Rake, rake, rake,
Ashes, cinders, and coal;
The fire we make,
Must never slake,
Like the fire that roasts a soul.
Hurrah! my boys, ‘t is a glorious noise,
To list to the stormy main;
But nor wave-lash’d shore
Nor lion’s roar
E’er equall’d a luggage train.
‘Neath the panting sun our course we run,
No water to slake our thirst;
Nor ever a pool
Our tongue to cool,
Except the boiler burst.
The courser fast, the trumpet’s blast,
Sigh after us in vain;
And even the wind
We leave behind
With the speed of a special train.
Swift we pass o’er the wild morass,
Tho’ the night be starless and black;
Onward we go,
Where the snipe flies low,
Nor man dares follow our track.
A mile a minute, on we go,
Hurrah for my courser fast;
His coal-black mane,
And his fiery train,
And his breath--a furnace blast
On and on, till the day is gone,
We rush with a goblin scream;
And the cities, at night,
They start with affright,
At the cry of escaping steam.
Bang, bang, bang!
Shake, shiver, and throb;
The sound of our feet
Is the piston’s beat,
And the opening valve our sob!
Our union-jack is the smoke-train black,
That thick from the funnel rolls;
And our bounding bark
Is a gloomy ark,
And our cargo--human souls.
Rake, rake, rake,
Ashes, cinders, and coal;
The fire we make,
Must never slake,
Like the fire that roasts a soul.
“Bang, bang, bang!” said I, aloud, repeating this infernal “refrain,”
and with an energy that made my two fellow-travellers burst out
laughing. This awakened me from my sleep, and enabled me to throw off
the fearful incubus which rested on my bosom; so strongly, however, was
the image of my dream, so vivid the picture my mind had conjured up,
and, stranger than all, so perfect was the memory of the demoniac song,
that I could not help relating the whole vision, and repeating for my
companions the words, as I have here done for the reader. As I proceeded
in my narrative, I had ample time to observe the couple before me. The
lady--for it is but suitable to begin with her--was young, she could
scarcely have been more than twenty, and looked by the broad daylight
even handsomer than by the glare of the guard’s lantern; she was slight,
but, as well as I could observe, her figure was very gracefully formed,
and with a decided air of elegance detectable even in the ease and
repose of her attitude. Her dress was of pale blue silk, around the
collar of which she wore a profusion of rich lace, of what peculiar loom
I am, unhappily, unable to say; nor would I allude to the circumstance,
save that it formed one of the most embarrassing problems in my
efforts at divining her rank and condition. Never was there such a
travelling-costume; and although it suited perfectly the frail
and delicate beauty of the wearer, it ill accorded with the dingy
“conveniency” in which we journeyed. Even to her shoes and stockings
(for I noticed these,--the feet were perfect) and gloves,--all the
details of her dress had a freshness and propriety one rarely or ever
sees encountering the wear and tear of the road. The young gentleman
at her side--for he, too, was scarcely more than five-and-twenty, at
most--was also attired in a costume as little like that of a traveller;
a dress-coat and evening waistcoat, over which a profusion of chains
were festooned in that mode so popular in our day, showed that he
certainly, in arranging his costume, had other thoughts than of wasting
such attractions on the desert air of a railroad journey. He was a
good-looking young fellow, with that mixture of frankness and careless
ease the youth of England so eminently possess, in contradistinction
to the young men of other countries; his manner and voice both attested
that he belonged to a good class, and the general courtesy of his
demeanor showed one who had lived in society. While he evinced an
evident desire to enter into conversation and amuse his companion, there
was still an appearance of agitation and incertitude about him which
showed that his mind was wandering very far from the topic before
him. More than once he checked himself, in the course of some casual
merriment, and became suddenly grave,--while from time to time he
whispered to the young lady, with an appearance of anxiety and eagerness
all his endeavors could not effectually conceal. She, too, seemed
agitated,--but, I thought, less so than he; it might be, however, that
from the habitual quietude of her manner, the traits of emotion were
less detectable by a stranger. We had not journeyed far, when several
new travellers entered the carriage, and thus broke up the little
intercourse which had begun to be established between us. The new
arrivals were amusing enough in their way,--there was a hearty old
Quaker from Leeds, who was full of a dinner-party he had been at with
Feargus O’Connor, the day before; there was an interesting young fellow
who had obtained a fellowship at Cambridge, and was going down to visit
his family; and lastly, a loud-talking, load-laughing member of the
tail, in the highest possible spirits at the prospect of Irish politics,
and exulting in the festivities he was about to witness at Derrynane
Abbey, whither he was then proceeding with some other Danaïdes, to visit
what Tom Steele calls “his august leader.” My young friends, however,
partook little in the amusement the newly arrived travellers afforded;
they neither relished the broad, quaint common-sense of the Quaker, the
conversational cleverness of the Cambridge man, or the pungent though
somewhat coarse drollery of the “Emeralder.” They sat either totally
silent or conversing in a low, indistinct murmur, with their heads
turned towards each other. The Quaker left us at Warwick, the “Fellow”
took his leave soon after, and the O’Somebody was left behind at a
station; the last thing I heard of him, being his frantic shouting as
the train moved off, while he was endeavoring to swallow a glass of hot
brandy and water. We were alone then once more; but somehow the interval
which had occurred had chilled the warm current of our intercourse;
perhaps, too, the effects of a long day’s journey were telling on us
all, and we felt that indisposition to converse which steals over even
the most habitual traveller towards the close of a day on the road.
