THE VISIT.
Mike’s performances at the masquerade had doubtless been of the most distinguished character, and demanded a compensating period of repose, for he did not make his appearance the entire morning. Towards noon, however, the door from the garden gently opened, and I heard a step upon the stone terrace, and something which sounded to my ears like the clank of a sabre. I lifted my head, and saw Fred Power beside me.
I shall spare my readers the recital of my friend, which, however, more full and explanatory of past events, contained in reality little more than Mickey Free had already told me. In fine, he informed me that our army, by a succession of retreating movements, had deserted the northern provinces, and now occupied the intrenched lines of Torres Vedras. That Massena, with a powerful force, was still in march, reinforcements daily pouring in upon him, and every expectation pointing to the probability that he would attempt to storm our position.
“The wise-heads,” remarked Power, “talk of our speedy embarkation, the sanguine and the hot-brained rave of a great victory and the retreat of Massena; but I was up at headquarters last week with despatches, and saw Lord Wellington myself.”
“Well, what did you make out? Did he drop any hint of his own views?”
“Faith, I can’t say he did. He asked me some questions about the troops just landed; he spoke a little of the commissary department, damned the blankets, said that green forage was bad food for the artillery horses, sent me an English paper to read about the O. P. riots, and said the harriers would throw off about six o’clock, and that he hoped to see me at dinner.”
I could not restrain a laugh at Power’s catalogue of his lordship’s topics. “So,” said I, “he at least does not take any gloomy views of our present situation.”
“Who can tell what he thinks? He’s ready to fight if fighting will do anything, and to retreat, if that be better. But that he’ll sleep an hour less, or drink a glass of claret more—come what will of it—I’ll believe from no man living.
“We’ve lost one gallant thing in any case, Charley,” resumed Power. “Busaco was, I’m told, a glorious day, and our people were in the heat of it. So that, if we do leave the Peninsula now, that will be a confounded chagrin. Not for you, my poor fellow, for you could not stir; but I was so cursed foolish to take the staff appointment,—thus one folly ever entails another.”
There was a tone of bitterness in which these words were uttered that left no doubt upon my mind somearrière penséeremained lurking behind them. My eyes met his; he bit his lip, and coloring deeply, rose from the chair, and walked towards the window.
The chance allusion of my man Mike flashed upon me at the moment, and I dared not trust myself to break silence. I now thought I could trace in my friend’s manner less of that gay and careless buoyancy which ever marked him. There was a tone, it seemed, of more grave and sombre character, and even when he jested, the smile his features bore was not his usual frank and happy one, and speedily gave way to an expression I had never before remarked. Our silence which had now lasted for some minutes was becoming embarrassing; that strange consciousness that, to a certain extent, we were reading each other’s thoughts, made us both cautious of breaking it; and when at length, turning abruptly round, he asked, “When I hoped to be up and about again?” I felt my heart relieved from I knew not well what load of doubt and difficulty that oppressed it. We chatted on for some little time longer, the news of Lisbon, and the daily gossip finishing our topics.
“Plenty of gayety, Charley, dinners and balls to no end! so get well, my boy, and make the most of it.”
“Yes,” I replied, “I’ll do my best; but be assured the first use I’ll make of health will be to join the regiment. I am heartily ashamed of myself for all I have lost already,—though not altogether my fault.”
“And will you really join at once?” said Power, with a look of eager anxiety I could not possibly account for.
“Of course I will; what have I, what can I have to detain me here?”
What reply he was about to make at this moment I know not, but the door opened, and Mike announced Sir George Dashwood.
“Gently, my worthy man, not so loud, if you please?” said the mild voice of the general, as he stepped noiselessly across the room, evidently shocked at the indiscreet tone of my follower. “Ah, Power, you here! and our poor friend, how is he?”
“Able to answer for himself at last, Sir George,” said I, grasping his proffered hand.
“My poor lad! you’ve had a long bout of it; but you’ve saved your arm, and that’s well worth the lost time. Well, I’ve come to bring you good news; there’s been a very sharp cavalry affair, and our fellows have been the conquerors.”
“There again, Power,—listen to that! We are losing everything!”
“Not so, not so, my boy,” said Sir George, smiling blandly, but archly. “There are conquests to be won here, as well as there; and in your present state, I rather think you better fitted for such as these.”
Power’s brow grew clouded; he essayed a smile, but it failed, and he rose and hurried towards the window.
As for me, my confusion must have led to a very erroneous impression of my real feelings, and I perceived Sir George anxious to turn the channel of the conversation.
