“A most interesting sight, Lady Madeleine!” said Mr. Fitzloom, as he

offered her his arm, and advised their instant presence as patrons of

the “Fête du Village,” for such Baron von Konigstein had most happily

termed it. “A delightful man, that Baron von Konigstein, and says such

delightful things! Fête du Village! how very good!”

“That is Miss Fitzloom, then, whom my brother is waltzing with?” asked

Lady Madeleine.

“Not exactly, my Lady,” said Mr. Fitzloom, “not exactly _Miss_ Fitzloom,

rather Miss Aurelia Fitzloom, my third daughter; our third eldest, as

Mrs. Fitzloom sometimes says; for really it is necessary to distinguish,

with such a family as ours, you know.”

“Let us walk,” said Miss Fane to Vivian, for she was now leaning upon

his arm; “the evening is deliriously soft, but even with the protection

of a cashmere I scarcely dare venture to stand still. Lady Madeleine

seems very much engaged at present. What amusing people these

Fitzlooms are!”

“Mrs. Fitzloom; I have not heard her voice yet.”

“No; Mrs. Fitzloom does not talk. Albert says she makes it a rule never

to speak in the presence of a stranger. She deals plenteously, however,

at home in domestic apophthegms. If you could but hear him imitating

them all! Whenever she does speak, she finishes all her sentences by

confessing that she is conscious of her own deficiencies, but that she

has taken care to give her daughters the very best education. They are

what Albert calls fine girls, and I am glad he has made friends with

them; for, after all, he must find it rather dull here. By-the-bye, Mr.

Grey, I am afraid that you cannot find this evening very amusing, the

absence of a favourite pursuit always makes a sensible void, and these

walls must remind you of more piquant pleasures than waltzing with fine

London ladies, or promenading up a dull terrace with an invalid.”

“I assure you that you are quite misinformed as to the mode in which I

generally pass my evenings.”

“I hope I am!” said Miss Fane, in rather a serious tone. “I wish I could

also he mistaken in my suspicions of the mode in which Albert spends his

time. He is sadly changed. For the first month that we were here he

seemed to prefer nothing in the world to our society, and now--I was

nearly saying that we had not seen him for one single evening these

three weeks. I cannot understand what you find at this house of such

absorbing interest. Although I know you think I am much mistaken in my

suspicions, still I feel very anxious. I spoke to Albert to-day; but he

scarcely answered me; or said that which it was a pleasure for me

to forget.”

“Mr. St. George should feel highly gratified in having excited such an

interest in the mind of Miss Fane.”

“He should not feel more gratified than all who are my friends; for all

who are such I must ever experience the liveliest interest.”

“How happy must those be who feel that they have a right to count Miss

Fane among their friends!”

“I have the pleasure then, I assure you, of making many happy, and among

them, Mr. Grey.”

Vivian was surprised that he did not utter some complimentary answer;

but he knew not why, the words would not come; and instead of speaking,

he was thinking of what had been spoken.

“How brilliant are these gardens!” said Vivian, looking at the sky.

“Very brilliant!” said Miss Fane, looking on the ground. Conversation

seemed nearly extinct, and yet neither offered to turn back.

“Good heavens! you are ill,” exclaimed Vivian, when, on accidentally

turning to his companion, he found she was in tears. “Shall we go back,

or will you wait here? Can I fetch anything? I fear you are very ill!”

“No, not very ill, but very foolish; let us walk on,” and, sighing, she

seemed suddenly to recover.

“I am ashamed of this foolishness; what can you think? But I am so

agitated, so nervous. I hope you will forget--I hope--”

“Perhaps the air has suddenly affected you; shall we go in? Nothing has

been said, nothing happened; no one has dared to say or do anything to

annoy you? Speak, dear Miss Fane, the, the--” the words died on Vivian’s

lips, yet a power he could not withstand urged him to speak, “the, the,

the Baron?”

“Ah!” almost shrieked Miss Fane. “Stop one second; an effort, and I must

be well; nothing has happened, and no one has done or said anything; but

it is of something that should be said, of something that should be

done, that I was thinking, and it overcame me.”

“Miss Fane,” said Vivian, “if there be anything which I can do or

devise, any possible way that I can exert myself in your service, speak

with the most perfect confidence; do not fear that your motives will be

misconceived, that your purpose will be misinterpreted, that your

confidence will be misunderstood. You are addressing one who would lay

down his life for you, who is willing to perform all your commands, and

forget them when performed. I beseech you to trust me; believe me, that

you shall not repent.”

She answered not, but holding down her head, covered her face with her

small white hand; her lovely face which was crimsoned with her flashing

blood. They were now at the end of the terrace; to return was

impossible. If they remained stationary, they must be perceived and

joined. What was to be done? He led her down a retired walk still

farther from the house. As they proceeded in silence, the bursts of the

music and the loud laughter of the joyous guests became fainter and

fainter, till at last the sounds died away into echo, and echo

into silence.

A thousand thoughts dashed through Vivian’s mind in rapid succession;

but a painful one, a most painful one to him, to any man, always

remained the last. His companion would not speak; yet to allow her to

return home without freeing her mind of the fearful burden which

evidently overwhelmed it, was impossible. At length he broke a silence

which seemed to have lasted an age.

“Do not believe that I am taking advantage of an agitating moment to

extract from you a confidence which you may repent. I feel assured that

I am right in supposing that you have contemplated in a calmer moment

the possibility of my being of service to you; that, in short, there is

something in which you require my assistance, my co-operation; an

assistance, a co-operation, which, if it produce any benefit to you,

will make me at length feel that I have not lived in vain. No feeling of

false delicacy shall prevent me from assisting you in giving utterance

to thoughts which you have owned it is absolutely necessary should be

expressed. Remember that you have allowed me to believe that we are

friends; do not prove by your silence that we are friends only in name.”

“I am overwhelmed; I cannot speak. My face burns with shame; I have

miscalculated my strength of mind, perhaps my physical strength; what,

what must you think of me?” She spoke in a low and smothered voice.

“Think of you! everything which the most devoted respect dare think of

an object which it reverences. Do not believe that I am one who would

presume an instant on my position, because I have accidentally witnessed

a young and lovely woman betrayed into a display of feeling which the

artificial forms of cold society cannot contemplate, and dare to

ridicule. You are speaking to one who also has felt; who, though a man,

has wept; who can comprehend sorrow; who can understand the most secret

sensations of an agitated spirit. Dare to trust me. Be convinced that

hereafter, neither by word nor look, hint nor sign, on my part, shall

you feel, save by your own wish, that you have appeared to Vivian Grey

in any other light than in the saloons we have just quitted.”

“Generous man, I dare trust anything to you that I dare trust to human

being; but--” here her voice died away.

“It is a painful thing for me to attempt to guess your thoughts; but if

it be of Mr. St. George that you are thinking, have no fear respecting

him; have no fear about his present situation. Trust to me that there

shall be no anxiety for his future one. I will be his unknown guardian,

his unseen friend; the promoter of your wishes, the protector of your--”

“No, no,” said Miss Fane, with firmness, and looking quickly up, as if

her mind were relieved by discovering that all this time Vivian had

never imagined she was thinking of him. “No, no, you are mistaken; it is

not of Mr. St. George, of Mr. St. George only, that I am thinking. I am

much better now; I shall be able in an instant to speak; be able, I

trust, to forget how foolish, how very foolish I have been.

“Let us walk on,” continued Miss Fane, “let us walk on; we can easily

account for our absence if it be remarked; and it is better that it

should be all over. I feel quite well, and shall be able to speak quite

firmly now.”

“Do not hurry; there is no fear of our absence being remarked, Lady

Madeleine is so surrounded.”

“After what has passed, it seems ridiculous in me to apologise, as I

had intended, for speaking to you on a graver subject than what has

generally formed the point of conversation between us. I feared that you

might misunderstand the motives which have dictated my conduct. I have

attempted not to appear agitated, and I have been overcome. I trust that

you will not be offended if I recur to the subject of the New House. Do

not believe that I ever would have allowed my fears, my girlish fears,

so to have overcome my discretion; so to have overcome, indeed, all

propriety of conduct on my part; as to have induced me to have sought an

interview with you, to moralise to you about your mode of life. No, no;

it is not of this that I wish to speak, or rather that I will speak. I

will hope, I will pray, that Albert and yourself have never found in

that which you have followed as an amusement, the source, the origin,

the cause of a single unhappy or even anxious moment; Mr. Grey, I will

believe all this.”

“Dearest Miss Fane, believe it with confidence. Of St. George, I can

with sincerity aver, that it is my firm opinion, that, far from being

involved, his fortune is not in the slightest degree injured. Believe

me, I will not attempt to quiet you now, as I would have done at any

other time, by telling you that you magnify your fears, and allow your

feelings to exaggerate the danger which exists. There has been danger.

There is danger; play, high play, has been and is pursued at this New

House, but Mr. St. George has never been a loser; and if the exertions

of man can avail, never shall, at least unfairly. As to the other

individual, whom you have honoured by the interest which you have

professed in his welfare, no one can more thoroughly detest any practice

which exists in this world than he does the gaming-table.”

“Oh! you have made me so happy! I feel so persuaded that you have not

deceived me! the tones of your voice, your manner, your expression,

convince me that you have been sincere, and that I am happy, at least

for the present.”

“For ever, I trust, Miss Fane.”

“Let me now prevent future misery. Let me speak about that which has

long dwelt on my mind like a nightmare, about that which I did fear it

was almost too late to speak. Not of your pursuit, not even of that

fatal pursuit, do I now think, but of your companion in this amusement,

in all amusements! it is he, he whom I dread, whom I look upon with

horror, even to him, I cannot say, with hatred!”

“The Baron?” said Vivian, calmly.

“I cannot name him. Dread him, fear him, avoid him! it is he that I

mean, he of whom I thought that you were the victim. You must have been

surprised, you must have wondered at our conduct towards him. Oh! when

Lady Madeleine turned from him with coolness, when she answered him in

tones which to you might have appeared harsh, she behaved to him, in

comparison to what is his due, and what we sometimes feel to be our

duty, with affection, actually with affection and regard. No human being

can know what horror is, until he looks upon a fellow-creature with the

eyes that I look upon that man.” She leant upon Vivian’s arm with her

whole weight, and even then he thought she must have sunk; neither

spoke. How solemn is the silence of sorrow!

“I am overcome,” continued Miss Fane; “the remembrance of what he has

done overwhelms me. I cannot speak it; the recollection is death; yet

you must know it. That you might know it, I have before attempted. I

wished to have spared myself the torture which I now endure. You must

know it. I will write; ay! that will do. I will write: I cannot speak

now; it is impossible; but beware of him; you are so young.”

“I have no words now to thank you, dear Miss Fane, for this. Had I been

the victim of Von Konigstein, I should have been repaid for all my

misery by feeling that you regretted its infliction; but I trust that I

am in no danger: though young, I fear that I am one who must not count

his time by calendars. ‘An aged interpreter, though young in days.’

Would that I could be deceived! Fear not for your cousin. Trust to one

whom you have made think better of this world, and of his

fellow-creatures.”

The sound of approaching footsteps, and the light laugh of pleasure,

told of some who were wandering like themselves.

“We had better return,” said Miss Fane; “I fear that Lady Madeleine will

observe that I look unwell. Some one approaches! No, they pass only the

top of the walk.” It was Mr. St. George and Aurelia Fitzloom.

Quick flew the brilliant hours; and soon the dance was over, and the

music mute.

It was late when Vivian retired. As he opened his door he was surprised

to find lights in his chamber. The figure of a man appeared seated at

the table. It moved; it was Essper George.

CHAPTER XIII

The reader will remember that Vivian had agreed to dine, on the day

after the fête, with the Baron, in his private apartments. This was an

arrangement which, in fact, the custom of the house did not permit; but

the irregularities of great men who are attended by chasseurs are

occasionally winked at by a supple maître d’hôtel. Vivian had reasons

for not regretting his acceptance of the invitation; and he never shook

hands with the Chevalier de Boeffleurs, apparently, with greater

cordiality, than on the day on which he met him at dinner at the Baron

von Konigstein’s. Mr. St. George had not arrived.

“Past five!” said the Baron; “riding out, I suppose, with the Fitzlooms.

