CHAPTER XIII.
A MYSTERIOUS LETTER.--A DUEL.--THE DEPARTURE OF ONE OF THE FAMILY.
THE next morning I communicated to the Abbe my intention of proceedingto London. He received it with favour. "I myself," said he, "shall soonmeet you there: my office in your family has expired; and your mother,after so long an absence, will perhaps readily dispense with myspiritual advice to her. But time presses: since you depart so soon,give me an audience to-night in your apartment. Perhaps our conversationmay be of moment."
I agreed; the hour was fixed, and I left the Abbe to join my uncle andhis guests. While I was employing among them my time and genius withequal dignity and profit, one of the servants informed me that a man atthe gate wished to see me--and alone.
Somewhat surprised, I followed the servant out of the room into thegreat hall, and desired him to bid the stranger attend me there. In afew minutes, a small, dark man, dressed between gentility and meanness,made his appearance. He greeted me with great respect, and presenteda letter, which, he said, he was charged to deliver into my own hands,"with," he added in a low tone, "a special desire that none should, tillI had carefully read it, be made acquainted with its contents." I wasnot a little startled by this request; and, withdrawing to one of thewindows, broke the seal. A letter, enclosed in the envelope, in theAbbe's own handwriting, was the first thing that met my eyes. At thatinstant the Abbe himself rushed into the hall. He cast one hasty lookat the messenger, whose countenance evinced something of surprise andconsternation at beholding him; and, hastening up to me, grasped my handvehemently, and, while his eye dwelt upon the letter I held, cried,"Do not read it--not a word--not a word: there is poison in it!" And sosaying, he snatched desperately at the letter. I detained it from himwith one hand, and pushing him aside with the other, said,--
"Pardon me, Father, directly I have read it you shall have thatpleasure,--not till then!" and, as I said this, my eye falling upon theletter discovered my own name written in two places. My suspicions werearoused. I raised my eyes to the spot where the messenger had stood,with the view of addressing some question to him respecting hisemployer, when, to my surprise, I perceived he was already gone; I hadno time, however, to follow him.
"Boy," said the Abbe, gasping for breath, and still seizing me with hislean, bony hand,--"boy, give me that letter instantly; I charge you notto disobey me."
"You forget yourself, Sir," said I, endeavouring to shake him off, "youforget yourself: there is no longer between us the distinction of pupiland teacher; and if you have not yet learned the respect due to mystation, suffer me to tell you that it is time you should."
"Give me that letter, I beseech you," said Montreuil, changing his voicefrom anger to supplication; "I ask your pardon for my violence: theletter does not concern you but me; there is a secret in those lineswhich you see are in my handwriting that implicates my personal safety.Give it me, my dear, dear son: your own honour, if not your affectionfor me, demands that you should."
I was staggered. His violence had confirmed my suspicions, but hisgentleness weakened them. "Besides," thought I, "the handwriting _ishis_; and even if my life depended upon reading the letter of another, Ido not think my honour would suffer me to do so against his consent." Athought struck me,--
"Will you swear," said I, "that this letter does not concern me?"
"Solemnly," answered the Abbe, raising his eyes.
"Will you swear that I am not even mentioned in it?"
"Upon peril of my soul, I will."
"Liar! traitor! perjured blasphemer!" cried I, in an inexpressible rage,"look here, and here!" and I pointed out to the priest various linesin which my name legibly and frequently occurred. A change came overMontreuil's face: he released my arm and staggered back against thewainscot; but recovering his composure instantaneously, he said, "Iforgot, my son--I forgot--your name is mentioned, it is true, but withhonourable eulogy, that is all."
"Bravo, honest Father!" cried I, losing my fury in admiring surprise athis address,--"bravo! However, if that be all, you can have no objectionto allow me to read the lines in which my name occurs; your benevolencecannot refuse me such a gratification as the sight of your writtenpanegyric!"
"Count Devereux," said the Abbe, sternly, while his dark face workedwith suppressed passion, "this is trifling with me, and I warn you notto push my patience too far. I _will_ have that letter, or--" he ceasedabruptly, and touched the hilt of his sword.
"Dare you threaten me?" I said, and the natural fierceness of my owndisposition, deepened by vague and strong suspicions of some treacherydesigned against me, spoke in the tones of my voice.
