pease and strawberries. I advise you, -however, to fix down Whaup as early as you can for the cruise." - -The hint was rapidly taken. We sent for our facetious friend, ordered -supper, and in the course of a couple of tumblers, persuaded him that -his knowledge of nautical affairs was not exceeded by that of T. P. -Cooke, and that he was much deeper versed in the mysteries of -sky-scraping than Fenimore Cooper. Whaup gave in. By dint of a little -extra persuasion, I believe we might have coaxed him into a voyage for -Otaheite; and before we parted for the evening it was agreed that -Strachan should hold himself in readiness to start for the Western -Islands about the latter end of July--Whaup being responsible for the -provisions and champagne, whilst Tom pledged himself to cigars. - - -CHAPTER IV. - -I never ascertained the exact amount of the sum which Tom handed over to -the Bailie. It must, however, have been considerable, for he took to -retrenching his expenditure, and never once dropped a hint about the ten -pounds which I was so singularly verdant as to lend him. The summer -session stole away as quickly as its predecessors, though not, in so far -as I was concerned, quite as unprofitably, for I got a couple of -Sheriff-court papers to draw in consequence of my M'Wilkin appearance. -Tom, however, was very low about himself, and affected solitude. He -would not join in any of the strawberry lunches or fish dinners so -attractive to the junior members of the bar; but frequented the -Botanical Gardens, where he might be seen any fine afternoon, stretched -upon the bank beside the pond, concocting sonnets, or inscribing the -name of Dorothea upon the monument dedicated to Linnus. - -Time, however, stole on. The last man who was going to be married got -his valedictory dinner at the close of the session. Gowns were thrown -off, wigs boxed up, and we all dispersed to the country wheresoever our -inclination might lead us. I resolved to devote the earlier part of the -vacation to the discovery of the town of Clackmannan--a place of which I -had often heard, but which no human being whom I ever encountered had -seen. Whaup was not oblivious of his promise, and Strachan clove unto -him like a limpet. - -We did not meet again until September was well-nigh over. In common with -Strachan, I had adopted the resolution of changing my circuit, and -henceforth adhering to Glasgow, which, from its superior supply of -criminals, is the favourite resort of our young forensic aspirants. So I -packed my portmanteau, invoked the assistance of Saint Rollox, and -started for the balmy west. - -The first man I met in George's Square was my own delightful Thomas. He -looked rather thin; was fearfully sun-burned; had on a pair of canvass -trousers most wofully bespattered with tar, and evidently had not shaved -for a fortnight. - -"Why, Tom, my dear fellow!" cried I, "can this possibly be you? What the -deuce have you been doing with yourself? You look as hairy as Robinson -Crusoe." - -"You should see Whaup,--he's rather worse off than Friday. We have just -landed at the Broomielaw, but I was obliged to leave Anthony in a tavern -for fear we should be mobbed in the street. I'm off by the rail to -Edinburgh, to get some decent toggery for us both. Lend me a pound-note, -will you?" - -"Certainly--that's eleven, you recollect. But what's the meaning of all -this? Where is the yacht?" - -"Safe--under twenty fathoms of dark blue water, at a place they call the -Sneeshanish Islands. Catch me going out again, with Anthony as -steersman!" - -"No doubt he is an odd sort of Palinurus. But when did this happen?" - -"Ten days ago. We were three days and nights upon the rock, with nothing -to eat except two biscuits, raw mussels and tangle!" - -"Mercy on us! and how did you get off?" - -"In a kelp-boat from Harris. But I haven't time for explanation just -now. Go down, like a good fellow, to the Broomielaw, No. 431--you will -find Anthony enjoying himself with beef steaks and bottled stout, in the -back parlour of the Cat and Bagpipes. I must refer you to him for the -details." - -"One word more--you'll be back to the circuit?" - -"Decidedly. To-morrow morning: as soon as I can get my things -together." - -"And the lady--what news of her?" - -The countenance of Strachan fell. - -"Ah, my dear friend! I wish you had not touched upon that string--you -have set my whole frame a-jarring. No trace of her--none--none! I fear I -shall never see her more!" - -"Come! don't be down-hearted. One never can tell what may happen. -Perhaps you may meet her sooner than you think." - -"You are a kind-hearted fellow, Fred. But I've lost all hope. Nothing -but a dreary existence is now before me, and--but, by Jupiter, there -goes the starting bell!" - -Tom vanished, like Aubrey's apparition, with a melodious twang, and a -perceptible odour of tar; and so, being determined to expiscate the -matter, I proceeded towards the Broomielaw, and in due time became -master of the locality of the Cat and Bagpipes. - -"Is there a Mr Whaup here?" I inquired of Mrs M'Tavish, the landlady, -who was filling a gill-stoup at the bar. - -"Here you are, old chap!" cried the hilarious voice of Anthony from an -inner apartment. "Turn to the right, steer clear of the scrubbing -brushes, and help yourself to a mouthful of Guinness." - -I obeyed. Heavens, what a figure he was! His trousers were rent both at -the knees and elsewhere, and were kept together solely by means of -whip-cord. His shirt had evidently not benefited by the removal of the -excise duties upon soap, and was screened from the scrutiny of the -beholder by an extempore paletot, fabricated out of sail-cloth, without -the remotest apology for sleeves. - -Anthony, however, looked well in health, and appeared to be in -tremendous spirits. - -"Tip us your fin, my old coxs'un!" said he, winking at me over the rim -of an enormous pewter vessel which effectually eclipsed the lower -segment of his visage. "Blessed if I ain't as glad to see you as one of -Mother Carey's chickens in a squall." - -"Come, Anthony! leave off your nautical nonsense, and talk like a man of -the world. What on earth have you and Tom Strachan been after?" - -"Nothing on earth, but a good deal on sea, and a trifle on as -uncomfortable a section of basalt as ever served two unhappy buccaniers -for bed, table, and sofa. The chillness is not off me yet." - -"But how did it happen?" - -"Very simply: but I'll tell you all about it. It's a long story, though, -so if you please I shall top off with something hot. I'm glad you've -come, however, for I had some doubts how far this sort of original -Petersham would inspire confidence as to my credit in the bosom of the -fair M'Tavish. It's all right now, however, so here goes for my yarn." - -But I shall not follow my friend through all the windings of his -discourse, varied though it certainly was, like the adventures of the -venerated Sinbad. Suffice it to say, that they were hardly out of sight -of the Cumbraes before Tom confided the whole tale of his sorrows to the -callous Anthony, who, as he expressed it, had come out for a lark, and -had no idea of rummaging the whole of the west coast and the adjacent -islands for a petticoat. Moved, however, by the pathetic entreaties of -Strachan, and, perhaps, somewhat reconciled to the quest by the dim -vision of an elopement, Anthony magnanimously waived his objections, and -the two kept cruising together in a little shell of a yacht, all round -the western Archipelago. Besides themselves, there were only a man and a -boy on board. - -"It was slow work," said Anthony,--"deucedly slow. I would not have -minded the thing so much if Strachan had been reasonably sociable; but -it was rather irksome, you will allow, when, after the boy had brought -in the kettle, and we had made everything snug for the night, Master -Strachan began to maunder about the lady's eyes, and to tear his hair, -and to call himself the most miserable dog in existence. I had serious -thoughts, at one time, of leaving him ashore on Mull or Skye, and making -off direct to the Orkneys; but good-nature was always my foible, so I -went on, beating from one place to another, as though we had been -looking for the wreck of the Florida. - -"I'll never take another cruise with a lover so long as I live. Tom led -me all manner of dances, and we were twice fired at from farm-houses -where he was caterwauling beneath the windows with a guitar. It seems he -had heard that flame of his sing a Spanish air at Jedburgh. Tom must -needs pick it up, and you have no idea how he pestered me. Go where we -would, he kept harping on that abominable ditty, in the hope that his -mistress might hear him; and, when I remonstrated on the absurdity of -the proceeding, he quoted the case of Blondel, and some trash out of -Uhland's ballads. Serenading on the west coast is by no means a pleasant -pastime. The nights are as raw as an anchovy, and the midges -particularly plentiful. - -"Well, sir, we could find no trace of the lady after all. Strachan got -into low spirits, and I confess that I was sometimes sulky--so we had an -occasional blow-up, which by no means added to the conviviality of the -voyage. One evening, just at sundown, we entered the Sound of -Sneeshanish--an ugly place, let me tell you, at the best, but especially -to be avoided in any thing like a gale of wind. The clouds in the -horizon looked particularly threatening, and I got a little anxious, for -I knew that there were some rocks about, and not a lighthouse in the -whole of the district. - -"In an hour or two it grew as dark as a wolf's throat. I could not for -the life of me make out where we were, for the Sound is very narrow in -some parts, and occasionally I thought that I could hear breakers ahead. - -"'Tom,' said I, 'Tom, you lubber!--for our esteemed friend was, as -usual, lying on the deck, with a cigar in his mouth, twangling at that -eternal guitar--'take hold of the helm, will you, for a minute, while I -go down and look at the chart.' - -"I was as cold as a cucumber; so, after having ascertained, as I best -could, the bearings about the Sound, I rather think I _did_ stop below -for one moment--but not longer--just to mix a glass of swizzle by way of -fortification, for I didn't expect to get to bed that night. All of a -sudden I heard a shout from the bows, bolted upon deck, and there, sure -enough, was a black object right ahead, with the surf shooting over it. - -"'Luff, Tom! or we are all dead men;--Luff, I say!' shouted I. I might -as well have called to a millstone. Tom was in a kind of trance. - -"'O Dorothea!' said our friend. - -"'To the devil with Dorothea!' roared I, snatching the tiller from his -hand. - -"'It was too late. We went smash upon the rock, with a force that sent -us headlong upon the deck, and Strachan staggered to his feet, bleeding -profusely at the proboscis. - -"Down came the sail rattling about our ears, and over lurched the yacht. -I saw there was no time to lose, so I leaped at once upon the rock, and -called upon the rest to follow me. They did so, and were lucky to escape -with no more disaster than a ruffling of the cuticle on the basalt; for -in two minutes more all was over. Some of the timbers had been staved in -at the first concussion. She rapidly filled,--and down went, before my -eyes, the Caption, the tidiest little craft that ever pitched her -broadside into the hull of a Frenchman!" - -"Very well told indeed," said I, "only, Anthony, it does strike me that -the last paragraph is not quite original. I've heard something like it -in my younger days, at the Adelphi. But what became of you afterwards?" - -"Faith, we were in a fix, as you may easily conceive. All we could do -was to scramble up the rocks,--which, fortunately, were not too -precipitous,--until we reached a dry place, where we lay, huddled -together, until morning. When light came, we found that we were not on -the main land, but on a kind of little stack in the very centre of the -channel, without a blade of grass upon it, or the prospect of a sail in -sight. This was a nice situation for two members of the Scottish bar! -The first thing we did was to inquire into the state of provisions, -which we found to consist of a couple of biscuits, that little Jim, the -boy, happened to have about him. Of course we followed the example of -the earlier navigators, and confiscated these _pro bono publico_. We -had not a drop of alcohol among us, but, very luckily, picked up a small -keg of fresh water, which, I believe, was our salvation. Strachan did -not behave well. He wanted to keep half-a-dozen cigars to himself; but -such monstrous selfishness could not be permitted, and the rest of us -took them from him by force. I shall always blame myself for having -weakly restored to him a cheroot." - -"And what followed?" - -"Why, we remained three days upon the rock. Fortunately the weather was -moderate, so that we were not absolutely washed away, but for all that -it was consumedly cold of nights. The worst thing, however, was the -deplorable state of our larder. We finished the biscuits the first day, -trusting to be speedily relieved; but the sun set without a vestige of a -sail, and we supped sparingly upon tangle. Next morning we were so -ravenous that we could have eaten raw squirrels. That day we subsisted -entirely upon shell-fish, and smoked out all our cigars. On the third we -bolted two old gloves, buttons and all; and, do you know, Fred, I began -to be seriously alarmed about the boy Jim, for Strachan kept eyeing him -like an ogre, began to mutter some horrid suggestions as to the -propriety of casting lots, and execrated his own stupidity in being -unprovided with a jar of pickles." - -"O Anthony--for shame!" - -"Well--I'm sure he was thinking about it, if he did not say so. However, -we lunched upon a shoe, and for my own part, whenever I go upon another -voyage, I shall take the precaution of providing myself with pliable -French boots--your Kilmarnock leather is so very intolerably tough! -Towards evening, to our infinite joy, we descried a boat entering the -Sound. We shouted, as you may be sure, like demons. The Celtic -Samaritans came up, and, thanks to the kindness of Rory M'Gregor the -master, we each of us went to sleep that night with at least two gallons -of oatmeal porridge comfortably stowed beneath our belts. And that's the -whole history." - -"And how do you feel after such unexampled privation?" - -"Not a hair the worse. But this I know, that if ever I am caught again -on such idiotical errand as hunting for a young woman through the -Highlands, my nearest of kin are at perfect liberty to have me cognosced -without opposition." - -"Ah--you are no lover, Anthony. Strachan, now, would go barefooted -through Stony Arabia for the mere chance of a casual glimpse at his -mistress." - -"All I can say, my dear fellow, is, that if connubial happiness cannot -be purchased without a month's twangling on a guitar and three -consecutive suppers upon seaweed, I know at least one respectable young -barrister who is likely to die unmarried. But I say, Fred, let us have -a coach and drive up to your hotel. You can lend me a coat, I suppose, -or something of the sort, until Strachan arrives; and just be good -enough, will you, to settle with Mrs M'Tavish for the bill, for, by all -my hopes of a sheriffship, I have been thoroughly purged of my tin." - -The matter may not be of any especial interest to the public; at the -same time I think it right to record the fact that Anthony Whaup owes me -seven shillings and eightpence unto this day. - - -CHAPTER V. - -"That is all I can tell you about it," said Mr Hedger, as he handed me -the last of three indictments, with the joyful accompaniment of the -fees. "That is all I can tell you about it. If the _alibi_ will hold -water, good and well--if not, M'Closkie will be transported." - -Hedger is the very best criminal agent I ever met with. There is always -a point in his cases--his precognitions are perfect, and pleading, under -such auspices, becomes a kind of realised romance. - -"By the way," said he, "is there a Mr Strachan of your bar at circuit? I -have a curious communication from a prisoner who is desirous to have him -as her counsel." - -"Indeed! I am glad to hear it. Mr Strachan is a particular friend of -mine, and will be here immediately. I shall be glad to introduce you. Is -it a heavy case?" - -"No, but rather an odd one--a theft of money committed at the Blenheim -hotel. The woman seems a person of education, but, as she obstinately -refuses to tell me her story, I know very little more about it than is -contained in the face of the indictment." - -"What is her name?" - -"Why you know that is a matter not very easily ascertained. She called -herself Euphemia Saville when brought up for examination, and of course -she will be tried as such. She is well dressed, and rather pretty, but -she won't have any other counsel than Mr Strachan; and singularly -enough, she has positively forbidden me to send him a fee on the ground -that he would take it as an insult." - -"I should feel particularly obliged if the whole public would take to -insulting me perpetually in that manner! But really this is an odd -history. Do you think she is acquainted with my friend?" - -Hedger winked. - -"I can't say," said he, "for, to tell you the truth, I know nothing -earthly about it. Only she was so extremely desirous to have him -engaged, that I thought it not a little remarkable. I hope your friend -won't take offence if I mention what the woman said?" - -"Not in the least, you may be sure of that. And, _apropos_, here he -comes." - -And in effect Whaup and Strachan now walked into the counsel's -apartment, demure, shaven, and well dressed--altogether two very -different-looking individuals from the tatterdemalions of yesterday. - -"Good morning, Fred," cried Whaup; "Servant, Mr Hedger--lots of work -going, eh? Are the pleas nearly over yet?" - -"Very nearly, I believe, Mr Whaup. Would you have the kindness to----" - -"Oh, certainly," said I. "Strachan, allow me to introduce my friend Mr -Hedger, who is desirous of your professional advice." - -"I say, Freddy," said Whaup, looking sulkily at the twain as they -retired to a window to consult, "what's in the wind now? Has old Hedger -got a spite at any of his clients?" - -"How should I know? What do you mean?" - -"Because I should rather think," said Anthony, "that in our friend -Strachan's hands the lad runs a remarkably good chance of a sea voyage -to the colonies, that's all." - -"Fie for shame, Anthony! You should not bear malice." - -"No more I do--but I can't forget the loss of the little Caption all -through his stupid blundering; and this morning he must needs sleep so -long that he lost the early train, and has very likely cut me out of -business for the sheer want of a pair of reputable trousers." - -"Never mind--there is a good time coming." - -"Which means, I suppose, that you have got the pick of the cases? Very -well: it can't be helped, so I shall even show myself in court by way of -public advertisement." - -So saying, my long friend wrestled himself into his gown, adjusted his -wig knowingly upon his cranium, and rushed toward the court-room as -vehemently as though the weal of the whole criminal population of the -west depended upon his individual exertions. - -"Freddy, come here, if you please," said Strachan, "this is a very -extraordinary circumstance! Do you know that this woman, Euphemia -Saville, though she wishes me to act as her counsel, has positively -refused to see me!" - -"Very odd, certainly! Do you know her?" - -"I never heard of the name in my life. Are you sure, Mr Hedger, that -there is no mistake?" - -"Quite sure, sir. She gave me, in fact, a minute description of your -person, which perhaps I may be excused from repeating." - -"Oh, I understand," said Tom, fishingly; "complimentary, I -suppose--eh?" - -"Why yes, rather so," replied Hedger hesitatingly; and he cast at the -same time a glance at the limbs of my beloved friend, which convinced me -that Miss Saville's communication had, somehow or other, borne reference -to the shape of a parenthesis. "But, at all events, you may be sure she -has seen you. I really can imagine no reason for an interview. We often -have people who take the same kind of whims, and you have no idea of -their obstinacy. The best way will be to let the Crown lead its -evidence, and trust entirely to cross-examination. I shall take care, at -all events, that her appearance shall not damage her. She is well -dressed, and I don't doubt will make use of her cambric handkerchief." - -"And a very useful thing that same cambric is," observed I. "Come, Tom, -my boy, pluck up courage! You have opportunity now for a grand display; -and if you can poke in something about chivalry and undefended -loveliness, you may be sure it will have an effect on the jury. There is -a strong spice of romance in the composition of the men of the Middle -Ward." - -"The whole thing, however, seems to me most mysterious." - -"Very; but that is surely an additional charm. We seldom find a chapter -from the Mysteries of Udolfo transferred to the records of the -Justiciary Court of Scotland." - -"Well, then, I suppose it must be so. Fred, will you sit beside me at -the trial? I'm not used to this sort of thing as yet, and I possibly may -feel nervous." - -"Not a bit of you. At any rate I shall be there, and of course you may -command me." - -In due time the case was called. Miss Euphemia Saville ascended the trap -stair, and took her seat between a pair of policemen with exceedingly -luxuriant whiskers. - -I must allow that I felt a strong curiosity about Euphemia. Her name was -peculiar; the circumstances under which she came forward were unusual; -and her predilection for Strachan was tantalising. Her appearance, -however, did little to solve the mystery. She was neatly, even elegantly -dressed in black, with a close-fitting bonnet and thick veil, which at -first effectually obscured her countenance. This, indeed, she partially -removed when called upon to plead to the indictment; but the law of no -civilised country that I know of is so savage as to prohibit the use of -a handkerchief, and the fair Saville availed herself of the privilege by -burying her countenance in cambric. I could only get a glimpse of some -beautiful black braided hair and a forehead that resembled alabaster. To -all appearance she was extremely agitated, and sobbed as she answered to -the charge. - -The tender-hearted Strachan was not the sort of man to behold the -sorrows of his client without emotion. In behalf of the junior members -of the Scottish bar I will say this, that they invariably fight tooth -and nail when a pretty girl is concerned, and I have frequently heard -bursts of impassioned eloquence poured forth in defence of a pair of -bright eyes or a piquant figure, in cases where an elderly or wizened -dame would have run a strong chance of finding no Cicero by her side. -Tom accordingly approached the bar for the purpose of putting some -questions to his client, but not a word could he extract in reply. -Euphemia drew down her veil, and waved her hand with a repulsive -gesture. - -"I don't know what to make of her," said Strachan; "only she seems to be -a monstrous fine woman. It is clear, however, that she has mistaken me -for somebody else. I never saw her in my life before." - -"Hedger deserves great credit for the way he has got her up. Observe, -Tom, there is no finery about her; no ribbons or gaudy scarfs, which are -as unsuitable at a trial as at a funeral. Black is your only wear to -find favour in the eyes of a jury." - -"True. It is a pity that so little attention is paid to the sthetics of -criminal clothing. But here comes the first witness--Grobey, I think, -they call him--the fellow who lost the money." - -Mr Grobey mounted the witness-box like a cow ascending a staircase. He -was a huge, elephantine animal of some sixteen stone, with bushy -eyebrows and a bald pate, which he ever and anon affectionately caressed -with a red and yellow bandana. Strachan started at the sound of his -voice, surveyed him wistfully for a moment, and then said to me in a -hurried whisper-- - -"As I live, Fred, that is the identical bagman who boned my emerald -studs at Jedburgh!" - -"You don't mean to say it?" - -"Fact, upon my honour! There is no mistaking his globular freetrading -nose. Would it not be possible to object to his evidence on that -ground?" - -"Mercy on us! no.--Reflect--there is no conviction." - -"True. But he stole them nevertheless. I'll ask him about them when I -cross." - -Mr Grobey's narrative, however, as embraced in an animated dialogue with -the public prosecutor, threw some new and unexpected light upon the -matter. Grobey was a traveller in the employment of the noted house of -Barnacles, Deadeye, and Company, and perambulated the country for the -benevolent purpose of administering to deficiency of vision. In the -course of his wanderings he had arrived at the Blenheim, where, after a -light supper of fresh herrings, toasted cheese, and Edinburgh ale, -assisted, _more Bagmannorum_, by several glasses of stiff -brandy-and-water, he had retired to his apartment to sleep off the -labours of the day. Somnus, however, did not descend that night with -his usual lightness upon Grobey. On the contrary, the deity seemed -changed into a ponderous weight, which lay heavily upon the chest of the -moaning and suffocated traveller; and notwithstanding a paralysis which -appeared to have seized upon his limbs, every external object in the -apartment became visible to him as by the light of a magic lantern. He -heard his watch ticking, like a living creature, upon the dressing-table -where he had left it. His black morocco pocket-book was distinctly -visible beside the looking-glass, and two spectral boots stood up amidst -the varied shadows of the night. Grobey was very uncomfortable. He began -to entertain the horrid idea that a fiend was hovering through his -chamber. - -All at once he heard the door creaking upon its hinges. There was a -slight rustling of muslin, a low sigh, and then momentary silence. -"What, in the name of John Bright, can that be?" thought the terrified -traveller; but he had not to wait long for explanation. The door opened -slowly--a female figure, arrayed from head to foot in robes of virgin -whiteness, glided in, and fixed her eyes, with an expression of deep -solemnity and menace, upon the countenance of Grobey. He lay breathless -and motionless beneath the spell. This might have lasted for about a -minute, during which time, as Grobey expressed it, his very entrails -were convulsed with fear. The apparition then moved onwards, still -keeping her eyes upon the couch. She stood for a moment near the window, -raised her arm with a monitory gesture to the sky, and then all at once -seemed to disappear as if absorbed in the watery moonshine. Grobey was -as bold a bagman as ever flanked a mare with his gig-whip, but this -awful visitation was too much. Boots, looking-glass, and table swam with -a distracting whirl before his eyes; he uttered a feeble yell, and -immediately lapsed into a swoon. - -It was bright morning when he awoke. He started up, rubbed his eyes, and -endeavoured to persuade himself that it was all an illusion. To be sure -there were the boots untouched, the coat, the hat, and the portmanteau; -but where--oh where--were the watch and the plethoric pocket-book, with -its bunch of bank-notes and other minor memoranda? Gone--spirited away; -and with a shout of despair old Grobey summoned the household. - -The police were straightway taken into his confidence. The tale of the -midnight apparition--of the Demon Lady--was told and listened to, at -first with somewhat of an incredulous smile; but when the landlord -stated that an unknown damosel had been sojourning for two days at the -hotel, that she had that morning vanished in a hackney-coach without -leaving any trace of her address, and that, moreover, certain spoons of -undeniable silver were amissing, Argus pricked up his ears, and after -some few preliminary inquiries, issued forth in quest of the fugitive. -Two days afterwards the fair Saville was discovered in a temperance -hotel; and although the pocket-book had disappeared, both the -recognisable notes and the watch were found in her possession. A number -of pawn-tickets, also, which were contained in her reticule, served to -collect from divers quarters a great mass of _bijouterie_, amongst which -were the Blenheim spoons. - -Such was Mr Grobey's evidence as afterwards supplemented by the police. -Tom rose to cross-examine. - -"Pray, Mr Grobey," said he, adjusting his gown upon his shoulders with a -very knowing and determined air, as though he intended to expose his -victim--"Pray, Mr Grobey, are you any judge of studs?" - -"I ain't a racing man," replied Grobey, "but I knows an oss when I sees -it." - -"Don't equivocate, sir, if you please. Recollect you are upon your -oath," said Strachan, irritated by a slight titter which followed upon -Grobey's answer. "I mean studs, sir--emerald studs for example?" - -"I ain't. But the lady is," replied Grobey. - -"How do you mean, sir?" - -"'Cos there vos five pair on them taken out of pawn with her tickets." - -"How do you know that, sir?" - -"'Cos I see'd them." - -"Were you at Jedburgh, sir, in the month of April last?" - -"I was." - -"Do you recollect seeing me there?" - -"Perfectly." - -"Do you remember what passed upon that occasion?" - -"You was rather confluscated, I think." - -There was a general laugh. - -"Mr Strachan," said the judge mildly, "I am always sorry to interrupt a -young counsel, but I really cannot see the relevancy of these questions. -The court can have nothing to do with your communications with the -witness. I presume I need not take a note of these latter answers." - -"Very well, my lord," said Tom, rather discomfited at being cut out of -his revenge on the bagman, "I shall ask him something else;" and he -commenced his examination in right earnest. Grobey, however, stood -steadfast to the letter of his previous testimony. - -Another witness was called; and to my surprise the Scottish Vidocq -appeared. He spoke to the apprehension and the search, and also to the -character of the prisoner. In his eyes she had long been chronicled as -habit and repute a thief. - -"You know the prisoner, then?" said Strachan rising. - -"I do. Any time these three years." - -"Under what name is she known to you?" - -"Betsy Brown is her real name, but she has gone by twenty others." - -"By twenty, do you say?" - -"There, or thereabouts. She always flies at high game; and, being a -remarkably clever woman, she passes herself off for a lady." - -"Have you ever seen her elsewhere than in Glasgow?" - -"I have." - -"Where?" - -"At Jedburgh." - -I cannot tell what impulse it was that made me twitch Strachan's gown at -this moment. It was not altogether a suspicion, but rather a -presentiment of coming danger. Strachan took the hint and changed his -line. - -"Can you specify any of her other names?" - -"I can. There are half-a-dozen of them here on the pawn-tickets. Shall I -read them?" - -"If you please." - -"One diamond ring, pledged in name of Lady Emily Delaroche. A garnet -brooch and chain--Miss Maria Mortimer. Three gold seals--Mrs Markham -Vere. A watch and three emerald studs--the Honourable Dorothea -Percy----" - -There was a loud shriek from the bar, and a bustle--the prisoner had -fainted. - -I looked at Strachan. He was absolutely as white as a corpse. - -"My dear Tom," said I, "hadn't you better go out into the open air?" - -"No!" was the firm reply; "I am here to do my duty, and I'll do it." - -And in effect, the Spartan boy with the fox gnawing into his side did -not acquit himself more heroically than my friend. The case was a clear -one, no doubt, but Tom made a noble speech, and was highly complimented -by the Judge upon his ability. No sooner, however, had he finished it -than he left the Court. - -I saw him two hours afterwards. - -"Tom," said I, "about these emerald studs--I think I could get them back -from the Fiscal." - -"Keep them to yourself. I'm off to India." - -"Bah!--go down to the Highlands for a month." - -Tom did so; purveyed himself a kilt; met an heiress at the Inverness -Meeting, and married her. He is now the happy father of half-a-dozen -children, and a good many of us would give a trifle for his practice. -But to this day he is as mad as a March hare if an allusion is made in -his presence to any kind of studs whatsoever. - - - - -MY COLLEGE FRIENDS. - -No. III. - -MR W. WELLINGTON HURST. - -[_MAGA._ JANUARY 1846.] - - -It would probably puzzle Mr William Wellington Hurst, as much as any -man, to find out on what grounds I placed him on the list of my College -friends; for certainly our intimacy was hardly sufficient to warrant -such a liberty; and he was one of those happy individuals who would -never have suspected that it could be out of gratitude for much -amusement afforded me by sundry of his sayings and doings. But so it is; -and it happens, that while the images of many others of my -companions--very worthy good sort of fellows, whom I saw more or less of -nearly every day--have vanished from my memory, or only flit across -occasionally, like shadows, the full-length figure of Mr W. Wellington -Hurst, exactly as he turned out, after a satisfactory toilet, in the -patent boots and scarf of many colours, stands fixed there like a -daguerreotype--more faithful than flattering. - -My first introduction to him was by running him down in a skiff, when I -was steering the College eight--not less to his astonishment than our -own gratification. It is (or used to be) perfectly allowable, by the -laws of the river, if, after due notice, these small craft fail to get -out of your way; but it is not very easy to effect. However, in this -instance, we went clean over him, very neatly indeed. The men helped him -into our boat, just as his own sunk from under him; and he accepted a -seat by my side in the stern-sheets, with many apologies for being so -wet, appearing considerably impressed with a sense of my importance, and -still more of my politeness. When we reached Sandford, I prescribed a -stiff tumbler of hot brandy and water, and advised him to run all the -way home, to warm himself, and avoid catching cold; and, from that time, -I believe he always looked upon me as a benefactor. The claim, on my -part, certainly rested on a very small foundation originally; it was -strengthened afterwards by a less questionable act of patronage. Like -many other under-graduates of every man's acquaintance in those days, -Hurst laboured under the delusion, that holding two sets of reins in a -very confused manner, and flourishing a long whip, was driving; and that -to get twenty miles out of Oxford in a "team," without an upset, or an -imposition from the proctor, was an _opus operatum_ of the highest -possible merit. To do him justice, he laboured diligently in the only -exercise which he seemed to consider strictly academical--he spent an -hour every morning, standing upon a chair, "catching flies," as he -called it, and occasionally flicking his scout, with a tandem whip; and -practised incessantly upon tin horns of all lengths, with more zeal than -melody, until he got the erysipelas in his lower lip, and a hint of -rustication from the tutors. Yet he was more ambitious than successful. -His reputation on the road grew worse and worse every day. He had a -knack of shaving turnpike gates, and cutting round corners on one wheel, -and getting his horses into every possible figure but a straight line, -which made every mile got over without an accident almost a miracle. At -last, after taking a four-in-hand over a narrow bridge, at the bottom of -a hill, pretty much in the Olympic fashion--all four abreast--men got -rather shy of any expeditions of the kind in his company. There was -little credit in it, and a good deal of danger. First, he was reduced to -soliciting the company of freshmen, who were flattered by any proposal -that sounded _fast_. But they, too, grew shy, after one or two ventures; -and poor Hurst soon found a difficulty in getting a companion at all. He -was a liberal fellow enough, and not pushed for a guinea when his -darling science was concerned: so he used to offer to "sport the team" -himself; but even when he condescended to the additional self-devotion -of "standing a dinner and champagne," he found that the closest -calculators among his sporting acquaintance had as much regard for their -necks as their pockets. - -To this inglorious position was his fame as a charioteer reduced, when -Horace Leicester and myself, early in his third term, had determined -somewhat suddenly to go to see a steeple-chase about twelve miles off, -where Leicester had some attraction besides the horses, in the shape of -a pretty cousin; (_two_, he told me, and bribed me with the promise of -an introduction to "the other," but she did not answer to sample at -all.) We had engaged a very nice mare and stanhope, which we knew we -could depend upon, when, the day before the race, the chestnut was -declared lame, and not a presentable four-legged animal was to be hired -in Oxford. Hurst had engaged his favourite pair of greys (which would -really go very well with any other driver) a week beforehand, but had -been canvassing the last batch of freshmen in vain for an occupant of -the vacant seat. A huge red-headed north-country man, who had never seen -a tandem in his life, but who, as far as pluck went, would have ridden -postilion to Medea's dragons, was listening with some apparent -indecision to Hurst's eloquence upon the delights of driving, just as we -came up after a last unsuccessful search through the livery stables; and -the pair were proceeding out of college arm in arm, probably to look at -the greys, when Leicester, to my amusement, stepped up with--"Hurst, -who's going with you to B----?" - -"I--why, I hardly know yet; I think Sands here will, if"---- - -"I'll go with you then, if you like; and if you've got a cart,[1] -Hawthorne can come too, and it will be very jolly." - - [1] "_Carts_" of that day held three. - -If the university had announced their intention of creating him a B.A. -by diploma, without examination, Hurst could hardly have looked more -surprised and delighted. Leicester, it should be borne in mind, was one -of the most popular men in the college--a sort of _arbiter elegantiarum_ -in the best set. Hurst knew very little of him, but was no doubt highly -flattered by his proposal. From coaxing freshmen to come out by the -bribe of paying all expenses, to driving to B---- steeple-chase side by -side with Horace (my modesty forbids me to include myself), was a step -at once from the ridiculous to the sublime of tandemizing. For this -advancement in life, he always, I fancy, considered himself indebted to -me, as I had originally introduced him to Leicester's acquaintance; and -when we both accepted an invitation, which he delivered himself of with -some hesitation, to breakfast in his rooms on the morning of the -expedition, his joy and gratitude appeared to know no bounds. It is not -usual, be it remembered, for a junior man in college to ask a senior to -a party from whom he has never received an invitation himself; but -hunting and tandem-driving are apt occasionally to set ordinary -etiquette at defiance. "Don't ask a lot of men, that's all--there's a -good fellow," said Horace, whose good-natured smile, and off-hand and -really winning manner, enabled him to carry off, occasionally, a degree -of impudence which would not have been tolerated from others--"I hate a -large formal breakfast party of all things; it disgusts me to see a -score of men jostling each other over tough beefsteaks." - -"I asked Sands yesterday," apologised Hurst. "I thought perhaps he would -come out with me; but I daresay I can put him off, if"---- - -"Oh! on no account whatever; you mean the carroty freshman I saw you -with just now? Have him by all means; it will be quite refreshing to -meet any man so regularly green. So there will be just four of us; eight -o'clock, I suppose? it won't do to be much later." - -And Horace walked off, having thus arranged matters to his own -satisfaction and his host's. I was an interested party in the business, -however, and had my own terms to make. "You've disposed of me rather -coolly," said I; "you don't surely imagine that at my time of life I'm -going to trust my neck to that fellow's abominable driving?" - -"Make your mind easy, Frank; William Wellington sha'n't finger a -riband." - -"Nonsense, Leicester; you can't treat a man in that kind of way--not to -let him drive his own team. Hurst _is_ a bit of an ass, certainly; but -you can't with any decency first ask a man for a seat, and then refuse -to give him up the reins." - -"Am I in the habit, sir, of doing things in the very rude and -ungentlemanly style you insinuate?" And Horace looked at me with mock -dignity for a second or two, and then burst into a laugh. "Leave it to -me, Hawthorne, and I'll manage it to the satisfaction of all parties: -I'll promise you that Hurst shall have a capital day's fun, and your -valuable neck shall be as safe as if you were tried by a Welsh jury." - -With this indefinite assurance I was obliged to be content; and -accordingly, at half-past eight the next morning, after a very correct -breakfast, we mounted the tandem-cart at the college back-gates, got the -leader hitched on, as usual, a mile out of the city, for fear of -proctors, and were bowling merrily along, in the slight frost of an -autumn morning, towards B----. Leicester took the driving first, by -Hurst's special request, after one or two polite but faint refusals, the -latter sitting by his side; while I occupied, for the present, the queer -little box which in those days was stuck on behind, (the more modern -carts, which hold four, are an improvement introduced into the -University since my driving days). With wonderful gravity and importance -did Leicester commence his lectures on the whip to his admiring -companion: I almost think he began in the approved style, with a slight -allusion to the Roman _biga_, and deduced the progress of the noble -science from Ericthonius down to "Peyton and Ward." I have a lively -recollection of a comparison between Automedon of the Homeric times, and -"Black Will" of Oxford celebrity--the latter being decided as only -likely to be less immortal, because there was no Homer among the -contemporary under-graduates. A good deal was lost to me, no doubt, from -my position behind; but Hurst seemed to suck it all in with every -disposition to be edified. From the history of his subject, Horace -proceeded, in due course, to the theory, from theory to facts, from -facts to illustrations. In the practical department, Horace, I suspect, -like many other lecturers, was on his weakest ground; for his own -driving partook of the general under-graduate character. - -"You throw the lash out so--you see--and bring it back sharp, so--no, -not _so_ exactly--so--hang the thing, I can't do it now; but that's the -principle, you understand--and then you take up your double thong, -so--pshaw, I did it very well just now--to put it into the wheeler, -so--ah, I missed it then, but that's the way to do it." - -He put me considerably in mind of a certain professor of chemistry, -whose lectures on light and heat I once was rash enough to attend, who, -after a long dry disquisition which had nearly put us all to sleep, used -to arouse our attention to the "beautiful effects" produced by certain -combinations, which he would proceed to illustrate, as he said, by a -"little experiment." But, somehow or other, these little experiments -always, or nearly always, failed: and after the room had been darkened, -perhaps, for five minutes or so, in order to give the exhibition full -effect, the result would be, a _fizz_ or two, a faint blue light, and a -stink, varying according to circumstances, but always abominable. "It's -very odd, John," the discomfited operator used to exclaim to his -assistant; "very odd; and we succeeded so well this morning, too: it's -most unaccountable: I'm really very sorry, gentlemen, but I can assure -you, this very same experiment we tried to-day with the most beautiful -result; didn't we, John?" "We did, sir," was John's invariably dutiful -reply; and so the audience took John's word for it, and the experiment -was considered to have been, virtually, successful. - -So we rattled on to the ground: Leicester occasionally putting the reins -into his companion's hand, teaching him to perform some impossible -movement with his third finger, and directing his attention to -non-existent flies, which he professed to remove from the leader, out -of sheer compassion, with the point of the whip. - -"You are sure you wouldn't like to take the reins now? Well, you'll -drive home then, of course? Hawthorne, will you try your hand now? -Hurst's going to take up the tooling when we come back." - -"No, thank you," said I; "I won't interfere with either of your -performances."--"And if Hurst does drive home," was my mental -determination, expressed to Leicester as far as a nod could do it, "I'll -walk." - -There was no difficulty in finding out the localities: the field in -which the winning-flag was fixed was not far from the turnpike road, and -conspicuous enough by the crowd already there collected. Of course, -pretty nearly all the sporting characters among the gownsmen were there, -the distance from the University being so trifling. Mounted on that -seedy description of animal peculiar to Oxford livery-stables, which can -never by any possibility be mistaken for anything but a hired affair, -but will generally go all day, and scramble through almost anything; -with showily mounted jockey-whips in their hands, bad cigars (at two -guineas a-pound) in their mouths, bright blue scarfs, or something -equivalent, round their necks--their neat white cords and tops (things -which they _did_ turn out well in Oxford) being the only really -sportsmanlike article about them; flattering themselves they looked -exceedingly knowing, and, in nine cases out of ten, being deceived -therein most lamentably; clustered together in groups of four or five, -discussing the merits of the horses, or listening, as to an oracle, to -the opinion of some Oxford horse-dealer, delivered with insolent -familiarity--here were the men who drank out of a fox's head, and -recounted imaginary runs with the Heythrop. Happy was he amongst them, -and a positive hero for the day, who could boast a speaking acquaintance -with any of those anomalous individuals, at present enshrouded in -great-coats, but soon to appear in all the varieties of jockey costume, -known by the style and title of "gentlemen riders;" who could point out, -confidentially, to his admiring companions, "Jack B----," and "Little -M----," and announce, from authority, how many ounces under weight one -was this morning, and how many blankets were put upon the other the -night before, to enable him to come to the scales at all. Here and -there, more plainly dressed, moving about quickly on their own -thorough-breds, or talking to some neighbouring squire who knew the -ground, were the few really sporting men belonging to the University; -who kept hunters in Oxford, simply because they were used to keep them -at home, and had been brought up to look upon fox-hunting as their -future vocation. Lolling on their saddles, probably voting it all a -bore, were two or three tufts, and their "tail;" and stuck into all -sorts of vehicles, lawful and unlawful, buggies, drags, and tandems, -were that ignoble herd, who, like myself, had come to the steeple-chase, -just because it was the most convenient idleness at hand, and because -other men were going. There were all sorts of people there besides, of -course: carriages of all grades of pretension, containing pretty bonnets -and ugly faces, in the usual proportion; "all the beauty and fashion of -the neighbourhood," nevertheless, as the county paper assured us; and as -I may venture to add, from personal observation, a very fair share of -its disreputability and blackguardism besides. - -After wandering for a short time among these various groups, Leicester -halted us at last in front of one of those old-fashioned -respectable-looking barouches, which one now so seldom sees, in which -were seated a party, who turned out to consist of an uncle and aunt, and -the pair of cousins before alluded to. Hurst and I were duly introduced; -a ceremony which, for my own part, I could have very readily excused, -when I discovered that the only pair of eyes in the party worth -mentioning bestowed their glances almost exclusively on Horace, and any -attempt at cutting into the conversation in that quarter was as -hopeless, apparently, as ungracious. Our friend's taste in the article -of cousins was undeniably correct; Flora Leicester was a most desirable -person to have for a cousin; very pretty, very good-humoured, and (I am -sure she was, though I pretend to no experience of the fact) very -affectionate. If one could have put in any claim of kindred, even in the -third or fourth degree, it would have been a case in which to stickle -hard for the full privileges of relationship. As matters stood, it was -trying enough to the sensibilities of us unfortunate bystanders, whose -cousins were either ugly or at a distance; for the rest of our new -acquaintances were not interesting. The younger sister was shy and -insipid; the squire like ninety-nine squires in every hundred; and the -lady-mother in a perpetual state of real or affected nervous agitation, -to which her own family were happily insensible, but which taxed a -stranger's polite sympathies pretty heavily. Though constantly in the -habit, as she assured me, of accompanying her husband to race-courses, -and enjoying the sport, she was always on the look-out for an accident, -and was always having, as she said, narrow escapes; some indeed so very -narrow, that, according to her own account, they ought to have had, by -every rule of probability, fatal terminations. In fact, her tone might -have led one to believe that she looked upon herself as an ill-used -woman in getting off so easily--at least she was exceedingly angry when -the younger daughter ventured to remark, _en pendant_ to one of her most -thrilling adventures, that "there was no great danger of an upset when -the wheel stuck fast." Not content with putting her head out of the -carriage every five minutes, to see if her own well-trained bays were -standing quiet, as they always did, there was not a restive horse or -awkward rider on the ground but attracted the good lady's ever watchful -sense of danger. "He'll be thrown! I'm sure he will! foolish man, why -don't he get off!" "Oh, oh! there they go! they're off, those horrid -horses! they'll never stop 'em!" Such were the interjections, -accompanied with extraordinary shudderings and drawings of the breath, -with which Mrs John Leicester, her eyes fixed on some distant point, -occasionally broke in upon the general conversation, sometimes with a -vehemence that startled even her nephew and eldest daughter, though, to -do them justice, they paid very little attention to any of us. - -Just as I was meditating something desperate, in order to relieve myself -from the office of soother-general of Mrs Leicester's imaginary terrors, -and to bring Flora's sunny face once more within my line of vision (she -had been turning the back of her bonnet upon me perseveringly for the -last ten minutes), a general commotion gave us notice that the horses -were started, and the race begun. The hill on which we were stationed -was close to the winning-post, and commanded a view of pretty nearly the -whole ground from the start. The race was, I suppose, pretty nearly -like other steeple-chases, and there is the less need for me to describe -it, because a very full and particular account appeared in the _Bell's -Life_ next ensuing. The principal impressions which remain on my mind, -are of a very smart gentleman in black and crimson, mounted on a very -powerful bay, who seemed as if he had been taking it easy, who came in -first, and after having been sufficiently admired by an innocent public, -myself among the number, as the winner, turned out to have gone on the -right hand instead of the left of some flag or other, and to have lost -the race accordingly; and of a very dirty-looking person, who arrived -some minute or two afterwards without a cap, whose jacket was green and -his horse grey, so far as the mud left any colour visible, and who, to -the great disappointment of the ladies especially, turned out to be the -real hero after all. - -We had made arrangements to have an independent beefsteak together after -the race, in preference to joining the sporting ordinary announced as -usual on such occasions; but the squire insisted on Leicester bringing -us both to dine with his party at five. After a few modest and -conscientious scruples on my part, at intruding on the hospitality of -comparative strangers, and a strong private remonstrance from Hurst, on -the impropriety of sitting down to dinner with ladies in a surtout and -white cords, we accepted the invitation, and betook ourselves to kill -the intervening hour or so as we best could. - -"Well, Horace," said I, as Hurst went off to make his apology for a -toilette--"how are you going to settle about the driving home?" - -"Oh! never fear; I'll manage it: I have just seen Miller and Fane; -they've got a drag over here, and there's lots of room inside; so -they've promised to take Hurst home with them, if we can only manage to -leave him behind: they are going to dine here, and are sure not to go -home till late; and we must be off early, you know, because I have some -men coming to supper; so we'll leave our friend behind, somehow or -other. A painful necessity, I admit; but it must be done, even if I have -to lock him up in the stable." - -Leicester seemed to have more confidence in his own resources than I -had; but he was in too great a state of excitement to listen to any -demurrers of mine on the point, and hurried us off to join his friends. -Ushered into the drawing-room A.1. of the Saracen's Head, we found _la -bella_ Flora awaiting us alone, the rest of the family being not as yet -visible. There was not the slightest necessity for inquiring whether she -felt fatigued, for she was looking even more lovely than in the morning; -or whether she had been amused or not, for if the steeple-chase had not -delighted her, something else had, for there was a radiant smile on her -face which could not be mistaken. Hurst was cut short rather abruptly in -a speech which appeared tending towards a compliment, by Leicester's -inquiring--"My good fellow, have you seen the horses fed?" - -"No, upon my word," said Hurst, "I"---- - -"Well, I have then; but I wish you would just step across the yard, and -see if that stupid ostler has rubbed them dry, as I told him. You -understand those things, I know, Hurst--the fellows won't humbug you -very easily; as to Hawthorne, I wouldn't trust him to see to anything of -the sort. Flora here knows more about a horse than he does." - -Any compliment to Hurst's acuteness in the matter of horse-flesh was -sure to have its effect, and he walked off with an air of some -importance to discharge his commission. - -"Now, then," said Horace eagerly, "we have got rid of him for ten -minutes, which was all I wanted; if you please, Flora dear, we must have -your cleverness to help us in a little difficulty." - -"Indeed!" said Miss Leicester, colouring a little, as her cousin, in his -eagerness, seized her hand in both of his--"what scrape have you got -into now, Horace, and how can I possibly help you?" - -"Oh, I want you to hit upon some plan for keeping that fellow Hurst here -after we are gone." - -"Upon my word!" - -"Stay; you don't know what I mean. I'll tell you why--if he drives home -to Oxford, he'll infallibly upset us; and drive he must if he goes home -with us, because, in fact, the team is his, and I drove them all the way -here, and it's his turn back, you see." - -"Then why, in the multitude of absurdities which you Oxonians -perpetrate--I beg your pardon, Mr Hawthorne--but why need you have come -out in a tandem at all, with a man who can't drive?" - -"Simply, Flora, because I had no other way of coming at all." - -"It was very absurd in us, Miss Leicester, I allow," said I, "but you -know what an attraction a steeple-chase is, to your cousin especially; -and after having made up his mind to come--altogether, you see, it would -have been a disappointment"--(to all parties, I had a mind to add, but I -thought the balance was on my side without it.) - -"After all," said Horace, "I shouldn't care a straw to run the chance, -as far as I am concerned. I dare say the horses will go home straight -enough, if he'll only let them: or if he wouldn't, I shouldn't mind -knocking him off the box at once--by accident; but Frank here is rather -particular, and I promised him I would not let Hurst drive. I thought -once, if we had dined by ourselves, of persuading him he was drunk, and -sending him home in a fly; but I am afraid, as matters stand, that plea -is hardly practicable." - -"Could I persuade him to let you or Mr Hawthorne drive, do you think?" - -Horace looked at her as if he thought, as I dare say he did, that his -cousin Flora could, if she were so minded, persuade a man to do -anything; so I was compelled, somewhat at the expense of my reputation -for gallantry, to assure them both, that if Ulysses of old, among his -various arts and accomplishments, had piqued himself upon his -tandem-driving, his vanity would have stopped his ears effectually, and -the Syren might have sung herself hoarse before he would have given up -the reins. - -"I'll give the Boots half-a-crown to steal his hat," said Horace, "and -start while he is looking for it." - -"Stay," said his cousin; "I dare say it may be managed." But I thought -she looked disappointed. "Did you know we were all going to the -B---- theatre to-night?" - -"No! really! what fun!" - -"No fun for you; for you must start early, as you said just now. The -owners of the horses here patronise a play, and they have made papa -promise to go, and so we must, I suppose, and"---- - -"Oh! we'll all go, of course," said Horace decidedly.--"You'll stay and -go, won't you, Hawthorne?" - -"You forget your supper party," said I. - -"Oh! hang it, they'll take care of themselves, so long as the supper's -there; they won't miss me much." - -"Didn't I hear something of your being confined to college after nine?" - -"Ah, yes; I believe I am--but it won't matter much for once; I'll call -on the dean to-morrow, and explain." - -"No, no, Horace, that won't do; you and Mr Hawthorne must go home like -good boys," said Flora, with a smile only half as merry as usual, "and -Mary and I will persuade Mr Hurst to stay and go to the theatre with -us." - -"Oh! confound it!"--Horace began. - -"Hush! here comes papa; remember this is my arrangement; you ought to be -very much obliged, instead of beginning to swear in that way; I'm sure -Mr Hawthorne is very grateful to me for taking so much interest in the -question of his breaking his neck, if you are not. Oh! papa," she -continued, "do you know that we shall lose all our beaux to-night; they -have some horrid supper party to go back to, and we shall have to go to -the play by ourselves!" - -Most of the Squire's sympathies were at this moment absorbed in the fact -that dinner was already four minutes late, so that he had less to spare -for his daughter's disappointment than Mrs Leicester, who on her arrival -took up the lamentation with all her heart. She attacked her nephew at -once upon the subject, whose replies were at first wavering and evasive, -till he caught Flora's eye, and then he answered with a dogged sort of -resolution, exceedingly amusing to me who understood his position, and -at last got quite cross with his aunt for persisting in her entreaties. -I declared, for my part, that I was dependent on Horace's movements; -that, if I could possibly have anticipated the delightful evening which -had awaited us, every other arrangement should have given way, &c. &c.; -when Hurst's reappearance turned the whole force of Mrs Leicester's -persuasions upon him, backed, too, as she was by both her daughters. -"Won't _you_ stay, Mr Hurst? Must you go too? Will you be so shabby as -to leave us?" How could any man stand it? William Wellington Hurst could -not, it was very plain. At first he looked astonished; wondered why on -earth we couldn't all stay; then protested he couldn't think of letting -us go home by ourselves; a piece of self-devotion which we at once -desired might not be thought of; then hesitated--he was meditating, no -doubt, on the delight of driving--how was he to get home? the inglorious -occupant of the inside of a drag; or the solitary tenant of a fly -(though I suggested he might drive that if he pleased); couldn't -Leicester go home, and I and he follow together? I put in a decided -negative; he looked from Mrs Leicester's anxious face to Flora's, and -surrendered at discretion. We were to start at eight precisely in the -tandem, and Miller and his party, who were sure to wait for the play, -were to pick up Mr Wellington Hurst as a supernumerary passenger at some -hour unknown. And so we went to dinner. Mrs Leicester marched off in -triumph with her new capture, as if fearful he might give her the slip -after all, and committed Flora to my custody. I was charitable enough, -however, in consideration of all circumstances, to give up my right of -sitting next to her to Horace, and established myself on the other side -of the table, between Mrs Leicester and her younger daughter; and a hard -post I had of it. Mary would not talk at all, and her mamma would do -nothing else; and she was one of those pertinacious talkers, too, who, -not content with running on themselves, and leaving you to put in an -occasional interjection, inflict upon you a cross-examination in its -severest form, and insist upon a definite and rational answer to every -question. However, availing myself of those legitimate qualifications of -a witness, an unlimited amount of impudence, and a determination not to -criminate myself, I got on pretty tolerably. Who did I think her -daughter Flora like? I took the opportunity of diligently examining that -young lady's features for about four minutes--not in the least to her -confusion, for she scarcely honoured me with a glance the whole -time--and then declared the resemblance to mamma quite startling. Mary? -Oh, her father's eyes decidedly; upon which the squire, whose pet she -appeared to be--I suppose it was the contrast between her quietness and -Mrs Leicester's incessant fidgetting that was so delightful--laughed, -and took wine with me. Then she took up the subject of my private tastes -and habits. Was I fond of riding? Yes. Driving? Pretty well. Reading? -Very. Then she considerately hoped that I did not read much by -candle-light--above all by an oil-lamp--it was very injurious. I assured -her that I would be cautious for the future. Then she offered me a -receipt for eye-water, in case I suffered from weakness arising from -over-exertion of those organs;--declined, with thanks. Hoped I did not -read above twelve hours a-day; some young men, she had heard, read -sixteen, which she considered as really inconsistent with a due regard -to health. I assured her that our sentiments on that point perfectly -coincided, and that I had no tendency to excesses of that kind. At last -she began to institute inquiries about certain under-graduates with -whose families she was acquainted; and the two or three names which I -recognised being hunting men, I referred her to Hurst as quite _au fait_ -in the sporting circles of Oxford, and succeeded in hooking them into a -conversation which effectually relieved me. - -Leicester, as I could overhear, had been still rather rebellious against -going home before the play was over, and was insisting that his being -in college by nine was not really material; nor did he appear -over-pleased, when, in answer to an appeal from Flora, I said plainly, -that the consequences of his "knocking in" late, when under sentence of -strict confinement to the regular hour, might not be pleasant--a fact, -however, which he himself, though with a very bad grace, was compelled -to admit. - -At last the time arrived for our party to separate: Horace and I to -return to Oxford, and the others to adjourn to see _Richard the Third_ -performed at the B---- theatre, under the distinguished patronage of the -members of the H---- Hunt. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and as -Hurst accompanied us to the stable-yard to "start us," as he -complacently phrased it, it was clear that he was suffering, like a -great many unfortunate individuals in public and private life, under an -overweening sense of his own importance. "You'll have an uncommon -pleasant drive of it; upon my word you will," he remarked; "it wouldn't -do for me to say I would not stay, you know, as Miss Leicester--Mrs -Leicester, that is--seemed to make such a point of it; but really"---- - -"Oh, come, Hurst," said I, "don't pretend to say you've made any -sacrifice in the matter; I know you are quite delighted; I'm sure I -should have liked to stay of all things, only it would have been uncivil -to our friend here to send him home by himself from his own party." - -"Oh! hang it, I don't mean to call it a sacrifice; I have no doubt I -shall have a very pleasant evening; only I wish we could all have -stayed, and driven home together afterwards." - -"You may keep Hawthorne with you now, if you like," said Horace, who was -not in the best of tempers; "I can take the horses home myself." - -"No, no, that would be hardly fair," said I. - -"Oh! no--off with you both," said Hurst; "stay, Leicester, you'll find -the grey go more pleasantly if you drive him from the cheek; I'll alter -it in a second." - -"Have the goodness just to let them alone, my good fellow; as I'm to -drive, I prefer putting them my own way, if you have no objection." - -"Well, as you please; good-night." - -"Miller's coming to my rooms when he gets home; if you like to look in -with him, you'll find some supper, I dare say." - -Horace continued rather sulky for the first few miles, and only opened -to anathematise, briefly but comprehensively, steeple-chases, tandems, -deans and tutors, and "fellows like Hurst." I thought it best to let him -cool down a little; so, after this ebullition, we rattled on in silence -as long as his first cigar lasted. - -"Come," said I, as I gave him a light, "we got rid of our friend's -company pretty cleverly, thanks to your cousin." - -"Ay, I told you I'd take care of that; ha, ha! poor Hurst! he little -bargained, when he ordered his team, how precious little driving he was -to get out of it; a strong instance of the vanity of human expectations. -I wish him joy of it, stuck up in an old barn, as I suppose he is by -this time, gaping at a set of strolling players; how Flora will laugh at -him! I really shouldn't wonder if she were to tell him, before the -evening is over, how nicely he has been humbugged, just for the fun of -it!" - -"At all events," said I, "I think we must have a laugh at him to-night -when he comes home; though he's such a good-tempered fellow, it's rather -a shame, too." - -It was very plain, however, that it was not quite such a good joke to -Master Horace himself as he was trying to make out; and that, in point -of fact, he would have considerably preferred being seated, as Hurst -probably was at that moment, by his pretty cousin's side in the B---- -theatre, wherever and whatever that might chance to be (even with the -full expectation of being laughed at afterwards), to holding the reins -of the best team that ever was turned out of Oxford. - -We reached Oxford just in time to hear the first stroke of "Old Tom." By -the time I joined Leicester in his rooms, supper was ready, and most of -the party assembled. The sport of the day was duly discussed; those who -knew least about such matters being proportionately the most noisy and -positive in giving their opinions. One young hero of eighteen, fresh -from Winchester, in all the importance of a probationary Fellow of New -College, explained for our benefit, by the help of the forks and -salt-cellars, the line which the horses undoubtedly ought to have taken, -and which they did not take; until one of his old schoolfellows, who was -present, was provoked to treat us to an anecdote of the young -gentleman's first appearance in the hunting-field--no longer ago than -the last term--when he mistook the little rough Scotch terrier that -always accompanied ----'s pack for the fox, and tally-ho'd him so -lustily as to draw upon himself sundry very energetic, but not very -complimentary, remarks from the well-known master of the hounds. By -degrees Leicester recovered his usual good-humour; and supper passed -over, and several songs had been sung with the usual amount of applause -(except one very sentimental one which had no chorus), and we had got -pretty deep into punch and politics, without Hurst's name having once -been mentioned by either of us. A knock at the oak, and in walked Fane. - -"So you're come back at last?" said Horace. "Sit down, if you can find -room. Allow me to introduce your left-hand neighbour--Powell of -Merton,--Fane, one of our brightest ornaments; quite the _spes gregis_ -we consider him; passed his little go, and started a pink only last -week; give him a glass of punch. Perhaps you are not aware we've been -drinking your health. But, by the way, Fane, where's our friend -Wellington?" - -"Who?" said Fane; "what on earth are you talking about?" - -"Wellington Hurst; didn't _you_ bring him home with you?" - -"Certainly not; didn't you bring him home?" - -"No; Miller promised me he should have a seat inside your drag, because -we could not wait for him; did you stay to the play?" - -"Yes, and capital fun it was; by the way, the last time I saw your -friend Hurst was mounted up in a red baise place that was railed off for -the patrons and patronesses, as they called them; there he was in the -front row, doing the civil to a very odd-looking old dowager in bright -blue velvet, with a neck like an ostrich." - -"Thank you," said Leicester, "that's my aunt." - -"Well, on that ground, we'll drink her health," said Fane, whose -coolness was proverbial. "There was Hurst, however, sitting between her -and an uncommonly pretty girl, with dark hair and eyes, dressed in--let -me see"---- - -"Never mind; it was one of my cousins, I suppose," interposed Horace, -who was engaged in lighting a cigar at the candle, apparently with more -zeal than success. - -"Well, we'll drink _her_ health for her own sake, if you have no -particular objection. I've no doubt the rest of the company will take my -word for her being the prettiest girl on the ground to-day; Hurst would -second me if he were here, for I never saw a man making love more -decidedly in my life." - -"Stuff!" said Horace, pitching his cigar into the fire; "pass that -punch." - -"What! jealous, Leicester?" said two or three of the party--"preserved -ground, eh?" - -"Not at all, not at all," said Horace, trying with a very bad grace to -laugh off his evident annoyance; "at all events, I don't consider Hurst -a very formidable poacher; but what I want to know is, how he didn't -come home with Miller and your party?" - -"Miller said he was coming up directly, so you can ask him; I really -heard nothing of it. Hark, there are steps coming up the staircase now." - -It proved to be Miller himself, followed by the under-porter, a -good-tempered fellow, who was the factotum of the under-graduates at -late hours, when the ordinary staff of servants had left college for the -night. - -"How are you, Leicester?" said he, as he walked straight to the little -pantry, or "scouts' room," immediately opposite the door, which forms -part of the usual suite of college apartments; "come here, Bob." - -"Where's Hurst?" was Horace's impatient query. - -"Wait a bit," replied Miller from inside, where he was rattling the -plates in the course of investigating the remains of the supper--he was -not the man to go to bed supperless after a twelve miles' drive. "Here, -Bob," he continued, as he emerged at last with a cold fowl--"take this -fellow down with you, and grill him in no time; here's a lump of -butter--and Harvey's sauce--and--where do you keep the pickled -mushrooms, Leicester? here they are--make a little gravy; and here, -Bob--it's a cold night--here's a glass of wine; now you'll drink Mr -Leicester's health, and vanish." - -Bob drank the toast audibly, floored his tumbler of port at two gulps, -and departed. - -"Now," said Horace, "do just tell me--what _is_ become of Hurst? how -didn't you bring him home?" - -"Confound it!" said Miller, as he looked into all the jugs--"no whisky -punch?" - -"Oh, really I forgot it; here's bishop, and that brandy punch is very -good. But how didn't he come home with you?" - -"Forgot it!" soliloquised Miller pathetically. - -"Forgot it? how the deuce came you to forget it? and how will he come -now?" rejoined Horace. - -"How came _you_ to forget it? I was talking about the whisky punch," -said Miller, as we all roared with laughter. "I couldn't bring Hurst, -you know, if he wouldn't come. He left the playhouse even before we did, -with some ladies--and we came away before it was over--so I sent up to -tell him we were going to start in ten minutes, and had a place for him; -and the Boots came down and said they had just had supper in, and the -gentleman could not possibly come just yet. Well, I sent up again, just -as we were ready harnessed, and then he threatened to kick Boots down -stairs." - -"What a puppy!" said Horace. - -"I don't quite agree with you there: I don't pretend to much sentiment -myself, as you are all aware; but with a lady _and_ a supper in the -case, I should feel perfectly justified in kicking down stairs any Boots -that ever wore shoes, if he hinted at my moving prematurely." - -Miller's unusual enthusiasm amused us all except Horace. "Gad," said he, -at last, "I hope he won't be able to get home to-night at all!" In this -friendly wish he was doomed to be disappointed. It was now long past -twelve o'clock; the out-college members of the party had all taken their -leave; Miller and Fane, having finished their grilled chicken at a -little table in the corner, had now drawn round the fire with the three -or four of us who remained, and there was a debate as to the expediency -of brewing more punch, when we heard a running step in the Quadrangle, -which presently began to ascend the staircase in company with a not very -melodious voice, warbling in a style which bespoke the owner's high -state of satisfaction. - -"Hush! that's Hurst to a certainty!" - - "Queen of my soul, whose starlike eyes - Are all the light I seek"---- - -(Here came an audible stumble, as if our friend were beginning his way -down again involuntarily by half-a-dozen steps at a time.) "Hallo! -Leicester! just lend us a candle, will you? The lamp is gone out, and -it's as dark as pitch; I've dropped my hat." - -"Open the door, somebody," said Horace; and Hurst was admitted. He -looked rather confused at first, certainly; for the sudden transition -from outer darkness into a small room lighted by a dozen wax candles -made him blink, and our first greeting consisting of "ha--ha's" in -different keys, was perhaps somewhat embarrassing; but he recovered -himself in a second. - -"Well," said he, "how are you all? glad you got home safe, Hawthorne; -hope I didn't keep you waiting, Miller? you got the start of me, all of -you, coming home; but really I spent an uncommon jolly evening." - -"Glad to hear it," said Leicester, with a wink to us. - -"Yes;--'pon my life; I don't know when I ever spent so pleasant a one;" -and, with a sort of chuckle to himself, Hurst filled a glass of punch. - -"What did you think of _Richard the Third_?" said I. - -"Oh! hang the play! there might have been six Richards in the field for -all I can say: I was better engaged." - -"Ay," said Fane, "I rather fancy you were." - -"We had a very pleasant drive home," said I, willing to effect a -diversion in favour of Leicester, who was puffing desperately at his -cigar in a savage kind of silence;--"and a capital supper afterwards; I -wish you had been with us." - -"And I had a very jolly drive too: I got a gig, and galloped nearly all -the way; and a very good supper, too, before I started; but I won't -return your compliment; we were a very snug party without you. Upon my -word, Leicester, your eldest cousin is one of the very nicest girls I -ever met: the sort of person you get acquainted with at once, and so -very lively and good-humoured--no nonsense about her." - -"I'll make a point of letting her know your good opinion," replied -Horace, in a tone conveying pretty plainly a rebuke of such presumption. -But it was lost upon Hurst. - -"Probably you need not trouble yourself," said Fane: "I dare say he has -let her know it himself already." - -"No--really no"--said Hurst, as if deprecating anything so decided; "but -Miss Leicester is a _very_ nice girl; clever, I should say, decidedly; -there's a shade of--one can hardly call it rusticity--about her manner; -but I like it, myself--I like it." - -"Do you?"--said Horace, very drily. - -"Oh! a season in London would take all that off." And Hurst began to -quaver again-- - - "Queen of my soul, whose"-- - -"I'll tell you what," said Horace, rising, and standing with his back to -the fire, with his hands under his coat-tails--"You may not be aware of -it, but you're rather drunk, Hurst." - -"Drunk!" said Hurst; "no, that's quite a mistake; three glasses, I think -it was, of champagne at supper; and you men have sat here drinking punch -all the evening; if anybody's drunk, it's not me." - -Hurst's usually modest demeanour was certainly so very much altered as -to justify, in some measure, Leicester's supposition; but I really -believe Flora Leicester's bright eyes had more to answer for in that -matter than the champagne, whether the said three glasses were more or -less. - -However, as Horace's temper was evidently not improving, Miller, Fane, -and myself wished him good night, and Hurst came with us. We got him -into Fane's rooms, and then extracted from him a full history of the -adventures of that delightful evening, to our infinite amusement, and -apparently to his own immense satisfaction. It was evident that Miss -Flora Leicester had made an impression, of which I do not give that -young lady credit for being in the least unconscious. - -The impression, however, like many others of its kind, soon wore off, I -fancy; for the next time I saw Mr Wellington Hurst, he had returned to -his usual frame of mind, and appeared quite modest and deferential; but -it will not perhaps surprise my readers any more than it did myself, -that Horace was never fond of referring to our drive to the -steeple-chase at B----, and did not appear to appreciate, as keenly as -before, the trick we had played Hurst in leaving him behind; while all -the after-reminiscences of the latter bore reference, whenever it was -possible, to his favourite date--"That day when you and I and Leicester -had that team to B---- together." - - - - -CHRISTINE - -A DUTCH STORY. - -FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME D'ARBOUVILLE - -BY FREDERICK HARDMAN, ESQ. - -[_MAGA._ DECEMBER 1847.] - - -It was the hour of sunrise. Not the gorgeous sunrise of Spain or Italy, -when the horizon's ruddy blaze suddenly revives all that breathes, when -golden rays mingle with the deep azure of a southern sky, and nature -bursts into vitality and vigour, as if light gave life. The sun rose -upon the chilly shores of Holland. The clouds opened to afford passage -to a pale light, without heat or brilliancy. Nature passed insensibly -from sleep to waking, but continued torpid when ceasing to slumber. No -cry or joyous song, no flight of birds, or bleating of flocks, hail the -advent of a new day. On the summit of the dykes, the reed-hedges bend -before the breeze, and the sea-sand, whirled over the slight obstacle, -falls upon the meadows, covering their verdure with a moving veil. A -river, yellow with the slime of its banks, flows peaceably and patiently -towards the expectant ocean. Seen from afar, its waters and its shore -appear of one colour, resembling a sandy plain; save where a ray of -light, breaking upon the surface, reveals by silvery flashes the passage -of the stream. Ponderous boats descend it, drawn by teams of horses, -whose large feet sink into the sand as they advance leisurely and -without distress to the goal of their journey. Behind them strides a -peasant, whip on shoulder; he hurries not his cattle, he looks neither -at the stream that flows, nor at the beasts that draw, nor at the boat -that follows; he plods steadily onwards, trusting to perseverance to -attain his end. - -Such is a corner of the picture presented to the traveller in Holland, -the country charged, it would seem, more than any other, to enforce -God's command to the waters, _Thou shalt go no farther!_ This silent -repose of creatures and things, this mild light, these neutral tints and -vast motionless plains, are not without a certain poetry of their own. -Wherever space and silence are united, poetry finds place; she loves all -things more or less, whether smiling landscape or dreary desert; light -of wing, a trifle will detain and support her--a blade of grass often -suffices. And Holland, which Butler has called a large ship always at -anchor, has its beauties for the thoughtful observer. Gradually one -learns to admire this land at war with ocean and struggling daily for -existence; those cities which compel the waters to flow at their -ramparts' foot to follow the given track, and abide in the allotted bed; -then those days of revolt, when the waves would fain reconquer their -independence, when they overflow, and inundate, and destroy, and at -last, constrained by the hand of man, subside and again obey. - -As the sun rose, a small boat glided rapidly down the stream. It had a -single occupant, a tall young man, lithe, skilful, and strong, who, -although apparently in haste, kept near the shore, following the -windings of the bank, and avoiding the centre of the current, which -would have accelerated his progress. At that early hour the fields were -deserted; the birds alone had risen earlier than the boatman, whose -large hat of grey felt lay beside him, whilst his brown locks, tossed -backward by the wind, disclosed regular features, a broad open forehead, -and eyes somewhat thoughtful, like those of the men of the north. His -costume denoted a student from a German university. One gathered from -his extreme youth that his life had hitherto passed on academic benches, -and that it was still a new and lively pleasure to him to feel the -freshness of morning bathe his brow, the breeze play with his hair, the -stream bear along his bark. He hastened, for there are times when we -count the hours ill; when we outstrip and tax them with delay. Then, if -we cannot hurry the pace of time, we prefer at least to wait at the -appointed spot. It calms impatience, and seems a commencement of -happiness. - -When the skiff had rounded a promontory of the bank, its speed -increased, as if the eye directing it had gained sight of the goal. At a -short distance the landscape changed its character. A meadow sloped down -to the stream, fringed by a thick hedge of willows, half uprooted and -bending over the water. The boat reached the shadow of the trees, and -stopping there, rocked gently on the river, secured by a chain cast -round a branch. The young man stood up and looked anxiously through the -foliage; then he sang, in a low tone, the burthen of a ballad, a -love-plaint, the national poetry of all countries. His voice, at first -subdued, as if not to break too suddenly the surrounding silence, -gradually rose as the song drew to a close. The clear mellow notes -escaped from the bower of drooping leaves, and expired without echo or -reply upon the surface of the pasture. Then he sat down and contemplated -the peaceful picture presented to his view. The grey sky had that -melancholy look so depressing to the joyless and hopeless; the cold dull -water rolled noiselessly onward; to the left, the plain extended afar -without variety of surface. A few windmills reared their gaunt arms, -waiting for wind; and the wind, too weak to stir them, passed on and -left them motionless. To the right, at the extremity of the little -meadow, stood a square house of red bricks and regular construction, -isolated, silent, and melancholy. The thick greenish glass of the -windows refused to reflect the sunbeams; the roof supported gilded vanes -of fantastical form; the garden was laid out in formal parterres. A few -tulips, drooping their heavy heads, and dahlias, propped with white -sticks, were the sole flowers growing there, and these were hemmed in -and stifled by hedges of box. Trees, stunted and shabby, and with -dust-covered leaves, were cut into walls and into various eccentric -shapes. At the corners of the formal alleys, whose complicated windings -were limited to a narrow space, stood a few plaster figures. One of -these alleys led to the willow hedge. There nature resumed her rights; -the willows grew free and unrestrained, stretching out from the land and -drooping into the water; their inclined trunks forming flying-bridges, -supported but at one end. The bank was high enough for a certain space -to intervene between the stream and the horizontal stems. A few -branches, longer than the rest, swept the surface of the river, and were -kept in constant motion by its current. - -Beneath this dome of verdure the boat was moored, and there the young -man mused, gazing at the sky--melancholy as his heart--and at the -stream, in its course uncertain as his destiny. A few willow leaves -fluttered against his brow, one of his hands hung in the water, a gentle -breeze stirred his hair; nameless flowerets, blooming in the shelter of -the trees, gave out a faint perfume, detectable at intervals, at the -wind's caprice. A bird, hidden in the foliage, piped an amorous note, -and the student, cradled in his skiff, awaited his love. Ungrateful that -he was! he called time a laggard, and bid him speed; he was insensible -to the charm of the present hour. Ah! if he grows old, how well will he -understand that fortune then lavished on him the richest treasures of -life--hope and youth! - -Suddenly the student started, stood up, and, with outstretched neck, and -eyes riveted on the trees, he listened, scarce daring to breathe. The -foliage opened, and the face of a young girl was revealed to his gaze. -"Christine!" he exclaimed. - -Christine stepped upon the trunk of the lowest tree, and seated herself -with address on this pliant bench, which her weight, slight as it was, -caused to yield and rock. One of her hands, extended through the -branches that drooped towards the water, reached that of her lover, who -tenderly clasped it. Then she drew herself up again, and the tree, less -loaded, seemed to obey her will by imitating her movement. The young man -sat in his boat, with eyes uplifted towards the willow on which his love -reposed. - -Christine Van Amberg had none of the distinguishing features of the -country of her birth. Hair black as the raven's wing formed a frame to a -face full of energy and expression. Her large eyes were dark and -penetrating; her eyebrows, strongly marked and almost straight, would -perhaps have imparted too decided a character to her young head, if a -charming expression of candour and _navet_ had not given her the -countenance of a child rather than of a woman. Christine was fifteen -years of age. A slender silver circlet bound her brow and jet-black -tresses--a holiday ornament, according to her country's custom: but her -greatest festival was the sight of her lover. She wore a simple muslin -dress of a pale blue colour; a black silk mantle, intended to envelop -her figure, was placed upon her hair, and fell back upon her shoulders, -as if the better to screen her from the gaze of the curious. Seated on a -tree trunk, surrounded by branches and beside the water, like -Shakespeare's Ophelia, Christine was charming. But although young, -beautiful, and beloved, deep melancholy was the characteristic of her -features. Her companion, too, gazed mournfully at her, with eyes to -which the tears seemed about to start. - -"Herbert," said the young girl, stooping towards her lover, "Herbert, be -not so sad! we are both too young to despair of life. Herbert! better -times will come." - -"Christine! they have refused me your hand, expelled me your dwelling; -they would separate us entirely: they will succeed, to-morrow -perhaps!..." - -"Never!" exclaimed the young girl, with a glance like the lightning's -flash. But, like that flash, the expression of energy was momentary, and -gave way to one of calm melancholy. - -"If you would, Christine, if you would! ... how easy were it to fly -together, to unite our destinies on a foreign shore, and to live for -each other, happy and forgotten!... I will lead you to those glorious -lands where the sun shines as you see it in your dreams--to the summit -of lofty mountains whence the eye discovers a boundless horizon--to -noble forests with their thousand tints of green, where the fresh breeze -shall quicken your cheek, and sweep from your memory these fogs, this -humid clime, these monotonous plains. Our days shall pass blissfully in -a country worthy of our loves." - -As Herbert spoke, the young girl grew animated; she seemed to see what -he described, her eager eye sought the horizon as though she would -over-leap it, her lips parted as to inhale the mountain breeze. Then she -passed her hand hastily across her eyes, and sighed deeply. "No!" she -exclaimed; "no, I must remain here!... Herbert, it is my country: why -does it make me suffer? I remember another sky, another land,--but no, -it is a dream! I was born here, and have scarcely passed the boundary of -this meadow. My mother sang too often beside my cradle the ballads and -boleros of her native Seville; she told me too much of Spain, and I love -that unknown land as one pines after an absent friend!" - -The young girl glanced at the river, over which a dense fog was -spreading. A few rain-drops pattered amongst the leaves; she crossed her -mantle on her breast, and her whole frame shivered with sudden chill. - -"Leave me, Christine, you suffer!--return home, and, since you reject my -roof and hearth, abide with those who can shelter and warm you." - -A sweet smile played upon Christine's lips. "My beloved," she said, -"near you I prefer the chilling rain, this rough branch, and the biting -wind, to my seat in the house, far from you, beside the blazing chimney. -Ah! with what joy and confidence would I start on foot for the farthest -corner of the earth, your arm my sole support, your love my only wealth. -But...." - -"What retains you, Christine? your father's affection, your sisters' -tenderness, your happy home?" - -The young girl grew pale. "Herbert, it is cruel to speak thus. Well do I -know that my father loves me not, that my sisters are often unkind, that -my home is unhappy; I know it, indeed I know it, and I will follow -you.... If my mother consents!" - -Herbert looked at his mistress with astonishment. "Child!" he exclaimed, -"such consent will never leave your mother's lips. There are cases where -strength and resolution must be found in one's own heart. Your mother -will never say yes." - -"Perhaps!" replied Christine, slowly and gravely. "My mother loves me; I -resemble her in most things, and her heart understands mine. She knows -that Scripture says a woman shall leave her father and mother to follow -her husband; she is in the secret of our attachment, and, since our door -has been closed against you, I have not shed a tear that she has not -detected and replied to by another. You misjudge my mother, Herbert! -Something tells me she has suffered, and knows that a little happiness -is essential to life as the air we breathe. Nor would it surprise me, if -one day, when embracing me, as she does each night when we are alone, -she were to whisper: Begone, my poor child!" - -"I cannot think it, Christine. She will bid you obey, be comforted, -forget!" - -"Forget! Herbert, my mother forgets nothing. To forget is the resource -of cowardly hearts. No,--none will bid me forget." - -And once more a gloomy fire flashed in Christine's eyes, like the rapid -passage of a flame which illumines and instantly expires. It was a -revelation of the future rather than the expression of the present. An -ardent soul dwelt within her, but had not yet cast off all the -encumbrances of childhood. It struggled to make its way, and at times, -succeeding for a moment, a word or cry revealed its presence. - -"No--I shall not forget," added Christine; "I love you, and you love me, -who am so little loved! You find me neither foolish, nor fantastical, -nor capricious; you understand my reveries and the thousand strange -thoughts that invade my heart. I am very young, Herbert; and yet, here, -with my hand in yours, I answer for the future. I shall always love -you! ... and see, I do not weep. I have faith in the happiness of our -love; how? when? I know not,--it is the secret of my Creator, who would -not have sent me upon earth only to suffer. Happiness will come when He -deems right, but come it will! Yes,--I am young, full of life, I have -need of air and space; I shall not live enclosed and smothered here. The -world is large, and I will know it; my heart is full of love, and will -love for ever. No tears, dearest! obstacles shall be overcome, they must -give way, for I will be happy!" - -"But why delay, Christine? My love! my wife! an opportunity lost may -never be regained. A minute often decides the fate of a lifetime. -Perhaps, at this very moment, happiness is near us! A leap into my boat, -a few strokes of the oar, and we are united for ever!... Perhaps, if -you again return to land, we are for ever separated. Christine, come! -The wind rises: beneath my feet is a sail that will quickly swell and -bear us away rapidly as the wings of yon bird." - -Tears flowed fast over Christine's burning cheeks. She shuddered, looked -at her lover, at the horizon, thought of liberty; she hesitated, and a -violent struggle agitated her soul. At last, hiding her face amongst the -leafage of the willow, she clasped her arms round its stem, as if to -withhold herself from entering the boat, and in a stifled voice muttered -the words,--"My mother!" A few seconds afterwards, she raised her pallid -countenance. - -"If I fled," said she gently, "to whom would my mother speak of her dear -country? Who would weep with her when she weeps, if I were gone? She has -other children, but they are gay and happy, and do not resemble her. -Only my mother and myself are sad in our house. My mother would die of -my absence. I must receive her farewell blessing or remain by her side, -chilled like her by this inclement climate, imprisoned in yonder walls, -ill-treated by those who love me not. Herbert, I will not fly, I will -wait!" And she made a movement to regain the strand. - -"One instant,--yet one second,--Christine! I know not what chilling -presentiment oppresses my heart. Dearest,--if we were to meet no more! -If this little corner of earth were our last trysting-place--these -melancholy willows the witnesses of our eternal separation! Is it--can -it be--the last happy hour of my life that has just slipped by?" - -He covered his face with his hands, to conceal his tears. Christine's -heart beat violently--but she had courage. - -Letting herself drop from the tree, she stood upon the bank, separated -from the boat, which could not come nearer to shore. - -"Adieu, Herbert!" said she, "one day I will be your wife, faithful and -loving. It shall be, for I will have it so. Let us both pray God to -hasten that happy day. Adieu, I love you! Adieu, and till our next -meeting, for I love you!" - -The barrier of reeds and willows opened before the young girl. A few -small branches crackled beneath her tread; there was a slight noise in -the grass and bushes, as when a bird takes flight; then all was silence. - -Herbert wept. - - * * * * * - -The clock in the red brick house struck eight, and the family of Van -Amberg the merchant were mustered in the breakfast-room. Christine was -the only absentee. Near the fire stood the head of the family--Karl Van -Amberg--and beside him his brother, who, older than himself, yielded the -prerogative of seniority, and left him master of the community. Madame -Van Amberg was working near a window, and her two elder daughters, -fair-haired, white-skinned Dutchwomen, prepared the breakfast. - -Karl Van Amberg, the dreaded chief of this family, was of lofty stature; -his gait was stiff; his physiognomy passionless. His face, whose -features at first appeared insignificant, denoted a domineering temper. -His manners were cold. He spoke little; never to praise, but often in -terms of dry and imperious censure. His glance preceded his words and -rendered them nearly superfluous, so energetically could that small -sunken grey eye make itself understood. With the sole aid of his own -patience and ambition, Karl Van Amberg had made a large fortune. His -ships covered the seas. Never loved, always respected, his credit was -everywhere excellent. Absolute monarch in his own house, none dreamed of -opposing his will. All were mute and awed in his presence. At this -moment, he was leaning against the chimney-piece. His black garments -were very plain, but not devoid of a certain austere elegance. - -William Van Amberg, Karl's brother, was quite of an opposite character. -He would have passed his life in poverty, subsisting on the scanty -income left him by his parents, had not Karl desired wealth. He placed -his modest fortune in his brother's hands, saying, "Act as for -yourself!" Attached to his native nook of land, he lived in peace, -smoking and smiling, and learning from time to time that he was a richer -man by a few hundred thousand francs. One day, he was told that he -possessed a million; in reply, he merely wrote, "Thanks, Karl; it will -be for your children." Then he forgot his riches, and changed nothing in -his manner of life, even adhering in his dress to the coarse materials -and graceless fashion of a peasant dreading the vicinity of cities. His -youthful studies had consisted of a course of theology. His father, a -fervent Catholic, destined him for the church; but it came to pass, as a -consequence of his indecision of character, that William neither took -orders nor married, but lived quietly in his brother's family. The -habitual perusal of religious books sometimes gave his language a -mystical tone, contrasting with the rustic simplicity of his exterior. -This was his only peculiarity; otherwise he had nothing remarkable but -his warm heart and strong good sense. He was the primitive type of his -family: his brother was an example of the change caused by -newly-acquired wealth. - -Madame Van Amberg, seated at the window, sewed in silence. Her -countenance had the remains of great beauty, but she was weak and -suffering. A single glance sufficed to fix her birthplace far from -Holland. Her black hair and olive tint betrayed a southern origin. -Silently submissive to her husband, his iron character had pressed -heavily upon this delicate creature. She had never murmured; now she was -dying, but without complaint. Her look was one of deep melancholy. -Christine, her third daughter, resembled her. Of dark complexion, like -her mother, she contrasted strongly with her rosy-cheeked sisters. M. -Van Amberg did not love Christine. Rough and cold, even to those he -secretly cherished, he was severe and cruel to those he disliked. He had -never been known to kiss Christine. Her mother's were the only caresses -she knew, and even those were stealthily and tearfully bestowed. The two -poor women hid themselves to love each other. - -At intervals, Madame Van Amberg coughed painfully. The damp climate of -Holland was slowly conducting to her grave the daughter of Spain's -ardent land. Her large melancholy eyes mechanically sought the -monotonous horizon, which had bounded her view for twenty years. Fog and -rain surrounded the house. She gazed, shivered as if seized with deadly -cold, then resumed her work. - -Eight o'clock had just struck, and the two young Dutchwomen, who, -although rich heiresses, waited upon their father, had just placed the -tea and smoked beef upon the table, when Karl Van Amberg turned abruptly -to his wife. - -"Where is your daughter, madam?" - -He spoke of Christine, whom the restless gaze of Madame Van Amberg -vainly sought through the fog veiling the garden. At her husband's -question, the lady rose, opened the door, and, leaning on the banister, -twice uttered her daughter's name. There was no reply; she grew pale, -and again looked out anxiously through the fog. - -"Go in, Madame," was the surly injunction of Gothon, the old servant -woman, who knelt on the hall flags, which she had flooded with soap and -water, and was now vigorously scrubbing,--"Go, in, Madame; the damp -increases your cough, and Mademoiselle Christine is far enough away! The -bird flew before daybreak." - -Madame Van Amberg cast a mournful glance across the meadow, where -nothing moved, and into the parlour, where her stern husband awaited -her; then she went in and sat down at the table, around which the -remainder of the family had already placed themselves. No one spoke. All -could read displeasure upon M. Van Amberg's countenance, and none dared -attempt to change the course of his ideas. His wife kept her eyes fixed -upon the window, hoping her daughter's return. Her lips scarcely tasted -the milk that filled her cup; visible anguish increased the paleness of -her sweet, sad countenance. - -"Annunciata, my dear, take some tea," said her brother-in-law. "The day -is chill and damp, and you seem to suffer." - -Annunciata smiled sadly at William. For sole answer she raised to her -lips the tea he offered her, but the effort was too painful, and she -replaced the cup upon the table. M. Van Amberg looked at nobody; he ate, -his eyes fixed upon his plate. - -"Sister," resumed William, "it is a duty to care for one's health, and -you, who fulfil all your duties, should not neglect that one." - -A slight flush tinged the brow of Annunciata. Her eyes encountered those -of her husband, which he slowly turned towards her. Trembling, almost -weeping, she ceased her attempts to eat. And the silence was again -unbroken, as at the commencement of the meal. At last steps were heard -in the passage, the old servant grumbled something which did not reach -the parlour, then the door opened, and Christine entered; her muslin -dress damp with fog, her graceful curls disordered by the wind, her -black mantle glittering with a thousand little rain-drops. She was -crimson with embarrassment and fear. Her empty chair was beside her -mother; she sat down, and hung her head; none offered aught to the -truant child, and the silence continued. Yielding to maternal anxiety, -Madame Van Amberg took a handkerchief and wiped the moisture from -Christine's forehead and hair; then she took her hands to warm them in -her own. For the second time M. Van Amberg looked at his wife. She let -Christine's hands fall, and remained downcast and motionless as her -daughter. M. Van Amberg rose from table. A tear glistened in the -mother's eyes on seeing that her daughter had not eaten. But she said -nothing, and returning to the window, resumed her sewing. Christine -remained at table, preserving her frightened and abashed attitude. The -two eldest girls hastened to remove the breakfast things. - -"Do you not see what Wilhelmina and Maria are about? Can you not help -them?" - -At her father's voice, Christine hastily rose, seized the cups and -teapot, and hurried to and fro from parlour to pantry. - -"Gently! You will break something!" cried M. Van Amberg. "Begin in time, -to finish without hurry." - -Christine stood still in the middle of the room. Her two sisters smiled -as they passed her, and one of them muttered--for nobody spoke aloud in -M. Van Amberg's presence--"Christine will hardly learn housekeeping by -looking at the stars and watching the river flow!" - -"Now, then, Mademoiselle, you are spoiling everything here!" said the -old servant, who had just come in; "go and change that wet gown, which -ruins all my furniture." - -Christine remained where she was, not daring to stir without the -master's order. - -"Go," said M. Van Amberg. - -The young girl darted from the room and up the stairs, reached her -chamber, threw herself upon the bed and burst into tears. Below, Madame -Van Amberg continued to sew, her head bent over her work. When the cloth -was removed, Wilhelmina and Maria placed a large jug of beer, glasses, -long pipes, and a store of tobacco, upon the mahogany table, and pushed -forward two arm-chairs, in which Karl and William installed themselves. - -"Retire to your apartment, madam," said M. Van Amberg, in the imperious -tone habitual to him when he addressed his wife,--"I have to discuss -matters which do not concern you. Do not leave the house; I will call -you by-and-by; I wish to speak with you." - -Annunciata bowed in token of obedience, and left the room. Wilhelmina -and Maria approached their father, who silently kissed their pretty -cheeks. The two brothers lit their pipes, and remained alone. William -was the first to speak. - -"Brother Karl!" said he, resting his arms upon the table, and looking M. -Van Amberg in the face, "before proceeding to business, and at risk of -offending you, I must relieve my heart. Here, all fear you, and counsel, -the salutary support of man, is denied you." - -"Speak, William," coldly replied M. Van Amberg. - -"Karl, you treat Annunciata very harshly. God commands you to protect -her, and you allow her to suffer, perhaps to die, before your eyes, -without caring for her fate. The strong should sustain the weak. In our -native land, we owe kindness to the stranger who cometh from afar. The -husband owes protection to her he has chosen for his wife. For all these -reasons, brother, I say you treat Annunciata ill." - -"Does she complain?" said M. Van Amberg, filling his glass. - -"No, brother; only the strong resist and complain. A tree falls with a -crash, the reed bends noiselessly to the ground. No, she does not -complain, save by silence and suffering, by constant and passive -obedience, like that of a soulless automaton. You have deprived her of -life, the poor woman! One day she will cease to move and breathe; she -has long ceased to live!" - -"Brother, there are words that should not be inconsiderately spoken, -judgments that should not be hastily passed, for fear of injustice." - -"Do I not know your whole life, Karl, as well as my own, and can I not -therefore speak confidently, as one well informed?" - -M. Van Amberg inhaled the smoke of his pipe, threw himself back in his -arm-chair, and made no reply. - -"I know you as I know myself," resumed William, gently, "although our -hearts were made to love and not to resemble each other. When you found -our father's humble dwelling too small, I said nothing; you were -ambitious; when a man is born with that misfortune or blessing, he must -do like the birds, who have wings to soar; he must strive to rise. You -departed; I pressed your hand, and reproached you not; it is right that -each man should be happy his own way. You gained much gold, and gave me -more than I needed. You returned married, and I did not approve your -marriage. It is wiser to seek a companion in the land where one's days -are to end; it is something to love the same places and things, and then -it is only generous to leave one's wife a family, friends, well-known -objects to gaze upon. It is counting greatly on one's-self to take sole -charge of her happiness. Happiness sometimes consists of so many things! -Often an imperceptible atom serves as base to its vast structure: for my -part I do not like presumptuous experiments on the hearts of others. In -short, you married a foreigner, who perishes with cold in this country, -and sighs, amidst our fogs, for the sun of Spain. You committed a still -greater fault--Forgive me, brother; I speak plainly, in order not to -return to this subject." - -"I am attending to you, William; you are my elder brother." - -"Thanks for your patience, Karl. No longer young, you married a very -young woman. Your affairs took you to Spain. There you met a needy -Spanish noble, to whom you rendered a weighty service. You were always -generous, and increasing wealth did not close your hand. This noble had -a daughter, a child of fifteen. In spite of your apparent coldness, you -were smitten by her beauty, and you asked her of her father. Only one -thing struck you--that she was poor and would be enriched by the -marriage. A refusal of your offer would have been ingratitude to a -benefactor. They gave you Annunciata, and you took her, brother, without -looking whether joy was in her eyes, without asking the child whether -she willingly followed you, without interrogating her heart. In that -country the heart is precocious in its awakening ... perhaps she left -behind her some youthful dream ... some early love.... Forgive me, Karl; -the subject is difficult to discuss." - -"Change it, William," said M. Van Amberg, coldly. - -"Be it so. You returned hither, and when your business again took you -forth upon the ocean, you left Annunciata to my care. She lived many -years with me in this house. Karl, her youth was joyless and sad. -Isolated and silent, she wore out her days without pleasure or variety. -Your two eldest daughters, now the life of our dwelling, were then in -the cradle. They were no society to their mother; I was a very grave -companion for that young and beautiful creature. I have little reading -and knowledge, no imagination; I like my quiet arm-chair, my old books, -and my pipe. I at first allowed myself to believe--because I loved to -believe it--that Annunciata resembled me--that tranquillity and a -comfortable dwelling would suffice for her happiness, as they sufficed -for mine. But at last I understood--what you, brother, I fear, have -never comprehended--that she was not born to be a Dutch housewife. In -the first place, the climate tortured her. She constantly asked me if -finer summers would not come,--if the winters were always so -rigorous,--the fogs so frequent. I told her no, that the year was a bad -one; but I told her a falsehood, for the winters were always the same. -At first she tried to sing her Sevillian romances and boleros, but soon -her song died away and she wept, for it reminded her too much of her own -native land. Silent and motionless she sat, desiring, as I have read in -the Bible,--'The wings of the dove to fly away and be at rest.' Brother, -it was a melancholy sight. You know not how slowly the winter evenings -passed in this parlour. It was dark at four, and she worked by -lamp-light till bed-time. I endeavoured to converse, but she knew -nothing of the things I knew, and I was ignorant of those that -interested her. I saw at last that the greatest kindness was to leave -her to herself. She worked or was idle, wept or was calm, and I averted -my eyes to give her the only consolation in my power,--a little liberty. -But it was very sad, brother!" - -There was a moment's silence, broken by M. Van Amberg. "Madame Van -Amberg was in her own dwelling," said he, severely, "with her children, -and under the protection of a devoted friend. Her husband toiled in -foreign parts to increase the fortune of the family; she remained at -home to keep house and educate her daughters; all that is very natural." -And he filled his pipe. - -"True," replied William; "but still she was unhappy. Was it a crime? God -will decide. Leave her to His justice, Karl, and let us be merciful! -During your long absence, chance conducted hither some Spaniards whom -Annunciata had known in her childhood, and amongst them the son of an -old friend of her father's. Oh! with what mingled joy and agitation did -the dear child welcome her countrymen! What tears she shed in the midst -of her joy ... for she had forgotten how to be happy, and every emotion -made her weep. How eagerly she heard and spoke her native tongue! She -fancied herself again in Spain; for a while she was almost happy. You -returned, brother, and you were cruel; one day, without explaining your -motives, you shut your door upon the strangers. Tell me, why would you -not allow fellow-countrymen, friends, a companion of her childhood, to -speak to your wife of her family and native land? Why require complete -isolation, and a total rupture with old friends? She obeyed without a -murmur, but she suffered more than you thought. I watched her closely; -I, her old friend. Since that fresh proof of your rigour, she is sadder -than before. A third time she became a mother; it was in vain; her -unhappiness continued. Brother, your hand has been too heavy on this -feeble creature." - -M. Van Amberg rose, and slowly paced the room. "Have you finished, -William?" said he; "this conversation is painful, let it end here; do -not abuse the license I give you." - -"No; I have yet more to say. You are a cold and severe husband, but that -is not all; you are also an unjust father. Christine, your third -daughter, is denied her share of your affection, and by this partiality -you further wound the heart of Annunciata. Christine resembles her; she -is what I can fancy her mother at fifteen--a lively and charming -Spaniard; she has all her mother's tastes; like her she lives with -difficulty in our climate, and although born in it, by a caprice of -nature she suffers from it as Annunciata suffered. Brother, the child is -not easy to manage; independent, impassioned, violent in all her -impressions, she has a love of movement and liberty which ill agrees -with our regular habits, but she has also a good heart, and by appealing -to it you might perhaps have tamed her wild spirit. For Christine you -are neither more nor less than a pitiless judge. Her childhood was one -long grief. And thus, far from losing her wild restlessness, she loves -more than ever to be abroad and at liberty; she goes out at daybreak; -she looks upon the house as a cage whose bars hurt her, and you vainly -endeavour to restrain her. Brother, if you would have obedience, show -affection. It is a power that succeeds when all others fail. Why prevent -her marrying the man she loves? Herbert the student is not rich, nor is -his alliance brilliant; but they love each other!" - -M. Van Amberg, who had continued his walk, now stopped short, and coldly -replied to his brother's accusations: "Christine is only fifteen, and I -do my duty by curbing the foolish passion that prematurely disturbs her -reason. As to what you call my partiality, you have explained it -yourself by the defects of her character. You, who reproach others as -pitiless judges, beware yourself of judging too severely. Every man acts -according to his internal perceptions, and all things are not good to be -spoken. Empty your glass, William, and if you have finished your pipe, -do not begin another. The business I had to discuss with you will keep -till another day; it is late, and I am tired. It is not always wise to -rake up the memories of the past. I wish to be alone a while. Leave me, -and tell Madame Van Amberg to come to me in a quarter of an hour." - -"Why not say, 'Tell Annunciata?' Why, for so long a time, has that -strange sweet name never passed your lips?" - -"Tell Madame Van Amberg I would speak with her, and leave me, brother," -replied Karl sternly. - -William felt he had pushed Karl Van Amberg's patience to its utmost -limit; he got up and left the room. At the foot of the stairs he -hesitated a moment, then ascended, and sought Annunciata in Christine's -chamber. It was a narrow cell, shining with cleanliness, and containing -a few flowers in glasses, a wooden crucifix, with chaplets of beads -hanging on it, and a snow-white bed; a guitar (it was her mother's) was -suspended on the wall. From the window was seen the meadow, the river, -and the willows. Christine sat on the foot of the bed, still weeping; -her mother was beside her, offering her bread and milk, with which -Christine's tears mingled. Annunciata kissed her daughter's eyes, and -then furtively wiped her own. On entering, William stood for a few -moments at the door, mournfully contemplating this touching picture. - -"My brother, my good brother," cried Annunciata, "speak to my child! She -has forgotten prayer and obedience; her heart is no longer submissive, -and her tears avail nothing, for she murmurs and menaces. Ask her, -brother, by whom it was told her that life is joy? that we live only to -be happy? Talk to her of duty, and give her strength to accomplish it!" - -"Your husband inquires for you, sister. Go, I will remain with -Christine." - -"I go, my brother," replied Annunciata. Approaching the little mirror -above the chimney-piece, she washed the tear-stains from her eyes, -pressed her hand upon her heart to check its throbbings, and when her -countenance had resumed its expression of calm composure, she descended -the stairs. Gothon was seated on the lower steps. - -"You spoil her, madame," said she roughly to her mistress; "foolish ears -need sharp words. You spoil her." - -Gothon had been in the house before Annunciata, and had been greatly -displeased by the arrival of her master's foreign lady, whose authority -she never acknowledged. But she had served the Van Ambergs' mother, and -therefore it was without fear of dismissal that she oppressed, after her -own fashion, her timid and gentle mistress. - -Annunciata entered the parlour and remained standing near the door as if -waiting an order. Her husband's countenance was graver and more gloomy -than ever. - -"Can no one hear us, madam? Are you sure we are alone?" - -"Quite alone, sir," replied the astonished Annunciata. - -M. Van Amberg recommenced his walk. For some moments he said nothing. -His wife, her hand resting on the back of an arm-chair, silently awaited -his pleasure. At last he again spoke. - -"You bring up your daughter Christine badly; I left her to your care and -guidance, and you do not watch over her. Do you know where she goes and -what she does?" - -"From her childhood, sir," replied Annunciata gently, pausing between -each phrase, "Christine has loved to live in the open air. She is -delicate, and requires sun and liberty to strengthen her. Till now you -have allowed her to live thus; I saw no harm in letting her follow her -natural bent. If you disapprove, sir, she will obey your orders." - -"You bring up your daughter badly," coldly repeated M. Van Amberg. "She -will dishonour the name she bears." - -"Sir!!" exclaimed Annunciata, her cheeks suffused with the deepest -crimson; her eyes emitting a momentary but vivid flash. - -"Look to it, madam, I will have my name respected, that you know! You -also know I am informed of whatever passes in my house. Your daughter -secretly meets a man to whom I refused her hand; this morning, at six -o'clock, they were together on the river bank!" - -"My daughter! my daughter!" cried Annunciata in disconsolate tones. "Oh! -it is impossible! She is innocent! she shall remain so! I will place -myself between her and evil, I will save my child! I will take her in my -arms, and close her ears to dangerous words. My daughter, I will say, -remain innocent, remain honoured, if you would not see me die!" - -With unmoved eye M. Van Amberg beheld the mother's emotion. Beneath his -frozen gaze, Annunciata felt embarrassed by her own agitation; she made -an effort to calm herself; then, with clasped hands, and eyes filled -with tears, which she would not allow to flow, she resumed, in a -constrained voice: - -"Is this beyond doubt, sir?" - -"It is," replied M. Van Amberg: "I never accuse without certainty." - -There was a moment's silence. M. Van Amberg again spoke. - -"You will lock Christine in her room, and bring me the key. She will -have time to reflect, and I trust reflection will be of service to her; -in a prolonged seclusion she will lose that love of motion and liberty -which leads her into harm; the silence of complete solitude will allay -the tumult of her thoughts. None shall enter her room, save Gothon, who -shall take her her meals, and return me the key. This is what I have -decided upon as proper." - -Madame Van Amberg's lips opened several times to speak, but her courage -failed her. At last she advanced a pace or two. - -"But I, sir, I," said she in a stifled voice, "_I_ am to see my child!" - -"I said no one," replied M. Van Amberg. - -"But she will despair, if none sustain her. I will be severe with her; -you may be assured I will! Let me see her, if only once a-day. She may -fall ill of grief, and who will know it? Gothon dislikes her. For pity's -sake, let me see Christine! For a minute only, a single minute." - -M. Van Amberg once more stood still, and fixed upon his wife a look that -made her stagger. "Not another word!" he said. "I allow no discussion, -madam. No one shall see Christine; do you hear?" - -"I will obey," replied Annunciata. - -"Convey my orders to your daughter. At dinner bring me the key of her -room. Go." - -Madame Van Amberg found Christine alone, seated on her bed, and -exhausted by long weeping. Her beautiful face, at times so energetic, -wore an expression of profound and touching dejection. Her long hair -fell in disorder on her shoulders, her figure was bent, as if weighed -down by grief: her rosary had fallen from her half-open hand; she had -tried to obey her mother and to pray, but had been able only to weep. -Her black mantle, still damp with rain, lay upon a table, a few willow -sprays peeping from its silken folds. Christine eyed them with mingled -love and melancholy. She thought it a century since she saw the sun -rise on the river, on the old trees, and on Herbert's skiff. Her mother -slowly approached her. - -"My child," said she, "where were you at daybreak this morning?" - -Christine raised her eyes to her mother's face, looked at her, but did -not answer. Annunciata repeated her question without change of word or -tone. Then Christine let herself slide from the bed to the ground, and -kneeled before her mother. - -"I was seated," she said, "upon the trunk of a willow that overhangs the -stream. I was near Herbert's boat." - -"Christine!" exclaimed Madame Van Amberg, "can it be true? Oh, my child, -could you so infringe the commands laid upon you! Could you thus forget -my lessons and advice! Christine, you thought not of me when you -committed that fault!" - -"Herbert said to me, 'Come, you shall be my wife, I will love you -eternally, you shall be free and happy; all is ready for our marriage -and our flight; come!' I replied, 'I will not leave my mother!' Mother, -you have been my safeguard; if it be a crime to follow Herbert, it is -the thought of you alone that prevented my committing it. I would not -leave my mother!" - -A beam of joy illumined Annunciata's countenance. Murmuring a -thanksgiving to God, she raised her kneeling child and seated her by her -side. - -"Speak to me, Christine," she said, "open your heart, and tell me all -your thoughts. Together we will regret your faults, and seek hope for -the future. Speak, my daughter; conceal nothing." - -Christine laid her head upon her mother's shoulder, put one of her -little hands in hers, sighed deeply, as though her heart were too -oppressed for words, and spoke at last with effort and fatigue. - -"Mother," she said, "I have nothing to confess that you do not already -know. I love Herbert. He is but a poor student, intrusted to my father's -care, but he has a noble heart--like mine, somewhat sad. He knows much, -and he is gentle to those who know nothing. Poor, he is proud as a king: -he loves, and he tells it only to her who knows it. My mother, I love -Herbert! He asked my hand of my father, whose reply was a smile of -scorn. Then he was kept from me, and I tried to exist without seeing -him. I could not do it. I made many _neuvaines_ on the rosary you gave -me. I had seen you weep and pray, mother, and I said to myself--Now that -I weep as she does, I must also pray like her. But it happened once, as -day broke, that I saw a small boat descend the stream, then go up again, -and again descend; from time to time a white sail fluttered in the air -as one flutters a kerchief to a departing friend. My thoughts, then as -now, were on Herbert; I ran across the meadow--I reached the -stream--Mother, it was he! hoping and waiting my coming. Long and -mournfully we bewailed our separation; fervently we vowed to love until -death. This morning Herbert, discouraged and weary of waiting a change -in our position, urged me to fly with him. I might have fled, mother, -but I thought of you and remained. I have told you all; if I have done -wrong, forgive me, dearest mother!" - -With deep emotion Madame Van Amberg listened to her daughter, and -remained buried in reflection, when Christine paused. She felt that the -young girl's suffering heart needed gentle lessons, affectionate advice; -and, instead of these, she was the bearer of a sentence whose severity -must aggravate the evil--she was compelled to deny her sick child the -remedies that might have saved her. - -"You love him very dearly, then," said she at last, fixing a long -melancholy look on her daughter's countenance. - -"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Christine, "I love him with all my soul! My life -is passed in expecting, seeing, remembering him! I could never make you -understand how entirely my heart is his. Often I dream of dying for him, -not to save his life, that were too easy and natural, but uselessly at -his command." - -"Hush! Christine, hush! you frighten me," cried Annunciata, placing both -hands upon her daughter's mouth. By a quick movement Christine -disengaged herself from her mother's arms. - -"Ah!" she exclaimed, "you know not what it is to love as I do! My father -could never let himself be loved thus!" - -"Be silent, my child! be silent!" repeated Annunciata energetically. -"Oh, my daughter! how to instil into your heart thoughts of peace and -duty! Almighty Father! bless my weak words, that they may touch her -soul! Christine, hear me!" - -Annunciata took her daughter's hands, and compelled her to stand before -her. "My child," she said, "you know nothing of life; you walk at -random, and are about to wander from the right path. All young hearts -have been troubled as yours is now. The noble ones have struggled and -triumphed; the others have fallen! Life is no easy and pleasant passage; -its trials are many and painful--its struggles severe; believe me, for -us women there is no true happiness beyond the bounds of duty. And when -happiness is not our destiny, many great things still remain to us. -Honour, the esteem of others, are not mere empty words. Hear me, beloved -child! That God whom from your infancy I have taught you to love, do you -not fear offending him? Seek Him, and you will find better consolation -than I can offer. Christine, we love in God those from whom we are -severed on earth. He, who in his infinite wisdom imposed so many -fetters on the heart of woman, foresaw the sacrifices they would entail, -and surely he has kept treasures of love for hearts that break in -obedience to duty." - -Annunciata rapidly wiped the tears inundating her fine countenance; then -clasping Christine's arm-- - -"On your knees, my child! on our knees both of us before the Christ I -gave you! 'Tis nearly dark, and yet we still discern Him--his arms -seeming to open for us. Bless and save and console my child, oh merciful -God! Appease her heart; make it humble and obedient!" - -Her prayer at an end, she rose, and throwing her arms round Christine, -who had passively allowed herself to be placed on her knees and lifted -up again, she embraced her tenderly, pressed her to her heart, and -bathed her hair with tears. "My daughter," she murmured between her -kisses, "my daughter, speak to me! Utter one word that I may take with -me as a hope! My child, will you not speak to your mother?" - -"Mother, I love Herbert!" was Christine's reply. - -Annunciata looked despairingly at her child, at the crucifix upon the -wall, at the darkening sky seen through the open window. The dinner-bell -rang. Madame Van Amberg made a strong effort to collect and express her -ideas. - -"M. Van Amberg," said she in broken voice, "orders you to remain in your -room. I am to take him the key. You are to see no one. The hour is come, -and he expects me." - -"A prisoner!" cried Christine; "A prisoner,--alone, all day! Death -rather than that!" - -"He will have it so," repeated Annunciata mournfully; "I must obey. He -will have it so." And she approached the door, casting upon Christine a -look of such ineffable love and grief, that the young girl, fascinated -by the gaze, let her depart without opposition. The key turned in the -lock, and Annunciata, supporting herself by the banister, slowly -descended. She found M. Van Amberg alone in the parlour. - -"You have been a long time up stairs," said he. "Have you convinced -yourself that your daughter saw the student Herbert this morning?" - -"She did," murmured Annunciata. - -"You have told her my orders?" - -"I have done so." - -"Where is the key?" She gave it him. - -"Now to dinner," said M. Van Amberg, walking into the dining-room. -Annunciata endeavoured to follow him, but her strength failed her, and -she sank upon a chair. - -M. Van Amberg sat down alone to his dinner. - - * * * * * - -"A prisoner!" repeated Christine in her solitude; "apart from all! shut -up! Yon meadow was too wide a range; the house too spacious a prison. I -must have a narrower cell, with more visible walls--a straiter -captivity! They deprive me of the little air I breathed--the scanty -liberty I found means to enjoy!" - -She opened the window to its full extent; leaned upon the sill, and -looked at the sky. It was very dark; heavy clouds hid the stars; no -light fell upon the earth; different shades of obscurity alone marked -the outlines of objects. The willows, so beautiful when Herbert and the -sun were there, were now a black and motionless mass; dead silence -reigned around. In view of nature thus lifeless and lightless, hopes of -happiness could hardly enter the heart. Christine was in a fever: she -felt oppressed and crushed by unkindly influences, by the indifference -of friends, by a tyrant's will, even by the cold and mournful night. The -young girl's heart beat quickly and rebelliously. - -"Be it so!" she exclaimed aloud; "let them have their way! They may -render me unhappy; I will not complain. They sanctify my love by -persecution. Happy, I should perhaps have been ashamed to love so much. -But they rob me of air and liberty; I suffer; I weep. Ah! I feel proud -that my heart still throbs with joy in the midst of so many evils. My -sufferings will hallow my love, will compel the respect of those who -scoffed and slighted it. Herbert! dear Herbert! where are you at this -moment? Do you joyfully anticipate to-morrow's dawn: are you busy with -your boat, preparing it for its early cruise? Or do you sleep, dreaming -of the old willows in the meadow, hearing the waters murmur through -their branches, and the voice of Christine promising her return? But no; -it cannot be; our hearts are too united for their feelings thus to -differ! You are sad, my love, and you know not why; I am sad with -knowledge of our misfortune--'tis the sole difference separation can -establish between us. When shall we meet again, Herbert? Alas! I know -not, but meet we surely shall. If God lets me live, he will let me love -you." - -Christine shut the window and threw herself on her bed without -undressing. It was cold; she wrapped herself in her mantle, and -gradually her head sank upon her breast. Her hands, at first pressed -against each other, opened and fell by her sides. She dropped asleep, -like an infant, in the midst of her tears. - -The first sun-rays, feeble though they were, awoke Christine, who sprang -hastily from her couch. "Herbert waits for me!" she exclaimed. At her -age memory is better for joy than for sorrow. For her the dawn of day -was still a rendezvous of love. The next moment she awoke to the -consciousness of her captivity. She went to the window, leaned out as on -the previous evening, and looked mournfully around. In a corner of the -heavens was a glow of light, intercepted by billows of cloud. The pale -foliage of the willows shivered in the breeze, which ruffled the leaves -without bending the branches; the long fine grass of the meadow was seen -through a veil of fog, as yet undispelled by the sun. The sounds of -awakening nature had scarce begun, when a white sail stood out upon the -surface of the stream, gliding lightly along like the open wing of a -graceful bird. It passed to and fro in front of the meadow; was lowered -before the trees, and then again displayed, bending the boat's gunwale -to the water's surface, hovering continually around a point of the bank, -as though confined within the circle of an invisible fascination. At -long intervals the wind brought a faint and scarce perceptible sound, -like the last notes of a song; then the little bark again manoeuvred, -and its sail flapped in the air. The pale tints of dawn gave way to the -warmer sunbeams; passengers appeared upon the bank; trading boats -ascended the river; the windows of the red brick house opened as if to -inhale the morning air. The boat lowered its sail, and floated slowly -away at the will of the current. Christine looked after it and wept. - -Twice during that day, Gothon opened the door of the young girl's -chamber, and brought her a frugal meal. Twice did Gothon depart without -uttering a word. The whole day passed in silence and solitude. Christine -knew not how to get rid of the weary hours. She knelt before the -crucifix, her alabaster rosary in her hand, her head raised towards the -cross, and prayed. But her prayer was for Herbert, to see him again; she -never dreamed of praying to forget him. Then she took down the guitar, -passed round her neck the faded blue ribbon, tied on it at Seville, and -which her mother would never allow to be changed. She struck a few -chords of the songs she best loved; but her voice was choked, and her -tears flowed more abundantly when she tried to sing. She collected the -little sprays of willow, and placed them in a book to dry and preserve -them. But the day was very long; and the poor child fluttered in her -prison like a caged bird, with an anguish that each moment increased. -Her head burned, her bosom throbbed. At last night came. Seated near the -open window, the cold calmed her a little. They brought her no light, -and time passed more slowly than ever. She went to bed, but, deprived of -her accustomed exercise, tormented by a thousand anxieties, she could -not sleep; she got up, walked about in the darkness, and again lay down; -slumber still avoided her. This time her eyes, red with tears and -watchfulness, beheld the sun rise without illusion; she did not for a -moment forget her captivity, but looked mournfully out at the little -sail which, faithful to its rendezvous, came each morning with the sun. -Again, none but Gothon disturbed her solitude. During another long day, -Christine, alternately desponding and excited, walked, wept, lamented, -and prayed. Night came again. Nothing broke the silence; the lights in -the red house were extinguished one after the other. Profound darkness -covered the earth. Christine remained at her window, insensible to cold. -Suddenly she started: she heard her name pronounced in low tones at the -foot of the wall. She listened. - -"Christine, my daughter!" repeated the voice. - -"Mother," exclaimed Christine, "you out in this dreadful weather! I -conjure you to go in!" - -"I have been two days in bed, my child; I have been unwell; to-night I -am better; I felt it impossible to remain longer without seeing you, who -are my life, my strength, my health! Oh! you were right not to leave me; -it would have killed me. Are you well, dear Christine? Have you all you -require? How do you live, deprived of my caresses?" - -"Dearest mother, for heaven's sake, go in! The night is damp and cold; -it will be your death!" - -"Your voice warms me; it is far from you that I feel chill and faint. -Dearest child, my heart sends you a thousand kisses." - -"I receive them on my knees, mother, my arms extended towards you. But, -when shall I see you again?" - -"When you submit, and promise to obey; when you no longer seek him you -are forbidden to see, and whom you must forget. My daughter, it is your -duty." - -"Oh mother, I thought your heart could better understand what it never -felt. I thought you respected the true sentiments of the soul, and that -your lips knew not how to utter the word 'forget.' If I forgot, I should -be a mere silly child, capricious, unruly, unworthy your tenderness. If -my malady is without remedy, I am a steadfast woman, suffering and -self-sacrificing. Good God! how is it you do not understand that?" - -"I understand," murmured Annunciata, but in so low a tone that she was -sure her daughter could not hear her. - -"Mother," resumed Christine, "go to my father! summon up that courage -which fails you when you alone are concerned; speak boldly to him, tell -him what I have told you; demand my liberty, my happiness." - -"I!" exclaimed Annunciata in terror; "I brave M. Van Amberg, and oppose -his will!" - -"Not oppose, but supplicate! compel his heart to understand what mine -experiences; force him to see and hear and feel that my life may cease, -but not my love. Who can do it, if you cannot? I am a captive. My -sisters know not love, my uncle William has never known it. It needs a -woman's voice to express a woman's feelings." - -"Christine, you know not what you ask. The effort is above my strength." - -"I ask a proof of my mother's love; I am sure she will give it me." - -"I shall die in so doing. M. Van Amberg can kill me by a word." - -Christine started and trembled. "Do not go, then, dearest mother. -Forgive my egotism; I thought only of myself. If my father has such -terrible power, avoid his anger. I will wait, and entreat none but God." - -There was a brief pause. "Christine," said Madame Van Amberg, "since I -am your only hope, your sole reliance, and you have called me to your -aid, I will speak to him. Our fate is in the hands of heaven." - -Annunciata interrupted herself by a cry of terror; a hand rudely grasped -her arm; M. Van Amberg, without uttering a word, dragged her to the -house door, compelled her to enter, took out the key, and made her pass -before him into the parlour. A lamp burned dimly upon the table, its oil -nearly exhausted; at times it emitted a bright flash, and then suddenly -became nearly extinguished. The corners of the room were in darkness, -the doors and windows closed, perfect silence reigned; the only object -on which a strong light fell, was the countenance of M. Van Amberg. It -was calm, cold, motionless. His great height, the piercing look of his -pale grey eyes, the austere regularity of his features, combined to give -him the aspect of an implacable judge. - -"You would speak with me, madam," said he to Annunciata; "I am here, -speak!" - -On entering the parlour, Annunciata let herself fall into a chair. Her -clothes streamed with water; her hair, heavy with rain, fell upon her -shoulders; her extreme paleness gave her the appearance of a corpse -rather than of a living creature. Terror obliterated memory, even of -what had just occurred; her mind was confused; she felt only that she -suffered horribly. Her husband's voice and words restored the chain of -her ideas; the poor woman thought of her child, made a violent effort, -rallied her strength, and rose to her feet. - -"Now then," she murmured, "since it must be so!" - -M. Van Amberg waited in silence, his arms crossed upon his breast, his -eyes fixed upon his wife; he stood like a statue, assisting neither by -word nor gesture the poor creature who trembled before him. Annunciata -looked long at him before speaking; she hoped that at sight of her -tears and sufferings, M. Van Amberg would remember he had loved her. She -threw her whole soul into her eyes, but not a muscle of her husband's -countenance moved. He waited for her to break silence. - -"I need your indulgence," she at last said; "it costs me a fearful -effort to address you. In general I do but answer; I am unaccustomed to -speak first, and I am afraid. I dread your anger; have compassion on a -trembling woman, who would fain be silent, and who must speak. -Christine's happiness is in your hands. The poor child implores me to -soften your rigour.... Did I refuse, not a creature upon earth would -intercede for her. This is why I venture to petition you, sir." - -M. Van Amberg continued silent. Annunciata wiped the tears from her -cheeks and resumed with more courage. - -"She is much to be pitied; she has inherited the faults you blame in me. -Believe me, sir, I have laboured hard to check them in the bud. I have -striven, exhorted, punished, have spared neither advice nor prayers, but -all in vain. God has not been pleased to spare me this new grief. Her -nature is unchangeable; she is to blame, but she is also much to be -pitied. Christine loves with all her soul. Women die of such love as -hers, and when they do not die, they suffer frightfully. For pity's -sake, sir, let her marry him she loves!" - -Annunciata covered her face with her hands, and awaited in an agony of -anxiety her husband's reply. - -"Your daughter," said M. Van Amberg, "is still a child; she has -inherited, as you say, a character that needs restraint. I will not -yield to the first caprice that traverses her silly head. Herbert is -only two-and-twenty; we know nothing of his character. Your daughter -requires a protector, and a judicious guide. Herbert has neither family, -fortune, nor position. He shall never be the husband of a woman who -bears the name of Mademoiselle Van Amberg!" - -"Sir!" cried Annunciata, clasping her hands and breathless with emotion, -"Sir! the best guidance for a woman's life is a union with the man she -loves! It is her best safeguard, it strengthens her against the cares of -the world. I entreat you, Karl!" exclaimed Madame Van Amberg, falling -upon her knees, "have compassion on my daughter! Do not render duty a -torture; do not exact from her too much courage! We are weak creatures: -we have need both of love and virtue. Place her not in the terrible -necessity of choosing between them. Pity, Karl, pity!" - -"Madam," cried M. Van Amberg, and this time his frame was agitated by a -slight nervous trembling, "Madam, you are very bold to speak to me thus! -You! you! to dare to hold such language to me! Silence! and teach your -daughter not to hesitate in her choice between good and evil. Do that, -instead of weeping uselessly at my feet." - -"Yes, it is bold of me, sir, thus to address you; but I have found -courage in suffering. I am ill,--in pain,--my life is worthless, save as -a sacrifice--let my child take it, I will speak for her! Her fate is in -your hands, do not crush her by a cruel decision! An absolute judge and -master should be guarded in word and deed, for a reckoning will be asked -of him! Be merciful to my child!" - -M. Van Amberg approached his wife, took her arm, placed his other hand -on her mouth, and said:-- - -"Silence! I command you; no such scenes in my house, no noise and -whimpering. Your daughters sleep within a few yards of you, do not -disturb their repose. Your servants are above, do not awaken them. -Silence! you had no business to speak; I was wrong to listen to you. -Never dare again to discuss my orders; it is I whom your children must -obey, I whom you must obey yourself. Retire to your apartment, and -to-morrow let me find you what you yesterday were." - -M. Van Amberg had regained his usual calmness. He walked slowly from the -room. - -"Oh, my daughter!" exclaimed Annunciata, despairingly, "nothing can I do -for you! Merciful Father! what will become of me, placed between him and -her, both inflexible in their resolves!" - -The lamp which feebly illuminated this scene of sorrow, now suddenly -went out and left the unhappy mother in profound darkness. The rain beat -against the windows,--the wind howled,--the house clock struck four. - -Christine had seen M. Van Amberg seize Annunciata's arm, and lead her -away with him; afterwards, she had distinguished, through the slight -partitions of the house, a faint echo as of mingled sobs, entreaties, -and reproaches. She understood that her fate was deciding,--that her -poor mother had devoted herself for her, and was face to face with the -stern ruler whose look alone she usually dared not brave. Christine -passed the night in terrible anxiety, abandoning herself alternately to -discouragement and to joyful hopes. At her age it is not easy to -despair. Fear, however, predominated over every other emotion, and she -would have given years of existence to learn what had passed. But the -day went by like the previous one. She saw none but Gothon. Her she -ventured to question, but the old servant had orders not to answer. - -Another day elapsed. Christine's solitude was still unbroken, no -friendly voice reached her ear, no kindly hand lifted the veil shrouding -her future. The poor girl was exhausted, she had not even the energy of -grief. She wept without complaint, almost without a murmur. Night came, -and she fell asleep, exhausted by her sorrow. She had scarcely slept an -hour when she was awakened by the opening of the door, and Gothon, lamp -in hand, approached her bed. "Get up Mademoiselle," said the servant, -"and follow me." - -Christine dressed herself as in a dream, and hastily followed Gothon, -who conducted her to her mother's room, opened the door, and drew back -to let her pass. A sad spectacle met the young girl's eyes. Annunciata, -pale and almost inanimate, lay in the agonies of death. Her presentiment -had not deceived her; suffering and agitation had snapped the slender -strings that bound her to the earth. The light of the lamp fell full -upon her features, whose gentle beauty pain was impotent to deface. -Resignation and courage were upon her countenance, over which came a -gleam of joy when Christine appeared. Wilhelmina and Maria knelt and -wept at the foot of their mother's bed. William stood a little apart, -holding a prayer-book, but his eyes had left the page to look at -Annunciata, and two large tears trembled on their lids. M. Van Amberg, -seated beside his wife's pillow, had his face shaded by his hand, so -that none could see its expression. - -With a piercing cry, Christine rushed to Madame Van Amberg, who received -her in her arms. "Mother!" she cried, her cheek against Annunciata's, -"it is I who have killed you! For love of me you have exceeded your -strength." - -"No, my beloved, no," replied Annunciata, kissing her daughter between -each word, "I die of an old and incurable malady. But I die happy, since -I once more clasp you in my arms." - -"And they did not let me nurse you!" cried Christine, indignantly -raising her head; "they concealed your illness! They let me weep for -other sorrows than yours, my mother!" - -"Dearest child," replied Annunciata gently, "this crisis has been very -sudden; two hours ago they knew not my danger, and I wished to fulfil my -religious duties before seeing you. I wished to think only of God. Now I -can abandon myself to the embraces of my children." And she clasped her -weeping daughters to her heart. "Dear children," said she, "God is full -of mercy to the dying, and sanctifies a mother's benediction. I bless -you, my daughters; remember and pray for me." - -The three young girls bowed their heads upon their mother's hand, and -replied by tears alone to this solemn farewell. - -"My good brother," resumed Annunciata to William, "my good brother, we -have long lived together, and to me you have ever been a devoted friend, -indulgent and gentle. I thank you, brother!" - -William averted his head to conceal his tears, but a deep sob escaped -him, and he turned his venerable face towards Annunciata. - -"Do not thank me, sister," he said, "I have done little for you. I loved -you, that is certain, but I could not enliven your solitude. My sister, -you will still live for the happiness of us all." - -Annunciata gently shook her head. Her glance sought her husband, as if -she would fain have addressed her last words to him. But they expired on -her lips. She looked at him timidly, sadly, and then closed her eyes, to -check the starting tears. She grew visibly weaker, and as death -approached, a painful anxiety took possession of her. Resigned, she was -not calm. It was ordained her soul should suffer and be troubled to the -end. The destiny of one of her daughters disturbed her last moments; she -dared not pronounce the name of Christine, she dared not ask compassion -for her; a thousand conflicting doubts and fears agitated her poor -heart. She died as she had lived, repressing her tears, concealing her -thoughts. From time to time she turned to her husband, but his head -continued sunk upon his hand; not one look of encouragement could she -obtain. At last came the spasm that was to break this frail existence. -"Adieu! Adieu!" she murmured in unintelligible accents. Her eyes no -longer obeyed her, and none could tell whom they sought. William -approached his brother, and placed his hand upon his shoulder. "Karl!" -he whispered in tones audible but to him he addressed, "she is dying! -Have you nothing to say to a poor creature who has so long lived with -you and suffered by you? Living, you loved her not; do not let her die -thus! Fear you not, Karl, lest this woman, oppressed and slighted by -you, should expire with a leaven of resentment in her heart? Crave her -pardon before she departs." - -For an instant all was silent. M. Van Amberg stirred not. Annunciata, -her head thrown back, seemed to have already ceased to exist. On a -sudden, she moved, raised herself with difficulty, leaned over towards -M. Van Amberg, and groped for his hand as though she had been blind. -When she found it, she bowed her face upon it, kissed it twice, and -expired in that last kiss. - -"On your knees!" cried William, "on your knees, she is in heaven! let us -implore her intercession!" And all knelt down. - -Of all the prayers addressed to God by man during his life of trial, not -one is more solemn than that which escapes the desolate heart, when a -beloved soul flies from earth to heaven, to stand, for the first time, -in the presence of its Creator. - -M. Van Amberg rose from his knees. - -"Leave the room!" said he to his brother and daughters, "I would be -alone with my wife." - -Alone, beside the bed of his dead wife, Karl Van Amberg gazed upon the -pale countenance, to which death had restored all the beauty of youth. A -tear, left there by human suffering, a tear which none other was to -follow, glittered upon the clay-cold cheek; one arm still hung out of -bed, as when it held his hand; the head was in the position in which it -had kissed his fingers. He gazed at her, and the icy envelope that bound -his heart was at last broken. "Annunciata!" he exclaimed, "Annunciata!" - -For fifteen years that name had not passed his lips. Throwing himself on -his wife's corpse, he clasped her in his arms and kissed her forehead. - -"Annunciata!" he cried, "can you not feel this kiss of peace and love! -Annunciata, we have both suffered terribly! God did not grant us -happiness. I loved you from the first day that I saw you, a joyous child -in Spain, till this sad moment that I press you dead upon my heart. Oh -Annunciata, how great have been our sufferings!" - -Karl Van Amberg wept. - -"Repose in peace, poor woman!" he murmured; "may you find in heaven the -repose denied you upon earth!" And with trembling hand he closed -Annunciata's eyes. Then he knelt down beside her. - -"Almighty God!" he said, "I have been severe. Be thou merciful!" - - * * * * * - -When, at break of day, M. Van Amberg left the chamber of death, his face -had resumed its habitual expression; his inflexible soul, for a moment -bowed, had regained its usual level. To Annunciata had been given the -last word of love, the last tear of that heart of adamant. To the eyes -of all he reappeared as the stern master and father, the man on whose -brow no sorrow left a trace. His daughters bowed themselves upon his -passage, William spoke not to him, order and regularity returned to the -house. Annunciata was buried without pomp or procession. She left, to -revisit it no more, the melancholy abode where her suffering soul had -worn out its mortal envelope; she ceased to live, as a sound ceases to -be heard, as a cloud passes, as a flower fades; nothing stopped or -altered because she went. If any mourned her, they mourned in silence; -if they thought of her, they proclaimed not their thoughts; her name was -no more heard; only the interior of the little red house was rather more -silent, and M. Van Amberg's countenance appeared to all more rigid than -before. During the day, Christine's profound grief obeyed the iron will -that weighed on each member of the family. The poor child was silent, -worked, sat at table, lived on as if her heart had not been crushed; but -at night, alone in the little room where her mother had so often wept -with her, she gave free course to grief; she invoked her mother, spoke -to her, extended her arms to her, and would fain have left the earth to -be with her in heaven. "Take me to you, dear mother!" she would exclaim. -"Deprived of you, apart from him, I cannot live! Since I saw you die, I -no longer fear death." - -Since the death of Annunciata, Christine was allowed her liberty, M. Van -Amberg doubtless thinking, and with reason, that she would make no use -of it during her first grief. Or, perhaps, with his wife's corpse -scarcely cold, he hesitated to recur to the severity that had caused her -so many tears. Whatever his motive, Christine was free, at least to all -appearance. The three sisters, in deep mourning, never passed the -threshold; they sat all day at work near the low window of the parlour, -supped with their uncle and father, then retired to bed. During the long -hours of their silent work, Christine often thought of her lover. She -dared not attempt to see him; she would have expected to hear her -mother's voice murmur in her ear,--"My daughter, it is too soon to be -happy! Mourn me yet a little, alone and without consolation." - -One morning, after a night of tears, Christine fell into a tardy -slumber, broken by dreams. Now it was her mother, who took her in her -arms, and flew with her towards heaven. "I will not let you live," said -Annunciata, "for life is sorrow. I have prayed of God to let you die -young, that you may not weep as I have wept!" - -The next instant she beheld herself clothed in white and crowned with -flowers. Herbert was there, love sparkling in his eyes. "Come, my -betrothed!" he said, "life is joy! My love shall guard you from all -evil; come, we will be happy!" - -She started up, awakened by a sudden noise in her chamber. The window -was open, and on the floor lay a pebble with a letter attached. Her -first impulse was to fly to the window; a bush stirred in the direction -of the river, but she saw no one. She snatched up the letter, she -guessed it was Herbert's writing. It seems as if one never saw for the -first time the writing of him one loves; the heart recognises as if the -eyes had already seen it. Christine was alone, a beam of the rising sun -tinted the summits of the willows, and hope and love revived in the -young girl's heart, as she read what follows: - -"Christine, I can write but a few lines; a long letter, difficult to -conceal, might never reach you. Hear me with your heart, and guess what -I am unable to write. As you know, dearest, my family intrusted me to -your father, and gave him all authority over me. He can employ me at his -will, and according to the convenience of his commercial establishments. -Christine, I have just received orders to embark in one of his ships, -sailing for Batavia." - -A cry escaped Christine's lips, and her eyes, suffused with tears, -devoured the subsequent lines. - -"Your father places the immensity of ocean between us; he separates us -for ever. We are to meet no more! Christine, has your heart, since I -last saw you, learned to comprehend those words? No, my adored -Christine, we must live or die together! Your poor mother is no more; -your presence is no longer essential to the happiness of any one. Your -family is pitiless and without affection for you. Your future is gloom -and unhappiness. Come, then, let us fly together. In the Helder are -numerous ships; they will bear us far from the scene of our sufferings. -All is foreseen and arranged. Christine, my life depends on your -decision. For ever separated! ... subscribe to that barbarous decree, -and I terminate an existence which henceforward would be all bitterness! -And you, Christine! will you love another, or live without love? Oh! -come! I have suffered so much without you! I summon you, I await you, -Christine! my bride! At midnight--on the riverbank--I will be there! and -a world of happiness is before us. Come, dear Christine, come!" - -As Christine read, her tears fell fast on Herbert's letter. She -experienced a moment of agonising indecision. She loved passionately, -but she was young and innocent, and love had not yet imparted to her -pure soul the audacity that braves all things. The wise counsels heard -in her father's house, uncle William's pious exhortations, the holy -prayers she had learned from her infancy upwards, resounded in her -ears; the Christ upon her wooden crucifix seemed to look at her; the -beads of her rosary were still warm with the pressure of her fingers. - -"Oh! my dream! my dream!" she exclaimed; "Herbert who calls his bride! -my mother claiming her daughter! With him, life and love! With her, -death and heaven!..." And Christine sobbed aloud. For an instant she -tried calmly to contemplate an existence in that melancholy house, -weeping for Herbert, growing old without him, without love, within those -gloomy walls, where no heart sympathised with hers. The picture was too -terrible; she felt that such a future was unendurable. She wept -bitterly, kissed her rosary, her prayer-book, as if bidding adieu to all -that had witnessed the innocence of her early years. Then her heart beat -violently. The fire of her glance dried her tears. She looked out at the -river, at the white sail which seemed to remind her of her vows of love; -she gave one last sob, as if breaking irrevocably the links between her -past and future. The image of her mother was no longer before her. -Christine, abandoned to herself, followed the impulse of her passionate -nature; she wept, trembled, hesitated, and at last exclaimed,-- - -"At midnight, I will be there!" - -Then she wiped her tears, and remained quite still for a few moments, to -calm her violent agitation. A vast future unrolled itself before her; -liberty would be hers; a new world was revealed to her eyes; a new life -began for her. - -At last night came. A lamp replaced the fading daylight. The window was -deserted for the table. William and Karl Van Amberg came in. The former -took a book; his brother busied himself with commercial calculations. -The lamp gave a dull light; all was silent, sad, and monotonous in the -apartment. The clock slowly told the successive hours. When its hammer -struck ten, there was a movement round the table; books were shut, work -was folded. Karl Van Amberg rose; his two eldest daughters approached -him, and he kissed their foreheads in silence. Christine no longer a -captive, but still in disgrace, bowed herself before her father. Uncle -William, grown drowsy over his book, put up his spectacles, muttering a -"good-night." The family left the parlour, and the three sisters -ascended the wooden staircase. At her chamber door, Christine felt a -tightness at her heart. She turned and looked after her sisters. -"Good-night, Wilhelmina! good-night, Maria!" - -The sisters turned their heads. By the faint light of their tapers -Christine saw them smile and kiss their hands to her. Then they entered -their rooms without speaking. Christine found herself alone. She opened -her window; the night was calm; at intervals clouds flitted across the -moon, veiling its brightness. Christine made no preparations for -departure; she only took her mother's rosary, and the blue ribbon so -long attached to the guitar; then she wrapped herself in her black -mantle and sat down by the window. Her heart beat quick, but no distinct -thought agitated her mind. She trembled without terror; her eyes were -tearful, but she felt no regret. For her, the hour was rather solemn -than sad; the struggle was over, and she was irrevocably decided. - -At last midnight came; each stroke of the clock thrilled Christine's -heart; for an instant she stood still, summoning strength and courage; -then, turning towards the interior of the room,-- - -"Adieu, my mother!" she whispered. Many living creatures dwelt under -that roof. It seemed to Christine as if she left her only who was no -longer there. "Adieu, my mother!" she repeated. - -Then she stepped out of the window; a trellis, twined with creepers, -covered the wall. With light foot and steady hand, Christine descended, -aiding herself by the branches, and pausing when they cracked under her -tread or grasp. The stillness was so complete that the slightest sound -assumed importance. Christine's heart beat violently; at last she -reached the ground, raised her head, and looked at the house. Her -father's window was still lighted. Again she shuddered with -apprehension; then, feeling more courage for a minute's daring than for -half an hour's precautions, she darted across the meadow and arrived -breathless at the clump of willows. Before plunging into it, she again -looked round. All was quiet and deserted; she breathed more freely and -disappeared amongst the branches. Leaning upon the old tree, the witness -of her former rendezvous, she whispered, so softly that none but a lover -could hear, "Herbert, are you there?" - -A cautious oar skimmed the water; a well-known voice replied. The boat -approached the willow; the young student stood up and held out his arms -to Christine, who leaped lightly into the skiff. In an instant, they -were out of the willow-shaded inlet; in another, the sail--the signal of -their loves--was hoisted to the breeze; the bark sped swiftly over the -water, and Herbert, scarce daring to believe his happiness, was seated -at Christine's feet. His hand sought hers; he heard her weep, and he -wept for sympathy. Both were silent, agitated, uneasy, and happy. - -But the night was fine, the moon shed its softest light, the ripple of -the stream had a harmony of its own, the light breeze cooled their -cheeks, the sail bent over them like the wing of an invisible being; -they were young, they loved, it was impossible that joy should not -revive in their hearts. - -"Thanks, Christine, thanks!" exclaimed Herbert, "thanks a thousand -times for so much devotedness, for such confidence and love! Oh how -beautiful will life now appear! We are united for ever!" - -"For ever!" repeated Christine, her tears flowing afresh. For the first -time she felt that great happiness, like great grief, expresses itself -by tears. Her hand in Herbert's, her eyes raised to heaven, she gazed -upon bright stars and fleecy clouds, sole and silent witnesses of her -happiness. Presently she was roused from this sweet reverie. - -"See there, Herbert!" she exclaimed; "the sail droops along the mast, -the wind has fallen, we do not advance." - -Herbert took the oars, and the boat cut rapidly through the water. -Wrapped in her mantle, Christine sat opposite, and smiled upon him. -Onwards flew the boat, a track of foam in its wake. Daylight was still -distant; all things favoured the fugitives. Again Christine broke -silence. - -"Herbert, dear Herbert, do you hear nothing?" - -Herbert ceased to row, and listened. "I hear nothing," he said, "save -the plash of the river against its banks." He resumed the oars; again -the boat moved rapidly forward. Christine was pale; half risen from her -seat, her head turned back, she strove to see, but the darkness was too -great. - -"Be tranquil, best beloved," said Herbert with a smile. "Fear creates -sounds. All is still." - -"Herbert," cried Christine, this time starting up in the boat, "I am not -mistaken! I hear oars behind us ... pause not to listen ... row, for -Heaven's love, row!" - -Her terror was so great, she seemed so sure of what she said, that -Herbert obeyed in silence, and a sensation of alarm chilled his heart. -Christine seated herself at his feet. - -"We are pursued!" she said; "the noise of your own oars alone prevented -your hearing. A boat follows us." - -"If it be so," Herbert cried, "what matter! That boat does not bear -Christine--is not guided by a man who defends his life, his happiness, -his love. My arm will weary his, his bark will not overtake mine." And -Herbert redoubled his efforts. The veins of his arms swelled to -bursting; his forehead was covered with sweat-drops. The skiff clove the -waters as though impelled by wings. Christine remained crouched at the -young man's feet, pressing herself against him, as to seek refuge. - -Other oars, wielded by stalwart arms, now struck the water not far from -Herbert's boat. The young student heard the sound; he bent over his oars -and made desperate efforts. But he felt his strength failing; as he -rowed he looked with agony at Christine; no one spoke, only the noise of -the two boats interrupted the silence. Around, all was calm and serene -as when the fugitives set out. But the soul of the young girl had -passed from life to death; her eyes, gleaming with a wild fire, followed -with increasing terror each movement of Herbert's; she saw by the -suffering expression of his countenance, that little hope of escape -remained. Still he rowed with the energy of despair; but the fatal bark -drew nearer, its shadow was seen upon the water, it followed hard in the -foamy track of Herbert's boat. Christine stood up and looked back; just -then the moon shone out, casting its light full upon the pale, -passionless features of M. Van Amberg. Christine uttered a piercing cry. - -"My father!" she cried; "Herbert, 'tis my father!" - -Herbert also had recognised his pursuer. The youth had lived too long in -Karl Van Amberg's house not to have experienced the strange kind of -fascination which that man exercised over all around him. Darkness had -passed away to reveal to the fugitives the father, master, and judge! - -"Stop, Herbert!" cried Christine, "we are lost, escape is impossible! Do -you not see my father?" - -"Let me row!" replied Herbert, disengaging himself from Christine, who -had seized his arm. He gave so violent a pull with the oars, that the -skiff bounded out of the water and seemed to gain a little on its -pursuer. - -"Herbert," cried Christine, "I tell you we are lost! 'Tis my father, and -resistance is useless! God will not work a miracle in our favour! -Herbert, I will not return to my father's house! Let us die together, -dear Herbert!" - -And Christine threw herself into her lover's arms. The oars fell from -the young man's hands; with a cry of anguish he pressed Christine -convulsively to his heart. For a single instant he thought of obeying -her, and of plunging with her into the dark tide beneath; but Herbert -had a noble heart, and he repelled the temptation of despair. The next -moment a violent shock made the boat quiver, and M. Van Amberg stepped -into it. Instinctively Herbert clasped Christine more tightly, and -retreated, as if his strength could withhold her from her father--as if, -in that little boat, he could retreat far enough not to be overtaken. -With a vigorous arm, M. Van Amberg seized Christine, whose slender form -bent like a reed over his shoulder. - -"Have mercy on her!" cried the despairing Herbert; "I alone am guilty! -Punish her not, and I promise to depart, to renounce her! Pity, sir! -pity for Christine!" - -He spoke to a deaf and silent statue. Wresting Christine's hand from the -student's grasp, M. Van Amberg stepped back into his boat, and pushed -Herbert's violently with his foot. Yielding to the impulse, the boats -separated; one was pulled swiftly up the river, whilst the other, -abandoned to itself, was swept by the current in a contrary direction. -Erect on the prow of his bark, his head thrown back, his arms folded on -his breast, M. Van Amberg fixed a terrible look upon Herbert and then -disappeared in the darkness. All was over. The father had taken his -daughter, and no human power could henceforward tear her from his arms. - -Within a week from that fatal night, the gates of a convent closed upon -Christine Van Amberg. - - * * * * * - -On the frontier of Belgium, on the summit of a hill, stands a large -white building of irregular architecture, a confused mass of walls, -roofs, angles, and platforms. At the foot of the hill is a village, -whose inhabitants behold with a feeling of respect the edifice towering -above their humble dwellings. For there is seen the belfry of a church, -and thence is heard unceasingly the sound of pious bells, proclaiming -afar that on the mountain's summit a few devout souls pray to God for -all men. The building is a convent; the poor and the sick well know the -path leading to the hospitable threshold of the Sisters of the -Visitation. - -To this convent was Christine sent. To this austere dwelling, the abode -of silence and self-denial, was she, the young, the beautiful, the -loving, pitilessly consigned. It was as though a gravestone had suddenly -closed over her head. With her, the superior of the convent received -the following letter:-- - - "MADAME LA SUPRIEURE,--I send you your niece, Christine Van - Amberg, and beg you to oblige me by keeping her with you. I intend - her to embrace a religious life; employ the influence of your wise - counsels to predispose her to it. Her misconduct compels me to - exclude her my house; she requires restraint and watching, such as - are only to be found in a convent. Be pleased, dear and respected - kinswoman, to receive her under your roof; the best wish that can - be formed for her is, that she may make up her mind to remain there - for ever. Should she inquire concerning a young man named Herbert, - you may inform her that he has sailed to Batavia, whence he will - proceed to our most remote settlements. - - "I am, with respect, _Madame la Suprieure_, your kinsman and - friend, - - "KARL VAN AMBERG." - -Five years had elapsed since the date of this letter, when one day the -convent gate opened to admit a stranger, who craved to speak with the -superior. The stranger was an old man; a staff sustained his feeble -steps. Whilst waiting in the parlour, he looked about him with surprise -and emotion, and several times he passed his hand across his eyes as if -to brush away a tear. "Poor, poor child!" he muttered. When the superior -appeared behind the grating, he advanced quickly towards her. - -"I am William Van Amberg," he said, "the brother of Karl Van Amberg. I -come, madam, to fetch Christine, his daughter and my niece." - -"You come very late!" replied the superior; "sister Martha-Mary is on -the eve of pronouncing her vows." - -"Martha-Mary!--I do not know the name!" said William Van Amberg; "I seek -Christine--my niece Christine." - -"Christine Van Amberg, now sister Martha-Mary, is about to take the -veil." - -"Christine a nun! Oh, impossible! Madame, they have broken the child's -heart; from despair only would she take the veil; they have been -cruel--they have tortured her; but I bring her liberty and the certainty -of happiness,--permission to marry him she loves. Let me speak to her -and she will quickly follow." - -"Speak to her then; and let her depart if such be her will." - -"Thanks, madam,--a thousand thanks! Send me my child, send me my -Christine--with joy and impatience I await her." - -The superior retired. Left alone, William again contemplated the -melancholy abode in which he found himself, and the more he gazed, the -sadder his heart became. He would fain have taken Christine in his arms, -as he did when she was little, and have fled with her from those chilly -walls and dismal gratings. - -"Poor child!" he repeated, "what a retreat for the bright years of your -youth!... How you must have suffered! But console thyself, dearest -child, I am here to rescue thee!" - -He remembered Christine as a wild young girl, delighting in liberty, -air, and motion; then as an impassioned woman, full of love and -independence. And a smile crossed the old man's lips as he thought of -her burst of joy, when he should say to her,--"You are free, and Herbert -waits to lead you to the altar!" His heart beat as it had never beaten -in the best days of his youth; he counted the minutes and kept his eyes -fixed upon the little door through which Christine was to come. He could -not fold her in his arms, the grating prevented it, but at least he -should see and hear her. Suddenly all his blood rushed to his heart, for -the hinges creaked and the door opened. A novice, clothed in white, -slowly advanced; he looked at her, started back, hesitated, and -exclaimed: "Oh God! is that Christine?" - -William had cherished in his heart the memory of a bright-eyed, sunburnt -girl, alert and lively, quick and decided in her movements, running -more often than she walked, like the graceful roe that loves the -mountain-steeps. He beheld a tall young woman, white and colourless as -the robes that shrouded her; her hair concealed under a thick linen -band, her slender form scarcely to be distinguished beneath the heavy -folds of her woollen vestments. Her movements were slow, her black eyes -veiled by an indescribable languor; a profound calm was the -characteristic of her whole being--a calm so great, that it resembled -absence of life. One might have thought her eyes looked without seeing, -that her lips could not open to speak, that her ears listened without -hearing. Sister Martha-Mary was beautiful, but her beauty was not of the -earth--it was the beauty of infinite repose,--of a calm that nothing -could disturb. - -The old man was touched to the bottom of his soul; the words expired on -his lips, and he extended his hands towards Christine. On beholding her -uncle, Martha-Mary endeavoured to smile, but moved not, and said -nothing. - -"Oh my child!" cried William at last, "how you must suffer here!" - -Martha-Mary gently shook her head, and the tranquil look she fixed upon -her uncle, protested against his supposition. - -"Is it possible that five years have thus changed my Christine! My heart -recognises you, my child, not my eyes! They have compelled you to great -austerities, severe privations?" - -"No." - -"A cruel bondage has weighed heavily upon you?" - -"No." - -"You have been ill then?" - -"No." - -"Your poor heart has suffered too much, and has broken. You have shed -many tears?" - -"I remember them no longer." - -"Christine! Christine! do you live? or has the shade of Annunciata risen -from the grave? Oh my child! in seeing you, I seem to see her corpse, -extended on the bed of death!" - -Martha-Mary raised her large eyes to heaven; she joined her hands, and -murmured, "My mother!" - -"Christine, speak to me! weep with me! you frighten me by your calm and -silence.... Ah! in my trouble and emotion, I have as yet explained -nothing.... Listen: my brother Karl, by the failure of a partner, -suddenly found his whole fortune compromised. To avoid total ruin he was -obliged to embark immediately for the colonies. He set sail expecting to -return in a few years; but his affairs prolong his absence, and his -return is indefinitely postponed. His two eldest daughters are with him. -To me, who am too old to follow him, too old to remain alone, he has -given Christine. I would not accept the precious charge, my child, -without the possibility of rendering you happy. I implored permission to -marry you to Herbert. You are no longer a rich heiress: your father -gone, you need protection, and that of an old man cannot long avail you. -In short, your father has agreed to all I asked: he sends you, as a -farewell gift, your liberty and his consent to your marriage.... -Christine! you are free, and Herbert awaits his bride!" - -The long drapery of the novice was slightly agitated, as if the limbs it -covered trembled; she remained some seconds without speaking, and then -replied, "It is too late! I am the affianced of the Lord!" - -William uttered a cry of grief, and looked with alarm at the pale calm -girl, who stood immovable before him. - -"Christine!" he cried, "you no longer love Herbert?" - -"I am the affianced of the Lord!" repeated the novice, her hands crossed -upon her breast, her eyes raised to heaven. - -"Oh my God! my God!" cried William, weeping bitterly, "my brother has -killed his child! Her soul has been sad even unto death! Poor victim of -severity, tell me, Christine, tell me, what has passed within you, -during your abode here?" - -"I saw others pray, and I prayed also. There was a great stillness, and -I was silent; none wept, and I dried my tears; a something, at first -cold, then soothing, enveloped my soul. The voice of God made itself -heard to me, and I listened; I loved the Lord, and gave myself to Him." - -Then, as if fatigued with speaking so much, Martha-Mary relapsed into -silence, and into that absorbing meditation which rendered her -insensible to surrounding things. Just then a bell tolled. The novice -started, and her eyes sparkled. - -"God calls me!" she said; "I go to pray!" - -"Christine! my daughter, will you leave me thus?" - -"Hear you not the bell? It is the hour of prayer." - -"But, Christine, dearest child, I came to take you hence." - -"I shall never leave these walls!" said Martha-Mary, gliding slowly -away. As she opened the parlour door, she turned towards William; her -eyes fixed upon him with a sad and sweet expression; her lips moved, as -if to send him a kiss; then she disappeared. William made no attempt to -detain her; his head was pressed against the grating, and big tears -chased each other down his cheeks. How long he remained thus plunged in -mournful reflection, he noted not. He was roused by the voice of the -superior, who seated herself, wrapped in her black robes, on the other -side of the grating. - -"I foresaw your grief," she said. "Our sister Martha-Mary refuses to -follow you." - -With a despairing look, William answered the nun. - -"Alas! alas!" he said, "the child I so dearly loved met me without joy, -and left me without regret." - -"Listen, my son," resumed the superior; "listen to me.--Five years ago, -there came to this convent a young girl overwhelmed with grief and sunk -in terrible despair; her entrance here was to her a descent into the -tomb. During one entire year, none saw her but with tears on her face. -Only God knows how many tears the eyes must shed before a broken spirit -regains calm and resignation; man cannot count them. This young girl -suffered much; in vain we implored pardon for her, in vain we summoned -her family to her relief. She might say, as is written in the -psalm,--'_I am weary with my groaning: mine eye is consumed because of -grief._' What could we do, save pray for her, since none would receive -her back!..." - -"Alas!" cried William, "your letters never reached us. My brother was -beyond sea; and I, having then no hope of changing his determination,--I -had quitted his empty and melancholy house." - -"Man abandoned her," continued the superior, "but God looked upon His -servant, and comforted her soul. If He does not see fit to restore -strength to her body, exhausted by suffering--His will be done! Perhaps -it would now be wise and generous to leave her to that love of God which -she has attained after so many tears; perhaps it would be prudent to -spare her fresh shocks." - -"No! no!" interrupted William, "I cannot give up, even to God, this last -relic of my family, the sole prop of my old age. I will try every means -to revive in her heart its early sentiments. Give me Christine for a few -days only! Let me conduct her to the place of her birth, to the scenes -where she loved. She is deaf to my entreaties, but she will obey an -order from you; bid her return for a while beneath her father's roof! -Should she still wish it, after this last attempt, I will restore her -hither." - -"Take her, my son," replied the superior; "I will bid her follow. If God -has indeed spoken to her soul, no worldly voice will move her. If it be -otherwise, may she return no more to the cloister, but be blessed -wherever she goes! Adieu, my son; the peace of the Lord be with you!" - -Hope revived in the heart of William Van Amberg; it seemed to him as -if--the convent threshold once passed--Christine would revert to her -former character--to her youth and love. He believed he was about to -remove his beloved child for ever from these gloomy walls, and with -painful impatience he awaited her coming. Soon a light step was heard in -the corridor; William threw open the door, Christine was there, and no -grating now separated her from her uncle. - -"My beloved Christine!" exclaimed William; "at last, then, you are -restored to me; at last I can press you to my heart! Come, we will -return to our own country, and revisit the house where we all dwelt -together." - -Sister Martha-Mary was still paler than at her first interview with -William. If any expression was discernible upon that calm countenance, -it was one of sadness. She allowed herself to be taken by the hand and -conducted to the convent gate; but when the gate was opened, and, -passing into the open air, she encountered the broad daylight and the -fresh breeze, she tottered and leaned for support against the wall. Just -then the sun rent the clouds, and threw its golden beams on plain and -mountain; the air was clear and transparent, and the flat and monotonous -horizon acquired beauty from the burst of light. - -"See, my daughter!" said William; "see how lovely is the earth! How soft -is the air we breathe! How good it is to be free, and to move towards -that immense horizon!" - -"Oh, my dear uncle!" replied the novice; "how beautiful are the heavens! -See how the sun shines above our heads! It is in heaven that his glory -should be admired! His rays are already dim and feeble when they touch -the earth!" - -William led Christine to a carriage; they got in, and the horses set -off. Long did the gaze of the novice remain fixed on her convent's -walls; when these were hidden from her by the windings of the road, she -closed her eyes and seemed to sleep. During the journey, William -endeavoured in vain to make her converse; she had forgotten how to -express her thoughts. When compelled to reply, fatigue overwhelmed her; -her whole existence was concentrated in her soul, and detached entirely -from the external world. At intervals she would say to herself, "How -long the morning is! Nothing marks the hours; I have not heard a single -bell to-day!" - -At last they reached the red house, and the carriage drove into the -court, where the grass grew between the stones. Gothon came out to -receive them, and Martha-Mary, leaning on her uncle's arm, entered the -parlour where the family of Van Amberg had so often assembled. The room -was deserted and cold; no books or work gave it the look of habitation; -abandoned by its last occupants, it awaited new ones. Christine slowly -traversed this well-known apartment, and sat down upon a chair near the -window. It was there her mother had sat for twenty years; there had her -childhood passed at the knees of Annunciata. - -William opened the window, showed her the meadow, the willows, and the -river. Christine looked at them in silence, her head resting on her -hand, her eyes fixed on the horizon. For a long while William stood -beside her, then he placed his hand on her shoulder and pronounced her -name. She rose and followed him. They ascended the stairs, traversed the -gallery, and William opened a door. "Your mother's room," said he to -Christine. The novice entered and paused in the middle of the chamber; -tears flowed from her eyes, she clasped her hands and prayed. - -"My daughter," said William, "_she_ ardently desired your happiness." - -"She has obtained it!" replied the novice. - -The old man felt a profound sadness come over him. It was like pressing -to his heart a corpse to which his love restored neither breath nor -warmth. Martha-Mary approached her mother's bed, knelt down, and kissed -the pillow that had supported the dying head of Annunciata. - -"Mother," she murmured, "soon we shall meet again." - -William shuddered. He took Christine's hand, and led her to the room she -had formerly occupied. The little white-curtained bed was still there, -the guitar hung against the wall, Christine's favourite volumes filled -the shelves of her modest book-case; through the open window were seen -the willows and the river. Martha-Mary noticed none of these things: the -wooden crucifix was still upon the wall; she rapidly approached it, -knelt, bowed her head upon the feet of Christ, closed her eyes and -breathed deeply, like one finding repose after long fatigue. Like the -exile returning to his native land, like the storm-tossed mariner -regaining the port, she remained with her brow resting upon her -Saviour's feet. - -Standing by her side, William looked on in tearful silence. Farther off, -Gothon wiped her eyes with her apron. Several hours elapsed. The house -clock struck, the birds sang in the garden; the wind rustled among the -trees; in the lofty pigeon-house the doves cooed; the cock crowed in the -poultry-yard. None of these loved and familiar sounds could divert -Martha-Mary from her devout meditation. Sick at heart, her uncle -descended to the parlour. He remained there long, plunged in gloomy -reflections. Suddenly hasty steps were heard; a young man rushed into -the room, and into William's arms. - -"Christine! Christine!" cried Herbert; "where is Christine? Is it not a -dream? M. Van Amberg gives me Christine!... Once more in my native land, -and Christine mine!" - -"Karl Van Amberg gives, but God refuses her to you!" replied William, -mournfully. Then he told Herbert what had passed at the convent, and -since their arrival at the house: he gave a thousand details--he -repeated them a thousand times, but without convincing Herbert of the -melancholy truth. - -"It is impossible!" cried the young man; "if Christine is alive, if -Christine is here, to the first word uttered by her lover, Christine -will reply." - -"God grant it!" exclaimed William; "my last hope is in you." - -Herbert sprang up the stairs, his heart too full of love to have room -for fear. Christine free, was for him Christine ready to become his -wife. He hastily opened her chamber door; but then he paused, as if -petrified, upon the threshold. The day was closing in, and its fading -light fell upon Martha-Mary, whose form stood out like a white shadow -from the gloom of the room. She was still on her knees, her head resting -on the feet of Christ, her fragile person lost in the multiplied folds -of her conventual robes. She heard not the opening of the door, and -Herbert stood gazing at her, till a flood of tears burst from his eyes. -William took his hand and silently pressed it. - -"I am frightened!" said Herbert, in a low tone. "That is not my -Christine! A phantom risen from the earth, or an angel descended from -heaven, has taken her place!" - -"No, she is no longer Christine!" replied William, sadly. - -For a few moments more Herbert stood in mournful contemplation. Then he -exclaimed--"Christine, dear Christine!" - -At the sound of his voice the novice started, rose to her feet, and -pronounced his name. As in former days, when her lover called -"Christine!" Martha-Mary replied "Herbert!" - -The young man's heart beat violently; he stood beside the novice, he -took her hands. "It is I, it is Herbert!" he said, kneeling down before -her. - -The novice fixed her large black eyes upon him with a long inquiring -gaze; a slight flush passed across her brow; then she became pale as -before, and said gently to Herbert--"I thought not to see you again upon -earth." - -"Dear Christine! tears and suffering have long been our portion; but -happy days at last dawn upon us! My love! my bride! we will never part -again!" - -Martha-Mary extricated her hands from those of Herbert, and retreated -towards the image of Christ. - -"I am the bride of the Lord," she said in trembling accents. "He expects -me." - -Herbert uttered a cry of grief. - -"Christine! dear Christine! remember our oft-repeated pledges, our -loves, our tears, our hopes. You left me vowing to love me always. -Christine, if you would not have me die of despair, remember the past!" - -Martha-Mary's eyes continued riveted on the crucifix; her hands, -convulsively clasped, were extended towards it. - -"Gracious Lord!" she prayed, "speak to his heart as you have spoken to -mine! It is a noble heart, worthy to love you. Stronger than I, Herbert -may survive, even after much weeping! Console him, oh Lord!" - -"Christine! my first and only love! sole hope and joy of my life! do you -thus abandon me? That heart, once entirely mine, is it closed to me for -ever?" - -Her gaze upon the crucifix, her hands still joined, the novice, as if -able to speak only to her God, gently replied:--"Lord! he suffers as I -suffered! shed upon him the balm wherewith you healed my wounds! Leaving -him life, take his soul as you have taken mine. Give him that ineffable -peace which descends upon those thou lovest!" - -"Oh Christine! my beloved!" cried Herbert, once more taking her hand, -"do but look at me! turn your eyes upon me and behold my tears! Dearest -treasure of my heart! you seem to slumber! Awake! Have you forgotten our -tender meetings, the willows bending over the stream, the boat in which -we sailed a whole night, dreaming the joy of eternal union? See! the -moon rises as it rose that night. We were near each other as now; but -then they tore us asunder, and now we are free to be together! -Christine, have you ceased to love? Is all forgotten?" - -William took her other hand. "Dear child," he said, "we entreat you not -to leave us! To you we look for happiness; remain with us, Christine." - -One hand in the hands of Herbert, the other in those of William, the -novice slowly and solemnly replied: - -"The corpse that reposes in the tomb lifts not the stone to re-enter the -world. The soul that has seen heaven, does not leave it to return to -earth. The creature to whom God has said, 'Be thou the spouse of -Christ,' does not quit Christ to unite herself to a man; and she who is -about to die should turn her affections from mortal things!" - -"Herbert!" cried William, "be silent! Not another word! I can scarcely -feel the throbbing of her pulse! She is paler even than when I first saw -her behind the convent grating. We give her pain. Enough, Herbert, -enough! Better yield her to God upon earth, than send her to Him in -heaven!" - -The old man placed the almost inanimate head of Martha-Mary upon his -shoulder, and pressed her to his heart as a mother embraces her child. -"Recover yourself, my daughter," he said; "I will restore you to the -house of God." - -Martha-Mary turned her sad and gentle gaze upon her uncle, and her hand -feebly pressed his. Then addressing herself to Herbert: - -"You, Herbert," she said, in a scarcely audible voice--"you, who will -live, do not abandon him!" - -"Christine!" cried Herbert, on his knees before his betrothed. -"Christine! do we part for ever?" - -The novice raised her eyes to heaven. - -"Not for ever!" she replied. - -Some days afterwards the convent gates opened to receive sister -Martha-Mary. They closed upon her for the last time. With feeble and -unsteady step the novice traversed the cloisters to prostrate herself on -the altar-steps. The superior came to her. - -"Oh my mother!" exclaimed Christine, the fountain of whose tears was -opened, and who wept as in the days of her childhood, "I have seen him -and left him! To thee I return, oh Lord! Faithful to my vows, I await -the crown that shall consecrate me thy spouse. Thy voice alone shall -henceforward reach my ears; I come to sing thy praises, to pray and -serve thee until the end of my life!--Holy mother, prepare the robe of -serge, the white crown, the silver cross; I am ready!" - -"My daughter," replied the superior, "you are very ill--much exhausted -by so many shocks; will you not delay the ceremony of profession?" - -"No, holy mother! no; delay it not! I would die the bride of the -Lord!... And I have little time!" replied sister Martha-Mary. - - - - -THE MAN IN THE BELL. - -[_MAGA._ NOVEMBER 1821.] - - -In my younger days, bell-ringing was much more in fashion among the -young men of ---- than it is now. Nobody, I believe, practises it there -at present except the servants of the church, and the melody has been -much injured in consequence. Some fifty years ago, about twenty of us -who dwelt in the vicinity of the Cathedral, formed a club, which used to -ring every peal that was called for; and, from continual practice and a -rivalry which arose between us and a club attached to another steeple, -and which tended considerably to sharpen our zeal, we became very -Mozarts on our favourite instruments. But my bell-ringing practice was -shortened by a singular accident, which not only stopped my performance, -but made even the sound of a bell terrible to my ears. - -One Sunday, I went with another into the belfry to ring for noon -prayers, but the second stroke we had pulled showed us that the clapper -of the bell we were at was muffled. Some one had been buried that -morning, and it had been prepared, of course, to ring a mournful note. -We did not know of this, but the remedy was easy. "Jack," said my -companion, "step up to the loft, and cut off the hat;" for the way we -had of muffling was by tying a piece of an old hat, or of cloth (the -former was preferred), to one side of the clapper, which deadened every -second toll. I complied, and mounting into the belfry, crept as usual -into the bell, where I began to cut away. The hat had been tied on in -some more complicated manner than usual, and I was perhaps three or four -minutes in getting it off; during which time my companion below was -hastily called away--by a message from his sweetheart, I believe--but -that is not material to my story. The person who called him was a -brother of the club, who, knowing that the time had come for ringing for -service, and not thinking that any one was above, began to pull. At this -moment I was just getting out, when I felt the bell moving; I guessed -the reason at once--it was a moment of terror; but by a hasty and almost -convulsive effort, I succeeded in jumping down, and throwing myself on -the flat of my back under the bell. - -The room in which it was, was little more than sufficient to contain it, -the bottom of the bell coming within a couple of feet of the floor of -lath. At that time I certainly was not so bulky as I am now, but as I -lay it was within an inch of my face. I had not laid myself down a -second, when the ringing began.--It was a dreadful situation. Over me -swung an immense mass of metal, one touch of which would have crushed me -to pieces; the floor under me was principally composed of crazy laths, -and if they gave way, I was precipitated to the distance of about fifty -feet upon a loft, which would, in all probability, have sunk under the -impulse of my fall, and sent me to be dashed to atoms upon the marble -floor of the chancel, an hundred feet below. I remembered--for fear is -quick in recollection--how a common clockwright, about a month before, -had fallen, and, bursting through the floors of the steeple, driven in -the ceilings of the porch, and even broken into the marble tombstone of -a bishop who slept beneath. This was my first terror, but the ringing -had not continued a minute, before a more awful and immediate dread came -on me. The deafening sound of the bell smote into my ears with a thunder -which made me fear their drums would crack: there was not a fibre of my -body it did not thrill through. It entered my very soul; thought and -reflection were almost utterly banished; I only retained the sensation -of agonising terror. Every moment I saw the bell sweep within an inch of -my face; and my eyes--I could not close them, though to look at the -object was bitter as death--followed it instinctively in its -oscillating progress until it came back again. It was in vain I said to -myself that it could come no nearer at any future swing than it did at -first; every time it descended, I endeavoured to shrink into the very -floor to avoid being buried under the down-sweeping mass; and then, -reflecting on the danger of pressing too weightily on my frail support, -would cower up again as far as I dared. - -At first my fears were mere matter of fact. I was afraid the pulleys -above would give way, and let the bell plunge on me. At another time, -the possibility of the clapper being shot out in some sweep, and dashing -through my body, as I had seen a ramrod glide through a door, flitted -across my mind. The dread also, as I have already mentioned, of the -crazy floor, tormented me; but these soon gave way to fears not more -unfounded, but more visionary, and of course more tremendous. The -roaring of the bell confused my intellect, and my fancy soon began to -teem with all sort of strange and terrifying ideas. The bell pealing -above, and opening its jaws with a hideous clamour, seemed to me at one -time a ravening monster, raging to devour me; at another, a whirlpool -ready to suck me into its bellowing abyss. As I gazed on it, it assumed -all shapes; it was a flying eagle, or rather a roc of the Arabian -story-tellers, clapping its wings and screaming over me. As I looked -upward into it, it would appear sometimes to lengthen into indefinite -extent, or to be twisted at the end into the spiral folds of the tail of -a flying dragon. Nor was the flaming breath or fiery glance of that -fabled animal wanting to complete the picture. My eyes, inflamed, -blood-shot, and glaring, invested the supposed monster with a full -proportion of unholy light. - -It would be endless were I to merely hint at all the fancies that -possessed my mind. Every object that was hideous and roaring presented -itself to my imagination. I often thought that I was in a hurricane at -sea, and that the vessel in which I was embarked tossed under me with -the most furious vehemence. The air, set in motion by the swinging of -the bell, blew over me, nearly with the violence, and more than the -thunder, of a tempest; and the floor seemed to reel under me, as under a -drunken man. But the most awful of all the ideas that seized on me were -drawn from the supernatural. In the vast cavern of the bell hideous -faces appeared, and glared down on me with terrifying frowns, or with -grinning mockery still more appalling. At last, the devil himself, -accoutred as in the common description of the evil spirit, with hoof, -horn, and tail, and eyes of infernal lustre, made his appearance, and -called on me to curse God and worship him, who was powerful to save me. -This dread suggestion he uttered with the full-toned clangour of the -bell. I had him within an inch of me, and I thought on the fate of the -Santon Barsisa. Strenuously and desperately I defied him and bade him -begone. Reason, then, for a moment, resumed her sway, but it was only to -fill me with fresh terror, just as the lightning dispels the gloom that -surrounds the benighted mariner, but to show him that his vessel is -driving on a rock, where she must inevitably be dashed to pieces. I -found I was becoming delirious, and trembled lest reason should utterly -desert me. This is at all times an agonising thought, but it smote me -then with tenfold agony. I feared lest, when utterly deprived of my -senses, I should rise--to do which I was every moment tempted by that -strange feeling which calls on a man, whose head is dizzy from standing -on the battlement of a lofty castle, to precipitate himself from it, and -then death would be instant and tremendous. When I thought of this, I -became desperate. I caught the floor with a grasp which drove the blood -from my nails; and I yelled with the cry of despair. I called for help, -I prayed, I shouted, but all the efforts of my voice were of course -drowned in the bell. As it passed over my mouth, it occasionally echoed -my cries, which mixed not with its own sound, but preserved their -distinct character. Perhaps this was but fancy. To me, I know, they then -sounded as if they were the shouting, howling, or laughing of the -fiends with which my imagination had peopled the gloomy cave which swung -over me. - -You may accuse me of exaggerating my feelings; but I am not. Many a -scene of dread have I since passed through, but they are nothing to the -self-inflicted terrors of this half hour. The ancients have doomed one -of the damned, in their Tartarus, to lie under a rock, which every -moment seems to be descending to annihilate him--and an awful punishment -it would be. But if to this you add a clamour as loud as if ten thousand -furies were howling about you--a deafening uproar banishing reason, and -driving you to madness--you must allow that the bitterness of the pang -was rendered more terrible. There is no man, firm as his nerves may be, -who could retain his courage in this situation. - -In twenty minutes the ringing was done. Half of that time passed over me -without power of computation,--the other half appeared an age. When it -ceased, I became gradually more quiet, but a new fear retained me. I -knew that five minutes would elapse without ringing, but, at the end of -that short time, the bell would be rung a second time, for five minutes -more. I could not calculate time. A minute and an hour were of equal -duration. I feared to rise, lest the five minutes should have elapsed, -and the ringing be again commenced, in which case I should be crushed, -before I could escape, against the walls or framework of the bell. I -therefore still continued to lie down, cautiously shifting myself, -however, with a careful gliding, so that my eye no longer looked into -the hollow. This was of itself a considerable relief. The cessation of -the noise had, in a great measure, the effect of stupifying me, for my -attention, being no longer occupied by the chimeras I had conjured up, -began to flag. All that now distressed me was the constant expectation -of the second ringing, for which, however, I settled myself with a kind -of stupid resolution. I closed my eyes, and clenched my teeth as firmly -as if they were screwed in a vice. At last the dreaded moment came, and -the first swing of the bell extorted a groan from me, as they say the -most resolute victim screams at the sight of the rack, to which he is -for a second time destined. After this, however, I lay silent and -lethargic, without a thought. Wrapt in the defensive armour of -stupidity, I defied the bell and its intonations. When it ceased, I was -roused a little by the hope of escape. I did not, however, decide on -this step hastily, but, putting up my hand with the utmost caution, I -touched the rim. Though the ringing had ceased, it still was tremulous -from the sound, and shook under my hand, which instantly recoiled as -from an electric jar. A quarter of an hour probably elapsed before I -again dared to make the experiment, and then I found it at rest. I -determined to lose no time, fearing that I might have lain then already -too long, and that the bell for evening service would catch me. This -dread stimulated me, and I slipped out with the utmost rapidity, and -arose. I stood, I suppose, for a minute, looking with silly wonder on -the place of my imprisonment, penetrated with joy at escaping, but then -rushed down the stony and irregular stair with the velocity of -lightning, and arrived in the bell-ringers' room. This was the last act -I had power to accomplish. I leant against the wall, motionless and -deprived of thought, in which posture my companions found me, when, in -the course of a couple of hours, they returned to their occupation. - -They were shocked, as well they might, at the figure before them. The -wind of the bell had excoriated my face, and my dim and stupified eyes -were fixed with a lack-lustre gaze in my raw eyelids. My hands were torn -and bleeding; my hair dishevelled; and my clothes tattered. They spoke -to me, but I gave no answer. They shook me, but I remained insensible. -They then became alarmed, and hastened to remove me. He who had first -gone up with me in the forenoon, met them as they carried me through the -churchyard, and through him, who was shocked at having, in some -measure, occasioned the accident, the cause of my misfortune was -discovered. I was put to bed at home, and remained for three days -delirious, but gradually recovered my senses. You may be sure the bell -formed a prominent topic of my ravings, and if I heard a peal, they were -instantly increased to the utmost violence. Even when the delirium -abated, my sleep was continually disturbed by imagined ringings, and my -dreams were haunted by the fancies which almost maddened me while in the -steeple. My friends removed me to a house in the country, which was -sufficiently distant from any place of worship, to save me from the -apprehensions of hearing the church-going bell; for what Alexander -Selkirk, in Cowper's poem, complained of as a misfortune, was then to me -as a blessing. Here I recovered; but, even long after recovery, if a -gale wafted the notes of a peal towards me, I started with nervous -apprehension. I felt a Mohammedan hatred to all the bell tribe, and -envied the subjects of the Commander of the Faithful the sonorous voice -of their Muezzin. Time cured this, as it does the most of our follies; -but even at the present day, if, by chance, my nerves be unstrung, some -particular tones of the cathedral bell have power to surprise me into a -momentary start. - - -PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH. - - - - -Transcriber's Note - - -Apparent printer's errors and archaic spelling have been retained, -unless stated below. - -Punctuation markup has been made consistent. - -"_" surrounding text represents italics. - -"+" surrounding text represents Greek transliteration. - -In the original, pages are numbered 1-100 three times consecutively. -In this Transcriber's Note, they have been differentiated by -using 1a-100a, 1b-100b, 1c-100c. - -Page 58a, "cause" changed to "case". (In due time the case was called.) - -Page 60a, "eat" changed to "ate". (... and he would have sailed thither -before the 31st of December, on which day his father, a joyous liver and -confirmed votary of Bacchus, ate and drank to such an extent to -celebrate the exit of the old year and commencement of the new, that he -fell down, on his way to his bed, in a thundering fit of apoplexy, and -was a corpse before morning.) - -Page 25b, "raw" changed to "law". (I was not quite sure of the effect of -my commentary on the evidence, and therefore thought it might be -advisable to touch upon a national law.) - -Page 67c, "Amburg" changed to "Amberg" for consistency. (With a vigorous -arm, M. Van Amberg seized Christine, whose slender form bent like a reed -over his shoulder.) - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 6, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD," VOLUME 6 *** - -***** This file should be named 41204-8.txt or 41204-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/2/0/41204/ - -Produced by Veronika Redfern, D Alexander, Juliet Sutherland -and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net - - -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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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: Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 6 - -Author: Various - -Release Date: October 27, 2012 [EBook #41204] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD," VOLUME 6 *** - - - - -Produced by Veronika Redfern, D Alexander, Juliet Sutherland -and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - -</pre> - <div class="figcenter" style="width: 340px;"> - <a href="images/titlepage.jpg"><img class="cover-hide" id="coverpage" - src="images/th_titlepage.jpg" style="border: 1px solid #000;" width="340" - height="600" alt="Title Page" title="Title Page" /></a> - </div> - <div class="larger-version"> - <p> - - </p> - <h1> - TALES<br /><br /><span class="smaller">FROM</span><br /><br /><span - class="big">"BLACKWOOD"</span> - </h1> - <p> - - </p> - <p> - - </p> - </div> - <div class="figcenter" style="width: 330px;"> - <img src="images/contents.png" width="330" height="55" - alt="Contents of this Volume" title="Contents of this Volume" /> - </div> - <div class="center1"> - <p> - <i><a href="#THE_DUTCHMAN">My Friend the Dutchman.</a> By Frederick - Hardman, Esq.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i><a href="#COLLEGE_FRIENDS_II">My College Friends. No. II.</a> Horace - Leicester.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i><a href="#THE_EMERALD_STUDS">The Emerald Studs.</a> By Professor - Aytoun.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i><a href="#COLLEGE_FRIENDS_III">My College Friends. No. III.</a> Mr W. - Wellington Hurst.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i><a href="#CHRISTINE">Christine: a Dutch Story.</a> By Frederick - Hardman, Esq.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i><a href="#THE_MAN_IN_THE_BELL">The Man in the Bell.</a></i> - </p> - </div> - <p> - - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center big"> - WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS - </p> - <p class="center medium"> - EDINBURGH AND LONDON - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p class="chapter-beginning"> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1a" id="Page_1a">[Pg 1]</a></span> - </p> - <p class="center"> - <a name="TALES_FROM_BLACKWOOD" id="TALES_FROM_BLACKWOOD"><span class="xbig"><b>TALES - FROM "BLACKWOOD"</b></span></a> - </p> - <hr class="short" /> - <h2 class="no-break"> - <a name="THE_DUTCHMAN" id="THE_DUTCHMAN">MY FRIEND THE DUTCHMAN.</a> - </h2> - <p class="center"> - BY FREDERICK HARDMAN. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - <span class="small">[<i>MAGA.</i> <span class="smcap">October 1847.</span>]</span> - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="dropcap"> - "And you will positively marry her, if she will have you?" - </p> - <p> - "Not a doubt of either. Before this day fortnight she shall be Madame Van - Haubitz." - </p> - <p> - "You will make her your wife without acquainting her with your true - position?" - </p> - <p> - "Indeed will I. My very position requires it. There's no room for a - scruple. She expects to live on my fortune; thinks to make a great catch - of the rich Dutchman. Instead of that I shall spend her salary. The old - story; going out for wool and returning shorn." - </p> - <p> - The conversation of which this is the concluding fragment, occurred in the - public room of the Hotel de Hesse, in the village of Homburg on the Hill—then - an insignificant handful of houses, officiating<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_2a" id="Page_2a">[Pg 2]</a></span> as capital of the important - landgravate of Hesse-Homburg. The table-d'hôte had been over some time; - the guests had departed to repose in their apartments until the hour of - evening promenade should summon them to the excellent band of music, - provided by the calculating liberality of the gaming-house keepers, and to - loiter round the <i>brunnen</i> of more or less nauseous flavour, the - pretext of resort to this rendezvous of idlers and gamblers. The waiters - had disappeared to batten on the broken meats from the public table, and - to doze away the time till the approach of supper renewed their activity. - My interlocutor, with whom I was alone in the deserted apartment, was a - man of about thirty years of age, whose dark hair and mustaches, marked - features, spare person, and complexion bronzed by a tropical sun, entitled - him to pass for a native of southern Europe, or even of some more ardent - clime. Nevertheless he answered to the very Dutch patronymic of Van - Haubitz, and was a native of Holland, in whose principal city his father - was a banker of considerable wealth and financial influence. - </p> - <p> - It was towards the close of a glorious August, and for two months I had - been wandering in Rhine-land. Not after the fashion of deluded Cockneys, - who fancy they have seen the Rhine when they have careered from Cologne to - Mannheim astride of a steam-engine, gaping at objects<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_3a" id="Page_3a">[Pg 3]</a></span> passed as soon as perceived; - drinking and paying for indifferent vinegar as Steinberger-Cabinet, eating - vile dinners on the decks of steamers, and excellent ones in the capital - hotels which British cash and patronage have raised upon the banks of the - most renowned of German streams. On the contrary, I had early dispensed - with the aid of steam, to wander on foot, with the occasional assistance - of a lazy country diligence or rickety <i>einspänner</i>, through the many - beautiful districts that lie upon either bank of the river; - pedestrianising in Rhenish Bavaria, losing myself in the Odenwald, and - pausing, when occasion offered, to pick a trout out of the numerous - streamlets that dash and meander through dell and ravine, on their way to - swell the waters of old Father Rhine. At last, weary of solitude—scarcely - broken by an occasional gossip with a heavy German boor, village priest, - or strolling student—I thirsted after the haunts of civilisation, - and found myself, within a day of the appearance of the symptom, installed - in a luxurious hotel in the free city of Frankfort on the Maine. But - Frankfort at that season is deserted, save by passing tourists, who escape - as fast as possible from its lifeless streets and sun-baked pavements; so, - after glancing over an English newspaper at the Casino, taking one stroll - in the beautiful garden surrounding the city, and another through the - Jew-quarter—always interesting and<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_4a" id="Page_4a">[Pg 4]</a></span> curious, although anything - but savoury at that warm season—I gathered together my baggage and - was off to Homburg. There I could not complain of solitude, of deserted - streets and shuttered windows. It seemed impossible that the multitude of - gaily dressed belles and cavaliers, English, French, German, and Russ, - who, from six in the morning until sunset, lounged and flirted on the - walks, watered themselves at the fountains, and perilled their complexions - in the golden sunbeams, could ever bestow themselves in the two or three - middling hotels and few score shabby lodging-houses composing the town of - Homburg. Manage it they did, however; crept into their narrow cells at - night, to emerge next morning, like butterflies from the chrysalis, gay, - bright, and brilliant, and to recommence the never-varying but pleasant - round of eating, sauntering, love-making, and gambling. Homburg was not - then what it has since become. That great house of cards, the new Cursaal, - had not yet arisen; and its table-d'hôte, reading-room, and profane - mysteries of roulette and rouge-et-noir, found temporary domicile in a - narrow, disreputable-looking den in the main street, where accommodation - of all kinds, but especially for dinner, was scanty in the extreme. The - public tables at the hotels were consequently thronged, and there - acquaintances were soon made. The day of my arrival at Homburg I was - seated next to Van<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5a" id="Page_5a">[Pg - 5]</a></span> Haubitz; his manner was off-hand and frank; we entered into - conversation, took our after-dinner cigar and evening stroll together, and - by bed-time had knocked up that sort of intimacy easily contracted at a - watering-place, which lasts one's time of residence, and is extinguished - and forgotten on departure. Van Haubitz, like many Continentals and very - few Englishmen, was one of those free-and-easy communicative persons who - are as familiar after twelve hours' acquaintance as if they had known you - twelve years, and who do not hesitate to confide to a three days' - acquaintance the history of their lives, their pursuits, position, and - prospects. I was soon made acquainted, to a very considerable extent, at - least, with those of my friend Van Haubitz, late lieutenant of artillery - in the service of his majesty the King of Holland. He was the youngest of - four sons, and having shown, at a very early age, a wild and intractable - disposition and precocious addiction to dissipation, his father pronounced - him unsuited to business, and decided on placing him in the army. To this - the <i>Junker</i> (he claimed nobility, and displayed above his arms a - species of coronet, bearing considerable resemblance to a fragment of - chevaux-de-frise, which he might have been puzzled to prop with a - parchment) had no particular objection, and might have made a good enough - officer, but for his reckless, spendthrift manner of life, which entailed - negligence of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6a" id="Page_6a">[Pg 6]</a></span> - duty and frequent reprimands. Extravagant beyond measure, unable to deny - himself any gratification, squandering money as though millions were at - his command, he was constantly overwhelmed with debts and a martyr to - duns. At last his father, after thrice clearing him with his creditors, - consented to do so a fourth time only on condition of his getting - transferred to a regiment stationed in the Dutch East Indies, and - remaining there until his return had the paternal sanction. To avoid a - prison, and perhaps not altogether sorry to leave a country where his cash - and credit were alike exhausted, he embarked for Batavia. But any pleasant - day-dreams he may have cherished of tropical luxuries, of the indulgence - of a <i>farniente</i> life in a grass hammock, gently balanced by Javan - houris beneath banana shades, of spice-laden breezes and cool sherbets, - and other attributes of a Mohammedan paradise, were speedily dissipated by - the odious realities of filth and vermin, marsh-fever and mosquitoes. He - wrote to his father, describing the horrors of the place, and begging to - be released from his pledge and allowed to return to Holland. His obdurate - progenitor replied by a letter of reproach, and swore that if he left - Batavia he might live on his pay, and never expect a stiver from the - paternal strong-box, either as gift or bequest. To live upon his pay would - have been no easy matter, even for a more prudent person than Van Haubitz.<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7a" id="Page_7a">[Pg 7]</a></span> He - grumbled immoderately, swore like a pagan, but remained where he was. A - year passed and he could hold out no longer. Disregarding the paternal - displeasure, and reckless of consequences, he applied to the chief - military authority of the colony for leave of absence. He was asked his - plea, and alleged ill health. The general thought he looked pretty well, - and requested the sight of a medical certificate of his invalid state. Van - Haubitz assumed a doleful countenance and betook him to the surgeons. They - agreed with the general that his aspect was healthy: asked for symptoms; - could discover none more alarming than regularity of pulse, sleep, - appetite, and digestion, laughed in his face and refused the certificate. - The sickly gunner, who had the constitution of a rhinoceros, and had never - had a day's illness since he got over the measles at the age of four - years, waited a little, and tried the second "dodge," usually resorted to - in such cases. "Urgent private affairs" were now the pretext. The general - expressed his regret that urgent public affairs rendered it impossible for - him to dispense with the valuable services of Lieutenant Van Haubitz. - Whereupon Lieutenant Van Haubitz passed half an hour in heaping - maledictions on the head of his disobliging commander, and then sat down - and wrote an application for an exchange to the authorities in Holland. - The reply was equally unsatisfactory, the fact being that Haubitz senior,<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8a" id="Page_8a">[Pg 8]</a></span> like an - implacable old savage as he was, had made interest at the war-office for - the refusal of all such requests on the part of his scapegrace offspring. - Haubitz junior took patience for another year, and then, in a moment of - extreme disgust and ennui, threw up his commission and returned to Europe, - trusting, he told me, that after five years' absence, the governor's - bowels would yearn towards his youngest-born. In this he was entirely - mistaken; he greatly underrated the toughness of paternal viscera. Far - from killing the fatted calf on the prodigal's return, the incensed old - Hollander refused him the smallest cutlet, and, shutting the door in his - face, consigned him, with more energy than affection, to the custody of - the evil one. Van Haubitz found himself in an awkward fix. Credit was - dead, none of his relatives would notice or assist him; his whole fortune - consisted of a dozen gold Wilhelms. At this critical moment an eccentric - maiden aunt, to whom, a year or two previously, he had sent a propitiatory - offering of a ring-tailed monkey and a leash of pea-green parrots, and who - had never condescended to acknowledge the present, departed this life, - bequeathing him ten thousand florins as a return for the addition to her - menagerie. A man of common prudence, and who had seen himself so near - destitution, would have endeavoured to employ this sum, moderate as it - was, in some trade or business,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9a" - id="Page_9a">[Pg 9]</a></span> or, at any rate, would have lived sparingly - till he found other resources. But Haubitz had not yet sown all his - wild-oats; he had a soul above barter, a glorious disregard of the future, - the present being provided for. He left Holland, shaking the dust from his - boots, dashed across Belgium, and was soon plunged in the gaieties of a - Paris carnival. Breakfasts at the Rocher, dinners at the Café, balls at - the opera, and the concomitant <i>petits soupers</i> and écarté parties - with the fair denizens of the Quartier Lorette, soon operated a prodigious - chasm in the monkey-money, as Van Haubitz irreverently styled his - venerable aunt's bequest. Spring having arrived, he beat a retreat from - Paris, and established himself at Homburg, where he was quietly completing - the consumption of the ten thousand florins, at rather a slower pace than - he would have done at that headquarters of pleasant iniquity, the capital - of France. From hints he let fall, I suspected a short time would suffice - to see the last of the legacy. On this head, however, he had been less - confidential than on most other matters, and certainly his manner of - living would have led no one to suppose he was low in the locker. Nothing - was too good for him; he drank the best of wines, got up parties and - pic-nics for the ladies, and had a special addiction to the purchase of - costly trinkets, which he generally gave away before they had been a day - in his possession. He did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10a" - id="Page_10a">[Pg 10]</a></span> gamble; he had done so, he told me, once - since he was at Homburg, and had won, but he had no faith in his luck, or - taste for that kind of excitement, and should play no more. He was playing - another game just now, which apparently interested him greatly. A few days - before myself, a young actress, who, within a very short time, had - acquired considerable celebrity, had arrived at Homburg, escorted by her - mother. Fraülein Emilie Sendel was a lively lady of four-and-twenty or - thereabouts, possessing a smart figure and pretty face, the latter - somewhat wanting in refinement. Her blue eyes, although rather too - prominent, had a merry sparkle; her cheeks had not yet been entirely - despoiled by envious rouge of their natural healthful tinge; her hair, of - that peculiar tint of red auburn which the French call a <i>blonde hasardé</i>, - was more remarkable for abundance and flexibility than for fineness of - texture. As regarded her qualities and accomplishments, she was - good-humoured and tolerably unaffected, but wilful and capricious as a - spoiled child; she spoke her own language pretty well, with an occasional - slight vulgarism or bit of greenroom slang; had a smattering of French, - and played the piano sufficiently to accompany the ballads and vaudeville - airs which she sang with spirit and considerable freedom of style. I had - met German actresses who were far more lady-like off the stage, but there - was nothing glaringly or repulsively<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_11a" id="Page_11a">[Pg 11]</a></span> vulgar about Emilie, and - as a neighbour at a public dinner-table, she was amusing and quite above - par. As if to vindicate her nationality, she would occasionally look - sentimental; but the mood sat ill upon her, and never lasted long: comedy - was evidently her natural line. Against her reputation, rumour, always an - inquisitive censor, often a mean libeller, of ladies of her profession, - had as yet, so far as I could learn, found nothing to allege. Her mother, - a dingy old dowager, with bad teeth, dowdy gowns, a profusion of - artificial flowers, and a strong addiction to tea and knitting, perfectly - understood the duties of duennaship, and did propriety by her daughter's - side at dinner-table and promenade. To the heart of the daughter, Van - Haubitz, almost from the first hour he had seen her, had laid persevering - and determined siege. - </p> - <p> - During our after-dinner tête-à-tête on the day now referred to, my friend - the gunner had shown himself exceedingly unreserved, and, without any - attempt on my part to draw him out, he had elucidated, with a frankness - that must have satisfied the most inquisitive, whatever small points of - his recent history and present position he had previously left in - obscurity. The conversation began, so soon as the cloth was removed and - the guests had departed, by a jesting allusion on my part to his - flirtation with the actress, and to her gracious reception of his - attentions. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12a" id="Page_12a">[Pg 12]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "It is no mere flirtation," said Van, gravely. "My intentions are serious. - You may depend Mademoiselle Sendel understands them as such." - </p> - <p> - "Serious! you don't mean that you want to marry her?" - </p> - <p> - "Unquestionably I do. It is my only chance." - </p> - <p> - "Your only chance!" I repeated, considerably puzzled. "Are you about to - turn actor, and do you trust to her for instruction in histrionics?" - </p> - <p> - "Not exactly. I will explain. La Sendel, you must know, has just - terminated her last engagement, which was at a salary of ten thousand - florins. She has already received and accepted an offer of a new one, at - fifteen thousand, from the Vienna theatre. Vienna is a very pleasant - place. Fifteen thousand florins are thirty-two thousand francs, or twelve - hundred of your English pounds sterling. Upon that sum two persons can - live excellently well—in Germany at least." - </p> - <p> - Unable to contradict any of these assertions, I held my tongue. The - Dutchman resumed. - </p> - <p> - "You know the history of my past life; I will tell you my present - position. It is critical enough, but I shall improve it, for here," and he - touched his forehead, "is what never fails me. This letter," (he produced - an epistle of mercantile aspect, bearing the Amsterdam post-mark), "I - received last week from my eldest brother. The shabby <i>schelm</i> - declares he will reply to no more of mine, that his<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_13a" id="Page_13a">[Pg 13]</a></span> efforts to arrange - matters with my father have been fruitless, and that the old gentleman has - strictly forbidden him and his brothers to hold any communication with me, - a command they seem willing enough to obey. So much for that. And now for - the finances." - </p> - <p> - He took out his pocket-book, opened and shook it—a flimsy crumpled - bit of paper fell out. It was a note of the bank of France, for one - thousand francs. - </p> - <p> - "My last," said he. "That gone, I am a beggar. But it won't come to that, - either, thanks to Fraülein Emilie." - </p> - <p> - "Surely," said I, "you are too reckless of money, too extravagant and - unreflecting. Six months ago, you told me you had twenty such notes." - </p> - <p> - "Ay, twenty-two exactly, at the end of January, when I left Amsterdam. But - whither was I bound? To Paris; and who can economise there? I've had my - money's worth, and could have had no more, had I dribbled the dirty ten - thousand florins over three years, instead of three months. I take great - credit for making it last so long. Such suppers, and balls, and orgies, - with the pleasantest fellows and prettiest actresses in Paris. But the - louis-d'or roll rapidly in that sort of society. One must be a Russian - prince, or a French <i>feuilletoniste</i>, to keep it up. I never flinched - at anything so long as the money lasted. Then, when I found myself reduced - to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14a" id="Page_14a">[Pg 14]</a></span> - last note, I got into the Frankfort mail, and came to rusticate at this - rural roulette-table. My next change will be to conjugation and Vienna." - </p> - <p> - "But if you had only a thousand francs on leaving Paris, and have got them - still, how have you lived since?" - </p> - <p> - "You don't suppose these are the same? There are not many ways of getting - through money here unless one gambles, which I do not; but coin has - somehow or other a peculiar aptitude to slip through my fingers, and the - thousand francs soon evaporated. Meanwhile, I had written dozens of - letters to my brothers, who seldom answered, and to my father, who never - did. I promised reform and a respectable life, if they would either get me - a snug place with little to do and good pay, or make me a reasonable - yearly allowance, something better than the paltry three thousand florins - they doled out to me when I was in the artillery, and on which, as I could - not live, I was obliged to get in debt. They paid no attention to my - request, reasonable as it was. The best offer they made me was five francs - a-day, paid weekly, to live in a Silesian village. This was adding insult - to injury, and I left off writing to them. A few days afterwards, taking - out my purse to pay for cigars, a dollar dropped out. It was my last. I - paid it away, walked home, lay down upon my bed, smoked and reflected. My - position was gloomy enough, and the more I looked<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_15a" id="Page_15a">[Pg 15]</a></span> at it, the blacker it - seemed. From my undutiful relatives there was no hope; the abominable - Silesian project was evidently their ultimatum. I had no friend to turn - to, no resource left. I might certainly have obtained the mere necessaries - of life at this hotel, where my credit was excellent, and have vegetated - for a month or two, as a man must vegetate, without ready money. But I had - no fancy for such an expedient, a mere protraction of the agony. I lay - ruminating for two hours, two such hours as I should be sorry to pass - again, and then my mind was made up. I had a brace of small - travelling-pistols amongst my baggage; these I loaded and put in my - pocket; and then, leaving the hotel and the town, I struck across the - country for some distance and plunged into a wood. There I sat down upon a - grass bank, my back against an old beech. It was evening, and the solitary - little glade before me was striped with the last sunbeams darting between - the tree-trunks. I have difficulty in defining my sensations at that - moment. I was quite resolved, did not waver an instant in my purpose, but - my head was dizzy, and I had a sickly sensation about the heart. - Determined that the physical shrinking from death should not have time to - weaken my moral determination, I hastily opened my waistcoat, felt for the - pulsations of my heart, placed the muzzle of a pistol where they were - strongest, steadying it on that spot with my left<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_16a" id="Page_16a">[Pg 16]</a></span> hand. Then I looked - straight before me and pulled the trigger. There was the click of the - lock, but no report; the cap was bad, and had been crushed without - exploding. That was a horrible moment. I snatched up another pistol, which - lay cocked to my hand, and thrust the muzzle into my mouth. As before, the - sharp noise of the hammer upon the nipple was the sole result. The caps - had been some time in my possession, and had become worthless through age - or damp." - </p> - <p> - I looked at Van Haubitz, doubtful whether he was not hoaxing me. But - hitherto I had observed in him no addiction to the Munchausen vein, and - now his countenance and voice were serious: there was a slight flush on - his cheek, and he was evidently excited at the recollection of his - abortive attempt at suicide,—perhaps a little ashamed of it. I was - convinced he told the truth. - </p> - <p> - "I do not know," he continued, "whether, had I had surer weapons with me, - I should have had courage to make a third attempt upon my life. Honestly, - I think not; the self-preservative instinct was rapidly gaining strength. - I walked slowly back to the town, my brain still confused from the - agitating moments I had passed. I was unable quite to collect my thoughts, - and felt as if I had just awakened from a long heavy sleep. It was now - dark; lights streamed from the open windows of the gambling-rooms; the - voices of the croupiers,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17a" - id="Page_17a">[Pg 17]</a></span> the stir and hum of the players and - jingling of money were distinctly heard in the street without. I have - already told you I am no gambler, not from scruple, but choice. - Nevertheless, I used often to stroll up to the Cursaal for an hour of an - evening, when the play was at the highest, to look on and chat with chance - acquaintances. Mechanically, I now ascended the stairs. On the - landing-place, I found myself face to face with a man with whom I was - slightly intimate, and who, a few evenings before, had borrowed forty - francs of me. I had not seen him since, and he now returned me the piece - of gold. 'Try your luck with it,' said he; 'there is a run against the - bank to-night, everybody wins, and M. Blanc looks blue.' And he pointed to - one of the proprietors of the tables, who, however, wore a tolerably - tranquil air, knowing well that what was carried away one night, would - come back with compound interest the next. The play was heavy at the - rouge-et-noir table; a Russian and two Frenchmen—the latter of whom, - judging from their appearance, and from the complicated array of - calculations on the table before them, were professional gamblers—extracted, - at nearly every <i>coup</i>, notes or rouleaus of gold from the grated - boxes in front of the bankers. I drank a glass of water, for my lips were - dry and hot, and, placing myself as near the table as the crowd of players - and spectators permitted, watched the game.<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_18a" id="Page_18a">[Pg 18]</a></span> My hand was in my pocket, - the forty-franc piece still between its fingers. But in spite of the - advice of him who had paid it me, I felt no disposition to risk the coin; - not that I feared to lose it, for as my only one it was useless, but - because, as I tell you, I never had the slightest love of gambling or - expectation to win. - </p> - <p> - "A pause occurred in the game. The cards had run out, and the bankers were - subjecting them to those complicated and ostentatious shufflings intended - to convince the players of the fairness of their dealings. During this - operation the previous silence was exchanged for eager gossip. The game, - it appeared, had come out that night in a peculiar manner, very favourable - to those who had had the address and nerve to avail themselves of it. - There had been alternate long runs upon red and black. - </p> - <p> - "'<i>Mille noms de Dieu!</i>' exclaimed a hoarse cracked voice just below - me. 'What a series of black! Twenty-two, and only three red! And to be - unable to take advantage of it!' - </p> - <p> - "I looked down, and recognised the grey mustache, wrinkled features, and - snuffy black coat with a ribbon of the Legion of Honour, of an old French - colonel whom you may have seen limping in and out of the Cursaal, and who - ranks amongst the antiquities of Homburg. He served under Napoleon, was - shelved at the peace, and has lived since then on a moderate annuity, of - which one-fifth procures<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19a" - id="Page_19a">[Pg 19]</a></span> him the barest necessaries of existence, - whilst the other four parts are annually absorbed in the vortex of - rouge-et-noir. When gambling-houses were legal at Paris, <i>le colonel - rapé</i>, the threadbare colonel, as he was called, was one of the most - punctual attendants at Frascati's and the Palais Royal. When they were - abolished, he commenced a wandering existence amongst the German baths, - and finally settled down at Homburg, giving it the preference, as the only - place where he could follow his darling pursuit alike in winter and in - summer. From the opening to the close of the play he is seen seated at the - table, a number of cards, ruled in red and black columns, on the green - cloth before him, in which he pricks with pins the progress of the game. - That evening he had been unfortunate, and had emptied his pocket, but - nevertheless continued puncturing cards with laudable perseverance, of - course discovering, like every penniless gambler, that, had he money to - stake, he should infallibly make a fortune; predicting what colour would - come out, and indulging, when he proved a true prophet, in a little - subdued blasphemy because he was unable to profit by his acuteness. - </p> - <p> - "'Extraordinary run! to be sure,' repeated the veteran dicer. 'Twenty-two - black, and only three red! There'll be a series of red now; I feel there - will, and when I don't play myself, I'm always right. I bet this deal - begins with seven<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20a" id="Page_20a">[Pg - 20]</a></span> red. Who bets a hundred francs to fifty it does not?' - </p> - <p> - "Nobody accepted this sporting offer, or placed upon the colour which the - colonel's prophetic soul foresaw was to come out. The cards were now - shuffled and cut for dealing. The hell relapsed into silence. - </p> - <p> - "'<i>Faites le jeu, Messieurs!</i>' was repeated in the harsh - business-like tones of the presiding demon. - </p> - <p> - "'Red wins,' croaked the colonel. 'Seven times at the least.' - </p> - <p> - "Nearly all the players backed the black. By an idle impulse I threw down - my forty francs, my entire fortune, upon the red. The old soldier looked - round to see the judicious individual who followed his advice, smiled - grimly, and nodded approvingly. The next moment red won. I let the money - lie, and walked into the next room. Eighty francs were of no more use to - me than forty, and I felt very sure that another turn of the card would - carry off both stake and winnings. I took up a newspaper, but soon threw - it down again, for my head was not clear enough to read, and I felt - exhausted with the emotions of the day. I was about to leave the house - when I heard a loud buzz in the card-room, and the next instant somebody - clutched my arm. It was the French colonel, in a state of furious - excitement; grinning, panting, perspiring, and stuttering with eagerness. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21a" id="Page_21a">[Pg 21]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "'Seven reds!' was all he could say. 'Seven reds, Monsieur. Take up your - money.' - </p> - <p> - "I hastened to the table. By a strange caprice of fortune, the colonel's - prophecy had come true. Red had won seven times, and my forty francs had - become five thousand. I took up my winnings, the colonel looking on with a - triumphant smile. This was suddenly exchanged for a portentous frown and - fierce twist of the grey mustache. - </p> - <p> - "'<i>Mille millions de tonnerres!</i> Not a dollar left to follow up that - splendid run!' And with a furious gesture, he upset his chair, and dashed - his cards upon the ground. - </p> - <p> - "I took the hint, whether intended or not. I could not do less in return - for the five thousand francs the old gentleman had put in my pocket. - </p> - <p> - "'If Monsieur,' I said, 'will allow me the pleasure of lending him—' - </p> - <p> - "'<i>Impossible, Monsieur!</i>' interrupted the colonel, looking as stern - as if about to charge single-handed a whole pulk of Cossacks. But I knew - my man. He was the type of a class of which I have seen many. - </p> - <p> - "'<i>Cependant, Monsieur, entre militaires</i>, between brother-soldiers—' - </p> - <p> - "'<i>Ah! Monsieur est militaire!</i>' exclaimed the old gentleman, his - alarming contraction of brow and rigidity of feature instantaneously - dissolving into a smile of extreme benignity. 'That alters the case. - Certainly, between brothers in arms those<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_22a" id="Page_22a">[Pg 22]</a></span> little services may be - offered and accepted. Although, really, it is encroaching on Monsieur's - complaisance ... at the same time ... a hundred francs ... till to-morrow - ... quarters at some distance ... &c. &c.,' which ended in his - picking up his chair, cards, and pin, and applying all his faculties to - break the bank with ten <i>louis</i> which I lent him, and which I need - hardly say I have not seen from that day to this. - </p> - <p> - "Such a sudden stroke of good fortune would have made gamblers of nine men - out of ten, but I decidedly want the organ of gaming, for I have never - played since. My narrow escape from suicide had made some impression on - me, and now that I had five thousand francs in my pocket, I looked back at - the attempt as an exceedingly foolish proceeding. For a month or more, I - lived with what even you would admit to be great economy, writing frequent - letters to Amsterdam, and trying to come to terms and an arrangement with - my family. All in vain. They had no confidence in my promises, proposed - nothing I could accept, talked of Silesian exile—roots and water in - the wilderness—and the like absurdities, until I plainly saw they - were determined to cast me off, and that if I was to be helped at all, it - must be by myself. How to do this was the puzzle. There are few things I - can do, that could in any way be rendered profitable. I can ride a horse, - lay a gun, and put a battery through<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_23a" id="Page_23a">[Pg 23]</a></span> its exercise; but such - accomplishments are sufficiently common not to be paid at a very high - rate; and besides, I had had enough of garrison duty, even could I have - got back my commission, which was not likely. So I put soldiering out of - the question; and yet, when I had done so, I was puzzled to think of - anything better. I had no fancy to turn rook, and rove from place to place - in search of pigeons—no uncommon resource with younger brothers of - an idle turn and exhausted means. I had fallen in with a few birds of that - breed, and had come to the conclusion that, to save themselves work and - trouble, they had adopted by far the most laborious and painful of all - professions. In the midst of my doubts and uncertainties, the fair Sendel - and her mother made their appearance. The first sight of their names upon - the hotel book was a ray of light to me. Within an hour I made up my mind - to sacrifice my independence to my necessities, and become the virtuous - and domesticated spouse of the charming and well-paid Emilie. A hint and a - dollar to the waiter placed me next her at the table-d'hôte, and I - immediately opened my intrenchments, and began a siege in due form." - </p> - <p> - "Which you expect will soon terminate by the capitulation of the - garrison?" - </p> - <p> - "Undoubtedly. The result of the first day or two's operations was not very - satisfactory. I rattled away, and did the amiable to a furious extent; but<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24a" id="Page_24a">[Pg 24]</a></span> the - divinity was shy, and the guardian of the temple (an old gorgon whom I - shall suppress before the honeymoon is out) looked askance at me, and - pulled her daughter by the sleeve whenever she seemed disposed to listen. - They evidently thought the rattle might belong to a snake; did me the - injustice to take me for an adventurer. On the third day, however, the ice - had melted. I soon found out the cause of the thaw. The head-waiter, whom - a little well-timed liberality had rendered my devoted slave, informed me - that Madame Sendel had been making minute inquiries concerning me of the - master of the hotel. The worthy man, who adored me because I despised <i>vin - ordinaire</i> and looked only at the sum-total of his bills, said that I - was a son of Van Haubitz, the rich banker of Amsterdam, which was - perfectly true; adding, which was rather less so, that I was a partner in - the house, and a <i>millionaire</i>. The effect of this information upon - the speculative firm of Sendel <i>Mère et Fille</i>, was perfectly - electric. Medusa smoothed her horrid locks, and came out at that day's - dinner in cherry ribbons and fresh artificials. Emilie was all smiles and - suavity, laughed at my worst jokes, nearly burst her stays by holding her - breath to raise a blush at my soft speeches, and returned from that - evening's promenade talking about the moon, and leaning tenderly on my - arm." - </p> - <p> - "With such encouragement, I am surprised you did not propose at once." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25a" id="Page_25a">[Pg 25]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "So hasty a measure—oh, most unsophisticated of Britons!" replied - Van, with a look of grave pity for my simplicity—"would have greatly - perilled the success of my scheme. Sendel Senior, having only the - innkeeper's report to rely on, would have had her ungenerous suspicions - re-awakened by my precipitation, and have instituted further inquiries; - have written, probably, to some friend in Holland, and learned that the - pretender to her daughter's hand, although unquestionably a son of the - wealthy banker Van Haubitz, is excluded beyond redemption from the good - graces of that respectable pillar of Dutch finance, who has further - announced his irrevocable determination to take not the slightest notice - of him in his testamentary dispositions. The excellent Herr Bratenbengel, - whose succulent dinner we are now digesting, and whose very laudable <i>Rudesheimer</i> - stands before us, had unwittingly laid the foundation of my success; it - was for me to raise the superstructure. Now it was that I rejoiced at my - economy since the lucky hit at the gaming-table. The greater part of my - winnings still remained to me; golden grain, which I profusely scattered, - sure that it would yield rich harvest. I had already made a favourable - impression, and this I took care to confirm by the liberal expenditure - which you, in your ignorance, have called extravagance; by treating money - as if its abundance in my coffers made it valueless in my eyes, and by - delicate generosity in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26a" - id="Page_26a">[Pg 26]</a></span> the shape of presents to mother and - daughter. The trap was too well set to prove a failure; the birds are - fairly snared, and to-night, when we take our usual romantic stroll, I - shall raise the fair Sendel to the seventh heaven of happiness by asking - her to become Madame Van Haubitz." - </p> - <p> - Although the tenor and tone of these confessions by no means tended to - elevate the Dutchman in my opinion, I could not but smile at the coolness - with which they were made, and at the skill of his manœuvres. There - was some good about the scamp; he had his own code of honour, such as it - was, and from that he would not easily have been induced to swerve. He - would have scorned to do a dirty thing, to cheat at cards, or leave a debt - of honour unpaid; but would readily have got in debt to tradesmen and - money-lenders beyond all possibility of reimbursement. And as regarded his - present conspiracy against the celibacy and salary of Mademoiselle Sendel, - a senate of sages and logicians would have failed to convince him of its - impropriety. He looked upon it as a most justifiable stratagem, a lawful - spoiling of the spoiler, praiseworthy in the sight of men, gods, and - columns, and which he would perhaps have boasted of to a considerable - extent to many besides myself, had not secresy been essential to the - welfare of his combinations. I did not feel myself bound to betray his - plot, or to put the Sendel on her guard against this snake amongst the - roses.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27a" id="Page_27a">[Pg 27]</a></span> - And whilst mentally resolving rather to diminish than increase the - intimacy which the confident and confidential artilleryman had in great - measure forced upon me, and which I, through a sort of easy-going - indolence of character, had perhaps somewhat lightly accepted, I - anticipated diversion in watching the manœuvres of the high - contracting parties. I considered myself as a spectator, called upon to - witness an amusing comedy in real life, and admitted behind the scenes by - peculiar favour of an actor. I resolved to watch the progress of the - intrigue, and, if possible, to be present at the <i>dénouement</i>. - </p> - <p> - "Are you quite certain," said I to Van, "that Mademoiselle Sendel's - pecuniary position and prospects are so very favourable? The sum you - mentioned is a large one for an actress who has been so short a time on - the stage. Public report, very apt to take liberties with the reputation - of theatrical ladies, often endeavours to compensate them by magnifying - their salaries." - </p> - <p> - Van, I may here mention, lest the reader should not have perceived it, had - a most inordinate opinion of his own abilities and acuteness. Like certain - Yankees, he "conceited" it was necessary to rise before the sun to outwit - him, and even then your chance was a poor one. He had been in hot water - all his life, never out of difficulties and scrapes—once, as has - been shown, kept from suicide by a mere accident and was now reduced to - the alternative of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28a" id="Page_28a">[Pg - 28]</a></span> beggary or of marrying for a living. None of these - circumstances, which would have taken the conceit out of most men, at all - impaired his opinion of his talent and sharpness. Replying to my - observation merely by a slight shrug, and by a smile of pity for the man - who thus misappreciated his foresight, he again produced his pocket-book, - and extracted from its innermost recesses a fragment of a German - newspaper, reputed oracular in matters theatrical. This he handed to me, - tapping a particular paragraph significantly with his forefinger. The - paragraph was thus conceived:— - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "<span class="smcap">THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE.</span>—That promising - young actress, Fraülein Emilie Sendel—whose first appearance, in the - spring of last year, at once established her in the foremost line of the - dramatic genius of the day—has concluded her twelve months' - engagement at the <i>Hof Theater</i> of B——, where she - doubtless considered, and not without reason, that her talents and - exertions were inadequately compensated by a salary of ten thousand - florins. The gay society of that capital will sensibly feel the loss of - the accomplished and fascinating comedian, who has accepted an engagement - at Vienna, on the more suitable terms of fifteen thousand florins, with - two months' <i>congé</i>, and other advantages. Before proceeding to - ravish the eyes and ears of the pleasure-loving population of the<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29a" id="Page_29a">[Pg 29]</a></span> <i>Kaiser-Stadt, - la belle</i> Sendel is off to the baths, under the protecting wing of the - watchful guardian who has presided at all her theatrical triumphs." - </p> - <p> - "Clear enough, I think," said Van, when I raised my eyes from the - protracted periods of the penny-a-liner. - </p> - <p> - I had nothing to say against the lucidity of the paragraph, nor anything - to urge, at all likely to avail, against the prosecution of Van's designs - upon the lady's hand and fifteen thousand florins, with "two months' <i>congé</i> - and other advantages." No possible sophistry, to which I was equal, could - prove the marriage to be against his interest; and as to trying him on the - tack of delicacy—"imposition on an unprotected woman, degrading - dependence on her exertions," and so forth—I knew the thick skin and - indomitable self-conceit of the gunner would repel such feather-shafts - without feeling them, or that the utmost effect I could expect to produce - would be to get into a quarrel with the redoubtable native of the - Netherlands, a predicament in which, as a man of peace, I was by no means - anxious to find myself. So after hazarding the fruitless hint with which - the reader was made acquainted at the commencement of this narrative, I - abstained from all further intermeddling, and retired to my apartment, - leaving Van Haubitz to con the declaration with which he was that evening<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30a" id="Page_30a">[Pg 30]</a></span> to - rejoice the ears of the fair and too-confiding Sendel. - </p> - <p> - I went to bed early that night, and saw nothing more of the Hollander till - the next morning, when I was roused from a balmy slumber at the untimely - hour of seven, by his bursting into my room with more impetuosity than - ceremony, with the gestures of a maniac and the mien of a conqueror. - Before my eyes were half open, he was more than half through the history - of his proceedings on the previous evening. His success had been complete. - Emilie had faltered, with downcast eyes, a sweet assent. The friendly - gloom of eve, and the over-arching foliage, beneath whose shade the - momentous question was put, saved her the necessity of practising upon her - lungs to produce a blush. Mamma Sendel had bestowed her blessing upon the - happy pair, and in the ardour of her maternal accolades had nearly - extinguished her future son-in-law's left ogle with the wire stalk of an - artificial passion-flower. The first burst of benevolence over, and the - effervescence of feeling a little calmed, the bridegroom elect, who could - not afford delays, pressed for an early day. Thereupon Emilie was, of - course, horror-stricken, but her maternal relative, nothing loth to land - the fish thus satisfactorily hooked, and well aware of the impediments - that sometimes arise between cup and lip, ranged herself upon the side of - the eager lover, and their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31a" - id="Page_31a">[Pg 31]</a></span> combined forces bore down all opposition. - Madame Sendel at first showed an evident hankering after a preliminary - jaunt to Amsterdam and a gay wedding, graced by the presence of the - bridegroom's numerous and wealthy family. She also testified some anxiety - as to the view Van Haubitz Senior might take of his son's matrimonial - project, and as to how far he might approve of a hasty and unceremonious - wedding. But the gallant artilleryman had an answer to everything. He - pledged himself, which he was perfectly safe in doing, that his father - would not attempt in the slightest degree to control his inclinations or - interfere with his projects, extolled the delights of an autumnal tour - with his wife and mother-in-law before returning to Holland; in short, was - so plausible in his arguments, so specious and pressing, pleaded so - eloquently the violence of his love and inutility of delay, and overruled - objections with such cogent reasoning, that he achieved a complete - triumph, and it was agreed that in one week Van Haubitz should lead his - adored Emilie to the hymeneal altar. - </p> - <p> - "There will be a small matter to arrange with respect to Emilie," said - Madame Sendel in her blandest tones, and with affectation of - embarrassment. "She has an engagement at the Vienna theatre, which must of - course now be broken off. There is a forfeit to pay, no very heavy sum," - added she—— - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32a" id="Page_32a">[Pg 32]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Not a word about that," interrupted Van, whose blood curdled in his veins - at the mere idea of cancelling the engagement on which his hopes were - built. "There is no hurry for a few days. Let me once call Emilie mine, - and I take charge of all those matters." - </p> - <p> - Emilie smiled angelically; Madame patted her considerate son-in-law on the - shoulder, and applied to her snuff-box to conceal her emotion; and all - matters of business being thus satisfactorily settled, the evening closed - in harmony and bliss. - </p> - <p> - "Are you for Frankfort to-day?" said Van Haubitz, when he had concluded - his exulting narrative, and without giving me time for congratulations, - which I should have been at a loss to offer. "I am off, after breakfast, - to get some diamond earrings and other small matters for my adorable. I - shall be glad of your taste and opinion." - </p> - <p> - "Diamonds!" I exclaimed. "Farewell, then, to the thousand franc note—" - </p> - <p> - "Pooh! Nonsense! You don't suppose I throw away my last cash that way. The - Frankfort jewellers know me well, or think they do, which is the same - thing. They have seen enough of my coin since I have been at Homburg. For - them, as for my excellent mother-in-law, I am the wealthy partner in the - undoubted good firm of Van Haubitz, Krummwinkel, & Co. I never told - them so; if they choose to imagine it I am not to blame. My<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33a" id="Page_33a">[Pg 33]</a></span> credit - is good. The diamonds shall be paid for—if paid for they must be—out - of Madame Van Haubitz's first quarter's salary." - </p> - <p> - I was meditating an excuse for not accompanying my pertinacious and - unscrupulous acquaintance on his cruise against the Frankfort Israelites, - when he resumed— - </p> - <p> - "By the by," he said, "you will come to church with us. I have arranged it - all. Quite private, for reasons good. Nobody but yourself, Madame Sendel, - and Emilie. You shall act as father, and give away the bride." - </p> - <p> - The start I gave, at this alarming announcement, nearly broke the bed. - This was carrying things rather too far. Not satisfied with rendering me, - by his intrusive and unsolicited confidence, a sort of tacit accomplice in - his manœuvres, this Dutch Gil Blas would fain make me an active - participator. I drew at sight on my imagination, quickened by the peril, - for a letter received the previous evening from a dear and near relative - who lay dangerously ill at Baden-Baden, and to whose sick-bed it was - absolutely necessary I should immediately repair; and, jumping up, I began - to dress in all haste, rang furiously for the bill and a carriage, and - requested Van Haubitz to present my excuses to the ladies, my unexpected - departure at that early hour depriving me of the pleasure of taking leave - of them. The Dutchman swore all manner of <i>donderwetters</i><span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34a" id="Page_34a">[Pg 34]</a></span> and <i>sacraments</i> - that he was grieved at my departure, trusted I should find my friend - better, and be able to return to Frankfort in time for the marriage, but - did not press me to do so, and in reality was too exhilarated by the - success of his machinations to care a straw about the matter. And saying - he must go and write to Amsterdam, he shook me by the hand and left the - room, whistling in loud and joyous key the burthen of a Dutch march. In - less than an hour I was on the road to Frankfort, and that evening I - reached Heidelberg, where some friends of mine had passed the summer. I - expected to find them still there, but they had left for Baden-Baden. - Thither I pursued them, and—as if it were a judgment on me for my - white lie to the Dutchman—arrived there the morrow of their - departure. Baden was thinning, and they had gone down stream: I must have - passed them on the Rhine. Having strong reasons to see them before they - left Germany, I followed upon their trail. But their movements were rapid - and eccentric, and after tracking them to one or two of the minor baths, - the chase led me back to Frankfort. Here I made sure to catch them, or - resolved to give up the hunt. - </p> - <p> - A week had been consumed in thus travelling to and fro. I had no great - fancy for returning to Frankfort, lest my friend the Dutchman should still - be there, and press his society upon me, of which,<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_35a" id="Page_35a">[Pg 35]</a></span> after his recent - revelations, I was anything but ambitious. Upon the whole, however, I - thought it likely he would have departed. I knew he would accelerate his - marriage as much as possible; I had been nine days absent, which gave him - ample time to get over the ceremony and leave the neighbourhood. By way of - precaution I resolved to keep pretty close in my hotel during the period - of my stay, which was not to exceed one or two days. - </p> - <p> - On arriving at the "White Swan," I found my friends were staying there, - but had driven over to Homburg. Unwilling to follow them, and risk meeting - my bugbear, I awaited their return, which was to take place to a late - dinner. As usual, there was much bustle at the "Swan;" many goings and - comings, several carriages in the courtyard, others in the street packing - for departure, a throng of greedy <i>lohn-kutschers</i>, warm waiters, and - bearded couriers hanging about the door, and running up and down stairs. I - entered the public room. It was past noon, and the tables were laid for - dinner, but there were only two persons in the apartment, a gentleman and - a lady. They stood at a window, outside of which a handsome Vienna-made - berline, with a count's coronet on the panels, was being got ready for a - journey. As I walked up the room, the lady turned her head, and I was - instantly struck by her resemblance to Emilie Sendel. So strong was it - that I for a moment thought I had fallen in with<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_36a" id="Page_36a">[Pg 36]</a></span> the very persons I wished - to avoid. A second glance convinced me of my error. The likeness was - certainly startling, but there were many points of difference. Age and - stature were the same, so were the hair and complexion, save that the - former was less ruddy, the latter paler than in the case of the buxom - Emilie. And there were grace and refinement about this person, far beyond - any to which the Dutchman's lady-love could pretend. The expression of the - interesting features was rather pensive than gay, and there was something - classical in the arch of the eyebrow and outline of the face. The lady was - plainly but richly attired in an elegant travelling-dress, and had her - hand upon the arm of a tall and very handsome man, about forty years of - age, of singularly aristocratic but somewhat dissipated appearance. They - were talking as I entered, and a sentence or two of their conversation - reached my ear. They spoke French, with a scarcely perceptible foreign - accent. - </p> - <p> - Curious to know who these persons were, I returned to the court of the - hotel, intending to question a waiter. It was first necessary to catch - one, not easy at that busy time of day; and after several fruitless - efforts to detain the jacketed gentry, I gave up the attempt, and took my - station at the gateway. Scarcely had I done so, when a carriage drove up - at a rattling pace, a small spit of a boy in a smart green suit, and with - an ambiguous sort of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37a" id="Page_37a">[Pg - 37]</a></span> coronet embroidered in silver on the front of his cap, - jumped off and opened the door, and there emerged from the vehicle, to my - infinite dismay, the inevitable Van Haubitz. Retreat was impossible, for - he saw me directly; and after handing out Madame Sendel and her daughter, - seized me vehemently by both hands. - </p> - <p> - "Delighted to see you!" he cried; "I wish you had been a day sooner. We - were married yesterday," he added in a hurried voice, drawing me aside. - "Have left Homburg, paid everything <i>there</i>, and leave this to-morrow - for Heaven knows where. Explanations must come first (here he made a - grimace), for my purse is low, and my mother-in-law makes projects that - would ruin Rothschild. Lucky you are here to back me. Come in." - </p> - <p> - I was fairly caught, and in a pretty dilemma. My first thought was to - knock down the Dutchman, and run for it, but reflection checked the - impulse. Stammering a confused congratulation to the bride and her mother, - and meditating an escape at all hazards, I allowed Madame Sendel to hook - herself on my arm, and lead me into the hotel in the wake of the - newly-wedded pair, who made at once for the public room. A magnificent - courier, in a Hungarian dress, with beard, belt, and hunting-knife, strode - past us into the apartment. - </p> - <p> - "<i>Herr Graf</i>," said the man, addressing the distinguished-looking - stranger who had attracted my attention, "the horses are ready." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38a" id="Page_38a">[Pg 38]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - The Count and his companion turned at the announcement, and found - themselves face to face with our party. There was a general start and - exclamation from the three women. The strange lady turned very pale and - visibly trembled; Madame Van Haubitz gave a slight scream; her mother - flushed as red as the poppies in her head-dress, and hung like a log upon - my arm, glaring angrily at the strangers. For one moment all stood still; - Van Haubitz and I looked at each other in bewilderment. He was evidently - struck by the extraordinary resemblance I had noticed, and which became - more manifest, now that the two ladies were seen together. - </p> - <p> - "Come, Ameline," said the Count, who alone preserved complete - self-possession. And he hurried his companion from the room. Madame Sendel - released my arm, and letting herself fall upon a chair with an hysterical - giggle, closed her eyes and seemed preparing for a comfortable swoon. Her - daughter hastened to her assistance and untied her bonnet; Van Haubitz - grasped a decanter of water and made an alarming demonstration of emptying - it upon the full-moon countenance of his respectable mother-in-law. I was - curious to see him do it, for I had always had my doubts whether the - dowager's colours were what is technically termed "fast." My curiosity was - not gratified. Whether from apprehension of the remedy or from some other - cause,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39a" id="Page_39a">[Pg 39]</a></span> - I cannot say, but Madame Sendel abandoned her faint, and after two or - three grotesque contortions of countenance, and a certain amount of - winking and blinking, was sufficiently recovered to take a huge pinch of - snuff, and ascend the stairs to a private room, with her daughter and - son-in-law for supporters, and half-a-score waiters and chambermaids, whom - her hysterical symptoms had assembled, by way of a tail. Seeing her so - well guarded, I thought it unnecessary to add to the escort. As she left - the room, there was a clatter of hoofs outside, and looking through the - window, I saw the coroneted berline whirled rapidly away by four vigorous - posters. Just then the dinner-bell rang, and the obsequious head-waiter, - who with profound bows had assisted at the departure of the travellers, - bustled into the room. - </p> - <p> - "Who is the gentleman who has just left?" I inquired. - </p> - <p> - "His Excellency, Count J——," replied the man. It was the name - of a Hungarian nobleman of great wealth, and of reputation almost European - as one of the most fashionable and successful Lotharios of the dissipated - Austrian capital. - </p> - <p> - "And his companion?" - </p> - <p> - "The celebrated actress, Fraülein Sendel." - </p> - <p> - Had the cunning but unlucky Van Haubitz been a regular reader of the <i>Theater - Zeitung</i>, or Journal of the Theatres, he would have seen, in the - ensuing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40a" id="Page_40a">[Pg 40]</a></span> - number to that whence he derived his information respecting Mademoiselle - Sendel's confirmed popularity and advantageous engagement, the following - short but important paragraph: - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "<span class="smcap">ERRATUM.</span>—In our yesterday's impression - an error occurred, arising from a similarity of names. It is Fraülein <i>Ameline</i> - Sendel who has concluded with the Vienna theatre an engagement equally - advantageous to herself and the manager. Her elder sister, Fraülein <i>Emilie</i>, - continues the engagement she has already held for two seasons, as a - supernumerary <i>soubrette</i>. The amount stated yesterday as her salary - would still be correct, with the abstraction of a zero. Talent does not - always run in families." - </p> - <p> - This good-natured paragraph, evidently from the pen of a sulky sub-editor, - smarting under a lashing for his blunder of the preceding day, did not - come to my knowledge till some time afterwards, so that the waiter's reply - to my question concerning Count J——'s travelling-companion - perplexed me greatly, and plunged me into an ocean of conjectures. In - fact, my curiosity was so strongly roused, that instead of availing myself - of the absence of the Dutchman to escape from the hotel, I sat down to - dinner, resolved not to depart till I heard the mystery explained. I had - not long to wait. Dinner was just over, when I received a message from Van<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41a" id="Page_41a">[Pg 41]</a></span> - Haubitz, who earnestly desired to see me. I found him alone, seated at a - table, his chin resting on his hand, anger, shame, and mortification - stamped upon his inflamed countenance. A tumbler half full of water stood - upon the table, beside a bottle of smelling salts; and, upon entering, I - was pretty sure I heard a sound of sobbing from an inner room, which - ceased, however, when I spoke. There had evidently been a violent scene. - Its cause was explained to me by Van Haubitz, at first in rather a - confused manner, for at each attempt to detail the circumstances he - interrupted himself by bursts of fury. Owing to this, it was some time - before I could arrive at a clear understanding of the facts of the case. - When I did, I could scarcely help feeling sorry for the unfortunate - schemer, although in truth he richly deserved the disappointment he had - met. Never was there a more glaring instance of excess of cunning - overreaching itself,—for no deception had been practised by Madame - Sendel and her daughter. They doubtless gave themselves credit for some - cleverness and more good fortune in enticing a rich banker, with more - ducats than brains, into their matrimonial nets; and doubtless Fraülein - Emilie put on her best looks and gowns, her sweetest smiles and most - becoming bonnets, to lure the lion into the toils. But neither mother nor - daughter had for a moment imagined that Van Haubitz took the latter for - the celebrated and successful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42a" - id="Page_42a">[Pg 42]</a></span> actress whose name was known throughout - Germany, whilst that of poor Emilie, whose talents were of the most humble - order, had scarcely ever penetrated beyond the wings and greenroom of the - theatre, where she enacted unimportant characters for the modest - remuneration of a hundred florins a month. By no means proud of her - position as an actress, which appeared the more lowly when contrasted with - her sister's brilliant success, Emilie had seldom referred to things - theatrical since her acquaintance with Van Haubitz. On his part, the - Dutchman, conscious of his real motives and anxious to conceal them, - abstained from all direct reference to Mademoiselle Sendel's great talents - and their lucrative results, contenting himself with general compliments, - which passed current without being closely scanned. If he had never heard - either his wife or mother-in-law make mention of Ameline, it was because - they were on the worst possible terms with that young lady, who had lived, - nearly from the period of her first appearance upon the boards, under the - protection of the accomplished libertine, Count J——, over whom - she was said to exercise extraordinary influence. When she formed this - connection, Madame Sendel—who, in spite of her paint and artificial - floriculture, had very strict notions of propriety—wrote her a - letter of furious reproach, renounced her as her daughter, and prohibited - Emilie from holding any communication<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_43a" id="Page_43a">[Pg 43]</a></span> with her. Emilie, against - whose virtue none had ever found aught to say, sorrowfully obeyed; and, - after two or three ineffectual attempts on the part of Ameline to soften - her mother's wrath, all communication ceased between them. Their next - meeting was that at which Van Haubitz and myself were present. Its - singularity, Madame Sendel's fainting fit, and the resemblance between the - sisters, brought on inquiries and an explanation; and the Dutchman found, - to his inexpressible disgust and consternation, that he had encumbered - himself with a wife he cared nothing for, and a mother-in-law he detested, - whose joint income was largely stated at one hundred and fifty pounds - sterling per annum. In his first paroxysm of rage he taunted them with the - mistake they had made when they thought to secure the love-sick - millionaire, proclaimed himself in debt, disinherited, and a beggar; and, - finally, by the violence of his reproaches, drove them trembling and - weeping from the room. - </p> - <p> - Van Haubitz had sent for me to implore my advice in his present difficult - position; but was so bewildered by passion, and overwhelmed by this sudden - awakening from his dream of success and prosperity, that he was hardly in - a condition to listen to reason. His regrets were so selfish as to destroy - the possibility of sympathy, and I should have left him to his fate and - his own devices, had I not thought that my so doing would make matters<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44a" id="Page_44a">[Pg 44]</a></span> worse - for the poor girl who had thus heedlessly linked herself to a - fortune-hunter. So I remained; after a while he became calmer, and we - talked over plans for the future. By my suggestion, Madame Sendel and her - daughter were invited to the conference. The old lady was sulky and - frightened, and would hardly open her lips; Emilie, on the other hand, - made a more favourable impression on me than she had ever previously done. - I now saw, what I had not before suspected, that she was really attached - to Van Haubitz; hitherto, I had taken her for a mere adventuress, - speculating on his supposed wealth. She spoke kindly and affectionately to - him, smiled through the tears brought to her eyes by his recent violence, - and evidently trembled each time her mother spoke, lest she should vent a - reproach or refer to his duplicity. She tried to speak confidently and - cheerfully of the future. They must go immediately to Vienna, she said; - there she would apply diligently to her profession; the manager had half - promised her an increase of salary after another year—she was sure - she should deserve it, and meanwhile Van Haubitz, with his abilities, - could not fail to find some lucrative employment. He must get rid of his - accent, she added with a smile (he spoke a voluble but most execrable - jargon of mingled Dutch and German), and then he might go upon the stage, - where she was certain he would succeed. This last suggestion was made - timidly, as if she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45a" id="Page_45a">[Pg - 45]</a></span> feared to hurt the pride of the scapegrace by proposing - such a plan. There was not a word or an accent of reproach in all she - said, and I heartily forgave the little coquetry, affectation, and - vulgarity I had formerly remarked in her, in consideration of the - intuitive delicacy and good feeling she now displayed. Truly, thought I, - it is humbling to us, the bearded and baser moiety of humankind, to - contrast our vile egotism with the beautiful self-devotion of woman, as - exhibited even in this poor actress. - </p> - <p> - Madame Sendel by no means acquiesced in her daughter's project. The - flesh-pots of Amsterdam had attractions for her, far superior to those of - a struggling and uncertain existence at Vienna. She evidently leaned upon - the hope of a reconciliation between Van Haubitz and his father, and - hinted pretty plainly at the effect that might be produced by a personal - interview with the obdurate banker. I could see she was arranging matters - in her queer old noddle upon the approved theatrical principle; the - penitent son and fascinating daughter-in-law throwing themselves at the - feet of the melting father, who, with handkerchief to eyes, bestows on - them a blubbering benediction and ample subsidy. To my surprise, Van - Haubitz also seemed disposed to place hope in an appeal to his father, - perhaps as a drowning man clutches at a straw. He may have thought that - his marriage, imprudent as it was, would be taken as some guarantee of<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46a" id="Page_46a">[Pg 46]</a></span> future - steadiness, or at least of abstinence from the spendthrift courses which - had hitherto destroyed all confidence in him. He could hardly expect his - union with a penniless actress to reinstate him in his father's good - graces; but he probably imagined he might extract a small annuity, as a - condition of living at a distance from the friends he had disgraced. He - asked me what I thought of the plan. I of course did not dissuade him from - its adoption, and upon the whole thought it his best chance, for I really - saw no other. After some deliberation and discussion, he seemed nearly to - have made up his mind, when I was called away to my friends, who had - returned from their excursion. - </p> - <p> - I was getting into bed that night, when Van Haubitz knocked at my door, - and entered the room with a downcast and dejected air, very different from - his usual boisterous headlong manner. - </p> - <p> - "I am off to Holland," he said; "'tis my only chance, bad though it be." - </p> - <p> - "I sincerely wish you success," replied I. "In any case, do not despair; - something will turn up. You have friends in your own country, I have heard - you say. They will help you to occupation." - </p> - <p> - He shook his head. - </p> - <p> - "Good friends over a bottle and a dice-box," said he, "but useless at a - pinch like this. Pleasant fellows enough, but scamps like"—myself, - he was going to add, but did not. "I am come to say<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_47a" id="Page_47a">[Pg 47]</a></span> farewell," he continued. - "I must be off before daybreak. I have debts in Frankfort, and if my - departure gets wind, I shall have a dozen duns on my back. Misfortunes - never come alone. As for paying, it is out of the question. Amongst us we - have only about enough money to reach Amsterdam. Once there—<i>à la - grace de Dieu!</i> but I confess my hopes are small. Thanks for your - advice—and for your sympathy too, for I saw this morning you were - sorry for me, though you did not think I deserved pity. Well, perhaps not. - God bless you." - </p> - <p> - He was leaving the room, but returned. - </p> - <p> - "I think you said you should stay at Coblenz before returning to England." - </p> - <p> - "I shall probably be there a few days towards the end of the month." - </p> - <p> - "Good. If I succeed, you shall hear from me. What is your address there?" - </p> - <p> - "<i>Poste restante</i> will find me," I replied, not very covetous of the - correspondence, and unwilling to give a more exact direction. - </p> - <p> - Van Haubitz nodded and left me. At breakfast the next morning I learned - that the Dutch baron, as the waiter styled him, had taken his departure at - peep of day. - </p> - <p> - The first days of October found me still at Coblenz, lingering amongst the - valleys and vineyards, and loth to exchange them for the autumnal fogs<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48a" id="Page_48a">[Pg 48]</a></span> and - emptiness of London. Thither, however, I was compelled to return; and I - endeavoured to console myself for the necessity by discovering that the - green Rhine grew brown, the trees scant of leaves, the evenings long and - chilly. I had heard nothing of Van Haubitz, and had ceased to think of - him, when, walking out at dusk on the eve of the day fixed for my - departure, I suddenly encountered him. He had just arrived by a steamboat - coming up stream; his wife and mother-in-law were with him, and they were - about to enter a fifth-rate inn, which, two months previously, he would - have felt insulted if solicited to patronise. I was shocked by the change - that had taken place in all three of them. In five weeks they had grown - five years older. Emilie had lost her freshness, her eye its sparkle; and - the melancholy smile with which she welcomed me made my heart ache. Madame - Sendel's rotund cheeks had collapsed, she looked cross and jaundiced, and - more snuffy than ever. Van Haubitz was thin and haggard, his hair and - mustaches, formerly glossy and well-trimmed, were ragged and neglected, - his dress, once so smart and carefully arranged, was soiled and slovenly. - My imagination supplied a rapid and vivid sketch of the anxieties, and - disappointments, and heart-burnings, which, more than any actual bodily - privations, had worked so great a change in so short a time. Van Haubitz - started on seeing me, and faltered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49a" - id="Page_49a">[Pg 49]</a></span> in his pace, as if unwilling to enter the - shabby hotel in my presence. The hesitation was momentary. "Worse quarters - than we used to meet in," said he, with a bitter smile. "I will not ask - you into this dog-hole. Wait an instant, and I will walk with you." - </p> - <p> - Badly as I thought of Van Haubitz, and indisposed as I was to keep up any - acquaintance with him, I had not the heart, seeing him so miserable and - down in the world, to turn my back upon him at once. So I entered the - hotel, and waited in the public room. In a few minutes he reappeared with - the two ladies, and we all four strolled out in the direction of the - Rhine. I did not ask the Dutchman the result of his journey. It was - unnecessary. His disheartened air and general appearance told the tale of - disappointment, of humiliating petitions sternly rejected, of hopes fled - and a cheerless future. He kept silence the while we walked a hundred - yards, and then, having left his wife and mother-in-law out of ear-shot, - abruptly began the tale of his mishaps. As I conjectured, he had totally - failed in his attempt to mollify his father, who was furious at his - temerity in appearing before him, and whose rage redoubled when he heard - of his ill-omened marriage. Unfortunately for Van Haubitz, the jeweller - and some other tradesmen at Frankfort, so soon as they learned his - departure, had forwarded their accounts to the care of the<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50a" id="Page_50a">[Pg 50]</a></span> - Amsterdam firm; and, although his father had not the remotest intention of - paying them, he was incensed in the extreme at the slur thus cast upon his - house and name. In short, the unlucky artilleryman at once saw he had no - chance of a single kreuzer, or of the slightest countenance from his - father. His applications to his brothers, and to one or two more distant - relatives, were equally unsuccessful. All were disgusted at his - irregularities, angry at his marriage, incredulous of his promises of - reform; and, after passing a miserable month in Amsterdam, he set out to - accompany his wife to Vienna, whither she was compelled to repair under - pain of fine and forfeiture of her engagement. Although living with rigid - economy—on bread and water, as Van Haubitz expressed it—their - finances had been utterly consumed by their stay in the Dutch capital, and - it was only by disposing of every trinket and superfluity (and of - necessaries too, I feared, when I remembered the slender baggage that came - up with them from the boat) that they had procured the means of - travelling, in the cheapest and most humble manner, and with the - disheartening certainty of arriving penniless at Vienna. Van Haubitz told - me all this, and many other details, with an air of gloomy despondency. He - was hopeless, heart-broken, desperate; and certain circumstances of his - position, which by some would have been held an alleviation, aggravated it<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51a" id="Page_51a">[Pg 51]</a></span> in his - eyes. He said little of his wife; but, from what escaped him, I easily - gathered that she had shown strength of mind, good feeling and affection - for him, and was willing to struggle by his side for a scanty and - hard-earned subsistence. His cares and irritable mood prevented his - appreciating her attachment, and he looked upon her as an encumbrance, - without which he might again rise in the world. He had always entertained - a confident expectation of enriching himself by marriage; and this hope, - which had buoyed him up under many difficulties, was now gone. - </p> - <p> - "I have one resource left," said Van Haubitz. "I have pondered over it for - the last two days, and have almost determined on its adoption." - </p> - <p> - "What is it?" I asked. - </p> - <p> - "If I decide upon it," he replied, "you shall shortly know. 'Tis a - desperate one enough." - </p> - <p> - We had insensibly slackened our pace, and at this moment the ladies came - up. Van Haubitz made a gesture, as of impatience at the interruption. - </p> - <p> - "Wait for me here," he said, and walked away. Without speculating upon the - motive of his absence, I stood still, and entered into conversation with - the ladies. We were on the quay. The night was mild and calm, but overcast - and exceedingly dark. A few feet below us rolled the dark mass of the - Rhine, slightly swollen by recent rains. A<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_52a" id="Page_52a">[Pg 52]</a></span> light from an adjacent - window illuminated the spot, and cast a flickering gleam across the water. - Unwilling to refer to their misfortunes, I spoke to Emilie on some general - topic. But Madame Sendel was too full of her troubles to tolerate any - conversation that did not immediately relate to them, and she broke in - with a long history of grievances, of the hard-heartedness of the - Amsterdam relations, the cruelty of Emilie's position, her son-in-law's - helplessness, and various other matters, in a querulous tone, and with - frightful volubility. The poor daughter, I plainly saw, winced under this - infliction. I was waiting the smallest opening to interrupt the indiscreet - old lady, and revert to common-place, when a distant splash in the water - reached my ears. The women also heard it, and at the same instant a - presentiment of evil came over us all. Madame Sendel suddenly held her - tongue and her breath; Emilie turned deadly pale, and without saying a - word, flew along the quay in the direction of the sound. She had gone but - a few yards when her strength failed her, and she would have fallen, but - for my support. There was a shout, and a noise of men running. Leaving - Madame Van Haubitz to the care of her mother, I ran swiftly along the - river side, and soon reached a place where the deep water moaned and - surged against the perpendicular quay. Here several men were assembled, - talking hurriedly and pointing to the river. Others<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_53a" id="Page_53a">[Pg 53]</a></span> each moment arrived, and - two boats were hastily shoved off from an adjacent landing-place. - </p> - <p> - "A man in the river," was the reply to my hasty inquiry. - </p> - <p> - It was so dark that I could not distinguish countenances close to me, and - at a very few yards even the outline of objects was scarcely to be - discerned. There were no houses close at hand, and some minutes elapsed - before lights were procured. At last several boats put off, with men - standing in the bows, holding torches and lanterns high in the air. - Meanwhile I had questioned the bystanders, but could get little - information; none as to the person to whom the accident had happened. The - man who had given the alarm was returning from mooring his boat to a - neighbouring jetty, when he perceived a figure moving along the quay a - short distance in his front. The figure disappeared, a heavy splash - followed, and the boatman ran forward. He could see no one either on shore - or in the stream, but heard a sound as of one striking out and struggling - in the water. Having learned this much, I jumped into a boat just then - putting off, and bid the rowers pull down stream, keeping a short distance - from the quay. The current ran strong, and I doubted not that the drowning - man had been carried along by it. Two vigorous oars-men pulled till the - blades bent, and the boat, aided by the stream, flew through the water. A - third<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54a" id="Page_54a">[Pg 54]</a></span> - man held a torch. I strained my eyes through the darkness. Presently a - small object floated within a few feet of the boat, which was rapidly - passing it. It shone in the torchlight. I struck at it with a boat-hook, - and brought it on board. It was a man's cap, covered with oilskin, and I - remembered that Van Haubitz wore such a one. Stripping off the cover, I - beheld an officer's foraging cap, with a grenade embroidered on its front. - My doubts, slight before, were entirely dissipated. - </p> - <p> - When the search, rendered almost hopeless by the extreme darkness and - power of the current, was at last abandoned, I hastened to the hotel, and - inquired for Madame Sendel. She came to me in a state of great agitation. - Van Haubitz had not returned, but she thought less of that than of the - state of her daughter, who, since recovering from a long swoon, had been - almost crazed with anxiety. She knew some one had been drowned, and her - mind misgave her it was her husband. The foraging-cap, which Madame Sendel - immediately recognised, removed all uncertainty. The only hope remaining - was, that Van Haubitz, although carried rapidly away by the power of the - current, had been able to maintain himself on the surface, and had got - ashore at some considerable distance down the river, or had been picked up - by a passing boat. But this was a very feeble hope, and for my own<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55a" id="Page_55a">[Pg 55]</a></span> part, - and for more than one reason, I placed no reliance on it. I left Madame - Sendel to break the painful intelligence to her daughter, and went home, - promising to call again in the morning. - </p> - <p> - As I had expected, nothing was heard of Van Haubitz, nor any vestige of - him found, save the foraging-cap I had picked up. Doubtless, the Rhine had - borne down his lifeless corpse to the country of his birth. The next day - Coblenz rang with the death of the unfortunate Dutchman. A stranger, and - unacquainted with the localities, he was supposed to have walked over the - quay by accident. I thought differently; and so I knew did Madame Sendel - and Emilie. I saw the former early the next day. She was greatly cast down - about her daughter, who had passed a sleepless night, and was weak and - suffering, but who nevertheless insisted on continuing her journey the - following morning. - </p> - <p> - "We must go," said her mother; "if we delay, Emilie loses her engagement, - and how can we both live on my poor jointure? Weeping will not bring him - back, were he worth it. To think of the misery he has caused us!" - </p> - <p> - I ventured to hint an inquiry as to their means of prosecuting their - journey. The old lady understood the intention, and took it kindly. "But - she needed no assistance," she said; Van Haubitz (and<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_56a" id="Page_56a">[Pg 56]</a></span> this confirmed our strong - suspicion of suicide) had given their little stock of money into his - wife's keeping only a few hours before his death. - </p> - <p> - That afternoon I left Coblenz for England. - </p> - <hr class="tb" /> - <p> - On a certain Wednesday, about ten years after the incidents I have - sketched, I had been enjoying the excellent acting of Bouffé in two of his - best characters, and paused for a moment to speak to a friend in the - crowded lobby of the St James's Theatre. Whilst thus engaged, I became - aware that I was an object of attention to two persons, whom I had an - indistinct notion of having seen before, but when or where, or who they - might be, I had not the remotest idea. One of them was a - comfortable-looking, middle-aged man, with a bald head, a smooth, - clean-shaven face, and an incipient ventral rotundity. His complexion was - clear and wholesome, his countenance good-humoured, his whole appearance - bespoke an existence free from care, nights of sound sleep, and days of - tranquil enjoyment. His face was too sleek to be very expressive, but - there was a shrewd, quick look in the eye, and I set him down in my mind - as a wealthy German merchant or manufacturer (some small peculiarities of - costume betrayed the foreigner) come to show London to his wife—a - well-favoured dame,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57a" id="Page_57a">[Pg - 57]</a></span> fat, fair, but some years short of forty—who - accompanied him, and who, as well as her better half, seemed to honour me - with very particular notice. My confabulation over, I was leaving the - theatre, when a sleek soft hand was gently passed through my arm. It was - my friend the stout foreigner. I strained my eyes and my memory, but in - vain; I felt very puzzled, and doubtless looked so, for he smiled, and - advancing his head, whispered a name in my ear. It was that of Van - Haubitz. - </p> - <p> - I started, looked again, doubted, and was at last convinced. <i>Minus</i> - mustache and whisker, which were closely shaven, and half his hair, of - which the remainder was considerably grizzled; <i>plus</i> a degree of - corpulence such as I should never have thought the slender lieutenant of - artillery capable of acquiring; his heated, sunburnt complexion and - dissipated look, exchanged for a fresh colour and benevolent placidity—the - Dutchman I had left in the Rhine stood beside me in the lobby of the - French theatre. I turned to the lady: she was less changed than her - companion, and now that I was upon the track, I recognised Emilie Sendel. - By this time we were in the street. Van Haubitz handed his wife into a - carriage. - </p> - <p> - "Come and sup with us," he said, "and I will explain." - </p> - <p> - I mechanically obeyed, and in less than three minutes, still tongue-tied - by astonishment, I alighted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58a" - id="Page_58a">[Pg 58]</a></span> at the door of a fashionable hotel in a - street adjoining Piccadilly. - </p> - <p> - A few lines will convey to the reader the substance of the long - conversation which kept the resuscitated Dutchman and myself from our beds - for fully two hours after our unexpected meeting. I had been right in - supposing that he had thrown himself voluntarily into the river; wrong in - my belief that he meditated suicide. An excellent swimmer, he had taken - the water to get rid of his wife. He might certainly have chosen a drier - method, and have given her the slip in the night-time or on the road; but - she had shown, whenever he referred to the possibility of their - separation, such a determination to remain with him at all risks and - sacrifices, that he felt certain she would pursue him as soon as she - discovered his absence. He had formed a wild scheme of returning to - Amsterdam, and haunting his family until, through mere weariness and - vexation, they supplied him with funds for an outfit to Sumatra. There he - trusted to redeem his fortunes, as he had heard that others of no greater - abilities or better character than himself had already done. A more - extravagant project was never formed, and indeed all his acts, during the - six weeks that followed his marriage, were more or less eccentric and - ill-judged. This he admitted, when relating them to me, and probably would - not have been sorry to place them to the score of actual mental<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59a" id="Page_59a">[Pg 59]</a></span> - derangement. The redeeming touch in his conduct at that, the most - discreditable period of his life, was his leaving, as I have already - mentioned, what money he had to his wife and her mother, reserving but a - few florins for his own support. With these in his pocket, he proposed - proceeding on foot to Amsterdam. After landing on the right bank of the - Rhine, he walked the greater part of the night as the best means of drying - his saturated garments. When weariness at last compelled him to pause, it - was not yet daylight, no house was open, and he threw himself on some - straw in a farmyard. He awoke in a high fever, the result of his - immersion, of exposure and fatigue, acting on a frame heated and weakened - by anxiety and mental suffering. He obtained shelter at the neighbouring - farm-house, whose kind-hearted inhabitants carefully tended him for - several weeks, during which his life was more than once despaired of. His - convalescence was long, and not till the close of the year could he resume - his journey northwards, by short stages, chiefly on foot. Unfavourable as - his prospects were, his good star had not yet set. This very illness, as - occasioning a delay, was a stroke of good fortune. Had he at once - proceeded to Holland, his family, in hopes to get rid of him for ever, - would probably have given him the small sum he needed for an outfit to the - Indian Archipelago, and he would have sailed thither before the 31st of - December, on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60a" id="Page_60a">[Pg 60]</a></span> - which day his father, a joyous liver and confirmed votary of Bacchus, eat - and drank to such an extent to celebrate the exit of the old year and - commencement of the new, that he fell down, on his way to his bed, in a - thundering fit of apoplexy, and was a corpse before morning. The day of - his funeral, Van Haubitz, footsore and emaciated, and reduced to his last - pfenning, walked wearily into the city of Amsterdam. There a great - surprise awaited him. - </p> - <p> - "Your father had not disinherited you?" I exclaimed, when the Dutchman - made a momentary pause at this point of his narrative. - </p> - <p> - "He had left a will devising his entire property to my brothers, and not - even naming me. But a slight formality was omitted, which rendered the - document of no more value than the parchment it was drawn upon. The - signature was wanting. My father had the weakness, no uncommon one, of - disliking whatever reminded him of his mortality. He would have fancied - himself nearer his grave had he signed his will. And thus he had delayed - till it was too late. I found myself joint heir with my brothers. By far - the greater part of my father's large capital was embarked in his bank, - and in extensive financial operations, which it would have been necessary - to liquidate at considerable disadvantage, to operate the partition - prescribed by law. Seeing this, I proposed to my brothers to admit me as - partner in the firm, with the stipulation that I<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_61a" id="Page_61a">[Pg 61]</a></span> should have no active - share in its direction, until my knowledge of business and steadiness of - conduct gave them the requisite confidence in me. After some deliberation - they agreed to this; and three years later their opinion of me had - undergone such a change, that two of them retired to estates in the - country, leaving me the chief management of the concern." - </p> - <p> - "And Madame Van Haubitz; when did she rejoin you?" - </p> - <p> - "Immediately the change in my fortunes occurred. Reckless as I at that - time was, and utterly devoid of feeling as you must have thought me, I - could not remember without emotion the disinterested affection, delicacy, - and unselfishness she had exhibited on discovery of my real circumstances. - During my long illness I had had time to reflect, and when I left my - sick-bed in that rude but hospitable German farm-house, it was as a - penitent for past offences, and with a strong resolution to atone them. - Within a week after my father's funeral, I was on my way to Vienna, to - fetch Emilie to the opulent home she had anticipated when she married me. - Her joy at seeing me was scarcely increased when she heard that I had - become the rich banker she had at first thought me." - </p> - <p> - "And Madame Sendel?" - </p> - <p> - "Returned to Amsterdam with us. There was good about the old lady, and by - purloining her artificials,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62a" - id="Page_62a">[Pg 62]</a></span> limiting her snuff, and soaking her in - tea, she was made endurable enough. Until her death, which occurred a - couple of years ago, she passed her time alternately with us and her - younger daughter." - </p> - <p> - "She became reconciled to Mademoiselle Ameline?" - </p> - <p> - "Ameline had been Countess J—— all the time. She was privately - married. For certain family reasons the Count had conditioned that their - union should for a while be kept secret. Seeing that her equivocal - position and her mother's displeasure preyed upon her health and spirits, - he declared his marriage. She left the stage to become a reigning beauty - in the best society of Austria, lady of half-a-dozen castles, and - sovereign mistress of as many thousand Hungarian boors." - </p> - <p> - Van Haubitz remained some time in London, and I saw him often. He was as - much changed in character as in personal appearance. The sharp lessons - received about the period of our first acquaintance had made a strong - impression on him; and the summer tide of prosperity suddenly setting in, - had enabled him to realise good intentions and honourable resolves, which - the chill current of adversity might have frozen in the germ. Some of - those who read these lines may have occasion, when visiting the country - stigmatised by the snarling Frenchman as the land of <i>canards</i>, <i>canaux</i>, - and <i>canaille</i>,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63a" id="Page_63a">[Pg - 63]</a></span> to receive cash in the busy counting-house, and hospitality - in the princely mansion of one of its most respected bankers. None, I am - well assured, will discern in their amiable and exemplary entertainer any - vestige of the disreputable impulses and evil passions that sullied the - early life of "My Friend the Dutchman." - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64a" id="Page_64a">[Pg 64]</a></span> - </p> - <h2> - <a name="COLLEGE_FRIENDS_II" id="COLLEGE_FRIENDS_II">MY COLLEGE FRIENDS.</a> - </h2> - <p class="center"> - No. II. - </p> - <p class="center"> - HORACE LEICESTER. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - <span class="small">[<i>MAGA.</i> <span class="smcap">August 1845.</span>]</span> - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="dropcap"> - Oxford! Alma Mater! not to love thee were indeed the ingratitude of a - degenerate son. Let the whiners of the Conventicle rail at thee for a - mother of heretics, and the Joseph Humes of domestic economy propose to - adapt the scale of thy expenses to their own narrow notions—I uphold - thee to be the queen of all human institutions—the incarnated union - of Church and State—royal in thy revenues as in thy expenditure—thy - doctrine as orthodox as thy dinners, thy politics as sound as thy port. - </p> - <p> - Oxford! who are they that rail at her? who dare to lift their voice - against that seat of high and holy memories? The man who boasts a private - education (so private, that his most intimate friends have never found it - out), who, innocent himself of all academic experiences and associations, - grudges to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65a" id="Page_65a">[Pg 65]</a></span> - others that superiority which they never boast indeed, but to which his - secret soul bears envious witness. Or the rich nonconformist, risen - perhaps from obscurity to a rank in society which gives him the choice of - indulging either his spleen or his pride—either to send his eldest - son as a gentleman-commoner to Christ-Church, to swallow the Thirty-nine - Articles with his champagne; or to have his fling at the Church through - her universities—accusing Churchmen of bigotry, and exclusiveness, - and illiberality, because Dissenters do not found colleges of their own. - Or, worse than all, the unworthy disciple who (like the noxious plant that - has grown up beneath the shade of some goodly tree) has drawn no nobility - of soul from the associations which surrounded his ungrateful youth: for - whom all the reality and romance of academic education were alike in vain: - sneering at the honours which he could not obtain, denying the existence - of opportunities which he neglected; the basest of approvers, he quotes to - his own eternal infamy the scenes of riot and dissipation, the - alternations of idleness and extravagance, which make up his sole - recollections of university life: and looking, without one glance of - affection, upon the face of his fair and graceful mother, makes the chance - mole, or the early wrinkle, which he traces there, the subject of his - irreverent jest, forgets the kindness of which he was unworthy, and - remembers for evil the wholesome<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66a" - id="Page_66a">[Pg 66]</a></span> discipline which was irksome only to such - as him. - </p> - <p> - "Non hæc jocosæ conveniunt lyræ;"<br /> - </p> - <p> - I admit mine is not the tongue or pen for such a subject; and Oxford has, - I hope, no lack of abler champions. But it was geese, you know, who once - saved the Capitol; and I must have my hiss at the iniquitous quackeries - which people seek to perpetrate under the taking title of University - Reform. And when I, loving Oxford as I do, see some of her own sons - arrayed against her, I can only remember this much of my philosophy—that - there are cases when to be angry becomes a duty. Men who, knowing nothing - of the universities from experience, think proper to run them down, - succeed at all events in exposing one crying evil—the absurdity of - meddling with what one does not understand. We who know better may afford - to smile at once at their spite and their ignorance. But he who lifts his - voice against the mother that bore him, can fix no darker blot upon her - fame than the disgrace of having given birth to him. - </p> - <p> - Show me the man who did not like Oxford, and I will show you either a - sulky misanthrope or an affected ass. Many, many indeed, are the - unpleasant recollections which, in the case of nearly all of us, will - mingle with the joy with which we recall our college days. More than the - ghosts of duns departed, perhaps unpaid; more than the heart-burnings<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67a" id="Page_67a">[Pg 67]</a></span> of - that visionary fellowship, for which we were beaten (we verily believe, - unfairly) by a neck; more than that loved and lost ideal of a first class, - which we deserved, but did not get (the opinions of our examiners not - coinciding in that point with our own); yes, more than all these, comes - forcibly to many minds, the self-accusing silent voice that whispers of - time wasted and talents misapplied—kind advice, which the heat of - youth misconstrued or neglected—jewels of price that once lay - strewed upon the golden sands of life, then wantonly disregarded, or - picked up but to be flung away, and which the tide of advancing years has - covered from our view for ever—blessed opportunities of acquiring - wisdom, human and divine, which never can return. - </p> - <p> - Yet in spite of all this, if there be any man who can say that Oxford is - not to him a land of pleasant memories, "<span lang="el" - title="Mêt' emoi parestios genoito">Μήτ' ἐμοὶ παρέστιος γένοιτο</span>"—which - is, being freely translated, "May he never put his legs under my mahogany"—that's - all. I never knew him yet, and have no wish to make his acquaintance. He - may have carried off every possible university honour for what I care; he - is more hopelessly stupid, in my view of things, than if he had been - plucked fifteen times. If he was fond of reading, or of talking about - reading; fond of hunting, or talking about hunting; fond of walking, - riding, rowing, leaping, or any possible exercise besides dancing; if he - loved pleasant gardens or solemn cloisters; learned retirement<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68a" id="Page_68a">[Pg 68]</a></span> or - unlearned jollification—in a word, if he had any imaginable human - sympathies, and cared for anything besides himself, he would have liked - Oxford. Men's tastes differ, no doubt; but to have spent four years of the - spring of one's life in one of the most magnificent cities and best - societies in the world, and not to have enjoyed it—this is not a - variety of taste, but its privation. - </p> - <p> - I fancy there is a mistaken opinion very prevalent, that young and - foolish, older and wiser, are synonymous terms. Stout gentlemen of a - certain age, brimful of proprieties, shake their heads alarmingly, and - talk of the folly of boys; as if they were the only fools. And if at any - time, in the fulness of their hearts, they refer to some freak of their - own youth, they appear to do it with a sort of apology to themselves, that - such wise individuals as they are now should ever have done such things! - And as the world stands at present, it is the old story of the Lion and - the Painter; the elderly gentlemen are likely to have it their own way; - they say what they like, while the young ones are content to do what they - like. And the more absurdity a man displays in his teens (and some, it - must be confessed, are absurd enough), the more insupportable an air of - wisdom does he put on when he gets settled. As there is no hope of these - sedate gentry being sent to College again to teach the rising generation - of under-graduates the art of precocious gravity, and<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_69a" id="Page_69a">[Pg 69]</a></span> still less hope of their - arriving at it of themselves, perhaps there is no harm in mooting the - question on neutral ground, whether such a consummation as that of putting - old heads upon young shoulders is altogether desirable. - </p> - <p> - Wherefore, I, Frank Hawthorne—being of the age of nine-and-twenty, - or thereabouts, and of sound mind, and about to renounce for ever all - claim and title to be considered a young man; having married a wife, and - left sack and all other bad habits; having no longer any fellowship with - under-graduates, or army subs, or medical students, or young men about - town, or any other class of the heterogeneous irregulars who make up - "Young England"—being a perfectly disinterested party in the - question, inasmuch as having lost my reputation for youth, I have never - acquired one for wisdom—hereby raise my voice against the - intolerable cant, which assumes every man to be a harebrained scapegrace - at twenty, and a Solomon at forty-five. Youth sows wild oats, it may be; - too many men in more advanced life seem to me to sow no crop of any kind. - There are empty fools at all ages; but "an old fool"——(musty - as the proverb is, it is rather from neglect than over-application). I - have known men by the dozen, who in their youth were either empty-headed - coxcombs or noisy sots; does my reader think that any given number of - additional years has made them able statesmen, sound lawyers,<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70a" id="Page_70a">[Pg 70]</a></span> or - erudite divines? that because they have become honourable by a seat in - Parliament, learned by courtesy, reverend by office, they are therefore - really more useful members of society than when they lounged the High - Street, or woke the midnight echoes of the quadrangle? Nay, life is too - short for the leopard to change his spots, or the Ethiopian his skin; one - can but pare the claws of the first, and put a suit of the last European - fashion upon the other. - </p> - <p> - Let any man run over in his own mind the list of those school and college - companions with whom, after the lapse of ten years or so, he has still an - opportunity of occasionally renewing his acquaintance, and judging of the - effect which time has had upon their habits and characters. In how many - cases can he trace any material alteration, beyond what results from the - mere accidents of time and place? He finds, it is to be hoped, good - principles developed, warm impulses ripened into active habits, - exaggerations softened down (for I am giving him credit for not choosing - his companions, even in youth, among the vicious in heart and principle); - but if he finds in any what he can call a <i>change</i> at all, then I - ask, in how many instances is it a change for the better? or does he not - find it rather where there was no sterling value in the metal, which, as - the gloss of youth wears off, loses its only charm? - </p> - <p> - Thirty is the turning-point of a man's life; when marrying becomes a - now-or-never sort of business,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71a" - id="Page_71a">[Pg 71]</a></span> and dinners begin to delight him more - than dancing. As I said just now, then, I stand just at the corner; and, - looking round before I turn it, I own somewhat of a shyness for the - company of those "grave and reverend seniors" who are to be my - fellow-travellers hereafter through life. There are certain points on - which I fear we are scarce prepared to agree. I must have one window open - for the first few miles of the journey at all events—that I may look - behind me. Life's a fast train, and one can't expect to be allowed to get - out at the stations; still less to ask the engineer to put back, because - we have left our youth behind us. Yet there are some things in which I - hope always to be a boy; I hope ever to prefer thoughtlessness to - heartlessness, imprudence to selfishness, impulse to calculation. It is - hard enough to part with all the fiery spirits, the glowing imaginations, - the elasticity of mind and body which we lose as age creeps on; but if, - with the bright summer weather and cloudless skies of youth, to which we - are content to bid farewell, we must lose, too, the "sunshine of the - breast"—the "bloom of heart"—then well might the poet count - him happy who died in early spring—who knew nothing of life but its - fair promises, and passed away in happy scepticism of the winter which was - to come. - </p> - <p> - Talk of putting old heads upon young shoulders! Heaven forbid! It would - but be making them stoop<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72a" - id="Page_72a">[Pg 72]</a></span> prematurely. If indeed we could put young - hearts into old bodies occasionally, we might do some good; or if there - could ever be combined in some fortunate individual, throughout his life, - the good qualities peculiar to each successive climacteric; if we could - mix just enough of the acid and the bitter, which are apt to predominate - so unhappily after a long rubbing through the world, to qualify the fiery - spirit of youth, and prevent its sweetness from cloying, the compound - would undoubtedly be a very pleasant one. But this, it is to be feared, - like many other desiderata, is too good to be attainable; and the - experience which we undoubtedly want in early life, we acquire too often - at the cost of that freshness of heart, which nature intended as a gift - still more valuable. - </p> - <p> - Nowhere does the old Stagyrite display a more consummate knowledge of what - men are made of, than in his contrasted characters of youth and age. I - wonder how many of the old gentlemen who call themselves philosophers in - this degenerate age, ever read or remember what he says on the subject. It - is a great comfort, when one is arguing against so much collective wisdom, - to feel that one has such authority to fall back upon; and I have the less - hesitation in bringing my old friend Aristotle forward to help me, because - I can assure my unlearned readers, ladies and others, that I am not going - to quote any thing nearly so grave and sensible as<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_73a" id="Page_73a">[Pg 73]</a></span> modern philosophy. - "Stingy, illnatured, suspicious, selfish, narrow-minded"—these, with - scarce a redeeming quality, are some of the choice epithets which he - strings together as the characteristics of the respectable old governors - and dowagers of his day; while the young, although, as he confesses, - somewhat too much the creatures of impulse, and indebted to it for some of - their virtues as well as vices, are trustful towards others, honest in - themselves, open-handed and open-hearted, warm friends and brave enemies. - It is true, he observes, they have, in a large degree, the fault common to - all honest men, they are "easily humbugged;" an admitted failing which - perhaps may let us into the secret of their sitting down so quietly under - the imputation of a hundred others. He urges, too, elsewhere, a fact I am - not disposed to battle about, that young men do not make good - philosophers; but this is in a book which he wrote for the use of his own - son, wherein he probably thought it his duty to take the conceit out of - his heir-apparent; but if he ever allowed the young philosopher to get a - sight of the other book containing the two characters aforesaid, it may be - doubted whether he found him as "easily humbugged" afterwards. - </p> - <p> - Remember, reader, as I said before, I claim to occupy neutral ground. If I - essay to defend youth from some injustice which it suffers at the hands of - partial judges, it is as an amateur advocate rather than<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74a" id="Page_74a">[Pg 74]</a></span> an - accredited champion—for I am young no longer. If I am rash enough to - couch a lance against that venerable phantom, which, under the name of - Wisdom, hovers round grey hairs, I am but preparing a rod for my own back—for - I feel myself growing old. I admit it with a sigh; but the sigh is not for - the past only, but even more for the present. I mourn not so much for that - which Time has taken away, as for the insufficiency of that which it - brings instead. I would rejoice to be relieved from the dominion of the - hot follies of youth, if I could escape at the same time the degrading - yoke of the cooler vices of maturity. I do not find men grow better as - they grow older; wiser they may grow, but it is the wisdom of the serpent. - We scarce grow less sensual, less vain, less eager after what we think - pleasure; I would we continued as generous and as warm. We gain the - cunning to veil our passions, to regulate even our vices according to the - scale (and that no parsimonious one) which what we call "society" allows; - we lose the enthusiasm which in some degree excused our follies, with the - light-heartedness which made them delightful. Few men among us are they - who can look back upon the years gone by, and not feel that, if these may - justly be charged with folly, the writing of the accusation that stands - against their riper age is of a graver sort. - </p> - <p> - It is melancholy, rather than amusing, to hear<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_75a" id="Page_75a">[Pg 75]</a></span> men of a certain age rail - against the faults and extravagance of their juniors. Angry that they - themselves are no longer young, they visit with a rod of iron such an - intolerable offence in others. Even newspapers are always eloquent against - the disgusting immoralities of breaking knockers and bonneting policemen. - The <i>Times</i> turns censor upon such an "ungentlemanly outrage;" the <i>Weekly - Despatch</i> has its propriety shocked by such "freaks of the - aristocracy;" and both, in their zeal to reprobate offences so dangerous - to the best interests of society, sacrifice somewhat of that "valuable - space" which should have been devoted to the bulletin of the health, or - the history of the travels, of the "gallant officer" who last deliberately - shot his friend in a duel; or the piquant details of the last <i>crim. - con.</i>, with the extraordinary disclosures expected to be made by the - "noble defendant." Society has no sympathy with vices to which it has no - temptation; it might have done foolish things in its day, but has long ago - seen the folly of them. So we make a graceful acknowledgment of having - been wrong once, for the sake of congratulating ourselves upon being so - very right now. - </p> - <p> - Let me then, for some few moments, recall those scenes which, on the stage - of life, have passed away for ever; and forgetting, as memory loves to do, - the evil that was in them, let it be not idle repining to lament the good. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76a" id="Page_76a">[Pg 76]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Oh! dark yet pleasant quadrangle, round whose wide area I might wander - now, a stranger among strangers, where are they who once gave life and - mirth to cheer those ancient walls? There were full a score of rooms, - congenial <i>lares</i>, in which no hour of day or night would have found - me other than a welcome guest. I had friends, yea, friends, within those - prison-like windows—warm hearts walled in by thy cold grey stones—friends - that had thoughts, and feelings, and pursuits in common—who were not - hospitable in words alone, suffering each other's presence with - well-concealed <i>ennui</i>—but friends in something more than in - the name. In vain, among the cold conventionalities of life, shall I look - for the warm and kindly welcome, the sympathy of feeling, the unrestrained - yet courteous familiarity of intercourse, which was part and parcel of a - college life; and if for this only I should say of Oxford, that I shall - not look upon its like again—if for this only, I doubt whether the - years of my youthful pilgrimage were altogether evil, who shall gainsay - me? Where, or in what society of wise, and orderly, and respectable - "grown-up children," shall I find the sincerity and warm-heartedness that - once were the atmosphere of my daily life? Where is the friend of my - maturer choosing, into whose house I can walk at any time, and feel sure I - am no intruder? Where is the man, among those with whom I am by hard fate - compelled to associate, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77a" - id="Page_77a">[Pg 77]</a></span> does not measure his regard, his - hospitality, his very smiles, by my income, my station in society—anything - but by myself? Older and wiser!—oh yes!—youthful friendship is - very foolish in such matters. - </p> - <p> - But I suppose I must put up, as I best may, with the accumulating weight - of years and wisdom. It won't do to give up one's degree, and begin again - at the university, even if they leave us a university worth going to. At - all events, one could not go back and find there those "old familiar - faces" that made it what it was; and it is more pleasant to look upon it - all—the place and its old occupants—as still existing in some - dream-land or other, than to return to find an old acquaintance in every - stick and stone, while every human face and voice is strange to us. - </p> - <p> - Yet one does meet friends in old scenes, sometimes, when the meeting is as - unexpected as delightful. And just so, in my last visit to Oxford, did I - stumble upon Horace Leicester. We met in the quadrangle where we had - parted some six years back, just as we might if we had supped together the - night before; whereas we had been all the time hundreds of miles asunder: - and we met as unrestrainedly, only far more cordially. Neither of us had - much time to spare in Oxford, but we dined together of course; talked over - old friends, and told old stories. As to the first, it was strange enough - to moralise upon the after-fortunes of some of our contemporaries. One—of - whom, for habitual<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78a" id="Page_78a">[Pg - 78]</a></span> absence from lectures, and other misdemeanours many and - various, the tutors had prophesied all manner of evil, and who had been - dismissed by the Principal at his final leave-taking, with the remark that - he was the luckiest man he had ever known, inasmuch as he had been - perseveringly idle without being plucked, and mixed up in every row - without being rusticated—was now working hard day and night as a - barrister, engaged as a junior on committee business the whole Session, - and never taking a holiday except on the Derby day. The ugliest little - rascal of our acquaintance, and as stupid as a post, was married to a - pretty girl with a fortune of thirty thousand. Another, and one of the - best of us—Charley White—who united the business-habits of a - man with the frolic of a schoolboy, and who ought to have been added to - the roll of the College benefactors, as having been the founder of the - Cricket and the Whist Club, and having restored to its old place on the - river, at much cost and pains, the boat which had been withdrawn for the - last five years, and reduced the sundry desultory idlenesses of the - under-graduates into something like method and order—Charley White - was now rector of a poor and populous parish in Yorkshire, busily engaged - in building a new church and schools, opening Provident Societies, and - shutting up beer-shops, and instructing the rising generation of his - parishioners in catechism and cricket alternately. While the<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79a" id="Page_79a">[Pg 79]</a></span> - steadiest (I was very near saying the only steady man) among our mutual - acquaintance, who looked at every sixpence before he spent it, checked his - own washing-lists, went to bed at ten o'clock, and was, in short, an - exemplary character (he was held out to me, on my first entrance, as a - valuable acquaintance for any young man, but I soon despaired of - successfully imitating so bright a model)—well, this gentleman - having been taken into partnership, somewhat prematurely perhaps on the - strength of the aforesaid reputation, by his father's firm—they were - Liverpool merchants of high standing—had thought proper, disgusted - probably with the dissipations and immoralities of trade, to retire to - America in search of purity and independence, without going through the - form of closing his accounts with the house. The Liverpudleians, indeed, - according to Horace's account, gave a somewhat ugly name to the - transaction; he had been cashier to the firm, they said, who were minus - some tens of thousands thereby; but as the senior partner was known to - have smoked cigars at a preparatory school (thereby showing what he <i>would</i> - have done had he been sent to Oxford), whereas our friend was always "a - steady man," I leave the reader to judge which party is entitled to the - most credit. - </p> - <p> - It was after we had separated that a friend of mine, not an Oxford man, - who had dined with us, and appeared much amused by some of Horace's<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80a" id="Page_80a">[Pg 80]</a></span> - reminiscences, asked me the very puzzling question, "Was your friend - Leicester what they call a '<i>rowing</i> man' at College?" Now, I protest - altogether against the division of under-graduates into reading men and - rowing men, as arbitrary and most illogical; there being a great many who - have no claim to be reckoned either in one class or the other, and a great - many who hover between both. And this imaginary distinction, existing as - it notoriously does at Oxford, and fostered and impressed upon men by the - tutors (often unintentionally, or with the very best intentions), is - productive in many cases of a great deal of harm. A man (or <i>boy</i> if - you please) is taught to believe, upon his very first entrance, that one - of these characters will infallibly cling to him, and that he has only to - choose between the two. For the imaginary division creates a real one; in - many colleges, a man who joins a boat's crew, or a cricket club, or goes - out now and then with the harriers, is looked upon with suspicion by the - authorities at once; and by a very natural consequence, a man who wants to - read his five or six hours a-day quietly, finds that some of his - pleasantest companions look upon him as a slow coach. So, probably before - the end of his first term, he is hopelessly committed, at nineteen, to a - consistency of character rarely met with at fifty. If he lays claim to the - reputation of a reading man, and has an eye to the loaves and fishes in - the way of scholarships and fellowships,<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_81a" id="Page_81a">[Pg 81]</a></span> he is compelled, by the - laws of his <i>caste</i>, to renounce some of the most sensible and - healthful amusements which a university life offers. He must lead a very - humdrum sort of life indeed. It is not enough that he should be free from - the stains of vice and immorality; that his principles and habits should - be those of a gentleman; that he should avoid excesses, and be observant - of discipline; this the university would have a right to expect from all - who are candidates for her honours and emoluments. But there is a - conventional character which he must put on besides this. I say "put on;" - because, however natural it may be to some men, it cannot possibly be so - to all. His exercise must be taken at stated times and places: it must - consist principally of walking, whether he be fond of it or not, varied - occasionally by a solitary skiffing expedition down the river, or a game - of billiards with some very steady friend on the sly. His dress must - exhibit either the negligence of a sloven (in case he be an aspirant for - very high honours indeed), or the grave precision of a respectable - gentleman of forty. He must eschew all such vanities as white trousers and - well-cut boots. He must be profoundly ignorant of all university - intelligence that does not bear in some way on the schools; must be - utterly indifferent what boat is at the head of the river, or whether - Drake's hounds are fox or harriers. He must never be seen out of his - rooms, except at lecture, before<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82a" - id="Page_82a">[Pg 82]</a></span> two o'clock, and never return to a - wine-party after chapel. His judgment of the merits of port and sherry - must be confined principally to the fact of one being red and the other - white, and the compounding of punch must be to him a mystery unfathomable. - Now, if he can be, or assume to be, all this, then he will be admitted - into the most orthodox and steady set in his college; and if he have, - besides, an ordinary amount of scholarship, and tact enough to talk - judiciously about his books and his reading, he may get up a very fair - reputation indeed. And when at his final examination he makes, as - nine-tenths of such men do make, a grand crash, and his name comes out in - the third or fourth class, or he gets "gulfed" altogether—it is two - to one but his friends and his tutor look upon him, and talk of him, as - rather an ill-used individual. He was "unlucky in his examination"—"the - essay did not suit him"—they were "quite surprised at his failure"—"his - health was not good the last term or two"—"he was too nervous." - These are cases which have occurred in every man's experience: men read - ten hours a-day, with a watch by their side, cramming in stuff that they - do not understand, are talked about as "sure firsts" till one gets sick of - their very names, assume all the airs which really able men seldom do - assume, and take at last an equal degree with others who have been - acquiring the same amount of knowledge with infinitely less<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83a" id="Page_83a">[Pg 83]</a></span> - pretension, and who, without moping the best part of their lives in an - artificial existence, will make more useful members of society in the end. - "How was it," said an old lady in the country to me one day, "that young - Mr C—— did not get a first class? I understand he read very - hard, and I know he refused every invitation to dinner when he was down - here in the summer vacation?" "That was the very reason, my dear madam," - said I; "you may depend upon it." She stared, of course; but I believe I - was not far out. - </p> - <p> - Let men read as much as they will, and as hard as they will, on any - subjects for which they have the ability and inclination; but never let - them suppose they are to lay down one code of practice to suit all tempers - and constitutions. Cannot a man be a scholar, and a gentleman, and a good - fellow at the same time? - </p> - <p> - And, after all, where is the broad moral distinction between these <i>soi-disant</i> - steady men, and those whom they are pleased to consider as "rowing" - characters? it has always seemed to me rather apocryphal. If a man thinks - proper to amuse himself with a chorus in his own rooms at one o'clock in - the morning, it seems hardly material whether it be Greek or English—Sophocles - or Tom Moore. It's a matter of taste, and tastes differ. Nor do I think - the morality of Horace or Aristophanes, or the theology of Lucretius, so - peculiarly admirable, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84a" - id="Page_84a">[Pg 84]</a></span> to render them, <i>per se</i>, fitter - subjects for the exclusive exercise of a young man's faculties than "the - Pickwick Papers," or "The Rod and the Gun." I have heard—(I never - saw, nor will I believe it)—of the profanity of certain sporting - under-graduates, who took into chapel the racing calendar, bound in red - morocco, instead of a prayer-book; I hold it to have been the malicious - fiction of some would-be university reformer; but, even if true, I am not - sure that I much prefer that provident piety which I have noticed getting - up its Greek within the same walls by means of a Septuagint and Greek - liturgy. Religion is one thing, classical learning another, and sporting - information another; all totally distinct, and totally different; the - first immeasurably above the other two, but standing equidistant from - both. It does not make a man one whit the better to know that Coræbus won - the cup at Olympia <span class="small">B.C.</span> 776, than it does to - know that Priam did <i>not</i> win the St Leger at Doncaster <span - class="small">A.D.</span> 1830; from all I can make out, the Greeks on the - turf at present are not much worse than their old namesakes; I dare say - there was a fair amount of black-legism on both occasions. Men injure - their moral and physical health by reading as much as by other things; it - takes quite as much out of a man, and puts as little in him to any good - purpose, to get up his logic as to pull in an eight-oar. - </p> - <p> - Besides, if one is to read and enter into the spirit<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_85a" id="Page_85a">[Pg 85]</a></span> of a dozen different - authors, one dull monotonous round of physical existence seems ill-fitted - to call out the requisite variety of mental powers. I hold that there are - divers and sundry fit times, and places, and states of mind, suited to - different lines of reading. If a man is at work upon history, by all means - let him sport oak rigidly against all visitors; let him pile up his - authorities and references on every vacant chair all round him, and get a - clear notion of it by five or six hours' uninterrupted and careful study. - Or, if he has a system of philosophy to get up, let him sit down with his - head cool, his window open (not the one looking into quad.), let him - banish from his mind all minor matters, and not break off in the chain of - argument so long as he can keep his brain clear and his eyes open. Even - then, a good gallop afterwards, or a cigar and a glass of punch, with some - lively fellow who is no philosopher, will do him far more good than a - fagging walk of so many measured miles, with the studious companion whose - head is stuffed as full of such matter as his own, and whose talk will be - of disputed passages, and dispiriting anticipations of a "dead floorer" in - the schools. But if a man wants to make acquaintance with such books as - Juvenal, or Horace, or Aristophanes, he may surely do it to quite as good - purpose, and with far more relish, basking under a tree in summer, or with - a friend over a bottle in winter. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86a" id="Page_86a">[Pg 86]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - The false tone of society of which I have been speaking had its influence - upon Horace Leicester. Coming up to the university from a public school, - with a high character, a fair amount of scholarship, and a host of - acquaintances, he won the good-will at once of dons and of - under-graduates, and bid fair to be as universal a favourite at college as - he had been at Harrow. Never did a man enter upon an academic life under - happier auspices, nor, I believe, with a more thorough determination to - enjoy it in every way. He did not look upon his emancipation from school - discipline as a license for idleness, nor intend to read the less because - he could now read what he pleased, and when he pleased. For, not to - mention that Horace was ambitious, and had at one time an eye to the class - list—he had a taste for reading, and a strong natural talent to - appreciate what he read. But if he had a taste for reading, he had other - tastes as well, and, as he thought, not incompatible; much as he admired - his Roman namesake, he could not devote his evenings exclusively to his - society, but preferred carrying his precepts into practice occasionally - with more modern companions; and he had no notion that during the next - four years of his life he was to take an interest in no sports but those - of the old Greeks and Romans, and mount no horse but Pegasus. For a term - or two, Leicester got on very well; attended lectures, read steadily till - one or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87a" id="Page_87a">[Pg 87]</a></span> - two o'clock, when there was nothing particular going on, kept a horse, - hired an alarm, and seldom cut morning chapel, or missed a meet if within - reasonable distance. It was a course of life which, in after days, he - often referred to with a sigh as having been most exemplary; and I doubt - whether he was far wrong. But it did not last. For a time his gentlemanly - manners, good humour, and good taste, carried it off with all parties; but - it was against the ordinary routine, and could not hold up against the - popular prejudice. The reading men eyed his top-boots with suspicion; the - rowing men complained he was growing a regular <i>sap</i>, always sporting - oak when they wanted him. Then his wine-parties were a source of endless - tribulation to him. First of all, he asked all those with whom he was most - intimate among his old schoolfellows to meet each other, adding one or two - of his new acquaintances: and a pretty mess he made of it. Men who had sat - on the same form with him and with each other at Harrow, and had betrayed - no such marked differences in their tastes as to prevent their associating - very pleasantly there, at Oxford, he found, had been separated wide as the - poles by this invisible, but impassable, line of demarcation: to such a - degree, indeed, that although all had called upon Horace, as they had upon - each other, before it seemed decided on which side they were to settle, - yet when they now met<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88a" id="Page_88a">[Pg - 88]</a></span> at his rooms, they had become strangers beyond a mere civil - recognition, and had not a single subject to converse upon in common. In - fact, they were rather surprised than pleased to meet at all; and it was - in vain their host tried to get them to amalgamate. Many seemed to take a - pleasure in showing how decidedly they belonged to one set or the other. - One would talk of nothing on earth besides hunting, and sat silent and - sulky when Horace turned the conversation; another affected an utter - ignorance of all that was going on in the University that was not - connected with class-lists, scholarships, &c. What provoked him most - was, that some of those who gave themselves the most pedantic airs, and - would have been double first-class men undeniably, if talking could have - done it, were those whose heads he well knew were as empty as the last - bottle, and which made him think that some men must take to reading at - Oxford, simply because they had faculties for nothing else. - </p> - <p> - At all events, Horace found the mixed system would not answer for - entertaining his friends. So the next time he asked a few of the reading - men, some of whom he knew used to be good fellows, together; and as he - really had a kindred taste with them on many subjects, he found an hour or - so pass away very pleasantly: when just as he was passing the wine about - the third round, and his own brilliancy and good-humour were beginning to - infect<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89a" id="Page_89a">[Pg 89]</a></span> - some of his guests—so that one grave genius of twenty had actually - so far forgotten himself as to fill a bumper by mistake—up jumped - the senior man of the party, and declaring that he had an engagement to - walk with a friend at seven, politely took his leave. This was the signal - for a general dispersion; in vain did Horace assure them they should have - some coffee in the course of an hour, and entreat some one or two to - return. Off they all went, with sundry smiles and shakes of the head, and - left their unfortunate host sitting alone in his glory over the first - glass of a newly opened bottle of claret. - </p> - <p> - I happened to be crossing the quadrangle from chapel in company with - Savile, at the moment when Leicester put his head out of his window as if - to inquire of the world in general what on earth he was to do with himself - for the next hour or two. Savile he hailed at once, and begged him to come - up; and though I knew but little of him, and had never been in his rooms - before, still, as I was one or two terms his senior, there was nothing - contrary even to Oxford etiquette in my accompanying Savile. We laughed - heartily when he explained his disappointment. Savile tried to comfort him - by the assurance that, as he had an hour to spare, he would sit down and - help him to finish a bottle or two of claret with a great deal of - pleasure; and was inclined to attribute the failure of the evening, in a - great measure, to his name not having been<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_90a" id="Page_90a">[Pg 90]</a></span> included in the list of - invitations—an omission by which he declared all parties had been - the losers; Horace's reading friends standing very much in need of some - one to put a little life into them, and himself, as a candidate for a - degree, having missed a fair opportunity of meeting, among so many choice - fellows, some one to "put him up to the examiners' dodges." But Leicester - was irrecoverably disgusted. Nothing, he declared, would ever induce him - to ask a party of reading men to his rooms again; and from that hour he - seemed to eschew fellowship with the whole fraternity. Not that he became - idle all at once; on the contrary, I believe, for some time he worked on - steadily, or at least tried to work; but he was naturally fond of society, - and having failed to find what he wanted, was reduced to make the best of - such as he could find. So he gradually became acquainted with a set of men - who, whatever their good qualities might be, had certainly no claim - whatever to be considered hard readers, and who would have considered a - symposium which broke up at seven o'clock as unsatisfactory as a tale - without a conclusion. Amongst these, his gentlemanly manners and kindness - of heart made him beloved, while his talents gave him a kind of influence; - and, though he must have felt occasionally that he was not altogether in - his right place, and that, besides his popular qualities, he had higher - tastes and endowments with which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91a" - id="Page_91a">[Pg 91]</a></span> the majority of his companions could - hardly sympathise, he was too light-hearted to philosophise much on the - subject, and contented himself with enjoying his popularity, occasionally - falling back upon his own resources, and keeping up, in a desultory kind - of way, his acquaintance with scholarship and literature. The reading men - of course looked upon him as a lost sheep; the tutors shook their heads - about him; if he did well, it was set down as the result of accident; - while all his misdoings were labouring in his vocation. For, agreeably to - the grand division aforesaid, Horace was now set down as a "rowing-man;" - and he soon made the discovery, and did more thereupon to deserve the - character than he ever would have done otherwise. He was very willing to - go on in his own way, if all parties would but let him alone; he was not - going to be made a proselyte to long walks, and toast and water, nor had - he any conscientious abhorrence of supper-parties; and, as his prospects - in life were in no way dependent upon a class or a scholarship, and he - seemed to be tacitly repudiated by the <i>literati</i> of his college, - young and old, on account of some of his aforesaid heterodox notions on - the subject of study, he accustomed himself gradually to set their - opinions at defiance; while the moderate reading, which encouragement and - emulation had made easy at school, became every day more and more - distasteful. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92a" id="Page_92a">[Pg 92]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Horace's tottering reputation was at last completely overset in the eyes - of the authorities by a little affair which was absurd enough, but in - which he himself was as innocent as they were. It happened that a youthful - cousin of his, whose sole occupation for the last twelve months of his - life had been the not over-profitable one of waiting for a commission, had - come up to Oxford for two or three days, pursuant to invitation, to see a - little of the manners and customs of the inhabitants. I think he had some - slight acquaintance with our then vice-principal—a good-natured, - easy man—and Horace had got leave for him to occupy a set of very - small, dark rooms, which, as the college was not very full, had been - suffered to remain vacant for the last two or three terms; they were so - very unattractive a domicile that the last Freshman to whom they were - offered as a Hobson's choice, was currently reported, in the plenitude of - his disgust, to have taken his name off the books <i>instanter</i>. It is - not usual to allow strangers to sleep within college walls at all; but our - discipline was somewhat lax in those days. So Mr Carey had a bed put up - for him in the aforesaid quarters. He was, of course, duly <i>fêted</i>, - and made much of by Horace and his friends; and a dozen of us sat down to - a capital dinner in the rooms of the former, on the strength of having to - entertain a "stranger from the country;" the hospitality of Oxford - relaxing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93a" id="Page_93a">[Pg 93]</a></span> - its rules even in favour of under-graduates upon such occasions. It must - have been somewhere towards the next morning, when two or three of us - accompanied young Carey down to No. 8; and, after chatting with him till - he was half undressed, left him, as we thought, safe and quiet. However, - soon after we had retired, some noisy individual in the same staircase - thought proper to give a view-hollo out of his window, for the purpose of - wishing the public good-night. Now there was one of the Fellows, a - choleric little old gentleman, always in residence, holding some office, - in which there was as little to do, and as much to get as might be, and - who seldom troubled himself much about college discipline, and looked upon - under-graduates with a sort of silent contempt; never interfering with - them, as he declared himself, so long as they did not interfere with him. - But one point there was, in which they did interfere with his personal - comfort occasionally, and whereby his peace of mind and rest of body were - equally disturbed. Mr Perkins always took a tumbler of negus at ten - precisely, and turned in as the college clock struck the quarter past; by - the half-hour he was generally asleep, for his digestion was good and his - cares few. But his slumbers were not heavy, and anything like a row in the - quadrangle infallibly awoke him, and then he was like a lion roused. He - was wont to jump up, throw up his window, thrust out a red face and a - white<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94a" id="Page_94a">[Pg 94]</a></span> - nightcap, and after listening a few seconds for the chance of the odious - sounds being repeated, would put the very pertinent question usual in such - circumstances, to which one so seldom gets an equally pertinent reply—"Who's - that?" In case this intimation of Mr Perkins being wide awake proved - sufficient, as it often did, to restore quiet, then after the lapse of a - few more seconds the head and the nightcap disappeared, and the window was - shut down again. But if the noise was continued, as occasionally it was - out of pure mischief, then in a minute or two the said nightcap would be - seen to emerge hastily from the staircase below, in company with a - dressing-gown and slippers, and Mr Perkins in this disguise would proceed - to the scene of disturbance as fast as his short legs could carry him. He - seldom succeeded in effecting a capture; but if he had that luck, or if he - could distinguish the tone of any individual voice so as to be able to - identify the performer, he had him up before the "seniority" next morning, - where his influence as one of the senior fellows insured a heavy sentence. - But he had been engaged in so many unsuccessful chases of the kind, and - his short orations from his window so often elicited only a laugh, though - including sometimes brief but explicit threats of rustication against the - noisy unknown, strengthened by little expletives which, when quoted by - under-graduates, were made to sound somewhat doubtfully—that<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95a" id="Page_95a">[Pg 95]</a></span> at - last he altered his tactics, and began to act in silence. And so he did, - when upon opening his window he saw a light in the ground-floor rooms of - the staircase whence the sounds proceeded on the evening in question. - Carey, by his own account, was proceeding quietly in his preparations for - bed, singing to himself an occasional stanza of some classical ditty which - he had picked up in the course of the evening, and admiring the power of - the man's lungs in the room above him, when he heard a short quick step, - and then a double rap at his door. He was quite sufficiently acquainted, - by this time, with the ways of the place, not to be much surprised at the - late visit, and at the same time to consider it prudent to learn the name - and <i>status</i> of his visitor before admitting him; so he retorted upon - Mr Perkins, quite unconsciously, his own favourite query—"Who's - that?" his first and obvious impression being that it was one of the party - he had just quitted, coming probably in the plenitude of good fellowship, - to bring him an invitation to wine or breakfast next day. - </p> - <p> - "It's me, sir—open the door," was the reply from a deep baritone, - which the initiated would never have mistaken. - </p> - <p> - "Who are you?" said Carey again. - </p> - <p> - "My name is Perkins, sir: have the goodness to let me in." He was getting - more angry, and consequently more polite. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96a" id="Page_96a">[Pg 96]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Perkins," said Carey, pausing in his operations, in the vain endeavour to - recall the name among the score or two to whom he had been introduced. - "I'm just in bed—were you up at Leicester's?" - </p> - <p> - "Open the door, sir, if you please, immediately," and then came what our - friend took for a smothered laugh, but was really a sort of shiver, for - there was a draft in the passage playing all manner of pranks with the - dressing-gown, and Mr Perkins was getting cold. - </p> - <p> - An indistinct notion came into Carey's mind, that some one who had met him - in College might have taken him for a Freshman, and had some practical - joke in view; so he contented himself with repeating that he was going to - bed, and could let no one in. - </p> - <p> - "I tell you, sir, I'm Mr Perkins; don't you know me?" - </p> - <p> - "I wish you a very good night, Mr Perkins." - </p> - <p> - "What's your name, sir? eh? You impudent young puppy, what's your infernal - name? I'll have you rusticated, you dog—do you hear me, sir?" - </p> - <p> - On a sudden it struck Carey that this might possibly be a domiciliary - visit from one of the authorities, and that his best plan was to open the - door at once, though what had procured him such an honour he was at a loss - to imagine. He drew back the spring lock, therefore, and the next moment - stood face to face with the irate Mr Perkins. - </p> - <p> - His first impulse was to laugh at the curious<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_97a" id="Page_97a">[Pg 97]</a></span> figure before him; but - when demands for his name, and threats of unknown penalties, were - thundered forth upon him with no pause for a reply, then he began to think - that he had made a mistake in opening the door at all—that he might - get Leicester into a scrape if not himself—and as his person was as - unknown to Mr Perkins as that gentleman's to him, it struck him that if he - could give him the slip at once it would be all right. In a moment he blew - out his solitary candle, bolted through the open door, all but upsetting - his new acquaintance, whom he left storming in the most unconnected - manner, alone, and in total darkness. Up to Leicester's rooms he rushed, - related his adventure, and was rather surprised that his cousin did not - applaud it as a very clever thing. - </p> - <p> - What Mr Perkins thought or said to himself, what degree of patience he - exhibited in such trying circumstances, or in what terms he apostrophised - his flying enemy, must ever remain a secret with himself. Five minutes - after, Solomon the porter, summoned from his bed just as he had made - himself snug once more after letting out Horace's out-college friends, - confronted Mr Perkins in about as sweet a temper as that worthy individual - himself, with this difference, that one was sulky and the other furious. - </p> - <p> - "Who lives in the ground-floor on the left in No. 8?" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98a" id="Page_98a">[Pg 98]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "What, in 'Coventry?' Why, nobody, sir." - </p> - <p> - "Nobody! you stupid old sinner, you're asleep." - </p> - <p> - "No, sir, I ain't," and Solomon flashed his lantern in Mr Perkins's face - as if to ascertain whether <i>his</i> eyes were open. Mr Perkins started - back, and Solomon turned half round as if to disappear again. - </p> - <p> - "Who lives there, Solomon, I ask you? Do you mean to tell me you don't - know? You are not fit——" - </p> - <p> - "I knows every gentleman's rooms well enough: nobody hasn't lived in them - as you means not these four terms. Mr Pears kept his fox in 'em one time, - till the vice-principal got wind of him. There may be some varmint in 'em - now for all I knows—they a'n't fit for much else." - </p> - <p> - "There's some confounded puppy of a Freshman in them now—at least - there was—and he lives there too." - </p> - <p> - "I know there <i>be'n't</i>," said the persevering Solomon. And, without - deigning a word more, he set off with his lantern towards the place in - dispute, followed by Mr Perkins, who contented himself with an angry "Now - you'll see." - </p> - <p> - "Ay, now we shall see," replied Solomon, as, somewhat to Mr Perkins's - astonishment, they found the oak sported. Having made a selection from a - huge bunch of keys, the porter succeeded, after some fumbling, in getting - the door open. The room bore no traces of recent occupation. Three or four - broken chairs and a rickety table were the only furniture:<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99a" id="Page_99a">[Pg 99]</a></span> as far - as the light of Solomon's lantern could penetrate, it looked the very - picture of desolation. Solomon chuckled. - </p> - <p> - "There <i>is</i> a man living here. I'll swear there is. He was undressing - when I came. Look in the bedroom." - </p> - <p> - They opened the door, and saw a bare feather-bed and bolster, the usual <i>matériel</i> - in an unoccupied college chamber. "Seeing's believing," said the porter. - </p> - <p> - But, with Mr Perkins, seeing was not believing. He saw Solomon, and he saw - the empty room, but he did not believe either. But he had evidently the - worst side of the argument as it stood, so he wished the porter a sulky - good-night, and retreated. - </p> - <p> - The fact was, that the noisy gentleman in the rooms above, as soon as he - caught the tones of Mr Perkins's voice at Carey's door, had entered into - the joke with exceeding gusto, well aware that the visit was really - intended as a compliment to his own vocal powers. Carey's sudden bolt - puzzled him rather; but as soon as he heard Mr Perkins's foot-steps take - the direction of the porter's lodge, he walked softly down-stairs to the - field of action, and, anticipating in some degree what would follow, - bundled up together sheets, blankets, pillow, dressing apparatus, and all - other signs and tokens of occupation, and made off with them to his own - rooms, sporting the oak behind him, and thus completing the mystification. - </p> - <p> - As the facts of the case were pretty sure to transpire<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_100a" id="Page_100a">[Pg 100]</a></span> in course of time, - Horace took the safe course of getting his cousin out of college next - morning, and calling on Mr Perkins with a full explanation of the - circumstances, and apologies for Carey as a stranger unacquainted with the - police regulations of their learned body, and the respect due thereto. Of - course the man in authority was obliged to be gracious, as Leicester could - not well be answerable for all the faults of his family; but there never - from that time forth happened a row of any kind with which he did not in - his own mind, probably unconsciously, associate poor Horace. - </p> - <p> - Whether my readers will set down Horace Leicester as a rowing man or not, - is a point which I leave to their merciful consideration: a reading man - was a title which he never aspired to. He took a very creditable degree in - due season, and was placed in the fourth class with a man who took up a - very long list of books, and was supposed to have read himself stupid. - </p> - <p> - "He ought to have done a good deal more," said one of the tutors; "he had - it in him." "I think he was lucky not to have been plucked, myself," said - Mr Perkins; "he was a very noisy man." - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1b" id="Page_1b">[Pg 1]</a></span> - </p> - <h2> - <a name="THE_EMERALD_STUDS" id="THE_EMERALD_STUDS">THE EMERALD STUDS</a> - </h2> - <p class="center small"> - A REMINISCENCE OF THE CIRCUIT. - </p> - <p class="center"> - BY PROFESSOR AYTOUN. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - <span class="small">[<i>MAGA.</i> <span class="smcap">August 1847.</span>]</span> - </p> - <hr class="short" /> - <h3> - <a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</a> - </h3> - <p class="dropcap"> - "Hallo, Tom! Are you not up yet? Why, man, the judges have gone down to - the court half an hour ago, escorted by the most ragged regiment of - ruffians that ever handled a Lochaberaxe." - </p> - <p> - Such was my matutinal salutation to my friend Thomas Strachan, as I - entered his room on a splendid spring morning. Tom and I were early - college allies. We had attended, or rather, to speak more correctly, taken - out tickets for the different law classes during the same sessions. We had - fulminated together within the walls of the Juridical Society on legal - topics which might have broken the heart of Erskine, and rewarded - ourselves diligently thereafter with the usual relaxations<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2b" id="Page_2b">[Pg 2]</a></span> of a crab - and a comfortable tumbler. We had aggravated the same grinder with our - deplorable exposition of the Pandects; and finally assumed, on the same - day, the full-blown honours of the Advocate's wig and gown. Nor did our - fraternal parallel end there: for although we had walked the boards of the - Parliament House with praiseworthy diligence for a couple of sessions, - neither of us had experienced the dulcet sensation which is communicated - to the palm by the contact of the first professional guinea. In vain did - we attempt to insinuate ourselves into the good graces of the agents, and - coin our intellects into such jocular remarks as are supposed to find most - favour in the eyes of facetious practitioners. In vain did I carry about - with me, for a whole week, an artificial process most skilfully made up; - and in vain did Tom compound and circulate a delectable ditty, entitled - "The Song of the Multiplepoinding." Not a single solicitor would listen to - our wooing, or even intrust us with the task of making the simplest - motion. I believe they thought me too fast, and Tom too much of a genius; - and, therefore, both of us were left among the ranks of the briefless army - of the stove. This would not do. Our souls burned within us with a noble - thirst for legal fame and fees. We held a consultation (without an agent) - at the Rainbow, and finally determined that since Edinburgh would not hear - us, Jedburgh<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3b" id="Page_3b">[Pg 3]</a></span> - should have the privilege of monopolising our maiden eloquence at the - ensuing justiciary circuit. Jedburgh presents a capital field to the - ambition of a youthful advocate. Very few counsel go that way; the cases - are usually trifling, and the juries easily bamboozled. It has besides - this immense advantage—that should you by any accident happen to - break down, nobody will in all probability be the wiser for it, provided - you have the good sense to ingratiate yourself with the circuit-clerk. - </p> - <p> - Tom and I arrived at Jedburgh the afternoon before the circuit began. I - was not acquainted with a human being within the parliamentary boundaries - of that respectable borough, and therefore experienced but a slight spasm - of disappointment when informed by the waiter at the inn, that no - inquiries had yet been made after me, on the part of writers desirous of - professional assistance. Strachan had been wiser. Somehow or other, he had - got a letter of introduction to one Bailie Beerie, a notable civic - dignitary of the place; and, accordingly, on presenting his credentials, - was invited by that functionary to dinner, with a hint that he "might - maybe see a wheen real leddies in the evening." This pointed so plainly to - a white choker and dress boots, that Strachan durst not take the liberty - of volunteering the attendance of his friend; and accordingly I had been - left alone to wile away, as I best might, the tedium of a sluggish - evening.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4b" id="Page_4b">[Pg 4]</a></span> - Before starting, however, Tom pledged himself to return in time for - supper; as he entertained a painful conviction that the party would be - excessively slow. - </p> - <p> - So long as it was light, I amused myself pretty well by strolling along - the banks of the river, and enunciating a splendid speech for the panel in - an imaginary case of murder. However, before I reached the peroration - (which was to consist of a vivid picture of the deathbed of a despairing - jury-man, conscience-stricken by the recollection of an erroneous - verdict), the shades of evening began to close in; the trouts ceased to - leap in the pool, and the rooks desisted from their cawing. I returned to - discuss my solitary mutton at the inn; and then, having nothing to do, sat - down to a moderate libation, and an odd number of the <i>Temperance - Magazine</i>, which valuable tract had been left for the reformation of - the traveller by some peripatetic disciple of Father Mathew. - </p> - <p> - Nine o'clock came, but so did not Strachan. I began to wax wroth, muttered - anathemas against my faithless friend, rang for the waiter, and—having - ascertained the fact that a Masonic Lodge was that evening engaged in - celebrating the festival of its peculiar patron—I set out for the - purpose of assisting in the pious and mystic labours of the Brethren of - the Jedburgh St Jeremy. At twelve, when I returned to my quarters, - escorted by the junior<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5b" id="Page_5b">[Pg - 5]</a></span> deacon, I was informed that Strachan had not made his - appearance, and accordingly I went to bed. - </p> - <p> - Next morning I found Tom, as already mentioned, in his couch. There was a - fine air of negligence in the manner in which his habiliments were - scattered over the room. One glazed boot lay within the fender, whilst the - other had been chucked into a coal-scuttle; and there were evident marks - of mud on the surface of his glossy kerseymeres. Strachan himself looked - excessively pale, and the sole rejoinder he made to my preliminary remark - was, a request for soda-water. - </p> - <p> - "Tom," said I, inexpressibly shocked at the implied confession of the - nature of his vespers—"I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself! - Have you no higher regard for the dignity of the bar you represent, than - to expose yourself before a Jedburgh Bailie?" - </p> - <p> - "Dignity be hanged!" replied the incorrigible Strachan. "Bailie Beerie is - a brick, and I won't hear a word against him. But, O Fred! if you only - knew what you missed last night! Such a splendid woman—by Jove, sir, - a thoroughbred angel. A bust like one of Titian's beauties, and the voice - of a lovelorn nightingale!" - </p> - <p> - "One of the Misses Beerie, I presume. Come, Tom, I think I can fill up - your portrait. Hair of the auburn complexion, slightly running into the - carrot—skin fair, but freckled—greenish eyes—red<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6b" id="Page_6b">[Pg 6]</a></span> elbows—culpable - ankles—elephantine waist—and sentiments savouring of the - Secession." - </p> - <p> - "Ring the bell for the waiter, and hold your impious tongue. You never - were farther from the mark in your life. The wing of the raven is not more - glossy than her hair—and oh, the depth and melting lustre of those - dark unfathomable eyes! Waiter! a bottle of soda-water, and you may put in - a thimbleful of cognac." - </p> - <p> - "Come, Tom!—none of your ravings. Is this an actual Armida, or a new - freak of your own imagination?" - </p> - <p> - "<i>Bonâ fide</i>—an angel in everything, barring the wings." - </p> - <p> - "Then how the deuce did such a phenomenon happen to emerge at the - Bailie's?" - </p> - <p> - "That's the very question I was asking myself during the whole time of - dinner. She was clearly not a Scotswoman. When she spoke, it was in the - sweet low accents of a southern clime; and she waved away the proffered - haggis with an air of the prettiest disgust!" - </p> - <p> - "But the Bailie knew her?" - </p> - <p> - "Of course he did. I got the whole story out of him after dinner, and, - upon my honour, I think it is the most romantic one I ever heard. About a - week ago, the lady arrived here without attendants. Some say she came in - the mail-coach—others in a dark travelling chariot and pair. - However, what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7b" id="Page_7b">[Pg 7]</a></span> - matters it? the jewel can derive no lustre or value from the casket!" - </p> - <p> - "Yes—but one always likes to have some kind of idea of the setting. - Get on." - </p> - <p> - "She seemed in great distress, and inquired whether there were any letters - at the post-office addressed to the Honourable Dorothea Percy. No such - epistle was to be found. She then interrogated the landlord, whether an - elderly lady, whose appearance she minutely described, had been seen in - the neighbourhood of Jedburgh; but except old Mrs Slammingham of - Summertrees, who has been bed-ridden for years, there was nobody in the - county who at all answered to the description. On hearing this, the lady - seemed profoundly agitated—shut herself up in a private parlour, and - refused all sustenance." - </p> - <p> - "Had she not a reticule with sandwiches, Tom?" - </p> - <p> - "Do not tempt me to commit justifiable homicide—you see I am in the - act of shaving.—At last the landlady, who is a most respectable - person, and who felt deeply interested at the desolate situation of the - poor young lady, ventured to solicit an interview. She was admitted. There - are moments when the sympathy of even the humblest friend is precious. - Miss Percy felt grateful for the interest so displayed, and confided the - tale of her griefs to the matronly bosom of the hostess." - </p> - <p> - "And she told you?" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8b" id="Page_8b">[Pg 8]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "No,—but she told Bailie Beerie. That active magistrate thought it - his duty to interfere. He waited upon Miss Percy, and from her lips he - gathered the full particulars of her history. Percy is not her real name, - but she is the daughter of an English peer of very ancient family. Her - father having married a second time, Dorothea was exposed to the - persecutions of a low-minded vulgar woman, whose whole ideas were of that - mean and mercenary description which characterise the Caucasian race. - Naomi Shekels was the offspring of a Jew, and she hated, whilst she - envied, the superior charms of the noble Norman maiden. But she had gained - an enormous supremacy over the wavering intellect of the elderly Viscount; - and Dorothea was commanded to receive, with submission, the addresses of a - loathsome apostate, who had made a prodigious fortune in the railways." - </p> - <p> - "One of the tribe of Issachar?" - </p> - <p> - "Exactly. A miscreant whose natural function was the vending of cast - habiliments. Conceive, Fred, what the fair young creature must have felt - at the bare idea of such shocking spousals! She besought, prayed, - implored,—but all in vain. Mammon had taken too deep a root in the - paternal heart,—the old coronet had been furbished up by means of - Israelitish gold, and the father could not see any degradation in forcing - upon his child an alliance similar to his own." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9b" id="Page_9b">[Pg 9]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "You interest me excessively." - </p> - <p> - "Is it not a strange tale?" continued Thomas, adjusting a false collar - round his neck. "I knew you would agree with me when I came to the - pathetic part. Well, Fred, the altar was decked, the ornaments ready, the - Rabbi bespoke——" - </p> - <p> - "Do you mean to say, Strachan, that Lady Dorothea was to have been married - after the fashion of the Jews?" - </p> - <p> - "I don't know exactly. I think Beerie said it was a Rabbi; but that may - have been a flight of his own imagination. However, somebody was ready to - have tied the nuptial knot, and all the joys of existence, and its hopes, - were about to fade for ever from the vision of my poor Dorothea!" - </p> - <p> - "<i>Your</i> Dorothea!" cried I in amazement. "Why, Tom—you don't - mean to insinuate that you have gone that length already?" - </p> - <p> - "Did I say mine?" repeated Strachan, looking somewhat embarrassed. "It was - a mere figure of speech: you always take one up so uncommonly short.—Nothing - remained for her but flight, or submission to the cruel mandate. Like a - heroic girl, in whose veins the blood of the old crusaders was bounding, - she preferred the former alternative. The only relation to whom she could - apply in so delicate a juncture, was an aged aunt, residing somewhere in - the north of Scotland. To her she wrote, beseeching her, as she regarded - the memory<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10b" id="Page_10b">[Pg 10]</a></span> - of her buried sister, to receive her miserable child; and she appointed - this town, Jedburgh, as the place of meeting." - </p> - <p> - "But where's the aunt?" - </p> - <p> - "That's just the mysterious part of the business. The crisis was so - imminent that Dorothea could not wait for a reply. She disguised herself,—packed - up a few jewels which had been bequeathed to her by her mother,—and, - at the dead of night, escaped from her father's mansion. Judge of her - terror when, on arriving here, panting and perhaps pursued, she could - obtain no trace whatever of her venerable relative. Alone, inexperienced - and unfriended, I tremble to think what might have been her fate, had it - not been for the kind humanity of Beerie." - </p> - <p> - "And what was the Bailie's line of conduct?" - </p> - <p> - "He behaved to her, Fred, like a parent. He supplied her wants, and - invited her to make his house her home, at least until the aunt should - appear. But the noble creature would not subject herself to the weight of - so many obligations. She accepted, indeed, his assistance, but preferred - remaining here until she could place herself beneath legitimate - guardianship. And doubtless," continued Strachan with fervour, "her good - angel is watching over her." - </p> - <p> - "And this is the whole story?" - </p> - <p> - "The whole." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11b" id="Page_11b">[Pg 11]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Do you know, Tom, it looks uncommonly like a piece of deliberate humbug!" - </p> - <p> - "Your ignorance misleads you, Fred. You would not say so had you seen her. - So sweet—so gentle—with such a tinge of melancholy resignation - in her eye, like that of a virgin martyr about to suffer at the stake! No - one could look upon her for a moment and doubt her purity and truth." - </p> - <p> - "Perhaps. But you must allow that we are not living exactly in the age of - romance. An elopement with an officer of dragoons is about the farthest - extent of legitimate enterprise which is left to a modern damsel; and, - upon my word, I think the story would have told better, had some such hero - been inserted as a sort of counterpoise to the Jew. But what's the matter? - Have you lost anything?" - </p> - <p> - "It is very odd!" said Strachan, "I am perfectly certain that I had on my - emerald studs last night. I recollect that Dorothea admired them - exceedingly. Where on earth can I have put them?" - </p> - <p> - "I don't know, I'm sure. I suspect, Tom, you and the Bailie were rather - convivial after supper. Is your watch wound up?" - </p> - <p> - "Of course it is. I assure you you are quite wrong. It was a mere matter - of four or five tumblers. Very odd this! Why—I can't find my watch - neither!" - </p> - <p> - "Hallo! what the deuce! Have we fallen into<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_12b" id="Page_12b">[Pg 12]</a></span> a den of thieves? This is - a nice beginning to our circuit practice." - </p> - <p> - "I could swear, Fred, that I put it below my pillow before I went to - sleep. I remember, now, that it was some time before I could fit in the - key. What can have become of it?" - </p> - <p> - "And you have not left your room since?" - </p> - <p> - "No, on my word of honour!" - </p> - <p> - "Pooh—pooh! Then it can't possibly be gone. Look beneath the - bolster." - </p> - <p> - But in vain did we search beneath bolster, mattress, and blankets; yea, - even downwards to the fundamental straw. Not a trace was to be seen of Cox - Savoury's horizontal lever, jewelled, as Tom pathetically remarked, in - four special holes, and warranted to go for a year without more than a - minute's deviation. Neither were the emerald studs, the pride of - Strachan's heart, forthcoming. Boots, chambermaid, and waiter were - collectively summoned—all assisted in the search, and all - asseverated their own integrity. - </p> - <p> - "Are ye sure, sir, that ye brocht them hame?" said the waiter, an acute - lad, who had served his apprenticeship at a commercial tavern in the - Gorbals; "Ye was gey an' fou when ye cam in here yestreen." - </p> - <p> - "What do you mean, you rascal?" - </p> - <p> - "Ye ken ye wadna gang to bed till ye had anither tumbler." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13b" id="Page_13b">[Pg 13]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Don't talk trash! It was the weakest cold-without in the creation." - </p> - <p> - "And then ye had a sair fecht on politics wi' anither man in the - coffee-room." - </p> - <p> - "Ha! I remember now—the bagman, who is a member of the League! Where - is the commercial villain?" - </p> - <p> - "He gaed aff at sax preceesely, this morning, in his gig, to Kelso." - </p> - <p> - "Then, by the head of Thistlewood!" cried Strachan, frantically, "my - ticker will be turned into tracts against the Corn-laws!" - </p> - <p> - "Hoot na!" said the waiter, "I canna think that. He looked an unco - respectable-like man." - </p> - <p> - "No man can be respectable," replied the aristocratic Thomas, "who sports - such infernal opinions as I heard him utter last night. My poor studs! - Fred—they were a gift from Mary Rivers before we quarrelled, and I - would not have lost them for the universe! Only think of them being - exposed for sale at a free-trade bazaar!" - </p> - <p> - "Come, Tom—they may turn up yet." - </p> - <p> - "Never in this world, except at a pawnbroker's. I could go mad to think - that my last memorial of Mary is in all probability glittering in the - unclean shirt of a bagman!" - </p> - <p> - "Had you not better apply to the Fiscal?" - </p> - <p> - "For what purpose? Doubtless the scoundrel has driven off to the nearest - railway, and is triumphantly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14b" - id="Page_14b">[Pg 14]</a></span> counting the mile-posts as he steams to - his native Leeds. No, Fred. Both watch and studs are gone beyond the hope - of redemption." - </p> - <p> - "The loss is certainly a serious one." - </p> - <p> - "No doubt of it: but a thought strikes me. You recollect the edict, <i>nautæ</i>, - <i>caupones</i>, <i>stabularii</i>? I have not studied the civil law for - nothing, and am clearly of opinion that in such a case the landlord is - liable." - </p> - <p> - "By Jove! I believe you are right. But it would be as well to turn up Shaw - and Dunlop for a precedent before you make any row about it. Besides, it - may be rather difficult to establish that you lost them at the inn." - </p> - <p> - "If they only refer the matter to my oath, I can easily settle that - point," replied Strachan. "Besides, now that I think of it, Miss Percy can - speak to the watch. She asked me what o'clock it was just before we parted - on the stairs." - </p> - <p> - "Eh, what! Is the lady in this house?" - </p> - <p> - "To be sure—did I not tell you so?" - </p> - <p> - "I say, Tom—couldn't you contrive to let one have a peep at this - angel of yours?" - </p> - <p> - "Quite impossible. She is the shyest creature in the world, and would - shrink from the sight of a stranger." - </p> - <p> - "But, my dear Tom——" - </p> - <p> - "I can't do it, I tell you; so it's no use asking me." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15b" id="Page_15b">[Pg 15]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Well, I must say you are abominably selfish. But what on earth are you - going to do with that red-and-blue Joinville? You can't go down to court - without a white neckcloth." - </p> - <p> - "I am not going down to court." - </p> - <p> - "Why, my good fellow! what on earth is the meaning of this?" - </p> - <p> - "I am not going down to court, that's all. I say, Fred, how do I look in - this sort of thing?" - </p> - <p> - "Uncommonly like a cock-pheasant in full plumage. But tell me what you - mean?" - </p> - <p> - "Why, since you must needs know, I am going up-stairs to breakfast with - Miss Percy." - </p> - <p> - So saying, Mr Strachan made me a polite bow, and left the apartment. I - took my solitary way to the court-house, marvelling at the extreme - rapidity of the effect which is produced by the envenomed darts of Cupid. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <h3> - <a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</a> - </h3> - <p> - On entering the court, I found that the business had commenced. An - enormous raw-boned fellow, with a shock of the fieriest hair, and hands of - such dimensions that a mere glimpse of them excited unpleasant sensations - at your windpipe, was stationed at the bar, to which, from previous - practice, he had acquired a sort of prescriptive right. - </p> - <p> - "James M'Wilkin, or Wilkinson, or Wilson,"<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_16b" id="Page_16b">[Pg 16]</a></span> said the presiding judge, - in a tone of disgust which heightened with each successive alias, "attend - to the indictment which is about to be preferred against you." - </p> - <p> - And certainly, if the indictment contained a true statement of the facts, - James M'Wilkin, or Wilkinson, or Wilson, was about as thoroughpaced a - marauder as ever perambulated a common. He was charged with sheep-stealing - and assault; inasmuch as, on a certain night subsequent to the Kelso fair, - he, the said individual with the plural denominations, did wickedly and - feloniously steal, uplift, and away take from a field adjoining to the - Northumberland road, six wethers, the property, or in the lawful - possession, of Jacob Gubbins, grazier, then and now, or lately, residing - in Morpeth; and, moreover, on being followed by the said Gubbins, who - demanded restitution of his property, he, the said M'Wilkin, &c. had, - in the most brutal manner, struck, knocked down, and lavished divers kicks - upon the corporality of the Northumbrian bumpkin, to the fracture of three - of his ribs, and otherwise to the injury of his person. - </p> - <p> - During the perusal of this formidable document by the clerk, M'Wilkin - stood scratching his poll, and leering about him as though he considered - the whole ceremony as a sort of solemn joke. I never in the course of my - life cast eyes on a more nonchalant or unmitigated ruffian. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17b" id="Page_17b">[Pg 17]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "How do you say, M'Wilkin?" asked the judge; "are you guilty or not - guilty?" - </p> - <p> - "Not guilty, aff course. D'ye tak me for a fule?" and M'Wilkin flounced - down upon his seat, as though he had been an ornament to society. - </p> - <p> - "Have you a counsel?" asked the judge. - </p> - <p> - "De'il ane—nor a bawbee," replied the free-booter. - </p> - <p> - Acting upon the noble principle of Scottish jurisprudence, that no man - shall undergo his trial without sufficient legal advice, his lordship in - the kindest manner asked me to take charge of the fortunes of the forlorn - M'Wilkin. Of course I made no scruples; for, so long as it was matter of - practice, I should have felt no hesitation in undertaking the defence of - Beelzebub. I therefore leaned across the dock, and exchanged a few hurried - sentences with my first client. - </p> - <p> - "Why don't you plead guilty?" - </p> - <p> - "What for? I've been here before. Man, I'm thinking ye're a saft ane!" - </p> - <p> - "Did you not steal the sheep?" - </p> - <p> - "Ay—that's just the question. Let them find that out." - </p> - <p> - "But the grazier saw you?" - </p> - <p> - "I blackened his e'es." - </p> - <p> - "You'll be transported to a dead certainty." - </p> - <p> - "Deevil a fears, if ye're worth the price o' half a mutchkin. I'm saying—get - me a Hawick jury,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18b" id="Page_18b">[Pg - 18]</a></span> and it's a' richt. They ken me gey and weel thereabouts." - </p> - <p> - Although I was by no means satisfied in my own mind that an intimate - acquaintance with M'Wilkin and his previous pursuits would be a strong - recommendation in his favour to any possible assize, I thought it best to - follow his instructions, and managed my challenges so well that I secured - a majority of Hawickers. The jury being sworn in, the cause proceeded; and - certainly, before three witnesses had been examined, it appeared to me - beyond all manner of doubt, that, in the language of Tom Campbell, my - unfortunate client was - </p> - <p> - "Doom'd the long coves of Sydney isle to see,"<br /> - </p> - <p> - as a permanent addition to that cultivated and Patagonian population. The - grazier stood to his story like a man, and all efforts to break him down - by cross-examination were fruitless. There was also another hawbuck who - swore to the sheep, and was witness to the assault; so that, in fact, the - evidence was legally complete. - </p> - <p> - Whilst I was occupied in the vain attempt to make Gubbins contradict - himself, there had been a slight commotion in the court-room. On looking - round afterwards, I was astonished to behold my friend Strachan seated in - the Magistrate's box, next to a very pretty and showily-dressed woman, to - whom he was paying the most marked and deliberate<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_19b" id="Page_19b">[Pg 19]</a></span> attention. On the other - side of her was an individual in a civic chain, whose fat, pursy, - apoplectic appearance, and nose of the colour of an Orleans plum, - thoroughly realised my mental picture of the Bailie. His small, blood-shot - eyes twinkled with magisterial dignity and importance; and he looked, - beside Miss Percy—for I could not doubt that it was she—like a - satyr in charge of Florimel. - </p> - <p> - The last witness for the crown, a very noted police-officer from Glasgow, - was then put into the box, to prove a previous conviction against my - friend M'Wilkin. This man bore a high reputation in his calling, and was, - indeed, esteemed as a sort of Scottish Vidocq, who knew by headmark every - filcher of a handkerchief between Caithness and the Border. He met the - bold broad stare of the prisoner with a kind of nod, as much as to assure - him that his time was very nearly up; and then deliberately proceeded to - take a hawk's-eye view of the assembly. I noticed a sort of quiet sneer as - he glanced at the Magistrate's box. - </p> - <p> - "Poor Strachan!" thought I. "His infatuation must indeed be palpable, - since even a common officer can read his secret in a moment." - </p> - <p> - I might just as well have tried to shake Ailsa Craig as to make an - impression upon this witness; however, heroically devoted to my trust, I - hazarded the attempt, and ended by bringing out several additional<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20b" id="Page_20b">[Pg 20]</a></span> tales - of turpitude in the life and times of M'Wilkin. - </p> - <p> - "Make room there in the passage! The lady has fainted," cried the macer. - </p> - <p> - I started to my feet, and was just in time to see Miss Percy conveyed from - the court, in an apparently inanimate state, by the Bailie and the - agitated Strachan. - </p> - <p> - "Devilish fine-looking woman that!" observed the Advocate-Depute across - the table. "Where did your friend Mr Strachan get hold of her?" - </p> - <p> - "I really don't know. I say—are you going to address the jury for - the crown?" - </p> - <p> - "It is quite immaterial. The case is distinctly proved, and I presume you - don't intend to speak?" - </p> - <p> - "I'm not so sure of that." - </p> - <p> - "Oh, well,—in that case I suppose I must say a word or two. This - closes the evidence for the crown, my lord;" and the Depute began to turn - over his papers, preparatory to a short harangue. - </p> - <p> - He had just commenced his speech, when I felt a hand laid upon my - shoulder. I looked around: Strachan was behind me, pale and almost - breathless with excitement. - </p> - <p> - "Fred—can I depend upon your friendship?" - </p> - <p> - "Of course you can. What's the row?" - </p> - <p> - "Have you ten pounds about you?" - </p> - <p> - "Yes—but what do you mean to do with them?<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_21b" id="Page_21b">[Pg 21]</a></span> Surely you are not going - to make a blockhead of yourself by bolting?" - </p> - <p> - "No—no! give me the money—quick!" - </p> - <p> - "On your word of honour, Tom?" - </p> - <p> - "On my sacred word of honour!—That's a good fellow—thank you, - Fred;" and Strachan pocketed the currency. "Now," said he, "I have just - one other request to make." - </p> - <p> - "What's that?" - </p> - <p> - "Speak against time, there's a dear fellow! Spin out the case as long as - you can, and don't let the jury retire for at least three quarters of an - hour. I know you can do it better than any other man at the bar." - </p> - <p> - "Are you in earnest, Tom?" - </p> - <p> - "Most solemnly. My whole future happiness—nay, perhaps the life of a - human being depends upon it." - </p> - <p> - "In that case I think I shall tip them an hour." - </p> - <p> - "Heaven reward you, Fred! I never can forget your kindness!" - </p> - <p> - "But where shall I see you afterwards?" - </p> - <p> - "At the hotel. Now, my dear boy, be sure that you pitch it in, and, if - possible, get the judge to charge after you. Time's all that's wanted—adieu!" - and Tom disappeared in a twinkling. - </p> - <p> - I had little leisure to turn over the meaning of this interview in my - mind, for the address of my learned opponent was very short and pithy. He<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22b" id="Page_22b">[Pg 22]</a></span> merely - pointed out the clear facts, as substantiated by evidence, and brought - home to the unhappy M'Wilkin; and concluded by demanding a verdict on both - charges contained in the indictment against the prisoner. - </p> - <p> - "Do you wish to say anything, sir?" said the judge to me, with a kind of - tone which indicated his hope that I was going to say nothing. Doubtless - his lordship thought that, as a very young counsel, I would take the hint; - but he was considerably mistaken in his man. I came to the bar for - practice—I went on the circuit with the solemn determination to - speak in every case, however desperate; and it needed not the admonition - of Strachan to make me carry my purpose into execution. What did I care - about occupying the time of the court? His lordship was paid to listen, - and could very well afford to hear the man who was pleading for M'Wilkin - without a fee. I must say, however, that he looked somewhat disgusted when - I rose. - </p> - <p> - A first appearance is a nervous thing, but there is nothing like going - boldly at your subject. "<i>Fiat experimentum in corpore vili</i>" is a - capital maxim in the Justiciary Court. The worse your case, the less - chance you have to spoil it; and I never had a worse than M'Wilkin's. - </p> - <p> - I began by buttering the jury on their evident intelligence and the high - functions they had to discharge, which of course were magnified to the<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23b" id="Page_23b">[Pg 23]</a></span> skies. - I then went slap-dash at the evidence; and, as I could say nothing in - favour of my client, directed a tremendous battery of abuse and - insinuation against his accuser. - </p> - <p> - "And who is this Gubbins, gentlemen, that you should believe this most - incredible, most atrocious, and most clumsy apocrypha of his? I will tell - you. He is an English butcher—a dealer in cattle and in bestial—one - of those men who derive their whole subsistence from the profits realised - by the sale of our native Scottish produce. This is the way in which our - hills are depopulated, and our glens converted into solitudes. It is for - him and his confederates—not for us—that our shepherds watch - and toil, that our herds and flocks are reared, that the richness of the - land is absorbed! And who speaks to the character of this Gubbins? You - have heard the pointless remarks made by my learned friend upon the - character of my unfortunate client; but he has not dared to adduce in this - court one single witness in behalf of the character of his witness. - Gentlemen, he durst not do it! Gubbins has deponed to you that he bought - those sheep at the fair of Kelso, from a person of the name of Shiells, - and that he paid the money for them. Where is the evidence of that? Where - is Shiells to tell us whether he actually sold these sheep, or whether, on - the contrary, they were not stolen from him? Has it been proved to you, - gentlemen, that M'Wilkin<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24b" - id="Page_24b">[Pg 24]</a></span> is not a friend of Shiells—that he - did not receive notice of the theft—that he did not pursue the - robber, and, recognising the stolen property by their mark, seize them for - the benefit of their owner? No such proof at least has been led upon the - part of the crown, and in the absence of it, I ask you fearlessly, whether - you can possibly violate your consciences by returning a verdict of - guilty? Is it not possible—nay, is it not extremely probable, that - Gubbins was the actual thief? Was it not his interest, far more than - M'Wilkin's, to abstract those poor unhappy sheep, because it is avowedly - his trade to fill the insatiable maw of the Southron? And in that case, - who should be at the bar? Gubbins! Gubbins, I say, who this day has the - unparalleled audacity to appear before an enlightened Scottish jury, and - to give evidence which, in former times, might have led to the awful - consequence of the execution of an innocent man! And this is what my - learned friend calls evidence! Evidence to condemn a fellow-countryman, - gentlemen? No—not to condemn a dog!" - </p> - <p> - Having thus summarily disposed of Gubbins, I turned my artillery against - the attendant drover and the policeman. The first I indignantly denounced - as either an accomplice or a tool: the second I smote more severely. - Policemen are not popular in Hawick; and, knowing this, I contrived to - blacken the Scottish Vidocq as a bloodhound. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25b" id="Page_25b">[Pg 25]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - But by far the finest flight of fancy in which I indulged was reserved for - the peroration. I was not quite sure of the effect of my commentary on the - evidence, and therefore thought it might be advisable to touch upon a - national law. - </p> - <p> - "And now, gentlemen," said I, "assuming for one moment that all my learned - friend has said to you is true—that the sheep really belonged to - this Gubbins, and were taken from him by M'Wilkin—let us calmly and - deliberately consider how far such a proceeding can be construed into a - crime. What has my unfortunate client done that he should be condemned by - a jury of his countrymen? What he stands charged with is simply this—that - he has prevented an Englishman from driving away the produce of our native - hills. And is this a crime? It may be so, for aught I know, by statute; - but sure I am, that in the intention, to which alone you must look, there - lies a far deeper element of patriotism than of deliberate guilt. Think - for one moment, gentlemen, of the annals of which we are so proud—of - the ballads still chanted in the hall and in the hamlet—of the - lonely graves and headstones that are scattered all along the surface of - the southern muirs. Do not these annals tell us how the princes and the - nobles of the land were wont to think it neither crime nor degradation to - march with their retainers across the Borders, and to harry with fire and - sword the fields of Northumberland<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26b" - id="Page_26b">[Pg 26]</a></span> and Durham? Randolph and the Bruce have - done it, and yet no one dares to attach the stigma of dishonour to their - names. Do not our ballads tell how at Lammas-tide, - </p> - <p> - 'The doughty Earl of Douglas rade<br /> <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Into - England to fetch a prey?'</span><br /> - </p> - <p> - And who shall venture to impeach the honour of the hero who fell upon the - field of Otterbourne? Need I remind you of those who have died in their - country's cause, and whose graves are still made the object of many a - pious pilgrimage? Need I speak of Flodden, that woeful place, where the - Flowers of the Forest were left lying in one ghastly heap around their - king? Ah, gentlemen! have I touched you now? True, it was in the olden - time that these things were done and celebrated; but remember this, that - society may change its place, states and empires may rise and be - consolidated, but patriotism still lives enduring and undying as of yore! - And who shall dare to say that patriotism was not the motive of M'Wilkin? - Who shall presume to analyse or to blame the instinct which may have - driven him to the deed? Call him not a felon—call him rather a poet; - for over his kindling imagination fell the mighty shadow of the past. Old - thoughts, old feelings, old impulses, were burning in his soul. He saw in - Gubbins, not the grazier, but the lawless spoiler of his country; and he - rose, as a Borderer should, to vindicate the honour of his<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27b" id="Page_27b">[Pg 27]</a></span> race. - He may have been mistaken in what he did, but the motive, at least, was - pure. Honour it then, gentlemen, for it is the same motive which is at all - times the best safeguard of a nation's independence; and do honour - likewise to yourselves by pronouncing a unanimous verdict of acquittal in - favour of the prisoner at the bar!" - </p> - <p> - By the time I had finished this harangue, I was wrought up to such a pitch - of enthusiasm, that I really considered M'Wilkin in the light of an - extremely ill-used individual, and the tears stood in my eyes as I - recapitulated the history of his wrongs. Several of the jury, too, began - to get extremely excited, and looked as fierce as falcons when I reminded - them of the field of Flodden. But my hopes were considerably damped when I - heard the charge of his lordship. With all respect for the eminent senator - who that day presided on the bench, I think he went rather too far when he - designated my maiden-effort a rhapsody which could only be excused on - account of the inexperience of the gentleman who uttered it. Passing from - that unpleasant style of stricture, he went <i>seriatim</i> over all the - crimes of M'Wilkin, and very distinctly indicated his opinion that a more - consummate ruffian had seldom figured in the dock. When he concluded, - however, there was a good deal of whispering in the jury-box, and at last - the gentlemen of the assize requested permission to retire. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28b" id="Page_28b">[Pg 28]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "That was a fine flare-up of yours, Freddy," said Anthony Whaup, the only - other counsel for the prisoners upon the circuit. "You came it rather - strong, though, in the national line. I don't think our venerable friend - overhead half likes your ideas of international law." - </p> - <p> - "Why, yes—I confess he gave me a tolerable wigging. But what would - you have me do? I must have said some thing." - </p> - <p> - "Oh, by Jove, your were perfectly right! I always make a point of speaking - myself; and I can assure you that you did remarkably well. It was a novel - view, but decidedly ingenious, and may lead to great results. If that - fellow gets off, you may rely upon it there will be some bloodshed again - upon the Border." - </p> - <p> - "And a jolly calendar, of course, for next circuit. I say, Anthony,—how - many cases have you got?" - </p> - <p> - "Two thefts with habit and repute, a hamesucken, rather a good forgery, - and an assault with intent to commit." - </p> - <p> - "Long?" - </p> - <p> - "Rather—but poor pay. I haven't sacked more than nine guineas - altogether. Gad!" continued Anthony, stretching himself, "this is slow - work. I'd rather by a great deal be rowing on the canal." - </p> - <p> - "Hush! here come the jury." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29b" id="Page_29b">[Pg 29]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - They entered, took their seats, and each man in succession answered to his - name. I stole a glance at M'Wilkin. He looked as leonine as ever, and kept - winking perseveringly to the Hawickers. - </p> - <p> - "Now, gentlemen," said the clerk of court, "what is your verdict?" - </p> - <p> - The foreman rose. - </p> - <p> - "The jury, by a majority, find the charges against the prisoner <span - class="smcap">not proven</span>." - </p> - <p> - "Hurrah!" shouted M'Wilkin, reckless of all authority. "Hurrah! I say—you - counsellor in the wig—ye shanna want a sheep's head thae three - years, if there's ane to be had on the Border!" - </p> - <p> - And in this way I gained my first acquittal. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <h3> - <a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</a> - </h3> - <p> - I found Strachan in his room with his face buried in the bed-clothes. He - was kicking his legs as though he suffered under a violent fit of the - toothache. - </p> - <p> - "I say, Tom, what's the matter? Look up, man! Do you know I've got that - scoundrel off?" - </p> - <p> - No answer. - </p> - <p> - "Tom, I say? Tom, you dunderhead—what do you mean by making an ass - of yourself this way? Get up, for shame, and answer me!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30b" id="Page_30b">[Pg 30]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Poor Strachan raised his head from the coverlet. His eyes were absolutely - pink, and his cheeks of the tint of a lemon. - </p> - <p> - "O Fred, Fred!" said he with a series of interjectional gasps, "I am the - most unfortunate wretch in the universe. All the hopes I had formerly - cherished are blighted at once in the bud! She is gone, my friend—gone - away from me, and, alas! I fear, for ever!" - </p> - <p> - "The deuce she has! and how?" - </p> - <p> - "Oh what madness tempted me to lead her to the court?—what - infatuation it was to expose those angelic features to the risk of - recognition! Who that ever saw those dove-like eyes could forget them?" - </p> - <p> - "I have no objection to the eyes—they were really very passable. But - who twigged her?" - </p> - <p> - "An emissary of her father's—that odious miscreant who was giving - evidence at the trial." - </p> - <p> - "The policeman? Whew! Tom!—I don't like that." - </p> - <p> - "He was formerly the land-steward of the Viscount;—a callous, cruel - wretch, who was more than suspected of having made away with his wife." - </p> - <p> - "And did he recognise her?" - </p> - <p> - "Dorothea says that she felt fascinated by the glitter of his cold grey - eye. A shuddering sensation passed through her frame, just as the poor - warbler of the woods quivers at the approach of<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_31b" id="Page_31b">[Pg 31]</a></span> the rattle-snake. A dark - mist gathered before her sight, and she saw no more until she awoke to - consciousness within my arms." - </p> - <p> - "Very pretty work, truly! And what then?" - </p> - <p> - "In great agitation, she told me that she durst tarry no longer here. She - was certain that the officer would make it his business to track her, and - communicate her hiding-place to her family; and she shook with horror when - she thought of the odious Israelitish bridegroom. 'The caverns of the deep - green sea—the high Tarpeian rock—the Leucadian cliff of - Sappho,' she said, 'all would be preferable to that! And yet, O Thomas, to - think that we should have met so suddenly, and that to part for ever!' - 'Pon my soul, Fred, I am the most miserable of created beings." - </p> - <p> - "Why, what on earth has become of her?" - </p> - <p> - "Gone—and I don't know whither. She would not even apprise the - Bailie of her departure, lest she might leave some clue for discovery. She - desired me to see him, to thank him, and to pay him for her,—all of - which I promised to do. With one kiss—one deep, burning, agonised - kiss—which I shall carry with me to my grave—she tore herself - away, sprang into the postchaise, and in another moment was lost to me for - ever!" - </p> - <p> - "And my ten pounds?" said I, in a tone of considerable emotion. - </p> - <p> - "Would you have had me think twice," asked<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_32b" id="Page_32b">[Pg 32]</a></span> Strachan indignantly, - "before I tendered my assistance to a forlorn angel in distress, even - though she possessed no deeper claims on my sympathy? I thought, - Frederick, you had more chivalry in your nature. You need not be uneasy - about that trifle; I shall be in funds some time about Christmas." - </p> - <p> - "Humph! I thought it was a P. P. transaction, but no matter. And is this - all the clue you have got to the future residence of the lady?" - </p> - <p> - "No,—she is to write me from the nearest post-town. You will see, - Fred, when the letter arrives, how well worthy she is of my adoration." - </p> - <p> - I have found, by long experience, that it is no use remonstrating with a - man who is head-over-ears in love. The tender passion affects us - differently, according to our constitutions. One set of fellows, who are - generally the pleasantest, seldom get beyond the length of flirtation. - They are always at it, but constantly changing, and therefore manage to - get through a tolerable catalogue of attachments before they are finally - brought to book. Such men are quite able to take care of themselves, and - require but little admonition. You no doubt hear them now and then abused - for trifling with the affections of young women—as if the latter had - themselves the slightest remorse in playing precisely the same game!—but - in most cases such censure is undeserved, for they are quite as much<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33b" id="Page_33b">[Pg 33]</a></span> in - earnest as their neighbours, so long as the impulse lasts. The true - explanation is, that they have survived their first passion, and that - their faith is somewhat shaken in the boyish creed of the absolute - perfectibility of woman. The great disappointment of life does not make - them misanthropes—but it forces them to caution, and to a closer - appreciation of character than is usually undertaken in the first - instance. They have become, perhaps, more selfish—certainly more - suspicious, and though often on the verge of a proposal, they never commit - themselves without an extreme degree of deliberation. - </p> - <p> - Another set seem designed by nature to be the absolute victims of woman. - Whenever they fall in love, they do it with an earnestness and an - obstinacy which is actually appalling. The adored object of their - affections can twine them round her finger, quarrel with them, cheat them, - caricature them, or flirt with others, without the least risk of severing - the triple cord of attachment. They become as tame as poodle-dogs, will - submit patiently to any manner of cruelty or caprice, and in fact seem - rather to be grateful for such treatment than otherwise. Clever women - usually contrive to secure a captive of this kind. He is useful to them in - a hundred ways, never interferes with their schemes, and, if the worst - comes to the worst, they can always fall back upon him as a <i>pis-aller</i>. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34b" id="Page_34b">[Pg 34]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - My friend Tom Strachan belonged decidedly to this latter section. Mary - Rivers, a remarkably clever and very showy girl, but as arrant a flirt as - ever wore rosebud in her bosom, had engrossed the whole of his heart - before he reached the reflecting age of twenty, and kept him for nearly - five years in a state of uncomplaining bondage. Not that I believe she - ever cared about him. Tom was as poor as a church-mouse, and had nothing - on earth to look to except the fruits of his professional industry, which, - judging from all appearances, would be a long time indeed in ripening. - Mary was not the sort of person to put up with love in a cottage, even had - Tom's circumstances been adequate to defray the rent of a tenement of that - description: she had a vivid appreciation, not only of the substantials - but of the higher luxuries of existence. But her vanity was flattered at - having in her train at least one devoted dangler, whom she could play off, - whenever opportunity required, against some more valuable admirer. - Besides, Strachan was a man of family, tall, good-looking, and - unquestionably clever in his way: he also danced the polka well, and was - useful in the ball-room or the picnic. So Mary Rivers kept him on in a - kind of blissful dream, just sunning him sufficiently with her smiles to - make him believe that he was beloved, but never allowing matters to go so - far as to lead to the report that they were engaged. Tom asked<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35b" id="Page_35b">[Pg 35]</a></span> for - nothing more. He was quite contented to indulge for years in a dream of - future bliss, and wrote during the interval a great many more sonnets than - summonses. Unfortunately sonnets don't pay well, so that his worldly - affairs did not progress at any remarkable ratio. And he only awoke to a - sense of his real situation, when Miss Rivers, having picked a quarrel - with him one day in the Zoological Gardens, announced on the next to her - friends that she had accepted the hand of a bilious East India merchant. - </p> - <p> - Tom made an awful row about it—grew as attenuated and brown as an - eel—and garnished his conversation with several significant hints - about suicide. He was, however, saved from that ghastly alternative by - being drafted into a Rowing Club, who plied their gondolas daily on the - Union Canal. Hard exercise, beer, and pulling had their usual sanatory - effect, and Tom gradually recovered his health, if not his spirits. - </p> - <p> - It was at this very crisis that he fell in with this mysterious Miss - Percy. There was an immense hole in his affections which required to be - filled up; and, as nature abhors a vacuum, he plugged it with the image of - Dorothea. The flight, therefore, of the fair levanter, after so brief an - intercourse, was quite enough to upset him. He was in the situation of a - man who is informed over-night that he has succeeded to a large fortune, - and who gets a letter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36b" id="Page_36b">[Pg - 36]</a></span> next morning explaining that it is a mere mistake. I was - therefore not at all astonished either at his paroxysms or his credulity. - </p> - <p> - We had rather a dreary dinner that day. The judges always entertain the - first day of circuit, and it is considered matter of etiquette that the - counsel should attend. Sometimes these forensic feeds are pleasant enough; - but on the present occasion there was a visible damp thrown over the - spirits of the party. His lordship was evidently savage at the unforeseen - escape of M'Wilkin, and looked upon me, as I thought, with somewhat of a - prejudiced eye. Bailie Beerie and the other magistrates seemed uneasy at - their unusual proximity to a personage who had the power of death and - transportation, and therefore abstained from emitting the accustomed - torrent of civic facetiousness. One of the sheriffs wanted to be off on a - cruise, and another was unwell with the gout. The Depute Advocate was - fagged; Whaup surly as a bear with a sore ear, on account of the tenuity - of his fees; and Strachan, of course, in an extremely unconversational - mood. So I had nothing for it but to eat and drink as plentifully as I - could, and very thankful I was that the claret was tolerably sound. - </p> - <p> - We rose from table early. As I did not like to leave Tom to himself in his - present state of mind, we adjourned to his room for the purpose of - enjoying a cigar; and there, sure enough, upon the table<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37b" id="Page_37b">[Pg 37]</a></span> lay - the expected missive. Strachan dashed at it like a pike pouncing upon a - parr; I lay down upon the sofa, lit my weed, and amused myself by watching - his physiognomy. - </p> - <p> - "Dear suffering angel!" said Tom at last, with a sort of whimper, "Destiny - has done its worst! We have parted, and the first fond dream of our love - has vanished before the cold and dreary dawn of reality! O my friend—we - were like the two birds in the Oriental fable, each doomed to traverse the - world before we could encounter our mate—we met, and almost in the - same hour the thunderbolt burst above us!" - </p> - <p> - "Yes—two very nice birds," said I. "But what does she say in the - letter?" - </p> - <p> - "You may read it," replied Tom, and he handed me the epistle. It was - rather a superior specimen of penmanship, and I don't choose to criticise - the style. Its tenor was as follows:— - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "I am hardly yet, my dear friend, capable of estimating the true extent of - my emotions. Like the buoyant seaweed torn from its native bed among the - submarine forest of the corals, I have been tossed from wave to wave, - hurried onwards by a stream more resistless than that which sweeps through - the Gulf of Labrador, and far—far away as yet is the wished-for - haven of my rest. Hitherto my life has been a tissue of calamity and woe. - Over my head <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38b" id="Page_38b">[Pg 38]</a></span>since - childhood, has stretched a dull and dreary canopy of clouds, shutting me - out for ever from a glimpse of the blessed sun. Once, and but once only - have I seen a chasm in that envious veil—only once and for a few, a - <i>very</i> few moments, have I gazed upon the blue empyrean, and felt my - heart expand and thrill to the glories of its liquid lustre. That once—oh, - Mr Strachan, can I ever forget it?—that once comprises the era of - the few hours which were the silent witnesses of our meeting! - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "Am I weak in writing to you thus? Perhaps I am; but then, Thomas, I have - never been taught to dissemble. Did I, however, think it probable that we - should ever meet again—that I should hear from your lips a - repetition of that language which now is chronicled in my soul—it - may be that I would not have dared to risk an avowal so candid and so - dear! As it is, it matters not. You have been my benefactor, my kind - consoler—my friend. You have told me that you love; and in the - fulness and native simplicity of my heart, I believe you. And if it be any - satisfaction to you to know that your sentiments have been at least - appreciated, believe that of all the pangs which the poor Dorothea has - suffered, this last agony of parting has been incomparably the most - severe. - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "You asked me if there was no hope. Oh, my Thomas! what would I not give - could I venture to answer, yes? But it cannot be! You are young <span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39b" id="Page_39b">[Pg 39]</a></span>and - happy, and will yet be fortunate and beloved: why, then, should I permit - so fair an existence to be blighted by the upas-tree of destiny under - which I am doomed to languish? You shall not say that I am selfish—you - shall not hereafter reproach me for having permitted you to share a burden - too great for both of us to carry. You must learn the one great lesson of - existence, to submit and to forget! - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "I am going far away, to the margin of that inhospitable shore which - receives upon its rocks the billows of the unbroken Atlantic—or - haply, amongst the remoter isles, I shall listen to the sea-mew's cry. Do - not weep for me. Amidst the myriad of bright and glowing things which - flutter over the surface of this green creation, let one feeble, choking, - overburdened heart be forgotten! Follow me not—seek me not—for, - like the mermaid on the approach of the mariner, I should shrink from the - face of man into the glassy caverns of the deep. - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "Adieu, Thomas, adieu! Say what you will for me to the noble and generous - Beerie. Would to heaven that I could send him some token in return for all - his kindness! But a good and gallant heart is its own most adequate - reward. - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "They are putting to the horses—I can hear the rumble of the - chariot! Oh, once more, dear friend—alas, too inexpressibly dear!—take - my last farewell. Adieu—my heart is breaking as I write the bitter - word!—forget me." - </p> - <p class="blockquot right"> - "<span class="smcap">Dorothea.</span>" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40b" id="Page_40b">[Pg 40]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Do you wonder at my sorrow now?" said Strachan, as I laid down the - passionate epistle. - </p> - <p> - "Why, no. It is well got up upon the whole, and does credit to the lady's - erudition. But I don't see why she should insist so strongly upon eternal - separation. Have you no idea whereabouts that aunt of hers may happen to - reside?" - </p> - <p> - "Not the slightest." - </p> - <p> - "Because, judging from her letter, it must be somewhere about Benbecula or - Tiree. I shouldn't even wonder if she had a summer box on St Kilda." - </p> - <p> - "Right! I did not think of that—you observe she speaks of the - remoter isles." - </p> - <p> - "To be sure, and for half a century there has not been a mermaid seen to - the east of the Lewis. Now, take my advice, Tom—don't make a fool of - yourself in the meantime, but wait until the Court of Session rises in - July. That will allow plenty of time for matters to settle; and if the old - Viscount and that abominable Abiram don't find her out before then, you - may depend upon it they will abandon the search. In the interim, the lady - will have cooled. Walks upon the sea-shore are uncommonly dull without - something like reciprocal sentimentality. The odds are, that the old aunt - is addicted to snuff, tracts, and the distribution of flannel, and before - August, the fair Dorothea will be yearning for a sight of her adorer. You - can easily gammon Anthony Whaup into a loan of that yacht of his which<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41b" id="Page_41b">[Pg 41]</a></span> he - makes such a boast of; and if you go prudently about it, and flatter him - on the score of his steering, I haven't the least doubt that he will - victual his hooker and give you a cruise in it for nothing." - </p> - <p> - "Admirable, my dear Fred! We shall touch at all the isles from Iona to - Uist; and if Miss Percy be indeed there—" - </p> - <p> - "You can carry her off on five minutes' notice, and our long friend will - be abundantly delighted. Only, mind this! If you want my candid opinion on - the wisdom of such an alliance, I should strongly recommend you to meddle - no farther in the matter, for I have my doubts about the Honourable - Dorothea, and——" - </p> - <p> - "Bah, Fred! Doubts after such a letter as that? Impossible! No, my dear - friend—your scheme is admirable—unexceptionable, and I shall - certainly act upon it. But oh—it is a weary time till July!" - </p> - <p> - "Merely a short interval of green pease and strawberries. I advise you, - however, to fix down Whaup as early as you can for the cruise." - </p> - <p> - The hint was rapidly taken. We sent for our facetious friend, ordered - supper, and in the course of a couple of tumblers, persuaded him that his - knowledge of nautical affairs was not exceeded by that of T. P. Cooke, and - that he was much deeper versed in the mysteries of sky-scraping than - Fenimore Cooper. Whaup gave in. By dint of a little extra persuasion, I - believe we might have coaxed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42b" - id="Page_42b">[Pg 42]</a></span> him into a voyage for Otaheite; and - before we parted for the evening it was agreed that Strachan should hold - himself in readiness to start for the Western Islands about the latter end - of July—Whaup being responsible for the provisions and champagne, - whilst Tom pledged himself to cigars. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <h3> - <a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a> - </h3> - <p> - I never ascertained the exact amount of the sum which Tom handed over to - the Bailie. It must, however, have been considerable, for he took to - retrenching his expenditure, and never once dropped a hint about the ten - pounds which I was so singularly verdant as to lend him. The summer - session stole away as quickly as its predecessors, though not, in so far - as I was concerned, quite as unprofitably, for I got a couple of - Sheriff-court papers to draw in consequence of my M'Wilkin appearance. - Tom, however, was very low about himself, and affected solitude. He would - not join in any of the strawberry lunches or fish dinners so attractive to - the junior members of the bar; but frequented the Botanical Gardens, where - he might be seen any fine afternoon, stretched upon the bank beside the - pond, concocting sonnets, or inscribing the name of Dorothea upon the - monument dedicated to Linnæus. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43b" id="Page_43b">[Pg 43]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Time, however, stole on. The last man who was going to be married got his - valedictory dinner at the close of the session. Gowns were thrown off, - wigs boxed up, and we all dispersed to the country wheresoever our - inclination might lead us. I resolved to devote the earlier part of the - vacation to the discovery of the town of Clackmannan—a place of - which I had often heard, but which no human being whom I ever encountered - had seen. Whaup was not oblivious of his promise, and Strachan clove unto - him like a limpet. - </p> - <p> - We did not meet again until September was well-nigh over. In common with - Strachan, I had adopted the resolution of changing my circuit, and - henceforth adhering to Glasgow, which, from its superior supply of - criminals, is the favourite resort of our young forensic aspirants. So I - packed my portmanteau, invoked the assistance of Saint Rollox, and started - for the balmy west. - </p> - <p> - The first man I met in George's Square was my own delightful Thomas. He - looked rather thin; was fearfully sun-burned; had on a pair of canvass - trousers most wofully bespattered with tar, and evidently had not shaved - for a fortnight. - </p> - <p> - "Why, Tom, my dear fellow!" cried I, "can this possibly be you? What the - deuce have you been doing with yourself? You look as hairy as Robinson - Crusoe." - </p> - <p> - "You should see Whaup,—he's rather worse off<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_44b" id="Page_44b">[Pg 44]</a></span> than Friday. We have just - landed at the Broomielaw, but I was obliged to leave Anthony in a tavern - for fear we should be mobbed in the street. I'm off by the rail to - Edinburgh, to get some decent toggery for us both. Lend me a pound-note, - will you?" - </p> - <p> - "Certainly—that's eleven, you recollect. But what's the meaning of - all this? Where is the yacht?" - </p> - <p> - "Safe—under twenty fathoms of dark blue water, at a place they call - the Sneeshanish Islands. Catch me going out again, with Anthony as - steersman!" - </p> - <p> - "No doubt he is an odd sort of Palinurus. But when did this happen?" - </p> - <p> - "Ten days ago. We were three days and nights upon the rock, with nothing - to eat except two biscuits, raw mussels and tangle!" - </p> - <p> - "Mercy on us! and how did you get off?" - </p> - <p> - "In a kelp-boat from Harris. But I haven't time for explanation just now. - Go down, like a good fellow, to the Broomielaw, No. 431—you will - find Anthony enjoying himself with beef steaks and bottled stout, in the - back parlour of the Cat and Bagpipes. I must refer you to him for the - details." - </p> - <p> - "One word more—you'll be back to the circuit?" - </p> - <p> - "Decidedly. To-morrow morning: as soon as I can get my things together." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45b" id="Page_45b">[Pg 45]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "And the lady—what news of her?" - </p> - <p> - The countenance of Strachan fell. - </p> - <p> - "Ah, my dear friend! I wish you had not touched upon that string—you - have set my whole frame a-jarring. No trace of her—none—none! - I fear I shall never see her more!" - </p> - <p> - "Come! don't be down-hearted. One never can tell what may happen. Perhaps - you may meet her sooner than you think." - </p> - <p> - "You are a kind-hearted fellow, Fred. But I've lost all hope. Nothing but - a dreary existence is now before me, and—but, by Jupiter, there goes - the starting bell!" - </p> - <p> - Tom vanished, like Aubrey's apparition, with a melodious twang, and a - perceptible odour of tar; and so, being determined to expiscate the - matter, I proceeded towards the Broomielaw, and in due time became master - of the locality of the Cat and Bagpipes. - </p> - <p> - "Is there a Mr Whaup here?" I inquired of Mrs M'Tavish, the landlady, who - was filling a gill-stoup at the bar. - </p> - <p> - "Here you are, old chap!" cried the hilarious voice of Anthony from an - inner apartment. "Turn to the right, steer clear of the scrubbing brushes, - and help yourself to a mouthful of Guinness." - </p> - <p> - I obeyed. Heavens, what a figure he was! His trousers were rent both at - the knees and elsewhere, and were kept together solely by means of<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46b" id="Page_46b">[Pg 46]</a></span> - whip-cord. His shirt had evidently not benefited by the removal of the - excise duties upon soap, and was screened from the scrutiny of the - beholder by an extempore paletot, fabricated out of sail-cloth, without - the remotest apology for sleeves. - </p> - <p> - Anthony, however, looked well in health, and appeared to be in tremendous - spirits. - </p> - <p> - "Tip us your fin, my old coxs'un!" said he, winking at me over the rim of - an enormous pewter vessel which effectually eclipsed the lower segment of - his visage. "Blessed if I ain't as glad to see you as one of Mother - Carey's chickens in a squall." - </p> - <p> - "Come, Anthony! leave off your nautical nonsense, and talk like a man of - the world. What on earth have you and Tom Strachan been after?" - </p> - <p> - "Nothing on earth, but a good deal on sea, and a trifle on as - uncomfortable a section of basalt as ever served two unhappy buccaniers - for bed, table, and sofa. The chillness is not off me yet." - </p> - <p> - "But how did it happen?" - </p> - <p> - "Very simply: but I'll tell you all about it. It's a long story, though, - so if you please I shall top off with something hot. I'm glad you've come, - however, for I had some doubts how far this sort of original Petersham - would inspire confidence as to my credit in the bosom of the fair - M'Tavish. It's all right now, however, so here goes for my yarn." - </p> - <p> - But I shall not follow my friend through all the<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_47b" id="Page_47b">[Pg 47]</a></span> windings of his - discourse, varied though it certainly was, like the adventures of the - venerated Sinbad. Suffice it to say, that they were hardly out of sight of - the Cumbraes before Tom confided the whole tale of his sorrows to the - callous Anthony, who, as he expressed it, had come out for a lark, and had - no idea of rummaging the whole of the west coast and the adjacent islands - for a petticoat. Moved, however, by the pathetic entreaties of Strachan, - and, perhaps, somewhat reconciled to the quest by the dim vision of an - elopement, Anthony magnanimously waived his objections, and the two kept - cruising together in a little shell of a yacht, all round the western - Archipelago. Besides themselves, there were only a man and a boy on board. - </p> - <p> - "It was slow work," said Anthony,—"deucedly slow. I would not have - minded the thing so much if Strachan had been reasonably sociable; but it - was rather irksome, you will allow, when, after the boy had brought in the - kettle, and we had made everything snug for the night, Master Strachan - began to maunder about the lady's eyes, and to tear his hair, and to call - himself the most miserable dog in existence. I had serious thoughts, at - one time, of leaving him ashore on Mull or Skye, and making off direct to - the Orkneys; but good-nature was always my foible, so I went on, beating - from one place to another, as though we had been looking for the wreck of - the Florida. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48b" id="Page_48b">[Pg 48]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "I'll never take another cruise with a lover so long as I live. Tom led me - all manner of dances, and we were twice fired at from farm-houses where he - was caterwauling beneath the windows with a guitar. It seems he had heard - that flame of his sing a Spanish air at Jedburgh. Tom must needs pick it - up, and you have no idea how he pestered me. Go where we would, he kept - harping on that abominable ditty, in the hope that his mistress might hear - him; and, when I remonstrated on the absurdity of the proceeding, he - quoted the case of Blondel, and some trash out of Uhland's ballads. - Serenading on the west coast is by no means a pleasant pastime. The nights - are as raw as an anchovy, and the midges particularly plentiful. - </p> - <p> - "Well, sir, we could find no trace of the lady after all. Strachan got - into low spirits, and I confess that I was sometimes sulky—so we had - an occasional blow-up, which by no means added to the conviviality of the - voyage. One evening, just at sundown, we entered the Sound of Sneeshanish—an - ugly place, let me tell you, at the best, but especially to be avoided in - any thing like a gale of wind. The clouds in the horizon looked - particularly threatening, and I got a little anxious, for I knew that - there were some rocks about, and not a lighthouse in the whole of the - district. - </p> - <p> - "In an hour or two it grew as dark as a wolf's throat. I could not for the - life of me make out<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49b" id="Page_49b">[Pg - 49]</a></span> where we were, for the Sound is very narrow in some parts, - and occasionally I thought that I could hear breakers ahead. - </p> - <p> - "'Tom,' said I, 'Tom, you lubber!—for our esteemed friend was, as - usual, lying on the deck, with a cigar in his mouth, twangling at that - eternal guitar—'take hold of the helm, will you, for a minute, while - I go down and look at the chart.' - </p> - <p> - "I was as cold as a cucumber; so, after having ascertained, as I best - could, the bearings about the Sound, I rather think I <i>did</i> stop - below for one moment—but not longer—just to mix a glass of - swizzle by way of fortification, for I didn't expect to get to bed that - night. All of a sudden I heard a shout from the bows, bolted upon deck, - and there, sure enough, was a black object right ahead, with the surf - shooting over it. - </p> - <p> - "'Luff, Tom! or we are all dead men;—Luff, I say!' shouted I. I - might as well have called to a millstone. Tom was in a kind of trance. - </p> - <p> - "'O Dorothea!' said our friend. - </p> - <p> - "'To the devil with Dorothea!' roared I, snatching the tiller from his - hand. - </p> - <p> - "'It was too late. We went smash upon the rock, with a force that sent us - headlong upon the deck, and Strachan staggered to his feet, bleeding - profusely at the proboscis. - </p> - <p> - "Down came the sail rattling about our ears, and over lurched the yacht. I - saw there was no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50b" id="Page_50b">[Pg - 50]</a></span> time to lose, so I leaped at once upon the rock, and called - upon the rest to follow me. They did so, and were lucky to escape with no - more disaster than a ruffling of the cuticle on the basalt; for in two - minutes more all was over. Some of the timbers had been staved in at the - first concussion. She rapidly filled,—and down went, before my eyes, - the Caption, the tidiest little craft that ever pitched her broadside into - the hull of a Frenchman!" - </p> - <p> - "Very well told indeed," said I, "only, Anthony, it does strike me that - the last paragraph is not quite original. I've heard something like it in - my younger days, at the Adelphi. But what became of you afterwards?" - </p> - <p> - "Faith, we were in a fix, as you may easily conceive. All we could do was - to scramble up the rocks,—which, fortunately, were not too - precipitous,—until we reached a dry place, where we lay, huddled - together, until morning. When light came, we found that we were not on the - main land, but on a kind of little stack in the very centre of the - channel, without a blade of grass upon it, or the prospect of a sail in - sight. This was a nice situation for two members of the Scottish bar! The - first thing we did was to inquire into the state of provisions, which we - found to consist of a couple of biscuits, that little Jim, the boy, - happened to have about him. Of course we followed the example of the - earlier navigators, and confiscated these<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_51b" id="Page_51b">[Pg 51]</a></span> <i>pro bono publico</i>. - We had not a drop of alcohol among us, but, very luckily, picked up a - small keg of fresh water, which, I believe, was our salvation. Strachan - did not behave well. He wanted to keep half-a-dozen cigars to himself; but - such monstrous selfishness could not be permitted, and the rest of us took - them from him by force. I shall always blame myself for having weakly - restored to him a cheroot." - </p> - <p> - "And what followed?" - </p> - <p> - "Why, we remained three days upon the rock. Fortunately the weather was - moderate, so that we were not absolutely washed away, but for all that it - was consumedly cold of nights. The worst thing, however, was the - deplorable state of our larder. We finished the biscuits the first day, - trusting to be speedily relieved; but the sun set without a vestige of a - sail, and we supped sparingly upon tangle. Next morning we were so - ravenous that we could have eaten raw squirrels. That day we subsisted - entirely upon shell-fish, and smoked out all our cigars. On the third we - bolted two old gloves, buttons and all; and, do you know, Fred, I began to - be seriously alarmed about the boy Jim, for Strachan kept eyeing him like - an ogre, began to mutter some horrid suggestions as to the propriety of - casting lots, and execrated his own stupidity in being unprovided with a - jar of pickles." - </p> - <p> - "O Anthony—for shame!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52b" id="Page_52b">[Pg 52]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Well—I'm sure he was thinking about it, if he did not say so. - However, we lunched upon a shoe, and for my own part, whenever I go upon - another voyage, I shall take the precaution of providing myself with - pliable French boots—your Kilmarnock leather is so very intolerably - tough! Towards evening, to our infinite joy, we descried a boat entering - the Sound. We shouted, as you may be sure, like demons. The Celtic - Samaritans came up, and, thanks to the kindness of Rory M'Gregor the - master, we each of us went to sleep that night with at least two gallons - of oatmeal porridge comfortably stowed beneath our belts. And that's the - whole history." - </p> - <p> - "And how do you feel after such unexampled privation?" - </p> - <p> - "Not a hair the worse. But this I know, that if ever I am caught again on - such idiotical errand as hunting for a young woman through the Highlands, - my nearest of kin are at perfect liberty to have me cognosced without - opposition." - </p> - <p> - "Ah—you are no lover, Anthony. Strachan, now, would go barefooted - through Stony Arabia for the mere chance of a casual glimpse at his - mistress." - </p> - <p> - "All I can say, my dear fellow, is, that if connubial happiness cannot be - purchased without a month's twangling on a guitar and three consecutive - suppers upon seaweed, I know at least one respectable young barrister who - is likely to die<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53b" id="Page_53b">[Pg - 53]</a></span> unmarried. But I say, Fred, let us have a coach and drive - up to your hotel. You can lend me a coat, I suppose, or something of the - sort, until Strachan arrives; and just be good enough, will you, to settle - with Mrs M'Tavish for the bill, for, by all my hopes of a sheriffship, I - have been thoroughly purged of my tin." - </p> - <p> - The matter may not be of any especial interest to the public; at the same - time I think it right to record the fact that Anthony Whaup owes me seven - shillings and eightpence unto this day. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <h3> - <a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</a> - </h3> - <p> - "That is all I can tell you about it," said Mr Hedger, as he handed me the - last of three indictments, with the joyful accompaniment of the fees. - "That is all I can tell you about it. If the <i>alibi</i> will hold water, - good and well—if not, M'Closkie will be transported." - </p> - <p> - Hedger is the very best criminal agent I ever met with. There is always a - point in his cases—his precognitions are perfect, and pleading, - under such auspices, becomes a kind of realised romance. - </p> - <p> - "By the way," said he, "is there a Mr Strachan of your bar at circuit? I - have a curious communication from a prisoner who is desirous to have him - as her counsel." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54b" id="Page_54b">[Pg 54]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Indeed! I am glad to hear it. Mr Strachan is a particular friend of mine, - and will be here immediately. I shall be glad to introduce you. Is it a - heavy case?" - </p> - <p> - "No, but rather an odd one—a theft of money committed at the - Blenheim hotel. The woman seems a person of education, but, as she - obstinately refuses to tell me her story, I know very little more about it - than is contained in the face of the indictment." - </p> - <p> - "What is her name?" - </p> - <p> - "Why you know that is a matter not very easily ascertained. She called - herself Euphemia Saville when brought up for examination, and of course - she will be tried as such. She is well dressed, and rather pretty, but she - won't have any other counsel than Mr Strachan; and singularly enough, she - has positively forbidden me to send him a fee on the ground that he would - take it as an insult." - </p> - <p> - "I should feel particularly obliged if the whole public would take to - insulting me perpetually in that manner! But really this is an odd - history. Do you think she is acquainted with my friend?" - </p> - <p> - Hedger winked. - </p> - <p> - "I can't say," said he, "for, to tell you the truth, I know nothing - earthly about it. Only she was so extremely desirous to have him engaged, - that I thought it not a little remarkable. I hope your<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_55b" id="Page_55b">[Pg 55]</a></span> friend won't take offence - if I mention what the woman said?" - </p> - <p> - "Not in the least, you may be sure of that. And, <i>apropos</i>, here he - comes." - </p> - <p> - And in effect Whaup and Strachan now walked into the counsel's apartment, - demure, shaven, and well dressed—altogether two very - different-looking individuals from the tatterdemalions of yesterday. - </p> - <p> - "Good morning, Fred," cried Whaup; "Servant, Mr Hedger—lots of work - going, eh? Are the pleas nearly over yet?" - </p> - <p> - "Very nearly, I believe, Mr Whaup. Would you have the kindness to——" - </p> - <p> - "Oh, certainly," said I. "Strachan, allow me to introduce my friend Mr - Hedger, who is desirous of your professional advice." - </p> - <p> - "I say, Freddy," said Whaup, looking sulkily at the twain as they retired - to a window to consult, "what's in the wind now? Has old Hedger got a - spite at any of his clients?" - </p> - <p> - "How should I know? What do you mean?" - </p> - <p> - "Because I should rather think," said Anthony, "that in our friend - Strachan's hands the lad runs a remarkably good chance of a sea voyage to - the colonies, that's all." - </p> - <p> - "Fie for shame, Anthony! You should not bear malice." - </p> - <p> - "No more I do—but I can't forget the loss of<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_56b" id="Page_56b">[Pg 56]</a></span> the little Caption all - through his stupid blundering; and this morning he must needs sleep so - long that he lost the early train, and has very likely cut me out of - business for the sheer want of a pair of reputable trousers." - </p> - <p> - "Never mind—there is a good time coming." - </p> - <p> - "Which means, I suppose, that you have got the pick of the cases? Very - well: it can't be helped, so I shall even show myself in court by way of - public advertisement." - </p> - <p> - So saying, my long friend wrestled himself into his gown, adjusted his wig - knowingly upon his cranium, and rushed toward the court-room as vehemently - as though the weal of the whole criminal population of the west depended - upon his individual exertions. - </p> - <p> - "Freddy, come here, if you please," said Strachan, "this is a very - extraordinary circumstance! Do you know that this woman, Euphemia Saville, - though she wishes me to act as her counsel, has positively refused to see - me!" - </p> - <p> - "Very odd, certainly! Do you know her?" - </p> - <p> - "I never heard of the name in my life. Are you sure, Mr Hedger, that there - is no mistake?" - </p> - <p> - "Quite sure, sir. She gave me, in fact, a minute description of your - person, which perhaps I may be excused from repeating." - </p> - <p> - "Oh, I understand," said Tom, fishingly; "complimentary, I suppose—eh?" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57b" id="Page_57b">[Pg 57]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Why yes, rather so," replied Hedger hesitatingly; and he cast at the same - time a glance at the limbs of my beloved friend, which convinced me that - Miss Saville's communication had, somehow or other, borne reference to the - shape of a parenthesis. "But, at all events, you may be sure she has seen - you. I really can imagine no reason for an interview. We often have people - who take the same kind of whims, and you have no idea of their obstinacy. - The best way will be to let the Crown lead its evidence, and trust - entirely to cross-examination. I shall take care, at all events, that her - appearance shall not damage her. She is well dressed, and I don't doubt - will make use of her cambric handkerchief." - </p> - <p> - "And a very useful thing that same cambric is," observed I. "Come, Tom, my - boy, pluck up courage! You have opportunity now for a grand display; and - if you can poke in something about chivalry and undefended loveliness, you - may be sure it will have an effect on the jury. There is a strong spice of - romance in the composition of the men of the Middle Ward." - </p> - <p> - "The whole thing, however, seems to me most mysterious." - </p> - <p> - "Very; but that is surely an additional charm. We seldom find a chapter - from the Mysteries of Udolfo transferred to the records of the Justiciary - Court of Scotland." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58b" id="Page_58b">[Pg 58]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Well, then, I suppose it must be so. Fred, will you sit beside me at the - trial? I'm not used to this sort of thing as yet, and I possibly may feel - nervous." - </p> - <p> - "Not a bit of you. At any rate I shall be there, and of course you may - command me." - </p> - <p> - In due time the case was called. Miss Euphemia Saville ascended the trap - stair, and took her seat between a pair of policemen with exceedingly - luxuriant whiskers. - </p> - <p> - I must allow that I felt a strong curiosity about Euphemia. Her name was - peculiar; the circumstances under which she came forward were unusual; and - her predilection for Strachan was tantalising. Her appearance, however, - did little to solve the mystery. She was neatly, even elegantly dressed in - black, with a close-fitting bonnet and thick veil, which at first - effectually obscured her countenance. This, indeed, she partially removed - when called upon to plead to the indictment; but the law of no civilised - country that I know of is so savage as to prohibit the use of a - handkerchief, and the fair Saville availed herself of the privilege by - burying her countenance in cambric. I could only get a glimpse of some - beautiful black braided hair and a forehead that resembled alabaster. To - all appearance she was extremely agitated, and sobbed as she answered to - the charge. - </p> - <p> - The tender-hearted Strachan was not the sort of<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_59b" id="Page_59b">[Pg 59]</a></span> man to behold the sorrows - of his client without emotion. In behalf of the junior members of the - Scottish bar I will say this, that they invariably fight tooth and nail - when a pretty girl is concerned, and I have frequently heard bursts of - impassioned eloquence poured forth in defence of a pair of bright eyes or - a piquant figure, in cases where an elderly or wizened dame would have run - a strong chance of finding no Cicero by her side. Tom accordingly - approached the bar for the purpose of putting some questions to his - client, but not a word could he extract in reply. Euphemia drew down her - veil, and waved her hand with a repulsive gesture. - </p> - <p> - "I don't know what to make of her," said Strachan; "only she seems to be a - monstrous fine woman. It is clear, however, that she has mistaken me for - somebody else. I never saw her in my life before." - </p> - <p> - "Hedger deserves great credit for the way he has got her up. Observe, Tom, - there is no finery about her; no ribbons or gaudy scarfs, which are as - unsuitable at a trial as at a funeral. Black is your only wear to find - favour in the eyes of a jury." - </p> - <p> - "True. It is a pity that so little attention is paid to the æsthetics of - criminal clothing. But here comes the first witness—Grobey, I think, - they call him—the fellow who lost the money." - </p> - <p> - Mr Grobey mounted the witness-box like a cow ascending a staircase. He was - a huge, elephantine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60b" id="Page_60b">[Pg - 60]</a></span> animal of some sixteen stone, with bushy eyebrows and a - bald pate, which he ever and anon affectionately caressed with a red and - yellow bandana. Strachan started at the sound of his voice, surveyed him - wistfully for a moment, and then said to me in a hurried whisper— - </p> - <p> - "As I live, Fred, that is the identical bagman who boned my emerald studs - at Jedburgh!" - </p> - <p> - "You don't mean to say it?" - </p> - <p> - "Fact, upon my honour! There is no mistaking his globular freetrading - nose. Would it not be possible to object to his evidence on that ground?" - </p> - <p> - "Mercy on us! no.—Reflect—there is no conviction." - </p> - <p> - "True. But he stole them nevertheless. I'll ask him about them when I - cross." - </p> - <p> - Mr Grobey's narrative, however, as embraced in an animated dialogue with - the public prosecutor, threw some new and unexpected light upon the - matter. Grobey was a traveller in the employment of the noted house of - Barnacles, Deadeye, and Company, and perambulated the country for the - benevolent purpose of administering to deficiency of vision. In the course - of his wanderings he had arrived at the Blenheim, where, after a light - supper of fresh herrings, toasted cheese, and Edinburgh ale, assisted, <i>more - Bagmannorum</i>, by several glasses of stiff brandy-and-water, he had - retired to his apartment to sleep off the labours of the day.<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61b" id="Page_61b">[Pg 61]</a></span> - Somnus, however, did not descend that night with his usual lightness upon - Grobey. On the contrary, the deity seemed changed into a ponderous weight, - which lay heavily upon the chest of the moaning and suffocated traveller; - and notwithstanding a paralysis which appeared to have seized upon his - limbs, every external object in the apartment became visible to him as by - the light of a magic lantern. He heard his watch ticking, like a living - creature, upon the dressing-table where he had left it. His black morocco - pocket-book was distinctly visible beside the looking-glass, and two - spectral boots stood up amidst the varied shadows of the night. Grobey was - very uncomfortable. He began to entertain the horrid idea that a fiend was - hovering through his chamber. - </p> - <p> - All at once he heard the door creaking upon its hinges. There was a slight - rustling of muslin, a low sigh, and then momentary silence. "What, in the - name of John Bright, can that be?" thought the terrified traveller; but he - had not to wait long for explanation. The door opened slowly—a - female figure, arrayed from head to foot in robes of virgin whiteness, - glided in, and fixed her eyes, with an expression of deep solemnity and - menace, upon the countenance of Grobey. He lay breathless and motionless - beneath the spell. This might have lasted for about a minute, during which - time, as Grobey expressed it, his very entrails were convulsed<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62b" id="Page_62b">[Pg 62]</a></span> with - fear. The apparition then moved onwards, still keeping her eyes upon the - couch. She stood for a moment near the window, raised her arm with a - monitory gesture to the sky, and then all at once seemed to disappear as - if absorbed in the watery moonshine. Grobey was as bold a bagman as ever - flanked a mare with his gig-whip, but this awful visitation was too much. - Boots, looking-glass, and table swam with a distracting whirl before his - eyes; he uttered a feeble yell, and immediately lapsed into a swoon. - </p> - <p> - It was bright morning when he awoke. He started up, rubbed his eyes, and - endeavoured to persuade himself that it was all an illusion. To be sure - there were the boots untouched, the coat, the hat, and the portmanteau; - but where—oh where—were the watch and the plethoric - pocket-book, with its bunch of bank-notes and other minor memoranda? Gone—spirited - away; and with a shout of despair old Grobey summoned the household. - </p> - <p> - The police were straightway taken into his confidence. The tale of the - midnight apparition—of the Demon Lady—was told and listened - to, at first with somewhat of an incredulous smile; but when the landlord - stated that an unknown damosel had been sojourning for two days at the - hotel, that she had that morning vanished in a hackney-coach without - leaving any trace of her address, and that, moreover, certain spoons of - undeniable silver were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63b" - id="Page_63b">[Pg 63]</a></span> amissing, Argus pricked up his ears, and - after some few preliminary inquiries, issued forth in quest of the - fugitive. Two days afterwards the fair Saville was discovered in a - temperance hotel; and although the pocket-book had disappeared, both the - recognisable notes and the watch were found in her possession. A number of - pawn-tickets, also, which were contained in her reticule, served to - collect from divers quarters a great mass of <i>bijouterie</i>, amongst - which were the Blenheim spoons. - </p> - <p> - Such was Mr Grobey's evidence as afterwards supplemented by the police. - Tom rose to cross-examine. - </p> - <p> - "Pray, Mr Grobey," said he, adjusting his gown upon his shoulders with a - very knowing and determined air, as though he intended to expose his - victim—"Pray, Mr Grobey, are you any judge of studs?" - </p> - <p> - "I ain't a racing man," replied Grobey, "but I knows an oss when I sees - it." - </p> - <p> - "Don't equivocate, sir, if you please. Recollect you are upon your oath," - said Strachan, irritated by a slight titter which followed upon Grobey's - answer. "I mean studs, sir—emerald studs for example?" - </p> - <p> - "I ain't. But the lady is," replied Grobey. - </p> - <p> - "How do you mean, sir?" - </p> - <p> - "'Cos there vos five pair on them taken out of pawn with her tickets." - </p> - <p> - "How do you know that, sir?" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64b" id="Page_64b">[Pg 64]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "'Cos I see'd them." - </p> - <p> - "Were you at Jedburgh, sir, in the month of April last?" - </p> - <p> - "I was." - </p> - <p> - "Do you recollect seeing me there?" - </p> - <p> - "Perfectly." - </p> - <p> - "Do you remember what passed upon that occasion?" - </p> - <p> - "You was rather confluscated, I think." - </p> - <p> - There was a general laugh. - </p> - <p> - "Mr Strachan," said the judge mildly, "I am always sorry to interrupt a - young counsel, but I really cannot see the relevancy of these questions. - The court can have nothing to do with your communications with the - witness. I presume I need not take a note of these latter answers." - </p> - <p> - "Very well, my lord," said Tom, rather discomfited at being cut out of his - revenge on the bagman, "I shall ask him something else;" and he commenced - his examination in right earnest. Grobey, however, stood steadfast to the - letter of his previous testimony. - </p> - <p> - Another witness was called; and to my surprise the Scottish Vidocq - appeared. He spoke to the apprehension and the search, and also to the - character of the prisoner. In his eyes she had long been chronicled as - habit and repute a thief. - </p> - <p> - "You know the prisoner, then?" said Strachan rising. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65b" id="Page_65b">[Pg 65]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "I do. Any time these three years." - </p> - <p> - "Under what name is she known to you?" - </p> - <p> - "Betsy Brown is her real name, but she has gone by twenty others." - </p> - <p> - "By twenty, do you say?" - </p> - <p> - "There, or thereabouts. She always flies at high game; and, being a - remarkably clever woman, she passes herself off for a lady." - </p> - <p> - "Have you ever seen her elsewhere than in Glasgow?" - </p> - <p> - "I have." - </p> - <p> - "Where?" - </p> - <p> - "At Jedburgh." - </p> - <p> - I cannot tell what impulse it was that made me twitch Strachan's gown at - this moment. It was not altogether a suspicion, but rather a presentiment - of coming danger. Strachan took the hint and changed his line. - </p> - <p> - "Can you specify any of her other names?" - </p> - <p> - "I can. There are half-a-dozen of them here on the pawn-tickets. Shall I - read them?" - </p> - <p> - "If you please." - </p> - <p> - "One diamond ring, pledged in name of Lady Emily Delaroche. A garnet - brooch and chain—Miss Maria Mortimer. Three gold seals—Mrs - Markham Vere. A watch and three emerald studs—the Honourable - Dorothea Percy——" - </p> - <p> - There was a loud shriek from the bar, and a bustle—the prisoner had - fainted. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66b" id="Page_66b">[Pg 66]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - I looked at Strachan. He was absolutely as white as a corpse. - </p> - <p> - "My dear Tom," said I, "hadn't you better go out into the open air?" - </p> - <p> - "No!" was the firm reply; "I am here to do my duty, and I'll do it." - </p> - <p> - And in effect, the Spartan boy with the fox gnawing into his side did not - acquit himself more heroically than my friend. The case was a clear one, - no doubt, but Tom made a noble speech, and was highly complimented by the - Judge upon his ability. No sooner, however, had he finished it than he - left the Court. - </p> - <p> - I saw him two hours afterwards. - </p> - <p> - "Tom," said I, "about these emerald studs—I think I could get them - back from the Fiscal." - </p> - <p> - "Keep them to yourself. I'm off to India." - </p> - <p> - "Bah!—go down to the Highlands for a month." - </p> - <p> - Tom did so; purveyed himself a kilt; met an heiress at the Inverness - Meeting, and married her. He is now the happy father of half-a-dozen - children, and a good many of us would give a trifle for his practice. But - to this day he is as mad as a March hare if an allusion is made in his - presence to any kind of studs whatsoever. - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67b" id="Page_67b">[Pg 67]</a></span> - </p> - <h2> - <a name="COLLEGE_FRIENDS_III" id="COLLEGE_FRIENDS_III">MY COLLEGE FRIENDS.</a> - </h2> - <p class="center"> - No. III. - </p> - <p class="center"> - MR W. WELLINGTON HURST. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - <span class="small">[<i>MAGA.</i> <span class="smcap">January 1846.</span>]</span> - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="dropcap"> - It would probably puzzle Mr William Wellington Hurst, as much as any man, - to find out on what grounds I placed him on the list of my College - friends; for certainly our intimacy was hardly sufficient to warrant such - a liberty; and he was one of those happy individuals who would never have - suspected that it could be out of gratitude for much amusement afforded me - by sundry of his sayings and doings. But so it is; and it happens, that - while the images of many others of my companions—very worthy good - sort of fellows, whom I saw more or less of nearly every day—have - vanished from my memory, or only flit across occasionally, like shadows, - the full-length figure of Mr W. Wellington Hurst, exactly as he turned - out, after a satisfactory toilet, in the patent boots and scarf of many - colours, stands fixed there like a daguerreotype—more faithful than - flattering. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68b" id="Page_68b">[Pg 68]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - My first introduction to him was by running him down in a skiff, when I - was steering the College eight—not less to his astonishment than our - own gratification. It is (or used to be) perfectly allowable, by the laws - of the river, if, after due notice, these small craft fail to get out of - your way; but it is not very easy to effect. However, in this instance, we - went clean over him, very neatly indeed. The men helped him into our boat, - just as his own sunk from under him; and he accepted a seat by my side in - the stern-sheets, with many apologies for being so wet, appearing - considerably impressed with a sense of my importance, and still more of my - politeness. When we reached Sandford, I prescribed a stiff tumbler of hot - brandy and water, and advised him to run all the way home, to warm - himself, and avoid catching cold; and, from that time, I believe he always - looked upon me as a benefactor. The claim, on my part, certainly rested on - a very small foundation originally; it was strengthened afterwards by a - less questionable act of patronage. Like many other under-graduates of - every man's acquaintance in those days, Hurst laboured under the delusion, - that holding two sets of reins in a very confused manner, and flourishing - a long whip, was driving; and that to get twenty miles out of Oxford in a - "team," without an upset, or an imposition from the proctor, was an <i>opus - operatum</i> of the highest possible merit. To do him justice, he<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69b" id="Page_69b">[Pg 69]</a></span> - laboured diligently in the only exercise which he seemed to consider - strictly academical—he spent an hour every morning, standing upon a - chair, "catching flies," as he called it, and occasionally flicking his - scout, with a tandem whip; and practised incessantly upon tin horns of all - lengths, with more zeal than melody, until he got the erysipelas in his - lower lip, and a hint of rustication from the tutors. Yet he was more - ambitious than successful. His reputation on the road grew worse and worse - every day. He had a knack of shaving turnpike gates, and cutting round - corners on one wheel, and getting his horses into every possible figure - but a straight line, which made every mile got over without an accident - almost a miracle. At last, after taking a four-in-hand over a narrow - bridge, at the bottom of a hill, pretty much in the Olympic fashion—all - four abreast—men got rather shy of any expeditions of the kind in - his company. There was little credit in it, and a good deal of danger. - First, he was reduced to soliciting the company of freshmen, who were - flattered by any proposal that sounded <i>fast</i>. But they, too, grew - shy, after one or two ventures; and poor Hurst soon found a difficulty in - getting a companion at all. He was a liberal fellow enough, and not pushed - for a guinea when his darling science was concerned: so he used to offer - to "sport the team" himself; but even when he condescended to the - additional self-devotion<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70b" - id="Page_70b">[Pg 70]</a></span> of "standing a dinner and champagne," he - found that the closest calculators among his sporting acquaintance had as - much regard for their necks as their pockets. - </p> - <p> - To this inglorious position was his fame as a charioteer reduced, when - Horace Leicester and myself, early in his third term, had determined - somewhat suddenly to go to see a steeple-chase about twelve miles off, - where Leicester had some attraction besides the horses, in the shape of a - pretty cousin; (<i>two</i>, he told me, and bribed me with the promise of - an introduction to "the other," but she did not answer to sample at all.) - We had engaged a very nice mare and stanhope, which we knew we could - depend upon, when, the day before the race, the chestnut was declared - lame, and not a presentable four-legged animal was to be hired in Oxford. - Hurst had engaged his favourite pair of greys (which would really go very - well with any other driver) a week beforehand, but had been canvassing the - last batch of freshmen in vain for an occupant of the vacant seat. A huge - red-headed north-country man, who had never seen a tandem in his life, but - who, as far as pluck went, would have ridden postilion to Medea's dragons, - was listening with some apparent indecision to Hurst's eloquence upon the - delights of driving, just as we came up after a last unsuccessful search - through the livery stables; and the pair were proceeding<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71b" id="Page_71b">[Pg 71]</a></span> out of - college arm in arm, probably to look at the greys, when Leicester, to my - amusement, stepped up with—"Hurst, who's going with you to B——?" - </p> - <p> - "I—why, I hardly know yet; I think Sands here will, if"—— - </p> - <p> - "I'll go with you then, if you like; and if you've got a cart,<a - name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" - class="fnanchor">[1]</a> Hawthorne can come too, and it will be very - jolly." - </p> - <p> - If the university had announced their intention of creating him a B.A. by - diploma, without examination, Hurst could hardly have looked more - surprised and delighted. Leicester, it should be borne in mind, was one of - the most popular men in the college—a sort of <i>arbiter - elegantiarum</i> in the best set. Hurst knew very little of him, but was - no doubt highly flattered by his proposal. From coaxing freshmen to come - out by the bribe of paying all expenses, to driving to B—— - steeple-chase side by side with Horace (my modesty forbids me to include - myself), was a step at once from the ridiculous to the sublime of - tandemizing. For this advancement in life, he always, I fancy, considered - himself indebted to me, as I had originally introduced him to Leicester's - acquaintance; and when we both accepted an invitation, which he delivered - himself of with some hesitation, to breakfast in his rooms on the morning - of the expedition, his joy and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72b" - id="Page_72b">[Pg 72]</a></span> gratitude appeared to know no bounds. It - is not usual, be it remembered, for a junior man in college to ask a - senior to a party from whom he has never received an invitation himself; - but hunting and tandem-driving are apt occasionally to set ordinary - etiquette at defiance. "Don't ask a lot of men, that's all—there's a - good fellow," said Horace, whose good-natured smile, and off-hand and - really winning manner, enabled him to carry off, occasionally, a degree of - impudence which would not have been tolerated from others—"I hate a - large formal breakfast party of all things; it disgusts me to see a score - of men jostling each other over tough beefsteaks." - </p> - <p> - "I asked Sands yesterday," apologised Hurst. "I thought perhaps he would - come out with me; but I daresay I can put him off, if"—— - </p> - <p> - "Oh! on no account whatever; you mean the carroty freshman I saw you with - just now? Have him by all means; it will be quite refreshing to meet any - man so regularly green. So there will be just four of us; eight o'clock, I - suppose? it won't do to be much later." - </p> - <p> - And Horace walked off, having thus arranged matters to his own - satisfaction and his host's. I was an interested party in the business, - however, and had my own terms to make. "You've disposed of me rather - coolly," said I; "you don't surely imagine that at my time of life I'm - going<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73b" id="Page_73b">[Pg 73]</a></span> - to trust my neck to that fellow's abominable driving?" - </p> - <p> - "Make your mind easy, Frank; William Wellington sha'n't finger a riband." - </p> - <p> - "Nonsense, Leicester; you can't treat a man in that kind of way—not - to let him drive his own team. Hurst <i>is</i> a bit of an ass, certainly; - but you can't with any decency first ask a man for a seat, and then refuse - to give him up the reins." - </p> - <p> - "Am I in the habit, sir, of doing things in the very rude and - ungentlemanly style you insinuate?" And Horace looked at me with mock - dignity for a second or two, and then burst into a laugh. "Leave it to me, - Hawthorne, and I'll manage it to the satisfaction of all parties: I'll - promise you that Hurst shall have a capital day's fun, and your valuable - neck shall be as safe as if you were tried by a Welsh jury." - </p> - <p> - With this indefinite assurance I was obliged to be content; and - accordingly, at half-past eight the next morning, after a very correct - breakfast, we mounted the tandem-cart at the college back-gates, got the - leader hitched on, as usual, a mile out of the city, for fear of proctors, - and were bowling merrily along, in the slight frost of an autumn morning, - towards B——. Leicester took the driving first, by Hurst's - special request, after one or two polite but faint refusals, the latter - sitting by his side; while I occupied, for the present, the queer little - box which in those days was stuck on<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_74b" id="Page_74b">[Pg 74]</a></span> behind, (the more modern - carts, which hold four, are an improvement introduced into the University - since my driving days). With wonderful gravity and importance did - Leicester commence his lectures on the whip to his admiring companion: I - almost think he began in the approved style, with a slight allusion to the - Roman <i>biga</i>, and deduced the progress of the noble science from - Ericthonius down to "Peyton and Ward." I have a lively recollection of a - comparison between Automedon of the Homeric times, and "Black Will" of - Oxford celebrity—the latter being decided as only likely to be less - immortal, because there was no Homer among the contemporary - under-graduates. A good deal was lost to me, no doubt, from my position - behind; but Hurst seemed to suck it all in with every disposition to be - edified. From the history of his subject, Horace proceeded, in due course, - to the theory, from theory to facts, from facts to illustrations. In the - practical department, Horace, I suspect, like many other lecturers, was on - his weakest ground; for his own driving partook of the general - under-graduate character. - </p> - <p> - "You throw the lash out so—you see—and bring it back sharp, so—no, - not <i>so</i> exactly—so—hang the thing, I can't do it now; - but that's the principle, you understand—and then you take up your - double thong, so—pshaw, I did it very well just now—to put it - into the wheeler, so—ah, I missed it then, but that's the way to do - it." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75b" id="Page_75b">[Pg 75]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - He put me considerably in mind of a certain professor of chemistry, whose - lectures on light and heat I once was rash enough to attend, who, after a - long dry disquisition which had nearly put us all to sleep, used to arouse - our attention to the "beautiful effects" produced by certain combinations, - which he would proceed to illustrate, as he said, by a "little - experiment." But, somehow or other, these little experiments always, or - nearly always, failed: and after the room had been darkened, perhaps, for - five minutes or so, in order to give the exhibition full effect, the - result would be, a <i>fizz</i> or two, a faint blue light, and a stink, - varying according to circumstances, but always abominable. "It's very odd, - John," the discomfited operator used to exclaim to his assistant; "very - odd; and we succeeded so well this morning, too: it's most unaccountable: - I'm really very sorry, gentlemen, but I can assure you, this very same - experiment we tried to-day with the most beautiful result; didn't we, - John?" "We did, sir," was John's invariably dutiful reply; and so the - audience took John's word for it, and the experiment was considered to - have been, virtually, successful. - </p> - <p> - So we rattled on to the ground: Leicester occasionally putting the reins - into his companion's hand, teaching him to perform some impossible - movement with his third finger, and directing his attention to - non-existent flies, which he professed to remove<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_76b" id="Page_76b">[Pg 76]</a></span> from the leader, out of - sheer compassion, with the point of the whip. - </p> - <p> - "You are sure you wouldn't like to take the reins now? Well, you'll drive - home then, of course? Hawthorne, will you try your hand now? Hurst's going - to take up the tooling when we come back." - </p> - <p> - "No, thank you," said I; "I won't interfere with either of your - performances."—"And if Hurst does drive home," was my mental - determination, expressed to Leicester as far as a nod could do it, "I'll - walk." - </p> - <p> - There was no difficulty in finding out the localities: the field in which - the winning-flag was fixed was not far from the turnpike road, and - conspicuous enough by the crowd already there collected. Of course, pretty - nearly all the sporting characters among the gownsmen were there, the - distance from the University being so trifling. Mounted on that seedy - description of animal peculiar to Oxford livery-stables, which can never - by any possibility be mistaken for anything but a hired affair, but will - generally go all day, and scramble through almost anything; with showily - mounted jockey-whips in their hands, bad cigars (at two guineas a-pound) - in their mouths, bright blue scarfs, or something equivalent, round their - necks—their neat white cords and tops (things which they <i>did</i> - turn out well in Oxford) being the only really sportsmanlike article about - them; flattering themselves they looked exceedingly<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_77b" id="Page_77b">[Pg 77]</a></span> knowing, and, in nine - cases out of ten, being deceived therein most lamentably; clustered - together in groups of four or five, discussing the merits of the horses, - or listening, as to an oracle, to the opinion of some Oxford horse-dealer, - delivered with insolent familiarity—here were the men who drank out - of a fox's head, and recounted imaginary runs with the Heythrop. Happy was - he amongst them, and a positive hero for the day, who could boast a - speaking acquaintance with any of those anomalous individuals, at present - enshrouded in great-coats, but soon to appear in all the varieties of - jockey costume, known by the style and title of "gentlemen riders;" who - could point out, confidentially, to his admiring companions, "Jack B——," - and "Little M——," and announce, from authority, how many - ounces under weight one was this morning, and how many blankets were put - upon the other the night before, to enable him to come to the scales at - all. Here and there, more plainly dressed, moving about quickly on their - own thorough-breds, or talking to some neighbouring squire who knew the - ground, were the few really sporting men belonging to the University; who - kept hunters in Oxford, simply because they were used to keep them at - home, and had been brought up to look upon fox-hunting as their future - vocation. Lolling on their saddles, probably voting it all a bore, were - two or three tufts, and their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78b" - id="Page_78b">[Pg 78]</a></span> "tail;" and stuck into all sorts of - vehicles, lawful and unlawful, buggies, drags, and tandems, were that - ignoble herd, who, like myself, had come to the steeple-chase, just - because it was the most convenient idleness at hand, and because other men - were going. There were all sorts of people there besides, of course: - carriages of all grades of pretension, containing pretty bonnets and ugly - faces, in the usual proportion; "all the beauty and fashion of the - neighbourhood," nevertheless, as the county paper assured us; and as I may - venture to add, from personal observation, a very fair share of its - disreputability and blackguardism besides. - </p> - <p> - After wandering for a short time among these various groups, Leicester - halted us at last in front of one of those old-fashioned - respectable-looking barouches, which one now so seldom sees, in which were - seated a party, who turned out to consist of an uncle and aunt, and the - pair of cousins before alluded to. Hurst and I were duly introduced; a - ceremony which, for my own part, I could have very readily excused, when I - discovered that the only pair of eyes in the party worth mentioning - bestowed their glances almost exclusively on Horace, and any attempt at - cutting into the conversation in that quarter was as hopeless, apparently, - as ungracious. Our friend's taste in the article of cousins was undeniably - correct; Flora Leicester was a most desirable person to have for a cousin; - very pretty,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79b" id="Page_79b">[Pg 79]</a></span> - very good-humoured, and (I am sure she was, though I pretend to no - experience of the fact) very affectionate. If one could have put in any - claim of kindred, even in the third or fourth degree, it would have been a - case in which to stickle hard for the full privileges of relationship. As - matters stood, it was trying enough to the sensibilities of us unfortunate - bystanders, whose cousins were either ugly or at a distance; for the rest - of our new acquaintances were not interesting. The younger sister was shy - and insipid; the squire like ninety-nine squires in every hundred; and the - lady-mother in a perpetual state of real or affected nervous agitation, to - which her own family were happily insensible, but which taxed a stranger's - polite sympathies pretty heavily. Though constantly in the habit, as she - assured me, of accompanying her husband to race-courses, and enjoying the - sport, she was always on the look-out for an accident, and was always - having, as she said, narrow escapes; some indeed so very narrow, that, - according to her own account, they ought to have had, by every rule of - probability, fatal terminations. In fact, her tone might have led one to - believe that she looked upon herself as an ill-used woman in getting off - so easily—at least she was exceedingly angry when the younger - daughter ventured to remark, <i>en pendant</i> to one of her most - thrilling adventures, that "there was no great danger of an<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80b" id="Page_80b">[Pg 80]</a></span> upset - when the wheel stuck fast." Not content with putting her head out of the - carriage every five minutes, to see if her own well-trained bays were - standing quiet, as they always did, there was not a restive horse or - awkward rider on the ground but attracted the good lady's ever watchful - sense of danger. "He'll be thrown! I'm sure he will! foolish man, why - don't he get off!" "Oh, oh! there they go! they're off, those horrid - horses! they'll never stop 'em!" Such were the interjections, accompanied - with extraordinary shudderings and drawings of the breath, with which Mrs - John Leicester, her eyes fixed on some distant point, occasionally broke - in upon the general conversation, sometimes with a vehemence that startled - even her nephew and eldest daughter, though, to do them justice, they paid - very little attention to any of us. - </p> - <p> - Just as I was meditating something desperate, in order to relieve myself - from the office of soother-general of Mrs Leicester's imaginary terrors, - and to bring Flora's sunny face once more within my line of vision (she - had been turning the back of her bonnet upon me perseveringly for the last - ten minutes), a general commotion gave us notice that the horses were - started, and the race begun. The hill on which we were stationed was close - to the winning-post, and commanded a view of pretty nearly the whole - ground from the start. The race<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81b" - id="Page_81b">[Pg 81]</a></span> was, I suppose, pretty nearly like other - steeple-chases, and there is the less need for me to describe it, because - a very full and particular account appeared in the <i>Bell's Life</i> next - ensuing. The principal impressions which remain on my mind, are of a very - smart gentleman in black and crimson, mounted on a very powerful bay, who - seemed as if he had been taking it easy, who came in first, and after - having been sufficiently admired by an innocent public, myself among the - number, as the winner, turned out to have gone on the right hand instead - of the left of some flag or other, and to have lost the race accordingly; - and of a very dirty-looking person, who arrived some minute or two - afterwards without a cap, whose jacket was green and his horse grey, so - far as the mud left any colour visible, and who, to the great - disappointment of the ladies especially, turned out to be the real hero - after all. - </p> - <p> - We had made arrangements to have an independent beefsteak together after - the race, in preference to joining the sporting ordinary announced as - usual on such occasions; but the squire insisted on Leicester bringing us - both to dine with his party at five. After a few modest and conscientious - scruples on my part, at intruding on the hospitality of comparative - strangers, and a strong private remonstrance from Hurst, on the - impropriety of sitting down to dinner with ladies in a<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_82b" id="Page_82b">[Pg 82]</a></span> surtout and white cords, - we accepted the invitation, and betook ourselves to kill the intervening - hour or so as we best could. - </p> - <p> - "Well, Horace," said I, as Hurst went off to make his apology for a - toilette—"how are you going to settle about the driving home?" - </p> - <p> - "Oh! never fear; I'll manage it: I have just seen Miller and Fane; they've - got a drag over here, and there's lots of room inside; so they've promised - to take Hurst home with them, if we can only manage to leave him behind: - they are going to dine here, and are sure not to go home till late; and we - must be off early, you know, because I have some men coming to supper; so - we'll leave our friend behind, somehow or other. A painful necessity, I - admit; but it must be done, even if I have to lock him up in the stable." - </p> - <p> - Leicester seemed to have more confidence in his own resources than I had; - but he was in too great a state of excitement to listen to any demurrers - of mine on the point, and hurried us off to join his friends. Ushered into - the drawing-room A.1. of the Saracen's Head, we found <i>la bella</i> - Flora awaiting us alone, the rest of the family being not as yet visible. - There was not the slightest necessity for inquiring whether she felt - fatigued, for she was looking even more lovely than in the morning; or - whether she had been amused or not, for if the steeple-chase had not - delighted her, something else<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83b" - id="Page_83b">[Pg 83]</a></span> had, for there was a radiant smile on her - face which could not be mistaken. Hurst was cut short rather abruptly in a - speech which appeared tending towards a compliment, by Leicester's - inquiring—"My good fellow, have you seen the horses fed?" - </p> - <p> - "No, upon my word," said Hurst, "I"—— - </p> - <p> - "Well, I have then; but I wish you would just step across the yard, and - see if that stupid ostler has rubbed them dry, as I told him. You - understand those things, I know, Hurst—the fellows won't humbug you - very easily; as to Hawthorne, I wouldn't trust him to see to anything of - the sort. Flora here knows more about a horse than he does." - </p> - <p> - Any compliment to Hurst's acuteness in the matter of horse-flesh was sure - to have its effect, and he walked off with an air of some importance to - discharge his commission. - </p> - <p> - "Now, then," said Horace eagerly, "we have got rid of him for ten minutes, - which was all I wanted; if you please, Flora dear, we must have your - cleverness to help us in a little difficulty." - </p> - <p> - "Indeed!" said Miss Leicester, colouring a little, as her cousin, in his - eagerness, seized her hand in both of his—"what scrape have you got - into now, Horace, and how can I possibly help you?" - </p> - <p> - "Oh, I want you to hit upon some plan for keeping that fellow Hurst here - after we are gone." - </p> - <p> - "Upon my word!" - </p> - <p> - "Stay; you don't know what I mean. I'll tell<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_84b" id="Page_84b">[Pg 84]</a></span> you why—if he - drives home to Oxford, he'll infallibly upset us; and drive he must if he - goes home with us, because, in fact, the team is his, and I drove them all - the way here, and it's his turn back, you see." - </p> - <p> - "Then why, in the multitude of absurdities which you Oxonians perpetrate—I - beg your pardon, Mr Hawthorne—but why need you have come out in a - tandem at all, with a man who can't drive?" - </p> - <p> - "Simply, Flora, because I had no other way of coming at all." - </p> - <p> - "It was very absurd in us, Miss Leicester, I allow," said I, "but you know - what an attraction a steeple-chase is, to your cousin especially; and - after having made up his mind to come—altogether, you see, it would - have been a disappointment"—(to all parties, I had a mind to add, - but I thought the balance was on my side without it.) - </p> - <p> - "After all," said Horace, "I shouldn't care a straw to run the chance, as - far as I am concerned. I dare say the horses will go home straight enough, - if he'll only let them: or if he wouldn't, I shouldn't mind knocking him - off the box at once—by accident; but Frank here is rather - particular, and I promised him I would not let Hurst drive. I thought - once, if we had dined by ourselves, of persuading him he was drunk, and - sending him home in a fly; but I am afraid, as matters stand, that plea is - hardly practicable." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85b" id="Page_85b">[Pg 85]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Could I persuade him to let you or Mr Hawthorne drive, do you think?" - </p> - <p> - Horace looked at her as if he thought, as I dare say he did, that his - cousin Flora could, if she were so minded, persuade a man to do anything; - so I was compelled, somewhat at the expense of my reputation for - gallantry, to assure them both, that if Ulysses of old, among his various - arts and accomplishments, had piqued himself upon his tandem-driving, his - vanity would have stopped his ears effectually, and the Syren might have - sung herself hoarse before he would have given up the reins. - </p> - <p> - "I'll give the Boots half-a-crown to steal his hat," said Horace, "and - start while he is looking for it." - </p> - <p> - "Stay," said his cousin; "I dare say it may be managed." But I thought she - looked disappointed. "Did you know we were all going to the B—— - theatre to-night?" - </p> - <p> - "No! really! what fun!" - </p> - <p> - "No fun for you; for you must start early, as you said just now. The - owners of the horses here patronise a play, and they have made papa - promise to go, and so we must, I suppose, and"—— - </p> - <p> - "Oh! we'll all go, of course," said Horace decidedly.—"You'll stay - and go, won't you, Hawthorne?" - </p> - <p> - "You forget your supper party," said I. - </p> - <p> - "Oh! hang it, they'll take care of themselves, so long as the supper's - there; they won't miss me much." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86b" id="Page_86b">[Pg 86]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Didn't I hear something of your being confined to college after nine?" - </p> - <p> - "Ah, yes; I believe I am—but it won't matter much for once; I'll - call on the dean to-morrow, and explain." - </p> - <p> - "No, no, Horace, that won't do; you and Mr Hawthorne must go home like - good boys," said Flora, with a smile only half as merry as usual, "and - Mary and I will persuade Mr Hurst to stay and go to the theatre with us." - </p> - <p> - "Oh! confound it!"—Horace began. - </p> - <p> - "Hush! here comes papa; remember this is my arrangement; you ought to be - very much obliged, instead of beginning to swear in that way; I'm sure Mr - Hawthorne is very grateful to me for taking so much interest in the - question of his breaking his neck, if you are not. Oh! papa," she - continued, "do you know that we shall lose all our beaux to-night; they - have some horrid supper party to go back to, and we shall have to go to - the play by ourselves!" - </p> - <p> - Most of the Squire's sympathies were at this moment absorbed in the fact - that dinner was already four minutes late, so that he had less to spare - for his daughter's disappointment than Mrs Leicester, who on her arrival - took up the lamentation with all her heart. She attacked her nephew at - once upon the subject, whose replies were at first wavering and evasive, - till he caught Flora's eye,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87b" - id="Page_87b">[Pg 87]</a></span> and then he answered with a dogged sort - of resolution, exceedingly amusing to me who understood his position, and - at last got quite cross with his aunt for persisting in her entreaties. I - declared, for my part, that I was dependent on Horace's movements; that, - if I could possibly have anticipated the delightful evening which had - awaited us, every other arrangement should have given way, &c. &c.; - when Hurst's reappearance turned the whole force of Mrs Leicester's - persuasions upon him, backed, too, as she was by both her daughters. - "Won't <i>you</i> stay, Mr Hurst? Must you go too? Will you be so shabby - as to leave us?" How could any man stand it? William Wellington Hurst - could not, it was very plain. At first he looked astonished; wondered why - on earth we couldn't all stay; then protested he couldn't think of letting - us go home by ourselves; a piece of self-devotion which we at once desired - might not be thought of; then hesitated—he was meditating, no doubt, - on the delight of driving—how was he to get home? the inglorious - occupant of the inside of a drag; or the solitary tenant of a fly (though - I suggested he might drive that if he pleased); couldn't Leicester go - home, and I and he follow together? I put in a decided negative; he looked - from Mrs Leicester's anxious face to Flora's, and surrendered at - discretion. We were to start at eight precisely in the tandem, and Miller - and his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88b" id="Page_88b">[Pg 88]</a></span> - party, who were sure to wait for the play, were to pick up Mr Wellington - Hurst as a supernumerary passenger at some hour unknown. And so we went to - dinner. Mrs Leicester marched off in triumph with her new capture, as if - fearful he might give her the slip after all, and committed Flora to my - custody. I was charitable enough, however, in consideration of all - circumstances, to give up my right of sitting next to her to Horace, and - established myself on the other side of the table, between Mrs Leicester - and her younger daughter; and a hard post I had of it. Mary would not talk - at all, and her mamma would do nothing else; and she was one of those - pertinacious talkers, too, who, not content with running on themselves, - and leaving you to put in an occasional interjection, inflict upon you a - cross-examination in its severest form, and insist upon a definite and - rational answer to every question. However, availing myself of those - legitimate qualifications of a witness, an unlimited amount of impudence, - and a determination not to criminate myself, I got on pretty tolerably. - Who did I think her daughter Flora like? I took the opportunity of - diligently examining that young lady's features for about four minutes—not - in the least to her confusion, for she scarcely honoured me with a glance - the whole time—and then declared the resemblance to mamma quite - startling. Mary? Oh, her father's eyes decidedly; upon<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_89b" id="Page_89b">[Pg 89]</a></span> which the squire, whose - pet she appeared to be—I suppose it was the contrast between her - quietness and Mrs Leicester's incessant fidgetting that was so delightful—laughed, - and took wine with me. Then she took up the subject of my private tastes - and habits. Was I fond of riding? Yes. Driving? Pretty well. Reading? - Very. Then she considerately hoped that I did not read much by - candle-light—above all by an oil-lamp—it was very injurious. I - assured her that I would be cautious for the future. Then she offered me a - receipt for eye-water, in case I suffered from weakness arising from - over-exertion of those organs;—declined, with thanks. Hoped I did - not read above twelve hours a-day; some young men, she had heard, read - sixteen, which she considered as really inconsistent with a due regard to - health. I assured her that our sentiments on that point perfectly - coincided, and that I had no tendency to excesses of that kind. At last - she began to institute inquiries about certain under-graduates with whose - families she was acquainted; and the two or three names which I recognised - being hunting men, I referred her to Hurst as quite <i>au fait</i> in the - sporting circles of Oxford, and succeeded in hooking them into a - conversation which effectually relieved me. - </p> - <p> - Leicester, as I could overhear, had been still rather rebellious against - going home before the play was over, and was insisting that his being in<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90b" id="Page_90b">[Pg 90]</a></span> - college by nine was not really material; nor did he appear over-pleased, - when, in answer to an appeal from Flora, I said plainly, that the - consequences of his "knocking in" late, when under sentence of strict - confinement to the regular hour, might not be pleasant—a fact, - however, which he himself, though with a very bad grace, was compelled to - admit. - </p> - <p> - At last the time arrived for our party to separate: Horace and I to return - to Oxford, and the others to adjourn to see <i>Richard the Third</i> - performed at the B—— theatre, under the distinguished - patronage of the members of the H—— Hunt. It was a beautiful - moonlight night, and as Hurst accompanied us to the stable-yard to "start - us," as he complacently phrased it, it was clear that he was suffering, - like a great many unfortunate individuals in public and private life, - under an overweening sense of his own importance. "You'll have an uncommon - pleasant drive of it; upon my word you will," he remarked; "it wouldn't do - for me to say I would not stay, you know, as Miss Leicester—Mrs - Leicester, that is—seemed to make such a point of it; but really"—— - </p> - <p> - "Oh, come, Hurst," said I, "don't pretend to say you've made any sacrifice - in the matter; I know you are quite delighted; I'm sure I should have - liked to stay of all things, only it would have been uncivil to our friend - here to send him home by himself from his own party." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91b" id="Page_91b">[Pg 91]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Oh! hang it, I don't mean to call it a sacrifice; I have no doubt I shall - have a very pleasant evening; only I wish we could all have stayed, and - driven home together afterwards." - </p> - <p> - "You may keep Hawthorne with you now, if you like," said Horace, who was - not in the best of tempers; "I can take the horses home myself." - </p> - <p> - "No, no, that would be hardly fair," said I. - </p> - <p> - "Oh! no—off with you both," said Hurst; "stay, Leicester, you'll - find the grey go more pleasantly if you drive him from the cheek; I'll - alter it in a second." - </p> - <p> - "Have the goodness just to let them alone, my good fellow; as I'm to - drive, I prefer putting them my own way, if you have no objection." - </p> - <p> - "Well, as you please; good-night." - </p> - <p> - "Miller's coming to my rooms when he gets home; if you like to look in - with him, you'll find some supper, I dare say." - </p> - <p> - Horace continued rather sulky for the first few miles, and only opened to - anathematise, briefly but comprehensively, steeple-chases, tandems, deans - and tutors, and "fellows like Hurst." I thought it best to let him cool - down a little; so, after this ebullition, we rattled on in silence as long - as his first cigar lasted. - </p> - <p> - "Come," said I, as I gave him a light, "we got rid of our friend's company - pretty cleverly, thanks to your cousin." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92b" id="Page_92b">[Pg 92]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Ay, I told you I'd take care of that; ha, ha! poor Hurst! he little - bargained, when he ordered his team, how precious little driving he was to - get out of it; a strong instance of the vanity of human expectations. I - wish him joy of it, stuck up in an old barn, as I suppose he is by this - time, gaping at a set of strolling players; how Flora will laugh at him! I - really shouldn't wonder if she were to tell him, before the evening is - over, how nicely he has been humbugged, just for the fun of it!" - </p> - <p> - "At all events," said I, "I think we must have a laugh at him to-night - when he comes home; though he's such a good-tempered fellow, it's rather a - shame, too." - </p> - <p> - It was very plain, however, that it was not quite such a good joke to - Master Horace himself as he was trying to make out; and that, in point of - fact, he would have considerably preferred being seated, as Hurst probably - was at that moment, by his pretty cousin's side in the B—— - theatre, wherever and whatever that might chance to be (even with the full - expectation of being laughed at afterwards), to holding the reins of the - best team that ever was turned out of Oxford. - </p> - <p> - We reached Oxford just in time to hear the first stroke of "Old Tom." By - the time I joined Leicester in his rooms, supper was ready, and most of - the party assembled. The sport of the day was duly discussed; those who - knew least about such matters being proportionately the most noisy and<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93b" id="Page_93b">[Pg 93]</a></span> - positive in giving their opinions. One young hero of eighteen, fresh from - Winchester, in all the importance of a probationary Fellow of New College, - explained for our benefit, by the help of the forks and salt-cellars, the - line which the horses undoubtedly ought to have taken, and which they did - not take; until one of his old schoolfellows, who was present, was - provoked to treat us to an anecdote of the young gentleman's first - appearance in the hunting-field—no longer ago than the last term—when - he mistook the little rough Scotch terrier that always accompanied ——'s - pack for the fox, and tally-ho'd him so lustily as to draw upon himself - sundry very energetic, but not very complimentary, remarks from the - well-known master of the hounds. By degrees Leicester recovered his usual - good-humour; and supper passed over, and several songs had been sung with - the usual amount of applause (except one very sentimental one which had no - chorus), and we had got pretty deep into punch and politics, without - Hurst's name having once been mentioned by either of us. A knock at the - oak, and in walked Fane. - </p> - <p> - "So you're come back at last?" said Horace. "Sit down, if you can find - room. Allow me to introduce your left-hand neighbour—Powell of - Merton,—Fane, one of our brightest ornaments; quite the <i>spes - gregis</i> we consider him; passed his little go, and started a pink only - last week; give him a glass of punch. Perhaps you are not aware we've<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94b" id="Page_94b">[Pg 94]</a></span> been - drinking your health. But, by the way, Fane, where's our friend - Wellington?" - </p> - <p> - "Who?" said Fane; "what on earth are you talking about?" - </p> - <p> - "Wellington Hurst; didn't <i>you</i> bring him home with you?" - </p> - <p> - "Certainly not; didn't you bring him home?" - </p> - <p> - "No; Miller promised me he should have a seat inside your drag, because we - could not wait for him; did you stay to the play?" - </p> - <p> - "Yes, and capital fun it was; by the way, the last time I saw your friend - Hurst was mounted up in a red baise place that was railed off for the - patrons and patronesses, as they called them; there he was in the front - row, doing the civil to a very odd-looking old dowager in bright blue - velvet, with a neck like an ostrich." - </p> - <p> - "Thank you," said Leicester, "that's my aunt." - </p> - <p> - "Well, on that ground, we'll drink her health," said Fane, whose coolness - was proverbial. "There was Hurst, however, sitting between her and an - uncommonly pretty girl, with dark hair and eyes, dressed in—let me - see"—— - </p> - <p> - "Never mind; it was one of my cousins, I suppose," interposed Horace, who - was engaged in lighting a cigar at the candle, apparently with more zeal - than success. - </p> - <p> - "Well, we'll drink <i>her</i> health for her own sake, if you have no - particular objection. I've no doubt the rest of the company will take my - word for her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95b" id="Page_95b">[Pg 95]</a></span> - being the prettiest girl on the ground to-day; Hurst would second me if he - were here, for I never saw a man making love more decidedly in my life." - </p> - <p> - "Stuff!" said Horace, pitching his cigar into the fire; "pass that punch." - </p> - <p> - "What! jealous, Leicester?" said two or three of the party—"preserved - ground, eh?" - </p> - <p> - "Not at all, not at all," said Horace, trying with a very bad grace to - laugh off his evident annoyance; "at all events, I don't consider Hurst a - very formidable poacher; but what I want to know is, how he didn't come - home with Miller and your party?" - </p> - <p> - "Miller said he was coming up directly, so you can ask him; I really heard - nothing of it. Hark, there are steps coming up the staircase now." - </p> - <p> - It proved to be Miller himself, followed by the under-porter, a - good-tempered fellow, who was the factotum of the under-graduates at late - hours, when the ordinary staff of servants had left college for the night. - </p> - <p> - "How are you, Leicester?" said he, as he walked straight to the little - pantry, or "scouts' room," immediately opposite the door, which forms part - of the usual suite of college apartments; "come here, Bob." - </p> - <p> - "Where's Hurst?" was Horace's impatient query. - </p> - <p> - "Wait a bit," replied Miller from inside, where he was rattling the plates - in the course of investigating the remains of the supper—he was not - the man to go to bed supperless after a twelve miles' drive. "Here, Bob," - he continued, as he emerged at last with a cold fowl—"take this - fellow down<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96b" id="Page_96b">[Pg 96]</a></span> - with you, and grill him in no time; here's a lump of butter—and - Harvey's sauce—and—where do you keep the pickled mushrooms, - Leicester? here they are—make a little gravy; and here, Bob—it's - a cold night—here's a glass of wine; now you'll drink Mr Leicester's - health, and vanish." - </p> - <p> - Bob drank the toast audibly, floored his tumbler of port at two gulps, and - departed. - </p> - <p> - "Now," said Horace, "do just tell me—what <i>is</i> become of Hurst? - how didn't you bring him home?" - </p> - <p> - "Confound it!" said Miller, as he looked into all the jugs—"no - whisky punch?" - </p> - <p> - "Oh, really I forgot it; here's bishop, and that brandy punch is very - good. But how didn't he come home with you?" - </p> - <p> - "Forgot it!" soliloquised Miller pathetically. - </p> - <p> - "Forgot it? how the deuce came you to forget it? and how will he come - now?" rejoined Horace. - </p> - <p> - "How came <i>you</i> to forget it? I was talking about the whisky punch," - said Miller, as we all roared with laughter. "I couldn't bring Hurst, you - know, if he wouldn't come. He left the playhouse even before we did, with - some ladies—and we came away before it was over—so I sent up - to tell him we were going to start in ten minutes, and had a place for - him; and the Boots came down and said they had just had supper in, and the - gentleman could not possibly come just yet. Well, I sent up again, just as - we were ready harnessed, and then he threatened to kick Boots down - stairs." - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97b" id="Page_97b">[Pg 97]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "What a puppy!" said Horace. - </p> - <p> - "I don't quite agree with you there: I don't pretend to much sentiment - myself, as you are all aware; but with a lady <i>and</i> a supper in the - case, I should feel perfectly justified in kicking down stairs any Boots - that ever wore shoes, if he hinted at my moving prematurely." - </p> - <p> - Miller's unusual enthusiasm amused us all except Horace. "Gad," said he, - at last, "I hope he won't be able to get home to-night at all!" In this - friendly wish he was doomed to be disappointed. It was now long past - twelve o'clock; the out-college members of the party had all taken their - leave; Miller and Fane, having finished their grilled chicken at a little - table in the corner, had now drawn round the fire with the three or four - of us who remained, and there was a debate as to the expediency of brewing - more punch, when we heard a running step in the Quadrangle, which - presently began to ascend the staircase in company with a not very - melodious voice, warbling in a style which bespoke the owner's high state - of satisfaction. - </p> - <p> - "Hush! that's Hurst to a certainty!" - </p> - <p> - "Queen of my soul, whose starlike eyes<br /> Are all the light I seek"——<br /> - </p> - <p> - (Here came an audible stumble, as if our friend were beginning his way - down again involuntarily by half-a-dozen steps at a time.) "Hallo! - Leicester!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98b" id="Page_98b">[Pg 98]</a></span> - just lend us a candle, will you? The lamp is gone out, and it's as dark as - pitch; I've dropped my hat." - </p> - <p> - "Open the door, somebody," said Horace; and Hurst was admitted. He looked - rather confused at first, certainly; for the sudden transition from outer - darkness into a small room lighted by a dozen wax candles made him blink, - and our first greeting consisting of "ha—ha's" in different keys, - was perhaps somewhat embarrassing; but he recovered himself in a second. - </p> - <p> - "Well," said he, "how are you all? glad you got home safe, Hawthorne; hope - I didn't keep you waiting, Miller? you got the start of me, all of you, - coming home; but really I spent an uncommon jolly evening." - </p> - <p> - "Glad to hear it," said Leicester, with a wink to us. - </p> - <p> - "Yes;—'pon my life; I don't know when I ever spent so pleasant a - one;" and, with a sort of chuckle to himself, Hurst filled a glass of - punch. - </p> - <p> - "What did you think of <i>Richard the Third</i>?" said I. - </p> - <p> - "Oh! hang the play! there might have been six Richards in the field for - all I can say: I was better engaged." - </p> - <p> - "Ay," said Fane, "I rather fancy you were." - </p> - <p> - "We had a very pleasant drive home," said I, willing to effect a diversion - in favour of Leicester, who was puffing desperately at his cigar in a - savage kind of silence;—"and a capital supper afterwards; I wish you - had been with us." - </p> - <p> - "And I had a very jolly drive too: I got a gig, and galloped nearly all - the way; and a very good supper, too, before I started; but I won't return - your compliment;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99b" id="Page_99b">[Pg - 99]</a></span> we were a very snug party without you. Upon my word, - Leicester, your eldest cousin is one of the very nicest girls I ever met: - the sort of person you get acquainted with at once, and so very lively and - good-humoured—no nonsense about her." - </p> - <p> - "I'll make a point of letting her know your good opinion," replied Horace, - in a tone conveying pretty plainly a rebuke of such presumption. But it - was lost upon Hurst. - </p> - <p> - "Probably you need not trouble yourself," said Fane: "I dare say he has - let her know it himself already." - </p> - <p> - "No—really no"—said Hurst, as if deprecating anything so - decided; "but Miss Leicester is a <i>very</i> nice girl; clever, I should - say, decidedly; there's a shade of—one can hardly call it rusticity—about - her manner; but I like it, myself—I like it." - </p> - <p> - "Do you?"—said Horace, very drily. - </p> - <p> - "Oh! a season in London would take all that off." And Hurst began to - quaver again— - </p> - <p> - "Queen of my soul, whose"—<br /> - </p> - <p> - "I'll tell you what," said Horace, rising, and standing with his back to - the fire, with his hands under his coat-tails—"You may not be aware - of it, but you're rather drunk, Hurst." - </p> - <p> - "Drunk!" said Hurst; "no, that's quite a mistake; three glasses, I think - it was, of champagne at supper; and you men have sat here drinking punch - all the evening; if anybody's drunk, it's not me." - </p> - <p> - Hurst's usually modest demeanour was certainly<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_100b" id="Page_100b">">[Pg 100]</a></span> so very much altered - as to justify, in some measure, Leicester's supposition; but I really - believe Flora Leicester's bright eyes had more to answer for in that - matter than the champagne, whether the said three glasses were more or - less. - </p> - <p> - However, as Horace's temper was evidently not improving, Miller, Fane, and - myself wished him good night, and Hurst came with us. We got him into - Fane's rooms, and then extracted from him a full history of the adventures - of that delightful evening, to our infinite amusement, and apparently to - his own immense satisfaction. It was evident that Miss Flora Leicester had - made an impression, of which I do not give that young lady credit for - being in the least unconscious. - </p> - <p> - The impression, however, like many others of its kind, soon wore off, I - fancy; for the next time I saw Mr Wellington Hurst, he had returned to his - usual frame of mind, and appeared quite modest and deferential; but it - will not perhaps surprise my readers any more than it did myself, that - Horace was never fond of referring to our drive to the steeple-chase at B——, - and did not appear to appreciate, as keenly as before, the trick we had - played Hurst in leaving him behind; while all the after-reminiscences of - the latter bore reference, whenever it was possible, to his favourite date—"That - day when you and I and Leicester had that team to B—— - together." - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1c" id="Page_1c">[Pg 1]</a></span> - </p> - <h2> - <a name="CHRISTINE" id="CHRISTINE">CHRISTINE</a> - </h2> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - A DUTCH STORY. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center small"> - FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME D'ARBOUVILLE - </p> - <p class="center"> - BY FREDERICK HARDMAN, <span class="smcap">Esq.</span> - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - <span class="small">[<i>MAGA.</i> <span class="smcap">December 1847.</span>]</span> - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p> - It was the hour of sunrise. Not the gorgeous sunrise of Spain or Italy, - when the horizon's ruddy blaze suddenly revives all that breathes, when - golden rays mingle with the deep azure of a southern sky, and nature - bursts into vitality and vigour, as if light gave life. The sun rose upon - the chilly shores of Holland. The clouds opened to afford passage to a - pale light, without heat or brilliancy. Nature passed insensibly from - sleep to waking, but continued torpid when ceasing to slumber. No cry or - joyous song, no flight of birds, or bleating of flocks, hail the advent of - a new day. On the summit of the dykes, the reed-hedges bend before the - breeze, and the sea-sand, whirled over the slight obstacle, falls upon the - meadows, covering<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2c" id="Page_2c">[Pg - 2]</a></span> their verdure with a moving veil. A river, yellow with the - slime of its banks, flows peaceably and patiently towards the expectant - ocean. Seen from afar, its waters and its shore appear of one colour, - resembling a sandy plain; save where a ray of light, breaking upon the - surface, reveals by silvery flashes the passage of the stream. Ponderous - boats descend it, drawn by teams of horses, whose large feet sink into the - sand as they advance leisurely and without distress to the goal of their - journey. Behind them strides a peasant, whip on shoulder; he hurries not - his cattle, he looks neither at the stream that flows, nor at the beasts - that draw, nor at the boat that follows; he plods steadily onwards, - trusting to perseverance to attain his end. - </p> - <p> - Such is a corner of the picture presented to the traveller in Holland, the - country charged, it would seem, more than any other, to enforce God's - command to the waters, <i>Thou shalt go no farther!</i> This silent repose - of creatures and things, this mild light, these neutral tints and vast - motionless plains, are not without a certain poetry of their own. Wherever - space and silence are united, poetry finds place; she loves all things - more or less, whether smiling landscape or dreary desert; light of wing, a - trifle will detain and support her—a blade of grass often suffices. - And Holland, which Butler has called a large ship always at anchor, has - its beauties for the thoughtful observer. Gradually<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_3c" id="Page_3c">[Pg 3]</a></span> one learns to admire this - land at war with ocean and struggling daily for existence; those cities - which compel the waters to flow at their ramparts' foot to follow the - given track, and abide in the allotted bed; then those days of revolt, - when the waves would fain reconquer their independence, when they - overflow, and inundate, and destroy, and at last, constrained by the hand - of man, subside and again obey. - </p> - <p> - As the sun rose, a small boat glided rapidly down the stream. It had a - single occupant, a tall young man, lithe, skilful, and strong, who, - although apparently in haste, kept near the shore, following the windings - of the bank, and avoiding the centre of the current, which would have - accelerated his progress. At that early hour the fields were deserted; the - birds alone had risen earlier than the boatman, whose large hat of grey - felt lay beside him, whilst his brown locks, tossed backward by the wind, - disclosed regular features, a broad open forehead, and eyes somewhat - thoughtful, like those of the men of the north. His costume denoted a - student from a German university. One gathered from his extreme youth that - his life had hitherto passed on academic benches, and that it was still a - new and lively pleasure to him to feel the freshness of morning bathe his - brow, the breeze play with his hair, the stream bear along his bark. He - hastened, for there are times when we count the<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_4c" id="Page_4c">[Pg 4]</a></span> hours ill; when we outstrip - and tax them with delay. Then, if we cannot hurry the pace of time, we - prefer at least to wait at the appointed spot. It calms impatience, and - seems a commencement of happiness. - </p> - <p> - When the skiff had rounded a promontory of the bank, its speed increased, - as if the eye directing it had gained sight of the goal. At a short - distance the landscape changed its character. A meadow sloped down to the - stream, fringed by a thick hedge of willows, half uprooted and bending - over the water. The boat reached the shadow of the trees, and stopping - there, rocked gently on the river, secured by a chain cast round a branch. - The young man stood up and looked anxiously through the foliage; then he - sang, in a low tone, the burthen of a ballad, a love-plaint, the national - poetry of all countries. His voice, at first subdued, as if not to break - too suddenly the surrounding silence, gradually rose as the song drew to a - close. The clear mellow notes escaped from the bower of drooping leaves, - and expired without echo or reply upon the surface of the pasture. Then he - sat down and contemplated the peaceful picture presented to his view. The - grey sky had that melancholy look so depressing to the joyless and - hopeless; the cold dull water rolled noiselessly onward; to the left, the - plain extended afar without variety of surface. A few windmills reared - their gaunt arms, waiting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5c" - id="Page_5c">[Pg 5]</a></span> for wind; and the wind, too weak to stir - them, passed on and left them motionless. To the right, at the extremity - of the little meadow, stood a square house of red bricks and regular - construction, isolated, silent, and melancholy. The thick greenish glass - of the windows refused to reflect the sunbeams; the roof supported gilded - vanes of fantastical form; the garden was laid out in formal parterres. A - few tulips, drooping their heavy heads, and dahlias, propped with white - sticks, were the sole flowers growing there, and these were hemmed in and - stifled by hedges of box. Trees, stunted and shabby, and with dust-covered - leaves, were cut into walls and into various eccentric shapes. At the - corners of the formal alleys, whose complicated windings were limited to a - narrow space, stood a few plaster figures. One of these alleys led to the - willow hedge. There nature resumed her rights; the willows grew free and - unrestrained, stretching out from the land and drooping into the water; - their inclined trunks forming flying-bridges, supported but at one end. - The bank was high enough for a certain space to intervene between the - stream and the horizontal stems. A few branches, longer than the rest, - swept the surface of the river, and were kept in constant motion by its - current. - </p> - <p> - Beneath this dome of verdure the boat was moored, and there the young man - mused, gazing at the sky—melancholy as his heart—and at the<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6c" id="Page_6c">[Pg 6]</a></span> stream, - in its course uncertain as his destiny. A few willow leaves fluttered - against his brow, one of his hands hung in the water, a gentle breeze - stirred his hair; nameless flowerets, blooming in the shelter of the - trees, gave out a faint perfume, detectable at intervals, at the wind's - caprice. A bird, hidden in the foliage, piped an amorous note, and the - student, cradled in his skiff, awaited his love. Ungrateful that he was! - he called time a laggard, and bid him speed; he was insensible to the - charm of the present hour. Ah! if he grows old, how well will he - understand that fortune then lavished on him the richest treasures of life—hope - and youth! - </p> - <p> - Suddenly the student started, stood up, and, with outstretched neck, and - eyes riveted on the trees, he listened, scarce daring to breathe. The - foliage opened, and the face of a young girl was revealed to his gaze. - "Christine!" he exclaimed. - </p> - <p> - Christine stepped upon the trunk of the lowest tree, and seated herself - with address on this pliant bench, which her weight, slight as it was, - caused to yield and rock. One of her hands, extended through the branches - that drooped towards the water, reached that of her lover, who tenderly - clasped it. Then she drew herself up again, and the tree, less loaded, - seemed to obey her will by imitating her movement. The young man sat in - his boat, with eyes uplifted towards the willow on which his love reposed. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7c" id="Page_7c">[Pg 7]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Christine Van Amberg had none of the distinguishing features of the - country of her birth. Hair black as the raven's wing formed a frame to a - face full of energy and expression. Her large eyes were dark and - penetrating; her eyebrows, strongly marked and almost straight, would - perhaps have imparted too decided a character to her young head, if a - charming expression of candour and <i>naïveté</i> had not given her the - countenance of a child rather than of a woman. Christine was fifteen years - of age. A slender silver circlet bound her brow and jet-black tresses—a - holiday ornament, according to her country's custom: but her greatest - festival was the sight of her lover. She wore a simple muslin dress of a - pale blue colour; a black silk mantle, intended to envelop her figure, was - placed upon her hair, and fell back upon her shoulders, as if the better - to screen her from the gaze of the curious. Seated on a tree trunk, - surrounded by branches and beside the water, like Shakespeare's Ophelia, - Christine was charming. But although young, beautiful, and beloved, deep - melancholy was the characteristic of her features. Her companion, too, - gazed mournfully at her, with eyes to which the tears seemed about to - start. - </p> - <p> - "Herbert," said the young girl, stooping towards her lover, "Herbert, be - not so sad! we are both too young to despair of life. Herbert! better - times will come." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8c" id="Page_8c">[Pg 8]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Christine! they have refused me your hand, expelled me your dwelling; - they would separate us entirely: they will succeed, to-morrow perhaps!..." - </p> - <p> - "Never!" exclaimed the young girl, with a glance like the lightning's - flash. But, like that flash, the expression of energy was momentary, and - gave way to one of calm melancholy. - </p> - <p> - "If you would, Christine, if you would! ... how easy were it to fly - together, to unite our destinies on a foreign shore, and to live for each - other, happy and forgotten!... I will lead you to those glorious lands - where the sun shines as you see it in your dreams—to the summit of - lofty mountains whence the eye discovers a boundless horizon—to - noble forests with their thousand tints of green, where the fresh breeze - shall quicken your cheek, and sweep from your memory these fogs, this - humid clime, these monotonous plains. Our days shall pass blissfully in a - country worthy of our loves." - </p> - <p> - As Herbert spoke, the young girl grew animated; she seemed to see what he - described, her eager eye sought the horizon as though she would over-leap - it, her lips parted as to inhale the mountain breeze. Then she passed her - hand hastily across her eyes, and sighed deeply. "No!" she exclaimed; "no, - I must remain here!... Herbert, it is my country: why does it make me - suffer? I remember another sky, another land,—but<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9c" id="Page_9c">[Pg 9]</a></span> no, it is - a dream! I was born here, and have scarcely passed the boundary of this - meadow. My mother sang too often beside my cradle the ballads and boleros - of her native Seville; she told me too much of Spain, and I love that - unknown land as one pines after an absent friend!" - </p> - <p> - The young girl glanced at the river, over which a dense fog was spreading. - A few rain-drops pattered amongst the leaves; she crossed her mantle on - her breast, and her whole frame shivered with sudden chill. - </p> - <p> - "Leave me, Christine, you suffer!—return home, and, since you reject - my roof and hearth, abide with those who can shelter and warm you." - </p> - <p> - A sweet smile played upon Christine's lips. "My beloved," she said, "near - you I prefer the chilling rain, this rough branch, and the biting wind, to - my seat in the house, far from you, beside the blazing chimney. Ah! with - what joy and confidence would I start on foot for the farthest corner of - the earth, your arm my sole support, your love my only wealth. But...." - </p> - <p> - "What retains you, Christine? your father's affection, your sisters' - tenderness, your happy home?" - </p> - <p> - The young girl grew pale. "Herbert, it is cruel to speak thus. Well do I - know that my father loves me not, that my sisters are often unkind, that - my home is unhappy; I know it, indeed I know it, and I will follow you.... - If my mother consents!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10c" id="Page_10c">[Pg 10]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Herbert looked at his mistress with astonishment. "Child!" he exclaimed, - "such consent will never leave your mother's lips. There are cases where - strength and resolution must be found in one's own heart. Your mother will - never say yes." - </p> - <p> - "Perhaps!" replied Christine, slowly and gravely. "My mother loves me; I - resemble her in most things, and her heart understands mine. She knows - that Scripture says a woman shall leave her father and mother to follow - her husband; she is in the secret of our attachment, and, since our door - has been closed against you, I have not shed a tear that she has not - detected and replied to by another. You misjudge my mother, Herbert! - Something tells me she has suffered, and knows that a little happiness is - essential to life as the air we breathe. Nor would it surprise me, if one - day, when embracing me, as she does each night when we are alone, she were - to whisper: Begone, my poor child!" - </p> - <p> - "I cannot think it, Christine. She will bid you obey, be comforted, - forget!" - </p> - <p> - "Forget! Herbert, my mother forgets nothing. To forget is the resource of - cowardly hearts. No,—none will bid me forget." - </p> - <p> - And once more a gloomy fire flashed in Christine's eyes, like the rapid - passage of a flame which illumines and instantly expires. It was a - revelation<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11c" id="Page_11c">[Pg 11]</a></span> - of the future rather than the expression of the present. An ardent soul - dwelt within her, but had not yet cast off all the encumbrances of - childhood. It struggled to make its way, and at times, succeeding for a - moment, a word or cry revealed its presence. - </p> - <p> - "No—I shall not forget," added Christine; "I love you, and you love - me, who am so little loved! You find me neither foolish, nor fantastical, - nor capricious; you understand my reveries and the thousand strange - thoughts that invade my heart. I am very young, Herbert; and yet, here, - with my hand in yours, I answer for the future. I shall always love you! - ... and see, I do not weep. I have faith in the happiness of our love; - how? when? I know not,—it is the secret of my Creator, who would not - have sent me upon earth only to suffer. Happiness will come when He deems - right, but come it will! Yes,—I am young, full of life, I have need - of air and space; I shall not live enclosed and smothered here. The world - is large, and I will know it; my heart is full of love, and will love for - ever. No tears, dearest! obstacles shall be overcome, they must give way, - for I will be happy!" - </p> - <p> - "But why delay, Christine? My love! my wife! an opportunity lost may never - be regained. A minute often decides the fate of a lifetime. Perhaps, at - this very moment, happiness is near us! A leap into my boat, a few strokes - of the oar, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12c" id="Page_12c">[Pg - 12]</a></span> we are united for ever!... Perhaps, if you again return to - land, we are for ever separated. Christine, come! The wind rises: beneath - my feet is a sail that will quickly swell and bear us away rapidly as the - wings of yon bird." - </p> - <p> - Tears flowed fast over Christine's burning cheeks. She shuddered, looked - at her lover, at the horizon, thought of liberty; she hesitated, and a - violent struggle agitated her soul. At last, hiding her face amongst the - leafage of the willow, she clasped her arms round its stem, as if to - withhold herself from entering the boat, and in a stifled voice muttered - the words,—"My mother!" A few seconds afterwards, she raised her - pallid countenance. - </p> - <p> - "If I fled," said she gently, "to whom would my mother speak of her dear - country? Who would weep with her when she weeps, if I were gone? She has - other children, but they are gay and happy, and do not resemble her. Only - my mother and myself are sad in our house. My mother would die of my - absence. I must receive her farewell blessing or remain by her side, - chilled like her by this inclement climate, imprisoned in yonder walls, - ill-treated by those who love me not. Herbert, I will not fly, I will - wait!" And she made a movement to regain the strand. - </p> - <p> - "One instant,—yet one second,—Christine! I know not what - chilling presentiment oppresses my heart. Dearest,—if we were to - meet no more! If<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13c" id="Page_13c">[Pg - 13]</a></span> this little corner of earth were our last trysting-place—these - melancholy willows the witnesses of our eternal separation! Is it—can - it be—the last happy hour of my life that has just slipped by?" - </p> - <p> - He covered his face with his hands, to conceal his tears. Christine's - heart beat violently—but she had courage. - </p> - <p> - Letting herself drop from the tree, she stood upon the bank, separated - from the boat, which could not come nearer to shore. - </p> - <p> - "Adieu, Herbert!" said she, "one day I will be your wife, faithful and - loving. It shall be, for I will have it so. Let us both pray God to hasten - that happy day. Adieu, I love you! Adieu, and till our next meeting, for I - love you!" - </p> - <p> - The barrier of reeds and willows opened before the young girl. A few small - branches crackled beneath her tread; there was a slight noise in the grass - and bushes, as when a bird takes flight; then all was silence. - </p> - <p> - Herbert wept. - </p> - <hr class="tb" /> - <p> - The clock in the red brick house struck eight, and the family of Van - Amberg the merchant were mustered in the breakfast-room. Christine was the - only absentee. Near the fire stood the head of the family—Karl Van - Amberg—and beside him his brother, who, older than himself, yielded - the prerogative<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14c" id="Page_14c">[Pg - 14]</a></span> of seniority, and left him master of the community. Madame - Van Amberg was working near a window, and her two elder daughters, - fair-haired, white-skinned Dutchwomen, prepared the breakfast. - </p> - <p> - Karl Van Amberg, the dreaded chief of this family, was of lofty stature; - his gait was stiff; his physiognomy passionless. His face, whose features - at first appeared insignificant, denoted a domineering temper. His manners - were cold. He spoke little; never to praise, but often in terms of dry and - imperious censure. His glance preceded his words and rendered them nearly - superfluous, so energetically could that small sunken grey eye make itself - understood. With the sole aid of his own patience and ambition, Karl Van - Amberg had made a large fortune. His ships covered the seas. Never loved, - always respected, his credit was everywhere excellent. Absolute monarch in - his own house, none dreamed of opposing his will. All were mute and awed - in his presence. At this moment, he was leaning against the chimney-piece. - His black garments were very plain, but not devoid of a certain austere - elegance. - </p> - <p> - William Van Amberg, Karl's brother, was quite of an opposite character. He - would have passed his life in poverty, subsisting on the scanty income - left him by his parents, had not Karl desired wealth. He placed his modest - fortune in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15c" id="Page_15c">[Pg - 15]</a></span> brother's hands, saying, "Act as for yourself!" Attached to - his native nook of land, he lived in peace, smoking and smiling, and - learning from time to time that he was a richer man by a few hundred - thousand francs. One day, he was told that he possessed a million; in - reply, he merely wrote, "Thanks, Karl; it will be for your children." Then - he forgot his riches, and changed nothing in his manner of life, even - adhering in his dress to the coarse materials and graceless fashion of a - peasant dreading the vicinity of cities. His youthful studies had - consisted of a course of theology. His father, a fervent Catholic, - destined him for the church; but it came to pass, as a consequence of his - indecision of character, that William neither took orders nor married, but - lived quietly in his brother's family. The habitual perusal of religious - books sometimes gave his language a mystical tone, contrasting with the - rustic simplicity of his exterior. This was his only peculiarity; - otherwise he had nothing remarkable but his warm heart and strong good - sense. He was the primitive type of his family: his brother was an example - of the change caused by newly-acquired wealth. - </p> - <p> - Madame Van Amberg, seated at the window, sewed in silence. Her countenance - had the remains of great beauty, but she was weak and suffering. A single - glance sufficed to fix her birthplace far from Holland. Her black hair and - olive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16c" id="Page_16c">[Pg 16]</a></span> - tint betrayed a southern origin. Silently submissive to her husband, his - iron character had pressed heavily upon this delicate creature. She had - never murmured; now she was dying, but without complaint. Her look was one - of deep melancholy. Christine, her third daughter, resembled her. Of dark - complexion, like her mother, she contrasted strongly with her rosy-cheeked - sisters. M. Van Amberg did not love Christine. Rough and cold, even to - those he secretly cherished, he was severe and cruel to those he disliked. - He had never been known to kiss Christine. Her mother's were the only - caresses she knew, and even those were stealthily and tearfully bestowed. - The two poor women hid themselves to love each other. - </p> - <p> - At intervals, Madame Van Amberg coughed painfully. The damp climate of - Holland was slowly conducting to her grave the daughter of Spain's ardent - land. Her large melancholy eyes mechanically sought the monotonous - horizon, which had bounded her view for twenty years. Fog and rain - surrounded the house. She gazed, shivered as if seized with deadly cold, - then resumed her work. - </p> - <p> - Eight o'clock had just struck, and the two young Dutchwomen, who, although - rich heiresses, waited upon their father, had just placed the tea and - smoked beef upon the table, when Karl Van Amberg turned abruptly to his - wife. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17c" id="Page_17c">[Pg 17]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Where is your daughter, madam?" - </p> - <p> - He spoke of Christine, whom the restless gaze of Madame Van Amberg vainly - sought through the fog veiling the garden. At her husband's question, the - lady rose, opened the door, and, leaning on the banister, twice uttered - her daughter's name. There was no reply; she grew pale, and again looked - out anxiously through the fog. - </p> - <p> - "Go in, Madame," was the surly injunction of Gothon, the old servant - woman, who knelt on the hall flags, which she had flooded with soap and - water, and was now vigorously scrubbing,—"Go, in, Madame; the damp - increases your cough, and Mademoiselle Christine is far enough away! The - bird flew before daybreak." - </p> - <p> - Madame Van Amberg cast a mournful glance across the meadow, where nothing - moved, and into the parlour, where her stern husband awaited her; then she - went in and sat down at the table, around which the remainder of the - family had already placed themselves. No one spoke. All could read - displeasure upon M. Van Amberg's countenance, and none dared attempt to - change the course of his ideas. His wife kept her eyes fixed upon the - window, hoping her daughter's return. Her lips scarcely tasted the milk - that filled her cup; visible anguish increased the paleness of her sweet, - sad countenance. - </p> - <p> - "Annunciata, my dear, take some tea," said her<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_18c" id="Page_18c">[Pg 18]</a></span> brother-in-law. "The day - is chill and damp, and you seem to suffer." - </p> - <p> - Annunciata smiled sadly at William. For sole answer she raised to her lips - the tea he offered her, but the effort was too painful, and she replaced - the cup upon the table. M. Van Amberg looked at nobody; he ate, his eyes - fixed upon his plate. - </p> - <p> - "Sister," resumed William, "it is a duty to care for one's health, and - you, who fulfil all your duties, should not neglect that one." - </p> - <p> - A slight flush tinged the brow of Annunciata. Her eyes encountered those - of her husband, which he slowly turned towards her. Trembling, almost - weeping, she ceased her attempts to eat. And the silence was again - unbroken, as at the commencement of the meal. At last steps were heard in - the passage, the old servant grumbled something which did not reach the - parlour, then the door opened, and Christine entered; her muslin dress - damp with fog, her graceful curls disordered by the wind, her black mantle - glittering with a thousand little rain-drops. She was crimson with - embarrassment and fear. Her empty chair was beside her mother; she sat - down, and hung her head; none offered aught to the truant child, and the - silence continued. Yielding to maternal anxiety, Madame Van Amberg took a - handkerchief and wiped the moisture from Christine's forehead and hair; - then she took her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19c" id="Page_19c">[Pg - 19]</a></span> hands to warm them in her own. For the second time M. Van - Amberg looked at his wife. She let Christine's hands fall, and remained - downcast and motionless as her daughter. M. Van Amberg rose from table. A - tear glistened in the mother's eyes on seeing that her daughter had not - eaten. But she said nothing, and returning to the window, resumed her - sewing. Christine remained at table, preserving her frightened and abashed - attitude. The two eldest girls hastened to remove the breakfast things. - </p> - <p> - "Do you not see what Wilhelmina and Maria are about? Can you not help - them?" - </p> - <p> - At her father's voice, Christine hastily rose, seized the cups and teapot, - and hurried to and fro from parlour to pantry. - </p> - <p> - "Gently! You will break something!" cried M. Van Amberg. "Begin in time, - to finish without hurry." - </p> - <p> - Christine stood still in the middle of the room. Her two sisters smiled as - they passed her, and one of them muttered—for nobody spoke aloud in - M. Van Amberg's presence—"Christine will hardly learn housekeeping - by looking at the stars and watching the river flow!" - </p> - <p> - "Now, then, Mademoiselle, you are spoiling everything here!" said the old - servant, who had just come in; "go and change that wet gown, which ruins - all my furniture." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20c" id="Page_20c">[Pg 20]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Christine remained where she was, not daring to stir without the master's - order. - </p> - <p> - "Go," said M. Van Amberg. - </p> - <p> - The young girl darted from the room and up the stairs, reached her - chamber, threw herself upon the bed and burst into tears. Below, Madame - Van Amberg continued to sew, her head bent over her work. When the cloth - was removed, Wilhelmina and Maria placed a large jug of beer, glasses, - long pipes, and a store of tobacco, upon the mahogany table, and pushed - forward two arm-chairs, in which Karl and William installed themselves. - </p> - <p> - "Retire to your apartment, madam," said M. Van Amberg, in the imperious - tone habitual to him when he addressed his wife,—"I have to discuss - matters which do not concern you. Do not leave the house; I will call you - by-and-by; I wish to speak with you." - </p> - <p> - Annunciata bowed in token of obedience, and left the room. Wilhelmina and - Maria approached their father, who silently kissed their pretty cheeks. - The two brothers lit their pipes, and remained alone. William was the - first to speak. - </p> - <p> - "Brother Karl!" said he, resting his arms upon the table, and looking M. - Van Amberg in the face, "before proceeding to business, and at risk of - offending you, I must relieve my heart. Here, all fear you, and counsel, - the salutary support of man, is denied you." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21c" id="Page_21c">[Pg 21]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Speak, William," coldly replied M. Van Amberg. - </p> - <p> - "Karl, you treat Annunciata very harshly. God commands you to protect her, - and you allow her to suffer, perhaps to die, before your eyes, without - caring for her fate. The strong should sustain the weak. In our native - land, we owe kindness to the stranger who cometh from afar. The husband - owes protection to her he has chosen for his wife. For all these reasons, - brother, I say you treat Annunciata ill." - </p> - <p> - "Does she complain?" said M. Van Amberg, filling his glass. - </p> - <p> - "No, brother; only the strong resist and complain. A tree falls with a - crash, the reed bends noiselessly to the ground. No, she does not - complain, save by silence and suffering, by constant and passive - obedience, like that of a soulless automaton. You have deprived her of - life, the poor woman! One day she will cease to move and breathe; she has - long ceased to live!" - </p> - <p> - "Brother, there are words that should not be inconsiderately spoken, - judgments that should not be hastily passed, for fear of injustice." - </p> - <p> - "Do I not know your whole life, Karl, as well as my own, and can I not - therefore speak confidently, as one well informed?" - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg inhaled the smoke of his pipe, threw himself back in his - arm-chair, and made no reply. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22c" id="Page_22c">[Pg 22]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "I know you as I know myself," resumed William, gently, "although our - hearts were made to love and not to resemble each other. When you found - our father's humble dwelling too small, I said nothing; you were - ambitious; when a man is born with that misfortune or blessing, he must do - like the birds, who have wings to soar; he must strive to rise. You - departed; I pressed your hand, and reproached you not; it is right that - each man should be happy his own way. You gained much gold, and gave me - more than I needed. You returned married, and I did not approve your - marriage. It is wiser to seek a companion in the land where one's days are - to end; it is something to love the same places and things, and then it is - only generous to leave one's wife a family, friends, well-known objects to - gaze upon. It is counting greatly on one's-self to take sole charge of her - happiness. Happiness sometimes consists of so many things! Often an - imperceptible atom serves as base to its vast structure: for my part I do - not like presumptuous experiments on the hearts of others. In short, you - married a foreigner, who perishes with cold in this country, and sighs, - amidst our fogs, for the sun of Spain. You committed a still greater fault—Forgive - me, brother; I speak plainly, in order not to return to this subject." - </p> - <p> - "I am attending to you, William; you are my elder brother." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23c" id="Page_23c">[Pg 23]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Thanks for your patience, Karl. No longer young, you married a very young - woman. Your affairs took you to Spain. There you met a needy Spanish - noble, to whom you rendered a weighty service. You were always generous, - and increasing wealth did not close your hand. This noble had a daughter, - a child of fifteen. In spite of your apparent coldness, you were smitten - by her beauty, and you asked her of her father. Only one thing struck you—that - she was poor and would be enriched by the marriage. A refusal of your - offer would have been ingratitude to a benefactor. They gave you - Annunciata, and you took her, brother, without looking whether joy was in - her eyes, without asking the child whether she willingly followed you, - without interrogating her heart. In that country the heart is precocious - in its awakening ... perhaps she left behind her some youthful dream ... - some early love.... Forgive me, Karl; the subject is difficult to - discuss." - </p> - <p> - "Change it, William," said M. Van Amberg, coldly. - </p> - <p> - "Be it so. You returned hither, and when your business again took you - forth upon the ocean, you left Annunciata to my care. She lived many years - with me in this house. Karl, her youth was joyless and sad. Isolated and - silent, she wore out her days without pleasure or variety. Your two eldest - daughters, now the life of our dwelling, were then<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_24c" id="Page_24c">[Pg 24]</a></span> in the cradle. They were - no society to their mother; I was a very grave companion for that young - and beautiful creature. I have little reading and knowledge, no - imagination; I like my quiet arm-chair, my old books, and my pipe. I at - first allowed myself to believe—because I loved to believe it—that - Annunciata resembled me—that tranquillity and a comfortable dwelling - would suffice for her happiness, as they sufficed for mine. But at last I - understood—what you, brother, I fear, have never comprehended—that - she was not born to be a Dutch housewife. In the first place, the climate - tortured her. She constantly asked me if finer summers would not come,—if - the winters were always so rigorous,—the fogs so frequent. I told - her no, that the year was a bad one; but I told her a falsehood, for the - winters were always the same. At first she tried to sing her Sevillian - romances and boleros, but soon her song died away and she wept, for it - reminded her too much of her own native land. Silent and motionless she - sat, desiring, as I have read in the Bible,—'The wings of the dove - to fly away and be at rest.' Brother, it was a melancholy sight. You know - not how slowly the winter evenings passed in this parlour. It was dark at - four, and she worked by lamp-light till bed-time. I endeavoured to - converse, but she knew nothing of the things I knew, and I was ignorant of - those that interested her. I saw at last that the greatest kindness was to - leave<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25c" id="Page_25c">[Pg 25]</a></span> - her to herself. She worked or was idle, wept or was calm, and I averted my - eyes to give her the only consolation in my power,—a little liberty. - But it was very sad, brother!" - </p> - <p> - There was a moment's silence, broken by M. Van Amberg. "Madame Van Amberg - was in her own dwelling," said he, severely, "with her children, and under - the protection of a devoted friend. Her husband toiled in foreign parts to - increase the fortune of the family; she remained at home to keep house and - educate her daughters; all that is very natural." And he filled his pipe. - </p> - <p> - "True," replied William; "but still she was unhappy. Was it a crime? God - will decide. Leave her to His justice, Karl, and let us be merciful! - During your long absence, chance conducted hither some Spaniards whom - Annunciata had known in her childhood, and amongst them the son of an old - friend of her father's. Oh! with what mingled joy and agitation did the - dear child welcome her countrymen! What tears she shed in the midst of her - joy ... for she had forgotten how to be happy, and every emotion made her - weep. How eagerly she heard and spoke her native tongue! She fancied - herself again in Spain; for a while she was almost happy. You returned, - brother, and you were cruel; one day, without explaining your motives, you - shut your door upon the strangers. Tell me, why would you not allow - fellow-countrymen, friends.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26c" - id="Page_26c">[Pg 26]</a></span> a companion of her childhood, to speak to - your wife of her family and native land? Why require complete isolation, - and a total rupture with old friends? She obeyed without a murmur, but she - suffered more than you thought. I watched her closely; I, her old friend. - Since that fresh proof of your rigour, she is sadder than before. A third - time she became a mother; it was in vain; her unhappiness continued. - Brother, your hand has been too heavy on this feeble creature." - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg rose, and slowly paced the room. "Have you finished, - William?" said he; "this conversation is painful, let it end here; do not - abuse the license I give you." - </p> - <p> - "No; I have yet more to say. You are a cold and severe husband, but that - is not all; you are also an unjust father. Christine, your third daughter, - is denied her share of your affection, and by this partiality you further - wound the heart of Annunciata. Christine resembles her; she is what I can - fancy her mother at fifteen—a lively and charming Spaniard; she has - all her mother's tastes; like her she lives with difficulty in our - climate, and although born in it, by a caprice of nature she suffers from - it as Annunciata suffered. Brother, the child is not easy to manage; - independent, impassioned, violent in all her impressions, she has a love - of movement and liberty which ill agrees with our regular habits, but she - has also a good heart, and by appealing to it<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_27c" id="Page_27c">[Pg 27]</a></span> you might perhaps have - tamed her wild spirit. For Christine you are neither more nor less than a - pitiless judge. Her childhood was one long grief. And thus, far from - losing her wild restlessness, she loves more than ever to be abroad and at - liberty; she goes out at daybreak; she looks upon the house as a cage - whose bars hurt her, and you vainly endeavour to restrain her. Brother, if - you would have obedience, show affection. It is a power that succeeds when - all others fail. Why prevent her marrying the man she loves? Herbert the - student is not rich, nor is his alliance brilliant; but they love each - other!" - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg, who had continued his walk, now stopped short, and coldly - replied to his brother's accusations: "Christine is only fifteen, and I do - my duty by curbing the foolish passion that prematurely disturbs her - reason. As to what you call my partiality, you have explained it yourself - by the defects of her character. You, who reproach others as pitiless - judges, beware yourself of judging too severely. Every man acts according - to his internal perceptions, and all things are not good to be spoken. - Empty your glass, William, and if you have finished your pipe, do not - begin another. The business I had to discuss with you will keep till - another day; it is late, and I am tired. It is not always wise to rake up - the memories of the past. I wish to be alone a while. Leave me, and tell - Madame Van Amberg to come to me in a quarter of an hour." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28c" id="Page_28c">[Pg 28]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Why not say, 'Tell Annunciata?' Why, for so long a time, has that strange - sweet name never passed your lips?" - </p> - <p> - "Tell Madame Van Amberg I would speak with her, and leave me, brother," - replied Karl sternly. - </p> - <p> - William felt he had pushed Karl Van Amberg's patience to its utmost limit; - he got up and left the room. At the foot of the stairs he hesitated a - moment, then ascended, and sought Annunciata in Christine's chamber. It - was a narrow cell, shining with cleanliness, and containing a few flowers - in glasses, a wooden crucifix, with chaplets of beads hanging on it, and a - snow-white bed; a guitar (it was her mother's) was suspended on the wall. - From the window was seen the meadow, the river, and the willows. Christine - sat on the foot of the bed, still weeping; her mother was beside her, - offering her bread and milk, with which Christine's tears mingled. - Annunciata kissed her daughter's eyes, and then furtively wiped her own. - On entering, William stood for a few moments at the door, mournfully - contemplating this touching picture. - </p> - <p> - "My brother, my good brother," cried Annunciata, "speak to my child! She - has forgotten prayer and obedience; her heart is no longer submissive, and - her tears avail nothing, for she murmurs and menaces. Ask her, brother, by - whom it was told her that life is joy? that we live only to be happy?<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29c" id="Page_29c">[Pg 29]</a></span> Talk - to her of duty, and give her strength to accomplish it!" - </p> - <p> - "Your husband inquires for you, sister. Go, I will remain with Christine." - </p> - <p> - "I go, my brother," replied Annunciata. Approaching the little mirror - above the chimney-piece, she washed the tear-stains from her eyes, pressed - her hand upon her heart to check its throbbings, and when her countenance - had resumed its expression of calm composure, she descended the stairs. - Gothon was seated on the lower steps. - </p> - <p> - "You spoil her, madame," said she roughly to her mistress; "foolish ears - need sharp words. You spoil her." - </p> - <p> - Gothon had been in the house before Annunciata, and had been greatly - displeased by the arrival of her master's foreign lady, whose authority - she never acknowledged. But she had served the Van Ambergs' mother, and - therefore it was without fear of dismissal that she oppressed, after her - own fashion, her timid and gentle mistress. - </p> - <p> - Annunciata entered the parlour and remained standing near the door as if - waiting an order. Her husband's countenance was graver and more gloomy - than ever. - </p> - <p> - "Can no one hear us, madam? Are you sure we are alone?" - </p> - <p> - "Quite alone, sir," replied the astonished Annunciata. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30c" id="Page_30c">[Pg 30]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg recommenced his walk. For some moments he said nothing. His - wife, her hand resting on the back of an arm-chair, silently awaited his - pleasure. At last he again spoke. - </p> - <p> - "You bring up your daughter Christine badly; I left her to your care and - guidance, and you do not watch over her. Do you know where she goes and - what she does?" - </p> - <p> - "From her childhood, sir," replied Annunciata gently, pausing between each - phrase, "Christine has loved to live in the open air. She is delicate, and - requires sun and liberty to strengthen her. Till now you have allowed her - to live thus; I saw no harm in letting her follow her natural bent. If you - disapprove, sir, she will obey your orders." - </p> - <p> - "You bring up your daughter badly," coldly repeated M. Van Amberg. "She - will dishonour the name she bears." - </p> - <p> - "Sir!!" exclaimed Annunciata, her cheeks suffused with the deepest - crimson; her eyes emitting a momentary but vivid flash. - </p> - <p> - "Look to it, madam, I will have my name respected, that you know! You also - know I am informed of whatever passes in my house. Your daughter secretly - meets a man to whom I refused her hand; this morning, at six o'clock, they - were together on the river bank!" - </p> - <p> - "My daughter! my daughter!" cried Annunciata in disconsolate tones. "Oh! - it is impossible!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31c" id="Page_31c">[Pg - 31]</a></span> She is innocent! she shall remain so! I will place myself - between her and evil, I will save my child! I will take her in my arms, - and close her ears to dangerous words. My daughter, I will say, remain - innocent, remain honoured, if you would not see me die!" - </p> - <p> - With unmoved eye M. Van Amberg beheld the mother's emotion. Beneath his - frozen gaze, Annunciata felt embarrassed by her own agitation; she made an - effort to calm herself; then, with clasped hands, and eyes filled with - tears, which she would not allow to flow, she resumed, in a constrained - voice: - </p> - <p> - "Is this beyond doubt, sir?" - </p> - <p> - "It is," replied M. Van Amberg: "I never accuse without certainty." - </p> - <p> - There was a moment's silence. M. Van Amberg again spoke. - </p> - <p> - "You will lock Christine in her room, and bring me the key. She will have - time to reflect, and I trust reflection will be of service to her; in a - prolonged seclusion she will lose that love of motion and liberty which - leads her into harm; the silence of complete solitude will allay the - tumult of her thoughts. None shall enter her room, save Gothon, who shall - take her her meals, and return me the key. This is what I have decided - upon as proper." - </p> - <p> - Madame Van Amberg's lips opened several times to speak, but her courage - failed her. At last she advanced a pace or two. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32c" id="Page_32c">[Pg 32]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "But I, sir, I," said she in a stifled voice, "<i>I</i> am to see my - child!" - </p> - <p> - "I said no one," replied M. Van Amberg. - </p> - <p> - "But she will despair, if none sustain her. I will be severe with her; you - may be assured I will! Let me see her, if only once a-day. She may fall - ill of grief, and who will know it? Gothon dislikes her. For pity's sake, - let me see Christine! For a minute only, a single minute." - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg once more stood still, and fixed upon his wife a look that - made her stagger. "Not another word!" he said. "I allow no discussion, - madam. No one shall see Christine; do you hear?" - </p> - <p> - "I will obey," replied Annunciata. - </p> - <p> - "Convey my orders to your daughter. At dinner bring me the key of her - room. Go." - </p> - <p> - Madame Van Amberg found Christine alone, seated on her bed, and exhausted - by long weeping. Her beautiful face, at times so energetic, wore an - expression of profound and touching dejection. Her long hair fell in - disorder on her shoulders, her figure was bent, as if weighed down by - grief: her rosary had fallen from her half-open hand; she had tried to - obey her mother and to pray, but had been able only to weep. Her black - mantle, still damp with rain, lay upon a table, a few willow sprays - peeping from its silken folds. Christine eyed them with mingled love and - melancholy. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33c" id="Page_33c">[Pg - 33]</a></span> thought it a century since she saw the sun rise on the - river, on the old trees, and on Herbert's skiff. Her mother slowly - approached her. - </p> - <p> - "My child," said she, "where were you at daybreak this morning?" - </p> - <p> - Christine raised her eyes to her mother's face, looked at her, but did not - answer. Annunciata repeated her question without change of word or tone. - Then Christine let herself slide from the bed to the ground, and kneeled - before her mother. - </p> - <p> - "I was seated," she said, "upon the trunk of a willow that overhangs the - stream. I was near Herbert's boat." - </p> - <p> - "Christine!" exclaimed Madame Van Amberg, "can it be true? Oh, my child, - could you so infringe the commands laid upon you! Could you thus forget my - lessons and advice! Christine, you thought not of me when you committed - that fault!" - </p> - <p> - "Herbert said to me, 'Come, you shall be my wife, I will love you - eternally, you shall be free and happy; all is ready for our marriage and - our flight; come!' I replied, 'I will not leave my mother!' Mother, you - have been my safeguard; if it be a crime to follow Herbert, it is the - thought of you alone that prevented my committing it. I would not leave my - mother!" - </p> - <p> - A beam of joy illumined Annunciata's countenance. Murmuring a thanksgiving - to God, she raised her kneeling child and seated her by her side. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34c" id="Page_34c">[Pg 34]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Speak to me, Christine," she said, "open your heart, and tell me all your - thoughts. Together we will regret your faults, and seek hope for the - future. Speak, my daughter; conceal nothing." - </p> - <p> - Christine laid her head upon her mother's shoulder, put one of her little - hands in hers, sighed deeply, as though her heart were too oppressed for - words, and spoke at last with effort and fatigue. - </p> - <p> - "Mother," she said, "I have nothing to confess that you do not already - know. I love Herbert. He is but a poor student, intrusted to my father's - care, but he has a noble heart—like mine, somewhat sad. He knows - much, and he is gentle to those who know nothing. Poor, he is proud as a - king: he loves, and he tells it only to her who knows it. My mother, I - love Herbert! He asked my hand of my father, whose reply was a smile of - scorn. Then he was kept from me, and I tried to exist without seeing him. - I could not do it. I made many <i>neuvaines</i> on the rosary you gave me. - I had seen you weep and pray, mother, and I said to myself—Now that - I weep as she does, I must also pray like her. But it happened once, as - day broke, that I saw a small boat descend the stream, then go up again, - and again descend; from time to time a white sail fluttered in the air as - one flutters a kerchief to a departing friend. My thoughts, then as now, - were on Herbert; I ran across the meadow—I<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_35c" id="Page_35c">[Pg 35]</a></span> reached the stream—Mother, - it was he! hoping and waiting my coming. Long and mournfully we bewailed - our separation; fervently we vowed to love until death. This morning - Herbert, discouraged and weary of waiting a change in our position, urged - me to fly with him. I might have fled, mother, but I thought of you and - remained. I have told you all; if I have done wrong, forgive me, dearest - mother!" - </p> - <p> - With deep emotion Madame Van Amberg listened to her daughter, and remained - buried in reflection, when Christine paused. She felt that the young - girl's suffering heart needed gentle lessons, affectionate advice; and, - instead of these, she was the bearer of a sentence whose severity must - aggravate the evil—she was compelled to deny her sick child the - remedies that might have saved her. - </p> - <p> - "You love him very dearly, then," said she at last, fixing a long - melancholy look on her daughter's countenance. - </p> - <p> - "Oh, mother!" exclaimed Christine, "I love him with all my soul! My life - is passed in expecting, seeing, remembering him! I could never make you - understand how entirely my heart is his. Often I dream of dying for him, - not to save his life, that were too easy and natural, but uselessly at his - command." - </p> - <p> - "Hush! Christine, hush! you frighten me," cried Annunciata, placing both - hands upon her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36c" id="Page_36c">[Pg - 36]</a></span> daughter's mouth. By a quick movement Christine disengaged - herself from her mother's arms. - </p> - <p> - "Ah!" she exclaimed, "you know not what it is to love as I do! My father - could never let himself be loved thus!" - </p> - <p> - "Be silent, my child! be silent!" repeated Annunciata energetically. "Oh, - my daughter! how to instil into your heart thoughts of peace and duty! - Almighty Father! bless my weak words, that they may touch her soul! - Christine, hear me!" - </p> - <p> - Annunciata took her daughter's hands, and compelled her to stand before - her. "My child," she said, "you know nothing of life; you walk at random, - and are about to wander from the right path. All young hearts have been - troubled as yours is now. The noble ones have struggled and triumphed; the - others have fallen! Life is no easy and pleasant passage; its trials are - many and painful—its struggles severe; believe me, for us women - there is no true happiness beyond the bounds of duty. And when happiness - is not our destiny, many great things still remain to us. Honour, the - esteem of others, are not mere empty words. Hear me, beloved child! That - God whom from your infancy I have taught you to love, do you not fear - offending him? Seek Him, and you will find better consolation than I can - offer. Christine, we love in God those from whom we are severed on earth.<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37c" id="Page_37c">[Pg 37]</a></span> He, - who in his infinite wisdom imposed so many fetters on the heart of woman, - foresaw the sacrifices they would entail, and surely he has kept treasures - of love for hearts that break in obedience to duty." - </p> - <p> - Annunciata rapidly wiped the tears inundating her fine countenance; then - clasping Christine's arm— - </p> - <p> - "On your knees, my child! on our knees both of us before the Christ I gave - you! 'Tis nearly dark, and yet we still discern Him—his arms seeming - to open for us. Bless and save and console my child, oh merciful God! - Appease her heart; make it humble and obedient!" - </p> - <p> - Her prayer at an end, she rose, and throwing her arms round Christine, who - had passively allowed herself to be placed on her knees and lifted up - again, she embraced her tenderly, pressed her to her heart, and bathed her - hair with tears. "My daughter," she murmured between her kisses, "my - daughter, speak to me! Utter one word that I may take with me as a hope! - My child, will you not speak to your mother?" - </p> - <p> - "Mother, I love Herbert!" was Christine's reply. - </p> - <p> - Annunciata looked despairingly at her child, at the crucifix upon the - wall, at the darkening sky seen through the open window. The dinner-bell - rang. Madame Van Amberg made a strong effort to collect and express her - ideas. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38c" id="Page_38c">[Pg 38]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "M. Van Amberg," said she in broken voice, "orders you to remain in your - room. I am to take him the key. You are to see no one. The hour is come, - and he expects me." - </p> - <p> - "A prisoner!" cried Christine; "A prisoner,—alone, all day! Death - rather than that!" - </p> - <p> - "He will have it so," repeated Annunciata mournfully; "I must obey. He - will have it so." And she approached the door, casting upon Christine a - look of such ineffable love and grief, that the young girl, fascinated by - the gaze, let her depart without opposition. The key turned in the lock, - and Annunciata, supporting herself by the banister, slowly descended. She - found M. Van Amberg alone in the parlour. - </p> - <p> - "You have been a long time up stairs," said he. "Have you convinced - yourself that your daughter saw the student Herbert this morning?" - </p> - <p> - "She did," murmured Annunciata. - </p> - <p> - "You have told her my orders?" - </p> - <p> - "I have done so." - </p> - <p> - "Where is the key?" She gave it him. - </p> - <p> - "Now to dinner," said M. Van Amberg, walking into the dining-room. - Annunciata endeavoured to follow him, but her strength failed her, and she - sank upon a chair. - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg sat down alone to his dinner. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39c" id="Page_39c">[Pg 39]</a></span> - </p> - <hr class="tb" /> - <p> - "A prisoner!" repeated Christine in her solitude; "apart from all! shut - up! Yon meadow was too wide a range; the house too spacious a prison. I - must have a narrower cell, with more visible walls—a straiter - captivity! They deprive me of the little air I breathed—the scanty - liberty I found means to enjoy!" - </p> - <p> - She opened the window to its full extent; leaned upon the sill, and looked - at the sky. It was very dark; heavy clouds hid the stars; no light fell - upon the earth; different shades of obscurity alone marked the outlines of - objects. The willows, so beautiful when Herbert and the sun were there, - were now a black and motionless mass; dead silence reigned around. In view - of nature thus lifeless and lightless, hopes of happiness could hardly - enter the heart. Christine was in a fever: she felt oppressed and crushed - by unkindly influences, by the indifference of friends, by a tyrant's - will, even by the cold and mournful night. The young girl's heart beat - quickly and rebelliously. - </p> - <p> - "Be it so!" she exclaimed aloud; "let them have their way! They may render - me unhappy; I will not complain. They sanctify my love by persecution. - Happy, I should perhaps have been ashamed to love so much. But they rob me - of air and liberty; I suffer; I weep. Ah! I feel proud that my heart still - throbs with joy in the midst of so many evils. My sufferings will hallow - my love,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40c" id="Page_40c">[Pg 40]</a></span> - will compel the respect of those who scoffed and slighted it. Herbert! - dear Herbert! where are you at this moment? Do you joyfully anticipate - to-morrow's dawn: are you busy with your boat, preparing it for its early - cruise? Or do you sleep, dreaming of the old willows in the meadow, - hearing the waters murmur through their branches, and the voice of - Christine promising her return? But no; it cannot be; our hearts are too - united for their feelings thus to differ! You are sad, my love, and you - know not why; I am sad with knowledge of our misfortune—'tis the - sole difference separation can establish between us. When shall we meet - again, Herbert? Alas! I know not, but meet we surely shall. If God lets me - live, he will let me love you." - </p> - <p> - Christine shut the window and threw herself on her bed without undressing. - It was cold; she wrapped herself in her mantle, and gradually her head - sank upon her breast. Her hands, at first pressed against each other, - opened and fell by her sides. She dropped asleep, like an infant, in the - midst of her tears. - </p> - <p> - The first sun-rays, feeble though they were, awoke Christine, who sprang - hastily from her couch. "Herbert waits for me!" she exclaimed. At her age - memory is better for joy than for sorrow. For her the dawn of day was - still a rendezvous of love. The next moment she awoke to<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41c" id="Page_41c">[Pg 41]</a></span> the - consciousness of her captivity. She went to the window, leaned out as on - the previous evening, and looked mournfully around. In a corner of the - heavens was a glow of light, intercepted by billows of cloud. The pale - foliage of the willows shivered in the breeze, which ruffled the leaves - without bending the branches; the long fine grass of the meadow was seen - through a veil of fog, as yet undispelled by the sun. The sounds of - awakening nature had scarce begun, when a white sail stood out upon the - surface of the stream, gliding lightly along like the open wing of a - graceful bird. It passed to and fro in front of the meadow; was lowered - before the trees, and then again displayed, bending the boat's gunwale to - the water's surface, hovering continually around a point of the bank, as - though confined within the circle of an invisible fascination. At long - intervals the wind brought a faint and scarce perceptible sound, like the - last notes of a song; then the little bark again manœuvred, and its - sail flapped in the air. The pale tints of dawn gave way to the warmer - sunbeams; passengers appeared upon the bank; trading boats ascended the - river; the windows of the red brick house opened as if to inhale the - morning air. The boat lowered its sail, and floated slowly away at the - will of the current. Christine looked after it and wept. - </p> - <p> - Twice during that day, Gothon opened the door<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_42c" id="Page_42c">[Pg 42]</a></span> of the young girl's - chamber, and brought her a frugal meal. Twice did Gothon depart without - uttering a word. The whole day passed in silence and solitude. Christine - knew not how to get rid of the weary hours. She knelt before the crucifix, - her alabaster rosary in her hand, her head raised towards the cross, and - prayed. But her prayer was for Herbert, to see him again; she never - dreamed of praying to forget him. Then she took down the guitar, passed - round her neck the faded blue ribbon, tied on it at Seville, and which her - mother would never allow to be changed. She struck a few chords of the - songs she best loved; but her voice was choked, and her tears flowed more - abundantly when she tried to sing. She collected the little sprays of - willow, and placed them in a book to dry and preserve them. But the day - was very long; and the poor child fluttered in her prison like a caged - bird, with an anguish that each moment increased. Her head burned, her - bosom throbbed. At last night came. Seated near the open window, the cold - calmed her a little. They brought her no light, and time passed more - slowly than ever. She went to bed, but, deprived of her accustomed - exercise, tormented by a thousand anxieties, she could not sleep; she got - up, walked about in the darkness, and again lay down; slumber still - avoided her. This time her eyes, red with tears and watchfulness, beheld - the sun rise<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43c" id="Page_43c">[Pg 43]</a></span> - without illusion; she did not for a moment forget her captivity, but - looked mournfully out at the little sail which, faithful to its - rendezvous, came each morning with the sun. Again, none but Gothon - disturbed her solitude. During another long day, Christine, alternately - desponding and excited, walked, wept, lamented, and prayed. Night came - again. Nothing broke the silence; the lights in the red house were - extinguished one after the other. Profound darkness covered the earth. - Christine remained at her window, insensible to cold. Suddenly she - started: she heard her name pronounced in low tones at the foot of the - wall. She listened. - </p> - <p> - "Christine, my daughter!" repeated the voice. - </p> - <p> - "Mother," exclaimed Christine, "you out in this dreadful weather! I - conjure you to go in!" - </p> - <p> - "I have been two days in bed, my child; I have been unwell; to-night I am - better; I felt it impossible to remain longer without seeing you, who are - my life, my strength, my health! Oh! you were right not to leave me; it - would have killed me. Are you well, dear Christine? Have you all you - require? How do you live, deprived of my caresses?" - </p> - <p> - "Dearest mother, for heaven's sake, go in! The night is damp and cold; it - will be your death!" - </p> - <p> - "Your voice warms me; it is far from you that<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_44c" id="Page_44c">[Pg 44]</a></span> I feel chill and faint. - Dearest child, my heart sends you a thousand kisses." - </p> - <p> - "I receive them on my knees, mother, my arms extended towards you. But, - when shall I see you again?" - </p> - <p> - "When you submit, and promise to obey; when you no longer seek him you are - forbidden to see, and whom you must forget. My daughter, it is your duty." - </p> - <p> - "Oh mother, I thought your heart could better understand what it never - felt. I thought you respected the true sentiments of the soul, and that - your lips knew not how to utter the word 'forget.' If I forgot, I should - be a mere silly child, capricious, unruly, unworthy your tenderness. If my - malady is without remedy, I am a steadfast woman, suffering and - self-sacrificing. Good God! how is it you do not understand that?" - </p> - <p> - "I understand," murmured Annunciata, but in so low a tone that she was - sure her daughter could not hear her. - </p> - <p> - "Mother," resumed Christine, "go to my father! summon up that courage - which fails you when you alone are concerned; speak boldly to him, tell - him what I have told you; demand my liberty, my happiness." - </p> - <p> - "I!" exclaimed Annunciata in terror; "I brave M. Van Amberg, and oppose - his will!" - </p> - <p> - "Not oppose, but supplicate! compel his heart<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_45c" id="Page_45c">[Pg 45]</a></span> to understand what mine - experiences; force him to see and hear and feel that my life may cease, - but not my love. Who can do it, if you cannot? I am a captive. My sisters - know not love, my uncle William has never known it. It needs a woman's - voice to express a woman's feelings." - </p> - <p> - "Christine, you know not what you ask. The effort is above my strength." - </p> - <p> - "I ask a proof of my mother's love; I am sure she will give it me." - </p> - <p> - "I shall die in so doing. M. Van Amberg can kill me by a word." - </p> - <p> - Christine started and trembled. "Do not go, then, dearest mother. Forgive - my egotism; I thought only of myself. If my father has such terrible - power, avoid his anger. I will wait, and entreat none but God." - </p> - <p> - There was a brief pause. "Christine," said Madame Van Amberg, "since I am - your only hope, your sole reliance, and you have called me to your aid, I - will speak to him. Our fate is in the hands of heaven." - </p> - <p> - Annunciata interrupted herself by a cry of terror; a hand rudely grasped - her arm; M. Van Amberg, without uttering a word, dragged her to the house - door, compelled her to enter, took out the key, and made her pass before - him into the parlour. A lamp burned dimly upon the table, its oil nearly - exhausted; at times it emitted a bright flash, and<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_46c" id="Page_46c">[Pg 46]</a></span> then suddenly became - nearly extinguished. The corners of the room were in darkness, the doors - and windows closed, perfect silence reigned; the only object on which a - strong light fell, was the countenance of M. Van Amberg. It was calm, - cold, motionless. His great height, the piercing look of his pale grey - eyes, the austere regularity of his features, combined to give him the - aspect of an implacable judge. - </p> - <p> - "You would speak with me, madam," said he to Annunciata; "I am here, - speak!" - </p> - <p> - On entering the parlour, Annunciata let herself fall into a chair. Her - clothes streamed with water; her hair, heavy with rain, fell upon her - shoulders; her extreme paleness gave her the appearance of a corpse rather - than of a living creature. Terror obliterated memory, even of what had - just occurred; her mind was confused; she felt only that she suffered - horribly. Her husband's voice and words restored the chain of her ideas; - the poor woman thought of her child, made a violent effort, rallied her - strength, and rose to her feet. - </p> - <p> - "Now then," she murmured, "since it must be so!" - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg waited in silence, his arms crossed upon his breast, his - eyes fixed upon his wife; he stood like a statue, assisting neither by - word nor gesture the poor creature who trembled before him. Annunciata - looked long at him before<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47c" - id="Page_47c">[Pg 47]</a></span> speaking; she hoped that at sight of her - tears and sufferings, M. Van Amberg would remember he had loved her. She - threw her whole soul into her eyes, but not a muscle of her husband's - countenance moved. He waited for her to break silence. - </p> - <p> - "I need your indulgence," she at last said; "it costs me a fearful effort - to address you. In general I do but answer; I am unaccustomed to speak - first, and I am afraid. I dread your anger; have compassion on a trembling - woman, who would fain be silent, and who must speak. Christine's happiness - is in your hands. The poor child implores me to soften your rigour.... Did - I refuse, not a creature upon earth would intercede for her. This is why I - venture to petition you, sir." - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg continued silent. Annunciata wiped the tears from her cheeks - and resumed with more courage. - </p> - <p> - "She is much to be pitied; she has inherited the faults you blame in me. - Believe me, sir, I have laboured hard to check them in the bud. I have - striven, exhorted, punished, have spared neither advice nor prayers, but - all in vain. God has not been pleased to spare me this new grief. Her - nature is unchangeable; she is to blame, but she is also much to be - pitied. Christine loves with all her soul. Women die of such love as hers, - and when they do not die, they suffer frightfully. For pity's sake, sir, - let her marry him she loves!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48c" id="Page_48c">[Pg 48]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Annunciata covered her face with her hands, and awaited in an agony of - anxiety her husband's reply. - </p> - <p> - "Your daughter," said M. Van Amberg, "is still a child; she has inherited, - as you say, a character that needs restraint. I will not yield to the - first caprice that traverses her silly head. Herbert is only - two-and-twenty; we know nothing of his character. Your daughter requires a - protector, and a judicious guide. Herbert has neither family, fortune, nor - position. He shall never be the husband of a woman who bears the name of - Mademoiselle Van Amberg!" - </p> - <p> - "Sir!" cried Annunciata, clasping her hands and breathless with emotion, - "Sir! the best guidance for a woman's life is a union with the man she - loves! It is her best safeguard, it strengthens her against the cares of - the world. I entreat you, Karl!" exclaimed Madame Van Amberg, falling upon - her knees, "have compassion on my daughter! Do not render duty a torture; - do not exact from her too much courage! We are weak creatures: we have - need both of love and virtue. Place her not in the terrible necessity of - choosing between them. Pity, Karl, pity!" - </p> - <p> - "Madam," cried M. Van Amberg, and this time his frame was agitated by a - slight nervous trembling, "Madam, you are very bold to speak to me thus! - You! you! to dare to hold such language<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_49c" id="Page_49c">[Pg 49]</a></span> to me! Silence! and teach - your daughter not to hesitate in her choice between good and evil. Do - that, instead of weeping uselessly at my feet." - </p> - <p> - "Yes, it is bold of me, sir, thus to address you; but I have found courage - in suffering. I am ill,—in pain,—my life is worthless, save as - a sacrifice—let my child take it, I will speak for her! Her fate is - in your hands, do not crush her by a cruel decision! An absolute judge and - master should be guarded in word and deed, for a reckoning will be asked - of him! Be merciful to my child!" - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg approached his wife, took her arm, placed his other hand on - her mouth, and said:— - </p> - <p> - "Silence! I command you; no such scenes in my house, no noise and - whimpering. Your daughters sleep within a few yards of you, do not disturb - their repose. Your servants are above, do not awaken them. Silence! you - had no business to speak; I was wrong to listen to you. Never dare again - to discuss my orders; it is I whom your children must obey, I whom you - must obey yourself. Retire to your apartment, and to-morrow let me find - you what you yesterday were." - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg had regained his usual calmness. He walked slowly from the - room. - </p> - <p> - "Oh, my daughter!" exclaimed Annunciata, despairingly, "nothing can I do - for you! Merciful Father! what will become of me, placed between him and - her, both inflexible in their resolves!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50c" id="Page_50c">[Pg 50]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - The lamp which feebly illuminated this scene of sorrow, now suddenly went - out and left the unhappy mother in profound darkness. The rain beat - against the windows,—the wind howled,—the house clock struck - four. - </p> - <p> - Christine had seen M. Van Amberg seize Annunciata's arm, and lead her away - with him; afterwards, she had distinguished, through the slight partitions - of the house, a faint echo as of mingled sobs, entreaties, and reproaches. - She understood that her fate was deciding,—that her poor mother had - devoted herself for her, and was face to face with the stern ruler whose - look alone she usually dared not brave. Christine passed the night in - terrible anxiety, abandoning herself alternately to discouragement and to - joyful hopes. At her age it is not easy to despair. Fear, however, - predominated over every other emotion, and she would have given years of - existence to learn what had passed. But the day went by like the previous - one. She saw none but Gothon. Her she ventured to question, but the old - servant had orders not to answer. - </p> - <p> - Another day elapsed. Christine's solitude was still unbroken, no friendly - voice reached her ear, no kindly hand lifted the veil shrouding her - future. The poor girl was exhausted, she had not even the energy of grief. - She wept without complaint, almost without a murmur. Night came, and she - fell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51c" id="Page_51c">[Pg 51]</a></span> - asleep, exhausted by her sorrow. She had scarcely slept an hour when she - was awakened by the opening of the door, and Gothon, lamp in hand, - approached her bed. "Get up Mademoiselle," said the servant, "and follow - me." - </p> - <p> - Christine dressed herself as in a dream, and hastily followed Gothon, who - conducted her to her mother's room, opened the door, and drew back to let - her pass. A sad spectacle met the young girl's eyes. Annunciata, pale and - almost inanimate, lay in the agonies of death. Her presentiment had not - deceived her; suffering and agitation had snapped the slender strings that - bound her to the earth. The light of the lamp fell full upon her features, - whose gentle beauty pain was impotent to deface. Resignation and courage - were upon her countenance, over which came a gleam of joy when Christine - appeared. Wilhelmina and Maria knelt and wept at the foot of their - mother's bed. William stood a little apart, holding a prayer-book, but his - eyes had left the page to look at Annunciata, and two large tears trembled - on their lids. M. Van Amberg, seated beside his wife's pillow, had his - face shaded by his hand, so that none could see its expression. - </p> - <p> - With a piercing cry, Christine rushed to Madame Van Amberg, who received - her in her arms. "Mother!" she cried, her cheek against Annunciata's, "it - is I who have killed you! For love of me you have exceeded your strength." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52c" id="Page_52c">[Pg 52]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "No, my beloved, no," replied Annunciata, kissing her daughter between - each word, "I die of an old and incurable malady. But I die happy, since I - once more clasp you in my arms." - </p> - <p> - "And they did not let me nurse you!" cried Christine, indignantly raising - her head; "they concealed your illness! They let me weep for other sorrows - than yours, my mother!" - </p> - <p> - "Dearest child," replied Annunciata gently, "this crisis has been very - sudden; two hours ago they knew not my danger, and I wished to fulfil my - religious duties before seeing you. I wished to think only of God. Now I - can abandon myself to the embraces of my children." And she clasped her - weeping daughters to her heart. "Dear children," said she, "God is full of - mercy to the dying, and sanctifies a mother's benediction. I bless you, my - daughters; remember and pray for me." - </p> - <p> - The three young girls bowed their heads upon their mother's hand, and - replied by tears alone to this solemn farewell. - </p> - <p> - "My good brother," resumed Annunciata to William, "my good brother, we - have long lived together, and to me you have ever been a devoted friend, - indulgent and gentle. I thank you, brother!" - </p> - <p> - William averted his head to conceal his tears, but a deep sob escaped him, - and he turned his venerable face towards Annunciata. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53c" id="Page_53c">[Pg 53]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Do not thank me, sister," he said, "I have done little for you. I loved - you, that is certain, but I could not enliven your solitude. My sister, - you will still live for the happiness of us all." - </p> - <p> - Annunciata gently shook her head. Her glance sought her husband, as if she - would fain have addressed her last words to him. But they expired on her - lips. She looked at him timidly, sadly, and then closed her eyes, to check - the starting tears. She grew visibly weaker, and as death approached, a - painful anxiety took possession of her. Resigned, she was not calm. It was - ordained her soul should suffer and be troubled to the end. The destiny of - one of her daughters disturbed her last moments; she dared not pronounce - the name of Christine, she dared not ask compassion for her; a thousand - conflicting doubts and fears agitated her poor heart. She died as she had - lived, repressing her tears, concealing her thoughts. From time to time - she turned to her husband, but his head continued sunk upon his hand; not - one look of encouragement could she obtain. At last came the spasm that - was to break this frail existence. "Adieu! Adieu!" she murmured in - unintelligible accents. Her eyes no longer obeyed her, and none could tell - whom they sought. William approached his brother, and placed his hand upon - his shoulder. "Karl!" he whispered in tones audible but to him he - addressed, "she is dying! Have you nothing to say to a poor<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54c" id="Page_54c">[Pg 54]</a></span> - creature who has so long lived with you and suffered by you? Living, you - loved her not; do not let her die thus! Fear you not, Karl, lest this - woman, oppressed and slighted by you, should expire with a leaven of - resentment in her heart? Crave her pardon before she departs." - </p> - <p> - For an instant all was silent. M. Van Amberg stirred not. Annunciata, her - head thrown back, seemed to have already ceased to exist. On a sudden, she - moved, raised herself with difficulty, leaned over towards M. Van Amberg, - and groped for his hand as though she had been blind. When she found it, - she bowed her face upon it, kissed it twice, and expired in that last - kiss. - </p> - <p> - "On your knees!" cried William, "on your knees, she is in heaven! let us - implore her intercession!" And all knelt down. - </p> - <p> - Of all the prayers addressed to God by man during his life of trial, not - one is more solemn than that which escapes the desolate heart, when a - beloved soul flies from earth to heaven, to stand, for the first time, in - the presence of its Creator. - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg rose from his knees. - </p> - <p> - "Leave the room!" said he to his brother and daughters, "I would be alone - with my wife." - </p> - <p> - Alone, beside the bed of his dead wife, Karl Van Amberg gazed upon the - pale countenance, to which death had restored all the beauty of youth. A - tear, left there by human suffering, a tear which none<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_55c" id="Page_55c">[Pg 55]</a></span> other was to follow, - glittered upon the clay-cold cheek; one arm still hung out of bed, as when - it held his hand; the head was in the position in which it had kissed his - fingers. He gazed at her, and the icy envelope that bound his heart was at - last broken. "Annunciata!" he exclaimed, "Annunciata!" - </p> - <p> - For fifteen years that name had not passed his lips. Throwing himself on - his wife's corpse, he clasped her in his arms and kissed her forehead. - </p> - <p> - "Annunciata!" he cried, "can you not feel this kiss of peace and love! - Annunciata, we have both suffered terribly! God did not grant us - happiness. I loved you from the first day that I saw you, a joyous child - in Spain, till this sad moment that I press you dead upon my heart. Oh - Annunciata, how great have been our sufferings!" - </p> - <p> - Karl Van Amberg wept. - </p> - <p> - "Repose in peace, poor woman!" he murmured; "may you find in heaven the - repose denied you upon earth!" And with trembling hand he closed - Annunciata's eyes. Then he knelt down beside her. - </p> - <p> - "Almighty God!" he said, "I have been severe. Be thou merciful!" - </p> - <hr class="tb" /> - <p> - When, at break of day, M. Van Amberg left the chamber of death, his face - had resumed its habitual expression; his inflexible soul, for a moment - bowed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56c" id="Page_56c">[Pg 56]</a></span> - had regained its usual level. To Annunciata had been given the last word - of love, the last tear of that heart of adamant. To the eyes of all he - reappeared as the stern master and father, the man on whose brow no sorrow - left a trace. His daughters bowed themselves upon his passage, William - spoke not to him, order and regularity returned to the house. Annunciata - was buried without pomp or procession. She left, to revisit it no more, - the melancholy abode where her suffering soul had worn out its mortal - envelope; she ceased to live, as a sound ceases to be heard, as a cloud - passes, as a flower fades; nothing stopped or altered because she went. If - any mourned her, they mourned in silence; if they thought of her, they - proclaimed not their thoughts; her name was no more heard; only the - interior of the little red house was rather more silent, and M. Van - Amberg's countenance appeared to all more rigid than before. During the - day, Christine's profound grief obeyed the iron will that weighed on each - member of the family. The poor child was silent, worked, sat at table, - lived on as if her heart had not been crushed; but at night, alone in the - little room where her mother had so often wept with her, she gave free - course to grief; she invoked her mother, spoke to her, extended her arms - to her, and would fain have left the earth to be with her in heaven. "Take - me to you, dear mother!" she would exclaim. "Deprived of you,<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57c" id="Page_57c">[Pg 57]</a></span> apart - from him, I cannot live! Since I saw you die, I no longer fear death." - </p> - <p> - Since the death of Annunciata, Christine was allowed her liberty, M. Van - Amberg doubtless thinking, and with reason, that she would make no use of - it during her first grief. Or, perhaps, with his wife's corpse scarcely - cold, he hesitated to recur to the severity that had caused her so many - tears. Whatever his motive, Christine was free, at least to all - appearance. The three sisters, in deep mourning, never passed the - threshold; they sat all day at work near the low window of the parlour, - supped with their uncle and father, then retired to bed. During the long - hours of their silent work, Christine often thought of her lover. She - dared not attempt to see him; she would have expected to hear her mother's - voice murmur in her ear,—"My daughter, it is too soon to be happy! - Mourn me yet a little, alone and without consolation." - </p> - <p> - One morning, after a night of tears, Christine fell into a tardy slumber, - broken by dreams. Now it was her mother, who took her in her arms, and - flew with her towards heaven. "I will not let you live," said Annunciata, - "for life is sorrow. I have prayed of God to let you die young, that you - may not weep as I have wept!" - </p> - <p> - The next instant she beheld herself clothed in white and crowned with - flowers. Herbert was there, love sparkling in his eyes. "Come, my<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58c" id="Page_58c">[Pg 58]</a></span> - betrothed!" he said, "life is joy! My love shall guard you from all evil; - come, we will be happy!" - </p> - <p> - She started up, awakened by a sudden noise in her chamber. The window was - open, and on the floor lay a pebble with a letter attached. Her first - impulse was to fly to the window; a bush stirred in the direction of the - river, but she saw no one. She snatched up the letter, she guessed it was - Herbert's writing. It seems as if one never saw for the first time the - writing of him one loves; the heart recognises as if the eyes had already - seen it. Christine was alone, a beam of the rising sun tinted the summits - of the willows, and hope and love revived in the young girl's heart, as - she read what follows: - </p> - <p> - "Christine, I can write but a few lines; a long letter, difficult to - conceal, might never reach you. Hear me with your heart, and guess what I - am unable to write. As you know, dearest, my family intrusted me to your - father, and gave him all authority over me. He can employ me at his will, - and according to the convenience of his commercial establishments. - Christine, I have just received orders to embark in one of his ships, - sailing for Batavia." - </p> - <p> - A cry escaped Christine's lips, and her eyes, suffused with tears, - devoured the subsequent lines. - </p> - <p> - "Your father places the immensity of ocean between<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_59c" id="Page_59c">[Pg 59]</a></span> us; he separates us for - ever. We are to meet no more! Christine, has your heart, since I last saw - you, learned to comprehend those words? No, my adored Christine, we must - live or die together! Your poor mother is no more; your presence is no - longer essential to the happiness of any one. Your family is pitiless and - without affection for you. Your future is gloom and unhappiness. Come, - then, let us fly together. In the Helder are numerous ships; they will - bear us far from the scene of our sufferings. All is foreseen and - arranged. Christine, my life depends on your decision. For ever separated! - ... subscribe to that barbarous decree, and I terminate an existence which - henceforward would be all bitterness! And you, Christine! will you love - another, or live without love? Oh! come! I have suffered so much without - you! I summon you, I await you, Christine! my bride! At midnight—on - the riverbank—I will be there! and a world of happiness is before - us. Come, dear Christine, come!" - </p> - <p> - As Christine read, her tears fell fast on Herbert's letter. She - experienced a moment of agonising indecision. She loved passionately, but - she was young and innocent, and love had not yet imparted to her pure soul - the audacity that braves all things. The wise counsels heard in her - father's house, uncle William's pious exhortations, the holy prayers she - had learned from her infancy upwards,<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_60c" id="Page_60c">[Pg 60]</a></span> resounded in her ears; - the Christ upon her wooden crucifix seemed to look at her; the beads of - her rosary were still warm with the pressure of her fingers. - </p> - <p> - "Oh! my dream! my dream!" she exclaimed; "Herbert who calls his bride! my - mother claiming her daughter! With him, life and love! With her, death and - heaven!..." And Christine sobbed aloud. For an instant she tried calmly to - contemplate an existence in that melancholy house, weeping for Herbert, - growing old without him, without love, within those gloomy walls, where no - heart sympathised with hers. The picture was too terrible; she felt that - such a future was unendurable. She wept bitterly, kissed her rosary, her - prayer-book, as if bidding adieu to all that had witnessed the innocence - of her early years. Then her heart beat violently. The fire of her glance - dried her tears. She looked out at the river, at the white sail which - seemed to remind her of her vows of love; she gave one last sob, as if - breaking irrevocably the links between her past and future. The image of - her mother was no longer before her. Christine, abandoned to herself, - followed the impulse of her passionate nature; she wept, trembled, - hesitated, and at last exclaimed,— - </p> - <p> - "At midnight, I will be there!" - </p> - <p> - Then she wiped her tears, and remained quite still for a few moments, to - calm her violent agitation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61c" - id="Page_61c">[Pg 61]</a></span> A vast future unrolled itself before her; - liberty would be hers; a new world was revealed to her eyes; a new life - began for her. - </p> - <p> - At last night came. A lamp replaced the fading daylight. The window was - deserted for the table. William and Karl Van Amberg came in. The former - took a book; his brother busied himself with commercial calculations. The - lamp gave a dull light; all was silent, sad, and monotonous in the - apartment. The clock slowly told the successive hours. When its hammer - struck ten, there was a movement round the table; books were shut, work - was folded. Karl Van Amberg rose; his two eldest daughters approached him, - and he kissed their foreheads in silence. Christine no longer a captive, - but still in disgrace, bowed herself before her father. Uncle William, - grown drowsy over his book, put up his spectacles, muttering a - "good-night." The family left the parlour, and the three sisters ascended - the wooden staircase. At her chamber door, Christine felt a tightness at - her heart. She turned and looked after her sisters. "Good-night, - Wilhelmina! good-night, Maria!" - </p> - <p> - The sisters turned their heads. By the faint light of their tapers - Christine saw them smile and kiss their hands to her. Then they entered - their rooms without speaking. Christine found herself alone. She opened - her window; the night was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62c" - id="Page_62c">[Pg 62]</a></span> calm; at intervals clouds flitted across - the moon, veiling its brightness. Christine made no preparations for - departure; she only took her mother's rosary, and the blue ribbon so long - attached to the guitar; then she wrapped herself in her black mantle and - sat down by the window. Her heart beat quick, but no distinct thought - agitated her mind. She trembled without terror; her eyes were tearful, but - she felt no regret. For her, the hour was rather solemn than sad; the - struggle was over, and she was irrevocably decided. - </p> - <p> - At last midnight came; each stroke of the clock thrilled Christine's - heart; for an instant she stood still, summoning strength and courage; - then, turning towards the interior of the room,— - </p> - <p> - "Adieu, my mother!" she whispered. Many living creatures dwelt under that - roof. It seemed to Christine as if she left her only who was no longer - there. "Adieu, my mother!" she repeated. - </p> - <p> - Then she stepped out of the window; a trellis, twined with creepers, - covered the wall. With light foot and steady hand, Christine descended, - aiding herself by the branches, and pausing when they cracked under her - tread or grasp. The stillness was so complete that the slightest sound - assumed importance. Christine's heart beat violently; at last she reached - the ground, raised her head, and looked at the house. Her father's window - was still lighted. Again she shuddered with<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_63c" id="Page_63c">[Pg 63]</a></span> apprehension; then, - feeling more courage for a minute's daring than for half an hour's - precautions, she darted across the meadow and arrived breathless at the - clump of willows. Before plunging into it, she again looked round. All was - quiet and deserted; she breathed more freely and disappeared amongst the - branches. Leaning upon the old tree, the witness of her former rendezvous, - she whispered, so softly that none but a lover could hear, "Herbert, are - you there?" - </p> - <p> - A cautious oar skimmed the water; a well-known voice replied. The boat - approached the willow; the young student stood up and held out his arms to - Christine, who leaped lightly into the skiff. In an instant, they were out - of the willow-shaded inlet; in another, the sail—the signal of their - loves—was hoisted to the breeze; the bark sped swiftly over the - water, and Herbert, scarce daring to believe his happiness, was seated at - Christine's feet. His hand sought hers; he heard her weep, and he wept for - sympathy. Both were silent, agitated, uneasy, and happy. - </p> - <p> - But the night was fine, the moon shed its softest light, the ripple of the - stream had a harmony of its own, the light breeze cooled their cheeks, the - sail bent over them like the wing of an invisible being; they were young, - they loved, it was impossible that joy should not revive in their hearts. - </p> - <p> - "Thanks, Christine, thanks!" exclaimed Herbert,<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_64c" id="Page_64c">[Pg 64]</a></span> "thanks a thousand times - for so much devotedness, for such confidence and love! Oh how beautiful - will life now appear! We are united for ever!" - </p> - <p> - "For ever!" repeated Christine, her tears flowing afresh. For the first - time she felt that great happiness, like great grief, expresses itself by - tears. Her hand in Herbert's, her eyes raised to heaven, she gazed upon - bright stars and fleecy clouds, sole and silent witnesses of her - happiness. Presently she was roused from this sweet reverie. - </p> - <p> - "See there, Herbert!" she exclaimed; "the sail droops along the mast, the - wind has fallen, we do not advance." - </p> - <p> - Herbert took the oars, and the boat cut rapidly through the water. Wrapped - in her mantle, Christine sat opposite, and smiled upon him. Onwards flew - the boat, a track of foam in its wake. Daylight was still distant; all - things favoured the fugitives. Again Christine broke silence. - </p> - <p> - "Herbert, dear Herbert, do you hear nothing?" - </p> - <p> - Herbert ceased to row, and listened. "I hear nothing," he said, "save the - plash of the river against its banks." He resumed the oars; again the boat - moved rapidly forward. Christine was pale; half risen from her seat, her - head turned back, she strove to see, but the darkness was too great. - </p> - <p> - "Be tranquil, best beloved," said Herbert with a smile. "Fear creates - sounds. All is still." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65c" id="Page_65c">[Pg 65]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Herbert," cried Christine, this time starting up in the boat, "I am not - mistaken! I hear oars behind us ... pause not to listen ... row, for - Heaven's love, row!" - </p> - <p> - Her terror was so great, she seemed so sure of what she said, that Herbert - obeyed in silence, and a sensation of alarm chilled his heart. Christine - seated herself at his feet. - </p> - <p> - "We are pursued!" she said; "the noise of your own oars alone prevented - your hearing. A boat follows us." - </p> - <p> - "If it be so," Herbert cried, "what matter! That boat does not bear - Christine—is not guided by a man who defends his life, his - happiness, his love. My arm will weary his, his bark will not overtake - mine." And Herbert redoubled his efforts. The veins of his arms swelled to - bursting; his forehead was covered with sweat-drops. The skiff clove the - waters as though impelled by wings. Christine remained crouched at the - young man's feet, pressing herself against him, as to seek refuge. - </p> - <p> - Other oars, wielded by stalwart arms, now struck the water not far from - Herbert's boat. The young student heard the sound; he bent over his oars - and made desperate efforts. But he felt his strength failing; as he rowed - he looked with agony at Christine; no one spoke, only the noise of the two - boats interrupted the silence. Around, all was calm and serene as when the - fugitives set out. But the soul<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66c" - id="Page_66c">[Pg 66]</a></span> of the young girl had passed from life to - death; her eyes, gleaming with a wild fire, followed with increasing - terror each movement of Herbert's; she saw by the suffering expression of - his countenance, that little hope of escape remained. Still he rowed with - the energy of despair; but the fatal bark drew nearer, its shadow was seen - upon the water, it followed hard in the foamy track of Herbert's boat. - Christine stood up and looked back; just then the moon shone out, casting - its light full upon the pale, passionless features of M. Van Amberg. - Christine uttered a piercing cry. - </p> - <p> - "My father!" she cried; "Herbert, 'tis my father!" - </p> - <p> - Herbert also had recognised his pursuer. The youth had lived too long in - Karl Van Amberg's house not to have experienced the strange kind of - fascination which that man exercised over all around him. Darkness had - passed away to reveal to the fugitives the father, master, and judge! - </p> - <p> - "Stop, Herbert!" cried Christine, "we are lost, escape is impossible! Do - you not see my father?" - </p> - <p> - "Let me row!" replied Herbert, disengaging himself from Christine, who had - seized his arm. He gave so violent a pull with the oars, that the skiff - bounded out of the water and seemed to gain a little on its pursuer. - </p> - <p> - "Herbert," cried Christine, "I tell you we are lost! 'Tis my father, and - resistance is useless!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67c" - id="Page_67c">[Pg 67]</a></span> God will not work a miracle in our - favour! Herbert, I will not return to my father's house! Let us die - together, dear Herbert!" - </p> - <p> - And Christine threw herself into her lover's arms. The oars fell from the - young man's hands; with a cry of anguish he pressed Christine convulsively - to his heart. For a single instant he thought of obeying her, and of - plunging with her into the dark tide beneath; but Herbert had a noble - heart, and he repelled the temptation of despair. The next moment a - violent shock made the boat quiver, and M. Van Amberg stepped into it. - Instinctively Herbert clasped Christine more tightly, and retreated, as if - his strength could withhold her from her father—as if, in that - little boat, he could retreat far enough not to be overtaken. With a - vigorous arm, M. Van Amberg seized Christine, whose slender form bent like - a reed over his shoulder. - </p> - <p> - "Have mercy on her!" cried the despairing Herbert; "I alone am guilty! - Punish her not, and I promise to depart, to renounce her! Pity, sir! pity - for Christine!" - </p> - <p> - He spoke to a deaf and silent statue. Wresting Christine's hand from the - student's grasp, M. Van Amberg stepped back into his boat, and pushed - Herbert's violently with his foot. Yielding to the impulse, the boats - separated; one was pulled swiftly up the river, whilst the other, - abandoned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68c" id="Page_68c">[Pg 68]</a></span> - to itself, was swept by the current in a contrary direction. Erect on the - prow of his bark, his head thrown back, his arms folded on his breast, M. - Van Amberg fixed a terrible look upon Herbert and then disappeared in the - darkness. All was over. The father had taken his daughter, and no human - power could henceforward tear her from his arms. - </p> - <p> - Within a week from that fatal night, the gates of a convent closed upon - Christine Van Amberg. - </p> - <hr class="tb" /> - <p> - On the frontier of Belgium, on the summit of a hill, stands a large white - building of irregular architecture, a confused mass of walls, roofs, - angles, and platforms. At the foot of the hill is a village, whose - inhabitants behold with a feeling of respect the edifice towering above - their humble dwellings. For there is seen the belfry of a church, and - thence is heard unceasingly the sound of pious bells, proclaiming afar - that on the mountain's summit a few devout souls pray to God for all men. - The building is a convent; the poor and the sick well know the path - leading to the hospitable threshold of the Sisters of the Visitation. - </p> - <p> - To this convent was Christine sent. To this austere dwelling, the abode of - silence and self-denial, was she, the young, the beautiful, the loving, - pitilessly consigned. It was as though a gravestone had suddenly closed - over her head. With<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69c" id="Page_69c">[Pg - 69]</a></span> her, the superior of the convent received the following - letter:— - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "<span class="smcap">Madame la Supérieure</span>,—I send you your - niece, Christine Van Amberg, and beg you to oblige me by keeping her with - you. I intend her to embrace a religious life; employ the influence of - your wise counsels to predispose her to it. Her misconduct compels me to - exclude her my house; she requires restraint and watching, such as are - only to be found in a convent. Be pleased, dear and respected kinswoman, - to receive her under your roof; the best wish that can be formed for her - is, that she may make up her mind to remain there for ever. Should she - inquire concerning a young man named Herbert, you may inform her that he - has sailed to Batavia, whence he will proceed to our most remote - settlements. - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "I am, with respect, <i>Madame la Supérieure</i>, your kinsman and friend, - </p> - <p class="blockquot right"> - "<span class="smcap">Karl Van Amberg.</span>" - </p> - <p> - Five years had elapsed since the date of this letter, when one day the - convent gate opened to admit a stranger, who craved to speak with the - superior. The stranger was an old man; a staff sustained his feeble steps. - Whilst waiting in the parlour, he looked about him with surprise and<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70c" id="Page_70c">[Pg 70]</a></span> - emotion, and several times he passed his hand across his eyes as if to - brush away a tear. "Poor, poor child!" he muttered. When the superior - appeared behind the grating, he advanced quickly towards her. - </p> - <p> - "I am William Van Amberg," he said, "the brother of Karl Van Amberg. I - come, madam, to fetch Christine, his daughter and my niece." - </p> - <p> - "You come very late!" replied the superior; "sister Martha-Mary is on the - eve of pronouncing her vows." - </p> - <p> - "Martha-Mary!—I do not know the name!" said William Van Amberg; "I - seek Christine—my niece Christine." - </p> - <p> - "Christine Van Amberg, now sister Martha-Mary, is about to take the veil." - </p> - <p> - "Christine a nun! Oh, impossible! Madame, they have broken the child's - heart; from despair only would she take the veil; they have been cruel—they - have tortured her; but I bring her liberty and the certainty of happiness,—permission - to marry him she loves. Let me speak to her and she will quickly follow." - </p> - <p> - "Speak to her then; and let her depart if such be her will." - </p> - <p> - "Thanks, madam,—a thousand thanks! Send me my child, send me my - Christine—with joy and impatience I await her." - </p> - <p> - The superior retired. Left alone, William again<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_71c" id="Page_71c">[Pg 71]</a></span> contemplated the - melancholy abode in which he found himself, and the more he gazed, the - sadder his heart became. He would fain have taken Christine in his arms, - as he did when she was little, and have fled with her from those chilly - walls and dismal gratings. - </p> - <p> - "Poor child!" he repeated, "what a retreat for the bright years of your - youth!... How you must have suffered! But console thyself, dearest child, - I am here to rescue thee!" - </p> - <p> - He remembered Christine as a wild young girl, delighting in liberty, air, - and motion; then as an impassioned woman, full of love and independence. - And a smile crossed the old man's lips as he thought of her burst of joy, - when he should say to her,—"You are free, and Herbert waits to lead - you to the altar!" His heart beat as it had never beaten in the best days - of his youth; he counted the minutes and kept his eyes fixed upon the - little door through which Christine was to come. He could not fold her in - his arms, the grating prevented it, but at least he should see and hear - her. Suddenly all his blood rushed to his heart, for the hinges creaked - and the door opened. A novice, clothed in white, slowly advanced; he - looked at her, started back, hesitated, and exclaimed: "Oh God! is that - Christine?" - </p> - <p> - William had cherished in his heart the memory of a bright-eyed, sunburnt - girl, alert and lively,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72c" - id="Page_72c">[Pg 72]</a></span> quick and decided in her movements, - running more often than she walked, like the graceful roe that loves the - mountain-steeps. He beheld a tall young woman, white and colourless as the - robes that shrouded her; her hair concealed under a thick linen band, her - slender form scarcely to be distinguished beneath the heavy folds of her - woollen vestments. Her movements were slow, her black eyes veiled by an - indescribable languor; a profound calm was the characteristic of her whole - being—a calm so great, that it resembled absence of life. One might - have thought her eyes looked without seeing, that her lips could not open - to speak, that her ears listened without hearing. Sister Martha-Mary was - beautiful, but her beauty was not of the earth—it was the beauty of - infinite repose,—of a calm that nothing could disturb. - </p> - <p> - The old man was touched to the bottom of his soul; the words expired on - his lips, and he extended his hands towards Christine. On beholding her - uncle, Martha-Mary endeavoured to smile, but moved not, and said nothing. - </p> - <p> - "Oh my child!" cried William at last, "how you must suffer here!" - </p> - <p> - Martha-Mary gently shook her head, and the tranquil look she fixed upon - her uncle, protested against his supposition. - </p> - <p> - "Is it possible that five years have thus changed my Christine! My heart - recognises you, my child,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73c" - id="Page_73c">[Pg 73]</a></span> not my eyes! They have compelled you to - great austerities, severe privations?" - </p> - <p> - "No." - </p> - <p> - "A cruel bondage has weighed heavily upon you?" - </p> - <p> - "No." - </p> - <p> - "You have been ill then?" - </p> - <p> - "No." - </p> - <p> - "Your poor heart has suffered too much, and has broken. You have shed many - tears?" - </p> - <p> - "I remember them no longer." - </p> - <p> - "Christine! Christine! do you live? or has the shade of Annunciata risen - from the grave? Oh my child! in seeing you, I seem to see her corpse, - extended on the bed of death!" - </p> - <p> - Martha-Mary raised her large eyes to heaven; she joined her hands, and - murmured, "My mother!" - </p> - <p> - "Christine, speak to me! weep with me! you frighten me by your calm and - silence.... Ah! in my trouble and emotion, I have as yet explained - nothing.... Listen: my brother Karl, by the failure of a partner, suddenly - found his whole fortune compromised. To avoid total ruin he was obliged to - embark immediately for the colonies. He set sail expecting to return in a - few years; but his affairs prolong his absence, and his return is - indefinitely postponed. His two eldest daughters are with him. To me, who - am too old to follow him, too old to remain alone, he has given Christine. - I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74c" id="Page_74c">[Pg 74]</a></span> - would not accept the precious charge, my child, without the possibility of - rendering you happy. I implored permission to marry you to Herbert. You - are no longer a rich heiress: your father gone, you need protection, and - that of an old man cannot long avail you. In short, your father has agreed - to all I asked: he sends you, as a farewell gift, your liberty and his - consent to your marriage.... Christine! you are free, and Herbert awaits - his bride!" - </p> - <p> - The long drapery of the novice was slightly agitated, as if the limbs it - covered trembled; she remained some seconds without speaking, and then - replied, "It is too late! I am the affianced of the Lord!" - </p> - <p> - William uttered a cry of grief, and looked with alarm at the pale calm - girl, who stood immovable before him. - </p> - <p> - "Christine!" he cried, "you no longer love Herbert?" - </p> - <p> - "I am the affianced of the Lord!" repeated the novice, her hands crossed - upon her breast, her eyes raised to heaven. - </p> - <p> - "Oh my God! my God!" cried William, weeping bitterly, "my brother has - killed his child! Her soul has been sad even unto death! Poor victim of - severity, tell me, Christine, tell me, what has passed within you, during - your abode here?" - </p> - <p> - "I saw others pray, and I prayed also. There<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_75c" id="Page_75c">[Pg 75]</a></span> was a great stillness, - and I was silent; none wept, and I dried my tears; a something, at first - cold, then soothing, enveloped my soul. The voice of God made itself heard - to me, and I listened; I loved the Lord, and gave myself to Him." - </p> - <p> - Then, as if fatigued with speaking so much, Martha-Mary relapsed into - silence, and into that absorbing meditation which rendered her insensible - to surrounding things. Just then a bell tolled. The novice started, and - her eyes sparkled. - </p> - <p> - "God calls me!" she said; "I go to pray!" - </p> - <p> - "Christine! my daughter, will you leave me thus?" - </p> - <p> - "Hear you not the bell? It is the hour of prayer." - </p> - <p> - "But, Christine, dearest child, I came to take you hence." - </p> - <p> - "I shall never leave these walls!" said Martha-Mary, gliding slowly away. - As she opened the parlour door, she turned towards William; her eyes fixed - upon him with a sad and sweet expression; her lips moved, as if to send - him a kiss; then she disappeared. William made no attempt to detain her; - his head was pressed against the grating, and big tears chased each other - down his cheeks. How long he remained thus plunged in mournful reflection, - he noted not. He was roused by the voice of the superior, who seated - herself, wrapped in her black robes, on the other side of the grating. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76c" id="Page_76c">[Pg 76]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "I foresaw your grief," she said. "Our sister Martha-Mary refuses to - follow you." - </p> - <p> - With a despairing look, William answered the nun. - </p> - <p> - "Alas! alas!" he said, "the child I so dearly loved met me without joy, - and left me without regret." - </p> - <p> - "Listen, my son," resumed the superior; "listen to me.—Five years - ago, there came to this convent a young girl overwhelmed with grief and - sunk in terrible despair; her entrance here was to her a descent into the - tomb. During one entire year, none saw her but with tears on her face. - Only God knows how many tears the eyes must shed before a broken spirit - regains calm and resignation; man cannot count them. This young girl - suffered much; in vain we implored pardon for her, in vain we summoned her - family to her relief. She might say, as is written in the psalm,—'<i>I - am weary with my groaning: mine eye is consumed because of grief.</i>' - What could we do, save pray for her, since none would receive her - back!..." - </p> - <p> - "Alas!" cried William, "your letters never reached us. My brother was - beyond sea; and I, having then no hope of changing his determination,—I - had quitted his empty and melancholy house." - </p> - <p> - "Man abandoned her," continued the superior, "but God looked upon His - servant, and comforted her soul. If He does not see fit to restore - strength to her body, exhausted by suffering—His will be<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77c" id="Page_77c">[Pg 77]</a></span> done! - Perhaps it would now be wise and generous to leave her to that love of God - which she has attained after so many tears; perhaps it would be prudent to - spare her fresh shocks." - </p> - <p> - "No! no!" interrupted William, "I cannot give up, even to God, this last - relic of my family, the sole prop of my old age. I will try every means to - revive in her heart its early sentiments. Give me Christine for a few days - only! Let me conduct her to the place of her birth, to the scenes where - she loved. She is deaf to my entreaties, but she will obey an order from - you; bid her return for a while beneath her father's roof! Should she - still wish it, after this last attempt, I will restore her hither." - </p> - <p> - "Take her, my son," replied the superior; "I will bid her follow. If God - has indeed spoken to her soul, no worldly voice will move her. If it be - otherwise, may she return no more to the cloister, but be blessed wherever - she goes! Adieu, my son; the peace of the Lord be with you!" - </p> - <p> - Hope revived in the heart of William Van Amberg; it seemed to him as if—the - convent threshold once passed—Christine would revert to her former - character—to her youth and love. He believed he was about to remove - his beloved child for ever from these gloomy walls, and with painful - impatience he awaited her coming. Soon a light step was heard in the - corridor; William threw open the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78c" - id="Page_78c">[Pg 78]</a></span> door, Christine was there, and no grating - now separated her from her uncle. - </p> - <p> - "My beloved Christine!" exclaimed William; "at last, then, you are - restored to me; at last I can press you to my heart! Come, we will return - to our own country, and revisit the house where we all dwelt together." - </p> - <p> - Sister Martha-Mary was still paler than at her first interview with - William. If any expression was discernible upon that calm countenance, it - was one of sadness. She allowed herself to be taken by the hand and - conducted to the convent gate; but when the gate was opened, and, passing - into the open air, she encountered the broad daylight and the fresh - breeze, she tottered and leaned for support against the wall. Just then - the sun rent the clouds, and threw its golden beams on plain and mountain; - the air was clear and transparent, and the flat and monotonous horizon - acquired beauty from the burst of light. - </p> - <p> - "See, my daughter!" said William; "see how lovely is the earth! How soft - is the air we breathe! How good it is to be free, and to move towards that - immense horizon!" - </p> - <p> - "Oh, my dear uncle!" replied the novice; "how beautiful are the heavens! - See how the sun shines above our heads! It is in heaven that his glory - should be admired! His rays are already dim and feeble when they touch the - earth!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79c" id="Page_79c">[Pg 79]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - William led Christine to a carriage; they got in, and the horses set off. - Long did the gaze of the novice remain fixed on her convent's walls; when - these were hidden from her by the windings of the road, she closed her - eyes and seemed to sleep. During the journey, William endeavoured in vain - to make her converse; she had forgotten how to express her thoughts. When - compelled to reply, fatigue overwhelmed her; her whole existence was - concentrated in her soul, and detached entirely from the external world. - At intervals she would say to herself, "How long the morning is! Nothing - marks the hours; I have not heard a single bell to-day!" - </p> - <p> - At last they reached the red house, and the carriage drove into the court, - where the grass grew between the stones. Gothon came out to receive them, - and Martha-Mary, leaning on her uncle's arm, entered the parlour where the - family of Van Amberg had so often assembled. The room was deserted and - cold; no books or work gave it the look of habitation; abandoned by its - last occupants, it awaited new ones. Christine slowly traversed this - well-known apartment, and sat down upon a chair near the window. It was - there her mother had sat for twenty years; there had her childhood passed - at the knees of Annunciata. - </p> - <p> - William opened the window, showed her the meadow, the willows, and the - river. Christine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80c" id="Page_80c">[Pg - 80]</a></span> looked at them in silence, her head resting on her hand, - her eyes fixed on the horizon. For a long while William stood beside her, - then he placed his hand on her shoulder and pronounced her name. She rose - and followed him. They ascended the stairs, traversed the gallery, and - William opened a door. "Your mother's room," said he to Christine. The - novice entered and paused in the middle of the chamber; tears flowed from - her eyes, she clasped her hands and prayed. - </p> - <p> - "My daughter," said William, "<i>she</i> ardently desired your happiness." - </p> - <p> - "She has obtained it!" replied the novice. - </p> - <p> - The old man felt a profound sadness come over him. It was like pressing to - his heart a corpse to which his love restored neither breath nor warmth. - Martha-Mary approached her mother's bed, knelt down, and kissed the pillow - that had supported the dying head of Annunciata. - </p> - <p> - "Mother," she murmured, "soon we shall meet again." - </p> - <p> - William shuddered. He took Christine's hand, and led her to the room she - had formerly occupied. The little white-curtained bed was still there, the - guitar hung against the wall, Christine's favourite volumes filled the - shelves of her modest book-case; through the open window were seen the - willows and the river. Martha-Mary noticed none of these things: the - wooden crucifix was still upon the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81c" - id="Page_81c">[Pg 81]</a></span> wall; she rapidly approached it, knelt, - bowed her head upon the feet of Christ, closed her eyes and breathed - deeply, like one finding repose after long fatigue. Like the exile - returning to his native land, like the storm-tossed mariner regaining the - port, she remained with her brow resting upon her Saviour's feet. - </p> - <p> - Standing by her side, William looked on in tearful silence. Farther off, - Gothon wiped her eyes with her apron. Several hours elapsed. The house - clock struck, the birds sang in the garden; the wind rustled among the - trees; in the lofty pigeon-house the doves cooed; the cock crowed in the - poultry-yard. None of these loved and familiar sounds could divert - Martha-Mary from her devout meditation. Sick at heart, her uncle descended - to the parlour. He remained there long, plunged in gloomy reflections. - Suddenly hasty steps were heard; a young man rushed into the room, and - into William's arms. - </p> - <p> - "Christine! Christine!" cried Herbert; "where is Christine? Is it not a - dream? M. Van Amberg gives me Christine!... Once more in my native land, - and Christine mine!" - </p> - <p> - "Karl Van Amberg gives, but God refuses her to you!" replied William, - mournfully. Then he told Herbert what had passed at the convent, and since - their arrival at the house: he gave a thousand details—he repeated - them a thousand times, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82c" - id="Page_82c">[Pg 82]</a></span> without convincing Herbert of the - melancholy truth. - </p> - <p> - "It is impossible!" cried the young man; "if Christine is alive, if - Christine is here, to the first word uttered by her lover, Christine will - reply." - </p> - <p> - "God grant it!" exclaimed William; "my last hope is in you." - </p> - <p> - Herbert sprang up the stairs, his heart too full of love to have room for - fear. Christine free, was for him Christine ready to become his wife. He - hastily opened her chamber door; but then he paused, as if petrified, upon - the threshold. The day was closing in, and its fading light fell upon - Martha-Mary, whose form stood out like a white shadow from the gloom of - the room. She was still on her knees, her head resting on the feet of - Christ, her fragile person lost in the multiplied folds of her conventual - robes. She heard not the opening of the door, and Herbert stood gazing at - her, till a flood of tears burst from his eyes. William took his hand and - silently pressed it. - </p> - <p> - "I am frightened!" said Herbert, in a low tone. "That is not my Christine! - A phantom risen from the earth, or an angel descended from heaven, has - taken her place!" - </p> - <p> - "No, she is no longer Christine!" replied William, sadly. - </p> - <p> - For a few moments more Herbert stood in mournful<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_83c" id="Page_83c">[Pg 83]</a></span> contemplation. Then he - exclaimed—"Christine, dear Christine!" - </p> - <p> - At the sound of his voice the novice started, rose to her feet, and - pronounced his name. As in former days, when her lover called "Christine!" - Martha-Mary replied "Herbert!" - </p> - <p> - The young man's heart beat violently; he stood beside the novice, he took - her hands. "It is I, it is Herbert!" he said, kneeling down before her. - </p> - <p> - The novice fixed her large black eyes upon him with a long inquiring gaze; - a slight flush passed across her brow; then she became pale as before, and - said gently to Herbert—"I thought not to see you again upon earth." - </p> - <p> - "Dear Christine! tears and suffering have long been our portion; but happy - days at last dawn upon us! My love! my bride! we will never part again!" - </p> - <p> - Martha-Mary extricated her hands from those of Herbert, and retreated - towards the image of Christ. - </p> - <p> - "I am the bride of the Lord," she said in trembling accents. "He expects - me." - </p> - <p> - Herbert uttered a cry of grief. - </p> - <p> - "Christine! dear Christine! remember our oft-repeated pledges, our loves, - our tears, our hopes. You left me vowing to love me always. Christine, if - you would not have me die of despair, remember the past!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84c" id="Page_84c">[Pg 84]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Martha-Mary's eyes continued riveted on the crucifix; her hands, - convulsively clasped, were extended towards it. - </p> - <p> - "Gracious Lord!" she prayed, "speak to his heart as you have spoken to - mine! It is a noble heart, worthy to love you. Stronger than I, Herbert - may survive, even after much weeping! Console him, oh Lord!" - </p> - <p> - "Christine! my first and only love! sole hope and joy of my life! do you - thus abandon me? That heart, once entirely mine, is it closed to me for - ever?" - </p> - <p> - Her gaze upon the crucifix, her hands still joined, the novice, as if able - to speak only to her God, gently replied:—"Lord! he suffers as I - suffered! shed upon him the balm wherewith you healed my wounds! Leaving - him life, take his soul as you have taken mine. Give him that ineffable - peace which descends upon those thou lovest!" - </p> - <p> - "Oh Christine! my beloved!" cried Herbert, once more taking her hand, "do - but look at me! turn your eyes upon me and behold my tears! Dearest - treasure of my heart! you seem to slumber! Awake! Have you forgotten our - tender meetings, the willows bending over the stream, the boat in which we - sailed a whole night, dreaming the joy of eternal union? See! the moon - rises as it rose that night. We were near each other as now; but then they - tore us asunder, and now we are free to be<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_85c" id="Page_85c">[Pg 85]</a></span> together! Christine, have - you ceased to love? Is all forgotten?" - </p> - <p> - William took her other hand. "Dear child," he said, "we entreat you not to - leave us! To you we look for happiness; remain with us, Christine." - </p> - <p> - One hand in the hands of Herbert, the other in those of William, the - novice slowly and solemnly replied: - </p> - <p> - "The corpse that reposes in the tomb lifts not the stone to re-enter the - world. The soul that has seen heaven, does not leave it to return to - earth. The creature to whom God has said, 'Be thou the spouse of Christ,' - does not quit Christ to unite herself to a man; and she who is about to - die should turn her affections from mortal things!" - </p> - <p> - "Herbert!" cried William, "be silent! Not another word! I can scarcely - feel the throbbing of her pulse! She is paler even than when I first saw - her behind the convent grating. We give her pain. Enough, Herbert, enough! - Better yield her to God upon earth, than send her to Him in heaven!" - </p> - <p> - The old man placed the almost inanimate head of Martha-Mary upon his - shoulder, and pressed her to his heart as a mother embraces her child. - "Recover yourself, my daughter," he said; "I will restore you to the house - of God." - </p> - <p> - Martha-Mary turned her sad and gentle gaze upon her uncle, and her hand - feebly pressed his. Then addressing herself to Herbert: - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86c" id="Page_86c">[Pg 86]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "You, Herbert," she said, in a scarcely audible voice—"you, who will - live, do not abandon him!" - </p> - <p> - "Christine!" cried Herbert, on his knees before his betrothed. "Christine! - do we part for ever?" - </p> - <p> - The novice raised her eyes to heaven. - </p> - <p> - "Not for ever!" she replied. - </p> - <p> - Some days afterwards the convent gates opened to receive sister - Martha-Mary. They closed upon her for the last time. With feeble and - unsteady step the novice traversed the cloisters to prostrate herself on - the altar-steps. The superior came to her. - </p> - <p> - "Oh my mother!" exclaimed Christine, the fountain of whose tears was - opened, and who wept as in the days of her childhood, "I have seen him and - left him! To thee I return, oh Lord! Faithful to my vows, I await the - crown that shall consecrate me thy spouse. Thy voice alone shall - henceforward reach my ears; I come to sing thy praises, to pray and serve - thee until the end of my life!—Holy mother, prepare the robe of - serge, the white crown, the silver cross; I am ready!" - </p> - <p> - "My daughter," replied the superior, "you are very ill—much - exhausted by so many shocks; will you not delay the ceremony of - profession?" - </p> - <p> - "No, holy mother! no; delay it not! I would die the bride of the Lord!... - And I have little time!" replied sister Martha-Mary. - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87c" id="Page_87c">[Pg 87]</a></span> - </p> - <h2> - <a name="THE_MAN_IN_THE_BELL" id="THE_MAN_IN_THE_BELL">THE MAN IN THE - BELL.</a> - </h2> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - <span class="small">[<i>MAGA.</i> <span class="smcap">November 1821.</span>]</span> - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="dropcap"> - In my younger days, bell-ringing was much more in fashion among the young - men of —— than it is now. Nobody, I believe, practises it - there at present except the servants of the church, and the melody has - been much injured in consequence. Some fifty years ago, about twenty of us - who dwelt in the vicinity of the Cathedral, formed a club, which used to - ring every peal that was called for; and, from continual practice and a - rivalry which arose between us and a club attached to another steeple, and - which tended considerably to sharpen our zeal, we became very Mozarts on - our favourite instruments. But my bell-ringing practice was shortened by a - singular accident, which not only stopped my performance, but made even - the sound of a bell terrible to my ears. - </p> - <p> - One Sunday, I went with another into the belfry to ring for noon prayers, - but the second stroke we had pulled showed us that the clapper of the bell<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88c" id="Page_88c">[Pg 88]</a></span> we - were at was muffled. Some one had been buried that morning, and it had - been prepared, of course, to ring a mournful note. We did not know of - this, but the remedy was easy. "Jack," said my companion, "step up to the - loft, and cut off the hat;" for the way we had of muffling was by tying a - piece of an old hat, or of cloth (the former was preferred), to one side - of the clapper, which deadened every second toll. I complied, and mounting - into the belfry, crept as usual into the bell, where I began to cut away. - The hat had been tied on in some more complicated manner than usual, and I - was perhaps three or four minutes in getting it off; during which time my - companion below was hastily called away—by a message from his - sweetheart, I believe—but that is not material to my story. The - person who called him was a brother of the club, who, knowing that the - time had come for ringing for service, and not thinking that any one was - above, began to pull. At this moment I was just getting out, when I felt - the bell moving; I guessed the reason at once—it was a moment of - terror; but by a hasty and almost convulsive effort, I succeeded in - jumping down, and throwing myself on the flat of my back under the bell. - </p> - <p> - The room in which it was, was little more than sufficient to contain it, - the bottom of the bell coming within a couple of feet of the floor of - lath. At that time I certainly was not so bulky as I am now,<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89c" id="Page_89c">[Pg 89]</a></span> but as - I lay it was within an inch of my face. I had not laid myself down a - second, when the ringing began.—It was a dreadful situation. Over me - swung an immense mass of metal, one touch of which would have crushed me - to pieces; the floor under me was principally composed of crazy laths, and - if they gave way, I was precipitated to the distance of about fifty feet - upon a loft, which would, in all probability, have sunk under the impulse - of my fall, and sent me to be dashed to atoms upon the marble floor of the - chancel, an hundred feet below. I remembered—for fear is quick in - recollection—how a common clockwright, about a month before, had - fallen, and, bursting through the floors of the steeple, driven in the - ceilings of the porch, and even broken into the marble tombstone of a - bishop who slept beneath. This was my first terror, but the ringing had - not continued a minute, before a more awful and immediate dread came on - me. The deafening sound of the bell smote into my ears with a thunder - which made me fear their drums would crack: there was not a fibre of my - body it did not thrill through. It entered my very soul; thought and - reflection were almost utterly banished; I only retained the sensation of - agonising terror. Every moment I saw the bell sweep within an inch of my - face; and my eyes—I could not close them, though to look at the - object was bitter as death—followed it instinctively in its<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90c" id="Page_90c">[Pg 90]</a></span> - oscillating progress until it came back again. It was in vain I said to - myself that it could come no nearer at any future swing than it did at - first; every time it descended, I endeavoured to shrink into the very - floor to avoid being buried under the down-sweeping mass; and then, - reflecting on the danger of pressing too weightily on my frail support, - would cower up again as far as I dared. - </p> - <p> - At first my fears were mere matter of fact. I was afraid the pulleys above - would give way, and let the bell plunge on me. At another time, the - possibility of the clapper being shot out in some sweep, and dashing - through my body, as I had seen a ramrod glide through a door, flitted - across my mind. The dread also, as I have already mentioned, of the crazy - floor, tormented me; but these soon gave way to fears not more unfounded, - but more visionary, and of course more tremendous. The roaring of the bell - confused my intellect, and my fancy soon began to teem with all sort of - strange and terrifying ideas. The bell pealing above, and opening its jaws - with a hideous clamour, seemed to me at one time a ravening monster, - raging to devour me; at another, a whirlpool ready to suck me into its - bellowing abyss. As I gazed on it, it assumed all shapes; it was a flying - eagle, or rather a roc of the Arabian story-tellers, clapping its wings - and screaming over me. As I looked upward into it, it would appear - sometimes to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91c" id="Page_91c">[Pg 91]</a></span> - lengthen into indefinite extent, or to be twisted at the end into the - spiral folds of the tail of a flying dragon. Nor was the flaming breath or - fiery glance of that fabled animal wanting to complete the picture. My - eyes, inflamed, blood-shot, and glaring, invested the supposed monster - with a full proportion of unholy light. - </p> - <p> - It would be endless were I to merely hint at all the fancies that - possessed my mind. Every object that was hideous and roaring presented - itself to my imagination. I often thought that I was in a hurricane at - sea, and that the vessel in which I was embarked tossed under me with the - most furious vehemence. The air, set in motion by the swinging of the - bell, blew over me, nearly with the violence, and more than the thunder, - of a tempest; and the floor seemed to reel under me, as under a drunken - man. But the most awful of all the ideas that seized on me were drawn from - the supernatural. In the vast cavern of the bell hideous faces appeared, - and glared down on me with terrifying frowns, or with grinning mockery - still more appalling. At last, the devil himself, accoutred as in the - common description of the evil spirit, with hoof, horn, and tail, and eyes - of infernal lustre, made his appearance, and called on me to curse God and - worship him, who was powerful to save me. This dread suggestion he uttered - with the full-toned clangour of the bell. I had him within<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92c" id="Page_92c">[Pg 92]</a></span> an - inch of me, and I thought on the fate of the Santon Barsisa. Strenuously - and desperately I defied him and bade him begone. Reason, then, for a - moment, resumed her sway, but it was only to fill me with fresh terror, - just as the lightning dispels the gloom that surrounds the benighted - mariner, but to show him that his vessel is driving on a rock, where she - must inevitably be dashed to pieces. I found I was becoming delirious, and - trembled lest reason should utterly desert me. This is at all times an - agonising thought, but it smote me then with tenfold agony. I feared lest, - when utterly deprived of my senses, I should rise—to do which I was - every moment tempted by that strange feeling which calls on a man, whose - head is dizzy from standing on the battlement of a lofty castle, to - precipitate himself from it, and then death would be instant and - tremendous. When I thought of this, I became desperate. I caught the floor - with a grasp which drove the blood from my nails; and I yelled with the - cry of despair. I called for help, I prayed, I shouted, but all the - efforts of my voice were of course drowned in the bell. As it passed over - my mouth, it occasionally echoed my cries, which mixed not with its own - sound, but preserved their distinct character. Perhaps this was but fancy. - To me, I know, they then sounded as if they were the shouting, howling, or - laughing of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93c" id="Page_93c">[Pg - 93]</a></span> fiends with which my imagination had peopled the gloomy - cave which swung over me. - </p> - <p> - You may accuse me of exaggerating my feelings; but I am not. Many a scene - of dread have I since passed through, but they are nothing to the - self-inflicted terrors of this half hour. The ancients have doomed one of - the damned, in their Tartarus, to lie under a rock, which every moment - seems to be descending to annihilate him—and an awful punishment it - would be. But if to this you add a clamour as loud as if ten thousand - furies were howling about you—a deafening uproar banishing reason, - and driving you to madness—you must allow that the bitterness of the - pang was rendered more terrible. There is no man, firm as his nerves may - be, who could retain his courage in this situation. - </p> - <p> - In twenty minutes the ringing was done. Half of that time passed over me - without power of computation,—the other half appeared an age. When - it ceased, I became gradually more quiet, but a new fear retained me. I - knew that five minutes would elapse without ringing, but, at the end of - that short time, the bell would be rung a second time, for five minutes - more. I could not calculate time. A minute and an hour were of equal - duration. I feared to rise, lest the five minutes should have elapsed, and - the ringing be again<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94c" id="Page_94c">[Pg - 94]</a></span> commenced, in which case I should be crushed, before I - could escape, against the walls or framework of the bell. I therefore - still continued to lie down, cautiously shifting myself, however, with a - careful gliding, so that my eye no longer looked into the hollow. This was - of itself a considerable relief. The cessation of the noise had, in a - great measure, the effect of stupifying me, for my attention, being no - longer occupied by the chimeras I had conjured up, began to flag. All that - now distressed me was the constant expectation of the second ringing, for - which, however, I settled myself with a kind of stupid resolution. I - closed my eyes, and clenched my teeth as firmly as if they were screwed in - a vice. At last the dreaded moment came, and the first swing of the bell - extorted a groan from me, as they say the most resolute victim screams at - the sight of the rack, to which he is for a second time destined. After - this, however, I lay silent and lethargic, without a thought. Wrapt in the - defensive armour of stupidity, I defied the bell and its intonations. When - it ceased, I was roused a little by the hope of escape. I did not, - however, decide on this step hastily, but, putting up my hand with the - utmost caution, I touched the rim. Though the ringing had ceased, it still - was tremulous from the sound, and shook under my hand, which instantly - recoiled as from an electric jar. A quarter of an hour probably<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95c" id="Page_95c">[Pg 95]</a></span> - elapsed before I again dared to make the experiment, and then I found it - at rest. I determined to lose no time, fearing that I might have lain then - already too long, and that the bell for evening service would catch me. - This dread stimulated me, and I slipped out with the utmost rapidity, and - arose. I stood, I suppose, for a minute, looking with silly wonder on the - place of my imprisonment, penetrated with joy at escaping, but then rushed - down the stony and irregular stair with the velocity of lightning, and - arrived in the bell-ringers' room. This was the last act I had power to - accomplish. I leant against the wall, motionless and deprived of thought, - in which posture my companions found me, when, in the course of a couple - of hours, they returned to their occupation. - </p> - <p> - They were shocked, as well they might, at the figure before them. The wind - of the bell had excoriated my face, and my dim and stupified eyes were - fixed with a lack-lustre gaze in my raw eyelids. My hands were torn and - bleeding; my hair dishevelled; and my clothes tattered. They spoke to me, - but I gave no answer. They shook me, but I remained insensible. They then - became alarmed, and hastened to remove me. He who had first gone up with - me in the forenoon, met them as they carried me through the churchyard, - and through him, who was shocked at having, in some measure,<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96c" id="Page_96c">[Pg 96]</a></span> - occasioned the accident, the cause of my misfortune was discovered. I was - put to bed at home, and remained for three days delirious, but gradually - recovered my senses. You may be sure the bell formed a prominent topic of - my ravings, and if I heard a peal, they were instantly increased to the - utmost violence. Even when the delirium abated, my sleep was continually - disturbed by imagined ringings, and my dreams were haunted by the fancies - which almost maddened me while in the steeple. My friends removed me to a - house in the country, which was sufficiently distant from any place of - worship, to save me from the apprehensions of hearing the church-going - bell; for what Alexander Selkirk, in Cowper's poem, complained of as a - misfortune, was then to me as a blessing. Here I recovered; but, even long - after recovery, if a gale wafted the notes of a peal towards me, I started - with nervous apprehension. I felt a Mohammedan hatred to all the bell - tribe, and envied the subjects of the Commander of the Faithful the - sonorous voice of their Muezzin. Time cured this, as it does the most of - our follies; but even at the present day, if, by chance, my nerves be - unstrung, some particular tones of the cathedral bell have power to - surprise me into a momentary start. - </p> - <hr class="short" /> - <p class="center small"> - PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <div class="footnotes"> - <h2> - <a name="Footnotes" id="Footnotes">Footnotes</a> - </h2> - <div class="footnote"> - <p> - <a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span - class="label">[1]</span></a> "<i>Carts</i>" of that day held three. - </p> - </div> - </div> - <p> - - </p> - <div class="transnote"> - <h2> - <a name="Transcribers_Note" id="Transcribers_Note">Transcriber's Note</a> - </h2> - <p> - Apparent printer's errors and archaic spelling have been retained, - unless stated below. - </p> - <p> - Punctuation markup has been made consistent. - </p> - <p> - In the original, pages are numbered 1-100 three times consecutively. - </p> - <p> - On the first iteration of Page <a href="#Page_58a">58</a>, "cause" - changed to "case". (In due time the case was called.) - </p> - <p> - On the first iteration of Page <a href="#Page_60a">60</a>, "eat" changed - to "ate". (... and he would have sailed thither before the 31st of - December, on which day his father, a joyous liver and confirmed votary - of Bacchus, ate and drank to such an extent to celebrate the exit of the - old year and commencement of the new, that he fell down, on his way to - his bed, in a thundering fit of apoplexy, and was a corpse before - morning.) - </p> - <p> - On the first iteration of Page <a href="#Page_67a">67</a>, "Μητ' ἐμοὶ - παρέστιος γένοιτο" has been changed to "Μήτ' ἐμοὶ παρέστιος γένοιτο". - </p> - <p> - On the second iteration of Page <a href="#Page_25b">25</a>, "raw" - changed to "law". (I was not quite sure of the effect of my commentary - on the evidence, and therefore thought it might be advisable to touch - upon a national law.) - </p> - <p> - On the third iteration of Page <a href="#Page_67c">67</a>, "Amburg" - changed to "Amberg" for consistency. (With a vigorous arm, M. Van Amberg - seized Christine, whose slender form bent like a reed over his - shoulder.) - </p> - </div> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 6, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD," VOLUME 6 *** - -***** This file should be named 41204-h.htm or 41204-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/2/0/41204/ - -Produced by Veronika Redfern, D Alexander, Juliet Sutherland -and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net - - -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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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: Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 6 - -Author: Various - -Release Date: October 27, 2012 [EBook #41204] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD," VOLUME 6 *** - - - - -Produced by Veronika Redfern, D Alexander, Juliet Sutherland -and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - -</pre> - <div class="figcenter" style="width: 340px;"> - <a href="images/titlepage.jpg"><img class="cover-hide" id="coverpage" - src="images/th_titlepage.jpg" style="border: 1px solid #000;" width="340" - height="600" alt="Title Page" title="Title Page" /></a> - </div> - <div class="larger-version"> - <p> - - </p> - <h1> - TALES<br /><br /><span class="smaller">FROM</span><br /><br /><span - class="big">"BLACKWOOD"</span> - </h1> - <p> - - </p> - <p> - - </p> - </div> - <div class="figcenter" style="width: 330px;"> - <img src="images/contents.png" width="330" height="55" - alt="Contents of this Volume" title="Contents of this Volume" /> - </div> - <div class="center1"> - <p> - <i><a href="#THE_DUTCHMAN">My Friend the Dutchman.</a> By Frederick - Hardman, Esq.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i><a href="#COLLEGE_FRIENDS_II">My College Friends. No. II.</a> Horace - Leicester.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i><a href="#THE_EMERALD_STUDS">The Emerald Studs.</a> By Professor - Aytoun.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i><a href="#COLLEGE_FRIENDS_III">My College Friends. No. III.</a> Mr W. - Wellington Hurst.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i><a href="#CHRISTINE">Christine: a Dutch Story.</a> By Frederick - Hardman, Esq.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i><a href="#THE_MAN_IN_THE_BELL">The Man in the Bell.</a></i> - </p> - </div> - <p> - - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center big"> - WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS - </p> - <p class="center medium"> - EDINBURGH AND LONDON - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p class="chapter-beginning"> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1a" id="Page_1a">[Pg 1]</a></span> - </p> - <p class="center"> - <a name="TALES_FROM_BLACKWOOD" id="TALES_FROM_BLACKWOOD"><span class="xbig"><b>TALES - FROM "BLACKWOOD"</b></span></a> - </p> - <hr class="short" /> - <h2 class="no-break"> - <a name="THE_DUTCHMAN" id="THE_DUTCHMAN">MY FRIEND THE DUTCHMAN.</a> - </h2> - <p class="center"> - BY FREDERICK HARDMAN. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - <span class="small">[<i>MAGA.</i> <span class="smcap">October 1847.</span>]</span> - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="dropcap"> - "And you will positively marry her, if she will have you?" - </p> - <p> - "Not a doubt of either. Before this day fortnight she shall be Madame Van - Haubitz." - </p> - <p> - "You will make her your wife without acquainting her with your true - position?" - </p> - <p> - "Indeed will I. My very position requires it. There's no room for a - scruple. She expects to live on my fortune; thinks to make a great catch - of the rich Dutchman. Instead of that I shall spend her salary. The old - story; going out for wool and returning shorn." - </p> - <p> - The conversation of which this is the concluding fragment, occurred in the - public room of the Hotel de Hesse, in the village of Homburg on the Hill—then - an insignificant handful of houses, officiating<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_2a" id="Page_2a">[Pg 2]</a></span> as capital of the important - landgravate of Hesse-Homburg. The table-d'hôte had been over some time; - the guests had departed to repose in their apartments until the hour of - evening promenade should summon them to the excellent band of music, - provided by the calculating liberality of the gaming-house keepers, and to - loiter round the <i>brunnen</i> of more or less nauseous flavour, the - pretext of resort to this rendezvous of idlers and gamblers. The waiters - had disappeared to batten on the broken meats from the public table, and - to doze away the time till the approach of supper renewed their activity. - My interlocutor, with whom I was alone in the deserted apartment, was a - man of about thirty years of age, whose dark hair and mustaches, marked - features, spare person, and complexion bronzed by a tropical sun, entitled - him to pass for a native of southern Europe, or even of some more ardent - clime. Nevertheless he answered to the very Dutch patronymic of Van - Haubitz, and was a native of Holland, in whose principal city his father - was a banker of considerable wealth and financial influence. - </p> - <p> - It was towards the close of a glorious August, and for two months I had - been wandering in Rhine-land. Not after the fashion of deluded Cockneys, - who fancy they have seen the Rhine when they have careered from Cologne to - Mannheim astride of a steam-engine, gaping at objects<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_3a" id="Page_3a">[Pg 3]</a></span> passed as soon as perceived; - drinking and paying for indifferent vinegar as Steinberger-Cabinet, eating - vile dinners on the decks of steamers, and excellent ones in the capital - hotels which British cash and patronage have raised upon the banks of the - most renowned of German streams. On the contrary, I had early dispensed - with the aid of steam, to wander on foot, with the occasional assistance - of a lazy country diligence or rickety <i>einspänner</i>, through the many - beautiful districts that lie upon either bank of the river; - pedestrianising in Rhenish Bavaria, losing myself in the Odenwald, and - pausing, when occasion offered, to pick a trout out of the numerous - streamlets that dash and meander through dell and ravine, on their way to - swell the waters of old Father Rhine. At last, weary of solitude—scarcely - broken by an occasional gossip with a heavy German boor, village priest, - or strolling student—I thirsted after the haunts of civilisation, - and found myself, within a day of the appearance of the symptom, installed - in a luxurious hotel in the free city of Frankfort on the Maine. But - Frankfort at that season is deserted, save by passing tourists, who escape - as fast as possible from its lifeless streets and sun-baked pavements; so, - after glancing over an English newspaper at the Casino, taking one stroll - in the beautiful garden surrounding the city, and another through the - Jew-quarter—always interesting and<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_4a" id="Page_4a">[Pg 4]</a></span> curious, although anything - but savoury at that warm season—I gathered together my baggage and - was off to Homburg. There I could not complain of solitude, of deserted - streets and shuttered windows. It seemed impossible that the multitude of - gaily dressed belles and cavaliers, English, French, German, and Russ, - who, from six in the morning until sunset, lounged and flirted on the - walks, watered themselves at the fountains, and perilled their complexions - in the golden sunbeams, could ever bestow themselves in the two or three - middling hotels and few score shabby lodging-houses composing the town of - Homburg. Manage it they did, however; crept into their narrow cells at - night, to emerge next morning, like butterflies from the chrysalis, gay, - bright, and brilliant, and to recommence the never-varying but pleasant - round of eating, sauntering, love-making, and gambling. Homburg was not - then what it has since become. That great house of cards, the new Cursaal, - had not yet arisen; and its table-d'hôte, reading-room, and profane - mysteries of roulette and rouge-et-noir, found temporary domicile in a - narrow, disreputable-looking den in the main street, where accommodation - of all kinds, but especially for dinner, was scanty in the extreme. The - public tables at the hotels were consequently thronged, and there - acquaintances were soon made. The day of my arrival at Homburg I was - seated next to Van<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5a" id="Page_5a">[Pg - 5]</a></span> Haubitz; his manner was off-hand and frank; we entered into - conversation, took our after-dinner cigar and evening stroll together, and - by bed-time had knocked up that sort of intimacy easily contracted at a - watering-place, which lasts one's time of residence, and is extinguished - and forgotten on departure. Van Haubitz, like many Continentals and very - few Englishmen, was one of those free-and-easy communicative persons who - are as familiar after twelve hours' acquaintance as if they had known you - twelve years, and who do not hesitate to confide to a three days' - acquaintance the history of their lives, their pursuits, position, and - prospects. I was soon made acquainted, to a very considerable extent, at - least, with those of my friend Van Haubitz, late lieutenant of artillery - in the service of his majesty the King of Holland. He was the youngest of - four sons, and having shown, at a very early age, a wild and intractable - disposition and precocious addiction to dissipation, his father pronounced - him unsuited to business, and decided on placing him in the army. To this - the <i>Junker</i> (he claimed nobility, and displayed above his arms a - species of coronet, bearing considerable resemblance to a fragment of - chevaux-de-frise, which he might have been puzzled to prop with a - parchment) had no particular objection, and might have made a good enough - officer, but for his reckless, spendthrift manner of life, which entailed - negligence of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6a" id="Page_6a">[Pg 6]</a></span> - duty and frequent reprimands. Extravagant beyond measure, unable to deny - himself any gratification, squandering money as though millions were at - his command, he was constantly overwhelmed with debts and a martyr to - duns. At last his father, after thrice clearing him with his creditors, - consented to do so a fourth time only on condition of his getting - transferred to a regiment stationed in the Dutch East Indies, and - remaining there until his return had the paternal sanction. To avoid a - prison, and perhaps not altogether sorry to leave a country where his cash - and credit were alike exhausted, he embarked for Batavia. But any pleasant - day-dreams he may have cherished of tropical luxuries, of the indulgence - of a <i>farniente</i> life in a grass hammock, gently balanced by Javan - houris beneath banana shades, of spice-laden breezes and cool sherbets, - and other attributes of a Mohammedan paradise, were speedily dissipated by - the odious realities of filth and vermin, marsh-fever and mosquitoes. He - wrote to his father, describing the horrors of the place, and begging to - be released from his pledge and allowed to return to Holland. His obdurate - progenitor replied by a letter of reproach, and swore that if he left - Batavia he might live on his pay, and never expect a stiver from the - paternal strong-box, either as gift or bequest. To live upon his pay would - have been no easy matter, even for a more prudent person than Van Haubitz.<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7a" id="Page_7a">[Pg 7]</a></span> He - grumbled immoderately, swore like a pagan, but remained where he was. A - year passed and he could hold out no longer. Disregarding the paternal - displeasure, and reckless of consequences, he applied to the chief - military authority of the colony for leave of absence. He was asked his - plea, and alleged ill health. The general thought he looked pretty well, - and requested the sight of a medical certificate of his invalid state. Van - Haubitz assumed a doleful countenance and betook him to the surgeons. They - agreed with the general that his aspect was healthy: asked for symptoms; - could discover none more alarming than regularity of pulse, sleep, - appetite, and digestion, laughed in his face and refused the certificate. - The sickly gunner, who had the constitution of a rhinoceros, and had never - had a day's illness since he got over the measles at the age of four - years, waited a little, and tried the second "dodge," usually resorted to - in such cases. "Urgent private affairs" were now the pretext. The general - expressed his regret that urgent public affairs rendered it impossible for - him to dispense with the valuable services of Lieutenant Van Haubitz. - Whereupon Lieutenant Van Haubitz passed half an hour in heaping - maledictions on the head of his disobliging commander, and then sat down - and wrote an application for an exchange to the authorities in Holland. - The reply was equally unsatisfactory, the fact being that Haubitz senior,<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8a" id="Page_8a">[Pg 8]</a></span> like an - implacable old savage as he was, had made interest at the war-office for - the refusal of all such requests on the part of his scapegrace offspring. - Haubitz junior took patience for another year, and then, in a moment of - extreme disgust and ennui, threw up his commission and returned to Europe, - trusting, he told me, that after five years' absence, the governor's - bowels would yearn towards his youngest-born. In this he was entirely - mistaken; he greatly underrated the toughness of paternal viscera. Far - from killing the fatted calf on the prodigal's return, the incensed old - Hollander refused him the smallest cutlet, and, shutting the door in his - face, consigned him, with more energy than affection, to the custody of - the evil one. Van Haubitz found himself in an awkward fix. Credit was - dead, none of his relatives would notice or assist him; his whole fortune - consisted of a dozen gold Wilhelms. At this critical moment an eccentric - maiden aunt, to whom, a year or two previously, he had sent a propitiatory - offering of a ring-tailed monkey and a leash of pea-green parrots, and who - had never condescended to acknowledge the present, departed this life, - bequeathing him ten thousand florins as a return for the addition to her - menagerie. A man of common prudence, and who had seen himself so near - destitution, would have endeavoured to employ this sum, moderate as it - was, in some trade or business,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9a" - id="Page_9a">[Pg 9]</a></span> or, at any rate, would have lived sparingly - till he found other resources. But Haubitz had not yet sown all his - wild-oats; he had a soul above barter, a glorious disregard of the future, - the present being provided for. He left Holland, shaking the dust from his - boots, dashed across Belgium, and was soon plunged in the gaieties of a - Paris carnival. Breakfasts at the Rocher, dinners at the Café, balls at - the opera, and the concomitant <i>petits soupers</i> and écarté parties - with the fair denizens of the Quartier Lorette, soon operated a prodigious - chasm in the monkey-money, as Van Haubitz irreverently styled his - venerable aunt's bequest. Spring having arrived, he beat a retreat from - Paris, and established himself at Homburg, where he was quietly completing - the consumption of the ten thousand florins, at rather a slower pace than - he would have done at that headquarters of pleasant iniquity, the capital - of France. From hints he let fall, I suspected a short time would suffice - to see the last of the legacy. On this head, however, he had been less - confidential than on most other matters, and certainly his manner of - living would have led no one to suppose he was low in the locker. Nothing - was too good for him; he drank the best of wines, got up parties and - pic-nics for the ladies, and had a special addiction to the purchase of - costly trinkets, which he generally gave away before they had been a day - in his possession. He did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10a" - id="Page_10a">[Pg 10]</a></span> gamble; he had done so, he told me, once - since he was at Homburg, and had won, but he had no faith in his luck, or - taste for that kind of excitement, and should play no more. He was playing - another game just now, which apparently interested him greatly. A few days - before myself, a young actress, who, within a very short time, had - acquired considerable celebrity, had arrived at Homburg, escorted by her - mother. Fraülein Emilie Sendel was a lively lady of four-and-twenty or - thereabouts, possessing a smart figure and pretty face, the latter - somewhat wanting in refinement. Her blue eyes, although rather too - prominent, had a merry sparkle; her cheeks had not yet been entirely - despoiled by envious rouge of their natural healthful tinge; her hair, of - that peculiar tint of red auburn which the French call a <i>blonde hasardé</i>, - was more remarkable for abundance and flexibility than for fineness of - texture. As regarded her qualities and accomplishments, she was - good-humoured and tolerably unaffected, but wilful and capricious as a - spoiled child; she spoke her own language pretty well, with an occasional - slight vulgarism or bit of greenroom slang; had a smattering of French, - and played the piano sufficiently to accompany the ballads and vaudeville - airs which she sang with spirit and considerable freedom of style. I had - met German actresses who were far more lady-like off the stage, but there - was nothing glaringly or repulsively<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_11a" id="Page_11a">[Pg 11]</a></span> vulgar about Emilie, and - as a neighbour at a public dinner-table, she was amusing and quite above - par. As if to vindicate her nationality, she would occasionally look - sentimental; but the mood sat ill upon her, and never lasted long: comedy - was evidently her natural line. Against her reputation, rumour, always an - inquisitive censor, often a mean libeller, of ladies of her profession, - had as yet, so far as I could learn, found nothing to allege. Her mother, - a dingy old dowager, with bad teeth, dowdy gowns, a profusion of - artificial flowers, and a strong addiction to tea and knitting, perfectly - understood the duties of duennaship, and did propriety by her daughter's - side at dinner-table and promenade. To the heart of the daughter, Van - Haubitz, almost from the first hour he had seen her, had laid persevering - and determined siege. - </p> - <p> - During our after-dinner tête-à-tête on the day now referred to, my friend - the gunner had shown himself exceedingly unreserved, and, without any - attempt on my part to draw him out, he had elucidated, with a frankness - that must have satisfied the most inquisitive, whatever small points of - his recent history and present position he had previously left in - obscurity. The conversation began, so soon as the cloth was removed and - the guests had departed, by a jesting allusion on my part to his - flirtation with the actress, and to her gracious reception of his - attentions. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12a" id="Page_12a">[Pg 12]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "It is no mere flirtation," said Van, gravely. "My intentions are serious. - You may depend Mademoiselle Sendel understands them as such." - </p> - <p> - "Serious! you don't mean that you want to marry her?" - </p> - <p> - "Unquestionably I do. It is my only chance." - </p> - <p> - "Your only chance!" I repeated, considerably puzzled. "Are you about to - turn actor, and do you trust to her for instruction in histrionics?" - </p> - <p> - "Not exactly. I will explain. La Sendel, you must know, has just - terminated her last engagement, which was at a salary of ten thousand - florins. She has already received and accepted an offer of a new one, at - fifteen thousand, from the Vienna theatre. Vienna is a very pleasant - place. Fifteen thousand florins are thirty-two thousand francs, or twelve - hundred of your English pounds sterling. Upon that sum two persons can - live excellently well—in Germany at least." - </p> - <p> - Unable to contradict any of these assertions, I held my tongue. The - Dutchman resumed. - </p> - <p> - "You know the history of my past life; I will tell you my present - position. It is critical enough, but I shall improve it, for here," and he - touched his forehead, "is what never fails me. This letter," (he produced - an epistle of mercantile aspect, bearing the Amsterdam post-mark), "I - received last week from my eldest brother. The shabby <i>schelm</i> - declares he will reply to no more of mine, that his<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_13a" id="Page_13a">[Pg 13]</a></span> efforts to arrange - matters with my father have been fruitless, and that the old gentleman has - strictly forbidden him and his brothers to hold any communication with me, - a command they seem willing enough to obey. So much for that. And now for - the finances." - </p> - <p> - He took out his pocket-book, opened and shook it—a flimsy crumpled - bit of paper fell out. It was a note of the bank of France, for one - thousand francs. - </p> - <p> - "My last," said he. "That gone, I am a beggar. But it won't come to that, - either, thanks to Fraülein Emilie." - </p> - <p> - "Surely," said I, "you are too reckless of money, too extravagant and - unreflecting. Six months ago, you told me you had twenty such notes." - </p> - <p> - "Ay, twenty-two exactly, at the end of January, when I left Amsterdam. But - whither was I bound? To Paris; and who can economise there? I've had my - money's worth, and could have had no more, had I dribbled the dirty ten - thousand florins over three years, instead of three months. I take great - credit for making it last so long. Such suppers, and balls, and orgies, - with the pleasantest fellows and prettiest actresses in Paris. But the - louis-d'or roll rapidly in that sort of society. One must be a Russian - prince, or a French <i>feuilletoniste</i>, to keep it up. I never flinched - at anything so long as the money lasted. Then, when I found myself reduced - to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14a" id="Page_14a">[Pg 14]</a></span> - last note, I got into the Frankfort mail, and came to rusticate at this - rural roulette-table. My next change will be to conjugation and Vienna." - </p> - <p> - "But if you had only a thousand francs on leaving Paris, and have got them - still, how have you lived since?" - </p> - <p> - "You don't suppose these are the same? There are not many ways of getting - through money here unless one gambles, which I do not; but coin has - somehow or other a peculiar aptitude to slip through my fingers, and the - thousand francs soon evaporated. Meanwhile, I had written dozens of - letters to my brothers, who seldom answered, and to my father, who never - did. I promised reform and a respectable life, if they would either get me - a snug place with little to do and good pay, or make me a reasonable - yearly allowance, something better than the paltry three thousand florins - they doled out to me when I was in the artillery, and on which, as I could - not live, I was obliged to get in debt. They paid no attention to my - request, reasonable as it was. The best offer they made me was five francs - a-day, paid weekly, to live in a Silesian village. This was adding insult - to injury, and I left off writing to them. A few days afterwards, taking - out my purse to pay for cigars, a dollar dropped out. It was my last. I - paid it away, walked home, lay down upon my bed, smoked and reflected. My - position was gloomy enough, and the more I looked<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_15a" id="Page_15a">[Pg 15]</a></span> at it, the blacker it - seemed. From my undutiful relatives there was no hope; the abominable - Silesian project was evidently their ultimatum. I had no friend to turn - to, no resource left. I might certainly have obtained the mere necessaries - of life at this hotel, where my credit was excellent, and have vegetated - for a month or two, as a man must vegetate, without ready money. But I had - no fancy for such an expedient, a mere protraction of the agony. I lay - ruminating for two hours, two such hours as I should be sorry to pass - again, and then my mind was made up. I had a brace of small - travelling-pistols amongst my baggage; these I loaded and put in my - pocket; and then, leaving the hotel and the town, I struck across the - country for some distance and plunged into a wood. There I sat down upon a - grass bank, my back against an old beech. It was evening, and the solitary - little glade before me was striped with the last sunbeams darting between - the tree-trunks. I have difficulty in defining my sensations at that - moment. I was quite resolved, did not waver an instant in my purpose, but - my head was dizzy, and I had a sickly sensation about the heart. - Determined that the physical shrinking from death should not have time to - weaken my moral determination, I hastily opened my waistcoat, felt for the - pulsations of my heart, placed the muzzle of a pistol where they were - strongest, steadying it on that spot with my left<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_16a" id="Page_16a">[Pg 16]</a></span> hand. Then I looked - straight before me and pulled the trigger. There was the click of the - lock, but no report; the cap was bad, and had been crushed without - exploding. That was a horrible moment. I snatched up another pistol, which - lay cocked to my hand, and thrust the muzzle into my mouth. As before, the - sharp noise of the hammer upon the nipple was the sole result. The caps - had been some time in my possession, and had become worthless through age - or damp." - </p> - <p> - I looked at Van Haubitz, doubtful whether he was not hoaxing me. But - hitherto I had observed in him no addiction to the Munchausen vein, and - now his countenance and voice were serious: there was a slight flush on - his cheek, and he was evidently excited at the recollection of his - abortive attempt at suicide,—perhaps a little ashamed of it. I was - convinced he told the truth. - </p> - <p> - "I do not know," he continued, "whether, had I had surer weapons with me, - I should have had courage to make a third attempt upon my life. Honestly, - I think not; the self-preservative instinct was rapidly gaining strength. - I walked slowly back to the town, my brain still confused from the - agitating moments I had passed. I was unable quite to collect my thoughts, - and felt as if I had just awakened from a long heavy sleep. It was now - dark; lights streamed from the open windows of the gambling-rooms; the - voices of the croupiers,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17a" - id="Page_17a">[Pg 17]</a></span> the stir and hum of the players and - jingling of money were distinctly heard in the street without. I have - already told you I am no gambler, not from scruple, but choice. - Nevertheless, I used often to stroll up to the Cursaal for an hour of an - evening, when the play was at the highest, to look on and chat with chance - acquaintances. Mechanically, I now ascended the stairs. On the - landing-place, I found myself face to face with a man with whom I was - slightly intimate, and who, a few evenings before, had borrowed forty - francs of me. I had not seen him since, and he now returned me the piece - of gold. 'Try your luck with it,' said he; 'there is a run against the - bank to-night, everybody wins, and M. Blanc looks blue.' And he pointed to - one of the proprietors of the tables, who, however, wore a tolerably - tranquil air, knowing well that what was carried away one night, would - come back with compound interest the next. The play was heavy at the - rouge-et-noir table; a Russian and two Frenchmen—the latter of whom, - judging from their appearance, and from the complicated array of - calculations on the table before them, were professional gamblers—extracted, - at nearly every <i>coup</i>, notes or rouleaus of gold from the grated - boxes in front of the bankers. I drank a glass of water, for my lips were - dry and hot, and, placing myself as near the table as the crowd of players - and spectators permitted, watched the game.<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_18a" id="Page_18a">[Pg 18]</a></span> My hand was in my pocket, - the forty-franc piece still between its fingers. But in spite of the - advice of him who had paid it me, I felt no disposition to risk the coin; - not that I feared to lose it, for as my only one it was useless, but - because, as I tell you, I never had the slightest love of gambling or - expectation to win. - </p> - <p> - "A pause occurred in the game. The cards had run out, and the bankers were - subjecting them to those complicated and ostentatious shufflings intended - to convince the players of the fairness of their dealings. During this - operation the previous silence was exchanged for eager gossip. The game, - it appeared, had come out that night in a peculiar manner, very favourable - to those who had had the address and nerve to avail themselves of it. - There had been alternate long runs upon red and black. - </p> - <p> - "'<i>Mille noms de Dieu!</i>' exclaimed a hoarse cracked voice just below - me. 'What a series of black! Twenty-two, and only three red! And to be - unable to take advantage of it!' - </p> - <p> - "I looked down, and recognised the grey mustache, wrinkled features, and - snuffy black coat with a ribbon of the Legion of Honour, of an old French - colonel whom you may have seen limping in and out of the Cursaal, and who - ranks amongst the antiquities of Homburg. He served under Napoleon, was - shelved at the peace, and has lived since then on a moderate annuity, of - which one-fifth procures<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19a" - id="Page_19a">[Pg 19]</a></span> him the barest necessaries of existence, - whilst the other four parts are annually absorbed in the vortex of - rouge-et-noir. When gambling-houses were legal at Paris, <i>le colonel - rapé</i>, the threadbare colonel, as he was called, was one of the most - punctual attendants at Frascati's and the Palais Royal. When they were - abolished, he commenced a wandering existence amongst the German baths, - and finally settled down at Homburg, giving it the preference, as the only - place where he could follow his darling pursuit alike in winter and in - summer. From the opening to the close of the play he is seen seated at the - table, a number of cards, ruled in red and black columns, on the green - cloth before him, in which he pricks with pins the progress of the game. - That evening he had been unfortunate, and had emptied his pocket, but - nevertheless continued puncturing cards with laudable perseverance, of - course discovering, like every penniless gambler, that, had he money to - stake, he should infallibly make a fortune; predicting what colour would - come out, and indulging, when he proved a true prophet, in a little - subdued blasphemy because he was unable to profit by his acuteness. - </p> - <p> - "'Extraordinary run! to be sure,' repeated the veteran dicer. 'Twenty-two - black, and only three red! There'll be a series of red now; I feel there - will, and when I don't play myself, I'm always right. I bet this deal - begins with seven<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20a" id="Page_20a">[Pg - 20]</a></span> red. Who bets a hundred francs to fifty it does not?' - </p> - <p> - "Nobody accepted this sporting offer, or placed upon the colour which the - colonel's prophetic soul foresaw was to come out. The cards were now - shuffled and cut for dealing. The hell relapsed into silence. - </p> - <p> - "'<i>Faites le jeu, Messieurs!</i>' was repeated in the harsh - business-like tones of the presiding demon. - </p> - <p> - "'Red wins,' croaked the colonel. 'Seven times at the least.' - </p> - <p> - "Nearly all the players backed the black. By an idle impulse I threw down - my forty francs, my entire fortune, upon the red. The old soldier looked - round to see the judicious individual who followed his advice, smiled - grimly, and nodded approvingly. The next moment red won. I let the money - lie, and walked into the next room. Eighty francs were of no more use to - me than forty, and I felt very sure that another turn of the card would - carry off both stake and winnings. I took up a newspaper, but soon threw - it down again, for my head was not clear enough to read, and I felt - exhausted with the emotions of the day. I was about to leave the house - when I heard a loud buzz in the card-room, and the next instant somebody - clutched my arm. It was the French colonel, in a state of furious - excitement; grinning, panting, perspiring, and stuttering with eagerness. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21a" id="Page_21a">[Pg 21]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "'Seven reds!' was all he could say. 'Seven reds, Monsieur. Take up your - money.' - </p> - <p> - "I hastened to the table. By a strange caprice of fortune, the colonel's - prophecy had come true. Red had won seven times, and my forty francs had - become five thousand. I took up my winnings, the colonel looking on with a - triumphant smile. This was suddenly exchanged for a portentous frown and - fierce twist of the grey mustache. - </p> - <p> - "'<i>Mille millions de tonnerres!</i> Not a dollar left to follow up that - splendid run!' And with a furious gesture, he upset his chair, and dashed - his cards upon the ground. - </p> - <p> - "I took the hint, whether intended or not. I could not do less in return - for the five thousand francs the old gentleman had put in my pocket. - </p> - <p> - "'If Monsieur,' I said, 'will allow me the pleasure of lending him—' - </p> - <p> - "'<i>Impossible, Monsieur!</i>' interrupted the colonel, looking as stern - as if about to charge single-handed a whole pulk of Cossacks. But I knew - my man. He was the type of a class of which I have seen many. - </p> - <p> - "'<i>Cependant, Monsieur, entre militaires</i>, between brother-soldiers—' - </p> - <p> - "'<i>Ah! Monsieur est militaire!</i>' exclaimed the old gentleman, his - alarming contraction of brow and rigidity of feature instantaneously - dissolving into a smile of extreme benignity. 'That alters the case. - Certainly, between brothers in arms those<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_22a" id="Page_22a">[Pg 22]</a></span> little services may be - offered and accepted. Although, really, it is encroaching on Monsieur's - complaisance ... at the same time ... a hundred francs ... till to-morrow - ... quarters at some distance ... &c. &c.,' which ended in his - picking up his chair, cards, and pin, and applying all his faculties to - break the bank with ten <i>louis</i> which I lent him, and which I need - hardly say I have not seen from that day to this. - </p> - <p> - "Such a sudden stroke of good fortune would have made gamblers of nine men - out of ten, but I decidedly want the organ of gaming, for I have never - played since. My narrow escape from suicide had made some impression on - me, and now that I had five thousand francs in my pocket, I looked back at - the attempt as an exceedingly foolish proceeding. For a month or more, I - lived with what even you would admit to be great economy, writing frequent - letters to Amsterdam, and trying to come to terms and an arrangement with - my family. All in vain. They had no confidence in my promises, proposed - nothing I could accept, talked of Silesian exile—roots and water in - the wilderness—and the like absurdities, until I plainly saw they - were determined to cast me off, and that if I was to be helped at all, it - must be by myself. How to do this was the puzzle. There are few things I - can do, that could in any way be rendered profitable. I can ride a horse, - lay a gun, and put a battery through<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_23a" id="Page_23a">[Pg 23]</a></span> its exercise; but such - accomplishments are sufficiently common not to be paid at a very high - rate; and besides, I had had enough of garrison duty, even could I have - got back my commission, which was not likely. So I put soldiering out of - the question; and yet, when I had done so, I was puzzled to think of - anything better. I had no fancy to turn rook, and rove from place to place - in search of pigeons—no uncommon resource with younger brothers of - an idle turn and exhausted means. I had fallen in with a few birds of that - breed, and had come to the conclusion that, to save themselves work and - trouble, they had adopted by far the most laborious and painful of all - professions. In the midst of my doubts and uncertainties, the fair Sendel - and her mother made their appearance. The first sight of their names upon - the hotel book was a ray of light to me. Within an hour I made up my mind - to sacrifice my independence to my necessities, and become the virtuous - and domesticated spouse of the charming and well-paid Emilie. A hint and a - dollar to the waiter placed me next her at the table-d'hôte, and I - immediately opened my intrenchments, and began a siege in due form." - </p> - <p> - "Which you expect will soon terminate by the capitulation of the - garrison?" - </p> - <p> - "Undoubtedly. The result of the first day or two's operations was not very - satisfactory. I rattled away, and did the amiable to a furious extent; but<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24a" id="Page_24a">[Pg 24]</a></span> the - divinity was shy, and the guardian of the temple (an old gorgon whom I - shall suppress before the honeymoon is out) looked askance at me, and - pulled her daughter by the sleeve whenever she seemed disposed to listen. - They evidently thought the rattle might belong to a snake; did me the - injustice to take me for an adventurer. On the third day, however, the ice - had melted. I soon found out the cause of the thaw. The head-waiter, whom - a little well-timed liberality had rendered my devoted slave, informed me - that Madame Sendel had been making minute inquiries concerning me of the - master of the hotel. The worthy man, who adored me because I despised <i>vin - ordinaire</i> and looked only at the sum-total of his bills, said that I - was a son of Van Haubitz, the rich banker of Amsterdam, which was - perfectly true; adding, which was rather less so, that I was a partner in - the house, and a <i>millionaire</i>. The effect of this information upon - the speculative firm of Sendel <i>Mère et Fille</i>, was perfectly - electric. Medusa smoothed her horrid locks, and came out at that day's - dinner in cherry ribbons and fresh artificials. Emilie was all smiles and - suavity, laughed at my worst jokes, nearly burst her stays by holding her - breath to raise a blush at my soft speeches, and returned from that - evening's promenade talking about the moon, and leaning tenderly on my - arm." - </p> - <p> - "With such encouragement, I am surprised you did not propose at once." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25a" id="Page_25a">[Pg 25]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "So hasty a measure—oh, most unsophisticated of Britons!" replied - Van, with a look of grave pity for my simplicity—"would have greatly - perilled the success of my scheme. Sendel Senior, having only the - innkeeper's report to rely on, would have had her ungenerous suspicions - re-awakened by my precipitation, and have instituted further inquiries; - have written, probably, to some friend in Holland, and learned that the - pretender to her daughter's hand, although unquestionably a son of the - wealthy banker Van Haubitz, is excluded beyond redemption from the good - graces of that respectable pillar of Dutch finance, who has further - announced his irrevocable determination to take not the slightest notice - of him in his testamentary dispositions. The excellent Herr Bratenbengel, - whose succulent dinner we are now digesting, and whose very laudable <i>Rudesheimer</i> - stands before us, had unwittingly laid the foundation of my success; it - was for me to raise the superstructure. Now it was that I rejoiced at my - economy since the lucky hit at the gaming-table. The greater part of my - winnings still remained to me; golden grain, which I profusely scattered, - sure that it would yield rich harvest. I had already made a favourable - impression, and this I took care to confirm by the liberal expenditure - which you, in your ignorance, have called extravagance; by treating money - as if its abundance in my coffers made it valueless in my eyes, and by - delicate generosity in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26a" - id="Page_26a">[Pg 26]</a></span> the shape of presents to mother and - daughter. The trap was too well set to prove a failure; the birds are - fairly snared, and to-night, when we take our usual romantic stroll, I - shall raise the fair Sendel to the seventh heaven of happiness by asking - her to become Madame Van Haubitz." - </p> - <p> - Although the tenor and tone of these confessions by no means tended to - elevate the Dutchman in my opinion, I could not but smile at the coolness - with which they were made, and at the skill of his manœuvres. There - was some good about the scamp; he had his own code of honour, such as it - was, and from that he would not easily have been induced to swerve. He - would have scorned to do a dirty thing, to cheat at cards, or leave a debt - of honour unpaid; but would readily have got in debt to tradesmen and - money-lenders beyond all possibility of reimbursement. And as regarded his - present conspiracy against the celibacy and salary of Mademoiselle Sendel, - a senate of sages and logicians would have failed to convince him of its - impropriety. He looked upon it as a most justifiable stratagem, a lawful - spoiling of the spoiler, praiseworthy in the sight of men, gods, and - columns, and which he would perhaps have boasted of to a considerable - extent to many besides myself, had not secresy been essential to the - welfare of his combinations. I did not feel myself bound to betray his - plot, or to put the Sendel on her guard against this snake amongst the - roses.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27a" id="Page_27a">[Pg 27]</a></span> - And whilst mentally resolving rather to diminish than increase the - intimacy which the confident and confidential artilleryman had in great - measure forced upon me, and which I, through a sort of easy-going - indolence of character, had perhaps somewhat lightly accepted, I - anticipated diversion in watching the manœuvres of the high - contracting parties. I considered myself as a spectator, called upon to - witness an amusing comedy in real life, and admitted behind the scenes by - peculiar favour of an actor. I resolved to watch the progress of the - intrigue, and, if possible, to be present at the <i>dénouement</i>. - </p> - <p> - "Are you quite certain," said I to Van, "that Mademoiselle Sendel's - pecuniary position and prospects are so very favourable? The sum you - mentioned is a large one for an actress who has been so short a time on - the stage. Public report, very apt to take liberties with the reputation - of theatrical ladies, often endeavours to compensate them by magnifying - their salaries." - </p> - <p> - Van, I may here mention, lest the reader should not have perceived it, had - a most inordinate opinion of his own abilities and acuteness. Like certain - Yankees, he "conceited" it was necessary to rise before the sun to outwit - him, and even then your chance was a poor one. He had been in hot water - all his life, never out of difficulties and scrapes—once, as has - been shown, kept from suicide by a mere accident and was now reduced to - the alternative of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28a" id="Page_28a">[Pg - 28]</a></span> beggary or of marrying for a living. None of these - circumstances, which would have taken the conceit out of most men, at all - impaired his opinion of his talent and sharpness. Replying to my - observation merely by a slight shrug, and by a smile of pity for the man - who thus misappreciated his foresight, he again produced his pocket-book, - and extracted from its innermost recesses a fragment of a German - newspaper, reputed oracular in matters theatrical. This he handed to me, - tapping a particular paragraph significantly with his forefinger. The - paragraph was thus conceived:— - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "<span class="smcap">THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE.</span>—That promising - young actress, Fraülein Emilie Sendel—whose first appearance, in the - spring of last year, at once established her in the foremost line of the - dramatic genius of the day—has concluded her twelve months' - engagement at the <i>Hof Theater</i> of B——, where she - doubtless considered, and not without reason, that her talents and - exertions were inadequately compensated by a salary of ten thousand - florins. The gay society of that capital will sensibly feel the loss of - the accomplished and fascinating comedian, who has accepted an engagement - at Vienna, on the more suitable terms of fifteen thousand florins, with - two months' <i>congé</i>, and other advantages. Before proceeding to - ravish the eyes and ears of the pleasure-loving population of the<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29a" id="Page_29a">[Pg 29]</a></span> <i>Kaiser-Stadt, - la belle</i> Sendel is off to the baths, under the protecting wing of the - watchful guardian who has presided at all her theatrical triumphs." - </p> - <p> - "Clear enough, I think," said Van, when I raised my eyes from the - protracted periods of the penny-a-liner. - </p> - <p> - I had nothing to say against the lucidity of the paragraph, nor anything - to urge, at all likely to avail, against the prosecution of Van's designs - upon the lady's hand and fifteen thousand florins, with "two months' <i>congé</i> - and other advantages." No possible sophistry, to which I was equal, could - prove the marriage to be against his interest; and as to trying him on the - tack of delicacy—"imposition on an unprotected woman, degrading - dependence on her exertions," and so forth—I knew the thick skin and - indomitable self-conceit of the gunner would repel such feather-shafts - without feeling them, or that the utmost effect I could expect to produce - would be to get into a quarrel with the redoubtable native of the - Netherlands, a predicament in which, as a man of peace, I was by no means - anxious to find myself. So after hazarding the fruitless hint with which - the reader was made acquainted at the commencement of this narrative, I - abstained from all further intermeddling, and retired to my apartment, - leaving Van Haubitz to con the declaration with which he was that evening<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30a" id="Page_30a">[Pg 30]</a></span> to - rejoice the ears of the fair and too-confiding Sendel. - </p> - <p> - I went to bed early that night, and saw nothing more of the Hollander till - the next morning, when I was roused from a balmy slumber at the untimely - hour of seven, by his bursting into my room with more impetuosity than - ceremony, with the gestures of a maniac and the mien of a conqueror. - Before my eyes were half open, he was more than half through the history - of his proceedings on the previous evening. His success had been complete. - Emilie had faltered, with downcast eyes, a sweet assent. The friendly - gloom of eve, and the over-arching foliage, beneath whose shade the - momentous question was put, saved her the necessity of practising upon her - lungs to produce a blush. Mamma Sendel had bestowed her blessing upon the - happy pair, and in the ardour of her maternal accolades had nearly - extinguished her future son-in-law's left ogle with the wire stalk of an - artificial passion-flower. The first burst of benevolence over, and the - effervescence of feeling a little calmed, the bridegroom elect, who could - not afford delays, pressed for an early day. Thereupon Emilie was, of - course, horror-stricken, but her maternal relative, nothing loth to land - the fish thus satisfactorily hooked, and well aware of the impediments - that sometimes arise between cup and lip, ranged herself upon the side of - the eager lover, and their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31a" - id="Page_31a">[Pg 31]</a></span> combined forces bore down all opposition. - Madame Sendel at first showed an evident hankering after a preliminary - jaunt to Amsterdam and a gay wedding, graced by the presence of the - bridegroom's numerous and wealthy family. She also testified some anxiety - as to the view Van Haubitz Senior might take of his son's matrimonial - project, and as to how far he might approve of a hasty and unceremonious - wedding. But the gallant artilleryman had an answer to everything. He - pledged himself, which he was perfectly safe in doing, that his father - would not attempt in the slightest degree to control his inclinations or - interfere with his projects, extolled the delights of an autumnal tour - with his wife and mother-in-law before returning to Holland; in short, was - so plausible in his arguments, so specious and pressing, pleaded so - eloquently the violence of his love and inutility of delay, and overruled - objections with such cogent reasoning, that he achieved a complete - triumph, and it was agreed that in one week Van Haubitz should lead his - adored Emilie to the hymeneal altar. - </p> - <p> - "There will be a small matter to arrange with respect to Emilie," said - Madame Sendel in her blandest tones, and with affectation of - embarrassment. "She has an engagement at the Vienna theatre, which must of - course now be broken off. There is a forfeit to pay, no very heavy sum," - added she—— - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32a" id="Page_32a">[Pg 32]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Not a word about that," interrupted Van, whose blood curdled in his veins - at the mere idea of cancelling the engagement on which his hopes were - built. "There is no hurry for a few days. Let me once call Emilie mine, - and I take charge of all those matters." - </p> - <p> - Emilie smiled angelically; Madame patted her considerate son-in-law on the - shoulder, and applied to her snuff-box to conceal her emotion; and all - matters of business being thus satisfactorily settled, the evening closed - in harmony and bliss. - </p> - <p> - "Are you for Frankfort to-day?" said Van Haubitz, when he had concluded - his exulting narrative, and without giving me time for congratulations, - which I should have been at a loss to offer. "I am off, after breakfast, - to get some diamond earrings and other small matters for my adorable. I - shall be glad of your taste and opinion." - </p> - <p> - "Diamonds!" I exclaimed. "Farewell, then, to the thousand franc note—" - </p> - <p> - "Pooh! Nonsense! You don't suppose I throw away my last cash that way. The - Frankfort jewellers know me well, or think they do, which is the same - thing. They have seen enough of my coin since I have been at Homburg. For - them, as for my excellent mother-in-law, I am the wealthy partner in the - undoubted good firm of Van Haubitz, Krummwinkel, & Co. I never told - them so; if they choose to imagine it I am not to blame. My<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33a" id="Page_33a">[Pg 33]</a></span> credit - is good. The diamonds shall be paid for—if paid for they must be—out - of Madame Van Haubitz's first quarter's salary." - </p> - <p> - I was meditating an excuse for not accompanying my pertinacious and - unscrupulous acquaintance on his cruise against the Frankfort Israelites, - when he resumed— - </p> - <p> - "By the by," he said, "you will come to church with us. I have arranged it - all. Quite private, for reasons good. Nobody but yourself, Madame Sendel, - and Emilie. You shall act as father, and give away the bride." - </p> - <p> - The start I gave, at this alarming announcement, nearly broke the bed. - This was carrying things rather too far. Not satisfied with rendering me, - by his intrusive and unsolicited confidence, a sort of tacit accomplice in - his manœuvres, this Dutch Gil Blas would fain make me an active - participator. I drew at sight on my imagination, quickened by the peril, - for a letter received the previous evening from a dear and near relative - who lay dangerously ill at Baden-Baden, and to whose sick-bed it was - absolutely necessary I should immediately repair; and, jumping up, I began - to dress in all haste, rang furiously for the bill and a carriage, and - requested Van Haubitz to present my excuses to the ladies, my unexpected - departure at that early hour depriving me of the pleasure of taking leave - of them. The Dutchman swore all manner of <i>donderwetters</i><span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34a" id="Page_34a">[Pg 34]</a></span> and <i>sacraments</i> - that he was grieved at my departure, trusted I should find my friend - better, and be able to return to Frankfort in time for the marriage, but - did not press me to do so, and in reality was too exhilarated by the - success of his machinations to care a straw about the matter. And saying - he must go and write to Amsterdam, he shook me by the hand and left the - room, whistling in loud and joyous key the burthen of a Dutch march. In - less than an hour I was on the road to Frankfort, and that evening I - reached Heidelberg, where some friends of mine had passed the summer. I - expected to find them still there, but they had left for Baden-Baden. - Thither I pursued them, and—as if it were a judgment on me for my - white lie to the Dutchman—arrived there the morrow of their - departure. Baden was thinning, and they had gone down stream: I must have - passed them on the Rhine. Having strong reasons to see them before they - left Germany, I followed upon their trail. But their movements were rapid - and eccentric, and after tracking them to one or two of the minor baths, - the chase led me back to Frankfort. Here I made sure to catch them, or - resolved to give up the hunt. - </p> - <p> - A week had been consumed in thus travelling to and fro. I had no great - fancy for returning to Frankfort, lest my friend the Dutchman should still - be there, and press his society upon me, of which,<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_35a" id="Page_35a">[Pg 35]</a></span> after his recent - revelations, I was anything but ambitious. Upon the whole, however, I - thought it likely he would have departed. I knew he would accelerate his - marriage as much as possible; I had been nine days absent, which gave him - ample time to get over the ceremony and leave the neighbourhood. By way of - precaution I resolved to keep pretty close in my hotel during the period - of my stay, which was not to exceed one or two days. - </p> - <p> - On arriving at the "White Swan," I found my friends were staying there, - but had driven over to Homburg. Unwilling to follow them, and risk meeting - my bugbear, I awaited their return, which was to take place to a late - dinner. As usual, there was much bustle at the "Swan;" many goings and - comings, several carriages in the courtyard, others in the street packing - for departure, a throng of greedy <i>lohn-kutschers</i>, warm waiters, and - bearded couriers hanging about the door, and running up and down stairs. I - entered the public room. It was past noon, and the tables were laid for - dinner, but there were only two persons in the apartment, a gentleman and - a lady. They stood at a window, outside of which a handsome Vienna-made - berline, with a count's coronet on the panels, was being got ready for a - journey. As I walked up the room, the lady turned her head, and I was - instantly struck by her resemblance to Emilie Sendel. So strong was it - that I for a moment thought I had fallen in with<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_36a" id="Page_36a">[Pg 36]</a></span> the very persons I wished - to avoid. A second glance convinced me of my error. The likeness was - certainly startling, but there were many points of difference. Age and - stature were the same, so were the hair and complexion, save that the - former was less ruddy, the latter paler than in the case of the buxom - Emilie. And there were grace and refinement about this person, far beyond - any to which the Dutchman's lady-love could pretend. The expression of the - interesting features was rather pensive than gay, and there was something - classical in the arch of the eyebrow and outline of the face. The lady was - plainly but richly attired in an elegant travelling-dress, and had her - hand upon the arm of a tall and very handsome man, about forty years of - age, of singularly aristocratic but somewhat dissipated appearance. They - were talking as I entered, and a sentence or two of their conversation - reached my ear. They spoke French, with a scarcely perceptible foreign - accent. - </p> - <p> - Curious to know who these persons were, I returned to the court of the - hotel, intending to question a waiter. It was first necessary to catch - one, not easy at that busy time of day; and after several fruitless - efforts to detain the jacketed gentry, I gave up the attempt, and took my - station at the gateway. Scarcely had I done so, when a carriage drove up - at a rattling pace, a small spit of a boy in a smart green suit, and with - an ambiguous sort of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37a" id="Page_37a">[Pg - 37]</a></span> coronet embroidered in silver on the front of his cap, - jumped off and opened the door, and there emerged from the vehicle, to my - infinite dismay, the inevitable Van Haubitz. Retreat was impossible, for - he saw me directly; and after handing out Madame Sendel and her daughter, - seized me vehemently by both hands. - </p> - <p> - "Delighted to see you!" he cried; "I wish you had been a day sooner. We - were married yesterday," he added in a hurried voice, drawing me aside. - "Have left Homburg, paid everything <i>there</i>, and leave this to-morrow - for Heaven knows where. Explanations must come first (here he made a - grimace), for my purse is low, and my mother-in-law makes projects that - would ruin Rothschild. Lucky you are here to back me. Come in." - </p> - <p> - I was fairly caught, and in a pretty dilemma. My first thought was to - knock down the Dutchman, and run for it, but reflection checked the - impulse. Stammering a confused congratulation to the bride and her mother, - and meditating an escape at all hazards, I allowed Madame Sendel to hook - herself on my arm, and lead me into the hotel in the wake of the - newly-wedded pair, who made at once for the public room. A magnificent - courier, in a Hungarian dress, with beard, belt, and hunting-knife, strode - past us into the apartment. - </p> - <p> - "<i>Herr Graf</i>," said the man, addressing the distinguished-looking - stranger who had attracted my attention, "the horses are ready." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38a" id="Page_38a">[Pg 38]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - The Count and his companion turned at the announcement, and found - themselves face to face with our party. There was a general start and - exclamation from the three women. The strange lady turned very pale and - visibly trembled; Madame Van Haubitz gave a slight scream; her mother - flushed as red as the poppies in her head-dress, and hung like a log upon - my arm, glaring angrily at the strangers. For one moment all stood still; - Van Haubitz and I looked at each other in bewilderment. He was evidently - struck by the extraordinary resemblance I had noticed, and which became - more manifest, now that the two ladies were seen together. - </p> - <p> - "Come, Ameline," said the Count, who alone preserved complete - self-possession. And he hurried his companion from the room. Madame Sendel - released my arm, and letting herself fall upon a chair with an hysterical - giggle, closed her eyes and seemed preparing for a comfortable swoon. Her - daughter hastened to her assistance and untied her bonnet; Van Haubitz - grasped a decanter of water and made an alarming demonstration of emptying - it upon the full-moon countenance of his respectable mother-in-law. I was - curious to see him do it, for I had always had my doubts whether the - dowager's colours were what is technically termed "fast." My curiosity was - not gratified. Whether from apprehension of the remedy or from some other - cause,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39a" id="Page_39a">[Pg 39]</a></span> - I cannot say, but Madame Sendel abandoned her faint, and after two or - three grotesque contortions of countenance, and a certain amount of - winking and blinking, was sufficiently recovered to take a huge pinch of - snuff, and ascend the stairs to a private room, with her daughter and - son-in-law for supporters, and half-a-score waiters and chambermaids, whom - her hysterical symptoms had assembled, by way of a tail. Seeing her so - well guarded, I thought it unnecessary to add to the escort. As she left - the room, there was a clatter of hoofs outside, and looking through the - window, I saw the coroneted berline whirled rapidly away by four vigorous - posters. Just then the dinner-bell rang, and the obsequious head-waiter, - who with profound bows had assisted at the departure of the travellers, - bustled into the room. - </p> - <p> - "Who is the gentleman who has just left?" I inquired. - </p> - <p> - "His Excellency, Count J——," replied the man. It was the name - of a Hungarian nobleman of great wealth, and of reputation almost European - as one of the most fashionable and successful Lotharios of the dissipated - Austrian capital. - </p> - <p> - "And his companion?" - </p> - <p> - "The celebrated actress, Fraülein Sendel." - </p> - <p> - Had the cunning but unlucky Van Haubitz been a regular reader of the <i>Theater - Zeitung</i>, or Journal of the Theatres, he would have seen, in the - ensuing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40a" id="Page_40a">[Pg 40]</a></span> - number to that whence he derived his information respecting Mademoiselle - Sendel's confirmed popularity and advantageous engagement, the following - short but important paragraph: - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "<span class="smcap">ERRATUM.</span>—In our yesterday's impression - an error occurred, arising from a similarity of names. It is Fraülein <i>Ameline</i> - Sendel who has concluded with the Vienna theatre an engagement equally - advantageous to herself and the manager. Her elder sister, Fraülein <i>Emilie</i>, - continues the engagement she has already held for two seasons, as a - supernumerary <i>soubrette</i>. The amount stated yesterday as her salary - would still be correct, with the abstraction of a zero. Talent does not - always run in families." - </p> - <p> - This good-natured paragraph, evidently from the pen of a sulky sub-editor, - smarting under a lashing for his blunder of the preceding day, did not - come to my knowledge till some time afterwards, so that the waiter's reply - to my question concerning Count J——'s travelling-companion - perplexed me greatly, and plunged me into an ocean of conjectures. In - fact, my curiosity was so strongly roused, that instead of availing myself - of the absence of the Dutchman to escape from the hotel, I sat down to - dinner, resolved not to depart till I heard the mystery explained. I had - not long to wait. Dinner was just over, when I received a message from Van<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41a" id="Page_41a">[Pg 41]</a></span> - Haubitz, who earnestly desired to see me. I found him alone, seated at a - table, his chin resting on his hand, anger, shame, and mortification - stamped upon his inflamed countenance. A tumbler half full of water stood - upon the table, beside a bottle of smelling salts; and, upon entering, I - was pretty sure I heard a sound of sobbing from an inner room, which - ceased, however, when I spoke. There had evidently been a violent scene. - Its cause was explained to me by Van Haubitz, at first in rather a - confused manner, for at each attempt to detail the circumstances he - interrupted himself by bursts of fury. Owing to this, it was some time - before I could arrive at a clear understanding of the facts of the case. - When I did, I could scarcely help feeling sorry for the unfortunate - schemer, although in truth he richly deserved the disappointment he had - met. Never was there a more glaring instance of excess of cunning - overreaching itself,—for no deception had been practised by Madame - Sendel and her daughter. They doubtless gave themselves credit for some - cleverness and more good fortune in enticing a rich banker, with more - ducats than brains, into their matrimonial nets; and doubtless Fraülein - Emilie put on her best looks and gowns, her sweetest smiles and most - becoming bonnets, to lure the lion into the toils. But neither mother nor - daughter had for a moment imagined that Van Haubitz took the latter for - the celebrated and successful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42a" - id="Page_42a">[Pg 42]</a></span> actress whose name was known throughout - Germany, whilst that of poor Emilie, whose talents were of the most humble - order, had scarcely ever penetrated beyond the wings and greenroom of the - theatre, where she enacted unimportant characters for the modest - remuneration of a hundred florins a month. By no means proud of her - position as an actress, which appeared the more lowly when contrasted with - her sister's brilliant success, Emilie had seldom referred to things - theatrical since her acquaintance with Van Haubitz. On his part, the - Dutchman, conscious of his real motives and anxious to conceal them, - abstained from all direct reference to Mademoiselle Sendel's great talents - and their lucrative results, contenting himself with general compliments, - which passed current without being closely scanned. If he had never heard - either his wife or mother-in-law make mention of Ameline, it was because - they were on the worst possible terms with that young lady, who had lived, - nearly from the period of her first appearance upon the boards, under the - protection of the accomplished libertine, Count J——, over whom - she was said to exercise extraordinary influence. When she formed this - connection, Madame Sendel—who, in spite of her paint and artificial - floriculture, had very strict notions of propriety—wrote her a - letter of furious reproach, renounced her as her daughter, and prohibited - Emilie from holding any communication<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_43a" id="Page_43a">[Pg 43]</a></span> with her. Emilie, against - whose virtue none had ever found aught to say, sorrowfully obeyed; and, - after two or three ineffectual attempts on the part of Ameline to soften - her mother's wrath, all communication ceased between them. Their next - meeting was that at which Van Haubitz and myself were present. Its - singularity, Madame Sendel's fainting fit, and the resemblance between the - sisters, brought on inquiries and an explanation; and the Dutchman found, - to his inexpressible disgust and consternation, that he had encumbered - himself with a wife he cared nothing for, and a mother-in-law he detested, - whose joint income was largely stated at one hundred and fifty pounds - sterling per annum. In his first paroxysm of rage he taunted them with the - mistake they had made when they thought to secure the love-sick - millionaire, proclaimed himself in debt, disinherited, and a beggar; and, - finally, by the violence of his reproaches, drove them trembling and - weeping from the room. - </p> - <p> - Van Haubitz had sent for me to implore my advice in his present difficult - position; but was so bewildered by passion, and overwhelmed by this sudden - awakening from his dream of success and prosperity, that he was hardly in - a condition to listen to reason. His regrets were so selfish as to destroy - the possibility of sympathy, and I should have left him to his fate and - his own devices, had I not thought that my so doing would make matters<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44a" id="Page_44a">[Pg 44]</a></span> worse - for the poor girl who had thus heedlessly linked herself to a - fortune-hunter. So I remained; after a while he became calmer, and we - talked over plans for the future. By my suggestion, Madame Sendel and her - daughter were invited to the conference. The old lady was sulky and - frightened, and would hardly open her lips; Emilie, on the other hand, - made a more favourable impression on me than she had ever previously done. - I now saw, what I had not before suspected, that she was really attached - to Van Haubitz; hitherto, I had taken her for a mere adventuress, - speculating on his supposed wealth. She spoke kindly and affectionately to - him, smiled through the tears brought to her eyes by his recent violence, - and evidently trembled each time her mother spoke, lest she should vent a - reproach or refer to his duplicity. She tried to speak confidently and - cheerfully of the future. They must go immediately to Vienna, she said; - there she would apply diligently to her profession; the manager had half - promised her an increase of salary after another year—she was sure - she should deserve it, and meanwhile Van Haubitz, with his abilities, - could not fail to find some lucrative employment. He must get rid of his - accent, she added with a smile (he spoke a voluble but most execrable - jargon of mingled Dutch and German), and then he might go upon the stage, - where she was certain he would succeed. This last suggestion was made - timidly, as if she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45a" id="Page_45a">[Pg - 45]</a></span> feared to hurt the pride of the scapegrace by proposing - such a plan. There was not a word or an accent of reproach in all she - said, and I heartily forgave the little coquetry, affectation, and - vulgarity I had formerly remarked in her, in consideration of the - intuitive delicacy and good feeling she now displayed. Truly, thought I, - it is humbling to us, the bearded and baser moiety of humankind, to - contrast our vile egotism with the beautiful self-devotion of woman, as - exhibited even in this poor actress. - </p> - <p> - Madame Sendel by no means acquiesced in her daughter's project. The - flesh-pots of Amsterdam had attractions for her, far superior to those of - a struggling and uncertain existence at Vienna. She evidently leaned upon - the hope of a reconciliation between Van Haubitz and his father, and - hinted pretty plainly at the effect that might be produced by a personal - interview with the obdurate banker. I could see she was arranging matters - in her queer old noddle upon the approved theatrical principle; the - penitent son and fascinating daughter-in-law throwing themselves at the - feet of the melting father, who, with handkerchief to eyes, bestows on - them a blubbering benediction and ample subsidy. To my surprise, Van - Haubitz also seemed disposed to place hope in an appeal to his father, - perhaps as a drowning man clutches at a straw. He may have thought that - his marriage, imprudent as it was, would be taken as some guarantee of<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46a" id="Page_46a">[Pg 46]</a></span> future - steadiness, or at least of abstinence from the spendthrift courses which - had hitherto destroyed all confidence in him. He could hardly expect his - union with a penniless actress to reinstate him in his father's good - graces; but he probably imagined he might extract a small annuity, as a - condition of living at a distance from the friends he had disgraced. He - asked me what I thought of the plan. I of course did not dissuade him from - its adoption, and upon the whole thought it his best chance, for I really - saw no other. After some deliberation and discussion, he seemed nearly to - have made up his mind, when I was called away to my friends, who had - returned from their excursion. - </p> - <p> - I was getting into bed that night, when Van Haubitz knocked at my door, - and entered the room with a downcast and dejected air, very different from - his usual boisterous headlong manner. - </p> - <p> - "I am off to Holland," he said; "'tis my only chance, bad though it be." - </p> - <p> - "I sincerely wish you success," replied I. "In any case, do not despair; - something will turn up. You have friends in your own country, I have heard - you say. They will help you to occupation." - </p> - <p> - He shook his head. - </p> - <p> - "Good friends over a bottle and a dice-box," said he, "but useless at a - pinch like this. Pleasant fellows enough, but scamps like"—myself, - he was going to add, but did not. "I am come to say<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_47a" id="Page_47a">[Pg 47]</a></span> farewell," he continued. - "I must be off before daybreak. I have debts in Frankfort, and if my - departure gets wind, I shall have a dozen duns on my back. Misfortunes - never come alone. As for paying, it is out of the question. Amongst us we - have only about enough money to reach Amsterdam. Once there—<i>à la - grace de Dieu!