A Day's Ride: A Life's Romance

“You ‘ll think it strange,” said I, “but I already know something of this story; the man you allude to was Sir Samuel Whalley.”

“How on earth have you guessed that?”

“I came by the knowledge on a railroad journey, where my fellow-passengers talked over the event, and I subsequently travelled with Sir Samuel’s daughter, who came abroad to fill the station of a companion to an elderly lady. She called herself Miss Herbert.”

“Exactly! The widow resumed her family name after W.‘s suicide, – if it were a suicide.”

“How singular to think that you should have chanced upon this link of the chain! And do you know her?”

“Intimately; we were fellow-travellers for some days.”

“And where is she now?”

“She is, at this moment, at a villa on the Lake of Como, living with a Mrs. Keats, the sister of her Majesty’s Envoy at Kalbbratonstadt.”

“You are marvellously accurate in this narrative, Potts,” said he, laughing; “the impression made on you by this young lady can scarcely have been a transient one.”

I suppose I grew very red, – I felt that I was much confused by this remark, – and I turned away to conceal my emotion. Crofton was too delicate to take any advantage of my distress, and merely added, —

“From having known her, you will naturally devote yourself with more ardor to serve her. May we then count upon your assistance in our project?”

“That you may,” said I. “From this hour I devote myself to it.”

Crofton at once proposed that I should order my luggage to be placed on his carriage, and start off with them; but I firmly opposed this plan. First of all, I had no luggage, and had no fancy to confess as much; secondly, I resolved to give at least one day for Vaterchen’s arrival, – I’d have given a month rather than come down to the dreary thought of his being a knave, and Tintefleck a cheat! In fact, I felt that if I were to begin any new project in life with so slack an experience, that every step I took would be marked with distrust, and tarnished with suspicion. I therefore pretended to Crofton that I had given rendezvous to a friend at Lindau, and could not leave without waiting for him. I am not very sure that he believed me, but he was most careful in not dropping a word that might show incredulity; and once more we addressed ourselves to the grand project before us.

“Come in, Mary!” cried he, suddenly rising from his chair, and going to meet her. “Come in, and help us by your good counsel.”

It was not possible to receive me with more kindness than she showed. Had I been some old friend who came to meet them there by appointment, her manner could not have been more courteous nor more easy; and when she learned from her brother how warmly I had associated myself in this plan, she gave me one of her pleasantest smiles, and said, —

“I was not mistaken in you.”

With a great map of Europe before us on the table, we proceeded to plan a future line of operations. We agreed to take certain places, each of us, and to meet at certain others, to compare notes and report progress. We scarcely permitted ourselves to feel any great confidence of success, but we all concurred in the notion that some lucky hazard might do for us more than all our best-devised schemes could accomplish; and, at last, it was settled that, while they took Southern Germany and the Tyrol, I should ramble about through Savoy and Upper Italy, and our meeting-place be in Italy. The great railway centres, where Englishmen of every class and gradation were much employed, offered the best prospect of meeting with the object of our search, and these were precisely the sort of places such a man would be certain to resort to.

Our discussion lasted so long that the Croftons put off their journey till the following day, and we dined all together very happily, never wearied of talking over the plan before us, and each speculating as to what share of acute-ness he could contribute to the common stock of investigation. It was when Crofton left the room to search for the portrait of Whalley, that Mary sat down at my side, and said, —

“I have been thinking for some time over a project in which you can aid me greatly. My brother tells me that you are known to Miss Herbert. Now I want to write to her; I want to tell her that there is one who, belonging to a family from which hers has suffered heavily, desires to expiate so far, maybe, the great wrong, and, if she will permit it, to be her friend. While I can in a letter explain what I feel on this score, I am well aware how much aid it would afford me to have the personal corroboration of one who could say, ‘She who writes this is not altogether unworthy of your affection; do not reject the offer she makes you, or, at least, reflect and think oyer it before you refuse it’ Will you help me so far?”

