HORACE AND SHAKESPEARE.
The sun was already high above the horizon when at last Lebeau opened his eyes. The brilliant light of dawn, penetrating the chamber where he lay, wounded his sight, and his heavy eyelids drooped. After a moment he raised them painfully and perceived the kindly face of the surgeon of the poor bending above him.
"Do you recognize me?" he asked.
The sufferer made an affirmative sign and feebly faltered Levet's name. Then in a low, indistinct tone he inquired,—
"Where am I?"
"At Dr. Johnson's house. Keep perfectly quiet and all will be well."
Suddenly memory asserted its sway.
"Esther!" Lebeau cried, in as eager and anxious a voice as his utter prostration would permit.
"Miss Woodville is here. She is alive, having only fainted. There was a slight abrasion of the flesh behind her ear, probably the result of a fall; but that will soon disappear. And as for you, my good friend, we shall soon have you upon your feet again."
Lebeau moved his eyes in a negative sign, and with a sad smile murmured,—
"My account is settled. Why do you attempt to deceive me? Am I a coward?"
A moment later he asked,—
"Francis Monday, the foundling, Sir Joshua Reynolds's pupil."
Levet briefly recounted how the rescue had come about; how old Maud, whose obstinacy and madness had nearly been the cause of her young mistress's death, had finally saved her life by her psalm-singing; with what infinite difficulty they had entered the house and snatched from the devouring flames three living beings and one corpse.
"One thing is certain," he concluded, "and that is, that these two children love each other. It was his future wife whom Frank saved last night in Holborn, and, though this sad week will leave its mark in ruins for many a day, it has at least served to make two hearts supremely happy."
A profound satisfaction overspread the pallid features of the dying man.
"Miss Woodville has begged several times to see you. Shall I bring her to you?"
Lebeau's face brightened still more. Then he appeared to reflect. Of course it would have been balm to his departing soul to make himself known to her, to be a father for one short hour, to go with the pardon and caress of his child. But would she not repulse him? Would she find him worthy of her? And after all, was it not better that she should remain a foundling rather than be known as the child of Lebeau, the adventurer, the professor and purveyor of vice to the great?—Ah, well! he would hold his peace, would die without disturbing any one, and leave her happy. But in any case he must hasten to inform Frank who he was, and give him the means of establishing his identity.
"Frank!" he murmured. "I wish to see Frank—to speak with him."
"You have made sufficient effort for to-day. Rest now; to-morrow you shall talk with him."
"To-morrow—I shall not be here. Go—go and find him."
Without further objection Levet, who understood the true condition of his patient, left the chamber. In a few moments he reappeared, followed by Frank and Esther hand in hand. Their faces, radiant with youth and happiness, clouded with sadness. With bowed heads and faltering steps they approached the bed. Frank paused upon one side, while Esther sank upon her knees at the other.
"Father!" she breathed.
"Then you heard—"
"All!"
The emotion proved too much for the sufferer. He felt his head swim, and believed that the final vertigo had come.
"Only one moment!" he murmured, as though demanding respite of the destructive forces of nature; "Frank must know—"
"Frank already knows that he is the true Lord Mowbray," whispered Esther.
"But the proofs!" pursued Lebeau; "the proofs are necessary. The nurse, Elizabeth Hughes, still lives—at Bangor—in Wales. She will give all the necessary evidence.—Elizabeth Hughes—do not forget!"
He was exhausted with so much speech. His aching eyes had lost their circumspection. Gropingly his hand sought the fair head of his daughter and rested there. Then his thoughts fled backward over forty long years. Again he saw the humble peasant's cot in the mountains of Dauphiné, whence he had set out to see the world. We saw a dying woman lying upon her bed,—his mother! Her faltering hand was laid upon his boyish head, pressing it gently, tenderly. All the remainder of his existence had vanished; all that remained was the Alpha and Omega; an utter void united that caress received and this caress given. It was a foretaste of that world where there is no reckoning of time, where moments are as ages, where thoughts and acts are lost in one eternal present.
Entering noiselessly, Levet passed here and there about the room upon tiptoe. Lebeau realized all that took place, but the power of perception had abandoned him.
"Are you there, doctor?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Bring them close to me."
Esther stooped and kissed the brow upon which the dews of death had begun to gather.
"We shall meet again, father," she whispered.
"Perhaps," faltered Lebeau.
"Did you wish to sleep?" inquired Levet, when the young people had left the room.
"No, but I could not die before them. There is no use in saddening their young lives."
The surgeon did not attempt to deny the danger.
"You are a brave man, comrade," he said; "and since you are able to look death in the eye, do you not wish to make some preparation? There is a Catholic priest here in the house. Although Dr. Johnson is no friend to the papists, he has given this man the protection and shelter of his roof. If you desire to see him I—"
But Lebeau made a negative sign, while by some singular reaction the sceptic and philosopher again took possession of his expiring body.
"Read to me," he said, "the ode of Horace—to Posthumus."
"Horace's ode to Posthumus!" repeated Levet, scarcely believing that he had heard aright.
But he had made no mistake. It was Lebeau's wish that the Horatian ode should be read to him instead of the prayers for the dying. The aged surgeon arose and passed into an adjoining apartment, which contained Dr. Johnson's library. Soon he returned with a large book in his hand, and seated himself at the bedside. In a slow, impressive voice he began to read the famous ode, which the dying man accompanied in a low murmur, punctuating the familiar verses as though he were giving the responses to a psalm.
"'Visendus ater flumine languido,'" Levet read.
"'Cocytus errans,'" continued Lebeau faintly.
