Chapter Twelve.
“Homeward Bound.”
There’s Jack has made a wondrous marriage;
There’s laughing Tom is laughing yet;
There’s brave Augustus drives his carriage;
There’s poor old Fred in the “Gazette;”
On James’s head the grass is growing;
Good Lord! the world has wagged apace
Since here we set the claret flowing,
And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.
Min’s letters! Ah, how I expected them, awaited them, devoured them!—from the first tender response that came in answer to mine, to the last little darling oblong-enveloped, dainty hand-written missive I received—ere I shook off the dust of the “Empire City” from my New-World-wearied feet, and left Sandy Hook behind me!
It would be a vain task, should I attempt to describe to you the agony of suspense in which I watched every week for the arrival of the European mail; for, I’m sure, that Sir Samuel Cunard himself could not have evinced so deep an interest in the safety of his steamers as I did; no, not even if they had been uninsured, and the underwriters declined all offers of “risk” premiums, be they never so high and tempting!
Long before the regular Scotia, the Java, or the Russia could, in their several turns, possibly have achieved the ocean passage, I was on the look out for them; prophesying all manner of disasters in the event of their being delayed; and overjoyed, with a frenzied rapture, should they be signalled in advance of their anticipated time! And then, when they had glided up New York Bay and anchored in the Hudson, how rapidly would my eager impatience bear me to the dingy old Post office “down town,” where I would sometimes have to wait for hours before the letters were sorted and delivered!
Should there be none for me, I was in despair—imagining all the various calamities, probable and improbable, that might have happened—although I might have heard from England only a few days previously; while, should I obtain a dearly-prized note from my darling, I was in ecstasy—only to be on the look out for the next mail a moment afterwards!
I was never satisfied.
I remember an official in the Ann Street Bureau asking me one day, what made me “so almight lonesome” about the “old country;” and “guessing,” when I took no notice of his question, that I had “a young woman over the water.”
Young woman, indeed! If looks could kill, that inquisitive and ill-mannered person was a dead man on the spot!
I never heard anything so impertinent in my life!
Her letters!
I could almost see, as I read them, the dear, earnest, soul-lit grey eyes, gazing once more into mine; the loving little hand that penned each darling sentence. In fancy, I could mark the changing expressions that swept across the sweet Madonna face, whose every line I knew so well, as, down-bent on the rustling paper, some sad or happy recollection filled her mind for awhile, in detailing those little events of her daily life which she related to please me. She wrote to me easily and naturally, just as if she were talking to me—the greatest charm a letter can have. The written words appeared to speak out to me in silvery intonations and musical rhythm:—the very violet ink seemed scented with her breath!
Dear little Miss Pimpernell had endeavoured to satisfy, as far as she was able, the longing cravings of my heart for any intelligence about Min—how she was looking, if she saw her often, did she think of me, if she was happy or miserable at my absence; but, how little could her budgets compare with the letters I now got regularly, once a fortnight at least, from Min herself—the fountain-head of all my desires!
She told me everything—where she went, what she did, even what she thought—in simple, artless language that made me know her better, in the thorough workings of her nature, than during those long months of our intimacy at home.
I had plenty of news, too; besides information, on sundry little points, which was only of interest to us two.
Nothing passed in Saint Canon’s with which I was not made acquainted; and, I now learnt much that Miss Pimpernell had not told, or which I had been unable to make out and understand, through the difficulties I met with in the dear old lady’s penmanship.
Her writing resembled more the intricate movements of a particularly sharp-legged and frisky spider, previously dipped in very pale ink, over the pages she laboured at so painstakingly for my benefit, than any ordinary calligraphy! She, however, believed it especially neat and intelligible; and, I would not have undeceived the dear old soul for the world!
