Yes, Leonora! It shall be our fate
To be entwined for ever—but too late!
— Byron’s Tasso’s Lament
According to the Baronetage, which we now have before us, Sir Charles Reckless, Bart., of Reckless Castle, in the County of Kent, married, on the 2nd of March, 1814, Mary Louisa, second daughter of the first Earl of Twylytte, by whom he had issue as follows:—
First, Charles; second, John; third, Robert; fourth, AUGUSTUS; fifth, Mary; sixth, Ellen; seventh, Francis; eighth, Jane; ninth, Matilda; tenth, Isabella; eleventh, James; twelfth, Alice; thirteenth, Lucy; fourteenth, Alfred. Two sons and a daughter had been born between Robert and Augustus, but they died in infancy. The name of our hero is that which appears in large capitals, like, the name of a “star” in a play-bill. The date of his birth, was January the first, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and twenty.
Sir Charles Reckless was an unpretending country gentleman, whose chief occupation was in cultivating a large portion of his extensive estate, which yielded him, in all, a clear five thousand per annum. Sir Charles, however, was neither a Squire Western nor a Sir Peter Crawley, albeit he was devoted to agricultural pursuits; He had received an University education, and had taken an ordinary degree; while in point of bearing, manners, and address, he was, in the strictest sense of the term, “a perfect gentleman.” Sir Charles was a magistrate and deputy-lieutenant of his county; but he rarely or never attended the meetings of the magistrates, or any other meetings. He evidently thought, with the Roman bard——
Beatus ille, qui procul negotiis,
Ut prisca gens mortalium,
Paterna rura bobus exercet suis,
Solutus omni fenore
But, notwithstanding Sir Charles held aloof from taking any part in public affairs, he was a man of an extremely humane and charitable disposition, and, in a quiet and unostentatious manner, did a great deal of good, not only amongst his own tenantry, but amongst the entire people by whom he was surrounded.
Lady Mary Reckless was, in every sense of the phrase one of the most charming women that ever existed. She had been—and the outlines still remain, notwithstanding her age and her numerous offspring—, a person of transcendent beauty. She had a face that neither Lawrence nor Canova could have flattered; she had a form that poets would describe as “divines;” she had a temper so gentle and so patient, that those who knew her could easily realize the character of Griseldis. Not that Lady Mary was by any means “a tame being,” for she had all that, fire and enthusiasm which usually accompany the genius and the talents with which she was gifted. In matters of literature and art Lady Mary’s taste was exquisite, albeit she never appeared before the world as an authoress or a patroness. Lady Mary, in fact, with all her beauty, grace, ability, and accomplishments, was a thoroughly domestic woman, and attended to the affairs of her numerous family as cheerfully and as diligently as the best housewife in the kingdom. After this description of Lady Mary, it is needless, perhaps, to add, that she was beloved by all who enjoyed her acquaintance.
Charles Reckless, the eldest son of Sir Charles and Lady Mary, was a steady, plodding youth, who was educated at Eton and at Oxford, subsequently called to the Bar, went circuit (the Home Circuit), now and then held a brief thereon, and half-a-dozen times in every year had an opportunity afforded him of addressing one or other of the Courts in Westminster Hall. He was not deficient in ability; but he lacked the capacity required for a great lawyer or a brilliant advocate.
Mr. Reckless inhabited a very comfortably-furnished set of chambers in King’s Bench Walk, Inner Temple, of which society he was a member. His ambition to rise in his profession, and obtain a silk gown, was immense; and he studied as diligently as though his entire means of existence in after-life depended on this contingency. Mr. Reckless, moreover, liked the society of lawyers, and that studious life which he could uninterruptedly lead in his chambers. At home—if the truth must be told—he was bored by his little brothers and sisters, who were very nice and well-behaved children, no doubt, but who would not scruple to break in upon him when he was devouring the last number of Meesom and Welsby’s, or Carrington and Payne’s Reports, with as much avidity as you or I, reader, would devour the last number of a serial by Dickens, Thackeray, Ainsworth, or Brooks. Besides Mr. Reckless had a dislike to be called “Charley” by these little darlings. It was not that he was a pompous person—far from it; but he thought it inconsistent with the dignity of his position, as a member of the learned profession, whose name at intervals (irregular intervals, to be sure) was to be seen in the Times, and other papers, as (“with Mr. So-and-so”) counsel for the plaintiff or the defendant, as the case might be. Mr. Reckless’s establishment in chambers consisted of three persons—a clerk, a young man of about twenty, who had been born and bred in the vicinity of the Temple, and had never been a mile beyond its precincts in his life; he was a pale, thin, and rather tall lad, and wore a suit of dingy black clothes, and a cravat which would have been white had it not been for the “mildew spots” upon it. This clerk’s name was Flint. Who or what his father was, was one of those things not generally known. I never knew, and never inquired; but his mother used to wash and “do” for Mr. Jewen, a bencher of “the other Society” (the Middle Temple), a very old gentleman, who was familiarly known amongst the students of the day as “Pam,” or “the Jack of Clubs,” in consequence of the extra-ordinary personal likeness that he bore to that eccentric card. The second person on Mr. Reckless’s establishment who claims our notice was Mrs. Bly, the laundress, who, “saw after” the chambers, cooked the chop or steak which Mr. Reckless ate for breakfast, to a nicety, and so arranged the faggots and coals in the grate, that when Mr. Reckless came home at half-past ten or eleven o’clock at night, he had not the slightest difficulty of lighting a fire; if he required one. She also “got up” the linen (about which Mr. Reckless was very particular) to perfection. Mrs. Bly’s husband, who was a ticket-porter, and wore the badge and apron of the order, cleaned the boots and shoes, brushed the clothes, assisted in getting in the coals, and ran (or rather leisurely walked) errands. This worthy couple, it was said, had their respective “griefs,” which they endeavoured to drown to the extent of their ability, pecuniary and other. On the whole, his establishment gave Mr. Reckless great satisfaction, and he would not have exchanged it for any other in town.
John Reckless, the second son of Sir Charles and Lady Mary Reckless, after taking his degree—a double-first—at Caius College, Cambridge, studied medicine. John, who was also ambitious of obtaining professional distinction, took a bouse in Sackville-street, and enjoyed a small but select practice. He was considered very clever as a physician by those who consulted him. John Reckless, like his elder brother, was a very methodical gentleman; and, to use a common but expressive phrase, was “as regular as clockwork.” The doctor’s establishment consisted of a housekeeper (an old lady from the country, the widow of a half-pay lieutenant in the navy), a footman (who was attired in the livery of the feckless family—red plush breeches and vest, and a drab coat with a green collar), and a valet, who wore plain clothes (black), and who was always to be found in the hall, whenever there was a knock at the door, with a slate and pencil in his hand, ready to take down with the utmost precision any message for his master. The young doctor had no cook; he did not require one. He invariably dined out; and Mrs.Blenkinsop, the housekeeper, would on no account have relinquished the privilege of preparing his breakfast with her own hands. The housemaid, the only female servant in the establishment, was a young woman from the country and a protégé of Mrs. Blenkinsop.
Robert, the third son of Sir Charles and Lady Mary Reckless, distinguished himself as a scholar at Brasenose, Oxford, was ordained, and became the curate of a metropolitan rector, of great celebrity as a preacher and a man of letters. Robert was, at the time to which this period of the narrative relates, engaged upon a theological work, which—although the reception it met with from the publie did not quite realize his sanguine expectations—was subsequently a source of profit both to himself and his publisher. The young divine had apartments in Harley-street, where he used frequently to entertain on a very liberal scale a number of clergymen of his own standing, whose means were not exactly as ample as his own.
Thus far, Sir Charles and Lady Mary Reckless were extremely happy in their sons. But (surgit amari aliquid) there came AUGUSTUS, who was now in his eighteenth year. From childhood, this youth had been as wild as a bird, as playful as a kitten, and as mischievous (harmlessly mischievous) as a monkey. There was not a single atom of vice or guile in his composition, but, nevertheless, he was constantly in some “scrape” or other. Handsome, manly, tall, frank, generous, open-handed, open-hearted, good-humoured, and ready-witted, he was an especial favourite with every one, notwithstanding his defects of character, which arose principally out of exuberance or overflowing of animal spirits. Had it been possible for Sir Charles and Lady Mary to love one of their many children more than another, that child would have been Augustus. Even his steady elder brethren could not help loving him—much as he perplexed them at times—while the younger ones of the family, of both sexes, adored “Dear Gussy,” as they were wont to call him and to speak of him. The tenantry swore by him; the gentry in the neighbourhood were always glad to see him; the ladies did their best to spoil him, by suffering him to say and do whatever he pleased in their respective homes. With the peasantry, his uniform kindness and civility had made him their idol.
There was no one in the country who was so good a shot as Augustus. Well-known gamekeepers would acknowledge this. With the hounds, his skill, daring, and judgment were the admiration of the whole field. With the rod and line, even Izaak Walton would have watched his cunning with a calm delight. He could sing either a sentimental or a comic song in such a way as to gain unbounded applause. He could play on the piano, the violin, and other instruments by ear, and without knowing a single note of music, any air that he had once heard. He could sketch—especially caricatures—with marvellous effect, although he had not the least idea of “drawing,” beyond what he had been taught by nature. In a word, Augustus Reckless was self-taught in all matters, even in spelling, which he insisted upon doing by ear, rather than by the recognised rules of orthography; and inasmuch as he had picked up his punctuation on the same principle, his composition, when reduced to writing, was far more quaint and unique than elegant and correct. His grammar, however, was unexceptionable, and he was never at a loss to express himself with clearness and force. As for compelling him to study, they might just as well have attempted to compel him to love ardently against his will. Augustus had been sent away from two private boarding-schools and from one public school (Rugby) for offences which, albeit they involved no species of moral turpitude or dishonour, could not possibly be tolerated in any well-regulated establishment for the nurture of juvenile intellect.
Augustus Reckless had chosen the army as his profession, and it was now time that his commission should be applied for. Sir Charles, however, after consultation with Lady Mary on the subject, considered that it would be prudent to let the boy see something—say a few terms—of College life in the first instance; and inasmuch as Augustus had no sort of objection, Sir Charles wrote to one of the tutors of Trinity College, Cambridge, and caused the youth’s name to be put upon the boards. Accordingly, on the 9th of October, 18—, Augustus, took the coach to town—took it in more senses than one, for he drove all the way—and at four p.m. found himself in possession of the box-seat of the Star, which in those days was driven by the famous Mr. Joseph Walton. Inasmuch as Sir Charles knew perfectly what instructions to give, and to whom to give them, there were rooms well-furnished, well-aired, and in perfect readiness for the arrival of their future occupant, and a gyp in attendance to receive his orders. In short, when the coach was pulled up at the “Hoop,” Augustus had nothing to do but to descend from the box and request a porter to carry his luggage to “Letter Z, Old Court, first-floor.” Augustus was not long in making an acquaintance. Immediately behind him on the coach was a gentleman with whom he entered into conversation. This gentleman was a Mr. Dacre, a third-year man, a great scholar, but one who, nevertheless, was considered a “fast” character. “Fast,” in those days, at Cambridge, did not signify what it signifies in these days; on the contrary, it signified a man who was not of a rowing or slangy character, but one who enjoyed himself to the full, in a somewhat refined style. Dacre kept bis hunter, pulled in the boats, had his breakfast-parties, dinner-parties, wine-parties, supper-parties, whist-parties, musical-parties, and so forth; but he was far from being a boisterous man. He was, moreover, the leader of a set which numbered several very clever men (undergraduates) and College celebrities, who have since distinguished themselves in the world. One of these was possessed of great musical genius; a second had the most exquisite voice that was ever given to an Englishman; a third was famed, in his then small sphere, for those dramatic abilities (not only as an actor, but as an author) which have since been so well developed, to the delight of all playgoers in the United Kingdom; a fourth was a novelist, who, if he has not realized the hopes that were then entertained of him, has, at all events, been a successful writer to some extent; a fifth was a great speaker in the Union, and one who, if he has not risen to the highest of places, has frequently been listened to in “the House” with very great attention; a sixth was a great mathematician, and eventually a Senior Wrangler; a seventh was eminently clever with his pencil , and his paint brush, and might have earned a very handsome income by taking portraits. In short, there was scarcely a man in Dacre’s set who had not done something to bring him into honourable notice at the University.
To Augustus Reckless, Frank Dacre took a very great liking, and this liking produced an interest in the youth’s welfare. Had he been the son of a London tradesman, instead of the son of Sir Charles and Lady Mary Reckless, it would have made no difference with Dacre. He liked the boy for his honest, handsome face, which was plainly an index to the boy’s heart; for his frank and unaffected manner, which lacked everything in the shape of pertness or conceit; and for his vivacious and cheerful discourse, devoid as it was of anything approaching conventional slang. It was not until after Dacre had determined that this young bird should belong to his set, that he discovered his name and his lineage. How he discovered it was this. One of the members for the County of Kent had recently died; and when the coach was near Royston, Mr. Walton, who always took a great interest in politics, turned round and said, “Have you any idea, Mr. Dacre, whom they will bring in for that seat?”
“Not the least,” replied Dacre; “but I did hear the other day some mention made of Mr. Reckless.”
“What Reckless is that? Who is he?” said Mr. Walton.
“The eldest son of Sir Charles Reckless,” said Dacre.
“Oh! Sir Charles Reckless? I remember Sir Charles some years ago, when he was down here—good many years ago now. How times flies! Eldest son of Sir Charles Reckless?”
“Rather a clever man, they say. He is a lawyer.”
“Oh! indeed? What are his politics?”
“Whig.”
“Ah! all right. I hope he will come in. Eldest son of Sir Charles Reckless? How time flies, to be sure! I remember him very well. Kept in lodgings in Green-street for a short time, when he first came up. Had one or two very nice cattle. Very good-hearted man, and steady-going, rather. Very rich, they used to say he was.”
“I hope you will pardon me for intruding a remark upon your conversation,” said Augustus, taking advantage of a pause; “but I think there is not the slightest chance of Mr. Reckless standing for the county, or for any other seat in Parliament that may become vacant. In the first place, Mr. Reckless has no money.”
“But his father has,” said Mr. Walton, “and that is the same thing.”
“Oh, dear, no!” said Augustus, laughing. “And Sir Charles is nothing like so rich, I suspect, as he is supposed to be.”
“What do you call rich, my good young sir?” inquired Mr. Walton. “Let us hear your notion of riches.”
“Well, Sir Charles Reckless has barely five thousand a-year.”
“That is pretty well, I think. Five thousand a-year? You would not say that he was a poor man, would you?”
“No; but certainly not a rich one.”
“Well, sir, I hope your own expectations are such that you regard five thousand a-year as a sort of flea-bite.”
“My expectations!” exclaimed Augustus, his face beaming with intelligence and humour. “My good sir, my expectations are the mildest imaginable! In point of fact, I have no expectations whatsoever! I am a younger son, sir; one of fourteen children, with a prospect of being, before I die, one of two-and-twenty. After this disclosure, you will not think me a boaster when I inform you that my father has five thousand a-year; and that, although I do not say he is absolutely a poor man, still he is very far from being a rich one. Grown-up sons, sir, to whom you must make allowances ranging from three hundred pounds to two hundred pounds a-year; daughters, sir, who must have governesses; children, sir, who require countless nursery-maids to look after them. In addition to this, a large establishment to keep up, charities to subscribe to, hospitalities to dispense. Sometimes a bad harvest, and not half of your rents forthcoming! Five thousand a-year! What is it?”
“Well, there’s some truth in that,” said Mr. Walton; “but that is not Sir Charles Reckless’s case.”
“The deuce it is not?” said Augustus. “I have frequently heard him say that it was. Sir Charles is too honest a man to make any secret of his circumstances. He never pleads poverty or his large family when asked to give money for a good object, nor inflicts his affairs on those who don’t care to hear of them; but he never scruples to impress upon those of his relations or friends who may forget it, that there is a reverse of the medal which bears upon its face ‘five thousand pounds a-year?.’ It was only last night that I heard Sir Chades, at a meeting, say the substance of what t have repeated to you. It was not a public meeting—it was a family meeting, at which were present his amiable wife, my revered mother, and thirteen of my brothers and sisters—a regular diapason of Humanity, sir.”
“Die a what?” said Mr. Walton.
“Well, to tell you the honest truth,” responded Augustus. “I do not know what it means; but my brother the parson, made use of the word. I was a little too proud to ask him what it signified, especially as all the elder branches of the family, except myself, appeared to understand and appreciate it; and since then I have not had time to refer to a dictionary.”
“I never heard the word before,” said Mr. Walton.
“Nor did I,” said Augustus.
“I do not think it’s English,” said Mr. Walton; “it sounds to me like Latin or Greek.”
“It may be Dutch, for all I know to the contrary,” said Augustus; “or Portuguese, or Spanish.” Here Dacre, who was vastly amused by the above colloquy, conveyed to both Mr. Walton and Augustus some information for which they both expressed to him their sincere thanks.
Will you do me the pleasure of supping at my rooms to-night, Mr. Reckless?” said Dacre, when Augustus and himself had got down, and stood upon the pavement. “I have a party of friends coming to me at ten, and l shall be very happy to see. you at my board, if you have no other engagement.”
“You are very kind” said Augustus, in a tone which implied he had accepted the invite.
“I overheard you say you were going to Trinity. I belong to that College, and keep in Letter Z, Old Court, ground-floor,” said Dacre.
“Then we are neighbours. I have the first floor on the same staircase,” said Augustus.
“So much the better. Shall we walk together?” said Dacre, offering his arm, and giving directions to the porters touching the luggage—his own, as well as that of his young friend. And away they walked through All Saints’-passage, crossed the street, entered the great gates, and were presently at the doorway of Letter Z.
“These are my rooms,” said Dacre, leading Reckless (for in future we must so speak of him) into them.
The inner as well as the outer door of the room was open, and the gyp was there making every preparation for the forthcoming supper.
“Ah, Rorcher!” said Dacre, addressing himself to the gyp. “Well, I have returned, you see. How is everybody?”
“Quite well, I thank you, sir,” replied Rorcher, bowing and smiling. “Very glad to see you again, sir.”
“Thank you, Rorcher,” returned Dacre.
“Can you tell me who is Mr. Reckless’s gyp?”
“Yes, sir; I am.”
“Indeed? I am glad to hear it. Permit me to introduce you to that gentleman.” Rorcher bowed very profoundly, shutting his eyes, as was his word;, whilst he did so. Reckless acknowledged the salutation by raising his hat, bending his body, smiling sweetly, and showing his regular, white teeth.
“Very glad to welcome you to Trinity, sir,” said Rorcher to Augustus. “You will find everything as comfortable as possible on the first-floor, sir. I am on the spot, as you see; sir; and Mrs. Croppitt is now in the rooms waiting for your—advent,—advent, sir.”
Rorcher was given to the use of words having a Latin derivation, and was in the habit of repeating them, in order to impress them upon his hearers.
“You are very good. But who may be my unknown friend, Mrs. Croppitt?” asked Reekless.
“Mrs. Croppitt, sir, is your bedmaker, Shall I see you to your rooms, sir?”
“No. I thank you. Pray go on with your present business. The rooms, I believe, are immediately above these; I shall have no difficulty in finding them. I will introduce myself to Mrs. Croppitt”—and with these words, Reckless looked softly into Dacre’s eyes. His look demanded a permission to retire; and this look was immediately understood, and its behest complied with.
“At ten!” said Dacre. “We meet at ten.”
“Thank you; at ten,” repeated Reckless, leaving the apartment.
Mrs. Croppitt was seated in an easy-chair before the large fire in the sitting-room, when Reckless tapped, gently, but audibly, on one of the panels of the inner door, which was closed. Starting up, she arranged her clean white cap, “smoothed down” her thin hair, and called out, “Come in!” Judging from the gentleness of the tapping, and the absence of any bustle, she had no idea that she was addressing herself to Mr. Reckless. Indeed, as she admitted very shortly afterwards, she was dozing, and fancied that it was somebody from the porter’s lodge to say that the gentleman had not arrived by the Star, and would not, therefore, be “up” that night. No sooner, however, did Mrs. Croppitt become acquainted with the fact of what Rorcher called Reckless’s advent, than she at once received him with all that respectful tenderness for which she was so distinguished. She showed him his bed; called his attention to the cleanliness of the curtains; asked him to sit down near the fire, for she was sure he must be cold; and begged of him to drink a glass of the ale which Rorcher had ordered in from the butteries on his own responsibility.
“There’s one thing, sir,” said Mrs. Croppitt, “which I hope you will excuse me for asking you—because some say one thing and some another. Rorcher says you are not—while I have my reasons for maintaining you are. He says you are only a pensioner. I say you are a hat fellow-commoner.”
“Upon my honour, Mrs. Croppitt,” said Reckless, “I cannot say exactly what I am. I am not, however, aware of being a pensioner; and if I am, I really don’t know who has pensioned me, or for what services I have been pensioned. As for being a Hat Fellow-Commoner, I have not the faintest idea what it means.”
“Indeed, sir? Law!” cried Mrs. Crftppitt, quite astounded that anybody should be ignorant on such a point, much less a gentleman on the books of the College. “Well, sir,” she continued, after a pause, “your father, sir, was a Hat Fellow-Commoner when he was here.”
“Was he, indeed? Well, I am not any the wiser yet.”
Mrs. Croppitt then proceeded, in very lucid terms, to inform Reckless that a hat fellow-commoner was an undergraduate privileged to wear his hat instead of a cap, and that his gown was decorated with silver lace, instead of being a plain purple; and that these privileges pertained only to persons of title or their eldest sons. A pensioner she briefly described as “the other business.”
“Then I am the other business, if anything,” said Reckless; “but I don’t suppose it signifies much—does it?”
“Oh, dear, yes, sir,” said Mrs. Croppitt. “If you had been a hat fellow-commoner, these caps and gowns would have been of no use, and Rorcher would have had to take ’em all back again.” And with these words she withdrew from a closet some seven or eight gowns, and at least as many caps. “As it is, you may fit yourself with one or more of these. A spare cap and gown is always handy, sir.”
“So I imagine,” said Reckless, who now began to try first one cap and then another, until he found one that suited him exactly. “There, Mrs. Croppitt,” said he, looking at himself in the glass over his mantelpiece; “that will do very nicely. Without any flattery on your part, what do you think of me?”
“Well, sir, without one atom of flattery, I think you a very handsome young man; and if I was a young girl, I should certainly fall in love with you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Croppitt. Thank you. You have paid me a compliment which, be assured, I appreciate.”
“And now for the gown, sir.”
“Give me the shortest, Mrs. Croppitt.”
“Why the shortest, sir? You are a tall man—six foot, I should say.”
“Quite that, Mrs. Croppitt. But then, you see, if I should ever have occasion to run from one end of the College to the other, when late for hall, chapel, or lectures—for I am told I must attend all these places—a short gown would offer so much leas impediment to my movements than a long one.”
“Well, so it would,” conceded Mrs. Croppitt; “but then, it will look so odd.”
“Never mind that,” remarked Reckless. “Yes, this is the thing,”—and he slipped himself into a toga which scarcely reached his knees. “You will get a nickname if you go out in that gown, sir,” said Mrs. Croppitt, with a smile. “They will call you ‘legs,’ or something of that kind.”
“I cannot help it, Mrs. Croppitt,” returned Reckless; “but, tell me, to whom do these pictures and engravings on the walls belong? Not to me?”
“No, sir, unless you think proper to buy them, or any of them. They belong to Mr. Rorcher, sir. They form a part of his collection, which is made up of presents from his various gentlemen when they were going away, after taking their degrees. There are several nice things amongst them,” said Mrs. Croppitt, holding up one of the candles so as to throw the light upon them.
“So I perceive, Mrs. Croppitt, and—and—bless me!—where did he get this?” pointing to an engraving of considerable size, representing a lady upon horseback.
“Ah! sir, that does not belong to him. There is a story about that picture. It was left here many years ago by a gentleman who kept in these rooms during his stay at College, and who, when he went away, expressed some wish or other which has been carried out by all the gentlemen who have come in after him. Mr. Swane, the upholsterer, has the frame regilded when it wants it, and I did hear it was to have been done during this last long vacation.”
“But supposing any gentleman—myself, for instance—should wish to have it taken down, and another picture put in its place? It would have to be done, I fancy?”
“I don’t know about that, sir. But why should any one wish it to be removed? It is a very handsome picture, I think; and so does everybody. Don’t you think so, sir?”
“Yes, I do, Mrs. Croppitt. But are you quite it has not been placed there by some one out of compliment and kindness to myself?”
“Bless you! no, sir! To my own knowledge it has been there for upwards of five-and-twenty years—long and long before you were born. Why should it be placed there out of compliment or kindness to you?”
“Simply, Mrs. Croppitt, because it is an engraving of a portrait of my own mother, taken two years previous to her marriage with my father. I would give anything for that picture. There are only three copies in the family.”
“Law! only think! Well, I declare! How very strange! Your own mother, sir?”
