CHAPTER VII. I JOIN THE TWENTY-FIRST.
“Davy.—Doth the man of war stay all night?
“Shallow,—Yes, Davy—I will use him well.”
Shakspeare.
As I rode from Mr. Hartley’s, I could scarcely persuade myself that the transactions of the last two days were aught but a coinage of the brain, and took the liberty of respectfully inquiring of myself whether I were actually compos mentis. As I looked around, I received on this point a mute affirmative. I was sitting in mine own saddle—bestrode the best mare that ever cleared a broken bridge—identified the holsters at my pommel—my cloak-bag was duly secured upon its pad—and, stronger proof, “a gay gold ring” glittered on my finger.
It was a sweet September evening, and for the first mile or two the scenery harmonized well with that hour “which poets love.” But when the natural wood that encircled Mr. Hartley’s domain was left behind, I found before me a large expanse of dull brown moorland, which must be traversed before I could reach the solitary house where I purposed to take up my quarters for the night. The inn was ten miles distant, and the gentle reader will please to hold in recollection, that these miles were Irish miles; therefore, had I been inclined to sentimentalize, there was neither time nor place for musing. I gave Miss Malone accordingly permission to step out; and as the sun made his parting bow from behind a mountain ridge, I pulled up at the Yellow Lion and received an honourable welcome.
Standing at the door, Andy Beg appeared as if he had been for some time in waiting. He held a letter in his hand, and had a gun-case under his arm. Having grinned what he intended to be a civil recognition, he took my pistols and cloak bag, and led the way into this mountain caravansera. If for me the fatted calf had not been killed, still preparations had been made for supper—for a Nora Crina sort of cook, in short petticoats and a gown curiously tucked up, crossed me in the passage with a brace of moor-fowls ready for the brander. Miss Malone was stabled as became her worth—and I duly inducted into a cheerful chamber, the “great one” of the Yellow Lion, and evidently reserved for honourable guests. Having seated myself before the fire, I broke the seal of the packet which Andy Beg had delivered, and found it to be a valedictory epistle from that mysterious personage, Mr. Hartley. The letter ran thus:—
“Our acquaintance has commenced under such singular circumstances that I trace in it the hand of destiny—for chance could not have thus brought us together, when to meet was every thing but impossible. In me, know one who influences your fortunes—one, who by a breath can confer or withhold what men erroneously consider the passport to human happiness—wealth! For the future, I shall watch your career, and every action of your life shall be under a rigid surveillance. Be prudent, and I promise you a goodly independence. Disappoint my hopes, and you never see me more. To suppose that youth will not err occasionally, would be to plead ignorance of what mankind is. But remember, for folly there is pardon—for vice none. May you pass the ordeal unscathed!
“No one is secure against the frowns of fortune; and it may be decreed that you shall not escape. Mark me, boy! When friends fall off, the future is overcast, and all around seems desperate, write freely—let nothing be held back—and even in that heavy hour I may step between you and your fate. The address I enclose will always find me.
“Farewell; Isidora sends a kind remembrance.
“Yours, as you conduct yourself,
“John Hartley.”
“P.S.—You admired a gun of Manton’s; I beg you to accept it. You can safely forward it to Dublin by the stage coach which passes the inn to-morrow morning.”
Another postscript was annexed: it commanded me to keep profoundly secret my recent escapade among the smugglers, as well as my subsequent introduction to this my most mysterious correspondent. To this strange epistle, I returned a dutiful reply; and having despatched Andy Beg with my letter, I supped—went to sleep—and dreamed till cockcrow of the strange dramatis personae who had figured so prominently in my late adventures.
On the fourth evening I reached the metropolis in safety—reported myself next morning to the Colonel—obtained a barrack-room in George’s-street—was introduced to my brother officers, and committed duly to be drilled. I mounted the “red-rag”—and satisfied myself by a sly inspection as I passed every hatter’s shop, from the effigy of the great King William even unto Stephen’s Green, that the jacket was accurate in its proportions, and conferred immortal honour upon the builder of the same.
Among some introductory letters, one had been given me by my father, addressed to a respectable merchant to whom he annually consigned his wool. His name was Pryme—he lived on one of the quays, was reputed to be very wealthy, and was a rigid quaker. When I called at his counting-house I found that he had been absent for a day or two, and was gone to the country on business; but from his son I received much civility and any information that I required. The young quaker was a little older than I, but in height and general appearance singularly like me. Indeed, we might have passed for twin brothers, had not the cut and colour of our garments announced that no relationship could exist between a flashy flanker and a sober youth, whose conversation and outer man told plainly that he had eschewed the pomps and vanities of this wicked world. According to my father’s orders, Mr. Pryme was not only to supply me with good advice, but also to furnish me with money when required—and one fine evening the young quaker, after mess, visited my barrack-room, and then and there replenished a treasury which a military outfit had nearly exhausted.
