Stories of Waterloo;
and Other Tales.
by William Hamilton Maxwell
London: Henry Colburn & Richard Bentley
1829
Vol. 1.
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—Chapter 7—
Sarsfield.
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If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,
Where should he find it fairer than in Blanche?
If zealous love should go in quest of virtue,
Where should he find it purer than in Blanche?
If love ambitious sought a match of birth,
Whose veins bound richer blood than Lady Blanche?
Shakespeare.
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THERE is not a sweeter spot on earth than the village of M——. To view it to advantage, go to the little hill which rises near the river; and, seated beneath one of the splendid lime-trees which grow upon the mount, turn your eyes down the valley, and follow the many windings of the gentle stream. The large and venerable park of the ancient family of De Warre bounds the hamlet with its ivy-clustered walls; and the mansion, unaltered for ages, displays its shafted chimnies through the dark oak wood, which screens it from the village. Farther off, and in fine relief, the church appears; the old town in lone and isolated majesty, rearing its mouldering battlement above the sombre yews, which have been its companions for a century.
The hillock, from which this fair scene is best viewed, is a favourite haunt of mine. When the summer's day is closing, it is refreshing to visit this quiet spot—following the wooded banks of the sparkling rivulet. And yet this retreat is seldom sought by others: some wild story, of a long-forgotten murder, is prevalent in the neighbourhood: the peasant returning from his labour, hurries hastily on; the milk-maid ceases in her carol; and the schoolboy winds up his fishing-line, and passes quickly down the brook, although a sullen pool eddies around the base of the acclivity here, and offers a likely retreat for the larger fish to rest in.
But here I love to wander: here I love to see the evening sun descend behind the distant high grounds; and here my full heart can often find relief, undisturbed by the mockery of human sympathy, and spared from the insulting pity of a heartless world.
O God!—my boys!—and those took my youngest, and my last!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I spent the best portion of my life beneath the glowing skies of India. Ambition taught me to submit to all the inconveniences and dangers of a torrid clime. I grew opulent, and looked impatiently to the hour when my labours should be crowned with success, and I should return to my native land, with wealth, not only sufficient for my wants, but for my wishes. That time came. I returned to England safely: my name was but a lowly one, my family obscure. I would raise it up by a proud alliance; and I succeeded. My ambition was nearly satisfied. I had children. I had wealth. I was allied to a family old as the Conquest. I had become purchaser of their ancient place; and under a well-concerted plea, assumed the proud name and arms of my wife, who was a descendant of the house of De Warre.
My wife died suddenly; and with that event, a consequent course of misery opened, which has seldom been surpassed in the detail of private suffering:—mark how quickly my calamities succeeded each other. I had purchased a West India property; and it was necessary—absolutely necessary, that master's eye should be placed over it for a time.
As a companion, I took my eldest boy with me; and my voyage out was prosperous as my earlier career in life. I visited my estates, arranged their economy, and re-embarked for Europe. The wind was fair as I could wish; the sea which divided me from home was cleft rapidly:—distance decreased, and I retired, on the tenth evening of my voyage, to my cabin, to calculate the day on which I should be again in my native England.
Midnight came: the bell was struck, and the watch changed; the lamp burned dimly, and I listened to the light slumbers of my boy, who was sleeping in a berth beside me. I quietly sank to repose—deep unbroken repose. Suddenly I heard a fearful rushing noise. I was thrown violently from my cot; the lamp fell and was extinguished:—all was confused—indefinite—horrible! The water poured down the hatchway. I rushed madly on, and gained the deck; and in another moment the ship settled and sank! A squall had struck her when under a press of sail: she upset instantly; and every soul, except myself, went down with her!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Time brought its cure, and I partially succeeded in forgetting my lost child. My second, a girl, grew up with promises of mental endowments, well calculated to encourage brilliant hopes in the ardent breast of a parent. Nor was this precocious talent evanescent: her mind was developed with her years, and Nature had formed her in her fairest mould. One circumstance alone alloyed my happiness: there was a delicacy of constitution, perceptible from the cradle, which rendered every care requisite; but I hoped the best, and trusted that she would strengthen as she advanced to womanhood.