“You said there was a story about this picture. What is it?’”
“Well, sir, I don’t know; but I have an elder sister, who is now bedridden, poor thing, and I will ask her to tell me. She knows, because she attended on the gentleman who had it put there.”
At this moment Rorcher entered the rooms; and after congratulating Reckless on the manner in which his cap and gown became him, informed that gentleman that the guests were assembled, and that the supper would shortly be put upon the tables. In consequence of this information, Reckless proceeded to make a hasty toilet, permitting Rorcher to brush his clothes, all standing, while he was in the act of so doing.
“My friends—Mr. Reckless!” said Dacre,, with a wave of the hand, when the young freshman entered those well-known rooms on the ground-floor of Letter Z, Old Court.
“Very proud to make your acquaintance, gentlemen,” said Reckless, bowing to the company.
“I concur with Mr. Rorcher in the hope that you found everything in your rooms to your entire satisfaction,” said Dacre, good-humouredly.
“Oh, dear, yes!” was the reply. “Do you know, from the little that I have seen, I like this Cambridge, rather.” This was spoken in a tone so regally patronizing, and so humorous, seeing that it was evidently assumed for the occasion, it afforded some merriment and subdued laughter. “I had an idea,” continued Reckless, encouraged by the general silence to go on speaking, “that it was a cold, dull, and gloomy place, especially to a stranger; but, to my great joy, I find it the warmest, most hospitable, and cheerful locality in which I have ever had a lodgment. The ale, which I have already tasted, possesses excellent qualities; and” (here he held his hands near the fire) “the coals burn with a brilliancy and impart a warmth which is peculiarly agreeable after a long journey. I suppose you import them direct from Newcastle?”
“No; we get them from China,” said Dacre.
“Ah! then the tea, I fancy, must have a very agreeable flavour, especially when taken in bed of a morning.”
“We also get our cooks from China,” said Dacre.
“Indeed! And what do they do with their long back-hair? Wear it down—twisted into a tail?”
“Oh, no; they form a pyramid with it, on the crown of their heads, and surmount it with a tall white night-cap.”
“What a stupidity on their part! They ought to have it handy, and grease it, when occasion required, by stirring the soup with it.”
When Reckless uttered these words, there was a genial relaxation of his features, and a comicality in his gesture, which endeared him to every one present. He was now one of them.
The supper was now quite ready, and the guests took their places. Some fourteen were assembled, including Dacre and Reckless, who had a seat on the right hand of the host. It was, indeed, a supper-party—such an one as Horace has so well described, and would have enjoyed.
“O noctes coenaeque Deum!”
There was an immensity of fun and laughter whilst the wine went round, but very little noise. And then came music and song,—not the last vulgar or obscene ditty fresh from the “Cider Cellars” or the “Coal Hole,” but words worthy of the accompaniment which was played by the fingers of a master in the art. Hortney was singing, and Dearson was at the piano. Reckless was enchanted and astounded, as many other had been, to find such perfection in amateurs. After a while, Reckless was asked by Hortney if he could sing. He replied, “Yes; but I must accompany myself,”—whereupon Dearson resigned his seat at the instrument, and Reckless did sing several out of his numerous collection, and elicited from his hearers much and well-deserved applause.
“You play remarkably well,” said Dearson, “and with practice you would play even better than you do. You must come to my rooms, whenever you feel so disposed, and play with me.”
“A thousand thanks,” said Reckless; “but the fact is, I do not know one note from another on paper. I play entirely from ear, just as I sing.”
“Impossible!” said Hortney.
“A fact, I assure you,” said Reckless.
“Ah! but you should study,” said Dearson.
“I could never study anything in my life!” exclaimed Reckless, touching the keys and astonishing his hearers with the brilliancy of his execution. “Never! The moment I am required to study anything, the charm is gone. Something like intuition has been my chief instructor in everything that I happen to know.”
“It is to be hoped that you have an intuitive knowledge of discipline,” remarked Dacre, quaintly; “for the Dons have become very severe lately at this College; and for our sakes, as well as your own, you must conform very strictly to the rules and the regulations.”
“I will do my best,” rejoined Reckless. “But I have very serious misgivings concerning the matter to which you have just alluded. I cannot tax myself with obstinacy, or a desire to run counter to other people’s wishes; but through life I have always had an unfortunate propensity to be governed by my instinct, and this has entailed upon me a series of disasters.”
“Do your instincts lead you to rise early?”
“Well, that depends a good deal on the character of the past night’s rest.”
“Because we attend chapel at a quarter to seven.”
“I dare say I shall be able to manage that; but the fact is, I cannot promise anything concerning myself, so great is my fear of becoming a defaulter.” It was half-past one before the guests left Dacre’s rooms, and Reckless was the last to go. He was invited to a wine-party for the following evening in the rooms of one of the gentlemen to whom he had been introduced; and he accepted it “with much pleasure.” The name of the gentleman was John Chayworth.
John Chayworth had been eight years at Cambridge as an undergraduate; he had been plucked four times, in four successive Januarys, and had made several ineffectual attempts to pass his examination in “bye” terms. Chayworth was by no means wanting in ability; on the contrary, he was a shrewd man, and had a large stock of common sense; but he had no taste for the classics or for mathematics, and no capacity to make himself master of six books of Homer, six of Virgil, and six of Euclid. The requisite amount of Paley he had got by heart, having written it out over and over again, day after day, and week after week, until it was quite impossible that he could ever forget it. He had read very hard with numbers of tutors, but to no purpose. Latin and Greek would not sit upon his mind.
Many persons were surprised that a man of Chayworth’s means should be so anxious about a degree, since it caused him so much trouble and vexation; but those persons were not aware of the fact that John Chayworth was next heir to a family living worth 4000l. per annum, and that, unless he happened to be in the Church at the time of his uncle’s death, the “living” would die with his uncle, so far as the family was concerned. Nay, more, Chayworth’s future depended entirely on the contingency of taking a degree at Cambridge—for his allowance of 500l. a-year was made to him hy his uncle out of the proceeds of the living. Dacre and other friends had done all in their power to assist Chayworth, and had devised all manner of contrivances by which the Homer and the Virgil might be kept upon his memory; for Chayworth was one of the kindest, best-hearted, and best-natured of men, albeit he was irritable, passionate, and vehement at times over his books; so much so, that few private tutors coveted him as a pupil. Chayworth was now under the care—educational care—of a youth of nineteen, named Edgar West (a sizer on the foundation of Trinity), who had undertaken to make learning easy, and pass Chayworth in the forthcoming January. West used to attend his burly pupil, who was now in his twenty-sixth year, at all hours—late and early; he would frequently sit by Chayworth’s bedside, and read aloud to him, explaining, translating, repeating, and exhibiting a patience which it was positively irritating to witness. Sometimes, when maddened by his inability to comprehend some difficult passage, Chayworth would snatch the book out of the boy’s hand, and fling it into the fire-place. Utterly unmoved by this insulting demonstration, Edgar West would repossess himself of the volume,—then approaching Chayworth with a winning smile, seize him by the wrist, bid him be calm, and listen. “That,” he would say, in a gentle voice, “is the only atonement you can make me for such very rude behaviour.” Whereupon Chayworth would hide his head beneath the bed-clothes, and cry, partly with rage and partly with, remorse. It was rather an amusing scene to witness the man-pupil and the boy-tutor at their respective studies—the one teaching, or rather trying to teach; the other, to learn. Chayworth was a tall, stout man, weighing some sixteen stone. West was a little being, not more than five feet high, rather thin and pale—very pale; with large dark eyes—very handsome eyes, but of a melancholy expression; a compact forehead, a well-shaped nose, and a prominent and delicately-formed chin. He was altogether a very singular-looking youth. His father and mother were both dead, and he had but one relation in the world—a sister, who was a year and a few months older than himself. She was then an assistant-governess in a fashionable boarding-school for young ladies. The father of these children had been an officer in the army, had served throughout the Peninsular war, and had been wounded in eight different engagements. Edgar was indebted for his education (at Westminster) to the General officer of that division of the army in which his father had served; and Miss West was the protégée of another General officer of distinction, who had placed her at the school in which she was now earning her own livelihood.
All Chayworth’s friends were very kind to the poor sizer, and constantly invited him to their rooms. He was a very clever youth, and remarkably erudite for his years, but shy and timid. No doubt, poor boy, he felt the awkwardness of his position in the College. It was very true that the Great Lights of the University had been sizers; but that was a poor consolation to a youth of very sensitive feelings, who was hurt that he could not sit at the same table in the hall with his equals—many of them, in point of birth and breeding, his inferiors—and that he inhabited a garret, not by choice, or by reason of his small means, but simply because that elevated position in the building was assigned to undergraduates of his class.
It was at John Chayworth’s wine-party that Reckless met Edgar West for the first time; and although it would be difficult to conceive two characters so essentially different in most points, there sprang up between them a strong and mutual attachment. Reckless had no method whatever; West was methodical almost to primness. Reckless flew at his game, whatever it might be; West quietly entered into it. Reckless was fond of every species of sport; West had no taste for shooting, hunting, fishing, boating, &c. Reckless hated books; West loved them. Reckless smoked and drank—not to excess, but moderately; West had an abhorrence of tobacco and wine. Amongst the few tastes that they had in common were a love for music and song, and for female society. West’s opportunities of enjoying the latter had been small when compared with those of Reckless. The only ladies whom he knew were those of the family of the th neral who had befriended him, and those of the family of the General who had befriended his sister; whereas Reckless could count up his lady friends by hundreds. Ere long, these youths—so different in their natures, tastes, and habits—were constantly in each other’s society. You might see them walking, arm-in-arm, on “King’s Parade,” every afternoon, West’s head not reaching Reckless’s shoulder; and whenever you met them, they were in earnest conversation. And they constantly breakfasted together, Reckless every other morning ordering his bed-maker, or his gyp, to carry his “commons” over to “Mr. West’s rooms” (if those dingy apartments in the Old Court deserved the name of “Rooms”),—for Reckless observed that West was better pleased to be a host than a guest, and, therefore, was determined to visit him in his garret as well as be visited in his own rooms on the first-floor. And now and then Reckless would “look him up” at night, and have a little cold meat and a glass of ale with him, in preference to going to a large supper-party. It was on one of these nights that West unbosomed himself to Reckless—opened his whole heart, and made known his aspirations and his ambition. It was half-past twelve. The College was wonderfully quiet. Beyond the chiming of the clocks, there was not a sound to be heard. The youths had supped, and Reckless, having lighted his large Dutch pipe, had thrown himself into one of the two easy-chairs which had been sent into the garret by Chayworth for the mutual convenience of himself and his youthful tutor. West occupied the other easy-chair. Between them was a teapoy, upon which stood a brown jug, filled with College ale, and two tumblers. There was a good fire burning in the room, and it served more to light the apartment than did the two tallow candles, which required “snuffing” every five minutes.
“Do you not intend to read—read for your examination, Reckless?” asked West.
“No,” said Reckless.
“Why not?”
“What’s the use?”
“Use, my dear sir? Every use. Excuse me for saying so; but I do not think you are prepared; and, unless you read, you will never pass your ‘little go.’”
“I don’t care about a little go.”
“But, until you have passed yout little go, you can’t take your degree.”
“I don’t want a degree.”
“Then why did you come up to Cambridge?”
“Because my father and mother wished it, and I had no objection; and I am deuced glad that I did come up, for I have met a very agreeable set of men, with whom I hope I shall be good friends for the whole course of my life—to say nothing of the pleasure of having made your acquaintance, West.”
“Thank you, Reckless. But do tell me—supposing that my curiosity be not impertinent, and you know how I love you, Reckless—what do you intend to do in the world? For I heard you say the other day, laughingly, but in earnest, evidently, that you were not a rich man, and never would be.”
“Well, look here, West. It would be a snobbish thing rather for me to say, amongst a number of gentlemen who have come up here to take their degrees, that I only wanted to make a temporary convenience of the university to which they belong, and therefore I have been silent on the subject; but, to tell you the honest truth, I am going into the army as soon as I am tired of my present life, or as soon as the authorities, who are beginning to bore me, by calling my attention to this and to that, take it into their heads to send me away.”
“Into the army!” said West, opening wide his large dark eyes.
“Yes.”
“Into the army?” (West sighed.)
“I believe that it is the only thing I am fit for, and I must do something.”
“Thing you are fit for! is the army a thing, Reckless?”
“Well, what else is it?”
“Ah!” sighed West, rising from his chair, standing with his back to the fire, and drawiner himself up to his full (short) height—“Ah, Reckless! I would to Heaven that I could go into the army!”
“You, West? you are too little. Don’t be angry with me for saying so; but really, West——”
“I am not angry, nor am I too little,” said West, quietly. “Look at the General who has been so kind—aye, as a father to me. Was he too little? Too little to prevent us being thrashed by the French when they outnumbered us? Was General Hardinge too little to save our military credit at the battle of Albuera? Was Suwarrow too little to fight the battles of Russia? Was Pope too little to write the most vigorous poems in the English language? Was the head of Sir Isaac Newton—the smallest head that ever man wore—too small to hold the biggest brain of his age? Was Nelson too little to win the greatest battles of which the British Navy can boast? Is Runjeet Singh too little to hold in perfect subjection the biggest army, and of his own formation, that the East has ever seen? Do not, Reckless, I implore you, disparage any man’s capabilities because he happens to be small.”
“Say no more, West, or I shall die with laughter.”
“Why do you laugh, Reckless?”
“Because at this moment you are so like a little bantam cock I have at home, who is always ready to fight the whole farm-yard.”
“I am not at all offended at your remark, Reckless. That little bird has, no doubt, great confidence in himself, and in a great measure illustrates my proposition. Do not imagine for one moment, Reckless, that I have any prejudice against tall or stout men; but all I mean to urge in support of the proportions of small men like myself, is this—that we are not to be despised or rejected in consequence of our insignificant dimensions.”
“Well, my dear West, I don’t wish to say anything against little men; but if you have so great an enthusiasm for the military profession, why did you not enter it, instead of coming up here?”
“Ah! my dear Reckless, it was not my fault. The General told me that he could not afford to buy me a commission, and that he could not ask the Horse Guards to give me one, because he had already obtained two for his own sons. I would enlist as a private, confident that I should soon become an officer, only that, my size is against me. I am not up to what they call ‘the standard.’ Such nonsense! Just as if a little man could not march a long distance, and do a great deal of execution with a musket or a sharp sabre!”
Which branch of the service would you like to belong to?”
“The cavalry! The dragoons!”
“You must really not be offended at my laughing, West; but I cannot hdp it. The idea of your being a dragoon! You would he like a tomtit on a round of beef, if you were on a charger. The horse would not know what to make of it.”
“Then I would soon teach him, Reckless. My good sir, my father was not a bigger man than I am; and the General has told me that he was as gallant and dashing a soldier as even Henry Havelock, who was also a small man.”
“Your father not bigger than you, West” Impossible!”
“I have the General’s word for it, and, what is more, I have a suit of his uniform and, his sword. It was not much that he left behind him, poor fellow!”
“Where is the uniform, West? I should like to see it.”
“It is in the next room, in a box.”
“Have you ever tried it on?”
“Yes.”
“And doesn’t it fit you like a purser’s shirt on a handspike?”
“No; it fits me exactly.”
“Get it out, West, and let us see.”
“Come, along,”—and West took up one of the tallow candles, and, followed by Reckless, entered his sleeping-room.
From beneath the bed, West drew forth a large leather trunk, which had evidently seen a good deal of campaigning. Having unlocked it and raised the lid. he exclaimed, “There! there they are!” Yes, there they were, certainly,—uniform, helmet, sword, sabre- task, boots, spurs, and gauntlets.
“What’s the meaning of this bit of red ribbon here on the left breast of the jacket?” asked Reckless.
“He was a brevet-Major and a Companion of the Bath, though only a regimental Captain. Those were but barren honours, the General said; but, as a true soldier, he appreciated them, perhaps, the more highly because they were barren,” sighed West.
“But I am certain these clothes are much too big for you, West,” said Reckless, cunningly.
“I assure you they are not; they fit me exactly.”
“Well, I cannot dispute your word; but, still I can scarcely credit it.”
“I will soon satisfy you on that head, if you will retire to the sitting-room for a few minutes.”
“Oh, certainly,” and Reckless, leaving West to attire himself in the uniform and accoutrements of his late father, returned to the outer room, and sat down in the easy-chair. With a somewhat serious smile upon his face he looked steadily at the fire. He wished to indulge in laughter; but the sight of those military trappings, which had been worn in battle-fields, and were now shut up in that old box under that bed, in that dismal garret, forbade him doing so; and he waited the coming of his young friend in anything but a spirit of levity. No sooner, however, did West make his appearance in his martial habiliments—helmeted, booted, spurred, sworded, and gauntleted—than a sense of ridicule obtained a complete mastery over his melancholy mood, and, throwing himself back in the easy-chair, Reckless literally roared with laughter. Small as West’s person seemed, and was, even in his cap and gown, it seemed even smaller in the military uniform. Instead of appearing before Reckless wearing a helmet and a sword, the Helmet and the Sword appeared to be wearing West’s body; and under these pantomimic circumstances, laughter was excusable. West, heedless of the laughter, strutted round the room with a tread which, had he been a man of ordinary size, would have disturbed the worthy gentleman who kept in the rooms immediately below him; but, as it was, he could not have been subjected to the faintest inconvenience. This parade over, the little man, by stretching his arm to its extreme length, drew the blade from its steel scabbard, and having examined its edge, handed it to Reckless, who, having grasped it by the hilt and poised it a few seconds, raised it aloft, and said energetically, “By Jove, West! I could do some execution with this weapon.”
“I couldn’t,” said West, modestly. “In my hands it would only be useful as an emblem of authority; but as such an emblem it might be of more use than in the hands of a bigger officer. I do not mean to allude to you, Reckless. Personal prowess is not the most valuable gift for a cavalry officer. If he is a strong man and a good swordsman, so much the better; but to lead a regiment, or a squadron, or a troop, you want other qualities, which the General has told me my father had; and why, pray, should I not have them? General Beresford and Sir John Ely, the General has often told me, could, with their individual swords, have done more than any other officers in the army; but there were little fellows not half their size who could do much more with a regiment or a troop.”
“Has Dacre, or Chayworth, or any other of our friends, ever seen you in this get-up, West?”
“No, not a soul except yourself. I have never mentioned my father’s name or profession to any of them. All that they know of me is that, although I am a sizer, I must be the son of a gentleman. At least, I have the vanity to think so.”
“Come and sup with me to-morrow night at ten, and wear the uniform. Come as you now are. You know that I do not wish to make a laughing-stock of you; but, to be candid, you look so comical and so peculiar as you now stand, that I would give anything if those with whom you have been so intimate could only see you as I do. As they are all gentlemen, you are aware that there is not the slightest fear of any tricks being played with the uniform, or the least risk of its being damaged in any way.”
“I am not afraid of that,” said West. “No one, except a senseless brute and thorough blackguard would fail to show some sort of respect for the dress and weapon of a dead officer—a dress worn and a weapon borne in many a hard-fought field of battle, with by far the bravest enemies that England ever encountered. No, Reckless; I am not afraid of that and if you wish it, I will come. But I hope no strangers—that, is to say, no gentlemen with whom I am not acquainted—will be invited.”
“Certainly not; the party shall consist of that set of men of whom Dacre is the recognised head.”
“Be it so.”
“But we must arrange this matter; we will have a little by-play. Let us meet after chapel in the morning; it is too late now to form our plans. Hark! It is two o’clock!”
Amongst the few pieces of advice that Sir Charles Reckless had given his son on the occasion of his joining the University, was this—“Do not be in a hurry to return any hospitalities that may be offered to you. Wait your time, and watch your opportunity, especially if you get into a good set, as I hope you will do. There is nothing more disagreeable, or more prejudicial,, than to have it supposed that one keeps a debtor and creditor account of wine, dinner, or supper parties.” And in deference to this sensible suggestion, Reckless had been nineteen days at Trinity before he ventured to say to any of those who had entertained him, “I wish you would make my rooms the trysting-place to-night at ten.”
It so happened that the great bulk of Dacre’s set were disengaged, or had engagements which they could waive without giving offence: so Reckless was in a position to give Rorcher and Mrs. Croppitt to understand that fourteen would sit down to supper. Rorcher was a gyp of such experience, that it was needless to give him any further instructions. He at once proceeded to the butteries, where he spoke confidentially to the younger Mr. Hudson, who promised that everything should be “done to a turn;” and Styles, the fishmonger, happening to be there, Rorcher button-holed him, and talked of oysters, lobsters, &c.
“Reckless? Oh, it’s that tall young freshman?” said Styles.
“Yes; but you must not send him freshman’s stale oysters,” said Rorcher. “He is in Mr. Dacre’s set, and they are all coming to him to-night, to his rooms.”
“I’ll see to it myself,” said Styles. “He’s a fine-looking young man—rather. I have noticed him several times. I should not have thought he’d been so quiet as they tell me he is.”
“Well, he is curbed, you see, by the older men with whom he keep’s company; but I shouldn’t be surprised if some day or other he nas to kick his legs over the traces and come out ”
“Has he any money to speak of?”
“Well, I believe not, though he is a baronet’s son. He told Mrs. Croppitt the other night that he was up here on an allowance of a guinea a day, and that he meant to live up only to twenty shillings of it. He is a very liberal young gentleman, but by no means extravagant.”
These great preliminaries concluded, Rorcher made himself easy until half-past eight, at which hour he repaired to the rooms of Reckless, and, in conjunction with Mrs. Croppitt, became extremely busy. Inasmuch as this was Reckless’s first party, he was rather anxious that everything should go off particularly well, and asked his gyp and his bed-maker a variety of very unnecessary questions. At length, these personages, in as delicate a manner as possible, informed him that he need not be under the slightest apprehension that they would be deficient in their respective duties; and taking the hint, like a sensible young man, he vacated his rooms, and did not return to them until a quarter to ten, when he found everything (to use Rorcher’s frequently used phrase) to his “entire satisfaction,”—with this little exception, that Mrs. Croppitt was in such high spirits, they might be faithfully described as hysterical.
“I know all about the story of the picture, sir,” said she.
“Well, let us have it,” said Reckless, in his off-handed way.
“Oh, dear, no,” said Mrs. Croppitt, mysteriously; “I have promised my sister that you shall hear it from her own lips, provided you are not above going to see the poor soul.”
“I will go and pay her a visit with the greatest pleasure in the world, Mrs. Croppitt. Where does she live?” asked Reekless.
“Not very far off, sir. I will show you, any day that you are so inclined; but it must be some evening, after dark. Lord bless me!”—and Mrs. Croppitt sat down in one of the easy-chairs, and laughed frightfully; whereupon Rorcher shrugged his shoulders, and gave Reckless a look which conveyed to him that she had been tasting the wines, and perhaps something stronger.
The guests had arrived. The supper was upon the table, and they were on the point of sitting down, when Reckless exclaimed, “How is this? We are thirteen. There is a vacant place. This will never do.”
“Certainly not,” said several, who were superstitious.
“Rorcher!” said Reckless.
“Sir?” replied the gyp.
“Run over to Mr. West, and ask him to come at once.”
It had been arranged by West and Reckless that the former should not come until all was ready, when the gyp would bring him notice.
Rorcher, on beholding West in military uniform, and a sword by his side, was not only astonished, but rather alarmed at first. He thought it was an apparition, he said. Having requested Rorcher to follow, and not precede him, West tripped into the staircase in which Reckless kept, and was very soon in the room where the company was assembled, and waiting rather impatiently. Reckless affected to be startled on beholding the small dragoon. His guests were so in reality. No one at first recognised the little man; and even after he had removed the helmet, and sat down to the table, few could believe that it was West, so great an alteration did the dress make in his appearance. The supper over, and the cloth removed, West, at Reckless’s solicitation, stood upon the table and underwent an inspection by all present, turning round for one or another when so requested. Until assured of the fact, no one credited that it was a real uniform—one that had actually been worn by a dragoon officer in the Peninsular War. They imagined that it was simply a faacy dress that West had purchased, or had had made to order, forgetting that it would have been rather an expensive freak on West’s part; for although the gold-lace stripes on the trowsers, and the epaulettes and other decorations, were somewhat tarnished, still, on the whole, the dress was in excellent preservation; while the sword, helmet, sabretash, and spurs, were almost as good as when they were first worn.
This examination of West and his appurtenances was scarcely over when there was heard in the court a noise of persons hurrying to and fro, and talking in a state of excitement. Rorcher had gone home, and could not, therefore, be commanded to “see what all that row is about;” so Reckless went to the window himself, and called out, in a soft and civil tone to some one who was passing hastily, “Is there anything the matter?”
“Yes,” was the reply. “There’s a fire at the bottom of Silver-street. They say the whole of those large brewery premises will be burnt down.”
“Let us go,” cried out several of Reckless’s guests.
“Come along!” shouted Reckless. “Come along! come along, West!”
“How can I come till I have changed my clothes?” he asked.