Partly from these causes, and more strongly still from my dislike to
obtrude conversation upon those whose minds were evidently preoccupied,
I too lay back in my seat and indulged my own reflections in silence. I
had sat for some time thus, I know not exactly how long, when the voice
of the young lady struck on my ear; it was one of those sweet, tinkling
silver sounds which somehow when heard, however slightly, have the
effect at once to dissipate the dull routine of one’s own thoughts, and
suggest others more relative to the speaker.
“Had you not better ask him?” said she; “I am sure he can tell you.”
The youth apparently demurred, while she insisted the more, and at
length, as if yielding to her entreaty, he suddenly turned towards me
and said, “I am a perfect stranger here, and would feel obliged if you
could inform me which is the best hotel in Liverpool.” He made a slight
pause and added, “I mean a quiet family hotel.”
“I rarely stop in the town myself,” replied I; “but when I do, to
breakfast or dine, I take the Adelphi. I ‘m sure you will find it very
comfortable.”
They again conversed for a few moments together; and the young man, with
an appearance of some hesitation, said, “Do you mean to go there now,
sir?”
“Yes,” said I, “my intention is to take a hasty dinner before I start in
the steamer for Ireland; I see by my watch I shall have ample time to do
so, as we shall arrive full half an hour before our time.”
Another pause, and another little discussion ensued, the only words of
which I could catch from the young lady being, “I’m certain he will have
no objection.” Conceiving that these referred to myself, and guessing at
their probable import, I immediately said, “If you will allow me to be
your guide, I shall feel most happy to show you the way; we can obtain a
carriage at the station, and proceed thither at once.”
I was right in my surmise--both parties were profuse in their
acknowledgments--the young man avowing that it was the very request he
was about to make when I anticipated him. We arrived in due time at the
station, and, having assisted my new acquaintances to alight, I found
little difficulty in placing them in a carriage, for luggage they had
none, neither portmanteau nor carpet-bag--not even a dressing-case--a
circumstance at which, however, I might have endeavored to avoid
expressing my wonder, they seemed to feel required an explanation at
their hands; both looked confused and abashed, nor was it until by
busying myself in the details of my own baggage, that I was enabled to
relieve them from the embarrassment the circumstance occasioned.
“Here we are,” said I: “this is the Adelphi,” as we stopped at that
comfortable and hospitable portal, through which the fumes of brown
gravy and ox-tail float with a savory odor as pleasant to him who enters
with dinner intentions as it is tantalizing to the listless wanderer
without.
The lady thanked me with a smile, as I handed her into the house, and a
very sweet smile too, and one I could have fancied the young man would
have felt a little jealous of, if I had not seen the ten times more
fascinating one she bestowed on him.
[Illustration: 577]
The young man acknowledged my slight service with thanks, and made
a half gesture to shake hands at parting, which, though a failure, I
rather liked, as evidencing, even in its awkwardness, a kindness of
disposition--for so it is. Gratitude smacks poorly when expressed in
trim and measured phrase; it seems not the natural coinage of the heart
when the impression betrays too clearly the mint of the mind.
“Good-bye,” said I, as I watched their retiring figures up the wide
staircase. “She is devilish pretty; and what a good figure! I did not
think any other than a French woman could adjust her shawl in that
fashion.” And with these very soothing reflections I betook myself to
the coffee-room, and soon was deep in discussing the distinctive merits
of mulligatawny, mock-turtle, or mutton chops, or listening to that
everlasting paean every waiter in England sings in praise of the
“joint.”
