The days of _vis-à-vis_ lined with sky-blue velvet had not come, though,
as any one who is read in the pleasant Antoine Hamilton must know, one
generation was sufficient to produce them. But, had they been in
existence, there were no roads for them to travel upon; for we hear that
just about this time one of the presidents of the Parliament of Paris
lost his life by the great imprudence of travelling in a large heavy
coach over a French country-road.
I was in great hope at this place to be enabled to introduce, for the
gratification of my readers, a solitary horseman. But I am disappointed;
for Edward Langdale, now that I have again to bring him on the scene,
had good Pierrot la Grange with him. And it would never do to have a
solitary horseman two.
It was on a road, then, leading from London into the heart of the
country, that Lord Montagu's page--Lord Montagu's page no longer, for he
had formally resigned his attendance upon that nobleman--rode along, on
a cold, bright, wintry evening, with the renowned Pierrot la Grange,
whose face, by adherence to the total-abstinence system, though much
less brilliant in hue, had become much smoother, plumper, and fairer.
Both he and his master were well armed, as was the custom of the day,
and each was a likely man enough to repel any thing like attack on the
part of others; for be it remarked that Edward Langdale was very much
changed by the passage of twenty months over his head since first we
introduced him to the reader. He was broader, stronger, older, in
appearance; and, though of course there was nothing of the mould of age
about him, yet all the batterings and bruisings he had gone through had
certainly stamped manhood both on his face and form. He had a very
tolerable beard also,--at least as far as mustache and royal were
concerned,--trimmed in that shape which the pencil of Vandyke has
transmitted to us in his portraits of some of the most memorable
characters in modern history. It is probable that he had grown a little
also; for at his age men will grow, notwithstanding all the world will
do to keep them down. He was, in short, somewhat above the middle
height, though not a very tall man,--of that height which is more
serviceable in the field than in the ring.
At the crossing of two roads, one of which ran into Cambridgeshire,
while the other took toward Huntingdon, was a small, low inn: I mean low
in structure, for it was by no means low in character. It was one of the
neatest inns I ever set my eyes on,--for it was standing in my day and
is probably standing still,--with its neat well-whitewashed front, its
carved doorway, its various gables, and its mullioned windows and the
lozenge-shaped panes set in primitive lead. To the right of the inn, as
you looked from the door upon the road, was a very neat farm-yard, half
full of golden straw, with a barn and innumerable chickens,--chanticleers
of all hues and colors, and dame partlets of every breed. Beyond the
barn, at the distance of fifty or sixty yards, ran a beautiful clear
stream, which crossed both the roads very nearly at their bifurcation,
and which, though so shallow as only to wash gently the fetlocks of the
passengers' horses, was, and must be still, renowned for its beautiful
trout, silvery, with gold and crimson spots and the flesh the color of a
blush-rose. On the other side of the stream, about a quarter of a mile
farther up, was a picturesque little mill, with a group of towering
Huntingdon poplars shading it on the east.
Here Edward Langdale drew in his horse, although the sun was not fully
down.
God knows what made him do so, for he had proposed to ride farther: but
there was an aspect of peace and rural beauty and contented happiness
about the whole place which might touch that latent poetry in his
disposition already alluded to. Or it might be that all the fierce
scenes of strife and turmoil and care and danger he had passed through
in the last twenty months had made his heart thirsty for a little calm
repose; and where could he find it so well as there? Expectation,
however, is always destined to be disappointed. This is the great moral
of the fable of life. The people of the house, who had much respect for
a man who came with an armed servant and whose saddle-bags were well
stuffed, gave him a clean, comfortable room looking over the court-yard
to the river, and served him his supper in the chamber underneath.
It was night before he sat down; but, before the fine broiled trout had
disappeared, the sound of several horses' feet was heard from the road,
and then that of voices calling for hostlers and stable-boys.
