A TETE-A-TETE IN A DRAWING-ROOM.--AUTOBIOGRAPHY.--A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY
CONCERNING THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
The voices which alarmed Miss Peters were those of Mrs. Barnaby and
Major Allen. The acquaintance between them had gone quite far enough on
the preceding evening to justify the gentleman's _aimable empressement_
to inquire for the lady's health; besides, he was somewhat curious to
know if the pretty, skittish young creature he had encountered in his
morning's ride, had recounted the adventure to her aunt. It was his
private opinion that she had not; and if so, he should know what to
think of the sudden appearance and protecting demeanour of her tall
friend. It was thus he reasoned as he walked towards Sion Row as soon
as he had finished his breakfast; and yet, though he had lost so little
time, he did not arrive till at least three minutes after the widow had
begun to expect him.
"I need not ask my charming Mrs. Barnaby how she rested after her
ball ... eyes do not sparkle thus, unless they have been blessed with
sleep;" ... and the lady's hand was taken, bowed upon, and the tips of
her fingers kissed, before she had quite recovered the soft
embarrassment his entrance had occasioned.
"You are very kind to call upon me, Major Allen.... Do sit down.... I
live as yet comparatively in great retirement; for during Mr. Barnaby's
lifetime we saw an immense deal of company,--that old-fashioned sort of
country visiting, you know, that never leaves one's house empty.... I
could not stand it when I was left alone ... and that was the reason I
left my beautiful place."
"Siverton or Silverton Park, was it not?... I think I have heard of it."
"Yes, Silverton.... And do you know, Major, that the remembrance of all
that racket and gaiety was so oppressive to my nerves during the first
months of my widowhood, that I threw off everything that reminded me of
it ... sold my carriages and horses, let my place, turned off all my
servants; and positively, when I set off for this place in order to see
my sister Peters and her family, I knew not if I should ever have
strength or spirits to enter into general society again."
"Thank God, dearest madam, that you have made the effort!... Though the
hardened and war-worn nature of man cannot melt with all the softness of
yours, there is yet within us a chord that may be made to vibrate in
sympathy when words of true feeling reach it! How well I understood your
feelings ... and how difficult it is not to envy, even in death, the
being who has left such a remembrance behind!... But we must not dwell
on this.... Tell me, dear Mrs. Barnaby, tell,--as to a friend who
understands and appreciates you,--do you regret the having left your
elegant retirement?... or do you feel, as I trust you do, that
Providence has not gifted you so singularly for nothing?... do you feel
that your fellow-creatures have a claim upon you, and that it ought not
to be in secret and in solitude that the hours of such a being should be
spent? Tell me, do you feel this?"
"Alas! Major Allen, there is so much weakness in the heart of a woman,
that she is hardly sure for many days together how she ought to feel....
We are all impulse, all soul, all sentiment, ... and our destiny must
ever depend upon the friends we meet in our passage through this thorny
world!"
"Beautiful idea!... Where is the poet that has more sweetly painted the
female heart?... And what a study it offers when such a heart is thrown
open to one! Good God! to see a creature so formed for enjoyment,--so
beaming with innocent cheerfulness,--so rich in the power of conferring
happiness wherever she deigns to smile, ... to see such a being turn
weeping and alone from her hospitable halls, and from all the pomp and
splendour that others cling to ... what a spectacle! Have you no
lingering regret, dearest lady, for having left your charming mansion?"
"Perhaps there are moments ... or rather, I should say, perhaps there
have been moments, when something of the kind has crossed me. But if I
had not disposed of my place, I should never have seen Clifton.... My
spirits wanted the change, and I feel already better in this delightful
air. But I confess I do regret having sold my beautiful greys, ... I
shall never meet any I like so well again."
"A set, were they?"
"Oh yes."
"Four greys ... and all well matched?"
"Perfectly.... Poor Mr. Barnaby took so much pains about it.... It was
his delight to please me.... I ought not to have sold them."
"It was a pity," ... said the kind Major with a sigh.
"Don't talk about it, Major Allen!..." and here one of the widow's most
curiously embroidered pocket-handkerchiefs, delightfully scented with
musk, was lightly and carefully applied to her eyes.
