CHAPTER XLV.
The days of _vis-a-vis_ lined with sky-blue velvet had not come, though,as any one who is read in the pleasant Antoine Hamilton must know, onegeneration was sufficient to produce them. But, had they been inexistence, there were no roads for them to travel upon; for we hear thatjust about this time one of the presidents of the Parliament of Parislost his life by the great imprudence of travelling in a large heavycoach over a French country-road.
I was in great hope at this place to be enabled to introduce, for thegratification of my readers, a solitary horseman. But I am disappointed;for Edward Langdale, now that I have again to bring him on the scene,had good Pierrot la Grange with him. And it would never do to have asolitary horseman two.
It was on a road, then, leading from London into the heart of thecountry, that Lord Montagu's page--Lord Montagu's page no longer, for hehad formally resigned his attendance upon that nobleman--rode along, ona cold, bright, wintry evening, with the renowned Pierrot la Grange,whose face, by adherence to the total-abstinence system, though muchless brilliant in hue, had become much smoother, plumper, and fairer.Both he and his master were well armed, as was the custom of the day,and each was a likely man enough to repel any thing like attack on thepart of others; for be it remarked that Edward Langdale was very muchchanged by the passage of twenty months over his head since first weintroduced him to the reader. He was broader, stronger, older, inappearance; and, though of course there was nothing of the mould of ageabout him, yet all the batterings and bruisings he had gone through hadcertainly stamped manhood both on his face and form. He had a verytolerable beard also,--at least as far as mustache and royal wereconcerned,--trimmed in that shape which the pencil of Vandyke hastransmitted to us in his portraits of some of the most memorablecharacters in modern history. It is probable that he had grown a littlealso; for at his age men will grow, notwithstanding all the world willdo to keep them down. He was, in short, somewhat above the middleheight, though not a very tall man,--of that height which is moreserviceable in the field than in the ring.
At the crossing of two roads, one of which ran into Cambridgeshire,while the other took toward Huntingdon, was a small, low inn: I mean lowin structure, for it was by no means low in character. It was one of theneatest inns I ever set my eyes on,--for it was standing in my day andis probably standing still,--with its neat well-whitewashed front, itscarved doorway, its various gables, and its mullioned windows and thelozenge-shaped panes set in primitive lead. To the right of the inn, asyou looked from the door upon the road, was a very neat farm-yard, halffull of golden straw, with a barn and innumerable chickens,--chanticleersof all hues and colors, and dame partlets of every breed. Beyond thebarn, at the distance of fifty or sixty yards, ran a beautiful clearstream, which crossed both the roads very nearly at their bifurcation,and which, though so shallow as only to wash gently the fetlocks of thepassengers' horses, was, and must be still, renowned for its beautifultrout, silvery, with gold and crimson spots and the flesh the color of ablush-rose. On the other side of the stream, about a quarter of a milefarther up, was a picturesque little mill, with a group of toweringHuntingdon poplars shading it on the east.
Here Edward Langdale drew in his horse, although the sun was not fullydown.
God knows what made him do so, for he had proposed to ride farther: butthere was an aspect of peace and rural beauty and contented happinessabout the whole place which might touch that latent poetry in hisdisposition already alluded to. Or it might be that all the fiercescenes of strife and turmoil and care and danger he had passed throughin the last twenty months had made his heart thirsty for a little calmrepose; and where could he find it so well as there? Expectation,however, is always destined to be disappointed. This is the great moralof the fable of life. The people of the house, who had much respect fora man who came with an armed servant and whose saddle-bags were wellstuffed, gave him a clean, comfortable room looking over the court-yardto the river, and served him his supper in the chamber underneath.
It was night before he sat down; but, before the fine broiled trout haddisappeared, the sound of several horses' feet was heard from the road,and then that of voices calling for hostlers and stable-boys.