Aurelia is certainly a fine girl; but I should think that Lady Madeleine

would hardly approve the connection. The St. Georges have blood in their

veins; and would, I suppose, as soon think of marrying a Fitzloom as we

Germans should of marrying a woman without a _von_ before her name. We

are quite alone, Grey, only the Chevalier and St. George. I had an idea

of asking Salvinski, but he is such a regular steam-engine, and began

such a long story last night about his interview with the King of

Ashantee, that the bare possibility of his taking it into his head to

finish it to-day frightened me. You were away early from the Grand

Duke’s last night. The business went off well.”

“Very well, indeed!” said the Chevalier de Boeffleurs; completing by

this speech the first dozen of words which he had uttered since his

stay at Ems.

“I think that last night Lady Madeleine Trevor looked perfectly

magnificent; and a certain lady, too, Grey, eh? Here is St. George. My

dear fellow, how are you? Has the fair Aurelia recovered from the last

night’s fatigues? Now, Ernstorff, dinner as soon as possible.”

The Baron made up to-day, certainly, for the silence of his friend the

Chevalier. He outdid himself. Story after story, adventure after

adventure, followed each other with exciting haste. In fact, the Baron

never ceased talking the whole dinner, except when he refreshed himself

with wine, which he drank copiously. A nice observer would, perhaps,

have considered the Baron’s high spirits artificial, and his

conversation an effort. Yet his temper, though lively, was generally

equable; and his ideas, which always appeared to occur easily, were

usually thrown out in fluent phraseology. The dinner was long, and a

great deal of wine was drunk: more than most of the parties present for

a long time had been accustomed to. About eight o’clock the Chevalier

proposed going to the Redoute, but the Baron objected.

“Let us have an evening altogether: surely we have had enough of the

Redoute. In my opinion one of the advantages of the fête is, that there

is no New House to-night. Conversation is a novelty. On a moderate

calculation I must have told you to-day at least fifty original

anecdotes. I have done my duty. It is the Chevalier’s turn now. Come, de

Boeffleurs, a choice one!”

“I remember a story Prince Salvinski once told me.”

“No, no, that is too bad; none of that Polish bear’s romances; if we

have his stories, we may as well have his company.”

“But it is a very curious story,” continued the Chevalier, with a little

animation.

“Oh! so is every story, according to the storier.”

“I think, Von Konigstein, you imagine no one can tell a story but

yourself,” said De Boeffleurs, actually indignant. Vivian had never

heard him speak so much before, and really began to believe that he was

not quite an automaton.

“Let us have it!” said St. George.

“It is a story told of a Polish nobleman, a Count somebody: I never can

remember their crack-jaw names. Well! the point is this,” said the

silent little Chevalier, who, apparently, already repented of the

boldness of his offer, and, misdoubting his powers, wished to begin with

the end of his tale: “the point is this, he was playing one day at

ecarté with the Governor of Wilna; the stake was trifling, but he had a

bet, you see, with the Governor of a thousand roubles; a bet with the

Governor’s secretary, never mind the amount, say two hundred and fifty,

you see; then, he went on the turn-up with the Commandant’s wife; and

took the pips on the trumps with the Archbishop of Warsaw. To understand

the point of the story, you see, you must have a distinct conception how

the game stood. You see, St. George, there was the bet with the

Governor, one thousand roubles; the Governor’s secretary, never mind the

amount, say two hundred and fifty; turn-up with the Commandant’s lady,

and the pips with the Archbishop of Warsaw. Proposed three times, one

for the king, the Governor drew ace; the Governor was already three and

the ten. When the Governor scored king, the Archbishop gave the odds,

drew knave queen one hand. The count offered to propose fourth time.

Governor refused. King to six, ace fell to knave, queen cleared on.

Governor lost, besides bets with the whole état-major; the Secretary

gave his bill; the Commandant’s lady pawned her jewels; and the

Archbishop was done on the pips!”

“By Jove, what a Salvinski!”

“How many trumps had the Governor?” asked St. George.

“Three,” said the Chevalier.

“Then it is impossible: I do not believe the story; it could not be.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the Chevalier; “you see the Governor had--”

“By Jove, don’t let us have it all over again!” said the Baron. “Well!

if this be your model for an after-dinner anecdote, which ought to be as

piquant as an anchovy toast, I will never complain of your silence

in future.”

“The story is a true story,” said the Chevalier; “have you got a pack of

cards, Von Konigstein? I will show it you.”

“There is not such a thing in the room,” said the Baron.

“Well, I never heard of a room without a pack of cards before,” said the

Chevalier; “I will send for one to my own apartments.”

“Perhaps Ernstorff has got a pack. Here, Ernstorff, have you got a pack

of cards? That’s well; bring it immediately.”

The cards were brought, and the Chevalier began to fight his battle over

again; but could not satisfy Mr. St. George. “You see, there was the bet

with the Governor, and the pips, as I said before, with the Archbishop

of Warsaw.”

“My dear De Boeffleurs, let’s no more of this. If you like to have a

game of ecarté with St. George, well and good; but as for quarrelling

the whole evening about some blundering lie of Salvinski’s, it really is

too much. You two can play, and I can talk to Don Vivian, who,

by-the-bye, is rather of the rueful countenance to-night. Why, my dear

fellow, I have not heard your voice this evening: frightened by the fate

of the Archbishop of Warsaw, I suppose?”

“Ecarté is so devilish dull,” said St. George; “and it is such a trouble

to deal.”

“I will deal for both, if you like,” said De Boeffleurs; “I am used to

dealing.”

“Oh! no, I won’t play ecarté; let us have something in which we can all

join.”

“Rouge-et-noir,” suggested the Chevalier, in a careless tone, as if he

had no taste for the amusement.

“There is not enough, is there?” asked St. George.

“Oh! two are enough, you know; one deals, much more four.”

“Well, I don’t care; rouge-et-noir then, let us have rouge-et-noir. Von

Konigstein, what say you to rouge-et-noir? De Boeffleurs says we can

play it here very well. Come, Grey.”

“Oh! rouge-et-noir, rouge-et-noir,” said the Baron; “have not you both

had rouge-et-noir enough? Am I not to be allowed one holiday? Well,

anything to please you; so rouge-et-noir, if it must be so.”

“If all wish it, I have no objection,” said Vivian.

“Well, then, let us sit down; Ernstorff has, I dare say, another pack of

cards, and St. George will be dealer; I know he likes that ceremony.”

“No, no; I appoint the Chevalier.”

“Very well,” said De Boeffleurs, “the plan will be for two to bank

against the table; the table to play on the same colour by joint

agreement. You can join me, Von Konigstein, and pay or receive with me,

from Mr. St. George and Grey.”

“I will bank with you, if you like, Chevalier,” said Vivian.

“Oh! certainly; that is if you like. But perhaps the Baron is more used

to banking; you perhaps don’t understand it.”

“Perfectly; it appears to me to be very simple.”

“No, don’t you bank, Grey,” said St. George. “I want you to play with me

against the Chevalier and the Baron; I like your luck.”

“Luck is very capricious, remember.”

“Oh, no, I like your luck; don’t bank.”

“Be it so.”

Playing commenced. An hour elapsed, and the situation of none of the

parties was materially different from what it had been when they began

the game. Vivian proposed leaving off; but Mr. St. George avowed that he

felt very fortunate, and that he had a presentiment that he should win.

Another hour elapsed, and he had lost considerably. Eleven o’clock:

Vivian’s luck had also deserted him. Mr. St. George was losing

desperately. Midnight: Vivian had lost back half his gains on the

season. St. George still more desperate, all his coolness had deserted

him. He had persisted obstinately against a run on the red; then

floundered and got entangled in a seesaw, which alone cost him

a thousand.

Ernstorff now brought in refreshments; and for a moment they ceased

playing. The Baron opened a bottle of champagne; and St. George and the

Chevalier were stretching their legs and composing their minds in very

different ways, the first in walking rapidly up and down the room, and

the other by lying very quietly at his full length on the sofa; Vivian

was employed in building houses with the cards.

“Grey,” said the Chevalier de Boeffleurs, “I cannot imagine why you do

not for a moment try to forget the cards: that is the only way to win.

Never sit musing over the table.”

But Grey was not to be persuaded to give up building his pagoda: which,

now many stories high, like a more celebrated but scarcely more

substantial structure, fell with a crash. Vivian collected the scattered

cards into two divisions.

“Now!” said the Baron, seating himself, “for St. George’s revenge.”

The Chevalier and the greatest sufferer took their places.

“Is Ernstorff coming in again, Baron?” asked Vivian.

“No! I think not.”

“Let us be sure; it is disagreeable to be disturbed at this time of

night.”

“Lock the door, then,” said St. George.

“A very good plan,” said Vivian; and he locked it accordingly.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Vivian, rising from the table, and putting both

packs of cards into his pocket; “now, gentlemen, I have another game to

play.” The Chevalier started on his chair, the Baron turned pale, but

both were silent. “Mr. St. George,” continued Vivian, “I think that you

owe the Chevalier de Boeffleurs about four thousand Napoleons, and to

Baron von Konigstein something more than half that sum. I have to inform

you that it is unnecessary for you to satisfy the claims of either of

these gentlemen, which are founded neither in law nor in honour.”

“Mr. Grey, what am I to understand?” asked the quiet Chevalier de

Boeffleurs, with the air of a wolf and the voice of a lion.

“Understand, sir!” answered Vivian, sternly, “that I am not one who will

be bullied by a blackleg.”

“Grey! good God! what do you mean?” asked the Baron.

“That which it is my duty, not my pleasure, to explain, Baron von

Konigstein.”

“If you mean to insinuate,” burst forth the Chevalier.

“I mean to insinuate nothing. I leave insinuations and innuendoes to

chevaliers d’industrie. I mean to prove everything.”

Mr. St. George did not speak, but seemed as utterly astounded and

overwhelmed as Baron von Konigstein himself, who, with his arm leaning

on the table, his hands clasped, and the forefinger of his right hand

playing convulsively on his left, was pale as death, and did not

even breathe.

“Gentlemen,” said Vivian, “I shall not detain you long, though I have

much to say that is to the purpose. I am perfectly cool, and, believe

me, perfectly resolute. Let me recommend to you all the same

temperament; it may be better for you. Rest assured, that if you flatter

yourselves that I am one to be pigeoned and then bullied, you are

mistaken. In one word, I am aware of everything that has been arranged

for the reception of Mr. St. George and myself this evening. Your marked

cards are in my pocket, and can only be obtained by you with my life.

Here are two of us against two; we are equally matched in number, and I,

gentlemen, am armed. If I were not, you would not dare to go to

extremities. Is it not, then, the wisest course to be temperate,

my friends?”

“This is some vile conspiracy of your own, fellow,” said De Boeffleurs:

“marked cards, indeed! a pretty tale, forsooth! The Ministers of a

first-rate Power playing with marked cards! The story will gain credit,

and on the faith of whom? An adventurer that no one knows, who, having

failed this night in his usual tricks, and lost money which he cannot

pay, takes advantage of the marked cards, which he has not succeeded in

introducing, and pretends, forsooth, that they are those which he has

stolen from our table; our own cards being, previously to his

accusation, concealed in a secret pocket.”

The impudence of the fellow staggered even Vivian. As for Mr. St.

George, he stared like a wild man. Before Vivian could answer him the

Baron had broken silence. It was with the greatest effort that he seemed

to dig his words out of his breast.

“No, no; this is too much! It is all over! I am lost; but I will not add

crime to crime. Your courage and your fortune have saved you, Mr. Grey,

and your friend from the designs of villains. And you! wretch,” said he,

turning to De Boeffleurs, “sleep now in peace; at length you have undone

me.” He leant on the table, and buried his face in his hands.

“Chicken-hearted fool!” said the Chevalier; “is this the end of all your

promises and all your pledges? But remember, sir! remember. I have no

taste for scenes. Good night, gentlemen. Baron, I expect to hear

from you.”

“Stop, sir!” said Vivian; “no one leaves this room without my

permission.”

“I am at your service, sir, when you please,” said the Chevalier.

“It is not my intention to detain you long, sir; far from it. I have

every inclination to assist you in your last exit from this room; had I

time, it should not be by the door. As it is, go! in the devil’s name.”

So saying he hurled the adventurous Frenchman half down the corridor.