“Pooh! come as you are. Put a gown over your regimentals, and take one of my caps in lieu of your helmet: Here you are! Now, pray make haste, or we shall be too late to see it; and distinguish ourselves.” By this time the whole of the guests were on their way to the scene, and were mingled with the crowd of undergraduates and townsmen hurrying to the spot.
“Do not be in a hurry, Reckless,” said little West; “be calm, and cool, and collected. The shortest way to the bottom of that street in which is the brewery, will be the longest in point of distance. Let us go round by the backs of the colleges, where we shall meet with no obstruction from the crowd, and we shall come upon the fire the moment we have crossed the bridge, and be in a position to render some assistance.”
“You are right, West; but come along.”
“I am coming, Reckless. But do not run that mad way; you will gain nothing by it. The chances are you will fall down, or get into a ditch, and thus by haste impede your own progress. There you go. I told you so. Take things quietly.”
West’s calculations were quite correct. It was no easy matter to force a passage through the dense crowd at the top of the street; whereas on the river side, at the bottom of the street, the road was as clear as possible. Long before Dacre, Chayworth, and the rest could get into the line of buckets, West and Reckless had handed and passed on some forty or fifty, and they were now engaged, with several other gentlemen (masters of arts), in bringing up a long ladder, and placing it against the sill of a window, a considerable height from the ground; for, it was said, a servant-girl was in one of the rooms of the building. By this time West had lost the cap, which was too big for him; and feeling the gown an incumbrance, he had thrown it on the nearest heap (of gowns) belonging to the men of the various colleges.
No sooner was the ladder in its place, than the impetuous Reckless ran up it with the nimbleness of a squirrel, followed by West at a very steady but very sure pace. The room, or set of rooms, into which they penetrated, were the apartments of the lady whose husband owned the premises. There was no servant-maid nor any one else in them; but there were sundry matters in the shape of property, which the youths were bent on saving—a desk, a dressing-case, &c. &c.; and they broke open a bureau, took out the letters, papers, and money in bank-notes that it contained, and thrusting the whole into a large clothes-bag, lowered it down, having tied the blankets and sheets together to make a rope long enough and strong enough for the purpose. Reckless was for crying out, “Stand from under!” and throwing them down by piecemeal; but West said, “No, Reckless! Be calm! We have yet time! The General says the best man under fire is the man who is most collected!”
“Hang the General!” cried Reckless. “It is all very well to talk about being under fire, but here are we over fire. Look at the flames coming up through the crevices in the boards!”
“Never mind, Reckless. It will take those flames more than two minutes to char these boards; and in a service of this kind, even seconds are worthy of being calculated to a nicety. There,” added the little man, “the bag has touched the ground, and the property it contains is quite safe.”
“But we are not!” said Reckless. “By Heaven, West, they have carried away the ladder! The brutes!”
“Never mind, Reckless. We have our rope; we will fasten it to this bed-post. No hurry! We have a minute yet. Go down; I will follow you.”
“After you, my friend,” said Reckless, gallantly.
“It’s no time for compliments,” said West, calmly; and down the rope he went, hand under hand, and was soon followed by his tall companion.
There were but few seconds to spare. Very shortly after Reckless descended, the room which they had just left was in flames, and fell in with an awful crash.
“I wish I could prevail on you, Reckless,” said West, when they were walking home bv the same road they came, “to be calm in moments of extreme danger. If you had thrown those things out of the window, you would not only have damaged them or destroyed them, but you would have maimed or injured some of the people in the crowd. A man who flurries himself in such moments, and suffers his reason to run riot, is quite as dangerous to his friends as to his enemies. At least so the General has offen said, and I believe him.”
⁎ ⁎ ⁎
On the following morning there appeared a paragraph in the Cambridge Chronicle, to the effect that “An undergraduate of Trinity, and a dragoon officer who was on a visit to him, had rendered themselves honourably conspicuous at the fire, and had saved family documents and family trinkets which no amount of insurance could possibly have covered, had they been devoured by the all-consuming element.”
Painful as was the task of cramming Chayworth with the classics, West persevered, with as much good-humour as though it had been actually a labour of love. It was, indeed (if so commonplace a simile may be employed), like writing an the sands of the sea-shore. What Chayworth was taught one day, he would forget on the day following. Even Reckless, who was a very poor hand at Latin or Greek, could not help picking up a tew crumbs of knowledge whenever he happened to be present at one of Chayworth’s lessons, so systematically did West hammer away at every sentence, and every word that presented the least difficulty. At times, when Chayworth found his wrath (engendered by the consciousness of his incapacity) rising, he would endeavour to get rid of his youthful tutor until the fit was over; but to no purpose. West clung to him with as much tenacity as did the old man of the sea cling to Sinbad the Sailor. If Chayworth, in a fit of disgust and impetuosity, would declare that he was feverish, and wanted the fresh air, West would remark. “It will do you all the good in the world; I will accompany you; and, as I know this passage by heart, we can talk about it, and so not lose any time.” When, upon other occasions, the burly Chayworth would, in a fit of utter despair, cry out—“It is of no use! I will abandon the attempt and the hope!”—the diminutive West would remind him that there was a solemn compact between them; and he would pound away at his charge in a manner which reminded a spectator of a small steamboat tugging a large sailing-vessel to sea against the wind and the tide. Even when Chayworth drove out in his gig, which he kept at the University, West would sit by his side, and, while they were bowling along the road, keep, on reiterating those little matters which it was absolutely necessary, that Chayworth should remember.
“I feel,” West used sometimes to remark to Reckless, “that my health is breaking down under this frightful fatigue of body and of mind; but I am determined to carry my point, and take him through in triumph—if so dignified a word may be used in reference to obtaining a wretched Poll degree for him.”
“What degree do you expect to take yourself, West?” Reckless asked one day.
“I do not know,” was the modest reply; “but Dacre and several other scholars of the College tell me that I shall stand high in the Tripos.”
“And yet, like a fool, West, you would go into the army?”
“Do not say ‘like a fool,’ Reckless, because I think the army is my vocation; and—as I have already told you—if I were big enough for the ranks, and had not a sister who may be dependent on me some day or other, I would certainly enlist.”
“I wish you would come down with me to Reckless Castle at Christmas, which is now near at hand. My people would be delighted to see you. What do you say?”
“A thousand thanks, dear Reckless; but until Chayworth has taken his degree, I cannot suffer him to be out of my Sight for more than a few hours together.”
“And have you really any hope of getting him. through?”
“The strongest hope; and I watch him as a physician watches the case of a patient who is wavering between life and death. By the way, Reckless, will you do me a very great favour?”
“Yes; I’ll do anything in they world for you.”
“Be a party to a pardonable deceit?”
“Yes; and, if you were to insist upon it, an unpardonable one either.”
“Oh, no! It is simply this: I wish you to remark to Chayworth—just before the term ends, and you go away for Christmas—how ill he is looking. Dacre will do the same, and so will several other of our mutual friends, I am sure, when I tell them of my object. Sudbury, the doctor, has promised me faithfully that he will assist me.”
“I’ll persuade him that he is dying, if you like, West. But what can be your object?”
“Merely to confine him to his rooms, and prevent him from taking any part in the festivities of the season. He is very timid and nervous about his health (which is as robust as that of man can possibly be); and if I can only have three weeks of continued and uninterrupted quiet with him, I am positive I shall be able to launch the heavy barque on the waters.”
“You may depend upon me, West, that I will do all in my power to aid you in this praiseworthy undertaking. But, tell me, what remuneration are you to receive for all this vexation, trouble, and patience?”
“Remuneration? None! beyond the pleasure I shall experience in having repaid to some extent an act of trivial but disinterested kindness, and the secret satisfaction which will arise out of the reflection that I have been able to achieve for him what others could not.”
“An act of kindness, West? What act of kindness?”
“I would rather not have referred to it; but since you have asked me the question, I will tell you. One morning I was coming out of chapel, and accidentally ran against a fellow of this College—a great tuft-hunter, who only reads, he says, with noble pupils. I apologized for my unintentional rudeness; but instead of receiving my apology in a proper spirit, he took advantage of my humble position, and insulted me most grossly. He called me ‘clown,’ ‘boor,’ ‘bear,’ ‘beast.’ Chayworth, who was immediately behind us, and witnessed the scene, put his hand upon the tuft-hunter’s shoulder, and said, ‘Low-born—low-bred—son of a menial servant; you, whose father blacked my uncle’s boots! how dare you thus insult an unoffending boy? Hound! I would beat to a mummy your plebeian features, if it were not that I should disgrace my fists by staining them with your base and filthy blood!”
“And was there a rqw?” asked Reckless, energetically, and hoping that there had been “a fight.”
“No,” replied West; “the Tuft-Hunter apologized to Chayworth—expressed his regret and so forth—whereupon Chayworth, in his anger, applied to him several very offensive and rather coarse epithets, and left him. Such was the origin of my acquaintance with Chayworth, who, from that day to this, has always shown me great kindness. The offer to teach him was mine.”
“And now you are going to persuade him that he is ill?”
“No. The doctor and his fribnds must do that. My rôle will be to insist upon it that he is well—at all events, well enough to read.”
Fortunately for West, and for Chayworth perhaps, the latter sprained his ankle on the day which followed the conversation just related; and he was confined to his room and his couch for thirteen days. Once upon his back, the doctor, who appreciated West’s motives, kept him there. He forbade his going out, assuring, him, if he did, that he, the doctor, would not be answerable for the consequences. Thus was Chayworth prevented going to his stable, to look at his horse and talk to the groom; thus prevented from visiting the Greyhound Hotel, to play billiards; thus kept from excursions on the river; and, what was of equal importance, West prevailed upon the few of Chayworth’s friends who remained “up” for the vacation to visit him as seldom as possible, and on no occasion to remain for any length of time with him.
Meanwhile nearly all the members of the set went to their respective homes, and Reckless to his, at Reckless Castle. But before he left the University, he paid a visit to Mrs. Croppitt’s sister.
⁎ ⁎ ⁎
In a little narrow street, not far from Emanuel College, and leading into New Square, there was a small house occupied by Mrs. Coleby, the bed-ridden bedmaker, and her niece, a girl of sixteen or seventeen years of age—a very plain girl, who occasionally “helped” her other aunt, Mrs. Croppitt, in “doing” the gentlemen’s rooms. Mrs. Coleby owned this house, and another adjoining it, which she used to let furnished. It was said that Mrs. Coleby had a great deal of money for a woman in her station of life, and that she had come by it honestly, though no one knew exactly in what way. The lower room of the abode—to which Reckless was led by Mrs. Croppitt, who left him at the door—was exceedingly well stocked with rather expensive furniture, and there was scarcely a piece of the walls to be seen, so covered were they with pictures and prints. The niece having announced Mr. Reckless, he was shown into the room up-stairs.
It was not from age, but in consequence of an accident, that Mrs. Coleby was unable to walk, or even to stand,—for her years did not exceed sixty. This bedroom, to which she was confined, was rather elegantly furnished; but there were no pictures on the walls, with the exception of some portraits of gentlemen in academical costume—gentlemen whom Mrs. Coleby had attended during thgir sojourn at Cambridge, and of whom she had requested a likeness. And near to each picture was hung upon a peg, or a large nail, a hat and gown, or cap and gown, which had been worn by her favourites. In one corner of the room was a large bookcase, with glass-doors, filled with all sorts of miscellaneous property—decanters, corkscrews, plate, cruet-stands, &c. &c.; gifts—all gifts, with which Mrs. Coleby would not have parted for five times their intrinsic value, for she used to say they were as companions to her in her helpless condition.
“And so you are the son of Sir Charles Reckless, they tell me,” said Mrs. Coleby, raising herself in bed, and looking at her visitor searchingly.
“Yes,” said Reckless, “I am a son of Sir Charles.”
“You are not like him in face.”
“No; I believe not.”
“You are more like your mother.”
“So I am told. Did you ever see my mother?”
“Oh, dear, yes, several times. That is her picture that is hanging up in the old rooms.”
“Yes, and I am told that there is a story connected with it—a story which I am rather curious to hear. Did my father occupy those rooms when he was at the University?”
“No, he did not. When your father, who wore that hat and gown which you may see on yonder peg—when he was an undergraduate, kept in Neville’s Court, those rooms in which you are, were occupied by your uncle, the late Lord Twylytte, who brought that picture with him when he first came up. It was with that picture that your father first fell in love, and he little dreamt then that he would marry the original. When he first saw that picture, he had not seen your mother; and if he had not seen it, he would not, perhaps, have ever known her.”
“Who owns the picture now?”
“No one. It belongs to the rooms.”
“Who gave it to the rooms?”
“Lord Twylytte.”
“Why didn’t he take it away with him?”
“Because I begged him not to do so. Many gentlemen have wanted it, and one did carry it off; but I soon got it back again. A lawyer’s letter was sent after him.”
“Who was he?”
“That is of no consequence. Like your father, he fell in love with it, and used to stand before it for hours together. It was a very unhandsome thing to take it from the walls. I missed it, of course, the moment it was gone, and instantly complained to the authorities.”
“Do you not think that I could remove it?”
“Most certainly not.”
“Have you any idea where I could get a copy?”
“Well, there were only fifty printed; and the plate, I believe, was then destroyed or spoilt, and a good many of the copies were lost. The publisher’s premises were burnt down. Many gentlemen who have kept in those rooms have tried to get copies, but could not. There is another copy in the town.”
“Where?”
“Not far from here; but you cannot have that, because it was given by your mother to the humble person who owns it, and who would not on any account part with it, so long as she lives. Oh, yes; I have seen your mother several times since her marriage. She came here with Sir Charles, and they went over the old rooms—his, and Lord Twylytte’s. Give my respectful duty, please, to to Sir Charles and Lady Mary when you next see them.”
“I will not fail to do so.”
“May I offer you a glass of ale?”
“Thank you.”
“Mary!” cried Mrs. Coleby, “take these keys; open the cupboard, take out a silver tankard, and draw a glass of ale for this gentleman.”
Mary, in obedience to these commands, soon placed the well-filled tankard in the hands of Reckless.
“That tankard belonged to a gentleman who was a great friend of your father’s,” said Mrs. Coleby. “He gave it to his gyp, who drank himself to death a few years ago, and I bought it at his sale amongst other things that had been given to him—such as Lord Clipton’s claret-jugs, and Mr. Ashley Broke’s salt-cellars.”
“But of what use are these things to you, Mrs. Coleby?”
“Of great use. They recall the past. I have them brought to me, and while I look at them, I live over again those happy days when I was younger and able to move about, and work from daylight till dark, and half the night through. I have had some curious characters, good and bad, amongst the gentlemen who have passed through my hands. Of what use, you may ask, is that hat and gown on yonder peg? All the use in the world! Of what use is that surplice, hanging on that bed-post? All the use in the world! Of what use is that cracked decanter, which will not hold wine; or anything else in the shape of liquid?”
“None whatever, I should say.”
“Oh, yes, it is. It recalls the whole scene, on the night when it was broken, in the rooms of the gentleman it once belonged to. When I look at it, the whole party are before me; and a very merry one it was, I can tell you. I often wish I was scholar enough to write a book called The Recollections of a Bedmaker. Fast men, slow men, reading men, rowing men, rich men, poor men, good men, bad men, well-born men, low-born men, high-bred men, low-bred men, honest men, dishonest men;—every sort of men have I attended within those old walls of Trinity College. I had the credit of doing justice by my gentlemen, and many of them now come to see me when they are passing through Cambridge, or when they take it into their heads to pay a visit to the University. Bless me! when the last election for High Steward took place, I had quite a regular levée in this room. I had a duke, two marquises, and three earls, several viscounts, and a whole troop of baronets, besides commoners—all Masters of Arts—who came to see me when they ran down to vote. And I remembered every one of them, and their peculiarities, the moment I saw them. One was a cabinet minister, and I made him and all the rest of them laugh heartily by reminding him of something.”
“What was it, Mrs. Coleby?”
“Well, sir, he was given to sleeping out of College: but he used to tumble his room about in such a way, as he thought, as to deceive me; but he didn’t; for on looking at his rumpled night-dress, I discovered that his arms had never been through the sleeves. But as he never got into any trouble, I never reported him. I am very glad to hear from my sister, sir, such good accounts of yourself. But—excuse me for saying so—you have rather a wildish eye.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Coleby.”
Here the conversation was interrupted by a loud knock at the door, and Reckless rose from his chair with the intention of taking his departure.
“Don’t go,” said Mrs. Coleby; “it is only a poor gentleman who comes here now and then to see me. Don’t take any notice of him, and he will take none of you. He is half-witted, or, to tell you the truth, he has now no wits at all.”
Up the stairs walked, or rather tottered, a rather tall man, in a dingy, threadbare suit of clothes. He looked an old man. He had short, grey hair, and a purple face. But shabby as was his attire, and vacant as was his stare, his manners betrayed that he had seen more prosperous days. Approaching the bedside, he took Mrs. Coleby’s hand, and shaking it warmly, said, “Did I not leave some change on the mantel-piece?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Coleby, “and I have it in my purse. Here it is, sir—three shillings and sixpence;” and putting herW hand under the pillow, she withdrew her purse, and counted out the sum she had mentioned.
“Thank you,” said the stranger—for stranger he was to Reckless—“I thought I left it there. One rarely loses anything, I find.” And with these words, he again shook Mrs. Coleby by the hand, and took his departure.
“That was a very rich man once,” said Mrs. Coleby to Reckless. “Many a thousand pound of his was spent in this town, when he was an undergraduate. He is nothing like so old as he looks. He is not more than forty-three or forty-four, though he might be guessed at seventy. When I first knew him, he had nine, or ten thousand a-year, and he now lives the charity of those who were formerly his servants. He gambled and dissipated his fortune away. At one time he kept twenty horses here, and gave the largest parties of any man of his time. With his money went his wits and his health.”
“He could never have had many wits,” said Reckless.
“Yes, he had, sir,” said Mrs. Coleby. “He was a very clever young man, in everything except taking care of his property, and of his health; and a very gentlemanlike young man, too, when he was in his sober senses. It was only when he found himself ruined that he became an imbecile. He was for several years in a lunatic asylum, until we, who knew him in his palmy days, took him out, and agreed to support him between us. He is very harmless, and never molests anybody.”
“I suppose he drinks still?”
“No, sir, never, unless it is offered to him. Where he is known amongst the tradespeople, they give him a glass of good wine, when they think it will do him good. He fancies that he is still very rich, and gives magnificent orders, which of course are not executed. His belief is that I am still his bedmaker, that Mr. Rorcher is his gyp, Habbiss, the livery stable-keeper, hisgroom, and so on.”
“What is his name?”
“To the present generation he is Mr. Brown; but what his real name is does not signify.”
“Has he no Relations?”
“Yes, he has relations; but they do not recognise him now. Some of them are very lofty people, I assure you. It was they who put him into the asylum, where he was pining himself to death, until we took him out. When he was rich,he, was always very kind and generous to poor people; and the same feeling lives in him still. From here he will go to Habbiss’s, and give away that three shillings and sixpence; but as all the pieces are marked and well known, they will be brought back to me before to-morrow.”
“But suppose he should give them to a stranger?”
“There is no chance of that. He never speaks to, or goes near, anyone but those whom he knew formerly, and who humour him, and make him believe that he has still ten thousand a-year.”
“But where does he live? and where does he sleep?”
“Well, sir, he is never in want of a dinner, or a breakfast, or a bed. Sometimes we miss him for a few days, but he always comes back safe and sound. He gets away to Chesterton, or to Melton, or to Stapleton (at all of which places he is well known), and fancies that he has been to one of his estates. It was at Stapleton that he lived when he was rusticated for a term; and during the nine weeks that he was there, he spent a tremendous sum of money. He had his stud removed there, and the inn at which he lodged was always full of people—gentlemen and others. But, sir, I am afraid I am tiring you,” added Mis Coleby. “I am very glad, indeed, to have seen a son of Sir Charles and Lady Mary Reekless, and you have promised that you will give my respectful duty to them; and if, when you return to Cambridge, after the vacation is over, you will do me the favour to call upon me again, I should esteem it as a great act of kindness.”
Reckless reassured her that he would comply with her wishes, and then took leave of the old woman. He was somewhat disappointed with the story of the picture (as may be the reader}, for he was prepared for something romantic; but the sight of that wreck of a man of fortune made a great impression upon him; and, on the whole, he felt rather glad that he had made the acquaintance of Mrs. Coleby.
Some three miles from Reckless Castle there was an estate called “the Downs,” upon which stood a magnificent abode. It belonged to a Mr. Bothewell, who was obliged to live abroad—in Italy—for his health’s sake, some said; while others gave out that he had even stronger reasons for so doing. The abode—the house, not the estate—was, at the period to which this narrative now relates, rented by a Colonel Ornsbie, of the Bengal Horse Artillery, who was “home on furlough.” Colonel Ornsbie had no wife with him. It was understood, that she had died in India, leaving him two children—a son and a daughter. The former was not in England, or, at all events, he was not living at “the Downs;” but the latter was, and kept house for her father, the Colonel.
Miss Ornsbie was in her seventeenth year; and when Reckless first beheld her, during the vacation he was spending at home, he thought her the most beautiful creature that ever trod tho earth. Nor was Reckless singular in this opinion. The whole country—that is to say, the society in which Miss Ornsbie moved—raved about her. She had such glorious eyes!—so large, so soft, yet so full of fire! Byron’s description of those handsome eyes of which he was so fond, seemed poor and weak to those who looked into Miss Ornsbie’s. And such hair!—so jetty black, silky, and shining! As for her features, they were, if possible, too delicately formed; and her teeth were so small, pearly, and regular, that it seemed a sin that she should use them for ordinary purposes—so palpable was it that Nature had intended them as an ornament. Her skin was as white as marble, and of the very finest texture imaginable. She was rather tall for her age; and her figure was superb. Her hands and feet were exquisitely shaped; and let us not forget to make allusion to the shape of her head and her ears. These were truly Grecian, and perhaps the chief of her very many personal charms. Sir Charles Reckless used to say that he could look at her for a year without being tired of gazing, and Lady Mary used to say the same. Nature, moreover, had given to Miss Ornsbie a very sweet and musical voice—not for singing (she possessed but few accomplishments, and had a very indifferent education, having been brought up in India), but for conversation; and she had almost a foreign (French) accent, which was rather pleasing than otherwise, and at times there was a quaintness even in her idiom—indeed, it was scarcely an English idiom. In point of mental ability, Miss Ornsbie was abundantly supplied; and, though she was extremely artless in her manners, which were very quiet and unpresuming, she was, in reality, a very shrewd being. With this girl Augustus Reckless became enamoured; and to his great joy, shortly after made her acquaintance, he discovered that his attentions were pleasing to her, and that she preferred his society to that of several others, who, in a worldly sense, were far more eligible as lovers.
There is certainly a great pleasure in imparting information to those who care for listening to us; and Reckless loved Miss Ornsbie “all the better” because she was not learned or highly accomplished, and did not affect to be so. Reckless, notwithstanding the great amount of his miscellaneous and strangely-acquired information, was not a particularly good instructor; but still, with Miss Ornsbie’s desire to learn, he contrived, in his conversations with her, to teach as well as to amuse. And while thus delightfully employed, Reckless himself was being instructed; for Miss Ornsbie would talk to him of the manners, customs, habits, language, and religion of the people of India—the land of her birth, and the land in which she had spent nearly the whole of her life.
It was bruited abroad in the County of Kent, and with some truth, that Colonel Ornsbie was very rich—that he had five lacs in Company’s paper, so many hundred shares in the Oriental Bank, the Agra Bank, the North-Western Bank, the Delhi Bank, the Cawnpore Bank, and the Benares Bank—to say nothing of his bungalows in every important station of Upper India. But it was not the reputed wealth of the Colonel that attracted Augustus Reckless so often to the Downs. He loved the girl for herself, and herself alone; and perhaps his love was sharpened by her comparative ignorance of the conventionalities of English society, and of those matters which all young ladies educated in this country or on the Continent are intimately acquainted with. It charmed rather than disgusted him, to hear her ask how many persons “subscribed” to the Times, and then to listen to the reason which she gave for asking the question, pointing out, as she did, the system which prevailed in India with regard to newspapers. Nor did her infinitesimal knowledge of eminent modern literary celebrities give him any offence—because it gave him an opportunity of telling her all he knew about them and their writings, and hearing from those beautiful ruby-coloured lips of hers some account of the clever things written by Mr. Henry Torrens, of the Bengal Civil Service; by Mr. Henry Meredith Parker, by Captain Macnaughten, and others—gentlemen of very great and very deserved repute in India, but of whom Reckless had never previously heard.