But when Levet pronounced the fatal words, which typify "the end-all here," Linguenda tellus, he perceived that no response came from the bed. Quickly he bent above the poor pagan, and placed his hand upon his heart; finding no answering throb there, with reverent fingers he closed the eyes of the dead.
After a few days London regained her habitual aspect. Blackened ruins; fragments of walls and roofs, still sheltering emptiness; gaping, desolate spaces, which had once been human abodes with happy firesides, about which many generations had been warmed and cheered,—these alone remained to tell the tale of that four days' madness, of the strange delirium which had fallen upon the great city. But how many human remains lay beneath these ruins, which would never be recognized, and how many corpses had been swallowed by the Thames? One knew not, one dared not attempt to estimate. Some unfortunate wretches, who confessed nothing and remembered still less, or, lost to all sense of decency, accused each other, were hastily tried and hanged. The principal criminal, he who had loosed the passions of the populace, Gordon, was already under lock and key in Newgate. Had he been more misguided than perverse? He was given the benefit of the doubt. His madness, and perhaps his rank, saved him: but the remarkable fact remains that this man, who had set fire to London and led to death several hundred human beings, not to mention the enormous destruction of property of which he was the cause, was not punished; though a few years later, having written some insolent lines upon Queen Marie Antoinette, he was thrown into prison and there languished for the remainder of his days.
When Reuben at last appeared after a considerable lapse of time, the events of June, 1780, had begun to be obliterated from the public mind. Though in no way apprehensive for his personal safety, he seemed pursued by a memory, haunted by a remorse which it was impossible to evade. Gloomy and humiliated, he shunned meeting his "brethren," who accused him of having deserted them in the hour of peril. He made no opposition to his cousin's marriage, but refused to be present; and on the very day that the wedding was celebrated he embarked with some emigrants bound for Canada. Thence later he journeyed to Botany Bay, after which time no tidings were received from him. It was thought that he preached the gospel in Australia. Some believed that he was killed and devoured by cannibals; others pretended that he died at Sydney in extreme old age.
Lady Vereker, whose name has been assumed out of respect to her family, continued her disorderly course of life and became a desperate faro-player, remaining steadfast to her alliance with Lady Buckinghamshire, Lady Archer, and Mrs. Hobart. She transformed into a quatuor the ignobly famous trio whom the caricaturist Gillray so frequently exposed to ridicule and shame in his cruel sketches.
Mrs. Marsham recovered her peaceful afternoons in which she was wont to dream those pious dreams which translated her to Paradise, where she never failed to be received with distinction. Mr. O'Flannigan, the crisis over, resumed the slaughter of his enemies (in words, be it understood), and acted as prompter until his own cue came summoning him from the field of service. Maud never recovered the minimum of sense with which Heaven had endowed her. In the asylum to which she was banished she continually narrated the end of the world, which she firmly believed she had witnessed.
Thanks to the testimony of Elizabeth Hughes, Frank was able with but little difficulty to establish claim to his title and possessions. The king and queen, together with the entire nobility, evinced the deepest interest in his romantic story and that of his young wife.
He resolved to destroy the "Folly," which could only serve evil purposes and recall unpleasant memories. Before its demolition Esther expressed a wish to see the place which had exerted so strange an influence upon her life and that of her husband; consequently they visited those haunts which had never witnessed a pure, upright love,—love as clear as the day and conscious in its pride.
It was just one year after Lebeau's death, and a perfect summer's day. The radiance of an unclouded sun flooded the apartments, to which still clung an indescribably sensual perfume, the faded hangings, and licentious pictures. Esther could not disassociate the thought of her ill-starred mother from this abyss, while Frank evoked the memory of his mother, the pale, charming being whom Reynolds had sketched, towards whom his heart had involuntarily yearned. Had not every stone in this hideous house weighed upon her as heavily as though she had worn it about her neck? Had not every infidelity which this den of infamy had witnessed cost her a tear, a pang, humiliation? Thus, hand in hand, they passed from room to room, oppressed at heart; and they experienced a sense of infinite relief when at last the doors of the accursed mansion closed behind them and they saw God's daylight resting upon the meadows and the mellow cornfields softly swaying in the June breeze.
At the Bun-house were congregated many Londoners, who had come out to the country to enjoy this rare day. Sedan-chairs, coaches and horses held by pages in brilliant livery, formed a picturesque group; while dogs barked joyously amidst the crowd. The porters and grooms were grouped about a juggler, who aroused their merriment with his tricks, or smoked their pipes beneath the ample, pillared veranda of the house. Within doors some were admiring the silver pitcher presented to Mistress Hand by Queen Charlotte, or the two leaden grenadiers, with their German shakos in sugar candy, and uniforms of 1745; while others, seated about a grass plot beneath elm-trees trained into the shape of vaulted arches, sipped a dish of tea with one of those famous smoking, piping hot buns as its accompaniment. These delicate, savory confections had made the reputation of the house.
The remaining few had formed a circle about Rahab, the fortune-teller. Perceiving Frank and Esther among her audience, she impudently exclaimed,—
"Ask that pair if I do not tell the truth! It was I who predicted their happiness."
"You!" said Esther, amazed at her audacity. "Do you pretend that you predicted to me—"
"I told you that you would marry Lord Mowbray. Have I deceived you?"
Esther smiled and blushed.
"Give her a trifle," she said to her husband.
And while the young nobleman emptied his purse into the gypsy's hands, Garrick's pupil murmured these verses of her favorite poet,—
"All yet seems well; and if it end so meet,
The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet."