OLD FEELINGS AND NEW ACQUAINTANCES.
I did not go to bed till nearly two o’clock in the morning, not that my guests stayed late—far from it. They all took their departure about ten o’clock; but the events of the day, trifling as they may seem, had produced upon my mind an effect difficult to be conceived, or even accounted for. I felt convinced that it was Mariette I beheld, and I reasoned upon her state and condition at the time, without guide it is true, but with more accuracy than might have been expected. I by this time knew the situation of emigrants in general in Great Britain. They had been treated with great kindness by the people of the country; subscriptions had been opened for them, aid had been afforded them; but most of them had fled from France in a state of destitution, and were actually in extreme poverty at that moment. Some were eking out the means of subsistence by teaching, others by mere handicraft employments. I had no reason to believe that Madame de Salins had carried much away with her, and on the contrary, I had much reason to believe, from the wretchedness of the lodging in which she must have dwelt in Swallow street, that she was at one time, at least, in actual distress. The beautiful girl I had seen in the carriage was exceedingly simply dressed, and I asked myself whether my pretty Mariette, as so many had done, might not have engaged herself as a governess in some family, and might not, even now, be undergoing all the miseries and scorns of that most painful situation.
But this was not all. In regard to Mariette I had been guided in my conclusions—to some extent at all events—by plain, simple reason. There were other impressions, however, upon my mind—other matters for cogitation, with which reason had far less to do, and which gained their importance, perhaps from the active embellishment of imagination, perhaps from some of those deeper and more mysterious operations of the mind, or of the heart, which leave reason far behind in their rapidity, and surpass imagination by their truth. The face of that lady, whom they called Lady Catherine, haunted me. The manner in which she had gazed at me—the eager, keen, almost wild glance which she had given me, the paleness which had overspread her face so suddenly, and the fainting fit into which she had fallen immediately my name was mentioned, were not matters of marvel to me, but of deep thought and consideration. It was very natural, where such a mystery hung over my birth and early fate, that I should feel inclined to connect it with every thing strange and unexplained which I saw. But there was something more than all this—something that I cannot explain or describe; which seemed to bear down all thought and argument against it, and which made me feel a conviction, stronger than any reason could have supplied, that there was some tie between that lady’s fate and my own. I did not recollect her in the least—not one feature in her face was familiar to me; but yet the very moment I beheld her—before she even turned her eyes upon me, the sight seemed to waken in an instant, dreams of happy early days—sweet thoughts and feelings, which had slumbered for years unawakened by the careless storekeeper, Memory.
It was therefore over these thoughts and feelings that I paused and reflected, for so many hours.
I have often remarked in the course of life—in others as well as myself—a somewhat curious phenomenon: namely, that when some great and important—shall I call it change? No, not change. There are no changes in human fate. They are all steps—steps toward a certain goal—That when some great and important step, then, in human fate, is to be taken, we feel an impression of the coming fact—we see, as it were, with the eyes of the spirit, without the interference of the cold, hard, short-sighted intellect, the awful magnitude of that which is before us; and we are impelled to mark what at other times would seem the merest trifles with anxious acuteness—to scan, as it were, the very pebbles in our path, lest a rolling stone should make us lose our footing, and hurl us over the precipice which we feel to be near at hand, though the mists and darkness of our earthly being may hide the actual presence of the yawning gulf.
What was to me a lady fainting in a carriage? What was there extraordinary in a delicate woman giving way after an exciting scene, and long and unusual fatigue? What was there in all that I had seen, which could not be explained by a multitude of ordinary circumstances—which I should not have left, at any other time, to rest unthought of amongst the common, insignificant events of a day? And yet I sat and pondered for four long hours, and even after I retired to bed I could not sleep, but was kept awake with the same anxious thoughts.
Father Bonneville returned about two o’clock on the following day; but with a lack of confidence which I rarely showed toward him—for he was so gentle and so good, who could want confidence in him—I did not mention at all, the little incident which had occurred at the mill. I told him, however, all about the supposed sight I had caught of Mariette, but the good Father only smiled at me.
“You are always thinking of Mariette, Louis,” he said, “and if you go on so, I shall really fancy you are in love with her memory.”
“And so I am,” I answered frankly, “I can imagine a father would so love a child, as I love Mariette; and I shall always love her so.”