My heart bounded with delight as I first listened to her plan; it was only a moment before that I remembered how difficult, if not impossible, it would be for me to approach Miss Herbert once more. How or in what character could I seek her? To appear before her in any feigned part would be, under the circumstances, ignoble and unworthy, and yet was I, out of any merely personal consideration, any regard for the poor creature Potts, to forego the interests, mayhap the whole happiness, of one so immeasurably better and worthier? Would not any amount of shame and exposure to myself be a cheap price for even a small quantity of benefit bestowed on her! What signified it that I was poor and ragged – unknown, unrecognized – if she were to be the gainer? Would not, in fact, the very sacrifice of self in the affair be ennobling and elevating to me, and would I not stand better in my own esteem for this one honest act, than I had ever done after any mock success or imaginary victory?

“I think I can guess why you hesitate,” cried she; “you fear that I will say something indiscreet, – something that would compromise you with Miss Herbert, – but you need not dread that; and, at all events, you shall read my letter.”

“Far from it,” said I; “my hesitation had a very different source. I was solely thinking whether, if you were aware of how I stood in my relations to Miss Herbert, you would have selected me as your advocate; and though it may pain me to make a full confession, you shall hear everything.”

With this I told her all, – all, from my first hour of meeting her at the railway station, to my last parting with her at Schaffhausen. I tried to make my narrative as grave and commonplace as might be, but, do what I would, the figure in which I was forced to present myself, overcame all her attempts at seriousness, and she laughed immoderately. If it had not been for this burst of merriment on her part, it is more than probable I might have brought down my history to the very moment of telling, and narrated every detail of my journey with Vaterchen and Tintefieck. I was, however, warned by these circumstances, and concluded in time to save myself from this new ridicule.

“From all that you have told me here,” said she, “I only see one thing, – which is, that you are deeply in love with this young lady.”

“No,” said I; “I was so once, I am not so any longer. My passion has fallen into the chronic stage, and I feel myself her friend, – only her friend.”

“Well, for the purpose I have in mind, this is all the better I want you, as I said, to place my letter in her hands, and, so far as possible, enforce its arguments, – that is, try and persuade her that to reject our offers on her behalf is to throw upon us a share of the great wrong our uncle worked, and make us, as it were, participators in the evil he did them. As for myself,” said she, boldly, “all the happiness that I might have derived from ample means is dashed with remembering what misery it has been attended with to that poor family. If you urge that one theme forcibly, you can scarcely fail with her.”

“And what are your intentions with regard to her?” asked I.

“They will take any shape she pleases. My brother would either enable her to return home, and, by persuading her mother to accept an annuity, live happily under her own roof; or she might, if the spirit of independence fires her, – she might yet use her influence over her mother and sister to regard our proposals more favorably; or she might come and live with us, and this I would prefer to all; but you must read my letter, and more than once too. You must possess yourself of all its details, and, if there be anything to which you object, there will be time enough still to change it.”

“Here he is, – here is the portrait of our lost sheep,” said Crofton, now entering with a miniature in his hand. It represented a bluff, bold, almost insolently bold man in full civic robes, the face not improbably catching an additional expression of vulgar pride from the fact that the likeness was taken in that culminating hour of greatness when he first took the chair as chief magistrate of his town.

“Not an over-pleasant sort of fellow to deal with, I should say,” remarked Crofton. “There are some stern lines here about the corners of the eyes, and certain very suspicious-looking indentations next the mouth.”

“His eye has no forgiveness in it,” said his sister.

“Well, one thing is clear enough, he ought to be easily recognized; that broad forehead, and those wide-spread nostrils and deeply divided chin, are very striking marks to guide one. I cannot give you this,” said Crofton to me, “but I ‘ll take care to send you an accurate copy of it at the first favorable moment; meanwhile, make yourself master of its details, and try if you cannot carry the resemblance in your memory.”

“Disabuse yourself, too,” said she, laughing, “of all this accessorial grandeur, and bear in mind that you ‘ll not find him dressed in ermine, or surrounded with a collar and badge. Not very like his daughter, I ‘m sure,” whispered she in my ear, as I continued to gaze steadfastly at the portrait. “Can you trace any likeness?”

