Page 4 of A Story

and hissing after the manner of horseboys; and there she learned

  that Mrs. Score had been inventing an ingenious story to have her

  out of the way. The ostler said he was just going to lead the two

  horses round to the door. The Corporal had been, and they were

  about to start on the instant for Stratford.

  The fact was that Count Gustavus Adolphus, far from wishing to pick

  the wing of a fowl, had risen with a horror and loathing for

  everything in the shape of food, and for any liquor stronger than

  small beer. Of this he had drunk a cup, and said he should ride

  immediately to Stratford; and when, on ordering his horses, he had

  asked politely of the landlady "why the d---- SHE always came up,

  and why she did not send the girl," Mrs. Score informed the Count

  that her Catherine was gone out for a walk along with the young man

  to whom she was to be married, and would not be visible that day.

  On hearing this the Captain ordered his horses that moment, and

  abused the wine, the bed, the house, the landlady, and everything

  connected with the "Bugle Inn."

  Out the horses came: the little boys of the village gathered round;

  the recruits, with bunches of ribands in their beavers, appeared

  presently; Corporal Brock came swaggering out, and, slapping the

  pleased blacksmith on the back, bade him mount his horse; while the

  boys hurrah'd. Then the Captain came out, gloomy and majestic; to

  him Mr. Brock made a military salute, which clumsily, and with much

  grinning, the recruits imitated. "I shall walk on with these brave

  fellows, your honour, and meet you at Stratford," said the Corporal.

  "Good," said the Captain, as he mounted. The landlady curtseyed;

  the children hurrah'd more; the little horse-boy, who held the

  bridle with one hand and the stirrup with the other, and expected a

  crown-piece from such a noble gentleman, got only a kick and a

  curse, as Count von Galgenstein shouted, "D----- you all, get out of

  the way!" and galloped off; and John Hayes, who had been sneaking

  about the inn all the morning, felt a weight off his heart when he

  saw the Captain ride off alone.

  O foolish Mrs. Score! O dolt of a John Hayes! If the landlady had

  allowed the Captain and the maid to have their way, and meet but for

  a minute before recruits, sergeant, and all, it is probable that no

  harm would have been done, and that this history would never have

  been written.

  When Count von Galgenstein had ridden half a mile on the Stratford

  road, looking as black and dismal as Napoleon galloping from the

  romantic village of Waterloo, he espied, a few score yards onwards,

  at the turn of the road, a certain object which caused him to check

  his horse suddenly, brought a tingling red into his cheeks, and made

  his heart to go thump--thump! against his side. A young lass was

  sauntering slowly along the footpath, with a basket swinging from

  one hand, and a bunch of hedge-flowers in the other. She stopped

  once or twice to add a fresh one to her nosegay, and might have seen

  him, the Captain thought; but no, she never looked directly towards

  him, and still walked on. Sweet innocent! she was singing as if

  none were near; her voice went soaring up to the clear sky, and the

  Captain put his horse on the grass, that the sound of the hoofs

  might not disturb the music.

  "When the kine had given a pailful,

  And the sheep came bleating home,

  Poll, who knew it would be healthful,

  Went a-walking out with Tom.

  Hand in hand, sir, on the land, sir,

  As they walked to and fro,

  Tom made jolly love to Polly,

  But was answered no, no, no."

  The Captain had put his horse on the grass, that the sound of his

  hoofs might not disturb the music; and now he pushed its head on to

  the bank, where straightway "George of Denmark" began chewing of

  such a salad as grew there. And now the Captain slid off

  stealthily; and smiling comically, and hitching up his great

  jack-boots, and moving forward with a jerking tiptoe step, he, just

  as she was trilling the last o-o-o of the last no in the above poem

  of Tom D'Urfey, came up to her, and touching her lightly on the

  waist, said,

  "My dear, your very humble servant."

  Mrs. Catherine (you know you have found her out long ago!) gave a

  scream and a start, and would have turned pale if she could. As it

  was, she only shook all over, and said,

  "Oh, sir, how you DID frighten me!"

  "Frighten you, my rosebud! why, run me through, I'd die rather than

  frighten you. Gad, child, tell me now, am I so VERY frightful?"

