CHAPTER XII. A GENERAL DISCOVERY.
“I was ta’en for him, and he for me,
And thereupon these errors are arose.”
Shakspere.
While Mark Antony and his companion are on the road, we must leave the man to take care of himself, and returning to the master, inquire whether in the interim any particular “ups and downs” had occurred in the fortunes of myself, Mr. Hector O’Halloran. I was left in bed—and where could a safer place be found wherein to deposit a light-headed young gentleman? But every body knows that general rules are not without exceptions—and, the circumstances considered, by which I had obtained possession of the quaker’s dormitory, I feel assured that the gentle reader will wish me a safe deliverance from the same.
I will not enter into minute details of how the false positions of myself and Samuel Pryme were finally detected; but in the parlance of Tony Lumpkin’s respectable friend, who never danced a bear to unfashionable music, will sum them up in “a concatenation accordingly,” namely, the sleepy soliloquy of the chief butler of the worthy quaker.
Jack Costigan was one of those gifted individuals who sleep at pleasure. He had a light conscience and a heavy head; and it there was one mortal annoyance that he abominated above the rest, it was to have any portion of “nature’s sweet restorative” abridged. Twice had his slumbers been invaded. He had let in one master dead drunk, and admitted the other, who had been belated. These were grievous visitations; but, like other misfortunes, they were over; and determined to make up, if possible, for broken sleep, Mr. Costigan once more sought his pillow, and for a season had been buried in “dreamless slumberings.” Alas! this Elysian state of sweet forgetfulness was presently dispelled. In successive vollies, sand struck the casement sharply; and “every pause between,” a sotto voice appeal fell sluggishly upon the sleeper’s ear, requiring admission to the garrison.
Now this was more than flesh and blood could stand. To two masters, as we said before, the butler had given admission, and both were disposed of as Christian men should be; and, as the fact is clearly understood in Ireland, and upon parliamentary authority too, that nothing can be in two places at once—barring a bird—it was quite clear that neither of the Prymes could be at one and the same time in bed and in the street. Of course, the intruder must be a stranger: he was on the right side to run away, namely, the wrong side of the hall-door—and there let him remain. Having come to this discreet resolution, and consigned the unknown to the especial care of that personage more genteelly known as “the gentleman in black,” Mr. Costigan once more turned on his pillow, determined to all further appeals to play deaf adder, and sleep like a watchman during the little time now left him.
But the stranger would not be denied. A sharper volley rattled against the windows, and a voice came down the area, and softly but distinctly pronounced, “John Costigan, I pray thee to arise, and let me in—I am thy friend.”
“Arrah, then, feaks,” observed the butler with a desperate yawn, “that’s my own name, sure enough; but to the divil I pitch such friendship, whoever ye are. I see that I’ll never stand the place; for of all the dens I ever was in, for a racketty hole this quaker’s bates them hollow. Wasn’t I for three months second waiter at the ‘Free and asy’ in Roscrea; and when the Blazers would tatter the house once a fortnight, why a man could get a little sleep, while the damage was repairin’; but here, there’s nothing but batteration. In tumbles the young chap blind drunk, and nearly breaks my back carryin’ him up stairs. Then in rowls the ould sinner, just off the ran-tan, wid a cock-and-bull story in his mouth about a broken coach, to blind that stiff-backed gentlewoman that owns him. Death and ‘nages! what a chate he is!—if one didn’t know his trick, he might think butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth—he’s so fair spoken: the ould decaver!”
Here a shower of sand interrupted Mr. Costigan’s soliloquy.
“Asy, bad luck to ye! Do you mane to smash the glass, ye thief? Wait till I git the breeches on, and maybe ye won’t git a fla in ye’r ear for disturbin’ an honest tradesman like myself.”
Having slipped on his nether garment, the butler unlocked the area door, as from that position he could hold safer converse, having the palisades between him and the intruder.
