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It is about two years since I was one of that strange and busy mob of some five hundred people who were assembled on the platform in the Euston-Square station a few minutes previous to the starting of the morning mail-train for Birmingham. To the unoccupied observer the scene might have been an amusing one; the little domestic incidents of leave-taking and embracing, the careful looking after luggage and parcels, the watchful anxieties for a lost cloak or a stray carpet-bag, blending with the affectionate farewells of parting, are all curious, while the studious preparation for comfort of the old gentleman in thecoupéoddly contrast with similar arrangements on a more limited scale by the poor soldier’s wife in the third-class carriage.
Small as the segment of humanity is, it is a type of the great world to which it belongs.
I sauntered carelessly along the boarded terrace, investigating, by the light of the guard’s lantern, the inmates of the different carriages, and, calling to my assistance my tact as a physiognomist as to what party I should select for my fellow-passengers,—“Not in there, assuredly,” said I to myself, as I saw the aquiline noses and dark eyes of two Hamburgh Jews; “nor here, either,—I cannot stand a day in a nursery; nor will this party suit me, that old gentleman is snoring already;” and so I walked on until at last I bethought me of an empty carriage, as at least possessing negative benefits, since positive ones were denied me. Scarcely had the churlish determination seized me, when the glare of the light fell upon the side of a bonnet of white lace, through whose transparent texture a singularly lovely profile could be seen. Features purely Greek in their character, tinged with a most delicate color, were defined by a dark mass of hair, worn in a deep band along the cheek almost to the chin. There was a sweetness, a look of guileless innocence, in the character of the face which, even by the flitting light of the lantern, struck me strongly. I made the guard halt, and peeped into the carriage as if seeking for a friend. By the uncertain flickering, I could detect the figure of a man, apparently a young one, by the lady’s side; the carriage had no other traveller. “This will do,” thought I, as I opened the door, and took my place on the opposite side.
Every traveller knows that locomotion must precede conversation; the veriest commonplace cannot be hazarded till the piston is in motion or the paddles are flapping. The word “Go on” is as much for the passengers as the vehicle, and the train and the tongues are set in movement together; as for myself, I have been long upon the road, and might travesty the words of our native poet, and say,—
“My home is on the highway.”
I have therefore cultivated, and I trust with some success, the tact of divining the characters, condition, and rank of fellow-travellers,—the speculation on whose peculiarities has often served to wile away the tediousness of many a wearisome road and many an uninteresting journey.
The little lamp which hung aloft gave me but slight opportunity of prosecuting my favorite study on this occasion. All that I could trace was the outline of a young and delicately formed girl, enveloped in a cashmere shawl,—a slight and inadequate muffling for the road at such a season. The gentleman at her side was attired in what seemed a dress-coat, nor was he provided with any other defence against the cold of the morning.
Scarcely had I ascertained these two facts, when the lamp flared, flickered, and went out, leaving me to speculate on these vague but yet remarkable traits in the couple before me. “What can they be?” “Who are they?” “Where do they come from?” “Where are they going?” were all questions which naturally presented themselves to me in turn; yet every inquiry resolved itself into the one, “Why has she not a cloak, why has not he got a Petersham?” Long and patiently did I discuss these points with myself, and framed numerous hypotheses to account for the circumstances,—but still with comparatively little satisfaction, as objections presented themselves to each conclusion; and although, in turn, I had made him a runaway clerk from Coutts’s, a Liverpool actor, a member of the swell-mob, and a bagman, yet I could not, for the life of me, includeherin the category of such an individual’s companions. Neither spoke, so that from their voices, that best of all tests, nothing could be learned.
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Wearied by my doubts, and worried by the interruption to my sleep the early rising necessitated, I fell soon into a sound doze, lulled by the soothing “strains” a locomotive so eminently is endowed with. The tremulous quavering of the carriage, the dull roll of the heavy wheels, the convulsive beating and heaving of the black monster itself, gave the tone to my sleeping thoughts, and my dreams were of the darkest. I thought that, in a gloomy silence, we were journeying over a wild and trackless plain, with no sight nor sound of man, save such as accompanied our sad procession; that dead and leafless trees were grouped about, and roofless dwellings and blackened walls marked the dreary earth; dark sluggish streams stole heavily past, with noisome weeds upon their surface; while along the sedgy banks sat leprous and glossy reptiles, glaring with round eyes upon us. Suddenly it seemed as if our speed increased; the earth and sky flew faster past, and objects became dim and indistinct; a misty maze of dark plain and clouded heaven were all I could discern; while straight in front, by the lurid glare of a fire fitted round and about two dark shapes danced a wild goblin measure, tossing their black limbs with frantic gesture, while they brandished in their hands bars of seething iron; one, larger and more dreadful than the other, sung in a “rauque” voice, that sounded like the clank of machinery, a rude song, beating time to the tune with his iron bar. The monotonous measure of the chant, which seldom varied in its note, sank deep into my chilled heart; and I think I hear still
THE SONG OF THE STOKER.
Rake, rake, rake,Ashes, cinders, and coal;The fire we make,Must never slake,Like the fire that roasts a soul.Hurrah! my boys, ‘t is a glorious noise,To list to the stormy main;But nor wave-lash’d shoreNor lion’s roarE’er equall’d a luggage train.‘Neath the panting sun our course we run,No water to slake our thirst;Nor ever a poolOur tongue to cool,Except the boiler burst.The courser fast, the trumpet’s blast,Sigh after us in vain;And even the windWe leave behindWith the speed of a special train.Swift we pass o’er the wild morass,Tho’ the night be starless and black;Onward we go,Where the snipe flies low,Nor man dares follow our track.A mile a minute, on we go,Hurrah for my courser fast;His coal-black mane,And his fiery train,And his breath—a furnace blastOn and on, till the day is gone,We rush with a goblin scream;And the cities, at night,They start with affright,At the cry of escaping steam.Bang, bang, bang!Shake, shiver, and throb;The sound of our feetIs the piston’s beat,And the opening valve our sob!Our union-jack is the smoke-train black,That thick from the funnel rolls;And our bounding barkIs a gloomy ark,And our cargo—human souls.Rake, rake, rake,Ashes, cinders, and coal;The fire we make,Must never slake,Like the fire that roasts a soul.