“You see but little of your host, O’Malley,” he resumed; “he is ever from home; but I believe nothing could be kinder than his arrangements for you. You are aware that he kidnapped you from us? I had sent Forbes over to bring you to us; your room was prepared, everything in readiness, when he met your man Mike, setting forth upon a mule, who told him you had just taken your departure for the villa. We both had our claim upon you and, I believe, pretty much on the same score. By-the-bye, you have not seen Lucy since your arrival. I never knew it till yesterday, when I asked if she did not find you altered.”
I blundered out some absurd reply, blushed, corrected myself, and got confused. Sir George attributing this, doubtless, to my weak state, rose soon after, and taking Power along with him, remarked as he left the room,—
“We are too much for him yet, I see that; so we’ll leave him quiet some time longer.”
Thanking him in my heart for his true appreciation of my state, I sank back upon my pillow to think over all I had heard and seen.
“Well, Mister Charles,” said Mike as he came forward with a smile, “I suppose you heard the news? The Fourteenth bate the French down at Merca there, and took seventy prisoners; but sure it’s little good it’ll do, after all.”
“And why not, Mike?”
“Musha! isn’t Boney coming himself? He’s bringing all the Roossians down with him, and going to destroy us entirely.”
“Not at all, man; you mistake. He’s nothing to do with Russia, and has quite enough on his hands at this moment.”
“God grant it was truth you were talking! But, you see, I read it myself in the papers (or Sergeant Haggarty did, which is the same thing) that he’s coming with the Cusacks.”
“With who?—with what?”
“With the Cusacks.”
“What the devil do you mean? Who are they?”
“Oh, Tower of Ivory! did you never hear of the Cusacks, with the red beards and the red breeches and long poles with pike-heads on them, that does all the devilment on horseback,—spiking and spitting the people like larks?”
“The Cossacks, is it, you mean? The Cossacks?”
“Ay, just so, the Cusacks. They’re from Clare Island, and thereabouts; and there’s more of them in Meath. They’re my mother’s people, and was always real devils for fighting.”
I burst out into an immoderate fit of laughing at Mike’s etymology, which thus converted Hetman Platoff into a Galway man.
“Oh, murder! isn’t it cruel to hear you laugh that way! There now, alanna! be asy, and I’ll tell you more news. We’ve the house to ourselves to-day. The ould gentleman’s down at Behlem, and the daughter’s in Lisbon, making great preparations for a grand ball they’re to give when you are quite well.”
“I hope I shall be with the army in a few days, Mike; and certainly, if I’m able to move about, I’ll not remain longer in Lisbon.”
“Arrah, don’t say so, now! When was you ever so comfortable? Upon my conscience, it’s more like Paradise than anything else. If ye see the dinner we sit down to every day; and as for drink,—if it wasn’t that I sleep on a ground-floor, I’d seldom see a blanket!”
“Well, certainly, Mike, I agree with you, these are hard things to tear ourselves away from.”
“Aren’t they now, sir? And then Miss Catherine, I’m taching her Irish!”
“Teaching her Irish! for Heaven’s sake, what use can she make of Irish?”
“Ah, the crayture, she doesn’t know better; and as she was always bothering me to learn her English, I promised one day to do it; but ye see, somehow, I never was very proficient in strange tongues; so I thought to myself Irish will do as well. So, you perceive, we’re taking a course of Irish literature, as Mr. Lynch says in Athlone; and, upon my conscience, she’s an apt scholar.”
“‘Good-morning to you, Katey,’ says Mr. Power to her the other day, as he passed through the hall. ‘Good-morning, my dear; I hear you speak English perfectly now?’
“‘Honia mon diaoul,’ says she, making a curtsey.
“Be the powers, I thought he’d die with the laughing.
“‘Well, my dear, I hope you don’t mean it,—do you know what you’re saying?’
“‘Honor bright, Major!’ says I,—‘honor bright!’ and I gave him a wink at the same time.
“‘Oh, that’s it!’ said he, ‘is it!’ and so he went off holding his hands to his sides with the bare laughing; and your honor knows it wasn’t a blessing she wished him, for all that.”
THE CONFESSION.
“What a strange position this of mine!” thought I, a few mornings after the events detailed in the last chapter. “How very fascinating in some respects, how full of all the charm of romance, and how confoundly difficult to see one’s way through!”
To understand my cogitation right,figurez-vous, my dear reader, a large and splendidly furnished drawing-room, from one end of which an orangery in full blossom opens; from the other is seen a delicious little boudoir, where books, bronzes, pictures and statues, in all the artistique disorder of a lady’s sanctum, are bathed in a deep purple light from a stained glass window of the seventeenth century.
