The Knight Of Gwynne, Vol. 2

“They are the same troops that landed at the Arabs’ Tower, and who carry such inscriptions on their standards as these.” He snatched a flag from the sergeant beside him as he spoke, and pointed to the proud words embroidered there: “Le Passage de la Scrivia,” “Le Passage de Tisonzo,” “Le Pont de Lodi.” Then, in a low, muttering voice, he added, “But Buonaparte was with us then.”

Had he spoken for hours, the confession of their discontent with their generals could not have been more manifest; and a sudden gleam of hope shot through Darcy’s breast, to think his captivity might soon be over.

There was every reason to indulge in this pleasing belief; disorganization had extended to every branch of the service. An angry correspondence, in which even personal chastisement was broadly hinted at, passed between the two officers highest in command; and this not secretly, but publicly known to the entire army. Peculation of the most gross and open kind was practised by the commissaries; and as the troops became distressed by want, they retaliated by daring breaches of discipline, so that at every parade men stood out from the ranks, boldly demanding their rations, and answering the orders of the officers by insulting cries of “Bread! bread!”

All this while the British were advancing steadily, overcoming each obstacle in turn, and with a force whose privations had made no inroad upon the strictest discipline; they felt confident of success. The few prisoners who occasionally fell into the hands of the French wore all the assurance of men who felt that their misfortunes could not be lasting, and in good-humored raillery bantered their captors on the British beef and pudding they would receive, instead of horseflesh, so soon as the capitulation was signed.

The French soldiers were, indeed, heartily tired of the war; they were tired of the country, of the leaders, whose incompetency, whether real or not, they believed; tired, above all, of absence from France, from which they felt exiled. Each step they retired from the coast seemed to them another day’s journey from their native land, and they did not hesitate to avow to their prisoners that they had no wish or care save to return to their country.

Such was the spirit of the French army as it drew near Cairo, than which no greater contrast could exist than that presented by the advancing enemy. Let us now return to the more immediate interests of our story; and while we beg to corroborate the brief narrative of the French officer, we hope it is unnecessary to add that the individual whose suddenly changed fortune had elevated him from the ranks of a simple volunteer to that of a peer of England was our old acquaintance Dick Forester.

From the moment when the tidings reached him, to that in which he lay, still suffering from his wounds, in the richly furnished chamber of a London hotel, the whole train of events through which he had so lately passed seemed like the incoherent fancies of a dream. The excited frame of mind in which he became a volunteer with the army had not time to subside ere came the spirit-stirring hour of the landing at Aboukir. The fight, in all its terrible but glorious vicissitudes; the struggle in which he perilled his own life to save his leader’s; the moments that seemed those of ebbing life in which he lay upon a litter before Darcy’s eyes, and yet unable to speak his name; and then the sudden news of his brother’s death, overwhelming him at once with sorrow for his loss, and all the thousand fleeting thoughts of his own future, should life be spared him, – these were enough, and more than enough, to disturb and overbalance a mind already weakened by severe illness.

Had Forester known more of his only brother, it is certain that the predominance of the feeling of grief would have subdued the others, and given at least the calm of affliction to his troubled senses. But they were almost strangers to each other; the elder having passed his life almost exclusively abroad, and the younger, separated by distance and a long interval of years, being a complete stranger to his qualities and temper.

Dick Forester’s grief, therefore, was no more than that which ties of so close kindred will ever call up, but unmixed with the tender attachment of a brother’s love. His altered fortunes had not thus the strong alloy of heartfelt sorrow to make them distasteful; but still there was an unreality in everything, – a vague uncertainty in all his endeavors at close reasoning, which harassed and depressed him. And when he awoke from each short disturbed sleep, it took several minutes before he could bring back his memory to the last thought of his waking hours. The very title “my Lord,” so scrupulously repeated at each instant, startled him afresh at each moment he heard it; and as he read over the names of the high and titled personages whose anxieties for his recovery had made them daily visitors at his hotel, his heart faltered between the pleasure of flattery and a deeper feeling of almost scorn for the sympathies of a world that could minister to the caprices of rank what it withheld from the real sufferings of the same man in obscurity. His mother he had not seen yet; for Lady Netherby, much attached to her eldest son, and vain of abilities by which she reckoned on his future distinction, was herself seriously indisposed. Lord Netherby, however, had been a frequent visitor, and had already seen Forester several times, although always very briefly, and only upon the terms of distant politeness.

