"PAR NOBILE"
"You shall play with my toys, and break them if you like, for my papa
loves the English, and you are my English friend," said a handsome
blue-eyed child to his little companion, as they sauntered hand-in-hand
through the spacious entrance-hall at Edeldorf. The boy was evidently
bent on patronising his friend. The friend was somewhat abashed and
bewildered, and grateful to be taken notice of.
"What is your name?--may I call you by your Christian name?" said the
lesser child, timidly, and rather nestling to his protector, for such
had the bigger boy constituted himself.
"My name is Victor," was the proud reply, "and _you_ may call me Victor,
because I love you; but the servants must call me Count, because my papa
is a count; and I am not an Austrian count, but a Hungarian. Come and
see my sword." So the two children were soon busy in an examination of
that very beautiful, but not very destructive plaything.
They were indeed a strange contrast. Victor de Rohan, son and heir to
one of the noblest and wealthiest of Hungary's aristocracy, looked all
over the high-bred child he was. Free and bold, his large, frank blue
eyes, and wide brow, shaded with clustering curls of golden brown,
betokened a gallant, thoughtless spirit, and a kind, warm heart; whilst
the delicate nostril and handsomely-curved mouth of the well-born child
betrayed, perhaps, a little too much pride for one so young, and argued
a disposition not too patient of contradiction or restraint. His little
companion was as unlike him as possible, and indeed most people would
have taken Victor for the English boy, and Vere for the foreign one.
The latter was heavy, awkward, and ungainly in his movements, timid and
hesitating in his manner, with a sallow complexion, and dark, deep-set
eyes, that seemed always looking into a world beyond. He was a strange
child, totally without the light-heartedness of his age, timid, shy, and
awkward, but capable of strong attachments, and willing to endure
anything for the sake of those he loved. Then he had quaint fancies,
and curious modes of expressing them, which made other children laugh at
him, when the boy would retire into himself, deeply wounded and unhappy,
but too proud to show it. As he looks now at Victor's sword, with which
the latter is vapouring about the hall, destroying imaginary enemies,
Vere asks--
"What becomes of the people that are killed, Victor?"
"We ride over their bodies," says Victor, who has just delivered a
finishing thrust at his phantom foe.
"Yes, but what _becomes_ of them?" pursues the child, now answering
himself. "I think they come to me in my dreams; for sometimes, do you
know, I dream of men in armour charging on white horses, and they come
by with a wind that wakes me; and when I ask 'Nettich' who they are, she
says they are the fairies; but I don't think they are fairies, because
you know fairies are quite small, and have wings. No, I think they must
be the people that are killed."
"Very likely," replies Victor, who has not considered the subject in
this light, and whose dreams are mostly of ponies and plum-cake--"very
likely; but come to papa, and he will give us some grapes." So off they
go, arm-in-arm, to the great banqueting-hall; and Vere postpones his
dream-theories to some future occasion, for there is a charm about
grapes that speaks at once to a child's heart.
So the two boys make their entrance into the banqueting-hall, where De
Rohan sits in state, surrounded by his guests. On his right is placed
Philip Egerton, whose dark eye gleams with pleasure as he looks upon his
son. Who but a father would take delight in such a plain, unattractive
child? Vere glides quietly to his side, shrinking from the strange
faces and gorgeous uniforms around; but Victor walks boldly up to the
old Count, and demands his daily glass of Tokay, not as a favour, but a
right.
"I drink to Hungary!" says the child, looking full into the face of his
next neighbour, a prince allied to the Imperial family, and a General of
Austrian cavalry. "Monsieur le Prince, your good health! Come, clink
your glass with me."
"Your boy is a true De Rohan," says the good-natured Austrian, as he
accepts the urchin's challenge, and their goblets ring against each
other. "Will you be a soldier, my lad, and wear the white uniform?"
"I will be a soldier," answers the child, "but not an Austrian soldier
like you: Austrian soldiers are not so brave as Hungarians."
"Well said, my little patriot," replies the amused General. "So you do
not think our people are good for much? Why, with that sword of yours, I
should be very sorry to face you with my whole division. What a Light
Dragoon the rogue will make, De Rohan! see, he has plundered the grapes
already." And the jolly prince sat back in his chair, and poured
himself out another glass of "Imperial Tokay."
"Hush, Victor!" said his father, laughing, in spite of himself, at his
child's forwardness. "Look at your little English friend; he stands
quiet there, and says nothing. I shall make an Englishman of my boy,
Egerton; he shall go to an English school, and learn to ride and box,
and to be a man. I love England and the English. Egerton, your good
health! I wish my boy to be like yours. _Sapperment!_ he is quiet, but
I will answer for it he fears neither man nor devil."
My father's face lighted up with pleasure as he pressed me to his side.
Kind father! I believe he thought his ugly, timid, shrinking child was
the admiration of all.
"I think the boy has courage," he said, "but for that I give him little
credit. All men are naturally brave; it is but education that makes us
reflect; hence we learn to fear consequences, and so become cowards."
"Pardon, _mon cher_," observed the Austrian General, with a laugh.
"Now, my opinion is that all men are naturally cowards, and that we
alone deserve credit who overcome that propensity, and so distinguish
ourselves for what we choose to call bravery, but which we ought rather
to term self-command. What say you, De Rohan? You have been in action,
and 'on the ground,' too, more than once. Were you not cursedly afraid?"
De Rohan smiled good-humouredly, and filled his glass.
"Shall I tell you my opinion of courage?" said he, holding up the
sparkling fluid to the light. "I think of courage what our Hungarian
Hussars think of a breast-plate. 'Of what use,' say they, 'is cuirass
and back-piece and all that weight of defensive armour? Give us a pint
of wine in our stomachs, and we are _breastplate all over_.' Come,
Wallenstein, put your breastplate on--it is very light, and fits very
easily."
The General filled again, but returned to the charge.
"You remind me," said he, "of a conversation I overheard when I was a
lieutenant in the first regiment of Uhlans. We were drawn up on the
crest of a hill opposite a battery in position not half-a-mile from us.
If they had retired us two hundred yards, we should have been under
cover; but we never got the order, and there we stood. Whish! the
round-shot came over our heads and under our feet, and into our ranks,
and we lost two men and five horses before we knew where we were. The
soldiers grumbled sadly, and a few seemed inclined to turn rein and go
to the rear. Mind you, it is not fair to ask cavalry to sit still and
be pounded for amusement; but the officers being _cowards by education_,
Mr. Egerton, did their duty well, and kept the men together. I was
watching my troop anxiously enough, and I heard one man say to his
comrade, 'Look at Johann, Fritz! what a bold one he is; he thinks
nothing of the fire; see, he tickles the horse of his front-rank man
even now, to make him kick.'"
"Exactly my argument," interrupted my father; "he was an uneducated man,
consequently saw nothing to be afraid of. Bravery, after all, is only
insensibility to danger."
"Fritz did not think so," replied Wallenstein. "Hear his
answer--'Johann is a blockhead,' he replied, 'he has never been under
fire before, and does not know his danger; but you and I, old comrade,
we deserve to be made corporals; for we sit quiet here on our horses,
_though we are most cursedly afraid_.'"
The guests all laughed; and the discussion would have terminated, but
that De Rohan, who had drunk more wine than was his custom, and who was
very proud of his boy, could not refrain from once more turning the
conversation to Victor's merits, and to that personal courage by which,
however much he might affect to make light of it in society, he set such
store.
"Well, Wallenstein," said he; "you hold that Nature makes us cowards; if
so, my boy here ought to show something of the white feather. Come
hither, Victor. Are you afraid of being in the dark?"
"No, papa!" answered Victor, boldly; but added, after a moment's
consideration, "except in the Ghost's Gallery. I don't go through the
Ghost's Gallery after six o'clock."
This _naive_ confession excited much amusement amongst the guests; but
De Rohan's confidence in his boy's courage was not to be so shaken.
"What shall I give you," said he, "to go and fetch me the old Breviary
that lies on the table at the far end of the Ghost's Gallery?"
Victor looked at me, and I at him. My breath came quicker and quicker.
The child coloured painfully, but did not answer. I felt his terrors
myself. I looked upon the proposed expedition as a soldier might on a
forlorn hope; but something within kept stirring me to speak; it was a
mingled feeling of emulation, pity, and friendship, tinged with that
inexplicable charm that coming danger has always possessed for me--a
charm that the constitutionally brave are incapable of feeling. I
mastered my shyness with an effort, and, shaking all over, said to the
master of the house, in a thick, low voice--
"If you please, Monsieur le Comte, if Victor goes, I will go too."
"Well said, little man!" "Bravo, boy!" "Vere, you're a trump!" in
plain English from my father; and "In Heaven's name, give the lads a
breastplate apiece, in the shape of a glass of Tokay!" from the jolly
General, were the acclamations that greeted my resolution; and for one
delicious moment I felt like a little hero. Victor, too, caught the
enthusiasm; and, ashamed of showing less courage than his playfellow,
expressed his readiness to accompany me,--first stipulating, however,
with praise-worthy caution, that he should take his sword for our joint
preservation; and also that two large bunches of grapes should be placed
at our disposal on our safe return, "if," as Victor touchingly remarked,
"we ever came back at all!" My father opened the door for us with a low
bow, and it closed upon a burst of laughter, which to us, bound, as we
fancied, on an expedition of unparalleled danger, sounded to the last
degree unfeeling.
Hand-in-hand we two children walked through the ante-room, and across
the hall; nor was it until we reached the first landing on the wide,
gloomy oak staircase, that we paused to consider our future plans, and
to scan the desperate nature of our enterprise. There were but two more
flights of steps, a green-baize door to go through, a few yards of
passage to traverse, and then, Victor assured me, in trembling accents,
we should be in the Ghost's Gallery. My heart beat painfully, and my
informant began to cry.
We laid our plans, however, with considerable caution, and made a solemn
compact of alliance, offensive and defensive, that no power, natural or
supernatural, was to shake. We were on no account whatsoever to leave
go of each other's hands. Thus linked, and Victor having his sword
drawn,--for the furtherance of which warlike attitude I was to keep
carefully on his left,--we resolved to advance, if possible, talking the
whole way up to the fatal table whereon lay the Breviary, and then
snatching it up hastily, to return backwards, so as to present our front
to the foe till we reached the green-baize door, at which point _sauve
qui peut_ was to be the order; and we were to rush back into the
dining-room as fast as our legs could carry us. But in the event of our
progress being interrupted by the ghost (who appeared, as Victor
informed me, in the shape of a huge black dog with green eyes,--a
description at which my blood ran cold,--and which he added had been
seen once by his governess and twice by an old drunken Hussar who waited
on him, and answered to the name of "Hans"), we were to lie down on our
faces, so as to hide our eyes from the ghostly vision, and scream till
we alarmed the house; but on no account, we repeated in the most binding
and solemn manner--on no account were we to let go of each other's
hands. This compact made and provided, we advanced towards the gallery,
Victor feeling the edge and point of his weapon with an appearance of
confidence that my own beating heart told me must be put on for the
occasion, and would vanish at the first appearance of danger.
And now the green door is passed and we are in the gallery; a faint
light through the stained windows only serves to show its extent and
general gloom, whilst its corners and abutments are black as a wolfs
mouth. Not a servant in the castle would willingly traverse this
gallery after dark, and we two children feel that we are at last alone,
and cut off from all hopes of assistance or rescue. But the Breviary
lies on the table at the far end, and, dreading the very sound of our
own footsteps, we steal quietly on. All at once Victor stops short.
"What is that?" says he, in trembling accents.
The question alone takes away my breath, and I feel the drops break out
on my lips and forehead. We stop simultaneously and listen. Encouraged
by the silence, we creep on, and for an instant I experience that vague
tumultuous feeling of excitement which is almost akin to pleasure. But
hark!--a heavy breath!!--a groan!!! My hair stands on end, and Victor's
hand clasps mine like a vice. I dare scarce turn my head towards the
sound,--it comes from that far corner. There it is! A dark object in
the deepest gloom of that recess seems crouching for a spring. "The
ghost!--the ghost!!" I exclaim, losing all power of self-command in an
agony of fear. "The dog!--the dog!!" shrieks Victor; and away we scour
hard as our legs can carry us, forgetful of our solemn agreements and
high resolves, forgetful of all but that safety lies before, and terror
of the ghastliest description behind; away we scour, Victor leaving his
sword where he dropped it at the first alarm, through the green door,
down the oak staircase, across the hall, nor stop till we reach the
banqueting-room, with its reassuring faces and its lights, cheering
beyond measure by contrast with the gloom from which we have escaped.
What shouts of laughter met us as we approached the table. "Well,
Victor, where's the Breviary?" said the Count. "What! my boy, was
Nature too strong for you in the dark, with nobody looking on?" asked
the General. "See! he has lost his sword," laughed another. "And the
little Englander,--he, too, was panic-struck," remarked the fourth. I
shrank from them all and took refuge at my father's side. "Vere, I am
ashamed of you," was all he said; but the words sank deep into my heart,
and I bowed my head with a feeling of burning shame, that I had
disgraced myself in my father's eyes for ever. We were sent to bed, and
I shared Victor's nursery, under the joint charge of Nettich and his own
attendant; but, do what I would, I could not sleep. There was a stain
upon my character in the eyes of the one I loved best on earth, and I
could not bear it. Though so quiet and undemonstrative, I was a child
of strong attachments. I perfectly idolised my father, and now he was
ashamed of me;--the words seemed to burn in my little heart. I tossed
and tumbled and fretted myself into a fever, aggravated by the sounding
snores of Nettich and the other nurse, who slept as only nurses can.
At last I could bear it no longer. I sat up in bed and peered
stealthily round. All were hushed in sleep. I determined to do or die.
Yes, I would go to the gallery; I would fetch the Breviary and lay it on
my father's table before he awoke. If I succeeded, I should recover his
good opinion; if I encountered the phantom dog, why, he could but kill
me, after all. I would wake Victor, and we would go together;--or,
no,--I would take the whole peril, and have all the glory of the
exploit, myself. I thought it over every way. At last my mind was made
up; my naked feet were on the floor; I stole from the nursery; I
threaded the dark passages; I reached the gallery; a dim light was
shining at the far end, and I could hear earnest voices conversing in a
low, guarded tone. Half-frightened and altogether confused, I stopped
and listened.