  "Oh no, your honour, I didn't mean that; only I wasn't thinking to

  meet you here, or that you would ride so early at all: for, if you

  please, sir, I was going to fetch a chicken for your Lordship's

  breakfast, as my mistress said you would like one; and I thought,

  instead of going to Farmer Brigg's, down Birmingham way, as she told

  me, I'd go to Farmer Bird's, where the chickens is better, sir,--my

  Lord, I mean."

  "Said I'd like a chicken for breakfast, the old cat! why, I told her

  I would not eat a morsel to save me--I was so dru--I mean I ate such

  a good supper last night--and I bade her to send me a pot of small

  beer, and to tell you to bring it; and the wretch said you were gone

  out with your sweetheart--"

  "What! John Hayes, the creature? Oh, what a naughty story-telling

  woman!"

  "--You had walked out with your sweetheart, and I was not to see you

  any more; and I was mad with rage, and ready to kill myself; I was,

  my dear."

  "Oh, sir! pray, PRAY don't."

  "For your sake, my sweet angel?"

  "Yes, for my sake, if such a poor girl as me can persuade noble

  gentlemen."

  "Well, then, for YOUR sake, I won't; no, I'll live; but why live?

  Hell and fury, if I do live I'm miserable without you; I am,--you

  know I am,--you adorable, beautiful, cruel, wicked Catherine!"

  Catherine's reply to this was "La, bless me! I do believe your

  horse is running away." And so he was! for having finished his meal

  in the hedge, he first looked towards his master and paused, as it

  were, irresolutely; then, by a sudden impulse, flinging up his tail

  and his hind legs, he scampered down the road.

  Mrs. Hall ran lightly after the horse, and the Captain after Mrs.

  Hall; and the horse ran quicker and quicker every moment, and might

  have led them a long chase,--when lo! debouching from a twist in the

  road, came the detachment of cavalry and infantry under Mr. Brock.

  The moment he was out of sight of the village, that gentleman had

  desired the blacksmith to dismount, and had himself jumped into the

  saddle, maintaining the subordination of his army by drawing a

  pistol and swearing that he would blow out the brains of any person

  who attempted to run. When the Captain's horse came near the

  detachment he paused, and suffered himself to be caught by Tummas

  Bullock, who held him until the owner and Mrs. Catherine c
ame up.

  Mr. Bullock looked comically grave when he saw the pair; but the

  Corporal graciously saluted Mrs. Catherine, and said it was a fine

  day for walking.

  "La, sir, and so it is," said she, panting in a very pretty and

  distressing way, "but not for RUNNING. I do protest--ha!--and vow

  that I really can scarcely stand. I'm so tired of running after

  that naughty naughty horse!"

  "How do, Cattern?" said Thomas. "Zee, I be going a zouldiering

  because thee wouldn't have me." And here Mr. Bullock grinned. Mrs.

  Catherine made no sort of reply, but protested once more she should

  die of running. If the truth were told, she was somewhat vexed at

  the arrival of the Corporal's detachment, and had had very serious

  thoughts of finding herself quite tired just as he came in sight.

  A sudden thought brought a smile of bright satisfaction in the

  Captain's eyes. He mounted the horse which Tummas still held.

  "TIRED, Mrs Catherine," said he, "and for my sake? By heavens! you

  shan't walk a step farther. No, you shall ride back with a guard of

  honour! Back to the village, gentlemen!--rightabout face! Show

  those fellows, Corporal, how to rightabout face. Now, my dear,

  mount behind me on Snowball; he's easy as a sedan. Put your dear

  little foot on the toe of my boot. There now,--up!--jump! hurrah!"

  "THAT'S not the way, Captain," shouted out Thomas, still holding on

  to the rein as the horse began to move. "Thee woan't goo with him,

  will thee, Catty?"

  But Mrs. Catherine, though she turned away her head, never let go

  her hold round the Captain's waist; and he, swearing a dreadful oath

  at Thomas, struck him across the face and hands with his riding

  whip. The poor fellow, who at the first cut still held on to the

  rein, dropped it at the second, and as the pair galloped off, sat

  down on the roadside and fairly began to weep.