Of course he was hospitably entertained. The bottle passed freely—some of the younger hands dropped in—the kettle was put in requisition—and it was decreed that whisky punch should complete what port wine had handsomely commenced already.
At eleven o’clock the party were regularly screwed, the quaker worse than any. We had indulged in divers drunken freaks; and not the least ridiculous was an interchange of clothes between me and Simon Pure. Our next proceeding was to seek adventure, and sally forth upon the town; I attired in a snuff-coloured single-breasted coatee and broad-brimmed hat, and brother Samuel in full regimentals and a bearskin chaco.
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Our career was short and brilliant. We managed to get up a row in Dame-street with a party of college men, bent on the same errand as ourselves. The watch interfered—we joined our quondam opponents in a treaty, offensive and defensive, to resist this impertinent intervention, and the fight for a short time was respectably maintained. But numbers succeeded. I was stretched hors de combat; sundry belligerents (the quaker included) were captured and carried to the watch-house, while the remainder, reserving themselves for deeds of valour on a future day, levanted, and left us to our fate.
Either owing to the severity of the blow, or from the shock of the fall, after having saluted my mother earth I lay perfectly motionless; while, alarmed at this proof of prowess, instead of conveying me to durance vile, the guardians of the night, declaring me dead as Julius Cæsar, carried me into a neighbouring apothecary’s, to ascertain whether that disciple of the healing god could minister to mortal wounds, and set defunct gentlemen safe upon their legs again. The doctor having wiped and mounted his spectacles, proceeded to what he believed would turn out a post mortem examination; for after a single glance, he started back and exclaimed—
“Why, ye villans—every sowl of ye will be hanged! Haven’t ye murdered a quaker?”
“Not at all,” responded the commander of the faithful. “Sure it was the quaker that murdered us.”
“Have done, ye scoundrels! He’s a man of peace.”
“Pace or war,” returned a watchman, “he’s the hardest hitter betune this and Bully’s acre, and that’s a big word. He give me one clip wid the left hand, and jist look at my eye, af ye plase. By this book,” and Charlie reverently held up his lantern, “I think it was the crown of my head that first titched the gravel. It was the clanest knock down I ivir got—and many’s the floorer I’ve had in my time from thim college divils. Bad luck attind them night and day—the thieves!”
“Who is the gentleman?” inquired the apothecary.
“Arrah! sorra one of us knows,” was the reply.
“Search his pockets,” said the leech;—“some paper will probably tell.”
The quaker’s coatee forthwith underwent a judicial investigation, and divers mercantile documents at once established the identity.
“Why,” said the apothecary, “he’s son of Mr. Pryme, the rich merchant, a man whom every body respects. By my conscience, I have one comfort for ye. If any thing goes wrong with the boy here, every man Jack of ye is sure of Botany Bay—ay! and the devil a rap it will cost any of ye for the passage out.”
“Oh!—murder! murder!” ejaculated sundry voices.
“Whish’t!” said the doctor, for I gave a twist upon the floor, and muttered—“Fill fair, and be d———d to you.”
“Holy Bridget!” ejaculated the chief of the Charlies—“if ivir I met a quaker of his kind. He drinks like a fish, and swears like a trooper!”
“All! he’s coming round again,” exclaimed the doctor. “See!—the colour’s on his cheek. I tell you what you’ll do. Call a chair, carry him home fur and asy; and, if ye can, smuggle him down the area steps, for the ould gentleman wouldn’t be overpleased to see him. I’ll drop the lad a line or two in the morning, and make all right for you.”
Instantly a charlie trotted off, and in a few minutes I was safely ensconced in a “leathern conveniency” now extinct, which at that time performed a double duty in transporting beauty to the ball-room, and drunkards to their cribs.
I was promptly conveyed to my destination; and, by some strange fatality, a new chief butler that very evening had succeeded the former “pantler” of Mr. Pryme. I was, of course, personally unknown to’ him; and having been discreetly slipped down the area steps, it was explained that “I was rather the worse of liquor, and had been mighty pugnacious into the bargain.” The butler took me on his back; and without let or hindrance, I was carried to the chamber of the absent Samuel—stripped—put to bed,—promised a bowl of whey—and left in undisputed possession of the dormitory of the drunken quaker.
