A PLEASANT PREDICAMENT.
As I sat vainly endeavoring to fix upon some suitable and appropriate epithet by which to commence my note, my back was turned towards the door of the garden; and so occupied was I in my meditations, that even had any one entered at the time, in all probability I should not have perceived it. At length, however, I was aroused from my study by a burst of laughter, whose girlish joyousness was not quite new to me. I knew it well; it was the senhora herself; and the next moment I heard her voice.
“I tell you, I’m quite certain I saw his face in the mirror as I passed. Oh, how delightful! and you’ll be charmed with him; so, mind, you must not steal him from me; I shall never forgive you if you do; and look, only look! he has got the blue scarf I gave him when he marched to the Douro.”
While I perceived that I was myself seen, I could see nothing of the speaker, and wishing to hear something further, appeared more than ever occupied in the writing before me.
What her companion replied I could not, however, catch, but only guess at its import by the senhora’s answer. “Fi done!—I really am very fond of him; but, never fear, I shall be as stately as a queen. You shall see how meekly he will kiss my hand, and with what unbending reserve I’ll receive him.”
“Indeed!” thought I; “mayhap, I’ll mar your plot a little; but let us listen.”
Again her friend spoke, but too low to be heard.
“It is so provoking,” continued Inez; “I never can remember names, and his was something too absurd; but never mind, I shall make him a grandee of Portugal. Well, but come along, I long to present him to you.”
Here a gentle struggle seemed to ensue; for I heard the senhora coaxingly entreat her, while her companion steadily resisted.
“I know very well you think I shall be so silly, and perhaps wrong; eh, is it not so? but you are quite mistaken. You’ll be surprised at my cold and dignified manner. I shall draw myself proudly up, thus, and curtsying deeply, say, ‘Monsieur, j’ai l’honneur de vous saluer.’”
A laugh twice as mirthful as before interrupted her account of herself, while I could hear the tones of her friend evidently in expostulation.
O’malley Following the Custom of his Country.
“Well, then, to be sure, you are provoking, but you really promise to follow me. Be it so; then give me that moss-rose. How you have fluttered me; now for it!”
So saying, I heard her foot upon the gravel, and the next instant upon the marble step of the door. There is something in expectation that sets the heart beating, and mine throbbed against my side. I waited, however, till she entered, before lifting my head, and then springing suddenly up, with one bound clasped her in my arms, and pressing my lips upon her roseate cheek, said,—
“Mar charmante amie!” To disengage herself from me, and to spring suddenly back was her first effort; to burst into an immoderate fit of laughing, her second; her cheek was, however, covered with a deep blush, and I already repented that my malice had gone so far.
“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” said I, in affected innocence, “if I have so far forgotten myself as to assume a habit of my own country to a stranger.”
A half-angry toss of the head was her only reply, and turning towards the garden, she called to her friend:—
“Come here, dearest, and instruct my ignorance upon your national customs; but first let me present to you,—never know his name,—the Chevalier de ——What is it?”
The glass door opened as she spoke; a tall and graceful figure entered, and turning suddenly round, showed me the features of Lucy Dashwood. We both stood opposite each other, each mute with amazement.Myfeelings let me not attempt to convey; shame, for the first moment stronger than aught else, sent the blood rushing to my face and temples, and the next I was cold and pale as death. As for her, I cannot guess at what passed in her mind. She curtsied deeply to me, and with a half-smile of scarce recognition passed by me, and walked towards a window.
“Comme vous êtes amiable!” said the lively Portuguese, who comprehended little of this dumb show; “here have I been flattering myself what friends you’d be the very moment you meet, and now you’ll not even look at each other.”
What was to be done? The situation was every instant growing more and more embarrassing; nothing but downright effrontery could get through with it now; and never did a man’s heart more fail him than did mine at this conjuncture. I made the’ effort, however, and stammered out certain unmeaning commonplaces. Inez replied, and I felt myself conversing with the headlong recklessness of one marching to a scaffold, a coward’s fear at his heart, while he essayed to seem careless and indifferent.
Anxious to reach what I esteemed safe ground, I gladly adverted to the campaign; and at last, hurried on by the impulse to cover my embarrassment, was describing some skirmish with a French outpost. Without intending, I had succeeded in exciting the senhora’s interest, and she listened with sparkling eye and parted lips to the description of a sweeping charge in which a square was broken, and several prisoners carried off. Warming with the eager avidity of her attention, I grew myself more excited, when just as my narrative reached its climax, Miss Dashwood walked gently towards the bell, rang it, and ordered her carriage. The tone of perfectnonchalanceof the whole proceeding struck me dumb; I faltered, stammered, hesitated, and was silent. Donna Inez turned from one to the other of us with a look of unfeigned astonishment and I heard her mutter to herself something like a reflection upon “national eccentricities.” Happily, however, her attention was now exclusively turned towards her friend, and while assisting her to shawl, and extorting innumerable promises of an early visit, I got a momentary reprieve; the carriage drew up also, and as the gravel flew right and left beneath the horses’ feet, the very noise and bustle relieved me. “Adios,” then said Inez, as she kissed her for the last time, while she motioned to me to escort her to her carriage. I advanced, stopped, made another step forward, and again grew irresolute; but Miss Dashwood speedily terminated the difficulty; for making me a formal curtsey, she declined my scarce-proffered attention, and left the room.
