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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 40660
   :PG.Title: The Interpreter
   :PG.Released: 2012-09-04
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: \G. \J. Whyte-Melville
   :MARCREL.ill: Lucy \E. Kemp-Welch
   :DC.Title: The Interpreter
              A Tale of the War
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1880
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE INTERPRETER
===============

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   .. _`Cover`:

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      :alt: Cover

      Cover

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   .. _`"'My heart sank within me.'"`:

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      :alt: "'My heart sank within me.'" (Page 172.) *Frontispiece*

      "'My heart sank within me.'" (Page `172`_.) *Frontispiece*

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      The Interpreter

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      A Tale of the War

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      By

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      \G. \J. Whyte-Melville

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      Author of "Digby Grand," "General Bounce," etc.

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      Illustrated by Lucy \E. Kemp-Welch

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      New York
      Longmans, Green & Co.

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      CONTENTS

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      CHAP.

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      I.  `The Old Desk`_
      II.  `The Deserter`_
      III.  `"Par Nobile"`_
      IV.  `Father and Son`_
      V.  `The Zingynies`_
      VI.  `School`_
      VII.  `Play`_
      VIII.  `The Truants`_
      IX.  `Ropsley`_
      X.  `Beverley Manor`_
      XI.  `Dulce Domum`_
      XII.  `Alton Grange`_
      XIII.  `"Lethalis Arundo"`_
      XIV.  `The Picture`_
      XV.  `Beverley Mere`_
      XVI.  `Princess Vocqsal`_
      XVII.  `The Common Lot`_
      XVIII.  `Omar Pasha`_
      XIX.  `"'Skender Bey"`_
      XX.  `The Beloochee`_
      XXI.  `Zuleika`_
      XXII.  `Valerie`_
      XXIII.  `Forewarned`_
      XXIV.  `"Arcades Ambo"`_
      XXV.  `"Dark and Dreary"`_
      XXVI.  `"Surveillance"`_
      XXVII.  `Ghosts of the Past`_
      XXVIII.  `La Dame aux Camellias`_
      XXIX.  `"A Merry Masque"`_
      XXX.  `The Golden Horn`_
      XXXI.  `The Seraskerât`_
      XXXII.  `A Turk's Harem`_
      XXXIII.  `My Patient`_
      XXXIV.  `"Messirie's"`_
      XXXV.  `"The Wolf and the Lamb"`_
      XXXVI.  `"The Front"`_
      XXXVII.  `"A Quiet Night"`_
      XXXVIII.  `The Grotto`_
      XXXIX.  `The Redan`_
      XL.  `The War-Minister at Home`_
      XLI.  `Wheels within Wheels`_
      XLII.  `"Too Late"`_
      XLIII.  `"The Skeleton"`_
      XLIV.  `The Gipsy's Dream`_
      XLV.  `Retribution`_
      XLVI.  `Væ Victis!`_
      XLVII.  `The Return of Spring`_

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.. _`THE OLD DESK`:

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   THE INTERPRETER

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   *A TALE OF THE WAR*

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   CHAPTER I

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   THE OLD DESK

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Not one of my keys will fit it: the old desk has been laid
aside for years, and is covered with dust and rust.  We do
not make such strong boxes nowadays, for brass hinges
and secret drawers have given place to flimsy morocco and
russian leather; so we clap a Bramah lock, that Bramah
himself cannot pick, on a black bag that the veriest
bungler can rip open in five seconds with a penknife, and
entrust our notes, bank and otherwise, our valuables, and
our secrets, to this faithless repository with a confidence
that deserves to be respected.  But in the days when
George the Third was king, our substantial ancestors
rejoiced in more substantial workmanship: so the old
desk that I cannot succeed in unlocking, is of shining
rosewood, clamped with brass, and I shall spoil it sadly
with the mallet and the chisel.

What a medley it holds!  Thank Heaven I am no
speculative philosopher, or I might moralise for hours
over its contents.  First, out flies a withered leaf of
geranium.  It must have been dearly prized once, or it
would never have been here; maybe it represented the
hopes, the wealth, the all-in-all of two aching hearts: and
they are dust and ashes now.  To think that the flower
should have outlasted them! the symbol less perishable
than the faith!  Then I come to a piece of much-begrimed
and yellow paper, carefully folded, and indorsed
with a date,--a receipt for an embrocation warranted
specific in all cases of bruises, sprains, or lumbago; next
a gold pencil-case, with a head of Socrates for a seal;
lastly, much of that substance which is generated in all
waste places, and which the vulgar call "flue."  How it
comes there puzzles equally the naturalist and the
philosopher; but you shall find it in empty corners, empty
drawers, empty pockets, nay, we believe in its existence
in the empty heads of our fellow-creatures.

In my thirst for acquisition, regardless of dusty fingers,
I press the inner sides of the desk in hopes of discovering
secret springs and hoarded repositories: so have poor
men ere now found thousand-pound notes hid away in
chinks and crannies, and straightway, giddy with the
possession of boundless wealth, have gone to the Devil at
a pace such as none but the beggar on horseback can
command; so have old wills been fished out, and frauds
discovered, and rightful heirs re-established, and society
in general disgusted, and all concerned made discontented
and uncomfortable--so shall I, perhaps--but the springs
work, a false lid flies open, and I do discover a packet of
letters, written on thin foreign paper, in the free
straggling characters I remember so well.  They are addressed
to Sir H. Beverley, and the hand that penned them has
been cold for years.  So will yours and mine be some day,
perhaps ere the flowers are out again; *O beate Sexti!*
will you drink a glass less claret on that account?
Buxom Mrs. Lalage, shall the dressmaker therefore put
unbecoming trimmings in your bonnet?  The "shining
hours" are few, and soon past; make the best of them,
each in your own way, only try and choose the right
way:--

   |   For the day will soon be over, and the minutes are of gold,
   |   And the wicket shuts at sundown, and the shepherd leaves the fold.

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   LETTER I

"Those were merry days, my dear Hal, when we used
to hear the 'chimes at midnight' with poor Brummell
and Sir Benjamin;[#] very jolly times they were, and I
often think, if health and pockets could have stood it, I
should like to be going the pace amongst you all still.
And yet how few of us are left.  They have dropped off
one by one, as they did the night we dyed the white rose
red at the old place; and you, and I, and stanch old
'Ben,' were the only three left that could walk straight.
Do you remember the corner of King-street, and 'Ben'
stripped 'to the buff,' as he called it himself, 'going-in'
right royally at the tall fellow with the red head?  I
never saw such right-and-lefters, I never thought he had
so much 'fight' in him; and you don't remember, Hal,
but I do, how 'the lass with the long locks' bent over
you when you were floored, like Andromache over a
debauched Hector, and stanched the claret that was
flowing freely from your nostrils, and gave you gin in a
smelling-bottle, which you sucked down as though it were
mother's milk, like a young reprobate as you were; nor
do you remember, nor do I very clearly, how we all got
back to 'The Cottage,' and finished with burnt curagoa,
and a dance on the table by daylight.  And now you and
I are about the only two left, and I am as near ruined as
a gentleman can be; and you must have lost your
pen-feathers, Hal, I should think, though you were a goose
that always could pick a living off a common, be it never
so bare.  Well, we have had our fun; and after all, I for
one have been far happier since than I ever was in those
roystering days; but of this I cannot bear to speak."

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   [#] The dandy's nickname for the Prince Regent.

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"Nor am I so much to be pitied now.  I have got my
colours and my sketch-book, after all; and there never
was such a country as this for a man who has half an eye
in his head.  On these magnificent plains the lights and
shades are glorious.  Glorious, Hal, with a little red
jagged in here and there towards sunset, and the ghostly
maize waving and whispering, and the feathery acacias
trembling in the lightest air, the russet tinge of the one
and the fawn-coloured stems of the other melting so softly
into the neutral tints of the sandy soil.  I could paint a
picture here that should be perfectly true to Nature--nay,
more natural than the old dame herself--and never
use but two colours to do it all!  I am not going to tell
you what they are: and this reminds me of my boy, and
of a want in his organisation that is a sad distress to me.
The child has not a notion of colour.  I was painting out
of doors yesterday, and he was standing by--bless him! he
never leaves me for an instant--and I tried to explain
to him some of the simplest rudiments of the godlike art.
'Vere,' said I, 'do you see those red tints on the tops of
the far acacias, and the golden tinge along the back of
that brown ox in the foreground?'  'Yes, papa!' was the
child's answer, with a bewildered look.  'How should you
paint them, my boy?'  'Well, papa, I should paint the
acacias green, because they *are* green, and'--here he
thought he had made a decided hit--'I should put the
red into the ox, for he is almost more red than brown.'  Dear
child! he has not a glimmering of colour; but
composition, that's his forte; and drawing, drawing, you know,
which is the highest form of the art.  His drawing is
extraordinary--careless, but great breadth and freedom;
and I am certain he could compose a wonderful picture,
from his singular sensibility to beauty.  Young as he is,
I have seen the tears stand in his eyes when contemplating
a fine view, or a really exquisite 'bit,' such as one sees in
this climate every day.  His raptures at his first glimpse
of the Danube I shall never forget; and if I can only
instil into him the principles of colour, you will see Vere
will become the first painter of the age.  The boy learns
languages readily enough.  He has picked up a good deal
of Hungarian from his nurse.  Such a woman,
Hal! magnificent!  Such colouring: deep brown tones, and
masses of the richest grey hair, with superb, solemn,
sunken eyes, and a throat and forehead tanned and
wrinkled into the very ideal of a Canidia, or a Witch of
Endor, or any fine old sorceress, 'all of the olden
time.'  I have done her in chalks, and in sepia, and in oils.  I
adore her in the former.  She is, I fancy, a good, careful
woman, and much attached to Vere, who promises to be
an excellent linguist; but of this I cannot see the
advantage.  There is but one pursuit, in my opinion, for an
intellectual being who is not obliged to labour in the
fields for his daily bread, and that is Art.  I have wooed
the heavenly maid all my life.  To me she has been
sparing of her favours; and yet a single smile from her
has gilded my path for many a long and weary day.  She
has beckoned me on and on till I feel I could follow her
to the end of the world; she shielded me *in the dark hour*;
she has brightened my lot ever since; she led me to
nature, her grand reflection--for you know my theory,
that art is reality, and nature but the embodiment of art;
she has made me independent of the frowns of that other
jade, Fortune, and taught me the most difficult lesson of
all--to be content.  What is wealth?  You and I have
seen it lavished with both hands, and its possessor weary,
satiate, languid, and disgusted.  What is rank? a mark
for envy, an idol but for fools.  Fame? a few orders on a
tight uniform; a craving for more and more; even when
we know the tastelessness of the food, to be still hungry
for applause.  Love? a sting of joy and a heartache for
ever.  Are they not all vanity of vanities?  But your
artist is your true creator.  He can embody the noblest
aspirations of his mind, and give them a reality and a
name.  You, Hal, who are the most practical, unimaginative,
business-like fellow that ever hedged a bet or drove
a bargain, have had such dreams betwixt sleeping and
waking as have given you a taste of heaven, and taught
you the existence of a fairy-land of which, to such as you,
is only granted a far-away and occasional glimpse.  What
would you give to be able to embody such blissful visions
and call them up at will?  Let me have a camel's-hair
brush, a few dabs of clay, and, behold!  I am the magician
before whose wand these dreams shall reappear tangibly,
substantially, enduringly: alas! for mortal shortcomings,
sometimes a little out of drawing, sometimes a little hard
and cold; but still, Hal, I can make my own world, such
as it is, and people it for myself; nor do I envy any man
on earth, except, perhaps, a sculptor.  To have perfected
and wrought out in the imperishable marble the ideal of
one's whole life, to walk round it, and smoke one's cigar
and say, 'This will last as long as St. Paul's Cathedral or
the National Debt, and this is mine, I made it'--must be
a sensation of delight that even we poor painters, with
our works comparatively of a day, can hardly imagine;
but then, what we lose in durability we gain in reproduction:
and so once more I repeat, let who will be statesman,
warrior, stock-jobber, or voluptuary, but give me the
pallet and the easel, the *délire d'un peintre*, the line of
beauty and the brush!

"Can you wonder that I should wish my boy to tread
the same path?  Had I but begun at his age, and worked
as I *should* have worked, what might I have been now?
Could I but make amends to him by leading him up the
path to real fame, and see Vere the regenerator of modern
art, I should die happy.

"And now, Hal, I must ask you of your own pursuits
and your own successes.  I do not often see an English
paper; but these are a fine sporting people, with a dash
of our English tastes and love of horseflesh; and in a
small pothouse where we put up last week, in the very
heart of the Banat, I found a print of Flying Childers,
and a *Bell's Life* of the month before last.  In this I read
that your Marigold colt was first favourite for the Derby,
and I can only say that I hope he will win, as fervently
as I should have done some years back, when he would
have carried a large portion of my money, or at least of
my credit, on his back.  I have also gathered that your
shorthorns won the prize at the great cattle-show.  'Who
drives fat oxen must himself be fat.'  I trust, therefore,
that you are flourishing and thriving; also, that Constance,
the most stately little lady I ever beheld at two years old,
still queens it at the Manor-house.  I will write again
shortly, but must leave off now, as my boy is calling me
to go out.  He grows more like his poor mother every
day, especially about the eyes.--Adieu, Hal; ever yours,

"PHILIP EGERTON."

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   LETTER II

"The longer I linger here the more I become wedded
to the land in which, after all, I have known the few hours
of real happiness I ever spent.  Yes, Hal, with all its
guilt, with all its anxieties, with everything and everybody
battling against me--that was my golden year, such
as I shall never see again.  She was so generous, so
gentle, and so true; she sacrificed all so willingly for me,
and never looked back.  Such courage, such patience, and
oh! such beauty; and to lose her after one short year.
Well, it is my punishment, and I bear it; but if it had to
be done again I would do it.  Surely I was not so much
to blame.  Had she but lived I would have made her
such amends.  And after all she is mine--mine in her
lonely grave under the acacias, and I shall meet her again.
If the universe holds her I shall meet her again.  Wearily
the years have dragged on since I lost her, but every
birthday is a milestone nearer home; and in the
meantime I have Vere and my art.  And we wander about this
wild country, and scamper across its boundless plains, and
I paint and smoke, and try to be happy.

"We arrived here last night, and I need scarcely tell
you that Edeldorf is as English as any place out of
England can be, and my old friend but little altered
during the last twenty years.  You remember De Rohan
at Melton and Newmarket, at Rome and at Paris.
Wherever he lived he was quite the Englishman, and
always rode a thoroughbred horse.  It would indeed be
ungrateful on your part to forget him.  Need I remind
you of the dinner at the old Club, and the procession
afterwards, with some fourteen wax candles, to inspect
The Switcher in your stables, at the risk of burning
down the greater part of the town, and converting some
of the best horses in England into an exceedingly tough
grill.  I can see the Count's face of drunken gravity now,
as he felt carefully down the horse's forelegs, undeterred
by the respectful stare of your groom, or the undisguised
astonishment of the animal itself.  'Vat is his name?'
was the only question he asked of the polite Mr. Topthorn.
'The Switcher, my lord,' was the reply.  'Ver' nice name,'
said the Count, and bought him forthwith at a price that
you yourself can best appreciate; but from that day to
this he never could pronounce the animal's appellation;
and although he rode 'The Svishare' both in England
and here, and has got prints and pictures of him all over
the house, 'The Svishare' he will continue to be till the
end of time.

"All this Anglo-mania, however, is not much
appreciated in high places; and I can see enough without
looking much below the surface to satisfy me that the
Count is eyed jealously by the authorities, and that if
ever they catch him tripping they will not spare his
fortunes or his person.  I fear there will be a row before
long, and I would not trust the wild blood of my friends
here if once they get the upper hand.  Only yesterday
an incident occurred that gave me a pretty correct idea of
the state of feeling in this country, and the disaffection
of the peasant to his imperial rulers.  Vere and I were
travelling along in our usual manner, occupying the front
seat of a most dilapidated carriage, which I purchased at
Bucharest for twenty ducats, with the nurse and the
baggage behind.  We had stopped for me to sketch an
animated group, in the shape of a drove of wild horses being
drafted and chosen by their respective owners, and Vere
was clapping his hands and shouting with delight at the
hurry-skurry of the scene (by the way, there was a white
horse that I caught in a beautiful attitude, who comes
out admirably and lights up the whole sketch), when an
officer and a couple of Austrian dragoons rode into the
midst of the busy horse-tamers, and very rudely
proceeded to subject them to certain inquiries, which seemed
to meet with sulky and evasive answers enough.  After
a time the Austrian officer, a handsome boy of twenty,
stroking an incipient moustache, ordered the oldest man
of the party to be pinioned; and placing him between his
two soldiers, began to interrogate him in a most offensive
and supercilious manner.  The old man, who was what
we should call in England a better sort of yeoman farmer,
of course immediately affected utter ignorance of German;
and as the young Austrian was no great proficient in
Hungarian, I was compelled most unwillingly to
interpret between them, Vere looking on meanwhile with his
mouth wide open, in a state of intense bewilderment.  The
following is a specimen of the conversation:--

"*Austrian Sub-Lieutenant*, in German--'Thou hast been
hiding deserters; and so shalt thou be imprisoned, and
fined, and suffer punishment.'  I have to modify these
threats into Hungarian.--'Brother, this noble officer seeks
a deserter.  Knowest thou of such an one?'

"*Old Man*--'My father, I know nothing.'

"*Austrian Officer*, with many expletives, modified as
before by your humble servant--'You shall be punished
with the utmost rigour if you do not give him up.'

"*Old Man*, again--'My father, I know nothing.'

"*Officer*, losing all patience, and gesticulating wildly
with his sword--'Slave, brute, dog, tell me this instant
which way he took, or I will have you hanged to that
nearest tree, your family shall be imprisoned, and your
village burnt to the ground.'

"*Old Man*, as before--'My father, I know nothing.'

"The case was getting hopeless; but the young officer
had now thoroughly lost his temper, and ordered his men
to tie the peasant up, and flog him soundly with a
stirrup-leather.  Here I thought it high time to interpose; I saw
the wild Hungarian blood beginning to boil in the veins
of some dozen dark scowling fellows, who had been
occupied tending the horses.  Eyes were flashing at the
Austrians, and hands clutching under the sheepskin where
the long knife lies.  Fortunately the officer was a
gentleman and an admirer of the English.  With much
difficulty I persuaded him to abandon his cruel intention, and
to ride on in prosecution of his search; but it was when
his back was turned that the tide of indignation against
himself and his country swelled to the highest.  The
peasants' faces actually became convulsed with rage, their
voices shook with fury, and threats and maledictions were
poured on their masters enough to make one's very blood
run cold.  If ever they do get the upper hand, woe to the
oppressor!  There is nothing on earth so fearful as a
Jacquerie.  God forbid this fair land should ever see one.

"We journeyed on in a different direction from the
dragoons, but we caught occasional glimpses of their
white coats as they gleamed through the acacias that
skirted the road; and I was just thinking how well I
could put them in with a dab or two of chalk against
a thunder-storm, or a dark wood in the midst of summer,
when the bright sun makes the foliage almost black, and
debating in my own mind whether the officer would not
have made a better sketch if his horse had been a light
grey, when my postilion pulled up with a jerk that nearly
chucked Vere out of the carriage, and, pointing to
something in the road, assured 'my Excellency' that the
horse was dying, and the rider, in all probability, lying
killed under his beast.  Sure enough, an over-ridden
horse was prostrate in the middle of the road, and a
young man vainly endeavouring to raise him by the
bridle, and calling him by all the terms of endearment
and abuse in the Hungarian vocabulary, without the
slightest effect.  Seeing our carriage, he addressed me in
German, and with a gentlemanlike voice and manner
begged to know in what direction I was travelling.  'I
hope to get to Edeldorf to-night,' was my answer.  He
started at the name.  'Edeldorf!' said he; 'I, too, am
bound for Edeldorf; can you favour me with a seat in
your carriage?'  Of course I immediately complied; and
Vere and I soon had the stranger between us, journeying
amicably on towards my old friend's chateau.  You know
my failing, Hal, so I need not tell you how it was that
I immediately began to study my new acquaintance's
physiognomy, somewhat, I thought, to his discomfiture,
for at first he turned his head away, but after a while
seemed to think better of it, and entered into conversation
with much frankness and vivacity.  The sun was getting
low, and I think I could have sketched him very satisfactorily
in that warm, soft light.  His head was essentially
that of a soldier; the brow deficient in ideality, but with
the bold outlines which betoken penetration and
forethought.  Constructiveness fully developed, combativeness
moderate, but firmness very strongly marked; the
eye deep set, and, though small, remarkably brilliant; the
jaw that of a strong, bold man, while the lines about
the mouth showed great energy of character and decision.
From the general conformation of his head I should have
placed forethought as the distinguishing quality of his
character, and I should have painted the rich brown tones
of his complexion on a system of my own, which such a
portrait would be admirably calculated to bring out.
However, I could not well ask him to sit to me upon
so short an acquaintance; so, while he and Vere chatted
on--for they soon became great friends, and my new
acquaintance seemed charmed to find a child speaking
German so fluently--I began to speculate on the trade
and character of this mysterious addition to our party.
'Hair cut short, moustache close clipped,' thought I,
'perfect German accent, and the broad Viennese dialect
of the aristocracy, all this looks like a soldier; but the
rough frieze coat, and huge shapeless riding boots could
never belong to an officer of that neatest of armies--"the
Imperial and Kingly."  Then his muscular figure, and
light active gait, which I remarked as he sprang into
the carriage, would argue him one who was in the habit
of practising feats of strength and agility.  There is no
mistaking the effects of the gymnasium.  Stay, I have it,
he is a fencing-master; that accounts for the military
appearance, the quick glance, the somewhat worn look of
the countenance, and he is going to Edeldorf, to teach De
Rohan's boy the polite art of self-defence.  So much the
better.  I, too, love dearly a turn with the foils, so I can
have a glorious "set-to" with him to-morrow or the next
day; and then, when we are more intimate, I can paint
him.  I think I shall do him in oils.  I wish he would
turn his head the least thing further this way.'  I had
got as far as this when my new friend did indeed turn
his head round, and looking me full in the face, thus
addressed me:--'Sir, you are an Englishman, and an
honourable man.  I have no right to deceive you.  You
incur great danger by being seen with me.  I have no
right to implicate you; set me down, and let me walk.'  Vere
looked more astonished than ever.  I begged him
to explain himself.  'I tell you,' said he, 'that I am a
thief and a deserter.  My name is posted at every
barrack-gate in the empire.  I am liable to be hanged, if taken.
Are you not afraid of me now?'  'No,' exclaimed Vere,
his colour heightening and his eyes glistening (oh! so like
her).  'Papa and I will take care of you; don't be afraid.'  My
boy had anticipated what I was going to say; but I
assured him that as I had taken him into my carriage I
considered him as my guest, and come what would I
never could think of abandoning him till we reached our
destination.  'Of course,' I added, 'you are then free to
come and go as you please.  If you have done anything
disgraceful, we need never know each other again.  I do
not wish to hear of it.  You are to me only a belated
traveller; permit me to add, a gentleman, to whom I am
delighted to be of service.  Will you smoke?  Let me
offer you a cigar.'  The blood rushed to his face as he
declined the proffered courtesy; for an instant he looked
half offended, and then, seizing my hand, he exclaimed, 'If
you knew all, you would pity me--nay, more, you would
approve of what I have done.'  He turned suddenly to
Vere, and rather startled him by abruptly exclaiming,
'Boy, do you love your father? is he all the world to
you?'  'Yes,' said Vere, colouring up again, 'of course I love
papa, and Nurse "Nettich" too.'  That worthy woman
was fast asleep in the rumble.  'Well,' said the stranger,
more composedly, 'I love my father, too; he is all I have
in the world, and for his sake I would do the same thing
again.  I will tell you all about it, and you shall judge
between me and my crime.'  But my new friend's story I
must defer, my dear Hal, to another letter.  So for the
present, *Vive valeque*."





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.. _`THE DESERTER`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   THE DESERTER

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Dim and strange are the recollections that steal over me
while I read these time-worn letters of one who, with all
his faults, was the kindest, fondest, and best of
enthusiasts.  It seems like a dream; I cannot fancy that I am
the child alluded to.  It seems as though all this must
have happened to some one else, and that I stood by and
watched.  Yet have I a vague and shadowy remembrance
of the warm autumnal evening; the road soft and thick
with dust; the creaking, monotonous motion of the
carriage, and my waking up from an occasional nap, and
finding myself propped by the strong arm of a stranger,
and nestling my head upon his broad shoulder, whilst my
father's kind face and eager eyes were turned towards my
new acquaintance with the earnest comprehensive look I
remember so well.  My father always seemed to take in
at a glance, not only the object that attracted his attention,
but all its accessories, possible as well as actual.  I
believe he never left off painting in his mind.  I remember
nothing very distinctly; and no wonder, for my little brain
must have been a strange chaos of shifting scenes and
unexpected events, foreign manners and home ideas, to
say nothing of a general confusion of tongues; for I could
prattle French, German, and Hungarian, with a smattering
of Turkish, not to mention my own native language;
and I used them all indiscriminately.  But my father's
letters bring back much that I had otherwise forgotten,
and whilst I read the story of the renegade, I can almost
fancy I am leaning against his upright soldierlike form,
and listening to the clear decided tones in which he told
his tale.

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   LETTER III

"'I am a soldier, sir,' said my new acquaintance, whilst
I leant back in the carriage smoking my cigar, and, *more
meo*, Hal, made the most of my 'study.'  'I am an
Austrian soldier--at least I was a week ago--I would not
give much for my chance if ever I come into the clutches
of the "Double Eagle" again.  Shall I tell you why I
entered the Imperial army?  All my life I have thought
it best to be on the winning side.  If I had been born an
Englishman, oh, what happiness!  I would have asked no
better lot than to wander about with my dog and my
gun, and be free.  But a Croat, no, there is no liberty in
Croatia.  We must have masters, forsooth! territorial dues
and seignorial rights; and we must bow and cringe and
be trampled on by our own nobility.  But these, too, have
*their* masters, and I have seen the lord of many thousand
acres tremble before a captain of dragoons.  So I
determined that if a military despotism was to be the order of
the day, why I, too, would make a part of the great engine,
perhaps some time I might come to wield it all.  My
father was appointed steward to a great lord in
Hungary--perhaps, had he remained, I might never have left
home, for I am his only child, and we two are alone in
the world; besides, is not a son's first duty to obey his
father?--but I could not bear to exchange the free open
air, and my horse, and my gun, and my dogs (I had the
best greyhounds in Croatia), for a leathern stool and an
inkstand, and I said, "Father, I too will become an
Austrian, and so some day shall I be a great man, perhaps
a colonel, and then will I return once a year to see you,
and comfort you in your old age."  So I was sworn to
obey the Emperor, and soon I learnt my exercise, and saw
that to rise even in the Austrian army was not difficult
for one who could see clearly before him, and could count
that two and two make four, and never five.

"'Very few men are soldiers at heart, and those who
love the profession and would fain shine, can only see one
way to success, and that must be the old-established track
that has always been followed.  If I wanted to move
across that stream and had no boats, what should I do?
I would try if it be too deep to wade.  But the regulation
says, soldiers shall not wade if the water be over a certain
depth.  So for six inches of water I must be defeated.
That should not be my way; if it came no higher than
their chins my men should cross; and if we could keep
our muskets dry, where would be the harm?  Well, I
soon rose to be a corporal and a sergeant; and whilst I
practised fencing and riding and gymnastics, I learnt
besides something of gunnery and fortification, and the
art of supplying an army with food.  At last I was made
lieutenant and paymaster of the regiment, for I could
always calculate readily, and never shrank from trouble
or feared responsibility.  So I had good pay and good
comrades, and was getting on.  Meanwhile my poor father
was distressing himself about my profession, and imagining
all sorts of misfortunes that would happen to me if I
remained a soldier.  In his letters to me he always hinted
at the possibility of some great success--at his hopes of,
before long, placing me in an independent position; that
I should leave the army to come and live with him, and
we would farm an estate of our own, and never be parted
any more.  Poor old man! what do you think he built
on? why, these foolish lotteries.  Ticket after ticket did
he purchase, and ticket after ticket came up a blank.
At last, in his infatuation, he raised a sum of
money--enough to obtain him all the numbers he had set his
heart upon--for he mixed calculation with his gambling,
which is certain ruin--and for this purpose he embezzled
two thousand florins of his employer's property, and wasted
it as he had done the rest.  In his despair he wrote to
me.  What could I do? two thousand florins were in the
pay-chest.  I have it here in this leathern bag.  I have
saved my father; he is steward at Edeldorf.  I shall see
him to-night; after that I must fly the country.  I will
go to England, the land of the free.  I am ruined,
degraded, and my life is not worth twelve hours' purchase;
but I do not regret it.  Look at your boy, sir, and tell me
if I am not right.'  He is a fine fellow this, Hal, depend
upon it; and though my own feelings as a gentleman
were a little shocked at a man talking thus coolly of
robbery in anything but the legitimate way on the turf,
I could scarcely remonstrate with him now the thing was
done; so I shook him by the hand, and promised him at
any rate a safe convoy to Edeldorf, which we were now
rapidly approaching.  You like a fine place, Hal; you
always did.  I remember when you used to vow that
if ever Fortune smiled upon you--and faith, it is not
for want of wooing that you have missed the goddess's
favours--how you would build and castellate and improve
Beverley Manor, till, in my opinion as an artist and a man
of associations, you would spoil it completely; but I think
even your fastidious taste would be delighted with
Edeldorf.  The sun was just down as we drove into the park,
and returned the salute of the smart Hussar mounting
guard at the lodge; and the winding road, and smooth
sward dotted with thorns, and those eternal acacias,
reminded one of a gentleman's place in Old England, till
we rounded the corner of a beautifully-dressed flower-garden,
and came in view of the castle itself, with all
its angles and turrets and embrasures, and mullioned
windows, and picturesque ins-and-outs; the whole standing
boldly out in a chiaro-oscuro against the evening sky,
fast beginning to soften into twilight.  Old De Rohan was
on the steps to welcome me, his figure upright and noble
as ever; his countenance as pleasing; but the beard and
moustache that you and I remember so dark and glossy,
now as white as snow; yet he is a very handsome fellow
still.  In mail or plate, leaning his arm on his helmet,
with his beard flowing over a steel cuirass inlaid with
gold, he would make a capital seneschal, or marshal of a
tournament, or other elderly dignitary of the middle ages;
but I should like best to paint him in dark velvet, with
a skull-cap, as Lord Soulis, or some other noble votary of
the magic art; and to bring him out in a dusky room,
with one ray of vivid light from a lamp just over his
temples, and gleaming off that fine, bold, shining forehead,
from which the hair is now completely worn away."

.. vspace:: 2

There are no more of the old dusty letters.  Why these
should have been tied up and preserved for so many years
is more than I can tell.  They have, however, reminded
me of much in my youth that I had well-nigh forgotten.
I must try back on my vague memories for the
commencement of my narrative.





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.. _`"PAR NOBILE"`:

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   CHAPTER III


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   "PAR NOBILE"

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"You shall play with my toys, and break them if you
like, for my papa loves the English, and you are my
English friend," said a handsome blue-eyed child to his
little companion, as they sauntered hand-in-hand through
the spacious entrance-hall at Edeldorf.  The boy was
evidently bent on patronising his friend.  The friend was
somewhat abashed and bewildered, and grateful to be
taken notice of.

"What is your name?--may I call you by your Christian
name?" said the lesser child, timidly, and rather nestling
to his protector, for such had the bigger boy constituted
himself.

"My name is Victor," was the proud reply, "and *you*
may call me Victor, because I love you; but the servants
must call me Count, because my papa is a count; and I
am not an Austrian count, but a Hungarian.  Come
and see my sword."  So the two children were soon busy
in an examination of that very beautiful, but not very
destructive plaything.

They were indeed a strange contrast.  Victor de Rohan,
son and heir to one of the noblest and wealthiest of
Hungary's aristocracy, looked all over the high-bred child
he was.  Free and bold, his large, frank blue eyes, and
wide brow, shaded with clustering curls of golden brown,
betokened a gallant, thoughtless spirit, and a kind, warm
heart; whilst the delicate nostril and handsomely-curved
mouth of the well-born child betrayed, perhaps, a little
too much pride for one so young, and argued a disposition
not too patient of contradiction or restraint.  His little
companion was as unlike him as possible, and indeed most
people would have taken Victor for the English boy, and
Vere for the foreign one.  The latter was heavy, awkward,
and ungainly in his movements, timid and hesitating in
his manner, with a sallow complexion, and dark, deep-set
eyes, that seemed always looking into a world beyond.
He was a strange child, totally without the light-heartedness
of his age, timid, shy, and awkward, but capable of
strong attachments, and willing to endure anything for
the sake of those he loved.  Then he had quaint fancies,
and curious modes of expressing them, which made other
children laugh at him, when the boy would retire into
himself, deeply wounded and unhappy, but too proud
to show it.  As he looks now at Victor's sword, with
which the latter is vapouring about the hall, destroying
imaginary enemies, Vere asks--

"What becomes of the people that are killed, Victor?"

"We ride over their bodies," says Victor, who has just
delivered a finishing thrust at his phantom foe.

"Yes, but what *becomes* of them?" pursues the child,
now answering himself.  "I think they come to me in my
dreams; for sometimes, do you know, I dream of men in
armour charging on white horses, and they come by with
a wind that wakes me; and when I ask 'Nettich' who
they are, she says they are the fairies; but I don't think
they are fairies, because you know fairies are quite small,
and have wings.  No, I think they must be the people
that are killed."

"Very likely," replies Victor, who has not considered
the subject in this light, and whose dreams are mostly of
ponies and plum-cake--"very likely; but come to papa,
and he will give us some grapes."  So off they go,
arm-in-arm, to the great banqueting-hall; and Vere postpones his
dream-theories to some future occasion, for there is a
charm about grapes that speaks at once to a child's heart.

So the two boys make their entrance into the banqueting-hall,
where De Rohan sits in state, surrounded by his
guests.  On his right is placed Philip Egerton, whose
dark eye gleams with pleasure as he looks upon his son.
Who but a father would take delight in such a plain,
unattractive child?  Vere glides quietly to his side,
shrinking from the strange faces and gorgeous uniforms
around; but Victor walks boldly up to the old Count, and
demands his daily glass of Tokay, not as a favour, but a
right.

"I drink to Hungary!" says the child, looking full into
the face of his next neighbour, a prince allied to the
Imperial family, and a General of Austrian cavalry.
"Monsieur le Prince, your good health!  Come, clink your glass
with me."

"Your boy is a true De Rohan," says the good-natured
Austrian, as he accepts the urchin's challenge, and their
goblets ring against each other.  "Will you be a soldier,
my lad, and wear the white uniform?"

"I will be a soldier," answers the child, "but not an
Austrian soldier like you: Austrian soldiers are not so
brave as Hungarians."

"Well said, my little patriot," replies the amused General.
"So you do not think our people are good for much?
Why, with that sword of yours, I should be very sorry to
face you with my whole division.  What a Light Dragoon
the rogue will make, De Rohan! see, he has plundered
the grapes already."  And the jolly prince sat back in his
chair, and poured himself out another glass of "Imperial
Tokay."

"Hush, Victor!" said his father, laughing, in spite of
himself, at his child's forwardness.  "Look at your little
English friend; he stands quiet there, and says nothing.
I shall make an Englishman of my boy, Egerton; he shall
go to an English school, and learn to ride and box, and to
be a man.  I love England and the English.  Egerton,
your good health!  I wish my boy to be like yours.
*Sapperment!* he is quiet, but I will answer for it he fears
neither man nor devil."

My father's face lighted up with pleasure as he pressed
me to his side.  Kind father!  I believe he thought his
ugly, timid, shrinking child was the admiration of all.

"I think the boy has courage," he said, "but for that I
give him little credit.  All men are naturally brave; it is
but education that makes us reflect; hence we learn to
fear consequences, and so become cowards."

"Pardon, *mon cher*," observed the Austrian General, with
a laugh.  "Now, my opinion is that all men are naturally
cowards, and that we alone deserve credit who overcome
that propensity, and so distinguish ourselves for what we
choose to call bravery, but which we ought rather to term
self-command.  What say you, De Rohan?  You have
been in action, and 'on the ground,' too, more than once.
Were you not cursedly afraid?"

De Rohan smiled good-humouredly, and filled his glass.

"Shall I tell you my opinion of courage?" said he,
holding up the sparkling fluid to the light.  "I think of
courage what our Hungarian Hussars think of a breast-plate.
'Of what use,' say they, 'is cuirass and back-piece
and all that weight of defensive armour?  Give us a pint
of wine in our stomachs, and we are *breastplate all
over*.'  Come, Wallenstein, put your breastplate on--it is very
light, and fits very easily."

The General filled again, but returned to the charge.

"You remind me," said he, "of a conversation I
overheard when I was a lieutenant in the first regiment of
Uhlans.  We were drawn up on the crest of a hill opposite
a battery in position not half-a-mile from us.  If they had
retired us two hundred yards, we should have been under
cover; but we never got the order, and there we stood.
Whish! the round-shot came over our heads and under
our feet, and into our ranks, and we lost two men and five
horses before we knew where we were.  The soldiers
grumbled sadly, and a few seemed inclined to turn rein
and go to the rear.  Mind you, it is not fair to ask cavalry
to sit still and be pounded for amusement; but the officers
being *cowards by education*, Mr. Egerton, did their duty
well, and kept the men together.  I was watching my
troop anxiously enough, and I heard one man say to his
comrade, 'Look at Johann, Fritz! what a bold one he is;
he thinks nothing of the fire; see, he tickles the horse of
his front-rank man even now, to make him kick.'"

"Exactly my argument," interrupted my father; "he
was an uneducated man, consequently saw nothing to be
afraid of.  Bravery, after all, is only insensibility to
danger."

"Fritz did not think so," replied Wallenstein.  "Hear
his answer--'Johann is a blockhead,' he replied, 'he has
never been under fire before, and does not know his
danger; but you and I, old comrade, we deserve to be
made corporals; for we sit quiet here on our horses,
*though we are most cursedly afraid*.'"

The guests all laughed; and the discussion would have
terminated, but that De Rohan, who had drunk more wine
than was his custom, and who was very proud of his boy,
could not refrain from once more turning the conversation
to Victor's merits, and to that personal courage by which,
however much he might affect to make light of it in
society, he set such store.

"Well, Wallenstein," said he; "you hold that Nature
makes us cowards; if so, my boy here ought to show
something of the white feather.  Come hither, Victor.
Are you afraid of being in the dark?"

"No, papa!" answered Victor, boldly; but added, after
a moment's consideration, "except in the Ghost's Gallery.
I don't go through the Ghost's Gallery after six o'clock."

This *naïve* confession excited much amusement amongst
the guests; but De Rohan's confidence in his boy's
courage was not to be so shaken.

"What shall I give you," said he, "to go and fetch me
the old Breviary that lies on the table at the far end of
the Ghost's Gallery?"

Victor looked at me, and I at him.  My breath came
quicker and quicker.  The child coloured painfully, but
did not answer.  I felt his terrors myself.  I looked upon
the proposed expedition as a soldier might on a forlorn
hope; but something within kept stirring me to speak;
it was a mingled feeling of emulation, pity, and
friendship, tinged with that inexplicable charm that coming
danger has always possessed for me--a charm that the
constitutionally brave are incapable of feeling.  I
mastered my shyness with an effort, and, shaking all over,
said to the master of the house, in a thick, low voice--

"If you please, Monsieur le Comte, if Victor goes, I will
go too."

"Well said, little man!"  "Bravo, boy!"  "Vere, you're
a trump!" in plain English from my father; and "In
Heaven's name, give the lads a breastplate apiece, in the
shape of a glass of Tokay!" from the jolly General, were
the acclamations that greeted my resolution; and for one
delicious moment I felt like a little hero.  Victor, too,
caught the enthusiasm; and, ashamed of showing less
courage than his playfellow, expressed his readiness to
accompany me,--first stipulating, however, with
praise-worthy caution, that he should take his sword for our
joint preservation; and also that two large bunches of
grapes should be placed at our disposal on our safe return,
"if," as Victor touchingly remarked, "we ever came back
at all!" My father opened the door for us with a low
bow, and it closed upon a burst of laughter, which to us,
bound, as we fancied, on an expedition of unparalleled
danger, sounded to the last degree unfeeling.

Hand-in-hand we two children walked through the
ante-room, and across the hall; nor was it until we reached
the first landing on the wide, gloomy oak staircase, that
we paused to consider our future plans, and to scan the
desperate nature of our enterprise.  There were but two
more flights of steps, a green-baize door to go through, a
few yards of passage to traverse, and then, Victor assured
me, in trembling accents, we should be in the Ghost's
Gallery.  My heart beat painfully, and my informant began
to cry.

We laid our plans, however, with considerable caution,
and made a solemn compact of alliance, offensive and
defensive, that no power, natural or supernatural, was to
shake.  We were on no account whatsoever to leave go of
each other's hands.  Thus linked, and Victor having his
sword drawn,--for the furtherance of which warlike
attitude I was to keep carefully on his left,--we resolved to
advance, if possible, talking the whole way up to the fatal
table whereon lay the Breviary, and then snatching it up
hastily, to return backwards, so as to present our front to
the foe till we reached the green-baize door, at which
point *sauve qui peut* was to be the order; and we were to
rush back into the dining-room as fast as our legs could
carry us.  But in the event of our progress being
interrupted by the ghost (who appeared, as Victor informed
me, in the shape of a huge black dog with green eyes,--a
description at which my blood ran cold,--and which he
added had been seen once by his governess and twice by
an old drunken Hussar who waited on him, and answered
to the name of "Hans"), we were to lie down on our faces,
so as to hide our eyes from the ghostly vision, and scream
till we alarmed the house; but on no account, we repeated
in the most binding and solemn manner--on no account
were we to let go of each other's hands.  This compact
made and provided, we advanced towards the gallery,
Victor feeling the edge and point of his weapon with an
appearance of confidence that my own beating heart told
me must be put on for the occasion, and would vanish
at the first appearance of danger.

And now the green door is passed and we are in the
gallery; a faint light through the stained windows only
serves to show its extent and general gloom, whilst its
corners and abutments are black as a wolfs mouth.  Not
a servant in the castle would willingly traverse this gallery
after dark, and we two children feel that we are at last
alone, and cut off from all hopes of assistance or rescue.
But the Breviary lies on the table at the far end, and,
dreading the very sound of our own footsteps, we steal
quietly on.  All at once Victor stops short.

"What is that?" says he, in trembling accents.

The question alone takes away my breath, and I feel
the drops break out on my lips and forehead.  We stop
simultaneously and listen.  Encouraged by the silence,
we creep on, and for an instant I experience that vague
tumultuous feeling of excitement which is almost akin to
pleasure.  But hark!--a heavy breath!!--a groan!!!  My
hair stands on end, and Victor's hand clasps mine like a
vice.  I dare scarce turn my head towards the sound,--it
comes from that far corner.  There it is!  A dark object
in the deepest gloom of that recess seems crouching for a
spring.  "The ghost!--the ghost!!" I exclaim, losing all
power of self-command in an agony of fear.  "The dog!--the
dog!!" shrieks Victor; and away we scour hard as
our legs can carry us, forgetful of our solemn agreements
and high resolves, forgetful of all but that safety lies
before, and terror of the ghastliest description behind;
away we scour, Victor leaving his sword where he dropped
it at the first alarm, through the green door, down the
oak staircase, across the hall, nor stop till we reach the
banqueting-room, with its reassuring faces and its lights,
cheering beyond measure by contrast with the gloom from
which we have escaped.

What shouts of laughter met us as we approached the
table.  "Well, Victor, where's the Breviary?" said the
Count.  "What! my boy, was Nature too strong for you
in the dark, with nobody looking on?" asked the General.
"See! he has lost his sword," laughed another.  "And the
little Englander,--he, too, was panic-struck," remarked the
fourth.  I shrank from them all and took refuge at my
father's side.  "Vere, I am ashamed of you," was all he
said; but the words sank deep into my heart, and I bowed
my head with a feeling of burning shame, that I had
disgraced myself in my father's eyes for ever.  We were sent
to bed, and I shared Victor's nursery, under the joint
charge of Nettich and his own attendant; but, do what
I would, I could not sleep.  There was a stain upon my
character in the eyes of the one I loved best on earth, and
I could not bear it.  Though so quiet and undemonstrative,
I was a child of strong attachments.  I perfectly
idolised my father, and now he was ashamed of me;--the
words seemed to burn in my little heart.  I tossed and
tumbled and fretted myself into a fever, aggravated by the
sounding snores of Nettich and the other nurse, who slept
as only nurses can.

At last I could bear it no longer.  I sat up in bed and
peered stealthily round.  All were hushed in sleep.  I
determined to do or die.  Yes, I would go to the gallery;
I would fetch the Breviary and lay it on my father's table
before he awoke.  If I succeeded, I should recover his
good opinion; if I encountered the phantom dog, why, he
could but kill me, after all.  I would wake Victor, and we
would go together;--or, no,--I would take the whole peril,
and have all the glory of the exploit, myself.  I thought it
over every way.  At last my mind was made up; my
naked feet were on the floor; I stole from the nursery; I
threaded the dark passages; I reached the gallery; a dim
light was shining at the far end, and I could hear earnest
voices conversing in a low, guarded tone.  Half-frightened
and altogether confused, I stopped and listened.





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.. _`FATHER AND SON`:

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   CHAPTER IV


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   FATHER AND SON

.. vspace:: 2

The Count's old steward has seen all go to rest in the
castle; the lords have left the banqueting-room, and the
servants, who have been making merry in the hall, are
long ere this sound asleep.  It is the steward's custom to
see all safe before he lights his lamp and retires to rest;
but to-night he shades it carefully with a wrinkled hand
that trembles strangely, and his white face peers into the
darkness, as though he were about some deed of shame.
He steals into the Ghost's Gallery, and creeps silently to
the farther end.  There is a dark object muffled in a
cloak in the gloomiest corner, and the light from the
steward's lamp reveals a fine young man, sleeping with
that thorough abandonment which is only observable in
those who are completely outwearied and overdone.  It is
some minutes ere the old man can wake him.

"My boy!" says he; "my boy, it is time for us to part.
Hard, hard is it to be robbed of my son--robbed----" and
the old man checks himself as though the word recalled
some painful associations.

"Ay, father," was the reply, "you know our old Croatian
proverb, 'He who steals is but a borrower.'  Nevertheless,
I do not wish the Austrians to 'borrow' me, in case I should
never be returned; and it is unmannerly for the lieutenant
to occupy the same quarters as the general.  I must be
off before dawn; but surely it cannot be midnight yet."

"In less than an hour the day will break, my son.  I
have concealed you here because not a servant of the
household dare set foot in the Ghost's Gallery till
daylight, and you are safe; but twenty-four more hours must
see you on the Danube, and you must come here no more.
Oh, my boy! my boy!--lost to save me!--dishonoured that
I might not be disgraced!--my boy! my boy!"--and the
old man burst into a passion of weeping that seemed to
convulse his very frame with agony.

The son had more energy and self-command; his voice
did not even shake as he soothed and quieted the old man
with a protecting fondness like that of a parent for a child.
"My father," said he, "there is no dishonour where there
is no guilt.  My first duty is to you, and were it to do
again, I would do it.  What? it was but a momentary
qualm and a snatch at the box; and *now* you are safe.
Father, I shall come back some day, and offer you a home.
Fear not for me.  I have it *here* in my breast, the stuff of
which men make fortunes.  I can rely upon myself.  I
can obey orders; and, father, when others are bewildered
and confused, I can *command*.  I feel it; I know it.  Let
me but get clear of the 'Eagle's' talons, and fear not for
me, dear father, I shall see you again, and we will be
prosperous and happy yet.  But, how to get away?--have
you thought of a plan?  Can I get a good horse here?
Does the Count know I am in trouble, and will he help
me?  Tell me all, father, and I shall see my own way, I
will answer for it."

"My gallant boy!" said the steward, despite of himself
moved to admiration by the self-reliant bearing of his son;
"there is but one chance; for the Count could not but
hand you over to Wallenstein if he knew you were in the
castle, and then it would be a pleasant jest, and the
nearest tree.  The General is a jovial comrade and a
good-humoured acquaintance; but, as a matter of duty,
he would hang his own son and go to dinner afterwards
with an appetite none the worse.  No, no.  'Trust to an
Austrian's mercy and confess yourself!'  I have a better
plan than that.  The Zingynies are in the village; they
held their merrymaking here yesterday.  I saw their
Queen last night after you arrived.  I have arranged it all
with her.  A gipsy's dress, a dyed skin, and the middle
of the troop; not an Austrian soldier in Hungary that
will detect you then.  Banishment is better than death.
Oh, my boy! my boy!" and once more the old man gave
way and wept.

"Forward, then, father!" said the young man, whom I
now recognised as my travelling acquaintance; "there is
no time to lose now.  How can we get out of the castle
without alarming the household?  I leave all to you now;
it will be my turn some day."  And as he spoke he rose
from the steps on which he had been lying when his
recumbent form had so alarmed Victor and myself, and
accompanied his father down a winding staircase that
seemed let into the massive wall of the old building.  My
curiosity was fearfully excited.  I would have given all
my playthings to follow them.  I crept stealthily on,
naked feet and all; but I was not close enough behind,
and the door shut quietly with a spring just as my hand
was upon it, leaving me alone in the Ghost's Gallery.  I
was not the least frightened now.  I forgot all about
ghosts and Breviaries, and stole back to my nursery and
my bed, my little head completely filled with a medley of
stewards and soldiers and gipsies, and Austrian generals
and military executions, and phantom dogs and secret
staircases, and all the most unlikely incidents that crowd
together in that busy organ--a child's brain.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE ZINGYNIES`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium

   THE ZINGYNIES

.. vspace:: 2

The morning sun smiles upon a motley troop journeying
towards the Danube.  Two or three lithe, supple urchins,
bounding and dancing along with half-naked bodies, and
bright black eyes shining through knotted elf-locks, form
the advanced guard.  Half-a-dozen donkeys seem to carry
the whole property of the tribe.  The main body consists
of sinewy, active-looking men, and strikingly handsome
girls, all walking with the free, graceful air and elastic
gait peculiar to those whose lives are passed entirely in
active exercise, under no roof but that of heaven.
Dark-browed women in the very meridian of beauty bring up
the rear, dragging or carrying a race of swarthy progeny,
all alike distinguished for the sparkling eyes and raven
hair, which, with a cunning nothing can overreach, and a
nature nothing can tame, seem to be the peculiar inheritance
of the gipsy.  Their costume is striking, not to say
grotesque.  Some of the girls, and all the matrons, bind
their brows with various coloured handkerchiefs, which
form a very picturesque and not unbecoming head-gear;
whilst in a few instances coins even of gold are strung
amongst the jetty locks of the Zingynie beauties.  The
men are not so particular in their attire.  One sinewy
fellow wears only a goatskin shirt and a string of beads
round his neck, but the generality are clad in the coarse
cloth of the country, much tattered, and bearing evident
symptoms of weather and wear.  The little mischievous
urchins who are clinging round their mothers' necks, or
dragging back from their mothers' hands, and holding on
to their mothers' skirts, are almost naked.  Small heads
and hands and feet, all the marks of what we are
accustomed to term high birth, are hereditary among the
gipsies; and we doubt if the Queen of the South herself
was a more queenly-looking personage than the dame now
marching in the midst of the throng, and conversing
earnestly with her companion, a resolute-looking man
scarce entering upon the prime of life, with a gipsy
complexion, but a bearing in which it is not difficult to
recognise the soldier.  He is talking to his protectress--for
such she is--with a military frankness and vivacity, which
even to that royal personage, accustomed though she be
to exact all the respect due to her rank, appear by no
means displeasing.  The lady is verging on the autumn
of her charms (their summer must have been scorching
indeed!) and though a masculine beauty, is a beauty
nevertheless.  Black-browed is she, and deep-coloured,
with eyes of fire, and locks of jet, even now untinged with
grey.  Straight and regular are her features, and the wide
mouth, with its strong, even dazzling teeth, betokens an
energy and force of will which would do credit to the other
sex.  She has the face of a woman that would dare much,
labour much, everything but *love* much.  She ought to be
a queen, and she is one, none the less despotic for ruling
over a tribe of gipsies instead of a civilised community.

"None dispute my word here," says she, "and my word
is pledged to bring you to the Danube.  Let me see a
soldier of them all lay a hand upon you, and you shall see
the gipsy brood show their teeth.  A long knife is no bad
weapon at close quarters.  When you have got to the top
of the wheel you will remember me!"

The soldier laughed, and lightly replied, "Yours are the
sort of eyes one does not easily forget, mother.  I wish I
were a prince of the blood in your nation.  As I am
situated now I can only be dazzled by so much beauty,
and go my ways."

The woman checked him sternly, almost savagely,
though a few minutes before she had been listening, half
amused, to his gay and not very respectful conversation.

"Hush!" she said, "trifler.  Once more I say, when the
wheel has turned, remember me.  Give me your hand; I
can read it plainer so."

"What, mother?" laughed out her companion.  "Every
gipsy can tell fortunes; mine has been told many a time,
but it never came true."

She was studying the lines on his palm with earnest
attention.  She raised her dark eyes angrily to his face.

"Blind! blind!" she answered, in a low, eager tone.
"The best of you cannot see a yard upon your way.  Look
at that white road, winding and winding many a mile
before us upon the plain.  Because it is flat and soft and
smooth as far as we can see, will there be no hills on our
journey, no rocks to cut our feet--no thorns to tear our
limbs?  Can you see the Danube rolling on far, far before
us?  Can you see the river you will have to cross some
day, or can you tell me where it leads?  I have the map
of our journey here in my brain; I have the map of your
career here on your hand.  Once more I say, when the
chiefs are in council, and the hosts are melting like snow
before the sun, and the earth quakes, and the heavens are
filled with thunder, and the shower that falls scorches and
crushes and blasts--remember me!  I follow the line of
wealth: Man of gold! spoil on; here a horse, there a
diamond; hundreds to uphold the right, thousands to
spare the wrong; both hands full, and broad lands near a
city of palaces, and a king's favour, and a nation of slaves
beneath thy foot.  I follow the line of pleasure: Costly
amber; rich embroidery; dark eyes melting for the Croat;
glances unveiled for the shaven head, many and loving
and beautiful; a garland of roses, all for one--rose by rose
plucked and withered and thrown away; one tender bud
remaining; cherish it till it blows, and wear it till it dies.
I follow the line of blood: it leads towards the rising
sun--charging squadrons with lances in rest, and a wild shout
in a strange tongue; and the dead wrapped in grey, with
charm and amulet that were powerless to save; and hosts
of many nations gathered by the sea--pestilence, famine,
despair, and victory.  Rising on the whirlwind, chief
among chiefs, the honoured of leaders, the counsellor of
princes--remember me!  But ha! the line is crossed.
Beware! trust not the sons of the adopted land; when the
lily is on thy breast, beware of the dusky shadow on the
wall; beware and remember me!"

The gipsy stopped, and clung to him exhausted.  For
a few paces she was unable to support herself; the
prophetic mood past, there was a reaction, and all her powers
seemed to fail her at once; but her companion walked on
in silence.  The eagerness of the Pythoness had impressed
even his strong, practical nature, and he seemed himself
to look into futurity as he muttered, "If man can win it,
I will."

The gipsies travelled but slowly; and although the sun
was already high, they had not yet placed many miles
between the fugitive and the castle.  This, however, was
of no great importance.  His disguise was so complete,
that few would have recognised in the tattered, swarthy
vagrant, the smart, soldier-like traveller who had arrived
the previous evening at Edeldorf.  From the conversation
I had overheard in the Ghost's Gallery, I was alone in the
secret, which, strange to say, I forbore to confide even to
my friend Victor.  But I could not forget the steward and
his son; it was my first glimpse into the romance of real
life, and I could not help feeling a painful interest in his
fortunes, and an eager desire to see him at least safe off
with his motley company.  I was rejoiced, therefore, at
Victor's early proposal, made the very instant we had
swallowed our breakfasts, that we should take a ride; and
notwithstanding my misgivings about a strange pony,
for I was always timid on horseback, I willingly accepted
his offer of a mount, and jumped into the saddle almost
as readily as my little companion, a true Hungarian, with
whom,

   |   Like Mad Tom, the chiefest care
   |   Was horse to ride and weapon wear.
   |

Of course, Victor had a complete establishment of
ponies belonging to himself; and equally of course, he had
detailed to me at great length their several merits and
peculiarities, with an authentic biography of his favourite--a
stiff little chestnut, rejoicing in the name of
"Gold-kind," which, signifying as it does "the golden-child," or
darling, he seemed to think an exceedingly happy allusion
to the chestnut skin and endearing qualities of his treasure.

Fortunately, my pony was very quiet; and although,
when mounted, my playfellow went off at score, we were
soon some miles from Edeldorf, without any event
occurring to upset my own equilibrium or the sobriety of my
steed.  Equally fortunately, we took the road by which
the gipsies had travelled.  Ere long, we overtook the
cavalcade as it wound slowly along the plain.  Heads
were bared to Victor, and blessings called down upon the
family of De Rohan; for the old Count was at all times a
friend to the friendless, and a refuge to the poor.

"Good luck to you, young Count! shall I tell your
fortune?" said one.

"Little, honourable cavalier, give me your hand, and
cross it with a 'zwantziger,'" said another.

"Be silent, children, and let me speak to the young De
Rohan," said the gipsy queen; and she laid her hand
upon his bridle, and fairly brought Gold-kind to a halt.

Victor looked half afraid, although he began to laugh.

"Let me go," said he, tugging vigorously at his reins;
"papa desired me not to have my fortune told."

"Not by a common Zingynie," urged the queen, archly;
"but I am the mother of all these.  My pretty boy, I was
at your christening, and have held you in my arms many
a time.  Let me tell your happy fortune."

Victor began to relent.  "If Vere will have his told first,
I will," said he, turning half bashfully, half eagerly to me.

I proffered my hand readily to the gipsy, and crossed it
with one of the two pieces of silver which constituted the
whole of my worldly wealth.  The gipsy laughed, and
began to prophesy in German.  There are some events a
child never forgets; and I remember every word she said
as well as if it had been spoken yesterday.

"Over the sea, and again over the sea; thou shalt know
grief and hardship and losses, and the dove shall be driven
from its nest.  And the dove's heart shall become like the
eagle's, that flies alone, and fleshes her beak in the slain.
Beat on, though the poor wings be bruised by the tempest,
and the breast be sore, and the heart sink; beat on against
the wind, and seek no shelter till thou find thy
resting-place at last.  The time will come--only beat on."

The woman laughed as she spoke; but there was a
kindly tone in her voice and a pitying look in her bright
eyes that went straight to my heart.  Many a time since,
in life, when the storm has indeed been boisterous and
the wings so weary, have I thought of those words of
encouragement, "The time will come--beat on."

It was now Victor's turn, and he crossed his palm with
a golden ducat ere he presented it to the sibyl.  This was
of itself sufficient to insure him a magnificent future; and
as the queen perused the lines on his soft little hand, with
its pink fingers, she indulged in anticipations of magnificence
proportioned to the handsome donation of the child.

"Thou shalt be a 'De Rohan,' my darling, and I can
promise thee no brighter lot,--broad acres, and blessings
from the poor, and horses, and wealth, and honours.  And
the sword shall spare thee, and the battle turn aside to
let thee pass.  And thou shalt wed a fair bride with dark
eyes and a queenly brow; but beware of St. Hubert's
Day.  Birth and burial, birth and burial--beware of
St. Hubert's Day."

"But I want to be a soldier," exclaimed Victor, who
seemed much disappointed at the future which was
prognosticated for him; "the De Rohans were always soldiers.
Mother, can't you make out I shall be a soldier?" still
holding the little hand open.

"Farewell, my children," was the only answer
vouchsafed by the prophetess.  "I can only read, I cannot
write: farewell."  And setting the troop in order, she
motioned to them to continue their march without further
delay.

I took advantage of the movement to press near my
acquaintance of the day before, whom I had not failed to
recognise in his gipsy garb.  Poor fellow, my childish
heart bled for him, and, in a happy moment, I bethought
me of my remaining bit of silver.  I stooped from my
pony and kissed his forehead, while I squeezed the coin
into his hand without a word.  The tears came into the
deserter's eyes.  "God bless you, little man!  I shall never
forget you," was all he said; but I observed that he bit
the coin with his large, strong teeth till it was nearly
double, and then placed it carefully in his bosom.  We
turned our ponies, and were soon out of sight; but I never
breathed a syllable to Victor about the fugitive, or the
steward, or the Ghost's Gallery, for two whole days.  Human
nature could keep the secret no longer.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SCHOOL`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium

   SCHOOL

.. vspace:: 2

In one of the pleasantest valleys of sweet Somersetshire
stands a large red-brick house that bears unmistakably
impressed on its exterior the title "School."  You would
not take it for a "hall," or an hospital, or an almshouse,
or anything in the world but an institution for the rising
generation, in which the ways of the wide world are so
successfully imitated that, in the qualities of foresight,
cunning, duplicity, and general selfishness, the boy may
indeed be said to be "father to the man."  The house
stands on a slope towards the south, with a trim lawn and
carefully-kept gravel drive, leading to a front door, of
which the steps are always clean and the handles always
bright.  How a ring at that door-bell used to bring all
our hearts into our mouths.  Forty boys were we, sitting
grudgingly over our lessons on the bright summer
forenoons, and not one of us but thought that ring might
possibly announce a "something" for him from "home."  Home! what
was there in the word, that it should call up
such visions of happiness, that it should create such a
longing, sickening desire to have the wings of a dove and
flee away, that it should make the present such a blank
and comfortless reality?  Why do we persist in sending
our children so early to school?  A little boy, with all his
affections developing themselves, loving and playful and
happy, not ashamed to be fond of his sisters, and thinking
mamma all that is beautiful and graceful and good, is to
be torn from that home which is to him an earthly
Paradise, and transferred to a place of which we had
better not ask the urchin his own private opinion.  We
appeal to every mother--and it is a mother who is best
capable of judging for a child--whether her darling
returns to her improved in her eyes after his first half-year
at school.  She looks in vain for the pliant, affectionate
disposition that a word from her used to be capable,
of moulding at will, and finds instead a stubborn
self-sufficient spirit that has been called forth by harsh
treatment and intercourse with the mimic world of boys; more
selfish and more conventional, because less characteristic
than that of men.  He is impatient of her tenderness
now, nay, half ashamed to return it.  Already he aspires
to be a man, in his own eyes, and thinks it manly to make
light of those affections and endearments by which he
once set such store.  The mother is no longer all in all in
his heart, her empire is divided and weakened, soon it will
be swept away, and she sighs for the white-frock days
when her child was fondly and entirely her own.  Now, I
cannot help thinking the longer these days last the better.
Anxious parent, what do you wish your boy to become?
A successful man in after life?--then rear him tenderly
and carefully at first.  You would not bit a colt at two
years old; be not less patient with your own flesh and blood.
Nature is the best guide, you may depend.  Leave him
to the women till his strength is established and his
courage high, and when the metal has assumed shape and
consistency, to the forge with it as soon as you will.
Hardship, buffetings, adversity, all these are good for the
*youth*, but, for Heaven's sake, spare the *child*.

Forty boys are droning away at their tasks on a bright
sunshiny morning in June, and I am sitting at an old oak
desk, begrimed and splashed with the inkshed of many
generations, and hacked by the knives of idler after idler
for the last fifty years.  I have yet to learn by heart some
two score lines from the Æneid.  How I hate Virgil
whilst I bend over those dog's-eared leaves and that
uncomfortable desk.  How I envy the white butterfly of
which I have just got a glimpse as he soars away into the
blue sky--for no terrestrial objects are visible from our
schoolroom window to distract our attention and interfere
with our labours.  I have already accompanied him in
fancy over the lawn, and the garden, and the high
white-thorn fence into the meadow beyond,--how well I know
the deep glades of that copse for which he is making; how
I wish I was on my back in its shadow now.  Never mind,
to-day is a half-holiday, and this afternoon I will spend
somehow in a dear delicious ramble through the fairy-land
of "out of bounds."  The rap of our master's cane against
his desk--a gentlemanlike method of awakening attention
and asserting authority--startles me from my day-dream.
"March," for we drop the Mr. prefixed, in speaking of our
pedagogue, "March is a bit of a Tartar, and I tremble for
the result."

"Egerton to come up."

Egerton goes up accordingly, with many misgivings, and
embarks, like a desperate man, on the loathed *infandum
Regina jubes*.

The result may be gathered from March's observations
as he returns me the book.

"Not a line correct, sir; stand down, sir; the finest
passage of the poet shamefully mangled and defaced; it is
a perfect disgrace to Everdon.  Remain in till five, sir;
and repeat the whole lesson to Mr. Manners."

"Please, sir, I tried to learn it, sir; indeed I did, sir."

"Don't tell me, sir; *tried* to learn it, indeed.  If it had
been French or German, or--or any of these useless
branches of learning, you would have had it by heart fast
enough; but Latin, sir, Latin is the foundation of a
gentleman's education; Latin you were sent here to
acquire, and Latin, sir" (with an astounding rap on the
desk), "you *shall* learn, or I'll know the reason why."

I may remark that March, though an excellent scholar,
professed utter contempt for all but the dead languages.

I determined to make one more effort to save my half-holiday.

"Please, sir, if I might look over it once more, I could
say it when the second class goes down; please, sir, won't
you give me another chance?"

March was not, in schoolboy parlance, "half a bad
fellow," and he did give me another chance, and I came
up to him once more at the conclusion of school, having
repeated the whole forty lines to myself without missing
a word; but, alas! when I stood again on the step which
led up to the dreaded desk, and gave away the book into
those uncompromising hands, and heard that stern voice
with its "Now, sir, begin," my intellects forsook me
altogether, and while the floor seemed to rock under me,
I made such blunders and confusion of the chief's oration
to the love-sick queen, as drove March to the extremity
of that very short tether which he was pleased to call his
"patience," and drew upon myself the dreaded condemnation
I had fought so hard to escape.

"Remain in, sir, till perfect, and repeat to Mr. Manners,
without a mistake--Mr. Manners, you will be kind enough
to see, *without a mistake*!  Boys!" (with another rap of
the cane) "school's up."  March locks his desk with a bang,
and retires.  Mr. Manners puts on his hat.  Forty boys
burst instantaneously into tumultuous uproar, forty pairs
of feet scuffle along the dusty boards, forty voices break
into song and jest and glee, forty spirits are emancipated
from the prison-house into freedom and air and
sunshine--forty, all save one.

So again I turn to the *infandum Eegina Jubes*, and sit
me down and cry.

I had gone late to school, but I was a backward child
in everything save my proficiency in modern languages.
I had never known a mother, and the little education I
had acquired was picked up in a desultory manner here
and there during my travels with my father, and
afterwards in a gloomy old library at Alton Grange, his own
place in the same county as Mr. March's school.  My
father had remained abroad till his affairs made it
imperative that he should return to England, and for some years
we lived in seclusion at Alton, with an establishment that
even my boyish penetration could discover was reduced
to the narrowest possible limits.  I think this was the
idlest period of my life.  I did no lessons, unless my
father's endeavour to teach me painting, an art that I
showed year after year less inclination to master, could
be called so.  I had but few ideas, yet they were very
dear ones.  I adored my father; on him I lavished all
the love that would have been a mother's right; and
having no other relations--none in the world that I cared
for, or that cared for me, even nurse Nettich having
remained in Hungary--my father was all-in-all.  I used
to wait at his door of a morning to hear him wake, and
go away quite satisfied without letting him know.  I used
to watch him for miles when he rode out, and walk any
distance to meet him on his way home.  To please him
I would even mount a quiet pony that he had bought on
purpose for me, and dissemble my terrors because I saw
they annoyed my kind father.  I was a very shy, timid,
and awkward boy, shrinking from strangers with a fear
that was positively painful, and liking nothing so well as
a huge arm-chair in the gloomy oak wainscoted library,
where I would sit by the hour reading old poetry, old
plays, old novels, and wandering about till I lost myself
in a world of my own creating, full of beauty and romance,
and all that ideal life which we must perforce call
nonsense, but which, were it reality, would make this earth
a heaven.  Such was a bad course of training for a boy
whose disposition was naturally too dreamy and
imaginative, too deficient in energy and practical good sense.
Had it gone on I must have become a madman; what is
it but madness to live in a world of our own?  I shall
never forget the break-up of my dreams, the beginning,
to me, of hard practical life.

I was coiled up in my favourite attitude, buried in the
depths of a huge arm-chair in the library, and devouring
with all my senses and all my soul the pages of the *Morte
d'Arthur*, that most voluminous and least instructive of
romances, but one for which, to my shame be it said, I
confess to this day a sneaking kindness.  I was gazing
on Queen Guenever, as I pictured her to myself, in scarlet
and ermine and pearls, with raven hair plaited over her
queenly brow, and soft violet eyes, looking kindly down
on mailed Sir Launcelot at her feet.  I was holding
Arthur's helmet in the forest, as the frank, handsome,
stalwart monarch bent over a sparkling rill and cooled his
sunburnt cheek, and laved his chestnut beard, whilst the
sunbeams flickered through the green leaves and played
upon his gleaming corslet and his armour of proof.  I was
feasting at Camelot with the Knights of the Round
Table, jesting with Sir Dinadam, discussing grave subjects
of high import with Sir Gawain, or breaking a lance in
knightly courtesy with Sir Tristram and Sir Bore; in
short, I was a child at a spectacle, but the spectacle came
and went, and grew more and more gorgeous at will.  In
the midst of my dreams in walked my father, and sat
down opposite the old arm-chair.

"Vere," said he, "you must go to school."

The announcement took away my breath: I had never,
in my wildest moments, contemplated such a calamity.

"To school, papa; and when?" I mustered up courage
to ask, clinging like a convict to the hope of a reprieve.

"The first of the month, my boy," answered my father,
rather bullying himself into firmness, for I fancy he hated
the separation as much as I did; "Mr. March writes me
that his scholars will reunite on the first of next month,
and he has a vacancy for you.  We must make a man of
you, Vere; and young De Rohan, your Hungarian friend,
is going there too.  You will have lots of playfellows,
and get on very well, I have no doubt; and Everdon is
not so far from here, and--and--you will be very
comfortable, I trust; but I am loth to part with you, my
dear, and that's the truth."

I felt as if I could have endured martyrdom when my
father made this acknowledgment.  I could do anything
if I was only coaxed and pitied a little; and when I saw
he was so unhappy at the idea of our separation, I resolved
that no word or look of mine should add to his discomfort,
although I felt my heart breaking at the thoughts of
bidding him good-bye and leaving the Grange, with its
quiet regularity and peaceful associations, for the noise
and bustle and discipline of a large school.  Queen
Guenever and Sir Launcelot faded hopelessly from my
mental vision, and in their places rose up stern forms of
harsh taskmasters and satirical playfellows, early hours,
regular discipline, Latin and Greek, and, worst of all, a
continual bustle and a life in a crowd.

There were two peculiarities in my boyish character
which, more than any others, unfitted me for battling
with the world.  I had a morbid dread of ridicule, which
made me painfully shy of strangers.  I have on many an
occasion stood with my hand on the lock of a door,
dreading to enter the room in which I heard strange voices,
and then, plunging in with a desperate effort, have retired
again as abruptly, covered with confusion, and so nervous
as to create in the minds of the astonished guests a very
natural doubt as to my mental sanity.  The other
peculiarity was an intense love of solitude.  I was quite
happy with my father, but if I could not enjoy his society,
I preferred my own to that of any other mortal.  I would
take long walks by myself--I would sit for hours and read
by myself--I had a bedroom of my own, into which I
hated even a servant to set foot--and perhaps the one
thing I dreaded more than all besides in my future life
was, that I should never, never, be *alone*.

How I prized the last few days I spent at home; how
I gazed on all the well-known objects as if I should never
see them again; how the very chairs and tables seemed
to bid me good-bye like old familiar friends.  I had none
of the lively anticipations which most boys cherish of the
manliness and independence arising from a school-life;
no long vista of cricket and football, and fame in their
own little world, with increasing strength and stature, to
end in a tailed coat, and even whiskers!  No, I hated the
idea of the whole thing.  I expected to be miserable at
Everdon, and, I freely confess, was not disappointed.





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   CHAPTER VII


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Dinner was over, and play-time begun for all but me,
and again I turned to the *infandum Regina jubes*, and sat
me down to cry.

A kind hand, grimed with ink, was laid on my shoulder,
a pair of soft blue eyes looked into my face, and Victor
de Rohan, my former playfellow, my present fast friend
and declared "chum," sat down on the form beside me, and
endeavoured to console me in distress.

"I'll help you, Egerton," said the warm-hearted lad;
"say it to me; March is a beast, but Manners is a good
fellow; Manners will hear you now, and we shall have our
half-holiday after all."

"I can't, I can't," was my desponding reply.  "Manners
won't hear me, I know, till I am perfect, and I never can
learn this stupid sing-song story.  How I hate Queen
Dido--how I hate Virgil.  You should read about
Guenever, Victor, and King Arthur!  I'll tell you about
them this afternoon;" and the tears came again into my
eyes as I remembered there was no afternoon for me.

"Try once more," said Victor; "I'll get Manners to
hear you; leave it to me; I know how to do it.  I'll ask
Ropsley."  And Victor was off into the playground ere I
was aware, in search of this valuable auxiliary.

Now, Ropsley was the mainspring round which turned
the whole of our little world at Everdon.  If an excuse
for a holiday could be found, Ropsley was entreated to
ask the desired favour of March.  If a quarrel had to be
adjusted, either in the usual course of ordeal by battle,
or the less decisive method of arbitration, Ropsley was
always invited to see fair play.  He was the king of our
little community.  It was whispered that he could spar
better than Manners, and construe better than March: he
was certainly a more perfect linguist--as indeed I could
vouch for from my own knowledge--than Schwartz, who
came twice a week to teach us a rich German-French.
We saw his boots were made by Hoby, and we felt his
coats could only be the work of Stulz, for in those days
Poole was not, and we were perfectly willing to believe
that he wore a scarlet hunting-coat in the Christmas
holidays, and had visiting cards of his own.  In person
he was tall and slim, with a pale complexion, and waving,
soft brown hair: without being handsome, he was
distinguished-looking; and even as a boy, I have seen
strangers turn round and ask who he was; but the peculiar
feature of his countenance was his light grey eye, veiled
with long black eyelashes.  It never seemed to kindle or
to waver or to wink; it was always the same, hard,
penetrating, and unmoved; it never smiled, though the
rest of his features would laugh heartily enough, and it
certainly never wept.  Even in boyhood it was the eye
of a cool, calculating, wary man.  He knew the secrets
of every boy in the school, but no one ever dreamt of
cross-questioning Ropsley.  We believed he only stayed
at Everdon as a favour to March, who was immensely
proud of his pupil's gentlemanlike manners and appearance,
as well as of his scholarly proficiency, although no
one ever saw him study, and we always expected Ropsley
was "going to leave this half."  We should not have been
the least surprised to hear he had been sent for by the
Sovereign, and created a peer of the realm on the spot;
with all our various opinions, we were unanimous in one
creed--that nothing was impossible for Ropsley, and he
need only try, to succeed.  For myself, I was dreadfully
afraid of this luminary, and looked up to him with feelings
of veneration which amounted to positive awe.

Not so Victor; the young Hungarian feared, I believe,
nothing on earth, and *respected* but little.  He was the
only boy in the school who, despite the difference of age,
would talk with Ropsley upon equal terms; and if
anything could have added to the admiration with which we
regarded the latter, it would have been the accurate
knowledge he displayed of De Rohan's family, their
history, their place in Hungary, all their belongings, as
if he himself had been familiar with Edeldorf from
boyhood.  But so it was with everything; Ropsley knew all
about people in general better than they did themselves.

Victor rushed back triumphantly into the schoolroom,
where I still sat desponding at my desk, and Ropsley
followed him.

"What's the matter, Vere?" he asked, in a patronising
tone, and calling me by my Christian name, which I
esteemed a great compliment.  "What's the matter?"
he repeated; "forty lines of Virgil to say; come, that's
not much."

"But I *can't* learn it," I urged.  "You must think me
very stupid; and if it was French, or German, or English,
I should not mind twice the quantity, but I cannot learn
Latin, and it's no use trying."

The older boy sneered; it seemed so easy to him with
his powerful mind to get forty lines of hexameters by
heart.  I believe he could have repeated the whole *Æneid*
without book from beginning to end.

"Do you want to go out to-day, Vere?" said he.

I clasped my hands in supplication, as I replied, "Oh!
I would give anything, *anything*, to get away from this
horrid schoolroom, and 'shirk out' with Victor and Bold."

The latter, be it observed, was a dog in whose society
I took great delight, and whom I kept in the village, at
an outlay of one shilling per week, much to the detriment
of my personal fortune.

"Very well," said the great man; "come with me to
Manners, and bring your book with you."

So I followed my deliverer into the playground, with
the *infandum Regina* still weighing heavily on my soul.

Manners, the usher, was playing cricket with some
dozen of the bigger boys, and was in the act of "going
for a sixer."  His coat and waistcoat were off, and his
shirt-sleeves tucked up, disclosing his manly arms bared
to the elbow; and Manners was in his glory, for,
notwithstanding the beard upon his chin, our usher was as very
a boy at heart as the youngest urchin in the lower class.
A dandy, too, was Manners, and a wight of an imaginative
turn of mind, which chiefly developed itself in the
harmless form of bright visions for the future, teeming with
romantic adventures, of which he was himself to be the
hero.  His past he seldom dwelt upon.  His aspirations
were military--his ideas extravagant.  He was great on
the Peninsula and Lord Anglesey at Waterloo; and had
patent boxes in his high-heeled boots that only required
the addition of heavy clanking spurs to complete the
illusion that Mr. Manners ought to be a cavalry officer.
Of his riding he spoke largely; but his proficiency in this
exercise we had no means of ascertaining.  There were
two things, however, on which Manners prided himself,
and which were a source of intense amusement to the
urchins by whom he was surrounded:--these were, his
personal strength, and his whiskers; the former quality
was encouraged to develop itself by earnest application
to all manly sports and exercises; the latter ornaments
were cultivated and enriched with every description of
"nutrifier," "regenerator," and "unguent" known to the
hairdresser or the advertiser.  Alas! without effect
proportioned to the perseverance displayed; two small patches
of fluff under the jaw-bones, that showed to greatest
advantage by candlelight, being the only evidence of so
much painstaking and cultivation thrown away.  Of his
muscular prowess, however, it behoved us to speak with
reverence.  Was it not on record in the annals of the
school that when the "King of Naples," our dissipated
pieman, endeavoured to justify by force an act of
dishonesty by which he had done Timmins minor out of
half-a-crown, Manners stripped at once to his shirt-sleeves,
and "went in" at the Monarch with all the vigour and
activity of some three-and-twenty summers against
three-score?  The Monarch, a truculent old ruffian, with a red
neckcloth, half-boots, and one eye, fought gallantly for a
few rounds, and was rather getting the best of it, when,
somewhat unaccountably, he gave in, leaving the usher
master of the field.  Ropsley, who gave his friend a knee,
*secundum artem*, and urged him, with frequent injunctions,
to "fight high," attributed this easy victory to the
forbearance of their antagonist, who had an eye to future
trade and mercantile profits; but Manners, whose account
of the battle I have heard more than once, always scouted
this view of the transaction.

"He went down, sir, as if he was shot," he would say,
doubling his arm, and showing the muscles standing out
in bold relief.  "Few men have the biceps so well
developed as mine, and he went down *as if he was shot*.
If I had hit him as hard as I could, sir, I *must* have
killed him!"

Our usher was a good-natured fellow, notwithstanding.

"I'll hear you in ten minutes, Egerton," said he, "when
I have had my innings;" and forthwith he stretched
himself into attitude, and prepared to strike.

"Better give me your bat," remarked Ropsley, who was
too lazy to play cricket in a regular manner.  Of course,
Manners consented; nobody ever refused Ropsley
anything; and in ten minutes' time I had repeated the
*infandum Regina*, and Ropsley had added some dozen
masterly hits to the usher's score.  Ropsley always liked
another man's "innings" better than his own.

Now the regulations at Everdon, as they were excessively
strict, and based upon the principle that Apollo
should always keep the bow at the utmost degree of
tension, so were they eluded upon every available
opportunity, and set at nought and laughed at by the youngest
urchins in the school.  We had an ample playground for
our minor sports, and a meadow beyond, in which we
were permitted to follow the exhilarating pastime of
cricket, the share of the younger boys in that exciting
amusement being limited to a pursuit of the ball round
the field, and a prompt return of the same to their
seniors, doubtless a necessary ingredient in this noble
game, but one which is not calculated to excite enthusiastic
pleasure in the youthful mind.  From the playground
and its adjacent meadow it was a capital offence
to absent oneself.  All the rest of Somersetshire was "out
of bounds"; and to be caught "out of bounds" was a
crime for which corporal punishment was the invariable
reward.  At the same time, the offence was, so to speak,
"winked at."  No inquiries were made as to how we
spent half-holidays between one o'clock and seven; and
many a glorious ramble we used to have during those
precious six hours in all the ecstasy of "freedom,"--a
word understood by none better than the schoolboy.  A
certain deference was, however, exacted to the regulations
of the establishment; by a sort of tacit compact, it seemed
to be understood that our code was so far Spartan as to
make, not the crime, but the being "found out," a punishable
offence, and boys were always supposed to take their
chance.  If seen in the act of escaping, or afterwards met
by any of the masters in the surrounding country, we
were liable to be flogged; and to do March justice, we
always *were* flogged, and pretty soundly, too.  Under
these circumstances, some little care and circumspection
had to be observed in starting for our rambles.  Certain
steps had been made in the playground wall, where it
was hidden from the house by the stem of a fine old elm,
and by dropping quietly down into an orchard beyond--an
orchard, be it observed, of which the fruit was always
plucked before it reached maturity--and then stealing
along the back of a thick, high hedge, we could get fairly
away out of sight of the school windows, and so make our
escape.

Now, on the afternoon in question we had planned an
expedition in which Victor, and I, and my dog Bold had
determined to be principal performers.  Of the latter
personage in the trio I must remark, that no party of
pleasure on which we embarked was ever supposed to be
perfect without his society.  His original possessor was
the "King of Naples," whom I have already mentioned,
and who, I conclude, stole him, as he appeared one day
tied to that personage by an old cotton handkerchief, and
looking as wobegone and unhappy as a retriever puppy
of some three months old, torn from his mamma and his
brothers and sisters, and the comfortable kennel in which
he was brought up, and transferred to the tender mercies
of a drunken, poaching, dog-stealing ruffian, was likely to
feel in so false a position.  The "King" brought him into
our playground on one of his tart-selling visits, as a
specimen of the rarest breed of retrievers known in the
West of England.  The puppy seemed so thoroughly
miserable, and looked up at me so piteously, that I
forthwith asked his price, and after a deal of haggling, and a
consultation between De Rohan and myself, I determined
to become his purchaser, at the munificent sum of one
sovereign, of which ten shillings (my all) were to be paid
on the spot, and the other ten to remain, so to speak, on
mortgage upon the animal, with the further understanding
that he should be kept at the residence of the "King
of Naples," who, in consideration of the regular payment
of one shilling per week, bound himself to feed the same
and complete his education in all the canine branches of
plunging, diving, fetching and carrying, on a system of
his own, which he briefly described as "fust-rate."

With a deal of prompting from Manners, I got through
my forty lines; and he shut the book with a good-natured
smile as Ropsley threw down the bat he had been wielding
so skilfully, and put on his coat.

"Come and lunch with me at 'The Club,'" said he to
Manners, whom he led completely by the nose; "I'll give
you Dutch cheese, and sherry and soda-water, and a cigar.
Hie!  Vere, you ungrateful little ruffian, where are you off
to?  I want you."

I was making my escape as rapidly as possible at the
mention of "The Club," a word which we younger boys
held in utter fear and detestation, as being associated in
our minds with much perilous enterprise and gratuitous
suffering.  The Club consisted of an old bent tree in a
retired corner of the playground, on the trunk of which
Ropsley had caused a comfortable seat to be fashioned for
his own delectation; and here, in company with Manners
and two or three senior boys, it was his custom to sit
smoking and drinking curious compounds, of which the
ingredients, being contraband, had to be fetched by us,
at the risk of corporal punishment, from the village of
Everdon, an honest half-mile journey at the least.

Ropsley tendered a large cigar to Manners, lit one
himself, settled his long limbs comfortably on the seat,
and gave me his orders.

"One Dutch cheese, three pottles of strawberries--now
attend, confound you!--two bottles of old sherry from
'The Greyhound,'--mind, the OLD sherry; half-a-dozen of
soda-water, and a couple of pork-pies.  Put the whole
into a basket; they'll give you one at the bar, if you say
it's for me, and tell them to put it down to my account.
Put a clean napkin over the basket, and if you dirty the
napkin or break the bottles, I'll break *your* head!  Now
be off!  Manners, I'll take your two to one he does it
without a mistake, and is back here under the
five-and-twenty minutes."

I did not dare disobey, but I was horribly disgusted at
having to employ any portion of my half-holiday in so
uncongenial a manner.  I rushed back into the schoolroom
for my cap, and held a hurried consultation with
Victor as to our future proceedings.

"He only got you off because he wanted you to 'shirk
out' for him," exclaimed my indignant chum; "it's a
shame, *that* it is.  Don't go for him, Vere; let's get out
quietly, and be off to Beverley.  It's the last chance, so
old 'Nap' says" (this was an abbreviation for the "King
of Naples," who was in truth a great authority both with
Victor and myself); "and it's *such* a beautiful afternoon."

"But what a licking I shall get from Ropsley," I
interposed, with considerable misgivings; "he's sure to say
I'm an ungrateful little beast.  I don't like to be called
ungrateful, Victor, and I don't like to be called a little
beast."

"Oh, never mind the names, and a licking is soon over,"
replied Victor, who learned little from his *Horace* save the
*carpe diem* philosophy, and who looked upon the licking
with considerably more resignation than did the probable
recipient.  "We shall just have time to do it, if we start
now.  Come on, old fellow; be plucky for once, and come on."

I was not proof against the temptation.  The project
was a long-planned one, and I could not bear the thoughts
of giving it up now.  Many a time in our rambles had
we surmounted the hill that looked down upon Beverley
Manor, and viewed it from afar as a sort of unknown
fairyland.  What a golden time one's boyhood was!  A
day at Beverley was our dream of all that was most
exciting in adventure, most voluptuous in delight; and
now "Nap" had promised to accompany us to this earthly
Paradise, and show us what he was pleased to term its
"hins-an'-houts."  Not all the cheeses of Holland should
prevent my having one day's liberty and enjoyment.  I
weighed well the price: the certain licking, and the
sarcastic abuse which I feared even more; and I think I
held my half-holiday all the dearer for having to purchase
it at such a cost.

We were across the playground like lapwings.  Ropsley,
who was deep in his cigar and a copy of *Bell's Life*, which
forbidden paper he caused Manners to take in for him
surreptitiously, never dreamed that his behests could be
treated with contempt, and hardly turned his head to look
at us.  We surmounted the wall with an agility born of
repeated practice; we stole along the adjacent orchard,
under covert of the well-known friendly hedge, and only
breathed freely when we found ourselves completely out
of sight of the house, and swinging along the Everdon
lane at a schoolboy's jog, which, like the Highlander's, is
equivalent to any other person's gallop.  No pair of
carriage horses can step together like two schoolboy "chums"
who are in the constant habit of being late in company.
Little boys as we were, Victor and I could do our five
miles in the hour without much difficulty, keeping step
like clockwork, and talking the whole time.

In five minutes we were at the wicket of a small
tumble-down building, with dilapidated windows and a
ruinous thatched roof, which was in fact the dwelling of
no less a personage than the "King of Naples," but was
seldom alluded to by that worthy in more definite terms
than "the old place," or "my shop"; and this only when
in a particularly confidential mood--its existence being
usually indicated by a jerk of the head towards his blind
side, which was supposed to infer proper caution, and a
decorous respect for the sanctity of private life.  It was
indeed one of those edifices of which the word "tenement"
seems alone to convey an adequate description.  The
garden produce consisted of a ragged shirt and a darned
pair of worsted stockings, whilst a venerable buck rabbit
looked solemnly out from a hutch on one side of the doorway,
and a pair of red-eyed ferrets shed their fragrance
from a rough deal box on the other.  "Nap" himself
was not to be seen on a visitor's first entrance into his
habitation, but generally appeared after a mysterious
delay, from certain back settlements, of which one never
discovered the exact "whereabout."  A grimy old woman,
with her skirts pinned up, was invariably washing the
staircase when we called, and it was only in obedience
to her summons that "Nap" himself could be brought
forward.  This dame possessed a superstitious interest in
the eyes of us boys, on account of the mysterious
relationship in which she stood to "Nap."  He always addressed
her as "mother"--but no boy at Everdon had yet ascertained
whether this was a generic term significant of age
and sex, an appellation of endearment to a spouse, or a
tribute of filial reverence from a son.

"Come, 'Nap,' look alive," halloed Victor, as we rushed
up the narrow path that led from the wicket to the door,
in breathless haste not to lose the precious moments of
our half-holiday.  "Now, mother, where is he?" added the
lively young truant.  "Time's up; 'Nap'--'Nap'!"--and
the walls echoed to Victor's rich, laughing voice, and
half-foreign accent.  As usual, after an interval of a few
minutes, "Nap" himself appeared at the back door of the
cottage, with a pair of greased half-boots in one hand, and
a ferret, that nestled confidingly against his cheek, in the
other.

"Sarvice, young gen'elmen," said "Nap," wiping his
mouth with the back of his hand--"Sarvice, my lord;
sarvice, Muster Egerton," repeated he, on recognising his
two stanchest patrons.  "Here, Bold!  Bold!--you do
know your master, sure*lie*," as Bold came rollicking forth
from the back-yard in which he lived, and testified his
delight by many ungainly gambols and puppy-like freedoms,
which were responded to as warmly by his delighted
owner.  My scale of affections at this period of life was
easily defined.  I loved three objects in the world--viz.,
my father, Victor, and Bold.  I verily believe I cared for
nothing on earth but those three; and certainly my dog
came in for his share of regard.  Bold, although in all
the awkwardness of puppyhood, was already beginning
to show symptoms of that sagacity which afterwards
developed itself into something very few degrees inferior
to reason, if indeed it partook not of that faculty which
we men are anxious to assume as solely our own.  He
would already obey the slightest sign--would come to
heel at a whisper from his owner or instructor--would
drag up huge stones out of ten feet of water, with
ludicrous energy and perseverance; and stand waiting for
further orders with his head on one side, and an
expression of comic intelligence on his handsome countenance
that was delightfully ridiculous.  He promised to be of
great size and strength; and even at this period, when
he put his forepaws on my shoulders and licked my face,
he was considerably the larger animal of the two.  Such
familiarities, however, were much discouraged by "Nap."

"If so be as you would keep a 'dawg,' real sporting
and dawg-like, master," that philosopher would observe,
"let un know his distance; I strikes 'em whenever I can
reach 'em.  Fondlin' of 'em only spiles 'em--same as
women."





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   CHAPTER VIII


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So the day to which we had looked forward with such
delight had arrived at last.  Our spirits rose as we got
further and further from Everdon, and we never stopped
to take breath or to look back till we found ourselves
surmounting the last hill above Beverley Manor.  By
this time we had far outstripped our friend "Nap"--that
worthy deeming it inconsistent with all his maxims ever
to hurry himself.  "Slow and sure, young gentlemen," he
observed soon after we started--"slow and sure wins the
day.  Do'ee go on ahead, and wait for I top of Buttercup
Close.  I gits on better arter a drop o' drink this hot
weather.  Never fear, squire, I'll not fail ye!  Bold!
Bold! you go on with your master."  So "Nap" turned
into the "Cat and Fiddle," and we pursued our journey
alone, not very sorry to be rid of our companion for the
present; as, notwithstanding our great admiration for his
many resources, his knowledge of animal life, his skilful
method with rats, and general manliness of character, we
could not but be conscious of our own inferiority in these
branches of science, and of a certain want of community
in ideas between two young gentlemen receiving a polite
education at Everdon, and a rat-catching, dog-stealing
poacher of the worst class.

"It's as hot as Hungary," said Victor, seating himself
on a stile, and taking off his cap to fan his handsome,
heated face.  "Oh, Vere, I wish I was back in the
Fatherland!  Do you remember the great wood at Edeldorf, and
the boar we saw close to the ponies?  And oh, Vere, how
I should like to be upon Gold-kind once again!"

"Yes, Victor, I remember it all," I answered, as I flung
myself down among the buttercups, and turned my cheek
to the cool air that came up the valley--a breeze that
blew from the distant hills to the southward, and swept
across many a mile of beauty ere it sighed amongst the
woods of Beverley, and rippled the wide surface of the
mere; "I shall never forget Edeldorf, nor my first
friend, Victor.  But what made you think of Hungary
just now?"

