“But will you not let me, at least, reflect?” “No, sir; not a second. If my offer was not as frankly taken as made—ay, and on the instant too—I am only the more ashamed for ever making it: but there’s an end on’t. If you would be as good friends parting with me as we have been hitherto, never speak of this again.” And so saying, Martin turned on his heel and walked hastily away. I followed him after a second, but he waved me back with his hand, and I was forced to comply.
That day Amy and I dined alone together. Her father, she said, “had got a bad headache;” and this she said with such evident candour, it was clear she knew nothing of our interview. The dinner was to me, at least, a very constrained affair; nor were my sensations rendered easier as she said—“My father tells me that you are obliged to leave us this evening, Mr. Templeton. I’m very sorry for it; but I hope we’ll meet soon again.”
We did not meet soon again, or ever. I left the farm that night for London. Martin came to the door from his bed to wish me good-by. He looked very ill, and only spoke a few words. His shake-hands was, however, hearty; and his “God bless you,” uttered with kind meaning.
I have never seen that neighbourhood since.
It was about two years after that I received a letter—the very one now before me—superscribed Martin Haverstock. It was brief, and to this effect. The Secretary for Foreign Affairs being a candidate for the representation in Parliament of the county in which Martin held a large stake, had, in acknowledgment of his friend Mr. Haverstock’s exertions in his support, been only too happy to consider the application made respecting Mr. H.‘s young friend, who, by the next Gazette, would be announced for promotion.
And thus I was made Secretary of Legation at Studtgart!
There was a postscript to Martin’s letter, which filled me with strange and varying emotions:—-“Amy is sorry that her baby is a little girl; she’d like to have called it ‘Horace.’”
This packet I need not open. The envelope is superscribed, “Hints and Mems for H.T. during his residence at the Court of M———.” They were given in a series of letters from old Lord H———, who had long been a resident Minister there, and knew the people thoroughly. I followed, very implicitly too, the counsels he gave, and was said to have acquitted myself well, for I was “Chargé d’Affaires.” But what absurdity it is to suppose that any exclusive information is ever obtainable by a Minister, except when the Government itself is disposed to afford it! I remember well, the spy we employed was also in the pay of the French Embassy. He was a Sardinian, and had spent some years of his life an Austrian prisoner in a fortress. We all believed, whatever the fellow’s sentiments on other subjects, that he was a profound hater of Austria. Well, it turned out that he sold us all to Metternich.
Old Sir Robert W——— used to say to his attachés—“Never tell me secrets, but whenever any thing is publicly discussed in the clubs and cafés, let me hear it.” In the same way, he always rejected the authenticity of any revelations where Talleyrand, or Metternich, or Pozzo di Borgo’s names appeared. “These men,” he always used to say, “were their own confidants, and never leaked save to serve a purpose.” It was from Sir Robert I heard a story first, which has since, I believe, been fully corroborated. An Under-secretary of Talleyrand, during the Prince’s residence as French ambassador at St. James’s, informed his Excellency one morning, that a very tempting offer had been made to him if he would disclose the contents of his master’s writing-desk. He had not accepted, nor altogether declined the proposal, wishing to know from the Prince how it might be made available to his plans, and whether a direct accusation of the author, a person of high station, would be deemed advisable. Talleyrand merely said, “Take the money; the middle board of the drawer in my secretary is removable by a very simple contrivance, which I’ll shew you. I had it made so at Paris. You’ll find all the papers you want there. Take copies of them.”
“But, Monsieur le Prince——-”