sideboard, where were the relics of a supper, and seizing the mustard and salt pots, and a bottle of oil, he emptied them all into a jug, into which he further poured a vast quantity of hot water. This pleasing mixture he then, without a moment’s hesitation, placed to his lips, and swallowed as much of it as nature would allow him. But when he had imbibed about a quart, the anticipated effect was produced, and he was enabled, by the power of this ingenious extemporaneous emetic, to get rid of much of the poison which Mrs. Catherine had administered to him.
He was employed in these efforts when the doctor entered, along with Mr. Brock and Mr. Trippet; who was not a little pleased to hear that the poisoned punch had not in all probability been given to him. He was recommended to take some of the Count’s mixture, as a precautionary measure; but this he refused, and retired home, leaving the Count under charge of the physician and his faithful corporal.
It is not necessary to say what further remedies were employed by them to restore the Captain to health; but after some time the doctor, pronouncing that the danger was, he hoped, averted, recommended that his patient should be put to bed, and that somebody should sit by him; which Brock promised to do.
“That she-devil will murder me, if you don’t,” gasped the poor Count. “You must turn her out of the bedroom; or break open the door, if she refuses to let you in.”
And this step was found to be necessary; for, after shouting many times, and in vain, Mr. Brock found a small iron bar (indeed, he had the instrument for many days in his pocket), and forced the lock. The room was empty, the window was open: the pretty barmaid of the “Bugle” had fled.
“The chest,” said the Count–“is the chest safe?”
The Corporal flew to the bed, under which it was screwed, and looked, and said, “It IS safe, thank Heaven!” The window was closed. The Captain, who was too weak to stand without help, was undressed and put to bed. The Corporal sat down by his side; slumber stole over the eyes of the patient; and his wakeful nurse marked with satisfaction the progress of the beneficent restorer of health.
When the Captain awoke, as he did some time afterwards, he found, very much to his surprise, that a gag had been placed in his mouth, and that the Corporal was in the act of wheeling his bed to another part of the room. He attempted to move, and gave utterance to such unintelligible sounds as could issue through a silk handkerchief.
“If your honour stirs or cries out in the least, I will cut your honour’s throat,” said the Corporal.
And then, having recourse to his iron bar (the reader will now see why he was provided with such an implement, for he had been meditating this coup for some days), he proceeded first to attempt to burst the lock of the little iron chest in which the Count kept his treasure, and, failing in this, to unscrew it from the ground; which operation he performed satisfactorily.
“You see, Count,” said he, calmly, “when rogues fall out there’s the deuce to pay. You’ll have me drummed out of the regiment, will you? I’m going to leave it of my own accord, look you, and to live like a gentleman for the rest of my days. Schlafen Sie wohl, noble Captain: bon repos. The Squire will be with you pretty early in the morning, to ask for the money you owe him.”
With these sarcastic observations Mr. Brock departed; not by the window, as Mrs. Catherine had done, but by the door, quietly, and so into the street. And when, the next morning, the doctor came to visit his patient, he brought with him a story how, at the dead of night, Mr. Brock had roused the ostler at the stables where the Captain’s horses were kept–had told him that Mrs. Catherine had poisoned the Count, and had run off with a thousand pounds; and how he and all lovers of justice ought to scour the country in pursuit of the criminal. For this end Mr. Brock mounted the Count’s best horse–that very animal on which he had carried away Mrs. Catherine: and thus, on a single night, Count Maximilian had lost his mistress, his money, his horse, his corporal, and was very near losing his life.
CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH MRS. CATHERINE BECOMES AN HONEST WOMAN AGAIN.
In this woeful plight, moneyless, wifeless, horseless, corporalless, with a gag in his mouth and a rope round his body, are we compelled to leave the gallant Galgenstein, until his friends and the progress of this history shall deliver him from his durance. Mr. Brock’s adventures on the Captain’s horse must likewise be pretermitted; for it is our business to follow Mrs. Catherine through the window by which she made her escape, and among the various chances that befell her.
She had one cause to congratulate herself,–that she had not her baby at her back; for the infant was safely housed under the care of a nurse, to whom the Captain was answerable. Beyond this her prospects were but dismal: no home to fly to, but a few shillings in her pocket, and a whole heap of injuries and dark revengeful thoughts in her bosom: it was a sad task to her to look either backwards or forwards. Whither was she to fly? How to live? What good chance was to befriend her? There was an angel watching over the steps of Mrs. Cat–not a good one, I think, but one of those from that unnameable place, who have their many subjects here on earth, and often are pleased to extricate them from worse perplexities.
Mrs. Cat, now, had not committed murder, but as bad as murder; and as she felt not the smallest repentance in her heart–as she had, in the course of her life and connection with the Captain, performed and gloried in a number of wicked coquetries, idlenesses, vanities, lies, fits of anger, slanders, foul abuses, and what not–she was fairly bound over to this dark angel whom we have alluded to; and he dealt with her, and aided her, as one of his own children.
I do not mean to say that, in this strait, he appeared to her in the likeness of a gentleman in black, and made her sign her name in blood to a document conveying over to him her soul, in exchange for certain conditions to be performed by him. Such diabolical bargains have always appeared to me unworthy of the astute personage who is supposed to be one of the parties to them; and who would scarcely be fool enough to pay dearly for that which he can have in a few years for nothing. It is not, then, to be supposed that a demon of darkness appeared to Mrs. Cat, and led her into a flaming chariot harnessed by dragons, and careering through air at the rate of a thousand leagues a minute. No such thing; the vehicle that was sent to aid her was one of a much more vulgar description.
The “Liverpool carryvan,” then, which in the year 1706 used to perform the journey between London and that place in ten days, left Birmingham about an hour after Mrs. Catherine had quitted that town; and as she sat weeping on a hillside, and plunged in bitter meditation, the lumbering, jingling vehicle overtook her. The coachman was marching by the side of his horses, and encouraging them to maintain their pace of two miles an hour; the passengers had some of them left the vehicle, in order to walk up the hill; and the carriage had arrived at the top of it, and, meditating a brisk trot down the declivity, waited there until the lagging passengers should arrive: when Jehu, casting a good-natured glance upon Mrs. Catherine, asked the pretty maid whence she was come, and whether she would like a ride in his carriage. To the latter of which questions Mrs. Catherine replied truly yes; to the former, her answer was that she had come from Stratford; whereas, as we very well know, she had lately quitted Birmingham.
“Hast thee seen a woman pass this way, on a black horse, with a large bag of goold over the saddle?” said Jehu, preparing to mount upon the roof of his coach.
“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Cat.
“Nor a trooper on another horse after her–no? Well, there be a mortal row down Birmingham way about sich a one. She have killed, they say, nine gentlemen at supper, and have strangled a German prince in bed. She have robbed him of twenty thousand guineas, and have rode away on a black horse.”
“That can’t be I,” said Mrs. Cat, naively, “for I have but three shillings and a groat.”
“No, it can’t be thee, truly, for where’s your bag of goold? and, besides, thee hast got too pretty a face to do such wicked things as to kill nine gentlemen and strangle a German prince.”
“Law, coachman,” said Mrs. Cat, blushing archly–“,Law, coachman, DO you think so?” The girl would have been pleased with a compliment even on her way to be hanged; and the parley ended by Mrs. Catherine stepping into the carriage, where there was room for eight people at least, and where two or three individuals had already taken their places. For these Mrs. Catherine had in the first place to make a story, which she did; and a very glib one for a person of her years and education. Being asked whither she was bound, and how she came to be alone of a morning sitting by a road-side, she invented a neat history suitable to the occasion, which elicited much interest from her fellow-passengers: one in particular, a young man, who had caught a glimpse of her face under her hood, was very tender in his attentions to her.
But whether it was that she had been too much fatigued by the occurrences of the past day and sleepless night, or whether the little laudanum which she had drunk a few hours previously now began to act upon her, certain it is that Mrs. Cat now suddenly grew sick, feverish, and extraordinarily sleepy; and in this state she continued for many hours, to the pity of all her fellow-travellers. At length the “carryvan” reached the inn, where horses and passengers were accustomed to rest for a few hours, and to dine; and Mrs. Catherine was somewhat awakened by the stir of the passengers, and the friendly voice of the inn-servant welcoming them to dinner. The gentleman who had been smitten by her beauty now urged her very politely to descend; which, taking the protection of his arm, she accordingly did.
He made some very gallant speeches to her as she stepped out; and she must have been very much occupied by them, or wrapt up in her own thoughts, or stupefied by sleep, fever, and opium, for she did not take any heed of the place into which she was going: which, had she done, she would probably have preferred remaining in the coach, dinnerless and ill. Indeed, the inn into which she was about to make her entrance was no other than the “Bugle,” from which she set forth at the commencement of this history; and which then, as now, was kept by her relative, the thrifty Mrs. Score. That good landlady, seeing a lady, in a smart hood and cloak, leaning, as if faint, upon the arm of a gentleman of good appearance, concluded them to be man and wife, and folks of quality too; and with much discrimination, as well as sympathy, led them through the public kitchen to her own private parlour, or bar, where she handed the lady an armchair, and asked what she would like to drink. By this time, and indeed at the very moment she heard her aunt’s voice, Mrs. Catherine was aware of her situation; and when her companion retired, and the landlady, with much officiousness, insisted on removing her hood, she was quite prepared for the screech of surprise which Mrs. Score gave on dropping it, exclaiming, “Why, law bless us, it’s our Catherine!”
“I’m very ill, and tired, aunt,” said Cat; “and would give the world for a few hours’ sleep.”
“A few hours and welcome, my love, and a sack-posset too. You do look sadly tired and poorly, sure enough. Ah, Cat, Cat! you great ladies are sad rakes, I do believe. I wager now, that with all your balls, and carriages, and fine clothes, you are neither so happy nor so well as when you lived with your poor old aunt, who used to love you so.” And with these gentle words, and an embrace or two, which Mrs. Catherine wondered at, and permitted, she was conducted to that very bed which the Count had occupied a year previously, and undressed, and laid in it, and affectionately tucked up by her aunt, who marvelled at the fineness of her clothes, as she removed them piece by piece; and when she saw that in Mrs. Catherine’s pocket there was only the sum of three and fourpence, said, archly, “There was no need of money, for the Captain took care of that.”
Mrs. Cat did not undeceive her; and deceived Mrs. Score certainly was,–for she imagined the well-dressed gentleman who led Cat from the carriage was no other than the Count; and, as she had heard, from time to time, exaggerated reports of the splendour of the establishment which he kept up, she was induced to look upon her niece with the very highest respect, and to treat her as if she were a fine lady. “And so she IS a fine lady,” Mrs. Score had said months ago, when some of these flattering stories reached her, and she had overcome her first fury at Catherine’s elopement. “The girl was very cruel to leave me; but we must recollect that she is as good as married to a nobleman, and must all forget and forgive, you know.”
This speech had been made to Doctor Dobbs, who was in the habit of taking a pipe and a tankard at the “Bugle,” and it had been roundly reprobated by the worthy divine; who told Mrs. Score, that the crime of Catherine was only the more heinous, if it had been committed from interested motives; and protested that, were she a princess, he would never speak to her again. Mrs. Score thought and pronounced the Doctor’s opinion to be very bigoted; indeed, she was one of those persons who have a marvellous respect for prosperity, and a corresponding scorn for ill-fortune. When, therefore, she returned to the public room, she went graciously to the gentleman who had led Mrs. Catherine from the carriage, and with a knowing curtsey welcomed him to the “Bugle;” told him that his lady would not come to dinner, but bade her say, with her best love to his Lordship, that the ride had fatigued her, and that she would lie in bed for an hour or two.
