THE PREPARATION.
To prevent needless repetitions in my story, I shall not record here the
conversation which passed between my friend Power and myself on the morning
following at breakfast. Suffice it to say, that the plan proposed by him
for my rescue was one I agreed to adopt, reserving to myself, in case
of failure, a _pis aller_ of which I knew not the meaning, but of whose
efficacy Power assured me I need not doubt.
“If all fail,” said he,--“if every bridge break down beneath you, and no
road of escape be left, why, then, I believe you must have recourse to
another alternative. Still I should wish to avoid it, if possible, and I
put it to you, in honor, not to employ it unless as a last expedient. You
promise me this?”
“Of course,” said I, with great anxiety for the dread final measure. “What
is it?”
He paused, smiled dubiously, and resumed,--
“And, after all,--but, to be sure, there will not be need for it,--the
other plan will do,--must do. Come, come, O’Malley, the admiralty say that
nothing encourages drowning in the navy like a life-buoy. The men have such
a prospect of being picked up that they don’t mind falling overboard; so,
if I give you this life-preserver of mine, you’ll not swim an inch. Is it
not so, eh?”
“Far from it,” said I. “I shall feel in honor bound to exert myself the
more, because I now see how much it costs you to part with it.”
“Well, then, hear it. When everything fails; when all your resources are
exhausted; when you have totally lost your memory, in fact, and your
ingenuity in excuses say,--but mind, Charley, not till then,--say that you
must consult your friend, Captain Power, of the 14th; that’s all.”
“And is this it?” said I, quite disappointed at the lame and impotent
conclusion to all the high-sounding exordium; “is this all?”
“Yes,” said he, “that is all. But stop, Charley; is not that the major
crossing the street there? Yes, to be sure it is; and, by Jove! he has got
on the old braided frock this morning. Had you not told me one word of your
critical position, I should have guessed there was something in the wind
from that. That same vestment has caused many a stout heart to tremble that
never quailed before a shot or shell.”
“How can that be? I should like to hear.”
“Why, my dear boy, that’s his explanation coat, as we called it at
Gibraltar. He was never known to wear it except when asking some poor
fellow’s ‘intentions.’ He would no more think of sporting it as an
every-day affair, than the chief-justice would go cook-shooting in his
black cap and ermine. Come, he is bound for your quarters, and as it
will not answer our plans to let him see you now, you had better hasten
down-stairs, and get round by the back way into George’s Street, and you’ll
be at his house before he can return.”
Following Power’s directions, I seized my foraging-cap and got clear out of
the premises before the major had reached them. It was exactly noon as I
sounded my loud and now well-known summons at the major’s knocker. The door
was quickly opened; but instead of dashing up-stairs, four steps at a time,
as was my wont, to the drawing-room, I turned short into the dingy-looking
little parlor on the right, and desired Matthew, the venerable servitor of
the house, to say that I wished particularly to see Mrs. Dalrymple for a
few minutes, if the hour were not inconvenient.
There was something perhaps of excitement in my manner, some flurry in my
look, or some trepidation in my voice, or perhaps it was the unusual hour,
or the still more remarkable circumstance of my not going at once to the
drawing-room, that raised some doubts in Matthew’s mind as to the object of
my visit; and instead of at once complying with my request to inform Mrs.
Dalrymple that I was there, he cautiously closed the door, and taking a
quick but satisfactory glance round the apartment to assure himself that we
were alone, he placed his back against it and heaved a deep sigh.
We were both perfectly silent: I in total amazement at what the old man
could possibly mean; he, following up the train of his own thoughts,
comprehended little or nothing of my surprise, and evidently was so
engrossed by his reflections that he had neither ears nor eyes for aught
around him. There was a most singular semi-comic expression in the old
withered face that nearly made me laugh at first; but as I continued to
look steadily at it, I perceived that, despite the long-worn wrinkles that
low Irish drollery and fun had furrowed around the angles of his mouth, the
real character of his look was one of sorrowful compassion.
Doubtless, my readers have read many interesting narratives wherein the
unconscious traveller in some remote land has been warned of a plan to
murder him, by some mere passing wink, a look, a sign, which some one, less
steeped in crime, less hardened in iniquity than his fellows, has ventured
for his rescue. Sometimes, according to the taste of the narrator, the
interesting individual is an old woman, sometimes a young one, sometimes
a black-bearded bandit, sometimes a child; and not unfrequently, a dog is
humane enough to do this service. One thing, however, never varies,--be the
agent biped or quadruped, dumb or speechful, young or old, the stranger
invariably takes the hint, and gets off scott free for his sharpness. This
never-varying trick on the doomed man, I had often been sceptical enough to
suspect; however, I had not been many minutes a spectator of the old man’s
countenance, when I most thoroughly recanted my errors, and acknowledged
myself wrong. If ever the look of a man conveyed a warning, his did; but
there was more in it than even that,--there was a tone of sad and pitiful
compassion, such as an old gray-bearded rat might be supposed to put on at
seeing a young and inexperienced one opening the hinge of an iron trap,
to try its efficacy upon his neck. Many a little occasion had presented
itself, during my intimacy with the family, of doing Matthew some small
services, of making him some trifling presents; so that, when he assumed
before me the gesture and look I have mentioned, I was not long in
deciphering his intentions.