“Baron von Konigstein,” said Vivian, turning to the Baron, “you have

proved yourself, by your conduct this evening, to be a better man than I

imagined you. I confess that I thought you had been too much accustomed

to such scenes to be sensible of the horror of detection.”

“Never!” said the Baron, with emphasis, with energy. The firm voice and

manner in which he pronounced this single word wonderfully contrasted

with his delivery when he had last spoke; but his voice immediately

died away.

“‘Tis all over! I have no wish to excite your pity, gentlemen, or to

gain your silence, by practising upon your feelings. Be silent. I am not

the less ruined, not the less disgraced, not the less utterly undone. Be

silent; my honour, all the same, in four-and-twenty hours, has gone for

ever. I have no motive, then, to deceive you. You must believe what I

speak; even what _I_ speak, the most degraded of men. I say again,

_never_, never, never, never, never was my honour before sullied, though

guilty of a thousand follies. You see before you, gentlemen, the unhappy

victim of circumstances; of circumstances which he has in vain struggled

to control, to which he has at length fallen a victim. I am not

pretending, for a moment, that my crimes are to be accounted for by an

inexorable fate, and not to be expiated by my everlasting misery. No,

no! I have been too weak to be virtuous: but I have been tried, tried

most bitterly. I am the most unfortunate of men; I was not born to be a

villain. Four years have passed since I was banished from the country in

which I was honoured, my prospects in life blasted, my peace of mind

destroyed; and all because a crime was committed of any participation in

which I am as innocent as yourselves. Driven in despair to wander, I

tried, in the wild dissipation of Naples, to forget my existence and my

misery. I found my fate in the person of this vile Frenchman, who never

since has quitted me. Even after two years of madness in that fatal

place, my natural disposition rallied; I struggled to save myself; I

quitted it. I was already involved to De Boeffleurs; I became still more

so, in gaining from him the means of satisfying all claims against me.

Alas! I found I had sold myself to a devil, a very devil, with a heart

like an adder’s. Incapable of a stray generous sensation, he has looked

upon mankind during his whole life with the eyes of a bully of a

gaming-house. I still struggled to free myself from this man; and I

indemnified him for his advances by procuring him a place in the mission

to which, with the greatest difficulty and perseverance, I had at length

obtained my appointment. In public life I yet hoped to forget my private

misery. At Frankfort I felt that, though not happy, I might be calm. I

determined never again even to run the risk of enduring the slavery of

debt. I foreswore, with the most solemn oaths, the gaming table; and had

it not been for the perpetual sight of De Boeffleurs, I might, perhaps,

have felt at ease; though the remembrance of my blighted prospects, the

eternal feeling that I experienced of being born for nobler ends, was

quite sufficient perpetually to embitter my existence. The second year

of my Frankfort appointment I was tempted to this unhappy place. The

unexpected sight of faces which I had known in England, though they

called up the most painful associations, strengthened me, nevertheless,

in my resolution to be virtuous. My unexpected fortune at the Redoute,

the first night, made me forget all my resolves, and has led to all this

misery. I make my sad tale brief. I got involved at the New House: De

Boeffleurs once more assisted me, though his terms were most severe.

Yet, yet again, I was mad enough, vile enough, to risk what I did not

possess. I lost to Prince Salvinski and a Russian gentleman a

considerable sum on the night before the fête. It is often the custom at

the New House, as you know, among men who are acquainted, to pay and

receive all losses which are considerable on the next night of meeting.

The fête gave me breathing time: it was not necessary to redeem my

pledge till the fourth night. I rushed to De Boeffleurs; he refused to

assist me, alleging his own losses and his previous advance. What was to

be done? No possibility of making any arrangement with Salvinski. Had he

won of me as others have done, an arrangement, though painful, would

perhaps have been possible; but, by a singular fate, whenever I have

chanced to be successful, it is of this man that I have won. De

Boeffleurs, then, was the only chance. He was inexorable. I prayed to

him; I promised him everything; I offered him any terms; in vain! At

length, when he had worked me up to the last point of despair, he

whispered hope. I listened; let me be quick! why finish? You know I

fell!” The Baron again covered his face, and appeared perfectly

overwhelmed.

“By God! it is too horrible,” said St. George. “Grey, let us do

something for him.”

“My dear St. George,” said Vivian, “be calm. You are taken by surprise.

I was prepared for all this. Believe me, it is better for you to leave

us. I recommend you to retire, and meet me in the morning. Breakfast

with me at eight; we can then arrange everything.”

Vivian’s conduct had been so decisive, and evidently so well matured,

that St. George felt that, in the present case, it was for him only to

obey, and he retired with wonder still expressed on his countenance; for

he had not yet, in the slightest degree, recovered from the

first surprise.

“Baron von Konigstein,” said Vivian to the unhappy man, “we are alone.

Mr. St. George has left the room: you are freed from the painful

presence of the cousin of Captain Fane.”

“You know all, then!” exclaimed the Baron quickly, looking up, “or you

have read my secret thoughts. How wonderful! at that very moment I was

thinking of my friend. Would I had died with him! You know all, then;

and now you must believe me guilty. Yet, at this moment of annihilating

sorrow, when I can gain nothing by deceit, I swear; and if I swear

falsely, may I fall down a livid corpse at your feet; I swear that I was

guiltless of the crime for which I suffered, guiltless as yourself.

What may be my fate I know not. Probably a few hours, and all will be

over. Yet, before we part, sir, it would be a relief; you would be doing

a generous service to a dying man, to bear a message from me to one with

whom you are acquainted; to one whom I cannot now name.”

“Lady Madeleine Trevor?”

“Again you have read my thoughts! Lady Madeleine! Is it she who told you

of my early history?”

“All that I know is known to many.”

“I must speak! If you have time, if you can listen for half an hour to a

miserable being, it would be a consolation to me. I should die with ease

if I thought that Lady Madeleine could believe me innocent of that first

great offence.”

“Your Excellency may address anything to me, if it be your wish, even at

this hour of the night. It may be better; after what has passed, we

neither of us can sleep, and this business must be arranged at once.”

“My object is, that Lady Madeleine should receive from me at this

moment, at a time when I can have no interest to deceive, an account of

the particulars of her cousin’s and my friend’s death. I sent it written

after the horrid event; but she was ill, and Trevor, who was very bitter

against me, returned the letters unopened. For four years I have never

travelled without these rejected letters; this year I have them not. But

you could convey to Lady Madeleine my story as now given to you; to you

at this terrible moment.”

“Speak on!”

“I must say one word of my connection with the family to enable you

fully to understand the horrid event, of which, if, as I believe, you

only know what all know, you can form but a most imperfect conception.

When I was Minister at the Court of London I became acquainted; became,

indeed, intimate, with Mr. Trevor, then in office, the husband of Lady

Madeleine. She was just married. Of myself at that time, I may say that,

though depraved, I was not heartless, and that there were moments when I

panted to be excellent. Lady Madeleine and myself became friends; she

found in me a companion who not only respected her talents and delighted

in her conversation, but one who in return was capable of instructing,

and was overjoyed to amuse her. I loved her; but when I loved her I

ceased to be a libertine. At first I thought that nothing in the world

could have tempted me to have allowed her for an instant to imagine that

I dared to look upon her in any other light than as a friend; but the

negligence, the coldness of Trevor, the overpowering mastery of my own

passions, drove me one day past the line, and I wrote that which I dared

not utter. It never entered into my mind for an instant to insult such a

woman with the commonplace sophistry of a ribald. No! I loved her with

all my spirit’s strength. I would have sacrificed all my views in life,

my ambition, my family, my fortune, my country, to have gained her; and

I told her this in terms of respectful adoration. I worshipped the

divinity, even while I attempted to profane the altar. When I had sent

this letter I was in despair. Conviction of the insanity of my conduct

flashed across my mind. I expected never to see her again. There came an

answer; I opened it with the greatest agitation; to my surprise, an

appointment. Why trouble you with a detail of my feelings, my mad hope,

my dark despair! The moment for the interview arrived. I was received

neither with affection nor anger. In sorrow she spoke. I listened in

despair. I was more madly in love with her than ever. That very love

made me give her such evidences of a contrite spirit that I was

pardoned. I rose with a resolution to be virtuous, with a determination

to be her friend: then I made the fatal promise which you know of, to be

doubly the friend of a man whose friend I already was. It was then that

I pledged myself to Lady Madeleine to be the guardian spirit of her

cousin.” Here the Baron, overpowered by his emotions, leant back in his

chair, and ceased to speak. In a few minutes he resumed.

“I did my duty; by all that’s sacred, I did my duty! Night and day I was

with young Fane. A hundred times he was on the brink of ruin; a hundred

times I saved him. One day, one never-to-be-forgotten day, one most dark

and damnable day, I called on him, and found him on the point of joining

a coterie of desperate character. I remonstrated with him, I entreated,

I supplicated him not to go, in vain. At last he agreed to forego his

engagement on condition that I dined with him. There were important

reasons that day for my not staying with him; yet every consideration

vanished when I thought of her for whom I was exerting myself. He was

frantic this day; and, imagining that there was no chance of his

leaving his home, I did not refuse to drink freely, to drink deeply. My

doing so was the only way to keep him at home. As we were passing down

Pall Mall we met two foreigners of distinction and a noble of your

country; they were men of whom we both knew little. I had myself

introduced Fane to the foreigners a few days before, being aware that

they were men of high rank. After some conversation they asked us to

join them at supper at the house of their English friend. I declined;

but nothing could induce Fane to refuse them, and I finally accompanied

them. Play was introduced after supper: I made an ineffectual struggle

to get Fane home, but I was too full of wine to be energetic. After

losing a small sum I got up from the table, and, staggering to a sofa,

fell fast asleep. Even as I passed Fane’s chair in this condition, my

master thought was evident, and I pulled him by the shoulder: all was

useless; I woke to madness!” It was terrible to witness the anguish of

Von Konigstein.

“Could you not clear yourself?” asked Vivian, for he felt it necessary

to speak.

“Clear myself! Everything told against me. The villains were my friends,

not the sufferer’s; I was not injured. My dining with him was part of

the conspiracy; he was intoxicated previous to his ruin. Conscious of my

innocence, quite desperate, but confiding in my character, I accused the

guilty trio; they recriminated and answered, and without clearing

themselves convinced the public that I was their dissatisfied and

disappointed tool. I can speak no more.”

It is awful to witness sudden death; but, oh! how much more awful it is

to witness in a moment the moral fall of a fellow-creature! How

tremendous is the quick succession of mastering passions! The firm, the

terrifically firm, the madly resolute denial of guilt; that eagerness of

protestation which is a sure sign of crime, then the agonising suspense

before the threatened proof is produced, the hell of detection, the

audible anguish of sorrow, the curses of remorse, the silence of

despair! Few of us, unfortunately, have passed through life without

having beheld some instance of this instantaneous degradation of human

nature. But, oh! how terrible is it when the confessed criminal has been

but a moment before our friend! What a contrast to the laugh of joyous

companionship is the quivering tear of an agonised frame! how terrible

to be prayed to by those whose wishes a moment before we lived only to

anticipate!

“Von Konigstein,” said Vivian, after a long silence, “I feel for you.

Had I known this I would have spared both you and myself this night of

misery; I would have prevented you from looking back to this day with

remorse. You have suffered for that of which you were not guilty; you

shall not suffer now for what has passed. Much would I give to see you

freed from that wretched knave, whose vile career I was very nearly

tempted this evening to have terminated for ever. I shall make the

communication you desire, and I will endeavour that it shall be

credited; as to the transactions of this evening, the knowledge of them

can never transpire to the world. It is the interest of De Boeffleurs to

be silent; if he speak no one will credit the tale of such a creature,

who, if he speak truth, must proclaim his own infamy. And now for the

immediate calls upon your honour; in what sum are you indebted to Prince

Salvinski and his friend?”

“Thousands! two, three thousand.”

“I shall then have an opportunity of ridding myself of that the

acquisition of which, to me, has been matter of great sorrow. Your

honour is saved. I will discharge the claims of Salvinski and

his friend.”

“Impossible! I cannot allow--”

“Stop; in this business I must command. Surely there can be no feelings

of delicacy between us two now. If I gave you the treasures of the

Indies you would not be under so great an obligation to me as you are

already: I say this with pain. I recommend you to leave Ems to-morrow;

public business will easily account for your sudden departure. And now,

your character is yet safe, you are yet in the prime of life, you have

vindicated yourself from that which has preyed upon your mind for years;

cease to accuse your fate!” Vivian was about to leave the room when the

Baron started from his seat and seized his hand. He would have spoken,

but the words died upon his lips, and before he could recover himself

Vivian had retired.