This speech was received with much wonder by his Lordship; who was, indeed, no other than a Liverpool tailor going to London to learn fashions; but he only smiled, and did not undeceive the landlady, who herself went off, smilingly, to bustle about dinner.
The two or three hours allotted to that meal by the liberal coachmasters of those days passed away, and Mr. Coachman, declaring that his horses were now rested enough, and that they had twelve miles to ride, put the steeds to, and summoned the passengers. Mrs. Score, who had seen with much satisfaction that her niece was really ill, and her fever more violent, and hoped to have her for many days an inmate in her house, now came forward, and casting upon the Liverpool tailor a look of profound but respectful melancholy, said, “My Lord (for I recollect your Lordship quite well), the lady upstairs is so ill, that it would be a sin to move her: had I not better tell coachman to take down your Lordship’s trunks, and the lady’s, and make you a bed in the next room?”
Very much to her surprise, this proposition was received with a roar of laughter. “Madam,” said the person addressed, “I’m not a lord, but a tailor and draper; and as for that young woman, before to-day I never set eyes on her.”
“WHAT!” screamed out Mrs. Score. “Are not you the Count? Do you mean to say that you a’n’t Cat’s–? DO you mean to say that you didn’t order her bed, and that you won’t pay this here little bill?” And with this she produced a document, by which the Count’s lady was made her debtor in a sum of half-a-guinea.
These passionate words excited more and more laughter. “Pay it, my Lord,” said the coachman; “and then come along, for time presses.” “Our respects to her Ladyship,” said one passenger. “Tell her my Lord can’t wait,” said another; and with much merriment one and all quitted the hotel, entered the coach, and rattled off.
Dumb–pale with terror and rage–bill in hand, Mrs. Score had followed the company; but when the coach disappeared, her senses returned. Back she flew into the inn, overturning the ostler, not deigning to answer Doctor Dobbs (who, from behind soft tobacco-fumes, mildly asked the reason of her disturbance), and, bounding upstairs like a fury, she rushed into the room where Catherine lay.
“Well, madam!” said she, in her highest key, “do you mean that you have come into this here house to swindle me? Do you dare for to come with your airs here, and call yourself a nobleman’s lady, and sleep in the best bed, when you’re no better nor a common tramper? I’ll thank you, ma’am, to get out, ma’am. I’ll have no sick paupers in this house, ma’am. You know your way to the workhouse, ma’am, and there I’ll trouble you for to go.” And here Mrs. Score proceeded quickly to pull off the bedclothes; and poor Cat arose, shivering with fright and fever.
She had no spirit to answer, as she would have done the day before, when an oath from any human being would have brought half-a-dozen from her in return; or a knife, or a plate, or a leg of mutton, if such had been to her hand. She had no spirit left for such repartees; but in reply to the above words of Mrs. Score, and a great many more of the same kind–which are not necessary for our history, but which that lady uttered with inconceivable shrillness and volubility, the poor wench could say little,–only sob and shiver, and gather up the clothes again, crying, “Oh, aunt, don’t speak unkind to me! I’m very unhappy, and very ill!”
“Ill, you strumpet! ill, be hanged! Ill is as ill does; and if you are ill, it’s only what you merit. Get out! dress yourself–tramp! Get to the workhouse, and don’t come to cheat me any more! Dress yourself–do you hear? Satin petticoat forsooth, and lace to her smock!”
Poor, wretched, chattering, burning, shivering Catherine huddled on her clothes as well she might: she seemed hardly to know or see what she was doing, and did not reply a single word to the many that the landlady let fall. Cat tottered down the narrow stairs, and through the kitchen, and to the door; which she caught hold of, and paused awhile, and looked into Mrs. Score’s face, as for one more chance. “Get out, you nasty trull!” said that lady, sternly, with arms akimbo; and poor Catherine, with a most piteous scream and outgush of tears, let go of the door-post and staggered away into the road.
* * *
“Why, no–yes–no–it is poor Catherine Hall, as I live!” said somebody, starting up, shoving aside Mrs. Score very rudely, and running into the road, wig off and pipe in hand. It was honest Doctor Dobbs; and the result of his interview with Mrs. Cat was, that he gave up for ever smoking his pipe at the “Bugle;” and that she lay sick of a fever for some weeks in his house.
* * *
Over this part of Mrs. Cat’s history we shall be as brief as possible; for, to tell the truth, nothing immoral occurred during her whole stay at the good Doctor’s house; and we are not going to insult the reader by offering him silly pictures of piety, cheerfulness, good sense, and simplicity; which are milk-and-water virtues after all, and have no relish with them like a good strong vice, highly peppered. Well, to be short: Doctor Dobbs, though a profound theologian, was a very simple gentleman; and before Mrs. Cat had been a month in the house, he had learned to look upon her as one of the most injured and repentant characters in the world; and had, with Mrs. Dobbs, resolved many plans for the future welfare of the young Magdalen. “She was but sixteen, my love, recollect,” said the Doctor; “she was carried off, not by her own wish either. The Count swore he would marry her; and, though she did not leave him until that monster tried to poison her, yet think what a fine Christian spirit the poor girl has shown! she forgives him as heartily–more heartily, I am sure, than I do Mrs. Score for turning her adrift in that wicked way.” The reader will perceive some difference in the Doctor’s statement and ours, which we assure him is the true one; but the fact is, the honest rector had had his tale from Mrs. Cat, and it was not in his nature to doubt, if she had told him a history ten times more wonderful.
The reverend gentleman and his wife then laid their heads together; and, recollecting something of John Hayes’s former attachment to Mrs. Cat, thought that it might be advantageously renewed, should Hayes be still constant. Having very adroitly sounded Catherine (so adroitly, indeed, as to ask her “whether she would like to marry John Hayes?”), that young woman had replied, “No. She had loved John Hayes–he had been her early, only love; but she was fallen now, and not good enough for him.” And this made the Dobbs family admire her more and more, and cast about for means to bring the marriage to pass.
Hayes was away from the village when Mrs. Cat had arrived there; but he did not fail to hear of her illness, and how her aunt had deserted her, and the good Doctor taken her in. The worthy Doctor himself met Mr. Hayes on the green; and, telling him that some repairs were wanting in his kitchen begged him to step in and examine them. Hayes first said no, plump, and then no, gently; and then pished, and then psha’d; and then, trembling very much, went in: and there sat Mrs. Catherine, trembling very much too.
What passed between them? If your Ladyship is anxious to know, think of that morning when Sir John himself popped the question. Could there be anything more stupid than the conversation which took place? Such stuff is not worth repeating: no, not when uttered by people in the very genteelest of company; as for the amorous dialogue of a carpenter and an ex-barmaid, it is worse still. Suffice it to say, that Mr. Hayes, who had had a year to recover from his passion, and had, to all appearances, quelled it, was over head and ears again the very moment he saw Mrs. Cat, and had all his work to do again.
Whether the Doctor knew what was going on, I can’t say; but this matter is certain, that every evening Hayes was now in the rectory kitchen, or else walking abroad with Mrs. Catherine: and whether she ran away with him, or he with her, I shall not make it my business to inquire; but certainly at the end of three months (which must be crowded up into this one little sentence), another elopement took place in the village. “I should have prevented it, certainly,” said Doctor Dobbs–whereat his wife smiled; “but the young people kept the matter a secret from me.” And so he would, had he known it; but though Mrs. Dobbs had made several attempts to acquaint him with the precise hour and method of the intended elopement, he peremptorily ordered her to hold her tongue. The fact is, that the matter had been discussed by the rector’s lady many times. “Young Hayes,” would she say “has a pretty little fortune and trade of his own; he is an only son, and may marry as he likes; and, though not specially handsome, generous, or amiable, has an undeniable love for Cat (who, you know, must not be particular), and the sooner she marries him, I think, the better. They can’t be married at our church you know, and–” “Well,” said the Doctor, “if they are married elsewhere, I can’t help it, and know nothing about it, look you.” And upon this hint the elopement took place: which, indeed, was peaceably performed early one Sunday morning about a month after; Mrs. Hall getting behind Mr. Hayes on a pillion, and all the children of the parsonage giggling behind the window-blinds to see the pair go off.
During this month Mr. Hayes had caused the banns to be published at the town of Worcester; judging rightly that in a great town they would cause no such remark as in a solitary village, and thither he conducted his lady. O ill-starred John Hayes! whither do the dark Fates lead you? O foolish Doctor Dobbs, to forget that young people ought to honour their parents, and to yield to silly Mrs. Dobbs’s ardent propensity for making matches!
* * *
The London Gazette of the 1st April, 1706, contains a proclamation by the Queen for putting into execution an Act of Parliament for the encouragement and increase of seamen, and for the better and speedier manning of Her Majesty’s fleet, which authorises all justices to issue warrants to constables, petty constables, headboroughs, and tything-men, to enter and, if need be, to break open the doors of any houses where they shall believe deserting seamen to be; and for the further increase and encouragement of the navy, to take able-bodied landsmen when seamen fail. This Act, which occupies four columns of the Gazette, and another of similar length and meaning for pressing men into the army, need not be quoted at length here; but caused a mighty stir throughout the kingdom at the time when it was in force.
As one has seen or heard, after the march of a great army, a number of rogues and loose characters bring up the rear; in like manner, at the tail of a great measure of State, follow many roguish personal interests, which are protected by the main body. The great measure of Reform, for instance, carried along with it much private jobbing and swindling–as could be shown were we not inclined to deal mildly with the Whigs; and this Enlistment Act, which, in order to maintain the British glories in Flanders, dealt most cruelly with the British people in England (it is not the first time that a man has been pinched at home to make a fine appearance abroad), created a great company of rascals and informers throughout the land, who lived upon it; or upon extortion from those who were subject to it, or not being subject to it were frightened into the belief that they were.
When Mr. Hayes and his lady had gone through the marriage ceremony at Worcester, the former, concluding that at such a place lodging and food might be procured at a cheaper rate, looked about carefully for the meanest public-house in the town, where he might deposit his bride.
In the kitchen of this inn, a party of men were drinking; and, as Mrs. Hayes declined, with a proper sense of her superiority, to eat in company with such low fellows, the landlady showed her and her husband to an inner apartment, where they might be served in private.
The kitchen party seemed, indeed, not such as a lady would choose to join. There was one huge lanky fellow, that looked like a soldier, and had a halberd; another was habited in a sailor’s costume, with a fascinating patch over one eye; and a third, who seemed the leader of the gang, was a stout man in a sailor’s frock and a horseman’s jack-boots, whom one might fancy, if he were anything, to be a horse-marine.
Of one of these worthies, Mrs. Hayes thought she knew the figure and voice; and she found her conjectures were true, when, all of sudden, three people, without “With your leave,” or “By your leave,” burst into the room, into which she and her spouse had retired. At their head was no other than her old friend, Mr. Peter Brock; he had his sword drawn, and his finger to his lips, enjoining silence, as it were, to Mrs. Catherine. He with the patch on his eye seized incontinently on Mr. Hayes; the tall man with the halberd kept the door; two or three heroes supported the one-eyed man; who, with a loud voice, exclaimed, “Down with your arms–no resistance! you are my prisoner, in the Queen’s name!”
