CHAPTER XXIV.
Blanch. Now shall I see thy love; what motive may
Be stronger with thee than the name of wife?
Const. That which upholdeth him that thee upholds,
His honour!”
———“I know thee well;
But in thy fortunes am unlearn’d and strange.”
Shakspeare.
I never sate out a more melancholy dinner than that with Mr. Hartley and his daughter on the last evening of my sojourn in the metropolis. Mine honoured uncle was gloomy and abstracted. Isidora looked the very image of despair; and I felt any thing but martial satisfaction at the immediate certainty of having an early opportunity afforded of “fleshing my maiden sword.” Like the courage of Bob Acres, my military ardour was hourly evaporating from my finger-ends. A month since, the prospect of being shot at was a matter of indifference; but in that brief space my feelings had undergone a marvellous change. From childhood, I had listened to my father’s stories as he “told how fields were won,” and caught the enthusiasm of a man, every inch a soldier. But then I knew not what it was to love—I had not felt the witchery that attends a first attachment—the confession of mutual passion as yet had not fallen my ear, soft as angels’ whispers to sleeping infancy. I had loved, and sued, and was accepted; and now this sweetest dream of life was to be broken; and from one dearer than all that earth contained, I was to be separated for a long period—perhaps for ever! I came rapidly to the conclusion, that glory was well enough in its way; but still it was an awkward business to have to seek it at the other side of the Pyrenees; and, had it pleased Heaven to bring about a general pacification, I think that 1 would have borne the disappointment like a philosopher.
I took no formal leave of my gentle mistress, for that unnecessary infliction of pain Mr. Hartley very properly inhibited. Our parting, as she left the drawing-room for the night, was probably warmer than was customary. She little imagined that I was to start at cock-crow for embarkation; and, in the expectation of meeting me at breakfast, she sought her apartment to court the soft influence of the drowsy god in vain.
“Hector,” said Mr. Hartley, as he addressed me, “I regret that you are at this moment obliged to leave me; for something tells me that a crisis in our mutual fortunes is approaching. Were it any thing but the call of honour that takes you from England, I would at once ask you to forego it.”
“Believe me, my dear sir, never did a more unwelcome order come than that which Ï am about to obey! Could I but honourably decline it,”—-
“Oh, no—that were impossible! Wellington has assumed the offensive, and every eye in Britain will watch the progress of his arms. A country’s call is sacred, and it must be obeyed. God knows, in periling your safety, and exposing you to the common chances of war, I make a sacrifice that few could estimate. There is one tie that binds me alone to life; and, save for that alone, the sooner a spirit, soured by misfortunes, and wearied of a world it despises and detests, were freed from this ‘mortal coil,’ the better. But were I in the grave, who would watch over the happiness of that being whom I idolize?—To one only would I entrust that holy charge. Need I name him?—Yourself!”
I gratefully thanked my uncle for the~proof of confidence he had given, and he thus proceeded:
“As my life and actions must appear to you involved in mystery and concealment, it will not surprise you much when I tell you, that for years I have been intimately informed of every occurrence that happened in your father’s house. A stern necessity of secrecy obliged me to remain unknown and unsuspected. Had I been where I was supposed to be for twenty years—in the grave—I could not have been more removed from the knowledge of the world than I have been; and the reason I selected that wild and retired abode where you first found us, was to insure the incognito, which your interests and Isidora’s demanded; for, strange as it may appear, from earliest infancy, you were destined for each other.”
“You really astonish me, sir!”
“When you hear my story that surprise will cease. With my past life none were even partially acquainted but a beloved child and faithful servant. You shall know more of that dark and painful history than they ever did; and when you have heard all that I have suffered and endured, then say whether, but for one endearing tie, a life, wretched and valueless as mine, would have been worth retaining for an hour. Fill, Hector—fill freely—many a day may pass before you and I shall meet again!”
I obeyed him. Rising from the table, he took a few turns across the apartment; it seemed an exertion to regain composure; it was successful. He resumed his seat, emptied his glass to the bottom, and thus commenced, what was to me a narrative of perilous adventure, but all-engrossing interest.