"Why, your beautiful country," answered Victor, pointing
to the luxuriant scene below us--a scene that could
exist in England only--of rich meadows, and leafy copses,
and green slopes laughing in the sunlight, dotted with
huge old standard trees, and the deep shades of Beverley,
with the white garden-wall standing out from amongst
yew hedges, and rare pines, and exotic evergreens; while
the grey turrets of the Manor House peeped and peered
here and there through the giant elms that stirred and
flickered in the summer breeze.  The mere was glittering
at our feet, and the distant uplands melting away into the
golden haze of summer.  Child as I was, I could have
cried, without knowing why, as I sat there on the grass,
drinking in beauty at every pore.  What is it that gives to
all beauty, animate or inanimate, a tinge of melancholy?--the
greater the beauty, the deeper the tinge.  Is it an
instinct of mortality? the "bright must fade" of the poet? a
shadowy regret for Dives, who, no more than Lazarus,
can secure enjoyment for a day? or is it a vague yearning
for something more perfect still?--a longing of the soul
for the unattainable, which, more than all the philosophy
in the universe, argues the necessity of a future state.
I could not analyse my feelings.  I did not then believe
that others experienced the same sensations as myself.  I
only knew that, like Parson Hugh, I had "great dispositions
to cry."

"I wish I were a man, Vere," remarked Victor, as he
pulled out his knife, and began to carve a huge V on the
top bar of the stile.  "I should like to be grown up now,
and you too, Vere; what a life we would lead!  Let me
see, I should have six horses for myself, and three--no,
four for you; and a pack of hounds, like Mr. Barker's,
that we saw last half, coming home from hunting; and
two rifles, both double-barrelled.  Do you know, I hit the
bull's-eye with papa's rifle, when Prince Vocqsal was at
Edeldorf, and he said I was the best shot in Hungary for
my age.  Look at that crow, Vere, perching on the branch
of the old hawthorn--I could put a bullet into him from
here.  Oh!  I wish I had papa's rifle!"

"But should you not like to be King of Hungary,
Victor?" said I, for I admired my "chum" so ardently,
that I believed him fit for any position, however exalted.
"Should you not like to be king, and ride about upon a
white horse, with a scarlet tunic and pelisse, and ostrich
feathers in your hat, bowing right and left to the ladies
at the windows, with a Hungarian body-guard clattering
behind you, and the people shouting and flinging up their
caps in the street?"  I saw it all in my mind's eye,
and fancied my friend the hero of the procession.  Victor
hesitated, and shook his head.

"I think I had rather be a General of Division, like
Wallenstein, and command ten thousand cavalry; or better
still, Vere, ride and shoot as well as Prince Vocqsal, and
go up into the mountains after deer, and kill bears and
wolves and wild boars, and do what I like.  Wouldn't I
just pack up my books, and snap my fingers at March,
and leave Everdon to-morrow, if I could take you with
me.  But you, Vere, if you could have your own way,
what would you be?"

I was not long answering, for there was scarcely a day
that I did not consider the subject; but my aspirations
for myself were so humble, that I hesitated a little lest
Victor should laugh at me, before I replied.

"Oh, I will do whatever my father wishes, Victor; and
I hope he will sometimes let me go to you; but if I could
do exactly what I liked, if a fairy was at this moment to
come out of that bluebell and offer me my choice, I should
ask to be a doctor, Victor, and to live somewhere on this
hill."

"*Sappramento!*" exclaimed Victor, swearing, in his
astonishment, his father's favourite oath--"a doctor,
Vere! and why?"

"Well," I answered, modestly, "I am not like you,
Victor; I wish I were.  Oh, you cannot tell how I wish
I were you!  To be high-born and rich, and heir to a
great family, and to have everybody making up to one
and admiring one--that is what I should call happiness.
But I can never have the chance of that.  I am shy and
stupid and awkward, and--and, Victor"--I got it out
at last, blushing painfully--"I know that I am ugly--*so
ugly*!  It is foolish to care about it, for, after all, it
is not my fault; but I cannot help wishing for beauty.
It is so painful to be remarked and laughed at, and I
know people laugh at *me*.  Why, I heard Ropsley say to
Manners, only yesterday, after I had been fagging for him
at cricket, 'Why, what an ugly little beggar it is!' and
Manners said, 'Yes,' and 'he thought it must be a great
misfortune.'  And Ropsley laughed so, I felt he must be
laughing at me, as if I could help it!  Oh, Victor, you
cannot think how I long to be loved; that is why I
should like to be a doctor.  I would live up here in a
small cottage, from which I could always see this beautiful
view; and I would study hard to be very clever--not at
Greek and Latin, like March, but at something I could
take an interest in; and I would have a quiet pony, not
a rantipole like your favourite Gold-kind; and I would
visit the poor people for miles round, and never grudge
time nor pains for any one in affliction or distress.  I
would *make* them fond of me, and it would be such
happiness to go out on a day like this, and see a kind
smile for one on everybody's face, good or bad.  Nobody
loves me now, Victor, except papa and you and Bold; and
papa, I fear, only because he is my papa.  I heard him
say one day, long ago, to my nurse (you remember nurse
Nettich?), 'Never mind what the boy is like--he is my
own.'  I fear he does not care for me for myself.  You
like me, Victor, because you are used to me, and because
I like *you* so much; but that is not exactly the sort of
liking I mean; and as for Bold--here, Bold!  Bold!  Why,
what has become of the dog?  He must have gone back
to look for 'Nap.'"

Sure enough Bold was nowhere visible, having made
his escape during our conversation; but in his place the
worthy "King of Naples" was to be seen toiling up the
hill, more than three parts drunk, and with a humorous
twinkle in his solitary eye which betokened mischief.

"Now, young gents," observed the poacher, settling
himself upon the stile, and producing from the capacious
pockets of his greasy velveteen jacket an assortment of
snares, night-lines, and other suspicious-looking articles;
"now, young gents, I promised to show you a bit of sport
comin' here to Beverley, and a bit of sport we'll have.
Fust and foremost, I've agot to lift a line or two as I set
yesterday in the mere; then we'll just take a turn round
the pheasantry, for you young gentlemen to see the fowls,
you know; Sir 'Arry, he bain't a comin' back till next week,
and Muster Barrells, the keeper, he's off into Norfolk, arter
pinters, and such like.  You keep the dog well at heel,
squire.  Why, whatever has become o' Bold?"

Alas, Bold himself was heard to answer the question.
Self-hunting in an adjoining covert, his deep-toned voice
was loudly awakening the echoes, and scaring the game
all over the Manor, to his own unspeakable delight and
our intense dismay.  Forgetful of all the precepts of his
puppyhood, he scampered hither and thither; now in
headlong chase of a hare; now dashing aside after a
rabbit, putting up pheasants at every stride, and
congratulating himself on his emancipation and his prowess
in notes that could not fail to indicate his pursuits to
keepers, watchers, all the establishment of Beverley Manor,
to say nothing of the inhabitants of that and the adjoining
parishes.

Off we started in pursuit, bounding down the hill at
our best pace.  Old "Nap" making run in his own
peculiar gait, which was none of the most graceful.
Victor laughing and shouting with delight; and I frightened
out of my wits at the temporary loss of my favourite,
and the probable consequences of his disobedience.

Long before we could reach the scene of Bold's
misdoings, we had been observed by two men who were
fishing in the mere, and who now gave chase--the one
keeping along the valley, so as to cut us off in our
descent; the other, a long-legged fellow, striding right
up the hill at once, in case we should turn tail and beat
a retreat.  "Nap" suddenly disappeared--I have reason
to believe he ensconced himself in a deep ditch, and there
remained until the danger had passed away.  Victor and
I were still descending the hill, calling frantically to Bold.
The keeper who had taken the lower line of pursuit was
gaining rapidly upon us.  I now saw that he carried a
gun under his arm.  My dog flashed out of a small belt
of young trees in hot pursuit of a hare--tongue out, head
down, and tail lowered, in full enjoyment of the chase.
At the instant he appeared the man in front of me
stopped dead short.  Quick as lightning he lifted his long
shining barrel.  I saw the flash; and ere I heard the
report my dog tumbled heels over head, and lay upon
the sunny sward, as I believed in the agony of that
moment, stone dead.  I strained every nerve to reach
him, for I could hear the rattle of a ramrod, as the keeper
reloaded,--and I determined to cover Bold with my body,
and, if necessary, to die with him.  I was several paces
ahead of Victor; whom I now heard calling me by name,
but I could think of nothing, attend to nothing, but the
prostrate animal in front.  What a joy it Was when I
reached him to find he was not actually killed.  His
fore-leg was frightfully mangled by the charge; but as
I fell breathless by the side of my darling Bold, he licked
my face, and I knew there was a chance for him still.

A rough grasp was laid on toy shoulder, and a hoarse
voice roused me:

"Come, young man; I thought I'd drop on to you at
last.  Now you'll just come with me to Sir 'Arry, and we'll
see what *he* has to say to this here."

And on looking up I found myself in the hands of a
strong, square-built fellow, with a velveteen jacket, and a
double-barrelled gun under his arm, being no less a person
than Sir Harry Beverley's head keeper, and the identical
individual that had been watching us from the mere, and
had made so successful a shot at Bold.

"Come, leave the dog," he added; giving me another
shake, and scrutinising my apparel, which was evidently
not precisely of the description he had expected; "leave
the dog--it's no great odds about him; and as for *you*,
young gentleman, if you *be* a young gentleman, you *had*
ought to be ashamed of yourself.  It's not want as drove
you to this trade.  Come, none of that; you go quietly
along of me; it's best for you, I tell you."

I was struggling to free myself from his hold, for I
could not bear to leave my dog.  A thousand horrible
anticipations filled my head.  Trial, transportation, I knew
not what, for I had a vague terror of the law, and had
heard enough of its rigours in regard to the offence of
poaching, to fill me with indescribable alarm; yet, through
it all, I was more concerned for Bold than myself.  My
favourite was dying, I believed, and I could not leave him.

I looked up in the face of my captor.  He was a rough,
hairy fellow; but there was an expression of kindliness in
his homely features which encouraged me to entreat for
mercy.

"Oh, sir," I pleaded, "let me only take my dog; he's
not so very heavy; I'll carry him myself.  Bold, my
darling Bold!  He is my own dog, and I'd rather you'd
kill me too than force me to leave him here."

The man was evidently mollified, and a good deal
puzzled into the bargain.  I saw my advantage, and
pressed it vigorously.

"I'll go to prison willingly,--I'll go anywhere you tell
me,--only do try and cure Bold.  Papa will pay you anything
if you'll only cure Bold.  Victor!  Victor!" I added,
seeing my chum now coming up, likewise in custody,
"help me to get this gentleman to save Bold."

Victor looked flushed, and fiercer than I ever remembered
to have seen that pretty boyish face.  His collar
was torn and his dress disordered.  He had evidently
struggled manfully with his captor, and the latter wiped
his heated brow with an expression of mingled amusement
and astonishment, that showed he was clearly at his wit's
end what to make of his prize.

"Blowed if I know what to say o' this here, Mr. Barrells,"
said he to his brother functionary.  "This little
chap's even gamer nor t'other one.  *Run*!  I never see
such a one-er to run.  If it hadn't been for the big hedge
at the corner of the cow-pasture, I'd never a cotched 'un in
a month o' Sundays; and when I went to lay hold, the
young warmint out with his knife and offered to whip it
into me.  He's a rare boy this; I could scarce grip him
for laughing; but the lad's got a sperret, bless'd if he ain't.
I cut my own knuckles gettin' of it out of his hands."  And
he showed Victor's knife to his comrade as he spoke.

Mr. Barrells was a man of reflection, as keepers generally
are.  He examined the knife carefully, and spoke in an
undertone to his friend.

"Do you see this here?" he remarked, pointing to the
coronet which was inlaid in the steel; "and do you see
that there?" he added, with a glance at Victor's gold
watch-chain, of Parisian fabric.  "Put this here and that
there together, Bill, which it convinces me as these here
little chaps is not them as we was a lookin' for.  Your
cove looks a gentleman all over; I knows the breed, Bill,
and there's no mistake about the real thing; and my
precious boy here, he wouldn't leave the dawg, not if it
was ever so, though he's a very little 'un; he's a gentleman
too; but that don't make no odds, Bill: gentlemen hadn't
ought to be up to such-like tricks, nor haven't half the
excuse of poor folks; and, gentlemen or no gentlemen,
they goes before Sir 'Arry, dog and all, as sure as my
name's Barrells!"

Victor and I looked at each other in hopeless despair;
there was, then, nothing for it but to undergo the extreme
penalty of the law.  With hanging heads and blushing
cheeks we walked between our captors; Bill, who seemed
a good-natured fellow enough, carrying the unfortunate
Bold on his shoulders.  We thought our shame had
reached its climax, but we were doomed to suffer even
more degradation in this our first visit to Beverley Manor.

As we threaded the gravel path of a beautiful shrubbery
leading to the back offices of the Manor House, we met a
young girl taking her afternoon's walk with her governess,
whose curiosity seemed vividly excited by our extraordinary
procession.  To this day I can remember Constance
Beverley as she stood before me then, the first time I ever
saw her.  She was scarcely more than a child, but her
large serious dark eyes, her noble and somewhat sad
expression of countenance, gave her an interest which
mere childish beauty could never have possessed.  There
are some faces that we can discern even at such a distance
as renders the features totally indistinct, as if the
expression of countenance reached us by some magnetic process
independent of vision, and such a face was that of Constance
Beverley.  I have often heard her beauty disputed.  I
have even known her called plain, though that was
generally by critics of her own sex, but I never heard
any one deny that she was *uncommon-looking*, and always
certain to attract attention, even where she failed in
winning admiration.  Victor blushed scarlet, and I felt as
if I must sink into the earth when this young lady walked
up to the keeper, and asked him "what he was going to
do with those people, and why he was taking them to papa?"

Miss Constance was evidently a favourite with Mr. Barrells,
for he stopped and doffed his hat with much
respect whilst he explained to her the circumstance of our
pursuit and capture.  So long as he alluded only to our
poaching offences, I thought the little lady looked on us
with eyes of kindly commiseration; but when he hinted
his suspicions of our social position, I observed that she
immediately assumed an air of marked coldness, and
transferred her pity to Bold.

"So you see, Miss, I does my duty by Sir 'Arry without
respect to rich or poor," was Mr. Barrells' conclusion to a
long-winded oration addressed partly to the young lady,
partly to her governess, and partly to ourselves, the
shame-faced culprits; "and therefore it is as I brings these
young gentlemen up to the justice-room, if so be, as I said
before, they *be* young gentlemen; and so, Miss Constance,
the law must take its course."

"But you'll take care of the poor dog, Barrells; promise
me you'll take care of the poor dog," was the young lady's
last entreaty as she walked on with her governess; and a
turn in the shrubbery hid her from our sight.

"*What* a half-holiday this has been!" whispered I to
my comrade in distress, as we neared the house that had
so long been an object of such curiosity.

"Yes," replied Victor, "but it's not over yet."

Sir Harry was at the farm; we must wait for his return.
Meantime we were shown into the servants' hall; a large
stone chamber devoid of furniture, that reminded me of
our schoolroom at Everdon--much as we hated the latter,
what would we have given to be there now!  Cold meat
and ale were offered us; but, as may well be imagined,
we had no appetite to partake of them, although in that
respect our captors set us a noble example; remaining,
however, on either side of us as turnkeys watch those who
are ordered for execution.  The servants of the household
came one after another to stare at the unfortunate culprits,
and made audible remarks on our dress and general
appearance.  Victor's beauty won him much favour from
the female part of the establishment; and a housemaid
with a wonderfully smart cap brought him a cup of tea,
which he somewhat rudely declined.  There was
considerable discussion as to our real position in society
carried on without the slightest regard to our presence.
The under-butler, whose last place was in London, and
whose professional anxiety about his spoons may have
somewhat prejudiced him, gave it as his opinion that we
belonged to what he called "the swell mob"; but
Mr. Barrells, who did not seem to understand the term,
"pooh-poohed" this suggestion with so much dignity as at once
to extinguish that official, who incontinently retired to
his pantry and his native obscurity.  The women, who
generally lean to the most improbable version of a story,
were inclined to believe that we were sailors, and of
foreign extraction; but the most degrading theory of all,
and one that I am bound to confess met with a large
majority of supporters, was to the effect that we were
run-away 'prentices from Fleetsbury, and would be put in the
stocks on our return to that market town.  We had agreed
not to give our names except as a last resource, my friend
clinging, as I thought somewhat hopelessly, to the idea
that Sir Harry would let us off with a reprimand, and we
might get back to Everdon without March finding it out.
So the great clock ticked loudly in the hall, and there we
sat in mute endurance.  As Victor had before remarked,
"it was not over yet."





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.. _`ROPSLEY`:

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   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium

   ROPSLEY

.. vspace:: 2

Ropsley smoked his cigar on the trunk of the old tree,
and Manners drank in worldly wisdom from the lips of his
junior, whom, however, he esteemed as the very guide-book
of all sporting and fashionable life.  It was the ambition
of our usher to become a thorough man of the world; and,
had he been born to a fortune and a title, there was no
reason why he should not have formed a very fair average
young nobleman.  His tastes were frivolous enough, his
egotism sufficiently developed, his manner formed on
what he conceived the best model.  All this was only
absurd, I presume, because he was an usher; had he been
a marquis, he would have shown forth as a "very charming
person."  His admiration of Ropsley was genuine, the
latter's contempt for his adorer equally sincere, but better
concealed.  They sit puffing away at their cigars, watching
the smoke wreathing up into the summer sky, and
Manners coaxes his whiskers and looks admiringly at his
friend.  Ropsley's cigar is finished, and he dashes it down
somewhat impatiently.

"What can have become of that little wretch?" says
he, with a yawn and a stretch of his long, well-shaped
limbs; "he's probably made some stupid mistake, and I
shall have to lick him after all.  Manners, what have you
done with the old dog-whip we used to keep for the lower
boys?"

"Safe in my desk," replies Manners, who, being a
good-natured fellow, likes to keep that instrument of torture
locked up; "but Egerton's a good little fellow; you
mustn't be too hard upon him this time."

"I never could see the difference between a good fellow
and a bad one," replies Ropsley.  "If I want a thing done
I choose the most likely person to do it; and if he fails
it's his fault and not mine, and he must suffer for it.  I've
no prejudices, my good friend, and no feelings--they're
only different words for the same thing; and, depend
upon it, people get on much better without them.  But
come: let's walk down to the village, and look after him.
I'll go and ask March if he wants anything 'down the road.'"

Luckily for me, my chastiser had not proceeded half a
mile upon his way, ere he met the "King of Naples" in
person, hot and breathless, flustered with drink and
running, and more incoherent than usual in his conversation
and demeanour.  He approached Ropsley, who was the
most magnificent of his patrons, with hat in hand, and
somewhat the air of a dog that knows he has done wrong.

"What's up now, you old reprobate?" said the latter,
in his most supercilious manner--a manner, I may observe,
he adopted to all whom he could influence without
conciliating, and which made the conciliation doubly winning
to the favoured few--"What's up now?  Drunk again, I
suppose, as usual?"

"Not drunk, squire--not drunk, as I'm a livin' man,"
replied the poacher, sawing the air in deprecation with a
villainously dirty hand; "hagitated, perhaps, and
over-anxious about the young gentlemen--Oh! them lads,
them lads!" and he leered at his patron as much as to
hint that he had a precious story to tell, if it was only
made worth his while.

"Come, no nonsense!" said Ropsley, sternly; "out
with it.  What's the matter?  You've got De Rohan and
Egerton into some scrape; I see it in your ugly old face.
Tell me all about it this instant, or it will be worse for
you."

"Doan't hurry a man so, squire; pray ye, now, doan't.
I be only out o' breath, and the lads they be safe enough
by this time; but I wanted for you to speak up for me to
the master, squire.  I bain't a morsel to blame.  I went
a-purpose to see as the young gents didn't get into no
mischief; I did, indeed.  I be an old man now, and it's a
long walk for me at my years," whined the old rascal, who
was over at the Manor three nights a week when he
thought the keepers were out of the way.  "And the dog,
he was most to blame, arter all; but the keepers they've
got the young gents safe, enough,--and that's all about it."  So
saying, he stood bolt upright, like a man who has fired
his last shot, and is ready to abide the worst.  Truth to
tell, the "King of Naples" was horribly afraid of Ropsley.

The latter thought for a moment, put his hand in his
pocket, and gave the poacher half-a-crown.  "You hold
your tongue," said he, "or you'll get into worse trouble
than any of them.  Now go home, and don't let me hear
of your stirring out for twenty-four hours.  Be off!  Do
you hear?"

Old "Nap" obeyed, and hobbled off to his cottage,
there to spend the term of his enforced residence in his
favourite occupation of drinking, whilst Ropsley walked
rapidly on to the village, and directed his steps to that
well-known inn, "The Greyhound," of which every boy
at Everdon School was more or less a patron.

In ten minutes' time there was much ringing of bells
and general confusion pervading that establishment; the
curly-headed waiter (why do all waiters have curly hair?)
rushed to and fro with a glass-cloth in his hand; the
barmaid drooped her long ringlets over her own window-sill,
within which she was to be seen at all hours of the
day and night, like a pretty picture in its frame; the
lame ostler stumped about with an activity foreign to his
usual methodical nature, and a chaise and pair was
ordered to be got ready immediately for Beverley Manor.

Richard the Third is said to have been born with all
his double teeth sharp set, and in good masticatory order.
It is my firm belief that Ropsley was also ushered into
the world with his wisdom teeth in a state of maturity.
He had, indeed, an old head upon young shoulders; and
yet this lad was brought up and educated by his mother
until he was sent to school.  Perhaps he was launched
into the world too early; perhaps his recollections of home
were not vivid enough to soften his character or awaken
his feelings.  When I first knew him he had been an
orphan for years; but I am bound to say that the only
being of whom he spoke with reverence was his mother.
I never heard him mention her name but twice, and each
time a soft light stole over his countenance and altered
the whole expression of his features, till I could hardly
believe it was the same person.  From home, when a very
little boy, he was sent to Eton; and after a long process
of hardening in that mimic world, was transferred to
Everdon, more as a private pupil than a scholar.  Here
it was that I first knew him; and great as was my boyish
admiration for the haughty, aristocratic youth just verging
upon manhood, it is no wonder that I watched and studied
his character with an intensity born of my own ardent
disposition, the enthusiasm of which was all the stronger for
having been so repressed and concealed in my strange and
solitary childhood.  Most children are hero-worshippers,
and my hero for the time was Ropsley.

He was, I think, the only instance I can recollect of a
mere boy proposing to himself a certain aim and end in
life, and going steadily forward to its attainment without
pause or deviation.  I often think now, what is there that
a man with ordinary faculties might not attain, would he
but propose to himself at fourteen that position which he
would wish to reach at forty?  Show me the hill that
six-and-twenty years of perseverance would fail to climb.
But no; the boy never thinks of it at all--or if he does,
he believes the man of forty to be verging on his grave,
and too old to enjoy any of the pleasures of existence,
should he have the means of indulging them.  He will
not think so when he has reached that venerable period;
though, after all, age is a relative term, and too often
totally irrespective of years.  Many a heart is ruined and
worn out long ere the form be bent or the head grown
grey.  But the boy thinks there is time enough; the
youth grudges all that interferes with his pleasures; and
the man only finds the value of energy and perseverance
when it is too late to avail himself of them.
Oh! opportunity!--opportunity!--phantom goddess of success, that
not one in a million has decision to seize and make his
own:--if hell be paved with good intentions, it might be
roofed with lost opportunities.

Ropsley, however, was no morbid whiner over that
which is irretrievable.  He never lost a chance by his
own carelessness; and if he failed, as all must often fail,
he never looked back.  *Aide-toi, et Dieu t'aidera*, is a
motto that comprises in five words the noblest code of
philosophy; the first part of the sentence Ropsley had
certainly adopted for his guidance, and to do him justice,
he never was remiss in any sense of the word in helping
himself.

Poor, though of good family, his object was to attain
a high position in the social world, power, wealth, and
influence, especially the latter, but each and all as a
means towards self-aggrandisement.  The motive might
not be amiable or noble, but it was better than none at
all, and he followed it out most energetically.  For this
object he spared no pains, he feared no self-denial, he
grudged no sacrifice.  He was a scholar, and he meant to
make the most of his scholarship, just as he made the
most of his cricket-playing, his riding, his skill in all
sports and exercises.  He knew that his physical good
looks and capabilities would be of service to him hereafter,
and he cultivated them just as he stored and cultivated
that intellect which he valued not for itself, but as a
means to an end.

"If I had fifty thousand a year," I once heard him say
to Manners, "I should take no trouble about anything.
Depend upon it, the real thing to live for is enjoyment.
But if I had only forty-five thousand I should work like
a slave--it would not *quite* give me the position I
require."

Such was Ropsley at this earliest period of our
acquaintance.

"Drive to Beverley Manor," said he, as he made himself
thoroughly comfortable amongst the cushions, let down
all the windows, and settled himself to the perusal of the
last daily paper.

Any other boy in the school would have gone in a gig.





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.. _`BEVERLEY MANOR`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium

   BEVERLEY MANOR

.. vspace:: 2

Why does a country gentleman invariably select the worst
room in the house for his own private apartment, in
which he transacts what he is pleased to call his
"business," and spends the greater part of his time?  At
Beverley Manor there were plenty of rooms, cheerful, airy,
and well-proportioned, in which it would have been a
pleasure to live, but none of these were chosen by Sir
Harry for his own; disregarding the charms of the saloon,
the drawing-room, the morning-room, the billiard-room,
and the hall itself, which, with a huge fire-place and a
thick carpet, was by no means the least comfortable part
of the house,--he had retired to a small, ill-contrived,
queer-shaped apartment, dark, dusty, and uncomfortable,
of which the only recommendation was that it communicated
directly with a back-staircase and offices, and
did not require in its own untidiness any apology on the
part of muddy visitors, who had not thought of wiping
their boots and shoes as they came up.  A large glass
gun-case, filled with double-barrels, occupied one side of
the room, flanked by book-shelves, loaded with such useful
but not entertaining works as the *Racing Calendar*, *White's
Farriery*, and *Hawker's Instructions to Young Sportsmen*.
In one corner was a whip-stand, hung round with many
an instrument of torture.  The knotted dog-whip that
reduced Ponto to reason in the golden stubbles; the
long-thonged hunting-whip, that brought to mind at once the
deep, fragrant woodland in November, with its scarlet
coats flitting down the distant ride; and the straight,
punishing "cut-and-thrust," that told of Derby and
St. Leger, Ditch-In, Middle-Mile, and all the struggles of
Epsom and Newmarket.  In another was an instrument
for measuring land, and a roll of plans by which acres
were to be calculated and a system of thorough draining
established, with a view to golden profits.

"Draining!" remarked Sir Harry, in his younger days,
to an assemblage of country gentlemen, who stood aghast
at the temerity of his proposition, "I am no advocate for
draining:"--voices were raised, and hands uplifted in
pious horror and deprecation--"all I can say is,
gentlemen, that I have drained my property till *I cannot get a
farthing from it*" was Sir Harry's conclusive reasoning,
which must have satisfied Mr. Mechi himself.

A coloured engraving of the well-known Beverley
shorthorn "Dandy" hung on one side of the fire-place, and on
the other, a print of "Flying Childers," as he appeared
when going at the rate of a mile in a minute, apparently
ridden by a highwayman in huge jack-boots and a flowing
periwig.  In the centre of the room was fixed a large
leather-covered writing-table, and at this table sat Sir
Harry himself, prepared to administer justice and punish
all offenders.  He was a tall, thin man, somewhat bent,
and bald, with a hooked nose, and a bright, searching
eye, evidently a thorough man of the world in thought,
opinion, and feeling; the artificial will become second
nature if long enough persisted in, and Sir Harry had
served no short apprenticeship to the trade of fashion.
His dress was peculiarly neat and gentleman-like, not the
least what is now termed "slang," and yet with a
something in it that marked the horseman.  He was busy
writing when we were ushered into the awful presence,
and Victor and I had time to steal a look at each other,
and to exchange a reassuring pressure of the hand.  The
young Hungarian raised his head frank and fearless as
usual; I felt that I should like to sink into the ground,
but yet was determined to stand by my friend.

Mr. Barrells commenced a long oration, in which he
was rapidly losing himself, when his master, whose
attention was evidently occupied elsewhere, suddenly
looked up, and cut him short with the pertinent
inquiry--

"What's all this about, Barrells? and why are these
lads here?"

"We are gentlemen, and not poachers;" and "Indeed,
sir, it was Bold that got away!" exclaimed Victor and I
simultaneously.

At this instant a card was brought in by the butler,
and placed in Sir Harry's hand; he looked at it for a
moment, and then said--

"Immediate! very well, show the gentleman in."

I thought I knew the step that came along the passage,
but never was failing courage more grateful for assistance
than was mine to recognise in Sir Harry's visitor the
familiar person of my schoolfellow, Ropsley; I cared not
a farthing for the promised licking now.

"I have to apologise for disturbing you, Sir Harry,"
said he, standing as composed and collected as if he were
in our schoolroom at Everdon;--even in the anxiety of
the moment I remember thinking, "What would I give to
possess 'manner' such as his;"--"I have to apologise
for my rudeness" (Sir Harry bowed, and said, "Not at
all;" I wondered what he meant by *that*), "but I am sure
you will excuse me when I tell you that I am a pupil of
Mr. March's at Everdon" (Sir Harry looked at the tall,
well-dressed figure before him, and seemed surprised),
"and these two young friends of mine belong to the same
establishment.  I heard quite accidentally, only an hour
ago, of the scrape they had got into, and I immediately
hurried over here to assure you that they can have had
no evil intentions in trespassing on your property, and to
apologise for their thoughtlessness, partly out of respect
to you, Sir Harry, and partly, I am bound to say, for the
credit of the school.  I am quite sure that neither
Egerton nor De Rohan----"

Sir Harry started.  "Egerton!  De Rohan!" he
exclaimed; "not the son of my old friend Philip Egerton,
not young Count de Rohan?--really, Mr.----" (he looked
at the card he held in his hand), "really, Mr. Ropsley, I
am very much obliged to you for rectifying this
extraordinary mistake;" but even whilst he was speaking, I
had run round the table to where he sat, and seizing his
hand--I remember how cold it felt between my own little
hot, trembling ones--exclaimed--

"Oh! do you know my papa? then I am sure you will
not punish us; only let us off this time, and give me back
Bold, and we will promise never to come here again."

The Baronet was not a demonstrative person, nor had
he much patience with those who were; he pushed me
from him, I thought rather coldly, and addressed himself
once more to Ropsley.

"Why, these boys are sons of two of the oldest friends
I have in the world.  I would not have had such a thing
happen for a thousand pounds.  I must apologise to you,
young gentlemen, for the rudeness of my servants--Good
heavens!  ou were kept waiting in the hall: why on
earth did you not give your names?  Your father and I
were at college together, Egerton; and as for you, Monsieur
le Comte, had I known you were at Everdon, I would
have made a point of going over to call upon you myself;
but I have only just returned to the country, and that
must be my excuse."

Victor bowed gracefully: notwithstanding his torn
jacket and disordered collar, he looked "the young Count"
all over, and so I am sure thought Sir Harry.  Ropsley
was perfectly *gentlemanlike*, but Victor was naturally
*high bred*.

"Barrells, where are you going, Barrells?" resumed his
master, for that discreet person, seeing the turn things
were taking, was quietly leaving the room; "you always
were the greatest fool that ever stood upon two legs: now
let this be a warning to you--every vagabond in the
county helps himself to my game whenever he pleases,
and you never lay a finger on one of them; at last you
insult and abuse two young gentlemen that any one but
a born idiot could see were gentlemen, and bring them in
here for poachers--*poachers!* as if you didn't know a
poacher when you see one.  Don't stand gaping there,
you fool, but be off, and the other blockhead too.  Hie! here;
let the dog be attended to, and one of the watchers
must lead him back to Everdon when he's well again.
Now see to that, and never make such a stupid mistake
again."

"May I go and see Bold, sir?" said I, summoning up
courage as my late captors quitted the room.

"Quite right, my little man," replied the Baronet, "so
you shall, this evening; but in the meantime, I hope
you'll all stay and dine with me.  I'll write to your
master--what's his name?--and send you back in the
carriage at night; what say you, Mr. Ropsley?  I can
give you a capital bottle of claret."

So here were we, who one short hour before had been
making up our minds to endure with fortitude the worst
that could happen,--who had expected to be driven with
ignominy from Beverley, and handed over to condign
punishment on our return to school, if indeed we were
fortunate enough to escape committal and imprisonment
in the County Gaol,--now installed as honoured guests
in the very mansion which we had so long looked upon
as a *terra incognita* of fairyland, free to visit the
"hins-and-houts" of Beverley, with no thanks to the "King of
Naples" for his assistance, and, in short, raised at one
step from the abyss of schoolboy despair to the height of
schoolboy gratification.  Victor's delight was even greater
than mine as we were shown into a pretty little dressing-room
overlooking the garden, to wash our hands before
dinner.  He said it reminded him of home, and made him
feel "like a gentleman" once more.

What a dinner that was to which we sat down in the
stately old dining-room, served upon massive plate by a
butler and two footmen, whose magnificence made me feel
quite shy in my comparative insignificance.  Ropsley of
course seemed as much at home as if he was in the
habit of dining there every day, and Victor munched away
with an appetite that seemed to afford our good-natured
host immense gratification.  Soup and fish, *entrées* of every
description, hashed venison, iced champagne--how grateful
after our hot pursuit in the summer sun--and all the
minor luxuries of silver forks, clean napkins, finger-glasses,
etc., were indeed a contrast to the plain roast
mutton and potatoes, the two-pronged fork, and washy
table-beer of our Everdon bill-of-fare.  What I liked,
though, better than all the eatables and drinkables, was
a picture opposite which I sat, and which riveted my
attention so much as to attract the observation of Sir
Harry himself.

"Ha!  Egerton," said he, "you are your father all over,
I see.  Just like him, wild about painting.  Now I'll bet
my life you're finding fault with the colouring of that
picture.  The last time he was here he vowed, if I would
let him, he would paint it all over again; and yet it's one
of the best pictures in England at this moment.  What do
you think of it, my boy?  Could you paint as good a one?"

"No, sir," I replied modestly, and rather annoyed at my
reverie being interrupted; "my father tries to teach me,
but--but I cannot learn to paint."

Sir Harry turned away, and Ropsley whispered something
about "very odd"--"poor little fellow."  The dessert
had just been put on the table, and Victor was busy with
his strawberries and cream.  There must be some truth
in magnetism, there must be something in the doctrine of
attraction and repulsion: why do we like some people
as we dislike others, without any shadow of a reason?
Homoeopathists tell us that the nausea which contracts
our features at the smell of a drug, is a provision of
Nature to guard us against poison.  Can it be that these
antipathies are implanted in our being to warn us of those
who shall hereafter prove our enemies? it is not a charitable
theory nor a Christian-like, and yet in my experience
of life I have found many instances in which it has borne
a strange semblance of truth.

   |   "Men feel by instinct swift as light
   |     The presence of the foe,
   |   Whom God has marked in after years
   |     To strike the mortal blow.
   |   The other, though his brand be sheathed,
   |     At banquet or in hall,
   |   Hath a forebodement of the time
   |     When one or both must fall."
   |

So sings "the minstrel" in his poem of *Bothwell*, but
*Bothwell* was not written at the time of which I speak,
and the only poetry I had ever heard to justify my
antipathies was the homely quatrain of *Dr. Fell*.  Still I felt
somehow from that moment I hated Ropsley; it was
absurd, it was ungrateful, it was ungentlemanlike, but it
was undeniable.

So I buried myself in the contemplation of the picture,
which possessed for me a strange fascination.  The subject
was Queen Dido transfixed on her funeral pyre, the very
*infandum regina* to whose history I owed so many
school-room sorrows.  I began to think I should never hate
Virgil again.  The whole treatment of the picture was to
the last degree unnatural, and the colouring, even to my
inexperienced eye, faulty and overdone.  Yet that face of
mute sorrow and resignation spoke at once to the heart;
the Queen lay gazing on the distant galleys which were
bearing away her love, and curling their beaks and curvetting,
so to speak, up-hill on a green sea, in a manner that
must have made the task of Palinurus no easy one when
he undertook to steer the same.  Her limbs were disposed
stiffly, but not ungracefully, on the fatal couch, and her
white bosom was pierced by the deadly blade.  Yet on
her sweet, sad countenance the artist had depicted with
wonderful skill the triumph of mental over bodily anguish;
and though the features retained all woman's softness
and woman's beauty, you read the breaking heart beneath.
I could have looked at that picture for hours, I was lost in
it even then, but the door opened, and whilst Ropsley got
up with a flourish and his most respectful bow, in walked
the young lady whom we had met under far different
circumstances some three hours before in the shrubbery,
and quietly took her place by the side of her papa.

As I looked from Queen Dido to Miss Constance I quite
started; there was the very face as if it had walked out
of the canvas.  Younger, certainly, and with a more
childish expression about the mouth, but the same queenly
brow, the same sad, serious eyes, the same delicate features
and oval shape; the fascination was gone from the picture
now, and yet as I looked at the child--for child she was
then--I experienced once more the old well-known pang
of self-humiliation which so often poisoned my happiness;
I felt so dull and awkward amongst these bright faces
and polished manners, so ungainly and out of place where
others were gay and at their ease.  How I envied Victor's
self-possession as he addressed the young lady with his
pleasant, foreign accent, and a certain assurance that an
English boy never acquires till he is verging on manhood.
How willingly would I have exchanged places with any
one of the party.  How I longed to cast the outward
slough of timidity and constraint, to appear as I felt
myself in reality, an equal in mind and station and feelings
to the rest.  For the first time in my life, as I sat a mere
child at that dinner-table, came the thrilling, maddening
feeling to my heart--

"Oh! that something would happen, something dreadful,
something unheard of, that should strip from each of
us all extraneous and artificial advantages, that should
give us all a fair start on equal terms--something that
should try our courage or our fortitude, and enable me to
prove myself what I really am."

It was the first spark of ambition that ever entered my
boyish breast, but when once kindled, such sparks are
never completely extinguished.  Fortunate is it that
opportunities are wanting to fan them into a flame, or we
should ere long have the world in a blaze.

Miss Constance took very little notice of us beyond
a cold allusion to the well-being of my dog, and it was
not till Sir Harry bade her take charge of Victor and
myself, and lead us out through the garden to visit our
wounded favourite, that we had any conversation with
this reserved young lady.  Sir Harry rang for another
bottle of claret, and composed himself for a good chat
upon racing matters with Ropsley, who was as much at
home with everything connected with the turf as if he
spent his whole time at Newmarket.  Ropsley had even
then a peculiar knack of being "all things to all men,"
and pleaded guilty besides to a very strong *penchant* for
horse-racing.  This latter taste raised him considerably
in Sir Harry's estimation, who, like the rest of mankind,
took great pleasure in beckoning the young along that
path of pleasure which had nearly led to his own ruin.
Well, we are all children to the last; was there one whit
more wisdom in the conversation of the Baronet and his
guest as to the relative merits of certain three-year-olds
and the weight they could carry, than in the simple
questions and answers of us three children, walking
soberly along the soft garden sward in the blushing
sunset?  At first we were very decorous: no brocaded
courtier of Queen Anne, leading his partner out to dance
a minuet, could have been more polite and respectful
than Victor; no dame of high degree, in hoop and
stomacher, more stately and reserved than Miss Constance.
I said little, but watched the pair with a strange,
uncomfortable fascination.  Ere long, however, the ice began to
thaw, questions as to Christian names, and ages, and
respective birthdays, brought on increased confidence and
more familiar conversation.  Constance showed us her
doves, and was delighted to find that we too understood
thoroughly the management of these soft-eyed favourites;
the visit to Bold was another strong link in our dawning
friendship; the little girl was so gentle and so pitiful, so
caressing to the poor dog, and so sympathising with its
master, that I could not but respond to her kindness, and
overcame my timidity sufficiently to thank her warmly
for the interest she took in poor Bold.  By the time we
had all enjoyed in turn the delights of a certain swing,
and played a game at battledore and shuttlecock in the
echoing hall, we were becoming fast friends, and had
succeeded in interesting our new acquaintance extremely
in all the details of schoolboy life, and our own sufferings
at Everdon.  I remarked, however, that Constance took
far less notice of me than of Victor; with him she seemed
frank and merry and at her ease; with me, on the
contrary, she retained much of her early reserve, and I could
not help fancying, rather avoided my conversation than
otherwise.  Well, I was used to being thrown in the
background, and it was pleasure enough for me to watch
that grave, earnest countenance, and speculate on the
superhuman beauty of Queen Dido, to which it bore so
strange a resemblance.

It was getting too dark to continue our game.  We
had already lost the shuttlecock three times, and it was
now hopelessly perched on the frame of an old picture
in the hall; when the dining-room door opened, and Sir
Harry came out, still conversing earnestly with his guest
on the one engrossing topic.

"I am much obliged to you for the hint," said the
Baronet.  "It never struck me before; and if your information
is really to be depended on, I shall certainly back
him.  Strange that I should not have heard of the trial."

"My man dare not deceive me, I assure you," answered
Ropsley, his quiet, distinct tones contrasting with Sir
Harry's, who was a little flushed and voluble after his
claret.  "He used to do odd jobs for me when I was in
the sixth form at Eton, and I met him unexpectedly
enough the other day in the High-street at Bath.  He is
a mason by trade, and is employed repairing Beckford's
tower; by the way, he had heard of *Vathek*--I am not
sure that he hasn't read it, so the fellow has some brains
about him.  Well, I knew he hadn't been hanging about
Ascot all his life for nothing, so I described the colt to
him, and bade him keep his eyes open when perched in
mid-air these bright mornings, with such a command of
Lansdowne.  Why, he knew the horse as well as I did,
and yesterday sent me a full account of the trial.  I
destroyed it immediately, of course, but I have it all
here" (pointing to his forehead, where, indeed, Ropsley
carried a curious miscellany of information).  "He beat
the mare at least fifty yards, and she was nearly that
distance ahead of 'Slap-Jack,' so you may depend upon it
he is a real flyer.  I have backed him to win a large
stake, at least, for a boy like me," added Ropsley, modestly;
"and I do not mean to hedge a farthing of it."

Sir Harry was delighted; he had found a "young one,"
as he called it, after his own heart; he declared he would
not wish him "good-bye"; he must come over again and
see the yearlings; he must accompany him to the Bath
races.  If he was to leave Everdon at the end of the
half-year, he must come and shoot in September; nay, they
would go to Doncaster together; in short, Sir Harry was
fascinated, and put us all into the carriage, which he had
ordered expressly to take us back to Everdon, with many
expressions of hospitality and good-will.

Bold was lifted on to the box, from whence he looked
down with his tongue hanging out in a state of ludicrous
helplessness and dismay.  Miss Constance bade us a quiet
"good-night" in tones so sweet that they rang in my ears
half the way home, and so we drove off in state from the
front door, as though we had not that very afternoon been
brought in as culprits at the back.

Ropsley was unusually silent during the whole journey.
He had established his footing at Beverley Manor, perhaps
he was thinking how "to make the most of it."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`DULCE DOMUM`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center medium

   DULCE DOMUM

.. vspace:: 2

I must skip a few years; long years they were then to
me; as I look back upon them now, they seem to have
fleeted away like a dream.  Victor and I are still at
Everdon, but we are now the two senior boys in the
school.  De Rohan has grown into one of the handsomest
youths you will often see.  His blue eye is as clear and
merry as ever, but the chestnut curls have turned dark
and glossy, and the light, agile form is rapidly developing
itself into a strong, symmetrical young man.  He is still
frank, gay, and unsophisticated; quick enough at his
studies, but utterly without perseverance, and longing
ardently for the time when he shall be free to embark
upon a course of pleasure and dissipation.  I am much
altered too.  With increasing growth and the assumption
of the *toga virilis*, or that manly garment which
schoolboys abruptly denominate "tails," I have acquired a
certain degree of outward equanimity and self-command,
but still suffer much from inward misgivings as to my
own appearance and personal advantages.  Hopelessly I
consult the glass in our joint bed-room--the same glass
that daily reflects Victor's handsome face and graceful
figure--and am forced unwillingly to confess that it
presents to me the image of a swarthy, coarse-featured lad,
with sunken eyes and scowling eyebrows, sallow in
complexion, with a wide, low forehead overhung by a profusion
of bushy black hair; this unprepossessing countenance
surmounting a short square figure, broad-shouldered,
deep-chested, and possessed of great physical strength.  Yes, I
was proud of my strength.  I shall never forget the day
when first I discovered that nature had gifted me with
one personal advantage, that I, of all others, was disposed
most to appreciate.  A lever had been left in the
playground, by which the workmen, who were repairing the
wall, intended to lift the stem of the well-known tree
which had formerly constituted what we called "The
Club."  We boys had come out of school whilst the men
were gone to dinner.  Manners, the muscular, was
delighted with such an opportunity of displaying his prowess;
how foolish he looked when he found himself incapable of
moving the huge inert mass--he said it was impossible;
two boys attempted it, then three, still the great trunk
remained motionless.  I asked leave to try, amidst the
jeers of all, for I was usually so quiet and undemonstrative
that no one believed Egerton had, in schoolboy parlance,
either "pith or pluck" in him.  I laid my weight to it
and heaved "with a will"; the great block of timber
vibrated, moved, and rolled along the sward.  What a
triumph it was, and how I prided myself on it.  I, too,
had my ideal of what I should like to be, although I
would not have confessed it to a soul.  I wished to be like
some *preux chevalier* of the olden time; my childish
longing to be loved had merged into an ardent desire to be
admired; I would have been brave and courteous and
chivalrous and strong.  Yes, in all the characters of the
olden time that I so loved to study, strength was described
as one of the first attributes of a hero.  Sir Tristram, Sir
Launcelot, Sir Bevis, were all "strong," and my heart
leapt to think that if the opportunity ever arrived, my
personal strength might give me a chance of distinguishing
myself, when the beautiful and the gallant were
helpless and overcome.  But there was another qualification
of which in my secret soul I had hideous misgivings,--I
doubted my own courage: I knew I was nervous and
timid in the common every-day pursuits of a schoolboy's
life; I could not venture on a strange horse without
feeling my heart in my mouth; I did not dare stop a ball
that was bowled swiftly in to my wicket, nor fire a gun
without shutting both eyes before I ventured to pull the
trigger.  What if I should be a coward after all?  A
*coward!* the thoughts of it almost drove me mad; and yet
how could I tell but that I was branded with that hideous
curse?  I longed, yet dreaded, to know the worst.

In my studies I was unusually backward for a boy
of my age.  Virgil, thanks to the picture of Dido, never
to be forgotten, I had completely mastered; but mathematics,
arithmetic--all that are termed the exact sciences--I
appeared totally incapable of learning.  Languages I
picked up with extraordinary facility, and this alone
redeemed me from the character of an irreclaimable dunce.

"You *can* learn, sir, if you will," was March's constant
remark, after I had arrived at the exalted position of a
senior boy, to whom flogging and such coercive measures
were inappropriate, and for whom "out of bounds" was
not.  "You *can* learn, or else why do I see you poring
over Arabic and Sanscrit during play-hours, when you
had much better be at cricket?  You must have brains
somewhere, but to save my life I can't find them.  You
can speak half-a-dozen languages, as I am informed,
nearly as well as I can speak Latin, and yet if I set you
to do a 'Rule of Three' sum, you make more blunders
than the lowest little dunce in the school!  Egerton, I
can't make you out."

It was breaking-up day at Everdon.  Victor and I
walked with our arms over each other's shoulders, up and
down, up and down, in the old playground, and as we
paced those well-worn flags, of which we knew every stone,
my heart sank within me to think it was for the last, *last*
time.  What is there that we are not sorry to do for the
last time?  I had hated school as much as any schoolboy
could; I had looked forward to my emancipation as the
captive looks forward to the opening of his prison-door;
and now the time was come, and I felt grieved and out of
spirits to think that I should see the old place no more.

"You must write to me constantly, Vere," said Victor,
with an affectionate hug, as we took our hundredth turn.
"We must never forget each other, however far apart, and
next winter you must come again to Edeldorf; I shall be
there when the shooting begins.  Oh, Vere, you will be
very dull at home."

"No," I replied; "I like Alton Grange, and I like a
quiet life.  I am not of your way of thinking, Victor;
you are never happy except in a bustle; I wish I were
more like you;" and I sighed as I thought of the contrast
between us.

I do not know what brought it to my mind, but I
thought of Constance Beverley, and the first time we
saw her when we were all children together at Beverley
Manor.  Since then our acquaintance had indeed
progressed but little; we scarcely ever met except on certain
Sundays, when we took advantage of our liberty as senior
boys to go to church at Fleetsbury, where from the gallery
we could see right into the Beverley pew, and mark the
change time had wrought on our former playfellow.
After service, at the door we might perhaps exchange a
stiff greeting and a few words before she and her
governess got into the carriage; and this transcendent pleasure
we were content to purchase with a broiling walk of some
five miles on a dusty high-road, and a patient endurance
of the longest sermon from the worthy rector of Fleetsbury,
an excellent man, skilled in casuistry, and gifted
with extraordinary powers of discourse.  Victor, I think,
took these expeditions in his own good-natured way, and
seemed to care but little whether he went or not.  One
hot Sunday, I recollect he suggested that we should
dispense with afternoon church altogether, and go to
bathe instead, a proposal I scouted with the utmost
indignation, for I looked forward to our meetings with a
passionate longing for which I could not account even
to myself, and which I never for an instant dreamed of
attributing to the charms of Miss Beverley.  I know not
now what tempted me to ask the question, but I felt
myself becoming bright scarlet as I inquired of my
school-fellow whether he had not *other* friends in Somersetshire
besides myself whom he would regret leaving.  His reply
ought to have set my mind at ease, if I was disturbed
at the suspicion of his entertaining any *penchant* for Miss
Beverley, for he answered at once in his own off-hand
way--"None whatever that I care a sixpence about, not even
that prim little girl and her governess, whom you drag
me five miles every Sunday to see.  No, Vere, if I could
take you with me, I should sing for joy the whole way
from here to London.  As it is, I shall not break my heart:
I am so glad to get away from this dull, dreadful place."

Then he did not care for Miss Beverley, after all.  Well,
and what difference could that possibly make to me?
Certainly, I was likely to see her pretty constantly in the
next year or two, as our respective abodes would be but a
short distance apart; but what of that?  There could be
nothing in common between the high-born, haughty young
lady, and her awkward, repulsive neighbour.  Yet I was
glad, too, that Victor did not care for her.  All my old
affection for him came back with a gush, and I wrung his
hand, and cried like a fool to think we were so soon to be
parted, perhaps for years.  The other boys were singing
*Dulce domum* in the schoolroom, hands joined, dancing
round and round, and stamping wildly with the chorus,
like so many Bacchanals; they had no regrets, no
misgivings; they were not going to leave for *good*.  Even
Manners looked forward to his temporary release with
bright anticipations of amusement.  He was to spend the
vacation with a clerical cousin in Devonshire, the cousin
of whom we all knew so much by report, and who, indeed,
to judge by his relative's account, must have been an
individual of extraordinary talents and attainments.  The
usher approached us with an expression of mingled
pleasure and pain on his good-looking, vacant countenance.
He had nearly finished packing his things, and was now
knocking the dust out of those old green slippers I
remembered when first I came to Everdon.  He was a
good-hearted fellow, and was sorry to lose his two old friends.

"We shall miss you both very much next half," said he;
"nothing but little boys here now.  Everdon is not what
it used to be.  Dear me, we never have such a pupil as
Ropsley now.  When you two are gone there will be no
one left for me to associate with: this is not a place for a
man of energy, for a man that feels he is a man," added
Manners, doubling his arm, and feeling if the biceps was
still in its right place.  "Here am I now, with a muscular
frame, a good constitution, a spirit of adventure, and a
military figure" (appealing to me, for Victor, as usual, was
beginning to laugh), "and what chances have I of using
my advantages in this circumscribed sphere of action?  I
might as well be a weak, puny stripling, without an atom
of nerve, or manliness, or energy, for all the good I am
likely to do here.  I must cut it, Egerton; I must find a
career; I am too good for an usher--an usher," he repeated,
with a strong expression of disgust; "I, who feel fit to
fight my way anywhere--I have mistaken my profession--I
ought to have been an officer--a cavalry officer; that
would have suited me better than this dull, insipid life.
I must consult my cousin about it; perhaps we shall meet
again in some very different scenes.  What say you, De
Rohan, should you not be surprised to see me at the head
of a regiment?"

Victor could conceal his mirth no longer, and Manners
turned somewhat angrily to me.  "You seem to be very
happy as you are," I answered, sadly, for I was contrasting
his well-grown, upright figure and simple fresh-coloured
face, with my own repulsive exterior, and thinking how
willingly I would change places with him, although he *was*
an usher; "but wherever we meet, I am sure *I* shall be
glad to see you again."  In my own heart I thought
Manners was pretty certain to be at Everdon if I should
revisit it that day ten years, as I was used to these
visionary schemes of his for the future, and had heard him talk
in the same strain every vacation regularly since I first
came to school.

But there was little time now for such speculations.
The chaises were driving round to the door to take the
boys away.  March bid us an affectionate farewell in his
study.  Victor and I were presented respectively with a
richly-bound copy of *Horatius Flaccus* and *Virgilius
Maro*--copies which, I fear, in after life, were never soiled by
too much use.  The last farewell was spoken--the last
pressure of the hand exchanged--and we drove off on our
different destinations; my friend bound for London, Paris,
and his beloved Hungary; myself, longing to see my
father once more, and taste the seclusion and repose of
Alton Grange.  To no boy on earth could a school-life
have been more distasteful than to me; no boy could have
longed more ardently for the peaceful calm of a domestic
hearth, and yet I felt lonely and out of spirits even now,
when I was going home.





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.. _`ALTON GRANGE`:

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   CHAPTER XII


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   ALTON GRANGE

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A dreary old place was Alton Grange, and one which
would have had a sobering, not to say saddening, effect,
even on the most mercurial temperament.  To one naturally
of a melancholy turn of mind, its aspect was positively
dispiriting.  Outside the house the grounds were
overgrown with plantations and shrubberies, unthinned, and
luxuriating into a wilderness that was not devoid of
beauty, but it was a beauty of a sombre and uncomfortable
character.  Every tree and shrub of the darkest hues,
seemed to shut out the sunlight from Alton Grange.
Huge cedars overshadowed the slope behind the house;
hollies, junipers, and yew hedges kept the garden in
perpetual night.  Old-fashioned terraces, that should have
been kept in perfect repair, were sliding into decay with
mouldering walls and unpropped banks, whilst a broken
stone sun-dial, where sun never shone, served but to
attract attention to the general dilapidation around.

It was not the old family place of the Egertons.  That
was in a northern county, and had been sold by my father
in his days of wild extravagance, long ago; but he had
succeeded to it in right of his mother, at a time when he
had resolved, if possible, to save some remnant from the
wreck of his property, and, when in England, he had
resided here ever since.  To me it was home, and dearly I
loved it, with all its dulness and all its decay.  The inside
corresponded with the exterior.  Dark passages, black
wainscotings, everywhere the absence of light; small as
were the windows, they were overhung with creepers, and
the walls were covered with ivy; damp in winter,
darkness in summer, were the distinguishing qualities of the
old house.  Of furniture there was but a scanty supply,
and that of the most old-fashioned description:
high-backed chairs of carved oak, black leathern *fauteuils*,
chimney-pieces that the tallest housemaid could never
reach to dust, would have impressed on a stranger ideas of
anything but comfort, whilst the decorations were
confined to two or three hideous old pictures, representing
impossible sufferings of certain fabulous martyrs; and
one or two sketches of my father's, which had arrived at
sufficient maturity to leave the painting-room, and adorn
the every-day life of the establishment.

The last-named apartment was cheerful enough: it was
necessarily supplied with a sufficiency of daylight, and as
my father made it his own peculiar den, and spent the
greater part of his life in it, there were present many
smaller comforts and luxuries which might have been
sought elsewhere in the house in vain.  But no room
was ever comfortable yet without a woman.  Men have no
idea of order without formality, or abundance without
untidiness.  My father had accumulated in his own
particular retreat a heterogeneous mass of articles which
should have had their proper places appointed, and had no
business mixed up with his colours, and easel, and brushes.
Sticks, whips, cloaks, umbrellas, cigar-boxes, swords, and
fire-arms were mingled with lay-figures, models, studies,
and draperies, in a manner that would have driven an
orderly person out of his senses; but my father never
troubled his head about these matters, and when he came
in from a walk or ride, would fling his hat down in one
corner of the room, the end of his cigar in another, his
cloak or whip in a third, and begin painting again with an
avidity that seemed to grow fiercer from the enforced
abstinence of a few hours in taking necessary exercise.
My poor father!  I often think if he had devoted less
attention to his art, and more to the common every-day
business of life, which no one may neglect with impunity,
how much better he would have succeeded, both as a
painter and a man.

He was hard at work when I came home from school.  I
knew well where to find him, and hurried at once to the
painting-room.  He was seated at his easel, but as I
entered he drew a screen across the canvas, and so hid his
work from my inquiring gaze.  I never knew him do so
before; on the contrary, it had always seemed his greatest
desire to instil into his son some of his own love for the
art; but I had hardly time to think of this ere I was in
his arms, looking up once more in the kind face, on which
I never in my whole life remembered to have seen a harsh
expression.  He was altered, though, and thinner than
when I had seen him last, and his hair was now quite
grey, so that the contrast with his flashing dark
eye--brighter it seemed to me than ever--was almost unearthly.
His hands, too, were wasted, and whiter than they used to
be, and the whole figure, which I remembered once a
tower of strength, was now sunk and fallen in, particularly
about the chest and shoulders.  When he stood up, it
struck me, also, that he was shorter than he used to be,
and my heart tightened for a moment at the thought that,
he might be even now embarking on that long journey
from which there is no return.  I remembered him such
a tall, handsome, stalwart man, and now he seemed so
shrunk and emaciated, and quite to totter and lean on me
for support.

"You are grown, my boy," said he, looking fondly at
me; "you are getting quite a man now, Vere; it will be
sadly dull for you at the Grange: but you must stay with
your old father for a time--it will not be for long--not for
long," he repeated, and his eye turned to the screened
canvas, and a glance shot from it that I could hardly bear
to see--so despairing, yet so longing--so wild, and yet so
fond.  I had never seen him look thus before, and it
frightened me.

Our quiet meal in the old oak parlour--our saunter
after dinner through the dark walks and shrubberies--all
was so like the olden time, that I felt quite a boy again.
My father lighted up for a time into his former good spirits
and amusing sallies, but I remarked that after every flash
he sank into a deeper dejection, and I fancied the tears
were in his eyes as he wished me good-night at the door
of the painting-room.  I little thought when I went to
bed that it was now his habit to sit brooding there till the
early dawn of morning, when he would retire for three or
four hours to his rest.

So the time passed away tranquilly and dully enough at
Alton Grange.  My father was ever absorbed in his
painting, but studied now with the door locked, and even I was
only admitted at stated times, when the mysterious canvas
was invariably screened.  My curiosity, nay more, my
interest, was intensely excited; I longed, yet feared, to
know what was the subject of this hidden picture; twenty
times was I on the point of asking my father, but
something in his manner gave me to understand that it was a
prohibited subject, and I forbore.  There was that in his
bearing which at once checked curiosity on a subject he
was unwilling to reveal, and few men would have dared to
question my father where he did not himself choose to
bestow his confidence.

I read much in the old library; I took long walks once
more by myself; I got back to my dreams of Launcelot
and Guenever, and knights and dames, and "deeds of high
emprize."  More than ever I experienced the vague
longing for something hitherto unknown, that had
unconsciously been growing with my growth, and strengthening
with my strength,--the restless craving of which I scarcely
guessed the nature, but which weighed upon my nervous,
sensitive temperament till it affected my very brain.  Had
I but known then the lesson that was to be branded on
my heart in letters of fire,--could I but have foreseen the
day when I should gnaw my fetters, and yet not wish to
be free,--when all that was good, and noble, and kindly in
my nature should turn to bitter self-contempt, and
hopeless, helpless apathy,--when love, fiercer than hatred,
should scorch and sting the coward that had not strength
nor courage to bear his burden upright like a man,--had I
but known all this, I had better have tied a millstone
round my neck, and slept twenty feet deep below the mere
at Beverley, than pawned away hope, and life, and energy,
and manhood, for a glance of her dark eyes, a touch of her
soft hand, from the heiress of Beverley Manor.

Yes, Alton Grange was distant but a short walk from
Beverley.  Many a time I found myself roaming through
the old trees at the end of the park, looking wistfully at
the angles and turrets of the beautiful Manor House, and
debating within myself whether I ought or ought not to
call and renew an acquaintance with the family that had
treated me so kindly after the scrape brought on by Bold's
insubordination.  That favourite was now a mature and
experienced retriever, grave, imperturbable, and of
extraordinary sagacity.  Poor Bold! he was the handsomest
and most powerful dog I ever saw, with a solemn expression
of countenance that denoted as much intellect as was
ever apparent on the face of a human being.  We were
vastly proud of Bold's beauty at the Grange, and my
father had painted him a dozen times, in the performance
of every feat, possible or impossible, that it comes within
the province of a retriever to attempt.  Bold was now my
constant companion; he knew the way to Beverley as well
as to his own lair in my bed-room, where he slept.  Day
after day he and I took the same road; day after day my
courage failed me at the last moment, and we turned back
without making the intended visit.  At last, one morning,
while I strolled as usual among the old trees at one
extremity of the park, I caught sight of a white dress
rounding the corner of the house, and entering the front
door.  I felt sure it could only belong to one, and with
an effort that quite surprised even myself, I resolved to
master my absurd timidity, and walk boldly up to
call.

I have not the slightest recollection of my ringing the
door-bell, nor of the usual process by which a gentleman
is admitted into a drawing-room; the rush of blood to my
head almost blinded me, but I conclude that instinct took
the place of reason, and that I demeaned myself in no such
incoherent manner as to excite the attention of the
servants, for I found myself in the beautiful drawing-room,
which I remembered I had thought such a scene of
fairyland years before, and seated, hat in hand, opposite
Miss Beverley.

She must have thought me the stupidest morning
visitor that ever obtained entrance into a country-house;
indeed, had it not been for the good-natured efforts of
an elderly lady with a hooked nose, who had been her
governess, and was now a sort of companion, Miss Beverley
would have had all the conversation to herself; and I am
constrained to admit that once or twice I caught an
expression of surprise on her calm sweet face, that could
only have been called up by the very inconsequent
answers of which I was guilty in my nervous abstraction.
I was so taken up in watching and admiring her, that I
could think of nothing else.  She was so quiet and
self-possessed, so gentle and ladylike, so cool and well-dressed.
I can remember the way in which her hair was parted and
arranged to this day.  She seemed to me a being of a
superior order, something that never could by any
possibility belong to the same sphere as myself.  She was more
like the picture of Queen Dido than ever, but the queen,
happy and fancy free, with kindly eyes and unruffled brow;
not the deceived, broken-hearted woman on her
self-selected death-bed.  I am not going to describe
her--perhaps she was not beautiful to others--perhaps I should
have wished the rest of the world to think her positively
hideous--perhaps she was *then* not so transcendently
beautiful even to me; nay, as I looked, I could pick faults
in her features and colouring.  I had served a long enough
apprenticeship to my father to be able to criticise like an
artist, and I could see here a tint that might be deepened,
there a plait that might be better arranged--I do not
mean to say she was perfect--I do not mean to say that
she was a goddess or an angel; but I do mean to say that
if ever there was a face on earth which to me presented the
ideal of all that is sweetest and most lovable in woman,
that face was Constance Beverley's.

And yet I was not in love with her; no, I felt something
exalting, something exhilarating in her presence--she
seemed to fill the void in my life, which had long been so
wearisome, but I was not in love with her--certainly not
then.  I felt less shy than usual, I even felt as if I too had
some claim to social distinction, and could play my part as
well as the rest on the shifting stage.  She had the happy
knack of making others feel in good spirits and at their
ease in her society.  I was not insensible to the spell, and
when Sir Harry came in, and asked kindly after his old
friend, and promised to come over soon and pay my father
a visit, I answered frankly and at once; I could see even
the thoughtless Baronet was struck with the change in my
manner, indeed he said as much.

"You must come over and stay with us, Mr. Egerton,"
was his hospitable invitation; "or if your father is so
poorly you cannot leave him, look in here any day about
luncheon-time.  I am much from home myself, but you
will always find Constance and Miss Minim.  Tell your
father I will ride over and see him to-morrow.  I only
came back yesterday.  How you're grown, my lad, and
improved--isn't he, Constance?"

I would have given worlds to have heard Constance's
answer, but she turned the subject with an inquiry after
Bold (who was at that instant waiting patiently for his
master on the door-step), and it was time to take leave, so
I bowed myself out, with a faithful promise, that I was not
likely to forget, of calling again soon.

"So she has not forgotten Bold," I said to myself, at
least twenty times, in my homeward walk; and I think,
fond as I had always been of my dog, I liked him that day
better than ever.

"Father," I said, as I sat that evening after dinner,
during which meal I felt conscious that I had been more
lively, and, to use an expressive term, "better company,"
than usual; "I must write to London for a new coat, that
black one is quite worn out."

"Very well, Vere," answered my father, abstractedly;
"tell them to make it large enough--you grow fast, my
boy."

"Do you think I am grown, father?  Indeed, I am not
so very little of my age now; and do you know, I was the
strongest boy at Everdon, and could lift a heavier weight
than Manners the usher; but, father"--and here I hesitated
and stammered, till reassured by the kind smile on his
dear old face,--"I don't mind asking you, and I *do* so wish
to know--am I so *very, very*--ugly?"  I brought out the
hated word with an effort--my father burst out laughing.

"What an odd question--why do you wish to know,
Vere?" he asked.  I made no reply, but felt I was blushing
painfully.  My father looked wistfully at me, while an
expression as of pain contracted his wan features; and
here the conversation dropped.





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.. _`"LETHALIS ARUNDO"`:

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   CHAPTER XIII


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   "LETHALIS ARUNDO"

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That week I went over again to Beverley; the next, I
had a book to fetch for Constance from Fleetsbury, that
she had long wished to read, and I took it to her a volume
at a time.  My father was still busy with his painting--Sir
Harry had gone off to Newmarket--Miss Minim
seemed delighted to find any one who could relieve the
monotony of the Manor House, and Constance herself
treated me, now that the first awkwardness of our
re-introduction was over, like an old playmate and friend.  I
was happier than I had ever been in my life.  I felt an
elasticity of spirits, a self-respect and self-reliance that I
had thought myself hitherto incapable of entertaining.
Oh, the joy of that blindfold time! whilst our eyes are
wilfully shut to the future that we yet know *must* come,
whilst we bask in the sunshine and inhale the fragrance
of the rose, nor heed the thunder-cloud sleeping on the
horizon, and the worm creeping at the core of the flower.
I looked on Constance as I would have looked on an angel
from heaven.  I did not even confess to myself that I
loved her, I was satisfied with the intense happiness of
the present, and trembled at the bare idea of anything
that might break the spell, and interrupt the calm quiet
of our lives.  With one excuse or another, I was at
Beverley nearly every day; there were flowers to be dried,
for Constance was a great botanist, and I had taken up
that study, as I would have taken up shoe-making, could
I have seen her a minute a day longer for the pursuit,--there
was music to be copied, and if I could do nothing
else, I could point off those crabbed hieroglyphics like a
very engraver.  Then Miss Minim broke her fan, and I
walked ten miles in the rain to get it mended, with an
alacrity and devotion that must have convinced her it
was not for *her* sake: and yet I loved Miss Minim dearly,
she was so associated in my mind with Constance, that
except the young lady's own, that wizened old face
brought the blood to my brow more rapidly than any
other in the world.  Oh! my heart aches when I think of
that beautiful drawing-room, opening into the conservatory,
and Constance playing airs on the pianoforte that
made my nerves tingle with an ecstasy that was almost
painful.  Miss Minim engaged with her crotchet-work in
the background, and I, the awkward, ungainly youth,
saying nothing, hardly breathing, lest I should break the
spell; but gazing intently on the fair young face, with its
soft kind eyes, and its thrilling smile, and the smooth,
shining braids of jet-black hair parted simply on that
pure brow.  Mine was no love at first sight, no momentary
infatuation that has its course and burns itself out, the
fiercer the sooner, with its own unsustained violence.  No;
it grew and stole upon me by degrees, I drank it in with
every breath I breathed--I fought against it till every
moment of my life was a struggle; and yet I cherished
and pressed it to my heart when all was done.  I knew I
was no equal for such as Miss Beverley, I knew I had no
right even to lift my eyes to so much beauty and so much
goodness--I, the awkward, ugly schoolboy, or at best the
shrinking, unattractive youth, in whose homage there was
nothing for a woman to take pride, even if she did not
think it ridiculous; but yet--God! how I loved her.  Not
a blossom in the garden, not a leaf on the tree, not a ray
of sunshine, nor a white cloud drifting over the heaven,
but was associated in my mind with her who was all the
world to me.  If I saw other women, I only compared
them with *her*; if I read of beauty and grace in my dear
old romances, or hung over the exquisite casts and spirited
studies of my father's painting-room, it was but to refer
the poet's dream and the artist's conception back to my
own ideal.  How I longed for beauty, power, talent, riches,
fame, everything that could exalt me above my fellows,
that I might fling all down at *her* feet, and bid her
trample on it if she would.  It was bitter to think I had
nothing to offer; and yet I felt sometimes there ought to
be something touching in my self-sacrifice.  I looked for
no return--I asked for no hope, no favour, not even pity;
and I gave my all.

At first it was delightful: the halcyon days flitted on,
and I was happy.  Sir Harry, when at home, treated me
with the greatest kindness, and seemed to find pleasure in
initiating me into those sports and amusements which he
himself considered indispensable to the education of a
gentleman.  He took me out shooting with him, and
great as was my natural aversion to the slaying of
unoffending partridges and innocent hares, I soon conquered
my foolish nervousness about firing a gun, and became
no mean proficient with the double-barrel.  My ancient
captor, the head keeper, now averred that "Muster Egerton
was the *cooollest* shot he ever see for so young a gentleman,
and *coool* shots is generally deadly!"  The very fact
of my not caring a straw whether I killed my game or
not, removed at once that over-anxiety which is the great
obstacle to success with all young sportsmen.  It was
sufficient for me to know that a day's shooting at her
father's secured two interviews (morning and afternoon)
with Constance, and I loaded, and banged, and walked,
and toiled like the veriest disciple of Colonel Hawker
that ever marked a covey.  All this exercise had a
beneficial effect on my health and spirits; I grew apace, I was
no longer the square, clumsy-built dwarf; my frame was
gradually developing itself into that of a powerful, athletic
man.  I was much taller than Constance now, and not a
little proud of that advantage.  Having no others with
whom to compare myself, I began to hope that I was,
after all, not much worse-looking than the rest of my
kind; and by degrees a vague idea sprang up in my mind,
though I never presumed to give it shape and consistency,
that Constance might some day learn to look kindly upon
me, and that perhaps, after many, many years, the time
would come when I should dare to throw myself at her
feet and tell her how I had worshipped her; not to ask
for a return, but only to tell her how true, and hopeless
and devoted had been my love.  After that I thought I
could die happy.

Weeks grew to months, and months to years, and still
no change took place in my habits and mode of life.  My
father talked of sending me to Oxford, for I was now
grown up, but when the time came he was loth to part
with me, and I had such a dread of anything that should
take me away from Alton, that I hailed the abandonment
of the scheme with intense joy.  Constance went to
London with Sir Harry during the season, and for two
or three months of the glorious summer I was sadly low
and restless and unhappy; but I studied hard during this
period of probation, to pass the time, and when she came
again, and gave me her hand with her old kind smile, I
felt rewarded for all my anxieties, and the sun began to
shine for me once more.

I was a man now in heart and feelings, and loved with
all a man's ardour and singleness of purpose, yet I never
dreamed she could be mine.  No; I shut my eyes to the
future, and blindfold I struggled on; but I was no longer
happy; I grew restless and excited, out of temper,
petulant in trifles, and incapable of any fixed application or
sustained labour.  I was leading an aimless and unprofitable
life; I was an idolater, and I was beginning to pay
the penalty; little did I know then what would be my
sufferings ere the uttermost farthing should be exacted.
Something told me the time of my happiness was drawing
to a close; there is a consciousness before we wake from
a moral as well as a physical sleep, and my awakening
was near at hand.

It was a soft grey morning early in August, one of
those beautiful summer days that we have only in
England, when the sky is clouded, but the air pure and
serene, and the face of nature smiling as though in a
calm sleep.  Not a breath stirred the leaves of the grand
old trees in the park at Beverley, nor rippled the milk-white
surface of the mere.  The corn was ready for cutting,
but scarce a sheaf had yet fallen before the sickle; it was
the very meridian and prime of the summer's beauty, and
my ladye-love had returned from her third London season,
and was still Constance Beverley.  It was later than my
usual hour of visiting at the Manor, for my father had
been unwell during the night, and I would not leave him
till the doctor had been, so Constance had put on her hat
and started for her morning's walk alone.  She took the
path that led towards Alton, and Bold and I caught sight
at the same moment of the well-known white dress flitting
under the old oaks in the park.  My heart used to stop
beating when I saw her, and now I turned sick and faint
from sheer happiness.  Not so Bold: directly he caught
sight of the familiar form away he scoured like an arrow,
and in less than a minute he was bounding about her,
barking and frisking, and testifying his delight with an
ardour that was responded to in a modified degree by the
young lady.  What prompted me I know not, but instead
of walking straight on and greeting her, I turned aside
behind a tree, and, myself unseen, watched the form of
her I loved so fondly, as she stepped gracefully on towards
my hiding-place; she seemed surprised, stopped, and
looked about her, Bold meanwhile thrusting his nose into
her small gloved hand.

"Why, Bold," said she, "you have lost your master."  And
as she spoke she stooped down and kissed the dog on
his broad, honest forehead.  My heart bounded as if it
would have burst; never shall I forget the sensations of
that moment; not for worlds would I have accosted her
then--it would have been sacrilege, it would have seemed
like taking advantage of her frankness and honesty.  No;
I made a wide detour, still concealed behind the trees,
and struck in upon the path in front of her as if I came
direct from home.  Why was it that her greeting was
less cordial than usual?  Why was it no longer "Vere"
and "Constance" between us, but "Mr. Egerton" and
"Miss Beverley"?  She seemed ill at ease, too, and her
tone was harder than usual till I mentioned my father's
illness, when she softened directly.  I thought there were
*tears in her voice* as she asked me--

"How could I leave him if he was so poorly?"

"Because I knew you came back yesterday, Miss
Beverley, and I would not miss being one of the first to
welcome you home," was my reply.

"Why do you call me Miss Beverley?" she broke in,
with a quick glance from under her straw hat.  "Why
not 'Constance,' as you used?"

"Then why not call me 'Vere'?" I retorted; but my
voice shook, and I made a miserable attempt to appear
unconcerned.

"Very well, 'Constance' and 'Vere' let it be," she
replied, laughing; "and now, Vere, how did you know I
came back yesterday?"

"Because I saw the carriage from the top of Buttercup
Hill--because I watched there for six hours that I might
make sure--because----"

I hesitated and stopped; she turned her head away to
caress Bold.  Fool! fool that I was!  Why did I not tell
her all then and there?  Why did I not set my fate at
once upon the cast?  Another moment, and it was too
late.  When she turned her face again towards me it was
deadly pale, and she began talking rapidly, but in a
constrained voice, of the delights of her London season, and
the gaieties of that to me unknown world, the world of
fashionable life.

"We have had so many balls and operas and dissipations,
that papa says he is quite knocked up; and who do
you think is in London, Vere, and who do you think has
been dancing with me night after night?" (I winced),
"who but your old schoolfellow, your dear old friend,
Count de Rohan!"

"Victor!" I exclaimed, and for an instant I forgot even
my jealousy at the idea of any one dancing night after
night with Constance, in my joy at hearing of my dear
old schoolfellow.  "Oh, tell me all about him--is he
grown? is he good-looking? is he like what he was? is
he going to stay in England? did he ask after me? is he
coming down to see me at Alton?"

"Gently," replied Constance, with her own sweet smile.
"One question at a time, if you please, Vere, and I can
answer them.  He is grown, of course, but not more than
other people; he is *very* good-looking, so everybody says,
and *I* really think he must be, too; he is not nearly so
much altered from what he was as a boy, as some one
else I know" (with a sly glance at me), "and he talks
positively of paying us a visit early in the shooting season,
to meet another old friend of yours, Mr. Ropsley, who is
to be here to-day to luncheon; I hope you will stay and
renew your acquaintance, and talk as much 'Everdon' as
you did when we were children; and now, Vere, we must
go in and see papa, who has probably by this time finished
his letters."  So we turned and bent our steps (mine were
most unwilling ones) towards the house.

We had not proceeded far up the avenue, ere we were
overtaken by a postchaise laden with luggage, and carrying
a most irreproachable-looking valet on the box; as it
neared us a well-known voice called to the boy to stop,
and a tall, aristocratic-looking man got out, whom at first
I had some difficulty in identifying as my former
school-fellow, Ropsley, now a captain in the Guards, and as well
known about London as the Duke of York's Column itself.
He sprang out of the carriage, and greeted Constance
with the air of an old friend, but paused and surveyed me
for an instant from head to foot with a puzzled expression
that I believe was only put on for the occasion,--then
seized my hand, and declared I was so much altered and
improved he had not known me at first.  This is always
gratifying to a youth, and Ropsley was evidently the same
as he had always been--a man who never threw a chance
away--but what good could *I* do him?  Why should it
be worth his while to conciliate such as me?  I believe
he never forgot the fable of the Lion and the Mouse.

When the first salutations and inquiries after Sir Harry
were over, he began to converse with Constance on all
those topics of the London world with which women like
so much to be made acquainted,--topics so limited and
personal that they throw the uninitiated listener
completely into the background.  I held my tongue and
watched my old schoolfellow.  He was but little altered
since I had seen him last, save that his tall figure had
grown even taller, and he had acquired that worn look
about the eyes and mouth which a few seasons of
dissipation and excitement invariably produce even in the
young.  After detailing a batch of marriages, and a batch
of "failures," in all of which the names of the sufferers
were equally unknown to me, he observed, with a peculiarly
marked expression, to Constance, "Of course you
know there never was anything in that report about De
Rohan and Miss Blight; but so many people assured me
it was true, that if I had not known Victor as well as I
do, I should have been almost inclined to believe it."

I watched Constance narrowly as he spoke, and I
fancied she winced.  Could it have been only my own
absurd fancy?  Ropsley proceeded, "I saw him yesterday,
and he desired his kindest regards to you, and I was to
say he would be here on the 3rd."

"Oh!  I am so glad!" exclaimed Constance, her whole
countenance brightening with a joyous smile, that went
like a knife to my foolish, inexperienced heart, that
OUGHT to have reassured and made me happier than
ever.  Does a woman confess she is "delighted" to see
the man she is really fond of?  Is not that softened
expression which pervades the human face at mention of
the "one loved name" more akin to a tear than a smile?
"He is so pleasant and so good-natured, and will enliven
us all so much here;" she added, turning to me, "Vere,
you must come over on the 3rd, and meet Count de
Rohan; you know he is the oldest friend you have,--an
older friend even than I am."

I was hurt, angry, maddened already, and this kind
speech, with the frank, affectionate glance that
accompanied it, filled my bitter cup to overflowing.  Has a
woman no compunction? or is she ignorant of the power
a few light commonplace words may have to inflict such
acute pain?  Constance *cannot* have guessed the feelings
that were tearing at my heart; but she must have seen
my altered manner, and doubtless felt herself aggrieved,
and thought she had a right to be angry at my
unjustifiable display of temper.

"I thank you," I replied, coldly and distantly; "I
cannot leave my father until he is better; perhaps De
Rohan will come over and see us if he can get away from
pleasanter engagements.  I fear I have stayed too long
already.  I am anxious about my father, and must go
home.  Good-bye, Ropsley; good-morning, Miss Beverley.
Here--Bold!  Bold!"

She looked scared for an instant, then hurt, and almost
angry.  She shook hands with me coldly, and turned
away with more dignity than usual.  Brute, idiot that I
was! even Bold showed more good feeling and more
sagacity than his master.  He had been sniffing round
Ropsley with many a low growl, and every expression of
dislike which a well-nurtured dog permits himself towards
his master's associates; but he looked wistfully back at
Constance as she walked away, and I really thought for
once he would have broken through all his habits of
fidelity and subordination, and followed her into the
house.

What a pleasant walk home I had I leave those to
judge who, like me, have dashed down in a fit of
ill-temper the structure that they have taken years of pain,
and labour, and self-denial to rear on high.  Was this,
then, my boasted chivalry--my truth and faith that was
to last for ever--to fight through all obstacles--to be so
pure, and holy, and unwavering, and to look for no return?
I had failed at the first trial.  How little I felt, how mean
and unworthy, how far below my own standard of what a
man should be--my ideal of worth, that I had resolved I
would attain.  And Ropsley, too--the cold, calculating,
cynical man of the world--Ropsley must have seen it all.
I had placed myself in his power--nay, more, I had
compromised *her* by my own display of bitterness and
ill-temper.  What right had I to show any one how I loved
her? nay, what right had I to love her at all?  The
thought goaded me like a sting.  I ran along the foot-path,
Bold careering by my side--I sprang over the stiles
like a madman, as I was; but physical exertion produced
at last a reaction on the mind.  I grew gradually calmer
and more capable of reasoning; a resolution sprang up
in my heart that had never before taken root in that
undisciplined soil.  I determined to win her, or die in
the attempt.

"Yes," I thought, "from this very day I will devote all
my thoughts, all my energies, to the one great work.
Beautiful, superior, unattainable as she is, surely the
whole devotion of a life must count for something--surely
God will not permit a human being to sacrifice his very
soul in vain."  (Folly! folly!  Ought I not to have
known that this very worship was idolatry, blasphemy of
the boldest, to offer the creature a tribute that belongs
only to the Creator--to dare to call on His name in
witness of my mad rebellion and disloyalty?)  "Surely I
shall some day succeed, or fall a victim to that which I
feel convinced must be the whole aim and end of my
existence.  Yes, I will consult my kind old father--I will
declare myself at once honestly to Sir Harry.  After all,
I, too, am a gentleman; I have talents; I will make my
way; with such a goal in view I can do anything; there
is no labour I would shrink from, no danger I should fear
to face, with Constance as the prize of my success;" and
I reached the old worn-out gates of Alton Grange
repeating to myself several of those well-known adages that
have so many premature and ill-advised attempts to
answer for--"Fortune favours the bold;" "Faint heart
never won fair lady;" "Nothing venture, nothing have," etc.





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.. _`THE PICTURE`:

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   CHAPTER XIV


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   THE PICTURE

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My father was very weak, and looked dreadfully ill:
the doctor had recommended repose and absence of all
excitement; "especially," said the man of science, "let us
abstain from painting.  Gentle exercise, generous living,
and quiet, absolute quiet, sir, can alone bring us round
again."  Notwithstanding which professional advice, I
found the patient in his dressing-gown, hard at work as
usual with his easel and colours, but this time the curtain
was not hastily drawn over the canvas, and my father
himself invited me to inspect his work.

I came in heated and excited; my father was paler than
ever, and seemed much exhausted.  He looked very grave,
and his large dark eyes shone with an ominous and unearthly
light.

"Vere," said he, "sit down by me.  I have put off all I
had to say to you, my boy, till I fear it is too late.  I want
to speak to you now as I have never spoken before.  Where
have you been this morning, Vere?"

I felt my colour rising at the question, but I looked him
straight in the face, and answered boldly, "At Beverley
Manor, father."

"Vere," he continued, "I am afraid you care for Miss
Beverley,--nay, it is no use denying it," he proceeded;
"I ought to have taken better care of you.  I have
neglected my duty as a father, and my sins, I fear, are to
be visited upon my child.  Look on that canvas, boy;
the picture is finished now, and my work is done.  Vere,
that is your mother."

It was the first time I had ever heard that sacred name
from my father's lips.  I had often wished to question
him about her, but I was always shy, and easily checked;
whilst he from whom alone I could obtain information, I
have already said, was a man that brooked no inquiries
on a subject he chose should remain secret, so that hitherto
I had been kept in complete ignorance of the whole history
of one parent.  As I looked on her likeness now, I began
for the first time to realise the loss I had sustained.

The picture was of a young and gentle-looking woman,
with deep, dark eyes, and jet-black hair; a certain
thickness of eyebrows and width of forehead denoted a foreign
origin; but whatever intensity of expression these
peculiarities may have imparted to the upper part of her
countenance, was amply redeemed by the winning
sweetness of her mouth, and the delicate chiselling of the
other features.  She was pale of complexion, and looked
somewhat sad and thoughtful; but there was a depth of
trust and affection in those fond eyes that spoke volumes
for the womanly earnestness and simplicity of her
character.  It was one of those pictures that, without knowing
the original, you feel at once must be a likeness.  I could
not keep down the tears as I whispered, "Oh, mother,
mother, why did I never know you?"

My father's face grew dark and stern: "Vere," said he,
"the time has come when I must tell you all.  It may
be that your father's example may serve as a beacon to
warn you from the rock on which so many of us have
made shipwreck.  When I was your age, my boy, I had
no one to control me, no one even to advise.  I had
unlimited command of money, a high position in society,
good looks--I may say so without vanity now--health,
strength, and spirits, all that makes life enjoyable, and I
enjoyed it.  I was in high favour with the Prince.  I was
sought after in society; my horses won at Newmarket,
my jests were quoted in the Clubs, my admiration was
coveted by the 'fine ladies,' and I had the ball at my
foot.  Do you think I was happy?  No.  I lived for
myself; I thought only of pleasure, and of pleasure I took
my fill; but pleasure is a far different thing from
happiness, or should I have wandered away at the very
height of my popularity and success, to live abroad by
myself with my colours and sketch-book, vainly seeking
the peace of mind which was not to be found at home?
I was bored, Vere, as a man who leads an aimless life
always is bored.  Fresh amusements might stave off the
mental disease for a time, but it came back with renewed
virulence; and I cared not at what expense I purchased
an hour's immunity with the remedy of fierce excitement.
But I never was faithless to my art.  Through it all I
loved to steal away and get an hour or two at the easel.
Would I had devoted my lifetime to it.  How differently
should I feel now.

"One winter I was painting in the Belvidere at
Vienna.  A young girl timidly looked over my shoulder
at my work, and her exclamation of artless wonder and
admiration was so gratifying, that I could not resist the
desire of making her acquaintance.  This I achieved
without great difficulty.  She was the daughter of a
bourgeois merchant, one not moving in the same society
as myself, and, consequently, unknown to any of my
associates.  Perhaps this added to the charm of our
acquaintance; perhaps it imparted the zest of novelty
to our intercourse.  Ere I returned to London, I was
fonder of Elise than I had ever yet been of any woman in
the world.  Why did I not make her mine?  Oh! pride
and selfishness; I thought it would be a *mésalliance*--I
thought my London friends would laugh at me--I thought
I should lose my liberty.--Liberty, forsooth! when one's
will depends on a fool's sneer.  And yet I think if I had
known her faith and truth, I would have given up all
for her, even then.  So I came back to England, and
the image of my pale, lovely Elise haunted me more than
I liked.  I rushed deeper into extravagance and dissipation;
for two years I gambled and speculated, and rioted,
till at the end of that period I found ruin staring me in
the face.  I saved a competency out of the wreck of my
property; and by Sir Harry's advice--our neighbour,
Vere; you needn't wince, my boy--I managed to keep
the old house here as a refuge for my old age.  Then, and
not till then, I thought once more of Elise--oh, hard,
selfish heart!--not in the wealth and luxury which I
ought to have been proud to offer up at her feet, but in
the poverty and misfortune which I felt would make her
love me all the better.  I returned to Vienna, determined
to seek her out and make her my own.  I soon discovered
her relatives; too soon I heard what had become of her.
In defiance of all their wishes, she had resolutely refused
to make an excellent marriage provided for her according
to the custom of her country.  She would give no
reasons; she obstinately denied having formed any
previous attachment; but on being offered the alternative,
she preferred 'taking the veil,' and was even then
a nun, immured in a convent within three leagues of
Vienna.  What could I do?  Alas!  I know full well
what I ought to have done; but I was headstrong,
violent, and passionate: never in my life had I left a
desire ungratified, and now could I lose the one ardent
wish of my whole existence for the sake of a time-worn
superstition and an unmeaning vow?  Thus I argued,
and on such fallacious principles I acted.

"Vere, my boy, right is right, and wrong is wrong.
You always know in your heart of hearts the one from
the other.  Never stifle that instinctive knowledge, never
use sophistry to persuade yourself you may do that which
you feel you ought not.  I travelled down at once to the
convent.  I heard her at vespers; I knew that sweet,
silvery voice amongst all the rest.  As I stood in the old
low-roofed chapel, with the summer sunbeams streaming
across the groined arches and the quaint carved pews,
and throwing a flood of light athwart the aisle, while the
organ above pealed forth its solemn tones, and called us all
to repentance and prayer, how could I meditate the evil
deed?  How could I resolve to sacrifice her peace of mind
for ever to my own wild happiness?  Vere, I carried her
off from the convent--I eluded all pursuit, all suspicion--I
took her with me to the remotest part of Hungary, her
own native country.  For the first few weeks I believe
she was deliriously happy, and then--it broke her heart.
Yes, Vere, she believed she had lost her soul for my sake.
She never reproached me--she never even repined in
words; but I saw, day after day, the colour fading on
her cheek, the light growing brighter in her sunken eye.
She drooped like a lily with a worm at its core.  For one
short year I held her in my arms; I did all that man
could to cheer and comfort her--in vain.  She smiled
upon me with the wan, woful smile that haunts me
still; and she died, Vere, when you were born."  My
father hid his face for a few seconds, and when he looked
up again he was paler than ever.

"My boy," he murmured, in a hoarse, broken voice,
"you have been sacrificed.  Forgive me, forgive me, my
child; *you are illegitimate*."  I staggered as if I had been
shot--I felt stunned and stupefied--I saw the whole
desolation of the sentence which had just been passed
upon me.  Yes, I was a bastard; I had no right even to
the name I bore.  Never again must I hold my head
up amongst my fellows; never again indulge in those
dreams of future distinction, which I only now knew I
had so cherished; *never, never* think of Constance more!
It was all over now; there was nothing left on earth
for me.

There is a reaction in the nature of despair.  I drew
myself up, and looked my father steadily in the face.

"Father," I said, "whatever happens, I am your son;
do not think I shall ever reproach you.  Even now you
might cast me off if you chose, and none could blame
you; but I will never forget you,--whatever happens, I
will always love you the same."  He shook in every
limb, and for the first time in my recollection, he burst
into a flood of tears; they seemed to afford him relief,
and he proceeded with more composure--

"I can never repay the injury I have done you, Vere;
and now listen to me and forgive me if you can.  All I
have in the world will be yours; in every respect I wish
you to be my representative, and to bear my name.  No
one knows that I was not legally married to *her*, except
Sir Harry Beverley.  Vere, your look of misery assures
me that I have told you *too late*.  I am indeed punished
in your despair.  I ought to have watched over you with
more care.  I had intended to make you a great man,
Vere.  In your childhood I always hoped that my own
talent for art would be reproduced in my boy, and that
you would become the first painter of the age, and then
none would venture to question your antecedents or your
birth.  When I found I was to be disappointed in this
respect, I still hoped that with the competency I shall
leave you, and your own retired habits, you might live
happily enough in ignorance of the brand which my
misconduct has inflicted on you.  But I never dreamed, my
child, that you should set your heart on *his* daughter,
who can alone cast this reproach in your teeth.  It is
hopeless--it is irretrievable.  My boy, my boy! your
prospects have been ruined, and now I fear your heart is
breaking, and all through me.  My punishment is greater
than I can bear."

My father stopped again.  He was getting fearfully
haggard, and seemed quite exhausted.  He pointed to
the picture which he had just completed.

"Day after day, Vere," he murmured, "I have been
working at that likeness, and day after day her image
seems to have come back more vividly into my mind.  I
have had a presentiment, that when it was quite finished
it would be time for me to go.  It is the best picture I
ever painted.  Stand a little to the left, Vere, and you
will get it in a better light.  I must leave you soon, my
boy, but it is to go to her.  Forgive me, Vere, and think
kindly of your old father when I am gone.  Leave me
now for a little, my boy; I must be alone.  God bless
you, Vere!"

.. _`"'My father was apparently asleep...!'"  *Page 111*`:

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   :alt: "'My father was apparently asleep...!'"  *Page 111*

   "'My father was apparently asleep...!'"  *Page 111*


I left the painting-room, and went into the garden to
compose my mind, and recover, if possible, from the
stunning effects of my father's intelligence.  I walked up and
down, like a man in a dream.  I could not yet realise the
full extent of my misery.  The hours passed by, and still
I paced the gravel walk under the yew-trees, and took no
heed of time or anything else.  At length a servant came
to warn me that dinner was waiting, and I went back
to the painting-room to call my father.  The door was
not locked, as it had hitherto been, and my father was
apparently asleep, with his head resting on one arm, and
the brush, fallen from his other hand, on the floor.  As I
touched his shoulder to wake him, I remarked that hand
was clenched and stiff.  Wake him! he would never
wake again.  How I lived through that fearful evening I
know not.  There was a strange confusion in the
house,--running up and down stairs, hushed voices, ghostly
whisperings.  The doctors came.  I know not what
passed.  They called it aneurism of the heart; I
recollect that much; but everything was dim and indistinct
till, a week afterwards, when the funeral was over, I
seemed to awake from a dream, and to find myself alone
in the world.





