THE ELOPEMENT.
It was past two o’clock when I reached the town. On entering the
barrack-yard, I perceived a large group of officers chatting together,
and every moment breaking into immoderate fits of laughter. I went
over, and immediately learned the source of their mirth, which was
this: No sooner had it been known that Fitzgerald was about to go to a
distance, on a professional call, than a couple of young officers laid
their heads together, and wrote an anonymous note to Mrs. Fitz. who was
the very dragon of jealousy, informing her, that her husband had
feigned the whole history of the patient and consultation as an excuse
for absenting himself on an excursion of gallantry; and that if she
wished to satisfy herself of the truth of the statement, she had only
to follow him in the morning, and detect his entire scheme; the object
of these amiable friends being to give poor Mrs. Fitz. a twenty miles’
jaunt, and confront her with her injured husband at the end of it.
Having a mind actively alive to suspicions of this nature, the worthy
woman made all her arrangements for a start, and scarcely was the
chaise and four, with her husband, out of the town, than was she on the
track of it, with a heart bursting with jealousy, and vowing vengeance
to the knife, against all concerned in this scheme to wrong her.
So far the plan of her persecutors had perfectly succeeded; they saw
her depart, on a trip of, as they supposed, twenty miles, and their
whole notions of the practical joke were limited to the eclaircissement
that must ensue at the end. Little, however, were they aware how much
more nearly the suspected crime, was the position of the poor doctor to
turn out; for, as by one blunder I had taken his chaise, so he, without
any inquiry whatever, had got into the one intended for me; and never
awoke from a most refreshing slumber, till shaken by the shoulder by
the postillion, who whispered in his ear—“here we are sir; this is the
gate.”
“But why stop at the gate? Drive up the avenue, my boy.”
“His honor told me, sir, not for the world to go farther than the
lodge; nor to make as much noise as a mouse.”
“Ah! very true. He may be very irritable, poor man! Well stop here, and
I’ll get out.”
Just as the doctor had reached the ground, a very smart-looking
soubrette tripped up, and said to him—
“Beg pardon, sir; but you are the gentleman from the barrack, sir?”
“Yes, my dear,” said Fitz., with a knowing look at the pretty face of
the damsel, “what can I do for you?”
“Why sir, my mistress is here in the shrubbery; but she is so nervous,
and so frightened, I don’t know how she’ll go through it.”
“Ah! she’s frightened, poor thing; is she? Oh! she must keep up her
spirits, while there’s life there’s hope.”
“Sir.”
“I say, my darling, she must not give way. I’ll speak to her a little.
Is not he rather advanced in life?”
“Oh, Lord! no sir. Only two-and-thirty, my mistress tells me?”
“Two-and-thirty! Why I thought he was above sixty.”
“Above sixty! Law! sir. You have a bright fancy. This is the gentleman,
ma’am. Now sir, I’ll just slip aside for a moment, and let you talk to
her.”
“I am grieved, ma’am, that I have not the happiness to make your
acquaintance under happier circumstances.”
“I must confess, sir—though I am ashamed”—
“Never be ashamed, ma’am. Your grief, although, I trust causeless, does
you infinite honor.”
“Upon my soul she is rather pretty,” said the doctor to himself here.
“Well, sir! as I have the most perfect confidence in you, from all I
have heard of you, I trust you will not think me abrupt in saying that
any longer delay here is dangerous.”
“Dangerous! Is he in so critical a state as that then?”
“Critical a state, sir! Why what do you mean?”
“I mean, ma’am, do you think, then, it must be done to-day?”
“Of course I do, sir, and I shall never leave the spot without your
assuring me of it.”
“Oh! in that case make your mind easy. I have the instruments in the
chaise.”
“The instruments in the chaise! Really, sir, if you are not jesting—I
trust you don’t think this is a fitting time for such—I entreat of you
to speak more plainly and intelligibly.”
“Jesting, ma’am! I’m incapable of jesting at such a moment.”
“Ma’am! ma’am! I see one of the rangers, ma’am, at a distance; so don’t
lose a moment, but get into the chaise at once.”
“Well, sir, let us away; for I have now gone too far to retract.”