On a small table beside the wood fire, whose mellow light is flirting with the sunbeams upon the carpet, stands an antique silver breakfast-service, which none but the hand of Benvenuto could have chiselled; beside it sits a girl, young and beautiful; her dark eyes, beaming beneath their long lashes, are fixed with an expression of watchful interest upon a pale and sickly youth, who, lounging upon a sofa opposite, is carelessly turning over the leaves of a new journal, or gazing steadfastly on the fretted gothic of the ceiling, while his thoughts are travelling many a mile away. The lady being the Senhora Inez; the nonchalant invalid, your unworthy acquaintance, Charles O’Malley.
What a very strange position to be sure.
“Then you are not equal to this ball to-night?” said she, after a pause of some minutes.
I turned as she spoke; her words had struck audibly upon my ear, but, lost in my revery, I could but repeat my own fixed thought,—how strange to be so situated!
“You are really very tiresome, Signor; I assure you, you are. I have been giving you a most elegant description of the Casinofête, and the beautiful costume of our Lisbon belles, but I can get nothing from you but this muttered something, which may be very shocking for aught I know. I’m sure your friend, Major Power, would be much more attentive to me; that is,” added she, archly, “if Miss Dashwood were not present.”
“What! why! You don’t mean that there is anything there—that Tower is paying attention to—”
“Madre divina, how that seems to interest you, and how red you are! If it were not that you never met her before, and that your acquaintance did not seem to make rapid progress, then I should say you are in love with her yourself.”
I had to laugh at this, but felt my face flushing more. “And so,” said I, affecting a careless and indifferent tone, “the gay Fred Power is smitten at last!”
“Was it so very difficult a thing to accomplish?” said she, slyly.
“He seems to say so, at least. And the lady, how does she appear to receive his attentions?”
“Oh, I should say with evident pleasure and satisfaction, as all girls do the advances of men they don’t care for, nor intend to care for.”
“Indeed,” said I, slowly, “indeed, Senhora?” looking into her eyes as I spoke, as if to read if the lesson were destined for my benefit.
“There, don’t stare so!—every one knows that.”
“So you don’t think, then, that Lucy,—I mean Miss Dashwood—Why are you laughing so?”
“How can I help it; your calling her Lucy is so good, I wish she heard it; she’s the very proudest girl I ever knew.”
“But to come back; you really think she does not care for him?”
“Not more than for you; and I may be pardoned for the simile, having seen your meeting. But let me give you the news of our ownfête. Saturday is the day fixed; and you must be quite well,—I insist upon it. Miss Dashwood has promised to come,—no small concession; for after all she has never once been here since the day you frightened her. I can’t help laughing at my blunder,—the two people I had promised myself should fall desperately in love with each other, and who will scarcely meet.”
“But I trusted,” said I, pettishly, “that you were not disposed to resign your own interest in me?”
“Neither was I,” said she, with an easy smile, “except that I have so many admirers. I might even spare to my friends; though after all I should be sorry to lose you, I like you.”
“Yes,” said I half bitterly, “as girls do those they never intend to care for; is it not so?”
“Perhaps, yes, and perhaps—But is it going to rain? How provoking! and I have ordered my horse. Well, Signor Carlos, I leave you to your delightful newspaper, and all the magnificent descriptions of battles and sieges and skirmishes of which you seem doomed to pine without ceasing. There, don’t kiss my hand twice; that’s not right.”
“Well, let me begin again—”
“I shall not breakfast with you any more. But tell me, am I to order a costume for you in Lisbon; or will you arrange all that yourself? You must come to thefête, you know.”
“If you would be so very kind.”
“I will, then, be so very kind; and once more,adios.” So saying, and with a slight motion of her hand, she smiled a good-by, and left me.
“What a lovely girl!” thought I, as I rose and walked to the window, muttering to myself Othello’s line, and—
“When I love thee not, chaos is come again.”
In fact, it was the perfect expression of my feeling; the only solution to all the difficulties surrounding me, being to fall desperately, irretrievably in love with the fair senhora, which, all things considered, was not a very desperate resource for a gentleman in trouble. As I thought over the hopelessness of one attachment, I turned calmly to consider all the favorable points of the other. She was truly beautiful, attractive in every sense; her manner most fascinating, and her disposition, so far as I could pronounce, perfectly amiable. I felt already something more than interest about her; how very easy would be the transition to a stronger feeling! There was anéclat, too, about being her accepted lover that had its charm. She was the bellepar excellenceof Lisbon; and then a sense of pique crossed my mind as I reflected what would Lucy say of him whom she had slighted and insulted, when he became the husband of the beautiful millionnaire Senhora Inez?
