THE JOURNEY.
[Illustration: The Passport Office]
When I did at last venture upon deck, it was with a costume studiously
accurate, and as much of manner as I could possibly muster, to
endeavour at once to erase the unfortunate impression of my first
appearance; this, however, was not destined to be a perfectly
successful manoeuvre, and I was obliged after a few minutes to join the
laugh, which I found could not be repressed, at my expense. One good
result certainly followed from all this. I became almost immediately on
intimate terms with Mrs. Bingham and her daughter, and much of the
awkwardness in my position as their chaperon, which bon gre, mal gre I
was destined to be, was at once got over. Mrs. Bingham herself was of
that “genre” of widow which comes under the “fat, fair, and forty”
category, with a never-ceasing flow of high, almost boisterous,
spirits—an excellent temper, good health—and a well-stocked purse. Life
to her was like a game of her favourite “speculation.” When, as she
believed, the “company honest,” and knew her cards trumps, she was
tolerably easy for the result. She liked Kingstown—she liked short
whist—she liked the military—she liked “the junior bar,” of which she
knew a good number—she had a well furnished house in Kildare-street—and
a well cushioned pew in St. Anne’s—she was a favourite at the
castle—and Dr. Labatt “knew her constitution.” Why, with all these
advantages, she should ever have thought of leaving the “happy valley”
of her native city, it was somewhat hard to guess. Was it that thoughts
of matrimony, which the continent held out more prospect for, had
invaded the fair widow’s heart? was it that the altered condition to
which politics had greatly reduced Dublin, had effected this change of
opinion? or was it like that indescribable longing for the unknown
something, which we read of in the pathetic history of the fair lady
celebrated, I believe, by Petrarch, but I quote from memory:
“Mrs. Gill is very ill,
Nothing can improve her,
But to see the Tuillerie,
And waddle through the Louvre.”
None of these, I believe, however good and valid reasons in themselves,
were the moving powers upon the present occasion; the all-sufficient
one being that Mrs. Bingham had a daughter. Now Miss Bingham was Dublin
too—but Dublin of a later edition—and a finer, more hot-pressed copy
than her mamma. She had been educated at Mrs. Somebody’s seminary in
Mountjoy-square—had been taught to dance by Montague—and had learned
French from a Swiss governess—with a number of similar advantages—a
very pretty figure—dark eyes—long eye-lashes and a dimple—and last, but
of course least, the deserved reputation of a large fortune. She had
made a most successful debut in the Dublin world, where she was much
admired and flattered, and which soon suggested to her quick mind, as
it has often done in similar cases to a young provincial debutante, not
to waste her “fraicheur” upon the minor theatres, but at once to appear
upon the “great boards;” so far evidencing a higher flight of
imagination and enterprise than is usually found among the clique of
her early associates, who may be characterized as that school of young
ladies, who like the “Corsair” and Dunleary, and say, “ah don’t!”
She possessed much more common sense than her mamma, and promised under
proper advantages to become speedily quite sufficiently acquainted with
the world and its habitudes. In the meanwhile, I perceived that she ran
a very considerable risque of being carried off by some mustachoed
Pole, with a name like a sneeze, who might pretend to enjoy the entree
into the fashionable circles of the continent.
Very little study of my two fair friends enabled me to see thus much;
and very little “usage” sufficed to render me speedily intimate with
both; the easy bonhommie of the mamma, who had a very methodistical
appreciation of what the “connexion” call “creature comforts,” amused
me much, and opened one ready path to her good graces by the
opportunity afforded of getting up a luncheon of veal cutlets and
London porter, of which I partook, not a little to the evident loss of
the fair daughter’s esteem.
While, therefore, I made the tour of the steward’s cell in search of
Harvey’s sauce, I brushed up my memory of the Corsair and Childe
Harold, and alternately discussed Stilton and Southey, Lover and
lobsters, Haynes Bayley and ham.
The day happened to be particularly calm and delightful, so that we
never left the deck; and the six hours which brought us from land to
land, quickly passed over in this manner; and ere we reached “the
Head,” I had become the warm friend and legal adviser of the mother;
and with the daughter I was installed as chief confidant of all her
griefs and sorrows, both of which appointments cost me a solemn promise
to take care of them till their arrival in Paris, where they had many
friends and acquaintances awaiting them. Here, then, as usual, was the
invincible facility with which I gave myself up to any one who took the
trouble to influence me. One thing, nevertheless, I was determined on,
to let no circumstance defer my arrival at Paris a day later than was
possible: therefore, though my office as chaperon might diminish my
comforts en route, it should not interfere with the object before me.
Had my mind not been so completely engaged with my own immediate
prospects, when hope suddenly and unexpectedly revived, had become so
tinged with fears and doubts as to be almost torture, I must have been
much amused with my present position, as I found myself seated with my
two fair friends, rolling along through Wales in their comfortable
travelling carriage—giving all the orders at the different
hotels—seeing after the luggage—and acting en maitre in every respect.