“Bang, bang, bang!” said I, aloud, repeating this infernal “refrain,” and with an energy that made my two fellow-travellers burst out laughing. This awakened me from my sleep, and enabled me to throw off the fearful incubus which rested on my bosom; so strongly, however, was the image of my dream, so vivid the picture my mind had conjured up, and, stranger than all, so perfect was the memory of the demoniac song, that I could not help relating the whole vision, and repeating for my companions the words, as I have here done for the reader. As I proceeded in my narrative, I had ample time to observe the couple before me. The lady—for it is but suitable to begin with her—was young, she could scarcely have been more than twenty, and looked by the broad daylight even handsomer than by the glare of the guard’s lantern; she was slight, but, as well as I could observe, her figure was very gracefully formed, and with a decided air of elegance detectable even in the ease and repose of her attitude. Her dress was of pale blue silk, around the collar of which she wore a profusion of rich lace, of what peculiar loom I am, unhappily, unable to say; nor would I allude to the circumstance, save that it formed one of the most embarrassing problems in my efforts at divining her rank and condition. Never was there such a travelling-costume; and although it suited perfectly the frail and delicate beauty of the wearer, it ill accorded with the dingy “conveniency” in which we journeyed. Even to her shoes and stockings (for I noticed these,—the feet were perfect) and gloves,—all the details of her dress had a freshness and propriety one rarely or ever sees encountering the wear and tear of the road. The young gentleman at her side—for he, too, was scarcely more than five-and-twenty, at most—was also attired in a costume as little like that of a traveller; a dress-coat and evening waistcoat, over which a profusion of chains were festooned in that mode so popular in our day, showed that he certainly, in arranging his costume, had other thoughts than of wasting such attractions on the desert air of a railroad journey. He was a good-looking young fellow, with that mixture of frankness and careless ease the youth of England so eminently possess, in contradistinction to the young men of other countries; his manner and voice both attested that he belonged to a good class, and the general courtesy of his demeanor showed one who had lived in society. While he evinced an evident desire to enter into conversation and amuse his companion, there was still an appearance of agitation and incertitude about him which showed that his mind was wandering very far from the topic before him. More than once he checked himself, in the course of some casual merriment, and became suddenly grave,—while from time to time he whispered to the young lady, with an appearance of anxiety and eagerness all his endeavors could not effectually conceal. She, too, seemed agitated,—but, I thought, less so than he; it might be, however, that from the habitual quietude of her manner, the traits of emotion were less detectable by a stranger. We had not journeyed far, when several new travellers entered the carriage, and thus broke up the little intercourse which had begun to be established between us. The new arrivals were amusing enough in their way,—there was a hearty old Quaker from Leeds, who was full of a dinner-party he had been at with Feargus O’Connor, the day before; there was an interesting young fellow who had obtained a fellowship at Cambridge, and was going down to visit his family; and lastly, a loud-talking, load-laughing member of the tail, in the highest possible spirits at the prospect of Irish politics, and exulting in the festivities he was about to witness at Derrynane Abbey, whither he was then proceeding with some other Danaïdes, to visit what Tom Steele calls “his august leader.” My young friends, however, partook little in the amusement the newly arrived travellers afforded; they neither relished the broad, quaint common-sense of the Quaker, the conversational cleverness of the Cambridge man, or the pungent though somewhat coarse drollery of the “Emeralder.” They sat either totally silent or conversing in a low, indistinct murmur, with their heads turned towards each other. The Quaker left us at Warwick, the “Fellow” took his leave soon after, and the O’Somebody was left behind at a station; the last thing I heard of him, being his frantic shouting as the train moved off, while he was endeavoring to swallow a glass of hot brandy and water. We were alone then once more; but somehow the interval which had occurred had chilled the warm current of our intercourse; perhaps, too, the effects of a long day’s journey were telling on us all, and we felt that indisposition to converse which steals over even the most habitual traveller towards the close of a day on the road. Partly from these causes, and more strongly still from my dislike to obtrude conversation upon those whose minds were evidently preoccupied, I too lay back in my seat and indulged my own reflections in silence. I had sat for some time thus, I know not exactly how long, when the voice of the young lady struck on my ear; it was one of those sweet, tinkling silver sounds which somehow when heard, however slightly, have the effect at once to dissipate the dull routine of one’s own thoughts, and suggest others more relative to the speaker.
“Had you not better ask him?” said she; “I am sure he can tell you.” The youth apparently demurred, while she insisted the more, and at length, as if yielding to her entreaty, he suddenly turned towards me and said, “I am a perfect stranger here, and would feel obliged if you could inform me which is the best hotel in Liverpool.” He made a slight pause and added, “I mean a quiet family hotel.”
“I rarely stop in the town myself,” replied I; “but when I do, to breakfast or dine, I take the Adelphi. I ‘m sure you will find it very comfortable.”
They again conversed for a few moments together; and the young man, with an appearance of some hesitation, said, “Do you mean to go there now, sir?”
“Yes,” said I, “my intention is to take a hasty dinner before I start in the steamer for Ireland; I see by my watch I shall have ample time to do so, as we shall arrive full half an hour before our time.”
Another pause, and another little discussion ensued, the only words of which I could catch from the young lady being, “I’m certain he will have no objection.” Conceiving that these referred to myself, and guessing at their probable import, I immediately said, “If you will allow me to be your guide, I shall feel most happy to show you the way; we can obtain a carriage at the station, and proceed thither at once.”
I was right in my surmise—both parties were profuse in their acknowledgments—the young man avowing that it was the very request he was about to make when I anticipated him. We arrived in due time at the station, and, having assisted my new acquaintances to alight, I found little difficulty in placing them in a carriage, for luggage they had none, neither portmanteau nor carpet-bag—not even a dressing-case—a circumstance at which, however, I might have endeavored to avoid expressing my wonder, they seemed to feel required an explanation at their hands; both looked confused and abashed, nor was it until by busying myself in the details of my own baggage, that I was enabled to relieve them from the embarrassment the circumstance occasioned.
“Here we are,” said I: “this is the Adelphi,” as we stopped at that comfortable and hospitable portal, through which the fumes of brown gravy and ox-tail float with a savory odor as pleasant to him who enters with dinner intentions as it is tantalizing to the listless wanderer without.
The lady thanked me with a smile, as I handed her into the house, and a very sweet smile too, and one I could have fancied the young man would have felt a little jealous of, if I had not seen the ten times more fascinating one she bestowed on him.
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The young man acknowledged my slight service with thanks, and made a half gesture to shake hands at parting, which, though a failure, I rather liked, as evidencing, even in its awkwardness, a kindness of disposition—for so it is. Gratitude smacks poorly when expressed in trim and measured phrase; it seems not the natural coinage of the heart when the impression betrays too clearly the mint of the mind.
“Good-bye,” said I, as I watched their retiring figures up the wide staircase. “She is devilish pretty; and what a good figure! I did not think any other than a French woman could adjust her shawl in that fashion.” And with these very soothing reflections I betook myself to the coffee-room, and soon was deep in discussing the distinctive merits of mulligatawny, mock-turtle, or mutton chops, or listening to that everlasting paean every waiter in England sings in praise of the “joint.”
In all the luxury of my own little table, with my own little salt-cellar, my own cruet-stand, my beer-glass, and its younger brother for wine, I sat awaiting the arrival of my fare, and puzzling my brain as to the unknown travellers. Now, had they been but clothed in the ordinary fashion of the road,—if the lady had worn a plaid cloak and a beaver bonnet,—if the gentleman had a brown Taglioui and a cloth cap, with a cigar-case peeping out of his breast-pocket, like everybody else in this smoky world,—had they but the ordinary allowance of trunks and boxes,—I should have been coolly conning over the leading article of the “Times,” or enjoying the spicy leader in the last “Examiner;” but, no,—they had shrouded themselves in a mystery, though not in garments; and the result was that I, gifted with that inquiring spirit which Paul Pry informs us is the characteristic of the age, actually tortured myself into a fever as to who and what they might be,—the origin, the course, and the probable termination of their present adventure,—for an adventure I determined it must be. “People do such odd things nowadays,” said I, “there’s no knowing what the deuce they may be at. I wish I even knew their names, for I am certain I shall read to-morrow or the next day in the second column of the ‘Times,’ ‘Why will not W. P. and C. P. return to their afflicted friends? Write at least,—write to your bereaved parents, No. 12 Russell Square;’ or, ‘If F. M. S. will not inform her mother whither she has gone, the deaths of more than two of the family will be the consequence.’” Now, could I only find out their names, I could relieve so much family apprehension—Here comes the soup, however,—admirable relief to a worried brain! how every mouthful swamps reflection!—even the platitude of the waiter’s face is, as the Methodists say, “a blessed privilege,” so agreeably does it divest the mind of a thought the more, and suggest that pleasant vacuity so essential to the hour of dinner. The tureen was gone, and then came one of those strange intervals which all taverns bestow, as if to test the extent of endurance and patience of their guests.
