CHAPTER THE LAST.
That Mr. Hayes had some notion of the attachment of Monsieur de
Galgenstein for his wife is very certain: the man could not but
perceive that she was more gaily dressed, and more frequently absent
than usual; and must have been quite aware that from the day of the
quarrel until the present period, Catherine had never asked him for
a shilling for the house expenses. He had not the heart to offer,
however; nor, in truth, did she seem to remember that money was due.
She received, in fact, many sums from the tender Count. Tom was
likewise liberally provided by the same personage; who was,
moreover, continually sending presents of various kinds to the
person on whom his affections were centred.
One of these gifts was a hamper of choice mountain-wine, which had
been some weeks in the house, and excited the longing of Mr. Hayes,
who loved wine very much. This liquor was generally drunk by Wood
and Billings, who applauded it greatly; and many times, in passing
through the back-parlour,--which he had to traverse in order to
reach the stair, Hayes had cast a tender eye towards the drink; of
which, had he dared, he would have partaken.
On the 1st of March, in the year 1726, Mr. Hayes had gathered
together almost the whole sum with which he intended to decamp; and
having on that very day recovered the amount of a bill which he
thought almost hopeless, he returned home in tolerable good-humour;
and feeling, so near was his period of departure, something like
security. Nobody had attempted the least violence on him: besides,
he was armed with pistols, had his money in bills in a belt about
his person, and really reasoned with himself that there was no
danger for him to apprehend.
He entered the house about dusk, at five o'clock. Mrs. Hayes was
absent with Mr. Billings; only Mr. Wood was smoking, according to
his wont, in the little back-parlour; and as Mr. Hayes passed, the
old gentleman addressed him in a friendly voice, and, wondering that
he had been such a stranger, invited him to sit and take a glass of
wine. There was a light and a foreman in the shop; Mr. Hayes gave
his injunctions to that person, and saw no objection to Mr. Wood's
invitation.
The conversation, at first a little stiff between the two gentlemen,
began speedily to grow more easy and confidential: and so
particularly bland and good-humoured was Mr., or Doctor Wood, that
his companion was quite caught, and softened by the charm of his
manner; and the pair became as good friends as in the former days of
their intercourse.
"I wish you would come down sometimes of evenings," quoth Doctor
Wood; "for, though no book-learned man, Mr. Hayes, look you, you are
a man of the world, and I can't abide the society of boys. There's
Tom, now, since this tiff with Mrs. Cat, the scoundrel plays the
Grank Turk here! The pair of 'em, betwixt them, have completely
gotten the upper hand of you. Confess that you are beaten, Master
Hayes, and don't like the boy?"
"No more I do," said Hayes; "and that's the truth on't. A man doth
not like to have his wife's sins flung in his face, nor to be
perpetually bullied in his own house by such a fiery sprig as that."
"Mischief, sir,--mischief only," said Wood: "'tis the fun of youth,
sir, and will go off as age comes to the lad. Bad as you may think
him--and he is as skittish and fierce, sure enough, as a young
colt---there is good stuff in him; and though he hath, or fancies he
hath, the right to abuse every one, by the Lord he will let none
others do so! Last week, now, didn't he tell Mrs. Cat that you
served her right in the last beating matter? and weren't they coming
to knives, just as in your case? By my faith, they were. Ay, and
at the "Braund's Head," when some fellow said that you were a bloody
Bluebeard, and would murder your wife, stab me if Tom wasn't up in
an instant and knocked the fellow down for abusing of you!"
The first of these stories was quite true; the second was only a
charitable invention of Mr. Wood, and employed, doubtless, for the
amiable purpose of bringing the old and young men together. The
scheme partially succeeded; for, though Hayes was not so far
mollified towards Tom as to entertain any affection for a young man
whom he had cordially detested ever since he knew him, yet he felt
more at ease and cheerful regarding himself: and surely not without
reason. While indulging in these benevolent sentiments, Mrs.
Catherine and her son arrived, and found, somewhat to their
astonishment, Mr. Hayes seated in the back-parlour, as in former
times; and they were invited by Mr. Wood to sit down and drink.
We have said that certain bottles of mountain-wine were presented by
the Count to Mrs. Catherine: these were, at Mr. Wood's suggestion,
produced; and Hayes, who had long been coveting them, was charmed to
have an opportunity to drink his fill. He forthwith began bragging
of his great powers as a drinker, and vowed that he could manage
eight bottles without becoming intoxicated.
Mr. Wood grinned strangely, and looked in a peculiar way at Tom
Billings, who grinned too. Mrs. Cat's eyes were turned towards the
ground: but her face was deadly pale.
The party began drinking. Hayes kept up his reputation as a toper,
and swallowed one, two, three bottles without wincing. He grew
talkative and merry, and began to sing songs and to cut jokes; at
which Wood laughed hugely, and Billings after him. Mrs. Cat could
not laugh; but sat silent.
What ailed her? Was she thinking of the Count? She had been with
Max that day, and had promised him, for the next night at ten, an
interview near his lodgings at Whitehall. It was the first time
that she would see him alone. They were to meet (not a very
cheerful place for a love-tryst) at St. Margaret's churchyard, near
Westminster Abbey. Of this, no doubt, Cat was thinking; but what
could she mean by whispering to Wood, "No, no! for God's sake, not
tonight!"
"She means we are to have no more liquor," said Wood to Mr. Hayes;
who heard this sentence, and seemed rather alarmed.
"That's it,--no more liquor," said Catherine eagerly; "you have had
enough to-night. Go to bed, and lock your door, and sleep, Mr.
Hayes."
"But I say I've NOT had enough drink!" screamed Hayes; "I'm good for
five bottles more, and wager I will drink them too."
"Done, for a guinea!" said Wood.
"Done, and done!" said Billings.
"Be YOU quiet!" growled Hayes, scowling at the lad. "I will drink
what I please, and ask no counsel of yours." And he muttered some
more curses against young Billings, which showed what his feelings
were towards his wife's son; and which the latter, for a wonder,
only received with a scornful smile, and a knowing look at Wood.
Well! the five extra bottles were brought, and drunk by Mr. Hayes;
and seasoned by many songs from the recueil of Mr. Thomas d'Urfey
and
others. The chief part of the talk and merriment was on Hayes's
part; as, indeed, was natural,--for, while he drank bottle after
bottle of wine, the other two gentlemen confined themselves to small
beer,--both pleading illness as an excuse for their sobriety.
And now might we depict, with much accuracy, the course of Mr.
Hayes's intoxication, as it rose from the merriment of the
three-bottle point to the madness of the four--from the uproarious
quarrelsomeness of the sixth bottle to the sickly stupidity of the
seventh; but we are desirous of bringing this tale to a conclusion,
and must pretermit all consideration of a subject so curious, so
instructive, and so delightful. Suffice it to say, as a matter of
history, that Mr. Hayes did actually drink seven bottles of
mountain-wine; and that Mr. Thomas Billings went to the "Braund's
Head," in Bond Street, and purchased another, which Hayes likewise
drank.
"That'll do," said Mr. Wood to young Billings; and they led Hayes up
to bed, whither, in truth, he was unable to walk himself.
* * *
Mrs. Springatt, the lodger, came down to ask what the noise was.
"'Tis only Tom Billings making merry with some friends from the
country," answered Mrs. Hayes; whereupon Springatt retired, and the
house was quiet.
* * *
Some scuffling and stamping was heard about eleven o'clock.
* * *
After they had seen Mr. Hayes to bed, Billings remembered that he
had a parcel to carry to some person in the neighbourhood of the
Strand; and, as the night was remarkably fine, he and Mr. Wood
agreed to walk together, and set forth accordingly.