“My dear boy,” replied Father Bonneville, laying his hand impressively upon my arm, “that is impossible. You and Mariette are no longer children; you might love her as a brother when you last saw her; but if you love her at all, you must love her otherwise now.”
I fell into thought, and I felt that he was right. He gave me but little time to ponder, however, asking me who else I had seen, and I mentioned several names, Colonel C——, the commander-in-chief, a number of young officers, the two strangers who had dined with me, and lastly, in as easy a tone as I could assume, Westover’s two aunts.
Father Bonneville asked their names, and I replied, “Lady Winslow, and a lady they called Lady Catherine—I suppose Lady Catherine Westover; for he said, in the course of the evening, that she was his father’s sister.”
I looked somewhat keenly at Father Bonneville as I spoke; but my words did not seem to produce the slightest effect worth noticing.
“It is droll,” he said. “I do not remember the name of Westover in the English peerage. It must be some new creation, I suppose.”
“I should think not,” I replied, “for there is a calm quietness about them—a want of all arrogance and presumption—an easy, self-possessed tranquillity, which I have always remarked, in this country, accompanies ancient rights, and well assured position.”
“Do you know,” said Father Bonneville, suddenly darting away from the subject, “that it has once or twice struck me, Louis, that there is a great deal of likeness between your friend Captain Westover and yourself?”
I smiled; for I could not conceive two men more different in appearance—in complexion—in eyes, in height; for I was much taller, and dark, while he was fair; but still the good Father’s words lingered in my mind, and I determined the next time I saw my friend to learn, if possible, something more of his history.
It was with great satisfaction then that, on the Friday morning, I received a note from Westover, asking me to dine with him, either on the Tuesday or the Wednesday following, and to name which day.
“Do come, De Lacy, on the one day or the other; for there are some people, who will come on either day, to whom I much wish to introduce you. My leave will soon expire, and I may not have another opportunity.”
I immediately answered his note, fixing the first named day, and then, as it was a beautiful morning in the spring, I went out to fish in a river which ran at some miles distant from my cottage, and where I had hired a right—for the English are as tenacious of the right of stream and wood as any old feudal lord that ever lived.
I had been engaged in the sport for about an hour, wandering along through the beautiful meadows, and had done tolerably well, when I saw a gentleman, of the middle age, walk slowly across from the other side, and pause upon a little wooden bridge, observing my proceedings. He was a tall, handsome man, about fifty, but thin and pale, dressed in a sort of military blue coat, richly braided, but not very new; and his air was exceedingly gentlemanly and prepossessing, though his riches were evidently of Nature’s giving, not the world’s. After watching me a few minutes, he came up with easy grace, and asked, with a strong foreign accent, “If I had had good sport.”
I replied that it had been pretty well, adding a French proverb of no particular significance.
“Ha!” he said, “have I the pleasure of speaking to a countryman?”
I replied in the affirmative; and he soon began to ask all sorts of questions, in that courteous manner which renders inquisitiveness not impertinent in a Frenchman. I told him I had quitted France very early, and recollected but little of my native land; to which he replied, that was a “malheur,” asking the year of my emigration.
I told him, and he replied, with a smile, that it was the same in which he had left France; but added, that he had returned there since, and fought in La Vendee. He then asked me if I knew many of my countrymen. I replied in the negative, saying with a smile—for the opportunity seemed too good to be missed—that there were only two, whom I had known so well in my boyhood as to make me very anxious to hear of them again.
“May I be permitted to ask their names?” he said, quietly. “I am acquainted with several, though, indeed, not very many; for my means are too limited to allow of my mingling much in society.”
I at once named Madame de Salins and her daughter.
My new acquaintance paused and mused, as if he were trying to recollect some circumstance, such as where he had heard of them, and I began to entertain some hopes of information.
“Perhaps,” he said, at length, “I may be able to assist in your search in some degree, although I am not sure. May I ask how old you were when you quitted France?” and his eye ran over my person, which perhaps showed signs of age beyond what my years warranted.
“Between twelve and thirteen,” I replied.
“Ay! and you have remembered them so long,” he said, in a tone of interest. “Well, I will do my best to give you news of them. But I know not where to send it to you, if I should prove fortunate enough to be able to do so.”