“Not the very faintest; she is beautiful,” said I, “and her whole expression is gentleness and delicacy.”

“Well, certainly,” said Crofton, shutting up the miniature, “these are not the distinguishing traits of our friend here, whom I should call a hard-natured, stern, obstinate fellow, with great self-reliance, and no great trust of others.”

“I was just thinking,” said I, “that were I to come up with such a man as this, what chance would my poor, frail, yielding temperament have, in influencing the rugged granite of his nature? He ‘d terrify me at once.”

“Not when your object was a good and generous one,” said Miss Crofton. “You might well enough be afraid to confront such a man as this if your aim was to overreach and deceive him; but bear in mind the fable of the man who had the courage to take the thorn out of the lion’s paw. The operation, we are told, was a painful one, and there might have been an instant in which the patient felt disposed to eat his doctor; but, with all these perils, strong in a good purpose, the surgeon persevered, and by his skill and his courage made the king of the beasts his fast friend for life. The lesson is worth remembering.”

I was still pondering over this apophthegm, when Crofton aroused me by pushing across the table a great heap of gold. “This is all yours, Potts,” said he; “and remember that as you are now my agent, travelling for the house of Crofton and Co., that you journey at my cost.”

Of course I would not listen to this proposal, and, although urged by Miss Crofton with all a woman’s tact and delicacy, I persisted so firmly in my refusal, that they were obliged to yield. I now had a hundred pounds all my own; and though the sum be not a very splendid one, I remember some French writer – I ‘m not sure it is not Jules Janin – saying, “Any man who can put his hand into his pocket and find five Napoleons there, is rich;” and he certainly supports his theory with considerable sophistry and cleverness, mainly depending on the assumption that any of the reasonable daily necessities of life, even in a luxurious point of view, are attainable with such means. Now, although a hundred pounds would not very long supply resources for such a life, yet, as I am not a Frenchman, nor living in Paris, still less had I habits or tastes of a costly kind, I might very well eke out three months pleasantly on this sum, and in these three months what might not happen? In a “hundred days” the great Napoleon crushed the whole might of the Austrian empire, and secured an emperor’s daughter for his bride; and in another “hundred days” he made the tour of France, from Cannes to Rochefort, and lost an empire by the way! Wonderful things might then be compassed within three months.

“What are you saying about three months, Potts?” asked Crofton, for unwittingly I had uttered these words aloud.

“I was observing,” said I, “that in three months from this day, we should arrange to meet somewhere. Where shall we say?”

“Geneva is very central; shall we name Geneva?”

“Oh, on no account Let our rendezvous be in Italy Let us say Rome.”

“Rome be it, then,” cried Crofton. “Now for another point: let us have a wager as to who first discovers the object of our search. I ‘ll bet you twenty Napoleons, Potts, to ten, – for as we are two to one, so should the wager be.”

“I take you,” cried I, entering into his humor, “and I feel as certain of success as if I had your money in my hands.”

“Will you have another wager with me?” whispered Mary Crofton, as she came behind my chair. “It is, that you ‘ll not persuade Miss Herbert to wear this ring for my sake.”

“I ‘ll bet my life on it,” said I, taking the opal ring she drew from her finger, as she spoke; “I’m in that mood of confidence now, I feel there is nothing I could not promise.”

“If so, then, Potts, let me have the benefit of this fortunate interval, and ask you to promise me one thing, which is, not to change your mind more than twice a day; don’t be angry with me, but hear me out. You are a good-hearted fellow, and have excellent intentions; I don’t think I know one less really selfish, but, at the same time, you are so fickle of purpose, so undecided in action, that I ‘d not be the least astonished to hear, when we asked for you to-morrow at breakfast time, that you had started for a tour in Norway, or on a voyage to the Southern Pacific.”

“And is this your judgment of me also, Miss Crofton?” said I, rising from my seat.

“Oh, no, Mr. Potts. I would only suspect you of going off into the Tyrol, or the Styrian Alps, and forgetting all about us, amidst the glaciers and the cataracts.”

