Many were the ludicrous incidents we encountered on our journey to
London. As long as I live, I shall never forget John Paul's alighting
upon the bridge of the Sark to rid himself of a mighty farewell address
to Scotland he had been composing upon the road. And this he delivered
with such appalling voice and gesture as to frighten to a standstill a
chaise on the English side of the stream, containing a young gentleman
in a scarlet coat and a laced hat, and a young lady who sobbed as we
passed them. They were, no doubt, running to Gretna Green to be married.
Captain Paul, as I have said, was a man of moods, and strangely affected
by ridicule. And this we had in plenty upon the road. Landlords, grooms,
and'ostlers, and even our own post-boys, laughed and jested coarsely
at his sky-blue frock, and their sallies angered him beyond all reason,
while they afforded me so great an amusement that more than once I was
on the edge of a serious falling-out with him as a consequence of my
merriment. Usually, when we alighted from our vehicle, the expression
of mine host would sour, and his sir would shift to a master; while his
servants would go trooping in again, with many a coarse fling that they
would get no vails from such as we. And once we were invited into the
kitchen. He would be soar for half a day at a spell after a piece of
insolence out of the common, and then deliver me a solemn lecture upon
the advantages of birth in a manor. Then his natural buoyancy would
lift him again, and he would be in childish ecstasies at the prospect of
getting to London, and seeing the great world; and I began to think that
he secretly cherished the hope of meeting some of its votaries. For
I had told him, casually as possible, that I had friends in Arlington
Street, where I remembered the Manners were established.
“Arlington Street!” he repeated, rolling the words over his tongue; “it
has a fine sound, laddie, a fine sound. That street must be the very
acme of fashion.”
I laughed, and replied that I did not know. And at the ordinary of the
next inn we came to, he took occasion to mention to me, in a louder
voice than was necessary, that I would do well to call in Arlington
Street as we went into town. So far as I could see, the remark did not
compel any increase of respect from our fellow-diners.
Upon more than one point I was worried. Often and often I reflected that
some hitch might occur to prevent my getting money promptly from Mr.
Dix. Days would perchance elapse before I could find the man in such
a great city as London; he might be out of town at this season, Easter
being less than a se'nnight away. For I had heard my grandfather say
that the elder Mr. Dix had a house in some merchant's suburb, and loved
to play at being a squire before he died. Again (my heart stood at
the thought), the Manners might be gone back to America. I cursed the
stubborn pride which had led the captain to hire a post-chaise, when
the wagon had served us so much better, and besides relieved him of
the fusillade of ridicule he got travelling as a gentleman. But such
reflections always ended in my upbraiding myself for blaming him whose
generosity had rescued me from perhaps a life-long misery.
But, on the whole, we rolled southward happily, between high walls and
hedges, past trim gardens and fields and meadows, and I marvelled at
the regular, park-like look of the country, as though stamped from one
design continually recurring, like our butter at Carvel Hall. The roads
were sometimes good, and sometimes as execrable as a colonial byway in
winter, with mud up to the axles. And yet, my heart went out to this
country, the home of my ancestors. Spring was at hand; the ploughboys
whistled between the furrows, the larks circled overhead, and the lilacs
were cautiously pushing forth their noses. The air was heavy with the
perfume of living things.
The welcome we got at our various stopping-places was often scanty
indeed, and more than once we were told to go farther down the street,
that the inn was full. And I may as well confess that my mind was
troubled about John Paul. Despite all I could say, he would go to the
best hotels in the larger towns, declaring that there we should meet the
people of fashion. Nor was his eagerness damped when he discovered that
such people never came to the ordinary, but were served in their own
rooms by their own servants.
“I shall know them yet,” he would vow, as we started off of a morning,
after having seen no more of my Lord than his liveries below stairs. “Am
I not a gentleman in all but birth, Richard? And that is a difficulty
many before me have overcome. I have the classics, and the history, and
the poets. And the French language, though I have never made the grand
tour. I flatter myself that my tone might be worse. By the help of your
friends, I shall have a title or two for acquaintances before I leave
London; and when my money is gone, there is a shipowner I know of who
will give me employment, if I have not obtained preferment.”
The desire to meet persons of birth was near to a mania with him. And I
had not the courage to dampen his hopes. But, inexperienced as I was,
I knew the kind better than he, and understood that it was easier for
a camel to enter the eye of a needle, than for John Paul to cross the
thresholds of the great houses of London. The way of adventurers is
hard, and he could scarce lay claim then to a better name.
“We shall go to Maryland together, Captain Paul,” I said, “and waste no
time upon London save to see Vauxhall, and the opera, and St. James's
and the Queen's House and the Tower, and Parliament, and perchance
his Majesty himself,” I added, attempting merriment, for the notion
of seeing Dolly only to leave her gave me a pang. And the captain knew
nothing of Dolly.
“So, Richard, you fear I shall disgrace you,” he said reproachfully.
“Know, sir, that I have pride enough and to spare. That I can make
friends without going to Arlington Street.”
I was ready to cry with vexation at this childish speech.
“And a time will come when they shall know me,” he went on. “If they
insult me now they shall pay dearly for it.”
“My dear captain,” I cried; “nobody will insult you, and least of all my
friends, the Manners.” I had my misgivings about little Mr. Marmaduke.
“But we are, neither of us, equipped for a London season. I am but an
unknown provincial, and you--” I paused for words.
For a sudden realization had come upon me that our positions were now
reversed. It seemed strange that I should be interpreting the world to
this man of power.
“And I?” he repeated bitterly.
“You have first to become an admiral,” I replied, with inspiration;
“Drake was once a common seaman.”
He did not answer. But that evening as we came into Windsor, I perceived
that he had not abandoned his intentions. The long light flashed on
the peaceful Thames, and the great, grim castle was gilded all over its
western side.
The captain leaned out of the window.
“Postilion,” he called, “which inn here is most favoured by gentlemen?”
“The Castle,” said the boy, turning in his saddle to grin at me. “But if
I might be so bold as to advise your honour, the 'Swan' is a comfortable
house, and well attended.”
“Know your place, sirrah,” shouted the captain, angrily, “and drive us
to the 'Castle.'”
The boy snapped his whip disdainfully, and presently pulled us up at the
inn, our chaise covered with the mud of three particular showers we had
run through that day. And, as usual, the landlord, thinking he was about
to receive quality, came scraping to the chaise door, only to turn with
a gesture of disgust when he perceived John Paul's sea-boxes tied on
behind, and the costume of that hero, as well as my own.
The captain demanded a room. But mine host had turned his back, when
suddenly a thought must have struck him, for he wheeled again.
“Stay,” he cried, glancing suspiciously at the sky-blue frock; “if you
are Mr. Dyson's courier, I have reserved a suite.”
This same John Paul, who was like iron with mob and mutiny, was pitiably
helpless before such a prop of the aristocracy. He flew into a rage,
and rated the landlord in Scotch and English, and I was fain to put my
tongue in my cheek and turn my back that my laughter might not anger him
the more.
And so I came face to face with another smile, behind a spying-glass,--a
smile so cynical and unpleasant withal that my own was smothered. A
tall and thin gentleman, who had come out of the inn without a hat, was
surveying the dispute with a keen delight. He was past the middle age.
His clothes bore that mark which distinguishes his world from the other,
but his features were so striking as to hold my attention unwittingly.
After a while he withdrew his glass, cast one look at me which might
have meant anything, and spoke up.
“Pray, my good Goble, why all this fol-de-rol about admitting a
gentleman to your house?”
I scarce know which was the more astonished, the landlord, John Paul, or
I. Goble bowed at the speaker.
“A gentleman, your honour!” he gasped. “Your honour is joking again.
Surely this trumpery Scotchman in Jews' finery is no gentleman, nor the
longshore lout he has got with him. They may go to the 'Swan.'”
“Jews' finery!” shouted the captain, with his fingers on his sword.
But the stranger held up a hand deprecatingly.
“'Pon my oath, Goble, I gave you credit for more penetration,” he
drawled; “you may be right about the Scotchman, but your longshore lout
has had both birth and breeding, or I know nothing.”