In all the luxury of my own little table, with my own little
salt-cellar, my own cruet-stand, my beer-glass, and its younger brother
for wine, I sat awaiting the arrival of my fare, and puzzling my brain
as to the unknown travellers. Now, had they been but clothed in the
ordinary fashion of the road,--if the lady had worn a plaid cloak and a
beaver bonnet,--if the gentleman had a brown Taglioui and a cloth cap,
with a cigar-case peeping out of his breast-pocket, like everybody else
in this smoky world,--had they but the ordinary allowance of trunks and
boxes,--I should have been coolly conning over the leading article of
the “Times,” or enjoying the spicy leader in the last “Examiner;” but,
no,--they had shrouded themselves in a mystery, though not in garments;
and the result was that I, gifted with that inquiring spirit which
Paul Pry informs us is the characteristic of the age, actually tortured
myself into a fever as to who and what they might be,--the origin, the
course, and the probable termination of their present adventure,--for an
adventure I determined it must be. “People do such odd things nowadays,”
said I, “there’s no knowing what the deuce they may be at. I wish I even
knew their names, for I am certain I shall read to-morrow or the next
day in the second column of the ‘Times,’ ‘Why will not W. P. and C.
P. return to their afflicted friends? Write at least,--write to your
bereaved parents, No. 12 Russell Square;’ or, ‘If F. M. S. will not
inform her mother whither she has gone, the deaths of more than two of
the family will be the consequence.’” Now, could I only find out their
names, I could relieve so much family apprehension--Here comes the soup,
however,--admirable relief to a worried brain! how every mouthful
swamps reflection!--even the platitude of the waiter’s face is, as the
Methodists say, “a blessed privilege,” so agreeably does it divest
the mind of a thought the more, and suggest that pleasant vacuity so
essential to the hour of dinner. The tureen was gone, and then came one
of those strange intervals which all taverns bestow, as if to test the
extent of endurance and patience of their guests.
My thoughts turned at once to their old track. “I have it,” said I, as
a bloody-minded suggestion shot through my brain. “This is an affair
of charcoal and oxalic acid, this is some damnable device of arsenic
or sugar-of-lead,--these young wretches have come down here to poison
themselves, and be smothered in that mode latterly introduced among us.
There will be a double-locked door and smell of carbonic gas through the
key-hole in the morning. I have it all before me, even to the maudlin
letter, with its twenty-one verses of maudlin poetry at the foot of it.
I think I hear the coroner’s charge, and see the three shillings and
eightpence halfpenny produced before the jury, that were found in the
youth’s possession, together with a small key and a bill for a luncheon
at Birmingham. By Jove, I will prevent it, though; I will spoil their
fun this time; if they will have physic, let them have something just
as nauseous, but not so injurious. My own notion is a basin of this soup
and a slice of the ‘joint,’ and here it comes;” and thus my meditations
were again destined to be cut short, and revery give way to reality.
I was just helping myself to my second slice of mutton, when the young
man entered the coffee-room, and walked towards me. At first his manner
evinced hesitation and indecision, and he turned to the fireplace, as
if with some change of purpose; then, as if suddenly summoning his
resolution, he came up to the table at which I sat, and said,--
“Will you favor me with five minutes of your time?”
“By all means,” said I; “sit down here, and I’m your man; you must
excuse me, though, if I proceed with my dinner, as I see it is past six
o’clock, and the packet sails at seven.”
“Pray, proceed,” replied he; “your doing so will in part excuse the
liberty I take in obtruding myself upon you.”
He paused, and although I waited for him to resume, he appeared in no
humor to do so, but seemed more confused than before.
“Hang it,” said he at length, “I am a very bungling negotiator, and
never in my life could manage a matter of any difficulty.”
“Take a glass of sherry,” said I; “try if that may not assist to recall
your faculties.”
“No, no,” cried he; “I have taken a bottle of it already, and, by Jove,
I rather think my head is only the more addled. Do you know that I am in
a most confounded scrape. I have run away with that young lady; we were
at an evening-party last night together, and came straight away from the
supper-table to the train.”
“Indeed!” said I, laying down my knife and fork, not a little gratified
that I was at length to learn the secret that had so long teased me.
“And so you have run away with her!”
“Yes; it was no sudden thought, however,--at least, it was an old
attachment; I have known her these two months.”
“Oh! oh!” said I; “then there was prudence in the affair.”
“Perhaps you will say so,” said he, quickly, “when I tell you she has
£30,000 in the Funds, and something like £1700 a year besides,--not that
I care a straw for the money, but, in the eye of the world, that kind of
thing has its _éclat_.”
“So it has,” said I, “and a very pretty _éclat_ it is, and one that,
somehow or another, preserves its attractions much longer than most
surprises; but I do not see the scrape, after all.”
“I am coming to that,” said he, glancing timidly around the room. “The
affair occurred this wise: we were at an evening-party,--a kind of
_déjeûné_, it was, on the Thames,--Charlotte came with her aunt,--a
shrewish old damsel, that has no love for me; in fact, she very soon saw
my game, and resolved to thwart it. Well, of course I was obliged to be
most circumspect, and did not venture to approach her, not even to ask
her to dance, the whole evening. As it grew late, however, I either
became more courageous or less cautious, and I did ask her for a waltz.
The old lady bristled up at once, and asked for her shawl. Charlotte
accepted my invitation, and said she would certainly not retire so
early; and I, to cut the matter short, led her to the top of the room.
We waltzed together, and then had a ‘gallop,’ and after that some
champagne, and then another waltz; for Charlotte was resolved to give
the old lady a lesson,--she has spirit for anything! Well, it was
growing late by this time, and we went in search of the aunt at last;
but, by Jove! she was not to be found. We hunted everywhere for her,
looked well in every corner of the supper-room, where it was most likely
we should discover her; and at length, to our mutual horror and dismay,
we learned that she had ordered the carriage up a full hour before, and
gone off, declaring that she would send Charlotte’s father to fetch her
home, as she herself possessed no influence over her. Here was a pretty
business,--the old gentleman being, as Charlotte often told me, the most
choleric man in England. He had killed two brother officers in duels,
and narrowly escaped being hanged at Maidstone for shooting a waiter
who delayed bringing him the water to shave,--a pleasant old boy to
encounter on such an occasion at this!
“‘He will certainly shoot me,--he will shoot you,--he will kill us
both!’ were the only words she could utter; and my blood actually froze
at the prospect before us. You may smile if you like; but let me tell
you that an outraged father, with a pair of patent revolving pistols, is
no laughing matter. There was nothing for it, then, but to ‘bolt.’ _She_
saw that as soon as I did; and although she endeavored to persuade me to
suffer her to return home alone, that, you know, I never could think of;
and so, after some little demurrings, some tears, and some resistance,
we got to the Euston-Square station, just as the train was going. You
may easily think that neither of us had much time for preparation. As
for myself, I have come away with a ten-pound note in my purse,--not a
shilling more have I in my possession; and here we are now, half of that
sum spent already, and how we are to get on to the North, I cannot for
the life of me conceive.”
“Oh! that’s it,” said I, peering at him shrewdly from under my eyelids.
“Yes, that ‘s it; don’t you think it is bad enough?” and he spoke the
words with a reckless frankness that satisfied all my scruples. “I ought
to tell you,” said he, “that my name is Blunden; I am lieutenant in
the Buffs, on leave; and now that you know my secret, will you lend me
twenty pounds? which perhaps, may be enough to carry us forward,--at
least, it will do, until it will be safe for me to write for money.”
“But what would bring you to the North?” said I; “why not put yourselves
on board the mail-packet this evening, and come to Dublin? We will marry
you there just as cheaply; pursuit of you will be just as difficult; and
I ‘d venture to say, you might choose a worse land for the honeymoon.”
“But I have no money,” said he; “you forgot that.”
“For the matter of money,” said I, “make your mind easy. If the young
lady is going away with her own consent,--if, indeed, she is as anxious
to get married as you are,--make me the banker, and I ‘ll give her away,
be the bridesmaid, or anything else you please.”
“You are a trump,” said he, helping himself to another glass of my
sherry; and then filling out a third, which emptied the bottle, he
slapped me on the shoulder, and said, “Here ‘s your health; now come
upstairs.”
“Stop a moment,” said I, “I must see her alone,--there must be no
tampering with the evidence.”
He hesitated for a second, and surveyed me from head to foot; and
whether it was the number of my double chins or the rotundity of my
waistcoat divested his mind of any jealous scruples, but he smiled
coolly, and said, “So you shall, old buck,--we will never quarrel about
that.”
Upstairs we went accordingly, and into a handsome drawing-room on the
first floor, at one end of which, with her head buried in her hands, the
young lady was sitting.
