their victim, they had brought a boat up into this very inlet among the
rocks; and the same boat had been at hand during the whole day.
Unluckily, before they had come hither, it had been taken round the
headland to a place among the rocks at which a government skiff is
always moored. The sea was still so quiet that there was hardly a ripple
on it, and the boat had been again sent for when first it was supposed
that they had at last traced Aaron Trow to his hiding-place. Anxiously
now were all eyes turned to the headland, but as yet no boat was there.
The two men rose to the surface, each struggling in the arms of the
other. Trow, though he was in an element to which he was not used,
though he had sprung thither as another suicide might spring to certain
death beneath a railway engine, did not altogether lose his presence of
mind. Prompted by a double instinct, he had clutched hold of Morton’s
body when he encountered it beneath the waters. He held on to it, as to
his only protection, and he held on to him also as to his only enemy. If
there was a chance for a life struggle, they would share that chance
together; and if not, then together would they meet that other fate.
Caleb Morton was a very strong man, and though one of his arms was
altogether encumbered by his antagonist, his other arm and his legs were
free. With these he seemed to succeed in keeping his head above the
water, weighted as he was with the body of his foe. But Trow’s efforts
were also used with the view of keeping himself above the water. Though
he had purposed to destroy himself in taking that leap, and now hoped
for nothing better than that they might both perish together, he yet
struggled to keep his head above the waves. Bodily power he had none
left to him, except that of holding on to Morton’s arm and plunging with
his legs; but he did hold on, and thus both their heads remained above
the surface.
But this could not last long. It was easy to see that Trow’s strength
was nearly spent, and that when he went down Morton must go with him. If
indeed they could be separated,--if Morton could once make himself free
from that embrace into which he had been so anxious to leap,--then
indeed there might be a hope. All round that little inlet the rock fell
sheer down into the deep sea, so that there was no resting-place for a
foot; but round the headlands on either side, even within forty or fifty
yards of that spot, Morton might rest on the rocks, till a boat should
come to his assistance. To him that distance would have been nothing, if
only his limbs had been at liberty.
Upon the platform of rocks they were all at their wits’ ends. Many were
anxious to fire at Trow; but even if they hit him, would Morton’s
position have been better? Would not the wounded man have still clung to
him who was not wounded? And then there could be no certainty that any
one of them would hit the right man. The ripple of the waves, though it
was very slight, nevertheless sufficed to keep the bodies in motion; and
then, too, there was not among them any marksman peculiar for his skill.
Morton’s efforts in the water were too severe to admit of his speaking,
but he could hear and understand the words which were addressed to him.
“Shake him off, Caleb.” “Strike him from you with your foot.” “Swim to
the right shore; swim for it, even if you take him with you.” Yes; he
could hear them all; but hearing and obeying were very different. It was
not easy to shake off that dying man; and as for swimming with him, that
was clearly impossible. It was as much as he could do to keep his head
above water, let alone any attempt to move in one settled direction.
For some four or five minutes they lay thus battling on the waves before
the head of either of them went down. Trow had been twice below the
surface, but it was before he had succeeded in supporting himself by
Morton’s arm. Now it seemed as though he must sink again,--as though
both must sink. His mouth was barely kept above the water, and as Morton
shook him with his arm, the tide would pass over him. It was horrid to
watch, from the shore the glaring upturned eyes of the dying wretch, as
his long streaming hair lay back upon the wave. “Now, Caleb, hold him
down. Hold him under,” was shouted in the voice of some eager friend.
Rising up on the water, Morton made a last effort to do as he was bid.
He did press the man’s head down,--well down below the surface,--but
still the hand clung to him, and as he struck out against the water, he
was powerless against that grasp.