As my meditations had reached thus far, the door opened stealthily, and Catherine appeared, her finger upon her lips, and her gesture indicating caution. She carried on her arm a mass of drapery covered by a large mantle, which throwing off as she entered, she displayed before me a rich blue domino with silver embroidery. It was large and loose in its folds, so as thoroughly to conceal the figure of any wearer. This she held up before me for an instant without speaking; when at length, seeing my curiosity fully excited, she said,—
“This is the senhora’s domino. I should be ruined if she knew I showed it; but I promised—that is, I told—”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” relieving her embarrassment about the source of her civilities; “go on.”
“Well, there are several others like it, but with this small difference, instead of a carnation, which all the others have embroidered upon the cuff, I have made it a rose,—you perceive? La Senhora knows nothing of this,—none save yourself knows it. I’m sure I may trust you with the secret.”
“Fear not in the least, Catherine; you have rendered me a great service. Let me look at it once more; ah, there’s no difficulty in detecting it. And you are certain she is unaware of it?”
“Perfectly so; she has several other costumes, but in this one I know she intends some surprise, so be upon your guard.”
With these words, carefully once more concealing the rich dress beneath the mantle, she withdrew; while I strolled forth to wonder what mystery might lie beneath this scheme, and speculate how far I myself was included in the plot she spoke of.
For the few days which succeeded, I passed my time much alone. The senhora was but seldom at home; and I remarked that Power rarely came to see me. A strange feeling of half-coolness had latterly grown between us, and instead of the open confidence we formerly indulged in when together, we appeared now rather to chat over things of mere every-day interest than of our own immediate plans and prospects. There was a kind of pre-occupation, too, in his manner that struck me; his mind seemed ever straying from the topics he talked of to something remote, and altogether, he was no longer the frank and reckless dragoon I had ever known him. What could be the meaning of this change? Had he found out by any accident that I was to blame in my conduct towards Lucy; had any erroneous impression of my interview with her reached his ears? This was most improbable; besides, there was nothing in that to draw down his censure or condemnation, however represented; and was it that he was himself in love with her, that, devoted heart and soul to Lucy, he regarded me as a successful rival, preferred before him! Oh, how could I have so long blinded myself to the fact! This was the true solution of the whole difficulty. I had more than once suspected this to be so; now all the circumstances of proof poured in upon me. I called to mind his agitated manner the night of my arrival in Lisbon, his thousand questions concerning the reasons of my furlough; and then, lately, the look of unfeigned pleasure with which he heard me resolve to join my regiment the moment I was sufficiently recovered. I remembered also how assiduously he pressed his intimacy with the senhora, Lucy’s dearest friend here; his continual visits at the villa; those long walks in the garden, where his very look betokened some confidential mission of the heart. Yes, there was no doubt of it, he loved Lucy Dashwood! Alas, there seemed to be no end to the complication of my misfortunes; one by one I appeared fated to lose whatever had a hold upon my affections, and to stand alone, unloved and uncared for in the world. My thoughts turned towards the senhora, but I could not deceive myself into any hope there. My own feelings were untouched, and hers I felt to be equally so. Young as I was, there was no mistaking the easy smile of coquetry, the merry laugh of flattered vanity, for a deeper and holier feeling. And then I did not wish it otherwise. One only had taught me to feel how ennobling, how elevating in all its impulses can be a deep-rooted passion for a young and beautiful girl! From her eyes alone had I caught the inspiration that made me pant for glory and distinction. I could not transfer the allegiance of my heart, since it had taught that very heart to beat high and proudly. Lucy, lost to me forever as she must be, was still more than any other woman ever could be; all the past clung to her memory, all the prestige of the future must point to it also.
And Power, why had he not trusted, why had he not confided in me? Was this like my old and tried friend? Alas! I was forgetting that in his eye I was the favored rival, and not the despised, rejected suitor.
“It is past now,” thought I, as I rose and walked into the garden; “the dream that made life a fairy tale is dispelled; the cold reality of the world is before me, and my path lies a lonely and solitary one.” My first resolution was to see Power, and relieve his mind of any uneasiness as regarded my pretentions; they existed no longer. As for me, I was no obstacle to his happiness; it was, then, but fair and honorable that I should tell him so; this done, I should leave Lisbon at once. The cavalry had for the most part been ordered to the rear; still there was always something going forward at the outposts.
The idea of active service, the excitement of a campaigning life, cheered me, and I advanced along the dark alley of the garden with a lighter and a freer heart. My resolves were not destined to meet delay; as I turned the angle of a walk, Power was before me. He was leaning against a tree, his hands crossed upon his bosom, his head bowed forward, and his whole air and attitude betokening deep reflection.