As she did so, I perceived that on passing the table, her eyes fell upon the paper I had been scribbling over so long, and I thought that for an instant an expression of ineffable scorn seemed to pass across her features, save which—and perhaps even in this I was mistaken—her manner was perfectly calm, easy, and indifferent.
Scarce had the carriage rolled from the door, when the senhora, throwing herself upon her chair, clapped her hands in childish ecstasy, while she fell into a fit of laughing that I thought would never have an end. “Such a scene!” cried she; “I would not have lost it for the world; what cordiality! whatempressementto form acquaintance! I shall never forget it, Monsieur le Chevalier; your national customs seem to run sadly in extremes. One would have thought you deadly enemies; and poor me, after a thousand delightful plans about you both!”
As she ran on thus, scarce able to control her mirth at each sentence, I walked the room with impatient strides, now, resolving to hasten after the carriage, stop it, explain in a few words how all had happened, and then fly from her forever; then the remembrance of her cold, impassive look crossed me, and I thought that one bold leap into the Tagus might be the shortest and easiest solution to all my miseries. Perfect abasement, thorough self-contempt had broken all my courage, and I could have cried like a child. What I said, or how I comforted myself after, I know not; but my first consciousness came to me as I felt myself running at the top of my speed far upon the road towards Lisbon.
THE DINNER.
It may easily be imagined that I had little inclination to keep my promise of dining that day with Sir George Dashwood. However, there was nothing else for it; the die was cast,—my prospects as regarded Lucy were ruined forever. We were not, we never could be anything to each other; and as for me, the sooner I braved my altered fortunes the better; and after all, why should I call them altered. She evidently never had cared for me; and even supposing that my fervent declaration of attachment had interested her, the apparent duplicity and falseness of my late conduct could only fall the more heavily upon me.
I endeavored to philosophize myself into calmness and indifference. One by one I exhausted every argument for my defence, which, however ingeniously put forward, brought no comfort to my own conscience. I pleaded the unerring devotion of my heart, the uprightness of my motives, and when called on for the proofs,—alas! except the blue scarf I wore in memory of another, and my absurd conduct at the villa, I had none. From the current gossip of Lisbon, down to my own disgraceful folly, all, all was against me.
Honesty of intention, rectitude of purpose, may be, doubtless they are, admirable supports to a rightly constituted mind; but even then they must come supported by such claims to probability as make the injured man feel he has not lost the sympathy of all his fellows. Now, I had none of these, had even my temperament, broken by sickness and harassed by unlucky conjectures, permitted my appreciating them.
I endeavored to call my wounded pride to my aid, and thought over the glance of haughty disdain she gave me as she passed on to her carriage; but even this turned against me, and a humiliating sense of my own degraded position sank deeply into my heart. “This impression at least,” thought I, “must be effaced. I cannot permit her to believe—”
“His Excellency is waiting dinner, sir,” said a lackey, introducing a finely powdered head gently within the door. I looked at my watch, it was eight o’clock; so snatching my sabre, and shocked at my delay, I hastily followed the servant down-stairs, and thus at once cut short my deliberations.
The man must be but little observant or deeply sunk in his own reveries, who, arriving half-an-hour too late for dinner, fails to detect in the faces of the assembled and expectant guests a very palpable expression of discontent and displeasure. It is truly a moment of awkwardness, and one in which few are found to manage with success; the blushing, hesitating, blundering apology of the absent man, is scarcely better than the ill-affected surprise of the more practised offender. The bashfulness of the one is as distasteful as the cool impertinence of the other; both are so thoroughly out of place, for we are thinking of neither; our thoughts are wandering to cold soups and rechaufféd pâtés, and we neither care for nor estimate the cause, but satisfy our spleen by cursing the offender.
Happily for me I was clad in a triple insensibility to such feelings, and with an air of most perfect unconstraint and composure walked into a drawing-room where about twenty persons were busily discussing what peculiar amiability in my character could compensate for my present conduct.
“At last, O’Malley, at last!” said Sir George. “Why, my dear boy, how very late you are!”
I muttered something about a long walk,—distance from Lisbon, etc.
“Ah! that was it. I was right, you see!” said an old lady in a spangled turban, as she whispered something to her friend beside her, who appeared excessively shocked at the information conveyed; while a fat, round-faced little general, after eying me steadily through his glass, expressed asotto vocewish that I was uponhisstaff. I felt my cheek reddening at the moment, and stared around me like one whose trials were becoming downright insufferable, when happily dinner was announced, and terminated my embarrassment.
As the party filed past, I perceived that Miss Dashwood was not among them; and with a heart relieved for the moment by the circumstance, and inventing a hundred conjectures to account for it, I followed with the aides-de-camp and the staff to the dinner-room.
The temperament is very Irish, I believe, which renders a man so elastic that from the extreme of depression to the very climax of high spirits, there is but one spring. To this I myself plead guilty, and thus, scarcely was I freed from the embarrassment which a meeting with Lucy Dashwood must have caused, when my heart bounded with lightness.
