under such circumstances? Mr. Damer was a man who, in most matters, had
his own way. That his wife should have given such an invitation without
consulting him, was, he knew, quite impossible. She would as soon have
thought of asking all those Arab guides to accompany them. Nor was it to
be thought of that he should allow himself to be kidnapped into such an
arrangement by the impudence of any Miss Dawkins. But there was, he
felt, a difficulty in answering such a proposition from a young lady
with a direct negative, especially while he was so scant of breath. So
he wiped his brow again, and looked at her.
“But I can only agree to this on one understanding,” continued Miss
Dawkins, “and that is, that I am allowed to defray my own full share of
the expense of the journey.”
Upon hearing this Mr. Damer thought that he saw his way out of the wood.
“Wherever I go, Miss Dawkins, I am always the paymaster myself,” and
this he contrived to say with some sternness, palpitating though he
still was; and the sternness which was deficient in his voice he
endeavoured to put into his countenance.
But he did not know Miss Dawkins. “Oh, Mr. Damer,” she said, and as she
spoke her smile became almost blander than it was before; “oh, Mr.
Damer, I could not think of suffering you to be so liberal; I could not,
indeed. But I shall be quite content that you should pay everything, and
let me settle with you in one sum afterwards.”
Mr. Damer’s breath was now rather more under his own command. “I am
afraid, Miss Dawkins,” he said, “that Mrs. Damer’s weak state of health
will not admit of such an arrangement.”
“What, about the paying?”
“Not only as to that, but we are a family party, Miss Dawkins; and great
as would be the benefit of your society to all of us, in Mrs. Damer’s
present state of health, I am afraid--in short, you would not find it
agreeable.--And therefore--” this he added, seeing that she was still
about to persevere--“I fear that we must forego the advantage you
offer.”
And then, looking into his face, Miss Dawkins did perceive that even her
audacity would not prevail.
“Oh, very well,” she said, and moving from the stone on which she had
been sitting, she walked off, carrying her head very high, to a corner
of the Pyramid from which she could look forth alone towards the sands
of Libya.
In the mean time another little overture was being made on the top of
the same Pyramid,--an overture which was not received quite in the same
spirit. While Mr. Damer was recovering his breath for the sake of
answering Miss Dawkins, Miss Damer had walked to the further corner of
the square platform on which they were placed, and there sat herself
down with her face turned towards Cairo. Perhaps it was not singular
that Mr. Ingram should have followed her.
This would have been very well if a dozen Arabs had not also followed
them. But as this was the case, Mr. Ingram had to play his game under
some difficulty. He had no sooner seated himself beside her than they
came and stood directly in front of the seat, shutting out the view, and
by no means improving the fragrance of the air around them.
“And this, then, Miss Damer, will be our last excursion together,” he
said, in his tenderest, softest tone.
“De good Englishman will gib de poor Arab one little backsheish,” said
an Arab, putting out his hand and shaking Mr. Ingram’s shoulder.
“Yes, yes, yes; him gib backsheish,” said another.
“Him berry good man,” said a third, putting up his filthy hand, and
touching Mr. Ingram’s face.
“And young lady berry good, too; she give backsheish to poor Arab.”
“Yes,” said a fourth, preparing to take a similar liberty with Miss
Damer.
This was too much for Mr. Ingram. He had already used very positive
language in his endeavour to assure his tormentors that they would not
get a piastre from him. But this only changed their soft persuasions
into threats. Upon hearing which, and upon seeing what the man attempted
to do in his endeavour to get money from Miss Damer, he raised his
stick, and struck first one and then the other as violently as he could
upon their heads.
Any ordinary civilised men would have been stunned by such blows, for
they fell on the bare foreheads of the Arabs; but the objects of the
American’s wrath merely skulked away; and the others, convinced by the
only arguments which they understood, followed in pursuit of victims who
might be less pugnacious.
It is hard for a man to be at once tender and pugnacious--to be
sentimental, while he is putting forth his physical strength with all
the violence in his power. It is difficult, also, for him to be gentle
instantly after having been in a rage. So he changed his tactics at the
moment, and came to the point at once in a manner befitting his present
state of mind.
“Those vile wretches have put me in such a heat,” he said, “that I
hardly know what I am saying. But the fact is this, Miss Damer, I cannot
leave Cairo without knowing----. You understand what I mean, Miss
Damer.”
