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“Et Balbus bellum horridum fecit.”
—CONVULSIUS.
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HE Marquis led us from the station into a road, where we found the van already under way and two carriages awaiting us. In one Dick and Teddy were already installed; the Marquis and Kate entered the other. I joined my friends, and Halfred sprang upon the box; and off we set for a destination which our leader, after his habit, kept till the last a profound secret. So far as I could see, our force consisted of the party I have named, the men in the van, and the three drivers. Hankey, I presumed, must be one of the last. Where we were to find a ship, and how soon we were to find our French allies, I had no notion at all.
That drive seemed as interminable as the railway journey, and certainly it was far more uncomfortable. We were all three too sleepy to talk much, but, to my constant wonder and delight, I found my two companions as ready as ever to go ahead and take their chance of what might befall them.
“I say,” said Teddy, in a drowsy tone, “do you think there's any chance of getting a bath before we begin?”
“The despised sandwich would come in handy, too,” added Dick. “I say, monsieur, why didn't you bring a flask?”
“I did,” I replied, “and here it is.”
“He is another Napoleon,” said Dick. “Nothing is forgotten.”
Meantime the day began to break, and, though the sun had not yet risen, it was quite light when we felt our carriage stop.
“Alight!” said the voice of the Marquis. “We have arrived!”
We were in a side track that ran through the fields of a sheltered valley; on one side a grove of trees concealed us; on the other, through the end of the valley and only at a little distance off, I saw something that roused me with a thrill of excitement. It was the open, gray sea, with a small steamboat lying close inshore.
“Peste!” cried the Marquis, taking me aside. “Hankey is not here!”
“Not with us?”
“No; he must have been left at the station. It is a nuisance!”
“It seems to me worse than that.”
“Yes, for we cannot wait; we must leave him behind. It is a great loss. And now, my brave comrade, the drama commences—the drama of the restoration! You will open the van, and as the men come out I shall address them.”
“In English?” I asked.
“Yes; I have prepared and learned by heart an oration. It will not be long, but it will be moving. Ah, you will see that I can be eloquent!”
With his wife at his side, and the drivers a few paces behind him, he drew himself up and threw out his chest, while I unlocked the door of the van.
Throwing it open I stepped back, curious to see the desperadoes he had collected, and wondering how they would regard the business, while the Marquis cleared his throat.
A moment's expectant pause, and then—conceive my sensations—out stepped, first, the burly form of Sir Henry Horley, then the upright figure of General Sholto, next the benevolent countenance of the Bishop of Battersea, and after him the remainder of my invited guests. The Marquis had kidnapped the wrong men!
“What the devil!” began Sir Henry, glancing round him to see in what country and company he found himself; but before there was time for a word of explanation, the Marquis had launched upon his passionate appeal. As the original manuscript afterwards came into my possession, I am able to give the exact words of this remarkable oration.
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“Brave, gallant men,” he cried; “you have come to share adventures stupendous, miraculous, which you will enjoy! I lead you, my good Britannic sportsmen, whither or why obviously can be seen, to establish the anointed and legal King in his right country! To die successfully is glorious! But you will not; you will live forever conquering, and gratefully recollected in France!
“You” [here he waved his hand towards the astonished baronet] “will enjoy drink of all beers and spirits that an English proverbially adores ever after and always! Also you” [here he indicated the dumfounded bishop] “will enjoy women, the most lively and sporting in the wide world, always and ever after! Also you” [pointing towards the substantial form of Mr. Alderman Guffin] “shall bask and revel in the land of song, of music, of light fantastic toes, amid all which once and more having been never stopping again bravo and hip, hip, my sportsmen! Once, twice, thrice, follow me to victor!”
He stopped and looked eagerly for the fruits of this appeal, and his Britannic sportsmen returned his gaze with interest. I am free to confess that long before this my two companions and I had shrunk from publicity behind the door of the van, awaiting a more fitting moment to greet our friends.
“Is this a dashed asylum, or a dashed nightmare?” demanded Sir Henry.
Not quite comprehending this, but seeing that these recruits displayed no great alacrity, the Marquis again raised his voice and cried:
“Are you afraid, brave garçons?”
But now an unexpected light was thrown on their captors.
“Kate!” exclaimed General Sholto in a bewildered voice.
That the unfortunate General should have his domestic drama played in public was more than I could bear. I stepped forward, and I may honestly say that I effectually distracted attention. It was not a pleasant process, even when assisted by the explanations of Teddy to his father and the loyal assurances of Dick; but it at least cleared the air. As for the unfortunate Marquis, his chagrin was so evident that, diabolically unpleasant as he had made my own position, I could not but feel sorry for him.
“And so,” he said to me, sadly, “Heaven has been unkind to me again. I acted for the best, my dear d'Haricot, believe me! But I fear I do not excel so much in carrying out details as in conceiving plans. I see, it was my fault! I allowed these gentlemen to enter that house by the wrong door. Well, if they will not follow us—and I fear they are reluctant, though I do not understand all they say—we three must go alone!”