When the ladies withdrew, the events of the campaign became the subject of conversation, and upon these, very much to my astonishment, I found myself consulted as an authority. The Douro, from some fortunate circumstance, had given me a reputation I never dreamed of, and I heard my opinions quoted upon topics of which my standing as an officer, and my rank in the service, could not imply a very extended observation. Power was absent on duty; and happily for my supremacy, the company consisted entirely of generals in the commissariat or new arrivals from England, all of whom knew still less than myself.
What will not iced champagne and flattery do? Singly, they are strong impulses; combined, their power is irresistible. I now heard for the first time that our great leader had been elevated to the peerage by the title of Lord Wellington, and I sincerely believe—however now I may smile at the confession—that, at the moment, I felt more elation at the circumstance than he did. The glorious sensation of being in any way, no matter how remotely, linked with the career of those whose path is a high one, and whose destinies are cast for great events, thrilled through me; and in all the warmth of my admiration and pride for our great captain, a secret pleasure stirred within me as I whispered to myself, “And I, too, am a soldier!”
I fear me that very little flattery is sufficient to turn the head of a young man of eighteen; and if I yielded to the “pleasant incense,” let my apology be that I was not used to it; and lastly, let me avow, if I did get tipsy, I liked the liquor. And why not? It is the only tipple I know of that leaves no headache the next morning to punish you for the glories of the past night. It may, like all other strong potations, it is true, induce you to make a fool of yourself when under its influence; but like the nitrous-oxide gas, its effects are passing, and as the pleasure is an ecstasy for the time, and your constitution none the worse when it is over, I really see no harm in it.
Then the benefits are manifest; for while he who gives becomes never the poorer for his benevolence, the receiver is made rich indeed. It matters little that some dear, kind friend is ready with his bitter draught to remedy what he is pleased to call its unwholesome sweetness; you betake yourself with only the more pleasure to the “blessed elixir,” whose fascinations neither the poverty of your pocket, nor the penury of your brain, can withstand, and by the magic of whose spell you are great and gifted. “Vive la bagatelle!” saith the Frenchman. “Long live flattery!” say I, come from what quarter it will,—the only wealth of the poor man, the only reward of the unknown one; the arm that supports us in failure; the hand that crowns us in success; the comforter in our affliction; the gay companion in our hours of pleasure; the lullaby of the infant; the staff of old age; the secret treasure we lock up in our own hearts, and which ever grows greater as we count it over. Let me not be told that the coin is fictitious, and the gold not genuine; its clink is as musical to the ear as though it bore the last impression of the mint, and I’m not the man to cast an aspersion upon its value.
This little digression, however seemingly out of place, may serve to illustrate what it might be difficult to convey in other words,—namely, that if Charles O’Malley became, in his own estimation, a very considerable personage that day at dinner, the fault lay not entirely with himself, but with his friends, who told him he was such. In fact, my good reader, I was the lion of the party, the man who saved Laborde, who charged through a brigade of guns, who performed feats which newspapers quoted, though he never heard of them himself. At no time is a man so successful in society as when his reputation heralds him; and it needs but little conversational eloquence to talk well, if you have but a willing and ready auditory. Of mine, I could certainly not complain; and as, drinking deeply, I poured forth a whole tide of campaigning recital, I saw the old colonels of recruiting districts exchanging looks of wonder and admiration with officers of the ordnance; while Sir George himself, evidently pleased at mydébut, went back to an early period of our acquaintance, and related the rescue of his daughter in Galway.
In an instant the whole current of my thoughts was changed. My first meeting with Lucy, my boyhood’s dream of ambition, my plighted faith, my thought of our last parting in Dublin, when, in a moment of excited madness, I told my tale of love. I remembered her downcast look, as her cheek now flushing, now growing pale, she trembled while I spoke. I thought of her, as in the crash of battle her image flashed across my brain, and made me feel a rush of chivalrous enthusiasm to win her heart by “doughty deeds.”
I forgot all around and about me. My head reeled, the wine, the excitement, my long previous illness, all pressed upon me; and as my temples throbbed loudly and painfully, a chaotic rush of discordant, ill-connected ideas flitted across my mind. There seemed some stir and confusion in the room, but why or wherefore I could not think, nor could I recall my scattered senses, till Sir George Dashwood’s voice roused me once again to consciousness.
“We are going to have some coffee, O’Malley. Miss Dashwood expects us in the drawing-room. You have not seen her yet?”
I know not my reply; but he continued:—
“She has some letters for you, I think.”
I muttered something, and suffered him to pass on; no sooner had he done so, however, than I turned towards the door, and rushed into the street. The cold night air suddenly recalled me to myself, and I stood for a moment endeavoring to collect myself; as I did so, a servant stopped, and saluting me, presented me with a letter. For a second, a cold chill came over me; I knew not what fear beset me. The letter, I at last remembered, must be that one alluded to by Sir George, so I took it in silence, and walked on.
THE LETTER.
As I hurried to my quarters, I made a hundred guesses from whom the letter could have come; a kind of presentiment told me that it bore, in some measure, upon the present crisis of my life, and I burned with anxiety to read it.
No sooner had I reached the light, than all my hopes on this head vanished; the envelope bore the well-known name of my old college chum, Frank Webber, and none could, at the moment, have more completely dispelled all chance of interesting me. I threw it from me with disappointment, and sat moodily down to brood over my fate.