Two or three hours passed; and how the secret transpired I cannot guess. I was buried in profound sleep, when lights, flashed across my eyes and awakened me. Through an opening in the curtains I saw three females beside the bed; and I also discovered that the apartment was a strange one.
Surprise or fear will sometimes remove the consequences of inebriety, and men become suddenly sober. I felt this singular effect. In a moment after I awoke, I was conscious that I had been lately a victim to “the rosy god,” and that I was now, in Irish parlance, “just in the very centre of a hobble.” Dipping my face beneath the counterpane, I murmured in a growling voice—“The lights! the lights! my head, my head!”
“Ruth,” said the elder female, “remove the candles. Samuel! my son, what meaneth this? Art thou fallen?”
“Yes,” I groaned; “I had a heavy fall, indeed.”
“Ah! Samuel—would that that groan were the groan of sin, and not of suffering; and that thy conscience rather than thy stomach were moved. Speak! How did the enemy overtake thee? Where did he enclose thee in his net?”
I dipped my head beneath the bed coverings, and, in a husky voice, muttered—“The barracks in George’s-street.”
“Mercy on us!—Ruth—Rachel. It is the large brick building in which abide godless men in scarlet. And how, Samuel, did the evil one achieve thy fall?”
“One said I was floored by a charlie, and another left it upon a clip from a blackthorn.”
“No, no, Samuel; I ask the carnal means. Was it by that soul-destroying liquor, wine, or was it by worse?”
“Worse, worse,” I mumbled in reply.
“Oh dear!” ejaculated Mrs. Pryme.
“Ah me!” responded the gentle Rachel.
“Alack, alack! continued the conscientious Ruth.
“Name the snare of the tempter.”
“I’m too bashful,” I grumbled.
Nay, Samuel. Close thy ears, Ruth—avert thy head, Rachel; he would not have his shame revealed. Was it, Samuel, a dancing Herodias—or some Delilah, with bewitching looks!
“No, no; worse, worse.”
“Mercy on us! Speak, and name the fatal cause.”
“Punch—punch!—Whisky new—the kettle not boiled—and too much acid,” came grumbling from below the blankets.
“How fearful is inebriety! Thy very voice, my son, is changed. But verily, as it is thy first offending, I will pardon it, and give thee the kiss of peace.”
So saying, she popped her head through the curtains, and bestowed upon me the reconciliatory accolade. After thus sealing my pardon, the worthy gentlewoman sailed out of the apartment, accompanied by her handmaid Ruth.
I felt myself in a curious position,—located in a strange house, ensconced in a comfortable bed from which the right owner would presently eject me, and watched by a lovely girl of eighteen, on whose sweet countenance the very imprint of innocence was stamped. And what was I?—A regular impostor. Well, what was to be done? Should I admit my villany, and be bundled off direct to Newgate, under a charge of burglary, or some more felonious intentions? And to whom was this interesting confession to be made? The old dame?—no, faith—there no kiss of peace would ratify my pardon. The young one?—pshaw, the very idea that she had been seated beside the bed of a man in scarlet would annihilate Rachel on the spot. No doubt a discovery must ensue—but, like every thing a man dislikes, I determined to procrastinate it and trust to fortune.
“Samuel,” said the sweetest voice imaginable, “does thy head ache? Let me apply this essence and passing her hand gently through the curtains, she bathed my temples with eau-de-Cologne. My arm was outside the coverlid,—she took my hand in hers and pressed it affectionately.
“How feverish!” she murmured. “But here comes Ruth, with something our mother sends, which will allay thy thirst.”
The stiff-backed abigail deposited the liquid on a table.
“Come, Rachel, sleep will restore thy brother.” Then addressing herself to me, “Farewell, friend Samuel,—may this be the last of thy foolishness and after this flattering admonition, she exited from the chamber, stiff as a ramrod.
“Farewell, dear brother,”—and Rachel again clasped my hand in hers,—“good night! I trust sincerely I shall find thee better in the morning.”
“Stop!” I mumbled. “Rachel, dear,—dear Rachel!”
“What, my brother?”
“The—the—the kiss of peace!” I managed to stammer from beneath the bed coverings.
“Willingly, dear Samuel;” and lips, “full, rosy, ripe,” were artlessly pressed to mine, while a prayer, pure from a guileless heart, implored pardon for the past, and a blessing for the future. The next moment the door was softly closed, and I “left alone in my glory.”
Would it be credited that under such circumstances had the audacity to sleep? But sleep I did—and when I slept, my head was on a peaceful pillow, and the kiss of innocence still fragrant on my lips.