“Three?” I asked.
“My wife and you and I. Say farewell to your friends and come! The vessel awaits us and our forces in France will at all events be ready.”
But Heaven was to prove still more unkind to our unfortunate leader.
“Who are these?” I exclaimed.
“The English police!” he cried. “We are betrayed!”
And indeed we were. A force of mounted policemen swept round the corner of the wood and trotted up to us, and in the midst of them we recognized the double-faced Hankey.
“What do you want, gentlemen?” asked the Marquis, calmly, though his eyes flashed dangerously at the traitor.
“We come in the Queen's name!” replied the officer in command. “Are you the Marquis de la Carrabasse?”
I am.
“I have a warrant, then, for your arrest.”
But now, for the first time, fortune turned in the Marquis's favor, though I fear it seemed to that zealous patriot a poor crumb of consolation that she threw.
Instead of finding, as our betrayer had calculated, a crew of suspicious-looking adventurers, he beheld a small party of middle-aged gentlemen attired in evening clothes and anxious only to find their way home again; and, to add to our good luck, when they came to look for our case of arms and ammunition it appeared that the Marquis had forgotten to bring it. Also, these same elderly gentlemen showed a very marked disinclination to have their share in the adventure appear in the morning papers, even in the capacity of witnesses.
And, finally, as the French government had been informed of our plans for some weeks past, so that we were absolutely powerless for mischief, the police decided to overlook my share altogether and make a merely formal matter of my friend's arrest.
“What will my King say?” cried the poor Marquis. “Oh, d'Haricot, I am disgraced, and my honor is lost! Tell me not that I am unfortunate; for what difference does that make? Such misfortunes must not be survived! Adieu, my friend! Pardon my suspicions!”
Before I could prevent him, the unfortunate man quickly thrust his hand into his pistol-pocket, and in that same instant would have blown out those ingenious, unpractical brains. But, with a fresh look of despair, he stopped, petrified, his hand still in his pocket.
“My revolver also is forgotten!” he exclaimed. “I am neither capable of living nor of dying!”
“Thank Heaven who mislaid that pistol,” I replied. “Had you forgotten your bride, too?”
“Mon Dieu! I had! I thank you for reminding me. Ah, yes, I have some consolation in life left, me!”
But though the Marchioness no doubt consoled him later, she was at that moment in anything but a sympathetic mood.
“Well, my dear,” I overheard the General saying to her, “as you make your bed so you must lie in it. This—er—Marquis, doesn't he call himself?—of yours hasn't started very brilliantly, but, I dare say, by the time he has been before the magistrate and cooled down, and had a shave and so forth, he will do better. I shouldn't let him mix himself up in any more of these plots of his, though, if I were you.”
She tossed her head, and the defiant flash of her eyes told her uncle plainly to mind his own business; but I fear his words had stung her more than he intended, for when her husband said to her, dramatically, “My love, we have failed!” she merely replied, with a sarcastic air, “Naturaly; what else could you have expected?”
She beamed upon me with contrasting kindness, lingered to say farewell to the admiring Teddy, who had just been presented to her, went by her uncle with a disdainful glance, and then the happy couple passed out of this story.
“A devilish fine woman!” said Teddy.
“Others have made the same reflection,” I replied.
“And now, monsieur,” said Dick, “I think it's about time we were getting back to London, bath, and breakfast.”
“Carriage is ready, sir,” said the voice of Halfred.
“Whose carriage?”
“Carriage as we came down in, sir. I've give the driver the tip, and he's waiting behind them trees.”
“But what about all these unfortunate gentlemen?”
“Thought as 'ow they might prefer travelling in the van they comed in,” he replied, with a semblance of great gravity.
But I had not the hardihood to do this, and concerning my journey to town with my dinnerless, sleepless, and breakfastless guests, I should rather say as little as possible.
I confess I envied the Marquis accompanying his escort of constables.
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“Adieu! I never wait till my friends have yawned twice.”
—Hercule d'Enville.
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ELL, I am back in London after all, amid the murmur of millions of English voices, the rumble of millions of wheels, the painted omnibus, and the providential policeman—all the things to which I bade a long farewell last night. And my reader, if indeed he has kept me company so far, now fidgets a little for fear I am about to mix myself in further complications and pour more follies into the surfeited ear. But no! I have rambled and confessed enough, and in a few more pages I, like the Indian juggler Dick compared me to, shall throw a rope into the sky, and, climbing up it, disappear—into heaven? Again no! It may be a surprise to many, but it was not there that these memoirs were written.
To round up and finish off a narrative that has no plot, no moral, and only the most ridiculous hero, is not so easy as I thought it was going to be. Probably the best plan will be not to say too much about this hero and just a little about his friends.