And here, at this lock, we shall leave the whole company until the next chapter; which may possibly explain what they were.
CHAPTER V. CONTAINS MR. BROCK’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY, AND OTHER MATTERS.
“You don’t sure believe these men?” said Mrs. Hayes, as soon as the first alarm caused by the irruption of Mr. Brock and his companions had subsided. “These are no magistrate’s men: it is but a trick to rob you of your money, John.”
“I will never give up a farthing of it!” screamed Hayes.
“Yonder fellow,” continued Mrs. Catherine, “I know, for all his drawn sword and fierce looks; his name is—“
“Wood, madam, at your service!” said Mr. Brock. “I am follower to Mr. Justice Gobble, of this town: a’n’t I, Tim?” said Mr. Brock to the tall halberdman who was keeping the door.
“Yes indeed,” said Tim, archly; “we’re all followers of his honour Justice Gobble.”
“Certainly!” said the one-eyed man.
“Of course!” cried the man in the nightcap.
“I suppose, madam, you’re satisfied NOW?” continued Mr. Brock, alias Wood. “You can’t deny the testimony of gentlemen like these; and our commission is to apprehend all able-bodied male persons who can give no good account of themselves, and enrol them in the service of Her Majesty. Look at this Mr. Hayes” (who stood trembling in his shoes). “Can there be a bolder, properer, straighter gentleman? We’ll have him for a grenadier before the day’s over!”
“Take heart, John–don’t be frightened. Psha! I tell you I know the man” cried out Mrs. Hayes: “he is only here to extort money.”
“Oh, for that matter, I DO think I recollect the lady. Let me see; where was it? At Birmingham, I think,–ay, at Birmingham,–about the time when they tried to murder Count Gal–“
“Oh, sir!” here cried Madam Hayes, dropping her voice at once from a tone of scorn to one of gentlest entreaty, “what is it you want with my husband? I know not, indeed, if ever I saw you before. For what do you seize him? How much will you take to release him, and let us go? Name the sum; he is rich, and–“
“RICH, Catherine!” cried Hayes. “Rich!–O heavens! Sir, I have nothing but my hands to support me: I am a poor carpenter, sir, working under my father!”
“He can give twenty guineas to be free; I know he can!” said Mrs. Cat.
“I have but a guinea to carry me home,” sighed out Hayes.
“But you have twenty at home, John,” said his wife. “Give these brave gentlemen a writing to your mother, and she will pay; and you will let us free then, gentlemen–won’t you?”
“When the money’s paid, yes,” said the leader, Mr. Brock.
“Oh, in course,” echoed the tall man with the halberd. “What’s a thrifling detintion, my dear?” continued he, addressing Hayes. “We’ll amuse you in your absence, and drink to the health of your pretty wife here.”
This promise, to do the halberdier justice, he fulfilled. He called upon the landlady to produce the desired liquor; and when Mr. Hayes flung himself at that lady’s feet, demanding succour from her, and asking whether there was no law in the land–
“There’s no law at the ‘Three Rooks’ except THIS!” said Mr. Brock in reply, holding up a horse-pistol. To which the hostess, grinning, assented, and silently went her way.
After some further solicitations, John Hayes drew out the necessary letter to his father, stating that he was pressed, and would not be set free under a sum of twenty guineas; and that it would be of no use to detain the bearer of the letter, inasmuch as the gentlemen who had possession of him vowed that they would murder him should any harm befall their comrade. As a further proof of the authenticity of the letter, a token was added: a ring that Hayes wore, and that his mother had given him.
The missives were, after some consultation, entrusted to the care of the tall halberdier, who seemed to rank as second in command of the forces that marched under Corporal Brock. This gentleman was called indifferently Ensign, Mr., or even Captain Macshane; his intimates occasionally in sport called him Nosey, from the prominence of that feature in his countenance; or Spindleshins, for the very reason which brought on the first Edward a similar nickname. Mr. Macshane then quitted Worcester, mounted on Hayes’s horse; leaving all parties at the “Three Rooks” not a little anxious for his return.
This was not to be expected until the next morning; and a weary nuit de noces did Mr. Hayes pass. Dinner was served, and, according to promise, Mr. Brock and his two friends enjoyed the meal along with the bride and bridegroom. Punch followed, and this was taken in company; then came supper. Mr. Brock alone partook of this, the other two gentlemen preferring the society of their pipes and the landlady in the kitchen.
“It is a sorry entertainment, I confess,” said the ex-corporal, “and a dismal way for a gentleman to spend his bridal night; but somebody must stay with you, my dears: for who knows but you might take a fancy to scream out of window, and then there would be murder, and the deuce and all to pay. One of us must stay, and my friends love a pipe, so you must put up with my company until they can relieve guard.”
The reader will not, of course, expect that three people who were to pass the night, however unwillingly, together in an inn-room, should sit there dumb and moody, and without any personal communication; on the contrary, Mr. Brock, as an old soldier, entertained his prisoners with the utmost courtesy, and did all that lay in his power, by the help of liquor and conversation, to render their durance tolerable. On the bridegroom his attentions were a good deal thrown away: Mr. Hayes consented to drink copiously, but could not be made to talk much; and, in fact, the fright of the seizure, the fate hanging over him should his parents refuse a ransom, and the tremendous outlay of money which would take place should they accede to it, weighed altogether on his mind so much as utterly to unman it.
As for Mrs. Cat, I don’t think she was at all sorry in her heart to see the old Corporal: for he had been a friend of old times–dear times to her; she had had from him, too, and felt for him, not a little kindness; and there was really a very tender, innocent friendship subsisting between this pair of rascals, who relished much a night’s conversation together.
The Corporal, after treating his prisoners to punch in great quantities, proposed the amusement of cards: over which Mr. Hayes had not been occupied more than an hour, when he found himself so excessively sleepy as to be persuaded to fling himself down on the bed dressed as he was, and there to snore away until morning.
Mrs. Catherine had no inclination for sleep; and the Corporal, equally wakeful, plied incessantly the bottle, and held with her a great deal of conversation. The sleep, which was equivalent to the absence, of John Hayes took all restraint from their talk. She explained to Brock the circumstances of her marriage, which we have already described; they wondered at the chance which had brought them together at the “Three Rooks;” nor did Brock at all hesitate to tell her at once that his calling was quite illegal, and that his intention was simply to extort money. The worthy Corporal had not the slightest shame regarding his own profession, and cut many jokes with Mrs. Cat about her late one; her attempt to murder the Count, and her future prospects as a wife.
And here, having brought him upon the scene again, we may as well shortly narrate some of the principal circumstances which befell him after his sudden departure from Birmingham; and which he narrated with much candour to Mrs. Catherine.
He rode the Captain’s horse to Oxford (having exchanged his military dress for a civil costume on the road), and at Oxford he disposed of “George of Denmark,” a great bargain, to one of the heads of colleges. As soon as Mr. Brock, who took on himself the style and title of Captain Wood, had sufficiently examined the curiosities of the University, he proceeded at once to the capital: the only place for a gentleman of his fortune and figure.
Here he read, with a great deal of philosophical indifference, in the Daily Post, the Courant, the Observator, the Gazette, and the chief journals of those days, which he made a point of examining at “Button’s” and “Will’s,” an accurate description of his person, his clothes, and the horse he rode, and a promise of fifty guineas’ reward to any person who would give an account of him (so that he might be captured) to Captain Count Galgenstein at Birmingham, to Mr. Murfey at the “Golden Ball” in the Savoy, or Mr. Bates at the “Blew Anchor in Pickadilly.” But Captain Wood, in an enormous full-bottomed periwig that cost him sixty pounds,* with high red heels to his shoes, a silver sword, and a gold snuff-box, and a large wound (obtained, he said, at the siege of Barcelona), which disfigured much of his countenance, and caused him to cover one eye, was in small danger, he thought, of being mistaken for Corporal Brock, the deserter of Cutts’s; and strutted along the Mall with as grave an air as the very best nobleman who appeared there. He was generally, indeed, voted to be very good company; and as his expenses were unlimited (“A few convent candlesticks,” my dear, he used to whisper, “melt into a vast number of doubloons”), he commanded as good society as he chose to ask for: and it was speedily known as a fact throughout town, that Captain Wood, who had served under His Majesty Charles III. of Spain, had carried off the diamond petticoat of Our Lady of Compostella, and lived upon the proceeds of the fraud. People were good Protestants in those days, and many a one longed to have been his partner in the pious plunder.
* In the ingenious contemporary history of Moll Flanders, a periwig is mentioned as costing that sum.
All surmises concerning his wealth, Captain Wood, with much discretion, encouraged. He contradicted no report, but was quite ready to confirm all; and when two different rumours were positively put to him, he used only to laugh, and say, “My dear sir, _I_ don’t make the stories; but I’m not called upon to deny them; and I give you fair warning, that I shall assent to every one of them; so you may believe them or not, as you please.” And so he had the reputation of being a gentleman, not only wealthy, but discreet. In truth, it was almost a pity that worthy Brock had not been a gentleman born; in which case, doubtless, he would have lived and died as became his station; for he spent his money like a gentleman, he loved women like a gentleman, he would fight like a gentleman, he gambled and got drunk like a gentleman. What did he want else? Only a matter of six descents, a little money, and an estate, to render him the equal of St. John or Harley. “Ah, those were merry days!” would Mr. Brock say,–for he loved, in a good old age, to recount the story of his London fashionable campaign;–“and when I think how near I was to become a great man, and to die perhaps a general, I can’t but marvel at the wicked obstinacy of my ill-luck.”
“I will tell you what I did, my dear: I had lodgings in Piccadilly, as if I were a lord; I had two large periwigs, and three suits of laced clothes; I kept a little black dressed out like a Turk; I walked daily in the Mall; I dined at the politest ordinary in Covent Garden; I frequented the best of coffee-houses, and knew all the pretty fellows of the town; I cracked a bottle with Mr. Addison, and lent many a piece to Dick Steele (a sad debauched rogue, my dear); and, above all, I’ll tell you what I did–the noblest stroke that sure ever a gentleman performed in my situation.
“One day, going into ‘Will’s,’ I saw a crowd of gentlemen gathered together, and heard one of them say, ‘Captain Wood! I don’t know the man; but there was a Captain Wood in Southwell’s regiment.’ Egad, it was my Lord Peterborough himself who was talking about me. So, putting off my hat, I made a most gracious conge to my Lord, and said I knew HIM, and rode behind him at Barcelona on our entry into that town.
“‘No doubt you did, Captain Wood,’ says my Lord, taking my hand; ‘and no doubt you know me: for many more know Tom Fool, than Tom Fool knows.’ And with this, at which all of us laughed, my Lord called for a bottle, and he and I sat down and drank it together.
