My host had left the room only a few seconds when Dr. Sitwell entered it.
"My dear young friend!" exclaimed he, in an excited manner, "what on earth has happened to Sir Massingberd Heath? He very nearly rode me down ten minutes ago on Crittenden Common; and when I inquired after his nephew, he replied—Well, I cannot repeat the exact words, because they are so excessively shocking. Why, he must be out of his mind with grief! I trust he did nothing impetuous, nothing that is to be regretted, here?"
"No, sir," replied I; "he did not, thanks to our good host, who withstood all his attempts to see his nephew. It was, however, most indiscreet of you to send him hither. Mr. Harvey Gerard was exceedingly annoyed by your doing so."
"My dear young friend," observed Dr. Sitwell, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper, "Mr. Harvey Gerard is annoyed at many things which would give most sensible persons a great deal of pleasure. He would as soon admit a rattle-snake within his doors as a man of title, unless, indeed, it be his friend, Sir Charles Wolseley. By the by, it is to Sir Charles that my dear patient, Mr. Broadacres, is indirectly indebted for his wound. If Sir Charles had not convened that revolutionary meeting at Bangton, Mr. Broadacres would not have had to read the Riot Act, and eventually got shot by mistake by his own men. It is denied by the government, I perceive, that ball was fired by the troops at the first discharge; but between ourselves such was certainly the case; for I extracted the bullet from poor Mr. B. myself, and he has had to lie upon his face ever since. Good heavens, sir, what a position for a man whose family came in with the Conqueror!"
"Is this Sir Charles Wolseley, then, of whom one reads so much in the papers, a friend of Mr. Gerard's?" said I. "I have heard Mr. Long remark that he was a very dangerous man."
"So he is, sir. He'll be hung some day, as sure as he lives. And the gentleman in whose house we stand is tarred with the same brush. It's terrible to think of. Why, do you know, Mr. Meredith, that Mr. Harvey Gerard goes the length"—here the doctor looked about him to be sure that we were alone, and placing his lips close to my ear, whispered solemnly, "of wearing a white hat!"
"Gracious goodness," returned I, "why shouldn't he? My father always wears a white hat in India."
"Yes; but let me tell you this, India is not England," observed the doctor, sagaciously. "A white hat here is the badge of Radicalism, Republicanism, Atheism—I don't say that Mr. Gerard is a downright atheist, but he's a sectary, and that's nearly as bad. And hark ye, I know this for certain: the only reason why Henry Hunt himself is not hand and glove with our friend is this, that when Hunt was tried for his life for sedition, he came into the dock, like a prudent man, with a black hat, and that is the one act of caution and good sense for which Mr. Gerard has never forgiven him."
[1] This sarcasm was founded on literal truth; I myself remember a time when Englishmen submitted to a system of oppression almost precisely similar to that which has of late driven the Poles to insurrection, and enlisted for them the sympathies of Europe—namely, a forced conscription, the subjects of which are selected.