CHAPTER XIV

The sudden departure of Baron von Konigstein from the Baths excited

great surprise and sorrow; all wondered at the cause, and all regretted

the effect. The Grand Duke missed his good stories, the rouge-et-noir

table his constant presence, and Monsieur le Restaurateur gave up, in

consequence, an embryo idea of a fête and fireworks for his own benefit,

which agreeable plan he had trusted that, with his Excellency’s generous

co-operation as patron, he should have had no difficulty in carrying

into execution. But no one was more surprised, and more regretted the

absence of his Excellency, than his friend Mr. Fitzloom. What could be

the reason? Public business, of course; indeed he had learnt as much,

confidentially, from Cracowsky. He tried Mr. Grey, but could elicit

nothing satisfactory; he pumped Mr. St. George, but produced only the

waters of oblivion: Mr. St. George was gifted, when it suited his

purpose, with a most convenient want of memory. There must be something

in the wind, perhaps a war. Was the independence of Greece about to be

acknowledged, or the dependence of Spain about to be terminated? What

first-rate Power had marched a million of soldiers into the land of a

weak neighbour, on the mere pretence of exercising the military? What

patriots had had the proud satisfaction of establishing a constitutional

government without bloodshed, to be set aside in the course of the next

month in the same manner? Had a conspiracy for establishing a republic

in Russia been frustrated by the timely information of the intended

first Consuls? Were the Janissaries learning mathematics, or had Lord

Cochrane taken Constantinople in the James Watt steampacket? One of

these many events must have happened; but which? At length Fitzloom

decided on a general war. England must interfere either to defeat the

ambition of France, or to curb the rapacity of Russia, or to check the

arrogance of Austria, or to regenerate Spain, or to redeem Greece, or to

protect Portugal, or to shield the Brazils, or to uphold the Bible

Societies, or to consolidate the Greek Church, or to monopolise the

commerce of Mexico, or to disseminate the principles of free trade, or

to keep up her high character, or to keep up the price of corn. England

must interfere. In spite of his conviction, however, Fitzloom did not

alter the arrangements of his tour; he still intended to travel for two

years. All he did was to send immediate orders to his broker in England

to sell two millions of consols. The sale was of course effected, the

example followed, stocks fell ten per cent., the exchange turned, money

became scarce. The public funds of all Europe experienced a great

decline, smash went the country banks, consequent runs on the London, a

dozen Baronets failed in one morning, Portland Place deserted, the cause

of infant Liberty at a terrific discount, the Greek loan disappeared

like a vapour in a storm, all the new American States refused to pay

their dividends, manufactories deserted, the revenue in a decline, the

country in despair, Orders in Council, meetings of Parliament, change of

Ministry, and new loan! Such were the terrific consequences of a

diplomatist turning blackleg! The secret history of the late distress is

a lesson to all modern statesmen. Rest assured that in politics, however

tremendous the effects, the causes are often as trifling.

Vivian found his reception by the Trevor party, the morning after the

memorable night, a sufficient reward for all his anxiety and exertion.

St. George, a generous, open-hearted young man, full of gratitude to

Vivian, and regretting his previous want of cordiality towards him, now

delighted in doing full justice to his coolness, courage, and ability.

Lady Madeleine said a great deal in the most graceful and impressive

manner; but Miss Fane scarcely spoke. Vivian, however, read in her eyes

her approbation and her gratitude.

“And now, how came you to discover the whole plot, Mr. Grey?” asked Lady

Madeleine, “for we have not yet heard. Was it at the table?”

“They would hardly have had recourse to such clumsy instruments as would

have given us the chance of detecting the conspiracy by casual

observation. No, no; we owe our preservation and our gratitude to one

whom we must hereafter count among our friends. I was prepared, as I

told you, for everything; and though I had seen similar cards to those

with which they played only a few hours before, it was with difficulty

that I satisfied myself at the table that the cards we lost by were

prepared, so wonderful is the contrivance!”

“But who is the unknown friend?” said Miss Fane, with great eagerness.

“I must have the pleasure of keeping you all in suspense,” said Vivian:

“cannot any of you guess?”

“None, none, none!”

“What say you, then, to--Essper George?”

“Is it possible?”

“It is the fact that he, and he alone, is our preserver. Soon after my

arrival at this place this singular being was seized with the

unaccountable fancy of becoming my servant. You all remember his

unexpected appearance one day in the saloon. In the evening of the same

day, I found him sleeping at the door of my room; and, thinking it high

time that he should be taught more discretion, I spoke to him very

seriously the next morning respecting his troublesome and eccentric

conduct. It was then that I learnt his wish. I objected, of course, to

engaging a servant of whose previous character I was ignorant, and of

which I could not be informed, and one whose peculiar habits would

render both himself and his master notorious. While I declined his

services, I also advised him most warmly to give up all idea of

deserting his present mode of life, for which I thought him extremely

well suited. The consequence of my lecture was, what you all perceived

with surprise, a great change in Essper’s character. He became serious,

reserved, and retiring, and commenced his career as a respectable

character by throwing off his quaint costume. In a short time, by dint

of making a few bad bargains, he ingratiated himself with Ernstorff, Von

Konigstein’s pompous chasseur. His object in forming this connection was

to gain an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the duties of a

gentleman’s servant, and in this he has succeeded. About a week since,

he purchased from Ernstorff a large quantity of cast-off apparel of the

Baron’s, and other perquisites of a great man’s valet; among these were

some playing cards which had been borrowed one evening in great haste

from the servant of that rascal De Boeffleurs, and never returned. On

accidentally examining these cards, Essper detected they were marked.

The system on which the marks are formed and understood is so simple and

novel, that it was long before I could bring myself to believe that his

suspicions were founded even on a probability. At length, however, he

convinced me. It is at Vienna, he tells me, that he has met with these

cards before. The marks are all on the rim of the cards; and an

experienced dealer, that is to say, a blackleg, can with these marks

produce any results and combinations which may suit his purpose. Essper

tells me that De Boeffleurs is even more skilled in sleight-of-hand than

himself. From Ernstorff, Essper learnt on the day of the fête that Mr.

St. George was to dine with the Chevalier at the Baron’s apartments on

the morrow, and that there was a chance that I should join them. He

suspected that villany was in the wind, and when I retired to my room at

a late hour on the night of the fête, I there met him, and it was then

that he revealed to me everything which I have told you. Am I not right,

then, in calling him our preserver?”

“What can be done for him?” said Lady Madeleine.

“His only wish is already granted; he is my servant. That he will serve

me diligently and faithfully I have no doubt. I only wish that he would

accept or could appreciate a more worthy reward.”

“Can man be more amply rewarded,” said Miss Fane, “than by choosing his

own remuneration? I think he has shown in his request his accustomed

talent. I must go and see him this moment.”

“Say nothing of what has passed; he is prepared for silence from all

parties.”

A week, a happy week, passed over, and few minutes of the day found

Vivian absent from the side of Violet Fane; and now he thought again of

England, of his return to that country under very different

circumstances to what he had ever contemplated. Soon, very soon, he

trusted to write to his father, to announce to him the revolution in his

wishes, the consummation of his hopes. Soon, very soon, he trusted that

he should hail his native cliffs, a reclaimed wanderer, with a matured

mind and a contented spirit, his sorrows forgotten, his misanthropy

laid aside.

CHAPTER XV

It was about a week after the departure of the Baron that two young

Englishmen, who had been college friends of Mr. St. George, arrived at

the Baths. These were Mr. Anthony St. Leger and Mr. Adolphus St. John.

In the academic shades of Christchurch these three gentlemen had been

known as “All Saints.” Among their youthful companions they bore the

more martial style of “The Three Champions,” St. George, St. John, and

St. Anthony.

St. John and St. Anthony had just completed the grand tour, and, after

passing the Easter at Rome, had returned through the Tyrol from Italy.

Since then they had travelled over most parts of Germany; and now, in

the beginning of July, found themselves at the Baths of Ems. Two years’

travel had not produced any very beneficial effect on either of these

sainted personages. They had gained, by visiting the capitals of all

Europe, only a due acquaintance with the follies of each; and the only

difference that could be observed in their conduct on their return was,

that their affectation was rather more fantastical, and therefore

more amusing.

“Corpo di Bacco, my champion! who ever thought of meeting thee thou holy

saint! By the eyebrow of Venus, my spirit rejoiceth!” exclaimed St.

Anthony, whose peculiar affectation was an adoption in English of the

Italian oaths.

“This is the sweetest spot, St. Anthony, that we have found since we

left Paradiso; that is, St. George, in the vulgar, since we quitted

Italia. ‘Italia! O Italia!’ I forget the rest; probably you remember it.

Certainly, a most sweet spot this, quite a Gaspar!”

Art was the peculiar affectation of St. John; he was, indeed, quite a

patron of the Belle Arti, had scattered his orders through the studios

of most of the celebrated sculptors of Italy, and spoke on all subjects

and all things only with a view to their capability of forming material

for the painter. According to the school of which Mr. St. John was a

disciple, the only use of the human passions is, that they produce

situations for the historical painter; and nature, according to these

votaries of the [Greek: to kalon], is only to be valued as affording

hints for the more perfect conceptions of a Claude or a Salvator.

“By the girdle of Venus, a devilish fine woman!” exclaimed St. Anthony.

“A splendid bit!” ejaculated St. John; “touched in with freedom, a grand

tournure, great gout in the swell of the neck. What a study for Retsch!”

“In the name of the Graces, who is it, mio Santo?”

“Ay! name la bellissima Signora.”

“The ‘fine bit,’ St. John, is my sister.”

“The devil!”

“Diavolo!”

“Will you introduce us, most holy man?”

This request from both, simultaneously arranging their mustachios.

The two saints were accordingly, in due time, introduced; but finding

the attention of Miss Fane always engrossed, and receiving some not very

encouraging responses from Lady Madeleine, they voted her ladyship

cursedly satirical; and passing a general censure on the annoying

coldness of Englishwomen, they were in four-and-twenty hours attached to

the suite of the Miss Fitzlooms, to whom they were introduced by St.

George as his particular friends, and were received with the most

flattering consideration.

“By the aspect of Diana! fine girls,” swore St. Anthony.

“Truly most gorgeous colouring! quite Venetian! Aurelia is a perfect

Giorgione!” said St. John.

“Madeleine,” said St. George, one morning, to his sister, “have you any

objection to make up a party with the Fitzlooms to pass a day at Nassau?

You know we have often talked of it; and as Violet is so well now, and

the weather so delightful, there surely can be no objection. The

Fitzlooms are very agreeable people; and though you do not admire the

Santi, still, upon my word, when you know them a little more, you will

find them very pleasant fellows, and they are extremely good-natured;

and just the fellows for such a party. Do not refuse me. I have set my

mind upon your joining the party. Pray nod assent; thank you. Now I must

go and arrange everything. Let us see: there are seven Fitzlooms; for we

cannot count on less than two boys; yourself, Grey, Violet, and myself,

four; the Santi; quite enough, a most delightful party. Half a dozen

servants and as many donkeys will manage the provisions. Then three

light carriages will take us all. ‘By the wand of Mercury!’ as St.

Anthony would vow, admirably planned!”

“By the breath of Zephyr! a most lovely day, Miss Fane,” said St.

Anthony, on the morning of the intended excursion.

“Quite a Claude!” said St. John.

“Almost as beautiful as an Italian winter day, Mr. St. Leger?” asked

Miss Fane.

“Hardly!” said St. Anthony, with a serious air; for he imagined the

question to be quite genuine.

The carriages are at the door; into the first ascended Mrs. Fitzloom,

two daughters, and the travelling saints. The second bore Lady

Madeleine, Mr. Fitzloom, and his two sons; the third division was formed

of Mr. St. George and Aurelia Fitzloom, Miss Fane and Vivian.

Away, away, rolled the carriages; the day was beautiful, the sky was

without a cloud, and a mild breeze prevented the heat of the sun from

being overpowering. All were in high spirits; for St. George had made a

capital master of the ceremonies, and had arranged the company in the

carriages to their mutual satisfaction. St. Anthony swore, by the soul

of Psyche! that Augusta Fitzloom was an angel; and St. John was in equal

raptures with Araminta, who had an expression about the eyes which

reminded him, of Titian’s Flora. Mrs. Fitzloom’s natural silence did not

disturb the uninterrupted jargon of the Santi, whose foppery elicited

loud and continued approbation from the fair sisters. The mother sat

admiring these sprigs of noble trees. The young Fitzlooms, in crimson

cravats, conversed with Lady Madeleine with a delightful military air;

and their happy parent, as he gazed upon them with satisfied affection,

internally promised them both a commission in a crack regiment.

The road from Ems to Nassau winds along the banks of the Lahn, through

two leagues of delightful scenery; at the end of which, springing up

from the peak of a bold and richly-wooded mountain, the lofty tower of

the ancient castle of Nassau meets your view. Winding walks round the

sides of the mountain lead through all the varieties of sylvan scenery,

and command in all points magnificent views of the surrounding country.

These finally bring you to the old castle, whose spacious chambers,

though now choked up with masses of grey ruin or covered with underwood,

still bear witness to the might of their former lord! the powerful Baron

whose sword gained for his posterity a throne.

All seemed happy; none happier than Violet Fane. Never did she look so

beautiful as to-day, never was she so animated, never had she boasted

that her pulse beat more melodious music, or her lively blood danced a

more healthful measure. After examining all the antique chambers of the

castle, and discovering, as they flattered themselves, secret passages,

and dark dungeons, and hidden doors, they left this interesting relic of

the middle ages; and soon, by a gradual descent through delightful

shrubberies, they again found themselves at the bottom of the valley.

Here they visited the modern château of Baron von Stein, one of the most

enlightened and able politicians that Germany has ever produced. As

Minister of Prussia, he commenced those reforms which the illustrious

Hardenberg perfected. For upwards of five centuries the family of Stein

have retained their territorial possessions in the valley of the Lahn.

Their family castle, at present a ruin, and formerly a fief of the House

of Nassau, is now only a picturesque object in the pleasure-grounds of

the present lord.

The noon had passed some hours before the delighted wanderers complained

of fatigue, and by that time they found themselves in a pleasant green

glade on the skirts of the forest of Nassau. It was nearly environed by

mountains, covered with hanging woods, which shaded the beautiful

valley, and gave it the appearance of a sylvan amphitheatre. From a

rocky cleft in these green mountains a torrent, dashing down with

impetuous force, and whose fall was almost concealed by the cloud of

spray which it excited, gave birth to a small and gentle river, whose

banks were fringed with beautiful trees, which prevented the sun’s darts

from piercing its coldness, by bowing their fair heads over its waters.

From their extending branches Nature’s choristers sent forth many a

lovely lay

Of God’s high praise, and of their loves’ sweet teen.

Near the banks of this river, the servants, under the active direction

of Essper George, had prepared a banquet for the party. The cloth had

been laid on a raised work of wood and turf, and rustic seats of the

same material surrounded the picturesque table. It glowed with

materials, and with colours to which Veronese alone could have done

justice: pasties, and birds, and venison, and groups of fish, gleamy

with prismatic hues, while amid pyramids of fruit rose goblets of

fantastic glass, worthy of the famous wines they were to receive.

“Well!” said Miss Fane, “I never will be a member of an adventurous

party like the present, of which Albert is not manager.”

“I must not take the whole credit upon myself, Violet; St. John is

butler, and St. Leger my vice-chamberlain.”

“Well, I cannot praise Mr. St. John till I have tasted the malvoisie

which he has promised; but as for the other part of the entertainment,

Mr. St. Leger, I am sure this is a temptation which it would be a sin,

even in St. Anthony, to withstand.’

“By the body of Bacchus, very good!” swore Mr. St. Leger.

“These mountains,” said Mr. St. John, “remind me of one of Gaspar’s cool

valleys. The party, indeed, give it a different character, quite

a Watteau!”

“Now, Mrs. Fitzloom,” said St. George, who was in his element, “let me

recommend a little of this pike! Lady Madeleine, I have sent you some

lamb. Miss Fitzloom, I hope St. Anthony is taking care of you.

Wrightson, plates to Mr. St. Leger. Holy man, and much beloved! send

Araminta some chicken. Grey has helped you, Violet? Aurelia, this is for

you. William Pitt Fitzloom, I leave you to yourself. George Canning

Fitzloom, take care of the ladies near you. Essper George! Where is

Essper? St. John, who is your deputy in the wine department? Wrightson!

bring those long green bottles out of the river, and put the champagne

underneath the willow. Will your Ladyship take some light claret? Mrs.

Fitzloom, you must use your tumbler; nothing but tumblers allowed, by

Miss Fane’s particular request!”

“St. George, thou holy man!” said Miss Fane, “methinks you are very

impertinent. You shall not be my patron saint if you say such words.”

For the next hour there was nothing heard save the calling of servants,

the rattling of knives and forks, the drawing of corks, and continued

bursts of laughter, which were not occasioned by any brilliant

observations, either of the Saints, or any other persons, but merely the

result of an exuberance of spirits on the part of every one present.

“Well, Aurelia,” said Lady Madeleine, “do you prefer our present mode of

life to feasting in an old hall, covered with banners and battered

shields, and surrounded by mysterious corridors and dark dungeons?”

Aurelia was so flattered by the notice of Lady Madeleine, that she made

her no answer; probably because she was intent on a plover’s egg.

“I think we might all retire to this valley,” said Miss Fane, “and

revive the feudal times with great success. Albert might take us to

Nassau Castle, and you, Mr. Fitzloom, might re-fortify the old tower of

Stein. With two sons, however, who are about to enter the Guards, I am

afraid we must be your vassals. Then what should we do? We could not

have wood parties every day; I suppose we should get tired of each

other. No! that does seem impossible; do not you all think so?”

Omnes, “Impossible!”

“We must, however, have some regular pursuit, some cause of constant

excitement, some perpetual source of new emotions. New ideas, of course,

we must give up; there would be no going to London for the season, for

new opinions to astound country cousins on our return. Some pursuit must

be invented; we all must have something to do. I have it! Albert shall

be a tyrant.”

“I am very much obliged to you, Violet.”

“Yes! a cruel, unprincipled, vindictive, remorseless tyrant, with a long

black beard, I cannot tell how long, about twenty thousand times longer

than Mr. St. Leger’s mustachios.”

“By the beard of Jove!” swore St. Anthony, as he almost started from his

seat, and arranged with his thumb and forefinger the delicate Albanian

tuft of his upper lip, “by the beard of Jove, Miss Fane, I am obliged

to you.”

“Well, then,” continued Violet, “Albert being a tyrant, Lady Madeleine

must be an unhappy, ill-used, persecuted woman, living on black bread

and green water, in an unknown dungeon. My part shall be to discover her

imprisonment. Sounds of strange music attract my attention to a part of

the castle which I have not before frequented. There I shall distinctly

hear a female voice chaunting the ‘Bridesmaids’ Chorus,’ with Erard’s

double pedal accompaniment. By the aid of the confessors of the two

families, two drinking, rattling, impertinent, most corrupt, and most

amusing friars, to wit, our sainted friends--”

Here both Mr. St. Leger and Mr. St. John bowed low to Miss Fane.

“A most lively personage is Miss Fane,” whispered St. Anthony to his

neighbour, Miss Fitzloom, “great style!”

“Most amusing, delightful girl, great style! rather a display today, I

think.”

“Oh, decidedly! and devilish personal too; some people wouldn’t like it.

I have no doubt she will say something about you next.”

“Oh, I shall be very surprised, indeed, if she does! It may be very well

to you, but Miss Fane must be aware--”

Before this pompous sentence could be finished an incident occurred

which prevented Miss Fane from proceeding with her allotment of

characters, and rendered unnecessary the threatened indignation of

Miss Fitzloom.

Miss Fane, as we mentioned, suddenly ceased speaking; the eyes of all

were turned in the direction in which she was gazing as if she had

seen a ghost.

“What are you looking up at, Violet?” asked St. George.

“Did not you see anything? did not any of you see anything?”

“None, none!”

“Mr. Grey, surely you must have seen it!”

“I saw nothing.”

“It could not be fancy; impossible. I saw it distinctly. I cannot be in

a dream. See there! again, on that topmost branch. It moves!”

Some odd shrill sounds, uttered in the voice of a Pulcinello, attracted

the notice of them all; and lo! high in the air, behind a lofty chestnut

tree, the figure of a Pulcinello did appear, hopping and vaulting in the

unsubstantial air. Now it sent forth another shrill, piercing sound, and

now, with both its hands, it patted and complacently stroked its ample

paunch; dancing all the time with unremitting activity, and wagging its

queer head at the astounded guests.

“Who, what can it be?” cried all. The Misses Fitzloom shrieked, and the

Santi seemed quite puzzled.

“Who, what can it be?”

Ere time could be given for any one to hazard a conjecture, the figure

had advanced from behind the trees, and had spanned in an instant the

festal board, with two enormous stilts, on which they now perceived it

was mounted. The Misses Fitzloom shrieked again. The figure imitated

their cries in his queer voice, and gradually raising one enormous stilt

up into the air, stood only on one support, which was planted behind the

lovely Araminta.

“O! inimitable Essper George!” exclaimed Violet Fane.

Here Signor Punch commenced a song, which he executed in the tone

peculiar to his character, and in a style which drew applauses from all;

and then, with a hop, step, and a jump, he was again behind the

chestnut-tree. In a moment he advanced without his stilts towards the

table. Here, on the turf, he again commenced his antics; kicking his

nose with his right foot, and his hump with his left one; executing

splendid somersets, and cutting every species of caper, and never

ceasing for a moment from performing all his movements to the inspiring

music of his own melodious voice. At last, jumping up very high in the

air, he fell as if all his joints were loosened, and the Misses

Fitzloom, imagining that his bones were really broken, shrieked again.

But now Essper began the wonderful performance of a dead body possessed

by a devil, and in a minute his shattered corpse, apparently without the

assistance of any of its members, began to jump and move about the

ground with miraculous rapidity. At length it disappeared behind the

chestnut-tree.

“I really think,” said Mr. St. George, “it is the most agreeable day I

ever passed in all my life.”

“Decidedly!” said St. Anthony. “St. John, you remember our party to

Paestum with Lady Calabria M’Crater and the Marquis of Agrigentum. It

was nothing to this! Nothing! Do you know I thought that rather dull.”

“Yes, too elaborate; too highly finished; nothing of the pittore

improvisatore. A party of this kind should be more sketchy in its style;

the outline more free, and less detail.”

“Essper is coming out to-day,” said Vivian to Miss Fane, “after a long,

and, I venture to say, painful forbearance. However, I hope you will

excuse him. It seems to amuse us.”

“I think it is delightful. See! here he comes again.”

He now appeared in his original costume; the one in which Vivian first

met him at the fair. Bowing, he threw his hand carelessly over his

mandolin, and having tried the melody of its strings, sang with great

taste, and a sweet voice; sweeter from its contrast with its previous

shrill tones; a very pretty romance. All applauded him very warmly, and

no one more so than Miss Fane.

“Ah! inimitable Essper George, how can we sufficiently thank you! How

well he plays! and his voice is quite beautiful. Oh! could not we dance?

would not it be delightful? and he could play on his guitar. Think of

the delicious turf!”

Omnes, “Delightful! delightful!” They rose from the table.

“Violet, my dear,” asked Lady Madeleine, “what are you going to do?”

“By the toe of Terpsichore!” as Mr. St. Leger would say, “I am going to

dance.”

“But remember, to-day you have done so much! let us be moderate; though

you feel so much better, still think what a change to-day has been from

your usual habits!”

“But, dearest Lady Madeleine, think of dancing on the turf, and I feel

so well!”

“By the Graces! I am for the waltz,” said St. Anthony.

“It has certainly a very free touch to recommend it,” said St. John.

“No, no,” said Violet; “let us all join in a country dance.” But the

Misses Fitzloom preferred a quadrille.

The quadrille was soon formed: Violet made up for not dancing with

Vivian at the Grand Duke’s. She was most animated, and kept up a

successful rivalry with Mr. St. Leger, who evidently prided himself, as

Mr. Fitzloom observed, “on his light fantastic toe.” Now he pirouetted

like Paul, and now he attitudinised like Albert; and now Miss Fane

eclipsed all his exertions by her inimitable imitations of Ronzi

Vestris’ rushing and arrowy manner. St. Anthony, in despair, but quite

delighted, revealed a secret which had been taught him by a Spanish

dancer at Milan; but then Miss Fane vanquished him for ever with the pas

de Zephyr of the exquisite Fanny Bias.