Colonel Ornsbie, though a colonel in the Bengal Horse Artillery, in times of peace cared nothing for military affairs. He drew, in India, his 140l. a month in the shape of pay and allowances, but it was very little that he did for it. Like too many other officers of rank in the Artillery, Cavalry, and Infantry, he had for years past given his mind entirely to speculations. And he was now in England solely or the purpose of founding a Sugar Company, a Steam Navigation Company, a Coal Company, a Tramway Company, and several othef Companies, besides an East India Agency. He was a gentleman by birth, and in outward manners and address, but he was, by fits and starts, a vulgar-minded man; and he could be mean, mercenary, illiberal, and at times treated his daughter more like one of his menial servants than a child. For this last-mentioned defect in his character, Reckless hated him from the very bottom of his heart.
One day, when Colonel Ornsbie had gone to London to “set on foot” the various Companies which he was projecting, Augustus Reckless strolled over to the to the Downs, and beheld Miss Ornsbie on the lawn. She was alone, and had upon her left arm a basket, and in her right hand a pair of scissors, to clip the winter flowers for a bouquet. She was habited in a black silk dress, over which was thrown a blue cloth cloak. She wore upon her head a black silk capuchin, trimmed with rose-coloured ribbon. She looked lovely, and, when Reckless took her hand, he could not help telling her so. Something like a blush came to her cheeks, and she was for a brief while a little confused; but, rapidly recovering herself, she invited her youthful admirer to enter the house, and partake of “tiffin” (such was the word she used), which was about to be placed on the table. Reckless offered her his arm, and they proceeded to the dining-room.
The repast ended, the servants retired. Reckless was alone with Miss Ornsbie, in the apartment to which she had conducted him. He took advantage of the situation, and made an avowal of his affection for her. His speech, like that of most young men upon such an occasion, was a silly one, no doubt; but it had the merit of being frank, honest, and ardent. “We are too young—at least I am,” concluded Reckless, “to talk of being married just now; but all I ask of you is to accept my offer, and be mine as soon as circumstances may admit. Speak, Leonora!”
She did not withdraw her hand from his; but she kept her eyes fixed upon the ground for a few moments, and then raising them, she looked into his face, and said, in a melancholy tone of voice, which evinced she had been deliberating, “Ah, no! It cannot be!”
“Another holds your heart?” said Reckless, tenderly and tremblingly.
“No,” was her reply.
“You do not love?”
“Yes, I do love; I love you, as ardently and as fondly as you love me; for I believe all that you have said to me.”
“You love me, Leonora, and yet you will not pledge yourself to be my wife at some future day?”
“It cannot be!”
“Is it that I am a younger son, and that my worldly prospects are not so brilliant?”
“Do I seem a being who would weigh the worldly prospects of a man whom she could love? Do you think me capable of bartering my affections for wealth, rank, or position in life?”
“No, Leonora! Forgive me!—do forgive me! But tell me why will you not promise to be mine?”
“I cannot tell you; or rather, I will not tell you.”
“You fear your father—” (he paused).
“I fear no being in the world, but one—namely, my God! But there is a fear, a bitter fear, now lurking in my heart, which is—”
“What, Leonora?”
That you have mistaken my character, and my motives.”
“Leonora, what am I to think? You love me, you say——”
“And I have said the truth. And yet I will not marry you.”
“But will you wed with another?”
“Again I tell you that you have mistaken my motives. If ever I wed, it will be with that man who first awakened my soul to a sense of love. That man is yourself.”
“Leonora, you distract me. You speak in parables and enigmas, which I cannot comprehend.”
“I regret that I cannot be more explicit; but I will say as much as my heart whispers to me that I may divulge. If it should please Heaven that we should ever meet in the land of my birth—in India—and if, after you have seen me there, in my own home, and all that I would there show to you, and all that I would there declare to you—if then you would say to me, ‘Leonora, be mine,’ most willingly would I consent.”
“Dearest!” cried Reckless, passionatelv. “I will——”
“Hush!” exclaimed the girl, kindly, but firmly; “no protestations on your part could ever shake my settled resolve.”
“I would follow you, Leonora, to the most remote corner of the earth—I would visit you in the most lowly home, or humblest shed, that ever was raised to shelter human beings—I would, proud and independent in spirit as I am, work for you as a labourer in the fields; aye, beg for you in the streets. What can ybu have to show me that your lips cannot now describe? What to say to me in another land which you cannot mention in this?”
“Before our hands can be joined at any altar, you must visit another clime, and see another race of people. I am not worthy of that enterprise on your part. Forget me! It were better.”
“Forget thee, Leonora? Who that has ever seen thee and talked to thee, as I have, could forget thee? There is nothing you could divulge unto me that could erase from my heart the love I bear to you, Leonora.”
“Ah, no! It cannot be—unless it be in another land.”
“When do you leave England?”
“A few months hence.”
“May I accompany you to India?”
“If you are master of your own movements, you may do what you please. But I had rather, if we are to meet in India, that we should sail in different vessels; that you should come upon me in my home after a separation between us of at least one year or two years; that upon your arrival in that country you should not mention my name to any one, nor inquire for me, but for the station at which my father may be quartered. There will you find me in my father’s house. But in what capacity would you journey so far? As a mere traveller for his amusement?”
“As a soldier. I am going into the army, and can easily get appointed to some regiment serving in the East.”
“What army? The Royal army?”
“Yes; I did not know there was any other.”
“There is the army of the East India Company—the army to which my father belongs.”
“Well, I don’t mind joining that army, if you prefer it.”
“No; I would not care to make India my home, even for a few years. I would prefer any other land to the land of my birth.”
“Have you been unhappy there?”
“No; I have never had any cause—any just cause—for unhappiness, and I say so after having put the question to myself over and over again. I have come to the conclusion that I have no right to complain of my destiny; and that if ever I should be unhappy in this world, the fault will be mine, and mine only.”
“I wish ypu would be less mysterious, Leonora.”
“It is not possible; at least, I will not say to you in Europe what I will say to you in the East, after you have sojourned there for awhile.”
“And may we correspond in the meantime?”
“Yes; I will reply to every letter I may receive from you.”
“Shall our compact be kept a secret?”
“If you desire it; but for my part, I have not the least objection to any one knowing that I have accepted your offer to marry me, on certain conditions, and what are those conditions. There is one exception——”
“Which is——”
“My father!”
“He wishes you to marry some one else?” “No one in particular. He wishes me to accept, unconditionally, the first eligible offer from a man whom I could love and respect; and to that I will never consent. It is not for vanity’s sake that I tell you so, but I have refused many offers of marriage since I came to England—offers from men in the same position in life as yourself—but I declined all of them; for I would never marry unless I could love the husband of my choice.”
This conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of a domestic, who announced the arrival of another visitor, a Major Listrelle, who had of late paid Miss Ornsbie a great deal of attention. The Major was a man of about forty years of age, very good-looking, and of excellent lineage and property. He had first met Miss Ornsbie at a public ball at Canterbury, where his regiment was quartered, and had been introduced to her bv her father, whose acquaintance the Major cultivated extensively. By the way, Major Listrelle had put his name down for twenty shares in every one of the Colonel’s projected Companies, including the agency. He had heard of the Colonel’s journey to London, and had ridden over to the Downs—a distance of nine miles—to have a quiet chat with “the lovely Leonora,” as she was now universally called. What were his feelings at finding her alone with a young gentleman, and that young gentleman Augustus Reckless, about whom all the ladies in the county were continually talking, the reader will readily conjecture. And what was even more painful to the Major, Reckless “sat him out,” albeit the Major’s stay extended over an hour and a quarter.
“What can it be?” said Reckless to himself, as he sauntered leisurely home, congratulating himself that, at all events, Leonora had confessed her love for him. “I have it—she is an illegitimate child! But, no! it cannot be that; for, in the first place, there would be no occasion for me to go to India to hear that. Besides, she wishes particularly that I should see her in her home. It is upon that, that she lays the most stress. If she were an illegitimate daughter of the Colonel, what would I care? Do I not love her for her beauty, and her disposition, and her artless manners? What can it be? I have it! She wishes to see me in her home. They have some magnificent house and grounds which will be hers on her marriage, an4 she wishes me to see really what a home she can offer me. But, no! It cannot be that; for she does not wish to live in India, but in any other country rather than that of her birth! What can it be? She cannot be a widow—with a young child, perhaps, in India? No, no! It cannot be that; and if it were, I would marry her! Why should I see her in her own home, to hear what she has to relate? If it were anything shameful, she would not wish to show it, much less to mention it, especially when she might conceal it. She is a lady in manners, mind, and soul. For that, I have the evidence not only of my own senses, but the judgment of my mother, who could not err on such a point. Yes, I will follow her; I will see her in her own home. I will hear from her dear lips the declaration—the needless declaration, whatever it may be—that she may have to make, under the dictate of her conscience. Leonora! if thou wert even base-born; if thy ancestors had been felons; if thou wert steeped in poverty to the very lips, and clothed in rags,—all beauteous, all virtuous as thou art, I would on my knees supplicate thee to become my bride! But, what can it be? Why torment me thus? Why distract me? Unmoved by my entreaties, you respond, ‘Come to India!’ And I will go to India!”
“Not soon, Augustus, I hope,” said a gentle voice in the shrubbery, which Reckless had now penetrated. It was the voice of Lady Mary, whom Reckless, in his abstraction, had not seen, though she was close to him.
“Mother!” said Reckless, in an impassioned tone, “I am in love!”
“Well, my dear boy, and it is a very natural and very nice feeling—is it not? I hope you are not ‘crossed’ in your affections.”
“I am not crossed in my love; and yet I am.”
“That is absurd, dear Augustus.”
“May I make you my confidante?”
“If you wish it; but it is not a very agreeable office. I know who is the object of your affections.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know it?”
“My son, the Persians, I have read, have a proverb, and a very true one. It is this: ‘Love or Musk cannot be concealed.’ But what is this you say about going to India? You are not thinking of marriage for three or four years to come—not until you have seen more of the world, and mixed with the people in it? I am not of opinion that it does a young man of your age any harm to be in love; on the contrary, if you love like a rational and sensible being, the circumstance of your affections being fixed will be of great advantage to you in any pursuit in which you may engage. I see not the slightest objection to your betrothing yourself to Miss Ornsbie, provided you can win her heart—for I think her quite as amiable and thoroughly good as she is beautiful; and I have seen quite sufficient to satisfy me that she would make an excellent wife, and a very prudent one. In a word, I am charmed with the girl.”
“Mother! I have already won her heart! She will be mine on, certain conditions!”—and here Reckless confided to Lady Mary the whole particulars of the scene which had been enacted in the dining-room at the Downs.
“What can it be?” he exclaimed, “Can you assist me, mother, in forming an idea?”
“She may be”——Lady Mary checked herself, paused, and then said—“No! that cannot be. She is so very different to—— No, Augustus, I cannot help you. And are those your plans? You will join a regiment serving in India?”
“Yes.”
“Well, much as the idea of your going abroad will grieve us, still, if you are to make the army your profession, it is advisable that you should see something of foreign service. Some eminent General has said that no man ever became a great soldier in his own country. It was Marlborough, I think, who said so. Augustus, this is a very pretty little adventure of yours! I like it, rather. There is something so romantic about it—something so out of the common style of incident. Here is a singularly beautiful young maiden, who has a mind which, despite a want of careful cultivation, can grasp every subject which is presented thereto, and form thereon sound, sensible, and liberal views. She is utterly devoid of conceit or frivolity, and is calculated—destined—to make the man who may be the object of her choice, happy and contented. And if there could be any question as to the thorough integrity of her character, it would be set at rest by the fact that she has imposed upon you those conditions which seem to perplex you. As you have asked me to be your confidante, let me give you a piece of advice—do not press her further touching those conditions. Be contended with your case as it now stands.”
“But what can it be?”
“Let time and circumstances disclose.”
“What her motive?”
“You silly boy!—never think of asking a girl whom you would woo and wed, for a motive. Suppose her motive was, after all, caprice and nothing more? What then? You have no right to say, ‘Madam, you shall not be capricious.’ A husband has, I think, a perfect right to demand motives and reasons, but not a lover. I confess to you that I am myself a little curious to know why she wishes you to see her in her own home in another country; but it would be both impertinent and improper to question her.”
“But what can it be? I care not what she has to say there.”
“But she does—and perhaps she is right. And now let me give you another piece of advice. Do not inflict this love affair on your friends. I would not, if I were you, mention it to my brothers, or those of my sisters who are old enough to discourse on such a subject. As I have no secrets from your father, I will take an opportunity of mentioning the matter, when it will be the least likely to bore him.”
“To bore him, mother?”
“Yes, my son, to bore him. I use the word advisedly.”
“Has my father no interest in my affairs?”
“Of course he has; but, considering how young you are, and that it would be absurd to think of matrimony for the present, this engagement of yours—this love-suit—with Miss Ornsbie, if thrust upon him and discussed frequently, would be as irritating as a lawsuit. Will you take my adyiee, dear Augustus?”—and here Lady Mary laid her little white hand on the stalwart shoulder of her handsome son, and looked affectionately into his eyes.
“Yes,” was the reply.
“Inflict your love affair upon no one. Indeed, my dear child, you ought not to say too much about it even to me; for although I have a very considerable stock of patience, remember that it is not quite inexhaustible; and remember further, that you are not my only child. Thirteen others have respective claims on that bulk of maternal anxiety which constitutes the great charm of my existence.”
“Mother, I will be guided by you in all things,” said Reckless. “But do you not think I have seen enough of College life?”
“Indeed, not. Only one short term? That is nothing.”
“I should like to enter the army at once.”
“And precede Miss Ornsbie to India?”
“No. I could exchange when the time came—that is to say, when they will be leaving England.”
“No, Augustus, you must return to the University; and again I entreat you to be advised by me. When you have once joined a regiment, never leave it, if you can possibly avoid doing so, until you abandon the military profession entirely, or until you have risen to that rank when your presence with a regiment is no longer compatible with the rules of the service. An uncle of yours, who served with distinction in the wars, used constantly to propound that as a very sound doctrine. There are two classes of men, I have heard him say, given to constant exchanging. One class is that to which belongs the restless and dissatisfied, who have means—money; the other class is that to which belongs the stock-jobbing officer, who is always ready to bargain for something—always ready to leave his regiment, by exchange, for a money consideration. These classes trade one with the other. There is the demand and the supply, which is evenly balanced. But you will rarely find (I am quoting your uncle’s words) a man of either class who rises to a good position in the army, or who is liked or respected by the officers of the various regiments to which he may belong. Whenever an officer (he would continue) tells me that he has been in so many regiments, I always look upon him with suspicion, just as I would look upon a servant who could produce a mass of certificates, but none of them extending over a period of greater duration than five or six weeks. And if we come to think of it, Augustus, there is a good deal of reason in his remarks. No, my boy; go back to the University. It will do you all the good in the world. And when you have entered the army, cling to your original regiment until you sell out of it.”
“Yes, yes, dear mother,” returned Reckless, rather impatiently. “But what can it be? Why does she——”
“Augustus;,” said Lady Mary, in a serious tone of voice, “do not ask me for information which I have already told you I cannot give you; and, above all, do not importune Miss Ornsbie on that point. If you do, you may give her a very unfavourable impression of your character—an impression that may be fatal to those hopes which you now entertain. Return, I tell you, to Cambridge. Here is one of the maids, with a message—no doubt, from the nursery. I must leave you. Go into the library, and read a book; or take one of the horses, and have a gallop.”
Instead of reading a book or mounting a horse, Reckless, on foot, paid another visit to “the Downs.” He was received by the beautiful Leonora kindly, but not so enthusiastically as he was led to expect from the reception he had met with in the morning, and from the character of the compact to which they had become parties by mutual consent. Although Leonora was not a being to be swayed by the opinion of menial servants (she had been brought up in a land where servants are looked upon as the veriest slaves, and treated accordingly), she was, nevertheless, indisposed to subject herself to those remarks which might have been made had she encouraged to remain with her, alone, during the Colonel’s absence in town, a gentleman who had already paid one visit during the day, and whom she had invited to partake of her mid-day meal.
Reckless, whose sagacity was not by any means blunted by his love for Leonora, observed and appreciated this feeling upon her part, but, strong as was his will to do so, he had not the power to tear himself away; and, notwithstanding he was uninvited even to be seated, and that Leonora herself remained standing near the fire-place, warming her hands, he could not, or rather would not, take his departure, and kept on, endeavouring to provoke her to a renewal of the conversation which, a few hours previously, they had held in the adjoining apartment—for Leonora was now in the drawing-room of the spacious edifice her father had rented.
“You are cold, Leonora,” Reckless said.
“Yes,” she replied.
“You feel the climate of this country?”
“It is severe, certainly.”
“We have seldom had such a winter as this. Thej say it has never been equalled since 1838.”
“Indeed.”
“The Colonel returns to-night?”
“Does he?”
“I do not know that he does. I intended my remark as a question.”
“My father is very uncertain.”
“If he do not, you will be lonely.”
“No; solitude is sometimes companionable. And there is a terrace here, upon which I sometimes stroll and talk to the poor moon.”
“Why do you say the poor moon?”
“She seems so unhappy in this cold land; and the heavens do not seem large enough for her to move about in.”
“Are the heavens larger in the East?”
“By far.”
“That is impossible.”
“They seem so to the eye.”
‘“And that, I imagine, is the same thing, dear Leonora!”
“It may be.”
“Some people have it that the whole world is an optical delusion.”
“With truth, perhaps.”
“Is it an optical delusion that I am in the presence of the most beautiful woman in the world?”
“Most assuredly, if you think so of me.”
“Ah, no!”
“The day may come when you will think me far from beautiful.”
“Then you must be sadly changed.”
“No—even as I now am.”
“Again mysterious?”
“I did not intend to be so. But listen to me for a brief while, before I give you permission to retire. There is connected with me—aye, bound up with my very being—a mystery which even I myself cannot solve; and therefore, when I speak to you of myself, I must needs be mysterious; for in this country I could not, even if I wished it, be sufficiently explicit. To no other being have I ever said so much as I have already said to you; to no other being have I had occasion to do so; for those who have made me offers of marriage, I have rejected without assigning any reason whatsoever. If I could avoid it, I would not be mysterious with you; but how often must I tell you that you must see, as well as hear, what I have to relate?”
“Leonora! what could I possibly see or hear that could either increase or diminish my love for you? Nothing. If you were an empress, I could not love you more. If you were what your very self betrays that you are not—of the very meanest origin—I could not love you less. If, even—and you will forgive me the employment of such an allusion, since it is used as an illustration of my feelings—you could confess to me in another country that you had been vicious, it would cost me a sigh, but it would not kill my love for you, or alter my resolve to make you my wife.”
“Dear Augustus, I can look into your eyes, and tell you truthfully, that I have never been guilty of a vicious act in my life, nor a party to any vicious act; nor have my thoughts been vicious. With respect to origin, I am quite your equal, both on the father’s side and the mother’s side; with regard to wealth, the matter has never entered my brain. But let it suffice, that if you visit me in my own home, you will not find me in an abode inferior to this.”
“Dearest Leonora!”
“Listen further, Augustus. I have now another condition to impose upon you—for the subject to which we have just reverted is one upon which I dislike to speak, though to reflect thereon secretly gives me no pain. This last condition is, that in England you will not provoke me to say anything further of myself, or rather of the conditions which I first imposed. So far as the rules of society permit, I shall always be too happy to see and receive you, and enjoy as much of your society as possible.”
A footman entered the room, with a letter upon a salver.
“You will forgive me for looking at this? It is from my father,” said Leonora, breaking the seal.
Reckless bowed assent.
Leonora read aloud: “I will return the day after to-morrow. I have bought the Downs from Mr. Rothewell. Your affectionate father, P. O.”
“A very short epistle,” said Augustus.
“He never writes long letters,” said Leonora.
“Bought the Downs!, Then he does not intend to return to India?”
“Yes, he does. My father is too just a man not to return.”
“But if he should not?”
“Then I do.”
“Alone?” “Yes, if need be. Yes, I will return to that home in which you are pledged to see me.”
“But suppose he has sold that home?”
“My father is not a dealer. He buys, but he never sells. Sell our home!—he would as soon think of selling his soul. An European kingdom could not purchase our home.”
“In what part of India is it situated?”
“In Bengal, which is a very large place. Our home is, in fact, the whole of Bengal, and governed, in a great measure, as to the locality, by the General Orders. It may be at Dum-Dum, near Calcutta; it may be at Agra, or Delhi, or Meerut, or Umballah—a thousand miles distant from the Bengal Presidency. Where you may find us, if you come to India, will depend entirely on the command he may chance to have. If, indeed, he should be appointed to the Staff, which is not improbable, our home may be in Simla, which is often the head-quarters of the Army and the Government.”
“But, dearest Leonora, if your father, having bought the Downs, should stay in England, how could your home possibly be in one of these places?”
“My father is a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Bengal Horse Artillery. He is in England on leave only.”
“But he can retire, if he thinks proper.”
“My father will not think it proper to do so. He is a man who never swerves from a resolve; and he has long since determined, to die in the service—the active service—of that branch of the army to which he belongs.”
“I fear I am intruding on your patience.”
“You have my permission to retire. You must not think that I use that Oriental phrase with any intention of being rude to you. You must be tired of walking. Shall I order one of my father’s horses to be saddled for you?—or will you ride home in my pony-chaise?”
This latter offer Reckless accepted, and presently took his departure. Previously to doing so, he received, as a gift from Leonora, a ring which she wore on the fore-finger of her right hand. She placed it on the small finger of his left hand. “Its intrinsic value is very small,” said she. “This little stone is a Ladak pebble. Be very careful of it, if you value my love. You will observe, after you have worn it for some days, that it changes its colour frequently. It is sometimes the darkest blue; at other times it is green—a pale green; then it becomes so like an opal, that it might be taken for one; and then it resembles a red cornelian; and then a ruby; then a sapphire. These changes of colour are not sudden, but gradual. The history of this ring you may some day learn, if we meet in another land. It is a very curious history. The intrinsic value, I repeat, is so small that I may describe it as nothing. But thousands and thousands of men have perished in consequence of the desire of one little man to become its possessor. Dear Augustus, it was in the search for this little stone—a search prompted by the purest curiosity—that the whereabouts of the most valuable jewel in the known world was discovered—jewel for which Russia offered more than a million sterling. Will you be careful of this little ring—this little stone, Augustus? You must! For remember, if I do not eee it upon your finger when we meet in another land, I can never become your wife. I fear I shall tire you with all these conditions, which are becoming as numerous as the changes in colour of this poor bauble; and, ere long, you will fling me from your memory, just as a gardener throws away some worthless weed.”
The vacation was over, and Reckless returned to “the seat of learning” for another term. He found his little friend, Mr. West, still hard at work on his “patient pupil”—so Chayworth was now spoken of.
“I shall get him through, Reckless,” said West, confidently; “but they are betting very heavy odds against it—even so much as five to two. I have had a sad time of it, he has been so very fretful and fidgetty during his illness, and his studies; but my labours, something tells me, will soon be brought to a successful close, and then I hope to have a little relaxation. But you are not looking well, Reckless; you are pale and haggard. What is the matter? Have you been dissipating?”
“No, West,” replied Reckless; “I have only been falling in love.”
“In love? Oh! how I should like to be in love, Recljjess. It must be such a pleasant feeling!”
“You in love, West! You are not big enough to be in love.”
“Not big enough, Reckless? You are always reflecting on my size. Not big enough? Paris was not the biggest of Priam’s sons. The smaller the man, in my opinion, the ‘greater the flame.’ All our celebrated heroes of small proportions have been very ardent lovers, Reckless. I could love a lady six feet high, if she were beautiful. Are you happy in your love, Reckless?”
“I am—but I am not.”
“’Tis better to be unhappy in our love.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Simply because
Successful love may sate itself away—
The wretched only are the faithful.
For my part, Reckless, I should like to nurture in my heart a love as hopeless as that of Petrarch or of Tasso. I should like to love a woman utterly beyond my reach; but to whom, with my dying breath, I could utter such lines as these:—
Thou, Leonora! Thou who wert ashamed
That such as I could love—who blushed to hear
To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear,
Go! Tell thy brother, that my heart, untamed,
Adores thee still! . . . . .
That thou, when all that birth and beauty throws
Of magic round thee is extinct, shall have
One-half the laurel that o’ershades my grave.
No power in death can tear our name’s apart,
As none in life could rend thee from my heart.
Yes, Leonora! It shall be our fate
To be entwined for ever—but too late!
“What is the matter, Reckless? What have I said to make you look so woe-begone?”
“Nothing, West—nothing! Whose lines are those? Yours?”
“No, Reckless; they are Byron’s. You will find them at the conclusion of Tasso’s Lament.”
“I wish I had not heard them, West.”
“Why, Reckless?”
“Because——”
It was in Reckless’s rooms that this conversation took place; and at the very moment that Reckless uttered the word “because,” Mrs. Croppitt entered the room, made a curtsey, and said, “I beg your pardon, sir; but my sister, Mis. Coleby, having heard from me that you have come up again, begs me to express a hope that Sir Charles and Lady Mary Reckless are quite well.”
