Well, he is gone, and with him go these thoughts.--Shakspeare.
What ho! for England!--Shakspeare.
I have always had an insuperable horror of being placed in what the
vulgar call a predicament. In a predicament I was most certainly placed
at the present moment. A man at my feet in a fit--the cause of it having
very wisely disappeared, devolving upon me the charge of watching,
recovering, and conducting home the afflicted person--made a
concatenation of disagreeable circumstances, as much unsuited to
the temper of Henry Pelham, as his evil fortune could possibly have
contrived.
After a short pause of deliberation, I knocked up the porter, procured
some cold water, and bathed Tyrrell’s temples for several moments before
he recovered. He opened his eyes slowly, and looked carefully round with
a fearful and suspicious glance: “Gone--gone--(he muttered)--ay--what
did he here at such a moment?--vengeance--for what?--I could not
tell--it would have killed her--let him thank his own folly. I do not
fear; I defy his malice.” And with these words, Tyrrell sprung to his
feet.
“Can I assist you to your home?” said I; “you are still unwell--pray
suffer me to have that pleasure.”
I spoke with some degree of warmth and sincerity; the unfortunate man
stared wildly at me for a moment, before he replied. “Who,” said he,
at last, “who speaks to me--the lost--the guilty--the ruined, in the
accents of interest and kindness?”
I placed his arm in mine, and drew him out of the yard into the open
street. He looked at me with an eager and wistful survey, and then, by
degrees, appearing to recover his full consciousness of the present, and
recollection of the past, he pressed my hand warmly, and after a short
silence, during which we moved on slowly towards the Tuileries, he
said,--“Pardon me, Sir, if I have not sufficiently thanked you for your
kindness and attention. I am now quite restored; the close room in which
I have been sitting for so many hours, and the feverish excitement of
play, acting upon a frame very debilitated by ill health, occasioned my
momentary indisposition. I am now, I repeat, quite recovered, and will
no longer trespass upon your good nature.”
“Really,” said I, “you had better not discard my services yet. Do suffer
me to accompany you home?”
“Home!” muttered Tyrrell, with a deep sigh; “no--no!” and then, as if
recollecting himself, he said, “I thank you, Sir, but--but--” I saw his
embarrassment, and interrupted him.
“Well, if I cannot assist you any further, I will take your dismissal. I
trust we shall meet again under auspices better calculated for improving
acquaintance.”
Tyrrell bowed, once more pressed my hand, and we parted. I hurried on up
the long street towards my hotel.
When I had got several paces beyond Tyrrell, I turned back to look at
him. He was standing in the same place in which I had left him. I saw
by the moonlight that this face and hands were raised towards Heaven. It
was but for a moment: his attitude changed while I was yet looking, and
he slowly and calmly continued his way in the same direction as myself.
When I reached my chambers, I hastened immediately to bed, but not to
sleep: the extraordinary scene I had witnessed; the dark and ferocious
expression of Glanville’s countenance, so strongly impressed with every
withering and deadly passion; the fearful and unaccountable remembrance
that had seemed to gather over the livid and varying face of the
gamester; the mystery of Glanville’s disguise; the intensity of a
revenge so terribly expressed, together with the restless and burning
anxiety I felt--not from idle curiosity, but, from my early and intimate
friendship for Glanville, to fathom its cause--all crowded upon my mind
with a feverish confusion, that effectually banished repose.
It was with that singular sensation of pleasure which none but those
who have passed frequent nights in restless and painful agitation, can
recognize, that I saw the bright sun penetrate through my shutters, and
heard Bedos move across my room.
“What hour will Monsieur have the post horses?” said that praiseworthy
valet.
“At eleven,” answered I, springing out of bed with joy at the change of
scene which the very mention of my journey brought before my mind.
