THE next morning I communicated to the Abbe my intention of proceeding to London. He received it with favour. “I myself,” said he, “shall soon meet you there: my office in your family has expired; and your mother, after so long an absence, will perhaps readily dispense with my spiritual advice to her. But time presses: since you depart so soon, give me an audience to-night in your apartment. Perhaps our conversation may be of moment.”
I agreed; the hour was fixed, and I left the Abbe to join my uncle and his guests. While I was employing among them my time and genius with equal dignity and profit, one of the servants informed me that a man at the gate wished to see me—and alone.
Somewhat surprised, I followed the servant out of the room into the great hall, and desired him to bid the stranger attend me there. In a few minutes, a small, dark man, dressed between gentility and meanness, made his appearance. He greeted me with great respect, and presented a 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, till I had carefully read it, be made acquainted with its contents.” I was not a little startled by this request; and, withdrawing to one of the windows, broke the seal. A letter, enclosed in the envelope, in the Abbe’s own handwriting, was the first thing that met my eyes. At that instant the Abbe himself rushed into the hall. He cast one hasty look at the messenger, whose countenance evinced something of surprise and consternation at beholding him; and, hastening up to me, grasped my hand vehemently, 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 so saying, he snatched desperately at the letter. I detained it from him with one hand, and pushing him aside with the other, said,—
“Pardon me, Father, directly I have read it you shall have that pleasure,—not till then!” and, as I said this, my eye falling upon the letter discovered my own name written in two places. My suspicions were aroused. I raised my eyes to the spot where the messenger had stood, with the view of addressing some question to him respecting his employer, when, to my surprise, I perceived he was already gone; I had no time, however, to follow him.
“Boy,” said the Abbe, gasping for breath, and still seizing me with his lean, bony hand,—“boy, give me that letter instantly; I charge you not to disobey me.”
“You forget yourself, Sir,” said I, endeavouring to shake him off, “you forget yourself: there is no longer between us the distinction of pupil and teacher; and if you have not yet learned the respect due to my station, suffer me to tell you that it is time you should.”
“Give me that letter, I beseech you,” said Montreuil, changing his voice from anger to supplication; “I ask your pardon for my violence: the letter does not concern you but me; there is a secret in those lines which you see are in my handwriting that implicates my personal safety. Give it me, my dear, dear son: your own honour, if not your affection for me, demands that you should.”
I was staggered. His violence had confirmed my suspicions, but his gentleness weakened them. “Besides,” thought I, “the handwriting is his; and even if my life depended upon reading the letter of another, I do not think my honour would suffer me to do so against his consent.” A thought 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 lines in which my name legibly and frequently occurred. A change came over Montreuil’s face: he released my arm and staggered back against the wainscot; but recovering his composure instantaneously, he said, “I forgot, my son—I forgot—your name is mentioned, it is true, but with honourable eulogy, that is all.”
“Bravo, honest Father!” cried I, losing my fury in admiring surprise at his address,—“bravo! However, if that be all, you can have no objection to allow me to read the lines in which my name occurs; your benevolence cannot refuse me such a gratification as the sight of your written panegyric!”
“Count Devereux,” said the Abbe, sternly, while his dark face worked with suppressed passion, “this is trifling with me, and I warn you not to push my patience too far. I will have that letter, or—” he ceased abruptly, and touched the hilt of his sword.
“Dare you threaten me?” I said, and the natural fierceness of my own disposition, deepened by vague and strong suspicions of some treachery designed against me, spoke in the tones of my voice.
“Dare I?” repeated Montreuil, sinking and sharpening his voice into a sort of inward screech. “Dare I!—ay, were your whole tribe arrayed against me. Give me the letter, or you will find me now and forever your most deadly foe; deadly—ay—deadly, deadly!” and he shook his clenched hand at me, with an expression of countenance so malignant and menacing that I drew back involuntarily, and laid my hand on my sword.
The action seemed to give Montreuil a signal for which he had hitherto waited. “Draw then,” he said through his teeth, and unsheathed his rapier.