At length, however, and almost without knowing it, I drew the lamp towards me, and broke the seal. The reader being already acquainted with my amiable friend, there is the less indiscretion in communicating the contents, which ran thus:—
TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN, No. 2,October 5, 1810.My Dear O’Malley,—Nothing short of your death and burial,with or without military honors, can possibly excuse your verydisgraceful neglect of your old friends here. Nesbitt has neverheard of you, neither has Smith. Ottley swears never to have seenyour handwriting, save on the back of a protested bill. You havetotally forgottenme, and the dean informs me that you have nevercondescended a single line to him; which latter inquiry on my partnearly cost me a rustication.A hundred conjectures to account for your silence—a new featurein you since you were here—are afloat. Some assert that yoursoldiering has turned your head, and that you are above correspondingwith civilians. Your friends, however, who know you better andvalue your worth, think otherwise; and having seen a paragraphabout a certain O’Malley being tried by court-martial for stealing agoose, and maltreating the woman that owned it, ascribe your notwriting to other motives. Do, in any case, relieve our minds; say,is it yourself, or only a relative that’s mentioned?Herbert came over from London with a long story about yourdoing wonderful things,—capturing cannon and general officers byscores,—but devil a word of it is extant; and if you have reallycommitted these acts, they have “misused the king’s press damnably,”for neither in the “Times” nor the “Post” are you heard of.Answer this point, and say also if you have got promotion; for whatprecise sign you are algebraically expressed by at this writing, mayserve Fitzgerald for a fellowship question. As for us, we are joggingalong,semper eadem,—that is, worse and worse. Dear CecilCavendish, our gifted friend, slight of limb and soft of voice, hasbeen rusticated for immersing four bricklayers in that greenreceptacle of stagnant water and duckweed, yeleped the “Haha.”Roper, equally unlucky, has taken to reading for honors, and obtaineda medal, I fancy,—at least his friends shy him, and it must besomething of that kind. Belson—poor Belson (fortunately for him hewas born in the nineteenth, not the sixteenth century, or he’d be mostlikely ornamenting a pile of fagots) ventured upon some strayexcursions into the Hebrew verbs,—the professor himself never havingtransgressed beyond the declensions, and the consequence is, he isin disgrace among the seniors. And as for me, a heavy charge hangsover my devoted head even while I write. The senior lecturer, itappears, has been for some time instituting some very singularresearches into the original state of our goodly college at itsfounding. Plans and specifications showing its extent and magnificencehave been continually before the board for the last month; and in suchrepute have been a smashed door-sill or an old arch, that freshmenhave now abandoned conic sections for crowbars, and instead of the“Principia” have taken up the pickaxe. You know, my dear fellow,with what enthusiasm I enter into any scheme for the aggrandizementof our Alma Mater, so I need not tell you how ardently Iadventured into the career now opened to me. My time was completelydevoted to the matter; neither means nor health did I spare,and in my search for antiquarian lore, I have actually underminedthe old wall of the fellows’ garden, and am each morning in expectationof hearing that the big bell near the commons-hall has descendedfrom its lofty and most noisy eminence, and is snugly reposing inthe mud. Meanwhile accident put me in possession of a mostsingular and remarkable discovery. Our chambers—I call themours for old association sake—are, you may remember, in the OldSquare. Well, I have been fortunate enough, within the very precinctsof my own dwelling, to contribute a very wonderful fact to thehistory of the University; alone, unassisted, unaided, I laboredat my discovery. Few can estimate the pleasure I felt, the fameand reputation I anticipated. I drew up a little memoir for theboard, most respectfully and civilly worded, having for title thefollowing:—ACCOUNTOf a remarkable Subterranean Passage lately discovered in theOld Building of Trinity College, Dublin;With Observations upon its Extent, Antiquity, and Probable Use.By F. WEBBER, Senior Freshman.My dear O’Malley, I’ll not dwell upon the pride I felt in my newcharacter of antiquarian; it is enough to state, that my veryremarkable tract was well considered and received, and a commissionappointed to investigate the discovery, consisting of thevice-provost, the senior lecturer, old Woodhouse, the sub-dean, anda few more.On Tuesday last they came accordingly in full academic costume.I, being habited most accurately in the like manner, conductedthem with all form into my bed-room, where a large screen concealedfrom view the entrance to the tunnel alluded to. Assuming a veryJohn Kembleish attitude, I struck this down with one hand, pointingwith the other to the wall, as I exclaimed, “There! lookthere!”I need only quote Barret’s exclamation to enlighten you upon mydiscovery as, drawing in his breath with a strong effort, he burstout:—“May the Devil admire me, but it’s a rat-hole!”I fear, Charley, he’s right, and what’s more, that the board willthink so, for this moment a very warm discussion is going on amongthat amiable and learned body whether I shall any longer remain anornament to the University. In fact, the terror with which theyfled from my chambers, overturning each other in the passage,seemed to imply that they thought me mad, and I do believe myvoice, look, and attitude would not have disgraced a blue cottondressing-gown and a cell in “Swift’s.” Be this as it may, few menhave done more for college than I have. The sun never stood stillfor Joshua with more resolution than I have rested in my career offreshman; and if I have contributed little to the fame, I have donemuch for the funds of the University; and when they come to computethe various sums I have paid in, for fines, penalties, and whatthey call properly “impositions,” if they don’t place a portrait of mein the examination hall, between Archbishop Ussher and Flood, thendo I say there is no gratitude in mankind; not to mention the impulseI have given to the various artisans whose business it is torepair lamps, windows, chimneys, iron railings, and watchmen, allof which I have devoted myself to with an enthusiasm for politicaleconomy well known, and registered in the College Street police-office.After all, Charley, I miss you greatly. Your second in a ballad isnot to be replaced; besides, Carlisle Bridge has got low; medicalstudents and young attorneys affect minstrelsy, and actually frequentthe haunts sacred to our muse.Dublin is, upon the whole, I think, worse; though one scarcelyever gets tired laughing at the small celebrities—
Master Frank gets here indiscreet, so I shall skip.