“Charlotte,” said he, “this gentleman is kind enough to take an interest
in our fortunes, but he desires a few words with you alone.”
I waved my hand to him to prevent his making any further explanation,
and as a signal to withdraw; he took the hint and left the room.
Now, thought I, this is the second act of the drama; what the deuce am
I to do here? In the first place, some might deem it my duty to admonish
the young damsel on the impropriety of the step, to draw an afflicting
picture of her family, to make her weep bitter tears, and end by
persuading her to take a first-class ticket in the up-train. This would
be the grand parento-moral line; and I shame to confess it, it was never
my forte. Secondly, I might pursue the inquiry suggested by myself, and
ascertain her real sentiments. This might be called the amico-auxiliary
line. Or, lastly, I might try a little, what might be done on my
own score, and not see £30,000 and £1700 a year squandered by a
cigar-smoking lieutenant in the Buffs. As there may be different
opinions about this line, I shall not give it a name. Suffice it to
say, that, notwithstanding a sly peep at as pretty a throat and as well
rounded an instep as ever tempted a “government Mercury,” I was true to
my trust, and opened the negotiation on the honest footing.
“Do you love him, my little darling?” said I; for somehow consolation
always struck me as own-brother to love-making. It is like indorsing a
bill for a friend, which, though he tells you he ‘ll meet, you always
feel responsible for the money.
She turned upon me an arch look. By St. Patrick, I half regretted I had
not tried number three, as in the sweetest imaginable voice she said,--
“Do you doubt it?”
“I wish I could,” thought I to myself. No matter, it was too late
for regrets; and so I ascertained, in a very few minutes, that
she corroborated every portion of the statement, and was as deeply
interested in the success of the adventure as himself.
“That will do,” said I. “He is a lucky fellow,--I always heard the Buffs
were;” and with that I descended to the coffee-room, where the young man
awaited me with the greatest anxiety.
“Are you satisfied?” cried he, as I entered the room.
“Perfectly,” was my answer. “And now let us lose no more time; it wants
but a quarter to seven, and we must be on board in ten minutes.”
As I have already remarked, my fellow-travellers were not burdened with
luggage, so there was little difficulty in expediting their departure;
and in half an hour from that time we were gliding down the Mersey, and
gazing on the spangled lamps which glittered over that great city of
soap, sugar, and sassafras, train-oil, timber, and tallow. The young
lady soon went below, as the night was chilly; but Blunden and myself
walked the deck until near twelve o’clock, chatting over whatever
came uppermost, and giving me an opportunity to perceive that, without
possessing any remarkable ability or cleverness, he was one of those
offhand, candid, clear-headed young fellows, who, when trained in the
admirable discipline of the mess, become the excellent specimens of
well-conducted, well-mannered gentlemen our army abounds with.
We arrived in due course in Dublin. I took my friends up to Morrison’s,
drove with them after breakfast to a fashionable milliner’s, where the
young lady, with an admirable taste, selected such articles of dress as
she cared for, and I then saw them duly married. I do not mean to say
that the ceremony was performed by a bishop, or that a royal duke gave
her away; neither can I state that the train of carriages comprised
the equipages of the leading nobility. I only vouch for the fact that a
little man, with a black eye and a sinister countenance, read a ceremony
of his own composing, and made them write their names in a great
book, and pay thirty shillings for his services; after which I put a
fifty-pound note into Blunden’s hand, saluted the bride, and, wishing
them every health and happiness, took my leave.
They started at once with four posters for the North, intending to cross
over to Scotland. My engagements induced me to leave town for Cork,
and in less than a fortnight I found at my club a letter from Blunden,
enclosing the fifty pounds, with a thousand thanks for my prompt
kindness, and innumerable affectionate reminiscences from Madame.
They were as happy as--confound it, every one is happy for a week or a
fortnight; so I crushed the letter, pitched it into the fire, was rather
pleased with myself for what I had done, and thought no more of the
whole transaction.
Here then my tale should have an end, and the moral is obvious. Indeed,
I am not certain but some may prefer it to that which the succeeding
portion conveys, thinking that the codicil revokes the body of the
testament. However that may be, here goes for it.
It was about a year after this adventure that I made one of a party of
six travelling up to London by the “Grand Junction.” The company were
chatty, pleasant folk, and the conversation, as often happens among
utter strangers, became anecdotic; many good stories were told in turn,
and many pleasant comments made on them, when at length it occurred to
me to mention the somewhat singular rencontre I have already narrated as
having happened to myself.