He started as I came up, and seemed almost to change color.
“Well, Charley,” said he, after a moment’s pause, “you look better this morning. How goes the arm?”
“The arm is ready for service again, and its owner most anxious for it. Do you know, Fred, I’m thoroughly weary of this life.”
“They’re little better, however, at the lines. The French are in position, but never adventure a movement; and except some few affairs at the pickets, there is really nothing to do.”
“No matter, remaining here can never serve one’s interests, and besides, I have accomplished what I came for—”
I was about to add, “the restoration of my health,” when he suddenly interrupted me, eying me fixedly as he spoke.
“Indeed! indeed! Is that so?”
“Yes,” said I, half puzzled at the tone and manner of the speech; “I can join now when I please; meanwhile, Fred, I have been thinking of you. Yes, don’t be surprised, at the very moment we met you were in my thoughts.”
I took his arm as I said this, and led him down the alley.
“We are too old and, I trust, too true friends, Fred, to have secrets from each other, and yet we have been playing this silly game for some weeks past. Now, my dear fellow, I have yours, and it is only fair justice you should have mine, and, faith, I feel you’d have discovered it long since, had your thoughts been as free as I have known them to be. Fred, you are in love; there, don’t wince, man, I know it; but hear me out. You believe me to be so also; nay, more, you think that my chances of success are better, stronger than your own; learn, then, that I have none,—absolutely none. Don’t interrupt me now, for this avowal cuts me deeply; my own heart alone knows what I suffer as I record my wrecked fortunes; but I repeat it, my hopes are at end forever; but, Fred, my boy, I cannot lose my friend too. If I have been the obstacle to your path, I am so no more. Ask me not why; it is enough that I speak in all truth and sincerity. Ere three days I shall leave this, and with it all the hopes that once beamed upon my fortunes, and all the happiness,—nay, not all, my boy, for I feel some thrill at my heart yet, as I think that I have been true to you.”
I know not what more I spoke nor how he replied to me. I felt the warm grasp of his hand, I saw his delighted smile; the words of grateful acknowledgment his lips uttered conveyed but an imperfect meaning to my ear, and I remembered no more.
The courage which sustained me for the moment sank gradually as I meditated over my avowal, and I could scarce help accusing Power of a breach of friendship for exacting a confession which, in reality, I had volunteered to give him. How Lucy herself would think of my conduct was ever occurring to my thoughts, and I felt, as I ruminated upon the conjectures it might give rise to, how much more likely a favorable opinion might now be formed of me, than when such an estimation could have crowned me with delight.
“Yes,” thought I, “she will at last learn to know him who loved her with truth and with devoted affection; and when the blight of all his hopes is accomplished, the fair fame of his fidelity will be proved. The march, the bivouac, the battle-field, are now all to me; and the campaign alone presents a prospect which may fill up the aching void that disappointed and ruined hopes have left behind them.”
How I longed for the loud call of the trumpet, the clash of the steel, the tramp of the war-horse; though the proud distinction of a soldier’s life were less to me in the distance than the mad and whirlwind passion of a charge, and the loud din of the rolling artillery.
It was only some hours after, as I sat alone in my chamber, that all the circumstances of our meeting came back clearly to my memory, and I could not help muttering to myself,—
“It is indeed a hard lot, that to cheer the heart of my friend, I must bear witness to the despair that shed darkness on my own.”
MY CHARGER.
Although I felt my heart relieved of a heavy load by the confession I had made to Power, yet still I shrank from meeting him for some days after; a kind of fear lest he should in any way recur to our conversation continually beset me, and I felt that the courage which bore me up for my first effort would desert me on the next occasion.
My determination to join my regiment was now made up, and I sent forward a resignation of my appointment to Sir George Dashwood’s staff, which I had never been in health to fulfil, and commenced with energy all my preparations for a speedy departure.
The reply to my rather formal letter was a most kind note written by himself. He regretted the unhappy cause which had so long separated us, and though wishing, as he expressed it, to have me near him, perfectly approved of my resolution.
“Active service alone, my dear boy, can ever place you in theposition you ought to occupy; and I rejoice the more at your decisionin this matter, as I feared the truth of certain reports here,which attributed to you other plans than those which a campaignsuggests. My mind is now easy on this score, and I pray you forgiveme if my congratulations aremal à propos.”