John Paul, who was in the act of bowing to the speaker, remained
petrified with his hand upon his heart, entirely discomfited. The
landlord forsook him instantly for me, then stole a glance at his guest
to test his seriousness, and looked at my face to see how greatly it
were at variance with my clothes. The temptation to lay hands on the
cringing little toadeater grew too strong for me, and I picked him up
by the scruff of the collar,--he was all skin and bones,--and spun him
round like a corpse upon a gibbet, while he cried mercy in a voice to
wake the dead. The slim gentleman under the sign laughed until he held
his sides, with a heartiness that jarred upon me. It did not seem to fit
him.
“By Hercules and Vulcan,” he cried, when at last I had set the landlord
down, “what an arm and back the lad has! He must have the best in the
house, Goble, and sup with me.”
Goble pulled himself together.
“And he is your honour's friend,” he began, with a scowl.
“Ay, he is my friend, I tell you,” retorted the important personage,
impatiently.
The innkeeper, sulky, half-satisfied, yet fearing to offend, welcomed us
with what grace he could muster, and we were shown to “The Fox and the
Grapes,” a large room in the rear of the house.
John Paul had not spoken since the slim gentleman had drawn the
distinction between us, and I knew that the affront was rankling in his
breast. He cast himself into a chair with such an air of dejection as
made me pity him from my heart. But I had no consolation to offer. His
first words, far from being the torrent of protest I looked for, almost
startled me into laughter.
“He can be nothing less than a duke,” said the captain. “Ah, Richard,
see what it is to be a gentleman!”
“Fiddlesticks! I had rather own your powers than the best title in
England,” I retorted sharply.
He shook his head sorrowfully, which made me wonder the more that a man
of his ability should be unhappy without this one bauble attainment.
“I shall begin to believe the philosophers have the right of it,” he
remarked presently. “Have you ever read anything of Monsieur Rousseau's,
Richard?”
The words were scarce out of his mouth when we heard a loud rap on the
door, which I opened to discover a Swiss fellow in a private livery,
come to say that his master begged the young gentleman would sup with
him. The man stood immovable while he delivered this message, and put an
impudent emphasis upon the gentleman.
“Say to your master, whoever he may be,” I replied, in some heat at
the man's sneer, “that I am travelling with Captain Paul. That any
invitation to me must include him.”
The lackey stood astounded at my answer, as though he had not heard
aright. Then he retired with less assurance than he had come, and John
Paul sprang to his feet and laid his hands upon my shoulders, as was his
wont when affected. He reproached himself for having misjudged me, and
added a deal more that I have forgotten.
“And to think,” he cried, “that you have forgone supping with a nobleman
on my account!”
“Pish, captain, 'tis no great denial. His Lordship--if Lordship he
is--is stranded in an inn, overcome with ennui, and must be amused. That
is all.”
Nevertheless I think the good captain was distinctly disappointed, not
alone because I gave up what in his opinion was a great advantage, but
likewise because I could have regaled him on my return with an account
of the meal. For it must be borne in mind, my dears, that those days
are not these, nor that country this one. And in judging Captain Paul
it must be remembered that rank inspired a vast respect when King George
came to the throne. It can never be said of John Paul that he lacked
either independence or spirit. But a nobleman was a nobleman then.
So when presently the gentleman himself appeared smiling at our door,
which his servant had left open, we both of us rose up in astonishment
and bowed very respectfully, and my face burned at the thought of the
message I had sent him. For, after all, the captain was but twenty-one
and I nineteen, and the distinguished unknown at least fifty. He took a
pinch of snuff and brushed his waistcoat before he spoke.
“Egad,” said he, with good nature, looking up at me, “Mohammed was a
philosopher, and so am I, and come to the mountain. 'Tis worth crossing
an inn in these times to see a young man whose strength has not been
wasted upon foppery. May I ask your name, sir?”
“Richard Carvel,” I answered, much put aback.
“Ah, Carvel,” he repeated; “I know three or four of that name. Perhaps
you are Robert Carvel's son, of Yorkshire. But what the devil do you do
in such clothes? I was resolved to have you though I am forced to take a
dozen watchet-blue mountebanks in the bargain.”