In one instance, she had mentioned—so I deciphered the intelligence—something about Horner marrying, as I thought, Lizzie Dangler; but, I now found out from Min, that my Downing Street friend was engaged only, not married; and, that the object of his choice was Seraphine Dasher, instead of the former young lady—the error being easily explainable in the fact, that all of Miss Pimpernell’s capital letters, with the exception of her “B’s” and “H’s,” bore a close family resemblance to each other; while, the remaining components of her words were composed of a single dash, and besides that, nothing. Hence, arose the mistake of my confounding the two names, both of which commenced with a “D”—which it was a wonder that I saw at all, it being Miss Pimpernell’s weakest capital!
But, I knew now who had really got the handkerchief thrown by the Sultan of Downing Street; while Lizzie Dangler was yet free to bless some more sagacious swain. So, also, was lisping, little, flaxen-haired Baby Blake, whom I had believed much more likely to capture Horner than the Seraph, as she was always chaffing him and making light of his attentions.
However, girls are so deceptive, that, unless you are let into the secret, you can never find out the happy individuals whom they really favour. We men folk, on the contrary, soon contrive to exhibit the state of our feelings to unsympathising outsiders, who laugh at us and deride us thereanent! We are “creatures of impulse:”—they, the most barefaced little dissimulators possible!
Fancy, Horner being married, though!
“Bai-ey Je-ove!” It would be, to me, well-nigh incredible!
Fancy his “popping the question” to Seraphine—who, I’m positive, must have giggled in his face when that interesting operation was gone through; and, then, his subsequent interview with Lady Dasher, who probably detailed for his instruction, how her “poor dear papa” had acted on a similar memorable occasion!
I should only like to learn how many times his eye-glass was really appealed to, to help him out of a sentence; and, how frequently he said “Ba-iey Je-ove!” before the whole thing was arranged and his mind set at ease!
The marriage was to take place very soon—really, all of our acquaintances were getting married, and having their courses of true love to run smoothly for them, unlike Min and I!
After the ceremony was over between these twain, I was told that Lady Dasher—who, now that her two daughters would be “off her hands,” no longer had any necessity to keep up a separate establishment—was to move from The Terrace, with her fuchsias and other belongings, and take up her residence for the future with her first son-in-law, Mr Mawley; the curate being now ensconced in that villa, whose furnishing by old Shuffler, lang syne, had caused me so much jealousy and grief!
Ah! This was news.
I chuckled immensely over the idea of the relict of the gin distiller settling down like a wet blanket on the connubial couch of the curate!
Whenever the ghost of “poor dear papa,” in a reminiscential form, was made to walk the earth again, I would be avenged for all the quips and jibes which Mawley had formerly selected me to receive! He would meet with an antagonist now, worthy of his carping, critical metal! I wished him joy of the situation!
Mawley and Lady Dasher together in one house, permanently!
I say no more.
Is it not strange how you may live on and live on in some quiet country spot, or retired suburb, without anything ever occurring to vary the dull monotony of its even existence; and yet, the moment you go away from this whilom, stagnant neighbourhood—which you had got to believe was everlastingly unchangeable—change then succeeds change with startling rapidity:—as you at a distance hear from those friends whom you had left behind—to simmer on there, as you had simmered on, until the end of the chapter?
Of course, from having become more interested with the deeds and designs of those actors that might be connected with the new scenes amidst which you may now be situated, you will not attach such importance to these events as you would probably have done had you been yet living on in the time-honoured routine of your old abiding-place. They are to you, at present, only so many little fly-blows on the scroll of time, so to speak. But, there was a period when you would have regarded them as of the utmost moment; and when, the deaths of people whom you thought would never die, the marriages of those that seemed the most unlikely subjects for matrimony, the flittings of persons of the “oldest inhabitant” class—that you calculated would stick-on there for ever, and their replacement by the advent of new families, whom you would have supposed to be the last in the world to settle down in the locality in question—would have been matters of nine days’ wonderment.
It was so now with myself in, regard to Saint Canon’s.
Horner’s engagement, Lady Dasher’s contemplated removal, the idea of the curate’s incubus—all of which would have once filled me with surprise, astonishment, delight—I only looked upon with half-amused interest.