The day was fast declining when the carriages arrived; the young people

were in no humour to return; and as, when they had once entered the

carriage, the day seemed finished for ever, they proposed walking part

of the way home. Lady Madeleine made little objection to Violet joining

the party, as after the exertion that Miss Fane had been making, a drive

in an open carriage might be dangerous: and yet the walk was too long,

but all agreed that it would be impossible to shorten it; and, as Violet

declared that she was not in the least fatigued, the lesser evil was

therefore chosen. The carriages rolled off; at about halfway from Ems,

the two empty ones were to wait for the walking party. Lady Madeleine

smiled with fond affection, as she waved her hand to Violet the moment

before she was out of sight.

“And now,” said St. George, “good people all, instead of returning by

the same road, it strikes me, that there must be a way through this

little wood; you see there is an excellent path. Before the sun is set

we shall have got through it, and it will bring us out, I have no doubt,

by the old cottage which you observed, Grey, when we came along. I saw a

gate and path there; just where we first got sight of Nassau Castle;

there can be no doubt about it. You see it is a regular right-angle, and

besides varying the walk, we shall at least gain a quarter of an hour,

which, after all, as we have to walk nearly three miles, is an object.

It is quite clear, if I have a head for anything, it is for finding

my way.”

“I think you have a head for everything,” said Aurelia Fitzloom, in a

soft sentimental whisper; “I am sure we owe all our happiness to-day

to you!”

“If I have a head for everything, I have a heart only for one person!”

As every one wished to be convinced, no one offered any argument in

opposition to Mr. St. George’s view of the case; and some were already

in the wood.

“Albert,” said Miss Fane, “I do not like walking in the wood so late;

pray come back.”

“Oh, nonsense, Violet! come. If you do not like to come, you can walk by

the road; you will meet us round by the gate, it is only five minutes’

walk.” Ere he had finished speaking, the rest were in the wood, and some

had advanced. Vivian strongly recommended Violet not to join them; he

was sure that Lady Madeleine would not approve of it; he was sure that

it was very dangerous, extremely; and, by-the-bye, while he was talking,

which way had they gone? he did not see them. He halloed; all answered,

and a thousand echoes besides. “We certainly had better go by the road,

we shall lose our way if we try to follow them; nothing is so puzzling

as walking in woods; we had much better keep to the road.” So by the

road they went.

The sun had already sunk behind the mountains, whose undulating forms

were thrown into dark shadow against the crimson sky. The thin crescent

of the new moon floated over the eastern hills, whose deep woods glowed

with the rosy glories of twilight. Over the peak of a purple mountain

glittered the solitary star of evening. As the sun dropped, universal

silence seemed to pervade the whole face of nature. The voice of the

birds was still; the breeze, which had refreshed them during the day,

died away, as if its office were now completed; and none of the dark

sounds and sights of hideous Night yet dared to triumph over the death

of Day. Unseen were the circling wings of the bat; unheard the

screech of the waking owl; silent the drowsy hum of the shade-born

beetle! What heart has not acknowledged the influence of this hour, the

sweet and soothing hour of twilight! the hour of love, the hour of

adoration, the hour of rest! when we think of those we love, only to

regret that we have not loved more dearly; when we remember our enemies

only to forgive them!

And Vivian and his beautiful companion owned the magic of this hour, as

all must do, by silence. No word was spoken, yet is silence sometimes a

language. They gazed, and gazed again, and their full spirits held due

communion with the starlit sky, and the mountains and the woods, and the

soft shadows of the increasing moon. Oh! who can describe what the

o’ercharged spirit feels at this sacred hour, when we almost lose the

consciousness of existence, and our souls seem to struggle to pierce

futurity! In the forest of the mysterious Odenwald, in the solitudes of

the Bergstrasse, had Vivian at this hour often found consolation for a

bruised spirit, often in adoring nature had forgotten man. But now, when

he had never felt nature’s influence more powerful; when he had never

forgotten man and man’s world more thoroughly; when he was experiencing

emotions, which, though undefinable, he felt to be new; he started when

he remembered that all this was in the presence of a human being! Was it

Hesperus he gazed upon, or something else that glanced brighter than an

Evening star? Even as he thought that his gaze was fixed on the

countenance of nature, he found that his eyes rested on the face of

nature’s loveliest daughter!

“Violet! dearest Violet!”

As in some delicious dream the sleeper is awakened from his bliss by the

sound of his own rapturous voice, so was Vivian roused by these words

from his reverie, and called back to the world which he had forgotten.

But ere a moment had passed, he was pouring forth in a rapid voice, and

incoherent manner, such words as men speak only once. He spoke of his

early follies, his misfortunes, his misery; of his matured views, his

settled principles, his plans, his prospects, his hopes, his happiness,

his bliss; and when he had ceased, he listened, in his turn, to some

small still words, which made him the happiest of human beings. He bent

down, he kissed the soft silken cheek which now he could call his own.

Her hand was in his; her head sank upon his breast. Suddenly she clung

to him with a strong grasp. “Violet! my own, my dearest; you are

overcome. I have been rash, I have been imprudent. Speak, speak, my

beloved! say, you are not ill!”

She spoke not, but clung to him with a fearful strength, her head still

upon his breast, her full eyes closed. Alarmed, he raised her off the

ground, and bore her to the river-side. Water might revive her. But when

he tried to lay her a moment on the bank, she clung to him gasping, as a

sinking person clings to a stout swimmer. He leant over her; he did not

attempt to disengage her arms; and, by degrees, by very slow degrees,

her grasp loosened. At last her arms gave way and fell by his side, and

her eyes partly opened.

“Thank God! Violet, my own, my beloved, say you are better!”

She answered not, evidently she did not know him, evidently she did not

see him. A film was on her sight, and her eye was glassy. He rushed to

the water-side, and in a moment he had sprinkled her temples, now

covered with a cold dew. Her pulse beat not, her circulation seemed

suspended. He rubbed the palms of her hands, he covered her delicate

feet with his coat; and then rushing up the bank into the road, he

shouted with frantic cries on all sides. No one came, no one was near.

Again, with a cry of fearful anguish, he shouted as if an hyaena were

feeding on his vitals. No sound; no answer. The nearest cottage was

above a mile off. He dared not leave her. Again he rushed down to the

water-side. Her eyes were still open, still fixed. Her mouth also was no

longer closed. Her hand was stiff, her heart had ceased to beat. He

tried with the warmth of his own body to revive her. He shouted, he

wept, he prayed. All, all in vain. Again he was in the road, again

shouting like an insane being. There was a sound. Hark! It was but the

screech of an owl!

Once more at the river-side, once more bending over her with starting

eyes, once more the attentive ear listening for the soundless breath. No

sound! not even a sigh! Oh! what would he have given for her shriek of

anguish! No change had occurred in her position, but the lower part of

her face had fallen; and there was a general appearance which struck him

with awe. Her body was quite cold, her limbs stiffened. He gazed, and

gazed, and gazed. He bent over her with stupor rather than grief stamped

on his features. It was very slowly that the dark thought came over his

mind, very slowly that the horrible truth seized upon his soul. He gave

a loud shriek, and fell on the lifeless body of VIOLET FANE!

[Illustration: dark thought]

BOOK VI

CHAPTER I

The green and bowery summer had passed away. It was midnight when two

horsemen pulled up their steeds beneath a wide oak; which, with other

lofty trees, skirted the side of a winding road in an extensive forest

in the south of Germany.

“By heavens!” said one, who apparently was the master, “we must even lay

our cloaks, I think, under this oak; for the road winds again, and

assuredly cannot lead now to our village.”

“A starlit sky in autumn can scarcely be the fittest curtain for one so

weak as you, sir; I should recommend travelling on, if we keep on our

horses’ backs till dawn.”

“But if we are travelling in a directly contrary way to our voiturier,

honest as we may suppose him to be, if he find in the morning no

paymaster for his job, he may with justice make free with our baggage.

And I shall be unusually mistaken if the road we are now pursuing does

not lead back to the city.”

“City, town, or village, you must sleep under no forest tree, sir. Let

us ride on. It will be hard if we do not find some huntsman’s or

ranger’s cottage; and for aught we know a neat snug village, or some

comfortable old manor-house, which has been in the family for two

centuries; and where, with God’s blessing, they may chance to have wine

as old as the bricks. I know not how you may feel, sir, but a ten hours’

ride when I was only prepared for half the time, and that, too, in an

autumn night, makes me somewhat desirous of renewing my acquaintance

with the kitchen-fire.”

“I could join you in a glass of hock and a slice of venison, I confess,

my good fellow; but in a nocturnal ride I am no longer your match.

However, if you think it best, we will prick on our steeds for another

hour. If it be only for them, I am sure we must soon stop.”

“Ay! do, sir; and put your cloak well round you; all is for the best.

You are not, I guess, a Sabbath-born child?”

“That am I not, but how would that make our plight worse than it is?

Should we be farther off supper?”

“Nearer, perhaps, than you imagine; for we should then have a chance of

sharing the spoils of the Spirit Hunter.”

“Ah! Essper, is it so?”

“Truly yes, sir; and were either of us a Sabbath-born child, by holy

cross! I would not give much for our chance of a down bed this night.”

Here a great horned owl flew across the road.

“Were I in the north,” said Essper, “I would sing an Ave Mary against

the STUT OZEL.”

“What call you that?” asked Vivian.

“Tis the great bird, sir; the great horned owl, that always flies before

the Wild Hunter. And truly, sir, I have passed through many forests in

my time, but never yet saw I one where I should sooner expect to hear a

midnight bugle. If you will allow me, sir, I will ride by your side.

Thank God, at least, it is not the Walpurgis night!”

“I wish to Heaven it were!” said Vivian, “and that we were on the

Brocken. It must be highly amusing!”

“Hush! hush! it is lucky we are not in the Hartz; but we know not where

we are, nor who at this moment may be behind us.”

And here Essper began pouring forth a liturgy of his own, half Catholic

and half Calvinistic, quite in character with the creed of the country

through which they were travelling.

“My horse has stumbled,” continued Essper, “and yours, sir, is he not

shying? There is a confounded cloud over the moon, but I have no sight

in the dark if that mass before you be not a devil’s-stone. The Lord

have mercy upon our sinful souls!”

“Peace! Essper,” said Vivian, who was surprised to find him really

alarmed; “I see nothing but a block of granite, no uncommon sight in a

German forest.”

“It is a devil-stone, I tell you, sir; there has been some church here,

which he has knocked down in the night. Look! is it the moss-people that

I see! As sure as I am a hungry sinner, the Wild One is out a-hunting

to-night.”

“More luck for us, if we meet him. His dogs, as you say, may gain us a

supper. I think our wisest course will be to join the cry.”

“Hush! hush! you would not talk so if you knew what your share of the

spoils might be. Ay! if you did, sir, your cheek would be paler, and

your very teeth would chatter. I knew one man who was travelling in the

forest, just as we are now; it was about this time; and he believed in

the Wild Huntsman about as much as you, that is, he liked to talk of the

Spirit, merely to have the opportunity of denying that he believed in

him; which showed, as I used to say, that his mind was often thinking of

it. He was a merry knave, and as firm a hand for a boar-spear as ever I

met with, and I have met many. We used to call him, before the accident,

Left-handed Hans, but they call him now, sir, the Child-Hunter. Oh! it

is a very awful tale, and I would sooner tell it in blazing hall than in

free forest. You did not hear any sound to the left, did you?”

“Nothing but the wind, Essper; on with your tale, my man.”

