Captain Montague Crofts was indeed the only exception I witnessed to the almost brotherly feeling that prevailed in the Forty-fifth. Instead of identifying himself with the habits and opinions of his brother officers, he held himself studiously apart. Regarding his stay in the regiment like a period of probation, he seemed resolved to form neither intimacies nor friendships, but to wait patiently for the time of his leaving the corps to emancipate himself from a society below his caste.
The cold, repulsive, steady stare, the scarcely bowed head, the impassive silence with which he heard the words of Bubbleton's introduction of me, formed a strong contrast with the warm cordiality of the others; and though at the time little disposed to criticise the manner of any one, and still less to be dissatisfied with anything, I conceived from the moment a dislike to Captain Crofts, which I felt to increase with every minute I spent in his company. The first occasion which suggested this dislike on my part, was from observing that while Bubbleton—whose historical accuracy or blind adherence to reality no one in the corps thought of requiring—narrated some of his incredible adventures. Crofts, far from joining in the harmless mirth which such tales created, invariably took delight in questioning and cross-questioning the worthy captain, quoting him against himself, and playing off a hundred tricks, which, however smart and witty in a law court, are downright rudeness when practised in society. Bubbleton, it is true, saw nothing in all this save the natural interest of a good listener,—but the others did; and it was quite clear to me, that while one was the greatest favorite in the regiment, the other had not a single friend amongst them. To me, Crofts manifested the most perfect indifference, not ever mixing himself in any conversation in which I bore a part. He rarely turned his head towards that part of the table at which I sat; and by an air of haughty superciliousness, gave me plainly to understand that our acquaintance, though confessedly begun, was to proceed no further. I cannot say how happy I felt to learn that one I had so much cause to dislike was a violent aristocrat, an ultra-Tory, a most uncompromising denouncer of the Irish Liberal party, and an out-and-out advocate of severe and harsh measures towards the people. He never missed an opportunity for the enunciation of such doctrines, which, whatever might be the opinions of the listeners, there was at the time I speak of no small risk in gainsaying, and this immunity did Crofts enjoy to his heart's content.
Slight as these few reminiscences of the mess are, they are the called-up memories of days not to be forgotten by me; for now, what with my habitual indecision on the one hand, and Bubbleton's solicitations on the other, I continued to linger on in Dublin,—leading the careless, easy life of those about me, joining in all the plots for amusement which the capital afforded, and mixing in every society to which my military friends had access. Slender as were my resources, they sufficed, in the eyes of all who knew not their limit, to appear abundant. Crofts was the only rich man in the regiment; and my willingness to enter into every scheme of pleasure, regardless of cost, impressed them all with the notion that Bubbleton for once was right, and that “Burke was a kind of Westcountry Croesus,” invaluable to the regiment.
Week after week rolled on, and still did I find myself a denizen of George's Street. The silly routine of the barrack life filled all my thoughts, save when the waning condition of my purse would momentarily turn them towards the future; but these moments of reflection came but seldom, and at last came not at all. It was autumn; the town almost divested of its inhabitants,—at least of all who could leave it,—and along the parched, sunburned streets a stray jingle or a noddy was rarely seen to pass. The squares, so lately crowded with equipages and cavalcades of horsemen, were silent and deserted; the closed shutters of every house, and the grass-grown steps, vouched for the absence of the owners. The same dreamy lethargy that seemed to rest over the deserted city appeared to pervade everything; and save a certain subdued activity among the officials of the Castle,—a kind of ground-swell movement that boded something important,—there was nothing stirring. The great measure of the Union, which had been carried on the night of the riots, had, however, annihilated the hopes of the Irish Liberal party; and many who once had taken a leading part in politics had now deserted public life forever.
They with whom I associated cared but little for these things. There were but two or three Irish in the regiment, and they had long since lost all their nationality in the wear and tear of the service; so that I heard nothing of what occupied the public mind, and lived on, in the very midst of the threatening hurricane, in a calm as deep as death itself.
I had seen neither Barton nor Basset since the day of my leave-taking; and, stranger still, never could meet with Darby, who seemed to have deserted Dublin. The wreck of the party he belonged to seemed now effectually accomplished, and the prospect of Irish independence was lost, as it seemed, forever.
I was sitting one evening in the window of Bubbleton's quarters, thinking over these things; not without self-reproach for the life I was leading, so utterly adverse to the principles I had laid down for my guidance. I thought of poor De Meudon, and all his ambitious dreams for my success, and I felt my cheek flush with shame for my base desertion of the cause to which, with his dying breath, he devoted me. I brought up in memory those happy evenings as we wandered through the fields, talking over the glorious campaigns of Italy or speculating on the mighty changes we believed yet before us; and then I thought of the reckless orgies in which my present life was passed. I remembered how his full voice would falter when one great name fell from his lips; and with what reverence he touched his chapeau as the word “Bonaparte” escaped from him; and how my heart thrilled to think of an enthusiasm that could light up the dying embers of a broken heart, and make it flash out in vivid brilliancy once more,—and longed to feel as he did.
For the first time for some weeks I found myself alone. Bubbleton was on guard; and though I had promised to join him at supper, I lingered at home to think and ponder over the past,—I scarcely dared to face the future. It was growing dusky. The richly golden arch of an autumn moon could be seen through the hazy mist of that half frost which is at this season the sure harbinger of a hot day on the morrow. The street noises had gradually died away, and save the distant sound of a ballad-singer, whose mournful cadence fell sadly on the ear, I heard nothing.
Without perceiving it, I found myself listening to the doggerel of the minstrel, who, like most of her fellows of the period, was celebrating the means that had been used by Government to carry their favorite measure,—the Union with England. There was, indeed, very little to charm the ear or win the sense, in either the accent or the sentiment of the melody; yet somehow she had contrived to collect a pretty tolerable audience, who moved slowly along with her down the street, and evinced by many an outburst of enthusiasm how thoroughly they relished the pointed allusions of the verse, and how completely they enjoyed the dull satire of the song.
As they approached the barracks, the procession came to a halt,—probably deeming that so valuable a lesson should not be lost to his Majesty's service; and forming into a circle round the singer, a silence was commanded, when, with that quavering articulation so characteristic of the tribe, and that strange quality of voice that seems to alternate between a high treble and a deep bass, the lady began:—