Even the intelligence that Miss Spight had joined the sisterhood organised by Brother Ignatius, hardly affected me as it would formerly have done.
I belonged to another world now, as it were; and, the announcements of births—Mrs Mawley had already presented her lord and master with a little pledge of her affection—and bridals, and burials, at the two last of which I might once have assisted, hardly awoke a passing interest in me!
I was too far removed from the orbit in which these phenomena were displayed.
I felt that there were not many now in whom I felt concern at Saint Canon’s.
No exceptions, you ask?
Certainly, there were exceptions.
I am astonished at your making the observation.
How could I otherwise “prove the rule,” eh?
Min told me that Monsieur Parole d’Honneur was as gay and as full of anecdote as of yore. She also told me, too, that the kind-hearted Frenchman having chanced to meet her out one day, long before she had been able to hear from me directly, had, in the most delicately-diplomatic way, led the conversation round to America, so that he might tell her that I was not only well, but doing well!
This was at the time I had written a rapturous note to him, after my first interview with my friend, “Brown of Philadelphia,”—before, you may be tolerably certain, that philanthropical polisher had “sloped to Texas” with the capital Parole d’Honneur endowed me with.
He did not mention that latter fact of his generosity to Min, however; but, she knew of it, for I told her of it when we parted, and she then said that she thanked him in her heart for his kindness to me, and would always “love” him for it—so she said!
The vicar and Miss Pimpernell—also “exceptions,”—I heard, were just as usual; the former as much liked as ever by rich and poor alike, in the parish; the latter, trotting about still, with her big basket and creature comforts for those whom she spiritually visited.
Old Shuffler, too, wobbled on, as he had wobbled on as far back as I could recollect, Min told me; and rolled his sound eye, and stared with his glass one, as glassily as then.
I heard also that “Dicky Chips” was as frolicsome and light-hearted a bullfinch as when Min first had him, and had learnt several new tricks.
But, poor old Catch—my dog—whom I had so loved, had died in my absence; not from old age, for he was but young, having only seen his fifth birthday; but, “full of honours,” as every one liked him and respected him who knew of his sagacity and faithfulness, and saw his honest brown eyes and handsome high cast head.
Dear old doggy!
I had had him from the time he was a month old; and he and I had hardly ever been, parted from that time until I went to America.
He used to accompany me wherever I went, by day; and sleep across my room door at night.
He never had had a harsh word from me but once, that I remember; and, that was respecting a certain little matter connected with a stray sheep, about which we happened to differ on the occasion.
Poor Catch! I can fancy I hear his eager bark now. It was a welcome to which I looked forward on my return to England, as only secondary to the pleasure I would have in meeting Min; and, I confess, when I heard of his loss, I mourned him more than I had ever mourned one whom the world calls “friend,” before. He was faithful always; changing never. How many reputed “friends” will you find to act thus?
I think that Lord Byron’s recollection of his trusty dog must have absolved him from a hundred character blots. Do you remember those lines he wrote to the memory of “Boatswain,” on the monument he erected in his honour at Newstead Abbey? I would like them on Catch’s tomb, if I only knew where the dear old fellow lies; for, what “Boatswain” was to Byron, so was he to me:—
“In life the foremost friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master’s own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour’d falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth!”
Min’s news did not come all at once.
It was spread over an expanse of many months, during which I was rambling over the States;—reporting this speaker and that;—studying “life and character” in every way—from the inspection of negro camp-meetings, where coloured saints expounded doctrinal views that would have made Wilberforce shudder, to participating in a presidential election, wherein I had the opportunity of seeing the inherent rottenness of the Transatlantic “institution” thoroughly exposed.
When I was thus bustling about, amidst so many varied phases of life, I could not very well sympathise with the quiet doings of Saint Canon’s.