Although in a state that precluded everything like active exertion, and which, indeed, made the slightest effort a matter of peril, Forester had already exchanged more than one communication with the Horse Guards on the subject of the Knight’s safety, and received the most steady assurances that his exchange was an object on which the authorities were most anxious, and engaged at the very moment in negotiations for its accomplishment. There were two difficulties: one, that no officer of Darcy’s precise rank was then a prisoner with the British; and secondly, that any very pressing desire expressed for his liberation would serve to weaken the force of that conviction they were so eager to impress, that the campaign was nearly ended, and that nothing but capitulation remained for the French.

Forester was not more gratified than surprised at the tone of obliging and almost deferential politeness which pervaded each answer to his applications. He had yet to learn how a vote in the “Lords” can make secretaries civil, and Under-Secretaries most courteous; and while his few uncertain lines were penned with diffidence and distrust, the replies gradually inducted him into that sense of confidence which a few months later he was to feel like a birthright.

How far these thoughts contributed to his recovery it would be difficult to say, nor does it exactly lie in our province to inquire. The likelihood is, that the inducements to live are strong aids to overcome sickness; for, as a witty observer has remarked, “There is no such manque dre savoir vivre as dying at four-and-twenty.”

It is very probable Forester experienced all this, and that the dreams of the future in which he indulged were not only his greatest but his pleasantest aid to recovery. A brilliant position, invested with rank, title, fortune, and a character for enterprise, are all flattering adjuncts to youth; while in the hope of succeeding where his dearest wishes were concerned, lay a source of far higher happiness. How to approach this subject again most fittingly, was now the constant object of his thoughts. He sometimes resolved to address Lady Eleanor; but so long as he could convey no precise tidings of the Knight, this would be an ungracious task. Then he thought of Miss Daly, but he did not know her address; all these doubts and hesitations invariably ending in the resolve that as soon as his strength permitted he would go over to Ireland, and finding out Bicknell, obtain accurate information as to Lady Eleanor’s present residence, and also learn if, without being discovered, he could in any way be made serviceable to the interests of the family.

Perhaps we cannot better convey the gradually dawning conviction of his altered fortune on his mind than by mentioning that while he canvassed these various chances, and speculated on their course, he never dwelt on the possibility of Lady Netherby’s power to influence his determination. In the brief note he received from her each morning, the tone of affectionate solicitude for his health was always accompanied by some allusive hint of the “duties” recovery would impose, and each inquiry after his night’s rest was linked with a not less anxious question as to how soon he might feel able to appear in public. Constitutionally susceptible of all attempts to control him, and from his childhood disposed to rebel against dictation, he limited his replies to brief accounts of his progress or inquiries after her own health, resolved in his heart that now that fortune was his own, to use the blessings it bestows according to the dictates of affection and a conscientious sense of right, and be neither the toy of a faction nor the tool of a party. In Darcy – could he but see him once more – he looked for a friend and adviser; and whatever the fortune of his suit, he felt that the Knight’s counsels should be his guidance as to the future, reposing not even more trust on unswerving rectitude than the vast range of his knowledge of life, and the common-sense views he could take of the most complex as of the very simplest questions.

It was now some seven weeks after his return, and Forester, for we would still desire to call him by the name our reader has known him, was sitting upon a sofa, weak and nervous, as the first day of a convalescent’s appearance in the drawing-room usually is, when his servant, having deposited on the table several visiting-cards of distinguished inquirers, mentioned that the Earl of Netherby wished to pay his respects. Forester moved his head in token of assent, and his Lordship soon after entered.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE DAWN OF CONVALESCENCE

Stepping noiselessly over the carpet, with an air at once animated and regardful of the sick man, Lord Netherby was at Forester’s side before he could arise to receive him; and pressing him gently down with both hands, said, in a voice of most silvery cadence, —

“My dear Lord – you must not stir for the world – Halford has only permitted me to see you under the strict pledge of prudence; and now, how are you? Ah! I see – weak and low. Come, you must let me speak for you, or at least interpret your answers to my own liking. We have so much to talk over, it is difficult where to begin.”