Then there came a loud shout along the shore, and all those on the
platform, whose eyes had been fixed so closely on that terrible struggle
beneath them, rushed towards the rocks on the other coast. The sound of
oars was heard close to them,--an eager pressing stroke, as of men who
knew well that they were rowing for the salvation of a life. On they
came, close under the rocks, obeying with every muscle of their bodies
the behests of those who called to them from the shore. The boat came
with such rapidity,--was so recklessly urged, that it was driven
somewhat beyond the inlet; but in passing, a blow was struck which made
Caleb Morton once more the master of his own life. The two men had been
carried out in their struggle towards the open sea; and as the boat
curved in, so as to be as close as the rocks would allow, the bodies of
the men were brought within the sweep of the oars. He in the bow--for
there were four pulling in the boat--had raised his oar as he neared the
rocks,--had raised it high above the water; and now, as they passed
close by the struggling men, he let it fall with all its force on the
upturned face of the wretched convict. It was a terrible, frightful
thing to do,--thus striking one who was so stricken; but who shall say
that the blow was not good and just? Methinks, however, that the eyes
and face of that dying man will haunt for ever the dreams of him who
carried that oar!
Trow never rose again to the surface. Three days afterwards his body was
found at the ferry, and then they carried him to the convict island and
buried him. Morton was picked up and taken into the boat. His life was
saved; but it may be a question how the battle might have gone had not
that friendly oar been raised in his behalf. As it was, he lay at the
cottage for days before he was able to be moved, so as to receive the
congratulations of those who had watched that terrible conflict from the
shore. Nor did he feel that there had been anything in that day’s work
of which he could be proud;--much rather of which it behoved him to be
thoroughly ashamed. Some six months after that he obtained the hand of
Anastasia Bergen, but they did not remain long in Bermuda. “He went
away, back to his own country,” my informant told me; “because he could
not endure to meet the ghost of Aaron Trow, at that point of the road
which passes near the cottage.” That the ghost of Aaron Trow may be seen
there and round the little rocky inlet of the sea, is part of the creed
of every young woman in Bermuda.
MRS. GENERAL TALBOYS.
Why Mrs. General Talboys first made up her mind to pass the winter of
1859 at Rome I never clearly understood. To myself she explained her
purposes, soon after her arrival at the Eternal City, by declaring, in
her own enthusiastic manner, that she was inspired by a burning desire
to drink fresh at the still living fountains of classical poetry and
sentiment. But I always thought that there was something more than this
in it. Classical poetry and sentiment were doubtless very dear to her;
but so also, I imagine, were the substantial comforts of Hardover Lodge,
the General’s house in Berkshire; and I do not think that she would have
emigrated for the winter had there not been some slight domestic
misunderstanding. Let this, however, be fully made clear,--that such
misunderstanding, if it existed, must have been simply an affair of
temper. No impropriety of conduct has, I am very sure, ever been imputed
to the lady. The General, as all the world knows, is hot; and Mrs.
Talboys, when the sweet rivers of her enthusiasm are unfed by congenial
waters, can, I believe, make herself disagreeable.
But be this as it may, in November, 1859, Mrs. Talboys came among us
English at Rome, and soon succeeded in obtaining for herself a
comfortable footing in our society. We all thought her more remarkable
for her mental attributes than for physical perfection; but,
nevertheless, she was, in her own way, a sightly woman. She had no
special brilliance, either of eye or complexion, such as would produce
sudden flames in susceptible hearts; nor did she seem to demand instant
homage by the form and step of a goddess; but we found her to be a
good-looking woman of some thirty or thirty-three years of age, with
soft, peach-like cheeks,--rather too like those of a cherub, with
sparkling eyes which were hardly large enough, with good teeth, a white
forehead, a dimpled chin and a full bust. Such, outwardly, was Mrs.
General Talboys. The description of the inward woman is the purport to
which these few pages will be devoted.
There are two qualities to which the best of mankind are much subject,
which are nearly related to each other, and as to which the world has
not yet decided whether they are to be classed among the good or evil
attributes of our nature. Men and women are under the influence of them
both, but men oftenest undergo the former, and women the latter. They
are ambition and enthusiasm. Now Mrs. Talboys was an enthusiastic woman.
As to ambition, generally as the world agrees with Mark Antony in
stigmatising it as a grievous fault, I am myself clear that it is a
virtue; but with ambition at present we have no concern. Enthusiasm
also, as I think, leans to virtue’s side; or, at least, if it be a
fault, of all faults it is the prettiest. But then, to partake at all of
virtue, or even to be in any degree pretty, the enthusiasm must be true.