“Thank Mrs. Coleby on my behalf, Mrs. Croppitt,” said Reckless. “Thank her very much, and say that in the course of a day or two I will do myself the pleasure of paying her another visit.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Croppitt. “Do you remember seeing a half-witted gentleman at her house when you first called there?”
“Yes; and took a very great interest in him, Mrs. Croppitt.”
“Well, sir, he has been missing for the last month, and no one can make out what has become of him. The last time he was seen was in a gig with a gentleman—a gentleman who looked as old as he looks, and a stranger to all our townsfolk—leastways, those who saw him with Mr. Brown did not know who he was. It is a very curious business altogether. My sister thinks he has been carried off for a purpose, sir.”
“What purpose, Mrs. Croppitt?”
“Well, sir, it is said that if Mr. Brown outlives some other gentleman who is much older than himself, “he will come into another fortune as big as the one he ran through.”
“Well?”
“And that he has been taken away from this in consequence, by a next of kin, or something of that sort.”
“But what would they do with him?”
“Make him drink himself to death, perhaps, sir. Give him whatever he calls for—murder him in that way. They are calling out for a law to stop the sale of poisons, forgetting that brandy or gin will do the business just as surely, but not so quick (which is all the worse), as laudanum or prussic acid.”
“But he never calls for drink, I am told.”
“Yes, he does, sir; and when it will do him good, it is given to him. When he looks cast down and dejected, those who knew him when he had more fifty pounds than he has now farthings, place in his hands a glass of port or sherry; and at one or two of the hotels, they will sometimes give him a pint-bottle of the best champagne. At other times, when he calls for brandy, whiskey, port, sherry, champagne, hock, claret, or other wines or spirits, they give him cold tea, or toast-and-water; and he drinks it off without knowing the difference. By saying ‘yes,’ he is kept quiet; by saying ‘no,’ he would be driven mad and violent. I could kill that man in two days.”
“Then you would be hanged,” said West.
“Oh dear, no, sir. I could kill him such a way that the law could not take hold of me; and what is more, I should be very much praised for my course of conduct. I would simply kill him by contradiction; the only word I would use would be ‘no;’ or if I got tired of repeating that word, I would say ‘you sha’n’t.’ There are more people killed by contradiction than you think for. I could kill my husband with it at any time; and just as well, though not quite so soon, as if I were to do the business with a dagger or a pistol. As it is, I only half kill him, and that puts more life into him, you see, sir.” And with thtse words Mrs. Croppitt withdrew, and left the two young gentlemen to resume their discourse.
Reckless, once more heedless of his mother’s advice, inflicted upon West the whole story of his love; and informed him, amongst other matters, that the name of the lady happened to be Leonora. West, notwithstanding the great interest that he had in all that related to the affairs of his dear friend Reckless, yawned not unfrequently during the continuance of the narrative; and this satisfies me that the reader would most possibly do the same, if I were to chronicle all that fell from the lips of Reckless on that occasion. Be it known, however, that he expatiated very freely on Leonora’s beauty and her excellent qualities, and wound up by asking West to repeat to him once more the couplet which had made him so miserable when he heard it for the first time:—
Yes, Leonora! It shall be our fate
To bo entwined for ever—but too late!
The reader will do me the favour to remember that I said, in the preceding chapter, that she, or he, would most possibly yawn if I were to chronicle all that fell from the lips of Reckless, in his conversation with his friend Mr. West, concerning his love for the beautiful Leonora Ornsbie. But the reader must understand, distinctly, that Reckless was by no means a silly lover, who went about boring all his friends with the peculiar circumstances of his suit. As yet he has spoken to no one on the subject except the young lady herself, his own mother, and his particular friend. With the rest of his companions and acquaintances he was just as joyous and light-hearted as he was wont to be. There was upon his mind, it is true, a constant and irritating renvoye of that question,. What can it be? but he did not, therefore, make himself offensive to those with whom he came ordinarily in contact. So far from this being the case, Reckless was, if possible, livelier than ever; and as soon as West had gone back to attend Chayworth, and administer unto him what was jocularly described as “the mixture as before” (meaning the Homer, the Virgil, and the Euclid), he donned his cap and gown, and sallied forth to visit a number of townspeople whom he knew, and to whom the reader must be introduced. The first was a Mr. Parry, an animal painter, residing in a street near the Market-place. He took what he called “likenesses” of favourite horses or dogs belonging to undergraduates. He kept specimens in his window, which were admirably painted. Parry said these were his own,—meaning that he had painted them,—and he had said this so often, he believed it to be true; still, these specimens, with which he would not part, were so very different to those pictures which he painted for money, it was very difficult to credit his assertions in that respect. Parry had been formerly an actor—a provincial actor—and he was very enthusiastic still, on all matters connected with his old profession; and, when his blood was warmed with wine or liquor, he would give you all the favourite speeches from Hamlet, Macbeth, Coriolanus, &c. He used to play these parts on the boards, he said, and firmly believed; but in this respect also his word was secretly doubted.
Mrs. Parry, too, had been upon the stage in early life,and had played “all Mrs. Siddons’s parts,” she used to say. It was impossible, however, to get her to repeat a passage from Shakspeare; she invariably excused herself on the plea that her memory had gone, and that she had lost that voice which she once had. Many of Dacre’s set visited this rather eccentric couple; it was Dacre, indeed, who introduced Reckless to them.
When Reckless knocked at the door on the day in question, Parry was sitting over the fire in the kitchen, smoking a short pipe, and drinking his afternoon portion of whiskey and water; but before Mrs. Parry had let the visitor into the house, he was in his “studio,” paint-brush in one hand, and palette in the other, having donned previously, with astounding rapidity, a fanciful cap and dressing-gown.
“Hard at work, as usual, Parry?” said Reckless, on being admitted to the artist.
“Yes, sir; I have promised Lord Maulfield that he shall have this portrait of his famous dog on the last day of the present month. It is in Landseer’s style—this is. Just mark the expression of his eye,” said Parry, proudly.
“It is superb,” said Reckless, suppressing with much difficulty the inward laughter which a contemplation of the miserable daub occasioned—the head and the legs were so frightfully out of proportion with the body of the handsome dog it was intended to represent.
“Yes; I flatter myself there are few men of the present day who could beat that, Mr. Reckless.”
“I want you to come and sup with me to-night, Parry. Mr. Dacre and several other friends, all known to you, are coming.”
“It will afford me the greatest pleasure, Mr. Reckless; but it must be on one condition.”
“Namely?”
“That you will let me come away early—say at eleven o’clock.”
“By all means, if you wish it.”
“Mrs. Parry, you see, is always so nervous when I am away from her.”
On leaving, Reckless proceeded to Massaroni’s. Massaroni was an old Italian, who took casts of heads and faces, and sold plaster of Paris images of his own manufacture. “Well, old man,” said Reckless, in a kind tone of voice, on entering the workshop, “have you finished that cast of my head?”
“Yes, sir; here it is.”
“I wish you would let one of your boys bring it to Mr. Linney’s.”
“That phrenologist professor?”
“Yes. Last term be gave me half-a-crown’s worth of magnificent character, and now I am going to hear what he says about this cast.”
“It is not a good cast, sir; you moved your features, and see, the neck is crooked.”
“All the better, Massaroni, for the purpose I intend it, just now. You shall take another of me some day.”
Mr. Linney, the Professor of Phrenology, prided himself on going “twice as far as even Deville.” He divided the head into something like sixty or seventy parts; and after manipulating the cranium for some fifteen minutes—looking immensely serious all the while—he would run on thus, his assistant taking down his words as they were from time to time uttered in a loud, grave voice:—“Keep down 29,37; raise up 16, 22; keep down 41, 47; raise up 30, 35; keep down 4, 11, 13; raise up 18, 19, 20; expand 2, 5; contract 1, 12, 39; and the result will be, that, in the course of a year, your head will be considerably altered in shape, and your abilities proportionately increased.” Linney, in fact, measured a head for a complete suit of character and talents, just in the same way that a tailor measures a body for a complete suit of clothing. Linney was a travelling phrenologist; but, when in Cambridge, he lodged in Jesus Lane.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Linney,” said Reckless, entering his museum.
“Happy to see you, sir,” said the professor.
“I have brought a cast which I should like you to examine.”
“With all the pleasure in the world, sir. It affords me the most unspeakable joy to talk with intellectual gentlemen concerning the great science, if they really take an interest in it.”
“This, Mr. Linney, is the head of an atrocious culprit, who was hanged last winter in Norwich for the murder of his father and mother.”
“You need not have told me that; I see it, sir.”
“Where?”
“In the formation of his head.”
“The features are contorted, as you see; and here is the mark of the rope.”
“That does not signify. The skull is all I care for,” And here Linney took the cast, and manipulated the various organs with an earnestness of look and gravity of manner which were intensely ridiculous.
“I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Reckless,” Linney began, “for bringing me the cast of this head. It is, indeed, a splendid specimen, and completely proves the soundness of my theory. This man, sir, was not deficient in ability—in intellect; but just put your finger upon his ‘Firmness.’ In his case it amounted to obstinacy. And then observe this frightful development of ‘Combativeness,’ and then his enormous ‘Acquisitiveness.’ Those three organs, represented respectively by 21, 16, and 11, had a complete ascendancy over his 6, 24, and 32—representing respectively Benevolence, Conscientiousness, and Veneration. What was the result? The gallows! Had he, as he might have done, raised up his 6, 24, 32, and depressed his 21, 16, 11, this man would have been, perhaps, an ornament to society.”
“Poor wretch!” sighed Reckless. “But if you look at the back of the head, it is comparatively small; and according to first principles, his intellectual predominated considerably over his animal or vicious propensities.”
“We must not be guided by first principles, Mr. Reckless. That is the great mistake. Besides, this man was evidently of a very sanguine temperament.”
“Sanguinary, you mean?”
“It amounts to the same thing, sir. Had he been of a bilious or lymphatic temperament, his brain would probably have been less active.”
“What about his ideality?”
“Well developed. But then look at his 67—his Caution. His 67 acted as a check on his 39. Caution is to Ideality what a log and chain is to the human leg.”
“Then why did not Caution step in when he entertained the idea of killing his parents?”
Here Mr. Linney pursed his lips, looked mysteriously into Reckless’s eyes, tapped with his huge fore-finger the apex of the cast, and said, with an air of confidence, and in an extremely grave voice, “Here, and here! His 21—his leading organ—his Obstinacy—this was the rock on which this man split.”
“No; it was upon himself that he split,” said Reckless, playing on the word, and inwardly smiling, rather contemptuously. “He confessed. It was thus that the murder was discovered. What organ induced him to confess?”
“Here it is! His 80—his Hope!” Linney scratched the organ with his thumb-nail.
“Hope of what, Mr. Linney?”
“Pardon in this world, and of forgiveness in the next. There must have been a terrible struggle going on for some time between his 80 and his 21.” Here Linney leant over the plaster of Paris cast, and gazed at it very intently for at least two minutes. Meanwhile Reckless put to himself these questions, and made inwardly the following remarks:—“Is this man an impostor? That is to say, does he know that he is talking nonsense? Does he really believe in the science to the extent that he professes? I will give him the benefit of the doubt, and ask him to sup with me; and he shall manipulate every head in the company if he likes—Parry’s included.”
Mr. Linney accepted the invitation with thanks; and Reckless, taking the cast under his arm, and covering it with his gown, returned to the old Italian’s work-shop.
Massaroni, albeit he was a political refugee, was a very respectable, well-informed, and harmless old man, who had been for several years in the town of Cambridge, making an honest livelihood by his adopted trade. His original occupation in his own country had been that of an advocate. Reckless also invited Massaroni to sup at his rooms, and the old man expressed that it would give him very great joy. The old man had a strong liking and regard for all the Dacre set, and Reckless was one of his especial favourites.
Nine o’clock came, and the guests began to assemble. At half-past nine all were present; and shortly afterwards, the supper, which was a very magnificent supper, and composed chiefly of game of all kinds—(by the way, it did not cost Reckless anything)—was laid upon the table by Rorcher and his assistants, all of whom were gyps belonging to the College. Mrs. Croppitt, too, was there, “seeing that everything was proper,” and arranging the decanters, the spoons, and the forks on the sideboard much oftener than was necessary. She was not, however, requested to give herself no further trouble and go home; for the members of the set to which Reckless had been “admitted,” or rather “received” (and a very lucky youth he was to have been so “admitted” or “received”, encouraged rather than discouraged the bed-maker to remain, inasmuch as her presence in the room would frequently, or, at all events, sometimes, act as a check upon the tone of the conversation.
“To have studied the liberal arts and sciences thoroughly” (says that old friend, or horrible enemy, of most of us, the Eton Latin Grammar), “softens the manners and sentiments, and suffers them not to be brutal;” but where a number of young gentlemen have met to sup, and drink, and sing, in my humble judgment, the knowledge that there is within hearing a nicely, cleanly, and simply-clad female, like Mrs. Croppitt—notwithstanding her little faults or weaknesses—is marvellously more effective, especially if those young gentlemen have during the day studied sufficiently of the liberal arts and sciences.
It has been casually remarked that this “game supper” of Reckless—a supper for sixteen persons—cost Reckless nothing. It must not, therefore, be supposed that he was in the habit of ordering entertainments for which he did not intend to pay, or that there lurked in his mind the faintest idea of defrauding his creditors in general, or Mr. Hudson in particular. But the truth was simply this. Reckless received frequently from the Castle, and from others, hampers of game, which he used to hand over bodily to Rorcher for his own use and benefit, upon a certain condition—which was, that Rorcher kept Reckless’s supper-table twice a month extremely well supplied; and free of cost. Rorcher used to say that this arrangement was a very profitable one to him, and wished that he had several other gentlemen on the same terms. All was ready, and Rorcher, in that confidential way that he had, whispered as much into the ear of Reckless.
“That’s well!” exclaimed Reckless. “Dacre, will you take the other end of the table? Massaroni, sit you here on my right; Parry, you must be on my left. I have a great deal to say to you, after the eating is over. Mr. Linney, don’t go so far away. Dearson, let Mr. Linney have that chair, and sit near—Ah! that’s very nicely arranged.”
The covers were lifted, and the repast commenced. The conversation soon became brisk as the champagne, and general. All enjoyed themselves. It is needless to say more on this head. The cloth removed, Reckless addressed Dacre in as loud a tone of voice as the distance between them demanded. “I have been talking to Parry,” said he, “about Macready and Anderson, and he does not think so highly of the former as you do.”
“Indeed!” said Dacre.
“No,” said Reckless. “And he has promised us that he will give us one or two little favourite bits from The Stranger, if the company would like to hear them.”
“I speak the sentiments of this end of the table when I say we should be delighted,” said Dacre.
“Then suppose we make something like a stage?’ said Reckless, rising; and in another moment every one rose from his seat, and assisted the host in his labours. Extra candles were lighted; the table was pushed on one side; the chairs were arranged for the audience at the end of the room; and presently Parry, who had retired for a few moments previously (for effect, he said), re-entered the room through the folding door, and strutted, ranted, and raved after a fashion that was sufficient to convulse with laughter any one who had the faintest sense of the ridiculous.
“That’s how we used to do it,” said Parry; but I am rather rusty now, confound it!”
“Not at all rusty,” said Reckless—an opinion which was endorsed by the rest of thp company. “But drink some more champagne, and don’t act any more, for I am afraid it will distress you. Are you not a little hoarse?”
“Never was in better voice in my life,” replied Parry; “I feigned a huskiness just now; for you see the speech that I spoke was after the Stranger had jumped into the water to save the child; and it was only natural to suppose that he had taken cold, from the sudden chill. That is a point. Don’t you see, Mr. Reckless?”
“I should never have thought of that,” said Reckless. “How well you did it! I give you my word, Parry, I thought it was real.” (And so it was, reader. Parry was always hoarse, and spoke huskily.)
“I will give you a little bit of Othello presently,” said Parry.
“Oh! pray do,” said Dacre and several others.
“What bit would you like, gentlemen?” asked Parry.
“Any you please,” was the general reply.
“The last speech?—‘Softly, a word or two before you go.’”
“Yes.”
“But I should like to go into the next room, and make up,” said Parry.
“Come along,” cried Reckless. “And you will come, Dacre, and assist us.” And into the bed-room walked Reckless, Parry, and Dacre. Here they blacked the actor’s face and neck with a cork and some butter. Very black, indeed, they made him; for Parry, in reply to a question from Dacre, as to whether Othello was not tawny merely, replied very positively, “Tawny be hanged! He was as black as my hat. The blacker he is on the stage, the better; besides, it gives the eyes a finer expression. That’s right; rub it in, Mr. Reckless.”
When Parry was perfectly black, Reckless and Dacre tied a linen night-gown round his head to represent a turban; and this was all that they could possible do to make a Moor of Parry.
“Dash it all,” said the Moor; “the room is so small, comparatively speaking, that if I were to let out as I used to let out when I played to large audiences at York and other places, I should blow the roof off the building.”
“Do not fear that,” said Reckless: “I will open the windows, by way of a safety-valve. Give it to them as loudly as you please or can; and die in the way you talked about this evening—à la Edmund Kean.”
“All right, Mr. Reckless,” said Parry. “Now you and Mr. Dacre go in and take your places, and I will appear in less than three minutes. The house—I mean the company—must calm itself down, and be prepared to receive me. I must enter amidst solemn silence.”
This was accorded to him; and, when all was attention, Parry, with that peculiar zigzag walk which foreign critics think “so funny” when they behold it on the British stage, made his appearance. He began rather mildly, speaking in almost a whisper—a stage whisper; but by the time he got to the words,
Set you down this; and say, besides,
his harsh and husky voice was fearfully loud; and by the time he came to the words,
Took by the throat,
his vehemence positively knew no bounds. At
Smote him thus!
he fell very heavily on the floor, and then went through the process of what he used to call “Kean’s best death,” his “Othello death”—a process which struck the whole of the gentlemen present as far more ingenious than natural. Dacre, in a very quiet and very kind way, intimated as much to Parry, who, seldom at a loss for a reply, remarked, “Othello stabbed himself, Mr. Dacre, on the stage. How could a man who stabs himself in that way die a natural death? It was a violent death that he died, sir. And I have given you a violent death, with all its awful struggles.”
“True, true,” cried ‘Reckless; “I never thought of that before.”
“An actor should always keep to his points, Mr. Dacre,” said Parry. “Be minute, and you must be successful.”
“Moisten your throat, Parry,” said Reckless. “But, while you are warm, give us that glorious little bit from Coriolanus—that glorious little bit you mentioned to me—that bit where Aufidius calls him a boy, and he replies, ‘If you have writ your annals true,’ &c.”
“I shall want a Roman toga for that,” said Parry.
“Shall I get you a sheet?” said Reckless.
“The table-cloth would be better,” suggested Dacre.
“Certainly,” said Parry, who was now imbibing simultaneously the wine, and the compliments of the company, and who became so affected by the mixture, that he was utterly oblivious to the fact that his face and neck were as black as ink—“Certainly,” he repeated; “the table-cloth is the thing.” And, with wonderful rapidity, he was therein attired by his host, assisted by Dacre.1
“Off you go,” said Reckless.
Parry went off accordingly. As in Othello, he began mildly the famous speech; but by the time he came to the words,
Boy! False hound!
If you have writ your annals true, ’tis there
That, like an eagle in a dove-cot, I
Fluttered your Voices in Corioli.
Alone I did it!—Boy!
he shrieked so violently, and in a tone so horribly discordant, that one of the tutors of the College, who kept in rooms not far off, rushed in, without being announced, and at the very moment that Parry was concluding that theatrical pant which he considered absolutely necessary for illustrating the character of the passion under which Coriolanus was labouring when Aufidius taunted him with being a traitor.
“What is the meaning of this, Mr. Reckless?” demanded the tutor, who was greatly agitated, and unable to comprehend the spectacle.
“Coriolanus, sir,” said Reckless.
“Nonsense, sir. And who are you, sir?” (He spoke to Parry, imagining that that character, with a coal-black face and enveloped in a snowy white table-cloth, was a member of the College.)
“I am a poor player,” said Parry, rather aptly. “A poor player, who frets and struts his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.”
“Well, sir, in your case,” said the tutor, still very angry, “I hope you will not be heard any more. When you say that you are a poor player, I agree with you entirely.” And with these words the tutor withdrew, leaving every one, except Parry, in roars of laughter. There were no further performances on that night. Nevertheless, Parry did not evince any desire to take his departure. He sat until a quarter to three, and then went home in his Othello face, sadly to the detriment of his wife’s nerves. Nor could he, until he had slept upon it, give her any satisfactory account of himself, nor explain to her how it yas that his visage became so “begrimed and black.”
The morning came for John Chayworth to attend at the Senate House, to undergo his examination. West accompanied him to the door, repeating his assurances that Chayworth had nothing to fear, if he would only have confidence in himself. There were some very heavy bets pending on the result, whatever it might be. The odds were five to two that Chayworth would be plucked, notwithstanding the care with which he had been trained. It was not until after the examination was over that Chayworth came to the knowledge of this fact, that large sums had been staked upon him, and then he became anxious to have a small venture himself. “Five to two,” he cried out, “that my name will not be in the list, although I had not much trouble with any of the papers, thanks to my little friend here.” Several persons took his offer.
At length the list came out. With eager eyes, West and Dacre, besides many others, scanned it. They began at the bottom of the list, and not finding Chayworth amongst “the Apostles,” West’s heart literally sank within him, and the sigh that he breathed might have been heard at a distance of several yards. Dacre groaned and threw the paper on the floor, for he had betted in favour of Chayworth’s success. In an agony of despair, West picked up the paper, and, being somewhat interested in the fate of another man, he began to read off, beginning from the top of the list. He had not exhausted more than half of the names when he involuntarily ejaculated, “Good Heaven!”
“What is the matter?” said Dacre. “Why are you so pale?”
“There cannot be two John Chayworths of Trinity?”
“No.”
“Then, do my eyes deceive me? Look here!”
Dacre took the paper from West’s hand, and stared for some seconds at the name; then breaking out into a loud laugh, he shook West’s hand very warmly, and congratulated him on his triumph. The next step was to find Chayworth, who, since the examination, had been very uncertain in his movements. After a long search, he was discovered, by Dacre and West, at the “Greyhound,” playing a match at billiards with a very famous player, a St. John’s man. The room was crowded with spectators.
“Let us not disturb the game,” whispered Dacre to West. “Let us wait till it is over, and then let me talk to him. We will have a little fun before he knows the real truth.”
Presently the marker called out “Game!” Chayworth had made a five stroke, which concluded it.
“There, my boy!” said Chayworth, approaching West. “If they would only let me take a degree in billiards, I’d be a Wrangler to a certainty.”
“Are you aware that the list is published?” said Dacre.
“No; is it?” said Chayworth. “I am plucked, of course?”
“Well——” Dacre was about to speak further, when Chayworth continued:—
“Oh! I knew how it would be; I was as certain of it as I was of winning that game of billiards. But never mind; it can’t be helped. We must have our pluck-party to-night, as usual. Don’t look so solemn, West; I am more sorry for you than myself; but bear your disappointment like a man. The fault was not yours, Heaven knows.”
“But it is a very disagreeable affair, you must confess,” said Dacre.
“Not when you are so used to it as I am,” replied Chayworth, balancing his cue on his forefinger. “Pluck-party—supper for eighteen. Tell Rorcher, West—do, please. And, like a dear boy, tell all my most intimate friends that they must come. I cannot leave this place just now, for my adversary will want his revenge.”
“Suppose you have your pluck-party in my rooms to-night, Chayworth?” said Dacre. “Last year, when you had it at Hortney’s rooms, you promised me that you would.”
“By the way, so I did,” said Chayworth. “Well, be it so.”
Dacre and West then left their friend in the billiard-room, and proceeded to the College to give the required orders, and to warn Rorcher and Mrs. Croppitt, as well as the porter and under-porters and several other people, not to speak to Mr. Chayworth on the subject of his degree; or, at all events, not to inform him of his good fortune. Those who were invited to the party were also informed of the little plot which Dacre had devised for keeping Chayworth in ignorance of his success until his health had been drank and he had returned thanks.
