Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон - The Caxtons - A Family Picture — Complete

“It is never the same two hours together in this country,” said my Uncle Roland, as, after dinner, or rather after dessert, we joined my mother in the drawing-room.

Indeed, a cold, drizzling rain had come on within the last two hours, and though it was July, it was as chilly as if it had been October. My mother whispered to me, and I went out; in ten minutes more, the logs (for we live in a wooded country) blazed merrily in the grate. Why could not my mother have rung the bell and ordered the servant to light a fire? My dear reader, Captain Roland was poor, and he made a capital virtue of economy!

The two brothers drew their chairs near to the hearth, my father at the left, my uncle at the right; and I and my mother sat down to “Fox and Geese.”

Coffee came in,—one cup for the Captain, for the rest of the party avoided that exciting beverage. And on that cup was a picture of—His Grace the Duke of Wellington!

During our visit to the Roman camp my mother had borrowed Mr. Squills’s chaise and driven over to our market-town, for the express purpose of greeting the Captain’s eyes with the face of his old chief.

My uncle changed color, rose, lifted my mother’s hand to his lips, and sat himself down again in silence.

“I have heard,” said the Captain after a pause, “that the Marquis of Hastings, who is every inch a soldier and a gentleman,—and that is saying not a little, for he measures seventy-five inches from the crown to the sole,—when he received Louis XVIII. (then an exile) at Donnington, fitted up his apartments exactly like those his Majesty had occupied at the Tuileries. It was a kingly attention (my Lord Hastings, you know, is sprung from the Plantagenets),—a kingly attention to a king. It cost some money and made some noise. A woman can show the same royal delicacy of heart in this bit of porcelain, and so quietly that we men all think it a matter of course, brother Austin.”

“You are such a worshipper of women, Roland, that it is melancholy to see you single. You must marry again!”

My uncle first smiled, then frowned, and lastly sighed somewhat heavily.

“Your time will pass slowly in your old tower, poor brother,” continued my father, “with only your little girl for a companion.”

“And the past!” said my uncle; “the past, that mighty world—”

“Do you still read your old books of chivalry,—Froissart and the Chronicles, Palmerin of England, and Amadis of Gaul?”

“Why,” said my uncle, reddening, “I have tried to improve myself with studies a little more substantial. And,” he added with a sly smile, “there will be your great book for many a long winter to come.”

“Um!” said my father, bashfully.

“Do you know,” quoth my uncle, “that Dame Primmins is a very intelligent woman,—full of fancy, and a capital story-teller?”

“Is not she, uncle?” cried I, leaving my fox in the corner. “Oh, if you could hear her tell the tale of King Arthur and the Enchanted Lake, or the Grim White Woman!”

“I have already heard her tell both,” said my uncle.

“The deuce you have, brother! My dear, we must look to this. These captains are dangerous gentlemen in an orderly household. Pray, where could you have had the opportunity of such private communications with Mrs. Primmins?”

“Once,” said my uncle, readily, “when I went into her room, while she mended my stock; and once—” He stopped short, and looked down.

“Once when? Out with it.”

“When she was warming my bed,” said my uncle, in a half-whisper.

“Dear!” said my mother, innocently, “that’s how the sheets came by that bad hole in the middle. I thought it was the warming-pan.”

“I am quite shocked!” faltered my uncle.

“You well may be,” said my father. “A woman who has been heretofore above all suspicion! But come,” he said, seeing that my uncle looked sad, and was no doubt casting up the probable price of twice six yards of holland, “but come, you were always a famous rhapsodist or tale-teller yourself. Come, Roland, let us have some story of your own,—something which your experience has left strong in your impressions.”

“Let us first have the candles,” said my mother.

The candles were brought, the curtains let down; we all drew our chairs to the hearth. But in the interval my uncle had sunk into a gloomy revery; and when we called upon him to begin, he seemed to shake off with effort some recollections of pain.

“You ask me,” he said, “to tell you some tale which my own experience has left deeply marked in my impressions,—I will tell you one, apart from my own life, but which has often haunted me. It is sad and strange, ma’am.”

“Ma’am, brother?” said my mother, reproachfully, letting her small hand drop upon that which, large and sunburnt, the Captain waved towards her as he spoke.

“Austin, you have married an angel!” said my uncle; and he was, I believe, the only brother-in-law who ever made so hazardous an assertion.

“It was in Spain—no matter where or how—that it was my fortune to take prisoner a French officer of the same rank that I then held,—a lieutenant; and there was so much similarity in our sentiments that we became intimate friends,—the most intimate friend I ever had, sister, out of this dear circle. He was a rough soldier, whom the world had not well treated; but he never railed at the world, and maintained that he had had his deserts. Honor was his idol, and the sense of honor paid him for the loss of all else.

“We were both at that time volunteers in a foreign service,—in that worst of service, civil war,—he on one side, I the other, both, perhaps, disappointed in the cause we had severally espoused. There was something similar, too, in our domestic relationships. He had a son—a boy—who was all in life to him, next to his country and his duty. I too had then such a son, though of fewer years.” (The Captain paused an instant; we exchanged glances, and a stifling sensation of pain and suspense was felt by all his listeners.) “We were accustomed, brother, to talk of these children, to picture their future, to compare our hopes and dreams. We hoped and dreamed alike. A short time sufficed to establish this confidence. My prisoner was sent to head-quarters, and soon afterwards exchanged.

“We met no more till last year. Being then at Paris, I inquired for my old friend, and learned that he was living at R—, a few miles from the capital. I went to visit him. I found his house empty and deserted. That very day he had been led to prison, charged with a terrible crime. I saw him in that prison, and from his own lips learned his story. His son had been brought up, as he fondly believed, in the habits and principles of honorable men, and having finished his education, came to reside with him at R—. The young man was accustomed to go frequently to Paris. A young Frenchman loves pleasure, sister; and pleasure is found at Paris. The father thought it natural, and stripped his age of some comforts to supply luxuries to the son’s youth.

“Shortly after the young man’s arrival, my friend perceived that he was robbed. Moneys kept in his bureau were abstracted, he knew not how, nor could guess by whom. It must be done in the night. He concealed himself and watched. He saw a stealthy figure glide in, he saw a false key applied to the lock; he started forward, seized the felon, and recognized his son. What should the father have done? I do not ask you, sister! I ask these men: son and father, I ask you.”

“Expelled him the house,” cried I.

“Done his duty, and reformed the unhappy wretch,” said my father. “Nemo repente turpissinus semper fait,—No man is wholly bad all at once.”