“It is a very awful tale, sir, but I will make short work of it. You

see, sir, it was a night just like this; the moon was generally hid, but

the stars prevented it from ever being pitch dark. And so, sir, he was

travelling alone; he had been up to the castle of the baron, his master;

you see, sir, he was head-ranger to his lordship, and he always returned

home through the forest. What he was thinking of, I cannot say, but most

likely of no good; when all on a sudden he heard the baying of hounds in

the distance. Now directly he heard it; I have heard him tell the story

a thousand times; directly he heard it, it struck him that it must be

the Spirit Huntsman; and though there were many ways to account for the

hounds, still he never for a moment doubted that they were the

hell-dogs. The sounds came nearer and nearer. Now I tell you this,

because if ever, which the Holy Virgin forbid! if ever you meet the Wild

Huntsman, you will know how to act: conduct yourself always with

propriety, make no noise, but behave like a gentleman, and don’t put the

dogs off the scent; stand aside, and let him pass. Don’t talk; he has no

time to lose; for if he hunt after daybreak, a night’s sport is

forfeited for every star left in the morning sky. So, sir, you see

nothing puts him in a greater passion than to lose his time in answering

impertinent questions. Well, sir, Left-handed Hans stood by the

road-side. The baying of the dogs was so distinct, that he felt that in

a moment the Wild One would be up: his horse shivered like a sallow in a

storm. He heard the tramp of the Spirit-steed: they came in sight. As

the tall figure of the Huntsman passed; I cannot tell you what it was;

it might have been; Lord, forgive me for thinking what it might have

been! but a voice from behind Hans, a voice so like his own, that for a

moment he fancied that he had himself spoken, although he was conscious

that his lips had been firmly closed the whole time; a voice from the

road-side, just behind poor Hans, mind, said, ‘Good sport, Sir Huntsman,

‘tis an odd light to track a stag!’ The poor man, sir, was all of an

ague; but how much greater was his horror when the tall huntsman

stopped! He thought that he was going to be eaten up on the spot, at

least: not at all. ‘My friend!’ said the Wild One, in the kindest voice

imaginable; ‘my friend, would you like to give your horse a breathing

with us?’ Poor Hans was so alarmed that it never entered into his head

for a single moment to refuse the invitation, and instantly he was

galloping by the side of the Wild Huntsman. Away they flew! away! away!

away! over bog, and over mere; over ditch, and over hedge; away! away!

away! and the Ranger’s horse never failed, but kept by the side of the

Wild Spirit without the least distress; and yet it is very singular that

Hans was about to sell this very beast only a day before, for a matter

of five crowns: you see, he only kept it just to pick his way at night

from the castle to his own cottage. Well, it is very odd, but Hans soon

lost all fear, for the sport was so fine and he had such a keen relish

for the work, that, far from being alarmed, he thought himself one of

the luckiest knaves alive. But the oddest thing all this time was, that

Hans never caught sight for one moment of either buck or boar, although

he saw by the dogs’ noses that there was something keen in the wind, and

although he felt that if the hunted beast were like any that he had

himself ever followed before, it must have been run down with such dogs,

quicker than a priest could say a paternoster. At last, for he had grown

quite bold, says Hans to the Wild Huntsman, ‘The beasts run quick o’

nights, sir, I think; it has been a long time, I ween, ere I scampered

so far, and saw so little!’ Do you know that the old gentleman was not

the least affronted, but said, in the pleasantest voice imaginable, ‘A

true huntsman should be patient, Hans; you will see the game quick

enough; look forward, man! what see you?’ And sure enough, your

Highness, he did look forward. It was near the skirts of the forest,

there was a green glade before them, and very few trees, and therefore

he could see far a-head. The moon was shining very bright, and sure

enough, what did he see? Running as fleet over the turf as a rabbit, was

a child. The little figure was quite black in the moonlight, and Hans

could not catch its face: in a moment the hell-dogs were on it. Hans

quivered like a windy reed, and the Wild One laughed till the very woods

echoed. ‘How like you hunting moss-men?’ asked the Spirit. Now when Hans

found it was only a moss-man, he took heart again, and said in a shaking

voice, that ‘It is rare good sport in good company;’ and then the Spirit

jumped off his horse, and said, ‘Now, Hans, you must watch me well, for

I am little used to bag game.’ He said this with a proudish air, as much

as to hint, that had he not expected Hans he would not have rode out

this evening without his groom. So the Wild One jumped on his horse

again, and put the bag before him. It was nearly morning when Hans found

himself at the door of his own cottage; and, bowing very respectfully to

the Spirit Hunter, he thanked him for the sport, and begged his share of

the night’s spoil. This was all in joke, but Hans had heard that ‘talk

to the devil, and fear the last word;’ and so he was determined, now

that they were about to part, not to appear to tremble, but to carry it

off with a jest. ‘Truly, Hans,’ said the Huntsman, ‘thou art a bold lad,

and to encourage thee to speak to wild huntsmen again, I have a mind to

give thee for thy pains the whole spoil. Take the bag, knave, a moss-man

is good eating; had I time I would give thee a receipt for sauce;’ and,

so saying, the Spirit rode off, laughing very heartily. Well, sir, Hans

was so anxious to examine the contents of the bag, and see what kind of

thing a moss-man really was, for he had only caught a glimpse of him in

the chase, that instead of going to bed immediately, and saying his

prayers, as he should have done, he lighted a lamp and undid the string;

and what think you he took out of the bag? As sure as I am a born

sinner, his own child!”

“‘Tis a wonderful tale,” said Vivian; “and did the unfortunate man tell

you this himself?”

“Often and often. I knew Left-handed Hans well. He was ranger, as I

said, to a great lord; and was quite a favourite, you see. For some

reason or other he got out of favour. Some said that the Baron had found

him out a-poaching; and that he used to ride his master’s horses

a-night. Whether this be true or not, who can say? But, howsoever, Hans

went to ruin; and instead of being a flourishing active lad, he was

turned out, and went a-begging all through Saxony; and he always told

this story as the real history of his misfortunes. Some say he is not as

strong in his head as he used to be. However, why should we say it is

not a true tale? What is that?” almost shrieked Essper.

Vivian listened, and heard distinctly the distant baying of hounds.

“‘Tis he!” said Essper; “now don’t speak, sir, don’t speak! and if the

devil make me join him, as may be the case, for I am but a cock-brained

thing, particularly at midnight, don’t be running after me from any

foolish feeling, but take care of yourself, and don’t be chattering. To

think you should come to this, my precious young master!”

“Cease your blubbering! Do you think that I am to be frightened by the

idiot tales of a parcel of old women, and the lies of a gang of detected

poachers? Come, sir, ride on. We are, most probably, near some

huntsman’s cottage. That distant baying is the sweetest music I have

heard a long while.”

“Don’t be rash, sir; don’t be rash. If you were to give me fifty crowns

now, I could not remember a single line of a single prayer. Ave Maria!

it always is so when I most want it. Paternoster! and whenever I have

need to remember a song, sure enough I am always thinking of a prayer.

‘Unser vater, der du bist im himmel, sanctificado se el tu nombra; il

tuo regno venga.’” Here Essper George was proceeding with a scrap of

modern Greek, when the horsemen suddenly came upon one of those broad

green vistas which we often see in forests, and which are generally cut,

either for the convenience of hunting, or carting wood. It opened on the

left side of the road; and at the bottom of it, though apparently at a

great distance, a light was visible.

“So much for your Wild Huntsman, friend Essper! I shall be much

disappointed if here are not quarters for the night. And see! the moon

comes out, a good omen!”

After ten minutes’ canter over the noiseless turf, the travellers found

themselves before a large and many-windowed mansion. The building formed

the farthest side of a quadrangle, which you entered through an ancient

and massy gate; on each side of which was a small building, of course

the lodges. Essper soon found that the gate was closely fastened; and

though he knocked often and loudly, it was with no effect. That the

inhabitants of the mansion had not yet retired was certain, for lights

were moving in the great house; and one of the lodges was not only very

brilliantly illuminated, but full, as Vivian was soon convinced, of

clamorous if not jovial guests.

“Now, by the soul of my unknown father!” said the enraged Essper, “I

will make these saucy porters learn their duty--What ho! there; what ho!

within; within!” But the only answer he received was the loud

reiteration of a rude and roaring chorus, which, as it was now more

distinctly and audibly enunciated, evidently for the purpose of enraging

the travellers, they detected to be something to the following effect:--

Then a prayer to St. Peter, a prayer to St. Paul!

A prayer to St. Jerome, a prayer to them all!

A prayer to each one of the saintly stock,

But devotion alone, devotion to Hock!

“A right good burden’” said Essper. The very words had made him recover

his temper, and ten thousand times more desirous of gaining admittance.

He was off his horse in a moment, and scrambling up the wall with the

aid of the iron stanchions, he clambered up to the window. The sudden

appearance of his figure startled the inmates of the lodge, and one of

them soon staggered to the gate.

“What want you, ye noisy and disturbing varlets? what want you, ye most

unhallowed rogues, at such a place, and at such an hour? If you be

thieves, look at our bars (here a hiccup). If you be poachers, our

master is engaged, and ye may slay all the game in the forest (another

hiccup); but if ye be good men and true--”

“We are!” halloed Essper, eagerly.

“You are!” said the porter, in a tone of great surprise; “then you ought

to be ashamed of yourselves for disturbing holy men at their devotions!”

“Is this the way,” said Essper, “to behave, ye shameless rascals, to a

noble and mighty Prince, who happens to have lost his way in your

abominable forest, but who, though he has parted with his suite, has

still in his pocket a purse full of ducats? Would ye have him robbed by

any others but yourselves? Is this the way you behave to a Prince of the

Holy Roman Empire, a Knight of the Golden Fleece, and a most particular

friend of your own master? Is this the way to behave to his secretary,

who is one of the merriest fellows living, can sing a jolly song with

any of you, and so bedevil a bottle of Geisenheim with lemons and

brandy that for the soul of ye you wouldn’t know it from the greenest

Tokay? Out, out on ye! you know not what you have lost!”

Ere Essper had finished more than one stout bolt had been drawn, and the

great key had already entered the stouter lock.

“Most honourable sirs!” hiccuped the porter, “in our Lady’s name enter.

I had forgot myself, for in these autumn nights it is necessary to

anticipate the cold with a glass of cheering liquor; and, God forgive

me! if I did not mistake your most mighty Highnesses for a couple of

forest rovers, or small poachers at least. Thin entertainment here, kind

sir (here the last bolt was withdrawn); a glass of indifferent liquor

and a prayer-book. I pass the time chiefly these cold nights with a few

holy-minded friends at our devotions. You heard us at our prayers,

honourable lords!

“A prayer to St. Peter, a prayer to St. Paul!

A prayer to St. Jerome, a prayer to them all!”

Here the devout porter most reverently crossed himself.

“A prayer to each one of the saintly stock,

But devotion alone, devotion to Hock!”

added Essper George; “you forget the best part of the burden, my honest

friend.”

“Oh!” said the porter, with an arch smile, as he opened the lodge door;

“I am glad to find that your honourable Excellencies have a taste

for hymns!”

The porter led them into a room, at a round table in which about

half-a-dozen individuals were busily engaged in discussing the merits of

various agreeable liquors. There was an attempt to get up a show of

polite hospitality to Vivian as he entered, but the man who offered him

his chair fell to the ground in an unsuccessful struggle to be

courteous; and another one, who had filled a large glass for the guest

on his entrance, offered him, after a preliminary speech of incoherent

compliments, the empty bottle by mistake. The porter and his friends,

although they were all drunk, had sense enough to feel that the presence

of a Prince of the Holy Roman Empire, a Chevalier of the Golden Fleece,

and the particular friend of their master, was not exactly a fit

companion for themselves, and was rather a check on the gay freedom of

equal companionship; and so, although the exertion was not a little

troublesome, the guardian of the gate reeled out of the room to inform

his honoured lord of the sudden arrival of a stranger of distinction,

Essper George immediately took his place, and ere the master of the

lodge had returned the noble secretary had not only given a choice

toast, sung a choice song, and been hailed by the grateful plaudits of

all present, but had proceeded in his attempt to fulfil the pledge which

he had given at the gate to the very letter by calling out lustily for a

bottle of Geisenheim, lemons, brandy, and a bowl.