Bad coin is known from good by the ring of it; and so is bad enthusiasm.
Let the coiner be ever so clever at his art, in the coining of
enthusiasm the sound of true gold can never be imparted to the fake
metal. And I doubt whether the cleverest she in the world can make false
enthusiasm palatable to the taste of man. To the taste of any woman the
enthusiasm of another woman is never very palatable.
We understood at Rome that Mrs. Talboys had a considerable family,--four
or five children, we were told; but she brought with her only one
daughter, a little girl about twelve years of age. She had torn herself
asunder, as she told me, from the younger nurslings of her heart, and
had left them to the care of a devoted female attendant, whose love was
all but maternal. And then she said a word or two about the General, in
terms which made me almost think that this quasi-maternal love extended
itself beyond the children. The idea, however, was a mistaken one,
arising from the strength of her language, to which I was then
unaccustomed. I have since become aware that nothing can be more
decorous than old Mrs. Upton, the excellent headnurse at Hardover Lodge;
and no gentleman more discreet in his conduct than General Talboys.
And I may as well here declare, also, that there could be no more
virtuous woman than the General’s wife. Her marriage vow was to her
paramount to all other vows and bonds whatever. The General’s honour was
quite safe when he sent her off to Rome by herself; and he no doubt knew
that it was so. Illi robur et æs triplex, of which I believe no weapons
of any assailant could get the better. But, nevertheless, we used to
fancy that she had no repugnance to impropriety in other women,--to what
the world generally calls impropriety. Invincibly attached herself to
the marriage tie, she would constantly speak of it as by no means
necessarily binding on others; and, virtuous herself as any griffin of
propriety, she constantly patronised, at any rate, the theory of
infidelity in her neighbours. She was very eager in denouncing the
prejudices of the English world, declaring that she had found existence
among them to be no longer possible for herself. She was hot against the
stern unforgiveness of British matrons, and equally eager in reprobating
the stiff conventionalities of a religion in which she said that none of
its votaries had faith, though they all allowed themselves to be
enslaved.
We had at that time a small set at Rome, consisting chiefly of English
and Americans, who habitually met at each other’s rooms, and spent many
of our evening hours in discussing Italian politics. We were, most of
us, painters, poets, novelists, or sculptors;--perhaps I should say
would-be painters, poets, novelists, and sculptors,--aspirants hoping to
become some day recognised; and among us Mrs. Talboys took her place,
naturally enough, on account of a very pretty taste she had for
painting. I do not know that she ever originated anything that was
grand; but she made some nice copies, and was fond, at any rate, of art
conversation. She wrote essays, too, which she showed in confidence to
various gentlemen, and had some idea of taking lessons in modelling.
In all our circle Conrad Mackinnon, an American, was, perhaps, the
person most qualified to be styled its leader. He was one who absolutely
did gain his living, and an ample living too, by his pen, and was
regarded on all sides as a literary lion, justified by success in
roaring at any tone he might please. His usual roar was not exactly that
of a sucking-dove or a nightingale; but it was a good-humoured roar, not
very offensive to any man, and apparently acceptable enough to some
ladies. He was a big burly man, near to fifty as I suppose, somewhat
awkward in his gait, and somewhat loud in his laugh. But though nigh to
fifty, and thus ungainly, he liked to be smiled on by pretty women, and
liked, as some said, to be flattered by them also. If so, he should have
been happy, for the ladies at Rome at that time made much of Conrad
Mackinnon.
Of Mrs. Mackinnon no one did make very much, and yet she was one of the
sweetest, dearest, quietest, little creatures that ever made glad a
man’s fireside. She was exquisitely pretty, always in good humour, never
stupid, self-denying to a fault, and yet she was generally in the
background. She would seldom come forward of her own will, but was
contented to sit behind her teapot and hear Mackinnon do his roaring. He
was certainly much given to what the world at Rome called flirting, but
this did not in the least annoy her. She was twenty years his junior,
and yet she never flirted with any one. Women would tell
her--good-natured friends--how Mackinnon went on; but she received such
tidings as an excellent joke, observing that he had always done the
same, and no doubt always would until he was ninety. I do believe that
she was a happy woman; and yet I used to think that she should have been
happier. There is, however, no knowing the inside of another man’s
house, or reading the riddles of another man’s joy and sorrow.