“Sir, I warn you not to insult my friend,” I cried, in a temper again.
“There, there, not so loud, I beg you,” said he, with a gesture. “Hot as
pounded pepper,--but all things are the better for a touch of it. I had
no intention of insulting the worthy man, I give my word. I must have my
joke, sir. No harm meant.” And he nodded at John Paul, who looked as if
he would sink through the floor. “Robert Carvel is as testy as the devil
with the gout, and you are not unlike him in feature.”
“He is no relation of mine,” I replied, undecided whether to laugh or
be angry. And then I added, for I was very young, “I am an American, and
heir to Carvel Hall in Maryland.”
“Lord, lord, I might have known,” exclaimed he. “Once I had the honour
of dining with your Dr. Franklin, from Pennsylvania. He dresses for all
the world like you, only worse, and wears a hat I would not be caught
under at Bagnigge Wells, were I so imprudent as to go there.”
“Dr. Franklin has weightier matters than hats to occupy him, sir,” I
retorted. For I was determined to hold my own.
He made a French gesture, a shrug of his thin shoulders, which caused me
to suspect he was not always so good-natured.
“Dr. Franklin would better have stuck to his newspaper, my young
friend,” said he. “But I like your appearance too well to quarrel with
you, and we'll have no politics before eating. Come, gentlemen, come!
Let us see what Goble has left after his shaking.”
He struck off with something of a painful gait, which he explained was
from the gout. And presently we arrived at his parlour, where supper was
set out for us. I had not tasted its equal since I left Maryland. We sat
down to a capon stuffed with eggs, and dainty sausages, and hot rolls,
such as we had at home; and a wine which had cobwebbed and mellowed
under the Castle Inn for better than twenty years. The personage did not
drink wine. He sent his servant to quarrel with Goble because he had not
been given iced water. While he was tapping on the table I took occasion
to observe him. His was a physiognomy to strike the stranger, not by
reason of its nobility, but because of its oddity. He had a prodigious
length of face, the nose long in proportion, but not prominent. The eyes
were dark, very bright, and wide apart, with little eyebrows dabbed over
them at a slanting angle. The thin-lipped mouth rather pursed up, which
made his smile the contradiction it was. In short, my dears, while I
do not lay claim to the reading of character, it required no great
astuteness to perceive the scholar, the man of the world, and the
ascetic--and all affected. His conversation bore out the summary. It
astonished us. It encircled the earth, embraced history and letters
since the world began. And added to all this, he had a thousand
anecdotes on his tongue's tip. His words he chose with too great a
nicety; his sentences were of a foreign formation, twisted around; and
his stories were illustrated with French gesticulations. He threw in
quotations galore, in Latin, and French, and English, until the captain
began casting me odd, uncomfortable looks, as though he wished himself
well out of the entertainment. Indeed, poor John Paul's perturbation
amused me more than the gentleman's anecdotes. To be ill at ease is
discouraging to any one, but it was peculiarly fatal with the captain.
This arch-aristocrat dazzled him. When he attempted to follow in the
same vein he would get lost. And his really considerable learning
counted for nothing. He reached the height of his mortification when
the slim gentleman dropped his eyelids and began to yawn. I was wickedly
delighted. He could not have been better met. Another such encounter,
and I would warrant the captain's illusions concerning the gentry to go
up in smoke. Then he might come to some notion of his own true powers.
As for me, I enjoyed the supper which our host had insisted upon our
partaking, drank his wine, and paid him very little attention.
“May I make so bold as to ask, sir, whether you are a patron of
literature?” said the captain, at length.
“A very poor patron, my dear man,” was the answer. “Merely a humble
worshipper at the shrine. And I might say that I partake of its benefits
as much as a gentleman may. And yet,” he added, with a laugh and a
cough, “those silly newspapers and magazines insist on calling me a
literary man.”
“And now that you have indulged in a question, and the claret is coming
on,” said he, “perhaps you will tell me something of yourself, Mr.
Carvel, and of your friend, Captain Paul. And how you come to be so far
from home.” And he settled himself comfortably to listen, as a man who
has bought his right to an opera box.