</i> but I confess my hopes are small. Thanks for your - advice—and for your sympathy too, for I saw this morning you were - sorry for me, though you did not think I deserved pity. Well, perhaps not. - God bless you." - </p> - <p> - He was leaving the room, but returned. - </p> - <p> - "I think you said you should stay at Coblenz before returning to England." - </p> - <p> - "I shall probably be there a few days towards the end of the month." - </p> - <p> - "Good. If I succeed, you shall hear from me. What is your address there?" - </p> - <p> - "<i>Poste restante</i> will find me," I replied, not very covetous of the - correspondence, and unwilling to give a more exact direction. - </p> - <p> - Van Haubitz nodded and left me. At breakfast the next morning I learned - that the Dutch baron, as the waiter styled him, had taken his departure at - peep of day. - </p> - <p> - The first days of October found me still at Coblenz, lingering amongst the - valleys and vineyards, and loth to exchange them for the autumnal fogs<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48a" id="Page_48a">[Pg 48]</a></span> and - emptiness of London. Thither, however, I was compelled to return; and I - endeavoured to console myself for the necessity by discovering that the - green Rhine grew brown, the trees scant of leaves, the evenings long and - chilly. I had heard nothing of Van Haubitz, and had ceased to think of - him, when, walking out at dusk on the eve of the day fixed for my - departure, I suddenly encountered him. He had just arrived by a steamboat - coming up stream; his wife and mother-in-law were with him, and they were - about to enter a fifth-rate inn, which, two months previously, he would - have felt insulted if solicited to patronise. I was shocked by the change - that had taken place in all three of them. In five weeks they had grown - five years older. Emilie had lost her freshness, her eye its sparkle; and - the melancholy smile with which she welcomed me made my heart ache. Madame - Sendel's rotund cheeks had collapsed, she looked cross and jaundiced, and - more snuffy than ever. Van Haubitz was thin and haggard, his hair and - mustaches, formerly glossy and well-trimmed, were ragged and neglected, - his dress, once so smart and carefully arranged, was soiled and slovenly. - My imagination supplied a rapid and vivid sketch of the anxieties, and - disappointments, and heart-burnings, which, more than any actual bodily - privations, had worked so great a change in so short a time. Van Haubitz - started on seeing me, and faltered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49a" - id="Page_49a">[Pg 49]</a></span> in his pace, as if unwilling to enter the - shabby hotel in my presence. The hesitation was momentary. "Worse quarters - than we used to meet in," said he, with a bitter smile. "I will not ask - you into this dog-hole. Wait an instant, and I will walk with you." - </p> - <p> - Badly as I thought of Van Haubitz, and indisposed as I was to keep up any - acquaintance with him, I had not the heart, seeing him so miserable and - down in the world, to turn my back upon him at once. So I entered the - hotel, and waited in the public room. In a few minutes he reappeared with - the two ladies, and we all four strolled out in the direction of the - Rhine. I did not ask the Dutchman the result of his journey. It was - unnecessary. His disheartened air and general appearance told the tale of - disappointment, of humiliating petitions sternly rejected, of hopes fled - and a cheerless future. He kept silence the while we walked a hundred - yards, and then, having left his wife and mother-in-law out of ear-shot, - abruptly began the tale of his mishaps. As I conjectured, he had totally - failed in his attempt to mollify his father, who was furious at his - temerity in appearing before him, and whose rage redoubled when he heard - of his ill-omened marriage. Unfortunately for Van Haubitz, the jeweller - and some other tradesmen at Frankfort, so soon as they learned his - departure, had forwarded their accounts to the care of the<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50a" id="Page_50a">[Pg 50]</a></span> - Amsterdam firm; and, although his father had not the remotest intention of - paying them, he was incensed in the extreme at the slur thus cast upon his - house and name. In short, the unlucky artilleryman at once saw he had no - chance of a single kreuzer, or of the slightest countenance from his - father. His applications to his brothers, and to one or two more distant - relatives, were equally unsuccessful. All were disgusted at his - irregularities, angry at his marriage, incredulous of his promises of - reform; and, after passing a miserable month in Amsterdam, he set out to - accompany his wife to Vienna, whither she was compelled to repair under - pain of fine and forfeiture of her engagement. Although living with rigid - economy—on bread and water, as Van Haubitz expressed it—their - finances had been utterly consumed by their stay in the Dutch capital, and - it was only by disposing of every trinket and superfluity (and of - necessaries too, I feared, when I remembered the slender baggage that came - up with them from the boat) that they had procured the means of - travelling, in the cheapest and most humble manner, and with the - disheartening certainty of arriving penniless at Vienna. Van Haubitz told - me all this, and many other details, with an air of gloomy despondency. He - was hopeless, heart-broken, desperate; and certain circumstances of his - position, which by some would have been held an alleviation, aggravated it<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51a" id="Page_51a">[Pg 51]</a></span> in his - eyes. He said little of his wife; but, from what escaped him, I easily - gathered that she had shown strength of mind, good feeling and affection - for him, and was willing to struggle by his side for a scanty and - hard-earned subsistence. His cares and irritable mood prevented his - appreciating her attachment, and he looked upon her as an encumbrance, - without which he might again rise in the world. He had always entertained - a confident expectation of enriching himself by marriage; and this hope, - which had buoyed him up under many difficulties, was now gone. - </p> - <p> - "I have one resource left," said Van Haubitz. "I have pondered over it for - the last two days, and have almost determined on its adoption." - </p> - <p> - "What is it?" I asked. - </p> - <p> - "If I decide upon it," he replied, "you shall shortly know. 'Tis a - desperate one enough." - </p> - <p> - We had insensibly slackened our pace, and at this moment the ladies came - up. Van Haubitz made a gesture, as of impatience at the interruption. - </p> - <p> - "Wait for me here," he said, and walked away. Without speculating upon the - motive of his absence, I stood still, and entered into conversation with - the ladies. We were on the quay. The night was mild and calm, but overcast - and exceedingly dark. A few feet below us rolled the dark mass of the - Rhine, slightly swollen by recent rains. A<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_52a" id="Page_52a">[Pg 52]</a></span> light from an adjacent - window illuminated the spot, and cast a flickering gleam across the water. - Unwilling to refer to their misfortunes, I spoke to Emilie on some general - topic. But Madame Sendel was too full of her troubles to tolerate any - conversation that did not immediately relate to them, and she broke in - with a long history of grievances, of the hard-heartedness of the - Amsterdam relations, the cruelty of Emilie's position, her son-in-law's - helplessness, and various other matters, in a querulous tone, and with - frightful volubility. The poor daughter, I plainly saw, winced under this - infliction. I was waiting the smallest opening to interrupt the indiscreet - old lady, and revert to common-place, when a distant splash in the water - reached my ears. The women also heard it, and at the same instant a - presentiment of evil came over us all. Madame Sendel suddenly held her - tongue and her breath; Emilie turned deadly pale, and without saying a - word, flew along the quay in the direction of the sound. She had gone but - a few yards when her strength failed her, and she would have fallen, but - for my support. There was a shout, and a noise of men running. Leaving - Madame Van Haubitz to the care of her mother, I ran swiftly along the - river side, and soon reached a place where the deep water moaned and - surged against the perpendicular quay. Here several men were assembled, - talking hurriedly and pointing to the river. Others<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_53a" id="Page_53a">[Pg 53]</a></span> each moment arrived, and - two boats were hastily shoved off from an adjacent landing-place. - </p> - <p> - "A man in the river," was the reply to my hasty inquiry. - </p> - <p> - It was so dark that I could not distinguish countenances close to me, and - at a very few yards even the outline of objects was scarcely to be - discerned. There were no houses close at hand, and some minutes elapsed - before lights were procured. At last several boats put off, with men - standing in the bows, holding torches and lanterns high in the air. - Meanwhile I had questioned the bystanders, but could get little - information; none as to the person to whom the accident had happened. The - man who had given the alarm was returning from mooring his boat to a - neighbouring jetty, when he perceived a figure moving along the quay a - short distance in his front. The figure disappeared, a heavy splash - followed, and the boatman ran forward. He could see no one either on shore - or in the stream, but heard a sound as of one striking out and struggling - in the water. Having learned this much, I jumped into a boat just then - putting off, and bid the rowers pull down stream, keeping a short distance - from the quay. The current ran strong, and I doubted not that the drowning - man had been carried along by it. Two vigorous oars-men pulled till the - blades bent, and the boat, aided by the stream, flew through the water. A - third<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54a" id="Page_54a">[Pg 54]</a></span> - man held a torch. I strained my eyes through the darkness. Presently a - small object floated within a few feet of the boat, which was rapidly - passing it. It shone in the torchlight. I struck at it with a boat-hook, - and brought it on board. It was a man's cap, covered with oilskin, and I - remembered that Van Haubitz wore such a one. Stripping off the cover, I - beheld an officer's foraging cap, with a grenade embroidered on its front. - My doubts, slight before, were entirely dissipated. - </p> - <p> - When the search, rendered almost hopeless by the extreme darkness and - power of the current, was at last abandoned, I hastened to the hotel, and - inquired for Madame Sendel. She came to me in a state of great agitation. - Van Haubitz had not returned, but she thought less of that than of the - state of her daughter, who, since recovering from a long swoon, had been - almost crazed with anxiety. She knew some one had been drowned, and her - mind misgave her it was her husband. The foraging-cap, which Madame Sendel - immediately recognised, removed all uncertainty. The only hope remaining - was, that Van Haubitz, although carried rapidly away by the power of the - current, had been able to maintain himself on the surface, and had got - ashore at some considerable distance down the river, or had been picked up - by a passing boat. But this was a very feeble hope, and for my own<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55a" id="Page_55a">[Pg 55]</a></span> part, - and for more than one reason, I placed no reliance on it. I left Madame - Sendel to break the painful intelligence to her daughter, and went home, - promising to call again in the morning. - </p> - <p> - As I had expected, nothing was heard of Van Haubitz, nor any vestige of - him found, save the foraging-cap I had picked up. Doubtless, the Rhine had - borne down his lifeless corpse to the country of his birth. The next day - Coblenz rang with the death of the unfortunate Dutchman. A stranger, and - unacquainted with the localities, he was supposed to have walked over the - quay by accident. I thought differently; and so I knew did Madame Sendel - and Emilie. I saw the former early the next day. She was greatly cast down - about her daughter, who had passed a sleepless night, and was weak and - suffering, but who nevertheless insisted on continuing her journey the - following morning. - </p> - <p> - "We must go," said her mother; "if we delay, Emilie loses her engagement, - and how can we both live on my poor jointure? Weeping will not bring him - back, were he worth it. To think of the misery he has caused us!" - </p> - <p> - I ventured to hint an inquiry as to their means of prosecuting their - journey. The old lady understood the intention, and took it kindly. "But - she needed no assistance," she said; Van Haubitz (and<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_56a" id="Page_56a">[Pg 56]</a></span> this confirmed our strong - suspicion of suicide) had given their little stock of money into his - wife's keeping only a few hours before his death. - </p> - <p> - That afternoon I left Coblenz for England. - </p> - <hr class="tb" /> - <p> - On a certain Wednesday, about ten years after the incidents I have - sketched, I had been enjoying the excellent acting of Bouffé in two of his - best characters, and paused for a moment to speak to a friend in the - crowded lobby of the St James's Theatre. Whilst thus engaged, I became - aware that I was an object of attention to two persons, whom I had an - indistinct notion of having seen before, but when or where, or who they - might be, I had not the remotest idea. One of them was a - comfortable-looking, middle-aged man, with a bald head, a smooth, - clean-shaven face, and an incipient ventral rotundity. His complexion was - clear and wholesome, his countenance good-humoured, his whole appearance - bespoke an existence free from care, nights of sound sleep, and days of - tranquil enjoyment. His face was too sleek to be very expressive, but - there was a shrewd, quick look in the eye, and I set him down in my mind - as a wealthy German merchant or manufacturer (some small peculiarities of - costume betrayed the foreigner) come to show London to his wife—a - well-favoured dame,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57a" id="Page_57a">[Pg - 57]</a></span> fat, fair, but some years short of forty—who - accompanied him, and who, as well as her better half, seemed to honour me - with very particular notice. My confabulation over, I was leaving the - theatre, when a sleek soft hand was gently passed through my arm. It was - my friend the stout foreigner. I strained my eyes and my memory, but in - vain; I felt very puzzled, and doubtless looked so, for he smiled, and - advancing his head, whispered a name in my ear. It was that of Van - Haubitz. - </p> - <p> - I started, looked again, doubted, and was at last convinced. <i>Minus</i> - mustache and whisker, which were closely shaven, and half his hair, of - which the remainder was considerably grizzled; <i>plus</i> a degree of - corpulence such as I should never have thought the slender lieutenant of - artillery capable of acquiring; his heated, sunburnt complexion and - dissipated look, exchanged for a fresh colour and benevolent placidity—the - Dutchman I had left in the Rhine stood beside me in the lobby of the - French theatre. I turned to the lady: she was less changed than her - companion, and now that I was upon the track, I recognised Emilie Sendel. - By this time we were in the street. Van Haubitz handed his wife into a - carriage. - </p> - <p> - "Come and sup with us," he said, "and I will explain." - </p> - <p> - I mechanically obeyed, and in less than three minutes, still tongue-tied - by astonishment, I alighted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58a" - id="Page_58a">[Pg 58]</a></span> at the door of a fashionable hotel in a - street adjoining Piccadilly. - </p> - <p> - A few lines will convey to the reader the substance of the long - conversation which kept the resuscitated Dutchman and myself from our beds - for fully two hours after our unexpected meeting. I had been right in - supposing that he had thrown himself voluntarily into the river; wrong in - my belief that he meditated suicide. An excellent swimmer, he had taken - the water to get rid of his wife. He might certainly have chosen a drier - method, and have given her the slip in the night-time or on the road; but - she had shown, whenever he referred to the possibility of their - separation, such a determination to remain with him at all risks and - sacrifices, that he felt certain she would pursue him as soon as she - discovered his absence. He had formed a wild scheme of returning to - Amsterdam, and haunting his family until, through mere weariness and - vexation, they supplied him with funds for an outfit to Sumatra. There he - trusted to redeem his fortunes, as he had heard that others of no greater - abilities or better character than himself had already done. A more - extravagant project was never formed, and indeed all his acts, during the - six weeks that followed his marriage, were more or less eccentric and - ill-judged. This he admitted, when relating them to me, and probably would - not have been sorry to place them to the score of actual mental<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59a" id="Page_59a">[Pg 59]</a></span> - derangement. The redeeming touch in his conduct at that, the most - discreditable period of his life, was his leaving, as I have already - mentioned, what money he had to his wife and her mother, reserving but a - few florins for his own support. With these in his pocket, he proposed - proceeding on foot to Amsterdam. After landing on the right bank of the - Rhine, he walked the greater part of the night as the best means of drying - his saturated garments. When weariness at last compelled him to pause, it - was not yet daylight, no house was open, and he threw himself on some - straw in a farmyard. He awoke in a high fever, the result of his - immersion, of exposure and fatigue, acting on a frame heated and weakened - by anxiety and mental suffering. He obtained shelter at the neighbouring - farm-house, whose kind-hearted inhabitants carefully tended him for - several weeks, during which his life was more than once despaired of. His - convalescence was long, and not till the close of the year could he resume - his journey northwards, by short stages, chiefly on foot. Unfavourable as - his prospects were, his good star had not yet set. This very illness, as - occasioning a delay, was a stroke of good fortune. Had he at once - proceeded to Holland, his family, in hopes to get rid of him for ever, - would probably have given him the small sum he needed for an outfit to the - Indian Archipelago, and he would have sailed thither before the 31st of - December, on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60a" id="Page_60a">[Pg 60]</a></span> - which day his father, a joyous liver and confirmed votary of Bacchus, eat - and drank to such an extent to celebrate the exit of the old year and - commencement of the new, that he fell down, on his way to his bed, in a - thundering fit of apoplexy, and was a corpse before morning. The day of - his funeral, Van Haubitz, footsore and emaciated, and reduced to his last - pfenning, walked wearily into the city of Amsterdam. There a great - surprise awaited him. - </p> - <p> - "Your father had not disinherited you?" I exclaimed, when the Dutchman - made a momentary pause at this point of his narrative. - </p> - <p> - "He had left a will devising his entire property to my brothers, and not - even naming me. But a slight formality was omitted, which rendered the - document of no more value than the parchment it was drawn upon. The - signature was wanting. My father had the weakness, no uncommon one, of - disliking whatever reminded him of his mortality. He would have fancied - himself nearer his grave had he signed his will. And thus he had delayed - till it was too late. I found myself joint heir with my brothers. By far - the greater part of my father's large capital was embarked in his bank, - and in extensive financial operations, which it would have been necessary - to liquidate at considerable disadvantage, to operate the partition - prescribed by law. Seeing this, I proposed to my brothers to admit me as - partner in the firm, with the stipulation that I<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_61a" id="Page_61a">[Pg 61]</a></span> should have no active - share in its direction, until my knowledge of business and steadiness of - conduct gave them the requisite confidence in me. After some deliberation - they agreed to this; and three years later their opinion of me had - undergone such a change, that two of them retired to estates in the - country, leaving me the chief management of the concern." - </p> - <p> - "And Madame Van Haubitz; when did she rejoin you?" - </p> - <p> - "Immediately the change in my fortunes occurred. Reckless as I at that - time was, and utterly devoid of feeling as you must have thought me, I - could not remember without emotion the disinterested affection, delicacy, - and unselfishness she had exhibited on discovery of my real circumstances. - During my long illness I had had time to reflect, and when I left my - sick-bed in that rude but hospitable German farm-house, it was as a - penitent for past offences, and with a strong resolution to atone them. - Within a week after my father's funeral, I was on my way to Vienna, to - fetch Emilie to the opulent home she had anticipated when she married me. - Her joy at seeing me was scarcely increased when she heard that I had - become the rich banker she had at first thought me." - </p> - <p> - "And Madame Sendel?" - </p> - <p> - "Returned to Amsterdam with us. There was good about the old lady, and by - purloining her artificials,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62a" - id="Page_62a">[Pg 62]</a></span> limiting her snuff, and soaking her in - tea, she was made endurable enough. Until her death, which occurred a - couple of years ago, she passed her time alternately with us and her - younger daughter." - </p> - <p> - "She became reconciled to Mademoiselle Ameline?" - </p> - <p> - "Ameline had been Countess J—— all the time. She was privately - married. For certain family reasons the Count had conditioned that their - union should for a while be kept secret. Seeing that her equivocal - position and her mother's displeasure preyed upon her health and spirits, - he declared his marriage. She left the stage to become a reigning beauty - in the best society of Austria, lady of half-a-dozen castles, and - sovereign mistress of as many thousand Hungarian boors." - </p> - <p> - Van Haubitz remained some time in London, and I saw him often. He was as - much changed in character as in personal appearance. The sharp lessons - received about the period of our first acquaintance had made a strong - impression on him; and the summer tide of prosperity suddenly setting in, - had enabled him to realise good intentions and honourable resolves, which - the chill current of adversity might have frozen in the germ. Some of - those who read these lines may have occasion, when visiting the country - stigmatised by the snarling Frenchman as the land of <i>canards</i>, <i>canaux</i>, - and <i>canaille</i>,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63a" id="Page_63a">[Pg - 63]</a></span> to receive cash in the busy counting-house, and hospitality - in the princely mansion of one of its most respected bankers. None, I am - well assured, will discern in their amiable and exemplary entertainer any - vestige of the disreputable impulses and evil passions that sullied the - early life of "My Friend the Dutchman." - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64a" id="Page_64a">[Pg 64]</a></span> - </p> - <h2> - <a name="COLLEGE_FRIENDS_II" id="COLLEGE_FRIENDS_II">MY COLLEGE FRIENDS.</a> - </h2> - <p class="center"> - No. II. - </p> - <p class="center"> - HORACE LEICESTER. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - <span class="small">[<i>MAGA.</i> <span class="smcap">August 1845.</span>]</span> - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="dropcap"> - Oxford! Alma Mater! not to love thee were indeed the ingratitude of a - degenerate son. Let the whiners of the Conventicle rail at thee for a - mother of heretics, and the Joseph Humes of domestic economy propose to - adapt the scale of thy expenses to their own narrow notions—I uphold - thee to be the queen of all human institutions—the incarnated union - of Church and State—royal in thy revenues as in thy expenditure—thy - doctrine as orthodox as thy dinners, thy politics as sound as thy port. - </p> - <p> - Oxford! who are they that rail at her? who dare to lift their voice - against that seat of high and holy memories? The man who boasts a private - education (so private, that his most intimate friends have never found it - out), who, innocent himself of all academic experiences and associations, - grudges to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65a" id="Page_65a">[Pg 65]</a></span> - others that superiority which they never boast indeed, but to which his - secret soul bears envious witness. Or the rich nonconformist, risen - perhaps from obscurity to a rank in society which gives him the choice of - indulging either his spleen or his pride—either to send his eldest - son as a gentleman-commoner to Christ-Church, to swallow the Thirty-nine - Articles with his champagne; or to have his fling at the Church through - her universities—accusing Churchmen of bigotry, and exclusiveness, - and illiberality, because Dissenters do not found colleges of their own. - Or, worse than all, the unworthy disciple who (like the noxious plant that - has grown up beneath the shade of some goodly tree) has drawn no nobility - of soul from the associations which surrounded his ungrateful youth: for - whom all the reality and romance of academic education were alike in vain: - sneering at the honours which he could not obtain, denying the existence - of opportunities which he neglected; the basest of approvers, he quotes to - his own eternal infamy the scenes of riot and dissipation, the - alternations of idleness and extravagance, which make up his sole - recollections of university life: and looking, without one glance of - affection, upon the face of his fair and graceful mother, makes the chance - mole, or the early wrinkle, which he traces there, the subject of his - irreverent jest, forgets the kindness of which he was unworthy, and - remembers for evil the wholesome<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66a" - id="Page_66a">[Pg 66]</a></span> discipline which was irksome only to such - as him. - </p> - <p> - "Non hæc jocosæ conveniunt lyræ;"<br /> - </p> - <p> - I admit mine is not the tongue or pen for such a subject; and Oxford has, - I hope, no lack of abler champions. But it was geese, you know, who once - saved the Capitol; and I must have my hiss at the iniquitous quackeries - which people seek to perpetrate under the taking title of University - Reform. And when I, loving Oxford as I do, see some of her own sons - arrayed against her, I can only remember this much of my philosophy—that - there are cases when to be angry becomes a duty. Men who, knowing nothing - of the universities from experience, think proper to run them down, - succeed at all events in exposing one crying evil—the absurdity of - meddling with what one does not understand. We who know better may afford - to smile at once at their spite and their ignorance. But he who lifts his - voice against the mother that bore him, can fix no darker blot upon her - fame than the disgrace of having given birth to him. - </p> - <p> - Show me the man who did not like Oxford, and I will show you either a - sulky misanthrope or an affected ass. Many, many indeed, are the - unpleasant recollections which, in the case of nearly all of us, will - mingle with the joy with which we recall our college days. More than the - ghosts of duns departed, perhaps unpaid; more than the heart-burnings<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67a" id="Page_67a">[Pg 67]</a></span> of - that visionary fellowship, for which we were beaten (we verily believe, - unfairly) by a neck; more than that loved and lost ideal of a first class, - which we deserved, but did not get (the opinions of our examiners not - coinciding in that point with our own); yes, more than all these, comes - forcibly to many minds, the self-accusing silent voice that whispers of - time wasted and talents misapplied—kind advice, which the heat of - youth misconstrued or neglected—jewels of price that once lay - strewed upon the golden sands of life, then wantonly disregarded, or - picked up but to be flung away, and which the tide of advancing years has - covered from our view for ever—blessed opportunities of acquiring - wisdom, human and divine, which never can return. - </p> - <p> - Yet in spite of all this, if there be any man who can say that Oxford is - not to him a land of pleasant memories, "<span lang="el" - title="Mêt' emoi parestios genoito">Μήτ' ἐμοὶ παρέστιος γένοιτο</span>"—which - is, being freely translated, "May he never put his legs under my mahogany"—that's - all. I never knew him yet, and have no wish to make his acquaintance. He - may have carried off every possible university honour for what I care; he - is more hopelessly stupid, in my view of things, than if he had been - plucked fifteen times. If he was fond of reading, or of talking about - reading; fond of hunting, or talking about hunting; fond of walking, - riding, rowing, leaping, or any possible exercise besides dancing; if he - loved pleasant gardens or solemn cloisters; learned retirement<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68a" id="Page_68a">[Pg 68]</a></span> or - unlearned jollification—in a word, if he had any imaginable human - sympathies, and cared for anything besides himself, he would have liked - Oxford. Men's tastes differ, no doubt; but to have spent four years of the - spring of one's life in one of the most magnificent cities and best - societies in the world, and not to have enjoyed it—this is not a - variety of taste, but its privation. - </p> - <p> - I fancy there is a mistaken opinion very prevalent, that young and - foolish, older and wiser, are synonymous terms. Stout gentlemen of a - certain age, brimful of proprieties, shake their heads alarmingly, and - talk of the folly of boys; as if they were the only fools. And if at any - time, in the fulness of their hearts, they refer to some freak of their - own youth, they appear to do it with a sort of apology to themselves, that - such wise individuals as they are now should ever have done such things! - And as the world stands at present, it is the old story of the Lion and - the Painter; the elderly gentlemen are likely to have it their own way; - they say what they like, while the young ones are content to do what they - like. And the more absurdity a man displays in his teens (and some, it - must be confessed, are absurd enough), the more insupportable an air of - wisdom does he put on when he gets settled. As there is no hope of these - sedate gentry being sent to College again to teach the rising generation - of under-graduates the art of precocious gravity, and<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_69a" id="Page_69a">[Pg 69]</a></span> still less hope of their - arriving at it of themselves, perhaps there is no harm in mooting the - question on neutral ground, whether such a consummation as that of putting - old heads upon young shoulders is altogether desirable. - </p> - <p> - Wherefore, I, Frank Hawthorne—being of the age of nine-and-twenty, - or thereabouts, and of sound mind, and about to renounce for ever all - claim and title to be considered a young man; having married a wife, and - left sack and all other bad habits; having no longer any fellowship with - under-graduates, or army subs, or medical students, or young men about - town, or any other class of the heterogeneous irregulars who make up - "Young England"—being a perfectly disinterested party in the - question, inasmuch as having lost my reputation for youth, I have never - acquired one for wisdom—hereby raise my voice against the - intolerable cant, which assumes every man to be a harebrained scapegrace - at twenty, and a Solomon at forty-five. Youth sows wild oats, it may be; - too many men in more advanced life seem to me to sow no crop of any kind. - There are empty fools at all ages; but "an old fool"——(musty - as the proverb is, it is rather from neglect than over-application). I - have known men by the dozen, who in their youth were either empty-headed - coxcombs or noisy sots; does my reader think that any given number of - additional years has made them able statesmen, sound lawyers,<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70a" id="Page_70a">[Pg 70]</a></span> or - erudite divines? that because they have become honourable by a seat in - Parliament, learned by courtesy, reverend by office, they are therefore - really more useful members of society than when they lounged the High - Street, or woke the midnight echoes of the quadrangle? Nay, life is too - short for the leopard to change his spots, or the Ethiopian his skin; one - can but pare the claws of the first, and put a suit of the last European - fashion upon the other. - </p> - <p> - Let any man run over in his own mind the list of those school and college - companions with whom, after the lapse of ten years or so, he has still an - opportunity of occasionally renewing his acquaintance, and judging of the - effect which time has had upon their habits and characters. In how many - cases can he trace any material alteration, beyond what results from the - mere accidents of time and place? He finds, it is to be hoped, good - principles developed, warm impulses ripened into active habits, - exaggerations softened down (for I am giving him credit for not choosing - his companions, even in youth, among the vicious in heart and principle); - but if he finds in any what he can call a <i>change</i> at all, then I - ask, in how many instances is it a change for the better? or does he not - find it rather where there was no sterling value in the metal, which, as - the gloss of youth wears off, loses its only charm? - </p> - <p> - Thirty is the turning-point of a man's life; when marrying becomes a - now-or-never sort of business,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71a" - id="Page_71a">[Pg 71]</a></span> and dinners begin to delight him more - than dancing. As I said just now, then, I stand just at the corner; and, - looking round before I turn it, I own somewhat of a shyness for the - company of those "grave and reverend seniors" who are to be my - fellow-travellers hereafter through life. There are certain points on - which I fear we are scarce prepared to agree. I must have one window open - for the first few miles of the journey at all events—that I may look - behind me. Life's a fast train, and one can't expect to be allowed to get - out at the stations; still less to ask the engineer to put back, because - we have left our youth behind us. Yet there are some things in which I - hope always to be a boy; I hope ever to prefer thoughtlessness to - heartlessness, imprudence to selfishness, impulse to calculation. It is - hard enough to part with all the fiery spirits, the glowing imaginations, - the elasticity of mind and body which we lose as age creeps on; but if, - with the bright summer weather and cloudless skies of youth, to which we - are content to bid farewell, we must lose, too, the "sunshine of the - breast"—the "bloom of heart"—then well might the poet count - him happy who died in early spring—who knew nothing of life but its - fair promises, and passed away in happy scepticism of the winter which was - to come. - </p> - <p> - Talk of putting old heads upon young shoulders! Heaven forbid! It would - but be making them stoop<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72a" - id="Page_72a">[Pg 72]</a></span> prematurely. If indeed we could put young - hearts into old bodies occasionally, we might do some good; or if there - could ever be combined in some fortunate individual, throughout his life, - the good qualities peculiar to each successive climacteric; if we could - mix just enough of the acid and the bitter, which are apt to predominate - so unhappily after a long rubbing through the world, to qualify the fiery - spirit of youth, and prevent its sweetness from cloying, the compound - would undoubtedly be a very pleasant one. But this, it is to be feared, - like many other desiderata, is too good to be attainable; and the - experience which we undoubtedly want in early life, we acquire too often - at the cost of that freshness of heart, which nature intended as a gift - still more valuable. - </p> - <p> - Nowhere does the old Stagyrite display a more consummate knowledge of what - men are made of, than in his contrasted characters of youth and age. I - wonder how many of the old gentlemen who call themselves philosophers in - this degenerate age, ever read or remember what he says on the subject. It - is a great comfort, when one is arguing against so much collective wisdom, - to feel that one has such authority to fall back upon; and I have the less - hesitation in bringing my old friend Aristotle forward to help me, because - I can assure my unlearned readers, ladies and others, that I am not going - to quote any thing nearly so grave and sensible as<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_73a" id="Page_73a">[Pg 73]</a></span> modern philosophy. - "Stingy, illnatured, suspicious, selfish, narrow-minded"—these, with - scarce a redeeming quality, are some of the choice epithets which he - strings together as the characteristics of the respectable old governors - and dowagers of his day; while the young, although, as he confesses, - somewhat too much the creatures of impulse, and indebted to it for some of - their virtues as well as vices, are trustful towards others, honest in - themselves, open-handed and open-hearted, warm friends and brave enemies. - It is true, he observes, they have, in a large degree, the fault common to - all honest men, they are "easily humbugged;" an admitted failing which - perhaps may let us into the secret of their sitting down so quietly under - the imputation of a hundred others. He urges, too, elsewhere, a fact I am - not disposed to battle about, that young men do not make good - philosophers; but this is in a book which he wrote for the use of his own - son, wherein he probably thought it his duty to take the conceit out of - his heir-apparent; but if he ever allowed the young philosopher to get a - sight of the other book containing the two characters aforesaid, it may be - doubted whether he found him as "easily humbugged" afterwards. - </p> - <p> - Remember, reader, as I said before, I claim to occupy neutral ground. If I - essay to defend youth from some injustice which it suffers at the hands of - partial judges, it is as an amateur advocate rather than<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74a" id="Page_74a">[Pg 74]</a></span> an - accredited champion—for I am young no longer. If I am rash enough to - couch a lance against that venerable phantom, which, under the name of - Wisdom, hovers round grey hairs, I am but preparing a rod for my own back—for - I feel myself growing old. I admit it with a sigh; but the sigh is not for - the past only, but even more for the present. I mourn not so much for that - which Time has taken away, as for the insufficiency of that which it - brings instead. I would rejoice to be relieved from the dominion of the - hot follies of youth, if I could escape at the same time the degrading - yoke of the cooler vices of maturity. I do not find men grow better as - they grow older; wiser they may grow, but it is the wisdom of the serpent. - We scarce grow less sensual, less vain, less eager after what we think - pleasure; I would we continued as generous and as warm. We gain the - cunning to veil our passions, to regulate even our vices according to the - scale (and that no parsimonious one) which what we call "society" allows; - we lose the enthusiasm which in some degree excused our follies, with the - light-heartedness which made them delightful. Few men among us are they - who can look back upon the years gone by, and not feel that, if these may - justly be charged with folly, the writing of the accusation that stands - against their riper age is of a graver sort. - </p> - <p> - It is melancholy, rather than amusing, to hear<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_75a" id="Page_75a">[Pg 75]</a></span> men of a certain age rail - against the faults and extravagance of their juniors. Angry that they - themselves are no longer young, they visit with a rod of iron such an - intolerable offence in others. Even newspapers are always eloquent against - the disgusting immoralities of breaking knockers and bonneting policemen. - The <i>Times</i> turns censor upon such an "ungentlemanly outrage;" the <i>Weekly - Despatch</i> has its propriety shocked by such "freaks of the - aristocracy;" and both, in their zeal to reprobate offences so dangerous - to the best interests of society, sacrifice somewhat of that "valuable - space" which should have been devoted to the bulletin of the health, or - the history of the travels, of the "gallant officer" who last deliberately - shot his friend in a duel; or the piquant details of the last <i>crim. - con.</i>, with the extraordinary disclosures expected to be made by the - "noble defendant." Society has no sympathy with vices to which it has no - temptation; it might have done foolish things in its day, but has long ago - seen the folly of them. So we make a graceful acknowledgment of having - been wrong once, for the sake of congratulating ourselves upon being so - very right now. - </p> - <p> - Let me then, for some few moments, recall those scenes which, on the stage - of life, have passed away for ever; and forgetting, as memory loves to do, - the evil that was in them, let it be not idle repining to lament the good. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76a" id="Page_76a">[Pg 76]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Oh! dark yet pleasant quadrangle, round whose wide area I might wander - now, a stranger among strangers, where are they who once gave life and - mirth to cheer those ancient walls? There were full a score of rooms, - congenial <i>lares</i>, in which no hour of day or night would have found - me other than a welcome guest. I had friends, yea, friends, within those - prison-like windows—warm hearts walled in by thy cold grey stones—friends - that had thoughts, and feelings, and pursuits in common—who were not - hospitable in words alone, suffering each other's presence with - well-concealed <i>ennui</i>—but friends in something more than in - the name. In vain, among the cold conventionalities of life, shall I look - for the warm and kindly welcome, the sympathy of feeling, the unrestrained - yet courteous familiarity of intercourse, which was part and parcel of a - college life; and if for this only I should say of Oxford, that I shall - not look upon its like again—if for this only, I doubt whether the - years of my youthful pilgrimage were altogether evil, who shall gainsay - me? Where, or in what society of wise, and orderly, and respectable - "grown-up children," shall I find the sincerity and warm-heartedness that - once were the atmosphere of my daily life? Where is the friend of my - maturer choosing, into whose house I can walk at any time, and feel sure I - am no intruder? Where is the man, among those with whom I am by hard fate - compelled to associate, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77a" - id="Page_77a">[Pg 77]</a></span> does not measure his regard, his - hospitality, his very smiles, by my income, my station in society—anything - but by myself? Older and wiser!—oh yes!—youthful friendship is - very foolish in such matters. - </p> - <p> - But I suppose I must put up, as I best may, with the accumulating weight - of years and wisdom. It won't do to give up one's degree, and begin again - at the university, even if they leave us a university worth going to. At - all events, one could not go back and find there those "old familiar - faces" that made it what it was; and it is more pleasant to look upon it - all—the place and its old occupants—as still existing in some - dream-land or other, than to return to find an old acquaintance in every - stick and stone, while every human face and voice is strange to us. - </p> - <p> - Yet one does meet friends in old scenes, sometimes, when the meeting is as - unexpected as delightful. And just so, in my last visit to Oxford, did I - stumble upon Horace Leicester. We met in the quadrangle where we had - parted some six years back, just as we might if we had supped together the - night before; whereas we had been all the time hundreds of miles asunder: - and we met as unrestrainedly, only far more cordially. Neither of us had - much time to spare in Oxford, but we dined together of course; talked over - old friends, and told old stories. As to the first, it was strange enough - to moralise upon the after-fortunes of some of our contemporaries. One—of - whom, for habitual<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78a" id="Page_78a">[Pg - 78]</a></span> absence from lectures, and other misdemeanours many and - various, the tutors had prophesied all manner of evil, and who had been - dismissed by the Principal at his final leave-taking, with the remark that - he was the luckiest man he had ever known, inasmuch as he had been - perseveringly idle without being plucked, and mixed up in every row - without being rusticated—was now working hard day and night as a - barrister, engaged as a junior on committee business the whole Session, - and never taking a holiday except on the Derby day. The ugliest little - rascal of our acquaintance, and as stupid as a post, was married to a - pretty girl with a fortune of thirty thousand. Another, and one of the - best of us—Charley White—who united the business-habits of a - man with the frolic of a schoolboy, and who ought to have been added to - the roll of the College benefactors, as having been the founder of the - Cricket and the Whist Club, and having restored to its old place on the - river, at much cost and pains, the boat which had been withdrawn for the - last five years, and reduced the sundry desultory idlenesses of the - under-graduates into something like method and order—Charley White - was now rector of a poor and populous parish in Yorkshire, busily engaged - in building a new church and schools, opening Provident Societies, and - shutting up beer-shops, and instructing the rising generation of his - parishioners in catechism and cricket alternately. While the<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79a" id="Page_79a">[Pg 79]</a></span> - steadiest (I was very near saying the only steady man) among our mutual - acquaintance, who looked at every sixpence before he spent it, checked his - own washing-lists, went to bed at ten o'clock, and was, in short, an - exemplary character (he was held out to me, on my first entrance, as a - valuable acquaintance for any young man, but I soon despaired of - successfully imitating so bright a model)—well, this gentleman - having been taken into partnership, somewhat prematurely perhaps on the - strength of the aforesaid reputation, by his father's firm—they were - Liverpool merchants of high standing—had thought proper, disgusted - probably with the dissipations and immoralities of trade, to retire to - America in search of purity and independence, without going through the - form of closing his accounts with the house. The Liverpudleians, indeed, - according to Horace's account, gave a somewhat ugly name to the - transaction; he had been cashier to the firm, they said, who were minus - some tens of thousands thereby; but as the senior partner was known to - have smoked cigars at a preparatory school (thereby showing what he <i>would</i> - have done had he been sent to Oxford), whereas our friend was always "a - steady man," I leave the reader to judge which party is entitled to the - most credit. - </p> - <p> - It was after we had separated that a friend of mine, not an Oxford man, - who had dined with us, and appeared much amused by some of Horace's<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80a" id="Page_80a">[Pg 80]</a></span> - reminiscences, asked me the very puzzling question, "Was your friend - Leicester what they call a '<i>rowing</i> man' at College?" Now, I protest - altogether against the division of under-graduates into reading men and - rowing men, as arbitrary and most illogical; there being a great many who - have no claim to be reckoned either in one class or the other, and a great - many who hover between both. And this imaginary distinction, existing as - it notoriously does at Oxford, and fostered and impressed upon men by the - tutors (often unintentionally, or with the very best intentions), is - productive in many cases of a great deal of harm. A man (or <i>boy</i> if - you please) is taught to believe, upon his very first entrance, that one - of these characters will infallibly cling to him, and that he has only to - choose between the two. For the imaginary division creates a real one; in - many colleges, a man who joins a boat's crew, or a cricket club, or goes - out now and then with the harriers, is looked upon with suspicion by the - authorities at once; and by a very natural consequence, a man who wants to - read his five or six hours a-day quietly, finds that some of his - pleasantest companions look upon him as a slow coach. So, probably before - the end of his first term, he is hopelessly committed, at nineteen, to a - consistency of character rarely met with at fifty. If he lays claim to the - reputation of a reading man, and has an eye to the loaves and fishes in - the way of scholarships and fellowships,<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_81a" id="Page_81a">[Pg 81]</a></span> he is compelled, by the - laws of his <i>caste</i>, to renounce some of the most sensible and - healthful amusements which a university life offers. He must lead a very - humdrum sort of life indeed. It is not enough that he should be free from - the stains of vice and immorality; that his principles and habits should - be those of a gentleman; that he should avoid excesses, and be observant - of discipline; this the university would have a right to expect from all - who are candidates for her honours and emoluments. But there is a - conventional character which he must put on besides this. I say "put on;" - because, however natural it may be to some men, it cannot possibly be so - to all. His exercise must be taken at stated times and places: it must - consist principally of walking, whether he be fond of it or not, varied - occasionally by a solitary skiffing expedition down the river, or a game - of billiards with some very steady friend on the sly. His dress must - exhibit either the negligence of a sloven (in case he be an aspirant for - very high honours indeed), or the grave precision of a respectable - gentleman of forty. He must eschew all such vanities as white trousers and - well-cut boots. He must be profoundly ignorant of all university - intelligence that does not bear in some way on the schools; must be - utterly indifferent what boat is at the head of the river, or whether - Drake's hounds are fox or harriers. He must never be seen out of his - rooms, except at lecture, before<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82a" - id="Page_82a">[Pg 82]</a></span> two o'clock, and never return to a - wine-party after chapel. His judgment of the merits of port and sherry - must be confined principally to the fact of one being red and the other - white, and the compounding of punch must be to him a mystery unfathomable. - Now, if he can be, or assume to be, all this, then he will be admitted - into the most orthodox and steady set in his college; and if he have, - besides, an ordinary amount of scholarship, and tact enough to talk - judiciously about his books and his reading, he may get up a very fair - reputation indeed. And when at his final examination he makes, as - nine-tenths of such men do make, a grand crash, and his name comes out in - the third or fourth class, or he gets "gulfed" altogether—it is two - to one but his friends and his tutor look upon him, and talk of him, as - rather an ill-used individual. He was "unlucky in his examination"—"the - essay did not suit him"—they were "quite surprised at his failure"—"his - health was not good the last term or two"—"he was too nervous." - These are cases which have occurred in every man's experience: men read - ten hours a-day, with a watch by their side, cramming in stuff that they - do not understand, are talked about as "sure firsts" till one gets sick of - their very names, assume all the airs which really able men seldom do - assume, and take at last an equal degree with others who have been - acquiring the same amount of knowledge with infinitely less<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83a" id="Page_83a">[Pg 83]</a></span> - pretension, and who, without moping the best part of their lives in an - artificial existence, will make more useful members of society in the end. - "How was it," said an old lady in the country to me one day, "that young - Mr C—— did not get a first class? I understand he read very - hard, and I know he refused every invitation to dinner when he was down - here in the summer vacation?" "That was the very reason, my dear madam," - said I; "you may depend upon it." She stared, of course; but I believe I - was not far out. - </p> - <p> - Let men read as much as they will, and as hard as they will, on any - subjects for which they have the ability and inclination; but never let - them suppose they are to lay down one code of practice to suit all tempers - and constitutions. Cannot a man be a scholar, and a gentleman, and a good - fellow at the same time? - </p> - <p> - And, after all, where is the broad moral distinction between these <i>soi-disant</i> - steady men, and those whom they are pleased to consider as "rowing" - characters? it has always seemed to me rather apocryphal. If a man thinks - proper to amuse himself with a chorus in his own rooms at one o'clock in - the morning, it seems hardly material whether it be Greek or English—Sophocles - or Tom Moore. It's a matter of taste, and tastes differ. Nor do I think - the morality of Horace or Aristophanes, or the theology of Lucretius, so - peculiarly admirable, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84a" - id="Page_84a">[Pg 84]</a></span> to render them, <i>per se</i>, fitter - subjects for the exclusive exercise of a young man's faculties than "the - Pickwick Papers," or "The Rod and the Gun." I have heard—(I never - saw, nor will I believe it)—of the profanity of certain sporting - under-graduates, who took into chapel the racing calendar, bound in red - morocco, instead of a prayer-book; I hold it to have been the malicious - fiction of some would-be university reformer; but, even if true, I am not - sure that I much prefer that provident piety which I have noticed getting - up its Greek within the same walls by means of a Septuagint and Greek - liturgy. Religion is one thing, classical learning another, and sporting - information another; all totally distinct, and totally different; the - first immeasurably above the other two, but standing equidistant from - both. It does not make a man one whit the better to know that Coræbus won - the cup at Olympia <span class="small">B.C.</span> 776, than it does to - know that Priam did <i>not</i> win the St Leger at Doncaster <span - class="small">A.D.</span> 1830; from all I can make out, the Greeks on the - turf at present are not much worse than their old namesakes; I dare say - there was a fair amount of black-legism on both occasions. Men injure - their moral and physical health by reading as much as by other things; it - takes quite as much out of a man, and puts as little in him to any good - purpose, to get up his logic as to pull in an eight-oar. - </p> - <p> - Besides, if one is to read and enter into the spirit<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_85a" id="Page_85a">[Pg 85]</a></span> of a dozen different - authors, one dull monotonous round of physical existence seems ill-fitted - to call out the requisite variety of mental powers. I hold that there are - divers and sundry fit times, and places, and states of mind, suited to - different lines of reading. If a man is at work upon history, by all means - let him sport oak rigidly against all visitors; let him pile up his - authorities and references on every vacant chair all round him, and get a - clear notion of it by five or six hours' uninterrupted and careful study. - Or, if he has a system of philosophy to get up, let him sit down with his - head cool, his window open (not the one looking into quad.), let him - banish from his mind all minor matters, and not break off in the chain of - argument so long as he can keep his brain clear and his eyes open. Even - then, a good gallop afterwards, or a cigar and a glass of punch, with some - lively fellow who is no philosopher, will do him far more good than a - fagging walk of so many measured miles, with the studious companion whose - head is stuffed as full of such matter as his own, and whose talk will be - of disputed passages, and dispiriting anticipations of a "dead floorer" in - the schools. But if a man wants to make acquaintance with such books as - Juvenal, or Horace, or Aristophanes, he may surely do it to quite as good - purpose, and with far more relish, basking under a tree in summer, or with - a friend over a bottle in winter. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86a" id="Page_86a">[Pg 86]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - The false tone of society of which I have been speaking had its influence - upon Horace Leicester. Coming up to the university from a public school, - with a high character, a fair amount of scholarship, and a host of - acquaintances, he won the good-will at once of dons and of - under-graduates, and bid fair to be as universal a favourite at college as - he had been at Harrow. Never did a man enter upon an academic life under - happier auspices, nor, I believe, with a more thorough determination to - enjoy it in every way. He did not look upon his emancipation from school - discipline as a license for idleness, nor intend to read the less because - he could now read what he pleased, and when he pleased. For, not to - mention that Horace was ambitious, and had at one time an eye to the class - list—he had a taste for reading, and a strong natural talent to - appreciate what he read. But if he had a taste for reading, he had other - tastes as well, and, as he thought, not incompatible; much as he admired - his Roman namesake, he could not devote his evenings exclusively to his - society, but preferred carrying his precepts into practice occasionally - with more modern companions; and he had no notion that during the next - four years of his life he was to take an interest in no sports but those - of the old Greeks and Romans, and mount no horse but Pegasus. For a term - or two, Leicester got on very well; attended lectures, read steadily till - one or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87a" id="Page_87a">[Pg 87]</a></span> - two o'clock, when there was nothing particular going on, kept a horse, - hired an alarm, and seldom cut morning chapel, or missed a meet if within - reasonable distance. It was a course of life which, in after days, he - often referred to with a sigh as having been most exemplary; and I doubt - whether he was far wrong. But it did not last. For a time his gentlemanly - manners, good humour, and good taste, carried it off with all parties; but - it was against the ordinary routine, and could not hold up against the - popular prejudice. The reading men eyed his top-boots with suspicion; the - rowing men complained he was growing a regular <i>sap</i>, always sporting - oak when they wanted him. Then his wine-parties were a source of endless - tribulation to him. First of all, he asked all those with whom he was most - intimate among his old schoolfellows to meet each other, adding one or two - of his new acquaintances: and a pretty mess he made of it. Men who had sat - on the same form with him and with each other at Harrow, and had betrayed - no such marked differences in their tastes as to prevent their associating - very pleasantly there, at Oxford, he found, had been separated wide as the - poles by this invisible, but impassable, line of demarcation: to such a - degree, indeed, that although all had called upon Horace, as they had upon - each other, before it seemed decided on which side they were to settle, - yet when they now met<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88a" id="Page_88a">[Pg - 88]</a></span> at his rooms, they had become strangers beyond a mere civil - recognition, and had not a single subject to converse upon in common. In - fact, they were rather surprised than pleased to meet at all; and it was - in vain their host tried to get them to amalgamate. Many seemed to take a - pleasure in showing how decidedly they belonged to one set or the other. - One would talk of nothing on earth besides hunting, and sat silent and - sulky when Horace turned the conversation; another affected an utter - ignorance of all that was going on in the University that was not - connected with class-lists, scholarships, &c. What provoked him most - was, that some of those who gave themselves the most pedantic airs, and - would have been double first-class men undeniably, if talking could have - done it, were those whose heads he well knew were as empty as the last - bottle, and which made him think that some men must take to reading at - Oxford, simply because they had faculties for nothing else. - </p> - <p> - At all events, Horace found the mixed system would not answer for - entertaining his friends. So the next time he asked a few of the reading - men, some of whom he knew used to be good fellows, together; and as he - really had a kindred taste with them on many subjects, he found an hour or - so pass away very pleasantly: when just as he was passing the wine about - the third round, and his own brilliancy and good-humour were beginning to - infect<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89a" id="Page_89a">[Pg 89]</a></span> - some of his guests—so that one grave genius of twenty had actually - so far forgotten himself as to fill a bumper by mistake—up jumped - the senior man of the party, and declaring that he had an engagement to - walk with a friend at seven, politely took his leave. This was the signal - for a general dispersion; in vain did Horace assure them they should have - some coffee in the course of an hour, and entreat some one or two to - return. Off they all went, with sundry smiles and shakes of the head, and - left their unfortunate host sitting alone in his glory over the first - glass of a newly opened bottle of claret. - </p> - <p> - I happened to be crossing the quadrangle from chapel in company with - Savile, at the moment when Leicester put his head out of his window as if - to inquire of the world in general what on earth he was to do with himself - for the next hour or two. Savile he hailed at once, and begged him to come - up; and though I knew but little of him, and had never been in his rooms - before, still, as I was one or two terms his senior, there was nothing - contrary even to Oxford etiquette in my accompanying Savile. We laughed - heartily when he explained his disappointment. Savile tried to comfort him - by the assurance that, as he had an hour to spare, he would sit down and - help him to finish a bottle or two of claret with a great deal of - pleasure; and was inclined to attribute the failure of the evening, in a - great measure, to his name not having been<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_90a" id="Page_90a">[Pg 90]</a></span> included in the list of - invitations—an omission by which he declared all parties had been - the losers; Horace's reading friends standing very much in need of some - one to put a little life into them, and himself, as a candidate for a - degree, having missed a fair opportunity of meeting, among so many choice - fellows, some one to "put him up to the examiners' dodges." But Leicester - was irrecoverably disgusted. Nothing, he declared, would ever induce him - to ask a party of reading men to his rooms again; and from that hour he - seemed to eschew fellowship with the whole fraternity. Not that he became - idle all at once; on the contrary, I believe, for some time he worked on - steadily, or at least tried to work; but he was naturally fond of society, - and having failed to find what he wanted, was reduced to make the best of - such as he could find. So he gradually became acquainted with a set of men - who, whatever their good qualities might be, had certainly no claim - whatever to be considered hard readers, and who would have considered a - symposium which broke up at seven o'clock as unsatisfactory as a tale - without a conclusion. Amongst these, his gentlemanly manners and kindness - of heart made him beloved, while his talents gave him a kind of influence; - and, though he must have felt occasionally that he was not altogether in - his right place, and that, besides his popular qualities, he had higher - tastes and endowments with which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91a" - id="Page_91a">[Pg 91]</a></span> the majority of his companions could - hardly sympathise, he was too light-hearted to philosophise much on the - subject, and contented himself with enjoying his popularity, occasionally - falling back upon his own resources, and keeping up, in a desultory kind - of way, his acquaintance with scholarship and literature. The reading men - of course looked upon him as a lost sheep; the tutors shook their heads - about him; if he did well, it was set down as the result of accident; - while all his misdoings were labouring in his vocation. For, agreeably to - the grand division aforesaid, Horace was now set down as a "rowing-man;" - and he soon made the discovery, and did more thereupon to deserve the - character than he ever would have done otherwise. He was very willing to - go on in his own way, if all parties would but let him alone; he was not - going to be made a proselyte to long walks, and toast and water, nor had - he any conscientious abhorrence of supper-parties; and, as his prospects - in life were in no way dependent upon a class or a scholarship, and he - seemed to be tacitly repudiated by the <i>literati</i> of his college, - young and old, on account of some of his aforesaid heterodox notions on - the subject of study, he accustomed himself gradually to set their - opinions at defiance; while the moderate reading, which encouragement and - emulation had made easy at school, became every day more and more - distasteful. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92a" id="Page_92a">[Pg 92]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Horace's tottering reputation was at last completely overset in the eyes - of the authorities by a little affair which was absurd enough, but in - which he himself was as innocent as they were. It happened that a youthful - cousin of his, whose sole occupation for the last twelve months of his - life had been the not over-profitable one of waiting for a commission, had - come up to Oxford for two or three days, pursuant to invitation, to see a - little of the manners and customs of the inhabitants. I think he had some - slight acquaintance with our then vice-principal—a good-natured, - easy man—and Horace had got leave for him to occupy a set of very - small, dark rooms, which, as the college was not very full, had been - suffered to remain vacant for the last two or three terms; they were so - very unattractive a domicile that the last Freshman to whom they were - offered as a Hobson's choice, was currently reported, in the plenitude of - his disgust, to have taken his name off the books <i>instanter</i>. It is - not usual to allow strangers to sleep within college walls at all; but our - discipline was somewhat lax in those days. So Mr Carey had a bed put up - for him in the aforesaid quarters. He was, of course, duly <i>fêted</i>, - and made much of by Horace and his friends; and a dozen of us sat down to - a capital dinner in the rooms of the former, on the strength of having to - entertain a "stranger from the country;" the hospitality of Oxford - relaxing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93a" id="Page_93a">[Pg 93]</a></span> - its rules even in favour of under-graduates upon such occasions. It must - have been somewhere towards the next morning, when two or three of us - accompanied young Carey down to No. 8; and, after chatting with him till - he was half undressed, left him, as we thought, safe and quiet. However, - soon after we had retired, some noisy individual in the same staircase - thought proper to give a view-hollo out of his window, for the purpose of - wishing the public good-night. Now there was one of the Fellows, a - choleric little old gentleman, always in residence, holding some office, - in which there was as little to do, and as much to get as might be, and - who seldom troubled himself much about college discipline, and looked upon - under-graduates with a sort of silent contempt; never interfering with - them, as he declared himself, so long as they did not interfere with him. - But one point there was, in which they did interfere with his personal - comfort occasionally, and whereby his peace of mind and rest of body were - equally disturbed. Mr Perkins always took a tumbler of negus at ten - precisely, and turned in as the college clock struck the quarter past; by - the half-hour he was generally asleep, for his digestion was good and his - cares few. But his slumbers were not heavy, and anything like a row in the - quadrangle infallibly awoke him, and then he was like a lion roused. He - was wont to jump up, throw up his window, thrust out a red face and a - white<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94a" id="Page_94a">[Pg 94]</a></span> - nightcap, and after listening a few seconds for the chance of the odious - sounds being repeated, would put the very pertinent question usual in such - circumstances, to which one so seldom gets an equally pertinent reply—"Who's - that?" In case this intimation of Mr Perkins being wide awake proved - sufficient, as it often did, to restore quiet, then after the lapse of a - few more seconds the head and the nightcap disappeared, and the window was - shut down again. But if the noise was continued, as occasionally it was - out of pure mischief, then in a minute or two the said nightcap would be - seen to emerge hastily from the staircase below, in company with a - dressing-gown and slippers, and Mr Perkins in this disguise would proceed - to the scene of disturbance as fast as his short legs could carry him. He - seldom succeeded in effecting a capture; but if he had that luck, or if he - could distinguish the tone of any individual voice so as to be able to - identify the performer, he had him up before the "seniority" next morning, - where his influence as one of the senior fellows insured a heavy sentence. - But he had been engaged in so many unsuccessful chases of the kind, and - his short orations from his window so often elicited only a laugh, though - including sometimes brief but explicit threats of rustication against the - noisy unknown, strengthened by little expletives which, when quoted by - under-graduates, were made to sound somewhat doubtfully—that<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95a" id="Page_95a">[Pg 95]</a></span> at - last he altered his tactics, and began to act in silence. And so he did, - when upon opening his window he saw a light in the ground-floor rooms of - the staircase whence the sounds proceeded on the evening in question. - Carey, by his own account, was proceeding quietly in his preparations for - bed, singing to himself an occasional stanza of some classical ditty which - he had picked up in the course of the evening, and admiring the power of - the man's lungs in the room above him, when he heard a short quick step, - and then a double rap at his door. He was quite sufficiently acquainted, - by this time, with the ways of the place, not to be much surprised at the - late visit, and at the same time to consider it prudent to learn the name - and <i>status</i> of his visitor before admitting him; so he retorted upon - Mr Perkins, quite unconsciously, his own favourite query—"Who's - that?" his first and obvious impression being that it was one of the party - he had just quitted, coming probably in the plenitude of good fellowship, - to bring him an invitation to wine or breakfast next day. - </p> - <p> - "It's me, sir—open the door," was the reply from a deep baritone, - which the initiated would never have mistaken. - </p> - <p> - "Who are you?" said Carey again. - </p> - <p> - "My name is Perkins, sir: have the goodness to let me in." He was getting - more angry, and consequently more polite. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96a" id="Page_96a">[Pg 96]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Perkins," said Carey, pausing in his operations, in the vain endeavour to - recall the name among the score or two to whom he had been introduced. - "I'm just in bed—were you up at Leicester's?" - </p> - <p> - "Open the door, sir, if you please, immediately," and then came what our - friend took for a smothered laugh, but was really a sort of shiver, for - there was a draft in the passage playing all manner of pranks with the - dressing-gown, and Mr Perkins was getting cold. - </p> - <p> - An indistinct notion came into Carey's mind, that some one who had met him - in College might have taken him for a Freshman, and had some practical - joke in view; so he contented himself with repeating that he was going to - bed, and could let no one in. - </p> - <p> - "I tell you, sir, I'm Mr Perkins; don't you know me?" - </p> - <p> - "I wish you a very good night, Mr Perkins." - </p> - <p> - "What's your name, sir? eh? You impudent young puppy, what's your infernal - name? I'll have you rusticated, you dog—do you hear me, sir?" - </p> - <p> - On a sudden it struck Carey that this might possibly be a domiciliary - visit from one of the authorities, and that his best plan was to open the - door at once, though what had procured him such an honour he was at a loss - to imagine. He drew back the spring lock, therefore, and the next moment - stood face to face with the irate Mr Perkins. - </p> - <p> - His first impulse was to laugh at the curious<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_97a" id="Page_97a">[Pg 97]</a></span> figure before him; but - when demands for his name, and threats of unknown penalties, were - thundered forth upon him with no pause for a reply, then he began to think - that he had made a mistake in opening the door at all—that he might - get Leicester into a scrape if not himself—and as his person was as - unknown to Mr Perkins as that gentleman's to him, it struck him that if he - could give him the slip at once it would be all right. In a moment he blew - out his solitary candle, bolted through the open door, all but upsetting - his new acquaintance, whom he left storming in the most unconnected - manner, alone, and in total darkness. Up to Leicester's rooms he rushed, - related his adventure, and was rather surprised that his cousin did not - applaud it as a very clever thing. - </p> - <p> - What Mr Perkins thought or said to himself, what degree of patience he - exhibited in such trying circumstances, or in what terms he apostrophised - his flying enemy, must ever remain a secret with himself. Five minutes - after, Solomon the porter, summoned from his bed just as he had made - himself snug once more after letting out Horace's out-college friends, - confronted Mr Perkins in about as sweet a temper as that worthy individual - himself, with this difference, that one was sulky and the other furious. - </p> - <p> - "Who lives in the ground-floor on the left in No. 8?" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98a" id="Page_98a">[Pg 98]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "What, in 'Coventry?' Why, nobody, sir." - </p> - <p> - "Nobody! you stupid old sinner, you're asleep." - </p> - <p> - "No, sir, I ain't," and Solomon flashed his lantern in Mr Perkins's face - as if to ascertain whether <i>his</i> eyes were open. Mr Perkins started - back, and Solomon turned half round as if to disappear again. - </p> - <p> - "Who lives there, Solomon, I ask you? Do you mean to tell me you don't - know? You are not fit——" - </p> - <p> - "I knows every gentleman's rooms well enough: nobody hasn't lived in them - as you means not these four terms. Mr Pears kept his fox in 'em one time, - till the vice-principal got wind of him. There may be some varmint in 'em - now for all I knows—they a'n't fit for much else." - </p> - <p> - "There's some confounded puppy of a Freshman in them now—at least - there was—and he lives there too." - </p> - <p> - "I know there <i>be'n't</i>," said the persevering Solomon. And, without - deigning a word more, he set off with his lantern towards the place in - dispute, followed by Mr Perkins, who contented himself with an angry "Now - you'll see." - </p> - <p> - "Ay, now we shall see," replied Solomon, as, somewhat to Mr Perkins's - astonishment, they found the oak sported. Having made a selection from a - huge bunch of keys, the porter succeeded, after some fumbling, in getting - the door open. The room bore no traces of recent occupation. Three or four - broken chairs and a rickety table were the only furniture:<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99a" id="Page_99a">[Pg 99]</a></span> as far - as the light of Solomon's lantern could penetrate, it looked the very - picture of desolation. Solomon chuckled. - </p> - <p> - "There <i>is</i> a man living here. I'll swear there is. He was undressing - when I came. Look in the bedroom." - </p> - <p> - They opened the door, and saw a bare feather-bed and bolster, the usual <i>matériel</i> - in an unoccupied college chamber. "Seeing's believing," said the porter. - </p> - <p> - But, with Mr Perkins, seeing was not believing. He saw Solomon, and he saw - the empty room, but he did not believe either. But he had evidently the - worst side of the argument as it stood, so he wished the porter a sulky - good-night, and retreated. - </p> - <p> - The fact was, that the noisy gentleman in the rooms above, as soon as he - caught the tones of Mr Perkins's voice at Carey's door, had entered into - the joke with exceeding gusto, well aware that the visit was really - intended as a compliment to his own vocal powers. Carey's sudden bolt - puzzled him rather; but as soon as he heard Mr Perkins's foot-steps take - the direction of the porter's lodge, he walked softly down-stairs to the - field of action, and, anticipating in some degree what would follow, - bundled up together sheets, blankets, pillow, dressing apparatus, and all - other signs and tokens of occupation, and made off with them to his own - rooms, sporting the oak behind him, and thus completing the mystification. - </p> - <p> - As the facts of the case were pretty sure to transpire<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_100a" id="Page_100a">[Pg 100]</a></span> in course of time, - Horace took the safe course of getting his cousin out of college next - morning, and calling on Mr Perkins with a full explanation of the - circumstances, and apologies for Carey as a stranger unacquainted with the - police regulations of their learned body, and the respect due thereto. Of - course the man in authority was obliged to be gracious, as Leicester could - not well be answerable for all the faults of his family; but there never - from that time forth happened a row of any kind with which he did not in - his own mind, probably unconsciously, associate poor Horace. - </p> - <p> - Whether my readers will set down Horace Leicester as a rowing man or not, - is a point which I leave to their merciful consideration: a reading man - was a title which he never aspired to. He took a very creditable degree in - due season, and was placed in the fourth class with a man who took up a - very long list of books, and was supposed to have read himself stupid. - </p> - <p> - "He ought to have done a good deal more," said one of the tutors; "he had - it in him." "I think he was lucky not to have been plucked, myself," said - Mr Perkins; "he was a very noisy man." - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1b" id="Page_1b">[Pg 1]</a></span> - </p> - <h2> - <a name="THE_EMERALD_STUDS" id="THE_EMERALD_STUDS">THE EMERALD STUDS</a> - </h2> - <p class="center small"> - A REMINISCENCE OF THE CIRCUIT. - </p> - <p class="center"> - BY PROFESSOR AYTOUN. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - <span class="small">[<i>MAGA.</i> <span class="smcap">August 1847.</span>]</span> - </p> - <hr class="short" /> - <h3> - <a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</a> - </h3> - <p class="dropcap"> - "Hallo, Tom! Are you not up yet? Why, man, the judges have gone down to - the court half an hour ago, escorted by the most ragged regiment of - ruffians that ever handled a Lochaberaxe." - </p> - <p> - Such was my matutinal salutation to my friend Thomas Strachan, as I - entered his room on a splendid spring morning. Tom and I were early - college allies. We had attended, or rather, to speak more correctly, taken - out tickets for the different law classes during the same sessions. We had - fulminated together within the walls of the Juridical Society on legal - topics which might have broken the heart of Erskine, and rewarded - ourselves diligently thereafter with the usual relaxations<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2b" id="Page_2b">[Pg 2]</a></span> of a crab - and a comfortable tumbler. We had aggravated the same grinder with our - deplorable exposition of the Pandects; and finally assumed, on the same - day, the full-blown honours of the Advocate's wig and gown. Nor did our - fraternal parallel end there: for although we had walked the boards of the - Parliament House with praiseworthy diligence for a couple of sessions, - neither of us had experienced the dulcet sensation which is communicated - to the palm by the contact of the first professional guinea. In vain did - we attempt to insinuate ourselves into the good graces of the agents, and - coin our intellects into such jocular remarks as are supposed to find most - favour in the eyes of facetious practitioners. In vain did I carry about - with me, for a whole week, an artificial process most skilfully made up; - and in vain did Tom compound and circulate a delectable ditty, entitled - "The Song of the Multiplepoinding." Not a single solicitor would listen to - our wooing, or even intrust us with the task of making the simplest - motion. I believe they thought me too fast, and Tom too much of a genius; - and, therefore, both of us were left among the ranks of the briefless army - of the stove. This would not do. Our souls burned within us with a noble - thirst for legal fame and fees. We held a consultation (without an agent) - at the Rainbow, and finally determined that since Edinburgh would not hear - us, Jedburgh<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3b" id="Page_3b">[Pg 3]</a></span> - should have the privilege of monopolising our maiden eloquence at the - ensuing justiciary circuit. Jedburgh presents a capital field to the - ambition of a youthful advocate. Very few counsel go that way; the cases - are usually trifling, and the juries easily bamboozled. It has besides - this immense advantage—that should you by any accident happen to - break down, nobody will in all probability be the wiser for it, provided - you have the good sense to ingratiate yourself with the circuit-clerk. - </p> - <p> - Tom and I arrived at Jedburgh the afternoon before the circuit began. I - was not acquainted with a human being within the parliamentary boundaries - of that respectable borough, and therefore experienced but a slight spasm - of disappointment when informed by the waiter at the inn, that no - inquiries had yet been made after me, on the part of writers desirous of - professional assistance. Strachan had been wiser. Somehow or other, he had - got a letter of introduction to one Bailie Beerie, a notable civic - dignitary of the place; and, accordingly, on presenting his credentials, - was invited by that functionary to dinner, with a hint that he "might - maybe see a wheen real leddies in the evening." This pointed so plainly to - a white choker and dress boots, that Strachan durst not take the liberty - of volunteering the attendance of his friend; and accordingly I had been - left alone to wile away, as I best might, the tedium of a sluggish - evening.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4b" id="Page_4b">[Pg 4]</a></span> - Before starting, however, Tom pledged himself to return in time for - supper; as he entertained a painful conviction that the party would be - excessively slow. - </p> - <p> - So long as it was light, I amused myself pretty well by strolling along - the banks of the river, and enunciating a splendid speech for the panel in - an imaginary case of murder. However, before I reached the peroration - (which was to consist of a vivid picture of the deathbed of a despairing - jury-man, conscience-stricken by the recollection of an erroneous - verdict), the shades of evening began to close in; the trouts ceased to - leap in the pool, and the rooks desisted from their cawing. I returned to - discuss my solitary mutton at the inn; and then, having nothing to do, sat - down to a moderate libation, and an odd number of the <i>Temperance - Magazine</i>, which valuable tract had been left for the reformation of - the traveller by some peripatetic disciple of Father Mathew. - </p> - <p> - Nine o'clock came, but so did not Strachan. I began to wax wroth, muttered - anathemas against my faithless friend, rang for the waiter, and—having - ascertained the fact that a Masonic Lodge was that evening engaged in - celebrating the festival of its peculiar patron—I set out for the - purpose of assisting in the pious and mystic labours of the Brethren of - the Jedburgh St Jeremy. At twelve, when I returned to my quarters, - escorted by the junior<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5b" id="Page_5b">[Pg - 5]</a></span> deacon, I was informed that Strachan had not made his - appearance, and accordingly I went to bed. - </p> - <p> - Next morning I found Tom, as already mentioned, in his couch. There was a - fine air of negligence in the manner in which his habiliments were - scattered over the room. One glazed boot lay within the fender, whilst the - other had been chucked into a coal-scuttle; and there were evident marks - of mud on the surface of his glossy kerseymeres. Strachan himself looked - excessively pale, and the sole rejoinder he made to my preliminary remark - was, a request for soda-water. - </p> - <p> - "Tom," said I, inexpressibly shocked at the implied confession of the - nature of his vespers—"I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself! - Have you no higher regard for the dignity of the bar you represent, than - to expose yourself before a Jedburgh Bailie?" - </p> - <p> - "Dignity be hanged!" replied the incorrigible Strachan. "Bailie Beerie is - a brick, and I won't hear a word against him. But, O Fred! if you only - knew what you missed last night! Such a splendid woman—by Jove, sir, - a thoroughbred angel. A bust like one of Titian's beauties, and the voice - of a lovelorn nightingale!" - </p> - <p> - "One of the Misses Beerie, I presume. Come, Tom, I think I can fill up - your portrait. Hair of the auburn complexion, slightly running into the - carrot—skin fair, but freckled—greenish eyes—red<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6b" id="Page_6b">[Pg 6]</a></span> elbows—culpable - ankles—elephantine waist—and sentiments savouring of the - Secession." - </p> - <p> - "Ring the bell for the waiter, and hold your impious tongue. You never - were farther from the mark in your life. The wing of the raven is not more - glossy than her hair—and oh, the depth and melting lustre of those - dark unfathomable eyes! Waiter! a bottle of soda-water, and you may put in - a thimbleful of cognac." - </p> - <p> - "Come, Tom!—none of your ravings. Is this an actual Armida, or a new - freak of your own imagination?" - </p> - <p> - "<i>Bonâ fide</i>—an angel in everything, barring the wings." - </p> - <p> - "Then how the deuce did such a phenomenon happen to emerge at the - Bailie's?" - </p> - <p> - "That's the very question I was asking myself during the whole time of - dinner. She was clearly not a Scotswoman. When she spoke, it was in the - sweet low accents of a southern clime; and she waved away the proffered - haggis with an air of the prettiest disgust!" - </p> - <p> - "But the Bailie knew her?" - </p> - <p> - "Of course he did. I got the whole story out of him after dinner, and, - upon my honour, I think it is the most romantic one I ever heard. About a - week ago, the lady arrived here without attendants. Some say she came in - the mail-coach—others in a dark travelling chariot and pair. - However, what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7b" id="Page_7b">[Pg 7]</a></span> - matters it? the jewel can derive no lustre or value from the casket!" - </p> - <p> - "Yes—but one always likes to have some kind of idea of the setting. - Get on." - </p> - <p> - "She seemed in great distress, and inquired whether there were any letters - at the post-office addressed to the Honourable Dorothea Percy. No such - epistle was to be found. She then interrogated the landlord, whether an - elderly lady, whose appearance she minutely described, had been seen in - the neighbourhood of Jedburgh; but except old Mrs Slammingham of - Summertrees, who has been bed-ridden for years, there was nobody in the - county who at all answered to the description. On hearing this, the lady - seemed profoundly agitated—shut herself up in a private parlour, and - refused all sustenance." - </p> - <p> - "Had she not a reticule with sandwiches, Tom?" - </p> - <p> - "Do not tempt me to commit justifiable homicide—you see I am in the - act of shaving.—At last the landlady, who is a most respectable - person, and who felt deeply interested at the desolate situation of the - poor young lady, ventured to solicit an interview. She was admitted. There - are moments when the sympathy of even the humblest friend is precious. - Miss Percy felt grateful for the interest so displayed, and confided the - tale of her griefs to the matronly bosom of the hostess." - </p> - <p> - "And she told you?" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8b" id="Page_8b">[Pg 8]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "No,—but she told Bailie Beerie. That active magistrate thought it - his duty to interfere. He waited upon Miss Percy, and from her lips he - gathered the full particulars of her history. Percy is not her real name, - but she is the daughter of an English peer of very ancient family. Her - father having married a second time, Dorothea was exposed to the - persecutions of a low-minded vulgar woman, whose whole ideas were of that - mean and mercenary description which characterise the Caucasian race. - Naomi Shekels was the offspring of a Jew, and she hated, whilst she - envied, the superior charms of the noble Norman maiden. But she had gained - an enormous supremacy over the wavering intellect of the elderly Viscount; - and Dorothea was commanded to receive, with submission, the addresses of a - loathsome apostate, who had made a prodigious fortune in the railways." - </p> - <p> - "One of the tribe of Issachar?" - </p> - <p> - "Exactly. A miscreant whose natural function was the vending of cast - habiliments. Conceive, Fred, what the fair young creature must have felt - at the bare idea of such shocking spousals! She besought, prayed, - implored,—but all in vain. Mammon had taken too deep a root in the - paternal heart,—the old coronet had been furbished up by means of - Israelitish gold, and the father could not see any degradation in forcing - upon his child an alliance similar to his own." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9b" id="Page_9b">[Pg 9]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "You interest me excessively." - </p> - <p> - "Is it not a strange tale?" continued Thomas, adjusting a false collar - round his neck. "I knew you would agree with me when I came to the - pathetic part. Well, Fred, the altar was decked, the ornaments ready, the - Rabbi bespoke——" - </p> - <p> - "Do you mean to say, Strachan, that Lady Dorothea was to have been married - after the fashion of the Jews?" - </p> - <p> - "I don't know exactly. I think Beerie said it was a Rabbi; but that may - have been a flight of his own imagination. However, somebody was ready to - have tied the nuptial knot, and all the joys of existence, and its hopes, - were about to fade for ever from the vision of my poor Dorothea!" - </p> - <p> - "<i>Your</i> Dorothea!" cried I in amazement. "Why, Tom—you don't - mean to insinuate that you have gone that length already?" - </p> - <p> - "Did I say mine?" repeated Strachan, looking somewhat embarrassed. "It was - a mere figure of speech: you always take one up so uncommonly short.—Nothing - remained for her but flight, or submission to the cruel mandate. Like a - heroic girl, in whose veins the blood of the old crusaders was bounding, - she preferred the former alternative. The only relation to whom she could - apply in so delicate a juncture, was an aged aunt, residing somewhere in - the north of Scotland. To her she wrote, beseeching her, as she regarded - the memory<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10b" id="Page_10b">[Pg 10]</a></span> - of her buried sister, to receive her miserable child; and she appointed - this town, Jedburgh, as the place of meeting." - </p> - <p> - "But where's the aunt?" - </p> - <p> - "That's just the mysterious part of the business. The crisis was so - imminent that Dorothea could not wait for a reply. She disguised herself,—packed - up a few jewels which had been bequeathed to her by her mother,—and, - at the dead of night, escaped from her father's mansion. Judge of her - terror when, on arriving here, panting and perhaps pursued, she could - obtain no trace whatever of her venerable relative. Alone, inexperienced - and unfriended, I tremble to think what might have been her fate, had it - not been for the kind humanity of Beerie." - </p> - <p> - "And what was the Bailie's line of conduct?" - </p> - <p> - "He behaved to her, Fred, like a parent. He supplied her wants, and - invited her to make his house her home, at least until the aunt should - appear. But the noble creature would not subject herself to the weight of - so many obligations. She accepted, indeed, his assistance, but preferred - remaining here until she could place herself beneath legitimate - guardianship. And doubtless," continued Strachan with fervour, "her good - angel is watching over her." - </p> - <p> - "And this is the whole story?" - </p> - <p> - "The whole." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11b" id="Page_11b">[Pg 11]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Do you know, Tom, it looks uncommonly like a piece of deliberate humbug!" - </p> - <p> - "Your ignorance misleads you, Fred. You would not say so had you seen her. - So sweet—so gentle—with such a tinge of melancholy resignation - in her eye, like that of a virgin martyr about to suffer at the stake! No - one could look upon her for a moment and doubt her purity and truth." - </p> - <p> - "Perhaps. But you must allow that we are not living exactly in the age of - romance. An elopement with an officer of dragoons is about the farthest - extent of legitimate enterprise which is left to a modern damsel; and, - upon my word, I think the story would have told better, had some such hero - been inserted as a sort of counterpoise to the Jew. But what's the matter? - Have you lost anything?" - </p> - <p> - "It is very odd!" said Strachan, "I am perfectly certain that I had on my - emerald studs last night. I recollect that Dorothea admired them - exceedingly. Where on earth can I have put them?" - </p> - <p> - "I don't know, I'm sure. I suspect, Tom, you and the Bailie were rather - convivial after supper. Is your watch wound up?" - </p> - <p> - "Of course it is. I assure you you are quite wrong. It was a mere matter - of four or five tumblers. Very odd this! Why—I can't find my watch - neither!" - </p> - <p> - "Hallo! what the deuce! Have we fallen into<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_12b" id="Page_12b">[Pg 12]</a></span> a den of thieves? This is - a nice beginning to our circuit practice." - </p> - <p> - "I could swear, Fred, that I put it below my pillow before I went to - sleep. I remember, now, that it was some time before I could fit in the - key. What can have become of it?" - </p> - <p> - "And you have not left your room since?" - </p> - <p> - "No, on my word of honour!" - </p> - <p> - "Pooh—pooh! Then it can't possibly be gone. Look beneath the - bolster." - </p> - <p> - But in vain did we search beneath bolster, mattress, and blankets; yea, - even downwards to the fundamental straw. Not a trace was to be seen of Cox - Savoury's horizontal lever, jewelled, as Tom pathetically remarked, in - four special holes, and warranted to go for a year without more than a - minute's deviation. Neither were the emerald studs, the pride of - Strachan's heart, forthcoming. Boots, chambermaid, and waiter were - collectively summoned—all assisted in the search, and all - asseverated their own integrity. - </p> - <p> - "Are ye sure, sir, that ye brocht them hame?" said the waiter, an acute - lad, who had served his apprenticeship at a commercial tavern in the - Gorbals; "Ye was gey an' fou when ye cam in here yestreen." - </p> - <p> - "What do you mean, you rascal?" - </p> - <p> - "Ye ken ye wadna gang to bed till ye had anither tumbler." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13b" id="Page_13b">[Pg 13]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Don't talk trash! It was the weakest cold-without in the creation." - </p> - <p> - "And then ye had a sair fecht on politics wi' anither man in the - coffee-room." - </p> - <p> - "Ha! I remember now—the bagman, who is a member of the League! Where - is the commercial villain?" - </p> - <p> - "He gaed aff at sax preceesely, this morning, in his gig, to Kelso." - </p> - <p> - "Then, by the head of Thistlewood!" cried Strachan, frantically, "my - ticker will be turned into tracts against the Corn-laws!" - </p> - <p> - "Hoot na!" said the waiter, "I canna think that. He looked an unco - respectable-like man." - </p> - <p> - "No man can be respectable," replied the aristocratic Thomas, "who sports - such infernal opinions as I heard him utter last night. My poor studs! - Fred—they were a gift from Mary Rivers before we quarrelled, and I - would not have lost them for the universe! Only think of them being - exposed for sale at a free-trade bazaar!" - </p> - <p> - "Come, Tom—they may turn up yet." - </p> - <p> - "Never in this world, except at a pawnbroker's. I could go mad to think - that my last memorial of Mary is in all probability glittering in the - unclean shirt of a bagman!" - </p> - <p> - "Had you not better apply to the Fiscal?" - </p> - <p> - "For what purpose? Doubtless the scoundrel has driven off to the nearest - railway, and is triumphantly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14b" - id="Page_14b">[Pg 14]</a></span> counting the mile-posts as he steams to - his native Leeds. No, Fred. Both watch and studs are gone beyond the hope - of redemption." - </p> - <p> - "The loss is certainly a serious one." - </p> - <p> - "No doubt of it: but a thought strikes me. You recollect the edict, <i>nautæ</i>, - <i>caupones</i>, <i>stabularii</i>? I have not studied the civil law for - nothing, and am clearly of opinion that in such a case the landlord is - liable." - </p> - <p> - "By Jove! I believe you are right. But it would be as well to turn up Shaw - and Dunlop for a precedent before you make any row about it. Besides, it - may be rather difficult to establish that you lost them at the inn." - </p> - <p> - "If they only refer the matter to my oath, I can easily settle that - point," replied Strachan. "Besides, now that I think of it, Miss Percy can - speak to the watch. She asked me what o'clock it was just before we parted - on the stairs." - </p> - <p> - "Eh, what! Is the lady in this house?" - </p> - <p> - "To be sure—did I not tell you so?" - </p> - <p> - "I say, Tom—couldn't you contrive to let one have a peep at this - angel of yours?" - </p> - <p> - "Quite impossible. She is the shyest creature in the world, and would - shrink from the sight of a stranger." - </p> - <p> - "But, my dear Tom——" - </p> - <p> - "I can't do it, I tell you; so it's no use asking me." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15b" id="Page_15b">[Pg 15]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Well, I must say you are abominably selfish. But what on earth are you - going to do with that red-and-blue Joinville? You can't go down to court - without a white neckcloth." - </p> - <p> - "I am not going down to court." - </p> - <p> - "Why, my good fellow! what on earth is the meaning of this?" - </p> - <p> - "I am not going down to court, that's all. I say, Fred, how do I look in - this sort of thing?" - </p> - <p> - "Uncommonly like a cock-pheasant in full plumage. But tell me what you - mean?" - </p> - <p> - "Why, since you must needs know, I am going up-stairs to breakfast with - Miss Percy." - </p> - <p> - So saying, Mr Strachan made me a polite bow, and left the apartment. I - took my solitary way to the court-house, marvelling at the extreme - rapidity of the effect which is produced by the envenomed darts of Cupid. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <h3> - <a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</a> - </h3> - <p> - On entering the court, I found that the business had commenced. An - enormous raw-boned fellow, with a shock of the fieriest hair, and hands of - such dimensions that a mere glimpse of them excited unpleasant sensations - at your windpipe, was stationed at the bar, to which, from previous - practice, he had acquired a sort of prescriptive right. - </p> - <p> - "James M'Wilkin, or Wilkinson, or Wilson,"<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_16b" id="Page_16b">[Pg 16]</a></span> said the presiding judge, - in a tone of disgust which heightened with each successive alias, "attend - to the indictment which is about to be preferred against you." - </p> - <p> - And certainly, if the indictment contained a true statement of the facts, - James M'Wilkin, or Wilkinson, or Wilson, was about as thoroughpaced a - marauder as ever perambulated a common. He was charged with sheep-stealing - and assault; inasmuch as, on a certain night subsequent to the Kelso fair, - he, the said individual with the plural denominations, did wickedly and - feloniously steal, uplift, and away take from a field adjoining to the - Northumberland road, six wethers, the property, or in the lawful - possession, of Jacob Gubbins, grazier, then and now, or lately, residing - in Morpeth; and, moreover, on being followed by the said Gubbins, who - demanded restitution of his property, he, the said M'Wilkin, &c. had, - in the most brutal manner, struck, knocked down, and lavished divers kicks - upon the corporality of the Northumbrian bumpkin, to the fracture of three - of his ribs, and otherwise to the injury of his person. - </p> - <p> - During the perusal of this formidable document by the clerk, M'Wilkin - stood scratching his poll, and leering about him as though he considered - the whole ceremony as a sort of solemn joke. I never in the course of my - life cast eyes on a more nonchalant or unmitigated ruffian. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17b" id="Page_17b">[Pg 17]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "How do you say, M'Wilkin?" asked the judge; "are you guilty or not - guilty?" - </p> - <p> - "Not guilty, aff course. D'ye tak me for a fule?" and M'Wilkin flounced - down upon his seat, as though he had been an ornament to society. - </p> - <p> - "Have you a counsel?" asked the judge. - </p> - <p> - "De'il ane—nor a bawbee," replied the free-booter. - </p> - <p> - Acting upon the noble principle of Scottish jurisprudence, that no man - shall undergo his trial without sufficient legal advice, his lordship in - the kindest manner asked me to take charge of the fortunes of the forlorn - M'Wilkin. Of course I made no scruples; for, so long as it was matter of - practice, I should have felt no hesitation in undertaking the defence of - Beelzebub. I therefore leaned across the dock, and exchanged a few hurried - sentences with my first client. - </p> - <p> - "Why don't you plead guilty?" - </p> - <p> - "What for? I've been here before. Man, I'm thinking ye're a saft ane!" - </p> - <p> - "Did you not steal the sheep?" - </p> - <p> - "Ay—that's just the question. Let them find that out." - </p> - <p> - "But the grazier saw you?" - </p> - <p> - "I blackened his e'es." - </p> - <p> - "You'll be transported to a dead certainty." - </p> - <p> - "Deevil a fears, if ye're worth the price o' half a mutchkin. I'm saying—get - me a Hawick jury,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18b" id="Page_18b">[Pg - 18]</a></span> and it's a' richt. They ken me gey and weel thereabouts." - </p> - <p> - Although I was by no means satisfied in my own mind that an intimate - acquaintance with M'Wilkin and his previous pursuits would be a strong - recommendation in his favour to any possible assize, I thought it best to - follow his instructions, and managed my challenges so well that I secured - a majority of Hawickers. The jury being sworn in, the cause proceeded; and - certainly, before three witnesses had been examined, it appeared to me - beyond all manner of doubt, that, in the language of Tom Campbell, my - unfortunate client was - </p> - <p> - "Doom'd the long coves of Sydney isle to see,"<br /> - </p> - <p> - as a permanent addition to that cultivated and Patagonian population. The - grazier stood to his story like a man, and all efforts to break him down - by cross-examination were fruitless. There was also another hawbuck who - swore to the sheep, and was witness to the assault; so that, in fact, the - evidence was legally complete. - </p> - <p> - Whilst I was occupied in the vain attempt to make Gubbins contradict - himself, there had been a slight commotion in the court-room. On looking - round afterwards, I was astonished to behold my friend Strachan seated in - the Magistrate's box, next to a very pretty and showily-dressed woman, to - whom he was paying the most marked and deliberate<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_19b" id="Page_19b">[Pg 19]</a></span> attention. On the other - side of her was an individual in a civic chain, whose fat, pursy, - apoplectic appearance, and nose of the colour of an Orleans plum, - thoroughly realised my mental picture of the Bailie. His small, blood-shot - eyes twinkled with magisterial dignity and importance; and he looked, - beside Miss Percy—for I could not doubt that it was she—like a - satyr in charge of Florimel. - </p> - <p> - The last witness for the crown, a very noted police-officer from Glasgow, - was then put into the box, to prove a previous conviction against my - friend M'Wilkin. This man bore a high reputation in his calling, and was, - indeed, esteemed as a sort of Scottish Vidocq, who knew by headmark every - filcher of a handkerchief between Caithness and the Border. He met the - bold broad stare of the prisoner with a kind of nod, as much as to assure - him that his time was very nearly up; and then deliberately proceeded to - take a hawk's-eye view of the assembly. I noticed a sort of quiet sneer as - he glanced at the Magistrate's box. - </p> - <p> - "Poor Strachan!" thought I. "His infatuation must indeed be palpable, - since even a common officer can read his secret in a moment." - </p> - <p> - I might just as well have tried to shake Ailsa Craig as to make an - impression upon this witness; however, heroically devoted to my trust, I - hazarded the attempt, and ended by bringing out several additional<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20b" id="Page_20b">[Pg 20]</a></span> tales - of turpitude in the life and times of M'Wilkin. - </p> - <p> - "Make room there in the passage! The lady has fainted," cried the macer. - </p> - <p> - I started to my feet, and was just in time to see Miss Percy conveyed from - the court, in an apparently inanimate state, by the Bailie and the - agitated Strachan. - </p> - <p> - "Devilish fine-looking woman that!" observed the Advocate-Depute across - the table. "Where did your friend Mr Strachan get hold of her?" - </p> - <p> - "I really don't know. I say—are you going to address the jury for - the crown?" - </p> - <p> - "It is quite immaterial. The case is distinctly proved, and I presume you - don't intend to speak?" - </p> - <p> - "I'm not so sure of that." - </p> - <p> - "Oh, well,—in that case I suppose I must say a word or two. This - closes the evidence for the crown, my lord;" and the Depute began to turn - over his papers, preparatory to a short harangue. - </p> - <p> - He had just commenced his speech, when I felt a hand laid upon my - shoulder. I looked around: Strachan was behind me, pale and almost - breathless with excitement. - </p> - <p> - "Fred—can I depend upon your friendship?" - </p> - <p> - "Of course you can. What's the row?" - </p> - <p> - "Have you ten pounds about you?" - </p> - <p> - "Yes—but what do you mean to do with them?<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_21b" id="Page_21b">[Pg 21]</a></span> Surely you are not going - to make a blockhead of yourself by bolting?" - </p> - <p> - "No—no! give me the money—quick!" - </p> - <p> - "On your word of honour, Tom?" - </p> - <p> - "On my sacred word of honour!—That's a good fellow—thank you, - Fred;" and Strachan pocketed the currency. "Now," said he, "I have just - one other request to make." - </p> - <p> - "What's that?" - </p> - <p> - "Speak against time, there's a dear fellow! Spin out the case as long as - you can, and don't let the jury retire for at least three quarters of an - hour. I know you can do it better than any other man at the bar." - </p> - <p> - "Are you in earnest, Tom?" - </p> - <p> - "Most solemnly. My whole future happiness—nay, perhaps the life of a - human being depends upon it." - </p> - <p> - "In that case I think I shall tip them an hour." - </p> - <p> - "Heaven reward you, Fred! I never can forget your kindness!" - </p> - <p> - "But where shall I see you afterwards?" - </p> - <p> - "At the hotel. Now, my dear boy, be sure that you pitch it in, and, if - possible, get the judge to charge after you. Time's all that's wanted—adieu!" - and Tom disappeared in a twinkling. - </p> - <p> - I had little leisure to turn over the meaning of this interview in my - mind, for the address of my learned opponent was very short and pithy. He<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22b" id="Page_22b">[Pg 22]</a></span> merely - pointed out the clear facts, as substantiated by evidence, and brought - home to the unhappy M'Wilkin; and concluded by demanding a verdict on both - charges contained in the indictment against the prisoner. - </p> - <p> - "Do you wish to say anything, sir?" said the judge to me, with a kind of - tone which indicated his hope that I was going to say nothing. Doubtless - his lordship thought that, as a very young counsel, I would take the hint; - but he was considerably mistaken in his man. I came to the bar for - practice—I went on the circuit with the solemn determination to - speak in every case, however desperate; and it needed not the admonition - of Strachan to make me carry my purpose into execution. What did I care - about occupying the time of the court? His lordship was paid to listen, - and could very well afford to hear the man who was pleading for M'Wilkin - without a fee. I must say, however, that he looked somewhat disgusted when - I rose. - </p> - <p> - A first appearance is a nervous thing, but there is nothing like going - boldly at your subject. "<i>Fiat experimentum in corpore vili</i>" is a - capital maxim in the Justiciary Court. The worse your case, the less - chance you have to spoil it; and I never had a worse than M'Wilkin's. - </p> - <p> - I began by buttering the jury on their evident intelligence and the high - functions they had to discharge, which of course were magnified to the<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23b" id="Page_23b">[Pg 23]</a></span> skies. - I then went slap-dash at the evidence; and, as I could say nothing in - favour of my client, directed a tremendous battery of abuse and - insinuation against his accuser. - </p> - <p> - "And who is this Gubbins, gentlemen, that you should believe this most - incredible, most atrocious, and most clumsy apocrypha of his? I will tell - you. He is an English butcher—a dealer in cattle and in bestial—one - of those men who derive their whole subsistence from the profits realised - by the sale of our native Scottish produce. This is the way in which our - hills are depopulated, and our glens converted into solitudes. It is for - him and his confederates—not for us—that our shepherds watch - and toil, that our herds and flocks are reared, that the richness of the - land is absorbed! And who speaks to the character of this Gubbins? You - have heard the pointless remarks made by my learned friend upon the - character of my unfortunate client; but he has not dared to adduce in this - court one single witness in behalf of the character of his witness. - Gentlemen, he durst not do it! Gubbins has deponed to you that he bought - those sheep at the fair of Kelso, from a person of the name of Shiells, - and that he paid the money for them. Where is the evidence of that? Where - is Shiells to tell us whether he actually sold these sheep, or whether, on - the contrary, they were not stolen from him? Has it been proved to you, - gentlemen, that M'Wilkin<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24b" - id="Page_24b">[Pg 24]</a></span> is not a friend of Shiells—that he - did not receive notice of the theft—that he did not pursue the - robber, and, recognising the stolen property by their mark, seize them for - the benefit of their owner? No such proof at least has been led upon the - part of the crown, and in the absence of it, I ask you fearlessly, whether - you can possibly violate your consciences by returning a verdict of - guilty? Is it not possible—nay, is it not extremely probable, that - Gubbins was the actual thief? Was it not his interest, far more than - M'Wilkin's, to abstract those poor unhappy sheep, because it is avowedly - his trade to fill the insatiable maw of the Southron? And in that case, - who should be at the bar? Gubbins! Gubbins, I say, who this day has the - unparalleled audacity to appear before an enlightened Scottish jury, and - to give evidence which, in former times, might have led to the awful - consequence of the execution of an innocent man! And this is what my - learned friend calls evidence! Evidence to condemn a fellow-countryman, - gentlemen? No—not to condemn a dog!" - </p> - <p> - Having thus summarily disposed of Gubbins, I turned my artillery against - the attendant drover and the policeman. The first I indignantly denounced - as either an accomplice or a tool: the second I smote more severely. - Policemen are not popular in Hawick; and, knowing this, I contrived to - blacken the Scottish Vidocq as a bloodhound. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25b" id="Page_25b">[Pg 25]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - But by far the finest flight of fancy in which I indulged was reserved for - the peroration. I was not quite sure of the effect of my commentary on the - evidence, and therefore thought it might be advisable to touch upon a - national law. - </p> - <p> - "And now, gentlemen," said I, "assuming for one moment that all my learned - friend has said to you is true—that the sheep really belonged to - this Gubbins, and were taken from him by M'Wilkin—let us calmly and - deliberately consider how far such a proceeding can be construed into a - crime. What has my unfortunate client done that he should be condemned by - a jury of his countrymen? What he stands charged with is simply this—that - he has prevented an Englishman from driving away the produce of our native - hills. And is this a crime? It may be so, for aught I know, by statute; - but sure I am, that in the intention, to which alone you must look, there - lies a far deeper element of patriotism than of deliberate guilt. Think - for one moment, gentlemen, of the annals of which we are so proud—of - the ballads still chanted in the hall and in the hamlet—of the - lonely graves and headstones that are scattered all along the surface of - the southern muirs. Do not these annals tell us how the princes and the - nobles of the land were wont to think it neither crime nor degradation to - march with their retainers across the Borders, and to harry with fire and - sword the fields of Northumberland<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26b" - id="Page_26b">[Pg 26]</a></span> and Durham? Randolph and the Bruce have - done it, and yet no one dares to attach the stigma of dishonour to their - names. Do not our ballads tell how at Lammas-tide, - </p> - <p> - 'The doughty Earl of Douglas rade<br /> <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Into - England to fetch a prey?'</span><br /> - </p> - <p> - And who shall venture to impeach the honour of the hero who fell upon the - field of Otterbourne? Need I remind you of those who have died in their - country's cause, and whose graves are still made the object of many a - pious pilgrimage? Need I speak of Flodden, that woeful place, where the - Flowers of the Forest were left lying in one ghastly heap around their - king? Ah, gentlemen! have I touched you now? True, it was in the olden - time that these things were done and celebrated; but remember this, that - society may change its place, states and empires may rise and be - consolidated, but patriotism still lives enduring and undying as of yore! - And who shall dare to say that patriotism was not the motive of M'Wilkin? - Who shall presume to analyse or to blame the instinct which may have - driven him to the deed? Call him not a felon—call him rather a poet; - for over his kindling imagination fell the mighty shadow of the past. Old - thoughts, old feelings, old impulses, were burning in his soul. He saw in - Gubbins, not the grazier, but the lawless spoiler of his country; and he - rose, as a Borderer should, to vindicate the honour of his<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27b" id="Page_27b">[Pg 27]</a></span> race. - He may have been mistaken in what he did, but the motive, at least, was - pure. Honour it then, gentlemen, for it is the same motive which is at all - times the best safeguard of a nation's independence; and do honour - likewise to yourselves by pronouncing a unanimous verdict of acquittal in - favour of the prisoner at the bar!" - </p> - <p> - By the time I had finished this harangue, I was wrought up to such a pitch - of enthusiasm, that I really considered M'Wilkin in the light of an - extremely ill-used individual, and the tears stood in my eyes as I - recapitulated the history of his wrongs. Several of the jury, too, began - to get extremely excited, and looked as fierce as falcons when I reminded - them of the field of Flodden. But my hopes were considerably damped when I - heard the charge of his lordship. With all respect for the eminent senator - who that day presided on the bench, I think he went rather too far when he - designated my maiden-effort a rhapsody which could only be excused on - account of the inexperience of the gentleman who uttered it. Passing from - that unpleasant style of stricture, he went <i>seriatim</i> over all the - crimes of M'Wilkin, and very distinctly indicated his opinion that a more - consummate ruffian had seldom figured in the dock. When he concluded, - however, there was a good deal of whispering in the jury-box, and at last - the gentlemen of the assize requested permission to retire. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28b" id="Page_28b">[Pg 28]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "That was a fine flare-up of yours, Freddy," said Anthony Whaup, the only - other counsel for the prisoners upon the circuit. "You came it rather - strong, though, in the national line. I don't think our venerable friend - overhead half likes your ideas of international law." - </p> - <p> - "Why, yes—I confess he gave me a tolerable wigging. But what would - you have me do? I must have said some thing." - </p> - <p> - "Oh, by Jove, your were perfectly right! I always make a point of speaking - myself; and I can assure you that you did remarkably well. It was a novel - view, but decidedly ingenious, and may lead to great results. If that - fellow gets off, you may rely upon it there will be some bloodshed again - upon the Border." - </p> - <p> - "And a jolly calendar, of course, for next circuit. I say, Anthony,—how - many cases have you got?" - </p> - <p> - "Two thefts with habit and repute, a hamesucken, rather a good forgery, - and an assault with intent to commit." - </p> - <p> - "Long?" - </p> - <p> - "Rather—but poor pay. I haven't sacked more than nine guineas - altogether. Gad!" continued Anthony, stretching himself, "this is slow - work. I'd rather by a great deal be rowing on the canal." - </p> - <p> - "Hush! here come the jury." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29b" id="Page_29b">[Pg 29]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - They entered, took their seats, and each man in succession answered to his - name. I stole a glance at M'Wilkin. He looked as leonine as ever, and kept - winking perseveringly to the Hawickers. - </p> - <p> - "Now, gentlemen," said the clerk of court, "what is your verdict?" - </p> - <p> - The foreman rose. - </p> - <p> - "The jury, by a majority, find the charges against the prisoner <span - class="smcap">not proven</span>." - </p> - <p> - "Hurrah!" shouted M'Wilkin, reckless of all authority. "Hurrah! I say—you - counsellor in the wig—ye shanna want a sheep's head thae three - years, if there's ane to be had on the Border!" - </p> - <p> - And in this way I gained my first acquittal. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <h3> - <a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</a> - </h3> - <p> - I found Strachan in his room with his face buried in the bed-clothes. He - was kicking his legs as though he suffered under a violent fit of the - toothache. - </p> - <p> - "I say, Tom, what's the matter? Look up, man! Do you know I've got that - scoundrel off?" - </p> - <p> - No answer. - </p> - <p> - "Tom, I say? Tom, you dunderhead—what do you mean by making an ass - of yourself this way? Get up, for shame, and answer me!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30b" id="Page_30b">[Pg 30]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Poor Strachan raised his head from the coverlet. His eyes were absolutely - pink, and his cheeks of the tint of a lemon. - </p> - <p> - "O Fred, Fred!" said he with a series of interjectional gasps, "I am the - most unfortunate wretch in the universe. All the hopes I had formerly - cherished are blighted at once in the bud! She is gone, my friend—gone - away from me, and, alas! I fear, for ever!" - </p> - <p> - "The deuce she has! and how?" - </p> - <p> - "Oh what madness tempted me to lead her to the court?—what - infatuation it was to expose those angelic features to the risk of - recognition! Who that ever saw those dove-like eyes could forget them?" - </p> - <p> - "I have no objection to the eyes—they were really very passable. But - who twigged her?" - </p> - <p> - "An emissary of her father's—that odious miscreant who was giving - evidence at the trial." - </p> - <p> - "The policeman? Whew! Tom!—I don't like that." - </p> - <p> - "He was formerly the land-steward of the Viscount;—a callous, cruel - wretch, who was more than suspected of having made away with his wife." - </p> - <p> - "And did he recognise her?" - </p> - <p> - "Dorothea says that she felt fascinated by the glitter of his cold grey - eye. A shuddering sensation passed through her frame, just as the poor - warbler of the woods quivers at the approach of<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_31b" id="Page_31b">[Pg 31]</a></span> the rattle-snake. A dark - mist gathered before her sight, and she saw no more until she awoke to - consciousness within my arms." - </p> - <p> - "Very pretty work, truly! And what then?" - </p> - <p> - "In great agitation, she told me that she durst tarry no longer here. She - was certain that the officer would make it his business to track her, and - communicate her hiding-place to her family; and she shook with horror when - she thought of the odious Israelitish bridegroom. 'The caverns of the deep - green sea—the high Tarpeian rock—the Leucadian cliff of - Sappho,' she said, 'all would be preferable to that! And yet, O Thomas, to - think that we should have met so suddenly, and that to part for ever!' - 'Pon my soul, Fred, I am the most miserable of created beings." - </p> - <p> - "Why, what on earth has become of her?" - </p> - <p> - "Gone—and I don't know whither. She would not even apprise the - Bailie of her departure, lest she might leave some clue for discovery. She - desired me to see him, to thank him, and to pay him for her,—all of - which I promised to do. With one kiss—one deep, burning, agonised - kiss—which I shall carry with me to my grave—she tore herself - away, sprang into the postchaise, and in another moment was lost to me for - ever!" - </p> - <p> - "And my ten pounds?" said I, in a tone of considerable emotion. - </p> - <p> - "Would you have had me think twice," asked<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_32b" id="Page_32b">[Pg 32]</a></span> Strachan indignantly, - "before I tendered my assistance to a forlorn angel in distress, even - though she possessed no deeper claims on my sympathy? I thought, - Frederick, you had more chivalry in your nature. You need not be uneasy - about that trifle; I shall be in funds some time about Christmas." - </p> - <p> - "Humph! I thought it was a P. P. transaction, but no matter. And is this - all the clue you have got to the future residence of the lady?" - </p> - <p> - "No,—she is to write me from the nearest post-town. You will see, - Fred, when the letter arrives, how well worthy she is of my adoration." - </p> - <p> - I have found, by long experience, that it is no use remonstrating with a - man who is head-over-ears in love. The tender passion affects us - differently, according to our constitutions. One set of fellows, who are - generally the pleasantest, seldom get beyond the length of flirtation. - They are always at it, but constantly changing, and therefore manage to - get through a tolerable catalogue of attachments before they are finally - brought to book. Such men are quite able to take care of themselves, and - require but little admonition. You no doubt hear them now and then abused - for trifling with the affections of young women—as if the latter had - themselves the slightest remorse in playing precisely the same game!—but - in most cases such censure is undeserved, for they are quite as much<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33b" id="Page_33b">[Pg 33]</a></span> in - earnest as their neighbours, so long as the impulse lasts. The true - explanation is, that they have survived their first passion, and that - their faith is somewhat shaken in the boyish creed of the absolute - perfectibility of woman. The great disappointment of life does not make - them misanthropes—but it forces them to caution, and to a closer - appreciation of character than is usually undertaken in the first - instance. They have become, perhaps, more selfish—certainly more - suspicious, and though often on the verge of a proposal, they never commit - themselves without an extreme degree of deliberation. - </p> - <p> - Another set seem designed by nature to be the absolute victims of woman. - Whenever they fall in love, they do it with an earnestness and an - obstinacy which is actually appalling. The adored object of their - affections can twine them round her finger, quarrel with them, cheat them, - caricature them, or flirt with others, without the least risk of severing - the triple cord of attachment. They become as tame as poodle-dogs, will - submit patiently to any manner of cruelty or caprice, and in fact seem - rather to be grateful for such treatment than otherwise. Clever women - usually contrive to secure a captive of this kind. He is useful to them in - a hundred ways, never interferes with their schemes, and, if the worst - comes to the worst, they can always fall back upon him as a <i>pis-aller</i>. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34b" id="Page_34b">[Pg 34]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - My friend Tom Strachan belonged decidedly to this latter section. Mary - Rivers, a remarkably clever and very showy girl, but as arrant a flirt as - ever wore rosebud in her bosom, had engrossed the whole of his heart - before he reached the reflecting age of twenty, and kept him for nearly - five years in a state of uncomplaining bondage. Not that I believe she - ever cared about him. Tom was as poor as a church-mouse, and had nothing - on earth to look to except the fruits of his professional industry, which, - judging from all appearances, would be a long time indeed in ripening. - Mary was not the sort of person to put up with love in a cottage, even had - Tom's circumstances been adequate to defray the rent of a tenement of that - description: she had a vivid appreciation, not only of the substantials - but of the higher luxuries of existence. But her vanity was flattered at - having in her train at least one devoted dangler, whom she could play off, - whenever opportunity required, against some more valuable admirer. - Besides, Strachan was a man of family, tall, good-looking, and - unquestionably clever in his way: he also danced the polka well, and was - useful in the ball-room or the picnic. So Mary Rivers kept him on in a - kind of blissful dream, just sunning him sufficiently with her smiles to - make him believe that he was beloved, but never allowing matters to go so - far as to lead to the report that they were engaged. Tom asked<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35b" id="Page_35b">[Pg 35]</a></span> for - nothing more. He was quite contented to indulge for years in a dream of - future bliss, and wrote during the interval a great many more sonnets than - summonses. Unfortunately sonnets don't pay well, so that his worldly - affairs did not progress at any remarkable ratio. And he only awoke to a - sense of his real situation, when Miss Rivers, having picked a quarrel - with him one day in the Zoological Gardens, announced on the next to her - friends that she had accepted the hand of a bilious East India merchant. - </p> - <p> - Tom made an awful row about it—grew as attenuated and brown as an - eel—and garnished his conversation with several significant hints - about suicide. He was, however, saved from that ghastly alternative by - being drafted into a Rowing Club, who plied their gondolas daily on the - Union Canal. Hard exercise, beer, and pulling had their usual sanatory - effect, and Tom gradually recovered his health, if not his spirits. - </p> - <p> - It was at this very crisis that he fell in with this mysterious Miss - Percy. There was an immense hole in his affections which required to be - filled up; and, as nature abhors a vacuum, he plugged it with the image of - Dorothea. The flight, therefore, of the fair levanter, after so brief an - intercourse, was quite enough to upset him. He was in the situation of a - man who is informed over-night that he has succeeded to a large fortune, - and who gets a letter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36b" id="Page_36b">[Pg - 36]</a></span> next morning explaining that it is a mere mistake. I was - therefore not at all astonished either at his paroxysms or his credulity. - </p> - <p> - We had rather a dreary dinner that day. The judges always entertain the - first day of circuit, and it is considered matter of etiquette that the - counsel should attend. Sometimes these forensic feeds are pleasant enough; - but on the present occasion there was a visible damp thrown over the - spirits of the party. His lordship was evidently savage at the unforeseen - escape of M'Wilkin, and looked upon me, as I thought, with somewhat of a - prejudiced eye. Bailie Beerie and the other magistrates seemed uneasy at - their unusual proximity to a personage who had the power of death and - transportation, and therefore abstained from emitting the accustomed - torrent of civic facetiousness. One of the sheriffs wanted to be off on a - cruise, and another was unwell with the gout. The Depute Advocate was - fagged; Whaup surly as a bear with a sore ear, on account of the tenuity - of his fees; and Strachan, of course, in an extremely unconversational - mood. So I had nothing for it but to eat and drink as plentifully as I - could, and very thankful I was that the claret was tolerably sound. - </p> - <p> - We rose from table early. As I did not like to leave Tom to himself in his - present state of mind, we adjourned to his room for the purpose of - enjoying a cigar; and there, sure enough, upon the table<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37b" id="Page_37b">[Pg 37]</a></span> lay - the expected missive. Strachan dashed at it like a pike pouncing upon a - parr; I lay down upon the sofa, lit my weed, and amused myself by watching - his physiognomy. - </p> - <p> - "Dear suffering angel!" said Tom at last, with a sort of whimper, "Destiny - has done its worst! We have parted, and the first fond dream of our love - has vanished before the cold and dreary dawn of reality! O my friend—we - were like the two birds in the Oriental fable, each doomed to traverse the - world before we could encounter our mate—we met, and almost in the - same hour the thunderbolt burst above us!" - </p> - <p> - "Yes—two very nice birds," said I. "But what does she say in the - letter?" - </p> - <p> - "You may read it," replied Tom, and he handed me the epistle. It was - rather a superior specimen of penmanship, and I don't choose to criticise - the style. Its tenor was as follows:— - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "I am hardly yet, my dear friend, capable of estimating the true extent of - my emotions. Like the buoyant seaweed torn from its native bed among the - submarine forest of the corals, I have been tossed from wave to wave, - hurried onwards by a stream more resistless than that which sweeps through - the Gulf of Labrador, and far—far away as yet is the wished-for - haven of my rest. Hitherto my life has been a tissue of calamity and woe. - Over my head <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38b" id="Page_38b">[Pg 38]</a></span>since - childhood, has stretched a dull and dreary canopy of clouds, shutting me - out for ever from a glimpse of the blessed sun. Once, and but once only - have I seen a chasm in that envious veil—only once and for a few, a - <i>very</i> few moments, have I gazed upon the blue empyrean, and felt my - heart expand and thrill to the glories of its liquid lustre. That once—oh, - Mr Strachan, can I ever forget it?—that once comprises the era of - the few hours which were the silent witnesses of our meeting! - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "Am I weak in writing to you thus? Perhaps I am; but then, Thomas, I have - never been taught to dissemble. Did I, however, think it probable that we - should ever meet again—that I should hear from your lips a - repetition of that language which now is chronicled in my soul—it - may be that I would not have dared to risk an avowal so candid and so - dear! As it is, it matters not. You have been my benefactor, my kind - consoler—my friend. You have told me that you love; and in the - fulness and native simplicity of my heart, I believe you. And if it be any - satisfaction to you to know that your sentiments have been at least - appreciated, believe that of all the pangs which the poor Dorothea has - suffered, this last agony of parting has been incomparably the most - severe. - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "You asked me if there was no hope. Oh, my Thomas! what would I not give - could I venture to answer, yes? But it cannot be! You are young <span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39b" id="Page_39b">[Pg 39]</a></span>and - happy, and will yet be fortunate and beloved: why, then, should I permit - so fair an existence to be blighted by the upas-tree of destiny under - which I am doomed to languish? You shall not say that I am selfish—you - shall not hereafter reproach me for having permitted you to share a burden - too great for both of us to carry. You must learn the one great lesson of - existence, to submit and to forget! - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "I am going far away, to the margin of that inhospitable shore which - receives upon its rocks the billows of the unbroken Atlantic—or - haply, amongst the remoter isles, I shall listen to the sea-mew's cry. Do - not weep for me. Amidst the myriad of bright and glowing things which - flutter over the surface of this green creation, let one feeble, choking, - overburdened heart be forgotten! Follow me not—seek me not—for, - like the mermaid on the approach of the mariner, I should shrink from the - face of man into the glassy caverns of the deep. - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "Adieu, Thomas, adieu! Say what you will for me to the noble and generous - Beerie. Would to heaven that I could send him some token in return for all - his kindness! But a good and gallant heart is its own most adequate - reward. - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "They are putting to the horses—I can hear the rumble of the - chariot! Oh, once more, dear friend—alas, too inexpressibly dear!—take - my last farewell. Adieu—my heart is breaking as I write the bitter - word!—forget me." - </p> - <p class="blockquot right"> - "<span class="smcap">Dorothea.</span>" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40b" id="Page_40b">[Pg 40]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Do you wonder at my sorrow now?" said Strachan, as I laid down the - passionate epistle. - </p> - <p> - "Why, no. It is well got up upon the whole, and does credit to the lady's - erudition. But I don't see why she should insist so strongly upon eternal - separation. Have you no idea whereabouts that aunt of hers may happen to - reside?" - </p> - <p> - "Not the slightest." - </p> - <p> - "Because, judging from her letter, it must be somewhere about Benbecula or - Tiree. I shouldn't even wonder if she had a summer box on St Kilda." - </p> - <p> - "Right! I did not think of that—you observe she speaks of the - remoter isles." - </p> - <p> - "To be sure, and for half a century there has not been a mermaid seen to - the east of the Lewis. Now, take my advice, Tom—don't make a fool of - yourself in the meantime, but wait until the Court of Session rises in - July. That will allow plenty of time for matters to settle; and if the old - Viscount and that abominable Abiram don't find her out before then, you - may depend upon it they will abandon the search. In the interim, the lady - will have cooled. Walks upon the sea-shore are uncommonly dull without - something like reciprocal sentimentality. The odds are, that the old aunt - is addicted to snuff, tracts, and the distribution of flannel, and before - August, the fair Dorothea will be yearning for a sight of her adorer. You - can easily gammon Anthony Whaup into a loan of that yacht of his which<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41b" id="Page_41b">[Pg 41]</a></span> he - makes such a boast of; and if you go prudently about it, and flatter him - on the score of his steering, I haven't the least doubt that he will - victual his hooker and give you a cruise in it for nothing." - </p> - <p> - "Admirable, my dear Fred! We shall touch at all the isles from Iona to - Uist; and if Miss Percy be indeed there—" - </p> - <p> - "You can carry her off on five minutes' notice, and our long friend will - be abundantly delighted. Only, mind this! If you want my candid opinion on - the wisdom of such an alliance, I should strongly recommend you to meddle - no farther in the matter, for I have my doubts about the Honourable - Dorothea, and——" - </p> - <p> - "Bah, Fred! Doubts after such a letter as that? Impossible! No, my dear - friend—your scheme is admirable—unexceptionable, and I shall - certainly act upon it. But oh—it is a weary time till July!" - </p> - <p> - "Merely a short interval of green pease and strawberries. I advise you, - however, to fix down Whaup as early as you can for the cruise." - </p> - <p> - The hint was rapidly taken. We sent for our facetious friend, ordered - supper, and in the course of a couple of tumblers, persuaded him that his - knowledge of nautical affairs was not exceeded by that of T. P. Cooke, and - that he was much deeper versed in the mysteries of sky-scraping than - Fenimore Cooper. Whaup gave in. By dint of a little extra persuasion, I - believe we might have coaxed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42b" - id="Page_42b">[Pg 42]</a></span> him into a voyage for Otaheite; and - before we parted for the evening it was agreed that Strachan should hold - himself in readiness to start for the Western Islands about the latter end - of July—Whaup being responsible for the provisions and champagne, - whilst Tom pledged himself to cigars. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <h3> - <a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a> - </h3> - <p> - I never ascertained the exact amount of the sum which Tom handed over to - the Bailie. It must, however, have been considerable, for he took to - retrenching his expenditure, and never once dropped a hint about the ten - pounds which I was so singularly verdant as to lend him. The summer - session stole away as quickly as its predecessors, though not, in so far - as I was concerned, quite as unprofitably, for I got a couple of - Sheriff-court papers to draw in consequence of my M'Wilkin appearance. - Tom, however, was very low about himself, and affected solitude. He would - not join in any of the strawberry lunches or fish dinners so attractive to - the junior members of the bar; but frequented the Botanical Gardens, where - he might be seen any fine afternoon, stretched upon the bank beside the - pond, concocting sonnets, or inscribing the name of Dorothea upon the - monument dedicated to Linnæus. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43b" id="Page_43b">[Pg 43]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Time, however, stole on. The last man who was going to be married got his - valedictory dinner at the close of the session. Gowns were thrown off, - wigs boxed up, and we all dispersed to the country wheresoever our - inclination might lead us. I resolved to devote the earlier part of the - vacation to the discovery of the town of Clackmannan—a place of - which I had often heard, but which no human being whom I ever encountered - had seen. Whaup was not oblivious of his promise, and Strachan clove unto - him like a limpet. - </p> - <p> - We did not meet again until September was well-nigh over. In common with - Strachan, I had adopted the resolution of changing my circuit, and - henceforth adhering to Glasgow, which, from its superior supply of - criminals, is the favourite resort of our young forensic aspirants. So I - packed my portmanteau, invoked the assistance of Saint Rollox, and started - for the balmy west. - </p> - <p> - The first man I met in George's Square was my own delightful Thomas. He - looked rather thin; was fearfully sun-burned; had on a pair of canvass - trousers most wofully bespattered with tar, and evidently had not shaved - for a fortnight. - </p> - <p> - "Why, Tom, my dear fellow!" cried I, "can this possibly be you? What the - deuce have you been doing with yourself? You look as hairy as Robinson - Crusoe." - </p> - <p> - "You should see Whaup,—he's rather worse off<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_44b" id="Page_44b">[Pg 44]</a></span> than Friday. We have just - landed at the Broomielaw, but I was obliged to leave Anthony in a tavern - for fear we should be mobbed in the street. I'm off by the rail to - Edinburgh, to get some decent toggery for us both. Lend me a pound-note, - will you?" - </p> - <p> - "Certainly—that's eleven, you recollect. But what's the meaning of - all this? Where is the yacht?" - </p> - <p> - "Safe—under twenty fathoms of dark blue water, at a place they call - the Sneeshanish Islands. Catch me going out again, with Anthony as - steersman!" - </p> - <p> - "No doubt he is an odd sort of Palinurus. But when did this happen?" - </p> - <p> - "Ten days ago. We were three days and nights upon the rock, with nothing - to eat except two biscuits, raw mussels and tangle!" - </p> - <p> - "Mercy on us! and how did you get off?" - </p> - <p> - "In a kelp-boat from Harris. But I haven't time for explanation just now. - Go down, like a good fellow, to the Broomielaw, No. 431—you will - find Anthony enjoying himself with beef steaks and bottled stout, in the - back parlour of the Cat and Bagpipes. I must refer you to him for the - details." - </p> - <p> - "One word more—you'll be back to the circuit?" - </p> - <p> - "Decidedly. To-morrow morning: as soon as I can get my things together." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45b" id="Page_45b">[Pg 45]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "And the lady—what news of her?" - </p> - <p> - The countenance of Strachan fell. - </p> - <p> - "Ah, my dear friend! I wish you had not touched upon that string—you - have set my whole frame a-jarring. No trace of her—none—none! - I fear I shall never see her more!" - </p> - <p> - "Come! don't be down-hearted. One never can tell what may happen. Perhaps - you may meet her sooner than you think." - </p> - <p> - "You are a kind-hearted fellow, Fred. But I've lost all hope. Nothing but - a dreary existence is now before me, and—but, by Jupiter, there goes - the starting bell!" - </p> - <p> - Tom vanished, like Aubrey's apparition, with a melodious twang, and a - perceptible odour of tar; and so, being determined to expiscate the - matter, I proceeded towards the Broomielaw, and in due time became master - of the locality of the Cat and Bagpipes. - </p> - <p> - "Is there a Mr Whaup here?" I inquired of Mrs M'Tavish, the landlady, who - was filling a gill-stoup at the bar. - </p> - <p> - "Here you are, old chap!" cried the hilarious voice of Anthony from an - inner apartment. "Turn to the right, steer clear of the scrubbing brushes, - and help yourself to a mouthful of Guinness." - </p> - <p> - I obeyed. Heavens, what a figure he was! His trousers were rent both at - the knees and elsewhere, and were kept together solely by means of<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46b" id="Page_46b">[Pg 46]</a></span> - whip-cord. His shirt had evidently not benefited by the removal of the - excise duties upon soap, and was screened from the scrutiny of the - beholder by an extempore paletot, fabricated out of sail-cloth, without - the remotest apology for sleeves. - </p> - <p> - Anthony, however, looked well in health, and appeared to be in tremendous - spirits. - </p> - <p> - "Tip us your fin, my old coxs'un!" said he, winking at me over the rim of - an enormous pewter vessel which effectually eclipsed the lower segment of - his visage. "Blessed if I ain't as glad to see you as one of Mother - Carey's chickens in a squall." - </p> - <p> - "Come, Anthony! leave off your nautical nonsense, and talk like a man of - the world. What on earth have you and Tom Strachan been after?" - </p> - <p> - "Nothing on earth, but a good deal on sea, and a trifle on as - uncomfortable a section of basalt as ever served two unhappy buccaniers - for bed, table, and sofa. The chillness is not off me yet." - </p> - <p> - "But how did it happen?" - </p> - <p> - "Very simply: but I'll tell you all about it. It's a long story, though, - so if you please I shall top off with something hot. I'm glad you've come, - however, for I had some doubts how far this sort of original Petersham - would inspire confidence as to my credit in the bosom of the fair - M'Tavish. It's all right now, however, so here goes for my yarn." - </p> - <p> - But I shall not follow my friend through all the<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_47b" id="Page_47b">[Pg 47]</a></span> windings of his - discourse, varied though it certainly was, like the adventures of the - venerated Sinbad. Suffice it to say, that they were hardly out of sight of - the Cumbraes before Tom confided the whole tale of his sorrows to the - callous Anthony, who, as he expressed it, had come out for a lark, and had - no idea of rummaging the whole of the west coast and the adjacent islands - for a petticoat. Moved, however, by the pathetic entreaties of Strachan, - and, perhaps, somewhat reconciled to the quest by the dim vision of an - elopement, Anthony magnanimously waived his objections, and the two kept - cruising together in a little shell of a yacht, all round the western - Archipelago. Besides themselves, there were only a man and a boy on board. - </p> - <p> - "It was slow work," said Anthony,—"deucedly slow. I would not have - minded the thing so much if Strachan had been reasonably sociable; but it - was rather irksome, you will allow, when, after the boy had brought in the - kettle, and we had made everything snug for the night, Master Strachan - began to maunder about the lady's eyes, and to tear his hair, and to call - himself the most miserable dog in existence. I had serious thoughts, at - one time, of leaving him ashore on Mull or Skye, and making off direct to - the Orkneys; but good-nature was always my foible, so I went on, beating - from one place to another, as though we had been looking for the wreck of - the Florida. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48b" id="Page_48b">[Pg 48]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "I'll never take another cruise with a lover so long as I live. Tom led me - all manner of dances, and we were twice fired at from farm-houses where he - was caterwauling beneath the windows with a guitar. It seems he had heard - that flame of his sing a Spanish air at Jedburgh. Tom must needs pick it - up, and you have no idea how he pestered me. Go where we would, he kept - harping on that abominable ditty, in the hope that his mistress might hear - him; and, when I remonstrated on the absurdity of the proceeding, he - quoted the case of Blondel, and some trash out of Uhland's ballads. - Serenading on the west coast is by no means a pleasant pastime. The nights - are as raw as an anchovy, and the midges particularly plentiful. - </p> - <p> - "Well, sir, we could find no trace of the lady after all. Strachan got - into low spirits, and I confess that I was sometimes sulky—so we had - an occasional blow-up, which by no means added to the conviviality of the - voyage. One evening, just at sundown, we entered the Sound of Sneeshanish—an - ugly place, let me tell you, at the best, but especially to be avoided in - any thing like a gale of wind. The clouds in the horizon looked - particularly threatening, and I got a little anxious, for I knew that - there were some rocks about, and not a lighthouse in the whole of the - district. - </p> - <p> - "In an hour or two it grew as dark as a wolf's throat. I could not for the - life of me make out<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49b" id="Page_49b">[Pg - 49]</a></span> where we were, for the Sound is very narrow in some parts, - and occasionally I thought that I could hear breakers ahead. - </p> - <p> - "'Tom,' said I, 'Tom, you lubber!—for our esteemed friend was, as - usual, lying on the deck, with a cigar in his mouth, twangling at that - eternal guitar—'take hold of the helm, will you, for a minute, while - I go down and look at the chart.' - </p> - <p> - "I was as cold as a cucumber; so, after having ascertained, as I best - could, the bearings about the Sound, I rather think I <i>did</i> stop - below for one moment—but not longer—just to mix a glass of - swizzle by way of fortification, for I didn't expect to get to bed that - night. All of a sudden I heard a shout from the bows, bolted upon deck, - and there, sure enough, was a black object right ahead, with the surf - shooting over it. - </p> - <p> - "'Luff, Tom! or we are all dead men;—Luff, I say!' shouted I. I - might as well have called to a millstone. Tom was in a kind of trance. - </p> - <p> - "'O Dorothea!' said our friend. - </p> - <p> - "'To the devil with Dorothea!' roared I, snatching the tiller from his - hand. - </p> - <p> - "'It was too late. We went smash upon the rock, with a force that sent us - headlong upon the deck, and Strachan staggered to his feet, bleeding - profusely at the proboscis. - </p> - <p> - "Down came the sail rattling about our ears, and over lurched the yacht. I - saw there was no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50b" id="Page_50b">[Pg - 50]</a></span> time to lose, so I leaped at once upon the rock, and called - upon the rest to follow me. They did so, and were lucky to escape with no - more disaster than a ruffling of the cuticle on the basalt; for in two - minutes more all was over. Some of the timbers had been staved in at the - first concussion. She rapidly filled,—and down went, before my eyes, - the Caption, the tidiest little craft that ever pitched her broadside into - the hull of a Frenchman!" - </p> - <p> - "Very well told indeed," said I, "only, Anthony, it does strike me that - the last paragraph is not quite original. I've heard something like it in - my younger days, at the Adelphi. But what became of you afterwards?" - </p> - <p> - "Faith, we were in a fix, as you may easily conceive. All we could do was - to scramble up the rocks,—which, fortunately, were not too - precipitous,—until we reached a dry place, where we lay, huddled - together, until morning. When light came, we found that we were not on the - main land, but on a kind of little stack in the very centre of the - channel, without a blade of grass upon it, or the prospect of a sail in - sight. This was a nice situation for two members of the Scottish bar! The - first thing we did was to inquire into the state of provisions, which we - found to consist of a couple of biscuits, that little Jim, the boy, - happened to have about him. Of course we followed the example of the - earlier navigators, and confiscated these<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_51b" id="Page_51b">[Pg 51]</a></span> <i>pro bono publico</i>. - We had not a drop of alcohol among us, but, very luckily, picked up a - small keg of fresh water, which, I believe, was our salvation. Strachan - did not behave well. He wanted to keep half-a-dozen cigars to himself; but - such monstrous selfishness could not be permitted, and the rest of us took - them from him by force. I shall always blame myself for having weakly - restored to him a cheroot." - </p> - <p> - "And what followed?" - </p> - <p> - "Why, we remained three days upon the rock. Fortunately the weather was - moderate, so that we were not absolutely washed away, but for all that it - was consumedly cold of nights. The worst thing, however, was the - deplorable state of our larder. We finished the biscuits the first day, - trusting to be speedily relieved; but the sun set without a vestige of a - sail, and we supped sparingly upon tangle. Next morning we were so - ravenous that we could have eaten raw squirrels. That day we subsisted - entirely upon shell-fish, and smoked out all our cigars. On the third we - bolted two old gloves, buttons and all; and, do you know, Fred, I began to - be seriously alarmed about the boy Jim, for Strachan kept eyeing him like - an ogre, began to mutter some horrid suggestions as to the propriety of - casting lots, and execrated his own stupidity in being unprovided with a - jar of pickles." - </p> - <p> - "O Anthony—for shame!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52b" id="Page_52b">[Pg 52]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Well—I'm sure he was thinking about it, if he did not say so. - However, we lunched upon a shoe, and for my own part, whenever I go upon - another voyage, I shall take the precaution of providing myself with - pliable French boots—your Kilmarnock leather is so very intolerably - tough! Towards evening, to our infinite joy, we descried a boat entering - the Sound. We shouted, as you may be sure, like demons. The Celtic - Samaritans came up, and, thanks to the kindness of Rory M'Gregor the - master, we each of us went to sleep that night with at least two gallons - of oatmeal porridge comfortably stowed beneath our belts. And that's the - whole history." - </p> - <p> - "And how do you feel after such unexampled privation?" - </p> - <p> - "Not a hair the worse. But this I know, that if ever I am caught again on - such idiotical errand as hunting for a young woman through the Highlands, - my nearest of kin are at perfect liberty to have me cognosced without - opposition." - </p> - <p> - "Ah—you are no lover, Anthony. Strachan, now, would go barefooted - through Stony Arabia for the mere chance of a casual glimpse at his - mistress." - </p> - <p> - "All I can say, my dear fellow, is, that if connubial happiness cannot be - purchased without a month's twangling on a guitar and three consecutive - suppers upon seaweed, I know at least one respectable young barrister who - is likely to die<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53b" id="Page_53b">[Pg - 53]</a></span> unmarried. But I say, Fred, let us have a coach and drive - up to your hotel. You can lend me a coat, I suppose, or something of the - sort, until Strachan arrives; and just be good enough, will you, to settle - with Mrs M'Tavish for the bill, for, by all my hopes of a sheriffship, I - have been thoroughly purged of my tin." - </p> - <p> - The matter may not be of any especial interest to the public; at the same - time I think it right to record the fact that Anthony Whaup owes me seven - shillings and eightpence unto this day. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <h3> - <a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</a> - </h3> - <p> - "That is all I can tell you about it," said Mr Hedger, as he handed me the - last of three indictments, with the joyful accompaniment of the fees. - "That is all I can tell you about it. If the <i>alibi</i> will hold water, - good and well—if not, M'Closkie will be transported." - </p> - <p> - Hedger is the very best criminal agent I ever met with. There is always a - point in his cases—his precognitions are perfect, and pleading, - under such auspices, becomes a kind of realised romance. - </p> - <p> - "By the way," said he, "is there a Mr Strachan of your bar at circuit? I - have a curious communication from a prisoner who is desirous to have him - as her counsel." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54b" id="Page_54b">[Pg 54]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Indeed! I am glad to hear it. Mr Strachan is a particular friend of mine, - and will be here immediately. I shall be glad to introduce you. Is it a - heavy case?" - </p> - <p> - "No, but rather an odd one—a theft of money committed at the - Blenheim hotel. The woman seems a person of education, but, as she - obstinately refuses to tell me her story, I know very little more about it - than is contained in the face of the indictment." - </p> - <p> - "What is her name?" - </p> - <p> - "Why you know that is a matter not very easily ascertained. She called - herself Euphemia Saville when brought up for examination, and of course - she will be tried as such. She is well dressed, and rather pretty, but she - won't have any other counsel than Mr Strachan; and singularly enough, she - has positively forbidden me to send him a fee on the ground that he would - take it as an insult." - </p> - <p> - "I should feel particularly obliged if the whole public would take to - insulting me perpetually in that manner! But really this is an odd - history. Do you think she is acquainted with my friend?" - </p> - <p> - Hedger winked. - </p> - <p> - "I can't say," said he, "for, to tell you the truth, I know nothing - earthly about it. Only she was so extremely desirous to have him engaged, - that I thought it not a little remarkable. I hope your<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_55b" id="Page_55b">[Pg 55]</a></span> friend won't take offence - if I mention what the woman said?" - </p> - <p> - "Not in the least, you may be sure of that. And, <i>apropos</i>, here he - comes." - </p> - <p> - And in effect Whaup and Strachan now walked into the counsel's apartment, - demure, shaven, and well dressed—altogether two very - different-looking individuals from the tatterdemalions of yesterday. - </p> - <p> - "Good morning, Fred," cried Whaup; "Servant, Mr Hedger—lots of work - going, eh? Are the pleas nearly over yet?" - </p> - <p> - "Very nearly, I believe, Mr Whaup. Would you have the kindness to——" - </p> - <p> - "Oh, certainly," said I. "Strachan, allow me to introduce my friend Mr - Hedger, who is desirous of your professional advice." - </p> - <p> - "I say, Freddy," said Whaup, looking sulkily at the twain as they retired - to a window to consult, "what's in the wind now? Has old Hedger got a - spite at any of his clients?" - </p> - <p> - "How should I know? What do you mean?" - </p> - <p> - "Because I should rather think," said Anthony, "that in our friend - Strachan's hands the lad runs a remarkably good chance of a sea voyage to - the colonies, that's all." - </p> - <p> - "Fie for shame, Anthony! You should not bear malice." - </p> - <p> - "No more I do—but I can't forget the loss of<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_56b" id="Page_56b">[Pg 56]</a></span> the little Caption all - through his stupid blundering; and this morning he must needs sleep so - long that he lost the early train, and has very likely cut me out of - business for the sheer want of a pair of reputable trousers." - </p> - <p> - "Never mind—there is a good time coming." - </p> - <p> - "Which means, I suppose, that you have got the pick of the cases? Very - well: it can't be helped, so I shall even show myself in court by way of - public advertisement." - </p> - <p> - So saying, my long friend wrestled himself into his gown, adjusted his wig - knowingly upon his cranium, and rushed toward the court-room as vehemently - as though the weal of the whole criminal population of the west depended - upon his individual exertions. - </p> - <p> - "Freddy, come here, if you please," said Strachan, "this is a very - extraordinary circumstance! Do you know that this woman, Euphemia Saville, - though she wishes me to act as her counsel, has positively refused to see - me!" - </p> - <p> - "Very odd, certainly! Do you know her?" - </p> - <p> - "I never heard of the name in my life. Are you sure, Mr Hedger, that there - is no mistake?" - </p> - <p> - "Quite sure, sir. She gave me, in fact, a minute description of your - person, which perhaps I may be excused from repeating." - </p> - <p> - "Oh, I understand," said Tom, fishingly; "complimentary, I suppose—eh?" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57b" id="Page_57b">[Pg 57]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Why yes, rather so," replied Hedger hesitatingly; and he cast at the same - time a glance at the limbs of my beloved friend, which convinced me that - Miss Saville's communication had, somehow or other, borne reference to the - shape of a parenthesis. "But, at all events, you may be sure she has seen - you. I really can imagine no reason for an interview. We often have people - who take the same kind of whims, and you have no idea of their obstinacy. - The best way will be to let the Crown lead its evidence, and trust - entirely to cross-examination. I shall take care, at all events, that her - appearance shall not damage her. She is well dressed, and I don't doubt - will make use of her cambric handkerchief." - </p> - <p> - "And a very useful thing that same cambric is," observed I. "Come, Tom, my - boy, pluck up courage! You have opportunity now for a grand display; and - if you can poke in something about chivalry and undefended loveliness, you - may be sure it will have an effect on the jury. There is a strong spice of - romance in the composition of the men of the Middle Ward." - </p> - <p> - "The whole thing, however, seems to me most mysterious." - </p> - <p> - "Very; but that is surely an additional charm. We seldom find a chapter - from the Mysteries of Udolfo transferred to the records of the Justiciary - Court of Scotland." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58b" id="Page_58b">[Pg 58]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Well, then, I suppose it must be so. Fred, will you sit beside me at the - trial? I'm not used to this sort of thing as yet, and I possibly may feel - nervous." - </p> - <p> - "Not a bit of you. At any rate I shall be there, and of course you may - command me." - </p> - <p> - In due time the case was called. Miss Euphemia Saville ascended the trap - stair, and took her seat between a pair of policemen with exceedingly - luxuriant whiskers. - </p> - <p> - I must allow that I felt a strong curiosity about Euphemia. Her name was - peculiar; the circumstances under which she came forward were unusual; and - her predilection for Strachan was tantalising. Her appearance, however, - did little to solve the mystery. She was neatly, even elegantly dressed in - black, with a close-fitting bonnet and thick veil, which at first - effectually obscured her countenance. This, indeed, she partially removed - when called upon to plead to the indictment; but the law of no civilised - country that I know of is so savage as to prohibit the use of a - handkerchief, and the fair Saville availed herself of the privilege by - burying her countenance in cambric. I could only get a glimpse of some - beautiful black braided hair and a forehead that resembled alabaster. To - all appearance she was extremely agitated, and sobbed as she answered to - the charge. - </p> - <p> - The tender-hearted Strachan was not the sort of<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_59b" id="Page_59b">[Pg 59]</a></span> man to behold the sorrows - of his client without emotion. In behalf of the junior members of the - Scottish bar I will say this, that they invariably fight tooth and nail - when a pretty girl is concerned, and I have frequently heard bursts of - impassioned eloquence poured forth in defence of a pair of bright eyes or - a piquant figure, in cases where an elderly or wizened dame would have run - a strong chance of finding no Cicero by her side. Tom accordingly - approached the bar for the purpose of putting some questions to his - client, but not a word could he extract in reply. Euphemia drew down her - veil, and waved her hand with a repulsive gesture. - </p> - <p> - "I don't know what to make of her," said Strachan; "only she seems to be a - monstrous fine woman. It is clear, however, that she has mistaken me for - somebody else. I never saw her in my life before." - </p> - <p> - "Hedger deserves great credit for the way he has got her up. Observe, Tom, - there is no finery about her; no ribbons or gaudy scarfs, which are as - unsuitable at a trial as at a funeral. Black is your only wear to find - favour in the eyes of a jury." - </p> - <p> - "True. It is a pity that so little attention is paid to the æsthetics of - criminal clothing. But here comes the first witness—Grobey, I think, - they call him—the fellow who lost the money." - </p> - <p> - Mr Grobey mounted the witness-box like a cow ascending a staircase. He was - a huge, elephantine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60b" id="Page_60b">[Pg - 60]</a></span> animal of some sixteen stone, with bushy eyebrows and a - bald pate, which he ever and anon affectionately caressed with a red and - yellow bandana. Strachan started at the sound of his voice, surveyed him - wistfully for a moment, and then said to me in a hurried whisper— - </p> - <p> - "As I live, Fred, that is the identical bagman who boned my emerald studs - at Jedburgh!" - </p> - <p> - "You don't mean to say it?" - </p> - <p> - "Fact, upon my honour! There is no mistaking his globular freetrading - nose. Would it not be possible to object to his evidence on that ground?" - </p> - <p> - "Mercy on us! no.—Reflect—there is no conviction." - </p> - <p> - "True. But he stole them nevertheless. I'll ask him about them when I - cross." - </p> - <p> - Mr Grobey's narrative, however, as embraced in an animated dialogue with - the public prosecutor, threw some new and unexpected light upon the - matter. Grobey was a traveller in the employment of the noted house of - Barnacles, Deadeye, and Company, and perambulated the country for the - benevolent purpose of administering to deficiency of vision. In the course - of his wanderings he had arrived at the Blenheim, where, after a light - supper of fresh herrings, toasted cheese, and Edinburgh ale, assisted, <i>more - Bagmannorum</i>, by several glasses of stiff brandy-and-water, he had - retired to his apartment to sleep off the labours of the day.<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61b" id="Page_61b">[Pg 61]</a></span> - Somnus, however, did not descend that night with his usual lightness upon - Grobey. On the contrary, the deity seemed changed into a ponderous weight, - which lay heavily upon the chest of the moaning and suffocated traveller; - and notwithstanding a paralysis which appeared to have seized upon his - limbs, every external object in the apartment became visible to him as by - the light of a magic lantern. He heard his watch ticking, like a living - creature, upon the dressing-table where he had left it. His black morocco - pocket-book was distinctly visible beside the looking-glass, and two - spectral boots stood up amidst the varied shadows of the night. Grobey was - very uncomfortable. He began to entertain the horrid idea that a fiend was - hovering through his chamber. - </p> - <p> - All at once he heard the door creaking upon its hinges. There was a slight - rustling of muslin, a low sigh, and then momentary silence. "What, in the - name of John Bright, can that be?" thought the terrified traveller; but he - had not to wait long for explanation. The door opened slowly—a - female figure, arrayed from head to foot in robes of virgin whiteness, - glided in, and fixed her eyes, with an expression of deep solemnity and - menace, upon the countenance of Grobey. He lay breathless and motionless - beneath the spell. This might have lasted for about a minute, during which - time, as Grobey expressed it, his very entrails were convulsed<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62b" id="Page_62b">[Pg 62]</a></span> with - fear. The apparition then moved onwards, still keeping her eyes upon the - couch. She stood for a moment near the window, raised her arm with a - monitory gesture to the sky, and then all at once seemed to disappear as - if absorbed in the watery moonshine. Grobey was as bold a bagman as ever - flanked a mare with his gig-whip, but this awful visitation was too much. - Boots, looking-glass, and table swam with a distracting whirl before his - eyes; he uttered a feeble yell, and immediately lapsed into a swoon. - </p> - <p> - It was bright morning when he awoke. He started up, rubbed his eyes, and - endeavoured to persuade himself that it was all an illusion. To be sure - there were the boots untouched, the coat, the hat, and the portmanteau; - but where—oh where—were the watch and the plethoric - pocket-book, with its bunch of bank-notes and other minor memoranda? Gone—spirited - away; and with a shout of despair old Grobey summoned the household. - </p> - <p> - The police were straightway taken into his confidence. The tale of the - midnight apparition—of the Demon Lady—was told and listened - to, at first with somewhat of an incredulous smile; but when the landlord - stated that an unknown damosel had been sojourning for two days at the - hotel, that she had that morning vanished in a hackney-coach without - leaving any trace of her address, and that, moreover, certain spoons of - undeniable silver were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63b" - id="Page_63b">[Pg 63]</a></span> amissing, Argus pricked up his ears, and - after some few preliminary inquiries, issued forth in quest of the - fugitive. Two days afterwards the fair Saville was discovered in a - temperance hotel; and although the pocket-book had disappeared, both the - recognisable notes and the watch were found in her possession. A number of - pawn-tickets, also, which were contained in her reticule, served to - collect from divers quarters a great mass of <i>bijouterie</i>, amongst - which were the Blenheim spoons. - </p> - <p> - Such was Mr Grobey's evidence as afterwards supplemented by the police. - Tom rose to cross-examine. - </p> - <p> - "Pray, Mr Grobey," said he, adjusting his gown upon his shoulders with a - very knowing and determined air, as though he intended to expose his - victim—"Pray, Mr Grobey, are you any judge of studs?" - </p> - <p> - "I ain't a racing man," replied Grobey, "but I knows an oss when I sees - it." - </p> - <p> - "Don't equivocate, sir, if you please. Recollect you are upon your oath," - said Strachan, irritated by a slight titter which followed upon Grobey's - answer. "I mean studs, sir—emerald studs for example?" - </p> - <p> - "I ain't. But the lady is," replied Grobey. - </p> - <p> - "How do you mean, sir?" - </p> - <p> - "'Cos there vos five pair on them taken out of pawn with her tickets." - </p> - <p> - "How do you know that, sir?" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64b" id="Page_64b">[Pg 64]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "'Cos I see'd them." - </p> - <p> - "Were you at Jedburgh, sir, in the month of April last?" - </p> - <p> - "I was." - </p> - <p> - "Do you recollect seeing me there?" - </p> - <p> - "Perfectly." - </p> - <p> - "Do you remember what passed upon that occasion?" - </p> - <p> - "You was rather confluscated, I think." - </p> - <p> - There was a general laugh. - </p> - <p> - "Mr Strachan," said the judge mildly, "I am always sorry to interrupt a - young counsel, but I really cannot see the relevancy of these questions. - The court can have nothing to do with your communications with the - witness. I presume I need not take a note of these latter answers." - </p> - <p> - "Very well, my lord," said Tom, rather discomfited at being cut out of his - revenge on the bagman, "I shall ask him something else;" and he commenced - his examination in right earnest. Grobey, however, stood steadfast to the - letter of his previous testimony. - </p> - <p> - Another witness was called; and to my surprise the Scottish Vidocq - appeared. He spoke to the apprehension and the search, and also to the - character of the prisoner. In his eyes she had long been chronicled as - habit and repute a thief. - </p> - <p> - "You know the prisoner, then?" said Strachan rising. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65b" id="Page_65b">[Pg 65]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "I do. Any time these three years." - </p> - <p> - "Under what name is she known to you?" - </p> - <p> - "Betsy Brown is her real name, but she has gone by twenty others." - </p> - <p> - "By twenty, do you say?" - </p> - <p> - "There, or thereabouts. She always flies at high game; and, being a - remarkably clever woman, she passes herself off for a lady." - </p> - <p> - "Have you ever seen her elsewhere than in Glasgow?" - </p> - <p> - "I have." - </p> - <p> - "Where?" - </p> - <p> - "At Jedburgh." - </p> - <p> - I cannot tell what impulse it was that made me twitch Strachan's gown at - this moment. It was not altogether a suspicion, but rather a presentiment - of coming danger. Strachan took the hint and changed his line. - </p> - <p> - "Can you specify any of her other names?" - </p> - <p> - "I can. There are half-a-dozen of them here on the pawn-tickets. Shall I - read them?" - </p> - <p> - "If you please." - </p> - <p> - "One diamond ring, pledged in name of Lady Emily Delaroche. A garnet - brooch and chain—Miss Maria Mortimer. Three gold seals—Mrs - Markham Vere. A watch and three emerald studs—the Honourable - Dorothea Percy——" - </p> - <p> - There was a loud shriek from the bar, and a bustle—the prisoner had - fainted. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66b" id="Page_66b">[Pg 66]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - I looked at Strachan. He was absolutely as white as a corpse. - </p> - <p> - "My dear Tom," said I, "hadn't you better go out into the open air?" - </p> - <p> - "No!" was the firm reply; "I am here to do my duty, and I'll do it." - </p> - <p> - And in effect, the Spartan boy with the fox gnawing into his side did not - acquit himself more heroically than my friend. The case was a clear one, - no doubt, but Tom made a noble speech, and was highly complimented by the - Judge upon his ability. No sooner, however, had he finished it than he - left the Court. - </p> - <p> - I saw him two hours afterwards. - </p> - <p> - "Tom," said I, "about these emerald studs—I think I could get them - back from the Fiscal." - </p> - <p> - "Keep them to yourself. I'm off to India." - </p> - <p> - "Bah!—go down to the Highlands for a month." - </p> - <p> - Tom did so; purveyed himself a kilt; met an heiress at the Inverness - Meeting, and married her. He is now the happy father of half-a-dozen - children, and a good many of us would give a trifle for his practice. But - to this day he is as mad as a March hare if an allusion is made in his - presence to any kind of studs whatsoever. - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67b" id="Page_67b">[Pg 67]</a></span> - </p> - <h2> - <a name="COLLEGE_FRIENDS_III" id="COLLEGE_FRIENDS_III">MY COLLEGE FRIENDS.</a> - </h2> - <p class="center"> - No. III. - </p> - <p class="center"> - MR W. WELLINGTON HURST. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - <span class="small">[<i>MAGA.</i> <span class="smcap">January 1846.</span>]</span> - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="dropcap"> - It would probably puzzle Mr William Wellington Hurst, as much as any man, - to find out on what grounds I placed him on the list of my College - friends; for certainly our intimacy was hardly sufficient to warrant such - a liberty; and he was one of those happy individuals who would never have - suspected that it could be out of gratitude for much amusement afforded me - by sundry of his sayings and doings. But so it is; and it happens, that - while the images of many others of my companions—very worthy good - sort of fellows, whom I saw more or less of nearly every day—have - vanished from my memory, or only flit across occasionally, like shadows, - the full-length figure of Mr W. Wellington Hurst, exactly as he turned - out, after a satisfactory toilet, in the patent boots and scarf of many - colours, stands fixed there like a daguerreotype—more faithful than - flattering. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68b" id="Page_68b">[Pg 68]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - My first introduction to him was by running him down in a skiff, when I - was steering the College eight—not less to his astonishment than our - own gratification. It is (or used to be) perfectly allowable, by the laws - of the river, if, after due notice, these small craft fail to get out of - your way; but it is not very easy to effect. However, in this instance, we - went clean over him, very neatly indeed. The men helped him into our boat, - just as his own sunk from under him; and he accepted a seat by my side in - the stern-sheets, with many apologies for being so wet, appearing - considerably impressed with a sense of my importance, and still more of my - politeness. When we reached Sandford, I prescribed a stiff tumbler of hot - brandy and water, and advised him to run all the way home, to warm - himself, and avoid catching cold; and, from that time, I believe he always - looked upon me as a benefactor. The claim, on my part, certainly rested on - a very small foundation originally; it was strengthened afterwards by a - less questionable act of patronage. Like many other under-graduates of - every man's acquaintance in those days, Hurst laboured under the delusion, - that holding two sets of reins in a very confused manner, and flourishing - a long whip, was driving; and that to get twenty miles out of Oxford in a - "team," without an upset, or an imposition from the proctor, was an <i>opus - operatum</i> of the highest possible merit. To do him justice, he<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69b" id="Page_69b">[Pg 69]</a></span> - laboured diligently in the only exercise which he seemed to consider - strictly academical—he spent an hour every morning, standing upon a - chair, "catching flies," as he called it, and occasionally flicking his - scout, with a tandem whip; and practised incessantly upon tin horns of all - lengths, with more zeal than melody, until he got the erysipelas in his - lower lip, and a hint of rustication from the tutors. Yet he was more - ambitious than successful. His reputation on the road grew worse and worse - every day. He had a knack of shaving turnpike gates, and cutting round - corners on one wheel, and getting his horses into every possible figure - but a straight line, which made every mile got over without an accident - almost a miracle. At last, after taking a four-in-hand over a narrow - bridge, at the bottom of a hill, pretty much in the Olympic fashion—all - four abreast—men got rather shy of any expeditions of the kind in - his company. There was little credit in it, and a good deal of danger. - First, he was reduced to soliciting the company of freshmen, who were - flattered by any proposal that sounded <i>fast</i>. But they, too, grew - shy, after one or two ventures; and poor Hurst soon found a difficulty in - getting a companion at all. He was a liberal fellow enough, and not pushed - for a guinea when his darling science was concerned: so he used to offer - to "sport the team" himself; but even when he condescended to the - additional self-devotion<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70b" - id="Page_70b">[Pg 70]</a></span> of "standing a dinner and champagne," he - found that the closest calculators among his sporting acquaintance had as - much regard for their necks as their pockets. - </p> - <p> - To this inglorious position was his fame as a charioteer reduced, when - Horace Leicester and myself, early in his third term, had determined - somewhat suddenly to go to see a steeple-chase about twelve miles off, - where Leicester had some attraction besides the horses, in the shape of a - pretty cousin; (<i>two</i>, he told me, and bribed me with the promise of - an introduction to "the other," but she did not answer to sample at all.) - We had engaged a very nice mare and stanhope, which we knew we could - depend upon, when, the day before the race, the chestnut was declared - lame, and not a presentable four-legged animal was to be hired in Oxford. - Hurst had engaged his favourite pair of greys (which would really go very - well with any other driver) a week beforehand, but had been canvassing the - last batch of freshmen in vain for an occupant of the vacant seat. A huge - red-headed north-country man, who had never seen a tandem in his life, but - who, as far as pluck went, would have ridden postilion to Medea's dragons, - was listening with some apparent indecision to Hurst's eloquence upon the - delights of driving, just as we came up after a last unsuccessful search - through the livery stables; and the pair were proceeding<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71b" id="Page_71b">[Pg 71]</a></span> out of - college arm in arm, probably to look at the greys, when Leicester, to my - amusement, stepped up with—"Hurst, who's going with you to B——?" - </p> - <p> - "I—why, I hardly know yet; I think Sands here will, if"—— - </p> - <p> - "I'll go with you then, if you like; and if you've got a cart,<a - name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" - class="fnanchor">[1]</a> Hawthorne can come too, and it will be very - jolly." - </p> - <p> - If the university had announced their intention of creating him a B.A. by - diploma, without examination, Hurst could hardly have looked more - surprised and delighted. Leicester, it should be borne in mind, was one of - the most popular men in the college—a sort of <i>arbiter - elegantiarum</i> in the best set. Hurst knew very little of him, but was - no doubt highly flattered by his proposal. From coaxing freshmen to come - out by the bribe of paying all expenses, to driving to B—— - steeple-chase side by side with Horace (my modesty forbids me to include - myself), was a step at once from the ridiculous to the sublime of - tandemizing. For this advancement in life, he always, I fancy, considered - himself indebted to me, as I had originally introduced him to Leicester's - acquaintance; and when we both accepted an invitation, which he delivered - himself of with some hesitation, to breakfast in his rooms on the morning - of the expedition, his joy and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72b" - id="Page_72b">[Pg 72]</a></span> gratitude appeared to know no bounds. It - is not usual, be it remembered, for a junior man in college to ask a - senior to a party from whom he has never received an invitation himself; - but hunting and tandem-driving are apt occasionally to set ordinary - etiquette at defiance. "Don't ask a lot of men, that's all—there's a - good fellow," said Horace, whose good-natured smile, and off-hand and - really winning manner, enabled him to carry off, occasionally, a degree of - impudence which would not have been tolerated from others—"I hate a - large formal breakfast party of all things; it disgusts me to see a score - of men jostling each other over tough beefsteaks." - </p> - <p> - "I asked Sands yesterday," apologised Hurst. "I thought perhaps he would - come out with me; but I daresay I can put him off, if"—— - </p> - <p> - "Oh! on no account whatever; you mean the carroty freshman I saw you with - just now? Have him by all means; it will be quite refreshing to meet any - man so regularly green. So there will be just four of us; eight o'clock, I - suppose? it won't do to be much later." - </p> - <p> - And Horace walked off, having thus arranged matters to his own - satisfaction and his host's. I was an interested party in the business, - however, and had my own terms to make. "You've disposed of me rather - coolly," said I; "you don't surely imagine that at my time of life I'm - going<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73b" id="Page_73b">[Pg 73]</a></span> - to trust my neck to that fellow's abominable driving?" - </p> - <p> - "Make your mind easy, Frank; William Wellington sha'n't finger a riband." - </p> - <p> - "Nonsense, Leicester; you can't treat a man in that kind of way—not - to let him drive his own team. Hurst <i>is</i> a bit of an ass, certainly; - but you can't with any decency first ask a man for a seat, and then refuse - to give him up the reins." - </p> - <p> - "Am I in the habit, sir, of doing things in the very rude and - ungentlemanly style you insinuate?" And Horace looked at me with mock - dignity for a second or two, and then burst into a laugh. "Leave it to me, - Hawthorne, and I'll manage it to the satisfaction of all parties: I'll - promise you that Hurst shall have a capital day's fun, and your valuable - neck shall be as safe as if you were tried by a Welsh jury." - </p> - <p> - With this indefinite assurance I was obliged to be content; and - accordingly, at half-past eight the next morning, after a very correct - breakfast, we mounted the tandem-cart at the college back-gates, got the - leader hitched on, as usual, a mile out of the city, for fear of proctors, - and were bowling merrily along, in the slight frost of an autumn morning, - towards B——. Leicester took the driving first, by Hurst's - special request, after one or two polite but faint refusals, the latter - sitting by his side; while I occupied, for the present, the queer little - box which in those days was stuck on<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_74b" id="Page_74b">[Pg 74]</a></span> behind, (the more modern - carts, which hold four, are an improvement introduced into the University - since my driving days). With wonderful gravity and importance did - Leicester commence his lectures on the whip to his admiring companion: I - almost think he began in the approved style, with a slight allusion to the - Roman <i>biga</i>, and deduced the progress of the noble science from - Ericthonius down to "Peyton and Ward." I have a lively recollection of a - comparison between Automedon of the Homeric times, and "Black Will" of - Oxford celebrity—the latter being decided as only likely to be less - immortal, because there was no Homer among the contemporary - under-graduates. A good deal was lost to me, no doubt, from my position - behind; but Hurst seemed to suck it all in with every disposition to be - edified. From the history of his subject, Horace proceeded, in due course, - to the theory, from theory to facts, from facts to illustrations. In the - practical department, Horace, I suspect, like many other lecturers, was on - his weakest ground; for his own driving partook of the general - under-graduate character. - </p> - <p> - "You throw the lash out so—you see—and bring it back sharp, so—no, - not <i>so</i> exactly—so—hang the thing, I can't do it now; - but that's the principle, you understand—and then you take up your - double thong, so—pshaw, I did it very well just now—to put it - into the wheeler, so—ah, I missed it then, but that's the way to do - it." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75b" id="Page_75b">[Pg 75]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - He put me considerably in mind of a certain professor of chemistry, whose - lectures on light and heat I once was rash enough to attend, who, after a - long dry disquisition which had nearly put us all to sleep, used to arouse - our attention to the "beautiful effects" produced by certain combinations, - which he would proceed to illustrate, as he said, by a "little - experiment." But, somehow or other, these little experiments always, or - nearly always, failed: and after the room had been darkened, perhaps, for - five minutes or so, in order to give the exhibition full effect, the - result would be, a <i>fizz</i> or two, a faint blue light, and a stink, - varying according to circumstances, but always abominable. "It's very odd, - John," the discomfited operator used to exclaim to his assistant; "very - odd; and we succeeded so well this morning, too: it's most unaccountable: - I'm really very sorry, gentlemen, but I can assure you, this very same - experiment we tried to-day with the most beautiful result; didn't we, - John?" "We did, sir," was John's invariably dutiful reply; and so the - audience took John's word for it, and the experiment was considered to - have been, virtually, successful. - </p> - <p> - So we rattled on to the ground: Leicester occasionally putting the reins - into his companion's hand, teaching him to perform some impossible - movement with his third finger, and directing his attention to - non-existent flies, which he professed to remove<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_76b" id="Page_76b">[Pg 76]</a></span> from the leader, out of - sheer compassion, with the point of the whip. - </p> - <p> - "You are sure you wouldn't like to take the reins now? Well, you'll drive - home then, of course? Hawthorne, will you try your hand now? Hurst's going - to take up the tooling when we come back." - </p> - <p> - "No, thank you," said I; "I won't interfere with either of your - performances."—"And if Hurst does drive home," was my mental - determination, expressed to Leicester as far as a nod could do it, "I'll - walk." - </p> - <p> - There was no difficulty in finding out the localities: the field in which - the winning-flag was fixed was not far from the turnpike road, and - conspicuous enough by the crowd already there collected. Of course, pretty - nearly all the sporting characters among the gownsmen were there, the - distance from the University being so trifling. Mounted on that seedy - description of animal peculiar to Oxford livery-stables, which can never - by any possibility be mistaken for anything but a hired affair, but will - generally go all day, and scramble through almost anything; with showily - mounted jockey-whips in their hands, bad cigars (at two guineas a-pound) - in their mouths, bright blue scarfs, or something equivalent, round their - necks—their neat white cords and tops (things which they <i>did</i> - turn out well in Oxford) being the only really sportsmanlike article about - them; flattering themselves they looked exceedingly<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_77b" id="Page_77b">[Pg 77]</a></span> knowing, and, in nine - cases out of ten, being deceived therein most lamentably; clustered - together in groups of four or five, discussing the merits of the horses, - or listening, as to an oracle, to the opinion of some Oxford horse-dealer, - delivered with insolent familiarity—here were the men who drank out - of a fox's head, and recounted imaginary runs with the Heythrop. Happy was - he amongst them, and a positive hero for the day, who could boast a - speaking acquaintance with any of those anomalous individuals, at present - enshrouded in great-coats, but soon to appear in all the varieties of - jockey costume, known by the style and title of "gentlemen riders;" who - could point out, confidentially, to his admiring companions, "Jack B——," - and "Little M——," and announce, from authority, how many - ounces under weight one was this morning, and how many blankets were put - upon the other the night before, to enable him to come to the scales at - all. Here and there, more plainly dressed, moving about quickly on their - own thorough-breds, or talking to some neighbouring squire who knew the - ground, were the few really sporting men belonging to the University; who - kept hunters in Oxford, simply because they were used to keep them at - home, and had been brought up to look upon fox-hunting as their future - vocation. Lolling on their saddles, probably voting it all a bore, were - two or three tufts, and their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78b" - id="Page_78b">[Pg 78]</a></span> "tail;" and stuck into all sorts of - vehicles, lawful and unlawful, buggies, drags, and tandems, were that - ignoble herd, who, like myself, had come to the steeple-chase, just - because it was the most convenient idleness at hand, and because other men - were going. There were all sorts of people there besides, of course: - carriages of all grades of pretension, containing pretty bonnets and ugly - faces, in the usual proportion; "all the beauty and fashion of the - neighbourhood," nevertheless, as the county paper assured us; and as I may - venture to add, from personal observation, a very fair share of its - disreputability and blackguardism besides. - </p> - <p> - After wandering for a short time among these various groups, Leicester - halted us at last in front of one of those old-fashioned - respectable-looking barouches, which one now so seldom sees, in which were - seated a party, who turned out to consist of an uncle and aunt, and the - pair of cousins before alluded to. Hurst and I were duly introduced; a - ceremony which, for my own part, I could have very readily excused, when I - discovered that the only pair of eyes in the party worth mentioning - bestowed their glances almost exclusively on Horace, and any attempt at - cutting into the conversation in that quarter was as hopeless, apparently, - as ungracious. Our friend's taste in the article of cousins was undeniably - correct; Flora Leicester was a most desirable person to have for a cousin; - very pretty,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79b" id="Page_79b">[Pg 79]</a></span> - very good-humoured, and (I am sure she was, though I pretend to no - experience of the fact) very affectionate. If one could have put in any - claim of kindred, even in the third or fourth degree, it would have been a - case in which to stickle hard for the full privileges of relationship. As - matters stood, it was trying enough to the sensibilities of us unfortunate - bystanders, whose cousins were either ugly or at a distance; for the rest - of our new acquaintances were not interesting. The younger sister was shy - and insipid; the squire like ninety-nine squires in every hundred; and the - lady-mother in a perpetual state of real or affected nervous agitation, to - which her own family were happily insensible, but which taxed a stranger's - polite sympathies pretty heavily. Though constantly in the habit, as she - assured me, of accompanying her husband to race-courses, and enjoying the - sport, she was always on the look-out for an accident, and was always - having, as she said, narrow escapes; some indeed so very narrow, that, - according to her own account, they ought to have had, by every rule of - probability, fatal terminations. In fact, her tone might have led one to - believe that she looked upon herself as an ill-used woman in getting off - so easily—at least she was exceedingly angry when the younger - daughter ventured to remark, <i>en pendant</i> to one of her most - thrilling adventures, that "there was no great danger of an<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80b" id="Page_80b">[Pg 80]</a></span> upset - when the wheel stuck fast." Not content with putting her head out of the - carriage every five minutes, to see if her own well-trained bays were - standing quiet, as they always did, there was not a restive horse or - awkward rider on the ground but attracted the good lady's ever watchful - sense of danger. "He'll be thrown! I'm sure he will! foolish man, why - don't he get off!" "Oh, oh! there they go! they're off, those horrid - horses! they'll never stop 'em!" Such were the interjections, accompanied - with extraordinary shudderings and drawings of the breath, with which Mrs - John Leicester, her eyes fixed on some distant point, occasionally broke - in upon the general conversation, sometimes with a vehemence that startled - even her nephew and eldest daughter, though, to do them justice, they paid - very little attention to any of us. - </p> - <p> - Just as I was meditating something desperate, in order to relieve myself - from the office of soother-general of Mrs Leicester's imaginary terrors, - and to bring Flora's sunny face once more within my line of vision (she - had been turning the back of her bonnet upon me perseveringly for the last - ten minutes), a general commotion gave us notice that the horses were - started, and the race begun. The hill on which we were stationed was close - to the winning-post, and commanded a view of pretty nearly the whole - ground from the start. The race<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81b" - id="Page_81b">[Pg 81]</a></span> was, I suppose, pretty nearly like other - steeple-chases, and there is the less need for me to describe it, because - a very full and particular account appeared in the <i>Bell's Life</i> next - ensuing. The principal impressions which remain on my mind, are of a very - smart gentleman in black and crimson, mounted on a very powerful bay, who - seemed as if he had been taking it easy, who came in first, and after - having been sufficiently admired by an innocent public, myself among the - number, as the winner, turned out to have gone on the right hand instead - of the left of some flag or other, and to have lost the race accordingly; - and of a very dirty-looking person, who arrived some minute or two - afterwards without a cap, whose jacket was green and his horse grey, so - far as the mud left any colour visible, and who, to the great - disappointment of the ladies especially, turned out to be the real hero - after all. - </p> - <p> - We had made arrangements to have an independent beefsteak together after - the race, in preference to joining the sporting ordinary announced as - usual on such occasions; but the squire insisted on Leicester bringing us - both to dine with his party at five. After a few modest and conscientious - scruples on my part, at intruding on the hospitality of comparative - strangers, and a strong private remonstrance from Hurst, on the - impropriety of sitting down to dinner with ladies in a<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_82b" id="Page_82b">[Pg 82]</a></span> surtout and white cords, - we accepted the invitation, and betook ourselves to kill the intervening - hour or so as we best could. - </p> - <p> - "Well, Horace," said I, as Hurst went off to make his apology for a - toilette—"how are you going to settle about the driving home?" - </p> - <p> - "Oh! never fear; I'll manage it: I have just seen Miller and Fane; they've - got a drag over here, and there's lots of room inside; so they've promised - to take Hurst home with them, if we can only manage to leave him behind: - they are going to dine here, and are sure not to go home till late; and we - must be off early, you know, because I have some men coming to supper; so - we'll leave our friend behind, somehow or other. A painful necessity, I - admit; but it must be done, even if I have to lock him up in the stable." - </p> - <p> - Leicester seemed to have more confidence in his own resources than I had; - but he was in too great a state of excitement to listen to any demurrers - of mine on the point, and hurried us off to join his friends. Ushered into - the drawing-room A.1. of the Saracen's Head, we found <i>la bella</i> - Flora awaiting us alone, the rest of the family being not as yet visible. - There was not the slightest necessity for inquiring whether she felt - fatigued, for she was looking even more lovely than in the morning; or - whether she had been amused or not, for if the steeple-chase had not - delighted her, something else<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83b" - id="Page_83b">[Pg 83]</a></span> had, for there was a radiant smile on her - face which could not be mistaken. Hurst was cut short rather abruptly in a - speech which appeared tending towards a compliment, by Leicester's - inquiring—"My good fellow, have you seen the horses fed?" - </p> - <p> - "No, upon my word," said Hurst, "I"—— - </p> - <p> - "Well, I have then; but I wish you would just step across the yard, and - see if that stupid ostler has rubbed them dry, as I told him. You - understand those things, I know, Hurst—the fellows won't humbug you - very easily; as to Hawthorne, I wouldn't trust him to see to anything of - the sort. Flora here knows more about a horse than he does." - </p> - <p> - Any compliment to Hurst's acuteness in the matter of horse-flesh was sure - to have its effect, and he walked off with an air of some importance to - discharge his commission. - </p> - <p> - "Now, then," said Horace eagerly, "we have got rid of him for ten minutes, - which was all I wanted; if you please, Flora dear, we must have your - cleverness to help us in a little difficulty." - </p> - <p> - "Indeed!" said Miss Leicester, colouring a little, as her cousin, in his - eagerness, seized her hand in both of his—"what scrape have you got - into now, Horace, and how can I possibly help you?" - </p> - <p> - "Oh, I want you to hit upon some plan for keeping that fellow Hurst here - after we are gone." - </p> - <p> - "Upon my word!" - </p> - <p> - "Stay; you don't know what I mean. I'll tell<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_84b" id="Page_84b">[Pg 84]</a></span> you why—if he - drives home to Oxford, he'll infallibly upset us; and drive he must if he - goes home with us, because, in fact, the team is his, and I drove them all - the way here, and it's his turn back, you see." - </p> - <p> - "Then why, in the multitude of absurdities which you Oxonians perpetrate—I - beg your pardon, Mr Hawthorne—but why need you have come out in a - tandem at all, with a man who can't drive?" - </p> - <p> - "Simply, Flora, because I had no other way of coming at all." - </p> - <p> - "It was very absurd in us, Miss Leicester, I allow," said I, "but you know - what an attraction a steeple-chase is, to your cousin especially; and - after having made up his mind to come—altogether, you see, it would - have been a disappointment"—(to all parties, I had a mind to add, - but I thought the balance was on my side without it.) - </p> - <p> - "After all," said Horace, "I shouldn't care a straw to run the chance, as - far as I am concerned. I dare say the horses will go home straight enough, - if he'll only let them: or if he wouldn't, I shouldn't mind knocking him - off the box at once—by accident; but Frank here is rather - particular, and I promised him I would not let Hurst drive. I thought - once, if we had dined by ourselves, of persuading him he was drunk, and - sending him home in a fly; but I am afraid, as matters stand, that plea is - hardly practicable." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85b" id="Page_85b">[Pg 85]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Could I persuade him to let you or Mr Hawthorne drive, do you think?" - </p> - <p> - Horace looked at her as if he thought, as I dare say he did, that his - cousin Flora could, if she were so minded, persuade a man to do anything; - so I was compelled, somewhat at the expense of my reputation for - gallantry, to assure them both, that if Ulysses of old, among his various - arts and accomplishments, had piqued himself upon his tandem-driving, his - vanity would have stopped his ears effectually, and the Syren might have - sung herself hoarse before he would have given up the reins. - </p> - <p> - "I'll give the Boots half-a-crown to steal his hat," said Horace, "and - start while he is looking for it." - </p> - <p> - "Stay," said his cousin; "I dare say it may be managed." But I thought she - looked disappointed. "Did you know we were all going to the B—— - theatre to-night?" - </p> - <p> - "No! really! what fun!" - </p> - <p> - "No fun for you; for you must start early, as you said just now. The - owners of the horses here patronise a play, and they have made papa - promise to go, and so we must, I suppose, and"—— - </p> - <p> - "Oh! we'll all go, of course," said Horace decidedly.—"You'll stay - and go, won't you, Hawthorne?" - </p> - <p> - "You forget your supper party," said I. - </p> - <p> - "Oh! hang it, they'll take care of themselves, so long as the supper's - there; they won't miss me much." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86b" id="Page_86b">[Pg 86]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Didn't I hear something of your being confined to college after nine?" - </p> - <p> - "Ah, yes; I believe I am—but it won't matter much for once; I'll - call on the dean to-morrow, and explain." - </p> - <p> - "No, no, Horace, that won't do; you and Mr Hawthorne must go home like - good boys," said Flora, with a smile only half as merry as usual, "and - Mary and I will persuade Mr Hurst to stay and go to the theatre with us." - </p> - <p> - "Oh! confound it!"—Horace began. - </p> - <p> - "Hush! here comes papa; remember this is my arrangement; you ought to be - very much obliged, instead of beginning to swear in that way; I'm sure Mr - Hawthorne is very grateful to me for taking so much interest in the - question of his breaking his neck, if you are not. Oh! papa," she - continued, "do you know that we shall lose all our beaux to-night; they - have some horrid supper party to go back to, and we shall have to go to - the play by ourselves!" - </p> - <p> - Most of the Squire's sympathies were at this moment absorbed in the fact - that dinner was already four minutes late, so that he had less to spare - for his daughter's disappointment than Mrs Leicester, who on her arrival - took up the lamentation with all her heart. She attacked her nephew at - once upon the subject, whose replies were at first wavering and evasive, - till he caught Flora's eye,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87b" - id="Page_87b">[Pg 87]</a></span> and then he answered with a dogged sort - of resolution, exceedingly amusing to me who understood his position, and - at last got quite cross with his aunt for persisting in her entreaties. I - declared, for my part, that I was dependent on Horace's movements; that, - if I could possibly have anticipated the delightful evening which had - awaited us, every other arrangement should have given way, &c. &c.; - when Hurst's reappearance turned the whole force of Mrs Leicester's - persuasions upon him, backed, too, as she was by both her daughters. - "Won't <i>you</i> stay, Mr Hurst? Must you go too? Will you be so shabby - as to leave us?" How could any man stand it? William Wellington Hurst - could not, it was very plain. At first he looked astonished; wondered why - on earth we couldn't all stay; then protested he couldn't think of letting - us go home by ourselves; a piece of self-devotion which we at once desired - might not be thought of; then hesitated—he was meditating, no doubt, - on the delight of driving—how was he to get home? the inglorious - occupant of the inside of a drag; or the solitary tenant of a fly (though - I suggested he might drive that if he pleased); couldn't Leicester go - home, and I and he follow together? I put in a decided negative; he looked - from Mrs Leicester's anxious face to Flora's, and surrendered at - discretion. We were to start at eight precisely in the tandem, and Miller - and his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88b" id="Page_88b">[Pg 88]</a></span> - party, who were sure to wait for the play, were to pick up Mr Wellington - Hurst as a supernumerary passenger at some hour unknown. And so we went to - dinner. Mrs Leicester marched off in triumph with her new capture, as if - fearful he might give her the slip after all, and committed Flora to my - custody. I was charitable enough, however, in consideration of all - circumstances, to give up my right of sitting next to her to Horace, and - established myself on the other side of the table, between Mrs Leicester - and her younger daughter; and a hard post I had of it. Mary would not talk - at all, and her mamma would do nothing else; and she was one of those - pertinacious talkers, too, who, not content with running on themselves, - and leaving you to put in an occasional interjection, inflict upon you a - cross-examination in its severest form, and insist upon a definite and - rational answer to every question. However, availing myself of those - legitimate qualifications of a witness, an unlimited amount of impudence, - and a determination not to criminate myself, I got on pretty tolerably. - Who did I think her daughter Flora like? I took the opportunity of - diligently examining that young lady's features for about four minutes—not - in the least to her confusion, for she scarcely honoured me with a glance - the whole time—and then declared the resemblance to mamma quite - startling. Mary? Oh, her father's eyes decidedly; upon<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_89b" id="Page_89b">[Pg 89]</a></span> which the squire, whose - pet she appeared to be—I suppose it was the contrast between her - quietness and Mrs Leicester's incessant fidgetting that was so delightful—laughed, - and took wine with me. Then she took up the subject of my private tastes - and habits. Was I fond of riding? Yes. Driving? Pretty well. Reading? - Very. Then she considerately hoped that I did not read much by - candle-light—above all by an oil-lamp—it was very injurious. I - assured her that I would be cautious for the future. Then she offered me a - receipt for eye-water, in case I suffered from weakness arising from - over-exertion of those organs;—declined, with thanks. Hoped I did - not read above twelve hours a-day; some young men, she had heard, read - sixteen, which she considered as really inconsistent with a due regard to - health. I assured her that our sentiments on that point perfectly - coincided, and that I had no tendency to excesses of that kind. At last - she began to institute inquiries about certain under-graduates with whose - families she was acquainted; and the two or three names which I recognised - being hunting men, I referred her to Hurst as quite <i>au fait</i> in the - sporting circles of Oxford, and succeeded in hooking them into a - conversation which effectually relieved me. - </p> - <p> - Leicester, as I could overhear, had been still rather rebellious against - going home before the play was over, and was insisting that his being in<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90b" id="Page_90b">[Pg 90]</a></span> - college by nine was not really material; nor did he appear over-pleased, - when, in answer to an appeal from Flora, I said plainly, that the - consequences of his "knocking in" late, when under sentence of strict - confinement to the regular hour, might not be pleasant—a fact, - however, which he himself, though with a very bad grace, was compelled to - admit. - </p> - <p> - At last the time arrived for our party to separate: Horace and I to return - to Oxford, and the others to adjourn to see <i>Richard the Third</i> - performed at the B—— theatre, under the distinguished - patronage of the members of the H—— Hunt. It was a beautiful - moonlight night, and as Hurst accompanied us to the stable-yard to "start - us," as he complacently phrased it, it was clear that he was suffering, - like a great many unfortunate individuals in public and private life, - under an overweening sense of his own importance. "You'll have an uncommon - pleasant drive of it; upon my word you will," he remarked; "it wouldn't do - for me to say I would not stay, you know, as Miss Leicester—Mrs - Leicester, that is—seemed to make such a point of it; but really"—— - </p> - <p> - "Oh, come, Hurst," said I, "don't pretend to say you've made any sacrifice - in the matter; I know you are quite delighted; I'm sure I should have - liked to stay of all things, only it would have been uncivil to our friend - here to send him home by himself from his own party." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91b" id="Page_91b">[Pg 91]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Oh! hang it, I don't mean to call it a sacrifice; I have no doubt I shall - have a very pleasant evening; only I wish we could all have stayed, and - driven home together afterwards." - </p> - <p> - "You may keep Hawthorne with you now, if you like," said Horace, who was - not in the best of tempers; "I can take the horses home myself." - </p> - <p> - "No, no, that would be hardly fair," said I. - </p> - <p> - "Oh! no—off with you both," said Hurst; "stay, Leicester, you'll - find the grey go more pleasantly if you drive him from the cheek; I'll - alter it in a second." - </p> - <p> - "Have the goodness just to let them alone, my good fellow; as I'm to - drive, I prefer putting them my own way, if you have no objection." - </p> - <p> - "Well, as you please; good-night." - </p> - <p> - "Miller's coming to my rooms when he gets home; if you like to look in - with him, you'll find some supper, I dare say." - </p> - <p> - Horace continued rather sulky for the first few miles, and only opened to - anathematise, briefly but comprehensively, steeple-chases, tandems, deans - and tutors, and "fellows like Hurst." I thought it best to let him cool - down a little; so, after this ebullition, we rattled on in silence as long - as his first cigar lasted. - </p> - <p> - "Come," said I, as I gave him a light, "we got rid of our friend's company - pretty cleverly, thanks to your cousin." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92b" id="Page_92b">[Pg 92]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Ay, I told you I'd take care of that; ha, ha! poor Hurst! he little - bargained, when he ordered his team, how precious little driving he was to - get out of it; a strong instance of the vanity of human expectations. I - wish him joy of it, stuck up in an old barn, as I suppose he is by this - time, gaping at a set of strolling players; how Flora will laugh at him! I - really shouldn't wonder if she were to tell him, before the evening is - over, how nicely he has been humbugged, just for the fun of it!" - </p> - <p> - "At all events," said I, "I think we must have a laugh at him to-night - when he comes home; though he's such a good-tempered fellow, it's rather a - shame, too." - </p> - <p> - It was very plain, however, that it was not quite such a good joke to - Master Horace himself as he was trying to make out; and that, in point of - fact, he would have considerably preferred being seated, as Hurst probably - was at that moment, by his pretty cousin's side in the B—— - theatre, wherever and whatever that might chance to be (even with the full - expectation of being laughed at afterwards), to holding the reins of the - best team that ever was turned out of Oxford. - </p> - <p> - We reached Oxford just in time to hear the first stroke of "Old Tom." By - the time I joined Leicester in his rooms, supper was ready, and most of - the party assembled. The sport of the day was duly discussed; those who - knew least about such matters being proportionately the most noisy and<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93b" id="Page_93b">[Pg 93]</a></span> - positive in giving their opinions. One young hero of eighteen, fresh from - Winchester, in all the importance of a probationary Fellow of New College, - explained for our benefit, by the help of the forks and salt-cellars, the - line which the horses undoubtedly ought to have taken, and which they did - not take; until one of his old schoolfellows, who was present, was - provoked to treat us to an anecdote of the young gentleman's first - appearance in the hunting-field—no longer ago than the last term—when - he mistook the little rough Scotch terrier that always accompanied ——'s - pack for the fox, and tally-ho'd him so lustily as to draw upon himself - sundry very energetic, but not very complimentary, remarks from the - well-known master of the hounds. By degrees Leicester recovered his usual - good-humour; and supper passed over, and several songs had been sung with - the usual amount of applause (except one very sentimental one which had no - chorus), and we had got pretty deep into punch and politics, without - Hurst's name having once been mentioned by either of us. A knock at the - oak, and in walked Fane. - </p> - <p> - "So you're come back at last?" said Horace. "Sit down, if you can find - room. Allow me to introduce your left-hand neighbour—Powell of - Merton,—Fane, one of our brightest ornaments; quite the <i>spes - gregis</i> we consider him; passed his little go, and started a pink only - last week; give him a glass of punch. Perhaps you are not aware we've<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94b" id="Page_94b">[Pg 94]</a></span> been - drinking your health. But, by the way, Fane, where's our friend - Wellington?" - </p> - <p> - "Who?" said Fane; "what on earth are you talking about?" - </p> - <p> - "Wellington Hurst; didn't <i>you</i> bring him home with you?" - </p> - <p> - "Certainly not; didn't you bring him home?" - </p> - <p> - "No; Miller promised me he should have a seat inside your drag, because we - could not wait for him; did you stay to the play?" - </p> - <p> - "Yes, and capital fun it was; by the way, the last time I saw your friend - Hurst was mounted up in a red baise place that was railed off for the - patrons and patronesses, as they called them; there he was in the front - row, doing the civil to a very odd-looking old dowager in bright blue - velvet, with a neck like an ostrich." - </p> - <p> - "Thank you," said Leicester, "that's my aunt." - </p> - <p> - "Well, on that ground, we'll drink her health," said Fane, whose coolness - was proverbial. "There was Hurst, however, sitting between her and an - uncommonly pretty girl, with dark hair and eyes, dressed in—let me - see"—— - </p> - <p> - "Never mind; it was one of my cousins, I suppose," interposed Horace, who - was engaged in lighting a cigar at the candle, apparently with more zeal - than success. - </p> - <p> - "Well, we'll drink <i>her</i> health for her own sake, if you have no - particular objection. I've no doubt the rest of the company will take my - word for her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95b" id="Page_95b">[Pg 95]</a></span> - being the prettiest girl on the ground to-day; Hurst would second me if he - were here, for I never saw a man making love more decidedly in my life." - </p> - <p> - "Stuff!" said Horace, pitching his cigar into the fire; "pass that punch." - </p> - <p> - "What! jealous, Leicester?" said two or three of the party—"preserved - ground, eh?" - </p> - <p> - "Not at all, not at all," said Horace, trying with a very bad grace to - laugh off his evident annoyance; "at all events, I don't consider Hurst a - very formidable poacher; but what I want to know is, how he didn't come - home with Miller and your party?" - </p> - <p> - "Miller said he was coming up directly, so you can ask him; I really heard - nothing of it. Hark, there are steps coming up the staircase now." - </p> - <p> - It proved to be Miller himself, followed by the under-porter, a - good-tempered fellow, who was the factotum of the under-graduates at late - hours, when the ordinary staff of servants had left college for the night. - </p> - <p> - "How are you, Leicester?" said he, as he walked straight to the little - pantry, or "scouts' room," immediately opposite the door, which forms part - of the usual suite of college apartments; "come here, Bob." - </p> - <p> - "Where's Hurst?" was Horace's impatient query. - </p> - <p> - "Wait a bit," replied Miller from inside, where he was rattling the plates - in the course of investigating the remains of the supper—he was not - the man to go to bed supperless after a twelve miles' drive. "Here, Bob," - he continued, as he emerged at last with a cold fowl—"take this - fellow down<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96b" id="Page_96b">[Pg 96]</a></span> - with you, and grill him in no time; here's a lump of butter—and - Harvey's sauce—and—where do you keep the pickled mushrooms, - Leicester? here they are—make a little gravy; and here, Bob—it's - a cold night—here's a glass of wine; now you'll drink Mr Leicester's - health, and vanish." - </p> - <p> - Bob drank the toast audibly, floored his tumbler of port at two gulps, and - departed. - </p> - <p> - "Now," said Horace, "do just tell me—what <i>is</i> become of Hurst? - how didn't you bring him home?" - </p> - <p> - "Confound it!" said Miller, as he looked into all the jugs—"no - whisky punch?" - </p> - <p> - "Oh, really I forgot it; here's bishop, and that brandy punch is very - good. But how didn't he come home with you?" - </p> - <p> - "Forgot it!" soliloquised Miller pathetically. - </p> - <p> - "Forgot it? how the deuce came you to forget it? and how will he come - now?" rejoined Horace. - </p> - <p> - "How came <i>you</i> to forget it? I was talking about the whisky punch," - said Miller, as we all roared with laughter. "I couldn't bring Hurst, you - know, if he wouldn't come. He left the playhouse even before we did, with - some ladies—and we came away before it was over—so I sent up - to tell him we were going to start in ten minutes, and had a place for - him; and the Boots came down and said they had just had supper in, and the - gentleman could not possibly come just yet. Well, I sent up again, just as - we were ready harnessed, and then he threatened to kick Boots down - stairs." - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97b" id="Page_97b">[Pg 97]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "What a puppy!" said Horace. - </p> - <p> - "I don't quite agree with you there: I don't pretend to much sentiment - myself, as you are all aware; but with a lady <i>and</i> a supper in the - case, I should feel perfectly justified in kicking down stairs any Boots - that ever wore shoes, if he hinted at my moving prematurely." - </p> - <p> - Miller's unusual enthusiasm amused us all except Horace. "Gad," said he, - at last, "I hope he won't be able to get home to-night at all!" In this - friendly wish he was doomed to be disappointed. It was now long past - twelve o'clock; the out-college members of the party had all taken their - leave; Miller and Fane, having finished their grilled chicken at a little - table in the corner, had now drawn round the fire with the three or four - of us who remained, and there was a debate as to the expediency of brewing - more punch, when we heard a running step in the Quadrangle, which - presently began to ascend the staircase in company with a not very - melodious voice, warbling in a style which bespoke the owner's high state - of satisfaction. - </p> - <p> - "Hush! that's Hurst to a certainty!" - </p> - <p> - "Queen of my soul, whose starlike eyes<br /> Are all the light I seek"——<br /> - </p> - <p> - (Here came an audible stumble, as if our friend were beginning his way - down again involuntarily by half-a-dozen steps at a time.) "Hallo! - Leicester!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98b" id="Page_98b">[Pg 98]</a></span> - just lend us a candle, will you? The lamp is gone out, and it's as dark as - pitch; I've dropped my hat." - </p> - <p> - "Open the door, somebody," said Horace; and Hurst was admitted. He looked - rather confused at first, certainly; for the sudden transition from outer - darkness into a small room lighted by a dozen wax candles made him blink, - and our first greeting consisting of "ha—ha's" in different keys, - was perhaps somewhat embarrassing; but he recovered himself in a second. - </p> - <p> - "Well," said he, "how are you all? glad you got home safe, Hawthorne; hope - I didn't keep you waiting, Miller? you got the start of me, all of you, - coming home; but really I spent an uncommon jolly evening." - </p> - <p> - "Glad to hear it," said Leicester, with a wink to us. - </p> - <p> - "Yes;—'pon my life; I don't know when I ever spent so pleasant a - one;" and, with a sort of chuckle to himself, Hurst filled a glass of - punch. - </p> - <p> - "What did you think of <i>Richard the Third</i>?" said I. - </p> - <p> - "Oh! hang the play! there might have been six Richards in the field for - all I can say: I was better engaged." - </p> - <p> - "Ay," said Fane, "I rather fancy you were." - </p> - <p> - "We had a very pleasant drive home," said I, willing to effect a diversion - in favour of Leicester, who was puffing desperately at his cigar in a - savage kind of silence;—"and a capital supper afterwards; I wish you - had been with us." - </p> - <p> - "And I had a very jolly drive too: I got a gig, and galloped nearly all - the way; and a very good supper, too, before I started; but I won't return - your compliment;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99b" id="Page_99b">[Pg - 99]</a></span> we were a very snug party without you. Upon my word, - Leicester, your eldest cousin is one of the very nicest girls I ever met: - the sort of person you get acquainted with at once, and so very lively and - good-humoured—no nonsense about her." - </p> - <p> - "I'll make a point of letting her know your good opinion," replied Horace, - in a tone conveying pretty plainly a rebuke of such presumption. But it - was lost upon Hurst. - </p> - <p> - "Probably you need not trouble yourself," said Fane: "I dare say he has - let her know it himself already." - </p> - <p> - "No—really no"—said Hurst, as if deprecating anything so - decided; "but Miss Leicester is a <i>very</i> nice girl; clever, I should - say, decidedly; there's a shade of—one can hardly call it rusticity—about - her manner; but I like it, myself—I like it." - </p> - <p> - "Do you?"—said Horace, very drily. - </p> - <p> - "Oh! a season in London would take all that off." And Hurst began to - quaver again— - </p> - <p> - "Queen of my soul, whose"—<br /> - </p> - <p> - "I'll tell you what," said Horace, rising, and standing with his back to - the fire, with his hands under his coat-tails—"You may not be aware - of it, but you're rather drunk, Hurst." - </p> - <p> - "Drunk!" said Hurst; "no, that's quite a mistake; three glasses, I think - it was, of champagne at supper; and you men have sat here drinking punch - all the evening; if anybody's drunk, it's not me." - </p> - <p> - Hurst's usually modest demeanour was certainly<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_100b" id="Page_100b">">[Pg 100]</a></span> so very much altered - as to justify, in some measure, Leicester's supposition; but I really - believe Flora Leicester's bright eyes had more to answer for in that - matter than the champagne, whether the said three glasses were more or - less. - </p> - <p> - However, as Horace's temper was evidently not improving, Miller, Fane, and - myself wished him good night, and Hurst came with us. We got him into - Fane's rooms, and then extracted from him a full history of the adventures - of that delightful evening, to our infinite amusement, and apparently to - his own immense satisfaction. It was evident that Miss Flora Leicester had - made an impression, of which I do not give that young lady credit for - being in the least unconscious. - </p> - <p> - The impression, however, like many others of its kind, soon wore off, I - fancy; for the next time I saw Mr Wellington Hurst, he had returned to his - usual frame of mind, and appeared quite modest and deferential; but it - will not perhaps surprise my readers any more than it did myself, that - Horace was never fond of referring to our drive to the steeple-chase at B——, - and did not appear to appreciate, as keenly as before, the trick we had - played Hurst in leaving him behind; while all the after-reminiscences of - the latter bore reference, whenever it was possible, to his favourite date—"That - day when you and I and Leicester had that team to B—— - together." - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1c" id="Page_1c">[Pg 1]</a></span> - </p> - <h2> - <a name="CHRISTINE" id="CHRISTINE">CHRISTINE</a> - </h2> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - A DUTCH STORY. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center small"> - FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME D'ARBOUVILLE - </p> - <p class="center"> - BY FREDERICK HARDMAN, <span class="smcap">Esq.</span> - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - <span class="small">[<i>MAGA.</i> <span class="smcap">December 1847.</span>]</span> - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p> - It was the hour of sunrise. Not the gorgeous sunrise of Spain or Italy, - when the horizon's ruddy blaze suddenly revives all that breathes, when - golden rays mingle with the deep azure of a southern sky, and nature - bursts into vitality and vigour, as if light gave life. The sun rose upon - the chilly shores of Holland. The clouds opened to afford passage to a - pale light, without heat or brilliancy. Nature passed insensibly from - sleep to waking, but continued torpid when ceasing to slumber. No cry or - joyous song, no flight of birds, or bleating of flocks, hail the advent of - a new day. On the summit of the dykes, the reed-hedges bend before the - breeze, and the sea-sand, whirled over the slight obstacle, falls upon the - meadows, covering<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2c" id="Page_2c">[Pg - 2]</a></span> their verdure with a moving veil. A river, yellow with the - slime of its banks, flows peaceably and patiently towards the expectant - ocean. Seen from afar, its waters and its shore appear of one colour, - resembling a sandy plain; save where a ray of light, breaking upon the - surface, reveals by silvery flashes the passage of the stream. Ponderous - boats descend it, drawn by teams of horses, whose large feet sink into the - sand as they advance leisurely and without distress to the goal of their - journey. Behind them strides a peasant, whip on shoulder; he hurries not - his cattle, he looks neither at the stream that flows, nor at the beasts - that draw, nor at the boat that follows; he plods steadily onwards, - trusting to perseverance to attain his end. - </p> - <p> - Such is a corner of the picture presented to the traveller in Holland, the - country charged, it would seem, more than any other, to enforce God's - command to the waters, <i>Thou shalt go no farther!</i> This silent repose - of creatures and things, this mild light, these neutral tints and vast - motionless plains, are not without a certain poetry of their own. Wherever - space and silence are united, poetry finds place; she loves all things - more or less, whether smiling landscape or dreary desert; light of wing, a - trifle will detain and support her—a blade of grass often suffices. - And Holland, which Butler has called a large ship always at anchor, has - its beauties for the thoughtful observer. Gradually<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_3c" id="Page_3c">[Pg 3]</a></span> one learns to admire this - land at war with ocean and struggling daily for existence; those cities - which compel the waters to flow at their ramparts' foot to follow the - given track, and abide in the allotted bed; then those days of revolt, - when the waves would fain reconquer their independence, when they - overflow, and inundate, and destroy, and at last, constrained by the hand - of man, subside and again obey. - </p> - <p> - As the sun rose, a small boat glided rapidly down the stream. It had a - single occupant, a tall young man, lithe, skilful, and strong, who, - although apparently in haste, kept near the shore, following the windings - of the bank, and avoiding the centre of the current, which would have - accelerated his progress. At that early hour the fields were deserted; the - birds alone had risen earlier than the boatman, whose large hat of grey - felt lay beside him, whilst his brown locks, tossed backward by the wind, - disclosed regular features, a broad open forehead, and eyes somewhat - thoughtful, like those of the men of the north. His costume denoted a - student from a German university. One gathered from his extreme youth that - his life had hitherto passed on academic benches, and that it was still a - new and lively pleasure to him to feel the freshness of morning bathe his - brow, the breeze play with his hair, the stream bear along his bark. He - hastened, for there are times when we count the<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_4c" id="Page_4c">[Pg 4]</a></span> hours ill; when we outstrip - and tax them with delay. Then, if we cannot hurry the pace of time, we - prefer at least to wait at the appointed spot. It calms impatience, and - seems a commencement of happiness. - </p> - <p> - When the skiff had rounded a promontory of the bank, its speed increased, - as if the eye directing it had gained sight of the goal. At a short - distance the landscape changed its character. A meadow sloped down to the - stream, fringed by a thick hedge of willows, half uprooted and bending - over the water. The boat reached the shadow of the trees, and stopping - there, rocked gently on the river, secured by a chain cast round a branch. - The young man stood up and looked anxiously through the foliage; then he - sang, in a low tone, the burthen of a ballad, a love-plaint, the national - poetry of all countries. His voice, at first subdued, as if not to break - too suddenly the surrounding silence, gradually rose as the song drew to a - close. The clear mellow notes escaped from the bower of drooping leaves, - and expired without echo or reply upon the surface of the pasture. Then he - sat down and contemplated the peaceful picture presented to his view. The - grey sky had that melancholy look so depressing to the joyless and - hopeless; the cold dull water rolled noiselessly onward; to the left, the - plain extended afar without variety of surface. A few windmills reared - their gaunt arms, waiting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5c" - id="Page_5c">[Pg 5]</a></span> for wind; and the wind, too weak to stir - them, passed on and left them motionless. To the right, at the extremity - of the little meadow, stood a square house of red bricks and regular - construction, isolated, silent, and melancholy. The thick greenish glass - of the windows refused to reflect the sunbeams; the roof supported gilded - vanes of fantastical form; the garden was laid out in formal parterres. A - few tulips, drooping their heavy heads, and dahlias, propped with white - sticks, were the sole flowers growing there, and these were hemmed in and - stifled by hedges of box. Trees, stunted and shabby, and with dust-covered - leaves, were cut into walls and into various eccentric shapes. At the - corners of the formal alleys, whose complicated windings were limited to a - narrow space, stood a few plaster figures. One of these alleys led to the - willow hedge. There nature resumed her rights; the willows grew free and - unrestrained, stretching out from the land and drooping into the water; - their inclined trunks forming flying-bridges, supported but at one end. - The bank was high enough for a certain space to intervene between the - stream and the horizontal stems. A few branches, longer than the rest, - swept the surface of the river, and were kept in constant motion by its - current. - </p> - <p> - Beneath this dome of verdure the boat was moored, and there the young man - mused, gazing at the sky—melancholy as his heart—and at the<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6c" id="Page_6c">[Pg 6]</a></span> stream, - in its course uncertain as his destiny. A few willow leaves fluttered - against his brow, one of his hands hung in the water, a gentle breeze - stirred his hair; nameless flowerets, blooming in the shelter of the - trees, gave out a faint perfume, detectable at intervals, at the wind's - caprice. A bird, hidden in the foliage, piped an amorous note, and the - student, cradled in his skiff, awaited his love. Ungrateful that he was! - he called time a laggard, and bid him speed; he was insensible to the - charm of the present hour. Ah! if he grows old, how well will he - understand that fortune then lavished on him the richest treasures of life—hope - and youth! - </p> - <p> - Suddenly the student started, stood up, and, with outstretched neck, and - eyes riveted on the trees, he listened, scarce daring to breathe. The - foliage opened, and the face of a young girl was revealed to his gaze. - "Christine!" he exclaimed. - </p> - <p> - Christine stepped upon the trunk of the lowest tree, and seated herself - with address on this pliant bench, which her weight, slight as it was, - caused to yield and rock. One of her hands, extended through the branches - that drooped towards the water, reached that of her lover, who tenderly - clasped it. Then she drew herself up again, and the tree, less loaded, - seemed to obey her will by imitating her movement. The young man sat in - his boat, with eyes uplifted towards the willow on which his love reposed. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7c" id="Page_7c">[Pg 7]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Christine Van Amberg had none of the distinguishing features of the - country of her birth. Hair black as the raven's wing formed a frame to a - face full of energy and expression. Her large eyes were dark and - penetrating; her eyebrows, strongly marked and almost straight, would - perhaps have imparted too decided a character to her young head, if a - charming expression of candour and <i>naïveté</i> had not given her the - countenance of a child rather than of a woman. Christine was fifteen years - of age. A slender silver circlet bound her brow and jet-black tresses—a - holiday ornament, according to her country's custom: but her greatest - festival was the sight of her lover. She wore a simple muslin dress of a - pale blue colour; a black silk mantle, intended to envelop her figure, was - placed upon her hair, and fell back upon her shoulders, as if the better - to screen her from the gaze of the curious. Seated on a tree trunk, - surrounded by branches and beside the water, like Shakespeare's Ophelia, - Christine was charming. But although young, beautiful, and beloved, deep - melancholy was the characteristic of her features. Her companion, too, - gazed mournfully at her, with eyes to which the tears seemed about to - start. - </p> - <p> - "Herbert," said the young girl, stooping towards her lover, "Herbert, be - not so sad! we are both too young to despair of life. Herbert! better - times will come." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8c" id="Page_8c">[Pg 8]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Christine! they have refused me your hand, expelled me your dwelling; - they would separate us entirely: they will succeed, to-morrow perhaps!..." - </p> - <p> - "Never!" exclaimed the young girl, with a glance like the lightning's - flash. But, like that flash, the expression of energy was momentary, and - gave way to one of calm melancholy. - </p> - <p> - "If you would, Christine, if you would! ... how easy were it to fly - together, to unite our destinies on a foreign shore, and to live for each - other, happy and forgotten!... I will lead you to those glorious lands - where the sun shines as you see it in your dreams—to the summit of - lofty mountains whence the eye discovers a boundless horizon—to - noble forests with their thousand tints of green, where the fresh breeze - shall quicken your cheek, and sweep from your memory these fogs, this - humid clime, these monotonous plains. Our days shall pass blissfully in a - country worthy of our loves." - </p> - <p> - As Herbert spoke, the young girl grew animated; she seemed to see what he - described, her eager eye sought the horizon as though she would over-leap - it, her lips parted as to inhale the mountain breeze. Then she passed her - hand hastily across her eyes, and sighed deeply. "No!" she exclaimed; "no, - I must remain here!... Herbert, it is my country: why does it make me - suffer? I remember another sky, another land,—but<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9c" id="Page_9c">[Pg 9]</a></span> no, it is - a dream! I was born here, and have scarcely passed the boundary of this - meadow. My mother sang too often beside my cradle the ballads and boleros - of her native Seville; she told me too much of Spain, and I love that - unknown land as one pines after an absent friend!" - </p> - <p> - The young girl glanced at the river, over which a dense fog was spreading. - A few rain-drops pattered amongst the leaves; she crossed her mantle on - her breast, and her whole frame shivered with sudden chill. - </p> - <p> - "Leave me, Christine, you suffer!—return home, and, since you reject - my roof and hearth, abide with those who can shelter and warm you." - </p> - <p> - A sweet smile played upon Christine's lips. "My beloved," she said, "near - you I prefer the chilling rain, this rough branch, and the biting wind, to - my seat in the house, far from you, beside the blazing chimney. Ah! with - what joy and confidence would I start on foot for the farthest corner of - the earth, your arm my sole support, your love my only wealth. But...." - </p> - <p> - "What retains you, Christine? your father's affection, your sisters' - tenderness, your happy home?" - </p> - <p> - The young girl grew pale. "Herbert, it is cruel to speak thus. Well do I - know that my father loves me not, that my sisters are often unkind, that - my home is unhappy; I know it, indeed I know it, and I will follow you.... - If my mother consents!