“Back recoiled, she knew not why,
E’en at the sound herself had made.”
But now, girlish apprehension had given place to woman’s firmness, and with gentle but modest sincerity, she repeated her assurances of attachment, told me how much pain my absence caused, and urged me, “if I loved her,” to return.
My lady mother, of course, claimed next precedency. Her letter was dated from London—for thither she had proceeded, as it appeared, accompanied by her honoured lord. It breathed the warmest wishes of maternal anxiety for my safety—hoped, as I was ill a Catholic country, that I occasionally attended mass; hinted that my father became more intolerant, since the priest had cursed Mark Antony for his truant conduct to Biddy Toole—wondered what had brought them, meaning my father and herself, to England—and on this point, she seemed at a dead loss even to imagine what the object of their singular migration would prove to be. It had been suddenly occasioned by the receipt of a letter; and whether the poor dear Colonel was come over to speculate in the stocks, or raise a regiment—which latter might God forbid! the thing was equally mysterious. She had been introduced to a Mr. Hartley and his daughter—English Catholics, and the nicest people in the world. Would to Heaven, she continued, that, instead of following a horrible profession, in which body and soul were equally endangered, I would marry Miss Hartley—and, avoiding the dear Colonel’s example, settle down for life with the general complement of legs and arms. There was an extensive repetition of affectionate rigmarole in prayers and wishes; but the gist lay, lady-like, in the Postscript.
“Remember the gospel I bound round your neck. Preserve it—but open it only in extremity.”
Mr. Hartley’s epistle was purely diplomatic, and couched in such general terms, that while they conveyed a meaning clearly, had the letter fallen into the hands of my grandfather’s confessor, I question whether the Jesuit himself could have unravelled it. All, as he led me to understand, went prosperously. My parents were on the spot, and perfectly unconscious of the action of the drama. He, Mr. Hartley, wished me to return as quickly as I could with proper respect to character. He concluded with one comprehensive sentence—“The cards play favourably—the crisis is at hand.”
Had I expected to glean any information from my father’s despatch, I should have been grievously disappointed. He had come to London, as he admitted, “the Lord knew why.” The mysterious present of 500L. had reached him in annual course, and the letter which enclosed it, conveyed a wish to visit the metropolis, that he deemed prudent to obey. To a Mr. Hartley, he had been especially recommended as a person deeply engaged in some secret proceedings, which might prove of important advantage to his family and himself. As yet, Mr. H. had not explained what these proceedings were; but, as he had assured him, the Colonel, that I was cognisant of all, and that in a few days himself should be fully informed on the subject, he had, for delicate reasons, forbore to press an explanation. The rest of the letter was rambling and unimportant. It detailed the cursing of Mark Antony, and his own feud consequently, with the priest—a disquisition upon out-post duty—attack in close columns, and movements by echelons. It then proceeded to state, that as Mr. Hartley had assured him that my stay on the Peninsula would be short, and my speedy retirement from the army a certainty, he, the Colonel, would recommend me, as I had lost my staff appointment, to decline going to the east of Spain, retire from the Twenty-seventh, and continue with Lord Wellington’s army as a volunteer. I should thus see more service and sharp fighting—in my case a great desideratum. Acting independently, I might have frequent opportunities of distinguishing myself, which otherwise would only come in regimental routine. Every one expected that the next would be a splendid campaign. For his own part, he had hoped to have slipped over for a few months when the army took the field, but the bare hint at the intention sent my mother into hysterics. Here was a parenthesis about “weakness of women.” The whole concluded in his observing that, if I had luck, many opportunities might present themselves; but breaches, field-works, and defended bridges, were especially recommended for me to try my hand upon. The Lord might even send “a forlorn hope” in the way—that would be a happy chance—but then “people must not be too sanguine.”
Indeed, more ingenious instructions forgetting a man securely shot, were never penned by an affectionate parent. The means were so easy and comprehensive, that I could have half persuaded myself that Mr. Clifford’s steward and confessor had been of the number of counsellors whom the worthy Colonel had called in.
I had just completed the perusal of my varied correspondence, when my friend the Major called for me, and announced that dinner was waiting. I accompanied him to another apartment, where I found half a dozen gentlemen, whose “trade was war,” congregated around a table less remarkable for correctness of appointment than solidity of fore. None give and receive a wanner welcome than soldiers upon service—I met a kind reception from all; and the meal and the evening passed pleasantly. There are few places where more singular characters are encountered than at a mess-table. We had one short gentleman, whose happiness consisted in the belief that he was always uncomfortable and superlatively wretched; and hence his conversation, from cock-crow to curfew, was an eternal jeremiade about dead mules and stolen bullock-trunks, tough beef and damp linen, with “all the ills that flesh is heir to.” He had been wounded in one action, and in the next charged and overthrown by a drunken dragoon, who, in the melee, mistook him for a Frenchman. In short, from friends and enemies, in common, he had received abominable treatment; and latterly, had narrowly escaped being poisoned, by drinking wine from a store-cask, in which, after an undisturbed possession of a week, the mortal remains of a drowned drummer had been unexpectedly discovered. On this evening, he feelingly related a recent atrocity perpetrated by an Irish batman, who had burned the only boot in his possession, in which an angry corn could obtain repose. He ended the lament with the customary finale to all his grievances; namely, an individual inquiry of, “What the devil drove him to this infernal country at all?”
“I imagine, my dear Neville, the gentleman you name had an active agency in driving us all here—if men would only speak the truth,” observed Major Fitzmaurice. “I fancy he was close at your elbow, Richards, before you quitted London.”