Edward had easily divined, from his first entrance into the house, that
this which he now occupied was the only comfortable public room in the
inn,--although there was another on the other side of the passage, where
neighboring farmers held their meetings and smoked their pipes. He
expected, therefore, that his calm little supper would be interrupted,
and was not at all surprised to see a gentleman of good mien, a little
below the middle age, followed by two or three attendants, enter the
parlor and throw himself into a chair.
The stranger cast a hasty and careless glance around, and then gave some
directions to one of his followers in the French language. It was not
the sort of half French spoken a good deal in the court of England at
that time, but whole, absolute, perfect French, with French idioms and a
French tongue.
As long as the conversation referred to nothing more than boots and
baggage and supper and good wine, Edward took no notice, but went on
with his meal, anxious to finish it as soon as possible. But soon after,
when the person the stranger had been speaking to had left the room,
that gentleman began a different sort of discourse with another of his
followers, and commented pretty freely, and with some wit, upon the
state of parties at the court of England.
"Your pardon for interrupting you," said Edward at once. "My servant and
myself both understand French; and it would be neither civil nor honest
to overhear your conversation without giving you that warning."
The other thanked him for his courtesy, adding, "You are a Frenchman, of
course?"
"Not so," answered Edward. "I am an Englishman; but I have spent some
time in France."
Next came a great number of those questions which nobody can put so
directly without any lack of politeness as a Frenchman:--how long he had
lived in France; whom he knew there; when he had left it.
Edward answered all very vaguely, for he never had any great relaxation
of tongue; but the stranger caught at the admission that he had been
only a fortnight in England, exclaiming, "Then you must have been in
France when Rochelle surrendered."
"I was," answered the young gentleman: "it is not quite three weeks
since I left that city."
"Ha!" said the stranger, eyeing him from head to foot. "Will you favor
me, sir, by telling me the state of the place and the condition of its
inhabitants? It is a subject in which I take a great interest. Methinks
they surrendered somewhat promptly when succor was so near."
"Not so, sir," replied Edward. "When men have nothing to eat,--when they
have seen their fathers, and their brothers, and their mothers, and
their sisters, die of famine in their streets,--when the very rats and
mice of a city are all consumed, and the wharves have been stripped of
mussels and limpets,--they must either die or surrender. There is no use
of dying; for death is the worst sort of capitulation, and the city
becomes the enemy's without even a parchment promise."
"Ay; and was it really so bad?" said the other.
"More than one-third of the inhabitants had died," said Edward; "another
third were dying; and the rest were so feeble that the walls might be
said to be manned by living corpses."
"You excite my curiosity and my compassion," said the other. "May I ask
if you had any command in Rochelle?"
"None," replied the young gentleman. "By accident I was in it for a day
during the siege, and saw how much they could endure. I was in it also
immediately after the siege, and saw how much they had endured. Though
Rochelle fell at last, her defence is one of the most glorious facts in
French history."
The stranger looked down upon the ground and replied nothing for several
minutes; but his companion with whom he had been conversing familiarly
took up the conversation, and asked after several of the citizens of
Rochelle whom Edward was personally acquainted with or knew by name. The
solemn words, "He is dead", "She is dead", "All the family died by
famine", "He died of the pestilence", were of sad recurrence. "But
then", the stranger remarked, "we know that Guiton is alive; for he
signed the treaty."
"He tried hard to die first," said Edward. "But nothing seemed to break
his iron frame, and the people became clamorous."
"And what became of the good old syndic Tournon?" asked the first
stranger.
"He is alive and well," answered Edward.
"Ah! but he would have been dead and buried," exclaimed Pierrot, who
could refrain no longer, "if it had not been for you, sir."
"Indeed?" said the stranger. "Let me inquire how that happened."
"It matters not, sir," replied Edward, making a sign to Pierrot to hold
his tongue. "What the man says may be partly true, partly mistaken; but,
although I am willing to give any one interested general news, I must
decline referring to matters entirely personal when conversing with
strangers."
