A Story

  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