CHAPTER XVIII.
ROY’S IMPRUDENCE.
The letter from Mrs. Fairbank to Colonel Baron, which Roy undertook to read aloud to Denham, was lengthy and verbose. Some extracts may be given from it, the remainder being, in old-fashioned phrase, “left to the reader’s imagination.”
It may be remarked here that much had happened during the last four years in European history, since the Barons had left their own country. Notable among famous events was the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, which crippled for half a century to come the naval power of France.
For three years at least previous to that date, England had been kept on tenterhooks of expectation, incessantly dreading a French invasion. Napoleon had talked largely of such an invasion, and had made preparations for it on no mean scale. England also had made ready for it, had feared it, had laughed at it. And at the last, partly through Continental complications, causing Napoleon to withdraw most of the great military force which had long sat at Boulogne, waiting for a safe chance of crossing the Channel, but much more through the magnificent and crushing victory of Nelson, in the course of which he received his death-wound, England escaped it.
She escaped it, seemingly, by a very narrow margin. But for Napoleon’s pressing need of more soldiers elsewhere, and but for this crowning victory of Nelson’s, the attempt might certainly have been made. As everybody knows, Nelson chased the combined fleets of France and Spain across the Atlantic to the West Indies and back again; and had he, by one little slip, just missed finding those fleets at the critical moment, a landing of French troops might actually have taken place.
Whether Napoleon could ever have done more than land his troops upon the coast, is a question which cannot now be answered. It is not absolutely inconceivable that, through superior numbers and possibly superior discipline,[1] he might have gained one or two small victories, thereby placing himself in a position to march towards London. Even so much is unlikely; and that he could ever in the end have conquered Britain is absolutely inconceivable, despite his own boastful assurance on that point, which lasted or appeared to last until the end of his life.
But that he might have done a large amount of damage, that his soldiers might have pillaged right and left, that villages and towns might have been destroyed, that widespread loss and misery might have been inflicted, of all this there can be small question, at least as to the bare possibility.
These fears, however, were now at an end. Napoleon’s career of conquest on land continued unchecked; but at sea the flag of Great Britain reigned supreme. Nelson’s body lay beneath St. Paul’s Cathedral: but before he went he had done his work. He had saved his country from the iron heel of Napoleon. So Mrs. Fairbank’s letter contained no further descriptions of invasion scares, such as she would have had to write two or three years earlier, though it did contain certain references to the Emperor, not too cautiously worded for a letter on its road to France. Some past hopes of a peace between England and France, now at an end, were alluded to also.
“I’ll read it aloud to you, may I?” asked Roy again, when Captain Ivor had made his appearance, refreshed and smartened as to the outer man, and had been made to sit down to a hastily-prepared meal, to which he failed to do justice. “And,” Roy added, recalling Lucille’s words, “you can get on the sofa, and have a rest.”
Ivor declined to pose as an invalid, and submitted only to being installed in the Colonel’s large arm-chair, while Roy plunged into Mrs. Fairbank’s epistle, wading through it on the whole perseveringly, though not without suggestions of skippings.
“It’s written, ‘Bath, August 4th, 1806,’—ever so long ago,” he remarked as a preliminary. “But she didn’t get it all done in one day—not near. I can leave out the other dates. They don’t matter.
“‘My dear Sir,—Though ’tis somewhat hopeless work writing, under the present aspect of affairs, I will send another letter, wishing that it may by some means reach you in safety. We still look out perpetually, with Constant Anxiety, for any sort of news of yourselves, which indeed but seldom arrives. These passing years are tru’ly melancholy to think upon. Molly is now fifteen, and has not seen Roy for a space of three years and more! Who could have thought——’ O I say, can’t I skip this? She does go on so. Well, I won’t, if you’d rather not; but it’s no good, you know. ‘Who could have thought it, my dear Sir, when you and your wife unhappily decided to make that doleful excursion to France, intending to stay but one fortnight, which resulted in this continued separation? Alas, how little man knows ever what lies Before him, in the Future!’ But what’s the good of her saying all that?
“‘The late tremendous storms about Lonn have caused much Alarm, but these terrors seem to be now somewhat Abating.... I have been to the Pump Room and to the Circulating Library, and find people are not much elevated at the prospect of Mr. Fox concluding a Peace in the present dolorous situation, it being confidently said he cannot live a fortnight, and that he knows his situation.