The unruffled sweetness of her temper, the innocency of her artless disposition, wound round my heart, and I adored—nay, worshipped Emily. Alas! how fugitive were the pleasing hopes I indulged in! Her looks underwent an alarming change, and my suspicions were fearfully awakened. I hurried to London for advice; and the appalling intelligence was conveyed to me that my girl's case was a consumptive one. I took her instantly to Lisbon. I spent three years in torturing suspense; but change of climate was unsuccessful—human aid was inefficient—the decree had gone forth, and at Nice the darling of my soul resigned her gentle spirit, and, calm as a dying infant, breathed her last sigh, invoking a blessing upon her father; and sinking on my agonised bosom, her eye, dim in death, was turned upon mine, to give me its last lingering look of earthly love.
I brought her corpse to England, and yonder marble, in the village church, stands over all that remains of the child whom I idolised.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Evening has closed a sultry day. The sun is sinking slowly, and the dew is rising in fleecy wreaths from the meadows beneath, eddies round the mount I stand upon. Was ever scene so quiet and so fair? It would afford a goodly subject of repose to the magic pencil of Lorraine. All is peaceful, heavenly rest. All, did I say? O God! not all. My breast, my tortured self-accusing breast, forbids me to share that calm which pervades all beside. My boy—my youngest—and my last!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I hear a sound distant and indistinct. The dust rises, where the thick hedges of holly interrupt my view of the road. The tread of horses' feet is audible, and now lances appear, and pennons float gaily on the evening breeze. It is cavalry on their march—how beautiful! how imposing! The horse hair dances on their caps—the rays of fading sunshine flash from bit and lance-blade. They issue from the thick fenced road, and sweep gracefully round the hillock where I stand.
Merciful Heaven! what bitter recollections are mine, when I view the horseman's foreign air and dark uniform! Edward, my lost one, such were thy companions:—thy laugh was once as light as their's, thy seat was once as firm. They shared thy hours of military idleness, and they rushed with thee to that fatal charge, that last fearful, desperate encounter, which closed the day of Leipsic, and dyed its fatal river in the best blood of France's proudest chivalry.
They have survived. But where art thou?—lying with the countless thousands who fell there, unnoticed and forgotten!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I am hurrying to the painful period of my history:—would I could for ever erase it from my memory! I was in a moment reft of my eldest son: it was the visitation of Providence, and I submitted. I saw the fairest child, which Heaven could gift a father with, fade gradually on my bosom, and hasten to that pure existence, which more than human innocence and beauty were best adapted for, and yet I did not sink beneath the blow. But—Edward—bitter recollection!—insane pride and heartless ambition robbed me of thee!
To connect my story, I must return to that time when I came back from Jamaica. While absent, a stranger arrived and settled in the village. He resided in a neat ornamented cottage, surrounded by a garden and shrubbery, and separated from the hamlet by a paddock and pleasure-ground. He called himself General Sarsfield; but minute particulars of what were his means or his objects in selecting the village for his residence, had not yet transpired to the most industrious gossips, as the stranger's cold and haughty bearing had hitherto cut short every effort at inquiry. His family comprised an only daughter, and a few male and female domestics.
I visited him. He was training flowers in his garden; a lovely girl of about fourteen years old beside him, and a middle-aged man, his servant, attending him with some necessary implements.
He received me haughtily, but like a gentleman, easy and unembarrassed. He conducted me to his house. The interior surprised me; the furniture was handsome, the rooms beautifully clean, while the more elegant articles of domestic use, the harp, the piano, and well filled bookcase, evidently bespoke the owner as belonging to the higher grade of society.
And yet he and I were never intimate. There was something in the lofty bearing of this singular man which claimed a tacit superiority over me. I felt it was so, and I disliked him. Other circumstances also excited those feelings deeply. He was avowedly an Irishman and a Romanist. I was prejudiced against the one—I was bigotted against the other; and my aversion towards General Sarsfield became uncontrolable and unbounded.