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10c" id="Page_10c">[Pg 10]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Herbert looked at his mistress with astonishment. "Child!" he exclaimed, - "such consent will never leave your mother's lips. There are cases where - strength and resolution must be found in one's own heart. Your mother will - never say yes." - </p> - <p> - "Perhaps!" replied Christine, slowly and gravely. "My mother loves me; I - resemble her in most things, and her heart understands mine. She knows - that Scripture says a woman shall leave her father and mother to follow - her husband; she is in the secret of our attachment, and, since our door - has been closed against you, I have not shed a tear that she has not - detected and replied to by another. You misjudge my mother, Herbert! - Something tells me she has suffered, and knows that a little happiness is - essential to life as the air we breathe. Nor would it surprise me, if one - day, when embracing me, as she does each night when we are alone, she were - to whisper: Begone, my poor child!" - </p> - <p> - "I cannot think it, Christine. She will bid you obey, be comforted, - forget!" - </p> - <p> - "Forget! Herbert, my mother forgets nothing. To forget is the resource of - cowardly hearts. No,—none will bid me forget." - </p> - <p> - And once more a gloomy fire flashed in Christine's eyes, like the rapid - passage of a flame which illumines and instantly expires. It was a - revelation<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11c" id="Page_11c">[Pg 11]</a></span> - of the future rather than the expression of the present. An ardent soul - dwelt within her, but had not yet cast off all the encumbrances of - childhood. It struggled to make its way, and at times, succeeding for a - moment, a word or cry revealed its presence. - </p> - <p> - "No—I shall not forget," added Christine; "I love you, and you love - me, who am so little loved! You find me neither foolish, nor fantastical, - nor capricious; you understand my reveries and the thousand strange - thoughts that invade my heart. I am very young, Herbert; and yet, here, - with my hand in yours, I answer for the future. I shall always love you! - ... and see, I do not weep. I have faith in the happiness of our love; - how? when? I know not,—it is the secret of my Creator, who would not - have sent me upon earth only to suffer. Happiness will come when He deems - right, but come it will! Yes,—I am young, full of life, I have need - of air and space; I shall not live enclosed and smothered here. The world - is large, and I will know it; my heart is full of love, and will love for - ever. No tears, dearest! obstacles shall be overcome, they must give way, - for I will be happy!" - </p> - <p> - "But why delay, Christine? My love! my wife! an opportunity lost may never - be regained. A minute often decides the fate of a lifetime. Perhaps, at - this very moment, happiness is near us! A leap into my boat, a few strokes - of the oar, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12c" id="Page_12c">[Pg - 12]</a></span> we are united for ever!... Perhaps, if you again return to - land, we are for ever separated. Christine, come! The wind rises: beneath - my feet is a sail that will quickly swell and bear us away rapidly as the - wings of yon bird." - </p> - <p> - Tears flowed fast over Christine's burning cheeks. She shuddered, looked - at her lover, at the horizon, thought of liberty; she hesitated, and a - violent struggle agitated her soul. At last, hiding her face amongst the - leafage of the willow, she clasped her arms round its stem, as if to - withhold herself from entering the boat, and in a stifled voice muttered - the words,—"My mother!" A few seconds afterwards, she raised her - pallid countenance. - </p> - <p> - "If I fled," said she gently, "to whom would my mother speak of her dear - country? Who would weep with her when she weeps, if I were gone? She has - other children, but they are gay and happy, and do not resemble her. Only - my mother and myself are sad in our house. My mother would die of my - absence. I must receive her farewell blessing or remain by her side, - chilled like her by this inclement climate, imprisoned in yonder walls, - ill-treated by those who love me not. Herbert, I will not fly, I will - wait!" And she made a movement to regain the strand. - </p> - <p> - "One instant,—yet one second,—Christine! I know not what - chilling presentiment oppresses my heart. Dearest,—if we were to - meet no more! If<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13c" id="Page_13c">[Pg - 13]</a></span> this little corner of earth were our last trysting-place—these - melancholy willows the witnesses of our eternal separation! Is it—can - it be—the last happy hour of my life that has just slipped by?" - </p> - <p> - He covered his face with his hands, to conceal his tears. Christine's - heart beat violently—but she had courage. - </p> - <p> - Letting herself drop from the tree, she stood upon the bank, separated - from the boat, which could not come nearer to shore. - </p> - <p> - "Adieu, Herbert!" said she, "one day I will be your wife, faithful and - loving. It shall be, for I will have it so. Let us both pray God to hasten - that happy day. Adieu, I love you! Adieu, and till our next meeting, for I - love you!" - </p> - <p> - The barrier of reeds and willows opened before the young girl. A few small - branches crackled beneath her tread; there was a slight noise in the grass - and bushes, as when a bird takes flight; then all was silence. - </p> - <p> - Herbert wept. - </p> - <hr class="tb" /> - <p> - The clock in the red brick house struck eight, and the family of Van - Amberg the merchant were mustered in the breakfast-room. Christine was the - only absentee. Near the fire stood the head of the family—Karl Van - Amberg—and beside him his brother, who, older than himself, yielded - the prerogative<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14c" id="Page_14c">[Pg - 14]</a></span> of seniority, and left him master of the community. Madame - Van Amberg was working near a window, and her two elder daughters, - fair-haired, white-skinned Dutchwomen, prepared the breakfast. - </p> - <p> - Karl Van Amberg, the dreaded chief of this family, was of lofty stature; - his gait was stiff; his physiognomy passionless. His face, whose features - at first appeared insignificant, denoted a domineering temper. His manners - were cold. He spoke little; never to praise, but often in terms of dry and - imperious censure. His glance preceded his words and rendered them nearly - superfluous, so energetically could that small sunken grey eye make itself - understood. With the sole aid of his own patience and ambition, Karl Van - Amberg had made a large fortune. His ships covered the seas. Never loved, - always respected, his credit was everywhere excellent. Absolute monarch in - his own house, none dreamed of opposing his will. All were mute and awed - in his presence. At this moment, he was leaning against the chimney-piece. - His black garments were very plain, but not devoid of a certain austere - elegance. - </p> - <p> - William Van Amberg, Karl's brother, was quite of an opposite character. He - would have passed his life in poverty, subsisting on the scanty income - left him by his parents, had not Karl desired wealth. He placed his modest - fortune in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15c" id="Page_15c">[Pg - 15]</a></span> brother's hands, saying, "Act as for yourself!" Attached to - his native nook of land, he lived in peace, smoking and smiling, and - learning from time to time that he was a richer man by a few hundred - thousand francs. One day, he was told that he possessed a million; in - reply, he merely wrote, "Thanks, Karl; it will be for your children." Then - he forgot his riches, and changed nothing in his manner of life, even - adhering in his dress to the coarse materials and graceless fashion of a - peasant dreading the vicinity of cities. His youthful studies had - consisted of a course of theology. His father, a fervent Catholic, - destined him for the church; but it came to pass, as a consequence of his - indecision of character, that William neither took orders nor married, but - lived quietly in his brother's family. The habitual perusal of religious - books sometimes gave his language a mystical tone, contrasting with the - rustic simplicity of his exterior. This was his only peculiarity; - otherwise he had nothing remarkable but his warm heart and strong good - sense. He was the primitive type of his family: his brother was an example - of the change caused by newly-acquired wealth. - </p> - <p> - Madame Van Amberg, seated at the window, sewed in silence. Her countenance - had the remains of great beauty, but she was weak and suffering. A single - glance sufficed to fix her birthplace far from Holland. Her black hair and - olive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16c" id="Page_16c">[Pg 16]</a></span> - tint betrayed a southern origin. Silently submissive to her husband, his - iron character had pressed heavily upon this delicate creature. She had - never murmured; now she was dying, but without complaint. Her look was one - of deep melancholy. Christine, her third daughter, resembled her. Of dark - complexion, like her mother, she contrasted strongly with her rosy-cheeked - sisters. M. Van Amberg did not love Christine. Rough and cold, even to - those he secretly cherished, he was severe and cruel to those he disliked. - He had never been known to kiss Christine. Her mother's were the only - caresses she knew, and even those were stealthily and tearfully bestowed. - The two poor women hid themselves to love each other. - </p> - <p> - At intervals, Madame Van Amberg coughed painfully. The damp climate of - Holland was slowly conducting to her grave the daughter of Spain's ardent - land. Her large melancholy eyes mechanically sought the monotonous - horizon, which had bounded her view for twenty years. Fog and rain - surrounded the house. She gazed, shivered as if seized with deadly cold, - then resumed her work. - </p> - <p> - Eight o'clock had just struck, and the two young Dutchwomen, who, although - rich heiresses, waited upon their father, had just placed the tea and - smoked beef upon the table, when Karl Van Amberg turned abruptly to his - wife. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17c" id="Page_17c">[Pg 17]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Where is your daughter, madam?" - </p> - <p> - He spoke of Christine, whom the restless gaze of Madame Van Amberg vainly - sought through the fog veiling the garden. At her husband's question, the - lady rose, opened the door, and, leaning on the banister, twice uttered - her daughter's name. There was no reply; she grew pale, and again looked - out anxiously through the fog. - </p> - <p> - "Go in, Madame," was the surly injunction of Gothon, the old servant - woman, who knelt on the hall flags, which she had flooded with soap and - water, and was now vigorously scrubbing,—"Go, in, Madame; the damp - increases your cough, and Mademoiselle Christine is far enough away! The - bird flew before daybreak." - </p> - <p> - Madame Van Amberg cast a mournful glance across the meadow, where nothing - moved, and into the parlour, where her stern husband awaited her; then she - went in and sat down at the table, around which the remainder of the - family had already placed themselves. No one spoke. All could read - displeasure upon M. Van Amberg's countenance, and none dared attempt to - change the course of his ideas. His wife kept her eyes fixed upon the - window, hoping her daughter's return. Her lips scarcely tasted the milk - that filled her cup; visible anguish increased the paleness of her sweet, - sad countenance. - </p> - <p> - "Annunciata, my dear, take some tea," said her<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_18c" id="Page_18c">[Pg 18]</a></span> brother-in-law. "The day - is chill and damp, and you seem to suffer." - </p> - <p> - Annunciata smiled sadly at William. For sole answer she raised to her lips - the tea he offered her, but the effort was too painful, and she replaced - the cup upon the table. M. Van Amberg looked at nobody; he ate, his eyes - fixed upon his plate. - </p> - <p> - "Sister," resumed William, "it is a duty to care for one's health, and - you, who fulfil all your duties, should not neglect that one." - </p> - <p> - A slight flush tinged the brow of Annunciata. Her eyes encountered those - of her husband, which he slowly turned towards her. Trembling, almost - weeping, she ceased her attempts to eat. And the silence was again - unbroken, as at the commencement of the meal. At last steps were heard in - the passage, the old servant grumbled something which did not reach the - parlour, then the door opened, and Christine entered; her muslin dress - damp with fog, her graceful curls disordered by the wind, her black mantle - glittering with a thousand little rain-drops. She was crimson with - embarrassment and fear. Her empty chair was beside her mother; she sat - down, and hung her head; none offered aught to the truant child, and the - silence continued. Yielding to maternal anxiety, Madame Van Amberg took a - handkerchief and wiped the moisture from Christine's forehead and hair; - then she took her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19c" id="Page_19c">[Pg - 19]</a></span> hands to warm them in her own. For the second time M. Van - Amberg looked at his wife. She let Christine's hands fall, and remained - downcast and motionless as her daughter. M. Van Amberg rose from table. A - tear glistened in the mother's eyes on seeing that her daughter had not - eaten. But she said nothing, and returning to the window, resumed her - sewing. Christine remained at table, preserving her frightened and abashed - attitude. The two eldest girls hastened to remove the breakfast things. - </p> - <p> - "Do you not see what Wilhelmina and Maria are about? Can you not help - them?" - </p> - <p> - At her father's voice, Christine hastily rose, seized the cups and teapot, - and hurried to and fro from parlour to pantry. - </p> - <p> - "Gently! You will break something!" cried M. Van Amberg. "Begin in time, - to finish without hurry." - </p> - <p> - Christine stood still in the middle of the room. Her two sisters smiled as - they passed her, and one of them muttered—for nobody spoke aloud in - M. Van Amberg's presence—"Christine will hardly learn housekeeping - by looking at the stars and watching the river flow!" - </p> - <p> - "Now, then, Mademoiselle, you are spoiling everything here!" said the old - servant, who had just come in; "go and change that wet gown, which ruins - all my furniture." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20c" id="Page_20c">[Pg 20]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Christine remained where she was, not daring to stir without the master's - order. - </p> - <p> - "Go," said M. Van Amberg. - </p> - <p> - The young girl darted from the room and up the stairs, reached her - chamber, threw herself upon the bed and burst into tears. Below, Madame - Van Amberg continued to sew, her head bent over her work. When the cloth - was removed, Wilhelmina and Maria placed a large jug of beer, glasses, - long pipes, and a store of tobacco, upon the mahogany table, and pushed - forward two arm-chairs, in which Karl and William installed themselves. - </p> - <p> - "Retire to your apartment, madam," said M. Van Amberg, in the imperious - tone habitual to him when he addressed his wife,—"I have to discuss - matters which do not concern you. Do not leave the house; I will call you - by-and-by; I wish to speak with you." - </p> - <p> - Annunciata bowed in token of obedience, and left the room. Wilhelmina and - Maria approached their father, who silently kissed their pretty cheeks. - The two brothers lit their pipes, and remained alone. William was the - first to speak. - </p> - <p> - "Brother Karl!" said he, resting his arms upon the table, and looking M. - Van Amberg in the face, "before proceeding to business, and at risk of - offending you, I must relieve my heart. Here, all fear you, and counsel, - the salutary support of man, is denied you." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21c" id="Page_21c">[Pg 21]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Speak, William," coldly replied M. Van Amberg. - </p> - <p> - "Karl, you treat Annunciata very harshly. God commands you to protect her, - and you allow her to suffer, perhaps to die, before your eyes, without - caring for her fate. The strong should sustain the weak. In our native - land, we owe kindness to the stranger who cometh from afar. The husband - owes protection to her he has chosen for his wife. For all these reasons, - brother, I say you treat Annunciata ill." - </p> - <p> - "Does she complain?" said M. Van Amberg, filling his glass. - </p> - <p> - "No, brother; only the strong resist and complain. A tree falls with a - crash, the reed bends noiselessly to the ground. No, she does not - complain, save by silence and suffering, by constant and passive - obedience, like that of a soulless automaton. You have deprived her of - life, the poor woman! One day she will cease to move and breathe; she has - long ceased to live!" - </p> - <p> - "Brother, there are words that should not be inconsiderately spoken, - judgments that should not be hastily passed, for fear of injustice." - </p> - <p> - "Do I not know your whole life, Karl, as well as my own, and can I not - therefore speak confidently, as one well informed?" - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg inhaled the smoke of his pipe, threw himself back in his - arm-chair, and made no reply. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22c" id="Page_22c">[Pg 22]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "I know you as I know myself," resumed William, gently, "although our - hearts were made to love and not to resemble each other. When you found - our father's humble dwelling too small, I said nothing; you were - ambitious; when a man is born with that misfortune or blessing, he must do - like the birds, who have wings to soar; he must strive to rise. You - departed; I pressed your hand, and reproached you not; it is right that - each man should be happy his own way. You gained much gold, and gave me - more than I needed. You returned married, and I did not approve your - marriage. It is wiser to seek a companion in the land where one's days are - to end; it is something to love the same places and things, and then it is - only generous to leave one's wife a family, friends, well-known objects to - gaze upon. It is counting greatly on one's-self to take sole charge of her - happiness. Happiness sometimes consists of so many things! Often an - imperceptible atom serves as base to its vast structure: for my part I do - not like presumptuous experiments on the hearts of others. In short, you - married a foreigner, who perishes with cold in this country, and sighs, - amidst our fogs, for the sun of Spain. You committed a still greater fault—Forgive - me, brother; I speak plainly, in order not to return to this subject." - </p> - <p> - "I am attending to you, William; you are my elder brother." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23c" id="Page_23c">[Pg 23]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Thanks for your patience, Karl. No longer young, you married a very young - woman. Your affairs took you to Spain. There you met a needy Spanish - noble, to whom you rendered a weighty service. You were always generous, - and increasing wealth did not close your hand. This noble had a daughter, - a child of fifteen. In spite of your apparent coldness, you were smitten - by her beauty, and you asked her of her father. Only one thing struck you—that - she was poor and would be enriched by the marriage. A refusal of your - offer would have been ingratitude to a benefactor. They gave you - Annunciata, and you took her, brother, without looking whether joy was in - her eyes, without asking the child whether she willingly followed you, - without interrogating her heart. In that country the heart is precocious - in its awakening ... perhaps she left behind her some youthful dream ... - some early love.... Forgive me, Karl; the subject is difficult to - discuss." - </p> - <p> - "Change it, William," said M. Van Amberg, coldly. - </p> - <p> - "Be it so. You returned hither, and when your business again took you - forth upon the ocean, you left Annunciata to my care. She lived many years - with me in this house. Karl, her youth was joyless and sad. Isolated and - silent, she wore out her days without pleasure or variety. Your two eldest - daughters, now the life of our dwelling, were then<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_24c" id="Page_24c">[Pg 24]</a></span> in the cradle. They were - no society to their mother; I was a very grave companion for that young - and beautiful creature. I have little reading and knowledge, no - imagination; I like my quiet arm-chair, my old books, and my pipe. I at - first allowed myself to believe—because I loved to believe it—that - Annunciata resembled me—that tranquillity and a comfortable dwelling - would suffice for her happiness, as they sufficed for mine. But at last I - understood—what you, brother, I fear, have never comprehended—that - she was not born to be a Dutch housewife. In the first place, the climate - tortured her. She constantly asked me if finer summers would not come,—if - the winters were always so rigorous,—the fogs so frequent. I told - her no, that the year was a bad one; but I told her a falsehood, for the - winters were always the same. At first she tried to sing her Sevillian - romances and boleros, but soon her song died away and she wept, for it - reminded her too much of her own native land. Silent and motionless she - sat, desiring, as I have read in the Bible,—'The wings of the dove - to fly away and be at rest.' Brother, it was a melancholy sight. You know - not how slowly the winter evenings passed in this parlour. It was dark at - four, and she worked by lamp-light till bed-time. I endeavoured to - converse, but she knew nothing of the things I knew, and I was ignorant of - those that interested her. I saw at last that the greatest kindness was to - leave<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25c" id="Page_25c">[Pg 25]</a></span> - her to herself. She worked or was idle, wept or was calm, and I averted my - eyes to give her the only consolation in my power,—a little liberty. - But it was very sad, brother!" - </p> - <p> - There was a moment's silence, broken by M. Van Amberg. "Madame Van Amberg - was in her own dwelling," said he, severely, "with her children, and under - the protection of a devoted friend. Her husband toiled in foreign parts to - increase the fortune of the family; she remained at home to keep house and - educate her daughters; all that is very natural." And he filled his pipe. - </p> - <p> - "True," replied William; "but still she was unhappy. Was it a crime? God - will decide. Leave her to His justice, Karl, and let us be merciful! - During your long absence, chance conducted hither some Spaniards whom - Annunciata had known in her childhood, and amongst them the son of an old - friend of her father's. Oh! with what mingled joy and agitation did the - dear child welcome her countrymen! What tears she shed in the midst of her - joy ... for she had forgotten how to be happy, and every emotion made her - weep. How eagerly she heard and spoke her native tongue! She fancied - herself again in Spain; for a while she was almost happy. You returned, - brother, and you were cruel; one day, without explaining your motives, you - shut your door upon the strangers. Tell me, why would you not allow - fellow-countrymen, friends.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26c" - id="Page_26c">[Pg 26]</a></span> a companion of her childhood, to speak to - your wife of her family and native land? Why require complete isolation, - and a total rupture with old friends? She obeyed without a murmur, but she - suffered more than you thought. I watched her closely; I, her old friend. - Since that fresh proof of your rigour, she is sadder than before. A third - time she became a mother; it was in vain; her unhappiness continued. - Brother, your hand has been too heavy on this feeble creature." - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg rose, and slowly paced the room. "Have you finished, - William?" said he; "this conversation is painful, let it end here; do not - abuse the license I give you." - </p> - <p> - "No; I have yet more to say. You are a cold and severe husband, but that - is not all; you are also an unjust father. Christine, your third daughter, - is denied her share of your affection, and by this partiality you further - wound the heart of Annunciata. Christine resembles her; she is what I can - fancy her mother at fifteen—a lively and charming Spaniard; she has - all her mother's tastes; like her she lives with difficulty in our - climate, and although born in it, by a caprice of nature she suffers from - it as Annunciata suffered. Brother, the child is not easy to manage; - independent, impassioned, violent in all her impressions, she has a love - of movement and liberty which ill agrees with our regular habits, but she - has also a good heart, and by appealing to it<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_27c" id="Page_27c">[Pg 27]</a></span> you might perhaps have - tamed her wild spirit. For Christine you are neither more nor less than a - pitiless judge. Her childhood was one long grief. And thus, far from - losing her wild restlessness, she loves more than ever to be abroad and at - liberty; she goes out at daybreak; she looks upon the house as a cage - whose bars hurt her, and you vainly endeavour to restrain her. Brother, if - you would have obedience, show affection. It is a power that succeeds when - all others fail. Why prevent her marrying the man she loves? Herbert the - student is not rich, nor is his alliance brilliant; but they love each - other!" - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg, who had continued his walk, now stopped short, and coldly - replied to his brother's accusations: "Christine is only fifteen, and I do - my duty by curbing the foolish passion that prematurely disturbs her - reason. As to what you call my partiality, you have explained it yourself - by the defects of her character. You, who reproach others as pitiless - judges, beware yourself of judging too severely. Every man acts according - to his internal perceptions, and all things are not good to be spoken. - Empty your glass, William, and if you have finished your pipe, do not - begin another. The business I had to discuss with you will keep till - another day; it is late, and I am tired. It is not always wise to rake up - the memories of the past. I wish to be alone a while. Leave me, and tell - Madame Van Amberg to come to me in a quarter of an hour." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28c" id="Page_28c">[Pg 28]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Why not say, 'Tell Annunciata?' Why, for so long a time, has that strange - sweet name never passed your lips?" - </p> - <p> - "Tell Madame Van Amberg I would speak with her, and leave me, brother," - replied Karl sternly. - </p> - <p> - William felt he had pushed Karl Van Amberg's patience to its utmost limit; - he got up and left the room. At the foot of the stairs he hesitated a - moment, then ascended, and sought Annunciata in Christine's chamber. It - was a narrow cell, shining with cleanliness, and containing a few flowers - in glasses, a wooden crucifix, with chaplets of beads hanging on it, and a - snow-white bed; a guitar (it was her mother's) was suspended on the wall. - From the window was seen the meadow, the river, and the willows. Christine - sat on the foot of the bed, still weeping; her mother was beside her, - offering her bread and milk, with which Christine's tears mingled. - Annunciata kissed her daughter's eyes, and then furtively wiped her own. - On entering, William stood for a few moments at the door, mournfully - contemplating this touching picture. - </p> - <p> - "My brother, my good brother," cried Annunciata, "speak to my child! She - has forgotten prayer and obedience; her heart is no longer submissive, and - her tears avail nothing, for she murmurs and menaces. Ask her, brother, by - whom it was told her that life is joy? that we live only to be happy?<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29c" id="Page_29c">[Pg 29]</a></span> Talk - to her of duty, and give her strength to accomplish it!" - </p> - <p> - "Your husband inquires for you, sister. Go, I will remain with Christine." - </p> - <p> - "I go, my brother," replied Annunciata. Approaching the little mirror - above the chimney-piece, she washed the tear-stains from her eyes, pressed - her hand upon her heart to check its throbbings, and when her countenance - had resumed its expression of calm composure, she descended the stairs. - Gothon was seated on the lower steps. - </p> - <p> - "You spoil her, madame," said she roughly to her mistress; "foolish ears - need sharp words. You spoil her." - </p> - <p> - Gothon had been in the house before Annunciata, and had been greatly - displeased by the arrival of her master's foreign lady, whose authority - she never acknowledged. But she had served the Van Ambergs' mother, and - therefore it was without fear of dismissal that she oppressed, after her - own fashion, her timid and gentle mistress. - </p> - <p> - Annunciata entered the parlour and remained standing near the door as if - waiting an order. Her husband's countenance was graver and more gloomy - than ever. - </p> - <p> - "Can no one hear us, madam? Are you sure we are alone?" - </p> - <p> - "Quite alone, sir," replied the astonished Annunciata. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30c" id="Page_30c">[Pg 30]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg recommenced his walk. For some moments he said nothing. His - wife, her hand resting on the back of an arm-chair, silently awaited his - pleasure. At last he again spoke. - </p> - <p> - "You bring up your daughter Christine badly; I left her to your care and - guidance, and you do not watch over her. Do you know where she goes and - what she does?" - </p> - <p> - "From her childhood, sir," replied Annunciata gently, pausing between each - phrase, "Christine has loved to live in the open air. She is delicate, and - requires sun and liberty to strengthen her. Till now you have allowed her - to live thus; I saw no harm in letting her follow her natural bent. If you - disapprove, sir, she will obey your orders." - </p> - <p> - "You bring up your daughter badly," coldly repeated M. Van Amberg. "She - will dishonour the name she bears." - </p> - <p> - "Sir!!" exclaimed Annunciata, her cheeks suffused with the deepest - crimson; her eyes emitting a momentary but vivid flash. - </p> - <p> - "Look to it, madam, I will have my name respected, that you know! You also - know I am informed of whatever passes in my house. Your daughter secretly - meets a man to whom I refused her hand; this morning, at six o'clock, they - were together on the river bank!" - </p> - <p> - "My daughter! my daughter!" cried Annunciata in disconsolate tones. "Oh! - it is impossible!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31c" id="Page_31c">[Pg - 31]</a></span> She is innocent! she shall remain so! I will place myself - between her and evil, I will save my child! I will take her in my arms, - and close her ears to dangerous words. My daughter, I will say, remain - innocent, remain honoured, if you would not see me die!" - </p> - <p> - With unmoved eye M. Van Amberg beheld the mother's emotion. Beneath his - frozen gaze, Annunciata felt embarrassed by her own agitation; she made an - effort to calm herself; then, with clasped hands, and eyes filled with - tears, which she would not allow to flow, she resumed, in a constrained - voice: - </p> - <p> - "Is this beyond doubt, sir?" - </p> - <p> - "It is," replied M. Van Amberg: "I never accuse without certainty." - </p> - <p> - There was a moment's silence. M. Van Amberg again spoke. - </p> - <p> - "You will lock Christine in her room, and bring me the key. She will have - time to reflect, and I trust reflection will be of service to her; in a - prolonged seclusion she will lose that love of motion and liberty which - leads her into harm; the silence of complete solitude will allay the - tumult of her thoughts. None shall enter her room, save Gothon, who shall - take her her meals, and return me the key. This is what I have decided - upon as proper." - </p> - <p> - Madame Van Amberg's lips opened several times to speak, but her courage - failed her. At last she advanced a pace or two. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32c" id="Page_32c">[Pg 32]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "But I, sir, I," said she in a stifled voice, "<i>I</i> am to see my - child!" - </p> - <p> - "I said no one," replied M. Van Amberg. - </p> - <p> - "But she will despair, if none sustain her. I will be severe with her; you - may be assured I will! Let me see her, if only once a-day. She may fall - ill of grief, and who will know it? Gothon dislikes her. For pity's sake, - let me see Christine! For a minute only, a single minute." - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg once more stood still, and fixed upon his wife a look that - made her stagger. "Not another word!" he said. "I allow no discussion, - madam. No one shall see Christine; do you hear?" - </p> - <p> - "I will obey," replied Annunciata. - </p> - <p> - "Convey my orders to your daughter. At dinner bring me the key of her - room. Go." - </p> - <p> - Madame Van Amberg found Christine alone, seated on her bed, and exhausted - by long weeping. Her beautiful face, at times so energetic, wore an - expression of profound and touching dejection. Her long hair fell in - disorder on her shoulders, her figure was bent, as if weighed down by - grief: her rosary had fallen from her half-open hand; she had tried to - obey her mother and to pray, but had been able only to weep. Her black - mantle, still damp with rain, lay upon a table, a few willow sprays - peeping from its silken folds. Christine eyed them with mingled love and - melancholy. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33c" id="Page_33c">[Pg - 33]</a></span> thought it a century since she saw the sun rise on the - river, on the old trees, and on Herbert's skiff. Her mother slowly - approached her. - </p> - <p> - "My child," said she, "where were you at daybreak this morning?" - </p> - <p> - Christine raised her eyes to her mother's face, looked at her, but did not - answer. Annunciata repeated her question without change of word or tone. - Then Christine let herself slide from the bed to the ground, and kneeled - before her mother. - </p> - <p> - "I was seated," she said, "upon the trunk of a willow that overhangs the - stream. I was near Herbert's boat." - </p> - <p> - "Christine!" exclaimed Madame Van Amberg, "can it be true? Oh, my child, - could you so infringe the commands laid upon you! Could you thus forget my - lessons and advice! Christine, you thought not of me when you committed - that fault!" - </p> - <p> - "Herbert said to me, 'Come, you shall be my wife, I will love you - eternally, you shall be free and happy; all is ready for our marriage and - our flight; come!' I replied, 'I will not leave my mother!' Mother, you - have been my safeguard; if it be a crime to follow Herbert, it is the - thought of you alone that prevented my committing it. I would not leave my - mother!" - </p> - <p> - A beam of joy illumined Annunciata's countenance. Murmuring a thanksgiving - to God, she raised her kneeling child and seated her by her side. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34c" id="Page_34c">[Pg 34]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Speak to me, Christine," she said, "open your heart, and tell me all your - thoughts. Together we will regret your faults, and seek hope for the - future. Speak, my daughter; conceal nothing." - </p> - <p> - Christine laid her head upon her mother's shoulder, put one of her little - hands in hers, sighed deeply, as though her heart were too oppressed for - words, and spoke at last with effort and fatigue. - </p> - <p> - "Mother," she said, "I have nothing to confess that you do not already - know. I love Herbert. He is but a poor student, intrusted to my father's - care, but he has a noble heart—like mine, somewhat sad. He knows - much, and he is gentle to those who know nothing. Poor, he is proud as a - king: he loves, and he tells it only to her who knows it. My mother, I - love Herbert! He asked my hand of my father, whose reply was a smile of - scorn. Then he was kept from me, and I tried to exist without seeing him. - I could not do it. I made many <i>neuvaines</i> on the rosary you gave me. - I had seen you weep and pray, mother, and I said to myself—Now that - I weep as she does, I must also pray like her. But it happened once, as - day broke, that I saw a small boat descend the stream, then go up again, - and again descend; from time to time a white sail fluttered in the air as - one flutters a kerchief to a departing friend. My thoughts, then as now, - were on Herbert; I ran across the meadow—I<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_35c" id="Page_35c">[Pg 35]</a></span> reached the stream—Mother, - it was he! hoping and waiting my coming. Long and mournfully we bewailed - our separation; fervently we vowed to love until death. This morning - Herbert, discouraged and weary of waiting a change in our position, urged - me to fly with him. I might have fled, mother, but I thought of you and - remained. I have told you all; if I have done wrong, forgive me, dearest - mother!" - </p> - <p> - With deep emotion Madame Van Amberg listened to her daughter, and remained - buried in reflection, when Christine paused. She felt that the young - girl's suffering heart needed gentle lessons, affectionate advice; and, - instead of these, she was the bearer of a sentence whose severity must - aggravate the evil—she was compelled to deny her sick child the - remedies that might have saved her. - </p> - <p> - "You love him very dearly, then," said she at last, fixing a long - melancholy look on her daughter's countenance. - </p> - <p> - "Oh, mother!" exclaimed Christine, "I love him with all my soul! My life - is passed in expecting, seeing, remembering him! I could never make you - understand how entirely my heart is his. Often I dream of dying for him, - not to save his life, that were too easy and natural, but uselessly at his - command." - </p> - <p> - "Hush! Christine, hush! you frighten me," cried Annunciata, placing both - hands upon her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36c" id="Page_36c">[Pg - 36]</a></span> daughter's mouth. By a quick movement Christine disengaged - herself from her mother's arms. - </p> - <p> - "Ah!" she exclaimed, "you know not what it is to love as I do! My father - could never let himself be loved thus!" - </p> - <p> - "Be silent, my child! be silent!" repeated Annunciata energetically. "Oh, - my daughter! how to instil into your heart thoughts of peace and duty! - Almighty Father! bless my weak words, that they may touch her soul! - Christine, hear me!" - </p> - <p> - Annunciata took her daughter's hands, and compelled her to stand before - her. "My child," she said, "you know nothing of life; you walk at random, - and are about to wander from the right path. All young hearts have been - troubled as yours is now. The noble ones have struggled and triumphed; the - others have fallen! Life is no easy and pleasant passage; its trials are - many and painful—its struggles severe; believe me, for us women - there is no true happiness beyond the bounds of duty. And when happiness - is not our destiny, many great things still remain to us. Honour, the - esteem of others, are not mere empty words. Hear me, beloved child! That - God whom from your infancy I have taught you to love, do you not fear - offending him? Seek Him, and you will find better consolation than I can - offer. Christine, we love in God those from whom we are severed on earth.<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37c" id="Page_37c">[Pg 37]</a></span> He, - who in his infinite wisdom imposed so many fetters on the heart of woman, - foresaw the sacrifices they would entail, and surely he has kept treasures - of love for hearts that break in obedience to duty." - </p> - <p> - Annunciata rapidly wiped the tears inundating her fine countenance; then - clasping Christine's arm— - </p> - <p> - "On your knees, my child! on our knees both of us before the Christ I gave - you! 'Tis nearly dark, and yet we still discern Him—his arms seeming - to open for us. Bless and save and console my child, oh merciful God! - Appease her heart; make it humble and obedient!" - </p> - <p> - Her prayer at an end, she rose, and throwing her arms round Christine, who - had passively allowed herself to be placed on her knees and lifted up - again, she embraced her tenderly, pressed her to her heart, and bathed her - hair with tears. "My daughter," she murmured between her kisses, "my - daughter, speak to me! Utter one word that I may take with me as a hope! - My child, will you not speak to your mother?" - </p> - <p> - "Mother, I love Herbert!" was Christine's reply. - </p> - <p> - Annunciata looked despairingly at her child, at the crucifix upon the - wall, at the darkening sky seen through the open window. The dinner-bell - rang. Madame Van Amberg made a strong effort to collect and express her - ideas. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38c" id="Page_38c">[Pg 38]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "M. Van Amberg," said she in broken voice, "orders you to remain in your - room. I am to take him the key. You are to see no one. The hour is come, - and he expects me." - </p> - <p> - "A prisoner!" cried Christine; "A prisoner,—alone, all day! Death - rather than that!" - </p> - <p> - "He will have it so," repeated Annunciata mournfully; "I must obey. He - will have it so." And she approached the door, casting upon Christine a - look of such ineffable love and grief, that the young girl, fascinated by - the gaze, let her depart without opposition. The key turned in the lock, - and Annunciata, supporting herself by the banister, slowly descended. She - found M. Van Amberg alone in the parlour. - </p> - <p> - "You have been a long time up stairs," said he. "Have you convinced - yourself that your daughter saw the student Herbert this morning?" - </p> - <p> - "She did," murmured Annunciata. - </p> - <p> - "You have told her my orders?" - </p> - <p> - "I have done so." - </p> - <p> - "Where is the key?" She gave it him. - </p> - <p> - "Now to dinner," said M. Van Amberg, walking into the dining-room. - Annunciata endeavoured to follow him, but her strength failed her, and she - sank upon a chair. - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg sat down alone to his dinner. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39c" id="Page_39c">[Pg 39]</a></span> - </p> - <hr class="tb" /> - <p> - "A prisoner!" repeated Christine in her solitude; "apart from all! shut - up! Yon meadow was too wide a range; the house too spacious a prison. I - must have a narrower cell, with more visible walls—a straiter - captivity! They deprive me of the little air I breathed—the scanty - liberty I found means to enjoy!" - </p> - <p> - She opened the window to its full extent; leaned upon the sill, and looked - at the sky. It was very dark; heavy clouds hid the stars; no light fell - upon the earth; different shades of obscurity alone marked the outlines of - objects. The willows, so beautiful when Herbert and the sun were there, - were now a black and motionless mass; dead silence reigned around. In view - of nature thus lifeless and lightless, hopes of happiness could hardly - enter the heart. Christine was in a fever: she felt oppressed and crushed - by unkindly influences, by the indifference of friends, by a tyrant's - will, even by the cold and mournful night. The young girl's heart beat - quickly and rebelliously. - </p> - <p> - "Be it so!" she exclaimed aloud; "let them have their way! They may render - me unhappy; I will not complain. They sanctify my love by persecution. - Happy, I should perhaps have been ashamed to love so much. But they rob me - of air and liberty; I suffer; I weep. Ah! I feel proud that my heart still - throbs with joy in the midst of so many evils. My sufferings will hallow - my love,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40c" id="Page_40c">[Pg 40]</a></span> - will compel the respect of those who scoffed and slighted it. Herbert! - dear Herbert! where are you at this moment? Do you joyfully anticipate - to-morrow's dawn: are you busy with your boat, preparing it for its early - cruise? Or do you sleep, dreaming of the old willows in the meadow, - hearing the waters murmur through their branches, and the voice of - Christine promising her return? But no; it cannot be; our hearts are too - united for their feelings thus to differ! You are sad, my love, and you - know not why; I am sad with knowledge of our misfortune—'tis the - sole difference separation can establish between us. When shall we meet - again, Herbert? Alas! I know not, but meet we surely shall. If God lets me - live, he will let me love you." - </p> - <p> - Christine shut the window and threw herself on her bed without undressing. - It was cold; she wrapped herself in her mantle, and gradually her head - sank upon her breast. Her hands, at first pressed against each other, - opened and fell by her sides. She dropped asleep, like an infant, in the - midst of her tears. - </p> - <p> - The first sun-rays, feeble though they were, awoke Christine, who sprang - hastily from her couch. "Herbert waits for me!" she exclaimed. At her age - memory is better for joy than for sorrow. For her the dawn of day was - still a rendezvous of love. The next moment she awoke to<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41c" id="Page_41c">[Pg 41]</a></span> the - consciousness of her captivity. She went to the window, leaned out as on - the previous evening, and looked mournfully around. In a corner of the - heavens was a glow of light, intercepted by billows of cloud. The pale - foliage of the willows shivered in the breeze, which ruffled the leaves - without bending the branches; the long fine grass of the meadow was seen - through a veil of fog, as yet undispelled by the sun. The sounds of - awakening nature had scarce begun, when a white sail stood out upon the - surface of the stream, gliding lightly along like the open wing of a - graceful bird. It passed to and fro in front of the meadow; was lowered - before the trees, and then again displayed, bending the boat's gunwale to - the water's surface, hovering continually around a point of the bank, as - though confined within the circle of an invisible fascination. At long - intervals the wind brought a faint and scarce perceptible sound, like the - last notes of a song; then the little bark again manœuvred, and its - sail flapped in the air. The pale tints of dawn gave way to the warmer - sunbeams; passengers appeared upon the bank; trading boats ascended the - river; the windows of the red brick house opened as if to inhale the - morning air. The boat lowered its sail, and floated slowly away at the - will of the current. Christine looked after it and wept. - </p> - <p> - Twice during that day, Gothon opened the door<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_42c" id="Page_42c">[Pg 42]</a></span> of the young girl's - chamber, and brought her a frugal meal. Twice did Gothon depart without - uttering a word. The whole day passed in silence and solitude. Christine - knew not how to get rid of the weary hours. She knelt before the crucifix, - her alabaster rosary in her hand, her head raised towards the cross, and - prayed. But her prayer was for Herbert, to see him again; she never - dreamed of praying to forget him. Then she took down the guitar, passed - round her neck the faded blue ribbon, tied on it at Seville, and which her - mother would never allow to be changed. She struck a few chords of the - songs she best loved; but her voice was choked, and her tears flowed more - abundantly when she tried to sing. She collected the little sprays of - willow, and placed them in a book to dry and preserve them. But the day - was very long; and the poor child fluttered in her prison like a caged - bird, with an anguish that each moment increased. Her head burned, her - bosom throbbed. At last night came. Seated near the open window, the cold - calmed her a little. They brought her no light, and time passed more - slowly than ever. She went to bed, but, deprived of her accustomed - exercise, tormented by a thousand anxieties, she could not sleep; she got - up, walked about in the darkness, and again lay down; slumber still - avoided her. This time her eyes, red with tears and watchfulness, beheld - the sun rise<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43c" id="Page_43c">[Pg 43]</a></span> - without illusion; she did not for a moment forget her captivity, but - looked mournfully out at the little sail which, faithful to its - rendezvous, came each morning with the sun. Again, none but Gothon - disturbed her solitude. During another long day, Christine, alternately - desponding and excited, walked, wept, lamented, and prayed. Night came - again. Nothing broke the silence; the lights in the red house were - extinguished one after the other. Profound darkness covered the earth. - Christine remained at her window, insensible to cold. Suddenly she - started: she heard her name pronounced in low tones at the foot of the - wall. She listened. - </p> - <p> - "Christine, my daughter!" repeated the voice. - </p> - <p> - "Mother," exclaimed Christine, "you out in this dreadful weather! I - conjure you to go in!" - </p> - <p> - "I have been two days in bed, my child; I have been unwell; to-night I am - better; I felt it impossible to remain longer without seeing you, who are - my life, my strength, my health! Oh! you were right not to leave me; it - would have killed me. Are you well, dear Christine? Have you all you - require? How do you live, deprived of my caresses?" - </p> - <p> - "Dearest mother, for heaven's sake, go in! The night is damp and cold; it - will be your death!" - </p> - <p> - "Your voice warms me; it is far from you that<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_44c" id="Page_44c">[Pg 44]</a></span> I feel chill and faint. - Dearest child, my heart sends you a thousand kisses." - </p> - <p> - "I receive them on my knees, mother, my arms extended towards you. But, - when shall I see you again?" - </p> - <p> - "When you submit, and promise to obey; when you no longer seek him you are - forbidden to see, and whom you must forget. My daughter, it is your duty." - </p> - <p> - "Oh mother, I thought your heart could better understand what it never - felt. I thought you respected the true sentiments of the soul, and that - your lips knew not how to utter the word 'forget.' If I forgot, I should - be a mere silly child, capricious, unruly, unworthy your tenderness. If my - malady is without remedy, I am a steadfast woman, suffering and - self-sacrificing. Good God! how is it you do not understand that?" - </p> - <p> - "I understand," murmured Annunciata, but in so low a tone that she was - sure her daughter could not hear her. - </p> - <p> - "Mother," resumed Christine, "go to my father! summon up that courage - which fails you when you alone are concerned; speak boldly to him, tell - him what I have told you; demand my liberty, my happiness." - </p> - <p> - "I!" exclaimed Annunciata in terror; "I brave M. Van Amberg, and oppose - his will!" - </p> - <p> - "Not oppose, but supplicate! compel his heart<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_45c" id="Page_45c">[Pg 45]</a></span> to understand what mine - experiences; force him to see and hear and feel that my life may cease, - but not my love. Who can do it, if you cannot? I am a captive. My sisters - know not love, my uncle William has never known it. It needs a woman's - voice to express a woman's feelings." - </p> - <p> - "Christine, you know not what you ask. The effort is above my strength." - </p> - <p> - "I ask a proof of my mother's love; I am sure she will give it me." - </p> - <p> - "I shall die in so doing. M. Van Amberg can kill me by a word." - </p> - <p> - Christine started and trembled. "Do not go, then, dearest mother. Forgive - my egotism; I thought only of myself. If my father has such terrible - power, avoid his anger. I will wait, and entreat none but God." - </p> - <p> - There was a brief pause. "Christine," said Madame Van Amberg, "since I am - your only hope, your sole reliance, and you have called me to your aid, I - will speak to him. Our fate is in the hands of heaven." - </p> - <p> - Annunciata interrupted herself by a cry of terror; a hand rudely grasped - her arm; M. Van Amberg, without uttering a word, dragged her to the house - door, compelled her to enter, took out the key, and made her pass before - him into the parlour. A lamp burned dimly upon the table, its oil nearly - exhausted; at times it emitted a bright flash, and<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_46c" id="Page_46c">[Pg 46]</a></span> then suddenly became - nearly extinguished. The corners of the room were in darkness, the doors - and windows closed, perfect silence reigned; the only object on which a - strong light fell, was the countenance of M. Van Amberg. It was calm, - cold, motionless. His great height, the piercing look of his pale grey - eyes, the austere regularity of his features, combined to give him the - aspect of an implacable judge. - </p> - <p> - "You would speak with me, madam," said he to Annunciata; "I am here, - speak!" - </p> - <p> - On entering the parlour, Annunciata let herself fall into a chair. Her - clothes streamed with water; her hair, heavy with rain, fell upon her - shoulders; her extreme paleness gave her the appearance of a corpse rather - than of a living creature. Terror obliterated memory, even of what had - just occurred; her mind was confused; she felt only that she suffered - horribly. Her husband's voice and words restored the chain of her ideas; - the poor woman thought of her child, made a violent effort, rallied her - strength, and rose to her feet. - </p> - <p> - "Now then," she murmured, "since it must be so!" - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg waited in silence, his arms crossed upon his breast, his - eyes fixed upon his wife; he stood like a statue, assisting neither by - word nor gesture the poor creature who trembled before him. Annunciata - looked long at him before<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47c" - id="Page_47c">[Pg 47]</a></span> speaking; she hoped that at sight of her - tears and sufferings, M. Van Amberg would remember he had loved her. She - threw her whole soul into her eyes, but not a muscle of her husband's - countenance moved. He waited for her to break silence. - </p> - <p> - "I need your indulgence," she at last said; "it costs me a fearful effort - to address you. In general I do but answer; I am unaccustomed to speak - first, and I am afraid. I dread your anger; have compassion on a trembling - woman, who would fain be silent, and who must speak. Christine's happiness - is in your hands. The poor child implores me to soften your rigour.... Did - I refuse, not a creature upon earth would intercede for her. This is why I - venture to petition you, sir." - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg continued silent. Annunciata wiped the tears from her cheeks - and resumed with more courage. - </p> - <p> - "She is much to be pitied; she has inherited the faults you blame in me. - Believe me, sir, I have laboured hard to check them in the bud. I have - striven, exhorted, punished, have spared neither advice nor prayers, but - all in vain. God has not been pleased to spare me this new grief. Her - nature is unchangeable; she is to blame, but she is also much to be - pitied. Christine loves with all her soul. Women die of such love as hers, - and when they do not die, they suffer frightfully. For pity's sake, sir, - let her marry him she loves!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48c" id="Page_48c">[Pg 48]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Annunciata covered her face with her hands, and awaited in an agony of - anxiety her husband's reply. - </p> - <p> - "Your daughter," said M. Van Amberg, "is still a child; she has inherited, - as you say, a character that needs restraint. I will not yield to the - first caprice that traverses her silly head. Herbert is only - two-and-twenty; we know nothing of his character. Your daughter requires a - protector, and a judicious guide. Herbert has neither family, fortune, nor - position. He shall never be the husband of a woman who bears the name of - Mademoiselle Van Amberg!" - </p> - <p> - "Sir!" cried Annunciata, clasping her hands and breathless with emotion, - "Sir! the best guidance for a woman's life is a union with the man she - loves! It is her best safeguard, it strengthens her against the cares of - the world. I entreat you, Karl!" exclaimed Madame Van Amberg, falling upon - her knees, "have compassion on my daughter! Do not render duty a torture; - do not exact from her too much courage! We are weak creatures: we have - need both of love and virtue. Place her not in the terrible necessity of - choosing between them. Pity, Karl, pity!" - </p> - <p> - "Madam," cried M. Van Amberg, and this time his frame was agitated by a - slight nervous trembling, "Madam, you are very bold to speak to me thus! - You! you! to dare to hold such language<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_49c" id="Page_49c">[Pg 49]</a></span> to me! Silence! and teach - your daughter not to hesitate in her choice between good and evil. Do - that, instead of weeping uselessly at my feet." - </p> - <p> - "Yes, it is bold of me, sir, thus to address you; but I have found courage - in suffering. I am ill,—in pain,—my life is worthless, save as - a sacrifice—let my child take it, I will speak for her! Her fate is - in your hands, do not crush her by a cruel decision! An absolute judge and - master should be guarded in word and deed, for a reckoning will be asked - of him! Be merciful to my child!" - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg approached his wife, took her arm, placed his other hand on - her mouth, and said:— - </p> - <p> - "Silence! I command you; no such scenes in my house, no noise and - whimpering. Your daughters sleep within a few yards of you, do not disturb - their repose. Your servants are above, do not awaken them. Silence! you - had no business to speak; I was wrong to listen to you. Never dare again - to discuss my orders; it is I whom your children must obey, I whom you - must obey yourself. Retire to your apartment, and to-morrow let me find - you what you yesterday were." - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg had regained his usual calmness. He walked slowly from the - room. - </p> - <p> - "Oh, my daughter!" exclaimed Annunciata, despairingly, "nothing can I do - for you! Merciful Father! what will become of me, placed between him and - her, both inflexible in their resolves!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50c" id="Page_50c">[Pg 50]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - The lamp which feebly illuminated this scene of sorrow, now suddenly went - out and left the unhappy mother in profound darkness. The rain beat - against the windows,—the wind howled,—the house clock struck - four. - </p> - <p> - Christine had seen M. Van Amberg seize Annunciata's arm, and lead her away - with him; afterwards, she had distinguished, through the slight partitions - of the house, a faint echo as of mingled sobs, entreaties, and reproaches. - She understood that her fate was deciding,—that her poor mother had - devoted herself for her, and was face to face with the stern ruler whose - look alone she usually dared not brave. Christine passed the night in - terrible anxiety, abandoning herself alternately to discouragement and to - joyful hopes. At her age it is not easy to despair. Fear, however, - predominated over every other emotion, and she would have given years of - existence to learn what had passed. But the day went by like the previous - one. She saw none but Gothon. Her she ventured to question, but the old - servant had orders not to answer. - </p> - <p> - Another day elapsed. Christine's solitude was still unbroken, no friendly - voice reached her ear, no kindly hand lifted the veil shrouding her - future. The poor girl was exhausted, she had not even the energy of grief. - She wept without complaint, almost without a murmur. Night came, and she - fell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51c" id="Page_51c">[Pg 51]</a></span> - asleep, exhausted by her sorrow. She had scarcely slept an hour when she - was awakened by the opening of the door, and Gothon, lamp in hand, - approached her bed. "Get up Mademoiselle," said the servant, "and follow - me." - </p> - <p> - Christine dressed herself as in a dream, and hastily followed Gothon, who - conducted her to her mother's room, opened the door, and drew back to let - her pass. A sad spectacle met the young girl's eyes. Annunciata, pale and - almost inanimate, lay in the agonies of death. Her presentiment had not - deceived her; suffering and agitation had snapped the slender strings that - bound her to the earth. The light of the lamp fell full upon her features, - whose gentle beauty pain was impotent to deface. Resignation and courage - were upon her countenance, over which came a gleam of joy when Christine - appeared. Wilhelmina and Maria knelt and wept at the foot of their - mother's bed. William stood a little apart, holding a prayer-book, but his - eyes had left the page to look at Annunciata, and two large tears trembled - on their lids. M. Van Amberg, seated beside his wife's pillow, had his - face shaded by his hand, so that none could see its expression. - </p> - <p> - With a piercing cry, Christine rushed to Madame Van Amberg, who received - her in her arms. "Mother!" she cried, her cheek against Annunciata's, "it - is I who have killed you! For love of me you have exceeded your strength." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52c" id="Page_52c">[Pg 52]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "No, my beloved, no," replied Annunciata, kissing her daughter between - each word, "I die of an old and incurable malady. But I die happy, since I - once more clasp you in my arms." - </p> - <p> - "And they did not let me nurse you!" cried Christine, indignantly raising - her head; "they concealed your illness! They let me weep for other sorrows - than yours, my mother!" - </p> - <p> - "Dearest child," replied Annunciata gently, "this crisis has been very - sudden; two hours ago they knew not my danger, and I wished to fulfil my - religious duties before seeing you. I wished to think only of God. Now I - can abandon myself to the embraces of my children." And she clasped her - weeping daughters to her heart. "Dear children," said she, "God is full of - mercy to the dying, and sanctifies a mother's benediction. I bless you, my - daughters; remember and pray for me." - </p> - <p> - The three young girls bowed their heads upon their mother's hand, and - replied by tears alone to this solemn farewell. - </p> - <p> - "My good brother," resumed Annunciata to William, "my good brother, we - have long lived together, and to me you have ever been a devoted friend, - indulgent and gentle. I thank you, brother!" - </p> - <p> - William averted his head to conceal his tears, but a deep sob escaped him, - and he turned his venerable face towards Annunciata. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53c" id="Page_53c">[Pg 53]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Do not thank me, sister," he said, "I have done little for you. I loved - you, that is certain, but I could not enliven your solitude. My sister, - you will still live for the happiness of us all." - </p> - <p> - Annunciata gently shook her head. Her glance sought her husband, as if she - would fain have addressed her last words to him. But they expired on her - lips. She looked at him timidly, sadly, and then closed her eyes, to check - the starting tears. She grew visibly weaker, and as death approached, a - painful anxiety took possession of her. Resigned, she was not calm. It was - ordained her soul should suffer and be troubled to the end. The destiny of - one of her daughters disturbed her last moments; she dared not pronounce - the name of Christine, she dared not ask compassion for her; a thousand - conflicting doubts and fears agitated her poor heart. She died as she had - lived, repressing her tears, concealing her thoughts. From time to time - she turned to her husband, but his head continued sunk upon his hand; not - one look of encouragement could she obtain. At last came the spasm that - was to break this frail existence. "Adieu! Adieu!" she murmured in - unintelligible accents. Her eyes no longer obeyed her, and none could tell - whom they sought. William approached his brother, and placed his hand upon - his shoulder. "Karl!" he whispered in tones audible but to him he - addressed, "she is dying! Have you nothing to say to a poor<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54c" id="Page_54c">[Pg 54]</a></span> - creature who has so long lived with you and suffered by you? Living, you - loved her not; do not let her die thus! Fear you not, Karl, lest this - woman, oppressed and slighted by you, should expire with a leaven of - resentment in her heart? Crave her pardon before she departs." - </p> - <p> - For an instant all was silent. M. Van Amberg stirred not. Annunciata, her - head thrown back, seemed to have already ceased to exist. On a sudden, she - moved, raised herself with difficulty, leaned over towards M. Van Amberg, - and groped for his hand as though she had been blind. When she found it, - she bowed her face upon it, kissed it twice, and expired in that last - kiss. - </p> - <p> - "On your knees!" cried William, "on your knees, she is in heaven! let us - implore her intercession!" And all knelt down. - </p> - <p> - Of all the prayers addressed to God by man during his life of trial, not - one is more solemn than that which escapes the desolate heart, when a - beloved soul flies from earth to heaven, to stand, for the first time, in - the presence of its Creator. - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg rose from his knees. - </p> - <p> - "Leave the room!" said he to his brother and daughters, "I would be alone - with my wife." - </p> - <p> - Alone, beside the bed of his dead wife, Karl Van Amberg gazed upon the - pale countenance, to which death had restored all the beauty of youth. A - tear, left there by human suffering, a tear which none<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_55c" id="Page_55c">[Pg 55]</a></span> other was to follow, - glittered upon the clay-cold cheek; one arm still hung out of bed, as when - it held his hand; the head was in the position in which it had kissed his - fingers. He gazed at her, and the icy envelope that bound his heart was at - last broken. "Annunciata!" he exclaimed, "Annunciata!" - </p> - <p> - For fifteen years that name had not passed his lips. Throwing himself on - his wife's corpse, he clasped her in his arms and kissed her forehead. - </p> - <p> - "Annunciata!" he cried, "can you not feel this kiss of peace and love! - Annunciata, we have both suffered terribly! God did not grant us - happiness. I loved you from the first day that I saw you, a joyous child - in Spain, till this sad moment that I press you dead upon my heart. Oh - Annunciata, how great have been our sufferings!" - </p> - <p> - Karl Van Amberg wept. - </p> - <p> - "Repose in peace, poor woman!" he murmured; "may you find in heaven the - repose denied you upon earth!" And with trembling hand he closed - Annunciata's eyes. Then he knelt down beside her. - </p> - <p> - "Almighty God!" he said, "I have been severe. Be thou merciful!" - </p> - <hr class="tb" /> - <p> - When, at break of day, M. Van Amberg left the chamber of death, his face - had resumed its habitual expression; his inflexible soul, for a moment - bowed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56c" id="Page_56c">[Pg 56]</a></span> - had regained its usual level. To Annunciata had been given the last word - of love, the last tear of that heart of adamant. To the eyes of all he - reappeared as the stern master and father, the man on whose brow no sorrow - left a trace. His daughters bowed themselves upon his passage, William - spoke not to him, order and regularity returned to the house. Annunciata - was buried without pomp or procession. She left, to revisit it no more, - the melancholy abode where her suffering soul had worn out its mortal - envelope; she ceased to live, as a sound ceases to be heard, as a cloud - passes, as a flower fades; nothing stopped or altered because she went. If - any mourned her, they mourned in silence; if they thought of her, they - proclaimed not their thoughts; her name was no more heard; only the - interior of the little red house was rather more silent, and M. Van - Amberg's countenance appeared to all more rigid than before. During the - day, Christine's profound grief obeyed the iron will that weighed on each - member of the family. The poor child was silent, worked, sat at table, - lived on as if her heart had not been crushed; but at night, alone in the - little room where her mother had so often wept with her, she gave free - course to grief; she invoked her mother, spoke to her, extended her arms - to her, and would fain have left the earth to be with her in heaven. "Take - me to you, dear mother!" she would exclaim. "Deprived of you,<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57c" id="Page_57c">[Pg 57]</a></span> apart - from him, I cannot live! Since I saw you die, I no longer fear death." - </p> - <p> - Since the death of Annunciata, Christine was allowed her liberty, M. Van - Amberg doubtless thinking, and with reason, that she would make no use of - it during her first grief. Or, perhaps, with his wife's corpse scarcely - cold, he hesitated to recur to the severity that had caused her so many - tears. Whatever his motive, Christine was free, at least to all - appearance. The three sisters, in deep mourning, never passed the - threshold; they sat all day at work near the low window of the parlour, - supped with their uncle and father, then retired to bed. During the long - hours of their silent work, Christine often thought of her lover. She - dared not attempt to see him; she would have expected to hear her mother's - voice murmur in her ear,—"My daughter, it is too soon to be happy! - Mourn me yet a little, alone and without consolation." - </p> - <p> - One morning, after a night of tears, Christine fell into a tardy slumber, - broken by dreams. Now it was her mother, who took her in her arms, and - flew with her towards heaven. "I will not let you live," said Annunciata, - "for life is sorrow. I have prayed of God to let you die young, that you - may not weep as I have wept!" - </p> - <p> - The next instant she beheld herself clothed in white and crowned with - flowers. Herbert was there, love sparkling in his eyes. "Come, my<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58c" id="Page_58c">[Pg 58]</a></span> - betrothed!" he said, "life is joy! My love shall guard you from all evil; - come, we will be happy!" - </p> - <p> - She started up, awakened by a sudden noise in her chamber. The window was - open, and on the floor lay a pebble with a letter attached. Her first - impulse was to fly to the window; a bush stirred in the direction of the - river, but she saw no one. She snatched up the letter, she guessed it was - Herbert's writing. It seems as if one never saw for the first time the - writing of him one loves; the heart recognises as if the eyes had already - seen it. Christine was alone, a beam of the rising sun tinted the summits - of the willows, and hope and love revived in the young girl's heart, as - she read what follows: - </p> - <p> - "Christine, I can write but a few lines; a long letter, difficult to - conceal, might never reach you. Hear me with your heart, and guess what I - am unable to write. As you know, dearest, my family intrusted me to your - father, and gave him all authority over me. He can employ me at his will, - and according to the convenience of his commercial establishments. - Christine, I have just received orders to embark in one of his ships, - sailing for Batavia." - </p> - <p> - A cry escaped Christine's lips, and her eyes, suffused with tears, - devoured the subsequent lines. - </p> - <p> - "Your father places the immensity of ocean between<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_59c" id="Page_59c">[Pg 59]</a></span> us; he separates us for - ever. We are to meet no more! Christine, has your heart, since I last saw - you, learned to comprehend those words? No, my adored Christine, we must - live or die together! Your poor mother is no more; your presence is no - longer essential to the happiness of any one. Your family is pitiless and - without affection for you. Your future is gloom and unhappiness. Come, - then, let us fly together. In the Helder are numerous ships; they will - bear us far from the scene of our sufferings. All is foreseen and - arranged. Christine, my life depends on your decision. For ever separated! - ... subscribe to that barbarous decree, and I terminate an existence which - henceforward would be all bitterness! And you, Christine! will you love - another, or live without love? Oh! come! I have suffered so much without - you! I summon you, I await you, Christine! my bride! At midnight—on - the riverbank—I will be there! and a world of happiness is before - us. Come, dear Christine, come!" - </p> - <p> - As Christine read, her tears fell fast on Herbert's letter. She - experienced a moment of agonising indecision. She loved passionately, but - she was young and innocent, and love had not yet imparted to her pure soul - the audacity that braves all things. The wise counsels heard in her - father's house, uncle William's pious exhortations, the holy prayers she - had learned from her infancy upwards,<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_60c" id="Page_60c">[Pg 60]</a></span> resounded in her ears; - the Christ upon her wooden crucifix seemed to look at her; the beads of - her rosary were still warm with the pressure of her fingers. - </p> - <p> - "Oh! my dream! my dream!" she exclaimed; "Herbert who calls his bride! my - mother claiming her daughter! With him, life and love! With her, death and - heaven!..." And Christine sobbed aloud. For an instant she tried calmly to - contemplate an existence in that melancholy house, weeping for Herbert, - growing old without him, without love, within those gloomy walls, where no - heart sympathised with hers. The picture was too terrible; she felt that - such a future was unendurable. She wept bitterly, kissed her rosary, her - prayer-book, as if bidding adieu to all that had witnessed the innocence - of her early years. Then her heart beat violently. The fire of her glance - dried her tears. She looked out at the river, at the white sail which - seemed to remind her of her vows of love; she gave one last sob, as if - breaking irrevocably the links between her past and future. The image of - her mother was no longer before her. Christine, abandoned to herself, - followed the impulse of her passionate nature; she wept, trembled, - hesitated, and at last exclaimed,— - </p> - <p> - "At midnight, I will be there!" - </p> - <p> - Then she wiped her tears, and remained quite still for a few moments, to - calm her violent agitation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61c" - id="Page_61c">[Pg 61]</a></span> A vast future unrolled itself before her; - liberty would be hers; a new world was revealed to her eyes; a new life - began for her. - </p> - <p> - At last night came. A lamp replaced the fading daylight. The window was - deserted for the table. William and Karl Van Amberg came in. The former - took a book; his brother busied himself with commercial calculations. The - lamp gave a dull light; all was silent, sad, and monotonous in the - apartment. The clock slowly told the successive hours. When its hammer - struck ten, there was a movement round the table; books were shut, work - was folded. Karl Van Amberg rose; his two eldest daughters approached him, - and he kissed their foreheads in silence. Christine no longer a captive, - but still in disgrace, bowed herself before her father. Uncle William, - grown drowsy over his book, put up his spectacles, muttering a - "good-night." The family left the parlour, and the three sisters ascended - the wooden staircase. At her chamber door, Christine felt a tightness at - her heart. She turned and looked after her sisters. "Good-night, - Wilhelmina! good-night, Maria!" - </p> - <p> - The sisters turned their heads. By the faint light of their tapers - Christine saw them smile and kiss their hands to her. Then they entered - their rooms without speaking. Christine found herself alone. She opened - her window; the night was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62c" - id="Page_62c">[Pg 62]</a></span> calm; at intervals clouds flitted across - the moon, veiling its brightness. Christine made no preparations for - departure; she only took her mother's rosary, and the blue ribbon so long - attached to the guitar; then she wrapped herself in her black mantle and - sat down by the window. Her heart beat quick, but no distinct thought - agitated her mind. She trembled without terror; her eyes were tearful, but - she felt no regret. For her, the hour was rather solemn than sad; the - struggle was over, and she was irrevocably decided. - </p> - <p> - At last midnight came; each stroke of the clock thrilled Christine's - heart; for an instant she stood still, summoning strength and courage; - then, turning towards the interior of the room,— - </p> - <p> - "Adieu, my mother!" she whispered. Many living creatures dwelt under that - roof. It seemed to Christine as if she left her only who was no longer - there. "Adieu, my mother!" she repeated. - </p> - <p> - Then she stepped out of the window; a trellis, twined with creepers, - covered the wall. With light foot and steady hand, Christine descended, - aiding herself by the branches, and pausing when they cracked under her - tread or grasp. The stillness was so complete that the slightest sound - assumed importance. Christine's heart beat violently; at last she reached - the ground, raised her head, and looked at the house. Her father's window - was still lighted. Again she shuddered with<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_63c" id="Page_63c">[Pg 63]</a></span> apprehension; then, - feeling more courage for a minute's daring than for half an hour's - precautions, she darted across the meadow and arrived breathless at the - clump of willows. Before plunging into it, she again looked round. All was - quiet and deserted; she breathed more freely and disappeared amongst the - branches. Leaning upon the old tree, the witness of her former rendezvous, - she whispered, so softly that none but a lover could hear, "Herbert, are - you there?" - </p> - <p> - A cautious oar skimmed the water; a well-known voice replied. The boat - approached the willow; the young student stood up and held out his arms to - Christine, who leaped lightly into the skiff. In an instant, they were out - of the willow-shaded inlet; in another, the sail—the signal of their - loves—was hoisted to the breeze; the bark sped swiftly over the - water, and Herbert, scarce daring to believe his happiness, was seated at - Christine's feet. His hand sought hers; he heard her weep, and he wept for - sympathy. Both were silent, agitated, uneasy, and happy. - </p> - <p> - But the night was fine, the moon shed its softest light, the ripple of the - stream had a harmony of its own, the light breeze cooled their cheeks, the - sail bent over them like the wing of an invisible being; they were young, - they loved, it was impossible that joy should not revive in their hearts. - </p> - <p> - "Thanks, Christine, thanks!" exclaimed Herbert,<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_64c" id="Page_64c">[Pg 64]</a></span> "thanks a thousand times - for so much devotedness, for such confidence and love! Oh how beautiful - will life now appear! We are united for ever!" - </p> - <p> - "For ever!" repeated Christine, her tears flowing afresh. For the first - time she felt that great happiness, like great grief, expresses itself by - tears. Her hand in Herbert's, her eyes raised to heaven, she gazed upon - bright stars and fleecy clouds, sole and silent witnesses of her - happiness. Presently she was roused from this sweet reverie. - </p> - <p> - "See there, Herbert!" she exclaimed; "the sail droops along the mast, the - wind has fallen, we do not advance." - </p> - <p> - Herbert took the oars, and the boat cut rapidly through the water. Wrapped - in her mantle, Christine sat opposite, and smiled upon him. Onwards flew - the boat, a track of foam in its wake. Daylight was still distant; all - things favoured the fugitives. Again Christine broke silence. - </p> - <p> - "Herbert, dear Herbert, do you hear nothing?" - </p> - <p> - Herbert ceased to row, and listened. "I hear nothing," he said, "save the - plash of the river against its banks." He resumed the oars; again the boat - moved rapidly forward. Christine was pale; half risen from her seat, her - head turned back, she strove to see, but the darkness was too great. - </p> - <p> - "Be tranquil, best beloved," said Herbert with a smile. "Fear creates - sounds. All is still." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65c" id="Page_65c">[Pg 65]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Herbert," cried Christine, this time starting up in the boat, "I am not - mistaken! I hear oars behind us ... pause not to listen ... row, for - Heaven's love, row!" - </p> - <p> - Her terror was so great, she seemed so sure of what she said, that Herbert - obeyed in silence, and a sensation of alarm chilled his heart. Christine - seated herself at his feet. - </p> - <p> - "We are pursued!" she said; "the noise of your own oars alone prevented - your hearing. A boat follows us." - </p> - <p> - "If it be so," Herbert cried, "what matter! That boat does not bear - Christine—is not guided by a man who defends his life, his - happiness, his love. My arm will weary his, his bark will not overtake - mine." And Herbert redoubled his efforts. The veins of his arms swelled to - bursting; his forehead was covered with sweat-drops. The skiff clove the - waters as though impelled by wings. Christine remained crouched at the - young man's feet, pressing herself against him, as to seek refuge. - </p> - <p> - Other oars, wielded by stalwart arms, now struck the water not far from - Herbert's boat. The young student heard the sound; he bent over his oars - and made desperate efforts. But he felt his strength failing; as he rowed - he looked with agony at Christine; no one spoke, only the noise of the two - boats interrupted the silence. Around, all was calm and serene as when the - fugitives set out. But the soul<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66c" - id="Page_66c">[Pg 66]</a></span> of the young girl had passed from life to - death; her eyes, gleaming with a wild fire, followed with increasing - terror each movement of Herbert's; she saw by the suffering expression of - his countenance, that little hope of escape remained. Still he rowed with - the energy of despair; but the fatal bark drew nearer, its shadow was seen - upon the water, it followed hard in the foamy track of Herbert's boat. - Christine stood up and looked back; just then the moon shone out, casting - its light full upon the pale, passionless features of M. Van Amberg. - Christine uttered a piercing cry. - </p> - <p> - "My father!" she cried; "Herbert, 'tis my father!" - </p> - <p> - Herbert also had recognised his pursuer. The youth had lived too long in - Karl Van Amberg's house not to have experienced the strange kind of - fascination which that man exercised over all around him. Darkness had - passed away to reveal to the fugitives the father, master, and judge! - </p> - <p> - "Stop, Herbert!" cried Christine, "we are lost, escape is impossible! Do - you not see my father?" - </p> - <p> - "Let me row!" replied Herbert, disengaging himself from Christine, who had - seized his arm. He gave so violent a pull with the oars, that the skiff - bounded out of the water and seemed to gain a little on its pursuer. - </p> - <p> - "Herbert," cried Christine, "I tell you we are lost! 'Tis my father, and - resistance is useless!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67c" - id="Page_67c">[Pg 67]</a></span> God will not work a miracle in our - favour! Herbert, I will not return to my father's house! Let us die - together, dear Herbert!" - </p> - <p> - And Christine threw herself into her lover's arms. The oars fell from the - young man's hands; with a cry of anguish he pressed Christine convulsively - to his heart. For a single instant he thought of obeying her, and of - plunging with her into the dark tide beneath; but Herbert had a noble - heart, and he repelled the temptation of despair. The next moment a - violent shock made the boat quiver, and M. Van Amberg stepped into it. - Instinctively Herbert clasped Christine more tightly, and retreated, as if - his strength could withhold her from her father—as if, in that - little boat, he could retreat far enough not to be overtaken. With a - vigorous arm, M. Van Amberg seized Christine, whose slender form bent like - a reed over his shoulder. - </p> - <p> - "Have mercy on her!" cried the despairing Herbert; "I alone am guilty! - Punish her not, and I promise to depart, to renounce her! Pity, sir! pity - for Christine!" - </p> - <p> - He spoke to a deaf and silent statue. Wresting Christine's hand from the - student's grasp, M. Van Amberg stepped back into his boat, and pushed - Herbert's violently with his foot. Yielding to the impulse, the boats - separated; one was pulled swiftly up the river, whilst the other, - abandoned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68c" id="Page_68c">[Pg 68]</a></span> - to itself, was swept by the current in a contrary direction. Erect on the - prow of his bark, his head thrown back, his arms folded on his breast, M. - Van Amberg fixed a terrible look upon Herbert and then disappeared in the - darkness. All was over. The father had taken his daughter, and no human - power could henceforward tear her from his arms. - </p> - <p> - Within a week from that fatal night, the gates of a convent closed upon - Christine Van Amberg. - </p> - <hr class="tb" /> - <p> - On the frontier of Belgium, on the summit of a hill, stands a large white - building of irregular architecture, a confused mass of walls, roofs, - angles, and platforms. At the foot of the hill is a village, whose - inhabitants behold with a feeling of respect the edifice towering above - their humble dwellings. For there is seen the belfry of a church, and - thence is heard unceasingly the sound of pious bells, proclaiming afar - that on the mountain's summit a few devout souls pray to God for all men. - The building is a convent; the poor and the sick well know the path - leading to the hospitable threshold of the Sisters of the Visitation. - </p> - <p> - To this convent was Christine sent. To this austere dwelling, the abode of - silence and self-denial, was she, the young, the beautiful, the loving, - pitilessly consigned. It was as though a gravestone had suddenly closed - over her head. With<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69c" id="Page_69c">[Pg - 69]</a></span> her, the superior of the convent received the following - letter:— - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "<span class="smcap">Madame la Supérieure</span>,—I send you your - niece, Christine Van Amberg, and beg you to oblige me by keeping her with - you. I intend her to embrace a religious life; employ the influence of - your wise counsels to predispose her to it. Her misconduct compels me to - exclude her my house; she requires restraint and watching, such as are - only to be found in a convent. Be pleased, dear and respected kinswoman, - to receive her under your roof; the best wish that can be formed for her - is, that she may make up her mind to remain there for ever. Should she - inquire concerning a young man named Herbert, you may inform her that he - has sailed to Batavia, whence he will proceed to our most remote - settlements. - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "I am, with respect, <i>Madame la Supérieure</i>, your kinsman and friend, - </p> - <p class="blockquot right"> - "<span class="smcap">Karl Van Amberg.</span>" - </p> - <p> - Five years had elapsed since the date of this letter, when one day the - convent gate opened to admit a stranger, who craved to speak with the - superior. The stranger was an old man; a staff sustained his feeble steps. - Whilst waiting in the parlour, he looked about him with surprise and<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70c" id="Page_70c">[Pg 70]</a></span> - emotion, and several times he passed his hand across his eyes as if to - brush away a tear. "Poor, poor child!" he muttered. When the superior - appeared behind the grating, he advanced quickly towards her. - </p> - <p> - "I am William Van Amberg," he said, "the brother of Karl Van Amberg. I - come, madam, to fetch Christine, his daughter and my niece." - </p> - <p> - "You come very late!" replied the superior; "sister Martha-Mary is on the - eve of pronouncing her vows." - </p> - <p> - "Martha-Mary!—I do not know the name!" said William Van Amberg; "I - seek Christine—my niece Christine." - </p> - <p> - "Christine Van Amberg, now sister Martha-Mary, is about to take the veil." - </p> - <p> - "Christine a nun! Oh, impossible! Madame, they have broken the child's - heart; from despair only would she take the veil; they have been cruel—they - have tortured her; but I bring her liberty and the certainty of happiness,—permission - to marry him she loves. Let me speak to her and she will quickly follow." - </p> - <p> - "Speak to her then; and let her depart if such be her will." - </p> - <p> - "Thanks, madam,—a thousand thanks! Send me my child, send me my - Christine—with joy and impatience I await her." - </p> - <p> - The superior retired. Left alone, William again<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_71c" id="Page_71c">[Pg 71]</a></span> contemplated the - melancholy abode in which he found himself, and the more he gazed, the - sadder his heart became. He would fain have taken Christine in his arms, - as he did when she was little, and have fled with her from those chilly - walls and dismal gratings. - </p> - <p> - "Poor child!" he repeated, "what a retreat for the bright years of your - youth!... How you must have suffered! But console thyself, dearest child, - I am here to rescue thee!" - </p> - <p> - He remembered Christine as a wild young girl, delighting in liberty, air, - and motion; then as an impassioned woman, full of love and independence. - And a smile crossed the old man's lips as he thought of her burst of joy, - when he should say to her,—"You are free, and Herbert waits to lead - you to the altar!" His heart beat as it had never beaten in the best days - of his youth; he counted the minutes and kept his eyes fixed upon the - little door through which Christine was to come. He could not fold her in - his arms, the grating prevented it, but at least he should see and hear - her. Suddenly all his blood rushed to his heart, for the hinges creaked - and the door opened. A novice, clothed in white, slowly advanced; he - looked at her, started back, hesitated, and exclaimed: "Oh God! is that - Christine?" - </p> - <p> - William had cherished in his heart the memory of a bright-eyed, sunburnt - girl, alert and lively,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72c" - id="Page_72c">[Pg 72]</a></span> quick and decided in her movements, - running more often than she walked, like the graceful roe that loves the - mountain-steeps. He beheld a tall young woman, white and colourless as the - robes that shrouded her; her hair concealed under a thick linen band, her - slender form scarcely to be distinguished beneath the heavy folds of her - woollen vestments. Her movements were slow, her black eyes veiled by an - indescribable languor; a profound calm was the characteristic of her whole - being—a calm so great, that it resembled absence of life. One might - have thought her eyes looked without seeing, that her lips could not open - to speak, that her ears listened without hearing. Sister Martha-Mary was - beautiful, but her beauty was not of the earth—it was the beauty of - infinite repose,—of a calm that nothing could disturb. - </p> - <p> - The old man was touched to the bottom of his soul; the words expired on - his lips, and he extended his hands towards Christine. On beholding her - uncle, Martha-Mary endeavoured to smile, but moved not, and said nothing. - </p> - <p> - "Oh my child!" cried William at last, "how you must suffer here!" - </p> - <p> - Martha-Mary gently shook her head, and the tranquil look she fixed upon - her uncle, protested against his supposition. - </p> - <p> - "Is it possible that five years have thus changed my Christine! My heart - recognises you, my child,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73c" - id="Page_73c">[Pg 73]</a></span> not my eyes! They have compelled you to - great austerities, severe privations?" - </p> - <p> - "No." - </p> - <p> - "A cruel bondage has weighed heavily upon you?" - </p> - <p> - "No." - </p> - <p> - "You have been ill then?" - </p> - <p> - "No." - </p> - <p> - "Your poor heart has suffered too much, and has broken. You have shed many - tears?" - </p> - <p> - "I remember them no longer." - </p> - <p> - "Christine! Christine! do you live? or has the shade of Annunciata risen - from the grave? Oh my child! in seeing you, I seem to see her corpse, - extended on the bed of death!" - </p> - <p> - Martha-Mary raised her large eyes to heaven; she joined her hands, and - murmured, "My mother!" - </p> - <p> - "Christine, speak to me! weep with me! you frighten me by your calm and - silence.... Ah! in my trouble and emotion, I have as yet explained - nothing.... Listen: my brother Karl, by the failure of a partner, suddenly - found his whole fortune compromised. To avoid total ruin he was obliged to - embark immediately for the colonies. He set sail expecting to return in a - few years; but his affairs prolong his absence, and his return is - indefinitely postponed. His two eldest daughters are with him. To me, who - am too old to follow him, too old to remain alone, he has given Christine. - I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74c" id="Page_74c">[Pg 74]</a></span> - would not accept the precious charge, my child, without the possibility of - rendering you happy. I implored permission to marry you to Herbert. You - are no longer a rich heiress: your father gone, you need protection, and - that of an old man cannot long avail you. In short, your father has agreed - to all I asked: he sends you, as a farewell gift, your liberty and his - consent to your marriage.... Christine! you are free, and Herbert awaits - his bride!" - </p> - <p> - The long drapery of the novice was slightly agitated, as if the limbs it - covered trembled; she remained some seconds without speaking, and then - replied, "It is too late! I am the affianced of the Lord!" - </p> - <p> - William uttered a cry of grief, and looked with alarm at the pale calm - girl, who stood immovable before him. - </p> - <p> - "Christine!" he cried, "you no longer love Herbert?" - </p> - <p> - "I am the affianced of the Lord!" repeated the novice, her hands crossed - upon her breast, her eyes raised to heaven. - </p> - <p> - "Oh my God! my God!" cried William, weeping bitterly, "my brother has - killed his child! Her soul has been sad even unto death! Poor victim of - severity, tell me, Christine, tell me, what has passed within you, during - your abode here?" - </p> - <p> - "I saw others pray, and I prayed also. There<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_75c" id="Page_75c">[Pg 75]</a></span> was a great stillness, - and I was silent; none wept, and I dried my tears; a something, at first - cold, then soothing, enveloped my soul. The voice of God made itself heard - to me, and I listened; I loved the Lord, and gave myself to Him." - </p> - <p> - Then, as if fatigued with speaking so much, Martha-Mary relapsed into - silence, and into that absorbing meditation which rendered her insensible - to surrounding things. Just then a bell tolled. The novice started, and - her eyes sparkled. - </p> - <p> - "God calls me!" she said; "I go to pray!" - </p> - <p> - "Christine! my daughter, will you leave me thus?" - </p> - <p> - "Hear you not the bell? It is the hour of prayer." - </p> - <p> - "But, Christine, dearest child, I came to take you hence." - </p> - <p> - "I shall never leave these walls!" said Martha-Mary, gliding slowly away. - As she opened the parlour door, she turned towards William; her eyes fixed - upon him with a sad and sweet expression; her lips moved, as if to send - him a kiss; then she disappeared. William made no attempt to detain her; - his head was pressed against the grating, and big tears chased each other - down his cheeks. How long he remained thus plunged in mournful reflection, - he noted not. He was roused by the voice of the superior, who seated - herself, wrapped in her black robes, on the other side of the grating. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76c" id="Page_76c">[Pg 76]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "I foresaw your grief," she said. "Our sister Martha-Mary refuses to - follow you." - </p> - <p> - With a despairing look, William answered the nun. - </p> - <p> - "Alas! alas!" he said, "the child I so dearly loved met me without joy, - and left me without regret." - </p> - <p> - "Listen, my son," resumed the superior; "listen to me.—Five years - ago, there came to this convent a young girl overwhelmed with grief and - sunk in terrible despair; her entrance here was to her a descent into the - tomb. During one entire year, none saw her but with tears on her face. - Only God knows how many tears the eyes must shed before a broken spirit - regains calm and resignation; man cannot count them. This young girl - suffered much; in vain we implored pardon for her, in vain we summoned her - family to her relief. She might say, as is written in the psalm,—'<i>I - am weary with my groaning: mine eye is consumed because of grief.</i>' - What could we do, save pray for her, since none would receive her - back!..." - </p> - <p> - "Alas!" cried William, "your letters never reached us. My brother was - beyond sea; and I, having then no hope of changing his determination,—I - had quitted his empty and melancholy house." - </p> - <p> - "Man abandoned her," continued the superior, "but God looked upon His - servant, and comforted her soul. If He does not see fit to restore - strength to her body, exhausted by suffering—His will be<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77c" id="Page_77c">[Pg 77]</a></span> done! - Perhaps it would now be wise and generous to leave her to that love of God - which she has attained after so many tears; perhaps it would be prudent to - spare her fresh shocks." - </p> - <p> - "No! no!" interrupted William, "I cannot give up, even to God, this last - relic of my family, the sole prop of my old age. I will try every means to - revive in her heart its early sentiments. Give me Christine for a few days - only! Let me conduct her to the place of her birth, to the scenes where - she loved. She is deaf to my entreaties, but she will obey an order from - you; bid her return for a while beneath her father's roof! Should she - still wish it, after this last attempt, I will restore her hither." - </p> - <p> - "Take her, my son," replied the superior; "I will bid her follow. If God - has indeed spoken to her soul, no worldly voice will move her. If it be - otherwise, may she return no more to the cloister, but be blessed wherever - she goes! Adieu, my son; the peace of the Lord be with you!" - </p> - <p> - Hope revived in the heart of William Van Amberg; it seemed to him as if—the - convent threshold once passed—Christine would revert to her former - character—to her youth and love. He believed he was about to remove - his beloved child for ever from these gloomy walls, and with painful - impatience he awaited her coming. Soon a light step was heard in the - corridor; William threw open the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78c" - id="Page_78c">[Pg 78]</a></span> door, Christine was there, and no grating - now separated her from her uncle. - </p> - <p> - "My beloved Christine!" exclaimed William; "at last, then, you are - restored to me; at last I can press you to my heart! Come, we will return - to our own country, and revisit the house where we all dwelt together." - </p> - <p> - Sister Martha-Mary was still paler than at her first interview with - William. If any expression was discernible upon that calm countenance, it - was one of sadness. She allowed herself to be taken by the hand and - conducted to the convent gate; but when the gate was opened, and, passing - into the open air, she encountered the broad daylight and the fresh - breeze, she tottered and leaned for support against the wall. Just then - the sun rent the clouds, and threw its golden beams on plain and mountain; - the air was clear and transparent, and the flat and monotonous horizon - acquired beauty from the burst of light. - </p> - <p> - "See, my daughter!" said William; "see how lovely is the earth! How soft - is the air we breathe! How good it is to be free, and to move towards that - immense horizon!" - </p> - <p> - "Oh, my dear uncle!" replied the novice; "how beautiful are the heavens! - See how the sun shines above our heads! It is in heaven that his glory - should be admired! His rays are already dim and feeble when they touch the - earth!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79c" id="Page_79c">[Pg 79]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - William led Christine to a carriage; they got in, and the horses set off. - Long did the gaze of the novice remain fixed on her convent's walls; when - these were hidden from her by the windings of the road, she closed her - eyes and seemed to sleep. During the journey, William endeavoured in vain - to make her converse; she had forgotten how to express her thoughts. When - compelled to reply, fatigue overwhelmed her; her whole existence was - concentrated in her soul, and detached entirely from the external world. - At intervals she would say to herself, "How long the morning is! Nothing - marks the hours; I have not heard a single bell to-day!" - </p> - <p> - At last they reached the red house, and the carriage drove into the court, - where the grass grew between the stones. Gothon came out to receive them, - and Martha-Mary, leaning on her uncle's arm, entered the parlour where the - family of Van Amberg had so often assembled. The room was deserted and - cold; no books or work gave it the look of habitation; abandoned by its - last occupants, it awaited new ones. Christine slowly traversed this - well-known apartment, and sat down upon a chair near the window. It was - there her mother had sat for twenty years; there had her childhood passed - at the knees of Annunciata. - </p> - <p> - William opened the window, showed her the meadow, the willows, and the - river. Christine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80c" id="Page_80c">[Pg - 80]</a></span> looked at them in silence, her head resting on her hand, - her eyes fixed on the horizon. For a long while William stood beside her, - then he placed his hand on her shoulder and pronounced her name. She rose - and followed him. They ascended the stairs, traversed the gallery, and - William opened a door. "Your mother's room," said he to Christine. The - novice entered and paused in the middle of the chamber; tears flowed from - her eyes, she clasped her hands and prayed. - </p> - <p> - "My daughter," said William, "<i>she</i> ardently desired your happiness." - </p> - <p> - "She has obtained it!" replied the novice. - </p> - <p> - The old man felt a profound sadness come over him. It was like pressing to - his heart a corpse to which his love restored neither breath nor warmth. - Martha-Mary approached her mother's bed, knelt down, and kissed the pillow - that had supported the dying head of Annunciata. - </p> - <p> - "Mother," she murmured, "soon we shall meet again." - </p> - <p> - William shuddered. He took Christine's hand, and led her to the room she - had formerly occupied. The little white-curtained bed was still there, the - guitar hung against the wall, Christine's favourite volumes filled the - shelves of her modest book-case; through the open window were seen the - willows and the river. Martha-Mary noticed none of these things: the - wooden crucifix was still upon the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81c" - id="Page_81c">[Pg 81]</a></span> wall; she rapidly approached it, knelt, - bowed her head upon the feet of Christ, closed her eyes and breathed - deeply, like one finding repose after long fatigue. Like the exile - returning to his native land, like the storm-tossed mariner regaining the - port, she remained with her brow resting upon her Saviour's feet. - </p> - <p> - Standing by her side, William looked on in tearful silence. Farther off, - Gothon wiped her eyes with her apron. Several hours elapsed. The house - clock struck, the birds sang in the garden; the wind rustled among the - trees; in the lofty pigeon-house the doves cooed; the cock crowed in the - poultry-yard. None of these loved and familiar sounds could divert - Martha-Mary from her devout meditation. Sick at heart, her uncle descended - to the parlour. He remained there long, plunged in gloomy reflections. - Suddenly hasty steps were heard; a young man rushed into the room, and - into William's arms. - </p> - <p> - "Christine! Christine!" cried Herbert; "where is Christine? Is it not a - dream? M. Van Amberg gives me Christine!... Once more in my native land, - and Christine mine!" - </p> - <p> - "Karl Van Amberg gives, but God refuses her to you!" replied William, - mournfully. Then he told Herbert what had passed at the convent, and since - their arrival at the house: he gave a thousand details—he repeated - them a thousand times, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82c" - id="Page_82c">[Pg 82]</a></span> without convincing Herbert of the - melancholy truth. - </p> - <p> - "It is impossible!" cried the young man; "if Christine is alive, if - Christine is here, to the first word uttered by her lover, Christine will - reply." - </p> - <p> - "God grant it!" exclaimed William; "my last hope is in you." - </p> - <p> - Herbert sprang up the stairs, his heart too full of love to have room for - fear. Christine free, was for him Christine ready to become his wife. He - hastily opened her chamber door; but then he paused, as if petrified, upon - the threshold. The day was closing in, and its fading light fell upon - Martha-Mary, whose form stood out like a white shadow from the gloom of - the room. She was still on her knees, her head resting on the feet of - Christ, her fragile person lost in the multiplied folds of her conventual - robes. She heard not the opening of the door, and Herbert stood gazing at - her, till a flood of tears burst from his eyes. William took his hand and - silently pressed it. - </p> - <p> - "I am frightened!" said Herbert, in a low tone. "That is not my Christine! - A phantom risen from the earth, or an angel descended from heaven, has - taken her place!" - </p> - <p> - "No, she is no longer Christine!" replied William, sadly. - </p> - <p> - For a few moments more Herbert stood in mournful<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_83c" id="Page_83c">[Pg 83]</a></span> contemplation. Then he - exclaimed—"Christine, dear Christine!" - </p> - <p> - At the sound of his voice the novice started, rose to her feet, and - pronounced his name. As in former days, when her lover called "Christine!" - Martha-Mary replied "Herbert!" - </p> - <p> - The young man's heart beat violently; he stood beside the novice, he took - her hands. "It is I, it is Herbert!" he said, kneeling down before her. - </p> - <p> - The novice fixed her large black eyes upon him with a long inquiring gaze; - a slight flush passed across her brow; then she became pale as before, and - said gently to Herbert—"I thought not to see you again upon earth." - </p> - <p> - "Dear Christine! tears and suffering have long been our portion; but happy - days at last dawn upon us! My love! my bride! we will never part again!" - </p> - <p> - Martha-Mary extricated her hands from those of Herbert, and retreated - towards the image of Christ. - </p> - <p> - "I am the bride of the Lord," she said in trembling accents. "He expects - me." - </p> - <p> - Herbert uttered a cry of grief. - </p> - <p> - "Christine! dear Christine! remember our oft-repeated pledges, our loves, - our tears, our hopes. You left me vowing to love me always. Christine, if - you would not have me die of despair, remember the past!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84c" id="Page_84c">[Pg 84]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Martha-Mary's eyes continued riveted on the crucifix; her hands, - convulsively clasped, were extended towards it. - </p> - <p> - "Gracious Lord!" she prayed, "speak to his heart as you have spoken to - mine! It is a noble heart, worthy to love you. Stronger than I, Herbert - may survive, even after much weeping! Console him, oh Lord!" - </p> - <p> - "Christine! my first and only love! sole hope and joy of my life! do you - thus abandon me? That heart, once entirely mine, is it closed to me for - ever?" - </p> - <p> - Her gaze upon the crucifix, her hands still joined, the novice, as if able - to speak only to her God, gently replied:—"Lord! he suffers as I - suffered! shed upon him the balm wherewith you healed my wounds! Leaving - him life, take his soul as you have taken mine. Give him that ineffable - peace which descends upon those thou lovest!" - </p> - <p> - "Oh Christine! my beloved!" cried Herbert, once more taking her hand, "do - but look at me! turn your eyes upon me and behold my tears! Dearest - treasure of my heart! you seem to slumber! Awake! Have you forgotten our - tender meetings, the willows bending over the stream, the boat in which we - sailed a whole night, dreaming the joy of eternal union? See! the moon - rises as it rose that night. We were near each other as now; but then they - tore us asunder, and now we are free to be<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_85c" id="Page_85c">[Pg 85]</a></span> together! Christine, have - you ceased to love? Is all forgotten?" - </p> - <p> - William took her other hand. "Dear child," he said, "we entreat you not to - leave us! To you we look for happiness; remain with us, Christine." - </p> - <p> - One hand in the hands of Herbert, the other in those of William, the - novice slowly and solemnly replied: - </p> - <p> - "The corpse that reposes in the tomb lifts not the stone to re-enter the - world. The soul that has seen heaven, does not leave it to return to - earth. The creature to whom God has said, 'Be thou the spouse of Christ,' - does not quit Christ to unite herself to a man; and she who is about to - die should turn her affections from mortal things!" - </p> - <p> - "Herbert!" cried William, "be silent! Not another word! I can scarcely - feel the throbbing of her pulse! She is paler even than when I first saw - her behind the convent grating. We give her pain. Enough, Herbert, enough! - Better yield her to God upon earth, than send her to Him in heaven!" - </p> - <p> - The old man placed the almost inanimate head of Martha-Mary upon his - shoulder, and pressed her to his heart as a mother embraces her child. - "Recover yourself, my daughter," he said; "I will restore you to the house - of God." - </p> - <p> - Martha-Mary turned her sad and gentle gaze upon her uncle, and her hand - feebly pressed his. Then addressing herself to Herbert: - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86c" id="Page_86c">[Pg 86]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "You, Herbert," she said, in a scarcely audible voice—"you, who will - live, do not abandon him!" - </p> - <p> - "Christine!" cried Herbert, on his knees before his betrothed. "Christine! - do we part for ever?" - </p> - <p> - The novice raised her eyes to heaven. - </p> - <p> - "Not for ever!" she replied. - </p> - <p> - Some days afterwards the convent gates opened to receive sister - Martha-Mary. They closed upon her for the last time. With feeble and - unsteady step the novice traversed the cloisters to prostrate herself on - the altar-steps. The superior came to her. - </p> - <p> - "Oh my mother!" exclaimed Christine, the fountain of whose tears was - opened, and who wept as in the days of her childhood, "I have seen him and - left him! To thee I return, oh Lord! Faithful to my vows, I await the - crown that shall consecrate me thy spouse. Thy voice alone shall - henceforward reach my ears; I come to sing thy praises, to pray and serve - thee until the end of my life!—Holy mother, prepare the robe of - serge, the white crown, the silver cross; I am ready!" - </p> - <p> - "My daughter," replied the superior, "you are very ill—much - exhausted by so many shocks; will you not delay the ceremony of - profession?" - </p> - <p> - "No, holy mother! no; delay it not! I would die the bride of the Lord!... - And I have little time!" replied sister Martha-Mary. - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87c" id="Page_87c">[Pg 87]</a></span> - </p> - <h2> - <a name="THE_MAN_IN_THE_BELL" id="THE_MAN_IN_THE_BELL">THE MAN IN THE - BELL.</a> - </h2> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - <span class="small">[<i>MAGA.</i> <span class="smcap">November 1821.</span>]</span> - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="dropcap"> - In my younger days, bell-ringing was much more in fashion among the young - men of —— than it is now. Nobody, I believe, practises it - there at present except the servants of the church, and the melody has - been much injured in consequence. Some fifty years ago, about twenty of us - who dwelt in the vicinity of the Cathedral, formed a club, which used to - ring every peal that was called for; and, from continual practice and a - rivalry which arose between us and a club attached to another steeple, and - which tended considerably to sharpen our zeal, we became very Mozarts on - our favourite instruments. But my bell-ringing practice was shortened by a - singular accident, which not only stopped my performance, but made even - the sound of a bell terrible to my ears. - </p> - <p> - One Sunday, I went with another into the belfry to ring for noon prayers, - but the second stroke we had pulled showed us that the clapper of the bell<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88c" id="Page_88c">[Pg 88]</a></span> we - were at was muffled. Some one had been buried that morning, and it had - been prepared, of course, to ring a mournful note. We did not know of - this, but the remedy was easy. "Jack," said my companion, "step up to the - loft, and cut off the hat;" for the way we had of muffling was by tying a - piece of an old hat, or of cloth (the former was preferred), to one side - of the clapper, which deadened every second toll. I complied, and mounting - into the belfry, crept as usual into the bell, where I began to cut away. - The hat had been tied on in some more complicated manner than usual, and I - was perhaps three or four minutes in getting it off; during which time my - companion below was hastily called away—by a message from his - sweetheart, I believe—but that is not material to my story. The - person who called him was a brother of the club, who, knowing that the - time had come for ringing for service, and not thinking that any one was - above, began to pull. At this moment I was just getting out, when I felt - the bell moving; I guessed the reason at once—it was a moment of - terror; but by a hasty and almost convulsive effort, I succeeded in - jumping down, and throwing myself on the flat of my back under the bell. - </p> - <p> - The room in which it was, was little more than sufficient to contain it, - the bottom of the bell coming within a couple of feet of the floor of - lath. At that time I certainly was not so bulky as I am now,<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89c" id="Page_89c">[Pg 89]</a></span> but as - I lay it was within an inch of my face. I had not laid myself down a - second, when the ringing began.—It was a dreadful situation. Over me - swung an immense mass of metal, one touch of which would have crushed me - to pieces; the floor under me was principally composed of crazy laths, and - if they gave way, I was precipitated to the distance of about fifty feet - upon a loft, which would, in all probability, have sunk under the impulse - of my fall, and sent me to be dashed to atoms upon the marble floor of the - chancel, an hundred feet below. I remembered—for fear is quick in - recollection—how a common clockwright, about a month before, had - fallen, and, bursting through the floors of the steeple, driven in the - ceilings of the porch, and even broken into the marble tombstone of a - bishop who slept beneath. This was my first terror, but the ringing had - not continued a minute, before a more awful and immediate dread came on - me. The deafening sound of the bell smote into my ears with a thunder - which made me fear their drums would crack: there was not a fibre of my - body it did not thrill through. It entered my very soul; thought and - reflection were almost utterly banished; I only retained the sensation of - agonising terror. Every moment I saw the bell sweep within an inch of my - face; and my eyes—I could not close them, though to look at the - object was bitter as death—followed it instinctively in its<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90c" id="Page_90c">[Pg 90]</a></span> - oscillating progress until it came back again. It was in vain I said to - myself that it could come no nearer at any future swing than it did at - first; every time it descended, I endeavoured to shrink into the very - floor to avoid being buried under the down-sweeping mass; and then, - reflecting on the danger of pressing too weightily on my frail support, - would cower up again as far as I dared. - </p> - <p> - At first my fears were mere matter of fact. I was afraid the pulleys above - would give way, and let the bell plunge on me. At another time, the - possibility of the clapper being shot out in some sweep, and dashing - through my body, as I had seen a ramrod glide through a door, flitted - across my mind. The dread also, as I have already mentioned, of the crazy - floor, tormented me; but these soon gave way to fears not more unfounded, - but more visionary, and of course more tremendous. The roaring of the bell - confused my intellect, and my fancy soon began to teem with all sort of - strange and terrifying ideas. The bell pealing above, and opening its jaws - with a hideous clamour, seemed to me at one time a ravening monster, - raging to devour me; at another, a whirlpool ready to suck me into its - bellowing abyss. As I gazed on it, it assumed all shapes; it was a flying - eagle, or rather a roc of the Arabian story-tellers, clapping its wings - and screaming over me. As I looked upward into it, it would appear - sometimes to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91c" id="Page_91c">[Pg 91]</a></span> - lengthen into indefinite extent, or to be twisted at the end into the - spiral folds of the tail of a flying dragon. Nor was the flaming breath or - fiery glance of that fabled animal wanting to complete the picture. My - eyes, inflamed, blood-shot, and glaring, invested the supposed monster - with a full proportion of unholy light. - </p> - <p> - It would be endless were I to merely hint at all the fancies that - possessed my mind. Every object that was hideous and roaring presented - itself to my imagination. I often thought that I was in a hurricane at - sea, and that the vessel in which I was embarked tossed under me with the - most furious vehemence. The air, set in motion by the swinging of the - bell, blew over me, nearly with the violence, and more than the thunder, - of a tempest; and the floor seemed to reel under me, as under a drunken - man. But the most awful of all the ideas that seized on me were drawn from - the supernatural. In the vast cavern of the bell hideous faces appeared, - and glared down on me with terrifying frowns, or with grinning mockery - still more appalling. At last, the devil himself, accoutred as in the - common description of the evil spirit, with hoof, horn, and tail, and eyes - of infernal lustre, made his appearance, and called on me to curse God and - worship him, who was powerful to save me. This dread suggestion he uttered - with the full-toned clangour of the bell. I had him within<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92c" id="Page_92c">[Pg 92]</a></span> an - inch of me, and I thought on the fate of the Santon Barsisa. Strenuously - and desperately I defied him and bade him begone. Reason, then, for a - moment, resumed her sway, but it was only to fill me with fresh terror, - just as the lightning dispels the gloom that surrounds the benighted - mariner, but to show him that his vessel is driving on a rock, where she - must inevitably be dashed to pieces. I found I was becoming delirious, and - trembled lest reason should utterly desert me. This is at all times an - agonising thought, but it smote me then with tenfold agony. I feared lest, - when utterly deprived of my senses, I should rise—to do which I was - every moment tempted by that strange feeling which calls on a man, whose - head is dizzy from standing on the battlement of a lofty castle, to - precipitate himself from it, and then death would be instant and - tremendous. When I thought of this, I became desperate. I caught the floor - with a grasp which drove the blood from my nails; and I yelled with the - cry of despair. I called for help, I prayed, I shouted, but all the - efforts of my voice were of course drowned in the bell. As it passed over - my mouth, it occasionally echoed my cries, which mixed not with its own - sound, but preserved their distinct character. Perhaps this was but fancy. - To me, I know, they then sounded as if they were the shouting, howling, or - laughing of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93c" id="Page_93c">[Pg - 93]</a></span> fiends with which my imagination had peopled the gloomy - cave which swung over me. - </p> - <p> - You may accuse me of exaggerating my feelings; but I am not. Many a scene - of dread have I since passed through, but they are nothing to the - self-inflicted terrors of this half hour. The ancients have doomed one of - the damned, in their Tartarus, to lie under a rock, which every moment - seems to be descending to annihilate him—and an awful punishment it - would be. But if to this you add a clamour as loud as if ten thousand - furies were howling about you—a deafening uproar banishing reason, - and driving you to madness—you must allow that the bitterness of the - pang was rendered more terrible. There is no man, firm as his nerves may - be, who could retain his courage in this situation. - </p> - <p> - In twenty minutes the ringing was done. Half of that time passed over me - without power of computation,—the other half appeared an age. When - it ceased, I became gradually more quiet, but a new fear retained me. I - knew that five minutes would elapse without ringing, but, at the end of - that short time, the bell would be rung a second time, for five minutes - more. I could not calculate time. A minute and an hour were of equal - duration. I feared to rise, lest the five minutes should have elapsed, and - the ringing be again<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94c" id="Page_94c">[Pg - 94]</a></span> commenced, in which case I should be crushed, before I - could escape, against the walls or framework of the bell. I therefore - still continued to lie down, cautiously shifting myself, however, with a - careful gliding, so that my eye no longer looked into the hollow. This was - of itself a considerable relief. The cessation of the noise had, in a - great measure, the effect of stupifying me, for my attention, being no - longer occupied by the chimeras I had conjured up, began to flag. All that - now distressed me was the constant expectation of the second ringing, for - which, however, I settled myself with a kind of stupid resolution. I - closed my eyes, and clenched my teeth as firmly as if they were screwed in - a vice. At last the dreaded moment came, and the first swing of the bell - extorted a groan from me, as they say the most resolute victim screams at - the sight of the rack, to which he is for a second time destined. After - this, however, I lay silent and lethargic, without a thought. Wrapt in the - defensive armour of stupidity, I defied the bell and its intonations. When - it ceased, I was roused a little by the hope of escape. I did not, - however, decide on this step hastily, but, putting up my hand with the - utmost caution, I touched the rim. Though the ringing had ceased, it still - was tremulous from the sound, and shook under my hand, which instantly - recoiled as from an electric jar. A quarter of an hour probably<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95c" id="Page_95c">[Pg 95]</a></span> - elapsed before I again dared to make the experiment, and then I found it - at rest. I determined to lose no time, fearing that I might have lain then - already too long, and that the bell for evening service would catch me. - This dread stimulated me, and I slipped out with the utmost rapidity, and - arose. I stood, I suppose, for a minute, looking with silly wonder on the - place of my imprisonment, penetrated with joy at escaping, but then rushed - down the stony and irregular stair with the velocity of lightning, and - arrived in the bell-ringers' room. This was the last act I had power to - accomplish. I leant against the wall, motionless and deprived of thought, - in which posture my companions found me, when, in the course of a couple - of hours, they returned to their occupation. - </p> - <p> - They were shocked, as well they might, at the figure before them. The wind - of the bell had excoriated my face, and my dim and stupified eyes were - fixed with a lack-lustre gaze in my raw eyelids. My hands were torn and - bleeding; my hair dishevelled; and my clothes tattered. They spoke to me, - but I gave no answer. They shook me, but I remained insensible. They then - became alarmed, and hastened to remove me. He who had first gone up with - me in the forenoon, met them as they carried me through the churchyard, - and through him, who was shocked at having, in some measure,<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96c" id="Page_96c">[Pg 96]</a></span> - occasioned the accident, the cause of my misfortune was discovered. I was - put to bed at home, and remained for three days delirious, but gradually - recovered my senses. You may be sure the bell formed a prominent topic of - my ravings, and if I heard a peal, they were instantly increased to the - utmost violence. Even when the delirium abated, my sleep was continually - disturbed by imagined ringings, and my dreams were haunted by the fancies - which almost maddened me while in the steeple. My friends removed me to a - house in the country, which was sufficiently distant from any place of - worship, to save me from the apprehensions of hearing the church-going - bell; for what Alexander Selkirk, in Cowper's poem, complained of as a - misfortune, was then to me as a blessing. Here I recovered; but, even long - after recovery, if a gale wafted the notes of a peal towards me, I started - with nervous apprehension. I felt a Mohammedan hatred to all the bell - tribe, and envied the subjects of the Commander of the Faithful the - sonorous voice of their Muezzin. Time cured this, as it does the most of - our follies; but even at the present day, if, by chance, my nerves be - unstrung, some particular tones of the cathedral bell have power to - surprise me into a momentary start. - </p> - <hr class="short" /> - <p class="center small"> - PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <div class="footnotes"> - <h2> - <a name="Footnotes" id="Footnotes">Footnotes</a> - </h2> - <div class="footnote"> - <p> - <a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span - class="label">[1]</span></a> "<i>Carts</i>" of that day held three. - </p> - </div> - </div> - <p> - - </p> - <div class="transnote"> - <h2> - <a name="Transcribers_Note" id="Transcribers_Note">Transcriber's Note</a> - </h2> - <p> - Apparent printer's errors and archaic spelling have been retained, - unless stated below. - </p> - <p> - Punctuation markup has been made consistent. - </p> - <p> - In the original, pages are numbered 1-100 three times consecutively. - </p> - <p> - On the first iteration of Page <a href="#Page_58a">58</a>, "cause" - changed to "case". (In due time the case was called.) - </p> - <p> - On the first iteration of Page <a href="#Page_60a">60</a>, "eat" changed - to "ate". (... and he would have sailed thither before the 31st of - December, on which day his father, a joyous liver and confirmed votary - of Bacchus, ate and drank to such an extent to celebrate the exit of the - old year and commencement of the new, that he fell down, on his way to - his bed, in a thundering fit of apoplexy, and was a corpse before - morning.) - </p> - <p> - On the first iteration of Page <a href="#Page_67a">67</a>, "Μητ' ἐμοὶ - παρέστιος γένοιτο" has been changed to "Μήτ' ἐμοὶ παρέστιος γένοιτο". - </p> - <p> - On the second iteration of Page <a href="#Page_25b">25</a>, "raw" - changed to "law". (I was not quite sure of the effect of my commentary - on the evidence, and therefore thought it might be advisable to touch - upon a national law.) - </p> - <p> - On the third iteration of Page <a href="#Page_67c">67</a>, "Amburg" - changed to "Amberg" for consistency. (With a vigorous arm, M. Van Amberg - seized Christine, whose slender form bent like a reed over his - shoulder.) - </p> - </div> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 6, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD," VOLUME 6 *** - -***** This file should be named 41204-h.htm or 41204-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/2/0/41204/ - -Produced by Veronika Redfern, D Alexander, Juliet Sutherland -and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net - - -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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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: Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 6 - -Author: Various - -Release Date: October 27, 2012 [EBook #41204] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD," VOLUME 6 *** - - - - -Produced by Veronika Redfern, D Alexander, Juliet Sutherland -and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD" - - - Contents of this Volume - - _My Friend the Dutchman. By Frederick Hardman, Esq._ - - _My College Friends. No. II. Horace Leicester._ - - _The Emerald Studs. By Professor Aytoun._ - - _My College Friends. No. III. Mr W. Wellington Hurst._ - - _Christine: a Dutch Story. By Frederick Hardman, Esq._ - - _The Man in the Bell._ - - - WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS - EDINBURGH AND LONDON - - - - -TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD." - - - - -MY FRIEND THE DUTCHMAN. - -BY FREDERICK HARDMAN. - -[_MAGA._ OCTOBER 1847.] - - -"And you will positively marry her, if she will have you?" - -"Not a doubt of either. Before this day fortnight she shall be Madame -Van Haubitz." - -"You will make her your wife without acquainting her with your true -position?" - -"Indeed will I. My very position requires it. There's no room for a -scruple. She expects to live on my fortune; thinks to make a great catch -of the rich Dutchman. Instead of that I shall spend her salary. The old -story; going out for wool and returning shorn." - -The conversation of which this is the concluding fragment, occurred in -the public room of the Hotel de Hesse, in the village of Homburg on the -Hill--then an insignificant handful of houses, officiating as capital -of the important landgravate of Hesse-Homburg. The table-d'hote had been -over some time; the guests had departed to repose in their apartments -until the hour of evening promenade should summon them to the excellent -band of music, provided by the calculating liberality of the -gaming-house keepers, and to loiter round the _brunnen_ of more or less -nauseous flavour, the pretext of resort to this rendezvous of idlers and -gamblers. The waiters had disappeared to batten on the broken meats from -the public table, and to doze away the time till the approach of supper -renewed their activity. My interlocutor, with whom I was alone in the -deserted apartment, was a man of about thirty years of age, whose dark -hair and mustaches, marked features, spare person, and complexion -bronzed by a tropical sun, entitled him to pass for a native of southern -Europe, or even of some more ardent clime. Nevertheless he answered to -the very Dutch patronymic of Van Haubitz, and was a native of Holland, -in whose principal city his father was a banker of considerable wealth -and financial influence. - -It was towards the close of a glorious August, and for two months I had -been wandering in Rhine-land. Not after the fashion of deluded Cockneys, -who fancy they have seen the Rhine when they have careered from Cologne -to Mannheim astride of a steam-engine, gaping at objects passed as soon -as perceived; drinking and paying for indifferent vinegar as -Steinberger-Cabinet, eating vile dinners on the decks of steamers, and -excellent ones in the capital hotels which British cash and patronage -have raised upon the banks of the most renowned of German streams. On -the contrary, I had early dispensed with the aid of steam, to wander on -foot, with the occasional assistance of a lazy country diligence or -rickety _einspaenner_, through the many beautiful districts that lie upon -either bank of the river; pedestrianising in Rhenish Bavaria, losing -myself in the Odenwald, and pausing, when occasion offered, to pick a -trout out of the numerous streamlets that dash and meander through dell -and ravine, on their way to swell the waters of old Father Rhine. At -last, weary of solitude--scarcely broken by an occasional gossip with a -heavy German boor, village priest, or strolling student--I thirsted -after the haunts of civilisation, and found myself, within a day of the -appearance of the symptom, installed in a luxurious hotel in the free -city of Frankfort on the Maine. But Frankfort at that season is -deserted, save by passing tourists, who escape as fast as possible from -its lifeless streets and sun-baked pavements; so, after glancing over an -English newspaper at the Casino, taking one stroll in the beautiful -garden surrounding the city, and another through the Jew-quarter--always -interesting and curious, although anything but savoury at that warm -season--I gathered together my baggage and was off to Homburg. There I -could not complain of solitude, of deserted streets and shuttered -windows. It seemed impossible that the multitude of gaily dressed belles -and cavaliers, English, French, German, and Russ, who, from six in the -morning until sunset, lounged and flirted on the walks, watered -themselves at the fountains, and perilled their complexions in the -golden sunbeams, could ever bestow themselves in the two or three -middling hotels and few score shabby lodging-houses composing the town -of Homburg. Manage it they did, however; crept into their narrow cells -at night, to emerge next morning, like butterflies from the chrysalis, -gay, bright, and brilliant, and to recommence the never-varying but -pleasant round of eating, sauntering, love-making, and gambling. Homburg -was not then what it has since become. That great house of cards, the -new Cursaal, had not yet arisen; and its table-d'hote, reading-room, and -profane mysteries of roulette and rouge-et-noir, found temporary -domicile in a narrow, disreputable-looking den in the main street, where -accommodation of all kinds, but especially for dinner, was scanty in the -extreme. The public tables at the hotels were consequently thronged, and -there acquaintances were soon made. The day of my arrival at Homburg I -was seated next to Van Haubitz; his manner was off-hand and frank; we -entered into conversation, took our after-dinner cigar and evening -stroll together, and by bed-time had knocked up that sort of intimacy -easily contracted at a watering-place, which lasts one's time of -residence, and is extinguished and forgotten on departure. Van Haubitz, -like many Continentals and very few Englishmen, was one of those -free-and-easy communicative persons who are as familiar after twelve -hours' acquaintance as if they had known you twelve years, and who do -not hesitate to confide to a three days' acquaintance the history of -their lives, their pursuits, position, and prospects. I was soon made -acquainted, to a very considerable extent, at least, with those of my -friend Van Haubitz, late lieutenant of artillery in the service of his -majesty the King of Holland. He was the youngest of four sons, and -having shown, at a very early age, a wild and intractable disposition -and precocious addiction to dissipation, his father pronounced him -unsuited to business, and decided on placing him in the army. To this -the _Junker_ (he claimed nobility, and displayed above his arms a -species of coronet, bearing considerable resemblance to a fragment of -chevaux-de-frise, which he might have been puzzled to prop with a -parchment) had no particular objection, and might have made a good -enough officer, but for his reckless, spendthrift manner of life, which -entailed negligence of duty and frequent reprimands. Extravagant beyond -measure, unable to deny himself any gratification, squandering money as -though millions were at his command, he was constantly overwhelmed with -debts and a martyr to duns. At last his father, after thrice clearing -him with his creditors, consented to do so a fourth time only on -condition of his getting transferred to a regiment stationed in the -Dutch East Indies, and remaining there until his return had the paternal -sanction. To avoid a prison, and perhaps not altogether sorry to leave a -country where his cash and credit were alike exhausted, he embarked for -Batavia. But any pleasant day-dreams he may have cherished of tropical -luxuries, of the indulgence of a _farniente_ life in a grass hammock, -gently balanced by Javan houris beneath banana shades, of spice-laden -breezes and cool sherbets, and other attributes of a Mohammedan -paradise, were speedily dissipated by the odious realities of filth and -vermin, marsh-fever and mosquitoes. He wrote to his father, describing -the horrors of the place, and begging to be released from his pledge and -allowed to return to Holland. His obdurate progenitor replied by a -letter of reproach, and swore that if he left Batavia he might live on -his pay, and never expect a stiver from the paternal strong-box, either -as gift or bequest. To live upon his pay would have been no easy matter, -even for a more prudent person than Van Haubitz. He grumbled -immoderately, swore like a pagan, but remained where he was. A year -passed and he could hold out no longer. Disregarding the paternal -displeasure, and reckless of consequences, he applied to the chief -military authority of the colony for leave of absence. He was asked his -plea, and alleged ill health. The general thought he looked pretty well, -and requested the sight of a medical certificate of his invalid state. -Van Haubitz assumed a doleful countenance and betook him to the -surgeons. They agreed with the general that his aspect was healthy: -asked for symptoms; could discover none more alarming than regularity of -pulse, sleep, appetite, and digestion, laughed in his face and refused -the certificate. The sickly gunner, who had the constitution of a -rhinoceros, and had never had a day's illness since he got over the -measles at the age of four years, waited a little, and tried the second -"dodge," usually resorted to in such cases. "Urgent private affairs" -were now the pretext. The general expressed his regret that urgent -public affairs rendered it impossible for him to dispense with the -valuable services of Lieutenant Van Haubitz. Whereupon Lieutenant Van -Haubitz passed half an hour in heaping maledictions on the head of his -disobliging commander, and then sat down and wrote an application for an -exchange to the authorities in Holland. The reply was equally -unsatisfactory, the fact being that Haubitz senior, like an implacable -old savage as he was, had made interest at the war-office for the -refusal of all such requests on the part of his scapegrace offspring. -Haubitz junior took patience for another year, and then, in a moment of -extreme disgust and ennui, threw up his commission and returned to -Europe, trusting, he told me, that after five years' absence, the -governor's bowels would yearn towards his youngest-born. In this he was -entirely mistaken; he greatly underrated the toughness of paternal -viscera. Far from killing the fatted calf on the prodigal's return, the -incensed old Hollander refused him the smallest cutlet, and, shutting -the door in his face, consigned him, with more energy than affection, to -the custody of the evil one. Van Haubitz found himself in an awkward -fix. Credit was dead, none of his relatives would notice or assist him; -his whole fortune consisted of a dozen gold Wilhelms. At this critical -moment an eccentric maiden aunt, to whom, a year or two previously, he -had sent a propitiatory offering of a ring-tailed monkey and a leash of -pea-green parrots, and who had never condescended to acknowledge the -present, departed this life, bequeathing him ten thousand florins as a -return for the addition to her menagerie. A man of common prudence, and -who had seen himself so near destitution, would have endeavoured to -employ this sum, moderate as it was, in some trade or business, or, at -any rate, would have lived sparingly till he found other resources. But -Haubitz had not yet sown all his wild-oats; he had a soul above barter, -a glorious disregard of the future, the present being provided for. He -left Holland, shaking the dust from his boots, dashed across Belgium, -and was soon plunged in the gaieties of a Paris carnival. Breakfasts at -the Rocher, dinners at the Cafe, balls at the opera, and the concomitant -_petits soupers_ and ecarte parties with the fair denizens of the -Quartier Lorette, soon operated a prodigious chasm in the monkey-money, -as Van Haubitz irreverently styled his venerable aunt's bequest. Spring -having arrived, he beat a retreat from Paris, and established himself at -Homburg, where he was quietly completing the consumption of the ten -thousand florins, at rather a slower pace than he would have done at -that headquarters of pleasant iniquity, the capital of France. From -hints he let fall, I suspected a short time would suffice to see the -last of the legacy. On this head, however, he had been less confidential -than on most other matters, and certainly his manner of living would -have led no one to suppose he was low in the locker. Nothing was too -good for him; he drank the best of wines, got up parties and pic-nics -for the ladies, and had a special addiction to the purchase of costly -trinkets, which he generally gave away before they had been a day in his -possession. He did not gamble; he had done so, he told me, once since -he was at Homburg, and had won, but he had no faith in his luck, or -taste for that kind of excitement, and should play no more. He was -playing another game just now, which apparently interested him greatly. -A few days before myself, a young actress, who, within a very short -time, had acquired considerable celebrity, had arrived at Homburg, -escorted by her mother. Frauelein Emilie Sendel was a lively lady of -four-and-twenty or thereabouts, possessing a smart figure and pretty -face, the latter somewhat wanting in refinement. Her blue eyes, although -rather too prominent, had a merry sparkle; her cheeks had not yet been -entirely despoiled by envious rouge of their natural healthful tinge; -her hair, of that peculiar tint of red auburn which the French call a -_blonde hasarde_, was more remarkable for abundance and flexibility than -for fineness of texture. As regarded her qualities and accomplishments, -she was good-humoured and tolerably unaffected, but wilful and -capricious as a spoiled child; she spoke her own language pretty well, -with an occasional slight vulgarism or bit of greenroom slang; had a -smattering of French, and played the piano sufficiently to accompany the -ballads and vaudeville airs which she sang with spirit and considerable -freedom of style. I had met German actresses who were far more lady-like -off the stage, but there was nothing glaringly or repulsively vulgar -about Emilie, and as a neighbour at a public dinner-table, she was -amusing and quite above par. As if to vindicate her nationality, she -would occasionally look sentimental; but the mood sat ill upon her, and -never lasted long: comedy was evidently her natural line. Against her -reputation, rumour, always an inquisitive censor, often a mean libeller, -of ladies of her profession, had as yet, so far as I could learn, found -nothing to allege. Her mother, a dingy old dowager, with bad teeth, -dowdy gowns, a profusion of artificial flowers, and a strong addiction -to tea and knitting, perfectly understood the duties of duennaship, and -did propriety by her daughter's side at dinner-table and promenade. To -the heart of the daughter, Van Haubitz, almost from the first hour he -had seen her, had laid persevering and determined siege. - -During our after-dinner tete-a-tete on the day now referred to, my -friend the gunner had shown himself exceedingly unreserved, and, without -any attempt on my part to draw him out, he had elucidated, with a -frankness that must have satisfied the most inquisitive, whatever small -points of his recent history and present position he had previously left -in obscurity. The conversation began, so soon as the cloth was removed -and the guests had departed, by a jesting allusion on my part to his -flirtation with the actress, and to her gracious reception of his -attentions. - -"It is no mere flirtation," said Van, gravely. "My intentions are -serious. You may depend Mademoiselle Sendel understands them as such." - -"Serious! you don't mean that you want to marry her?" - -"Unquestionably I do. It is my only chance." - -"Your only chance!" I repeated, considerably puzzled. "Are you about to -turn actor, and do you trust to her for instruction in histrionics?" - -"Not exactly. I will explain. La Sendel, you must know, has just -terminated her last engagement, which was at a salary of ten thousand -florins. She has already received and accepted an offer of a new one, at -fifteen thousand, from the Vienna theatre. Vienna is a very pleasant -place. Fifteen thousand florins are thirty-two thousand francs, or -twelve hundred of your English pounds sterling. Upon that sum two -persons can live excellently well--in Germany at least." - -Unable to contradict any of these assertions, I held my tongue. The -Dutchman resumed. - -"You know the history of my past life; I will tell you my present -position. It is critical enough, but I shall improve it, for here," and -he touched his forehead, "is what never fails me. This letter," (he -produced an epistle of mercantile aspect, bearing the Amsterdam -post-mark), "I received last week from my eldest brother. The shabby -_schelm_ declares he will reply to no more of mine, that his efforts to -arrange matters with my father have been fruitless, and that the old -gentleman has strictly forbidden him and his brothers to hold any -communication with me, a command they seem willing enough to obey. So -much for that. And now for the finances." - -He took out his pocket-book, opened and shook it--a flimsy crumpled bit -of paper fell out. It was a note of the bank of France, for one thousand -francs. - -"My last," said he. "That gone, I am a beggar. But it won't come to -that, either, thanks to Frauelein Emilie." - -"Surely," said I, "you are too reckless of money, too extravagant and -unreflecting. Six months ago, you told me you had twenty such notes." - -"Ay, twenty-two exactly, at the end of January, when I left Amsterdam. -But whither was I bound? To Paris; and who can economise there? I've had -my money's worth, and could have had no more, had I dribbled the dirty -ten thousand florins over three years, instead of three months. I take -great credit for making it last so long. Such suppers, and balls, and -orgies, with the pleasantest fellows and prettiest actresses in Paris. -But the louis-d'or roll rapidly in that sort of society. One must be a -Russian prince, or a French _feuilletoniste_, to keep it up. I never -flinched at anything so long as the money lasted. Then, when I found -myself reduced to the last note, I got into the Frankfort mail, and -came to rusticate at this rural roulette-table. My next change will be -to conjugation and Vienna." - -"But if you had only a thousand francs on leaving Paris, and have got -them still, how have you lived since?" - -"You don't suppose these are the same? There are not many ways of -getting through money here unless one gambles, which I do not; but coin -has somehow or other a peculiar aptitude to slip through my fingers, and -the thousand francs soon evaporated. Meanwhile, I had written dozens of -letters to my brothers, who seldom answered, and to my father, who never -did. I promised reform and a respectable life, if they would either get -me a snug place with little to do and good pay, or make me a reasonable -yearly allowance, something better than the paltry three thousand -florins they doled out to me when I was in the artillery, and on which, -as I could not live, I was obliged to get in debt. They paid no -attention to my request, reasonable as it was. The best offer they made -me was five francs a-day, paid weekly, to live in a Silesian village. -This was adding insult to injury, and I left off writing to them. A few -days afterwards, taking out my purse to pay for cigars, a dollar dropped -out. It was my last. I paid it away, walked home, lay down upon my bed, -smoked and reflected. My position was gloomy enough, and the more I -looked at it, the blacker it seemed. From my undutiful relatives there -was no hope; the abominable Silesian project was evidently their -ultimatum. I had no friend to turn to, no resource left. I might -certainly have obtained the mere necessaries of life at this hotel, -where my credit was excellent, and have vegetated for a month or two, as -a man must vegetate, without ready money. But I had no fancy for such an -expedient, a mere protraction of the agony. I lay ruminating for two -hours, two such hours as I should be sorry to pass again, and then my -mind was made up. I had a brace of small travelling-pistols amongst my -baggage; these I loaded and put in my pocket; and then, leaving the -hotel and the town, I struck across the country for some distance and -plunged into a wood. There I sat down upon a grass bank, my back against -an old beech. It was evening, and the solitary little glade before me -was striped with the last sunbeams darting between the tree-trunks. I -have difficulty in defining my sensations at that moment. I was quite -resolved, did not waver an instant in my purpose, but my head was dizzy, -and I had a sickly sensation about the heart. Determined that the -physical shrinking from death should not have time to weaken my moral -determination, I hastily opened my waistcoat, felt for the pulsations of -my heart, placed the muzzle of a pistol where they were strongest, -steadying it on that spot with my left hand. Then I looked straight -before me and pulled the trigger. There was the click of the lock, but -no report; the cap was bad, and had been crushed without exploding. That -was a horrible moment. I snatched up another pistol, which lay cocked to -my hand, and thrust the muzzle into my mouth. As before, the sharp noise -of the hammer upon the nipple was the sole result. The caps had been -some time in my possession, and had become worthless through age or -damp." - -I looked at Van Haubitz, doubtful whether he was not hoaxing me. But -hitherto I had observed in him no addiction to the Munchausen vein, and -now his countenance and voice were serious: there was a slight flush on -his cheek, and he was evidently excited at the recollection of his -abortive attempt at suicide,--perhaps a little ashamed of it. I was -convinced he told the truth. - -"I do not know," he continued, "whether, had I had surer weapons with -me, I should have had courage to make a third attempt upon my life. -Honestly, I think not; the self-preservative instinct was rapidly -gaining strength. I walked slowly back to the town, my brain still -confused from the agitating moments I had passed. I was unable quite to -collect my thoughts, and felt as if I had just awakened from a long -heavy sleep. It was now dark; lights streamed from the open windows of -the gambling-rooms; the voices of the croupiers, the stir and hum of -the players and jingling of money were distinctly heard in the street -without. I have already told you I am no gambler, not from scruple, but -choice. Nevertheless, I used often to stroll up to the Cursaal for an -hour of an evening, when the play was at the highest, to look on and -chat with chance acquaintances. Mechanically, I now ascended the stairs. -On the landing-place, I found myself face to face with a man with whom I -was slightly intimate, and who, a few evenings before, had borrowed -forty francs of me. I had not seen him since, and he now returned me the -piece of gold. 'Try your luck with it,' said he; 'there is a run against -the bank to-night, everybody wins, and M. Blanc looks blue.' And he -pointed to one of the proprietors of the tables, who, however, wore a -tolerably tranquil air, knowing well that what was carried away one -night, would come back with compound interest the next. The play was -heavy at the rouge-et-noir table; a Russian and two Frenchmen--the -latter of whom, judging from their appearance, and from the complicated -array of calculations on the table before them, were professional -gamblers--extracted, at nearly every _coup_, notes or rouleaus of gold -from the grated boxes in front of the bankers. I drank a glass of water, -for my lips were dry and hot, and, placing myself as near the table as -the crowd of players and spectators permitted, watched the game. My -hand was in my pocket, the forty-franc piece still between its fingers. -But in spite of the advice of him who had paid it me, I felt no -disposition to risk the coin; not that I feared to lose it, for as my -only one it was useless, but because, as I tell you, I never had the -slightest love of gambling or expectation to win. - -"A pause occurred in the game. The cards had run out, and the bankers -were subjecting them to those complicated and ostentatious shufflings -intended to convince the players of the fairness of their dealings. -During this operation the previous silence was exchanged for eager -gossip. The game, it appeared, had come out that night in a peculiar -manner, very favourable to those who had had the address and nerve to -avail themselves of it. There had been alternate long runs upon red and -black. - -"'_Mille noms de Dieu!_' exclaimed a hoarse cracked voice just below me. -'What a series of black! Twenty-two, and only three red! And to be -unable to take advantage of it!' - -"I looked down, and recognised the grey mustache, wrinkled features, and -snuffy black coat with a ribbon of the Legion of Honour, of an old -French colonel whom you may have seen limping in and out of the Cursaal, -and who ranks amongst the antiquities of Homburg. He served under -Napoleon, was shelved at the peace, and has lived since then on a -moderate annuity, of which one-fifth procures him the barest -necessaries of existence, whilst the other four parts are annually -absorbed in the vortex of rouge-et-noir. When gambling-houses were legal -at Paris, _le colonel rape_, the threadbare colonel, as he was called, -was one of the most punctual attendants at Frascati's and the Palais -Royal. When they were abolished, he commenced a wandering existence -amongst the German baths, and finally settled down at Homburg, giving it -the preference, as the only place where he could follow his darling -pursuit alike in winter and in summer. From the opening to the close of -the play he is seen seated at the table, a number of cards, ruled in red -and black columns, on the green cloth before him, in which he pricks -with pins the progress of the game. That evening he had been -unfortunate, and had emptied his pocket, but nevertheless continued -puncturing cards with laudable perseverance, of course discovering, like -every penniless gambler, that, had he money to stake, he should -infallibly make a fortune; predicting what colour would come out, and -indulging, when he proved a true prophet, in a little subdued blasphemy -because he was unable to profit by his acuteness. - -"'Extraordinary run! to be sure,' repeated the veteran dicer. -'Twenty-two black, and only three red! There'll be a series of red now; -I feel there will, and when I don't play myself, I'm always right. I bet -this deal begins with seven red. Who bets a hundred francs to fifty it -does not?' - -"Nobody accepted this sporting offer, or placed upon the colour which -the colonel's prophetic soul foresaw was to come out. The cards were now -shuffled and cut for dealing. The hell relapsed into silence. - -"'_Faites le jeu, Messieurs!_' was repeated in the harsh business-like -tones of the presiding demon. - -"'Red wins,' croaked the colonel. 'Seven times at the least.' - -"Nearly all the players backed the black. By an idle impulse I threw -down my forty francs, my entire fortune, upon the red. The old soldier -looked round to see the judicious individual who followed his advice, -smiled grimly, and nodded approvingly. The next moment red won. I let -the money lie, and walked into the next room. Eighty francs were of no -more use to me than forty, and I felt very sure that another turn of the -card would carry off both stake and winnings. I took up a newspaper, but -soon threw it down again, for my head was not clear enough to read, and -I felt exhausted with the emotions of the day. I was about to leave the -house when I heard a loud buzz in the card-room, and the next instant -somebody clutched my arm. It was the French colonel, in a state of -furious excitement; grinning, panting, perspiring, and stuttering with -eagerness. - -"'Seven reds!' was all he could say. 'Seven reds, Monsieur. Take up your -money.' - -"I hastened to the table. By a strange caprice of fortune, the colonel's -prophecy had come true. Red had won seven times, and my forty francs had -become five thousand. I took up my winnings, the colonel looking on with -a triumphant smile. This was suddenly exchanged for a portentous frown -and fierce twist of the grey mustache. - -"'_Mille millions de tonnerres!_ Not a dollar left to follow up that -splendid run!' And with a furious gesture, he upset his chair, and -dashed his cards upon the ground. - -"I took the hint, whether intended or not. I could not do less in return -for the five thousand francs the old gentleman had put in my pocket. - -"'If Monsieur,' I said, 'will allow me the pleasure of lending him--' - -"'_Impossible, Monsieur!_' interrupted the colonel, looking as stern as -if about to charge single-handed a whole pulk of Cossacks. But I knew my -man. He was the type of a class of which I have seen many. - -"'_Cependant, Monsieur, entre militaires_, between brother-soldiers--' - -"'_Ah! Monsieur est militaire!_' exclaimed the old gentleman, his -alarming contraction of brow and rigidity of feature instantaneously -dissolving into a smile of extreme benignity. 'That alters the case. -Certainly, between brothers in arms those little services may be -offered and accepted. Although, really, it is encroaching on Monsieur's -complaisance ... at the same time ... a hundred francs ... till -to-morrow ... quarters at some distance ... &c. &c.,' which ended in his -picking up his chair, cards, and pin, and applying all his faculties to -break the bank with ten _louis_ which I lent him, and which I need -hardly say I have not seen from that day to this. - -"Such a sudden stroke of good fortune would have made gamblers of nine -men out of ten, but I decidedly want the organ of gaming, for I have -never played since. My narrow escape from suicide had made some -impression on me, and now that I had five thousand francs in my pocket, -I looked back at the attempt as an exceedingly foolish proceeding. For a -month or more, I lived with what even you would admit to be great -economy, writing frequent letters to Amsterdam, and trying to come to -terms and an arrangement with my family. All in vain. They had no -confidence in my promises, proposed nothing I could accept, talked of -Silesian exile--roots and water in the wilderness--and the like -absurdities, until I plainly saw they were determined to cast me off, -and that if I was to be helped at all, it must be by myself. How to do -this was the puzzle. There are few things I can do, that could in any -way be rendered profitable. I can ride a horse, lay a gun, and put a -battery through its exercise; but such accomplishments are sufficiently -common not to be paid at a very high rate; and besides, I had had enough -of garrison duty, even could I have got back my commission, which was -not likely. So I put soldiering out of the question; and yet, when I had -done so, I was puzzled to think of anything better. I had no fancy to -turn rook, and rove from place to place in search of pigeons--no -uncommon resource with younger brothers of an idle turn and exhausted -means. I had fallen in with a few birds of that breed, and had come to -the conclusion that, to save themselves work and trouble, they had -adopted by far the most laborious and painful of all professions. In the -midst of my doubts and uncertainties, the fair Sendel and her mother -made their appearance. The first sight of their names upon the hotel -book was a ray of light to me. Within an hour I made up my mind to -sacrifice my independence to my necessities, and become the virtuous and -domesticated spouse of the charming and well-paid Emilie. A hint and a -dollar to the waiter placed me next her at the table-d'hote, and I -immediately opened my intrenchments, and began a siege in due form." - -"Which you expect will soon terminate by the capitulation of the -garrison?" - -"Undoubtedly. The result of the first day or two's operations was not -very satisfactory. I rattled away, and did the amiable to a furious -extent; but the divinity was shy, and the guardian of the temple (an -old gorgon whom I shall suppress before the honeymoon is out) looked -askance at me, and pulled her daughter by the sleeve whenever she seemed -disposed to listen. They evidently thought the rattle might belong to a -snake; did me the injustice to take me for an adventurer. On the third -day, however, the ice had melted. I soon found out the cause of the -thaw. The head-waiter, whom a little well-timed liberality had rendered -my devoted slave, informed me that Madame Sendel had been making minute -inquiries concerning me of the master of the hotel. The worthy man, who -adored me because I despised _vin ordinaire_ and looked only at the -sum-total of his bills, said that I was a son of Van Haubitz, the rich -banker of Amsterdam, which was perfectly true; adding, which was rather -less so, that I was a partner in the house, and a _millionaire_. The -effect of this information upon the speculative firm of Sendel _Mere et -Fille_, was perfectly electric. Medusa smoothed her horrid locks, and -came out at that day's dinner in cherry ribbons and fresh artificials. -Emilie was all smiles and suavity, laughed at my worst jokes, nearly -burst her stays by holding her breath to raise a blush at my soft -speeches, and returned from that evening's promenade talking about the -moon, and leaning tenderly on my arm." - -"With such encouragement, I am surprised you did not propose at once." - -"So hasty a measure--oh, most unsophisticated of Britons!" replied Van, -with a look of grave pity for my simplicity--"would have greatly -perilled the success of my scheme. Sendel Senior, having only the -innkeeper's report to rely on, would have had her ungenerous suspicions -re-awakened by my precipitation, and have instituted further inquiries; -have written, probably, to some friend in Holland, and learned that the -pretender to her daughter's hand, although unquestionably a son of the -wealthy banker Van Haubitz, is excluded beyond redemption from the good -graces of that respectable pillar of Dutch finance, who has further -announced his irrevocable determination to take not the slightest notice -of him in his testamentary dispositions. The excellent Herr -Bratenbengel, whose succulent dinner we are now digesting, and whose -very laudable _Rudesheimer_ stands before us, had unwittingly laid the -foundation of my success; it was for me to raise the superstructure. Now -it was that I rejoiced at my economy since the lucky hit at the -gaming-table. The greater part of my winnings still remained to me; -golden grain, which I profusely scattered, sure that it would yield rich -harvest. I had already made a favourable impression, and this I took -care to confirm by the liberal expenditure which you, in your ignorance, -have called extravagance; by treating money as if its abundance in my -coffers made it valueless in my eyes, and by delicate generosity in the -shape of presents to mother and daughter. The trap was too well set to -prove a failure; the birds are fairly snared, and to-night, when we take -our usual romantic stroll, I shall raise the fair Sendel to the seventh -heaven of happiness by asking her to become Madame Van Haubitz." - -Although the tenor and tone of these confessions by no means tended to -elevate the Dutchman in my opinion, I could not but smile at the -coolness with which they were made, and at the skill of his manoeuvres. -There was some good about the scamp; he had his own code of honour, such -as it was, and from that he would not easily have been induced to -swerve. He would have scorned to do a dirty thing, to cheat at cards, or -leave a debt of honour unpaid; but would readily have got in debt to -tradesmen and money-lenders beyond all possibility of reimbursement. And -as regarded his present conspiracy against the celibacy and salary of -Mademoiselle Sendel, a senate of sages and logicians would have failed -to convince him of its impropriety. He looked upon it as a most -justifiable stratagem, a lawful spoiling of the spoiler, praiseworthy in -the sight of men, gods, and columns, and which he would perhaps have -boasted of to a considerable extent to many besides myself, had not -secresy been essential to the welfare of his combinations. I did not -feel myself bound to betray his plot, or to put the Sendel on her guard -against this snake amongst the roses. And whilst mentally resolving -rather to diminish than increase the intimacy which the confident and -confidential artilleryman had in great measure forced upon me, and which -I, through a sort of easy-going indolence of character, had perhaps -somewhat lightly accepted, I anticipated diversion in watching the -manoeuvres of the high contracting parties. I considered myself as a -spectator, called upon to witness an amusing comedy in real life, and -admitted behind the scenes by peculiar favour of an actor. I resolved to -watch the progress of the intrigue, and, if possible, to be present at -the _denouement_. - -"Are you quite certain," said I to Van, "that Mademoiselle Sendel's -pecuniary position and prospects are so very favourable? The sum you -mentioned is a large one for an actress who has been so short a time on -the stage. Public report, very apt to take liberties with the reputation -of theatrical ladies, often endeavours to compensate them by magnifying -their salaries." - -Van, I may here mention, lest the reader should not have perceived it, -had a most inordinate opinion of his own abilities and acuteness. Like -certain Yankees, he "conceited" it was necessary to rise before the sun -to outwit him, and even then your chance was a poor one. He had been in -hot water all his life, never out of difficulties and scrapes--once, as -has been shown, kept from suicide by a mere accident and was now reduced -to the alternative of beggary or of marrying for a living. None of -these circumstances, which would have taken the conceit out of most men, -at all impaired his opinion of his talent and sharpness. Replying to my -observation merely by a slight shrug, and by a smile of pity for the man -who thus misappreciated his foresight, he again produced his -pocket-book, and extracted from its innermost recesses a fragment of a -German newspaper, reputed oracular in matters theatrical. This he handed -to me, tapping a particular paragraph significantly with his forefinger. -The paragraph was thus conceived:-- - -"THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE.--That promising young actress, Frauelein Emilie -Sendel--whose first appearance, in the spring of last year, at once -established her in the foremost line of the dramatic genius of the -day--has concluded her twelve months' engagement at the _Hof Theater_ of -B----, where she doubtless considered, and not without reason, that her -talents and exertions were inadequately compensated by a salary of ten -thousand florins. The gay society of that capital will sensibly feel the -loss of the accomplished and fascinating comedian, who has accepted an -engagement at Vienna, on the more suitable terms of fifteen thousand -florins, with two months' _conge_, and other advantages. Before -proceeding to ravish the eyes and ears of the pleasure-loving population -of the _Kaiser-Stadt, la belle_ Sendel is off to the baths, under the -protecting wing of the watchful guardian who has presided at all her -theatrical triumphs." - -"Clear enough, I think," said Van, when I raised my eyes from the -protracted periods of the penny-a-liner. - -I had nothing to say against the lucidity of the paragraph, nor anything -to urge, at all likely to avail, against the prosecution of Van's -designs upon the lady's hand and fifteen thousand florins, with "two -months' _conge_ and other advantages." No possible sophistry, to which I -was equal, could prove the marriage to be against his interest; and as -to trying him on the tack of delicacy--"imposition on an unprotected -woman, degrading dependence on her exertions," and so forth--I knew the -thick skin and indomitable self-conceit of the gunner would repel such -feather-shafts without feeling them, or that the utmost effect I could -expect to produce would be to get into a quarrel with the redoubtable -native of the Netherlands, a predicament in which, as a man of peace, I -was by no means anxious to find myself. So after hazarding the fruitless -hint with which the reader was made acquainted at the commencement of -this narrative, I abstained from all further intermeddling, and retired -to my apartment, leaving Van Haubitz to con the declaration with which -he was that evening to rejoice the ears of the fair and too-confiding -Sendel. - -I went to bed early that night, and saw nothing more of the Hollander -till the next morning, when I was roused from a balmy slumber at the -untimely hour of seven, by his bursting into my room with more -impetuosity than ceremony, with the gestures of a maniac and the mien of -a conqueror. Before my eyes were half open, he was more than half -through the history of his proceedings on the previous evening. His -success had been complete. Emilie had faltered, with downcast eyes, a -sweet assent. The friendly gloom of eve, and the over-arching foliage, -beneath whose shade the momentous question was put, saved her the -necessity of practising upon her lungs to produce a blush. Mamma Sendel -had bestowed her blessing upon the happy pair, and in the ardour of her -maternal accolades had nearly extinguished her future son-in-law's left -ogle with the wire stalk of an artificial passion-flower. The first -burst of benevolence over, and the effervescence of feeling a little -calmed, the bridegroom elect, who could not afford delays, pressed for -an early day. Thereupon Emilie was, of course, horror-stricken, but her -maternal relative, nothing loth to land the fish thus satisfactorily -hooked, and well aware of the impediments that sometimes arise between -cup and lip, ranged herself upon the side of the eager lover, and their -combined forces bore down all opposition. Madame Sendel at first showed -an evident hankering after a preliminary jaunt to Amsterdam and a gay -wedding, graced by the presence of the bridegroom's numerous and wealthy -family. She also testified some anxiety as to the view Van Haubitz -Senior might take of his son's matrimonial project, and as to how far he -might approve of a hasty and unceremonious wedding. But the gallant -artilleryman had an answer to everything. He pledged himself, which he -was perfectly safe in doing, that his father would not attempt in the -slightest degree to control his inclinations or interfere with his -projects, extolled the delights of an autumnal tour with his wife and -mother-in-law before returning to Holland; in short, was so plausible in -his arguments, so specious and pressing, pleaded so eloquently the -violence of his love and inutility of delay, and overruled objections -with such cogent reasoning, that he achieved a complete triumph, and it -was agreed that in one week Van Haubitz should lead his adored Emilie to -the hymeneal altar. - -"There will be a small matter to arrange with respect to Emilie," said -Madame Sendel in her blandest tones, and with affectation of -embarrassment. "She has an engagement at the Vienna theatre, which must -of course now be broken off. There is a forfeit to pay, no very heavy -sum," added she---- - -"Not a word about that," interrupted Van, whose blood curdled in his -veins at the mere idea of cancelling the engagement on which his hopes -were built. "There is no hurry for a few days. Let me once call Emilie -mine, and I take charge of all those matters." - -Emilie smiled angelically; Madame patted her considerate son-in-law on -the shoulder, and applied to her snuff-box to conceal her emotion; and -all matters of business being thus satisfactorily settled, the evening -closed in harmony and bliss. - -"Are you for Frankfort to-day?" said Van Haubitz, when he had concluded -his exulting narrative, and without giving me time for congratulations, -which I should have been at a loss to offer. "I am off, after breakfast, -to get some diamond earrings and other small matters for my adorable. I -shall be glad of your taste and opinion." - -"Diamonds!" I exclaimed. "Farewell, then, to the thousand franc note--" - -"Pooh! Nonsense! You don't suppose I throw away my last cash that way. -The Frankfort jewellers know me well, or think they do, which is the -same thing. They have seen enough of my coin since I have been at -Homburg. For them, as for my excellent mother-in-law, I am the wealthy -partner in the undoubted good firm of Van Haubitz, Krummwinkel, & Co. I -never told them so; if they choose to imagine it I am not to blame. My -credit is good. The diamonds shall be paid for--if paid for they must -be--out of Madame Van Haubitz's first quarter's salary." - -I was meditating an excuse for not accompanying my pertinacious and -unscrupulous acquaintance on his cruise against the Frankfort -Israelites, when he resumed-- - -"By the by," he said, "you will come to church with us. I have arranged -it all. Quite private, for reasons good. Nobody but yourself, Madame -Sendel, and Emilie. You shall act as father, and give away the bride." - -The start I gave, at this alarming announcement, nearly broke the bed. -This was carrying things rather too far. Not satisfied with rendering -me, by his intrusive and unsolicited confidence, a sort of tacit -accomplice in his manoeuvres, this Dutch Gil Blas would fain make me an -active participator. I drew at sight on my imagination, quickened by the -peril, for a letter received the previous evening from a dear and near -relative who lay dangerously ill at Baden-Baden, and to whose sick-bed -it was absolutely necessary I should immediately repair; and, jumping -up, I began to dress in all haste, rang furiously for the bill and a -carriage, and requested Van Haubitz to present my excuses to the ladies, -my unexpected departure at that early hour depriving me of the pleasure -of taking leave of them. The Dutchman swore all manner of -_donderwetters_ and _sacraments_ that he was grieved at my departure, -trusted I should find my friend better, and be able to return to -Frankfort in time for the marriage, but did not press me to do so, and -in reality was too exhilarated by the success of his machinations to -care a straw about the matter. And saying he must go and write to -Amsterdam, he shook me by the hand and left the room, whistling in loud -and joyous key the burthen of a Dutch march. In less than an hour I was -on the road to Frankfort, and that evening I reached Heidelberg, where -some friends of mine had passed the summer. I expected to find them -still there, but they had left for Baden-Baden. Thither I pursued them, -and--as if it were a judgment on me for my white lie to the -Dutchman--arrived there the morrow of their departure. Baden was -thinning, and they had gone down stream: I must have passed them on the -Rhine. Having strong reasons to see them before they left Germany, I -followed upon their trail. But their movements were rapid and eccentric, -and after tracking them to one or two of the minor baths, the chase led -me back to Frankfort. Here I made sure to catch them, or resolved to -give up the hunt. - -A week had been consumed in thus travelling to and fro. I had no great -fancy for returning to Frankfort, lest my friend the Dutchman should -still be there, and press his society upon me, of which, after his -recent revelations, I was anything but ambitious. Upon the whole, -however, I thought it likely he would have departed. I knew he would -accelerate his marriage as much as possible; I had been nine days -absent, which gave him ample time to get over the ceremony and leave the -neighbourhood. By way of precaution I resolved to keep pretty close in -my hotel during the period of my stay, which was not to exceed one or -two days. - -On arriving at the "White Swan," I found my friends were staying there, -but had driven over to Homburg. Unwilling to follow them, and risk -meeting my bugbear, I awaited their return, which was to take place to a -late dinner. As usual, there was much bustle at the "Swan;" many goings -and comings, several carriages in the courtyard, others in the street -packing for departure, a throng of greedy _lohn-kutschers_, warm -waiters, and bearded couriers hanging about the door, and running up and -down stairs. I entered the public room. It was past noon, and the tables -were laid for dinner, but there were only two persons in the apartment, -a gentleman and a lady. They stood at a window, outside of which a -handsome Vienna-made berline, with a count's coronet on the panels, was -being got ready for a journey. As I walked up the room, the lady turned -her head, and I was instantly struck by her resemblance to Emilie -Sendel. So strong was it that I for a moment thought I had fallen in -with the very persons I wished to avoid. A second glance convinced me -of my error. The likeness was certainly startling, but there were many -points of difference. Age and stature were the same, so were the hair -and complexion, save that the former was less ruddy, the latter paler -than in the case of the buxom Emilie. And there were grace and -refinement about this person, far beyond any to which the Dutchman's -lady-love could pretend. The expression of the interesting features was -rather pensive than gay, and there was something classical in the arch -of the eyebrow and outline of the face. The lady was plainly but richly -attired in an elegant travelling-dress, and had her hand upon the arm of -a tall and very handsome man, about forty years of age, of singularly -aristocratic but somewhat dissipated appearance. They were talking as I -entered, and a sentence or two of their conversation reached my ear. -They spoke French, with a scarcely perceptible foreign accent. - -Curious to know who these persons were, I returned to the court of the -hotel, intending to question a waiter. It was first necessary to catch -one, not easy at that busy time of day; and after several fruitless -efforts to detain the jacketed gentry, I gave up the attempt, and took -my station at the gateway. Scarcely had I done so, when a carriage drove -up at a rattling pace, a small spit of a boy in a smart green suit, and -with an ambiguous sort of coronet embroidered in silver on the front of -his cap, jumped off and opened the door, and there emerged from the -vehicle, to my infinite dismay, the inevitable Van Haubitz. Retreat was -impossible, for he saw me directly; and after handing out Madame Sendel -and her daughter, seized me vehemently by both hands. - -"Delighted to see you!" he cried; "I wish you had been a day sooner. We -were married yesterday," he added in a hurried voice, drawing me aside. -"Have left Homburg, paid everything _there_, and leave this to-morrow -for Heaven knows where. Explanations must come first (here he made a -grimace), for my purse is low, and my mother-in-law makes projects that -would ruin Rothschild. Lucky you are here to back me. Come in." - -I was fairly caught, and in a pretty dilemma. My first thought was to -knock down the Dutchman, and run for it, but reflection checked the -impulse. Stammering a confused congratulation to the bride and her -mother, and meditating an escape at all hazards, I allowed Madame Sendel -to hook herself on my arm, and lead me into the hotel in the wake of the -newly-wedded pair, who made at once for the public room. A magnificent -courier, in a Hungarian dress, with beard, belt, and hunting-knife, -strode past us into the apartment. - -"_Herr Graf_," said the man, addressing the distinguished-looking -stranger who had attracted my attention, "the horses are ready." - -The Count and his companion turned at the announcement, and found -themselves face to face with our party. There was a general start and -exclamation from the three women. The strange lady turned very pale and -visibly trembled; Madame Van Haubitz gave a slight scream; her mother -flushed as red as the poppies in her head-dress, and hung like a log -upon my arm, glaring angrily at the strangers. For one moment all stood -still; Van Haubitz and I looked at each other in bewilderment. He was -evidently struck by the extraordinary resemblance I had noticed, and -which became more manifest, now that the two ladies were seen together. - -"Come, Ameline," said the Count, who alone preserved complete -self-possession. And he hurried his companion from the room. Madame -Sendel released my arm, and letting herself fall upon a chair with an -hysterical giggle, closed her eyes and seemed preparing for a -comfortable swoon. Her daughter hastened to her assistance and untied -her bonnet; Van Haubitz grasped a decanter of water and made an alarming -demonstration of emptying it upon the full-moon countenance of his -respectable mother-in-law. I was curious to see him do it, for I had -always had my doubts whether the dowager's colours were what is -technically termed "fast." My curiosity was not gratified. Whether from -apprehension of the remedy or from some other cause, I cannot say, but -Madame Sendel abandoned her faint, and after two or three grotesque -contortions of countenance, and a certain amount of winking and -blinking, was sufficiently recovered to take a huge pinch of snuff, and -ascend the stairs to a private room, with her daughter and son-in-law -for supporters, and half-a-score waiters and chambermaids, whom her -hysterical symptoms had assembled, by way of a tail. Seeing her so well -guarded, I thought it unnecessary to add to the escort. As she left the -room, there was a clatter of hoofs outside, and looking through the -window, I saw the coroneted berline whirled rapidly away by four -vigorous posters. Just then the dinner-bell rang, and the obsequious -head-waiter, who with profound bows had assisted at the departure of the -travellers, bustled into the room. - -"Who is the gentleman who has just left?" I inquired. - -"His Excellency, Count J----," replied the man. It was the name of a -Hungarian nobleman of great wealth, and of reputation almost European as -one of the most fashionable and successful Lotharios of the dissipated -Austrian capital. - -"And his companion?" - -"The celebrated actress, Frauelein Sendel." - -Had the cunning but unlucky Van Haubitz been a regular reader of the -_Theater Zeitung_, or Journal of the Theatres, he would have seen, in -the ensuing number to that whence he derived his information respecting -Mademoiselle Sendel's confirmed popularity and advantageous engagement, -the following short but important paragraph: - - "ERRATUM.--In our yesterday's impression an error occurred, arising - from a similarity of names. It is Frauelein _Ameline_ Sendel who has - concluded with the Vienna theatre an engagement equally - advantageous to herself and the manager. Her elder sister, Frauelein - _Emilie_, continues the engagement she has already held for two - seasons, as a supernumerary _soubrette_. The amount stated - yesterday as her salary would still be correct, with the - abstraction of a zero. Talent does not always run in families." - -This good-natured paragraph, evidently from the pen of a sulky -sub-editor, smarting under a lashing for his blunder of the preceding -day, did not come to my knowledge till some time afterwards, so that -the waiter's reply to my question concerning Count J----'s -travelling-companion perplexed me greatly, and plunged me into an ocean -of conjectures. In fact, my curiosity was so strongly roused, that -instead of availing myself of the absence of the Dutchman to escape from -the hotel, I sat down to dinner, resolved not to depart till I heard the -mystery explained. I had not long to wait. Dinner was just over, when I -received a message from Van Haubitz, who earnestly desired to see me. I -found him alone, seated at a table, his chin resting on his hand, anger, -shame, and mortification stamped upon his inflamed countenance. A -tumbler half full of water stood upon the table, beside a bottle of -smelling salts; and, upon entering, I was pretty sure I heard a sound of -sobbing from an inner room, which ceased, however, when I spoke. There -had evidently been a violent scene. Its cause was explained to me by Van -Haubitz, at first in rather a confused manner, for at each attempt to -detail the circumstances he interrupted himself by bursts of fury. Owing -to this, it was some time before I could arrive at a clear understanding -of the facts of the case. When I did, I could scarcely help feeling -sorry for the unfortunate schemer, although in truth he richly deserved -the disappointment he had met. Never was there a more glaring instance -of excess of cunning overreaching itself,--for no deception had been -practised by Madame Sendel and her daughter. They doubtless gave -themselves credit for some cleverness and more good fortune in enticing -a rich banker, with more ducats than brains, into their matrimonial -nets; and doubtless Frauelein Emilie put on her best looks and gowns, her -sweetest smiles and most becoming bonnets, to lure the lion into the -toils. But neither mother nor daughter had for a moment imagined that -Van Haubitz took the latter for the celebrated and successful actress -whose name was known throughout Germany, whilst that of poor Emilie, -whose talents were of the most humble order, had scarcely ever -penetrated beyond the wings and greenroom of the theatre, where she -enacted unimportant characters for the modest remuneration of a hundred -florins a month. By no means proud of her position as an actress, which -appeared the more lowly when contrasted with her sister's brilliant -success, Emilie had seldom referred to things theatrical since her -acquaintance with Van Haubitz. On his part, the Dutchman, conscious of -his real motives and anxious to conceal them, abstained from all direct -reference to Mademoiselle Sendel's great talents and their lucrative -results, contenting himself with general compliments, which passed -current without being closely scanned. If he had never heard either his -wife or mother-in-law make mention of Ameline, it was because they were -on the worst possible terms with that young lady, who had lived, nearly -from the period of her first appearance upon the boards, under the -protection of the accomplished libertine, Count J----, over whom she was -said to exercise extraordinary influence. When she formed this -connection, Madame Sendel--who, in spite of her paint and artificial -floriculture, had very strict notions of propriety--wrote her a letter -of furious reproach, renounced her as her daughter, and prohibited -Emilie from holding any communication with her. Emilie, against whose -virtue none had ever found aught to say, sorrowfully obeyed; and, after -two or three ineffectual attempts on the part of Ameline to soften her -mother's wrath, all communication ceased between them. Their next -meeting was that at which Van Haubitz and myself were present. Its -singularity, Madame Sendel's fainting fit, and the resemblance between -the sisters, brought on inquiries and an explanation; and the Dutchman -found, to his inexpressible disgust and consternation, that he had -encumbered himself with a wife he cared nothing for, and a mother-in-law -he detested, whose joint income was largely stated at one hundred and -fifty pounds sterling per annum. In his first paroxysm of rage he -taunted them with the mistake they had made when they thought to secure -the love-sick millionaire, proclaimed himself in debt, disinherited, and -a beggar; and, finally, by the violence of his reproaches, drove them -trembling and weeping from the room. - -Van Haubitz had sent for me to implore my advice in his present -difficult position; but was so bewildered by passion, and overwhelmed by -this sudden awakening from his dream of success and prosperity, that he -was hardly in a condition to listen to reason. His regrets were so -selfish as to destroy the possibility of sympathy, and I should have -left him to his fate and his own devices, had I not thought that my so -doing would make matters worse for the poor girl who had thus -heedlessly linked herself to a fortune-hunter. So I remained; after a -while he became calmer, and we talked over plans for the future. By my -suggestion, Madame Sendel and her daughter were invited to the -conference. The old lady was sulky and frightened, and would hardly open -her lips; Emilie, on the other hand, made a more favourable impression -on me than she had ever previously done. I now saw, what I had not -before suspected, that she was really attached to Van Haubitz; hitherto, -I had taken her for a mere adventuress, speculating on his supposed -wealth. She spoke kindly and affectionately to him, smiled through the -tears brought to her eyes by his recent violence, and evidently trembled -each time her mother spoke, lest she should vent a reproach or refer to -his duplicity. She tried to speak confidently and cheerfully of the -future. They must go immediately to Vienna, she said; there she would -apply diligently to her profession; the manager had half promised her an -increase of salary after another year--she was sure she should deserve -it, and meanwhile Van Haubitz, with his abilities, could not fail to -find some lucrative employment. He must get rid of his accent, she added -with a smile (he spoke a voluble but most execrable jargon of mingled -Dutch and German), and then he might go upon the stage, where she was -certain he would succeed. This last suggestion was made timidly, as if -she feared to hurt the pride of the scapegrace by proposing such a -plan. There was not a word or an accent of reproach in all she said, and -I heartily forgave the little coquetry, affectation, and vulgarity I had -formerly remarked in her, in consideration of the intuitive delicacy and -good feeling she now displayed. Truly, thought I, it is humbling to us, -the bearded and baser moiety of humankind, to contrast our vile egotism -with the beautiful self-devotion of woman, as exhibited even in this -poor actress. - -Madame Sendel by no means acquiesced in her daughter's project. The -flesh-pots of Amsterdam had attractions for her, far superior to those -of a struggling and uncertain existence at Vienna. She evidently leaned -upon the hope of a reconciliation between Van Haubitz and his father, -and hinted pretty plainly at the effect that might be produced by a -personal interview with the obdurate banker. I could see she was -arranging matters in her queer old noddle upon the approved theatrical -principle; the penitent son and fascinating daughter-in-law throwing -themselves at the feet of the melting father, who, with handkerchief to -eyes, bestows on them a blubbering benediction and ample subsidy. To my -surprise, Van Haubitz also seemed disposed to place hope in an appeal to -his father, perhaps as a drowning man clutches at a straw. He may have -thought that his marriage, imprudent as it was, would be taken as some -guarantee of future steadiness, or at least of abstinence from the -spendthrift courses which had hitherto destroyed all confidence in him. -He could hardly expect his union with a penniless actress to reinstate -him in his father's good graces; but he probably imagined he might -extract a small annuity, as a condition of living at a distance from the -friends he had disgraced. He asked me what I thought of the plan. I of -course did not dissuade him from its adoption, and upon the whole -thought it his best chance, for I really saw no other. After some -deliberation and discussion, he seemed nearly to have made up his mind, -when I was called away to my friends, who had returned from their -excursion. - -I was getting into bed that night, when Van Haubitz knocked at my door, -and entered the room with a downcast and dejected air, very different -from his usual boisterous headlong manner. - -"I am off to Holland," he said; "'tis my only chance, bad though it be." - -"I sincerely wish you success," replied I. "In any case, do not despair; -something will turn up. You have friends in your own country, I have -heard you say. They will help you to occupation." - -He shook his head. - -"Good friends over a bottle and a dice-box," said he, "but useless at a -pinch like this. Pleasant fellows enough, but scamps like"--myself, he -was going to add, but did not. "I am come to say farewell," he -continued. "I must be off before daybreak. I have debts in Frankfort, -and if my departure gets wind, I shall have a dozen duns on my back. -Misfortunes never come alone. As for paying, it is out of the question. -Amongst us we have only about enough money to reach Amsterdam. Once -there--_a la grace de Dieu!_ but I confess my hopes are small. Thanks -for your advice--and for your sympathy too, for I saw this morning you -were sorry for me, though you did not think I deserved pity. Well, -perhaps not. God bless you." - -He was leaving the room, but returned. - -"I think you said you should stay at Coblenz before returning to -England." - -"I shall probably be there a few days towards the end of the month." - -"Good. If I succeed, you shall hear from me. What is your address -there?" - -"_Poste restante_ will find me," I replied, not very covetous of the -correspondence, and unwilling to give a more exact direction. - -Van Haubitz nodded and left me. At breakfast the next morning I learned -that the Dutch baron, as the waiter styled him, had taken his departure -at peep of day. - -The first days of October found me still at Coblenz, lingering amongst -the valleys and vineyards, and loth to exchange them for the autumnal -fogs and emptiness of London. Thither, however, I was compelled to -return; and I endeavoured to console myself for the necessity by -discovering that the green Rhine grew brown, the trees scant of leaves, -the evenings long and chilly. I had heard nothing of Van Haubitz, and -had ceased to think of him, when, walking out at dusk on the eve of the -day fixed for my departure, I suddenly encountered him. He had just -arrived by a steamboat coming up stream; his wife and mother-in-law were -with him, and they were about to enter a fifth-rate inn, which, two -months previously, he would have felt insulted if solicited to -patronise. I was shocked by the change that had taken place in all three -of them. In five weeks they had grown five years older. Emilie had lost -her freshness, her eye its sparkle; and the melancholy smile with which -she welcomed me made my heart ache. Madame Sendel's rotund cheeks had -collapsed, she looked cross and jaundiced, and more snuffy than ever. -Van Haubitz was thin and haggard, his hair and mustaches, formerly -glossy and well-trimmed, were ragged and neglected, his dress, once so -smart and carefully arranged, was soiled and slovenly. My imagination -supplied a rapid and vivid sketch of the anxieties, and disappointments, -and heart-burnings, which, more than any actual bodily privations, had -worked so great a change in so short a time. Van Haubitz started on -seeing me, and faltered in his pace, as if unwilling to enter the -shabby hotel in my presence. The hesitation was momentary. "Worse -quarters than we used to meet in," said he, with a bitter smile. "I will -not ask you into this dog-hole. Wait an instant, and I will walk with -you." - -Badly as I thought of Van Haubitz, and indisposed as I was to keep up -any acquaintance with him, I had not the heart, seeing him so miserable -and down in the world, to turn my back upon him at once. So I entered -the hotel, and waited in the public room. In a few minutes he reappeared -with the two ladies, and we all four strolled out in the direction of -the Rhine. I did not ask the Dutchman the result of his journey. It was -unnecessary. His disheartened air and general appearance told the tale -of disappointment, of humiliating petitions sternly rejected, of hopes -fled and a cheerless future. He kept silence the while we walked a -hundred yards, and then, having left his wife and mother-in-law out of -ear-shot, abruptly began the tale of his mishaps. As I conjectured, he -had totally failed in his attempt to mollify his father, who was furious -at his temerity in appearing before him, and whose rage redoubled when -he heard of his ill-omened marriage. Unfortunately for Van Haubitz, the -jeweller and some other tradesmen at Frankfort, so soon as they learned -his departure, had forwarded their accounts to the care of the -Amsterdam firm; and, although his father had not the remotest intention -of paying them, he was incensed in the extreme at the slur thus cast -upon his house and name. In short, the unlucky artilleryman at once saw -he had no chance of a single kreuzer, or of the slightest countenance -from his father. His applications to his brothers, and to one or two -more distant relatives, were equally unsuccessful. All were disgusted at -his irregularities, angry at his marriage, incredulous of his promises -of reform; and, after passing a miserable month in Amsterdam, he set out -to accompany his wife to Vienna, whither she was compelled to repair -under pain of fine and forfeiture of her engagement. Although living -with rigid economy--on bread and water, as Van Haubitz expressed -it--their finances had been utterly consumed by their stay in the Dutch -capital, and it was only by disposing of every trinket and superfluity -(and of necessaries too, I feared, when I remembered the slender baggage -that came up with them from the boat) that they had procured the means -of travelling, in the cheapest and most humble manner, and with the -disheartening certainty of arriving penniless at Vienna. Van Haubitz -told me all this, and many other details, with an air of gloomy -despondency. He was hopeless, heart-broken, desperate; and certain -circumstances of his position, which by some would have been held an -alleviation, aggravated it in his eyes. He said little of his wife; -but, from what escaped him, I easily gathered that she had shown -strength of mind, good feeling and affection for him, and was willing to -struggle by his side for a scanty and hard-earned subsistence. His cares -and irritable mood prevented his appreciating her attachment, and he -looked upon her as an encumbrance, without which he might again rise in -the world. He had always entertained a confident expectation of -enriching himself by marriage; and this hope, which had buoyed him up -under many difficulties, was now gone. - -"I have one resource left," said Van Haubitz. "I have pondered over it -for the last two days, and have almost determined on its adoption." - -"What is it?" I asked. - -"If I decide upon it," he replied, "you shall shortly know. 'Tis a -desperate one enough." - -We had insensibly slackened our pace, and at this moment the ladies came -up. Van Haubitz made a gesture, as of impatience at the interruption. - -"Wait for me here," he said, and walked away. Without speculating upon -the motive of his absence, I stood still, and entered into conversation -with the ladies. We were on the quay. The night was mild and calm, but -overcast and exceedingly dark. A few feet below us rolled the dark mass -of the Rhine, slightly swollen by recent rains. A light from an -adjacent window illuminated the spot, and cast a flickering gleam across -the water. Unwilling to refer to their misfortunes, I spoke to Emilie on -some general topic. But Madame Sendel was too full of her troubles to -tolerate any conversation that did not immediately relate to them, and -she broke in with a long history of grievances, of the hard-heartedness -of the Amsterdam relations, the cruelty of Emilie's position, her -son-in-law's helplessness, and various other matters, in a querulous -tone, and with frightful volubility. The poor daughter, I plainly saw, -winced under this infliction. I was waiting the smallest opening to -interrupt the indiscreet old lady, and revert to common-place, when a -distant splash in the water reached my ears. The women also heard it, -and at the same instant a presentiment of evil came over us all. Madame -Sendel suddenly held her tongue and her breath; Emilie turned deadly -pale, and without saying a word, flew along the quay in the direction of -the sound. She had gone but a few yards when her strength failed her, -and she would have fallen, but for my support. There was a shout, and a -noise of men running. Leaving Madame Van Haubitz to the care of her -mother, I ran swiftly along the river side, and soon reached a place -where the deep water moaned and surged against the perpendicular quay. -Here several men were assembled, talking hurriedly and pointing to the -river. Others each moment arrived, and two boats were hastily shoved -off from an adjacent landing-place. - -"A man in the river," was the reply to my hasty inquiry. - -It was so dark that I could not distinguish countenances close to me, -and at a very few yards even the outline of objects was scarcely to be -discerned. There were no houses close at hand, and some minutes elapsed -before lights were procured. At last several boats put off, with men -standing in the bows, holding torches and lanterns high in the air. -Meanwhile I had questioned the bystanders, but could get little -information; none as to the person to whom the accident had happened. -The man who had given the alarm was returning from mooring his boat to a -neighbouring jetty, when he perceived a figure moving along the quay a -short distance in his front. The figure disappeared, a heavy splash -followed, and the boatman ran forward. He could see no one either on -shore or in the stream, but heard a sound as of one striking out and -struggling in the water. Having learned this much, I jumped into a boat -just then putting off, and bid the rowers pull down stream, keeping a -short distance from the quay. The current ran strong, and I doubted not -that the drowning man had been carried along by it. Two vigorous -oars-men pulled till the blades bent, and the boat, aided by the stream, -flew through the water. A third man held a torch. I strained my eyes -through the darkness. Presently a small object floated within a few feet -of the boat, which was rapidly passing it. It shone in the torchlight. I -struck at it with a boat-hook, and brought it on board. It was a man's -cap, covered with oilskin, and I remembered that Van Haubitz wore such a -one. Stripping off the cover, I beheld an officer's foraging cap, with a -grenade embroidered on its front. My doubts, slight before, were -entirely dissipated. - -When the search, rendered almost hopeless by the extreme darkness and -power of the current, was at last abandoned, I hastened to the hotel, -and inquired for Madame Sendel. She came to me in a state of great -agitation. Van Haubitz had not returned, but she thought less of that -than of the state of her daughter, who, since recovering from a long -swoon, had been almost crazed with anxiety. She knew some one had been -drowned, and her mind misgave her it was her husband. The foraging-cap, -which Madame Sendel immediately recognised, removed all uncertainty. The -only hope remaining was, that Van Haubitz, although carried rapidly away -by the power of the current, had been able to maintain himself on the -surface, and had got ashore at some considerable distance down the -river, or had been picked up by a passing boat. But this was a very -feeble hope, and for my own part, and for more than one reason, I -placed no reliance on it. I left Madame Sendel to break the painful -intelligence to her daughter, and went home, promising to call again in -the morning. - -As I had expected, nothing was heard of Van Haubitz, nor any vestige of -him found, save the foraging-cap I had picked up. Doubtless, the Rhine -had borne down his lifeless corpse to the country of his birth. The next -day Coblenz rang with the death of the unfortunate Dutchman. A stranger, -and unacquainted with the localities, he was supposed to have walked -over the quay by accident. I thought differently; and so I knew did -Madame Sendel and Emilie. I saw the former early the next day. She was -greatly cast down about her daughter, who had passed a sleepless night, -and was weak and suffering, but who nevertheless insisted on continuing -her journey the following morning. - -"We must go," said her mother; "if we delay, Emilie loses her -engagement, and how can we both live on my poor jointure? Weeping will -not bring him back, were he worth it. To think of the misery he has -caused us!" - -I ventured to hint an inquiry as to their means of prosecuting their -journey. The old lady understood the intention, and took it kindly. "But -she needed no assistance," she said; Van Haubitz (and this confirmed -our strong suspicion of suicide) had given their little stock of money -into his wife's keeping only a few hours before his death. - -That afternoon I left Coblenz for England. - - * * * * * - -On a certain Wednesday, about ten years after the incidents I have -sketched, I had been enjoying the excellent acting of Bouffe in two of -his best characters, and paused for a moment to speak to a friend in the -crowded lobby of the St James's Theatre. Whilst thus engaged, I became -aware that I was an object of attention to two persons, whom I had an -indistinct notion of having seen before, but when or where, or who they -might be, I had not the remotest idea. One of them was a -comfortable-looking, middle-aged man, with a bald head, a smooth, -clean-shaven face, and an incipient ventral rotundity. His complexion -was clear and wholesome, his countenance good-humoured, his whole -appearance bespoke an existence free from care, nights of sound sleep, -and days of tranquil enjoyment. His face was too sleek to be very -expressive, but there was a shrewd, quick look in the eye, and I set him -down in my mind as a wealthy German merchant or manufacturer (some small -peculiarities of costume betrayed the foreigner) come to show London to -his wife--a well-favoured dame, fat, fair, but some years short of -forty--who accompanied him, and who, as well as her better half, seemed -to honour me with very particular notice. My confabulation over, I was -leaving the theatre, when a sleek soft hand was gently passed through my -arm. It was my friend the stout foreigner. I strained my eyes and my -memory, but in vain; I felt very puzzled, and doubtless looked so, for -he smiled, and advancing his head, whispered a name in my ear. It was -that of Van Haubitz. - -I started, looked again, doubted, and was at last convinced. _Minus_ -mustache and whisker, which were closely shaven, and half his hair, of -which the remainder was considerably grizzled; _plus_ a degree of -corpulence such as I should never have thought the slender lieutenant of -artillery capable of acquiring; his heated, sunburnt complexion and -dissipated look, exchanged for a fresh colour and benevolent -placidity--the Dutchman I had left in the Rhine stood beside me in the -lobby of the French theatre. I turned to the lady: she was less changed -than her companion, and now that I was upon the track, I recognised -Emilie Sendel. By this time we were in the street. Van Haubitz handed -his wife into a carriage. - -"Come and sup with us," he said, "and I will explain." - -I mechanically obeyed, and in less than three minutes, still tongue-tied -by astonishment, I alighted at the door of a fashionable hotel in a -street adjoining Piccadilly. - -A few lines will convey to the reader the substance of the long -conversation which kept the resuscitated Dutchman and myself from our -beds for fully two hours after our unexpected meeting. I had been right -in supposing that he had thrown himself voluntarily into the river; -wrong in my belief that he meditated suicide. An excellent swimmer, he -had taken the water to get rid of his wife. He might certainly have -chosen a drier method, and have given her the slip in the night-time or -on the road; but she had shown, whenever he referred to the possibility -of their separation, such a determination to remain with him at all -risks and sacrifices, that he felt certain she would pursue him as soon -as she discovered his absence. He had formed a wild scheme of returning -to Amsterdam, and haunting his family until, through mere weariness and -vexation, they supplied him with funds for an outfit to Sumatra. There -he trusted to redeem his fortunes, as he had heard that others of no -greater abilities or better character than himself had already done. A -more extravagant project was never formed, and indeed all his acts, -during the six weeks that followed his marriage, were more or less -eccentric and ill-judged. This he admitted, when relating them to me, -and probably would not have been sorry to place them to the score of -actual mental derangement. The redeeming touch in his conduct at that, -the most discreditable period of his life, was his leaving, as I have -already mentioned, what money he had to his wife and her mother, -reserving but a few florins for his own support. With these in his -pocket, he proposed proceeding on foot to Amsterdam. After landing on -the right bank of the Rhine, he walked the greater part of the night as -the best means of drying his saturated garments. When weariness at last -compelled him to pause, it was not yet daylight, no house was open, and -he threw himself on some straw in a farmyard. He awoke in a high fever, -the result of his immersion, of exposure and fatigue, acting on a frame -heated and weakened by anxiety and mental suffering. He obtained shelter -at the neighbouring farm-house, whose kind-hearted inhabitants carefully -tended him for several weeks, during which his life was more than once -despaired of. His convalescence was long, and not till the close of the -year could he resume his journey northwards, by short stages, chiefly on -foot. Unfavourable as his prospects were, his good star had not yet set. -This very illness, as occasioning a delay, was a stroke of good fortune. -Had he at once proceeded to Holland, his family, in hopes to get rid of -him for ever, would probably have given him the small sum he needed for -an outfit to the Indian Archipelago, and he would have sailed thither -before the 31st of December, on which day his father, a joyous liver -and confirmed votary of Bacchus, ate and drank to such an extent to -celebrate the exit of the old year and commencement of the new, that he -fell down, on his way to his bed, in a thundering fit of apoplexy, and -was a corpse before morning. The day of his funeral, Van Haubitz, -footsore and emaciated, and reduced to his last pfenning, walked wearily -into the city of Amsterdam. There a great surprise awaited him. - -"Your father had not disinherited you?" I exclaimed, when the Dutchman -made a momentary pause at this point of his narrative. - -"He had left a will devising his entire property to my brothers, and not -even naming me. But a slight formality was omitted, which rendered the -document of no more value than the parchment it was drawn upon. The -signature was wanting. My father had the weakness, no uncommon one, of -disliking whatever reminded him of his mortality. He would have fancied -himself nearer his grave had he signed his will. And thus he had delayed -till it was too late. I found myself joint heir with my brothers. By far -the greater part of my father's large capital was embarked in his bank, -and in extensive financial operations, which it would have been -necessary to liquidate at considerable disadvantage, to operate the -partition prescribed by law. Seeing this, I proposed to my brothers to -admit me as partner in the firm, with the stipulation that I should -have no active share in its direction, until my knowledge of business -and steadiness of conduct gave them the requisite confidence in me. -After some deliberation they agreed to this; and three years later their -opinion of me had undergone such a change, that two of them retired to -estates in the country, leaving me the chief management of the concern." - -"And Madame Van Haubitz; when did she rejoin you?" - -"Immediately the change in my fortunes occurred. Reckless as I at that -time was, and utterly devoid of feeling as you must have thought me, I -could not remember without emotion the disinterested affection, -delicacy, and unselfishness she had exhibited on discovery of my real -circumstances. During my long illness I had had time to reflect, and -when I left my sick-bed in that rude but hospitable German farm-house, -it was as a penitent for past offences, and with a strong resolution to -atone them. Within a week after my father's funeral, I was on my way to -Vienna, to fetch Emilie to the opulent home she had anticipated when she -married me. Her joy at seeing me was scarcely increased when she heard -that I had become the rich banker she had at first thought me." - -"And Madame Sendel?" - -"Returned to Amsterdam with us. There was good about the old lady, and -by purloining her artificials, limiting her snuff, and soaking her in -tea, she was made endurable enough. Until her death, which occurred a -couple of years ago, she passed her time alternately with us and her -younger daughter." - -"She became reconciled to Mademoiselle Ameline?" - -"Ameline had been Countess J---- all the time. She was privately -married. For certain family reasons the Count had conditioned that their -union should for a while be kept secret. Seeing that her equivocal -position and her mother's displeasure preyed upon her health and -spirits, he declared his marriage. She left the stage to become a -reigning beauty in the best society of Austria, lady of half-a-dozen -castles, and sovereign mistress of as many thousand Hungarian boors." - -Van Haubitz remained some time in London, and I saw him often. He was as -much changed in character as in personal appearance. The sharp lessons -received about the period of our first acquaintance had made a strong -impression on him; and the summer tide of prosperity suddenly setting -in, had enabled him to realise good intentions and honourable resolves, -which the chill current of adversity might have frozen in the germ. Some -of those who read these lines may have occasion, when visiting the -country stigmatised by the snarling Frenchman as the land of _canards_, -_canaux_, and _canaille_, to receive cash in the busy counting-house, -and hospitality in the princely mansion of one of its most respected -bankers. None, I am well assured, will discern in their amiable and -exemplary entertainer any vestige of the disreputable impulses and evil -passions that sullied the early life of "My Friend the Dutchman." - - - - -MY COLLEGE FRIENDS. - -No. II. - -HORACE LEICESTER. - -[_MAGA._ AUGUST 1845.] - - -Oxford! Alma Mater! not to love thee were indeed the ingratitude of a -degenerate son. Let the whiners of the Conventicle rail at thee for a -mother of heretics, and the Joseph Humes of domestic economy propose to -adapt the scale of thy expenses to their own narrow notions--I uphold -thee to be the queen of all human institutions--the incarnated union of -Church and State--royal in thy revenues as in thy expenditure--thy -doctrine as orthodox as thy dinners, thy politics as sound as thy port. - -Oxford! who are they that rail at her? who dare to lift their voice -against that seat of high and holy memories? The man who boasts a -private education (so private, that his most intimate friends have never -found it out), who, innocent himself of all academic experiences and -associations, grudges to others that superiority which they never boast -indeed, but to which his secret soul bears envious witness. Or the rich -nonconformist, risen perhaps from obscurity to a rank in society which -gives him the choice of indulging either his spleen or his pride--either -to send his eldest son as a gentleman-commoner to Christ-Church, to -swallow the Thirty-nine Articles with his champagne; or to have his -fling at the Church through her universities--accusing Churchmen of -bigotry, and exclusiveness, and illiberality, because Dissenters do not -found colleges of their own. Or, worse than all, the unworthy disciple -who (like the noxious plant that has grown up beneath the shade of some -goodly tree) has drawn no nobility of soul from the associations which -surrounded his ungrateful youth: for whom all the reality and romance of -academic education were alike in vain: sneering at the honours which he -could not obtain, denying the existence of opportunities which he -neglected; the basest of approvers, he quotes to his own eternal infamy -the scenes of riot and dissipation, the alternations of idleness and -extravagance, which make up his sole recollections of university life: -and looking, without one glance of affection, upon the face of his fair -and graceful mother, makes the chance mole, or the early wrinkle, which -he traces there, the subject of his irreverent jest, forgets the -kindness of which he was unworthy, and remembers for evil the wholesome -discipline which was irksome only to such as him. - - "Non haec jocosae conveniunt lyrae;" - -I admit mine is not the tongue or pen for such a subject; and Oxford -has, I hope, no lack of abler champions. But it was geese, you know, who -once saved the Capitol; and I must have my hiss at the iniquitous -quackeries which people seek to perpetrate under the taking title of -University Reform. And when I, loving Oxford as I do, see some of her -own sons arrayed against her, I can only remember this much of my -philosophy--that there are cases when to be angry becomes a duty. Men -who, knowing nothing of the universities from experience, think proper -to run them down, succeed at all events in exposing one crying evil--the -absurdity of meddling with what one does not understand. We who know -better may afford to smile at once at their spite and their ignorance. -But he who lifts his voice against the mother that bore him, can fix no -darker blot upon her fame than the disgrace of having given birth to -him. - -Show me the man who did not like Oxford, and I will show you either a -sulky misanthrope or an affected ass. Many, many indeed, are the -unpleasant recollections which, in the case of nearly all of us, will -mingle with the joy with which we recall our college days. More than the -ghosts of duns departed, perhaps unpaid; more than the heart-burnings -of that visionary fellowship, for which we were beaten (we verily -believe, unfairly) by a neck; more than that loved and lost ideal of a -first class, which we deserved, but did not get (the opinions of our -examiners not coinciding in that point with our own); yes, more than all -these, comes forcibly to many minds, the self-accusing silent voice that -whispers of time wasted and talents misapplied--kind advice, which the -heat of youth misconstrued or neglected--jewels of price that once lay -strewed upon the golden sands of life, then wantonly disregarded, or -picked up but to be flung away, and which the tide of advancing years -has covered from our view for ever--blessed opportunities of acquiring -wisdom, human and divine, which never can return. - -Yet in spite of all this, if there be any man who can say that Oxford is -not to him a land of pleasant memories, "+Met' emoi parestios -genoito+"--which is, being freely translated, "May he never put his legs -under my mahogany"--that's all. I never knew him yet, and have no wish -to make his acquaintance. He may have carried off every possible -university honour for what I care; he is more hopelessly stupid, in my -view of things, than if he had been plucked fifteen times. If he was -fond of reading, or of talking about reading; fond of hunting, or -talking about hunting; fond of walking, riding, rowing, leaping, or any -possible exercise besides dancing; if he loved pleasant gardens or -solemn cloisters; learned retirement or unlearned jollification--in a -word, if he had any imaginable human sympathies, and cared for anything -besides himself, he would have liked Oxford. Men's tastes differ, no -doubt; but to have spent four years of the spring of one's life in one -of the most magnificent cities and best societies in the world, and not -to have enjoyed it--this is not a variety of taste, but its privation. - -I fancy there is a mistaken opinion very prevalent, that young and -foolish, older and wiser, are synonymous terms. Stout gentlemen of a -certain age, brimful of proprieties, shake their heads alarmingly, and -talk of the folly of boys; as if they were the only fools. And if at any -time, in the fulness of their hearts, they refer to some freak of their -own youth, they appear to do it with a sort of apology to themselves, -that such wise individuals as they are now should ever have done such -things! And as the world stands at present, it is the old story of the -Lion and the Painter; the elderly gentlemen are likely to have it their -own way; they say what they like, while the young ones are content to do -what they like. And the more absurdity a man displays in his teens (and -some, it must be confessed, are absurd enough), the more insupportable -an air of wisdom does he put on when he gets settled. As there is no -hope of these sedate gentry being sent to College again to teach the -rising generation of under-graduates the art of precocious gravity, and -still less hope of their arriving at it of themselves, perhaps there is -no harm in mooting the question on neutral ground, whether such a -consummation as that of putting old heads upon young shoulders is -altogether desirable. - -Wherefore, I, Frank Hawthorne--being of the age of nine-and-twenty, or -thereabouts, and of sound mind, and about to renounce for ever all claim -and title to be considered a young man; having married a wife, and left -sack and all other bad habits; having no longer any fellowship with -under-graduates, or army subs, or medical students, or young men about -town, or any other class of the heterogeneous irregulars who make up -"Young England"--being a perfectly disinterested party in the question, -inasmuch as having lost my reputation for youth, I have never acquired -one for wisdom--hereby raise my voice against the intolerable cant, -which assumes every man to be a harebrained scapegrace at twenty, and a -Solomon at forty-five. Youth sows wild oats, it may be; too many men in -more advanced life seem to me to sow no crop of any kind. There are -empty fools at all ages; but "an old fool"----(musty as the proverb is, -it is rather from neglect than over-application). I have known men by -the dozen, who in their youth were either empty-headed coxcombs or noisy -sots; does my reader think that any given number of additional years has -made them able statesmen, sound lawyers, or erudite divines? that -because they have become honourable by a seat in Parliament, learned by -courtesy, reverend by office, they are therefore really more useful -members of society than when they lounged the High Street, or woke the -midnight echoes of the quadrangle? Nay, life is too short for the -leopard to change his spots, or the Ethiopian his skin; one can but pare -the claws of the first, and put a suit of the last European fashion upon -the other. - -Let any man run over in his own mind the list of those school and -college companions with whom, after the lapse of ten years or so, he has -still an opportunity of occasionally renewing his acquaintance, and -judging of the effect which time has had upon their habits and -characters. In how many cases can he trace any material alteration, -beyond what results from the mere accidents of time and place? He finds, -it is to be hoped, good principles developed, warm impulses ripened into -active habits, exaggerations softened down (for I am giving him credit -for not choosing his companions, even in youth, among the vicious in -heart and principle); but if he finds in any what he can call a _change_ -at all, then I ask, in how many instances is it a change for the better? -or does he not find it rather where there was no sterling value in the -metal, which, as the gloss of youth wears off, loses its only charm? - -Thirty is the turning-point of a man's life; when marrying becomes a -now-or-never sort of business, and dinners begin to delight him more -than dancing. As I said just now, then, I stand just at the corner; and, -looking round before I turn it, I own somewhat of a shyness for the -company of those "grave and reverend seniors" who are to be my -fellow-travellers hereafter through life. There are certain points on -which I fear we are scarce prepared to agree. I must have one window -open for the first few miles of the journey at all events--that I may -look behind me. Life's a fast train, and one can't expect to be allowed -to get out at the stations; still less to ask the engineer to put back, -because we have left our youth behind us. Yet there are some things in -which I hope always to be a boy; I hope ever to prefer thoughtlessness -to heartlessness, imprudence to selfishness, impulse to calculation. It -is hard enough to part with all the fiery spirits, the glowing -imaginations, the elasticity of mind and body which we lose as age -creeps on; but if, with the bright summer weather and cloudless skies of -youth, to which we are content to bid farewell, we must lose, too, the -"sunshine of the breast"--the "bloom of heart"--then well might the poet -count him happy who died in early spring--who knew nothing of life but -its fair promises, and passed away in happy scepticism of the winter -which was to come. - -Talk of putting old heads upon young shoulders! Heaven forbid! It would -but be making them stoop prematurely. If indeed we could put young -hearts into old bodies occasionally, we might do some good; or if there -could ever be combined in some fortunate individual, throughout his -life, the good qualities peculiar to each successive climacteric; if we -could mix just enough of the acid and the bitter, which are apt to -predominate so unhappily after a long rubbing through the world, to -qualify the fiery spirit of youth, and prevent its sweetness from -cloying, the compound would undoubtedly be a very pleasant one. But -this, it is to be feared, like many other desiderata, is too good to be -attainable; and the experience which we undoubtedly want in early life, -we acquire too often at the cost of that freshness of heart, which -nature intended as a gift still more valuable. - -Nowhere does the old Stagyrite display a more consummate knowledge of -what men are made of, than in his contrasted characters of youth and -age. I wonder how many of the old gentlemen who call themselves -philosophers in this degenerate age, ever read or remember what he says -on the subject. It is a great comfort, when one is arguing against so -much collective wisdom, to feel that one has such authority to fall back -upon; and I have the less hesitation in bringing my old friend Aristotle -forward to help me, because I can assure my unlearned readers, ladies -and others, that I am not going to quote any thing nearly so grave and -sensible as modern philosophy. "Stingy, illnatured, suspicious, -selfish, narrow-minded"--these, with scarce a redeeming quality, are -some of the choice epithets which he strings together as the -characteristics of the respectable old governors and dowagers of his -day; while the young, although, as he confesses, somewhat too much the -creatures of impulse, and indebted to it for some of their virtues as -well as vices, are trustful towards others, honest in themselves, -open-handed and open-hearted, warm friends and brave enemies. It is -true, he observes, they have, in a large degree, the fault common to all -honest men, they are "easily humbugged;" an admitted failing which -perhaps may let us into the secret of their sitting down so quietly -under the imputation of a hundred others. He urges, too, elsewhere, a -fact I am not disposed to battle about, that young men do not make good -philosophers; but this is in a book which he wrote for the use of his -own son, wherein he probably thought it his duty to take the conceit out -of his heir-apparent; but if he ever allowed the young philosopher to -get a sight of the other book containing the two characters aforesaid, -it may be doubted whether he found him as "easily humbugged" afterwards. - -Remember, reader, as I said before, I claim to occupy neutral ground. If -I essay to defend youth from some injustice which it suffers at the -hands of partial judges, it is as an amateur advocate rather than an -accredited champion--for I am young no longer. If I am rash enough to -couch a lance against that venerable phantom, which, under the name of -Wisdom, hovers round grey hairs, I am but preparing a rod for my own -back--for I feel myself growing old. I admit it with a sigh; but the -sigh is not for the past only, but even more for the present. I mourn -not so much for that which Time has taken away, as for the insufficiency -of that which it brings instead. I would rejoice to be relieved from the -dominion of the hot follies of youth, if I could escape at the same time -the degrading yoke of the cooler vices of maturity. I do not find men -grow better as they grow older; wiser they may grow, but it is the -wisdom of the serpent. We scarce grow less sensual, less vain, less -eager after what we think pleasure; I would we continued as generous and -as warm. We gain the cunning to veil our passions, to regulate even our -vices according to the scale (and that no parsimonious one) which what -we call "society" allows; we lose the enthusiasm which in some degree -excused our follies, with the light-heartedness which made them -delightful. Few men among us are they who can look back upon the years -gone by, and not feel that, if these may justly be charged with folly, -the writing of the accusation that stands against their riper age is of -a graver sort. - -It is melancholy, rather than amusing, to hear men of a certain age -rail against the faults and extravagance of their juniors. Angry that -they themselves are no longer young, they visit with a rod of iron such -an intolerable offence in others. Even newspapers are always eloquent -against the disgusting immoralities of breaking knockers and bonneting -policemen. The _Times_ turns censor upon such an "ungentlemanly -outrage;" the _Weekly Despatch_ has its propriety shocked by such -"freaks of the aristocracy;" and both, in their zeal to reprobate -offences so dangerous to the best interests of society, sacrifice -somewhat of that "valuable space" which should have been devoted to the -bulletin of the health, or the history of the travels, of the "gallant -officer" who last deliberately shot his friend in a duel; or the piquant -details of the last _crim. con._, with the extraordinary disclosures -expected to be made by the "noble defendant." Society has no sympathy -with vices to which it has no temptation; it might have done foolish -things in its day, but has long ago seen the folly of them. So we make a -graceful acknowledgment of having been wrong once, for the sake of -congratulating ourselves upon being so very right now. - -Let me then, for some few moments, recall those scenes which, on the -stage of life, have passed away for ever; and forgetting, as memory -loves to do, the evil that was in them, let it be not idle repining to -lament the good. - -Oh! dark yet pleasant quadrangle, round whose wide area I might wander -now, a stranger among strangers, where are they who once gave life and -mirth to cheer those ancient walls? There were full a score of rooms, -congenial _lares_, in which no hour of day or night would have found me -other than a welcome guest. I had friends, yea, friends, within those -prison-like windows--warm hearts walled in by thy cold grey -stones--friends that had thoughts, and feelings, and pursuits in -common--who were not hospitable in words alone, suffering each other's -presence with well-concealed _ennui_--but friends in something more than -in the name. In vain, among the cold conventionalities of life, shall I -look for the warm and kindly welcome, the sympathy of feeling, the -unrestrained yet courteous familiarity of intercourse, which was part -and parcel of a college life; and if for this only I should say of -Oxford, that I shall not look upon its like again--if for this only, I -doubt whether the years of my youthful pilgrimage were altogether evil, -who shall gainsay me? Where, or in what society of wise, and orderly, -and respectable "grown-up children," shall I find the sincerity and -warm-heartedness that once were the atmosphere of my daily life? Where -is the friend of my maturer choosing, into whose house I can walk at any -time, and feel sure I am no intruder? Where is the man, among those with -whom I am by hard fate compelled to associate, who does not measure his -regard, his hospitality, his very smiles, by my income, my station in -society--anything but by myself? Older and wiser!--oh yes!