“‘Mackbeth said Lady Mackbeth
Should have died yesterday.’
“‘I presume that you with ourselves greatly lamented the death of Mr. Pitt last spring; a sad event at so critical a period.’ But I don’t see what she means about Macbeth—do you, Den? It’s so funny. O do you know, we got the Times with all about the ‘obsequies’ of Mr. Fox, and a picture of the hearse; and I kept it. I can show it to you by-and-by.
“‘A laughable jest was not long since in circulation here, that Bonaparte intended to compel the Pope to marry his Mother.... There are a society of monied people in Bath, buying all the Houses they can meet with, on Speculation, which raises them and also Lodgings, which, with the taxes, are high beyond any former period, and in the end will be a disadvantage to Bath; for the Keepers of Lodging-houses, if they can’t raise the price of rooms, oblige the strangers to take or at least pay for more than they want. The times do indeed afford a Melancholy Prospect. And still Bonaparte exists![2]
“‘If you have not, do read the Secret History of the Cabinet of St. Cloud.... I have had quite a levee this morning; two ladies quite in a pet that they cannot get genteel Lodgings for themselves and Maids under 80 or 90 pounds a year. Bath fills with Company.... It is rumoured that the Country Bankers are expected to have a run upon them for a little time; on what account I don’t clearly understand; therefore shall endeavour to get as many of their five-pound notes changed as I can at the Shops, by buying store of Candles, Sugar, etc., for they, the Bankers, will not part with any cash....’ O now we’re going to get to something more interesting.
“‘Jack is now with us for a fortnight, and he and Polly went this morning to the Public Library, and heard a Group of Gentlemen’s very serious opinions on the condition of Affairs at the present moment. What a succession of triumphs attends the Corsican, wicked Elf! Poor old England stands alone; but how long——?[2]
“‘General Moore, who as you doubtless are aware is now Sir John Moore, and has been these two years past, continues to Befriend Jack, when Opportunity offers. Jack is sorely Disappointed at not being of the number sent on this Expedition to Sicily. He hopes he may yet be ordered thither, if more troops are wanted. I don’t for my part know precisely what they may be doing there; but doubtless the Government has good Reasons for all that’s done. How much you in your long banishment may hear of Public News we have no means of guessing, my dear Sir, but most heartily do I wish it were over, and the Blessings of an assured Peace once more restored to Europe. Alas, while that persistent Disturber of Peace continues to flourish, what can be looked for but persistent War? ’Tis said that Mr. William Wilberforce declares that Austerlitz was the death-blow to Mr. Pitt.
“‘Polly desires me to send her due Remembrances to Captain Ivor, and her hopes that he continues well in health. She writ him but lately a long letter, tho’ ’tis disheartening work, none knowing if ever the letters sent do arrive. Polly is extremely well, and has her Roses in full Bloom, and is in vastly Good Spirits, albeit she was greatly Disappointed at the failure of the Peace negotiations, on which Mr. Fox built much, but without cause. ’Tis said that she grows a more elegant young woman each year; and for my part I know not if this be not the truth. Molly also is becoming fast a grown-up young woman; and there is in her face—altho’ she is not Handsome—an expression of such fine Moral Sensibility as cannot but gratify the Beholder.’”
Roy made a slight pause when Polly’s name came up, as if wondering whether Denham would say anything; but the break was not taken advantage of, and his still face said nothing. So Roy went on to the end, gabbling rather hurriedly through Molly’s affectionate and prim little composition to himself, which somehow always gave him a sense of stricture in the throat.
“That’s all. Nothing more,” said Roy.
“There may be scores of letters buried in official bureaux,” suggested Mrs. Baron. “From—Polly and all of them.”
Denham was looking steadily down, with an expression which to her as to Roy was inscrutable. No response came. He merely said, after a pause—
“I think that letter should be destroyed, Colonel. Unsafe to keep.”
Colonel Baron made a sound of assent. Home subjects then were dropped, and Denham was plied with questions as to his manner of life at Valenciennes. He had a good deal to tell, and his account of the Commandant there contrasted favourably with their experiences of General Wirion.