"Nay," said the Major, venturing gently to withdraw it, "you must not
yield to this dangerous softness.... I cannot bear to have those eyes
concealed!... it produces the chilling sensation of an eclipse at
noon-day.... I shall run away from you if you will not look at me."
"No, do not," ... said the widow, making an effort to smile, which was
rewarded by a look of gratitude, and a seemingly involuntary kiss
bestowed upon the hand that had withdrawn the envious handkerchief.
"And that pretty little girl, your niece, Mrs. Barnaby," ... said the
Major, as if considerately changing the conversation; "how is she this
morning?"
"Oh! quite well, poor child, and in my dressing-room, going over her
Italian and French lessons before she does them with me."
"Good Heaven!... Is it possible that you devote yourself thus?... Take
care, charming Mrs. Barnaby ... take care that you do not permit your
affectionate nature to form an attachment to that young person which may
destroy all your future prospects in life!... At your age, and with your
exquisite beauty, you ought to be looking forward to the renewal of
the tender tie that has already made your happiness;... And who is
there ... pardon me if I speak boldly ... who is there who would venture
to give his whole heart, his soul, his entire existence to one who has
no heart to give in return? Think you, Mrs. Barnaby, that it can be in
the power of any niece in the world to atone to a woman of your
exquisite sensibility for the loss of that ardent affection which can
only exist between a husband and wife?... Tell me, do you believe this?"
"It is a question," replied the widow, casting her eyes upon the ground,
"that I have never asked myself."
"Then neglect it no longer.... For God's sake--for the sake of your
future happiness, which must be so inexpressibly dear to all who know
you ... all who appreciate you justly ... for the sake of the young girl
herself, do not involve yourself by undertaking the duties of a mother
towards one who from her age could never have stood to you in the
relation of a child."
"Alas! no," ... said Mrs. Barnaby; "I lost my only babe a few weeks
before its father.... Had it lived, it would this spring have been three
years old!... You say true ... the age of Agnes must ever prevent my
feeling for her as a child of my own.... My poor sister was indeed so
much older than myself, that I always rather looked upon her as an aunt,
or as a mother, than as my sister."
"Of course you must have done so; and, interesting and inexpressibly
touching as it is to witness your beautiful tenderness towards her
child, it is impossible not to feel that this tenderness carried too far
will inevitably destroy the future happiness of your life. Forgive, I
implore you, a frankness that can only proceed from my deep interest in
your welfare.... Is this young person entirely dependent upon you?"
"At this moment she is; but she will be provided for at the death of her
great-aunt, Mrs. Elizabeth Compton of Compton Basett; ... and to say the
truth, Major Allen, as you so kindly interest yourself in what concerns
me, I neither do nor ever shall consider myself bound to retain Agnes
Willoughby in my family, under any circumstances that should render her
being so inconvenient."
"I delight in receiving such an assurance ... dear, excellent Mrs.
Barnaby!... What a heart!... what an understanding!... what beauty!...
what unequalled sweetness! No wonder the late Mr. Barnaby delighted, as
you say, to please you! 'Lives there the man,' as the immortal Byron
says--'Lives there the man with soul so dead,' as to be capable of doing
otherwise?... But to return to the subject of this poor little girl ...
she might be termed pretty, perhaps, in any society but yours.... Tell
me, is this Mrs. Compton, of Compton Basett, wealthy?... Is she also a
relation of yours?"
"Yes, she is immensely wealthy.... It is a magnificent estate. She is a
maiden sister of my father's."
"Then Miss Willoughby will eventually be a great fortune.... How old is
your aunt?"
"My aunt is near sixty, I believe, ... but the provision intended for
Agnes is only sufficient to maintain her like a gentlewoman. The bulk of
the property is settled on me and my heirs."
"I fear you will think me an unseasonable visitor," said the
fully-satisfied Major, rising, "and I will go now, lest you should
refuse to admit me again."
"Do not go yet," ... said the gentle widow, playfully refusing the hand
extended to take leave. "What in the world now have you got to do, that
should prevent your bestowing a little more time on me?"