  "MARCH, you dog!" shouted out the Corporal a minute after. And so

  he did: and when next he saw Mrs. Catherine she WAS the Captain's

  lady sure enough, and wore a grey hat, with a blue feather, and red

  riding-coat trimmed with silverlace. But Thomas was then on a

  bare-backed horse, which Corporal Brock was flanking round a ring,

  and he was so occupied looking between his horse's ears that he had

  no time to cry then, and at length got the better of his attachment.

  * * *

  This being a good opportunity for closing Chapter I, we ought,

  perhaps, to make some apologies to the public for introducing them

  to characters that are so utterly worthless; as we confess all our

  heroes, with the exception of Mr. Bullock, to be. In this we have

  consulted nature and history, rather than the prevailing taste and

  the general manner of authors. The amusing novel of "Ernest

  Maltravers," for instance, opens with a seduction; but then it is

  performed by people of the strictest virtue on both sides: and

  there is so much religion and philosophy in the heart of the

  seducer, so much tender innocence in the soul of the seduced, that--

  bless the little dears!--their very peccadilloes make one interested

  in them; and their naughtiness becomes quite sacred, so deliciously

  is it described. Now, if we ARE to be interested by rascally

  actions, let us have them with plain faces, and let them be

  performed, not by virtuous philosophers, but by rascals. Another

  clever class of novelists adopt the contrary system, and create

  interest by making their rascals perform virtuous actions. Against

  these popular plans we here solemnly appeal. We say, let your

  rogues in novels act like rogues, and your honest men like honest

  men; don't let us have any juggling and thimble-rigging with virtue

  and vice, so that, at the end of three volumes, the bewildered

  reader shall not know which is which; don't let us find ourselves

  kindling at the generous qualities of thieves, and sympathising with

  the rascalities of noble hearts. For our own part, we know what the

  public likes, and have chosen rogues for our characters, and have

  taken a story from the "Newgate Calendar," which we hope to follow

  out to edification. Among the rogues, at least, we will have

  nothing that shall be mistaken for virtues. And if the British

  public (after calling for three or four editions) shall give up, not

  only our rascals, but the rascals of all other authors, we shall be

  content:--we shall apply to Government for a pension, and think that

  our duty is done.

  CHAPTER II. IN WHICH ARE DEPICTED THE PLEASURES OF A SENTIMENTAL

  ATTACHMENT.

  It will not be necessary, for the purpose of this history, to follow

  out very closely all the adventures which occurred to Mrs. Catherine

  from the period when she quitted the "Bugle" and became the

  Captain's lady; for although it would be just as easy to show as

  not, that the young woman, by following the man of her heart, had

  only yielded to an innocent impulse, and by remaining with him for a

  certain period, had proved the depth and strength of her affection

  for him,--although we might make very tender and eloquent apologies

  for the error of both parties, the reader might possibly be

  disgusted at such descriptions and such arguments: which, besides,

  are already done to his hand in the novel of "Ernest Maltravers"

  before mentioned.

  From the gentleman's manner towards Mrs. Catherine, and from his

  brilliant and immediate success, the reader will doubtless have

  concluded, in the first place, that Gustavus Adolphus had not a very

  violent affection for Mrs. Cat; in the second place, that he was a

  professional lady-killer, and therefore likely at some period to

  resume his profession; thirdly, and to conclude, that a connection

  so begun, must, in the nature of things, be likely to end speedily.

  And so, to do the Count justice, it would, if he had been allowed to

  follow his own inclination entirely; for (as many young gentlemen

  will, and yet no praise to them) in about a week he began to be

  indifferent, in a month to be weary, in two months to be angry, in

  three to proceed to blows and curses; and, in short, to repent most

  bitterly the hour when he had ever been induced to present Mrs.

  Catherine the toe of his boot, for the purpose of lifting her on to

  his horse.

  "Egad!" said he to the Corporal one day, when confiding his griefs

  to Mr. Brock, "I wish my toe had been cut off before ever it served

  as a ladder to this little vixen."

  "Or perhaps your honour would wish to kick her downstairs with it?"

  delicately suggested Mr. Brock.