The next day was by common consent granted to Roy as a whole holiday. His studies had been carried on partly under the young clergyman, Mr. Kinsland, partly under his father, during the last eighteen months; but a free day seemed only fair, in honour of Denham’s return. The boy was in wild spirits, full of schemes for hunting up old friends in Denham’s company, Denham did not appear at all till after breakfast, just in time to attend appel, and Roy, having been withheld from disturbing him, was off on some business of his own. When, after appel, he rushed in, it was to find Denham in the Colonel’s chair, with a book open which he was not reading, and with the air of a man who would not be easily dislodged. His face told its own tale; and Roy’s look became suddenly blank.
“I’m afraid there is no help for it, Roy. You must give me a day’s grace. I’ve done a good deal of walking, you see;” which was a mild statement of the case.
“I thought you’d be rested by this morning.”
“Ought! but Morpheus declined to be courted.”
“Couldn’t you sleep? And you don’t want to go out again?”
“I don’t think a team of horses could drag me a mile. But you will look up the Curtises for me.”
“Yes, of course. Where are they? O you don’t know. I’ll find out. Is that it?”
“See where Carey is too.”
“Carey? Wasn’t it he that had your horse—the horse you ought to have ridden?”
“No ‘ought’ in the question. Don’t say a word of that sort to him. I want to know where he is putting up. And—Franklyn——”
“Roy, do not make him talk,” as Denham’s hand went over his eyes.
“No, ma’am, I won’t. Only just to know—but ’tis all right now. I’ll look everybody up, Den, and don’t you mind about anything till your head is better.”
Roy went off, and Lucille came softly to where Mrs. Baron was standing. “So changed!” Mrs. Baron murmured.
“Oui,” assented Lucille, under her breath. “There are creatures, Madame, that cannot live in captivity.”
“Somebody over there is talking not very good sense,” murmured Denham, with a touch of reproof. Lucille stopped instantly, with a flush. The remark had been involuntary, and she had not imagined that he could hear.
Roy went the round of a good many returned acquaintances, finding out, as he went, where to go for others. He discovered Franklyn and Carey without difficulty, and in time learnt where the Curtises had bestowed themselves. From one and all he heard one tale as to Denham. Captain Ivor’s kindness and generosity towards all who were in difficulties formed a general theme. “What we should have done, but for him——” was an expression which occurred again and again. Roy no longer wondered that he had been “cleared out” to his last sou.
“Of course he was wrong,” Major Woodgate said decisively. “Only half recovered from an illness, and undertaking such a tramp as that! Insane of him! but it’s the sort of insanity that one doesn’t get too much of in this world. No, Carey wasn’t fit for the march. Might have finished him off, poor boy. But Ivor was hardly better fit. He settled the point himself, and did it out and out, as he generally does. Why couldn’t they share the horse between them? Quixotic, of course, and one likes him all the better for it. He—in fact, Ivor is a dear fellow. How is he this morning? Done for? I expected as much. Where are you off to now?”
Roy had had twelve o’clock lunch with the Woodgates, finding himself at some distance from home, with his task not accomplished. He was by this time much excited, and rather off his balance.
The Curtises came next, last on his round. He hunted out the rooms in which they had taken refuge, and again heard a good deal about Denham, besides much as to their own doings during the last few months.
“I say, I don’t think you’ve got into very nice quarters,” he said, surveying the walls.
“Best we can afford, old man. By-and-by we hope to change. I want to start painting again, and one must have a good light. Got a capital idea in my mind.”
“You won’t take the trouble to copy that, anyhow,” remarked Roy, pointing at a good-sized plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood on the mantel-piece. “I wouldn’t keep the wretched thing there, if I were you.”
“My dear boy, it’s from no sort of devotion to the original, I assure you. But what’s to be done? Our landlady is a flaring red-hot Bonapartist. Gushed about him for an hour this morning to my wife—didn’t she, dear?”
“I told her politely that I should like him better, if he would kindly allow us to go home,” added Mrs. Curtis.
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t suit her views, if we got rid of the Emperor, and put King George instead. Take care, Roy. Look out.”
Roy was standing by the table, on which lay a little heap of wood-chips. Curtis always had something in hand—either painting or moulding or carving. If no other occupation presented itself, he would content himself with whittling a piece of wood into scraps; and apparently this had been his last occupation. Roy took up a chip, aimed carefully at the bust, and flung it.
“Missed, by half-an-inch! I’ll try again. That’s right. Hit him fair and square on the nose. Now you, Curtis. See if you can beat that.”
“You’ll break something, I’m sure,” objected Mrs. Curtis. “And then we shall have to pay for it.”