My thoughts turned at once to their old track. “I have it,” said I, as a bloody-minded suggestion shot through my brain. “This is an affair of charcoal and oxalic acid, this is some damnable device of arsenic or sugar-of-lead,—these young wretches have come down here to poison themselves, and be smothered in that mode latterly introduced among us. There will be a double-locked door and smell of carbonic gas through the key-hole in the morning. I have it all before me, even to the maudlin letter, with its twenty-one verses of maudlin poetry at the foot of it. I think I hear the coroner’s charge, and see the three shillings and eightpence halfpenny produced before the jury, that were found in the youth’s possession, together with a small key and a bill for a luncheon at Birmingham. By Jove, I will prevent it, though; I will spoil their fun this time; if they will have physic, let them have something just as nauseous, but not so injurious. My own notion is a basin of this soup and a slice of the ‘joint,’ and here it comes;” and thus my meditations were again destined to be cut short, and revery give way to reality.
I was just helping myself to my second slice of mutton, when the young man entered the coffee-room, and walked towards me. At first his manner evinced hesitation and indecision, and he turned to the fireplace, as if with some change of purpose; then, as if suddenly summoning his resolution, he came up to the table at which I sat, and said,—
“Will you favor me with five minutes of your time?”
“By all means,” said I; “sit down here, and I’m your man; you must excuse me, though, if I proceed with my dinner, as I see it is past six o’clock, and the packet sails at seven.”
“Pray, proceed,” replied he; “your doing so will in part excuse the liberty I take in obtruding myself upon you.”
He paused, and although I waited for him to resume, he appeared in no humor to do so, but seemed more confused than before.
“Hang it,” said he at length, “I am a very bungling negotiator, and never in my life could manage a matter of any difficulty.”
“Take a glass of sherry,” said I; “try if that may not assist to recall your faculties.”
“No, no,” cried he; “I have taken a bottle of it already, and, by Jove, I rather think my head is only the more addled. Do you know that I am in a most confounded scrape. I have run away with that young lady; we were at an evening-party last night together, and came straight away from the supper-table to the train.”
“Indeed!” said I, laying down my knife and fork, not a little gratified that I was at length to learn the secret that had so long teased me. “And so you have run away with her!”
“Yes; it was no sudden thought, however,—at least, it was an old attachment; I have known her these two months.”
“Oh! oh!” said I; “then there was prudence in the affair.”
“Perhaps you will say so,” said he, quickly, “when I tell you she has £30,000 in the Funds, and something like £1700 a year besides,—not that I care a straw for the money, but, in the eye of the world, that kind of thing has itséclat.”
“So it has,” said I, “and a very prettyéclatit is, and one that, somehow or another, preserves its attractions much longer than most surprises; but I do not see the scrape, after all.”
“I am coming to that,” said he, glancing timidly around the room. “The affair occurred this wise: we were at an evening-party,—a kind ofdéjeûné, it was, on the Thames,—Charlotte came with her aunt,—a shrewish old damsel, that has no love for me; in fact, she very soon saw my game, and resolved to thwart it. Well, of course I was obliged to be most circumspect, and did not venture to approach her, not even to ask her to dance, the whole evening. As it grew late, however, I either became more courageous or less cautious, and I did ask her for a waltz. The old lady bristled up at once, and asked for her shawl. Charlotte accepted my invitation, and said she would certainly not retire so early; and I, to cut the matter short, led her to the top of the room. We waltzed together, and then had a ‘gallop,’ and after that some champagne, and then another waltz; for Charlotte was resolved to give the old lady a lesson,—she has spirit for anything! Well, it was growing late by this time, and we went in search of the aunt at last; but, by Jove! she was not to be found. We hunted everywhere for her, looked well in every corner of the supper-room, where it was most likely we should discover her; and at length, to our mutual horror and dismay, we learned that she had ordered the carriage up a full hour before, and gone off, declaring that she would send Charlotte’s father to fetch her home, as she herself possessed no influence over her. Here was a pretty business,—the old gentleman being, as Charlotte often told me, the most choleric man in England. He had killed two brother officers in duels, and narrowly escaped being hanged at Maidstone for shooting a waiter who delayed bringing him the water to shave,—a pleasant old boy to encounter on such an occasion at this!
“‘He will certainly shoot me,—he will shoot you,—he will kill us both!’ were the only words she could utter; and my blood actually froze at the prospect before us. You may smile if you like; but let me tell you that an outraged father, with a pair of patent revolving pistols, is no laughing matter. There was nothing for it, then, but to ‘bolt.’Shesaw that as soon as I did; and although she endeavored to persuade me to suffer her to return home alone, that, you know, I never could think of; and so, after some little demurrings, some tears, and some resistance, we got to the Euston-Square station, just as the train was going. You may easily think that neither of us had much time for preparation. As for myself, I have come away with a ten-pound note in my purse,—not a shilling more have I in my possession; and here we are now, half of that sum spent already, and how we are to get on to the North, I cannot for the life of me conceive.”
“Oh! that’s it,” said I, peering at him shrewdly from under my eyelids.
“Yes, that ‘s it; don’t you think it is bad enough?” and he spoke the words with a reckless frankness that satisfied all my scruples. “I ought to tell you,” said he, “that my name is Blunden; I am lieutenant in the Buffs, on leave; and now that you know my secret, will you lend me twenty pounds? which perhaps, may be enough to carry us forward,—at least, it will do, until it will be safe for me to write for money.”
“But what would bring you to the North?” said I; “why not put yourselves on board the mail-packet this evening, and come to Dublin? We will marry you there just as cheaply; pursuit of you will be just as difficult; and I ‘d venture to say, you might choose a worse land for the honeymoon.”
“But I have no money,” said he; “you forgot that.”
“For the matter of money,” said I, “make your mind easy. If the young lady is going away with her own consent,—if, indeed, she is as anxious to get married as you are,—make me the banker, and I ‘ll give her away, be the bridesmaid, or anything else you please.”
“You are a trump,” said he, helping himself to another glass of my sherry; and then filling out a third, which emptied the bottle, he slapped me on the shoulder, and said, “Here ‘s your health; now come upstairs.”
“Stop a moment,” said I, “I must see her alone,—there must be no tampering with the evidence.”
He hesitated for a second, and surveyed me from head to foot; and whether it was the number of my double chins or the rotundity of my waistcoat divested his mind of any jealous scruples, but he smiled coolly, and said, “So you shall, old buck,—we will never quarrel about that.”
Upstairs we went accordingly, and into a handsome drawing-room on the first floor, at one end of which, with her head buried in her hands, the young lady was sitting.
“Charlotte,” said he, “this gentleman is kind enough to take an interest in our fortunes, but he desires a few words with you alone.”
I waved my hand to him to prevent his making any further explanation, and as a signal to withdraw; he took the hint and left the room.