We had also there another lion,--a lion cub,--entitled to roar a little,
and of him also I must say something. Charles O’Brien was a young man,
about twenty-five years of age, who had sent out from his studio in the
preceding year a certain bust, supposed by his admirers to be
unsurpassed by any effort of ancient or modern genius. I am no judge of
sculpture, and will not, therefore, pronounce an opinion; but many who
considered themselves to be judges, declared that it was a “goodish head
and shoulders,” and nothing more. I merely mention the fact, as it was
on the strength of that head and shoulders that O’Brien separated
himself from a throng of others such as himself in Rome, walked solitary
during the days, and threw himself at the feet of various ladies when
the days were over. He had ridden on the shoulders of his bust into a
prominent place in our circle, and there encountered much feminine
admiration--from Mrs. General Talboys and others.
Some eighteen or twenty of us used to meet every Sunday evening in Mrs.
Mackinnon’s drawing-room. Many of us, indeed, were in the habit of
seeing each other daily, and of visiting together the haunts in Rome
which are best loved by art-loving strangers; but here, in this
drawing-room, we were sure to come together, and here before the end of
November, Mrs. Talboys might always be found, not in any accustomed
seat, but moving about the room as the different male mental attractions
of our society might chance to move themselves. She was at first greatly
taken by Mackinnon,--who also was, I think, a little stirred by her
admiration, though he stoutly denied the charge. She became, however,
very dear to us all before she left us, and certainly we owed to her
our love, for she added infinitely to the joys of our winter.
“I have come here to refresh myself,” she said to Mackinnon one
evening--to Mackinnon and myself, for we were standing together.
“Shall I get you tea?” said I.
“And will you have something to eat?” Mackinnon asked.
“No, no, no;” she answered. “Tea, yes; but for Heaven’s sake let nothing
solid dispel the associations of such a meeting as this!”
“I thought you might have dined early,” said Mackinnon. Now Mackinnon
was a man whose own dinner was very dear to him. I have seen him become
hasty and unpleasant, even under the pillars of the Forum, when he
thought that the party were placing his fish in jeopardy by their desire
to linger there too long.
“Early! Yes. No; I know not when it was. One dines and sleeps in
obedience to that dull clay which weighs down so generally the particle
of our spirit. But the clay may sometimes be forgotten. Here I can
always forget it.”
“I thought you asked for refreshment,” I said. She only looked at me,
whose small attempts at prose composition had, up to that time, been
altogether unsuccessful, and then addressed herself in reply to
Mackinnon.
“It is the air which we breathe that fills our lungs and gives us life
and light. It is that which refreshes us if pure, or sinks us into
stagnation if it be foul. Let me for awhile inhale the breath of an
invigorating literature. Sit down, Mr. Mackinnon; I have a question that
I must put to you.” And then she succeeded in carrying him off into a
corner. As far as I could see he went willingly enough at that time,
though he soon became averse to any long retirement in company with Mrs.
Talboys.
We none of us quite understood what were her exact ideas on the subject
of revealed religion. Somebody, I think, had told her that there were
among us one or two whose opinions were not exactly orthodox according
to the doctrines of the established English church. If so, she was
determined to show us that she also was advanced beyond the prejudices
of an old and dry school of theology. “I have thrown down all the
barriers of religion,” she said to poor Mrs. Mackinnon, “and am looking
for the sentiments of a pure Christianity.”
“Thrown down all the barriers of religion!” said Mrs. Mackinnon, in a
tone of horror which was not appreciated.
“Indeed, yes,” said Mrs. Talboys, with an exulting voice. “Are not the
days for such trammels gone by?”
“But yet you hold by Christianity?”
“A pure Christianity, unstained by blood and perjury, by hypocrisy and
verbose genuflection. Can I not worship and say my prayers among the
clouds?” And she pointed to the lofty ceiling and the handsome
chandelier.