"It would be difficult, Mrs. Barnaby," said the Major with an eloquent
look, "to find any occupation sufficiently attractive to take me from
you, so long as I dared flatter myself that it was your wish I should
remain."
"Well, then ... sit down again, Major Allen ... for do you know, I want
you to tell me all about yourself.... Where have you served?--what
dangers have you passed through? You have no idea how much interest I
should take in listening to the history of your past life."
"My sweet friend!... Never should I have entered upon such a subject
unbidden ... yet with such an auditor, how dear will the privilege
become of talking of myself!... But you must check me, if I push your
gentle patience too far. Tell me when you are weary of me ... or of my
little narrative."
"I will, I will ... depend upon it, ... only do not stop till I do,
Major."
"Adorable sweetness!... Thus, then, I am to be my own biographer, and to
a listener whose opinion would, in my estimation, outweigh that of all
the congregated world, if placed in judgment on my actions. It is
probable, my charming friend, that my name as Ensign Allen may not be
totally unknown to you.... It was while I still held that humble rank,
that I was first fortunate enough to distinguish myself. In an affair of
some importance in the Peninsula, I turned what might have been a very
disastrous defeat into a most complete victory, and was immediately
promoted to a company. Shortly after this I chanced to shew the same
sort of spirit, which was, I believe, born with me, in a transaction
nowise professional, but which, nevertheless, made me favourably
mentioned, and certainly contributed to bring me into the rather general
notice with which Europe at present honours me.... Yet it was merely an
affair with a party of brigands, in which I put seven fellows _hors de
combat_, and thereby enabled that celebrated grandee, the Duke
d'Almafonte d'Aragona d'Astrada, to escape, together with his beautiful
daughter, and all their jewels. The service might have been, I own, of
considerable importance to them, but the gratitude it produced in the
minds of both father and daughter, greatly exceeded what was called
for ... he offered me ... so widely separated as we now are, there can
be no indelicacy in my confiding the circumstance to you, my dear Mrs.
Barnaby, but ... the fact is, he offered me his only daughter in
marriage, with an immense fortune. But, alas! how capricious is the
human will!... my hour, my dear friend, was not yet come.... I felt,
beautiful as Isabella d'Almafonte was accounted by all the world, that I
could not give her my heart, and I performed the painful duty of
refusing her hand. Nothing, however, could be more noble than the
subsequent conduct of the duke, ... at the first painful moment he only
said ... 'Captain Allen, we must submit' ... of course he said it in
Spanish, but it would look like affectation, in such a narrative as
this, were I not to translate it ... 'Capitano Alleno, bisogno
submittajo nos,' were his words.... I am sure I shall never forget them,
for they touched me to the very heart.... I could not speak, my feelings
choked me, and I left his palace in silence. Five years had elapsed, and
I had perhaps too nearly forgotten the lovely but unfortunate Isabella
d'Almafonte, when I received a packet from a notary of Madrid, informing
me that her illustrious father was dead, and had gratefully bequeathed
me a legacy, amounting in English money to thirty thousand pounds
sterling. I was by that time already in possession of the estates of my
ancestors, and such a sum might have appeared a very useless bagatelle,
had not an accident rendered it at that time of really important
convenience."
"Good heaven! how interesting!" exclaimed Mrs. Barnaby. "And what, dear
Major, became of the unfortunate Isabella?"
"She took the veil, Mrs. Barnaby, in the convent de Los Ceurores
Dolentes, within a few months of her noble father's death.... Before
this event she had not the power of disposing of herself as she
wished; ... but her excellent father never tortured her by the proposal
of any other marriage...."
"Admirable man!" cried Mrs. Barnaby, greatly touched. "Dear Major
Allen!" she added, in a voice that seemed to deprecate opposition, "you
must, indeed you must, do me an immense favour. When Mrs. Peters took me
to Bristol in her coach the other day, I bought myself this album; it
has got nothing in it as yet but my own name; now, if you do not wish to
break my heart, you must write the name of Isabella d'Almafonte in this
first page ... it will be an autograph inexpressibly interesting!"
The Major took the book and the pen that were offered by the two hands
of Mrs. Barnaby, and said with a profound sigh,--
"Break your heart!... I should never have broken the heart of any woman,
if what she asked had been seconded by such eyes as those!"