Never did an unhappy quaker find greater difficulty to establish his identity; for Mr. Costigan was not an impartial judge, he having already fully determined to reject all evidence the claimant might adduce. But one doubt presented itself to the worthy butler—could the person he had carried up to bed have been a phantom? Oh, no; the burden was “too, too, solid flesh,”—a fact his aching back attested.
“Of a truth, friend Costigan,” said the youth, “I am thy master’s son.”
“Arrah, na boolish!” returned the incredulous pantler.
“Open the wicket,” pursued the suppliant; “thy look is good-natured; and wouldst thou expose me to my father’s anger?”
“Arrah, none of ye’r soft solder with me,” responded Mr. Costigan. “Divil a toe you’ll put into the house, good nor bad. Be off wid ye; give ye’r rags a gallop, or, be this book, I’ll charge ye on the watch.”
The loud tone in which the indignant butler repudiated the real Simon Pure had reached his father’s ears, and brought the tête-à-tête to a close. The window opened; and Mr. Pryme demanded, “What caused the noise beneath?”
“Nothing,” returned Mr. Costigan; “only here’s a rambler on the street, that, right or wrong, wants me to let him in, and swares he’s a son of yours into the bargain.”
“Who art thou, friend? demanded the elder quaker.”
“Thy erring son,” returned a voice, choked with shame, and almost inaudible.
“What do I hear?—Thou, my son?”
“Impossible!” exclaimed a female voice; and Mrs. Pryme’s nightcap came popping through another window. “Our son Samuel is long since a-bed.”
Alas! one glance confirmed the identity of the applicant; and to Mr. Pryme the discovery was most painful—while it passed the understanding of Mr. Costigan altogether. Doubtingly, at the bidding of his master, the butler unclosed the door, while the old man descended to the hall to receive his erring child, and learn the particulars of an occurrence with which so much mystery seemed to be involved.
To the heart of a fond father, how irresistibly come the pleadings of a first offence! The word of pardon passed the old man’s lips—the young offender was folded in his parent’s arms—and it would be doubtful to determine, whether the happier of the twain was he who received, or he who had extended forgiveness.
All this was as it should be; but what the devil was to become of me? Indeed, my hour of retribution was at hand—for the reconciliation was scarcely completed, before it was intimated to Mr. Pryme, that an unknown guest had honoured the mansion with his company,—that he was at present sound asleep—that his reception had been affectionate—but it was not considered necessary to add, that he had received more decided tokens of regard, and been kissed by half the female portion of the establishment.
To ascertain who this mysterious visitor might be, Mr. Pryme proceeded at once to my apartment, accompanied by his henchman, Jack Costigan, who, to guard against danger or surprise, had provided himself with the kitchen poker. No ally could have been better affected than the butler; for, by future good service, he was anxious to redeem the error he had committed in rejecting an heir-apparent from his father’s house, as unceremoniously as if he had been the tax-gatherer.
I laboured under the stupid inertion which succeeds a drunken debauch, and was buried in profound repose. Unheard and unchallenged, the quaker approached my bed, while the butler unclosed the window-shutters. The quaker touched my shoulder gently—and in a voice as calm as if he were addressing an honoured guest, inquired, “Friend, art thou sleeping?”
Fancying that I was ‘wakened by my servant to attend morning drill, I irreverently responded,—
“Curse all parades! Tell Sergeant Skelton to go to Bath, and let the Adjutant go after him!”
“Swear not,” returned Mr. Pryme; “but say, how wilt thou excuse thyself?”—
“Oh!” I replied, still dreaming of drill and duty, “I’ll leave that to you: say I have a head-ache—a tooth-ache—or any ache you please. In short, tell any lie that will answer best!”
“Friend, thou dost neither comprehend my meaning, nor I thine;” replied the old gentleman.
At the moment, Mr. Costigan managed to unclose the shutters;—a flood of sunshine streamed in, lightened the apartment suddenly, and at once dispelled my slumberings. I started, like a guilty thing, bolt upright in the bed, and encountered full front, the burly form of the honest quaker; while Mr. Costigan, poker in hand, remained some paces in the rear, ready to aid and support his master on the first indication of hostilities.
