While Leonard accustoms himself gradually to the splendors that surround
him, and often turns with a sigh to the remembrance of his mother's
cottage and the sparkling fount in the Italian's flowery garden, we will
make with thee, O reader, a rapid flight to the metropolis, and drop
ourselves amidst the gay groups that loiter along the dusty ground, or
loll over the roadside palings of Hyde Park. The season is still at its
height; but the short day of fashionable London life, which commences
two hours after noon, is in its decline. The crowd in Rotten-row begins
to thin. Near the statue of Achilles, and apart from all other loungers,
a gentleman, with one hand thrust into his waistcoat, and the other
resting on his cane, gazed listlessly on the horsemen and carriages in
the brilliant ring. He was still in the prime of life, at the age when
man is usually the most social--when the acquaintances of youth have
ripened into friendship, and a personage of some rank and fortune has
become a well-known feature in the mobile face of society. But though,
when his contemporaries were boys scarce at college, this gentleman had
blazed foremost among the princes of fashion, and though he had all the
qualities of nature and circumstance which either retain fashion to the
last, or exchange its false celebrity for a graver repute, he stood as a
stranger in that throng of his countrymen. Beauties whirled by to the
toilet--statesmen passed on to the senate--dandies took flight to the
clubs; and neither nods, nor becks, nor wreathed smiles, said to the
solitary spectator, "Follow us--thou art one of our set." Now and then,
some middle-aged beau, nearing the post of the loiterer, turned round to
look again; but the second glance seemed to dissipate the recognition of
the first, and the beau silently continued his way.
"By the tombs of my fathers!" said the solitary to himself, "I know now
what a dead man might feel if he came to life again, and took a peep at
the living."
Time passed on--the evening shades descended fast. Our stranger in
London had well-nigh the Park to himself. He seemed to breathe more
freely as he saw that the space was so clear.
"There's oxygen in the atmosphere now," said he, half aloud; "and I can
walk without breathing in the gaseous fumes of the multitude. O those
chemists--what dolts they are! They tell us crowds taint the air, but
they never guess why! Pah! it is not the lungs that poison the
element--it is the reek of bad hearts. When a periwig-pated fellow
breathes on me, I swallow a mouthful of care. _Allons!_ my friend Nero;
now for a stroll." He touched with his cane a large Newfoundland dog,
who lay stretched near his feet; a dog and man went slow through the
growing twilight, and over the brown dry turf. At length our solitary
paused, and threw himself on a bench under a tree. "Half-past eight!"
said he, looking at his watch--"one may smoke one's cigar without
shocking the world."
He took out his cigar-case, struck a light, and in another moment,
reclined at length on the bench, seemed absorbed in regarding the smoke,
that scarce colored ere it vanished into air.
"It is the most barefaced lie in the world, my Nero," said he,
addressing his dog--"this boasted liberty of man! Now, here am I, a
freeborn Englishman, a citizen of the world, caring--I often say to
myself--caring not a jot for Kaisar or Mob; and yet I no more dare smoke
this cigar in the Park at half-past six, when all the world is abroad,
than I dare pick my Lord Chancellor's pocket, or hit the Archbishop of
Canterbury a thump on the nose. Yet no law in England forbids me my
cigar, Nero! What is law at half-past eight, was not crime at six and a
half! Britannia says, 'Man, thou art free,' and she lies like a
commonplace woman. O Nero, Nero! you enviable dog!--you serve but from
liking. No thought of the world costs you one wag of the tail. Your big
heart and true instinct suffice you for reason and law. You would want
nothing to your felicity, if in these moments of ennui you would but
smoke a cigar. Try it, Nero!--try it!" And, rising from his incumbent
posture, he sought to force the end of the weed between the teeth of the
dog.
While thus gravely engaged, two figures had approached the place. The
one was a man who seemed weak and sickly. His threadbare coat was
buttoned to the chin, but hung large on his shrunken breast. The other
was a girl of about fourteen, on whose arm he leant heavily. Her cheek
was wan, and there was a patient sad look on her face, which seemed so
settled that you would think she could never have known the mirthfulness
of childhood.
"Pray rest here, papa," said the child softly; and she pointed to the
bench, without taking heed of its pre-occupant, who now, indeed,
confined to one corner of the seat, was almost hidden by the shadow of a
tree.
The man sate down, with a feeble sigh; and then, observing the stranger,
raised his hat, and said, in that tone of voice which betrays the usages
of polished society, "Forgive me, if I intrude on you, sir."
The stranger looked up from his dog, and seeing that the girl was
standing, rose at once as if to make room for her on the bench.
But still the girl did not heed him. She hung over her father, and wiped
his brow tenderly with a little kerchief which she took from her own
neck for the purpose.