"Well, then, let us talk of other subjects," said the first stranger. "I
cannot consent to part with a gentleman lately from my own land, so soon
as that movement of your plate seems to imply. Supper I shall take none;
for the news that has flowed in upon me for the last fortnight, has not
tended to strengthen my appetite. Wine, however,--the resource of the
sad and the sorry,--I must have. They tell me it is good here. Will you
allow me to try some of that which stands at your right hand?"
Edward ordered Pierrot to bring some fresh glasses, and put the bottle
over to his self-invited guest. The stranger drank some, and, saying,
"It is very fair," immediately ordered more to be brought, while
Pierrot, bending over Edward's chair as if to remove the dish before
him, whispered in his ear, "It is the Prince de Soubise."
With all his habitual self-command, Edward could not refrain from a
slight start. The color, too, mounted in his cheek with some feelings of
anger; but he was glad of the warning, and did not suffer what was
passing in his heart to appear. The conversation turned in a different
course from that which it had before assumed, Soubise referring no more
to the subject of Rochelle, though his companion, who seemed a friend of
inferior rank, often turned toward that topic. Whenever he did so, the
prince immediately asked some question as to Edward's knowledge of
France and its inhabitants; and the young gentleman, to say the truth,
took some pleasure, after the first effects of surprise were over, in
puzzling him by his answers. He had passed over so much of France that
his intimate acquaintance with the country excited Soubise's
astonishment; and from localities his questions turned to persons. "As
you have been in Lorraine," he said, "you have probably seen the
beautiful and witty Duchesse de Chevreuse."
"I have the honor of knowing her well," replied Edward.
"Do you know the Duc de Montbazon?" asked the prince.
"Not in the least," replied Edward.
"The Cardinal de Richelieu?" continued Soubise.
"I have seen his Eminence frequently," said the young gentleman, "and
have had audiences of him; but, as to knowing the cardinal, that can be
said but by few, I imagine."
Soubise smiled. "The duchess is more easily known," he answered; "but
the death of her lover Chalais must have affected her much,--poor thing!
Did you ever meet with him?"
"Not exactly," replied Edward, with a slight shudder at the memory. "I
saw his head cut off, but did not know him personally."
The reference caused a momentary pause in the conversation; and then
Soubise said, in an indifferent tone, "As you have been much in that
part of the country, you must have probably seen a Duc de Rohan."
"I had the honor of meeting him once," replied Edward, fully on his
guard.
"He is a relation of mine," said Soubise.
Edward merely bowed his head, and the prince proceeded to ask if there
had been any news of him current when the young gentleman was in France.
"The last I heard of him," said Edward, "was a rumor that, after
menacing the right of the king's army till a party had been sent out to
cut off his retreat, he had, by a skilful night-march through the woods
in the rear, effected his escape and fallen back upon Saintonge."
Soubise seemed desirous of prolonging the conversation; but Edward soon
after retired to his chamber, resolved to be up by sunrise and pursue
his way. His determination was vain, however. Though he was on foot
early, Soubise was up before him; and they met at the door of the inn,
where their horses were already standing. A quiet bow on either part was
their only salutation; and, as there were two roads, Edward would
willingly have seen which the prince selected. As he did not mount,
however, the young gentleman followed the path he had previously
proposed to take,--namely, that toward Huntingdon,--and three or four
minutes after heard the more numerous party of Soubise coming up at good
speed.
"Ah, young gentleman," said the prince, riding up to his side, "so we
are going the same way. Permit me to bear you company."
Edward bowed his head somewhat coldly, for he did not desire the
companionship. He might have learned some policy in the varied life he
had led, and it certainly would have been politic in him to court the
good opinion of the man by his side; but, even had the nature of his
character permitted it, he believed it would be of no use. Generous and
frank, Soubise was known to be somewhat obstinate as well as hasty; and
Edward thought, "I would rather win her in spite of him than by his
aid."
