Part 25 (2/2)

* Thus very inadequately translated by Pope (see his Letter to Edward Blount, Esq., descriptive of his grotto):- ”Nymph of the grot, these sacred springs I keep, And to the murmur of these waters sleep: Ah, spare my slumbers; gently tread the cave, And drink in silence, or in silence lave.”

It is, however, quite impossible to convey to an unlearned reader the exquisite and spirit-like beauty of the Latin verses.-ED.

”We cannot hope to match it,” said Bolingbroke, ”though you know I value myself on these things. But tell me your news of Gay: is he growing wiser?”

”Not a whit; he is forever a dupe to the spes credula; always talking of buying an annuity, that he may be independent, and always spending as fast as he earns, that he may appear munificent.”

”Poor Gay! but he is a common example of the improvidence of his tribe, while you are an exception. Yet mark, Devereux, the inconsistency of Pope's thrift and carelessness: he sends a parcel of fruit to some ladies with this note, 'Take care of the papers that wrap the apples, and return them safely; they are the only copies I have of one part of the Iliad.' Thus, you see, our economist saves his paper, and hazards his epic!”

Pope, who is always flattered by an allusion to his negligence of fame, smiled slightly and answered, ”What man, alas, ever profits by the lessons of his friends? How many exact rules has our good Dean of St. Patrick laid down for both of us; how angrily still does he chide us for our want of prudence and our love of good living! I intend, in answer to his charges on the latter score, though I vouch, as I well may, for our temperance, to give him the reply of the sage to the foolish courtier-”

”What was that?” asked Bolingbroke.

”Why, the courtier saw the sage picking out the best dishes at table. 'How,' said he with a sneer, 'are sages such epicures?'-'Do you think, Sir,' replied the wise man, reaching over the table to help himself, 'do you think, Sir, that the Creator made the good things of this world only for fools?'”

”How the Dean will pish and pull his wig when he reads your ill.u.s.tration,” said Bolingbroke, laughing. ”We shall never agree in our reasonings on that part of philosophy. Swift loves to go out of his way to find privation or distress, and has no notion of Epicurean wisdom; for my part, I think the use of knowledge is to make us happier. I would compare the mind to the beautiful statue of Love by Praxiteles. When its eyes were bandaged the countenance seemed grave and sad, but the moment you removed the bandage the most serene and enchanting smile diffused itself over the whole face.”

So pa.s.sed the morning till the hour of dinner, and this repast was served with an elegance and luxury which the sons of Apollo seldom command.* As the evening closed, our conversation fell upon friends.h.i.+p, and the increasing disposition towards it which comes with increasing years. ”Whilst my mind,” said Bolingbroke, ”shrinks more and more from the world, and feels in its independence less yearning to external objects, the ideas of friends.h.i.+p return oftener,-they busy me, they warm me more. Is it that we grow more tender as the moment of our great separation approaches? or is it that they who are to live together in another state (for friends.h.i.+p exists not but for the good) begin to feel more strongly that divine sympathy which is to be the great bond of their future society?”**

* Pope seems to have been rather capricious in this respect; but in general he must be considered open to the sarcasm of displaying the bounteous host to those who did not want a dinner, and the n.i.g.g.ard to those who did.-ED.

** This beautiful sentiment is to be found, with very slight alteration, in a letter from Bolingbroke to Swift.-ED.

While Bolingbroke was thus speaking, and Pope listened with all the love and reverence which he evidently bore to his friend stamped upon his worn but expressive countenance, I inly said, ”Surely, the love between minds like these should live and last without the changes that ordinary affections feel! Who would not mourn for the strength of all human ties, if hereafter these are broken, and asperity succeed to friends.h.i.+p, or aversion to esteem? I, a wanderer, without heir to my memory and wealth, shall pa.s.s away, and my hasty and unmellowed fame will moulder with my clay; but will the names of those whom I now behold ever fall languidly on the ears of a future race, and will there not forever be some sympathy with their friends.h.i.+p, softer and warmer than admiration for their fame?”

We left our celebrated host about two hours before midnight, and returned to Dawley.

On our road thither I questioned Bolingbroke respecting Montreuil, and I found that, as I had surmised, he was able to give me some information of that arch-schemer. Gerald's money and hereditary influence had procured tacit connivance at the Jesuit's residence in England, and Montreuil had for some years led a quiet and unoffending life in close retirement. ”Lately, however,” said Bolingbroke, ”I have learned that the old spirit has revived, and I accidentally heard three days ago, when conversing with one well informed on state matters, that this most pure administration has discovered some plot or plots with which Montreuil is connected; I believe he will be apprehended in a few days.”

