“It is true, sir,” I replied.
“Well, then, sit down and tell me the adventure. Come, my dear boy,” he added, in tones so soft, so kind, that I was amazed at the sudden transition from anger to urbanity; “all is over and forgotten. I will make your peace with Isidora in the morning, and your penalty shall be—a short lecture and another bottle. You are young—your foot has only touched the threshold of the stage of life—at your age one sees only the sun-streak in the sky, but never looks for the cloudbank that lies behind it. What you to-night intended in idle compliment, exploded a hidden mine that all but wrecked our friendship in its very opening. Be advised by one who knows the world, or ought to know it: restrain curiosity in all that concerns another; and know men well, before you pry into their secrets. At the conclusion of this lecture my host took a flask of Burgundy from the sideboard, extracted the cork, and down we sate tête-à-tête again; and, at his desire, I narrated my evening encounter with the smugglers.
“Upon my honour,” he observed, as I ended, “a perilous adventure; and, faith, the scoundrels gave you coarse usage. I know the scene of your flight; a rough road to gallop over, and the broken bridge, too—did your horse carry you across that ugly chasm?”
“Took it in stroke, and never touched it with a toe. But for the villains with the rope, I should have had the race hollow.”
“Ay—these, ‘misbegotten knaves,’ as Jack Falstaff would call them, they ended the affair effectually. Egad—the rope was an excellent contrivance to dismount a cavalier. But you must have had a severe fall? Are you bruised?—are you injured?”
“Not much, I fancy—although I do feel sore and stiff about the back and shoulders.”
“It must be examined. I shall be leech for the nonce; and I am not a bad surgeon. Come, let us finish the flask, and then I will show you to a chamber.”
The time-piece on the chimney-piece chimed three quarters, the wine disappeared, I rose to retire; when my host took up a chamber-lamp and led the way. Proceeding along a narrow gallery, we entered an apartment at its extremity. Mr. Hartley lighted the candles. “These are your quarters,” said he. “Here make yourself at home, and I will return in a few minutes and pronounce upon your bruises.”
Nothing could surpass the neatness of my dormitory. The curtains and bed furniture were chintz, with drawers, cabinets, and wardrobes, all of Indian workmanship. A glorious fire of bog-deal was blazing in the grate, and on the table I remarked a dressing-case, with every thing requisite even for the toilet of a man of fashion—while a morning gown, slippers, and change of linen, were in process of airing for my service. But other objects caught my eye. Over the chimney-piece hung a curious collection of fire-arms; and beside them, some splendid sabres were suspended. Some were of foreign shape, and richly ornamented with gold and silver mounting; others, made by English artists, were distinguished from the rest by their exquisite finish and simplicity, while not a few bore semblance of great antiquity, and seemed retained rather as objects of curiosity than use.
On his return, Mr. Hartley found me admiring his armoury; but I neither hazarded a remark nor dared to ask a question. The lesson I had recently received would last me for awhile; and had a ghost and goule been sitting in the corner, tête-à-tête, I should have scarcely ventured to inquire “What the devil brought them there?”