After some hints for my future management, and a promise of some letters to his friends at headquarters, he concluded:—
“As this climate does not seem to suit my daughter, I haveapplied for a change, and am in daily hope of obtaining it. Beforegoing, however, I must beg your acceptance of the charger which mygroom will deliver to your servant with this. I was so struck withhis figure and action that I purchased him before leaving Englandwithout well knowing why or wherefore. Pray let him see someservice under your auspices, which he is most unlikely to do undermine. He has plenty of bone to be a weight carrier, and they tellme also that he has speed enough for anything.”
Mike’s voice in the lawn beneath interrupted my reading farther, and on looking out, I perceived him and Sir George Dashwood’s servant standing beside a large and striking-looking horse, which they were both examining with all the critical accuracy of adepts.
“Arrah, isn’t he a darling, a real beauty, every inch of him?”
“That ‘ere splint don’t signify nothing; he aren’t the worse of it,” said the English groom.
“Of coorse it doesn’t,” replied Mike. “What a fore-hand, and the legs, clean as a whip!”
“There’s the best of him, though,” interrupted the other, patting the strong hind-quarters with his hand. “There’s the stuff to push him along through heavy ground and carry him over timber.”
“Or a stone wall,” said Mike, thinking of Galway.
My own impatience to survey my present had now brought me into the conclave, and before many minutes were over I had him saddled, and was cantering around the lawn with a spirit and energy I had not felt for months long. Some small fences lay before me, and over these he carried me with all the ease and freedom of a trained hunter. My courage mounted with the excitement, and I looked eagerly around for some more bold and dashing leap.
“You may take him over the avenue gate,” said the English groom, divining with a jockey’s readiness what I looked for; “he’ll do it, never fear him.”
Strange as my equipment was, with an undress jacket flying loosely open, and a bare head, away I went. The gate which the groom spoke of was a strongly-barred one of oak timber, nearly five feet high,—its difficulty as a leap only consisted in the winding approach, and the fact that it opened upon a hard road beyond it.
In a second or two a kind of half fear came across me. My long illness had unnerved me, and my limbs felt weak and yielding; but as I pressed into the canter, that secret sympathy between the horse and his rider shot suddenly through me, I pressed my spurs to his flanks, and dashed him at it.
Unaccustomed to such treatment, the noble animal bounded madly forward. With two tremendous plunges he sprang wildly in the air, and shaking his long mane with passion, stretched out at the gallop.
Charley Trying a Charger.
My own blood boiled now as tempestuously as his; and with a shout of reckless triumph, I rose him at the gate. Just at the instant two figures appeared before it,—the copse had concealed their approach hitherto,—but they stood now as if transfixed. The wild attitude of the horse, the not less wild cry of his rider, had deprived them for a time of all energy; and overcome by the sudden danger, they seemed rooted to the ground. What I said, spoke, begged, or imprecated, Heaven knows—not I. But they stirred not! One moment more and they must lie trampled beneath my horse’s hoofs,—he was already on his haunches for the bound,—when, wheeling half aside, I faced him at the wall. It was at least a foot higher and of solid stone masonry, and as I did so I felt that I was perilling my life to save theirs. One vigorous dash of the spur I gave him, as I lifted him to the leap. He bounded beneath it quick as lightning; still, with a spring like a rocket, he rose into the air, cleared the wall, and stood trembling and frightened on the road outside.
“Safe, by Jupiter! and splendidly done, too,” cried a voice near me, that I immediately recognized as Sir George Dashwood’s.
“Lucy, my love, look up,—Lucy, my dear, there’s no danger now. She has fainted! O’Malley, fetch some water,—fast. Poor fellow, your own nerves seem shaken. Why, you’ve let your horse go! Come here, for Heaven’s sake! Support her for an instant. I’ll fetch some water.”
It appeared to me like a dream; I leaned against the pillar of the gate; the cold and death-like features of Lucy Dashwood lay motionless upon my arm; her hand, falling heavily upon my shoulder, touched my cheek. The tramp of my horse, as he galloped onward, was the only sound that broke the silence, as I stood there, gazing steadfastly upon the pale brow and paler cheek, down which a solitary tear was slowly stealing. I knew not how the minutes passed; my memory took no note of time, but at length a gentle tremor thrilled her frame, a slight, scarce-perceptible blush colored her fair face, her lips slightly parted, and heaving a deep sigh, she looked around her. Gradually her eyes turned and met mine. Oh, the bliss unutterable of that moment! It was no longer the look of cold scorn she had given me last; the expression was one of soft and speaking gratitude. She seemed to read my very heart, and know its truth; there was a tone of deep and compassionate interest in the glance; and forgetting all,—everything that had passed,—all save my unaltered, unalterable love, I kneeled beside her, and in words burning as my own heart burned, poured out my tale of mingled sorrow and affection with all the eloquence of passion. I vindicated my unshaken faith,—reconciling the conflicting evidences with the proofs I proffered of my attachment. If my moments were measured, I spent them not idly. I called to witness how every action of my soldier’s life emanated from her; how her few and chance words had decided the character of my fate; if aught of fame or honor were my portion, to her I owed it. As, hurried onwards by my ardent hopes, I forgot Power and all about him, a step up the gravel walk came rapidly nearer, and I had but time to assume my former attitude beside Lucy as her father came up.