Now, thought I, this is the second act of the drama; what the deuce am I to do here? In the first place, some might deem it my duty to admonish the young damsel on the impropriety of the step, to draw an afflicting picture of her family, to make her weep bitter tears, and end by persuading her to take a first-class ticket in the up-train. This would be the grand parento-moral line; and I shame to confess it, it was never my forte. Secondly, I might pursue the inquiry suggested by myself, and ascertain her real sentiments. This might be called the amico-auxiliary line. Or, lastly, I might try a little, what might be done on my own score, and not see £30,000 and £1700 a year squandered by a cigar-smoking lieutenant in the Buffs. As there may be different opinions about this line, I shall not give it a name. Suffice it to say, that, notwithstanding a sly peep at as pretty a throat and as well rounded an instep as ever tempted a “government Mercury,” I was true to my trust, and opened the negotiation on the honest footing.
“Do you love him, my little darling?” said I; for somehow consolation always struck me as own-brother to love-making. It is like indorsing a bill for a friend, which, though he tells you he ‘ll meet, you always feel responsible for the money.
She turned upon me an arch look. By St. Patrick, I half regretted I had not tried number three, as in the sweetest imaginable voice she said,—
“Do you doubt it?”
“I wish I could,” thought I to myself. No matter, it was too late for regrets; and so I ascertained, in a very few minutes, that she corroborated every portion of the statement, and was as deeply interested in the success of the adventure as himself.
“That will do,” said I. “He is a lucky fellow,—I always heard the Buffs were;” and with that I descended to the coffee-room, where the young man awaited me with the greatest anxiety.
“Are you satisfied?” cried he, as I entered the room.
“Perfectly,” was my answer. “And now let us lose no more time; it wants but a quarter to seven, and we must be on board in ten minutes.”
As I have already remarked, my fellow-travellers were not burdened with luggage, so there was little difficulty in expediting their departure; and in half an hour from that time we were gliding down the Mersey, and gazing on the spangled lamps which glittered over that great city of soap, sugar, and sassafras, train-oil, timber, and tallow. The young lady soon went below, as the night was chilly; but Blunden and myself walked the deck until near twelve o’clock, chatting over whatever came uppermost, and giving me an opportunity to perceive that, without possessing any remarkable ability or cleverness, he was one of those offhand, candid, clear-headed young fellows, who, when trained in the admirable discipline of the mess, become the excellent specimens of well-conducted, well-mannered gentlemen our army abounds with.
We arrived in due course in Dublin. I took my friends up to Morrison’s, drove with them after breakfast to a fashionable milliner’s, where the young lady, with an admirable taste, selected such articles of dress as she cared for, and I then saw them duly married. I do not mean to say that the ceremony was performed by a bishop, or that a royal duke gave her away; neither can I state that the train of carriages comprised the equipages of the leading nobility. I only vouch for the fact that a little man, with a black eye and a sinister countenance, read a ceremony of his own composing, and made them write their names in a great book, and pay thirty shillings for his services; after which I put a fifty-pound note into Blunden’s hand, saluted the bride, and, wishing them every health and happiness, took my leave.
They started at once with four posters for the North, intending to cross over to Scotland. My engagements induced me to leave town for Cork, and in less than a fortnight I found at my club a letter from Blunden, enclosing the fifty pounds, with a thousand thanks for my prompt kindness, and innumerable affectionate reminiscences from Madame. They were as happy as—confound it, every one is happy for a week or a fortnight; so I crushed the letter, pitched it into the fire, was rather pleased with myself for what I had done, and thought no more of the whole transaction.
Here then my tale should have an end, and the moral is obvious. Indeed, I am not certain but some may prefer it to that which the succeeding portion conveys, thinking that the codicil revokes the body of the testament. However that may be, here goes for it.
It was about a year after this adventure that I made one of a party of six travelling up to London by the “Grand Junction.” The company were chatty, pleasant folk, and the conversation, as often happens among utter strangers, became anecdotic; many good stories were told in turn, and many pleasant comments made on them, when at length it occurred to me to mention the somewhat singular rencontre I have already narrated as having happened to myself.
“Strange enough,” said I, “the last time I journeyed along this line, nearly this time last year, a very remarkable occurrence took place. I happened to fall in with a young officer of the Buffs, eloping with an exceedingly pretty girl; she had a large fortune, and was in every respect a great ‘catch;’ he ran away with her from an evening party, and never remembered, until he arrived at Liverpool, that he had no money for the journey. In this dilemma, the young fellow, rather spooney about the whole thing, I think would have gone quietly back by the next train, but, by Jove, I could n’t satisfy my conscience that so lovely a girl should be treated in such a manner. I rallied his courage; took him over to Ireland in the packet, and got them married the next morning.”
“Have I caught you at last, you old, meddling scoundrel!” cried a voice, hoarse and discordant with passion, from the opposite side; and at the same instant a short, thickset old man, with shoulders like a Hercules, sprung at me. With one hand he clutched me by the throat, and with the other he pummelled my head against the panel of the conveyance, and with such violence that many people in the next carriage averred that they thought we had run into the down train. So sudden was the old wretch’s attack, and so infuriate withal, it took the united force of the other passengers to detach him from my neck; and even then, as they drew him off, he kicked at me like a demon. Never has it been my lot to witness such an outbreak of wrath; and, indeed, were I to judge from the symptoms it occasioned, the old fellow had better not repeat it, or assuredly apoplexy would follow.
“That villain,—that old ruffian,” said he, glaring at me with flashing eyeballs, while he menaced me with his closed fist,—“that cursed, meddling scoundrel is the cause of the greatest calamity of my life.”
“Are you her father, then?” articulated I, faintly, for a misgiving came over me that my boasted benevolence might prove a mistake. “Are you her father?” The words were not out, when he dashed at me once more, and were it not for the watchfulness of the others, inevitably had finished me.
“I’ve heard of you, my old buck,” said I, affecting a degree of ease and security my heart sadly belied. “I ‘ve heard of your dreadful temper already,—I know you can’t control yourself. I know all about the waiter at Maidstone. By Jove, they did not wrong you; and I am not surprised at your poor daughter leaving you—” But he would not suffer me to conclude; and once more his wrath boiled over, and all the efforts of the others were barely sufficient to calm him into a semblance of reason.
There would be an end to my narrative if I endeavored to convey to my reader the scene which followed, or recount the various outbreaks of passion which ever and anon interrupted the old man, and induced him to diverge into sundry little by-ways of lamentation over his misfortune, and curses upon my meddling interference. Indeed his whole narrative was conducted more in the staccato style of an Italian opera father than in the homely wrath of an English parent; the wind-up of these dissertations being always to the one purpose, as with a look of scowling passion directed towards me, he said, “Only wait till we reach the station, and see if I won’t do for you.”
His tale, in few words, amounted to this. He was the Squire Blunden,—the father of the lieutenant in the “Buffs.” The youth had formed an attachment to a lady whom he had accidentally met in a Margate steamer. The circumstances of her family and fortune were communicated to him in confidence by herself; and although she expressed her conviction of the utter impossibility of obtaining her father’s consent to an untitled match, she as resolutely refused to elope with him. The result, however, was as we have seen; she did elope,—was married,—they made a wedding tour in the Highlands, and returned to Blunden Hall two months after, where the old gentleman welcomed them with affection and forgiveness. About a fortnight after their return, it was deemed necessary to make inquiry as to the circumstances of her estate and funded property, when the young lady fell upon her knees, wept bitterly, said she had not a sixpence,—that the whole thing was a “ruse;” that she had paid five pounds for a choleric father, three ten for an aunt warranted to wear “satin;” in fact, that she had been twice married before, and had heavy misgivings that the husbands were still living.
There was nothing left for it but compromise. “I gave her,” said he, “five hundred pounds to go to the devil, and I registered, the same day, a solemn oath that if ever I met this same Tramp, he should carry the impress of my knuckles on his face to the day of his death.”