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.. _`BEVERLEY MERE`:

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   CHAPTER XV


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   BEVERLEY MERE

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What contrasts there are in life!  Light and shade,
Lazarus and Dives, the joyous spirit and the broken
heart, always in juxtaposition.  Here are two pictures
not three miles apart.

A pale, wan young man, dressed in black, with the
traces of deep grief on his countenance, and his whole
bearing that of one who is thoroughly overcome and
prostrated by sorrow, sits brooding over an untasted
breakfast; the room he occupies is not calculated to shed a
cheering influence on his reflections: it is a long, low,
black-wainscoted apartment, well stored with books, and
furnished in a curious and somewhat picturesque style
with massive chairs and quaintly carved cabinets.  Ancient
armour hangs from the walls, looming ghostly and gigantic
in the subdued light, for although it is a bright October
morning out-of-doors, its narrow windows and thick walls
make Alton Grange dull and sombre and gloomy within.
A few sketches, evidently by the hand of a master, are
hung in favourable lights.  More than one are spirited
representations of a magnificent black-and-white retriever--the
same that is now lying on the floor, his head buried
between his huge, strong paws, watching his master's
figure with unwinking eyes.  That master takes no notice
of his favourite.  Occasionally he fixes his heavy glance
on a picture hanging over the chimney-piece, and then
withdraws it with a low stifled moan of anguish, at which
the dog raises his head wistfully, seeming to recognise a
too familiar sound.  The picture is of a beautiful
foreign-looking woman; its eyes and eyebrows are reproduced in
that sorrow-stricken young man.  They are mother and
son; and they have never met.  Could she but have seen
me then!  If ever a spirit might revisit earth to console
the weary pilgrim here, surely it would be a mother's,
bringing comfort to a suffering child.  How I longed for
her love and her sympathy.  How I felt I had been
robbed--yes, *robbed*--of my rights in her sad and premature
death.  Reader, have you never seen a little child,
after a fall, or a blow, or some infantine wrong or grievance,
run and hide its weeping face in its mother's lap?  Such
is the first true impulse of our childish nature, and it is
never completely eradicated from the human breast.  The
strong, proud man, though he may almost forget her in
his triumphs and successes, goes to his mother for
consolation when he is overtaken by sorrow, deceived in his
affections, wounded in his feelings, or sad and sick at
heart.  There he knows he is secure of sympathy and
consolation; there he knows he will not be judged
harshly, and as the world judges; there he knows that,
do what he will, is a fountain of love and patience, never
to run dry; and for one blessed moment he is indeed a
child again.  God help those who, like me, have never
known a mother's love.  Such are the true orphans, and
such He will not forget.

Bold loses patience at last, and pokes his cold, wet nose
into my hand.  Yes, Bold, it is no use to sit brooding
here.  "Hie, boy! fetch me my hat."  The dog is delighted
with his task: away he scampers across the hall--he
knows well which hat to choose--and springing at the
crape-covered one, brings it to me in his mouth, his fine
honest countenance beaming with pride, and his tail
waving with delight.  We emerge through a glass door
into the garden, and insensibly, for the first time since my
father's death, we take the direction of Beverley Manor.

This is a dark and sadly-shaded picture; let us turn to
one of brighter lights and more variegated colouring.
The sun is streaming into a beautiful little breakfast-room
opening on a conservatory, with flowers, and a fountain of
gold-fish, and all that a conservatory should have.  The
room itself is richly papered and ornamented, perhaps a
little too profusely, with ivory and gilding.  Two or three
exquisite landscapes in water-colours adorn the walls;
and rose-coloured hangings shed a soft, warm light over
the furniture and the inmates.  The former is of a light
and tasteful description--low, soft-cushioned *fauteuils*,
thin cane chairs, bright-coloured ottomans and footstools,
Bohemian glass vases filled with flowers--everything gay,
vivid, and luxurious; a good fire burning cheerfully on
the hearth, and a breakfast-table, with its snowy cloth
and bright silver belongings, give an air of homely comfort
to the scene.  The latter consists of four persons, who
have met together at the morning meal every day now
for several weeks.  Constance Beverley sits at the head
of the table making tea; Ropsley and Sir Harry, dressed
in wondrous shooting apparel, are busily engaged with
their breakfast; and Miss Minim is relating to the world
in general her sufferings from rheumatism and neuralgia,
to which touching narrative nobody seems to think it
necessary to pay much attention.  Ropsley breaks in
abruptly by asking Miss Beverley for another cup of tea.
He treats her with studied politeness, but never takes his
cold grey eye off her countenance.  The girl feels that he
is watching her, and it makes her shy and uncomfortable.

"Any news, Ropsley?" says Sir Harry, observing the
pile of letters at his friend's elbow; "no *officials*, I hope,
to send you back to London."

"None as yet, thank Heaven, Sir Harry," replies his
friend; "and not much in the papers.  We shall have
war, I think."

"Oh, don't say so, Mr. Ropsley," observes Constance,
with an anxious look.  "I trust we shall never see
anything so horrid again."

Miss Minim remarks that "occasional wars are beneficial,
nay, necessary for the welfare of the human race,"
illustrating her position by the familiar metaphor of
thunderstorms, etc.; but Ropsley, who has quite the
upper hand of Miss Minim, breaks in upon her ruthlessly,
as he observes, "The funds gone down a fraction, Sir
Harry, I see.  I think one ought to sell.  By-the-bye,
I've a capital letter from De Rohan, at Paris.  You would
like to hear what he is about, Miss Beverley, I am sure."

Constance winced and coloured.  It was Ropsley's
game to assert a sort of matter-of-course *tendresse* on her
part for my Hungarian friend, which he insisted on so
gradually, but yet so successfully, as to give him the
power of making her uneasy at the mention of "De
Rohan's" name.  He wished to establish an influence
over her, and this was the only manner in which he could
do so; but Ropsley was a man who only asked to insert
the point of the wedge, he could trust himself to do the
rest.  Yet, with all his knowledge of human nature, he
made this one great mistake, he judged of women by the
other half of mankind; so he looked pointedly at Constance
as he added, "I'll read you what he says, or, perhaps, Miss
Beverley, you would like to see his letter?"

He had now driven her a little too far, and she turned
round upon him.

"Really, Mr. Ropsley, I don't wish to interfere with
your correspondence.  I hate to read other people's letters;
and Count de Rohan has become such a stranger now
that I have almost forgotten him."

She was angry with herself immediately she had spoken.
It seemed so like the remark of a person who was piqued.
Ropsley would be more than ever convinced now that she
cared for him.  Sir Harry, too, looked up from his plate,
apparently at his daughter's unusual vehemence.  The
girl bit her lips, and wished she had held her tongue.
Ropsley saw he had marked up another point in the game.

"Very true," said he, with his quiet, well-bred smile:
"old playfellows and old school-days cannot be expected
to last all one's life.  However, Victor does not forget us.
He seems to be very gay, though, and rather dissipated,
at Paris; knows all the world and goes everywhere; ran
a horse last week at Chantilly.  You know Chantilly, Sir
Harry."

The Baronet's face brightened.  He had won a cup,
given by Louis Philippe, from all the foreigners there on
one occasion, and he liked to be reminded of it.

"Know it," said he, "I should think I do.  Why, I
trained Flibbertigibbet in the park here myself--I and
the old coachman.  We never sent him to my own trainer
at Newmarket, but took him over ourselves, and beat
them all.  That was the cup you saw in the centre of the
dinner-table yesterday.  The two-year-old we tried at
Lansdowne was his grandson.  Ah!  Ropsley, I wish I
had taken your advice about him."

Ropsley was, step by step, obtaining great influence
over Sir Harry.  He returned to the subject of old
friendships.

"By-the-bye, Miss Beverley, have you heard anything
of poor Egerton?  I fear his father's death will be a sad
blow to him.  I tremble for the consequences."

And here he touched his forehead, with a significant
look at Sir Harry.

Constance was a true woman.  She was always ready
too vigorously to defend an absent friend, but she was no
match for her antagonist; she could not keep cool.

"What do you mean?" said she, angrily.  "Why
should you tremble, as you call it, for Vere?"

Ropsley put on his most provoking air, as he answered,
with a sort of playful mock deference--

"I beg your pardon, Miss Beverley, I am continually
affronting you, this unlucky morning.  First, I bore you
about De Rohan, thinking you *do* care for your old friends;
then I make you angry with me about Egerton, believing
you *don't*.  After all, I said no harm about him; nothing
more than we all know perfectly well.  He always was
eccentric as a boy--he is more so than ever, I think,
now; and I only meant that I feared any sudden shock
or violent affliction might upset his nervous system, and,
in short--may I ask you for a little more cream?--end in
total derangement.  The fact is," he added, *sotto voce*, to
Sir Harry, "he is as mad as Bedlam now."

He saw the girl's lip quiver, and her hand shake as she
gave him his cup; but he kept his cold grey eye fastened
on her.  He seemed to read her most secret thoughts,
and she feared him now--actually feared him.  Well, it
was always something gained.  He proceeded
good-humouredly--

"Do we shoot on the island to-day, Sir Harry?" he
asked of his host.  "Perhaps Miss Beverley will come
over to our luncheon in her boat.  How pretty you have
made that island, Sir Harry; and what a place for ducks
about sundown!"

The island was a pet toy of Sir Harry's; he was pleased,
as usual, with his friend's good taste.

"Yes, come over to luncheon, Constance," said he.
"You can manage the boat quite well that short way."

"No, thank you, papa," answered Constance, with a
glance at Ropsley; "the boat is out of repair, and I had
rather not run the risk of an upset."

"You used to be so fond of boating, Miss Beverley,"
observed Ropsley, with his scarcely perceptible sneer.
"You and Egerton used to be always on the water.
Perhaps you don't like it without a companion; pray don't
think of coming on our account.  I quite agree with you,
it makes all the difference in a water-party."

Constance began to talk very fast to her father.

"I'll come, papa, after all, I think," said she; "it is such
a beautiful day! and the boat will do very well, I dare
say--and I'm so fond of the water, papa; and--and I'll
go and put my bonnet on now.  I've got two or three
things to do in the garden before I start."

So she hurried from the room, but not till Ropsley had
presented her with a sprig of geranium he had gathered
in the conservatory, and thanked her in a sort of
mock-heroic speech for her kindness in so readily acceding to
his wishes.

Would he have been pleased or not, could he have seen
her in the privacy of her own apartment, which she had
no sooner reached than she dashed his gift upon the floor,
stamping on it with her little foot as though she would
crush it into atoms, while her bosom heaved, and her
dark eyes filled with tears, shed she scarce knew why?
She had a vague consciousness of humiliation, and an
undefined feeling of alarm that she could not have
accounted for even to herself, but which was very
uncomfortable notwithstanding.

The gentlemen put on their belts and shooting apparatus;
and Ropsley, with the sneer deepening on his well-cut
features, whispered to himself, "*Pour le coup, papillon,
je te tiens*."

Bold and I strolled leisurely along: the dog indulging
in his usual vagaries on the way; his master brooding
and thoughtful, reflecting on the many happy times he
had trod the same pathway when he was yet in ignorance
of the fatal secret, and how it was all over now.  My life was
henceforth to be a blank.  I began to speculate, as I had
never speculated before, on the objects and aims of existence.
What had I done, I thought, that I should be doomed to
be *so* miserable?--that I should have neither home nor
relatives nor friends?--that, like the poor man whose rich
neighbour had flocks and herds and vineyards, I should
have but my one pet lamb, and even that should be taken
away from me?  Then I thought of my father's career--how
I had been used to look up to him as the impersonation
of all that was admirable and enviable in man.
With his personal beauty and his princely air and his
popularity and talent, I used to think my father must be
perfectly happy.  And now to find that he too had been
living with a worm at his heart!  But then he had done
wrong, and he suffered rightly, as he himself confessed,
for the sins of his youth.  And I tried to think myself
unjustly treated; for of what crimes had I been guilty,
that I should suffer too?  My short life had been
blameless, orderly, and dutiful.  Little evil had I done; but
even then my conscience whispered--Much good had I
left undone.  I had lived for myself and my own
affections; I had not trained my mind for a career of
usefulness to my fellow-men.  It is not enough that a human
being should abstain from gross, palpable evil; he must
follow actual good.  It is better to go down into the
market, and run your chance of the dirt that shall soil it,
and the hands it shall pass through, in making your one
talent ten talents, than to hide it up in a napkin, and
stand aloof from your fellow-creatures, even though it
should give you cause, like the Pharisee, to "thank God
that you are not as other men are."

"Steady, Bold!  Heel, good dog, heel!  You hear them
shooting, I know, and you would like well to join the
sport.  Bang! bang! there they go again.  It is Sir
Harry and his guest at their favourite amusement.  We
will stay here, old dog, and perhaps we may see her once
more, if only at a distance, and we shall not have had our
walk for nothing."  So Bold and I crouched quietly down
amongst the tall fern, on a knoll in the park from whence
we could see the Manor House and the mere, and
Constance's favourite walk in the shrubbery which I had
paced with her so often and so happily in days that seemed
now to have belonged to another life.

They were having capital sport in the island; it was a
favourite preserve of Sir Harry; and although artificially
stocked with pheasants--as indeed what coverts are not,
for that most artificial of all field-sports which we call a
*battue*?--it had this advantage, that the game could not
possibly stray from its own feeding-place and home.
Moreover, as the fine-plumaged old cocks went whirring up
out of the copse, there was a great art in knocking them
over before they were fairly on the wing, so that the dead
birds might not fall into the water, but be picked up on
*terra firma*, dry, and in good order to be put into the bag.
Many a time had I stood in the middle ride, and brought
them down right and left, to the admiration of my old
acquaintance, Mr. Barrells, and the applause of Sir Harry.
Many a happy day had I spent there, in the enjoyment
of scenery, air, exercise, and sport (not that I cared much
for the latter); but, above all, with the prospect of
Constance Beverley bringing us our luncheon, or, at the
worst, the certainty of seeing her on our return to the
Manor House.  How my heart ached to think it was all
gone and past now!

I watched the smoke from the sportsmen's guns as it
curled up into the peaceful autumn sky.  I heard the
cheery voices of the beaters, and the tap of their sticks
in the copse; but I could not see a soul, and was myself
completely unseen.  I felt I was looking on what had so
long been my paradise for the last time, and I lost the
consciousness of my own identity in the dreamy abstraction
with which I regarded all around.  It seemed to me
as if another had gone through the experiences of my
past life, or rather as if I was no longer Vere Egerton,
but one who had known him and pitied him, and would
take some little interest in him for the future, but would
probably see very little of him again.  I know not whether
other men experience such strange fancies, or whether it
is but the natural effect of continued sorrow, which stuns
the mental sense, even as continued pain numbs that of
the body; but I have often felt myself retracing my own
past or speculating on my own future, almost with the
indifference of an uninterested spectator.  Something
soon recalled me to myself.  Bold had the eye of a hawk,
but I saw her before Bold did; long ere my dog erected
his silken ears and stopped his panting breath, my beating
heart and throbbing pulses made me feel too keenly that
I was Vere Egerton again.

She seemed to walk more slowly than she used; the
step was not so light; the head no longer carried so erect,
so naughtily; she had lost the deer-like motion I admired
so fondly; but oh! how much better I loved to see her
like this.  I watched as a man watches all he loves for
the *last* time.  I strove, so to speak, to print her image
on my brain, there to be carried a life-long photograph.
She walked slowly down towards the mere, her head
drooping, her hands clasped before her, apparently deep,
deep in her own thoughts.  I would have given all I had
in the world could I but have known what those thoughts
were.  She stopped at the very place where once before
she had caressed Bold; she gathered a morsel of fern and
placed it in her bosom; then she walked on faster, like
one who wakes from a train of profound and not altogether
happy reflections.

Meanwhile I had the greatest difficulty in restraining
my dog.  Good, faithful Bold was all anxiety to scour off
at first sight of her, and greet his old friend.  He whined
piteously when I forbade him.  I thought she must have
heard him; but no, she walked quietly on towards the
water, loosed her little skiff from its moorings, got into
it, and pushed off on the smooth surface of the mere.

She spread the tiny sail, and the boat rippled its way
slowly through the water.  The little skiff was a favourite
toy of Constance, and I had taught her to manage it very
dexterously.  At the most it would hold but two people;
and many an hour of ecstasy had I passed on the mere in
"The Queen Mab," as we sportively named it, drinking
in every look and tone of my idolised companion: poison
was in the draught, I knew it well, and yet I drank it to
the dregs.  Now I watched till my eyes watered, for I
should never steer "The Queen Mab" again.

A shout from the shore of the island diverted my
attention.  Sir Harry had evidently espied her, and was
welcoming his daughter.  I made out his figure, and that
of Barrells, at the water's edge; whilst the report of a
gun, and a thin column of white smoke curling upwards
from the copse, betokened the presence of Ropsley among
the beaters in the covert.  When I glanced again at
"The Queen Mab," it struck me she had made but little
way, though her gossamer-looking sail was filled by the
light breeze.  She could not now be more than a hundred
and fifty yards from her moorings, whilst I was myself
perhaps twice that distance from the brink of the mere.
Constance rises from her seat, and waves her hand above
her head.  Is that her voice?  Bold hears it too, and
starts up to listen.  The white sail leans over.  God in
heaven! it is down!  Vivid like lightning the ghastly
truth flashes through my brain; the boat is waterlogged--she
is sinking--my heart's darling will be drowned in
my very sight; it is ecstasy to think I can die with her,
if I cannot save her!

"Bold!  Bold!  Hie, boy; go fetch her; hie, boy; hie!"

The dog is already at the water-side; with his glorious,
God-given instinct he has understood it all.  I hear the
splash as he dashes in; I see the circles thrown behind
him as he swims; whilst I am straining every nerve to
reach the water's edge.  What a long three hundred
yards it is!  A lifetime passes before me as I speed along.
I have even leisure to think of poor Ophelia and her
glorious Dane.  As I run I fling away coat, waistcoat,
watch, and handkerchief.  I see a white dress by the
side of the white sail.  My gallant dog is nearing it even
now.  The next instant I am overhead in the mere; and
as I rise to the surface, shaking the water from my lips
and hair, I feel, through all my fear and all my suspense,
something akin to triumph in the long, vigorous strokes
that are shooting me onwards to my goal.  Mute and
earnest I thank God for my personal strength, never
appreciated till this day; for my hardy education, and
my father's swimming lessons in the sluggish, far-away
Theiss; for my gallant, faithful dog, who has reached her
even now.

"Hold on, Bold! her dress is floating her still.  Hold
on, good dog.  Another ten seconds, and she is saved!"

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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Once I thought we were gone.  My strength was
exhausted.  I had reached the bank with my rescued
love.  Her pale face was close to mine; her long, wet
hair across my mouth; she was conscious still, she never
lost her senses or her courage.  Once she whispered,
"Bless you, my brave Vere."  But the bank was steep,
and the water out of our depth to the very edge.  A
root I caught at gave way.  My overtaxed muscles refused
to second me.  It was hard to fail at the last.  I could
have saved myself had I abandoned my hold.  It was
delicious to know this, and then to wind my arm tighter
round her waist, and to think we should sleep together
for ever down there; but honest Bold grasped her once
more in those vigorous jaws--she bore the marks of his
teeth on her white neck for many a day.  The relief thus
afforded enabled me to make one desperate effort, and we
were saved.

She fainted away when she was fairly on the bank;
and I was so exhausted I could but lie gasping at her
side.  Bold gave himself a vigorous shake and licked her
face.  Assistance, however, was near at hand; the accident
had been witnessed from the island; Sir Harry and the
keeper had shoved off immediately in their boat, and
pulled vigorously for the spot.  It was a heavy, lumbering
craft, and they must have been too late.  Oh, selfish
heart!  I felt that had I not succeeded in saving her, I
had rather we had both remained under those peaceful
waters; but selfish though it may have been, was it not
ecstasy to think that I had rescued *her*--Constance
Beverley, my own Constance--from death?  I, the
ungainly, unattractive man, for whom I used to think no
woman could ever care; and she had called me "*her* brave
Vere!"  HERS!  She could not unsay that; come what
would, nothing could rob me of *that*.  "Fortune, do thy
worst," I thought, in my thrill of delight, as I recalled
those words, "I am happy for evermore."  Blind! blind!
*Quem Deus vult perdere prius dementat*.





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.. _`PRINCESS VOCQSAL`:

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   CHAPTER XVI


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   PRINCESS VOCQSAL

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It was an accommodating *ménage*, that of Prince and
Princess Vocqsal, and was carried on upon the same
system, whether they were "immured," as Madame la
Princesse called it, in the old chateau near Sieberiburgen,
or disporting themselves, as now, in the sunshine and
gaiety of *her* dear Paris, as the same volatile lady was
pleased to term that very lively resort of the gay, the
idle, and the good-for-nothing.  It was the sort of *ménage*
people do not understand in England quite so thoroughly
as abroad; the system was simple enough--"live and let
live" being in effect the motto of an ill-matched pair,
who had better never have come together, but who, having
done so, resolved to make the best of that which each
found to be a bad bargain, and to see less of each other
than they could possibly have done had they remained as
formerly, simply an old cousin and a young one, instead
of as now, husband and wife.

Prince Vocqsal was the best of fellows, and the most
sporting of Hungarians.  Time was, "before the Revolution,
*mon cher*"--a good while before it, he might have
added--that the Prince was the handsomest man of his
day, and not indisposed to use his personal advantages for
the captivation of the opposite sex.  His conquests, as he
called them, in France, Spain, Italy, not to mention the
Fatherland, were, by his own account, second only to those
of Don Juan in the charming opera which bears the name
of that libertine; but his greatest triumph was to detail,
in strict confidence, of course, how he had met with *un
grand succes* amongst *ces belles blondes Anglaises*, whose
characters he was good enough to take away with a
sweeping liberality calculated to alter a Briton's
preconceived notions as to the propriety of those prudish
dames whom he had hitherto been proud to call his
countrywomen.  I cannot say I consider myself bound
to believe all an old gentleman, or a young one either,
has to say on that score.  Men are given to lying, and
woman is an enigma better let alone.  The Prince,
however, clung stoutly to his fascinations, long after time,
good living, and field-sports had changed him from a slim,
romantic swain to a jolly, roundabout old gentleman.  He
dyed his moustaches and whiskers, wore a belt patented
to check corpulency, and made up for the ravages of decay
by the artifices of the toilet.  He could ride extremely
well (for a foreigner), not in the break-neck style which
hunting men in England call "going," and which none
except an Englishman ever succeeds in attaining; but
gracefully, and like a gentleman.  He could shoot with
the rifle or the smooth-bore with an accuracy not to be
surpassed, and was an "ace-of-diamonds man" with the
pistol.  Notwithstanding the many times his amours had
brought him "on the ground," it was his chief boast that
he had never killed his man.  "I am sure of my *coup*, my
dear," he would say, with an amiable smile, and holding
you affectionately by the arm, "and I always take my
antagonist just below the knee-pan.  I sight a little over
the ankle, and the rise of the ball at twelve paces hits the
exact spot.  There is no occasion to repeat my fire, and
he lives to be my friend."

Added to this he was a thorough *bon vivant*, and an
excellent linguist.  On all matters connected with
field-sports he held forth in English, swearing hideously, under
the impression that on these topics the use of frightful
oaths was national and appropriate.  He was past middle
age, healthy, good-humoured, full of fun, and he did not
care a straw for Princess Vocqsal.

Why did he marry her?  The reason was simple
enough.  Hunting, shooting, horse-racing, gaiety, hospitality,
love, life, and libertinism, will make a hole in the
finest fortune that ever was inherited, even in Hungary;
and Prince Vocqsal found himself at middle age, or what
he called the prime of life, with all the tastes of his youth
as strong as ever, but none of its ready money left.  He
looked in the glass, and felt that even he must at length
succumb to fate.

"My cousin Rose is rich; she is moreover young and
beautiful; *une femme très distinguée et tant soit peu
coquette*.  I must sacrifice myself, and Comtesse Rose
shall become Princess Vocqsal."  Such was the fruit of
the Prince's reflections, and it is but justice to add he
made a most accommodating and good-humoured husband.

Comtesse Rose had no objection to being Princess
Vocqsal.  A thousand flirtations and at least half-a-dozen
*grandes passions*, had a little tarnished the freshness of
her youthful beauty; but what she had lost in bloom she
had gained in experience.  Nobody had such a figure, so
round, so shapely, of such exquisite proportions; nobody
knew so well how to dress that figure to the greatest
advantage.  Her gloves were a study; and as for her feet
and ankles, their perfection was only equalled by the
generosity with which they were displayed.  Then what
accomplishments, what talents!  She could sing, she
could ride, she could waltz; she could play billiards,
smoke cigarettes, drive four horses, shoot with a pistol,
and talk sentiment from the depths of a low *fauteuil* like
a very Sappho.  Her lovers had compared her at different
times to nearly all the heroines of antiquity, except Diana.
She had been painted in every costume, flattered in every
language, and slandered in every boudoir throughout
Europe for a good many years; and still she was bright,
and fresh, and sparkling, as if Old Time too could not
resist her fascinations, but, like any other elderly
gentleman, gave her her own way, and waited patiently for his
turn.  Thrice happy Princess Vocqsal!--can it be possible
that you, too, are bored?

She sits in her own magnificent *salon*, where once every
week she "receives" all the most distinguished people in
Paris.  How blooming she looks with her back to the
light, and her little feet crossed upon that low footstool.
Last night she had "a reception," and it was gayer and
more crowded than usual.  Why did she feel a little dull
to-day?  Pooh! it was only a *migraine*, or the last French
novel was so insufferably stupid; or--no, it was the want
of excitement.  She could not live without that
stimulus--excitement she must and would have.  She had tried
politics, but the strong immovable will at the head of the
Government had given her a hint that she must put a
stop to *that*; and she knew his inflexible character too
well to venture on trifling with *him*.  She was tired of all
her lovers, too; she began to think, if her husband were
only thirty years younger, and less good-humoured, he
would be worth a dozen of these modern adorers.  *That*
Count de Rohan, to be sure, was a good-looking boy, and
seemed utterly fancy free.  By-the-bye, he was not at the
"reception" last night, though she asked him herself the
previous evening at "the Tuileries."  That was very
rude; positively she must teach him better manners.  A
countryman, too; it was a duty to be civil to him.  And
a fresh character to study, it would be good sport to
subjugate him.  Probably he would call to-day to apologise
for being so remiss.  And she rose and looked in the glass
at those eyes whose power needed not to be enhanced by
the dexterous touch of rouge; at that long, glossy hair,
and shapely neck and bosom, as a sportsman examines the
locks and barrels of the weapon on which he depends for
his success in the chase.  The review was satisfactory, and
Princess Vocqsal did not look at all bored now.  She had
hardly settled herself once more in a becoming attitude,
ere Monsieur le Comte de Rohan was announced, and
marched in, hat in hand, with all the grace of his natural
demeanour, and the frank, happy air that so seldom
survives boyhood.  Victor was handsomer than ever,
brimful of life and spirits, utterly devoid of all conceit
or affectation; and moreover, since his father's death, one
of the first noblemen of Hungary.  It was a conquest
worth making.

"I thought you would not go back without wishing me
good-bye," said the Princess, with her sweetest smile, and
a blush through her rouge that she could summon at
command--indeed, this weapon had done more execution
than all the rest of her artillery put together.  "I missed
you last night at my reception; why did you not come?"

Victor blushed too.  How could he explain that a little
supper-party at which some very fascinating ladies who
were not of the Princess's acquaintance had *assisted*,
prevented him.  He stammered out some excuse about
leaving Paris immediately, and having to make preparations
for departure.

"And you are really going," said she, in a melancholy,
pleading tone of voice,--"going back to my dear Hungary.
How I wish I could accompany you."

"Nothing could be easier," answered Victor, laughing
gaily; "if madame would but condescend to accept my
escort, I would wait her convenience.  Say, Princess,
when shall it be?"

"Ah, now you are joking," she said, looking at him
from under her long eyelashes; "you know I cannot leave
Paris, and you know that we poor women cannot do what
we like.  It is all very well for you men; you get your
passports, and you are off to the end of the world, whilst
we can but sit over our work and think."

Here a deep sigh smote on Victor's ear.  It began to
strike him that he had made an impression; the feeling
is very pleasant at first, and the young Hungarian was
keenly alive to it.  He spoke in a much softer tone now,
and drew his chair a little nearer that of the Princess.

"I need not go quite yet," he said, in an embarrassed
tone, which contrasted strongly with his frank manner a
few minutes earlier: "Paris is very pleasant,
and--and--there are so many people here one likes."

"And that like you," she interrupted, with an arch
smile, that made her look more charming than ever.
"One is so seldom happy," she added, relapsing once
more into her melancholy air; "one meets so seldom with
kindred spirits--people that understand one; it is like a
dream to be allowed to associate with those who are really
pleasing to us.  A happy, happy dream; but then the
waking is so bitter, perhaps it is wiser not to dream at
all.  No!  Monsieur de Rohan, you had better go back to
Hungary, as you proposed."

"Not if you tell me to stay," exclaimed Victor, his eyes
brightening, and his colour rising rapidly; "not if I can
be of the slightest use or interest to you.  Only tell me
what you wish me to do, madame; your word shall be my
law.  Go or stay, I wait but for your commands."

He was getting on faster than she had calculated; it
was time to damp him a little now.  She withdrew her
chair a foot or so, and answered coldly--

"Who--I, Monsieur le Comte?  I cannot possibly
give you any command, except to ring that bell.  The
Prince would like to see you before you go.  Let the
Prince know Monsieur de Rohan is here," she added, to
the servant who answered her summons.  "You were
always a great favourite of his--of *ours*, I may say;" and
she bade him adieu, and gave him her soft white hand
with all her former sweetness of manner; and told her
servant, loud enough for her victim to hear, "to order
the carriage, for she meant to drive in the Bois de
Boulogne:" and finally shot a Parthian glance at him
over her shoulder as she left the room by one door, whilst
he proceeded by another towards the Prince's apartments.

No wonder Victor de Rohan quitted the house not so
wise a man as he had entered it; no wonder he was seen
that same afternoon caracolling his bay horse in the Bois
de Boulogne; no wonder he went to dress moody and out
of humour, because, ride where he would, he had failed
to catch a single glimpse of the known carriage and
liveries of Princess Vocqsal.

They met, however, the following evening at a concert
at the Tuileries.  The day after--oh, what good luck!--he
sat next her at dinner at the English ambassador's,
and put her into her carriage at night when she went
home.  Poor Victor! he dreamed of her white dress and
floating hair, and the pressure of her gloved hand.
Breakfast next morning was not half so important a meal as it
used to be, and he thought the fencing-school would be a
bore.  She was rapidly getting the upper hand of young
Count de Rohan.

Six weeks afterwards he was still in Paris.  The
gardens of the Tuileries were literally sparkling in the
morning sun of a bright Parisian day.  The Zouaves on
guard at the gate lounged over their firelocks with their
usual reckless brigand air, and leered under every bonnet
that passed them, as though the latter accomplishment
were part and parcel of a Zouave's duty.  The Rue de
Rivoli was alive with carriages; the sky, the houses, the
gilt-topped railings--everything looked in full dress, as
it does nowhere but in Paris; the very flowers in the
gardens were two shades brighter than in any other part
of France.  All the children looked clean, all the women
well dressed; even the very trees had on their most
becoming costume, and the long close alleys smelt fresh
and delicious as the gardens of Paradise.  Why should
Victor de Rohan alone look gloomy and morose when all
else is so bright and fair?  Why does he puff so savagely
at his cigar, and glance so restlessly under the stems of
those thick-growing chestnuts?  Why does he mutter
between his teeth, "False, unfeeling! the third time she
has played me this trick?  No, it is not she.  Oh!  I should
know her a mile off.  She will not come.  She has no heart,
no pity.  She will *not* come.  *Sappramento!* there she is!"

In the most becoming of morning toilettes, with the
most killing little bonnet at the back of her glossy head,
the best-fitting of gloves, and the tiniest of *chaussures*,
without a lock out of its place or a fold rumpled, cool,
composed, and beautiful, leaving her maid to amuse herself
with a penny chair and a *feuilleton*, Princess Vocqsal
walks up to the agitated Hungarian, and placing her
hand in his, says, in her most bewitching accents, "Forgive
me, my friend; I have risked so much to come here; I
could not get away a moment sooner.  I have passed the
last hour in such agony of suspense!"  The time to
which the lady alludes has been spent, and well spent, in
preparing the brilliant and effective appearance which she
is now making.

"But you have come at last," exclaims Victor, breathlessly.
"I may now speak to you for the first time alone.
Oh, what happiness to see you again!  All this week I
have been so wretched without you; and why were you
never at home when I called?"

"*Les convenances*, my dear Count," answers the lady.
"Everything I do is watched and known.  Only last
night I was taxed by Madame d'Alençon about you, and
I could not help showing my confusion; and you--you
are so foolish.  What must people think?"

"Let them think what they will," breaks in Victor, his
honest truthful face pale with excitement.  "I am yours,
and yours alone.  Ever since I have known you, Princess,
I have felt that you might do with me what you will.
Now I am your slave.  I offer you----"

What Victor was about to offer never came to light, for
at that instant the well-tutored "Jeannette" rose from
her chair, and hurriedly approaching her mistress,
whispered to her a few agitated words.  The Princess dropped
her veil, squeezed Victor's hand, and in another instant
disappeared amongst the trees, leaving the young Hungarian
very much in love, very much bewildered, and not
a little disgusted.

One or two more such scenes, one or two more weeks
of alternate delight, suspense, and disappointment, made
poor Victor half beside himself.  He had got into the
hands of an accomplished flirt, and for nine men out of
ten there would have been no more chance of escape than
there is for the moth who has once fluttered within the
magic ring of a ground-glass lamp.  He may buzz and
flap and fume as he will, but the more he flutters the
more he singes his wings, the greater his struggles the
less his likelihood of liberty.  But Victor was at that age
when a man most appreciates his own value: a few years
earlier we want confidence, a few years later we lack
energy, but in the hey-day of youth we do not easily
surrender at discretion; besides, we have so many to
console us, and we are so easily consoled.  De Rohan
began to feel hurt, then angry, lastly resolute.  One night
at the opera decided him.  His box had a mirror in it
so disposed as to reflect the interior of the adjoining one;
a most unfair and reprehensible practice, by-the-bye, and
one calculated to lead to an immensity of discord.  What
he saw he never proclaimed, but as Princess Vocqsal
occupied the box adjoining his own, it is fair to suppose
that he watched the movements of his mistress.

She bit her lip, and drew her features together as if
she had been stung, when on the following afternoon, in
the Bois de Boulogne, Vicomte Lascar informed her, with
his insipid smile, that he had that morning met De
Rohan at the railway station, evidently en route for
Hungary, adding, for the Princess was an excellent
linguist, and Lascar prided himself much on his English,
"'Ome, sweet 'ome, no place like 'ome."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE COMMON LOT`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XVII


.. class:: center medium

   THE COMMON LOT

.. vspace:: 2

"And so, you see, my dear Egerton, it is out of the question.
I own to a great liking for your character.  I think you
behaved yesterday like a trump.  I am too old for romance,
and all that, but I can understand your feeling, my boy,
and I am sorry for you.  The objection I have named
would alone be sufficient.  Let it never be mentioned
again.  Your father was my oldest friend, and I hope you
will not think it necessary to break with us; but marriage
is a serious affair, and indeed is not to be thought of."

"No hope, Sir Harry?" I gasped out; "years hence, if
I could win fame, distinction, throw a cloak of honour
over this accursed brand, give her a name to be proud of,
is there no hope?"

"None," replied Sir Harry; "these things are better
settled at once.  It is far wiser not to delude yourself
into the notion that, because you are a disappointed man
now, you are destined to become a great one hereafter.
Greatness grows, Vere, just like a cabbage or a cauliflower,
and must be tended and cultivated with years of labour
and perseverance; you cannot pluck it down with one
spring, like an apple from a bough.  No, no, my lad; you
will get over this disappointment, and be all the better
for it.  I am sorry to refuse you, but I must, Vere,
distinctly, and for the last time.  Besides, I tell you in
confidence, I have other views for Constance, so you see
it is totally out of the question.  You may see her this
afternoon, if you like.  She is a good child, and will do
nothing in disobedience to her father.  Farewell, Vere, I
am sorry for you, but the thing's done."

So I walked out of the Baronet's room in the unenviable
character of a disappointed suitor, and he went back to
his farm book and his trainer's accounts, as coolly as if
he had just been dismissing a domestic; whilst I--my
misery was greater than I could bear--his last words
seemed to scorch me.  "I should get over it--I should
be the better for it."  And I felt all the time that my
heart was breaking; and then, "he had other views for
Constance;" not only must she never be mine, but I
must suffer the additional pang of feeling that she belongs
to another.  "Would to God," I thought, "that we had
sunk together yesterday, never to rise again!"

I went to look for her in the shrubbery: I knew where
I should find her; there was an old summer-house that
we two had sat in many a time before, and I felt sure
Constance would be there.  She rose as I approached it:
she must have seen by my face that it was all over.  She
put her hand in mine, and, totally unmanned, I bent my
head over it, and burst into a flood of tears, like a child.
I remember to this day the very pattern of the gown she
wore; even now I seem to hear the soft, gentle accents in
which she reasoned and pleaded with me, and strove to
mitigate my despair.

"I have long thought it must come to this, Vere," she
said, with her dark, melancholy eyes looking into my very
soul; "I have long thought we have both been much to
blame, you to speak, and I to listen, as we have done:
now we have our punishment.  Vere, I will not conceal
from you I suffer much.  More for your sake than my
own.  I cannot bear to see you so miserable.  You to
whom I owe so much, so many happy hours, and yesterday
my very life.  Oh, Vere, try to bear it like a man."

"I cannot, I cannot," I sobbed out; "no hope, nothing
to look forward to, but a cheerless, weary life, and then to
be forgotten.  Oh that I had died with you, Constance,
my beloved one, my own!"

She laid her hand gently on my arm--

"Forgotten, Vere," she said; "that is not a kind or a
generous speech.  I shall never forget you.  Always,
always I shall think of you, pray for you.  Papa knows
best what is right.  I will never disobey him: he has not
forbidden us to see each other; we may be very happy
still.  Vere, you must be my brother."

"No more," I exclaimed, reproachfully, "no more?"

"No more, Vere," she answered, quite gently, but in a
tone that admitted of no further appeal.  "Brother and
sister, Vere, for the rest of our lives; promise me this,"
and she put her soft hand in mine, and smiled upon me;
pure and sorrowful, like an angel.

I was stung to madness by her seeming coldness, so
different from my own wild, passionate misery.

"Be it so," I said; "and as brother and sister must
part, so must you and I.  Anything now for freedom and
repose; anything to drive your image from my mind.  I
tell you that from henceforth I am a desperate man.
Nobody cares for me on earth,--no father, no mother,
none for whom to live; and the one I prized most discards
me now.  Constance, you never can have loved me as I have
loved.  Cold, heartless, false!  I will never see you again."

She was quite  bewildered by my vehemence.  She
looked round wildly at me, and her pale lip quivered, and
her eyes filled with tears: even then I remained bitter
and unmoved.

"Farewell," I said, "farewell, Constance, and for ever."

Her hand hung passively in mine, her "good-bye"
seemed frozen on her lips; but she turned away with more
than her usual majesty, and walked towards the house.  I
remarked that she dropped a white rose--fit emblem of
her own dear self--on the gravel path, as she paced slowly
along, without once turning her head.  I was too proud
to follow her and pick it up, but sprang away in an
opposite direction, and was soon out of her sight.

That night, when the wild clouds were flying across
the moon, and the wind howled through the gloomy yews
and the ghostly fir-trees, and all was sad and dreary and
desolate, I picked up the white rose from that gravel path,
and placed it next my heart.  Faded, shrunk, and withered,
I have got it still.  My home was now no place for me.  I
arranged my few affairs with small difficulty, pensioned
the two old servants my poor father had committed to my
charge; set my house in order, packed up my things, and
in less than a week I was many hundred miles from Alton
Grange and Constance Beverley.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`OMAR PASHA`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center medium

   OMAR PASHA

.. vspace:: 2

It is high noon, and not a sound, save the occasional
snort of an impatient steed, is to be heard throughout the
lines.  Picketed in rows, the gallant little chargers of the
Turkish cavalry are dozing away the hours between
morning and evening feed.  The troopers themselves are
smoking and sleeping in their tents; here and there may
be seen a devout Mussulman prostrate on his prayer-carpet,
his face turned towards Mecca, and his thoughts
wholly abstracted from all worldly considerations.  Ill-fed
and worse paid, they are nevertheless a brawny, powerful
race, their broad rounded shoulders, bull necks, and bowed
legs denoting strength rather than activity; whilst their
high features and marked swarthy countenances betray
at once their origin, sprung from generations of warriors
who once threatened to overwhelm the whole Western
world in a tide that has now been long since at the ebb.
Patient are they of hardship, and devoted to the Sultan
and their duty, made for soldiers and nothing else, with
their fierce, dogged resolution, and their childish obedience
and simplicity.  Hand-in-hand, two of them are strolling
leisurely through the lines to release a restive little horse
who has got inexplicably entangled in his own and his
neighbour's picket-ropes, and is fighting his way out of
his difficulty with teeth and hoofs.  They do not hurry
themselves, but converse peacefully as they pass along.

"Is is true, Mustapha, that *Giaours* are still coming to
join our Bey?  The Padisha[#] is indeed gracious to these
sons of perdition."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] The Sultan.

.. vspace:: 3

"It is true, Janum;[#] may Allah confound them!"
replies Mustapha, spitting in parenthesis between his
teeth: "but they have brave hearts, these Giaours, and
cunning heads, moreover, for their own devices.  What
good Moslem would have thought of sending his commands
by wire, faster than they could be borne by the horses of
the Prophet?"

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] "Oh my soul!" a colloquial term equivalent to the French "Mon cher."

.. vspace:: 2

"Magic!" argues the other trooper; "black, unholy
magic!  There is but one Allah!"

"What filth are you eating?" answers Mustapha, who
is of a practical turn of mind.  "Have not I myself seen
the wire and the post, and do I not know that the Padisha
sends his commands to the Ferik-Pasha by the letters he
writes with his own hand?"

"But you have never seen the letter," urges his comrade,
"though you have ridden a hundred times under the lines."

"Oh, mulehead, and son of a jackass!" retorts Mustapha,
"do you not know that the letter flies so fast along the
wire, that the eye of man cannot perceive it?  They are
dogs and accursed, these Giaours; but, by my head, they
are very foxes in wit."

"I will defile their graves," observes his comrade; and
forthwith they proceeded to release the entangled charger,
who has by this time nearly eaten his ill-starred neighbour;
and I overhear this philosophical disquisition, as I
proceed for orders to the Green Tent of Iskender Bey,
commandant of the small force of cavalry attached to
Omar Pasha's army in Bulgaria.

As I enter the tent, I perceive two men seated in grave
discussion, whilst a third stands upright in a respectful
attitude.  A *chaoosh*, or Serjeant, is walking a magnificently
caparisoned bay Arab up and down, just beyond the
tent-pegs; while an escort of lancers, with two or three more
led horses, and a brace of English pointers, are standing
a few paces off.  The upright figure, though dressed in a
Turkish uniform, with a red fez or skull-cap, I have no
difficulty in recognising as Victor de Rohan.  He grasps
my hand as I pass, and whispers a few words in French,
while I salute Iskender Bey, and await his orders.

My chief is more than three parts drunk.  He has
already finished the best portion of a bottle of brandy, and
is all for fighting, right or wrong, as, to do him justice, is
his invariable inclination.  To and fro he waves his
half-grizzled head, and sawing the air with his right hand,
mutilated of half its fingers by a blow from a Russian
sabre, he repeats in German--

"But the attack!  Excellency; the attack! when will
you let me loose with my cavalry?  The attack!
Excellency! the attack!"

The person he addresses looks at him with a half-amused,
half-provoked air, and then glancing at Victor,
breaks into a covert smile, which he conceals by bending
over a map that is stretched before him.  I have ample
time to study his appearance, and to wonder why I should
have a sort of vague impression that I have seen that
countenance before.

He is a spare, sinewy man, above the middle height,
with his figure developed and toughened by constant
exercise.  An excellent horseman, a practised shot, an
adept at all field-sports, he looks as if no labour would
tire him, no hardships affect his vigour or his health.
His small head is set on his shoulders in the peculiar
manner that always denotes physical strength; and his
well-cut features would be handsome, were it not for a
severe and somewhat caustic expression which mars the
beauty of his countenance.  His deep-set eye is very bright
and keen; its glance seems accustomed to command, and
also to detect falsehood under a threefold mask.  He has
not dealt half a lifetime with Asiatics to fail in acquiring
that useful knack.  He wears his beard and moustache
short and close; they are

   |     Grizzled here and there,
   |   But more with toil than age,

and add to his soldierlike exterior.  His dress is simple
enough; it consists of a close-fitting, dark-green frock,
adorned only with the order of the Medjidjie, high
riding-boots, and a crimson fez.  A curved Turkish sabre hangs
from his belt, and a double-barrelled gun of English
workmanship is thrown across his knees.  As he looks up from
his map, his eye rests on me, and he asks Victor in German,
"Who is that?"

"An Englishman, who has joined your Excellency's
force as an Interpreter," answered my friend, "and who
is now attached to Iskender Bey.  I believe the Bey can
give a good account of his gallantry on more than one
occasion."

"The Bey," thus appealed to, musters up a drunken
smile, and observes, "A good swordsman, your Excellency,
and a man of many languages.  Sober too," he adds,
shaking his head, "sober as a Mussulman, the first quality
in a soldier."

His Excellency smiles again at Victor, who presents me
in due form, not forgetting to mention my name.

The great man almost starts.  He fixes on me that
glittering eye which seems to look through me.  "Where
did you acquire your knowledge of languages?" he asks.
"My aide-de-camp informs me you speak Hungarian even
better than you do Turkish."

"I travelled much in Hungary as a boy, Excellency,"
was my reply.  "Victor de Rohan is my earliest friend:
I was a child scarcely out of the nursery when I first
made his acquaintance at Edeldorf."

A gleam of satisfaction passed over his Excellency's
face.  "Strange, strange," he muttered, "how the wheel
turns;" and then pulling out a small steel purse, but
slenderly garnished, he selected from a few other coins an
old silver piece, worn quite smooth and bent double.  "Do
you remember that?" said he, placing it in my hand.

The gipsy troop and the deserter flashed across me at
once.  I was so confused at my own stupidity in not
having recognised him sooner, that I could only stammer
out, "Pardon, your Excellency--so long ago--a mere child."

He grasped my hand warmly.  "Egerton," said he,
"boy as you were, there was heart and honour in your
deed.  Subordinate as I then was, I swore never to forget
it.  I have never forgotten it.  You have made a friend
for life in Omar Pasha."

I could only bow my thanks, and the General added,
"Come to me at head-quarters this afternoon.  I will see
what can be done for you."

"But, Excellency, I cannot spare him," interposed
Iskender Bey.  "I have here an English officer, the
bravest of the brave, but so stupid I cannot understand a
word he says.  I had rather be without sword or lance
than lose my Interpreter.  And then, Excellency, the
attack to-morrow--the attack."

Omar Pasha rose to depart.  "I will send him back
this evening with despatches," said he, saluting his host
in the Turkish fashion, touching first the heart, then the
mouth, then the forehead--a courtesy which the old fire-eater
returned with a ludicrous attempt at solemnity.

"De Rohan," he added, "stay here to carry out the
orders I have given you.  As soon as your friend can be
spared from the Bey, bring him over with you, to remain
at head-quarters.  Salaam!"  And the General was on
his horse and away long before the Turkish guard could
get under arms to pay him the proper compliments,
leaving Iskender Bey to return to his brandy-bottle, and
my old friend Victor to make himself comfortable in my
tent, and smoke a quiet chibouque with me whilst we
related all that had passed since we met.

Victor was frank and merry as usual, spoke unreservedly
of his *liaison* with Princess Vocqsal, and the reasons
which had decided him on seeing a campaign with the
Turkish army against his natural enemies, the Russians.

"I like it, *mon cher*," said he, puffing at his chibouque,
and talking in the mixture of French and English which
seemed his natural language, and in which he always
affirmed *he thought*.  "There is liberty, there is
excitement, there is the chance of distinction; and above all,
there are *no women*.  It suits my temperament, *mon cher:
voyez-vous, je suis philosophe*.  I like to change my bivouac
day by day, to attach myself to my horses, to have no tie
but that which binds me to my sabre, no anxieties but
for what I shall get to eat.  The General does all the
thinking--*parbleu!* he does it *à merveille*; and I--why, I
laugh and I ride away.  Fill my chibouque again, and
hand me that flask; I think there is a drop left in it.
Your health, Vere, *mon enfant*, and *vive la guerre*!"

"*Vive la guerre!*" I repeated; but the words stuck
in my throat, for I had already seen something of the
miseries brought by war into a peaceful country, and I
could not look upon the struggle in which we were
engaged with quite as much indifference as my volatile
friend.

"And you, Vere," he resumed, after draining the flask,
"I heard you were with us weeks ago; but I have been
absent from my chief on a reconnaissance, so I never could
get an opportunity of beating up your quarters.  What
on earth brought you out here, my quiet, studious friend?"

I could not have told him the truth to save my life.
Any one but *him*, for I always fancied she looked on him
with favouring eyes, so I gave two or three false reasons
instead of the real one.

"Oh," I replied, "everything was so changed after my
poor father's death, and Alton was so dull, and I had no
profession, no object in life, so I thought I might see a
little soldiering.  When they found I could speak Turkish,
or rather when I told them so, they gave me every facility
at the War Office; so I got a pair of jack-boots and a
revolver, and here I am."

"But Omar will make you something better than an
Interpreter," urged Victor.  "We must get you over to
head-quarters, Vere.  Men rise rapidly in these days;
next campaign you might have a brigade, and the following
one a division.  This war will last for years; you are
fit for something better than a Tergyman."[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] An Interpreter.

.. vspace:: 2

"I think so too," I replied; "though, truth to tell,
when I came out here I was quite satisfied with my
present position, and only thirsted for the excitement of
action.  But this soldiering grows upon one, Victor, does
it not?  Yet I am loth to leave Iskender too; the old
Lion stretched me his paw when I had no friends in
Turkey, and I believe I am useful to him.  At least I
must stay with him now, for we shall be engaged before
long, I can tell you that."

"*Tant mieux*," retorted Victor, with flashing eyes; "old
Brandy-face will ram his cavalry into it if he gets a
chance.  Don't let him ride too far forward himself, Vere,
if you can help it, as he did when he cut his own way
through that troop of hussars, and gave them another
example of the stuff the Poles are made of.  The Muscov
nearly had him that time, though.  It was then he lost the
use of half his fingers, and got that crack over the head
which has been an excuse for drunkenness ever since."

"Drunk or sober," I replied, "he is the best cavalry
officer we have; but make yourself comfortable, Victor,
as well as you can.  I recommend you to sleep on my
divan for an hour or two; something tells me we shall
advance to-night.  To-morrow, old friend, you and I may
sleep on a harder bed."

"*Vive la guerre!*" replied Victor, gaily as before; but
ere I had buckled on my sabre to leave the tent, the
chibouque had fallen from his lips, and he was fast
asleep.

My grey Arab, "Injour,"[#] was saddled and fastened
to a lance; my faithful Bold, who had accompanied me
through all my wanderings, and who had taken an
extraordinary liking for his equine companion, was ready to
be my escort; a revolver was in my holster-pipe, a hunch
of black bread in my wallet, and with my sabre by my
side, and a pretty accurate idea of my route, I
experienced a feeling of light-heartedness and independence to
which I had long been a stranger.  Poor Bold enjoyed
his master's society all the more that, in deference to
Moslem prejudices, I had now banished him from my
tent, and consigned him to the company of my horses.
He gambolled about me, whilst my snorting horse,
shaking his delicate head, struck playfully at him with his
fore-feet, as the dog bounded in front of him.  Bad
horseman as I always was, yet in a deep demi-pique
Turkish saddle, with broad shovel stirrups and a severe
Turkish bit, I felt thoroughly master of the animal I
bestrode, and I keenly enjoyed the sensation.  "Injour"
was indeed a pearl of his race.  Beautiful as a star, wiry
and graceful as a deer, he looked all over the priceless
child of the desert, whose blood had come down to him
from the very horses of the Prophet, unstained through
a hundred generations.  Mettle, courage, and endurance
were apparent in the smooth satin skin, the flat sinewy
legs, the full muscular neck, broad forehead, shapely
muzzle, wide red nostril, quivering ears, and game wild
eye.  He could gallop on mile after mile, hour after hour,
with a stride unvarying and apparently untiring as
clockwork; nor though he had a heavy man on his back did
his pulses seem to beat higher, or his breath come quicker,
when he arrived at the head-quarters of the Turkish
army than when he had left my own tent an hour and
a half earlier, the intervening time, much to poor Bold's
distress, having been spent at a gallop.  There was
evidently a stir in Omar Pasha's quarters.  Turkish officers
were going and coming with an eagerness and alacrity
by no means natural to those functionaries.  An English
horse, looking very thin and uncomfortable, was being led
away from the tent, smoking from the speed at which he
had been ridden.  The sentry alone was totally unmoved
and apathetic; a devout Mussulman, to him destiny was
destiny, and there an end.  Had the enemy appeared
forty thousand strong, sweeping over his very camp, he
would have fired his musket leisurely--in all probability
it would not have gone off the first time--and awaited
his fate, calmly observing, "Kismet![#] there is but one
Allah!"

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] The Pearl.

.. class:: left small

   [#] Destiny.

.. vspace:: 2

More energetic spirits are fortunately within those
green canvas walls; for there sits Omar Pasha, surrounded
by the gallant little band of foreigners, chiefly
Englishmen, who never wavered or hesitated for an instant,
however desperate the task to be undertaken, and whom,
it is but justice to say, the Turks were always ready to
follow to the death.  Very different is the expression on
each countenance, for a council of war is sitting, and
to-day will decide the fate of many a grey-coated Muscov
and many a turbaned servant of the Prophet.  A Russian
prisoner has moreover just been brought in, and my
arrival is sufficiently opportune to interpret, with the few
words of Russian I have already picked up, between the
unfortunate man and his captors.  If he prove to be a
spy, as is more than suspected, may Heaven have mercy
on him, for the Turk will not.

Omar Pasha's brow is contracted and stern.  He vouchsafes
me no look or sign of recognition as he bids me ask
the prisoner certain pertinent questions on which life and
death depend.

"What is the strength of the corps to which you belong?"

The man answers doggedly, and with his eyes fixed on
the ground, "Twenty thousand bayonets."

Omar Pasha compares his answer with the paper he
holds in his hand.  I fancy he sets his teeth a little
tighter, but otherwise he moves not a muscle of his
countenance.

"At what distance from the Danube did you leave
your General's head-quarters?"

The prisoner pretends not to understand.  My limited
knowledge of his language obliges me to put the question
in an involved form, and he seems to take time to consider
his answer.  There is nothing about the man to
distinguish him from the common Russian soldier--a mere
military serf.  He is dressed in the long, shabby, grey
coat, the greasy boots, and has a low overhanging brow, a
thoroughly Calmuck cast of features, and an intensely
stupid expression of countenance; but I remark that his
hands, which are nervously pressed together, are white
and slender, and his feet are much too small for their
huge shapeless coverings.

His eye glitters as he steals a look at the General, whilst
he answers, "Not more than an hour and a half."

Again Omar consults his paper, and a gleam passes
over his face like that of a chess-player who has
checkmated his adversary.

"One more question," he observes, courteously, "and I
will trouble you no longer.  What force of artillery is
attached to your General's *corps d'armée*?"

"Eight batteries of field-cannon and four troops of
horse artillery," replies the prisoner, this time without a
moment's hesitation; but the sweat breaks out on his
forehead, for he is watching Omar Pasha's countenance,
and he reads "death" on that impassible surface.

"It is sufficient, gentlemen," observes the General to
the officers who surround him.  "Let him be taken to the
rear of the encampment and shot forthwith."

The prisoner's lip quivers nervously, but he shows
extraordinary pluck, and holds himself upright as if on
parade.

"Poor devil!" says a hearty voice in English; and
turning round, I see a good-looking, broad-shouldered
Englishman, in the uniform of a brigadier, who is
watching the prisoner with an air of pity and curiosity
approaching the ludicrous.  "Excellence," says he, in
somewhat broken German, "will you not send him to me?  I
will undertake that he spreads no false reports about the
camp.  I will answer for his safety in my hands; he must
not be permitted to communicate with any one, even by
signs; but it is a pity to shoot him, is it not?"

"I would do much to oblige you, Brigadier," replied
Omar, with frank courtesy; "but you know the custom
of war.  I cannot in this instance depart from it--no, not
even to oblige a friend;" he smiled as he spoke, and
added in Turkish to an officer who stood beside him,
"March him out, and see it done immediately.  And now,
gentlemen," he proceeded, "we will arrange the plan of
attack.  Mr. Egerton, your despatches are ready; let
them reach Iskender Bey without delay.  There will be
work for us all to-morrow."

At these words a buzz of satisfaction filled the tent; not
an officer there but was determined to win his way to
distinction *coûte qui coûte*.  I felt I had received my dismissal,
and bowed myself out.  As I left the tent, I encountered
the unfortunate Russian prisoner marching doggedly
under escort to the place of his doom.  When he caught
sight of me he made a mechanical motion with his
fettered hand, as though to raise it to his cap, and
addressed me in French, of which language he had
hitherto affected the most profound ignorance.

"Comrade," said he, "order these men to give me five
minutes.  We are both soldiers; you shall do me a
favour."

I spoke to the "mulazim"[#] who commanded the guard.
He pointed out an open space on which we were entering,
and observed, "The Moscov has reached his resting-place
at last.  Five minutes are soon gone.  What am I that
I should disobey the Tergyman?  Be it on my head,
Effendi."

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   [#] Lieutenant.

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The Russian became perfectly composed.  At my desire
his arms were liberated, and the first use he made of his
freedom was to shake me cordially by the hand.

"Comrade," said he, in excellent French, and with the
refined tone of an educated man, "we are enemies, but
we are soldiers.  We are civilised men among barbarians;
above all, we are Christians among infidels.  Swear to me
by the faith we both worship that you will fulfil my last
request."

His coolness at this trying moment brought the tears
into my eyes.  I promised to comply with his demand so
far as my honour as a soldier would permit me.

He had stood unmoved surrounded by enemies, he had
heard his death-warrant without shrinking for an instant;
but my sympathy unmanned him, and it was with a
broken voice and moistened eyes that he proceeded.

"I am not what I seem.  I hold a commission in the
Russian army.  Disguised as a private soldier I crossed
the river of my own free will.  I have sacrificed myself
willingly for my country and my Czar.  He will know it,
and my brother will be promoted.  The favour I ask you
is no trifling one."  He took a small amulet from his neck
as he spoke; it was the image of his patron saint, curiously
wrought in gold.  "Forward this to my mother, she is the
one I love best on earth.  *Mother*," he repeated, in a low,
heartbreaking voice, "could you but see me now!"

I had fortunately a memorandum-book in my pocket.
I tore out a leaf and handed him a pencil.  He thanked
me with such a look of gratitude as I never saw before
on mortal face, wrote a few lines, wrapped the amulet in
the paper, and inscribed on it the direction with a hand
far steadier than my own.  As he gave it me, the mulazim
coolly observed, "Effendi! the time has expired," and
ordered his men to "fall in."  The Russian squeezed my
hand, and drew himself up proudly to his full height,
whilst his eye kindled, and the colour came once more
into his cheek.  As I mounted my horse, he saluted me
with the grave courteous air with which a man salutes
an antagonist in a duel.

I could not bear to see him die.  I went off at a gallop,
but I had not gone two hundred paces before I heard the
rattle of some half-dozen muskets.  I pulled up short and
turned round.  Some inexplicable fascination forced me
to look.  The white smoke was floating away.  I heard
the ring of the men's ramrods as they reloaded; and
where the Russian had stood erect and chivalrous while
he bid me his last farewell, there was nothing now but a
wisp of grey cloth upon the ground.

Sick at heart, I rode on at a walk, with the bridle on
my horse's neck.  But a soldier's feelings must not
interfere with duty.  My despatches had to be delivered
immediately, and soon I was once more speeding away as
fast as I had come.  An hour's gallop braced my nerves,
and warmed the blood about my heart.  As I gave Injour
a moment's breathing time, I summoned fortitude to read
the Russian's letter.  My scholarship was more than
sufficient to master its brief contents.  It was addressed
to the Countess D----, and consisted but of these few
words: "Console thyself, my mother; I die in the true
faith."

He was a gallant man and a good.

"If this is the stuff our enemies are made of," thought
I, as I urged Injour once more to his speed, "there is,
indeed--as Omar Pasha told us to-day--there is, indeed,
'work cut out for us all.'"





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.. _`"'SKENDER BEY"`:

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   CHAPTER XIX


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   "'SKENDER BEY"

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The old Lion is sober enough now.  What a headache
he ought to have after all that brandy yesterday: but the
prospect of fighting always puts Iskender Bey to rights,
and to-day he will have a bellyful, or we are much
mistaken.  At the head, in the rear, on the flanks of his
small force, the fiery Pole seems to have eyes and ears for
every trooper under his command.  The morning is dark
and cloudy; a small drizzling rain is falling, and
effectually assists our manoeuvres.  We have crossed the Danube
in a few flat boats before daybreak, fortunately with no
further casualty than the drowning of one horse, whose
burial-service has been celebrated in the strongest oaths
of the Turkish language.  We have landed without
opposition; and should we not be surprised by any outpost
of the enemy, we are in a highly favourable position for
taking our share in the combined attack.

Victor de Rohan has been attached for the occasion to
our commander's staff.  He is accompanied by a swarthy,
powerful man, mounted on a game-looking bay mare, the
only charger of that sex present on the field.  This worthy
goes by the name of Ali Mesrour, and is by birth a
Beloochee: fighting has been his trade for more than
twenty years, and he has literally fought his way all over
the East, till he found himself a sort of henchman to
Omar Pasha on the banks of the Danube.  He has accompanied
De Rohan here from head-quarters, and sits on his
mare by the Hungarian's side, grim and unmoved as
becomes a veteran warrior.  There is charlatanism in all
trades.  It is the affectation of the young soldier to be
excited, keen, volatile, and jocose, while the older hand
thinks it right to assume an air of knowing calmness, just
dashed with a touch of sardonic humour.  We are situated
in a hollow, where we are completely hidden from the
surrounding district: the river guards our rear and one of
our flanks; a strong picket is under arms in our front;
and beyond it a few videttes, themselves unseen, are
peeping over the eminence before them.  Our main body
are dismounted, but the men are prepared to "stand to
their horses" at a moment's notice, and all noise is
strictly forbidden in the ranks.  If we are surprised by a
sufficiently strong force we shall be cut to pieces, for we
have no retreat; if we can remain undiscovered for another
hour or so, the game will be in our own hands.

Iskender Bey is in Paradise.  This is what he lives for;
and to-day, he thinks, will see him a pasha or a corpse.

"Tergyman," he whispers to me, whilst his sides shake,
and his eyes kindle with mirth, "how little they think
who is their neighbour.  And the landing, Tergyman! the
landing; the only place for miles where we could have
accomplished it, and they had not even a sentry there.
Oh, it is the best joke!"  And Iskender dismounts from
his horse to enjoy his laugh in comfort, while his swollen
veins and bloodshot eyes betoken the severity of the
internal convulsion, all the more powerful that he must
not have it out in louder tones.

"Another hour of this, at least," observes Victor, as he
lights a large cigar, and hands another to the commandant,
and a third to myself, "one more hour, Egerton, and
then comes our chance.  You have got a picked body of
men to-day, Effendi!" he observes to the Bey; "and not
the worst of the horses."

"They are my own children to-day, Count," answers
Iskender, with sparkling eyes.  "There are not too many
of the brood left; but the chickens are game to the
backbone.  What say you, Ali?  These fellows are better stuff
than your Arabs that you make such a talk about."

The Beloochee smiles grimly, and pats his mare on the neck.

"When the sun is low," he answers, "I shall say what I
think; meanwhile work, and not talk, is before us.  The
Arab is no bad warrior, Effendi, on the fourth day, when
the barley is exhausted, and there is no water in the
skins."

Iskender laughs, and points to the Danube.  "There is
water enough there," he says, "for the whole cavalry of
the Padisha, Egyptian guards, and all.  Pah! don't talk
of water, I hate the very name of it.  Brandy is the
liquor for a soldier--brandy and blood.  Count de Rohan,
your Hungarians don't fight upon water, I'll answer for it."

"You know our proverb, Effendi," replies Victor, "'The
hussar's horse drinks wine.'  But the rain is coming on
heavier," he adds, looking up at the clouds; "we shall
have water enough to satisfy even a true Mussulman like
Ali, presently.  How slow the time passes.  May I not go
forward and reconnoitre?"

The permission is willingly granted; and as my office
is to-day a sinecure, I creep forward with Victor beyond
our advanced posts to a small knoll, from which, without
being seen, we can obtain a commanding view of the
surrounding country.

There is a flat extent in front of us, admirably adapted
for the operations of cavalry; and a slight eminence
covered with brushwood, which will conceal our
movements for nearly half-a-mile farther.

"The fools!" whispers Victor; "if they had lined that
copse with riflemen, they might have bothered us sadly as
we advanced."

"How do you know they have not?" I whisper in reply;
"not a man could we see from here; and their grey coats
are exactly the colour of the soil of this unhappy country."

Victor points to a flock of bustards feeding in security
on the plain.  "Not one of those birds would remain a
second," says he, "if there were a single man in the copse.
Do you not see that they have got the wind of all that
brushwood? and the bustard, either by scent or hearing,
can detect the presence of a human being as unerringly
as a deer.  But see; the mist is clearing from the Danube.
It cannot but begin soon."

Sure enough the mist was rolling heavily away from the
broad, yellow surface of the river; already we could descry
the towers and walls of Roustchouk, looming large, like
some enchanted keep, above the waters.  The rain, too, was
clearing off, and a bit of blue sky was visible above our
heads.  In a few minutes the sun shone forth cheeringly,
and a lark rose into the sky from our very feet, with his
gladsome, heavenward song, as the boom of a cannon
smote heavily on our ears; and we knew that, for to-day,
the work of death had at last begun.

The mist rose like a curtain: and the whole attack
was now visible from our post.  A few flats were putting
off from the Bulgarian side of the river, crowded with
infantry, whose muskets and accoutrements glittered in
the fitful sunlight, loaded to the water's edge.  It was
frightful to think of the effect a round-shot might have
on one of those crazy shallops, with its living freight.
The Russian batteries, well and promptly served, were
playing furiously on the river; but their range was too
high, and the iron shower whizzed harmlessly over the
heads of the attacking Moslem.  A Turkish steamer, coolly
and skilfully handled, was plying to and fro in support of
her comrades, and throwing her shells beautifully into the
Russian redoubts, where those unwelcome visitors created
much annoyance and confusion.  Victor's eyes lightened
as he puffed at his cigar with an assumed *sang-froid* which
it was easy to see he did not feel.

"The old Lion won't stay here long," he whispered to
me; "look back at him now, Vere.  I told you so: there
they go--'boots and saddles.'  We, too, shall be at it in
ten minutes.  *Vive la guerre!*"

As he spoke, the trumpet rang out the order to
"mount."  Concealment was no longer necessary, and we rushed back
to our horses, and placed ourselves on either side of our
commander, ready to execute whatever orders he might
choose to give.

Iskender Bey was now cool as if on parade; nay,
considerably cooler: for the rehearsal was more apt to excite
his feelings than the play itself.  He moved us forward at
a trot.  Once more he halted amongst the brushwood,
from which the scared bustards were by this time flying
in all directions; and whilst every charger's frame quivered
with excitement, and even the proud Turkish hearts
throbbed quicker under the Sultan's uniform, he alone
appeared wholly unmoved by the stake he had to play in
the great game.  It was but the calm before the hurricane.

From our new position we could see the boats of our
comrades rapidly nearing the shore.  Iskender, his bridle
hanging over his mutilated arm, and his glass pressed to
his eye, watched them with eager gaze.  It was indeed
a glorious sight.  With a thrilling cheer, the Turkish
infantry sprang ashore, and fixing bayonets as they rushed
on, stormed the Russian redoubts at a run, undismayed
and totally unchecked by the well-sustained fire of
musketry, and the grape and canister liberally showered on
them by the enemy.  An English officer in the uniform
of a brigadier, whom through my glass I recognised as the
good-humoured intercessor for the prisoner in Omar
Pasha's tent, led them on, waving his sword, several paces
in front of his men, and encouraging them with a gallantry
and daring that I was proud to feel were truly British.

But the Russian redoubts were well manned, and a
strong body of infantry were drawn up in support a few
hundred paces in their rear; the guns, too, had been
depressed, and the cannonade was terrible.  Down went
the red fez and the shaven head; Turkish sabre and
French musket lay masterless on the sand, and many a
haughty child of Osman gasped out his welling life-blood
to slake the dry Wallachian soil.  Wave your green scarfs,
dark-eyed maids of Paradise! for your lovers are thronging
to your gates.  But the crimson flag is waving in the
van, and the Russian eagle even now spreads her wings to
fly away.  A strong effort is made by the massive grey
column which constitutes the enemy's reserve, but the
English brigadier has placed himself at the head of a
freshly-landed regiment--Albanians are they, wild and
lawless robbers of the hills--and he sweeps everything
before him.  The redoubts are carried with a cheer, the
gunners bayoneted, the heavy field-pieces turned on their
former masters, and the Russian column shakes, wavers,
and gives way.  The glass trembles in Iskender's hand;
his eye glares, and the veins of his forehead begin to
swell: for him too *the* moment has come.

"Count de Rohan," says he, while he shuts up his glass
like a man who now sees his way clearly before him,
"bring up the rear-guard.  Tergyman!  I have got them
*here* in my hand!" and he clasps the mutilated fingers as
he speaks.  "Now I can crush them.  The column will
advance at a trot--'March!'"

Rapidly we clear the space that intervenes between our
former position and the retreating columns of the enemy--now
to sweep down with our handful of cavalry on their
flank, and complete the victory that has been so gallantly
begun!  For the first time the enemy appears aware of
our proximity.  A large body of cavalry moves up at a
gallop to intercept us.  We can see their commander
waving his sword and giving his orders to his men; their
number is far greater than our own, and Iskender is now
indeed in his glory.

"Form line!" he shouts in a voice of thunder, as he
draws his glittering sabre and shakes it above his head.
"Advance at a gallop!--charge!!"

Victor de Rohan is on one side of him, the Beloochee
and myself on the other; the wildest blood and the best
horses in Turkey at our backs: and down we go like the
whirlwind, with the shout of "*Allah!  Allah!*" surging in
our ears, lances couched and pennons fluttering, the
maddened chargers thundering at their speed, and the
life-blood mounting to the brain in the fierce ecstasy of that
delirious moment.

I am a man of peace, God knows!  What have I to do
with the folly of ambition--the tinsel and the glare and
the false enthusiasm of war?  And yet, with steel in his
hand and a good horse between his knees, a man may
well be excused for deeming such a moment as this worth
many a year of peaceful life and homely duties.  Alas! alas! is
it all vanity? is *cui bono* the sum and the end of
everything?  Who knows?  And yet it was glorious while
it lasted!

Long ere we reach them, the Russian cavalry wavers
and hesitates.  Their commander gallops nobly to the
front.  I can see him now, with his high chivalrous
features, and long, fair moustache waving in the breeze.
He gesticulates wildly to his men, and a squadron or two
seem inclined to follow the example of their gallant
leader.  In vain: we are upon them even now in their
confusion, and we roll them over, man and horse, with
the very impetus of our charge.  Lance-thrust and
sabre-cut, stab, blow and ringing pistol-shot, make short work
of the enemy.  "*Allah!  Allah!*" shout our maddened
troopers, and they give and take no quarter.  The
fair-haired Colonel still fights gallantly on.  Hopeless as it
is he strives to rally his men--a gentleman and a soldier
to the last.  My comrade, the Beloochee, has his eye
on him.  They meet in the *mêlée*.  The Colonel deals a
furious blow at his enemy with his long sabre, but the
supple Asiatic crouches on his mare's neck, and wheels
the well-trained animal at the same instant with his heel.
His curved blade glitters for a moment in the sun.  It
seems to pass without resistance through the air; then
the fair moustache is dabbled all in blood, and the Colonel's
horse gallops masterless from the field.

Victor de Rohan fights like a very Paladin, and even I
feel the accursed spirit rising in my heart.  The Russian
cavalry are scattered like chaff before the wind.  Their
disorganised masses ride in upon their own infantry, who
are vainly endeavouring to form with some regularity.
The retreat becomes a general rout, and our Turkish
troopers fly like hell-hounds to the pursuit.

How might a reserve have turned the tables then!
What a bitter lesson might have been taught us by a few
squadrons of veteran cavalry, kept in hand by a cool and
resolute officer.  In vain Iskender rides and curses and
gesticulates; he is himself more than half inclined to
follow the example of his men.  In vain the Beloochee
entreats and argues, and even strikes the refractory with
the flat of his sabre; our men have tasted blood, and are
no longer under control.  One regiment of Russian
infantry, supported by a few hussars and a field-piece,
are still endeavouring to cover the retreat.

"De Rohan," exclaims Iskender, while the foam gathers
on his lip and his features work with excitement, "I must
have that gun!  Forward, and follow me!"

We placed ourselves at the head of two squadrons of
the flower of our cavalry; veterans are they, well seasoned
in all the artifices of war, and "*own children*"--so he
delights to call them--to their chief.  The Beloochee has
also succeeded in rallying a few stragglers; and once
more we rush to the attack.

The Russian regiment, however, is well commanded,
and does its duty admirably.  The light field-piece opens
on us as we advance, and a well-directed volley, delivered
when we are within a few paces, checks us at the instant
we are upon them.  I can hear the Russian officer
encouraging his men.

"Well done, my children," says he, with the utmost
*sang-froid*--"once more like that will be enough."

Several of our saddles are emptied, and Iskender begins
to curse.

"Dogs!" he shouts, grinding his teeth, and spurring
furiously forward--"dogs!  I will be amongst you yet.
Follow me, soldiers! follow me!"

Meantime, the Russian hussars have been reinforced,
and are now capable of showing a front.  They threaten
our flank, and we are forced to turn our attention to this
new foe.  The infantry hold their ground manfully, and
Iskender, wheeling his men, rushes furiously upon the
comparatively fresh regiment of hussars with his tired
horses.  The Beloochee and myself are still abreast.
Despite of a galling fire poured in by the infantry upon
our flank, the men advance readily to the attack.  We
are within six horses' lengths of the hussars.  I am
setting my teeth and nerving my muscles for the
encounter, which must be fought out hand to hand,
when--crash!--Injour bounds into the air, falls upon his head,
recovers himself, goes down once more, rolls over me,
and lies prostrate, shot through the heart.  I disentangle
myself from the saddle, and rise, looking wildly about me.
One leg refuses to support my weight, but I do not know
that my ankle-bone is broken by a musket-ball, and that I
cannot walk three yards to save my life.  A loose charger
gallops over me and knocks me down once more.  I cannot
rise again.  The short look I have just had has shown
me our cavalry retiring, probably to obtain reinforcements.
The Russian hussars are between me and them, whilst the
desultory firing on my right tells me that the pursuit is
still rolling away far into Wallachia.  But all this is dim
and indistinct.  Again the old feeling comes on that it is
not Vere Egerton, but some one else, who is lying there
to die.  A cold sweat covers my face; a deadly sickness
oppresses me; the ground rises and heaves around me,
and I grasp the tufts of trodden grass in my hands.  The
sound of church bells is in my ears.  Surely it is the old
bell at Alton; but it strikes painfully on my brain.  A
vision, too, fleets before me, of Constance, with her soft,
dark eyes--the white dress makes me giddy--a flash as
of fire seems to blind me, and I know and feel no more.

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I was brought to my senses by the simple process of a
Cossack dropping his lance into the fleshy part of my
arm--no pleasant restorative, but in my case a most effectual
one.  The first sight that greeted my eyes was his little
horse's girths and belly, and his own rough, savage
countenance, looking grimly down upon me as he raised his arm
to repeat the thrust.  I muttered the few words of Russian
I knew, to beg for mercy, and he looked at his comrades,
as though to consult them on the propriety of acceding
to so unheard-of a request as that of a wounded man for
his life.  A few paces off I saw the Beloochee, evidently
taken prisoner, disarmed, and his head running with blood,
but his whole bearing as dignified and unmoved as usual.

In this awkward predicament I happily bethought me
of the Russian prisoner's epistle.

"Quarter, comrade! quarter!" I shouted as loudly as
my failing voice would suffer me.  "I have a letter from
your officer.  Here it is."

"Osmanli?" inquired the Cossack, once more raising
his arm to strike.  I shuddered to think how quickly that
steel lance-head might be buried in my body.

"No, Inglis!" I replied, and the man lowered his
weapon once more and assisted me to rise.

Fortunately at this juncture an officer rode up, and to
him I appealed for mercy and proper treatment as a
prisoner of war.  I misdoubted considerably the humanity
of my first acquaintance, whose eyes I could see
wandering over my person, as though he were selecting such
accoutrements and articles of clothing as he thought
would suit his own taste.  The officer, who seemed of high
rank, and was accompanied by an escort, fortunately spoke
German, and I appealed eloquently to him in that
language.  He started at the superscription of the deserter's
letter, and demanded of me sternly how I obtained it.
In a few words I told him the history of the unfortunate
spy, and he passed his gloved hand over his face as though
to conceal his emotion.

"You are English?" he observed rapidly, and looking
uneasily over his shoulder at the same time.  "We do
not kill our English prisoners, barbarians as you choose to
think us; but to the Turk we give no quarter.  Put him
on a horse," he added, to my original captor, who kept
unpleasantly near: "do not ill-treat him, but bring him
safely along with you.  If he tries to escape, blow his
brains out.  As for that rascal," pointing to the Beloochee,
"put a lance through him forthwith."

A happy thought struck me.  I determined to make an
effort for Ali.  "Excellence," I pleaded, "spare him, he is
my servant."

The Russian officer paused.  "Is he not a Turk?" he
asked, sternly.

"No, I swear he is not," I replied.  "He is my servant,
and an Englishman."

If ever a lie was justifiable, it was on the present
occasion: I trust this *white* one may not be laid to my charge.

"Bring them both on," said the Russian, still glancing
anxiously to his rear.  "Lieutenant Dolwitz, look to the
party.  Keep your men together, and move rapidly.  This
is the devil's own business, and our people are in full
retreat."  All this, though spoken in Russian, I was able
to understand; nor did the hurried manner in which the
great man galloped off shake my impression that he still
dreaded a vision of Iskender Bey and his band of heroes
thundering on his track.

I was placed on a little active Cossack pony.  The
Beloochee's wrist was tied to mine, and he was forced to
walk or rather run by my side; whenever he flagged a
poke from the butt-end of a lance admonished him to
mend his pace, and a Russian curse fell harmlessly on his
ear.  Still he preserved his dignity through it all; and so
we journeyed onwards into Wallachia, and meditated on the
chances of war and the changes that a day may bring forth.





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.. _`THE BELOOCHEE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center medium

   THE BELOOCHEE

.. vspace:: 2

The pursuit was fast and furious.  After crossing such
a river as the Danube, in the teeth of a far superior force
and under a heavy fire--after carrying the Russian
redoubts with the bayonet, and driving their main body
back upon its reserve, the Turkish troops, flushed and wild
with victory, were not to be stopped by any soldiers on
earth.

Iskender's charge had completely scattered the devoted
body that had so gallantly interposed to cover the retreat
of their comrades, and a total rout of the Russian forces
was the result.  The plains of Wallachia were literally
strewed with dismounted guns, broken ambulance wagons,
tumbrils, ammunition carts, dead and dying, whilst still
the fierce Moslem urged his hot pursuit.  Straggler
after straggler, reeking with haste and all agape with
fear, reached the astonished town of Bucharest, and the
reports in that pleasure-seeking capital were, as may well
be imagined, of the most bewildering and contradictory
description.

Many a frightful scene was witnessed by the terrified
Wallachian peasant, as fugitive after fugitive was
overtaken, struck down and butchered by the dread
pursuers.  Nay, women and children were not spared in the
general slaughter; and the hideous practice of refusing
"quarter," which has so long existed between the Turkish
and Russian armies, now bore ghastly fruit.

A horse falls exhausted in a cart which contains some
Russian wounded, and a woman belonging to their
regiment.  Its comrade vainly struggles to draw them through
the slough in which they are fast.  Half-a-dozen Turkish
troopers are on their track, urging those game little horses
to their speed, and escape is hopeless.

Helpless and mutilated, the poor fellows abandon
themselves to their fate.  The Turks ride in and make
short work of them, the Muscov dying with a stolid grim
apathy peculiar to himself and his natural foe.  The
woman alone shows energy and quickness in her efforts
to preserve her child.  She covers the baby over with the
straw at the bottom of the cart; wounded as she is in
the confusion, and with an arm broken, she seeks to
divert the attention of her ruthless captors.  Satisfied
with their butchery, they are about to ride on in search
of fresh victims, and the mother's heart leaps to think
that she has saved her darling.  But the baby cries in
its comfortless nest; quick as thought, a Turkish trooper
buries his lance amongst the straw, and withdraws the
steel head and gaudy pennon, reeking with innocent
blood.  The mother's shriek flies straight to Heaven.
Shall the curse she invokes on that ruthless brute fall
back unheard?  Ride on, man of blood--ride on, to burn
and ravage and slay; and when the charge hath swept
over thee, and the field is lost, and thou art gasping out
thy life-blood on the plain, think of that murdered child,
and die like a dog in thy despair!

By a route nearly parallel with the line of flight, but
wandering through an unfrequented district with which
the Cossacks seem well acquainted, the Beloochee and
myself proceed towards our captivity.  We have ample leisure
to examine our guards, these far-famed Cossacks of whom
warriors hear so much and see so little--the best scouts
and foragers known, hardy, rapid, and enduring, the very
eyes and ears of an army, and for every purpose except
fighting unrivalled by any light cavalry in the world.
My original captor, who still clings to me with a most
unwelcome fondness, is no bad specimen of his class.  He
is mounted on a shaggy pony, that at first sight seems
completely buried even under the middle-sized man it
carries, but with a lean, good head, and wiry limbs that
denote speed and endurance, when put to the test.  In a
snaffle bridle, and with its head up, the little animal goes
with a jerking, springing motion, not the least impaired
by its day's work, and the fact that it has now been
without food for nearly twenty-four hours.  Its master,
the same who keeps his small bright eye so constantly
fastened upon his prisoners, is a man of middle height,
spare, strong, and sinewy, with a bushy red beard and
huge moustache.  His dress consists of enormously loose
trousers, a tight-fitting jacket, and high leathern shako;
and he sits with his knees up to his chin.  His arms are
a short sabre, very blunt, and useless, and a long lance,
with which he delights to do effective service against a
fallen foe.  He has placed the Beloochee between himself
and me; it seems that he somewhat mistrusts my
companion, but considers myself, a wounded man on one of
their own horses, safe from any attempt at escape.  The
Beloochee, notwithstanding that every word calls down a
thwack upon his pate (wounded as it is by the sabre-cut
which stunned him) from the shaft of a lance, hazards
an observation, every now and then, in Turkish.  It is
satisfactory to find that our guardians are totally ignorant
of that language.  I remark, too, that Ali listens anxiously
at every halt, and apparently satisfied with what he hears,
though I for my own part can discern nothing, walks on
in a cheerful frame of mind, which I attribute entirely
to the Moslem stoicism.  His conversation towards dusk
consists entirely of curses upon his captors; and these
worthies, judging of its tenor by the sound, and sympathising
doubtless with the relief thus afforded, cease to
belabour him for his remarks.

At nightfall the rain came on again as in the morning;
and at length it grew pitch dark, just as we entered a
defile, on one side of which was a steep bank covered
with short brushwood, and on the other a wood of young
oaks nearly impenetrable.

I felt the Beloochee's wrist press mine with an energy
that must mean something.

"Are you in pain?" he whispered in Turkish, adding
a loud and voluble curse upon the Giaour, much out of
unison with his British character, but which was doubtless
mistaken for a round English oath.

"Not much," I replied in the same language; "but
sick and faint at times."

"Can you roll off your horse, and down the bank on
your left?" he added, hurriedly.  "If you can, I can
save you."

"Save yourself," I replied; "how can I move a step
with a ball in my ankle-bone?"

"Silence!" interposed the Cossack, with a bang over
the Beloochee's shoulders.

"Both or none," whispered the latter after a few
seconds' interval, "do exactly as I tell you."

"Agreed," I replied, and waited anxiously for the
result.

Our Cossack was getting wet through.  To his hardy
frame such a soaking could scarcely be called an
inconvenience; nevertheless, it created a longing for a pipe,
and the tobacco-bag he had taken from Ali was fortunately
not half emptied.  As he stopped to fill and light
his short silver-mounted meerschaum, the spoil of some
fallen foe, the troopers in our rear passed on.  We were
left some ten paces behind the rest, and the night was as
dark as pitch.

Ali handed me a small knife: he had concealed that
and one other tiny weapon in the folds of his sash when
they searched him on the field of battle.  I knew what
he meant, and cut the cord that bound our wrists
together; his other hand, meanwhile, to lull suspicion,
caressed the Cossack's horse.  That incautious individual
blew upon his match, which refused to strike a good light.

In a twinkling Ali's shawl was unwound from his body
and thrown apparently over the Cossack's saddle-bow.
The smothered report of a pocket-pistol smote on my
ear, but the sound could not penetrate through those
close Cashmere folds to the party in front, and they rode
unconsciously forward.  The Beloochee's hand, too, was
on his adversary's throat; and one or two gasps, as they
rolled together to the ground, made me doubt whether
he had been slain by the ball from that little though
effective weapon, or choked in the nervous gripe of the
Asiatic.

I had fortunately presence of mind to restrain my own
horse, and catch the Cossack's by the bridle; the party in
front still rode on.

Ali rose from the ground.  "The knife," he whispered
hoarsely, "the knife!"

Once, twice, he passed it through that prostrate body.
"Throw yourself off," he exclaimed; "let the horses go.
Roll down that bank, and we are saved!"

I obeyed him with the energy of a man who knows he
has but *one* chance.  I scarcely felt the pain as I rolled
down amongst the brushwood.  I landed in a water-course
full of pebbles, but the underwood had served to break
my fall; and though sorely bruised and with a broken
ankle, I was still alive.  The Beloochee, agile as a cat,
was by my side.

"Listen," said he; "they are riding back to look
for us.  No horse on earth but *one* can creep down that
precipice; lie still.  If the moon does not come out, we
are saved."

Moments of dreadful suspense followed.  We could
hear the Cossacks shouting to each other above, and their
savage yell when they discovered their slain comrade
smote wildly on our ears.  Again I urged the Beloochee
to fly--why should he wait to die with me?  I could
scarcely scrawl, and a cold sickness came on at intervals
that unnerved me totally.

To all my entreaties he made but one reply, "Bakaloum"
(We shall see), "it is our destiny.  There is but
one Allah!"

The Cossacks' shouts became fainter and fainter.  They
seemed to have divided in search of their late prey.  The
moon, too, struggled out fitfully.  It was a wild scene.

The Beloochee whistled--a low, peculiar whistle, like
the cry of a night-hawk.  He listened attentively; again
he repeated that prolonged, wailing note.  A faint neigh
answered it from the darkness, and we heard the tread of
a horse's hoofs approaching at a trot.

"It is Zuleika," he observed, quietly; "there is but one
Allah!"

A loose horse, with saddle and bridle, trotted up to my
companion, and laid its head against his bosom.  Stern
as he was, he caressed it as a mother fondles a child.
It was his famous bay mare, "the treasure of his heart,"
"the corner of his liver,"--for by such endearing epithets
he addressed her,--and now he felt indeed that he was
saved.

"Mount," he said, "in the name of the Prophet.  I
know exactly where we are.  Zuleika has the wings of
the wind; she laughs to scorn the heavy steeds of the
Giaour; they swallow the dust thrown up by her hoofs,
and Zuleika bounds from them like the gazelle.  Oh,
*jhanum*!--oh, my soul!"  Once more he caressed her,
and the mare seemed well worthy of his affection; she
returned it by rubbing her head against him with a low
neigh.

I was soon in the saddle, with the Beloochee walking
by my side.  His iron frame seemed to acknowledge no
fatigue.  Once I suggested that the mare should carry
double, and hazarded an opinion that by reducing the
pace we might fairly increase the burden.  The remark
well-nigh cost me the loss of my preserver's friendship.

"Zuleika," he exclaimed, with cold dignity, "Zuleika
requires no such consideration.  She is not like the gross
horse of the Frank, who sinks and snorts, and struggles
and fails, under his heavy burden.  She would step lightly
as a deer under three such men as we are.  No, light of
my eyes," he added, smoothing down the thin silky mane
of his favourite, "I will walk by thee and caress thee, and
feast my eyes on thy star-like beauty.  Should the Giaour
be on our track, I will mount thee with the Tergyman,
and we will show him the mettle of a real daughter of
the desert--my rose, my precious one!"

She was, indeed, a high-bred-looking animal, although
from her great strength in small compass she appeared
less speedy than she really was.  Her colour was a rich
dark bay, without a single white hair.  Her crest was
high and firm as that of a horse; and her lean, long head
and expressive countenance showed the ancestry by which
her doting master set such store.  Though the skin that
covered those iron muscles so loosely was soft and supple
as satin, she carried no flesh, and her deep ribs might
almost be counted by the eye.  Long in her quarters,
with legs of iron and immense power in her back and
loins, she walked with an elastic, springy gait, such as
even my own Injour could not have emulated.  She was
of the highest breed in the desert, and as superior to
other horses as the deer is to the donkey.  I wondered
how my friend had obtained possession of her; and as we
plodded on, the Beloochee, who had recovered his
good-humour, walking by my side, condescended to inform
me of the process by which the invaluable Zuleika had
become his own.

"Tergyman!" said he, "I have journeyed through
many lands, and with the exception of your country--the
island of storms and snows--I have seen the whole
world.[#]  In my own land the mountains are high and
rugged, the winters cold and boisterous; it rears *men*
brave and powerful as *Rustam*, but we must look
elsewhere for *horses*.  Zuleika, you perceive, is from the
desert: 'The nearer the sun, the nobler the steed.'  She
was bred in the tent of a scheik, and as a foal she carried
on her back only such children as had a chief's blood in
their veins."

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.. class:: left small

   [#] This is a common idea amongst Orientals when they have done
   Mecca and seen a greater part of Asia Minor.

.. vspace:: 2


"From my youth up I have been a man of war, Effendi,
and the word of command has been more familiar to my
lips than the blessed maxims of the Prophet; but the
time will come when I too shall be obliged to cross the
narrow bridge that spans the abyss of hell.  And if my
naked feet have no better protection from its red-hot
surface than deeds of arms and blood-stained victories,
woe to me for ever!  I shall assuredly fall headlong into
the depths of fire.

"Therefore I bethought me of a pilgrimage to Mecca,
for he is indeed a true believer who has seen with his
own eyes the shrine of the Blessed Prophet.  Many and
long were the days I passed under the burning sun of the
desert; wearisome and slow was the march of the caravan.
My jaded camel was without water.  I said in my soul,
'It is my destiny to die.'  Far behind the long array,
almost out of hearing of their bells, my beast dragged
his weary steps.  I quitted his back and led him till he
fell.  No sooner was he down than the vultures gathered
screaming around him, though not a speck had I seen for
hours in the burning sky.  Then I beheld a small cloud
far off on the horizon; it was but of the size of one of
these herdsmen's cottages, but black as the raven, and it
advanced more rapidly than a body of horsemen.  Ere I
looked again it seemed to reach the heavens, the skies
became dark as night, columns of sand whirled around
me, and I knew the simoom was upon us and it was time
to die.

"How long I lay there I know not.  When I recovered
my consciousness, the caravan had disappeared, my camel
was already stripped to the bones by the birds of prey,
my mouth and nostrils were full of sand.  Nearly
suffocated, faint and helpless, it was some time ere I was
aware of an Arab horseman standing over me, and looking
on my pitiable condition with an air of kindness and
protection.

"'My brother,' he said, 'Allah has delivered thee into
my hand.  Mount, and go with me.'

"He gave me water from a skin, he put me on his own
horse till we were joined by his tribe; I went with him
to his tents, and I became to him as a brother, for he had
saved me at my need.

"He was a scheik of the wild Bedouins: a better
warrior never drew a sword.  Rich was he too, and
powerful; but of all his wives and children, camels,
horses, and riches, he had two treasures that he valued
higher than the pearl of Solomon--his bay mare and his
daughter Zuleika."