”And where lurks he?”

”He was, I heard, last seen in the neighbourhood of your brother's property at Devereux Court, and I imagine it probable that he is still in that neighbourhood.”

This intelligence made me resolve to leave Dawley even earlier than I had intended, and I signified to Lord Bolingbroke my intention of quitting him by sunrise the next morning. He endeavoured in vain to combat my resolution. I was too fearful lest Montreuil, hearing of his danger from the state, might baffle my vengeance by seeking some impenetrable asylum, to wish to subject my meeting with him and with Gerald, whose co-operation I desired, to any unnecessary delay. I took leave of my host therefore that night, and ordered my carriage to be in readiness by the first dawn of morning.

CHAPTER VII.

THE PLOT APPROACHES ITS DENOUEMENT.

ALTHOUGH the details of my last chapter have somewhat r.e.t.a.r.ded the progress of that denouement with which this volume is destined to close, yet I do not think the destined reader will regret lingering over a scene in which, after years of restless enterprise and exile, he beholds the asylum which fortune had prepared for the most extraordinary character with which I have adorned these pages.

It was before daybreak that I commenced my journey. The shutters of the house were as yet closed; the gray mists rising slowly from the earth, and the cattle couched beneath the trees, the cold but breezeless freshness of the morning, the silence of the unawakened birds, all gave an inexpressible stillness and quiet to the scene. The horses slowly ascended a little eminence, and I looked from the window of the carriage on the peaceful retreat I had left. I sighed as I did so, and a sick sensation, coupled with the thought of Isora, came chill upon my heart. No man happily placed in this social world can guess the feelings of envy with which a wanderer like me, without tie or home, and for whom the roving eagerness of youth is over, surveys those sheltered spots in which the breast garners up all domestic bonds, its household and holiest delights; the companioned hearth, the smile of infancy, and, dearer than all, the eye that gla.s.ses our purest, our tenderest, our most secret thoughts; these-oh, none who enjoy them know how they for whom they are not have pined and mourned for them!

I had not travelled many hours, when, upon the loneliest part of the road, my carriage, which had borne me without an accident from Rome to London, broke down. The postilions said there was a small inn about a mile from the spot; thither I repaired: a blacksmith was sent for, and I found the accident to the carriage would require several hours to repair. No solitary chaise did the inn afford; but the landlord, who was a freeholder and a huntsman, boasted one valuable and swift horse, which he declared was fit for an emperor or a highwayman. I was too impatient of delay not to grasp at this intelligence. I gave mine host whatever he demanded for the loan of his steed, transferred my pistols to an immense pair of holsters, which adorned a high demi-pique saddle, wherewith he obliged me, and, within an hour from the date of the accident, recommenced my journey.

The evening closed, as I became aware of the presence of a fellow-traveller. He was, like myself, on horseback. He wore a short, dark gray cloak, a long wig of a raven hue, and a large hat, which, flapping over his face, conspired, with the increasing darkness, to allow me a very imperfect survey of his features. Twice or thrice he had pa.s.sed me, and always with some salutation, indicative of a desire for further acquaintance; but my mood is not naturally too much inclined to miscellaneous society, and I was at that time peculiarly covetous of my own companions.h.i.+p. I had, therefore, given but a brief answer to the horseman's courtesy, and had ridden away from him with a very unceremonious abruptness. At length, when he had come up to me for the fourth time, and for the fourth time had accosted me, my ear caught something in the tones of his voice which did not seem to me wholly unfamiliar. I regarded him with more attention than I had as yet done, and replied to him more civilly and at length. Apparently encouraged by this relaxation from my reserve, the man speedily resumed.

”Your horse, Sir,” said he, ”is a fine animal, but he seems jaded: you have ridden far to-day, I'll venture to guess.”

”I have, Sir; but the town where I shall pa.s.s the night is not above four miles distant, I believe.”

”Hum-ha!-you sleep at D---, then?” said the horseman, inquisitively.

A suspicion came across me; we were then entering a very lonely road, and one notoriously infested with highwaymen. My fellow equestrian's company might have some sinister meaning in it. I looked to my holsters, and leisurely taking out one of my pistols, saw to its priming, and returned it to its depository. The horseman noted the motion, and he moved his horse rather uneasily, and I thought timidly, to the other side of the road.

”You travel well armed, Sir,” said he, after a pause.

”It is a necessary precaution, Sir,” answered I, composedly, ”in a road one is not familiar with, and with companions one has never had the happiness to meet before.”