“Well, Charley, is she better? Oh, I see she is. Here, we have the whole household at our heels.” So saying, he pointed to a string of servants pressing eagerly forward with every species of restorative that Portuguese ingenuity has invented.
The next moment we were joined by the senhora, who, pale with fear, seemed scarcely less in need of assistance than her friend.
Amidst questions innumerable; explanations sought for on all sides; mistakes and misconceptions as to the whole occurrence,—we took our way towards the villa, Lucy walking between Sir George and Donna Inez, while I followed, leaning upon Power’s arm.
“They’ve caught him again, O’Malley,” said the general, turning half round to me; “he, too, seemed as much frightened as any of us.”
“It is time, Sir George, I should think of thanking you. I never was so mounted in my life—”
“A splendid charger, by Jove!” said Power; “but, Charley, my lad, no more feats of this nature, if you love me. No girl’s heart will stand such continual assaults as your winning horsemanship submits it to.”
I was about making some half-angry reply, when he continued: “There, don’t look sulky; I have news for you. Quill has just arrived. I met him at Lisbon; he has got leave of absence for a few days, and is coming to our masquerade here this evening.”
“This evening!” said I, in amazement; “why, is it so soon?”
“Of course it is. Have you not got all your trappings ready? The Dashwoods came out here on purpose to spend the day; but come, I’ll drive you into town. My tilbury is ready, and we’ll both look out for our costumes.” So saying, he led me along towards the house, when, after a rapid change of my toilet, we set out for Lisbon.
MAURICE.
It seemed a conceded matter between Power and myself that we should never recur to the conversation we held in the garden; and so, although we dinedtête-à-têtethat day, neither of us ventured, by any allusion the most distant, to advert to what it was equally evident was uppermost in the minds of both.
All our endeavors, therefore, to seem easy and unconcerned were in vain; a restless anxiety to seem interested about things and persons we were totally indifferent to, pervaded all our essays at conversation. By degrees, we grew weary of the parts we were acting, and each relapsed into a moody silence, thinking over his plans and projects, and totally forgetting the existence of the other.
The decanter was passed across the table without speaking, a half nod intimated the bottle was standing; and except an occasional malediction upon an intractable cigar, nothing was heard.
Such was the agreeable occupation we were engaged in, when, towards nine o’clock, the door opened, and the great Maurice himself stood before us.
“Pleasant fellows, upon my conscience, and jovial over their liquor! Confound your smoking! That may do very well in a bivouac. Let us have something warm!”
Quill’s interruption was a most welcome one to both parties, and we rejoiced with a sincere pleasure at his coming.
“What shall it be, Maurice? Port or sherry mulled, and an anchovy?”
“Or what say you to a bowl of bishop?” said I.
“Hurrah for the Church, Charley! Let us have the bishop; and not to disparage Fred’s taste, we’ll be eating the anchovy while the liquor’s concocting.”
“Well, Maurice, and now for the news. How are matters at Torres Vedras? Anything like movement in that quarter?”
“Nothing very remarkable. Massena made a reconnoissance some days since, and one of our batteries threw a shower of grape among the staff, which spoiled the procession, and sent them back in very disorderly time. Then we’ve had a few skirmishes to the front with no great results,—a few courts-martial, bad grub, and plenty of grumbling.”
“Why, what would they have? It’s a great thing to hold the French army in check within a few marches of Lisbon.”
“Charley, my man, who cares twopence for the French army or Lisbon or the Portuguese or the Junta or anything about it?—every man is pondering over his own affairs. One fellow wants to get home again, and be sent upon some recruiting station. Another wishes to get a step or two in promotion, to come to Torres Vedras, where even thegrande arméecan’t. Then some of us are in love, and some of us are in debt. Their is neither glory nor profit to be had. But here’s the bishop, smoking and steaming with an odor of nectar!”
“And our fellows, have you seen them lately?”
“I dined with yours on Tuesday. Was it Tuesday? Yes. I dined with them. By-the-bye, Sparks was taken prisoner that morning.”