“Well, he was in disgrace, as you know, but he grew mighty fond of me, and–would you believe it?–nothing would satisfy him but presenting me at Court! Yes, to Her Sacred Majesty the Queen, and my Lady Marlborough, who was in high feather. Ay, truly, the sentinels on duty used to salute me as if I were Corporal John himself! I was on the high road to fortune. Charley Mordaunt used to call me Jack, and drink canary at my chambers; I used to make one at my Lord Treasurer’s levee; I had even got Mr. Army-Secretary Walpole to take a hundred guineas as a compliment: and he had promised me a majority: when bad luck turned, and all my fine hopes were overthrown in a twinkling.
“You see, my dear, that after we had left that gaby, Galgenstein,–ha, ha–with a gag in his mouth, and twopence- halfpenny in his pocket, the honest Count was in the sorriest plight in the world; owing money here and there to tradesmen, a cool thousand to the Warwickshire Squire: and all this on eighty pounds a year! Well, for a little time the tradesmen held their hands; while the jolly Count moved heaven and earth to catch hold of his dear Corporal and his dear money-bags over again, and placarded every town from London to Liverpool with descriptions of my pretty person. The bird was flown, however,–the money clean gone,–and when there was no hope of regaining it, what did the creditors do but clap my gay gentleman into Shrewsbury gaol: where I wish he had rotted, for my part.
“But no such luck for honest Peter Brock, or Captain Wood, as he was in those days. One blessed Monday I went to wait on Mr. Secretary, and he squeezed my hand and whispered to me that I was to be Major of a regiment in Virginia–the very thing: for you see, my dear, I didn’t care about joining my Lord Duke in Flanders; being pretty well known to the army there. The Secretary squeezed my hand (it had a fifty-pound bill in it) and wished me joy, and called me Major, and bowed me out of his closet into the ante-room; and, as gay as may be, I went off to the ‘Tilt-yard Coffee-house’ in Whitehall, which is much frequented by gentlemen of our profession, where I bragged not a little of my good luck.
“Amongst the company were several of my acquaintance, and amongst them a gentleman I did not much care to see, look you! I saw a uniform that I knew–red and yellow facings–Cutts’s, my dear; and the wearer of this was no other than his Excellency Gustavus Adolphus Maximilian, whom we all know of!
“He stared me full in the face, right into my eye (t’other one was patched, you know), and after standing stock-still with his mouth open, gave a step back, and then a step forward, and then screeched out, ‘It’s Brock!’
“‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ says I; ‘did you speak to me?’
“‘I’ll SWEAR it’s Brock,’ cries Gal, as soon as he hears my voice, and laid hold of my cuff (a pretty bit of Mechlin as ever you saw, by the way).
“‘Sirrah!’ says I, drawing it back, and giving my Lord a little touch of the fist (just at the last button of the waistcoat, my dear,–a rare place if you wish to prevent a man from speaking too much: it sent him reeling to the other end of the room). ‘Ruffian!’ says I. ‘Dog!’ says I. ‘Insolent puppy and coxcomb! what do you mean by laying your hand on me?’
“‘Faith, Major, you giv him his BILLYFUL,’ roared out a long Irish unattached ensign, that I had treated with many a glass of Nantz at the tavern. And so, indeed, I had; for the wretch could not speak for some minutes, and all the officers stood laughing at him, as he writhed and wriggled hideously.
“‘Gentlemen, this is a monstrous scandal,’ says one officer. ‘Men of rank and honour at fists like a parcel of carters!’
“‘Men of honour!’ says the Count, who had fetched up his breath by this time. (I made for the door, but Macshane held me and said, ‘Major, you are not going to shirk him, sure?’ Whereupon I gripped his hand and vowed I would have the dog’s life.)
“‘Men of honour!’ says the Count. ‘I tell you the man is a deserter, a thief, and a swindler! He was my corporal, and ran away with a thou–‘
“‘Dog, you lie!’ I roared out, and made another cut at him with my cane; but the gentlemen rushed between us.
“‘O bluthanowns!’ says honest Macshane, ‘the lying scounthrel this fellow is! Gentlemen, I swear be me honour that Captain Wood was wounded at Barcelona; and that I saw him there; and that he and I ran away together at the battle of Almanza, and bad luck to us.’
“You see, my dear, that these Irish have the strongest imaginations in the world; and that I had actually persuaded poor Mac that he and I were friends in Spain. Everybody knew Mac, who was a character in his way, and believed him.
“‘Strike a gentleman,’ says I. ‘I’ll have your blood, I will.’
“‘This instant,’ says the Count, who was boiling with fury; ‘and where you like.’
“‘Montague House,’ says I. ‘Good,’ says he. And off we went. In good time too, for the constables came in at the thought of such a disturbance, and wanted to take us in charge.
“But the gentlemen present, being military men, would not hear of this. Out came Mac’s rapier, and that of half-a-dozen others; and the constables were then told to do their duty if they liked, or to take a crown-piece, and leave us to ourselves. Off they went; and presently, in a couple of coaches, the Count and his friends, I and mine, drove off to the fields behind Montague House. Oh that vile coffee-house! why did I enter it?
“We came to the ground. Honest Macshane was my second, and much disappointed because the second on the other side would not make a fight of it, and exchange a few passes with him; but he was an old major, a cool old hand, as brave as steel, and no fool. Well, the swords are measured, Galgenstein strips off his doublet, and I my handsome cut-velvet in like fashion. Galgenstein flings off his hat, and I handed mine over–the lace on it cost me twenty pounds. I longed to be at him, for–curse him!–I hate him, and know that he has no chance with me at sword’s-play.
“‘You’ll not fight in that periwig, sure?’ says Macshane. ‘Of course not,’ says I, and took it off.
“May all barbers be roasted in flames; may all periwigs, bobwigs, scratchwigs, and Ramillies cocks, frizzle in purgatory from this day forth to the end of time! Mine was the ruin of me: what might I not have been now but for that wig!
“I gave it over to Ensign Macshane, and with it went what I had quite forgotten, the large patch which I wore over one eye, which popped out fierce, staring, and lively as was ever any eye in the world.
“‘Come on!’ says I, and made a lunge at my Count; but he sprang back (the dog was as active as a hare, and knew, from old times, that I was his master with the small-sword), and his second, wondering, struck up my blade.
“‘I will not fight that man,’ says he, looking mighty pale. ‘I swear upon my honour that his name is Peter Brock: he was for two years my corporal, and deserted, running away with a thousand pounds of my moneys. Look at the fellow! What is the matter with his eye? why did he wear a patch over it? But stop!’ says he. ‘I have more proof. Hand me my pocket-book.’ And from it, sure enough, he produced the infernal proclamation announcing my desertion! ‘See if the fellow has a scar across his left ear’ (and I can’t say, my dear, but what I have: it was done by a cursed Dutchman at the Boyne). ‘Tell me if he has not got C.R. in blue upon his right arm’ (and there it is sure enough). ‘Yonder swaggering Irishman may be his accomplice for what I know; but I will have no dealings with Mr. Brock, save with a constable for a second.’
“‘This is an odd story, Captain Wood,’ said the old Major who acted for the Count.
“‘A scounthrelly falsehood regarding me and my friend!’ shouted out Mr. Macshane; ‘and the Count shall answer for it.’
“‘Stop, stop!’ says the Major. ‘Captain Wood is too gallant a gentleman, I am sure, not to satisfy the Count; and will show us that he has no such mark on his arm as only private soldiers put there.’
“‘Captain Wood,’ says I, ‘will do no such thing, Major. I’ll fight that scoundrel Galgenstein, or you, or any of you, like a man of honour; but I won’t submit to be searched like a thief!’
“‘No, in coorse,’ said Macshane.
“‘I must take my man off the ground,’ says the Major.
“‘Well, take him, sir,’ says I, in a rage; ‘and just let me have the pleasure of telling him that he’s a coward and a liar; and that my lodgings are in Piccadilly, where, if ever he finds courage to meet me, he may hear of me!’
“‘Faugh! I shpit on ye all,’ cries my gallant ally Macshane. And sure enough he kept his word, or all but–suiting the action to it at any rate.
“And so we gathered up our clothes, and went back in our separate coaches, and no blood spilt.
“‘And is it thrue now,’ said Mr. Macshane, when we were alone–‘is it thrue now, all these divvles have been saying?’ ‘Ensign,’ says I, ‘you’re a man of the world?’
“”Deed and I am, and insign these twenty-two years.’
“‘Perhaps you’d like a few pieces?’ says I.
“‘Faith and I should; for to tell you the secred thrut, I’ve not tasted mate these four days.’
“‘Well then, Ensign, it IS true,’ says I; ‘and as for meat, you shall have some at the first cook-shop.’ I bade the coach stop until he bought a plateful, which he ate in the carriage, for my time was precious. I just told him the whole story: at which he laughed, and swore that it was the best piece of GENERALSHIP he ever heard on. When his belly was full, I took out a couple of guineas and gave them to him. Mr. Macshane began to cry at this, and kissed me, and swore he never would desert me: as, indeed, my dear, I don’t think he will; for we have been the best of friends ever since, and he’s the only man I ever could trust, I think.
“I don’t know what put it into my head, but I had a scent of some mischief in the wind; so stopped the coach a little before I got home, and, turning into a tavern, begged Macshane to go before me to my lodging, and see if the coast was clear: which he did; and came back to me as pale as death, saying that the house was full of constables. The cursed quarrel at the Tilt-yard had, I suppose, set the beaks upon me; and a pretty sweep they made of it. Ah, my dear! five hundred pounds in money, five suits of laced clothes, three periwigs, besides laced shirts, swords, canes, and snuff-boxes; and all to go back to that scoundrel Count.
“It was all over with me, I saw–no more being a gentleman for me; and if I remained to be caught, only a choice between Tyburn and a file of grenadiers. My love, under such circumstances, a gentleman can’t be particular, and must be prompt; the livery-stable was hard by where I used to hire my coach to go to Court,–ha! ha!–and was known as a man of substance. Thither I went immediately. ‘Mr. Warmmash,’ says I, ‘my gallant friend here and I have a mind for a ride and a supper at Twickenham, so you must lend us a pair of your best horses.’ Which he did in a twinkling, and off we rode.
“We did not go into the Park, but turned off and cantered smartly up towards Kilburn; and, when we got into the country, galloped as if the devil were at our heels. Bless you, my love, it was all done in a minute: and the Ensign and I found ourselves regular knights of the road, before we knew where we were almost. Only think of our finding you and your new husband at the ‘Three Rooks’! There’s not a greater fence than the landlady in all the country. It was she that put us on seizing your husband, and introduced us to the other two gentlemen, whose names I don’t know any more than the dead.”
“And what became of the horses?” said Mrs. Catherine to Mr. Brock, when his tale was finished.
“Rips, madam,” said he; “mere rips. We sold them at Stourbridge fair, and got but thirteen guineas for the two.”
“And–and–the Count, Max; where is he, Brock?” sighed she.
“Whew!” whistled Mr. Brock. “What, hankering after him still? My dear, he is off to Flanders with his regiment; and, I make no doubt, there have been twenty Countesses of Galgenstein since your time.”
“I don’t believe any such thing, sir,” said Mrs. Catherine, starting up very angrily.
“If you did, I suppose you’d laudanum him; wouldn’t you?”
“Leave the room, fellow,” said the lady. But she recollected herself speedily again; and, clasping her hands, and looking very wretched at Brock, at the ceiling, at the floor, at her husband (from whom she violently turned away her head), she began to cry piteously: to which tears the Corporal set up a gentle accompaniment of whistling, as they trickled one after another down her nose.
I don’t think they were tears of repentance; but of regret for the time when she had her first love, and her fine clothes, and her white hat and blue feather. Of the two, the Corporal’s whistle was much more innocent than the girl’s sobbing: he was a rogue; but a good-natured old fellow when his humour was not crossed. Surely our novel-writers make a great mistake in divesting their rascals of all gentle human qualities: they have such–and the only sad point to think of is, in all private concerns of life, abstract feelings, and dealings with friends, and so on, how dreadfully like a rascal is to an honest man. The man who murdered the Italian boy, set him first to play with his children whom he loved, and who doubtless deplored his loss.
CHAPTER VI. ADVENTURES OF THE AMBASSADOR, MR. MACSHANE.
If we had not been obliged to follow history in all respects, it is probable that we should have left out the last adventure of Mrs. Catherine and her husband, at the inn at Worcester, altogether; for, in truth, very little came of it, and it is not very romantic or striking. But we are bound to stick closely, above all, by THE TRUTH–the truth, though it be not particularly pleasant to read of or to tell. As anybody may read in the “Newgate Calendar,” Mr. and Mrs. Hayes were taken at an inn at Worcester; were confined there; were swindled by persons who pretended to impress the bridegroom for military service. What is one to do after that? Had we been writing novels instead of authentic histories, we might have carried them anywhere else we chose: and we had a great mind to make Hayes philosophising with Bolingbroke, like a certain Devereux; and Mrs. Catherine maitresse en titre to Mr. Alexander Pope, Doctor Sacheverel, Sir John Reade the oculist, Dean Swift, or Marshal Tallard; as the very commonest romancer would under such circumstances. But alas and alas! truth must be spoken, whatever else is in the wind; and the excellent “Newgate Calendar,” which contains the biographies and thanatographies of Hayes and his wife, does not say a word of their connections with any of the leading literary or military heroes of the time of Her Majesty Queen Anne. The “Calendar” says, in so many words, that Hayes was obliged to send to his father in Warwickshire for money to get him out of the scrape, and that the old gentleman came down to his aid. By this truth must we stick; and not for the sake of the most brilliant episode,–no, not for a bribe of twenty extra guineas per sheet, would we depart from it.
Mr. Brock’s account of his adventure in London has given the reader some short notice of his friend, Mr Macshane. Neither the wits nor the principles of that worthy Ensign were particularly firm: for drink, poverty, and a crack on the skull at the battle of Steenkirk had served to injure the former; and the Ensign was not in his best days possessed of any share of the latter. He had really, at one period, held such a rank in the army, but pawned his half-pay for drink and play; and for many years past had lived, one of the hundred thousand miracles of our city, upon nothing that anybody knew of, or of which he himself could give any account. Who has not a catalogue of these men in his list? who can tell whence comes the occasional clean shirt, who supplies the continual means of drunkenness, who wards off the daily-impending starvation? Their life is a wonder from day to day: their breakfast a wonder; their dinner a miracle; their bed an interposition of Providence. If you and I, my dear sir, want a shilling tomorrow, who will give it us? Will OUR butchers give us mutton-chops? will OUR laundresses clothe us in clean linen?–not a bone or a rag. Standing as we do (may it be ever so) somewhat removed from want,* is there one of us who does not shudder at the thought of descending into the lists to combat with it, and expect anything but to be utterly crushed in the encounter?
* The author, it must be remembered, has his lodgings and food provided for him by the government of his country.
Not a bit of it, my dear sir. It takes much more than you think for to starve a man. Starvation is very little when you are used to it. Some people I know even, who live on it quite comfortably, and make their daily bread by it. It had been our friend Macshane’s sole profession for many years; and he did not fail to draw from it such a livelihood as was sufficient, and perhaps too good, for him. He managed to dine upon it a certain or rather uncertain number of days in the week, to sleep somewhere, and to get drunk at least three hundred times a year. He was known to one or two noblemen who occasionally helped him with a few pieces, and whom he helped in turn–never mind how. He had other acquaintances whom he pestered undauntedly; and from whom he occasionally extracted a dinner, or a crown, or mayhap, by mistake, a goldheaded cane, which found its way to the pawnbroker’s. When flush of cash, he would appear at the coffee-house; when low in funds, the deuce knows into what mystic caves and dens he slunk for food and lodging. He was perfectly ready with his sword, and when sober, or better still, a very little tipsy, was a complete master of it; in the art of boasting and lying he had hardly any equals; in shoes he stood six feet five inches; and here is his complete signalement. It was a fact that he had been in Spain as a volunteer, where he had shown some gallantry, had had a brain-fever, and was sent home to starve as before.
Mr. Macshane had, however, like Mr. Conrad, the Corsair, one virtue in the midst of a thousand crimes,–he was faithful to his employer for the time being: and a story is told of him, which may or may not be to his credit, viz. that being hired on one occasion by a certain lord to inflict a punishment upon a roturier who had crossed his lordship in his amours, he, Macshane, did actually refuse from the person to be belaboured, and who entreated his forbearance, a larger sum of money than the nobleman gave him for the beating; which he performed punctually, as bound in honour and friendship. This tale would the Ensign himself relate, with much self-satisfaction; and when, after the sudden flight from London, he and Brock took to their roving occupation, he cheerfully submitted to the latter as his commanding officer, called him always Major, and, bating blunders and drunkenness, was perfectly true to his leader. He had a notion–and, indeed, I don’t know that it was a wrong one–that his profession was now, as before, strictly military, and according to the rules of honour. Robbing he called plundering the enemy; and hanging was, in his idea, a dastardly and cruel advantage that the latter took, and that called for the sternest reprisals.
The other gentlemen concerned were strangers to Mr. Brock, who felt little inclined to trust either of them upon such a message, or with such a large sum to bring back. They had, strange to say, a similar mistrust on their side; but Mr. Brock lugged out five guineas, which he placed in the landlady’s hand as security for his comrade’s return; and Ensign Macshane, being mounted on poor Hayes’s own horse, set off to visit the parents of that unhappy young man. It was a gallant sight to behold our thieves’ ambassador, in a faded sky-blue suit with orange facings, in a pair of huge jack-boots unconscious of blacking, with a mighty basket-hilted sword by his side, and a little shabby beaver cocked over a large tow-periwig, ride out from the inn of the “Three Rooks” on his mission to Hayes’s paternal village.
It was eighteen miles distant from Worcester; but Mr. Macshane performed the distance in safety, and in sobriety moreover (for such had been his instructions), and had no difficulty in discovering the house of old Hayes: towards which, indeed, John’s horse trotted incontinently. Mrs. Hayes, who was knitting at the house-door, was not a little surprised at the appearance of the well-known grey gelding, and of the stranger mounted upon it.
Flinging himself off the steed with much agility, Mr. Macshane, as soon as his feet reached the ground, brought them rapidly together, in order to make a profound and elegant bow to Mrs. Hayes; and slapping his greasy beaver against his heart, and poking his periwig almost into the nose of the old lady, demanded whether he had the “shooprame honour of adthressing Misthriss Hees?”
Having been answered in the affirmative, he then proceeded to ask whether there was a blackguard boy in the house who would take “the horse to the steeble;” whether “he could have a dthrink of small-beer or buthermilk, being, faith, uncommon dthry;” and whether, finally, “he could be feevored with a few minutes’ private conversation with her and Mr. Hees, on a matther of consitherable impartance.” All these preliminaries were to be complied with before Mr. Macshane would enter at all into the subject of his visit. The horse and man were cared for; Mr. Hayes was called in; and not a little anxious did Mrs. Hayes grow, in the meanwhile, with regard to the fate of her darling son. “Where is he? How is he? Is he dead?” said the old lady. “Oh yes, I’m sure he’s dead !”
“Indeed, madam, and you’re misteeken intirely: the young man is perfectly well in health.”
“Oh, praised be Heaven!”
“But mighty cast down in sperrits. To misfortunes, madam, look you, the best of us are subject; and a trifling one has fell upon your son.”
And herewith Mr. Macshane produced a letter in the handwriting of young Hayes, of which we have had the good luck to procure a copy. It ran thus:–
“HONORED FATHER AND MOTHER,–The bearer of this is a kind gentleman, who has left me in a great deal of trouble. Yesterday, at this towne, I fell in with some gentlemen of the queene’s servas; after drinking with whom, I accepted her Majesty’s mony to enliste. Repenting thereof, I did endeavour to escape; and, in so doing, had the misfortune to strike my superior officer, whereby I made myself liable to Death, according to the rules of warr. If, however, I pay twenty ginnys, all will be wel. You must give the same to the barer, els I shall be shott without fail on Tewsday morning. And so no more from your loving son,
“JOHN HAYES.
“From my prison at Bristol, this unhappy Monday.”
When Mrs. Hayes read this pathetic missive, its success with her was complete, and she was for going immediately to the cupboard, and producing the money necessary for her darling son’s release. But the carpenter Hayes was much more suspicious. “I don’t know you, sir,” said he to the ambassador.
“Do you doubt my honour, sir?” said the Ensign, very fiercely.
“Why, sir,” replied Mr. Hayes “I know little about it one way or other, but shall take it for granted, if you will explain a little more of this business.”
“I sildom condescind to explean,” said Mr. Macshane, “for it’s not the custom in my rank; but I’ll explean anything in reason.”
“Pray, will you tell me in what regiment my son is enlisted?”
“In coorse. In Colonel Wood’s fut, my dear; and a gallant corps it is as any in the army.”
“And you left him?”
“On me soul, only three hours ago, having rid like a horse-jockey ever since; as in the sacred cause of humanity, curse me, every man should.”
As Hayes’s house was seventy miles from Bristol, the old gentleman thought this was marvellous quick riding, and so, cut the conversation short. “You have said quite enough, sir,” said he, “to show me there is some roguery in the matter, and that the whole story is false from beginning to end.”
At this abrupt charge the Ensign looked somewhat puzzled, and then spoke with much gravity. “Roguery,” said he, “Misthur Hees, is a sthrong term; and which, in consideration of my friendship for your family, I shall pass over. You doubt your son’s honour, as there wrote by him in black and white?”
“You have forced him to write,” said Mr. Hayes.
“The sly old divvle’s right,” muttered Mr. Macshane, aside. “Well, sir, to make a clean breast of it, he HAS been forced to write it. The story about the enlistment is a pretty fib, if you will, from beginning to end. And what then, my dear? Do you think your son’s any better off for that?”
“Oh, where is he?” screamed Mrs. Hayes, plumping down on her knees. “We WILL give him the money, won’t we, John?”
“I know you will, madam, when I tell you where he is. He is in the hands of some gentlemen of my acquaintance, who are at war with the present government, and no more care about cutting a man’s throat than they do a chicken’s. He is a prisoner, madam, of our sword and spear. If you choose to ransom him, well and good; if not, peace be with him! for never more shall you see him.”
“And how do I know you won’t come back to-morrow for more money?” asked Mr. Hayes.
“Sir, you have my honour; and I’d as lieve break my neck as my word,” said Mr. Macshane, gravely. “Twenty guineas is the bargain. Take ten minutes to talk of it–take it then, or leave it; it’s all the same to me, my dear.” And it must be said of our friend the Ensign, that he meant every word he said, and that he considered the embassy on which he had come as perfectly honourable and regular.