“I wish you a good-night, and a better opinion of your humble servant,” said I, bowing.

“Don’t go, Potts – wait a minute – come back. I have something to tell you.”

I closed the door behind me, and hastened off, not, however, perfectly clear whether I was the injured man, or one who had just achieved a great outrage.

CHAPTER XXXVI. FURTHER INTERCOURSE WITH HARPAR

I am obliged to acknowledge that I was vainglorious enough to accept a seat in the Crofton carriage on the morning of their departure, and accompany them for a mile or so of the way, – even at the price of returning on foot, – just that I might show myself to the landlady and that odious old waiter in a position of eminence, and make them do a bitter penance for the insults they had heaped on an illustrious stranger. It was a poor and paltry triumph, and over very contemptible adversaries, but I could not refuse it to myself. Crofton, too, contributed largely to the success of my little scheme, by insisting that I should take the place beside his sister, while he sat with his back to the horses; and though I refused at first, I acceded at last, with the bland compliance of a man who feels himself once more in his accustomed station.

As throughout this true history I have candidly revealed the inmost traits of my nature – well knowing the while how deteriorating such innate anatomy must prove – I have ever felt that he who has small claims to interest by the events of his life, can make some compensation to the world by an honest exposure of his motives, his weaknesses, and his struggles. Now, my present confession is made in this spirit, and is not absolutely without its moral, for, as the adage tells us, “Look after the pence, and the pounds will take care of themselves;” so would I say, Guard yourself carefully against petty vices. You and I, most esteemed reader, are – I trust fervently – little likely to be arraigned on a capital charge. I hope sincerely that transportable felonies, and even misdemeanors, may not picture among the accidents of our life; such-like are the pounds that take care of themselves, but the “small pence” which require looking after, are little envies and jealousies and rancors, petty snobberies of display, small exhibitions of our being better than this man or greater than that; these, I repeat to you, accumulate on a man’s nature just the way barnacles fasten on a ship’s bottom, – from mere time, and it is wonderful what damage can come of such paltry obstacles.

I very much doubt if a Roman conqueror regarded the chained captive who followed his chariot with a more supreme pride than I bestowed upon that miserable old waiter who now bowed himself to the ground before me, and when I ordered my dinner for four o’clock, and said that probably I might have a friend to dine with me, his humiliation was complete.

“I wish I knew the secret of your staying here,” said Mary Crofton, as we drove along; “why will you not tell it?”

“Perhaps it might prove indiscreet, Mary; our friend Potts may have become a mauvais sujet since we have seen him last?”

I wrapped myself in a mysterious silence, and only smiled.

“Lindau, of all places, to stop at!” resumed she, pettishly. “There is nothing remarkable in the scenery, no art treasures, nothing socially agreeable; what can it possibly be that detains you in such a place?”

“My dear Mary,” said Crofton, “you are, without knowing it, violating a hallowed principle; you are no less than leading into temptation. Look at poor Potts there, and you will see that, while he knows in his inmost heart the secret which detains him here is some passing and insignificant circumstance unworthy of mention, you have, by imparting to it a certain importance, suggested to his mind the necessity of a story; give him now but five minutes to collect himself, and I’ll engage that he will ‘come out’ with a romantic incident that would never have seen the light but for a woman’s curiosity.”

“Good heavens!” thought I, “can this be a true interpretation of my character? Am I the weak and impressionable creature this would bespeak me?” I must have blushed deeply at my own reflection, for Crofton quickly added, —

“Don’t get angry with me, Potts, any more than you would with a friend who 'd say, ‘Take care how you pass over that bridge, I know it is rotten and must give way.’”

“Let me answer you,” said I, courageously, for I was acutely hurt to be thus arraigned before another. “It is more than likely that you, with your active habits and stirring notions of life, would lean very heavily on him who, neither wanting riches nor honors, would adopt some simple sort of dreamy existence, and think that the green alleys of the beech wood, or the little path beside the river, pleasanter sauntering than the gilded antechamber of a palace; and just as likely is it that you would take him roundly to task about wasted opportunities, misapplied talents, and stigmatize as inglorious indolence what might as possibly be called a contented humility. Now, I would ask you, why should one man be the measure of another? The load you could carry with ease might serve to crush me, and yet there may be some light burdens that would suit my strength, and in bearing which I might taste a sense of duty grateful as your own.”