It was the witching hour, and the lamps were shining brightly in Dacre’s rooms, when Chayworth stalked in and stood amongst his friends, resembling, to some extent, or in one particular, the late Duke of Wellington at the Waterloo Banquet, inasmuch as he was the great hero of the evening. Very few allusions were made touching the plucking, and those few were far from being of a dismal character. The cloth withdrawn, Dacre rose, and in a short speech proposed “The health of their worthy friend, Mr. John Chayworth.” After a few minutes, Chayworth, who, notwithstanding his obtuseness in classical matters, could speak well and fluently, stood up and spoke as follows:—“Gentlemen, I thank you from the very bottom of my heart for the kind and cordial manner in which you have responded to the proposal of my excellent friend, Mr. Dacre. This is the sixth time that I have had the honour, if I may so speak, of returning my annual thanks under circumstances precisely similar” (loudlaughter); “and, gentlemen, I have yet within me a lingering hope that it will not be the last time” (renewed laughter). “Gentlemen, my belief is that I shall spend my days at this College. What degree on earth could compensate me for the misery I should endure in parting from men in whose society I have such real enjoyment? Yes, so long as my uncle lives, here, I feel it, am I to live” (immense cheering). “Gentlemen, I am glad to hear you laugh and cheer; for it satisfies me that, although you may be sorry I have not been successful in passing, still you are not yet tired of me as a companion. Nevertheless, my joy on this occasion is not unmingled with regret. It pains me to think that the labours of my dear little friend opposite—dear little West—should have been wasted on an attempt as vain seemingly as that of the poor wretch in the infernal regions, whose employment is to roll constantly a heavy stone up a steep hill—a stone to which I may, very truthfully, compare myself. It is but just to myself, however, to say that I did my best. When those horrid papers were placed before me, I thought of that dear boy (West) opposite” (cheers and laughter); “I thought of his oft-repeated entreaties that I would cease to think, while reading with him, of my horses, my dogs, my sweethearts, and other matters in which it has been my habit to delight; I thought of his advice not to take even one glass of sherry or champagne previous to entering those awful portals of that awful Senate House. Perhaps that abstinence may have had, upon this last occasion, something to do with this sixth omission of my name in the list” (laughter and cheers). “But I do not blame West; and it gives me great joy to see him join you in your hearty hilarity” (screams of laughter). “Would that I could think, my dear West, that your merriment was not assumed in order to conceal your disgust! My dear Dacre, and my dear friends here assembled, when I call to my mind that dear boy’s patience and perseverance, and contrast it with my own petulance and ill-humour at times—when I remember his energy and my lassitude, I feel really and truly ashamed of myself—ashamed that I should have absorbed so much of his valuable time to no sort of purpose” (loud cries of “Bravo, Chayworth!” “Bravo!” “We respect your sentiments!” “Bravo!” “Go on!”).
At this moment there was a loud knocking at the door. The servants had all gone, for Dacre had told them their presence was no longer required on that evening.
“Come in!” said Dacre.
In walked the Dean. Addressing himself to Dacre, he spoke as follows, in a quiet and gentlemanlike tone of voice:—“I have not for many years past heard so great a noise in the Court; and during your occupancy of these rooms, Mr. Dacre, I must say that the——”
“This is my pluck-party, sir,” said Chayworth, interrupting him, and still standing.
“Your presence here, Mr. Chayworth,” said the Dean, “is the only excuse that I can accept for the uproar; and I am very glad of this opportunity of congratulating you upon the event.”
“Why, last year, sir, you expressed your sorrow when they plucked me; you did so, feelingly.”
“And so I should have done this year, had you been equally unfortunate.”
“What more could they do than pluck me, sir? Am I not plucked?”
“Certainly not. There is but one man belonging to this College plucked; and you are not that man.”
“Is this, then, an English night?” asked Chayworth, “or is it an Arabian night? Do I dream? Are you the Dean, sir? and am I John Chayworth?”
“Of course you are,” said Dacre; “and you have passed for your degree. We have been practising a little deceit upon you.”
“Oh!” groaned Chayworth, seating himself; “I won’t believe it!”
“Don’t make more noise than you can help, Mr. Dacre,” said the Dean, withdrawing, and laughing.
“Don’t be alarmed, sir,” said Chayworth; “this unexpected news has quite overpowered me, and dashed my spirits.”
It was very late before the party broke up; but at eight o’clock on the following morning, John Chayworth paid a visit to West, He found the little man in bed, reading a letter he had just received from his sister.
“What! Not up yet?” said Chayworth, this contrary to your habit?”
“Yes,” replied West; “but what with the wine that I drank, and the noise that was made, my head ached, and I could not close my eyes till long after daylight.”
“Why do you sigh?” asked Chayworth.
“Because I am unhappy.”
“What should make you unhappy?”
“This disgusting position of mine—accepted as a scholar by the College, yet treated as a menial servant by all save yourself and your friends. I feel ashamed to move about within these walls. If it was not for her sake, I would leave the University.”
“Whose sake?”
“My sister’s. Taking a degree, becoming a clergyman, and getting a curacy, is the only hope of her finding a happy home—a home which she can call, and will feel, her own.”
“Where is she?”
“At a school.”
“Then she is very young?”
“No; she is nineteen.”
“And at school still?”
“Yes; she is an assistant governess.”
“On a salary of——”
“No salary; they board and clothe her in return for her services.”
“West, I came here at this early hour—an hour at which, as you are aware, I da not often rise—to thank you in private for all that you have done for me, and to point out to you the exact nature of the very great obligations I am under to you. It is but right that I should do so, because it will, or it should, operate upon your mind as a reason for accepting certain offers of mine which I am about to make. I, too, have often thought of the awkwardness and the unpleasantness of your present position, and it will give me the greatest satisfaction if you will allow me to alter it. Leave this College, and enter at some other as a pensioner. The expenses incurred by your education I will most cheerfully defray. And remember, West, if it had not been for your efforts, I should have been here for several years to come, perhaps, and then not have succeeded in getting a degree. Think of that, West—only think of that. Don’t stay here; go to Downing, or to Trinity Hall, or to Jesus, or Corpus, or any other gentlemanlike institution, where you would be more comfortable. What do you mean by that sigh? Will you not accept my offer? If you will not, it is because one kind of pride is stronger than another kind of pride.”
“How much would my education cost you between this and the time of taking my degree, two years hence?”
“Well, my boy, let us put it down at £500.”
“The very sum!” exclaimed the little man, rising up in his bed, and taking a firm hold of Chayworth’s wrist. “The very identical sum!”
“Identical sum for what?”
“But I do not ask it as a gift. I ask it as a loan, repayable by instalments during a period of ten years; for I would live as quietly and as economically as possible, and save every farthing.”
“You surely do not wish to embark in business?”
“Oh, no! I wish to enter the army, and the price of a commission in the line is £500—so the General told me.”
“Are you serious, my dear boy?” said Chayworth, kindly, and rising from the chair upon which he sat.
“Yes,” said West. “Something tells me that I was not destined for the pulpit, or for the court, but for the camp and the battle-field. I dream of military glory and renown. Give me the means of becoming a soldier instead of a minister!” cried the youth, ecstatically, large tear-drops standing in his eyes—“Give me the means, and——”
“West, the means will be at your service the day after to-morrow; but——”
“God be thanked!” exclaimed the poor youth, bursting into tears, and raising his little arms above his head. “Oh, God! the dream of my life from childhood up is realized!”
“But it requires interest as well as money to obtain a commission, West. They have not a counter at the Horse Guards over which they receive the notes and gold, and give you the piece of parchment in return.”
“I know that, Chayworth; I know that. The interest I have always had, but not the capital. With the ability to buy, my name will be in the Gazette before the expiration of one month.”
“Then the arrangement will be a very pretty one,” said Chayworth, laughing; “you have given me the means of getting into the Church, and I will give you the means of getting into the army. You present me with half-a-dozen white neckcloths, and some bands, and I present you with a sword; and there we will go, cutting our way through life with our respective weapons.”
“Oh! how my heart palpitates,” said little West. “It gives me some pain. Alas!—
In medio fonte leporum—surg—”
“Enough! enough of that!” cried Chayworth. “I’ll soon satisfy you that military skill would be of small avail against physical force, if you ever talk to me in Latin or Greek again. Those languages I often wished ‘dead’ in reality; and now, so far as I am concerned, they are so, and what is more, they may be something else for all I care. I feel at this moment like a mute returning from a funeral, with a clay pipe in one hand, and a tankard of strong ale in the other.”
“Is it real?” said West, looking anxiously in Chayworth’s face. “Can it be possible?”
“For my part, I cannot believe it,” was the reply.
“Am I dreaming?”
“Am I?”
“What? What are you dreaming?”
“That I have crossed the Rubicon!—That I am a B.A.!”
“That is certain, dear Chayworth. But am I dreaming that I shall be a soldier—an officer in the British army?”
“It is a reality, if £500 in your hand can obtain your commission.”
The little man’s head fell back upon his pillow. He closed his eyes; the action of the lids caused the tears to coze out and trickle down his pale cheeks; there was a sweet smile playing abput his mouth; the expression upon his face was that which hovers over the features of a woman who has just given birth to her first child.
There are critics who have contended that that line of Byron’s—
The rapture of repose was there—
is nonsense, inasmuch as there can be no Rapture in Repose; but could they have seen little West lying on his bed on that morning, and the burly John Chayworth bending over him, they would possibly have retracted their opinion, so dogmatically expressed.
A large number of persons—townsmen as well as gownsmen—met at the Hoops to see Mr. Chayworth off, on the occasion of his leaving the University; and very many were rather sorry than glad of his success, since it would deprive them of his company. Rorcher, the gyp, was sorely moved when the coach was out of sight; and as for Mrs. Croppitt, she cried bitterly. “It is a thousand pities, sir,” she remarked to Reckless, on returning to his rooms, “that he should be taken away from us. We are so used to him; we have known him so long; it seems like coming from the funeral of a dear relative or friend; and we feel it all the more, coming, as it did, so unexpected, for no one ever thought as he would ever get through. But God be with him, kind-hearted gentleman that he is! He has left me his old cap and gown, and his tops and cords and pink—the identical ones that got him once into trouble, when his tutor seized them from his servant’s hands, and he threatened to bring an action at law for their recovery—and so long as I live I will never part with any of them. I feel so nervous to-day, sir, I am not able to do my work properly. I wonder Mr. West was not at the coach, sir, to see him off; but perhaps he thinks he has coached him enough. He is a darling little man, that Mr. West; and how he loves you, to be sure, sir.”
“Do you really think so, Mrs. Croppitt?” asked Reckless, carelessly, for he was well assured of the fact.
“Think so, sir! who could doubt it? Much as he liked and respected Mr. Chayworth, he was not half so fond of him as he is of you. While you were away at Christmas, he was always talking about you. He told me one morning that you were the half of his soul, and that he would suffer the most horrible death to save your life. And I believed him, Mr. Reckless. There is a big heart and a fiery spirit in that little body, sir. The old gentleman himself would not daunt that little Mr. West.”
“That’s true, Mrs. Croppitt,” said Reckless.
“Yes; he proved that it was true; last long vacation, in August, before you came up. You have heard of course?”
“No; what did he do?”
“Well, I will tell you, sir. But you must suffer me to take a little sherry, for I am rather overcome.”
“Pray do,” said Reckless, who by this time was sipping his hot tea and munching his anchovy toast. “You remember what I told you when I first came into these rooms, Mrs. Croppitt?”
“Yes, sir.; and I have never abused your confidence. When I have really wanted a glass of wine, I have always taken it.”
Having soothed her nervous system, which was truly and honestly shaken by the departure of Chayworth, Mrs. Croppitt proceeded as follows:—
“Last long vacation, sir, several gentlemen, who were staying up, took it into their heads to play off all sorts of practical jokes, not only on the Dons, but the Undergraduates. One gentleman they frightened out of his wits, and he was obliged to go away, and the doctors think he will never recover his senses.”
“I never heard of that, Mrs. Croppitt.”
“But it is a fact, sir. They went to Massaroni’s, and bought a big figure of a woman’s face—they called it a ‘cast of Eve.’ The face was very big and very beautiful. They broke the figure, and made a mask of the face, and with a small chisel they took out the eyes, so that the wearer of it could see. Then one man put it on, and then got upon the shoulders of another man, a tall man, and over the both of them was thrown a table-cloth. This gave the appearance of a ghost about eight feet high. It had—this figure I mean—the most frightful appearance you can imagine, sir.”
“Did you see it?”
“Yes, sir, I attended on two of the gentlemen; but, of course, I said nothing about it when the trial came on, and they were all rusticated; for you see, sir, a bedmaker has no business to see or talk about all that goes on in the rooms of gentlemen. Well, sir, they went about frightening people out of their lives. Even the porters at the gate were in dreadful fear of this ghost, and for a whole week few gentlemen liked to go out of their rooms after dark.”
“Nonsense!”
“It is a fact, sir; and if you had seen it, even in the road daylight, you might have been frightened.”
“Well?”
“Well, sir; they frightened the gentleman I spoke of—and a fine tall, strong, stout gentleman he was—completely out of his senses; for they stopped him in the screens, and laid hands upon him gently. He roared out ‘Murder! murder! murder!’ and the whole College was pretty soon in an uproar. He was quite insensible when found; and Mr. Sudbury, the doctor, is of opinion that he will be insane for the rest of his life?”
“Well; but what about West? Did they go to him?”
“I am coming to that, sir. Yes, they did pay a visit to Mr. West a few nights afterwards. He was reading in his rooms when they tapped at the door. ‘Come in,’ said he; and in they went and stood before him, the two of them as one spectral figure, eight feet high. ‘If you are a man,’ said Mr. West, ‘I desire you to go; if you are a Spirit, I beg to say that I dislike Spirits, and you will oblige me by leaving me to my studies.’ Instead of acting on this, they began to sing something about ‘Black spirits and white, white spirits and grey;’ whereupon the little gentleman sprang up from his chair, rushed to a corner of the room, grasped hold of a thick stick, and laid it into the ankles of the tall man, who dropt the man upon his shoulders, who, when be fell, broke the mask upon his face, which bruised him badly. And there was a scene, to be sure! The little Mr. West then trundled them out of his room and down the staircase before you could count ten, sir, throwing their gowns and table-cloth after them. I didn’t hear this from the little gentleman himself; he never spoke of it. I heard it from the gentlemen who each acted a part of the great ghost. They said he was by far the bravest man in all Trinity College, and that, what was more, he had the strength of a demon.”
“A what, Mrs. Croppitt?”
A demon, sir. They said that, when his blood was up, he pushed them about as though they had been a pair of dwarfs and he a giant.”
⁎ ⁎ ⁎
While the conversation above detailed was being held, little Mr. West was writing letters in his garret. The first was to his sister; the second to “the General,” his friend and patron, who had done so much for him. He had scarcely finished, sealed, and directed these epistles, when Reckless knocked loudly at his outer door, and shouted out, “West! West! ho! West!”
The little man opened the door, and hade his friend enter.
“Why did you not come to see Chayworth off?” inquired Reckless.
“Because,” replied West, “I took my farewell of him in his own rooms, and I had some business to settle.”
“I hope I have not disturbed you?”
“No, dear Reckless, my business is completed.”
“I wish you to go over to Bury with me.”
“I will go anywhere with you. But what shall we do there?”
“I am going to take a part in a play.”
“How? where? not on the boards?”
“Yes. I promised Mr. Smith, the manager of the Norwich Company, that I would play in a little piece written by our dramatic friend, and I intend to keep my word. He has written to me to-day, and says that the play is fixed for to-night.”
“This will lead you into trouble, Reckless.”
“I cannot help it. Will you come with me?”
“Yes; and I will take care of you while we are absent. Ah! my dear Reckless, I shall yet be your senior officer.”
“How? What do you mean?”
“That I will disclose to you when the proper time arrives.”
At noon, off drove Reckless and West to Bury in a gig. Reckless was bored to find room for his long legs, while those of West scarcely touched the floor of the vehicle. Mr. Jordan, the livery-stable keeper, of immortal memory, had provided them with a very light, small, and compact conveyance, but a very tall, powerful, and swift-footed horse.
“We shall be rusticated for this affair,” said West, when they were fairly on the road. “I have a presentiment that we shall be rusticated for this.”
“Have you?”
“Yes; but I do not care.”
“How’s that, West?”
Here the little man informed his companion of what Chayworth had promised to do by way of advancing £500, the price of a commission.
“Hooray!” cried Reckless; “hooray! But £500 won’t buy a commission in the Cavalry. My father told me that my commission and outfit would amount to something like £1000.”
“Yes,” said West; “and so I have reconciled myself to a Line regiment.”
“I wish you would come out to India, West. By the way, I had a letter from Leonora this morning; she tells me that they are going to leave England much earlier than she expected; and, to tell you the truth, whether rusticated or not, I shall go home for a short while about the middle of next month, and not return to the University. The dose that I have had of College life has been a small one, but it has done me an immense deal of good. I have learnt a great deal—not out of books, but from the men with whom I have associated. And so pleasantly has my time passed, that if it were not that I must go and stay for awhile near dear Leonora and my relations, I would certainly remain for at least a year longer. Brief as my career has been, I shall always look back to it with very agreeable feelings.”
“And I to mine, notwithstanding I have spent many a wretched hour within the walls of that old Court in which we keep. You said something about going to India?”
“And then ran on about Leonora and myself. Forgive me this egotism.”
“Of course, I forgive you. If you go to India—that is to say, if you join a regiment now quartered in that country—I will do the same.”
“Is that a compact?”
“Yes.”
“And before we leave England you will come to the Castle, and be introduced to all my people—father, mother, brothers, and sisters. Two of my sisters are very handsome girls, and I should not be at all surprised if you were to fall in love with one of them.”
“And sigh hopelessly for the remainder of my life?”
“Well, you have already told me that you would like to love as did Tasso and Petrarch. What were those lines you quoted?”
“Have you forgotten them. already? They were these:—
Successful love may sate itself away;
The wretched only are the faithful!”
“I remember the others,” said Reckless, gently urging on the horse.
Yes, Leonora! It will be our fate
To be entwined for ever—but too late!
They were now ascending a hill, at a very slow pace; the horse, held in, was walking. On the brow of the hill they met a man with one arm and only one eye. He was dressed in miserable garments, and his age was about sixty years. “For the love of God,” he cried out, in a rich Milesian dialect,—“for the love of God and the honour of this country, give me a shilling, gentlemen.”
“Here you are, my man,” said Reckless, putting his hand into his waistcoat pocket, and feeling for a shilling amongst the loose coin there deposited.
“Don’t throw it to me, sir,” said the man. “If you intend to give me a shilling, place it in my hand. It is true that I am a beggar; but I am a proud one, nevertheless.”
“Then you must come to the top of the hill,” said Reckless, “for I cannot pull up here. The horse will become restive.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the beggar, following the gig.
“There is the shilling, my good man,” said Reckless. “Now, what are you going to do with it?”
“Drink it, sir! And if you had asked me the question before you gave it to me, I would have answered you in the same words. I am not a drunkard; but on the anniversary of the battle in which I was maimed I always have a large drink, in memory of the day when I would have given this shilling—aye, or a sovereign, if I had it—for one small thimbleful of dirty water.”
“Then you have been a soldier?” inquired West.
“God bless your soul, sir! I was in the 57th Foot, all through the Peninsula.”
“And at Albuera?”
“If I was not at Albuera I could not have known Sir William Myers, and could not have helped to bury the awful lot of officers we lost there.”
“You knew Sir William Myers?”
“Yes, sir. Perhaps you think I am an imposter; but I am not. When I say that I knew him, I knew him as the commander of a brigade—a brigade that staggered under him, and was going to retreat without orders to do so—for devil an order to retreat would he ever have given,—but he rallied ’em, and he swore at ’em; and he saved the honour of the country and the character of our troops, and only lived long enough to know that he had done so. A good many gallant ghosts went up to heaven to be judged on that day, but the most gallant of them was the ghost of Sir William. What a loss to the country that he should have died so young!”
“There is another shilling for you,” said West, “for I am satisfied you are not an impostor; but I hope you will not drink that.”
“Thank you, sir. Yes, I shall drink it; and that will be just enough. I will beg no more to-day from any man.”
“Have you not been drinking already to-day?” said Reckless.
“Yes, sir, a little,” replied the old soldier. “And why not, sir?” He then began to sing:—
If sadly thinking,
With spirits sinking,
Could, more than drinking,
My griefs compose,—
From care I’d borrow
Some charm for sorrow,
In hopes to-morrow
Would end, would end my woes!But, since in wailing
There’s nought availing,
And Death, unfailing,
Will strike the blow,—
Then, for that reason,
And for a season,
Let us be merry before, before we go!
“Suppose he should be an impostor, after all,” said Reckless, as they drove on.
“Ah, no!” exclaimed West. “There was something about his speaking and his singing too enthusiastic for that. But even if he be an impostor, I do not grudge him the shilling I gave him, for he spoke some words which were very pleasing to my ears. Do you never feel, Reckless, gratified to hear the praises of those whom you have been taught to think of with respect?”
“Oh, dear, yes,” said Reckless; “and if he had happened to know Leonora, and had praised her, I would have given him half-a-crown with the greatest pleasure imaginable.”
⁎ ⁎ ⁎
Arrived at Bury, the two youths, after partaking of some refreshment at the hotel at which they put up, made their way to the theatre, where they found the manager and the whole of the corps dramatique. “You are to your time exactly, Mr. Reckless,” said the manager; “and as soon as you please we will have a rehearsal.”
“I am quite ready,” said Reckless; “and so far as my part is concerned, I am what Parry calls ‘letter perfect.’”
“Poor Parry!” exclaimed the manager. “When he could be kept sober, he played the grave-digger in Hamlet admirably; it was his great part.”
“But did he not play the leading characters in Shakspeare’s plays?”
“Never to my knowledge, sir; and he was with me for several years previous to his taking to painting. But come, and let me introduce you to the company, and especially to Miss Bangor, the heroine of the piece.”
Miss Bangor was a very engaging actress, of some five-and-twenty years of age,—a very clever woman, of unblemished character, refined manners, and rather superior education; very lively without being pert, and very jocose without being flippant. After a brief while the rehearsal commenced. In the second scene with Miss Bangor, Reckless had to make a declaration of love, propose flight, &c.; and when the old uncle (Mr. Prantz had to play the part) came in, the young lady had to faint in her lover’s arms, and Reckless (the lover) had to support her. The position being a rather novel and embarrassing one to the amateur, it required a good deal of practice to make him perfect in it. West could not help thinking that Reckless’s obtuseness was studied and intentional; assumed, in fact, only to prolong the operation. Such, however, was not the case. The veritable boards were new to him; he had never before had to play with professional actors and actresses, but with ladies and gentlemen, who knew no more of the art than, or so much even, as himself. “No, that will not do!” said Miss Bangor, in reply to Reckless’s question. “When I enter in haste, as I shall enter, you must be standing there, not here. You must run to meet me, take me by both hands, and give me an opportunity of really jumping with joy. Hold your arms and hands very firm, that I may spring as high as possible from the stage. There—so! This is what we call ‘the business.’ Now, tell me, have you ever been in love?”
“Oh, dear, yes; and am so still,” said Reckless.
“Well, suppose me that young lady with whom you are in love. How old is she?”
“Seventeen.”
“Just the age that I am supposed to be in this charming little piece. Now, if you were to see her coming at this moment from yonder wing, out of that copse, you would not stand here—would you? You would run to meet her; you would advance with outstretched arms, and exclaim, joyously, ‘My beloved——’—whatever her name is—would you not?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Well, let us try once more. Be natural, remember, perfectly natural;” and with these words Miss Bangor retired to the wing, and presently came bounding on the stage, exclaiming—
“Alfred!—dearest Alfred!”
“My own dear Leonora!” cried Reckless, meeting her, and lifting her from the boards; “come to my heart!”
“Admirable!” said Miss Bangor, laughing. “That will do very well; but, remember, I am not Leonora. I am, or rather the heroine of this piece is, Georgina. Now to the fainting part of the business. When my uncle (Mr. Prantz) comes on and discovers us in this position, I go off in a faint. My shriek on observing him, will be the cue for you to place your arms round my waist. Don’t hold me at such a distance as you did just now; but let my head rest gently on your shoulder, just as you would suffer Leonora’s to rest under similar circumstances. Now——”
“Are you ready?” said Mr. Prantz, from the wing.
“Yes,” said Reckless and Miss Bangor.
“So, ho!” cried Prantz, entering on the stage.
Miss Bangor shrieked, and was falling backwards. Reckless caught her in his arms; her head rested on hs shoulder, and there they were a tableau vivant.
“How will that do, Mr. Smith?” inquired Miss Bangor of the manager, without altering her position. “Very good, indeed,” was the manager’s reply; “but bend over her a little more, Mr. Reckless, and don’t keep your mouth open, please. It does not do to be too natural, you know.”
⁎ ⁎ ⁎
When the evening came, and the curtain was about to be raised, Reckless felt a little nervous and fidgety; but after the first round of applause, he completely recovered his self-possession, and acquitted himself to the satisfaction of the manager and the audience. Miss Bangor—the pretty Miss Bangor—said many very complimentary things to him; and so did the author of the piece, who had taken a place in the pit, having West on his right hand, and another friend on his left. The house was well filled; and at the fall of the curtain, the principal characters were called for—“Alfred” and “Georgina!”
Reckless led Miss Bangor forth to receive the reiterated plaudits of the audience.
The tuft-hunter, who, it may bo remembered, insulted West, and provoked the wrath of Chayworth, happened to be at Bury; and having accompanied a party to the theatre, he saw and recog»ised Reckless on the stage. He also saw West in the pit. He had never forgiven West for that dire offence of having had some one to protect him; and on his return to the University, the tuft-hunter made certain inquiries, which resulted in his knowledge of the fact that both these young gentlemen, Reckless and West, had, while in statu pupilari, been absent from the College and the precincts of the University without having filed an exeat—in other words, that they were “absent without leave.” He laid his information accordingly, and Reckless and West were both “convened;” that is to say, they were required to attend the combination-room on a given day, to answer the charges that would be then and there preferred against them.