“And pray, what prevents us,” said Mr. Hayes, starting up in a rage, “from taking hold of you, as a surety for him?”
“You wouldn’t fire on a flag of truce, would ye, you dishonourable ould civilian?” replied Mr. Macshane. “Besides,” says he, “there’s more reasons to prevent you: the first is this,” pointing to his sword; “here are two more”–and these were pistols; “and the last and the best of all is, that you might hang me and dthraw me and quarther me, an yet never see so much as the tip of your son’s nose again. Look you, sir, we run mighty risks in our profession–it’s not all play, I can tell you. We’re obliged to be punctual, too, or it’s all up with the thrade. If I promise that your son will die as sure as fate to-morrow morning, unless I return home safe, our people MUST keep my promise; or else what chance is there for me? You would be down upon me in a moment with a posse of constables, and have me swinging before Warwick gaol. Pooh, my dear! you never would sacrifice a darling boy like John Hayes, let alone his lady, for the sake of my long carcass. One or two of our gentlemen have been taken that way already, because parents and guardians would not believe them.”
“AND WHAT BECAME OF THE POOR CHILDREN?” said Mrs. Hayes, who began to perceive the gist of the argument, and to grow dreadfully frightened.
“Don’t let’s talk of them, ma’am: humanity shudthers at the thought!” And herewith Mr. Macshane drew his finger across his throat in such a dreadful way as to make the two parents tremble. “It’s the way of war, madam, look you. The service I have the honour to belong to is not paid by the Queen; and so we’re obliged to make our prisoners pay, according to established military practice.”
No lawyer could have argued his case better than Mr. Macshane so far; and he completely succeeded in convincing Mr. and Mrs. Hayes of the necessity of ransoming their son. Promising that the young man should be restored to them next morning, along with his beautiful lady, he courteously took leave of the old couple, and made the best of his way back to Worcester again. The elder Hayes wondered who the lady could be of whom the ambassador had spoken, for their son’s elopement was altogether unknown to them; but anger or doubt about this subject was overwhelmed by their fears for their darling John’s safety. Away rode the gallant Macshane with the money necessary to effect this; and it must be mentioned, as highly to his credit, that he never once thought of appropriating the sum to himself, or of deserting his comrades in any way.
His ride from Worcester had been a long one. He had left that city at noon, but before his return thither the sun had gone down; and the landscape, which had been dressed like a prodigal, in purple and gold, now appeared like a Quaker, in dusky grey; and the trees by the road-side grew black as undertakers or physicians, and, bending their solemn heads to each other, whispered ominously among themselves; and the mists hung on the common; and the cottage lights went out one by one; and the earth and heaven grew black, but for some twinkling useless stars, which freckled the ebon countenance of the latter; and the air grew colder; and about two o’clock the moon appeared, a dismal pale-faced rake, walking solitary through the deserted sky; and about four, mayhap, the Dawn (wretched ‘prentice-boy!) opened in the east the shutters of the Day:–in other words, more than a dozen hours had passed. Corporal Brock had been relieved by Mr. Redcap, the latter by Mr. Sicklop, the one-eyed gentleman; Mrs. John Hayes, in spite of her sorrows and bashfulness, had followed the example of her husband, and fallen asleep by his side–slept for many hours–and awakened still under the guardianship of Mr. Brock’s troop; and all parties began anxiously to expect the return of the ambassador, Mr. Macshane.
That officer, who had performed the first part of his journey with such distinguished prudence and success, found the night, on his journey homewards, was growing mighty cold and dark; and as he was thirsty and hungry, had money in his purse, and saw no cause to hurry, he determined to take refuge at an alehouse for the night, and to make for Worcester by dawn the next morning. He accordingly alighted at the first inn on his road, consigned his horse to the stable, and, entering the kitchen, called for the best liquor in the house.
A small company was assembled at the inn, among whom Mr. Macshane took his place with a great deal of dignity; and, having a considerable sum of money in his pocket, felt a mighty contempt for his society, and soon let them know the contempt he felt for them. After a third flagon of ale, he discovered that the liquor was sour, and emptied, with much spluttering and grimaces, the remainder of the beer into the fire. This process so offended the parson of the parish (who in those good old times did not disdain to take the post of honour in the chimney-nook), that he left his corner, looking wrathfully at the offender; who without any more ado instantly occupied it. It was a fine thing to hear the jingling of the twenty pieces in his pocket, the oaths which he distributed between the landlord, the guests, and the liquor–to remark the sprawl of his mighty jack-boots, before the sweep of which the timid guests edged farther and farther away; and the languishing leers which he cast on the landlady, as with wide-spread arms he attempted to seize upon her.
When the ostler had done his duties in the stable, he entered the inn, and whispered the landlord that “the stranger was riding John Hayes’s horse:” of which fact the host soon convinced himself, and did not fail to have some suspicions of his guest. Had he not thought that times were unquiet, horses might be sold, and one man’s money was as good as another’s, he probably would have arrested the Ensign immediately, and so lost all the profit of the score which the latter was causing every moment to be enlarged.
In a couple of hours, with that happy facility which one may have often remarked in men of the gallant Ensign’s nation, he had managed to disgust every one of the landlord’s other guests, and scare them from the kitchen. Frightened by his addresses, the landlady too had taken flight; and the host was the only person left in the apartment; who there stayed for interest’s sake merely, and listened moodily to his tipsy guest’s conversation. In an hour more, the whole house was awakened by a violent noise of howling, curses, and pots clattering to and fro. Forth issued Mrs. Landlady in her night-gear, out came John Ostler with his pitchfork, downstairs tumbled Mrs. Cook and one or two guests, and found the landlord and ensign on the kitchen-floor–the wig of the latter lying, much singed and emitting strange odours, in the fireplace, his face hideously distorted, and a great quantity of his natural hair in the partial occupation of the landlord; who had drawn it and the head down towards him, in order that he might have the benefit of pummelling the latter more at his ease. In revenge, the landlord was undermost, and the Ensign’s arms were working up and down his face and body like the flaps of a paddle-wheel: the man of war had clearly the best of it.
The combatants were separated as soon as possible; but, as soon as the excitement of the fight was over, Ensign Macshane was found to have no further powers of speech, sense, or locomotion, and was carried by his late antagonist to bed. His sword and pistols, which had been placed at his side at the commencement of the evening, were carefully put by, and his pocket visited. Twenty guineas in gold, a large knife–used, probably, for the cutting of bread-and-cheese–some crumbs of those delicacies and a paper of tobacco found in the breeches-pockets, and in the bosom of the sky-blue coat, the leg of a cold fowl and half of a raw onion, constituted his whole property.
These articles were not very suspicious; but the beating which the landlord had received tended greatly to confirm his own and his wife’s doubts about their guest; and it was determined to send off in the early morning to Mr. Hayes, informing him how a person had lain at their inn who had ridden thither mounted upon young Hayes’s horse. Off set John Ostler at earliest dawn; but on his way he woke up Mr. Justice’s clerk, and communicated his suspicions to him; and Mr. Clerk consulted with the village baker, who was always up early; and the clerk, the baker, the butcher with his cleaver, and two gentlemen who were going to work, all adjourned to the inn.
Accordingly, when Ensign Macshane was in a truckle-bed, plunged in that deep slumber which only innocence and drunkenness enjoy in this world, and charming the ears of morn by the regular and melodious music of his nose, a vile plot was laid against him; and when about seven of the clock he woke, he found, on sitting up in his bed, three gentlemen on each side of it, armed, and looking ominous. One held a constable’s staff, and albeit unprovided with a warrant, would take upon himself the responsibility of seizing Mr. Macshane and of carrying him before his worship at the hall.
“Taranouns, man!” said the Ensign, springing up in bed, and abruptly breaking off a loud sonorous yawn, with which he had opened the business of the day, “you won’t deteen a gentleman who’s on life and death? I give ye my word, an affair of honour.”
“How came you by that there horse?” said the baker.
“How came you by these here fifteen guineas?” said the landlord, in whose hands, by some process, five of the gold pieces had disappeared.
“What is this here idolatrous string of beads?” said the clerk.
Mr. Macshane, the fact is, was a Catholic, but did not care to own it: for in those days his religion was not popular.
“Baids? Holy Mother of saints! give me back them baids,” said Mr. Macshane, clasping his hands. “They were blest, I tell you, by his holiness the po–psha! I mane they belong to a darling little daughter I had that’s in heaven now: and as for the money and the horse, I should like to know how a gentleman is to travel in this counthry without them.”
“Why, you see, he may travel in the country to GIT ’em,” here shrewdly remarked the constable; “and it’s our belief that neither horse nor money is honestly come by. If his worship is satisfied, why so, in course, shall we be; but there is highwaymen abroad, look you; and, to our notion, you have very much the cut of one.”
Further remonstrances or threats on the part of Mr. Macshane were useless. Although he vowed that he was first cousin to the Duke of Leinster, an officer in Her Majesty’s service, and the dearest friend Lord Marlborough had, his impudent captors would not believe a word of his statement (which, further, was garnished with a tremendous number of oaths); and he was, about eight o’clock, carried up to the house of Squire Ballance, the neighbouring justice of the peace.
When the worthy magistrate asked the crime of which the prisoner had been guilty, the captors looked somewhat puzzled for the moment; since, in truth, it could not be shown that the Ensign had committed any crime at all; and if he had confined himself to simple silence, and thrown upon them the onus of proving his misdemeanours, Justice Ballance must have let him loose, and soundly rated his clerk and the landlord for detaining an honest gentleman on so frivolous a charge.
But this caution was not in the Ensign’s disposition; and though his accusers produced no satisfactory charge against him, his own words were quite enough to show how suspicious his character was. When asked his name, he gave it in as Captain Geraldine, on his way to Ireland, by Bristol, on a visit to his cousin the Duke of Leinster. He swore solemnly that his friends, the Duke of Marlborough and Lord Peterborough, under both of whom he had served, should hear of the manner in which he had been treated; and when the justice,–a sly old gentleman, and one that read the Gazettes, asked him at what battles he had been present, the gallant Ensign pitched on a couple in Spain and in Flanders, which had been fought within a week of each other, and vowed that he had been desperately wounded at both; so that, at the end of his examination, which had been taken down by the clerk, he had been made to acknowledge as follows:–Captain Geraldine, six feet four inches in height; thin, with a very long red nose, and red hair; grey eyes, and speaks with a strong Irish accent; is the first-cousin of the Duke of Leinster, and in constant communication with him: does not know whether his Grace has any children; does not know whereabouts he lives in London; cannot say what sort of a looking man his Grace is: is acquainted with the Duke of Marlborough, and served in the dragoons at the battle of Ramillies; at which time he was with my Lord Peterborough before Barcelona. Borrowed the horse which he rides from a friend in London, three weeks since. Peter Hobbs, ostler, swears that it was in his master’s stable four days ago, and is the property of John Hayes, carpenter. Cannot account for the fifteen guineas found on him by the landlord; says there were twenty; says he won them at cards, a fortnight since, at Edinburgh; says he is riding about the country for his amusement: afterwards says he is on a matter of life and death, and going to Bristol; declared last night, in the hearing of several witnesses, that he was going to York; says he is a man of independent property, and has large estates in Ireland, and a hundred thousand pounds in the Bank of England. Has no shirt or stockings, and the coat he wears is marked “S.S.” In his boots is written “Thomas Rodgers,” and in his hat is the name of the “Rev. Doctor Snoffler.”