Though surprised at his determination, I was not backward in meeting it. Thrusting the letter in my bosom, I drew my sword in time to parry a rapid 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 more adroit than myself in the art of offence; and perhaps it would have fared ill for the hero of this narrative had Montreuil deemed it wise to direct against my life all the science he possessed. But the moment our swords crossed, the constitutional coolness of the man, which rage or fear had for a brief time banished, returned at once, and he probably saw that it would be as dangerous to him to take away the life of his pupil as to forfeit the paper for which he fought. He, therefore, appeared to bend all his efforts towards disarming me. Whether or not he would have effected this it is hard to say, for my blood was up, and any neglect of my antagonist, in attaining an object very dangerous, when engaged with a skilful and quick swordsman, might have sent him to the place from which the prayers of his brethren have (we are bound to believe) released so many thousands of souls. But, meanwhile, the servants, who at first thought the clashing of swords was the wanton sport of some young gallants as yet new to the honour of wearing them, grew alarmed by the continuance of the sound, and flocked hurriedly to the place of contest. At their intrusion we mutually drew back. Recovering my presence of mind (it was a possession I very easily lost at that time), I saw the unseemliness of fighting with my preceptor, and a priest. I therefore burst, though awkwardly enough, into a laugh, and, affecting to treat the affair as a friendly trial of skill between the Abbe and myself, resheathed my sword and dismissed the intruders, who, evidently disbelieving my version of the story, retreated slowly, and exchanging looks. Montreuil, who had scarcely seconded my attempt to gloss over our rencontre, now approached me.
“Count,” he said, with a collected and cool voice, “suffer me to request you to exchange three words with me in a spot less liable than this to interruption.”
“Follow me then!” said I; and I led the way to a part of the grounds which lay remote and sequestered from intrusion. I then turned round, and perceived that the Abbe had left his sword behind. “How is this?” I said, pointing to his unarmed side, “have you not come hither to renew our engagement?”
“No!” answered Montreuil, “I repent me of my sudden haste, and I have resolved to deny myself all further possibility of unseemly warfare. That letter, young man, I still demand from you; I demanded it from your own sense of honour and of right: it was written by me; it was not intended for your eye; it contains secrets implicating the lives of others 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 to secure his safety. But the tie between us is broken now and forever!”
So saying, I flung down the debated epistle, and strode away. I re-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 the letter had been enclosed. It contained only these lines, addressed me in French:—
A friend of the late Marshal Devereux encloses to his son a letter, the contents of which it is essential for His safety that he should know.
C. D. B.
“Umph!” said I, “a very satisfactory intimation, considering that the son of the late Marshal Devereux is so very well assured that he shall not know one line of the contents of the said letter. But let me see after this messenger!” and I immediately hastened to institute inquiry respecting him. I found that he was already gone; on leaving the hall he had remounted his horse and taken his departure. One servant, however, had seen him, as he passed the front court, address a few words to my valet, Desmarais, who happened to be loitering there. I summoned Desmarais and questioned him.
“The dirty fellow,” said the Frenchman, pointing to his spattered stockings with a lachrymose air, “splashed me, by a prance of his horse, from head to foot, and while I was screaming for very anguish, he stopped 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 a determination to reveal to him all that had occurred. Sir William was in his dressing-room, and his gentleman was very busy in adorning his wig. I entreated him to dismiss the coiffeur, and then, without much preliminary detail, acquainted him with all that had passed between the Abbe 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 this may 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 will please to remember that we are at war with his Majesty, and I cannot guess how far the accepting such presents may be held treasonable.”
And Sir William shook his head with a mournful significance. “Ah,” cried he, at last (when I had concluded my whole story), with a complacent look, “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 old fox is as much a Jacobite as he is a rogue! The letter would have proved it, Sir; it would have proved it!”
“But what shall be done now?” said I; “will you suffer him to remain any longer in the house?”
“Why,” replied the knight, suddenly recollecting his reverence to the fair sex, “he is your mother’s guest, not mine; we must refer the matter to her. But zauns, Sir, with all deference to her ladyship, we cannot suffer 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 to the countess myself, if you will just let Nicholls finish my wig,—never attend the ladies en deshabille,—always, with them, take care of your person most, when you most want to display your mind;” and my uncle ringing a little silver bell on his dressing-table, the sound immediately brought Nicholls to his toilet.
Trusting the cause to the zeal of my uncle, whose hatred to the ecclesiastic would, I knew, be an efficacious adjunct to his diplomatic address, and not unwilling to avoid being myself the person to acquaint my mother with the suspected delinquency of her favourite, I hastened from the knight’s apartment in search of Aubrey. He was not in the house. His attendants (for my uncle, with old-fashioned grandeur of respect, suitable to his great wealth and aristocratic temper, allotted to 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, at length, seated by an old tree, with a large book of a religious cast before him, on which his eyes were intently bent.
“I rejoice to have found thee, my gentle brother,” said I, throwing myself on the green turf by his side; “in truth you have chosen a fitting and fair place for study.”
“I have chosen,” said Aubrey, “a place meet for the peculiar study I am engrossed in; for where can we better read of the power and benevolence of God than among the living testimonies of both? Beautiful—how very beautiful!—is this happy world; but I fear,” added Aubrey, and the glow of his countenance died away,—“I fear that we enjoy it too much.”