“What can they do with us?” said Reckless, triumphantly, to Dacre, lighting his cigar with the summons.
“They may expel you,” said Dacre.
“What do we care? We are going into the army.”
“Not if they expel you.”
“Why not?”
“Are you not aware that if you are expelled from either of the Universities of Oxford or Cambridge, you can neither enter the army nor the navy, or become a barrister or a clergyman?”
“No; I was not aware of that.”
“Then I would advise you to make your arrangements accordingly,” said Dacre. “There are several cases in point—cases that have occurred at this College; and in one case a son of a nobleman, who is now a marquis, could not get a commission. It is true that he had been charged with cheating at cards, and with afterwards brutally assaulting his victim, who accused him thereof. But what the offence, does not signify. The sentence of expulsion recorded against you, and transmitted, as it generally is, to the Horse Guards, the Admiralty, and the Inns of Court, is quite sufficient to place you in the awkward dilemma of not being received at any of these places.”
Without any further delay, Reckless wrote to his father a full, true, and particular account of his position, and West also wrote very urgently to “the General” and to Chayworth. Sir Charles and the General both paid a visit to the Horse Guards. They did not lose a moment; and on the very day that the two young gentlemen appeared in the combination-room they were gazetted:—
Edgar West, gent., to be Ensign.
Augustus Reckless, gent., to be Cornet.
And to set the heart of little Edgar West at ease, the old General sent him; in original, the following note from the Commander-in-Chief:—
Dear——, Mr. West’s commission has been signed by the Queen. It will be forwarded to you by this night’s post.— Yours ever, ——.
Reckless also had a very satisfactory note from his mother, Lady Mary; it ran thus:—
My dear Augustus,—You are always in trouble. Your commission as a Cornet in a regiment of Lancers serving in India has juet arrived. Yes. Pray bring your young friend, Mr. West, to visit us. The lovely Leonora dined at the Castle yesterday; she is the sweetest darling in the world.—Affectionately, M. L. K.
It was into the anti-combination-room (as it was called) that West and Reckless were shown by Mr. Rowe, the much-respected chapel clerk, on that eventful morning. Mr. Rowe upon this occasion wore his Sunday suit of black, and carried in his right hand a long white wand. Here they walked about, admiring the magnificent portraits of various Chancellors of the University. Meanwhile the Master and Senior Fellows were assembling in the adjoining room.
“They can’t hang us, Rowe,” said Reckless; “that’s a comfort.”
“No, sir,” said Mr. Rowe; “but if I were you, I would be prepared to be sent away for a twelvemonth. It is rather a serious thing in their eyes, is play-acting, especially without permission. If you had done it up at the Barnwell Theatre, along with a company all gentlemen, it would have been bad enough; but to go and do it at Bury, along with real actors and actresses! they will look upon that as something awful.”
“I shouldn’t wonder. Well, and suppose they give me a twelvemonth, what do you suppose they will give Mr. West?”
“Give him? Why, the same, sir.”
“He was not acting, Rowe.”
“No; but he was abetting, sir.”
“Betting! How do you mean betting?”
“You know what I mean, sir. He was there clapping his hands in the pit. Besides, you went away in the same gig; Jordan’s men will be here to prove that; and many more gentlemen were there without leave, but he who laid the information didn’t think proper to give their names.”
“I am very glad he did not,” said little West; “and that Mr. Reckless and myself are the only two upon whom he has thought it necessary to wreak his vengeance.”
“It is all spite, sir,” said Mr. Rowe; “he has never forgotten that morning when Mr. Chayworth spoke to him so strongly, and reminded him that he was the son of a shoeblack; for, you see, everybody heard it, including his pupils—his noble pupils; and he, to my knowledge, had been giving out that he came of an aristocratic family in the north of England. If Mr. Chayworth had kicked him round the Court, but held his tongue while he did it, he would not have hurt him half so much as he did. ‘Low-born, low-bred, son of a menial!’” chuckled Mr. Rowe, repeating Chayworth’s words; “it was that that went like a dagger to the very core of his heart, sir.”
“And served him right!” said Reckless.
“I must leave you now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Rowe, retiring, “and wait upon them—in the next room.”
“I shall not depart in peace,” said Reckless to West; “I’ll kick up a row in the room, and frighten that fellow who has informed against us out of his wits. I will stand in the doorway when the business is over, and suffer no one to come out until I have had my say.”
“Be calm, Reckless!” said West; “restrain that passion which I now see rising in your breast. Whatever you do or say, be calm! Remember that violent words or gestures are very undignified in a gentleman. Have your say, if you will; but be calm, cool, and collected. Remember, also, that the statutes are to the University what the Articles of War are to the army of which we are now members; that we have offended against those statutes; and that if a penalty be not exacted for such an offence, there would be no such a thing as discipline, and without discipline——”
“Will you walk in, gentlemen, if you please?” said Mr. Rowe, entering the room with his wand, and a smile on his face. West and Reckless followed him.
On entering the room, in which was assembled the Master and the Seniors, as well as the Dean and the Junior Dean, the three Tutors, and the Under Tutors, besides “the informant” (as he was styled), and several other persons,—to wit, two grooms from Jordan’s, Rorcher, and Mrs. Croppitt (the latter were called to prove that the gentlemen had slept out of College on the night in question)—on entering the room, the undergraduates bowed respectfully to the court. A few only of their judges, however, took any notice of, or returned, this salute.
The proceedings were commenced by the Master asking the informant to make his statement, and this the informant did in a very lucid manner. Reckless and West were then asked, respectively, if they had any questions to put to the informant.
“None,” they both replied.
The Master then said to one of the grooms—“Are these the gentlemen who went away to Bury in the gig?”—to which the groom replied, “Well, they looks like ’em—the little ’un specially, and also specially the big ’un. But it wasn’t me as put the ’oss to; it were Jim, here. They were in the gig when I seed ’em; and. when they came back, I was away fetching straw and oats from Maddingly. I would not take my Bible oath that these be the same gentlemen, but they look very like ’em.”
“You are not upon your oath, man,” said the Master. “Now speak—speak the truth.”
“Well, in that case, I should say ‘yes’—they are the gentlemen.”
“Any questions to ask?” said the Master to the accused.
“None, sir,” they both replied.
The other groom was then interrogated, and said, in a broad Yorkshire dialect, that so many gentlemen had been in the yard that day for horses, and gigs, and what not, he could not swear or speak to any of them; whereon the Master said, “Speak, fellow! or your master shall discharge you this very day.”
“Nay, feyther,” said the groom; tha’at before thinking twice on’t.”
“Know you, sirrah,” said the Master, “that if we think proper, we can discommon Mr. Jordan, and drive him out of the town?”
“No, I did not know that,” said the Yorkshireman; “and the greater the shame is it if you can. What! ye would visit the sins of the servant on his master? And ye are all parsons, are ye? A pretty notion you must have of religion, to think of doing such a thing as that Now, then, as you say I am not on my oath, these are not the gentlemen, but quite different. I have nothing further to add, and must be off; for there’s Mr. Bidgway, of Jesus College, expecting his ’oss, and I can’t stop here any longer.”
“That man has been tampered with,” said the informant.
“So it seems,” said the Master.
“What?” exclaimed Reckless; “do you——”
“Be calm!” said West to his friend, plucking him by the gown. “Wait, Reckless, till your turn comes to speak.”
Rorcher was then called, add stated the truth,—namely, that Mr. Reckless and Mr. West had been forty hours absent from their rooms, after leaving them on a certain morning. Mrs. Croppitt stated the same. And here the case for the prosecution closed.
What have you to say in your defence, sir?” said the Master, addressing, himself to West, the senior undergraduate of the two offenders.
“I have simply to say,” meekly began the little man—
“Most potent, grave, and reverend Seniors,—
My very worthy and approved good Master!—
That I have been to Bury—it is true!
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent—no more. But——”
Here several of the Seniors, who hated “the informant” (for even the Dons of Cambridge can hate one another), broke out into laughter, whereupon the Master (of whose ear “the informant” had possession by toadying the poor old gentleman, and assuring him, as he did frequently, that his name as an author, to say nothing of being Master of the greatest College of the greatest University in the known world, would far outlive the name of his [the Master’s] illustrious brother and poet,) became very angry, and said, in a frightfully authoritative voice, to West, “No buffoonery here, sir! no buffoonery here!”
“Do I look like a buffoon, sir?” asked West, surveying his diminutive proportions with a humour which even Mr. Keeley might have envied.
“Yes, sir,” said the Master, looking very angrily at those Seniors and Dons who were still laughing. “Yes, sir; and your doom is fixed!”
“In that case, sir,” continued West, “suffer me to remind you of what Don Quixote said to Sancho, when the latter was about to take charge of his government. And though you appear to have no respect for Shakspeare, it is possible that the genius of Cervantes may claim the passing tribute of your patience:—
“Do not, Sancho, if you should have occasion to condemn a poor wretch, revile him with hard words. The law prescribes a certain punishiment, and you have no right to augment it by abusing the culprit you are called upon to sentence.”
“Go, sir!” cried the Master. “Go, sir. We have expelled you.”
“Not before you have heard me,” said West.
“Yes, sir!—Go, sir!—Instantly go, sir,” said the Master.
“I must be heard, sir,” said West.
“No, sir!” said the Master, vehemently. You shall not be heard! Mr. Rowe!”
Reckless moved towards the door. He shut it—locked it—stood with his back upon it, and said:— “No one shall enter this room, and no pne shall leave it, till we have been heard!” And he threw down his cap, stript off his gown and his coat, and then bared his strong and sinewy arms as far as the elbow-joints.
“Be calm, Reckless!” said West. “Keep that post; hold, it with your life; but be calm. We are out-numbered; but the wave must sweep over me before it can reach you. Be calm.”
The Master and Seniors rose simultaneously. Most them became very pale and agitated.
“Sit down, gentlemen!” called out little West, in a voice unnaturally loud, considering his size; “sit down! I am now the master—of this situation. You must hear me; you must hear the poor sizer, whom you would crush, and turn upon the world—to starve, perhaps. Sit down, gentlemen!”
“Sit down!” screamed Reckless. And, advancing to the table with great rapidity, he seized a heavy glass inkstand, and retreating with it to the door, again roared out, “Sit down! sit down!”
“Mr. Rowe!” the Master called out.
“If Mr. Rowe attempt to enter, or if any one attempt to go out, I will smash him,” cried Reckless, just as I smash this!” And he dashed the inkstand on the floor with such violence, that it was broken into a thousand pieces. An utter silence now prevailed. All eyes (save those of West) were directed towards the countenance of Reckless, which resembled that of a desperate bloodhound. His eyes glared savagely; his nostrils were distended; his fists were clenched; the blood swelled the blue veins of his white and powerful arms; and the saliva ran down the sides of his finely-chiselled chin.
“Gentlemen,” resumed little West, “I have but very little to say. It is only this—that I am going to leave you. I shall never return, except it be that, when covered with glory, I am prompted by a desire to revisit the garret in which I have spent so many happy and so many miserable hours. It is not improbable that you may then hail me as one who was once upon your foundation, and wish to decorate me with the degree of R.C.L. But if you do, I will reject your offer with disdain, because you are, for the most part, a parcel of inconsistent sycophants. You have recently decided that you cannot allow a place in the library for the bust of Lord Byron, because he was a bad man; and yet you have numberless busts of a man—a great man, truly—who propounded there was no harm in a judge receiving a present from a suitor in whose favour he had decided!”
“You are expelled this College, sir,” said the Master, looking at his watch.
“But I am not yet expelled this room, sir,” replied the little man, smiling blandly, and turning round to look at Reckless, who now stood with his bared arms folded, and heaving and snorting with rage. “At the present moment I command the College, sir. What a tremendous thing is blood! Why do you not turn us out of this room?”
One of the tutors—a very powerful man—rose, and was about to speak.
“Sit down, sir!” roared Reckless.
The mandate was obeyed.
“Be calm, Reckless,” said West, and then continued, quietly—“Gentlemen, I have only to add that I am now a soldier, and far beyond the reach of your authority. Whatever I may have done since I have had the honour to hold a commission in Her Majesty’s service, I am responsible for only to the Horse Guards, which may, if it think fit, try me by a general court-martial—a tribunal that does not decide before it has heard the evidence and the defence. I wish none of you any harm, God knows—not even ‘the informant,’ who fancied that with the departure of Mr. Chayworth departed my protection.”
“What may be your sentence upon me?” asked Reckless, sarcastically, impatiently, and perhaps insolently.
“We must consider that, sir,” said the Master, after conferring with the Dean. “You will—attend—perhaps—you will attend——”
“I will not attend again, sir. You had awarded, I fancy, some milder punishment for me than you have awarded to my friend here,—because he was a helpless youth, you thought, and because you knew that my father is the patron of three livings. I know you well enough. You all hang together. My only surprise is that you did not overlook my offence entirely; and you would have done so if my little friend here had not been in my company, for I know the animus of ‘the informant,’ who had the audacity to insinuate that I had tampered with a witness—a groom—with a view to make him give false evidence. None but a base mind could have conceived a gentleman guilty of such base conduct. For that insult, deliberately offered to me, I shall inflict corporal punishment upon the informant on the first opportunity that presents itself. I will take both him and the law into my own hands at the same time, and I will cane him; and for that offence, if he thinks proper, he may report me to the Horse Guards, for that is the jurisdiction to which I am now chiefly amenable for my misdeeds. There is another point to which I must refer. The informant, in his statement, made use of the expression, ‘low actors and actresses.’ ‘He was astounded to find,’ he said, ‘a gentleman belonging to this College in the company of low actors and actresses.’ Now, although I think it a very unseemly and improper thing to remind any man who has risen to an eminent position of the meanness of his origin, nevertheless there are times when it would be equally improper to refrain from doing so. One of those times is the present, when a man who has sprung from the loins of a menial servant—a man whose father acquired the means of educating him by theft and by fraud—dares to speak of a body of poor and honest people a ‘low company,’ and only because the stage happens to be their profession. ‘Low company,’ indeed! My father once told me if ever I met with a low fellow who prided himself, and presumed upon his wealth, or his learning, or his position, or whatever else, to fling our crest at him—
Fortuna non mutat genus.
It has a double meaning, I believe.”
“It comes from Horace!” Cried West. “Stay, Reckless! I will quote it:—
“Lupis et Agnis quanta sortito obtigit,
Tecum mihi discordia est,
Ibericis peruste funibus latus,
Et crura durâ compede.
Licet superbus ambules pecuniâ,
Fortuna non mutat genus.
Videsne, sacram metiente te Viam
Cum bis ter ulnarum togâ,
Ut hora vertat——”
While the little man was repeating the ode with great accuracy and emphasis, every one present (except Reckless) understanding its point and bearing, Reckless was putting on his coat and his gown—that short gown which did not reach to his knees. His passion had in some measure subsided, but his eyes still glared wildly, and his chest heaved heavily. As Byron graphically describes it in the Shipwreck—
The wind went down, but still the sea kept up.
“Mr. Reckless!” said the old Master (who, notwithstanding his prejudices, his loud responses in chapel, and his childish vanity, was a gentleman), “you and Mr. West have, it seems, entered the army, and are no longer subject to our jurisdiction. You are very much excited, and perhaps you have some cause to be so. You and Mr. West Mad better take your departure from the University, quietly. We will revoke the sentence of expulsion on Mr. West, as well as the sentence of rustication which we had imposed upon you. And if both or either of you should distinguish yourselves, or himself, in the service of your country, we shall be proud to think that you once belonged to us, notwithstanding your original transgression, and your subsequent conduct to-day. Will you suffer me to shake hands with you, and say ‘Farewell’?”
“Not until you have withdrawn that insinuation, sir,—that I could be guilty of corrupting a servant’s testimony.”
“I do withdraw it,” said the old Master, in a very kind tone of voice.
“And so do I,” said the tuft-hunter, abjectly. “I did not for one moment intend to——”
“I wish for no explanation or apology from you, sir,” said Reckless; “you, from whom the insinuation sprung, and was then endorsed by the Master. I can satisfy myself, so far as you are concerned, in one way only, and what that way is I have already stated. I will cane you.”
“No, no, Mr. Reckless,” said the Master; “we must have no violence. It is my intention to settle this unfortunate affair amicably, or at all events quietly.”
“Yes, yes,” responded several of the Seniors, in a conciliatory tone of voice. “It was wrong to suppose,” one of them added, “that a gentleman of your breeding could possibly be guilty qf asking a groom to speak a falsehood to screen him from the punishment of an offence.”
“An offence,” said Reckless, argumentatively, “to which I would have pleaded guilty, had you put to me these simple questions—‘Were you at Bury? and did you take a part in a play, upon a public stage, on a certain night? On your word and honour as a gentleman, we charge you to speak the truth’—I should have answered, ‘Yes; it is all true.’”
“Reckless!” cried West, “you have spoken nobly; but you must now act nobly. You must promise the Master and the Seniors that you will depart the Uni- versity without committing any violence, unless it be in defence of your own person. Remember that your physical strength is greater than that of the informant, and that it would be—I won’t say cowardly, but unseemly, for you to use those powerful arms of yours for the purpose you have proposed.”
“Be it so,” said Reckless, rather doggedly.
“Then all’s well that ends well,” said the Master.
“Yes, yes,” responded severalof the Seniors; “it is all over now.” “Neither Mr. Reckless nor Mr. West is expelled; they merely withdraw.” “We give them each a bene decessit.” “Let us Bury the question entirely.” (It was an inveterate punster who said this.) “You will be an awkward foe in the field, Mr. Reckless,” said another. “For my part,” quoth the great algebraist, twitching his coat collar, “I think him rather powerful even in a small room.” (The great algebraist was Reckless’s public tutor.)
“It must be dinner-time!” said the Master, smiling, and rising.
“Dinner-time, sir?” said West. “It is past five o’clock! The whole College, is waiting to feed. The hall steps are crowded, and the screens are literally crammed.”
And such was the case, reader.
What!—is this the school at which your sister is?” said Reckless, when West, shortly after their arrival in London, stopped before the door of a house in Park Lane.
“Yes.”
“I wish I had known that before.”
“Why?”
“Because I know the old ladies who keep it—know them well—have known them from my childhood. I will go in with you.”
The footman who opened the door informed Mr. West that his sister was within; and in reply to Mr. Reckless’s question as to whether the Misses Leardotte, or any of them, were visible, answered—“Yes, sir. Will you walk in, gentlemen?” Having shown them into a waiting-room on the ground floor, the footman took up their cards. One of the Miss Leardottes—(they were three elderly ladies, of very good birth, and had been very rich before the depreciation in value of West Indian property)—came down, and received both young gentlemen very graciously. Of West’s good fortune in obtaining a commission, she had previously heard from his sister; but she was not aware that “Augustus,” as she called him, had become a Cornet in a Lancer regiment. That was news to her. Ere long, Miss West entered the room, and, hastening towards her brother, kissed him several times. She had not until this greeting was concluded, noticed the presence of Reckless, who remained standing, and waiting to be introduced to her.
“Mr. Reckless—Miss West,” said Miss Leardotte. Miss West bowed, blushed, and said within herself, “I wish this interview had been more private;” for she felt that Reckless was inwardly smiling at the transport which he had just witnessed; and to say the truth, Edgar himself was a partner in her feeling.
It would be difficult to conceive two near relations so very unlike, in feature and person, as Edgar West and his sister Geraldine. She was rather tall for her age—eighteen—and womanly. She had large violet-coloured eyes, with long chestnut lashes; wavy golden hair, of luxuriant growth; and it seemed as if a sunbeam were always playing over it. Her forehead was not lofty, but rather broad, and compactly shapen; her nose was small and delicate; her complexion, what is termed transparent; her lips were perfectly crimson; and her beautiful teeth not pearly, but snow-white; her upper lip was somewhat curved. It was not a sneering expression that that upper lip gave to her face, but, nevertheless, it was decidedly sarcastic. Miss West could scarcely be called stout; but she was—if so homely a phrase may be permitted—“a finely-grown girl, and as straight as an arrow.” In short, she was the image of her late mother, who was a Saxon lady—not one of the late Mr. Daniel O’Connell’s “Saxons,” but a lady born in Dresden, and educated in England, to which country her father had migrated when she was only a few years of age.
Many persons thought Miss West very beautiful. Many others, not enviously or ill-naturedly, but sincerely, “could not see it at all.” The old General who had been so kind to Edgar, used to say she was magnificent; the old General who had been so kind to herself, thought her “not exactly plain, but far from good-looking.” The wife of the General who had been to kind to Edgar, also thought of her in the same terms; while the wife of the General who had been so kind to Miss West, used enthusiastically to declare that “even the glorious fancy and execution of Titian himself could not have embraced a being so beautiful.” But whatever might be the differences of opinion touching her beauty, there could be none as to the quality of her mind. She had talents of the highest order, a fair amount of genius, and as great a power of reasoning as any woman can possibly possess. “After all, it could not have been much!” the cynical reader may exclaim; and if so, I would deferentially reply, “We will not argue that point.” “Was she amiable?” it may be inquired. Yes, and high-minded. But she was not without her faults. She was very proud, and perhaps impetuous. Reckless would have admired Miss West exceedingly, but for two reasons. The first was, that he was in love with a girl who had large dark eyes and black hair; the second, that he was surprised that she, whom he had pictured to his mind as something very like his little friend, should be so very unlike him. He was disappointed when he beheld her beauty and her stateliness. He expected to see a fragile, sorrowful little being, upon whom he could expend a large amount of pity and sympathy. He found himself in the company of a girl who would, he felt, have patronized him had they been alone, and an opportunity of doing so afforded her. With all that gushing enthusiasm which belonged to his nature, and to his time of life, Reckless had been planning in his mind numberless little attentions which he would induce his mother to pay to the sister of his friend; and he was, perhaps, a little hurt to discover that there was a decided independence about Miss West’s appearance and character which placed her far beyond the pale of those little “favours” he had contemplated. None but those who have built up in the brain a castle full of kindnesses for some forlorn creature, and find that it was all a dream, can comprehend the sensations that stole over Reckless when he gazed on Miss West. Had it not been that Leonora had the entire possession of his heart, he would have loved the girl. Yes, reader, he would have loved her. I verily believe he would have loved her, simply because he was so immensely disappointed in her.
“And you are really going into the army, Augustus?” said Miss Julia Leardotte, to Reckless.
“Yes—or rather, I am not going into the army, for I am in it already. I have been gazetted for some days past.”
“I never see the Gazette—or rather, I never read the appointments. But how strange that Lady Mary never mentioned the fact; and I had a long letter from her only the day before yesterday.”
“Indeed?” said Reckless, scarcely able to take his eyes from Miss West.
“Yes; and she has invited Geraldine, your friend’s sister, to spend a few days at the Castle, to meet her brother—Lady Mary says—so that arrangements of which I am in ignorance must have been in progress.”
“I know of no arrangements,” said Reckless, “beyond that my mother was aware Mr. West was about to accompany me to my home on the occasion of our leaving the University.”
“Mary always wished to be explicit,” said Miss Julia Leardotte, abstractedly; “but, somehow or other, she never could be.” And then, awakening as it were, she said—“Oh, yes. The General—General Ferret—is to take her as far as his own house, and thence he will forward her on in his carriage. She starts to-morrow afternoon, at four o’clock.”
“I am charmed to hear it,” said Reckless, bowing gracefully to Miss West.
The last words of this brief speech had scarcely escaped the lips of Reckless, when there was heard a loud, a very loud rapping at the door, and a ring at the bell which resounded through the whole house.
“That is the General himself!” exclaimed Miss Julia: and in another moment Lieut.-General Sir Edward Ferret, K.G.B., entered the sitting-room, into which he was (by Miss Julia’s command to the footman) shown.