"Dare I?" repeated Montreuil, sinking and sharpening his voice intoa sort of inward screech. "Dare I!--ay, were your whole tribe arrayedagainst me. Give me the letter, or you will find me now and forever yourmost deadly foe; deadly--ay--deadly, deadly!" and he shook his clenchedhand at me, with an expression of countenance so malignant and menacingthat I drew back involuntarily, and laid my hand on my sword.
The action seemed to give Montreuil a signal for which he had hithertowaited. "Draw then," he said through his teeth, and unsheathed hisrapier.
Though surprised at his determination, I was not backward in meetingit. Thrusting the letter in my bosom, I drew my sword in time to parry arapid and fierce thrust. I had expected easily to master Montreuil,for I had some skill at my weapon: I was deceived; I found him far moreadroit than myself in the art of offence; and perhaps it would havefared ill for the hero of this narrative had Montreuil deemed it wise todirect against my life all the science he possessed. But the moment ourswords crossed, the constitutional coolness of the man, which rage orfear had for a brief time banished, returned at once, and he probablysaw that it would be as dangerous to him to take away the life ofhis pupil as to forfeit the paper for which he fought. He, therefore,appeared to bend all his efforts towards disarming me. Whether or not hewould have effected this it is hard to say, for my blood was up, and anyneglect of my antagonist, in attaining an object very dangerous, whenengaged with a skilful and quick swordsman, might have sent him tothe place from which the prayers of his brethren have (we are boundto believe) released so many thousands of souls. But, meanwhile, theservants, who at first thought the clashing of swords was the wantonsport of some young gallants as yet new to the honour of wearing them,grew alarmed by the continuance of the sound, and flocked hurriedlyto the place of contest. At their intrusion we mutually drew back.Recovering my presence of mind (it was a possession I very easily lostat that time), I saw the unseemliness of fighting with my preceptor, anda priest. I therefore burst, though awkwardly enough, into a laugh, and,affecting to treat the affair as a friendly trial of skill between theAbbe and myself, resheathed my sword and dismissed the intruders, who,evidently disbelieving my version of the story, retreated slowly, andexchanging looks. Montreuil, who had scarcely seconded my attempt togloss over our _rencontre_, now approached me.
"Count," he said, with a collected and cool voice, "suffer me to requestyou to exchange three words with me in a spot less liable than this tointerruption."
"Follow me then!" said I; and I led the way to a part of the groundswhich lay remote and sequestered from intrusion. I then turned round,and perceived that the Abbe had left his sword behind. "How is this?" Isaid, pointing to his unarmed side, "have you not come hither to renewour engagement?"
"No!" answered Montreuil, "I repent me of my sudden haste, and I haveresolved to deny myself all further possibility of unseemly warfare.That letter, young man, I still demand from you; I demanded it fromyour own sense of honour and of right: it was written by me; it wasnot intended for your eye; it contains secrets implicating the lives ofothers besides myself; now, read it if you will."
"You are right, Sir," said I, after a short pause; "there is the letter;never shall it be said of Morton Devereux that he hazarded his honour tosecure his safety. But the tie between us is broken now and forever!"
So saying, I flung down the debated epistle, and st
rode away. Ire-entered the great hall. I saw by one of the windows a sheet of paper;I picked it up, and perceived that it was the envelope in which theletter had been enclosed. It contained only these lines, addressed me inFrench:--
A friend of the late Marshal Devereux encloses to his son a letter, thecontents of which it is essential for His safety that he should know.
C. D. B.
"Umph!" said I, "a very satisfactory intimation, considering that theson of the late Marshal Devereux is so very well assured that he shallnot know one line of the contents of the said letter. But let me seeafter this messenger!" and I immediately hastened to institute inquiryrespecting him. I found that he was already gone; on leaving the hall hehad remounted his horse and taken his departure. One servant, however,had seen him, as he passed the front court, address a few words tomy valet, Desmarais, who happened to be loitering there. I summonedDesmarais and questioned him.
"The dirty fellow," said the Frenchman, pointing to his spatteredstockings with a lachrymose air, "splashed me, by a prance of hishorse, from head to foot, and while I was screaming for very anguish, hestopped and said, 'Tell the Count Devereux that I was unable to tarry,but that the letter requires no answer.'"
I consoled Desmarais for his misfortune, and hastened to my uncle with adetermination to reveal to him all that had occurred. Sir William was inhis dressing-room, and his gentleman was very busy in adorning hiswig. I entreated him to dismiss the _coiffeur_, and then, without muchpreliminary detail, acquainted him with all that had passed between theAbbe and myself.