“We hold different interpretations of our creed then,” said I, “for I esteem enjoyment the best proof of gratitude; nor do I think we can pay a more acceptable duty to the Father of all Goodness than by showing ourselves 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 fair world which we have for our inheritance. Look how the sunlight sleeps yonder upon fields covered with golden corn; and seems, like the divine benevolence of which you spoke, to smile upon the luxuriance which its power created. This carpet at our feet, covered with flowers that breathe, sweet as good deeds, to Heaven; the stream that breaks through that distant copse, laughing in the light of noon, and sending its voice through the hill and woodland, like a messenger of glad tidings; the green boughs over our head, vocal with a thousand songs, all inspirations of a joy too exquisite for silence; the very leaves, which seem to dance and quiver with delight,—think you, Aubrey, that these are so sullen as not to return thanks for the happiness they imbibe with being: what are those thanks but the incense of their joy? The flowers send it up to heaven in fragrance; the air and the wave, in music. Shall the heart of man be the only part of His creation that shall dishonour His worship with lamentation and gloom? When the inspired writers call upon us to praise our Creator, do they not say to us,—‘Be joyful in your God?’”
“How can we be joyful with the Judgment-Day ever before us?” said Aubrey; “how can we be joyful” (and here a dark shade crossed his countenance, and his lip trembled with emotion) “while the deadly passions of this world plead and rankle at the heart? Oh, none but they who have known the full blessedness of a commune with Heaven can dream of the whole anguish and agony of the conscience, when it feels itself sullied 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. I was about to answer, when, interrupting me, he said, “Let us talk not of these matters; speak to me on more worldly topics.”
“I sought you,” said I; “that I might do so,” and I proceeded to detail to Aubrey as much of my private intercourse with the Abbe as I deemed necessary in order to warn him from too close a confidence in the wily ecclesiastic. Aubrey listened to me with earnest attention: the affair of the letter; the gross falsehood of the priest in denying the mention of 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, and ways enveloped in what to our eyes are mystery and shade; nay, I know not whether it be much less impious to question the paths of God’s chosen 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 be distinguished from their flock only by superior virtue, and not by a superior privilege in deceit.”
“But,” said Aubrey, pointing to a passage in the book before him, “see what a preacher of the word has said!” and Aubrey recited one of the most dangerous maxims in priestcraft, as reverently as if he were quoting from the Scripture itself. “‘The nakedness of truth should never be too openly exposed to the eyes of the vulgar. It was wisely feigned by the ancients that Truth did lie concealed in a well!’”
“Yes,” said I, with enthusiasm, “but that well is like the holy stream at Dodona, which has the gift of enlightening those who seek it, and the power of illumining every torch which touches the surface of its water!”
Whatever answer Aubrey might have made was interrupted by my uncle, who appeared approaching towards us with unusual satisfaction depicted on his comely countenance.
“Well, boys, well,” said he, when he came within hearing, “a holyday for you! Ods fish,—and a holier day than my old house has known since its former proprietor, Sir Hugo, of valorous memory, demolished the nunnery, of which some remains yet stand on yonder eminence. Morton, my man of might, the thing is done; the court is purified; the wicked one is departed. Look here, and be as happy as I am at our release;” and he threw me a note in Montreuil’s writing:—
TO SIR WILLIAM DEVEREUX, KT.
MY HONOURED FRIEND,—In consequence of a dispute between your eldest nephew, Count Morton Devereux, and myself, in which he desired me to remember, not only that our former relationship of tutor and pupil was at an end, but that friendship for his person was incompatible with the respect due to his superior station, I can neither so far degrade the dignity of letters, nor, above all, so meanly debase the sanctity of my divine profession, as any longer to remain beneath your hospitable roof,—a guest not only unwelcome to, but insulted by, your relation and apparent heir. Suffer me to offer you my gratitude for the favours you have 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 on the ground, when I had finished reading the letter, and had transmitted it to Aubrey.
“That the good Abbe has displayed his usual skill in composition. And my mother? Is she imbued with our opinion of his priestship?”
“Not exactly, I fear. However, Heaven bless her, she is too soft to say ‘nay.’ But those Jesuits are so smooth-tongued to women. ‘Gad, they threaten damnation with such an irresistible air, that they are as much like William the Conqueror as Edward the Confessor. Ha! master Aubrey, have you become amorous of the old Jacobite, that you sigh over his crabbed 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 a marvellously tender feeling for their own interest,—eh, Morton?”
“Right, dear sir,” said I, wishing to change a subject which I knew might hurt Aubrey; “but should we not join yon party of dames and damsels? I see they are about to make a water excursion.”
“‘Sdeath, sir, with all my heart,” cried the good-natured knight; “I love to see the dear creatures amuse themselves; for, to tell you the truth, Morton,” said he, sinking his voice into a knowing whisper, “the best thing to keep them from playing the devil is to encourage them in playing the fool!” and, laughing heartily at the jest he had purloined from one of his favourite writers, Sir William led the way to the water-party.
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