(Here follows a description of the THAMES AT MIDNIGHT, in a fine
historical style; with an account of Lambeth, Westminster, the
Savoy, Baynard's Castle, Arundel House, the Temple; of Old London
Bridge, with its twenty arches, "on which be houses builded, so that
it seemeth rather a continuall street than a bridge;"--of Bankside,
and the "Globe" and the "Fortune" Theatres; of the ferries across
the river, and of the pirates who infest the same--namely,
tinklermen, petermen, hebbermen, trawlermen; of the fleet of barges
that lay at the Savoy steps; and of the long lines of slim wherries
sleeping on the river banks and basking and shining in the
moonbeams. A combat on the river is described, that takes place
between the crews of a tinklerman's boat and the water-bailiffs.
Shouting his war-cry, "St. Mary Overy a la rescousse!" the
water-bailiff sprung at the throat of the tinklerman captain. The
crews of both vessels, as if aware that the struggle of their chiefs
would decide the contest, ceased hostilities, and awaited on their
respective poops the issue of the death-shock. It was not long
coming. "Yield, dog!" said the water-bailiff. The tinklerman could
not answer--for his throat was grasped too tight in the iron clench
of the city champion; but drawing his snickersnee, he plunged it
seven times in the bailiff's chest: still the latter fell not. The
death-rattle gurgled in the throat of his opponent; his arms fell
heavily to his side. Foot to foot, each standing at the side of his
boat, stood the brave men--THEY WERE BOTH DEAD! "In the name of St.
Clement Danes," said the master, "give way, my men!" and, thrusting
forward his halberd (seven feet long, richly decorated with velvet
and brass nails, and having the city arms, argent, a cross gules,
and in the first quarter a dagger displayed of the second), he
thrust the tinklerman's boat away from his own; and at once the
bodies of the captains plunged down, down, down, down in the
unfathomable waters.
After this follows another episode. Two masked ladies quarrel at
the door of a tavern overlooking the Thames: they turn out to be
Stella and Vanessa, who have followed Swift thither; who is in the
act of reading "Gulliver's Travels" to Gay, Arbuthnot, Bolingbroke,
and Pope. Two fellows are sitting shuddering under a doorway; to
one of them Tom Billings flung a sixpence. He little knew that the
names of those two young men were--Samuel Johnson and Richard
Savage.)
ANOTHER LAST CHAPTER.
Mr. Hayes did not join the family the next day; and it appears that
the previous night's reconciliation was not very durable; for when
Mrs. Springatt asked Wood for Hayes, Mr. Wood stated that Hayes had
gone away without saying whither he was bound, or how long he might
be absent. He only said, in rather a sulky tone, that he should
probably pass the night at a friend's house. "For my part, I know
of no friend he hath," added Mr. Wood; "and pray Heaven that he may
not think of deserting his poor wife, whom he hath beaten and
ill-used so already!" In this prayer Mrs. Springatt joined; and so
these two worthy people parted.
What business Billings was about cannot be said; but he was this
night bound towards Marylebone Fields, as he was the night before
for the Strand and Westminster; and, although the night was very
stormy and rainy, as the previous evening had been fine, old Wood
good-naturedly resolved upon accompanying him; and forth they
sallied together.
Mrs. Catherine, too, had HER business, as we have seen; but this was
of a very delicate nature. At nine o'clock, she had an appointment
with the Count; and faithfully, by that hour, had found her way to
Saint Margaret's churchyard, near Westminster Abbey, where she
awaited Monsieur de Galgenstein.
The spot was convenient, being very lonely, and at the same time
close to the Count's lodgings at Whitehall. His Excellency came,
but somewhat after the hour; for, to say the truth, being a
freethinker, he had the most firm belief in ghosts and demons, and
did not care to pace a churchyard alone. He was comforted,
therefore, when he saw a woman muffled in a cloak, who held out her
hand to him at the gate, and said, "Is that you?" He took her
hand,--it was very clammy and cold; and at her desire he bade his
confidential footman, who had attended him with a torch, to retire,
and leave him to himself.