I was a luxurious personage in those days. I had had a bath made from
my own design; across it were constructed two small frames--one for the
journal of the day, and another to hold my breakfast apparatus; in this
manner I was accustomed to lie for about an hour, engaging the triple
happiness of reading, feeding, and bathing. Owing to some unaccountable
delay, Galignani’s Messenger did not arrive at the usual hour, on
the morning of my departure; to finish breakfast, or bathing, without
Galignani’s Messenger, was perfectly impossible, so I remained, till I
was half boiled, in a state of the most indolent imbecility.
At last it came: the first paragraph that struck my eyes was the
following:--“It is rumoured among the circles of the Faubourg, that a
duel was fought on--, between a young Englishman and Monsieur D--;
the cause of it is said to be the pretensions of both to the beautiful
Duchesse de P--, who, if report be true, cares for neither of the
gallants, but lavishes her favours upon a certain attache to the English
embassy.”
“Such,” thought I, “are the materials for all human histories. Every one
who reads, will eagerly swallow this account as true: if an author were
writing the memoirs of the court, he would compile his facts and scandal
from this very collection of records; and yet, though so near the truth,
how totally false it is! Thank Heaven, however, that, at least, I am not
suspected of the degradation of the duchesse’s love:--to fight for
her may make me seem a fool--to be loved by her would constitute me a
villain.”
The next passage in that collection of scandal which struck me was--“We
understand that E. W. Howard de Howard, Esq., Secretary, is shortly to
lead to the hymeneal altar the daughter of Timothy Tomkins, Esq., late
Consul of--.” I quite started out of my bath with delight. I scarcely
suffered myself to be dried and perfumed, before I sat down to write the
following congratulatory epistle to the thin man:--
“My dear Mr. Howard de Howard,
“Permit me, before I leave Paris, to compliment you upon that happiness
which I have just learnt is in store for you. Marriage to a man like
you, who has survived the vanities of the world--who has attained that
prudent age when the passions are calmed into reason, and the purer
refinements of friendship succeed to the turbulent delirium of the
senses--marriage, my dear Mr. Howard, to a man like you, must, indeed,
be a most delicious Utopia. After all the mortifications you may meet
elsewhere, whether from malicious females, or a misjudging world, what
happiness to turn to one being to whom your praise is an honour, and
your indignation of consequence!
“But if marriage itself be so desirable, what words shall I use
sufficiently expressive of my congratulation at the particular match you
have chosen, so suitable in birth and station? I can fancy you, my dear
Sir, in your dignified retirement, expatiating to your admiring bride
upon all the honours of your illustrious line, and receiving from her,
in return, a full detail of all the civic glories that have ever graced
the lineage of the Tomkins’s. As the young lady is, I suppose, an
heiress, I conclude you will take her name, instead of changing it. Mr.
Howard de Howard de Tomkins, will sound peculiarly majestic; and when
you come to the titles and possessions of your ancestors, I am persuaded
that you will continue to consider your alliance with the honest
citizens of London among your proudest distinctions.
“Should you have any commands in England, a letter directed to me in
Grosvenor-square will be sure to find me; and you may rely upon my
immediately spreading among our mutual acquaintance in London, the happy
measure you are about to adopt, and my opinions on its propriety.
“Adieu, my dear Sir,
“With the greatest respect and truth,
“Yours,
“H. Pelham.”
“There,” said I, as I sealed my letter, “I have discharged some part of
that debt I owe to Mr. Howard de Howard, for an enmity towards me, which
he has never affected to conceal. He prides himself on his youth--my
allusions to his age will delight him! On the importance of his good
or evil opinion--I have flattered him to a wonder! Of a surety, Henry
Pelham, I could not have supposed you were such an adept in the art of
panegyric.”
“The horses, Sir!” said Bedos; and “the bill, Sir?” said the garcon.
Alas! that those and that should be so coupled together; and that we can
never take our departure without such awful witnesses of our sojourn.
Well--to be brief--the bill for once was discharged--the horses
snorted--the carriage door was opened--I entered--Bedos mounted
behind--crack went the whips--off went the steeds, and so terminated my
adventures at dear Paris.