The Beloochee's voice trembled, and he paused.  For a
few seconds he listened as if to satisfy himself that the
enemy were not on our track, and then nerving himself
like a man about to suffer pain, and looking far into the
darkness, he proceeded--

"I saw her day after day in her father's tent.  Soon I
longed for her light step and gentle voice as we long for
the evening breeze after the glare and heat of the day.
At last I watched her dark eyes as we watch the guiding
star by night in the desert.  To the scheik I was as a
brother.  I was free to come and go in his tent, and all
his goods were mine.  Effendi!  I am but a man, and I
loved the girl.  In less than a year I had become a warrior
of their tribe; many a foray had I ridden with them, and
many a herd of camels and drove of horses had I helped
them to obtain.  Once I saved the scheik's life with the
very sword I lost to-day.  Could they not have given me
the girl?  Oh! it was bitter to see her every hour, and
to know she was promised to another!

"A few days more and she was to be espoused to
Achmet.  He was the scheik's kinsman, and she had
been betrothed to him from a child.  I could bear it no
longer.  The maiden looked at me with her dark eyes
full of tears.  I had eaten the scheik's salt--he had saved
me from a lingering death--he was my host, my friend,
my benefactor, and I robbed him of his daughter.  We
fled in the night.  I owned a horse that could outstrip
every steed in the tribe save one.  I took a leathern skin
of water, a few handfuls of barley, and my arms.  I
placed Zuleika on the saddle in front of me, and at
daybreak we were alone in the desert, she and I, and we
were happy.  When the sun had been up an hour, there
was a speck in the horizon behind us.  I told Zuleika we
were pursued; but she bid me take courage, for my steed
was the best in the tribe, said she, except her father's bay
mare, and he suffered no one to mount that treasure but
himself.  She had loosed the bay mare the night before
from her picket-ropes; it would be morning before they
could find her, and there was nothing to fear.  I took
comfort, and pressed my bride to my heart.

"In the desert, Effendi, it is not as with us.  The
Arab's life depends upon his horse, and he proves him
as you would prove a blade.  At two years old he rides
him till his back bends,[#] and he never forgets the merits
of the colt.  Each horse's speed is as well known in the
tribe as is each officer's rank in the army of the Padisha.
Nothing could overtake my charger save the scheik's bay
mare; and, thanks to Zuleika, the bay mare must be
hours behind us."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] An Arab maxim, from which they are studious not to depart;
   their idea being that a horse's worst year is from three to four;
   during which period they let him run perfectly idle, but feeding
   him at the same time as if in full work: for, say they, "a horse's
   goodness goes in at his mouth."  At five he is considered mature.

.. vspace:: 2

"We galloped steadily on, and once more I looked over
my shoulder.  The speck had become larger and darker
now, and I caught the gleam of a lance in the morning
sun.  Our pursuer must be nearing us; my horse too
began to flag, for I had ridden fiercely, and he carried
myself and my bride.  Nevertheless, we galloped steadily
on.

"Once more I looked back.  The object was distinct
enough now; it was a horseman going at speed.  Allah
be praised! there was but one.  Zuleika turned pale and
trembled--my lily seemed to fade on my bosom.  Effendi,
I had resolved what to do."





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.. _`ZULEIKA`:

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   CHAPTER XXI


.. class:: center medium

   ZULEIKA

.. vspace:: 2

"Man to man, and in the desert, I had but little to fear,
yet when I saw Achmet's face, my heart turned to water
within me.  He was a brave warrior.  I had ridden by
his side many a time in deadly strife; but I had never
seen him look like this before.  When I turned to
confront him, my horse was jaded and worn out--I felt that
my life was in the hand of mine enemy.

"'Achmet,' I said, 'let me go in peace; the maiden has
made her choice--she is mine.'

"His only answer was a lance-thrust that passed
between Zuleika's body and my own.  The girl clung
fainting to my bosom, and encumbered my sword-arm.
My horse could not withstand the shock of Achmet's
charge, and rolled over me on the sand.  In endeavouring
to preserve Zuleika from injury, my yataghan dropped
out of its sheath; my lance was already broken in the
fall, and I was undermost, with the gripe of my
adversary on my throat.  Twice I shook myself free from his
hold: and twice I was again overmastered by my rival.
His eyes were like living coals, and the foam flew from
his white lips.  He was mad, and Allah gave him strength.
The third time his grasp brought the blood from my
mouth and nostrils.  I was powerless in his hold.  His
right arm was raised to strike; I saw the blade quivering
dark against the burning sky.  I turned my eyes towards
Zuleika; for even then I thought of *her*.  The girl was
a true Arab, faithful to the last.  Once, twice, she
raised her arm quick and deadly as the lightning.  She
had seized my yataghan when it dropped from its sheath,
and she buried it in Achmet's body.  I rose from the
ground a living man, and I was saved by her.

"Effendi, we took the bay mare, and left my jaded
horse with the dead man.  For days we journeyed on,
and looked not back, nor thought of the past, for we were
all in all to each other; and whilst our barley lasted and
we could find water we knew that we were safe: so we
reached Cairo, and trusted in Allah for the future.  I had
a sword, a lovely wife, and the best mare in the world;
but I was a soldier, and I could not gain my bread by
trade.  I loathed the counters and the bazaar, and longed
once more to see the horsemen marshalled in the field.
So I fed and dressed the bay mare, and cleaned my arms,
and leaving Zuleika in the bazaars, placed myself at the
gate of the Pasha, and waited for an audience.

"He received me kindly, and treated me as a guest of
consideration; but he had a cunning twinkle in his eye
that I liked not; and although I knew him to be as
brave as a lion, I suspected he was as treacherous as the
fox; nevertheless, 'the hungry man knows not dates
from bread,' and I accepted service under him willingly,
and went forth from his presence well pleased with
my fate.  'Zuleika,' I thought, 'will rejoice to hear that
I have employment, and I shall find here in Cairo
a sweet little garden where I will plant and tend my rose.'

"I thought to rejoin my love where I had left her, in
the bazaar; but she was gone.  I waited hours for her
return; she came not, and the blood thickened round my
heart.  I made inquiries of the porters and water-carriers,
and all the passers-by that I could find: none had seen
her.  One old woman alone thought she had seen a girl
answering my description in conversation with a black,
wearing the uniform of the Pasha; but she was convinced
the girl had a fawn-coloured robe, or it might have been
lilac, or perhaps orange, but it certainly was not green:
this could not then be Zuleika, for she wore the colour of
the Prophet.  She was lost to me--she for whom I had
striven and toiled so much; my heart sank within me;
but I could not leave the place, and for months I remained
at Cairo, and became a Yuz-Bashi in the Guards of the
Pasha.  But from that time to this I have had no tidings
of Zuleika--my Zuleika."

The Beloochee's face was deadly pale, and his features
worked with strong emotion: it was evident that this
fierce warrior--man of blood though he had been from his
youth upward--had been tamed by the Arab girl.  She
was the one thing on earth he loved, and the love of such
wild hearts is fearful in intensity.  After a pause, during
which he seemed to smother feelings he could not command,
he proceeded in a hoarse, broken voice with his tale.

"The days have never been so bright since I lost her,
Effendi; but what would you? it was my kismet, and I
submitted; as we must all submit when it is fruitless to
struggle.  Day by day I did my duty, and increased in
the good opinion of the Pasha; but I cared for nothing
now save only the bay mare, and I gave her the name of
one whom I should never see again.

"The Pasha was a haughty old warrior, lavish in his
expenses, magnificent in his apparel, and above all, proud
of his horses.  Some of the swiftest and noblest steeds of
the desert had found their way into his stables; and there
were three things in the world which it was well known
he would not refuse in the shape of a bribe, these were
gold, beauty, and horse-flesh.  Ere long he cast a wistful
look on my bay mare Zuleika.

"It is well known, Effendi, that an Arab mare of pure
race is not to be procured.  The sons of the desert are
true to their principles, and although gold will buy their
best horses, they are careful not to part with their mares
for any consideration in the world.  For long the Pasha
would not believe that Zuleika was a daughter of that
wonderful line which was blessed so many hundred years
ago by the Prophet, nor was I anxious that he should
learn her value, for I knew him to be a man who took no
denial to his will.  But when he saw her outstripping all
competitors at the jereed; when he saw her day after day,
at work or at rest, in hardship or in plenty, always smooth
and sleek and mettlesome as you see her now, he began
to covet so good an animal, and with the Pasha to covet
was in one way or another to possess.

"Many a hint was given me that I ought to offer him
my bay mare as a present, and that I might then ask
what I would; but to all these I turned a deaf ear; now
that *she* was gone, what had I in the world but Zuleika? and
I swore in my soul that death alone should part us.
At length the Pasha offered me openly whatever sum I
chose to name as the price of my mare, and suggested at
the same time that if I continued obdurate, it might be
possible that he should obtain the animal for nothing, and
that I should never have occasion to get on horseback
again.  My life was in danger as well as my favourite.
I determined, if it were possible, to save both.

"I went to the Pasha's gate and demanded an audience,
presenting at the same time a basket of fruit for his
acceptance.  He received me graciously, and ordered
pipes and coffee, bidding me seat myself on the divan
by his side.

"'Ali,' said he, after a few unmeaning compliments,
'Ali, there are a hundred steeds in my stable.  Take your
choice of them and exchange with me your bay mare,
three for one."

"'Pasha!' I replied, 'my bay mare is yours and all
that I have, but I am under an oath, that never in my life
am I to *give* or *sell* her to any one.'

"The Pasha smiled, and the twinkle in his eye betokened
mischief.  'It is said,' he answered, 'an oath is
an oath.  There is but one Allah!'

"'Nevertheless, Highness,' I remarked, 'I am at liberty
to LOSE her.  She may yet darken the door of your stable
if you will match your best horse against her, the winner
to have both.  But you shall give me a liberal sum to
run the race.'

"The Pasha listened eagerly to my proposal.  He
evidently considered the race was in his own hands, and
I was myself somewhat surprised at the readiness with
which he agreed to an arrangement which he must have
foreseen would end in the discomfiture and loss of his
own steed without the gain of mine.  I did not know yet
the man with whom I had to deal.

"'To-morrow, at sunrise,' said the Pasha, 'I am willing
to start my horse for the race; and, moreover, to show
my favour and liberality, I am willing to give a thousand
piasters for every ten yards' start you may choose to take.
If my horse outstrips your mare you return me the money,
if you win you take and keep all.'

"I closed with the proposal, and all night long I lay
awake, thinking how I should preserve Zuleika in my own
possession.  That I should win I had no doubt, but this
would only expose me to fresh persecutions, and eventually
I should lose my life and my mare too.  Towards sunrise
a thought struck me, and I resolved to act upon it.

"I would hold the Pasha to his word; I would claim a
start of fifty yards, and a present of five thousand piasters.
I would take the money immediately, and girth my mare
for the struggle.  With fifty yards of advantage, where
was the horse in the world that could come up with
Zuleika?  I would fly with her once more into the desert,
and take my chance.  Better death with her, than life
and liberty deprived of my treasure.  I rose, prayed, went
to the bath, and then fed and saddled my favourite,
placing a handful of dates and a small bag of barley behind
the saddle.

"All Cairo turned out to see the struggle.  The Pasha's
troops were under arms, and a strong party of his own
guards, the very regiment to which I belonged, was
marshalled to keep the ground.  We were to run a distance
of two hours[#] along the sand.  Lances pointed out our
course, and we were to return and finish in front of a tent
pitched for the Pasha himself.  His ladies were present,
too, in their gilded *arabas*, surrounded by a negro guard.
As I led my mare up they waved their handkerchiefs, and
one in particular seemed restless and uneasy.  I imagined
I heard a faint scream from the interior of her *araba*; but
the guard closed round it, and ere I had looked a second
time it had been driven from the ground.  Just then the
Pasha summoned myself and my competitor to his tent.
I cast my eye over my antagonist.  He was considerably
lighter than I was, and led a magnificent chestnut stallion,
the best in the Pasha's stables; but when I looked at its
strong but short form, and thought of Zuleika's elastic
gait and lengthy stride, I had no fears for the result."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] About seven miles.  The Asiatic always counts space by time,
   and an hour is equivalent to something over a league.

.. vspace:: 2

"I saluted the Pasha, and made my request.  'Highness,'
I said, 'I claim a start of fifty yards and five
thousand piasters.  Let the money be paid, that I may take it
with me and begin.'

.. _`172`:

"'It is well,' replied the Pasha; '*Kiātib*,' he added, to
his secretary, 'have you prepared the "backshish" for Ali
Mesrour?  Bestow it on him with a blessing, that he may
mount and away,' and again the cruel eye twinkled with
its fierce grim humour.  Effendi, my heart sank within
me when I saw two sturdy slaves bring out a sack,
evidently of great weight, and proceed to lay the burden
on my pawing mare.  'What is this?' I exclaimed, aghast;
'Highness, this is treachery!  I am not to carry all that
weight!'

"'Five thousand piasters, oh my soul!' replied the
Pasha, with his most ferocious grin; 'and all of it *in copper*,
too.  Mount, in the name of the Prophet, and away!'

"My adversary was already in his saddle; the sack was
fastened in front of mine.  I saw that if I made the
slightest demur, it would be considered a sufficient excuse
to deprive me of my mare, perhaps of my life.  With a
prayer to Allah, I got into my saddle.  Zuleika stepped
proudly on, as though she made but little of the weight;
and I took my fifty yards of start, and as much more as I
could get.  The signal-shot was fired, and we were off.
Zuleika sniffed the air of the desert, and snorted in her
joy.  Despite of the piasters, she galloped on.  Effendi,
from that day to this I have seen neither my antagonist
in the race, nor the negro guard, nor the gilded *arabas*,
nor the Pasha's angry smile.  I won my mare, I won my
life and freedom; also I carried off five thousand piasters
of the Pasha's money, and doubtless four times a day he
curses me in his prayers, but yonder is the dawn, and
here is the Danube.  Sick and faint you must be,
Tergyman!  Yet in two hours more we shall reach Omar
Pasha's tent, for I myself placed a picket of our soldiers
on either bank at yonder spot, and they have a boat; so
take courage for a little time longer, and confess that the
breath of the morning here is sweeter than the air of a
Russian prison.  Who can foretell his destiny?  There is
but one Allah!"

I had not the tough frame of my Beloochee friend;
before we reached the waterside I had fainted dead away.
I remembered no more till I awoke from my fever in an
hospital tent at head-quarters.  On that weary time of
prostration and suffering it is needless for me to dwell.
Ere I could sit upright in bed the winter had commenced,
the season for field operations was over, and the army
established in cantonments.  There was a lull, too, before
the storm.  The Allies had not yet put forth their strength,
and it was far from improbable that the war might even
then be near its conclusion.

Victor had determined to return to Hungary, and
insisted on my accompanying him.  Weak, maimed, and
emaciated, I could be of no service to my chief, or to the
great General who had so kindly recognised me.  I had
nothing to keep me in Turkey; I had nothing to take me
to England.  No, no, anywhere but there.  Had I but
won a name, I should have rejoiced to return into
Somersetshire, to see Constance once again--to repay her
coldness with scorn--perhaps to pass her without speaking--or,
bitterer still, to greet her with the frankness and ease
of a mere acquaintance.  But what was I, to dream thus?
A mere adventurer, at best a poor soldier of fortune,
whose destiny, sooner or later, would be but to fatten a
battle-field or encumber a trench, and have his name
misspelt in a *Gazette*.  No, no, anywhere but England, and
why not Hungary?  Victor's arguments were unanswerable;
and once more--but oh! how changed from the
quiet, thoughtful child--I was again at Edeldorf.





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.. _`VALERIE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXII


.. class:: center medium

   VALÈRIE

.. vspace:: 2

"I tell you I saw them led out under my very windows
to be shot.  Two and two they marched, with their heads
erect, and their gait as haughty as if they were leading
the assault.  Thirteen of them in all, and the oldest not
five-and-forty.  Oh! woe to the Fatherland!--the best
blood in Hungary was shed on that fearful day,--the
gallant, the true-hearted, who had risen at the first call,
and had been the last to fail.  Taken with arms in their
hands, forsooth!  What should be in a gentleman's hands
but arms at such a time?  Oh, that I had but been a
man!"  The girl's dark eyes flashed, and her beautiful
chiselled nostril dilated as she threw her head back, and
stamped her little foot on the floor.  None of your
soft-eyed beauties was Valèrie de Rohan, but one who sparkled
and blazed, and took your admiration fairly by storm.
Those who are experienced in such matters affirm that
these are the least dangerous of our natural enemies, and
that your regular heart-breaker is the gentle, smiling,
womanly woman, who wins her way into the citadel step
by step, till she pervades it all, and if she leaves it, leaves
desolation and ruin behind her.  But of this I am incapable
of giving an opinion; all I know is, Valèrie grew soft
enough as she went on.

"I knew every man of them intimately; not one but
had been my father's guest--my poor father, even then
fined and imprisoned in Comorn for the manly part he
had played.  Not one of them but had been at our
'receptions' in the very room from the windows of which I
now saw them marching forth to die; and not one but as
he passed me lifted his unfettered hand to his head, and
saluted me with a courtly smile.  Last of all came Adolphe
Zersky, my own second cousin, and the poor boy was but
nineteen.  I bore it all till I saw him; but when he passed
under my very eyes, and smiled his usual light-hearted
smile, and waved his handkerchief to me, and pressed it
to his lips--a handkerchief I had embroidered for him
with my own hands--and called out blithesomely, as
though he were going to a wedding, 'Good-morning,
Comtesse Valèrie; I meant to have called to-day, but
have got a previous engagement,' I thought my heart
would break.  He looked prouder than any of them; I
hardly think he would have been set free if he could.  He
was a true Hungarian.  God bless him!--I heard the
shots that struck them down.  I often dream I hear them
now.  They massacred poor Adolphe last of all--he
retained his *sang-froid* to the end.  The Austrian officer on
guard was an old schoolfellow, and Adolphe remarked to
im with a laugh, just before they led him out, 'I say,
Fritz, if they mean to keep us here much longer, they
really ought to give us some breakfast!'

"Oh, Mr. Egerton, it was a cruel time.  I had borne
the bombardment well enough.  I had seen our beautiful
town reduced to ruins; and I never winced, for I am the
daughter of a Hungarian; but I gave way when they
butchered my friends, and wept--oh, how I wept!  What
else could I do?  We poor weak women have but our
tears to give.  Had I *but* been born a man!"

Once more Valèrie's eye flashed, and the proud, wild look
gleamed over her features; while a vague idea that for
same days had pervaded my brain began to assume a
certain form, to the effect that Valèrie de Rohan was a very
beautiful woman, and that it was by no means disagreeable
to have such a nurse when one was wounded in body, or
such a friend when one was sick at heart.  And she
treated me as a *real* friend: she reposed perfect confidence
in me; she told me of all her plans and pursuits, her
romantic ideas, and visionary schemes for the regeneration
of her country, for she was a true patriot; lastly, she
confessed to a keen admiration for my profession as a soldier,
and a tender pity for my wounds.  Who would not have
such a friend?  Who would not follow with his eyes such
a nurse as she glided about his couch?

It is useless to attempt the description of a woman.  To
say that Valèrie had dark, swimming eyes, and jet-black
hair, twisted into a massive crown on her superb head,
and round arms and white hands sparkling with jewels,
and a graceful floating figure, shaped like a statue, and
dressed a little too coquettishly, is merely to say that she
was a commonplace handsome person, but conveys no idea
of that subtle essence of beauty--that nameless charm
which casts its spell equally over the wisest as the
weakest, and which can no more be expressed by words
than it can be accounted for by reason.  Yet Valèrie was
a woman who would have found her way straight to the
hearts of most men.  It seems like a dream to look back
to one of those happy days of contented convalescence and
languid repose.  Every man who has suffered keenly in
life must have felt that there is in the human organisation
an instinctive reaction and resistance against sorrow,
a natural tendency to take advantage of any lull in the
storm, and a disposition to deceive ourselves into the
belief that we are forgetting for the time that which the
very effort proves we too bitterly remember.  But even
this artificial repose has a good effect.  It gives us
strength to bear future trials, and affords us also time for
reflections which, in the excitement of grief, are powerless
to arrest us for a moment.

So I lay on the sofa in the drawing-room at Edeldorf,
and rested my wounded leg, and shut my eyes to the
future, and drew a curtain (alas, what a transparent one it
was!) over the past.  There was everything to soothe and
charm an invalid.  The beautiful room, with its panelled
walls and polished floor, inlaid like the costliest marquetry,
a perfect mosaic of the forest; the light cane chairs and
brocaded ottomans scattered over its surface; the gorgeous
cabinets of ebony and gold that filled the spaces between
the windows, reflected in long mirrors that ran from floor
to ceiling; the gems of Landseer, reproduced by the
engraver, sparkling on the walls--for the Hungarian is
very English in his tastes, and loves to gaze through the
mist at the antlered stag whom Sir Edwin has captured
in the corrie, and reproduced in a thousand halls; or to
rest with the tired pony and the boy in *sabots* at the
halting-place; or to exchange humorous glances with the
blacksmith who is shoeing that wondrously-drawn bay
horse, foreshortened into nature, till one longs to pat
him;--all this created a beautiful interior, and *from* all this I
could let my eyes wander away, through the half-opened
window at the end, over the undulating park, with its
picturesque acacias, far, far athwart the rich Hungarian
plain, till it crossed the dim line of trees marking the
distant Danube, and reached the bold outline of hills
beyond the river, melting into the dun vapours of an
afternoon sky.

And there was but one object to intercept the view.  In
the window sat Comtesse Valèrie, her graceful head bent
over her work, her pretty hands flitting to and fro, so
white against the coloured embroidery, and her soft glance
ever and anon stealing to my couch, while she asked, with
a foreigner's *empressement*, which was very gratifying,
though it might mean nothing, whether I had all I
wanted, and if my leg pained me, and if I was not
wearying for Victor's return from the *chasse*?

"And you were here years ago, when I was almost a
baby, and I was away on a visit to my aunt at Pesth.
Do you know, I always felt as if we were old friends, even
the first day you arrived with Victor, and were lifted out
of the carriage, so pale, so suffering!  Oh, how I pitied
you! but you are much better now."

"How can I be otherwise," was my unavoidable reply,
"with so kind a nurse and such good friends as I find here?"

"And am I *really* useful to you? and do you think that
my care *really* makes you better?  Oh! you cannot think
how glad I am to know this.  I cannot be a soldier myself,
and bear arms for my beloved country; but I can be
useful to those who have done so, and it makes me so proud
and so happy!"

The girl's colour rose, and her eyes sparkled and moistened
at once.

"But I have not fought for Hungary," I interposed,
rather bluntly.  "I have no claim on your
sympathies--scarcely on your pity."

"Do not say so," she exclaimed, warmly.  "Setting
apart our regard for you as my brother's friend, it is our
enemy with whom you have been fighting--our oppressor
who has laid you now on a wounded couch, far from your
own country and your friends.  Do you think I can tolerate
a Russian? he is but one degree better than an Austrian!
And I can *hate*--I tell you I can hate to some purpose!"

She looked as if she could.  What a strange girl she
was!--now so soft and tender, like a gentle ring-dove;
anon flashing out into these gleams of fierceness like a
tigress.  I was beginning to be a little afraid of her.  She
seemed to divine my thoughts, for she laughed merrily,
and resumed, in her usual pleasant voice--

"You do not yet know me, Mr. Egerton.  I am a true
De Rohan, and we are as strong in our loves as in our
hatreds.  Beware of either!  I warn you," she added
archly, "we are a dangerous race to friend or foe."

Was this coquetry, or the mere playful exuberance of
a girl's spirits?  I began to feel a curious sensation that
I had thought I should never feel again--I am not sure
that it was altogether unpleasant.

Valèrie looked at me for a moment, as if she expected
me to say something; then bent her head resolutely down
to her frame, and went on in a low, rapid voice--

"We are a strange family, Mr. Egerton, we 'De Rohans';
and are a true type of the country to which we belong.
We are proud to be thought real Hungarians--warm-hearted,
excitable, impatient, but, above all, earnest and
sincere.  We are strong for good and for evil.  Our tyrants
may break our hearts, but they cannot subdue our spirit.
We look forward to the time which *must* come at last.
'Hope on, hope ever!' is our motto: a good principle,
Mr. Egerton, is it not?"

As I glanced at her excited face and graceful figure,
I could not help thinking that there must be many an
aspiring Hungarian who would love well to hear such
a sentiment of encouragement from such lips, and who
would be ready and willing to hope on, though the ever
would be a long word for one of those ardent, impulsive
natures.  She worked on in silence for a few minutes, and
resumed.

"You will help us, you English, we all feel convinced.
Are you not the champions of liberty all over the world?
And you are so like ourselves in your manners and thoughts
and principles.  Tell me, Mr. Egerton, and do not be afraid
to trust me, *is it not true*?"

"Is not *what* true?" I asked, from the sofa where I lay,
apathetic and dejected, a strange contrast to my beautiful
companion.

She went to the door, listened, and closed it carefully,
then looked out at the open window, and having satisfied
herself there was not a soul within ear-shot, she came
back close to my couch, and whispered, "An English
prince on the throne of Hungary, our constitution and our
parliaments once more, and, above all, deliverance from the
iron yoke of Austria, which is crushing us down to the very
earth!"

"I have never heard of it," said I, with difficulty
suppressing a smile at the visionary scheme, which must have
had its origin in some brain heated and enthusiastic as
that of my beautiful companion; "nor do I think, if that
is all you have to look to, that there is much hope for
Hungary."

She frowned angrily.

"Oh!" she answered, "you are cautious, Mr. Egerton:
you will not trust me, I can see--but you might do so
with safety.  We are all '*right-thinkers*' here.  Though
they swarm throughout the land, I do not believe a
Government spy has ever yet set foot within the walls
of Edeldorf; but I tell you, if *you* will not help us, we are
lost.  You laugh to see a girl like me interest herself so
warmly about politics, but with us it is a question of life
and death.  Women, as well as men, have all to gain or
all to lose.  I repeat, if you do not help us we have
nothing left to hope for.  Russia will take our part, and
we shall fall open-eyed into the trap.  Why, even as
enemies, they succeeded in ingratiating themselves with
the inhabitants of a conquered country.  Yes, Hungary
was a *conquered country*, and the soldiers of the Czar were
our masters.  They respected our feelings, they spared our
property, they treated us with courtesy and consideration,
and they lavished gold with both hands, which was
supplied to them by their own Government for the purpose.
It is easy to foresee the result.  The next Russian army
that crosses the frontier will march in as deliverers, and
Austria *must* give way.  They are generous in promises,
and unequalled in diplomacy.  They will flatter our nobles
and give us back our constitution; nay, for a time we
shall enjoy more of the outward symbols of freedom than
have ever yet fallen to our lot.  And *merely* as a
compliment, *merely* as a matter of form, a Russian
Grand-Duke will occupy the palace at Pesth, and assume the
crown of St. Stephen simply as the guardian of our
liberties and our rights.  Then will be told once more the
well-known tale of Russian intrigue and Russian
pertinacity.  A pretence of fusion and a system of favouritism
will gradually sap our nationality and destroy our patriotism,
and in two generations it will be Poland over again.
Well, even that would be better than what we have to
endure now."

"Do you mean to say," I asked, somewhat astonished
to find my companion so inveterate a *hater*, notwithstanding
that she had warned me of this amiable eccentricity
in her character,--"do you mean to say that, with all
your German habits and prejudices, nay, with German as
your very mother tongue, you would prefer the yoke of
the Czar to that of the Kaiser?"

She drew herself up, and her voice quite trembled with
anger as she replied--

"The Russians do not beat women.  Listen, Mr. Egerton,
and then wonder if you can at my bitter hatred of the
Austrian yoke.  She was my own aunt, my dear mother's
only sister.  I was sitting with her when she was arrested.
We were at supper with a small party of relations and
friends.  For the moment we had forgotten our danger
and our sorrows and the troubles of our unhappy country.
She had been singing, and was actually seated at the
pianoforte when an Austrian Major of Dragoons was
announced.  I will do him the justice to say that he was
a gentleman, and performed his odious mission kindly and
courteously enough.  At first she thought there was some
bad news of her husband, and she turned deadly pale;
but when the officer stammered out that his business was
with *her*, and that it was his duty to arrest her upon a
charge of treason, the colour came back to her cheek, and
she never looked more stately than when she placed her
hand in his, with a graceful bow, and told him, as he led
her away, that 'she was proud to be thought worthy of
suffering for her country.'  They took her off to prison
that night; and it was not without much difficulty and
no little bribery that we were permitted to furnish her
with a few of those luxuries that to a lady are almost the
necessaries of life.  We little knew what was coming.
Oh!  Mr. Egerton, it makes my blood boil to think of it.
Again, I say, were I only a *man*!"

Valèrie covered her face with her hands for a few
seconds ere she resumed her tale, speaking in the cold,
measured tones of one who forces the tongue to utter
calmly and distinctly that which is maddening and tearing
at the heart.

"We punish our soldiers by making them run the
gauntlet between their comrades, Mr. Egerton, and the
process is sufficiently brutal to be a favourite mode of
enforcing discipline in the Austrian army.  Two hundred
troopers form a double line, at arm's-length distance apart,
and each man is supplied with a stout cudgel, which he is
ordered to wield without mercy.  The victim walks slowly
down between the lines, stripped to the waist, and at the
pace of an ordinary march.  I need hardly say that ere
the unfortunate reaches the most distant files he is indeed
a ghastly object.  I tell you, this high-born lady, one of
the proudest women in Hungary, was brought out to
suffer that degrading punishment--to be beaten like a
hound.  They had the grace to leave her a shawl to cover
her shoulders; and with her head erect and her arms
folded on her bosom, she stepped nobly down the tyrant's
ranks.  The first two men refused to strike; they were
men, Mr. Egerton, and they preferred certain punishment
to the participation in such an act.  They were made
examples of forthwith.  The other troopers obeyed their
orders, and she reached the goal bleeding, bruised, and
mangled--she, that beautiful woman, a wife and a mother.
Ah! you may grind your teeth, my friend, and your dog
there under the sofa may growl, but it is true, I tell you,
*true*, I saw her myself when she returned to prison, and
she still walked, *so* nobly, *so* proudly, like a Hungarian,
even then.  Think of our feelings and of those of her own
children; think of her husband's.  Mr. Egerton, what would
you have done had you been that woman's husband?"

"Done!" I exclaimed furiously, for my blood boiled at
the bare recital of such brutality, "I would have shot the
Marshal through the heart, wheresoever I met him, were
it at the very altar of a church."

Valèrie's pale face gleamed with delight at my violence.

"You say well," she exclaimed, clasping her hands
together convulsively; "you say well.  Woman as I am,
I would have dipped my hands in his blood.  But no, no,
revenge is not for slaves like us; we must suffer and be
still.  Hopeless of redress, and unable to survive such
dishonour, her husband blew his brains out.  What would
you have? it was but a victim the more.  But it is not
forgotten--no, it is not forgotten, and the Marshal lives
in the hearts of our Hungarian soldiers, the object of an
undying, unrelenting hatred.  I will tell you an instance
that occurred but the other day.  Two Hungarian riflemen,
scarcely more than boys, on furlough from the army
of Italy, were passing through the town where he resides.
Weary, footsore, and hungry, they had not wherewithal to
purchase a morsel of food.  The Kaiser does not overpay
his army, and allows his uniform to cover the man who
begs his bread along the road.  An old officer with long
moustaches saw these two lads eyeing wistfully the hot
joints steaming in the windows of a *café*.

"'My lads,' he said, 'you are tired and hungry, why do
you not go in and dine?'

"'Excellency,' they replied, 'we come from the army of
Italy; we have marched all the way on foot, we have
spent our pittance, and we are starving.'

"He gave them a few florins and bade them make
merry; he could not see a soldier want, he said, for he
was a soldier too.  The young men stepped joyfully into
the *cafê*, and summoned the waiter forthwith.

"'Do you know,' said he, 'to whom you have just had
the honour of speaking? that venerable old man is Marshal
Haynau.'

"The two soldiers rushed from the room; ere the
Marshal had reached the end of the street they had
overtaken him; they cast his money at his feet, and
departed from him with a curse that may have been heard
in Heaven, but was happily inaudible at the nearest
barrack.  So is it with us all; those two soldiers had but
heard of his cruelty, whilst I, I had stood by and seen her
wounds dressed after her punishment.  Judge if I do not
*love* him!  But, alas!  I am but a woman, a poor weak
woman; what can I do?"

As she spoke, we heard Victor's step approaching across
the lawn, and Valèrie was once more the graceful,
high-born lady, with her assured carriage and careless smile.
As she took up her embroidery and greeted her brother
playfully, with an air from the last new opera, hummed in
the richest, sweetest voice, who would have guessed at
the volcano of passions concealed beneath that calm
and almost frivolous exterior.  Are women possessed of
a double existence, that they can thus change on the
instant from a betrayal of the deepest feelings to a
display of apparently utter heartlessness? or are they only
accomplished hypocrites, gifted with no *real* character at
all, and putting on joy or sorrow, smiles or tears, just as
they change their dresses or alter the trimmings of their
bonnets, merely for effect?  I was beginning to study
them now in the person of Valèrie, and to draw
comparisons between that lady and my own ideal.  It is a
dangerous occupation, particularly for a wounded man;
and one better indeed for all of us, in sickness or in health,
let alone.





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.. _`FOREWARNED`:

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   CHAPTER XXIII


.. class:: center medium

   FOREWARNED

.. vspace:: 2

It was a pleasant life that we led in the fine old castle at
Edeldorf.  Victor was always an enthusiast in field-sports,
and since his return from the war he devoted himself to
the pursuit of wild animals more assiduously than ever.
This was no less a measure of prudence than of inclination
on the part of my friend.  An inveterate Nimrod seldom
busies himself much with politics, and as the antecedents
of the De Rohans had somewhat compromised that patriotic
family in the eyes of the Government, its present
representative was looked on less unfavourably in the
character of a young thoughtless sportsman, than he would
have been as a disaffected man brooding in solitude, and
reserving his energies for more dangerous occupations.

Moreover, to one who loved the fresh breath of morning
and the crack of the rifle, Edeldorf was a perfect paradise.
Within a ride of two hours its hills furnished many a
pair of antlers for the castle hall, and the wild boar
whetted his tusks upon the stem of many a fine old forest
tree in its deep woodlands.  An occasional wolf and a
possible bear or two enhanced the interest of the chase;
and when the Count quitted his home at early morning,
belted and equipped for his work, he could promise himself
a day of as varied enjoyment as the keenest sportsman
could desire.

I was getting rapidly better, but still unable to
accompany my friend on these active expeditions.  I am not
sure that I longed very eagerly to participate in their
delights.  As I got stronger, I think I felt less inclined
to break my habits of convalescence and helplessness--a
helplessness that made me very dependent on Valèrie de
Rohan.

I was awaking from a pleasant dream of evening skies
and perfumed orange-groves and soft music, with a dim
vision of floating hair and muslin dresses, when Victor,
with a lighted candle in his hand, entered my apartment--a
habit he had acquired in boyhood, and which he
continued through life--to bid me "Good-morning," and
favour me with his anticipations of his day's amusement.

"I wish you were well enough to come with me, Vere,"
said he, as he peered out into the dark morning, not yet
streaked with the faintest vestige of dawn.  "There is
nothing like shooting, after all; war is a mistake, Vere,
and an uncomfortable process into the bargain; but
shooting, I find, gives one quite as much excitement, and
has the advantage of being compatible with a comfortable
dwelling and plenty to eat every day.  I have changed my
note, Vere, and I say *Vive la chasse!* now."

"Did you wake me to tell me that?" I yawned out, as
I warded the light of the candle from my sleepy eyes,
"or do you wish me to get out of my warm bed this cold
morning and hold a discussion with you on the comparative
attraction of shooting men and beasts?  The former
is perhaps the more exciting, but the latter the more
innocent."

Victor laughed.  "You lazy, cold Englander!" he
replied; "I woke you as I always do when I anticipate
a pleasant day, that I may tell you all I expect to do.  In
the first place, I shall have a delightful ride up to the
hills; I wish you could accompany me.  A cigar before
dawn, after a cup of coffee, is worth all the smoking of
the rest of the twenty-four hours put together.  I shall
gallop the whole way, and a gallop counts for something
in a day's happiness.  Confess *that*, at least, you cold,
unimpassioned mortal."

I pointed to my wounded leg, and smiled.

"Oh! you will soon be able to get on horseback, and
then we two must scamper about across the country
once more, as we used to do when we were boys," resumed
Victor; "in the meantime, Valèrie will take care of you,
and you must get well as quick as you can.  What a
charming ride it is up to the hills: I shall get there in
two hours at the outside, for Caspar goes like the wind;
then to-day we mean to beat the woods at the farthest
extremity of the Waldenberg, where my poor father shot
the famous straight-horned stag years and years ago.
There are several wild boar in the ravine at the bottom,
and it was only the season before last that Vocqsal shot a
bear within twenty yards of the waterfall."

"By the bye," I interrupted him, "are bears and boars
and red-deer the only game you have in view? or are
there not other attractions as fascinating as shooting, in
the direction of the Waldenberg?"

It was a random shaft, but it hit the mark; Victor
positively blushed, and I could not help thinking as I
watched him, what a handsome fellow he was.  A finer
specimen of manly beauty you would hardly wish to see
than the young Count de Rohan, as he stood there in his
green shooting-dress, with his powder-horn slung across
his shoulder, and his hunting-knife at his waist.  Victor
was now in the full glow of youthful manhood, tall, active,
and muscular, with a symmetry of frame that, while it was
eminently graceful, qualified him admirably for athletic
exercises, and a bearing that can best be described by the
emphatic term "high-bred."  There was a woman's beauty
in his soft blue eyes and silky hair of the richest brown,
but his marked features, straight, determined eyebrows,
and dark, heavy moustaches, redeemed the countenance,
notwithstanding its bright winning expression, from the
charge of effeminacy.  Perhaps, after all, the greatest
charm about him was his air of complete enjoyment and
utter forgetfulness of self.  Every thought of his mind
seemed to pass across his handsome face; and to judge
by appearances, the thoughts were of the pleasantest
description, and now he absolutely blushed as he hurried
on without taking any notice of my remark--

"If I can bring Valèrie back a bear-skin for her sledge,
I shall be quite satisfied; and I will tell you all about my
*chasse* and my day's adventures over a cigar when I return.
Meantime, my dear fellow, take care of yourself, order all
my carriages and horses, if they are of the slightest use to
you, and farewell, or rather *au revoir*."

I heard him humming his favourite waltz as he strode
along the gallery (by the way, the very Ghost's Gallery of
our childish adventure), and in another minute his horse's
hoofs were clattering away at a gallop into the darkness.
Whilst I turned round in bed with a weary yawn, and
after patting Bold's head--a compliment which that
faithful animal returned by a low growl, for the old dog,
though true and stanch as ever, was getting very savage
now,--I composed myself to cheat a few more hours of
convalescence in sleep.  What a contrast to my friend!
Weary, wounded, and disappointed, I seemed to have
lived my life out, and to have nothing more now to hope
or to fear.  I had failed in ambition, I had made
shipwreck in love.  I was grey and old in heart, though as
yet young in years; whilst Victor, at the same age as
myself, had all his future before him, glowing with the
sunshine of good health, good spirits, and prosperity.  Let
us follow the child of fortune as he gallops over the plain,
the cool breath of morning fanning his brow and lifting
his clustering hair.

To a man who is fond of riding--and what Hungarian
is not?--there is no country so fascinating as his own
native plains, where he can gallop on mile after mile, hour
after hour, over a flat surface, unbroken even by a molehill,
and on a light sandy soil, just so soft as to afford his
horse a pleasant easy footing, but not deep enough to
distress him.  Although I could never myself appreciate
the ecstatic pleasures of a gallop, or comprehend why
there should be a charm about a horse that is not possessed
by the cow, the giraffe, the hippopotamus, or any other
animal of the larger order of mammalia, I am not so
prejudiced as to be unaware that in this respect I am
an exception to the general run of my countrymen.  Now,
I cannot shut my eyes to the fact that there are men
whose whole thoughts and wishes centre themselves in
this distinguished quadruped; who grudge not to ruin
their wives and families for his society; and who, like the
Roman Emperor, make the horse the very high-priest of
their domestic hearth.  To such I would recommend a
gallop on a hard-puller over the plains of Hungary.  Let
him go!  There is nothing to stop him for forty miles;
and if you cannot bring him to reason in about a minute
and a half, you must for ever forfeit your claim to be
enrolled amongst the worshipful company of Hippodami
to which it seems the noblest ambition of aspiring youth
to belong.  A deacon of the craft was my friend Victor;
and I really believe he enjoyed a pleasure totally unknown
to the walking biped, as he urged Caspar along at speed,
his fine figure swaying and yielding to every motion of
the horse, with a pliancy that, we are informed by those
who pique themselves on such matters, can only be
acquired by long years of practice superinduced on a
natural, or, as they would term it, "heaven-born," aptitude
to excel in the godlike art.

So Victor galloped on like Mazeppa, till the dawn "had
dappled into day"; and save to light a fresh cigar, gave
Caspar no breathing-time till the sun was above the
horizon, and the dew-drops on the acacias glittered like
diamonds in the morning light.  As he quitted the plains
at last, and dropped his rein on his horse's neck, while
he walked him slowly up the stony road that led to the
Waldenberg, he caught sight of a female figure almost
in the shadow of the wood, the flutter of whose dress
seemed to communicate a corresponding tremor to Victor's
heart.  The healthy glow paled on his cheek, and his
pulses beat fitfully as he urged poor Caspar once more
into a gallop against the hill, none the less energetically
that for nearly a mile a turn in the road hid the object
of interest from his sight.  What a crowd of thoughts,
hopes, doubts, and fears passed through his mind during
that long mile of uncertainty, which, had they resolved
themselves into words, would have taken the following
form:--"Can she have really come here to meet me, after
all?  Who else would be on the Waldenberg at this early
hour?  What can have happened?--is it possible that
she has walked all this way on purpose to see me alone,
if only for five minutes, before our *chasse* begins?  Then
she loves me, after all!--and yet she told me herself she
was so volatile, so capricious.  No, it is impossible!--she
won't risk so much for me.  And yet it is--it must be!
It is just her figure, her walk,--how well I know them.
I have mistrusted, I have misjudged her; she is, after all,
true, loving, and devoted.  Oh!  I will make her such
amends."  Alas! poor Victor; the lady to whom you are
vowing so deep a fidelity--to whom you are so happy to
think you owe so much for her presence on the wild
Waldenberg--is at this moment drinking chocolate in a
comfortable dressing-room by a warm stove at least ten
miles off; and though you might, and doubtless would,
think her extremely lovely in that snowy *robe de chambre*,
with its cherry-coloured ribbons, I question whether you
would approve of the utter indifference which her
countenance displays to all sublunary things, yourself included,
with the exception of that very dubious French novel on
her knee, which she is perusing or rather devouring with
more than masculine avidity.  Better draw rein at once,
and ride back to Edeldorf, for one hundred yards more
will undeceive you at the turn round that old oak-tree;
and it is no wonder that you pull up in utter discomfiture,
and exclaim aloud in your own Hungarian, and in tones
of bitter disgust--"Psha! it's only a Zingynie, after all."

"*Only* a Zingynie, Count de Rohan!" replied a dark
majestic old woman, with a frown on her fine countenance
and a flash in her dark eye, as she placed herself across
the road and confronted the astonished horseman; "*only*
your father's friend and your own; *only* an interpreter of
futurity, who has come to warn you ere it be too late.
Turn back, Victor de Rohan, to your own halls at Edeldorf.
I have read your horoscope, and it is not good for you to
go on."

Victor had by this time recovered his good-humour; he
forced a few florins into the woman's unwilling hand.
"Promise me a good day's sport, mother!" he said,
laughingly, "and let me go.  I ought to be there already."

"Turn back, my child, turn back," said the gipsy; "I
will save you if I can.  Do you know that there is danger
for you on the Waldenberg?  Do you know that I--I,
who have held you in my arms when you were a baby,
have walked a-foot all the way from the Banat on purpose
to warn you?  Do you think I know not why you ride
here day after day, that you may shoot God's wild animals
with that bad old man?  Is it purely for love of sport,
Victor de Rohan?  Answer me that!"

He waxed impatient, and drew his reins rudely from
the woman's grasp.

"Give your advice when it is asked, mother," said he,
"and do not delay me any longer.  If you want food and
shelter, go down to Edeldorf.  I can waste no more time
with a chattering old woman here."

She was furious; she flung the money he had given
her down beneath his horse's feet.  Tears rose to her
eyes, and her hand shook with passion as she pointed
with outstretched arm in the direction of the Waldenberg.

"Ay, go on," said she, "go on, and neglect the gipsy's
warning till it is too late.  Oh! you are a nobleman and
a soldier, and you know best; a man of honour, too, and
you will go *there*.  Listen to me once for all, Victor de
Rohan, for I loved you as a baby, and I would save you
even now, if I could.  I slept by the waters of the Danube,
and I saw in a vision the child I had fondled in my arms
full-grown and handsome, and arrived at man's estate.
He was dressed as you are now, with powder-horn and
hunting-knife slung over his broad shoulders, and the rifle
that he set such store by was in his hand.  He spoke
kindly and smilingly as was his wont, not angrily as you
did now.  He was mounted on a good horse, and I was
proud to watch him ride gallantly away with St. Hubert's
blessing and my own.  Again I saw him, but this time
not alone.  There was a fair and lovely woman by his
side, dressed in white, and he hung his head, and walked
listlessly and slowly, as though his limbs were fettered
and he was sore and sick at heart.  I could not bear to
think the boy I had loved was no longer free; and when
he turned his face towards me it was pale and sorrowful,
and there was suffering on his brow.  Then my dream
changed, and I saw the Waldenberg, with its rugged peaks
and its waving woods, and the roar of the waterfall sounded
strange and ominous in my ears; and there were clouds
gathering in the sky, and the eagle screamed as he swept
by on the blast, and the rain plashed down in large heavy
drops, and every drop seemed to fall chill upon my heart.
Then I sat me down, weary and sorrowful, and I heard
the measured tread of men, and four noble-looking
foresters passed by me, bearing a body covered with a
cloak upon their shoulders, and one said to the other,
'Alas for our master! is it not St. Hubert's day?'  But
a corner of the cloak fell from the face of him they carried,
and I knew the pale features, damp with death, and the
rich brown hair falling limp across the brow--it was the
corpse of him whom I had loved as a baby and watched
over as a man, and I groaned in my misery and awoke.
Oh, my boy, my young handsome De Rohan, turn, then,
back from the Waldenberg, for the old Zingynie's sake."

"Nonsense, mother," replied Victor, impatiently;
"St. Hubert's day is past; I cannot help your bad dreams, or
stay here to prate about them all day.  Farewell! and
let me go."  He turned his horse's head from her as he
spoke, and went off at a gallop.

The old gipsy woman looked after him long and wistfully,
as the clatter of his horse's hoofs died away on the
stony causeway; she sat down by the roadside, buried her
face in her cloak, and wept bitterly and passionately; then
she rose, picked up the money that lay neglected on the
ground, and took her way down the hill, walking slow and
dejected, like one who is hopelessly and grievously
disappointed, and ever and anon muttering to herself, in
words that seemed to form something between a curse
and a prayer.





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.. _`"ARCADES AMBO"`:

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   CHAPTER XXIV


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   "ARCADES AMBO"

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Prince Vocqsal possessed a delightful shooting-box
in the immediate vicinity of the Waldenberg; and, as
a portion of those magnificent woodlands was on his
property, he and the De Rohans, father and son, had
long established a joint guardianship and right of
sporting over that far-famed locality.  Perhaps what the
Prince called a shooting-box, an Englishman's less
magnificent notions would have caused him to term a
country-house; for the "chalet," as Madame la Princesse delighted
to name it, was a roomy, commodious dwelling, with all
the appliances of a comfortable mansion, furnished in the
most exquisite taste.  She herself had never been induced
to visit it till within the last few weeks--a circumstance
which had not seemed to diminish its attractions in the
eyes of the Prince; now, however, a suite of apartments
was fitted up expressly for "Madame," and this return to
primitive tastes and rural pleasures, on the part of that
fastidious lady, was hailed by her domestics with
astonishment, and by her husband with a good-humoured and
ludicrous expression of dismay.  To account for the
change in Madame's habits, we must follow Victor on his
solitary ride, the pace of which was once more reduced to
a walk as soon as he was beyond the gipsy's ken.  Who
does not know the nervous anxiety with which we have
all of us sometimes hurried over the beginning of a
journey, only to dawdle out its termination, in absolute
dread of the very moment which yet we long for so
painfully.

Now, it was strange that so keen a sportsman as
Victor, one, moreover, whose ear was as practised as his
eye was quick, should have been deceived in the direction
from which he heard the reports of at least half-a-dozen
shots, that could only have been fired from the gun of
his friend the Prince, whom he had promised faithfully
to meet that morning at a certain well-known pass on the
Waldenberg.  It was strange that, instead of riding at
once towards the spot where he must have seen the smoke
from a gun actually curling up amongst the trees, he
should have cantered off in an exactly opposite direction,
and never drawn rein till he arrived at the gate of a white
house surrounded by acacias, at least five miles from the
familiar and appointed trysting-place, and in a part of
the Waldenberg by no means the best stocked with game.

It was strange, too, that he should have thought it
necessary to inform the grim hussar who opened the door
how he had unaccountably missed the Prince in the forest,
and had ridden all this distance out of his way to inquire
about him, and should have asked that military-looking
individual, in a casual manner, whether it was probable
Madame la Princesse could put him in the right way of
finding his companion, so as not to lose his day's sport.
It might have occurred to the hussar, if not too much
taken up with his moustaches, that the simplest method
for so intimate a friend would have been to have asked
at once if "Madame was at home," and then gone in and
prosecuted his inquiries in person.  If a shrewd hussar,
too, he may have bethought him that the human biped is
something akin to the ostrich, and is persuaded, like that
foolish bird, that if he can only hide his head, no one can
detect his great long legs.  Be this how it may, the official
never moved a muscle of his countenance, and in about
half-a-minute Victor found himself, he did not exactly
know how, alone with "Madame" in her boudoir.

She gave him her hand, with one of those sunny smiles
that used to go straight to the Hungarian's heart.  Madame
was never demonstrative; although her companion would
joyfully have cast himself at her feet and worshipped her,
she wilfully ignored his devotion; and while she knew
from his own lips that he was her lover, nor had the
slightest objection to the avowal, she persisted in treating
him as a commonplace friend.  It was part of her system,
and it seemed to answer.  Princess Vocqsal's lovers were
always wilder about her than those of any other dame
half her age and possessed of thrice her beauty.  She had
the knack of managing that strange compound of vanity,
recklessness, and warm affections which constitutes a
man's heart; and she took a great delight in playing on
an instrument of which she had sounded all the chords,
and evoked all the tones, till she knew it thoroughly, and
undervalued it accordingly.

Victor had very little to say! he who was generally so
gay and unabashed and agreeable.  His colour went and
came, and his hand positively shook as he took hers--so
cold, and soft, and steady--and carried it to his lips.

"What, lost again in the Waldenberg?" said she, with
a laugh, "and within five leagues of Edeldorf.  Count de
Rohan, you are really not fit to be trusted by yourself; we
must get you some one to take care of you."

Victor looked reproachfully at her.

"Rose," he stammered, "you laugh at me; you despise
me.  Again I have succeeded in seeing you without
creating suspicion and remark; but I have had to do
that which is foreign to my nature, and you know not
what it costs me.  I have had to act, if not to speak, a
lie.  I was to have met the Prince at the waterfall, and I
wilfully missed him that I might come down here to
inquire which way he had gone; I felt like a coward
before the eye of the very servant who opened your door;
and all to look on you for five minutes--to carry back
with me the tones of your beloved voice, and live upon
them for weeks in my dreary home, till I can see you
again.  Rose!  Rose! you little know how I adore you."

"But I cannot pity you in this instance, Monsieur le
Comte," replied the lady; "I cannot, indeed.  Here you
are, in my comfortable boudoir, with a warm stove, and a
polished floor, and your choice of every arm-chair and sofa
in the room, instead of stamping about on that bleak and
dreary Waldenberg, with your hands cold and your feet
wet, and a heavy rifle to carry, and in all probability
nothing to shoot.  Besides, sir, does my company count
for nothing, instead of that of *Monsieur le Prince*?  It may
be bad taste, but I confess that, myself, I very much
prefer my own society to his."  And the Princess laughed
her cheerful ringing laugh, that seemed to come straight
from the heart.

Victor sighed.  "You will never be serious, Rose, for a
minute together."

"Serious!" she replied, "no! why should I?  Have I
not cause to be merry?  I own I might have felt *triste*
and cross to-day if I had been disappointed; but you are
come, *mon cher Comte*, and everything is *couleur de rose*."

This was encouraging; and Victor opened the siege
once more.  He loved her with all the enthusiasm and
ardour of his warm Hungarian heart.  Wilfully shutting
his eyes to ruin, misery, and crime, he urged her to be
his--to fly with him--to leave all for his sake.  He vowed
to devote himself to her, and her alone.  He swore he
would obey her lightest word, and move heaven and earth
to fulfil her faintest wish for the rest of his life, would she
but confide her happiness to him.  He was mad--he was
miserable without her: life was not worth having unless
gilded by her smiles; he would fly his country if she did
not consent: he would hate her, he would never see her
more, and a great deal to the same purpose, the outpouring
of an eager, generous nature, warped by circumstances
to evil; but in vain; the lady was immovable; she knew
too well the value of her position to sacrifice it for so
empty an illusion as love.  Prudence, with the Princess,
stood instead of principle; and Prudence whispered, "Keep
all you have got, there is no need to sacrifice anything.
You have all the advantage, take care to retain it.  He
may break his chains to-day, but he will come back
voluntarily and put them on again to-morrow! it is more
blessed to *receive* than to *give*."  Such was the Princess's
reasoning, and she remained firm and cold as a rock.  At
last his temper gave way, and he reproached her bitterly
and ungenerously.

"You do not love me," he said; "cold, false, and heartless,
you have sacrificed me to your vanity; but you shall
not enjoy your triumph long; from henceforth I renounce
you and your favour--from this day I will never set eyes
on you again.  Rose! for the last time I call you by that
dear name; Rose! for the last time, Farewell!"

She tried the old conquering glance once more, but it
failed.  She even pressed his hand, and bade him wait
and see the Prince on his return, but in vain.  For the
time, her power was gone.  With lips compressed, and
face as white as ashes, Victor strode from the room.  In
less than five minutes he was mounted, and galloping
furiously off in the direction of Edeldorf.

Princess Vocqsal was a sad coquette, but she was a
woman after all.  She went to the window, and gazed
wistfully after the horseman's figure as it disappeared
amongst the acacias.

"Alas!" she thought, "poor Victor, it is too late now!
So gallant, so loving, and so devoted.  Ten years ago I
had a heart to give, and you should have had it then,
wholly and unreservedly; but now--what am I now?  Oh
that I could but be as I was then!  Too late! too late!"

Her *femme-de-chambre* attributed Madame's *migraine*
entirely to the weather and the dulness of the country,
so different from Paris, or even Vienna; for that domestic
at once perceived her mistress's eyes were red with
weeping, when she went to dress.  But sal volatile and rouge,
judiciously applied, can work wonders.  The Princess
never looked more brilliant than when she descended to
dinner, and she sat up and finished her French novel that
night before she went to bed.

Victor must have been half-way home when, leaning on
his sister's arm, I crept out into the garden to enjoy an
hour of fresh air and sunshine in the company of my
sedulous nurse and charming companion.  Valèrie and I
had spent the morning together, and it had passed like a
dream.  She had made my breakfast, which she insisted
on giving me in truly British fashion, and poured out my
tea herself, as she laughingly observed, "*comme une meess
Anglaise*."  She had played me her wild Hungarian airs
on the pianoforte, and sung me her plaintive national
songs, with sweetness and good-humour.  She had even
taught me a new and intricate stitch in her embroidery,
and bent my stubborn fingers to the task with her own
pretty hands; and now, untiring in her care and kindness,
she was ready to walk out with me in the garden, and
wait upon all my whims and fancies as a nurse does for
a sick child.  I could walk at last with no pain, and but
little difficulty.  Had I not been so well taken care of,
I think I should have declared myself quite recovered;
but when you have a fair round arm to guide your steps,
and a pair of soft eyes to look thrillingly into yours--as
day after day a gentle voice entreats you not to hurry
your convalescence and "attempt to do too much," it is a
great temptation to put off as long as possible the evil
hour when you must declare yourself quite sound again,
and begin once more to walk alone.

So Valèrie and I paced up and down the garden, and
drank in new life at every pore in the glad sunshine and
the soft balmy air.

It was one of those days which summer seems to have
forgotten, and which we so gladly welcome when we find
it at the close of autumn.  A warm, mellow sunshine
brightened the landscape, melting in the distance into
that golden haze which is so peculiarly the charm of this
time of year: while the fleecy clouds, that seemed to
stand still against the clear sky, enhanced the depth and
purity of that wondrous, matchless blue.  Not a breath
stirred the rich yellow leaves dying in masses on the
trees; and the last rose of the garden, though in all the
bloom of maturity, had shed her first petal, and paid her
first tribute to decay.  Valèrie plucked it, and gave it me
with a smile, as we sat down upon a low garden seat at
one extremity of the walk.  I thanked her, and, I know
not why, put it to my lips before I transferred it to the
buttonhole of my coat.  There was a silence of several
minutes.

I broke it at last by remarking "that I should soon be
well now, and must ere long bid adieu to Edeldorf."

She started as though I had interrupted a train of
pleasant thoughts, and answered, with some commonplace
expression of regret and hope, that "I would not hurry
myself;" but I thought her voice was more constrained
than usual, and she turned her head away as she spoke.

"Valèrie," I said--and this was the first time I had
ever called her by her Christian name--"it is no use
disguising from oneself an unpleasant truth: my duty,
my character, everything bids me leave my happy life
here as soon as I am well enough.  You may imagine
how much I shall regret it, but you cannot imagine how
grateful I feel for all your kindness to me.  Had you been
my sister, you could not have indulged me more.  It is
not my nature to express half I feel, but believe me, that
wherever I go, at any distance of time or place, the
brightest jewel in my memory will be the name of the
Comtesse de Rohan."

"You called me Valèrie just now," said she, quickly.

"Well, of Valèrie, then," I replied.  "Your brother is
the oldest friend I have--older even than poor Bold."  That
sagacious dog had lain down at our feet, and was
looking from one to the other with a ludicrous expression
of wistful gravity, as if he could not make it all out.  Why
should he have reminded me at that instant so painfully
of the glorious struggle for life and death in Beverley
mere?  That face! that face! would it never cease to
haunt me with its sweet, sad smile?  "Yes, Valèrie," I
proceeded, "that he should have received me as a brother
is only what I expected, but your unwearying kindness
overpowers me.  Believe me, I feel it very deeply, and I
shall leave you, oh! with such regret!"

"And we too shall regret you very much," answered
Valèrie, with flushed cheeks and not very steady tones.
"But can you not stay a little longer? your health is
hardly re-established, though your wound is healed,
and--and--it will be very lonely when you are gone."

"Not for you," I replied; "not for the young Comtesse
de Rohan (well, Valèrie, then), admired and sought after
by all.  Beautiful and distinguished, go where you will,
you are sure to command homage and affection.  No, it
is all the other way, *I* shall be lonely, if you like."

"Oh, but men are so different," said she, with a glance
from under those long, dark eyelashes.  "Wherever they
go they find so much to interest, so much to occupy them,
so much to do, so many to love."

"Not in my case," I answered, rather pursuing my own
train of thoughts than in reply to my companion.  "Look
at the difference between us.  You have your home, your
brother, your friends, your dependants, all who can
appreciate and return your affection; whilst I, I have
nothing in the world but my horses and my sword."

She looked straight into my face, a cloud seemed to
pass over her features, and she burst into tears.  In
another moment she was sobbing on my breast as if her
heart would break.

A horse's hoofs were heard clattering in the stable
yard, and as Victor, pale and excited, strode up the
garden, Valèrie rushed swiftly into the house.





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   CHAPTER XXV


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   "DARK AND DREARY"

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The pea-soup thickness of a London fog is melting
into drizzling rain.  The lamp-posts and area railings in
Mayfair are dripping with wet, like the bare copses and
leafless hedges miles off in the country.  It is a raw,
miserable day, and particularly detestable in this odious
town, as a tall old gentleman seems to think who has
just emerged from his hotel into the chill, moist
atmosphere; and whose well-wrapped-up exterior, faultless
goloshes, and neat umbrella denote one of that class who
are seldom to be met with in the streets during the
winter season.  As he picks his way along the sloppy
pavement, he turns to scan the action of every horse that
splashes by, and ventures, moreover, on sundry peeps
under passing bonnets with a pertinacity, and, at the
same time, an air of unconsciousness that prove how habit
can become second nature.  The process generally
terminates in disappointment, not to say disgust, and Sir
Harry Beverley--for it is no less a person than the
Somersetshire Baronet--walks on, apparently more and
more dissatisfied with the world in general at every step
he takes.  As he paces through Grosvenor-square he
looks wistfully about him, as though for some means of
escape.  He seems bound on an errand for which he has
no great fancy, and once or twice he is evidently on the
point of turning back.  Judging by his increase of pace
in South Audley-street, his courage would appear to be
failing him rapidly; but the aspect of Chesterfield House,
the glories of which he remembers well in its golden
time, reassures him; and with an inward ejaculation of
"poor D'Orsay!" and a mental vision of that
extraordinary man, who conquered the world with the aid only
of his whiskers and his cab-horse, Sir Harry walks on.
"They are pleasant to look back upon," thinks the worn
old "man of the world"--"those days of Crocky's and
Newmarket, and cheerful Melton, with its brilliant
gallops, and cozy little dinners, and snug parties of whist.
London, too, was very different in my time.  Society was
not so large, and *we*" (meaning the soliloquist and his
intimate friends) "could do what we liked.  Ah! if I had
my time to come over again!" and something seems to
knock at Sir Harry's heart, as he thinks, if indeed he
could live life over once more, how differently he would
spend it.  So thinks every man who lives for aught but
doing good.  It is dreadful at last to look along the
valley that was once spread before us so glad and sunny,
teeming with corn, and wine, and oil, and to see how
barren we have left it.  Count your good actions on your
fingers, as the wayfarer counts the miles he has passed, or
the trader his gains, or the sportsman his successes--can
you reckon one a day? a week? a month? a year?  And
yet you will want a large stock to balance those in the
other scale.  Man is a reasoning being and a free agent:
he makes a strange use of both privileges.

At last Sir Harry stops in front of a neat little house
with the brightest of knockers and the rosiest of muslin
curtains, and flowers in its windows, and an air of cheerful
prettiness even in this dull dark day.

A French servant, clean and sunshiny as French
servants always are, answers the visitor's knock, and
announces that "Monsieur" has been "de Service"; or in
other words, that Captain Ropsley has that morning
come "off guard."  Whilst the Baronet divests himself
of his superfluous clothing in an outer room, let us take a
peep at the Guardsman in his luxurious little den.

Ropsley understands comfort thoroughly, and his rooms
are as tastefully furnished and as nicely arranged as
though there were present the genius of feminine order to
preside over his retreat.  Not that such is by any means
the case.  Ropsley is well aware that he owes much of
his success in life to the hardness of his heart, and he is
not a man to throw away a single point in the game for
the sake of the sunniest smile that ever wreathed a fair
false face.  He is no more a man of pleasure than he is a
man of business, though with him pleasure is business,
and business is pleasure.  He has a sound calculating
head, a cool resolute spirit, an abundance of nerve, no
sentiment, and hardly any feeling whatever.  Just the
man to succeed, and he does succeed in his own career,
such as it is.  He has established a reputation for fashion,
a position in the world; with a slender income he lives in
the highest society, and on the best of everything; and
he has no one to thank for all these advantages but
himself.  As he lies back in the depths of his luxurious
armchair, smoking a cigar, and revelling in the coarse
witticisms of Rabelais, whose strong pungent satire and
utter want of refinement are admirably in accordance
with his own turn of mind, a phrenologist would at once
read his character in his broad but not prominent
forehead, his cold, cat-like, grey eye, and the habitual sneer
playing round the corners of an otherwise faultless mouth.
Handsome though it be, it is not a face the eye loves
to look upon.  During the short interval that elapses
between his servant's announcement and his visitor's
entrance, Ropsley has time to dismiss Rabelais completely
from his mind, to run over the salient points of the
conversation which he is determined to have with Sir Harry,
and to work out "in the rough" two or three intricate
calculations, which are likely somewhat to astonish that
hitherto unconscious individual.  He throws away his
cigar, for he defers to the prejudices of the "old school,"
and shaking his friend cordially by the hand, welcomes
him to town, stirs the fire, and looks, as indeed he feels,
delighted to see him.

Sir Harry admires his young friend much, there is
something akin in their two natures; but the acquired
shrewdness of the elder man is no match for the strong
intellect and determined will of his junior.

"I have come up as you desired, my dear fellow," said
the Baronet, "and brought Constance with me.  We are
at ----'s Hotel, where, by the way, they've got a deuced
bad cook: and having arrived last night, here I am this
morning."

Ropsley bowed, as he always did, at the mention of
Miss Beverley's name; it was a queer sort of half-malicious
little bow.  Then looking her father straight in
the face with his cold bright eye, he said, abruptly--"We've
got into a devil of a mess, and I required to see
you immediately."

Sir Harry started, and turned pale.  It was not the
first "devil of a mess" by a good many that he had been
in, but he felt he was getting too old for the process, and
was beginning to be tired of it.

"Those bills, I suppose," he observed, nervously; "I
expected as much."

Ropsley nodded.  "We could have met the two," said
he, "and renewed the third, had it not been for Green's
rascality and Bolter's failure.  However, it is too late to
talk of all that now; read that letter, Sir Harry, and
then tell me whether you do not think we are what
Jonathan calls 'slightly up a tree.'"

He handed the Baronet a lawyer's letter as he spoke.
The latter grew paler and paler as he proceeded in its
perusal; at its conclusion he crushed it in his hand, and
swore a great oath.

"I can do nothing more," he said, in a hoarse voice;
"I am dipped now till I cannot get another farthing.
The estate is so tied up with those accursed
marriage-settlements, that I must not cut a stick of timber at my
own door.  If Bolter had paid we could have gone on.
The villain! what right had he to incur liabilities he
could not meet, and put honest men in the hole?"

"What right, indeed?" answered the Guardsman, with
a quiet smile, that seemed to say he thought the
argument might apply to other cases than that of poor Bolter.
"I am a man of no position, Sir Harry, and no property;
if I go I shall scarcely be missed.  Now with you it is
different: your fall would make a noise in the world, and
a positive crash down in Somersetshire" (the Baronet
winced).  "However, we should neither of us like to lose
caste and character without an effort.  Is there *nothing*
can be done?"

Sir Harry looked more and more perplexed.  "Time,"
he muttered, "time; if we could only get a little time.
Can't you see these fellows, my dear Ropsley, and talk to
them a little, and show them their own interests?  I give
you carte blanche to act for me.  I must trust all to you.
I don't see my way."

Ropsley pushed a wide red volume, something like
an enlarged betting-book, across the table.  It was his
regimental order-book, and on its veracious columns was
inscribed the appalling fact that "leave of absence had
been granted to Lieutenant and Captain Ropsley for an
indefinite period, on *urgent private affairs*."  Sir Harry's
hand trembled as he returned it.  He had been so
accustomed to consult his friend and confederate on all
occasions, he had so completely acquired the habit of
deferring to his judgment and depending on his energy,
that he felt now completely at a loss as he thought of the
difficulties he should have to face unassisted and alone.
It was with unconcealed anxiety that he gasped out,
"D---- it, Ropsley, you don't mean to leave the ship just
at the instant she gets aground!"

"I have only secured my retreat, like a good general,"
answered Ropsley, with a smile; "but never fear, Sir
Harry, I have no intention of leaving you in the lurch.
Nevertheless, you are a man of more experience than
myself, you have been at this sort of thing for a good
many years: before we go any further, I should like to
ask you once more, is there no plan you can hit upon,
have you nothing to propose?"

"Nothing, on my honour," answered Sir Harry.  "I
am at my wits' end.  The money must be got, and paid
too, for these fellows won't hear of a compromise.  I can't
raise another farthing.  You must have been cleared out
long ago.  Ropsley, it strikes me we are both beaten out
of the field."

"Not yet, Sir Harry," observed Ropsley, quietly; "I
have a plan, if you approve of it, and think it can be
done."

"By Jove!  I always said you were the cleverest fellow
in England," burst out poor Sir Harry, eagerly grasping
at the shadow of a chance.  "Let us have it, by all
means.  Approve of it!  I'll approve of anything that
will only get us clear of this scrape.  Come, out with it,
Ropsley.  What is it?"

"Sit down, Sir Harry," said Ropsley, for the Baronet
was pacing nervously up and down the room; "let us talk
things over quietly, and in a business-like manner.  Ever
since the day that I came over to Beverley from Everdon--(by
the way, that was the first good bottle of claret I
drank in Somersetshire)--ever since that day you and I
have been intimate friends.  I have profited by your
experience and great knowledge of the world; and you, I
think, have derived some advantage from my energy and
painstaking in the many matters with which we have
been concerned.  I take all the credit of that affair about
the mines in Argyllshire, and it would be affectation on
my part to pretend I did not know I had been of great
use to you in the business."

"True enough, my dear fellow," answered the Baronet,
looking somewhat alarmed; "if I had not sold, as you
advised, I should have been 'done' that time, and I
confess in all probability--"  "ruined," the Baronet was
going to say, but he checked himself, and substituted the
expression, "much hampered now."

"Well, Sir Harry," resumed his friend, "you and I are
men of the world; we all know the humbug fellows talk
about friendship and all that.  It would be absurd for us
to converse in such a strain, but yet a man has his likes
and dislikes.  You are one of the few people I care for,
and I will do for you what I would not do for any other
man on earth."

Sir Harry stared.  Though by no means a person of
much natural penetration, he had yet an acquired shrewdness,
the effect of long intercourse with his fellow-creatures,
which bade him as a general rule to mistrust a
kindness; and he looked now as if he scented a *quid pro
quo* in the generous expressions of his associate.

Ropsley kept his cold grey eye fixed on him, and
proceeded--"I have already said, I am a 'man of straw,' and
if I *go* it matters little to any one but myself.  They will
ask after me for two days in the bow-window at White's,
and there will be an end of it.  I sell out, which will not
break my heart, as I hate soldiering; and I start quietly
for the Continent, where I go to the devil my own way,
and at my own pace.  *Festina lente*; I am a reasonable
man, and easily satisfied.  You will allow that this is not
your case."

Poor Sir Harry could only shuffle uneasily in his chair,
and bow his acquiescence.

"Such being the state of affairs," proceeded Ropsley,
and the hard grey eye grew harder than ever, and seemed
to screw itself like a gimlet into the Baronet's working
physiognomy; "such being the state of affairs, of course
any sacrifice I make is offered out of pure friendship,
regard, and esteem for yourself.  Psha! it's nonsense
talking like that!  My dear fellow, I like you; I always
have liked you; the pleasantest hours of my life have
been spent in your house, and I'll see you out of this
scrape, if I ruin myself, stock, lock, and barrel, for it!"

Sir Harry flushed crimson with delight and surprise;
yet the latter feeling predominated more than was
pleasant, as he recollected the old-established principle of
himself and his clique, "Nothing for nothing, and very
little for a halfpenny."

"Now, Sir Harry, I'll tell you what I will do.  Five
thousand will clear us for the present.  With five thousand
we could pay off the necessary debts, take up that bill of
Sharon's, and get a fresh start.  When they saw we were
not completely floored, we could always renew, and the turn
of the tide would in all probability set us afloat again.
Now the question is, *how* to get at the five thousand?  It
will not come out of Somersetshire, I *think*?"

Sir Harry shook his head, and laughed a hard, bitter
laugh.  "Not five thousand pence," he said, "if it was to
save me from hanging to-morrow!"

"And you really do not know which way to turn?"

"No more than a child," answered Sir Harry.  "If you
fail me, I must give in.  If you can help me, and *yourself
too*, out of this scrape, why, I shall say what I always
did--that you are the cleverest of fellows and the best of
friends."

"I think it can be done," said the younger man, but he
no longer looked his friend in the face; and a faint blush,
that faded almost on the instant, passed over his features.
He had one card left in his hand; he had kept it to the
last; he thought he ought to play it now.  "I have never
told you, Sir Harry, that I have a few acres in Ireland,
strictly tied up in the hands of trustees, but with their
consent I have power to sell.  It is all the property I
have left in the world; it will raise the sum we require,
and--it shall follow the rest."

This was true enough.  Gambler, libertine, man of
pleasure as he was, Ropsley had always kept an eye to
the main chance.  It was part of his system to know all
sorts of people, and to be concerned in a small way with
several speculative and money-making schemes.  After
the passing of the Irish Encumbered Estates Bill, it so
happened that a fortunate investment at Newmarket had
placed a few loose thousands to the credit side of our
Guardsman's account at Cox and Co.'s.  He heard casually
of a capital investment for the same, within a day's
journey of Dublin, as he was dining with a party of
stock-jobbing friends in the City.  Six hours afterwards Ropsley
was in the train, and in less than six weeks had become
the proprietor of sundry remunerative Irish acres, the
same which he was now prepared unhesitatingly to
sacrifice in the cause of gratitude, which with this
philosopher, more than most men, might be fairly termed
"a lively sense of benefits to come."

"Yes, it shall follow the rest," he repeated, stirring the
fire vigorously, and now looking studiously *away* from the
man he was addressing,--"Sir Harry, you are a man of
the world--you know me thoroughly, we cannot humbug
each other.  Although I would do much for your sake,
you cannot think that a fellow sacrifices his last farthing
simply because he and his confederate have made a
mistake in their calculations.  No, Sir Harry, your honour
is dear to me as my own--nay, dearer, for I now wish to
express a hope that we may become more nearly connected
than we have ever been before, and that the ties of
relationship may give me a right, as those of friendship
have already made it a pleasure, to assist you to the best
of my abilities."

Sir Harry opened his mouth and pushed his chair back
from the fire.  Hampered, distressed, ruined as he was, it
*did* seem a strong measure thus to sell Constance Beverley,
so to speak, for "a mess of pottage"; and the bare
idea of such a contract for the moment took away the
Baronet's breath.  Not that the notion was by any means
a strange one to his mind; for the last two or three years,
during which he had associated so much with the Guardsman,
and had so many opportunities of appreciating his
talents, shrewdness, and attractive qualities, the latter had
been gradually gaining a complete ascendancy over his
mind and character.  Sir Harry was like a child in
leading-strings in the hands of his confederate; and it had
often occurred to him that it would be very pleasant, as
as well as advantageous, always to have this mainstay on
which to rely--this "ready-reckoner," and man of
inexhaustible resources, to consult on every emergency.  Vague
ideas had sometimes crossed the Baronet's brain, that it
was just possible his daughter might be brought to *like*
well enough to marry (for *loving* was not a word in her
father's vocabulary) an agreeable man, into whose society
she was constantly thrown; and then, as Constance was
an heiress, and the Baronet himself would be relieved
from divers pecuniary embarrassments on her marriage,
by the terms of a certain settlement with which we have
nothing to do--why, it would be a delightful arrangement
for all parties, and Ropsley could come and live at Beverley,
and all be happy together.

Such were the ideas that vaguely floated across the
Baronet's mind in those moments of reflection of which
he allowed himself so few; but he was a father, and a
kind one, with all his faults; and it had never yet entered
his head either to force his daughter's inclinations, or even
to encourage with his own influence any suitor who was
not agreeable to the young lady.  He was fond of
Constance, in his own way--fonder than of anything in the
world, save his own comfort, and a very stirring and
closely-contested race at Newmarket.  So he looked, as
indeed he felt, somewhat taken aback by Ropsley's
proposal, which his own instinct as a gentleman told him
was peculiarly ill-timed.

He laughed nervously, and thanked his friend for his
kindness.

"With regard to--Miss Beverley," he stammered; "why--you
know, my dear Ropsley,--business is business, and
pleasure is pleasure.  I--I--had no wish,--at least I had
not made up my mind--or rather, I had no absolute intention
that my daughter should settle so early in life.  You
are aware she is an heiress--a very great heiress"
(Ropsley was indeed, or they would not have been at this
point of discussion now), "and she might look to making
a great match; in fact, Constance Beverley might marry
anybody.  Still, I never would thwart her inclinations;
and if you think, my dear fellow, you can make yourself
agreeable to her, why, I should make no objections, as
you know there is no man that I should individually like
better for a son-in-law than yourself."

Ropsley rose, shook his new papa cordially by the hand,
rang for luncheon, and rather to the Baronet's discomfiture,
seemed to look upon it at once as a settled thing.

"My business will not take long," said he, helping his
guest to a large glassful of sherry.  "You do not go
abroad for another week; I can make all my arrangements,
*our* arrangements, I should say, by that time.
Why should we not travel together?  My servant is the
best courier in Europe; you will have no trouble whatever,
only leave it all to me."

Sir Harry hated trouble.  Sir Harry liked the Continent.
The scheme was exactly suited to his tastes and
habits; so it was settled they should all start at once--a
family party.

And where is the young lady all this time? the prime
origin of so much scheming, the motive power of all this
mechanism?  In the front drawing-room of the gloomy
hotel she sits over the fire, buried deep in thought--to
judge by her saddened countenance--not of the most
cheering description.  Above the fire-place hangs a large
engraving of Landseer's famous Newfoundland dog, that
"Member of the Humane Society" whom he has immortalised
with his pencil.  The lady sighs as she gazes on
the broad, honest forehead, the truthful, intelligent face,
the majestic attitude denoting strength in repose.  Either
the light is very bad in this room, or the glass over that
engraving is dim and blurred, and the dog seems crouching
in a mist, or are Constance Beverley's dark eyes
dimmed with tears?





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   CHAPTER XXVI


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   "SURVEILLANCE"

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I did not question my friend as to his success in the
*chasse*.  Victor was evidently ill at ease, and after a few
commonplace remarks returned to his apartments, from
whence he did not reappear till dinner-time.  Valèrie,
too, was nowhere to be found, and I spent the afternoon
in the *salon* with a strange visitor, who was announced
by the groom of the chambers as Monsieur Stein, and
whose business at Edeldorf I confess I was at a loss to
discover.

The time passed agreeably enough.  I was indisposed
for reflection, a process which, under existing
circumstances, could only have involved me in a labyrinth of
perplexities; and my new acquaintance was possessed of a
fund of information and small talk which must have been
acquired by much intercourse with the world.

He seemed perfectly familiar with English habits and
English politics, professing great admiration for the one
and interest in the other.  He had *served* too, he said,
although I did not make out exactly in what grade; and
altogether he was evidently a man of varied experience
and considerable acquirements.

Silent as I naturally am, and especially reserved with
strangers, there was something about my new acquaintance
that led me to be communicative in spite of myself.
His whole address and exterior were so thoroughly
*confidential*, his manner so easy and unaffected; there was so
much good-humour and *bonhommie* in his quiet smile and
subdued enunciation, that I found myself almost
unconsciously detailing events and imparting information with
a facility of which I should have once thought I was
incapable.  Monsieur Stein listened, and bowed, and
smiled, and put in a slight query here, or hazarded an
observation there, which proved that he too was well
acquainted with the topics on which I was enlarging; nor
did he fail to compliment me on the lucid manner in
which he was good enough to say I had explained to him
the whole system of Turkish politics, and the relations of
that tottering country with our own.  As we went to
make our toilets before dinner, I could not help asking
my friend, the groom of the chambers, whose arm assisted
me upstairs (ah! it was Valèrie's the night before!), "who
he was, this Monsieur Stein, who had arrived so
unexpectedly, and had not yet seen the Count?"  The man's
face assumed a comical expression of mingled terror and
disgust as he professed an utter ignorance of the guest; but
when I added an inquiry as to whether he was a friend of
Count Victor, his disclaimer was far more vigorous than
the occasion seemed to demand.  "Well," thought I, "I
shall know all about it from Valèrie this evening;" and
proceeded with my toilet--shall I confess it?--with more
pains than I had ever taken in my life before.

But when we met at dinner a chill seemed to have
fallen on our party, hitherto so merry and vivacious.
Victor, though polite and courteous as ever, was reserved,
absent, and out of spirits.  Valèrie turned red and white
by turns, answered only by monosyllables, and never once
allowed her eyes to wander in my direction.  I, too, felt
sad and preoccupied.  My coming departure seemed to
cast a damp over my spirits; and yet when I thought of
Valèrie's unconcealed regret, and frank avowal of interest
in my future, my heart leapt with a strange, startling
thrill, half of pleasure, half of pain.  Monsieur Stein,
however, appeared to suffer from none of these uncomfortable
sensations.  He ate, he drank, he talked, he made the
agreeable, and amidst it all he seemed to note with a
lynx-eye the gorgeous furniture, the glittering plate, the
host of servants attired in their gaudy hussar uniforms,
the choice wine, and excellent cookery, for which the
*ménage* of Edeldorf had always been remarkable.  In the
brilliant light that shed its glare over the dining-table I
was able to examine my new acquaintance more minutely
than I had previously done before we went to dress.  He
seemed to me, without exception, the *least* remarkable
man I had ever met.  He was neither young nor old,
neither dark nor fair, neither short nor tall, stout nor thin;
his dress, that of a civilian, was plain and unstudied in
the extreme; his demeanour, quiet and unaffected, was in
admirable keeping with his whole exterior.  There was
nothing military about the man save a closely-clipped and
carefully-trained moustache; but this warlike appendage
was again contradicted by a slight stoop, and a somewhat
hesitating gait, by no means that of a soldier.  His eye,
too, of a cold, dead grey, with light eyelashes, was soft
and sleepy.  Once I fancied I caught a lightning glance
directed at Valèrie; but the orbs were so quickly veiled
by their drooping lids that I could not be satisfied it was
more than a trick of my own imagination.  Altogether
M. Stein was a man that in England would have been
described emphatically as "very gentlemanlike," for want
of any more characteristic qualifications; in France he
would have been passed over as an undemonstrative
cipher; my friends the Turks would have conferred a
silent approval on his quiet, unassuming demeanour.
Why was it that in Hungary his presence should act as
what we call at home "a wet blanket"?

Dinner progressed slowly.  Monsieur Stein addressed
himself chiefly to Count de Rohan; and I could not help
remarking that the latter's answers to his guest were
marked by a caution and reserve totally foreign to his
usual straightforward manner and off-hand way of saying
whatever came uppermost.  His air gave me the idea of
a man who was determined not to be *pumped*.  He drank
less wine also than usual; and altogether was certainly
not at his ease.  Valèrie, too, whenever she raised her
eyes from the tablecloth, glanced uneasily towards
Monsieur Stein; and when I made a casual remark to her,
answered so absently and stiffly as to cause me for my part
to feel uncomfortable and *de trop* in this small ill-organised
party.  It was a relief to all of us when coffee made its
appearance, and the newly-arrived guest, giving his hand
to Valèrie with a courtly bow, led her back to the drawing-room,
whilst I followed with Victor, and took the opportunity
of whispering to my old friend, in English--

"Who is this gentleman, Victor, that seems to know a
little of everything and everybody, and whose thirst for
information seems so unquenchable?"

"Hush!" replied Victor, with an uneasy look at the
couple in front of us; "he speaks English as well as you
do, though I dare say he told you not.  My dear Vere,
for Heaven's sake, to-night sit still and hold your
tongue!"

At this instant Valèrie turned round, and addressed
some trifling observation to her brother, but with a
warning expression of countenance that seemed to tell him he
had been overheard.  The next moment we were seated
round her work-table, chatting as gaily upon the merits
of her embroidery as though we were all the most
intimate friends in the world.  Certainly ladies' work
promotes conversation of the most harmless and least suspicious
description; and I think it would indeed have been difficult
to affix a definite meaning to the remarks made by
any one of us on the intricacies of Countess Valèrie's
stitching, or the skill displayed by that lady in her graceful
and feminine employment.

The evening dragged on.  Monsieur Stein conversed
freely on the state of the country, the condition of the
peasantry, the plans of the Government, and a projected
railroad, for the construction of which he did not seem to
think it possible the Austrian exchequer would ever be
able to pay.  Victor listened, and scarcely spoke; Valèrie
seemed interested in the railway, and determined to
pursue that subject as long as possible; whilst I sat, out of
spirits, and, truth to tell, out of humour, a silent observer
of all three.  I was deprived of my habitual occupations,
and missed the care and interest to which I was
accustomed as an invalid.  Valèrie did not make my tea for
me as usual, nor explain to me, for the hundredth time,
the cunning splendour of her embroidery, nor ask for my
assistance in the thousand trifling ways with which a
woman makes you fancy you are essential to her comfort;
and I was childish enough to feel sad, if not a little sulky,
in consequence.  At last I lost patience, and throwing
down abruptly the paper which I had been reading, I
asked Countess Valèrie to "give us a little music," adding
in perfect innocence, "Do play that beautiful march out
of 'The Honijàdy'--it is so inspiriting and so thoroughly
national!"

If a shell had fallen into the room, and commenced its
whizzing operations under Valèrie's work-table, it could
not have created greater consternation than did my very
natural request.  The Countess turned deadly pale, and
her hand trembled so that she could scarcely hold her
needle.  Victor rose from his chair with a tremendous
oath, and walking off to the fire-place (for he was
sufficiently an Englishman to prefer a grate to a stove),
commenced stirring an already huge fire with much unnecessary
energy, talking the whole time as if to drown my
unlucky observation.  Monsieur Stein flashed one of his
lightning glances--there was no mistaking it this time--upon
the whole of us, and then relapsed into his previous
composure; whilst I felt that I had committed some
unpardonable *gaucherie*, but could not, for the life of me,
discover how or why.

It was hopeless that evening to make any more attempts
at conversation.  Even the guest seemed to think he had
exerted himself sufficiently, and at an earlier hour than
usual we retired for the night.  When I came down next
morning he was gone.

Victor did not appear at breakfast, and Valèrie's excuses
for her brother were delivered with a degree of restraint
and formality which made me feel very uncomfortable.

"Victor was busy," she said, "with the steward and the
land-agent.  He had a great deal to do; he would not be
at leisure for hours, but he would see me before he started
on his journey."

"Journey!" said I; "what journey does he mean to
take? and what is all this mystery and confusion?  Pardon
me, Countess Valèrie, I am a straightforward man, Victor
is my oldest friend, and I do claim to be in the secret, if
I can be of any assistance or comfort to you in anything."

She looked at me once more with the frank, confiding
look that reminded me so of *another*; and putting her
hand in mine, she said--

"I know we can trust you; I know *I* can trust you.
Victor is *compromised*; he must go to Vienna to clear
himself.  He has yesterday received a hint that amounts
indeed to an order.  We are not even free to live on our
own lands," she added bitterly, and with the old gleam of
defiance flashing over her features; "the proudest noble
in Hungary is but a serf after all."

"And Monsieur Stein?" I asked, for I was beginning
to penetrate the mystery.

"Is an agent of police," she replied, "and one of the
cleverest in the Emperor's service.  Did you remark how
*civil* we were forced to be to him?  Did you not notice
Victor's constrained and uncomfortable manner?  Whilst
he remained, that man was our master--that low-born spy
our master!  This is what we have come to.  His mission
was understood plainly enough by both of us.  He came
with a hint from the Emperor that we were very remiss
in our attendance at Court; that his Imperial Majesty
valued our loyalty too much to doubt its sincerity; and
that it would be better, *all things considered*, if we were to
spend the winter at Vienna.  Also, I doubt not, information
was required as to what our English friend was about;
and when it is reported--as reported it will be--that his
musical taste leads him to admire 'the march in the
Honijàdy,' why we shall probably be put under 'surveillance'
for six months, and be obliged to reside in the
capital for a year or two, till we have got thoroughly
Austrianised, when we shall return here, feeling our
degradation more bitterly than ever."

"And why may I not consult my own taste in music?"
I inquired; "or what is there so deadly in that beautiful
march which you play with such brilliancy and spirit?"

Valèrie laughed.

"Do you not know," said she, "that the Honijàdys were
nearly connected with our ancestors--that the De Rohans,
originally Norman, only became Hungarian through their
alliance with that princely family--a race who were never
found wanting when it was necessary to assert the
independence of their country?  It was a Honijàdy that
rolled the Turks back from the very gates of Vienna.  It
was a Honijàdy that first resisted the oppression of
Austrian despotism.  It was a Honijàdy that shed the
last drop of noble blood spilt in our late struggle for
independence.  The finest of our operas is founded on the
history of this devoted family, and the Honijàdy march is
the very gathering tune of all who hate the iron yoke
under which we groan.  Only look at the faces of a
Hungarian audience as they listen to its forbidden tones--for
it must now only be played in secret--and you comprehend
why, of all the airs that ever were composed, the
last you should have asked for in the presence of Monsieur
Stein was the march in 'The Honijàdy.'"

"I do truly regret my indiscretion," was my reply;
"but if Victor is compelled to go to Vienna, I shall
certainly accompany him.  It is not my practice to abandon
a friend, and *such* a friend, in his distress.  Though I
can be of little use, my presence may be some comfort
and amusement to him; besides, the very fact of my
proceeding straight into the lion's mouth will show that I
have not been staying here with any ulterior views."

"You are, indeed, true as steel," replied Valèrie, with a
frank, honest smile, that went straight to my heart.  "We
will all start together this very afternoon; and I am glad--at
least it is far better--that you should not be parted
from your nurse till you are quite strong again.  Your
presence will be a great comfort to my brother, who
is----"  Valèrie hesitated, blushed up to her forehead,
and added, abruptly, "Mr. Egerton, have you not remarked
any difference in Victor lately?"

I replied, that "I thought his spirits were less mercurial
than formerly, but that probably he had the anticipation
of yesterday's domiciliary visit hanging over him, which
would at once account for any amount of discontent and
depression."

"No, it is not that," answered Valèrie, with increasing
embarrassment.  "It is worse even than that.  My poor
Victor!  I know him so well--I love him so much! and
he is breaking his noble heart for one who is totally
unworthy of him.  If there is one being on earth that I
hate and despise more than another, it is a *coquette*,"
added the girl, with flashing eyes; "a woman who is so
wanting in womanly pride as to lay herself out for
admiration--so false to her own nature as to despise it when
it is won."

"All women like admiration," I ventured to interpose
very humbly, for it struck me that the young Countess
herself was in this respect no abnormal variety of her
species; "and I conclude that in this, as in everything
else, difficulty enhances the pleasure of success."

She darted a reproachful look at me from under her
dark eyelashes, but she had her say out notwithstanding.

"No woman," she exclaimed, "has a right any more
than a man, to trifle with the affections of another.  Why
should any one human being, for the sake of an hour's
amusement, or the gratification of a mere passing vanity,
inflict on another the greatest pain which mortal heart
can suffer?  You would be thought a monster so to
torture the body; and are not the pangs of the soul
infinitely worse to bear?  No!  I repeat it, she has deceived
my brother with her silver accents and her false, false
smiles; she is torturing the noblest, truest, kindest heart
that ever brave man bore, and I hate her for it with a
deadly, quenchless hatred!"

I never found Valèrie so charming as when she thus
played the termagant.  There was something so *piquante*
in her wild, reckless manner on these occasions--in the
flash of her bright eyes, the play of her chiselled features,
and the attitude of her lithe, graceful figure, when she
said she *hated*, that I could have found it in my heart to
make her say she hated me rather than not hear the
well-known word.  I replied accordingly, rather mischievously
I own--

"Do you not think, Valèrie, you are throwing away a
great deal of indignation unnecessarily?  Men are not so
sensitive as you seem to think.  We do not break our
hearts very readily, I assure you; and even when we do,
we mend them again nearly as good as new.  Besides,
the rest of you take compassion on us when we are
ill-treated by one.  They console us, and we accept their
consolation.  If the rose is not in bloom, what shall
prevent us from gathering the violet?  Decidedly, Countess
Valèrie, we are more philosophers than you."

"You do not know Victor, if you say so," she burst
forth.  "You do not think as you speak.  You are a
dishonest reasoner, and you try to impose upon *me*!  I tell
you, *you* are the last man in the world to hold such
opinions.  You are wrong, and you know you are wrong,
and you only speak thus to provoke me.  I judge of
others by myself.  I believe that all of us are more or
less alike, and I know that *I* could never forgive such an
injury.  What! to be led on day by day, to feel if not
to confess a preference, to find it bit by bit eating into
one's being, till at length one belongs no longer to oneself,
but knows one's whole existence to be wrapped up in
another, and then at the last moment to discover that
one has been deceived! that one has been giving gold for
silver! that the world is empty, and the heart dead for
ever!  I know what I should do."

"What *would* you do?" I asked, half amused and half
alarmed at her excited gestures.

"Take a De Rohan's revenge, if I broke my heart for
it the next instant," she replied: and then, as if ashamed
of her enthusiasm, and the passion into which she had
very unnecessarily put herself, rushed from the room.

"What a dangerous lady to have anything to do with,"
I remarked to Bold, as he rose from the hearthrug, with a
stretch and a yawn.  "Well, old dog, so you and I are
bound for Vienna this afternoon; I wonder what will
come of it all?"