“All right. I’ll pay. Now your turn. Whew! another miss. I’m getting out of practice. That’s it! Nose again.”
Roy was in a wild mood, delighted to find some vent for his happiness, and not to be easily checked; and Curtis was drawn in, hardly resisting. First one, then the other, aimed chip after chip at that self-contained face of worldwide fame, sometimes hitting, sometimes missing. When for the third time Roy succeeded in touching the nose, he was hilariously delighted. “Bravo, bravo!” he cried. “Down with the old fellow! À bas l’Empereur!”
“Sh—h! Roy, be careful. You’ll certainly get yourself into trouble.”
“All right—nobody here but ourselves. Now you again. I say, I wish I could do this to the real individual. Wouldn’t it be a game worth playing? À bas the old chap! Now you—down with Nap! Now it’s me.”
Roy’s excitement went beyond bounds. He seized a solid ball, belonging to the baby, and aimed with precision.
“À bas l’Empereur.”
Down came the bust, with a crash, into the fender, and was smashed.
Roy stood still, conscious of having done a very silly thing, and a shriek sounded in his rear. The door had just been opened, the landlady had appeared, and she was now shaking her fists, and executing a dance of rage.
“I say, Roy, stop! Don’t go on fooling like this. You’ll get us all into trouble.” Curtis spoke roughly, realising in a moment that matters might become serious. “Tell her you mean nothing by it.”
“Mean nothing. But of course I do mean——”
“Roy! Will you hold your tongue? Stop this foolery!”
Roy obeyed, while the woman, shaking her fists, continued to pour out a torrent of abuse, in the midst of which occurred several times the ominous word “gendarmes.”
Curtis went nearer to her, and spoke in his quietest tones.
“Madame is mistaken,” he said. “Nothing is intended. Monsieur is but a boy, and Monsieur was but in jest.”
“It is an insult to l’Empereur! It shall be made known,” screamed the other.
“I beg of you to hear me. It is no insult. This gentleman had no wish, none whatever, to break the figure. He did but aim at it in jest—as English Messieurs love to do. Not because it was a bust of the Emperor, but to have something to aim at,” explained Curtis.
He might as well have addressed himself to the winds.
“A jest!—and as to the Emperor! Truly a fit subject for a jest! But the thing shall be known. M. le Général Wirion shall hear. Ah—ha, and we shall see what the gendarmes will say to Monsieur’s little jest! Eh—hé, Monsieur, I know a thing or two as to les Anglais, I can tell you. And my ornament that is broken—broken all in pieces——”
“Madame shall have full value for the bust.”
Roy felt in his pockets. “I’ve only five francs here. But it can’t be worth more.”
“You won’t get off with the mere market value of the thing,” Curtis said in English. “I have five more, and not a sou besides in the house. Here, offer her the ten.”
Roy’s hand was thrust contemptuously aside.
“Non, vraiment! Dix francs! Does Monsieur think ten francs will pay for that!” tragically pointing towards the fragments in the fender. “An image of the Emperor! Non, Monsieur! I go to the General.”
“How much?” Curtis tried to make her say. She gesticulated furiously, and declined payment. It was an insult to the Emperor. Did Monsieur imagine that money would wipe out that? Did Monsieur suppose that she cared only for her own loss? Bah!—nothing of the kind, though Madame was a widow, and could ill afford to lose anything. But this was a profound matter. Madame had a duty to perform, and incontestibly she would perform it.
With which declaration the irate landlady disappeared.
“That’s awkward,” Curtis said seriously. “She is the first of the kind that I have come across yet. We had a nice little landlady at Valenciennes. Roy, you had better be off, sharp. She may not know your name.”
“And leave you to bear the blame for what I’ve done! I’m not so mean!”
“It’s not meanness. She may cool down when she does not see you, and I must make another attempt. Of course I know that your father will pay anything in reason to get you out of the difficulty. Be off, Roy.”
“But she knows my name well enough. She has seen me before, I’m pretty sure.”
“All the more reason why you shouldn’t stay here. Get home as fast as you can, and tell your father at once. Don’t put off. I hope it will come to nothing; but Wirion is certain not to lose his chance of putting on the screw, and squeezing some money out of your people. Run off, as fast as you can. I’ll tackle her again.”
Roy obeyed, by this time rather serious. “I wonder what does come over a fellow sometimes to make him make a fool of himself,” he cogitated.
(To be continued.)
[IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.]
By RUTH LAMB.