“How is Lady Netherby?” said Forester, with a slight hesitation between the words.

“Still very feeble and very nervous. The shock has been a dreadful one to her. You know that poor Augustus was coming home on leave – when – when this happened.”

Here his Lordship sighed, but not too deeply, for he remembered that the law of primogeniture is the sworn enemy to grief.

“There was some talk, too, of his being sent on a special embassy to Paris, – a very high and important trust, – and so really the affliction is aggravated by thinking what a career was opening to him. But, as the Dean of Walworth beautifully expressed it, ‘We are cut down like flowers of the field.’ Ah!”

A sigh and a slight wave with a handkerchief, diffusing an odor of eau-de-Portugal through the chamber, closed this affecting sentiment.

“I trust in a day or two I shall be able to see my mother,” said Forester, whose thoughts were following a far more natural channel. “I can walk a little to-day, and before the end of the week Halford promises me that I shall drive out.”

“That ‘s the very point we are most anxious about,” said Lord Netherby, eagerly: “we want you, if possible, to take your seat in ‘the Lords’ next week. There is a special reason for it. Rumor runs that the Egyptian expedition will be brought on for discussion on Thursday next. Some malcontents are about to disparage the whole business, and, in particular, the affair at Alexandria. Ministers are strong enough to resist this attack, and even carry the war back into the enemy’s camp; but we all think it would be a most fortunate moment for you, when making your first appearance in the House, to rise and say a few words on the subject of the campaign. The circumstances under which you joined – your very dangerous wound – have given you a kind of prerogative to speak, and the occasion is most opportune. Come, what say you? Would such an effort be too great?”

“Certainly not for my strength, my Lord, if not for my shame’ sake; for really I should feel it somewhat presumptuous in me, a man who carried his musket in the ranks, to venture on a discussion, far more a defence, of the great operations in which he was a mere unit; one of those rank and file who figured, without other designation, in lists of killed and wounded.”

“This is very creditable to your modesty, my dear Lord,” said the old peer, smiling most blandly; “but pardon me if I say it displays a great forgetfulness of your present position. Remember that you now belong to the Upper House, and that the light of the peerage shines on the past as on the future.”

“By which I am to understand,” replied Forester, laughing, “that the events which would have met a merited oblivion in Dick Forester’s life are to be remembered with honor to the Earl of Wallincourt.”

“Of course they are,” cried Lord Netherby, joining in the laugh. “If an unlikely scion of royalty ascends the throne, we look out for the evidences of his princely tastes in the sports of his boyhood. Nay, if a clever writer or painter wins distinction from the world, do we not ‘try back’ for his triumphs at school, or his chalk sketches on coach-house gates, to warrant the early development of genius?”

“Well, my Lord,” said Forester, gayly, “I accept the augury; and as nothing more nearly concerns a man’s life than the fate of those who have shown him friendship, let me inquire after some friends of mine, and some relations of yours, – the Darcys.”

“Ah, those poor Darcys!” said Lord Netherby, wiping his eyes, and heaving a very profound sigh, as though to say that the theme was one far too painful to dwell upon, “theirs is a sad story, a very sad story indeed!”

“Anything more gloomy than the loss of fortune, my Lord?” asked Forester, with a trembling lip, and a cheek pale as death. Lord Netherby stared to see whether the patient’s mind was not beginning to wander. That there could be anything worse than loss of fortune he had yet to learn; assuredly he had never heard of it. Forester repeated his question.

“No, no, perhaps not, if you understand by that phrase what I do,” said Lord Netherby, almost pettishly. “If, like me, you take in all the long train of ruin and decay such loss implies, – pecuniary distress, moneyed difficulties, fallen condition in society, inferior association – ”

“Nay, my Lord, in the present instance, I can venture to answer for it, such consequences have not ensued. You do your relatives scarcely justice to suppose it.”