--youthful -friendship is very foolish in such matters. - -But I suppose I must put up, as I best may, with the accumulating weight -of years and wisdom. It won't do to give up one's degree, and begin -again at the university, even if they leave us a university worth going -to. At all events, one could not go back and find there those "old -familiar faces" that made it what it was; and it is more pleasant to -look upon it all--the place and its old occupants--as still existing in -some dream-land or other, than to return to find an old acquaintance in -every stick and stone, while every human face and voice is strange to -us. - -Yet one does meet friends in old scenes, sometimes, when the meeting is -as unexpected as delightful. And just so, in my last visit to Oxford, -did I stumble upon Horace Leicester. We met in the quadrangle where we -had parted some six years back, just as we might if we had supped -together the night before; whereas we had been all the time hundreds of -miles asunder: and we met as unrestrainedly, only far more cordially. -Neither of us had much time to spare in Oxford, but we dined together of -course; talked over old friends, and told old stories. As to the first, -it was strange enough to moralise upon the after-fortunes of some of our -contemporaries. One--of whom, for habitual absence from lectures, and -other misdemeanours many and various, the tutors had prophesied all -manner of evil, and who had been dismissed by the Principal at his final -leave-taking, with the remark that he was the luckiest man he had ever -known, inasmuch as he had been perseveringly idle without being plucked, -and mixed up in every row without being rusticated--was now working hard -day and night as a barrister, engaged as a junior on committee business -the whole Session, and never taking a holiday except on the Derby day. -The ugliest little rascal of our acquaintance, and as stupid as a post, -was married to a pretty girl with a fortune of thirty thousand. Another, -and one of the best of us--Charley White--who united the business-habits -of a man with the frolic of a schoolboy, and who ought to have been -added to the roll of the College benefactors, as having been the founder -of the Cricket and the Whist Club, and having restored to its old place -on the river, at much cost and pains, the boat which had been withdrawn -for the last five years, and reduced the sundry desultory idlenesses of -the under-graduates into something like method and order--Charley White -was now rector of a poor and populous parish in Yorkshire, busily -engaged in building a new church and schools, opening Provident -Societies, and shutting up beer-shops, and instructing the rising -generation of his parishioners in catechism and cricket alternately. -While the steadiest (I was very near saying the only steady man) among -our mutual acquaintance, who looked at every sixpence before he spent -it, checked his own washing-lists, went to bed at ten o'clock, and was, -in short, an exemplary character (he was held out to me, on my first -entrance, as a valuable acquaintance for any young man, but I soon -despaired of successfully imitating so bright a model)--well, this -gentleman having been taken into partnership, somewhat prematurely -perhaps on the strength of the aforesaid reputation, by his father's -firm--they were Liverpool merchants of high standing--had thought -proper, disgusted probably with the dissipations and immoralities of -trade, to retire to America in search of purity and independence, -without going through the form of closing his accounts with the house. -The Liverpudleians, indeed, according to Horace's account, gave a -somewhat ugly name to the transaction; he had been cashier to the firm, -they said, who were minus some tens of thousands thereby; but as the -senior partner was known to have smoked cigars at a preparatory school -(thereby showing what he _would_ have done had he been sent to Oxford), -whereas our friend was always "a steady man," I leave the reader to -judge which party is entitled to the most credit. - -It was after we had separated that a friend of mine, not an Oxford man, -who had dined with us, and appeared much amused by some of Horace's -reminiscences, asked me the very puzzling question, "Was your friend -Leicester what they call a '_rowing_ man' at College?" Now, I protest -altogether against the division of under-graduates into reading men and -rowing men, as arbitrary and most illogical; there being a great many -who have no claim to be reckoned either in one class or the other, and a -great many who hover between both. And this imaginary distinction, -existing as it notoriously does at Oxford, and fostered and impressed -upon men by the tutors (often unintentionally, or with the very best -intentions), is productive in many cases of a great deal of harm. A man -(or _boy_ if you please) is taught to believe, upon his very first -entrance, that one of these characters will infallibly cling to him, and -that he has only to choose between the two. For the imaginary division -creates a real one; in many colleges, a man who joins a boat's crew, or -a cricket club, or goes out now and then with the harriers, is looked -upon with suspicion by the authorities at once; and by a very natural -consequence, a man who wants to read his five or six hours a-day -quietly, finds that some of his pleasantest companions look upon him as -a slow coach. So, probably before the end of his first term, he is -hopelessly committed, at nineteen, to a consistency of character rarely -met with at fifty. If he lays claim to the reputation of a reading man, -and has an eye to the loaves and fishes in the way of scholarships and -fellowships, he is compelled, by the laws of his _caste_, to renounce -some of the most sensible and healthful amusements which a university -life offers. He must lead a very humdrum sort of life indeed. It is not -enough that he should be free from the stains of vice and immorality; -that his principles and habits should be those of a gentleman; that he -should avoid excesses, and be observant of discipline; this the -university would have a right to expect from all who are candidates for -her honours and emoluments. But there is a conventional character which -he must put on besides this. I say "put on;" because, however natural it -may be to some men, it cannot possibly be so to all. His exercise must -be taken at stated times and places: it must consist principally of -walking, whether he be fond of it or not, varied occasionally by a -solitary skiffing expedition down the river, or a game of billiards with -some very steady friend on the sly. His dress must exhibit either the -negligence of a sloven (in case he be an aspirant for very high honours -indeed), or the grave precision of a respectable gentleman of forty. He -must eschew all such vanities as white trousers and well-cut boots. He -must be profoundly ignorant of all university intelligence that does not -bear in some way on the schools; must be utterly indifferent what boat -is at the head of the river, or whether Drake's hounds are fox or -harriers. He must never be seen out of his rooms, except at lecture, -before two o'clock, and never return to a wine-party after chapel. His -judgment of the merits of port and sherry must be confined principally -to the fact of one being red and the other white, and the compounding of -punch must be to him a mystery unfathomable. Now, if he can be, or -assume to be, all this, then he will be admitted into the most orthodox -and steady set in his college; and if he have, besides, an ordinary -amount of scholarship, and tact enough to talk judiciously about his -books and his reading, he may get up a very fair reputation indeed. And -when at his final examination he makes, as nine-tenths of such men do -make, a grand crash, and his name comes out in the third or fourth -class, or he gets "gulfed" altogether--it is two to one but his friends -and his tutor look upon him, and talk of him, as rather an ill-used -individual. He was "unlucky in his examination"--"the essay did not suit -him"--they were "quite surprised at his failure"--"his health was not -good the last term or two"--"he was too nervous." These are cases which -have occurred in every man's experience: men read ten hours a-day, with -a watch by their side, cramming in stuff that they do not understand, -are talked about as "sure firsts" till one gets sick of their very -names, assume all the airs which really able men seldom do assume, and -take at last an equal degree with others who have been acquiring the -same amount of knowledge with infinitely less pretension, and who, -without moping the best part of their lives in an artificial existence, -will make more useful members of society in the end. "How was it," said -an old lady in the country to me one day, "that young Mr C---- did not -get a first class? I understand he read very hard, and I know he refused -every invitation to dinner when he was down here in the summer -vacation?" "That was the very reason, my dear madam," said I; "you may -depend upon it." She stared, of course; but I believe I was not far out. - -Let men read as much as they will, and as hard as they will, on any -subjects for which they have the ability and inclination; but never let -them suppose they are to lay down one code of practice to suit all -tempers and constitutions. Cannot a man be a scholar, and a gentleman, -and a good fellow at the same time? - -And, after all, where is the broad moral distinction between these -_soi-disant_ steady men, and those whom they are pleased to consider as -"rowing" characters? it has always seemed to me rather apocryphal. If a -man thinks proper to amuse himself with a chorus in his own rooms at one -o'clock in the morning, it seems hardly material whether it be Greek or -English--Sophocles or Tom Moore. It's a matter of taste, and tastes -differ. Nor do I think the morality of Horace or Aristophanes, or the -theology of Lucretius, so peculiarly admirable, as to render them, _per -se_, fitter subjects for the exclusive exercise of a young man's -faculties than "the Pickwick Papers," or "The Rod and the Gun." I have -heard--(I never saw, nor will I believe it)--of the profanity of certain -sporting under-graduates, who took into chapel the racing calendar, -bound in red morocco, instead of a prayer-book; I hold it to have been -the malicious fiction of some would-be university reformer; but, even if -true, I am not sure that I much prefer that provident piety which I have -noticed getting up its Greek within the same walls by means of a -Septuagint and Greek liturgy. Religion is one thing, classical learning -another, and sporting information another; all totally distinct, and -totally different; the first immeasurably above the other two, but -standing equidistant from both. It does not make a man one whit the -better to know that Coraebus won the cup at Olympia B.C. 776, than it -does to know that Priam did _not_ win the St Leger at Doncaster A.D. -1830; from all I can make out, the Greeks on the turf at present are not -much worse than their old namesakes; I dare say there was a fair amount -of black-legism on both occasions. Men injure their moral and physical -health by reading as much as by other things; it takes quite as much out -of a man, and puts as little in him to any good purpose, to get up his -logic as to pull in an eight-oar. - -Besides, if one is to read and enter into the spirit of a dozen -different authors, one dull monotonous round of physical existence seems -ill-fitted to call out the requisite variety of mental powers. I hold -that there are divers and sundry fit times, and places, and states of -mind, suited to different lines of reading. If a man is at work upon -history, by all means let him sport oak rigidly against all visitors; -let him pile up his authorities and references on every vacant chair all -round him, and get a clear notion of it by five or six hours' -uninterrupted and careful study. Or, if he has a system of philosophy to -get up, let him sit down with his head cool, his window open (not the -one looking into quad.), let him banish from his mind all minor matters, -and not break off in the chain of argument so long as he can keep his -brain clear and his eyes open. Even then, a good gallop afterwards, or a -cigar and a glass of punch, with some lively fellow who is no -philosopher, will do him far more good than a fagging walk of so many -measured miles, with the studious companion whose head is stuffed as -full of such matter as his own, and whose talk will be of disputed -passages, and dispiriting anticipations of a "dead floorer" in the -schools. But if a man wants to make acquaintance with such books as -Juvenal, or Horace, or Aristophanes, he may surely do it to quite as -good purpose, and with far more relish, basking under a tree in summer, -or with a friend over a bottle in winter. - -The false tone of society of which I have been speaking had its -influence upon Horace Leicester. Coming up to the university from a -public school, with a high character, a fair amount of scholarship, and -a host of acquaintances, he won the good-will at once of dons and of -under-graduates, and bid fair to be as universal a favourite at college -as he had been at Harrow. Never did a man enter upon an academic life -under happier auspices, nor, I believe, with a more thorough -determination to enjoy it in every way. He did not look upon his -emancipation from school discipline as a license for idleness, nor -intend to read the less because he could now read what he pleased, and -when he pleased. For, not to mention that Horace was ambitious, and had -at one time an eye to the class list--he had a taste for reading, and a -strong natural talent to appreciate what he read. But if he had a taste -for reading, he had other tastes as well, and, as he thought, not -incompatible; much as he admired his Roman namesake, he could not devote -his evenings exclusively to his society, but preferred carrying his -precepts into practice occasionally with more modern companions; and he -had no notion that during the next four years of his life he was to take -an interest in no sports but those of the old Greeks and Romans, and -mount no horse but Pegasus. For a term or two, Leicester got on very -well; attended lectures, read steadily till one or two o'clock, when -there was nothing particular going on, kept a horse, hired an alarm, and -seldom cut morning chapel, or missed a meet if within reasonable -distance. It was a course of life which, in after days, he often -referred to with a sigh as having been most exemplary; and I doubt -whether he was far wrong. But it did not last. For a time his -gentlemanly manners, good humour, and good taste, carried it off with -all parties; but it was against the ordinary routine, and could not hold -up against the popular prejudice. The reading men eyed his top-boots -with suspicion; the rowing men complained he was growing a regular -_sap_, always sporting oak when they wanted him. Then his wine-parties -were a source of endless tribulation to him. First of all, he asked all -those with whom he was most intimate among his old schoolfellows to meet -each other, adding one or two of his new acquaintances: and a pretty -mess he made of it. Men who had sat on the same form with him and with -each other at Harrow, and had betrayed no such marked differences in -their tastes as to prevent their associating very pleasantly there, at -Oxford, he found, had been separated wide as the poles by this -invisible, but impassable, line of demarcation: to such a degree, -indeed, that although all had called upon Horace, as they had upon each -other, before it seemed decided on which side they were to settle, yet -when they now met at his rooms, they had become strangers beyond a mere -civil recognition, and had not a single subject to converse upon in -common. In fact, they were rather surprised than pleased to meet at all; -and it was in vain their host tried to get them to amalgamate. Many -seemed to take a pleasure in showing how decidedly they belonged to one -set or the other. One would talk of nothing on earth besides hunting, -and sat silent and sulky when Horace turned the conversation; another -affected an utter ignorance of all that was going on in the University -that was not connected with class-lists, scholarships, &c. What provoked -him most was, that some of those who gave themselves the most pedantic -airs, and would have been double first-class men undeniably, if talking -could have done it, were those whose heads he well knew were as empty as -the last bottle, and which made him think that some men must take to -reading at Oxford, simply because they had faculties for nothing else. - -At all events, Horace found the mixed system would not answer for -entertaining his friends. So the next time he asked a few of the reading -men, some of whom he knew used to be good fellows, together; and as he -really had a kindred taste with them on many subjects, he found an hour -or so pass away very pleasantly: when just as he was passing the wine -about the third round, and his own brilliancy and good-humour were -beginning to infect some of his guests--so that one grave genius of -twenty had actually so far forgotten himself as to fill a bumper by -mistake--up jumped the senior man of the party, and declaring that he -had an engagement to walk with a friend at seven, politely took his -leave. This was the signal for a general dispersion; in vain did Horace -assure them they should have some coffee in the course of an hour, and -entreat some one or two to return. Off they all went, with sundry smiles -and shakes of the head, and left their unfortunate host sitting alone in -his glory over the first glass of a newly opened bottle of claret. - -I happened to be crossing the quadrangle from chapel in company with -Savile, at the moment when Leicester put his head out of his window as -if to inquire of the world in general what on earth he was to do with -himself for the next hour or two. Savile he hailed at once, and begged -him to come up; and though I knew but little of him, and had never been -in his rooms before, still, as I was one or two terms his senior, there -was nothing contrary even to Oxford etiquette in my accompanying Savile. -We laughed heartily when he explained his disappointment. Savile tried -to comfort him by the assurance that, as he had an hour to spare, he -would sit down and help him to finish a bottle or two of claret with a -great deal of pleasure; and was inclined to attribute the failure of the -evening, in a great measure, to his name not having been included in -the list of invitations--an omission by which he declared all parties -had been the losers; Horace's reading friends standing very much in need -of some one to put a little life into them, and himself, as a candidate -for a degree, having missed a fair opportunity of meeting, among so many -choice fellows, some one to "put him up to the examiners' dodges." But -Leicester was irrecoverably disgusted. Nothing, he declared, would ever -induce him to ask a party of reading men to his rooms again; and from -that hour he seemed to eschew fellowship with the whole fraternity. Not -that he became idle all at once; on the contrary, I believe, for some -time he worked on steadily, or at least tried to work; but he was -naturally fond of society, and having failed to find what he wanted, was -reduced to make the best of such as he could find. So he gradually -became acquainted with a set of men who, whatever their good qualities -might be, had certainly no claim whatever to be considered hard readers, -and who would have considered a symposium which broke up at seven -o'clock as unsatisfactory as a tale without a conclusion. Amongst these, -his gentlemanly manners and kindness of heart made him beloved, while -his talents gave him a kind of influence; and, though he must have felt -occasionally that he was not altogether in his right place, and that, -besides his popular qualities, he had higher tastes and endowments with -which the majority of his companions could hardly sympathise, he was -too light-hearted to philosophise much on the subject, and contented -himself with enjoying his popularity, occasionally falling back upon his -own resources, and keeping up, in a desultory kind of way, his -acquaintance with scholarship and literature. The reading men of course -looked upon him as a lost sheep; the tutors shook their heads about him; -if he did well, it was set down as the result of accident; while all his -misdoings were labouring in his vocation. For, agreeably to the grand -division aforesaid, Horace was now set down as a "rowing-man;" and he -soon made the discovery, and did more thereupon to deserve the character -than he ever would have done otherwise. He was very willing to go on in -his own way, if all parties would but let him alone; he was not going to -be made a proselyte to long walks, and toast and water, nor had he any -conscientious abhorrence of supper-parties; and, as his prospects in -life were in no way dependent upon a class or a scholarship, and he -seemed to be tacitly repudiated by the _literati_ of his college, young -and old, on account of some of his aforesaid heterodox notions on the -subject of study, he accustomed himself gradually to set their opinions -at defiance; while the moderate reading, which encouragement and -emulation had made easy at school, became every day more and more -distasteful. - -Horace's tottering reputation was at last completely overset in the eyes -of the authorities by a little affair which was absurd enough, but in -which he himself was as innocent as they were. It happened that a -youthful cousin of his, whose sole occupation for the last twelve months -of his life had been the not over-profitable one of waiting for a -commission, had come up to Oxford for two or three days, pursuant to -invitation, to see a little of the manners and customs of the -inhabitants. I think he had some slight acquaintance with our then -vice-principal--a good-natured, easy man--and Horace had got leave for -him to occupy a set of very small, dark rooms, which, as the college was -not very full, had been suffered to remain vacant for the last two or -three terms; they were so very unattractive a domicile that the last -Freshman to whom they were offered as a Hobson's choice, was currently -reported, in the plenitude of his disgust, to have taken his name off -the books _instanter_. It is not usual to allow strangers to sleep -within college walls at all; but our discipline was somewhat lax in -those days. So Mr Carey had a bed put up for him in the aforesaid -quarters. He was, of course, duly _feted_, and made much of by Horace -and his friends; and a dozen of us sat down to a capital dinner in the -rooms of the former, on the strength of having to entertain a "stranger -from the country;" the hospitality of Oxford relaxing its rules even in -favour of under-graduates upon such occasions. It must have been -somewhere towards the next morning, when two or three of us accompanied -young Carey down to No. 8; and, after chatting with him till he was half -undressed, left him, as we thought, safe and quiet. However, soon after -we had retired, some noisy individual in the same staircase thought -proper to give a view-hollo out of his window, for the purpose of -wishing the public good-night. Now there was one of the Fellows, a -choleric little old gentleman, always in residence, holding some office, -in which there was as little to do, and as much to get as might be, and -who seldom troubled himself much about college discipline, and looked -upon under-graduates with a sort of silent contempt; never interfering -with them, as he declared himself, so long as they did not interfere -with him. But one point there was, in which they did interfere with his -personal comfort occasionally, and whereby his peace of mind and rest of -body were equally disturbed. Mr Perkins always took a tumbler of negus -at ten precisely, and turned in as the college clock struck the quarter -past; by the half-hour he was generally asleep, for his digestion was -good and his cares few. But his slumbers were not heavy, and anything -like a row in the quadrangle infallibly awoke him, and then he was like -a lion roused. He was wont to jump up, throw up his window, thrust out a -red face and a white nightcap, and after listening a few seconds for -the chance of the odious sounds being repeated, would put the very -pertinent question usual in such circumstances, to which one so seldom -gets an equally pertinent reply--"Who's that?" In case this intimation -of Mr Perkins being wide awake proved sufficient, as it often did, to -restore quiet, then after the lapse of a few more seconds the head and -the nightcap disappeared, and the window was shut down again. But if the -noise was continued, as occasionally it was out of pure mischief, then -in a minute or two the said nightcap would be seen to emerge hastily -from the staircase below, in company with a dressing-gown and slippers, -and Mr Perkins in this disguise would proceed to the scene of -disturbance as fast as his short legs could carry him. He seldom -succeeded in effecting a capture; but if he had that luck, or if he -could distinguish the tone of any individual voice so as to be able to -identify the performer, he had him up before the "seniority" next -morning, where his influence as one of the senior fellows insured a -heavy sentence. But he had been engaged in so many unsuccessful chases -of the kind, and his short orations from his window so often elicited -only a laugh, though including sometimes brief but explicit threats of -rustication against the noisy unknown, strengthened by little expletives -which, when quoted by under-graduates, were made to sound somewhat -doubtfully--that at last he altered his tactics, and began to act in -silence. And so he did, when upon opening his window he saw a light in -the ground-floor rooms of the staircase whence the sounds proceeded on -the evening in question. Carey, by his own account, was proceeding -quietly in his preparations for bed, singing to himself an occasional -stanza of some classical ditty which he had picked up in the course of -the evening, and admiring the power of the man's lungs in the room above -him, when he heard a short quick step, and then a double rap at his -door. He was quite sufficiently acquainted, by this time, with the ways -of the place, not to be much surprised at the late visit, and at the -same time to consider it prudent to learn the name and _status_ of his -visitor before admitting him; so he retorted upon Mr Perkins, quite -unconsciously, his own favourite query--"Who's that?" his first and -obvious impression being that it was one of the party he had just -quitted, coming probably in the plenitude of good fellowship, to bring -him an invitation to wine or breakfast next day. - -"It's me, sir--open the door," was the reply from a deep baritone, which -the initiated would never have mistaken. - -"Who are you?" said Carey again. - -"My name is Perkins, sir: have the goodness to let me in." He was -getting more angry, and consequently more polite. - -"Perkins," said Carey, pausing in his operations, in the vain endeavour -to recall the name among the score or two to whom he had been -introduced. "I'm just in bed--were you up at Leicester's?" - -"Open the door, sir, if you please, immediately," and then came what our -friend took for a smothered laugh, but was really a sort of shiver, for -there was a draft in the passage playing all manner of pranks with the -dressing-gown, and Mr Perkins was getting cold. - -An indistinct notion came into Carey's mind, that some one who had met -him in College might have taken him for a Freshman, and had some -practical joke in view; so he contented himself with repeating that he -was going to bed, and could let no one in. - -"I tell you, sir, I'm Mr Perkins; don't you know me?" - -"I wish you a very good night, Mr Perkins." - -"What's your name, sir? eh? You impudent young puppy, what's your -infernal name? I'll have you rusticated, you dog--do you hear me, sir?" - -On a sudden it struck Carey that this might possibly be a domiciliary -visit from one of the authorities, and that his best plan was to open -the door at once, though what had procured him such an honour he was at -a loss to imagine. He drew back the spring lock, therefore, and the next -moment stood face to face with the irate Mr Perkins. - -His first impulse was to laugh at the curious figure before him; but -when demands for his name, and threats of unknown penalties, were -thundered forth upon him with no pause for a reply, then he began to -think that he had made a mistake in opening the door at all--that he -might get Leicester into a scrape if not himself--and as his person was -as unknown to Mr Perkins as that gentleman's to him, it struck him that -if he could give him the slip at once it would be all right. In a moment -he blew out his solitary candle, bolted through the open door, all but -upsetting his new acquaintance, whom he left storming in the most -unconnected manner, alone, and in total darkness. Up to Leicester's -rooms he rushed, related his adventure, and was rather surprised that -his cousin did not applaud it as a very clever thing. - -What Mr Perkins thought or said to himself, what degree of patience he -exhibited in such trying circumstances, or in what terms he -apostrophised his flying enemy, must ever remain a secret with himself. -Five minutes after, Solomon the porter, summoned from his bed just as he -had made himself snug once more after letting out Horace's out-college -friends, confronted Mr Perkins in about as sweet a temper as that worthy -individual himself, with this difference, that one was sulky and the -other furious. - -"Who lives in the ground-floor on the left in No. 8?" - -"What, in 'Coventry?' Why, nobody, sir." - -"Nobody! you stupid old sinner, you're asleep." - -"No, sir, I ain't," and Solomon flashed his lantern in Mr Perkins's face -as if to ascertain whether _his_ eyes were open. Mr Perkins started -back, and Solomon turned half round as if to disappear again. - -"Who lives there, Solomon, I ask you? Do you mean to tell me you don't -know? You are not fit----" - -"I knows every gentleman's rooms well enough: nobody hasn't lived in -them as you means not these four terms. Mr Pears kept his fox in 'em one -time, till the vice-principal got wind of him. There may be some varmint -in 'em now for all I knows--they a'n't fit for much else." - -"There's some confounded puppy of a Freshman in them now--at least there -was--and he lives there too." - -"I know there _be'n't_," said the persevering Solomon. And, without -deigning a word more, he set off with his lantern towards the place in -dispute, followed by Mr Perkins, who contented himself with an angry -"Now you'll see." - -"Ay, now we shall see," replied Solomon, as, somewhat to Mr Perkins's -astonishment, they found the oak sported. Having made a selection from a -huge bunch of keys, the porter succeeded, after some fumbling, in -getting the door open. The room bore no traces of recent occupation. -Three or four broken chairs and a rickety table were the only -furniture: as far as the light of Solomon's lantern could penetrate, it -looked the very picture of desolation. Solomon chuckled. - -"There _is_ a man living here. I'll swear there is. He was undressing -when I came. Look in the bedroom." - -They opened the door, and saw a bare feather-bed and bolster, the usual -_materiel_ in an unoccupied college chamber. "Seeing's believing," said -the porter. - -But, with Mr Perkins, seeing was not believing. He saw Solomon, and he -saw the empty room, but he did not believe either. But he had evidently -the worst side of the argument as it stood, so he wished the porter a -sulky good-night, and retreated. - -The fact was, that the noisy gentleman in the rooms above, as soon as he -caught the tones of Mr Perkins's voice at Carey's door, had entered into -the joke with exceeding gusto, well aware that the visit was really -intended as a compliment to his own vocal powers. Carey's sudden bolt -puzzled him rather; but as soon as he heard Mr Perkins's foot-steps take -the direction of the porter's lodge, he walked softly down-stairs to the -field of action, and, anticipating in some degree what would follow, -bundled up together sheets, blankets, pillow, dressing apparatus, and -all other signs and tokens of occupation, and made off with them to his -own rooms, sporting the oak behind him, and thus completing the -mystification. - -As the facts of the case were pretty sure to transpire in course of -time, Horace took the safe course of getting his cousin out of college -next morning, and calling on Mr Perkins with a full explanation of the -circumstances, and apologies for Carey as a stranger unacquainted with -the police regulations of their learned body, and the respect due -thereto. Of course the man in authority was obliged to be gracious, as -Leicester could not well be answerable for all the faults of his family; -but there never from that time forth happened a row of any kind with -which he did not in his own mind, probably unconsciously, associate poor -Horace. - -Whether my readers will set down Horace Leicester as a rowing man or -not, is a point which I leave to their merciful consideration: a reading -man was a title which he never aspired to. He took a very creditable -degree in due season, and was placed in the fourth class with a man who -took up a very long list of books, and was supposed to have read himself -stupid. - -"He ought to have done a good deal more," said one of the tutors; "he -had it in him." "I think he was lucky not to have been plucked, myself," -said Mr Perkins; "he was a very noisy man." - - - - -THE EMERALD STUDS - -A REMINISCENCE OF THE CIRCUIT. - -BY PROFESSOR AYTOUN. - -[_MAGA._ AUGUST 1847.] - - -CHAPTER I. - -"Hallo, Tom! Are you not up yet? Why, man, the judges have gone down to -the court half an hour ago, escorted by the most ragged regiment of -ruffians that ever handled a Lochaberaxe." - -Such was my matutinal salutation to my friend Thomas Strachan, as I -entered his room on a splendid spring morning. Tom and I were early -college allies. We had attended, or rather, to speak more correctly, -taken out tickets for the different law classes during the same -sessions. We had fulminated together within the walls of the Juridical -Society on legal topics which might have broken the heart of Erskine, -and rewarded ourselves diligently thereafter with the usual relaxations -of a crab and a comfortable tumbler. We had aggravated the same grinder -with our deplorable exposition of the Pandects; and finally assumed, on -the same day, the full-blown honours of the Advocate's wig and gown. Nor -did our fraternal parallel end there: for although we had walked the -boards of the Parliament House with praiseworthy diligence for a couple -of sessions, neither of us had experienced the dulcet sensation which is -communicated to the palm by the contact of the first professional -guinea. In vain did we attempt to insinuate ourselves into the good -graces of the agents, and coin our intellects into such jocular remarks -as are supposed to find most favour in the eyes of facetious -practitioners. In vain did I carry about with me, for a whole week, an -artificial process most skilfully made up; and in vain did Tom compound -and circulate a delectable ditty, entitled "The Song of the -Multiplepoinding." Not a single solicitor would listen to our wooing, or -even intrust us with the task of making the simplest motion. I believe -they thought me too fast, and Tom too much of a genius; and, therefore, -both of us were left among the ranks of the briefless army of the stove. -This would not do. Our souls burned within us with a noble thirst for -legal fame and fees. We held a consultation (without an agent) at the -Rainbow, and finally determined that since Edinburgh would not hear us, -Jedburgh should have the privilege of monopolising our maiden eloquence -at the ensuing justiciary circuit. Jedburgh presents a capital field to -the ambition of a youthful advocate. Very few counsel go that way; the -cases are usually trifling, and the juries easily bamboozled. It has -besides this immense advantage--that should you by any accident happen -to break down, nobody will in all probability be the wiser for it, -provided you have the good sense to ingratiate yourself with the -circuit-clerk. - -Tom and I arrived at Jedburgh the afternoon before the circuit began. I -was not acquainted with a human being within the parliamentary -boundaries of that respectable borough, and therefore experienced but a -slight spasm of disappointment when informed by the waiter at the inn, -that no inquiries had yet been made after me, on the part of writers -desirous of professional assistance. Strachan had been wiser. Somehow or -other, he had got a letter of introduction to one Bailie Beerie, a -notable civic dignitary of the place; and, accordingly, on presenting -his credentials, was invited by that functionary to dinner, with a hint -that he "might maybe see a wheen real leddies in the evening." This -pointed so plainly to a white choker and dress boots, that Strachan -durst not take the liberty of volunteering the attendance of his friend; -and accordingly I had been left alone to wile away, as I best might, the -tedium of a sluggish evening. Before starting, however, Tom pledged -himself to return in time for supper; as he entertained a painful -conviction that the party would be excessively slow. - -So long as it was light, I amused myself pretty well by strolling along -the banks of the river, and enunciating a splendid speech for the panel -in an imaginary case of murder. However, before I reached the peroration -(which was to consist of a vivid picture of the deathbed of a despairing -jury-man, conscience-stricken by the recollection of an erroneous -verdict), the shades of evening began to close in; the trouts ceased to -leap in the pool, and the rooks desisted from their cawing. I returned -to discuss my solitary mutton at the inn; and then, having nothing to -do, sat down to a moderate libation, and an odd number of the -_Temperance Magazine_, which valuable tract had been left for the -reformation of the traveller by some peripatetic disciple of Father -Mathew. - -Nine o'clock came, but so did not Strachan. I began to wax wroth, -muttered anathemas against my faithless friend, rang for the waiter, -and--having ascertained the fact that a Masonic Lodge was that evening -engaged in celebrating the festival of its peculiar patron--I set out -for the purpose of assisting in the pious and mystic labours of the -Brethren of the Jedburgh St Jeremy. At twelve, when I returned to my -quarters, escorted by the junior deacon, I was informed that Strachan -had not made his appearance, and accordingly I went to bed. - -Next morning I found Tom, as already mentioned, in his couch. There was -a fine air of negligence in the manner in which his habiliments were -scattered over the room. One glazed boot lay within the fender, whilst -the other had been chucked into a coal-scuttle; and there were evident -marks of mud on the surface of his glossy kerseymeres. Strachan himself -looked excessively pale, and the sole rejoinder he made to my -preliminary remark was, a request for soda-water. - -"Tom," said I, inexpressibly shocked at the implied confession of the -nature of his vespers--"I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself! Have -you no higher regard for the dignity of the bar you represent, than to -expose yourself before a Jedburgh Bailie?" - -"Dignity be hanged!" replied the incorrigible Strachan. "Bailie Beerie -is a brick, and I won't hear a word against him. But, O Fred! if you -only knew what you missed last night! Such a splendid woman--by Jove, -sir, a thoroughbred angel. A bust like one of Titian's beauties, and the -voice of a lovelorn nightingale!" - -"One of the Misses Beerie, I presume. Come, Tom, I think I can fill up -your portrait. Hair of the auburn complexion, slightly running into the -carrot--skin fair, but freckled--greenish eyes--red elbows--culpable -ankles--elephantine waist--and sentiments savouring of the Secession." - -"Ring the bell for the waiter, and hold your impious tongue. You never -were farther from the mark in your life. The wing of the raven is not -more glossy than her hair--and oh, the depth and melting lustre of those -dark unfathomable eyes! Waiter! a bottle of soda-water, and you may put -in a thimbleful of cognac." - -"Come, Tom!--none of your ravings. Is this an actual Armida, or a new -freak of your own imagination?" - -"_Bona fide_--an angel in everything, barring the wings." - -"Then how the deuce did such a phenomenon happen to emerge at the -Bailie's?" - -"That's the very question I was asking myself during the whole time of -dinner. She was clearly not a Scotswoman. When she spoke, it was in the -sweet low accents of a southern clime; and she waved away the proffered -haggis with an air of the prettiest disgust!" - -"But the Bailie knew her?" - -"Of course he did. I got the whole story out of him after dinner, and, -upon my honour, I think it is the most romantic one I ever heard. About -a week ago, the lady arrived here without attendants. Some say she came -in the mail-coach--others in a dark travelling chariot and pair. -However, what matters it? the jewel can derive no lustre or value from -the casket!" - -"Yes--but one always likes to have some kind of idea of the setting. Get -on." - -"She seemed in great distress, and inquired whether there were any -letters at the post-office addressed to the Honourable Dorothea Percy. -No such epistle was to be found. She then interrogated the landlord, -whether an elderly lady, whose appearance she minutely described, had -been seen in the neighbourhood of Jedburgh; but except old Mrs -Slammingham of Summertrees, who has been bed-ridden for years, there was -nobody in the county who at all answered to the description. On hearing -this, the lady seemed profoundly agitated--shut herself up in a private -parlour, and refused all sustenance." - -"Had she not a reticule with sandwiches, Tom?" - -"Do not tempt me to commit justifiable homicide--you see I am in the act -of shaving.--At last the landlady, who is a most respectable person, and -who felt deeply interested at the desolate situation of the poor young -lady, ventured to solicit an interview. She was admitted. There are -moments when the sympathy of even the humblest friend is precious. Miss -Percy felt grateful for the interest so displayed, and confided the tale -of her griefs to the matronly bosom of the hostess." - -"And she told you?" - -"No,--but she told Bailie Beerie. That active magistrate thought it his -duty to interfere. He waited upon Miss Percy, and from her lips he -gathered the full particulars of her history. Percy is not her real -name, but she is the daughter of an English peer of very ancient family. -Her father having married a second time, Dorothea was exposed to the -persecutions of a low-minded vulgar woman, whose whole ideas were of -that mean and mercenary description which characterise the Caucasian -race. Naomi Shekels was the offspring of a Jew, and she hated, whilst -she envied, the superior charms of the noble Norman maiden. But she had -gained an enormous supremacy over the wavering intellect of the elderly -Viscount; and Dorothea was commanded to receive, with submission, the -addresses of a loathsome apostate, who had made a prodigious fortune in -the railways." - -"One of the tribe of Issachar?" - -"Exactly. A miscreant whose natural function was the vending of cast -habiliments. Conceive, Fred, what the fair young creature must have felt -at the bare idea of such shocking spousals! She besought, prayed, -implored,--but all in vain. Mammon had taken too deep a root in the -paternal heart,--the old coronet had been furbished up by means of -Israelitish gold, and the father could not see any degradation in -forcing upon his child an alliance similar to his own." - -"You interest me excessively." - -"Is it not a strange tale?" continued Thomas, adjusting a false collar -round his neck. "I knew you would agree with me when I came to the -pathetic part. Well, Fred, the altar was decked, the ornaments ready, -the Rabbi bespoke----" - -"Do you mean to say, Strachan, that Lady Dorothea was to have been -married after the fashion of the Jews?" - -"I don't know exactly. I think Beerie said it was a Rabbi; but that may -have been a flight of his own imagination. However, somebody was ready -to have tied the nuptial knot, and all the joys of existence, and its -hopes, were about to fade for ever from the vision of my poor Dorothea!" - -"_Your_ Dorothea!" cried I in amazement. "Why, Tom--you don't mean to -insinuate that you have gone that length already?" - -"Did I say mine?" repeated Strachan, looking somewhat embarrassed. "It -was a mere figure of speech: you always take one up so uncommonly -short.--Nothing remained for her but flight, or submission to the cruel -mandate. Like a heroic girl, in whose veins the blood of the old -crusaders was bounding, she preferred the former alternative. The only -relation to whom she could apply in so delicate a juncture, was an aged -aunt, residing somewhere in the north of Scotland. To her she wrote, -beseeching her, as she regarded the memory of her buried sister, to -receive her miserable child; and she appointed this town, Jedburgh, as -the place of meeting." - -"But where's the aunt?" - -"That's just the mysterious part of the business. The crisis was so -imminent that Dorothea could not wait for a reply. She disguised -herself,--packed up a few jewels which had been bequeathed to her by her -mother,--and, at the dead of night, escaped from her father's mansion. -Judge of her terror when, on arriving here, panting and perhaps pursued, -she could obtain no trace whatever of her venerable relative. Alone, -inexperienced and unfriended, I tremble to think what might have been -her fate, had it not been for the kind humanity of Beerie." - -"And what was the Bailie's line of conduct?" - -"He behaved to her, Fred, like a parent. He supplied her wants, and -invited her to make his house her home, at least until the aunt should -appear. But the noble creature would not subject herself to the weight -of so many obligations. She accepted, indeed, his assistance, but -preferred remaining here until she could place herself beneath -legitimate guardianship. And doubtless," continued Strachan with -fervour, "her good angel is watching over her." - -"And this is the whole story?" - -"The whole." - -"Do you know, Tom, it looks uncommonly like a piece of deliberate -humbug!" - -"Your ignorance misleads you, Fred. You would not say so had you seen -her. So sweet--so gentle--with such a tinge of melancholy resignation in -her eye, like that of a virgin martyr about to suffer at the stake! No -one could look upon her for a moment and doubt her purity and truth." - -"Perhaps. But you must allow that we are not living exactly in the age -of romance. An elopement with an officer of dragoons is about the -farthest extent of legitimate enterprise which is left to a modern -damsel; and, upon my word, I think the story would have told better, had -some such hero been inserted as a sort of counterpoise to the Jew. But -what's the matter? Have you lost anything?" - -"It is very odd!" said Strachan, "I am perfectly certain that I had on -my emerald studs last night. I recollect that Dorothea admired them -exceedingly. Where on earth can I have put them?" - -"I don't know, I'm sure. I suspect, Tom, you and the Bailie were rather -convivial after supper. Is your watch wound up?" - -"Of course it is. I assure you you are quite wrong. It was a mere matter -of four or five tumblers. Very odd this! Why--I can't find my watch -neither!" - -"Hallo! what the deuce! Have we fallen into a den of thieves? This is a -nice beginning to our circuit practice." - -"I could swear, Fred, that I put it below my pillow before I went to -sleep. I remember, now, that it was some time before I could fit in the -key. What can have become of it?" - -"And you have not left your room since?" - -"No, on my word of honour!" - -"Pooh--pooh! Then it can't possibly be gone. Look beneath the bolster." - -But in vain did we search beneath bolster, mattress, and blankets; yea, -even downwards to the fundamental straw. Not a trace was to be seen of -Cox Savoury's horizontal lever, jewelled, as Tom pathetically remarked, -in four special holes, and warranted to go for a year without more than -a minute's deviation. Neither were the emerald studs, the pride of -Strachan's heart, forthcoming. Boots, chambermaid, and waiter were -collectively summoned--all assisted in the search, and all asseverated -their own integrity. - -"Are ye sure, sir, that ye brocht them hame?" said the waiter, an acute -lad, who had served his apprenticeship at a commercial tavern in the -Gorbals; "Ye was gey an' fou when ye cam in here yestreen." - -"What do you mean, you rascal?" - -"Ye ken ye wadna gang to bed till ye had anither tumbler." - -"Don't talk trash! It was the weakest cold-without in the creation." - -"And then ye had a sair fecht on politics wi' anither man in the -coffee-room." - -"Ha! I remember now--the bagman, who is a member of the League! Where is -the commercial villain?" - -"He gaed aff at sax preceesely, this morning, in his gig, to Kelso." - -"Then, by the head of Thistlewood!" cried Strachan, frantically, "my -ticker will be turned into tracts against the Corn-laws!" - -"Hoot na!" said the waiter, "I canna think that. He looked an unco -respectable-like man." - -"No man can be respectable," replied the aristocratic Thomas, "who -sports such infernal opinions as I heard him utter last night. My poor -studs! Fred--they were a gift from Mary Rivers before we quarrelled, and -I would not have lost them for the universe! Only think of them being -exposed for sale at a free-trade bazaar!" - -"Come, Tom--they may turn up yet." - -"Never in this world, except at a pawnbroker's. I could go mad to think -that my last memorial of Mary is in all probability glittering in the -unclean shirt of a bagman!" - -"Had you not better apply to the Fiscal?" - -"For what purpose? Doubtless the scoundrel has driven off to the nearest -railway, and is triumphantly counting the mile-posts as he steams to -his native Leeds. No, Fred. Both watch and studs are gone beyond the -hope of redemption." - -"The loss is certainly a serious one." - -"No doubt of it: but a thought strikes me. You recollect the edict, -_nautae_, _caupones_, _stabularii_? I have not studied the civil law for -nothing, and am clearly of opinion that in such a case the landlord is -liable." - -"By Jove! I believe you are right. But it would be as well to turn up -Shaw and Dunlop for a precedent before you make any row about it. -Besides, it may be rather difficult to establish that you lost them at -the inn." - -"If they only refer the matter to my oath, I can easily settle that -point," replied Strachan. "Besides, now that I think of it, Miss Percy -can speak to the watch. She asked me what o'clock it was just before we -parted on the stairs." - -"Eh, what! Is the lady in this house?" - -"To be sure--did I not tell you so?" - -"I say, Tom--couldn't you contrive to let one have a peep at this angel -of yours?" - -"Quite impossible. She is the shyest creature in the world, and would -shrink from the sight of a stranger." - -"But, my dear Tom----" - -"I can't do it, I tell you; so it's no use asking me." - -"Well, I must say you are abominably selfish. But what on earth are you -going to do with that red-and-blue Joinville? You can't go down to court -without a white neckcloth." - -"I am not going down to court." - -"Why, my good fellow! what on earth is the meaning of this?" - -"I am not going down to court, that's all. I say, Fred, how do I look in -this sort of thing?" - -"Uncommonly like a cock-pheasant in full plumage. But tell me what you -mean?" - -"Why, since you must needs know, I am going up-stairs to breakfast with -Miss Percy." - -So saying, Mr Strachan made me a polite bow, and left the apartment. I -took my solitary way to the court-house, marvelling at the extreme -rapidity of the effect which is produced by the envenomed darts of -Cupid. - - -CHAPTER II. - -On entering the court, I found that the business had commenced. An -enormous raw-boned fellow, with a shock of the fieriest hair, and hands -of such dimensions that a mere glimpse of them excited unpleasant -sensations at your windpipe, was stationed at the bar, to which, from -previous practice, he had acquired a sort of prescriptive right. - -"James M'Wilkin, or Wilkinson, or Wilson," said the presiding judge, in -a tone of disgust which heightened with each successive alias, "attend -to the indictment which is about to be preferred against you." - -And certainly, if the indictment contained a true statement of the -facts, James M'Wilkin, or Wilkinson, or Wilson, was about as -thoroughpaced a marauder as ever perambulated a common. He was charged -with sheep-stealing and assault; inasmuch as, on a certain night -subsequent to the Kelso fair, he, the said individual with the plural -denominations, did wickedly and feloniously steal, uplift, and away take -from a field adjoining to the Northumberland road, six wethers, the -property, or in the lawful possession, of Jacob Gubbins, grazier, then -and now, or lately, residing in Morpeth; and, moreover, on being -followed by the said Gubbins, who demanded restitution of his property, -he, the said M'Wilkin, &c. had, in the most brutal manner, struck, -knocked down, and lavished divers kicks upon the corporality of the -Northumbrian bumpkin, to the fracture of three of his ribs, and -otherwise to the injury of his person. - -During the perusal of this formidable document by the clerk, M'Wilkin -stood scratching his poll, and leering about him as though he considered -the whole ceremony as a sort of solemn joke. I never in the course of my -life cast eyes on a more nonchalant or unmitigated ruffian. - -"How do you say, M'Wilkin?" asked the judge; "are you guilty or not -guilty?" - -"Not guilty, aff course. D'ye tak me for a fule?" and M'Wilkin flounced -down upon his seat, as though he had been an ornament to society. - -"Have you a counsel?" asked the judge. - -"De'il ane--nor a bawbee," replied the free-booter. - -Acting upon the noble principle of Scottish jurisprudence, that no man -shall undergo his trial without sufficient legal advice, his lordship in -the kindest manner asked me to take charge of the fortunes of the -forlorn M'Wilkin. Of course I made no scruples; for, so long as it was -matter of practice, I should have felt no hesitation in undertaking the -defence of Beelzebub. I therefore leaned across the dock, and exchanged -a few hurried sentences with my first client. - -"Why don't you plead guilty?" - -"What for? I've been here before. Man, I'm thinking ye're a saft ane!" - -"Did you not steal the sheep?" - -"Ay--that's just the question. Let them find that out." - -"But the grazier saw you?" - -"I blackened his e'es." - -"You'll be transported to a dead certainty." - -"Deevil a fears, if ye're worth the price o' half a mutchkin. I'm -saying--get me a Hawick jury, and it's a' richt. They ken me gey and -weel thereabouts." - -Although I was by no means satisfied in my own mind that an intimate -acquaintance with M'Wilkin and his previous pursuits would be a strong -recommendation in his favour to any possible assize, I thought it best -to follow his instructions, and managed my challenges so well that I -secured a majority of Hawickers. The jury being sworn in, the cause -proceeded; and certainly, before three witnesses had been examined, it -appeared to me beyond all manner of doubt, that, in the language of Tom -Campbell, my unfortunate client was - - "Doom'd the long coves of Sydney isle to see," - -as a permanent addition to that cultivated and Patagonian population. -The grazier stood to his story like a man, and all efforts to break him -down by cross-examination were fruitless. There was also another hawbuck -who swore to the sheep, and was witness to the assault; so that, in -fact, the evidence was legally complete. - -Whilst I was occupied in the vain attempt to make Gubbins contradict -himself, there had been a slight commotion in the court-room. On looking -round afterwards, I was astonished to behold my friend Strachan seated -in the Magistrate's box, next to a very pretty and showily-dressed -woman, to whom he was paying the most marked and deliberate attention. -On the other side of her was an individual in a civic chain, whose fat, -pursy, apoplectic appearance, and nose of the colour of an Orleans plum, -thoroughly realised my mental picture of the Bailie. His small, -blood-shot eyes twinkled with magisterial dignity and importance; and he -looked, beside Miss Percy--for I could not doubt that it was she--like a -satyr in charge of Florimel. - -The last witness for the crown, a very noted police-officer from -Glasgow, was then put into the box, to prove a previous conviction -against my friend M'Wilkin. This man bore a high reputation in his -calling, and was, indeed, esteemed as a sort of Scottish Vidocq, who -knew by headmark every filcher of a handkerchief between Caithness and -the Border. He met the bold broad stare of the prisoner with a kind of -nod, as much as to assure him that his time was very nearly up; and then -deliberately proceeded to take a hawk's-eye view of the assembly. I -noticed a sort of quiet sneer as he glanced at the Magistrate's box. - -"Poor Strachan!" thought I. "His infatuation must indeed be palpable, -since even a common officer can read his secret in a moment." - -I might just as well have tried to shake Ailsa Craig as to make an -impression upon this witness; however, heroically devoted to my trust, I -hazarded the attempt, and ended by bringing out several additional -tales of turpitude in the life and times of M'Wilkin. - -"Make room there in the passage! The lady has fainted," cried the macer. - -I started to my feet, and was just in time to see Miss Percy conveyed -from the court, in an apparently inanimate state, by the Bailie and the -agitated Strachan. - -"Devilish fine-looking woman that!" observed the Advocate-Depute across -the table. "Where did your friend Mr Strachan get hold of her?" - -"I really don't know. I say--are you going to address the jury for the -crown?" - -"It is quite immaterial. The case is distinctly proved, and I presume -you don't intend to speak?" - -"I'm not so sure of that." - -"Oh, well,--in that case I suppose I must say a word or two. This closes -the evidence for the crown, my lord;" and the Depute began to turn over -his papers, preparatory to a short harangue. - -He had just commenced his speech, when I felt a hand laid upon my -shoulder. I looked around: Strachan was behind me, pale and almost -breathless with excitement. - -"Fred--can I depend upon your friendship?" - -"Of course you can. What's the row?" - -"Have you ten pounds about you?" - -"Yes--but what do you mean to do with them? Surely you are not going to -make a blockhead of yourself by bolting?" - -"No--no! give me the money--quick!" - -"On your word of honour, Tom?" - -"On my sacred word of honour!--That's a good fellow--thank you, Fred;" -and Strachan pocketed the currency. "Now," said he, "I have just one -other request to make." - -"What's that?" - -"Speak against time, there's a dear fellow! Spin out the case as long as -you can, and don't let the jury retire for at least three quarters of an -hour. I know you can do it better than any other man at the bar." - -"Are you in earnest, Tom?" - -"Most solemnly. My whole future happiness--nay, perhaps the life of a -human being depends upon it." - -"In that case I think I shall tip them an hour." - -"Heaven reward you, Fred! I never can forget your kindness!" - -"But where shall I see you afterwards?" - -"At the hotel. Now, my dear boy, be sure that you pitch it in, and, if -possible, get the judge to charge after you. Time's all that's -wanted--adieu!" and Tom disappeared in a twinkling. - -I had little leisure to turn over the meaning of this interview in my -mind, for the address of my learned opponent was very short and pithy. -He merely pointed out the clear facts, as substantiated by evidence, -and brought home to the unhappy M'Wilkin; and concluded by demanding a -verdict on both charges contained in the indictment against the -prisoner. - -"Do you wish to say anything, sir?" said the judge to me, with a kind of -tone which indicated his hope that I was going to say nothing. Doubtless -his lordship thought that, as a very young counsel, I would take the -hint; but he was considerably mistaken in his man. I came to the bar for -practice--I went on the circuit with the solemn determination to speak -in every case, however desperate; and it needed not the admonition of -Strachan to make me carry my purpose into execution. What did I care -about occupying the time of the court? His lordship was paid to listen, -and could very well afford to hear the man who was pleading for M'Wilkin -without a fee. I must say, however, that he looked somewhat disgusted -when I rose. - -A first appearance is a nervous thing, but there is nothing like going -boldly at your subject. "_Fiat experimentum in corpore vili_" is a -capital maxim in the Justiciary Court. The worse your case, the less -chance you have to spoil it; and I never had a worse than M'Wilkin's. - -I began by buttering the jury on their evident intelligence and the high -functions they had to discharge, which of course were magnified to the -skies. I then went slap-dash at the evidence; and, as I could say -nothing in favour of my client, directed a tremendous battery of abuse -and insinuation against his accuser. - -"And who is this Gubbins, gentlemen, that you should believe this most -incredible, most atrocious, and most clumsy apocrypha of his? I will -tell you. He is an English butcher--a dealer in cattle and in -bestial--one of those men who derive their whole subsistence from the -profits realised by the sale of our native Scottish produce. This is the -way in which our hills are depopulated, and our glens converted into -solitudes. It is for him and his confederates--not for us--that our -shepherds watch and toil, that our herds and flocks are reared, that the -richness of the land is absorbed! And who speaks to the character of -this Gubbins? You have heard the pointless remarks made by my learned -friend upon the character of my unfortunate client; but he has not dared -to adduce in this court one single witness in behalf of the character of -his witness. Gentlemen, he durst not do it! Gubbins has deponed to you -that he bought those sheep at the fair of Kelso, from a person of the -name of Shiells, and that he paid the money for them. Where is the -evidence of that? Where is Shiells to tell us whether he actually sold -these sheep, or whether, on the contrary, they were not stolen from him? -Has it been proved to you, gentlemen, that M'Wilkin is not a friend of -Shiells--that he did not receive notice of the theft--that he did not -pursue the robber, and, recognising the stolen property by their mark, -seize them for the benefit of their owner? No such proof at least has -been led upon the part of the crown, and in the absence of it, I ask you -fearlessly, whether you can possibly violate your consciences by -returning a verdict of guilty? Is it not possible--nay, is it not -extremely probable, that Gubbins was the actual thief? Was it not his -interest, far more than M'Wilkin's, to abstract those poor unhappy -sheep, because it is avowedly his trade to fill the insatiable maw of -the Southron? And in that case, who should be at the bar? Gubbins! -Gubbins, I say, who this day has the unparalleled audacity to appear -before an enlightened Scottish jury, and to give evidence which, in -former times, might have led to the awful consequence of the execution -of an innocent man! And this is what my learned friend calls evidence! -Evidence to condemn a fellow-countryman, gentlemen? No--not to condemn a -dog!" - -Having thus summarily disposed of Gubbins, I turned my artillery against -the attendant drover and the policeman. The first I indignantly -denounced as either an accomplice or a tool: the second I smote more -severely. Policemen are not popular in Hawick; and, knowing this, I -contrived to blacken the Scottish Vidocq as a bloodhound. - -But by far the finest flight of fancy in which I indulged was reserved -for the peroration. I was not quite sure of the effect of my commentary -on the evidence, and therefore thought it might be advisable to touch -upon a national law. - -"And now, gentlemen," said I, "assuming for one moment that all my -learned friend has said to you is true--that the sheep really belonged -to this Gubbins, and were taken from him by M'Wilkin--let us calmly and -deliberately consider how far such a proceeding can be construed into a -crime. What has my unfortunate client done that he should be condemned -by a jury of his countrymen? What he stands charged with is simply -this--that he has prevented an Englishman from driving away the produce -of our native hills. And is this a crime? It may be so, for aught I -know, by statute; but sure I am, that in the intention, to which alone -you must look, there lies a far deeper element of patriotism than of -deliberate guilt. Think for one moment, gentlemen, of the annals of -which we are so proud--of the ballads still chanted in the hall and in -the hamlet--of the lonely graves and headstones that are scattered all -along the surface of the southern muirs. Do not these annals tell us how -the princes and the nobles of the land were wont to think it neither -crime nor degradation to march with their retainers across the Borders, -and to harry with fire and sword the fields of Northumberland and -Durham? Randolph and the Bruce have done it, and yet no one dares to -attach the stigma of dishonour to their names. Do not our ballads tell -how at Lammas-tide, - - 'The doughty Earl of Douglas rade - Into England to fetch a prey?' - -And who shall venture to impeach the honour of the hero who fell upon -the field of Otterbourne? Need I remind you of those who have died in -their country's cause, and whose graves are still made the object of -many a pious pilgrimage? Need I speak of Flodden, that woeful place, -where the Flowers of the Forest were left lying in one ghastly heap -around their king? Ah, gentlemen! have I touched you now? True, it was -in the olden time that these things were done and celebrated; but -remember this, that society may change its place, states and empires may -rise and be consolidated, but patriotism still lives enduring and -undying as of yore! And who shall dare to say that patriotism was not -the motive of M'Wilkin? Who shall presume to analyse or to blame the -instinct which may have driven him to the deed? Call him not a -felon--call him rather a poet; for over his kindling imagination fell -the mighty shadow of the past. Old thoughts, old feelings, old impulses, -were burning in his soul. He saw in Gubbins, not the grazier, but the -lawless spoiler of his country; and he rose, as a Borderer should, to -vindicate the honour of his race. He may have been mistaken in what he -did, but the motive, at least, was pure. Honour it then, gentlemen, for -it is the same motive which is at all times the best safeguard of a -nation's independence; and do honour likewise to yourselves by -pronouncing a unanimous verdict of acquittal in favour of the prisoner -at the bar!" - -By the time I had finished this harangue, I was wrought up to such a -pitch of enthusiasm, that I really considered M'Wilkin in the light of -an extremely ill-used individual, and the tears stood in my eyes as I -recapitulated the history of his wrongs. Several of the jury, too, began -to get extremely excited, and looked as fierce as falcons when I -reminded them of the field of Flodden. But my hopes were considerably -damped when I heard the charge of his lordship. With all respect for the -eminent senator who that day presided on the bench, I think he went -rather too far when he designated my maiden-effort a rhapsody which -could only be excused on account of the inexperience of the gentleman -who uttered it. Passing from that unpleasant style of stricture, he went -_seriatim_ over all the crimes of M'Wilkin, and very distinctly -indicated his opinion that a more consummate ruffian had seldom figured -in the dock. When he concluded, however, there was a good deal of -whispering in the jury-box, and at last the gentlemen of the assize -requested permission to retire. - -"That was a fine flare-up of yours, Freddy," said Anthony Whaup, the -only other counsel for the prisoners upon the circuit. "You came it -rather strong, though, in the national line. I don't think our venerable -friend overhead half likes your ideas of international law." - -"Why, yes--I confess he gave me a tolerable wigging. But what would you -have me do? I must have said some thing." - -"Oh, by Jove, your were perfectly right! I always make a point of -speaking myself; and I can assure you that you did remarkably well. It -was a novel view, but decidedly ingenious, and may lead to great -results. If that fellow gets off, you may rely upon it there will be -some bloodshed again upon the Border." - -"And a jolly calendar, of course, for next circuit. I say, Anthony,--how -many cases have you got?" - -"Two thefts with habit and repute, a hamesucken, rather a good forgery, -and an assault with intent to commit." - -"Long?" - -"Rather--but poor pay. I haven't sacked more than nine guineas -altogether. Gad!" continued Anthony, stretching himself, "this is slow -work. I'd rather by a great deal be rowing on the canal." - -"Hush! here come the jury." - -They entered, took their seats, and each man in succession answered to -his name. I stole a glance at M'Wilkin. He looked as leonine as ever, -and kept winking perseveringly to the Hawickers. - -"Now, gentlemen," said the clerk of court, "what is your verdict?" - -The foreman rose. - -"The jury, by a majority, find the charges against the prisoner NOT -PROVEN." - -"Hurrah!" shouted M'Wilkin, reckless of all authority. "Hurrah! I -say--you counsellor in the wig--ye shanna want a sheep's head thae three -years, if there's ane to be had on the Border!" - -And in this way I gained my first acquittal. - - -CHAPTER III. - -I found Strachan in his room with his face buried in the bed-clothes. He -was kicking his legs as though he suffered under a violent fit of the -toothache. - -"I say, Tom, what's the matter? Look up, man! Do you know I've got that -scoundrel off?" - -No answer. - -"Tom, I say? Tom, you dunderhead--what do you mean by making an ass of -yourself this way? Get up, for shame, and answer me!" - -Poor Strachan raised his head from the coverlet. His eyes were -absolutely pink, and his cheeks of the tint of a lemon. - -"O Fred, Fred!" said he with a series of interjectional gasps, "I am the -most unfortunate wretch in the universe. All the hopes I had formerly -cherished are blighted at once in the bud! She is gone, my friend--gone -away from me, and, alas! I fear, for ever!" - -"The deuce she has! and how?" - -"Oh what madness tempted me to lead her to the court?--what infatuation -it was to expose those angelic features to the risk of recognition! Who -that ever saw those dove-like eyes could forget them?" - -"I have no objection to the eyes--they were really very passable. But -who twigged her?" - -"An emissary of her father's--that odious miscreant who was giving -evidence at the trial." - -"The policeman? Whew! Tom!--I don't like that." - -"He was formerly the land-steward of the Viscount;--a callous, cruel -wretch, who was more than suspected of having made away with his wife." - -"And did he recognise her?" - -"Dorothea says that she felt fascinated by the glitter of his cold grey -eye. A shuddering sensation passed through her frame, just as the poor -warbler of the woods quivers at the approach of the rattle-snake. A -dark mist gathered before her sight, and she saw no more until she awoke -to consciousness within my arms." - -"Very pretty work, truly! And what then?" - -"In great agitation, she told me that she durst tarry no longer here. -She was certain that the officer would make it his business to track -her, and communicate her hiding-place to her family; and she shook with -horror when she thought of the odious Israelitish bridegroom. 'The -caverns of the deep green sea--the high Tarpeian rock--the Leucadian -cliff of Sappho,' she said, 'all would be preferable to that! And yet, O -Thomas, to think that we should have met so suddenly, and that to part -for ever!' 'Pon my soul, Fred, I am the most miserable of created -beings." - -"Why, what on earth has become of her?" - -"Gone--and I don't know whither. She would not even apprise the Bailie -of her departure, lest she might leave some clue for discovery. She -desired me to see him, to thank him, and to pay him for her,--all of -which I promised to do. With one kiss--one deep, burning, agonised -kiss--which I shall carry with me to my grave--she tore herself away, -sprang into the postchaise, and in another moment was lost to me for -ever!" - -"And my ten pounds?" said I, in a tone of considerable emotion. - -"Would you have had me think twice," asked Strachan indignantly, -"before I tendered my assistance to a forlorn angel in distress, even -though she possessed no deeper claims on my sympathy? I thought, -Frederick, you had more chivalry in your nature. You need not be uneasy -about that trifle; I shall be in funds some time about Christmas." - -"Humph! I thought it was a P. P. transaction, but no matter. And is this -all the clue you have got to the future residence of the lady?" - -"No,--she is to write me from the nearest post-town. You will see, Fred, -when the letter arrives, how well worthy she is of my adoration." - -I have found, by long experience, that it is no use remonstrating with a -man who is head-over-ears in love. The tender passion affects us -differently, according to our constitutions. One set of fellows, who are -generally the pleasantest, seldom get beyond the length of flirtation. -They are always at it, but constantly changing, and therefore manage to -get through a tolerable catalogue of attachments before they are finally -brought to book. Such men are quite able to take care of themselves, and -require but little admonition. You no doubt hear them now and then -abused for trifling with the affections of young women--as if the latter -had themselves the slightest remorse in playing precisely the same -game!--but in most cases such censure is undeserved, for they are quite -as much in earnest as their neighbours, so long as the impulse lasts. -The true explanation is, that they have survived their first passion, -and that their faith is somewhat shaken in the boyish creed of the -absolute perfectibility of woman. The great disappointment of life does -not make them misanthropes--but it forces them to caution, and to a -closer appreciation of character than is usually undertaken in the first -instance. They have become, perhaps, more selfish--certainly more -suspicious, and though often on the verge of a proposal, they never -commit themselves without an extreme degree of deliberation. - -Another set seem designed by nature to be the absolute victims of woman. -Whenever they fall in love, they do it with an earnestness and an -obstinacy which is actually appalling. The adored object of their -affections can twine them round her finger, quarrel with them, cheat -them, caricature them, or flirt with others, without the least risk of -severing the triple cord of attachment. They become as tame as -poodle-dogs, will submit patiently to any manner of cruelty or caprice, -and in fact seem rather to be grateful for such treatment than -otherwise. Clever women usually contrive to secure a captive of this -kind. He is useful to them in a hundred ways, never interferes with -their schemes, and, if the worst comes to the worst, they can always -fall back upon him as a _pis-aller_. - -My friend Tom Strachan belonged decidedly to this latter section. Mary -Rivers, a remarkably clever and very showy girl, but as arrant a flirt -as ever wore rosebud in her bosom, had engrossed the whole of his heart -before he reached the reflecting age of twenty, and kept him for nearly -five years in a state of uncomplaining bondage. Not that I believe she -ever cared about him. Tom was as poor as a church-mouse, and had nothing -on earth to look to except the fruits of his professional industry, -which, judging from all appearances, would be a long time indeed in -ripening. Mary was not the sort of person to put up with love in a -cottage, even had Tom's circumstances been adequate to defray the rent -of a tenement of that description: she had a vivid appreciation, not -only of the substantials but of the higher luxuries of existence. But -her vanity was flattered at having in her train at least one devoted -dangler, whom she could play off, whenever opportunity required, against -some more valuable admirer. Besides, Strachan was a man of family, tall, -good-looking, and unquestionably clever in his way: he also danced the -polka well, and was useful in the ball-room or the picnic. So Mary -Rivers kept him on in a kind of blissful dream, just sunning him -sufficiently with her smiles to make him believe that he was beloved, -but never allowing matters to go so far as to lead to the report that -they were engaged. Tom asked for nothing more. He was quite contented -to indulge for years in a dream of future bliss, and wrote during the -interval a great many more sonnets than summonses. Unfortunately sonnets -don't pay well, so that his worldly affairs did not progress at any -remarkable ratio. And he only awoke to a sense of his real situation, -when Miss Rivers, having picked a quarrel with him one day in the -Zoological Gardens, announced on the next to her friends that she had -accepted the hand of a bilious East India merchant. - -Tom made an awful row about it--grew as attenuated and brown as an -eel--and garnished his conversation with several significant hints about -suicide. He was, however, saved from that ghastly alternative by being -drafted into a Rowing Club, who plied their gondolas daily on the Union -Canal. Hard exercise, beer, and pulling had their usual sanatory effect, -and Tom gradually recovered his health, if not his spirits. - -It was at this very crisis that he fell in with this mysterious Miss -Percy. There was an immense hole in his affections which required to be -filled up; and, as nature abhors a vacuum, he plugged it with the image -of Dorothea. The flight, therefore, of the fair levanter, after so brief -an intercourse, was quite enough to upset him. He was in the situation -of a man who is informed over-night that he has succeeded to a large -fortune, and who gets a letter next morning explaining that it is a -mere mistake. I was therefore not at all astonished either at his -paroxysms or his credulity. - -We had rather a dreary dinner that day. The judges always entertain the -first day of circuit, and it is considered matter of etiquette that the -counsel should attend. Sometimes these forensic feeds are pleasant -enough; but on the present occasion there was a visible damp thrown over -the spirits of the party. His lordship was evidently savage at the -unforeseen escape of M'Wilkin, and looked upon me, as I thought, with -somewhat of a prejudiced eye. Bailie Beerie and the other magistrates -seemed uneasy at their unusual proximity to a personage who had the -power of death and transportation, and therefore abstained from emitting -the accustomed torrent of civic facetiousness. One of the sheriffs -wanted to be off on a cruise, and another was unwell with the gout. The -Depute Advocate was fagged; Whaup surly as a bear with a sore ear, on -account of the tenuity of his fees; and Strachan, of course, in an -extremely unconversational mood. So I had nothing for it but to eat and -drink as plentifully as I could, and very thankful I was that the claret -was tolerably sound. - -We rose from table early. As I did not like to leave Tom to himself in -his present state of mind, we adjourned to his room for the purpose of -enjoying a cigar; and there, sure enough, upon the table lay the -expected missive. Strachan dashed at it like a pike pouncing upon a -parr; I lay down upon the sofa, lit my weed, and amused myself by -watching his physiognomy. - -"Dear suffering angel!" said Tom at last, with a sort of whimper, -"Destiny has done its worst! We have parted, and the first fond dream of -our love has vanished before the cold and dreary dawn of reality! O my -friend--we were like the two birds in the Oriental fable, each doomed to -traverse the world before we could encounter our mate--we met, and -almost in the same hour the thunderbolt burst above us!" - -"Yes--two very nice birds," said I. "But what does she say in the -letter?" - -"You may read it," replied Tom, and he handed me the epistle. It was -rather a superior specimen of penmanship, and I don't choose to -criticise the style. Its tenor was as follows:-- - - "I am hardly yet, my dear friend, capable of estimating the true - extent of my emotions. Like the buoyant seaweed torn from its - native bed among the submarine forest of the corals, I have been - tossed from wave to wave, hurried onwards by a stream more - resistless than that which sweeps through the Gulf of Labrador, and - far--far away as yet is the wished-for haven of my rest. Hitherto - my life has been a tissue of calamity and woe. Over my head since - childhood, has stretched a dull and dreary canopy of clouds, - shutting me out for ever from a glimpse of the blessed sun. Once, - and but once only have I seen a chasm in that envious veil--only - once and for a few, a _very_ few moments, have I gazed upon the - blue empyrean, and felt my heart expand and thrill to the glories - of its liquid lustre. That once--oh, Mr Strachan, can I ever forget - it?--that once comprises the era of the few hours which were the - silent witnesses of our meeting! - - "Am I weak in writing to you thus? Perhaps I am; but then, Thomas, - I have never been taught to dissemble. Did I, however, think it - probable that we should ever meet again--that I should hear from - your lips a repetition of that language which now is chronicled in - my soul--it may be that I would not have dared to risk an avowal - so candid and so dear! As it is, it matters not. You have been my - benefactor, my kind consoler--my friend. You have told me that you - love; and in the fulness and native simplicity of my heart, I - believe you. And if it be any satisfaction to you to know that - your sentiments have been at least appreciated, believe that of - all the pangs which the poor Dorothea has suffered, this last - agony of parting has been incomparably the most severe. - - "You asked me if there was no hope. Oh, my Thomas! what would I - not give could I venture to answer, yes? But it cannot be! You are - young and happy, and will yet be fortunate and beloved: why, - then, should I permit so fair an existence to be blighted by the - upas-tree of destiny under which I am doomed to languish? You - shall not say that I am selfish--you shall not hereafter reproach - me for having permitted you to share a burden too great for both - of us to carry. You must learn the one great lesson of existence, - to submit and to forget! - - "I am going far away, to the margin of that inhospitable shore - which receives upon its rocks the billows of the unbroken - Atlantic--or haply, amongst the remoter isles, I shall listen to - the sea-mew's cry. Do not weep for me. Amidst the myriad of bright - and glowing things which flutter over the surface of this green - creation, let one feeble, choking, overburdened heart be - forgotten! Follow me not--seek me not--for, like the mermaid on - the approach of the mariner, I should shrink from the face of man - into the glassy caverns of the deep. - - "Adieu, Thomas, adieu! Say what you will for me to the noble and - generous Beerie. Would to heaven that I could send him some token - in return for all his kindness! But a good and gallant heart is - its own most adequate reward. - - "They are putting to the horses--I can hear the rumble of the - chariot! Oh, once more, dear friend--alas, too inexpressibly - dear!--take my last farewell. Adieu--my heart is breaking as I - write the bitter word!--forget me." - - "DOROTHEA." - -"Do you wonder at my sorrow now?" said Strachan, as I laid down the -passionate epistle. - -"Why, no. It is well got up upon the whole, and does credit to the -lady's erudition. But I don't see why she should insist so strongly upon -eternal separation. Have you no idea whereabouts that aunt of hers may -happen to reside?" - -"Not the slightest." - -"Because, judging from her letter, it must be somewhere about Benbecula -or Tiree. I shouldn't even wonder if she had a summer box on St Kilda." - -"Right! I did not think of that--you observe she speaks of the remoter -isles." - -"To be sure, and for half a century there has not been a mermaid seen to -the east of the Lewis. Now, take my advice, Tom--don't make a fool of -yourself in the meantime, but wait until the Court of Session rises in -July. That will allow plenty of time for matters to settle; and if the -old Viscount and that abominable Abiram don't find her out before then, -you may depend upon it they will abandon the search. In the interim, the -lady will have cooled. Walks upon the sea-shore are uncommonly dull -without something like reciprocal sentimentality. The odds are, that the -old aunt is addicted to snuff, tracts, and the distribution of flannel, -and before August, the fair Dorothea will be yearning for a sight of her -adorer. You can easily gammon Anthony Whaup into a loan of that yacht of -his which he makes such a boast of; and if you go prudently about it, -and flatter him on the score of his steering, I haven't the least doubt -that he will victual his hooker and give you a cruise in it for -nothing." - -"Admirable, my dear Fred! We shall touch at all the isles from Iona to -Uist; and if Miss Percy be indeed there--" - -"You can carry her off on five minutes' notice, and our long friend will -be abundantly delighted. Only, mind this! If you want my candid opinion -on the wisdom of such an alliance, I should strongly recommend you to -meddle no farther in the matter, for I have my doubts about the -Honourable Dorothea, and----" - -"Bah, Fred! Doubts after such a letter as that? Impossible! No, my dear -friend--your scheme is admirable--unexceptionable, and I shall certainly -act upon it. But oh--it is a weary time till July!" - -"Merely a short interval of green pease and strawberries. I advise you, -however, to fix down Whaup as early as you can for the cruise." - -The hint was rapidly taken. We sent for our facetious friend, ordered -supper, and in the course of a couple of tumblers, persuaded him that -his knowledge of nautical affairs was not exceeded by that of T. P. -Cooke, and that he was much deeper versed in the mysteries of -sky-scraping than Fenimore Cooper. Whaup gave in. By dint of a little -extra persuasion, I believe we might have coaxed him into a voyage for -Otaheite; and before we parted for the evening it was agreed that -Strachan should hold himself in readiness to start for the Western -Islands about the latter end of July--Whaup being responsible for the -provisions and champagne, whilst Tom pledged himself to cigars. - - -CHAPTER IV. - -I never ascertained the exact amount of the sum which Tom handed over to -the Bailie. It must, however, have been considerable, for he took to -retrenching his expenditure, and never once dropped a hint about the ten -pounds which I was so singularly verdant as to lend him. The summer -session stole away as quickly as its predecessors, though not, in so far -as I was concerned, quite as unprofitably, for I got a couple of -Sheriff-court papers to draw in consequence of my M'Wilkin appearance. -Tom, however, was very low about himself, and affected solitude. He -would not join in any of the strawberry lunches or fish dinners so -attractive to the junior members of the bar; but frequented the -Botanical Gardens, where he might be seen any fine afternoon, stretched -upon the bank beside the pond, concocting sonnets, or inscribing the -name of Dorothea upon the monument dedicated to Linnaeus. - -Time, however, stole on. The last man who was going to be married got -his valedictory dinner at the close of the session. Gowns were thrown -off, wigs boxed up, and we all dispersed to the country wheresoever our -inclination might lead us. I resolved to devote the earlier part of the -vacation to the discovery of the town of Clackmannan--a place of which I -had often heard, but which no human being whom I ever encountered had -seen. Whaup was not oblivious of his promise, and Strachan clove unto -him like a limpet. - -We did not meet again until September was well-nigh over. In common with -Strachan, I had adopted the resolution of changing my circuit, and -henceforth adhering to Glasgow, which, from its superior supply of -criminals, is the favourite resort of our young forensic aspirants. So I -packed my portmanteau, invoked the assistance of Saint Rollox, and -started for the balmy west. - -The first man I met in George's Square was my own delightful Thomas. He -looked rather thin; was fearfully sun-burned; had on a pair of canvass -trousers most wofully bespattered with tar, and evidently had not shaved -for a fortnight. - -"Why, Tom, my dear fellow!" cried I, "can this possibly be you? What the -deuce have you been doing with yourself? You look as hairy as Robinson -Crusoe." - -"You should see Whaup,--he's rather worse off than Friday. We have just -landed at the Broomielaw, but I was obliged to leave Anthony in a tavern -for fear we should be mobbed in the street. I'm off by the rail to -Edinburgh, to get some decent toggery for us both. Lend me a pound-note, -will you?" - -"Certainly--that's eleven, you recollect. But what's the meaning of all -this? Where is the yacht?" - -"Safe--under twenty fathoms of dark blue water, at a place they call the -Sneeshanish Islands. Catch me going out again, with Anthony as -steersman!" - -"No doubt he is an odd sort of Palinurus. But when did this happen?" - -"Ten days ago. We were three days and nights upon the rock, with nothing -to eat except two biscuits, raw mussels and tangle!" - -"Mercy on us! and how did you get off?" - -"In a kelp-boat from Harris. But I haven't time for explanation just -now. Go down, like a good fellow, to the Broomielaw, No. 431--you will -find Anthony enjoying himself with beef steaks and bottled stout, in the -back parlour of the Cat and Bagpipes. I must refer you to him for the -details." - -"One word more--you'll be back to the circuit?" - -"Decidedly. To-morrow morning: as soon as I can get my things -together." - -"And the lady--what news of her?" - -The countenance of Strachan fell. - -"Ah, my dear friend! I wish you had not touched upon that string--you -have set my whole frame a-jarring. No trace of her--none--none! I fear I -shall never see her more!" - -"Come! don't be down-hearted. One never can tell what may happen. -Perhaps you may meet her sooner than you think." - -"You are a kind-hearted fellow, Fred. But I've lost all hope. Nothing -but a dreary existence is now before me, and--but, by Jupiter, there -goes the starting bell!" - -Tom vanished, like Aubrey's apparition, with a melodious twang, and a -perceptible odour of tar; and so, being determined to expiscate the -matter, I proceeded towards the Broomielaw, and in due time became -master of the locality of the Cat and Bagpipes. - -"Is there a Mr Whaup here?" I inquired of Mrs M'Tavish, the landlady, -who was filling a gill-stoup at the bar. - -"Here you are, old chap!" cried the hilarious voice of Anthony from an -inner apartment. "Turn to the right, steer clear of the scrubbing -brushes, and help yourself to a mouthful of Guinness." - -I obeyed. Heavens, what a figure he was! His trousers were rent both at -the knees and elsewhere, and were kept together solely by means of -whip-cord. His shirt had evidently not benefited by the removal of the -excise duties upon soap, and was screened from the scrutiny of the -beholder by an extempore paletot, fabricated out of sail-cloth, without -the remotest apology for sleeves. - -Anthony, however, looked well in health, and appeared to be in -tremendous spirits. - -"Tip us your fin, my old coxs'un!" said he, winking at me over the rim -of an enormous pewter vessel which effectually eclipsed the lower -segment of his visage. "Blessed if I ain't as glad to see you as one of -Mother Carey's chickens in a squall." - -"Come, Anthony! leave off your nautical nonsense, and talk like a man of -the world. What on earth have you and Tom Strachan been after?" - -"Nothing on earth, but a good deal on sea, and a trifle on as -uncomfortable a section of basalt as ever served two unhappy buccaniers -for bed, table, and sofa. The chillness is not off me yet." - -"But how did it happen?" - -"Very simply: but I'll tell you all about it. It's a long story, though, -so if you please I shall top off with something hot. I'm glad you've -come, however, for I had some doubts how far this sort of original -Petersham would inspire confidence as to my credit in the bosom of the -fair M'Tavish. It's all right now, however, so here goes for my yarn." - -But I shall not follow my friend through all the windings of his -discourse, varied though it certainly was, like the adventures of the -venerated Sinbad. Suffice it to say, that they were hardly out of sight -of the Cumbraes before Tom confided the whole tale of his sorrows to the -callous Anthony, who, as he expressed it, had come out for a lark, and -had no idea of rummaging the whole of the west coast and the adjacent -islands for a petticoat. Moved, however, by the pathetic entreaties of -Strachan, and, perhaps, somewhat reconciled to the quest by the dim -vision of an elopement, Anthony magnanimously waived his objections, and -the two kept cruising together in a little shell of a yacht, all round -the western Archipelago. Besides themselves, there were only a man and a -boy on board. - -"It was slow work," said Anthony,--"deucedly slow. I would not have -minded the thing so much if Strachan had been reasonably sociable; but -it was rather irksome, you will allow, when, after the boy had brought -in the kettle, and we had made everything snug for the night, Master -Strachan began to maunder about the lady's eyes, and to tear his hair, -and to call himself the most miserable dog in existence. I had serious -thoughts, at one time, of leaving him ashore on Mull or Skye, and making -off direct to the Orkneys; but good-nature was always my foible, so I -went on, beating from one place to another, as though we had been -looking for the wreck of the Florida. - -"I'll never take another cruise with a lover so long as I live. Tom led -me all manner of dances, and we were twice fired at from farm-houses -where he was caterwauling beneath the windows with a guitar. It seems he -had heard that flame of his sing a Spanish air at Jedburgh. Tom must -needs pick it up, and you have no idea how he pestered me. Go where we -would, he kept harping on that abominable ditty, in the hope that his -mistress might hear him; and, when I remonstrated on the absurdity of -the proceeding, he quoted the case of Blondel, and some trash out of -Uhland's ballads. Serenading on the west coast is by no means a pleasant -pastime. The nights are as raw as an anchovy, and the midges -particularly plentiful. - -"Well, sir, we could find no trace of the lady after all. Strachan got -into low spirits, and I confess that I was sometimes sulky--so we had an -occasional blow-up, which by no means added to the conviviality of the -voyage. One evening, just at sundown, we entered the Sound of -Sneeshanish--an ugly place, let me tell you, at the best, but especially -to be avoided in any thing like a gale of wind. The clouds in the -horizon looked particularly threatening, and I got a little anxious, for -I knew that there were some rocks about, and not a lighthouse in the -whole of the district. - -"In an hour or two it grew as dark as a wolf's throat. I could not for -the life of me make out where we were, for the Sound is very narrow in -some parts, and occasionally I thought that I could hear breakers ahead. - -"'Tom,' said I, 'Tom, you lubber!--for our esteemed friend was, as -usual, lying on the deck, with a cigar in his mouth, twangling at that -eternal guitar--'take hold of the helm, will you, for a minute, while I -go down and look at the chart.' - -"I was as cold as a cucumber; so, after having ascertained, as I best -could, the bearings about the Sound, I rather think I _did_ stop below -for one moment--but not longer--just to mix a glass of swizzle by way of -fortification, for I didn't expect to get to bed that night. All of a -sudden I heard a shout from the bows, bolted upon deck, and there, sure -enough, was a black object right ahead, with the surf shooting over it. - -"'Luff, Tom! or we are all dead men;--Luff, I say!' shouted I. I might -as well have called to a millstone. Tom was in a kind of trance. - -"'O Dorothea!' said our friend. - -"'To the devil with Dorothea!' roared I, snatching the tiller from his -hand. - -"'It was too late. We went smash upon the rock, with a force that sent -us headlong upon the deck, and Strachan staggered to his feet, bleeding -profusely at the proboscis. - -"Down came the sail rattling about our ears, and over lurched the yacht. -I saw there was no time to lose, so I leaped at once upon the rock, and -called upon the rest to follow me. They did so, and were lucky to escape -with no more disaster than a ruffling of the cuticle on the basalt; for -in two minutes more all was over. Some of the timbers had been staved in -at the first concussion. She rapidly filled,--and down went, before my -eyes, the Caption, the tidiest little craft that ever pitched her -broadside into the hull of a Frenchman!" - -"Very well told indeed," said I, "only, Anthony, it does strike me that -the last paragraph is not quite original. I've heard something like it -in my younger days, at the Adelphi. But what became of you afterwards?" - -"Faith, we were in a fix, as you may easily conceive. All we could do -was to scramble up the rocks,--which, fortunately, were not too -precipitous,--until we reached a dry place, where we lay, huddled -together, until morning. When light came, we found that we were not on -the main land, but on a kind of little stack in the very centre of the -channel, without a blade of grass upon it, or the prospect of a sail in -sight. This was a nice situation for two members of the Scottish bar! -The first thing we did was to inquire into the state of provisions, -which we found to consist of a couple of biscuits, that little Jim, the -boy, happened to have about him. Of course we followed the example of -the earlier navigators, and confiscated these _pro bono publico_. We -had not a drop of alcohol among us, but, very luckily, picked up a small -keg of fresh water, which, I believe, was our salvation. Strachan did -not behave well. He wanted to keep half-a-dozen cigars to himself; but -such monstrous selfishness could not be permitted, and the rest of us -took them from him by force. I shall always blame myself for having -weakly restored to him a cheroot." - -"And what followed?" - -"Why, we remained three days upon the rock. Fortunately the weather was -moderate, so that we were not absolutely washed away, but for all that -it was consumedly cold of nights. The worst thing, however, was the -deplorable state of our larder. We finished the biscuits the first day, -trusting to be speedily relieved; but the sun set without a vestige of a -sail, and we supped sparingly upon tangle. Next morning we were so -ravenous that we could have eaten raw squirrels. That day we subsisted -entirely upon shell-fish, and smoked out all our cigars. On the third we -bolted two old gloves, buttons and all; and, do you know, Fred, I began -to be seriously alarmed about the boy Jim, for Strachan kept eyeing him -like an ogre, began to mutter some horrid suggestions as to the -propriety of casting lots, and execrated his own stupidity in being -unprovided with a jar of pickles." - -"O Anthony--for shame!" - -"Well--I'm sure he was thinking about it, if he did not say so. However, -we lunched upon a shoe, and for my own part, whenever I go upon another -voyage, I shall take the precaution of providing myself with pliable -French boots--your Kilmarnock leather is so very intolerably tough! -Towards evening, to our infinite joy, we descried a boat entering the -Sound. We shouted, as you may be sure, like demons. The Celtic -Samaritans came up, and, thanks to the kindness of Rory M'Gregor the -master, we each of us went to sleep that night with at least two gallons -of oatmeal porridge comfortably stowed beneath our belts. And that's the -whole history." - -"And how do you feel after such unexampled privation?" - -"Not a hair the worse. But this I know, that if ever I am caught again -on such idiotical errand as hunting for a young woman through the -Highlands, my nearest of kin are at perfect liberty to have me cognosced -without opposition." - -"Ah--you are no lover, Anthony. Strachan, now, would go barefooted -through Stony Arabia for the mere chance of a casual glimpse at his -mistress." - -"All I can say, my dear fellow, is, that if connubial happiness cannot -be purchased without a month's twangling on a guitar and three -consecutive suppers upon seaweed, I know at least one respectable young -barrister who is likely to die unmarried. But I say, Fred, let us have -a coach and drive up to your hotel. You can lend me a coat, I suppose, -or something of the sort, until Strachan arrives; and just be good -enough, will you, to settle with Mrs M'Tavish for the bill, for, by all -my hopes of a sheriffship, I have been thoroughly purged of my tin." - -The matter may not be of any especial interest to the public; at the -same time I think it right to record the fact that Anthony Whaup owes me -seven shillings and eightpence unto this day. - - -CHAPTER V. - -"That is all I can tell you about it," said Mr Hedger, as he handed me -the last of three indictments, with the joyful accompaniment of the -fees. "That is all I can tell you about it. If the _alibi_ will hold -water, good and well--if not, M'Closkie will be transported." - -Hedger is the very best criminal agent I ever met with. There is always -a point in his cases--his precognitions are perfect, and pleading, under -such auspices, becomes a kind of realised romance. - -"By the way," said he, "is there a Mr Strachan of your bar at circuit? I -have a curious communication from a prisoner who is desirous to have him -as her counsel." - -"Indeed! I am glad to hear it. Mr Strachan is a particular friend of -mine, and will be here immediately. I shall be glad to introduce you. Is -it a heavy case?" - -"No, but rather an odd one--a theft of money committed at the Blenheim -hotel. The woman seems a person of education, but, as she obstinately -refuses to tell me her story, I know very little more about it than is -contained in the face of the indictment." - -"What is her name?" - -"Why you know that is a matter not very easily ascertained. She called -herself Euphemia Saville when brought up for examination, and of course -she will be tried as such. She is well dressed, and rather pretty, but -she won't have any other counsel than Mr Strachan; and singularly -enough, she has positively forbidden me to send him a fee on the ground -that he would take it as an insult." - -"I should feel particularly obliged if the whole public would take to -insulting me perpetually in that manner! But really this is an odd -history. Do you think she is acquainted with my friend?" - -Hedger winked. - -"I can't say," said he, "for, to tell you the truth, I know nothing -earthly about it. Only she was so extremely desirous to have him -engaged, that I thought it not a little remarkable. I hope your friend -won't take offence if I mention what the woman said?" - -"Not in the least, you may be sure of that. And, _apropos_, here he -comes." - -And in effect Whaup and Strachan now walked into the counsel's -apartment, demure, shaven, and well dressed--altogether two very -different-looking individuals from the tatterdemalions of yesterday. - -"Good morning, Fred," cried Whaup; "Servant, Mr Hedger--lots of work -going, eh? Are the pleas nearly over yet?" - -"Very nearly, I believe, Mr Whaup. Would you have the kindness to----" - -"Oh, certainly," said I. "Strachan, allow me to introduce my friend Mr -Hedger, who is desirous of your professional advice." - -"I say, Freddy," said Whaup, looking sulkily at the twain as they -retired to a window to consult, "what's in the wind now? Has old Hedger -got a spite at any of his clients?" - -"How should I know? What do you mean?" - -"Because I should rather think," said Anthony, "that in our friend -Strachan's hands the lad runs a remarkably good chance of a sea voyage -to the colonies, that's all." - -"Fie for shame, Anthony! You should not bear malice." - -"No more I do--but I can't forget the loss of the little Caption all -through his stupid blundering; and this morning he must needs sleep so -long that he lost the early train, and has very likely cut me out of -business for the sheer want of a pair of reputable trousers." - -"Never mind--there is a good time coming." - -"Which means, I suppose, that you have got the pick of the cases? Very -well: it can't be helped, so I shall even show myself in court by way of -public advertisement." - -So saying, my long friend wrestled himself into his gown, adjusted his -wig knowingly upon his cranium, and rushed toward the court-room as -vehemently as though the weal of the whole criminal population of the -west depended upon his individual exertions. - -"Freddy, come here, if you please," said Strachan, "this is a very -extraordinary circumstance! Do you know that this woman, Euphemia -Saville, though she wishes me to act as her counsel, has positively -refused to see me!" - -"Very odd, certainly! Do you know her?" - -"I never heard of the name in my life. Are you sure, Mr Hedger, that -there is no mistake?" - -"Quite sure, sir. She gave me, in fact, a minute description of your -person, which perhaps I may be excused from repeating." - -"Oh, I understand," said Tom, fishingly; "complimentary, I -suppose--eh?" - -"Why yes, rather so," replied Hedger hesitatingly; and he cast at the -same time a glance at the limbs of my beloved friend, which convinced me -that Miss Saville's communication had, somehow or other, borne reference -to the shape of a parenthesis. "But, at all events, you may be sure she -has seen you. I really can imagine no reason for an interview. We often -have people who take the same kind of whims, and you have no idea of -their obstinacy. The best way will be to let the Crown lead its -evidence, and trust entirely to cross-examination. I shall take care, at -all events, that her appearance shall not damage her. She is well -dressed, and I don't doubt will make use of her cambric handkerchief." - -"And a very useful thing that same cambric is," observed I. "Come, Tom, -my boy, pluck up courage! You have opportunity now for a grand display; -and if you can poke in something about chivalry and undefended -loveliness, you may be sure it will have an effect on the jury. There is -a strong spice of romance in the composition of the men of the Middle -Ward." - -"The whole thing, however, seems to me most mysterious." - -"Very; but that is surely an additional charm. We seldom find a chapter -from the Mysteries of Udolfo transferred to the records of the -Justiciary Court of Scotland." - -"Well, then, I suppose it must be so. Fred, will you sit beside me at -the trial? I'm not used to this sort of thing as yet, and I possibly may -feel nervous." - -"Not a bit of you. At any rate I shall be there, and of course you may -command me." - -In due time the case was called. Miss Euphemia Saville ascended the trap -stair, and took her seat between a pair of policemen with exceedingly -luxuriant whiskers. - -I must allow that I felt a strong curiosity about Euphemia. Her name was -peculiar; the circumstances under which she came forward were unusual; -and her predilection for Strachan was tantalising. Her appearance, -however, did little to solve the mystery. She was neatly, even elegantly -dressed in black, with a close-fitting bonnet and thick veil, which at -first effectually obscured her countenance. This, indeed, she partially -removed when called upon to plead to the indictment; but the law of no -civilised country that I know of is so savage as to prohibit the use of -a handkerchief, and the fair Saville availed herself of the privilege by -burying her countenance in cambric. I could only get a glimpse of some -beautiful black braided hair and a forehead that resembled alabaster. To -all appearance she was extremely agitated, and sobbed as she answered to -the charge. - -The tender-hearted Strachan was not the sort of man to behold the -sorrows of his client without emotion. In behalf of the junior members -of the Scottish bar I will say this, that they invariably fight tooth -and nail when a pretty girl is concerned, and I have frequently heard -bursts of impassioned eloquence poured forth in defence of a pair of -bright eyes or a piquant figure, in cases where an elderly or wizened -dame would have run a strong chance of finding no Cicero by her side. -Tom accordingly approached the bar for the purpose of putting some -questions to his client, but not a word could he extract in reply. -Euphemia drew down her veil, and waved her hand with a repulsive -gesture. - -"I don't know what to make of her," said Strachan; "only she seems to be -a monstrous fine woman. It is clear, however, that she has mistaken me -for somebody else. I never saw her in my life before." - -"Hedger deserves great credit for the way he has got her up. Observe, -Tom, there is no finery about her; no ribbons or gaudy scarfs, which are -as unsuitable at a trial as at a funeral. Black is your only wear to -find favour in the eyes of a jury." - -"True. It is a pity that so little attention is paid to the aesthetics of -criminal clothing. But here comes the first witness--Grobey, I think, -they call him--the fellow who lost the money." - -Mr Grobey mounted the witness-box like a cow ascending a staircase. He -was a huge, elephantine animal of some sixteen stone, with bushy -eyebrows and a bald pate, which he ever and anon affectionately caressed -with a red and yellow bandana. Strachan started at the sound of his -voice, surveyed him wistfully for a moment, and then said to me in a -hurried whisper-- - -"As I live, Fred, that is the identical bagman who boned my emerald -studs at Jedburgh!" - -"You don't mean to say it?" - -"Fact, upon my honour! There is no mistaking his globular freetrading -nose. Would it not be possible to object to his evidence on that -ground?" - -"Mercy on us! no.--Reflect--there is no conviction." - -"True. But he stole them nevertheless. I'll ask him about them when I -cross." - -Mr Grobey's narrative, however, as embraced in an animated dialogue with -the public prosecutor, threw some new and unexpected light upon the -matter. Grobey was a traveller in the employment of the noted house of -Barnacles, Deadeye, and Company, and perambulated the country for the -benevolent purpose of administering to deficiency of vision. In the -course of his wanderings he had arrived at the Blenheim, where, after a -light supper of fresh herrings, toasted cheese, and Edinburgh ale, -assisted, _more Bagmannorum_, by several glasses of stiff -brandy-and-water, he had retired to his apartment to sleep off the -labours of the day. Somnus, however, did not descend that night with -his usual lightness upon Grobey. On the contrary, the deity seemed -changed into a ponderous weight, which lay heavily upon the chest of the -moaning and suffocated traveller; and notwithstanding a paralysis which -appeared to have seized upon his limbs, every external object in the -apartment became visible to him as by the light of a magic lantern. He -heard his watch ticking, like a living creature, upon the dressing-table -where he had left it. His black morocco pocket-book was distinctly -visible beside the looking-glass, and two spectral boots stood up amidst -the varied shadows of the night. Grobey was very uncomfortable. He began -to entertain the horrid idea that a fiend was hovering through his -chamber. - -All at once he heard the door creaking upon its hinges. There was a -slight rustling of muslin, a low sigh, and then momentary silence. -"What, in the name of John Bright, can that be?" thought the terrified -traveller; but he had not to wait long for explanation. The door opened -slowly--a female figure, arrayed from head to foot in robes of virgin -whiteness, glided in, and fixed her eyes, with an expression of deep -solemnity and menace, upon the countenance of Grobey. He lay breathless -and motionless beneath the spell. This might have lasted for about a -minute, during which time, as Grobey expressed it, his very entrails -were convulsed with fear. The apparition then moved onwards, still -keeping her eyes upon the couch. She stood for a moment near the window, -raised her arm with a monitory gesture to the sky, and then all at once -seemed to disappear as if absorbed in the watery moonshine. Grobey was -as bold a bagman as ever flanked a mare with his gig-whip, but this -awful visitation was too much. Boots, looking-glass, and table swam with -a distracting whirl before his eyes; he uttered a feeble yell, and -immediately lapsed into a swoon. - -It was bright morning when he awoke. He started up, rubbed his eyes, and -endeavoured to persuade himself that it was all an illusion. To be sure -there were the boots untouched, the coat, the hat, and the portmanteau; -but where--oh where--were the watch and the plethoric pocket-book, with -its bunch of bank-notes and other minor memoranda? Gone--spirited away; -and with a shout of despair old Grobey summoned the household. - -The police were straightway taken into his confidence. The tale of the -midnight apparition--of the Demon Lady--was told and listened to, at -first with somewhat of an incredulous smile; but when the landlord -stated that an unknown damosel had been sojourning for two days at the -hotel, that she had that morning vanished in a hackney-coach without -leaving any trace of her address, and that, moreover, certain spoons of -undeniable silver were amissing, Argus pricked up his ears, and after -some few preliminary inquiries, issued forth in quest of the fugitive. -Two days afterwards the fair Saville was discovered in a temperance -hotel; and although the pocket-book had disappeared, both the -recognisable notes and the watch were found in her possession. A number -of pawn-tickets, also, which were contained in her reticule, served to -collect from divers quarters a great mass of _bijouterie_, amongst which -were the Blenheim spoons. - -Such was Mr Grobey's evidence as afterwards supplemented by the police. -Tom rose to cross-examine. - -"Pray, Mr Grobey," said he, adjusting his gown upon his shoulders with a -very knowing and determined air, as though he intended to expose his -victim--"Pray, Mr Grobey, are you any judge of studs?" - -"I ain't a racing man," replied Grobey, "but I knows an oss when I sees -it." - -"Don't equivocate, sir, if you please. Recollect you are upon your -oath," said Strachan, irritated by a slight titter which followed upon -Grobey's answer. "I mean studs, sir--emerald studs for example?" - -"I ain't. But the lady is," replied Grobey. - -"How do you mean, sir?" - -"'Cos there vos five pair on them taken out of pawn with her tickets." - -"How do you know that, sir?" - -"'Cos I see'd them." - -"Were you at Jedburgh, sir, in the month of April last?" - -"I was." - -"Do you recollect seeing me there?" - -"Perfectly." - -"Do you remember what passed upon that occasion?" - -"You was rather confluscated, I think." - -There was a general laugh. - -"Mr Strachan," said the judge mildly, "I am always sorry to interrupt a -young counsel, but I really cannot see the relevancy of these questions. -The court can have nothing to do with your communications with the -witness. I presume I need not take a note of these latter answers." - -"Very well, my lord," said Tom, rather discomfited at being cut out of -his revenge on the bagman, "I shall ask him something else;" and he -commenced his examination in right earnest. Grobey, however, stood -steadfast to the letter of his previous testimony. - -Another witness was called; and to my surprise the Scottish Vidocq -appeared. He spoke to the apprehension and the search, and also to the -character of the prisoner. In his eyes she had long been chronicled as -habit and repute a thief. - -"You know the prisoner, then?" said Strachan rising. - -"I do. Any time these three years." - -"Under what name is she known to you?" - -"Betsy Brown is her real name, but she has gone by twenty others." - -"By twenty, do you say?" - -"There, or thereabouts. She always flies at high game; and, being a -remarkably clever woman, she passes herself off for a lady." - -"Have you ever seen her elsewhere than in Glasgow?" - -"I have." - -"Where?" - -"At Jedburgh." - -I cannot tell what impulse it was that made me twitch Strachan's gown at -this moment. It was not altogether a suspicion, but rather a -presentiment of coming danger. Strachan took the hint and changed his -line. - -"Can you specify any of her other names?" - -"I can. There are half-a-dozen of them here on the pawn-tickets. Shall I -read them?" - -"If you please." - -"One diamond ring, pledged in name of Lady Emily Delaroche. A garnet -brooch and chain--Miss Maria Mortimer. Three gold seals--Mrs Markham -Vere. A watch and three emerald studs--the Honourable Dorothea -Percy----" - -There was a loud shriek from the bar, and a bustle--the prisoner had -fainted. - -I looked at Strachan. He was absolutely as white as a corpse. - -"My dear Tom," said I, "hadn't you better go out into the open air?" - -"No!" was the firm reply; "I am here to do my duty, and I'll do it." - -And in effect, the Spartan boy with the fox gnawing into his side did -not acquit himself more heroically than my friend. The case was a clear -one, no doubt, but Tom made a noble speech, and was highly complimented -by the Judge upon his ability. No sooner, however, had he finished it -than he left the Court. - -I saw him two hours afterwards. - -"Tom," said I, "about these emerald studs--I think I could get them back -from the Fiscal." - -"Keep them to yourself. I'm off to India." - -"Bah!--go down to the Highlands for a month." - -Tom did so; purveyed himself a kilt; met an heiress at the Inverness -Meeting, and married her. He is now the happy father of half-a-dozen -children, and a good many of us would give a trifle for his practice. -But to this day he is as mad as a March hare if an allusion is made in -his presence to any kind of studs whatsoever. - - - - -MY COLLEGE FRIENDS. - -No. III. - -MR W. WELLINGTON HURST. - -[_MAGA._ JANUARY 1846.] - - -It would probably puzzle Mr William Wellington Hurst, as much as any -man, to find out on what grounds I placed him on the list of my College -friends; for certainly our intimacy was hardly sufficient to warrant -such a liberty; and he was one of those happy individuals who would -never have suspected that it could be out of gratitude for much -amusement afforded me by sundry of his sayings and doings. But so it is; -and it happens, that while the images of many others of my -companions--very worthy good sort of fellows, whom I saw more or less of -nearly every day--have vanished from my memory, or only flit across -occasionally, like shadows, the full-length figure of Mr W. Wellington -Hurst, exactly as he turned out, after a satisfactory toilet, in the -patent boots and scarf of many colours, stands fixed there like a -daguerreotype--more faithful than flattering. - -My first introduction to him was by running him down in a skiff, when I -was steering the College eight--not less to his astonishment than our -own gratification. It is (or used to be) perfectly allowable, by the -laws of the river, if, after due notice, these small craft fail to get -out of your way; but it is not very easy to effect. However, in this -instance, we went clean over him, very neatly indeed. The men helped him -into our boat, just as his own sunk from under him; and he accepted a -seat by my side in the stern-sheets, with many apologies for being so -wet, appearing considerably impressed with a sense of my importance, and -still more of my politeness. When we reached Sandford, I prescribed a -stiff tumbler of hot brandy and water, and advised him to run all the -way home, to warm himself, and avoid catching cold; and, from that time, -I believe he always looked upon me as a benefactor. The claim, on my -part, certainly rested on a very small foundation originally; it was -strengthened afterwards by a less questionable act of patronage. Like -many other under-graduates of every man's acquaintance in those days, -Hurst laboured under the delusion, that holding two sets of reins in a -very confused manner, and flourishing a long whip, was driving; and that -to get twenty miles out of Oxford in a "team," without an upset, or an -imposition from the proctor, was an _opus operatum_ of the highest -possible merit. To do him justice, he laboured diligently in the only -exercise which he seemed to consider strictly academical--he spent an -hour every morning, standing upon a chair, "catching flies," as he -called it, and occasionally flicking his scout, with a tandem whip; and -practised incessantly upon tin horns of all lengths, with more zeal than -melody, until he got the erysipelas in his lower lip, and a hint of -rustication from the tutors. Yet he was more ambitious than successful. -His reputation on the road grew worse and worse every day. He had a -knack of shaving turnpike gates, and cutting round corners on one wheel, -and getting his horses into every possible figure but a straight line, -which made every mile got over without an accident almost a miracle. At -last, after taking a four-in-hand over a narrow bridge, at the bottom of -a hill, pretty much in the Olympic fashion--all four abreast--men got -rather shy of any expeditions of the kind in his company. There was -little credit in it, and a good deal of danger. First, he was reduced to -soliciting the company of freshmen, who were flattered by any proposal -that sounded _fast_. But they, too, grew shy, after one or two ventures; -and poor Hurst soon found a difficulty in getting a companion at all. He -was a liberal fellow enough, and not pushed for a guinea when his -darling science was concerned: so he used to offer to "sport the team" -himself; but even when he condescended to the additional self-devotion -of "standing a dinner and champagne," he found that the closest -calculators among his sporting acquaintance had as much regard for their -necks as their pockets. - -To this inglorious position was his fame as a charioteer reduced, when -Horace Leicester and myself, early in his third term, had determined -somewhat suddenly to go to see a steeple-chase about twelve miles off, -where Leicester had some attraction besides the horses, in the shape of -a pretty cousin; (_two_, he told me, and bribed me with the promise of -an introduction to "the other," but she did not answer to sample at -all.) We had engaged a very nice mare and stanhope, which we knew we -could depend upon, when, the day before the race, the chestnut was -declared lame, and not a presentable four-legged animal was to be hired -in Oxford. Hurst had engaged his favourite pair of greys (which would -really go very well with any other driver) a week beforehand, but had -been canvassing the last batch of freshmen in vain for an occupant of -the vacant seat. A huge red-headed north-country man, who had never seen -a tandem in his life, but who, as far as pluck went, would have ridden -postilion to Medea's dragons, was listening with some apparent -indecision to Hurst's eloquence upon the delights of driving, just as we -came up after a last unsuccessful search through the livery stables; and -the pair were proceeding out of college arm in arm, probably to look at -the greys, when Leicester, to my amusement, stepped up with--"Hurst, -who's going with you to B----?" - -"I--why, I hardly know yet; I think Sands here will, if"---- - -"I'll go with you then, if you like; and if you've got a cart,[1] -Hawthorne can come too, and it will be very jolly." - - [1] "_Carts_" of that day held three. - -If the university had announced their intention of creating him a B.A. -by diploma, without examination, Hurst could hardly have looked more -surprised and delighted. Leicester, it should be borne in mind, was one -of the most popular men in the college--a sort of _arbiter elegantiarum_ -in the best set. Hurst knew very little of him, but was no doubt highly -flattered by his proposal. From coaxing freshmen to come out by the -bribe of paying all expenses, to driving to B---- steeple-chase side by -side with Horace (my modesty forbids me to include myself), was a step -at once from the ridiculous to the sublime of tandemizing. For this -advancement in life, he always, I fancy, considered himself indebted to -me, as I had originally introduced him to Leicester's acquaintance; and -when we both accepted an invitation, which he delivered himself of with -some hesitation, to breakfast in his rooms on the morning of the -expedition, his joy and gratitude appeared to know no bounds. It is not -usual, be it remembered, for a junior man in college to ask a senior to -a party from whom he has never received an invitation himself; but -hunting and tandem-driving are apt occasionally to set ordinary -etiquette at defiance. "Don't ask a lot of men, that's all--there's a -good fellow," said Horace, whose good-natured smile, and off-hand and -really winning manner, enabled him to carry off, occasionally, a degree -of impudence which would not have been tolerated from others--"I hate a -large formal breakfast party of all things; it disgusts me to see a -score of men jostling each other over tough beefsteaks." - -"I asked Sands yesterday," apologised Hurst. "I thought perhaps he would -come out with me; but I daresay I can put him off, if"---- - -"Oh! on no account whatever; you mean the carroty freshman I saw you -with just now? Have him by all means; it will be quite refreshing to -meet any man so regularly green. So there will be just four of us; eight -o'clock, I suppose? it won't do to be much later." - -And Horace walked off, having thus arranged matters to his own -satisfaction and his host's. I was an interested party in the business, -however, and had my own terms to make. "You've disposed of me rather -coolly," said I; "you don't surely imagine that at my time of life I'm -going to trust my neck to that fellow's abominable driving?" - -"Make your mind easy, Frank; William Wellington sha'n't finger a -riband." - -"Nonsense, Leicester; you can't treat a man in that kind of way--not to -let him drive his own team. Hurst _is_ a bit of an ass, certainly; but -you can't with any decency first ask a man for a seat, and then refuse -to give him up the reins." - -"Am I in the habit, sir, of doing things in the very rude and -ungentlemanly style you insinuate?" And Horace looked at me with mock -dignity for a second or two, and then burst into a laugh. "Leave it to -me, Hawthorne, and I'll manage it to the satisfaction of all parties: -I'll promise you that Hurst shall have a capital day's fun, and your -valuable neck shall be as safe as if you were tried by a Welsh jury." - -With this indefinite assurance I was obliged to be content; and -accordingly, at half-past eight the next morning, after a very correct -breakfast, we mounted the tandem-cart at the college back-gates, got the -leader hitched on, as usual, a mile out of the city, for fear of -proctors, and were bowling merrily along, in the slight frost of an -autumn morning, towards B----. Leicester took the driving first, by -Hurst's special request, after one or two polite but faint refusals, the -latter sitting by his side; while I occupied, for the present, the queer -little box which in those days was stuck on behind, (the more modern -carts, which hold four, are an improvement introduced into the -University since my driving days). With wonderful gravity and importance -did Leicester commence his lectures on the whip to his admiring -companion: I almost think he began in the approved style, with a slight -allusion to the Roman _biga_, and deduced the progress of the noble -science from Ericthonius down to "Peyton and Ward." I have a lively -recollection of a comparison between Automedon of the Homeric times, and -"Black Will" of Oxford celebrity--the latter being decided as only -likely to be less immortal, because there was no Homer among the -contemporary under-graduates. A good deal was lost to me, no doubt, from -my position behind; but Hurst seemed to suck it all in with every -disposition to be edified. From the history of his subject, Horace -proceeded, in due course, to the theory, from theory to facts, from -facts to illustrations. In the practical department, Horace, I suspect, -like many other lecturers, was on his weakest ground; for his own -driving partook of the general under-graduate character. - -"You throw the lash out so--you see--and bring it back sharp, so--no, -not _so_ exactly--so--hang the thing, I can't do it now; but that's the -principle, you understand--and then you take up your double thong, -so--pshaw, I did it very well just now--to put it into the wheeler, -so--ah, I missed it then, but that's the way to do it." - -He put me considerably in mind of a certain professor of chemistry, -whose lectures on light and heat I once was rash enough to attend, who, -after a long dry disquisition which had nearly put us all to sleep, used -to arouse our attention to the "beautiful effects" produced by certain -combinations, which he would proceed to illustrate, as he said, by a -"little experiment." But, somehow or other, these little experiments -always, or nearly always, failed: and after the room had been darkened, -perhaps, for five minutes or so, in order to give the exhibition full -effect, the result would be, a _fizz_ or two, a faint blue light, and a -stink, varying according to circumstances, but always abominable. "It's -very odd, John," the discomfited operator used to exclaim to his -assistant; "very odd; and we succeeded so well this morning, too: it's -most unaccountable: I'm really very sorry, gentlemen, but I can assure -you, this very same experiment we tried to-day with the most beautiful -result; didn't we, John?" "We did, sir," was John's invariably dutiful -reply; and so the audience took John's word for it, and the experiment -was considered to have been, virtually, successful. - -So we rattled on to the ground: Leicester occasionally putting the reins -into his companion's hand, teaching him to perform some impossible -movement with his third finger, and directing his attention to -non-existent flies, which he professed to remove from the leader, out -of sheer compassion, with the point of the whip. - -"You are sure you wouldn't like to take the reins now? Well, you'll -drive home then, of course? Hawthorne, will you try your hand now? -Hurst's going to take up the tooling when we come back." - -"No, thank you," said I; "I won't interfere with either of your -performances."--"And if Hurst does drive home," was my mental -determination, expressed to Leicester as far as a nod could do it, "I'll -walk." - -There was no difficulty in finding out the localities: the field in -which the winning-flag was fixed was not far from the turnpike road, and -conspicuous enough by the crowd already there collected. Of course, -pretty nearly all the sporting characters among the gownsmen were there, -the distance from the University being so trifling. Mounted on that -seedy description of animal peculiar to Oxford livery-stables, which can -never by any possibility be mistaken for anything but a hired affair, -but will generally go all day, and scramble through almost anything; -with showily mounted jockey-whips in their hands, bad cigars (at two -guineas a-pound) in their mouths, bright blue scarfs, or something -equivalent, round their necks--their neat white cords and tops (things -which they _did_ turn out well in Oxford) being the only really -sportsmanlike article about them; flattering themselves they looked -exceedingly knowing, and, in nine cases out of ten, being deceived -therein most lamentably; clustered together in groups of four or five, -discussing the merits of the horses, or listening, as to an oracle, to -the opinion of some Oxford horse-dealer, delivered with insolent -familiarity--here were the men who drank out of a fox's head, and -recounted imaginary runs with the Heythrop. Happy was he amongst them, -and a positive hero for the day, who could boast a speaking acquaintance -with any of those anomalous individuals, at present enshrouded in -great-coats, but soon to appear in all the varieties of jockey costume, -known by the style and title of "gentlemen riders;" who could point out, -confidentially, to his admiring companions, "Jack B----," and "Little -M----," and announce, from authority, how many ounces under weight one -was this morning, and how many blankets were put upon the other the -night before, to enable him to come to the scales at all. Here and -there, more plainly dressed, moving about quickly on their own -thorough-breds, or talking to some neighbouring squire who knew the -ground, were the few really sporting men belonging to the University; -who kept hunters in Oxford, simply because they were used to keep them -at home, and had been brought up to look upon fox-hunting as their -future vocation. Lolling on their saddles, probably voting it all a -bore, were two or three tufts, and their "tail;" and stuck into all -sorts of vehicles, lawful and unlawful, buggies, drags, and tandems, -were that ignoble herd, who, like myself, had come to the steeple-chase, -just because it was the most convenient idleness at hand, and because -other men were going. There were all sorts of people there besides, of -course: carriages of all grades of pretension, containing pretty bonnets -and ugly faces, in the usual proportion; "all the beauty and fashion of -the neighbourhood," nevertheless, as the county paper assured us; and as -I may venture to add, from personal observation, a very fair share of -its disreputability and blackguardism besides. - -After wandering for a short time among these various groups, Leicester -halted us at last in front of one of those old-fashioned -respectable-looking barouches, which one now so seldom sees, in which -were seated a party, who turned out to consist of an uncle and aunt, and -the pair of cousins before alluded to. Hurst and I were duly introduced; -a ceremony which, for my own part, I could have very readily excused, -when I discovered that the only pair of eyes in the party worth -mentioning bestowed their glances almost exclusively on Horace, and any -attempt at cutting into the conversation in that quarter was as -hopeless, apparently, as ungracious. Our friend's taste in the article -of cousins was undeniably correct; Flora Leicester was a most desirable -person to have for a cousin; very pretty, very good-humoured, and (I am -sure she was, though I pretend to no experience of the fact) very -affectionate. If one could have put in any claim of kindred, even in the -third or fourth degree, it would have been a case in which to stickle -hard for the full privileges of relationship. As matters stood, it was -trying enough to the sensibilities of us unfortunate bystanders, whose -cousins were either ugly or at a distance; for the rest of our new -acquaintances were not interesting. The younger sister was shy and -insipid; the squire like ninety-nine squires in every hundred; and the -lady-mother in a perpetual state of real or affected nervous agitation, -to which her own family were happily insensible, but which taxed a -stranger's polite sympathies pretty heavily. Though constantly in the -habit, as she assured me, of accompanying her husband to race-courses, -and enjoying the sport, she was always on the look-out for an accident, -and was always having, as she said, narrow escapes; some indeed so very -narrow, that, according to her own account, they ought to have had, by -every rule of probability, fatal terminations. In fact, her tone might -have led one to believe that she looked upon herself as an ill-used -woman in getting off so easily--at least she was exceedingly angry when -the younger daughter ventured to remark, _en pendant_ to one of her most -thrilling adventures, that "there was no great danger of an upset when -the wheel stuck fast." Not content with putting her head out of the -carriage every five minutes, to see if her own well-trained bays were -standing quiet, as they always did, there was not a restive horse or -awkward rider on the ground but attracted the good lady's ever watchful -sense of danger. "He'll be thrown! I'm sure he will! foolish man, why -don't he get off!" "Oh, oh! there they go! they're off, those horrid -horses! they'll never stop 'em!" Such were the interjections, -accompanied with extraordinary shudderings and drawings of the breath, -with which Mrs John Leicester, her eyes fixed on some distant point, -occasionally broke in upon the general conversation, sometimes with a -vehemence that startled even her nephew and eldest daughter, though, to -do them justice, they paid very little attention to any of us. - -Just as I was meditating something desperate, in order to relieve myself -from the office of soother-general of Mrs Leicester's imaginary terrors, -and to bring Flora's sunny face once more within my line of vision (she -had been turning the back of her bonnet upon me perseveringly for the -last ten minutes), a general commotion gave us notice that the horses -were started, and the race begun. The hill on which we were stationed -was close to the winning-post, and commanded a view of pretty nearly the -whole ground from the start. The race was, I suppose, pretty nearly -like other steeple-chases, and there is the less need for me to describe -it, because a very full and particular account appeared in the _Bell's -Life_ next ensuing. The principal impressions which remain on my mind, -are of a very smart gentleman in black and crimson, mounted on a very -powerful bay, who seemed as if he had been taking it easy, who came in -first, and after having been sufficiently admired by an innocent public, -myself among the number, as the winner, turned out to have gone on the -right hand instead of the left of some flag or other, and to have lost -the race accordingly; and of a very dirty-looking person, who arrived -some minute or two afterwards without a cap, whose jacket was green and -his horse grey, so far as the mud left any colour visible, and who, to -the great disappointment of the ladies especially, turned out to be the -real hero after all. - -We had made arrangements to have an independent beefsteak together after -the race, in preference to joining the sporting ordinary announced as -usual on such occasions; but the squire insisted on Leicester bringing -us both to dine with his party at five. After a few modest and -conscientious scruples on my part, at intruding on the hospitality of -comparative strangers, and a strong private remonstrance from Hurst, on -the impropriety of sitting down to dinner with ladies in a surtout and -white cords, we accepted the invitation, and betook ourselves to kill -the intervening hour or so as we best could. - -"Well, Horace," said I, as Hurst went off to make his apology for a -toilette--"how are you going to settle about the driving home?" - -"Oh! never fear; I'll manage it: I have just seen Miller and Fane; -they've got a drag over here, and there's lots of room inside; so -they've promised to take Hurst home with them, if we can only manage to -leave him behind: they are going to dine here, and are sure not to go -home till late; and we must be off early, you know, because I have some -men coming to supper; so we'll leave our friend behind, somehow or -other. A painful necessity, I admit; but it must be done, even if I have -to lock him up in the stable." - -Leicester seemed to have more confidence in his own resources than I -had; but he was in too great a state of excitement to listen to any -demurrers of mine on the point, and hurried us off to join his friends. -Ushered into the drawing-room A.1. of the Saracen's Head, we found _la -bella_ Flora awaiting us alone, the rest of the family being not as yet -visible. There was not the slightest necessity for inquiring whether she -felt fatigued, for she was looking even more lovely than in the morning; -or whether she had been amused or not, for if the steeple-chase had not -delighted her, something else had, for there was a radiant smile on her -face which could not be mistaken. Hurst was cut short rather abruptly in -a speech which appeared tending towards a compliment, by Leicester's -inquiring--"My good fellow, have you seen the horses fed?" - -"No, upon my word," said Hurst, "I"---- - -"Well, I have then; but I wish you would just step across the yard, and -see if that stupid ostler has rubbed them dry, as I told him. You -understand those things, I know, Hurst--the fellows won't humbug you -very easily; as to Hawthorne, I wouldn't trust him to see to anything of -the sort. Flora here knows more about a horse than he does." - -Any compliment to Hurst's acuteness in the matter of horse-flesh was -sure to have its effect, and he walked off with an air of some -importance to discharge his commission. - -"Now, then," said Horace eagerly, "we have got rid of him for ten -minutes, which was all I wanted; if you please, Flora dear, we must have -your cleverness to help us in a little difficulty." - -"Indeed!" said Miss Leicester, colouring a little, as her cousin, in his -eagerness, seized her hand in both of his--"what scrape have you got -into now, Horace, and how can I possibly help you?" - -"Oh, I want you to hit upon some plan for keeping that fellow Hurst here -after we are gone." - -"Upon my word!" - -"Stay; you don't know what I mean. I'll tell you why--if he drives home -to Oxford, he'll infallibly upset us; and drive he must if he goes home -with us, because, in fact, the team is his, and I drove them all the way -here, and it's his turn back, you see." - -"Then why, in the multitude of absurdities which you Oxonians -perpetrate--I beg your pardon, Mr Hawthorne--but why need you have come -out in a tandem at all, with a man who can't drive?" - -"Simply, Flora, because I had no other way of coming at all." - -"It was very absurd in us, Miss Leicester, I allow," said I, "but you -know what an attraction a steeple-chase is, to your cousin especially; -and after having made up his mind to come--altogether, you see, it would -have been a disappointment"--(to all parties, I had a mind to add, but I -thought the balance was on my side without it.) - -"After all," said Horace, "I shouldn't care a straw to run the chance, -as far as I am concerned. I dare say the horses will go home straight -enough, if he'll only let them: or if he wouldn't, I shouldn't mind -knocking him off the box at once--by accident; but Frank here is rather -particular, and I promised him I would not let Hurst drive. I thought -once, if we had dined by ourselves, of persuading him he was drunk, and -sending him home in a fly; but I am afraid, as matters stand, that plea -is hardly practicable." - -"Could I persuade him to let you or Mr Hawthorne drive, do you think?" - -Horace looked at her as if he thought, as I dare say he did, that his -cousin Flora could, if she were so minded, persuade a man to do -anything; so I was compelled, somewhat at the expense of my reputation -for gallantry, to assure them both, that if Ulysses of old, among his -various arts and accomplishments, had piqued himself upon his -tandem-driving, his vanity would have stopped his ears effectually, and -the Syren might have sung herself hoarse before he would have given up -the reins. - -"I'll give the Boots half-a-crown to steal his hat," said Horace, "and -start while he is looking for it." - -"Stay," said his cousin; "I dare say it may be managed." But I thought -she looked disappointed. "Did you know we were all going to the -B---- theatre to-night?" - -"No! really! what fun!" - -"No fun for you; for you must start early, as you said just now. The -owners of the horses here patronise a play, and they have made papa -promise to go, and so we must, I suppose, and"---- - -"Oh! we'll all go, of course," said Horace decidedly.--"You'll stay and -go, won't you, Hawthorne?" - -"You forget your supper party," said I. - -"Oh! hang it, they'll take care of themselves, so long as the supper's -there; they won't miss me much." - -"Didn't I hear something of your being confined to college after nine?" - -"Ah, yes; I believe I am--but it won't matter much for once; I'll call -on the dean to-morrow, and explain." - -"No, no, Horace, that won't do; you and Mr Hawthorne must go home like -good boys," said Flora, with a smile only half as merry as usual, "and -Mary and I will persuade Mr Hurst to stay and go to the theatre with -us." - -"Oh! confound it!"--Horace began. - -"Hush! here comes papa; remember this is my arrangement; you ought to be -very much obliged, instead of beginning to swear in that way; I'm sure -Mr Hawthorne is very grateful to me for taking so much interest in the -question of his breaking his neck, if you are not. Oh! papa," she -continued, "do you know that we shall lose all our beaux to-night; they -have some horrid supper party to go back to, and we shall have to go to -the play by ourselves!" - -Most of the Squire's sympathies were at this moment absorbed in the fact -that dinner was already four minutes late, so that he had less to spare -for his daughter's disappointment than Mrs Leicester, who on her arrival -took up the lamentation with all her heart. She attacked her nephew at -once upon the subject, whose replies were at first wavering and evasive, -till he caught Flora's eye, and then he answered with a dogged sort of -resolution, exceedingly amusing to me who understood his position, and -at last got quite cross with his aunt for persisting in her entreaties. -I declared, for my part, that I was dependent on Horace's movements; -that, if I could possibly have anticipated the delightful evening which -had awaited us, every other arrangement should have given way, &c. &c.; -when Hurst's reappearance turned the whole force of Mrs Leicester's -persuasions upon him, backed, too, as she was by both her daughters. -"Won't _you_ stay, Mr Hurst? Must you go too? Will you be so shabby as -to leave us?" How could any man stand it? William Wellington Hurst could -not, it was very plain. At first he looked astonished; wondered why on -earth we couldn't all stay; then protested he couldn't think of letting -us go home by ourselves; a piece of self-devotion which we at once -desired might not be thought of; then hesitated--he was meditating, no -doubt, on the delight of driving--how was he to get home? the inglorious -occupant of the inside of a drag; or the solitary tenant of a fly -(though I suggested he might drive that if he pleased); couldn't -Leicester go home, and I and he follow together? I put in a decided -negative; he looked from Mrs Leicester's anxious face to Flora's, and -surrendered at discretion. We were to start at eight precisely in the -tandem, and Miller and his party, who were sure to wait for the play, -were to pick up Mr Wellington Hurst as a supernumerary passenger at some -hour unknown. And so we went to dinner. Mrs Leicester marched off in -triumph with her new capture, as if fearful he might give her the slip -after all, and committed Flora to my custody. I was charitable enough, -however, in consideration of all circumstances, to give up my right of -sitting next to her to Horace, and established myself on the other side -of the table, between Mrs Leicester and her younger daughter; and a hard -post I had of it. Mary would not talk at all, and her mamma would do -nothing else; and she was one of those pertinacious talkers, too, who, -not content with running on themselves, and leaving you to put in an -occasional interjection, inflict upon you a cross-examination in its -severest form, and insist upon a definite and rational answer to every -question. However, availing myself of those legitimate qualifications of -a witness, an unlimited amount of impudence, and a determination not to -criminate myself, I got on pretty tolerably. Who did I think her -daughter Flora like? I took the opportunity of diligently examining that -young lady's features for about four minutes--not in the least to her -confusion, for she scarcely honoured me with a glance the whole -time--and then declared the resemblance to mamma quite startling. Mary? -Oh, her father's eyes decidedly; upon which the squire, whose pet she -appeared to be--I suppose it was the contrast between her quietness and -Mrs Leicester's incessant fidgetting that was so delightful--laughed, -and took wine with me. Then she took up the subject of my private tastes -and habits. Was I fond of riding? Yes. Driving? Pretty well. Reading? -Very. Then she considerately hoped that I did not read much by -candle-light--above all by an oil-lamp--it was very injurious. I assured -her that I would be cautious for the future. Then she offered me a -receipt for eye-water, in case I suffered from weakness arising from -over-exertion of those organs;--declined, with thanks. Hoped I did not -read above twelve hours a-day; some young men, she had heard, read -sixteen, which she considered as really inconsistent with a due regard -to health. I assured her that our sentiments on that point perfectly -coincided, and that I had no tendency to excesses of that kind. At last -she began to institute inquiries about certain under-graduates with -whose families she was acquainted; and the two or three names which I -recognised being hunting men, I referred her to Hurst as quite _au fait_ -in the sporting circles of Oxford, and succeeded in hooking them into a -conversation which effectually relieved me. - -Leicester, as I could overhear, had been still rather rebellious against -going home before the play was over, and was insisting that his being -in college by nine was not really material; nor did he appear -over-pleased, when, in answer to an appeal from Flora, I said plainly, -that the consequences of his "knocking in" late, when under sentence of -strict confinement to the regular hour, might not be pleasant--a fact, -however, which he himself, though with a very bad grace, was compelled -to admit. - -At last the time arrived for our party to separate: Horace and I to -return to Oxford, and the others to adjourn to see _Richard the Third_ -performed at the B---- theatre, under the distinguished patronage of the -members of the H---- Hunt. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and as -Hurst accompanied us to the stable-yard to "start us," as he -complacently phrased it, it was clear that he was suffering, like a -great many unfortunate individuals in public and private life, under an -overweening sense of his own importance. "You'll have an uncommon -pleasant drive of it; upon my word you will," he remarked; "it wouldn't -do for me to say I would not stay, you know, as Miss Leicester--Mrs -Leicester, that is--seemed to make such a point of it; but really"---- - -"Oh, come, Hurst," said I, "don't pretend to say you've made any -sacrifice in the matter; I know you are quite delighted; I'm sure I -should have liked to stay of all things, only it would have been uncivil -to our friend here to send him home by himself from his own party." - -"Oh! hang it, I don't mean to call it a sacrifice; I have no doubt I -shall have a very pleasant evening; only I wish we could all have -stayed, and driven home together afterwards." - -"You may keep Hawthorne with you now, if you like," said Horace, who was -not in the best of tempers; "I can take the horses home myself." - -"No, no, that would be hardly fair," said I. - -"Oh! no--off with you both," said Hurst; "stay, Leicester, you'll find -the grey go more pleasantly if you drive him from the cheek; I'll alter -it in a second." - -"Have the goodness just to let them alone, my good fellow; as I'm to -drive, I prefer putting them my own way, if you have no objection." - -"Well, as you please; good-night." - -"Miller's coming to my rooms when he gets home; if you like to look in -with him, you'll find some supper, I dare say." - -Horace continued rather sulky for the first few miles, and only opened -to anathematise, briefly but comprehensively, steeple-chases, tandems, -deans and tutors, and "fellows like Hurst." I thought it best to let him -cool down a little; so, after this ebullition, we rattled on in silence -as long as his first cigar lasted. - -"Come," said I, as I gave him a light, "we got rid of our friend's -company pretty cleverly, thanks to your cousin." - -"Ay, I told you I'd take care of that; ha, ha! poor Hurst! he little -bargained, when he ordered his team, how precious little driving he was -to get out of it; a strong instance of the vanity of human expectations. -I wish him joy of it, stuck up in an old barn, as I suppose he is by -this time, gaping at a set of strolling players; how Flora will laugh at -him! I really shouldn't wonder if she were to tell him, before the -evening is over, how nicely he has been humbugged, just for the fun of -it!" - -"At all events," said I, "I think we must have a laugh at him to-night -when he comes home; though he's such a good-tempered fellow, it's rather -a shame, too." - -It was very plain, however, that it was not quite such a good joke to -Master Horace himself as he was trying to make out; and that, in point -of fact, he would have considerably preferred being seated, as Hurst -probably was at that moment, by his pretty cousin's side in the B---- -theatre, wherever and whatever that might chance to be (even with the -full expectation of being laughed at afterwards), to holding the reins -of the best team that ever was turned out of Oxford. - -We reached Oxford just in time to hear the first stroke of "Old Tom." By -the time I joined Leicester in his rooms, supper was ready, and most of -the party assembled. The sport of the day was duly discussed; those who -knew least about such matters being proportionately the most noisy and -positive in giving their opinions. One young hero of eighteen, fresh -from Winchester, in all the importance of a probationary Fellow of New -College, explained for our benefit, by the help of the forks and -salt-cellars, the line which the horses undoubtedly ought to have taken, -and which they did not take; until one of his old schoolfellows, who was -present, was provoked to treat us to an anecdote of the young -gentleman's first appearance in the hunting-field--no longer ago than -the last term--when he mistook the little rough Scotch terrier that -always accompanied ----'s pack for the fox, and tally-ho'd him so -lustily as to draw upon himself sundry very energetic, but not very -complimentary, remarks from the well-known master of the hounds. By -degrees Leicester recovered his usual good-humour; and supper passed -over, and several songs had been sung with the usual amount of applause -(except one very sentimental one which had no chorus), and we had got -pretty deep into punch and politics, without Hurst's name having once -been mentioned by either of us. A knock at the oak, and in walked Fane. - -"So you're come back at last?" said Horace. "Sit down, if you can find -room. Allow me to introduce your left-hand neighbour--Powell of -Merton,--Fane, one of our brightest ornaments; quite the _spes gregis_ -we consider him; passed his little go, and started a pink only last -week; give him a glass of punch. Perhaps you are not aware we've been -drinking your health. But, by the way, Fane, where's our friend -Wellington?" - -"Who?" said Fane; "what on earth are you talking about?" - -"Wellington Hurst; didn't _you_ bring him home with you?" - -"Certainly not; didn't you bring him home?" - -"No; Miller promised me he should have a seat inside your drag, because -we could not wait for him; did you stay to the play?" - -"Yes, and capital fun it was; by the way, the last time I saw your -friend Hurst was mounted up in a red baise place that was railed off for -the patrons and patronesses, as they called them; there he was in the -front row, doing the civil to a very odd-looking old dowager in bright -blue velvet, with a neck like an ostrich." - -"Thank you," said Leicester, "that's my aunt." - -"Well, on that ground, we'll drink her health," said Fane, whose -coolness was proverbial. "There was Hurst, however, sitting between her -and an uncommonly pretty girl, with dark hair and eyes, dressed in--let -me see"---- - -"Never mind; it was one of my cousins, I suppose," interposed Horace, -who was engaged in lighting a cigar at the candle, apparently with more -zeal than success. - -"Well, we'll drink _her_ health for her own sake, if you have no -particular objection. I've no doubt the rest of the company will take my -word for her being the prettiest girl on the ground to-day; Hurst would -second me if he were here, for I never saw a man making love more -decidedly in my life." - -"Stuff!" said Horace, pitching his cigar into the fire; "pass that -punch." - -"What! jealous, Leicester?" said two or three of the party--"preserved -ground, eh?" - -"Not at all, not at all," said Horace, trying with a very bad grace to -laugh off his evident annoyance; "at all events, I don't consider Hurst -a very formidable poacher; but what I want to know is, how he didn't -come home with Miller and your party?" - -"Miller said he was coming up directly, so you can ask him; I really -heard nothing of it. Hark, there are steps coming up the staircase now." - -It proved to be Miller himself, followed by the under-porter, a -good-tempered fellow, who was the factotum of the under-graduates at -late hours, when the ordinary staff of servants had left college for the -night. - -"How are you, Leicester?" said he, as he walked straight to the little -pantry, or "scouts' room," immediately opposite the door, which forms -part of the usual suite of college apartments; "come here, Bob." - -"Where's Hurst?" was Horace's impatient query. - -"Wait a bit," replied Miller from inside, where he was rattling the -plates in the course of investigating the remains of the supper--he was -not the man to go to bed supperless after a twelve miles' drive. "Here, -Bob," he continued, as he emerged at last with a cold fowl--"take this -fellow down with you, and grill him in no time; here's a lump of -butter--and Harvey's sauce--and--where do you keep the pickled -mushrooms, Leicester? here they are--make a little gravy; and here, -Bob--it's a cold night--here's a glass of wine; now you'll drink Mr -Leicester's health, and vanish." - -Bob drank the toast audibly, floored his tumbler of port at two gulps, -and departed. - -"Now," said Horace, "do just tell me--what _is_ become of Hurst? how -didn't you bring him home?" - -"Confound it!" said Miller, as he looked into all the jugs--"no whisky -punch?" - -"Oh, really I forgot it; here's bishop, and that brandy punch is very -good. But how didn't he come home with you?" - -"Forgot it!" soliloquised Miller pathetically. - -"Forgot it? how the deuce came you to forget it? and how will he come -now?" rejoined Horace. - -"How came _you_ to forget it? I was talking about the whisky punch," -said Miller, as we all roared with laughter. "I couldn't bring Hurst, -you know, if he wouldn't come. He left the playhouse even before we did, -with some ladies--and we came away before it was over--so I sent up to -tell him we were going to start in ten minutes, and had a place for him; -and the Boots came down and said they had just had supper in, and the -gentleman could not possibly come just yet. Well, I sent up again, just -as we were ready harnessed, and then he threatened to kick Boots down -stairs." - -"What a puppy!" said Horace. - -"I don't quite agree with you there: I don't pretend to much sentiment -myself, as you are all aware; but with a lady _and_ a supper in the -case, I should feel perfectly justified in kicking down stairs any Boots -that ever wore shoes, if he hinted at my moving prematurely." - -Miller's unusual enthusiasm amused us all except Horace. "Gad," said he, -at last, "I hope he won't be able to get home to-night at all!" In this -friendly wish he was doomed to be disappointed. It was now long past -twelve o'clock; the out-college members of the party had all taken their -leave; Miller and Fane, having finished their grilled chicken at a -little table in the corner, had now drawn round the fire with the three -or four of us who remained, and there was a debate as to the expediency -of brewing more punch, when we heard a running step in the Quadrangle, -which presently began to ascend the staircase in company with a not very -melodious voice, warbling in a style which bespoke the owner's high -state of satisfaction. - -"Hush! that's Hurst to a certainty!" - - "Queen of my soul, whose starlike eyes - Are all the light I seek"---- - -(Here came an audible stumble, as if our friend were beginning his way -down again involuntarily by half-a-dozen steps at a time.) "Hallo! -Leicester! just lend us a candle, will you? The lamp is gone out, and -it's as dark as pitch; I've dropped my hat." - -"Open the door, somebody," said Horace; and Hurst was admitted. He -looked rather confused at first, certainly; for the sudden transition -from outer darkness into a small room lighted by a dozen wax candles -made him blink, and our first greeting consisting of "ha--ha's" in -different keys, was perhaps somewhat embarrassing; but he recovered -himself in a second. - -"Well," said he, "how are you all? glad you got home safe, Hawthorne; -hope I didn't keep you waiting, Miller? you got the start of me, all of -you, coming home; but really I spent an uncommon jolly evening." - -"Glad to hear it," said Leicester, with a wink to us. - -"Yes;--'pon my life; I don't know when I ever spent so pleasant a one;" -and, with a sort of chuckle to himself, Hurst filled a glass of punch. - -"What did you think of _Richard the Third_?" said I. - -"Oh! hang the play! there might have been six Richards in the field for -all I can say: I was better engaged." - -"Ay," said Fane, "I rather fancy you were." - -"We had a very pleasant drive home," said I, willing to effect a -diversion in favour of Leicester, who was puffing desperately at his -cigar in a savage kind of silence;--"and a capital supper afterwards; I -wish you had been with us." - -"And I had a very jolly drive too: I got a gig, and galloped nearly all -the way; and a very good supper, too, before I started; but I won't -return your compliment; we were a very snug party without you. Upon my -word, Leicester, your eldest cousin is one of the very nicest girls I -ever met: the sort of person you get acquainted with at once, and so -very lively and good-humoured--no nonsense about her." - -"I'll make a point of letting her know your good opinion," replied -Horace, in a tone conveying pretty plainly a rebuke of such presumption. -But it was lost upon Hurst. - -"Probably you need not trouble yourself," said Fane: "I dare say he has -let her know it himself already." - -"No--really no"--said Hurst, as if deprecating anything so decided; "but -Miss Leicester is a _very_ nice girl; clever, I should say, decidedly; -there's a shade of--one can hardly call it rusticity--about her manner; -but I like it, myself--I like it." - -"Do you?"--said Horace, very drily. - -"Oh! a season in London would take all that off." And Hurst began to -quaver again-- - - "Queen of my soul, whose"-- - -"I'll tell you what," said Horace, rising, and standing with his back to -the fire, with his hands under his coat-tails--"You may not be aware of -it, but you're rather drunk, Hurst." - -"Drunk!" said Hurst; "no, that's quite a mistake; three glasses, I think -it was, of champagne at supper; and you men have sat here drinking punch -all the evening; if anybody's drunk, it's not me." - -Hurst's usually modest demeanour was certainly so very much altered as -to justify, in some measure, Leicester's supposition; but I really -believe Flora Leicester's bright eyes had more to answer for in that -matter than the champagne, whether the said three glasses were more or -less. - -However, as Horace's temper was evidently not improving, Miller, Fane, -and myself wished him good night, and Hurst came with us. We got him -into Fane's rooms, and then extracted from him a full history of the -adventures of that delightful evening, to our infinite amusement, and -apparently to his own immense satisfaction. It was evident that Miss -Flora Leicester had made an impression, of which I do not give that -young lady credit for being in the least unconscious. - -The impression, however, like many others of its kind, soon wore off, I -fancy; for the next time I saw Mr Wellington Hurst, he had returned to -his usual frame of mind, and appeared quite modest and deferential; but -it will not perhaps surprise my readers any more than it did myself, -that Horace was never fond of referring to our drive to the -steeple-chase at B----, and did not appear to appreciate, as keenly as -before, the trick we had played Hurst in leaving him behind; while all -the after-reminiscences of the latter bore reference, whenever it was -possible, to his favourite date--"That day when you and I and Leicester -had that team to B---- together." - - - - -CHRISTINE - -A DUTCH STORY. - -FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME D'ARBOUVILLE - -BY FREDERICK HARDMAN, ESQ. - -[_MAGA._ DECEMBER 1847.] - - -It was the hour of sunrise. Not the gorgeous sunrise of Spain or Italy, -when the horizon's ruddy blaze suddenly revives all that breathes, when -golden rays mingle with the deep azure of a southern sky, and nature -bursts into vitality and vigour, as if light gave life. The sun rose -upon the chilly shores of Holland. The clouds opened to afford passage -to a pale light, without heat or brilliancy. Nature passed insensibly -from sleep to waking, but continued torpid when ceasing to slumber. No -cry or joyous song, no flight of birds, or bleating of flocks, hail the -advent of a new day. On the summit of the dykes, the reed-hedges bend -before the breeze, and the sea-sand, whirled over the slight obstacle, -falls upon the meadows, covering their verdure with a moving veil. A -river, yellow with the slime of its banks, flows peaceably and patiently -towards the expectant ocean. Seen from afar, its waters and its shore -appear of one colour, resembling a sandy plain; save where a ray of -light, breaking upon the surface, reveals by silvery flashes the passage -of the stream. Ponderous boats descend it, drawn by teams of horses, -whose large feet sink into the sand as they advance leisurely and -without distress to the goal of their journey. Behind them strides a -peasant, whip on shoulder; he hurries not his cattle, he looks neither -at the stream that flows, nor at the beasts that draw, nor at the boat -that follows; he plods steadily onwards, trusting to perseverance to -attain his end. - -Such is a corner of the picture presented to the traveller in Holland, -the country charged, it would seem, more than any other, to enforce -God's command to the waters, _Thou shalt go no farther!_ This silent -repose of creatures and things, this mild light, these neutral tints and -vast motionless plains, are not without a certain poetry of their own. -Wherever space and silence are united, poetry finds place; she loves all -things more or less, whether smiling landscape or dreary desert; light -of wing, a trifle will detain and support her--a blade of grass often -suffices. And Holland, which Butler has called a large ship always at -anchor, has its beauties for the thoughtful observer. Gradually one -learns to admire this land at war with ocean and struggling daily for -existence; those cities which compel the waters to flow at their -ramparts' foot to follow the given track, and abide in the allotted bed; -then those days of revolt, when the waves would fain reconquer their -independence, when they overflow, and inundate, and destroy, and at -last, constrained by the hand of man, subside and again obey. - -As the sun rose, a small boat glided rapidly down the stream. It had a -single occupant, a tall young man, lithe, skilful, and strong, who, -although apparently in haste, kept near the shore, following the -windings of the bank, and avoiding the centre of the current, which -would have accelerated his progress. At that early hour the fields were -deserted; the birds alone had risen earlier than the boatman, whose -large hat of grey felt lay beside him, whilst his brown locks, tossed -backward by the wind, disclosed regular features, a broad open forehead, -and eyes somewhat thoughtful, like those of the men of the north. His -costume denoted a student from a German university. One gathered from -his extreme youth that his life had hitherto passed on academic benches, -and that it was still a new and lively pleasure to him to feel the -freshness of morning bathe his brow, the breeze play with his hair, the -stream bear along his bark. He hastened, for there are times when we -count the hours ill; when we outstrip and tax them with delay. Then, if -we cannot hurry the pace of time, we prefer at least to wait at the -appointed spot. It calms impatience, and seems a commencement of -happiness. - -When the skiff had rounded a promontory of the bank, its speed -increased, as if the eye directing it had gained sight of the goal. At a -short distance the landscape changed its character. A meadow sloped down -to the stream, fringed by a thick hedge of willows, half uprooted and -bending over the water. The boat reached the shadow of the trees, and -stopping there, rocked gently on the river, secured by a chain cast -round a branch. The young man stood up and looked anxiously through the -foliage; then he sang, in a low tone, the burthen of a ballad, a -love-plaint, the national poetry of all countries. His voice, at first -subdued, as if not to break too suddenly the surrounding silence, -gradually rose as the song drew to a close. The clear mellow notes -escaped from the bower of drooping leaves, and expired without echo or -reply upon the surface of the pasture. Then he sat down and contemplated -the peaceful picture presented to his view. The grey sky had that -melancholy look so depressing to the joyless and hopeless; the cold dull -water rolled noiselessly onward; to the left, the plain extended afar -without variety of surface. A few windmills reared their gaunt arms, -waiting for wind; and the wind, too weak to stir them, passed on and -left them motionless. To the right, at the extremity of the little -meadow, stood a square house of red bricks and regular construction, -isolated, silent, and melancholy. The thick greenish glass of the -windows refused to reflect the sunbeams; the roof supported gilded vanes -of fantastical form; the garden was laid out in formal parterres. A few -tulips, drooping their heavy heads, and dahlias, propped with white -sticks, were the sole flowers growing there, and these were hemmed in -and stifled by hedges of box. Trees, stunted and shabby, and with -dust-covered leaves, were cut into walls and into various eccentric -shapes. At the corners of the formal alleys, whose complicated windings -were limited to a narrow space, stood a few plaster figures. One of -these alleys led to the willow hedge. There nature resumed her rights; -the willows grew free and unrestrained, stretching out from the land and -drooping into the water; their inclined trunks forming flying-bridges, -supported but at one end. The bank was high enough for a certain space -to intervene between the stream and the horizontal stems. A few -branches, longer than the rest, swept the surface of the river, and were -kept in constant motion by its current. - -Beneath this dome of verdure the boat was moored, and there the young -man mused, gazing at the sky--melancholy as his heart--and at the -stream, in its course uncertain as his destiny. A few willow leaves -fluttered against his brow, one of his hands hung in the water, a gentle -breeze stirred his hair; nameless flowerets, blooming in the shelter of -the trees, gave out a faint perfume, detectable at intervals, at the -wind's caprice. A bird, hidden in the foliage, piped an amorous note, -and the student, cradled in his skiff, awaited his love. Ungrateful that -he was! he called time a laggard, and bid him speed; he was insensible -to the charm of the present hour. Ah! if he grows old, how well will he -understand that fortune then lavished on him the richest treasures of -life--hope and youth! - -Suddenly the student started, stood up, and, with outstretched neck, and -eyes riveted on the trees, he listened, scarce daring to breathe. The -foliage opened, and the face of a young girl was revealed to his gaze. -"Christine!" he exclaimed. - -Christine stepped upon the trunk of the lowest tree, and seated herself -with address on this pliant bench, which her weight, slight as it was, -caused to yield and rock. One of her hands, extended through the -branches that drooped towards the water, reached that of her lover, who -tenderly clasped it. Then she drew herself up again, and the tree, less -loaded, seemed to obey her will by imitating her movement. The young man -sat in his boat, with eyes uplifted towards the willow on which his love -reposed. - -Christine Van Amberg had none of the distinguishing features of the -country of her birth. Hair black as the raven's wing formed a frame to a -face full of energy and expression. Her large eyes were dark and -penetrating; her eyebrows, strongly marked and almost straight, would -perhaps have imparted too decided a character to her young head, if a -charming expression of candour and _naivete_ had not given her the -countenance of a child rather than of a woman. Christine was fifteen -years of age. A slender silver circlet bound her brow and jet-black -tresses--a holiday ornament, according to her country's custom: but her -greatest festival was the sight of her lover. She wore a simple muslin -dress of a pale blue colour; a black silk mantle, intended to envelop -her figure, was placed upon her hair, and fell back upon her shoulders, -as if the better to screen her from the gaze of the curious. Seated on a -tree trunk, surrounded by branches and beside the water, like -Shakespeare's Ophelia, Christine was charming. But although young, -beautiful, and beloved, deep melancholy was the characteristic of her -features. Her companion, too, gazed mournfully at her, with eyes to -which the tears seemed about to start. - -"Herbert," said the young girl, stooping towards her lover, "Herbert, be -not so sad! we are both too young to despair of life. Herbert! better -times will come." - -"Christine! they have refused me your hand, expelled me your dwelling; -they would separate us entirely: they will succeed, to-morrow -perhaps!..." - -"Never!" exclaimed the young girl, with a glance like the lightning's -flash. But, like that flash, the expression of energy was momentary, and -gave way to one of calm melancholy. - -"If you would, Christine, if you would! ... how easy were it to fly -together, to unite our destinies on a foreign shore, and to live for -each other, happy and forgotten!... I will lead you to those glorious -lands where the sun shines as you see it in your dreams--to the summit -of lofty mountains whence the eye discovers a boundless horizon--to -noble forests with their thousand tints of green, where the fresh breeze -shall quicken your cheek, and sweep from your memory these fogs, this -humid clime, these monotonous plains. Our days shall pass blissfully in -a country worthy of our loves." - -As Herbert spoke, the young girl grew animated; she seemed to see what -he described, her eager eye sought the horizon as though she would -over-leap it, her lips parted as to inhale the mountain breeze. Then she -passed her hand hastily across her eyes, and sighed deeply. "No!" she -exclaimed; "no, I must remain here!... Herbert, it is my country: why -does it make me suffer? I remember another sky, another land,--but no, -it is a dream! I was born here, and have scarcely passed the boundary of -this meadow. My mother sang too often beside my cradle the ballads and -boleros of her native Seville; she told me too much of Spain, and I love -that unknown land as one pines after an absent friend!" - -The young girl glanced at the river, over which a dense fog was -spreading. A few rain-drops pattered amongst the leaves; she crossed her -mantle on her breast, and her whole frame shivered with sudden chill. - -"Leave me, Christine, you suffer!--return home, and, since you reject my -roof and hearth, abide with those who can shelter and warm you." - -A sweet smile played upon Christine's lips. "My beloved," she said, -"near you I prefer the chilling rain, this rough branch, and the biting -wind, to my seat in the house, far from you, beside the blazing chimney. -Ah! with what joy and confidence would I start on foot for the farthest -corner of the earth, your arm my sole support, your love my only wealth. -But...." - -"What retains you, Christine? your father's affection, your sisters' -tenderness, your happy home?" - -The young girl grew pale. "Herbert, it is cruel to speak thus. Well do I -know that my father loves me not, that my sisters are often unkind, that -my home is unhappy; I know it, indeed I know it, and I will follow -you.... If my mother consents!" - -Herbert looked at his mistress with astonishment. "Child!" he exclaimed, -"such consent will never leave your mother's lips. There are cases where -strength and resolution must be found in one's own heart. Your mother -will never say yes." - -"Perhaps!" replied Christine, slowly and gravely. "My mother loves me; I -resemble her in most things, and her heart understands mine. She knows -that Scripture says a woman shall leave her father and mother to follow -her husband; she is in the secret of our attachment, and, since our door -has been closed against you, I have not shed a tear that she has not -detected and replied to by another. You misjudge my mother, Herbert! -Something tells me she has suffered, and knows that a little happiness -is essential to life as the air we breathe. Nor would it surprise me, if -one day, when embracing me, as she does each night when we are alone, -she were to whisper: Begone, my poor child!" - -"I cannot think it, Christine. She will bid you obey, be comforted, -forget!" - -"Forget! Herbert, my mother forgets nothing. To forget is the resource -of cowardly hearts. No,--none will bid me forget." - -And once more a gloomy fire flashed in Christine's eyes, like the rapid -passage of a flame which illumines and instantly expires. It was a -revelation of the future rather than the expression of the present. An -ardent soul dwelt within her, but had not yet cast off all the -encumbrances of childhood. It struggled to make its way, and at times, -succeeding for a moment, a word or cry revealed its presence. - -"No--I shall not forget," added Christine; "I love you, and you love me, -who am so little loved! You find me neither foolish, nor fantastical, -nor capricious; you understand my reveries and the thousand strange -thoughts that invade my heart. I am very young, Herbert; and yet, here, -with my hand in yours, I answer for the future. I shall always love -you! ... and see, I do not weep. I have faith in the happiness of our -love; how? when? I know not,--it is the secret of my Creator, who would -not have sent me upon earth only to suffer. Happiness will come when He -deems right, but come it will! Yes,--I am young, full of life, I have -need of air and space; I shall not live enclosed and smothered here. The -world is large, and I will know it; my heart is full of love, and will -love for ever. No tears, dearest! obstacles shall be overcome, they must -give way, for I will be happy!" - -"But why delay, Christine? My love! my wife! an opportunity lost may -never be regained. A minute often decides the fate of a lifetime. -Perhaps, at this very moment, happiness is near us! A leap into my boat, -a few strokes of the oar, and we are united for ever!... Perhaps, if -you again return to land, we are for ever separated. Christine, come! -The wind rises: beneath my feet is a sail that will quickly swell and -bear us away rapidly as the wings of yon bird." - -Tears flowed fast over Christine's burning cheeks. She shuddered, looked -at her lover, at the horizon, thought of liberty; she hesitated, and a -violent struggle agitated her soul. At last, hiding her face amongst the -leafage of the willow, she clasped her arms round its stem, as if to -withhold herself from entering the boat, and in a stifled voice muttered -the words,--"My mother!" A few seconds afterwards, she raised her pallid -countenance. - -"If I fled," said she gently, "to whom would my mother speak of her dear -country? Who would weep with her when she weeps, if I were gone? She has -other children, but they are gay and happy, and do not resemble her. -Only my mother and myself are sad in our house. My mother would die of -my absence. I must receive her farewell blessing or remain by her side, -chilled like her by this inclement climate, imprisoned in yonder walls, -ill-treated by those who love me not. Herbert, I will not fly, I will -wait!" And she made a movement to regain the strand. - -"One instant,--yet one second,--Christine! I know not what chilling -presentiment oppresses my heart. Dearest,--if we were to meet no more! -If this little corner of earth were our last trysting-place--these -melancholy willows the witnesses of our eternal separation! Is it--can -it be--the last happy hour of my life that has just slipped by?" - -He covered his face with his hands, to conceal his tears. Christine's -heart beat violently--but she had courage. - -Letting herself drop from the tree, she stood upon the bank, separated -from the boat, which could not come nearer to shore. - -"Adieu, Herbert!" said she, "one day I will be your wife, faithful and -loving. It shall be, for I will have it so. Let us both pray God to -hasten that happy day. Adieu, I love you! Adieu, and till our next -meeting, for I love you!" - -The barrier of reeds and willows opened before the young girl. A few -small branches crackled beneath her tread; there was a slight noise in -the grass and bushes, as when a bird takes flight; then all was silence. - -Herbert wept. - - * * * * * - -The clock in the red brick house struck eight, and the family of Van -Amberg the merchant were mustered in the breakfast-room. Christine was -the only absentee. Near the fire stood the head of the family--Karl Van -Amberg--and beside him his brother, who, older than himself, yielded the -prerogative of seniority, and left him master of the community. Madame -Van Amberg was working near a window, and her two elder daughters, -fair-haired, white-skinned Dutchwomen, prepared the breakfast. - -Karl Van Amberg, the dreaded chief of this family, was of lofty stature; -his gait was stiff; his physiognomy passionless. His face, whose -features at first appeared insignificant, denoted a domineering temper. -His manners were cold. He spoke little; never to praise, but often in -terms of dry and imperious censure. His glance preceded his words and -rendered them nearly superfluous, so energetically could that small -sunken grey eye make itself understood. With the sole aid of his own -patience and ambition, Karl Van Amberg had made a large fortune. His -ships covered the seas. Never loved, always respected, his credit was -everywhere excellent. Absolute monarch in his own house, none dreamed of -opposing his will. All were mute and awed in his presence. At this -moment, he was leaning against the chimney-piece. His black garments -were very plain, but not devoid of a certain austere elegance. - -William Van Amberg, Karl's brother, was quite of an opposite character. -He would have passed his life in poverty, subsisting on the scanty -income left him by his parents, had not Karl desired wealth. He placed -his modest fortune in his brother's hands, saying, "Act as for -yourself!" Attached to his native nook of land, he lived in peace, -smoking and smiling, and learning from time to time that he was a richer -man by a few hundred thousand francs. One day, he was told that he -possessed a million; in reply, he merely wrote, "Thanks, Karl; it will -be for your children." Then he forgot his riches, and changed nothing in -his manner of life, even adhering in his dress to the coarse materials -and graceless fashion of a peasant dreading the vicinity of cities. His -youthful studies had consisted of a course of theology. His father, a -fervent Catholic, destined him for the church; but it came to pass, as a -consequence of his indecision of character, that William neither took -orders nor married, but lived quietly in his brother's family. The -habitual perusal of religious books sometimes gave his language a -mystical tone, contrasting with the rustic simplicity of his exterior. -This was his only peculiarity; otherwise he had nothing remarkable but -his warm heart and strong good sense. He was the primitive type of his -family: his brother was an example of the change caused by -newly-acquired wealth. - -Madame Van Amberg, seated at the window, sewed in silence. Her -countenance had the remains of great beauty, but she was weak and -suffering. A single glance sufficed to fix her birthplace far from -Holland. Her black hair and olive tint betrayed a southern origin. -Silently submissive to her husband, his iron character had pressed -heavily upon this delicate creature. She had never murmured; now she was -dying, but without complaint. Her look was one of deep melancholy. -Christine, her third daughter, resembled her. Of dark complexion, like -her mother, she contrasted strongly with her rosy-cheeked sisters. M. -Van Amberg did not love Christine. Rough and cold, even to those he -secretly cherished, he was severe and cruel to those he disliked. He had -never been known to kiss Christine. Her mother's were the only caresses -she knew, and even those were stealthily and tearfully bestowed. The two -poor women hid themselves to love each other. - -At intervals, Madame Van Amberg coughed painfully. The damp climate of -Holland was slowly conducting to her grave the daughter of Spain's -ardent land. Her large melancholy eyes mechanically sought the -monotonous horizon, which had bounded her view for twenty years. Fog and -rain surrounded the house. She gazed, shivered as if seized with deadly -cold, then resumed her work. - -Eight o'clock had just struck, and the two young Dutchwomen, who, -although rich heiresses, waited upon their father, had just placed the -tea and smoked beef upon the table, when Karl Van Amberg turned abruptly -to his wife. - -"Where is your daughter, madam?" - -He spoke of Christine, whom the restless gaze of Madame Van Amberg -vainly sought through the fog veiling the garden. At her husband's -question, the lady rose, opened the door, and, leaning on the banister, -twice uttered her daughter's name. There was no reply; she grew pale, -and again looked out anxiously through the fog. - -"Go in, Madame," was the surly injunction of Gothon, the old servant -woman, who knelt on the hall flags, which she had flooded with soap and -water, and was now vigorously scrubbing,--"Go, in, Madame; the damp -increases your cough, and Mademoiselle Christine is far enough away! The -bird flew before daybreak." - -Madame Van Amberg cast a mournful glance across the meadow, where -nothing moved, and into the parlour, where her stern husband awaited -her; then she went in and sat down at the table, around which the -remainder of the family had already placed themselves. No one spoke. All -could read displeasure upon M. Van Amberg's countenance, and none dared -attempt to change the course of his ideas. His wife kept her eyes fixed -upon the window, hoping her daughter's return. Her lips scarcely tasted -the milk that filled her cup; visible anguish increased the paleness of -her sweet, sad countenance. - -"Annunciata, my dear, take some tea," said her brother-in-law. "The day -is chill and damp, and you seem to suffer." - -Annunciata smiled sadly at William. For sole answer she raised to her -lips the tea he offered her, but the effort was too painful, and she -replaced the cup upon the table. M. Van Amberg looked at nobody; he ate, -his eyes fixed upon his plate. - -"Sister," resumed William, "it is a duty to care for one's health, and -you, who fulfil all your duties, should not neglect that one." - -A slight flush tinged the brow of Annunciata. Her eyes encountered those -of her husband, which he slowly turned towards her. Trembling, almost -weeping, she ceased her attempts to eat. And the silence was again -unbroken, as at the commencement of the meal. At last steps were heard -in the passage, the old servant grumbled something which did not reach -the parlour, then the door opened, and Christine entered; her muslin -dress damp with fog, her graceful curls disordered by the wind, her -black mantle glittering with a thousand little rain-drops. She was -crimson with embarrassment and fear. Her empty chair was beside her -mother; she sat down, and hung her head; none offered aught to the -truant child, and the silence continued. Yielding to maternal anxiety, -Madame Van Amberg took a handkerchief and wiped the moisture from -Christine's forehead and hair; then she took her hands to warm them in -her own. For the second time M. Van Amberg looked at his wife. She let -Christine's hands fall, and remained downcast and motionless as her -daughter. M. Van Amberg rose from table. A tear glistened in the -mother's eyes on seeing that her daughter had not eaten. But she said -nothing, and returning to the window, resumed her sewing. Christine -remained at table, preserving her frightened and abashed attitude. The -two eldest girls hastened to remove the breakfast things. - -"Do you not see what Wilhelmina and Maria are about? Can you not help -them?" - -At her father's voice, Christine hastily rose, seized the cups and -teapot, and hurried to and fro from parlour to pantry. - -"Gently! You will break something!" cried M. Van Amberg. "Begin in time, -to finish without hurry." - -Christine stood still in the middle of the room. Her two sisters smiled -as they passed her, and one of them muttered--for nobody spoke aloud in -M. Van Amberg's presence--"Christine will hardly learn housekeeping by -looking at the stars and watching the river flow!" - -"Now, then, Mademoiselle, you are spoiling everything here!" said the -old servant, who had just come in; "go and change that wet gown, which -ruins all my furniture." - -Christine remained where she was, not daring to stir without the -master's order. - -"Go," said M. Van Amberg. - -The young girl darted from the room and up the stairs, reached her -chamber, threw herself upon the bed and burst into tears. Below, Madame -Van Amberg continued to sew, her head bent over her work. When the cloth -was removed, Wilhelmina and Maria placed a large jug of beer, glasses, -long pipes, and a store of tobacco, upon the mahogany table, and pushed -forward two arm-chairs, in which Karl and William installed themselves. - -"Retire to your apartment, madam," said M. Van Amberg, in the imperious -tone habitual to him when he addressed his wife,--"I have to discuss -matters which do not concern you. Do not leave the house; I will call -you by-and-by; I wish to speak with you." - -Annunciata bowed in token of obedience, and left the room. Wilhelmina -and Maria approached their father, who silently kissed their pretty -cheeks. The two brothers lit their pipes, and remained alone. William -was the first to speak. - -"Brother Karl!" said he, resting his arms upon the table, and looking M. -Van Amberg in the face, "before proceeding to business, and at risk of -offending you, I must relieve my heart. Here, all fear you, and counsel, -the salutary support of man, is denied you." - -"Speak, William," coldly replied M. Van Amberg. - -"Karl, you treat Annunciata very harshly. God commands you to protect -her, and you allow her to suffer, perhaps to die, before your eyes, -without caring for her fate. The strong should sustain the weak. In our -native land, we owe kindness to the stranger who cometh from afar. The -husband owes protection to her he has chosen for his wife. For all these -reasons, brother, I say you treat Annunciata ill." - -"Does she complain?" said M. Van Amberg, filling his glass. - -"No, brother; only the strong resist and complain. A tree falls with a -crash, the reed bends noiselessly to the ground. No, she does not -complain, save by silence and suffering, by constant and passive -obedience, like that of a soulless automaton. You have deprived her of -life, the poor woman! One day she will cease to move and breathe; she -has long ceased to live!" - -"Brother, there are words that should not be inconsiderately spoken, -judgments that should not be hastily passed, for fear of injustice." - -"Do I not know your whole life, Karl, as well as my own, and can I not -therefore speak confidently, as one well informed?" - -M. Van Amberg inhaled the smoke of his pipe, threw himself back in his -arm-chair, and made no reply. - -"I know you as I know myself," resumed William, gently, "although our -hearts were made to love and not to resemble each other. When you found -our father's humble dwelling too small, I said nothing; you were -ambitious; when a man is born with that misfortune or blessing, he must -do like the birds, who have wings to soar; he must strive to rise. You -departed; I pressed your hand, and reproached you not; it is right that -each man should be happy his own way. You gained much gold, and gave me -more than I needed. You returned married, and I did not approve your -marriage. It is wiser to seek a companion in the land where one's days -are to end; it is something to love the same places and things, and then -it is only generous to leave one's wife a family, friends, well-known -objects to gaze upon. It is counting greatly on one's-self to take sole -charge of her happiness. Happiness sometimes consists of so many things! -Often an imperceptible atom serves as base to its vast structure: for my -part I do not like presumptuous experiments on the hearts of others. In -short, you married a foreigner, who perishes with cold in this country, -and sighs, amidst our fogs, for the sun of Spain. You committed a still -greater fault--Forgive me, brother; I speak plainly, in order not to -return to this subject." - -"I am attending to you, William; you are my elder brother." - -"Thanks for your patience, Karl. No longer young, you married a very -young woman. Your affairs took you to Spain. There you met a needy -Spanish noble, to whom you rendered a weighty service. You were always -generous, and increasing wealth did not close your hand. This noble had -a daughter, a child of fifteen. In spite of your apparent coldness, you -were smitten by her beauty, and you asked her of her father. Only one -thing struck you--that she was poor and would be enriched by the -marriage. A refusal of your offer would have been ingratitude to a -benefactor. They gave you Annunciata, and you took her, brother, without -looking whether joy was in her eyes, without asking the child whether -she willingly followed you, without interrogating her heart. In that -country the heart is precocious in its awakening ... perhaps she left -behind her some youthful dream ... some early love.... Forgive me, Karl; -the subject is difficult to discuss." - -"Change it, William," said M. Van Amberg, coldly. - -"Be it so. You returned hither, and when your business again took you -forth upon the ocean, you left Annunciata to my care. She lived many -years with me in this house. Karl, her youth was joyless and sad. -Isolated and silent, she wore out her days without pleasure or variety. -Your two eldest daughters, now the life of our dwelling, were then in -the cradle. They were no society to their mother; I was a very grave -companion for that young and beautiful creature. I have little reading -and knowledge, no imagination; I like my quiet arm-chair, my old books, -and my pipe. I at first allowed myself to believe--because I loved to -believe it--that Annunciata resembled me--that tranquillity and a -comfortable dwelling would suffice for her happiness, as they sufficed -for mine. But at last I understood--what you, brother, I fear, have -never comprehended--that she was not born to be a Dutch housewife. In -the first place, the climate tortured her. She constantly asked me if -finer summers would not come,--if the winters were always so -rigorous,--the fogs so frequent. I told her no, that the year was a bad -one; but I told her a falsehood, for the winters were always the same. -At first she tried to sing her Sevillian romances and boleros, but soon -her song died away and she wept, for it reminded her too much of her own -native land. Silent and motionless she sat, desiring, as I have read in -the Bible,--'The wings of the dove to fly away and be at rest.' Brother, -it was a melancholy sight. You know not how slowly the winter evenings -passed in this parlour. It was dark at four, and she worked by -lamp-light till bed-time. I endeavoured to converse, but she knew -nothing of the things I knew, and I was ignorant of those that -interested her. I saw at last that the greatest kindness was to leave -her to herself. She worked or was idle, wept or was calm, and I averted -my eyes to give her the only consolation in my power,--a little liberty. -But it was very sad, brother!" - -There was a moment's silence, broken by M. Van Amberg. "Madame Van -Amberg was in her own dwelling," said he, severely, "with her children, -and under the protection of a devoted friend. Her husband toiled in -foreign parts to increase the fortune of the family; she remained at -home to keep house and educate her daughters; all that is very natural." -And he filled his pipe. - -"True," replied William; "but still she was unhappy. Was it a crime? God -will decide. Leave her to His justice, Karl, and let us be merciful! -During your long absence, chance conducted hither some Spaniards whom -Annunciata had known in her childhood, and amongst them the son of an -old friend of her father's. Oh! with what mingled joy and agitation did -the dear child welcome her countrymen! What tears she shed in the midst -of her joy ... for she had forgotten how to be happy, and every emotion -made her weep. How eagerly she heard and spoke her native tongue! She -fancied herself again in Spain; for a while she was almost happy. You -returned, brother, and you were cruel; one day, without explaining your -motives, you shut your door upon the strangers. Tell me, why would you -not allow fellow-countrymen, friends, a companion of her childhood, to -speak to your wife of her family and native land? Why require complete -isolation, and a total rupture with old friends? She obeyed without a -murmur, but she suffered more than you thought. I watched her closely; -I, her old friend. Since that fresh proof of your rigour, she is sadder -than before. A third time she became a mother; it was in vain; her -unhappiness continued. Brother, your hand has been too heavy on this -feeble creature." - -M. Van Amberg rose, and slowly paced the room. "Have you finished, -William?" said he; "this conversation is painful, let it end here; do -not abuse the license I give you." - -"No; I have yet more to say. You are a cold and severe husband, but that -is not all; you are also an unjust father. Christine, your third -daughter, is denied her share of your affection, and by this partiality -you further wound the heart of Annunciata. Christine resembles her; she -is what I can fancy her mother at fifteen--a lively and charming -Spaniard; she has all her mother's tastes; like her she lives with -difficulty in our climate, and although born in it, by a caprice of -nature she suffers from it as Annunciata suffered. Brother, the child is -not easy to manage; independent, impassioned, violent in all her -impressions, she has a love of movement and liberty which ill agrees -with our regular habits, but she has also a good heart, and by appealing -to it you might perhaps have tamed her wild spirit. For Christine you -are neither more nor less than a pitiless judge. Her childhood was one -long grief. And thus, far from losing her wild restlessness, she loves -more than ever to be abroad and at liberty; she goes out at daybreak; -she looks upon the house as a cage whose bars hurt her, and you vainly -endeavour to restrain her. Brother, if you would have obedience, show -affection. It is a power that succeeds when all others fail. Why prevent -her marrying the man she loves? Herbert the student is not rich, nor is -his alliance brilliant; but they love each other!" - -M. Van Amberg, who had continued his walk, now stopped short, and coldly -replied to his brother's accusations: "Christine is only fifteen, and I -do my duty by curbing the foolish passion that prematurely disturbs her -reason. As to what you call my partiality, you have explained it -yourself by the defects of her character. You, who reproach others as -pitiless judges, beware yourself of judging too severely. Every man acts -according to his internal perceptions, and all things are not good to be -spoken. Empty your glass, William, and if you have finished your pipe, -do not begin another. The business I had to discuss with you will keep -till another day; it is late, and I am tired. It is not always wise to -rake up the memories of the past. I wish to be alone a while. Leave me, -and tell Madame Van Amberg to come to me in a quarter of an hour." - -"Why not say, 'Tell Annunciata?' Why, for so long a time, has that -strange sweet name never passed your lips?" - -"Tell Madame Van Amberg I would speak with her, and leave me, brother," -replied Karl sternly. - -William felt he had pushed Karl Van Amberg's patience to its utmost -limit; he got up and left the room. At the foot of the stairs he -hesitated a moment, then ascended, and sought Annunciata in Christine's -chamber. It was a narrow cell, shining with cleanliness, and containing -a few flowers in glasses, a wooden crucifix, with chaplets of beads -hanging on it, and a snow-white bed; a guitar (it was her mother's) was -suspended on the wall. From the window was seen the meadow, the river, -and the willows. Christine sat on the foot of the bed, still weeping; -her mother was beside her, offering her bread and milk, with which -Christine's tears mingled. Annunciata kissed her daughter's eyes, and -then furtively wiped her own. On entering, William stood for a few -moments at the door, mournfully contemplating this touching picture. - -"My brother, my good brother," cried Annunciata, "speak to my child! She -has forgotten prayer and obedience; her heart is no longer submissive, -and her tears avail nothing, for she murmurs and menaces. Ask her, -brother, by whom it was told her that life is joy? that we live only to -be happy? Talk to her of duty, and give her strength to accomplish it!" - -"Your husband inquires for you, sister. Go, I will remain with -Christine." - -"I go, my brother," replied Annunciata. Approaching the little mirror -above the chimney-piece, she washed the tear-stains from her eyes, -pressed her hand upon her heart to check its throbbings, and when her -countenance had resumed its expression of calm composure, she descended -the stairs. Gothon was seated on the lower steps. - -"You spoil her, madame," said she roughly to her mistress; "foolish ears -need sharp words. You spoil her." - -Gothon had been in the house before Annunciata, and had been greatly -displeased by the arrival of her master's foreign lady, whose authority -she never acknowledged. But she had served the Van Ambergs' mother, and -therefore it was without fear of dismissal that she oppressed, after her -own fashion, her timid and gentle mistress. - -Annunciata entered the parlour and remained standing near the door as if -waiting an order. Her husband's countenance was graver and more gloomy -than ever. - -"Can no one hear us, madam? Are you sure we are alone?" - -"Quite alone, sir," replied the astonished Annunciata. - -M. Van Amberg recommenced his walk. For some moments he said nothing. -His wife, her hand resting on the back of an arm-chair, silently awaited -his pleasure. At last he again spoke. - -"You bring up your daughter Christine badly; I left her to your care and -guidance, and you do not watch over her. Do you know where she goes and -what she does?" - -"From her childhood, sir," replied Annunciata gently, pausing between -each phrase, "Christine has loved to live in the open air. She is -delicate, and requires sun and liberty to strengthen her. Till now you -have allowed her to live thus; I saw no harm in letting her follow her -natural bent. If you disapprove, sir, she will obey your orders." - -"You bring up your daughter badly," coldly repeated M. Van Amberg. "She -will dishonour the name she bears." - -"Sir!!" exclaimed Annunciata, her cheeks suffused with the deepest -crimson; her eyes emitting a momentary but vivid flash. - -"Look to it, madam, I will have my name respected, that you know! You -also know I am informed of whatever passes in my house. Your daughter -secretly meets a man to whom I refused her hand; this morning, at six -o'clock, they were together on the river bank!" - -"My daughter! my daughter!" cried Annunciata in disconsolate tones. "Oh! -it is impossible! She is innocent! she shall remain so! I will place -myself between her and evil, I will save my child! I will take her in my -arms, and close her ears to dangerous words. My daughter, I will say, -remain innocent, remain honoured, if you would not see me die!" - -With unmoved eye M. Van Amberg beheld the mother's emotion. Beneath his -frozen gaze, Annunciata felt embarrassed by her own agitation; she made -an effort to calm herself; then, with clasped hands, and eyes filled -with tears, which she would not allow to flow, she resumed, in a -constrained voice: - -"Is this beyond doubt, sir?" - -"It is," replied M. Van Amberg: "I never accuse without certainty." - -There was a moment's silence. M. Van Amberg again spoke. - -"You will lock Christine in her room, and bring me the key. She will -have time to reflect, and I trust reflection will be of service to her; -in a prolonged seclusion she will lose that love of motion and liberty -which leads her into harm; the silence of complete solitude will allay -the tumult of her thoughts. None shall enter her room, save Gothon, who -shall take her her meals, and return me the key. This is what I have -decided upon as proper." - -Madame Van Amberg's lips opened several times to speak, but her courage -failed her. At last she advanced a pace or two. - -"But I, sir, I," said she in a stifled voice, "_I_ am to see my child!" - -"I said no one," replied M. Van Amberg. - -"But she will despair, if none sustain her. I will be severe with her; -you may be assured I will! Let me see her, if only once a-day. She may -fall ill of grief, and who will know it? Gothon dislikes her. For pity's -sake, let me see Christine! For a minute only, a single minute." - -M. Van Amberg once more stood still, and fixed upon his wife a look that -made her stagger. "Not another word!" he said. "I allow no discussion, -madam. No one shall see Christine; do you hear?" - -"I will obey," replied Annunciata. - -"Convey my orders to your daughter. At dinner bring me the key of her -room. Go." - -Madame Van Amberg found Christine alone, seated on her bed, and -exhausted by long weeping. Her beautiful face, at times so energetic, -wore an expression of profound and touching dejection. Her long hair -fell in disorder on her shoulders, her figure was bent, as if weighed -down by grief: her rosary had fallen from her half-open hand; she had -tried to obey her mother and to pray, but had been able only to weep. -Her black mantle, still damp with rain, lay upon a table, a few willow -sprays peeping from its silken folds. Christine eyed them with mingled -love and melancholy. She thought it a century since she saw the sun -rise on the river, on the old trees, and on Herbert's skiff. Her mother -slowly approached her. - -"My child," said she, "where were you at daybreak this morning?" - -Christine raised her eyes to her mother's face, looked at her, but did -not answer. Annunciata repeated her question without change of word or -tone. Then Christine let herself slide from the bed to the ground, and -kneeled before her mother. - -"I was seated," she said, "upon the trunk of a willow that overhangs the -stream. I was near Herbert's boat." - -"Christine!" exclaimed Madame Van Amberg, "can it be true? Oh, my child, -could you so infringe the commands laid upon you! Could you thus forget -my lessons and advice! Christine, you thought not of me when you -committed that fault!" - -"Herbert said to me, 'Come, you shall be my wife, I will love you -eternally, you shall be free and happy; all is ready for our marriage -and our flight; come!' I replied, 'I will not leave my mother!' Mother, -you have been my safeguard; if it be a crime to follow Herbert, it is -the thought of you alone that prevented my committing it. I would not -leave my mother!" - -A beam of joy illumined Annunciata's countenance. Murmuring a -thanksgiving to God, she raised her kneeling child and seated her by her -side. - -"Speak to me, Christine," she said, "open your heart, and tell me all -your thoughts. Together we will regret your faults, and seek hope for -the future. Speak, my daughter; conceal nothing." - -Christine laid her head upon her mother's shoulder, put one of her -little hands in hers, sighed deeply, as though her heart were too -oppressed for words, and spoke at last with effort and fatigue. - -"Mother," she said, "I have nothing to confess that you do not already -know. I love Herbert. He is but a poor student, intrusted to my father's -care, but he has a noble heart--like mine, somewhat sad. He knows much, -and he is gentle to those who know nothing. Poor, he is proud as a king: -he loves, and he tells it only to her who knows it. My mother, I love -Herbert! He asked my hand of my father, whose reply was a smile of -scorn. Then he was kept from me, and I tried to exist without seeing -him. I could not do it. I made many _neuvaines_ on the rosary you gave -me. I had seen you weep and pray, mother, and I said to myself--Now that -I weep as she does, I must also pray like her. But it happened once, as -day broke, that I saw a small boat descend the stream, then go up again, -and again descend; from time to time a white sail fluttered in the air -as one flutters a kerchief to a departing friend. My thoughts, then as -now, were on Herbert; I ran across the meadow--I reached the -stream--Mother, it was he! hoping and waiting my coming. Long and -mournfully we bewailed our separation; fervently we vowed to love until -death. This morning Herbert, discouraged and weary of waiting a change -in our position, urged me to fly with him. I might have fled, mother, -but I thought of you and remained. I have told you all; if I have done -wrong, forgive me, dearest mother!" - -With deep emotion Madame Van Amberg listened to her daughter, and -remained buried in reflection, when Christine paused. She felt that the -young girl's suffering heart needed gentle lessons, affectionate advice; -and, instead of these, she was the bearer of a sentence whose severity -must aggravate the evil--she was compelled to deny her sick child the -remedies that might have saved her. - -"You love him very dearly, then," said she at last, fixing a long -melancholy look on her daughter's countenance. - -"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Christine, "I love him with all my soul! My life -is passed in expecting, seeing, remembering him! I could never make you -understand how entirely my heart is his. Often I dream of dying for him, -not to save his life, that were too easy and natural, but uselessly at -his command." - -"Hush! Christine, hush! you frighten me," cried Annunciata, placing both -hands upon her daughter's mouth. By a quick movement Christine -disengaged herself from her mother's arms. - -"Ah!" she exclaimed, "you know not what it is to love as I do! My father -could never let himself be loved thus!" - -"Be silent, my child! be silent!" repeated Annunciata energetically. -"Oh, my daughter! how to instil into your heart thoughts of peace and -duty! Almighty Father! bless my weak words, that they may touch her -soul! Christine, hear me!" - -Annunciata took her daughter's hands, and compelled her to stand before -her. "My child," she said, "you know nothing of life; you walk at -random, and are about to wander from the right path. All young hearts -have been troubled as yours is now. The noble ones have struggled and -triumphed; the others have fallen! Life is no easy and pleasant passage; -its trials are many and painful--its struggles severe; believe me, for -us women there is no true happiness beyond the bounds of duty. And when -happiness is not our destiny, many great things still remain to us. -Honour, the esteem of others, are not mere empty words. Hear me, beloved -child! That God whom from your infancy I have taught you to love, do you -not fear offending him? Seek Him, and you will find better consolation -than I can offer. Christine, we love in God those from whom we are -severed on earth. He, who in his infinite wisdom imposed so many -fetters on the heart of woman, foresaw the sacrifices they would entail, -and surely he has kept treasures of love for hearts that break in -obedience to duty." - -Annunciata rapidly wiped the tears inundating her fine countenance; then -clasping Christine's arm-- - -"On your knees, my child! on our knees both of us before the Christ I -gave you! 'Tis nearly dark, and yet we still discern Him--his arms -seeming to open for us. Bless and save and console my child, oh merciful -God! Appease her heart; make it humble and obedient!" - -Her prayer at an end, she rose, and throwing her arms round Christine, -who had passively allowed herself to be placed on her knees and lifted -up again, she embraced her tenderly, pressed her to her heart, and -bathed her hair with tears. "My daughter," she murmured between her -kisses, "my daughter, speak to me! Utter one word that I may take with -me as a hope! My child, will you not speak to your mother?" - -"Mother, I love Herbert!" was Christine's reply. - -Annunciata looked despairingly at her child, at the crucifix upon the -wall, at the darkening sky seen through the open window. The dinner-bell -rang. Madame Van Amberg made a strong effort to collect and express her -ideas. - -"M. Van Amberg," said she in broken voice, "orders you to remain in your -room. I am to take him the key. You are to see no one. The hour is come, -and he expects me." - -"A prisoner!" cried Christine; "A prisoner,--alone, all day! Death -rather than that!" - -"He will have it so," repeated Annunciata mournfully; "I must obey. He -will have it so." And she approached the door, casting upon Christine a -look of such ineffable love and grief, that the young girl, fascinated -by the gaze, let her depart without opposition. The key turned in the -lock, and Annunciata, supporting herself by the banister, slowly -descended. She found M. Van Amberg alone in the parlour. - -"You have been a long time up stairs," said he. "Have you convinced -yourself that your daughter saw the student Herbert this morning?" - -"She did," murmured Annunciata. - -"You have told her my orders?" - -"I have done so." - -"Where is the key?" She gave it him. - -"Now to dinner," said M. Van Amberg, walking into the dining-room. -Annunciata endeavoured to follow him, but her strength failed her, and -she sank upon a chair. - -M. Van Amberg sat down alone to his dinner. - - * * * * * - -"A prisoner!" repeated Christine in her solitude; "apart from all! shut -up! Yon meadow was too wide a range; the house too spacious a prison. I -must have a narrower cell, with more visible walls--a straiter -captivity! They deprive me of the little air I breathed--the scanty -liberty I found means to enjoy!" - -She opened the window to its full extent; leaned upon the sill, and -looked at the sky. It was very dark; heavy clouds hid the stars; no -light fell upon the earth; different shades of obscurity alone marked -the outlines of objects. The willows, so beautiful when Herbert and the -sun were there, were now a black and motionless mass; dead silence -reigned around. In view of nature thus lifeless and lightless, hopes of -happiness could hardly enter the heart. Christine was in a fever: she -felt oppressed and crushed by unkindly influences, by the indifference -of friends, by a tyrant's will, even by the cold and mournful night. The -young girl's heart beat quickly and rebelliously. - -"Be it so!" she exclaimed aloud; "let them have their way! They may -render me unhappy; I will not complain. They sanctify my love by -persecution. Happy, I should perhaps have been ashamed to love so much. -But they rob me of air and liberty; I suffer; I weep. Ah! I feel proud -that my heart still throbs with joy in the midst of so many evils. My -sufferings will hallow my love, will compel the respect of those who -scoffed and slighted it. Herbert! dear Herbert! where are you at this -moment? Do you joyfully anticipate to-morrow's dawn: are you busy with -your boat, preparing it for its early cruise? Or do you sleep, dreaming -of the old willows in the meadow, hearing the waters murmur through -their branches, and the voice of Christine promising her return? But no; -it cannot be; our hearts are too united for their feelings thus to -differ! You are sad, my love, and you know not why; I am sad with -knowledge of our misfortune--'tis the sole difference separation can -establish between us. When shall we meet again, Herbert? Alas! I know -not, but meet we surely shall. If God lets me live, he will let me love -you." - -Christine shut the window and threw herself on her bed without -undressing. It was cold; she wrapped herself in her mantle, and -gradually her head sank upon her breast. Her hands, at first pressed -against each other, opened and fell by her sides. She dropped asleep, -like an infant, in the midst of her tears. - -The first sun-rays, feeble though they were, awoke Christine, who sprang -hastily from her couch. "Herbert waits for me!" she exclaimed. At her -age memory is better for joy than for sorrow. For her the dawn of day -was still a rendezvous of love. The next moment she awoke to the -consciousness of her captivity. She went to the window, leaned out as on -the previous evening, and looked mournfully around. In a corner of the -heavens was a glow of light, intercepted by billows of cloud. The pale -foliage of the willows shivered in the breeze, which ruffled the leaves -without bending the branches; the long fine grass of the meadow was seen -through a veil of fog, as yet undispelled by the sun. The sounds of -awakening nature had scarce begun, when a white sail stood out upon the -surface of the stream, gliding lightly along like the open wing of a -graceful bird. It passed to and fro in front of the meadow; was lowered -before the trees, and then again displayed, bending the boat's gunwale -to the water's surface, hovering continually around a point of the bank, -as though confined within the circle of an invisible fascination. At -long intervals the wind brought a faint and scarce perceptible sound, -like the last notes of a song; then the little bark again manoeuvred, -and its sail flapped in the air. The pale tints of dawn gave way to the -warmer sunbeams; passengers appeared upon the bank; trading boats -ascended the river; the windows of the red brick house opened as if to -inhale the morning air. The boat lowered its sail, and floated slowly -away at the will of the current. Christine looked after it and wept. - -Twice during that day, Gothon opened the door of the young girl's -chamber, and brought her a frugal meal. Twice did Gothon depart without -uttering a word. The whole day passed in silence and solitude. Christine -knew not how to get rid of the weary hours. She knelt before the -crucifix, her alabaster rosary in her hand, her head raised towards the -cross, and prayed. But her prayer was for Herbert, to see him again; she -never dreamed of praying to forget him. Then she took down the guitar, -passed round her neck the faded blue ribbon, tied on it at Seville, and -which her mother would never allow to be changed. She struck a few -chords of the songs she best loved; but her voice was choked, and her -tears flowed more abundantly when she tried to sing. She collected the -little sprays of willow, and placed them in a book to dry and preserve -them. But the day was very long; and the poor child fluttered in her -prison like a caged bird, with an anguish that each moment increased. -Her head burned, her bosom throbbed. At last night came. Seated near the -open window, the cold calmed her a little. They brought her no light, -and time passed more slowly than ever. She went to bed, but, deprived of -her accustomed exercise, tormented by a thousand anxieties, she could -not sleep; she got up, walked about in the darkness, and again lay down; -slumber still avoided her. This time her eyes, red with tears and -watchfulness, beheld the sun rise without illusion; she did not for a -moment forget her captivity, but looked mournfully out at the little -sail which, faithful to its rendezvous, came each morning with the sun. -Again, none but Gothon disturbed her solitude. During another long day, -Christine, alternately desponding and excited, walked, wept, lamented, -and prayed. Night came again. Nothing broke the silence; the lights in -the red house were extinguished one after the other. Profound darkness -covered the earth. Christine remained at her window, insensible to cold. -Suddenly she started: she heard her name pronounced in low tones at the -foot of the wall. She listened. - -"Christine, my daughter!" repeated the voice. - -"Mother," exclaimed Christine, "you out in this dreadful weather! I -conjure you to go in!" - -"I have been two days in bed, my child; I have been unwell; to-night I -am better; I felt it impossible to remain longer without seeing you, who -are my life, my strength, my health! Oh! you were right not to leave me; -it would have killed me. Are you well, dear Christine? Have you all you -require? How do you live, deprived of my caresses?" - -"Dearest mother, for heaven's sake, go in! The night is damp and cold; -it will be your death!" - -"Your voice warms me; it is far from you that I feel chill and faint. -Dearest child, my heart sends you a thousand kisses." - -"I receive them on my knees, mother, my arms extended towards you. But, -when shall I see you again?" - -"When you submit, and promise to obey; when you no longer seek him you -are forbidden to see, and whom you must forget. My daughter, it is your -duty." - -"Oh mother, I thought your heart could better understand what it never -felt. I thought you respected the true sentiments of the soul, and that -your lips knew not how to utter the word 'forget.' If I forgot, I should -be a mere silly child, capricious, unruly, unworthy your tenderness. If -my malady is without remedy, I am a steadfast woman, suffering and -self-sacrificing. Good God! how is it you do not understand that?" - -"I understand," murmured Annunciata, but in so low a tone that she was -sure her daughter could not hear her. - -"Mother," resumed Christine, "go to my father! summon up that courage -which fails you when you alone are concerned; speak boldly to him, tell -him what I have told you; demand my liberty, my happiness." - -"I!" exclaimed Annunciata in terror; "I brave M. Van Amberg, and oppose -his will!" - -"Not oppose, but supplicate! compel his heart to understand what mine -experiences; force him to see and hear and feel that my life may cease, -but not my love. Who can do it, if you cannot? I am a captive. My -sisters know not love, my uncle William has never known it. It needs a -woman's voice to express a woman's feelings." - -"Christine, you know not what you ask. The effort is above my strength." - -"I ask a proof of my mother's love; I am sure she will give it me." - -"I shall die in so doing. M. Van Amberg can kill me by a word." - -Christine started and trembled. "Do not go, then, dearest mother. -Forgive my egotism; I thought only of myself. If my father has such -terrible power, avoid his anger. I will wait, and entreat none but God." - -There was a brief pause. "Christine," said Madame Van Amberg, "since I -am your only hope, your sole reliance, and you have called me to your -aid, I will speak to him. Our fate is in the hands of heaven." - -Annunciata interrupted herself by a cry of terror; a hand rudely grasped -her arm; M. Van Amberg, without uttering a word, dragged her to the -house door, compelled her to enter, took out the key, and made her pass -before him into the parlour. A lamp burned dimly upon the table, its oil -nearly exhausted; at times it emitted a bright flash, and then suddenly -became nearly extinguished. The corners of the room were in darkness, -the doors and windows closed, perfect silence reigned; the only object -on which a strong light fell, was the countenance of M. Van Amberg. It -was calm, cold, motionless. His great height, the piercing look of his -pale grey eyes, the austere regularity of his features, combined to give -him the aspect of an implacable judge. - -"You would speak with me, madam," said he to Annunciata; "I am here, -speak!" - -On entering the parlour, Annunciata let herself fall into a chair. Her -clothes streamed with water; her hair, heavy with rain, fell upon her -shoulders; her extreme paleness gave her the appearance of a corpse -rather than of a living creature. Terror obliterated memory, even of -what had just occurred; her mind was confused; she felt only that she -suffered horribly. Her husband's voice and words restored the chain of -her ideas; the poor woman thought of her child, made a violent effort, -rallied her strength, and rose to her feet. - -"Now then," she murmured, "since it must be so!" - -M. Van Amberg waited in silence, his arms crossed upon his breast, his -eyes fixed upon his wife; he stood like a statue, assisting neither by -word nor gesture the poor creature who trembled before him. Annunciata -looked long at him before speaking; she hoped that at sight of her -tears and sufferings, M. Van Amberg would remember he had loved her. She -threw her whole soul into her eyes, but not a muscle of her husband's -countenance moved. He waited for her to break silence. - -"I need your indulgence," she at last said; "it costs me a fearful -effort to address you. In general I do but answer; I am unaccustomed to -speak first, and I am afraid. I dread your anger; have compassion on a -trembling woman, who would fain be silent, and who must speak. -Christine's happiness is in your hands. The poor child implores me to -soften your rigour.... Did I refuse, not a creature upon earth would -intercede for her. This is why I venture to petition you, sir." - -M. Van Amberg continued silent. Annunciata wiped the tears from her -cheeks and resumed with more courage. - -"She is much to be pitied; she has inherited the faults you blame in me. -Believe me, sir, I have laboured hard to check them in the bud. I have -striven, exhorted, punished, have spared neither advice nor prayers, but -all in vain. God has not been pleased to spare me this new grief. Her -nature is unchangeable; she is to blame, but she is also much to be -pitied. Christine loves with all her soul. Women die of such love as -hers, and when they do not die, they suffer frightfully. For pity's -sake, sir, let her marry him she loves!" - -Annunciata covered her face with her hands, and awaited in an agony of -anxiety her husband's reply. - -"Your daughter," said M. Van Amberg, "is still a child; she has -inherited, as you say, a character that needs restraint. I will not -yield to the first caprice that traverses her silly head. Herbert is -only two-and-twenty; we know nothing of his character. Your daughter -requires a protector, and a judicious guide. Herbert has neither family, -fortune, nor position. He shall never be the husband of a woman who -bears the name of Mademoiselle Van Amberg!" - -"Sir!" cried Annunciata, clasping her hands and breathless with emotion, -"Sir! the best guidance for a woman's life is a union with the man she -loves! It is her best safeguard, it strengthens her against the cares of -the world. I entreat you, Karl!" exclaimed Madame Van Amberg, falling -upon her knees, "have compassion on my daughter! Do not render duty a -torture; do not exact from her too much courage! We are weak creatures: -we have need both of love and virtue. Place her not in the terrible -necessity of choosing between them. Pity, Karl, pity!" - -"Madam," cried M. Van Amberg, and this time his frame was agitated by a -slight nervous trembling, "Madam, you are very bold to speak to me thus! -You! you! to dare to hold such language to me! Silence! and teach your -daughter not to hesitate in her choice between good and evil. Do that, -instead of weeping uselessly at my feet." - -"Yes, it is bold of me, sir, thus to address you; but I have found -courage in suffering. I am ill,--in pain,--my life is worthless, save as -a sacrifice--let my child take it, I will speak for her! Her fate is in -your hands, do not crush her by a cruel decision! An absolute judge and -master should be guarded in word and deed, for a reckoning will be asked -of him! Be merciful to my child!" - -M. Van Amberg approached his wife, took her arm, placed his other hand -on her mouth, and said:-- - -"Silence! I command you; no such scenes in my house, no noise and -whimpering. Your daughters sleep within a few yards of you, do not -disturb their repose. Your servants are above, do not awaken them. -Silence! you had no business to speak; I was wrong to listen to you. -Never dare again to discuss my orders; it is I whom your children must -obey, I whom you must obey yourself. Retire to your apartment, and -to-morrow let me find you what you yesterday were." - -M. Van Amberg had regained his usual calmness. He walked slowly from the -room. - -"Oh, my daughter!" exclaimed Annunciata, despairingly, "nothing can I do -for you! Merciful Father! what will become of me, placed between him and -her, both inflexible in their resolves!" - -The lamp which feebly illuminated this scene of sorrow, now suddenly -went out and left the unhappy mother in profound darkness. The rain beat -against the windows,--the wind howled,--the house clock struck four. - -Christine had seen M. Van Amberg seize Annunciata's arm, and lead her -away with him; afterwards, she had distinguished, through the slight -partitions of the house, a faint echo as of mingled sobs, entreaties, -and reproaches. She understood that her fate was deciding,--that her -poor mother had devoted herself for her, and was face to face with the -stern ruler whose look alone she usually dared not brave. Christine -passed the night in terrible anxiety, abandoning herself alternately to -discouragement and to joyful hopes. At her age it is not easy to -despair. Fear, however, predominated over every other emotion, and she -would have given years of existence to learn what had passed. But the -day went by like the previous one. She saw none but Gothon. Her she -ventured to question, but the old servant had orders not to answer. - -Another day elapsed. Christine's solitude was still unbroken, no -friendly voice reached her ear, no kindly hand lifted the veil shrouding -her future. The poor girl was exhausted, she had not even the energy of -grief. She wept without complaint, almost without a murmur. Night came, -and she fell asleep, exhausted by her sorrow. She had scarcely slept an -hour when she was awakened by the opening of the door, and Gothon, lamp -in hand, approached her bed. "Get up Mademoiselle," said the servant, -"and follow me." - -Christine dressed herself as in a dream, and hastily followed Gothon, -who conducted her to her mother's room, opened the door, and drew back -to let her pass. A sad spectacle met the young girl's eyes. Annunciata, -pale and almost inanimate, lay in the agonies of death. Her presentiment -had not deceived her; suffering and agitation had snapped the slender -strings that bound her to the earth. The light of the lamp fell full -upon her features, whose gentle beauty pain was impotent to deface. -Resignation and courage were upon her countenance, over which came a -gleam of joy when Christine appeared. Wilhelmina and Maria knelt and -wept at the foot of their mother's bed. William stood a little apart, -holding a prayer-book, but his eyes had left the page to look at -Annunciata, and two large tears trembled on their lids. M. Van Amberg, -seated beside his wife's pillow, had his face shaded by his hand, so -that none could see its expression. - -With a piercing cry, Christine rushed to Madame Van Amberg, who received -her in her arms. "Mother!" she cried, her cheek against Annunciata's, -"it is I who have killed you! For love of me you have exceeded your -strength." - -"No, my beloved, no," replied Annunciata, kissing her daughter between -each word, "I die of an old and incurable malady. But I die happy, since -I once more clasp you in my arms." - -"And they did not let me nurse you!" cried Christine, indignantly -raising her head; "they concealed your illness! They let me weep for -other sorrows than yours, my mother!" - -"Dearest child," replied Annunciata gently, "this crisis has been very -sudden; two hours ago they knew not my danger, and I wished to fulfil my -religious duties before seeing you. I wished to think only of God. Now I -can abandon myself to the embraces of my children." And she clasped her -weeping daughters to her heart. "Dear children," said she, "God is full -of mercy to the dying, and sanctifies a mother's benediction. I bless -you, my daughters; remember and pray for me." - -The three young girls bowed their heads upon their mother's hand, and -replied by tears alone to this solemn farewell. - -"My good brother," resumed Annunciata to William, "my good brother, we -have long lived together, and to me you have ever been a devoted friend, -indulgent and gentle. I thank you, brother!" - -William averted his head to conceal his tears, but a deep sob escaped -him, and he turned his venerable face towards Annunciata. - -"Do not thank me, sister," he said, "I have done little for you. I loved -you, that is certain, but I could not enliven your solitude. My sister, -you will still live for the happiness of us all." - -Annunciata gently shook her head. Her glance sought her husband, as if -she would fain have addressed her last words to him. But they expired on -her lips. She looked at him timidly, sadly, and then closed her eyes, to -check the starting tears. She grew visibly weaker, and as death -approached, a painful anxiety took possession of her. Resigned, she was -not calm. It was ordained her soul should suffer and be troubled to the -end. The destiny of one of her daughters disturbed her last moments; she -dared not pronounce the name of Christine, she dared not ask compassion -for her; a thousand conflicting doubts and fears agitated her poor -heart. She died as she had lived, repressing her tears, concealing her -thoughts. From time to time she turned to her husband, but his head -continued sunk upon his hand; not one look of encouragement could she -obtain. At last came the spasm that was to break this frail existence. -"Adieu! Adieu!" she murmured in unintelligible accents. Her eyes no -longer obeyed her, and none could tell whom they sought. William -approached his brother, and placed his hand upon his shoulder. "Karl!" -he whispered in tones audible but to him he addressed, "she is dying! -Have you nothing to say to a poor creature who has so long lived with -you and suffered by you? Living, you loved her not; do not let her die -thus! Fear you not, Karl, lest this woman, oppressed and slighted by -you, should expire with a leaven of resentment in her heart? Crave her -pardon before she departs." - -For an instant all was silent. M. Van Amberg stirred not. Annunciata, -her head thrown back, seemed to have already ceased to exist. On a -sudden, she moved, raised herself with difficulty, leaned over towards -M. Van Amberg, and groped for his hand as though she had been blind. -When she found it, she bowed her face upon it, kissed it twice, and -expired in that last kiss. - -"On your knees!" cried William, "on your knees, she is in heaven! let us -implore her intercession!" And all knelt down. - -Of all the prayers addressed to God by man during his life of trial, not -one is more solemn than that which escapes the desolate heart, when a -beloved soul flies from earth to heaven, to stand, for the first time, -in the presence of its Creator. - -M. Van Amberg rose from his knees. - -"Leave the room!" said he to his brother and daughters, "I would be -alone with my wife." - -Alone, beside the bed of his dead wife, Karl Van Amberg gazed upon the -pale countenance, to which death had restored all the beauty of youth. A -tear, left there by human suffering, a tear which none other was to -follow, glittered upon the clay-cold cheek; one arm still hung out of -bed, as when it held his hand; the head was in the position in which it -had kissed his fingers. He gazed at her, and the icy envelope that bound -his heart was at last broken. "Annunciata!" he exclaimed, "Annunciata!" - -For fifteen years that name had not passed his lips. Throwing himself on -his wife's corpse, he clasped her in his arms and kissed her forehead. - -"Annunciata!" he cried, "can you not feel this kiss of peace and love! -Annunciata, we have both suffered terribly! God did not grant us -happiness. I loved you from the first day that I saw you, a joyous child -in Spain, till this sad moment that I press you dead upon my heart. Oh -Annunciata, how great have been our sufferings!" - -Karl Van Amberg wept. - -"Repose in peace, poor woman!" he murmured; "may you find in heaven the -repose denied you upon earth!" And with trembling hand he closed -Annunciata's eyes. Then he knelt down beside her. - -"Almighty God!" he said, "I have been severe. Be thou merciful!" - - * * * * * - -When, at break of day, M. Van Amberg left the chamber of death, his face -had resumed its habitual expression; his inflexible soul, for a moment -bowed, had regained its usual level. To Annunciata had been given the -last word of love, the last tear of that heart of adamant. To the eyes -of all he reappeared as the stern master and father, the man on whose -brow no sorrow left a trace. His daughters bowed themselves upon his -passage, William spoke not to him, order and regularity returned to the -house. Annunciata was buried without pomp or procession. She left, to -revisit it no more, the melancholy abode where her suffering soul had -worn out its mortal envelope; she ceased to live, as a sound ceases to -be heard, as a cloud passes, as a flower fades; nothing stopped or -altered because she went. If any mourned her, they mourned in silence; -if they thought of her, they proclaimed not their thoughts; her name was -no more heard; only the interior of the little red house was rather more -silent, and M. Van Amberg's countenance appeared to all more rigid than -before. During the day, Christine's profound grief obeyed the iron will -that weighed on each member of the family. The poor child was silent, -worked, sat at table, lived on as if her heart had not been crushed; but -at night, alone in the little room where her mother had so often wept -with her, she gave free course to grief; she invoked her mother, spoke -to her, extended her arms to her, and would fain have left the earth to -be with her in heaven. "Take me to you, dear mother!" she would exclaim. -"Deprived of you, apart from him, I cannot live! Since I saw you die, I -no longer fear death." - -Since the death of Annunciata, Christine was allowed her liberty, M. Van -Amberg doubtless thinking, and with reason, that she would make no use -of it during her first grief. Or, perhaps, with his wife's corpse -scarcely cold, he hesitated to recur to the severity that had caused her -so many tears. Whatever his motive, Christine was free, at least to all -appearance. The three sisters, in deep mourning, never passed the -threshold; they sat all day at work near the low window of the parlour, -supped with their uncle and father, then retired to bed. During the long -hours of their silent work, Christine often thought of her lover. She -dared not attempt to see him; she would have expected to hear her -mother's voice murmur in her ear,--"My daughter, it is too soon to be -happy! Mourn me yet a little, alone and without consolation." - -One morning, after a night of tears, Christine fell into a tardy -slumber, broken by dreams. Now it was her mother, who took her in her -arms, and flew with her towards heaven. "I will not let you live," said -Annunciata, "for life is sorrow. I have prayed of God to let you die -young, that you may not weep as I have wept!" - -The next instant she beheld herself clothed in white and crowned with -flowers. Herbert was there, love sparkling in his eyes. "Come, my -betrothed!" he said, "life is joy! My love shall guard you from all -evil; come, we will be happy!" - -She started up, awakened by a sudden noise in her chamber. The window -was open, and on the floor lay a pebble with a letter attached. Her -first impulse was to fly to the window; a bush stirred in the direction -of the river, but she saw no one. She snatched up the letter, she -guessed it was Herbert's writing. It seems as if one never saw for the -first time the writing of him one loves; the heart recognises as if the -eyes had already seen it. Christine was alone, a beam of the rising sun -tinted the summits of the willows, and hope and love revived in the -young girl's heart, as she read what follows: - -"Christine, I can write but a few lines; a long letter, difficult to -conceal, might never reach you. Hear me with your heart, and guess what -I am unable to write. As you know, dearest, my family intrusted me to -your father, and gave him all authority over me. He can employ me at his -will, and according to the convenience of his commercial establishments. -Christine, I have just received orders to embark in one of his ships, -sailing for Batavia." - -A cry escaped Christine's lips, and her eyes, suffused with tears, -devoured the subsequent lines. - -"Your father places the immensity of ocean between us; he separates us -for ever. We are to meet no more! Christine, has your heart, since I -last saw you, learned to comprehend those words? No, my adored -Christine, we must live or die together! Your poor mother is no more; -your presence is no longer essential to the happiness of any one. Your -family is pitiless and without affection for you. Your future is gloom -and unhappiness. Come, then, let us fly together. In the Helder are -numerous ships; they will bear us far from the scene of our sufferings. -All is foreseen and arranged. Christine, my life depends on your -decision. For ever separated! ... subscribe to that barbarous decree, -and I terminate an existence which henceforward would be all bitterness! -And you, Christine! will you love another, or live without love? Oh! -come! I have suffered so much without you! I summon you, I await you, -Christine! my bride! At midnight--on the riverbank--I will be there! and -a world of happiness is before us. Come, dear Christine, come!" - -As Christine read, her tears fell fast on Herbert's letter. She -experienced a moment of agonising indecision. She loved passionately, -but she was young and innocent, and love had not yet imparted to her -pure soul the audacity that braves all things. The wise counsels heard -in her father's house, uncle William's pious exhortations, the holy -prayers she had learned from her infancy upwards, resounded in her -ears; the Christ upon her wooden crucifix seemed to look at her; the -beads of her rosary were still warm with the pressure of her fingers. - -"Oh! my dream! my dream!" she exclaimed; "Herbert who calls his bride! -my mother claiming her daughter! With him, life and love! With her, -death and heaven!..." And Christine sobbed aloud. For an instant she -tried calmly to contemplate an existence in that melancholy house, -weeping for Herbert, growing old without him, without love, within those -gloomy walls, where no heart sympathised with hers. The picture was too -terrible; she felt that such a future was unendurable. She wept -bitterly, kissed her rosary, her prayer-book, as if bidding adieu to all -that had witnessed the innocence of her early years. Then her heart beat -violently. The fire of her glance dried her tears. She looked out at the -river, at the white sail which seemed to remind her of her vows of love; -she gave one last sob, as if breaking irrevocably the links between her -past and future. The image of her mother was no longer before her. -Christine, abandoned to herself, followed the impulse of her passionate -nature; she wept, trembled, hesitated, and at last exclaimed,-- - -"At midnight, I will be there!" - -Then she wiped her tears, and remained quite still for a few moments, to -calm her violent agitation. A vast future unrolled itself before her; -liberty would be hers; a new world was revealed to her eyes; a new life -began for her. - -At last night came. A lamp replaced the fading daylight. The window was -deserted for the table. William and Karl Van Amberg came in. The former -took a book; his brother busied himself with commercial calculations. -The lamp gave a dull light; all was silent, sad, and monotonous in the -apartment. The clock slowly told the successive hours. When its hammer -struck ten, there was a movement round the table; books were shut, work -was folded. Karl Van Amberg rose; his two eldest daughters approached -him, and he kissed their foreheads in silence. Christine no longer a -captive, but still in disgrace, bowed herself before her father. Uncle -William, grown drowsy over his book, put up his spectacles, muttering a -"good-night." The family left the parlour, and the three sisters -ascended the wooden staircase. At her chamber door, Christine felt a -tightness at her heart. She turned and looked after her sisters. -"Good-night, Wilhelmina! good-night, Maria!" - -The sisters turned their heads. By the faint light of their tapers -Christine saw them smile and kiss their hands to her. Then they entered -their rooms without speaking. Christine found herself alone. She opened -her window; the night was calm; at intervals clouds flitted across the -moon, veiling its brightness. Christine made no preparations for -departure; she only took her mother's rosary, and the blue ribbon so -long attached to the guitar; then she wrapped herself in her black -mantle and sat down by the window. Her heart beat quick, but no distinct -thought agitated her mind. She trembled without terror; her eyes were -tearful, but she felt no regret. For her, the hour was rather solemn -than sad; the struggle was over, and she was irrevocably decided. - -At last midnight came; each stroke of the clock thrilled Christine's -heart; for an instant she stood still, summoning strength and courage; -then, turning towards the interior of the room,-- - -"Adieu, my mother!" she whispered. Many living creatures dwelt under -that roof. It seemed to Christine as if she left her only who was no -longer there. "Adieu, my mother!" she repeated. - -Then she stepped out of the window; a trellis, twined with creepers, -covered the wall. With light foot and steady hand, Christine descended, -aiding herself by the branches, and pausing when they cracked under her -tread or grasp. The stillness was so complete that the slightest sound -assumed importance. Christine's heart beat violently; at last she -reached the ground, raised her head, and looked at the house. Her -father's window was still lighted. Again she shuddered with -apprehension; then, feeling more courage for a minute's daring than for -half an hour's precautions, she darted across the meadow and arrived -breathless at the clump of willows. Before plunging into it, she again -looked round. All was quiet and deserted; she breathed more freely and -disappeared amongst the branches. Leaning upon the old tree, the witness -of her former rendezvous, she whispered, so softly that none but a lover -could hear, "Herbert, are you there?" - -A cautious oar skimmed the water; a well-known voice replied. The boat -approached the willow; the young student stood up and held out his arms -to Christine, who leaped lightly into the skiff. In an instant, they -were out of the willow-shaded inlet; in another, the sail--the signal of -their loves--was hoisted to the breeze; the bark sped swiftly over the -water, and Herbert, scarce daring to believe his happiness, was seated -at Christine's feet. His hand sought hers; he heard her weep, and he -wept for sympathy. Both were silent, agitated, uneasy, and happy. - -But the night was fine, the moon shed its softest light, the ripple of -the stream had a harmony of its own, the light breeze cooled their -cheeks, the sail bent over them like the wing of an invisible being; -they were young, they loved, it was impossible that joy should not -revive in their hearts. - -"Thanks, Christine, thanks!" exclaimed Herbert, "thanks a thousand -times for so much devotedness, for such confidence and love! Oh how -beautiful will life now appear! We are united for ever!" - -"For ever!" repeated Christine, her tears flowing afresh. For the first -time she felt that great happiness, like great grief, expresses itself -by tears. Her hand in Herbert's, her eyes raised to heaven, she gazed -upon bright stars and fleecy clouds, sole and silent witnesses of her -happiness. Presently she was roused from this sweet reverie. - -"See there, Herbert!" she exclaimed; "the sail droops along the mast, -the wind has fallen, we do not advance." - -Herbert took the oars, and the boat cut rapidly through the water. -Wrapped in her mantle, Christine sat opposite, and smiled upon him. -Onwards flew the boat, a track of foam in its wake. Daylight was still -distant; all things favoured the fugitives. Again Christine broke -silence. - -"Herbert, dear Herbert, do you hear nothing?" - -Herbert ceased to row, and listened. "I hear nothing," he said, "save -the plash of the river against its banks." He resumed the oars; again -the boat moved rapidly forward. Christine was pale; half risen from her -seat, her head turned back, she strove to see, but the darkness was too -great. - -"Be tranquil, best beloved," said Herbert with a smile. "Fear creates -sounds. All is still." - -"Herbert," cried Christine, this time starting up in the boat, "I am not -mistaken! I hear oars behind us ... pause not to listen ... row, for -Heaven's love, row!" - -Her terror was so great, she seemed so sure of what she said, that -Herbert obeyed in silence, and a sensation of alarm chilled his heart. -Christine seated herself at his feet. - -"We are pursued!" she said; "the noise of your own oars alone prevented -your hearing. A boat follows us." - -"If it be so," Herbert cried, "what matter! That boat does not bear -Christine--is not guided by a man who defends his life, his happiness, -his love. My arm will weary his, his bark will not overtake mine." And -Herbert redoubled his efforts. The veins of his arms swelled to -bursting; his forehead was covered with sweat-drops. The skiff clove the -waters as though impelled by wings. Christine remained crouched at the -young man's feet, pressing herself against him, as to seek refuge. - -Other oars, wielded by stalwart arms, now struck the water not far from -Herbert's boat. The young student heard the sound; he bent over his oars -and made desperate efforts. But he felt his strength failing; as he -rowed he looked with agony at Christine; no one spoke, only the noise of -the two boats interrupted the silence. Around, all was calm and serene -as when the fugitives set out. But the soul of the young girl had -passed from life to death; her eyes, gleaming with a wild fire, followed -with increasing terror each movement of Herbert's; she saw by the -suffering expression of his countenance, that little hope of escape -remained. Still he rowed with the energy of despair; but the fatal bark -drew nearer, its shadow was seen upon the water, it followed hard in the -foamy track of Herbert's boat. Christine stood up and looked back; just -then the moon shone out, casting its light full upon the pale, -passionless features of M. Van Amberg. Christine uttered a piercing cry. - -"My father!" she cried; "Herbert, 'tis my father!" - -Herbert also had recognised his pursuer. The youth had lived too long in -Karl Van Amberg's house not to have experienced the strange kind of -fascination which that man exercised over all around him. Darkness had -passed away to reveal to the fugitives the father, master, and judge! - -"Stop, Herbert!" cried Christine, "we are lost, escape is impossible! Do -you not see my father?" - -"Let me row!" replied Herbert, disengaging himself from Christine, who -had seized his arm. He gave so violent a pull with the oars, that the -skiff bounded out of the water and seemed to gain a little on its -pursuer. - -"Herbert," cried Christine, "I tell you we are lost! 