It was possible that time or a more intimate acquaintance with his character might have induced me to alter the feelings which unfavourable first impressions had given birth to; but an incident occurred which fatally confirmed our mutual enmity.
I was proud and tenacious of my manorial rights. A pheasant having wandered from my preserve, was inadvertently shot by the general's favourite servant in his shrubbery. I had the man summoned before the next magistrate. The village attorney, a vindictive, troublesome personage, incited my angry feelings. I pressed the charge on—he was convicted accordingly, and the fine recorded: the general paid the penalty on the spot: we separated, and from that time ceased to visit or to speak.
It was shortly after my quarrel with General Sarsfield that my daughter's indisposition commenced. I left the country immediately, first entrusting the education of my son to the clergyman of the parish, who had lately left a fellowship at Oxford for the living of which I had the presentation. His character and acquirements were such, as to relieve me in a great degree from an anxiety in leaving Edward behind; and I could now turn my undivided attention to my declining daughter. The village and all its lighter concerns were soon forgotten, and I ceased to remember that such a person as General Sarsfield was in existence.
It was evening when I struck off the great London road, which passes within two mines of M——. The spring was well advanced, the hedges in full leaf, and the birds singing merrily from the surrounding coppices. I had now entered on my own estate, and a proud feeling rose in my breast, while my eyes wandered widely round, and only rested on what was "mine own." But it was soon checked. I thought on Emily: she had been beside me when I last travelled this road, and the carriage now held but me, its solitary occupant. This chain of bitter thought was interrupted by the postilions coming to a sudden stop. The narrow road was undergoing some repairs, and a pony phaeton was passing the broken way, and obliged me to pull up and wait its egress. I looked at the travellers, and felt my cheek redden. It was my old acquaintance General Sarsfield. Time had made some changes in his appearance, but one look showed that the proud spirit of the man was unbroken. His figure was still erect and dignified, his eye retained its former fire, and his hair, silvered by age, was turned back, and hung down his shoulders in a military cue. A young female of exquisite beauty was beside him;—never had I seen a lovelier creature. He bowed coldly as he drove slowly by, but his daughter saluted me with glowing cheeks and evident emotion.
And did she feel for me? I looked upon my mourning dress and the sable liveries of my servants. My recent loss rushed back upon my memory—I hid my face in my handkerchief, nor removed it until the carriage stopped at the Hall.
I sat alone in the gloomy oak-panelled dining-room. The walls were crowded with heavy, ill-designed portraits of the De Warres. The armed knight and stately dame, the crosiered prelate and the ermined judge were there.—What were they to me? I would have given up all the heraldic glories from the Heptarchy for one radiant smile of a daughter like Sarsfield's; and I had such another:—had—but she was gone. What a strangely constituted mind was mine! That innocent, heavenly girl should have smoothed the asperity of my temper, and softened my animosity to her parent; but the reverse was the consequence. I felt that he possessed a blessing which had been refused to me:—I envied him his treasure, and I hated him anew.
On the morrow Edward arrived from Oxford with his tutor. He entered my dressing-room, and I held my sole surviving child to my heart. I had left him a boy; but a handsome, well-formed man now called me father. All my pride returned as I gazed on his fine, intelligent countenance, for there the spirit and the beauty of the De Warres were blended. Sorrow for my former loss abated; my mind was now directed to plans for Edward's aggrandizement; it became a leading principle, and engrossed my thoughts—my dreams; and once more I indulged in my darling vice—boundless, unrestricted ambition.
Not very distant from the Hall was the mansion of the Earl of Eustonby. His property joined mine. For many years the Earl had held a leading situation in the cabinet; but owing to causes not relevant to this story, he had failed in a diplomatic mission, fallen consequently into disgrace, and been obliged to retire from office. Like myself, he had been the founder of his own fortunes, and raised himself by political intrigue to the peerage. He had an only daughter, and it mutually occurred to us that we might ally our children, and unite the properties.