Their journey, therefore, did not promise to be very agreeable; and,
when the prince demanded which way his course ultimately lay, the young
gentleman replied, "I go toward Huntingdon, sir; but, if that is the
direction of your journey, I shall have to leave you before we reach the
town, for I have to turn off the highroad some miles on this side of
Buckden."
"And so have I," said Soubise; "but we may as well make the way pleasant
by each other's society as long as our roads lie together. Do you know
this country as well as you know France?"
"This part of the country," replied Edward; "for I was born and brought
up not many miles from where we are now riding."
"Indeed!" said the prince. "I should have thought by your speech you had
passed the greater part of your life in my own land. Do you know what
that little river is just before us?"
"It is the Ivil," answered Edward, "which runs into the Ouse lower
down."
"The Ouse!" said Soubise. "I do not know much English, but that seems to
me an ugly name. If I recollect, Ouse means mud,--slime."
"We are a plain-spoken people," answered the young man, "and usually
give things the name we think they deserve. The Ouse in many places is a
sluggish, muddy stream; and our good ancestors applied the name they
judged most appropriate."
"'Tis as well they do," said Soubise, with a sigh. "We in France have a
different habit. Our more excitable imaginations take fire at a name,
and we are apt to decorate very plain things with fanciful appellations;
but this leads to frequent disappointment. Which is the happiest people
must depend upon whether it is best in a hard world to see things as
they are, or to see them as we would have them."
"We are often forced to see them as they are," replied Edward; "and if
we always did so there would be no disappointments."
"Nor much happiness," said Soubise.
Thus conversing, they rode on. But we must pass lightly over the talk
with which they enlivened the way, merely observing that Lucette's
cousin rose not inconsiderably in Edward's opinion as they went. Nay,
more: his manners were so graceful, his thoughts so just, his
conversation so varied, that the young Englishman could not but feel
pleased with his company and inclined to like himself. Still, in the
true English spirit, he said, in his own heart, "Oh, yes, he is very
charming now he is in a good humor. The devil is so when he is pleased;
but methinks I could conjure forth the horns and hoofs if I were but to
tell him who I am."
At length the scenes through which they passed became painfully familiar
to Edward's eye,--spots he had known well, cottages he had visited,
houses belonging to old friends of his family. The very trees and shrubs
and little water-courses seemed like old acquaintances calling back
times past and appealing to regret. He grew grave and cold. The chilly
feeling which had first fallen upon him not many years before, but which
had somewhat passed away during the last few months, returned, and many
memories, as ever, brought their long train of sorrows with them.
Not far from Little Barford, a fine sloping lawn came down to the
road-side, separated from the highway merely by a thick, well-trimmed
hedge broken by some fine groups of trees; and, looking up, a large
square house with many windows, and a trim garden terraced and
ornamented with urns and statues, could be seen at the distance of a
quarter of a mile. There were several men in the grounds engaged in
various country-employments, and Edward said, within himself, "He is
taking care of the place, at all events."
At the same moment Soubise observed, "That is a fine chateau! Do you
know to whom it belongs, and what it is called? It is so long since I
was in this part of England that I forget the places."
"That is called Buckley Hall," replied Edward. "It belongs to Sir
Richard Langdale."
"How is that?" said Soubise, suddenly, as if something surprised him.
But Edward did not answer, and the prince merely said, "Let us pull up
for an instant and look at it."
It was torture to Edward to stay; but he paused for a moment, and then
said, "I fear I must go on, for I have still some distance to ride. My
road, too, lies here to the left."
"Ay?" said Soubise; "so does mine. Let us go on."
"Are you sure you are right?" asked Edward Langdale. "Huntingdon is
straight before you."
"Oh, I am right," answered the prince: "I turn just beyond Buckley."