A silence of some moments followed, a part of which was employed by the
Major in writing the name of Isabella d'Almafonte, and a part in gazing
on the downcast lids of the admired eyes opposite to him; but this too
trying interval ended at length by the lady's recovering herself enough
to say, "And that accident, Major Allen, that made the duke's little
legacy convenient to you?... what was it?... Do not have any reserve
with one whom you have honoured by the name of friend!"
"Reserve to you!... never!... While you continue to admit me to
your presence, all reserve on my part must be impossible. The
accident was this, my friend; and I am not sorry to name it, as it
gives me an opportunity of alluding to a subject that I would rather
you heard mentioned by me than by any other. After the battle of
Waterloo--(concerning which, by the by, I should like to tell you an
anecdote)--after the battle of Waterloo, I became, in common with nearly
all the officers of the army, an idle man; and like too many others, I
was tempted to seek a substitute for the excitement produced by the
military ardour in which I had lived, by indulging in the pernicious
agitations of the gaming-table. It is very likely, that if you speak of
me in general society, you will be told that I have played high.... My
dear Mrs. Barnaby, this is true. My large fortune gave me, as I
foolishly imagined, a sort of right to play high if it amused me, and
for a little while, I confess, it did amuse me; ... but I soon found
that a gentleman was no match for those who made gambling a profession,
and I lost largely,--so largely, indeed, that I must have saddled my
acres with a mortgage, had not the legacy of the Duke d'Almafonte
d'Aragona d'Estrada reached me just in time to prevent the necessity."
"I rejoice to hear it," replied the widow kindly; "and you have never
hazarded so largely since, dear Major, have you?"
"Oh! never.... In fact, I never enter a room now where anything like
high play is going on.... I cannot bear even to see it, and I believe I
have in this way offended many who still permit themselves this hateful
indulgence; offended them, indeed, to such a degree, that they perfectly
hate me, and utter the most virulent abuse every time they hear my name
mentioned; ... but for this I care little: I know I am right, Mrs.
Barnaby, and that what loses their friendship and esteem, may be the
means of gaining for me the regard of those, perhaps, on whom my whole
happiness may depend during my future life."
The same dangerous sort of silence as before seemed creeping on them;
but again the widow had the courage to break it, by recalling to the
memory of her musing and greatly pre-occupied companion the anecdote
respecting Waterloo which he had promised her.
"Waterloo!" said he, rousing himself.... "Ay, dearest Mrs. Barnaby, I
_will_ tell you that, though there are many reasons which render me very
averse to speak of it lightly. In the first place, by those who know me
not, it might be thought to look like boasting; and, moreover, if I
alluded to it in any society capable of the baseness of repeating what I
said, it might bring upon me very active, and indeed fatal, proofs of
the dislike--I may say hatred--already felt against me in a certain
quarter."
"Gracious heaven, Major!... be careful then, I implore you, before
whom you speak! There appear to be many strangers here, of whose
characters it is impossible to know anything.... If you have enemies,
they may be spies expressly sent to watch you."
"I sometimes think so, I assure you.... I catch such singular looks
occasionally, as nothing else can account for; and the enemy I allude to
is one who has power, as well as will, to punish by evil reports, if he
cannot positively crush and ruin, those who interfere with his
ambition."
"Is it possible? Thank heaven! at least you can have no doubt of me....
So, tell me, I beseech you to tell me, to whom is it that your alarming
words refer?"
The Major drew his chair close to Mrs. Barnaby, took one of her hands
between both of his, and having gazed for a moment very earnestly in her
face, whispered,--
"The Duke of Wellington!"
"Good God!..." exclaimed the widow, quite in an agony: "the Duke of
Wellington! Is the Duke of Wellington your enemy, Major Allen?"
"To the teeth, my fairest! to the teeth!" replied the Major, firmly
setting the instruments he mentioned, and muttering through them with an
appearance of concentrated rage, the outward demonstration of which was
increased by the firmness of the grasp in which he continued to hold her
hand.
"But how can this be so?" faltered Mrs. Barnaby.... "So brave a man as
you!... one, too, who had distinguished himself so early! How can he be
so base?"