Doctor Snoffler lived at Worcester, and had lately advertised in the Hue and Cry a number of articles taken from his house. Mr. Macshane said, in reply to this, that his hat had been changed at the inn, and he was ready to take his oath that he came thither in a gold-laced one. But this fact was disproved by the oaths of many persons who had seen him at the inn. And he was about to be imprisoned for the thefts which he had not committed (the fact about the hat being, that he had purchased it from a gentleman at the “Three Rooks” for two pints of beer)–he was about to be remanded, when, behold, Mrs. Hayes the elder made her appearance; and to her it was that the Ensign was indebted for his freedom.
Old Hayes had gone to work before the ostler arrived; but when his wife heard the lad’s message, she instantly caused her pillion to be placed behind the saddle, and mounting the grey horse, urged the stable-boy to gallop as hard as ever he could to the justice’s house.
She entered panting and alarmed. “Oh, what is your honour going to do to this honest gentleman?” said she. “In the name of Heaven, let him go! His time is precious–he has important business–business of life and death.”
“I tould the jidge so,” said the Ensign, “but he refused to take my word–the sacred wurrd of honour of Captain Geraldine.”
Macshane was good at a single lie, though easily flustered on an examination; and this was a very creditable stratagem to acquaint Mrs. Hayes with the name that he bore.
“What! you know Captain Geraldine?” said Mr. Ballance, who was perfectly well acquainted with the carpenter’s wife.
“In coorse she does. Hasn’t she known me these tin years? Are we not related? Didn’t she give me the very horse which I rode, and, to make belave, tould you I’d bought in London?”
“Let her tell her own story. Are you related to Captain Geraldine, Mrs. Hayes?”
“Yes–oh, yes!”
“A very elegant connection! And you gave him the horse, did you, of your own free-will?”
“Oh yes! of my own will–I would give him anything. Do, do, your honour, let him go! His child is dying,” said the old lady, bursting into tears. “It may be dead before he gets to–before he gets there. Oh, your honour, your honour, pray, pray, don’t detain him!”
The justice did not seem to understand this excessive sympathy on the part of Mrs. Hayes; nor did the father himself appear to be nearly so affected by his child’s probable fate as the honest woman who interested herself for him. On the contrary, when she made this passionate speech, Captain Geraldine only grinned, and said, “Niver mind, my dear. If his honour will keep an honest gentleman for doing nothing, why, let him–the law must settle between us; and as for the child, poor thing, the Lord deliver it!”
At this, Mrs. Hayes fell to entreating more loudly than ever; and as there was really no charge against him, Mr. Ballance was constrained to let him go.
The landlord and his friends were making off, rather confused, when Ensign Macshane called upon the former in a thundering voice to stop, and refund the five guineas which he had stolen from him. Again the host swore there were but fifteen in his pocket. But when, on the Bible, the Ensign solemnly vowed that he had twenty, and called upon Mrs. Hayes to say whether yesterday, half-an-hour before he entered the inn, she had not seen him with twenty guineas, and that lady expressed herself ready to swear that she had, Mr. Landlord looked more crestfallen than ever, and said that he had not counted the money when he took it; and though he did in his soul believe that there were only fifteen guineas, rather than be suspected of a shabby action, he would pay the five guineas out of his own pocket: which he did, and with the Ensign’s, or rather Mrs. Hayes’s, own coin.
As soon as they were out of the justice’s house, Mr. Macshane, in the fulness of his gratitude, could not help bestowing an embrace upon Mrs. Hayes. And when she implored him to let her ride behind him to her darling son, he yielded with a very good grace, and off the pair set on John Hayes’s grey.
“Who has Nosey brought with him now?” said Mr. Sicklop, Brock’s one-eyed confederate, who, about three hours after the above adventure, was lolling in the yard of the “Three Rooks.” It was our Ensign, with the mother of his captive. They had not met with any accident in their ride.
“I shall now have the shooprame bliss,” said Mr. Macshane, with much feeling, as he lifted Mrs. Hayes from the saddle—“the shooprame bliss of intwining two harrts that are mead for one another. Ours, my dear, is a dismal profession; but ah! don’t moments like this make aminds for years of pain? This way, my dear. Turn to your right, then to your left–mind the stip–and the third door round the corner.”
All these precautions were attended to; and after giving his concerted knock, Mr. Macshane was admitted into an apartment, which he entered holding his gold pieces in the one hand, and a lady by the other.
We shall not describe the meeting which took place between mother and son. The old lady wept copiously; the young man was really glad to see his relative, for he deemed that his troubles were over. Mrs. Cat bit her lips, and stood aside, looking somewhat foolish; Mr. Brock counted the money; and Mr. Macshane took a large dose of strong waters, as a pleasing solace for his labours, dangers, and fatigue.
When the maternal feelings were somewhat calmed, the old lady had leisure to look about her, and really felt a kind of friendship and goodwill for the company of thieves in which she found herself. It seemed to her that they had conferred an actual favour on her, in robbing her of twenty guineas, threatening her son’s life, and finally letting him go.
“Who is that droll old gentleman?” said she; and being told that it was Captain Wood, she dropped him a curtsey, and said, with much respect, “Captain, your very humble servant;” which compliment Mr. Brock acknowledged by a gracious smile and bow. “And who is this pretty young lady?” continued Mrs. Hayes.
“Why–hum–oh–mother, you must give her your blessing. She is Mrs. John Hayes.” And herewith Mr. Hayes brought forward his interesting lady, to introduce her to his mamma.
The news did not at all please the old lady; who received Mrs. Catherine’s embrace with a very sour face indeed. However, the mischief was done; and she was too glad to get back her son to be, on such an occasion, very angry with him. So, after a proper rebuke, she told Mrs. John Hayes that though she never approved of her son’s attachment, and thought he married below his condition, yet as the evil was done, it was their duty to make the best of it; and she, for her part, would receive her into her house, and make her as comfortable there as she could.
“I wonder whether she has any more money in that house?” whispered Mr. Sicklop to Mr. Redcap; who, with the landlady, had come to the door of the room, and had been amusing themselves by the contemplation of this sentimental scene.
“What a fool that wild Hirishman was not to bleed her for more!” said the landlady; “but he’s a poor ignorant Papist. I’m sure my man” (this gentleman had been hanged), “wouldn’t have come away with such a beggarly sum.”
“Suppose we have some more out of ’em?” said Mr. Redcap. “What prevents us? We have got the old mare, and the colt too,–ha! ha!– and the pair of ’em ought to be worth at least a hundred to us.”
This conversation was carried on sotto voce; and I don’t know whether Mr. Brock had any notion of the plot which was arranged by the three worthies. The landlady began it. “Which punch, madam, will you take?” says she. “You must have something for the good of the house, now you are in it.”
“In coorse,” said the Ensign.
“Certainly,” said the other three. But the old lady said she was anxious to leave the place; and putting down a crown-piece, requested the hostess to treat the gentlemen in her absence. “Good-bye, Captain,” said the old lady.
“Ajew!” cried the Ensign, “and long life to you, my dear. You got me out of a scrape at the justice’s yonder; and, split me! but Insign Macshane will remimber it as long as he lives.”
And now Hayes and the two ladies made for the door; but the landlady placed herself against it, and Mr. Sicklop said, “No, no, my pretty madams, you ain’t a-going off so cheap as that neither; you are not going out for a beggarly twenty guineas, look you,–we must have more.”
Mr. Hayes starting back, and cursing his fate, fairly burst into tears; the two women screamed; and Mr. Brock looked as if the proposition both amused and had been expected by him: but not so Ensign Macshane.
“Major!” said he, clawing fiercely hold of Brock’s arms.
“Ensign,” said Mr. Brock, smiling.
“Arr we, or arr we not, men of honour?”
“Oh, in coorse,” said Brock, laughing, and using Macshane’s favourite expression.
“If we ARR men of honour, we are bound to stick to our word; and, hark ye, you dirty one-eyed scoundrel, if you don’t immadiately make way for these leedies, and this lily-livered young jontleman who’s crying so, the Meejor here and I will lug out and force you.” And so saying, he drew his great sword and made a pass at Mr. Sicklop; which that gentleman avoided, and which caused him and his companion to retreat from the door. The landlady still kept her position at it, and with a storm of oaths against the Ensign, and against two Englishmen who ran away from a wild Hirishman, swore she would not budge a foot, and would stand there until her dying day.
“Faith, then, needs must,” said the Ensign, and made a lunge at the hostess, which passed so near the wretch’s throat, that she screamed, sank on her knees, and at last opened the door.
Down the stairs, then, with great state, Mr. Macshane led the elder lady, the married couple following; and having seen them to the street, took an affectionate farewell of the party, whom he vowed that he would come and see. “You can walk the eighteen miles aisy, between this and nightfall,” said he.
“WALK!” exclaimed Mr. Hayes. “Why, haven’t we got Ball, and shall ride and tie all the way?”
“Madam!” cried Macshane, in a stern voice, “honour before everything. Did you not, in the presence of his worship, vow and declare that you gave me that horse, and now d’ye talk of taking it back again? Let me tell you, madam, that such paltry thricks ill become a person of your years and respectability, and ought never to be played with Insign Timothy Macshane.”
He waved his hat and strutted down the street; and Mrs. Catherine Hayes, along with her bridegroom and mother-in-law, made the best of their way homeward on foot.
CHAPTER VII. WHICH EMBRACES A PERIOD OF SEVEN YEARS.
The recovery of so considerable a portion of his property from the clutches of Brock was, as may be imagined, no trifling source of joy to that excellent young man, Count Gustavus Adolphus de Galgenstein; and he was often known to say, with much archness, and a proper feeling of gratitude to the Fate which had ordained things so, that the robbery was, in reality, one of the best things that could have happened to him: for, in event of Mr. Brock’s NOT stealing the money, his Excellency the Count would have had to pay the whole to the Warwickshire Squire, who had won it from him at play. He was enabled, in the present instance, to plead his notorious poverty as an excuse; and the Warwickshire conqueror got off with nothing, except a very badly written autograph of the Count’s, simply acknowledging the debt.
This point his Excellency conceded with the greatest candour; but (as, doubtless, the reader may have remarked in the course of his experience) to owe is not quite the same thing as to pay; and from the day of his winning the money until the day of his death the Warwickshire Squire did never, by any chance, touch a single bob, tizzy, tester, moidore, maravedi, doubloon, tomaun, or rupee, of the sum which Monsieur de Galgenstein had lost to him.
That young nobleman was, as Mr. Brock hinted in the little autobiographical sketch which we gave in a former chapter, incarcerated for a certain period, and for certain other debts, in the donjons of Shrewsbury; but he released himself from them by that noble and consolatory method of whitewashing which the law has provided for gentlemen in his oppressed condition; and he had not been a week in London, when he fell in with, and overcame, or put to flight, Captain Wood, alias Brock, and immediately seized upon the remainder of his property. After receiving this, the Count, with commendable discretion, disappeared from England altogether for a while; nor are we at all authorised to state that any of his debts to his tradesmen were discharged, any more than his debts of honour, as they are pleasantly called.