Nero, delighted to escape the cigar, had taken to some unwieldy curvets
and gambols, to vent the excitement into which he had been thrown; and
now returning, approached the bench with a low look of surprise, and
sniffed at the intruders on his master's privacy.
"Come here, sir," said the master. "You need not fear him," he added,
addressing himself to the girl.
But the girl, without turning round to him, cried in a voice rather of
anguish than alarm, "He has fainted! Father! father!"
The stranger kicked aside his dog, which was in the way, and loosened
the poor man's stiff military stock. While thus charitably engaged, the
moon broke out, and the light fell full on the pale care-worn face of
the unconscious sufferer.
"This face seems not unfamiliar to me, though sadly changed," said the
stranger to himself; and bending toward the girl, who had sunk on her
knees and was chafing her father's hands, he asked, "My child, what is
your father's name?"
The child continued her task, too absorbed to answer.
The stranger put his hand on her shoulder, and repeated the question.
"Digby," answered the child, almost unconsciously; and as she spoke the
man's senses began to return. In a few minutes more he had sufficiently
recovered to falter forth his thanks to the stranger. But the last took
his hand, and said, in a voice at once tremulous and soothing, "Is it
possible that I see once more an old brother in arms? Algernon Digby, I
do not forget you; but it seems England has forgotten?"
A hectic flush spread over the soldier's face, and he looked away from
the speaker as he answered--
"My name is Digby, it is true, sir; but I do not think we have met
before. Come, Helen, I am well now--we will go home."
"Try and play with that great dog, my child," said the stranger--"I want
to talk with your father."
The child bowed her submissive head, and moved away; but she did not
play with the dog.
"I must re-introduce myself, formally, I see," quoth the stranger. "You
were in the same regiment with myself, and my name is L'Estrange."
"My lord," said the soldier, rising, "forgive me that--"
"I don't think that it was the fashion to call me 'my lord' at the
mess-table. Come, what has happened to you?--on half-pay?"
Mr. Digby shook his head mournfully.
"Digby, old fellow, can you lend me L100?" said Lord L'Estrange,
clapping his _ci-devant_ brother officer on the shoulder, and in a tone
of voice that seemed like a boy's--so impudent was it, and
devil-me-carish. "No! Well, that's lucky, for I can lend it to you."
Mr. Digby burst into tears.
Lord L'Estrange did not seem to observe the emotion. "We were both sad
extravagant fellows in our day," said he, "and I dare say I borrowed of
you pretty freely."
"Me! Oh, Lord L'Estrange?"
"You have married since then, and reformed, I suppose. Tell me, old
friend, all about it."
Mr. Digby, who by this time had succeeded in restoring some calm to his
shattered nerves, now rose, and said in brief sentences, but clear firm
tones,
"My Lord, it is idle to talk of me--useless to help me. I am fast dying.
But, my child there, my only child (he paused an instant, and went on
rapidly). I have relations in a distant country, if I could but get to
them--I think they would at least provide for her. This has been for
weeks my hope, my dream, my prayer. I can not afford the journey except
by your help. I have begged without shame for myself; shall I be
ashamed, then, to beg for her?"
"Digby," said L'Estrange, with some grave alteration of manner, "talk
neither of dying, nor begging. You were nearer death when the balls
whistled round you at Waterloo. If soldier meets soldier and says,
'Friend, thy purse,' it is not begging, but brotherhood. Ashamed! By the
soul of Belisarius! if I needed money, I would stand at a crossing with
my Waterloo medal over my breast, and say to each sleek citizen I had
helped to save from the sword of the Frenchman, 'It is your shame if I
starve.' Now, lean upon me; I see you should be at home--which way?"
The poor soldier pointed his hand toward Oxford-street, and reluctantly
accepted the proffered arm.
"And when you return from your relations, you will call on me?
What!--hesitate? Come, promise."
"I will."
"On your honor."
"If I live, on my honor."
"I am staying at present at Knightsbridge, with my father; but you will
always hear of my address at No. -- Grosvenor-square, Mr. Egerton's.
So you have a long journey before you?"
"Very long."
"Do not fatigue yourself--travel slowly. Ho, you foolish child!--I see
you are jealous of me. Your father has another arm to spare you."
Thus talking, and getting but short answers, Lord L'Estrange continued
to exhibit those whimsical peculiarities of character, which had
obtained for him the repute of heartlessness in the world. Perhaps the
reader may think the world was not in the right. But if ever the world
does judge rightly of the character of a man who does not live for the
world, nor talk for the world, nor feel with the world, it will be
centuries after the soul of Harley L'Estrange has done with this planet.