Edward had easily divined, from his first entrance into the house, thatthis which he now occupied was the only comfortable public room in theinn,--although there was another on the other side of the passage, whereneighboring farmers held their meetings and smoked their pipes. Heexpected, therefore, that his calm little supper would be interrupted,and was not at all surprised to see a gentleman of good mien, a littlebelow the middle age, followed by two or three attendants, enter theparlor and throw himself into a chair.
The stranger cast a hasty and careless glance around, and then gave somedirections to one of his followers in the French language. It was notthe sort of half French spoken a good deal in the court of England atthat time, but whole, absolute, perfect French, with French idioms and aFrench tongue.
As long as the conversation referred to nothing more than boots andbaggage and supper and good wine, Edward took no notice, but went onwith his meal, anxious to finish it as soon as possible. But soon after,when the person the stranger had been speaking to had left the room,that gentleman began a different sort of discourse with another of hisfollowers, and commented pretty freely, and with some wit, upon thestate of parties at the court of England.
"Your pardon for interrupting you," said Edward at once. "My servant andmyself both understand French; and it would be neither civil nor honestto overhear your conversation without giving you that warning."
The other thanked him for his courtesy, adding, "You are a Frenchman, ofcourse?"
"Not so," answered Edward. "I am an Englishman; but I have spent sometime in France."
Next came a great number of those questions which nobody can put sodirectly without any lack of politeness as a Frenchman:--how long he hadlived in France; whom he knew there; when he had left it.
Edward answered all very vaguely, for he never had any great relaxationof tongue; but the stranger caught at the admission that he had beenonly a fortnight in England, exclaiming, "Then you must have been inFrance when Rochelle surrendered."
"I was," answered the young gentleman: "it is not quite three weekssince I left that city."
"Ha!" said the stranger, eyeing him from head to foot. "Will you favorme, sir, by telling me the state of the place and the condition of itsinhabitants? It is a subject in which I take a great interest. Methinksthey surrendered somewhat promptly when succor was so near."
"Not so, sir," replied Edward. "When men have nothing to eat,--when theyhave seen their fathers, and their brothers, and their mothers, andtheir sisters, die of famine in their streets,--when the very rats andmice of a city are all consumed, and the wharves have been stripped ofmussels and limpets,--they must either die or surrender. There is no useof dying; for death is the worst sort of capitulation, and the citybecomes the enemy's without even a parchment promise."
"Ay; and was it really so bad?" said the other.
"More than one-third of the inhabitants had died," said Edward; "anotherthird were dying; and the rest were so feeble that the walls might besaid to be manned by living corpses."
"You excite my curiosity and my compassion," said the other. "May I askif you had any command in Rochelle?"
"None," replied the young gentleman. "By accident I was in it for a dayduring the siege, and saw how much they could endure. I was in it alsoimmediately after the siege, and saw how much they had endured. ThoughRochelle fell at last, her defence is one of the most glorious facts inFrench history."
The stranger looked down upon the ground and replied nothing for severalminutes; but his companion with whom he had been conversing familiarlytook up the conversation, and asked after several of the citizens ofRochelle whom Edward was personally acquainted with or knew by name. Thesolemn words, "He is dead", "She is dead", "All the family died byfamine", "He died of the pestilence", were of sad recurrence. "
Butthen", the stranger remarked, "we know that Guiton is alive; for hesigned the treaty."
"He tried hard to die first," said Edward. "But nothing seemed to breakhis iron frame, and the people became clamorous."
"And what became of the good old syndic Tournon?" asked the firststranger.
"He is alive and well," answered Edward.
"Ah! but he would have been dead and buried," exclaimed Pierrot, whocould refrain no longer, "if it had not been for you, sir."
"Indeed?" said the stranger. "Let me inquire how that happened."
"It matters not, sir," replied Edward, making a sign to Pierrot to holdhis tongue. "What the man says may be partly true, partly mistaken; but,although I am willing to give any one interested general news, I mustdecline referring to matters entirely personal when conversing withstrangers."
