WISE RESOLVES.
Musing over this boyish adventure, I fell into a deep slumber, and on
awakening it took me some minutes before I could recall my senses
sufficiently to know where I was. The whole face of things in my room
was completely changed. Flowers had been put in the china vases upon
the tables—two handsome lamps, shaded with gauzes, stood upon the
consoles—illustrated books, prints, and caricatures, were scattered
about. A piano-forte had also, by some witchcraft, insinuated itself
into a recess near the sofa—a handsome little tea service, of old
Dresden china, graced a marquetry table—and a little picquet table
stood most invitingly beside the fire. I had scarcely time to turn my
eyes from one to the other of these new occupants, when I heard the
handle of my door gently turn, as if by some cautious hand, and
immediately closed my eyes and feigned sleep. Through my half-shut lids
I perceived the door opened. After a pause of about a second, the skirt
of a white muslin dress appeared—then a pretty foot stole a little
farther—and at last the slight and graceful figure of Emily Bingham
advanced noiselessly into the room. Fear had rendered her deadly pale;
but the effect of her rich brown hair, braided plainly on either side
of her cheek, suited so well the character of her features, I thought
her far handsomer than ever. She came forward towards the table, and I
now could perceive that she had something in her hand resembling a
letter. This she placed near my hand—so near as almost to touch it. She
leaned over me—I felt her breath upon my brow, but never moved. At this
instant, a tress of her hair, becoming unfastened, fell over upon my
face. She started—the motion threw me off my guard, and I looked up.
She gave a faint, scarce audible shriek, and sank into the chair beside
me. Recovering, however, upon the instant, she grasped the letter she
had just laid down, and, having crushed it between her fingers, threw
it into the fire. This done—as if the effort had been too much for her
strength—she again fell back upon her seat, and looked so pale I almost
thought she had fainted.
Before I had time to speak, she rose once more; and now her face was
bathed in blushes, her eyes swam with rising tears, and her lips
trembled with emotion as she spoke.
“Oh, Mr. Lorrequer, what will you—what can you think of this? If you
but knew—;” and here she faltered and again grew pale, while I with
difficulty rising from the sofa, took her hand, and led her to the
chair beside it.
“And may I not know?” said I; “may I not know, my dear”—I am not sure I
did not say dearest—“Miss Bingham, when, perhaps, the knowledge might
make me the happiest of mortals?”
This was a pretty plunge as a sequel to my late resolutions. She hid
her face between her hands, and sobbed for some seconds.
“At least,” said I, “as that letter was destined for me but a few
moments since, I trust that you will let me hear its contents.”
“Oh no—not now—not now,” said she entreatingly; and, rising at the same
time, she turned to leave the room. I still held her hand, and pressed
it within mine. I thought she returned the pressure. I leaned forward
to catch her eye, when the door was opened hastily, and a most
extraordinary figure presented itself.
It was a short, fat man, with a pair of enormous moustaches, of a fiery
red; huge bushy whiskers of the same colour; a blue frock covered with
braiding, and decorated with several crosses and ribbons; tight
pantaloons and Hessian boots, with long brass spurs. He held a large
gold-headed cane in his hand, and looked about with an expression of
very equivocal drollery, mingled with fear.
“May I ask, sir,” said I, as this individual closed the door behind
him, “may I ask the reason for this intrusion?”
“Oh, upon my conscience, I’ll do—I’m sure to pass muster now,” said the
well-known voice of Mr. O’Leary, whose pleasant features began to
dilate amid the forest of red hair he was disguised in. “But I see you
are engaged,” said he, with a sly look at Miss Bingham, whom he had not
yet recognised; “so I must contrive to hide myself elsewhere, I
suppose.”
“It is Miss Bingham,” said I, “who has been kind enough to come here
with her maid, to bring me some flowers. Pray present my respectful
compliments to Mrs. Bingham, and say how deeply I feel her most kind
attention.”
Emily rose at the instant, and recovering her self-possession at once,
said—
“You forget, Mr. Lorrequer, it is a secret from whom the flowers came;
at least mamma hoped to place them in your vases without you knowing.
So, pray, don’t speak of it—and I’m sure Mr. O’Leary will not tell.”
If Mr. O’Leary heard one word of this artful speech, I know not, but he
certainly paid no attention to it, nor the speaker, who left the room
without his appearing aware of it.
“Now that she is gone—for which heaven be praised,” said I to myself;
“let me see what this fellow can mean.”
As I turned from the door, I could scarcely avoid laughing aloud at the
figure before me. He stood opposite a large mirror, his hat on one side
of his head, one arm in his breast, and the other extended, leaning
upon his stick; a look of as much ferocity as such features could
accomplish had been assumed, and his whole attitude was a kind of
caricature of a melo-dramatic hero in a German drama.
“Why, O’Leary, what is all this?”
“Hush, hush,” said he, in a terrified whisper—“never mention that name
again, till we are over the frontier.”
“But, man, explain—what do you mean?”
“Can’t you guess,” said he drily.
“Impossible; unless the affair at the saloon has induced you to take
this disguise, I cannot conceive the reason.”
“Nothing farther from it, my dear friend; much worse than that.”
“Out with it, then, at once.”
“She’s come—she’s here—in this very house—No. 29, above the entre sol.”
“Who is here, in No. 29, above the entre sol?”