As I had given up and dismantled my rooms, Dick insisted that I must return to Helmscote with him that same day and finish my Christmas visit, and need it be said that I accepted this invitation?
At the station, upon our arrival in London, I parted with Teddy Lumme and General Sholto.
“By-bye,” said Teddy, cheerfully; “I must trot along and look after the governor; he's in a terrible stew; I don't suppose he has missed two meals running before in his life—poor old beggar! It'll do him good, though; don't you worry, old chap.”
And with a friendly wave of his hand this filial son drove off with the still muttering Bishop.
The General wrung my hand, hoped he would see me again soon, and then, without more words, left us. He was not so cheerful, for that final escapade of his niece had hurt him more than he would allow. Still, it was a fine red neck and a very erect back that I last saw marching down the platform.
“And now, my good Halfred,” I said, “I suppose you fly to Miss Titch and happiness? Lucky fellow!”
“I 'aven't been dismissed yet, sir,” he replied, solemnly, and with no answering smile, “but if you gives me the sack, o' course I'll 'ave to go.”
“Then you think I need your watchful eye on me a little longer?”
From the expression of that watchful eye it was evident that he was very far from disposed to let me take my chance of escaping the consequences of my errors without his assistance. Indeed, to this day he firmly holds the opinion that it was his vigilance alone that insured so harmless an end to our desperate expedition, and that if he had not stood by me I should have conspired again within a week.
“I puts hit to Mr. Shafthead,” he replied, casting a glance at my friend which might be compared to a warning in cipher addressed to some potentate by an allied sovereign.
“You certainly had better come down with us, Halfred,” said Dick. “The Lord only knows what the monsieur would be up to without you.”
And accordingly Halfred went with us to Helmscote.
Behold me now once more beneath the ancient, hospitable roof, the kind hostess smiling graciously, the genial baronet roaring with unrestrained mirth at the tale of our adventures—and Daisy? She was not looking directly at me; but her face was smiling, with pleasure a little, I thought, as well as amusement. At night the same welcoming chamber and a fire as bright as before; only this time no missives thrown through the casement window. Next morning I am severely left alone; Dick has been summoned by his father. Half an hour passes, and then, with an air of triumph, he returns.
“You'll have to look after yourself to-day, monsieur,” he says. “I'm off to town to bring her back with me.”
“Her!” So the stern parent has relented, and some day in the distant future, I suppose, Agnes Grey will be Lady Shafthead and rule this house. What Dick added regarding my own share in this issue I need not repeat, though I confess it will always be a satisfaction for me to think of one headlong performance, unguided even by Halfred, which resulted so prosperously.
Being thus bereft of Dick, what more natural than that I should be entertained by his sister?
She speaks of Dick's happiness with a bright gleam in her eye.
“He should feel very grateful to you,” she says.
I should have preferred “we” to “he,” but, unluckily, I have no choice in the matter.
“I envy him,” I reply, with meaning in my voice.
Her face is composed and as demure as ever, only her color seems to me to be a little higher and her eye certainly does not meet mine as frankly as usual.
Suddenly I am emboldened to exclaim:
“I do not mean that I envy him Miss Grey, but his happiness in being loved!”
And then I tell her whose love I myself covet.
She is embarrassed, she is kind, she is not offended, but her look checks me.
“How often have you felt like this within the last few months—towards some one or other?” she asks.
Alas! How dangerous a thing to let the brother of the adored one know too much! Dick meant no harm; he never knew how his tales would affect me; but evidently he has jested at home about my amours, and now I am regarded by his sister either as a Don Juan or a perpetually love-sick sentimentalist. And the worst of it is that there are some superficial grounds for either theory.
“Ah,” I cry, “you have heard then of my wanderings in search of the ideal? But I have only just found it!”
“How can you be sure of that?” she asks, a little smile appearing in her eye like a sudden break in a misty sky. “You haven't known me long enough to say. In a month you may make a jest of me.”
“I am serious at last. I swear it!”
“I am afraid you will have to remain serious for some time to make me believe it,” she replies, the smile still lingering. “When any one has treated women, and everything else, flippantly so long as you, I—”
She hesitated.
“You do not trust them?”
“No,” she confesses.
“If I am serious for six months will you trust me then?”
“Perhaps,” she allows at last.
It means a good deal, does that word, said in such circumstances, but I am not going to drag you through the experiences of a faithful lover, sustained by a “perhaps.”Mon Dieu!You have the privations of Dr. Nansen on his travels to read if that is the literature you admire.
No; in the words of Halfred on the eve of his nuptials with Aramatilda, “I ain't what you'd call solemn nat'rally but this here matrimonial business do make a man stop talkin' as free as he'd wish.”
I also shall stop talking, and, with the blotting-pad already in my hand, pray Heaven to grant my readers an indulgent and a not too solemn spirit.
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