But, on my return to my Brooklyn lodgings, when once more appointed to regular newspaper work at the office of the journal with which I was connected in New York, the old home longings returned also as strong as ever—stronger, as time went on!
I got in the habit of again marking my almanack, as Robinson Crusoe notched his post, every day; saying to myself the while, that I was brought one day nearer to my darling as the sun went down; one day nearer as it rose on the morrow:—one day nearer to the date of my exile being ended!
I remained in America much longer than I intended.
However, as Mrs Clyde did not carry out her threat of closing our correspondence at the end of the first year of our quasi-engagement, I had still Min’s dear letters to encourage me and cheer me on.
I do not know what I should have done without them.
There was no benefit to be derived from my going back until the Government appointment, which the vicar had the promise of for me, should be vacant. But, this, the wretched old gentleman who continued to hold it, would not give up until he reached the age of superannuation, when he would be forced to retire—in which respect he was not unlike many old field officers in the army, and “flag” ditto in the navy, who will persist in remaining on the “active list” of both services long past the age of usefulness, to the prevention of younger men from getting on!
O “seniority!”
Thou art the curse of all classes of officialdom in England—“civil” and “military” alike!
By-and-by, however, when my patience had become exhausted, and I was seriously thinking of starting home with the few hundred dollars I had made on the American press, the vicar wrote for me to come.
The old gentleman—might his “shadow never be less,” I devoutly wished—had betaken himself to his plough after an arduous official service of forty years. He only retired, however, because he received a pension amounting to his full salary, for which he had striven and kept me out of his shoes so long. Putting the thought of this on one side, the secretaryship was now mine, as soon as I arrived to claim it—the sooner that was, the better, the vicar added, as if I needed any stimulus to return to home and my darling!
What a delightful, darling letter Min sent to me, too!
She told me that I was to start off immediately—“at once, sir,”—on receipt of her tender little missive. She was expecting me, looking for me, awaiting me!
She had learnt all the songs I liked; had prepared the dresses in which I had said she looked best; would greet me, oh, so gladly!
I was to keep my promise and arrive on Christmas-eve, when her mother would be happy to see me; and she—well, she didn’t know yet whether she would speak to me or not:—it, really, depended whether I was “good!”
I took my passage in a steamer leaving the next day; but, instead of getting home on Christmas-eve, I only arrived at Liverpool a day before the close of the year—six days late! However, I was in England at last, in the same dear land that held my darling; and she would forgive me, I knew, when she saw how glad I was to get back to her dear little self. “Naughty Frank!” she would say—“I won’t speak to you at all, sir!”
And, wouldn’t she?
Oh, dear no!
All the way up to town from the fair city on the Mersey, the railway nymphs, whom I had previously noticed on my journey to Southampton, were as busy as then, with their musical strains.
The burden of their present song, echoing through my heart, was,—
“Going to see Min! Going to see Min!
Going to see Min, without delay!
Going to see Min! Going to see Min!
Soon! Soon!! Soon!!”
The last bars chiming in when the buffers joined the chorus with a “jolt, jolt, jolt.”
As the train glided, at length—after some six hours of reeling and bumping and puffing along, the railway nymphs never slackening their song for an instant, into the Euston-square station—I saw the kind vicar and dear little Miss Pimpernell awaiting me on the platform.
It was just like their usual kindness to come and meet me thus!
I had telegraphed to them from Liverpool, telling them the time when I might hope to be in London; and, there they were to the minute, although I had never expected them, having only informed them of my coming, in order that they might let my darling know that I was on my way to her.
I jumped out of the carriage before it stopped, in defiance of all the company’s bye-laws; and, advanced to clasp their outstretched hands. But—
What was it, that I could read in the grave kind face of the one, the glad yet sorrowful eyes of the other, before a word had passed on either side? What was it, that congealed the flood of joyful questionings, with which I went forward to meet them, in an icy lump pressing down upon my brain; and, that snapped a chord in my heart that has never vibrated since?
Min was dead!