Yet there was a certain pleasant excitement about my
position, too.  It was evident that Valèrie took more than
a common interest in her brother's friend.  Her temper
had become very variable of late; and I had remarked
that although, until the scene in the garden, she had
never shunned my society, she had often appeared
provoked at any expression of opinion which I chanced to
hazard contrary to her own.  She had also of late been
constantly absent, *distraite*, and preoccupied, sometimes
causelessly satirical, bitter, and even rude, in her remarks.
What could it all mean? was I playing with edged tools?
It might be so.  Never mind, never mind, Bold; anything,
*anything* for excitement and forgetfulness of the
days gone by.





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.. _`GHOSTS OF THE PAST`:

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   CHAPTER XXVII


.. class:: center medium

   GHOSTS OF THE PAST

.. vspace:: 2

Every one has heard of the gentleman who went to spend
a fortnight at Vienna in the prime of his youth, and died
there at a ripe old age, having never afterwards been
beyond the walls of the town.  Though the climate is
allowed to be detestable, the heat of summer being
aggravated by a paucity of shade and a superabundance of dust,
whilst the rigorous cold of winter is enhanced by the
absence of fire-places and the scarcity of fuel; though the
streets are narrow and the carriages numerous, the hotels
always full, and the shops very dear; though the police is
strict and officious to a degree, and its regulations
tyrannical in the extreme; though every house, private as well
as public, must be closed at ten o'clock, and a ball-giver or
lady who "receives" must have a special permission from
the Government,--yet, with all these drawbacks, no city
in the world, not even lively Paris itself, seems so popular
with pleasure-seekers as Vienna.  There is a gaiety in the
very air of the town: a smiling, prosperous good-humour
visible on the countenances of its inhabitants, a
picturesque beauty in the houses, a splendid comfort in the
shops, and a taste and magnificence in the public
buildings, which form a most attractive *tout ensemble*.

Then you lead a pleasant, cheerful, do-nothing sort of
life.  You have your coffee in bed, where you can also
read a novel in perfect comfort, for German beds have no
curtains to intercept the morning light, or make a bonfire
of the nocturnal student.  You perform an elaborate
toilet (are not Vienna gloves the only good fits in the
world?), and you breakfast about noon in the *salon* of
some luxurious hotel, where you may sit peradventure
between an Austrian Field-Marshal, decorated with a dozen
or so of orders, and a Polish beauty, who counts captives
by the hundred, and breaks hearts by the score.  Neither
will think it necessary to avoid your neighbourhood as if
you had confluent small-pox, and your eye as if you were
a basilisk, simply because you have not had the advantage
of their previous acquaintance.  On the contrary, should
the courtesies of the table or any chance occurrence lead
you to hazard a remark, you will find the warrior mild
and benevolent, the beauty frank and unaffected.  Even
should you wrap yourself up in your truly British reserve,
they will salute you when they depart; and people may
say what they will about the humbug and insincerity of
mere politeness, but there can be no doubt that such
graceful amenities help to oil the wheels of life.  Then if
you like to walk, have you not the Prater, with its fine
old trees and magnificent red deer, and its endless range
of woodland scenery, reminding you of your own Windsor
forest at home; if you wish to drive, there is much
beautiful country in the immediate vicinity of the town;
or would you prefer a quiet chat in the friendly intimacy
of a morning visit, the Viennese ladies are the most
conversational and the most hospitable in the world.  Then
you dine at half-past five, because the opera begins at
seven, and with such a band who would miss the
overture?  Again, you enter a brilliant, well-lighted
apartment, gay with well-dressed women and Austrian officers
in their handsome uniforms, all full of politeness,
*bonhommie*, and real kindness towards a stranger.  Perhaps
you occupy the next table to Meyerbeer, and you are
more resolved than ever not to be too late.  At seven you
enjoy the harmony of the blessed, at a moderate outlay
that would hardly pay for your entrance half-price to a
farce in a London theatre, and at ten o'clock your day is
over, and you may seek your couch.

I confess I liked Vienna very much.  My intimacy with
Victor gave me at once an introduction into society, and
my old acquaintance with the German language made me
feel thoroughly at home amongst these frank and
warm-hearted people.  It has always appeared to me that there
is more homely kindliness, more *heart*, and less straining
after effect in German society than in any other with
which I am acquainted.  People are less artificial in
Vienna than in Paris or in London, better satisfied to be
taken for what they really are, and not what they wish to
be, more tolerant of strangers, and less occupied about
themselves.

I spent my days very happily.  Victor had recovered
his spirits, those constitutional good spirits that in the
young it requires so much suffering to damp, that once
lost never return again.  Valèrie was charming as ever, it
may be a little more reserved than formerly, but all the
more kind and considerate on that account; then when I
wearied of society and longed for solitude and the
indulgence of my own reflections, could I not pace those
glorious galleries of ancient art, and feast my eyes upon the
masterpieces of Rubens or Franceschini, in the Hotel
Liechtenstein and the Belvedere?  My father's blood ran
in my veins, and although I had always lacked execution
to become a painter, keenly and dearly could I appreciate
the excellencies of the divine art.  Ah! those Rubenses,
I can see them now! the glorious athletic proportions
of the men, heroes and champions every one; the soft,
sensuous beauty of the women,--none of your angels, or
goddesses, or idealities, but, better still, warm, breathing,
loving, palpable women, the energy of action, the majesty
of repose, the drawing, the colouring, but above all the
honest manly sentiment that pervades every picture.  The
direct intention so truthfully carried out to bid the human
form and the human face express the passions and the
feelings of the human heart.  I could look at them for
hours.

Valèrie used to laugh at me for what she called my
new passion--my devotion to art; the goddess whom I
had so neglected in my childhood, when with my father's
assistance I might have wooed and won from her some
scraps of favour and encouragement.  One morning I
prevailed on Victor and his sister to accompany me to the
Hotel Liechtenstein, there to inspect for the hundredth
time what the Countess termed my "last and fatal
attachment," a Venus and Adonis of Franceschini, before
which I could have spent many a long day, quenching the
thirst of the eye.  It was in my opinion the *chef-d'oeuvre*
of the master; and yet, taking it as a whole, there was no
doubt it was far from a faultlessly-painted picture.  The
Adonis appeared to me stiffly and unskilfully drawn, as
he lay stretched in slumber, with his leash of hounds,
undisturbed by the nymphs peering at him from behind a
tree, or the fat golden-haired Cupids playing on the turf
at his feet.  All this part of the picture I fancied cold
and hard; but it was the Venus herself that seemed to
me the impersonation of womanly beauty and womanly
love.  Emerging from a cloud, with her blue draperies
defining the rounded symmetry of her form, and leaving
one exquisite foot bare, she is gazing on the prostrate
hunter with an expression of unspeakable tenderness and
self-abandonment, such as comes but once in a lifetime
over woman's face.  One drooping hand carelessly lets
an arrow slip through its fingers, the other fondling a
rosy Cupid on her knee, presses his cheek against her
own, as though the love overflowing at her heart must
needs find relief in the caresses of her child.

"It is my favourite picture of all I ever saw, except
one," I remarked to my two companions as we stopped to
examine its merits; I to point out its beauties, they
maliciously to enumerate its defects.

"And that other?" asked Valèrie, with her quick, sharp
glance.

"Is one you never saw," was my reply, as I thought of
the "Dido" in the old dining-room at Beverley.  "It is
an Italian painting with many faults, and probably you
would not admire it as much as I do."

Valèrie was not listening; her attention was fixed on a
party of strangers at the other end of the room.  "*Tenez,
ce sont des Anglais*," said she, with that intuitive
perception of an islander which seems born in all continental
nations.  I knew it before she spoke.  The party stopped
and turned round--two gentlemen and a lady.  I only
saw *her*; of all the faces, animate and inanimate, that
looked downward with smiles, or upward with admiration,
in that crowded gallery, there was but one to me, and that
one, was Constance Beverley's.

I have a confused recollection of much hand-shaking
and "How-do-you-do's?" and many expressions of wonder
at our meeting *there*, of all places in the world, which did
not strike me as so *very* extraordinary after all.  And
Valèrie was *so* enchanted to make Miss Beverley's
acquaintance; she had heard so much of her from Victor,
and it was so delightful they should all be together in
Vienna just at this gay time; and was as affectionate and
demonstrative as woman always is with her sister; and at
the same time scanned her with a comprehensive glance,
which seemed to take in at once the charms of mind and
body, the graces of nature and art, that constituted the
weapons of her competitor.  For women are always more
or less rivals; and with all her keenness of affections and
natural softness of disposition, there is an unerring instinct
implanted in the breast of every one of the gentler sex,
which teaches her that her normal state is one of warfare
with her kind--that "her hand is against every woman,
and every woman's hand against her."

I dared not look in Miss Beverley's face as I shook her
hand; I fancied her voice was *harder* than it used to be.
I was sure her manner to *me* was as cold as the merest
forms of politeness would admit.  She took Victor's arm,
however, with an air of *empressement* very foreign to the
reserve which I remembered was so distinguishing a
characteristic in her demeanour.  I heard her laughing
at his remarks, and recalling to him scenes in London and
elsewhere, which seemed to afford great amusement to
themselves alone.  Even Ropsley looked graver than usual,
but masked his astonishment, or whatever it was, under a
great show of civility to Valèrie, who received his
attentions, as she did those of every stranger, with a degree of
pleasure which it was not in her nature to conceal.  Sir
Harry fell to my share, and I have a vague recollection
of his being more than ever patronising and paternal, and
full of good advice and good wishes; but the treasures of
his wisdom and his little worldly sarcasms were wasted on
a sadly heedless ear.

I put him into his carriage, where *she* was already
seated.  I ventured on one stolen look at the face that
had been in my dreams, sleeping and waking, for many a
long day.  It was pale and sad; but there was a hard,
fixed expression that I did not recognise, and she never
allowed her eyes to meet mine.

How cold the snowy streets looked; and the dull grey
sky, as we walked home to our hotel--Victor and Ropsley
on either side of Valèrie, whilst I followed, soberly and
silently, in the rear.





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.. _`LA DAME AUX CAMELLIAS`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXVIII


.. class:: center medium

   LA DAME AUX CAMELLIAS

.. vspace:: 2

"My dear, you *must* go to this ball," said Sir Harry to
his daughter, as they sat over their morning chocolate in
a spacious room with a small glazed stove, very handsome,
very luxurious, and *very cold*.  "You have seen everything
else here; you have been a good deal in society.  I have
taken you everywhere, although you know how 'going
out' bores me; and now you refuse to go to the best
thing of the year.  My dear, you *must*!"

"But a masked ball, papa," urged Constance.  "I never
went to one in my life; indeed, if you please, I had rather
not."

"Nonsense, child, everybody goes; there's your friend
Countess Valèrie wild about it, and Victor, and even sober
Vere Egerton, but of course *he* goes in attendance on the
young Countess--besides, Ropsley wishes it."

Constance flushed crimson, then grew white, and bit her
lip.  "Captain Ropsley's wishes have nothing to do with
me, papa," said she, with more than her usual stateliness;
"I do not see what right he has to express a wish at all."

Sir Harry rose from his chair; he was getting very
feeble in his limbs, though he stoutly repudiated the
notion that he grew a day older in strength and spirits.
He walked twice across the room, went to his daughter's
chair, and took her hand in his.  She knew what was
coming, and trembled all over.

"My dear child," said he, with a shaky attempt at
calmness, and a nervous quivering of his under lip--for loving,
obedient, devoted as she was; Sir Harry stood in awe of
his daughter--"you remind me I wish to speak to you on
the subject of Captain Ropsley, and his intimacy with
ourselves.  Constance, has it never occurred to you what
all this must eventually lead to?"

She looked up at him with her clear, shining eyes, and
replied--

"It has, papa, and I quite dread the end of it."

"You know, dear, how I have encouraged him,"
continued her father, without noticing the unpropitious
remark; "you can guess my wishes without my speaking
more plainly.  He is an excellent fellow--clever, popular,
agreeable, and good-looking.  There can be no objection,
of course, on *your* side.  I think your old father has not
done so badly for you after all--eh, Constance?" and Sir
Harry made a feeble attempt at a laugh, which stopped,
and, as it were, "went out" all of a sudden.

She looked him full in the face.  Truth shone brightly
in the depths of those clear eyes.

"Papa," said she, slowly and steadily, "do you really
mean you wish me to--to marry Captain Ropsley?"

"You ladies jump at conclusions very fast," answered
the Baronet, still striving, shakingly, to be jocose.  "*Rem
acu tetigisti*.  Ha, ha!  I have not forgotten my Latin, or
that I was young once, my dear.  You have run your
needle into the very heart of the matter, you little witch!
That is indeed my earnest wish and intention."

He changed at once into a tone of majestic and
uncompromising decision, but he only looked at her askance, and
once more left his place to amble up and down the room.
She never took her eye off his face.

"And suppose I should tell you, papa, that I cannot
comply with your wish; that I hate and loathe the very
sight of the man whom you would make my husband;
that I fear and distrust his intimacy with you more than
anything in the world; that I implore you, papa, dear
papa, to give up this dreadful idea; that for this once,
and once only, you would listen to me, be guided by me,
and, at any sacrifice, that you would break immediately
and for ever with that bad, reckless, unprincipled
man--what should you say then?"

She looked at him for an instant with a vague sort of
half-hope in her truthful, shining eyes; but it was more
resignation than disappointment that clouded her face
over immediately afterwards.

"Say, my dear," answered the Baronet, gaily, but his
teeth were set tight as he spoke; "why I should say that
my girl was a romantic little fool, instead of one of the
cleverest women of my acquaintance; or, more likely still,
I should say she was joking, in order to try her father's
patience and indulgence to the utmost.  Listen to me,
Constance.  I have reasons of my own for wishing to see
you married--of course I mean well married, and safely
settled in life--never mind what they are; it may be that
I am getting old, and feel that I have not much time to
lose.  Well, I have promised you to Ropsley--of course
with your own consent.  In these days we don't lock up
our refractory children, or use force when persuasion alone
is necessary.  Heaven forbid!"  Sir Harry said it with an
expression of countenance somewhat contradictory of his
language.  "But I feel sure I need only point out to you
what my wishes are to have your sincere co-operation.
You behaved so well once before, you will behave well
this time.  Constance, I am not used to entreat; you
cannot surely refuse me now?"

She burst into tears

"Oh, papa," she said, "anything--anything but this."

He thought to try the old sarcastic mood that had done
him good service with many a woman before.

"What, we are premature, are we, Miss Beverley?
We cannot forget old days and childish absurdities.  We
must, of course, be more sensitive than our boyish adorer.
Psha! my dear, it's perfectly absurd; why, you can see
with your own eyes that Vere Egerton is hopelessly
entangled with that bold Hungarian girl, and I can tell
you, to my certain knowledge, that he is to marry her
forthwith.  What she can see in his ugly face is more
than I can make out; but this I suppose is prejudice on
my part.  Good Heaven!  Constance, are you really afraid
of seeing them together to-night?  You! *my* daughter! the
proud Miss Beverley?"

The old reprobate knew how to manage a woman still.
He had served a long apprenticeship to the trade, and
paid pretty dearly for his lessons in his time.

She did not cry now.

"Papa, I will go to the ball," was all she said; and Sir
Harry thought it wiser to push matters no further for the
present.

Our little party had been established in Vienna for
several weeks when the above-mentioned conversation
took place; and the De Rohans were living on terms of
close intimacy with the Beverleys.  Ropsley made no
secret of his engagement to Constance, and bestowed all
the attentions of a future husband on the unwilling girl
with a tact which made escape impossible.  Victor took
his place as an old friend by her side, and she seemed to
find the more pleasure in his society that it relieved her
from the Guardsman's sarcastic though amusing conversation,
and, as I once overheard her remark, with a deep
sigh, "reminded her of old times."  Valèrie and I were,
as usual, inseparable; but there was something of late in
the manner of the young Countess which grated on my
feelings.  She was gay, volatile, demonstrative as ever;
but I missed those fits of abstraction, that restless,
preoccupied air which seems so charming when we fancy we
can guess the cause; and altogether I never was so much
in danger of falling in love with Valèrie as now, when,
piqued, hopeless, and miserable, I felt I was uncared for
by every one on earth--even by her.  I was one too
many in the party.  Sir Harry seemed worldly, sharp, and
in good spirits, as usual.  Ropsley scheming, composed,
self-contained, and successful.  Victor lively, careless,
and like his former self again.  Constance haughty and
reserved, habitually silent, and preserving an exterior of
icy calmness.  Valèrie sparkling, triumphant, and *coquette*
as possible.  Only Bold and I were out of spirits; the
old dog resenting with truly British energy the indignity
of an enforced muzzle, without which no animal of his
species was allowed to go at large in the streets of
Vienna; whilst his master was wearied and ill at ease,
tired of an aimless, hopeless life, and longing for the
excitement of action, or the apathy of repose.

Such were the ingredients of the party that dined
together at that well-known hotel rejoicing in the
appellation of "Munsch," on the day of the masked ball, to
which all Vienna meant to go, to be mystified for pleasure,
and have its secrets told and its weaknesses published for
amusement.

Many were the glances of admiration cast at our table,
and many, I doubt not, were the comparisons made
between the stately beauty of the Englishwoman and the
brilliant charms of her Hungarian friend.  I sat next to
Valèrie, and opposite Miss Beverley--the latter scarcely
ever spoke to me now, and, save a formal greeting when
we met and parted, seemed completely to ignore my
existence; but she tolerated Bold, and the dog lay curled
up under the table at her feet, keeping watch and ward
over her--faithful Bold!--as he used to do long, long ago.
Ropsley held forth upon the political state of Europe;
and although Victor and Sir Harry expressed loudly their
admiration of his sentiments, and the lucid manner in
which he expressed them, I have yet reason to believe
that, as he spoke in English, a very garbled and eccentric
translation of his remarks reached the imperial and kingly
bureau of police.  Constance and Valèrie seemed to have
some secret understanding which called forth a smile
even on the pale face of the former, whilst the latter
was exuberant in mirth and spirits, and was ardently
anticipating the pleasures of the ball.  I was roused
from my dreamy state of abstraction by her lively voice.

"Vere," she exclaimed, with a sly glance across the
table at her friend, "we are engaged for the first dance,
you know."

She always called me "Vere," now, in imitation of her
brother.

"Are we?" was my somewhat ungallant reply.  "I
was not aware of it, I do not think I shall go to the
ball."

"Not go to the ball!" exclaimed Valèrie; "and I have
told you the colour of my dress and everything.  Not go
to the ball! do you hear him, Victor? do you hear him,
Sir Harry? do you hear him, Captain Ropsley?"

"We can hardly believe it," replied the latter, with a
quiet smile; "but, Countess Valèrie, he does not deserve
your confidence: will you not tell *us* what your dress is
to be?"

"Nobody but Vere," persisted the Countess, with
another arch smile at Constance; "you know he is
engaged to me, at least for this evening.  But he is
cross and rude, and deserves to be mystified and made
unhappy.  But seriously, Vere, you *will* go?  Ask him,
Miss Beverley; he won't refuse *you*, although he is so
ungallant towards *me*."

Constance looked up for a moment, and in a dry,
measured voice, like a child repeating a lesson, said,
"I hope you will go, Mr. Egerton;" and then resumed
the study of her plate, paler and more reserved than ever.

I heard Bold's tail wagging against the floor.  "What
have I done to offend her," I thought, "that she will
thus scarcely even deign to speak to me?"  I bowed
constrainedly, and said nothing; but the torture was
beginning to get more severe than I could bear, and
making an excuse that I should be late for the opera,
whither none of my companions were going, I hurried
from the table, Valèrie giving me as I rose a camellia
from her bouquet, and charging me to return it to her at
the ball.  "I shall count upon you, Vere," she said, as I
adjusted it in my coat, "and keep myself disengaged."

I threaded my way through the dirty streets to the
opera.  I ensconced myself in the corner of the De
Rohans' box; and resting my head on my hand, I began
to reflect for the first time for many weeks on my position
and my prospects.  I could not conceal from myself that
I was no longer justified in living on the terms of
intimacy with Victor and his sister which had so long
constituted such an agreeable distraction in my life.  It
was evident that Valèrie considered me in the light of
something more than a friend, and it was due to the lady,
to her brother, and to myself, that such a misconception
should be rectified at once and for ever.  I was well aware
in my heart of hearts that Constance Beverley was still,
as she would always be, the idol of my life, but I was too
proud to confess this even to myself.  It was evident that
she cared no longer for the friend of her childhood, that
she was totally indifferent as to what became of the
nameless, ill-starred adventurer who had once presumed
to ask her to be his; and I ground my teeth as I told
myself I was too proud, far too proud, to care for any
woman that did not care for me.  But I could not lead
this life of inaction and duplicity any longer.  No, I was
well now, I was able to walk again (and I thought of my
gentle nurse with a sigh).  I would not go to the ball
to-night; I would leave Vienna to-morrow; it was far
better not to see Miss Beverley again, better for me at
least, and ought I not to consult my own interest first?
Others were selfish.  I would be selfish too!  Even
Valèrie, I had no doubt, was just like all other women;
she wouldn't care, not she!  And yet she was a frank,
open-hearted girl, too.  Poor Valèrie!  And mechanically
I placed the camellia she had given me to my lips, and
raised my eyes to examine the house for the first time
since my entrance.

What was my surprise to remark the action I have just
described imitated exactly by a lady in a box opposite
mine, but whose face was so turned away from me, and
so masked, moreover, by a bouquet she held in her hand,
that I could not identify her features, or even make out
whether she was young or old, handsome or plain!  All
I could see was a profusion of rich brown hair, and a
well-turned arm holding the bouquet aforesaid, with the
odours of which she seemed much gratified, so perseveringly
did she apply it to her face.  After a short interval,
I adjusted my opera-glass and took a long survey of the
flower-loving dame.  As soon as she was sure she had
attracted my attention, she once more applied the white
camellia to her lips with much energy and fervour, still,
however, keeping her face as far as possible turned away
from me, and shaded by the curtains of her box.  Three
times this absurd pantomime was enacted.  So strong a
partiality for so scentless a flower as the camellia could
not be accidental; and at last I made up my mind that,
in all probability, she mistook me for somebody else, and
would soon find out her error without my giving myself
any further trouble on the subject.  I had too much to
occupy my own mind to distress myself very long about
the *Dame aux Camellias*; and I turned my attention to
the stage, to seek relief, if only for half-an-hour, from the
thoughts that were worrying at my heart.

The ballet of *Sattinella* was being enacted, and a man
must have been indeed miserable who could entirely
withdraw his attention from the magnificent figure of
Marie Taglioni, as she bounded about in the character of
that fire-born Temptress, a very impersonation of grace,
symmetry, beauty, and *diablerie*.  The moral of the piece
is very properly not developed till the end, and it is too
much to expect of a human heart that it shall
sympathise with the unfortunate victim of Satan's charming
daughter as long as his tortures are confined to performing
wondrous bounds towards the footlights in her fiendish
company, and resting her diabolical form upon his knee
in the most graceful and bewitching attitude that was
ever invented below, and sent up expressly for the
delectation of a Viennese audience.  Neither did I think the
"first male dancer" very much to be pitied when he was
inveigled into a beautiful garden by moonlight, where he
discovered the whole *corps de ballet* arranged in imitation
of statues, in the most fascinating of *poses plastiques*, and
so well drilled as scarcely even to wink more than the
very marble it was their part to represent.  Soft music
playing the whole time, and fountains, real fountains,
spouting and splashing the entire depth of the stage,
constituted the voluptuous accessories of the scene, and
it was not till the senses of the spectators had been
thoroughly entranced by beauty and melody--by all that
could fascinate the eye and charm the ear, that the whole
spectacle changed to one of infernal splendour; the
fountains becoming fireworks, the pure and snowy statues
turning to gorgeous she-devils of the most diabolical
beauty and fierceness, whilst Sattinella herself, appearing
in a bewitching costume of crimson and flames, carried
off the bewildered victim of her blandishments, to remain
bound to her for ever in the dominions of her satanic
father.

Having once got him, it is understood that she will
never let him go again, and I could not pity him very
sincerely notwithstanding.

The opera was over, the company rapidly departing, and
I stood alone at the stove in the crush-room, wondering
why the house was not burnt down every time this
beautiful ballet was performed, and speculating lazily
between whiles as to whether I was ever likely to witness
an opera again.  I was one of the last spectators left in
the house, and was preparing to depart, when a female
figure, cloaked and hooded, passed rapidly under my very
nose, and as she did so, pressed a camellia to her lips in
a manner which admitted of no misconception as to her
motive.  I could not see her face, for a black satin hood
almost covered it, but I recognised the rounded arm and
the handsome bouquet which I had before remarked in
the opposite box.  Of course I gave instantaneous chase,
and equally of course came up with the lady before she
reached her carriage.  She turned round as she placed
her foot on the step, and dropped her fan upon the
muddy pavement; I picked it up, and returned it to her
with a bow.  She thanked me in French, and whispered
hurriedly, "Monsieur will be at the Redouten-Saal
to-night?"  I was in no humour for an adventure, and
answered "No."  She repeated in a marked manner,
"Yes, monsieur will be at the ball; monsieur will find
himself under the gallery of the Emperor's band at midnight.
*De grâce*, monsieur will not refuse this *rendezvous*."

"I had not intended to go," was my unavoidable reply,
"but of course to please Madame it was my duty to make
any sacrifice.  I would be at the appointed place at the
appointed time."

She thanked me warmly and earnestly.  "She had
travelled night and day for a week, the roads were
impassable, frightful, the fatigue unheard of.  She had
a *migraine*, she had not slept for nights, and yet she was
going to this ball.  I would not fail her, I would be sure
to be there.  *Adieu*--no, *au revoir*."

So the carriage drove off, splashing no small quantity
of mud over my face and toilet.  As I returned to my
hotel to dress, I wondered what was going to happen *now*.





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.. _`"A MERRY MASQUE"`:

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   CHAPTER XXIX


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   "A MERRY MASQUE"

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It was a beautiful sight, one calculated to inspire feelings
of mirth and gaiety, even in a heart ill at ease with itself.
Such a ball-room as the Redouten-Saal is perhaps hardly
to be seen elsewhere in Europe.  Such music I will
venture to say can only be heard in Vienna, where the
whole population, from the highest to the lowest, seem
to live only that they may dance.  Everybody knows the
effect of brilliant light on the animal spirits; the walls of
these magnificent rooms are of a pale fawn colour, almost
approaching to white--the very shade that best refracts
and enhances the effect of hundreds of wax candles,
shedding their soft radiance on the votaries of pleasure
below.  No wonder people are in good spirits; no wonder
they throng the spacious halls, or parade the long galleries
above, and looking down from their elevated position, pass
many a pointed jest and humorous sally on the varied
scene that crowds the floor below.  No wonder they
frequent the refreshment-rooms that skirt these galleries,
and flirt and talk nonsense, and quiz each other with the
cumbrous vivacity of the Saxon race.  When I entered
from the quiet street I was dazzled by the glare, and
almost stupefied by the hum of many voices, and the
pealing notes of one of those waltzes which Strauss
seems to have composed expressly to remind the fallen
children of Adam of their lost Paradise.  From a boy
music has made me melancholy--the sweeter the sadder;
and although it is a morbid unmanly feeling, which I
have striven hard to overcome, it has always conquered
me, it will always conquer me to the last.  I felt bitterly
out of place amongst these pleasure-worshippers.  What
had I to do here, where all were merry and full of
enjoyment?  My very dress was out of keeping with the scene,
for I was one of a very small minority in civil attire.
Gorgeous uniforms, white, blue, and green, glittered all
over the ball-room; for in Austria no officer nowadays
ever appears out of uniform; and as an army of six
hundred thousand men is officered almost exclusively
from the aristocracy, the fair ball-goers of Vienna find
no lack of partners in gaudy and warlike attire.  The
ladies were all masked; not so their respective cavaliers,
it being part of the amusement of these balls that the
gentler sex alone should appear *incognito*, and so torment
their natural prey at more than their usual advantage;
thus many a poisoned dart is planted, many a thrust
driven securely home, without a chance of a parry or
fear of a return.  Though Pity is represented in a female
garb, it seems to me that woman, when she does strike,
strikes harder, straighter, swifter, more unsparingly than
man.  Perhaps she suffers as much as she inflicts, and
this makes her ruthless and reckless--who knows? if so,
she would rather die than acknowledge it.  These are not
thoughts for a ball, and yet they crowded on me more
and more as I stood under the musicians' gallery, gazing
vacantly at the throng.

Victor and his party had not yet arrived.  I was sure
to distinguish them by Ropsley's scarlet uniform, and I
was also sure that in such an assemblage of military
connoisseurs the costume of Queen Victoria's body-guard
would attract observation and remark that could not pass
unnoticed even by so preoccupied a spectator as myself.
Besides, I knew the colour of Valèrie's dress; it was to
be pink, and of some fabric, beautiful exceedingly, of
which I had forgotten the name as soon as told.  I was
consequently sure of finding them whenever I wished, so
I stood quietly in my corner, and watched the crowd go
by, without caring to mingle in the stream or partake of
the amusements every one else seemed to find so
delightful.  How poor and vapid sounded the conversation of
the passers-by; how strained the efforts at wit; how
forced and unnatural the attempts at mystification!  The
Germans are too like ourselves to sustain for any length
of time the artificial pace of badinage and repartee.  It
is not the genius of the nation, and they soon come
to a humble jog-trot of old trite jokes, or, worse still,
break down completely, and stop once for all.  The only
man that seemed in his element was a French *attaché*,
and he indeed entered into the spirit of the thing with
a zest and enthusiasm of truly Parisian origin.
Surrounded by masks, he kept up a fire of witticism, which
never failed or diminished for an instant; like the juggler
who plays with half-a-dozen balls, now one, now another,
now all up in air at once.  The Frenchman seemed to
ask no respite, to shrink from no emergency; he was
little, he was ugly, he was not even gentleman-like, but
he was "the right man in the right place," and the ladies
were enchanted with him accordingly.  Surrounded by
his admirers, he was at a sufficient distance for me
to watch his proceedings without the risk of appearing
impertinent, and so I looked on, half amused at his
readiness, half disgusted with his flippancy, till I found
my attention wandering once more to my own unprofitable
and discontented thoughts.

"*Mouton gui rêve*," said a voice at my elbow, so close
that it made me start.

I turned rapidly round, and saw a lady standing so
near that her dress touched mine, masked, of course, and
thoroughly disguised in figure and appearance.  Had it
not been for the handsome arm and the camellia she held
to her lips, I should not have recognised her as the lady
I had spoken to at the door of the Opera, and who had
appointed to meet me at this very spot--a *rendezvous*
which, truth to tell, I had nearly forgotten.

"*Mouton gui rêve*," she repeated, and added, in the same
language, "Your dreams must be very pleasant if they
can thus abstract you from all earthly considerations,
even music and dancing, and your duty towards the fair
sex."

"Now what *can* this woman want with me?  I wish
she would let me alone," was my inward thought: but
my outward expression thereof was couched in more polite
language.

"Dreaming! of course I was dreaming--and of Madame;
so bright a vision, that I could hardly hope ever to see it
realised.  I place myself at Madame's feet as the humblest
of her slaves."

She laughed in my face.  "Do not attempt compliments,"
she said, "it is not your *métier*.  The only thing
I like about you English is your frankness and
straight-forward character.  Take me upstairs.  I want to speak
seriously to you.  Don't look so preoccupied."

At this instant I recognised Ropsley's scarlet uniform
showing to great advantage on his tall person in the
distance; I could not help glancing towards the part of
the room in which I knew the pink dress was to be found,
for the pink dress would of course have entered with
Ropsley, and where the pink dress was there would be
*another*, whom, after to-night, I had resolved *never, never*
to see again.

My mysterious acquaintance had now hooked herself on
to my arm, and as we toiled up the stairs it was necessary
to say something.  I said the first thing that occurred to
me.  "How did you know I was an Englishman?"  She
laughed again.

"*Not* by your French," she answered; "for without
compliment, you speak it as well as I do; but who except
an Englishman would go to sleep with his eyes open in
such a place as this? who else would forget such a
*rendezvous* as I gave you here? who else, with a pretty woman
on his arm (I *am* a pretty woman, though I don't mean
to unmask), would be longing to get away, and hankering
after a pink dress and a black domino at the other end of
the room?  You needn't wince, my friend; I know all
your secrets.  You were in the seventh heaven when I
interrupted you.  I wish you would come down to earth
again."

I will not say where I wished *she* would go down to,
but I answered gravely and politely enough--"It was not
to tell me this you stopped your carriage after the opera
to-night; tell me how I can serve you--I am at the
disposition of Madame, though I am at a loss to discover
what she means by her pink dresses and black dominoes."

"I will not laugh at you for being serious," she replied.
"I am serious myself now, and I shall be for the next ten
minutes.  Frankly, I know you; I know all about you.
I know the drawing-room at Edeldorf, and I know Valèrie
de Rohan--don't look so frightened, your secret is safe
with me.  Be equally frank, Monsieur l'Interprète, and
interpret something for me, under promise of secrecy.
You are an Englishman," she added, hurriedly, her manner
changing suddenly to one of earnestness, not unmixed
with agitation; "can I depend upon you?"

"Implicitly, Madame," was my reply.

"Then tell me why Victor de Rohan is constantly at
the Hôtel Munsch with his foreign friends; tell me why
he is always in attendance on that proud young lady, that
frigid specimen of an English 'meess'?  Is it true, I only
ask you--tell me, is it true?"

Agitated as was the questioner, her words smote home
to her listener's heart.  How blind I had been, living
with them every day, and never to see it! while here was
a comparative stranger, one at least who, by her own
account, had been absent from Vienna for weeks, and she
was mistress of the details of our every-day life; she had
been watching like a lynx, whilst I was sleeping or
dreaming at my post; well, it mattered little which, now.  The
hand that held her bouquet was shaking visibly, but her
voice was steady and even slightly sarcastic as she read
her answer in my face, and resumed--

"What I have heard, then, is true, and Count de Rohan
is indeed an enviable man.  You need not say another
word, Monsieur l'Interprète, I am satisfied.  I thank you
for your kindness.  I thank you for your patience; you
may kiss my hand;" and she gave it me with the air of
a queen.  "I am an old friend of his and of his family; I
shall go and congratulate him; you need not accompany
me.  Adieu! good sleep and pleasant dreams to you."

I followed her with my eyes as she moved away.  I
saw her walk up to Victor, who had a lady in blue,
Constance, of course, upon his arm.  She passed close by him
and whispered in his ear.  He started, and I could see
that he turned deadly pale.  For an instant he hesitated
as if he would follow her, but in a twinkling she was lost
amongst the crowd, and I saw her no more that night.

I threaded my way to where Ropsley in his scarlet
uniform was conversing with a knot of distinguished
Austrian officers; they were listening to his remarks with
attention, and here, as elsewhere, in the ball-room at
Vienna as in the playground at Everdon, it seemed natural
that my old school-fellow should take the lead.  Sir Harry
was by his side occasionally putting in his word,
somewhat *mal-à-propos*, for though a shrewd capable man,
foreign politics were a little out of Sir Harry's depth.
Behind him stood the much-talked-of pink dress; its
wearer was closely masked, but I knew the flowers she
held in her hand, and I thought now was the time to bid
Valèrie a long farewell.  She was a little detached from
her party, and I do not think expected me so soon, for
she started when I spoke to her, but bowed in
acquiescence, and put her arm within mine when I proposed to
make the tour of the room with her, although, true to
the spirit of a masquerade, not a word escaped her lips.
I led her up to the galleries, and placed a seat for her
apart from the crowd.  I did not quite know how to
begin, and contrary to her wont, Valèrie seemed as silently
disposed as myself.  At last I took courage, and made my
plunge.

"I have asked to speak to you, to wish you good-bye,"
I said.  "I am going away to-morrow.  For my own sake
I must stay here no longer.  I am going back to the East.
I am well now, and anxious to be on service again.  I
have stayed in the Fatherland far too long as it is.
To-morrow at daybreak Bold and I must be *en route* for
Trieste."  I paused; she winced, and drew in her breath
quickly, but bowed her head without speaking, and I
went on--"Mine has been a strange lot, and not a very
happy one; and this must account to you for my reserved,
unsociable conduct, my seeming ingratitude to my best
and kindest friends.  Believe me, I am not ungrateful,
only unhappy.  I might have been, I ought to have been
a very different man.  I shall to-night bid you farewell,
perhaps for ever.  You are a true friend; you have always
borne and sympathised with me.  I will tell you my
history; bear and sympathise with me now.  I have been
a fool and an idolater all my life; but I have been at least
consistent in my folly, and true in my idolatry.  From
my earliest boyhood there has been but one face on earth
to me, and that one face will haunt me till I die.  Was it
my fault, that seeing her every day I could not choose
but love her? that loving her I would have striven heart
and soul, life and limb, to win her?  And I failed.  I
failed, though I would have poured out my heart's blood
at her feet.  I failed, and yet I loved her fondly,
painfully, madly as ever.  Why am I an exile from my
country--a wanderer on the face of the earth--a ruined,
desperate man?  Why, because of her.  And yet I would
not have it otherwise, if I could.  It is dearer to me to
sorrow for her sake, than it could ever have been to be
happy with another.  Valèrie, God forbid you should ever
know what it is to love as I have done.  God forbid that
the feeling which ought to be the blessing and the sunshine
of a life should turn to its blight and its curse!  Valèrie!"

She was shaking all over; she was weeping convulsively
under her mask: I could hear her sobs, and yet I was
pitiless.  I went on.  It was such a relief in the
selfishness of my sorrow, to pour out the pent-up grief of years,
to tell any one, even that merry, light-hearted girl, how
bitterly I had suffered--how hopeless was my lot.  It was
not that I asked for sympathy, it was not that I required
pity; but it seemed a necessity of my being, that I should
establish in the ears of one living witness the fact of my
great sorrow, ere I carried it away with me, perhaps to
my grave.  And all this time the melody of the "Weintrauben"
was pealing on, as if in mockery.  Oh, that
waltz!  How often she had played it to me in the drawing-room
at Beverley!  Surely, surely, it must smite that cold
heart even now.

My companion's sobs were less violent, but she grasped
the bouquet in her hand till every flower drooped and
withered with the pressure.

"Valèrie," I continued, "do not think me vain or
presumptuous.  I speak to you as a man who has death
looking him in the face.  I am resolved never to return.
I am no braver than my neighbours, but I have nothing
on earth to live for, and I pray to die.  I can speak to
you now as I would not dare to speak if I thought ever
to look in your face again.  You have been my consoler,
my sister, my friend.  Oh, I could have dared to love you,
Valèrie; to strive for you, to win you, had I but been free.
You are, perhaps, far worthier than that proud, unfeeling
girl, and yet--and yet--it cannot be.  Farewell, Valèrie,
dear Valèrie; we shall never meet again.  You will be
happy, and prosperous, and beloved; and you will think
sometimes of the poor wounded bird whose broken wing
you healed, only that it might fly away once more into
the storm.  As for me, I have had no future for years.  I
live only in the past.  Bold and I must begin our wanderings
again to-morrow--Bold whom she used to fondle,
whom I love for her sake.  It is not every man, Countess
Valèrie, that will sacrifice his all to an idea, and that idea
a false one!"

"Stop, Vere!" she gasped out wildly; "hush, for
mercy's sake, hush!"

Oh! that voice, that voice! was I dreaming? was it
possible? was I mad?  Still the wild tones of the
"Weintrauben" swelled and sank upon mine ear; still the motley
crowd down below were whirling before my sight; and
as surely as I saw and heard, so surely was it Constance
Beverley who laid her hand in mine, and tearing down
her mask, turned upon me a look so wild, so mournful,
so unearthly, that, through all my astonishment, all my
confusion, it chilled me to the heart.  Many a day
afterwards--ay, in the very jaws of death, that look haunted
me still.

"So true," she muttered; "oh, misery, misery! too late."

"Forgive me, Miss Beverley," I resumed, bitterly, and
with cold politeness; "this communication was not
intended for you.  I meant to bid Countess Valèrie
farewell.  You have accidentally heard that which I would
have died sooner than have told you.  It would be affectation
to deny it now.  I shall not annoy you any further.
I congratulate you on your many conquests, and wish you
good-bye."

She was weeping once more, and wrung my hand
convulsively.

"Vere, Vere," she pleaded, "do not be so hard upon
me; so bitter, so mocking, so unlike yourself.  Spare me,
I entreat you, for I am very miserable.  You do nob
know how I am situated.  You do not know how I have
struggled.  But I must not talk thus *now*."

She recovered her self-command with a strong effort,
and pale as death, she spoke steadily on.

"Vere, we may not make our own lot in life; whatever
is, is for the best.  It is too late to think of what might
have been.  Vere, dear Vere, you are my brother--you
never can be more to me than a dear, *dear* brother."

"Why not?" I gasped, for her words, her voice, her
trembling frame, her soft, sweet, mournful looks, had
raised once more a legion of hopes that I thought were
buried for ever in my breast; and despite my cruel taunts,
I loved her, even whilst I smote, as the fierce human
heart can love, and tear, and rend, and suffer the while,
far, far more keenly than its victim.

"Because I am the promised wife of another.  Your
friend, Count de Rohan, proposed for me this very day,
and I accepted him."

She was standing up as she said it, and she spoke in a
steady measured voice; but she sat down when she had
finished, and tried to put her mask on again.  Her fingers
trembled so that she could not tie the strings.

I offered her my arm, and we went downstairs.  Not
a word did we exchange till we had nearly reached the
place where Sir Harry was still standing talking to Victor
de Rohan.  Ropsley, in his scarlet uniform, was whirling
away with a lady in a blue dress, whose figure I
recognised at once for that of the Countess Valèrie.  It was
easy to discover that the young ladies, who resembled
each other in size and stature, had changed dresses; and
the Countess, to enhance the deception, had lent her
bouquet to her friend.  I was giddy and confused, like a
man with his death-hurt, but pride whispered in my ear
to bear it in silence and seeming unconcern.

Three paces more would bring us to Sir Harry.  I
should never see her again.  In a short time she might
perhaps read my name in the *Gazette*, and then hard,
haughty, false as she was, she would like to know that I
had been true to her to the last.  No, I would not part
with her in anger; my better angel conquered, and I
wrung her hand, and whispered, "God bless you,
Constance."  "God bless you, Vere," she replied; and the
pressure of those soft trembling fingers thrilled on mine
for many a day.

I recollect but little more of that ball in the Redouten-Saal.
I believe I congratulated Victor on his approaching
marriage.  I believe I wished Valèrie good-bye, and was
a little disappointed at the resignation with which she
accepted my departure.  I have a vague impression that
even Ropsley, usually so calm, so selfish, so unsympathising,
accompanied me home, under the impression that I
was ill.  My mind had been overstrung, and I walked
about like a man in a dream.  But morning came at last,
and with my cased sword under my arm, and Bold in a
leash at my feet, I stood on the platform of the railway-station,
waiting for the departure of my train.  An English
servant, in the well-known livery, touched his hat as he
put a letter into my hand.  Miser that I was!  I would
not read it till I was fairly settled in the carriage.  Little
thought the faded belle, with her false front, opposite me,
or the fat man, with a seal-ring on his fore-finger, by my
side, how that scrap of paper was all my wealth on earth;
but they were honest Germans, and possessed that truest
of all politeness, which does as it would be done by.  No
inquisitive regards annoyed me during its perusal; no
impertinent sympathy remarked on the tears which I am
ashamed to say fell thick and fast upon it ere it closed.
I have it by me now, that yellow well-worn paper.  I have
read those delicate womanly characters by scorching
sunlight, by the faint glimmer of a picket's lantern, far away
on the boundless sea, cramped and close in the stifling
tent.  If indeed "every bullet has its billet," and any one
of them had been destined to lodge in my bosom, it must
have found its way right through that fragile shield--ay,
carried in with it the very words which were ineffaceably
engraven on my heart.  No wonder I can remember it
all.  Here it is:--

.. vspace:: 2

"Vere, you must not judge me as men are so prone to
judge women--harshly, hastily, uncharitably.  We are
not all frivolous, selfish, and fond of change, caring only
for our amusements, our *conquests*, as you call them, and
our enmities.  You were bitter and cruel to me last night.
Indeed, indeed, I feel you had a right to be so, Vere.  I
am so, *so* sorry for you.  But you must not think I have
treated you unkindly, or with want of confidence.
Remember how you have avoided me ever since we came to
Vienna; remember how you have behaved to me as a
stranger, or at most a mere acquaintance; how you have
never once inquired about my prospects, or alluded to old
times.  Perhaps you were right; perhaps you felt hurt,
proud, and angry; and yet, Vere, I had expected better
things from *you*.  Had I been in your place I think I
could have forgiven, I think I could have cared for,
sympathised with, and respected one whom I was
forbidden to love.  If I were a man, it seems to me that I
should not place happiness, however great, as the one sole
aim of my existence; that I should strive to win honour
and distinction, to benefit my fellow-men, and above all,
to fulfil my duty, even with no higher reward here below
than my own approval.  Vere, when a man feels he is
doing right, others think so too.  I could be proud,
oh! so proud, of my brother.  Yes, Vere, it is my turn to
implore now, and I entreat you let me be a sister, a very
dear sister to you.  As such I will tell you all my griefs,
all my doings; as such I can confide in you, write to you,
think of you, pray for you, as indeed I do, Vere, every
morning and evening of my life.  And now let us dismiss
at once and for ever the thoughts of what might have
been.  The past is beyond recall--the present, as you
used to say, does not exist.  The future none can call
their own.  There is but one reality in life, and that is
Right.  Vere, I have done right.  I have followed the
path of duty.  Brother, I call upon you for your help
along the rough steep way; you have never failed me yet,
you will not fail me now.

"You know my mother died when I was very young.
Since then my father has fulfilled the duties of both
parents towards his child.  As I have grown older and
seen more of the world, I have been better able to
appreciate his affection and devotion to myself.  A little
girl must have been a sad clog upon a man like my dear
father, a high-spirited gentleman, fond of the world, fond
of society, fond of pleasure.  Besides, had it not been for
me, he would have married again, and he preferred to
sacrifice his happiness to his child.  Can I ever repay
him?  No.  Whatever may have been his faults, he has
been a kind, kind father to me.  I will tell you all frankly,
Vere, as this is the last time the subject can ever be
mentioned between us.  Had I been free to choose, I
would have been yours.  I am not ashamed--nay, I am
*proud* to own it.  But you know how impossible it was,
how absolutely my father forbade it.  To have disobeyed
him would have been wicked and ungrateful.  I feel that
even you would not have respected me had I done so.
But of late he has become most anxious to see me settled
in life.  From his own hints, and Captain Ropsley's open
assertions, it seems this alone can stave off some dreadful
evil.  I do not understand it.  I only know I am bound
to do all in my power for papa; and that he is entangled
with that bad, unprincipled man I feel convinced.  Oh,
Vere, it might have been far, far worse.  In accepting
Count de Rohan I have escaped a great and frightful
danger.  Besides, I esteem him highly, I like his society,
I admire his open, honourable character.  I have known
him all my life; he is your oldest friend--I need not
enlarge upon his merits to you.  His sister, too, is a
charming, frank-hearted girl.  From all I heard, from all
I saw, I had hoped, Vere, that she had effaced in your
mind the unhappy recollections of former days.  She is
beautiful, accomplished, and attractive; can you wonder
that I believed what I was told, and judged, besides, by
what I saw?  Even now we might be related.  You seem
to like her, and she would make any one happy.  Forgive
me, Vere, forgive me for the suggestion.  It seems so
unfeeling now, whilst I have your tones of misery ringing
in my ears; and yet, Heaven knows, *your* happiness is
the wish nearest my heart.  Consult only *that*, and I shall
be satisfied.  To hear of your welfare, your success, will
make me happy.  I cannot, I must not write to you again.
You yourself would not wish it.  I ought to write no
more now.  I feel for you, Vere; I know how you must
suffer, but the steel must be tempered in the fire, and it
is through suffering that men learn to be great and good.
There are other prizes in life besides happiness.  There is
an hour coming for us all, when even the dearest and
closest will have to part.  May we both be ready when
that hour arrives.  And now it is time to bid the long
farewell; our paths in life must henceforth be separate.
Do not think unkindly of me, Vere; I may not be with
you, but I may be proud of you, and wish you every
happiness.  Forget me--yet not altogether.  Dear, *dear*
brother, God bless you! and farewell!

"Take care of poor Bold."

.. vspace:: 2

So it was really over at last.  Well, and what then?
Had it not been over, to all intents and purposes, long
ago?  Yes, there was something worth living for, after
all.  There was no bitterness now, for there was nothing
to hope; the cup had been drained to the dregs, and the
very intoxication of the draught had passed away, but it
had invigorated the system and given new life to the
heart.  It was much to feel that I had been valued and
appreciated by such a woman--much to know that my
name would never fall unmeaningly on her ear.  And I
would be worthy, I would never fail.  The sacrifice should
be perfected.  And though I might never see her again
on earth, I would preserve her image pure and unsullied
in my heart of hearts.  Constance Beverley should henceforth
and for ever be my ideal of all that was purest and
noblest and best beloved in woman.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE GOLDEN HORN`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXX


.. class:: center medium

   THE GOLDEN HORN

.. vspace:: 2

"Johnny, want to see the bazaar?"  The speaker was
a Greek of the lowest class, depraved and dirty, with a
flexibility of limb and cunning of countenance only to be
seen in the present representatives of that race who once
furnished the sculptor with his glorious ideal of godlike
strength and intellectual beauty.  I longed to kick
him--the climate of Constantinople is provocative of
irritation, and I felt that with my bushy beard, my Oriental
demeanour, my acquaintance with Turkish habits and
proficiency in the language, it was irritating to be called
"Johnny," and asked to "see the bazaar," as though I had
been the smoothest and ruddiest ensign, disembarked for
a day's leave from yonder crowded troop-ship, an innocent
lamb frisking in the sun on my way up to the shambles
before Sebastopol.

Yes, I was pretty well acclimatised in Turkey now.  A
year and more had passed over my head since I had left
Vienna, the morning after that memorable ball at the
Redouten-Saal, and what changes had that year brought
forth!  Sir Harry Beverley was gathered to his fathers,
and an investigation into that worthy gentleman's affairs
had explained much that was hitherto incomprehensible
in his conduct as to his daughter's marriage and his
connection with Ropsley.  The latter had played his game
scientifically throughout.  He was aware that on a proper
settlement being made, by marriage or otherwise, for his
daughter, Sir Harry would obtain the fee-simple of certain
property which, until such an event, he only held in trust
for the young lady's benefit; and as these were the sole
funds to which the far-seeing Guardsman could look to
liquidate Sir Harry's debts to himself, incurred no one
knew exactly how, it was his object to expedite as speedily
as possible the marriage of my early love.  As she was an
heiress he would have had no objection to wed her
himself, and indeed, as we have already seen, had entered
into terms with her father for the furtherance of this
object.  That scheme was, however, defeated by her own
determination, and it had long been apparent to my mind
that Constance had only married my old friend Victor to
escape from the dreadful alternative of becoming Ropsley's
wife: that such an alliance promised but ill for the future
happiness of both I could not conceal from myself, and
yet so selfish is the human heart, so difficult is it to shake
the "trail of the serpent" from off the flowerets of our
earthly love, I could not regret as I ought to have done
that the two people whom most I cared for in the world,
should not be as devoted to each other as is essential to
the happiness of those whom the tie of marriage has bound
indissolubly together.

Ah! she was Countess de Rohan now, living at Edeldorf
in all that state and luxury which she was so well
calculated to adorn; and I, what had I done since we
parted for ever at the masquerade?  Well, I had striven
to fulfil her wishes--to rise to honour and distinction, to
be worthy of her friendship and esteem.  Fame I had
gained none, but I had done my duty.  Omar Pasha, my
kind patron, who had never forgotten the child that
sympathised with him at Edeldorf, had expressed himself
satisfied with my services; and 'Skender Bey, drunk or
sober, never passed me without a cordial grasp of the
hand.  For more than a year I had shared the fortunes
of the Turkish commander and the Turkish army.  I had
seen the merits of those poor, patient, stanch, unflinching
troops, and the shortcomings of their corrupt and venal
officers.  I knew, none better, how the Turkish soldier
will bear hunger, thirst, privation, ill-usage, and arrears
of pay without a murmur; how, with his implicit faith
in destiny, and his noble self-sacrifice in the cause of God
and the Sultan, he is capable of endurance and effort
such as put the ancient Spartan to the blush--witness
the wan faces, the spectral forms, gaunt, famine-stricken
and hollow-eyed, that so doggedly carried out the behests
of the tameless defender of Kars.  I had seen him starved
and cheated that his colonel might gormandise--ay! and,
in defiance of the Prophet, drink to intoxication of the
forbidden liquid--and I wondered not, as none who knew
the nation need wonder, that Russian gold will work its
way to the defeat of a Turkish army far more swiftly than
all the steel that bristles over the thronging columns of
the Muscovite.  Keep the Pasha's hands clean, or make
it worth his while to be faithful to his country--forbid
the northern eagle from spreading his wing over the
Black Sea, and you may trust the Turkish soldier that
not a Russian regiment ever reaches the gates of
Constantinople.  All this I had seen, and for long I was
content to cast in my lot with this brave people,
struggling against the invader; but my own countrymen were
in arms scarce two hundred miles off, the siege of
Sebastopol was dragging wearily on from day to day--I felt
that I would fain be under the dear old English flag,
would fain strike one blow surrounded by the kindly
English faces, cheered by the homely English tongues.
She was more likely to hear of me, too, if I could gain
some employment with the English army; and this last
argument proved to me too painfully what I had vainly
striven to conceal from myself, how little these long
months of trials, privations, and excitement had altered
the real feelings of my heart.  Would it be always so?
Alas, alas! it was a weary lot!

"Johnny, want to see the bazaar?"  He woke me from
my day-dream, but I felt more kindly towards him now,
more cosmopolitan, more charitable.  In such a scene as
that, how could any man, a unit in such a throng, think
only of his own individual interests or sufferings?

Never since the days of the Crusaders--ay, scarcely
even in that romantic time, was there seen such a motley
assemblage as now crowded the wooden bridge that
traverses the Golden Horn between bustling, dirty,
dissonant Pera, and stately, quiet, dignified Stamboul,
those two suggestive quarters that constitute the Turkish
capital.  On that bridge might be seen a specimen of
nearly every nation under the sun--the English soldier
with his burly, upright figure, and staid, well-disciplined
air; the rakish Zouave, with his rollicking gait, and
professed libertinism of demeanour, foreign to the real
character of the man.  Jauntily he sways and swaggers
along, his hands thrust into the pockets of his enormous
red petticoat trousers, his blonde hair shaved close *à la
Khabyle*, and his fair complexion burnt red by an African
sun long before he came here, "en route, voyez-vous," to
fill the ditch of the Malakhoff.  "Pardon," he observes to
a tall, stately Persian, fresh from Astracan, whom he
jostles unwittingly, for a Frenchman is never impolite, save
when he really *intends* insult; the fire-worshipper, in his
long sad-coloured robes and high-pointed cap, wreathes
his aquiline nose into an expression of stately astonishment--for
a Persian, too, has his notions of good breeding,
and is extremely punctilious in acting up to them.  His
picturesque costume, however, and dignified bearing, are
lost upon the Zouave, for a gilded *araba* is at the moment
passing, with its well-guarded freight, and the accursed
Giaour ogles these flowers of the harem with an impudent
pertinacity of truly Parisian growth.  The beauties, fresh
from their bath, attempt, with henna-tinted fingers, to
draw their thin veils higher over their radiant features,
their bed-gown-looking dresses tighter round their plump
forms; an arrangement which by some fatality invariably
discloses the beauties of face and figure more liberally
than before.  Here a Jew, in his black dress and solemn
turban, is counting his gains attentively on his fingers;
there an Armenian priest, with square cap and long dusky
draperies, tells his prayers upon his sandal-wood beads.
A mad dervish, naked to the loins, his hair knotted in
elf-locks, his limbs macerated by starvation, howls out his
unearthly dirge, to which nobody seems to pay attention,
save that Yankee skipper in a round hat, fresh from
Halifax to Balaklava, who is much astonished, if he would
only confess it, and who sets down in his mental log-book
all that he sees and hears in this strange country as an
"almighty start."  Italian sailors, speaking as much with
their fingers as their tongues, call perpetually on the
Virgin; whilst Greeks, Maltese, and Ionian Islanders
scream and gesticulate, and jabber and cheat whenever
and however they can.  Yonder an Arab from the desert
stalks grim and haughty, as though he trod the burning
sands of his free, boundless home.  Armed to the teeth,
the costly shawl around his waist bristling with pistols
and sword and deadly yataghan, he looks every inch the
tameless war-hawk whose hand is against every man, and
every man's hand against him.  Preoccupied as he is,
though, and ill at ease, for he has left his steed in a stable
from whence he feels no certainty that priceless animal
may not be stolen ere he returns; and should he lose his
horse, what will his very life avail him then?  Nevertheless
he can sneer bitterly on that gigantic Ethiopian--a
slave, of course--who struts past him in all the
borrowed importance of a great man's favourite.  At
Constantinople, as at New Orleans,--in the City of the
Sultan as in the Land of the Free--the swarthy skin, the
flattened features, and the woolly hair of the negro denote
the slave.  That is a tall, stalwart fellow, though, and
would fetch his price in South Carolina fast enough, were
he put up for sale to the highest bidder.  Such a lot he
need not dread here, and he leads some half-dozen of his
comrades, like himself, splendidly dressed and armed, with
a confident, not to say bellicose air, that seems to threaten
all bystanders with annihilation if they do not speedily
make way for his master the Pasha.  And now the Pasha
himself comes swinging by at the fast easy walk of his
magnificent Turkish charger, not many crosses removed
from the pure blood of the desert.  The animal seems
proud of its costly accoutrements, its head-stall embossed
with gold, and housings sown with pearls, nor seems
inclined to flag or waver under the goodly weight it
carries so jauntily.  A gentleman of substantial proportions
is the Pasha; broad, strong, and corpulent, with the quiet,
contented air of one whose habitual life is spent amongst
subordinates and inferiors.  He is a true Turk, and it is
easy to trace in his gestures and demeanour--haughty,
grave and courteous--the bearing of the dominant race.
His stout person is buttoned into a tight blue frock-coat,
on the breast of which glitters the diamond order of the
Medjidjie, and a fez or crimson skull-cap, with a brass
button in the crown, surmounts his broad, placid face,
clean and close shaved, all but the carefully trimmed
black moustache.  A plain scimitar hangs at his side, and
the long chibouques, with their costly amber mouthpieces,
are carried by the pipe-bearer in his rear.  The cripple
asking for alms at his horse's feet narrowly escapes being
crushed beneath its hoofs; but in Turkey nobody takes
any trouble about anybody else, and the danger being
past, the cripple seems well satisfied to lie basking in the
sun on those warm boards, and wait for his destiny like a
true Mussulman as he is.  Loud are the outcries of this
Babel-like throng; and the porters of Galata stagger by
under enormous loads, shouting the while with stentorian
lungs, well adapted to their Herculean frames.
Water-carriers and sweetmeat-venders vie with each other in
proclaiming the nature of their business in discordant
tones; a line of donkeys, bearing on their patient backs
long planks swaying to and fro, are violently addressed
by their half-naked drivers in language of which the
poetic force is equalled only by the energetic enunciation;
and a string of Turkish firemen, holloaing as if for their
lives, are hurrying--if an Osmanli can ever be said to
hurry--to extinguish one of those conflagrations which
periodically depopulate Pera and Stamboul.

The blue sparkling water, too, is alive with traffic, and
is indeed anything but a "silent highway."  Graceful
caïques, rowed by their lightly-clad watermen--by far
the most picturesque of all the dwellers by the Bosphorus--shoot
out in all directions from behind vessels of every
rig and every tonnage; the boatmen screaming, of course,
on every occasion, at the very top of their voices.  All is
bustle, confusion, and noise; but the tall black cedars in
the gardens of the Seraglio-palace tower, solemn and
immovable, into the blue cloudless sky, for there is not
a breath of air stirring to fan the scorching noon, and the
domes and minarets of Stamboul's countless mosques
glitter white and dazzling in the glare.  It is refreshing
to watch the ripple yonder on the radiant Bosphorus,
where the breeze sighs gently up from the sea of
Marmora--alas! we have not a chance of it elsewhere; and it is
curious to observe the restless white sea-fowl, whom the
Turks believe to be the lost souls of the wicked, scouring
ever along the surface of the waters, seemingly without
stay or intermission, during the livelong day.  It is
ominous, too; mark that enormous vulture poised aloft
on his broad wing, like a shadow of evil impending over
the devoted city.  There are few places in the world
so characteristic as the bridge between Galata[#] and
Stamboul.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] The suburb of Pera lying next the Bosphorus, a locality
   combining the peculiarities of our own Smithfield, St. Giles's, and
   Billingsgate in their worst days.  There is another bridge across the
   Golden Horn, higher up; but its traffic, compared to that of its
   neighbour, is as that of Waterloo to London Bridge.

.. vspace:: 2

And now the traffic is brought to a stand-still, for the
huge fabric has to be opened, and swings back on its
hinges for the passage of some mighty craft moving
slowly on to the inner harbour to refit.  It is a work of
time and labour: the former article is of considerably less
value to our Moslem friends than the latter, and is
lavished accordingly; but though business may be
suspended for the nonce, noise increases tenfold, every item
of the throng deeming the present an opportune moment
at which to deliver his, her, or its opinion on things in
general.  Nimble fingers roll the fragrant cigarette, and
dissonant voices rise above the white spiral smoke into
the clear bright air.  Close behind me I recognise the
well-known Saxon expletive adjuring *Johnny* to "drive
on,"--said "Johnny" invariably returning a blessing for
a curse, but "driving on," if by that expression is meant
activity and progress, as little as may be.  Turning
round, I confront a florid Saxon face, with bushy beard
and whiskers, surmounting a square form that somehow
I think I have seen before.  "Scant greeting serves in
time of strife," and taking my chance of a mistake, I
salute my neighbour politely.

"Mr. Manners, I believe?  I am afraid you do not
recollect me."

"*Major* Manners, sir; *Major* Manners--very much at
your service," is the reply, in a tone of mild correction.
"No; I confess you have the advantage of me.  And
yet--can it be?  Yes, it is--Vere Egerton!"

"The same," I answered, with a cordial grasp of the
hand; "but it is strange we should meet here, of all
places in the world."

"I always told you I was born to be a soldier, Egerton,"
said the usher, with his former jaunty air of
good-humoured bravado; "and here I am amongst the rest of
you.  Bless me, how you're grown!  I should not have
known you had you not spoken to me.  And I--don't you
think I am altered, eh? improved perhaps, but certainly
altered--what?"

I glanced over my friend's dress, and agreed with him
most cordially as to the *alteration* that had taken place in
his appearance.  The eye gets so accustomed to difference
of costume at Constantinople, that it is hardly attracted
by any eccentricity of habit, however uncommon; but
when my attention was called by Manners himself to his
exterior, I could not but confess that he was apparelled
in a style of gorgeous magnificence, such as I had never
seen before.  High black riding-boots of illustrious polish,
with heavy steel spurs that would have become Prince
Rupert; crimson pantaloons under a bright green tunic,
single-breasted, and with a collar *à la guillotine*, that
showed off to great advantage the manly neck and huge
bushy beard, but at the same time suggested uncomfortable
ideas of sore throats and gashing sabre-strokes; a
sash of golden tissue, and a sword-belt, new and richly
embroidered, sustaining a cavalry sabre nearly four feet
long,--all this was more provocative of admiration than
envy; but when such a *tout ensemble* was surmounted by
a white beaver helmet with a red plume, something of a
compromise between the head-dress of the champion at
Astley's and that which is much affected by the Prince
Consort, the general effect, I am bound to confess, became
striking in the extreme.

"I see," said I; "I admire you very much; but what
is it?--the uniform, I mean.  Staff corps?  Land
Transport?  What?"

"Land Transport, indeed!" replied Manners, indignantly.
"Not a bit of it--nothing half so low.  The
Bashi-Bazouks--Beatson's Horse--whatever you like to
call them.  Capital service--excellent pay--the officers a
jovial set of fellows; and really--eh now? confess, a
magnificent uniform.  Come and join us, Egerton--we
have lots of vacancies; it's the best thing out."

"And your men?" I asked, for I had heard of these
Bashi-Bazouks and their dashing leader.  "What sort of
soldiers are they?--can you depend upon them?"

"I'd lead them anywhere," replied my enthusiastic
friend, whose experience of warfare was as yet purely
theoretical.  "The finest fellows you ever saw; full of
confidence in their officers, and such horsemen!  Talk of
your English dragoons! why, *our* fellows will ride up to
a brick wall at a gallop, and pull up dead short; pick a
glove off the ground from the saddle, or put a bullet in it
when going by as hard as they can lay legs to the ground.
You should really see them under arms.  *My opinion is*,
they are the finest cavalry in the world."

"And their discipline?" I continued, knowing as I did
something of these wild Asiatics and their predatory and
irregular habits.

"Oh, discipline!" answered my embryo warrior; "bother
the discipline! we mustn't begin by giving them too
much of that; besides, it's nonsense to drill those fellows,
it would only spoil their *dash*.  They behave very well in
camp.  I have been with them now six weeks, and we
have only had one row yet."

"And was that serious?" I asked, anxious to obtain
the benefit of such long experience as my friend's.

"Serious"--replied Manners, thoughtfully; "well, it
was serious; pistols kept popping off, and I thought at
one time things were beginning to look very ugly, but the
chief soon put them to rights.  They positively adore
him.  I don't know whether he punished the ringleaders.
However," added he, brightening up, "you must expect
these sort of things with Irregulars.  It was the first time
I ever was shot at, Egerton; it's not half so bad as I
expected: we are all dying to get into the field.  Hollo! they
have shut the bridge again, and I must be getting
on.  Which way are you going?--to the Seraskerât?
Come and dine with me to-day at Messirie's--Salaam!"

And Manners strutted off, apparently on the best of
terms with himself, his uniform, and his Bashi-Bazouks.
Well! he, too, had embarked on the stormy career of war.
It was wonderful how men turned up at Constantinople,
on their way to or from the Front.  It seemed as if society
in general had determined on making an expedition to
the East.  Dandies from St. James's-street were amusing
themselves by amateur soldiering before Sebastopol, and
London fine ladies were to be seen mincing about on the
rugged stones of Pera, talking bad French to the
astonished Turks with a confidence that was truly touching.
It was Europe invading Asia once more, and I could not
always think Europe showed to advantage in the contrast.
A native Turk, calm, dignified, kindly, and polite, is a
nobler specimen of the human race than a bustling French
barber or a greedy German Jew; and of the two latter
classes Pera was unfortunately full even to overflowing.
Well, it was refreshing to have crossed the bridge at
last--to have left behind one the miserable attempt at
Europeanism, the dirt, the turmoil, and the discomfort of
Pera, for the quiet calm, the stately seclusion, and the
venerable magnificence of Stamboul.





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.. _`THE SERASKERÂT`:

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   CHAPTER XXXI


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   THE SERASKERÂT

.. vspace:: 2

True believers were thronging in and out of the great
mosque of St. Sophia, pious in the consciousness of their
many prostrations, rigorous in their observance of the
hour of prayer.  A *mollah* was shouting from one of the
minarets, calling north, south, east, and west on all the
faithful servants of the Prophet to offer up their daily
orisons; and the infidel, as we term him, responded
zealously to the call.  Business was drowsily nodding in
the bazaar; and the tradesman, sitting cross-legged on
his counter, pointed feebly with his pipe towards the rich
wares which his customer seemed barely to have energy
to select.  Slipshod Turkish ladies, accompanied by their
negro damsels, were tripping slowly home from the bath,
peeping at the Giaour through the thin folds of their
*yashmaks* with curiosity not untempered by scorn.
Pot-bellied children, pashas in miniature, holding up their
garments with one hand, whilst they extended the henna-dyed
fingers of the other, waddled after the stranger, now
spitting at him with precocious fanaticism, now screaming
out something about "Bono Johnny" and "Para," in
unseemly cupidity for an alms.  Dogs, gorged and sleepy,
the recognised scavengers of the streets, lay coiled up
in each shady corner and recess.  Everything betokened
somnolence and repose.  The very sentry at the gate of
the Seraskerât had laid his musket carefully aside, and
was himself leaning against the wall in an attitude of
helpless resignation and imbecility.  My Turkish uniform,
and his knowledge of my person as attached to the staff
of Omar Pasha, served somewhat to arouse him; but ere
he was fairly under arms I was already in the inner court
of the Seraskerât, and beyond reach of his challenge or
salute.  What a contrast did it present to our own
Horse-Guards, to which office it is a corresponding institution!
Notwithstanding our boasted superiority, notwithstanding
the proverbial supineness and indolence of the Sultan's
officials, the comparison was hardly in favour of our
London head-quarters for the hindrance of military affairs.
Here was no helpless messenger, whose business it seems
to be to *know nothing*, and who, answering every question
with the unfailing "I will go and inquire," disappears and
is seen no more.  Here was no supercilious clerk, whose
duty would appear to enjoin concealment of all he *does*
know, and an imperative necessity of throwing difficulties
in everybody's way.  Here was no lingering for hours
in an ante-room, to obtain a five minutes' interview of
authoritative disapprobation on the one hand, and
submissive disappointment on the other.  On the contrary,
at the foot of the stairs leading to the Seraskier's
apartments were collected a posse of bustling, smart attendants,
all alive and willing to assist in whatever was going on.
Foreign officers, chiefly Hungarians, passed to and fro in
eager conclave or thoughtful meditation.  Interpreters
were on the alert to solve a difficulty, and well-bred,
active horses stood saddled and bridled, ready to start at
a moment's notice with an order or a despatch.  A knavish
dragoman was jabbering bad Italian to a Jewish-looking
individual, who I concluded must be a contractor; and a
tall colonel of Turkish cavalry rolling a cigarette in his
brown, well-shaped fingers, stood looking on in dignified
indifference, as if he understood every word of their
conversation, but considered it immeasurably beneath his
haughty notice.

I sent up my name by a slim-waisted young officer, a
Turk of the modern school, with long hair and varnished
boots, over which, however, he was forced to wear
indiarubber goloshes, that on going into the presence of a
superior he might pay the indispensable compliment of
uncovering his feet; and almost ere I had followed him
three steps upstairs he had returned, and informing me
that I was expected, held aside the curtain, under which
I passed into the presence of the Seraskier.

Again, how unlike the Horse-Guards! the room, though
somewhat bare of furniture, was gorgeously papered,
painted, and decorated, in the florid style of French art;
a cut-glass chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling,
and richly-framed mirrors adorned the walls.  From the
windows the eye travelled over the glorious Bosphorus,
with its myriads of shipping, to the Asiatic shore, where
beautiful Scutari, with its background of hills and
cypresses, smiled down upon the waters now gleaming
like a sheet of burnished gold.  A low divan, covered
with velvet cushions and costly shawls, stretched round
three sides of the apartment, and on this divan were
seated in solemn conclave the greatest general of the day
and the Seraskier or Commander-in-Chief of the Turkish army.

Some knotty point must have been under discussion
before I entered, for Omar Pasha's brow was perplexed
and clouded, and a dead silence, interrupted only by the
bubble of the Seraskier's *narghileh*, reigned between the
two.  The latter motioned me courteously to seat myself
by the side of my chief; an attendant brought me a
spoonful of sweetmeat, a tiny cup of strong, thick coffee,
and an amber-tipped chibouque adorned with priceless
diamonds, and filled with tobacco such as the houris will
offer to the true believer in Paradise.  I knew my
assistance would soon be required; for although Omar Pasha
is a good Turkish scholar, few men save those to whom it
is almost a mother-tongue can converse fluently for any
length of time with a Turk in his own language: so I
smoked in silence and waited patiently till I was wanted.

True to the custom of the country, Omar Pasha resumed
the conversation in an indifferent tone, by a polite inquiry
after his Excellency's health, "which must have suffered
from his exertions in business during the late heats."

To this his Excellency replied, "that he had been bled,
and derived great benefit from it; but that the sight of
his Highness, Omar Pasha, had done him more good than
all the prescriptions of the *Hakim*."

A long silence, broken only as before; Omar Pasha,
who does not smoke, waxing impatient, but keeping it
down manfully.

The Seraskier at length remarked, without fear of
contradiction, that "his Highness was exceedingly welcome
at Constantinople," and that "God is great."

Such self-evident truths scarcely furnished an opening
for further comment, but Omar Pasha saw his opportunity,
and took advantage of it.

"Tell the Seraskier," said he to me, as being a more
formal manner of acknowledging his courtesy, "that his
welcome is like rain on a parched soil; that Constantinople
is the paradise of the earth, but the soldier ought
not to leave his post, and I must return to the army,
taking with me those supplies and arrears of pay of which
I stand in need."

All this I propounded in the florid hyperbole of the East.

"Assuredly," answered the Seraskier, a stout, sedate,
handsome personage, who looked as if nothing could
ruffle or discompose him, and was therefore the very man
for the place,--"Assuredly, the beard of his Highness
overflows with wisdom; there is but one God."

This was undeniable, but hardly conclusive; Omar
Pasha came again to the attack.

"I have made a statement of my wants, and the
supplies of arms, ammunition, and money, that I require.
The army is brave, patient, and faithful; they are the
children of the Sultan, and they look to their father to be
fed and clothed.  That statement has been forwarded to
your Excellency through the proper channels.  When the
children ask for bread and powder to fight the accursed
'Moscov,' what is their general to reply?"

"Bakaloum" (we shall see), answered the Seraskier,
perfectly unmoved.  "If your Highness's statement has
been duly forwarded, doubtless it has reached our father
the Sultan, with the blessing of God.  Our father is
all-powerful; may he live for a thousand years."

Omar Pasha began to lose patience.

"But have you not seen and read it yourself?" he
exclaimed, with rising colour; "do you not acknowledge
the details? do you not know the urgency of our wants? have
you not taken measures for supplying them?"

The Seraskier was driven into a corner, but his
*sang-froid* did not desert him for a moment.

"I have seen the statement," said he, "and it was
cleverly and fairly drawn up.  The war is a great war,
and it has great requirements.  By the blessing of God,
the armies of the faithful will raze the walls of Sebastopol,
and drive the 'Moscov' into the sea.  Kismet--it is
destiny, praise be to Allah!"

"Before I set foot on board ship, before I leave the
quay at Tophana, I must have those supplies shipped
and ready to sail," urged Omar Pasha, now thoroughly
roused, and showing his European energy in strong
contrast to the Oriental apathy of the other; "I cannot
proceed without them, I must have them by the end of
the month.  Orders must be sent out to-night--will you
promise me this?"

"Bakaloum" (we shall see), replied the Seraskier, and
after a few unmeaning compliments the audience ended,
and I accompanied my chief downstairs into the courtyard
of the Seraskerât.

"And this, my dear Egerton," said he, as he mounted
his horse to proceed to his own quarters, "is one of the
many difficulties with which I have to contend.  Nobody
knows anything--nobody cares for anything--nobody *does*
anything.  If we had but a Government, if we were not
paralysed, why, with such an army as mine I could have
done much.  As it is, we are worse than useless.  If the
men have no shoes, no powder, no bread, and I apply to
the authorities, as I have done to-day, it is 'Bakaloum'"
(we shall see).  "We shall indeed see some fine morning
when the troops have all deserted, or are starved to death
in their tents.  Every official, high and low, seems only
to look out for himself; what is there for us but to follow
the example?  And yet what chances lost! what an army
thrown away!"

"But the Allies will soon take the place," I remarked,
wishing to look on the bright side of things if possible,
"and then our plan of a campaign is feasible enough.
We shall sweep the whole of the Crimea, and strike him
such a blow in Asia as will cripple our old friend the
'Rusky' for many a long day."

Omar smiled and shook his head.  "Too many masters,
friend Egerton," he replied; "too many masters.  The
strings are pulled in Paris, and London--ay, and in
Vienna too.  Diplomatists who do not know their own
business are brought forward to teach us ours, and what
is a general to do?  There should be but one head to two
hands.  Here we have it all the other way.  No, no, it is
all 'Bakaloum' together, and we must make the best of
it!  I will send for you to-morrow if I want you."

As he rode away in his long dark overcoat and crimson
fez, I looked after his manly, nervous figure, and thought
to myself what a commander would that have been in any
other service in the world.  Had he but chanced to be
born a Pole instead of a Croat, would the Danube still
form a line of demarcation between the eagle and its
prey?  Would the Sultan be even now basking in beauty
and revelling in champagne amongst the enervating
delights of the Seraglio gardens?  Would the balance of
power in Europe be still held in equipoise? and the red
flag, with its star and crescent, still flaunt over the
thronging masts of the Golden Horn?

Several of my old acquaintances crowded round me ere
I left the courtyard of the Seraskerât, welcoming me
back to Constantinople, and eager to learn all the thrilling
news of the day; every man believing every other to be
better informed than himself as to all that was going on
in front.  I could gratify them but little, as my duty had
now for some considerable period removed me from the
scene of active operations.  Truth to tell, I longed ardently
to be in the field once more.

Amongst others, my old comrade, Ali Mesrour, the
Beloochee, touched me on the shoulder, and greeted me
with the heartfelt cordiality that no Asiatic ever assumes
save with a fast and well-tried friend.  The last time I
had seen him he was engaged with some half-dozen
Cossacks on the heights above Baidar, in the most
romantic portion of the Crimea.  He had kept them
gallantly at lance's length for more than ten minutes,
and made his escape after all, wounded in two places, and
leaving three of his enemies dismounted on the field.
Then he was ragged, jaded, dirty, and half-starved, for we
were all on short rations about that time; now I should
hardly have recognised him, sleek, handsome, and debonair,
dressed, moreover, with unparalleled magnificence, and
carrying, as is the custom of these warriors, all his worldly
wealth in the jewelled hilt of his dagger, the mounting of
his pistols, and the costly shawls that protected his head
and wound about his middle.  He seized my right hand,
and pressed it to his heart, his eyes, and his forehead;
then poured forth a volume of welcomes in the picturesque
language of the East.

Could I do less than ask after the welfare of Zuleika,
the gallant animal to whom I owed liberty and life?

"Allah has preserved her," replied the Beloochee, "and
she is now in a stable not far from this spot.  Her skin is
sleek and fair; she is still my soul, and the corner of my
heart."

"May she live a thousand years," was my comment;
"to her and her master I am indebted for being here now.
She is one of the best friends I ever had."

The Beloochee's eyes sparkled at the recollection.

"It was a favourable night," he answered, "and destiny
was on our side.  The dog of a Cossack!  What filth I
made him devour!  How he rolled in the dust, and
gasped at the kisses of my sharp knife!  The Effendi
rode in pain and weakness, but Allah strengthened him.
The Effendi can walk now as well as when he left his
mother's side."

We were strolling together down one of the shady
narrow streets that lead to the water's edge, for I was on
my return to Pera, and the Beloochee, in his delight at
meeting his old comrade, would not suffer me to proceed
alone.  It was about five o'clock in the afternoon, and the
scorching heat which had reigned all day was at last
tempered with the breeze from the Black Sea.  Oh! blessings
on that breeze from the north!  Without it how
could we have endured the stifling atmosphere of Roumelia
in the dog-days?  By one of those wonderful arrangements
of nature, which, after all (being accounted for on
natural principles), would be far more wonderful were
they not so, this welcome air began to blow every day at
the same hour.  I used to look for it as for the coming
of a friend.  If he was not with me at half-past three, he
was sure not to be later than five-and-twenty minutes to
four; and when he did come, I received him with bare
brow and open arms.  Ere we reached the bridge, the
climate, from being well-nigh unbearable had become
delightful, and all the inhabitants of Constantinople
seemed to have turned out to drink in new life at every
pore, and enjoy the unspeakable refreshment of a lowered
temperature, till the dews should fall and the sun go down.





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.. _`A TURK'S HAREM`:

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   CHAPTER XXXII


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   A TURK'S HAREM

.. vspace:: 2

As we neared the water's edge, my companion started
and turned perfectly livid, as if labouring under some
fearfully strong emotion.  True to his self-command,
however, he allowed no other outward sign to betray his
feelings.  In front of us walked a Turkish lady, closely
veiled, of course, and accompanied by a female negro
slave.  Following the Beloochee's gaze, I observed by the
lady's dress and demeanour that she was of high rank,
and in all probability the property of some great man, a
Pasha at least.  At that time a black attendant argued
no inferiority on the part of the mistress as it does now.
It is only since the peace of '56 that the negro woman
has been at such a discount in Stamboul as to fill every
corner of the streets with her lamentations, looking in
vain for a purchaser, a master, and a home.

The cause of this sudden fall in the value of a strong,
serviceable article, which had hitherto commanded a fair
and remunerative price, is to be found as usual in the
enterprise of speculators, and the luxurious tendencies of
an unfeeling public.  The far-seeing slave-dealers who
provide the Turkish market with Circassian wares had no
difficulty in foretelling that the Treaty of Paris would
abandon to their fate those gallant mountaineers of the
Caucasus who have so long and so manfully struggled for
independence from the Russian yoke, and that soon they
must bid an eternal farewell to their lucrative traffic in
Circassian beauty, and their judicious supply of wives for
the Pashas of Constantinople.  Accordingly, ere the treaty
came into operation, and the Government of the Czar was
authorised to forbid the export of its new subjects, they
proceeded to buy up, far and near, every eligible young
lady of Circassian origin, and forward her as speedily as
possible to the Emporium of Matrimony at Constantinople.
Nor was this so hard a lot for these mountain-daisies
as it may at first sight appear.  They are taught
to look upon the slave-market of the Turkish capital as
the arena in which they are to contend for the prizes
of life--namely, comfortable quarters, luxurious baths, a
house full of slaves, and a rich master.  To be deprived
of her season at Stamboul is a bitter disappointment to a
Circassian belle.  We in England cannot understand this.
Our fair Anglo-Saxons broil in London through the
dog-days simply and entirely for the exquisite delights of its
amusements and its society.  Who ever heard of an
English girl going to a ball with any ulterior view but
that of dancing?  Who ever detected her paying her
modest court to an elderly Pasha (of the Upper House)
for the sake of having jewels and amber, and gilded
arabas and slaves, at her disposal?  Who ever knew a
blooming rose of June, that would have made the treasure
of his life to Lazarus, and changed his gloomy dwelling to
a bower of Paradise, transplanted by her own desire to
the hothouses of Dives, there to queen it for a day among
all his plants and exotics, and then pine neglected and
withering away?  No, no, we know nothing of such
doings, but the trade flourishes handsomely in the East,
and consequently the spring and summer of '56 saw
Constantinople literally *smothered* in beauty.  I use the
word advisedly, for an Oriental enslaver, in the language
of Burns, is "a lass who has acres of charms," and a Pasha
purchases his wife as he does his mutton, by the pound.
Now, demand and supply, like action and reaction, are
"equal and contrary," nor is woman more than any other
marketable commodity exempt from the immutable law;
so when this invasion of beauty came pouring into
Constantinople, the value even of a Circassian decreased
steadily in an alarming ratio, till a damsel that, in the
golden days of gallantry, would have fetched a hundred
and fifty pounds sterling, was now to be bought
"warranted" for five!  Mark the sequel.  Luxury crept in
amongst the lower classes.  The poor Turkish artisan,
ambitioning a Circassian bride, sold his tools, his
all--nay, his faithful black wives--to purchase the unheard-of
blessing.  The poor negro women were turned adrift into
the streets.  Who was to bid for them?  During the
worst period of the panic, black women were selling in
Constantinople at a shilling a dozen!

The Beloochee griped my arm hard.  "It is Zuleika!"
he whispered between his set teeth.  "She has not seen
me--she does not know I am here.  Perhaps she has
forgotten me!"

"Let us follow her," said I, for in truth I sympathised
with poor Ali, and my English blood boiled at the manner
in which he had been deprived of his bride.

The Beloochee loosened his dagger in its sheath, and
drew the folds of his shawl tighter round his waist.
"Effendi," said he, "you are a true comrade--Bismillah! the
end is yet to come."

The lady and her attendant walked provokingly slow,
looking at every object of curiosity on their way, and
making it exceedingly difficult for us to adapt our pace to
theirs without exciting observation in the passers-by.  At
length they reached the waterside, and summoning a
caïque, pushed out into the Bosphorus.  We were speedily
embarked in another, and following in their wake, our
caïgee, or boatman, at once penetrating our intentions, and
entering into the spirit of the thing with all the fondness
for mischief and intrigue so characteristic of his class.
As we glided along over the rippling waters we had ample
time to dispose our plans, the object of which was to give
the Beloochee an opportunity of communicating with his
lost love, to learn, and, if possible, to rescue her from her
fate.  "Keep close to that caïque," said I to our sympathising
waterman, "and when we are secure from observation
go up alongside."  The rascal showed all his white teeth,
as he grinned intelligence and approval.

So we glided down the beautiful Bosphorus, past marble
palaces and glittering kiosks, till we came under the very
walls of a building, more magnificent than any we had
yet passed, with a wide frontage towards the water,
supported on shafts as of smoothest alabaster, the closed
lattices of which, with its air of carefully-guarded
seclusion, denoted the harem of some great dignitary of the
empire, who was in the habit of retiring hither to solace
himself after the labours of government and the cares of
state.  Through a gate of iron trellis-work, beautifully
designed and wrought, we caught a glimpse of a lovely
garden, rich in gorgeous hues, and sparkling with
fountains murmuring soothingly on the ear, whilst from the
lofty doors, securely clamped and barred, wide steps of
marble reached down to the water's edge, lipped and
polished by the lazy ripple of the waves.

Here we brought our bark alongside the object of our
chase, but we had reckoned without our host in counting
on the imperturbability of a lady's nerves, for no sooner
had the Beloochee turned his face towards Zuleika, and
whispered a few short syllables straight from his heart,
than with a loud shriek she tossed her hands wildly above
her head, and fainted dead away in the bottom of the
caïque.

At that instant the boat's nose touched the lower step
of the palace, and the negro woman, almost as helpless as
her mistress, began screaming loudly for assistance, whilst
a guard of blacks opening the huge double doors came
swarming down to the water's edge, scowling ominously
at the Beloochee and myself, who with our mischievous
boatman had now shoved off and remained at some
distance from the shore.

There was but one thing to be done, and that quickly.
"*Hakim!*" I shouted to the blacks, who were bearing
the lifeless form of the girl up the palace steps; "I am a
doctor, do you want my assistance?" and at the same
time I handed my pencil-case and the back of a letter to
my comrade.  Alas! he could not write, but in a hurried
whisper entreated me, if possible, to communicate with
Zuleika, and bear her the message which he confided to
me from his old and faithful love.

By dint of threats and a kick or two, I prevailed on
my friend the caïgee, who began to think the fun was
getting too hot for him, to pull ashore; and boldly
mounting the steps, I informed the chief of the harem-guard
authoritatively that I was a physician, and that if the
Khanum's (lady's) life was to be saved, not a moment
must be lost.  She was evidently a favourite wife of her
lord, for her fainting-fit seemed to have caused much
commotion in the household, and during his absence the
major-domo of the harem took upon himself, not without
many misgivings and much hesitation, to admit me, a
Giaour and a *man*, within the sacred and forbidden
precincts.

The Turks have a superstitious reverence for the science
of medicine, which they believe, and not without reason,
to be practised by the Franks more successfully than by
themselves.  To my adoption of the character of a *Hakim*
I owed my present immunity and my entrance into that
sanctum of a Turk's house, which it is considered
indecorous even to *mention* in conversation with its master.

I do not lay claim to more courage than my neighbours,
and I confess it was with a beating heart that I followed
the helpless form of Zuleika borne by her swarthy attendants
up the palace steps, through the massive doors which
swung and closed behind me, as if to shut out all chance
of escape, to find myself at the top of a handsome
staircase, on the very threshold of the women's apartment.
What confusion my entrance created!  Shrieks and jeers
and stifled laughter resounded on all sides, whilst black
eyes flashed inquiring glances at the Frankish doctor,
veiled, indeed, but scarcely dimmed by the transparent
folds of the *yashmak*, and loosely-clad forms, in all the
colours of the rainbow, flitted hither and thither, with
more demonstration of activity than the occasion seemed
to warrant.

I had heard much of the discipline of these caged birds,
and pictured to myself, with sympathising pity, their
isolated condition, cut off from friends and relatives,
weighed down by all the fetters of wedlock, but denied
the consolations of domestic happiness, and had imagined
that the Turkish woman was probably the most unhappy
of all the daughters of Eve.  What a deal of commiseration
thrown away!  Perhaps no woman in the world is
more completely her own mistress in her own way than
is the wife of a Turkish dignitary.  Habit reconciles her
to the veil, which indeed is of the thinnest material, and
is almost her only restriction.  She can walk abroad for
business or pleasure, attended by only one female slave,
and with such a convoy comes and goes unquestioned.  It
is only of very late years that an English lady could walk
through the streets of London without at least as efficient
a guard.  The Oriental beauty, too, has her own hours,
and her own apartments.  Even her lord himself, he whom
we picture as a turbaned Blue-beard, despotic in his own
household, the terror of his wives and servants, preserves
a chivalrous etiquette towards the lady that adorns his
harem.  He does not venture to cross the threshold of her
apartment should he find her slippers placed outside.  It
is a signal that he is not wanted, and nothing would
induce him to be guilty of such an act of rudeness as to
go in.  He comes at stated times, and his visits are always
preceded by due notice.  He lavishes handsome presents
on his departure, and when he is unable to sun himself
in the sight of her beauty, in consequence of his other
engagements, and the rest of the suns in whose rays it is
his duty to bask, he provides her with caïques and *arabas*
to take her abroad, and furnishes her with plenty of
pin-money to spend in the delightful occupation of shopping.

The chief of the negro-guard looked wistfully at me as
I accompanied him, rolling the whites of his eyes in
evident uncertainty and perturbation.  As, however,
Zuleika was still senseless, it seemed absolutely necessary
that I should prescribe for her before my departure, and,
accordingly, he motioned me to follow the stout blacks
who were carrying her into the very inner recesses of the
harem.

As I passed through those luxuriously-furnished
apartments, I could not refrain from casting many a curious
glance around at the diverse implements and accessories
of the Turkish toilette, the many devices practised here,
as in all lands, by the ladies, to "keep them beautiful or
leave them neat."  Costly shawls, silks from India, muslins
like the web of a gossamer, and brocades stiff and
gorgeous as cloth of gold, were scattered about in unlimited
profusion, mixed with amber beads, massive gold chains,
necklaces, bracelets, and anklets, French watches set to
Turkish time, precious stones of every value and hue,
sandal-wood fans, and other rare knick-knacks, mixed up with
the most insignificant articles one can imagine, such as
card-racks, envelope-cases of papier-maché, small brushes
with oval mirrors at the back, and all sorts of trifles sent
out from Paris, and bought in Pera, to amuse those grown-up
children.  The rooms were lofty and spacious, but the
casements, even those that overlooked the gardens,
jealously closed, and the lattices almost impervious even
to the cool northern breeze.  Bath-rooms opened from
either side of the apartments, and every appliance for that
Turkish luxury was of the most complete kind.  At
length we reached the room appropriated to Zuleika's
especial use, and as her bearers laid her on the divan I
observed that in this, more than in any other apartment
of the palace, luxury reigned supreme.  I argued Zuleika
must be, at least for the present, the reigning favourite
and queen of the seraglio.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MY PATIENT`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXXIII


.. class:: center medium

   MY PATIENT

.. vspace:: 2

"With the blessing of Allah! rub the palms of her hands
with saffron!"

"Allah-Illah!  Allah-Illah!--tickle the soles of her feet
with feathers!"

"It is destiny!  In the name of the Prophet pour cold
water down her back!"  "Room for the Frankish *Hakim*!"
"May dogs defile the grave of the Giaour!"

Such were the exclamations that followed me into the
apartment of Zuleika; for the Moslem daughters of Eve
are not exempt from the curiosity attributed by tradition
to the common mother; and have, moreover, superinduced
on that pardonable failing certain prejudices of their own
against the Christian unbeliever, whom, even when availing
themselves of his assistance, they do not scruple to
curse fluently, spitting the while between their teeth with
considerable energy and effect.

Pending the application of their customary remedies,
which in my ignorance of fainting-fits I judged to be the
professional course of treatment, the ladies of the harem
crowded and chatted at the door, peering over each other's
shoulders, advancing a step into the apartment, retiring
in confusion with a giggle and a scream, flirting atrociously
with their negro guards--men of ebony without and ice
within, as indeed they had need be--and otherwise to the
best of their abilities increasing the general confusion.

One alone came boldly forward to my assistance; venerable
she was, but a dame whom age, though it had deprived
her of charms, had not robbed of the enchanting timidity
of youth.

In her efforts to assist the sufferer she had cast her veil
aside, but true to Oriental modesty she scrupulously
covered her mouth[#] (and a very black set of teeth) with
her hand even while she addressed me.  Authoritative in
her manner, and evidently accustomed to despotic sway in
this part of the establishment, I confess I sincerely pitied
the Pasha to whom this energetic lady must for several
years have belonged.  She came close up to me, tore the
*yashmak* from Zuleika's face, and exclaimed in tones which
admitted of no dispute--

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] A curious custom peculiar to the sex all over the East.  The
   veil, indeed, seems only adopted as a screen for the mouth, since the
   eyes are suffered to flash undimmed by its transparent folds.  Should
   a Turkish woman be surprised by chance without her *yashmak*, she
   immediately claps her hand to her lips, and so remains till the male
   stranger has passed by.

.. vspace:: 2

"Bring otto of roses to anoint our dove; strip her at
once from head to foot; and kick the Giaour downstairs!"

It was now time to assume a certain amount of dignified
authority.  I waved away the uncompromising old lady
with the air of a magician dismissing his familiar; I
ordered the lattice to be immediately thrown
open--fortunately it looked towards the east, which was
considered much to enhance the virtue of the breeze that
stole through its aperture--and taking advantage of the
returning animation which dawned on Zuleika's countenance,
I repeated an incantation in English--if I remember
right it was the negro melody of "*Oh, Susannah!*"
accompanying the monotonous tones with appropriate
gestures, until my patient opened her languishing black
eyes, glanced heavily around her, and sitting upright on
her couch, announced herself completely recovered.

My popularity was now at the flood.  Had I administered
the simple remedies which I have since been
informed are beneficial in such cases, I should, however
successful, have been looked upon merely in the light of a
common practitioner; but that the lady should recover to
the tones of a popular air, accompanied by a deportment
of ludicrous solemnity, constituted a success which
stamped me at once as a proficient in the Black Art, and
won for me unqualified obedience and respect, not wholly
devoid of fear.

To take advantage of the happy moment, I pulled my
watch from my pocket, and placing my finger on the
patient's wrist, bid the imperious dame aforesaid remark
how the pulsations corresponded with the ticks of that
instrument.  This, too, was a great discovery, and the
watch was handed round for examination to all the curious
inmates of the harem in turn.

I then ordered the room to be cleared, and insisted that
I should be left alone with my patient until the minute-hand
of my watch had reached the favourable hour.

This I knew would give me five minutes' conversation
with Zuleika, and as I expected the Pasha home at every
instant, I could not afford more than this short space of
time to give my friend the Beloochee's message and plead
his cause.  The room was speedily cleared, not, however,
without much laughing, screaming, and scuffling in the
passage.  As soon as I was alone with Zuleika, I whispered
gently in her ear not to be afraid, but to trust me, as I
came from him she loved best in the world.

The girl started, and began to tremble violently; she
was so pale that I dreaded another fainting-fit, and the
consequent destruction of my reputation as a doctor.
Though an Arab, she was a *woman*; and at this crisis of
her destiny was of course paralysed by fear and totally
incapable of acting for herself.  Had her emotion mastered
her once more, the golden opportunity would have been
lost; there was nothing for it but to work upon her
feelings, and I proceeded in a tone of indifference--

"You have forgotten him.  He bids me say that 'the
rose has been transplanted into a garden of purer air and
cooler streams; he has seen with his own eyes that she is
blooming and fragrant, and he is satisfied.  He rejoices
in your happiness, and bids you farewell!'"

She burst into a flood of tears; her woman's heart was
touched, as I hoped it would be, by the sentiment I had
put into her lover's mouth, and the relief thus afforded
brought her composure and self-command.  She came of
a race, too, that never lacked courage or fortitude, and the
wild desert-blood soon mantled once more in her rich,
soft cheek--the tameless spirit of the Bedouin soon
flashed again from her large dark eyes.

"Effendi!" she replied, in a firm though mournful
voice, "my father's daughter can never forget.  Bid him
think no more of the rose he cherished so fondly.  She
has been plucked from the stem, and now she is drooping
and withering away."

"But Allah suffers not the flowers to perish," I
proceeded in Oriental metaphor, while she clasped her slender
hands and seemed to look through me with her glittering
eyes.  "He sends the dews from heaven to refresh
them at night.  A wild bird will sing to the rose before
dawn, and she will open her petals and bloom once more
fresh and glistening in the morning sun.  Zuleika, have
you completely forgotten Ali Mesrour?"

At the sound of his name a soft, saddened expression
stole over her eager face, large drops gathered in her
drooping eyelashes, and it was with a thrilling voice that
she replied--"Never! never! once more to see him, only
once more to hear his voice, and so to die! so to die!"
she repeated, looking dreamily as if into the hopeless
future.

"It is destiny," was my answer.  "There is but one
Allah!  An hour before dawn there will be a caïque at
the garden gate.  Zuleika must contrive the rest.  The
risk is great, but 'the diver cannot fetch pearls without
wetting his hair.'  Will Zuleika promise?"

"I promise!" was all she had time to reply, for at this
instant no slight commotion was heard in the household,
and looking from the casement I perceived an eight-oared
caïque brought alongside of the palace steps, from
which a pipe-bearer springing rapidly ashore, followed by
a more sedate personage, evidently a *kiâtib*, or secretary,
heralded the great man of the party, who, emerging from
the shade of a white silk umbrella, hitherto held carefully
over him by a third official, now laboured majestically up
the marble steps, pausing occasionally to draw a long
breath, and looking around him the while with an air of
corpulent satisfaction that no one but a Turk could imitate
with the slightest prospect of success.

It was indeed the Pasha himself--the fortunate possessor
of the magnificent dwelling, the owner of all these
negro slaves, this gorgeous retinue, these beautiful
women--and more still, the lord and master of poor Zuleika.  I
thought it better to meet him on the threshold than to
risk his astonishment and displeasure by awaiting his
entrance into the harem; accordingly I hurried down to
the court-yard of his palace, and presented myself before
him with a mixture of Eastern courtesy and European
self-respect, such as never fails to impress a Turk with
the feeling that in the presence of a Frank he is himself
but of an inferior order of mankind.

"Salaam, Effendi!" was the observation of the
proprietor, as polite and unmoved as if he had expected me
all day.  "You are welcome!  My house with all it
contains is at your disposal!"  He motioned me courteously
into a large, handsome apartment on the ground-floor of
the palace, bid me to be seated, and clapping his palms
together, called for pipes and coffee; then placing himself
comfortably on the divan, he crossed his hands over his
stomach, and repeated, "You are welcome!" after which
he sat perfectly silent, nodding his head from side to side,
and peering curiously at me out of his small, twinkling
grey eyes.

He was an enormously fat man, buttoned up of course
into the usual single-breasted frock-coat, on the outside of
which glittered the diamond order of the Medjidjie.  His
huge, shapeless legs were encased in European trousers of
the widest dimensions, and terminated in varnished
Wellington boots, from which he had just cast off a pair of
india-rubber goloshes.  It was the modern Turkish
costume, affected by the Sultan himself, and a dress so
ill-adapted for the dog-days at Constantinople can hardly
be imagined; yet every official, every dignitary, every
military man, is now clad in these untoward habiliments,
for which they have discarded the picturesque draperies
of their ancestors; so that the fine old Turk, "shawled to
the eyes, and bearded to the nose," is only to be seen in
Stamboul amongst the learned professions and the inferior
orders of tradesmen and mechanics.  A red fez was the
single characteristic article of clothing worn by the Pasha;
and a more villainous expression of countenance than that
which it overshadowed, it has seldom been my lot to
confront.  We stared at each other without speaking.  It
would have been ill-bred on the part of my host to ask me
what I wanted, and I should have been guilty of an equal
solecism in entering on my business until I had partaken
of the customary refreshment.

Coffee was ere long brought in by negro slaves armed
to the teeth, and of savage, scowling aspect.  It was
served in delicate filigree cups, set with priceless diamonds.
Long chibouques were then filled and lighted.  As I
pressed the pure amber to my lips, and inhaled the
fragrant aroma of the narcotic weed, I resolved to brazen it
out manfully; but never, never again to find myself in
such another scrape, no, not for all the warriors in
Beloochistan, nor all the "Zuleikas" that ever eloped with them
from the desert.

I thought I would say nothing of my visit to the harem.
I judged, and rightly, that neither the ladies themselves,
nor the negro-guard, whose duty it was to watch over those
caged birds, would be over anxious to communicate the
breach of discipline which had just been enacted, and
that, although the secret was sure to ooze out in the
course of a day or two, it was needless to anticipate the
turmoil and disturbance which would attend its discovery.

But what excuse to make for my ill-timed visit?  How
to account for my intrusion on the leisure of so great a
man as Papoosh Pasha, one of the half-dozen highest
dignitaries of the empire, the friend and counsellor of the
Sultan himself, even then fresh from the sacred precincts
of the Seraglio Palace, where he had been helping sundry
other ponderous Pashas to mismanage the affairs of his
country, and to throw dust in the eyes of the enervated
voluptuary who held the reins of power in a sadly palsied
grasp.  I too must take a leaf out of the book of Asiatic
duplicity.  I had seen a ship full of wounded dropping
her anchor as I came along; there must have been
another attack on the stronghold at Sebastopol--I was
pretty safe in surmising, with no satisfactory result.  I
would pretend then that I had been sent to inform his
Excellency of the particulars, and accordingly I puffed
forth a volume of pure white smoke towards the ceiling,
and advanced under cover of the discharge.

"His Highness has sent me hither in haste to inform
your Excellency of the great news from the front.  Am I
too late to be the fortunate bearer, or has your Excellency
already heard the particulars from the Elshie?"[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] The ambassador.

.. vspace:: 2

He darted a keen, suspicious glance at me, and replied
gravely enough, "The war goes on prosperously in the
front.  We shall yet sweep 'the Moscov' from the face of
the earth!"

"I am desired to inform your Excellency," I resumed,
determined to persevere at all hazards, "that the Allies
have again attacked the place.  The Moscov came out
in great numbers to repel the assault; the French have
suffered severely; the Turkish troops covered the retreat
with great gallantry and steadiness; fifteen hundred
Russians remained dead upon the field; many more are
disabled; Sebastopol must surrender within ten days."

"Mashallah!" replied the Pasha, laying his pipe down
by his side; but for the life of me I could not make out
whether or not he believed a word I had been telling him.

"Have I fulfilled my duty to your Excellency?" I
continued, becoming every moment more and more anxious
to make my escape.  "I am at your Excellency's disposal;
I am the humblest of your slaves.  Have I your permission
to depart?"

He looked uneasily around, but there seemed no
apparent excuse for delay.  It was evident to me that he
wished to communicate with his retainers, but that his
politeness forbade him to do so in my presence, and a
Turk never allows any emergency to make him forget the
exigencies of etiquette.  He bade me farewell with much
cordiality, ordered a horse to be got ready to carry me
home, and dismissed me with many expressions of affection,
but with the same fierce twinkle in that cunning
leaden eye that had already more than once warned me
to beware.

Many and devoted were the Pasha's retainers; hundreds
slept on his mats, and followed at his heels, but I question
whether I, the poor nameless Interpreter, could not
command a greater amount of affection, courage, and fidelity,
in the breast of my one trusty four-footed slave and
companion, than existed in the whole retinue, black and white,
of the Oriental dignitary.

Bold had followed me through my wanderings, faced
with me many of the dangers of warfare, and shared in all
its privations.  The old dog was getting very time-worn
now, quite grizzled about the muzzle, and ludicrously
solemn, both in countenance and demeanour.  To the
world in general his temper was anything but conciliatory,
and it required little provocation to make him set his
mark on man or beast that affronted him; but with me
he was always the same, obedient, devoted, and
affectionate.  He accompanied me everywhere, and would wait
for hours in the court-yards of the Seraskerât or the
Embassy, till his master emerged from the long-watched
portal, when he would rise, give himself a lazy shake, and
stalk on gravely by my side, occasionally thrusting his
wet cold nose into my hand, and scowling at all strangers,
even of his own species, with a very ominous "*noli me
tangere*" expression, that forbade the slightest approach
to familiarity.

Now the dog is an unclean animal to the Mussulman,
and although his life is spared, as being the authorised
scavenger of the streets, the true disciple of the Prophet
scrupulously shuns all contact with the brute that the
Christian loves to train as a servant and cherish as a
friend.  There is a curious old Arabic legend, which,
although not to be found in the Koran, is recognised by
the faithful as a trustworthy tradition, and to believe in
which is esteemed an essential point of doctrine by the
devout, that accounts for this unkindly superstition.
Freely translated, it runs much in the following fashion:--

"When Allah had created the land and the sea, the
mountains, the forests, the flowers, and the precious stones,
he looked, and behold there was beauty and silence all
over the earth.

"Then Allah created the birds and the beasts and the
fishes; all things that swim, and creep, and fly, and run,
and every living thing rejoiced in the sunshine.

"So Allah rested from his work in the Garden of Eden,
by the Four Rivers, and looked around him, and behold
the whole earth was astir in the forepart of the day.

"Then the breeze blew, and the waters laughed and
rippled, and the birds sang, and the blossoms fell.

"So the angels smiled, and said, Praise be to Allah.
It is very good--Allah!  Bismillah!

"Then Allah saw that there were none of the inhabitants
of earth that could smile as the angels smiled, or
walk erect and praise him with the face to heaven.

"For the steed was grazing downward, and the lion lay
couched in his lair, and the eagle, though she turned her
eye to the sun, had neither praise nor smile.

"Then Allah took clay, and moistened it, and fashioned
it till the sun went down.

"And Allah rested from his work, and left it in the
Garden of Eden, by the Great Tree, where the Four
Rivers spring.

"Now Gabriel walked in the garden, and he stopped
where the work of Allah lay plastic on the sward, and the
star shone bright on his forehead, for he praised Allah in
his heart.

"And Shaitán came to walk in the garden, to cool his
brow, and he stopped over against Gabriel and mocked.

"And Shaitán said, 'What is this, that I may know it,
and name it, and claim my share in it for my own?'

"And Gabriel answered, 'Praise be to Allah; who
has made all things well.  This is Allah's work, and it
shall be the perfection of all.  Bismillah!'

"Then Shaitán laughed once more, and he turned the
image over with his foot, so that it stood on all fours, with
its face to the dust, and spat upon it, and said, 'It is
empty!  On my eyes be it!'

"And in the morning there was silence in Eden, for the
work of Allah had been defiled.

"And Allah said, 'This is the doing of Shaitán.  Behold,
I will make of it yet another brute, and it shall be
called the Dog, and be accursed.

"'And I will take other clay, and fashion another image
that shall smile as the angels smile, and walk erect with
its face to heaven, and I will call it Man.'

"And Shaitán cowered behind the Great Tree and
listened to the voice of Allah, and though he trembled, he
smiled.

"For Shaitán knew that he would have his share in
the Man as in the beast."

Poor Bold, unconscious of his excommunication, hurried
up to me in the court-yard of the Pasha's palace, where a
fine horse, richly caparisoned, was being brought alongside
the mounting-block for my use.  In doing so the
dog's tail, waving to greet his master, touched the hand
of a tall forbidding-looking negro that stood by, grinning
from ear to ear, as is the custom of his countrymen.  The
black swore a great oath, and kicked my dog savagely in
the jaws.  As Bold pinned him by the leg, I caught him
such a buffet under the ear as knocked him fairly into the
dust; from which abject position he embraced my feet
and called me "his father."  With some little difficulty I
rated Bold off his prostrate foe, and mounting my horse, or
rather the Pasha's, rode quietly to my hotel, where I
dismissed the steed, and the groom who had accompanied
him on foot, with a "*baksheesh*," and thought nothing
more of the transaction.  "A word and a blow" is as
common a proceeding in Constantinople as at Donnybrook
fair, though it leads to far different results; inasmuch as
in the former abode of despotic authority and slavish
submission it is very generally the only argument that is
capable of enforcing proper subordination and respect.

It is seldom that a man loses his temper, even under
the greatest provocation, without having cause, sooner or
later, to regret his want of self-command.  There are few
of our fellow-creatures so unimportant that it is not worth
while to conciliate them, none that may not some time
have it in their power to inflict on us an injury; besides,
an angry man is only less contemptible than a frightened
one.  And, like everything else that is unchristianlike,
it is surely ungentlemanlike to put oneself in a passion.
There was not much in knocking down a negro slave for
his brutality towards my favourite, yet, ere long, I had
cause bitterly to rue that I had not let him alone.





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.. _`"MESSIRIE'S"`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXXIV


.. class:: center medium

   "MESSIRIE'S"

.. vspace:: 2

A narrow street, paved with the roughest and sharpest
of flints, debouching into three other streets even less
commodious than itself; a Turkish sentry dozing torpid
at his post--half-a-dozen *hamauls*\[#] clad in rough frieze
jackets, and wide pantaloons of the same material, gathered
in at the knee, scratching their brown herculean legs, and
examining their broad flat feet, as they recline against a
dirty dead wall, and interchange their jests with a degree
of humour foreign to our English ideas of Turkish gravity--a
rascally-looking dragoman in a black frock-coat and
a fez, rolling a cigarette, prepared to cheat, rob, swindle,
or lie at the shortest notice, a slave to every sensual vice
except drunkenness, and speaking all the languages on
earth in bad Italian--a brace of English Jack-tars, afire
with raki, trolling out "Cheer, boys, cheer," and a stray
Zouave, equally exhilarated, joining in chorus; a T.G., or
travelling gent, with nascent beard, and towel wound
turban-wise around his straw-hat, wishing himself in
Pall Mall, and indignant at the natives, who call him
"*Johnny*."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] Porters.

.. vspace:: 2

The REAL thing from the Crimea, in a curiously worn-out
shell jacket, patched and darned, stained and tarnished,
with a bronzed face, a bushy beard of two years' growth,
and a slight limp that for the rest of his life will bid him
"remember the fifth of November," and the turning of
the tide upon the declivity of Inkermann.

Two or three English merchants, like crows, to be seen
all over the world, and everywhere in the same dress, with
white shirts, and honest broad-cloth coats, that remind
one of home; a Queen's messenger, with tweed shooting-jacket
and official forage-cap, clean shaved and clear-looking,
after the bad passage and gale of wind he is
sure at all seasons to encounter in the Mediterranean,
a miracle to us *habitués* of the place, being actually as
fresh from London as yonder copy of *The Times* newspaper,
which came with him by the same mail, the only
unfeathered biped in creation that thoroughly carries out
the idea of "Here to-day, gone to-morrow."  Such are
the concomitants of the scene upon which I enter at the
door of Messirie's hotel, that well-known rendezvous in
Pera where congregate all that have any connection with
the mother country; a place where every rumour is to be
heard with its latest embellishments, and where, for the
sum of seventeen francs a day, I can command a moderate
breakfast, a dinner into the components of which it is
better not to inquire, and a murky bedroom, where the
fierce mosquito shall drain my life-blood all the weary
night.

"Is Major Manners in the hotel?" I inquire, as I throw
myself off the Pasha's horse, and, glancing at a face in the
street very like that of the man I knocked down some
three-quarters of an hour ago, reflect what a family
resemblance reigns amongst the wretched sons of Ham.
Bold is in his worst of humours, and growls ominously.
"Is Major Manners here?" I repeat, and three Greek
servants, with an abortive attempt to pronounce the
Frankish name, shrug their shoulders and open their
hands to express the hopeless imbecility in which they
rejoice.  I perceive a stout man in a white hat, picking
his teeth unconcernedly in the passage, and, recognising
him for the master, I apply at once for the information
I require.  He looks contemptuously at me in reply, and,
turning his broad back upon me, walks off without
deigning to take any further notice of a customer; but I have
been here before, and I know there is balm in Gilead.  I
know that in a certain little room on the left I shall find
the hostess, and that she, the mainstay and prop of the
establishment, will spare no pains to assist a countryman.
Kindly Madame Messirie! always ready to aid one in a
difficulty, always busy, always good-humoured, always so
thoroughly English, it was quite refreshing to hear the
tones of your homely voice, and fancy oneself in the
"White Lion," or the "Blue Bear," or some other pleasant
hostelry, with post-horses and a bar, and an ostler's bell,
far away in merry England.

"Vere Egerton! can that be you?" said a voice that I
thought I recognised, as I entered the sanctum in which
the hostess reigned supreme.  "Little Egerton, as I'm
alive, growed out of knowledge, and doubtless by this
time a Pasha with three tails, and a true believer.  Tell
me all about the process of conversion and the tenets of
your faith."

It was indeed Ropsley,--Ropsley the Guardsman--Ropsley
the dandy, but how altered!  The attenuated
*roué* of former days had grown large and muscular, his
face was brown and healthy, his forehead frank and open,
the clear grey eye was brighter and quicker than it used
to be; it had caught the ready, eager glance of those who
look death habitually in the face, but had lost much of
the cruel, calculating, leaden expression I remembered so
well.  Despite his worn-out uniform, the rents in which
showed here and there a red flannel shirt,--despite his
close-cropped hair and flowing beard,--I could not but
confess to myself, as I grasped his hand, that Ropsley
looked ten years younger and ten times handsomer than
when I saw him last.

Yes, I met him cordially, and as an old friend.  'Tis
true he had been my greatest enemy, 'tis true he had
inflicted on me a wound, the scar of which I felt I should
carry to my grave; but months had passed away since
then; months which, crowding events upon events, had
seemed like years; months of danger, labour, hardship,
and tribulation.  Of what avail is suffering if it does not
soften and purify the heart?  Why are those that mourn
blessed, if it is not that they learn the bitter lesson grief
alone can teach?  My task had been a hard one--how
hard none knew save the poor humbled scholar who
conned it day by day, and blistered the page with his
tears; but I had conquered it at last, and so I freely
forgave Ropsley, and clasped him by the hand.

"You dine here, of course," he said, in his old
half-humorous, half-sarcastic voice.  "Madame Messirie,
princess of Pera, and queen of my soul, order a place to
be set for my friend the Pasha, and lots of champagne to
be put in ice.  I have only just come down from the front;
I have scarcely had a decent dinner, or seen a silver fork,
for a year and a half.  It's an endless business, this,
Egerton; hammer, hammer, hammer, yet nothing comes
of it, and the old place looks whiter and more inviting
than ever, but we *can't get in*!"

"And the Mamelon?" said I, eager for the last news
from the spot to which millions of hearts were reaching,
all athirst for hope.

"Got it at last," was his reply, "at least, our neighbours
have; I hope they'll keep it.  We made a sad mess
last week, Egerton; lost no end of men, and half our best
officers.  Whew!  I say nothing, only mark my words,
if ever--but there's the bell!  Never mind the siege now.
War's a mistake, but dinner (if you can get it) never
deceives you."  And so saying, the *ci-devant* dandy patted
me on the back, and pushed me before him into the
well-lighted and now crowded *salon*.

In that strange country, so thoroughly Asiatic, which
we call Turkey in Europe, there were so few links to
connect us with the life of civilisation which seemed to
have passed from us like a dream, that it was no wonder
we clung to Messirie's hotel and thronged its *table d'hôte*
with a constancy and devotion less to be attributed to its
own intrinsic merits than to the associations and
reminiscences it called forth.  Here were to be met all the
gallant fellows who were going to, or coming from, the
front.  Heroes, whose names were destined to gild the
page of history, might here be seen drinking bad tea and
complaining of the butter like ordinary mortals; but
always in the highest spirits, as men seem invariably to
be during the short lulls of a campaign.  When you are
likely to be shot next Monday week, if you have small
hopes, you have few anxieties.  Here, too, you might sit
opposite a diplomatist, who was supposed to know the
innermost secrets of the court at Vienna, and to be advised
of what "the Austrians meant to do," whilst rubbing
shoulders with you as he helped himself to fish; and
confronting the man of ciphers, some heroic refugee, Pole,
Croat, or Hungarian, whose name was in every journal
in Europe, as it was inscribed on every military post in
Austria or Russia, munched away with a capital appetite,
and appeared only conspicuous for the extreme modesty
and gentleness of his demeanour.  Contractors of every
nation jabbered in every language, nor was the supple
Armenian, grafting the bold spirit of European
speculation on his own Oriental duplicity, wanting to grasp his
share of the plunder, which John Bull was so magnanimously
offering as a premium to every description of fraud.
Even the softer sex was not without its representatives.
Two or three high-born English ladies, whose loving hearts
had brought them hovering as near the seat of war as it
was possible for a non-combatant to venture, daily shed
the light of their presence at the dinner-table, and were
silently welcomed by many a bold spirit with a degree of
chivalrous enthusiasm, of which, anxious and pre-occupied,
they were but little aware.  A man must have been living
for months among men, must have felt his nature gradually
brutalising amidst the hardships, the sufferings, and
the horrors of war, thoroughly to appreciate the softening
influence of a woman's, and especially of a *countrywoman's*,
society.  Even to look on those waving white dresses,
those gentle English faces, with their blooming cheeks
and rich brown hair, was like a draught of water to a
pilgrim in a weary land.  It reminded us of home--of
those we loved--and we went our way back into the
desert a thought saddened, perhaps, yet, for all that,
kindlier and happier men.

"What a meeting!" exclaimed Manners, as, gorgeously
arrayed in the splendours of a full-dress uniform, he took
his seat by my side and shook hands with Ropsley, who
returned his greeting with a cordial pressure and a look
of quiet amusement in his eye that almost upset my
gravity: "Everdon at Constantinople!" continued our
former usher; "we only want De Rohan to make our
gathering quite perfect!"

I winced, and for the first time in my life I saw Ropsley
colour, but Manners was too much occupied to notice the
emotion of either of us; for, during his many visits to
Constantinople, the dashing officer of Bashi-Bazouks had
made such numerous acquaintances, and become so necessary
an ingredient in the society of Pera, that there seemed
to be hardly an individual at table, from the *attaché* of
the Embassy down to the last-joined officer of the
Commissariat, with whom he was not on terms of intimate
familiarity.  He had scarcely taken his seat and unfolded
his dinner-napkin, ere the cross-fire of greetings and
inquiries began.  Manners, too, in the sunshine of all his
popularity, had expanded into a wag; and although his
witticisms were of a somewhat profound order, and not
always very apparent to the superficial observer, they
were generally well received; for a wag was a scarcer
article in Constantinople than at the front.

So Manners proceeds with his dinner in great satisfaction
and glory.  After a couple of glasses of champagne
he becomes overpoweringly brilliant.  He is good enough,
too, to take upon himself the onerous task of drilling the
waiters, which he affects in bad French, and of abusing
the deficiencies of the *cuisine*; a topic affording, indeed,
ample scope for declamation.  The waiters, especially a
cunning old Greek, with a most villainous expression of
countenance, betray an immense respect for Manners,
tinged with an amused sort of amazement, and always
help him first.

They bring him a dish of hare, large of limb and
venerable in point of years.  Our Bashi-Bazouk exclaims
indignantly, "*Qu'est que ça?*"

"*C'est un lièvre, M'sieur*," replies the waiter, with a
forced smile, as of one who expects a jest he will not
comprehend.

"*C'est un chat!*" gasps out Manners, glaring indignantly
on the official.

"*Pardon, M'sieur,*" says the waiter, "*c'est trop gros pour
un chat.*"

"*Chat*," repeats Manners; "*Chat* THOMAS!" he adds,
in a sepulchral voice, and with a frowning brow.  The
waiter shrinks abashed, the company laugh, and Manners's
observation counts for a joke.

By this time conversation begins to buzz pretty freely
around.  Everybody drinks champagne, and tongues soon
become loosened by the exhilarating fluid.  Various topics
are discussed, including a new beauty that has just
arrived from Smyrna, of French extraction, and supposed
to possess a fortune that sounds perfectly fabulous when
calculated in francs.  Manners listens attentively, for he
has not totally abandoned the idea of combining the
excitement of war with the pursuit of beauty--properly
gilded, of course--and his maxim is that "None but the
brave deserve the fair."  Her praises, however, as also her
name and address, are intercepted by the voluble
comments of two stout gentlemen, his neighbours, on the
utter incapacity of the Turkish Government, and the
hopeless imbecility of "the people of this unhappy country,
Sir,--a people without a notion of progress---destined to
decay, Sir, from the face of the earth," as the stouter of
the two, a British merchant, who is about investing in
land here, remarks to his neighbour, a jovial Frenchman,
who has already bought many a fertile acre in the
neighbourhood of Constantinople, under the new Hatti-Sheriff;[#]
and who replies, fixing his napkin securely in his
button-hole--

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] An act empowering foreigners to hold land in Turkey.

.. vspace:: 2

"*Pourri, voyez-vous, mon cher.  Crac! ça ne durera pas
trois ans.*"

Opposite these worthies, an ensign in the Guards, and
the Queen's messenger, who is of a theatrical turn, are
busy with the character, private as well as professional,
of a certain star of the Opera, whom the latter has already
criticised in the execution of his duty at Vienna, and an
ardent desire to hear whom haunts the former enthusiast
to such a degree, even in the very trenches, that he longs
to attack and take Sebastopol single-handed, in order to
get home again before she leaves London for the winter.
The Turkish Ministry, changing as it does about once
a week; the policy of Austria; the Emperor Napoleon's
energy; the inefficiency of our own Commissariat; the
ludicrous blunders of the War Office, and the last retort
courteous of Lord Stratford, all come in for their share
of remark from prejudiced observers of every party and
every opinion; but by degrees one voice rises louder than
the rest, one individual attracts the notice of the whole
dinner-table, and nowise abashed, but rather encouraged
by the attention he commands, details volubly his own
account of the capture of the Mamelon.  He is a Frenchman,
and a civilian, but somehow he has a red ribbon on
his breast, and belongs to the Legion of Honour, so he
"assisted," as he calls it, at the attack; and if he speaks
truth, it must indeed have been an awful sight, and one
in which his countrymen outdid themselves for valour,
and that quality peculiar to the soldiers of France which
they term *élan*, a word it is hopeless to think of translating.
His opinions are decided, if not satisfactory; his
plan of storming the place an excellent one, if it could
only be carried out.

"We have taken the Mamelon!" says he, "and what
remains?  Bah!  The Malakhoff Tower is the key to the
whole position.  What would you have?  Every simple
soldier in the army knows it as well as you and I do.
I tell you I 'assisted' at the capture of the *Mamelon Vert*.
They received us with a fire, well sustained, of grape and
small arms.  Our ammunition failed us at the critical
moment.  I was in the ditch--*me!*--when the Zouaves
came on with their yell--the 152nd of the line were in
front of them.  It must be carried with the
bayonet!--*Pflan!*--our little red pantaloons were swarming up the
work and over the parapet ere you could count ten--the
tricolor was hoisted and the guns spiked in a twinkling--that
is the only way to arrange these affairs.  Now, see
here--you have your Redan, you others--you have sapped
up to it, as near as you can get.  There must be a
combined attack.  You cannot hold it till we have silenced
that little rogue of a Malakhoff.  What to do?  One of
these '*four mornings*,' as it was with the Mamelon so will
it be with the Malakhoff!  Give me a thick column, with
the Zouaves in front and rear.  These are not follies.  I
advance my column under cover--I pour in a volley!--I
rush on with the bayonet!  At the same moment the
Redan falls.  Your Guards and Scotchmen run in with
their heads, a thousand cannon support you with their
fire, the Allies hold the two most important defences, the
Garden Batteries are silenced.  Chut! the place is ours!
France and England are looking on.  I do not say that
this will be done; but this is how it ought to be done.
If your generals are fools, what is that to me?  I am not
a general--I!--but a simple civilian!--Waiter, a cigar!
*Qui vivra, verra*."

It is all *pipe-clay*, as the soldiers call it, now.  The one
engrossing topic silences every other.  Alma, Inkermann,
Lord Raglan's flank march, and the earlier incidents of
the siege, are related by the very men who took an active
share in those deeds of glory.  Two cavalry officers, both
wounded on the fatal day, recapitulate once more the *pros*
and *cons* of the immortal charge at Balaklava--a question
that has been vexed and argued till the very actors
themselves in that most brilliant of disasters scarcely know
how they got in, and still less how they ever got out.
Though struck down by the same shell, and within ten
yards of one another, each takes a diametrically opposite
view of the whole transaction from his comrade.  They
differ materially as to time, position, pace, and results;
above all, as to the merits of the leader whose wreath of
laurels faded as undeservedly as it bloomed prematurely.

"I was close behind him the whole way," says the one;
"I never saw a fellow so cool in my life, or so well 'got
up.'  He regulated every stride of that good chestnut horse like
clock-work.  When we came into fire, our line was dressed
as if on parade.  I know it by my own squadron.  Will
you tell me *that* man lost his head?"

"But where was he after we rode through the guns?"
replied the other.  "Answer me that!  I grant you he
took us in like a *brick*.  But why didn't he bring us out?
I never saw him after I was hit, and I *must* have seen
him if he had rallied the first line, and been in his proper
place to look out for his support.  You were close to me,
old fellow!  I never knew before that bob-tailed Irish
horse of yours could gallop a mile and a half.  You were
sickish, my boy, for I saw your face; but your eyesight
was unimpaired.  Tell me, did *you* see him, and what was
he doing?"

"I *did*, I'll swear!" answers the partisan, as fine a
specimen of a young hussar as ever drew a sword.  "And
I'll tell you what he was doing.  Mind, I don't say it
because I *like him*, for I don't.  Confound him! he put me
under arrest once in Dublin, and I believe it was only
because my boots weren't well blacked.  But I saw him, with
my own eyes, striking at three Cossacks, who were prodding
him with their long lances; and if poor old Champion
had not dropped under me just at that moment, I'd have
gone in and had a shy to help him, if I lost my stick.
No, no! he's game as a pebble, let them say what they
will; and if it wasn't for those cursed papers, he'd have
had all the credit he deserves.  It was the quickest
thing I ever rode to, my boy," adds the young one, rather
flushed, and drinking off his champagne at a gulp in his
excitement.  "He had a *lead*, and he kept it right well,
and I won't hear him run down."

"I don't care," replies his friend.  "I maintain it's a
general's duty to know everything that's going on.  I
maintain he ought to have stood still and looked about
him (to be sure, we couldn't see much in that smoke);
ay! and, if necessary, waited there for the Heavies to
come up.  Now, I'll prove it to you in five minutes, if
you'll only listen, you obstinate young beggar!  Do you
remember, just before we were both hit, your saying to
me, 'What a go this is!' and my answering, 'Whatever
we do, we must keep the men together, but half my
horses are blown.'  Do you remember that?"

"I *admit* nothing," answers the young man, laughing,
"but I do remember that.  It was just before we saw
that strong body of Russian cavalry in rear of the guns,
and I don't make out now why they weren't down upon us."

"Never mind that," pursues his opponent.  "They
behaved very steadily, and retired in good order; but
you remember the circumstance.  Well, he was then
about six horses' lengths from us on our fight."

"On our left," interposes the younger man--"on our
left; for I remember poor Blades was knocked over
between me and him."

"On our *right*," persists the other.  "I am certain of it,
my dear fellow, for I remarked at the time----"

"I am positive he was on our left!  I remember it as
well as if it was yesterday."

"I could take my oath he was on our right; for I
recollect seeing his sabretasche swinging."

"Left!" says one, "Right!" says the other; and they
never advance one step farther in the discussion, which
will be prolonged far into the night, to the consumption
of much brandy and water, together with countless cigars,
but with no further result.

If no two men see any one action of common life in the
same light, how hopeless must it be to endeavour to get
at the true statement of an event which takes place in the
presence of a crowd of witnesses, all excited, all in peril of
their lives, all enveloped in the dense smoke of a hundred
guns, all maddening with the fierce, blood-stirring turmoil
of such a deed of arms as the death-ride at Balaklava.

The instant dinner is finished, and coffee served, cigars
are lit.  It is a signal for the ladies to retire, and our
handsome countrywomen sail out of the room, with that
stately walk that none but an English lady ever succeeds
in effecting.  Many a glance follows them as they
disappear; many a stout heart tightens under its scarlet
covering, to think of the ideal at home--her gloves, her
dress, her fragrant hair, her graceful gestures, and the
gentle smile that may never gladden him again.  Men
are strange mixtures! the roughest and the coldest
exteriors sometimes hide the most sensitive feelings;
and when I hear a man professing audacious libertinism,
and a supreme contempt for women, I always mistrust
the bravado that is but a covering for his weakness, and
set him down at once as a puppet, that a pair of white
hands--if one only knew where to find them--can turn
and twist and set aside at will.

Ropsley was much softer in his manner than he used to
be.  Had he, too, experienced the common fate?  Was
the dandy Guardsman no longer impervious, *nulli penetrabilis
astro*?  Painful as was the subject, he talked much
of the De Rohans.  He had seen Constance married; he
had heard repeatedly from Victor during the past year;
and though he evidently knew my hopes and their
disappointment, by the tenderness with which he handled
the subject, he could not resist enlarging on the topic,
and talking to me of that family, in which I could never
cease to take the warmest interest.  I winced, and yet
I listened, for I longed to know and hear of her even
now.  I would have lain quietly on the rack only to be
told of her welfare.  It *was* painful too.  Perhaps there is
no moment at which the heart feels so empty--at which
the hopelessness of a loss is so completely realised, as
when we hear the idol of our lives talked of in a
matter-of-course way, as being totally unconnected with, and
independent of, ourselves.

I remarked that, of his own accord, Ropsley never
mentioned Valèrie.  To an inquiry of mine as to the
welfare of my kind and handsome nurse, he gave, I
thought, rather an abrupt reply; and, turning suddenly
round to Manners, asked him "if there was nothing to
be done in the evening in this stupid place?"  To which
our gallant Bashi-Bazouk, who considered himself
responsible for our amusement, answered delightedly, "No opera
yet, Ropsley, though we shall have one in six weeks; no
evening parties either, except a few amongst the French
inhabitants--delightful people, you know, and very select.
I am invited to-night to a little music, not far from here.
I could take you both, if you like, with *me*.  As friends
of mine you would be most welcome.  You speak French,
Ropsley, if I remember right?"

"A little," replied the latter, much amused, "but *not*
with *your accent*;" which, indeed, was true enough; for
he had lived a good deal at Paris, and knew Chantilly
as well as Newmarket.  "Am I well enough dressed,
though, for your fastidious friends?" he added, glancing,
not without a gleam of inward satisfaction, from his own
war-worn, threadbare uniform, to Manners's brilliant and
somewhat startling costume.

"Couldn't be better!" replied the latter; "looks
workmanlike, and all that.  This time next year I only hope
mine will be half as good.  Meanwhile, come along, you
and Egerton; never mind your cigars, they all smoke here."

"What! ladies and all, at these *select* parties?" laughed
Ropsley.  "I thought we were going amongst a lot of
duchesses: but I hope they don't drink as well?"

"Custom of the country, my dear sir," replied Manners,
gravely--"only cigarettes, of course.  If a young lady offers
to roll you one, don't refuse it.  These little things are
matters of etiquette, and it is as well to know
beforehand."  So, drilling us on the proper behaviour to be
observed at a Pera party, our cicerone swaggered out
into the night air, clanking his spurs, and rattling his
sabre, with a degree of jingling vigour which seemed to
afford him unlimited satisfaction.  It was rather good
to see Ropsley of the Guards--the man who had the
*entrée* to all the best houses in London, the arbiter of
White's, the quoted of diners-out, the favourite of fine
ladies--listening with an air of the greatest attention
to our former usher's lectures on the proper deportment
to be assumed in the company to which he was taking
us, and thanking him with the utmost gravity for his
judicious hints and kind introduction to the *élite* of Pera
society.

"Go home, Bold, go home."  The old dog *would* accompany
me out of the hotel, *would* persist in following close
at my heel along the narrow street.  Not a soul but our
three selves seemed to be wandering about this beautiful
starlight night.  The Turkish sentry was sound asleep on
his post; a dark figure, probably some houseless *hamaul*,
crouched near the sentry-box.  Savage Bold wanted to fly
at it as he passed.

"How cantankerous the old dog grows," remarked
Ropsley, as Bold stalked behind us, ears erect, and
bristling all over with defiance.  Ere we were fifty yards
from the hotel he stopped short and barked loudly; a
footstep was rapidly approaching up the street.  Murders
and robberies were at this time so frequent in
Constantinople, that every passenger was an object of
mistrust in the dark.  We, however, were three strong
men, all armed, and had nothing to fear.  Bold, too,
seemed to recognise the step.  In another moment the
Beloochee overtakes us, and with even a more imperturbable
air than usual salutes me gravely, and whispers
a few words in my ear.  On my reply, he places my hand
against his forehead, and says, "The brothers of the sword
are brothers indeed.  Effendi, you know Ali Mesrour, the
son of Abdul.  From henceforth my life is at the disposal
of my Frankish brother."

A hurried consultation between the three Englishmen
succeeds.  Manners makes a great virtue of sacrificing
sundry waltzes on which he seems to have set his heart,
and is pathetic about the disappointment his absence
will too surely inflict on Josephine, and Philippine, and
Seraphine, but is amazingly keen and full of spirits
notwithstanding.  Ropsley, no longer the unimpressionable,
apathetic dandy, whom nothing can excite or amuse,
enters with zest into our project, and betrays a depth
of feeling,--nay, a touch of romance--of which I had
believed him incapable.  Bold is ordered peremptorily to
"go home," and obeys, though most unwillingly, stopping
some twenty paces off, and growling furiously in
the darkness.  Two and two we thread the narrow streets
that lead down to the water's edge.  The Beloochee is
very silent, as is his wont, but ever and anon draws his
shawl tighter round his waist, and loosens his dagger in
its sheath.  It is evident that he means *real business*.
Manners and Ropsley chat and laugh like boys out of
school.  The latter never seemed half so boyish as now;
the former will be a boy all his life--so much the better
for him.  At the bridge Ali gives a low shrill whistle.
It reminds me of the night we escaped from the Cossacks
in Wallachia; but the good mare this time is safe in her
stable, and little thinks of the errand on which her master
is bound.  The whistle is answered from the water, and
a double-oared caïque, with its white-robed watermen,
looms through the darkness to take us on board.  As we
glide silently up the Bosphorus, listening to the unearthly
chorus of the baying wild-dogs answering each other from
Pera to Stamboul, Manners produces a revolver from his
breast-pocket, and passing his finger along the barrel
shining in the starlight, observes, "Four of us, and five
*here*, make nine.  If the gate is only unlocked, we can
carry the place by storm."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"THE WOLF AND THE LAMB"`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXXV.


.. class:: center medium

   "THE WOLF AND THE LAMB."

.. vspace:: 2

Papoosh Pasha is taking his *kief*\[#] in his harem.
Two softly shaded lamps, burning perfumed oil, shed
a voluptuous light over the apartment.  Rich carpets
from the looms of Persia are spread upon the floor;
costly shawls from Northern India fall in graceful
folds over the low divan on which he reclines.
Jewel-hilted sabres, silver-sheathed daggers, and firearms
inlaid with gold, glitter above his head, disposed
tastefully against the walls, and marking the warlike
character of the owner; for Papoosh Pasha, cruel,
sensual, and corrupt to the very marrow, is
nevertheless as brave as a lion.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: left small

   [#] Repose.

.. vspace:: 2

Two *nautch-girls* belonging to his seraglio have
been dancing their voluptuous measure for his
gratification.  As they stand now unveiled, panting
and glowing with their exertions, the rich Eastern
blood crimsoning their soft cheeks, and coursing
wildly through their shapely, pliant limbs, the old
man's face assumes a placid expression of content
only belied by the gleam in that wicked eye, and he is
good enough to wave his amber-tipped pipe-stick in
token of dismissal, and to express his approbation
by the single word "*Peki*" (very well).  The girls
prostrate themselves before their lord, their silver
armlets and anklets ringing as they touch the floor,
and bounding away like two young antelopes, flit
from the presence, apparently not unwilling to escape
so easily.  Papoosh Pasha is left alone with the
favourite; but the favourite looks restless and
preoccupied, and glances ever and anon towards the
casement which opens out into the garden of the
seraglio, now beginning to glisten in the light of the
rising moon, and breathing the odours of a thousand
flowers, heavy and fragrant with the dews of night.
This part of the harem is on the ground floor, and
is a retreat much affected by his Highness for the
facility with which the breeze steals into it from the
Bosphorus.

Zuleika is dressed in all the magnificence of her
richest Oriental costume.  Her tiny feet, arched in
true Arabian symmetry, are bare to the ankle, where
her voluminous muslin trousers are gathered in by a
bracelet, or more correctly an anklet, set with rubies
and emeralds.  A string of beads of the purest
lemon-coloured amber marks the outlines of her slender
waist, and terminates a short, close-fitting jacket of
pink satin, embroidered with seed-pearls, open at the
bosom, and with long sleeves fringed by lace of
European manufacture.  This again is covered by a
large loose mantle of *green* silk, carelessly thrown
over the whole figure.  Zuleika has not forgotten
that she is lineally descended from the Prophet, and
wears his colour accordingly.  Her hands, in
compliance with Eastern custom, are dyed with *henna*,
but even this horrid practice cannot disguise the
symmetry of her tapered fingers; and although the hair
is cut short on her left temple, the long raven locks
from the other side are gathered and plaited into a
lustrous diadem around her brows.  She has pencilled
her lower eyelashes with some dark substance that
enhances their natural beauty, but even this effort
of the toilette has not succeeded in imparting the
languishing expression which a Turkish beauty
deems so irresistible.  No; the gleam in Zuleika's
eye is more that of some wild animal, caught but
not tamed glancing eagerly around for a chance of
escape, and ready to tear the hand that would caress
it and endeavour to reconcile it to its fetters.

She does not look as if she loved you, Papoosh
Pasha, when you order her to your feet, and stroke
her hair with your fat hand, and gloat on that mournful,
eager face with your little twinkling eye.  Better
be a bachelor, Papoosh Pasha, and confine yourself
to the solace of coffee and pipes, and busy your
cunning intellect with those puzzling European
politics, and look after the interests of
your dissipated master the Sultan, than take a wild bird
to your bosom that will never know you or care for you,
or cease to pine and fret, and beat her breast against the
bars of the cage in which you have shut her up.

The old man sinks back upon his cushions with a sigh
of corporeal contentment.  His fat person is enveloped in
a flowing shawl-gown, which admits of his breathing far
more freely than does that miserable tight frock-coat he
wore all day.  He has gorged himself with an enormous
meal, chiefly composed of fat substances, vegetables, and
sweetmeats.  He has had his tiny measure of hot strong
coffee, and is puffing forth volumes of smoke from a long
cherry-stick pipe.  He bids Zuleika kneel at his feet and
sing him to his rest.  The girl glances eagerly towards the
window, and seems to listen; she dare not move at once
to the casement and look out, for her lord is mistrustful
and suspicious, and woe to her if she excites his jealousy
to such a pitch that she cannot lull it to sleep again.
She would give him an opiate if she dared, or something
stronger still, that should settle all accounts; but there is
a dark story in the harem of a former favourite--a
Circassian--who tried to strike the same path for freedom,
and failed in the attempt.  She has long slept peacefully
some forty fathom deep in the sparkling Bosphorus, and
the caïques that take her former comrades to the
Sweet-Waters glide along over her head without disturbing her
repose.  Since then, whenever Papoosh Pasha drinks in
the women's apartment, he has the gallantry to insist on
a lady pledging him first before he puts his own fat lips
to the bowl.

"Come hither, Zuleika, little dove," says the old man,
drawing her towards him; "light of my eyes and pearl of
my heart, come hither that I may lay my head on thy
bosom, and sleep to the soft murmurings of thy gentle voice."

The girl obeys, but glances once more uneasily towards
the window, and takes her place with compressed lips, and
cheeks as pale as death.  A long Albanian dagger, the
spoil of some lawless chief, hangs temptingly within arm's
length.  Another such caress as that, Papoosh Pasha, and
who shall ensure you that she does not bury it in your
heart!

But a more feminine weapon is in her hand--a three-stringed
lute or gittern, incapable of producing much
harmony, but nevertheless affording a plaintive and not
inappropriate accompaniment to the measured chant with
which the reigning Odalisque lulls her master to his rest.
The tones of her voice are very wild and sad.  Ever and
anon she stops in her music and listens to the breathing
of the Pasha; so surely he opens his eyes, and raising his
head from her lap bids her go on,--not angrily nor
petulantly, but with a quiet overbearing malice that irritates
the free spirit of the girl to the quick.  She strikes the
gittern with no unskilful hand; and although her voice is
mournful, it is sweet and musical as she sings; but the
glance of her eye denotes mischief, and I had rather be
sleeping over a powder magazine with my lighted
chibouque in my mouth, than pillow my head, as you are
doing, Papoosh Pasha, on the lap of a woman maddened
by tyranny and imprisonment,--her whole being filled
with but two feelings--Love stronger than death; Hatred
fiercer than hell.  And this is the caged bird's song:--

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

   Down in the valley where the Sweet-Waters meet--where the
   Sweet-Waters meet under the chestnut trees,--

.. class:: noindent

   There Hamed had a garden; and the wild bird sang to the Rose.

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   In the garden were many flowers, and the pomegranate grew in the
   midst.  Fair and stately she grew, and the fruit from her branches
   dropped like dew upon the sward.

.. class:: noindent

   And Hamed watered the tree and pruned her, and lay down in the
   cool freshness of her shade.

.. class:: noindent

   Beautiful was the pomegranate, yet the wild bird sang to the Rose.

.. class:: noindent

   The Lily bent lowly to the earth, and drooped for very shame, because
   the breeze courted the Lily and kissed her as he swept by to meet
   the Sweet-Waters under the chestnut trees.

.. class:: noindent

   For the Lily was the fairest of flowers; yet the wild bird sang to the
   Rose.

.. class:: noindent

   Then there came a blast from the desert, and the garden of Hamed
   was scorched and withered up;

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   And the pomegranate sickened and died; and Hamed cut her down
   by the roots, and sowed corn over the place of her shade.

.. class:: noindent

   And the breeze swept on, and stayed not, though the Lily lay
   trampled into the earth.

.. class:: noindent

   Every flower sickened and died; yet the wild bird sang to the Rose.

.. class:: noindent

   In the dawn of early morning, when the sky is green with longing,
   and the day is at hand,

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   When the winds are hushed, and the waters sleep smiling, and the
   stars are dim in the sky:

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   When she pines for his coming, and spreads her petals to meet him,
   and droops to hear his note;

.. class:: noindent

   When the garden gate is open, and the watchers are asleep, and the
   last, *last* hope is dying,--will the wild bird come to the Rose?

.. vspace:: 2

The concluding lines she sang in a marked voice there
was no mistaking, and I doubt if they did not thrill to
the heart's core of more than one listener.

The moon had now fairly risen, and silvered the trees
and shrubs in the harem garden with her light, leaving,
however, dense masses of shade athwart the smooth lawn
and under the walls of the building.  Cypress and cedar
quivered in her beams.  Not a breath of air stirred the
feathery leaves of the tall acacia, with its glistening stem;
and the swelling ripple of the Bosphorus plashed drowsily
against the marble steps.  All was peace and silence and
repose.  Far enough off to elude observation, yet within
hail, lay our caïque, poised buoyantly on the waters, and
cutting with its dark outline right athwart a glittering
pathway as of molten gold.  Close under the harem
window, concealed by the thick foliage of a broad-leaved
creeper, Ali Mesrour and myself crouched, silent and
anxious, scarce daring to breathe, counting with sickening
eagerness the precious moments that were fleeting by,
so tedious yet so soon past.  Twenty paces farther off,
under a dark group of cypresses, lay Ropsley and Manners
ready for action, the latter with his hand in his bosom
caressing the trusty revolver by which he set such store.

Everything had as yet gone off prosperously.  We had
landed noiseless and unobserved.  The garden gate, thanks
to woman's foresight and woman's cunning, had been left
open.  The sentry on guard, like all other Turkish
sentries when not before an enemy, had lain down, enveloped
in his great-coat, with his musket by his side, and was
snoring as only a true son of Osman can snore after a
bellyful of *pilaff*.  If his lord would but follow his
example, it might be done; yet never was old man so
restless, so ill at ease, so wakefully disposed as seemed
Papoosh Pasha.

We could see right into the apartment, and the rich
soft lamplight brought out in full relief the faces and
figures of its two occupants.  Zuleika sat with her feet
gathered under her on the divan: one hand still held the
lute; the other was unwillingly consigned to the caresses
of her lord.  The old man's head reclined against her
bosom; his parted lips betokened rest and enjoyment;
his eyes were half closed, yet there was a gleam of vigilant
malice upon his features that denoted anything but sleep.
The poor girl's face alternated from a scowl of withering
hatred to a plaintive expression of heart-broken
disappointment.  Doubtless she was thinking "the last, *last*
hope is dying, and the wild bird is not coming to the rose."

Ali Mesrour gazed on her he loved.  If ever there was
a trying situation, it was his--to see her even now in the
very embrace of his enemy--so near, yet so apart.  Few
men could have enough preserved their self-command not
to betray even by the workings of the countenance what
a storm of feelings must be wasting the heart; yet the
Beloochee moved not a muscle; his profile, turned towards
me, was calm and grim as that of a statue.  Once only
the right hand crept stealthily towards his dagger, but
the next moment he was again as still as death.  The
Pasha whispered something in the girl's ear, and a gleam
of wild delight sparkled on her face as she listened.  She
rose cheerfully, left the room with a rapid, springing step,
and returned almost immediately with a flask under her
arm, and a huge goblet set with precious stones in her
hand.  Papoosh Pasha, true believer and faithful servant
of the Prophet, it needs not the aid of a metal-covered
cork, secured with wire, to enable us to guess at the
contents of that Frankish flask.  No sherbet of roses is poured
into your brimming goblet--no harmless, unfermented
liquor, flavoured with cinnamon or other lawful
condiment; but the creaming flood of amber-coloured
champagne whirls up to the very margin, and the Pasha's eye
brightens with satisfaction as he stretches forth his hand
to grasp its taper stem.  Cunning and careful though,
even in his debauches, he proffers the cup to Zuleika
ere he tastes.

"Drink, my child," says the old hypocrite, "drink of
the liquid such as the houris are keeping in Paradise for
the souls of the true believers; drink and fear not--it is
lawful.  *Allah Kerim*!"

Zuleika wets her lips on the edge, and hands the cup
to her lord, who drains it to the dregs, and sets it down
with a sigh of intense satisfaction.

"It is lawful," he continues, wiping his moustaches.
"It is not forbidden by the blessed Prophet.  Wine indeed
is prohibited to the true believer, but the Prophet knew
not the flavour of champagne, and had he tasted it, he
would have enjoined his servants to drink it four times a
day.  Fill again, Zuleika, oh my soul!  Fill again!  There
is but one Allah!"

The girl needs no second bidding; once and again she
fills to the brim; once and again the Pasha drains the
tempting draught; and now the little twinkling eye dims,
the cherry-stick falls from the opening fingers, the Pasha's
head sinks upon Zuleika's bosom, and at last he is fast
asleep.  Gently, tenderly, like a mother soothing a child,
she hushes him to his rest.  Stealthily, slowly she
transfers his head from her own breast to the embroidered
cushions.  Dexterously, noiselessly, see extricates herself
from his embrace.  A low whistle, scarcely perceptible,
reaches her ear from the garden, and calls the blood into
her cheek; and yet, a very woman even now, she turns to
take one last look at him whom she is leaving for ever.
A cool air steals in from the window, and plays upon the
sleeper's open neck and throat.  She draws a shawl
carefully, nay, caressingly, around him.  Brute, tyrant, enemy
though he is, yet there have been moments when he was
kindly and indulgent towards her, for she was his favourite;
and she will not leave him in anger at the last.  Fatal
delay! mistaken tenderness! true woman! always
influenced by her feelings at the wrong time!  What did that
moment's weakness cost us all?  She had crossed the
room--we were ready to receive her--her foot was on
the very window-sill; another moment and she would
have been in Ali's arms, when a footstep was heard
rapidly approaching up the street, a black figure came
bounding over the garden wall, closely followed by a large
English retriever, and shouting an alarm wildly at the
top of his voice.  As the confused sentry fired off his
musket in the air; as the Pasha's guards and retainers
woke and sprang to their arms; as the Beloochee glared
wildly around him; as Ropsley, no longer uninterested,
swore volubly in English, and Manners drew the revolver
from his bosom, Bold, for the second time that day, pinned
a tall negro slave by the throat, and rolling him over and
over on the sward, made as though he would have worried
him to death in the garden.

It was, however, too late; the alarm was given, and all
was discovered.  The man I had struck in the afternoon
of that very day had dogged me ever since, in hopes of an
opportunity to revenge himself.  He had followed me
from place to place, overheard my conversation, and
watched all those to whom I spoke.  He had crouched
under the sentry-box at the door of Messirie's hotel, had
tracked us at a safe distance down to the very water's
edge, and had seen us embark on our mysterious expedition.
With the cunning of his race, he guessed at once
at our object, and determined to frustrate it.  Unable,
I conclude, at that late hour to get a caïque, he had
hastened by land to his master's house, and, as the event
turned out, had arrived in time to overthrow all our plans.
He was followed in his turn by my faithful Bold, who,
when so peremptorily ordered to leave us, had been
convinced there was something in the wind, and accordingly
transferred his attentions to the figure that had been his
object of distrust the live-long day.  How he worried and
tore at him, and refused to relinquish his hold.
Alas! alas! it was too late--too late!

The Pasha sprang like a lion from his lair.  At the
same instant, Ali Mesrour and myself bounded lightly
through the open window into the apartment.  Zuleika
flung herself with a loud shriek into her lover's arms.
Manners and Ropsley came crowding in behind us, the
former's revolver gleaming ominously in the light.  The
Pasha was surrounded by his enemies, but he never faltered
for an instant.  Hurrying feet and the clash of arms
resounded along the passages; lights were already twinkling
in the garden; aid was at hand, and, Turk, tyrant,
voluptuary though he was, he lacked not the courage, the
promptitude which aids itself.  At a glance he must have
recognised Ali; or it might have been but the instinct of
his nation which bid him defend his women.  Quick as
thought, he seized a pistol that hung above his couch,
and discharged it point-blank at the Beloochee's body.
The bullet sped past Zuleika's head and lodged deep in
her lover's bosom.  At the same instant that Ropsley,
always cool and collected in an emergency, dashed down
both the lamps, Ali's body lurched heavily into my arms,
and poor Zuleika fell senseless on the floor.

The next moment a glare of light filled the apartment.
Crowds of slaves, black and white, all armed to the teeth,
rushed in to the rescue.  The Pasha, perfectly composed,
ordered them to seize and make us prisoners.  Encumbered
by the Beloochee's weight, and outnumbered ten to one,
we were put to it to make good our retreat, and ere we
could close round her and carry her off, two stout negroes
had borne the still senseless Zuleika through the open
doorway into the inner chambers of the palace.  Placing
the Beloochee between myself and Ropsley, we backed
leisurely into the garden, the poor fellow groaning heavily
as we handed him through the casement, and so made
our way, still fronting the Pasha and his myrmidons,
towards our caïque, which at the first signal of disturbance
had been pulled rapidly in shore.  Manners covered
our retreat with great steadiness and gallantry, keeping
the enemy at bay with his revolver, a weapon with which
one and all showed much disinclination to make further
acquaintance.  By this time shrieks of women pervaded
the palace.  The blacks, too, jabbered and gesticulated
with considerably more energy than purpose, half-a-dozen
pistol shots fired at random served to increase
the general confusion, which even their lord's presence
and authority were completely powerless to quell, and
thus we were enabled to reach our boat, and shove off
with our ghastly freight into the comparative safety of
the Bosphorus.

"He will never want a doctor more," said Ropsley, in
answer to an observation from Manners, as, turning down
the edge of the Beloochee's jacket, he showed us the
round livid mark that, to a practised eye, told too surely
of the irremediable death-wound.  "Poor fellow, poor
fellow," he added, "he is bleeding inwardly now, he will
be dead before we reach the bridge."

Ali opened his eyes, and raising his head, looked around
as though in search of some missing face.

"Zuleika," he whispered, "Zuleika!" and sank back
again with a piteous expression of hopeless, helpless
misery on his wan and ghastly features.  The end was
obviously near at hand, his cheeks seemed to have fallen
in the last few minutes, dark circles gathered round his
eyes, his forehead was damp and clammy, and there was
a light froth upon his ashy lips.  Yet as death approached
he seemed to recover strength and consciousness; a true
Mussulman, the grave had for him but few terrors, and he
had confronted the grim monarch so often as not to wince
from him at last when really within his grasp.

He reared himself in the boat, and supported by my
arm, which was wound round his body, made shift to sit
upright and look about him, wildly, dreamily, as one who
looks for the last time.  "Effendi," he gasped, pressing
my hand, "Effendi, it is destiny.  The good mare--she is
my brother's!  Oh, Zuleika!  Zuleika!"

A strong shudder convulsed his frame, his jaw dropped,
I thought he was gone, but he recovered consciousness
once more, snatched wildly at his sword, which he half
drew, and whispering faintly, "Turn me to the East!
There is but one Allah!" his limbs collapsed--his head
sunk upon my shoulder--and so he died.

Row gently, brawny watermen, though your freight is
indeed but the shell which contained even now a gallant,
faithful spirit.  One short hour ago, who so determined,
so brave, so sagacious as the Beloochee warrior? and
where is he now?  That is not Ali Mesrour whom you
are wafting so sadly, so smoothly towards the shore.  Ali
Mesrour is far away in space, in the material Paradise of
your own creed, with its inexhaustible sherbets, and its
cool gardens, and its dark-eyed maidens waving their
green scarfs to greet the long-expected lover; or to the
unknown region, the shadowy spirit-land of a loftier,
nobler faith, the mystical world on which Religion herself
dare hardly speculate, where "the tree shall be known by
its fruits," "where the wicked cease from troubling, and
the weary are at rest."

So we carried him reverently and mournfully to the
house he had occupied; and we laid him out in his
warrior dress, with his arms by his side and his lance in
his hand, and ere the morrow's sun was midway in the
heavens, the earth had closed over him in his last resting-place,
where the dark cypresses are nodding and whispering
over his tomb, and the breeze steals gently up from
the golden Bosphorus, smiling and radiant, within a
hundred paces of his grave.

The good bay mare has never left my possession.  For
months she was restless and uncomfortable, neighing at
every strange step, and refusing her food, as if she pined
truly and faithfully for her master.  He came not, and
after a time she forgot him; and another hand fed and
cared for her, and she grew sleek and fat and
light-hearted.  What would you?  It is a world of change.
Men and women, friends and favourites, lovers and
beloved, all must forget and float with the stream and hurry
on; if there be an exception--if some pale-eyed mourner,
clinging to the bank, yearns hopelessly for the irrevocable
Past, what matter, so the stream can eddy round him,
and laugh and ripple by?  Let him alone! he is not one
of us.  God forbid!

Of Zuleika's fate I shudder to think.  Though I might
well guess she could never expect to be forgiven, it was
long before surmise approached certainty, and even now
I strive to hope against hope, to persuade myself that
there may still be a chance.  At least I am thankful Ali
was spared the ghastly tidings that eventually came to
my ears--a tale that escaped the lips of a drunken caïgee,
and in which I fear there is too much truth.

Of course the attack on the Pasha's palace created
much scandal throughout Constantinople; and equally of
course, a thousand rumours gained credence as to the
origin and object of the disturbance.  The English officers
concerned received a hint that it would be advisable to
get out of the way as speedily as possible; and I was
compelled to absent myself for a time from my kind friend
and patron, Omar Pasha.  One person set the whole thing
down as a drunken frolic; another voted it an attempt at
burglary of the most ruffian-like description; and the
Turks themselves seemed inclined to resent it as a
gratuitous insult to their prejudices and customs.  A
stalwart caïgee, however, being, contrary to his religion
and his practice, inebriated with strong drink, let out in
his cups that, if he dared, he could tell more than others
knew about the attack on the palace of Papoosh Pasha,
and its sequel.  Influenced by a large bribe, and
intimidated by threats, he at length made the following
statement:--"That the evening after the attack, about
sun-down, he was plying off the steps of Papoosh Pasha's
palace; that he was hailed by a negro guard, who bade
him approach the landing-place; that two other negroes
then appeared, bearing between them a sack, carefully
secured, and obviously containing something weighty;
that they placed it carefully in the bottom of his caïque,
and that more than once he distinctly saw it move; that
they desired him to pull out into mid-stream, and when
there, dropped the sack overboard; that it sunk
immediately, but that he fancied he heard a faint shriek as it
went down, and saw the bubbles plainly coming up for
several seconds at the place where it disappeared; further,
that the negro gave him fifty piastres over his proper fare
for the job, and that he himself had been uncomfortable
and troubled with bad dreams ever since."

Alas, poor Zuleika! there is but little hope that you
survived your lover four-and-twenty hours.  The wild
bird came, indeed, as he had promised, in the early
morning, to the rose, but the wild bird got his death-wound;
and the rose, I fear, lies many a fathom deep in the clear,
cold waters of the silent Bosphorus.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"THE FRONT"`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXXVI


.. class:: center medium

   "THE FRONT"

.. vspace:: 2

Man has been variously defined by philosophers as a
cooking animal (the truth of this definition, unless when
applied to our Gallic neighbours, I stoutly contest), as a
reasoning animal (this likewise will hardly hold water),
as a self-clothing animal, as an omnivorous one, as an
unfeathered biped, and as an improved specimen of the
order of Simiæ without the tail!  None of these
definitions will I accept as expressing exactly the conditions
and necessities of our species.  I believe man to be an
animal fed on excitement--the only one in creation that
without that pabulum, in some shape or another, languishes,
becomes torpid, and loses its noblest energies both of mind
and body.  Why do men drink, quarrel, gamble, and waste
their substance in riotous living?  Why does Satan,
according to good Dr. Watts, always provide work "for
idle hands to do"?  Why, but because man *must* have
excitement.  If he have no safety-valve for his surplus
energies in the labour which earns his daily bread, they
will find vent through some other channel, either for good
or evil, according to his bias one way or the other.  There
is no such thing as repose on the face of the earth; "push
on--keep moving," such is the motto of humanity.  If we
are not making we must be marring, but we cannot sit
still.  How else do we account for the proverbial restlessness
of the sailor when he has been a few weeks ashore?
How else can we conceive it possible for a rational being,
whilst enjoying the luxuries and liberty of a landsman's
existence, to pine for the hardships, the restraint, the
utter discomfort which every one must necessarily
experience on board ship?  How, except upon this principle,
can we understand the charm of a soldier's life, the
cheering influence of a campaign?  It is most unnatural to
like rigid discipline, short rations, constant anxiety, and
unremitting toil.  A wet great-coat on the damp earth is
a bad substitute for a four-post bed, with thick blankets,
and clean sheets not innocent of the warming-pan.  A
tent is a miserable dwelling-place at the best of times,
and is only just preferable to the canopy of heaven in
very hot or very cold, or very windy or very wet weather.
There is small amusement in spending the livelong night
in sleepless watching for an enemy, and little satisfaction
in being surprised by the same about an hour before dawn.
It is annoying to be starved, it is irritating to be
frightened, it is uncomfortable to be shot,--yet are all these
casualties more or less incidental to the profession of
arms; and still the recruiting sergeant flaunts his bunch
of ribbons in every market town throughout merry England,
and still the bumpkin takes the shilling, and sings
in beery strains, "Huzza for the life of a soldier!"

And I too had tasted of the fierce excitement of strife--had
drunk of the stimulating draught which, like some
bitter tonic, creates a constant craving for more--had
been taught by the influence of custom and companionship
to loathe the quiet dreamy existence which was my
normal state, and to long for the thrill of danger, the
variety and unholy revelry of war.

So I returned with Ropsley to the Crimea.  I had
small difficulty in obtaining leave from Omar Pasha to
resign, at least for a time, my appointment on his personal
staff.

"They are queer fellows, my adopted countrymen," said
his Highness, in his dry, humorous manner, and with his
quaint smile, "and the sooner you get out of the way,
friend Egerton, the better.  I shall be asked all sorts of
questions about you myself; and if you stay here, why,
the nights are dark and the streets are narrow.  Some
fine morning it might be difficult to wake you, and nobody
would be a bit the wiser.  Our Turk has his peculiar
notions about the laws of honour, and he cannot be made
to comprehend why he should risk his own life in taking
yours.  Besides, he is ridiculously sensitive about his
women, particularly with a Christian.  Had you been a
good Mussulman, now, Egerton, it could have been easily
arranged.  You might have bought the lady, got drunk
on champagne with old Papoosh Pasha, and set up a
harem of your own.  Why don't you become a convert, as
I did?  The process is short, the faith simple, the practice
satisfactory.  Think it over, my good Interpreter, think
it over.  Bah! in ten minutes you would be as good a
Mussulman as I am, and better."  And his Highness
laughed, and bid me "Good-bye," for he had a good deal
upon his hands just then, being on the eve of marriage
with his *fifth* wife, a young lady twelve years of age,
daughter to his Imperial Majesty the Sultan, and
bringing her husband a magnificent dowry of jewels, gold, and
horses, in addition to many broad and fertile acres in
Anatolia, not to mention a beautiful kiosk near Scutari
and a stately palace on the Bosphorus, without which
adventitious advantages she might perhaps have hardly
succeeded in winning the heart of so experienced a warrior
as Omar Pasha.

Thus it was that I found myself one broiling sunny
morning leaning over the side of a transport, just then
dropping her anchor in Balaklava Bay.

The scorching rocks frowned down on the scorching
sea; the very planks on the deck glistened with the heat.
There was no shade on land, and not a breath of air
ruffled the shining bosom of the water.  The harbour was
full, ay, choked with craft of every rig and every tonnage;
whilst long, wicked-looking steamers and huge, unwieldy
troop-ships dotted the surface of the land-locked bay.
The union-jack trailed idly over our stern, the men were
all on deck, gazing with eager faces on that shore which
combined for *them* the realities of history with the
fascinations of romance.  Young soldiers were they, mostly
striplings of eighteen and twenty summers, with the
smooth cheeks, fresh colour, and stalwart limbs of the
Anglo-Saxon race--too good to fill a trench!  And yet
what would be the fate of at least two-thirds of that keen,
light-hearted draft?  *Vestigia nulla retrorsum*.  Many a
time has it made my heart ache to see a troop-ship ploughing
relentlessly onward with her living freight to "the
front,"--many a time have I recalled Æsop's fable, and
the foot-prints that were all *towards* the lion's den,--many
a time have I thought how every unit there in red
was himself the centre of a little world at home; and of
the grey heads that would tremble, and the loving faces
that would pale in peaceful villages far away in England,
when no news came from foreign parts of "our John," or
when the unrelenting *Gazette* arrived at last and
proclaimed, as too surely it would, that he was coming back
"never, never no more."

Boom!--there it is again!  Every eye lightens at that
dull, distant sound.  Every man's pulse beats quicker,
and his head towers more erect, for he feels that he has
arrived at the *real thing* at last.  No sham fighting is
going on over yonder, not two short leagues from where
he stands--no mock bivouac at Chobham, nor practice in
Woolwich Marshes, nor meaningless pageant in the Park:
that iron voice carries *death* upon its every accent.  For
those in the trenches it is a mere echo--the unregarded
consequence that necessarily succeeds the fierce rush of a
round-shot or the wicked whistle of a shell; but for us
here at Balaklava it is one of the pulsations of England's
life-blood--one of the ticks, so to speak, of that great
Clock of Doom which points ominously to the downfall of
the beleaguered town.

Boom!  Yes, there it is again; you cannot forget why
you are here.  Day and night, sunshine and storm, scarce
five minutes elapse in the twenty-four hours without
reminding you of the work in hand.  You ride out from
the camp for your afternoon exercise, you go down to
Balaklava to buy provisions, or you canter over to the
monastery at St. George's to visit a sick comrade--the
iron voice tolls on.  In the glare of noon, when
everything else seems drowsy in the heat, and the men lie
down exhausted in the suffocating trenches--the iron
voice tolls on.  In the calm of evening, when the breeze
is hushed and still, and the violet sea is sleeping in the
twilight--the iron voice tolls on.  So when the flowers
are opening in the morning, and the birds begin to sing,
and reviving nature, fresh and dewy, seems to scatter
health and peace and good-will over the earth--the iron
voice tolls on.  Nay, when you wake at midnight in your
tent from a dream of your far-away home--oh! what a
different scene to this!--tired as you may be, ere you
have turned to sleep once more, you hear it again.  Yes,
at midnight as at noon, at morn as at evening, every day
and all day long, Death is gathering his harvest--and the
iron voice tolls on.

"Very slack fire they seem to be keeping up in the
front," yawns out Ropsley, who has just joined me on
deck, and to whom the siege and all its accessories are
indeed nothing new.  Many a long and weary month has
he been listening to that sound; and what with his own
ideas on the subject, and the information a naturally
acute intellect has acquired touching the proceedings of
the besiegers, his is indeed a familiarity which "breeds
contempt."

"Any news from the camp?" he shouts out to a middy
in a man-of-war's boat passing under our stern.  The
middy, a thorough specimen of an English boy, with his
round laughing face and short jacket, stands up to reply.

"Another sortie!  No end of fellows killed; and *they
say* the Malakhoff is blown up."

Our young soldiers listen eagerly to the news.  They
have heard and read of the Malakhoff for many a day,
and though their ideas of the nature and appearance of
that work are probably of a somewhat confused description,
they are all athirst for intelligence, and prepared to
swallow everything connected with the destruction of that
or any other of the defences with a faith that is, to say
the least of it, a sad temptation to the laughter-loving
informant.

A middy, though from some organic cause of which I
am ignorant, is always restless and impatient towards the
hour of noon; and our friend plumps down once more in
the stern of his gig, and bids his men "give way"; for
the sun is by this time high in the heavens; so we take
our places in the ship's boat which our own captain
politely provides for us, and avoiding the confusion of a
disembarkation of men and stores, Ropsley, Bold, and I
leap ashore at Balaklava, unencumbered save by the slender
allowance of luggage which a campaign teaches the most
luxurious to deem sufficient.

Ashore at Balaklava!  What a scene of hurry and
crowding and general confusion it is!  Were it not that
every second individual is in uniform and bearded to the
waist, it would appear more like the mart of some peaceful
and commercial sea-port, than the threshold of a stage on
which is being fought out to the death one of the fiercest
and most obstinate struggles which History has to record
on her blood-stained pages.  There are no women, yet
the din of tongues is perfectly deafening.  Hurrying to
and fro, doing as little work with as much labour as
possible, making immense haste with small speed, and
vociferating incessantly at the top of their voices, Turks
and Tartars, Armenians, Greeks, and Ionians, all accosted
by the burly English soldier under the generic name of
"Johnny," are flitting aimlessly about, and wasting her
Majesty's stores in a manner that would have driven the
late Mr. Hume frantic.  Here a trim sergeant of infantry,
clean and orderly, despite his war-worn looks and patched
garments, drives before him a couple of swarthy nondescripts,
clad in frieze, and with wild elf-locks protruding
over their jutting foreheads, and twinkling Tartar eyes.
They stagger under huge sacks of meal, which they are
carrying to yonder storehouse, with a sentry pacing his
short walk at the door.  The sacks have been furnished
by contract, so the seams are badly sewn; and the meal,
likewise furnished by contract, and of inferior quality, is
rapidly escaping, to leave a white track in the mud, also
a contract article, and of the deepest, stickiest, and most
enduring quality.  The labours of the two porters will be
much lightened ere they reach their destination; but this
is of less moment, inasmuch as the storehouse to which
they are proceeding is by no means watertight, and the
first thunderstorm that sweeps in from the Black Sea is
likely much to damage its contents.  It is needless to add
that this edifice of thin deal planks has been constructed
by contract for the use of her Majesty's Government.

A little farther on, a train of mules, guided by a motley
crowd of every nation under heaven, and commanded by
an officer in the workmanlike uniform of the Land
Transport, is winding slowly up the hill.  They have emerged
from a perfect sea of mud, which even at this dry season
shows not the least tendency to harden into consistency,
and they will probably arrive at the front in about four
hours, with the loss of a third only of their cargo, consisting
of sundry munitions which were indispensable last week,
and might have been of service the day before yesterday,
but the occasion for which has now passed away for ever.

A staff officer on a short sturdy pony gallops hastily
by, exchanging a nod as he passes with a beardless cornet
of dragoons, whose English charger presents a curious
study of the anatomy of a horse.  He pulls up for an
instant to speak to Ropsley, and the latter turns to me
and says--

"Not so bad as I feared, Vere.  It was a mere sortie,
after all, and we drove them back very handsomely, with
small loss on our side.  The only officer killed was young
----, and he was dying, poor fellow! at any rate, of
dysentery."

This is the news of the day here, and the trenches
form just such a subject of conversation before Sebastopol
as does the weather in a country-house in England--a
topic never new, but never entirely worn out.

Side by side, Ropsley and myself are journeying up the
hill towards the front.  A sturdy batman has been in
daily expectation of his master's return, and has brought
his horses down to meet him.  It is indeed a comfort to
be again in an English saddle--to have the lengthy,
powerful frame of an English horse under one--and to
hear the homely, honest accents of a *provincial* English
tongue.  When a man has been long amongst foreigners,
and especially serving with foreign troops, it is like being
at home again to be once more within the lines of a
British army; and to add to the pleasure of our ride,
although the day is cloudless and insufferably hot in the
valleys, there is a fresh breeze up here, and a pure bracing
air that reaches us from the heights on which the army
is encamped.

It is a wild, picturesque scene, not beautiful, yet full of
interest and incident.  Behind us lies Balaklava, with its
thronging harbour and its busy crowds, whose hum reaches
us even here, high above the din.  It is like looking down on
an ant-hill to watch the movements of the shifting swarm.

On our right, the plain, stretching far and wide, is
dotted with the Land Transport--that necessary evil so
essential to the very existence of an army; and their
clustering wagons and scattered beasts carry the eye
onwards to a dim white line formed by the neat tents and
orderly encampment of the flower of French cavalry, the
gallant and dashing Chasseurs d'Afrique.

On our left, the stable call of an English regiment of
Light Dragoons reaches us from the valley of Kadikoi,
that Crimean Newmarket, the doings of which are actually
chronicled in *Bell's Life*!  Certainly an Englishman's
nationality is not to be rooted out of him even in the
jaws of death.  But we have little time to visit the
race-course or the lines--to pass our comments on the
condition of the troopers, or gaze open-mouthed at the
wondrous field-batteries that occupy an adjoining
encampment--moved by teams of twelve horses each, perhaps
the finest animals of the class to be seen in Europe, with
every accessory of carriage, harness, and appointments, so
perfect as not to admit of improvement, yet, I believe,
not found to answer in actual warfare.  Our interest is
more awakened by another scene.  We are on classic
ground now, for we have reached the spot whence

   |   Into the valley of death
   |   Rode the six hundred!

Yes, stretching down from our very feet lies that
mile-and-a-half gallop which witnessed the boldest deed of
chivalry performed in ancient or modern times.  Well
might the French general exclaim, "*C'est magnifique!*"
although he added, significantly, "*mais ce n'est pas la
guerre.*"  The latter part of his observation is a subject
for discussion, but of the former there is and there can be
but one opinion.  *Magnifique* indeed it must have been
to see six hundred horsemen ride gallantly down to almost
certain death--every heart beating equally high, every
sword striking equally hard and true.

   |   Groom fought like noble, squire like knight,
   |     As fearlessly and well.

Not a child in England at this day but knows, as if he
had been there, the immortal battle of Balaklava.  It is
needless to describe its situation, to dwell upon the
position they were ordered to carry, or the fire that
poured in upon front, flanks, ay, and rear, of the
attacking force.  This is all matter of history; but as the
valley stretched beneath us, fresh, green, and smiling
peacefully in the sun, it required but little imagination
to call up the stirring scene of which it had been the
stage.  Here was the very ground on which the Light
Brigade were drawn up; every charger quivering with
excitement, every eye flashing, every lip compressed with
the sense of coming danger.  A staff officer rides up to
the leader, and communicates an order.  There is an
instant's pause.  Question and reply pass like lightning,
and the aide-de-camp points to a dark, grim mass of
artillery bristling far away down yonder in the front.
Men's hearts stop beating, and many a bold cheek turns
pale, for there is more excitement in uncertainty than in
actual danger.  The leader draws his sword, and faces
flush, and hearts beat high once more.  Clear and
sonorous is his voice as he gives the well-known word;
gallant and chivalrous his bearing as he takes his place--that
place of privilege--*in front*--"*Noblesse oblige*" and
can he be otherwise than gallant and chivalrous and
devoted, for is he not a *gentleman?* and yet, to the
honour of our countrymen be it spoken, not a man of
that six hundred, of any rank, but was as gallant and
chivalrous and devoted as he--he has said so himself a
hundred times.

So the word is given, and the squadron leaders take it
up, and the Light Brigade advances at a gallop; and a
deadly grasp is on the sword, and the charger feels his
rider's energy as he grips him with his knees, and holding
him hard by the head urges him resolutely forward--to
death!

And now they cross the line of fire: shot through the
heart, an aide-de-camp falls headlong from the saddle,
and his loose horse gallops on, wild and masterless, and
wheels in upon the flank, and joins the squadron once
more.  It has begun now.  Man upon man, horse upon
horse, are shot down and rolled over; yet the survivors
close in, sterner, bolder, fiercer than before, and still the
death-ride sweeps on.

"Steady, men--forward!" shouts a chivalrous squadron
leader, as he waves his glittering sword above his head,
and points towards the foe.  Clear and cheerful rings his
voice above the tramp of horses and the rattle of
small-arms and the deadly roar of artillery.  He is a model of
beauty, youth, and gallantry--the admired of men, the
darling of women, the hope of his house.--Do not look
again.--A round-shot has taken man and horse; he is
lying rolled up with his charger, a confused and ghastly
mass.  Forward! the squadron has passed over him, and
still the death-ride sweeps on.

The gaps are awful now, the men told off by threes
look in vain for the familiar face at right or left; every
trooper feels that he must depend on himself and the
good horse under him, but there is no wavering.  Officers
begin to have misgivings as to the result, but there is no
hesitation.  All know they are galloping to destruction,
yet not a heart fails, not a rein is turned.  Few, very few
are they by this time, and still the death-ride sweeps on.
They disappear in that rolling sulphurous cloud, the
portal of another world; begrimed with smoke, ghastly
with wounds, comrade cannot recognise comrade, and
officers look wildly round for their men; but the guns
are still before them--the object is not yet attained--the
enemy awaits them steadily behind his gabions, and the
fire from his batteries is mowing them down like grass.
If but one man is left, that one will still press forward:
and now they are on their prey.  A tremendous roar of
artillery shakes the air.  Mingled with the clash of swords
and the plunge of horses, oath, prayer, and death-shriek
fly to heaven.  The batteries are reached and carried.
The death-ride sweeps over them, and it is time to
return.

.. _`"The batteries are reached and carried.`:

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   "The batteries are reached and carried.  *The Interpreter*  *Page 317*

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In twos, and threes, and single files, the few survivors
stagger back to the ground, from whence, a few short
minutes ago, a gallant band had advanced in so trim, so
orderly, so soldier-like a line.

The object has been attained, but at what a sacrifice?
Look at yon stalwart trooper sinking on his saddle-bow,
sick with his death-hurt, his head drooping on his bosom,
his sword hanging idly in his paralysed right hand, his
failing charger, wounded and feeble, nobly bearing his
master to safety ere he falls to rise no more.  The
soldier's eye brightens for an instant as he hears the
cheer of the Heavy Brigade completing the work he has
pawned his life to begin.  Soon that eye will glaze and
close for ever.  Men look round for those they knew and
loved, and fear to ask for the comrade who is down, stiff
and stark, under those dismounted guns and devastated
batteries; horses come galloping in without riders; here
and there a dismounted dragoon crawls feebly back to
join the remnants of what was once his squadron, and by
degrees the few survivors get together and form
something like an ordered body once more.  It is better not
to count them, they are so few, so *very* few.  Weep,
England, for thy chivalry! mourn and wring thy hands
for that disastrous day; but smile with pride through thy
tears, thrill with exultation in thy sorrow, to think of the
sons thou canst boast, of the deed of arms done by them
in that valley before the eyes of gathered nations--of the
immortal six hundred--thy children, every man of them,
that rode the glorious death-ride of Balaklava!

"That was a stupid business," observed Ropsley, as he
brought his horse alongside of mine, and pointed down
the valley; "quite a mistake from beginning to end.
What a licking we deserved to get, and what a licking
we *should* have got if our dragoons were not the only
cavalry in the world that will *ride straight*!"

"And yet what a glorious day!" I exclaimed, for the
wild cheer of a charge seemed even now to be thrilling
in my ears.  "What a chance for a man to have! even
if he did not survive it.  What a proud sight for the
army!  Oh, Ropsley, what would I give to have been there!"

"*Not whist*, my dear fellow," replied my less enthusiastic
friend; "that is not the way to *play the game*, and no man
who makes mistakes deserves to win.  I have a theory of
my own about cavalry, they should never be offered too
freely.  I would almost go so far as to say they should
not be used till a battle is won.  At least they should be
kept in hand till the last moment, and then let loose like
lightning.  What said the Duke?  'There are no cavalry
on earth like mine, but I can only use them *once*;' and
no man knew so well as he did the merits and the failings
of each particular arm.  Nor should you bring the same
men out again too soon after a brilliant charge; let them
have a little time to get over it, they will *come* again all
the better.  Never *waste* anything in war, and never run
a chance when you can stand on a certainty.  But here
we are at the camp of the First Division.  Yonder you
may catch a glimpse of the harbour and a few houses of
the town of Sebastopol.  How quiet it looks this fine
day! quite the sort of place to take the children to for
sea-bathing at this time of the year!  I am getting tired
of the *outside*, though, Egerton; I sometimes think we
shall *never* get in.  There they go again," he added, as
a white volume of smoke rose slowly into the clear air,
and a heavy report broke dully on our ears; "there they
go again, but what a slack fire they seem to be keeping
up; we shall never do any good till we try a *coup de main*,
and take the place by assault;" so speaking, Ropsley
picked his way carefully amongst tent-ropes and
tent-pegs, and all the impediments of a camp, to reach the
main street, so to speak, of that canvas town, and I
followed him, gazing around me with a curiosity rather
sharpened than damped by the actual warfare I had
already seen on so much smaller a scale.

There must have been at least two hundred thousand
men at that time disposed around the beleaguered town,
this without counting the Land Transport and followers
of an army, or the crowds of non-combatants that thronged
the ports of Kamiesch and Balaklava.  The white town
of tents stretched away for miles, divided and subdivided
into streets and alleys; you had only to know the number
of his regiment to find a private soldier, with as great a
certainty as you could find an individual in London if
you knew the number of his house and the name of the
street where he resided--always pre-supposing that the
soldier had not been killed the night before in the
trenches, a casualty by no means to be overlooked.  We
rode down the main street of the Guards' division,
admired the mountaineer on sentry at the adjoining
camp of the Highland brigade, and pulled up to find
ourselves at home at the door of Ropsley's tent, to which
humble abode my friend welcomed me with as courteous
an air and as much concern for my comfort as he would
have done in his own luxurious lodgings in the heart of
May-fair.  A soldier's life had certainly much altered
Ropsley for the better.  I could see he was popular in
his regiment.  The men seemed to welcome back the
Colonel (a captain in the Guards holds the rank of
lieutenant-colonel in the army), and his brother officers
thronged into the tent ere we had well entered it ourselves,
to tell him the latest particulars of the siege, and
the ghastly news that every morning brought fresh and
bloody from the trenches.

As a stranger, or rather as a guest, I was provided with
the seat of honour, an old, shrivelled bullock-trunk that
had escaped the general loss of baggage on the landing
of the army, previous to the battle of the Alma, and
which, set against the tent-pole for a "back," formed a
commodious and delightful resting-place; the said
tent-pole, besides being literally the main-stay and prop of
the establishment, fulfilling all the functions of a
wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a dressing-table; for from
certain nails artfully disposed on its slender circumference,
depended the few articles of costume and necessaries of
the toilet which formed the whole worldly wealth of the
*ci-devant* London dandy.

The dandy aforesaid, sitting on his camp-bedstead in
his ragged flannel-shirt, and sharing that seat with two
other dandies more ragged than himself, pledged his
guest in a silver-gilt measure of pale ale, brought up
from Balaklava at a cost of about half-a-guinea a bottle,
and drank with a gusto such as the best-flavoured
champagne had never wooed from a palate formerly too
delicate and fastidious to be pleased with the nectar of the
immortals themselves, now appreciating with exquisite
enjoyment the strongest liquids, the most acrid tobacco,
nay, the Irish stew itself, cooked by a private soldier at
a camp-fire, savoury and delicious, if glutinous with
grease and reeking of onions.

"Heavy business the night before last," said a young
Guardsman with a beautiful girlish face, and a pair of
uncommonly dirty hands garnished with costly rings--a
lad that looked as if he ought to be still at school, but
uniting the cool courage of a man with the mischievous
light-hearted spirits of a boy.  "Couldn't get a wink of
sleep for them at any time--never knew 'em so restless.
Tell you what, Colonel, 'rats leave a falling house,' it's my
belief there's *something up* now, else why were we all
relieved at twelve o'clock instead of our regular
twenty-four hours in the trenches?  Good job for me, for I
breakfasted with the General, and a precious blow-out
he gave me.  Turkey, my boys! and cherry-brandy out
of a shaving-pot!  Do you call that nothing?"

"Were you in the advanced trenches?" inquired
Ropsley, stopping our young friend's gastronomic
recollections; "and did you see poor ---- killed?"

The lad's face fell in an instant; it was with a saddened
and altered voice that he replied--

"Poor Charlie! yes, I was close to him when he was
hit.  You know it was his first night in the trenches, and
he was like a boy out of school.  Well, the beggars made
a sortie, you know, on the left of our right attack: they
couldn't have chosen a worse place; and he and I were
with the light company when we drove them back.  The
men behaved admirably, Colonel; and poor Charlie was
so delighted, not being used to it, you know," proceeded
the urchin, with the gravity of a veteran, "that it was
impossible to keep him within bounds.  He had a revolver
(that wouldn't go off, by the way), and he had filled a
soda-water bottle with powder and bullets and odd bits
of iron, like a sort of mimic shell.  Well, this thing
burst in his hand, and deuced near blew his arm off, but
it only made him keener.  When the Russians retired,
he actually ran out in front and threw stones at them.
I tried all I could to stop him."  (The lad's voice was
getting husky now.)  "Well, Colonel, it was bright
moonlight, and I saw a Russian private take a regular
'pot-shot' at poor Charlie.  He hit him just below the
waist-belt; and we dragged him into the trenches, and
there he--he died.  Colonel, this 'baccy of yours is very
strong; I'll--I'll just walk into the air for a moment, if
you'll excuse me.  I'll be back directly."

So he rose and walked out, with his face turned from
us all; and though there was nothing to be ashamed of
in the weakness, I think not one of us but knew he had
gone away to have his "cry" out, and liked him all the
better for his mock manliness and his feeling heart.

Ere he came back again the bugles were sounding for
afternoon parade.  Orderly corporals were running about
with small slips of paper in their hands, the men were
falling in, and the fresh relief, so diminished every
four-and-twenty hours, was again being got ready for the work
of death in the trenches.





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.. _`"A QUIET NIGHT"`:

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   CHAPTER XXXVII


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   "A QUIET NIGHT"

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On an elevated plateau, sloping downward to a ravine
absolutely paved with iron, in the remains of shot and
shell fired from the town during its protracted and
vigorous defence, are formed in open column "the
duties" from the different regiments destined to carry
on the siege for the next four-and-twenty hours.  Those
who are only accustomed to see British soldiers marshalled
neat and orderly in Hyde Park, or manoeuvring like
clock-work in "the Phoanix," would hardly recognise in
that motley, war-worn band the staid and uniform figures
which they are accustomed to contemplate with pride
and satisfaction as the "money's-worth" of a somewhat
oppressive taxation.  The Highlanders--partly from the
fortune of war, partly from the nature of their dress--are
less altered from their normal exterior than the rest
of the army, and the Guardsman's tall figure and
bear-skin cap still stamp him a Guardsman, notwithstanding
patched clothing and much-worn accoutrements; but
some of the line regiments, which have suffered considerably
during the siege, present the appearance of regular
troops only in their martial bearing and the scrupulous
discipline observed within their ranks.  To the eye of a
soldier, however, there is something very pleasing and
"workmanlike" in the healthy, confident air of the men,
and the "matter-of-course" manner in which they seem
to contemplate the duty before them.  Though their
coats may be out at elbows, their firelocks are bright and
in good order, while the havresacks and canteens slung at
their sides seem to have been carefully replenished with
a view to keeping up that physical vigour and stamina
for which the British soldier is so celebrated, and which,
with his firm reliance on his officers, and determined
bull-dog courage, render him so irresistible an enemy.

There are no troops who are so little liable to panic--whose
*morale*, so to speak, it is so difficult to impair, as
our own.  Napoleon said they "never knew when they
were beaten."  And how often has this generous
ignorance saved them from defeat!  Long may it be ere they
learn the humiliating lesson!  But that they are not
easily disheartened may be gathered from the following
anecdote, for the truth of which many a Crimean officer
will readily vouch:--

Two days after the disastrous attack of the 18th of
June, 1855, a private soldier on fatigue duty was cleaning
the door-step in front of Lord Raglan's quarters; but his
thoughts were running on far other matters than holystone
and whitewash, for on a staff officer of high rank
emerging from the sacred portal, he stopped the astonished
functionary with an abrupt request to procure him an
immediate interview with the Commander-in-Chief.

"If you please, Colonel," said the man, standing at
"attention," and speaking as if it was the most natural
thing in the world, "if it's not too great a liberty, I wants
to see the General immediate and particular!"

"Impossible! my good fellow," replied the Colonel--who,
like most brave men, was as good-natured as he was
fearless--"if you have any complaint to make, tell it me;
you may be sure it will reach Lord Raglan, and if it is
just, it will be attended to."

"Well, sir, it's not exactly a complaint," replied the
soldier, now utterly neglecting the door-step, "but more
a request, like; and I wanted to see his lordship special,
if so be as it's not contrary to orders."

The Colonel could hardly help laughing at the coolness
with which so flagrant a military solecism was urged, but
repeated that Lord Raglan was even then engaged with
General Pelissier, and that the most he could do for his
importunate friend was to receive his message and deliver
it to the Commander-in-Chief at a favourable opportunity.