“It is very good and very graceful, both, in you,” said Lord Netherby, with an almost angelic smile, “to say so. Unfortunately, these are not merely speculative opinions on my part. While I make this remark, understand me as by no means imputing any blame to them. What could they do? – that is the question, – what could they do?”

“I would rather ask of your Lordship, what have they done? When I know that, I shall be, perhaps, better enabled to reply to your question.”

In all likelihood it was more the manner than the substance of this question which made Lord Netherby hesitate how to reply to it, and at last he said, —

“To say in so many words what they have done, is not so easy. It would, perhaps, give better insight into the circumstances were I to say what they have not done.”

“Even as you please, my Lord. The negative charge, then,” said Forester, impatiently.

“Lord Castlereagh, my Lord!” said a servant, throwing open the door; for he had already received orders to admit him when he called, though, had Forester guessed how inopportune the visit could have proved, he would never have said so.

In the very different expressions of Lord Netherby and the sick man’s face, it might be seen how differently they welcomed the new arrival.

Lord Castlereagh saluted both with a courteous and cordial greeting, and although he could not avoid seeing that he had dropped in somewhat mal-à-propos, he resolved rather to shorten the limit of his stay than render it awkward by any expressions of apology. The conversation, therefore, took that easy, careless tone in which each could join with freedom. It was after a brief pause, when none exactly liked to be the first to speak, that Lord Netherby observed, —

“The very moment you were announced, my Lord, I was endeavoring to persuade my young friend here to a line of conduct in which, if I have your Lordship’s co-operation, I feel I shall be successful.”

“Pray let me hear it,” said Lord Castlereagh, gayly, and half interrupting what he feared was but the opening of an over-lengthy exposition.

Lord Netherby was not to be defeated so easily, nor defrauded of a theme whereupon to expend many loyal sentiments; and so he opened a whole battery of arguments on the subject of the young peer’s first appearance in the House, and the splendid opportunity, as he called it, of a maiden speech.

“I see but one objection,” said Lord Castlereagh, with a well-affected gravity.

“I see one hundred,” broke in Forester, impatiently.

“Perhaps my one will do,” rejoined Lord Castlereagh.

“Which is – if I may take the liberty – ” lisped out Lord Netherby.

“That there will be no debate on the subject. The motion is withdrawn.”

“Motion withdrawn! – since when?”

“I see you have not heard the news this morning,” said Lord Castlereagh, who really enjoyed the discomfiture of one very vain of possessing the earliest intelligence.

“I have heard nothing,” exclaimed he, with a sigh of despondency.

“Well, then, I may inform you, that the ‘Pike’ has brought us very stirring intelligence. The war in Egypt is now over. The French have surrendered under the terms of a convention, and a treaty has been ratified that permits their return to France. Hostages for the guarantee of the treaty have been already interchanged, and” – here he turned towards Forester, and added – “it will doubtless interest you to hear that your old friend the Knight of Gwynne is one of them, – an evidence that he is not only alive, but in good health also.”

“This is, indeed, good news you bring me,” said Forester, with a flashing eye and a heightened complexion. “Has any one written? Do Colonel Darcy’s friends know of this?”

“I have myself done so,” said Lord Castlereagh. “Not that I may attribute the thoughtful attention to myself, for I received his Royal Highness’s commands on the subject I need scarcely say that such a communication must be gratifying to any one.”

“Where are they at present?” said Forester, eagerly.

“That was a question of some difficulty to me, and I accordingly called on my Lord Netherby to ascertain the point. I found he had left home, and now have the good fortune to catch him here.” So saying, Lord Castlereagh took from the folds of a pocket-book a sealed but un-addressed letter, and dipping a pen in the ink before him, prepared to write.

There were, indeed, very few occurrences in life which made Lord Netherby feel ashamed. He had never been obliged to blush for any solecism in manner or any offence against high breeding, nor had the even tenor of his days subjected him to any occasion of actual shame, so that the confusion he now felt had the added poignancy of being a new as well as a painful sensation.