And so the Dashwoods are going too; this will make mine apitiable condition, for I really did begin to feel tender in thatquarter. You may have heard that she refused me; this, however, is notcorrect, though I have little doubt it might have been,—had Iasked her.Hammersley has, you know, got his dismissal. I wonder how thepoor fellow took it when Power gave him back his letters and hispicture. Howyouare to be treated remains to be seen; in anycase, you certainly stand first favorite.
I laid down the letter at this passage, unable to read farther. Here, then, was the solution of the whole chaos of mystery; here the full explanation of what had puzzled my aching brain for many a night long. These were the very letters I had myself delivered into Hammersley’s hands; this the picture he had trodden to dust beneath his heel the morning of our meeting. I now felt the reason of his taunting allusion to my “success,” his cutting sarcasm, his intemperate passion. A flood of light poured at once across all the dark passages of my history; and Lucy, too,—dare I think of her! A rapid thought shot through my brain. What if she had really cared for me! What if for me she had rejected another’s love! What if, trusting to my faith, my pledged and sworn faith, she had given me her heart! Oh, the bitter agony of that thought! To think that all my hopes were shipwrecked with the very land in sight.
I sprang to my feet with some sudden impulse, but as I did so the blood rushed madly to my face and temples, which beat violently; a parched and swollen feeling came about my throat; I endeavored to open my collar and undo my stock, but my disabled arm prevented me. I tried to call my servant, but my utterance was thick and my words would not come; a frightful suspicion crossed me that my reason was tottering. I made towards the door; but as I did so, the objects around me became confused and mingled, my limbs trembled, and I fell heavily upon the floor. A pang of dreadful pain shot through me as I fell; my arm was rebroken. After this I knew no more; all the accumulated excitement of the evening bore down with one fell swoop upon my brain. Ere day broke, I was delirious.
I have a vague and indistinct remembrance of hurried and anxious faces around my bed, of whispered words and sorrowful looks; but my own thoughts careered over the bold hills of the far west as I trod them in my boyhood, free and high of heart, or recurred to the din and crash of the battle-field, with the mad bounding of the war-horse, and the loud clang of the trumpet. Perhaps the acute pain of my swollen and suffering arm gave the character to my mental aberration; for I have more than once observed among the wounded in battle, that even when torn and mangled by grape from a howitzer, their ravings have partaken of a high feature of enthusiasm,—shouts of triumph and exclamations of pleasure, even songs have I heard, but never once the low muttering of despair or the half-stifled cry of sorrow and affliction.
Such were the few gleams of consciousness which visited me; and even to such as these I soon became insensible.
Few like to chronicle, fewer still to read, the sad history of a sick-bed. Of mine, I know but little. The throbbing pulses of the erring brain, the wild fancies of lunacy, take no note of time. There is no past nor future; a dreadful present, full of its hurried and confused impressions, is all that the mind beholds; and even when some gleams of returning reason flash upon the mad confusion of the brain, they come like sunbeams through a cloud, dimmed, darkened, and perverted.
It is the restless activity of the mind in fever that constitutes its most painful anguish; the fast-flitting thoughts that rush ever onwards, crowding sensation on sensation, an endless train of exciting images without purpose or repose; or even worse, the straining effort to pursue some vague and shadowy conception which evades us ever as we follow, but which mingles with all around and about us, haunting us at midnight as in the noontime. Of this nature was a vision which came constantly before me, till at length, by its very recurrence, it assumed a kind of real and palpable existence; and as I watched it, my heart thrilled with the high ardor of enthusiasm and delight, or sunk into the dark abyss of sorrow and despair. “The dawning of morning, the daylight sinking,” brought no other image to my aching sight; and of this alone, of all the impressions of the period, has my mind retained any consciousness.
Methought I stood within an old and venerable cathedral, where the dim yellow light fell with a rich but solemn glow upon the fretted capitals, or the grotesque tracings of the oaken carvings, lighting up the fading gildings of the stately monuments, and tinting the varied hues of time-worn banners. The mellow notes of a deep organ filled the air, and seemed to attune the sense to all the awe and reverence of the place, where the very footfall, magnified by its many echoes, seemed half a profanation. I stood before an altar, beside me a young and lovely girl, whose bright brown tresses waved in loose masses upon a neck of snowy whiteness; her hand, cold and pale, rested within my own; we knelt together, not in prayer, but a feeling of deep reverence stole over my heart, as she repeated some few half-uttered words after me; I knew that she was mine. Oh, the ecstasy of that moment, as, springing to my feet, I darted forward to press her to my heart! When, suddenly, an arm was interposed between us, while a low but solemn voice rang in my ears, “Stir not; for thou art false and traitorous, thy vow a perjury, and thy heart a lie!” Slowly and silently the fair form of my loved Lucy—for it was her—receded from my sight. One look, one last look of sorrow—it was scarce reproach—fell upon me, and I sank back upon the cold pavement, broken-hearted and forsaken.