I immediately gave him my card, which he examined, repeating the name, and then turned the conversation in another course. I found him exceedingly agreeable, mild and dignified in his manners, and full of general information, though probably not a very learned man. He asked me if I had been to pay my respects, while on the continent, to his majesty the king—afterward known as Louis the Eighteenth—and expressed himself sorry when he heard I had not.
“I think it would have been advisable in many respects,” he added. “This madness will not last forever in France. Nor can the other powers of Europe ever consent as a body to the existence of a state of things in that country antagonistic to all their interests and all their principles. Napoleon Bonaparte, in making himself emperor, has performed an act which places France in a false position that she cannot maintain. As long as he was merely the head of the republican party—the incarnation of the spirit of revolution—he was certain of support at home, and under no absolute necessity to protract the war with foreign powers, one moment after they chose to make peace with the republic. As emperor, however, he has taken upon himself an obligation to wage eternal warfare; for by war alone can he maintain himself as emperor. He may have gained a little with other monarchs by recognizing the monarchical principle, but he has lost more with the French people. France was divided into two. He has now divided it into three, and put two parts against him. The one that he wields, the military part, may be the most powerful for the present, but its adherence to himself depends upon two conditions—war and success. Thus his dynasty can never stand; for no civilized nation can ever be entirely military; and he who attempts to make it so, will always fall as soon as the military part cannot command success; and unless the whole nation be military, success can never be ensured. My belief is that in a few years our old race of kings will be upon the throne again.”
He talked with me for more than an hour, while I continued my sport; and I then returned to my little cottage, very well satisfied with my interview.
Father Bonneville seemed very well satisfied too, when I told him my hopes of discovering the abode of Madame de Salins. He asked me many questions about the gentleman I had met with, and made me describe him accurately. When I had done, he said, nodding his head slowly with a smile, “I think we shall find them now, Louis. I think we shall find them now, and I am almost as glad of it as you are; although I trust they have not been suffering so much from poverty as you imagine.”
A day or two passed on, however, without any intelligence, and the Tuesday came on which I was to dine with Westover, in London. I dressed myself with some care; for I knew that my friend was moving in the most fashionable circles of the capital, and I drove in with the groom in the little phæton, so as to be at his door at the very moment named. He was lodging in a very handsome house in Brook street, and I found him dressed for dinner, but alone.
“My other friends will not be as punctual as you are, De Lacy,” he said, shaking me warmly by the hand; “and I dare say you will have to wait half an hour for your dinner; but in the meantime I can introduce you to them as they come in.”
In about ten minutes, two young and dashing men made their appearance, and I was made acquainted with them in form. Then, five minutes after, came an old peer, stout, beetle-browed, heavy in look but not in intellect, and exceedingly loose in his apparel, which seemed to have been thrown on with a pitchfork, but which did not at all detract from the indefineable something which marks the gentleman. He had not been there two minutes when the door again opened, and the Earl of N—— was announced.
“Ah! your grandfather,” said the last comer. “That is an honor for a grandson, Captain Westover.”
“I consider it as such, I assure you,” said my friend, as he advanced to meet his relation, and I need not say that my eyes fixed eagerly upon the father of Lady Catharine.
He was a tall, thin old man, of very distinguished appearance. I learned afterward that he must have been a good deal over seventy; but he certainly did not look more than sixty. He was perfectly straight and upright, though not stiff in appearance, and was dressed entirely in black, which was not usual in England at that period. Every article of his apparel fitted exactly. His shoes, in which he still wore buckles, were as polished as a looking-glass, and his gloves fitted him as if they had been made upon his hands. His linen was marvelously fine, and as white as snow; and his hair probably would have been as white as his linen, even had it not been filled with powder. His face was very fine, and his complexion peculiarly delicate; but there was no effeminacy about him. There sat a world of resolution on his broad, towering brow, and his teeth, of which he did not seem to have lost one, were always pressed firm together when he was not speaking. His step was slow and deliberate, but still there was none of the feebleness of age in it, and there was a strong composure, if I may so express myself, which never varied but for one moment.