“Indeed I do not, Mr. Ingram; except that I am afraid you mean
nonsense.”
“Yes, you do; you know that I love you. I am sure you must know it. At
any rate you know it now.”
“Mr. Ingram, you should not talk in such a way.”
“Why should I not? But the truth is, Fanny, I can talk in no other way.
I do love you dearly. Can you love me well enough to go and be my wife
in a country far away from your own?”
Before she left the top of the Pyramid Fanny Damer had said that she
would try.
Mr. Ingram was now a proud and happy man, and seemed to think the steps
of the Pyramid too small for his elastic energy. But Fanny feared that
her troubles were to come. There was papa--that terrible bugbear on all
such occasions. What would papa say? She was sure her papa would not
allow her to marry and go so far away from her own family and country.
For herself, she liked the Americans--always had liked them; so she
said;--would desire nothing better than to live among them. But papa!
And Fanny sighed as she felt that all the recognised miseries of a young
lady in love were about to fall upon her.
Nevertheless, at her lover’s instance, she promised, and declared, in
twenty different loving phrases, that nothing on earth should ever make
her false to her love or to her lover.
“Fanny, where are you? Why are you not ready to come down?” shouted Mr.
Damer, not in the best of tempers. He felt that he had almost been
unkind to an unprotected female, and his heart misgave him. And yet it
would have misgiven him more had he allowed himself to be entrapped by
Miss Dawkins.
“I am quite ready, papa,” said Fanny, running up to him--for it may be
understood that there is quite room enough for a young lady to run on
the top of the Pyramid.
“I am sure I don’t know where you have been all the time,” said Mr.
Damer; “and where are those two boys?”
Fanny pointed to the top of the other Pyramid, and there they were,
conspicuous with their red caps.
“And M. Delabordeau?”
“Oh! he has gone down, I think;--no, he is there with Miss Dawkins.”
And in truth Miss Dawkins was leaning on his arm most affectionately, as
she stooped over and looked down upon the ruins below her.
“And where is that fellow, Ingram?” said Mr. Damer, looking about him.
“He is always out of the way when he’s wanted.”
To this Fanny said nothing. Why should she? She was not Mr. Ingram’s
keeper.
And then they all descended, each again with his proper number of Arabs
to hurry and embarrass him; and they found Mrs. Damer at the bottom,
like a piece of sugar covered with flies. She was heard to declare
afterwards that she would not go to the Pyramids again, not if they were
to be given to her for herself, as ornaments for her garden.
The picnic lunch among the big stones at the foot of the Pyramid was not
a very gay affair. Miss Dawkins talked more than any one else, being
determined to show that she bore her defeat gallantly. Her conversation,
however, was chiefly addressed to M. Delabordeau, and he seemed to think
more of his cold chicken and ham than he did of her wit and attention.
Fanny hardly spoke a word. There was her father before her and she could
not eat, much less talk, as she thought of all that she would have to go
through. What would he say to the idea of having an American for a
son-in-law?
Nor was Mr. Ingram very lively. A young man when he has been just
accepted, never is so. His happiness under the present circumstances
was, no doubt, intense, but it was of a silent nature.
And then the interior of the building had to be visited. To tell the
truth none of the party would have cared to perform this feat had it not
been for the honour of the thing. To have come from Paris, New York, or
London, to the Pyramids, and then not to have visited the very tomb of
Cheops, would have shown on the part of all of them an indifference to
subjects of interest which would have been altogether fatal to their
character as travellers. And so a party for the interior was made up.
Miss Damer when she saw the aperture through which it was expected that
she should descend, at once declared for staying with her mother. Miss
Dawkins, however, was enthusiastic for the journey. “Persons with so
very little command over their nerves might really as well stay at
home,” she said to Mr. Ingram, who glowered at her dreadfully for
expressing such an opinion about his Fanny.
This entrance into the Pyramids is a terrible task, which should be
undertaken by no lady. Those who perform it have to creep down, and then
to be dragged up, through infinite dirt, foul smells, and bad air; and
when they have done it, they see nothing. But they do earn the
gratification of saying that they have been inside a Pyramid.