“But Ida goes to church,” said Mrs. Mackinnon. Ida Talboys was her
daughter. Now, it may be observed, that many who throw down the barriers
of religion, so far as those barriers may affect themselves, still
maintain them on behalf of their children. “Yes,” said Mrs. Talboys;
“dear Ida! her soft spirit is not yet adapted to receive the perfect
truth. We are obliged to govern children by the strength of their
prejudices.” And then she moved away, for it was seldom that Mrs.
Talboys remained long in conversation with any lady.
Mackinnon, I believe, soon became tired of her. He liked her flattery,
and at first declared that she was clever and nice; but her niceness was
too purely celestial to satisfy his mundane tastes. Mackinnon himself
can revel among the clouds in his own writings, and can leave us
sometimes in doubt whether he ever means to come back to earth; but when
his foot is on terra firma, he loves to feel the earthly substratum
which supports his weight. With women he likes a hand that can remain an
unnecessary moment within his own, an eye that can glisten with the
sparkle of champagne, a heart weak enough to make its owner’s arm
tremble within his own beneath the moonlight gloom of the Coliseum
arches. A dash of sentiment the while makes all these things the
sweeter; but the sentiment alone will not suffice for him. Mrs. Talboys
did, I believe, drink her glass of champagne, as do other ladies; but
with her it had no such pleasing effect. It loosened only her tongue,
but never her eye. Her arm, I think, never trembled, and her hand never
lingered. The General was always safe, and happy, perhaps, in his
solitary safety.
It so happened that we had unfortunately among us two artists who had
quarrelled with their wives. O’Brien, whom I have before mentioned, was
one of them. In his case, I believe him to have been almost as free from
blame as a man can be whose marriage was in itself a fault. However, he
had a wife in Ireland some ten years older than himself; and though he
might sometimes almost forget the fact, his friends and neighbours were
well aware of it. In the other case the whole fault probably was with
the husband. He was an ill-tempered, bad-hearted man, clever enough,
but without principle; and he was continually guilty of the great sin of
speaking evil of the woman whose name he should have been anxious to
protect. In both cases our friend Mrs. Talboys took a warm interest, and
in each of them she sympathised with the present husband against the
absent wife.
Of the consolation which she offered in the latter instance we used to
hear something from Mackinnon. He would repeat to his wife, and to me
and my wife, the conversations which she had with him. “Poor Brown;” she
would say, “I pity him, with my very heart’s blood.”
“You are aware that he has comforted himself in his desolation,”
Mackinnon replied.
“I know very well to what you allude. I think I may say that I am
conversant with all the circumstances of this heart-blighting
sacrifice.” Mrs. Talboys was apt to boast of the thorough confidence
reposed in her by all those in whom she took an interest. “Yes, he has
sought such comfort in another love as the hard cruel world would allow
him.”
“Or perhaps something more than that,” said Mackinnon. “He has a family
here in Rome, you know; two little babies.”
“I know it, I know it,” she said. “Cherub angels!” and as she spoke she
looked up into the ugly face of Marcus Aurelius; for they, were standing
at the moment under the figure of the great horseman on the Campidoglio.
“I have seen them, and they are the children of innocence. If all the
blood of all the Howards ran in their veins it could not make their
birth more noble!”
“Not if the father and mother of all the Howards had never been
married,” said Mackinnon.
“What; that from you, Mr. Mackinnon!” said Mrs. Talboys, turning her
back with energy upon the equestrian statue, and looking up into the
faces, first of Pollux and then of Castor, as though from them she might
gain some inspiration on the subject which Marcus Aurelius in his
coldness had denied to her. “From you, who have so nobly claimed for
mankind the divine attributes of free action! From you, who have taught
my mind to soar above the petty bonds which one man in his littleness
contrives for the subjection of his brother. Mackinnon! you who are so
great!” And she now looked up into his face. “Mackinnon, unsay those
words.”
“They _are_ illegitimate,” said he; “and if there was any landed
property----”
“Landed property! and that from an American!”
“The children are English, you know.”