“Matthew!” screamed a sharp voice which I recognized at once for that of
Mrs. Dalrymple. “Matthew! Where is the old fool?”
But Matthew heard not, or heeded not.
“Matthew! Matthew! I say.”
“I’m comin’, ma’am,” said he, with a sigh, as, opening the parlor-door, he
turned upon me one look of such import that only the circumstances of my
story can explain its force, or my reader’s own ingenious imagination can
supply.
“Never fear, my good old friend,” said I, grasping his hand warmly, and
leaving a guinea in the palm,--“never fear.”
“God grant it, sir!” said he, setting on his wig in preparation for his
appearance in the drawing-room.
“Matthew! The old wretch!”
“Mr. O’Malley,” said the often-called Matthew, as opening the door, he
announced me unexpectedly among the ladies there assembled, who, not
hearing of my approach, were evidently not a little surprised and
astonished. Had I been really the enamored swain that the Dalrymple family
were willing to believe, I half suspect that the prospect before me might
have cured me of my passion. A round bullet-head, _papilloté_, with
the “Cork Observer,” where still-born babes and maids-of-all-work were
descanted upon in very legible type, was now the substitute for the classic
front and Italian ringlets of _la belle_ Matilda; while the chaste Fanny
herself, whose feet had been a fortune for a statuary, was, in the most
slatternly and slipshod attire, pacing the room in a towering rage, at
some thing, place, or person, unknown (to me). If the ballet-master at the
_Académie_ could only learn to get his imps, demons, angels, and goblins
“off” half as rapidly as the two young ladies retreated on my being
announced, I answer for the piece so brought out having a run for half the
season. Before my eyes had regained their position parallel to the plane of
the horizon, they were gone, and I found myself alone with Mrs. Dalrymple.
Now, she stood her ground, partly to cover the retreat of the main body,
partly, too, because--representing the baggage wagons, ammunition stores,
hospital, staff, etc.--her retirement from the field demanded more time and
circumspection than the light brigade.
Let not my readers suppose that the _mère_ Dalrymple was so perfectly
faultless in costume that her remaining was a matter of actual
indifference; far from it. She evidently had a struggle for it; but a sense
of duty decided her, and as Ney doggedly held back to cover the retreating
forces on the march from Moscow, so did she resolutely lurk behind till
the last flutter of the last petticoat assured her that the fugitives were
safe. Then did she hesitate for a moment what course to take; but as I
assumed my chair beside her, she composedly sat down, and crossing her
hands before her, waited for an explanation of this ill-timed visit.
Had the Horse Guards, in the plenitude of their power and the perfection of
their taste, ordained that the 79th and 42d Regiments should in future,
in lieu of their respective tartans, wear flannel kilts and black worsted
hose, I could readily have fallen into the error of mistaking Mrs.
Dalrymple for a field officer in the new regulation dress; the philabeg
finding no mean representation in a capacious pincushion that hung down
from her girdle, while a pair of shears, not scissors, corresponded to the
dirk. After several ineffectual efforts on her part to make her vestment (I
know not its fitting designation) cover more of her legs than its length
could possibly effect, and after some most bland smiles and half blushes at
_dishabille_, etc., were over, and that I had apologized most humbly for
the unusually early hour of my call, I proceeded to open my negotiations,
and unfurl my banner for the fray.
“The old ‘Racehorse’ has arrived at last,” said I, with a half-sigh, “and I
believe that we shall not obtain a very long time for our leave-taking; so
that, trespassing upon your very great kindness, I have ventured upon an
early call.”
“The ‘Racehorse,’ surely can’t sail to-morrow,” said Mrs. Dalrymple, whose
experience of such matters made her a very competent judge; “her stores--”
“Are taken in already,” said I; “and an order from the Horse Guards
commands us to embark in twenty-four hours; so that, in fact, we scarcely
have time to look about us.”
“Have you seen the major?” inquired Mrs. Dalrymple, eagerly.
“Not to-day,” I replied, carelessly; “but, of course, during the morning we
are sure to meet. I have many thanks yet to give him for all his most kind
attentions.”
“I know he is most anxious to see you,” said Mrs. Dalrymple, with a very
peculiar emphasis, and evidently desiring that I should inquire the
reasons of this anxiety. I, however, most heroically forbore indulging my
curiosity, and added that I should endeavor to find him on my way to the
barracks; and then, hastily looking at my watch, I pronounced it a full
hour later than it really was, and promising to spend the evening--my last
evening--with them, I took my leave and hurried away, in no small flurry to
be once more out of reach of Mrs. Dalrymple’s fire, which I every moment
expected to open upon me.