'Tis my father, and -resistance is useless! God will not work a miracle in our favour! -Herbert, I will not return to my father's house! Let us die together, -dear Herbert!" - -And Christine threw herself into her lover's arms. The oars fell from -the young man's hands; with a cry of anguish he pressed Christine -convulsively to his heart. For a single instant he thought of obeying -her, and of plunging with her into the dark tide beneath; but Herbert -had a noble heart, and he repelled the temptation of despair. The next -moment a violent shock made the boat quiver, and M. Van Amberg stepped -into it. Instinctively Herbert clasped Christine more tightly, and -retreated, as if his strength could withhold her from her father--as if, -in that little boat, he could retreat far enough not to be overtaken. -With a vigorous arm, M. Van Amberg seized Christine, whose slender form -bent like a reed over his shoulder. - -"Have mercy on her!" cried the despairing Herbert; "I alone am guilty! -Punish her not, and I promise to depart, to renounce her! Pity, sir! -pity for Christine!" - -He spoke to a deaf and silent statue. Wresting Christine's hand from the -student's grasp, M. Van Amberg stepped back into his boat, and pushed -Herbert's violently with his foot. Yielding to the impulse, the boats -separated; one was pulled swiftly up the river, whilst the other, -abandoned to itself, was swept by the current in a contrary direction. -Erect on the prow of his bark, his head thrown back, his arms folded on -his breast, M. Van Amberg fixed a terrible look upon Herbert and then -disappeared in the darkness. All was over. The father had taken his -daughter, and no human power could henceforward tear her from his arms. - -Within a week from that fatal night, the gates of a convent closed upon -Christine Van Amberg. - - * * * * * - -On the frontier of Belgium, on the summit of a hill, stands a large -white building of irregular architecture, a confused mass of walls, -roofs, angles, and platforms. At the foot of the hill is a village, -whose inhabitants behold with a feeling of respect the edifice towering -above their humble dwellings. For there is seen the belfry of a church, -and thence is heard unceasingly the sound of pious bells, proclaiming -afar that on the mountain's summit a few devout souls pray to God for -all men. The building is a convent; the poor and the sick well know the -path leading to the hospitable threshold of the Sisters of the -Visitation. - -To this convent was Christine sent. To this austere dwelling, the abode -of silence and self-denial, was she, the young, the beautiful, the -loving, pitilessly consigned. It was as though a gravestone had suddenly -closed over her head. With her, the superior of the convent received -the following letter:-- - - "MADAME LA SUPERIEURE,--I send you your niece, Christine Van - Amberg, and beg you to oblige me by keeping her with you. I intend - her to embrace a religious life; employ the influence of your wise - counsels to predispose her to it. Her misconduct compels me to - exclude her my house; she requires restraint and watching, such as - are only to be found in a convent. Be pleased, dear and respected - kinswoman, to receive her under your roof; the best wish that can - be formed for her is, that she may make up her mind to remain there - for ever. Should she inquire concerning a young man named Herbert, - you may inform her that he has sailed to Batavia, whence he will - proceed to our most remote settlements. - - "I am, with respect, _Madame la Superieure_, your kinsman and - friend, - - "KARL VAN AMBERG." - -Five years had elapsed since the date of this letter, when one day the -convent gate opened to admit a stranger, who craved to speak with the -superior. The stranger was an old man; a staff sustained his feeble -steps. Whilst waiting in the parlour, he looked about him with surprise -and emotion, and several times he passed his hand across his eyes as if -to brush away a tear. "Poor, poor child!" he muttered. When the superior -appeared behind the grating, he advanced quickly towards her. - -"I am William Van Amberg," he said, "the brother of Karl Van Amberg. I -come, madam, to fetch Christine, his daughter and my niece." - -"You come very late!" replied the superior; "sister Martha-Mary is on -the eve of pronouncing her vows." - -"Martha-Mary!--I do not know the name!" said William Van Amberg; "I seek -Christine--my niece Christine." - -"Christine Van Amberg, now sister Martha-Mary, is about to take the -veil." - -"Christine a nun! Oh, impossible! Madame, they have broken the child's -heart; from despair only would she take the veil; they have been -cruel--they have tortured her; but I bring her liberty and the certainty -of happiness,--permission to marry him she loves. Let me speak to her -and she will quickly follow." - -"Speak to her then; and let her depart if such be her will." - -"Thanks, madam,--a thousand thanks! Send me my child, send me my -Christine--with joy and impatience I await her." - -The superior retired. Left alone, William again contemplated the -melancholy abode in which he found himself, and the more he gazed, the -sadder his heart became. He would fain have taken Christine in his arms, -as he did when she was little, and have fled with her from those chilly -walls and dismal gratings. - -"Poor child!" he repeated, "what a retreat for the bright years of your -youth!... How you must have suffered! But console thyself, dearest -child, I am here to rescue thee!" - -He remembered Christine as a wild young girl, delighting in liberty, -air, and motion; then as an impassioned woman, full of love and -independence. And a smile crossed the old man's lips as he thought of -her burst of joy, when he should say to her,--"You are free, and Herbert -waits to lead you to the altar!" His heart beat as it had never beaten -in the best days of his youth; he counted the minutes and kept his eyes -fixed upon the little door through which Christine was to come. He could -not fold her in his arms, the grating prevented it, but at least he -should see and hear her. Suddenly all his blood rushed to his heart, for -the hinges creaked and the door opened. A novice, clothed in white, -slowly advanced; he looked at her, started back, hesitated, and -exclaimed: "Oh God! is that Christine?" - -William had cherished in his heart the memory of a bright-eyed, sunburnt -girl, alert and lively, quick and decided in her movements, running -more often than she walked, like the graceful roe that loves the -mountain-steeps. He beheld a tall young woman, white and colourless as -the robes that shrouded her; her hair concealed under a thick linen -band, her slender form scarcely to be distinguished beneath the heavy -folds of her woollen vestments. Her movements were slow, her black eyes -veiled by an indescribable languor; a profound calm was the -characteristic of her whole being--a calm so great, that it resembled -absence of life. One might have thought her eyes looked without seeing, -that her lips could not open to speak, that her ears listened without -hearing. Sister Martha-Mary was beautiful, but her beauty was not of the -earth--it was the beauty of infinite repose,--of a calm that nothing -could disturb. - -The old man was touched to the bottom of his soul; the words expired on -his lips, and he extended his hands towards Christine. On beholding her -uncle, Martha-Mary endeavoured to smile, but moved not, and said -nothing. - -"Oh my child!" cried William at last, "how you must suffer here!" - -Martha-Mary gently shook her head, and the tranquil look she fixed upon -her uncle, protested against his supposition. - -"Is it possible that five years have thus changed my Christine! My heart -recognises you, my child, not my eyes! They have compelled you to great -austerities, severe privations?" - -"No." - -"A cruel bondage has weighed heavily upon you?" - -"No." - -"You have been ill then?" - -"No." - -"Your poor heart has suffered too much, and has broken. You have shed -many tears?" - -"I remember them no longer." - -"Christine! Christine! do you live? or has the shade of Annunciata risen -from the grave? Oh my child! in seeing you, I seem to see her corpse, -extended on the bed of death!" - -Martha-Mary raised her large eyes to heaven; she joined her hands, and -murmured, "My mother!" - -"Christine, speak to me! weep with me! you frighten me by your calm and -silence.... Ah! in my trouble and emotion, I have as yet explained -nothing.... Listen: my brother Karl, by the failure of a partner, -suddenly found his whole fortune compromised. To avoid total ruin he was -obliged to embark immediately for the colonies. He set sail expecting to -return in a few years; but his affairs prolong his absence, and his -return is indefinitely postponed. His two eldest daughters are with him. -To me, who am too old to follow him, too old to remain alone, he has -given Christine. I would not accept the precious charge, my child, -without the possibility of rendering you happy. I implored permission to -marry you to Herbert. You are no longer a rich heiress: your father -gone, you need protection, and that of an old man cannot long avail you. -In short, your father has agreed to all I asked: he sends you, as a -farewell gift, your liberty and his consent to your marriage.... -Christine! you are free, and Herbert awaits his bride!" - -The long drapery of the novice was slightly agitated, as if the limbs it -covered trembled; she remained some seconds without speaking, and then -replied, "It is too late! I am the affianced of the Lord!" - -William uttered a cry of grief, and looked with alarm at the pale calm -girl, who stood immovable before him. - -"Christine!" he cried, "you no longer love Herbert?" - -"I am the affianced of the Lord!" repeated the novice, her hands crossed -upon her breast, her eyes raised to heaven. - -"Oh my God! my God!" cried William, weeping bitterly, "my brother has -killed his child! Her soul has been sad even unto death! Poor victim of -severity, tell me, Christine, tell me, what has passed within you, -during your abode here?" - -"I saw others pray, and I prayed also. There was a great stillness, and -I was silent; none wept, and I dried my tears; a something, at first -cold, then soothing, enveloped my soul. The voice of God made itself -heard to me, and I listened; I loved the Lord, and gave myself to Him." - -Then, as if fatigued with speaking so much, Martha-Mary relapsed into -silence, and into that absorbing meditation which rendered her -insensible to surrounding things. Just then a bell tolled. The novice -started, and her eyes sparkled. - -"God calls me!" she said; "I go to pray!" - -"Christine! my daughter, will you leave me thus?" - -"Hear you not the bell? It is the hour of prayer." - -"But, Christine, dearest child, I came to take you hence." - -"I shall never leave these walls!" said Martha-Mary, gliding slowly -away. As she opened the parlour door, she turned towards William; her -eyes fixed upon him with a sad and sweet expression; her lips moved, as -if to send him a kiss; then she disappeared. William made no attempt to -detain her; his head was pressed against the grating, and big tears -chased each other down his cheeks. How long he remained thus plunged in -mournful reflection, he noted not. He was roused by the voice of the -superior, who seated herself, wrapped in her black robes, on the other -side of the grating. - -"I foresaw your grief," she said. "Our sister Martha-Mary refuses to -follow you." - -With a despairing look, William answered the nun. - -"Alas! alas!" he said, "the child I so dearly loved met me without joy, -and left me without regret." - -"Listen, my son," resumed the superior; "listen to me.--Five years ago, -there came to this convent a young girl overwhelmed with grief and sunk -in terrible despair; her entrance here was to her a descent into the -tomb. During one entire year, none saw her but with tears on her face. -Only God knows how many tears the eyes must shed before a broken spirit -regains calm and resignation; man cannot count them. This young girl -suffered much; in vain we implored pardon for her, in vain we summoned -her family to her relief. She might say, as is written in the -psalm,--'_I am weary with my groaning: mine eye is consumed because of -grief._' What could we do, save pray for her, since none would receive -her back!..." - -"Alas!" cried William, "your letters never reached us. My brother was -beyond sea; and I, having then no hope of changing his determination,--I -had quitted his empty and melancholy house." - -"Man abandoned her," continued the superior, "but God looked upon His -servant, and comforted her soul. If He does not see fit to restore -strength to her body, exhausted by suffering--His will be done! Perhaps -it would now be wise and generous to leave her to that love of God which -she has attained after so many tears; perhaps it would be prudent to -spare her fresh shocks." - -"No! no!" interrupted William, "I cannot give up, even to God, this last -relic of my family, the sole prop of my old age. I will try every means -to revive in her heart its early sentiments. Give me Christine for a few -days only! Let me conduct her to the place of her birth, to the scenes -where she loved. She is deaf to my entreaties, but she will obey an -order from you; bid her return for a while beneath her father's roof! -Should she still wish it, after this last attempt, I will restore her -hither." - -"Take her, my son," replied the superior; "I will bid her follow. If God -has indeed spoken to her soul, no worldly voice will move her. If it be -otherwise, may she return no more to the cloister, but be blessed -wherever she goes! Adieu, my son; the peace of the Lord be with you!" - -Hope revived in the heart of William Van Amberg; it seemed to him as -if--the convent threshold once passed--Christine would revert to her -former character--to her youth and love. He believed he was about to -remove his beloved child for ever from these gloomy walls, and with -painful impatience he awaited her coming. Soon a light step was heard in -the corridor; William threw open the door, Christine was there, and no -grating now separated her from her uncle. - -"My beloved Christine!" exclaimed William; "at last, then, you are -restored to me; at last I can press you to my heart! Come, we will -return to our own country, and revisit the house where we all dwelt -together." - -Sister Martha-Mary was still paler than at her first interview with -William. If any expression was discernible upon that calm countenance, -it was one of sadness. She allowed herself to be taken by the hand and -conducted to the convent gate; but when the gate was opened, and, -passing into the open air, she encountered the broad daylight and the -fresh breeze, she tottered and leaned for support against the wall. Just -then the sun rent the clouds, and threw its golden beams on plain and -mountain; the air was clear and transparent, and the flat and monotonous -horizon acquired beauty from the burst of light. - -"See, my daughter!" said William; "see how lovely is the earth! How soft -is the air we breathe! How good it is to be free, and to move towards -that immense horizon!" - -"Oh, my dear uncle!" replied the novice; "how beautiful are the heavens! -See how the sun shines above our heads! It is in heaven that his glory -should be admired! His rays are already dim and feeble when they touch -the earth!" - -William led Christine to a carriage; they got in, and the horses set -off. Long did the gaze of the novice remain fixed on her convent's -walls; when these were hidden from her by the windings of the road, she -closed her eyes and seemed to sleep. During the journey, William -endeavoured in vain to make her converse; she had forgotten how to -express her thoughts. When compelled to reply, fatigue overwhelmed her; -her whole existence was concentrated in her soul, and detached entirely -from the external world. At intervals she would say to herself, "How -long the morning is! Nothing marks the hours; I have not heard a single -bell to-day!" - -At last they reached the red house, and the carriage drove into the -court, where the grass grew between the stones. Gothon came out to -receive them, and Martha-Mary, leaning on her uncle's arm, entered the -parlour where the family of Van Amberg had so often assembled. The room -was deserted and cold; no books or work gave it the look of habitation; -abandoned by its last occupants, it awaited new ones. Christine slowly -traversed this well-known apartment, and sat down upon a chair near the -window. It was there her mother had sat for twenty years; there had her -childhood passed at the knees of Annunciata. - -William opened the window, showed her the meadow, the willows, and the -river. Christine looked at them in silence, her head resting on her -hand, her eyes fixed on the horizon. For a long while William stood -beside her, then he placed his hand on her shoulder and pronounced her -name. She rose and followed him. They ascended the stairs, traversed the -gallery, and William opened a door. "Your mother's room," said he to -Christine. The novice entered and paused in the middle of the chamber; -tears flowed from her eyes, she clasped her hands and prayed. - -"My daughter," said William, "_she_ ardently desired your happiness." - -"She has obtained it!" replied the novice. - -The old man felt a profound sadness come over him. It was like pressing -to his heart a corpse to which his love restored neither breath nor -warmth. Martha-Mary approached her mother's bed, knelt down, and kissed -the pillow that had supported the dying head of Annunciata. - -"Mother," she murmured, "soon we shall meet again." - -William shuddered. He took Christine's hand, and led her to the room she -had formerly occupied. The little white-curtained bed was still there, -the guitar hung against the wall, Christine's favourite volumes filled -the shelves of her modest book-case; through the open window were seen -the willows and the river. Martha-Mary noticed none of these things: the -wooden crucifix was still upon the wall; she rapidly approached it, -knelt, bowed her head upon the feet of Christ, closed her eyes and -breathed deeply, like one finding repose after long fatigue. Like the -exile returning to his native land, like the storm-tossed mariner -regaining the port, she remained with her brow resting upon her -Saviour's feet. - -Standing by her side, William looked on in tearful silence. Farther off, -Gothon wiped her eyes with her apron. Several hours elapsed. The house -clock struck, the birds sang in the garden; the wind rustled among the -trees; in the lofty pigeon-house the doves cooed; the cock crowed in the -poultry-yard. None of these loved and familiar sounds could divert -Martha-Mary from her devout meditation. Sick at heart, her uncle -descended to the parlour. He remained there long, plunged in gloomy -reflections. Suddenly hasty steps were heard; a young man rushed into -the room, and into William's arms. - -"Christine! Christine!" cried Herbert; "where is Christine? Is it not a -dream? M. Van Amberg gives me Christine!... Once more in my native land, -and Christine mine!" - -"Karl Van Amberg gives, but God refuses her to you!" replied William, -mournfully. Then he told Herbert what had passed at the convent, and -since their arrival at the house: he gave a thousand details--he -repeated them a thousand times, but without convincing Herbert of the -melancholy truth. - -"It is impossible!" cried the young man; "if Christine is alive, if -Christine is here, to the first word uttered by her lover, Christine -will reply." - -"God grant it!" exclaimed William; "my last hope is in you." - -Herbert sprang up the stairs, his heart too full of love to have room -for fear. Christine free, was for him Christine ready to become his -wife. He hastily opened her chamber door; but then he paused, as if -petrified, upon the threshold. The day was closing in, and its fading -light fell upon Martha-Mary, whose form stood out like a white shadow -from the gloom of the room. She was still on her knees, her head resting -on the feet of Christ, her fragile person lost in the multiplied folds -of her conventual robes. She heard not the opening of the door, and -Herbert stood gazing at her, till a flood of tears burst from his eyes. -William took his hand and silently pressed it. - -"I am frightened!" said Herbert, in a low tone. "That is not my -Christine! A phantom risen from the earth, or an angel descended from -heaven, has taken her place!" - -"No, she is no longer Christine!" replied William, sadly. - -For a few moments more Herbert stood in mournful contemplation. Then he -exclaimed--"Christine, dear Christine!" - -At the sound of his voice the novice started, rose to her feet, and -pronounced his name. As in former days, when her lover called -"Christine!" Martha-Mary replied "Herbert!" - -The young man's heart beat violently; he stood beside the novice, he -took her hands. "It is I, it is Herbert!" he said, kneeling down before -her. - -The novice fixed her large black eyes upon him with a long inquiring -gaze; a slight flush passed across her brow; then she became pale as -before, and said gently to Herbert--"I thought not to see you again upon -earth." - -"Dear Christine! tears and suffering have long been our portion; but -happy days at last dawn upon us! My love! my bride! we will never part -again!" - -Martha-Mary extricated her hands from those of Herbert, and retreated -towards the image of Christ. - -"I am the bride of the Lord," she said in trembling accents. "He expects -me." - -Herbert uttered a cry of grief. - -"Christine! dear Christine! remember our oft-repeated pledges, our -loves, our tears, our hopes. You left me vowing to love me always. -Christine, if you would not have me die of despair, remember the past!" - -Martha-Mary's eyes continued riveted on the crucifix; her hands, -convulsively clasped, were extended towards it. - -"Gracious Lord!" she prayed, "speak to his heart as you have spoken to -mine! It is a noble heart, worthy to love you. Stronger than I, Herbert -may survive, even after much weeping! Console him, oh Lord!" - -"Christine! my first and only love! sole hope and joy of my life! do you -thus abandon me? That heart, once entirely mine, is it closed to me for -ever?" - -Her gaze upon the crucifix, her hands still joined, the novice, as if -able to speak only to her God, gently replied:--"Lord! he suffers as I -suffered! shed upon him the balm wherewith you healed my wounds! Leaving -him life, take his soul as you have taken mine. Give him that ineffable -peace which descends upon those thou lovest!" - -"Oh Christine! my beloved!" cried Herbert, once more taking her hand, -"do but look at me! turn your eyes upon me and behold my tears! Dearest -treasure of my heart! you seem to slumber! Awake! Have you forgotten our -tender meetings, the willows bending over the stream, the boat in which -we sailed a whole night, dreaming the joy of eternal union? See! the -moon rises as it rose that night. We were near each other as now; but -then they tore us asunder, and now we are free to be together! -Christine, have you ceased to love? Is all forgotten?" - -William took her other hand. "Dear child," he said, "we entreat you not -to leave us! To you we look for happiness; remain with us, Christine." - -One hand in the hands of Herbert, the other in those of William, the -novice slowly and solemnly replied: - -"The corpse that reposes in the tomb lifts not the stone to re-enter the -world. The soul that has seen heaven, does not leave it to return to -earth. The creature to whom God has said, 'Be thou the spouse of -Christ,' does not quit Christ to unite herself to a man; and she who is -about to die should turn her affections from mortal things!" - -"Herbert!" cried William, "be silent! Not another word! I can scarcely -feel the throbbing of her pulse! She is paler even than when I first saw -her behind the convent grating. We give her pain. Enough, Herbert, -enough! Better yield her to God upon earth, than send her to Him in -heaven!" - -The old man placed the almost inanimate head of Martha-Mary upon his -shoulder, and pressed her to his heart as a mother embraces her child. -"Recover yourself, my daughter," he said; "I will restore you to the -house of God." - -Martha-Mary turned her sad and gentle gaze upon her uncle, and her hand -feebly pressed his. Then addressing herself to Herbert: - -"You, Herbert," she said, in a scarcely audible voice--"you, who will -live, do not abandon him!" - -"Christine!" cried Herbert, on his knees before his betrothed. -"Christine! do we part for ever?" - -The novice raised her eyes to heaven. - -"Not for ever!" she replied. - -Some days afterwards the convent gates opened to receive sister -Martha-Mary. They closed upon her for the last time. With feeble and -unsteady step the novice traversed the cloisters to prostrate herself on -the altar-steps. The superior came to her. - -"Oh my mother!" exclaimed Christine, the fountain of whose tears was -opened, and who wept as in the days of her childhood, "I have seen him -and left him! To thee I return, oh Lord! Faithful to my vows, I await -the crown that shall consecrate me thy spouse. Thy voice alone shall -henceforward reach my ears; I come to sing thy praises, to pray and -serve thee until the end of my life!--Holy mother, prepare the robe of -serge, the white crown, the silver cross; I am ready!" - -"My daughter," replied the superior, "you are very ill--much exhausted -by so many shocks; will you not delay the ceremony of profession?" - -"No, holy mother! no; delay it not! I would die the bride of the -Lord!... And I have little time!" replied sister Martha-Mary. - - - - -THE MAN IN THE BELL. - -[_MAGA._ NOVEMBER 1821.] - - -In my younger days, bell-ringing was much more in fashion among the -young men of ---- than it is now. Nobody, I believe, practises it there -at present except the servants of the church, and the melody has been -much injured in consequence. Some fifty years ago, about twenty of us -who dwelt in the vicinity of the Cathedral, formed a club, which used to -ring every peal that was called for; and, from continual practice and a -rivalry which arose between us and a club attached to another steeple, -and which tended considerably to sharpen our zeal, we became very -Mozarts on our favourite instruments. But my bell-ringing practice was -shortened by a singular accident, which not only stopped my performance, -but made even the sound of a bell terrible to my ears. - -One Sunday, I went with another into the belfry to ring for noon -prayers, but the second stroke we had pulled showed us that the clapper -of the bell we were at was muffled. Some one had been buried that -morning, and it had been prepared, of course, to ring a mournful note. -We did not know of this, but the remedy was easy. "Jack," said my -companion, "step up to the loft, and cut off the hat;" for the way we -had of muffling was by tying a piece of an old hat, or of cloth (the -former was preferred), to one side of the clapper, which deadened every -second toll. I complied, and mounting into the belfry, crept as usual -into the bell, where I began to cut away. The hat had been tied on in -some more complicated manner than usual, and I was perhaps three or four -minutes in getting it off; during which time my companion below was -hastily called away--by a message from his sweetheart, I believe--but -that is not material to my story. The person who called him was a -brother of the club, who, knowing that the time had come for ringing for -service, and not thinking that any one was above, began to pull. At this -moment I was just getting out, when I felt the bell moving; I guessed -the reason at once--it was a moment of terror; but by a hasty and almost -convulsive effort, I succeeded in jumping down, and throwing myself on -the flat of my back under the bell. - -The room in which it was, was little more than sufficient to contain it, -the bottom of the bell coming within a couple of feet of the floor of -lath. At that time I certainly was not so bulky as I am now, but as I -lay it was within an inch of my face. I had not laid myself down a -second, when the ringing began.--It was a dreadful situation. Over me -swung an immense mass of metal, one touch of which would have crushed me -to pieces; the floor under me was principally composed of crazy laths, -and if they gave way, I was precipitated to the distance of about fifty -feet upon a loft, which would, in all probability, have sunk under the -impulse of my fall, and sent me to be dashed to atoms upon the marble -floor of the chancel, an hundred feet below. I remembered--for fear is -quick in recollection--how a common clockwright, about a month before, -had fallen, and, bursting through the floors of the steeple, driven in -the ceilings of the porch, and even broken into the marble tombstone of -a bishop who slept beneath. This was my first terror, but the ringing -had not continued a minute, before a more awful and immediate dread came -on me. The deafening sound of the bell smote into my ears with a thunder -which made me fear their drums would crack: there was not a fibre of my -body it did not thrill through. It entered my very soul; thought and -reflection were almost utterly banished; I only retained the sensation -of agonising terror. Every moment I saw the bell sweep within an inch of -my face; and my eyes--I could not close them, though to look at the -object was bitter as death--followed it instinctively in its -oscillating progress until it came back again. It was in vain I said to -myself that it could come no nearer at any future swing than it did at -first; every time it descended, I endeavoured to shrink into the very -floor to avoid being buried under the down-sweeping mass; and then, -reflecting on the danger of pressing too weightily on my frail support, -would cower up again as far as I dared. - -At first my fears were mere matter of fact. I was afraid the pulleys -above would give way, and let the bell plunge on me. At another time, -the possibility of the clapper being shot out in some sweep, and dashing -through my body, as I had seen a ramrod glide through a door, flitted -across my mind. The dread also, as I have already mentioned, of the -crazy floor, tormented me; but these soon gave way to fears not more -unfounded, but more visionary, and of course more tremendous. The -roaring of the bell confused my intellect, and my fancy soon began to -teem with all sort of strange and terrifying ideas. The bell pealing -above, and opening its jaws with a hideous clamour, seemed to me at one -time a ravening monster, raging to devour me; at another, a whirlpool -ready to suck me into its bellowing abyss. As I gazed on it, it assumed -all shapes; it was a flying eagle, or rather a roc of the Arabian -story-tellers, clapping its wings and screaming over me. As I looked -upward into it, it would appear sometimes to lengthen into indefinite -extent, or to be twisted at the end into the spiral folds of the tail of -a flying dragon. Nor was the flaming breath or fiery glance of that -fabled animal wanting to complete the picture. My eyes, inflamed, -blood-shot, and glaring, invested the supposed monster with a full -proportion of unholy light. - -It would be endless were I to merely hint at all the fancies that -possessed my mind. Every object that was hideous and roaring presented -itself to my imagination. I often thought that I was in a hurricane at -sea, and that the vessel in which I was embarked tossed under me with -the most furious vehemence. The air, set in motion by the swinging of -the bell, blew over me, nearly with the violence, and more than the -thunder, of a tempest; and the floor seemed to reel under me, as under a -drunken man. But the most awful of all the ideas that seized on me were -drawn from the supernatural. In the vast cavern of the bell hideous -faces appeared, and glared down on me with terrifying frowns, or with -grinning mockery still more appalling. At last, the devil himself, -accoutred as in the common description of the evil spirit, with hoof, -horn, and tail, and eyes of infernal lustre, made his appearance, and -called on me to curse God and worship him, who was powerful to save me. -This dread suggestion he uttered with the full-toned clangour of the -bell. I had him within an inch of me, and I thought on the fate of the -Santon Barsisa. Strenuously and desperately I defied him and bade him -begone. Reason, then, for a moment, resumed her sway, but it was only to -fill me with fresh terror, just as the lightning dispels the gloom that -surrounds the benighted mariner, but to show him that his vessel is -driving on a rock, where she must inevitably be dashed to pieces. I -found I was becoming delirious, and trembled lest reason should utterly -desert me. This is at all times an agonising thought, but it smote me -then with tenfold agony. I feared lest, when utterly deprived of my -senses, I should rise--to do which I was every moment tempted by that -strange feeling which calls on a man, whose head is dizzy from standing -on the battlement of a lofty castle, to precipitate himself from it, and -then death would be instant and tremendous. When I thought of this, I -became desperate. I caught the floor with a grasp which drove the blood -from my nails; and I yelled with the cry of despair. I called for help, -I prayed, I shouted, but all the efforts of my voice were of course -drowned in the bell. As it passed over my mouth, it occasionally echoed -my cries, which mixed not with its own sound, but preserved their -distinct character. Perhaps this was but fancy. To me, I know, they then -sounded as if they were the shouting, howling, or laughing of the -fiends with which my imagination had peopled the gloomy cave which swung -over me. - -You may accuse me of exaggerating my feelings; but I am not. Many a -scene of dread have I since passed through, but they are nothing to the -self-inflicted terrors of this half hour. The ancients have doomed one -of the damned, in their Tartarus, to lie under a rock, which every -moment seems to be descending to annihilate him--and an awful punishment -it would be. But if to this you add a clamour as loud as if ten thousand -furies were howling about you--a deafening uproar banishing reason, and -driving you to madness--you must allow that the bitterness of the pang -was rendered more terrible. There is no man, firm as his nerves may be, -who could retain his courage in this situation. - -In twenty minutes the ringing was done. Half of that time passed over me -without power of computation,--the other half appeared an age. When it -ceased, I became gradually more quiet, but a new fear retained me. I -knew that five minutes would elapse without ringing, but, at the end of -that short time, the bell would be rung a second time, for five minutes -more. I could not calculate time. A minute and an hour were of equal -duration. I feared to rise, lest the five minutes should have elapsed, -and the ringing be again commenced, in which case I should be crushed, -before I could escape, against the walls or framework of the bell. I -therefore still continued to lie down, cautiously shifting myself, -however, with a careful gliding, so that my eye no longer looked into -the hollow. This was of itself a considerable relief. The cessation of -the noise had, in a great measure, the effect of stupifying me, for my -attention, being no longer occupied by the chimeras I had conjured up, -began to flag. All that now distressed me was the constant expectation -of the second ringing, for which, however, I settled myself with a kind -of stupid resolution. I closed my eyes, and clenched my teeth as firmly -as if they were screwed in a vice. At last the dreaded moment came, and -the first swing of the bell extorted a groan from me, as they say the -most resolute victim screams at the sight of the rack, to which he is -for a second time destined. After this, however, I lay silent and -lethargic, without a thought. Wrapt in the defensive armour of -stupidity, I defied the bell and its intonations. When it ceased, I was -roused a little by the hope of escape. I did not, however, decide on -this step hastily, but, putting up my hand with the utmost caution, I -touched the rim. Though the ringing had ceased, it still was tremulous -from the sound, and shook under my hand, which instantly recoiled as -from an electric jar. A quarter of an hour probably elapsed before I -again dared to make the experiment, and then I found it at rest. I -determined to lose no time, fearing that I might have lain then already -too long, and that the bell for evening service would catch me. This -dread stimulated me, and I slipped out with the utmost rapidity, and -arose. I stood, I suppose, for a minute, looking with silly wonder on -the place of my imprisonment, penetrated with joy at escaping, but then -rushed down the stony and irregular stair with the velocity of -lightning, and arrived in the bell-ringers' room. This was the last act -I had power to accomplish. I leant against the wall, motionless and -deprived of thought, in which posture my companions found me, when, in -the course of a couple of hours, they returned to their occupation. - -They were shocked, as well they might, at the figure before them. The -wind of the bell had excoriated my face, and my dim and stupified eyes -were fixed with a lack-lustre gaze in my raw eyelids. My hands were torn -and bleeding; my hair dishevelled; and my clothes tattered. They spoke -to me, but I gave no answer. They shook me, but I remained insensible. -They then became alarmed, and hastened to remove me. He who had first -gone up with me in the forenoon, met them as they carried me through the -churchyard, and through him, who was shocked at having, in some -measure, occasioned the accident, the cause of my misfortune was -discovered. I was put to bed at home, and remained for three days -delirious, but gradually recovered my senses. You may be sure the bell -formed a prominent topic of my ravings, and if I heard a peal, they were -instantly increased to the utmost violence. Even when the delirium -abated, my sleep was continually disturbed by imagined ringings, and my -dreams were haunted by the fancies which almost maddened me while in the -steeple. My friends removed me to a house in the country, which was -sufficiently distant from any place of worship, to save me from the -apprehensions of hearing the church-going bell; for what Alexander -Selkirk, in Cowper's poem, complained of as a misfortune, was then to me -as a blessing. Here I recovered; but, even long after recovery, if a -gale wafted the notes of a peal towards me, I started with nervous -apprehension. I felt a Mohammedan hatred to all the bell tribe, and -envied the subjects of the Commander of the Faithful the sonorous voice -of their Muezzin. Time cured this, as it does the most of our follies; -but even at the present day, if, by chance, my nerves be unstrung, some -particular tones of the cathedral bell have power to surprise me into a -momentary start. - - -PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH. - - - - -Transcriber's Note - - -Apparent printer's errors and archaic spelling have been retained, -unless stated below. - -Punctuation markup has been made consistent. - -"_" surrounding text represents italics. - -"+" surrounding text represents Greek transliteration. - -In the original, pages are numbered 1-100 three times consecutively. -In this Transcriber's Note, they have been differentiated by -using 1a-100a, 1b-100b, 1c-100c. - -Page 58a, "cause" changed to "case". (In due time the case was called.) - -Page 60a, "eat" changed to "ate". (... and he would have sailed thither -before the 31st of December, on which day his father, a joyous liver and -confirmed votary of Bacchus, ate and drank to such an extent to -celebrate the exit of the old year and commencement of the new, that he -fell down, on his way to his bed, in a thundering fit of apoplexy, and -was a corpse before morning.) - -Page 25b, "raw" changed to "law". (I was not quite sure of the effect of -my commentary on the evidence, and therefore thought it might be -advisable to touch upon a national law.) - -Page 67c, "Amburg" changed to "Amberg" for consistency. (With a vigorous -arm, M. Van Amberg seized Christine, whose slender form bent like a reed -over his shoulder.) - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 6, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD," VOLUME 6 *** - -***** This file should be named 41204.txt or 41204.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/2/0/41204/ - -Produced by Veronika Redfern, D Alexander, Juliet Sutherland -and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net - - -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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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: Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 6 - -Author: Various - -Release Date: October 27, 2012 [EBook #41204] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD," VOLUME 6 *** - - - - -Produced by Veronika Redfern, D Alexander, Juliet Sutherland -and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - -</pre> - <div class="figcenter" style="width: 340px;"> - <a href="images/titlepage.jpg"><img class="cover-hide" id="coverpage" - src="images/th_titlepage.jpg" style="border: 1px solid #000;" width="340" - height="600" alt="Title Page" title="Title Page" /></a> - </div> - <div class="larger-version"> - <p> - - </p> - <h1> - TALES<br /><br /><span class="smaller">FROM</span><br /><br /><span - class="big">"BLACKWOOD"</span> - </h1> - <p> - - </p> - <p> - - </p> - </div> - <div class="figcenter" style="width: 330px;"> - <img src="images/contents.png" width="330" height="55" - alt="Contents of this Volume" title="Contents of this Volume" /> - </div> - <div class="center1"> - <p> - <i><a href="#THE_DUTCHMAN">My Friend the Dutchman.</a> By Frederick - Hardman, Esq.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i><a href="#COLLEGE_FRIENDS_II">My College Friends. No. II.</a> Horace - Leicester.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i><a href="#THE_EMERALD_STUDS">The Emerald Studs.</a> By Professor - Aytoun.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i><a href="#COLLEGE_FRIENDS_III">My College Friends. No. III.</a> Mr W. - Wellington Hurst.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i><a href="#CHRISTINE">Christine: a Dutch Story.</a> By Frederick - Hardman, Esq.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i><a href="#THE_MAN_IN_THE_BELL">The Man in the Bell.</a></i> - </p> - </div> - <p> - - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center big"> - WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS - </p> - <p class="center medium"> - EDINBURGH AND LONDON - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p class="chapter-beginning"> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1a" id="Page_1a">[Pg 1]</a></span> - </p> - <p class="center"> - <a name="TALES_FROM_BLACKWOOD" id="TALES_FROM_BLACKWOOD"><span class="xbig"><b>TALES - FROM "BLACKWOOD"</b></span></a> - </p> - <hr class="short" /> - <h2 class="no-break"> - <a name="THE_DUTCHMAN" id="THE_DUTCHMAN">MY FRIEND THE DUTCHMAN.</a> - </h2> - <p class="center"> - BY FREDERICK HARDMAN. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - <span class="small">[<i>MAGA.</i> <span class="smcap">October 1847.</span>]</span> - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="dropcap"> - "And you will positively marry her, if she will have you?" - </p> - <p> - "Not a doubt of either. Before this day fortnight she shall be Madame Van - Haubitz." - </p> - <p> - "You will make her your wife without acquainting her with your true - position?" - </p> - <p> - "Indeed will I. My very position requires it. There's no room for a - scruple. She expects to live on my fortune; thinks to make a great catch - of the rich Dutchman. Instead of that I shall spend her salary. The old - story; going out for wool and returning shorn." - </p> - <p> - The conversation of which this is the concluding fragment, occurred in the - public room of the Hotel de Hesse, in the village of Homburg on the Hill—then - an insignificant handful of houses, officiating<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_2a" id="Page_2a">[Pg 2]</a></span> as capital of the important - landgravate of Hesse-Homburg. The table-d'hôte had been over some time; - the guests had departed to repose in their apartments until the hour of - evening promenade should summon them to the excellent band of music, - provided by the calculating liberality of the gaming-house keepers, and to - loiter round the <i>brunnen</i> of more or less nauseous flavour, the - pretext of resort to this rendezvous of idlers and gamblers. The waiters - had disappeared to batten on the broken meats from the public table, and - to doze away the time till the approach of supper renewed their activity. - My interlocutor, with whom I was alone in the deserted apartment, was a - man of about thirty years of age, whose dark hair and mustaches, marked - features, spare person, and complexion bronzed by a tropical sun, entitled - him to pass for a native of southern Europe, or even of some more ardent - clime. Nevertheless he answered to the very Dutch patronymic of Van - Haubitz, and was a native of Holland, in whose principal city his father - was a banker of considerable wealth and financial influence. - </p> - <p> - It was towards the close of a glorious August, and for two months I had - been wandering in Rhine-land. Not after the fashion of deluded Cockneys, - who fancy they have seen the Rhine when they have careered from Cologne to - Mannheim astride of a steam-engine, gaping at objects<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_3a" id="Page_3a">[Pg 3]</a></span> passed as soon as perceived; - drinking and paying for indifferent vinegar as Steinberger-Cabinet, eating - vile dinners on the decks of steamers, and excellent ones in the capital - hotels which British cash and patronage have raised upon the banks of the - most renowned of German streams. On the contrary, I had early dispensed - with the aid of steam, to wander on foot, with the occasional assistance - of a lazy country diligence or rickety <i>einspänner</i>, through the many - beautiful districts that lie upon either bank of the river; - pedestrianising in Rhenish Bavaria, losing myself in the Odenwald, and - pausing, when occasion offered, to pick a trout out of the numerous - streamlets that dash and meander through dell and ravine, on their way to - swell the waters of old Father Rhine. At last, weary of solitude—scarcely - broken by an occasional gossip with a heavy German boor, village priest, - or strolling student—I thirsted after the haunts of civilisation, - and found myself, within a day of the appearance of the symptom, installed - in a luxurious hotel in the free city of Frankfort on the Maine. But - Frankfort at that season is deserted, save by passing tourists, who escape - as fast as possible from its lifeless streets and sun-baked pavements; so, - after glancing over an English newspaper at the Casino, taking one stroll - in the beautiful garden surrounding the city, and another through the - Jew-quarter—always interesting and<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_4a" id="Page_4a">[Pg 4]</a></span> curious, although anything - but savoury at that warm season—I gathered together my baggage and - was off to Homburg. There I could not complain of solitude, of deserted - streets and shuttered windows. It seemed impossible that the multitude of - gaily dressed belles and cavaliers, English, French, German, and Russ, - who, from six in the morning until sunset, lounged and flirted on the - walks, watered themselves at the fountains, and perilled their complexions - in the golden sunbeams, could ever bestow themselves in the two or three - middling hotels and few score shabby lodging-houses composing the town of - Homburg. Manage it they did, however; crept into their narrow cells at - night, to emerge next morning, like butterflies from the chrysalis, gay, - bright, and brilliant, and to recommence the never-varying but pleasant - round of eating, sauntering, love-making, and gambling. Homburg was not - then what it has since become. That great house of cards, the new Cursaal, - had not yet arisen; and its table-d'hôte, reading-room, and profane - mysteries of roulette and rouge-et-noir, found temporary domicile in a - narrow, disreputable-looking den in the main street, where accommodation - of all kinds, but especially for dinner, was scanty in the extreme. The - public tables at the hotels were consequently thronged, and there - acquaintances were soon made. The day of my arrival at Homburg I was - seated next to Van<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5a" id="Page_5a">[Pg - 5]</a></span> Haubitz; his manner was off-hand and frank; we entered into - conversation, took our after-dinner cigar and evening stroll together, and - by bed-time had knocked up that sort of intimacy easily contracted at a - watering-place, which lasts one's time of residence, and is extinguished - and forgotten on departure. Van Haubitz, like many Continentals and very - few Englishmen, was one of those free-and-easy communicative persons who - are as familiar after twelve hours' acquaintance as if they had known you - twelve years, and who do not hesitate to confide to a three days' - acquaintance the history of their lives, their pursuits, position, and - prospects. I was soon made acquainted, to a very considerable extent, at - least, with those of my friend Van Haubitz, late lieutenant of artillery - in the service of his majesty the King of Holland. He was the youngest of - four sons, and having shown, at a very early age, a wild and intractable - disposition and precocious addiction to dissipation, his father pronounced - him unsuited to business, and decided on placing him in the army. To this - the <i>Junker</i> (he claimed nobility, and displayed above his arms a - species of coronet, bearing considerable resemblance to a fragment of - chevaux-de-frise, which he might have been puzzled to prop with a - parchment) had no particular objection, and might have made a good enough - officer, but for his reckless, spendthrift manner of life, which entailed - negligence of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6a" id="Page_6a">[Pg 6]</a></span> - duty and frequent reprimands. Extravagant beyond measure, unable to deny - himself any gratification, squandering money as though millions were at - his command, he was constantly overwhelmed with debts and a martyr to - duns. At last his father, after thrice clearing him with his creditors, - consented to do so a fourth time only on condition of his getting - transferred to a regiment stationed in the Dutch East Indies, and - remaining there until his return had the paternal sanction. To avoid a - prison, and perhaps not altogether sorry to leave a country where his cash - and credit were alike exhausted, he embarked for Batavia. But any pleasant - day-dreams he may have cherished of tropical luxuries, of the indulgence - of a <i>farniente</i> life in a grass hammock, gently balanced by Javan - houris beneath banana shades, of spice-laden breezes and cool sherbets, - and other attributes of a Mohammedan paradise, were speedily dissipated by - the odious realities of filth and vermin, marsh-fever and mosquitoes. He - wrote to his father, describing the horrors of the place, and begging to - be released from his pledge and allowed to return to Holland. His obdurate - progenitor replied by a letter of reproach, and swore that if he left - Batavia he might live on his pay, and never expect a stiver from the - paternal strong-box, either as gift or bequest. To live upon his pay would - have been no easy matter, even for a more prudent person than Van Haubitz.<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7a" id="Page_7a">[Pg 7]</a></span> He - grumbled immoderately, swore like a pagan, but remained where he was. A - year passed and he could hold out no longer. Disregarding the paternal - displeasure, and reckless of consequences, he applied to the chief - military authority of the colony for leave of absence. He was asked his - plea, and alleged ill health. The general thought he looked pretty well, - and requested the sight of a medical certificate of his invalid state. Van - Haubitz assumed a doleful countenance and betook him to the surgeons. They - agreed with the general that his aspect was healthy: asked for symptoms; - could discover none more alarming than regularity of pulse, sleep, - appetite, and digestion, laughed in his face and refused the certificate. - The sickly gunner, who had the constitution of a rhinoceros, and had never - had a day's illness since he got over the measles at the age of four - years, waited a little, and tried the second "dodge," usually resorted to - in such cases. "Urgent private affairs" were now the pretext. The general - expressed his regret that urgent public affairs rendered it impossible for - him to dispense with the valuable services of Lieutenant Van Haubitz. - Whereupon Lieutenant Van Haubitz passed half an hour in heaping - maledictions on the head of his disobliging commander, and then sat down - and wrote an application for an exchange to the authorities in Holland. - The reply was equally unsatisfactory, the fact being that Haubitz senior,<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8a" id="Page_8a">[Pg 8]</a></span> like an - implacable old savage as he was, had made interest at the war-office for - the refusal of all such requests on the part of his scapegrace offspring. - Haubitz junior took patience for another year, and then, in a moment of - extreme disgust and ennui, threw up his commission and returned to Europe, - trusting, he told me, that after five years' absence, the governor's - bowels would yearn towards his youngest-born. In this he was entirely - mistaken; he greatly underrated the toughness of paternal viscera. Far - from killing the fatted calf on the prodigal's return, the incensed old - Hollander refused him the smallest cutlet, and, shutting the door in his - face, consigned him, with more energy than affection, to the custody of - the evil one. Van Haubitz found himself in an awkward fix. Credit was - dead, none of his relatives would notice or assist him; his whole fortune - consisted of a dozen gold Wilhelms. At this critical moment an eccentric - maiden aunt, to whom, a year or two previously, he had sent a propitiatory - offering of a ring-tailed monkey and a leash of pea-green parrots, and who - had never condescended to acknowledge the present, departed this life, - bequeathing him ten thousand florins as a return for the addition to her - menagerie. A man of common prudence, and who had seen himself so near - destitution, would have endeavoured to employ this sum, moderate as it - was, in some trade or business,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9a" - id="Page_9a">[Pg 9]</a></span> or, at any rate, would have lived sparingly - till he found other resources. But Haubitz had not yet sown all his - wild-oats; he had a soul above barter, a glorious disregard of the future, - the present being provided for. He left Holland, shaking the dust from his - boots, dashed across Belgium, and was soon plunged in the gaieties of a - Paris carnival. Breakfasts at the Rocher, dinners at the Café, balls at - the opera, and the concomitant <i>petits soupers</i> and écarté parties - with the fair denizens of the Quartier Lorette, soon operated a prodigious - chasm in the monkey-money, as Van Haubitz irreverently styled his - venerable aunt's bequest. Spring having arrived, he beat a retreat from - Paris, and established himself at Homburg, where he was quietly completing - the consumption of the ten thousand florins, at rather a slower pace than - he would have done at that headquarters of pleasant iniquity, the capital - of France. From hints he let fall, I suspected a short time would suffice - to see the last of the legacy. On this head, however, he had been less - confidential than on most other matters, and certainly his manner of - living would have led no one to suppose he was low in the locker. Nothing - was too good for him; he drank the best of wines, got up parties and - pic-nics for the ladies, and had a special addiction to the purchase of - costly trinkets, which he generally gave away before they had been a day - in his possession. He did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10a" - id="Page_10a">[Pg 10]</a></span> gamble; he had done so, he told me, once - since he was at Homburg, and had won, but he had no faith in his luck, or - taste for that kind of excitement, and should play no more. He was playing - another game just now, which apparently interested him greatly. A few days - before myself, a young actress, who, within a very short time, had - acquired considerable celebrity, had arrived at Homburg, escorted by her - mother. Fraülein Emilie Sendel was a lively lady of four-and-twenty or - thereabouts, possessing a smart figure and pretty face, the latter - somewhat wanting in refinement. Her blue eyes, although rather too - prominent, had a merry sparkle; her cheeks had not yet been entirely - despoiled by envious rouge of their natural healthful tinge; her hair, of - that peculiar tint of red auburn which the French call a <i>blonde hasardé</i>, - was more remarkable for abundance and flexibility than for fineness of - texture. As regarded her qualities and accomplishments, she was - good-humoured and tolerably unaffected, but wilful and capricious as a - spoiled child; she spoke her own language pretty well, with an occasional - slight vulgarism or bit of greenroom slang; had a smattering of French, - and played the piano sufficiently to accompany the ballads and vaudeville - airs which she sang with spirit and considerable freedom of style. I had - met German actresses who were far more lady-like off the stage, but there - was nothing glaringly or repulsively<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_11a" id="Page_11a">[Pg 11]</a></span> vulgar about Emilie, and - as a neighbour at a public dinner-table, she was amusing and quite above - par. As if to vindicate her nationality, she would occasionally look - sentimental; but the mood sat ill upon her, and never lasted long: comedy - was evidently her natural line. Against her reputation, rumour, always an - inquisitive censor, often a mean libeller, of ladies of her profession, - had as yet, so far as I could learn, found nothing to allege. Her mother, - a dingy old dowager, with bad teeth, dowdy gowns, a profusion of - artificial flowers, and a strong addiction to tea and knitting, perfectly - understood the duties of duennaship, and did propriety by her daughter's - side at dinner-table and promenade. To the heart of the daughter, Van - Haubitz, almost from the first hour he had seen her, had laid persevering - and determined siege. - </p> - <p> - During our after-dinner tête-à-tête on the day now referred to, my friend - the gunner had shown himself exceedingly unreserved, and, without any - attempt on my part to draw him out, he had elucidated, with a frankness - that must have satisfied the most inquisitive, whatever small points of - his recent history and present position he had previously left in - obscurity. The conversation began, so soon as the cloth was removed and - the guests had departed, by a jesting allusion on my part to his - flirtation with the actress, and to her gracious reception of his - attentions. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12a" id="Page_12a">[Pg 12]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "It is no mere flirtation," said Van, gravely. "My intentions are serious. - You may depend Mademoiselle Sendel understands them as such." - </p> - <p> - "Serious! you don't mean that you want to marry her?" - </p> - <p> - "Unquestionably I do. It is my only chance." - </p> - <p> - "Your only chance!" I repeated, considerably puzzled. "Are you about to - turn actor, and do you trust to her for instruction in histrionics?" - </p> - <p> - "Not exactly. I will explain. La Sendel, you must know, has just - terminated her last engagement, which was at a salary of ten thousand - florins. She has already received and accepted an offer of a new one, at - fifteen thousand, from the Vienna theatre. Vienna is a very pleasant - place. Fifteen thousand florins are thirty-two thousand francs, or twelve - hundred of your English pounds sterling. Upon that sum two persons can - live excellently well—in Germany at least." - </p> - <p> - Unable to contradict any of these assertions, I held my tongue. The - Dutchman resumed. - </p> - <p> - "You know the history of my past life; I will tell you my present - position. It is critical enough, but I shall improve it, for here," and he - touched his forehead, "is what never fails me. This letter," (he produced - an epistle of mercantile aspect, bearing the Amsterdam post-mark), "I - received last week from my eldest brother. The shabby <i>schelm</i> - declares he will reply to no more of mine, that his<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_13a" id="Page_13a">[Pg 13]</a></span> efforts to arrange - matters with my father have been fruitless, and that the old gentleman has - strictly forbidden him and his brothers to hold any communication with me, - a command they seem willing enough to obey. So much for that. And now for - the finances." - </p> - <p> - He took out his pocket-book, opened and shook it—a flimsy crumpled - bit of paper fell out. It was a note of the bank of France, for one - thousand francs. - </p> - <p> - "My last," said he. "That gone, I am a beggar. But it won't come to that, - either, thanks to Fraülein Emilie." - </p> - <p> - "Surely," said I, "you are too reckless of money, too extravagant and - unreflecting. Six months ago, you told me you had twenty such notes." - </p> - <p> - "Ay, twenty-two exactly, at the end of January, when I left Amsterdam. But - whither was I bound? To Paris; and who can economise there? I've had my - money's worth, and could have had no more, had I dribbled the dirty ten - thousand florins over three years, instead of three months. I take great - credit for making it last so long. Such suppers, and balls, and orgies, - with the pleasantest fellows and prettiest actresses in Paris. But the - louis-d'or roll rapidly in that sort of society. One must be a Russian - prince, or a French <i>feuilletoniste</i>, to keep it up. I never flinched - at anything so long as the money lasted. Then, when I found myself reduced - to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14a" id="Page_14a">[Pg 14]</a></span> - last note, I got into the Frankfort mail, and came to rusticate at this - rural roulette-table. My next change will be to conjugation and Vienna." - </p> - <p> - "But if you had only a thousand francs on leaving Paris, and have got them - still, how have you lived since?" - </p> - <p> - "You don't suppose these are the same? There are not many ways of getting - through money here unless one gambles, which I do not; but coin has - somehow or other a peculiar aptitude to slip through my fingers, and the - thousand francs soon evaporated. Meanwhile, I had written dozens of - letters to my brothers, who seldom answered, and to my father, who never - did. I promised reform and a respectable life, if they would either get me - a snug place with little to do and good pay, or make me a reasonable - yearly allowance, something better than the paltry three thousand florins - they doled out to me when I was in the artillery, and on which, as I could - not live, I was obliged to get in debt. They paid no attention to my - request, reasonable as it was. The best offer they made me was five francs - a-day, paid weekly, to live in a Silesian village. This was adding insult - to injury, and I left off writing to them. A few days afterwards, taking - out my purse to pay for cigars, a dollar dropped out. It was my last. I - paid it away, walked home, lay down upon my bed, smoked and reflected. My - position was gloomy enough, and the more I looked<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_15a" id="Page_15a">[Pg 15]</a></span> at it, the blacker it - seemed. From my undutiful relatives there was no hope; the abominable - Silesian project was evidently their ultimatum. I had no friend to turn - to, no resource left. I might certainly have obtained the mere necessaries - of life at this hotel, where my credit was excellent, and have vegetated - for a month or two, as a man must vegetate, without ready money. But I had - no fancy for such an expedient, a mere protraction of the agony. I lay - ruminating for two hours, two such hours as I should be sorry to pass - again, and then my mind was made up. I had a brace of small - travelling-pistols amongst my baggage; these I loaded and put in my - pocket; and then, leaving the hotel and the town, I struck across the - country for some distance and plunged into a wood. There I sat down upon a - grass bank, my back against an old beech. It was evening, and the solitary - little glade before me was striped with the last sunbeams darting between - the tree-trunks. I have difficulty in defining my sensations at that - moment. I was quite resolved, did not waver an instant in my purpose, but - my head was dizzy, and I had a sickly sensation about the heart. - Determined that the physical shrinking from death should not have time to - weaken my moral determination, I hastily opened my waistcoat, felt for the - pulsations of my heart, placed the muzzle of a pistol where they were - strongest, steadying it on that spot with my left<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_16a" id="Page_16a">[Pg 16]</a></span> hand. Then I looked - straight before me and pulled the trigger. There was the click of the - lock, but no report; the cap was bad, and had been crushed without - exploding. That was a horrible moment. I snatched up another pistol, which - lay cocked to my hand, and thrust the muzzle into my mouth. As before, the - sharp noise of the hammer upon the nipple was the sole result. The caps - had been some time in my possession, and had become worthless through age - or damp." - </p> - <p> - I looked at Van Haubitz, doubtful whether he was not hoaxing me. But - hitherto I had observed in him no addiction to the Munchausen vein, and - now his countenance and voice were serious: there was a slight flush on - his cheek, and he was evidently excited at the recollection of his - abortive attempt at suicide,—perhaps a little ashamed of it. I was - convinced he told the truth. - </p> - <p> - "I do not know," he continued, "whether, had I had surer weapons with me, - I should have had courage to make a third attempt upon my life. Honestly, - I think not; the self-preservative instinct was rapidly gaining strength. - I walked slowly back to the town, my brain still confused from the - agitating moments I had passed. I was unable quite to collect my thoughts, - and felt as if I had just awakened from a long heavy sleep. It was now - dark; lights streamed from the open windows of the gambling-rooms; the - voices of the croupiers,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17a" - id="Page_17a">[Pg 17]</a></span> the stir and hum of the players and - jingling of money were distinctly heard in the street without. I have - already told you I am no gambler, not from scruple, but choice. - Nevertheless, I used often to stroll up to the Cursaal for an hour of an - evening, when the play was at the highest, to look on and chat with chance - acquaintances. Mechanically, I now ascended the stairs. On the - landing-place, I found myself face to face with a man with whom I was - slightly intimate, and who, a few evenings before, had borrowed forty - francs of me. I had not seen him since, and he now returned me the piece - of gold. 'Try your luck with it,' said he; 'there is a run against the - bank to-night, everybody wins, and M. Blanc looks blue.' And he pointed to - one of the proprietors of the tables, who, however, wore a tolerably - tranquil air, knowing well that what was carried away one night, would - come back with compound interest the next. The play was heavy at the - rouge-et-noir table; a Russian and two Frenchmen—the latter of whom, - judging from their appearance, and from the complicated array of - calculations on the table before them, were professional gamblers—extracted, - at nearly every <i>coup</i>, notes or rouleaus of gold from the grated - boxes in front of the bankers. I drank a glass of water, for my lips were - dry and hot, and, placing myself as near the table as the crowd of players - and spectators permitted, watched the game.<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_18a" id="Page_18a">[Pg 18]</a></span> My hand was in my pocket, - the forty-franc piece still between its fingers. But in spite of the - advice of him who had paid it me, I felt no disposition to risk the coin; - not that I feared to lose it, for as my only one it was useless, but - because, as I tell you, I never had the slightest love of gambling or - expectation to win. - </p> - <p> - "A pause occurred in the game. The cards had run out, and the bankers were - subjecting them to those complicated and ostentatious shufflings intended - to convince the players of the fairness of their dealings. During this - operation the previous silence was exchanged for eager gossip. The game, - it appeared, had come out that night in a peculiar manner, very favourable - to those who had had the address and nerve to avail themselves of it. - There had been alternate long runs upon red and black. - </p> - <p> - "'<i>Mille noms de Dieu!</i>' exclaimed a hoarse cracked voice just below - me. 'What a series of black! Twenty-two, and only three red! And to be - unable to take advantage of it!' - </p> - <p> - "I looked down, and recognised the grey mustache, wrinkled features, and - snuffy black coat with a ribbon of the Legion of Honour, of an old French - colonel whom you may have seen limping in and out of the Cursaal, and who - ranks amongst the antiquities of Homburg. He served under Napoleon, was - shelved at the peace, and has lived since then on a moderate annuity, of - which one-fifth procures<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19a" - id="Page_19a">[Pg 19]</a></span> him the barest necessaries of existence, - whilst the other four parts are annually absorbed in the vortex of - rouge-et-noir. When gambling-houses were legal at Paris, <i>le colonel - rapé</i>, the threadbare colonel, as he was called, was one of the most - punctual attendants at Frascati's and the Palais Royal. When they were - abolished, he commenced a wandering existence amongst the German baths, - and finally settled down at Homburg, giving it the preference, as the only - place where he could follow his darling pursuit alike in winter and in - summer. From the opening to the close of the play he is seen seated at the - table, a number of cards, ruled in red and black columns, on the green - cloth before him, in which he pricks with pins the progress of the game. - That evening he had been unfortunate, and had emptied his pocket, but - nevertheless continued puncturing cards with laudable perseverance, of - course discovering, like every penniless gambler, that, had he money to - stake, he should infallibly make a fortune; predicting what colour would - come out, and indulging, when he proved a true prophet, in a little - subdued blasphemy because he was unable to profit by his acuteness. - </p> - <p> - "'Extraordinary run! to be sure,' repeated the veteran dicer. 'Twenty-two - black, and only three red! There'll be a series of red now; I feel there - will, and when I don't play myself, I'm always right. I bet this deal - begins with seven<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20a" id="Page_20a">[Pg - 20]</a></span> red. Who bets a hundred francs to fifty it does not?' - </p> - <p> - "Nobody accepted this sporting offer, or placed upon the colour which the - colonel's prophetic soul foresaw was to come out. The cards were now - shuffled and cut for dealing. The hell relapsed into silence. - </p> - <p> - "'<i>Faites le jeu, Messieurs!</i>' was repeated in the harsh - business-like tones of the presiding demon. - </p> - <p> - "'Red wins,' croaked the colonel. 'Seven times at the least.' - </p> - <p> - "Nearly all the players backed the black. By an idle impulse I threw down - my forty francs, my entire fortune, upon the red. The old soldier looked - round to see the judicious individual who followed his advice, smiled - grimly, and nodded approvingly. The next moment red won. I let the money - lie, and walked into the next room. Eighty francs were of no more use to - me than forty, and I felt very sure that another turn of the card would - carry off both stake and winnings. I took up a newspaper, but soon threw - it down again, for my head was not clear enough to read, and I felt - exhausted with the emotions of the day. I was about to leave the house - when I heard a loud buzz in the card-room, and the next instant somebody - clutched my arm. It was the French colonel, in a state of furious - excitement; grinning, panting, perspiring, and stuttering with eagerness. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21a" id="Page_21a">[Pg 21]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "'Seven reds!' was all he could say. 'Seven reds, Monsieur. Take up your - money.' - </p> - <p> - "I hastened to the table. By a strange caprice of fortune, the colonel's - prophecy had come true. Red had won seven times, and my forty francs had - become five thousand. I took up my winnings, the colonel looking on with a - triumphant smile. This was suddenly exchanged for a portentous frown and - fierce twist of the grey mustache. - </p> - <p> - "'<i>Mille millions de tonnerres!</i> Not a dollar left to follow up that - splendid run!' And with a furious gesture, he upset his chair, and dashed - his cards upon the ground. - </p> - <p> - "I took the hint, whether intended or not. I could not do less in return - for the five thousand francs the old gentleman had put in my pocket. - </p> - <p> - "'If Monsieur,' I said, 'will allow me the pleasure of lending him—' - </p> - <p> - "'<i>Impossible, Monsieur!</i>' interrupted the colonel, looking as stern - as if about to charge single-handed a whole pulk of Cossacks. But I knew - my man. He was the type of a class of which I have seen many. - </p> - <p> - "'<i>Cependant, Monsieur, entre militaires</i>, between brother-soldiers—' - </p> - <p> - "'<i>Ah! Monsieur est militaire!</i>' exclaimed the old gentleman, his - alarming contraction of brow and rigidity of feature instantaneously - dissolving into a smile of extreme benignity. 'That alters the case. - Certainly, between brothers in arms those<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_22a" id="Page_22a">[Pg 22]</a></span> little services may be - offered and accepted. Although, really, it is encroaching on Monsieur's - complaisance ... at the same time ... a hundred francs ... till to-morrow - ... quarters at some distance ... &c. &c.,' which ended in his - picking up his chair, cards, and pin, and applying all his faculties to - break the bank with ten <i>louis</i> which I lent him, and which I need - hardly say I have not seen from that day to this. - </p> - <p> - "Such a sudden stroke of good fortune would have made gamblers of nine men - out of ten, but I decidedly want the organ of gaming, for I have never - played since. My narrow escape from suicide had made some impression on - me, and now that I had five thousand francs in my pocket, I looked back at - the attempt as an exceedingly foolish proceeding. For a month or more, I - lived with what even you would admit to be great economy, writing frequent - letters to Amsterdam, and trying to come to terms and an arrangement with - my family. All in vain. They had no confidence in my promises, proposed - nothing I could accept, talked of Silesian exile—roots and water in - the wilderness—and the like absurdities, until I plainly saw they - were determined to cast me off, and that if I was to be helped at all, it - must be by myself. How to do this was the puzzle. There are few things I - can do, that could in any way be rendered profitable. I can ride a horse, - lay a gun, and put a battery through<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_23a" id="Page_23a">[Pg 23]</a></span> its exercise; but such - accomplishments are sufficiently common not to be paid at a very high - rate; and besides, I had had enough of garrison duty, even could I have - got back my commission, which was not likely. So I put soldiering out of - the question; and yet, when I had done so, I was puzzled to think of - anything better. I had no fancy to turn rook, and rove from place to place - in search of pigeons—no uncommon resource with younger brothers of - an idle turn and exhausted means. I had fallen in with a few birds of that - breed, and had come to the conclusion that, to save themselves work and - trouble, they had adopted by far the most laborious and painful of all - professions. In the midst of my doubts and uncertainties, the fair Sendel - and her mother made their appearance. The first sight of their names upon - the hotel book was a ray of light to me. Within an hour I made up my mind - to sacrifice my independence to my necessities, and become the virtuous - and domesticated spouse of the charming and well-paid Emilie. A hint and a - dollar to the waiter placed me next her at the table-d'hôte, and I - immediately opened my intrenchments, and began a siege in due form." - </p> - <p> - "Which you expect will soon terminate by the capitulation of the - garrison?" - </p> - <p> - "Undoubtedly. The result of the first day or two's operations was not very - satisfactory. I rattled away, and did the amiable to a furious extent; but<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24a" id="Page_24a">[Pg 24]</a></span> the - divinity was shy, and the guardian of the temple (an old gorgon whom I - shall suppress before the honeymoon is out) looked askance at me, and - pulled her daughter by the sleeve whenever she seemed disposed to listen. - They evidently thought the rattle might belong to a snake; did me the - injustice to take me for an adventurer. On the third day, however, the ice - had melted. I soon found out the cause of the thaw. The head-waiter, whom - a little well-timed liberality had rendered my devoted slave, informed me - that Madame Sendel had been making minute inquiries concerning me of the - master of the hotel. The worthy man, who adored me because I despised <i>vin - ordinaire</i> and looked only at the sum-total of his bills, said that I - was a son of Van Haubitz, the rich banker of Amsterdam, which was - perfectly true; adding, which was rather less so, that I was a partner in - the house, and a <i>millionaire</i>. The effect of this information upon - the speculative firm of Sendel <i>Mère et Fille</i>, was perfectly - electric. Medusa smoothed her horrid locks, and came out at that day's - dinner in cherry ribbons and fresh artificials. Emilie was all smiles and - suavity, laughed at my worst jokes, nearly burst her stays by holding her - breath to raise a blush at my soft speeches, and returned from that - evening's promenade talking about the moon, and leaning tenderly on my - arm." - </p> - <p> - "With such encouragement, I am surprised you did not propose at once." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25a" id="Page_25a">[Pg 25]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "So hasty a measure—oh, most unsophisticated of Britons!" replied - Van, with a look of grave pity for my simplicity—"would have greatly - perilled the success of my scheme. Sendel Senior, having only the - innkeeper's report to rely on, would have had her ungenerous suspicions - re-awakened by my precipitation, and have instituted further inquiries; - have written, probably, to some friend in Holland, and learned that the - pretender to her daughter's hand, although unquestionably a son of the - wealthy banker Van Haubitz, is excluded beyond redemption from the good - graces of that respectable pillar of Dutch finance, who has further - announced his irrevocable determination to take not the slightest notice - of him in his testamentary dispositions. The excellent Herr Bratenbengel, - whose succulent dinner we are now digesting, and whose very laudable <i>Rudesheimer</i> - stands before us, had unwittingly laid the foundation of my success; it - was for me to raise the superstructure. Now it was that I rejoiced at my - economy since the lucky hit at the gaming-table. The greater part of my - winnings still remained to me; golden grain, which I profusely scattered, - sure that it would yield rich harvest. I had already made a favourable - impression, and this I took care to confirm by the liberal expenditure - which you, in your ignorance, have called extravagance; by treating money - as if its abundance in my coffers made it valueless in my eyes, and by - delicate generosity in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26a" - id="Page_26a">[Pg 26]</a></span> the shape of presents to mother and - daughter. The trap was too well set to prove a failure; the birds are - fairly snared, and to-night, when we take our usual romantic stroll, I - shall raise the fair Sendel to the seventh heaven of happiness by asking - her to become Madame Van Haubitz." - </p> - <p> - Although the tenor and tone of these confessions by no means tended to - elevate the Dutchman in my opinion, I could not but smile at the coolness - with which they were made, and at the skill of his manœuvres. There - was some good about the scamp; he had his own code of honour, such as it - was, and from that he would not easily have been induced to swerve. He - would have scorned to do a dirty thing, to cheat at cards, or leave a debt - of honour unpaid; but would readily have got in debt to tradesmen and - money-lenders beyond all possibility of reimbursement. And as regarded his - present conspiracy against the celibacy and salary of Mademoiselle Sendel, - a senate of sages and logicians would have failed to convince him of its - impropriety. He looked upon it as a most justifiable stratagem, a lawful - spoiling of the spoiler, praiseworthy in the sight of men, gods, and - columns, and which he would perhaps have boasted of to a considerable - extent to many besides myself, had not secresy been essential to the - welfare of his combinations. I did not feel myself bound to betray his - plot, or to put the Sendel on her guard against this snake amongst the - roses.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27a" id="Page_27a">[Pg 27]</a></span> - And whilst mentally resolving rather to diminish than increase the - intimacy which the confident and confidential artilleryman had in great - measure forced upon me, and which I, through a sort of easy-going - indolence of character, had perhaps somewhat lightly accepted, I - anticipated diversion in watching the manœuvres of the high - contracting parties. I considered myself as a spectator, called upon to - witness an amusing comedy in real life, and admitted behind the scenes by - peculiar favour of an actor. I resolved to watch the progress of the - intrigue, and, if possible, to be present at the <i>dénouement</i>. - </p> - <p> - "Are you quite certain," said I to Van, "that Mademoiselle Sendel's - pecuniary position and prospects are so very favourable? The sum you - mentioned is a large one for an actress who has been so short a time on - the stage. Public report, very apt to take liberties with the reputation - of theatrical ladies, often endeavours to compensate them by magnifying - their salaries." - </p> - <p> - Van, I may here mention, lest the reader should not have perceived it, had - a most inordinate opinion of his own abilities and acuteness. Like certain - Yankees, he "conceited" it was necessary to rise before the sun to outwit - him, and even then your chance was a poor one. He had been in hot water - all his life, never out of difficulties and scrapes—once, as has - been shown, kept from suicide by a mere accident and was now reduced to - the alternative of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28a" id="Page_28a">[Pg - 28]</a></span> beggary or of marrying for a living. None of these - circumstances, which would have taken the conceit out of most men, at all - impaired his opinion of his talent and sharpness. Replying to my - observation merely by a slight shrug, and by a smile of pity for the man - who thus misappreciated his foresight, he again produced his pocket-book, - and extracted from its innermost recesses a fragment of a German - newspaper, reputed oracular in matters theatrical. This he handed to me, - tapping a particular paragraph significantly with his forefinger. The - paragraph was thus conceived:— - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "<span class="smcap">THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE.</span>—That promising - young actress, Fraülein Emilie Sendel—whose first appearance, in the - spring of last year, at once established her in the foremost line of the - dramatic genius of the day—has concluded her twelve months' - engagement at the <i>Hof Theater</i> of B——, where she - doubtless considered, and not without reason, that her talents and - exertions were inadequately compensated by a salary of ten thousand - florins. The gay society of that capital will sensibly feel the loss of - the accomplished and fascinating comedian, who has accepted an engagement - at Vienna, on the more suitable terms of fifteen thousand florins, with - two months' <i>congé</i>, and other advantages. Before proceeding to - ravish the eyes and ears of the pleasure-loving population of the<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29a" id="Page_29a">[Pg 29]</a></span> <i>Kaiser-Stadt, - la belle</i> Sendel is off to the baths, under the protecting wing of the - watchful guardian who has presided at all her theatrical triumphs." - </p> - <p> - "Clear enough, I think," said Van, when I raised my eyes from the - protracted periods of the penny-a-liner. - </p> - <p> - I had nothing to say against the lucidity of the paragraph, nor anything - to urge, at all likely to avail, against the prosecution of Van's designs - upon the lady's hand and fifteen thousand florins, with "two months' <i>congé</i> - and other advantages." No possible sophistry, to which I was equal, could - prove the marriage to be against his interest; and as to trying him on the - tack of delicacy—"imposition on an unprotected woman, degrading - dependence on her exertions," and so forth—I knew the thick skin and - indomitable self-conceit of the gunner would repel such feather-shafts - without feeling them, or that the utmost effect I could expect to produce - would be to get into a quarrel with the redoubtable native of the - Netherlands, a predicament in which, as a man of peace, I was by no means - anxious to find myself. So after hazarding the fruitless hint with which - the reader was made acquainted at the commencement of this narrative, I - abstained from all further intermeddling, and retired to my apartment, - leaving Van Haubitz to con the declaration with which he was that evening<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30a" id="Page_30a">[Pg 30]</a></span> to - rejoice the ears of the fair and too-confiding Sendel. - </p> - <p> - I went to bed early that night, and saw nothing more of the Hollander till - the next morning, when I was roused from a balmy slumber at the untimely - hour of seven, by his bursting into my room with more impetuosity than - ceremony, with the gestures of a maniac and the mien of a conqueror. - Before my eyes were half open, he was more than half through the history - of his proceedings on the previous evening. His success had been complete. - Emilie had faltered, with downcast eyes, a sweet assent. The friendly - gloom of eve, and the over-arching foliage, beneath whose shade the - momentous question was put, saved her the necessity of practising upon her - lungs to produce a blush. Mamma Sendel had bestowed her blessing upon the - happy pair, and in the ardour of her maternal accolades had nearly - extinguished her future son-in-law's left ogle with the wire stalk of an - artificial passion-flower. The first burst of benevolence over, and the - effervescence of feeling a little calmed, the bridegroom elect, who could - not afford delays, pressed for an early day. Thereupon Emilie was, of - course, horror-stricken, but her maternal relative, nothing loth to land - the fish thus satisfactorily hooked, and well aware of the impediments - that sometimes arise between cup and lip, ranged herself upon the side of - the eager lover, and their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31a" - id="Page_31a">[Pg 31]</a></span> combined forces bore down all opposition. - Madame Sendel at first showed an evident hankering after a preliminary - jaunt to Amsterdam and a gay wedding, graced by the presence of the - bridegroom's numerous and wealthy family. She also testified some anxiety - as to the view Van Haubitz Senior might take of his son's matrimonial - project, and as to how far he might approve of a hasty and unceremonious - wedding. But the gallant artilleryman had an answer to everything. He - pledged himself, which he was perfectly safe in doing, that his father - would not attempt in the slightest degree to control his inclinations or - interfere with his projects, extolled the delights of an autumnal tour - with his wife and mother-in-law before returning to Holland; in short, was - so plausible in his arguments, so specious and pressing, pleaded so - eloquently the violence of his love and inutility of delay, and overruled - objections with such cogent reasoning, that he achieved a complete - triumph, and it was agreed that in one week Van Haubitz should lead his - adored Emilie to the hymeneal altar. - </p> - <p> - "There will be a small matter to arrange with respect to Emilie," said - Madame Sendel in her blandest tones, and with affectation of - embarrassment. "She has an engagement at the Vienna theatre, which must of - course now be broken off. There is a forfeit to pay, no very heavy sum," - added she—— - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32a" id="Page_32a">[Pg 32]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Not a word about that," interrupted Van, whose blood curdled in his veins - at the mere idea of cancelling the engagement on which his hopes were - built. "There is no hurry for a few days. Let me once call Emilie mine, - and I take charge of all those matters." - </p> - <p> - Emilie smiled angelically; Madame patted her considerate son-in-law on the - shoulder, and applied to her snuff-box to conceal her emotion; and all - matters of business being thus satisfactorily settled, the evening closed - in harmony and bliss. - </p> - <p> - "Are you for Frankfort to-day?" said Van Haubitz, when he had concluded - his exulting narrative, and without giving me time for congratulations, - which I should have been at a loss to offer. "I am off, after breakfast, - to get some diamond earrings and other small matters for my adorable. I - shall be glad of your taste and opinion." - </p> - <p> - "Diamonds!" I exclaimed. "Farewell, then, to the thousand franc note—" - </p> - <p> - "Pooh! Nonsense! You don't suppose I throw away my last cash that way. The - Frankfort jewellers know me well, or think they do, which is the same - thing. They have seen enough of my coin since I have been at Homburg. For - them, as for my excellent mother-in-law, I am the wealthy partner in the - undoubted good firm of Van Haubitz, Krummwinkel, & Co. I never told - them so; if they choose to imagine it I am not to blame. My<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33a" id="Page_33a">[Pg 33]</a></span> credit - is good. The diamonds shall be paid for—if paid for they must be—out - of Madame Van Haubitz's first quarter's salary." - </p> - <p> - I was meditating an excuse for not accompanying my pertinacious and - unscrupulous acquaintance on his cruise against the Frankfort Israelites, - when he resumed— - </p> - <p> - "By the by," he said, "you will come to church with us. I have arranged it - all. Quite private, for reasons good. Nobody but yourself, Madame Sendel, - and Emilie. You shall act as father, and give away the bride." - </p> - <p> - The start I gave, at this alarming announcement, nearly broke the bed. - This was carrying things rather too far. Not satisfied with rendering me, - by his intrusive and unsolicited confidence, a sort of tacit accomplice in - his manœuvres, this Dutch Gil Blas would fain make me an active - participator. I drew at sight on my imagination, quickened by the peril, - for a letter received the previous evening from a dear and near relative - who lay dangerously ill at Baden-Baden, and to whose sick-bed it was - absolutely necessary I should immediately repair; and, jumping up, I began - to dress in all haste, rang furiously for the bill and a carriage, and - requested Van Haubitz to present my excuses to the ladies, my unexpected - departure at that early hour depriving me of the pleasure of taking leave - of them. The Dutchman swore all manner of <i>donderwetters</i><span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34a" id="Page_34a">[Pg 34]</a></span> and <i>sacraments</i> - that he was grieved at my departure, trusted I should find my friend - better, and be able to return to Frankfort in time for the marriage, but - did not press me to do so, and in reality was too exhilarated by the - success of his machinations to care a straw about the matter. And saying - he must go and write to Amsterdam, he shook me by the hand and left the - room, whistling in loud and joyous key the burthen of a Dutch march. In - less than an hour I was on the road to Frankfort, and that evening I - reached Heidelberg, where some friends of mine had passed the summer. I - expected to find them still there, but they had left for Baden-Baden. - Thither I pursued them, and—as if it were a judgment on me for my - white lie to the Dutchman—arrived there the morrow of their - departure. Baden was thinning, and they had gone down stream: I must have - passed them on the Rhine. Having strong reasons to see them before they - left Germany, I followed upon their trail. But their movements were rapid - and eccentric, and after tracking them to one or two of the minor baths, - the chase led me back to Frankfort. Here I made sure to catch them, or - resolved to give up the hunt. - </p> - <p> - A week had been consumed in thus travelling to and fro. I had no great - fancy for returning to Frankfort, lest my friend the Dutchman should still - be there, and press his society upon me, of which,<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_35a" id="Page_35a">[Pg 35]</a></span> after his recent - revelations, I was anything but ambitious. Upon the whole, however, I - thought it likely he would have departed. I knew he would accelerate his - marriage as much as possible; I had been nine days absent, which gave him - ample time to get over the ceremony and leave the neighbourhood. By way of - precaution I resolved to keep pretty close in my hotel during the period - of my stay, which was not to exceed one or two days. - </p> - <p> - On arriving at the "White Swan," I found my friends were staying there, - but had driven over to Homburg. Unwilling to follow them, and risk meeting - my bugbear, I awaited their return, which was to take place to a late - dinner. As usual, there was much bustle at the "Swan;" many goings and - comings, several carriages in the courtyard, others in the street packing - for departure, a throng of greedy <i>lohn-kutschers</i>, warm waiters, and - bearded couriers hanging about the door, and running up and down stairs. I - entered the public room. It was past noon, and the tables were laid for - dinner, but there were only two persons in the apartment, a gentleman and - a lady. They stood at a window, outside of which a handsome Vienna-made - berline, with a count's coronet on the panels, was being got ready for a - journey. As I walked up the room, the lady turned her head, and I was - instantly struck by her resemblance to Emilie Sendel. So strong was it - that I for a moment thought I had fallen in with<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_36a" id="Page_36a">[Pg 36]</a></span> the very persons I wished - to avoid. A second glance convinced me of my error. The likeness was - certainly startling, but there were many points of difference. Age and - stature were the same, so were the hair and complexion, save that the - former was less ruddy, the latter paler than in the case of the buxom - Emilie. And there were grace and refinement about this person, far beyond - any to which the Dutchman's lady-love could pretend. The expression of the - interesting features was rather pensive than gay, and there was something - classical in the arch of the eyebrow and outline of the face. The lady was - plainly but richly attired in an elegant travelling-dress, and had her - hand upon the arm of a tall and very handsome man, about forty years of - age, of singularly aristocratic but somewhat dissipated appearance. They - were talking as I entered, and a sentence or two of their conversation - reached my ear. They spoke French, with a scarcely perceptible foreign - accent. - </p> - <p> - Curious to know who these persons were, I returned to the court of the - hotel, intending to question a waiter. It was first necessary to catch - one, not easy at that busy time of day; and after several fruitless - efforts to detain the jacketed gentry, I gave up the attempt, and took my - station at the gateway. Scarcely had I done so, when a carriage drove up - at a rattling pace, a small spit of a boy in a smart green suit, and with - an ambiguous sort of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37a" id="Page_37a">[Pg - 37]</a></span> coronet embroidered in silver on the front of his cap, - jumped off and opened the door, and there emerged from the vehicle, to my - infinite dismay, the inevitable Van Haubitz. Retreat was impossible, for - he saw me directly; and after handing out Madame Sendel and her daughter, - seized me vehemently by both hands. - </p> - <p> - "Delighted to see you!" he cried; "I wish you had been a day sooner. We - were married yesterday," he added in a hurried voice, drawing me aside. - "Have left Homburg, paid everything <i>there</i>, and leave this to-morrow - for Heaven knows where. Explanations must come first (here he made a - grimace), for my purse is low, and my mother-in-law makes projects that - would ruin Rothschild. Lucky you are here to back me. Come in." - </p> - <p> - I was fairly caught, and in a pretty dilemma. My first thought was to - knock down the Dutchman, and run for it, but reflection checked the - impulse. Stammering a confused congratulation to the bride and her mother, - and meditating an escape at all hazards, I allowed Madame Sendel to hook - herself on my arm, and lead me into the hotel in the wake of the - newly-wedded pair, who made at once for the public room. A magnificent - courier, in a Hungarian dress, with beard, belt, and hunting-knife, strode - past us into the apartment. - </p> - <p> - "<i>Herr Graf</i>," said the man, addressing the distinguished-looking - stranger who had attracted my attention, "the horses are ready." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38a" id="Page_38a">[Pg 38]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - The Count and his companion turned at the announcement, and found - themselves face to face with our party. There was a general start and - exclamation from the three women. The strange lady turned very pale and - visibly trembled; Madame Van Haubitz gave a slight scream; her mother - flushed as red as the poppies in her head-dress, and hung like a log upon - my arm, glaring angrily at the strangers. For one moment all stood still; - Van Haubitz and I looked at each other in bewilderment. He was evidently - struck by the extraordinary resemblance I had noticed, and which became - more manifest, now that the two ladies were seen together. - </p> - <p> - "Come, Ameline," said the Count, who alone preserved complete - self-possession. And he hurried his companion from the room. Madame Sendel - released my arm, and letting herself fall upon a chair with an hysterical - giggle, closed her eyes and seemed preparing for a comfortable swoon. Her - daughter hastened to her assistance and untied her bonnet; Van Haubitz - grasped a decanter of water and made an alarming demonstration of emptying - it upon the full-moon countenance of his respectable mother-in-law. I was - curious to see him do it, for I had always had my doubts whether the - dowager's colours were what is technically termed "fast." My curiosity was - not gratified. Whether from apprehension of the remedy or from some other - cause,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39a" id="Page_39a">[Pg 39]</a></span> - I cannot say, but Madame Sendel abandoned her faint, and after two or - three grotesque contortions of countenance, and a certain amount of - winking and blinking, was sufficiently recovered to take a huge pinch of - snuff, and ascend the stairs to a private room, with her daughter and - son-in-law for supporters, and half-a-score waiters and chambermaids, whom - her hysterical symptoms had assembled, by way of a tail. Seeing her so - well guarded, I thought it unnecessary to add to the escort. As she left - the room, there was a clatter of hoofs outside, and looking through the - window, I saw the coroneted berline whirled rapidly away by four vigorous - posters. Just then the dinner-bell rang, and the obsequious head-waiter, - who with profound bows had assisted at the departure of the travellers, - bustled into the room. - </p> - <p> - "Who is the gentleman who has just left?" I inquired. - </p> - <p> - "His Excellency, Count J——," replied the man. It was the name - of a Hungarian nobleman of great wealth, and of reputation almost European - as one of the most fashionable and successful Lotharios of the dissipated - Austrian capital. - </p> - <p> - "And his companion?" - </p> - <p> - "The celebrated actress, Fraülein Sendel." - </p> - <p> - Had the cunning but unlucky Van Haubitz been a regular reader of the <i>Theater - Zeitung</i>, or Journal of the Theatres, he would have seen, in the - ensuing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40a" id="Page_40a">[Pg 40]</a></span> - number to that whence he derived his information respecting Mademoiselle - Sendel's confirmed popularity and advantageous engagement, the following - short but important paragraph: - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "<span class="smcap">ERRATUM.</span>—In our yesterday's impression - an error occurred, arising from a similarity of names. It is Fraülein <i>Ameline</i> - Sendel who has concluded with the Vienna theatre an engagement equally - advantageous to herself and the manager. Her elder sister, Fraülein <i>Emilie</i>, - continues the engagement she has already held for two seasons, as a - supernumerary <i>soubrette</i>. The amount stated yesterday as her salary - would still be correct, with the abstraction of a zero. Talent does not - always run in families." - </p> - <p> - This good-natured paragraph, evidently from the pen of a sulky sub-editor, - smarting under a lashing for his blunder of the preceding day, did not - come to my knowledge till some time afterwards, so that the waiter's reply - to my question concerning Count J——'s travelling-companion - perplexed me greatly, and plunged me into an ocean of conjectures. In - fact, my curiosity was so strongly roused, that instead of availing myself - of the absence of the Dutchman to escape from the hotel, I sat down to - dinner, resolved not to depart till I heard the mystery explained. I had - not long to wait. Dinner was just over, when I received a message from Van<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41a" id="Page_41a">[Pg 41]</a></span> - Haubitz, who earnestly desired to see me. I found him alone, seated at a - table, his chin resting on his hand, anger, shame, and mortification - stamped upon his inflamed countenance. A tumbler half full of water stood - upon the table, beside a bottle of smelling salts; and, upon entering, I - was pretty sure I heard a sound of sobbing from an inner room, which - ceased, however, when I spoke. There had evidently been a violent scene. - Its cause was explained to me by Van Haubitz, at first in rather a - confused manner, for at each attempt to detail the circumstances he - interrupted himself by bursts of fury. Owing to this, it was some time - before I could arrive at a clear understanding of the facts of the case. - When I did, I could scarcely help feeling sorry for the unfortunate - schemer, although in truth he richly deserved the disappointment he had - met. Never was there a more glaring instance of excess of cunning - overreaching itself,—for no deception had been practised by Madame - Sendel and her daughter. They doubtless gave themselves credit for some - cleverness and more good fortune in enticing a rich banker, with more - ducats than brains, into their matrimonial nets; and doubtless Fraülein - Emilie put on her best looks and gowns, her sweetest smiles and most - becoming bonnets, to lure the lion into the toils. But neither mother nor - daughter had for a moment imagined that Van Haubitz took the latter for - the celebrated and successful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42a" - id="Page_42a">[Pg 42]</a></span> actress whose name was known throughout - Germany, whilst that of poor Emilie, whose talents were of the most humble - order, had scarcely ever penetrated beyond the wings and greenroom of the - theatre, where she enacted unimportant characters for the modest - remuneration of a hundred florins a month. By no means proud of her - position as an actress, which appeared the more lowly when contrasted with - her sister's brilliant success, Emilie had seldom referred to things - theatrical since her acquaintance with Van Haubitz. On his part, the - Dutchman, conscious of his real motives and anxious to conceal them, - abstained from all direct reference to Mademoiselle Sendel's great talents - and their lucrative results, contenting himself with general compliments, - which passed current without being closely scanned. If he had never heard - either his wife or mother-in-law make mention of Ameline, it was because - they were on the worst possible terms with that young lady, who had lived, - nearly from the period of her first appearance upon the boards, under the - protection of the accomplished libertine, Count J——, over whom - she was said to exercise extraordinary influence. When she formed this - connection, Madame Sendel—who, in spite of her paint and artificial - floriculture, had very strict notions of propriety—wrote her a - letter of furious reproach, renounced her as her daughter, and prohibited - Emilie from holding any communication<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_43a" id="Page_43a">[Pg 43]</a></span> with her. Emilie, against - whose virtue none had ever found aught to say, sorrowfully obeyed; and, - after two or three ineffectual attempts on the part of Ameline to soften - her mother's wrath, all communication ceased between them. Their next - meeting was that at which Van Haubitz and myself were present. Its - singularity, Madame Sendel's fainting fit, and the resemblance between the - sisters, brought on inquiries and an explanation; and the Dutchman found, - to his inexpressible disgust and consternation, that he had encumbered - himself with a wife he cared nothing for, and a mother-in-law he detested, - whose joint income was largely stated at one hundred and fifty pounds - sterling per annum. In his first paroxysm of rage he taunted them with the - mistake they had made when they thought to secure the love-sick - millionaire, proclaimed himself in debt, disinherited, and a beggar; and, - finally, by the violence of his reproaches, drove them trembling and - weeping from the room. - </p> - <p> - Van Haubitz had sent for me to implore my advice in his present difficult - position; but was so bewildered by passion, and overwhelmed by this sudden - awakening from his dream of success and prosperity, that he was hardly in - a condition to listen to reason. His regrets were so selfish as to destroy - the possibility of sympathy, and I should have left him to his fate and - his own devices, had I not thought that my so doing would make matters<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44a" id="Page_44a">[Pg 44]</a></span> worse - for the poor girl who had thus heedlessly linked herself to a - fortune-hunter. So I remained; after a while he became calmer, and we - talked over plans for the future. By my suggestion, Madame Sendel and her - daughter were invited to the conference. The old lady was sulky and - frightened, and would hardly open her lips; Emilie, on the other hand, - made a more favourable impression on me than she had ever previously done. - I now saw, what I had not before suspected, that she was really attached - to Van Haubitz; hitherto, I had taken her for a mere adventuress, - speculating on his supposed wealth. She spoke kindly and affectionately to - him, smiled through the tears brought to her eyes by his recent violence, - and evidently trembled each time her mother spoke, lest she should vent a - reproach or refer to his duplicity. She tried to speak confidently and - cheerfully of the future. They must go immediately to Vienna, she said; - there she would apply diligently to her profession; the manager had half - promised her an increase of salary after another year—she was sure - she should deserve it, and meanwhile Van Haubitz, with his abilities, - could not fail to find some lucrative employment. He must get rid of his - accent, she added with a smile (he spoke a voluble but most execrable - jargon of mingled Dutch and German), and then he might go upon the stage, - where she was certain he would succeed. This last suggestion was made - timidly, as if she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45a" id="Page_45a">[Pg - 45]</a></span> feared to hurt the pride of the scapegrace by proposing - such a plan. There was not a word or an accent of reproach in all she - said, and I heartily forgave the little coquetry, affectation, and - vulgarity I had formerly remarked in her, in consideration of the - intuitive delicacy and good feeling she now displayed. Truly, thought I, - it is humbling to us, the bearded and baser moiety of humankind, to - contrast our vile egotism with the beautiful self-devotion of woman, as - exhibited even in this poor actress. - </p> - <p> - Madame Sendel by no means acquiesced in her daughter's project. The - flesh-pots of Amsterdam had attractions for her, far superior to those of - a struggling and uncertain existence at Vienna. She evidently leaned upon - the hope of a reconciliation between Van Haubitz and his father, and - hinted pretty plainly at the effect that might be produced by a personal - interview with the obdurate banker. I could see she was arranging matters - in her queer old noddle upon the approved theatrical principle; the - penitent son and fascinating daughter-in-law throwing themselves at the - feet of the melting father, who, with handkerchief to eyes, bestows on - them a blubbering benediction and ample subsidy. To my surprise, Van - Haubitz also seemed disposed to place hope in an appeal to his father, - perhaps as a drowning man clutches at a straw. He may have thought that - his marriage, imprudent as it was, would be taken as some guarantee of<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46a" id="Page_46a">[Pg 46]</a></span> future - steadiness, or at least of abstinence from the spendthrift courses which - had hitherto destroyed all confidence in him. He could hardly expect his - union with a penniless actress to reinstate him in his father's good - graces; but he probably imagined he might extract a small annuity, as a - condition of living at a distance from the friends he had disgraced. He - asked me what I thought of the plan. I of course did not dissuade him from - its adoption, and upon the whole thought it his best chance, for I really - saw no other. After some deliberation and discussion, he seemed nearly to - have made up his mind, when I was called away to my friends, who had - returned from their excursion. - </p> - <p> - I was getting into bed that night, when Van Haubitz knocked at my door, - and entered the room with a downcast and dejected air, very different from - his usual boisterous headlong manner. - </p> - <p> - "I am off to Holland," he said; "'tis my only chance, bad though it be." - </p> - <p> - "I sincerely wish you success," replied I. "In any case, do not despair; - something will turn up. You have friends in your own country, I have heard - you say. They will help you to occupation." - </p> - <p> - He shook his head. - </p> - <p> - "Good friends over a bottle and a dice-box," said he, "but useless at a - pinch like this. Pleasant fellows enough, but scamps like"—myself, - he was going to add, but did not. "I am come to say<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_47a" id="Page_47a">[Pg 47]</a></span> farewell," he continued. - "I must be off before daybreak. I have debts in Frankfort, and if my - departure gets wind, I shall have a dozen duns on my back. Misfortunes - never come alone. As for paying, it is out of the question. Amongst us we - have only about enough money to reach Amsterdam. Once there—<i>à la - grace de Dieu!</i> but I confess my hopes are small. Thanks for your - advice—and for your sympathy too, for I saw this morning you were - sorry for me, though you did not think I deserved pity. Well, perhaps not. - God bless you." - </p> - <p> - He was leaving the room, but returned. - </p> - <p> - "I think you said you should stay at Coblenz before returning to England." - </p> - <p> - "I shall probably be there a few days towards the end of the month." - </p> - <p> - "Good. If I succeed, you shall hear from me. What is your address there?" - </p> - <p> - "<i>Poste restante</i> will find me," I replied, not very covetous of the - correspondence, and unwilling to give a more exact direction. - </p> - <p> - Van Haubitz nodded and left me. At breakfast the next morning I learned - that the Dutch baron, as the waiter styled him, had taken his departure at - peep of day. - </p> - <p> - The first days of October found me still at Coblenz, lingering amongst the - valleys and vineyards, and loth to exchange them for the autumnal fogs<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48a" id="Page_48a">[Pg 48]</a></span> and - emptiness of London. Thither, however, I was compelled to return; and I - endeavoured to console myself for the necessity by discovering that the - green Rhine grew brown, the trees scant of leaves, the evenings long and - chilly. I had heard nothing of Van Haubitz, and had ceased to think of - him, when, walking out at dusk on the eve of the day fixed for my - departure, I suddenly encountered him. He had just arrived by a steamboat - coming up stream; his wife and mother-in-law were with him, and they were - about to enter a fifth-rate inn, which, two months previously, he would - have felt insulted if solicited to patronise. I was shocked by the change - that had taken place in all three of them. In five weeks they had grown - five years older. Emilie had lost her freshness, her eye its sparkle; and - the melancholy smile with which she welcomed me made my heart ache. Madame - Sendel's rotund cheeks had collapsed, she looked cross and jaundiced, and - more snuffy than ever. Van Haubitz was thin and haggard, his hair and - mustaches, formerly glossy and well-trimmed, were ragged and neglected, - his dress, once so smart and carefully arranged, was soiled and slovenly. - My imagination supplied a rapid and vivid sketch of the anxieties, and - disappointments, and heart-burnings, which, more than any actual bodily - privations, had worked so great a change in so short a time. Van Haubitz - started on seeing me, and faltered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49a" - id="Page_49a">[Pg 49]</a></span> in his pace, as if unwilling to enter the - shabby hotel in my presence. The hesitation was momentary. "Worse quarters - than we used to meet in," said he, with a bitter smile. "I will not ask - you into this dog-hole. Wait an instant, and I will walk with you." - </p> - <p> - Badly as I thought of Van Haubitz, and indisposed as I was to keep up any - acquaintance with him, I had not the heart, seeing him so miserable and - down in the world, to turn my back upon him at once. So I entered the - hotel, and waited in the public room. In a few minutes he reappeared with - the two ladies, and we all four strolled out in the direction of the - Rhine. I did not ask the Dutchman the result of his journey. It was - unnecessary. His disheartened air and general appearance told the tale of - disappointment, of humiliating petitions sternly rejected, of hopes fled - and a cheerless future. He kept silence the while we walked a hundred - yards, and then, having left his wife and mother-in-law out of ear-shot, - abruptly began the tale of his mishaps. As I conjectured, he had totally - failed in his attempt to mollify his father, who was furious at his - temerity in appearing before him, and whose rage redoubled when he heard - of his ill-omened marriage. Unfortunately for Van Haubitz, the jeweller - and some other tradesmen at Frankfort, so soon as they learned his - departure, had forwarded their accounts to the care of the<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50a" id="Page_50a">[Pg 50]</a></span> - Amsterdam firm; and, although his father had not the remotest intention of - paying them, he was incensed in the extreme at the slur thus cast upon his - house and name. In short, the unlucky artilleryman at once saw he had no - chance of a single kreuzer, or of the slightest countenance from his - father. His applications to his brothers, and to one or two more distant - relatives, were equally unsuccessful. All were disgusted at his - irregularities, angry at his marriage, incredulous of his promises of - reform; and, after passing a miserable month in Amsterdam, he set out to - accompany his wife to Vienna, whither she was compelled to repair under - pain of fine and forfeiture of her engagement. Although living with rigid - economy—on bread and water, as Van Haubitz expressed it—their - finances had been utterly consumed by their stay in the Dutch capital, and - it was only by disposing of every trinket and superfluity (and of - necessaries too, I feared, when I remembered the slender baggage that came - up with them from the boat) that they had procured the means of - travelling, in the cheapest and most humble manner, and with the - disheartening certainty of arriving penniless at Vienna. Van Haubitz told - me all this, and many other details, with an air of gloomy despondency. He - was hopeless, heart-broken, desperate; and certain circumstances of his - position, which by some would have been held an alleviation, aggravated it<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51a" id="Page_51a">[Pg 51]</a></span> in his - eyes. He said little of his wife; but, from what escaped him, I easily - gathered that she had shown strength of mind, good feeling and affection - for him, and was willing to struggle by his side for a scanty and - hard-earned subsistence. His cares and irritable mood prevented his - appreciating her attachment, and he looked upon her as an encumbrance, - without which he might again rise in the world. He had always entertained - a confident expectation of enriching himself by marriage; and this hope, - which had buoyed him up under many difficulties, was now gone. - </p> - <p> - "I have one resource left," said Van Haubitz. "I have pondered over it for - the last two days, and have almost determined on its adoption." - </p> - <p> - "What is it?" I asked. - </p> - <p> - "If I decide upon it," he replied, "you shall shortly know. 'Tis a - desperate one enough." - </p> - <p> - We had insensibly slackened our pace, and at this moment the ladies came - up. Van Haubitz made a gesture, as of impatience at the interruption. - </p> - <p> - "Wait for me here," he said, and walked away. Without speculating upon the - motive of his absence, I stood still, and entered into conversation with - the ladies. We were on the quay. The night was mild and calm, but overcast - and exceedingly dark. A few feet below us rolled the dark mass of the - Rhine, slightly swollen by recent rains. A<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_52a" id="Page_52a">[Pg 52]</a></span> light from an adjacent - window illuminated the spot, and cast a flickering gleam across the water. - Unwilling to refer to their misfortunes, I spoke to Emilie on some general - topic. But Madame Sendel was too full of her troubles to tolerate any - conversation that did not immediately relate to them, and she broke in - with a long history of grievances, of the hard-heartedness of the - Amsterdam relations, the cruelty of Emilie's position, her son-in-law's - helplessness, and various other matters, in a querulous tone, and with - frightful volubility. The poor daughter, I plainly saw, winced under this - infliction. I was waiting the smallest opening to interrupt the indiscreet - old lady, and revert to common-place, when a distant splash in the water - reached my ears. The women also heard it, and at the same instant a - presentiment of evil came over us all. Madame Sendel suddenly held her - tongue and her breath; Emilie turned deadly pale, and without saying a - word, flew along the quay in the direction of the sound. She had gone but - a few yards when her strength failed her, and she would have fallen, but - for my support. There was a shout, and a noise of men running. Leaving - Madame Van Haubitz to the care of her mother, I ran swiftly along the - river side, and soon reached a place where the deep water moaned and - surged against the perpendicular quay. Here several men were assembled, - talking hurriedly and pointing to the river. Others<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_53a" id="Page_53a">[Pg 53]</a></span> each moment arrived, and - two boats were hastily shoved off from an adjacent landing-place. - </p> - <p> - "A man in the river," was the reply to my hasty inquiry. - </p> - <p> - It was so dark that I could not distinguish countenances close to me, and - at a very few yards even the outline of objects was scarcely to be - discerned. There were no houses close at hand, and some minutes elapsed - before lights were procured. At last several boats put off, with men - standing in the bows, holding torches and lanterns high in the air. - Meanwhile I had questioned the bystanders, but could get little - information; none as to the person to whom the accident had happened. The - man who had given the alarm was returning from mooring his boat to a - neighbouring jetty, when he perceived a figure moving along the quay a - short distance in his front. The figure disappeared, a heavy splash - followed, and the boatman ran forward. He could see no one either on shore - or in the stream, but heard a sound as of one striking out and struggling - in the water. Having learned this much, I jumped into a boat just then - putting off, and bid the rowers pull down stream, keeping a short distance - from the quay. The current ran strong, and I doubted not that the drowning - man had been carried along by it. Two vigorous oars-men pulled till the - blades bent, and the boat, aided by the stream, flew through the water. A - third<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54a" id="Page_54a">[Pg 54]</a></span> - man held a torch. I strained my eyes through the darkness. Presently a - small object floated within a few feet of the boat, which was rapidly - passing it. It shone in the torchlight. I struck at it with a boat-hook, - and brought it on board. It was a man's cap, covered with oilskin, and I - remembered that Van Haubitz wore such a one. Stripping off the cover, I - beheld an officer's foraging cap, with a grenade embroidered on its front. - My doubts, slight before, were entirely dissipated. - </p> - <p> - When the search, rendered almost hopeless by the extreme darkness and - power of the current, was at last abandoned, I hastened to the hotel, and - inquired for Madame Sendel. She came to me in a state of great agitation. - Van Haubitz had not returned, but she thought less of that than of the - state of her daughter, who, since recovering from a long swoon, had been - almost crazed with anxiety. She knew some one had been drowned, and her - mind misgave her it was her husband. The foraging-cap, which Madame Sendel - immediately recognised, removed all uncertainty. The only hope remaining - was, that Van Haubitz, although carried rapidly away by the power of the - current, had been able to maintain himself on the surface, and had got - ashore at some considerable distance down the river, or had been picked up - by a passing boat. But this was a very feeble hope, and for my own<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55a" id="Page_55a">[Pg 55]</a></span> part, - and for more than one reason, I placed no reliance on it. I left Madame - Sendel to break the painful intelligence to her daughter, and went home, - promising to call again in the morning. - </p> - <p> - As I had expected, nothing was heard of Van Haubitz, nor any vestige of - him found, save the foraging-cap I had picked up. Doubtless, the Rhine had - borne down his lifeless corpse to the country of his birth. The next day - Coblenz rang with the death of the unfortunate Dutchman. A stranger, and - unacquainted with the localities, he was supposed to have walked over the - quay by accident. I thought differently; and so I knew did Madame Sendel - and Emilie. I saw the former early the next day. She was greatly cast down - about her daughter, who had passed a sleepless night, and was weak and - suffering, but who nevertheless insisted on continuing her journey the - following morning. - </p> - <p> - "We must go," said her mother; "if we delay, Emilie loses her engagement, - and how can we both live on my poor jointure? Weeping will not bring him - back, were he worth it. To think of the misery he has caused us!" - </p> - <p> - I ventured to hint an inquiry as to their means of prosecuting their - journey. The old lady understood the intention, and took it kindly. "But - she needed no assistance," she said; Van Haubitz (and<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_56a" id="Page_56a">[Pg 56]</a></span> this confirmed our strong - suspicion of suicide) had given their little stock of money into his - wife's keeping only a few hours before his death. - </p> - <p> - That afternoon I left Coblenz for England. - </p> - <hr class="tb" /> - <p> - On a certain Wednesday, about ten years after the incidents I have - sketched, I had been enjoying the excellent acting of Bouffé in two of his - best characters, and paused for a moment to speak to a friend in the - crowded lobby of the St James's Theatre. Whilst thus engaged, I became - aware that I was an object of attention to two persons, whom I had an - indistinct notion of having seen before, but when or where, or who they - might be, I had not the remotest idea. One of them was a - comfortable-looking, middle-aged man, with a bald head, a smooth, - clean-shaven face, and an incipient ventral rotundity. His complexion was - clear and wholesome, his countenance good-humoured, his whole appearance - bespoke an existence free from care, nights of sound sleep, and days of - tranquil enjoyment. His face was too sleek to be very expressive, but - there was a shrewd, quick look in the eye, and I set him down in my mind - as a wealthy German merchant or manufacturer (some small peculiarities of - costume betrayed the foreigner) come to show London to his wife—a - well-favoured dame,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57a" id="Page_57a">[Pg - 57]</a></span> fat, fair, but some years short of forty—who - accompanied him, and who, as well as her better half, seemed to honour me - with very particular notice. My confabulation over, I was leaving the - theatre, when a sleek soft hand was gently passed through my arm. It was - my friend the stout foreigner. I strained my eyes and my memory, but in - vain; I felt very puzzled, and doubtless looked so, for he smiled, and - advancing his head, whispered a name in my ear. It was that of Van - Haubitz. - </p> - <p> - I started, looked again, doubted, and was at last convinced. <i>Minus</i> - mustache and whisker, which were closely shaven, and half his hair, of - which the remainder was considerably grizzled; <i>plus</i> a degree of - corpulence such as I should never have thought the slender lieutenant of - artillery capable of acquiring; his heated, sunburnt complexion and - dissipated look, exchanged for a fresh colour and benevolent placidity—the - Dutchman I had left in the Rhine stood beside me in the lobby of the - French theatre. I turned to the lady: she was less changed than her - companion, and now that I was upon the track, I recognised Emilie Sendel. - By this time we were in the street. Van Haubitz handed his wife into a - carriage. - </p> - <p> - "Come and sup with us," he said, "and I will explain." - </p> - <p> - I mechanically obeyed, and in less than three minutes, still tongue-tied - by astonishment, I alighted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58a" - id="Page_58a">[Pg 58]</a></span> at the door of a fashionable hotel in a - street adjoining Piccadilly. - </p> - <p> - A few lines will convey to the reader the substance of the long - conversation which kept the resuscitated Dutchman and myself from our beds - for fully two hours after our unexpected meeting. I had been right in - supposing that he had thrown himself voluntarily into the river; wrong in - my belief that he meditated suicide. An excellent swimmer, he had taken - the water to get rid of his wife. He might certainly have chosen a drier - method, and have given her the slip in the night-time or on the road; but - she had shown, whenever he referred to the possibility of their - separation, such a determination to remain with him at all risks and - sacrifices, that he felt certain she would pursue him as soon as she - discovered his absence. He had formed a wild scheme of returning to - Amsterdam, and haunting his family until, through mere weariness and - vexation, they supplied him with funds for an outfit to Sumatra. There he - trusted to redeem his fortunes, as he had heard that others of no greater - abilities or better character than himself had already done. A more - extravagant project was never formed, and indeed all his acts, during the - six weeks that followed his marriage, were more or less eccentric and - ill-judged. This he admitted, when relating them to me, and probably would - not have been sorry to place them to the score of actual mental<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59a" id="Page_59a">[Pg 59]</a></span> - derangement. The redeeming touch in his conduct at that, the most - discreditable period of his life, was his leaving, as I have already - mentioned, what money he had to his wife and her mother, reserving but a - few florins for his own support. With these in his pocket, he proposed - proceeding on foot to Amsterdam. After landing on the right bank of the - Rhine, he walked the greater part of the night as the best means of drying - his saturated garments. When weariness at last compelled him to pause, it - was not yet daylight, no house was open, and he threw himself on some - straw in a farmyard. He awoke in a high fever, the result of his - immersion, of exposure and fatigue, acting on a frame heated and weakened - by anxiety and mental suffering. He obtained shelter at the neighbouring - farm-house, whose kind-hearted inhabitants carefully tended him for - several weeks, during which his life was more than once despaired of. His - convalescence was long, and not till the close of the year could he resume - his journey northwards, by short stages, chiefly on foot. Unfavourable as - his prospects were, his good star had not yet set. This very illness, as - occasioning a delay, was a stroke of good fortune. Had he at once - proceeded to Holland, his family, in hopes to get rid of him for ever, - would probably have given him the small sum he needed for an outfit to the - Indian Archipelago, and he would have sailed thither before the 31st of - December, on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60a" id="Page_60a">[Pg 60]</a></span> - which day his father, a joyous liver and confirmed votary of Bacchus, eat - and drank to such an extent to celebrate the exit of the old year and - commencement of the new, that he fell down, on his way to his bed, in a - thundering fit of apoplexy, and was a corpse before morning. The day of - his funeral, Van Haubitz, footsore and emaciated, and reduced to his last - pfenning, walked wearily into the city of Amsterdam. There a great - surprise awaited him. - </p> - <p> - "Your father had not disinherited you?" I exclaimed, when the Dutchman - made a momentary pause at this point of his narrative. - </p> - <p> - "He had left a will devising his entire property to my brothers, and not - even naming me. But a slight formality was omitted, which rendered the - document of no more value than the parchment it was drawn upon. The - signature was wanting. My father had the weakness, no uncommon one, of - disliking whatever reminded him of his mortality. He would have fancied - himself nearer his grave had he signed his will. And thus he had delayed - till it was too late. I found myself joint heir with my brothers. By far - the greater part of my father's large capital was embarked in his bank, - and in extensive financial operations, which it would have been necessary - to liquidate at considerable disadvantage, to operate the partition - prescribed by law. Seeing this, I proposed to my brothers to admit me as - partner in the firm, with the stipulation that I<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_61a" id="Page_61a">[Pg 61]</a></span> should have no active - share in its direction, until my knowledge of business and steadiness of - conduct gave them the requisite confidence in me. After some deliberation - they agreed to this; and three years later their opinion of me had - undergone such a change, that two of them retired to estates in the - country, leaving me the chief management of the concern." - </p> - <p> - "And Madame Van Haubitz; when did she rejoin you?" - </p> - <p> - "Immediately the change in my fortunes occurred. Reckless as I at that - time was, and utterly devoid of feeling as you must have thought me, I - could not remember without emotion the disinterested affection, delicacy, - and unselfishness she had exhibited on discovery of my real circumstances. - During my long illness I had had time to reflect, and when I left my - sick-bed in that rude but hospitable German farm-house, it was as a - penitent for past offences, and with a strong resolution to atone them. - Within a week after my father's funeral, I was on my way to Vienna, to - fetch Emilie to the opulent home she had anticipated when she married me. - Her joy at seeing me was scarcely increased when she heard that I had - become the rich banker she had at first thought me." - </p> - <p> - "And Madame Sendel?" - </p> - <p> - "Returned to Amsterdam with us. There was good about the old lady, and by - purloining her artificials,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62a" - id="Page_62a">[Pg 62]</a></span> limiting her snuff, and soaking her in - tea, she was made endurable enough. Until her death, which occurred a - couple of years ago, she passed her time alternately with us and her - younger daughter." - </p> - <p> - "She became reconciled to Mademoiselle Ameline?" - </p> - <p> - "Ameline had been Countess J—— all the time. She was privately - married. For certain family reasons the Count had conditioned that their - union should for a while be kept secret. Seeing that her equivocal - position and her mother's displeasure preyed upon her health and spirits, - he declared his marriage. She left the stage to become a reigning beauty - in the best society of Austria, lady of half-a-dozen castles, and - sovereign mistress of as many thousand Hungarian boors." - </p> - <p> - Van Haubitz remained some time in London, and I saw him often. He was as - much changed in character as in personal appearance. The sharp lessons - received about the period of our first acquaintance had made a strong - impression on him; and the summer tide of prosperity suddenly setting in, - had enabled him to realise good intentions and honourable resolves, which - the chill current of adversity might have frozen in the germ. Some of - those who read these lines may have occasion, when visiting the country - stigmatised by the snarling Frenchman as the land of <i>canards</i>, <i>canaux</i>, - and <i>canaille</i>,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63a" id="Page_63a">[Pg - 63]</a></span> to receive cash in the busy counting-house, and hospitality - in the princely mansion of one of its most respected bankers. None, I am - well assured, will discern in their amiable and exemplary entertainer any - vestige of the disreputable impulses and evil passions that sullied the - early life of "My Friend the Dutchman." - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64a" id="Page_64a">[Pg 64]</a></span> - </p> - <h2> - <a name="COLLEGE_FRIENDS_II" id="COLLEGE_FRIENDS_II">MY COLLEGE FRIENDS.</a> - </h2> - <p class="center"> - No. II. - </p> - <p class="center"> - HORACE LEICESTER. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - <span class="small">[<i>MAGA.</i> <span class="smcap">August 1845.</span>]</span> - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="dropcap"> - Oxford! Alma Mater! not to love thee were indeed the ingratitude of a - degenerate son. Let the whiners of the Conventicle rail at thee for a - mother of heretics, and the Joseph Humes of domestic economy propose to - adapt the scale of thy expenses to their own narrow notions—I uphold - thee to be the queen of all human institutions—the incarnated union - of Church and State—royal in thy revenues as in thy expenditure—thy - doctrine as orthodox as thy dinners, thy politics as sound as thy port. - </p> - <p> - Oxford! who are they that rail at her? who dare to lift their voice - against that seat of high and holy memories? The man who boasts a private - education (so private, that his most intimate friends have never found it - out), who, innocent himself of all academic experiences and associations, - grudges to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65a" id="Page_65a">[Pg 65]</a></span> - others that superiority which they never boast indeed, but to which his - secret soul bears envious witness. Or the rich nonconformist, risen - perhaps from obscurity to a rank in society which gives him the choice of - indulging either his spleen or his pride—either to send his eldest - son as a gentleman-commoner to Christ-Church, to swallow the Thirty-nine - Articles with his champagne; or to have his fling at the Church through - her universities—accusing Churchmen of bigotry, and exclusiveness, - and illiberality, because Dissenters do not found colleges of their own. - Or, worse than all, the unworthy disciple who (like the noxious plant that - has grown up beneath the shade of some goodly tree) has drawn no nobility - of soul from the associations which surrounded his ungrateful youth: for - whom all the reality and romance of academic education were alike in vain: - sneering at the honours which he could not obtain, denying the existence - of opportunities which he neglected; the basest of approvers, he quotes to - his own eternal infamy the scenes of riot and dissipation, the - alternations of idleness and extravagance, which make up his sole - recollections of university life: and looking, without one glance of - affection, upon the face of his fair and graceful mother, makes the chance - mole, or the early wrinkle, which he traces there, the subject of his - irreverent jest, forgets the kindness of which he was unworthy, and - remembers for evil the wholesome<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66a" - id="Page_66a">[Pg 66]</a></span> discipline which was irksome only to such - as him. - </p> - <p> - "Non hæc jocosæ conveniunt lyræ;"<br /> - </p> - <p> - I admit mine is not the tongue or pen for such a subject; and Oxford has, - I hope, no lack of abler champions. But it was geese, you know, who once - saved the Capitol; and I must have my hiss at the iniquitous quackeries - which people seek to perpetrate under the taking title of University - Reform. And when I, loving Oxford as I do, see some of her own sons - arrayed against her, I can only remember this much of my philosophy—that - there are cases when to be angry becomes a duty. Men who, knowing nothing - of the universities from experience, think proper to run them down, - succeed at all events in exposing one crying evil—the absurdity of - meddling with what one does not understand. We who know better may afford - to smile at once at their spite and their ignorance. But he who lifts his - voice against the mother that bore him, can fix no darker blot upon her - fame than the disgrace of having given birth to him. - </p> - <p> - Show me the man who did not like Oxford, and I will show you either a - sulky misanthrope or an affected ass. Many, many indeed, are the - unpleasant recollections which, in the case of nearly all of us, will - mingle with the joy with which we recall our college days. More than the - ghosts of duns departed, perhaps unpaid; more than the heart-burnings<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67a" id="Page_67a">[Pg 67]</a></span> of - that visionary fellowship, for which we were beaten (we verily believe, - unfairly) by a neck; more than that loved and lost ideal of a first class, - which we deserved, but did not get (the opinions of our examiners not - coinciding in that point with our own); yes, more than all these, comes - forcibly to many minds, the self-accusing silent voice that whispers of - time wasted and talents misapplied—kind advice, which the heat of - youth misconstrued or neglected—jewels of price that once lay - strewed upon the golden sands of life, then wantonly disregarded, or - picked up but to be flung away, and which the tide of advancing years has - covered from our view for ever—blessed opportunities of acquiring - wisdom, human and divine, which never can return. - </p> - <p> - Yet in spite of all this, if there be any man who can say that Oxford is - not to him a land of pleasant memories, "<span lang="el" - title="Mêt' emoi parestios genoito">Μήτ' ἐμοὶ παρέστιος γένοιτο</span>"—which - is, being freely translated, "May he never put his legs under my mahogany"—that's - all. I never knew him yet, and have no wish to make his acquaintance. He - may have carried off every possible university honour for what I care; he - is more hopelessly stupid, in my view of things, than if he had been - plucked fifteen times. If he was fond of reading, or of talking about - reading; fond of hunting, or talking about hunting; fond of walking, - riding, rowing, leaping, or any possible exercise besides dancing; if he - loved pleasant gardens or solemn cloisters; learned retirement<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68a" id="Page_68a">[Pg 68]</a></span> or - unlearned jollification—in a word, if he had any imaginable human - sympathies, and cared for anything besides himself, he would have liked - Oxford. Men's tastes differ, no doubt; but to have spent four years of the - spring of one's life in one of the most magnificent cities and best - societies in the world, and not to have enjoyed it—this is not a - variety of taste, but its privation. - </p> - <p> - I fancy there is a mistaken opinion very prevalent, that young and - foolish, older and wiser, are synonymous terms. Stout gentlemen of a - certain age, brimful of proprieties, shake their heads alarmingly, and - talk of the folly of boys; as if they were the only fools. And if at any - time, in the fulness of their hearts, they refer to some freak of their - own youth, they appear to do it with a sort of apology to themselves, that - such wise individuals as they are now should ever have done such things! - And as the world stands at present, it is the old story of the Lion and - the Painter; the elderly gentlemen are likely to have it their own way; - they say what they like, while the young ones are content to do what they - like. And the more absurdity a man displays in his teens (and some, it - must be confessed, are absurd enough), the more insupportable an air of - wisdom does he put on when he gets settled. As there is no hope of these - sedate gentry being sent to College again to teach the rising generation - of under-graduates the art of precocious gravity, and<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_69a" id="Page_69a">[Pg 69]</a></span> still less hope of their - arriving at it of themselves, perhaps there is no harm in mooting the - question on neutral ground, whether such a consummation as that of putting - old heads upon young shoulders is altogether desirable. - </p> - <p> - Wherefore, I, Frank Hawthorne—being of the age of nine-and-twenty, - or thereabouts, and of sound mind, and about to renounce for ever all - claim and title to be considered a young man; having married a wife, and - left sack and all other bad habits; having no longer any fellowship with - under-graduates, or army subs, or medical students, or young men about - town, or any other class of the heterogeneous irregulars who make up - "Young England"—being a perfectly disinterested party in the - question, inasmuch as having lost my reputation for youth, I have never - acquired one for wisdom—hereby raise my voice against the - intolerable cant, which assumes every man to be a harebrained scapegrace - at twenty, and a Solomon at forty-five. Youth sows wild oats, it may be; - too many men in more advanced life seem to me to sow no crop of any kind. - There are empty fools at all ages; but "an old fool"——(musty - as the proverb is, it is rather from neglect than over-application). I - have known men by the dozen, who in their youth were either empty-headed - coxcombs or noisy sots; does my reader think that any given number of - additional years has made them able statesmen, sound lawyers,<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70a" id="Page_70a">[Pg 70]</a></span> or - erudite divines? that because they have become honourable by a seat in - Parliament, learned by courtesy, reverend by office, they are therefore - really more useful members of society than when they lounged the High - Street, or woke the midnight echoes of the quadrangle? Nay, life is too - short for the leopard to change his spots, or the Ethiopian his skin; one - can but pare the claws of the first, and put a suit of the last European - fashion upon the other. - </p> - <p> - Let any man run over in his own mind the list of those school and college - companions with whom, after the lapse of ten years or so, he has still an - opportunity of occasionally renewing his acquaintance, and judging of the - effect which time has had upon their habits and characters. In how many - cases can he trace any material alteration, beyond what results from the - mere accidents of time and place? He finds, it is to be hoped, good - principles developed, warm impulses ripened into active habits, - exaggerations softened down (for I am giving him credit for not choosing - his companions, even in youth, among the vicious in heart and principle); - but if he finds in any what he can call a <i>change</i> at all, then I - ask, in how many instances is it a change for the better? or does he not - find it rather where there was no sterling value in the metal, which, as - the gloss of youth wears off, loses its only charm? - </p> - <p> - Thirty is the turning-point of a man's life; when marrying becomes a - now-or-never sort of business,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71a" - id="Page_71a">[Pg 71]</a></span> and dinners begin to delight him more - than dancing. As I said just now, then, I stand just at the corner; and, - looking round before I turn it, I own somewhat of a shyness for the - company of those "grave and reverend seniors" who are to be my - fellow-travellers hereafter through life. There are certain points on - which I fear we are scarce prepared to agree. I must have one window open - for the first few miles of the journey at all events—that I may look - behind me. Life's a fast train, and one can't expect to be allowed to get - out at the stations; still less to ask the engineer to put back, because - we have left our youth behind us. Yet there are some things in which I - hope always to be a boy; I hope ever to prefer thoughtlessness to - heartlessness, imprudence to selfishness, impulse to calculation. It is - hard enough to part with all the fiery spirits, the glowing imaginations, - the elasticity of mind and body which we lose as age creeps on; but if, - with the bright summer weather and cloudless skies of youth, to which we - are content to bid farewell, we must lose, too, the "sunshine of the - breast"—the "bloom of heart"—then well might the poet count - him happy who died in early spring—who knew nothing of life but its - fair promises, and passed away in happy scepticism of the winter which was - to come. - </p> - <p> - Talk of putting old heads upon young shoulders! Heaven forbid! It would - but be making them stoop<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72a" - id="Page_72a">[Pg 72]</a></span> prematurely. If indeed we could put young - hearts into old bodies occasionally, we might do some good; or if there - could ever be combined in some fortunate individual, throughout his life, - the good qualities peculiar to each successive climacteric; if we could - mix just enough of the acid and the bitter, which are apt to predominate - so unhappily after a long rubbing through the world, to qualify the fiery - spirit of youth, and prevent its sweetness from cloying, the compound - would undoubtedly be a very pleasant one. But this, it is to be feared, - like many other desiderata, is too good to be attainable; and the - experience which we undoubtedly want in early life, we acquire too often - at the cost of that freshness of heart, which nature intended as a gift - still more valuable. - </p> - <p> - Nowhere does the old Stagyrite display a more consummate knowledge of what - men are made of, than in his contrasted characters of youth and age. I - wonder how many of the old gentlemen who call themselves philosophers in - this degenerate age, ever read or remember what he says on the subject. It - is a great comfort, when one is arguing against so much collective wisdom, - to feel that one has such authority to fall back upon; and I have the less - hesitation in bringing my old friend Aristotle forward to help me, because - I can assure my unlearned readers, ladies and others, that I am not going - to quote any thing nearly so grave and sensible as<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_73a" id="Page_73a">[Pg 73]</a></span> modern philosophy. - "Stingy, illnatured, suspicious, selfish, narrow-minded"—these, with - scarce a redeeming quality, are some of the choice epithets which he - strings together as the characteristics of the respectable old governors - and dowagers of his day; while the young, although, as he confesses, - somewhat too much the creatures of impulse, and indebted to it for some of - their virtues as well as vices, are trustful towards others, honest in - themselves, open-handed and open-hearted, warm friends and brave enemies. - It is true, he observes, they have, in a large degree, the fault common to - all honest men, they are "easily humbugged;" an admitted failing which - perhaps may let us into the secret of their sitting down so quietly under - the imputation of a hundred others. He urges, too, elsewhere, a fact I am - not disposed to battle about, that young men do not make good - philosophers; but this is in a book which he wrote for the use of his own - son, wherein he probably thought it his duty to take the conceit out of - his heir-apparent; but if he ever allowed the young philosopher to get a - sight of the other book containing the two characters aforesaid, it may be - doubted whether he found him as "easily humbugged" afterwards. - </p> - <p> - Remember, reader, as I said before, I claim to occupy neutral ground. If I - essay to defend youth from some injustice which it suffers at the hands of - partial judges, it is as an amateur advocate rather than<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74a" id="Page_74a">[Pg 74]</a></span> an - accredited champion—for I am young no longer. If I am rash enough to - couch a lance against that venerable phantom, which, under the name of - Wisdom, hovers round grey hairs, I am but preparing a rod for my own back—for - I feel myself growing old. I admit it with a sigh; but the sigh is not for - the past only, but even more for the present. I mourn not so much for that - which Time has taken away, as for the insufficiency of that which it - brings instead. I would rejoice to be relieved from the dominion of the - hot follies of youth, if I could escape at the same time the degrading - yoke of the cooler vices of maturity. I do not find men grow better as - they grow older; wiser they may grow, but it is the wisdom of the serpent. - We scarce grow less sensual, less vain, less eager after what we think - pleasure; I would we continued as generous and as warm. We gain the - cunning to veil our passions, to regulate even our vices according to the - scale (and that no parsimonious one) which what we call "society" allows; - we lose the enthusiasm which in some degree excused our follies, with the - light-heartedness which made them delightful. Few men among us are they - who can look back upon the years gone by, and not feel that, if these may - justly be charged with folly, the writing of the accusation that stands - against their riper age is of a graver sort. - </p> - <p> - It is melancholy, rather than amusing, to hear<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_75a" id="Page_75a">[Pg 75]</a></span> men of a certain age rail - against the faults and extravagance of their juniors. Angry that they - themselves are no longer young, they visit with a rod of iron such an - intolerable offence in others. Even newspapers are always eloquent against - the disgusting immoralities of breaking knockers and bonneting policemen. - The <i>Times</i> turns censor upon such an "ungentlemanly outrage;" the <i>Weekly - Despatch</i> has its propriety shocked by such "freaks of the - aristocracy;" and both, in their zeal to reprobate offences so dangerous - to the best interests of society, sacrifice somewhat of that "valuable - space" which should have been devoted to the bulletin of the health, or - the history of the travels, of the "gallant officer" who last deliberately - shot his friend in a duel; or the piquant details of the last <i>crim. - con.</i>, with the extraordinary disclosures expected to be made by the - "noble defendant." Society has no sympathy with vices to which it has no - temptation; it might have done foolish things in its day, but has long ago - seen the folly of them. So we make a graceful acknowledgment of having - been wrong once, for the sake of congratulating ourselves upon being so - very right now. - </p> - <p> - Let me then, for some few moments, recall those scenes which, on the stage - of life, have passed away for ever; and forgetting, as memory loves to do, - the evil that was in them, let it be not idle repining to lament the good. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76a" id="Page_76a">[Pg 76]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Oh! dark yet pleasant quadrangle, round whose wide area I might wander - now, a stranger among strangers, where are they who once gave life and - mirth to cheer those ancient walls? There were full a score of rooms, - congenial <i>lares</i>, in which no hour of day or night would have found - me other than a welcome guest. I had friends, yea, friends, within those - prison-like windows—warm hearts walled in by thy cold grey stones—friends - that had thoughts, and feelings, and pursuits in common—who were not - hospitable in words alone, suffering each other's presence with - well-concealed <i>ennui</i>—but friends in something more than in - the name. In vain, among the cold conventionalities of life, shall I look - for the warm and kindly welcome, the sympathy of feeling, the unrestrained - yet courteous familiarity of intercourse, which was part and parcel of a - college life; and if for this only I should say of Oxford, that I shall - not look upon its like again—if for this only, I doubt whether the - years of my youthful pilgrimage were altogether evil, who shall gainsay - me? Where, or in what society of wise, and orderly, and respectable - "grown-up children," shall I find the sincerity and warm-heartedness that - once were the atmosphere of my daily life? Where is the friend of my - maturer choosing, into whose house I can walk at any time, and feel sure I - am no intruder? Where is the man, among those with whom I am by hard fate - compelled to associate, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77a" - id="Page_77a">[Pg 77]</a></span> does not measure his regard, his - hospitality, his very smiles, by my income, my station in society—anything - but by myself? Older and wiser!—oh yes!—youthful friendship is - very foolish in such matters. - </p> - <p> - But I suppose I must put up, as I best may, with the accumulating weight - of years and wisdom. It won't do to give up one's degree, and begin again - at the university, even if they leave us a university worth going to. At - all events, one could not go back and find there those "old familiar - faces" that made it what it was; and it is more pleasant to look upon it - all—the place and its old occupants—as still existing in some - dream-land or other, than to return to find an old acquaintance in every - stick and stone, while every human face and voice is strange to us. - </p> - <p> - Yet one does meet friends in old scenes, sometimes, when the meeting is as - unexpected as delightful. And just so, in my last visit to Oxford, did I - stumble upon Horace Leicester. We met in the quadrangle where we had - parted some six years back, just as we might if we had supped together the - night before; whereas we had been all the time hundreds of miles asunder: - and we met as unrestrainedly, only far more cordially. Neither of us had - much time to spare in Oxford, but we dined together of course; talked over - old friends, and told old stories. As to the first, it was strange enough - to moralise upon the after-fortunes of some of our contemporaries. One—of - whom, for habitual<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78a" id="Page_78a">[Pg - 78]</a></span> absence from lectures, and other misdemeanours many and - various, the tutors had prophesied all manner of evil, and who had been - dismissed by the Principal at his final leave-taking, with the remark that - he was the luckiest man he had ever known, inasmuch as he had been - perseveringly idle without being plucked, and mixed up in every row - without being rusticated—was now working hard day and night as a - barrister, engaged as a junior on committee business the whole Session, - and never taking a holiday except on the Derby day. The ugliest little - rascal of our acquaintance, and as stupid as a post, was married to a - pretty girl with a fortune of thirty thousand. Another, and one of the - best of us—Charley White—who united the business-habits of a - man with the frolic of a schoolboy, and who ought to have been added to - the roll of the College benefactors, as having been the founder of the - Cricket and the Whist Club, and having restored to its old place on the - river, at much cost and pains, the boat which had been withdrawn for the - last five years, and reduced the sundry desultory idlenesses of the - under-graduates into something like method and order—Charley White - was now rector of a poor and populous parish in Yorkshire, busily engaged - in building a new church and schools, opening Provident Societies, and - shutting up beer-shops, and instructing the rising generation of his - parishioners in catechism and cricket alternately. While the<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79a" id="Page_79a">[Pg 79]</a></span> - steadiest (I was very near saying the only steady man) among our mutual - acquaintance, who looked at every sixpence before he spent it, checked his - own washing-lists, went to bed at ten o'clock, and was, in short, an - exemplary character (he was held out to me, on my first entrance, as a - valuable acquaintance for any young man, but I soon despaired of - successfully imitating so bright a model)—well, this gentleman - having been taken into partnership, somewhat prematurely perhaps on the - strength of the aforesaid reputation, by his father's firm—they were - Liverpool merchants of high standing—had thought proper, disgusted - probably with the dissipations and immoralities of trade, to retire to - America in search of purity and independence, without going through the - form of closing his accounts with the house. The Liverpudleians, indeed, - according to Horace's account, gave a somewhat ugly name to the - transaction; he had been cashier to the firm, they said, who were minus - some tens of thousands thereby; but as the senior partner was known to - have smoked cigars at a preparatory school (thereby showing what he <i>would</i> - have done had he been sent to Oxford), whereas our friend was always "a - steady man," I leave the reader to judge which party is entitled to the - most credit. - </p> - <p> - It was after we had separated that a friend of mine, not an Oxford man, - who had dined with us, and appeared much amused by some of Horace's<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80a" id="Page_80a">[Pg 80]</a></span> - reminiscences, asked me the very puzzling question, "Was your friend - Leicester what they call a '<i>rowing</i> man' at College?" Now, I protest - altogether against the division of under-graduates into reading men and - rowing men, as arbitrary and most illogical; there being a great many who - have no claim to be reckoned either in one class or the other, and a great - many who hover between both. And this imaginary distinction, existing as - it notoriously does at Oxford, and fostered and impressed upon men by the - tutors (often unintentionally, or with the very best intentions), is - productive in many cases of a great deal of harm. A man (or <i>boy</i> if - you please) is taught to believe, upon his very first entrance, that one - of these characters will infallibly cling to him, and that he has only to - choose between the two. For the imaginary division creates a real one; in - many colleges, a man who joins a boat's crew, or a cricket club, or goes - out now and then with the harriers, is looked upon with suspicion by the - authorities at once; and by a very natural consequence, a man who wants to - read his five or six hours a-day quietly, finds that some of his - pleasantest companions look upon him as a slow coach. So, probably before - the end of his first term, he is hopelessly committed, at nineteen, to a - consistency of character rarely met with at fifty. If he lays claim to the - reputation of a reading man, and has an eye to the loaves and fishes in - the way of scholarships and fellowships,<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_81a" id="Page_81a">[Pg 81]</a></span> he is compelled, by the - laws of his <i>caste</i>, to renounce some of the most sensible and - healthful amusements which a university life offers. He must lead a very - humdrum sort of life indeed. It is not enough that he should be free from - the stains of vice and immorality; that his principles and habits should - be those of a gentleman; that he should avoid excesses, and be observant - of discipline; this the university would have a right to expect from all - who are candidates for her honours and emoluments. But there is a - conventional character which he must put on besides this. I say "put on;" - because, however natural it may be to some men, it cannot possibly be so - to all. His exercise must be taken at stated times and places: it must - consist principally of walking, whether he be fond of it or not, varied - occasionally by a solitary skiffing expedition down the river, or a game - of billiards with some very steady friend on the sly. His dress must - exhibit either the negligence of a sloven (in case he be an aspirant for - very high honours indeed), or the grave precision of a respectable - gentleman of forty. He must eschew all such vanities as white trousers and - well-cut boots. He must be profoundly ignorant of all university - intelligence that does not bear in some way on the schools; must be - utterly indifferent what boat is at the head of the river, or whether - Drake's hounds are fox or harriers. He must never be seen out of his - rooms, except at lecture, before<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82a" - id="Page_82a">[Pg 82]</a></span> two o'clock, and never return to a - wine-party after chapel. His judgment of the merits of port and sherry - must be confined principally to the fact of one being red and the other - white, and the compounding of punch must be to him a mystery unfathomable. - Now, if he can be, or assume to be, all this, then he will be admitted - into the most orthodox and steady set in his college; and if he have, - besides, an ordinary amount of scholarship, and tact enough to talk - judiciously about his books and his reading, he may get up a very fair - reputation indeed. And when at his final examination he makes, as - nine-tenths of such men do make, a grand crash, and his name comes out in - the third or fourth class, or he gets "gulfed" altogether—it is two - to one but his friends and his tutor look upon him, and talk of him, as - rather an ill-used individual. He was "unlucky in his examination"—"the - essay did not suit him"—they were "quite surprised at his failure"—"his - health was not good the last term or two"—"he was too nervous." - These are cases which have occurred in every man's experience: men read - ten hours a-day, with a watch by their side, cramming in stuff that they - do not understand, are talked about as "sure firsts" till one gets sick of - their very names, assume all the airs which really able men seldom do - assume, and take at last an equal degree with others who have been - acquiring the same amount of knowledge with infinitely less<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83a" id="Page_83a">[Pg 83]</a></span> - pretension, and who, without moping the best part of their lives in an - artificial existence, will make more useful members of society in the end. - "How was it," said an old lady in the country to me one day, "that young - Mr C—— did not get a first class? I understand he read very - hard, and I know he refused every invitation to dinner when he was down - here in the summer vacation?" "That was the very reason, my dear madam," - said I; "you may depend upon it." She stared, of course; but I believe I - was not far out. - </p> - <p> - Let men read as much as they will, and as hard as they will, on any - subjects for which they have the ability and inclination; but never let - them suppose they are to lay down one code of practice to suit all tempers - and constitutions. Cannot a man be a scholar, and a gentleman, and a good - fellow at the same time? - </p> - <p> - And, after all, where is the broad moral distinction between these <i>soi-disant</i> - steady men, and those whom they are pleased to consider as "rowing" - characters? it has always seemed to me rather apocryphal. If a man thinks - proper to amuse himself with a chorus in his own rooms at one o'clock in - the morning, it seems hardly material whether it be Greek or English—Sophocles - or Tom Moore. It's a matter of taste, and tastes differ. Nor do I think - the morality of Horace or Aristophanes, or the theology of Lucretius, so - peculiarly admirable, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84a" - id="Page_84a">[Pg 84]</a></span> to render them, <i>per se</i>, fitter - subjects for the exclusive exercise of a young man's faculties than "the - Pickwick Papers," or "The Rod and the Gun." I have heard—(I never - saw, nor will I believe it)—of the profanity of certain sporting - under-graduates, who took into chapel the racing calendar, bound in red - morocco, instead of a prayer-book; I hold it to have been the malicious - fiction of some would-be university reformer; but, even if true, I am not - sure that I much prefer that provident piety which I have noticed getting - up its Greek within the same walls by means of a Septuagint and Greek - liturgy. Religion is one thing, classical learning another, and sporting - information another; all totally distinct, and totally different; the - first immeasurably above the other two, but standing equidistant from - both. It does not make a man one whit the better to know that Coræbus won - the cup at Olympia <span class="small">B.C.</span> 776, than it does to - know that Priam did <i>not</i> win the St Leger at Doncaster <span - class="small">A.D.</span> 1830; from all I can make out, the Greeks on the - turf at present are not much worse than their old namesakes; I dare say - there was a fair amount of black-legism on both occasions. Men injure - their moral and physical health by reading as much as by other things; it - takes quite as much out of a man, and puts as little in him to any good - purpose, to get up his logic as to pull in an eight-oar. - </p> - <p> - Besides, if one is to read and enter into the spirit<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_85a" id="Page_85a">[Pg 85]</a></span> of a dozen different - authors, one dull monotonous round of physical existence seems ill-fitted - to call out the requisite variety of mental powers. I hold that there are - divers and sundry fit times, and places, and states of mind, suited to - different lines of reading. If a man is at work upon history, by all means - let him sport oak rigidly against all visitors; let him pile up his - authorities and references on every vacant chair all round him, and get a - clear notion of it by five or six hours' uninterrupted and careful study. - Or, if he has a system of philosophy to get up, let him sit down with his - head cool, his window open (not the one looking into quad.), let him - banish from his mind all minor matters, and not break off in the chain of - argument so long as he can keep his brain clear and his eyes open. Even - then, a good gallop afterwards, or a cigar and a glass of punch, with some - lively fellow who is no philosopher, will do him far more good than a - fagging walk of so many measured miles, with the studious companion whose - head is stuffed as full of such matter as his own, and whose talk will be - of disputed passages, and dispiriting anticipations of a "dead floorer" in - the schools. But if a man wants to make acquaintance with such books as - Juvenal, or Horace, or Aristophanes, he may surely do it to quite as good - purpose, and with far more relish, basking under a tree in summer, or with - a friend over a bottle in winter. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86a" id="Page_86a">[Pg 86]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - The false tone of society of which I have been speaking had its influence - upon Horace Leicester. Coming up to the university from a public school, - with a high character, a fair amount of scholarship, and a host of - acquaintances, he won the good-will at once of dons and of - under-graduates, and bid fair to be as universal a favourite at college as - he had been at Harrow. Never did a man enter upon an academic life under - happier auspices, nor, I believe, with a more thorough determination to - enjoy it in every way. He did not look upon his emancipation from school - discipline as a license for idleness, nor intend to read the less because - he could now read what he pleased, and when he pleased. For, not to - mention that Horace was ambitious, and had at one time an eye to the class - list—he had a taste for reading, and a strong natural talent to - appreciate what he read. But if he had a taste for reading, he had other - tastes as well, and, as he thought, not incompatible; much as he admired - his Roman namesake, he could not devote his evenings exclusively to his - society, but preferred carrying his precepts into practice occasionally - with more modern companions; and he had no notion that during the next - four years of his life he was to take an interest in no sports but those - of the old Greeks and Romans, and mount no horse but Pegasus. For a term - or two, Leicester got on very well; attended lectures, read steadily till - one or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87a" id="Page_87a">[Pg 87]</a></span> - two o'clock, when there was nothing particular going on, kept a horse, - hired an alarm, and seldom cut morning chapel, or missed a meet if within - reasonable distance. It was a course of life which, in after days, he - often referred to with a sigh as having been most exemplary; and I doubt - whether he was far wrong. But it did not last. For a time his gentlemanly - manners, good humour, and good taste, carried it off with all parties; but - it was against the ordinary routine, and could not hold up against the - popular prejudice. The reading men eyed his top-boots with suspicion; the - rowing men complained he was growing a regular <i>sap</i>, always sporting - oak when they wanted him. Then his wine-parties were a source of endless - tribulation to him. First of all, he asked all those with whom he was most - intimate among his old schoolfellows to meet each other, adding one or two - of his new acquaintances: and a pretty mess he made of it. Men who had sat - on the same form with him and with each other at Harrow, and had betrayed - no such marked differences in their tastes as to prevent their associating - very pleasantly there, at Oxford, he found, had been separated wide as the - poles by this invisible, but impassable, line of demarcation: to such a - degree, indeed, that although all had called upon Horace, as they had upon - each other, before it seemed decided on which side they were to settle, - yet when they now met<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88a" id="Page_88a">[Pg - 88]</a></span> at his rooms, they had become strangers beyond a mere civil - recognition, and had not a single subject to converse upon in common. In - fact, they were rather surprised than pleased to meet at all; and it was - in vain their host tried to get them to amalgamate. Many seemed to take a - pleasure in showing how decidedly they belonged to one set or the other. - One would talk of nothing on earth besides hunting, and sat silent and - sulky when Horace turned the conversation; another affected an utter - ignorance of all that was going on in the University that was not - connected with class-lists, scholarships, &c. What provoked him most - was, that some of those who gave themselves the most pedantic airs, and - would have been double first-class men undeniably, if talking could have - done it, were those whose heads he well knew were as empty as the last - bottle, and which made him think that some men must take to reading at - Oxford, simply because they had faculties for nothing else. - </p> - <p> - At all events, Horace found the mixed system would not answer for - entertaining his friends. So the next time he asked a few of the reading - men, some of whom he knew used to be good fellows, together; and as he - really had a kindred taste with them on many subjects, he found an hour or - so pass away very pleasantly: when just as he was passing the wine about - the third round, and his own brilliancy and good-humour were beginning to - infect<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89a" id="Page_89a">[Pg 89]</a></span> - some of his guests—so that one grave genius of twenty had actually - so far forgotten himself as to fill a bumper by mistake—up jumped - the senior man of the party, and declaring that he had an engagement to - walk with a friend at seven, politely took his leave. This was the signal - for a general dispersion; in vain did Horace assure them they should have - some coffee in the course of an hour, and entreat some one or two to - return. Off they all went, with sundry smiles and shakes of the head, and - left their unfortunate host sitting alone in his glory over the first - glass of a newly opened bottle of claret. - </p> - <p> - I happened to be crossing the quadrangle from chapel in company with - Savile, at the moment when Leicester put his head out of his window as if - to inquire of the world in general what on earth he was to do with himself - for the next hour or two. Savile he hailed at once, and begged him to come - up; and though I knew but little of him, and had never been in his rooms - before, still, as I was one or two terms his senior, there was nothing - contrary even to Oxford etiquette in my accompanying Savile. We laughed - heartily when he explained his disappointment. Savile tried to comfort him - by the assurance that, as he had an hour to spare, he would sit down and - help him to finish a bottle or two of claret with a great deal of - pleasure; and was inclined to attribute the failure of the evening, in a - great measure, to his name not having been<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_90a" id="Page_90a">[Pg 90]</a></span> included in the list of - invitations—an omission by which he declared all parties had been - the losers; Horace's reading friends standing very much in need of some - one to put a little life into them, and himself, as a candidate for a - degree, having missed a fair opportunity of meeting, among so many choice - fellows, some one to "put him up to the examiners' dodges." But Leicester - was irrecoverably disgusted. Nothing, he declared, would ever induce him - to ask a party of reading men to his rooms again; and from that hour he - seemed to eschew fellowship with the whole fraternity. Not that he became - idle all at once; on the contrary, I believe, for some time he worked on - steadily, or at least tried to work; but he was naturally fond of society, - and having failed to find what he wanted, was reduced to make the best of - such as he could find. So he gradually became acquainted with a set of men - who, whatever their good qualities might be, had certainly no claim - whatever to be considered hard readers, and who would have considered a - symposium which broke up at seven o'clock as unsatisfactory as a tale - without a conclusion. Amongst these, his gentlemanly manners and kindness - of heart made him beloved, while his talents gave him a kind of influence; - and, though he must have felt occasionally that he was not altogether in - his right place, and that, besides his popular qualities, he had higher - tastes and endowments with which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91a" - id="Page_91a">[Pg 91]</a></span> the majority of his companions could - hardly sympathise, he was too light-hearted to philosophise much on the - subject, and contented himself with enjoying his popularity, occasionally - falling back upon his own resources, and keeping up, in a desultory kind - of way, his acquaintance with scholarship and literature. The reading men - of course looked upon him as a lost sheep; the tutors shook their heads - about him; if he did well, it was set down as the result of accident; - while all his misdoings were labouring in his vocation. For, agreeably to - the grand division aforesaid, Horace was now set down as a "rowing-man;" - and he soon made the discovery, and did more thereupon to deserve the - character than he ever would have done otherwise. He was very willing to - go on in his own way, if all parties would but let him alone; he was not - going to be made a proselyte to long walks, and toast and water, nor had - he any conscientious abhorrence of supper-parties; and, as his prospects - in life were in no way dependent upon a class or a scholarship, and he - seemed to be tacitly repudiated by the <i>literati</i> of his college, - young and old, on account of some of his aforesaid heterodox notions on - the subject of study, he accustomed himself gradually to set their - opinions at defiance; while the moderate reading, which encouragement and - emulation had made easy at school, became every day more and more - distasteful. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92a" id="Page_92a">[Pg 92]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Horace's tottering reputation was at last completely overset in the eyes - of the authorities by a little affair which was absurd enough, but in - which he himself was as innocent as they were. It happened that a youthful - cousin of his, whose sole occupation for the last twelve months of his - life had been the not over-profitable one of waiting for a commission, had - come up to Oxford for two or three days, pursuant to invitation, to see a - little of the manners and customs of the inhabitants. I think he had some - slight acquaintance with our then vice-principal—a good-natured, - easy man—and Horace had got leave for him to occupy a set of very - small, dark rooms, which, as the college was not very full, had been - suffered to remain vacant for the last two or three terms; they were so - very unattractive a domicile that the last Freshman to whom they were - offered as a Hobson's choice, was currently reported, in the plenitude of - his disgust, to have taken his name off the books <i>instanter</i>. It is - not usual to allow strangers to sleep within college walls at all; but our - discipline was somewhat lax in those days. So Mr Carey had a bed put up - for him in the aforesaid quarters. He was, of course, duly <i>fêted</i>, - and made much of by Horace and his friends; and a dozen of us sat down to - a capital dinner in the rooms of the former, on the strength of having to - entertain a "stranger from the country;" the hospitality of Oxford - relaxing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93a" id="Page_93a">[Pg 93]</a></span> - its rules even in favour of under-graduates upon such occasions. It must - have been somewhere towards the next morning, when two or three of us - accompanied young Carey down to No. 8; and, after chatting with him till - he was half undressed, left him, as we thought, safe and quiet. However, - soon after we had retired, some noisy individual in the same staircase - thought proper to give a view-hollo out of his window, for the purpose of - wishing the public good-night. Now there was one of the Fellows, a - choleric little old gentleman, always in residence, holding some office, - in which there was as little to do, and as much to get as might be, and - who seldom troubled himself much about college discipline, and looked upon - under-graduates with a sort of silent contempt; never interfering with - them, as he declared himself, so long as they did not interfere with him. - But one point there was, in which they did interfere with his personal - comfort occasionally, and whereby his peace of mind and rest of body were - equally disturbed. Mr Perkins always took a tumbler of negus at ten - precisely, and turned in as the college clock struck the quarter past; by - the half-hour he was generally asleep, for his digestion was good and his - cares few. But his slumbers were not heavy, and anything like a row in the - quadrangle infallibly awoke him, and then he was like a lion roused. He - was wont to jump up, throw up his window, thrust out a red face and a - white<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94a" id="Page_94a">[Pg 94]</a></span> - nightcap, and after listening a few seconds for the chance of the odious - sounds being repeated, would put the very pertinent question usual in such - circumstances, to which one so seldom gets an equally pertinent reply—"Who's - that?" In case this intimation of Mr Perkins being wide awake proved - sufficient, as it often did, to restore quiet, then after the lapse of a - few more seconds the head and the nightcap disappeared, and the window was - shut down again. But if the noise was continued, as occasionally it was - out of pure mischief, then in a minute or two the said nightcap would be - seen to emerge hastily from the staircase below, in company with a - dressing-gown and slippers, and Mr Perkins in this disguise would proceed - to the scene of disturbance as fast as his short legs could carry him. He - seldom succeeded in effecting a capture; but if he had that luck, or if he - could distinguish the tone of any individual voice so as to be able to - identify the performer, he had him up before the "seniority" next morning, - where his influence as one of the senior fellows insured a heavy sentence. - But he had been engaged in so many unsuccessful chases of the kind, and - his short orations from his window so often elicited only a laugh, though - including sometimes brief but explicit threats of rustication against the - noisy unknown, strengthened by little expletives which, when quoted by - under-graduates, were made to sound somewhat doubtfully—that<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95a" id="Page_95a">[Pg 95]</a></span> at - last he altered his tactics, and began to act in silence. And so he did, - when upon opening his window he saw a light in the ground-floor rooms of - the staircase whence the sounds proceeded on the evening in question. - Carey, by his own account, was proceeding quietly in his preparations for - bed, singing to himself an occasional stanza of some classical ditty which - he had picked up in the course of the evening, and admiring the power of - the man's lungs in the room above him, when he heard a short quick step, - and then a double rap at his door. He was quite sufficiently acquainted, - by this time, with the ways of the place, not to be much surprised at the - late visit, and at the same time to consider it prudent to learn the name - and <i>status</i> of his visitor before admitting him; so he retorted upon - Mr Perkins, quite unconsciously, his own favourite query—"Who's - that?" his first and obvious impression being that it was one of the party - he had just quitted, coming probably in the plenitude of good fellowship, - to bring him an invitation to wine or breakfast next day. - </p> - <p> - "It's me, sir—open the door," was the reply from a deep baritone, - which the initiated would never have mistaken. - </p> - <p> - "Who are you?" said Carey again. - </p> - <p> - "My name is Perkins, sir: have the goodness to let me in." He was getting - more angry, and consequently more polite. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96a" id="Page_96a">[Pg 96]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Perkins," said Carey, pausing in his operations, in the vain endeavour to - recall the name among the score or two to whom he had been introduced. - "I'm just in bed—were you up at Leicester's?" - </p> - <p> - "Open the door, sir, if you please, immediately," and then came what our - friend took for a smothered laugh, but was really a sort of shiver, for - there was a draft in the passage playing all manner of pranks with the - dressing-gown, and Mr Perkins was getting cold. - </p> - <p> - An indistinct notion came into Carey's mind, that some one who had met him - in College might have taken him for a Freshman, and had some practical - joke in view; so he contented himself with repeating that he was going to - bed, and could let no one in. - </p> - <p> - "I tell you, sir, I'm Mr Perkins; don't you know me?" - </p> - <p> - "I wish you a very good night, Mr Perkins." - </p> - <p> - "What's your name, sir? eh? You impudent young puppy, what's your infernal - name? I'll have you rusticated, you dog—do you hear me, sir?" - </p> - <p> - On a sudden it struck Carey that this might possibly be a domiciliary - visit from one of the authorities, and that his best plan was to open the - door at once, though what had procured him such an honour he was at a loss - to imagine. He drew back the spring lock, therefore, and the next moment - stood face to face with the irate Mr Perkins. - </p> - <p> - His first impulse was to laugh at the curious<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_97a" id="Page_97a">[Pg 97]</a></span> figure before him; but - when demands for his name, and threats of unknown penalties, were - thundered forth upon him with no pause for a reply, then he began to think - that he had made a mistake in opening the door at all—that he might - get Leicester into a scrape if not himself—and as his person was as - unknown to Mr Perkins as that gentleman's to him, it struck him that if he - could give him the slip at once it would be all right. In a moment he blew - out his solitary candle, bolted through the open door, all but upsetting - his new acquaintance, whom he left storming in the most unconnected - manner, alone, and in total darkness. Up to Leicester's rooms he rushed, - related his adventure, and was rather surprised that his cousin did not - applaud it as a very clever thing. - </p> - <p> - What Mr Perkins thought or said to himself, what degree of patience he - exhibited in such trying circumstances, or in what terms he apostrophised - his flying enemy, must ever remain a secret with himself. Five minutes - after, Solomon the porter, summoned from his bed just as he had made - himself snug once more after letting out Horace's out-college friends, - confronted Mr Perkins in about as sweet a temper as that worthy individual - himself, with this difference, that one was sulky and the other furious. - </p> - <p> - "Who lives in the ground-floor on the left in No. 8?" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98a" id="Page_98a">[Pg 98]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "What, in 'Coventry?' Why, nobody, sir." - </p> - <p> - "Nobody! you stupid old sinner, you're asleep." - </p> - <p> - "No, sir, I ain't," and Solomon flashed his lantern in Mr Perkins's face - as if to ascertain whether <i>his</i> eyes were open. Mr Perkins started - back, and Solomon turned half round as if to disappear again. - </p> - <p> - "Who lives there, Solomon, I ask you? Do you mean to tell me you don't - know? You are not fit——" - </p> - <p> - "I knows every gentleman's rooms well enough: nobody hasn't lived in them - as you means not these four terms. Mr Pears kept his fox in 'em one time, - till the vice-principal got wind of him. There may be some varmint in 'em - now for all I knows—they a'n't fit for much else." - </p> - <p> - "There's some confounded puppy of a Freshman in them now—at least - there was—and he lives there too." - </p> - <p> - "I know there <i>be'n't</i>," said the persevering Solomon. And, without - deigning a word more, he set off with his lantern towards the place in - dispute, followed by Mr Perkins, who contented himself with an angry "Now - you'll see." - </p> - <p> - "Ay, now we shall see," replied Solomon, as, somewhat to Mr Perkins's - astonishment, they found the oak sported. Having made a selection from a - huge bunch of keys, the porter succeeded, after some fumbling, in getting - the door open. The room bore no traces of recent occupation. Three or four - broken chairs and a rickety table were the only furniture:<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99a" id="Page_99a">[Pg 99]</a></span> as far - as the light of Solomon's lantern could penetrate, it looked the very - picture of desolation. Solomon chuckled. - </p> - <p> - "There <i>is</i> a man living here. I'll swear there is. He was undressing - when I came. Look in the bedroom." - </p> - <p> - They opened the door, and saw a bare feather-bed and bolster, the usual <i>matériel</i> - in an unoccupied college chamber. "Seeing's believing," said the porter. - </p> - <p> - But, with Mr Perkins, seeing was not believing. He saw Solomon, and he saw - the empty room, but he did not believe either. But he had evidently the - worst side of the argument as it stood, so he wished the porter a sulky - good-night, and retreated. - </p> - <p> - The fact was, that the noisy gentleman in the rooms above, as soon as he - caught the tones of Mr Perkins's voice at Carey's door, had entered into - the joke with exceeding gusto, well aware that the visit was really - intended as a compliment to his own vocal powers. Carey's sudden bolt - puzzled him rather; but as soon as he heard Mr Perkins's foot-steps take - the direction of the porter's lodge, he walked softly down-stairs to the - field of action, and, anticipating in some degree what would follow, - bundled up together sheets, blankets, pillow, dressing apparatus, and all - other signs and tokens of occupation, and made off with them to his own - rooms, sporting the oak behind him, and thus completing the mystification. - </p> - <p> - As the facts of the case were pretty sure to transpire<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_100a" id="Page_100a">[Pg 100]</a></span> in course of time, - Horace took the safe course of getting his cousin out of college next - morning, and calling on Mr Perkins with a full explanation of the - circumstances, and apologies for Carey as a stranger unacquainted with the - police regulations of their learned body, and the respect due thereto. Of - course the man in authority was obliged to be gracious, as Leicester could - not well be answerable for all the faults of his family; but there never - from that time forth happened a row of any kind with which he did not in - his own mind, probably unconsciously, associate poor Horace. - </p> - <p> - Whether my readers will set down Horace Leicester as a rowing man or not, - is a point which I leave to their merciful consideration: a reading man - was a title which he never aspired to. He took a very creditable degree in - due season, and was placed in the fourth class with a man who took up a - very long list of books, and was supposed to have read himself stupid. - </p> - <p> - "He ought to have done a good deal more," said one of the tutors; "he had - it in him." "I think he was lucky not to have been plucked, myself," said - Mr Perkins; "he was a very noisy man." - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1b" id="Page_1b">[Pg 1]</a></span> - </p> - <h2> - <a name="THE_EMERALD_STUDS" id="THE_EMERALD_STUDS">THE EMERALD STUDS</a> - </h2> - <p class="center small"> - A REMINISCENCE OF THE CIRCUIT. - </p> - <p class="center"> - BY PROFESSOR AYTOUN. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - <span class="small">[<i>MAGA.</i> <span class="smcap">August 1847.</span>]</span> - </p> - <hr class="short" /> - <h3> - <a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</a> - </h3> - <p class="dropcap"> - "Hallo, Tom! Are you not up yet? Why, man, the judges have gone down to - the court half an hour ago, escorted by the most ragged regiment of - ruffians that ever handled a Lochaberaxe." - </p> - <p> - Such was my matutinal salutation to my friend Thomas Strachan, as I - entered his room on a splendid spring morning. Tom and I were early - college allies. We had attended, or rather, to speak more correctly, taken - out tickets for the different law classes during the same sessions. We had - fulminated together within the walls of the Juridical Society on legal - topics which might have broken the heart of Erskine, and rewarded - ourselves diligently thereafter with the usual relaxations<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2b" id="Page_2b">[Pg 2]</a></span> of a crab - and a comfortable tumbler. We had aggravated the same grinder with our - deplorable exposition of the Pandects; and finally assumed, on the same - day, the full-blown honours of the Advocate's wig and gown. Nor did our - fraternal parallel end there: for although we had walked the boards of the - Parliament House with praiseworthy diligence for a couple of sessions, - neither of us had experienced the dulcet sensation which is communicated - to the palm by the contact of the first professional guinea. In vain did - we attempt to insinuate ourselves into the good graces of the agents, and - coin our intellects into such jocular remarks as are supposed to find most - favour in the eyes of facetious practitioners. In vain did I carry about - with me, for a whole week, an artificial process most skilfully made up; - and in vain did Tom compound and circulate a delectable ditty, entitled - "The Song of the Multiplepoinding." Not a single solicitor would listen to - our wooing, or even intrust us with the task of making the simplest - motion. I believe they thought me too fast, and Tom too much of a genius; - and, therefore, both of us were left among the ranks of the briefless army - of the stove. This would not do. Our souls burned within us with a noble - thirst for legal fame and fees. We held a consultation (without an agent) - at the Rainbow, and finally determined that since Edinburgh would not hear - us, Jedburgh<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3b" id="Page_3b">[Pg 3]</a></span> - should have the privilege of monopolising our maiden eloquence at the - ensuing justiciary circuit. Jedburgh presents a capital field to the - ambition of a youthful advocate. Very few counsel go that way; the cases - are usually trifling, and the juries easily bamboozled. It has besides - this immense advantage—that should you by any accident happen to - break down, nobody will in all probability be the wiser for it, provided - you have the good sense to ingratiate yourself with the circuit-clerk. - </p> - <p> - Tom and I arrived at Jedburgh the afternoon before the circuit began. I - was not acquainted with a human being within the parliamentary boundaries - of that respectable borough, and therefore experienced but a slight spasm - of disappointment when informed by the waiter at the inn, that no - inquiries had yet been made after me, on the part of writers desirous of - professional assistance. Strachan had been wiser. Somehow or other, he had - got a letter of introduction to one Bailie Beerie, a notable civic - dignitary of the place; and, accordingly, on presenting his credentials, - was invited by that functionary to dinner, with a hint that he "might - maybe see a wheen real leddies in the evening." This pointed so plainly to - a white choker and dress boots, that Strachan durst not take the liberty - of volunteering the attendance of his friend; and accordingly I had been - left alone to wile away, as I best might, the tedium of a sluggish - evening.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4b" id="Page_4b">[Pg 4]</a></span> - Before starting, however, Tom pledged himself to return in time for - supper; as he entertained a painful conviction that the party would be - excessively slow. - </p> - <p> - So long as it was light, I amused myself pretty well by strolling along - the banks of the river, and enunciating a splendid speech for the panel in - an imaginary case of murder. However, before I reached the peroration - (which was to consist of a vivid picture of the deathbed of a despairing - jury-man, conscience-stricken by the recollection of an erroneous - verdict), the shades of evening began to close in; the trouts ceased to - leap in the pool, and the rooks desisted from their cawing. I returned to - discuss my solitary mutton at the inn; and then, having nothing to do, sat - down to a moderate libation, and an odd number of the <i>Temperance - Magazine</i>, which valuable tract had been left for the reformation of - the traveller by some peripatetic disciple of Father Mathew. - </p> - <p> - Nine o'clock came, but so did not Strachan. I began to wax wroth, muttered - anathemas against my faithless friend, rang for the waiter, and—having - ascertained the fact that a Masonic Lodge was that evening engaged in - celebrating the festival of its peculiar patron—I set out for the - purpose of assisting in the pious and mystic labours of the Brethren of - the Jedburgh St Jeremy. At twelve, when I returned to my quarters, - escorted by the junior<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5b" id="Page_5b">[Pg - 5]</a></span> deacon, I was informed that Strachan had not made his - appearance, and accordingly I went to bed. - </p> - <p> - Next morning I found Tom, as already mentioned, in his couch. There was a - fine air of negligence in the manner in which his habiliments were - scattered over the room. One glazed boot lay within the fender, whilst the - other had been chucked into a coal-scuttle; and there were evident marks - of mud on the surface of his glossy kerseymeres. Strachan himself looked - excessively pale, and the sole rejoinder he made to my preliminary remark - was, a request for soda-water. - </p> - <p> - "Tom," said I, inexpressibly shocked at the implied confession of the - nature of his vespers—"I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself! - Have you no higher regard for the dignity of the bar you represent, than - to expose yourself before a Jedburgh Bailie?" - </p> - <p> - "Dignity be hanged!" replied the incorrigible Strachan. "Bailie Beerie is - a brick, and I won't hear a word against him. But, O Fred! if you only - knew what you missed last night! Such a splendid woman—by Jove, sir, - a thoroughbred angel. A bust like one of Titian's beauties, and the voice - of a lovelorn nightingale!" - </p> - <p> - "One of the Misses Beerie, I presume. Come, Tom, I think I can fill up - your portrait. Hair of the auburn complexion, slightly running into the - carrot—skin fair, but freckled—greenish eyes—red<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6b" id="Page_6b">[Pg 6]</a></span> elbows—culpable - ankles—elephantine waist—and sentiments savouring of the - Secession." - </p> - <p> - "Ring the bell for the waiter, and hold your impious tongue. You never - were farther from the mark in your life. The wing of the raven is not more - glossy than her hair—and oh, the depth and melting lustre of those - dark unfathomable eyes! Waiter! a bottle of soda-water, and you may put in - a thimbleful of cognac." - </p> - <p> - "Come, Tom!—none of your ravings. Is this an actual Armida, or a new - freak of your own imagination?" - </p> - <p> - "<i>Bonâ fide</i>—an angel in everything, barring the wings." - </p> - <p> - "Then how the deuce did such a phenomenon happen to emerge at the - Bailie's?" - </p> - <p> - "That's the very question I was asking myself during the whole time of - dinner. She was clearly not a Scotswoman. When she spoke, it was in the - sweet low accents of a southern clime; and she waved away the proffered - haggis with an air of the prettiest disgust!" - </p> - <p> - "But the Bailie knew her?" - </p> - <p> - "Of course he did. I got the whole story out of him after dinner, and, - upon my honour, I think it is the most romantic one I ever heard. About a - week ago, the lady arrived here without attendants. Some say she came in - the mail-coach—others in a dark travelling chariot and pair. - However, what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7b" id="Page_7b">[Pg 7]</a></span> - matters it? the jewel can derive no lustre or value from the casket!" - </p> - <p> - "Yes—but one always likes to have some kind of idea of the setting. - Get on." - </p> - <p> - "She seemed in great distress, and inquired whether there were any letters - at the post-office addressed to the Honourable Dorothea Percy. No such - epistle was to be found. She then interrogated the landlord, whether an - elderly lady, whose appearance she minutely described, had been seen in - the neighbourhood of Jedburgh; but except old Mrs Slammingham of - Summertrees, who has been bed-ridden for years, there was nobody in the - county who at all answered to the description. On hearing this, the lady - seemed profoundly agitated—shut herself up in a private parlour, and - refused all sustenance." - </p> - <p> - "Had she not a reticule with sandwiches, Tom?" - </p> - <p> - "Do not tempt me to commit justifiable homicide—you see I am in the - act of shaving.—At last the landlady, who is a most respectable - person, and who felt deeply interested at the desolate situation of the - poor young lady, ventured to solicit an interview. She was admitted. There - are moments when the sympathy of even the humblest friend is precious. - Miss Percy felt grateful for the interest so displayed, and confided the - tale of her griefs to the matronly bosom of the hostess." - </p> - <p> - "And she told you?" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8b" id="Page_8b">[Pg 8]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "No,—but she told Bailie Beerie. That active magistrate thought it - his duty to interfere. He waited upon Miss Percy, and from her lips he - gathered the full particulars of her history. Percy is not her real name, - but she is the daughter of an English peer of very ancient family. Her - father having married a second time, Dorothea was exposed to the - persecutions of a low-minded vulgar woman, whose whole ideas were of that - mean and mercenary description which characterise the Caucasian race. - Naomi Shekels was the offspring of a Jew, and she hated, whilst she - envied, the superior charms of the noble Norman maiden. But she had gained - an enormous supremacy over the wavering intellect of the elderly Viscount; - and Dorothea was commanded to receive, with submission, the addresses of a - loathsome apostate, who had made a prodigious fortune in the railways." - </p> - <p> - "One of the tribe of Issachar?" - </p> - <p> - "Exactly. A miscreant whose natural function was the vending of cast - habiliments. Conceive, Fred, what the fair young creature must have felt - at the bare idea of such shocking spousals! She besought, prayed, - implored,—but all in vain. Mammon had taken too deep a root in the - paternal heart,—the old coronet had been furbished up by means of - Israelitish gold, and the father could not see any degradation in forcing - upon his child an alliance similar to his own." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9b" id="Page_9b">[Pg 9]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "You interest me excessively." - </p> - <p> - "Is it not a strange tale?" continued Thomas, adjusting a false collar - round his neck. "I knew you would agree with me when I came to the - pathetic part. Well, Fred, the altar was decked, the ornaments ready, the - Rabbi bespoke——" - </p> - <p> - "Do you mean to say, Strachan, that Lady Dorothea was to have been married - after the fashion of the Jews?" - </p> - <p> - "I don't know exactly. I think Beerie said it was a Rabbi; but that may - have been a flight of his own imagination. However, somebody was ready to - have tied the nuptial knot, and all the joys of existence, and its hopes, - were about to fade for ever from the vision of my poor Dorothea!" - </p> - <p> - "<i>Your</i> Dorothea!" cried I in amazement. "Why, Tom—you don't - mean to insinuate that you have gone that length already?" - </p> - <p> - "Did I say mine?" repeated Strachan, looking somewhat embarrassed. "It was - a mere figure of speech: you always take one up so uncommonly short.—Nothing - remained for her but flight, or submission to the cruel mandate. Like a - heroic girl, in whose veins the blood of the old crusaders was bounding, - she preferred the former alternative. The only relation to whom she could - apply in so delicate a juncture, was an aged aunt, residing somewhere in - the north of Scotland. To her she wrote, beseeching her, as she regarded - the memory<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10b" id="Page_10b">[Pg 10]</a></span> - of her buried sister, to receive her miserable child; and she appointed - this town, Jedburgh, as the place of meeting." - </p> - <p> - "But where's the aunt?" - </p> - <p> - "That's just the mysterious part of the business. The crisis was so - imminent that Dorothea could not wait for a reply. She disguised herself,—packed - up a few jewels which had been bequeathed to her by her mother,—and, - at the dead of night, escaped from her father's mansion. Judge of her - terror when, on arriving here, panting and perhaps pursued, she could - obtain no trace whatever of her venerable relative. Alone, inexperienced - and unfriended, I tremble to think what might have been her fate, had it - not been for the kind humanity of Beerie." - </p> - <p> - "And what was the Bailie's line of conduct?" - </p> - <p> - "He behaved to her, Fred, like a parent. He supplied her wants, and - invited her to make his house her home, at least until the aunt should - appear. But the noble creature would not subject herself to the weight of - so many obligations. She accepted, indeed, his assistance, but preferred - remaining here until she could place herself beneath legitimate - guardianship. And doubtless," continued Strachan with fervour, "her good - angel is watching over her." - </p> - <p> - "And this is the whole story?" - </p> - <p> - "The whole." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11b" id="Page_11b">[Pg 11]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Do you know, Tom, it looks uncommonly like a piece of deliberate humbug!" - </p> - <p> - "Your ignorance misleads you, Fred. You would not say so had you seen her. - So sweet—so gentle—with such a tinge of melancholy resignation - in her eye, like that of a virgin martyr about to suffer at the stake! No - one could look upon her for a moment and doubt her purity and truth." - </p> - <p> - "Perhaps. But you must allow that we are not living exactly in the age of - romance. An elopement with an officer of dragoons is about the farthest - extent of legitimate enterprise which is left to a modern damsel; and, - upon my word, I think the story would have told better, had some such hero - been inserted as a sort of counterpoise to the Jew. But what's the matter? - Have you lost anything?" - </p> - <p> - "It is very odd!" said Strachan, "I am perfectly certain that I had on my - emerald studs last night. I recollect that Dorothea admired them - exceedingly. Where on earth can I have put them?" - </p> - <p> - "I don't know, I'm sure. I suspect, Tom, you and the Bailie were rather - convivial after supper. Is your watch wound up?" - </p> - <p> - "Of course it is. I assure you you are quite wrong. It was a mere matter - of four or five tumblers. Very odd this! Why—I can't find my watch - neither!" - </p> - <p> - "Hallo! what the deuce! Have we fallen into<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_12b" id="Page_12b">[Pg 12]</a></span> a den of thieves? This is - a nice beginning to our circuit practice." - </p> - <p> - "I could swear, Fred, that I put it below my pillow before I went to - sleep. I remember, now, that it was some time before I could fit in the - key. What can have become of it?" - </p> - <p> - "And you have not left your room since?" - </p> - <p> - "No, on my word of honour!" - </p> - <p> - "Pooh—pooh! Then it can't possibly be gone. Look beneath the - bolster." - </p> - <p> - But in vain did we search beneath bolster, mattress, and blankets; yea, - even downwards to the fundamental straw. Not a trace was to be seen of Cox - Savoury's horizontal lever, jewelled, as Tom pathetically remarked, in - four special holes, and warranted to go for a year without more than a - minute's deviation. Neither were the emerald studs, the pride of - Strachan's heart, forthcoming. Boots, chambermaid, and waiter were - collectively summoned—all assisted in the search, and all - asseverated their own integrity. - </p> - <p> - "Are ye sure, sir, that ye brocht them hame?" said the waiter, an acute - lad, who had served his apprenticeship at a commercial tavern in the - Gorbals; "Ye was gey an' fou when ye cam in here yestreen." - </p> - <p> - "What do you mean, you rascal?" - </p> - <p> - "Ye ken ye wadna gang to bed till ye had anither tumbler." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13b" id="Page_13b">[Pg 13]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Don't talk trash! It was the weakest cold-without in the creation." - </p> - <p> - "And then ye had a sair fecht on politics wi' anither man in the - coffee-room." - </p> - <p> - "Ha! I remember now—the bagman, who is a member of the League! Where - is the commercial villain?" - </p> - <p> - "He gaed aff at sax preceesely, this morning, in his gig, to Kelso." - </p> - <p> - "Then, by the head of Thistlewood!" cried Strachan, frantically, "my - ticker will be turned into tracts against the Corn-laws!" - </p> - <p> - "Hoot na!" said the waiter, "I canna think that. He looked an unco - respectable-like man." - </p> - <p> - "No man can be respectable," replied the aristocratic Thomas, "who sports - such infernal opinions as I heard him utter last night. My poor studs! - Fred—they were a gift from Mary Rivers before we quarrelled, and I - would not have lost them for the universe! Only think of them being - exposed for sale at a free-trade bazaar!" - </p> - <p> - "Come, Tom—they may turn up yet." - </p> - <p> - "Never in this world, except at a pawnbroker's. I could go mad to think - that my last memorial of Mary is in all probability glittering in the - unclean shirt of a bagman!" - </p> - <p> - "Had you not better apply to the Fiscal?" - </p> - <p> - "For what purpose? Doubtless the scoundrel has driven off to the nearest - railway, and is triumphantly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14b" - id="Page_14b">[Pg 14]</a></span> counting the mile-posts as he steams to - his native Leeds. No, Fred. Both watch and studs are gone beyond the hope - of redemption." - </p> - <p> - "The loss is certainly a serious one." - </p> - <p> - "No doubt of it: but a thought strikes me. You recollect the edict, <i>nautæ</i>, - <i>caupones</i>, <i>stabularii</i>? I have not studied the civil law for - nothing, and am clearly of opinion that in such a case the landlord is - liable." - </p> - <p> - "By Jove! I believe you are right. But it would be as well to turn up Shaw - and Dunlop for a precedent before you make any row about it. Besides, it - may be rather difficult to establish that you lost them at the inn." - </p> - <p> - "If they only refer the matter to my oath, I can easily settle that - point," replied Strachan. "Besides, now that I think of it, Miss Percy can - speak to the watch. She asked me what o'clock it was just before we parted - on the stairs." - </p> - <p> - "Eh, what! Is the lady in this house?" - </p> - <p> - "To be sure—did I not tell you so?" - </p> - <p> - "I say, Tom—couldn't you contrive to let one have a peep at this - angel of yours?" - </p> - <p> - "Quite impossible. She is the shyest creature in the world, and would - shrink from the sight of a stranger." - </p> - <p> - "But, my dear Tom——" - </p> - <p> - "I can't do it, I tell you; so it's no use asking me." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15b" id="Page_15b">[Pg 15]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Well, I must say you are abominably selfish. But what on earth are you - going to do with that red-and-blue Joinville? You can't go down to court - without a white neckcloth." - </p> - <p> - "I am not going down to court." - </p> - <p> - "Why, my good fellow! what on earth is the meaning of this?" - </p> - <p> - "I am not going down to court, that's all. I say, Fred, how do I look in - this sort of thing?" - </p> - <p> - "Uncommonly like a cock-pheasant in full plumage. But tell me what you - mean?" - </p> - <p> - "Why, since you must needs know, I am going up-stairs to breakfast with - Miss Percy." - </p> - <p> - So saying, Mr Strachan made me a polite bow, and left the apartment. I - took my solitary way to the court-house, marvelling at the extreme - rapidity of the effect which is produced by the envenomed darts of Cupid. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <h3> - <a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</a> - </h3> - <p> - On entering the court, I found that the business had commenced. An - enormous raw-boned fellow, with a shock of the fieriest hair, and hands of - such dimensions that a mere glimpse of them excited unpleasant sensations - at your windpipe, was stationed at the bar, to which, from previous - practice, he had acquired a sort of prescriptive right. - </p> - <p> - "James M'Wilkin, or Wilkinson, or Wilson,"<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_16b" id="Page_16b">[Pg 16]</a></span> said the presiding judge, - in a tone of disgust which heightened with each successive alias, "attend - to the indictment which is about to be preferred against you." - </p> - <p> - And certainly, if the indictment contained a true statement of the facts, - James M'Wilkin, or Wilkinson, or Wilson, was about as thoroughpaced a - marauder as ever perambulated a common. He was charged with sheep-stealing - and assault; inasmuch as, on a certain night subsequent to the Kelso fair, - he, the said individual with the plural denominations, did wickedly and - feloniously steal, uplift, and away take from a field adjoining to the - Northumberland road, six wethers, the property, or in the lawful - possession, of Jacob Gubbins, grazier, then and now, or lately, residing - in Morpeth; and, moreover, on being followed by the said Gubbins, who - demanded restitution of his property, he, the said M'Wilkin, &c. had, - in the most brutal manner, struck, knocked down, and lavished divers kicks - upon the corporality of the Northumbrian bumpkin, to the fracture of three - of his ribs, and otherwise to the injury of his person. - </p> - <p> - During the perusal of this formidable document by the clerk, M'Wilkin - stood scratching his poll, and leering about him as though he considered - the whole ceremony as a sort of solemn joke. I never in the course of my - life cast eyes on a more nonchalant or unmitigated ruffian. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17b" id="Page_17b">[Pg 17]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "How do you say, M'Wilkin?" asked the judge; "are you guilty or not - guilty?" - </p> - <p> - "Not guilty, aff course. D'ye tak me for a fule?" and M'Wilkin flounced - down upon his seat, as though he had been an ornament to society. - </p> - <p> - "Have you a counsel?" asked the judge. - </p> - <p> - "De'il ane—nor a bawbee," replied the free-booter. - </p> - <p> - Acting upon the noble principle of Scottish jurisprudence, that no man - shall undergo his trial without sufficient legal advice, his lordship in - the kindest manner asked me to take charge of the fortunes of the forlorn - M'Wilkin. Of course I made no scruples; for, so long as it was matter of - practice, I should have felt no hesitation in undertaking the defence of - Beelzebub. I therefore leaned across the dock, and exchanged a few hurried - sentences with my first client. - </p> - <p> - "Why don't you plead guilty?" - </p> - <p> - "What for? I've been here before. Man, I'm thinking ye're a saft ane!" - </p> - <p> - "Did you not steal the sheep?" - </p> - <p> - "Ay—that's just the question. Let them find that out." - </p> - <p> - "But the grazier saw you?" - </p> - <p> - "I blackened his e'es." - </p> - <p> - "You'll be transported to a dead certainty." - </p> - <p> - "Deevil a fears, if ye're worth the price o' half a mutchkin. I'm saying—get - me a Hawick jury,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18b" id="Page_18b">[Pg - 18]</a></span> and it's a' richt. They ken me gey and weel thereabouts." - </p> - <p> - Although I was by no means satisfied in my own mind that an intimate - acquaintance with M'Wilkin and his previous pursuits would be a strong - recommendation in his favour to any possible assize, I thought it best to - follow his instructions, and managed my challenges so well that I secured - a majority of Hawickers. The jury being sworn in, the cause proceeded; and - certainly, before three witnesses had been examined, it appeared to me - beyond all manner of doubt, that, in the language of Tom Campbell, my - unfortunate client was - </p> - <p> - "Doom'd the long coves of Sydney isle to see,"<br /> - </p> - <p> - as a permanent addition to that cultivated and Patagonian population. The - grazier stood to his story like a man, and all efforts to break him down - by cross-examination were fruitless. There was also another hawbuck who - swore to the sheep, and was witness to the assault; so that, in fact, the - evidence was legally complete. - </p> - <p> - Whilst I was occupied in the vain attempt to make Gubbins contradict - himself, there had been a slight commotion in the court-room. On looking - round afterwards, I was astonished to behold my friend Strachan seated in - the Magistrate's box, next to a very pretty and showily-dressed woman, to - whom he was paying the most marked and deliberate<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_19b" id="Page_19b">[Pg 19]</a></span> attention. On the other - side of her was an individual in a civic chain, whose fat, pursy, - apoplectic appearance, and nose of the colour of an Orleans plum, - thoroughly realised my mental picture of the Bailie. His small, blood-shot - eyes twinkled with magisterial dignity and importance; and he looked, - beside Miss Percy—for I could not doubt that it was she—like a - satyr in charge of Florimel. - </p> - <p> - The last witness for the crown, a very noted police-officer from Glasgow, - was then put into the box, to prove a previous conviction against my - friend M'Wilkin. This man bore a high reputation in his calling, and was, - indeed, esteemed as a sort of Scottish Vidocq, who knew by headmark every - filcher of a handkerchief between Caithness and the Border. He met the - bold broad stare of the prisoner with a kind of nod, as much as to assure - him that his time was very nearly up; and then deliberately proceeded to - take a hawk's-eye view of the assembly. I noticed a sort of quiet sneer as - he glanced at the Magistrate's box. - </p> - <p> - "Poor Strachan!" thought I. "His infatuation must indeed be palpable, - since even a common officer can read his secret in a moment." - </p> - <p> - I might just as well have tried to shake Ailsa Craig as to make an - impression upon this witness; however, heroically devoted to my trust, I - hazarded the attempt, and ended by bringing out several additional<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20b" id="Page_20b">[Pg 20]</a></span> tales - of turpitude in the life and times of M'Wilkin. - </p> - <p> - "Make room there in the passage! The lady has fainted," cried the macer. - </p> - <p> - I started to my feet, and was just in time to see Miss Percy conveyed from - the court, in an apparently inanimate state, by the Bailie and the - agitated Strachan. - </p> - <p> - "Devilish fine-looking woman that!" observed the Advocate-Depute across - the table. "Where did your friend Mr Strachan get hold of her?" - </p> - <p> - "I really don't know. I say—are you going to address the jury for - the crown?" - </p> - <p> - "It is quite immaterial. The case is distinctly proved, and I presume you - don't intend to speak?" - </p> - <p> - "I'm not so sure of that." - </p> - <p> - "Oh, well,—in that case I suppose I must say a word or two. This - closes the evidence for the crown, my lord;" and the Depute began to turn - over his papers, preparatory to a short harangue. - </p> - <p> - He had just commenced his speech, when I felt a hand laid upon my - shoulder. I looked around: Strachan was behind me, pale and almost - breathless with excitement. - </p> - <p> - "Fred—can I depend upon your friendship?" - </p> - <p> - "Of course you can. What's the row?" - </p> - <p> - "Have you ten pounds about you?" - </p> - <p> - "Yes—but what do you mean to do with them?<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_21b" id="Page_21b">[Pg 21]</a></span> Surely you are not going - to make a blockhead of yourself by bolting?" - </p> - <p> - "No—no! give me the money—quick!" - </p> - <p> - "On your word of honour, Tom?" - </p> - <p> - "On my sacred word of honour!—That's a good fellow—thank you, - Fred;" and Strachan pocketed the currency. "Now," said he, "I have just - one other request to make." - </p> - <p> - "What's that?" - </p> - <p> - "Speak against time, there's a dear fellow! Spin out the case as long as - you can, and don't let the jury retire for at least three quarters of an - hour. I know you can do it better than any other man at the bar." - </p> - <p> - "Are you in earnest, Tom?" - </p> - <p> - "Most solemnly. My whole future happiness—nay, perhaps the life of a - human being depends upon it." - </p> - <p> - "In that case I think I shall tip them an hour." - </p> - <p> - "Heaven reward you, Fred! I never can forget your kindness!" - </p> - <p> - "But where shall I see you afterwards?" - </p> - <p> - "At the hotel. Now, my dear boy, be sure that you pitch it in, and, if - possible, get the judge to charge after you. Time's all that's wanted—adieu!" - and Tom disappeared in a twinkling. - </p> - <p> - I had little leisure to turn over the meaning of this interview in my - mind, for the address of my learned opponent was very short and pithy. He<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22b" id="Page_22b">[Pg 22]</a></span> merely - pointed out the clear facts, as substantiated by evidence, and brought - home to the unhappy M'Wilkin; and concluded by demanding a verdict on both - charges contained in the indictment against the prisoner. - </p> - <p> - "Do you wish to say anything, sir?" said the judge to me, with a kind of - tone which indicated his hope that I was going to say nothing. Doubtless - his lordship thought that, as a very young counsel, I would take the hint; - but he was considerably mistaken in his man. I came to the bar for - practice—I went on the circuit with the solemn determination to - speak in every case, however desperate; and it needed not the admonition - of Strachan to make me carry my purpose into execution. What did I care - about occupying the time of the court? His lordship was paid to listen, - and could very well afford to hear the man who was pleading for M'Wilkin - without a fee. I must say, however, that he looked somewhat disgusted when - I rose. - </p> - <p> - A first appearance is a nervous thing, but there is nothing like going - boldly at your subject. "<i>Fiat experimentum in corpore vili</i>" is a - capital maxim in the Justiciary Court. The worse your case, the less - chance you have to spoil it; and I never had a worse than M'Wilkin's. - </p> - <p> - I began by buttering the jury on their evident intelligence and the high - functions they had to discharge, which of course were magnified to the<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23b" id="Page_23b">[Pg 23]</a></span> skies. - I then went slap-dash at the evidence; and, as I could say nothing in - favour of my client, directed a tremendous battery of abuse and - insinuation against his accuser. - </p> - <p> - "And who is this Gubbins, gentlemen, that you should believe this most - incredible, most atrocious, and most clumsy apocrypha of his? I will tell - you. He is an English butcher—a dealer in cattle and in bestial—one - of those men who derive their whole subsistence from the profits realised - by the sale of our native Scottish produce. This is the way in which our - hills are depopulated, and our glens converted into solitudes. It is for - him and his confederates—not for us—that our shepherds watch - and toil, that our herds and flocks are reared, that the richness of the - land is absorbed! And who speaks to the character of this Gubbins? You - have heard the pointless remarks made by my learned friend upon the - character of my unfortunate client; but he has not dared to adduce in this - court one single witness in behalf of the character of his witness. - Gentlemen, he durst not do it! Gubbins has deponed to you that he bought - those sheep at the fair of Kelso, from a person of the name of Shiells, - and that he paid the money for them. Where is the evidence of that? Where - is Shiells to tell us whether he actually sold these sheep, or whether, on - the contrary, they were not stolen from him? Has it been proved to you, - gentlemen, that M'Wilkin<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24b" - id="Page_24b">[Pg 24]</a></span> is not a friend of Shiells—that he - did not receive notice of the theft—that he did not pursue the - robber, and, recognising the stolen property by their mark, seize them for - the benefit of their owner? No such proof at least has been led upon the - part of the crown, and in the absence of it, I ask you fearlessly, whether - you can possibly violate your consciences by returning a verdict of - guilty? Is it not possible—nay, is it not extremely probable, that - Gubbins was the actual thief? Was it not his interest, far more than - M'Wilkin's, to abstract those poor unhappy sheep, because it is avowedly - his trade to fill the insatiable maw of the Southron? And in that case, - who should be at the bar? Gubbins! Gubbins, I say, who this day has the - unparalleled audacity to appear before an enlightened Scottish jury, and - to give evidence which, in former times, might have led to the awful - consequence of the execution of an innocent man! And this is what my - learned friend calls evidence! Evidence to condemn a fellow-countryman, - gentlemen? No—not to condemn a dog!" - </p> - <p> - Having thus summarily disposed of Gubbins, I turned my artillery against - the attendant drover and the policeman. The first I indignantly denounced - as either an accomplice or a tool: the second I smote more severely. - Policemen are not popular in Hawick; and, knowing this, I contrived to - blacken the Scottish Vidocq as a bloodhound. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25b" id="Page_25b">[Pg 25]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - But by far the finest flight of fancy in which I indulged was reserved for - the peroration. I was not quite sure of the effect of my commentary on the - evidence, and therefore thought it might be advisable to touch upon a - national law. - </p> - <p> - "And now, gentlemen," said I, "assuming for one moment that all my learned - friend has said to you is true—that the sheep really belonged to - this Gubbins, and were taken from him by M'Wilkin—let us calmly and - deliberately consider how far such a proceeding can be construed into a - crime. What has my unfortunate client done that he should be condemned by - a jury of his countrymen? What he stands charged with is simply this—that - he has prevented an Englishman from driving away the produce of our native - hills. And is this a crime? It may be so, for aught I know, by statute; - but sure I am, that in the intention, to which alone you must look, there - lies a far deeper element of patriotism than of deliberate guilt. Think - for one moment, gentlemen, of the annals of which we are so proud—of - the ballads still chanted in the hall and in the hamlet—of the - lonely graves and headstones that are scattered all along the surface of - the southern muirs. Do not these annals tell us how the princes and the - nobles of the land were wont to think it neither crime nor degradation to - march with their retainers across the Borders, and to harry with fire and - sword the fields of Northumberland<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26b" - id="Page_26b">[Pg 26]</a></span> and Durham? Randolph and the Bruce have - done it, and yet no one dares to attach the stigma of dishonour to their - names. Do not our ballads tell how at Lammas-tide, - </p> - <p> - 'The doughty Earl of Douglas rade<br /> <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Into - England to fetch a prey?'</span><br /> - </p> - <p> - And who shall venture to impeach the honour of the hero who fell upon the - field of Otterbourne? Need I remind you of those who have died in their - country's cause, and whose graves are still made the object of many a - pious pilgrimage? Need I speak of Flodden, that woeful place, where the - Flowers of the Forest were left lying in one ghastly heap around their - king? Ah, gentlemen! have I touched you now? True, it was in the olden - time that these things were done and celebrated; but remember this, that - society may change its place, states and empires may rise and be - consolidated, but patriotism still lives enduring and undying as of yore! - And who shall dare to say that patriotism was not the motive of M'Wilkin? - Who shall presume to analyse or to blame the instinct which may have - driven him to the deed? Call him not a felon—call him rather a poet; - for over his kindling imagination fell the mighty shadow of the past. Old - thoughts, old feelings, old impulses, were burning in his soul. He saw in - Gubbins, not the grazier, but the lawless spoiler of his country; and he - rose, as a Borderer should, to vindicate the honour of his<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27b" id="Page_27b">[Pg 27]</a></span> race. - He may have been mistaken in what he did, but the motive, at least, was - pure. Honour it then, gentlemen, for it is the same motive which is at all - times the best safeguard of a nation's independence; and do honour - likewise to yourselves by pronouncing a unanimous verdict of acquittal in - favour of the prisoner at the bar!" - </p> - <p> - By the time I had finished this harangue, I was wrought up to such a pitch - of enthusiasm, that I really considered M'Wilkin in the light of an - extremely ill-used individual, and the tears stood in my eyes as I - recapitulated the history of his wrongs. Several of the jury, too, began - to get extremely excited, and looked as fierce as falcons when I reminded - them of the field of Flodden. But my hopes were considerably damped when I - heard the charge of his lordship. With all respect for the eminent senator - who that day presided on the bench, I think he went rather too far when he - designated my maiden-effort a rhapsody which could only be excused on - account of the inexperience of the gentleman who uttered it. Passing from - that unpleasant style of stricture, he went <i>seriatim</i> over all the - crimes of M'Wilkin, and very distinctly indicated his opinion that a more - consummate ruffian had seldom figured in the dock. When he concluded, - however, there was a good deal of whispering in the jury-box, and at last - the gentlemen of the assize requested permission to retire. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28b" id="Page_28b">[Pg 28]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "That was a fine flare-up of yours, Freddy," said Anthony Whaup, the only - other counsel for the prisoners upon the circuit. "You came it rather - strong, though, in the national line. I don't think our venerable friend - overhead half likes your ideas of international law." - </p> - <p> - "Why, yes—I confess he gave me a tolerable wigging. But what would - you have me do? I must have said some thing." - </p> - <p> - "Oh, by Jove, your were perfectly right! I always make a point of speaking - myself; and I can assure you that you did remarkably well. It was a novel - view, but decidedly ingenious, and may lead to great results. If that - fellow gets off, you may rely upon it there will be some bloodshed again - upon the Border." - </p> - <p> - "And a jolly calendar, of course, for next circuit. I say, Anthony,—how - many cases have you got?" - </p> - <p> - "Two thefts with habit and repute, a hamesucken, rather a good forgery, - and an assault with intent to commit." - </p> - <p> - "Long?" - </p> - <p> - "Rather—but poor pay. I haven't sacked more than nine guineas - altogether. Gad!" continued Anthony, stretching himself, "this is slow - work. I'd rather by a great deal be rowing on the canal." - </p> - <p> - "Hush! here come the jury." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29b" id="Page_29b">[Pg 29]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - They entered, took their seats, and each man in succession answered to his - name. I stole a glance at M'Wilkin. He looked as leonine as ever, and kept - winking perseveringly to the Hawickers. - </p> - <p> - "Now, gentlemen," said the clerk of court, "what is your verdict?" - </p> - <p> - The foreman rose. - </p> - <p> - "The jury, by a majority, find the charges against the prisoner <span - class="smcap">not proven</span>." - </p> - <p> - "Hurrah!" shouted M'Wilkin, reckless of all authority. "Hurrah! I say—you - counsellor in the wig—ye shanna want a sheep's head thae three - years, if there's ane to be had on the Border!" - </p> - <p> - And in this way I gained my first acquittal. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <h3> - <a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</a> - </h3> - <p> - I found Strachan in his room with his face buried in the bed-clothes. He - was kicking his legs as though he suffered under a violent fit of the - toothache. - </p> - <p> - "I say, Tom, what's the matter? Look up, man! Do you know I've got that - scoundrel off?" - </p> - <p> - No answer. - </p> - <p> - "Tom, I say? Tom, you dunderhead—what do you mean by making an ass - of yourself this way? Get up, for shame, and answer me!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30b" id="Page_30b">[Pg 30]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Poor Strachan raised his head from the coverlet. His eyes were absolutely - pink, and his cheeks of the tint of a lemon. - </p> - <p> - "O Fred, Fred!" said he with a series of interjectional gasps, "I am the - most unfortunate wretch in the universe. All the hopes I had formerly - cherished are blighted at once in the bud! She is gone, my friend—gone - away from me, and, alas! I fear, for ever!" - </p> - <p> - "The deuce she has! and how?" - </p> - <p> - "Oh what madness tempted me to lead her to the court?—what - infatuation it was to expose those angelic features to the risk of - recognition! Who that ever saw those dove-like eyes could forget them?" - </p> - <p> - "I have no objection to the eyes—they were really very passable. But - who twigged her?" - </p> - <p> - "An emissary of her father's—that odious miscreant who was giving - evidence at the trial." - </p> - <p> - "The policeman? Whew! Tom!—I don't like that." - </p> - <p> - "He was formerly the land-steward of the Viscount;—a callous, cruel - wretch, who was more than suspected of having made away with his wife." - </p> - <p> - "And did he recognise her?" - </p> - <p> - "Dorothea says that she felt fascinated by the glitter of his cold grey - eye. A shuddering sensation passed through her frame, just as the poor - warbler of the woods quivers at the approach of<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_31b" id="Page_31b">[Pg 31]</a></span> the rattle-snake. A dark - mist gathered before her sight, and she saw no more until she awoke to - consciousness within my arms." - </p> - <p> - "Very pretty work, truly! And what then?" - </p> - <p> - "In great agitation, she told me that she durst tarry no longer here. She - was certain that the officer would make it his business to track her, and - communicate her hiding-place to her family; and she shook with horror when - she thought of the odious Israelitish bridegroom. 'The caverns of the deep - green sea—the high Tarpeian rock—the Leucadian cliff of - Sappho,' she said, 'all would be preferable to that! And yet, O Thomas, to - think that we should have met so suddenly, and that to part for ever!' - 'Pon my soul, Fred, I am the most miserable of created beings." - </p> - <p> - "Why, what on earth has become of her?" - </p> - <p> - "Gone—and I don't know whither. She would not even apprise the - Bailie of her departure, lest she might leave some clue for discovery. She - desired me to see him, to thank him, and to pay him for her,—all of - which I promised to do. With one kiss—one deep, burning, agonised - kiss—which I shall carry with me to my grave—she tore herself - away, sprang into the postchaise, and in another moment was lost to me for - ever!" - </p> - <p> - "And my ten pounds?" said I, in a tone of considerable emotion. - </p> - <p> - "Would you have had me think twice," asked<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_32b" id="Page_32b">[Pg 32]</a></span> Strachan indignantly, - "before I tendered my assistance to a forlorn angel in distress, even - though she possessed no deeper claims on my sympathy? I thought, - Frederick, you had more chivalry in your nature. You need not be uneasy - about that trifle; I shall be in funds some time about Christmas." - </p> - <p> - "Humph! I thought it was a P. P. transaction, but no matter. And is this - all the clue you have got to the future residence of the lady?" - </p> - <p> - "No,—she is to write me from the nearest post-town. You will see, - Fred, when the letter arrives, how well worthy she is of my adoration." - </p> - <p> - I have found, by long experience, that it is no use remonstrating with a - man who is head-over-ears in love. The tender passion affects us - differently, according to our constitutions. One set of fellows, who are - generally the pleasantest, seldom get beyond the length of flirtation. - They are always at it, but constantly changing, and therefore manage to - get through a tolerable catalogue of attachments before they are finally - brought to book. Such men are quite able to take care of themselves, and - require but little admonition. You no doubt hear them now and then abused - for trifling with the affections of young women—as if the latter had - themselves the slightest remorse in playing precisely the same game!—but - in most cases such censure is undeserved, for they are quite as much<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33b" id="Page_33b">[Pg 33]</a></span> in - earnest as their neighbours, so long as the impulse lasts. The true - explanation is, that they have survived their first passion, and that - their faith is somewhat shaken in the boyish creed of the absolute - perfectibility of woman. The great disappointment of life does not make - them misanthropes—but it forces them to caution, and to a closer - appreciation of character than is usually undertaken in the first - instance. They have become, perhaps, more selfish—certainly more - suspicious, and though often on the verge of a proposal, they never commit - themselves without an extreme degree of deliberation. - </p> - <p> - Another set seem designed by nature to be the absolute victims of woman. - Whenever they fall in love, they do it with an earnestness and an - obstinacy which is actually appalling. The adored object of their - affections can twine them round her finger, quarrel with them, cheat them, - caricature them, or flirt with others, without the least risk of severing - the triple cord of attachment. They become as tame as poodle-dogs, will - submit patiently to any manner of cruelty or caprice, and in fact seem - rather to be grateful for such treatment than otherwise. Clever women - usually contrive to secure a captive of this kind. He is useful to them in - a hundred ways, never interferes with their schemes, and, if the worst - comes to the worst, they can always fall back upon him as a <i>pis-aller</i>. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34b" id="Page_34b">[Pg 34]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - My friend Tom Strachan belonged decidedly to this latter section. Mary - Rivers, a remarkably clever and very showy girl, but as arrant a flirt as - ever wore rosebud in her bosom, had engrossed the whole of his heart - before he reached the reflecting age of twenty, and kept him for nearly - five years in a state of uncomplaining bondage. Not that I believe she - ever cared about him. Tom was as poor as a church-mouse, and had nothing - on earth to look to except the fruits of his professional industry, which, - judging from all appearances, would be a long time indeed in ripening. - Mary was not the sort of person to put up with love in a cottage, even had - Tom's circumstances been adequate to defray the rent of a tenement of that - description: she had a vivid appreciation, not only of the substantials - but of the higher luxuries of existence. But her vanity was flattered at - having in her train at least one devoted dangler, whom she could play off, - whenever opportunity required, against some more valuable admirer. - Besides, Strachan was a man of family, tall, good-looking, and - unquestionably clever in his way: he also danced the polka well, and was - useful in the ball-room or the picnic. So Mary Rivers kept him on in a - kind of blissful dream, just sunning him sufficiently with her smiles to - make him believe that he was beloved, but never allowing matters to go so - far as to lead to the report that they were engaged. Tom asked<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35b" id="Page_35b">[Pg 35]</a></span> for - nothing more. He was quite contented to indulge for years in a dream of - future bliss, and wrote during the interval a great many more sonnets than - summonses. Unfortunately sonnets don't pay well, so that his worldly - affairs did not progress at any remarkable ratio. And he only awoke to a - sense of his real situation, when Miss Rivers, having picked a quarrel - with him one day in the Zoological Gardens, announced on the next to her - friends that she had accepted the hand of a bilious East India merchant. - </p> - <p> - Tom made an awful row about it—grew as attenuated and brown as an - eel—and garnished his conversation with several significant hints - about suicide. He was, however, saved from that ghastly alternative by - being drafted into a Rowing Club, who plied their gondolas daily on the - Union Canal. Hard exercise, beer, and pulling had their usual sanatory - effect, and Tom gradually recovered his health, if not his spirits. - </p> - <p> - It was at this very crisis that he fell in with this mysterious Miss - Percy. There was an immense hole in his affections which required to be - filled up; and, as nature abhors a vacuum, he plugged it with the image of - Dorothea. The flight, therefore, of the fair levanter, after so brief an - intercourse, was quite enough to upset him. He was in the situation of a - man who is informed over-night that he has succeeded to a large fortune, - and who gets a letter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36b" id="Page_36b">[Pg - 36]</a></span> next morning explaining that it is a mere mistake. I was - therefore not at all astonished either at his paroxysms or his credulity. - </p> - <p> - We had rather a dreary dinner that day. The judges always entertain the - first day of circuit, and it is considered matter of etiquette that the - counsel should attend. Sometimes these forensic feeds are pleasant enough; - but on the present occasion there was a visible damp thrown over the - spirits of the party. His lordship was evidently savage at the unforeseen - escape of M'Wilkin, and looked upon me, as I thought, with somewhat of a - prejudiced eye. Bailie Beerie and the other magistrates seemed uneasy at - their unusual proximity to a personage who had the power of death and - transportation, and therefore abstained from emitting the accustomed - torrent of civic facetiousness. One of the sheriffs wanted to be off on a - cruise, and another was unwell with the gout. The Depute Advocate was - fagged; Whaup surly as a bear with a sore ear, on account of the tenuity - of his fees; and Strachan, of course, in an extremely unconversational - mood. So I had nothing for it but to eat and drink as plentifully as I - could, and very thankful I was that the claret was tolerably sound. - </p> - <p> - We rose from table early. As I did not like to leave Tom to himself in his - present state of mind, we adjourned to his room for the purpose of - enjoying a cigar; and there, sure enough, upon the table<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37b" id="Page_37b">[Pg 37]</a></span> lay - the expected missive. Strachan dashed at it like a pike pouncing upon a - parr; I lay down upon the sofa, lit my weed, and amused myself by watching - his physiognomy. - </p> - <p> - "Dear suffering angel!" said Tom at last, with a sort of whimper, "Destiny - has done its worst! We have parted, and the first fond dream of our love - has vanished before the cold and dreary dawn of reality! O my friend—we - were like the two birds in the Oriental fable, each doomed to traverse the - world before we could encounter our mate—we met, and almost in the - same hour the thunderbolt burst above us!" - </p> - <p> - "Yes—two very nice birds," said I. "But what does she say in the - letter?" - </p> - <p> - "You may read it," replied Tom, and he handed me the epistle. It was - rather a superior specimen of penmanship, and I don't choose to criticise - the style. Its tenor was as follows:— - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "I am hardly yet, my dear friend, capable of estimating the true extent of - my emotions. Like the buoyant seaweed torn from its native bed among the - submarine forest of the corals, I have been tossed from wave to wave, - hurried onwards by a stream more resistless than that which sweeps through - the Gulf of Labrador, and far—far away as yet is the wished-for - haven of my rest. Hitherto my life has been a tissue of calamity and woe. - Over my head <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38b" id="Page_38b">[Pg 38]</a></span>since - childhood, has stretched a dull and dreary canopy of clouds, shutting me - out for ever from a glimpse of the blessed sun. Once, and but once only - have I seen a chasm in that envious veil—only once and for a few, a - <i>very</i> few moments, have I gazed upon the blue empyrean, and felt my - heart expand and thrill to the glories of its liquid lustre. That once—oh, - Mr Strachan, can I ever forget it?—that once comprises the era of - the few hours which were the silent witnesses of our meeting! - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "Am I weak in writing to you thus? Perhaps I am; but then, Thomas, I have - never been taught to dissemble. Did I, however, think it probable that we - should ever meet again—that I should hear from your lips a - repetition of that language which now is chronicled in my soul—it - may be that I would not have dared to risk an avowal so candid and so - dear! As it is, it matters not. You have been my benefactor, my kind - consoler—my friend. You have told me that you love; and in the - fulness and native simplicity of my heart, I believe you. And if it be any - satisfaction to you to know that your sentiments have been at least - appreciated, believe that of all the pangs which the poor Dorothea has - suffered, this last agony of parting has been incomparably the most - severe. - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "You asked me if there was no hope. Oh, my Thomas! what would I not give - could I venture to answer, yes? But it cannot be! You are young <span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39b" id="Page_39b">[Pg 39]</a></span>and - happy, and will yet be fortunate and beloved: why, then, should I permit - so fair an existence to be blighted by the upas-tree of destiny under - which I am doomed to languish? You shall not say that I am selfish—you - shall not hereafter reproach me for having permitted you to share a burden - too great for both of us to carry. You must learn the one great lesson of - existence, to submit and to forget! - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "I am going far away, to the margin of that inhospitable shore which - receives upon its rocks the billows of the unbroken Atlantic—or - haply, amongst the remoter isles, I shall listen to the sea-mew's cry. Do - not weep for me. Amidst the myriad of bright and glowing things which - flutter over the surface of this green creation, let one feeble, choking, - overburdened heart be forgotten! Follow me not—seek me not—for, - like the mermaid on the approach of the mariner, I should shrink from the - face of man into the glassy caverns of the deep. - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "Adieu, Thomas, adieu! Say what you will for me to the noble and generous - Beerie. Would to heaven that I could send him some token in return for all - his kindness! But a good and gallant heart is its own most adequate - reward. - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "They are putting to the horses—I can hear the rumble of the - chariot! Oh, once more, dear friend—alas, too inexpressibly dear!—take - my last farewell. Adieu—my heart is breaking as I write the bitter - word!—forget me." - </p> - <p class="blockquot right"> - "<span class="smcap">Dorothea.</span>" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40b" id="Page_40b">[Pg 40]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Do you wonder at my sorrow now?" said Strachan, as I laid down the - passionate epistle. - </p> - <p> - "Why, no. It is well got up upon the whole, and does credit to the lady's - erudition. But I don't see why she should insist so strongly upon eternal - separation. Have you no idea whereabouts that aunt of hers may happen to - reside?" - </p> - <p> - "Not the slightest." - </p> - <p> - "Because, judging from her letter, it must be somewhere about Benbecula or - Tiree. I shouldn't even wonder if she had a summer box on St Kilda." - </p> - <p> - "Right! I did not think of that—you observe she speaks of the - remoter isles." - </p> - <p> - "To be sure, and for half a century there has not been a mermaid seen to - the east of the Lewis. Now, take my advice, Tom—don't make a fool of - yourself in the meantime, but wait until the Court of Session rises in - July. That will allow plenty of time for matters to settle; and if the old - Viscount and that abominable Abiram don't find her out before then, you - may depend upon it they will abandon the search. In the interim, the lady - will have cooled. Walks upon the sea-shore are uncommonly dull without - something like reciprocal sentimentality. The odds are, that the old aunt - is addicted to snuff, tracts, and the distribution of flannel, and before - August, the fair Dorothea will be yearning for a sight of her adorer. You - can easily gammon Anthony Whaup into a loan of that yacht of his which<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41b" id="Page_41b">[Pg 41]</a></span> he - makes such a boast of; and if you go prudently about it, and flatter him - on the score of his steering, I haven't the least doubt that he will - victual his hooker and give you a cruise in it for nothing." - </p> - <p> - "Admirable, my dear Fred! We shall touch at all the isles from Iona to - Uist; and if Miss Percy be indeed there—" - </p> - <p> - "You can carry her off on five minutes' notice, and our long friend will - be abundantly delighted. Only, mind this! If you want my candid opinion on - the wisdom of such an alliance, I should strongly recommend you to meddle - no farther in the matter, for I have my doubts about the Honourable - Dorothea, and——" - </p> - <p> - "Bah, Fred! Doubts after such a letter as that? Impossible! No, my dear - friend—your scheme is admirable—unexceptionable, and I shall - certainly act upon it. But oh—it is a weary time till July!" - </p> - <p> - "Merely a short interval of green pease and strawberries. I advise you, - however, to fix down Whaup as early as you can for the cruise." - </p> - <p> - The hint was rapidly taken. We sent for our facetious friend, ordered - supper, and in the course of a couple of tumblers, persuaded him that his - knowledge of nautical affairs was not exceeded by that of T. P. Cooke, and - that he was much deeper versed in the mysteries of sky-scraping than - Fenimore Cooper. Whaup gave in. By dint of a little extra persuasion, I - believe we might have coaxed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42b" - id="Page_42b">[Pg 42]</a></span> him into a voyage for Otaheite; and - before we parted for the evening it was agreed that Strachan should hold - himself in readiness to start for the Western Islands about the latter end - of July—Whaup being responsible for the provisions and champagne, - whilst Tom pledged himself to cigars. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <h3> - <a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a> - </h3> - <p> - I never ascertained the exact amount of the sum which Tom handed over to - the Bailie. It must, however, have been considerable, for he took to - retrenching his expenditure, and never once dropped a hint about the ten - pounds which I was so singularly verdant as to lend him. The summer - session stole away as quickly as its predecessors, though not, in so far - as I was concerned, quite as unprofitably, for I got a couple of - Sheriff-court papers to draw in consequence of my M'Wilkin appearance. - Tom, however, was very low about himself, and affected solitude. He would - not join in any of the strawberry lunches or fish dinners so attractive to - the junior members of the bar; but frequented the Botanical Gardens, where - he might be seen any fine afternoon, stretched upon the bank beside the - pond, concocting sonnets, or inscribing the name of Dorothea upon the - monument dedicated to Linnæus. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43b" id="Page_43b">[Pg 43]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Time, however, stole on. The last man who was going to be married got his - valedictory dinner at the close of the session. Gowns were thrown off, - wigs boxed up, and we all dispersed to the country wheresoever our - inclination might lead us. I resolved to devote the earlier part of the - vacation to the discovery of the town of Clackmannan—a place of - which I had often heard, but which no human being whom I ever encountered - had seen. Whaup was not oblivious of his promise, and Strachan clove unto - him like a limpet. - </p> - <p> - We did not meet again until September was well-nigh over. In common with - Strachan, I had adopted the resolution of changing my circuit, and - henceforth adhering to Glasgow, which, from its superior supply of - criminals, is the favourite resort of our young forensic aspirants. So I - packed my portmanteau, invoked the assistance of Saint Rollox, and started - for the balmy west. - </p> - <p> - The first man I met in George's Square was my own delightful Thomas. He - looked rather thin; was fearfully sun-burned; had on a pair of canvass - trousers most wofully bespattered with tar, and evidently had not shaved - for a fortnight. - </p> - <p> - "Why, Tom, my dear fellow!" cried I, "can this possibly be you? What the - deuce have you been doing with yourself? You look as hairy as Robinson - Crusoe." - </p> - <p> - "You should see Whaup,—he's rather worse off<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_44b" id="Page_44b">[Pg 44]</a></span> than Friday. We have just - landed at the Broomielaw, but I was obliged to leave Anthony in a tavern - for fear we should be mobbed in the street. I'm off by the rail to - Edinburgh, to get some decent toggery for us both. Lend me a pound-note, - will you?" - </p> - <p> - "Certainly—that's eleven, you recollect. But what's the meaning of - all this? Where is the yacht?" - </p> - <p> - "Safe—under twenty fathoms of dark blue water, at a place they call - the Sneeshanish Islands. Catch me going out again, with Anthony as - steersman!" - </p> - <p> - "No doubt he is an odd sort of Palinurus. But when did this happen?" - </p> - <p> - "Ten days ago. We were three days and nights upon the rock, with nothing - to eat except two biscuits, raw mussels and tangle!" - </p> - <p> - "Mercy on us! and how did you get off?" - </p> - <p> - "In a kelp-boat from Harris. But I haven't time for explanation just now. - Go down, like a good fellow, to the Broomielaw, No. 431—you will - find Anthony enjoying himself with beef steaks and bottled stout, in the - back parlour of the Cat and Bagpipes. I must refer you to him for the - details." - </p> - <p> - "One word more—you'll be back to the circuit?" - </p> - <p> - "Decidedly. To-morrow morning: as soon as I can get my things together." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45b" id="Page_45b">[Pg 45]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "And the lady—what news of her?" - </p> - <p> - The countenance of Strachan fell. - </p> - <p> - "Ah, my dear friend! I wish you had not touched upon that string—you - have set my whole frame a-jarring. No trace of her—none—none! - I fear I shall never see her more!" - </p> - <p> - "Come! don't be down-hearted. One never can tell what may happen. Perhaps - you may meet her sooner than you think." - </p> - <p> - "You are a kind-hearted fellow, Fred. But I've lost all hope. Nothing but - a dreary existence is now before me, and—but, by Jupiter, there goes - the starting bell!" - </p> - <p> - Tom vanished, like Aubrey's apparition, with a melodious twang, and a - perceptible odour of tar; and so, being determined to expiscate the - matter, I proceeded towards the Broomielaw, and in due time became master - of the locality of the Cat and Bagpipes. - </p> - <p> - "Is there a Mr Whaup here?" I inquired of Mrs M'Tavish, the landlady, who - was filling a gill-stoup at the bar. - </p> - <p> - "Here you are, old chap!" cried the hilarious voice of Anthony from an - inner apartment. "Turn to the right, steer clear of the scrubbing brushes, - and help yourself to a mouthful of Guinness." - </p> - <p> - I obeyed. Heavens, what a figure he was! His trousers were rent both at - the knees and elsewhere, and were kept together solely by means of<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46b" id="Page_46b">[Pg 46]</a></span> - whip-cord. His shirt had evidently not benefited by the removal of the - excise duties upon soap, and was screened from the scrutiny of the - beholder by an extempore paletot, fabricated out of sail-cloth, without - the remotest apology for sleeves. - </p> - <p> - Anthony, however, looked well in health, and appeared to be in tremendous - spirits. - </p> - <p> - "Tip us your fin, my old coxs'un!" said he, winking at me over the rim of - an enormous pewter vessel which effectually eclipsed the lower segment of - his visage. "Blessed if I ain't as glad to see you as one of Mother - Carey's chickens in a squall." - </p> - <p> - "Come, Anthony! leave off your nautical nonsense, and talk like a man of - the world. What on earth have you and Tom Strachan been after?" - </p> - <p> - "Nothing on earth, but a good deal on sea, and a trifle on as - uncomfortable a section of basalt as ever served two unhappy buccaniers - for bed, table, and sofa. The chillness is not off me yet." - </p> - <p> - "But how did it happen?" - </p> - <p> - "Very simply: but I'll tell you all about it. It's a long story, though, - so if you please I shall top off with something hot. I'm glad you've come, - however, for I had some doubts how far this sort of original Petersham - would inspire confidence as to my credit in the bosom of the fair - M'Tavish. It's all right now, however, so here goes for my yarn." - </p> - <p> - But I shall not follow my friend through all the<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_47b" id="Page_47b">[Pg 47]</a></span> windings of his - discourse, varied though it certainly was, like the adventures of the - venerated Sinbad. Suffice it to say, that they were hardly out of sight of - the Cumbraes before Tom confided the whole tale of his sorrows to the - callous Anthony, who, as he expressed it, had come out for a lark, and had - no idea of rummaging the whole of the west coast and the adjacent islands - for a petticoat. Moved, however, by the pathetic entreaties of Strachan, - and, perhaps, somewhat reconciled to the quest by the dim vision of an - elopement, Anthony magnanimously waived his objections, and the two kept - cruising together in a little shell of a yacht, all round the western - Archipelago. Besides themselves, there were only a man and a boy on board. - </p> - <p> - "It was slow work," said Anthony,—"deucedly slow. I would not have - minded the thing so much if Strachan had been reasonably sociable; but it - was rather irksome, you will allow, when, after the boy had brought in the - kettle, and we had made everything snug for the night, Master Strachan - began to maunder about the lady's eyes, and to tear his hair, and to call - himself the most miserable dog in existence. I had serious thoughts, at - one time, of leaving him ashore on Mull or Skye, and making off direct to - the Orkneys; but good-nature was always my foible, so I went on, beating - from one place to another, as though we had been looking for the wreck of - the Florida. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48b" id="Page_48b">[Pg 48]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "I'll never take another cruise with a lover so long as I live. Tom led me - all manner of dances, and we were twice fired at from farm-houses where he - was caterwauling beneath the windows with a guitar. It seems he had heard - that flame of his sing a Spanish air at Jedburgh. Tom must needs pick it - up, and you have no idea how he pestered me. Go where we would, he kept - harping on that abominable ditty, in the hope that his mistress might hear - him; and, when I remonstrated on the absurdity of the proceeding, he - quoted the case of Blondel, and some trash out of Uhland's ballads. - Serenading on the west coast is by no means a pleasant pastime. The nights - are as raw as an anchovy, and the midges particularly plentiful. - </p> - <p> - "Well, sir, we could find no trace of the lady after all. Strachan got - into low spirits, and I confess that I was sometimes sulky—so we had - an occasional blow-up, which by no means added to the conviviality of the - voyage. One evening, just at sundown, we entered the Sound of Sneeshanish—an - ugly place, let me tell you, at the best, but especially to be avoided in - any thing like a gale of wind. The clouds in the horizon looked - particularly threatening, and I got a little anxious, for I knew that - there were some rocks about, and not a lighthouse in the whole of the - district. - </p> - <p> - "In an hour or two it grew as dark as a wolf's throat. I could not for the - life of me make out<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49b" id="Page_49b">[Pg - 49]</a></span> where we were, for the Sound is very narrow in some parts, - and occasionally I thought that I could hear breakers ahead. - </p> - <p> - "'Tom,' said I, 'Tom, you lubber!—for our esteemed friend was, as - usual, lying on the deck, with a cigar in his mouth, twangling at that - eternal guitar—'take hold of the helm, will you, for a minute, while - I go down and look at the chart.' - </p> - <p> - "I was as cold as a cucumber; so, after having ascertained, as I best - could, the bearings about the Sound, I rather think I <i>did</i> stop - below for one moment—but not longer—just to mix a glass of - swizzle by way of fortification, for I didn't expect to get to bed that - night. All of a sudden I heard a shout from the bows, bolted upon deck, - and there, sure enough, was a black object right ahead, with the surf - shooting over it. - </p> - <p> - "'Luff, Tom! or we are all dead men;—Luff, I say!' shouted I. I - might as well have called to a millstone. Tom was in a kind of trance. - </p> - <p> - "'O Dorothea!' said our friend. - </p> - <p> - "'To the devil with Dorothea!' roared I, snatching the tiller from his - hand. - </p> - <p> - "'It was too late. We went smash upon the rock, with a force that sent us - headlong upon the deck, and Strachan staggered to his feet, bleeding - profusely at the proboscis. - </p> - <p> - "Down came the sail rattling about our ears, and over lurched the yacht. I - saw there was no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50b" id="Page_50b">[Pg - 50]</a></span> time to lose, so I leaped at once upon the rock, and called - upon the rest to follow me. They did so, and were lucky to escape with no - more disaster than a ruffling of the cuticle on the basalt; for in two - minutes more all was over. Some of the timbers had been staved in at the - first concussion. She rapidly filled,—and down went, before my eyes, - the Caption, the tidiest little craft that ever pitched her broadside into - the hull of a Frenchman!" - </p> - <p> - "Very well told indeed," said I, "only, Anthony, it does strike me that - the last paragraph is not quite original. I've heard something like it in - my younger days, at the Adelphi. But what became of you afterwards?" - </p> - <p> - "Faith, we were in a fix, as you may easily conceive. All we could do was - to scramble up the rocks,—which, fortunately, were not too - precipitous,—until we reached a dry place, where we lay, huddled - together, until morning. When light came, we found that we were not on the - main land, but on a kind of little stack in the very centre of the - channel, without a blade of grass upon it, or the prospect of a sail in - sight. This was a nice situation for two members of the Scottish bar! The - first thing we did was to inquire into the state of provisions, which we - found to consist of a couple of biscuits, that little Jim, the boy, - happened to have about him. Of course we followed the example of the - earlier navigators, and confiscated these<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_51b" id="Page_51b">[Pg 51]</a></span> <i>pro bono publico</i>. - We had not a drop of alcohol among us, but, very luckily, picked up a - small keg of fresh water, which, I believe, was our salvation. Strachan - did not behave well. He wanted to keep half-a-dozen cigars to himself; but - such monstrous selfishness could not be permitted, and the rest of us took - them from him by force. I shall always blame myself for having weakly - restored to him a cheroot." - </p> - <p> - "And what followed?" - </p> - <p> - "Why, we remained three days upon the rock. Fortunately the weather was - moderate, so that we were not absolutely washed away, but for all that it - was consumedly cold of nights. The worst thing, however, was the - deplorable state of our larder. We finished the biscuits the first day, - trusting to be speedily relieved; but the sun set without a vestige of a - sail, and we supped sparingly upon tangle. Next morning we were so - ravenous that we could have eaten raw squirrels. That day we subsisted - entirely upon shell-fish, and smoked out all our cigars. On the third we - bolted two old gloves, buttons and all; and, do you know, Fred, I began to - be seriously alarmed about the boy Jim, for Strachan kept eyeing him like - an ogre, began to mutter some horrid suggestions as to the propriety of - casting lots, and execrated his own stupidity in being unprovided with a - jar of pickles." - </p> - <p> - "O Anthony—for shame!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52b" id="Page_52b">[Pg 52]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Well—I'm sure he was thinking about it, if he did not say so. - However, we lunched upon a shoe, and for my own part, whenever I go upon - another voyage, I shall take the precaution of providing myself with - pliable French boots—your Kilmarnock leather is so very intolerably - tough! Towards evening, to our infinite joy, we descried a boat entering - the Sound. We shouted, as you may be sure, like demons. The Celtic - Samaritans came up, and, thanks to the kindness of Rory M'Gregor the - master, we each of us went to sleep that night with at least two gallons - of oatmeal porridge comfortably stowed beneath our belts. And that's the - whole history." - </p> - <p> - "And how do you feel after such unexampled privation?" - </p> - <p> - "Not a hair the worse. But this I know, that if ever I am caught again on - such idiotical errand as hunting for a young woman through the Highlands, - my nearest of kin are at perfect liberty to have me cognosced without - opposition." - </p> - <p> - "Ah—you are no lover, Anthony. Strachan, now, would go barefooted - through Stony Arabia for the mere chance of a casual glimpse at his - mistress." - </p> - <p> - "All I can say, my dear fellow, is, that if connubial happiness cannot be - purchased without a month's twangling on a guitar and three consecutive - suppers upon seaweed, I know at least one respectable young barrister who - is likely to die<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53b" id="Page_53b">[Pg - 53]</a></span> unmarried. But I say, Fred, let us have a coach and drive - up to your hotel. You can lend me a coat, I suppose, or something of the - sort, until Strachan arrives; and just be good enough, will you, to settle - with Mrs M'Tavish for the bill, for, by all my hopes of a sheriffship, I - have been thoroughly purged of my tin." - </p> - <p> - The matter may not be of any especial interest to the public; at the same - time I think it right to record the fact that Anthony Whaup owes me seven - shillings and eightpence unto this day. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <h3> - <a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</a> - </h3> - <p> - "That is all I can tell you about it," said Mr Hedger, as he handed me the - last of three indictments, with the joyful accompaniment of the fees. - "That is all I can tell you about it. If the <i>alibi</i> will hold water, - good and well—if not, M'Closkie will be transported." - </p> - <p> - Hedger is the very best criminal agent I ever met with. There is always a - point in his cases—his precognitions are perfect, and pleading, - under such auspices, becomes a kind of realised romance. - </p> - <p> - "By the way," said he, "is there a Mr Strachan of your bar at circuit? I - have a curious communication from a prisoner who is desirous to have him - as her counsel." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54b" id="Page_54b">[Pg 54]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Indeed! I am glad to hear it. Mr Strachan is a particular friend of mine, - and will be here immediately. I shall be glad to introduce you. Is it a - heavy case?" - </p> - <p> - "No, but rather an odd one—a theft of money committed at the - Blenheim hotel. The woman seems a person of education, but, as she - obstinately refuses to tell me her story, I know very little more about it - than is contained in the face of the indictment." - </p> - <p> - "What is her name?" - </p> - <p> - "Why you know that is a matter not very easily ascertained. She called - herself Euphemia Saville when brought up for examination, and of course - she will be tried as such. She is well dressed, and rather pretty, but she - won't have any other counsel than Mr Strachan; and singularly enough, she - has positively forbidden me to send him a fee on the ground that he would - take it as an insult." - </p> - <p> - "I should feel particularly obliged if the whole public would take to - insulting me perpetually in that manner! But really this is an odd - history. Do you think she is acquainted with my friend?" - </p> - <p> - Hedger winked. - </p> - <p> - "I can't say," said he, "for, to tell you the truth, I know nothing - earthly about it. Only she was so extremely desirous to have him engaged, - that I thought it not a little remarkable. I hope your<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_55b" id="Page_55b">[Pg 55]</a></span> friend won't take offence - if I mention what the woman said?" - </p> - <p> - "Not in the least, you may be sure of that. And, <i>apropos</i>, here he - comes." - </p> - <p> - And in effect Whaup and Strachan now walked into the counsel's apartment, - demure, shaven, and well dressed—altogether two very - different-looking individuals from the tatterdemalions of yesterday. - </p> - <p> - "Good morning, Fred," cried Whaup; "Servant, Mr Hedger—lots of work - going, eh? Are the pleas nearly over yet?" - </p> - <p> - "Very nearly, I believe, Mr Whaup. Would you have the kindness to——" - </p> - <p> - "Oh, certainly," said I. "Strachan, allow me to introduce my friend Mr - Hedger, who is desirous of your professional advice." - </p> - <p> - "I say, Freddy," said Whaup, looking sulkily at the twain as they retired - to a window to consult, "what's in the wind now? Has old Hedger got a - spite at any of his clients?" - </p> - <p> - "How should I know? What do you mean?" - </p> - <p> - "Because I should rather think," said Anthony, "that in our friend - Strachan's hands the lad runs a remarkably good chance of a sea voyage to - the colonies, that's all." - </p> - <p> - "Fie for shame, Anthony! You should not bear malice." - </p> - <p> - "No more I do—but I can't forget the loss of<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_56b" id="Page_56b">[Pg 56]</a></span> the little Caption all - through his stupid blundering; and this morning he must needs sleep so - long that he lost the early train, and has very likely cut me out of - business for the sheer want of a pair of reputable trousers." - </p> - <p> - "Never mind—there is a good time coming." - </p> - <p> - "Which means, I suppose, that you have got the pick of the cases? Very - well: it can't be helped, so I shall even show myself in court by way of - public advertisement." - </p> - <p> - So saying, my long friend wrestled himself into his gown, adjusted his wig - knowingly upon his cranium, and rushed toward the court-room as vehemently - as though the weal of the whole criminal population of the west depended - upon his individual exertions. - </p> - <p> - "Freddy, come here, if you please," said Strachan, "this is a very - extraordinary circumstance! Do you know that this woman, Euphemia Saville, - though she wishes me to act as her counsel, has positively refused to see - me!" - </p> - <p> - "Very odd, certainly! Do you know her?" - </p> - <p> - "I never heard of the name in my life. Are you sure, Mr Hedger, that there - is no mistake?" - </p> - <p> - "Quite sure, sir. She gave me, in fact, a minute description of your - person, which perhaps I may be excused from repeating." - </p> - <p> - "Oh, I understand," said Tom, fishingly; "complimentary, I suppose—eh?" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57b" id="Page_57b">[Pg 57]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Why yes, rather so," replied Hedger hesitatingly; and he cast at the same - time a glance at the limbs of my beloved friend, which convinced me that - Miss Saville's communication had, somehow or other, borne reference to the - shape of a parenthesis. "But, at all events, you may be sure she has seen - you. I really can imagine no reason for an interview. We often have people - who take the same kind of whims, and you have no idea of their obstinacy. - The best way will be to let the Crown lead its evidence, and trust - entirely to cross-examination. I shall take care, at all events, that her - appearance shall not damage her. She is well dressed, and I don't doubt - will make use of her cambric handkerchief." - </p> - <p> - "And a very useful thing that same cambric is," observed I. "Come, Tom, my - boy, pluck up courage! You have opportunity now for a grand display; and - if you can poke in something about chivalry and undefended loveliness, you - may be sure it will have an effect on the jury. There is a strong spice of - romance in the composition of the men of the Middle Ward." - </p> - <p> - "The whole thing, however, seems to me most mysterious." - </p> - <p> - "Very; but that is surely an additional charm. We seldom find a chapter - from the Mysteries of Udolfo transferred to the records of the Justiciary - Court of Scotland." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58b" id="Page_58b">[Pg 58]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Well, then, I suppose it must be so. Fred, will you sit beside me at the - trial? I'm not used to this sort of thing as yet, and I possibly may feel - nervous." - </p> - <p> - "Not a bit of you. At any rate I shall be there, and of course you may - command me." - </p> - <p> - In due time the case was called. Miss Euphemia Saville ascended the trap - stair, and took her seat between a pair of policemen with exceedingly - luxuriant whiskers. - </p> - <p> - I must allow that I felt a strong curiosity about Euphemia. Her name was - peculiar; the circumstances under which she came forward were unusual; and - her predilection for Strachan was tantalising. Her appearance, however, - did little to solve the mystery. She was neatly, even elegantly dressed in - black, with a close-fitting bonnet and thick veil, which at first - effectually obscured her countenance. This, indeed, she partially removed - when called upon to plead to the indictment; but the law of no civilised - country that I know of is so savage as to prohibit the use of a - handkerchief, and the fair Saville availed herself of the privilege by - burying her countenance in cambric. I could only get a glimpse of some - beautiful black braided hair and a forehead that resembled alabaster. To - all appearance she was extremely agitated, and sobbed as she answered to - the charge. - </p> - <p> - The tender-hearted Strachan was not the sort of<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_59b" id="Page_59b">[Pg 59]</a></span> man to behold the sorrows - of his client without emotion. In behalf of the junior members of the - Scottish bar I will say this, that they invariably fight tooth and nail - when a pretty girl is concerned, and I have frequently heard bursts of - impassioned eloquence poured forth in defence of a pair of bright eyes or - a piquant figure, in cases where an elderly or wizened dame would have run - a strong chance of finding no Cicero by her side. Tom accordingly - approached the bar for the purpose of putting some questions to his - client, but not a word could he extract in reply. Euphemia drew down her - veil, and waved her hand with a repulsive gesture. - </p> - <p> - "I don't know what to make of her," said Strachan; "only she seems to be a - monstrous fine woman. It is clear, however, that she has mistaken me for - somebody else. I never saw her in my life before." - </p> - <p> - "Hedger deserves great credit for the way he has got her up. Observe, Tom, - there is no finery about her; no ribbons or gaudy scarfs, which are as - unsuitable at a trial as at a funeral. Black is your only wear to find - favour in the eyes of a jury." - </p> - <p> - "True. It is a pity that so little attention is paid to the æsthetics of - criminal clothing. But here comes the first witness—Grobey, I think, - they call him—the fellow who lost the money." - </p> - <p> - Mr Grobey mounted the witness-box like a cow ascending a staircase. He was - a huge, elephantine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60b" id="Page_60b">[Pg - 60]</a></span> animal of some sixteen stone, with bushy eyebrows and a - bald pate, which he ever and anon affectionately caressed with a red and - yellow bandana. Strachan started at the sound of his voice, surveyed him - wistfully for a moment, and then said to me in a hurried whisper— - </p> - <p> - "As I live, Fred, that is the identical bagman who boned my emerald studs - at Jedburgh!" - </p> - <p> - "You don't mean to say it?" - </p> - <p> - "Fact, upon my honour! There is no mistaking his globular freetrading - nose. Would it not be possible to object to his evidence on that ground?" - </p> - <p> - "Mercy on us! no.—Reflect—there is no conviction." - </p> - <p> - "True. But he stole them nevertheless. I'll ask him about them when I - cross." - </p> - <p> - Mr Grobey's narrative, however, as embraced in an animated dialogue with - the public prosecutor, threw some new and unexpected light upon the - matter. Grobey was a traveller in the employment of the noted house of - Barnacles, Deadeye, and Company, and perambulated the country for the - benevolent purpose of administering to deficiency of vision. In the course - of his wanderings he had arrived at the Blenheim, where, after a light - supper of fresh herrings, toasted cheese, and Edinburgh ale, assisted, <i>more - Bagmannorum</i>, by several glasses of stiff brandy-and-water, he had - retired to his apartment to sleep off the labours of the day.<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61b" id="Page_61b">[Pg 61]</a></span> - Somnus, however, did not descend that night with his usual lightness upon - Grobey. On the contrary, the deity seemed changed into a ponderous weight, - which lay heavily upon the chest of the moaning and suffocated traveller; - and notwithstanding a paralysis which appeared to have seized upon his - limbs, every external object in the apartment became visible to him as by - the light of a magic lantern. He heard his watch ticking, like a living - creature, upon the dressing-table where he had left it. His black morocco - pocket-book was distinctly visible beside the looking-glass, and two - spectral boots stood up amidst the varied shadows of the night. Grobey was - very uncomfortable. He began to entertain the horrid idea that a fiend was - hovering through his chamber. - </p> - <p> - All at once he heard the door creaking upon its hinges. There was a slight - rustling of muslin, a low sigh, and then momentary silence. "What, in the - name of John Bright, can that be?" thought the terrified traveller; but he - had not to wait long for explanation. The door opened slowly—a - female figure, arrayed from head to foot in robes of virgin whiteness, - glided in, and fixed her eyes, with an expression of deep solemnity and - menace, upon the countenance of Grobey. He lay breathless and motionless - beneath the spell. This might have lasted for about a minute, during which - time, as Grobey expressed it, his very entrails were convulsed<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62b" id="Page_62b">[Pg 62]</a></span> with - fear. The apparition then moved onwards, still keeping her eyes upon the - couch. She stood for a moment near the window, raised her arm with a - monitory gesture to the sky, and then all at once seemed to disappear as - if absorbed in the watery moonshine. Grobey was as bold a bagman as ever - flanked a mare with his gig-whip, but this awful visitation was too much. - Boots, looking-glass, and table swam with a distracting whirl before his - eyes; he uttered a feeble yell, and immediately lapsed into a swoon. - </p> - <p> - It was bright morning when he awoke. He started up, rubbed his eyes, and - endeavoured to persuade himself that it was all an illusion. To be sure - there were the boots untouched, the coat, the hat, and the portmanteau; - but where—oh where—were the watch and the plethoric - pocket-book, with its bunch of bank-notes and other minor memoranda? Gone—spirited - away; and with a shout of despair old Grobey summoned the household. - </p> - <p> - The police were straightway taken into his confidence. The tale of the - midnight apparition—of the Demon Lady—was told and listened - to, at first with somewhat of an incredulous smile; but when the landlord - stated that an unknown damosel had been sojourning for two days at the - hotel, that she had that morning vanished in a hackney-coach without - leaving any trace of her address, and that, moreover, certain spoons of - undeniable silver were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63b" - id="Page_63b">[Pg 63]</a></span> amissing, Argus pricked up his ears, and - after some few preliminary inquiries, issued forth in quest of the - fugitive. Two days afterwards the fair Saville was discovered in a - temperance hotel; and although the pocket-book had disappeared, both the - recognisable notes and the watch were found in her possession. A number of - pawn-tickets, also, which were contained in her reticule, served to - collect from divers quarters a great mass of <i>bijouterie</i>, amongst - which were the Blenheim spoons. - </p> - <p> - Such was Mr Grobey's evidence as afterwards supplemented by the police. - Tom rose to cross-examine. - </p> - <p> - "Pray, Mr Grobey," said he, adjusting his gown upon his shoulders with a - very knowing and determined air, as though he intended to expose his - victim—"Pray, Mr Grobey, are you any judge of studs?" - </p> - <p> - "I ain't a racing man," replied Grobey, "but I knows an oss when I sees - it." - </p> - <p> - "Don't equivocate, sir, if you please. Recollect you are upon your oath," - said Strachan, irritated by a slight titter which followed upon Grobey's - answer. "I mean studs, sir—emerald studs for example?" - </p> - <p> - "I ain't. But the lady is," replied Grobey. - </p> - <p> - "How do you mean, sir?" - </p> - <p> - "'Cos there vos five pair on them taken out of pawn with her tickets." - </p> - <p> - "How do you know that, sir?" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64b" id="Page_64b">[Pg 64]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "'Cos I see'd them." - </p> - <p> - "Were you at Jedburgh, sir, in the month of April last?" - </p> - <p> - "I was." - </p> - <p> - "Do you recollect seeing me there?" - </p> - <p> - "Perfectly." - </p> - <p> - "Do you remember what passed upon that occasion?" - </p> - <p> - "You was rather confluscated, I think." - </p> - <p> - There was a general laugh. - </p> - <p> - "Mr Strachan," said the judge mildly, "I am always sorry to interrupt a - young counsel, but I really cannot see the relevancy of these questions. - The court can have nothing to do with your communications with the - witness. I presume I need not take a note of these latter answers." - </p> - <p> - "Very well, my lord," said Tom, rather discomfited at being cut out of his - revenge on the bagman, "I shall ask him something else;" and he commenced - his examination in right earnest. Grobey, however, stood steadfast to the - letter of his previous testimony. - </p> - <p> - Another witness was called; and to my surprise the Scottish Vidocq - appeared. He spoke to the apprehension and the search, and also to the - character of the prisoner. In his eyes she had long been chronicled as - habit and repute a thief. - </p> - <p> - "You know the prisoner, then?" said Strachan rising. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65b" id="Page_65b">[Pg 65]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "I do. Any time these three years." - </p> - <p> - "Under what name is she known to you?" - </p> - <p> - "Betsy Brown is her real name, but she has gone by twenty others." - </p> - <p> - "By twenty, do you say?" - </p> - <p> - "There, or thereabouts. She always flies at high game; and, being a - remarkably clever woman, she passes herself off for a lady." - </p> - <p> - "Have you ever seen her elsewhere than in Glasgow?" - </p> - <p> - "I have." - </p> - <p> - "Where?" - </p> - <p> - "At Jedburgh." - </p> - <p> - I cannot tell what impulse it was that made me twitch Strachan's gown at - this moment. It was not altogether a suspicion, but rather a presentiment - of coming danger. Strachan took the hint and changed his line. - </p> - <p> - "Can you specify any of her other names?" - </p> - <p> - "I can. There are half-a-dozen of them here on the pawn-tickets. Shall I - read them?" - </p> - <p> - "If you please." - </p> - <p> - "One diamond ring, pledged in name of Lady Emily Delaroche. A garnet - brooch and chain—Miss Maria Mortimer. Three gold seals—Mrs - Markham Vere. A watch and three emerald studs—the Honourable - Dorothea Percy——" - </p> - <p> - There was a loud shriek from the bar, and a bustle—the prisoner had - fainted. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66b" id="Page_66b">[Pg 66]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - I looked at Strachan. He was absolutely as white as a corpse. - </p> - <p> - "My dear Tom," said I, "hadn't you better go out into the open air?" - </p> - <p> - "No!" was the firm reply; "I am here to do my duty, and I'll do it." - </p> - <p> - And in effect, the Spartan boy with the fox gnawing into his side did not - acquit himself more heroically than my friend. The case was a clear one, - no doubt, but Tom made a noble speech, and was highly complimented by the - Judge upon his ability. No sooner, however, had he finished it than he - left the Court. - </p> - <p> - I saw him two hours afterwards. - </p> - <p> - "Tom," said I, "about these emerald studs—I think I could get them - back from the Fiscal." - </p> - <p> - "Keep them to yourself. I'm off to India." - </p> - <p> - "Bah!—go down to the Highlands for a month." - </p> - <p> - Tom did so; purveyed himself a kilt; met an heiress at the Inverness - Meeting, and married her. He is now the happy father of half-a-dozen - children, and a good many of us would give a trifle for his practice. But - to this day he is as mad as a March hare if an allusion is made in his - presence to any kind of studs whatsoever. - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67b" id="Page_67b">[Pg 67]</a></span> - </p> - <h2> - <a name="COLLEGE_FRIENDS_III" id="COLLEGE_FRIENDS_III">MY COLLEGE FRIENDS.</a> - </h2> - <p class="center"> - No. III. - </p> - <p class="center"> - MR W. WELLINGTON HURST. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - <span class="small">[<i>MAGA.</i> <span class="smcap">January 1846.</span>]</span> - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="dropcap"> - It would probably puzzle Mr William Wellington Hurst, as much as any man, - to find out on what grounds I placed him on the list of my College - friends; for certainly our intimacy was hardly sufficient to warrant such - a liberty; and he was one of those happy individuals who would never have - suspected that it could be out of gratitude for much amusement afforded me - by sundry of his sayings and doings. But so it is; and it happens, that - while the images of many others of my companions—very worthy good - sort of fellows, whom I saw more or less of nearly every day—have - vanished from my memory, or only flit across occasionally, like shadows, - the full-length figure of Mr W. Wellington Hurst, exactly as he turned - out, after a satisfactory toilet, in the patent boots and scarf of many - colours, stands fixed there like a daguerreotype—more faithful than - flattering. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68b" id="Page_68b">[Pg 68]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - My first introduction to him was by running him down in a skiff, when I - was steering the College eight—not less to his astonishment than our - own gratification. It is (or used to be) perfectly allowable, by the laws - of the river, if, after due notice, these small craft fail to get out of - your way; but it is not very easy to effect. However, in this instance, we - went clean over him, very neatly indeed. The men helped him into our boat, - just as his own sunk from under him; and he accepted a seat by my side in - the stern-sheets, with many apologies for being so wet, appearing - considerably impressed with a sense of my importance, and still more of my - politeness. When we reached Sandford, I prescribed a stiff tumbler of hot - brandy and water, and advised him to run all the way home, to warm - himself, and avoid catching cold; and, from that time, I believe he always - looked upon me as a benefactor. The claim, on my part, certainly rested on - a very small foundation originally; it was strengthened afterwards by a - less questionable act of patronage. Like many other under-graduates of - every man's acquaintance in those days, Hurst laboured under the delusion, - that holding two sets of reins in a very confused manner, and flourishing - a long whip, was driving; and that to get twenty miles out of Oxford in a - "team," without an upset, or an imposition from the proctor, was an <i>opus - operatum</i> of the highest possible merit. To do him justice, he<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69b" id="Page_69b">[Pg 69]</a></span> - laboured diligently in the only exercise which he seemed to consider - strictly academical—he spent an hour every morning, standing upon a - chair, "catching flies," as he called it, and occasionally flicking his - scout, with a tandem whip; and practised incessantly upon tin horns of all - lengths, with more zeal than melody, until he got the erysipelas in his - lower lip, and a hint of rustication from the tutors. Yet he was more - ambitious than successful. His reputation on the road grew worse and worse - every day. He had a knack of shaving turnpike gates, and cutting round - corners on one wheel, and getting his horses into every possible figure - but a straight line, which made every mile got over without an accident - almost a miracle. At last, after taking a four-in-hand over a narrow - bridge, at the bottom of a hill, pretty much in the Olympic fashion—all - four abreast—men got rather shy of any expeditions of the kind in - his company. There was little credit in it, and a good deal of danger. - First, he was reduced to soliciting the company of freshmen, who were - flattered by any proposal that sounded <i>fast</i>. But they, too, grew - shy, after one or two ventures; and poor Hurst soon found a difficulty in - getting a companion at all. He was a liberal fellow enough, and not pushed - for a guinea when his darling science was concerned: so he used to offer - to "sport the team" himself; but even when he condescended to the - additional self-devotion<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70b" - id="Page_70b">[Pg 70]</a></span> of "standing a dinner and champagne," he - found that the closest calculators among his sporting acquaintance had as - much regard for their necks as their pockets. - </p> - <p> - To this inglorious position was his fame as a charioteer reduced, when - Horace Leicester and myself, early in his third term, had determined - somewhat suddenly to go to see a steeple-chase about twelve miles off, - where Leicester had some attraction besides the horses, in the shape of a - pretty cousin; (<i>two</i>, he told me, and bribed me with the promise of - an introduction to "the other," but she did not answer to sample at all.) - We had engaged a very nice mare and stanhope, which we knew we could - depend upon, when, the day before the race, the chestnut was declared - lame, and not a presentable four-legged animal was to be hired in Oxford. - Hurst had engaged his favourite pair of greys (which would really go very - well with any other driver) a week beforehand, but had been canvassing the - last batch of freshmen in vain for an occupant of the vacant seat. A huge - red-headed north-country man, who had never seen a tandem in his life, but - who, as far as pluck went, would have ridden postilion to Medea's dragons, - was listening with some apparent indecision to Hurst's eloquence upon the - delights of driving, just as we came up after a last unsuccessful search - through the livery stables; and the pair were proceeding<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71b" id="Page_71b">[Pg 71]</a></span> out of - college arm in arm, probably to look at the greys, when Leicester, to my - amusement, stepped up with—"Hurst, who's going with you to B——?" - </p> - <p> - "I—why, I hardly know yet; I think Sands here will, if"—— - </p> - <p> - "I'll go with you then, if you like; and if you've got a cart,<a - name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" - class="fnanchor">[1]</a> Hawthorne can come too, and it will be very - jolly." - </p> - <p> - If the university had announced their intention of creating him a B.A. by - diploma, without examination, Hurst could hardly have looked more - surprised and delighted. Leicester, it should be borne in mind, was one of - the most popular men in the college—a sort of <i>arbiter - elegantiarum</i> in the best set. Hurst knew very little of him, but was - no doubt highly flattered by his proposal. From coaxing freshmen to come - out by the bribe of paying all expenses, to driving to B—— - steeple-chase side by side with Horace (my modesty forbids me to include - myself), was a step at once from the ridiculous to the sublime of - tandemizing. For this advancement in life, he always, I fancy, considered - himself indebted to me, as I had originally introduced him to Leicester's - acquaintance; and when we both accepted an invitation, which he delivered - himself of with some hesitation, to breakfast in his rooms on the morning - of the expedition, his joy and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72b" - id="Page_72b">[Pg 72]</a></span> gratitude appeared to know no bounds. It - is not usual, be it remembered, for a junior man in college to ask a - senior to a party from whom he has never received an invitation himself; - but hunting and tandem-driving are apt occasionally to set ordinary - etiquette at defiance. "Don't ask a lot of men, that's all—there's a - good fellow," said Horace, whose good-natured smile, and off-hand and - really winning manner, enabled him to carry off, occasionally, a degree of - impudence which would not have been tolerated from others—"I hate a - large formal breakfast party of all things; it disgusts me to see a score - of men jostling each other over tough beefsteaks." - </p> - <p> - "I asked Sands yesterday," apologised Hurst. "I thought perhaps he would - come out with me; but I daresay I can put him off, if"—— - </p> - <p> - "Oh! on no account whatever; you mean the carroty freshman I saw you with - just now? Have him by all means; it will be quite refreshing to meet any - man so regularly green. So there will be just four of us; eight o'clock, I - suppose? it won't do to be much later." - </p> - <p> - And Horace walked off, having thus arranged matters to his own - satisfaction and his host's. I was an interested party in the business, - however, and had my own terms to make. "You've disposed of me rather - coolly," said I; "you don't surely imagine that at my time of life I'm - going<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73b" id="Page_73b">[Pg 73]</a></span> - to trust my neck to that fellow's abominable driving?" - </p> - <p> - "Make your mind easy, Frank; William Wellington sha'n't finger a riband." - </p> - <p> - "Nonsense, Leicester; you can't treat a man in that kind of way—not - to let him drive his own team. Hurst <i>is</i> a bit of an ass, certainly; - but you can't with any decency first ask a man for a seat, and then refuse - to give him up the reins." - </p> - <p> - "Am I in the habit, sir, of doing things in the very rude and - ungentlemanly style you insinuate?" And Horace looked at me with mock - dignity for a second or two, and then burst into a laugh. "Leave it to me, - Hawthorne, and I'll manage it to the satisfaction of all parties: I'll - promise you that Hurst shall have a capital day's fun, and your valuable - neck shall be as safe as if you were tried by a Welsh jury." - </p> - <p> - With this indefinite assurance I was obliged to be content; and - accordingly, at half-past eight the next morning, after a very correct - breakfast, we mounted the tandem-cart at the college back-gates, got the - leader hitched on, as usual, a mile out of the city, for fear of proctors, - and were bowling merrily along, in the slight frost of an autumn morning, - towards B——. Leicester took the driving first, by Hurst's - special request, after one or two polite but faint refusals, the latter - sitting by his side; while I occupied, for the present, the queer little - box which in those days was stuck on<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_74b" id="Page_74b">[Pg 74]</a></span> behind, (the more modern - carts, which hold four, are an improvement introduced into the University - since my driving days). With wonderful gravity and importance did - Leicester commence his lectures on the whip to his admiring companion: I - almost think he began in the approved style, with a slight allusion to the - Roman <i>biga</i>, and deduced the progress of the noble science from - Ericthonius down to "Peyton and Ward." I have a lively recollection of a - comparison between Automedon of the Homeric times, and "Black Will" of - Oxford celebrity—the latter being decided as only likely to be less - immortal, because there was no Homer among the contemporary - under-graduates. A good deal was lost to me, no doubt, from my position - behind; but Hurst seemed to suck it all in with every disposition to be - edified. From the history of his subject, Horace proceeded, in due course, - to the theory, from theory to facts, from facts to illustrations. In the - practical department, Horace, I suspect, like many other lecturers, was on - his weakest ground; for his own driving partook of the general - under-graduate character. - </p> - <p> - "You throw the lash out so—you see—and bring it back sharp, so—no, - not <i>so</i> exactly—so—hang the thing, I can't do it now; - but that's the principle, you understand—and then you take up your - double thong, so—pshaw, I did it very well just now—to put it - into the wheeler, so—ah, I missed it then, but that's the way to do - it." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75b" id="Page_75b">[Pg 75]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - He put me considerably in mind of a certain professor of chemistry, whose - lectures on light and heat I once was rash enough to attend, who, after a - long dry disquisition which had nearly put us all to sleep, used to arouse - our attention to the "beautiful effects" produced by certain combinations, - which he would proceed to illustrate, as he said, by a "little - experiment." But, somehow or other, these little experiments always, or - nearly always, failed: and after the room had been darkened, perhaps, for - five minutes or so, in order to give the exhibition full effect, the - result would be, a <i>fizz</i> or two, a faint blue light, and a stink, - varying according to circumstances, but always abominable. "It's very odd, - John," the discomfited operator used to exclaim to his assistant; "very - odd; and we succeeded so well this morning, too: it's most unaccountable: - I'm really very sorry, gentlemen, but I can assure you, this very same - experiment we tried to-day with the most beautiful result; didn't we, - John?" "We did, sir," was John's invariably dutiful reply; and so the - audience took John's word for it, and the experiment was considered to - have been, virtually, successful. - </p> - <p> - So we rattled on to the ground: Leicester occasionally putting the reins - into his companion's hand, teaching him to perform some impossible - movement with his third finger, and directing his attention to - non-existent flies, which he professed to remove<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_76b" id="Page_76b">[Pg 76]</a></span> from the leader, out of - sheer compassion, with the point of the whip. - </p> - <p> - "You are sure you wouldn't like to take the reins now? Well, you'll drive - home then, of course? Hawthorne, will you try your hand now? Hurst's going - to take up the tooling when we come back." - </p> - <p> - "No, thank you," said I; "I won't interfere with either of your - performances."—"And if Hurst does drive home," was my mental - determination, expressed to Leicester as far as a nod could do it, "I'll - walk." - </p> - <p> - There was no difficulty in finding out the localities: the field in which - the winning-flag was fixed was not far from the turnpike road, and - conspicuous enough by the crowd already there collected. Of course, pretty - nearly all the sporting characters among the gownsmen were there, the - distance from the University being so trifling. Mounted on that seedy - description of animal peculiar to Oxford livery-stables, which can never - by any possibility be mistaken for anything but a hired affair, but will - generally go all day, and scramble through almost anything; with showily - mounted jockey-whips in their hands, bad cigars (at two guineas a-pound) - in their mouths, bright blue scarfs, or something equivalent, round their - necks—their neat white cords and tops (things which they <i>did</i> - turn out well in Oxford) being the only really sportsmanlike article about - them; flattering themselves they looked exceedingly<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_77b" id="Page_77b">[Pg 77]</a></span> knowing, and, in nine - cases out of ten, being deceived therein most lamentably; clustered - together in groups of four or five, discussing the merits of the horses, - or listening, as to an oracle, to the opinion of some Oxford horse-dealer, - delivered with insolent familiarity—here were the men who drank out - of a fox's head, and recounted imaginary runs with the Heythrop. Happy was - he amongst them, and a positive hero for the day, who could boast a - speaking acquaintance with any of those anomalous individuals, at present - enshrouded in great-coats, but soon to appear in all the varieties of - jockey costume, known by the style and title of "gentlemen riders;" who - could point out, confidentially, to his admiring companions, "Jack B——," - and "Little M——," and announce, from authority, how many - ounces under weight one was this morning, and how many blankets were put - upon the other the night before, to enable him to come to the scales at - all. Here and there, more plainly dressed, moving about quickly on their - own thorough-breds, or talking to some neighbouring squire who knew the - ground, were the few really sporting men belonging to the University; who - kept hunters in Oxford, simply because they were used to keep them at - home, and had been brought up to look upon fox-hunting as their future - vocation. Lolling on their saddles, probably voting it all a bore, were - two or three tufts, and their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78b" - id="Page_78b">[Pg 78]</a></span> "tail;" and stuck into all sorts of - vehicles, lawful and unlawful, buggies, drags, and tandems, were that - ignoble herd, who, like myself, had come to the steeple-chase, just - because it was the most convenient idleness at hand, and because other men - were going. There were all sorts of people there besides, of course: - carriages of all grades of pretension, containing pretty bonnets and ugly - faces, in the usual proportion; "all the beauty and fashion of the - neighbourhood," nevertheless, as the county paper assured us; and as I may - venture to add, from personal observation, a very fair share of its - disreputability and blackguardism besides. - </p> - <p> - After wandering for a short time among these various groups, Leicester - halted us at last in front of one of those old-fashioned - respectable-looking barouches, which one now so seldom sees, in which were - seated a party, who turned out to consist of an uncle and aunt, and the - pair of cousins before alluded to. Hurst and I were duly introduced; a - ceremony which, for my own part, I could have very readily excused, when I - discovered that the only pair of eyes in the party worth mentioning - bestowed their glances almost exclusively on Horace, and any attempt at - cutting into the conversation in that quarter was as hopeless, apparently, - as ungracious. Our friend's taste in the article of cousins was undeniably - correct; Flora Leicester was a most desirable person to have for a cousin; - very pretty,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79b" id="Page_79b">[Pg 79]</a></span> - very good-humoured, and (I am sure she was, though I pretend to no - experience of the fact) very affectionate. If one could have put in any - claim of kindred, even in the third or fourth degree, it would have been a - case in which to stickle hard for the full privileges of relationship. As - matters stood, it was trying enough to the sensibilities of us unfortunate - bystanders, whose cousins were either ugly or at a distance; for the rest - of our new acquaintances were not interesting. The younger sister was shy - and insipid; the squire like ninety-nine squires in every hundred; and the - lady-mother in a perpetual state of real or affected nervous agitation, to - which her own family were happily insensible, but which taxed a stranger's - polite sympathies pretty heavily. Though constantly in the habit, as she - assured me, of accompanying her husband to race-courses, and enjoying the - sport, she was always on the look-out for an accident, and was always - having, as she said, narrow escapes; some indeed so very narrow, that, - according to her own account, they ought to have had, by every rule of - probability, fatal terminations. In fact, her tone might have led one to - believe that she looked upon herself as an ill-used woman in getting off - so easily—at least she was exceedingly angry when the younger - daughter ventured to remark, <i>en pendant</i> to one of her most - thrilling adventures, that "there was no great danger of an<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80b" id="Page_80b">[Pg 80]</a></span> upset - when the wheel stuck fast." Not content with putting her head out of the - carriage every five minutes, to see if her own well-trained bays were - standing quiet, as they always did, there was not a restive horse or - awkward rider on the ground but attracted the good lady's ever watchful - sense of danger. "He'll be thrown! I'm sure he will! foolish man, why - don't he get off!" "Oh, oh! there they go! they're off, those horrid - horses! they'll never stop 'em!" Such were the interjections, accompanied - with extraordinary shudderings and drawings of the breath, with which Mrs - John Leicester, her eyes fixed on some distant point, occasionally broke - in upon the general conversation, sometimes with a vehemence that startled - even her nephew and eldest daughter, though, to do them justice, they paid - very little attention to any of us. - </p> - <p> - Just as I was meditating something desperate, in order to relieve myself - from the office of soother-general of Mrs Leicester's imaginary terrors, - and to bring Flora's sunny face once more within my line of vision (she - had been turning the back of her bonnet upon me perseveringly for the last - ten minutes), a general commotion gave us notice that the horses were - started, and the race begun. The hill on which we were stationed was close - to the winning-post, and commanded a view of pretty nearly the whole - ground from the start. The race<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81b" - id="Page_81b">[Pg 81]</a></span> was, I suppose, pretty nearly like other - steeple-chases, and there is the less need for me to describe it, because - a very full and particular account appeared in the <i>Bell's Life</i> next - ensuing. The principal impressions which remain on my mind, are of a very - smart gentleman in black and crimson, mounted on a very powerful bay, who - seemed as if he had been taking it easy, who came in first, and after - having been sufficiently admired by an innocent public, myself among the - number, as the winner, turned out to have gone on the right hand instead - of the left of some flag or other, and to have lost the race accordingly; - and of a very dirty-looking person, who arrived some minute or two - afterwards without a cap, whose jacket was green and his horse grey, so - far as the mud left any colour visible, and who, to the great - disappointment of the ladies especially, turned out to be the real hero - after all. - </p> - <p> - We had made arrangements to have an independent beefsteak together after - the race, in preference to joining the sporting ordinary announced as - usual on such occasions; but the squire insisted on Leicester bringing us - both to dine with his party at five. After a few modest and conscientious - scruples on my part, at intruding on the hospitality of comparative - strangers, and a strong private remonstrance from Hurst, on the - impropriety of sitting down to dinner with ladies in a<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_82b" id="Page_82b">[Pg 82]</a></span> surtout and white cords, - we accepted the invitation, and betook ourselves to kill the intervening - hour or so as we best could. - </p> - <p> - "Well, Horace," said I, as Hurst went off to make his apology for a - toilette—"how are you going to settle about the driving home?" - </p> - <p> - "Oh! never fear; I'll manage it: I have just seen Miller and Fane; they've - got a drag over here, and there's lots of room inside; so they've promised - to take Hurst home with them, if we can only manage to leave him behind: - they are going to dine here, and are sure not to go home till late; and we - must be off early, you know, because I have some men coming to supper; so - we'll leave our friend behind, somehow or other. A painful necessity, I - admit; but it must be done, even if I have to lock him up in the stable." - </p> - <p> - Leicester seemed to have more confidence in his own resources than I had; - but he was in too great a state of excitement to listen to any demurrers - of mine on the point, and hurried us off to join his friends. Ushered into - the drawing-room A.1. of the Saracen's Head, we found <i>la bella</i> - Flora awaiting us alone, the rest of the family being not as yet visible. - There was not the slightest necessity for inquiring whether she felt - fatigued, for she was looking even more lovely than in the morning; or - whether she had been amused or not, for if the steeple-chase had not - delighted her, something else<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83b" - id="Page_83b">[Pg 83]</a></span> had, for there was a radiant smile on her - face which could not be mistaken. Hurst was cut short rather abruptly in a - speech which appeared tending towards a compliment, by Leicester's - inquiring—"My good fellow, have you seen the horses fed?" - </p> - <p> - "No, upon my word," said Hurst, "I"—— - </p> - <p> - "Well, I have then; but I wish you would just step across the yard, and - see if that stupid ostler has rubbed them dry, as I told him. You - understand those things, I know, Hurst—the fellows won't humbug you - very easily; as to Hawthorne, I wouldn't trust him to see to anything of - the sort. Flora here knows more about a horse than he does." - </p> - <p> - Any compliment to Hurst's acuteness in the matter of horse-flesh was sure - to have its effect, and he walked off with an air of some importance to - discharge his commission. - </p> - <p> - "Now, then," said Horace eagerly, "we have got rid of him for ten minutes, - which was all I wanted; if you please, Flora dear, we must have your - cleverness to help us in a little difficulty." - </p> - <p> - "Indeed!" said Miss Leicester, colouring a little, as her cousin, in his - eagerness, seized her hand in both of his—"what scrape have you got - into now, Horace, and how can I possibly help you?" - </p> - <p> - "Oh, I want you to hit upon some plan for keeping that fellow Hurst here - after we are gone." - </p> - <p> - "Upon my word!" - </p> - <p> - "Stay; you don't know what I mean. I'll tell<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_84b" id="Page_84b">[Pg 84]</a></span> you why—if he - drives home to Oxford, he'll infallibly upset us; and drive he must if he - goes home with us, because, in fact, the team is his, and I drove them all - the way here, and it's his turn back, you see." - </p> - <p> - "Then why, in the multitude of absurdities which you Oxonians perpetrate—I - beg your pardon, Mr Hawthorne—but why need you have come out in a - tandem at all, with a man who can't drive?" - </p> - <p> - "Simply, Flora, because I had no other way of coming at all." - </p> - <p> - "It was very absurd in us, Miss Leicester, I allow," said I, "but you know - what an attraction a steeple-chase is, to your cousin especially; and - after having made up his mind to come—altogether, you see, it would - have been a disappointment"—(to all parties, I had a mind to add, - but I thought the balance was on my side without it.) - </p> - <p> - "After all," said Horace, "I shouldn't care a straw to run the chance, as - far as I am concerned. I dare say the horses will go home straight enough, - if he'll only let them: or if he wouldn't, I shouldn't mind knocking him - off the box at once—by accident; but Frank here is rather - particular, and I promised him I would not let Hurst drive. I thought - once, if we had dined by ourselves, of persuading him he was drunk, and - sending him home in a fly; but I am afraid, as matters stand, that plea is - hardly practicable." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85b" id="Page_85b">[Pg 85]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Could I persuade him to let you or Mr Hawthorne drive, do you think?" - </p> - <p> - Horace looked at her as if he thought, as I dare say he did, that his - cousin Flora could, if she were so minded, persuade a man to do anything; - so I was compelled, somewhat at the expense of my reputation for - gallantry, to assure them both, that if Ulysses of old, among his various - arts and accomplishments, had piqued himself upon his tandem-driving, his - vanity would have stopped his ears effectually, and the Syren might have - sung herself hoarse before he would have given up the reins. - </p> - <p> - "I'll give the Boots half-a-crown to steal his hat," said Horace, "and - start while he is looking for it." - </p> - <p> - "Stay," said his cousin; "I dare say it may be managed." But I thought she - looked disappointed. "Did you know we were all going to the B—— - theatre to-night?" - </p> - <p> - "No! really! what fun!" - </p> - <p> - "No fun for you; for you must start early, as you said just now. The - owners of the horses here patronise a play, and they have made papa - promise to go, and so we must, I suppose, and"—— - </p> - <p> - "Oh! we'll all go, of course," said Horace decidedly.—"You'll stay - and go, won't you, Hawthorne?" - </p> - <p> - "You forget your supper party," said I. - </p> - <p> - "Oh! hang it, they'll take care of themselves, so long as the supper's - there; they won't miss me much." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86b" id="Page_86b">[Pg 86]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Didn't I hear something of your being confined to college after nine?" - </p> - <p> - "Ah, yes; I believe I am—but it won't matter much for once; I'll - call on the dean to-morrow, and explain." - </p> - <p> - "No, no, Horace, that won't do; you and Mr Hawthorne must go home like - good boys," said Flora, with a smile only half as merry as usual, "and - Mary and I will persuade Mr Hurst to stay and go to the theatre with us." - </p> - <p> - "Oh! confound it!"—Horace began. - </p> - <p> - "Hush! here comes papa; remember this is my arrangement; you ought to be - very much obliged, instead of beginning to swear in that way; I'm sure Mr - Hawthorne is very grateful to me for taking so much interest in the - question of his breaking his neck, if you are not. Oh! papa," she - continued, "do you know that we shall lose all our beaux to-night; they - have some horrid supper party to go back to, and we shall have to go to - the play by ourselves!" - </p> - <p> - Most of the Squire's sympathies were at this moment absorbed in the fact - that dinner was already four minutes late, so that he had less to spare - for his daughter's disappointment than Mrs Leicester, who on her arrival - took up the lamentation with all her heart. She attacked her nephew at - once upon the subject, whose replies were at first wavering and evasive, - till he caught Flora's eye,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87b" - id="Page_87b">[Pg 87]</a></span> and then he answered with a dogged sort - of resolution, exceedingly amusing to me who understood his position, and - at last got quite cross with his aunt for persisting in her entreaties. I - declared, for my part, that I was dependent on Horace's movements; that, - if I could possibly have anticipated the delightful evening which had - awaited us, every other arrangement should have given way, &c. &c.; - when Hurst's reappearance turned the whole force of Mrs Leicester's - persuasions upon him, backed, too, as she was by both her daughters. - "Won't <i>you</i> stay, Mr Hurst? Must you go too? Will you be so shabby - as to leave us?" How could any man stand it? William Wellington Hurst - could not, it was very plain. At first he looked astonished; wondered why - on earth we couldn't all stay; then protested he couldn't think of letting - us go home by ourselves; a piece of self-devotion which we at once desired - might not be thought of; then hesitated—he was meditating, no doubt, - on the delight of driving—how was he to get home? the inglorious - occupant of the inside of a drag; or the solitary tenant of a fly (though - I suggested he might drive that if he pleased); couldn't Leicester go - home, and I and he follow together? I put in a decided negative; he looked - from Mrs Leicester's anxious face to Flora's, and surrendered at - discretion. We were to start at eight precisely in the tandem, and Miller - and his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88b" id="Page_88b">[Pg 88]</a></span> - party, who were sure to wait for the play, were to pick up Mr Wellington - Hurst as a supernumerary passenger at some hour unknown. And so we went to - dinner. Mrs Leicester marched off in triumph with her new capture, as if - fearful he might give her the slip after all, and committed Flora to my - custody. I was charitable enough, however, in consideration of all - circumstances, to give up my right of sitting next to her to Horace, and - established myself on the other side of the table, between Mrs Leicester - and her younger daughter; and a hard post I had of it. Mary would not talk - at all, and her mamma would do nothing else; and she was one of those - pertinacious talkers, too, who, not content with running on themselves, - and leaving you to put in an occasional interjection, inflict upon you a - cross-examination in its severest form, and insist upon a definite and - rational answer to every question. However, availing myself of those - legitimate qualifications of a witness, an unlimited amount of impudence, - and a determination not to criminate myself, I got on pretty tolerably. - Who did I think her daughter Flora like? I took the opportunity of - diligently examining that young lady's features for about four minutes—not - in the least to her confusion, for she scarcely honoured me with a glance - the whole time—and then declared the resemblance to mamma quite - startling. Mary? Oh, her father's eyes decidedly; upon<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_89b" id="Page_89b">[Pg 89]</a></span> which the squire, whose - pet she appeared to be—I suppose it was the contrast between her - quietness and Mrs Leicester's incessant fidgetting that was so delightful—laughed, - and took wine with me. Then she took up the subject of my private tastes - and habits. Was I fond of riding? Yes. Driving? Pretty well. Reading? - Very. Then she considerately hoped that I did not read much by - candle-light—above all by an oil-lamp—it was very injurious. I - assured her that I would be cautious for the future. Then she offered me a - receipt for eye-water, in case I suffered from weakness arising from - over-exertion of those organs;—declined, with thanks. Hoped I did - not read above twelve hours a-day; some young men, she had heard, read - sixteen, which she considered as really inconsistent with a due regard to - health. I assured her that our sentiments on that point perfectly - coincided, and that I had no tendency to excesses of that kind. At last - she began to institute inquiries about certain under-graduates with whose - families she was acquainted; and the two or three names which I recognised - being hunting men, I referred her to Hurst as quite <i>au fait</i> in the - sporting circles of Oxford, and succeeded in hooking them into a - conversation which effectually relieved me. - </p> - <p> - Leicester, as I could overhear, had been still rather rebellious against - going home before the play was over, and was insisting that his being in<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90b" id="Page_90b">[Pg 90]</a></span> - college by nine was not really material; nor did he appear over-pleased, - when, in answer to an appeal from Flora, I said plainly, that the - consequences of his "knocking in" late, when under sentence of strict - confinement to the regular hour, might not be pleasant—a fact, - however, which he himself, though with a very bad grace, was compelled to - admit. - </p> - <p> - At last the time arrived for our party to separate: Horace and I to return - to Oxford, and the others to adjourn to see <i>Richard the Third</i> - performed at the B—— theatre, under the distinguished - patronage of the members of the H—— Hunt. It was a beautiful - moonlight night, and as Hurst accompanied us to the stable-yard to "start - us," as he complacently phrased it, it was clear that he was suffering, - like a great many unfortunate individuals in public and private life, - under an overweening sense of his own importance. "You'll have an uncommon - pleasant drive of it; upon my word you will," he remarked; "it wouldn't do - for me to say I would not stay, you know, as Miss Leicester—Mrs - Leicester, that is—seemed to make such a point of it; but really"—— - </p> - <p> - "Oh, come, Hurst," said I, "don't pretend to say you've made any sacrifice - in the matter; I know you are quite delighted; I'm sure I should have - liked to stay of all things, only it would have been uncivil to our friend - here to send him home by himself from his own party." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91b" id="Page_91b">[Pg 91]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Oh! hang it, I don't mean to call it a sacrifice; I have no doubt I shall - have a very pleasant evening; only I wish we could all have stayed, and - driven home together afterwards." - </p> - <p> - "You may keep Hawthorne with you now, if you like," said Horace, who was - not in the best of tempers; "I can take the horses home myself." - </p> - <p> - "No, no, that would be hardly fair," said I. - </p> - <p> - "Oh! no—off with you both," said Hurst; "stay, Leicester, you'll - find the grey go more pleasantly if you drive him from the cheek; I'll - alter it in a second." - </p> - <p> - "Have the goodness just to let them alone, my good fellow; as I'm to - drive, I prefer putting them my own way, if you have no objection." - </p> - <p> - "Well, as you please; good-night." - </p> - <p> - "Miller's coming to my rooms when he gets home; if you like to look in - with him, you'll find some supper, I dare say." - </p> - <p> - Horace continued rather sulky for the first few miles, and only opened to - anathematise, briefly but comprehensively, steeple-chases, tandems, deans - and tutors, and "fellows like Hurst." I thought it best to let him cool - down a little; so, after this ebullition, we rattled on in silence as long - as his first cigar lasted. - </p> - <p> - "Come," said I, as I gave him a light, "we got rid of our friend's company - pretty cleverly, thanks to your cousin." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92b" id="Page_92b">[Pg 92]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Ay, I told you I'd take care of that; ha, ha! poor Hurst! he little - bargained, when he ordered his team, how precious little driving he was to - get out of it; a strong instance of the vanity of human expectations. I - wish him joy of it, stuck up in an old barn, as I suppose he is by this - time, gaping at a set of strolling players; how Flora will laugh at him! I - really shouldn't wonder if she were to tell him, before the evening is - over, how nicely he has been humbugged, just for the fun of it!" - </p> - <p> - "At all events," said I, "I think we must have a laugh at him to-night - when he comes home; though he's such a good-tempered fellow, it's rather a - shame, too." - </p> - <p> - It was very plain, however, that it was not quite such a good joke to - Master Horace himself as he was trying to make out; and that, in point of - fact, he would have considerably preferred being seated, as Hurst probably - was at that moment, by his pretty cousin's side in the B—— - theatre, wherever and whatever that might chance to be (even with the full - expectation of being laughed at afterwards), to holding the reins of the - best team that ever was turned out of Oxford. - </p> - <p> - We reached Oxford just in time to hear the first stroke of "Old Tom." By - the time I joined Leicester in his rooms, supper was ready, and most of - the party assembled. The sport of the day was duly discussed; those who - knew least about such matters being proportionately the most noisy and<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93b" id="Page_93b">[Pg 93]</a></span> - positive in giving their opinions. One young hero of eighteen, fresh from - Winchester, in all the importance of a probationary Fellow of New College, - explained for our benefit, by the help of the forks and salt-cellars, the - line which the horses undoubtedly ought to have taken, and which they did - not take; until one of his old schoolfellows, who was present, was - provoked to treat us to an anecdote of the young gentleman's first - appearance in the hunting-field—no longer ago than the last term—when - he mistook the little rough Scotch terrier that always accompanied ——'s - pack for the fox, and tally-ho'd him so lustily as to draw upon himself - sundry very energetic, but not very complimentary, remarks from the - well-known master of the hounds. By degrees Leicester recovered his usual - good-humour; and supper passed over, and several songs had been sung with - the usual amount of applause (except one very sentimental one which had no - chorus), and we had got pretty deep into punch and politics, without - Hurst's name having once been mentioned by either of us. A knock at the - oak, and in walked Fane. - </p> - <p> - "So you're come back at last?" said Horace. "Sit down, if you can find - room. Allow me to introduce your left-hand neighbour—Powell of - Merton,—Fane, one of our brightest ornaments; quite the <i>spes - gregis</i> we consider him; passed his little go, and started a pink only - last week; give him a glass of punch. Perhaps you are not aware we've<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94b" id="Page_94b">[Pg 94]</a></span> been - drinking your health. But, by the way, Fane, where's our friend - Wellington?" - </p> - <p> - "Who?" said Fane; "what on earth are you talking about?" - </p> - <p> - "Wellington Hurst; didn't <i>you</i> bring him home with you?" - </p> - <p> - "Certainly not; didn't you bring him home?" - </p> - <p> - "No; Miller promised me he should have a seat inside your drag, because we - could not wait for him; did you stay to the play?" - </p> - <p> - "Yes, and capital fun it was; by the way, the last time I saw your friend - Hurst was mounted up in a red baise place that was railed off for the - patrons and patronesses, as they called them; there he was in the front - row, doing the civil to a very odd-looking old dowager in bright blue - velvet, with a neck like an ostrich." - </p> - <p> - "Thank you," said Leicester, "that's my aunt." - </p> - <p> - "Well, on that ground, we'll drink her health," said Fane, whose coolness - was proverbial. "There was Hurst, however, sitting between her and an - uncommonly pretty girl, with dark hair and eyes, dressed in—let me - see"—— - </p> - <p> - "Never mind; it was one of my cousins, I suppose," interposed Horace, who - was engaged in lighting a cigar at the candle, apparently with more zeal - than success. - </p> - <p> - "Well, we'll drink <i>her</i> health for her own sake, if you have no - particular objection. I've no doubt the rest of the company will take my - word for her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95b" id="Page_95b">[Pg 95]</a></span> - being the prettiest girl on the ground to-day; Hurst would second me if he - were here, for I never saw a man making love more decidedly in my life." - </p> - <p> - "Stuff!" said Horace, pitching his cigar into the fire; "pass that punch." - </p> - <p> - "What! jealous, Leicester?" said two or three of the party—"preserved - ground, eh?" - </p> - <p> - "Not at all, not at all," said Horace, trying with a very bad grace to - laugh off his evident annoyance; "at all events, I don't consider Hurst a - very formidable poacher; but what I want to know is, how he didn't come - home with Miller and your party?" - </p> - <p> - "Miller said he was coming up directly, so you can ask him; I really heard - nothing of it. Hark, there are steps coming up the staircase now." - </p> - <p> - It proved to be Miller himself, followed by the under-porter, a - good-tempered fellow, who was the factotum of the under-graduates at late - hours, when the ordinary staff of servants had left college for the night. - </p> - <p> - "How are you, Leicester?" said he, as he walked straight to the little - pantry, or "scouts' room," immediately opposite the door, which forms part - of the usual suite of college apartments; "come here, Bob." - </p> - <p> - "Where's Hurst?" was Horace's impatient query. - </p> - <p> - "Wait a bit," replied Miller from inside, where he was rattling the plates - in the course of investigating the remains of the supper—he was not - the man to go to bed supperless after a twelve miles' drive. "Here, Bob," - he continued, as he emerged at last with a cold fowl—"take this - fellow down<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96b" id="Page_96b">[Pg 96]</a></span> - with you, and grill him in no time; here's a lump of butter—and - Harvey's sauce—and—where do you keep the pickled mushrooms, - Leicester? here they are—make a little gravy; and here, Bob—it's - a cold night—here's a glass of wine; now you'll drink Mr Leicester's - health, and vanish." - </p> - <p> - Bob drank the toast audibly, floored his tumbler of port at two gulps, and - departed. - </p> - <p> - "Now," said Horace, "do just tell me—what <i>is</i> become of Hurst? - how didn't you bring him home?" - </p> - <p> - "Confound it!" said Miller, as he looked into all the jugs—"no - whisky punch?" - </p> - <p> - "Oh, really I forgot it; here's bishop, and that brandy punch is very - good. But how didn't he come home with you?" - </p> - <p> - "Forgot it!" soliloquised Miller pathetically. - </p> - <p> - "Forgot it? how the deuce came you to forget it? and how will he come - now?" rejoined Horace. - </p> - <p> - "How came <i>you</i> to forget it? I was talking about the whisky punch," - said Miller, as we all roared with laughter. "I couldn't bring Hurst, you - know, if he wouldn't come. He left the playhouse even before we did, with - some ladies—and we came away before it was over—so I sent up - to tell him we were going to start in ten minutes, and had a place for - him; and the Boots came down and said they had just had supper in, and the - gentleman could not possibly come just yet. Well, I sent up again, just as - we were ready harnessed, and then he threatened to kick Boots down - stairs." - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97b" id="Page_97b">[Pg 97]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "What a puppy!" said Horace. - </p> - <p> - "I don't quite agree with you there: I don't pretend to much sentiment - myself, as you are all aware; but with a lady <i>and</i> a supper in the - case, I should feel perfectly justified in kicking down stairs any Boots - that ever wore shoes, if he hinted at my moving prematurely." - </p> - <p> - Miller's unusual enthusiasm amused us all except Horace. "Gad," said he, - at last, "I hope he won't be able to get home to-night at all!" In this - friendly wish he was doomed to be disappointed. It was now long past - twelve o'clock; the out-college members of the party had all taken their - leave; Miller and Fane, having finished their grilled chicken at a little - table in the corner, had now drawn round the fire with the three or four - of us who remained, and there was a debate as to the expediency of brewing - more punch, when we heard a running step in the Quadrangle, which - presently began to ascend the staircase in company with a not very - melodious voice, warbling in a style which bespoke the owner's high state - of satisfaction. - </p> - <p> - "Hush! that's Hurst to a certainty!" - </p> - <p> - "Queen of my soul, whose starlike eyes<br /> Are all the light I seek"——<br /> - </p> - <p> - (Here came an audible stumble, as if our friend were beginning his way - down again involuntarily by half-a-dozen steps at a time.) "Hallo! - Leicester!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98b" id="Page_98b">[Pg 98]</a></span> - just lend us a candle, will you? The lamp is gone out, and it's as dark as - pitch; I've dropped my hat." - </p> - <p> - "Open the door, somebody," said Horace; and Hurst was admitted. He looked - rather confused at first, certainly; for the sudden transition from outer - darkness into a small room lighted by a dozen wax candles made him blink, - and our first greeting consisting of "ha—ha's" in different keys, - was perhaps somewhat embarrassing; but he recovered himself in a second. - </p> - <p> - "Well," said he, "how are you all? glad you got home safe, Hawthorne; hope - I didn't keep you waiting, Miller? you got the start of me, all of you, - coming home; but really I spent an uncommon jolly evening." - </p> - <p> - "Glad to hear it," said Leicester, with a wink to us. - </p> - <p> - "Yes;—'pon my life; I don't know when I ever spent so pleasant a - one;" and, with a sort of chuckle to himself, Hurst filled a glass of - punch. - </p> - <p> - "What did you think of <i>Richard the Third</i>?" said I. - </p> - <p> - "Oh! hang the play! there might have been six Richards in the field for - all I can say: I was better engaged." - </p> - <p> - "Ay," said Fane, "I rather fancy you were." - </p> - <p> - "We had a very pleasant drive home," said I, willing to effect a diversion - in favour of Leicester, who was puffing desperately at his cigar in a - savage kind of silence;—"and a capital supper afterwards; I wish you - had been with us." - </p> - <p> - "And I had a very jolly drive too: I got a gig, and galloped nearly all - the way; and a very good supper, too, before I started; but I won't return - your compliment;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99b" id="Page_99b">[Pg - 99]</a></span> we were a very snug party without you. Upon my word, - Leicester, your eldest cousin is one of the very nicest girls I ever met: - the sort of person you get acquainted with at once, and so very lively and - good-humoured—no nonsense about her." - </p> - <p> - "I'll make a point of letting her know your good opinion," replied Horace, - in a tone conveying pretty plainly a rebuke of such presumption. But it - was lost upon Hurst. - </p> - <p> - "Probably you need not trouble yourself," said Fane: "I dare say he has - let her know it himself already." - </p> - <p> - "No—really no"—said Hurst, as if deprecating anything so - decided; "but Miss Leicester is a <i>very</i> nice girl; clever, I should - say, decidedly; there's a shade of—one can hardly call it rusticity—about - her manner; but I like it, myself—I like it." - </p> - <p> - "Do you?"—said Horace, very drily. - </p> - <p> - "Oh! a season in London would take all that off." And Hurst began to - quaver again— - </p> - <p> - "Queen of my soul, whose"—<br /> - </p> - <p> - "I'll tell you what," said Horace, rising, and standing with his back to - the fire, with his hands under his coat-tails—"You may not be aware - of it, but you're rather drunk, Hurst." - </p> - <p> - "Drunk!" said Hurst; "no, that's quite a mistake; three glasses, I think - it was, of champagne at supper; and you men have sat here drinking punch - all the evening; if anybody's drunk, it's not me." - </p> - <p> - Hurst's usually modest demeanour was certainly<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_100b" id="Page_100b">">[Pg 100]</a></span> so very much altered - as to justify, in some measure, Leicester's supposition; but I really - believe Flora Leicester's bright eyes had more to answer for in that - matter than the champagne, whether the said three glasses were more or - less. - </p> - <p> - However, as Horace's temper was evidently not improving, Miller, Fane, and - myself wished him good night, and Hurst came with us. We got him into - Fane's rooms, and then extracted from him a full history of the adventures - of that delightful evening, to our infinite amusement, and apparently to - his own immense satisfaction. It was evident that Miss Flora Leicester had - made an impression, of which I do not give that young lady credit for - being in the least unconscious. - </p> - <p> - The impression, however, like many others of its kind, soon wore off, I - fancy; for the next time I saw Mr Wellington Hurst, he had returned to his - usual frame of mind, and appeared quite modest and deferential; but it - will not perhaps surprise my readers any more than it did myself, that - Horace was never fond of referring to our drive to the steeple-chase at B——, - and did not appear to appreciate, as keenly as before, the trick we had - played Hurst in leaving him behind; while all the after-reminiscences of - the latter bore reference, whenever it was possible, to his favourite date—"That - day when you and I and Leicester had that team to B—— - together." - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1c" id="Page_1c">[Pg 1]</a></span> - </p> - <h2> - <a name="CHRISTINE" id="CHRISTINE">CHRISTINE</a> - </h2> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - A DUTCH STORY. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center small"> - FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME D'ARBOUVILLE - </p> - <p class="center"> - BY FREDERICK HARDMAN, <span class="smcap">Esq.</span> - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - <span class="small">[<i>MAGA.</i> <span class="smcap">December 1847.</span>]</span> - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p> - It was the hour of sunrise. Not the gorgeous sunrise of Spain or Italy, - when the horizon's ruddy blaze suddenly revives all that breathes, when - golden rays mingle with the deep azure of a southern sky, and nature - bursts into vitality and vigour, as if light gave life. The sun rose upon - the chilly shores of Holland. The clouds opened to afford passage to a - pale light, without heat or brilliancy. Nature passed insensibly from - sleep to waking, but continued torpid when ceasing to slumber. No cry or - joyous song, no flight of birds, or bleating of flocks, hail the advent of - a new day. On the summit of the dykes, the reed-hedges bend before the - breeze, and the sea-sand, whirled over the slight obstacle, falls upon the - meadows, covering<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2c" id="Page_2c">[Pg - 2]</a></span> their verdure with a moving veil. A river, yellow with the - slime of its banks, flows peaceably and patiently towards the expectant - ocean. Seen from afar, its waters and its shore appear of one colour, - resembling a sandy plain; save where a ray of light, breaking upon the - surface, reveals by silvery flashes the passage of the stream. Ponderous - boats descend it, drawn by teams of horses, whose large feet sink into the - sand as they advance leisurely and without distress to the goal of their - journey. Behind them strides a peasant, whip on shoulder; he hurries not - his cattle, he looks neither at the stream that flows, nor at the beasts - that draw, nor at the boat that follows; he plods steadily onwards, - trusting to perseverance to attain his end. - </p> - <p> - Such is a corner of the picture presented to the traveller in Holland, the - country charged, it would seem, more than any other, to enforce God's - command to the waters, <i>Thou shalt go no farther!</i> This silent repose - of creatures and things, this mild light, these neutral tints and vast - motionless plains, are not without a certain poetry of their own. Wherever - space and silence are united, poetry finds place; she loves all things - more or less, whether smiling landscape or dreary desert; light of wing, a - trifle will detain and support her—a blade of grass often suffices. - And Holland, which Butler has called a large ship always at anchor, has - its beauties for the thoughtful observer. Gradually<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_3c" id="Page_3c">[Pg 3]</a></span> one learns to admire this - land at war with ocean and struggling daily for existence; those cities - which compel the waters to flow at their ramparts' foot to follow the - given track, and abide in the allotted bed; then those days of revolt, - when the waves would fain reconquer their independence, when they - overflow, and inundate, and destroy, and at last, constrained by the hand - of man, subside and again obey. - </p> - <p> - As the sun rose, a small boat glided rapidly down the stream. It had a - single occupant, a tall young man, lithe, skilful, and strong, who, - although apparently in haste, kept near the shore, following the windings - of the bank, and avoiding the centre of the current, which would have - accelerated his progress. At that early hour the fields were deserted; the - birds alone had risen earlier than the boatman, whose large hat of grey - felt lay beside him, whilst his brown locks, tossed backward by the wind, - disclosed regular features, a broad open forehead, and eyes somewhat - thoughtful, like those of the men of the north. His costume denoted a - student from a German university. One gathered from his extreme youth that - his life had hitherto passed on academic benches, and that it was still a - new and lively pleasure to him to feel the freshness of morning bathe his - brow, the breeze play with his hair, the stream bear along his bark. He - hastened, for there are times when we count the<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_4c" id="Page_4c">[Pg 4]</a></span> hours ill; when we outstrip - and tax them with delay. Then, if we cannot hurry the pace of time, we - prefer at least to wait at the appointed spot. It calms impatience, and - seems a commencement of happiness. - </p> - <p> - When the skiff had rounded a promontory of the bank, its speed increased, - as if the eye directing it had gained sight of the goal. At a short - distance the landscape changed its character. A meadow sloped down to the - stream, fringed by a thick hedge of willows, half uprooted and bending - over the water. The boat reached the shadow of the trees, and stopping - there, rocked gently on the river, secured by a chain cast round a branch. - The young man stood up and looked anxiously through the foliage; then he - sang, in a low tone, the burthen of a ballad, a love-plaint, the national - poetry of all countries. His voice, at first subdued, as if not to break - too suddenly the surrounding silence, gradually rose as the song drew to a - close. The clear mellow notes escaped from the bower of drooping leaves, - and expired without echo or reply upon the surface of the pasture. Then he - sat down and contemplated the peaceful picture presented to his view. The - grey sky had that melancholy look so depressing to the joyless and - hopeless; the cold dull water rolled noiselessly onward; to the left, the - plain extended afar without variety of surface. A few windmills reared - their gaunt arms, waiting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5c" - id="Page_5c">[Pg 5]</a></span> for wind; and the wind, too weak to stir - them, passed on and left them motionless. To the right, at the extremity - of the little meadow, stood a square house of red bricks and regular - construction, isolated, silent, and melancholy. The thick greenish glass - of the windows refused to reflect the sunbeams; the roof supported gilded - vanes of fantastical form; the garden was laid out in formal parterres. A - few tulips, drooping their heavy heads, and dahlias, propped with white - sticks, were the sole flowers growing there, and these were hemmed in and - stifled by hedges of box. Trees, stunted and shabby, and with dust-covered - leaves, were cut into walls and into various eccentric shapes. At the - corners of the formal alleys, whose complicated windings were limited to a - narrow space, stood a few plaster figures. One of these alleys led to the - willow hedge. There nature resumed her rights; the willows grew free and - unrestrained, stretching out from the land and drooping into the water; - their inclined trunks forming flying-bridges, supported but at one end. - The bank was high enough for a certain space to intervene between the - stream and the horizontal stems. A few branches, longer than the rest, - swept the surface of the river, and were kept in constant motion by its - current. - </p> - <p> - Beneath this dome of verdure the boat was moored, and there the young man - mused, gazing at the sky—melancholy as his heart—and at the<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6c" id="Page_6c">[Pg 6]</a></span> stream, - in its course uncertain as his destiny. A few willow leaves fluttered - against his brow, one of his hands hung in the water, a gentle breeze - stirred his hair; nameless flowerets, blooming in the shelter of the - trees, gave out a faint perfume, detectable at intervals, at the wind's - caprice. A bird, hidden in the foliage, piped an amorous note, and the - student, cradled in his skiff, awaited his love. Ungrateful that he was! - he called time a laggard, and bid him speed; he was insensible to the - charm of the present hour. Ah! if he grows old, how well will he - understand that fortune then lavished on him the richest treasures of life—hope - and youth! - </p> - <p> - Suddenly the student started, stood up, and, with outstretched neck, and - eyes riveted on the trees, he listened, scarce daring to breathe. The - foliage opened, and the face of a young girl was revealed to his gaze. - "Christine!" he exclaimed. - </p> - <p> - Christine stepped upon the trunk of the lowest tree, and seated herself - with address on this pliant bench, which her weight, slight as it was, - caused to yield and rock. One of her hands, extended through the branches - that drooped towards the water, reached that of her lover, who tenderly - clasped it. Then she drew herself up again, and the tree, less loaded, - seemed to obey her will by imitating her movement. The young man sat in - his boat, with eyes uplifted towards the willow on which his love reposed. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7c" id="Page_7c">[Pg 7]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Christine Van Amberg had none of the distinguishing features of the - country of her birth. Hair black as the raven's wing formed a frame to a - face full of energy and expression. Her large eyes were dark and - penetrating; her eyebrows, strongly marked and almost straight, would - perhaps have imparted too decided a character to her young head, if a - charming expression of candour and <i>naïveté</i> had not given her the - countenance of a child rather than of a woman. Christine was fifteen years - of age. A slender silver circlet bound her brow and jet-black tresses—a - holiday ornament, according to her country's custom: but her greatest - festival was the sight of her lover. She wore a simple muslin dress of a - pale blue colour; a black silk mantle, intended to envelop her figure, was - placed upon her hair, and fell back upon her shoulders, as if the better - to screen her from the gaze of the curious. Seated on a tree trunk, - surrounded by branches and beside the water, like Shakespeare's Ophelia, - Christine was charming. But although young, beautiful, and beloved, deep - melancholy was the characteristic of her features. Her companion, too, - gazed mournfully at her, with eyes to which the tears seemed about to - start. - </p> - <p> - "Herbert," said the young girl, stooping towards her lover, "Herbert, be - not so sad! we are both too young to despair of life. Herbert! better - times will come." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8c" id="Page_8c">[Pg 8]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Christine! they have refused me your hand, expelled me your dwelling; - they would separate us entirely: they will succeed, to-morrow perhaps!..." - </p> - <p> - "Never!" exclaimed the young girl, with a glance like the lightning's - flash. But, like that flash, the expression of energy was momentary, and - gave way to one of calm melancholy. - </p> - <p> - "If you would, Christine, if you would! ... how easy were it to fly - together, to unite our destinies on a foreign shore, and to live for each - other, happy and forgotten!... I will lead you to those glorious lands - where the sun shines as you see it in your dreams—to the summit of - lofty mountains whence the eye discovers a boundless horizon—to - noble forests with their thousand tints of green, where the fresh breeze - shall quicken your cheek, and sweep from your memory these fogs, this - humid clime, these monotonous plains. Our days shall pass blissfully in a - country worthy of our loves." - </p> - <p> - As Herbert spoke, the young girl grew animated; she seemed to see what he - described, her eager eye sought the horizon as though she would over-leap - it, her lips parted as to inhale the mountain breeze. Then she passed her - hand hastily across her eyes, and sighed deeply. "No!" she exclaimed; "no, - I must remain here!... Herbert, it is my country: why does it make me - suffer? I remember another sky, another land,—but<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9c" id="Page_9c">[Pg 9]</a></span> no, it is - a dream! I was born here, and have scarcely passed the boundary of this - meadow. My mother sang too often beside my cradle the ballads and boleros - of her native Seville; she told me too much of Spain, and I love that - unknown land as one pines after an absent friend!" - </p> - <p> - The young girl glanced at the river, over which a dense fog was spreading. - A few rain-drops pattered amongst the leaves; she crossed her mantle on - her breast, and her whole frame shivered with sudden chill. - </p> - <p> - "Leave me, Christine, you suffer!—return home, and, since you reject - my roof and hearth, abide with those who can shelter and warm you." - </p> - <p> - A sweet smile played upon Christine's lips. "My beloved," she said, "near - you I prefer the chilling rain, this rough branch, and the biting wind, to - my seat in the house, far from you, beside the blazing chimney. Ah! with - what joy and confidence would I start on foot for the farthest corner of - the earth, your arm my sole support, your love my only wealth. But...." - </p> - <p> - "What retains you, Christine? your father's affection, your sisters' - tenderness, your happy home?" - </p> - <p> - The young girl grew pale. "Herbert, it is cruel to speak thus. Well do I - know that my father loves me not, that my sisters are often unkind, that - my home is unhappy; I know it, indeed I know it, and I will follow you.... - If my mother consents!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10c" id="Page_10c">[Pg 10]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Herbert looked at his mistress with astonishment. "Child!" he exclaimed, - "such consent will never leave your mother's lips. There are cases where - strength and resolution must be found in one's own heart. Your mother will - never say yes." - </p> - <p> - "Perhaps!" replied Christine, slowly and gravely. "My mother loves me; I - resemble her in most things, and her heart understands mine. She knows - that Scripture says a woman shall leave her father and mother to follow - her husband; she is in the secret of our attachment, and, since our door - has been closed against you, I have not shed a tear that she has not - detected and replied to by another. You misjudge my mother, Herbert! - Something tells me she has suffered, and knows that a little happiness is - essential to life as the air we breathe. Nor would it surprise me, if one - day, when embracing me, as she does each night when we are alone, she were - to whisper: Begone, my poor child!" - </p> - <p> - "I cannot think it, Christine. She will bid you obey, be comforted, - forget!" - </p> - <p> - "Forget! Herbert, my mother forgets nothing. To forget is the resource of - cowardly hearts. No,—none will bid me forget." - </p> - <p> - And once more a gloomy fire flashed in Christine's eyes, like the rapid - passage of a flame which illumines and instantly expires. It was a - revelation<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11c" id="Page_11c">[Pg 11]</a></span> - of the future rather than the expression of the present. An ardent soul - dwelt within her, but had not yet cast off all the encumbrances of - childhood. It struggled to make its way, and at times, succeeding for a - moment, a word or cry revealed its presence. - </p> - <p> - "No—I shall not forget," added Christine; "I love you, and you love - me, who am so little loved! You find me neither foolish, nor fantastical, - nor capricious; you understand my reveries and the thousand strange - thoughts that invade my heart. I am very young, Herbert; and yet, here, - with my hand in yours, I answer for the future. I shall always love you! - ... and see, I do not weep. I have faith in the happiness of our love; - how? when? I know not,—it is the secret of my Creator, who would not - have sent me upon earth only to suffer. Happiness will come when He deems - right, but come it will! Yes,—I am young, full of life, I have need - of air and space; I shall not live enclosed and smothered here. The world - is large, and I will know it; my heart is full of love, and will love for - ever. No tears, dearest! obstacles shall be overcome, they must give way, - for I will be happy!" - </p> - <p> - "But why delay, Christine? My love! my wife! an opportunity lost may never - be regained. A minute often decides the fate of a lifetime. Perhaps, at - this very moment, happiness is near us! A leap into my boat, a few strokes - of the oar, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12c" id="Page_12c">[Pg - 12]</a></span> we are united for ever!... Perhaps, if you again return to - land, we are for ever separated. Christine, come! The wind rises: beneath - my feet is a sail that will quickly swell and bear us away rapidly as the - wings of yon bird." - </p> - <p> - Tears flowed fast over Christine's burning cheeks. She shuddered, looked - at her lover, at the horizon, thought of liberty; she hesitated, and a - violent struggle agitated her soul. At last, hiding her face amongst the - leafage of the willow, she clasped her arms round its stem, as if to - withhold herself from entering the boat, and in a stifled voice muttered - the words,—"My mother!" A few seconds afterwards, she raised her - pallid countenance. - </p> - <p> - "If I fled," said she gently, "to whom would my mother speak of her dear - country? Who would weep with her when she weeps, if I were gone? She has - other children, but they are gay and happy, and do not resemble her. Only - my mother and myself are sad in our house. My mother would die of my - absence. I must receive her farewell blessing or remain by her side, - chilled like her by this inclement climate, imprisoned in yonder walls, - ill-treated by those who love me not. Herbert, I will not fly, I will - wait!" And she made a movement to regain the strand. - </p> - <p> - "One instant,—yet one second,—Christine! I know not what - chilling presentiment oppresses my heart. Dearest,—if we were to - meet no more! If<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13c" id="Page_13c">[Pg - 13]</a></span> this little corner of earth were our last trysting-place—these - melancholy willows the witnesses of our eternal separation! Is it—can - it be—the last happy hour of my life that has just slipped by?" - </p> - <p> - He covered his face with his hands, to conceal his tears. Christine's - heart beat violently—but she had courage. - </p> - <p> - Letting herself drop from the tree, she stood upon the bank, separated - from the boat, which could not come nearer to shore. - </p> - <p> - "Adieu, Herbert!" said she, "one day I will be your wife, faithful and - loving. It shall be, for I will have it so. Let us both pray God to hasten - that happy day. Adieu, I love you! Adieu, and till our next meeting, for I - love you!" - </p> - <p> - The barrier of reeds and willows opened before the young girl. A few small - branches crackled beneath her tread; there was a slight noise in the grass - and bushes, as when a bird takes flight; then all was silence. - </p> - <p> - Herbert wept. - </p> - <hr class="tb" /> - <p> - The clock in the red brick house struck eight, and the family of Van - Amberg the merchant were mustered in the breakfast-room. Christine was the - only absentee. Near the fire stood the head of the family—Karl Van - Amberg—and beside him his brother, who, older than himself, yielded - the prerogative<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14c" id="Page_14c">[Pg - 14]</a></span> of seniority, and left him master of the community. Madame - Van Amberg was working near a window, and her two elder daughters, - fair-haired, white-skinned Dutchwomen, prepared the breakfast. - </p> - <p> - Karl Van Amberg, the dreaded chief of this family, was of lofty stature; - his gait was stiff; his physiognomy passionless. His face, whose features - at first appeared insignificant, denoted a domineering temper. His manners - were cold. He spoke little; never to praise, but often in terms of dry and - imperious censure. His glance preceded his words and rendered them nearly - superfluous, so energetically could that small sunken grey eye make itself - understood. With the sole aid of his own patience and ambition, Karl Van - Amberg had made a large fortune. His ships covered the seas. Never loved, - always respected, his credit was everywhere excellent. Absolute monarch in - his own house, none dreamed of opposing his will. All were mute and awed - in his presence. At this moment, he was leaning against the chimney-piece. - His black garments were very plain, but not devoid of a certain austere - elegance. - </p> - <p> - William Van Amberg, Karl's brother, was quite of an opposite character. He - would have passed his life in poverty, subsisting on the scanty income - left him by his parents, had not Karl desired wealth. He placed his modest - fortune in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15c" id="Page_15c">[Pg - 15]</a></span> brother's hands, saying, "Act as for yourself!" Attached to - his native nook of land, he lived in peace, smoking and smiling, and - learning from time to time that he was a richer man by a few hundred - thousand francs. One day, he was told that he possessed a million; in - reply, he merely wrote, "Thanks, Karl; it will be for your children." Then - he forgot his riches, and changed nothing in his manner of life, even - adhering in his dress to the coarse materials and graceless fashion of a - peasant dreading the vicinity of cities. His youthful studies had - consisted of a course of theology. His father, a fervent Catholic, - destined him for the church; but it came to pass, as a consequence of his - indecision of character, that William neither took orders nor married, but - lived quietly in his brother's family. The habitual perusal of religious - books sometimes gave his language a mystical tone, contrasting with the - rustic simplicity of his exterior. This was his only peculiarity; - otherwise he had nothing remarkable but his warm heart and strong good - sense. He was the primitive type of his family: his brother was an example - of the change caused by newly-acquired wealth. - </p> - <p> - Madame Van Amberg, seated at the window, sewed in silence. Her countenance - had the remains of great beauty, but she was weak and suffering. A single - glance sufficed to fix her birthplace far from Holland. Her black hair and - olive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16c" id="Page_16c">[Pg 16]</a></span> - tint betrayed a southern origin. Silently submissive to her husband, his - iron character had pressed heavily upon this delicate creature. She had - never murmured; now she was dying, but without complaint. Her look was one - of deep melancholy. Christine, her third daughter, resembled her. Of dark - complexion, like her mother, she contrasted strongly with her rosy-cheeked - sisters. M. Van Amberg did not love Christine. Rough and cold, even to - those he secretly cherished, he was severe and cruel to those he disliked. - He had never been known to kiss Christine. Her mother's were the only - caresses she knew, and even those were stealthily and tearfully bestowed. - The two poor women hid themselves to love each other. - </p> - <p> - At intervals, Madame Van Amberg coughed painfully. The damp climate of - Holland was slowly conducting to her grave the daughter of Spain's ardent - land. Her large melancholy eyes mechanically sought the monotonous - horizon, which had bounded her view for twenty years. Fog and rain - surrounded the house. She gazed, shivered as if seized with deadly cold, - then resumed her work. - </p> - <p> - Eight o'clock had just struck, and the two young Dutchwomen, who, although - rich heiresses, waited upon their father, had just placed the tea and - smoked beef upon the table, when Karl Van Amberg turned abruptly to his - wife. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17c" id="Page_17c">[Pg 17]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Where is your daughter, madam?" - </p> - <p> - He spoke of Christine, whom the restless gaze of Madame Van Amberg vainly - sought through the fog veiling the garden. At her husband's question, the - lady rose, opened the door, and, leaning on the banister, twice uttered - her daughter's name. There was no reply; she grew pale, and again looked - out anxiously through the fog. - </p> - <p> - "Go in, Madame," was the surly injunction of Gothon, the old servant - woman, who knelt on the hall flags, which she had flooded with soap and - water, and was now vigorously scrubbing,—"Go, in, Madame; the damp - increases your cough, and Mademoiselle Christine is far enough away! The - bird flew before daybreak." - </p> - <p> - Madame Van Amberg cast a mournful glance across the meadow, where nothing - moved, and into the parlour, where her stern husband awaited her; then she - went in and sat down at the table, around which the remainder of the - family had already placed themselves. No one spoke. All could read - displeasure upon M. Van Amberg's countenance, and none dared attempt to - change the course of his ideas. His wife kept her eyes fixed upon the - window, hoping her daughter's return. Her lips scarcely tasted the milk - that filled her cup; visible anguish increased the paleness of her sweet, - sad countenance. - </p> - <p> - "Annunciata, my dear, take some tea," said her<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_18c" id="Page_18c">[Pg 18]</a></span> brother-in-law. "The day - is chill and damp, and you seem to suffer." - </p> - <p> - Annunciata smiled sadly at William. For sole answer she raised to her lips - the tea he offered her, but the effort was too painful, and she replaced - the cup upon the table. M. Van Amberg looked at nobody; he ate, his eyes - fixed upon his plate. - </p> - <p> - "Sister," resumed William, "it is a duty to care for one's health, and - you, who fulfil all your duties, should not neglect that one." - </p> - <p> - A slight flush tinged the brow of Annunciata. Her eyes encountered those - of her husband, which he slowly turned towards her. Trembling, almost - weeping, she ceased her attempts to eat. And the silence was again - unbroken, as at the commencement of the meal. At last steps were heard in - the passage, the old servant grumbled something which did not reach the - parlour, then the door opened, and Christine entered; her muslin dress - damp with fog, her graceful curls disordered by the wind, her black mantle - glittering with a thousand little rain-drops. She was crimson with - embarrassment and fear. Her empty chair was beside her mother; she sat - down, and hung her head; none offered aught to the truant child, and the - silence continued. Yielding to maternal anxiety, Madame Van Amberg took a - handkerchief and wiped the moisture from Christine's forehead and hair; - then she took her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19c" id="Page_19c">[Pg - 19]</a></span> hands to warm them in her own. For the second time M. Van - Amberg looked at his wife. She let Christine's hands fall, and remained - downcast and motionless as her daughter. M. Van Amberg rose from table. A - tear glistened in the mother's eyes on seeing that her daughter had not - eaten. But she said nothing, and returning to the window, resumed her - sewing. Christine remained at table, preserving her frightened and abashed - attitude. The two eldest girls hastened to remove the breakfast things. - </p> - <p> - "Do you not see what Wilhelmina and Maria are about? Can you not help - them?" - </p> - <p> - At her father's voice, Christine hastily rose, seized the cups and teapot, - and hurried to and fro from parlour to pantry. - </p> - <p> - "Gently! You will break something!" cried M. Van Amberg. "Begin in time, - to finish without hurry." - </p> - <p> - Christine stood still in the middle of the room. Her two sisters smiled as - they passed her, and one of them muttered—for nobody spoke aloud in - M. Van Amberg's presence—"Christine will hardly learn housekeeping - by looking at the stars and watching the river flow!" - </p> - <p> - "Now, then, Mademoiselle, you are spoiling everything here!" said the old - servant, who had just come in; "go and change that wet gown, which ruins - all my furniture." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20c" id="Page_20c">[Pg 20]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Christine remained where she was, not daring to stir without the master's - order. - </p> - <p> - "Go," said M. Van Amberg. - </p> - <p> - The young girl darted from the room and up the stairs, reached her - chamber, threw herself upon the bed and burst into tears. Below, Madame - Van Amberg continued to sew, her head bent over her work. When the cloth - was removed, Wilhelmina and Maria placed a large jug of beer, glasses, - long pipes, and a store of tobacco, upon the mahogany table, and pushed - forward two arm-chairs, in which Karl and William installed themselves. - </p> - <p> - "Retire to your apartment, madam," said M. Van Amberg, in the imperious - tone habitual to him when he addressed his wife,—"I have to discuss - matters which do not concern you. Do not leave the house; I will call you - by-and-by; I wish to speak with you." - </p> - <p> - Annunciata bowed in token of obedience, and left the room. Wilhelmina and - Maria approached their father, who silently kissed their pretty cheeks. - The two brothers lit their pipes, and remained alone. William was the - first to speak. - </p> - <p> - "Brother Karl!" said he, resting his arms upon the table, and looking M. - Van Amberg in the face, "before proceeding to business, and at risk of - offending you, I must relieve my heart. Here, all fear you, and counsel, - the salutary support of man, is denied you." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21c" id="Page_21c">[Pg 21]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Speak, William," coldly replied M. Van Amberg. - </p> - <p> - "Karl, you treat Annunciata very harshly. God commands you to protect her, - and you allow her to suffer, perhaps to die, before your eyes, without - caring for her fate. The strong should sustain the weak. In our native - land, we owe kindness to the stranger who cometh from afar. The husband - owes protection to her he has chosen for his wife. For all these reasons, - brother, I say you treat Annunciata ill." - </p> - <p> - "Does she complain?" said M. Van Amberg, filling his glass. - </p> - <p> - "No, brother; only the strong resist and complain. A tree falls with a - crash, the reed bends noiselessly to the ground. No, she does not - complain, save by silence and suffering, by constant and passive - obedience, like that of a soulless automaton. You have deprived her of - life, the poor woman! One day she will cease to move and breathe; she has - long ceased to live!" - </p> - <p> - "Brother, there are words that should not be inconsiderately spoken, - judgments that should not be hastily passed, for fear of injustice." - </p> - <p> - "Do I not know your whole life, Karl, as well as my own, and can I not - therefore speak confidently, as one well informed?" - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg inhaled the smoke of his pipe, threw himself back in his - arm-chair, and made no reply. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22c" id="Page_22c">[Pg 22]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "I know you as I know myself," resumed William, gently, "although our - hearts were made to love and not to resemble each other. When you found - our father's humble dwelling too small, I said nothing; you were - ambitious; when a man is born with that misfortune or blessing, he must do - like the birds, who have wings to soar; he must strive to rise. You - departed; I pressed your hand, and reproached you not; it is right that - each man should be happy his own way. You gained much gold, and gave me - more than I needed. You returned married, and I did not approve your - marriage. It is wiser to seek a companion in the land where one's days are - to end; it is something to love the same places and things, and then it is - only generous to leave one's wife a family, friends, well-known objects to - gaze upon. It is counting greatly on one's-self to take sole charge of her - happiness. Happiness sometimes consists of so many things! Often an - imperceptible atom serves as base to its vast structure: for my part I do - not like presumptuous experiments on the hearts of others. In short, you - married a foreigner, who perishes with cold in this country, and sighs, - amidst our fogs, for the sun of Spain. You committed a still greater fault—Forgive - me, brother; I speak plainly, in order not to return to this subject." - </p> - <p> - "I am attending to you, William; you are my elder brother." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23c" id="Page_23c">[Pg 23]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Thanks for your patience, Karl. No longer young, you married a very young - woman. Your affairs took you to Spain. There you met a needy Spanish - noble, to whom you rendered a weighty service. You were always generous, - and increasing wealth did not close your hand. This noble had a daughter, - a child of fifteen. In spite of your apparent coldness, you were smitten - by her beauty, and you asked her of her father. Only one thing struck you—that - she was poor and would be enriched by the marriage. A refusal of your - offer would have been ingratitude to a benefactor. They gave you - Annunciata, and you took her, brother, without looking whether joy was in - her eyes, without asking the child whether she willingly followed you, - without interrogating her heart. In that country the heart is precocious - in its awakening ... perhaps she left behind her some youthful dream ... - some early love.... Forgive me, Karl; the subject is difficult to - discuss." - </p> - <p> - "Change it, William," said M. Van Amberg, coldly. - </p> - <p> - "Be it so. You returned hither, and when your business again took you - forth upon the ocean, you left Annunciata to my care. She lived many years - with me in this house. Karl, her youth was joyless and sad. Isolated and - silent, she wore out her days without pleasure or variety. Your two eldest - daughters, now the life of our dwelling, were then<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_24c" id="Page_24c">[Pg 24]</a></span> in the cradle. They were - no society to their mother; I was a very grave companion for that young - and beautiful creature. I have little reading and knowledge, no - imagination; I like my quiet arm-chair, my old books, and my pipe. I at - first allowed myself to believe—because I loved to believe it—that - Annunciata resembled me—that tranquillity and a comfortable dwelling - would suffice for her happiness, as they sufficed for mine. But at last I - understood—what you, brother, I fear, have never comprehended—that - she was not born to be a Dutch housewife. In the first place, the climate - tortured her. She constantly asked me if finer summers would not come,—if - the winters were always so rigorous,—the fogs so frequent. I told - her no, that the year was a bad one; but I told her a falsehood, for the - winters were always the same. At first she tried to sing her Sevillian - romances and boleros, but soon her song died away and she wept, for it - reminded her too much of her own native land. Silent and motionless she - sat, desiring, as I have read in the Bible,—'The wings of the dove - to fly away and be at rest.' Brother, it was a melancholy sight. You know - not how slowly the winter evenings passed in this parlour. It was dark at - four, and she worked by lamp-light till bed-time. I endeavoured to - converse, but she knew nothing of the things I knew, and I was ignorant of - those that interested her. I saw at last that the greatest kindness was to - leave<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25c" id="Page_25c">[Pg 25]</a></span> - her to herself. She worked or was idle, wept or was calm, and I averted my - eyes to give her the only consolation in my power,—a little liberty. - But it was very sad, brother!" - </p> - <p> - There was a moment's silence, broken by M. Van Amberg. "Madame Van Amberg - was in her own dwelling," said he, severely, "with her children, and under - the protection of a devoted friend. Her husband toiled in foreign parts to - increase the fortune of the family; she remained at home to keep house and - educate her daughters; all that is very natural." And he filled his pipe. - </p> - <p> - "True," replied William; "but still she was unhappy. Was it a crime? God - will decide. Leave her to His justice, Karl, and let us be merciful! - During your long absence, chance conducted hither some Spaniards whom - Annunciata had known in her childhood, and amongst them the son of an old - friend of her father's. Oh! with what mingled joy and agitation did the - dear child welcome her countrymen! What tears she shed in the midst of her - joy ... for she had forgotten how to be happy, and every emotion made her - weep. How eagerly she heard and spoke her native tongue! She fancied - herself again in Spain; for a while she was almost happy. You returned, - brother, and you were cruel; one day, without explaining your motives, you - shut your door upon the strangers. Tell me, why would you not allow - fellow-countrymen, friends.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26c" - id="Page_26c">[Pg 26]</a></span> a companion of her childhood, to speak to - your wife of her family and native land? Why require complete isolation, - and a total rupture with old friends? She obeyed without a murmur, but she - suffered more than you thought. I watched her closely; I, her old friend. - Since that fresh proof of your rigour, she is sadder than before. A third - time she became a mother; it was in vain; her unhappiness continued. - Brother, your hand has been too heavy on this feeble creature." - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg rose, and slowly paced the room. "Have you finished, - William?" said he; "this conversation is painful, let it end here; do not - abuse the license I give you." - </p> - <p> - "No; I have yet more to say. You are a cold and severe husband, but that - is not all; you are also an unjust father. Christine, your third daughter, - is denied her share of your affection, and by this partiality you further - wound the heart of Annunciata. Christine resembles her; she is what I can - fancy her mother at fifteen—a lively and charming Spaniard; she has - all her mother's tastes; like her she lives with difficulty in our - climate, and although born in it, by a caprice of nature she suffers from - it as Annunciata suffered. Brother, the child is not easy to manage; - independent, impassioned, violent in all her impressions, she has a love - of movement and liberty which ill agrees with our regular habits, but she - has also a good heart, and by appealing to it<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_27c" id="Page_27c">[Pg 27]</a></span> you might perhaps have - tamed her wild spirit. For Christine you are neither more nor less than a - pitiless judge. Her childhood was one long grief. And thus, far from - losing her wild restlessness, she loves more than ever to be abroad and at - liberty; she goes out at daybreak; she looks upon the house as a cage - whose bars hurt her, and you vainly endeavour to restrain her. Brother, if - you would have obedience, show affection. It is a power that succeeds when - all others fail. Why prevent her marrying the man she loves? Herbert the - student is not rich, nor is his alliance brilliant; but they love each - other!" - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg, who had continued his walk, now stopped short, and coldly - replied to his brother's accusations: "Christine is only fifteen, and I do - my duty by curbing the foolish passion that prematurely disturbs her - reason. As to what you call my partiality, you have explained it yourself - by the defects of her character. You, who reproach others as pitiless - judges, beware yourself of judging too severely. Every man acts according - to his internal perceptions, and all things are not good to be spoken. - Empty your glass, William, and if you have finished your pipe, do not - begin another. The business I had to discuss with you will keep till - another day; it is late, and I am tired. It is not always wise to rake up - the memories of the past. I wish to be alone a while. Leave me, and tell - Madame Van Amberg to come to me in a quarter of an hour." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28c" id="Page_28c">[Pg 28]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Why not say, 'Tell Annunciata?' Why, for so long a time, has that strange - sweet name never passed your lips?" - </p> - <p> - "Tell Madame Van Amberg I would speak with her, and leave me, brother," - replied Karl sternly. - </p> - <p> - William felt he had pushed Karl Van Amberg's patience to its utmost limit; - he got up and left the room. At the foot of the stairs he hesitated a - moment, then ascended, and sought Annunciata in Christine's chamber. It - was a narrow cell, shining with cleanliness, and containing a few flowers - in glasses, a wooden crucifix, with chaplets of beads hanging on it, and a - snow-white bed; a guitar (it was her mother's) was suspended on the wall. - From the window was seen the meadow, the river, and the willows. Christine - sat on the foot of the bed, still weeping; her mother was beside her, - offering her bread and milk, with which Christine's tears mingled. - Annunciata kissed her daughter's eyes, and then furtively wiped her own. - On entering, William stood for a few moments at the door, mournfully - contemplating this touching picture. - </p> - <p> - "My brother, my good brother," cried Annunciata, "speak to my child! She - has forgotten prayer and obedience; her heart is no longer submissive, and - her tears avail nothing, for she murmurs and menaces. Ask her, brother, by - whom it was told her that life is joy? that we live only to be happy?<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29c" id="Page_29c">[Pg 29]</a></span> Talk - to her of duty, and give her strength to accomplish it!" - </p> - <p> - "Your husband inquires for you, sister. Go, I will remain with Christine." - </p> - <p> - "I go, my brother," replied Annunciata. Approaching the little mirror - above the chimney-piece, she washed the tear-stains from her eyes, pressed - her hand upon her heart to check its throbbings, and when her countenance - had resumed its expression of calm composure, she descended the stairs. - Gothon was seated on the lower steps. - </p> - <p> - "You spoil her, madame," said she roughly to her mistress; "foolish ears - need sharp words. You spoil her." - </p> - <p> - Gothon had been in the house before Annunciata, and had been greatly - displeased by the arrival of her master's foreign lady, whose authority - she never acknowledged. But she had served the Van Ambergs' mother, and - therefore it was without fear of dismissal that she oppressed, after her - own fashion, her timid and gentle mistress. - </p> - <p> - Annunciata entered the parlour and remained standing near the door as if - waiting an order. Her husband's countenance was graver and more gloomy - than ever. - </p> - <p> - "Can no one hear us, madam? Are you sure we are alone?" - </p> - <p> - "Quite alone, sir," replied the astonished Annunciata. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30c" id="Page_30c">[Pg 30]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg recommenced his walk. For some moments he said nothing. His - wife, her hand resting on the back of an arm-chair, silently awaited his - pleasure. At last he again spoke. - </p> - <p> - "You bring up your daughter Christine badly; I left her to your care and - guidance, and you do not watch over her. Do you know where she goes and - what she does?" - </p> - <p> - "From her childhood, sir," replied Annunciata gently, pausing between each - phrase, "Christine has loved to live in the open air. She is delicate, and - requires sun and liberty to strengthen her. Till now you have allowed her - to live thus; I saw no harm in letting her follow her natural bent. If you - disapprove, sir, she will obey your orders." - </p> - <p> - "You bring up your daughter badly," coldly repeated M. Van Amberg. "She - will dishonour the name she bears." - </p> - <p> - "Sir!!" exclaimed Annunciata, her cheeks suffused with the deepest - crimson; her eyes emitting a momentary but vivid flash. - </p> - <p> - "Look to it, madam, I will have my name respected, that you know! You also - know I am informed of whatever passes in my house. Your daughter secretly - meets a man to whom I refused her hand; this morning, at six o'clock, they - were together on the river bank!" - </p> - <p> - "My daughter! my daughter!" cried Annunciata in disconsolate tones. "Oh! - it is impossible!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31c" id="Page_31c">[Pg - 31]</a></span> She is innocent! she shall remain so! I will place myself - between her and evil, I will save my child! I will take her in my arms, - and close her ears to dangerous words. My daughter, I will say, remain - innocent, remain honoured, if you would not see me die!" - </p> - <p> - With unmoved eye M. Van Amberg beheld the mother's emotion. Beneath his - frozen gaze, Annunciata felt embarrassed by her own agitation; she made an - effort to calm herself; then, with clasped hands, and eyes filled with - tears, which she would not allow to flow, she resumed, in a constrained - voice: - </p> - <p> - "Is this beyond doubt, sir?" - </p> - <p> - "It is," replied M. Van Amberg: "I never accuse without certainty." - </p> - <p> - There was a moment's silence. M. Van Amberg again spoke. - </p> - <p> - "You will lock Christine in her room, and bring me the key. She will have - time to reflect, and I trust reflection will be of service to her; in a - prolonged seclusion she will lose that love of motion and liberty which - leads her into harm; the silence of complete solitude will allay the - tumult of her thoughts. None shall enter her room, save Gothon, who shall - take her her meals, and return me the key. This is what I have decided - upon as proper." - </p> - <p> - Madame Van Amberg's lips opened several times to speak, but her courage - failed her. At last she advanced a pace or two. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32c" id="Page_32c">[Pg 32]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "But I, sir, I," said she in a stifled voice, "<i>I</i> am to see my - child!" - </p> - <p> - "I said no one," replied M. Van Amberg. - </p> - <p> - "But she will despair, if none sustain her. I will be severe with her; you - may be assured I will! Let me see her, if only once a-day. She may fall - ill of grief, and who will know it? Gothon dislikes her. For pity's sake, - let me see Christine! For a minute only, a single minute." - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg once more stood still, and fixed upon his wife a look that - made her stagger. "Not another word!" he said. "I allow no discussion, - madam. No one shall see Christine; do you hear?" - </p> - <p> - "I will obey," replied Annunciata. - </p> - <p> - "Convey my orders to your daughter. At dinner bring me the key of her - room. Go." - </p> - <p> - Madame Van Amberg found Christine alone, seated on her bed, and exhausted - by long weeping. Her beautiful face, at times so energetic, wore an - expression of profound and touching dejection. Her long hair fell in - disorder on her shoulders, her figure was bent, as if weighed down by - grief: her rosary had fallen from her half-open hand; she had tried to - obey her mother and to pray, but had been able only to weep. Her black - mantle, still damp with rain, lay upon a table, a few willow sprays - peeping from its silken folds. Christine eyed them with mingled love and - melancholy. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33c" id="Page_33c">[Pg - 33]</a></span> thought it a century since she saw the sun rise on the - river, on the old trees, and on Herbert's skiff. Her mother slowly - approached her. - </p> - <p> - "My child," said she, "where were you at daybreak this morning?" - </p> - <p> - Christine raised her eyes to her mother's face, looked at her, but did not - answer. Annunciata repeated her question without change of word or tone. - Then Christine let herself slide from the bed to the ground, and kneeled - before her mother. - </p> - <p> - "I was seated," she said, "upon the trunk of a willow that overhangs the - stream. I was near Herbert's boat." - </p> - <p> - "Christine!" exclaimed Madame Van Amberg, "can it be true? Oh, my child, - could you so infringe the commands laid upon you! Could you thus forget my - lessons and advice! Christine, you thought not of me when you committed - that fault!" - </p> - <p> - "Herbert said to me, 'Come, you shall be my wife, I will love you - eternally, you shall be free and happy; all is ready for our marriage and - our flight; come!' I replied, 'I will not leave my mother!' Mother, you - have been my safeguard; if it be a crime to follow Herbert, it is the - thought of you alone that prevented my committing it. I would not leave my - mother!" - </p> - <p> - A beam of joy illumined Annunciata's countenance. Murmuring a thanksgiving - to God, she raised her kneeling child and seated her by her side. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34c" id="Page_34c">[Pg 34]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Speak to me, Christine," she said, "open your heart, and tell me all your - thoughts. Together we will regret your faults, and seek hope for the - future. Speak, my daughter; conceal nothing." - </p> - <p> - Christine laid her head upon her mother's shoulder, put one of her little - hands in hers, sighed deeply, as though her heart were too oppressed for - words, and spoke at last with effort and fatigue. - </p> - <p> - "Mother," she said, "I have nothing to confess that you do not already - know. I love Herbert. He is but a poor student, intrusted to my father's - care, but he has a noble heart—like mine, somewhat sad. He knows - much, and he is gentle to those who know nothing. Poor, he is proud as a - king: he loves, and he tells it only to her who knows it. My mother, I - love Herbert! He asked my hand of my father, whose reply was a smile of - scorn. Then he was kept from me, and I tried to exist without seeing him. - I could not do it. I made many <i>neuvaines</i> on the rosary you gave me. - I had seen you weep and pray, mother, and I said to myself—Now that - I weep as she does, I must also pray like her. But it happened once, as - day broke, that I saw a small boat descend the stream, then go up again, - and again descend; from time to time a white sail fluttered in the air as - one flutters a kerchief to a departing friend. My thoughts, then as now, - were on Herbert; I ran across the meadow—I<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_35c" id="Page_35c">[Pg 35]</a></span> reached the stream—Mother, - it was he! hoping and waiting my coming. Long and mournfully we bewailed - our separation; fervently we vowed to love until death. This morning - Herbert, discouraged and weary of waiting a change in our position, urged - me to fly with him. I might have fled, mother, but I thought of you and - remained. I have told you all; if I have done wrong, forgive me, dearest - mother!" - </p> - <p> - With deep emotion Madame Van Amberg listened to her daughter, and remained - buried in reflection, when Christine paused. She felt that the young - girl's suffering heart needed gentle lessons, affectionate advice; and, - instead of these, she was the bearer of a sentence whose severity must - aggravate the evil—she was compelled to deny her sick child the - remedies that might have saved her. - </p> - <p> - "You love him very dearly, then," said she at last, fixing a long - melancholy look on her daughter's countenance. - </p> - <p> - "Oh, mother!" exclaimed Christine, "I love him with all my soul! My life - is passed in expecting, seeing, remembering him! I could never make you - understand how entirely my heart is his. Often I dream of dying for him, - not to save his life, that were too easy and natural, but uselessly at his - command." - </p> - <p> - "Hush! Christine, hush! you frighten me," cried Annunciata, placing both - hands upon her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36c" id="Page_36c">[Pg - 36]</a></span> daughter's mouth. By a quick movement Christine disengaged - herself from her mother's arms. - </p> - <p> - "Ah!" she exclaimed, "you know not what it is to love as I do! My father - could never let himself be loved thus!" - </p> - <p> - "Be silent, my child! be silent!" repeated Annunciata energetically. "Oh, - my daughter! how to instil into your heart thoughts of peace and duty! - Almighty Father! bless my weak words, that they may touch her soul! - Christine, hear me!" - </p> - <p> - Annunciata took her daughter's hands, and compelled her to stand before - her. "My child," she said, "you know nothing of life; you walk at random, - and are about to wander from the right path. All young hearts have been - troubled as yours is now. The noble ones have struggled and triumphed; the - others have fallen! Life is no easy and pleasant passage; its trials are - many and painful—its struggles severe; believe me, for us women - there is no true happiness beyond the bounds of duty. And when happiness - is not our destiny, many great things still remain to us. Honour, the - esteem of others, are not mere empty words. Hear me, beloved child! That - God whom from your infancy I have taught you to love, do you not fear - offending him? Seek Him, and you will find better consolation than I can - offer. Christine, we love in God those from whom we are severed on earth.<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37c" id="Page_37c">[Pg 37]</a></span> He, - who in his infinite wisdom imposed so many fetters on the heart of woman, - foresaw the sacrifices they would entail, and surely he has kept treasures - of love for hearts that break in obedience to duty." - </p> - <p> - Annunciata rapidly wiped the tears inundating her fine countenance; then - clasping Christine's arm— - </p> - <p> - "On your knees, my child! on our knees both of us before the Christ I gave - you! 'Tis nearly dark, and yet we still discern Him—his arms seeming - to open for us. Bless and save and console my child, oh merciful God! - Appease her heart; make it humble and obedient!" - </p> - <p> - Her prayer at an end, she rose, and throwing her arms round Christine, who - had passively allowed herself to be placed on her knees and lifted up - again, she embraced her tenderly, pressed her to her heart, and bathed her - hair with tears. "My daughter," she murmured between her kisses, "my - daughter, speak to me! Utter one word that I may take with me as a hope! - My child, will you not speak to your mother?" - </p> - <p> - "Mother, I love Herbert!" was Christine's reply. - </p> - <p> - Annunciata looked despairingly at her child, at the crucifix upon the - wall, at the darkening sky seen through the open window. The dinner-bell - rang. Madame Van Amberg made a strong effort to collect and express her - ideas. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38c" id="Page_38c">[Pg 38]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "M. Van Amberg," said she in broken voice, "orders you to remain in your - room. I am to take him the key. You are to see no one. The hour is come, - and he expects me." - </p> - <p> - "A prisoner!" cried Christine; "A prisoner,—alone, all day! Death - rather than that!" - </p> - <p> - "He will have it so," repeated Annunciata mournfully; "I must obey. He - will have it so." And she approached the door, casting upon Christine a - look of such ineffable love and grief, that the young girl, fascinated by - the gaze, let her depart without opposition. The key turned in the lock, - and Annunciata, supporting herself by the banister, slowly descended. She - found M. Van Amberg alone in the parlour. - </p> - <p> - "You have been a long time up stairs," said he. "Have you convinced - yourself that your daughter saw the student Herbert this morning?" - </p> - <p> - "She did," murmured Annunciata. - </p> - <p> - "You have told her my orders?" - </p> - <p> - "I have done so." - </p> - <p> - "Where is the key?" She gave it him. - </p> - <p> - "Now to dinner," said M. Van Amberg, walking into the dining-room. - Annunciata endeavoured to follow him, but her strength failed her, and she - sank upon a chair. - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg sat down alone to his dinner. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39c" id="Page_39c">[Pg 39]</a></span> - </p> - <hr class="tb" /> - <p> - "A prisoner!" repeated Christine in her solitude; "apart from all! shut - up! Yon meadow was too wide a range; the house too spacious a prison. I - must have a narrower cell, with more visible walls—a straiter - captivity! They deprive me of the little air I breathed—the scanty - liberty I found means to enjoy!" - </p> - <p> - She opened the window to its full extent; leaned upon the sill, and looked - at the sky. It was very dark; heavy clouds hid the stars; no light fell - upon the earth; different shades of obscurity alone marked the outlines of - objects. The willows, so beautiful when Herbert and the sun were there, - were now a black and motionless mass; dead silence reigned around. In view - of nature thus lifeless and lightless, hopes of happiness could hardly - enter the heart. Christine was in a fever: she felt oppressed and crushed - by unkindly influences, by the indifference of friends, by a tyrant's - will, even by the cold and mournful night. The young girl's heart beat - quickly and rebelliously. - </p> - <p> - "Be it so!" she exclaimed aloud; "let them have their way! They may render - me unhappy; I will not complain. They sanctify my love by persecution. - Happy, I should perhaps have been ashamed to love so much. But they rob me - of air and liberty; I suffer; I weep. Ah! I feel proud that my heart still - throbs with joy in the midst of so many evils. My sufferings will hallow - my love,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40c" id="Page_40c">[Pg 40]</a></span> - will compel the respect of those who scoffed and slighted it. Herbert! - dear Herbert! where are you at this moment? Do you joyfully anticipate - to-morrow's dawn: are you busy with your boat, preparing it for its early - cruise? Or do you sleep, dreaming of the old willows in the meadow, - hearing the waters murmur through their branches, and the voice of - Christine promising her return? But no; it cannot be; our hearts are too - united for their feelings thus to differ! You are sad, my love, and you - know not why; I am sad with knowledge of our misfortune—'tis the - sole difference separation can establish between us. When shall we meet - again, Herbert? Alas! I know not, but meet we surely shall. If God lets me - live, he will let me love you." - </p> - <p> - Christine shut the window and threw herself on her bed without undressing. - It was cold; she wrapped herself in her mantle, and gradually her head - sank upon her breast. Her hands, at first pressed against each other, - opened and fell by her sides. She dropped asleep, like an infant, in the - midst of her tears. - </p> - <p> - The first sun-rays, feeble though they were, awoke Christine, who sprang - hastily from her couch. "Herbert waits for me!" she exclaimed. At her age - memory is better for joy than for sorrow. For her the dawn of day was - still a rendezvous of love. The next moment she awoke to<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41c" id="Page_41c">[Pg 41]</a></span> the - consciousness of her captivity. She went to the window, leaned out as on - the previous evening, and looked mournfully around. In a corner of the - heavens was a glow of light, intercepted by billows of cloud. The pale - foliage of the willows shivered in the breeze, which ruffled the leaves - without bending the branches; the long fine grass of the meadow was seen - through a veil of fog, as yet undispelled by the sun. The sounds of - awakening nature had scarce begun, when a white sail stood out upon the - surface of the stream, gliding lightly along like the open wing of a - graceful bird. It passed to and fro in front of the meadow; was lowered - before the trees, and then again displayed, bending the boat's gunwale to - the water's surface, hovering continually around a point of the bank, as - though confined within the circle of an invisible fascination. At long - intervals the wind brought a faint and scarce perceptible sound, like the - last notes of a song; then the little bark again manœuvred, and its - sail flapped in the air. The pale tints of dawn gave way to the warmer - sunbeams; passengers appeared upon the bank; trading boats ascended the - river; the windows of the red brick house opened as if to inhale the - morning air. The boat lowered its sail, and floated slowly away at the - will of the current. Christine looked after it and wept. - </p> - <p> - Twice during that day, Gothon opened the door<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_42c" id="Page_42c">[Pg 42]</a></span> of the young girl's - chamber, and brought her a frugal meal. Twice did Gothon depart without - uttering a word. The whole day passed in silence and solitude. Christine - knew not how to get rid of the weary hours. She knelt before the crucifix, - her alabaster rosary in her hand, her head raised towards the cross, and - prayed. But her prayer was for Herbert, to see him again; she never - dreamed of praying to forget him. Then she took down the guitar, passed - round her neck the faded blue ribbon, tied on it at Seville, and which her - mother would never allow to be changed. She struck a few chords of the - songs she best loved; but her voice was choked, and her tears flowed more - abundantly when she tried to sing. She collected the little sprays of - willow, and placed them in a book to dry and preserve them. But the day - was very long; and the poor child fluttered in her prison like a caged - bird, with an anguish that each moment increased. Her head burned, her - bosom throbbed. At last night came. Seated near the open window, the cold - calmed her a little. They brought her no light, and time passed more - slowly than ever. She went to bed, but, deprived of her accustomed - exercise, tormented by a thousand anxieties, she could not sleep; she got - up, walked about in the darkness, and again lay down; slumber still - avoided her. This time her eyes, red with tears and watchfulness, beheld - the sun rise<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43c" id="Page_43c">[Pg 43]</a></span> - without illusion; she did not for a moment forget her captivity, but - looked mournfully out at the little sail which, faithful to its - rendezvous, came each morning with the sun. Again, none but Gothon - disturbed her solitude. During another long day, Christine, alternately - desponding and excited, walked, wept, lamented, and prayed. Night came - again. Nothing broke the silence; the lights in the red house were - extinguished one after the other. Profound darkness covered the earth. - Christine remained at her window, insensible to cold. Suddenly she - started: she heard her name pronounced in low tones at the foot of the - wall. She listened. - </p> - <p> - "Christine, my daughter!" repeated the voice. - </p> - <p> - "Mother," exclaimed Christine, "you out in this dreadful weather! I - conjure you to go in!" - </p> - <p> - "I have been two days in bed, my child; I have been unwell; to-night I am - better; I felt it impossible to remain longer without seeing you, who are - my life, my strength, my health! Oh! you were right not to leave me; it - would have killed me. Are you well, dear Christine? Have you all you - require? How do you live, deprived of my caresses?" - </p> - <p> - "Dearest mother, for heaven's sake, go in! The night is damp and cold; it - will be your death!" - </p> - <p> - "Your voice warms me; it is far from you that<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_44c" id="Page_44c">[Pg 44]</a></span> I feel chill and faint. - Dearest child, my heart sends you a thousand kisses." - </p> - <p> - "I receive them on my knees, mother, my arms extended towards you. But, - when shall I see you again?" - </p> - <p> - "When you submit, and promise to obey; when you no longer seek him you are - forbidden to see, and whom you must forget. My daughter, it is your duty." - </p> - <p> - "Oh mother, I thought your heart could better understand what it never - felt. I thought you respected the true sentiments of the soul, and that - your lips knew not how to utter the word 'forget.' If I forgot, I should - be a mere silly child, capricious, unruly, unworthy your tenderness. If my - malady is without remedy, I am a steadfast woman, suffering and - self-sacrificing. Good God! how is it you do not understand that?" - </p> - <p> - "I understand," murmured Annunciata, but in so low a tone that she was - sure her daughter could not hear her. - </p> - <p> - "Mother," resumed Christine, "go to my father! summon up that courage - which fails you when you alone are concerned; speak boldly to him, tell - him what I have told you; demand my liberty, my happiness." - </p> - <p> - "I!" exclaimed Annunciata in terror; "I brave M. Van Amberg, and oppose - his will!" - </p> - <p> - "Not oppose, but supplicate! compel his heart<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_45c" id="Page_45c">[Pg 45]</a></span> to understand what mine - experiences; force him to see and hear and feel that my life may cease, - but not my love. Who can do it, if you cannot? I am a captive. My sisters - know not love, my uncle William has never known it. It needs a woman's - voice to express a woman's feelings." - </p> - <p> - "Christine, you know not what you ask. The effort is above my strength." - </p> - <p> - "I ask a proof of my mother's love; I am sure she will give it me." - </p> - <p> - "I shall die in so doing. M. Van Amberg can kill me by a word." - </p> - <p> - Christine started and trembled. "Do not go, then, dearest mother. Forgive - my egotism; I thought only of myself. If my father has such terrible - power, avoid his anger. I will wait, and entreat none but God." - </p> - <p> - There was a brief pause. "Christine," said Madame Van Amberg, "since I am - your only hope, your sole reliance, and you have called me to your aid, I - will speak to him. Our fate is in the hands of heaven." - </p> - <p> - Annunciata interrupted herself by a cry of terror; a hand rudely grasped - her arm; M. Van Amberg, without uttering a word, dragged her to the house - door, compelled her to enter, took out the key, and made her pass before - him into the parlour. A lamp burned dimly upon the table, its oil nearly - exhausted; at times it emitted a bright flash, and<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_46c" id="Page_46c">[Pg 46]</a></span> then suddenly became - nearly extinguished. The corners of the room were in darkness, the doors - and windows closed, perfect silence reigned; the only object on which a - strong light fell, was the countenance of M. Van Amberg. It was calm, - cold, motionless. His great height, the piercing look of his pale grey - eyes, the austere regularity of his features, combined to give him the - aspect of an implacable judge. - </p> - <p> - "You would speak with me, madam," said he to Annunciata; "I am here, - speak!" - </p> - <p> - On entering the parlour, Annunciata let herself fall into a chair. Her - clothes streamed with water; her hair, heavy with rain, fell upon her - shoulders; her extreme paleness gave her the appearance of a corpse rather - than of a living creature. Terror obliterated memory, even of what had - just occurred; her mind was confused; she felt only that she suffered - horribly. Her husband's voice and words restored the chain of her ideas; - the poor woman thought of her child, made a violent effort, rallied her - strength, and rose to her feet. - </p> - <p> - "Now then," she murmured, "since it must be so!" - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg waited in silence, his arms crossed upon his breast, his - eyes fixed upon his wife; he stood like a statue, assisting neither by - word nor gesture the poor creature who trembled before him. Annunciata - looked long at him before<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47c" - id="Page_47c">[Pg 47]</a></span> speaking; she hoped that at sight of her - tears and sufferings, M. Van Amberg would remember he had loved her. She - threw her whole soul into her eyes, but not a muscle of her husband's - countenance moved. He waited for her to break silence. - </p> - <p> - "I need your indulgence," she at last said; "it costs me a fearful effort - to address you. In general I do but answer; I am unaccustomed to speak - first, and I am afraid. I dread your anger; have compassion on a trembling - woman, who would fain be silent, and who must speak. Christine's happiness - is in your hands. The poor child implores me to soften your rigour.... Did - I refuse, not a creature upon earth would intercede for her. This is why I - venture to petition you, sir." - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg continued silent. Annunciata wiped the tears from her cheeks - and resumed with more courage. - </p> - <p> - "She is much to be pitied; she has inherited the faults you blame in me. - Believe me, sir, I have laboured hard to check them in the bud. I have - striven, exhorted, punished, have spared neither advice nor prayers, but - all in vain. God has not been pleased to spare me this new grief. Her - nature is unchangeable; she is to blame, but she is also much to be - pitied. Christine loves with all her soul. Women die of such love as hers, - and when they do not die, they suffer frightfully. For pity's sake, sir, - let her marry him she loves!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48c" id="Page_48c">[Pg 48]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Annunciata covered her face with her hands, and awaited in an agony of - anxiety her husband's reply. - </p> - <p> - "Your daughter," said M. Van Amberg, "is still a child; she has inherited, - as you say, a character that needs restraint. I will not yield to the - first caprice that traverses her silly head. Herbert is only - two-and-twenty; we know nothing of his character. Your daughter requires a - protector, and a judicious guide. Herbert has neither family, fortune, nor - position. He shall never be the husband of a woman who bears the name of - Mademoiselle Van Amberg!" - </p> - <p> - "Sir!" cried Annunciata, clasping her hands and breathless with emotion, - "Sir! the best guidance for a woman's life is a union with the man she - loves! It is her best safeguard, it strengthens her against the cares of - the world. I entreat you, Karl!" exclaimed Madame Van Amberg, falling upon - her knees, "have compassion on my daughter! Do not render duty a torture; - do not exact from her too much courage! We are weak creatures: we have - need both of love and virtue. Place her not in the terrible necessity of - choosing between them. Pity, Karl, pity!" - </p> - <p> - "Madam," cried M. Van Amberg, and this time his frame was agitated by a - slight nervous trembling, "Madam, you are very bold to speak to me thus! - You! you! to dare to hold such language<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_49c" id="Page_49c">[Pg 49]</a></span> to me! Silence! and teach - your daughter not to hesitate in her choice between good and evil. Do - that, instead of weeping uselessly at my feet." - </p> - <p> - "Yes, it is bold of me, sir, thus to address you; but I have found courage - in suffering. I am ill,—in pain,—my life is worthless, save as - a sacrifice—let my child take it, I will speak for her! Her fate is - in your hands, do not crush her by a cruel decision! An absolute judge and - master should be guarded in word and deed, for a reckoning will be asked - of him! Be merciful to my child!" - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg approached his wife, took her arm, placed his other hand on - her mouth, and said:— - </p> - <p> - "Silence! I command you; no such scenes in my house, no noise and - whimpering. Your daughters sleep within a few yards of you, do not disturb - their repose. Your servants are above, do not awaken them. Silence! you - had no business to speak; I was wrong to listen to you. Never dare again - to discuss my orders; it is I whom your children must obey, I whom you - must obey yourself. Retire to your apartment, and to-morrow let me find - you what you yesterday were." - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg had regained his usual calmness. He walked slowly from the - room. - </p> - <p> - "Oh, my daughter!" exclaimed Annunciata, despairingly, "nothing can I do - for you! Merciful Father! what will become of me, placed between him and - her, both inflexible in their resolves!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50c" id="Page_50c">[Pg 50]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - The lamp which feebly illuminated this scene of sorrow, now suddenly went - out and left the unhappy mother in profound darkness. The rain beat - against the windows,—the wind howled,—the house clock struck - four. - </p> - <p> - Christine had seen M. Van Amberg seize Annunciata's arm, and lead her away - with him; afterwards, she had distinguished, through the slight partitions - of the house, a faint echo as of mingled sobs, entreaties, and reproaches. - She understood that her fate was deciding,—that her poor mother had - devoted herself for her, and was face to face with the stern ruler whose - look alone she usually dared not brave. Christine passed the night in - terrible anxiety, abandoning herself alternately to discouragement and to - joyful hopes. At her age it is not easy to despair. Fear, however, - predominated over every other emotion, and she would have given years of - existence to learn what had passed. But the day went by like the previous - one. She saw none but Gothon. Her she ventured to question, but the old - servant had orders not to answer. - </p> - <p> - Another day elapsed. Christine's solitude was still unbroken, no friendly - voice reached her ear, no kindly hand lifted the veil shrouding her - future. The poor girl was exhausted, she had not even the energy of grief. - She wept without complaint, almost without a murmur. Night came, and she - fell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51c" id="Page_51c">[Pg 51]</a></span> - asleep, exhausted by her sorrow. She had scarcely slept an hour when she - was awakened by the opening of the door, and Gothon, lamp in hand, - approached her bed. "Get up Mademoiselle," said the servant, "and follow - me." - </p> - <p> - Christine dressed herself as in a dream, and hastily followed Gothon, who - conducted her to her mother's room, opened the door, and drew back to let - her pass. A sad spectacle met the young girl's eyes. Annunciata, pale and - almost inanimate, lay in the agonies of death. Her presentiment had not - deceived her; suffering and agitation had snapped the slender strings that - bound her to the earth. The light of the lamp fell full upon her features, - whose gentle beauty pain was impotent to deface. Resignation and courage - were upon her countenance, over which came a gleam of joy when Christine - appeared. Wilhelmina and Maria knelt and wept at the foot of their - mother's bed. William stood a little apart, holding a prayer-book, but his - eyes had left the page to look at Annunciata, and two large tears trembled - on their lids. M. Van Amberg, seated beside his wife's pillow, had his - face shaded by his hand, so that none could see its expression. - </p> - <p> - With a piercing cry, Christine rushed to Madame Van Amberg, who received - her in her arms. "Mother!" she cried, her cheek against Annunciata's, "it - is I who have killed you! For love of me you have exceeded your strength." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52c" id="Page_52c">[Pg 52]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "No, my beloved, no," replied Annunciata, kissing her daughter between - each word, "I die of an old and incurable malady. But I die happy, since I - once more clasp you in my arms." - </p> - <p> - "And they did not let me nurse you!" cried Christine, indignantly raising - her head; "they concealed your illness! They let me weep for other sorrows - than yours, my mother!" - </p> - <p> - "Dearest child," replied Annunciata gently, "this crisis has been very - sudden; two hours ago they knew not my danger, and I wished to fulfil my - religious duties before seeing you. I wished to think only of God. Now I - can abandon myself to the embraces of my children." And she clasped her - weeping daughters to her heart. "Dear children," said she, "God is full of - mercy to the dying, and sanctifies a mother's benediction. I bless you, my - daughters; remember and pray for me." - </p> - <p> - The three young girls bowed their heads upon their mother's hand, and - replied by tears alone to this solemn farewell. - </p> - <p> - "My good brother," resumed Annunciata to William, "my good brother, we - have long lived together, and to me you have ever been a devoted friend, - indulgent and gentle. I thank you, brother!" - </p> - <p> - William averted his head to conceal his tears, but a deep sob escaped him, - and he turned his venerable face towards Annunciata. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53c" id="Page_53c">[Pg 53]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Do not thank me, sister," he said, "I have done little for you. I loved - you, that is certain, but I could not enliven your solitude. My sister, - you will still live for the happiness of us all." - </p> - <p> - Annunciata gently shook her head. Her glance sought her husband, as if she - would fain have addressed her last words to him. But they expired on her - lips. She looked at him timidly, sadly, and then closed her eyes, to check - the starting tears. She grew visibly weaker, and as death approached, a - painful anxiety took possession of her. Resigned, she was not calm. It was - ordained her soul should suffer and be troubled to the end. The destiny of - one of her daughters disturbed her last moments; she dared not pronounce - the name of Christine, she dared not ask compassion for her; a thousand - conflicting doubts and fears agitated her poor heart. She died as she had - lived, repressing her tears, concealing her thoughts. From time to time - she turned to her husband, but his head continued sunk upon his hand; not - one look of encouragement could she obtain. At last came the spasm that - was to break this frail existence. "Adieu! Adieu!" she murmured in - unintelligible accents. Her eyes no longer obeyed her, and none could tell - whom they sought. William approached his brother, and placed his hand upon - his shoulder. "Karl!" he whispered in tones audible but to him he - addressed, "she is dying! Have you nothing to say to a poor<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54c" id="Page_54c">[Pg 54]</a></span> - creature who has so long lived with you and suffered by you? Living, you - loved her not; do not let her die thus! Fear you not, Karl, lest this - woman, oppressed and slighted by you, should expire with a leaven of - resentment in her heart? Crave her pardon before she departs." - </p> - <p> - For an instant all was silent. M. Van Amberg stirred not. Annunciata, her - head thrown back, seemed to have already ceased to exist. On a sudden, she - moved, raised herself with difficulty, leaned over towards M. Van Amberg, - and groped for his hand as though she had been blind. When she found it, - she bowed her face upon it, kissed it twice, and expired in that last - kiss. - </p> - <p> - "On your knees!" cried William, "on your knees, she is in heaven! let us - implore her intercession!" And all knelt down. - </p> - <p> - Of all the prayers addressed to God by man during his life of trial, not - one is more solemn than that which escapes the desolate heart, when a - beloved soul flies from earth to heaven, to stand, for the first time, in - the presence of its Creator. - </p> - <p> - M. Van Amberg rose from his knees. - </p> - <p> - "Leave the room!" said he to his brother and daughters, "I would be alone - with my wife." - </p> - <p> - Alone, beside the bed of his dead wife, Karl Van Amberg gazed upon the - pale countenance, to which death had restored all the beauty of youth. A - tear, left there by human suffering, a tear which none<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_55c" id="Page_55c">[Pg 55]</a></span> other was to follow, - glittered upon the clay-cold cheek; one arm still hung out of bed, as when - it held his hand; the head was in the position in which it had kissed his - fingers. He gazed at her, and the icy envelope that bound his heart was at - last broken. "Annunciata!" he exclaimed, "Annunciata!" - </p> - <p> - For fifteen years that name had not passed his lips. Throwing himself on - his wife's corpse, he clasped her in his arms and kissed her forehead. - </p> - <p> - "Annunciata!" he cried, "can you not feel this kiss of peace and love! - Annunciata, we have both suffered terribly! God did not grant us - happiness. I loved you from the first day that I saw you, a joyous child - in Spain, till this sad moment that I press you dead upon my heart. Oh - Annunciata, how great have been our sufferings!" - </p> - <p> - Karl Van Amberg wept. - </p> - <p> - "Repose in peace, poor woman!" he murmured; "may you find in heaven the - repose denied you upon earth!" And with trembling hand he closed - Annunciata's eyes. Then he knelt down beside her. - </p> - <p> - "Almighty God!" he said, "I have been severe. Be thou merciful!" - </p> - <hr class="tb" /> - <p> - When, at break of day, M. Van Amberg left the chamber of death, his face - had resumed its habitual expression; his inflexible soul, for a moment - bowed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56c" id="Page_56c">[Pg 56]</a></span> - had regained its usual level. To Annunciata had been given the last word - of love, the last tear of that heart of adamant. To the eyes of all he - reappeared as the stern master and father, the man on whose brow no sorrow - left a trace. His daughters bowed themselves upon his passage, William - spoke not to him, order and regularity returned to the house. Annunciata - was buried without pomp or procession. She left, to revisit it no more, - the melancholy abode where her suffering soul had worn out its mortal - envelope; she ceased to live, as a sound ceases to be heard, as a cloud - passes, as a flower fades; nothing stopped or altered because she went. If - any mourned her, they mourned in silence; if they thought of her, they - proclaimed not their thoughts; her name was no more heard; only the - interior of the little red house was rather more silent, and M. Van - Amberg's countenance appeared to all more rigid than before. During the - day, Christine's profound grief obeyed the iron will that weighed on each - member of the family. The poor child was silent, worked, sat at table, - lived on as if her heart had not been crushed; but at night, alone in the - little room where her mother had so often wept with her, she gave free - course to grief; she invoked her mother, spoke to her, extended her arms - to her, and would fain have left the earth to be with her in heaven. "Take - me to you, dear mother!" she would exclaim. "Deprived of you,<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57c" id="Page_57c">[Pg 57]</a></span> apart - from him, I cannot live! Since I saw you die, I no longer fear death." - </p> - <p> - Since the death of Annunciata, Christine was allowed her liberty, M. Van - Amberg doubtless thinking, and with reason, that she would make no use of - it during her first grief. Or, perhaps, with his wife's corpse scarcely - cold, he hesitated to recur to the severity that had caused her so many - tears. Whatever his motive, Christine was free, at least to all - appearance. The three sisters, in deep mourning, never passed the - threshold; they sat all day at work near the low window of the parlour, - supped with their uncle and father, then retired to bed. During the long - hours of their silent work, Christine often thought of her lover. She - dared not attempt to see him; she would have expected to hear her mother's - voice murmur in her ear,—"My daughter, it is too soon to be happy! - Mourn me yet a little, alone and without consolation." - </p> - <p> - One morning, after a night of tears, Christine fell into a tardy slumber, - broken by dreams. Now it was her mother, who took her in her arms, and - flew with her towards heaven. "I will not let you live," said Annunciata, - "for life is sorrow. I have prayed of God to let you die young, that you - may not weep as I have wept!" - </p> - <p> - The next instant she beheld herself clothed in white and crowned with - flowers. Herbert was there, love sparkling in his eyes. "Come, my<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58c" id="Page_58c">[Pg 58]</a></span> - betrothed!" he said, "life is joy! My love shall guard you from all evil; - come, we will be happy!" - </p> - <p> - She started up, awakened by a sudden noise in her chamber. The window was - open, and on the floor lay a pebble with a letter attached. Her first - impulse was to fly to the window; a bush stirred in the direction of the - river, but she saw no one. She snatched up the letter, she guessed it was - Herbert's writing. It seems as if one never saw for the first time the - writing of him one loves; the heart recognises as if the eyes had already - seen it. Christine was alone, a beam of the rising sun tinted the summits - of the willows, and hope and love revived in the young girl's heart, as - she read what follows: - </p> - <p> - "Christine, I can write but a few lines; a long letter, difficult to - conceal, might never reach you. Hear me with your heart, and guess what I - am unable to write. As you know, dearest, my family intrusted me to your - father, and gave him all authority over me. He can employ me at his will, - and according to the convenience of his commercial establishments. - Christine, I have just received orders to embark in one of his ships, - sailing for Batavia." - </p> - <p> - A cry escaped Christine's lips, and her eyes, suffused with tears, - devoured the subsequent lines. - </p> - <p> - "Your father places the immensity of ocean between<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_59c" id="Page_59c">[Pg 59]</a></span> us; he separates us for - ever. We are to meet no more! Christine, has your heart, since I last saw - you, learned to comprehend those words? No, my adored Christine, we must - live or die together! Your poor mother is no more; your presence is no - longer essential to the happiness of any one. Your family is pitiless and - without affection for you. Your future is gloom and unhappiness. Come, - then, let us fly together. In the Helder are numerous ships; they will - bear us far from the scene of our sufferings. All is foreseen and - arranged. Christine, my life depends on your decision. For ever separated! - ... subscribe to that barbarous decree, and I terminate an existence which - henceforward would be all bitterness! And you, Christine! will you love - another, or live without love? Oh! come! I have suffered so much without - you! I summon you, I await you, Christine! my bride! At midnight—on - the riverbank—I will be there! and a world of happiness is before - us. Come, dear Christine, come!" - </p> - <p> - As Christine read, her tears fell fast on Herbert's letter. She - experienced a moment of agonising indecision. She loved passionately, but - she was young and innocent, and love had not yet imparted to her pure soul - the audacity that braves all things. The wise counsels heard in her - father's house, uncle William's pious exhortations, the holy prayers she - had learned from her infancy upwards,<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_60c" id="Page_60c">[Pg 60]</a></span> resounded in her ears; - the Christ upon her wooden crucifix seemed to look at her; the beads of - her rosary were still warm with the pressure of her fingers. - </p> - <p> - "Oh! my dream! my dream!" she exclaimed; "Herbert who calls his bride! my - mother claiming her daughter! With him, life and love! With her, death and - heaven!..." And Christine sobbed aloud. For an instant she tried calmly to - contemplate an existence in that melancholy house, weeping for Herbert, - growing old without him, without love, within those gloomy walls, where no - heart sympathised with hers. The picture was too terrible; she felt that - such a future was unendurable. She wept bitterly, kissed her rosary, her - prayer-book, as if bidding adieu to all that had witnessed the innocence - of her early years. Then her heart beat violently. The fire of her glance - dried her tears. She looked out at the river, at the white sail which - seemed to remind her of her vows of love; she gave one last sob, as if - breaking irrevocably the links between her past and future. The image of - her mother was no longer before her. Christine, abandoned to herself, - followed the impulse of her passionate nature; she wept, trembled, - hesitated, and at last exclaimed,— - </p> - <p> - "At midnight, I will be there!" - </p> - <p> - Then she wiped her tears, and remained quite still for a few moments, to - calm her violent agitation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61c" - id="Page_61c">[Pg 61]</a></span> A vast future unrolled itself before her; - liberty would be hers; a new world was revealed to her eyes; a new life - began for her. - </p> - <p> - At last night came. A lamp replaced the fading daylight. The window was - deserted for the table. William and Karl Van Amberg came in. The former - took a book; his brother busied himself with commercial calculations. The - lamp gave a dull light; all was silent, sad, and monotonous in the - apartment. The clock slowly told the successive hours. When its hammer - struck ten, there was a movement round the table; books were shut, work - was folded. Karl Van Amberg rose; his two eldest daughters approached him, - and he kissed their foreheads in silence. Christine no longer a captive, - but still in disgrace, bowed herself before her father. Uncle William, - grown drowsy over his book, put up his spectacles, muttering a - "good-night." The family left the parlour, and the three sisters ascended - the wooden staircase. At her chamber door, Christine felt a tightness at - her heart. She turned and looked after her sisters. "Good-night, - Wilhelmina! good-night, Maria!" - </p> - <p> - The sisters turned their heads. By the faint light of their tapers - Christine saw them smile and kiss their hands to her. Then they entered - their rooms without speaking. Christine found herself alone. She opened - her window; the night was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62c" - id="Page_62c">[Pg 62]</a></span> calm; at intervals clouds flitted across - the moon, veiling its brightness. Christine made no preparations for - departure; she only took her mother's rosary, and the blue ribbon so long - attached to the guitar; then she wrapped herself in her black mantle and - sat down by the window. Her heart beat quick, but no distinct thought - agitated her mind. She trembled without terror; her eyes were tearful, but - she felt no regret. For her, the hour was rather solemn than sad; the - struggle was over, and she was irrevocably decided. - </p> - <p> - At last midnight came; each stroke of the clock thrilled Christine's - heart; for an instant she stood still, summoning strength and courage; - then, turning towards the interior of the room,— - </p> - <p> - "Adieu, my mother!" she whispered. Many living creatures dwelt under that - roof. It seemed to Christine as if she left her only who was no longer - there. "Adieu, my mother!" she repeated. - </p> - <p> - Then she stepped out of the window; a trellis, twined with creepers, - covered the wall. With light foot and steady hand, Christine descended, - aiding herself by the branches, and pausing when they cracked under her - tread or grasp. The stillness was so complete that the slightest sound - assumed importance. Christine's heart beat violently; at last she reached - the ground, raised her head, and looked at the house. Her father's window - was still lighted. Again she shuddered with<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_63c" id="Page_63c">[Pg 63]</a></span> apprehension; then, - feeling more courage for a minute's daring than for half an hour's - precautions, she darted across the meadow and arrived breathless at the - clump of willows. Before plunging into it, she again looked round. All was - quiet and deserted; she breathed more freely and disappeared amongst the - branches. Leaning upon the old tree, the witness of her former rendezvous, - she whispered, so softly that none but a lover could hear, "Herbert, are - you there?" - </p> - <p> - A cautious oar skimmed the water; a well-known voice replied. The boat - approached the willow; the young student stood up and held out his arms to - Christine, who leaped lightly into the skiff. In an instant, they were out - of the willow-shaded inlet; in another, the sail—the signal of their - loves—was hoisted to the breeze; the bark sped swiftly over the - water, and Herbert, scarce daring to believe his happiness, was seated at - Christine's feet. His hand sought hers; he heard her weep, and he wept for - sympathy. Both were silent, agitated, uneasy, and happy. - </p> - <p> - But the night was fine, the moon shed its softest light, the ripple of the - stream had a harmony of its own, the light breeze cooled their cheeks, the - sail bent over them like the wing of an invisible being; they were young, - they loved, it was impossible that joy should not revive in their hearts. - </p> - <p> - "Thanks, Christine, thanks!" exclaimed Herbert,<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_64c" id="Page_64c">[Pg 64]</a></span> "thanks a thousand times - for so much devotedness, for such confidence and love! Oh how beautiful - will life now appear! We are united for ever!" - </p> - <p> - "For ever!" repeated Christine, her tears flowing afresh. For the first - time she felt that great happiness, like great grief, expresses itself by - tears. Her hand in Herbert's, her eyes raised to heaven, she gazed upon - bright stars and fleecy clouds, sole and silent witnesses of her - happiness. Presently she was roused from this sweet reverie. - </p> - <p> - "See there, Herbert!" she exclaimed; "the sail droops along the mast, the - wind has fallen, we do not advance." - </p> - <p> - Herbert took the oars, and the boat cut rapidly through the water. Wrapped - in her mantle, Christine sat opposite, and smiled upon him. Onwards flew - the boat, a track of foam in its wake. Daylight was still distant; all - things favoured the fugitives. Again Christine broke silence. - </p> - <p> - "Herbert, dear Herbert, do you hear nothing?" - </p> - <p> - Herbert ceased to row, and listened. "I hear nothing," he said, "save the - plash of the river against its banks." He resumed the oars; again the boat - moved rapidly forward. Christine was pale; half risen from her seat, her - head turned back, she strove to see, but the darkness was too great. - </p> - <p> - "Be tranquil, best beloved," said Herbert with a smile. "Fear creates - sounds. All is still." - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65c" id="Page_65c">[Pg 65]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "Herbert," cried Christine, this time starting up in the boat, "I am not - mistaken! I hear oars behind us ... pause not to listen ... row, for - Heaven's love, row!" - </p> - <p> - Her terror was so great, she seemed so sure of what she said, that Herbert - obeyed in silence, and a sensation of alarm chilled his heart. Christine - seated herself at his feet. - </p> - <p> - "We are pursued!" she said; "the noise of your own oars alone prevented - your hearing. A boat follows us." - </p> - <p> - "If it be so," Herbert cried, "what matter! That boat does not bear - Christine—is not guided by a man who defends his life, his - happiness, his love. My arm will weary his, his bark will not overtake - mine." And Herbert redoubled his efforts. The veins of his arms swelled to - bursting; his forehead was covered with sweat-drops. The skiff clove the - waters as though impelled by wings. Christine remained crouched at the - young man's feet, pressing herself against him, as to seek refuge. - </p> - <p> - Other oars, wielded by stalwart arms, now struck the water not far from - Herbert's boat. The young student heard the sound; he bent over his oars - and made desperate efforts. But he felt his strength failing; as he rowed - he looked with agony at Christine; no one spoke, only the noise of the two - boats interrupted the silence. Around, all was calm and serene as when the - fugitives set out. But the soul<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66c" - id="Page_66c">[Pg 66]</a></span> of the young girl had passed from life to - death; her eyes, gleaming with a wild fire, followed with increasing - terror each movement of Herbert's; she saw by the suffering expression of - his countenance, that little hope of escape remained. Still he rowed with - the energy of despair; but the fatal bark drew nearer, its shadow was seen - upon the water, it followed hard in the foamy track of Herbert's boat. - Christine stood up and looked back; just then the moon shone out, casting - its light full upon the pale, passionless features of M. Van Amberg. - Christine uttered a piercing cry. - </p> - <p> - "My father!" she cried; "Herbert, 'tis my father!" - </p> - <p> - Herbert also had recognised his pursuer. The youth had lived too long in - Karl Van Amberg's house not to have experienced the strange kind of - fascination which that man exercised over all around him. Darkness had - passed away to reveal to the fugitives the father, master, and judge! - </p> - <p> - "Stop, Herbert!" cried Christine, "we are lost, escape is impossible! Do - you not see my father?" - </p> - <p> - "Let me row!" replied Herbert, disengaging himself from Christine, who had - seized his arm. He gave so violent a pull with the oars, that the skiff - bounded out of the water and seemed to gain a little on its pursuer. - </p> - <p> - "Herbert," cried Christine, "I tell you we are lost! 'Tis my father, and - resistance is useless!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67c" - id="Page_67c">[Pg 67]</a></span> God will not work a miracle in our - favour! Herbert, I will not return to my father's house! Let us die - together, dear Herbert!" - </p> - <p> - And Christine threw herself into her lover's arms. The oars fell from the - young man's hands; with a cry of anguish he pressed Christine convulsively - to his heart. For a single instant he thought of obeying her, and of - plunging with her into the dark tide beneath; but Herbert had a noble - heart, and he repelled the temptation of despair. The next moment a - violent shock made the boat quiver, and M. Van Amberg stepped into it. - Instinctively Herbert clasped Christine more tightly, and retreated, as if - his strength could withhold her from her father—as if, in that - little boat, he could retreat far enough not to be overtaken. With a - vigorous arm, M. Van Amberg seized Christine, whose slender form bent like - a reed over his shoulder. - </p> - <p> - "Have mercy on her!" cried the despairing Herbert; "I alone am guilty! - Punish her not, and I promise to depart, to renounce her! Pity, sir! pity - for Christine!" - </p> - <p> - He spoke to a deaf and silent statue. Wresting Christine's hand from the - student's grasp, M. Van Amberg stepped back into his boat, and pushed - Herbert's violently with his foot. Yielding to the impulse, the boats - separated; one was pulled swiftly up the river, whilst the other, - abandoned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68c" id="Page_68c">[Pg 68]</a></span> - to itself, was swept by the current in a contrary direction. Erect on the - prow of his bark, his head thrown back, his arms folded on his breast, M. - Van Amberg fixed a terrible look upon Herbert and then disappeared in the - darkness. All was over. The father had taken his daughter, and no human - power could henceforward tear her from his arms. - </p> - <p> - Within a week from that fatal night, the gates of a convent closed upon - Christine Van Amberg. - </p> - <hr class="tb" /> - <p> - On the frontier of Belgium, on the summit of a hill, stands a large white - building of irregular architecture, a confused mass of walls, roofs, - angles, and platforms. At the foot of the hill is a village, whose - inhabitants behold with a feeling of respect the edifice towering above - their humble dwellings. For there is seen the belfry of a church, and - thence is heard unceasingly the sound of pious bells, proclaiming afar - that on the mountain's summit a few devout souls pray to God for all men. - The building is a convent; the poor and the sick well know the path - leading to the hospitable threshold of the Sisters of the Visitation. - </p> - <p> - To this convent was Christine sent. To this austere dwelling, the abode of - silence and self-denial, was she, the young, the beautiful, the loving, - pitilessly consigned. It was as though a gravestone had suddenly closed - over her head. With<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69c" id="Page_69c">[Pg - 69]</a></span> her, the superior of the convent received the following - letter:— - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "<span class="smcap">Madame la Supérieure</span>,—I send you your - niece, Christine Van Amberg, and beg you to oblige me by keeping her with - you. I intend her to embrace a religious life; employ the influence of - your wise counsels to predispose her to it. Her misconduct compels me to - exclude her my house; she requires restraint and watching, such as are - only to be found in a convent. Be pleased, dear and respected kinswoman, - to receive her under your roof; the best wish that can be formed for her - is, that she may make up her mind to remain there for ever. Should she - inquire concerning a young man named Herbert, you may inform her that he - has sailed to Batavia, whence he will proceed to our most remote - settlements. - </p> - <p class="blockquot"> - "I am, with respect, <i>Madame la Supérieure</i>, your kinsman and friend, - </p> - <p class="blockquot right"> - "<span class="smcap">Karl Van Amberg.</span>" - </p> - <p> - Five years had elapsed since the date of this letter, when one day the - convent gate opened to admit a stranger, who craved to speak with the - superior. The stranger was an old man; a staff sustained his feeble steps. - Whilst waiting in the parlour, he looked about him with surprise and<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70c" id="Page_70c">[Pg 70]</a></span> - emotion, and several times he passed his hand across his eyes as if to - brush away a tear. "Poor, poor child!" he muttered. When the superior - appeared behind the grating, he advanced quickly towards her. - </p> - <p> - "I am William Van Amberg," he said, "the brother of Karl Van Amberg. I - come, madam, to fetch Christine, his daughter and my niece." - </p> - <p> - "You come very late!" replied the superior; "sister Martha-Mary is on the - eve of pronouncing her vows." - </p> - <p> - "Martha-Mary!—I do not know the name!" said William Van Amberg; "I - seek Christine—my niece Christine." - </p> - <p> - "Christine Van Amberg, now sister Martha-Mary, is about to take the veil." - </p> - <p> - "Christine a nun! Oh, impossible! Madame, they have broken the child's - heart; from despair only would she take the veil; they have been cruel—they - have tortured her; but I bring her liberty and the certainty of happiness,—permission - to marry him she loves. Let me speak to her and she will quickly follow." - </p> - <p> - "Speak to her then; and let her depart if such be her will." - </p> - <p> - "Thanks, madam,—a thousand thanks! Send me my child, send me my - Christine—with joy and impatience I await her." - </p> - <p> - The superior retired. Left alone, William again<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_71c" id="Page_71c">[Pg 71]</a></span> contemplated the - melancholy abode in which he found himself, and the more he gazed, the - sadder his heart became. He would fain have taken Christine in his arms, - as he did when she was little, and have fled with her from those chilly - walls and dismal gratings. - </p> - <p> - "Poor child!" he repeated, "what a retreat for the bright years of your - youth!... How you must have suffered! But console thyself, dearest child, - I am here to rescue thee!" - </p> - <p> - He remembered Christine as a wild young girl, delighting in liberty, air, - and motion; then as an impassioned woman, full of love and independence. - And a smile crossed the old man's lips as he thought of her burst of joy, - when he should say to her,—"You are free, and Herbert waits to lead - you to the altar!" His heart beat as it had never beaten in the best days - of his youth; he counted the minutes and kept his eyes fixed upon the - little door through which Christine was to come. He could not fold her in - his arms, the grating prevented it, but at least he should see and hear - her. Suddenly all his blood rushed to his heart, for the hinges creaked - and the door opened. A novice, clothed in white, slowly advanced; he - looked at her, started back, hesitated, and exclaimed: "Oh God! is that - Christine?" - </p> - <p> - William had cherished in his heart the memory of a bright-eyed, sunburnt - girl, alert and lively,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72c" - id="Page_72c">[Pg 72]</a></span> quick and decided in her movements, - running more often than she walked, like the graceful roe that loves the - mountain-steeps. He beheld a tall young woman, white and colourless as the - robes that shrouded her; her hair concealed under a thick linen band, her - slender form scarcely to be distinguished beneath the heavy folds of her - woollen vestments. Her movements were slow, her black eyes veiled by an - indescribable languor; a profound calm was the characteristic of her whole - being—a calm so great, that it resembled absence of life. One might - have thought her eyes looked without seeing, that her lips could not open - to speak, that her ears listened without hearing. Sister Martha-Mary was - beautiful, but her beauty was not of the earth—it was the beauty of - infinite repose,—of a calm that nothing could disturb. - </p> - <p> - The old man was touched to the bottom of his soul; the words expired on - his lips, and he extended his hands towards Christine. On beholding her - uncle, Martha-Mary endeavoured to smile, but moved not, and said nothing. - </p> - <p> - "Oh my child!" cried William at last, "how you must suffer here!" - </p> - <p> - Martha-Mary gently shook her head, and the tranquil look she fixed upon - her uncle, protested against his supposition. - </p> - <p> - "Is it possible that five years have thus changed my Christine! My heart - recognises you, my child,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73c" - id="Page_73c">[Pg 73]</a></span> not my eyes! They have compelled you to - great austerities, severe privations?" - </p> - <p> - "No." - </p> - <p> - "A cruel bondage has weighed heavily upon you?" - </p> - <p> - "No." - </p> - <p> - "You have been ill then?" - </p> - <p> - "No." - </p> - <p> - "Your poor heart has suffered too much, and has broken. You have shed many - tears?" - </p> - <p> - "I remember them no longer." - </p> - <p> - "Christine! Christine! do you live? or has the shade of Annunciata risen - from the grave? Oh my child! in seeing you, I seem to see her corpse, - extended on the bed of death!" - </p> - <p> - Martha-Mary raised her large eyes to heaven; she joined her hands, and - murmured, "My mother!" - </p> - <p> - "Christine, speak to me! weep with me! you frighten me by your calm and - silence.... Ah! in my trouble and emotion, I have as yet explained - nothing.... Listen: my brother Karl, by the failure of a partner, suddenly - found his whole fortune compromised. To avoid total ruin he was obliged to - embark immediately for the colonies. He set sail expecting to return in a - few years; but his affairs prolong his absence, and his return is - indefinitely postponed. His two eldest daughters are with him. To me, who - am too old to follow him, too old to remain alone, he has given Christine. - I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74c" id="Page_74c">[Pg 74]</a></span> - would not accept the precious charge, my child, without the possibility of - rendering you happy. I implored permission to marry you to Herbert. You - are no longer a rich heiress: your father gone, you need protection, and - that of an old man cannot long avail you. In short, your father has agreed - to all I asked: he sends you, as a farewell gift, your liberty and his - consent to your marriage.... Christine! you are free, and Herbert awaits - his bride!" - </p> - <p> - The long drapery of the novice was slightly agitated, as if the limbs it - covered trembled; she remained some seconds without speaking, and then - replied, "It is too late! I am the affianced of the Lord!" - </p> - <p> - William uttered a cry of grief, and looked with alarm at the pale calm - girl, who stood immovable before him. - </p> - <p> - "Christine!" he cried, "you no longer love Herbert?" - </p> - <p> - "I am the affianced of the Lord!" repeated the novice, her hands crossed - upon her breast, her eyes raised to heaven. - </p> - <p> - "Oh my God! my God!" cried William, weeping bitterly, "my brother has - killed his child! Her soul has been sad even unto death! Poor victim of - severity, tell me, Christine, tell me, what has passed within you, during - your abode here?" - </p> - <p> - "I saw others pray, and I prayed also. There<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_75c" id="Page_75c">[Pg 75]</a></span> was a great stillness, - and I was silent; none wept, and I dried my tears; a something, at first - cold, then soothing, enveloped my soul. The voice of God made itself heard - to me, and I listened; I loved the Lord, and gave myself to Him." - </p> - <p> - Then, as if fatigued with speaking so much, Martha-Mary relapsed into - silence, and into that absorbing meditation which rendered her insensible - to surrounding things. Just then a bell tolled. The novice started, and - her eyes sparkled. - </p> - <p> - "God calls me!" she said; "I go to pray!" - </p> - <p> - "Christine! my daughter, will you leave me thus?" - </p> - <p> - "Hear you not the bell? It is the hour of prayer." - </p> - <p> - "But, Christine, dearest child, I came to take you hence." - </p> - <p> - "I shall never leave these walls!" said Martha-Mary, gliding slowly away. - As she opened the parlour door, she turned towards William; her eyes fixed - upon him with a sad and sweet expression; her lips moved, as if to send - him a kiss; then she disappeared. William made no attempt to detain her; - his head was pressed against the grating, and big tears chased each other - down his cheeks. How long he remained thus plunged in mournful reflection, - he noted not. He was roused by the voice of the superior, who seated - herself, wrapped in her black robes, on the other side of the grating. - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76c" id="Page_76c">[Pg 76]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "I foresaw your grief," she said. "Our sister Martha-Mary refuses to - follow you." - </p> - <p> - With a despairing look, William answered the nun. - </p> - <p> - "Alas! alas!" he said, "the child I so dearly loved met me without joy, - and left me without regret." - </p> - <p> - "Listen, my son," resumed the superior; "listen to me.—Five years - ago, there came to this convent a young girl overwhelmed with grief and - sunk in terrible despair; her entrance here was to her a descent into the - tomb. During one entire year, none saw her but with tears on her face. - Only God knows how many tears the eyes must shed before a broken spirit - regains calm and resignation; man cannot count them. This young girl - suffered much; in vain we implored pardon for her, in vain we summoned her - family to her relief. She might say, as is written in the psalm,—'<i>I - am weary with my groaning: mine eye is consumed because of grief.</i>' - What could we do, save pray for her, since none would receive her - back!..." - </p> - <p> - "Alas!" cried William, "your letters never reached us. My brother was - beyond sea; and I, having then no hope of changing his determination,—I - had quitted his empty and melancholy house." - </p> - <p> - "Man abandoned her," continued the superior, "but God looked upon His - servant, and comforted her soul. If He does not see fit to restore - strength to her body, exhausted by suffering—His will be<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77c" id="Page_77c">[Pg 77]</a></span> done! - Perhaps it would now be wise and generous to leave her to that love of God - which she has attained after so many tears; perhaps it would be prudent to - spare her fresh shocks." - </p> - <p> - "No! no!" interrupted William, "I cannot give up, even to God, this last - relic of my family, the sole prop of my old age. I will try every means to - revive in her heart its early sentiments. Give me Christine for a few days - only! Let me conduct her to the place of her birth, to the scenes where - she loved. She is deaf to my entreaties, but she will obey an order from - you; bid her return for a while beneath her father's roof! Should she - still wish it, after this last attempt, I will restore her hither." - </p> - <p> - "Take her, my son," replied the superior; "I will bid her follow. If God - has indeed spoken to her soul, no worldly voice will move her. If it be - otherwise, may she return no more to the cloister, but be blessed wherever - she goes! Adieu, my son; the peace of the Lord be with you!" - </p> - <p> - Hope revived in the heart of William Van Amberg; it seemed to him as if—the - convent threshold once passed—Christine would revert to her former - character—to her youth and love. He believed he was about to remove - his beloved child for ever from these gloomy walls, and with painful - impatience he awaited her coming. Soon a light step was heard in the - corridor; William threw open the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78c" - id="Page_78c">[Pg 78]</a></span> door, Christine was there, and no grating - now separated her from her uncle. - </p> - <p> - "My beloved Christine!" exclaimed William; "at last, then, you are - restored to me; at last I can press you to my heart! Come, we will return - to our own country, and revisit the house where we all dwelt together." - </p> - <p> - Sister Martha-Mary was still paler than at her first interview with - William. If any expression was discernible upon that calm countenance, it - was one of sadness. She allowed herself to be taken by the hand and - conducted to the convent gate; but when the gate was opened, and, passing - into the open air, she encountered the broad daylight and the fresh - breeze, she tottered and leaned for support against the wall. Just then - the sun rent the clouds, and threw its golden beams on plain and mountain; - the air was clear and transparent, and the flat and monotonous horizon - acquired beauty from the burst of light. - </p> - <p> - "See, my daughter!" said William; "see how lovely is the earth! How soft - is the air we breathe! How good it is to be free, and to move towards that - immense horizon!" - </p> - <p> - "Oh, my dear uncle!" replied the novice; "how beautiful are the heavens! - See how the sun shines above our heads! It is in heaven that his glory - should be admired! His rays are already dim and feeble when they touch the - earth!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79c" id="Page_79c">[Pg 79]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - William led Christine to a carriage; they got in, and the horses set off. - Long did the gaze of the novice remain fixed on her convent's walls; when - these were hidden from her by the windings of the road, she closed her - eyes and seemed to sleep. During the journey, William endeavoured in vain - to make her converse; she had forgotten how to express her thoughts. When - compelled to reply, fatigue overwhelmed her; her whole existence was - concentrated in her soul, and detached entirely from the external world. - At intervals she would say to herself, "How long the morning is! Nothing - marks the hours; I have not heard a single bell to-day!" - </p> - <p> - At last they reached the red house, and the carriage drove into the court, - where the grass grew between the stones. Gothon came out to receive them, - and Martha-Mary, leaning on her uncle's arm, entered the parlour where the - family of Van Amberg had so often assembled. The room was deserted and - cold; no books or work gave it the look of habitation; abandoned by its - last occupants, it awaited new ones. Christine slowly traversed this - well-known apartment, and sat down upon a chair near the window. It was - there her mother had sat for twenty years; there had her childhood passed - at the knees of Annunciata. - </p> - <p> - William opened the window, showed her the meadow, the willows, and the - river. Christine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80c" id="Page_80c">[Pg - 80]</a></span> looked at them in silence, her head resting on her hand, - her eyes fixed on the horizon. For a long while William stood beside her, - then he placed his hand on her shoulder and pronounced her name. She rose - and followed him. They ascended the stairs, traversed the gallery, and - William opened a door. "Your mother's room," said he to Christine. The - novice entered and paused in the middle of the chamber; tears flowed from - her eyes, she clasped her hands and prayed. - </p> - <p> - "My daughter," said William, "<i>she</i> ardently desired your happiness." - </p> - <p> - "She has obtained it!" replied the novice. - </p> - <p> - The old man felt a profound sadness come over him. It was like pressing to - his heart a corpse to which his love restored neither breath nor warmth. - Martha-Mary approached her mother's bed, knelt down, and kissed the pillow - that had supported the dying head of Annunciata. - </p> - <p> - "Mother," she murmured, "soon we shall meet again." - </p> - <p> - William shuddered. He took Christine's hand, and led her to the room she - had formerly occupied. The little white-curtained bed was still there, the - guitar hung against the wall, Christine's favourite volumes filled the - shelves of her modest book-case; through the open window were seen the - willows and the river. Martha-Mary noticed none of these things: the - wooden crucifix was still upon the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81c" - id="Page_81c">[Pg 81]</a></span> wall; she rapidly approached it, knelt, - bowed her head upon the feet of Christ, closed her eyes and breathed - deeply, like one finding repose after long fatigue. Like the exile - returning to his native land, like the storm-tossed mariner regaining the - port, she remained with her brow resting upon her Saviour's feet. - </p> - <p> - Standing by her side, William looked on in tearful silence. Farther off, - Gothon wiped her eyes with her apron. Several hours elapsed. The house - clock struck, the birds sang in the garden; the wind rustled among the - trees; in the lofty pigeon-house the doves cooed; the cock crowed in the - poultry-yard. None of these loved and familiar sounds could divert - Martha-Mary from her devout meditation. Sick at heart, her uncle descended - to the parlour. He remained there long, plunged in gloomy reflections. - Suddenly hasty steps were heard; a young man rushed into the room, and - into William's arms. - </p> - <p> - "Christine! Christine!" cried Herbert; "where is Christine? Is it not a - dream? M. Van Amberg gives me Christine!... Once more in my native land, - and Christine mine!" - </p> - <p> - "Karl Van Amberg gives, but God refuses her to you!" replied William, - mournfully. Then he told Herbert what had passed at the convent, and since - their arrival at the house: he gave a thousand details—he repeated - them a thousand times, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82c" - id="Page_82c">[Pg 82]</a></span> without convincing Herbert of the - melancholy truth. - </p> - <p> - "It is impossible!" cried the young man; "if Christine is alive, if - Christine is here, to the first word uttered by her lover, Christine will - reply." - </p> - <p> - "God grant it!" exclaimed William; "my last hope is in you." - </p> - <p> - Herbert sprang up the stairs, his heart too full of love to have room for - fear. Christine free, was for him Christine ready to become his wife. He - hastily opened her chamber door; but then he paused, as if petrified, upon - the threshold. The day was closing in, and its fading light fell upon - Martha-Mary, whose form stood out like a white shadow from the gloom of - the room. She was still on her knees, her head resting on the feet of - Christ, her fragile person lost in the multiplied folds of her conventual - robes. She heard not the opening of the door, and Herbert stood gazing at - her, till a flood of tears burst from his eyes. William took his hand and - silently pressed it. - </p> - <p> - "I am frightened!" said Herbert, in a low tone. "That is not my Christine! - A phantom risen from the earth, or an angel descended from heaven, has - taken her place!" - </p> - <p> - "No, she is no longer Christine!" replied William, sadly. - </p> - <p> - For a few moments more Herbert stood in mournful<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_83c" id="Page_83c">[Pg 83]</a></span> contemplation. Then he - exclaimed—"Christine, dear Christine!" - </p> - <p> - At the sound of his voice the novice started, rose to her feet, and - pronounced his name. As in former days, when her lover called "Christine!" - Martha-Mary replied "Herbert!" - </p> - <p> - The young man's heart beat violently; he stood beside the novice, he took - her hands. "It is I, it is Herbert!" he said, kneeling down before her. - </p> - <p> - The novice fixed her large black eyes upon him with a long inquiring gaze; - a slight flush passed across her brow; then she became pale as before, and - said gently to Herbert—"I thought not to see you again upon earth." - </p> - <p> - "Dear Christine! tears and suffering have long been our portion; but happy - days at last dawn upon us! My love! my bride! we will never part again!" - </p> - <p> - Martha-Mary extricated her hands from those of Herbert, and retreated - towards the image of Christ. - </p> - <p> - "I am the bride of the Lord," she said in trembling accents. "He expects - me." - </p> - <p> - Herbert uttered a cry of grief. - </p> - <p> - "Christine! dear Christine! remember our oft-repeated pledges, our loves, - our tears, our hopes. You left me vowing to love me always. Christine, if - you would not have me die of despair, remember the past!" - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84c" id="Page_84c">[Pg 84]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - Martha-Mary's eyes continued riveted on the crucifix; her hands, - convulsively clasped, were extended towards it. - </p> - <p> - "Gracious Lord!" she prayed, "speak to his heart as you have spoken to - mine! It is a noble heart, worthy to love you. Stronger than I, Herbert - may survive, even after much weeping! Console him, oh Lord!" - </p> - <p> - "Christine! my first and only love! sole hope and joy of my life! do you - thus abandon me? That heart, once entirely mine, is it closed to me for - ever?" - </p> - <p> - Her gaze upon the crucifix, her hands still joined, the novice, as if able - to speak only to her God, gently replied:—"Lord! he suffers as I - suffered! shed upon him the balm wherewith you healed my wounds! Leaving - him life, take his soul as you have taken mine. Give him that ineffable - peace which descends upon those thou lovest!" - </p> - <p> - "Oh Christine! my beloved!" cried Herbert, once more taking her hand, "do - but look at me! turn your eyes upon me and behold my tears! Dearest - treasure of my heart! you seem to slumber! Awake! Have you forgotten our - tender meetings, the willows bending over the stream, the boat in which we - sailed a whole night, dreaming the joy of eternal union? See! the moon - rises as it rose that night. We were near each other as now; but then they - tore us asunder, and now we are free to be<span class="pagenum"><a - name="Page_85c" id="Page_85c">[Pg 85]</a></span> together! Christine, have - you ceased to love? Is all forgotten?" - </p> - <p> - William took her other hand. "Dear child," he said, "we entreat you not to - leave us! To you we look for happiness; remain with us, Christine." - </p> - <p> - One hand in the hands of Herbert, the other in those of William, the - novice slowly and solemnly replied: - </p> - <p> - "The corpse that reposes in the tomb lifts not the stone to re-enter the - world. The soul that has seen heaven, does not leave it to return to - earth. The creature to whom God has said, 'Be thou the spouse of Christ,' - does not quit Christ to unite herself to a man; and she who is about to - die should turn her affections from mortal things!" - </p> - <p> - "Herbert!" cried William, "be silent! Not another word! I can scarcely - feel the throbbing of her pulse! She is paler even than when I first saw - her behind the convent grating. We give her pain. Enough, Herbert, enough! - Better yield her to God upon earth, than send her to Him in heaven!" - </p> - <p> - The old man placed the almost inanimate head of Martha-Mary upon his - shoulder, and pressed her to his heart as a mother embraces her child. - "Recover yourself, my daughter," he said; "I will restore you to the house - of God." - </p> - <p> - Martha-Mary turned her sad and gentle gaze upon her uncle, and her hand - feebly pressed his. Then addressing herself to Herbert: - </p> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86c" id="Page_86c">[Pg 86]</a></span> - </p> - <p> - "You, Herbert," she said, in a scarcely audible voice—"you, who will - live, do not abandon him!" - </p> - <p> - "Christine!" cried Herbert, on his knees before his betrothed. "Christine! - do we part for ever?" - </p> - <p> - The novice raised her eyes to heaven. - </p> - <p> - "Not for ever!" she replied. - </p> - <p> - Some days afterwards the convent gates opened to receive sister - Martha-Mary. They closed upon her for the last time. With feeble and - unsteady step the novice traversed the cloisters to prostrate herself on - the altar-steps. The superior came to her. - </p> - <p> - "Oh my mother!" exclaimed Christine, the fountain of whose tears was - opened, and who wept as in the days of her childhood, "I have seen him and - left him! To thee I return, oh Lord! Faithful to my vows, I await the - crown that shall consecrate me thy spouse. Thy voice alone shall - henceforward reach my ears; I come to sing thy praises, to pray and serve - thee until the end of my life!—Holy mother, prepare the robe of - serge, the white crown, the silver cross; I am ready!" - </p> - <p> - "My daughter," replied the superior, "you are very ill—much - exhausted by so many shocks; will you not delay the ceremony of - profession?" - </p> - <p> - "No, holy mother! no; delay it not! I would die the bride of the Lord!... - And I have little time!" replied sister Martha-Mary. - </p> - <hr class="chap" /> - <p> - <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87c" id="Page_87c">[Pg 87]</a></span> - </p> - <h2> - <a name="THE_MAN_IN_THE_BELL" id="THE_MAN_IN_THE_BELL">THE MAN IN THE - BELL.</a> - </h2> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="center"> - <span class="small">[<i>MAGA.</i> <span class="smcap">November 1821.</span>]</span> - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <p class="dropcap"> - In my younger days, bell-ringing was much more in fashion among the young - men of —— than it is now. Nobody, I believe, practises it - there at present except the servants of the church, and the melody has - been much injured in consequence. Some fifty years ago, about twenty of us - who dwelt in the vicinity of the Cathedral, formed a club, which used to - ring every peal that was called for; and, from continual practice and a - rivalry which arose between us and a club attached to another steeple, and - which tended considerably to sharpen our zeal, we became very Mozarts on - our favourite instruments. But my bell-ringing practice was shortened by a - singular accident, which not only stopped my performance, but made even - the sound of a bell terrible to my ears. - </p> - <p> - One Sunday, I went with another into the belfry to ring for noon prayers, - but the second stroke we had pulled showed us that the clapper of the bell<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88c" id="Page_88c">[Pg 88]</a></span> we - were at was muffled. Some one had been buried that morning, and it had - been prepared, of course, to ring a mournful note. We did not know of - this, but the remedy was easy. "Jack," said my companion, "step up to the - loft, and cut off the hat;" for the way we had of muffling was by tying a - piece of an old hat, or of cloth (the former was preferred), to one side - of the clapper, which deadened every second toll. I complied, and mounting - into the belfry, crept as usual into the bell, where I began to cut away. - The hat had been tied on in some more complicated manner than usual, and I - was perhaps three or four minutes in getting it off; during which time my - companion below was hastily called away—by a message from his - sweetheart, I believe—but that is not material to my story. The - person who called him was a brother of the club, who, knowing that the - time had come for ringing for service, and not thinking that any one was - above, began to pull. At this moment I was just getting out, when I felt - the bell moving; I guessed the reason at once—it was a moment of - terror; but by a hasty and almost convulsive effort, I succeeded in - jumping down, and throwing myself on the flat of my back under the bell. - </p> - <p> - The room in which it was, was little more than sufficient to contain it, - the bottom of the bell coming within a couple of feet of the floor of - lath. At that time I certainly was not so bulky as I am now,<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89c" id="Page_89c">[Pg 89]</a></span> but as - I lay it was within an inch of my face. I had not laid myself down a - second, when the ringing began.—It was a dreadful situation. Over me - swung an immense mass of metal, one touch of which would have crushed me - to pieces; the floor under me was principally composed of crazy laths, and - if they gave way, I was precipitated to the distance of about fifty feet - upon a loft, which would, in all probability, have sunk under the impulse - of my fall, and sent me to be dashed to atoms upon the marble floor of the - chancel, an hundred feet below. I remembered—for fear is quick in - recollection—how a common clockwright, about a month before, had - fallen, and, bursting through the floors of the steeple, driven in the - ceilings of the porch, and even broken into the marble tombstone of a - bishop who slept beneath. This was my first terror, but the ringing had - not continued a minute, before a more awful and immediate dread came on - me. The deafening sound of the bell smote into my ears with a thunder - which made me fear their drums would crack: there was not a fibre of my - body it did not thrill through. It entered my very soul; thought and - reflection were almost utterly banished; I only retained the sensation of - agonising terror. Every moment I saw the bell sweep within an inch of my - face; and my eyes—I could not close them, though to look at the - object was bitter as death—followed it instinctively in its<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90c" id="Page_90c">[Pg 90]</a></span> - oscillating progress until it came back again. It was in vain I said to - myself that it could come no nearer at any future swing than it did at - first; every time it descended, I endeavoured to shrink into the very - floor to avoid being buried under the down-sweeping mass; and then, - reflecting on the danger of pressing too weightily on my frail support, - would cower up again as far as I dared. - </p> - <p> - At first my fears were mere matter of fact. I was afraid the pulleys above - would give way, and let the bell plunge on me. At another time, the - possibility of the clapper being shot out in some sweep, and dashing - through my body, as I had seen a ramrod glide through a door, flitted - across my mind. The dread also, as I have already mentioned, of the crazy - floor, tormented me; but these soon gave way to fears not more unfounded, - but more visionary, and of course more tremendous. The roaring of the bell - confused my intellect, and my fancy soon began to teem with all sort of - strange and terrifying ideas. The bell pealing above, and opening its jaws - with a hideous clamour, seemed to me at one time a ravening monster, - raging to devour me; at another, a whirlpool ready to suck me into its - bellowing abyss. As I gazed on it, it assumed all shapes; it was a flying - eagle, or rather a roc of the Arabian story-tellers, clapping its wings - and screaming over me. As I looked upward into it, it would appear - sometimes to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91c" id="Page_91c">[Pg 91]</a></span> - lengthen into indefinite extent, or to be twisted at the end into the - spiral folds of the tail of a flying dragon. Nor was the flaming breath or - fiery glance of that fabled animal wanting to complete the picture. My - eyes, inflamed, blood-shot, and glaring, invested the supposed monster - with a full proportion of unholy light. - </p> - <p> - It would be endless were I to merely hint at all the fancies that - possessed my mind. Every object that was hideous and roaring presented - itself to my imagination. I often thought that I was in a hurricane at - sea, and that the vessel in which I was embarked tossed under me with the - most furious vehemence. The air, set in motion by the swinging of the - bell, blew over me, nearly with the violence, and more than the thunder, - of a tempest; and the floor seemed to reel under me, as under a drunken - man. But the most awful of all the ideas that seized on me were drawn from - the supernatural. In the vast cavern of the bell hideous faces appeared, - and glared down on me with terrifying frowns, or with grinning mockery - still more appalling. At last, the devil himself, accoutred as in the - common description of the evil spirit, with hoof, horn, and tail, and eyes - of infernal lustre, made his appearance, and called on me to curse God and - worship him, who was powerful to save me. This dread suggestion he uttered - with the full-toned clangour of the bell. I had him within<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92c" id="Page_92c">[Pg 92]</a></span> an - inch of me, and I thought on the fate of the Santon Barsisa. Strenuously - and desperately I defied him and bade him begone. Reason, then, for a - moment, resumed her sway, but it was only to fill me with fresh terror, - just as the lightning dispels the gloom that surrounds the benighted - mariner, but to show him that his vessel is driving on a rock, where she - must inevitably be dashed to pieces. I found I was becoming delirious, and - trembled lest reason should utterly desert me. This is at all times an - agonising thought, but it smote me then with tenfold agony. I feared lest, - when utterly deprived of my senses, I should rise—to do which I was - every moment tempted by that strange feeling which calls on a man, whose - head is dizzy from standing on the battlement of a lofty castle, to - precipitate himself from it, and then death would be instant and - tremendous. When I thought of this, I became desperate. I caught the floor - with a grasp which drove the blood from my nails; and I yelled with the - cry of despair. I called for help, I prayed, I shouted, but all the - efforts of my voice were of course drowned in the bell. As it passed over - my mouth, it occasionally echoed my cries, which mixed not with its own - sound, but preserved their distinct character. Perhaps this was but fancy. - To me, I know, they then sounded as if they were the shouting, howling, or - laughing of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93c" id="Page_93c">[Pg - 93]</a></span> fiends with which my imagination had peopled the gloomy - cave which swung over me. - </p> - <p> - You may accuse me of exaggerating my feelings; but I am not. Many a scene - of dread have I since passed through, but they are nothing to the - self-inflicted terrors of this half hour. The ancients have doomed one of - the damned, in their Tartarus, to lie under a rock, which every moment - seems to be descending to annihilate him—and an awful punishment it - would be. But if to this you add a clamour as loud as if ten thousand - furies were howling about you—a deafening uproar banishing reason, - and driving you to madness—you must allow that the bitterness of the - pang was rendered more terrible. There is no man, firm as his nerves may - be, who could retain his courage in this situation. - </p> - <p> - In twenty minutes the ringing was done. Half of that time passed over me - without power of computation,—the other half appeared an age. When - it ceased, I became gradually more quiet, but a new fear retained me. I - knew that five minutes would elapse without ringing, but, at the end of - that short time, the bell would be rung a second time, for five minutes - more. I could not calculate time. A minute and an hour were of equal - duration. I feared to rise, lest the five minutes should have elapsed, and - the ringing be again<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94c" id="Page_94c">[Pg - 94]</a></span> commenced, in which case I should be crushed, before I - could escape, against the walls or framework of the bell. I therefore - still continued to lie down, cautiously shifting myself, however, with a - careful gliding, so that my eye no longer looked into the hollow. This was - of itself a considerable relief. The cessation of the noise had, in a - great measure, the effect of stupifying me, for my attention, being no - longer occupied by the chimeras I had conjured up, began to flag. All that - now distressed me was the constant expectation of the second ringing, for - which, however, I settled myself with a kind of stupid resolution. I - closed my eyes, and clenched my teeth as firmly as if they were screwed in - a vice. At last the dreaded moment came, and the first swing of the bell - extorted a groan from me, as they say the most resolute victim screams at - the sight of the rack, to which he is for a second time destined. After - this, however, I lay silent and lethargic, without a thought. Wrapt in the - defensive armour of stupidity, I defied the bell and its intonations. When - it ceased, I was roused a little by the hope of escape. I did not, - however, decide on this step hastily, but, putting up my hand with the - utmost caution, I touched the rim. Though the ringing had ceased, it still - was tremulous from the sound, and shook under my hand, which instantly - recoiled as from an electric jar. A quarter of an hour probably<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95c" id="Page_95c">[Pg 95]</a></span> - elapsed before I again dared to make the experiment, and then I found it - at rest. I determined to lose no time, fearing that I might have lain then - already too long, and that the bell for evening service would catch me. - This dread stimulated me, and I slipped out with the utmost rapidity, and - arose. I stood, I suppose, for a minute, looking with silly wonder on the - place of my imprisonment, penetrated with joy at escaping, but then rushed - down the stony and irregular stair with the velocity of lightning, and - arrived in the bell-ringers' room. This was the last act I had power to - accomplish. I leant against the wall, motionless and deprived of thought, - in which posture my companions found me, when, in the course of a couple - of hours, they returned to their occupation. - </p> - <p> - They were shocked, as well they might, at the figure before them. The wind - of the bell had excoriated my face, and my dim and stupified eyes were - fixed with a lack-lustre gaze in my raw eyelids. My hands were torn and - bleeding; my hair dishevelled; and my clothes tattered. They spoke to me, - but I gave no answer. They shook me, but I remained insensible. They then - became alarmed, and hastened to remove me. He who had first gone up with - me in the forenoon, met them as they carried me through the churchyard, - and through him, who was shocked at having, in some measure,<span - class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96c" id="Page_96c">[Pg 96]</a></span> - occasioned the accident, the cause of my misfortune was discovered. I was - put to bed at home, and remained for three days delirious, but gradually - recovered my senses. You may be sure the bell formed a prominent topic of - my ravings, and if I heard a peal, they were instantly increased to the - utmost violence. Even when the delirium abated, my sleep was continually - disturbed by imagined ringings, and my dreams were haunted by the fancies - which almost maddened me while in the steeple. My friends removed me to a - house in the country, which was sufficiently distant from any place of - worship, to save me from the apprehensions of hearing the church-going - bell; for what Alexander Selkirk, in Cowper's poem, complained of as a - misfortune, was then to me as a blessing. Here I recovered; but, even long - after recovery, if a gale wafted the notes of a peal towards me, I started - with nervous apprehension. I felt a Mohammedan hatred to all the bell - tribe, and envied the subjects of the Commander of the Faithful the - sonorous voice of their Muezzin. Time cured this, as it does the most of - our follies; but even at the present day, if, by chance, my nerves be - unstrung, some particular tones of the cathedral bell have power to - surprise me into a momentary start. - </p> - <hr class="short" /> - <p class="center small"> - PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH. - </p> - <p> - - </p> - <div class="footnotes"> - <h2> - <a name="Footnotes" id="Footnotes">Footnotes</a> - </h2> - <div class="footnote"> - <p> - <a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span - class="label">[1]</span></a> "<i>Carts</i>" of that day held three. - </p> - </div> - </div> - <p> - - </p> - <div class="transnote"> - <h2> - <a name="Transcribers_Note" id="Transcribers_Note">Transcriber's Note</a> - </h2> - <p> - Apparent printer's errors and archaic spelling have been retained, - unless stated below. - </p> - <p> - Punctuation markup has been made consistent. - </p> - <p> - In the original, pages are numbered 1-100 three times consecutively. - </p> - <p> - On the first iteration of Page <a href="#Page_58a">58</a>, "cause" - changed to "case". (In due time the case was called.) - </p> - <p> - On the first iteration of Page <a href="#Page_60a">60</a>, "eat" changed - to "ate". (... and he would have sailed thither before the 31st of - December, on which day his father, a joyous liver and confirmed votary - of Bacchus, ate and drank to such an extent to celebrate the exit of the - old year and commencement of the new, that he fell down, on his way to - his bed, in a thundering fit of apoplexy, and was a corpse before - morning.) - </p> - <p> - On the first iteration of Page <a href="#Page_67a">67</a>, "Μητ' ἐμοὶ - παρέστιος γένοιτο" has been changed to "Μήτ' ἐμοὶ παρέστιος γένοιτο". - </p> - <p> - On the second iteration of Page <a href="#Page_25b">25</a>, "raw" - changed to "law". (I was not quite sure of the effect of my commentary - on the evidence, and therefore thought it might be advisable to touch - upon a national law.) - </p> - <p> - On the third iteration of Page <a href="#Page_67c">67</a>, "Amburg" - changed to "Amberg" for consistency. (With a vigorous arm, M. Van Amberg - seized Christine, whose slender form bent like a reed over his - shoulder.) - </p> - </div> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 6, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD," VOLUME 6 *** - -***** This file should be named 41204-h.htm or 41204-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/2/0/41204/ - -Produced by Veronika Redfern, D Alexander, Juliet Sutherland -and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net - - -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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