The torch-bearer retired, and left them quite in darkness; and the
pair entered the little cemetery, cautiously threading their way
among the tombs. They sat down on one, underneath a tree it seemed
to be; the wind was very cold, and its piteous howling was the only
noise that broke the silence of the place. Catherine's teeth were
chattering, for all her wraps; and when Max drew her close to him,
and encircled her waist with one arm, and pressed her hand, she did
not repulse him, but rather came close to him, and with her own damp
fingers feebly returned his pressure.
The poor thing was very wretched and weeping. She confided to Max
the cause of her grief. She was alone in the world,--alone and
penniless. Her husband had left her; she had that very day received
a letter from him which conf
irmed all that she had suspected so
long. He had left her, carried away all his property, and would not
return!
If we say that a selfish joy filled the breast of Monsieur de
Galgenstein, the reader will not be astonished. A heartless
libertine, he felt glad at the prospect of Catherine's ruin; for he
hoped that necessity would make her his own. He clasped the poor
thing to his heart, and vowed that he would replace the husband she
had lost, and that his fortune should be hers.
"Will you replace him?" said she.
"Yes, truly, in everything but the name, dear Catherine; and when he
dies, I swear you shall be Countess of Galgenstein."
"Will you swear?" she cried, eagerly.
"By everything that is most sacred: were you free now, I would"
(and here he swore a terrific oath) "at once make you mine."
We have seen before that it cost Monsieur de Galgenstein nothing to
make these vows. Hayes was likely, too, to live as long as
Catherine--as long, at least, as the Count's connection with her;
but he was caught in his own snare.
She took his hand and kissed it repeatedly, and bathed it in her
tears, and pressed it to her bosom. "Max," she said, "I AM FREE!
Be mine, and I will love you as I have done for years and years."
Max started back. "What, is he dead?" he said.
"No, no, not dead: but he never was my husband."
He let go her hand, and, interrupting her, said sharply, "Indeed,
madam, if this carpenter never was your husband, I see no cause why
_I_ should be. If a lady, who hath been for twenty years the
mistress of a miserable country boor, cannot find it in her heart to
put up with the protection of a nobleman--a sovereign's
representative--she may seek a husband elsewhere!"
"I was no man's mistress except yours," sobbed Catherine, wringing
her hands and sobbing wildly; "but, O Heaven! I deserved this.
Because I was a child, and you saw, and ruined, and left
me--because, in my sorrow and repentance, I wished to repair my
crime, and was touched by that man's love, and married him--because
he too deceives and leaves me--because, after loving you--madly
loving you for twenty years--I will not now forfeit your respect,
and degrade myself by yielding to your will, you too must scorn me!
It is too much--too much--O Heaven!" And the wretched woman fell
back almost fainting.
Max was almost frightened by this burst of sorrow on her part, and
was coming forward to support her; but she motioned him away, and,
taking from her bosom a letter, said, "If it were light, you could
see, Max, how cruelly I have been betrayed by that man who called
himself my husband. Long before he married me, he was married to
another. This woman is still living, he says; and he says he leaves
me for ever."
At this moment the moon, which had been hidden behind Westminster
Abbey, rose above the vast black mass of that edifice, and poured a
flood of silver light upon the little church of St. Margaret's, and
the spot where the lovers stood. Max was at a little distance from
Catherine, pacing gloomily up and down the flags. She remained at
her old position at the tombstone under the tree, or pillar, as it
seemed to be, as the moon got up. She was leaning against the
pillar, and holding out to Max, with an arm beautifully white and
rounded, the letter she had received from her husband: "Read it,
Max," she said: "I asked for light, and here is Heaven's own, by
which you may read."
But Max did not come forward to receive it. On a sudden his face
assumed a look of the most dreadful surprise and agony. He stood
still, and stared with wild eyes starting from their sockets; he
stared upwards, at a point seemingly above Catherine's head. At
last he raised up his finger slowly and said, "Look, Cat--THE
HEAD--THE HEAD!" Then uttering a horrible laugh, he fell down