  "Kick her! why, the wench would hold so fast by the banisters that I

  COULD not kick her down, Mr. Brock. To tell you a bit of a secret,

  I HAVE tried as much--not to kick her--no, no, not kick her,

  certainly: that's ungentlemanly--but to INDUCE her to go back to

  that cursed pot-house where we fell in with her. I have given her

  many hints--"

  "Oh, yes, I saw your honour give her one yesterday--with a mug of

  beer. By the law
s, as the ale run all down her face, and she

  clutched a knife to run at you, I don't think I ever saw such a

  she-devil! That woman will do for your honour some day, if you

  provoke her."

  "Do for ME? No, hang it, Mr. Brock, never! She loves every hair of

  my head, sir: she worships me, Corporal. Egad, yes! she worships

  me; and would much sooner apply a knife to her own weasand than

  scratch my little finger!"

  "I think she does," said Mr. Brock.

  "I'm sure of it," said the Captain. "Women, look you, are like

  dogs, they like to be ill-treated: they like it, sir; I know they

  do. I never had anything to do with a woman in my life but I

  ill-treated her, and she liked me the better."

  "Mrs. Hall ought to be VERY fond of you then, sure enough!" said Mr.

  Corporal.

  "Very fond;--ha, ha! Corporal, you wag you--and so she IS very fond.

  Yesterday, after the knife-and-beer scene--no wonder I threw the

  liquor in her face: it was so dev'lish flat that no gentleman could

  drink it: and I told her never to draw it till dinner-time--"

  "Oh, it was enough to put an angel in a fury!" said Brock.

  "Well, yesterday, after the knife business, when you had got the

  carver out of her hand, off she flings to her bedroom, will not eat

  a bit of dinner forsooth, and remains locked up for a couple of

  hours. At two o'clock afternoon (I was over a tankard), out comes

  the little she-devil, her face pale, her eyes bleared, and the tip

  of her nose as red as fire with sniffling and weeping. Making for

  my hand, 'Max,' says she, 'will you forgive me?' 'What!' says I.

  'Forgive a murderess?' says I. 'No, curse me, never!' 'Your

  cruelty will kill me,' sobbed she. 'Cruelty be hanged!' says I;

  'didn't you draw that beer an hour before dinner?' She could say

  nothing to THIS, you know, and I swore that every time she did so, I

  would fling it into her face again. Whereupon back she flounced to

  her chamber, where she wept and stormed until night-time."

  "When you forgave her?"

  "I DID forgive her, that's positive. You see I had supped at the

  'Rose' along with Tom Trippet and half-a-dozen pretty fellows; and I

  had eased a great fat-headed Warwickshire landjunker--what d'ye call

  him?--squire, of forty pieces; and I'm dev'lish good-humoured when

  I've won, and so Cat and I made it up: but I've taught her never to

  bring me stale beer again--ha, ha!"

  This conversation will explain, a great deal better than any

  description of ours, however eloquent, the state of things as

  between Count Maximilian and Mrs. Catherine, and the feelings which

  they entertained for each other. The woman loved him, that was the

  fact. And, as we have shown in the previous chapter how John Hayes,

  a mean-spirited fellow as ever breathed, in respect of all other

  passions a pigmy, was in the passion of love a giant, and followed

  Mrs. Catherine with a furious longing which might seem at the first

  to be foreign to his nature; in the like manner, and playing at

  cross-purposes, Mrs. Hall had become smitten of the Captain; and, as

  he said truly, only liked him the better for the brutality which she

  received at his hands. For it is my opinion, madam, that love is a

  bodily infirmity, from which humankind can no more escape than from

  small-pox; and which attacks every one of us, from the first duke in

  the Peerage down to Jack Ketch inclusive: which has no respect for

  rank, virtue, or roguery in man, but sets each in his turn in a

  fever; which breaks out the deuce knows how or why, and, raging its

  appointed time, fills each individual of the one sex with a blind

  fury and longing for some one of the other (who may be pure, gentle,

  blue-eyed, beautiful, and good; or vile, shrewish, squinting,

  hunchbacked, and hideous, according to circumstances and luck);

  which dies away, perhaps, in the natural course, if left to have its

  way, but which contradiction causes to rage more furiously than