This dream came with daybreak, and with the calm repose of evening; the still hours of the waking night brought no other image to my eyes, and when its sad influence had spread a gloom and desolation over my wounded heart, a secret hope crept over me, that again the bright moment of happiness would return, and once more beside that ancient altar I’d kneel beside my bride, and call her mine.
For the rest, my memory retains but little; the kind looks which came around my bedside brought but a brief pleasure, for in their affectionate beaming I could read the gloomy prestige of my fate. The hurried but cautious step, the whispered sentences, the averted gaze of those who sorrowed for me, sunk far deeper into my heart than my friends then thought of. Little do they think, who minister to the sick or dying, how each passing word, each flitting glance is noted, and how the pale and stilly figure which lies all but lifeless before them counts over the hours he has to live by the smiles or tears around him!
Hours, days, weeks rolled over, and still my fate hung in the balance; and while in the wild enthusiasm of my erring faculties, I wandered far in spirit from my bed of suffering and pain, some well-remembered voice beside me would strike upon my ear, bringing me back, as if by magic, to all the realities of life, and investing my almost unconscious state with all the hopes and fears about me.
One by one, at length, these fancies fled from me, and to the delirium of fever succeeded the sad and helpless consciousness of illness, far, far more depressing; for as the conviction of sense came back, the sorrowful aspect of a dreary future came with it.
THE VILLA.
The gentle twilight of an autumnal evening, calm, serene, and mellow, was falling as I opened my eyes to consciousness of life and being, and looked around me. I lay in a large and handsomely-furnished apartment, in which the hand of taste was as evident in all the decorations as the unsparing employment of wealth; the silk draperies of my bed, the inlaid tables, the ormolu ornaments which glittered upon the chimney, were one by one so many puzzles to my erring senses, and I opened and shut my eyes again and again, and essayed by every means in my power to ascertain if they were not the visionary creations of a fevered mind. I stretched out my hands to feel the objects; and even while holding the freshly-plucked flowers in my grasp I could scarce persuade myself that they were real. A thrill of pain at this instant recalled me to other thoughts, and I turned my eyes upon my wounded arm, which, swollen and stiffened, lay motionless beside me. Gradually, my memory came back, and to my weak faculties some passages of my former life were presented, not collectedly it is true, nor in any order, but scattered, isolated scenes. While such thoughts flew past, my ever-rising question to myself was, “Where am I now?” The vague feeling which illness leaves upon the mind, whispered to me of kind looks and soft voices; and I had a dreamy consciousness about me of being watched and cared for, but wherefore, or by whom, I knew not.
From a partly open door which led into a garden, a mild and balmy air fanned my temples and soothed my heated brow; and as the light curtain waved to and fro with the breeze, the odor of the rose and the orange-tree filled the apartment.
There is something in the feeling of weakness which succeeds to long illness of the most delicious and refined enjoyment. The spirit emerging as it were from the thraldom of its grosser prison, rises high and triumphant above the meaner thoughts and more petty ambitions of daily life. Purer feelings, more ennobling hopes succeed; and dreams of our childhood, mingling with our promises for the future, make up an ideal existence in which the low passions and cares of ordinary life enter not or are forgotten. ‘Tis then we learn to hold converse with ourselves; ‘tis then we ask how has our manhood performed the promises of its youth, or have our ripened prospects borne out the pledges of our boyhood? ‘Tis then, in the calm justice of our lonely hearts, we learn how our failures are but another name for our faults, and that what we looked on as the vicissitudes of fortune are but the fruits of our own vices. Alas, how short-lived are such intervals! Like the fitful sunshine in the wintry sky, they throw one bright and joyous tint over the dark landscape: for a moment the valley and the mountain-top are bathed in a ruddy glow; the leafless tree and the dark moss seem to feel a touch of spring; but the next instant it is past; the lowering clouds and dark shadows intervene, and the cold blast, the moaning wind, and the dreary waste are once more before us.
I endeavored to recall the latest events of my career, but in vain; the real and the visionary were inextricably mingled, and the scenes of my campaigns were blended with hopes and fears and doubts which had no existence save in my dreams. My curiosity to know where I was grew now my strongest feeling, and I raised myself with one arm to look around me. In the room all was still and silent, but nothing seemed to intimate what I sought for. As I looked, however, the wind blew back the curtain which half-concealed the sash-door, and disclosed to me the figure of a man seated at a table; his back was towards me, but his broad sombrero hat and brown mantle bespoke his nation; the light blue curl of smoke which wreathed gently upwards, and the ample display of long-necked, straw-wrapped flasks, also attested that he was enjoying himself with true Peninsular gusto, having probably partaken of a long siesta.
It was a perfect picture in its way of the indolent luxury of the South,—the rich and perfumed flowers, half-closing to the night air, but sighing forth a perfumedbuonas nochesas they betook themselves to rest; the slender shadows of the tall shrubs, stretching motionless across the walks; the very attitude of the figure himself was in keeping as supported by easy chairs he lounged at full length, raising his head ever and anon as if to watch the wreath of eddying smoke as it rose upwards from his cigar and melted away in the distance.