"Well, then, let us talk of other subjects," said the first stranger. "Icannot consent to part with a gentleman lately from my own land, so soonas that movement of your plate seems to imply. Supper I shall take none;for the news that has flowed in upon me for the last fortnight, has nottended to strengthen my appetite. Wine, however,--the resource of thesad and the sorry,--I must have. They tell me it is good here. Will youallow me to try some of that which stands at your right hand?"
Edward ordered Pierrot to bring some fresh glasses, and put the bottleover to his self-invited guest. The stranger drank some, and, saying,"It is very fair," immediately ordered more to be brought, whilePierrot, bending over Edward's chair as if to remove the dish beforehim, whispered in his ear, "It is the Prince de Soubise."
With all his habitual self-command, Edward could not refrain from aslight start. The color, too, mounted in his cheek with some feelings ofanger; but he was glad of the warning, and did not suffer what waspassing in his heart to appear. The conversation turned in a differentcourse from that which it had before assumed, Soubise referring no moreto the subject of Rochelle, though his companion, who seemed a friend ofinferior rank, often turned toward that topic. Whenever he did so, theprince immediately asked some question as to Edward's knowledge ofFrance and its inhabitants; and the young gentleman, to say the truth,took some pleasure, after the first effects of surprise were over, inpuzzling him by his answers. He had passed over so much of France thathis intimate acquaintance with the country excited Soubise'sastonishment; and from localities his questions turned to persons. "Asyou have been in Lorraine," he said, "you have probably seen thebeautiful and witty Duchesse de Chevreuse."
"I have the honor of knowing her well," replied Edward.
"Do you know the Duc de Montbazon?" asked the prince.
"Not in the least," replied Edward.
"The Cardinal de Richelieu?" continued Soubise.
"I have seen his Eminence frequently," said the young gentleman, "andhave had audiences of him; but, as to knowing the cardinal, that can besaid but by few, I imagine."
Soubise smiled. "The duchess is more easily known," he answered; "butthe death of her lover Chalais must have affected her much,--poor thing!Did you ever meet with him?"
"Not exactly," replied Edward, with a slight shudder at the memory. "Isaw his head cut off, but did not know him personally."
The reference caused a momentary pause in the conversation; and thenSoubise said, in an indifferent tone, "As you have been much in thatpart of the country, you must have probably seen a Duc de Rohan."
"I had the honor of meeting him once," replied Edward, fully on hisguard.
"He is a relation of mine," said Soubise.
Edward merely bowed his head, and the prince proceeded to ask if therehad been any news of him current when the young gentleman was in France.
"The last I heard of him," said Edward, "was a rumor that, aftermenacing the right of the king's army till a party had been sent out tocut off his retreat, he had, by a skilful night-march through the woodsin the rear, effected his escape and fallen back upon Saintonge."
Soubise seemed desirous of prolonging the conversation; but Edward soonafter retired to his chamber, resolved to be up by sunrise and pursuehis way. His determination was vain, however. Though he was on footearly, Soubise was up before him; and they met at the door of the inn,where their horses were already standing. A quiet bow on either part wastheir only salutation; and, as there were two roads, Edward wouldwillingly have seen which the prince selected. As he did not mount,however, the young gentleman followed the path he had previouslyproposed to take,--namely, that toward Huntingdon,--and three or fourminutes after heard the more numerous party of Soubise coming up at goodspeed.
"Ah, young gentleman," said the prince, riding up to his side, "so weare going the same way. Permit me to bear you company."
Edward bowed his head somewhat coldly, for he did not desire thecompanionship. He might have learned some policy in the varied life hehad led, and it certainly would have been politic in him to court thegood opinion of the man by his side; but, even had the nature of hischaracter permitted it, he believed it would be of no use. Generous andfrank, Soubise was known to be somewhat obstinate as well as hasty; andEdward thought, "I would rather win her in spite of him than by hisaid."