“Well, I’ve done that once,” said Mr. Damer, coming out, “and I do not
think that any one will catch me doing it again. I never was in such a
filthy place in my life.”
“Oh, Fanny! I am so glad you did not go; I am sure it is not fit for
ladies,” said poor Mrs. Damer, forgetful of her friend Miss Dawkins.
“I should have been ashamed of myself,” said Miss Dawkins, bristling up,
and throwing back her head as she stood, “if I had allowed any
consideration to have prevented my visiting such a spot. If it be not
improper for men to go there, how can it be improper for women?”
“I did not say improper, my dear,” said Mrs. Damer, apologetically.
“And as for the fatigue, what can a woman be worth who is afraid to
encounter as much as I have now gone through for the sake of visiting
the last resting-place of such a king as Cheops?” And Miss Dawkins, as
she pronounced the last words, looked round her with disdain upon poor
Fanny Damer.
“But I meant the dirt,” said Mrs. Damer.
“Dirt!” ejaculated Miss Dawkins, and then walked away. Why should she
now submit her high tone of feeling to the Damers, or why care longer
for their good opinion? Therefore she scattered contempt around her as
she ejaculated the last word, “dirt.”
And then the return home! “I know I shall never get there,” said Mrs.
Damer, looking piteously up into her husband’s face.
“Nonsense, my dear; nonsense; you must get there.” Mrs. Damer groaned,
and acknowledged in her heart that she must,--either dead or alive.
“And, Jefferson,” said Fanny, whispering--for there had been a moment
since their descent in which she had been instructed to call him by his
Christian name--“never mind talking to me going home. I will ride by
mamma. Do you go with papa and put him in good humour; and if he says
anything about the lords and the bishops, don’t you contradict him, you
know.”
What will not a man do for love? Mr. Ingram promised. And in this way
they started; the two boys led the van; then came Mr. Damer and Mr.
Ingram, unusually and unpatriotically acquiescent as to England’s
aristocratic propensities; then Miss Dawkins riding, alas! alone; after
her, M. Delabordeau, also alone,--the ungallant Frenchman! And the rear
was brought up by Mrs. Damer and her daughter, flanked on each side by a
dragoman, with a third dragoman behind them.
And in this order they went back to Cairo, riding their donkeys, and
crossing the ferry solemnly, and, for the most part, silently. Mr.
Ingram did talk, as he had an important object in view,--that of putting
Mr. Damer into a good humour.
In this he succeeded so well that by the time they had remounted, after
crossing the Nile, Mr. Damer opened his heart to his companion on the
subject that was troubling him, and told him all about Miss Dawkins.
“I don’t see why we should have a companion that we don’t like for eight
or ten weeks, merely because it seems rude to refuse a lady.”
“Indeed, I agree with you,” said Mr. Ingram; “I should call it
weak-minded to give way in such a case.”
“My daughter does not like her at all,” continued Mr. Damer.
“Nor would she be a nice companion for Miss Damer; not according to my
way of thinking,” said Mr. Ingram.
“And as to my having asked her, or Mrs. Damer having asked her! Why, God
bless my soul, it is pure invention on the woman’s part!”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Mr. Ingrain; “I must say she plays her game well;
but then she is an old soldier, and has the benefit of experience.” What
would Miss Dawkins have said had she known that Mr. Ingram called her an
old soldier?
“I don’t like the kind of thing at all,” said Mr. Damer, who was very
serious upon the subject. “You see the position in which I am placed. I
am forced to be very rude, or----”
“I don’t call it rude at all.”
“Disobliging, then; or else I must have all my comfort invaded and
pleasure destroyed by, by, by----” And Mr. Damer paused, being at a loss
for an appropriate name for Miss Dawkins.
“By an unprotected female,” suggested Mr. Ingram.
“Yes, just so. I am as fond of pleasant company as anybody; but then I
like to choose it myself.”
“So do I,” said Mr. Ingram, thinking of his own choice.
“Now, Ingram, if you would join us, we should be delighted.”
“Upon my word, sir, the offer is too flattering,” said Ingram,
hesitatingly; for he felt that he could not undertake such a journey
until Mr. Damer knew on what terms he stood with Fanny.
“You are a terrible democrat,” said Mr. Damer, laughing; “but then, on
that matter, you know, we could agree to differ.”