“It may seem very strange to you, my Lord,” said he, in a broken and hesitating voice; “not but that, on a little reflection, the case will be easily accounted for; but – so it is – I – really must own – I must frankly acknowledge – that I am not at this moment aware of my dear cousin’s address.”

If his Lordship had not been too much occupied in watching Lord Castlereagh’s countenance, he could not have failed to see, and be struck by, the indignant expression of Forester’s features.

“How are we to reach them, then, that’s the point?” said Lord Castlereagh, over whose handsome face not the slightest trace of passion was visible. “If I mistake not, Gwynne Abbey they have left many a day since.”

“I think I can lay my hand on a letter. I am almost certain I had one from a law-agent, called – called – ”

“Bicknell, perhaps,” interrupted Forester, blushing between shame and impatience.

“Quite right, – you are quite right,” replied Lord Netherby, with a significant glance at Lord Castlereagh, cunningly intended to draw off attention from himself. “Well, Mr. Bicknell wrote to me a very tiresome and complicated epistle about law affairs, – motions, rules, and so forth, – and mentioned at the end that Lady Eleanor and Helen were living in some remote village on the northern coast.”

“A cottage called ‘The Corvy,’” broke in Forester, “kindly lent to them by an old friend, Mr. Bagenal Daly.”

“Will that address suffice,” said Lord Castlereagh, “with the name of the nearest post-town?”

“If you will make me the postman, I ‘ll vouch for the safe delivery,” said Forester, with an animation that made him flushed and pale within the same instant.

“My dear young friend, my dear Lord Wallincourt!” exclaimed Lord Netherby, laying his hand upon his arm. He said no more; indeed he firmly believed the enunciation of his new title must be quite sufficient to recall him to a sense of due consideration for himself.

“You are scarcely strong enough, Dick,” said Lord Castlereagh, coolly. “It is a somewhat long journey for an invalid; and Halford, I ‘m sure, wouldn’t agree to it.”

“I ‘m quite strong enough,” said Forester, rising and pacing the room with an attempted vigor that made his debility seem still more remarkable: “if not to-day, I shall be to-morrow. The travelling, besides, will serve me, – change of air and scene. More than all, I am determined on doing it.”

“Not if I refuse you the despatches, I suppose?” said Lord Castlereagh, laughing.

“You can scarcely do that,” said Forester, fixing his eyes steadfastly on him. “Your memory is a bad one, or you must recollect sending me down once upon a time to that family on an errand of a different nature. Don’t you think you owe an amende to them and to me?”

“Eh! what was that? I should like to know what you allude to,” said Lord Netherby, whose curiosity became most painfully eager.

“A little secret between Dick and myself,” said Lord Castlereagh, laughing. “To show I do not forget which, I ‘ll accede to his present request, always provided that he is equal to it.”

“Oh, as to that – ”

“It must be ‘Halfordo non obstante,’ or not at all,” said Lord Castlereagh, rising. “Well,” continued he, as he moved towards the door, “I ‘ll see the doctor on my way homeward, and if he incline to the safety of the exploit, you shall hear from me before four o’clock. I ‘ll send you some extracts, too, from the official papers, such as may interest your friends, and you may add, bien des choses de ma part, in the way of civil speeches and gratulation.”

Lord Netherby had moved towards the window as Lord Castlereagh withdrew, and seemed more interested by the objects in the street than anxious to renew the interrupted conversation.

Forester – if one were to judge from his preoccupied expression – appeared equally indifferent on the subject, and both were silent. Lord Netherby at last looked at his watch, and, with an exclamation of astonishment at the lateness of the hour, took up his hat. Forester did not notice the gesture, for his mind had suddenly become awake to the indelicacy, to say no worse, of leaving London for a long journey without one effort to see his mother. A tingling feeling of shame burned in his cheek and made his heart beat faster, as he said, “I think you have your carriage below, my Lord?”

“Yes,” replied Lord Netherby, not aware whether the question might portend something agreeable or the reverse.

“If you ‘ll permit me, I ‘ll ask you to drive me to Berkeley Square. I think the air and motion will benefit me; and perhaps Lady Netherby will see me.”