"How can he be otherwise, my friend?" replied the Major with increasing
agitation, "when" ... and here he lowered his voice still more,
whispering almost in her very ear, "it is I--I,--Ferdinand Alexander
Allen, who ought by right to be the Duke of Wellington, instead of him
who now wears the title!"
"You astonish me more than I am able to express!"
"Of course I do.... Such, however, is the fact. The battle of Waterloo
would have been lost,--was lost, positively lost,--till I, disdaining in
such a moment to receive orders from one whom I perceived to be
incompetent, rushed forward, almost knocking the Duke off his horse as I
did so ... sent back the French army like a flock of sheep before an
advancing lion ... seized with my own hand on the cocked hat of
Napoleon ... drew it from his head, and actually flogged his horse with
it till horse and rider together seemed well enough inclined to make the
best of their way out of my reach.... God bless you, my dearest lady!
the Duke of Wellington had no more to do in gaining the battle of
Waterloo than you had.... I now leave you to judge what his feelings
towards me are likely to be."
"Full of envy and hatred, beyond all doubt!" solemnly replied Mrs.
Barnaby; "and I will not deny, Major Allen, that I think there is great
danger in your situation. A person of such influence may do great
injury, even to a man of your well-known noble character. But how
extraordinary it is that no hint of this has ever transpired."
"I beg your pardon, my dear madam; this is very far from being the case.
At your peaceful residence beneath the shades of Silverton Park, it is
highly probable that you may have remained ignorant of the fact; but, in
truth, the Duke's reputation among the people of England has suffered
greatly; though no one, indeed, has yet proposed that his sword should
be taken from him. The well-known circumstance of stones having been
thrown at his windows ... a fact which probably has never reached
you ... is quite sufficient to prove that the people must be aware that
what the English army did at Waterloo, was not done under his
generalship.... No, no, England knows too well what she owed to that
victory so to treat the general who achieved it; and had they not felt
doubts as to who that general was, no stones would have been levelled at
Apsley House. Many of the common soldiers--fine fellows!--have been bold
enough to name me, and it is this that has so enraged the Duke, that
there is nothing which he has not taught his emissaries to say against
me.... I have been called swindler, black-leg, radical, horse-jockey,
and I know not what beside; and I should not wonder, my charming friend,
if sooner or later your friendship were put to the proof, by having to
listen to similar calumnies against me; but now, you will be able to
understand them aright, and know the source from whence they come."
"Well, I never did hear anything so abominable in my life!" said Mrs.
Barnaby warmly.... "Not content with taking credit to himself for all
that was gained by your extraordinary bravery, he has the baseness to
attack your character!... It is too detestable!... and I only hope,
that when I get among my own connexions in town, I shall not have the
misfortune of meeting him often.... I am certain I should not be able to
resist saying something to shew what I thought. Oh! if he were really
the brave man that he has been fancied to be, how he must have adored
you for your undaunted courage!... And you really took Napoleon's hat
off his head?... How excessively brave!... I wish I could have seen it,
Major!... I am sure I should have worshipped you.... I do so doat upon
bravery!"
"Sweet creature!... That devoted love of courage is one of the loveliest
propensities of the female mind. Yes, I am brave--I do not scruple to
say so; and the idea that this quality is dear to you, will strengthen
it in me four-fold.... But, my dear, my lovely friend! I must bid you
adieu. I expect the steward of my property in Yorkshire to-day, and I
rather think he must be waiting for me now.... Soften, then, the pain of
this parting, by telling me that I may come again!"
"I should be sorry indeed to think this was our last meeting, Major
Allen," said the widow gently; "I am seldom out in the morning before
the hour at which you called to-day."
"Farewell then!" said he, kissing her hand with an air of mixed
tenderness and respect, "farewell!... and remember that all I have
breathed into your friendly ear must be sacred; ... but I know it would
be so without this injunction; Mrs. Barnaby's majestic beauty conceals
not the paltry spirit of a gossip!"
"Indeed you are right!... indeed you are right!... To my feelings the
communications of a friend are sweet, solemn pledges of regard, that it
would be sacrilege to violate. Farewell, Major!--farewell!"