The train reached Harrow as the old gentleman spoke. I waited until it was again in motion, and, flinging wide the door, I sprang out, and from that day to this have strictly avoided forming acquaintance with a white lace bonnet, even at a distance, or ever befriending a lieutenant in the Buffs.
588
I got into the Dover “down train” at the station, and after seeking for a place in two or three of the leading carriages, at last succeeded in obtaining one where there were only two other passengers. These were a lady and a gentleman,—the former, a young, pleasing-looking girl, dressed in quiet mourning; the latter was a tall, gaunt, bilious-looking man, with grisly gray hair, and an extravagantly aquiline nose. I guessed, from the positions they occupied in the carriage, that they were not acquaintances, and my conjecture proved subsequently true. The young lady was pale, like one in delicate health, and seemed very weary and tired, for she was fast asleep as I entered the carriage, and did not awake, notwithstanding all the riot and disturbance incident to the station. I took my place directly in front of my fellow-travellers; and whether from mere accident, or from the passing interest a pretty face inspires, cast my eyes towards the lady; the gaunt man opposite fixed on me a look of inexpressible shrewdness, and with a very solemn shake of his head, whispered in a low undertone,—
“No! no! not a bit of it; she ain’t asleep,—they never do sleep,—never!”
“Oh!” thought I to myself, “there’s another class of people not remarkable for over-drowsiness; “for, to say truth, the expression of the speaker’s face and the oddity of his words made me suspect that he was not a miracle of sanity. The reflection had scarcely passed through my mind, when he arose softly from his seat, and assumed a place beside me.
“You thought she was fast,” said he, as he laid his hand familiarly on my arm; “I know you did,—I saw it the moment you came into the carriage.”
“Why, I did think—”
“Ah! that’s deceived many a one. Lord bless you, sir, they are not understood, no one knows them; “and at these words he heaved a profound sigh, and dropped his head upon his bosom, as though the sentiment had overwhelmed him with affliction.
“Riddles, sir,” said he to me, with a glare of his eyes that really looked formidable,—“sphinxes; that’s what they are. Are you married?” whispered he.
“No, sir,” said I, politely; for as I began to entertain more serious doubts of my companion’s intellect, I resolved to treat him with every civility.
“I don’t believe it matters a fig,” said he; “the Pope of Rome knows as much about them as Bluebeard.”
“Indeed,” said I, “are these your sentiments?”
“They are,” replied he, in a still lower whisper; “and if we were to talk modern Greek this moment, I would not say butshe”—and here he made a gesture towards the young lady opposite—“butshewould know every word of it. It is not supernatural, sir, because the law is universal; but it is a most—what shall I say, sir?—a most extraordinary provision of nature,—wonderful! most wonderful!”
“In Heaven’s name, why did they let him out?” exclaimed I to myself.
“Now she is pretending to awake,” said he, as he nudged me with his elbow; “watch her, see how well she will do it.” Then turning to the lady, he added in a louder voice,—
“You have had a refreshing sleep, I trust, ma’am?”
“A very heavy one,” answered she, “for I was greatly fatigued.”
“Did not I tell you so?” whispered he again in my ear. “Oh!” and here he gave a deep groan, “when they ‘re in delicate health, and they ‘re greatly fatigued, there’s no being up to them!”
The remainder of our journey was not long in getting over; but brief as it was, I could not help feeling annoyed at the pertinacity with which the bilious gentleman purposely misunderstood every word the young lady spoke. The most plain, matter-of-fact observations from her were received by him as though she was a monster of duplicity; and a casual mistake as to the name of a station he pounced upon, as though it were a wilful and intentional untruth. This conduct, on his part, was made ten times worse to me by his continued nudgings of the elbow, sly winks, and muttered sentences of “You hear that”—“There’s more of it”—“You would not credit it now,” etc.; until at length he succeeded in silencing the poor girl, who, in all likelihood, set us both down for the two greatest savages in England.
On arriving at Dover, although I was the bearer of despatches requiring the utmost haste, a dreadful hurricane from the eastward, accompanied by a tremendous swell, prevented any packet venturing out to sea. The commander of “The Hornet,” however, told me, should the weather, as was not improbable, moderate towards daybreak, he would do his best to run me over to Calais; “only be ready,” said he, “at a moment’s notice, for I will get the steam up, and be off in a jiffy, whenever the tide begins to ebb.” In compliance with this injunction, I determined not to go to bed, and, ordering my supper in a private room, I prepared myself to pass the intervening time as well as might be.
“Mr. Yellowley’s compliments,” said the waiter, as I broke the crust of a veal-pie, and obtained a bird’s-eye view of that delicious interior, where hard eggs and jelly, mushrooms, and kidney, were blended together in a delicious harmony of coloring. “Mr. Yellowley’s compliments, sir, and will take it as a great favor if he might join you at supper.”
“Have not the pleasure of knowing him,” said I, shortly,—“bring me a pint of sherry,—don’t know Mr. Yellowley.”
“Yes, but you do, though,” said the gaunt man of the railroad, as he entered the room, with four cloaks on one arm, and two umbrellas under the other.
“Oh! it’s you,” said I, half rising from my chair; for in spite of my annoyance at the intrusion, a certain degree of fear of my companion overpowered me.
“Yes,” said he, solemnly. “Can you untie this cap? The string has got into a black-knot, I fear; “and so he bent down his huge face while I endeavored to relieve him of his head-piece, wondering within myself whether they had shaved him at the asylum.
“Ah, that’s comfortable!” said he at last; and he drew his chair to the table, and helped himself to a considerable portion of the pie, which he covered profusely with red pepper.
Little conversation passed during the meal. My companion ate voraciously, filling up every little pause that occurred by a groan or a sigh, whose vehemence and depth were strangely in contrast with his enjoyment of the good cheer. When the supper was over, and the waiter had placed fresh glasses, and with that gentle significance of his craft had deposited the decanter, in which a spoonful of sherry remained, directly in front of me, Mr. Yellowley looked at me for a moment, threw up his eyebrows, and with an air of morebonhomiethan I thought he could muster, said,—
“You will have no objection, I hope, to a little warm brandy and water.”
“None whatever; and the less, if I may add a cigar.”
“Agreed,” said he.
These ingredients of our comfort being produced, and the waiter having left the room, Mr. Yellowley stirred the fire into a cheerful blaze, and, nodding amicably towards me, said,—
“Your health, sir; I should like to have added your name.”
“Tramp,—Tilbury Tramp,” said I, “at your service.” I would have added Q. C, as the couriers took that lately; but it leads to mistakes, so I said nothing about it.
“Mr. Tramp,” said my companion, while he placed one hand in his waistcoat, in that attitude so favored by John Kemble and Napoleon. “You are a young man?”
“Forty-two,” said I, “if I live till June.”
“You might be a hundred and forty-two, sir.”
“Lord bless you!” said I, “I don’t look so old.”
“I repeat it,” said he, “you might be a hundred and forty-two, and not know a whit more about them.”
“Here we are,” thought I, “back on the monomania.”
“You may smile,” said he, “it was an ungenerous insinuation. Nothing was farther from my thoughts; but it’s true,—they require the study of a lifetime. Talk of Law or Physic or Divinity; it’s child’s play, sir. Now, you thought that young girl was asleep.”
“Why, she certainly looked so.”
“Looked so,” said he, with a sneer; “what do I look like? Do I look like a man of sense or intelligence?”