The lawyer, whom I cursorily mentioned before, was employed, and in a few weeks we had arranged preliminaries, and laid the foundation of a towering superstructure. With my wealth, and his peculiar talent for aggrandizement, what was it not possible to effect?
The union of our estates would leave my son the wealthiest individual in the county, and Lord Eustonby had been too long conversant with state intrigue to feel any difficulty in attaining the primary object of my ambition—the earldom in remainder to Edward and his heirs.
Our negotiation was so privately carried on that we had completed the arrangements without a suspicion being entertained of our designs. All was in train. I advanced £50,000 to Lord Eustonby to pay off the last installment of the purchase money of his acquired property, and he had taken preliminary steps in the important design of securing to my son the reversion of the title of Eustonby.
The material points of this important affair being now, as his lordship and I supposed, finally arranged, all that remained to be done was to introduce the parties to each other, and permit them to go through the ceremonial of a formal courtship. Edward, who had been graduating at Oxford, was accordingly sent for, and I carried him with me on a visit to Eustonby Castle.
The Earl's daughter was young, tolerably well-looking, showily accomplished, and fashionably brought up. She assented to her father's project, when it was mentioned, as a matter-of-course transaction of life, and seemed agreeably disappointed when, as her intended husband, a handsome, noble-looking youth was presented. The day passed heavily over. The dinner was grand, tedious, and dull. Wines and plate and servants were all arranged to produce effect. I watched Edward narrowly, to see how his mind was affected by this pomp; but his demeanour did not by any means satisfy me. Throughout the evening he was abstracted and reserved. The hour for retiring at length came, and I beckoned him to follow me to my chamber.
He came. I closed the door, and drew my chair near to his. I commenced with due deliberation an exposé of my plans, while I generally recommended an early marriage, as likely to conduce his happiness, and as being accordant to my own wishes. He heard me calmly and without interruption; but when I wound up my speech by acquainting him that his future wife was already selected, and all matters arranged for his being speedily united to Lady Caroline Singleton, he started as if from a reverie, and declared that such an event was utterly impossible! In vain I pressed him to state any reasonable objection; in vain I pointed out the proud prospects that this alliance would open up. I used every argument; I resorted to every artifice; I tried to play upon his filial affection; I attempted to strike the cord of his ambition. Peerage and wealth and power were placed before him. He was immoveable. My temper gradually gave way. I had never experienced aught from a child but implicit obedience. I became passionate—violent—delirious—ordered him from my presence, giving him one night's time for reflection, with the alternative, of obedience to my wishes, or ceasing to consider me a parent.
I passed a sleepless night. A few hours ago I imagined my wishes on the point of being realised; but suddenly a gigantic obstacle had arisen, and my darling scheme was threatened with total shipwreck ere it was well launched. Early next morning I sent to my son's chamber: it was unoccupied, and the servant presented me with a letter, which had been just brought by a peasant.
The letter was from Edward: it simply stated "that any further discussion on the subject of our recent conversation would be at once unpleasant and unnecessary; and therefore he had gone to the Hall, there to abide my determination."
I found, too late, that I had committed a great error in calculating on passive obedience from Edward. The tone of his letter was firm, respectful, and decisive. I had a bold and resolute spirit to subdue, or my ambition-built edifice would crumble to the earth.
I sent for Lord Eustonby. He was surprised—thunderstruck; but his habitual self-possession soon returned. "We must," he said, "be prudent and politic. Had he formed any attachment?" I could not tell; I never dreamed of such a thing occurring. Our consultation ended by my starting for the Hall, accompanied by the Earl.
But where was Edward? He had retired to his room half distracted; for that interview with me had dispelled the love-dream on which, for months, he had existed. Yes, he loved passionately—devotedly. He met General Sarsfield by accident; they became acquainted, and Edward visited at the cottage; and what young heart could be near Blanche Sarsfield, and unmoved? Nor was his love unblessed; she returned it faithfully.