“Fairly and softly, my little son of Bacchus,” said the porter as he

re-entered, “fairly and softly, and then thou shalt want nothing; but

remember I have to perform my duties unto the noble Lord my master, and

also to the noble Prince your master. If thou wilt follow me,” continued

the porter, reeling as he bowed with the greatest consideration to

Vivian; “if thou wilt follow me, most high and mighty sir, my master

will be right glad to have the honour of drinking your health. And as

for you, my friends, fairly and softly say I again. We will talk of the

Geisenheim anon. Am I to be absent from the first brewing? No, no!

fairly and softly; you can drink my health when I am absent in cold

liquor, and say those things which you could not well say before my

face. But mind, my most righteous and well-beloved, I will have no

flattery. Flattery is the destruction of all good fellowship; it is like

a qualmish liqueur in the midst of a bottle of wine. Speak your minds,

say any little thing that comes first, as thus, ‘Well, for Hunsdrich,

the porter, I must declare that I never heard evil word against him;’ or

thus, ‘A very good leg has Hunsdrich the porter, and a tight-made lad

altogether; no enemy with the girls, I warrant me;’ or thus, ‘Well, for

a good-hearted, good-looking, stout-drinking, virtuous, honourable,

handsome, generous, sharp-witted knave, commend me to Hunsdrich the

porter;’ but not a word more, my friends, not a word more, no

flattery--Now, sir, I beg your pardon.”

The porter led the way through a cloistered walk, until they arrived at

the door of the great mansion, to which they ascended by a lofty flight

of steps; it opened into a large octagonal hail, the sides of which were

covered with fowling-pieces, stags’ heads, couteaux de chasse,

boar-spears, and huge fishing-nets. Passing through this hall, they

ascended a noble stair-case, on the first landing-place of which was a

door, which Vivian’s conductor opened, and ushering him into a large and

well-lighted chamber, withdrew. From the centre of this room descended a

magnificently cut chandelier, which threw a graceful light upon a

sumptuous banquet table, at which were seated eight very

singular-looking personages. All of them wore hunting-dresses of various

shades of straw-coloured cloth, with the exception of one, who sat on

the left hand of the master of the feast, and the colour of whose

costume was a rich crimson purple. From the top to the bottom of the

table extended a double file of wine-glasses and goblets, of all sizes

and all colours. There you might see brilliant relics of that ancient

ruby-glass the vivid tints of which seem lost to us for ever. Next to

these were marshalled goblets of Venetian manufacture, of a cloudy,

creamy white; then came the huge hock glass of some ancient Primate of

Mentz, nearly a yard high, towering above its companions, as the church,

its former master, predominated over the simple laymen of the middle

ages. Why should we forget a set of most curious and antique

drinking-cups of painted glass, on whose rare surfaces were emblazoned

the Kaiser and ten electors of the old Empire?

Vivian bowed to the party and stood in silence, while they stared a

scrutinising examination. At length the master of the feast spoke. He

was a very stout man, with a prodigious paunch, which his tightened

dress set off to great advantage. His face, and particularly his

forehead, were of great breadth. His eyes were set far apart. His long

ears hung down almost to his shoulders; yet singular as he was, not only

in these, but in many other respects, everything was forgotten when your

eyes lighted on his nose. It was the most prodigious nose that Vivian

ever remembered not only seeing, but hearing or even reading of. It

fact, it was too monstrous for a dream. This mighty nose seemed to hang

almost to its owner’s chest.

“Be seated,” said this personage, in no unpleasing voice, and he pointed

to the chair opposite to him. Vivian took the vacated seat of the

Vice-President, who moved himself to the right. “Be seated, and whoever

you may be, welcome! If our words be few, think not that our welcome is

scant. We are not much given to speech, holding it for a principle that

if a man’s mouth be open, it should be for the purpose of receiving that

which cheers a man’s spirit; not of giving vent to idle words, which, so

far as we have observed, produce no other effect save filling the world

with crude and unprofitable fantasies, and distracting our attention

when we are on the point of catching those flavours which alone make the

world endurable. Therefore, briefly, but heartily, welcome! Welcome, Sir

Stranger, from us, and from all: and first from us, the Grand Duke of

Johannisberger.” Here his Highness rose, and pulled out a large ruby

tumbler from the file. Each of those present did the same, without,

however, rising, and the late Vice-President, who sat next to Vivian,

invited him to follow their example.

The Grand Duke of Johannisberger brought forward, from beneath the

table, an ancient and exquisite bottle of that choice liquor from which

he took his exhilarating title. The cork was drawn, and the bottle

circulated with rapidity; and in three minutes the ruby glasses were

filled and emptied, and the Grand Duke’s health quaffed by all present.

“Again, Sir Stranger,” continued the Grand Duke, “briefly, but heartily,

welcome! welcome from us and welcome from all; and first from us, and

now from the Archduke of Hockheimer!”

The Archduke of Hockheimer was a thin, sinewy man, with long, carroty

hair, eyelashes of the same colour, but of a remarkable length; and

mustachios, which, though very thin, were so long that they met under

his chin. Vivian could not refrain from noticing the extreme length,

whiteness, and apparent sharpness of his teeth. The Archduke did not

speak, but, leaning under the table, soon produced a bottle of

Hockheimer. He then took from the file one of the Venetian glasses of

clouded white. All followed his example; the bottle was sent round, his

health was pledged, and the Grand Duke of Johannisberger again spoke:

“Again, Sir Stranger, briefly, but heartily, welcome! Welcome from us,

and welcome from all; and first from us, and now from the Elector of

Steinberg!”

The Elector of Steinberg was a short, but very broad-backed,

strong-built man. Though his head was large, his features were small,

and appeared smaller from the immense quantity of coarse, shaggy, brown

hair which grew over almost every part of his face and fell down upon

his shoulders. The Elector was as silent as his predecessor, and quickly

produced a bottle of Steinberg. The curious drinking cups of painted

glass were immediately withdrawn from the file, the bottle was sent

round, the Elector’s health was pledged, and the Grand Duke of

Johannisberger again spoke:

“Again, Sir Stranger, briefly, but heartily, welcome! Welcome from us,

and welcome from all; and first from us, and now from the Margrave of

Rudesheimer!”

The Margrave of Rudesheimer was a slender man of elegant appearance. As

Vivian watched the glance of his speaking eye, and the half-satirical

and half-jovial smile which played upon his features, he hardly expected

that he would be as silent as his predecessors. But the Margrave spoke

no word. He gave a kind of shout of savage exultation as he smacked his

lips after dashing off his glass of Rudesheimer; and scarcely noticing

the salutations of those who drank his health, he threw himself back in

his chair, and listened seemingly with a smile of derision, while the

Grand Duke of Johannisberger again spoke:

“Again, Sir Stranger, briefly, but heartily, welcome! Welcome from us,

and welcome from all; and first from us, and now from the Landgrave of

Grafenberg.”

The Landgrave of Grafenberg was a rude, awkward-looking person, who,

when he rose from his seat, stared like an idiot, and seemed utterly

ignorant of what he ought to do. But his quick companion, the Margrave

of Rudesheimer, soon thrust a bottle of Grafenberg into the Landgrave’s

hand, and with some trouble and bustle the Landgrave extracted the cork;

and then helping himself sat down, forgetting either to salute, or to

return the salutations of those present.

“Again, Sir Stranger, briefly, but heartily, welcome! Welcome from us,

and welcome from all; and first from us, and now from the Palsgrave of

Geisenheim!”

The Palsgrave of Geisenheim was a dwarf in spectacles. He drew the cork

from his bottle like lightning, and mouthed at his companions even while

he bowed to them.

“Again, Sir Stranger, briefly, but heartily, welcome! Welcome from us,

and welcome from all; and first from us, and now from the Count of

Markbrunnen!”

The Count of Markbrunnen was a sullen-looking personage, with lips

protruding nearly three inches beyond his nose. From each side of his

upper jaw projected a large tooth.

“Thanks to Heaven!” said Vivian, as the Grand Duke again spoke; “thanks

to Heaven, here is our last man!”

“Again, Sir Stranger, briefly, but heartily, welcome! Welcome from us,

and welcome from all; and first from us, and now from the Baron of

Asmanshausen!”

The Baron of Asmanshausen sat on the left hand of the Grand Duke of

Johannisberger, and was dressed, as we have before said, in an unique

costume of crimson purple. The Baron stood, without his boots, about six

feet eight. He was a sleek man, with a head not bigger than a child’s,

and a pair of small, black, beady eyes, of singular brilliancy. The

Baron introduced a bottle of the only red wine that the Rhine boasts;

but which, for its fragrant and fruity flavour and its brilliant tint,

is perhaps not inferior to the sunset glow of Burgundy.

“And now,” continued the Grand Duke, “having introduced you to all

present, sir, we will begin drinking.”

Vivian had submitted to the introductory ceremonies with the good grace

which becomes a man of the world; but the coolness of this last

observation recalled our hero’s wandering senses; and, at the same time,

alarmed at discovering that eight bottles of wine had been discussed by

the party merely as preliminary, and emboldened by the contents of one

bottle which had fallen to his own share, he had the courage to confront

the Grand Duke of Johannisberger in his own castle.

“Your wine, most noble Lord, stands in no need of my commendation; but

as I must mention it, let it not be said that I ever mentioned it

without praise. After a ten hours’ ride, its flavour is as grateful to

the palate as its strength is refreshing to the heart; but though old

Hock, in homely phrase, is styled meat and drink, I confess to you that,

at this moment, I stand in need of even more solid sustenance than the

juice of the sunny hill.”

“A traitor!” shrieked all present, each with his right arm stretched

out, glass in hand; “a traitor!”

“No traitor,” answered Vivian, “noble and right thirsty lords, but one

of the most hungry mortals that ever yet famished.”

The only answer that he received for some time was a loud and ill-boding

murmur. The long whisker of the Archduke of Hockheimer curled with

renewed rage; audible, though suppressed, was the growl of the hairy

Elector of Steinberg; fearful the corporeal involutions of the tall

Baron of Asmanshausen; and savagely sounded the wild laugh of the

bright-eyed Margrave of Rudesheimer.

“Silence, my Lords!” said the Grand Duke. “Forget we that ignorance is

the stranger’s portion, and that no treason can exist among those who

are not our sworn subjects? Pity we rather the degeneracy of this

bold-spoken youth, and in the plenitude of our mercy let us pardon his

demand! Know ye, unknown knight, that you are in the presence of an

august society who are here met at one of their accustomed convocations,

whereof the purport is the frequent quaffing of those most glorious

liquors of which the sacred Rhine is the great father. We profess to

find a perfect commentary on the Pindaric laud of the strongest element

in the circumstance of the banks of a river being the locality where the

juice of the grape is most delicious, and holding, therefore, that water

is strongest because, in a manner, it giveth birth to wine, we also hold

it as a sacred element, and consequently most religiously refrain from

refreshing our bodies with that sanctified and most undrinkable fluid.

Know ye that we are the children of the Rhine, the conservators of his

flavours, profound in the learning of his exquisite aroma, and deep

students in the mysteries of his inexplicable näre. Professing not to be

immortal, we find in the exercise of the chase a noble means to preserve

that health which is necessary for the performance of the ceremonies to

which we are pledged. At to-morrow’s dawn our bugle sounds, and thou,

stranger, may engage the wild boar at our side; at to-morrow’s noon the

castle bell will toll, and thou, stranger, may eat of the beast which

thou hast conquered; but to feed after midnight, to destroy the power of

catching the delicate flavour, to annihilate the faculty of detecting

the undefinable näre, is heresy, most rank and damnable heresy!

Therefore at this hour soundeth no plate or platter, jingleth no knife

or culinary instrument, in the PALACE OF THE WINES. Yet, in

consideration of thy youth, and that on the whole thou hast tasted thy

liquor like a proper man, from which we augur the best expectations of

the manner in which thou wilt drink it, we feel confident that our

brothers of the goblet will permit us to grant thee the substantial

solace of a single shoeing horn.”

“Let it be a Dutch herring, then,” said Vivian, “and as you have souls

to be saved grant me one slice of bread.”

“It cannot be,” said the Grand Duke; “but as we are willing to be

indulgent to bold hearts, verily, we will wink at the profanation of a

single toast; but you must order an anchovy one, and give secret

instructions to the waiting-man to forget the fish. It must be counted

as a second shoeing horn, and you will forfeit for the last a bottle of

Markbrunnen.”

“And now, illustrious brothers,” continued the Grand Duke, “let us drink

1726.”

All present gave a single cheer, in which Vivian was obliged to join,

and they honoured with a glass of the very year the memory of a

celebrated vintage.

“1748!” said the Grand Duke.

Two cheers and the same ceremony.

1766 and 1779 were honoured in the same manner, but when the next toast

was drank, Vivian almost observed in the countenances of the Grand Duke

and his friends the signs of incipient insanity.