“Help my mistress into the chaise, sir. Lord! what a man it is.”
A moment more saw the poor doctor seated beside the young lady, while
the postillions plied whip and spur with their best energy; and the
road flew beneath them. Meanwhile the delay caused by this short
dialogue, enabled Mrs. Fitz.’s slower conveyance to come up with the
pursuit, and her chaise had just turned the angle of the road as she
caught a glimpse of a muslin dress stepping into the carriage with her
husband.
There are no words capable of conveying the faintest idea of the
feelings that agitated Mrs. Fitz. at this moment. The fullest
confirmation to her worst fears was before her eyes—just at the very
instant when a doubt was beginning to cross over her mind that it might
have been merely a hoax that was practised on her, and that the worthy
Doctor was innocent and blameless. As for the poor Doctor himself,
there seemed little chance of his being enlightened as to the real
state of matters; for from the moment the young lady had taken her
place in the chaise, she had buried her face in her hands, and sobbed
continually. Meanwhile he concluded that they were approaching the
house by some back entrance, to avoid noise and confusion, and waited,
with due patience, for the journey’s end.
As, however, her grief continued unabated, Fitz. at length began to
think of the many little consolatory acts he had successfully practised
in his professional career, and was just insinuating some very tender
speech on the score of resignation, with his head inclined towards the
weeping lady beside him, when the chaise of Mrs. Fitz. came up
along-side, and the postillions having yielded to the call to halt,
drew suddenly up, displaying to the enraged wife the tableau we have
mentioned.
“So, wretch,” she screamed rather than spoke, “I have detected you at
last.”
“Lord bless me! Why it is my wife.”
“Yes, villain! your injured, much-wronged wife! And you, madam, may I
ask what you have to say for thus eloping with a married man?”
“Shame! My dear Jemima,” said Fitz. “how can you possibly permit your
foolish jealousy so far to blind your reason. Don’t you see I am going
upon a professional call?”
“Oh! you are. Are you? Quite professional, I’ll be bound.”
“Oh, sir! Oh, madam! I beseech you, save me from the anger of my
relatives, and the disgrace of exposure. Pray bring me back at once.”
“Why, my God! ma’am, what do you mean? You are not gone mad, as well as
my wife.”
“Really, Mr. Fitz.” said Mrs. F. “this is carrying the joke too far.
Take your unfortunate victim—as I suppose she is such—home to her
parents, and prepare to accompany me to the barrack; and if there be
law and justice in—”
“Well! may the Lord in his mercy preserve my senses, or you will both
drive me clean mad.”
“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” sobbed the young lady, while Mrs. Fitzgerald
continued to upbraid at the top of her voice, heedless of the
disclaimers and protestations of innocence poured out with the
eloquence of despair, by the poor doctor. Matters were in this state,
when a man dressed in a fustian jacket, like a groom, drove up to the
side of the road, in a tax-cart; he immediately got down, and tearing
open the door of the doctor’s chaise, lifted out the young lady, and
deposited her safely in his own conveyance, merely adding—
“I say, master, you’re in luck this morning, that Mr. William took the
lower road; for if he had come up with you instead of me, he’d blow the
roof off your scull, that’s all.”
While these highly satisfactory words were being addressed to poor
Fitz. Mrs. Fitzgerald had removed from her carriage to that of her
husband, perhaps preferring four horses to two; or perhaps she had
still some unexplained views of the transaction, which might as well be
told on the road homeward.
Whatever might have been the nature of Mrs. F.’s dissertation, nothing
is known. The chaise containing these turtle doves arrived late at
night at Kilkenny, and Fitz. was installed safely in his quarters
before any one knew of his having come back. The following morning he
was reported ill; and for three weeks he was but once seen, and at that
time only at his window, with a flannel night-cap on his head, looking
particularly pale, and rather dark under one eye.
As for Curzon—the last thing known of him that luckless morning, was
his hiring a post-chaise for the Royal Oak, from whence he posted to
Dublin, and hastened on to England. In a few days we learned that the
adjutant had exchanged into a regiment in Canada; and to this hour
there are not three men in the —th who know the real secret of that
morning’s misadventures.