“Who, but Mrs. O’Leary herself. I was near saying bad luck to her.”
“And does she know you are here?”
“That is what I can’t exactly say,” said he, “but she has had the Livre
des Voyageurs brought up to her room, and has been making rather
unpleasant inquiries for the proprietor of certain hieroglyphics
beginning with O, which have given me great alarm—the more, as all the
waiters have been sent for in turn, and subjected to long examination
by her. So I have lost no time, but, under the auspices of your friend
Trevanion, have become the fascinating figure you find me, and am now
Compte O’Lieuki, a Pole of noble family, banished by the Russian
government, with a father in Siberia, and all that; and I hope, by the
end of the week, to be able to cheat at ecarte, and deceive the very
police itself.”
The idea of O’Leary’s assuming such a metamorphosis was too absurd not
to throw me into a hearty fit of laughing, in which the worthy emigre
indulged also.
“But why not leave this at once,” said I, “if you are so much in dread
of a recognition?”
“You forget the trial,” added O’Leary, “I must be here on the 18th or
all my bail is forfeited.”
“True—I had forgot that. Well, now, your plans?”—
“Simply to keep very quiet here till the affair of the tribunal is
over, and then quit France at once. Meanwhile, Trevanion thinks that we
may, by a bold stratagem, send Mrs. O’Leary off on a wrong scent, and
has requested Mrs. Bingham to contrive to make her acquaintance, and
ask her to tea in her room, when she will see me, en Polonais, at a
distance, you know—hear something of my melancholy destiny from
Trevanion—and leave the hotel quite sure she has no claim on me.
Meanwhile, some others of the party are to mention incidentally having
met Mr. O’Leary somewhere, or heard of his decease, or any pleasant
little incident that may occur to them.”
“The plan is excellent,” said I, “for in all probability she may never
come in your way again, if sent off on a good errand this time.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” said O’Leary; “and I am greatly disposed to
let her hear that I’m with Belzoni in Egypt, with an engagement to
spend the Christmas with the Dey of Algiers. That would give her a very
pretty tour for the remainder of the year, and show her the pyramids.
But, tell me fairly, am I a good Pole?”
“Rather short,” said I, “and a little too fat, perhaps.”
“That comes from the dash of Tartar blood, nothing more; and my mother
was a Fin,” said he, “she’ll never ask whether from Carlow or the
Caucasus. How I revel in the thought, that I may smoke in company
without a breach of the unities. But I must go: there is a gentleman
with a quinsey in No. 9, that gives me a lesson in Polish this morning.
So good-by, and don’t forget to be well enough to-night, for you must
be present at my debut.”
O’Leary had scarcely gone, when my thoughts reverted to Emily Bingham.
I was not such a coxcomb as to fancy her in love with me; yet certainly
there was something in the affair which looked not unlike it; and
though, by such a circumstance, every embarrassment which pressed upon
me had become infinitely greater, I could not dissemble from myself a
sense of pleasure at the thought. She was really a very pretty girl,
and improved vastly upon acquaintance. “Le absens ont toujours torts”
is the truest proverb in any language, and I felt it in its fullest
force when Trevanion entered my room.
“Well, Lorrequer,” said he, “your time is certainly not likely to hang
heavily on your hands in Paris, if occupation will prevent it, for I
find you are just now booked for a new scrape.”
“What can you mean?” said I, starting up.
“Why, O’Leary, who has been since your illness, the constant visiter at
the Binghams—dining there every day, and spending his evenings—has just
told me that the mamma is only waiting for the arrival of Sir Guy
Lorrequer in Paris to open the trenches in all form; and from what she
has heard of Sir Guy, she deems it most likely he will give her every
aid and support to making you the husband of the fair Emily.”
“And with good reason, too,” said I; “for if my uncle were only given
to understand that I had once gone far in my attentions, nothing would
induce him to break off the match. He was crossed in love himself when
young, and has made a score of people miserable since, in the
benevolent idea of marrying them against every obstacle.”
“How very smart you have become,” said Trevanion, taking a look round
my room, and surveying in turn each of the new occupants. “You must
certainly reckon upon seeing your fair friend here, or all this
propriete is sadly wasted.”
This was the time to explain all about Miss Bingham’s visit; and I did
so, of course omitting any details which might seem to me needless, or
involving myself in inconsistency.
Trevanion listened patiently to the end—was silent for some
moments—then added—
“And you never saw the letter?”
“Of course not. It was burned before my eyes.”
“I think the affair looks very serious, Lorrequer. You may have won
this girl’s affections. It matters little whether the mamma be a
hacknied match-maker, or the cousin a bullying duellist. If the girl
have a heart, and that you have gained it”—
“Then I must marry, you would say.”
“Exactly so—without the prompting of your worthy uncle, I see no other
course open to you without dishonour. My advice, therefore, is,
ascertain—and that speedily—how far your attentions have been attended
with the success you dread—and then decide at once. Are you able to get
as far as Mrs. Bingham’s room this morning? If so, come along. I shall
take all the frais of la chere mamma off your hands, while you talk to
the daughter; and half-an-hour’s courage and resolution will do it
all.”
Having made the most effective toilet my means would permit, my right
arm in a sling, and my step trembling from weakness, I sallied forth
with Trevanion to make love with as many fears for the result as the
most bashful admirer ever experienced, when pressing his suit upon some
haughty belle—but for a far different reason.