Their journey, therefore, did not promise to be very agreeable; and,when the prince demanded which way his course ultimately lay, the younggentleman replied, "I go toward Huntingdon, sir; but, if that is thedirection of your journey, I shall have to leave you before we reach thetown, for I have to turn off the highroad some miles on this side ofBuckden."
"And so have I," said Soubise; "but we may as well make the way pleasantby each other's society as long as our roads lie together. Do you knowthis country as well as you know France?"
"This part of the country," replied Edward; "for I was born and broughtup not many miles from where we are now riding."
"Indeed!" said the prince. "I should have thought by your speech you hadpassed the greater part of your life in my own land. Do you know whatthat little river is just before us?"
"It is the Ivil," answered Edward, "which runs into the Ouse lowerdown."
"The Ouse!" said Soubise. "I do not know much English, but that seems tome an ugly name. If I recollect, Ouse means mud,--slime."
"We are a plain-spoken people," answered the young man, "and usuallygive things the name we think they deserve. The Ouse in many places is asluggish, muddy stream; and our good ancestors applied the name theyjudged most appropriate."
"'Tis as well they do," said Soubise, with a sigh. "We in France have adifferent habit. Our more excitable imaginations take fire at a name,and we are apt to decorate very plain things with fanciful appellations;but this leads to frequent disappointment. Which is the happiest peoplemust depend upon whether it is best in a hard world to see things asthey are, or to see them as we would have them."
"We are often forced to see them as they are," replied Edward; "and ifwe always did so there would be no disappointments."
"Nor much happiness," said Soubise.
Thus conversing, they rode on. But we must pass lightly over the talkwith which they enlivened the way, merely observing that Lucette'scousin rose not inconsiderably in Edward's opinion as they went. Nay,more: his manners were so graceful, his thoughts so just, hisconversation so varied, that the young Englishman could not but feelpleased with his company and inclined to like himself. Still, in thetrue English spirit, he said, in his own heart, "Oh, yes, he is verycharming now he is in a good humor. The devil is so when he is pleased;but methinks I could conjure forth the horns and hoofs if I were but totell him who I am."
At length the scenes through which they passed became painfully familiarto Edward's eye,--spots he had known well, cottages he had visited,houses belonging to old friends of his family. The very trees and shrubsand little water-courses seemed like old acquaintances calling backtimes past and appealing to regret. He grew grave and cold. The chillyfeeling which had first fallen upon him not many years before, but whichhad somewhat passed away during the last few months, returned, and manymemories, as ever, brought thei
r long train of sorrows with them.
Not far from Little Barford, a fine sloping lawn came down to theroad-side, separated from the highway merely by a thick, well-trimmedhedge broken by some fine groups of trees; and, looking up, a largesquare house with many windows, and a trim garden terraced andornamented with urns and statues, could be seen at the distance of aquarter of a mile. There were several men in the grounds engaged invarious country-employments, and Edward said, within himself, "He istaking care of the place, at all events."
At the same moment Soubise observed, "That is a fine chateau! Do youknow to whom it belongs, and what it is called? It is so long since Iwas in this part of England that I forget the places."
"That is called Buckley Hall," replied Edward. "It belongs to SirRichard Langdale."
"How is that?" said Soubise, suddenly, as if something surprised him.But Edward did not answer, and the prince merely said, "Let us pull upfor an instant and look at it."
It was torture to Edward to stay; but he paused for a moment, and thensaid, "I fear I must go on, for I have still some distance to ride. Myroad, too, lies here to the left."
"Ay?" said Soubise; "so does mine. Let us go on."
"Are you sure you are right?" asked Edward Langdale. "Huntingdon isstraight before you."
"Oh, I am right," answered the prince: "I turn just beyond Buckley."