“Exactly so,” said Mr. Ingram, who had not collected his thoughts or
made up his mind as to what he had better say and do, on the spur of the
moment.
“Well, what do you say to it?” said Mr. Damer, encouragingly. But Ingram
paused before he answered.
“For Heaven’s sake, my dear fellow, don’t have the slightest hesitation
in refusing, if you don’t like the plan.”
“The fact is, Mr. Damer, I should like it too well.”
“Like it too well?”
“Yes, sir, and I may as well tell you now as later. I had intended this
evening to have asked for your permission to address your daughter.”
“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Damer, looking as though a totally new
idea had now been opened to him.
“And under these circumstances, I will now wait and see whether or no
you will renew your offer.”
“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Damer, again. It often does strike an old
gentleman as very odd that any man should fall in love with his
daughter, whom he has not ceased to look upon as a child. The case is
generally quite different with mothers. They seem to think that every
young man must fall in love with their girls.
“And have you said anything to Fanny about this?” asked Mr. Damer.
“Yes, sir, I have her permission to speak to you.”
“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Damer; and by this time they had arrived
at Shepheard’s Hotel.
“Oh, mamma,” said Fanny, as soon as she found herself alone with her
mother that evening, “I have something that I must tell you.”
“Oh, Fanny, don’t tell me anything to-night, for I am a great deal too
tired to listen.”
“But oh, mamma, pray;--you must listen to this; indeed you must.” And
Fanny knelt down at her mother’s knee, and looked beseechingly up into
her face.
“What is it, Fanny? You know that all my bones are sore, and I am so
tired that I am almost dead.”
“Mamma, Mr. Ingram has----”
“Has what, my dear? has he done anything wrong?”
“No, mamma: but he has;--he has proposed to me.” And Fanny, bursting
into tears, hid her face in her mother’s lap.
And thus the story was told on both sides of the house. On the next day,
as a matter of course, all the difficulties and dangers of such a
marriage as that which was now projected were insisted on by both father
and mother. It was improper; it would cause a severing of the family not
to be thought of; it would be an alliance of a dangerous nature, and not
at all calculated to insure happiness; and, in short, it was impossible.
On that day, therefore, they all went to bed very unhappy. But on the
next day, as was also a matter of course, seeing that there were no
pecuniary difficulties, the mother and father were talked over, and Mr.
Ingram was accepted as a son-in-law. It need hardly be said that the
offer of a place in Mr. Damer’s boat was again made, and that on this
occasion it was accepted without hesitation.
There was an American Protestant clergyman resident in Cairo, with whom,
among other persons, Miss Dawkins had become acquainted. Upon this
gentleman or upon his wife Miss Dawkins called a few days after the
journey to the Pyramid, and finding him in his study, thus performed her
duty to her neighbour,--
“You know your countryman Mr. Ingram, I think?” said she.
“Oh, yes; very intimately.”
“If you have any regard for him, Mr. Burton,” such was the gentleman’s
name, “I think you should put him on his guard.”
“On his guard against what?” said Mr. Burton with a serious air, for
there was something serious in the threat of impending misfortune as
conveyed by Miss Dawkins.
“Why,” said she, “those Damers, I fear, are dangerous people.”
“Do you mean that they will borrow money of him?”
“Oh, no; not that, exactly; but they are clearly setting their cap at
him.”
“Setting their cap at him?”
“Yes; there is a daughter, you know; a little chit of a thing; and I
fear Mr. Ingram may be caught before he knows where he is. It would be
such a pity, you know. He is going up the river with them, I hear. That,
in his place, is very foolish. They asked me, but I positively refused.”
Mr. Burton remarked that “In such a matter as that Mr. Ingram would be
perfectly able to take care of himself.”
“Well, perhaps so; but seeing what was going on, I thought it my duty to
tell you.” And so Miss Dawkins took her leave.
Mr. Ingram did go up the Nile with the Damers, as did an old friend of
the Damers who arrived from England. And a very pleasant trip they had
of it. And, as far as the present historian knows, the two lovers were
shortly afterwards married in England.
Poor Miss Dawkins was left in Cairo for some time on her beam ends. But
she was one of those who are not easily vanquished. After an interval of
ten days she made acquaintance with an Irish family--having utterly
failed in moving the hard heart of M. Delabordeau--and with these she
proceeded to Constantinople. They consisted of two brothers and a
sister, and were, therefore, very convenient for matrimonial purposes.