Between the two peers there was no need of an introduction; and they shook hands with each other cordially. One of the other gentlemen, Lord N—— knew also; and the third was introduced to him. Westover then turned, and presented me as Monsieur De Lacy. For a single instant, as he spoke, the earl seemed moved. A slight change came over his face, a twitch of the muscles about the mouth, evidently involuntary, and passing away in one moment. He forgot not his courtesy, however, in the least, did not shake hands with me, but bowed gracefully, and said a few words about France and England, not at all depreciatory of my own country, although he expressed a hope that I would not find my enforced residence in Great Britain altogether without compensation.
He then turned to speak with his grandson and the other gentlemen. Two others were added to the party, and shortly after we moved in to dinner.
By Westover’s arrangement I was seated next to his grandfather; but at first he did not seem inclined to take much notice of me, and, to say the truth, I was very busy with my own thoughts, and inclined to be somewhat silent. After a time, however, a gentleman opposite engaged me in conversation, and something I said seemed to please or strike the old earl, for he joined in with a good deal of tact and wit. That conversation dropped, but the earl continued to talk with me, with his heart a little opened, perhaps, by good wine and good food, which I have remarked have a great effect in producing urbanity—especially with Englishmen. His lordship asked me how I liked the country, whether I had seen much of it, and where I intended to pass the summer. I answered briefly that I had seen very little of the land, and that my plans were all unsettled.
“It is a pity that Charles must so soon rejoin his regiment,” said the earl, “otherwise he might have shown you a good deal that is worth seeing in England, and what is more, you could not be in safer hands. I need not tell you, Monsieur De Lacy, that, for a young man, and a stranger in this country, it is highly necessary that he should choose his acquaintances well.”
“I am quite aware of the fact, my lord,” I replied, “and I consider myself highly fortunate in having been early introduced to Captain Westover. I have few if any acquaintances but those to whom he has introduced me, and the banker to whom I had letters.”
“Ha!” replied the earl, thoughtfully, and after meditating for a moment, as if something puzzled him, he said, “I think I heard you called the Count De Lacy, in society—have you dropped the title?”
“I never took it willingly, my lord,” I replied, “although it is mine, I believe, by right. I was driven out of France very early, and probably never should have known of my countship; but it so happened that I formed some connections in the city of Hamburgh, which led to a considerable bequest from an old friend there, and that caused a communication, in regard to myself, to take place between Hamburgh and England.”
“But how did they know that you were a count, in Hamburgh, if you did not know it yourself?” asked the earl.
“By a letter from England,” I answered, perhaps a little dryly. “It referred to some money matters, of which, to say the truth, I understand nothing; but it was addressed to some of the authorities at Hamburgh, and in it I was designated by the title of count. The same title was repeated in after correspondence, and thus it happened to be given to me here, much to my annoyance; for I would fain drop the countship altogether, not having the means to maintain any distinguished position.”
“Ha! I see, I see,” said the earl, “you speak English remarkably well, Mr. De Lacy. You must have learned it very young.”
“I do not remember the time when I did not speak it,” I replied.
“That is singular in France,” rejoined the old nobleman. “Did your father speak English?”
I could feel a cloud come over my face, and I replied with very painful feelings, “I never knew my father, my lord, and am not aware of who or what he was. I have heard that he was murdered—but that is all I know.”
“I beg pardon—I beg pardon,” said the old earl; “I did not intend to wound you. There are painful subjects in all families—may I drink wine with you?”
During the rest of the evening his tone toward me became a little less stiff and more kindly. He asked no more questions, however, but conversed entirely upon indifferent subjects, and seemed well pleased with my remarks. He retired early, indeed, and I remained for some time longer, in the hope of being able to draw something more from Westover, regarding his aunt, Lady Catharine. I had lost the opportunity of the favorable ten minutes during which I was alone with him before dinner, and no other presented itself for any private conversation. I could only venture to express a hope before others, that his aunt, Lady Catharine, had not suffered seriously from the fatigues of the review. He said she had not been at all well since; and I remarked that I thought her very beautiful.
“She was once the loveliest creature in all England, I am told,” was my friend’s reply; “but that is past, and she can hardly, I think, be called beautiful now—except, indeed, as a beautiful ruin.”
He spoke very gravely—nay, very sadly, and I did not like to press the subject further. I remained some time longer to see if the other guests would go, but they showed no intention of doing any thing of the kind, and as I had a long drive before me, I took my departure, Westover promising to ride down in a day or two, and take me upon some expedition.
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