Edward had nothing more to say; but he could not help beginning to thinkthat his adventure with the two blacksmiths seemed likely to come overagain. Somewhat quickening their pace, they rode on, and Edward made aneffort to cast off the melancholy mood which had fallen upon him, andeven the impression which the unsought society of a man who had spokenof him in such insulting terms had produced at first, and theconversation between him and Soubise became lively and cheerful. Mileafter mile passed; and at length, after proceeding for more than an hourand a half, on a little bank by the side of the river appeared an oldchurch with its gray ivy-clad tower and groups of yews in thechurchyard. Beyond, at the distance of some two or three hundred yards,was one of those fine antique houses, built of stone, which were erectedin the end of Elizabeth's reign and in the earlier part of that of themost pompous and conceited of kings. Thick walls, small square windows,little useless towers, and somewhat peaked roofs, spoke a good deal ofKing James. But the lawn, as soft as velvet, the groups of shrubs, andthe garden, well trimmed and swept even in the winter-time, told a taleof more modern taste.
"I fear I shall have to quit you here, sir," said Edward, as theyapproached the gate with its two massy stone pillars and large balls atthe top. "This is the end of my journey."
"What is the name of this place?" asked Soubise.
"Applethorpe," answered Edward,--"the residence of Dr. Winthorne."
"Ha?" said Soubise; "then we shall not part so soon. This is the end ofmy journey also."
Edward could not refrain from turning round and gazing in his face witha look of most profound surprise; but the prince made no further remark,and, after pulling in their horses while one of the servants dismountedand opened the gates they rode up to the large arched door of thehouse. A heavy bell hanging outside soon brought forth an old domestic,dressed in dark gray, who gazed earnestly first at Soubise and then atEdward, both of whom had sprung to the ground while he was opening thedoor. At first he evidently recognised neither; but a moment after thelight of honest satisfaction brightened his countenance, and, holdingforth his hand to Edward, he exclaimed, "Oh, Master Ned, how glad I amto see you, and how glad the doctor will be! He has been looking for youfor months. But he is not at home now, and may not come back for anhour. But come in; come in. Every thing is ready for you. Your old roomis just as you left it,--not a book moved, nor a gun, nor a fishing-rod:only when I went in to-day to dust the things, I saw the ink had driedup in the horn, and was going to put in fresh this very day."
Edward shook the old man warmly by the hand; and, turning to the Princede Soubise, he said, "If I understood you right, sir, you came to visitDr. Winthorne. He is out, the servant says; but I have interest enoughin this house to invite you to enter till his return. He will be back inan hour, and happy, I am sure, to entertain you. But, knowing my oldpreceptor's habits well, allow me to hint that it will be necessary tosend your attendants into the village, as I shall send my servant; for,being a clergyman, he objects to have in his house what he calls'swash-buckler serving-men;' and his rule apply to all, however high thequality of his guests."
Soubise smiled; and, ushering him into the library, Edward proceeded,amidst the somewhat garrulous joy of the old footman, to direct Pierrotto take the other men down to the village inn, to tell the host there toattend on them well, "for Master Ned's sake," and then to return as soonas might be with his saddle-bags.
The prince merely ordered his baggage to be brought up, directing hismen to take care of themselves, and seeming fully satisfied that hewould be a welcome guest. He took some books from the shelves of thelibrary, examined them cursorily, and put them back, saying, "The gooddoctor seems to have improved much in worldly matters. He has attained,apparently, the state he always desired,--competency, and enough tohave a good library. Can any one imagine a man more happy?"
"Perhaps not," said Edward, gravely. "I believe circumscribed desiresand moderate fortunes attain the height of human felicity."
"Not so," said Soubise. "I believe every human life must be looked at asan aggregate; and skilful would be the calculator who could reduce to anexact sum how much joy and how much sorrow are required to equivale agiven portion of calm and unimpassioned existence. All these things areas the individual views them. We have nothing in this life by which tomeasure the real value of any object but our own tastes. You may like apearl better than a diamond; I may esteem the flashing lustre of the onemore than the calm serenity of the other. That man is only happy whoobtains what he really desires. But here come our men, I see, with thebaggage."
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