The knight seemed startled when I came to the story of the sword. "'Gad,Sir Count, what have you been doing?" said he; "know you not that thismay be a very ticklish matter? The King of France is a very great man,to be sure,--a very great man,--and a very fine gentleman; but you willplease to remember that we are at war with his Majesty, and I cannotguess how far the accepting such presents may be held treasonable."
And Sir William shook his head with a mournful significance. "Ah," criedhe, at last (when I had concluded my whole story), with a complacentlook, "I have not lived at court, and studied human nature, for nothing:and I will wager my best full-bottom to a night-cap that the crafty oldfox is as much a Jacobite as he is a rogue! The letter would have provedit, Sir; it would have proved it!"
"But what shall be done now?" said I; "will you suffer him to remain anylonger in the house?"
"Why," replied the knight, suddenly recollecting his reverence to thefair sex, "he is your mother's guest, not mine; we must refer the matterto her. But zauns, Sir, with all deference to her ladyship, we cannotsuffer our house to be a conspiracy-hatch as well as a popish chapel;and to attempt your life too--the devil! Ods fish, boy, I will go tothe countess myself, if you will just let Nicholls finish my wig,--neverattend the ladies _en deshabille_,--always, with them, take care ofyour person most, when you most want to display your mind;" and myuncle ringing a little silver bell on his dressing-table, the soundimmediately brought Nicholls to his toilet.
Trusting the cause to the zeal of my uncle, whose hatred to theecclesiastic would, I knew, be an efficacious adjunct to his diplomaticaddress, and not unwilling to avoid being myself the person to acquaintmy mother with the suspected delinquency of her favourite, I hastenedfrom the knight's apartment in search of Aubrey. He was not in thehouse. His attendants (for my uncle, with old-fashioned grandeur ofrespect, suitable to his great wealth and aristocratic temper, allottedto each of us a separate suite of servants as well as of apartments)believed he was in the park. Thither I repaired, and found him, atlength, seated by an old tree, with a large book of a religious castbefore him, on which his eyes were intently bent.
"I rejoice to have found thee, my gentle brother," said I, throwingmyself on the green turf by his side; "in truth you have chosen afitting and fair place for study."
"I have chosen," said Aubrey, "a place meet for the peculiar study I amengrossed in; for where can we better read of the power and benevolenceof God than among the living testimonies of both? Beautiful--how verybeautiful!--is this happy world; but I fear," added Aubrey, and the glowof his countenance died away,--"I fear that we enjoy it too much."
"We hold different interpretations of our creed then," said I, "for Iesteem enjoyment the best proof of gratitude; nor do I think we can paya more acceptable duty to the Father of all Goodness than by showingourselves sensible of the favours He bestows upon us."
Aubrey shook his head gently, but replied not.
"Yes," resumed I, after a pause,--"yes, it is indeed a glorious and fairworld which we have for our inheritance. Look how the sunlight sleepsyonder upon fields covered with golden corn; and seems, like the divinebenevolence of which you spoke, to smile upon the luxuriance whichits power created. This carpet at our feet, covered with flowers thatbreathe, sweet as good deeds, to Heaven; the stream that breaks throughthat distant copse, laughing in the light of noon, and sending its voicethrough the hill and woodland, like a messenger of glad tidings;the green boughs over our head, vocal with a thousand songs, allinspirations of a joy too exquisite for silence; the very leaves, whichseem to dance and quiver with delight,--think you, Aubrey, that theseare so sullen as not to return thanks for the happiness they imbibe withbeing: what are those thanks but the incense of their joy? The flowerssend it up to heaven in fragrance; the air and the wave, in music. Shallthe heart of man be the only part of His creation that shall dishonourHis worship with lamentation and gloom? When the inspired writers callupon us to praise our Creator, do they not say to us,--'Be _joyful_ inyour God?'"
"How can we be joyful with the Judgment-Day ever before us?" saidAubrey; "how can we be joyful" (and here a dark shade crossed hiscountenance, and his lip trembled with emotion) "while the deadlypassions of this world plead and rankle at the heart? Oh, none but theywho have known the full blessedness of a commune with Heaven can dreamof the whole anguish and agony of the conscience, when it feels itselfsullied by the mire and crushed by the load of earth!" Aubrey paused,and his words, his tone, his look, made upon me a powerful impression. Iwas about to answer, when, interrupting me, he said, "Let us talk not ofthese matters; speak to me on more worldly topics."