The man reflected an instant, and seemed satisfied.
"Well, Colonel," he said, "we *knows you*, and we *trusts*
you.  I speak for myself and comrades, and what I've
got to say to the General is this here.  We made a bad
business o' Monday, and we knows the reason why.  You
let *us* alone.  There's plenty of us to do it; only you
give us leave, and issue an order that not an officer nor
a non-commissioned officer is to interfere, and *we*, the
private soldiers of the British army, will have that place
for you if we pull the works down with our fingers, and
crack the stones with our teeth!"

"And what," said the Colonel, utterly aghast at this
unheard-of proposal, "what----"

"What time will we be under arms to do it?" interrupted
the delighted delegate, never doubting but that
his request was now as good as granted,--"why, at three
o'clock to-morrow morning; and you see, Colonel, when
the thing's done, if me and my company *wasn't the first
lads in!*"

Such is the material of which these troops are made
who are now waiting patiently to be marched down to
the nightly butchery of the trenches.

"It reminds one of the cover-side at home," remarked
Ropsley, as we cantered up to the parade, and dismounted;
"one meets fellows from all parts of the camp, and one
hears all the news before the sport begins.  There goes
the French relief," he added, as our allies went slinging
by, their jaunty, disordered step, and somewhat straggling
line of march, forming as strong a contrast to the
measured tramp and regular movements of our own
soldiers, as did their blue frock-coats and crimson trousers
to the *véritable rouge* for which they had conceived so
high a veneration.  Ere they have quite disappeared, our
own column is formed.  The brigade-major on duty has
galloped to and fro, and seen to everything with his own
eyes.  Company officers, in rags and tatters, with swords
hung sheathless in worn white belts, and wicker-covered
bottles slung in a cord over the hip, to balance the
revolver on the other side,--and brave, gentle hearts
beating under those tarnished uniforms, and sad
experiences of death, and danger, and hardship behind those
frank faces, and honest, kindly smiles,--have inspected
their men and made their reports, and "fallen in" in
their proper places; and the word is given, and its head
moves off--"By the left; quick march!"--and the column
winds quietly down into the valley of the shadow of
death.

Ropsley is field-officer of the night, and I accompany
him on his responsible duty, for I would fain see more of
the town that has been in all our thoughts for so long, and
learn how a siege is urged on so gigantic a scale.

The sun is just setting, and gilds the men's faces, and
the tufts of arid grass above their heads in the deepening
ravine, with a tawny orange hue, peculiar to a sunset in
the East.  The evening is beautifully soft and still, but
the dust is suffocating, rising as it does in clouds from the
measured tread of so many feet; and there is a feeling of
depression, a weight in the atmosphere, such as I have
often observed to accompany the close of day on the
shores of the Black Sea.  Even the men seem to feel its
influence--the whispered jest, the ready smile which
usually accompanies a march, is wanting; the youngest
ensign looks thoughtful, and as if he were brooding on
his far-off home; and the lines deepen on many a bearded
countenance as we wind lower and lower down the ravine,
and reach the first parallel, which to some now present
must be so forcible a reminder of disappointed hopes,
fruitless sacrifices, and many a true and hearty comrade
who shall be friend and comrade no more.

Ropsley has a plan of the works in his hand, which he
studies with eager attention.  He hates soldiering--so he
avows--yet is he an intelligent and trustworthy officer.
With his own ideas on many points at variance with the
authorities, and which he never scruples to avow, he yet
rigidly carries out every duty entrusted to him, and if the
war should last, promises to ascend the ladder as rapidly
as any of his comrades.  It is not the path he would have
chosen to distinction, nor are the privations and discomforts
of a soldier's life at all in harmony with his refined
perceptions and luxurious habits; but he has embarked
on the career, and, true to his principle, he is determined
to "make the most of it."  I think, too, that I can now
perceive in Ropsley a spice of romance foreign to his
earlier character.  It is a quality without which, in some
shape or other, nothing great was ever yet achieved on
earth.  Yet how angry would he be if he knew that I
had thought he had a grain of it in his strong practical
character, which he flatters himself is the very essence of
philosophy and common-sense.

As we wind slowly up the now well-trodden covered way
of the first parallel, from the shelter of which nothing can
be seen of the attack or defence, I am forcibly reminded
of the passages in a theatre, which one threads with
blindfold confidence, in anticipation of the blaze of light
and excitement on which one will presently emerge.
Ropsley smiles at the conceit as I whisper it in his ear.

"What odd fancies you have!" says he, looking up
from the plan on which he has been bending his earnest
attention.  "Well, you won't have long to wait for the
opera; there's the first bar of the overture already!"  As
he speaks he pulls me down under the embankment, while
a shower of dust and gravel, and a startling explosion
immediately in front, warn us that the enemy has thrown
a shell into the open angle of the trench, with a precision
that is the less remarkable when we reflect how many
months he has been practising to attain it.

"Very neatly done," observes Ropsley, rising from his
crouching attitude with the greatest coolness; "they
seldom trouble one much so soon as this.  Probably a
compliment to you, Egerton," he adds, laughing.  "Now
let us see what the damage is."

Stiff and upright as the ramrod in his firelock, which
rattles to his salute, a sergeant of the Guards marches
up and makes his report:--"Privates Wood and Jones
wounded slightly, sir; Lance-corporal Smithers killed."

They pass us as they are taken to the rear; the
lance-corporal has been shot through the heart, and must have
died instantaneously.  His face is calm and peaceful, his
limbs are disposed on the stretcher as if he slept.  Poor
fellow!  'Tis quick work, and in ten minutes he is
forgotten.  My first feeling is one of astonishment, at my own
hardness of heart in not being more shocked at his fate.

So we reach the advanced trenches without more loss.
It is now getting quite dark, for the twilight in these
latitudes is but of short duration.  A brisk fire seems to
be kept up on the works of our allies, responded to by the
French gunners with ceaseless activity; but our own
attack is comparatively unmolested, and Ropsley makes
his arrangements and plants his sentries in a calm,
leisurely way that inspires the youngest soldier with
confidence, and wins golden opinions from the veterans
who have spent so many bleak and weary nights before
Sebastopol.

We are now in the advanced trenches.  Not three
hundred paces to our front are yawning the deadly
batteries of the Redan.  The night is dark as pitch.  Between
the intervals of the cannonade, kept up so vigorously far
away on our right, we listen breathlessly as the
night-breeze sweeps down to us from the town, until we can
almost fancy we hear the Russians talking within their
works.  But the "pick, pick" of our own men's tools, as
they enlarge the trench, and their stifled whispers and
cautious tread, deaden all other sounds.  Each man works
with his firelock in his hand; he knows how soon it may
be needed.  Yet the soldier's ready jest and quaint
conceit is ever on the lip, and many a burst of laughter is
smothered as it rises, and enjoyed all the more keenly for
the constraint.

"Not so much noise there," says Ropsley, in his quiet,
authoritative tone, as the professed buffoon of the light
company indulges in a more lively sally than usual; "I'll
punish any man that speaks above a whisper.  Come, my
lads," he adds good-humouredly, "keep quiet now, and
perhaps it will be OUR turn before the night is over!"  The
men return to their work with a will, and not another
word is heard in the ranks.

The officers have established a sort of head-quarters as
a *place d'armes*, or re-assembling spot, near the centre of
their own "attack."  Three or four are coiled up in
different attitudes, beguiling the long, dark hours with
whispered jests and grave speculations as to the intentions
of the enemy.  Here a stalwart captain of Highlanders
stretches his huge frame across the path, puffing forth
volumes of smoke from the short black pipe that has
accompanied him through the whole war--the much-prized
"cutty" that was presented to him by his father's
forester when he shot the royal stag in the "pass abune
Craig-Owar"; there a slim and dandy rifleman passes a
wicker-covered flask of brandy-and-water to a tall, sedate
personage who has worked his way through half-a-dozen
Indian actions to be senior captain in a line regiment,
and who, should he be fortunate enough to survive the
present siege, may possibly arrive at the distinguished
rank of a Brevet-Major.  He prefers his own bottle of
cold tea; as it gurgles into his lips the Highlander pulls
a face of disgust.

"Take those long, indecent legs of yours out of the
way, Sandy," says a merry voice, the owner of which,
stumbling over these brawny limbs in the darkness, makes
his way up to Ropsley, and whispers a few words in his
ear which seem to afford our Colonel much satisfaction.

"You couldn't have done it better," says he to the new
arrival, a young officer of engineers, the "bravest of the
brave," and the "gayest of the gay;" "I could have spared
you a few more men, but it is better as it is.  I hate
harassing our fellows, if we can help it.  What will you
have to drink?"

"A drain at the flask first, Colonel," answers the
light-hearted soldier; "I've been on duty now, one way or
another, for eight-and-forty hours, and I'm about beat.
Sandy, my boy, give us a whiff out of 'the cutty.'  I'll sit
by you.  You remind me of an opera-dancer in that dress.
Mind you dine with me to-morrow, if you're not killed."

The Highlander growls out a gruff affirmative.  He
delights in his volatile friend; but he is a man of few
words, although his arm is weighty and his brain is clear.

A shell shrieks and whistles over our heads.  We mark
it revolving, bright and beautiful, like a firework through
the darkness.  It lights far away to our rear, and bounds
once more from the earth ere it explodes with a loud report.

"Not much mischief done by that gentleman," observes
Ropsley, taking the cigar from his mouth; "he must have
landed clear of all our people.  We shall soon have
another from the same battery.  I wish I knew what they
are doing over yonder," he adds, pointing significantly in
the direction of the Redan.

"I think I can find out for you, Colonel," says the
engineer; "I am going forward to the last 'sap,' and I
shall not be very far from them there.  Your
sharpshooters are just at the corner, Green," he adds to the
rifleman, "won't you come with me?"  The latter consents
willingly, and as they rise from their dusty lair I ask leave
to accompany them, for my curiosity is fearfully excited,
and I am painfully anxious to know what the enemy is
about.  The last "sap" is a narrow and shallow trench,
the termination of which is but a short distance from the
Russian work.  It is discontinued at the precipitous
declivity which here forms one side of the well-known
Woronzoff ravine; and from this spot, dark as it is, the
sentry can be discerned moving to and fro--a dusky,
indistinct figure--above the parapet of the Redan.

The engineer officer and Green of the Rifles seat themselves
on the very edge of the ravine; the former plucks
a blade or two of grass and flings them into the air.

"They can't hear us with this wind," says he.  "What
say you, Green; wouldn't it be a good lark to creep in
under there, and make out what they're doing?"

"I'm game!" says Green, one of those dare-devil young
gentlemen to be found amongst the subalterns of the
British army, who would make the same reply were it a
question of crossing that glacis in the full glare of day to
take the work by assault single-handed.  "Put your sword
off, that's all, otherwise you'll make such a row that our
own fellows will think they're attacked, and fire on us
like blazes.  Mind you, my chaps have had lots of practice,
and can hit a haystack as well as their neighbours.  Now
then, are you ready?  Come on."

The engineer laughed, and unbuckled his sabre.

"Good-afternoon, Mr. Egerton, in case I shouldn't see
you again," said he; and so the two crept silently away
upon their somewhat hazardous expedition.

I watched their dark figures with breathless interest.
The sky had lifted a little, and there was a ray or two of
moonlight struggling fitfully through the clouds.  I could
just distinguish the two English officers as they crawled
on hands and knees amongst the slabs of rock and
inequalities of ground which now formed their only safety.  I
shuddered to think that if I could thus distinguish their
forms, why not the Russian riflemen?--and what chance
for them then, with twenty or thirty "Miniés" sighted on
them at point-blank distance?  However, "Fortune
favours the brave;" the light breeze died away, and the
moon was again obscured.  I could see them no longer,
and I knew that by this time they must have got within a
very few paces of the enemy's batteries, and that discovery
was now certain death.  The ground, too, immediately
under the Russian work was smoother and less favourable
to concealment than under our own.  The moments
seemed to pass very slowly.  I scarcely dared to move,
and the tension of my nerves was absolutely painful,
every faculty seeming absorbed in one concentrated effort
of listening.

Suddenly a short, sharp stream of light, followed by the
quick, angry report of the Minié--then another and
another--they illumine the night for an instant; and during
that instant I strain my eyes in vain to discover the two
dark creeping forms.  And now a blinding glare fills our
trenches--the figures of the men coming out like
phantoms in their different attitudes of labour and repose.
The enemy has thrown a fire-ball into our works to
ascertain what we are about.  Like the pilot-fish before the
shark, that brilliant messenger is soon succeeded by its
deadly followers, and ere I can hurry back to the
rallying-point of the attack, where I have left Ropsley and his
comrades, a couple of shells have already burst amongst
our soldiers, dealing around them their quantum of
wounds and death, whilst a couple more are winging their
way like meteors over our heads, to carry the alarm far to
the rear, where the gallant blue-jackets have established
a tremendous battery, and are at this moment in all
probability chafing and fretting that they are not nearer
the point of danger.

"Stand to your arms!  Steady, men, steady!" is the
word passed from soldier to soldier along the ranks, and
the men spring like lions to the parapet, every heart
beating high with courage, every firelock held firmly at
the charge.  They are tired of "long bowls" now, and
would fain have it out with the bayonet.

The fire from the Redan lights up the intervening
glacis, and as I rush hurriedly along the trench, stooping
my head with instinctive precaution, I steal a glance or
two over the low parapet, which shows me the figure of
a man running as hard as his legs can carry him towards
our own rallying-point.  He is a mark for fifty Russian
rifles, but he speeds on nevertheless.  His cheery voice
rings through all the noise and confusion, as he holloas to
our men not to fire at him.

"Hold on, my lads," he says, leaping breathlessly into
the trench; "I've had a precious good run for it.  Where's
the Colonel?"

His report is soon made.  It is the young officer of
engineers who thus returns in haste from his reconnoitring
expedition.  His companion, Green, has reached his own
regiment by another track, for they wisely separated when
they found themselves observed, and strange to say,
notwithstanding the deadly fire through which they have
"run the gauntlet," both are unwounded.  The engineer
confers with Ropsley in a low voice.

"They only want to draw off our attention, Colonel,"
says he; "I am quite sure of it.  When I was under the
Redan I could hear large bodies of men moving towards
their left.  That is the point of attack, depend upon it.
There they go on our right!  I told you so.  Now we
shall have it, hot and heavy, or I'm mistaken."

Even while he speaks a brisk fire is heard to open on
our right flank.  The clouds clear off, too, and the moon,
now high in the heavens, shines forth unveiled.  By her
soft light we can just discern a dark, indistinct mass
winding slowly along across an open space of ground between
the Russian works.  The rush of a round-shot from one
of our own batteries whizzes over our heads.  That dusky
column wavers, separates, comes together again, and
presses on.  Ropsley gets cooler and cooler, for it is coming
at last.

"Captain McDougal," says he to that brawny warrior,
who does not look the least like an opera-dancer now, as
he rears his six feet of vigour on those stalwart supporters,
"I can spare all the Highlanders; form them directly, and
move to your right flank.  Do not halt till you reach the
ground I told you of.  The Rifles and our own light
company will stand fast!  Remainder, right, form four
deep--march!"

There is an alarm along the whole line.  Our allies are
engaged in a brisk cannonade for their share, and many an
ugly missile hisses past our ears from the foe, or whistles
over our heads from our own supports.  Is it to be a
general attack?--a second Inkermann, fought out by
moonlight?  Who knows?  The uncertainty is harassing,
yet attended with its own thrilling excitement--half a
pleasure, half a pain.

A few of our own people (we cannot in the failing light
discover to what regiment they belong) are giving way
before a dense mass of Russian infantry that outnumber
them a hundred to one.  They have shown a determined
front for a time, but they are sorely pressed and
overpowered, and by degrees they give back more and more.
The truth must out--they are on the point of turning tail
and running away.  A little fiery Irishman stands out in
front of them; a simple private is he in the regiment, and
never likely to reach a more exalted rank, for, like all great
men, he has a darling weakness, and the temptation to
which he cannot but succumb is inebriety--the pages of
the Defaulters' Book call it "habitual drunkenness."  Nevertheless,
he has the heart of a hero.  Gesticulating
furiously, and swearing, I regret to say, with blasphemous
volubility, he tears the coat from his back, flings his cap
on the ground, and tossing his arms wildly above his head,
thus rebukes, like some Homeric hero, his more prudent
comrades--

"Och, bad luck to ye, rank cowards and shufflers that
ye are! and bad luck to the day I listed! and bad luck
to the rig'ment that's disgracin' me!  Would I wear the
uniform, and parade like a soldier again, when it's been
dirtied by the likes of you?  'Faith, not I, ye thunderin'
villains.  I'll tread and I'll trample the coat, and the cap,
and the facin's, and the rest of it; and I'll fight in my
shirt, so I will, if they come on fifty to one.  Hurroo!"

Off goes his musket in the very faces of the enemy;
with a rush and a yell he runs at them with the bayonet.
His comrades turn, and strike in vigorously with the hero.
Even that little handful of men serves for an instant to
check the onward progress of the Russians.  By this time
the supports--Guards, Highlanders, and the flower of the
British infantry--are pouring from their entrenchments;
a tremendous fire of musketry opens from the whole line;
staff officers are galloping down hurry-skurry from the
camp.  Far away above us, on those dark heights, the
whole army will be under arms in ten minutes.  The
Russian column wavers once more--breaks like some
wave against a sunken rock; dark, flitting figures are
seen to come out, and stagger, and fall; and then the
whole body goes to the right-about and returns within its
defences, just as a mass of heavy clouds rising from the
Black Sea sweeps across the moon, and darkness covers
once more besiegers and besieged.

We may lie down in peace now till the first blush of
dawn rouses the riflemen on each side to that sharp-shooting
practice of which it is their custom to take at least a
couple of hours before breakfast.  We may choose the
softest spots in those dusty, covered ways, and lean our
backs against gabions that are getting sadly worn out,
and in their half-emptied inefficiency afford but an
insecure protection even from the conical ball of the wicked
"Minié."  We may finish our flasks of brandy-and-water
and our bottles of cold tea, and get a few winks of sleep,
and dream of home and the loved ones that, except in the
hours of sleep, some of us will never see more.  All these
luxuries we may enjoy undisturbed.  We shall not be
attacked again, for this is what the soldiers term "A *quiet*
night in the trenches."





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.. _`THE GROTTO`:

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   CHAPTER XXXVIII


.. class:: center medium

   THE GROTTO

.. vspace:: 2

It is not *all* fighting, though, before Sebastopol.
Without coinciding entirely with the somewhat Sancho
Panza-like philosophy which affirms that the "latter end of a
feast is better than the beginning of a fray," there is
many a gallant fellow who has not the slightest objection
to take his share of both; and from the days of Homer's
heavy-handed heroes, down to those of the doughty Major
Dugald Dalgetty himself, a good commissariat has always
been considered essential to the success of all warlike
enterprise.  Every campaigner knows what a subject of
speculation and excitement is afforded by the prospect of
"what he will have for dinner," and the scantiness of that
meal, together with the difficulty of providing for it, seems
but to add to the zest with which it is enjoyed.  Many a
quaint incident and laughable anecdote is related of the
foraging propensities of our allies, particularly the Zouaves,
who had learned their trade in Algeria, and profited by
the lessons of their Khabyle foe.  The Frenchman, moreover,
knows how to *cook* a dinner *when* he has filched it, which
is more than can be said for our own gallant countrymen.

Had it not been for Fortnum and Mason--names which
deserve to be immortalised, and which will ever be
remembered with gratitude by the British army--our
heroes would indeed have been badly off for luxurious
living on that bracing and appetite-giving plateau.  Yet,
thanks to the energy of this enterprising firm, Amphitryons
were enabled to indulge their taste for hospitality,
and guests to admire and criticise the merits of the very
commendable delicacies placed before them.

A dinner-party at Sebastopol, just out of cannon-shot,
had something inexpressibly enlivening in its composition.
There was no lack of news, no lack of laughter, no lack of
eatables and drinkables, above all, no lack of hunger and
thirst.  The same faces were to be seen around the board
that might have been met with at any dinner-table in
London, but white neckcloths and broadcloth had given
place to tawny beards and tarnished uniforms, whilst the
bronzed countenances and high spirits of the party formed
an exhilarating contrast to the weary looks and vapid
conversation which makes London society, in its own
intrinsic attractions, the stupidest in the world.

The sun's last rays are lighting up that well-known
hill where sleeps "the bravest of the brave," he whose
name will go down to our children's children coupled
with Inkermann, as that of Leonidas with Thermopylæ.
He whose fall evoked a deed of chivalry such as minstrel
and troubadour snatched from oblivion in the olden time,
and handed down to us for a beacon along the pathway of
honour.  Had they ever a nobler theme than this?  A
chief falls, surrounded and overpowered, in his desperate
attempt to retrieve the fortunes of a day that he deems
all but lost.  His friend and comrade, faint and mangled,
turns once more into the battle, and bestrides the form of
the prostrate hero.  One to ten, the breathless and the
wounded against the fresh and strong, but the heart of an
English gentleman behind that failing sword, beat down
and shattered by the thirsty bayonets.  An instant the
advance is checked.  An instant and they might both
have been saved.  Oh, for but one half-dozen of the
towering forms that are even now mustering to the rescue!
They are coming through the smoke!  Too late--too late! the
lion-hearted chieftain and the gentle, chivalrous
warrior are down, slain, trampled, and defaced, but side by
side on the bed of honour; and though the tide sweeps
back, and the broken columns of the Muscovite are driven,
routed and shattered, to the rear, *their* ears are deaf to the
shout of victory, *their* laurel wreaths shall hang vacant
and unworn, for they shall rise to claim them no more.

The setting sun is gilding their graves--the white
buildings of Sebastopol smile peacefully in his declining
rays--the sea is blushing violet under the rich purple of
the evening sky.  The allied fleets are dotted like sleeping
wild-fowl over the bosom of the deep; one solitary steamer
leaves its long dusky track of smoke to form a stationary
cloud, so smooth is the water that the ripple caused by
the sunken ships can be plainly discerned in the harbour,
and the Russian men-of-war still afloat look like children's
toys in the distance of that clear, calm atmosphere.  The
bleak and arid foreground, denuded of vegetation, and
trampled by a thousand footmarks, yet glows with the
warm orange hues of sunset, and the white tents contrast
pleasingly with here and there the richer colouring of
some more stationary hut or storehouse.  It is an evening
for peace, reflection, and repose; but the dull report of a
68-pounder smites heavily on the ear from the town, and
a smart soldier-servant, standing respectfully at "attention,"
observes, "The General is ready, sir, and dinner is
upon the table."

In a grotto dug by some Tartar hermit out of the cool
earth are assembled a party of choice spirits, who are
indeed anchorites in nothing but the delight with which
they greet the refreshing atmosphere of their banqueting-hall.
A flight of stone steps leads down into this
well-contrived vault, in so hot a climate no contemptible
exchange for the stifling interior of a tent, or even the
comparative comfort of a wooden hut thoroughly baked
through by the sun.  A halting figure on crutches is
toiling painfully down that staircase, assisted, with many
a jest at their joint deficiencies, by a stalwart, handsome
Guardsman, a model of manly strength and symmetry,
but lacking what he is pleased to term his "liver
wing."  They are neither of them likely to forget the Crimea
whilst they live.  Ere they reach the bottom they are
overtaken by a cavalry officer with jingling spurs and
noisy scabbard, who, having had a taste of fighting, such
as ought to have satisfied most men, at Balaklava, is now
perpetually hovering about the front, disgusted with his
enforced idleness at Kadikoi, and with a strong
impression on his mind--which he supports by many weighty
arguments--that a few squadrons of Dragoons would be
valuable auxiliaries to a storming party, and that a good
swordsman on a good horse can "go anywhere and do
anything."

"I think we are all here now," says the host;
"Monsieur le Général, shall we go to dinner?"

The individual addressed gives a hearty affirmative.
He is a stout, good-humoured-looking personage, with an
eagle eye, and an extremely tight uniform covered with
orders and decorations.  He is not yet too fat to get on
horseback, though the privations of campaigning seem to
increase his rotundity day by day, and he expects ere
long to go to battle, like an ancient Scythian, in his
war-chariot.  By that time he will be a marshal of France,
but meanwhile he pines a little for the opera, and enjoys
his dinner extremely.  He occupies the seat of honour on
the right hand of his host.  The latter bids his guests
welcome in frank, soldier-like style; and whilst the soup
is handed round, and those bearded lips are occupied with
its merits, let us take a look round the table at the dozen
or so of guests, some of whom are destined ere long to
have their likenesses in every print-shop in merry
England.  First of all the dinner-giver himself--a square,
middle-sized man, with a kindling eye, and a full,
determined voice that suggests at once the habit of
command--a kindly though energetic manner, and a countenance
indicative of great resolution and clear-headedness;
perhaps the best drill in the British army, and delighting
much in a neat touch of parade tactics even before an
enemy.  Many a Guardsman nudged his comrade with a
grin of humorous delight when, on a certain 20th of
September, his old colonel coolly doubled a flank company
in upon the rear of its battalion, and smiled to see the
ground it would otherwise have occupied ploughed and
riddled by the round-shot that was pouring from the
enemy's batteries in position on the heights above the
Alma.  The British soldier likes coolness above all things;
and where in command of foreign troops an officer should
rave and gesticulate and tear his hair to elicit a
corresponding enthusiasm from his men, our own phlegmatic
Anglo-Saxons prefer the quiet smile and the
good-humoured "*Now*, my lads!" which means so much.

On the left, and facing the Frenchman, sits a
middle-aged decided-looking man, somewhat thoughtful and
abstracted, yet giving his opinions in a clear and concise
manner, and with a forcible tone and articulation that
denote great energy and firmness of character.  His name,
too, is destined to fill the page of history--his future is
bright and glowing before him, and none will grudge his
honours and promotion, for he is endeared to the army
by many a kindly action, and it has been exertion for
their welfare and watching on their behalf, that have
wasted his strong frame with fever, and turned his hair
so grey in so short a time.  Soldier as he is to his heart's
core, he would fain be outside in the sunset with his
colours and his sketch-book, arresting on its pages the
glorious panorama which is even now passing away; but
he is listening attentively to his neighbour, a handsome
young man in the uniform of a simple private of Zouaves,
and is earnestly occupied in "getting a wrinkle," as it is
termed, concerning the interior economy and discipline of
that far-famed corps.  The Zouave gives him all the
information he can desire with that peculiarly frank and
fascinating manner which is fast dying out with the
*ancien régime*, for though a private of Zouaves he is a
marquis of France, the representative of one of the oldest
families in the Empire, and a worthy scion of his chivalrous
race.  Rather than not draw the sword for his country,
he has resigned his commission in that body of household
cavalry termed "The Guides," and entered as a trooper
in the Chasseurs d'Afrique: a display of martial
enthusiasm for which he has been called out from the ranks
of his original corps and publicly complimented by the
Empress Eugénie herself.  Arrived in the Crimea, he
found his new comrades placed in enforced idleness at far
too great a distance from active operations to suit his
taste, and he forthwith exchanged once more into the
Zouaves, with whom he took his regular share of duty in
the trenches, and he is now enjoying a furlough of some
six hours from his quarters, to dine with an English
general, and cultivate the *entente cordiale* which flourishes
so vigorously on this Crimean soil.  Alas for the gallant
spirit, the graceful form, the warm noble heart! no bird
of ill omen flew across his path as he came to-day to
dinner, no warning note of impending death rang in his
ears to give him notice of his doom.  To-night he is as
gay, as lively, as cheerful as usual; to-morrow he will be
but a form of senseless clay, shot through the head in the
trenches.

Meanwhile the champagne goes round, and is none the
less appreciated that although there is an abundance of
bottles, there is a sad deficiency of glasses.  A
light-hearted aide-de-camp, well accustomed to every
emergency, great or small, darts off to his adjoining tent, from
which he presently returns, bearing two tin cups and the
broken remains of a coffee-pot; with these auxiliaries
dinner progresses merrily, and a fat turkey--how obtained
it is needless to inquire--is soon reduced to a skeleton.
A little wit goes a long way when men are before an
enemy; and as the aide-de-camp strongly repudiates
the accusation of having purloined this hapless bird, jokes
are bandied about from one to another, every one wishing
to fasten on his neighbour the accusation of knowing
how to "make war support war."

The English officers are a long way behind their allies
in this useful accomplishment; and the French general
shakes his jolly sides as he relates with much gusto sundry
Algerian experiences of what we should term larceny and
rapine, but which his more liberal ideas seem to consider
excusable, if not positively meritorious.

"The best foragers I had in Algeria," says he, "were
my best soldiers too.  If I wanted fresh milk for my
coffee, I trusted to the same men that formed my
storming parties, and I was never disappointed in one case or
the other.  In effect, they were droll fellows, my Zouaves
Indigènes--cunning too, as the cat that steals cream; the
Khabyles could keep nothing from them.  If we entered
their tents, everything of value was taken away before
you could look round.  To be sure we could carry nothing
with us, but that made no difference.  I have seen the
men wind shawls round their waists that were worth a
hundred louis apiece, and throw them aside on a hot day
on the march.  There was one Khabyle chief who was
very conspicuous for the magnificent scarlet cashmere
which he wore as a turban.  On foot or on horseback,
there he was, always fighting and always in the front.
Heaven knows why, but the men called him Bobouton,
and wherever there was a skirmish Bobouton was sure to
be in the thick of it.  One day I happened to remark
'that I was tired of Bobouton and his red shawl, and I
wished some one would bring me the turban and rid me
of the wearer.'  A little swarthy Zouave, named Pépé,
overheard my observation.  '*Mon Colonel*,' said he, with
a most ceremonious bow,' to-morrow is your *jour de fête*--will
you permit me to celebrate it by presenting you
with the scarlet turban of Bobouton?'  I laughed, thanked
him, and thought no more about it.

"The following morning, at sunrise, I rode out to make
a reconnaissance.  A party, of whom Pépé was one,
moved forward to clear the ground.  Contrary to all
discipline and *ordonnance*, my droll little friend had
mounted a magnificent pair of epaulettes.  Worn on his
Zouave uniform, the effect was the least thing ridiculous.
As I knew of no epaulettes in the camp besides my own,
I confess I was rather angry, but the enemy having
opened a sharp fire upon my skirmishers, I did not choose
to sacrifice an aide-de-camp by bidding him ride on and
visit Pépé with condign punishment; so, reserving to
myself that duty on his return, I watched him meanwhile
through my glass with an interest proportioned to my
regard for my epaulettes, an article not too easily replaced
in Algeria.  Nor were mine the only eyes that looked so
eagerly on the flashing bullion.  Bobouton soon made his
appearance from behind a rock, and by the manner in
which he and Pépé watched, and, so to speak, 'stalked'
each other, I saw that a regular duel was pending between
the two.  In fine, after very many manoeuvres on both
sides, the Zouave incautiously exposed himself at a
distance of eighty or ninety paces, and was instantaneously
covered by his watchful enemy.  As the smoke cleared
away from the Khabyle's rifle, poor Pépé sprang
convulsively in the air, and fell headlong on his face.  'Tenez!'
said I to myself, 'there is Pépé shot through the heart,
and I shall never see my epaulettes again.'

"The Khabyle rushed from his hiding-place to strip his
fallen antagonist.  Already his eyes glittered with delight
at the idea of possessing those tempting ornaments--already
he was within a few feet of the prostrate body,
when 'crack!' once more I heard the sharp report of a
rifle, and presto, like some scene at a carnival, it was
Bobouton that lay slain upon the rocks, and Pépé that
stood over him and stripped him of the spoils of war.  In
another minute he unrolled the red turban at my horse's
feet.  '*Mon Colonel*,' said he, 'accept my congratulations
for yourself and your amiable family.  Accept also this
trifling token of remembrance taken from that incautious
individual who, like the mouse in the fable, thinks the cat
must be dead because she lies prostrate without moving.
And accept, moreover, my thanks for the loan of these
handsome ornaments, without the aid of which I could not
have procured myself the pleasure of presenting my worthy
colonel with the shawl of *ce malheureux Bobouton*.'  The
rascal had stolen them out of my tent the night before,
though my aide-de-camp slept within two paces of me,
and my head rested on the very box in which they were
contained."

"Alas! we have no experiences like yours, General,"
says a tall, handsome colonel of infantry, with the Cape
and Crimean ribbons on his breast; "wherever we have
made war with savages, they have had nothing worth
taking.  A Kaffre chief goes to battle with very little on
besides his skin, and that is indeed scarce worth the
trouble of stripping.  When we captured Sandilli, I give
you my word he had no earthly article upon his person
but a string of blue beads, and yet he fought like a
wildcat to make his escape."

"Your health, my friend," replies the General, clinking
his glass with that of his new acquaintance.  "You have
been in Caffraria?  Ah!  I should have known it by your
decorations.  Are they not a fierce and formidable enemy?
Is it not a good school for war?  Tell me, now"--looking
round the table for an explanation--"why do you not
reserve South Africa, you others, as we do the northern
shore, to make of it a drill-ground for your soldiers and
a school for your officers?  It would cost but little--a
few hundred men a year would be the only loss.  Bah!--a
mere trifle to the richest and most populous country in
the world.  I do not understand your English *sang-froid*.
Why do you not establish *your* Algeria at the Cape?"

Many voices are immediately raised in explanation;
but it is difficult to make the thorough soldier--the man
who has all his life been the military servant of a military
Government--understand how repugnant would be such
a proceeding to the feelings of the British people--how
contrary to the whole spirit of their constitution.  At
length, with another glass of champagne, a new light
seems to break in upon him.  "Ah!" says he, "it would
not be approved of by *Le Times*; now I understand
perfectly.  We manage these matters better with us.
*Peste!* if we go to war, there it is.  We employ our
*Gazettes* to celebrate our victories.  Your health, *mon
Général*; this is indeed a wearisome business in which we
are engaged--a life totally brutalising.  Without change,
without manoeuvring, and without pleasure: what would
you?  I trust the next campaign in which we shall meet
may be in a civilised country--the borders of the Rhine,
for instance; what think you?--where, instead of this
barbarian desert, you find a village every mile, and a good
house in every village, with a bottle of wine in the cellar,
a smoked ham in the chimney, and a handsome Saxon
*blonde* in the kitchen.  '*A la guerre, comme à la guerre,
n'est ce pas, mon Général?*'"

The company are getting merry and talkative; cigars
are lit, and coffee is handed round; the small hours are
approaching, and what Falstaff calls the "sweet of the
night" is coming on, when the tramp and snort of a horse
are heard at the entrance of the grotto, a steel scabbard
rings upon the stone steps, and although the new-comer's
place at one end of the table has been vacant the whole
of dinner-time, he does not sit down to eat till he has
whispered a few words in the ear of the English general,
who receives the intelligence with as much coolness as it
is imparted.

In five minutes the grotto is cleared of all save its
customary occupants.  The French general has galloped
off to his head-quarters; the English officers are hurrying
to their men; each as he leaves the grotto casts a look
at an ingenious arrangement at its mouth, which, by
means of a diagram formed of white shells, each line
pointing to a particular portion of the attack, enables the
observer to ascertain at once in which direction the fire
is most severe.  The originator of this simple and
ingenious indicator meanwhile sits down for a mouthful of
food.  He has brought intelligence of the sortie already
described, and which will turn out the troops of all arms
in about ten minutes; but in the meantime he has five
to spare, and, being very hungry, he makes the best use
of his time.  As the light from the solitary lamp brings
into relief that square, powerful form--that statue-like
head, with its fearless beauty and its classical features--above
all, the frank, kindly smile, that never fades under
difficulties, and the clear, unwavering eye that never
quails in danger,--any physiognomist worthy of the name
would declare "that man was born to be a hero!"  And
the physiognomist would not be mistaken.





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.. _`THE REDAN`:

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   CHAPTER XXXIX


.. class:: center medium

   THE REDAN

.. vspace:: 2

The days dragged on in the camp.  Sometimes wearily
enough, sometimes enlivened by a party of pleasure to
Baidar, an expedition to the monastery of St. George, a
general action at the Tchernaya, a hurdle-race at Kadikoi,
or some trifling excitement of the same kind.  Already
the great heat was beginning to be tempered by the
bracing air of autumn, and the army was more than half
inclined to speculate on the possibility of another long
dreary winter before Sebastopol.

But the time had come at last.  The blow so long
withheld was to be launched in earnest, and for a day or two
before the final and successful assault, men's minds seemed
to tell them--they scarce knew why--that a great change
was impending, and that every night might now be the
last on which the dogged valour of the besieged would
man those formidable defences that, under the names of
the Malakhoff, the Redan, etc., had for so long occupied
the attention of France, England, and indeed the whole
of Europe.

I was sitting outside Ropsley's tent, sharing my
breakfast of hard biscuit with Bold, at daybreak of a fine
September morning.  The old dog seemed on this occasion
to have renewed his youth, and was so demonstrative and
affectionate as to call down a strong reproof from Ropsley,
with whom he was never on very friendly terms, for
laying his broad paw on the well-brushed uniform of the
Colonel.  "Tie the brute up, Vere," said he, carefully
removing the dirt from his threadbare sleeve, "or he will
follow us on parade.  Are you ready? if so, come along.
I would not be late to-day of all days, for a thousand
a year."

I remained in his rear, as he completed the inspection
of his company.  I had never seen the men so brisk or
so smartly turned out, and there was an exhilarated yet
earnest look on their countenances that denoted their own
opinion of the coming day.  Ropsley himself was more
of the *bon camarade*, and less of the "fine gentleman"
than usual.  As we marched down to the trenches side
by side, he talked freely of old times,--our school-days
at Everdon, our later meeting at Beverley, and, by a
natural transition, turned the subject of conversation to
Victor de Rohan and his sister Valèrie.  I had never
known him allude to the latter of his own accord before.
He seemed to have something on his mind which pride
or mistrust, or both, would not permit him to bring out.
At last, apparently with a strong effort, he whispered
hurriedly--

"Vere, I've a favour to ask you--if I should be *hit*
to-day by chance, and badly, you know, I should like you
to write and remember me to the De Rohans,
and--and--particularly to Countess Valèrie.  If ever you should
see her again, you might tell her so."

I pressed his hand in answer, and I thought his voice
was hoarser as he resumed.

"Vere, it is not often I confess myself wrong, but I
have wronged you fearfully.  If I'm alive to-morrow I'll
tell you all; if not, Vere, can you--*can* you forgive me?"

"From my heart," was all I had time to reply, for at
that instant up rode the leader of the assault, and
Ropsley's voice was calm and measured, his manner cold
and cynical as ever, while he answered the short and
military catechism usual on such occasions.

"Then it's all right," was the remark of the mounted
officer, in as good-humoured and jovial a tone as if the
affair in hand were a mere question of one of his own
Norfolk battues; "and what a fine morning we've got for
the business," he added, dismounting, and patting his
horse as it was led away, ere he turned round to put
himself at the head of the storming party.

I watched him as one watches a man whose experiences
of danger have given him a fascination perfectly irresistible
to inferior minds.  It was the same officer whom I have
already mentioned as the latest arrival to disturb the
dinner-party in the grotto, but to-day he looked, if
possible, more cheerful, and in better spirits than his
wont.  I thought of his antecedents, as they had often
been related to me by one of his oldest friends,--of his
unfailing good-humour and kindliness of disposition--of
his popularity in his regiment--of his skill and prowess at
all sports and pastimes, with the gloves, the foils, the
sharp-rowelled spurs of the hunting-field, or the velvet
cap that fails to protect the steeplechaser from a broken
neck--of his wanderings in the desert amongst the
Bedouin Arabs, and his cold bivouacs on the prairie with
the Red Indians--of his lonely ride after the Alma, when,
steering by the stars through a country with which he
was totally unacquainted, he arrived at the fleet with the
news of the famous flank march to Balaklava--of his
daring *sang-froid* when "the thickest of war's tempest
lowered" at Inkermann, and of the daily dangers and
privations of the weary siege, always borne and faced out
with the same merry light-hearted smile; and now he
was to *lead the assault*.

None but a soldier knows all that is comprised in those
three simple words--the coolness, the daring, the lightning
glance, the ready resource, the wary tactics, and the
headlong gallantry which must all be combined successfully
to fill that post of honour; and then to think that
the odds are ten to one he never comes back alive!

As I looked at his athletic frame and handsome, manly
face, as I returned his cordial, off-hand greeting, as
courteous to the nameless Interpreter as it would have
been to General Pelissier himself, my heart tightened to
think of what might--nay, what *must* surely happen on
that fire-swept glacis, unless he bore indeed a life charmed
with immunity from shot and steel.

Man by man he inspected the Forlorn Hope,--their
arms, their ammunition pouches, their scaling-ladders, all
the tackle and paraphernalia of death.  For each he had
a word of encouragement, a jest, or a smile.  Ropsley and
his company were to remain in support in the advanced
trenches.  All was at length reported "ready," and then
came the awful hush that ever ushers in the most desperate
deeds--the minutes of pale and breathless suspense, that
fly so quickly and yet seem to pass like lead--when the
boldest cheek is blanched, and the stoutest heart beats
painfully, and the change to action and real peril is felt
to be an unspeakable relief to all.

A cold wet nose was poked into my hand.  Bold had
tracked me from the camp, and had followed me even
here; nothing would induce him now to quit my side, for
even the dog seemed to think something awful was
impending, and watched with red, angry eyes and lowered
tail and bristling neck, as if he too had been "told off"
for the attack.

A roar of artillery shakes the air; our allies have
opened their fire on the Malakhoff, and their columns
are swarming like bees to the assault.  Battalion
after battalion, regiment after regiment, come surging
through the ditch, to break like waves on the sea-shore,
as the depressed guns of the enemy hew awful gaps in
their ranks--to break indeed but to re-form, and as fresh
supports keep pressing them on from the rear, to dash
upwards against the earthwork, and to overflow and fling
themselves from the parapet in the face of the Russian
gunners below.

The Muscovite fights doggedly, and without dream of
surrender or retreat.  Hand to hand the conflict must be
decided with the bayonet, and the little Zouaves shout,
and yell, and stab, and press onward, and revel, so to
speak, in the wild orgy of battle.

But the Northman is a grim, uncompromising foe, and
more than once the "red pantaloons" waver and give
back, and rally, and press on again to death.  Instances
of gallantry and self-devotion are rife amongst the officers.
Here, a young captain of infantry flings himself alone
upon the bayonets of the enemy, and falls pierced with a
hundred wounds; there, an old white-headed colonel,
*décoré* up to his chin, draws an ominous revolver, and
threatens to shoot any one of his own men through the
head that shows the slightest disinclination to rush on.
"*Ma foi*," says he, "*c'est pour encourager les autres!*"  The
southern blood boils up under the influence of example,
and if French troops are once a little flushed with success,
their *élan*, as they call that quality for which we have no
corresponding expression, is irresistible.  The Russians
cannot face the impetuosity of their charge; already many
of the guns are spiked, and the gunners bayoneted; the
grey-coated columns are yielding ground foot by foot;
fresh troops pour in over the parapet, for the living are
now able to pass unscathed over the dead, with whom the
ditch is filled.  The fire of the Russians is slackening, and
their yell dies away fainter on the breeze.  A French
cheer, wild, joyous, and unearthly, fills the air,--it thrills
in the ears of Pelissier, sitting immovable on his horse at
no great distance from the conflict; his telescope is pressed
to his eye, and he is watching eagerly for the well-known
signal.  And now he sees it!  A gleam of fierce joy lights
up his features, and as the tricolor of France is run up
to the crest of the Malakhoff, he shuts his glass with a
snap, dismounts from his horse, and rolling himself round
in his cloak, lies down for a few minutes' repose, and
observes, with a zest of which none but a Frenchman is
capable, "*Tenez! voilà mon bâton de Maréchal!*"

His are not the only eyes eagerly watching the progress
of the attack; many a veteran of both armies is busied
recalling all his own experiences and all his knowledge
of warfare, to calculate the probabilities of their success
whose task it is to cross that wide and deadly glacis which
is swept by the batteries of the Redan.

The men are formed for the assault, and the word is
given to advance.

"Now, my lads," says the leader, "keep cool--keep
steady--and keep together--we'll do it handsomely when
we're about it.  Forward!"

It is related of him whom Napoleon called "the bravest
of the brave," the famous Ney, that he was the only officer
of that day who could preserve his *sang-froid* totally
unmoved when standing with *his back* to a heavy fire.
Many a gallant fellow facing the enemy would pay no
more regard to the missiles whistling about his ears, than
to the hailstones of an April shower; but it was quite a
different sensation to *front* his own advancing troops, and
never look round at the grim archer whose every shaft
might be the last.  What the French Marshal, however,
piqued himself upon as the acme of personal courage and
conduct, our English leader seems to consider a mere
matter-of-course in the performance of an every-day duty.
Step by step, calm, collected, and good-humoured, he
regulates the movements of the attacking force.  Fronting
their ranks, as if he were on parade, he brings them
out of their sheltering defences into the iron storm, now
pouring forth its deadly wrath upon that rocky plateau
which *must* be crossed in defiance of everything.

"Steady, men," he observes once more, as he forms them
for the desperate effort; "we'll have them *out of that* in
ten minutes.  Now, my lads!  Forward, and follow me!"

The cocked hat is waving amongst the smoke--the
daring Colonel is forward under the very guns--with a
British cheer, the Forlorn Hope dash eagerly on, comrade
encouraging comrade, side by side, shoulder to
shoulder--hearts throbbing wild and high, and a grip of iron on
good "Brown Bess."  Men live a lifetime in a few such
moments.  There are two brothers in that doomed band
who have not met for years--they quarrelled in their hot
youth over their father's grave, about the quiet orchard
and the peaceful homestead that each had since longed
so painfully to see once more; and now they have served,
with half the globe between them, and each believes the
other to have forgotten him, and the orchard and the
homestead have passed away from their name for ever.  They
would weep and be friends if they could meet again.
There are but four men between them at this moment,
and two are down, stark and dead, and two are dragging
their mangled bodies slowly to the rear, and the brothers
are face to face under the fatal batteries of the Redan.

"Is't thou, my lad?" is all the greeting that passes in
that wild moment; but the blackened hands meet with a
convulsive clasp, and they are brothers once more, as when,
long ago, they hid their sturdy little faces in their mother's
gown.  Thank God for that!  In another minute it would
have been too late, for Bill is down, shot through the
lungs, his white belts limp and crimson with blood; and
John, with a tear in his eye, and something betwixt an
oath and a prayer upon his lips, is rushing madly on, for
the cocked hat is still waving forward amongst the smoke.
and the Colonel is still cheering them after him into the
jaws of death.

But soldiers, even British soldiers, are but men, and the
fire grows so deadly that the attacking force cannot but
be checked in its headlong charge.  The line
breaks--wavers--gives way--the awful glacis is strewed with dead
and dying--groans and curses, and shrieks for "*water! water!*"
mingle painfully with the wild cheers, and the
trampling feet, and the thunder of the guns; but volumes
of smoke, curling low and white over the ground, veil half
the horrors of that ghastly scene; yet through the smoke
can be discerned some three or four figures under the very
parapet of the Redan, and the cocked hat and square
frame of the Colonel are conspicuous amongst the group.

It must have been a strange sight for the few actors
that reached it alive.  A handful of men, an officer or two,
a retiring enemy, a place half taken, and an eager longing
for reinforcements to complete the victory.

An aide-de-camp is despatched to the rear; he starts
upon his mission to traverse that long three hundred
yards, swept by a deadly cross-fire, that blackens and
scorches the very turf beneath his feet.  Down he goes
headlong, shot through the body ere he has "run the
gauntlet" for a third of the way.  Another and another
share the same fate!  What is to be done?  The case is
urgent, yet doubtful; it demands promptitude, yet requires
consideration.  Our Colonel is a man who never hesitates
or wavers for an instant.  He calls up a young officer of
the line, one of the few survivors on the spot; even as he
addresses him, the rifleman on his right lurches heavily
against him, shot through the loins, and a red-coated
comrade on his left falls dead at his feet, yet the Colonel
is, if possible, cooler and more colloquial than ever.

"What's your name, my young friend?" says he, shaking
the ashes from a short black pipe with which he has been
refreshing himself at intervals with much apparent zest.
The officer replies, somewhat astonished, yet cool and
composed as his commander.  The Colonel repeats it
twice over, to make sure he has got it right, glances once
more at the enemy, then looking his new acquaintance
steadily in the face, observes--

"Do I seem to be in a *funk*, young man?"

"No," replies the young officer, determined not to be
outdone, "not the least bit of one, any more than myself."

The Colonel laughs heartily.  "Very well," says he;
"now, if I'm shot, I trust to you to do me justice.  I'll
tell you what I'm going to do.  I must communicate with
my supports.  Every aide-de-camp I send gets knocked
over.  I'm no use here alone--I can't take the Redan
single-handed--so I'm going back myself.  It's only three
hundred yards, but I can't run quite so fast as I used, so if
I'm killed, I shall expect you to bear witness that I didn't
go voluntarily into that cross-fire because *I was afraid*."

The young officer promised, and the Colonel started on
his perilous errand.  On the success of his mission or the
tactics of that attack it is not my province to enlarge.
Amongst all the conflicting opinions of the public, there
is but one as to the daring gallantry and cool promptitude
displayed on that memorable day by the leader of the
assault.

Every man, however, moves in his own little world, even
at the taking of Sebastopol.  It was not for a nameless
stranger, holding no rank in the service, to run into
needless danger, and I was merely in the trenches as a
looker-on, therefore did I keep sedulously under cover and out of
fire.  It is only the novice who exposes himself unnecessarily,
and I had served too long with Omar Pasha not to
appreciate the difference between the cool, calculating
daring that willingly accepts a certain risk to attain a
certain object, and the vainglorious foolhardiness that
runs its head blindly against a wall for the mere display
of its own intrinsic absurdity.

That great general himself was never known to expose
his life unnecessarily.  He would direct the manoeuvres
of his regiments, and display the tactics for which he was
so superior, at a safe distance from the fire of an enemy,
as long as he believed himself sufficiently near to watch
every movement, and to anticipate every stratagem of the
adversary; but if it was advisable to encourage his own
troops with his presence, to head a charge, or rally a
repulse, who so daring and so reckless as the fortunate
Croatian adventurer?

And yet, with all my care and all my self-denial--for
indeed, on occasions such as these, curiosity is a powerful
motive, and there is a strange instinct in man's wilful
heart that urges him into a fray--I had a narrow escape
of my own life, and lost my oldest friend and comrade
during the progress of the attack.

I was gazing eagerly through my double glasses--the
very same that had often done me good service in such
different scenes--to watch the forms of those devoted
heroes who were staggering and falling in the smoke,
when a stray shell, bursting in the trench behind me, blew
my forage-cap from my head, and sent it spinning over
the parapet on to the glacis beyond.  Involuntarily I
stretched my hand to catch at it as it flew away, and Bold,
who had been crouching quietly at my heel, seeing the
motion, started off in pursuit.  Ere I could check him,
the old dog was over the embankment, and in less than a
minute returned to my side with the cap in his mouth.
The men laughed, and cheered him as he laid it at my feet.

Poor Bold! poor Bold! he waved his handsome tail,
and reared his great square head as proudly as ever; but
there was a wistful expression in his eye as he looked up
in my face, and when I patted him the old dog winced
and moaned as if in pain.  He lay down, though quite
gently, at my feet, and let me turn him over and examine
him.  I thought so--there it was, the small round mark
in his glossy coat, and the dark stain down his thick
foreleg--my poor old friend and comrade, must I lose you too?
Is everything to be taken from me by degrees?  My eyes
were blinded with tears--the rough soldiers felt for me,
and spared my favourite some water from their canteens;
but he growled when any one offered to touch him but
myself, and he died licking my hand.

Even in the turmoil and confusion of that wild scene I
could mourn for Bold.  He was the one link with my
peaceful boyhood, the one creature that she and I had
both loved and fondled, and now *she* was lost to me for
ever, and Bold lay dead at my feet.  Besides, I was fond
of him for his own sake--so faithful, so true, so attached,
so brave and devoted--in truth, I was very, *very* sorry for
poor Bold.





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.. _`THE WAR-MINISTER AT HOME`:

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   CHAPTER XL


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   THE WAR-MINISTER AT HOME

.. vspace:: 2

Except at the crisis of great convulsions, when the man
with the bayonet is the only individual that clearly
knows what he has got to do and how to do it, the soldier
is but the puppet upon the stage, while the diplomatist
pulls the strings from behind the scenes.  Before
Sebastopol the armies of England, France, and Sardinia keep
watch and ward, ever ready for action; at Vienna, the
spruce *attaché* deciphers and makes his *précis* of those
despatches which decide the soldier's fate.  Is it to be
peace or war?  Has Russia entered into a league with
the Austrian Government, or is the Kaiser, in his youthful
enthusiasm, eager for an appeal to arms, and forgetful of
his defenceless capital, not thirty leagues from the Polish
frontier, and innocent of a single fortified place between
its walls and the enemy, prepared to join heart and hand
with France and England against the common foe?
These are questions everybody asks, but nobody seems
able to answer.  On the Bourse they cause a deal of
gambling, and a considerable fluctuation in the value of
the florin as computed with reference to English gold.
Minor capitalists rise and fall, and Rothschild keeps on
adding heap to heap.  Money makes money, in Austria
as in England; nor are those moustached and spectacled
merchants smoking cigars on the Bourse one whit less
eager or less rapacious than our own smooth speculators
on the Stock Exchange.  The crowd is a little more
motley, perhaps, and a little more demonstrative, but the
object is the same.

"And what news have you here this morning, my dear
sir?" observes a quiet-looking, well-dressed bystander
who has just strolled in, to a plethoric individual, with a
double chin, a double eye-glass, and a red umbrella, who
is making voluminous entries in a huge pocket-book.
The plethoric man bows to the ground, and becomes
exceedingly purple in the face.

"None, honourable sir, none," he replies, with a circular
sweep of his hat that touches his toes; "the market is flat,
honourable sir, flat, and money, if possible, scarcer than
usual."

Whereat the stout man laughs, but breaks off abruptly,
as if much alarmed at the liberty he has taken.  The
well-dressed gentleman turns to some one else with the same
inquiry, and, receiving a less cautious answer, glances at
his fat friend, who pales visibly under his eye.  They are
all afraid of him here, for he is no other than our old
acquaintance, Monsieur Stein, clean, quiet, and
undemonstrative as when we saw him last in the drawing-room at
Edeldorf.  Let us follow him as he walks out and glides
gently along the street in his dark, civil attire, relieved
only by a bit of ribbon at the button-hole.

All great men have their weaknesses.  Hercules, resting
from his labours, spun yarns with Omphale; Antony
combined fishing and flirtation; Person loved pale ale,
and refreshed himself copiously therewith; and shall not
Monsieur Stein, whose Protean genius can assume the
characters of all these heroes, display his taste for the fine
arts in so picturesque a capital as his own native Vienna?
He stops accordingly at a huge stone basin ornamenting
one of its squares, and, producing his note-book, proceeds
to sketch with masterly touches the magnificent back and
limbs of that bronze Triton preparing to launch his
harpoon into the depths below.  Sly Monsieur Stein! is it
thus you spread your nets for the captivation of unwary
damsels, and are you always rewarded by so ready a prey
as that well-dressed *soubrette* who is peeping on tiptoe
over your shoulder, and expressing her artless admiration
of your talent in the superlative exclamations of her
Teutonic idiom?

"Pardon me, honourable sir, that I so bold am, as
so to overlook your wondrously-beautiful design, permit
me to see it a little nearer.  I thank you, love-worthy sir."

Monsieur Stein is too thoroughly Austrian not to be
the pink of politeness.  He doffs his hat, and hands her
the note-book with a bow.  As she returns it to him
an open letter peeps between the leaves, and they part
and march off on their several ways with many expressions
of gratitude and politeness, such as two utter strangers
make use of at the termination of a chance acquaintanceship;
yet is the *soubrette* strangely like Jeannette, Princess
Vocqsal's *femme de chambre*; and the letter which
Monsieur Stein reads so attentively as he paces along the
sunny side of the street, is certainly addressed to that
lady in characters bearing a strong resemblance to the
handwriting of Victor, Count de Rohan.

Monsieur Stein pockets the epistle--it might be a
receipt for *sour-krout* for all the effect its perusal has on
his impassible features--and proceeds, still at his equable,
leisurely pace, to the residence of the War-Minister.

While he mounts the steps to the second floor, on which
are situated the apartments of that functionary, and
combs out his smooth moustaches, waiting the convenience
of the porter who answers the bell, let us take a peep
inside.

The War-Minister is at his wit's end.  His morning
has been a sadly troubled one, for he has been auditing
accounts, to which pursuit he cherishes a strong
disinclination, and he has received a letter from the Minister
of the Interior, conveying contradictory orders from the
Emperor, of which he cannot make head or tail.  Besides
this, he has private annoyances of his own.  His intendant
has failed to send him the usual supplies from his estates
in Galicia; he is in debt to his tailor and his coach-maker,
but he must have new liveries and an English carriage
against the next Court ball; his favourite charger is lame,
and he does not care to trust himself on any of his other
horses; and, above all, he has sustained an hour's lecture
this very morning, when drinking coffee in his dressing-gown,
from Madame la Baronne, his austere and excellent
spouse, commenting in severe terms on his backslidings
and general conduct, the shortcomings of which, as that
virtuous dame affirms, have not failed to elicit the censure
of the young Emperor himself.  So the War-Minister has
drunk three large tumblers of *schwartz-bier*, and smoked
as many cigars stuck up on end in the bowl of a meerschaum
pipe, the combined effects of which have failed to simplify
the accounts, or to reconcile the contradictory instructions
of the Court.

He is a large, fine-looking man, considerably above six
feet in height.  His grey-blue uniform is buttoned tightly
over a capacious chest, covered with orders, clasps, and
medals; his blue eyes and florid complexion denote health
and good-humour, not out of keeping with the snowy
moustaches and hair of some three-score winters.  He
looks completely puzzled, and is bestowing an uneasy sort
of attention, for which he feels he must ere long be taken
to task, upon a very charming and well-dressed visitor of
the other sex, no less a person, indeed, than that "*odious
intrigante*," as Madame la Baronne calls her, the Princess
Vocqsal.

She is as much at home here in the War-Minister's
apartments as in her own drawing-room.  She never loses
her *aplomb*, or her presence of mind.  If his wife were to
walk in this minute she would greet her with amiable
cordiality; and, to do Madame la Baronne justice, though
she abuses the Princess in all societies, her greeting would
be returned with the warmth and kindness universally
displayed to each other by women who hate to the death.
Till she has got her antagonist *down*, the female fencer
never takes the button off her foil.

"You are always so amiable and good-humoured, my
dear Baron," says the Princess, throwing back her veil
with a turn of her snowy wrist, not lost upon the old
soldier, "that you will, I am sure, not keep us in suspense.
The Prince wishes his nephew to serve the Emperor; he
is but a boy yet.  Will he be tall enough for the cavalry?
A fine man looks so well on horseback!"

The Baron was justly proud of his person.  This little
compliment and the glance that accompanied it were not
thrown away.  He looked pleased, then remembered his
wife, and looked sheepish, then smoothed his moustache,
and inquired the age of the candidate.

"Seventeen next birthday," replied the Princess.  "If
it were not for this horrid war we would send him to
travel a little.  Do you think the war will last, Monsieur
le Baronne?" added she, naïvely.

"You must ask the Foreign Minister about that,"
replied he, completely thrown off his guard by her
innocence.  "We are only soldiers here, we do not pull
the strings, Madame.  We do what we are told, and serve
the Emperor and the ladies," he added, with a low bow
and a leer.

"Then will you put him into the Cuirassiers immediately,
Monsieur?" said the Princess, with her sweetest
smile; "we wish no time to be lost--now *do*, to please *me*."

The Baron was rather in a dilemma; like all men in
office, he hated to bind himself by a promise, but how to
refuse that charming woman anything?--at last he
stammered out--"Wait a little, Madame, wait, and I
will do what I can for you; it is impossible just now,
for we are going to reduce the army by sixty thousand
men."

While he spoke, Monsieur Stein was announced, and
the Princess rose to take her leave; she had got all she
wanted now, and did not care to face a thousand
Baronesses.  As she went downstairs, she passed Monsieur
Stein without the slightest mark of recognition, and he,
too, looked admiringly after her, as if he had never seen
her before.  The Baron, by this time pining for more
*schwartz-bier*, and another cigar, devoutly hoped his new
visitor, with whose person and profession he was quite
familiar, would not stay long; and the Princess, as she
tripped past the *Huissier* at the entrance, muttered,
"Sixty thousand men--then it *will* be peace: I thought
so all along.  My poor Baron! what a soft old creature
you are!  Well, I have tried everything now, and this
speculating is the strongest excitement of all, even better
than making Victor jealous!" but she sighed as she said
it, and ordered her coachman to drive on at once to her
stock-broker.

The presence of Monsieur Stein did not serve to
re-establish either the clear-headedness or the good-humour
of the War-Minister.  The ostensible errand on which he
came was merely to obtain some trifling military information
concerning the garrison at Pesth, without which the
co-operation of the police would not have been so effectual,
in annoying still further the already exasperated
Hungarians; but in the course of conversation, Monsieur
Stein subjected the Baron to a process familiarly called
"sucking the brains," with such skill that, ere the door
was closed on his unwelcome visitor, the soldier felt he
had placed himself--as indeed was intended--completely
in the power of the police-agent.  All his sins of omission
and commission, his neglect of certain contracts, and his
issuing of certain orders; his unpardonable lenity at his
last tour of inspection, his unlucky expression of opinions
at direct variance with those of his young Imperial
master:--all these failures and offences he felt were now
registered in letters never to be effaced,--on the records
of Monsieur Stein's secret report; and what was more
provoking still, was to think that he had, somehow or
another, been insensibly led on to plead guilty to half-a-dozen
derelictions, which he felt he might as consistently
have denied.

As he sat bolt upright in his huge leathern chair, and
turned once more to "sublime tobacco" for consolation
and refreshment, his thoughts floated back to the merry
days when he was young and slim, and had no cares
beyond his squadron of Uhlans, no thought for the morrow
but the parade and the ball.  "Ah!" sighed the Baron
to himself as he knocked the ash off his cigar with a
ringed fore-finger, "I would I were a youngling again;
the troop-accounts were easily kept, the society of my
comrades was pleasanter than the Court.  One never
meets with such beer now as we had at Debreczin; and
oh! those Hungarian ladies, how delightful it was to waltz
before one grew fat, and flirt before one grew sage.  I
might have visited the charming Princess then, and no
one would have found fault with me; no one would have
objected--Heigh-ho! there was no Madame la Baronne in
those days--*now* it is so different.  *Sapperment*!  Here
she comes!"

Though the Baron was upwards of six feet, and broad
in proportion--though he had distinguished himself more
than once before the enemy, and was covered with orders
of merit and decorations for bravery--nay, though he was
the actual head of the six hundred thousand heroes who
constituted the Austrian army, he quailed before that
little shrivelled old woman, with her mouth full of black
teeth, and her hair dressed *à l'Impératrice*.

We profane not the mysteries of Hymen--"Caudle" is
a name of no exclusive nationality.  We leave the Baron,
not without a shudder, to the salutary discipline of his
excellent monitress.





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.. _`WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS`:

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   CHAPTER XLI


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   WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS

.. vspace:: 2

We must follow Monsieur Stein, for that worthy has got
something to do; nay, he generally has his hands full,
and cannot, indeed, be accused of eating the bread of
idleness.  It is a strange system of government, that of
the Austrian empire; and is, we believe, found to answer
as badly as might be expected from its organisation.  The
State takes so paternal an interest in the sayings and
doings of its children, as to judge it expedient to support
a whole staff of officials, whose sole duty it is to keep
the Government informed respecting the habits, actions,
everyday life, and secret thoughts and opinions of the
general public.  Nor do these myrmidons, whose number
exceeds belief, and who add seriously to the national
expenditure, fail to earn their pay with praiseworthy
diligence.  In all societies, in all places of pleasure or
business, where half-a-dozen people may chance to
congregate, *there* will be an agent of police, always in plain
clothes, and generally the least conspicuous person in the
throng.  The members of this corps are, as may be
supposed, chosen for their general intelligence and aptitude,
are usually well-informed, agreeable men, likely to lead
strangers into conversation, and excellent linguists.  As
an instance of their ubiquity, I may mention an incident
that occurred within my own knowledge to an officer in
the British service, when at Vienna, during the war.  That
officer was dining in the *salon* of an hotel, and there were
present, besides his own party, consisting of Englishmen,
and one Hungarian much disaffected to the Government,
only two other strangers, sitting quite at the farther
extremity of the room, and apparently out of ear-shot.  The
conversation at my friend's table was, moreover, carried
on in English, and turned upon the arrest of a certain
Colonel Türr by the Austrian authorities at Bucharest, a
few days previously.

This Colonel Türr, be it known, was a Hungarian who
had deserted from the Austrian service, and entering that
of her Majesty Queen Victoria, had been employed in
some commissariat capacity in Wallachia, and taken
prisoner at Bucharest by the very regiment to which he
had previously belonged.  The question was much vexed
and agitated at the time, as to the Austrian right over a
deserter on a neutral soil, and Colonel Türr became for
the nonce an unconscious hero.  The officer to whom I
have alluded, having listened attentively to the *pros* and
*cons* of the case, as set forth by his friends, dismissed the
subject with military brevity, in these words:--"If you
say he deserted his regiment before an enemy, I don't
care what countryman he is, or in whose service, *the sooner
they hang him the better!*"  This ill-advised remark, be it
observed, was made *sotto voce*, and in his own language.
His surprise may be imagined when, on perusing the
Government papers the following morning, he read the
whole conversation, translated into magniloquent German,
and detailed at length as being the expressed opinion of
the British army and the British public on the case of
Colonel Türr.

I am happy to be able to observe, *en passant*, that the
latter gentleman was not hanged at all, but escaped, after
a deal of diplomatic correspondence, with a six weeks'
imprisonment in the fortress of Comorn, and has since
been seen taking his pleasure in London and elsewhere.

To return to Monsieur Stein.  It is evening, and those
who have permission from the police to give a party, have
lighted their lamps and prepared their saloons for those
receptions in which the well-bred of all nations, and
particularly the ladies, take so incomprehensible a delight.
At Vienna, every house must be closed at ten o'clock;
and those who wish to give balls or evening parties must
obtain a direct permission to do so, emanating from the
Emperor himself.  So when they *do* go out, they make
the most of it, and seem to enjoy the pleasure with an
additional zest for the prohibition to which it is subject.

Let us follow Monsieur Stein into that brilliantly-lighted
room, through which he edges his way so unobtrusively,
and where, amongst rustling toilettes, crisp
and fresh from the dressmaker, and various uniforms on
the fine persons of the Austrian aristocracy, his own
modest attire passes unobserved.  This is no *bourgeois*
gathering, no assemblage of the middle rank, tainted by
mercantile enterprise, or disgraced by talent, which
presumes to rise superior to *blood*.  No such thing; they are
all the "*haute volée*" here, the "*crème de la crème*," as they
themselves call it in their bad French and their
conventional jargon.  Probably Monsieur Stein is the only
man in the room that cannot count at least sixteen
quarterings--no such easy matter to many a member of
our own House of Peers; and truth to tell, the Austrian
aristocracy are a personable, fine-looking race as you shall
wish to see.  Even the eye of our imperturbable
police-agent lights up with a ray of what in any other eye
would be admiration, at the scene which presents itself
as he enters.  The rooms are spacious, lofty, and
magnificently furnished in the massive, costly style that accords
so well with visitors in full dress.  The floors are
beautifully inlaid and polished; as bright, and nearly as slippery,
as ice.  The walls are covered with the *chef d'oeuvres* of
the old masters, and even the dome-like ceilings are
decorated with mythological frescoes, such as would
convert an enthusiast to paganism at once.  Long mirrors
fill up the interstices between the panellings, and reflect
many a stalwart gallant, and many a "lady bright and
fair."  There is no dancing, it is merely a "reception";
and amongst the throng of beauties congregated in that
assembly, impassible Monsieur Stein cannot but admit
that the most captivating of them all is Princess Vocqsal.

So thinks the War-Minister, who, forgetful of accounts
and responsibilities, regardless even of the threatening
glances darted at him from the other end of the room by
his excellent wife, is leaning over the back of the Princess's
seat, and whispering, in broad Viennese German, a variety
of those soft platitudes which gentlemen of three-score are
apt to fancy will do them as good service at that age as
they did thirty years ago.  The Baron is painfully
agreeable, and she is listening, with a sweet smile and a
pleasant expression of countenance, assumed for very
sufficient reasons.  In the first place, she owes him a
good turn for the information acquired this morning, and
the Princess always pays her debts when it costs her
nothing; in the second, she wishes, for motives of her
own, to strengthen her influence with the Court party as
much as possible; and lastly, she enjoys by this means
the innocent pleasure of making two people unhappy--viz. Madame
la Baronne, who is fool enough to be jealous
of her fat old husband; and one other watching her from
the doorway, with a pale, eager face, and an expression of
restless, gnawing anxiety, which it is painful to behold.

Victor de Rohan, what are you doing here, like a moth
fluttering round a candle? wasting your time, and
breaking your heart for a woman that is not worth one throb
of its generous life-blood; that cannot appreciate your
devotion, or even spare your feelings?  Why are you not
at Edeldorf, where you have left *her* sad and lonely, one
tear on whose eyelash is worth a thousand of the false
smiles so freely dealt by that heartless, artificial, worn
woman of the world?  For shame, Victor! for shame!
And yet, as our friend the Turk says, "*Kismet*!  It is
destiny!"

He is dressed in a gorgeous Hussar uniform, his own
national costume, and right well does its close fit and
appropriate splendour become the stately beauty of the
young Count de Rohan.  At his side hangs the very
sword that flashed so keenly by the waters of the Danube,
forward in the headlong charge of old Iskender Bey.  On
its blade is engraved the Princess's name; she knows it
as well as he does, yet ten to one she will pretend to
forget all about it, should he allude to the subject
to-night.  Ah! the blade is as bright as it was in those
merry campaigning days, but Victor's face has lost for
ever the lightsome expression of youth; the lines of
passion and self-reproach are stamped upon his brow, and
hollowed round his lip, and he has passed at one stride
from boyhood to middle age.

He makes a forced movement, as though to speak to
her, but his button is held by a jocose old gentleman,
whose raptures must find vent on the engrossing topic of
Marie Taglioni's graceful activity; and he has to weather
the whole person and draperies of a voluminous German
dowager ere he can escape from his tormentor.  In the
meantime Monsieur Stein has been presented to the
Princess, and she allows him to lead her into the
tea-room, for a cup of that convenient beverage which
continental nations persist in considering as possessed of
medicinal virtue.

"I have the unhappiness to have escaped Madame's
recollection," observed the police-agent, as he placed a
chair for the Princess in a corner secure from interruption,
and handed her cup; "it is now my good fortune to be
able to restore something that she has lost," and he looked
at her with those keen grey eyes, as though to read her
very soul, while he gave her the letter which had been
placed in his pocket-book by faithless Jeannette.  "If she
cares for him," thought Monsieur Stein, "she will surely
show it now, and I need take no further trouble with *her*.
If not, she is the very woman I want, for the fool is madly
in love with her, and upon my word it is not surprising!"

Monsieur Stein looked at women with hypercritical
fastidiousness, but, as he himself boasted, at the same
time, quite "*en philosophe*."

The Princess, however, was a match for the police-agent;
she never winced, or moved a muscle of her
beautiful countenance.  With a polite "Excuse me," she
read the letter through from beginning to end, and
turning quietly round inquired, "How came you by this,
Monsieur?"

Unless it leads to a *revoke*, a lie counts for nothing with
a police-agent, so he answered at once, "Sent to my *bureau*
from the office, in consequence of an informality in the
post-mark."

"You have read it?" pursued the Princess, still calm
and unmoved.

"On my honour, no!" answered he, with his hand on
his heart, and a low bow.

She would have made the better spy of the two, for
she could read even his impassible face, and she knew as
well as he did himself that he had, so she quietly
returned him the letter, of which she judged, and rightly,
that he had kept a copy; and laying her gloved hand on
his sleeve, observed, with an air of bewitching
candour--"After that affair at Comorn, you and I can have no
secrets from each other, Monsieur.  Tell me frankly what
it is that your employers require, and the price they are
willing to pay for my co-operation."

She could not resist the temptation of trying her
powers, even on Monsieur Stein; and he, although a
police-agent, was obliged to succumb to that low, sweet
voice, and the pleading glance by which it was accompanied.
A little less calmly than was his wont, and with
almost a flush upon his brow, he began--

"You are still desirous of that appointment we spoke
of yesterday for the Prince?"

"*Ma foi*, I am," she answered, with a merry smile;
"without it we shall be ruined, for we are indeed
overwhelmed with debt."

"You also wish for the earliest intelligence possessed
by the Government as to the issues of peace and war?"

"Of course I do, my dear Monsieur Stein; how else
can I speculate to advantage?"

"And you would have the attainder taken off your
cousin's estates in the Banat in your favour?"

The Princess's eyes glistened, and a deep flush
overspread her face.  This was more than she had ever dared
to hope for.  This would raise her to affluence, nay, to
splendour, once again.  No price would be too great to
pay for this end, and she told Monsieur Stein so, although
she kept down her raptures and stilled her beating heart
the while.

"All this, Princess, I can obtain for you," said he; "all
this has been promised me, and I have got it in writing.
In less than a month the Government will have redeemed
its pledge, and in return you shall do us one little favour."

"*C'est un trahison, n'est ce pas?*" she asked quickly, but
without any appearance of shame or anger; "I know it by
the price you offer.  Well, I am not scrupulous--say on."

"Scarcely that," he replied, evidently emboldened by her
coolness; "only a slight exertion of feminine influence, of
which no woman on earth has so much at command as
yourself.  Listen, Princess; in three words I will tell you
all.  Count de Rohan loves you passionately--madly.  You
know it yourself;--forgive my freedom; between you and
me there must be no secrets.  You can do what you will
with him."--(He did not see her blush, for she had turned
away to put down her cup.)--"He will refuse you nothing.
This is your task:--there is another conspiracy hatching
against the Government; its plot is not yet ripe, but it
numbers in its ranks some of the first men in Hungary.
Your compatriots are very stanch; even I can get no
certain information.  Several of the disaffected are yet
unknown to me.  Young Count de Rohan has a list of
their names; that list I trust to you to obtain.  Say,
Princess, is it a bargain?"

She was fitting her glove accurately to her taper fingers.

"And the man that you were good enough to say
adores me so devotedly, Monsieur," she observed, without
lifting her eyes to his face, "what will you do with
him? shoot him as you did his cousin in 1848?"

"He shall have a free pardon," replied the police-agent,
"and permission to reside on his lands.  He is not anxious
to leave the vicinity of the Waldenberg, I believe," he
added mischievously.

"*Soit*," responded the Princess, as she rose to put an end
to the interview.  "Now, if you will hand me my bouquet
we will go into the other room."

As he bowed and left her, Monsieur Stein felt a certain
uncomfortable misgiving that he had been guilty of some
oversight in his game.  In vain he played it all again in
his own head, move for move, and check for check; he
could not detect where the fault lay, and yet his fine
instinct told him that somewhere or another he had made
a mistake.  "It is all that woman's impassible face," he
concluded at last, in his mental soliloquy, "that forbids
me to retrieve a blunder or detect an advantage.  And
what a beautiful face it is!" he added almost aloud, as for
an instant the official was absorbed in the man.

In the meantime Victor was getting very restless, very
uncomfortable, and, not to mince matters, very cross.

No sooner had the Princess returned to the large *salon*
than he stalked across the room, twirling his moustaches
with an air of unconcealed annoyance, and asked her
abruptly, "How she came to know that ill-looking
Monsieur Stein, and why he had been flirting with her for the
last half-hour in the tea-room?"

"That gentleman in plain clothes?" answered she, with
an air of utter unconsciousness and perfect good-humour;
"that is one of my ancient friends, Monsieur le Comte;
shall I present him to you?"

This was another refined method of tormenting her
lovers.  The Princess had one answer to all jealous
inquiries as to those whom she favoured with her
notice--"*Un de mes anciens amis*," was a vague and general
description, calculated to give no very definite or satisfactory
information to a rival.

"Have a care, Madame," whispered Victor angrily;
"you will make some of your ancient friends into your
deadliest enemies if you try them so far."

She looked lovingly up at him, and he softened at once.

"Now it is *you* that are unkind, Victor," she said in a
low soft voice, every tone of which thrilled to the young
Count's heart.  "Why will you persist in quarrelling with
me?  I, who came here this very evening to see you and
to do you a kindness?"

"Did you know I should be in Vienna so soon?" he
exclaimed eagerly.  "Did you receive my letter?"

"I did, indeed," she replied, with a covert smile, as she
thought of the mode in which that missive had reached
her, and she almost laughed outright (for the Princess had
a keen sense of the ludicrous) at the strange impersonation
made by Monsieur Stein of Cupid's postman; "but,
Victor," she added, with another beaming look, "I go
away to-morrow.  Very early in the morning I must leave
Vienna."

He turned paler than before, and bit his lip.  "So I
might as well have stayed at home," he exclaimed in a
voice of bitter annoyance and pique, none the less bitter
that it had to be toned down to the concert pitch of good
society.  "Was it to see you for five minutes here in a
crowd that I travelled up so eagerly and in such haste?
To make my bow, I suppose, like the merest acquaintance,
and receive my *congé*.  Pardon, Madame la Princesse, I
need not receive it twice.  I wish you good-evening; I am
going now!"

She, too, became a shade paler, but preserved the
immovable good-humour on which she piqued herself, as she
made him a polite bow, and turned round to speak to the
Russian Minister, who, covered with orders, at that
moment came up to offer his obeisance to the well-known
Princess Vocqsal.  Had he not constant advices from his
intriguing Court to devote much of his spare time to this
fascinating lady?  And had she not once in her life baffled
all the wiles of St. Petersburg, and stood untempted by its
bribes?  Ill-natured people affirmed that another Power
paid a higher price, which accounted satisfactorily for
the lady's patriotism, but the Autocrat's Minister had his
secret orders notwithstanding.

And now she is deep in a lively argument, in which
polished sarcasm and brilliant repartee are bandied from
lip to lip, each pointed phrase eliciting a something better
still from the Princess's soft mouth, till her
audience--diplomatists of many years' standing, warriors shrewd in
council and dauntless in the field, grey ambassadors and
beardless *attachés*--hang enraptured on her accents, and
watch her looks with an unaccountable fascination; whilst
Victor de Rohan, hurt, moody, and discontented, stalks
fiercely to the doorway and mutters to himself, "Is it for
this I have given up home, friends, honour, and self-respect?
To be a mere puppet in the hands of a coquette,
a woman's plaything, and not even a favourite plaything,
after all!"

Ladies have a peculiar gift which is enjoyed by no
other members of the creation whatsoever.  We allude
to that extraordinary property by which, without any
exertion of the visual organs, they can discern clearly all
that is going on above, below, around, and behind them.
If a man wants to *see* a thing he requires to *look at it*.
Not so with the other sex.  Their subtler instinct enables
them to detect that which must be made palpable to *our*
grosser senses.  How else could Princess Vocqsal, whose
back was turned to him, and who was occupied in
conversation with the *élite* of Austrian diplomatic society,
arrive at the certainty that Victor was not gone, as he
had threatened--that he still lingered unwillingly about
the doorway, and now hailed as deliverers those prosy
acquaintances from whom, in the early part of the evening,
he had been so impatient to escape?

And yet he despised himself for his want of manhood
and resolution the while; and yet he reproached himself
with his slavish submission and unworthy cowardice; and
yet he lingered on in hopes of one more glance from her
eye, one more pressure from her soft gloved hand.  He
had parted with her in anger before, and too well he knew
the bitter wretchedness of the subsequent hours; he had
not fortitude enough, he *dared* not face such an ordeal
again.

So she knew he was not going yet; and, confident in
her own powers, pleased with her position, and proud of
her conquests, she sparkled on.

"That's a clever woman," said an English *attaché* to his
friend, as they listened in the circle of her admirers.

And the friend, who was a little of a satirist, a little of
a philosopher, a little of a poet, and yet, strange to say, a
thorough man of the world, replied--

"Too clever by half, my boy, or I'm very much mistaken.
Ninety-nine women out of a hundred are natural-born
angels, but the hundredth is a devil incarnate, and *that's*
her number, Charlie, you may take my word for it!"

And now a strange movement rises in that crowded
assembly.  A buzz of voices is heard--lower, but more
marked than the ordinary hum of conversation.
Something seems to have happened.  A lady has fainted, or
an apoplectic general been taken suddenly ill, or a
candelabrum has fallen, and the magnificent hotel is
even now on fire?  None of these casualties, however,
have occurred.  Voices rise higher in question and reply.
"Is it true?"--"I can't believe it!"--"They knew nothing
of it to-day on the Bourse."--"Another stock-jobbing
report."--"Immense loss on both sides."  These are the
disjointed sentences that reach the ear, mingled with such
terms as the Malakhoff--the Redan--the north side--General
Pelissier, etc. etc.  English and French diplomatists
exchange curious glances, and at length rumour takes a
definite form, and it is boldly asserted that intelligence
has that day arrived of the fall of Sebastopol.

Tongues are loosened now.  Surmise and speculation
are rife upon future events.  Men speak as they wish,
and notwithstanding the presence of Monsieur Stein and
several other secret agents of police, many a bold opinion
is hazarded as to the intentions of the Government and
the issues of the great contest.  Princess Vocqsal scarcely
breathes while she listens.  If, indeed, this should lead to
peace, her large investments will realise golden profits.
She feels all the palpitating excitement of the gambler,
yet does the hue not deepen on her cheek, nor the lustre
kindle brighter in her eye.  Monsieur Stein, who alone
knows her secrets, as it is his business to know the secrets
of every one, feels his very soul stirred within him at such
noble self-command.

For a moment he thinks that were he capable of human
weaknesses he could *love* that woman; and in pure
admiration, as one who would fain prove still further a
beautiful piece of mechanism, he steps up to the Princess,
and informs her that "Now, indeed, doubt is at an end,
for reliable intelligence has arrived that Sebastopol has
fallen!"

"Sebastopol has fallen," she repeats with her silver
laugh; "then the war has at last really begun!"

Her audience applaud once more.  "*Ma foi, ce n'est pas
mal*," says the French Minister, and Monsieur Stein is on
the verge of adoration; but there is by this time a general
move towards the door: carriages are being called, and it
is time to go away, the departure of the guests being
somewhat accelerated by the important news which has
just been made public.  Victor is still lingering on the
staircase.  Many a bright eye looks wistfully on his
handsome form, many a soft heart would willingly waken an
interest in the charming young Count de Rohan, but the
Hungarian has caught the malady in its deadliest form--the
"love fever," as his own poets term it, is wasting
his heart to the core, and for him, alas! there is but one
woman on earth, and she is coming downstairs at this
moment, attended by the best-dressed and best-looking
*attaché* of the French Legation.

Somewhat to this young gentleman's disgust, she sends
him to look for her carriage, and taking Victor's arm,
which he is too proud to offer, she bids him lead her to
the cloak-room, and shawl her as he used to do with such
tender care.

He relents at once.  What *is* there in this woman that
she can thus turn and twist him at her will?  She likes
him best thus--when he is haughty and rebellious, and
she fears that at last she may have driven him too far
and have lost him altogether; the uncertainty creates
an interest and excitement, which is pleasure akin to
pain, but it is so delightful to win him back again,--*such*
a triumph to own him and tyrannise over him once more!
It is at moments of reconciliation such as these that the
Princess vindicates her woman-nature, and becomes a very
woman to the heart.

"You are angry with me, Victor," she whispers, leaning
heavily on his arm, and looking downwards as she speaks;
"angry with me, and without a cause.  You would not
listen to me an hour ago, you were so cross and impatient.
Will you listen to me now?"

The tears were standing in the strong man's eyes.
"Speak on," he said; "you do with me what you like, I
could listen to you for ever."

"You were irritated because I told you I was about to
leave Vienna.  You have avoided me the whole evening,
and left me to be bored and annoyed by that wearisome
tribe of diplomatists, with their flat witticisms and their
eternal politics.  Why did you not stay to hear me
out?  Victor, it is true I go to-morrow, but I go to the
Waldenberg."

How changed his face was now; his eye sparkled and
his whole countenance lightened up.  He looked like a
different man.  He could only press the arm that clung
to his own; he could not speak.

"Will you continue to *bouder* me?" proceeded the
Princess in a playful, half-malicious tone; "or will you
forgive me and be friends for that which is, after all, your
own fault?  Oh, you men! how hasty and violent you
are; it is lucky we are so patient and so good-tempered.
The Waldenberg is not so very far from Edeldorf.  You
might ask me there for your *jour de fête*.  I have not
forgotten it, you see.  Not a word more, Count de Rohan;
I must leave you now.  Here is my carriage.  Adieu,--no,
not adieu, *mon ami, au revoir*!"

Why was it such a different world to Victor from what
it had been ten short minutes ago, from what it would
assuredly be the next time they met, and her caprice and
*coquetterie* were again exhibited to drive him wild?  Was
it worth all these days of uncertainty and anxious longing;
all these fits of jealousy and agonies of self-reproach;
to be deliriously happy every now and then for a short
ten minutes?  Was any woman on earth worthy of all
that Victor de Rohan sacrificed for the indulgence of his
guilty love?  Probably not, but it would have been hard
to convince him.  He was not as wise as Solomon; yet
Solomon, with all his wisdom, seems to have delivered
himself up a willing captive to disgrace and
bondage--fettered by a pair of white arms--held by a thread of
silken hair.  Oh, vanity of vanities! "*this is* also vanity
and vexation of spirit."





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   CHAPTER XLII


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   "TOO LATE"

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For a wounded campaigner on crutches, or a wasted
convalescent slowly recovering from an attack of Crimean
fever, there are few better places for the re-establishment
of health than the hotel at Therapia.  It is refreshing to
hear the ripple of the Bosphorus not ten feet distant
from one's bedroom window; it is life itself to inhale the
invigorating breeze that sweeps down, unchecked and
uncontaminated, from the Black Sea; it is inspiriting to
gaze upon the gorgeous beauty of the Asiatic coast,
another continent not a mile away.  And then the smaller
accessories of comfortable apartments, good dinners,
civilised luxuries, and European society, form no
unwelcome contrast to the Crimean tent, the soldier's rations,
and the wearisome routine of daily and hourly duty.

But a few days after the taking of Sebastopol, I was
once more in Turkey.  Ropsley, the man of iron nerves
and strong will--the man whom danger had spared, and
sickness had hitherto passed by, was struck down by
fever--that wasting, paralysing disease so common to our
countrymen in an Eastern climate--and was so reduced
and helpless as to be utterly incapable of moving without
assistance.  He had many friends, for Ropsley was popular
in his regiment and respected throughout the army; but
none were so thoroughly disengaged as I; it seemed as if
I could now be of little use in any capacity, and to my
lot it fell to place my old school-fellow on board ship, and
accompany him to Therapia, *en route* for England on sick
leave.

My own affairs, too, required that I should revisit
Somersetshire before long.  The wreck of my father's
property, well nursed and taken care of by a prudent
man of business, had increased to no contemptible
provision for a nameless child.  If I chose to return to
England, I should find myself a landed proprietor of no
inconsiderable means, should be enabled to assume a
position such as many a man now fighting his way in the
world would esteem the acme of human felicity, and for
me it would be but dust and ashes!  What cared I for
broad acres, local influence, good investments, and county
respectability--all the outward show and empty shadows
for which people are so apt to sacrifice the real blessings
of life?  What was it to me that I might look round
from my own dining-room on my own domain, with my
own tenants waiting to see me in the hall?  An empty
heart can have no possessions; a broken spirit is but a
beggar in the midst of wealth, whilst the whole universe,
with all its glories, belongs alone to him who is at peace
with himself.  I often think how many a man there is
who lives out his three-score years and ten, and never
knows what *real* life is, after all.  A boyhood passed in
vain aspirations--a manhood spent in struggling for the
impossible--an old age wasted in futile repinings, such is
the use made by how many of our fellow-creatures of
that glorious streak of light which we call existence, that
intervenes between the eternity which hath been, and
the eternity which shall be?  Oh! to lie down and rest,
and look back upon the day's hard labour, and feel that
something has been wrought--that something has been
*won!* and so to sleep--happy here--happy for evermore.
Well, on some natures happiness smiles even here on
earth--God forbid it should be otherwise!--and some
must content themselves with duty instead.  Who knows
which shall have the best of it when all is over?  For
me, it was plain at this period that I must do my *devoir*,
and leave all to Time, the great restorer in the moral, as
he is the great destroyer in the physical, world.  The
years of excitement (none know how strong) that I had
lately passed, followed by a listless, hopeless inactivity,
had produced a reaction on my spirits which it was
necessary to conquer and shake off.  I resolved to return
to England, to set my house in order--to do all the good
in my power, and first of all, strenuously to commence
with that which lay nearest my hand, although it was but
the humble task of nursing my old school-fellow through
an attack of low fever.

My patient possessed one of those strong and yet elastic
natures which even sickness seems unable thoroughly to
subdue.  The Ropsley on a couch of suffering and
lassitude, was the same Ropsley that confronted the enemy's
fire so coolly in the Crimea, and sneered at the follies of
his friends so sarcastically in St. James's street.  Ill as he
was, and utterly prostrated in body, he was clear-headed
and ready-witted as ever.  With the help of a wretchedly
bad grammar, he was rapidly picking up Turkish, by no
means an easy language for a beginner; and, taking
advantage of my society, was actually entering upon the
rudiments of Hungarian, a tongue which it is next to
impossible for any one to acquire who has not spoken it,
as I had done, in earliest childhood.  He was good-humoured
and patient, too, far more than I should have
expected, and was never anxious or irritable, save about
his letters.  I have seen him, however, turn away from a
negative to the eager inquiry "Any letters for me?" with
an expression of heart-sick longing that it pained me to
witness on that usually haughty and somewhat sneering
countenance.

But it came at last.  Not many mornings after our
arrival at Therapia there was a letter for Ropsley, which
seemed to afford him unconcealed satisfaction, and from
that day the Guardsman mended rapidly, and began to
talk of getting up and packing his things, and starting
westward once more.

So it came to pass that, with the help of his servant, I
got him out of bed and dressed him, and laid him on the
sofa at the open window, where he could see the light
caïques dancing gaily on the waters, and the restless
sea-fowl flitting eternally to and fro, and could hear the
shouts of the Turkish boatmen, adjuring each other, very
unnecessarily, not to be too hasty; and the discordant
cries of the Greek population scolding, and cheating, and
vociferating on the quay.

We talked of Hungary.  I loved to talk of it now, for
was it not *her* country of whom I must think no more?
And Ropsley's manner was kinder, and his voice softer,
than I had ever thought it before.  Poor fellow! he was
weak with his illness, perhaps, yet hitherto I had remarked
no alteration in his cold, impassible demeanour.

At last he took my hand, and in a hollow voice he
said--"Vere, you have returned me good for evil.  You
have behaved to me like a brother.  Vere, I believe you
really are a Christian!"

"I hope so," I replied quietly, for what had I but that?

"Yes," he resumed, "but I don't mean conventionally,
because your godfathers and godmothers at your baptism
said you were--I mean *really*.  I don't believe there is a
particle of *humbug* about you.  Can you forgive your
enemies?"

"I have already told you so," I answered; "don't you
remember that night in the trenches? besides, Ropsley, I
shall never consider you my enemy."

"That is exactly what cuts me to the heart," he replied,
flushing up over his wan, wasted face.  "I have injured
you more deeply than any one on earth, and I have
received nothing but kindness in return.  Often and often
I have longed to tell you all--how I had wronged you,
and how I had repented, but my pride forbade me till
to-day.  It is dreadful to think that I might have died,
and never confessed to you how hard and how unfeeling I
have been.  Listen to me, and then forgive me if you
can.  Oh, Vere, Vere!  had it not been for me and my
selfishness, you might have married Constance Beverley!"

I felt I was trembling all over; I covered my face with
my hands and turned away, but I bade him go on.

"Her father was never averse to you from the first.
He liked you, Vere, personally, and still more for the sake
of your father, his old friend.  There was but one
objection.  I need not dwell upon it; and even that he could
have got over, for he was most anxious to see his daughter
married, and to one with whom he could have made his
own terms.  He was an unscrupulous man, Sir Harry,
and dreadfully pressed for money.  When in that predicament
people will do things that at other times they would
be ashamed of, as I know too well.  And the girl too,
Vere, she loved you--I am sure of it--she loved you, poor
girl, with all her heart and soul."

I looked him straight in the face--"Not a word of *her*,
Ropsley, as you are a gentleman!" I said.  Oh, the agony
of that moment! and yet it was not all pain.