”Ahem!-ahem!-Parbleu, Monsieur le Comte, you allude to me; but I warrant this is not the first time we have met.”

”Ha!” said I, riding closer to my fellow traveller, ”you know me, then, and we have met before. I thought I recognized your voice, but I cannot remember when or where I last heard it.”

”Oh, Count, I believe it was only by accident that we commenced acquaintances.h.i.+p, and only by accident, you see, do we now resume it. But I perceive that I intrude on your solitude. Farewell, Count, and a pleasant night at your inn.”

”Not so fast, Sir,” said I, laying firm hand on my companion's shoulder, ”I know you now, and I thank Providence that I have found you. Marie Oswald, it is not lightly that I will part with you!”

”With all my heart, Sir, with all my heart. But, morbleu! Monsieur le Comte, do take your hand from my shoulder: I am a nervous man, and your pistols are loaded, and perhaps you are choleric and hasty. I a.s.sure you I am far from wis.h.i.+ng to part with you abruptly, for I have watched you for the last two days in order to enjoy the honour of this interview.”

”Indeed! your wish will save both of us a world of trouble. I believe you may serve me effectually; if so, you will find me more desirous and more able than ever to show my grat.i.tude.”

”Sir, you are too good,” quoth Mr. Oswald, with an air far more respectful than he had yet shown me. ”Let us make to your inn, and there I shall be most happy to receive your commands.” So saying, Marie pushed on his horse, and I urged my own to the same expedition.

”But tell me,” said I, as we rode on, ”why you have wished to meet me?-me whom you so cruelly deserted and forsook?”

”Oh, parbleu, spare me there! it was not I who deserted you: I was compelled to fly; death, murder, on one side; safety, money, and a snug place in Italy, as a lay-brother of the Inst.i.tute on the other! What could I do?-you were ill in bed, not likely to recover, not able to protect me in my present peril, in a state that in all probability never would require my services for the future. Oh, Monsieur le Comte, it was not desertion,-that is a cruel word,-it was self-preservation and common prudence.”

”Well,” said I, complaisantly, ”you apply words better than I applied them. And how long have you been returned to England?”

”Some few weeks, Count, not more. I was in London when you arrived; I heard of that event; I immediately repaired to your hotel; you were gone to my Lord Bolingbroke's; I followed you thither; you had left Dawley when I arrived there; I learned your route and followed you. Parbleu and morbleu! I find you, and you take me for a highwayman!”

”Pardon my mistake: the clearest-sighted men are subject to commit such errors, and the most innocent to suffer by them. So Montreuil persuaded you to leave England; did he also persuade you to return?”

”No: I was charged by the Inst.i.tute with messages to him and others. But we are near the town, Count, let us defer our conversation till then.”

We entered D---, put up our horses, called for an apartment,-to which summons Oswald added another for wine,-and then the virtuous Marie commenced his explanations. I was deeply anxious to ascertain whether Gerald had ever been made acquainted with the fraud by which he had obtained possession of the estates of Devereux; and I found that, from Desmarais, Oswald had learned all that had occurred to Gerald since Marie had left England. From Oswald's prolix communication, I ascertained that Gerald was, during the whole of the interval between my uncle's death and my departure from England, utterly unacquainted with the fraud of the will. He readily believed that my uncle had found good reason for altering his intentions with respect to me; and my law proceedings, and violent conduct towards himself, only excited his indignation, not aroused his suspicions. During this time he lived entirely in the country, indulging the rural hospitality and the rustic sports which he especially affected, and secretly but deeply involved with Montreuil in political intrigues. All this time the Abbe made no further use of him than to borrow whatever sums he required for his purposes. Isora's death, and the confused story of the doc.u.ment given me by Oswald, Montreuil had interpreted to Gerald according to the interpretation of the world; namely, he had thrown the suspicion upon Oswald, as a common villain, who had taken advantage of my credulity about the will, introduced himself into the house on that pretence, attempted the robbery of the most valuable articles therein,-which, indeed, he had succeeded in abstracting, and who, on my awaking and contesting with him and his accomplice, had, in self-defence, inflicted the wounds which had ended in my delirium and Isora's death. This part of my tale Montreuil never contradicted, and Gerald believed it to the present day. The affair of 1715 occurred; the government, aware of Gerald's practices, had antic.i.p.ated his design of joining the rebels; he was imprisoned; no act of overt guilt on his part was proved, or at least brought forward; and the government not being willing, perhaps, to proceed to violent measures against a very young man, and the head of a very powerful house, connected with more than thirty branches of the English hereditary n.o.bility, he received his acquittal just before Sir William Wyndham and some other suspected Tories received their own.

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