"I sought you," said I; "that I might do so," and I proceeded to detailto Aubrey as much of my private intercourse with the Abbe as I deemednecessary in order to warn him from too close a confidence in the wilyecclesiastic. Aubrey listened to me with earnest attention: the affairof the letter; the gross falsehood of the priest in denying the mentionof my name, in his epistle, evidently dismayed him. "But," said he,after a long silence,--"but it is not for us, Morton,--weak, ignorant,inexperienced as we are,--to judge prematurely of our spiritual pastors.To them also is given a far greater license of conduct than to us, andways enveloped in what to our eyes are mystery and shade; nay, I knownot whether it be much less impious to question the paths of God'schosen than to scrutinize those of the Deity Himself."
"Aubrey, Aubrey, this is childish!" said I, somewhat moved to anger."Mystery is always the trick of imposture: God's chosen should bedistinguished from their flock only by superior virtue, and not by asuperior privilege in deceit."
"But," said Aubrey, pointing to a passage in the book before him, "seewhat a preacher of the word has said!" and Aubrey recited one of themost dangerous maxims in priestcraft, as reverently as if he werequoting from the Scripture itself. "'The nakedness of truth should neverbe too openly exposed to the eyes of the vulgar. It was wisely feignedby the ancients that Truth did lie concealed in a well!'"
"Yes," said I, with enthusiasm, "but that well is like the holy streamat Dodona, which has the gift of enlightening those who seek it, and thepower of illumining every torch which touches the surface of its water!"
Whatever answer Aubrey might have made was interrupted by my uncle, whoappeared approaching towards us with unusual satisfaction depicted onhis comely countenance.
"Well, boys, well," said he, when he came within hearing, "a holyday foryou! Ods fish,--and a holier day
than my old house has known since itsformer proprietor, Sir Hugo, of valorous memory, demolished the nunnery,of which some remains yet stand on yonder eminence. Morton, my manof might, the thing is done; the court is purified; the wicked one isdeparted. Look here, and be as happy as I am at our release;" and hethrew me a note in Montreuil's writing:--
TO SIR WILLIAM DEVEREUX, KT.
MY HONOURED FRIEND,--In consequence of a dispute between your eldestnephew, Count Morton Devereux, and myself, in which he desired me toremember, not only that our former relationship of tutor and pupil wasat an end, but that friendship for his person was incompatible with therespect due to his superior station, I can neither so far degrade thedignity of letters, nor, above all, so meanly debase the sanctity ofmy divine profession, as any longer to remain beneath your hospitableroof,--a guest not only unwelcome to, but insulted by, your relation andapparent heir. Suffer me to offer you my gratitude for the favours youhave hitherto bestowed on me, and to bid you farewell forever.
I have the honour to be, With the most profound respect, etc., JULIAN MONTREUIL.
"Well, sir, what say you?" cried my uncle, stamping his cane firmly onthe ground, when I had finished reading the letter, and had transmittedit to Aubrey.
"That the good Abbe has displayed his usual skill in composition. And mymother? Is she imbued with our opinion of his priestship?"
"Not exactly, I fear. However, Heaven bless her, she is too soft tosay 'nay.' But those Jesuits are so smooth-tongued to women. 'Gad, theythreaten damnation with such an irresistible air, that they are as muchlike William the Conqueror as Edward the Confessor. Ha! master Aubrey,have you become amorous of the old Jacobite, that you sigh over hiscrabbed writing, as if it were a _billet-doux_?"
"There seems a great deal of feeling in what he says, Sir," said Aubrey,returning the letter to my uncle.
"Feeling!" cried the knight; "ay, the reverend gentry always have amarvellously tender feeling for their own interest,--eh, Morton?"
"Right, dear sir," said I, wishing to change a subject which I knewmight hurt Aubrey; "but should we not join yon party of dames anddamsels? I see they are about to make a water excursion."
"'Sdeath, sir, with all my heart," cried the good-natured knight; "Ilove to see the dear creatures amuse themselves; for, to tell you thetruth, Morton," said he, sinking his voice into a knowing whisper, "thebest thing to keep them from playing the devil is to encourage them inplaying the fool!" and, laughing heartily at the jest he had purloinedfrom one of his favourite writers, Sir William led the way to thewater-party.