Here was my chance. And I resolved that if I did not further enlighten
John Paul, it would be no fault of mine.
“Sir,” I replied, in as dry a monotone as I could assume, “I was
kidnapped by the connivance of some unscrupulous persons in my colony,
who had designs upon my grandfather's fortune. I was taken abroad in a
slaver and carried down to the Caribbean seas, when I soon discovered
that the captain and his crew were nothing less than pirates. For one
day all hands got into a beastly state of drunkenness, and the captain
raised the skull and cross-bones, which he had handy in his chest. I
was forced to climb the main rigging in order to escape being hacked to
pieces.”
He sat bolt upright, those little eyebrows of his gone up full half an
inch, and he raised his thin hands with an air of incredulity. John Paul
was no less astonished at my little ruse.
“Holy Saint Clement!” exclaimed our host; “pirates! This begins to
have a flavour indeed. And yet you do not seem to be a lad with an
imagination. Egad, Mr. Carvel, I had put you down for one who might say,
with Alceste: 'Etre franc et sincere est mon plus grand talent.' But
pray go on, sir. You have but to call for pen and ink to rival Mr.
Fielding.”
With that I pushed back my chair, got up from the table, and made him a
bow. And the captain, at last seeing my drift, did the same.
“I am not used at home to have my word doubted, sir,” I said. “Sir, your
humble servant. I wish you a very good evening.” He rose precipitately,
crying out from his gout, and laid a hand upon my arm.
“Pray, Mr. Carvel, pray, sir, be seated,” he said, in some agitation.
“Remember that the story is unusual, and that I have never clapped eyes
on you until to-night. Are all young gentlemen from Maryland so fiery?
But I should have known from your face that you are incapable of deceit.
Pray be seated, captain.”
I was persuaded to go on, not a little delighted that I had scored my
point, and broken down his mask of affectation and careless cynicism. I
told my story, leaving out the family history involved, and he listened
with every mark of attention and interest. Indeed, to my surprise, he
began to show some enthusiasm, of which sensation I had not believed him
capable.
“What a find! what a find!” he continued to exclaim, when I had
finished. “And true. You say it is true, Mr. Carvel?”
“Sir!” I replied, “I thought we had thrashed that out.”
“Yes, yes, to be sure. I beg pardon,” said he. And then to his servant:
“Colomb, is my writing-tablet unpacked?”
I was more mystified than ever as to his identity. Was he going to put
the story in a magazine?
After that he seemed plainly anxious to be rid of us. I bade him good
night, and he grasped my hand warmly enough. Then he turned to the
captain in his most condescending manner. But a great change had come
over John Paul. He was ever quick to see and to learn, and I rejoiced
to remark that he did not bow over the hand, as he might have done two
hours since. He was again Captain Paul, the man, who fought his way on
his own merits. He held himself as tho' he was once more pacing the deck
of the John.
The slim gentleman poured the width of a finger of claret in his glass,
soused it with water, and held it up.
“Here's to your future, my good captain,” he said, “and to Mr. Carvel's
safe arrival home again. When you get to town, Mr. Carvel, don't fail to
go to Davenport, who makes clothes for most of us at Almack's, and let
him remodel you. I wish to God he might get hold of your doctor. And put
up at the Star and Garter in Pall Mall: I take it that you have friends
in London.”
I replied that I had. But he did not push the inquiry.
“You should write out this history for your grandchildren, Mr. Carvel,”
he added, as he bade his Swiss light us to our room. “A strange yarn
indeed, captain.”
“And therefore,” said the captain, coolly, “as a stranger give it
welcome.
“'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'”
Had a meteor struck at the gentleman's feet, he could not have been more
taken aback.
“What! What's this?” he cried. “You quote Hamlet! And who the devil are
you, sir, that you know my name?”
“Your name, sir!” exclaims the captain, in astonishment.
“Well, well,” he said, stepping back and eying us closely, “'tis no
matter. Good night, gentlemen, good night.”
And we went to bed with many a laugh over the incident.
“His name must be Horatio. We'll discover it in the morning,” said John
Paul.