But nevertheless, when I last heard of Miss Dawkins, she was still an
unprotected female.
THE CHATEAU OF PRINCE POLIGNAC.
Few Englishmen or Englishwomen are intimately acquainted with the little
town of Le Puy. It is the capital of the old province of Le Velay, which
also is now but little known, even to French ears, for it is in these
days called by the imperial name of the Department of the Haute Loire.
It is to the south-east of Auvergne, and is nearly in the centre of the
southern half of France.
But few towns, merely as towns, can be better worth visiting. In the
first place, the volcanic formation of the ground on which it stands is
not only singular in the extreme, so as to be interesting to the
geologist, but it is so picturesque as to be equally gratifying to the
general tourist. Within a narrow valley there stand several rocks,
rising up from the ground with absolute abruptness. Round two of these
the town clusters, and a third stands but a mile distant, forming the
centre of a faubourg, or suburb. These rocks appear to be, and I believe
are, the harder particles of volcanic matter, which have not been
carried away through successive ages by the joint agency of water and
air.
When the tide of lava ran down between the hills the surface left was no
doubt on a level with the heads of these rocks; but here and there the
deposit became harder than elsewhere, and these harder points have
remained, lifting up their steep heads in a line through the valley.
The highest of these is called the Rocher de Corneille. Round this and
up its steep sides the town stands. On its highest summit there was an
old castle; and there now is, or will be before these pages are printed,
a colossal figure in bronze of the Virgin Mary, made from the cannon
taken at Sebastopol. Half-way down the hill the cathedral is built, a
singularly gloomy edifice,--Romanesque, as it is called, in its style,
but extremely similar in its mode of architecture to what we know of
Byzantine structures. But there has been no surface on the rock side
large enough to form a resting-place for the church, which has
therefore been built out on huge supporting piles, which form a porch
below the west front; so that the approach is by numerous steps laid
along the side of the wall below the church, forming a wondrous flight
of stairs. Let all men who may find themselves stopping at Le Puy visit
the top of these stairs at the time of the setting sun, and look down
from thence through the framework of the porch on the town beneath, and
at the hill-side beyond.
Behind the church is the seminary of the priests, with its beautiful
walks stretching round the Rocher de Corneille, and overlooking the town
and valley below.
Next to this rock, and within a quarter of a mile of it, is the second
peak, called the Rock of the Needle. It rises narrow, sharp, and abrupt
from the valley, allowing of no buildings on its sides. But on its very
point has been erected a church sacred to St. Michael, that lover of
rock summits, accessible by stairs cut from the stone. This,
perhaps--this rock, I mean--is the most wonderful of the wonders which
Nature has formed at Le Puy.
Above this, at a mile’s distance, is the rock of Espailly, formed in the
same way, and almost equally precipitous. On its summit is a castle,
having its own legend, and professing to have been the residence of
Charles VII., when little of France belonged to its kings but the
provinces of Berry, Auvergne, and Le Velay. Some three miles farther up
there is another volcanic rock, larger, indeed, but equally sudden in
its spring,--equally remarkable as rising abruptly from the valley,--on
which stands the castle and old family residence of the house of
Polignac. It was lost by them at the Revolution, but was repurchased by
the minister of Charles X., and is still the property of the head of the
race.
Le Puy itself is a small, moderate, pleasant French town, in which the
language of the people has not the pure Parisian aroma, nor is the glory
of the boulevards of the capital emulated in its streets. These are
crooked, narrow, steep, and intricate, forming here and there excellent
sketches for a lover of street picturesque beauty; but hurtful to the
feet with their small, round-topped paving stones, and not always as
clean as pedestrian ladies might desire.
And now I would ask my readers to join me at the morning table d’hôte at
the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs. It will of course be understood that this
does not mean a breakfast in the ordinary fashion of England, consisting
of tea or coffee, bread and butter, and perhaps a boiled egg. It
comprises all the requisites for a composite dinner, excepting soup; and
as one gets further south in France, this meal is called dinner. It is,
however, eaten without any prejudice to another similar and somewhat
longer meal at six or seven o’clock, which, when the above name is taken
up by the earlier enterprise, is styled supper.