"Well," he proceeded, "Sir Harry consulted me about
the match.  You know how intimate we were, you know
what confidence he had in my judgment.  If I had been
generous and honourable, if I had been such a man as *you*,
Vere, how much happier we should all be now; but no,
I had my own ends in view, and I determined to work
out my own purpose, without looking to the right or left,
without turning aside for friend or foe.  Besides, I hardly
knew you then, Vere.  I did not appreciate your good
qualities.  I did not know your courage, and constancy,
and patience, and kindliness.  I did not know yours was
just the clinging, womanly nature, that would never get
over the crushing of its best affections--and I know it
now too well.  Oh, Vere, you never can forgive me!  And
yet," he added, musingly, more to himself than to me,--"and
yet, even had I known all this, had you been my
own brother, I fear my nature was then so hard, so pitiless,
so uncompromising, that I should have gone straight on
towards my aim, and blasted your happiness without
scruple or remorse.  *Remorse*," and the old look came
over him, the old sneering look, that wreathed those
handsome features in the wicked smile of a fallen angel--"if
a man means to *repent* of what he has done, he had better
not *do it*.  My maxim has always been, 'never look
back,'--'*vestigia, nulla retrorsum*'--and yet to-day I
cannot help retracing, ay, and bitterly *regretting*, the
past.

"I have told you I had my own ends in view.  I wished
to marry the heiress myself.  Not that I loved her,
Vere--do not be angry with me for the confession--I never
loved her the least in the world.  She was far too placid,
too conventional, too like other girls, to make the slightest
impression on me.  My ideal of a woman is, a bold, strong
nature, a keen intellect, a daring mind, and a dazzling
beauty that others must fall down and worship.  I never
was one of your sentimentalists.  A violet may be a very
pretty flower, and smell very sweet, but I like a camellia
best, and all the better because you require a hothouse
to raise it in.  But, if I did not care for Miss Beverley,
I cared a good deal for Beverley Manor, and I resolved
that, come what might, Beverley Manor should one day
be mine.  The young lady I looked upon as an encumbrance
that must necessarily accompany the estate.  You
know how intimate I became with her father, you know the
trust he reposed in me, and the habit into which he fell,
of doing nothing without my advice.  That trust, I now
acknowledge to you, I abused shamefully; of that habit
I took advantage, solely to further my own ends, totally
irrespective of my friend.  He confided to me in very
early days his intention of marrying his daughter to the
son of his old friend.  He talked it over with me as a
scheme on which he had set his heart, and, above all,
insisted on the advantage to himself of making, as he
called it, his own terms with you about settlements,
etc.  I have already told you he was involved in
difficulties, from which his daughter's marriage could alone
free him, with the consent of her husband.  I need not
enter into particulars.  I have the deeds and law papers
at my fingers' ends, for I like to understand a business
thoroughly if I embark on it at all, but it is no question
of such matters now.  Well, Vere, at first I was too
prudent to object overtly to the plan.  Sir Harry, as you
know, was an obstinate, wilful man, and such a course
would have been the one of all others most calculated to
wed him more firmly than ever to his original intention;
but I weighed the matter carefully with him day by day,
now bringing forward arguments in favour of it, now
starting objections, till I had insensibly accustomed him
to consider it by no means as a settled affair.  Then I
tried all my powers upon the young lady, and there, I
confess to you freely, Vere, I was completely foiled.  She
never liked me even as an acquaintance, and she took no
pains to conceal her aversion.  How angry she used to
make me sometimes!--I *hated* her so, that I longed to
make her mine, if it were only to humble her, as much as
if I had loved her with all my heart and soul.  Many a
time I used to grind my teeth and mutter to myself,
'Ah! my fair enemy, I shall live to make you rue this
treatment;' and I swore a great oath that, come what
might, she should never belong to Vere Egerton.  I even
tried to create an interest in her mind for Victor de
Rohan, but the girl was as true as steel.  I have been
accustomed to read characters all my life, women's as well
as men's, it is part of my profession;" and Ropsley laughed
once more his bitter laugh; "and many a trifling incident
showed me that Constance Beverley cared for nobody on
earth but you.  This only made me more determined not
to be beat; and little by little, with hints here and
whispers there, assisted by your own strange, solitary
habits, and the history of your poor father's life and death,
I persuaded Sir Harry that there was madness in your
family, and that you had inherited the curse.  From the
day on which he became convinced of this, I felt I had
won my race.  No power on earth would then have
induced him to let you marry his daughter, and the
excuse that he made you on that memorable afternoon,
when you had so gallantly rescued her from death, was
but a gentlemanlike way of getting out of his difficulty
about telling you the real truth.  Vere, that girl's courage
is wonderful.  She came down to dinner that night with
the air of an empress, but with a face like marble, and a
dull, stony look in her eyes that made even me almost rue
what I had done.  She kept her room for a fortnight
afterwards, and I cannot help feeling she has never looked
as bright since.

"When you went away I acknowledge I thought the
field was my own.  In consideration of my almost ruining
myself to preserve him from shame, Sir Harry promised
me his daughter if I could win her consent, and you may
depend upon it I tried hard to do so.  It was all in vain;
the girl hated me more and more, and when we all met
so unexpectedly in Vienna, I saw that my chance of
Beverley Manor was indeed a hopeless one.  Sir Harry,
too, was getting very infirm.  Had he died before his
daughter's marriage, his bills for the money I had lent
him were not worth the stamps on which they were
drawn.  My only chance was her speedy union with some
one rich enough to make the necessary sacrifices, and
again I picked out Victor de Rohan as the man.  We all
thought then you were engaged to his sister Valèrie."

Ropsley blushed scarlet as he mentioned that name.

"And it was not my part to conceal the surmise from
Miss Beverley.  'She was *so* glad, she was *so* thankful,'
she said, 'she was *so* happy, for Vere's sake'; and a
month afterwards she was Countess de Rohan, with the
handsomest husband and the finest place in Hungary.  It
was a *mariage de convenance*, I fear, on both sides.  I know
now, what I allow I did not dream of then, that Victor
himself was the victim of an unfortunate attachment at
the time, and that he married the beautiful Miss Beverley
out of pique.  Sir Harry died, as you know, within three
months.  I have saved myself from ruin, and I have
destroyed the happiness on earth of three people that
never did me the slightest harm.  Vere, I do not deserve
to be forgiven, I do not deserve ever to rise again from
this couch; and yet there is *one* for whose sake I would
fain get well--*one* whom I *must* see yet again before I
die."

He burst into tears as he spoke.  Good heaven! this
man was mortal after all--an erring, sinful mortal, like
the rest of us, with broken pride, heartfelt repentance,
thrilling hopes and fears.  Another bruised reed, though
he had stood so defiant and erect, confronting the
whirlwind and the thunderbolt, but shivered up, and cowering
at the whisper of the "still small voice."  Poor fellow! poor
Ropsley!  I pitied him from my heart, while he hid
his face in his hands, and the big tears forced themselves
through his wasted fingers; freely I forgave him, and
freely I told him so.

After a time he became more composed, and then, as
if ashamed of his weakness, assumed once more the cold
satirical manner, half sarcasm, half pleasantry, which has
become the conventional disguise of the world in which
such men as Ropsley delight to live.  Little by little he
confided to me the rise and progress of his attachment to
Valèrie--at which I had already partly guessed--acknowledged
how, for a long time, he had imagined that I was
again a favoured rival, destined ever to stand in his way;
how my sudden departure from Vienna and her incomprehensible
indifference to that hasty retreat had led him to
believe that she had entertained nothing but a girl's
passing inclination for her brother's comrade; and how,
before he reached his regiment in the Crimea, she had
promised to be his on the conclusion of the war.  "I
never cared for any other woman on earth," said Ropsley,
once more relapsing into the broken accents of real, deep
feeling.  "I never reflected till I knew her, what a life
mine has been.  God forgive me, Vere; if we had met
earlier, I should have been a different man.  I have
received a letter from her to-day.  I shall be well enough
to move by the end of the week.  Vere, I *must* go through
Hungary, and stop at Edeldorf on my way to England!"

As I walked out to inhale the evening breeze and
indulge my own thoughts in solitude by the margin of
the peaceful Bosphorus, I felt almost stunned, like a man
who has sustained a severe fall, or one who wakes suddenly
from an astounding dream.  And yet I might have guessed
long ago at the purport of Ropsley's late revelations.
Diffident as I was of my own merits, there had been
times when my heart told me, with a voice there was no
disputing, that I was beloved by Constance Beverley; and
now it was with something like a feeling of relief and
exhilaration that I recalled the assurance of that fact
from one himself so interested and so difficult to deceive
as Ropsley.  "And she loved me all along," I thought,
with a thrill of pleasure, sadly dashed with pain.  "She
was true and pure, as I always thought her; and even
now, though she is wedded to another, though she never
can be mine on earth, perhaps--"  And here I stopped,
for the cold, sickening impossibility chilled me to the
marrow, and an insurmountable barrier seemed to rise up
around me and hem me in on every side.  It was sin to
love her, it was sin to think of her now.
Oh! misery! misery! and yet I would give my life to see her once
more!  So my good angel whispered in my ear, "You
must never look on her again; for the rest of your time
you must tread the weary path alone, and learn to be
kindly, and pure, and holy for *her* sake."  And self
muttered, "Where would be the harm of seeing her just
once again?--of satisfying yourself with your own eyes
that she is happy?--of learning at once to be indifferent
to her presence?  You *must* go home.  Edeldorf lies in
your direct road to England; you cannot abandon Ropsley
in his present state, with no one to nurse and take care
of him.  Victor is your oldest friend, he would be hurt
if you did not pay him a visit.  It would be more
courageous to face the Countess at once, and get it over."  And
I listened now to one and now to the other, and the
struggle raged and tore within me the while I paced sadly
up and down "by the side of the sounding sea."

"Egerton! how goes it?  Let me present to you my
friends," exclaimed a voice I recognised on the instant,
as, with lowered head and dreamy vision, I walked right
into the centre of a particularly smart party, and was
"brought up," as the sailors say, "all standing," by a
white silk parasol and a mass of flounces that almost took
my breath away.  When you most require solitude, it
generally happens that you find yourself forced into
society, and with all my regard for our *ci-devant* usher, I
never met Manners, now a jolly Colonel of Bashi-Bazouks,
with so little gratification as at this moment.  I am bound
to admit, however, that on his side all was cordiality and
delight.  Dressed out to the utmost magnificence of his
gorgeous uniform, spurs clanking, and sabretasche jingling,
his person stouter, his beard more exuberant, his face
more florid and prosperous than ever, surrounded, too, by
a bevy of ladies of French extraction and Pera manners,
the "soldier of fortune," for such he might fairly be called,
was indeed in his glory.  With many flourishes and
compliments in bad French, I was presented successively to
Mesdemoiselles Philippine, and Josephine, and Seraphine,
all dark-eyed, black-haired, sallow-faced, but by no means
bad-looking, young ladies, all apparently bent upon the
capture and destruction of anything and everything that
came within range of their artillery, and all apparently
belonging equally to my warlike and fortunate friend.
He then took me by the arm, and dropping behind the three
graces aforesaid, informed me, in tones of repressed
exultation, how his fortune was made at last, how he now
commanded (the dearest object of his ambition) a regiment
of actual cavalry, and how he was on the eve of marriage
with one of the young ladies in front of us, with a dowry
of a hundred thousand francs, who loved him to distraction,
and was willing to accompany him to Shumla, there
to take the lead in society, and help him to civilise his
regiment of Bashi-Bazouks.

"I always told you I was fit for something, Egerton,"
said Lieutenant-Colonel Manners, with a glow of
exultation on his simple face; "and I have made my own way
at last, in despite of all obstacles.  It's pluck, sir, that
makes the man! pluck and *muscle*," doubling his arm as
he spoke, in the old Everdon manner.  "I have done it
at last, and you'll see, my dear Egerton, I shall live to be
a general."

"I hope from my heart you may," was my reply, as I
bade him "farewell," and congratulated him on his position,
his good fortune, and his bride; though I never made out
exactly whether it was Mademoiselle Josephine, or
Philippine, or Seraphine who was to enjoy the unspeakable
felicity of becoming Mrs. Colonel Manners.





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.. _`"THE SKELETON"`:

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   CHAPTER XLIII


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   "THE SKELETON"

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It is one of the conventional grievances of the world to
mourn ever the mutability of human affairs, the
ever-recurring changes incidental to that short span of
existence here which we are pleased to term Life, as if the
scenes and characters with which we are familiar were
always being mingled and shifted with the rapidity and
confusion of a pantomime.  It has often struck me that
the circumstances which encircle us do *not* by any means
change with such extraordinary rapidity and facility--that,
like a French road, with its mile after mile of level
fertility and unvarying poplars, our path is sometimes
for years together undiversified by any great variety of
incident, any glimpse of romance; and that the same
people, the same habits, the same pleasures, and the same
annoyances seem destined to surround and hem us in
from the cradle to the grave.  Which is the most numerous
class, those who fear their lot *may* change, or those who
hope it *will*?  Can we make this change for ourselves?
Are we the slaves of circumstances, or is not that the
opportunity of the strong which is the destiny of the
weak?  Surely it must be so--surely the stout heart that
struggles on must win at last--surely man is a free agent;
and he who fails, fails not because his task is impossible,
but that he himself is faint and weak and infatuated
enough to hope that he alone will be an exception to the
common lot, and achieve the prize without the labour,
*Sine pulvere palma*.

The old castle at Edeldorf, at least, is but little changed
from what I recollect it in my quiet boyhood, when with
my dear father I first entered its lofty halls and made
acquaintance with the beautiful blue-eyed child that now
sits at the end of that table, a grown-up, handsome man.
Yes, once more I am at Edeldorf.  Despite all my scruples,
despite all the struggles between my worse and better
self, I could not resist the temptation of seeing her in her
stately home; of satisfying myself with my own eyes that
she was happy, and of bidding her a long and last farewell.
Oh!  I thirsted to see her just once again, only to see
her, and then to go away and meet her never, never more.
Therefore Ropsley and I journeyed through Bulgaria and
up the Danube, and arrived late at Edeldorf, and were
cordially welcomed by Victor, and dressed, and came
down to dinner, and so I saw her.

She was altered, too; so much altered, and yet it was
the well-known face, *her* face still; but there were lines
on the white forehead I remembered once so smooth and
fair, and the eyes were sunk and the cheek pale and
fallen; when she smiled, too, the beautiful lips parted as
sweetly as their wont, but the nether one quivered as
though it were more used to weeping than laughing, and
the smile vanished quickly, and left a deeper shadow as
it faded.  She was not happy.  I was *sure* she was not
happy, and shall I confess it? the certainty was not to
me a feeling of unmixed pain.  I would have given every
drop of blood in my body to make her so, and yet I
could not grieve as I felt I ought to grieve, that it was
otherwise.

Perhaps one of the greatest trials imposed on us by the
artificial state of society in which we live, is the mask of
iron that it forces us to wear for the concealment of all
the deeper and stronger feelings of our nature.  There
we sit in that magnificent hall, hung around with horn
of stag and tusk of boar, and all the trophies of the chase,
waited on by Hungarian retainers in their gorgeous hussar
uniforms, before a table heaped to profusion with the good
things that minister to the gratification of the palate, and
conversing upon those light and frivolous topics beyond
which it is treason to venture, while the hearts probably
of every one of us are far, far distant in some region of
pain unknown and unguessed by all save the secret
sufferers, who hide away their hoarded sorrows under an
exterior of flippant levity, and affect to ignore their
neighbour's wounds as completely as they veil their own.
What care Ropsley or Valèrie whether *perdrix aux
champignons* is or is not a better thing than *dindon aux truffes*?
They are dying to be alone with each other once more--she,
all anxiety to hear of his campaign and his illness;
he, restless and preoccupied till he can tell her of his
plans and prospects, and the arrangements that must
be concluded before he can make her his own.  Both, for
want of a better grievance, somewhat disgusted that the
order of precedence in going to dinner has placed them
opposite each other, instead of side by side.  And yet
Valèrie, who sits by me, seems well pleased to meet her
old friend once more; if I had ever thought she really
cared for me, I should be undeceived now, when I mark
the joyous frankness of her manner, the happy blush that
comes and goes upon her cheek, and the restless glances
that ever and anon she casts at her lover's handsome
face through the epergne of flowers and fruit that divides
them.  No, they think as little of the ball of conversation
which we jugglers toss about to each other, and
jingle and play with and despise, as does the pale stately
Countess herself, with her dark eyes and her dreamy look
apparently gazing far into another world.  She is not
watching Victor, she seems scarcely aware of his presence:
and yet many a young wife as beautiful, as high-spirited,
and as lately married, would sit uneasily at the top of her
own table, would frown, and fret, and chafe to see her
handsome husband so preoccupied by another as is the
Count by the fair guest on his right hand--who but
wicked Princess Vocqsal?

That lady has, according to custom, surrounded herself
by a system of fortification wherewith, as it were, she
seems metaphorically to set the world at defiance: a
challenge which, to do her justice, the Princess is ever
ready to offer, the antagonist not always willing to accept.
She delights in being the object of small attentions, so
she invariably requires a footstool, an extra cushion or
two, and a flask of eau de Cologne, in addition to her
bouquet, her fan, her gloves, her pocket-handkerchief, and
such necessary articles of female superfluity.  With these
outworks and fences within which to retire on the failure
of an attack, it is easy to carry out a system of aggressive
warfare; and whether it is the presence of his wife that
makes the amusement particularly exciting, or whether
Count de Rohan has made himself to-day peculiarly
agreeable, or whether it is possible, though this
contingency is extremely unlikely, that the Prince has *told
her not*, certainly Madame la Princesse is taking unusual
pains, and that most unnecessarily, to bring Victor into
more than common subjection to her fascinations.

She is without contradiction the best-dressed woman
in the room; her light gossamer robe, fold upon fold, and
flounce upon flounce, floats around her like a drapery of
clouds; her gloves fit her to a miracle; her exquisitely-shaped
hands and round white arms bear few ornaments,
but these are of the rarest and costliest description;
her blooming, fresh complexion accords well with those
luxuriant masses of soft brown hair escaping here and
there from its smooth shining folds in large glossy curls.
Her rich red lips are parted with a malicious smile, half
playful, half coquettish, that is inexpressibly provoking
and attractive; while, although the question as to whether
she does really rouge or not is still undecided, her blue
eyes seem positively to dance and sparkle in the
candle-light.  Her voice is low, and soft, and silvery; all she
says racy, humorous, full of meaning, and to the point.
Poor Victor de Rohan!

He, too, is at first in unusually high spirits; his
courteous, well-bred manner is livelier than his wont, but
the deferential air with which he responds to his
neighbour's gay remarks is dashed by a shade of sarcasm, and
I, who know him so well, can detect a tone of bitter irony
in his voice, can trace some acute inward pang that ever
and anon convulses for a moment his frank, handsome
features.  I am sure he is ill at ease, and dissatisfied with
himself.  I observe, too, that, though he scarcely touches
the contents of his plate, his glass is filled again and
again to the brim, and he quaffs off his wine with the
eager feverish thirst of one who seeks to drown reflection
and remorse in the Lethean draught.  Worst sign of all,
and one which never fails to denote mental suffering, his
spirits fall in proportion to his potations, and that which
in a well-balanced nature "makes glad the heart of man,"
seems but to clog the wings of Victor's fancy, and to sink
him deeper and deeper in despondency.  Ere long he
becomes pale, silent, almost morose, and the charming
Princess has all the conversation to herself.

But one individual in the party attends thoroughly to
the business in hand.  Without doubt, for the time being
he has the best of it.  Prince Vocqsal possesses an
excellent appetite, a digestion, as he says himself, that, like
his conscience, can carry a great weight and be all the
better for it; a faultless judgment in wine, and a tendency
to enjoy the pleasures of the table, enhanced, if possible,
by the occasional fit of gout with which this indulgence
must unfortunately be purchased.  Fancy-free is the
Prince, and troubled neither by memories of the past,
misgivings for the present, nor anxieties for the future.
Many such passive natures there are--we see them every
day.  Men who are content to take the world as it is,
and, like the ox in his pasture, browse, and bask, and
ruminate, and never wish to overleap the boundary that
forbids them to wander in the flowery meadow beyond.
And yet it may be that these too have once bathed in the
forbidden stream, the lava-stream that scorches and sears
where it touches; it may be that the heart we deem so
hard, so callous, has been welded in the fire, and beaten
on the anvil, till it has assumed the consistency of steel.
It winced and quivered once, perhaps nearly broke, and
now it can bid defiance even to the memory of pain.
Who knows? who can tell his neighbour's history, or
guess his neighbour's thoughts? who can read the truth,
even in the depth of those eyes that look the fondest into
his own?  Well! there is One that knows all secrets, and
He will judge, but not as man judges.

So Prince Vocqsal thinks not of the days that are past,
the hearts he has broken, the friends he has lost, the
duels he has fought, the money he has squandered, the
chances he has thrown away; or, if he does allow his
mind to dwell for an instant on such trifles, it is with a
sort of dreamy satisfaction at the quantity of enjoyment
he has squeezed out of life, tinged with a vague regret
that so much of it is over.  Why, it was but to-day that,
as he dressed for dinner, he apostrophised the grimacing
image in his looking-glass,--"Courage, *mon gaillard*,"
muttered the Prince, certainly not to his valet, who was
tightening his waistbelt, "courage! you are worth a good
many of the young ones, still, and your appetite is as
good as it was at sixteen."

He is splendid now, though somewhat apoplectic.  His
wig curls over his magnificent head in hyacinthine
luxuriance, his dyed whiskers and moustache blush purple
in the candlelight; his neckcloth is tied somewhat too
tight, and seems to have forced more than a wholesome
quantity of blood into his face and eyes, but its whiteness
is dazzling, and the diamond studs beneath it are of
extraordinary brilliance; nor does his waistbelt, though it
defies repletion, modify in any great degree the goodly
outline of the corpulent person it enfolds.  Altogether he
is a very jolly-looking old gentleman, and the only one of
the party that seems for the nonce to be "the right man
in the right place."

Constance listens to him with a weary, abstracted air;
perhaps she has heard that story about the bear and the
waterfall once or twice before, perhaps she does not hear
it now, but she bends her head courteously towards him,
and looks kindly at him from out of her deep, sad eyes.

"Champagne, if you please," says the Prince, interrupting
the thread of his narrative, by holding up his
glass to be replenished; "and so, Madame, the bear and
I were *vis-à-vis* at about ten paces apart, and my rifle was
empty.  The last shot had taken effect through his lungs,
and he coughed and held his paw to the pit of his
stomach, so like a Christian with a cold, that, even in
my very precarious position, I could not help laughing
outright.  Ten paces is a short distance, Madame, a
very short distance, when your antagonist feels himself
thoroughly aggrieved, and advances upon you with a red,
lurid eye, and a short angry growl.  I turned and looked
behind me for a run--I was always a good runner,"
remarks the Prince, with a downward glance of satisfaction,
the absurdity of which, I am pained to see, does not
even call a smile to his listener's pale face--"but it was
no question of running here, for the waterfall was leaping
and foaming forty feet deep below, and the trees were so
thick on either side, that escape by a flank movement
was impossible.  It was the very spot, Victor, where I
killed the woodcocks right and left the morning you
disappointed me so shamefully, and left me to have all the
sport to myself."--Victor bows courteously, drinks her
husband's health, and glances at the Princess with a bitter
smile.--"The very spot where I hope you will place me
to-morrow at your grand *chasse*.  Peste! 'tis strange how
passionately fond I still am of the chase.  Well, Madame,
indecision is not usually my weakness, but before I could
make up my mind what to do, the bear was upon me.
In an instant he embraced me with his huge hairy arms,
and I felt his hot breath against my very face.  My rifle
was broken short off by the stock, and I heard my watch
crack in my waistcoat pocket.  I thought it was my ribs.
I have seen your wrestlers in England, Madame, and I
have once assisted in your country at an exhibition of
'*The Box*' but such an encounter as I now had to sustain
was more terrible than anything I ever witnessed fought
out fairly between man and man.  Fortunately a ball
through the back part of the head, and another through
the lungs, had somewhat diminished the natural force of
my adversary, or I must have succumbed; and by a great
exertion of strength on my part, I managed to liberate
one hand and make a grasp for my hunting-knife.  Horror! it
had fallen from the sheath, but by the mercy of Heaven
and the blessing of St. Hubert, it had caught in my boot,
and I never felt before how dear life was as when I
touched the buckhorn handle of my last friend; three,
four times in succession I buried the long keen blade in
the bear's side; at each thrust he gave a quick,
convulsive sob, but he strained me tighter and tighter to his
body, till I thought my very blood-vessels would burst
with the fearful pressure.  At last we fell, and rolled over
and over towards the waterfall.  In the hasty glance I
had previously cast behind me, I had remarked a dead
fir-tree that stood within a yard or so of the precipice;
I remember the thought had darted through my mind,
that if I could reach it I might be safe, and the reflection
as instantaneously followed, that a bear was a better
climber than a Hungarian.  Never shall I forget my
sensations when, in our last revolution, I caught a glimpse
of that naked tree.  I shut my eyes then, for I knew it
was all over, but I gave him one more stab, and a hearty
one, with my hunting-knife.  Splash! we reached the
water together, and went down like a couple of stones,
down, down to the very bottom, but fortunately it was
the deepest part of the pool, and we unclosed our embrace
the instant we touched the surface--the bear, I believe,
was dead before he got there, and I thought myself
fortunate in being able to swim ashore, whilst the brown
body of my late antagonist went tumbling and whirling
down the foaming torrent below.  I recovered his skin,
Madame, to make a cover for my arm-chair, but I have
never been fond of water since.  Give me a glass of
Tokay, if you please."

"And did you sustain no further harm from your
encounter?" asked Constance, rousing herself from her
abstraction with an effort, and bending politely towards
the Prince, who was drinking his Tokay with immense
satisfaction.

"Only the marks of his claws on my shoulder," replied
he, smacking his lips after his draught.  "I have got
them there to this day.  Is it not so, Rose?" he added,
appealing to his wife with a hearty laugh.

She turned her head away without condescending to
notice him.  Victor bit his lip with a gesture of
impatience, and the Countess, rising slowly and gracefully,
gave her hand to the Prince to lead her back to the
drawing-room, whither we all followed in the same order
as that in which we had proceeded to dinner.

"Do you not feel like a wounded man once more?"
observed Valèrie, gaily, to me, as I stood, coffee-cup in
hand, with my back to the fireplace, like a true Englishman.
"Is it not all exactly as you left it? the easiest
arm-chair and my eternal embroidery-frame, and your
own sofa where you used to lie so wonderfully patient,
and look out of window at the sunset.  Constance has
established herself there now, and considers it her peculiar
property.  Oh, Vere (I shall always call you Vere), is she
not charming?  I am so fond of her!"

Slow torture! but never mind, it is but for to-night--this
experiment must never be repeated.  Go on, Countess
Valèrie, happy, unconscious executioner.

"You English people are delightful, when one knows
you well, although at first you are so cold and
undemonstrative.  Now, Constance, though she is so quiet and
melancholy-looking, though she never laughs, and rarely
smiles, has the energy and the activity of a dozen women
when it is a question of doing good.  You have no idea
of what she is here amongst our own people.  They
worship the very ground she walks on--they call her 'the
good angel of Edeldorf.'  But she over-exerts herself;
she is not strong: she looks ill, very ill.  Vere, do you not
think so?"

For the first time since we entered the drawing-room
I glanced in the direction of the Countess de Rohan, but
her face was turned from me; she was still occupied with
Prince Vocqsal, who, old enough to appreciate the value
of a good listener, was devoting himself entirely to her
amusement.  No, I could not see the pale, well-known
face, but the light streamed off her jet-black hair, and
memory probed me to the quick as its shining masses
recalled the wet, heavy locks of one whose life I saved in
Beverley Mere.

"Come and play the march in 'The Honijàdy,'" said
Ropsley, leading his *fiancée* gaily off to the pianoforte.
"*On revient toujours à ses premiers amours*, but I really
cannot allow you to flirt with Egerton any more," he
added, with a smile of such thorough confidence and
affection in his promised bride as altered the whole
expression of his countenance, and lit it up with a beauty I
had never before imagined it to possess.

"Not *that*," she answered, looking anxiously round,
"but 'Cheer, boys! cheer!' as often as you like, now we
have got you back again."  And they walked away
together, a happy, handsome pair as one should wish
to see.

I could not have borne it much longer.  I gasped for
solitude as a man half-stifled gasps for air.  With an
affectation of leisurely indifference, I strolled into the
adjoining billiard-room.  I passed close to the Countess,
but she never turned her head, so engrossed was she with
the conversation of Prince Vocqsal.  I walked on through
the spacious conservatory.  I even stopped to examine an
exotic as I passed.  At length I reached a balcony in
which that structure terminated, and sinking into a chair
that stood in one corner, out of sight and interruption, I
leaned my forehead against the cold iron railing, and
prayed for fortitude and resignation to my lot.

The fresh night air cooled and composed me.  A bright
moonlight flickered and glistened over the park.  The
tones of Valèrie's pianoforte, softened by distance, stole
sadly, yet soothingly, on my ear.  The autumn breeze,
hushed to a whisper, seemed to breathe of peace and
consolation.  I felt that the strength I had asked would
be given; that though the fight was not yet over, it
would be won at last; that although, alas! the sacrifice
was still to be offered, I should have power to make it,
and the higher the cost, the holier, the more acceptable
it would be.  More than once the Devil's sophistry
prompted me to repine; more than once I groaned aloud
to think that *she*, too, was sacrificed unworthily, that her
happiness, like my own, was lost beyond recall.  "Oh," I
thought, in the bitterness of my agony, "I could have
given her up to one that *loved* her, I could have rejoiced
in her welfare, and forgotten *myself* in the certainty of
her happiness.  I could have blessed him thankfully for
his care and tenderness towards that transplanted flower,
and lived on contented, if not happy, to think that I had
not offered up my own broken heart in vain; but to see
her neglected and pining--her dignity insulted--her
rights trampled on--another, immeasurably her inferior,
filling the place in her husband's affections to which she
had an undoubted right!  Victor!  Victor! you were my
earliest friend, and yet I can almost *curse* you from my
soul!"

But soon my better nature triumphed; I saw the path
of duty plain before me, I determined to follow it, and
struggle on, at whatever cost.  I had lived for her all my
life.  I would live for her still.  Perhaps when I became
an old grey man she would know it; perhaps--never in
this life--perhaps she might bless me for it in another;
but it should be done!  Could I but make a certainty of
Victor's *liaison* with the Princess, could I but obtain *a
right* to speak to him on the subject!  I would make him
one last appeal that should *force* him back to his duty.
I would, if necessary, tell him the whole truth, and shame
him by my own sacrifice into the right path.  I felt a
giant's strength and a martyr's constancy; once more I
leaned my head upon the cold iron rail, and the
opportunity that I asked for seemed to come when I least
expected it.

In such a mood as I then was, a man takes no note of
time; I could not tell how long I had been sitting there
in the solemn peaceful night, it might have been minutes,
it might have been hours, but at length the click of
billiard-balls, which had been hitherto audible in the
adjoining apartment, ceased altogether, a man's step and
the rustle of a lady's dress were heard in the conservatory,
and when they reached within six paces of me,
Victor placed a chair for Princess Vocqsal under the
spreading branches of a brilliant azalea, and seated
himself at her side.  She dropped her bracelet on the smooth
tesselated floor as she sat down; he picked it up and
clasped it on her arm: as he did so I caught a glimpse of
his face: he was deadly pale, and as he raised his eyes to
hers, their wild mournful appealing glance reminded me
of poor Bold's last look when he died licking my hand.
The Princess, on the contrary, shone if possible more
brilliant than ever; there was a settled flush, as of
triumph, on her cheek, and her whole countenance bore
an impress of determined, uncompromising resolution,
which I had already remarked as no uncommon expression
on those lovely features.

My first impulse was to confront them at once, and take
my departure; but I have already said I suffered from
constitutional shyness to a great degree, and I was
unwilling to face even my old friend with such traces of
strong emotion as I knew must be visible on my exterior.
I was most unwilling to play the eavesdropper.  I felt
that, as a man of honour, I was inexcusable in not
instantly apprising them of my presence; yet some strange,
inexplicable fascination that I could not resist, seemed
to force me to remain where I was, unnoticed and
unsuspected.  Ere they had spoken three words I was in
possession of the whole truth, that truth which a few
minutes earlier I had been so anxious to ascertain.  I do
not attempt to excuse my conduct, I am aware that it
admits of no palliation, that no one can be guilty of an
act of espial and still remain *a gentleman*; but I state
the fact as it occurred, and can only offer in extenuation
the fever of morbid excitement into which I had worked
myself, and my unwavering resolution to save Victor, in
spite of his own infatuation, for her sake in whose behalf
I did not hesitate thus to sacrifice even my honour.

"Anything but *that*, Rose, my adored Rose; anything
but that," pleaded the Count; and his voice came thick
and hoarse, whilst his features worked convulsively with
the violence of his feelings.  "Think of what I have
been to you, think of all my devotion, all my self-denial.
You cannot doubt me: it is impossible; you cannot
mistrust me *now*; but, as you have a woman's heart, ask me
for anything but *that*."

She was clasping and unclasping the bracelet he had
placed upon her arm, her head drooped over the jewel,
but she raised her soft lustrous eyes to his, and with a
witching, maddening glance, of which he knew too well
the power, murmured--

"Give it me, Victor, *dear* Victor! you have never
refused me anything since I have known you."

"Nor would I now, were it anything that is in my
power to give," he burst out hurriedly, and in accents of
almost childish impatience; "I tell you, that for your
sake I would cast everything to the winds--fortune,
friends, home, country, life itself.  Drop by drop, you
should have the best blood in my body, and I would
thank you and bless you for accepting it; but this is
more than all, Rose--this is my honour.  Could you bear
to see me a disgraced and branded man? could you bear
to feel that I *deserved* to have my arms reversed and my
name scouted?  Could you care for me if it were so?  Oh,
Rose, you have never loved me if you ask for this!"

"Perhaps you are right," she answered coldly, "perhaps
I never did.  You have often told me I am very
hard-hearted--Victor," she added, after a pause, with a sudden
change of manner, and another of those soft fond looks
that made such wild work with her victim--"do you think
I would ask a man I did not care for to make such a
sacrifice?  Oh, Victor! you little know a woman's
heart--you have cruelly mistaken mine."

The fond eyes filled with tears as she spoke.  Victor
was doomed.  I knew it from that moment.  He scarcely
made an effort to save himself now.

"And you ask for this as a last proof of my devotion.
You are not satisfied yet.  It is not enough that I have
given you the whole happiness of my life, you must have
that life itself as well--nay, even that is too little," he
added with bitter emphasis, "I must offer up the unstained
honour of the De Rohans in addition to all!"

Another of those speaking, thrilling glances.  Oh, the
old, old story!  Samson and Delilah--Hercules and
Omphale--Antony and Cleopatra, on the ruins of an
empire--or plain Jack and Gill at the fair.  Man's
weakness is woman's opportunity, and so the world goes on.

"Victor," she said, "it is for *my* sake."

The colour mounted in his cheek, and he rose to his
feet like a man.  The old look I had missed all the
evening on his face came back once more, the old look that
reminded me of shouting squadrons by the Danube, and
a dash to the front with AH Mesrour and brave Iskender
Bey.  His blood was up, and his lance in rest now, stop
him who can!

"So be it," he said, calmly and distinctly, but with his
teeth clenched and his nostril dilated, like that of a
thorough-bred horse after a gallop.  "So be it! and never
forget, Rose, in the long dark future, never forget that it
was for your sake: and now listen to me.  I betray my
own and my father's friends, I complete an act of treachery
such as is yet unknown in the annals of my country, such
as her history shall curse for its baseness till the end of
time.  I devote to ruin and death a score of the noblest
families, a score of the proudest heads in Hungary.  I
stain my father's shield, I break my own oaths.  Life, and
honour, and all, I cast away at one throw, and, Rose, it is
for your sake!"

She was weeping now--weeping convulsively, with her
face buried in her hands; but he heeded it not, and went
on--

"All this I am willing to do, Rose, because I love you;
but mark the consequence.  As surely as I deliver you
this list"--he drew a paper from his breast as he
spoke--"so surely I proclaim my treachery to the world, so surely
I give myself over to the authorities, so surely I march
up to the scaffold at the head of that devoted band who
were once my friends, and though they think it shame
that their blood should soak the same planks as mine,
though they turn from me in disgust, even on the verge
of another world, so surely will I die amongst them as
boldly, as unflinchingly, as the most stainless patriot of
them all!"

"No, no," she sobbed out; "never, never; do you think
I have no feeling? do you think I have no heart?  I
have provided for your safety long ago.  I have got your
free pardon in a written promise, your life and fortune
are secure, your share in the discovery will never be made
known.  Victor, do you think I have not taken care
of *you*?"

Even then his whole countenance softened.  This man,
whose proud spirit she had so often trampled on, whose
kind heart she had so often wounded, from whom she
asked so much--ay, so much as his bitterest enemy would
have shrunk from taking--was ready and willing to give
her all, and to bless the very hand that smote him to the
death.  He spoke gently and caressingly now.  He bent
over her chair, and looked down at her with kind, sad eyes.

"Not so," he said, "Rose, not so.  I am glad you did
not sacrifice me.  I like to think you would have saved
me if you could; but I cannot accept the terms.
To-morrow is my birthday, Rose.  It is St. Hubert's day,
and I have a grand *chasse* here, as you know.  Many of
these devoted gentlemen will be at Edeldorf to-morrow.
Give us at least that one day.  In twenty-four hours from
this time you can forward your information to Vienna;
after that, you and I will meet no more on earth.  Rose,
dear Rose," he murmured, as he placed the paper in her
hand, "it is the *last* present I shall give you--make the
most of it."

Why did she meddle with politics, woman as she was
in her heart of hearts?  What had she to do with Monsieur
Stein, and Government intrigues, and a secret police, and
all that complicated machinery which is worked by gold
alone, and in which the feelings count for nothing?  State
information might go to other quarters; fortunes be made
on the Bourse by other speculators; her husband wait for
his appointment till doomsday, and the attainder remain
unreversed on the estates in the Banat as long as the
Danube flowed downward from its source;--what cared
Princess Vocqsal?  She looked up, smiling through her
tears, like a wet rose in the sunshine.  She took the list
from his hand; once, twice, she pressed the paper to her
lips, then tore it in a thousand fragments, and scattered
them abroad over the shining floor of the conservatory, to
mingle with the shed blossoms of the azalea, to be swept
away with the decayed petals of the camellias, to be
whirled hither and thither by the breeze of morning to
oblivion, but to rise up between her and him who now
stood somewhat aghast by her side, never, never more!

She put her hand almost timidly in his.  "Victor," she
said, in a soft, low voice, "you have conquered.  I am
yours now in defiance of all.  Oh, Victor, Victor, you do
indeed love me!"

He looked startled, scared, almost as if he could not
understand her; he shook in every limb, whilst she was
composed and even dignified.

"Yes," she said, rising from her chair, "I will trifle with
you no longer now.  I know what I do; I see the gulf
into which I plunge.  Misery, ruin, and crime are before
me; but I fear *nothing*.  Victor de Rohan! when I leave
Edeldorf, I leave it with you, and with you I remain for
ever."

They walked out of the conservatory side by side.  I
do not think they exchanged another word; and I
remained stunned, motionless, stupefied, like a man who
wakes from some ghastly and bewildering dream.

The striking of the Castle clock roused me to
consciousness--to a conviction of the importance of time, and
the necessity for immediate action.  It was now midnight.
Early to-morrow we should all be on the alert for the
grand battue on the Waldenberg, for which preparations
had been making for several days.  I should scarcely have
an opportunity of speaking in private to my friend, and
the day after it might be too late.  No, to-night I must
see Victor before he slept: to-night I must warn him
from the abyss into which he was about to fall, confess to
him the dishonourable act of which I had been guilty,
sustain his anger and contempt as I best might, and plead
her cause whom I must never see again.  More than
once--I will not deny it--a rebellious feeling rose in my
heart.  Why are these things so?  Why is she not mine
whom I have loved so many dark and lonely years?  Why
must Victor, after the proof he has given to-night of more
than human devotion, never be happy with her for whose
sake he did not hesitate to offer up all that was far dearer
to him than life?  But I had long learnt the true lesson,
that "Whatever is, is right"--that Providence sees not
with our eyes, nor judges with our judgment; and that
we must not presume to question, much less dare to
repine.  I hurried through the billiard-room towards
Victor's apartments; I had then to traverse the drawing-room,
and a little snug retreat in which it used to be our
custom to finish the evening with a social cigar, and to
which, in former days Valèrie was sometimes to be
prevailed upon to bring her work.  Here I found Ropsley
and Prince Vocqsal comfortably established, apparently
with no idea of going to bed yet for hours.  They had
never met till to-day, but seemed to suit each other
admirably, all that was ludicrous in the Prince's character
and conversation affording a ceaseless fund of amusement
to the Guardsman; while the latter's high prowess as a
sportsman, and intimate acquaintance with the turf,
rendered him an object of great interest and admiration
to the enthusiastic Hungarian.  Ropsley, with restored
health and his ladye-love under the same roof with him,
was in the highest spirits, and no wonder.

"Don't run away, Vere," said he, catching me by the
arm as I passed behind his chair; "it's quite early yet.
Have a quiet weed before turning in."  Adding, in an
amused whisper, "He's an immense trump, this!  That's
his third cigar and his fourth tumbler of brandy-and-soda
since we came here; and he's telling me now how he once
pinked a fellow in the Bois de Boulogne for wearing
revolutionary shirt buttons.  In English, too, my dear
fellow; it's as good as a play."

Even as he spoke I heard a door shut in the passage,
and I hurried away, leaving the new acquaintances
delighted with each other's society.

In the gallery I met Victor's French valet with a
bundle of clothes over his arm, humming an air from a
French opera.  "Could I see the Count?"  "Alas!  I
was a few seconds too late!"  The valet "was in despair--he
was desolate--it was impossible.  Monsieur had even
now retired to the apartments of Madame!"  "I must do
it to-morrow," thought I; "perhaps I may find an opportunity
when the *chasse* is over."  And I went to bed with
a heavy, aching heart.





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.. _`THE GIPSY'S DREAM`:

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   CHAPTER XLIV


.. class:: center medium

   THE GIPSY'S DREAM

.. vspace:: 2

It is a calm, clear night; a narrow crescent moon, low
down on the horizon, scarcely dims the radiance of those
myriads of stars which gem the entire sky.  It is such a
night as would have been chosen by the Chaldean to read
his destiny on the glittering page above his head--such
a night as compels us perforce to think of other matters
than what we shall eat and what we shall drink--as
brings startlingly to our minds the unsolved question,
Which is Reality--the Material of to-day or the Ideal of
to-morrow?  Not a cloud obscures the diamond-sprinkled
vault above; not a tree, not an undulation, varies the
level plain extending far and wide below.  Dim and
indistinct, its monotonous surface presents a vague idea
of boundless space, the vastness of which is enhanced by
the silence that reigns around.  Not a breath of air is
stirring, not a sound is heard save the lazy plash and
ripple of the Danube, as it steals away under its low
swampy banks, sluggish and unseen.  Yet there is life
breathing in the midst of this apparent solitude: human
hearts beating, with all their hopes and fears, and joys
and sorrows, in this isolated spot.  Even here beauty
pillows her head on the broad chest of strength; infancy
nestles to the refuge of a mother's bosom; weary labour
lies prone and helpless, with relaxed muscles and limp,
powerless limbs; youth dreams of love, and age of youth;
and sleep spreads her welcome mantle over the hardy
tribe who have chosen this wild waste of Hungary for
their lair.

It is long past midnight; their fires have been out for
hours; their tents are low and dusky, in colour almost
like the plain on which they are pitched; you might ride
within twenty yards of it, and never know you were near
a gipsy's encampment, for the Zingynie loves to be
unobserved and secret in his movements; to wander here
and there, with no man's leave and no man's knowledge;
to come and go unmarked and untrammelled as the wind
that lifts the elf-locks from his brow.  So he sleeps equally
well under the coarse canvas of a tent or the roof of a
clear cold sky; he pays no rent, he owns no master, and
he believes that, of all the inhabitants of earth, he alone
is free.

And now a figure rises from amongst the low dusky
tents, and comes out into the light of the clear starry sky,
and looks steadfastly towards the east as if watching for
the dawn, and turns a fevered cheek to the soft night air,
as yet not fresh and cold enough to promise the approach
of day.  It is the figure of a woman past the prime of
life, nay, verging upon age, but who retains all the majesty
and some remains of the beauty which distinguished her
in bygone days; who even now owns none of the decay
of strength or infirmity of gait which usually accompanies
the advance of years, but who looks, as she always did,
born to command, and not yet incapable of enforcing
obedience to her behests.  It is none other than the
Zingynie queen who prophesied the future of Victor de
Rohan when he was a laughing golden-haired child; whose
mind is anxious and ill at ease for the sake of her darling
now, and who draws her hood further over her head, binds
her crimson handkerchief tighter on her brows, and looks
once more with anxious glance towards the sky, as she
mutters--

"Three hours to dawn, and then six more till noon;
and once, girl, thou wast light-footed and untiring as the
deer.  Girl!" and she laughs a short, bitter laugh.  "Well,
no matter--girl, or woman, or aged crone, the heart is
always the same; and I will save him--save him, for the
sake of the strong arm and the fair, frank face that have
been mouldering for years in the grave!"

She is wandering back into the past now.  Vivid and
real as though it had happened but yesterday, she recalls
a scene that took place many a long year ago in the
streets of Pesth.  She was a young, light-hearted maiden
then: the acknowledged beauty of her tribe, the swiftest
runner, the most invincible pedestrian to be found of
either sex in the bounds of Hungary.  Not a little proud
was she of both advantages, and it was hard to say on
which she plumed herself the most.  In those days, as
in many others of its unhappy history, that country was
seething with internal faction and discontent; and the
Zingynies, from their wandering habits, powers of
endurance, and immunity from suspicion, were constantly chosen
as the bearers of important despatches and the means of
communication between distant conspirators, whilst they
were themselves kept in utter ignorance of the valuable
secrets with which they were entrusted.

The gipsy maiden had come up to Pesth on an errand
of this nature all the way from the Banat.  Many a flat
and weary mile it is; yet though she had rested but
seldom and partaken sparingly of food, the girl's eye was
as bright, her step as elastic, and her beauty as dazzling
as when she first started on her journey.  In such a town
as the capital of Hungary she could not fail to attract
attention and remark.  Ere long, while she herself was
feasting her curiosity with innocent delight on the
splendours of the shop windows and the many wonders
of a city so interesting to this denizen of the wilderness,
she found herself the centre of a gazing and somewhat
turbulent crowd, whose murmurs of approbation at her
beauty were not unmixed with jeers and even threats of
a more formidable description.  Swabes were they mostly,
and Croatians, who formed this disorderly mob; for your
true Hungarian, of whatever rank, is far too much of a
gentleman to mix himself up with a street riot or vulgar
brawl, save upon the greatest provocation.  There had
been discontent brewing for days amongst the lowest
classes; the price of bread had gone up, and there was
a strong feeling abroad against the landholders, and what
we should term in England the agricultural interest
generally.

The mob soon recognised in the Zingynie maiden one
of the messengers of their enemies.  From taunts and
foul abuse they proceeded to overt acts of insolence; and
the handsome high-spirited girl found herself at bay,
surrounded by savage faces, and rude, insulting tongues.
Soon they began to hustle and maltreat her, with cries
of "Down with the gipsy!"--"Down with the go-between
of our tyrants!"--"To the stake with the fortune-teller!"--"To
the Danube with the witch!"  Imprudently she
drew her long knife and flashed it in the faces of the
foremost; for an instant the curs gave back, but it was
soon struck from her hand, and any immunity that her
youth and beauty might have won from her oppressors
was, by this ill-judged action, turned to more determined
violence and aggression.  Already they had pinioned her
arms, and were dragging her towards the river--already
she had given herself up for lost, when a lane was seen
opening in the crowd, and a tall powerful man came
striding to her rescue, and, as he elbowed and jostled his
way through her tormentors, asked authoritatively, "What
was the matter, and how they could dare thus to maltreat
a young and beautiful girl?"

"She is a witch!" replied one ruffian who had hold of
her by the wrist, "and we are going to put her in the
Danube.  *You* are an aristocrat, and you shall keep her
company!"

"Shall I?" replied the stranger, and in another instant
the insolent Swabe, spitting out a mouthful of blood and
a couple of front teeth, measured his length upon the
pavement.  The crowd began to retire, but they were fierce
and excited, and their numbers gave them confidence.  A
comrade of the fallen ruffian advanced upon the champion
with bared knife and scowling brow.  Another of those
straight left-handers, delivered flush from the shoulder,
and he lay prostrate by his friend.  The stranger had
evidently received his fighting education in England, and
the instructions of science had not been thrown away on
that magnificent frame and those heavy muscular limbs.
It was indeed no other than the last Count de Rohan,
Victor's father, the associate of the Prince of Wales, the
friend of Philip Egerton and Sir Harry Beverley: lastly,
what was more to the purpose at the present juncture,
the pupil of the famous Jackson.  Ere long the intimidated
mob ceased to interfere, and the nobleman, conducting
the frightened gipsy girl with as much deference as
though she had been his equal in rank and station, never
left her till he had placed her in his own carriage, and
forwarded her, with three or four stout hussars as her
escort, half-way back on her homeward journey.  There
is a little bit of romance safe locked up and hidden away
somewhere in a corner of every woman's heart.  What
was the great Count de Rohan to the vagabond Zingynie
maiden but a "bright particular star," from which she
must always remain at a hopeless and immeasurable
distance?  Yet even now, though her hair is grey and
her brow is wrinkled--though she has loved and suffered,
and borne children and buried them, and wept and
laughed, and hoped and feared, and gone the round of
earthly joys and earthly sorrows--the colour mounts to
her withered cheek, and the blood gathers warmer round
her heart, when she thinks of that frank, handsome face,
with its noble features and its fearless eyes, and the
kindly smile with which it bade her farewell.  Therefore
has she always felt a thrilling interest in all that
appertains to the Count de Rohan; therefore has she mourned
him with many a secret tear and many a hidden pang;
therefore has she loved and cherished and watched over
his child as though he had been her own, exhausting all
her skill and all her superstition to prognosticate for him
a happy future--to ward off from him the evil that she
reads too surely in the stars will be his lot.

Once she has warned him--twice she has warned him--will
the third time be too late?  She shudders to think
how she has neglected him.  To-morrow--nay, to-day
(for it is long past midnight), is the anniversary of his
birth, the festival of St. Hubert, and she would have
passed it over unnoticed, would have forgotten it, but for
last night's dream.  The coming morning strikes chill to
her very marrow as she thinks what a strange, wild, eerie
dream it was.

She dreamed that she was sitting by the Danube; far,
far away down yonder, where its broad yellow flood,
washing the flat, fertile shores of Moldavia, sweeps onward to
the Black Sea, calm, strong, and not to be stemmed by
mortal hand, like the stream of Time--like the course of
destiny.

Strange voices whispered in her ears, mingled with the
plash and ripple of the mighty river; voices that she
could not recognise, yet of which she felt an uncomfortable
consciousness that she had heard them before.  It was early
morning, the raw mist curled over the waters, and her
hair--how was this?--once more black and glossy as the
raven's wing, was dank and dripping with dew.  There
was a babe, too, in her lap, and she folded the child
tighter to her bosom for warmth and comfort.  It nestled
and smiled up in her face, though it was none of hers; no
gipsy blood could be traced in those blue eyes and golden
locks; it was De Rohan's heir: how came it here?  She
asked the question aloud, and the voices answered all at
once and confusedly, with an indistinct and rushing sound.
Then they were silent, and the river plashed on.

She felt very lonely, and sang to the child for company
a merry gipsy song.  And the babe laughed and crowed,
and leapt in her arms with delight, and glided from her
hands; and the waters closed over its golden head, and
it was gone.  Then the voices moaned and shrieked, still
far away, dim and indistinct; and the river plashed
sullenly on.

But the child rose from the waves, and looked back and
smiled, and shook the drops from its golden hair, and
struck out fearlessly down the stream.  It had changed,
too, and the blue eyes and the clustering curls belonged
to a strong, well-grown young man.  Still she watched
the form eagerly as it swam, for something reminded her
of one she used to think the type of manhood years and
years ago.  The voices warned her now to rise and hasten,
but the river plashed on sullenly as before.

She must run to yonder point, marked as it is by a
white wooden cross.  Far beyond it the stream whirls and
seethes in a deep eddying pool, and she must guide the
swimmer to the cross, and help him to land there, or he
will be lost--De Rohan's child will be drowned in her
sight.  How does she know it is called St. Hubert's
Cross?  Did the voices tell her?  They are whispering
still, but fainter and farther off.  And the river plashes
on sullenly, but with a murmur of fierce impatience now.

She waves frantically to the swimmer, and would fain
shout to him aloud, but she cannot speak; her shawl is
wound so tight round her bosom that it stops her voice,
and her fingers struggle in vain amongst the knots.  Why
will he not turn his head towards her?--why does he dash
so eagerly on? proud of his strength, proud of his mastery
over the flood--his father's own son.  Ah! he hears it
too.  Far away, past the cross and the whirlpool, down
yonder on that sunny patch of sand, sits a mermaid,
combing her long bright locks with a golden comb.  She
sings a sweet, wild, unearthly melody--it would woo a
saint to perdition!  Hark! how it mingles with the
rushing voices and the plash of the angry river!

The sand is deep and quick along the water's edge;
she sinks in it up to the ankles, weights seem to clog her
limbs, and hands she cannot see to hold her back; breathless
she struggles on to reach the cross, for there is a
bend in the river there, and he will surely see her, and
turn from the song of the mermaid, and she will drag him
ashore and rescue him from his fate.  The voices are close
in her ears now, and the river plashing at her very feet.

So she reaches the cross at last, and with frantic
gestures--for she is still speechless--waves him to the
shore.  But the mermaid beckons him wildly on, and the
stream, seizing him like a prey, whirls him downwards
eddying past the cross, and it is too late now.  See! he
turns his head at last, but to show the pale, rigid features
of a corpse.

The voices come rushing like a hurricane in her ears;
the plash of the river rises to a mighty roar.  Wildly the
mermaid tosses her white arms above her head, and
laughs, and shrieks, and laughs again, in ghastly triumph.
The dreamer has found her voice now, and in a frenzy of
despair and horror she screams aloud.

With that scream she awoke, and left her tent for the
cool night air, and counted the hours till noon; and so,
with no more preparation, she betook herself to her
journey, goaded with the thought that there might be
time even yet.

It is sunrise now; a thousand gladsome tokens of life
and happiness wake with the morning light.  The dew
sparkles on herb and autumn flower; the lark rises into
the bright, pure heaven; herds of oxen file slowly across
the plain.  Hope is ever strong in the morning; and the
gipsy's step is more elastic, her brow grows clearer and
her eye brighter, as she calculates the distance she has
already traversed, and the miles that yet lie between her
and the woods and towers of Edeldorf.  A third of the
journey is already accomplished; in another hour the
summit of the Waldenberg ought to be visible, peering
above the plain.  She has often trod the same path
before, but never in such haste as now.

A tall Hungarian peasant meets her, and recognising
her at once for a gipsy, doffs his hat, and bids her
"Good-morrow, mother!" and craves a blessing from the Zingynie,
for though he has no silver, he has a paper florin or two
in his pocket, and he would fain have his fortune told,
and so while away an hour of his long, solitary day only
just begun.  With flashing eyes and impatient gestures
she bans him as she passes, for she cannot brook even an
instant's delay, and the curse springs with angry haste to
her lips.  He crosses himself in terror as he walks on,
and all day he will be less comfortable that he encountered
a gipsy's malison at sunrise.

A village lies in her road; many a long mile before she
reaches it, the white houses and tall acacias seem to
mock her with their distinct outlines and their apparent
proximity--will it *never* be any nearer? but she arrives
there at last, and although she is weary and footsore, she
dreams not of an instant's delay for refreshment or repose.
Flocks of geese hiss and cackle at her as she passes: from
the last cottage in the street a little child runs merrily
out with a plaything in its hand, it totters and falls
just across her path; as she replaces it on its legs she
kisses it, that dark old woman, on its bright young brow.
It is a good omen, and she feels easier about her heart
now; she walks on with renewed strength and elasticity--she
will win yet.

Another hour, the sun is high in the heavens, and
autumn though it be, the heat scorches her head through
her crimson handkerchief and her thick grey hair.  Ah! she
is old now; though the spirit may last for ever, the
limbs fail in despite of it; what if she has miscalculated
her strength? what if she cannot reach the goal after all?
Courage! the crest of the Waldenberg shows high above
the plain.  Edeldorf, as she knows well, lies between her
and that rugged range of hills, but she quails to think
from what a distance the waving woods of De Rohan's
home should be visible, and that they are not yet in sight.
Her limbs are very weary, and the cold drops stand on
her brow, for she is faint and sick at heart.  Gallantly she
struggles on.

It is a tameless race, that ancient nation of which we
know not the origin, and speculate on the destiny in vain.
It transmits to its descendants a strain of blood which
seems as invincible by physical fatigue as it is averse
to moral restraint.  Lake some wild animal, like some
courser of pure Eastern breed, the gipsy gained second
strength as she toiled.  Three hours after sunrise she was
literally fresher and stronger than when she met and
cursed the astonished herdsman in the early morning;
and as the distance decreased between the traveller and
her destination, as the white towers of Edeldorf stood out
clearer and clearer in the daylight, glad hope and kindly
affection gushed up in her heart, and, lame, wearied,
exhausted as she was, a thrill of triumph shot through
her as she thought she might see her darling in time to
warn him even now.

At the lodge gate she sinks exhausted on a stone.  A
dashing hussar mounting guard, as befits his office, scans
her with an astonished look, and crosses himself more than
once with a hurried, inward prayer.  He is a bold fellow
enough, and would face an Austrian cuirassier or a Russian
bayonet as readily and fearlessly as a flask of strong
Hungarian wine, but he quails and trembles at the very
thought of the Evil Eye.

"The Count! the Count!" gasps out the breathless
Zingynie, "is he at the Castle? can I see Count Victor?"

"All in good time, mother!" replies he good-naturedly;
"the Count is gone shooting to the Waldenberg.  The
carriages have but just driven by; did you not see them
as you came here?"

"And the Count, is he not riding, as is his custom? will
he not pass by here as he gallops on to overtake them?
Has my boy learned to forget the saddle, and to neglect
the good horse that his father's son should love?"

"Not to-day, mother," answered the hussar.  "All the
carriages are gone to-day, and the Count sits in the first
with a bright, beautiful lady, ah, brighter even than our
Countess, and more beautiful, with her red lips and her
sunny hair."

All hussars are connoisseurs in beauty.

"My boy, my boy," mutters the old woman; and the
hussar, seeing how ill she looks, produces a flask of his
favourite remedy, and insists on her partaking of its
contents.  It brings the colour back to her cheek, and the
blood to her heart.

"And they are gone to the Waldenberg! and I ought
to reach it by the mountain-path before them even now.
Oh, for one hour of my girlhood! one hour of the speed I
once thought so little of!  I would give all the rest of my
days for that hour now.  To the Waldenberg!"

"To the Waldenberg!" answered the hussar, taking the
flask (empty) from his lips; but even while he spoke she
was gone.

As she followed the path towards the mountain, a large
raven flew out of the copse-wood on her left, and hopped
along the track in front of her.  Then the gipsy's lips
turned ashy-white once more, for she knew she was too late.





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   CHAPTER XLV


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Carriage after carriage drove from Edeldorf to the foot
of the Waldenberg, and deposited its living freight in a
picturesque gorge or cleft of the mountain, where the
only road practicable for wheels and axles terminated, and
whence the sportsman, however luxurious, must be content
to perform the remainder of his journey on foot.  A hearty
welcome and a sumptuous breakfast at the Castle had
commenced the day's proceedings; but Madame de Rohan
had kept her room on the plea of indisposition, and the
only ladies of the party were the Princess and Countess
Valèrie.  Victor was in unusual spirits, a strange, wild
happiness lighted up his eye, and spread a halo over his
features; but he was absent and preoccupied at intervals,
and his inconsequent answers and air of distraction more
than once elicited marks of undisguised astonishment from
his guests.  The Princess was more subdued in manner
than her wont.  I watched the two with a painful interest,
all the keener that my opportunity had not yet arrived,
and that the confidence in my own powers, which had
supported me the previous evening, was now rapidly deserting
me, as I reflected on the violence of my friend's fatal
attachment, and the character of her who was his destiny.
If I should fail in persuading him, as was more than
probable, what would be the result?  What ought I to do
next?  I had assumed a fearful responsibility, yet I
determined not to shrink from it.  Valèrie was gay and
good-humoured as usual.  It had been arranged that the two
ladies should accompany the sportsmen to the trysting-place
at the foot of the mountain, and then return to
the Castle.  The plan originated with Valèrie, who thus,
enjoyed more of her lover's society.  Nor did it meet with
the slightest opposition from Victor, who, contrary to his
usual custom of riding on horseback to the mountain,
starting after all his guests were gone, and then galloping
at speed to overtake them, had shown no disinclination
to make a fourth in his own barouche, the other
three places being occupied by an Austrian grandee and
Prince and Princess Vocqsal.  Had he adhered to his
usual custom, the Zingynie would have met him before
he reached the lodge.  English thorough-bred horses,
harnessed to carriages of Vienna build, none of them being
drawn by less than four, make light of distance, and it
seemed but a short drive to more than one couple of our
party, when we reached the spot at which our day's sport
was likely to commence.

A merry, chattering, laughing group we were.  On a
level piece of greensward, overshadowed by a few gigantic
fir-trees, and backed by the bluff rise of the copse-clothed
mountain, lounged the little band of gentlemen for whose
amusement all the preparations had been made, whose
accuracy of eye and readiness of finger were that day to
be tested by the downfall of bear and wolf, deer and
wild-boar, not to mention such ignoble game as partridges,
woodcocks, quail, and water-fowl, or such inferior vermin
as hawk and buzzard, marten and wild-cat, all of which
denizens of the wilderness were to be found in plenty on
the Waldenberg.  A picturesque assemblage it was,
consisting as it did of nearly a score of the first noblemen in
Hungary--men who bore the impress of their stainless
birth not only in chivalry of bearing and frank courtesy of
manner, but in the handsome faces and stately frames that
had come down to them direct from those mailed ancestors
whose boast it used to be that they were the advanced
guard of Germany and the very bulwarks of Christendom.
As I looked around on their happy, smiling faces, and
graceful, energetic forms, my blood ran cold to think how
the lightest whisper of one frail woman might bring every
one of those noble heads to the block; how, had she
indeed been more or less than woman, a cross would even
now be attached to every one of those time-honoured
names on that fatal list which knows neither pity nor
remorse.  And when I looked from those unconscious men
to the fair arbitress of their fate, with her little French
bonnet and coquettish dress, with her heightened colour
and glossy hair, I thought, if the history of the world were
ever *really* laid bare, what a strange history it would be,
and how unworthy we should find had been the motives
of some of the noblest actions, how paltry the agency by
which some of the greatest convulsions on record had been
effected.

She was fastening Victor's powder-horn more securely
to its string, and I remarked that her fingers trembled
in the performance of that simple office.  She looked
wistfully after him, too, as he waved his hat to bid her
adieu, and stood up in the carriage to watch our ascending
party long after she had started on her homeward journey.
She who was generally so proud, so undemonstrative, so
careful not to commit herself by word or deed! could it
have been a presentiment?  I felt angry with her then;
alas! alas! my anger had passed away long before the sun
went down.

"Help me to place the guns, Vere," said Victor in his
cheerful, affectionate voice, as we toiled together up the
mountain-side, and reached the first pass at which it
would be necessary to station a sportsman, well armed
with rifle and smooth-bore, to be ready for whatever might
come.  "I can depend upon *you*, for I know your shooting;
so I shall put you above the waterfall.  Vocqsal and I will
take the two corners just below; and if there is an old
boar in the Waldenberg, he *must* come to one of us.  I
expect a famous day's sport, if we manage it well.  I used
to say '*Vive la guerre*,' Vere--don't you remember?--but
it's '*Vive la chasse*' now, and has been for a long time
with me."

He looked so happy; he was so full of life and spirits, I
could not help agreeing with his head forester, a tall,
stalwart Hungarian, who followed him about like his
shadow, when he muttered, "It does one good to see the
Count when he gets on the mountain.  He is like *himself*
now."

Meanwhile the beaters, collected from the neighbouring
peasantry, and who had been all the previous day gradually
contracting the large circle they had made, so as to bring
every head of game, and indeed every living thing, from
many a mile round, within the range of our fire-arms,
might be heard drawing nearer and nearer, their shrill
voices and discordant shouts breaking wildly on the silence
of the forest, hitherto uninterrupted, save by the soft
whisper of the breeze, or the soothing murmur of the
distant waterfall.  Like the hunter when he hears the
note of a hound, and erects his ears, and snorts and
trembles with excitement, I could see many of my
fellow-sportsmen change colour and fidget upon their posts; for
well they knew that long before the beater's cry smites
upon the ear it is time to expect the light-bounding
gambol of the deer, the stealthy gallop of the wolf, the
awkward advance of the bear, or the blundering rush of the
fierce wild-boar himself; and as they were keen and
experienced sportsmen, heart and soul in the business of the
day, their quick glances and eager attitudes showed that
each was determined no inattention on his own part should
baulk him of his prey.

One by one Victor placed them in their respective
situations, with a jest and a kind word and a cordial smile
for each.  Many a hearty friend remarked that day how
Count de Rohan's voice was gayer, his manner even more
fascinating than usual, his whole bearing more full of
energy and happiness and a thorough enjoyment of life.

At last he had placed them, all but Ropsley and myself,
and there was no time to be lost, for the cry of the beaters
came louder and louder on the breeze; and already a
scared buzzard or two, shooting rapidly over our heads,
showed that our neighbourhood was disturbed, and the
game of every description must ere long be on foot.

"Take the Guardsman above the waterfall, Vere, and
put him by the old oak-tree," said Victor, fanning his brow
with his hat after his exertions.  "He can command both
the passes from there, and get shooting enough to remind
him of Sebastopol.  You take the glade at the foot
of the bare rock.  Keep well under cover.  I have seen
two boars there already this season.  I shall stay here
opposite the Prince.  Halloa!  Vocqsal, where are you?"

"Here," replied that worthy, from the opposite side of
the torrent, where he had ensconced himself in a secure
and secret nook, commanding right and left an
uninterrupted view of two long narrow vistas in the forest, and
promising to afford an excellent position for the use of
that heavy double-barrelled rifle which he handled with a
skill and precision the result of many a year's practice and
many a triumphant *coup*.

Unlike the younger sportsmen, Prince Vocqsal's movements
were marked by a coolness and confidence which
was of itself sufficient to predicate success.  He had taken
off the resplendent wig which adorned his "imperial front"
immediately on the departure of the ladies, and transferred
it to the capacious pockets of a magnificent green velvet
shooting-coat, rich in gold embroidery and filagree buttons
of the same precious metal.  Its place was supplied by a
black skull-cap, surmounted by a wide-brimmed, low hat.
On the branches of the huge old tree under which he was
stationed he had hung his powder-horn, loading-rod, and
shooting apparatus generally, in such positions as to ensure
replenishing his trusty rifle with the utmost rapidity; and
taking a hunting-knife from his belt, he had stuck it, like
a Scottish Highlander, in his right boot.  Since his famous
encounter with the bear at this very spot, the Prince
always liked to wear his "best friend," as he called it, in
that place.  These arrangements being concluded to his
own satisfaction, he took a goodly-sized hunting-flask from
his pocket, and, after a hearty pull at its contents, wiped
his moustache, and looked about him with the air of a
man who had made himself thoroughly comfortable, and
was prepared for any emergency.

"Here I am, Victor," he shouted once more, "established
*en factionnaire*.  Don't shoot point-blank this way, and
keep perfectly quiet after you hear the action has
commenced."

Victor laughingly promised compliance, and Ropsley and
I betook ourselves, with all the haste we could make, to
our respective posts.

It was a steep, though not a long climb, and we had
little breath to spare for conversation.  Yet it seemed
that something more than the exhausting nature of our
exercise sealed our lips and checked our free interchange
of thought.  There was evidently something on Ropsley's
mind; and he, too, appeared aware that there was a
burden on mine.  It was not till I reached the old
oak-tree at which he was to be stationed, and was about to
leave him for my own place, that he made the slightest
remark.  Then he only said--

"Vere, what's the matter with De Rohan?  There's
something very queer about him to-day; have you not
observed it."

I made some excuse about his keen zest for field-sports,
and his hospitable anxiety that his guests should enjoy
their share of the day's amusement, but the weight at my
heart belied my commonplace words, and when I reached
the station assigned me I sank down on the turf oppressed
and crushed by a foreboding of some sudden and dreadful
evil.

Soon a shot afar off at the extreme edge of the wood
warned me that the sport had commenced; another and
yet another followed in rapid succession.  Branches began
to rustle and dry twigs to crack as the larger game moved
onwards to the centre of the fatal circle.  A fine brown
bear came shambling clumsily along within twenty yards
of my post; I hit him in the shoulder, and, watching him
as he went on to mark if my ball had taken effect, saw
him roll over and over down the steep mountain-side, at
the same moment that the crack of Ropsley's unerring
rifle reached my ear, and a light puff of smoke from the
same weapon curled and clung around the fir-trees above
his hiding-place.  A "Bravo" of encouragement sprang to
my lips, but I checked it as it rose, for at that instant an
enormous wild-boar emerged from the covert in front of
me; he was trotting along leisurely enough, and with an
undignified and ungraceful movement sufficiently ludicrous,
but his quick eye must have caught the gleam of my rifle
ere I could level it, for he stopped dead short, turned aside
with an angry grunt, and dashed furiously down the hill
towards the waterfall.  "Boar forward!" shouted I,
preparing to follow the animal, but in a few moments a shot
rang sharply through the woodlands, succeeded instantaneously
by another, and then a scream--a long, full, wild,
ear-piercing scream! and then the ghastly, awful silence
that seems to tell so much.  I knew it all long before I
reached him, and yet of those few minutes I have no
distinct recollection.  There was a group of tall figures
looking down; a confused mass of rifles, powder-horns, and
shooting-gear; a hunting-flask lying white and glittering
on the green turf; and an old woman with a bright
crimson handkerchief kneeling over *something* on the
ground.  Every one made way for me to pass, they seemed
to treat me with a strange, awe-stricken respect--perhaps
they knew I was his friend--his oldest friend--and there
he lay, the brave, the bright, the beautiful, stretched at
his length, stone dead on the cold earth, shot through the
heart--by whom? by Prince Vocqsal.

I might have known there was no hope.  I had heard
such screams before cleaving the roar of battle--death
shrieks that are only forced from man when the leaden
messenger has reached the very well-spring of his life.  I
need not have taken the cold clammy hand in mine, and
opened his dress, and looked with my own eyes upon the
blue livid mark.  It was all over; there was no more hope
for him than for the dead who have lain a hundred years
in the grave.  This morning he was Count de Rohan;
Victor de Rohan, my dear old friend.  I thought of him a
merry, blue-eyed child, and then I wept; and my head
got better, and so I learned by degrees what had happened.

.. _`"I might have known there was no hope.`:

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   "I might have known there was no hope.  *The Interpreter*  *Page 418*

The boar had dashed down at speed towards the waterfall
He had crossed the range of Count de Rohan's rifle, but
the Count--and on this fact the forester laid great
stress--the Count had missed his aim, and the animal almost
instantaneously turned towards Prince Vocqsal.  The
Prince's rifle rang clear and true; with his usual cool
precision he had waited until the quarry was far past the
line of his friend's ambush, and had pulled the trigger in
perfect confidence as to the result.  He, too, had failed for
once in the very act of skill on which he so prided himself.
His ball missing the game had struck against the hard
knot of an old tree beyond it, and glancing thence almost
at right angles, had lodged in poor Victor's heart at the
very moment when the exhausted Zingynie, staggering
with fatigue, had reached his post, murmuring a few hoarse
words of warning, and an entreaty to abandon the sport
only for that day.  As he turned to greet her, the fatal
messenger arrived, and with a convulsive bound into the
air, and one loud scream, he fell dead at her feet.

Old Prince Vocqsal seemed utterly stupefied.  He could
neither be prevailed upon to quit the body, nor did it
seem possible to make him comprehend exactly what had
happened, and the share which he had himself borne so
unwittingly in the dreadful catastrophe.  The Zingynie,
on the contrary, although pale as death, was composed and
almost majestic in her grief.  To her it was the fulfilment
of a prophecy--the course of that destiny which is not to
be checked nor stayed.  As she followed the body, with
head erect and measured tread, she looked neither to right
nor left, but her black eyes flashed with awful brilliance as
she fastened the dilated orbs on what had once been Victor
de Rohan, and murmured in a low chant words which I
now remembered, for the first time, to have heard many
years before, words of which I now knew too well the
gloomy significance.  "Birth and Burial--Birth and
Burial--Beware of St. Hubert's Day!"

So we bore him down to Edeldorf, slowly, solemnly, as
we bear one to his last resting-place.  Down the beautiful
mountain-side, with its russet copsewood, and its fine old
oaks, and its brilliant clothing of autumnal beauty; down
the white sandy road between the vine-gardens, with their
lightsome foliage and their clusters of blushing grapes, and
the buxom peasant-women, and ruddy, happy children,
even now so gay and noisy, but hushed and horror-bound
as they stopped to look and learn; down across the long
level plain, where the flocks were feeding securely, and the
cattle stood dreamily, and clouds of insects danced and
hovered in the beams of an afternoon sun.  Slowly, solemnly,
we wound across the plain; slowly, solemnly, we reached
the wide park-gates.  A crowd of mourners, gathering as
we went, followed eager and silent in the rear.  Slowly,
solemnly, we filed up the long avenue between the acacias,
bearing the lord of that proud domain, the last of the De
Rohans, to his ancestral home.

Two ladies were walking in the garden as we approached
the house; I caught sight of their white dresses before
they had themselves perceived our ghastly train.  They
were Constance de Rohan, and Rose, Princess Vocqsal.

There was deep and holy mourning, there were bitter
scalding tears that night in the Castle of Edeldorf.  On
the morrow, when the sun rose, there was one broken heart
within its walls.





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   CHAPTER XLVI


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   VÆ VICTIS!

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Valèrie de Rohan is Mrs. Ropsley now; she has dropped
the rank of Countess, and prides herself upon the facility
with which she has adopted the character of an English
matron.  She speaks our language, if anything, a little
less correctly than when I knew her first; never shakes
hands with any of her male acquaintances, and cannot be
brought to take a vehement interest in Low Church
bishops, parliamentary majorities, or the costly shawls and
general delinquencies of her pretty next-door neighbour,
whose private history is no concern of yours or mine.  In
all other respects she is British enough to be own
grand-daughter to Boadicea herself.  She makes her husband's
breakfast punctually at ten; comes down in full morning
toilet, dressed for the day, bringing with her an enormous
bunch of keys, such as we bachelors scrutinise with
mysterious awe, and of the utility of which, inasmuch as they
are invariably forgotten and left on the breakfast-table, we
nourish vague and secret doubts; further, she studies
Shakspeare and Burke (not the statesman, but the compiler
of that national work which sets forth the pedigrees of
peers and baronets, and honourable messieurs and
mesdames) with divided ardour, and although she thinks
London a little *triste*, believes her own house in Belgravia
to be a perfect paradise, and loves its lord and hers with a
pure, simple, and entire devotion.  Mrs. Ropsley is very
happy, and so is he.

"The boy is father to the man."  I can trace in the late
Guardsman--who relinquished his profession at the Peace--the
same energy, the same calculating wisdom, the same
practical good sense, that distinguished his youth; but he
has lost the selfishness which made his earlier character so
unamiable, and has acquired in its stead an enlarged view
of the duties and purposes of life, a mellower tone of
thought, a deeper sense of feeling as to its pleasures and
its pains.  He has discovered that the way to be happy is
not to surround oneself with a rampart of worldly wisdom,
not to cover the human breast with a shield of cynical
defiance, which always fails it at its need, but to take one's
share manfully and contentedly of the roses as of the
thorns--no more ashamed to luxuriate in the fragrance of
the one, than to wince from the sharp points of the other.
He entered on life with one predominant idea, and that
one perhaps the least worthy of all those which sanguine
boyhood proposes so ardently to itself; but he had purpose
and energy, and though self was his idol, he worshipped
with a perseverance and consistency worthy of a better
cause.  Circumstances, which have warped so many to
evil, rescued him at the turning point of his destiny.
When he met Valèrie at Vienna, he was rapidly hardening
into a bold, bad man, but the affection with which she
inspired him saved him, as such affection has saved many a
one before, from that most dangerous state of all in which
he lies who has nothing to care for, nothing to hope, and
consequently nothing to fear.  Oh! you who have it in
your power to save the fallen, think of this.  How slight
is the cable that tows many a goodly vessel into port;
what a mere thread will buoy up a drowning man; do not
stand on the bank and wag your heads, and say, "I told
you so;" stretch but a little finger, throw him the rope
that lies to your hand; nay, think it no shame to wet your
feet and bring him gently and tenderly ashore, for is he
not your brother?

The good work that Valèrie's influence had begun, was
perfected by the hardships and horrors of the Crimean
campaign.  No man could witness the sufferings so cheerfully
borne, or take his share in the kindly offices so heartily
interchanged on that dreary plateau above Sebastopol,
without experiencing an improvement in his moral being,
and imbibing far more correct notions than he had entertained
before as to the *realities* of life and death.  No man
could take his turn of duty day by day in the trenches, see
friends and comrades one by one struck down by grape-shot,
or withering from disease, and not feel that he too held
life on a startlingly uncertain tenure; that if the material
were indeed all-in-all, he had no business there; that the
ideal has a large share even in this life, and will probably
constitute the very essence of that which is to come.  It
is a mistake to suppose that danger hardens the heart; on
the contrary, it renders it peculiarly alive to the softer and
kindlier emotions.  The brave are nearly always gentler,
more susceptible, than apparently weaker natures; and
many a man who does not quail at the roar of a battery,
who confronts an advancing column with a careless smile
and a pleasant jest upon his lips, will wince like a child at
an injury or an unkindness dealt him from the hand he loves.

Ropsley, too, had many a pang of remorse to contend
with, many an hour of unavailing regret, as he looked
back to the mischief he had wrought by his unscrupulous
schemes for his own benefit--the misery, to which in his
now softened nature he was keenly alive, that a thoughtless
selfishness had brought on his oldest and dearest
friends.  Poor Victor married in haste, when piqued and
angry with one who, whatever might be her faults, was the
only woman on earth to *him*.  Constance Beverley, driven
into this alliance by his own false representations, and her
father's ill-judged vehemence.  Another old school-fellow,
whom he was at last beginning to value and esteem,
attributing the wreck of all he hoped and cherished in the
world to this fatal marriage; and he himself ere long
wishing to be connected by the nearest and dearest ties
with those whose future he had been so instrumental in
blasting, and who could not but look upon him as the
prime source and origin of all their unhappiness.

No wonder Ropsley was an altered man; no wonder
Victor's sudden and awful death made a still further
impression on his awakened feelings; no wonder he prized
the blessing he had won, and determined to make himself
worthy of a lot the golden joys of which his youth would
have sneered at and despised, but which he was grateful
to find his manhood was capable of appreciating as they
deserved.

Happiness stimulates some tempers to action, as grief
goads others to exertion; and Ropsley is not one to remain
idle.  Though Edeldorf has passed away from the name
of De Rohan for evermore, he has attained a large fortune
with his wife; but affluence and comfort alone will not fill
up the measure of such a man's existence, and his energetic
character will be sure to find some outlet for the talents
and acquirements it possesses.  Politics will probably be
his sphere; and those who know of what efforts a bold
far-seeing nature is capable, when backed by study, reflection,
above all, common sense; and when blessed with a happy
home of love on which to rest, and from which to gather
daily new hope and strength, will not think me over
sanguine in predicting that something more than a "*Hic
Jacet*" will, in the fulness of time, be carved on Ropsley's
tombstone; that he will do something more in his generation
than eat and drink, and pay his son's debts, and make
a will, and so lie down and die, and be forgotten.

It is good to be firm, strong-minded, and practical; it is
good to swim with the stream, and, without ever losing
sight of the landing-place, to lose no advantage of the
current, no lull of the back-water, no rippling eddy in one's
favour.  It is not good to struggle blindly on against wind
and tide, to trust all to a gallant heart, to neglect the
beacon and the landmark, to go down at last, unconquered
it may be in spirit, but beaten and submerged for all that,
in fact.  There is an old tale of chivalry which bears with
it a deep and somewhat bitter moral: of a certain knight
who, in the madness of his love, vowed to cast aside his
armour and ride three courses through the mêlée with no
covering save his lady's night-weeds.  Helm, shield, and
corslet, mail and plate, and stout buff jerkin, all are cast
aside.  With bared brow and naked breast the knight is
up and away!--amongst those gathering warriors clad
from head to foot in steel.  Some noble hearts--God bless
them!--turn aside to let him pass; but many a fierce
blow and many a cruel thrust are delivered at the devoted
champion in the throng.  Twice, thrice he rides that
fearful gauntlet; and ere his good horse stops, the white
night-dress is fluttering in rags--torn and hacked, and
saturated with blood.  It is a tale of Romance, mark
that! and the knight recovers, to be happy.  Had it been
Reality, his ladye might have wrung her hands over a
clay-cold corpse in vain.  Woe to him who sets lance in
rest to ride a tournament with the world!  Woe to the
warm imagination, the kindly feelings, the generosity that
scorns advantage, the soft and vulnerable heart!  How it
bleeds in the conflict, how it suffers in the defeat!  Yet
are there some battles in which it is perhaps nobler to lose
than to win.  Who shall say in what victory consists?
"Discretion is the better part of valour," quoth Prudence;
but Courage, with herald-voice, still shouts, "Fight
on! brave knights, fight on!"

In the tomb of his fathers, in a gloomy vault, where a
light is constantly kept burning, sleeps Victor de Rohan,
my boyhood's friend, my more than brother.  Many a
stout and warlike ancestor lies about him; many a bold
Crusader, whose marble effigy, with folded hands and
crossed legs, makes silent boast that he had struck for
the good cause in the Holy Land, rests there, to shout
and strike no more.  Not one amongst them all that
had a nobler heart than he who joined them in the
flower of manhood--the last of his long and stainless line.
As the old white-haired sexton opens the door of the
vault to trim and replenish the glimmering death-lamp,
a balmy breeze steals in and stirs the heavy silver fringe
on the pall of Victor's coffin--a balmy breeze that plays
round the statue of the Virgin on the chapel roof, and
sweeps across many a level mile of plain, and many a fair
expanse of wood and water, till it reaches the fragrant
terraces and the frowning towers of distant Sieben-bürgen--a
balmy breeze that cools the brow of yon pale drooping
lady, who turns an eager, wistful face towards its breath.
For why?  It blows direct from where he sleeps at
Edeldorf.

She is not even clad in mourning, yet who has mourned
him as she has done?  She might not even see him
borne to his last home, yet who so willingly would lay
her down by his side, to rest for ever with him in the
grave?

Alas for you, Rose, Princess Vocqsal!--you who must
needs play with edged tools till they cut you to the
quick!--you who must needs rouse passions that have
blighted you to the core!--you who never knew you had
a heart till the eve of St. Hubert's Day, and found it
empty and broken on the morrow of that festival!

She tends that old man now with the patience and
devotion of a saint--that old childish invalid in his
garden chair, prattling of his early exploits, playing
contentedly with his little dog, fretful and impatient
about his dinner.  This is all that a paralytic stroke,
acting on a constitution weakened by excess, has left of
Prince Vocqsal.

Nor is the wife less altered than her husband.  Who
would recognise in those pale sunken features, in that
hair once so sunny, now streaked with whole masses of
grey, in that languid step and listless, fragile form, the
fresh, sparkling roseate beauty of the famous Princess
Vocqsal?  She has done with beauty now; she has done
with love and light, and all that constitute the charm
and the sunshine of life; but she has still a duty to
perform; she has still an expiation to make; and with
a force and determination which many a less erring
nature might fail to imitate, she has set herself resolutely
to the task.

Save to attend to her religious duties, comprising many
an act of severe and grievous penance, she never leaves
her patient.  All that woman's care and woman's
tenderness can provide, she lavishes on that querulous invalid;
with woman's instinct of loving that which she protects,
he is dearer to her now than anything on earth; but oh! it
is a sad, sad face that she turns to the breeze from
Edeldorf.

Her director comes to see her twice a day; he is a
grave, stern priest--an old man who has shriven criminals
on the scaffold--who has accustomed himself to read the
most harrowing secrets of the human soul.  He should
be dead to sensibility, and blunted to all softer emotions,
yet he often leaves the Princess with tears in his grave
cold eyes.

She is a Roman Catholic; do not therefore argue that
her repentance may not avail.  She has been a sinner--scarlet,
if you will, of the deepest dye; do not therefore
say that the door of mercy will be shut in her face.
There are sins besides those of the feelings--crimes which
spring from more polluted sources than the affections.
The narrow gate is wide enough for all.  If you are
striving to reach it, walking hopefully along the strait
path, it is better not to turn aside and take upon yourself
the punishment of every prostrate bleeding sinner; if
you must needs stop, why not bind the gaping wounds,
and help the sufferer to resume the uphill journey?
There are plenty of flints lying about, we know--heavy,
sharp, and three-cornered--such as shall strike the poor
cowering wretch to the earth, never to rise again.  Which
of us shall stoop to lift one of them in defiance of Divine
mercy?  Which of us shall dare to say, "I am qualified
to cast the first stone at her"?





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.. _`THE RETURN OF SPRING`:

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   CHAPTER XLVII


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   THE RETURN OF SPRING

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The smoke curls up once more from the chimneys of
Alton Grange; the woman in possession, she with the
soapy arms and unkempt hair, who was always cleaning
with no result, has been paid for her occupancy and sent
back to her own untidy home in the adjoining village.
The windows are fresh painted, the lawn fresh mown, the
garden trimmed, and the walks rolled; nay, the unwonted
sound of wheels is sometimes heard upon the gravel
sweep in front of the house, for the country neighbours, a
race who wage unceasing war against anything mysterious,
and whose thirst for "news," and energy in the acquisition
of gossip, are as meritorious as they are uncalled for, have
lavished their attentions on the solitary, and welcomed
him back to his lonely home far more warmly than he
deserves.  The estate, too, has been at nurse ever since he
went away.  An experienced man of business has taken
it into his own especial charge, but somehow the infant
has not attained any great increase of vigour under his
fostering care, and the proprietor is ungrateful enough to
think he could have managed it better for himself.
Inside, the house is dark and gloomy still.  I miss poor
Bold dreadfully.  After a day of attention to those trivial
details which the landowner dignifies with the title of
"business," or worse still, of vacant, dreary hours passed
in listless apathy, it is very lonely to return to a solitary
dinner and a long silent evening, to feel that the wag of
a dog's tail against the floor would be company, and to
own there is solace in the sympathy even of a brute's
unreasoning eye.  It is not good for man to be alone,
and that is essentially a morbid state in which solitude
is felt to be a comfort and a relief; more especially does
the want of occupation and companionship press upon
one who has been leading a life of busy every-day
excitement such as falls to the lot of the politician or the
soldier; and it has always appeared to me that the worst
of all possible preparations for the quiet, homely duties
of a country gentleman, are the very two professions so
generally chosen as the portals by which the heir of a
landed estate is to enter life.  It takes years to tame the
soldier, and the politician seldom *really* settles down at
all; but of course you will do what your fathers did--if
the boy is dull, you will gird a sword upon his thigh; if
he is conceited, you will get him into Parliament, and
fret at the obtuse deafness of the House.  Perhaps you
may as well be disappointed one way as the other;
whatever you do with him, by the time he is thirty you will
wish you had done differently, and so will he.  Action,
however, is the only panacea for despondency; work,
work, is the remedy for lowness of spirits.  What am I
that I should sit here with folded hands, and repine at
the common lot?  There are none so humble but they
can do some little good, and in this the poor are far more
active than the rich.  Let me take example by the day
labourers at my gate.  There is a poor family not a mile
from here who sadly lack assistance, and whom for the
last fortnight I have neglected to visit.  A gleam of
sunshine breaks in through the mullioned window, and
gilds even the black oak wainscoting: the clouds are
passing rapidly away, I will take my hat and walk off at
once towards the common.  Oh, the hypocrisy of human
motives!  The poor family are tenants of Constance de
Rohan; their cottage lies in the direct road to Beverley
Manor.

It has been raining heavily, and the earth is completely
saturated with moisture.  The late spring, late even for
England, is bursting forth almost with tropical luxuriance.
Dank and dripping, the fragrant hedges glisten in the
noonday beams.  Brimful is every blossom in the orchard,
fit chalice for the wild bird or the bee.  Thick and tufted,
the wet grass sprouts luxuriantly in the meadow-lands
where the cowslip hangs her scented head, and the
buttercup, already dry, reflects the sunshine from its golden
hollow.  The yellow brook laughs merrily on beneath the
foot-bridge, and the swallows shoot hither and thither
high up against the clear blue sky.  How fresh and
tender is the early green of the noble elms in the
foreground, and the distant larches on the hill.  How
sweet the breath of spring; how fair and lovable the
smile upon her face.  How full of hope and promise and
life and light and joy.  Oh, the giant capacity for
happiness of the human heart!  Oh, what a world it might be!
What a world it is!

The children are playing about before the door of the
cottage on the common.  Dirty, and noisy, and rosy, the
little urchins stare, wonder-struck, at the stranger, and
disappear tumultuously into certain back settlements,
where there are a garden, and a beehive, and a pig.  An
air of increased comfort pervades the dwelling, and its
mistress has lost the wan, anxious look it pained me so
to see some ten days ago.  With a corner of her apron
she dusts a chair for me to sit down, and prepares herself
for a gossip, in which experience tells me the talking will
be all one way.  "Her 'old man' is gone out to-day for
the first time to his work.  He is quite stout again at
last, but them low fevers keeps a body down terrible, and
the doctor's stuff was no good, and she thinks after all
it's the fine weather as has brought him round;
leastways, that and the broth Lady Beverley sent him from
the Manor House; and she to come up herself only
yesterday was a week, through a pour of rain, poor dear! for
foreign parts has not agreed with her, and she's not
so rosy as she were when I knew her first, but a born
angel all the same, and ever will be."

Tears were in the good woman's eyes, and her voice
was choked.  I stayed to hear no more.  Lady Beverley,
as she called her, was, then, once more at home.  She
had been here--here on this very spot, but one short
week ago.  I could have knelt down and kissed the very
ground she had trodden.  I longed if it was only to see
her footprints.  I, who had schooled myself to such a
pitch of stoicism and apathy, who had stifled and rooted
out and cut down the germs of passion till I had persuaded
myself that they had ceased to exist, and that my heart
had become hard and barren as the rock,--I, who had
thought that when the time came I should meet her in
London with a kindly greeting, as became an old friend,
and never turn to look the way she went; and now,
because she had been here a week ago, because there
was a possibility of her being at the moment within three
miles of where I stood, to feel the blood mounting to my
brow, the tears starting to my eyes,--oh! it was scarlet
shame, and yet it was burning happiness too.

The sun shone brighter, the birds sang more merrily
now.  There was no longer a mockery in the spring.  The
dry branch seemed to blossom once more--the worn and
weary nature to imbibe fresh energies and renewed life.
There was hope on this side the grave, hope that might
be cherished without bitterness or remorse.  Very dark
had been the night, but day was breaking at last.  Very
bitter and tedious had been the winter, but spring,
real spring, was bursting forth.  I could hardly believe
in the prospect of happiness thus opened to me.  I
trembled to think of what would be my destiny if I
should lose it all again.

In the ecstasy of joy, as in the tumult of uncertainty
and the agony of grief, there is but one resource for
failing human strength, how feeble and failing none
know so well as those whom their fellows deem the
noblest and the strongest.  That resource has never yet
played man false at his need.  The haughty brow may
be compelled to stoop, the boasted force of will be turned
aside, the proud spirit be broken and humbled to the
dust, the race be lost to the swift and the battle go
against the strong, but the victory shall be wrested, the
goal shall be attained by the clasped hands and the
bended knees, and the loving heart that through good
and evil has trusted steadfastly to the end.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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I may lock the old desk now.  I have told my tale;
'tis but the every-day story of the ups and downs of
life--the winnings and losings of the game we all sit down to
play.  One word more, and I have done.

In the solitude of my chamber I took from its hiding-place
a withered flower; once it had been a beautiful
white rose, how beautiful, how cherished, none knew so
well as I.  Long and steadfastly I gazed at it, conjuring
up the while a vision of that wild night, with its flying
clouds and its waving fir-trees, and the mocking moonlight
shining coldly on the gravel path, and the bitterness of
that hour, the bitterness of all that had yet fallen to
my lot, and so I fell asleep.  And behold it seemed to
be noon, midsummer-noon in a garden of flowers, hot
and bright and beautiful.  The butterfly flitted in the
sunshine, and the wood-pigeon mourned sweetly and
sadly in the shade.  Little children with laughing eyes
played and rolled about upon the sward, and ran up,
warm and eager, to offer me posies of the choicest flowers.
One by one I refused them all, for amongst the pride of
the garden there was none to me like my own withered
rose that I had cherished so long, and I turned away
from each as it was brought me, and pressed her closer to
my heart where she always lay.

Then, even as I clasped her she bloomed in her beauty
once more, fresh and pure and radiant as of old, steeping
my very soul in fragrance, a child of earth indeed, but
wafting her sweetness up to heaven.

And I awoke, and prayed that it might not be all a
dream.

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   THE END

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   *Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London & Bungay.*

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