“My name is Obadiah Pryme—Friend, what is thine?”
The question was a regular choker. I was called on to become my own accuser, and stand before my father’s chosen representative, a self-convicted roué. Of the finale of my career, what goodly promise did its opening give! my first introduction to my guardian—a rascally invasion of his premises,—and, were I pressed to extenuate the offence, I could not, with Jack Falstaff, even plead that I had not “kissed the keeper’s daughter.”
Trifles hurry on great events,—and a recommendation from Mr. Costigan, that I should be sent direct to Newgate, roused my latent pride, and re-established courage, that was oozing fast from my finger-ends.
“Peace, John!” returned the quaker; “Thy name, friend?”
“Is one, Sir, not unknown to you!”
“Indeed!” said the old man, with some surprise.
“I am called Hector O’Halloran!”
“Protect us!” exclaimed Mr. Pryme, with hands and eyes upturned; “Wert thou then the companion of my erring boy, and partook in last night’s godless revelry?”
“He was not my companion,” I answered boldly; “but I his tempter. I led him to commit the folly that he did—and the blame of all should rest with me.”
The quaker gave me a benignant look, took my hand, and pressed it warmly—and next moment my pardon was pronounced.
“Hector O’Halloran,” he said, “thy candour redeems thy crime. He who so freely owns a fault will probably henceforward eschew the ways of foolishness. Sleep; the morning yet is young. I am thankful that the son of my ancient friend was fortunately brought to a home where he was placed in safety. Thou shalt be called ere breakfast-hour arrives.”
Once more the shutters were closed. The quaker departed, and I was left to marvel at the luck by which I had undeservedly escaped the pains and penalties of this my first delinquency.
I slumbered away two hours, dreaming of Charleys’ lanterns, poles, and stolen kisses, until my “man tapped at the door” with a carpetbag containing a full equipment. Indeed, it was fortunate for me that Mr. Pryme had sent for my servant and a refit; for the formal habiliments in which I had masqueraded on the preceding evening now cut a sorry figure, as John examined them one by one. The coat was changed into a spencer; for, in the melée, body and skirts had parted company,—while that garment, politely termed unmentionable, exhibited so many compound fractures, that the tailor would have been a daring artist who would have undertaken the repairs. Having completed my toilet, my valet took his departure, just as the quaker’s butler announced that the ladies were waiting for me in the parlour.
[Original]
When the summons to the breakfast-table was delivered, I felt it a first draft upon the assurance of a bashful Irishman, and I would have freely sacrificed a month’s pay, to have been permitted to slip off without any flourish of trumpets. It was bad enough to face my worthy mentor,—him, to whom especially both my morality and expenditure had been consigned. But it was the quaker’s womankind whom I had most cause to dread—ladies swindled out of a kiss under false pretences,—how the deuce was I to encounter the chaste indignation, which the recollection of that felonious accolade would assuredly call forth? My foot stuck to the last step of the staircase, as if it had been glued there; and there I stood, in the comfortable position of a person who is ashamed to retreat, and afraid to go forward. The chief butler, however, brought matters to a crisis. Emerging from the lower regions by a back stair, he entered the breakfast-room, and I had the satisfaction to hear him announce, in a voice intended only to be audible to those within, that “the drunken gentleman was in the hall,” accompanied with a-running-commentary of, “What impudence some people have!”
The remark, under existing circumstances, was not an encouraging one; and it would have afforded me unspeakable delight to have seen Mr. Costigan under the bastinado. Yet nothing, indeed, but that quality which it was insinuated I possessed extensively, would bear me through; and, after invoking the powers of impudence, in I desperately ventured.