Edward had nothing more to say; but he could not help beginning to think
that his adventure with the two blacksmiths seemed likely to come over
again. Somewhat quickening their pace, they rode on, and Edward made an
effort to cast off the melancholy mood which had fallen upon him, and
even the impression which the unsought society of a man who had spoken
of him in such insulting terms had produced at first, and the
conversation between him and Soubise became lively and cheerful. Mile
after mile passed; and at length, after proceeding for more than an hour
and a half, on a little bank by the side of the river appeared an old
church with its gray ivy-clad tower and groups of yews in the
churchyard. Beyond, at the distance of some two or three hundred yards,
was one of those fine antique houses, built of stone, which were erected
in the end of Elizabeth's reign and in the earlier part of that of the
most pompous and conceited of kings. Thick walls, small square windows,
little useless towers, and somewhat peaked roofs, spoke a good deal of
King James. But the lawn, as soft as velvet, the groups of shrubs, and
the garden, well trimmed and swept even in the winter-time, told a tale
of more modern taste.
"I fear I shall have to quit you here, sir," said Edward, as they
approached the gate with its two massy stone pillars and large balls at
the top. "This is the end of my journey."
"What is the name of this place?" asked Soubise.
"Applethorpe," answered Edward,--"the residence of Dr. Winthorne."
"Ha?" said Soubise; "then we shall not part so soon. This is the end of
my journey also."
Edward could not refrain from turning round and gazing in his face with
a look of most profound surprise; but the prince made no further remark,
and, after pulling in their horses while one of the servants dismounted
and opened the gates they rode up to the large arched door of the
house. A heavy bell hanging outside soon brought forth an old domestic,
dressed in dark gray, who gazed earnestly first at Soubise and then at
Edward, both of whom had sprung to the ground while he was opening the
door. At first he evidently recognised neither; but a moment after the
light of honest satisfaction brightened his countenance, and, holding
forth his hand to Edward, he exclaimed, "Oh, Master Ned, how glad I am
to see you, and how glad the doctor will be! He has been looking for you
for months. But he is not at home now, and may not come back for an
hour. But come in; come in. Every thing is ready for you. Your old room
is just as you left it,--not a book moved, nor a gun, nor a fishing-rod:
only when I went in to-day to dust the things, I saw the ink had dried
up in the horn, and was going to put in fresh this very day."
Edward shook the old man warmly by the hand; and, turning to the Prince
de Soubise, he said, "If I understood you right, sir, you came to visit
Dr. Winthorne. He is out, the servant says; but I have interest enough
in this house to invite you to enter till his return. He will be back in
an hour, and happy, I am sure, to entertain you. But, knowing my old
preceptor's habits well, allow me to hint that it will be necessary to
send your attendants into the village, as I shall send my servant; for,
being a clergyman, he objects to have in his house what he calls
'swash-buckler serving-men;' and his rule apply to all, however high the
quality of his guests."
Soubise smiled; and, ushering him into the library, Edward proceeded,
amidst the somewhat garrulous joy of the old footman, to direct Pierrot
to take the other men down to the village inn, to tell the host there to
attend on them well, "for Master Ned's sake," and then to return as soon
as might be with his saddle-bags.
The prince merely ordered his baggage to be brought up, directing his
men to take care of themselves, and seeming fully satisfied that he
would be a welcome guest. He took some books from the shelves of the
library, examined them cursorily, and put them back, saying, "The good
doctor seems to have improved much in worldly matters. He has attained,
apparently, the state he always desired,--competency, and enough to
have a good library. Can any one imagine a man more happy?"
"Perhaps not," said Edward, gravely. "I believe circumscribed desires
and moderate fortunes attain the height of human felicity."
"Not so," said Soubise. "I believe every human life must be looked at as
an aggregate; and skilful would be the calculator who could reduce to an
exact sum how much joy and how much sorrow are required to equivale a
given portion of calm and unimpassioned existence. All these things are
as the individual views them. We have nothing in this life by which to
measure the real value of any object but our own tastes. You may like a
pearl better than a diamond; I may esteem the flashing lustre of the one
more than the calm serenity of the other. That man is only happy who
obtains what he really desires. But here come our men, I see, with the
baggage."