“I protest,” said I, cautiously, “I won’t suffer myself to be led away by appearances; I would not wish to be unjust to you.”
“Well, sir, that artful young woman’s deception of you has preyed upon me ever since; I was going on to Walmer to-night, but I could n’t leave this without seeing you once more, and giving you a caution.”
“Dear me. I thought nothing about it. You took the matter too much to heart.”
“Too much to heart,” said he, with a bitter sneer; “that’s the cant that deceives half the world. If men, sir, instead of undervaluing these small and apparently trivial circumstances, would but recall their experiences, chronicle their facts, as Bacon recommended so wisely, we should possess some safe data to go upon, in our estimate of that deceitful sex.”
“I fear,” said I, half timidly, “you have been ill-treated by the ladies?”
A deep groan was the only response.
“Come, come, bear up,” said I; “you are young, and a fine-looking man still” (he was sixty, if he was an hour, and had a face like the figure-head of a war-steamer).
“I will tell you a story, Mr. Tramp,” said he, solemnly,—“a story to which, probably, no historian, from Polybius to Hoffman, has ever recorded a parallel. I am not aware, sir, that any man has sounded the oceanic depths of that perfidious gulf,—a woman’s heart; but I, sir, I have at least added some facts to the narrow stock of our knowledge regarding it. Listen to this:”—
I replenished my tumbler of brandy and water, looked at my watch, and, finding I still had two hours to spare, lent a not unwilling ear to my companion’s story.
“For the purpose of my tale,” said Mr. Yellowley, “it is unnecessary that I should mention any incident of my life more remote than a couple of years back. About that time it was, that, using all the influence of very powerful friends, I succeeded in obtaining the consul-generalship at Stralsund. My arrangements for departure were made with considerable despatch; but on the very week of my leaving England, an old friend of mine was appointed to a situation of considerable trust in the East, whither he was ordered to repair, I may say, at a moment’s notice. Never was there such acontretemps. He longed for the North of Europe,—I, with equal ardor, wished for a tropical climate; and here were we both going in the very direction antagonist to our wishes! My friend’s appointment was a much more lucrative one than mine; but so anxious was he for a residence more congenial to his taste, that he would have exchanged without a moment’s hesitation.
“By a mere accident, I mentioned this circumstance to the friend who had procured my promotion. Well, with the greatest alacrity, he volunteered his services to effect the exchange; and with such energy did he fulfil his pledge, that on the following evening I received an express, informing me of my altered destination, but directing me to proceed to Southampton on the next day, and sail by the Oriental steamer. This was speedy work, sir; but as my preparations for a journey had long been made, I had very little to do, but exchange some bear-skins with my friend for cotton shirts and jackets, and we both were accommodated. Never were two men in higher spirits,—he, with his young wife, delighted at escaping what he called banishment; I equally happy in my anticipation of the glorious East.
“Among the many papers forwarded to me from the Foreign Office was a special order for free transit the whole way to Calcutta. This document set forth the urgent necessity there existed to pay me every possible attentionen route; in fact, it was a sort of Downing-Street firman, ordering all whom it might concern to take care of Simon Yellowley, nor permit him to suffer any let, impediment, or inconvenience on the road. But a strange thing, Mr. Tramp,—a very strange thing,—was in this paper. In the exchange of my friend’s appointment for my own, the clerk had merely insertedmyname in lieu of his in all the papers; and then, sir, what should I discover but that this free transit extended to ‘Mr. Yellowley and lady,’ while, doubtless, my poor friend was obliged to travelen garçon?This extraordinary blunder I only discovered when leaving London in the train.
“We were a party of three, sir.” Here he groaned deeply. “Three,—just as it might be this very day. I occupied the place that you did this morning, while opposite to me were a lady and a gentleman. The gentleman was an old round-faced little man, chatty and merry after his fashion. The lady—the lady, sir—if I had never seen her but that day, I should now call her an angel. Yes, Mr. Tramp, I flatter myself that few men understand female beauty better. I admire the cold regularity and impassive loveliness of the North, I glory in the voluptuous magnificence of Italian beauty; I can relish the sparkling coquetry of France, the plaintive quietness and sleepy tenderness of Germany; nor do I undervalue the brown pellucid skin and flashing eye of the Malabar; but she, sir, she was something higher than all these; and it so chanced that I had ample time to observe her, for when I entered the carriage she was asleep—asleep,” said he, with a bitter mockery Macready might have envied. “Why do I say asleep? No, sir!—she was in that factitious trance, that wiliest device of Satan’s own creation, a woman’s sleep,—the thing invented, sir, merely to throw the shadow of dark lashes on a marble cheek, and leave beauty to sink into man’s heart without molestation. Sleep, sir!—the whole mischief the world does in its waking moments is nothing to the doings of such slumber! If she did not sleep, how could that braid of dark-brown hair fall loosely down upon her blue-veined hand; if she did not sleep, how could the color tinge with such evanescent loveliness the cheek it scarcely colored; if she did not sleep, how could her lips smile with the sweetness of some passing thought, thus half recorded? No, sir; she had been obliged to have sat bolt upright, with her gloves on and her veil down. She neither could have shown the delicious roundness of her throat nor the statue-like perfection of her instep. But sleep,—sleep is responsible for nothing. Oh, why did not Macbeth murder it, as he said he had!
“If I were a legislator, sir, I’d prohibit any woman under forty-three from sleeping in a public conveyance. It is downright dangerous,—I would n’t say it ain’t immoral. The immovable aspect of placid beauty, Mr. Tramp, etherealizes a woman. The shrewd housewife becomes a houri; and a milliner—ay, sir, a milliner—might be a Maid of Judah under such circumstances!”
Mr. Yellowley seemed to have run himself out of breath with this burst of enthusiasm; for he was unable to resume his narrative until several minutes after, when he proceeded thus:
“The fat gentleman and myself were soon engaged in conversation. He was hastening down to bid some friends good-bye, ere they sailed for India. I was about to leave my native country, too,—perhaps forever.
“‘Yes, sir,’ said I, addressing him, ‘Heaven knows when I shall behold these green valleys again, if ever. I have just been appointed Secretary and Chief Counsellor to the Political Resident at the court of the Rajah of Sautaucantantarabad!—a most important post—three thousand eight hundred and forty-seven miles beyond the Himalaya.’
“And here—with, I trust, a pardonable pride—I showed him the government order for my free transit, with the various directions and injunctions concerning my personal comfort and safety.
“‘Ah,’ said the old gentleman, putting on his spectacles to read,—‘ah, I never beheld one of these before. Very curious,—very curious, indeed. I have seen a sheriff’s writ, and an execution; but this is far more remarkable,—“Simon Yellowley, Esq., and lady.” Eh?—so your lady accompanies you, sir?’
“‘Would she did,—would to Heaven she did!’ exclaimed I, in a transport.
“‘Oh, then, she’s afraid, is she? She dreads the blacks, I suppose.’
“‘No, sir; I am not married. The insertion of these words was a mistake of the official who made out my papers; for, alas! I am alone in the world.’
“‘But why don’t you marry, sir?’ said the little man, briskly, and with an eye glistening with paternity. ‘Young ladies ain’t scarce—’
“‘True, most true; but even supposing I were fortunate enough to meet the object of my wishes, I have no time. I received this appointment last evening; to-day I am here, to-morrow I shall be on the billows!’
“‘Ah, that’s unfortunate, indeed,—very unfortunate.’