Let us describe the General—(it was not Edgar’s patron, but Miss West’s). He was a little man—short, and not stout. He had lost a hand in the wars—his left hand—and he carried his left arm as though it were in a sling; that is to say, the stump of his mutilated arm rested as nearly as possible over the region of his heart. The General—the truth must be told—was rather a mean-looking little man, in his old blue coat, black trousers, black waistcoat, white hat, and button boots. Indeed, if you had met him in Piccadilly, and had been asked to guess to what profession he belonged, you would have been puzzled, and might have been excused for thinking that he was a highly respectable grocer who had recently become a bankrupt, but had passed a satisfactory examination. But when you came to scan the General—to look at him as we always look at those men of whom we hear much, as heroes, statesmen, poets, &c.; in short, to look at him as Reckless did, you could see that he was not an ordinary man—a man of common stamp—but a man worthy of a great command. Nevertheless, he had not the look of a man of threat powers of mind. His silky grey hair fell over a low but broad and rather intellectual forehead; and he had a laughing, dancing, dauntless, and beautiful blue eye, in which seemed to lurk great humour, but great firmness. The General stooped,—or rather he carried his head in advance of his body when he walked or stood,—and had a habit of tapping with his right hand the cuff of his coat-sleeve which concealed his wrist—his “stump,” as he used himself to call it. His biographers, and some of the fashionable Army Lists, by the way, have it that he “lost an arm at the battle of Waterloo;” but the General never lost an opportunity of declaring emphatically, and rather petulantly at times, that he was “not at Waterloo until the business was all over,” and that he “never lost an arm in the whole course of his life.” At the time to which the narrative has reference, the General was a member of Parliament, and held a very important military office under the Government of Sir Robert Peel. The reader may with some reason, therefore, put the question—“Then why did he allow Miss West to remain at the school of the Misses Leardotte as an assistant governess?” The question may be answered satisfactorily. The General had a family of his own—several sons and several daughters. He had, moreover, no less than eleven young ladies and gentlemen, besides Miss West (all of them daughters or sons of old comrades), whom he had to provide for in some way or other. For several of the “charges” he was still paying the schooling. Miss West, even, was not quite off the General’s hands. He deemed it his duty (apart from the pleasure it afforded him) to call upon her periodically, and he never did so without contriving, in the most delicate way conceivable, to make her some useful present; for instance, a dress, or a bonnet, or a shawl, or a book, or a parasol, or an umbrella, &c. &c.; and now and then he would bring her a basket of fruit and a bouquet of choice flowers. Those who knew not the many and various calls upon the General’s purse (he never spoke of those calls), thought him a miser—one who loved money; but this estimate of the man was a very erroneous one. Those parsimonious ideas to which he often gave utterance, did not spring from an ungenerous source. What he saved he did not save for himself, but for those who really needed his assistance. For instance, while he was paying the Misses Leardotte a hundred guineas a year for the education of Miss West, he “knocked off” his establishment one horse and one groom, in order that his disbursements might be equally squared with his income at the end of each year. He walked more and he rode less during that period. In manner, the General was slightly abrupt; and if it had not been for those laughing, dancing, dauntless, good-tempered, good-natured blue eyes of his, he would have been an unprepossessing little man. As it was, no man or woman ever looked into his face without being pleased, excepting, of course, when he was angered, for in those moments he knitted his brows, and looked like a savage terrier. The General had another peculiarity,—he never praised or blamed ecstatically; and never by any chance alluded to his own services, which had been very considerable and eminently valuable during the Peninsular War, as well as afterwards in the field of battle. At the Club to which he belonged, he was often, in his absence, talked about as “a toady of the Great Duke.” But he was not a toady; he did not even toady in earlier life the General who had selected him to serve upon the staff,—the General to whom he was originally indebted for his position in the world, and for the honourable and conspicuous notoriety into which he was brought long after his patron’s uncoffined remains were mouldering in a grave dug in a foreign land.
“Well, Geraldine,” said the General, kindly, after shaking Miss Julia Leardotte by the hand; “I have called to tell you that—what! is that Edgar? How do you, Edgar? You will be a very good boy, I hope—indeed, I am sure you will.” And laying his right and only hand on the youth’s head, he repeated the following lines with some feeling, but no enthusiasm:—
So, when returning from successive toils
Of heroes slain, he bears the reeking spoils,
Whole hosts shall hail him with deserv’d acclaim,
And say, ‘This son transcends his father’s fame!’
“My dear boy! I cannot tell you how glad I was to see your name in the Gazette. Edgar, you will be a good boy.”
“Thank you, General,” said Edgar. “May I venture, with Miss Leardotte’s permission, to introduce to you my friend Mr. Reckless, who is also going into the army?”
“Very glad to make your acquaintance, sir,” said the General, tapping his stump, and bowing to the tall and stalwart youth, who, out of pure deference to the distinguished little man, remained standing from the moment that he entered the room—“very glad to make your acquaintance, sir.” And turning towards Miss Julia Leardotte and Miss West,he added—“Ladies, you must forgive me talking to these young gentlemen for a few minutes, for I may never have another opportunity. You are also going to the East, Mr. Reckless? At least if you are—and you must be—the Reckless who was gazetted to the Lancers the other day?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah! Well, I’ll tell you all I know about the East, and that is only from hearsay. It is a tremendously hot country, and promotion is very rapid there. And I am told further, that it is quite as dangerous to be over-abstemious, as to run into the opposite extreme.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Reckless.
“You are very welcome to the information, sir,” said the General, tapping his stump; “but I feel that the gift is not a very great one, especially as it is divided between you and Edgar. And now, Geraldine,” (the General addressed himself to the young lady,) “what I wish to say to you is this:—At half-past three, and not at four, to-morrow, I will call for you; and I have to entreat that you will be quite ready, and not keep me waiting one moment, for I detest waiting.”
“Dear General, you may depend upon my being very punctual,” said Geraldine, vivaciously.
On leaving Park Lane, Reckless hailed a cab, and told the driver to proceed to the Temple.
“I want to introduce you to my brothers, West,” he said, “and we will take the lawyer first. He is not a bad fellow, but awfully matter-of-fact.”
“But is not this a rather inconvenient hour to call upon a professional man? It is just three,” said the considerate West.
“Pooh! he is my brother!”
“Well, what of that? You told me that he was a barrister, who practised his profession.”
“Stuff, West! He will be delighted to see us.”
“Have you ever called upon him before in the day-time, or at this hour?”
“No; I have yet to find out where he keeps. It is in King’s Bench Walk, and I know the number.”
The cabman, having deposited his fare on the pavement, drove off.
“Jones!” “Dundas!” “Colley!” “Michaelson!” Reckless read off a long list of names. “Where the deuce is he? Oh, all right, West! Here he is!—follow me!” and Reckless ascended the staircase and was soon at his brother’s door, at which he rapped very loudly. The Temple seldom hears so loud a rap as that of Reckless. The Attorney-General himself would not have been justified in making such a noise with a knocker in that King’s Bench Walk. The clerk was rather frightened; and before he opened the door, looked in upon his master, who was reading the last of Smith’s Leading Cases, and making notes in pencil on the margin of a brief, in a cause which had been set down for trial on the following morning. It was “a heavy demurrer.”
“I am not at home to visitors, no matter who they may.be,” said the barrister to the clerk. “Professional persons I will see, of course; but that can hardly be a professional person. Stay! it may be Lady Mary. No—there is no carriage in the Walk. If it be Sir Charles—but it cannot be him—but if it be Sir Charles, say—Dear me! how provoking!”
“They are asleep, West; I’ll wake them,” said Reckless, “for we cannot stand here all day and again he rapped at the knocker, a little longer and louder, if possible, than on the first occasion.
“I will open the door myself,” said the barrister, rising from his chair; “some accident, perhaps.” He mused anxiously as he left his apartment and walked through the narrow passage which led to the outer door.
“Hooray!” exclaimed Augustus Reckless, on observing his brother’s face; “you are at home! Don’t you keep a servant? I have been standing here for the last quarter of an hour. I want to introduce to you my friend, Mr. West.”
“It would be a falsehood, sir,” said the barrister, bowing to and smiling at West, “if I were to say I am glad to see you just now, for I am extremely busy, and endeavouring to conquer a great difficulty. But will you come in?”
“Thank you—no,” said West.
“But I will,” said Augustus. “I am thirsty, and want a glass of wine and water. You can go on with your work, Charley; I will not disturb you.”
“You have already disturbed me,” said the barrister. “You have put to flight the whole of the ideas I had collected. I shall be up half the night, and quite fatigued in the morning, when I ought to be as fresh as possible. You are very inconsiderate, Augustus. Mr. West, you will not think me rude for holding the door in my band, in order that I may keep my boisterous brother out of my quiet chambers. We shall meet elsewhere, I believe, before many days have elapsed. If I were to let the boy in, he would light a cigar, perhaps, with some of my notes; and I have a consultation fixed for a quarter-past four.”
“Nonsense, Charles!” cried Augustus. “Do give me some wine and water. Let me have it at the door, if you won’t suffer me to come in.”
“No; this is not an hotel,” said the barrister. “Where are you staying? At Long’s?”
“Yes.”
“Well, go there; you will get nothing here,” said the barrister.
“Except incivility,” said Augustus, good-temperedly.
“I would ask you to come in, sir, with all the pleasure in the world,” said the barrister, addressing West; “but I cannot admit my brother—I know him too well.”
“You are quite right, under the circumstances,” said West. “I do not wish to aggravate his offence,” he continued; “but he would not listen to remonstrance when he proposed calling on you at this hour.”
“He is a sad boy, Mr. West. Good-bye, Augustus; go to Long’s—get your sherry—and then call upon your medical brother and your clerical brother. Take the doctor at about half-past five, and drop in on the parson at a quarter to nine. Begone from this! Good day, Mr. West; we shall meet again before, long”—and the barrister here closed the door very softly and gradually.
“That’s a pretty fellow for a brother,” said Reckless, when they had left the staircase. “When he comes down for a few days, to shoot or fish, he thinks nothing of walking off with my guns, and rods, and lines, and flies, or of appropriating to his own use anything that may belong to me, from a saddle and bridle down to socks and boots; and now that I call upon him in his chambers for the first, and certainly for the last, time in my life, he actually denies me a glass of sherry and water, and refers me to my hotel! Well, we will not despise his advice;—come along. Having refreshed ourselves, we will just say ‘how are you?’ to the doctor, in Sackville Street.”
“And the chances are that you will meet with the same reception from the doctor as you have met with from the lawyer, and for the same reason. His mind is bent upon his business—his avocation. Now, suppose, my dear Reckless, that you or I were very busy in sketching the plan of some great military operation, and some lay friend were to break in upon us, just as you broke in upon your brother, who was hard at work at the time, what would you say?”
“I have not the slightest idea what I should say,” replied Reckless; “something appropriate, I have no doubt. But as for sketching military operations, my dear West, it is all nonsense. Take your troops out, and go to work. That will be my motto.”
“Reckless!” exclaimed little West, disengaging himself from his friend’s arm, thrusting his hands into his breeches pockets, and looking Reckless full in the face, “you are surely not serious?”
“Yes, I am,” said Reckless, “quite serious; and I will tell you why—but not here; for, my dear West, we are now in the Strand, and if we stop to argue here, people will think we are quarrelling. Can’t you walk and talk at the same time?”
“Not on serious subjects,” returned West, again taking his friend’s arm. “When thinking deeply, I must be quite still.”
“That is not the case with me,” said Reckless. “I can always form the best judgment when I am riding a horse at the very top of his speed, and when all around me is clatter, din, and uproar. But stay, West! By Heaven! that man immediately before us is the imbecile whom I saw in the room of Mrs. Coleby, and that man upon whose arm he is leaning is Colonel Ornsbie—Leonora’s father!”
“Well, and what of that?” said West.
“I cannot comprehend it,” said Reckless.
“Comprehend what?”
“Nothing, nothing! But this mysteriousness perplexes me to the last degree. I will speak to the Colonel.”
“You had better not.”
“Why shouldn’t I? I am a favourite of his—I know that. He will be very glad to see me.”
“Not now, Reckless; he would wish you further. That man is thinking, plotting, planning. Like you, he is gifted in that particular. He can walk and think. That nervous shake of his head tells me that his mind is now bent upon something. If you speak to him at this moment, he will hate you; do not accost him.”
“I tell you he is the father of Leonora, and I must speak to him;”—and with these words Reekless quickened his pace, and presently stood shoulder to shoulder with the Colonel. “How do you do, sir?” said Reckless, raising his hat, and then offering his hand.
“Oh! how do you do?” replied the Colonel, startled, and in an abstracted tone, and taking the hand of Reckless coldly and confusedly.
“I have left Cambridge, and have entered the army, sir; and I am returning to my home to-morrow,” said Reckless.
“Oh! indeed?” said the Colonel.
“I hope they are all well at the Downs, sir?”
“The Downs? Oh, yes; they are all very well. Yes. Sir, I bid you good day,”—and shaking the hand of Reckless without looking into his eyes, he crossed the street with the imbecile on his arm.
“I told you so,” said West. “That man is very much annoyed at being accosted. He did not expect to meet any one whom he knew. I saw it in his features.”
“But what can he be doing with that half-witted person, who has been advertised, and for whom a reward is offered by Mrs. Coleby apd others?”
“That is his affair, I imagine. You do not want to apprehend the imbecile and claim the reward—do you?”
“Certainly not. But I wish he had been a little more civil to me.”
⁎ ⁎ ⁎
Arrived at the hotel, Reckless slightly refreshed himself, and then dragged his friend to visit Dr. Reckless, in Sackville Street. This was the first time that Augustus had ever visited his medical brother in London. He thundered at the door, just as he had done at the door of the chambers in King’s Bench Walk.
“Is Doctor Reckless within?” Augustus inquired of the liveried footman.
“Yes, sir; but he is engaged at this moment.”
“Can I take any message, sir?” said the valet, who was always in the passage, slate and pencil in hand.
“Or will you walk into the waiting-room, and send up your card, sir?” asked the footman, observing that the gentleman was hesitating.
“Yes,” said Reckless. “Tell the doctor that his brother, Mr. Augustus Reckless, has called upon him with a friend-who is ill, aad wishes for advice.”
The valet having copied this message down verbatim on his slate, sent it up by the footman, who presently returned with the following reply:—“Doctor Reckless will see you in a few minutes, gentlemen. Will you be seated, please?”
“Thank you; I prefer walking about,” said Augustus, examining with excusable curiosity the furniture and the pictures in the reception-room, as it was styled.
“By-the-bye, West, you must give him his fee. Here you are—a sovereign and a shilling. That makes it business, you see. We shall have a right to ten minutes or a quarter of an hour of him.”
“But there’s nothing the matter with me, Reckless,” said West.
“Never mind,” said Reckless. “Say you feel ill, but can’t explain exactly what is the matter. He most probably will tap you on the chest, ask you to put out your tongue, and so forth. I should like to see him at work. They say he is a very clever doctor—not that I could fancy it, simply because he happens to be my brother, I suppose. That is often the case, I believe.”
“I will tell him what is the truth—that I feel very nervous to-day,” said West, seriously.
In another moment the footman re-entered the room, and said—“Will you walk up, gentlemen?” They did so, and were shown into a very comfortable apartment, in which they found the doctor, who received his brother very graciously, but briefly; and then, in a very business-like and rather off-handed but bland manner, proceeded to interrogate West.
“Nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Any pain?”
“None.”
“Are you often nervous?”
“Now and then.”
“After sitting up late, perhaps?”
“That is his case’” cried Augustus Reckless; “and it is mine also. We have just come up from Cambridge.”
“And a number of your friends saw you off—no doubt?”
“Yes.”
“Ah! well. I will prescribe for you both at once.” The doctor rang the bell.
“I shall take no medicine!” exclaimed Augustus.
“But you must, sir,” said the doctor.
“I won’t, I tell you.”
“You shall.”
The footman came into the room. The doctor spoke to him as follows:—
“Bring that decanter which contains the Madeira, and three glasses.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I feel rather nervous to-day,” said the doctor to his visitors. “I was at an hospital till half-past two this morning. Both of you, like myself, require some gentle stimulant to keep you up till your usual bed-time.—say eleven or twelve o’clock—and then you will enjoy a good night’s rest, and rise to-morrow perfectly refreshed, and in good health and spirits. Don’t look at your cigar-case, Augustus; I cannot allow you to smoke here. Not that I care about it on my own account, as you are aware; but the patients, you see—the patients! Strange as it may seem,” continued the doctor, turning to West, “Augustus is the only one of my brothers who has ever entered this house, though both my brother at the bar and my brother in the church have occasionally left their cards. And what is equally strange, I have never once entered into the rooms of either of them.”
“Indeed?” said West.
“It is not for the want of brotherly love—far from it. It is, I fancy, that our respective occupations are so very different.”
“Charles tells me,” said Augustus, “that I shall be most likely to find the parson at home at about a quarter to nine. What prigs you professional men are, to be sure!”
“What! Have you seen Charles?”
“I have seen him, and that’s all. He would not let me in, and refused me sherry and water point blank. Held the door in his hand, sir; and kept on saying—‘Go! go!’ But I will effect an entrance into those chambers some day—not alone, but with our younger brothers and sisters, sir.”
There was a loud knock at the door.
“A patient,” said the doctor. “Hush! receive him below.”
The footman entered with a card.
“It is Charles himself!” cried the doctor. “How odd! Show Mr. Reckless up.”
“That is the cause of my illness,” said the lawyer, laughing, and pointing to Augustus. “He has given me a shock—shattered mv nerves—terrified me out of any wits. I want you to prescribe something to soothe me. Dear Guss, I had a presentiment that you and Mr. West would be here; and as the consultation and the case is postponed, happily, I ran up—(what comfortable rooms you have, doctor!)—I ran up to ask you to take dinner with me at eight o’clock, in a private room at your own hotel; and I hope that Mr. West and the doctor will join us. And it is not improbable I may be able to get hold of the parson. I want to hear——”
There came another knock at the door—a rather meek knock.
“That must be a patient!” said the doctor, smiling.
The footman entered with a card.
“No! As I live!” exclaimed the doctor, “it is another brother. It is Bob. Show him up.” And presently, in walked the Reverend Robert Reckless—“A Perfect Parson,” as Augustus said, after contemplating him for several minutes. He then shouted—“Hooray! Hooray! Here are my brothers, all toge-ther, West! Law, Physic, and Divinity! Charley, you shall draw up my marriage settlement! Bob, you shall christen my firstborn! Jack, you shall prescribe for me whenever I feel nervous! Yes—we will all dine together! Let me, Charles, give the orders to Drake, the head-waiter.”
“By all means,” said the barrister.
The Reverend Robert Reckless had called upon his brother, the doctor, to ask him to visit and prescribe for a widow lady—one of his parishioners—who was too poor to pay for medical advice and attendance. It was a very intricate case, he said. The doctor consented, on the condition that the parson would accept the invitation of their elder brother—and this, the parson said he would be most happy to do.
The dinner was excellent,—so were the wines; the conversation was lively and spirited; and at eleven the lawyer, doctor, and parson retired to their respective homes; Augustus Reckless and Edgar West to their respective couches.
On the following morning they were on their way to the Castle, and arrived there at about two p.m. It was a noble, venerable pile of buildings, and had been built in the time of Henry the Seventh. The grounds were extremely beautiful and well laid out, and kept in excellent order, under the personal superintendence of Sir Charles. There were many legends connected with the old building—legends relating to Royal personages in days gone by; and to a stranger, Reckless Castle was a place of exceeding interest. The furniture, for the most part, was very ancient: some of it of even primitive construction. A room over an old gateway was assigned to West—a long, low room, at the end of which, when West took possession of it, blazed a large sea-coal fire. All the property that pertained to the little man he had brought with him. It consisted only of a portmanteau, a carpet-bag, and the military trunk which contained his dead father’s uniform and accoutrements, &c., &c.; for after leaving Reckless Castle, it was West’s intention to pay a visit to his patron, previous to joining the depôt of the regiment to which he had been gazetted.
Sir Charles and Lady Mary, who had heard so much of West from Augustus during the last vacation, received the youth with great warmth of feeling; and the Misses Reckless, who, from their brother’s account, had been prepossessed in his favour, made themselves as agreeable as possible, and vied with each other in giving him all the information he desired in connexion with the history of the Castle, and the particulars of the various legends therewith connected.
“And now, my dear boy,” said Reckless to West, “since I am sure my people will take every care of you during my absence, I am about to have a short ride.” And leaving West in the company of his sisters, Reckless went to the stables, ordered a horse, and galloped over to the Downs. It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon when he arrived there, dismounted, gave his horse to a groom, entered the house, and inquired for Miss Ornsbie.
The hall was blocked up with camel-trunks, portmanteaus, desks, &c. &c.; while from every quarter of the premises there proceeded that noise which attends upon the nailing down of boxes. It was quite evident to Reckless that the house was about to be vacated by present occupants. He was shown into the drawing-room, and speedily the lovely Leonora entered. She was pale and agitated. Closing the door after her, she flew to the outstretched arms of her lover, and rested her head upon his shoulder.
“In what have you offended my father, dear Augustus?” she asked.
“I have not offended him,—not that I am aware of. I saw him in town yesterday, and spoke a few words to him. But I could not have offended him. If I did, it was unintentional, and I will apologize. Has he returned?”
“No; and I am commanded to leave this, and proceed to town at once.”
“Why?”
“I know not.”
“Does he say that I offended him?”
“No, dearest Augustus; shall I show you his letter? Perhaps on reading it you may be able to explain it. But promise me that you will not take any notice of it; for, remember, if you did so, you would compromise me sadly.”
“I do promise you, my own Leonora!”
“There is the letter.and she placed it in his hands. Reckless read as follows:—
“Leo.—Leave the Downs—come to London—travel post. I will meet you at 11.25 the day after to-morrow, Saturday, at Croydon. You will find me at that hour at “the Sparrows,” an hotel, to which direct the post-boy to drive. Tell the steward to await my instructions. Curse that young Reckless! I thought he was at the University. I saw him in London to-day. Adieu. Your father,
“P. L. O.”
“My only offence, dear Leonora, was seeing and speaking kindly to your father. I saw him in the company of a man who is half-witted, if not entirely an idiot; an idiot for whom a reward is offered by his former servants, who now support him in the days of his poverty.”
“An idiot?”
“Yes, Leonora, an idiot—a confirmed idiot. I saw him but once, but I recognised him instantly. I had his career from a bedmaker.”
“His name? What is the name of the idiot?”
“That I know not. He is now called Mr. Brown; but I was told that was not his real name.”
“I know nothing, dear Augustus, of my father’s affairs, nor of——” (She checked herself, and was silent.)
“Of what, Leonora?” asked Reckless, tenderly.
“Nothing,” she replied. “Oh! how I wonder if it will ever be?”
“What?”
“That I shall be yours, or that you shall be mine?”
“Should that never happen, the fault will not be with me, Leonora.”
“Do not say the fault.”
“What other word shall I employ? See here, dearest. I have my commission in the army; and in addition to my pay, my father says he will allow me two hundred pounds a-year until I get my troop. We should not be rich; but the pay and the allowance would in any country keep us comfortably. My mother and my father love you, and approve of my affection for you.”
“I am aware of that.”
“Then fly with me. Let us be wedded at once! Let your father keep his riches. We want not—or, at least, I do not—any of them. Come, Leonora! Come! Fly with me!”
“No, Augustus. I still hold to the original conditions. “Much as I love you, nothing upon earth would induce me to swerve from them. How often shall I repeat to you, that little sentence, YOU MUST SEE ME IN MT HOME IN THE EAST? Will you come?
“Come, Leonora? Come? Tf India were a thousand times as far distant as it is, and if I had to walk there barefooted, I would follow you. How can you ask me such a question, dear Leonora?” And again he clasped her in his arms, and held her passionately to his heart.
“I had hoped, Leonora, to have seen much of you before our departure from this country,” gasped Reckless.
“But it has been ordained otherwise,” said she.
“What will be your address after you have left the Downs?”
“I know not.”
“But you will inform me thereof?”
“Yes, dearest.”
“Leonora! Again I implore you! Fly with me! or let me go to your father, and say to him——”
“No, Augustus, that cannot be! If my father were to consent to our union at this moment, and offer to endow me, as he would, probably, with ample wealth, I would not consent to be yours, except under the conditions I have named.”
“Dear Leonora! will you not see my mother before you leave the Downs—perhaps for ever?”
“It is impossible. I must, and will, so long as I am unmarried, obey my father’s commands. I was writing in haste to Lady Mary when you were announced. I think we shall leave England immediately.”
“If so, I will follow you immediately. But why can we not be fellow-passengers?”
“No. That would be contrary to my wishes, and would interfere with my plans.”
“But if we should miss each other in India, my own Leonora? If I should not be able to find you? If your father should die? If——”
“Fear not, Augustus. You will not be many hours in the land of the East ere I shall be informed of the fact. And if you cannot find me, believe me—and I charge you to remember my words—I will find you, and at the earliest opportunity conduct you to my home, wherever it may happen to be.”
“Leonora, I am not a morbid or a silly lover, nor I a curious fool; but these mysteries perplex me. I cannot fathom them.”
“Forget me, Augustus. Think no more of me—at least, not as the being whom you would wish to have for your wife. I do not say this to fret you, or to sharpen (if that be possible) your affection for me. I would not trifle with you for the whole world. But it were better,—for my sake rather than yours, perhaps, it were better.”
“You madden me, Leonora! Tell me, who was that idiot—that witless person, whom I saw with your father?”
“I was ignorant of his being until you spoke of him.”
“The fact of my having seen him with your father induced the latter to treat me so abruptly in the street, aud to curse me, as he did in his letter to you.”
“That may be. I repeat to you that I have never heard of this witless person to whom you have alluded—have never seen him;—that I know nothing of my father’s affairs, or of his fam——” Again she checked herself, and said—“Augustus, for my sake, forget me!”
In Preparation