Mr. Free Turned Spaniard.
“Yes”, thought I, as I looked for some time, “such is the very type of his nation. Surrounded by every luxury of climate, blessed with all that earth can offer of its best and fairest, and yet only using such gifts as mere sensual gratifications.” Starting with this theme, I wove a whole story for the unknown personage whom, in my wandering fancy, I began by creating a grandee of Portugal, invested with rank honors, and riches; but who, effeminated by the habits and usages of his country, had become the mere idle voluptuary, living a life of easy and inglorious indolence. My further musings were interrupted at this moment for the individual to whom I had been so complimentary in my revery, slowly arose from his recumbent position, flung his loose mantle carelessly across his left shoulder, and pushing open the sash-door, entered my chamber. Directing his steps to a large mirror, he stood for some minutes contemplating himself with what, from his attitude, I judged to be no small satisfaction. Though his back was still towards me, and the dim twilight of the room too uncertain to see much, yet I could perceive that he was evidently admiring himself in the glass. Of this fact I had soon the most complete proof; for as I looked, he slowly raised his broad-leafed Spanish hat with an air of most imposing pretension, and bowed reverently to himself.
“Come sta vostra senoria?” said he.
The whole gesture and style of this proceeding struck me as so ridiculous, that in spite of all my efforts I could scarcely repress a laugh. He turned quickly round and approached the bed. The deep shadow of the sombrero darkened the upper part of his features, but I could distinguish a pair of fierce-looking mustaches beneath, which curled upwards towards his eyes, while a stiff point beard stuck straight from his chin. Fearing lest my rude interruption had been overheard, I was framing some polite speech in Portuguese, when he opened the dialogue by asking in that language how I did.
I replied, and was about to ask some questions relative to where, and under whose protection I then was, when my grave-looking friend, giving a pirouette upon one leg, sent his hat flying into the air, and cried out in a voice that not even my memory could fail to recognize,—
“By the rock of Cashel he’s cured!—he’s cured!—the fever’s over! Oh, Master Charles, dear! oh, Master, darling, and you ain’t mad, after all?”
“Mad! no, faith! but I shrewdly suspect you must be.”
“Oh, devil a taste! But spake to me, honey; spake to me, acushla!”
“Where am I? Whose house is this? What do you mean by that disguise, that beard—”
“Whisht, I’ll tell you all, av you have patience? But are you cured? Tell me that first. Sure they was going to cut the arm off you, till you got out of bed, and with your pistols, sent them flying, one out of the window and the other down-stairs; and I bate the little chap with the saw myself till he couldn’t know himself in the glass.”
While Mike ran on at this rate, I never took my eyes from him, and it was all my poor faculties were equal to, to convince myself that the whole scene was not some vision of a wandering intellect. Gradually, however, the well-known features recalled me to myself, and as my doubts gave way at length, I laughed long and heartily at the masquerade absurdity of his appearance.
Mike, meanwhile, whose face expressed no small mistrust at the sincerity of my mirth, having uncloaked himself, proceeded to lay aside his beard and mustaches, saying, as he did so,—
“There now, darling; there now, Master, dear,—don’t be grinning that way,—I’ll not be a Portigee any more, av you’ll be quiet and listen to reason.”
“But, Mike, where am I? Answer me that one question.”
“You’re at home, dear; where else would you be?”
“At home?” said I, with a start, as my eye ranged over the various articles of luxury and elegance around, so unlike the more simple and unpretending features of my uncle’s house,—“at home?”
“Ay, just so; sure, isn’t it the same thing. It’s ould Don Emanuel that owns it; and won’t it be your own when you’re married to that lovely crayture herself?”
I started up, and placing my hand upon my throbbing temples, asked myself if I were really awake, or if some flight of fancy had not carried me away beyond the bounds of reason and sense. “Go on, go on!” said I, at length, in a hollow voice, anxious to gather from his words something like a clew to this mystery. “How did this happen?”
“Av ye mean how you came here, faith, it was just this way. After you got the fever, and beat the doctors, devil a one would go near you but myself and the major.”
“The major,—Major Monsoon?”
“No, Major Power himself. Well, he told your friends up here how it was going very hard with you, and that you were like to die; and the same evening they sent down a beautiful litter, as like a hearse as two peas, for you, and brought you up here in state,—devil a thing was wanting but a few people to raise the cry to make it as fine a funeral as ever I seen. And sure, I set up a whillilew myself in the Black Horse Square, and the devils only laughed at me.
“Well, you see they put you into a beautiful, elegant bed, and the young lady herself sat down beside you, betune times fanning you with a big fan, and then drying her eyes, for she was weeping like a waterfall. ‘Don Miguel,’ says she to me,—for ye see, I put your cloak on by mistake when I was leaving the quarters,—‘Don Miguel, questa hidalgo é vostro amigo?’
“‘My most particular friend,’ says I; ‘God spare him many years to be so.’
“‘Then take up your quarters here,’ says she, ‘and don’t leave him; we’ll do everything in our power to make you comfortable.’
“‘I’m not particular,’ says I; ‘the run of the house—’
“Then this is the Villa Nuova?” said I, with a faint sigh.