“Sparks taken prisoner! Poor fellow. I am sincerely sorry. How did it happen, Maurice?”
“Very simply. Sparks had a forage patrol towards Vieda, and set out early in the morning with his party. It seemed that they succeeded perfectly, and were returning to the lines, when poor Sparks, always susceptible where the sex are concerned, saw, or thought he saw, a lattice gently open as he rode from the village, and a very taper finger make a signal to him. Dropping a little behind the rest, he waited till his men had debouched upon the road, when riding quietly up, he coughed a couple of times to attract the fair unknown; a handkerchief waved from the lattice in reply, which was speedily closed, and our valiant cornet accordingly dismounted and entered the house.
“The remainder of the adventure is soon told; for in a few seconds after, two men mounted on one horse were seen galloping at top speed towards the French lines,—the foremost being a French officer of the 4th Cuirassiers, the gentleman with his face to the tail, our friend Sparks; the lovely unknown being avieille moustacheof Loison’s corps, who had been wounded in a skirmish some days before, and lay waiting an opportunity of rejoining his party. One of our prisoners knew this fellow well; he had been promoted from the ranks, and was a Hercules for feats of strength; so that, after all, Sparks could not help himself.”
“Well, I’m really sorry; but as you say, Sparks’s tender nature is always the ruin of him.”
“Of him! ay, and of you; and of Power; and of myself; of all of us. Isn’t it the sweet creatures that make fools of us from Father Adam down to Maurice Quill, neither sparing age nor rank in the service, half-pay nor the veteran battalion—it’s all one? Pass the jug, there. O’Shaughnessy—”
“Ah, by-the-bye, how’s the major?”
“Charmingly; only a little bit in a scrape just now. Sir Arthur—Lord Wellington, I mean—had him up for his fellows being caught pillaging, and gave him a devil of a rowing a few days ago.
“‘Very disorderly corps yours, Major O’Shaughnessy,’ said the general; ‘more men up for punishment than any regiment in the service.’
“Shaugh muttered something; but his voice was lost in a loud cock-a-doo-do-doo, that some bold chanticleer set up at the moment.
“‘If the officers do their duty, Major O’Shaughnessy, these acts of insubordination do not occur.’
“‘Cock-a-doo-do-doo,’ was the reply. Some of the staff found it hard not to laugh; but the general went on,—
“‘If, therefore, the practice does not cease, I’ll draft the men into West India regiments.’
“‘Cock-a-doo-do-doo.’
“‘And if any articles pillaged from the inhabitants are detected in the quarters, or about the person of the troops—’
“‘Cock-a-doo-do-doo,’ screamed louder here than ever.
“‘Damn that cock! Where is it?’
“There was a general look around on all sides, which seemed in vain; when a tremendous repetition of the cry resounded from O’Shaughnessy’s coat pocket,—thus detecting the valiant major himself in the very practice of his corps. There was no standing this: every one burst out into a peal of laughing; and Lord Wellington himself could not resist, but turned away, muttering to himself as he went, ‘Damned robbers—every man of them!’ while a final war-note from the major’s pocket closed the interview.”
“Confound you, Maurice, you’ve always some villanous narrative or other. You never crossed a street for shelter without making something out of it.”
“True this time, as sure as my name’s Maurice; but the bowl is empty.”
“Never mind, here comes its successor. How long can you stay among us?”
“A few days at most. Just took a run off to see the sights. I was all over Lisbon this morning; saw the Inquisition and the cells and the place where they tried the fellows,—the kind of grand jury room with the great picture of Adam and Eve at the end of it. What a beautiful creature she is; hair down to her waist, and such eyes! ‘Ah, ye darling!’ said I to myself, ‘small blame to him for what he did. Wouldn’t I ate every crab in the garden, if ye asked me!’”
“I must certainly go to see her, Maurice. Is she very Portuguese in her style?”
“Devil a bit of it! She might be a Limerick-woman with elegant brown hair and blue eyes and a skin like snow.”
“Come, come, they’ve pretty girls in Lisbon too, Doctor.”
“Yes, faith,” said Power, “that they have.”
“Nothing like Ireland, boys; not a bit of it; they’re the girls for my money; and where’s the man can resist them? From Saint Patrick, that had to go and live in the Wicklow mountains—”
“Saint Kevin, you mean, Doctor.”
“Sure it’s all the same, they were twins. I made a little song about them one evening last week,—the women I mean.”
“Let us have it, Maurice; let us have it, old fellow. What’s the measure?”
“Short measure; four little verses, devil a more!”
“But the time, I mean?”
“Whenever you like to sing it; here it is,”—