Having thus settled with his creditors, the gallant Count had interest enough with some of the great folk to procure for himself a post abroad, and was absent in Holland for some time. It was here that he became acquainted with the lovely Madam Silverkoop, the widow of a deceased gentleman of Leyden; and although the lady was not at that age at which tender passions are usually inspired–being sixty–and though she could not, like Mademoiselle Ninon de l’Enclos, then at Paris, boast of charms which defied the progress of time,–for Mrs. Silverkoop was as red as a boiled lobster, and as unwieldy as a porpoise; and although her mental attractions did by no means make up for her personal deficiencies,–for she was jealous, violent, vulgar, drunken, and stingy to a miracle: yet her charms had an immediate effect on Monsieur de Galgenstein; and hence, perhaps, the reader (the rogue! how well he knows the world!) will be led to conclude that the honest widow was RICH.
Such, indeed, she was; and Count Gustavus, despising the difference between his twenty quarterings and her twenty thousand pounds, laid the most desperate siege to her, and finished by causing her to capitulate; as I do believe, after a reasonable degree of pressing, any woman will do to any man: such, at least, has been MY experience in the matter.
The Count then married; and it was curious to see how he–who, as we have seen in the case of Mrs. Cat, had been as great a tiger and domestic bully as any extant–now, by degrees, fell into a quiet submission towards his enormous Countess; who ordered him up and down as a lady orders her footman, who permitted him speedily not to have a will of his own, and who did not allow him a shilling of her money without receiving for the same an accurate account.
How was it that he, the abject slave of Madam Silverkoop, had been victorious over Mrs. Cat? The first blow is, I believe, the decisive one in these cases, and the Countess had stricken it a week after their marriage;–establishing a supremacy which the Count never afterwards attempted to question.
We have alluded to his Excellency’s marriage, as in duty bound, because it will be necessary to account for his appearance hereafter in a more splendid fashion than that under which he has hitherto been known to us; and just comforting the reader by the knowledge that the union, though prosperous in a worldly point of view, was, in reality, extremely unhappy, we must say no more from this time forth of the fat and legitimate Madam de Galgenstein. Our darling is Mrs. Catherine, who had formerly acted in her stead; and only in so much as the fat Countess did influence in any way the destinies of our heroine, or those wise and virtuous persons who have appeared and are to follow her to her end, shall we in any degree allow her name to figure here. It is an awful thing to get a glimpse, as one sometimes does, when the time is past, of some little little wheel which works the whole mighty machinery of FATE, and see how our destinies turn on a minute’s delay or advance, or on the turning of a street, or on somebody else’s turning of a street, or on somebody else’s doing of something else in Downing Street or in Timbuctoo, now or a thousand years ago. Thus, for instance, if Miss Poots, in the year 1695, had never been the lovely inmate of a Spielhaus at Amsterdam, Mr. Van Silverkoop would never have seen her; if the day had not been extraordinarily hot, the worthy merchant would never have gone thither; if he had not been fond of Rhenish wine and sugar, he never would have called for any such delicacies; if he had not called for them, Miss Ottilia Poots would never have brought them, and partaken of them; if he had not been rich, she would certainly have rejected all the advances made to her by Silverkoop; if he had not been so fond of Rhenish and sugar, he never would have died; and Mrs. Silverkoop would have been neither rich nor a widow, nor a wife to Count von Galgenstein. Nay, nor would this history have ever been written; for if Count Galgenstein had not married the rich widow, Mrs. Catherine would never have–
Oh, my dear madam! you thought we were going to tell you. Pooh! nonsense!–no such thing! not for two or three and seventy pages or so,–when, perhaps, you MAY know what Mrs. Catherine never would have done.
The reader will remember, in the second chapter of these Memoirs, the announcement that Mrs. Catherine had given to the world a child, who might bear, if he chose, the arms of Galgenstein, with the further adornment of a bar-sinister. This child had been put out to nurse some time before its mother’s elopement from the Count; and as that nobleman was in funds at the time (having had that success at play which we duly chronicled), he paid a sum of no less than twenty guineas, which was to be the yearly reward of the nurse into whose charge the boy was put. The woman grew fond of the brat; and when, after the first year, she had no further news or remittances from father or mother, she determined, for a while at least, to maintain the infant at her own expense; for, when rebuked by her neighbours on this score, she stoutly swore that no parents could ever desert their children, and that some day or other she should not fail to be rewarded for her trouble with this one.
Under this strange mental hallucination poor Goody Billings, who had five children and a husband of her own, continued to give food and shelter to little Tom for a period of no less than seven years; and though it must be acknowledged that the young gentleman did not in the slightest degree merit the kindnesses shown to him, Goody Billings, who was of a very soft and pitiful disposition, continued to bestow them upon him: because, she said, he was lonely and unprotected, and deserved them more than other children who had fathers and mothers to look after them. If, then, any difference was made between Tom’s treatment and that of her own brood, it was considerably in favour of the former; to whom the largest proportions of treacle were allotted for his bread, and the handsomest supplies of hasty pudding. Besides, to do Mrs. Billings justice, there WAS a party against him; and that consisted not only of her husband and her five children, but of every single person in the neighbourhood who had an opportunity of seeing and becoming acquainted with Master Tom.
A celebrated philosopher–I think Miss Edgeworth–has broached the consolatory doctrine, that in intellect and disposition all human beings are entirely equal, and that circumstance and education are the causes of the distinctions and divisions which afterwards unhappily take place among them. Not to argue this question, which places Jack Howard and Jack Thurtell on an exact level,–which would have us to believe that Lord Melbourne is by natural gifts and excellences a man as honest, brave, and far-sighted as the Duke of Wellington,–which would make out that Lord Lyndhurst is, in point of principle, eloquence, and political honesty, no better than Mr. O’Connell,–not, I say, arguing this doctrine, let us simply state that Master Thomas Billings (for, having no other, he took the name of the worthy people who adopted him) was in his long-coats fearfully passionate, screaming and roaring perpetually, and showing all the ill that he COULD show. At the age of two, when his strength enabled him to toddle abroad, his favourite resort was the coal-hole or the dung-heap: his roarings had not diminished in the least, and he had added to his former virtues two new ones,–a love of fighting and stealing; both which amiable qualities he had many opportunities of exercising every day. He fought his little adoptive brothers and sisters; he kicked and cuffed his father and mother; he fought the cat, stamped upon the kittens, was worsted in a severe battle with the hen in the backyard; but, in revenge, nearly beat a little sucking-pig to death, whom he caught alone and rambling near his favourite haunt, the dung-hill. As for stealing, he stole the eggs, which he perforated and emptied; the butter, which he ate with or without bread, as he could find it; the sugar, which he cunningly secreted in the leaves of a “Baker’s Chronicle,” that nobody in the establishment could read; and thus from the pages of history he used to suck in all he knew–thieving and lying namely; in which, for his years, he made wonderful progress. If any followers of Miss Edgeworth and the philosophers are inclined to disbelieve this statement, or to set it down as overcharged and distorted, let them be assured that just this very picture was, of all the pictures in the world, taken from nature. I, Ikey Solomons, once had a dear little brother who could steal before he could walk (and this not from encouragement,–for, if you know the world, you must know that in families of our profession the point of honour is sacred at home,–but from pure nature)–who could steal, I say, before he could walk, and lie before he could speak; and who, at four and a half years of age, having attacked my sister Rebecca on some question of lollipops, had smitten her on the elbow with a fire-shovel, apologising to us by saying simply, “—- her, I wish it had been her head!” Dear, dear Aminadab! I think of you, and laugh these philosophers to scorn. Nature made you for that career which you fulfilled: you were from your birth to your dying a scoundrel; you COULDN’T have been anything else, however your lot was cast; and blessed it was that you were born among the prigs,- -for had you been of any other profession, alas! alas! what ills might you have done! As I have heard the author of “Richelieu,” “Siamese Twins,” etc. say “Poeta nascitur non fit,” which means that though he had tried ever so much to be a poet, it was all moonshine: in the like manner, I say, “ROAGUS nascitur, non fit.” We have it from nature, and so a fig for Miss Edgeworth.
In this manner, then, while his father, blessed with a wealthy wife, was leading, in a fine house, the life of a galley-slave; while his mother, married to Mr. Hayes, and made an honest women of, as the saying is, was passing her time respectably in Warwickshire, Mr. Thomas Billings was inhabiting the same county, not cared for by either of them; but ordained by Fate to join them one day, and have a mighty influence upon the fortunes of both. For, as it has often happened to the traveller in the York or the Exeter coach to fall snugly asleep in his corner, and on awaking suddenly to find himself sixty or seventy miles from the place where Somnus first visited him: as, we say, although you sit still, Time, poor wretch, keeps perpetually running on, and so must run day and night, with never a pause or a halt of five minutes to get a drink, until his dying day; let the reader imagine that since he left Mrs. Hayes and all the other worthy personages of this history, in the last chapter, seven years have sped away; during which, all our heroes and heroines have been accomplishing their destinies.
Seven years of country carpentering, or rather trading, on the part of a husband, of ceaseless scolding, violence, and discontent on the part of a wife, are not pleasant to describe: so we shall omit altogether any account of the early married life of Mr. and Mrs. John Hayes. The “Newgate Calendar” (to which excellent compilation we and the OTHER popular novelists of the day can never be sufficiently grateful) states that Hayes left his house three or four times during this period, and, urged by the restless humours of his wife, tried several professions: returning, however, as he grew weary of each, to his wife and his paternal home. After a certain time his parents died, and by their demise he succeeded to a small property, and the carpentering business, which he for some time followed.
What, then, in the meanwhile, had become of Captain Wood, or Brock, and Ensign Macshane?–the only persons now to be accounted for in our catalogue. For about six months after their capture and release of Mr. Hayes, those noble gentlemen had followed, with much prudence and success, that trade which the celebrated and polite Duval, the ingenious Sheppard, the dauntless Turpin, and indeed many other heroes of our most popular novels, had pursued,–or were pursuing, in their time. And so considerable were said to be Captain Wood’s gains, that reports were abroad of his having somewhere a buried treasure; to which he might have added more, had not Fate suddenly cut short his career as a prig. He and the Ensign were–shame to say–transported for stealing three pewter-pots off a railing at Exeter; and not being known in the town, which they had only reached that morning, they were detained by no further charges, but simply condemned on this one. For this misdemeanour, Her Majesty’s Government vindictively sent them for seven years beyond the sea; and, as the fashion then was, sold the use of their bodies to Virginian planters during that space of time. It is thus, alas! that the strong are always used to deal with the weak, and many an honest fellow has been led to rue his unfortunate difference with the law.
Thus, then, we have settled all scores. The Count is in Holland with his wife; Mrs. Cat in Warwickshire along with her excellent husband; Master Thomas Billings with his adoptive parents in the same county; and the two military gentlemen watching the progress and cultivation of the tobacco and cotton plant in the New World. All these things having passed between the acts, dingaring-a-dingaring-a-dingledingleding, the drop draws up, and the next act begins. By the way, the play ENDS with a drop: but that is neither here nor there.
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(Here, as in a theatre, the orchestra is supposed to play something melodious. The people get up, shake themselves, yawn, and settle down in their seats again. “Porter, ale, ginger-beer, cider,” comes