“I have no patience with you,” began Crofton, warmly; but his sister stopped him with an imploring look, and then, turning to me, said, —

“Edward fancies that every one can be as energetic and active as himself, and occasionally forgets what you have just so well remarked as to the relative capacities of different people.”

“I want him to do something, to be something besides a dreamer!” burst he in, almost angrily.

“Well, then,” said I, “you shall see me begin this moment, tor I will get down here and walk briskly back to the town.” I called to the postilions to pull up at the same time, and in spite of remonstrances, entreaties, – almost beseeching from Mary Crofton, – I persisted in my resolve, and bade them farewell.

Crofton was so much hurt that he could scarcely speak, and when he gave me his hand it was in the coldest of manners.

“But you ‘ll keep our rendezvous, won’t you!” said Mary; “we shall meet at Rome.”

“I really wonder, Mary, how you can force our acquaintanceship where it is so palpably declined. Good-bye, – farewell,” said he to me.

“Good-bye,” said I, with a gulp that almost choked me; and away drove the carriage, leaving me standing in the train of dust it had raised. Every crack of the postboys’ whips gave me a shock as though I had felt the thong on my own shoulders; and, at last, as sweeping round a turn of the road the carriage disappeared from view, such was the sense of utter desolation that came over me, that I sat down on a stone by the wayside, overwhelmed. I do not know if I ever felt such an utter sense of destitution as at that moment. “What a wealth of friends must a man possess,” thought I, “who can afford to squander them in this fashion! How could I have repelled the counsels that kindness alone could have prompted? Surely Crofton must know far more of life than I did?” From this I went on to inquire why it was that the world showed itself so unforgiving to idleness in men of small fortune, since, if no burden to the community, they ought to be as free as their richer brethren. It was a puzzling theme, and though I revolved it long, I made but little of it; the only solution that occurred to me was, that the idleness of the humble man is not relieved by the splendors and luxuries which surround a rich man’s leisure, and that the world resents the pretensions of ease unassociated with riches. In what a profound philosophy was it, then, that Diogenes rolled his tub about the streets! There was a mock purpose about it, that must have flattered his fellow-citizens. I feel assured that a great deal of the butterfly-hunting and beetle-gathering that we see around us is done in this spirit They are a set of idle folk anxious to indulge their indolence without reproach.

Thus pondering and musing, I strolled back to the town. So still and silent was it, so free from all movement of traffic or business, that I was actually in the very centre of it without knowing it. There were streets without passengers, and shops without customers, and even cafés without guests, and I wondered within myself why people should thus congregate to do nothing, and I rambled on from street to alley, and from alley to lane, never chancing upon one who had anything in hand. At last I gained the side of the lake, along which a little quay ran for some distance, ending in a sort of terraced walk, now grass-grown and neglected. There were at least the charms of fresh air and scenery here, though the worthy citizen seemed to hold them cheaply, and I rambled along to the end, where, by a broad flight of steps, the terrace communicated with the lake; a spot, doubtless, where, once on a time, the burghers took the water and went out a-pleasuring with fat fraus and fräuleins. I had reached the end, and was about to turn back again, when I caught sight of a man, seated on one of the lower steps, employed in watching two little toy ships which he had just launched. Now, this seemed to me the very climax of indolence, and I sat myself down on the parapet to observe him. His proceedings were indeed of the strangest, for as there was no wind to fill the sails and his vessels lay still and becalmed, he appeared to have bethought him of another mode to impart interest to him. He weighted one of them with little stones till he brought her gunwale level with the water, and then pressing her gently with his hand, he made her sink slowly down to the bottom. I ‘m not quite certain whether I laughed outright, or that some exclamation escaped me as I looked, but some noise I must unquestionably have made, for he started and turned up his head, and I saw Harpar the Englishman whom I had met the day before at Constance.