The good widow enjoyed particularly the difficulty which my precise
position, with regard to her and her daughter, threw the different
innkeepers on the road into, sometimes supposing me to be her husband,
sometimes her son, and once her son-in-law; which very alarming
conjecture brought a crimson tinge to the fair daughter’s cheek, an
expression, which, in my ignorance, I thought looked very like an
inclination to faint in my arms.
At length we reached London, and having been there safely installed at
“Mivart’s,” I sallied forth to present my letter to the Horse Guards,
and obtain our passport for the continent.
“Number nine, Poland-street, sir” said the waiter, as I inquired the
address of the French Consul. Having discovered that my interview with
the commander-in-chief was appointed for four o’clock, I determined to
lose no time, but make every possible arrangement for leaving London in
the morning.
A cab quietly conveyed me to the door of the Consul, around which stood
several other vehicles, of every shape and fashion, while in the
doorway were to be seen numbers of people, thronging and pressing, like
the Opera pit on a full night. Into the midst of this assemblage I soon
thrust myself, and, borne upon the current, at length reached a small
back parlour, filled also with people; a door opening into another
small room in the front, showed a similar mob there, with the addition
of a small elderly man, in a bag wig and spectacles, very much begrimed
with snuff, and speaking in a very choleric tone to the various
applicants for passports, who, totally ignorant of French, insisted
upon interlarding their demands with an occasional stray phrase, making
a kind of tesselated pavement of tongues, which would have shamed
Babel. Nearest to the table at which the functionary sat, stood a
mustachoed gentleman, in a blue frock and white trowsers, a white hat
jauntily set upon one side of his head, and primrose gloves. He cast a
momentary glance of a very undervaluing import upon the crowd around
him, and then, turning to the Consul, said in a very soprano tone—
“Passport, monsieur!”
“Que voulez vous que je fasse,” replied the old Frenchman, gruffly.
“Je suis j’ai—that is, donnez moi passport.”
“Where do you go?” replied the Consul.
“Calai.”
“Comment diable, speak Inglis, an I understan’ you as besser. Your
name?”
“Lorraine Snaggs, gentilhomme.”
“What age have you?—how old?”
“Twenty-two.”
“C’est ca,” said the old consul, flinging the passport across the
table, with the air of a man who thoroughly comprehended the
applicant’s pretension to the designation of gentilhomme Anglais.
“Will you be seated ma’mselle?” said the polite old Frenchman, who had
hitherto been more like a bear than a human being—“Ou allez vous donc;
where to, ma chere?”
“To Paris, sir.”
“By Calais?”
“No, sir; by Boulogne”—
“C’est bon; quel age avez vous. What old, ma belle?”
“Nineteen, sir, in June.”
“And are you alone, quite, eh?”
“No, sir, my little girl.”
“Ah! your leetel girl—c’est fort bien—je m’appercois; and your name?”
“Fanny Linwood, sir.”
“C’est fini, ma chere, Mademoiselle Fanni Linwood,” said the old man,
as he wrote down the name.
“Oh, sir, I beg your pardon, but you have put me down Mademoiselle,
and—and—you see, sir, I have my little girl.”
“A c’est egal, mam’selle, they don’t mind these things in France—au
plaisir de vous voir. Adieu.”
“They don’t mind these things in France,” said I to myself, repeating
the old consul’s phrase, which I could not help feeling as a whole
chapter on his nation.
My business was soon settled, for I spoke nothing but English—very
little knowledge of the world teaching me that when we have any favour,
however slight, to ask, it is always good policy to make the amende by
gratifying the amour propre of the granter—if, happily, there be an
opportunity for so doing.
When I returned to Mivart’s, I found a written answer to my letter of
the morning, stating that his lordship of the Horse Guards was leaving
town that afternoon, but would not delay my departure for the
continent, to visit which a four month’s leave was granted me, with a
recommendation to study at Weimar.
The next day brought us to Dover, in time to stroll about the cliffs
during the evening, when I again talked sentiment with the daughter
till very late. The Madame herself was too tired to come out, so that
we had our walk quite alone. It is strange enough how quickly this
travelling together has shaken us into intimacy. Isabella says she
feels as if I were her brother; and I begin to think myself she is not
exactly like a sister. She has a marvellously pretty foot and ancle.
The climbing of cliffs is a very dangerous pastime. How true the French
adage—“C’est plus facile de glisser sur la gazon que sur la glace.” But
still nothing can come of it; for if Lady Jane be not false, I must
consider myself an engaged man.
“Well, but I hope,” said I, rousing myself from a reverie of some
minutes, and inadvertently pressing the arm which leaned upon me—“your
mamma will not be alarmed at our long absence?”
“Oh! not in the least; for she knows I’m with you.”
And here I felt a return of the pressure—perhaps also inadvertently
given, but which, whether or not, effectually set all my reasonings and
calculations astray; and we returned to the hotel, silent on both
sides.
The appearance of la chere mamma beside the hissing tea-urn brought us
both back to ourselves; and, after an hour’s chatting, we wished good
night, to start on the morrow for the continent.