“‘Had I but one week,—a day,—ay, an hour, sir,’ said I, ‘I ‘d make an offer of my brilliant position to some lovely creature who, tired of the dreary North and its gloomy skies, would prefer the unclouded heaven of the Himalaya and the perfumed breezes of the valley of Santancantantarabad!’
“A lightly breathed sigh fell from the sleeping beauty, and at the same time a smile of inexpressible sweetness played upon her lips; but, like the ripple upon a glassy stream, that disappearing left all placid and motionless again, the fair features were in a moment calm as before.
“‘She looks delicate,’ whispered my companion.
“‘Our detestable climate!’ said I, bitterly; for she coughed twice at the instant. ‘Oh, why are the loveliest flowers the offspring of the deadliest soil!’
“She awoke, not suddenly or abruptly, but as Venus might have risen from the sparkling sea and thrown the dew-drops from her hair, and then she opened her eyes. Mr. Tramp, do you understand eyes?”
“I can’t say I have any skill that way, to speak of.”
“I’m sorry for it,—deeply, sincerely sorry; for to the uninitiated these things seem naught. It would be as unprofitable to put a Rembrandt before a blind man as discuss the aesthetics of eyelashes with the unbeliever. But you will understand me when I say that her eyes were blue,—blue as the Adriatic!—not the glassy doll’s-eye blue, that shines and glistens with a metallic lustre; nor that false depth, more gray than blue, that resembles a piece of tea-lead; but the color of the sea, as you behold it five fathoms down, beside the steep rocks of Genoa! And what an ocean is a woman’s eye, with bright thoughts floating through it, and love lurking at the bottom! Am I tedious, Mr. Tramp?”
“No; far from it,—only very poetical.”
“Ah, I was once,” said Mr. Yellowley, with a deep sigh. “I used to write sweet things for ‘The New Monthly;’ but Campbell was very jealous of me,—couldn’t abide me. Poor Campbell! he had his failings, like the rest of us.
“Well, sir, to resume. We arrived at Southampton, but only in time to hasten down to the pier, and take boat for the ship. The blue-peter was flying at the mast-head, and people hurrying away to say ‘good-bye’ for the last time. I, sir, I alone had no farewells to take. Simon Yellowley was leaving his native soil, unwept and unregretted! Sad thoughts these, Mr. Tramp,—very sad thoughts. Well, sir, we were aboard at last, above a hundred of us, standing amid the lumber of our carpet-bags, dressing-cases, and hat-boxes, half blinded by the heavy spray of the condensed steam, and all deafened by the din.
“The world of a great packet-ship, Mr. Tramp, is a very selfish world, and not a bad epitome of its relative on shore. Human weaknesses are so hemmed in by circumstances, the frailties that would have been dissipated in a wider space are so concentrated by compression, that middling people grow bad, and the bad become regular demons. There is, therefore, no such miserable den of selfish and egotistical caballing, slander, gossip, and all malevolence, as one of these. Envy of the man with a large berth,—sneers for the lady that whispered to the captain,—guesses as to the rank and station of every passenger, indulged in with a spirit of impertinence absolutely intolerable,—and petty exclu-siveness practised by every four or five on board, against some others who have fewer servants or less luggage than their neighbors. Into this human bee-hive was I now plunged, to be bored by the drones, stung by the wasps, and maddened by all. ‘No matter,’ thought I, 4 Simon Yellowley has a great mission to fulfil.’ Yes, Mr. Tramp, I remembered the precarious position of our Eastern possessions,—I bethought me of the incalculable services the ability of even a Yellow-ley might render his country in the far-off valley of the Himalaya, and I sat down on my portmanteau, a happier—nay, I will say, a better man.
“The accidents—we call them such every day—the accidents which fashion our lives, are always of our own devising, if we only were to take trouble enough to trace them. I have a theory on this head, but I ‘m keeping it over for a kind of a Bridgewater Treatise. It is enough now to remark that though my number at the dinner-table was 84, I exchanged with another gentleman, who could n’t bear a draught, for a place near the door, No. 122. Ah, me! little knew I then what that simple act was to bring with it. Bear in mind, Mr. Tramp, 122; for, as you may remember, Sancho Panza’s story of the goatherd stopped short, when his master forgot the number of the goats; and that great French novelist, M. de Balzac, always hangs the interest of his tale on some sum in arithmetic, in which his hero’s fortune is concerned: so my story bears upon this number. Yes, sir, the adjoining seat, No. 123, was vacant. There was a cover and a napkin, and there was a chair placed leaning against the table, to mark it out as the property of some one absent; and day by day was that vacant place the object of my conjectures. It was natural this should be the case. My left-hand neighbor was the first mate, one of those sea animals most detestable to a landsman. He had a sea appetite, a sea voice, sea jokes, and, worst of all, a sea laugh. I shall never forget that fellow. I never spoke to him that he did not reply in some slang of his abominable profession; and all the disagreeables of a floating existence were increased ten-fold by the everlasting reference to the hated theme,—a ship. What he on the right hand might prove, was therefore of some moment to me. AnotherCoup de Merlike this would be unendurable. The crossest old maid, the testiest old bachelor, the most peppery nabob, the flattest ensign, the most boring of tourists, the most careful of mothers, would be a boon from heaven in comparison with a blue-jacket. Alas! Mr. Tramp, I was left very long to speculate on this subject. We were buffeted down the Channel, we were tossed along the coast of France, and blown about the Bay of Biscay before 123 ever turned up; when one day—it was a deliciously calm day (I shall not forget it soon)—we even could see the coast of Portugal, with its great mountains above Cintra. Over a long reach of sea, glassy as a mirror, the great ship clove her way,—the long foam-track in her wake, the only stain on that blue surface. Every one was on deck: the old asthmatic gentleman, whose cough was the curse of the after-cabin, sat with a boa round his neck, and thought he enjoyed himself. Ladies in twos and threes walked up and down together, chatting as pleasantly as though in Kensington Gardens. The tourist sent out by Mr. Colburn was taking notes of the whole party, and the four officers in the Bengal Light Horse had adjourned their daily brandy and water to a little awning beside the wheel. There were sketch-books and embroidery-frames and journals on all sides; there was even a guitar, with a blue ribbon round it; and amid all these remindings of shore life, a fat poodle waddled about, and snarled at every one. The calm, sir, was a kind of doomsday, which evoked the dead from their tombs; and up they came from indescribable corners and nooks, opening their eyes with amazement upon the strange world before them, and some almost feeling that even the ordeal of sea-sickness was not too heavy a penalty for an hour so bright, though so fleeting.
“‘Which is 123?’ thought I, as I elbowed my way along the crowded quarter-deck, now asking myself could it be the thin gentleman with the two capes, or the fat lady with the three chins? But there is a prescience which never fails in the greater moments of our destiny, and this told me it was none of these. We went down to dinner, and for the first time the chair was not placed against the table, but so as to permit a person to be seated on it.
“‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said the steward to me, ‘could you move a little this way? 123 is coming in to dinner, and she would like to have the air of the doorway.’
“‘She would,’ thought I; ‘oh, so this is a she, at all events;’ and scarce was the reflection made, when the rustle of a silk dress was heard brushing my chair. I turned, and what do you think, Mr. Tramp?—shall I endeavor to describe my emotions to you?”
This was said in a tone so completely questioning that I saw Mr. Yellowley waited for my answer.
“I am afraid, sir,” said I, looking at my watch, “if the emotions you speak of will occupy much time, we had better skip them, for it only wants a quarter to twelve.”