“The same,” replied Mike; “and a sweet place it is for eating and drinking,—for wine in buckets full, av ye axed for it, for dancing and singing every evening, with as pretty craytures as ever I set eyes upon. Upon my conscience, it’s as good as Galway; and good manners it is they have. What’s more, none of your liberties or familiarities with strangers; but it’s Don Miguel, devil a less. ‘Don Miguel, av it’s plazing to you to take a drop of Xeres before your meat?’ or, ‘Would you have a shaugh of a pipe or cigar when you’re done?’ That’s the way of it.”
“And Sir George Dashwood,” said I, “has he been here? Has he inquired for me?”
“Every day either himself or one of the staff comes galloping up at luncheon time to ask after you; and then they have a bit of tender discourse with the senhora herself. Oh, devil a bit need ye fear them, she’s true blue; and it isn’t the major’s fault,—upon my conscience it isn’t,—for he does be coming the blarney over her in beautiful style.”
“Does Miss Dashwood ever visit here?” said I, with a voice faltering and uncertain enough to have awakened suspicion in a more practised observer.
“Never once; and that’s what I call unnatural behavior, after you saving her life; and if she wasn’t—”
“Be silent, I say.”
“Well, well, there, I won’t say any more; and sure it’s time for me to be putting on my beard again. I’m going to the Casino with Catrina, and sure it’s with real ladies I might be going av it wasn’t for Major Power, that told them I wasn’t a officer; but it’s all right again. I gave them a great history of the Frees from the time of Cuilla na Toole, that was one of the family and a cousin of Moses, I believe; and they behave well to one that comes from an ould stock.”
“Don Miguel! Don Miguel!” said a voice from the garden.
“I’m coming, my angel! I’m coming, my turtle-dove!” said Mike, arranging his mustaches and beard with amazing dexterity. “Ah, but it would do your heart good av you could take a peep at us about twelve o’clock, dancing ‘Dirty James’ for a bolero, and just see Miss Catrina, the lady’s maid, doing ‘cover the buckle’ as neat as Nature. There now, there’s the lemonade near your hand, and I’ll leave you the lamp, and you may go asleep as soon as you please, for Miss Inez won’t come in to-night to play the guitar, for the doctor said it might do you harm now.”
So saying, and before I could summon presence of mind to ask another question, Don Miguel wrapped himself in the broad folds of his Spanish cloak, and strode from the room with the air of an hidalgo.
I slept but little that night; the full tide of memory, rushing in upon me, brought back the hour of my return to Lisbon and the wreck of all my hopes, which from the narrative of my servant I now perceived to be complete. I dare not venture upon recording how many plans suggested themselves to my troubled spirit, and were in turn rejected. To meet Lucy Dashwood; to make a full and candid declaration; to acknowledge that flirtation alone with Donna Inez (a mere passing, boyish flirtation) had given the coloring to my innocent passion, and that in heart and soul I was hers, and hers only,—this was my first resolve; but alas! if I had not courage to sustain a common interview, to meet her in the careless crowd of a drawing-room, what could I do under circumstances like these? Besides, the matter would be cut very short by her coolly declaring that she had neither right nor inclination to listen to such a declaration. The recollection of her look as she passed me to her carriage came flashing across my brain and decided this point. No, no! I’ll not encounter that; however appearances for the moment had been against me, she should not have treated me thus coldly and disdainfully. It was quite clear she had never cared for me,—wounded pride had been her only feeling; and so as I reasoned I ended by satisfying myself that in that quarter all was at end forever.
Now then for dilemma number two, I thought. The senhora, my first impulse was one of anything but gratitude to her by whose kind, tender care my hours of pain and suffering had been soothed and alleviated. But for her, I should have been spared all my present embarrassment, all my shipwrecked fortunes; but for her I should now be the aide-de-camp residing in Sir George Dashwood’s own house, meeting with Lucy every hour of the day, dining beside her, riding out with her, pressing my suit by every means and with every advantage of my position; but for her and her dark eyes—and, by-the-bye, what eyes they are! how full of brilliancy, yet how teeming with an expression of soft and melting sweetness; and her mouth, too, how perfectly chiselled those full lips,—how different from the cold, unbending firmness of Miss Dashwood’s! Not but I have seen Lucy smile too, and what a sweet smile! How it lighted up her fair cheek, and made her blue eyes darken and deepen till they looked like heaven’s own vault. Yes, there is more poetry in a blue eye. But still Inez is a very lovely girl, and her foot never was surpassed. She is a coquette, too, about that foot and ankle,—I rather like a woman to be so. What a sensation she would make in England; how she would be the rage! And then I thought of home and Galway, and the astonishment of some, the admiration of others, as I presented her as my wife,—the congratulations of my friends, the wonder of the men, the tempered envy of the women. Methought I saw my uncle, as he pressed her in his arms, say, “Yes, Charley, this is a prize worth campaigning for.”
The stray sounds of a guitar which came from the garden broke in upon my musings at this moment. It seemed as if a finger was straying heedlessly across the strings. I started up, and to my surprise perceived it was Inez. Before I had time to collect myself, a gentle tap at the window aroused me; it opened softly, while from an unseen hand a bouquet of fresh flowers was thrown upon my bed. Before I could collect myself to speak, the sash closed again and I was alone.