But to my offendings mercy had been extended. Had I been an expected visitor, Mr. Pryme’s reception could not have been kinder,—and his stiff helpmate inquired, “Had I rested well?” Rachael,—oh! how that plain peaked muslin, which vainly strove to hide a profusion of auburn hair, became her! She, sweet girl, bade me a timid good-morrow, and then, blushing to the very brows, dropped her dovelike eyes upon the table-cloth. All this was passing strange—strange that the felonious invasion of a quiet domicile at midnight should elicit no objection—and, stranger still—the kiss of peace appeared to have totally escaped the memories of all parties save myself, implicated in the transaction!
Breakfast ended—the old lady withdrew—and Mr. Pryme asked me to walk with him to his counting-house. Requesting leave of absence for ten minutes to arrange some domestic matters before he should leave home, the quaker retired from the parlour, and Rachael and I were left to entertain each other as we best could.
For a short time our mutual position was embarrassing. I did not know exactly what to say; and the fair puritan maintained a solemn silence, with her sparkling eyes fixed steadily upon the carpet. It was quite apparent that I was expected to lead off; and, after an awkward pause, the ice at last was broken.
“Miss Pryme”—I commenced.
“Friend,” returned the young lady, “I am not thus termed; I am simply called Rachael.”
“What a pretty name!” I replied, for want of something else to say.
“It was that of my grandmother,” returned the lady.
“Well—Rachael,” I continued, “I fear my late visit occasioned some confusion. Certainly the mistakes of last night were singular and ridiculous.”
“They were, indeed,” replied the pretty maiden, raising her eyes, which, for the first time, now encountered mine; and, by a mutual impulse, we both burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Egad, we were thinking of the same thing; and the remembrance of that confounded kiss of peace had thus demolished the gravity of both.
“Rachael,” I said, catching one of the prettiest hands imaginable in mine, “I must confess my offence, and throw myself for pardon on your clemency.”
“I have nothing to forgive,” replied the fair one, demurely.
“To its fullest extent I own my crime. The temptation, dear Rachael, was too great to be withstood—but, as a proof of returning probity, I will restore what was fraudulently obtained.”
“Hector,” returned the blushing girl, while an arch smile ‘play’d round her lip and brighten’d her soft eye,’—“I admire thy honesty; but I have heard my father say, that it is generally better to put up with a loss, than seek restitution by doubtful means. Therefore, my friend, we had better leave matters as they are.”
“Heaven forbid,” I replied, “that I should abuse such generosity.”
“Hector, I am ready for thee now,” exclaimed the deep voice of Mr. Pryme.
“Farewell, dear Rachael; I have always heard that honesty was politic—but faith, I never thought till now that it was half so pleasant.”
“Friend Hector,” said the fair girl, with a look of rich espièglerie, as she hurried from the room, towards which the creaking of her father’s shoes announced that he was approaching,—“probity may be strained too far. For the future, content thyself with returning what thou owest, but add not interest to the debt that even a usurer would scruple to receive. Farewell. May thy honesty continue; for sudden conversions are always suspicious.”
She ran, laughing, from the apartment; and, in a few moments, Mr. Pryme summoned me to accompany him.
At his counting-house I found a packet which had arrived from my father by the morning’s post; and with surprise I found that it contained an order for my starting for London without delay. He had been privately apprised by a friend in the War-office, that an exchange might be effected with a lieutenant who was about to quit the Peninsula, from ill health. This would give me the full step; and I was directed to obtain a leave between returns—repair to town at once—and deliver, personally, letters my father had enclosed to certain functionaries at the Horse Guards.
I promptly obeyed the order, the colonel granted my request, and Don Juan like, I parted with Mr. Pryme—
“Bade my valet pack some things
According to direction, then received
A lecture and some money.
A letter, too, he gave (I never read it)
Of good advice, and two or three of credit.”
Next morning I called at the quaker’s house to say adieu in form, and found the ladies at home. I sate for a long half-hour; but had I remained till doomsday, I fancy Mrs. Pryme would have knitted on. At last I took a ceremonious leave; and—confound all stiff-backed gentlewomen who won’t leave young people to themselves—Rachael and I parted without the kiss of peace.