“Strange enough,” said I, “the last time I journeyed along this line,
nearly this time last year, a very remarkable occurrence took place. I
happened to fall in with a young officer of the Buffs, eloping with
an exceedingly pretty girl; she had a large fortune, and was in every
respect a great ‘catch;’ he ran away with her from an evening party, and
never remembered, until he arrived at Liverpool, that he had no money
for the journey. In this dilemma, the young fellow, rather spooney about
the whole thing, I think would have gone quietly back by the next train,
but, by Jove, I could n’t satisfy my conscience that so lovely a girl
should be treated in such a manner. I rallied his courage; took him over
to Ireland in the packet, and got them married the next morning.”
“Have I caught you at last, you old, meddling scoundrel!” cried a voice,
hoarse and discordant with passion, from the opposite side; and at the
same instant a short, thickset old man, with shoulders like a Hercules,
sprung at me. With one hand he clutched me by the throat, and with the
other he pummelled my head against the panel of the conveyance, and with
such violence that many people in the next carriage averred that they
thought we had run into the down train. So sudden was the old wretch’s
attack, and so infuriate withal, it took the united force of the other
passengers to detach him from my neck; and even then, as they drew him
off, he kicked at me like a demon. Never has it been my lot to witness
such an outbreak of wrath; and, indeed, were I to judge from the
symptoms it occasioned, the old fellow had better not repeat it, or
assuredly apoplexy would follow.
“That villain,--that old ruffian,” said he, glaring at me with flashing
eyeballs, while he menaced me with his closed fist,--“that cursed,
meddling scoundrel is the cause of the greatest calamity of my life.”
“Are you her father, then?” articulated I, faintly, for a misgiving came
over me that my boasted benevolence might prove a mistake. “Are you her
father?” The words were not out, when he dashed at me once more, and
were it not for the watchfulness of the others, inevitably had finished
me.
“I’ve heard of you, my old buck,” said I, affecting a degree of ease
and security my heart sadly belied. “I ‘ve heard of your dreadful temper
already,--I know you can’t control yourself. I know all about the waiter
at Maidstone. By Jove, they did not wrong you; and I am not surprised
at your poor daughter leaving you--” But he would not suffer me to
conclude; and once more his wrath boiled over, and all the efforts
of the others were barely sufficient to calm him into a semblance of
reason.
There would be an end to my narrative if I endeavored to convey to my
reader the scene which followed, or recount the various outbreaks of
passion which ever and anon interrupted the old man, and induced him to
diverge into sundry little by-ways of lamentation over his misfortune,
and curses upon my meddling interference. Indeed his whole narrative was
conducted more in the staccato style of an Italian opera father than
in the homely wrath of an English parent; the wind-up of these
dissertations being always to the one purpose, as with a look of
scowling passion directed towards me, he said, “Only wait till we reach
the station, and see if I won’t do for you.”
His tale, in few words, amounted to this. He was the Squire
Blunden,--the father of the lieutenant in the “Buffs.” The youth had
formed an attachment to a lady whom he had accidentally met in a Margate
steamer. The circumstances of her family and fortune were communicated
to him in confidence by herself; and although she expressed her
conviction of the utter impossibility of obtaining her father’s consent
to an untitled match, she as resolutely refused to elope with him. The
result, however, was as we have seen; she did elope,--was married,--they
made a wedding tour in the Highlands, and returned to Blunden Hall two
months after, where the old gentleman welcomed them with affection
and forgiveness. About a fortnight after their return, it was deemed
necessary to make inquiry as to the circumstances of her estate and
funded property, when the young lady fell upon her knees, wept bitterly,
said she had not a sixpence,--that the whole thing was a “ruse;” that
she had paid five pounds for a choleric father, three ten for an aunt
warranted to wear “satin;” in fact, that she had been twice married
before, and had heavy misgivings that the husbands were still living.
There was nothing left for it but compromise. “I gave her,” said he,
“five hundred pounds to go to the devil, and I registered, the same day,
a solemn oath that if ever I met this same Tramp, he should carry the
impress of my knuckles on his face to the day of his death.”
The train reached Harrow as the old gentleman spoke. I waited until it
was again in motion, and, flinging wide the door, I sprang out, and from
that day to this have strictly avoided forming acquaintance with a white
lace bonnet, even at a distance, or ever befriending a lieutenant in the
Buffs.