“We will omit them, then, Mr. Tramp; for, as you justly observe, they would require both time and space. Well, sir, to be brief, 123 was the angel of the railroad.”
“The lady you met at—”
“Yes, sir, if you prefer to call her the lady; for I shall persist in my previous designation. Oh, Mr. Tramp, that was the great moment of my life. You may have remarked that we pass from era to era of our existence, as though it were from one chamber to another. The gay, the sparkling, and the brilliant succeed to the dark and gloomy apartment, scarce illumined by a ray of hope, and we move on in our life’s journey, with new objects suggesting new actions, and the actions engendering new frames of thought, and we think ourselves wiser as our vicissitudes grow thicker; but I must not continue this theme. To me, this moment was the greatest transition of my life. Here was the ideal before me, which neither art had pictured, nor genius described,—the loveliest creature I ever beheld. She turned round on taking her place, and with a slight gesture of surprise recognized me at once as her former fellow-traveller. I have had proud moments in my life, Mr. Tramp. I shall never forget how the Commander of the Forces at Boulahcush said to me in full audience, in the presence of all the officials,—
“‘Yellowley, this is devilish hot,—hotter than we have it in Europe.’
“But here was a prouder moment still: that little graceful movement of recognition, that smile so transient as to be scarce detected, sent a thrill of happiness all through me. In former days, by doughty deeds and hazardous exploits men won their way to women’s hearts; our services in the present time have the advantage of being less hazardous; little attentions of the table, passing the salt, calling for the pepper, lifting a napkin, and inviting to wine, are the substitutes for mutilating giants and spitting dragons. I can’t say but I think the exchange is with the difference.
“The first day passed over with scarce the interchange of a word between us. She arose almost immediately after dinner, and did not make her appearance during the remainder of the evening. The following morning she took her place at the breakfast-table, and to my inexpressible delight, as the weather still remained calm, ascended to the quarterdeck when the meal was over. The smile with which she met me now had assumed the token of acquaintance, and a very little address was necessary, on my part, to enable me to join her as she walked, and engage her in conversation. The fact of being so young and so perfectly alone—for except her French maid, she did not appear to know a single person on board—perhaps appeared to demand some explanation on her part, even to a perfect stranger like myself; for, after some passing observations on the scenery of the coast and the beauty of the weather, she told me that she looked forward with much hope to the benefit her health might derive from a warmer air and less trying climate than that of England.
“‘I already feel benefited by the sweet South,’ said she; and there was a smile of gratitude on her lip, as she spoke the words. Some little farther explanation she may have deemed necessary; for she took the occasion soon after to remark that her only brother would have been delighted with the voyage, if he could have obtained leave of absence from his regiment; but, unfortunately, he was in ‘the Blues,’ quartered at Windsor, and could not be spared.
“‘Poor dear creature!’ said I; ‘and so she has been obliged to travel thus alone, reared doubtless within the precincts of some happy home, from which the world, with its petty snares and selfishness, were excluded, surrounded by all the appliances of luxury, and the elegances that embellish existence—and now, to venture thus upon a journey without a friend, or even a companion.’
“There could scarcely be a more touching incident than to see one like her, so beautiful and so young, in the midst of that busy little world of soldiers and sailors and merchants, travellers to the uttermost bounds of the earth, and wearied spirits seeking for change wherever it might be found. Had I not myself been alone, a very ‘waif’ upon the shores of life, I should have felt attracted by the interest of her isolation; now there was a sympathy to attach us,—there was that similarity of position—thatidem nolle, et idem velle—which, we are told, constitutes true friendship. She seemed to arrive at this conclusion exactly as I did myself, and received with the most captivating frankness all the little attentions it was in my power to bestow; and in fact to regard me, in some sort, as her companion. Thus, we walked the deck each morning it was fine, or, if stormy, played at chess or piquet in the cabin. Sometimes she worked while I read aloud for her; and such a treat as it was to hear her criticisms on the volume before us,—how just and true her appreciation of sound and correct principles,—how skilful the distinctions she would make between the false glitter of tinsel sentiment and the dull gold of real and sterling morality! Her mind, naturally a gifted one, had received every aid education could bestow. French and Italian literature were as familiar to her as was English, while in mere accomplishments she far excelled those who habitually make such acquirements the grand business of early life.
“You are, I presume, a man of the world, Mr. Tramp. You may, perhaps, deem it strange that several days rolled over before I ever even thought of inquiring her name; but such was the case. It no more entered into my conception to ask after it, than I should have dreamed of what might be the botanical designation of some lovely flower by whose beauty and fragrance I was captivated. Enough for me that the bright petals were tipped with azure and gold, and the fair stem was graceful in its slender elegance. I cared not where Jussieu might have arranged or Linnaeus classed it. But a chance revealed the matter even before it had occurred to me to think of it. A volume of Shelley’s poems contained on the titlepage, written in a hand of singular delicacy, the words, ‘Lady Blanche D’Esmonde.’ Whether the noble family she belonged to were English, Irish, or Scotch, I could not even guess. It were as well, Mr. Tramp, that I could not do so. I should only have felt a more unwarrantable attachment for that portion of the empire she came from. Yes, sir, I loved her. I loved her with an ardor that the Yellowleys have been remarkable for, during three hundred and eighty years. It wasmyancestor, Mr. Tramp,—Paul Yellowley,—who was put in the stocks at Charing Cross, for persecuting a maid of honor at Elizabeth’s court. That haughty Queen and cold-hearted woman had the base inscription written above his head, ‘The penaltie of a low scullion who lifteth his eyes too loftilie.’
“To proceed. When we reached Gibraltar, Lady Blanche and I visited the rocks, and went over the bomb-proofs and the casemates together,—far more dangerous places those little cells and dark passages to a man like me, than ever they could become in the hottest fury of a siege. She took such an interest in everything. There was not a mortar nor a piece of ordnance she could afford to miss; and she would peep out from the embrasures, and look down upon the harbor and the bay, with a fearlessness that left me puzzled to think whether I were more terrified by her intrepidity or charmed by the beauty of her instep. Again we went to sea; but how I trembled at each sight of land, lest she should leave the ship forever! At last, Malta came in view; and the same evening the boats were lowered, for all had a desire to go ashore. Of course Lady Blanche was most anxious; her health had latterly improved greatly, and she was able to incur considerable fatigue, without feeling the worse afterwards.
“It was a calm, mellow evening, with an already risen moon, as we landed to wander about the narrow streets and bastioned dwellings of old Valletta. She took my arm, and, followed by Mademoiselle Virginie, we went on exploring every strange and curious spot before us, and calling up before our mind’s eye the ancient glories of the place. I was rather strong in all these sort of things, Mr. Tramp; for in expectation of this little visit, I made myself up about the Knights of St. John and the Moslems, Fort St Elmo, Civita Vecchia, rocks, catacombs, prickly pears, and all. In fact, I was primed with the whole catalogue, which, written down in short memoranda, forms Chap. I. in a modern tour-book of the Mediterranean. The season was so genial, and the moon so bright, that we lingered till past midnight, and then returned to the ship the last of all the visitors. That was indeed a night, as, flickered by the column of silver light, we swept over the calm sea. Lady Blanche, wrapped in my large boat-cloak, her pale features statue-like in their unmoved beauty, sat in the stern; I sat at her side. Neither spoke a word. What her thoughts might have been I cannot guess; but the little French maid looked at me from time to time with an expression of diabolical intelligence I cannot forget; and as I handed her mistress up the gangway, Virginie said in a whisper,—