They loved imprudently, for they loved in secret; but my return was anxiously expected, and that the poignancy of my domestic affliction would be abated; and then, Edward would ask me to sanction his addresses, and demand Blanche from her father. But this sudden blow! How could he break it to her—her, whose high honour had recoiled from listening to his vows, unhallowed by a father's approbation? How would that proud one feel, when told that he was already affianced to another, and if she dared to follow him to the altar, a parent's curse would mingle with the nuptial benison? He left the fatal house which threatened ruin to his peace, and before a domestic was awake had concealed himself in the general's shrubbery.
Nor was young Blanche a late sleeper that morning: she knew her lover had returned, and that he would not be dilatory in seeking her. Her heart beat, her cheek flushed, as she crossed the garden:—pride would have restrained her; but would she give pain to one so devoted to her as she believed Edward was; and when the time had almost come when concealment would be at an end?
Who could blame her? she was scarce seventeen. And oh! at that age, did ever pride contend with passion, that the latter gained not the mastery? She came: Edward was standing in the well-known arbour; his head rested on his hand, as if lost in bitter thought; he leaned against the broad beech which sheltered him: the light step had not been heard, when Blanche—his own loved Blanche, was beside him. A cry of delight burst from him, as he caught her in his arms—pressed her to his heart—called her by every endearing name, and covered her cheek and neck with kisses. Blanche started back, and gently withdrew from his embrace. He was much agitated: they had been separated, and probably his feelings overpowered him. She gazed on his face: there was wildness in his look; unwonted and excited ardour in his manner. He took her hand in his: the touch was hot and tremulous.
"Edward, you are disturbed—unhappy." He smiled sadly.
"I am agitated, dearest Blanche: you came unexpectedly, and your appearance flurried me for a moment."
"Yes, dear Edward, such must be the consequence of acting as you and I have done: we have suffered ourselves by degrees to be surprised into a forgetfulness of our duty; but, thank God, the hour is come, and I shall no longer reproach myself with duplicity. Nay, Edward, your cheek colours! think not I meant to pain you; think not, because I prize your honour and my own above any other feeling, that my affection for you is, or can be, abated. No: conscience has reproached me with want of candour to one who has so entirely confided in me; and I rejoice that I can now throw myself upon a father's bosom, confess my error, and hear him say that he forgives me."
There was a momentary silence.—"Blanche, a few hours have made me the most miserable wretch existing; and it rests with you, whether life shall be endurable much longer."
The blood deserted her pale cheek; her eye was fixed upon his speaking countenance. He continued in faltering accents, "You have told me I was dear to you. Wilt thou, Blanche, be mine,—mine only, and for ever?"
"Edward, why doubt me? I have confessed more than maiden ought. I have owned for you a woman's love. Do you want proof?"
"Yes."
"Be it so. Come with me to my father; I will kneel at his feet, and ask him, for my sake, to forget unkindness to your parent, and ——"
"Stop, stop, Blanche;—poor girl! little dost thou imagine what misery a few hours have wrought." She trembled violently. "I cannot proceed:—hast thou courage, my loved one?" A struggle was visible in Blanche's face; but it was momentary: she was a woman, but a proud one; her eyes were elevated; her lips compressed:—she paused to collect her resolution.
"Courage!" she said,—"yes; go on: I am the daughter of Sarsfield:—prove me."
"Blanche, I am wretched!—miserable beyond idea! I have heard the ruin of my hopes from him, on whose breath of my happiness depended. I am debarred from wedding thee—and—I am destined for another!"
A shriek burst from her lips; and the next moment she was insensible in his arms. He placed her on the rustic bench—called her by every dear name:—he prayed—he raved—he cried aloud for help:—some one approached rapidly, and General Sarsfield stood before him.
* * * * * * * *
Lord Eustonby and I were seated in deep consultation in the library. Simmonds, the village lawyer, had been with us. he had discovered the secret of my son's attachment; and the mystery of his aversion to our arrangements was now cleared up. I felt enraged and mortified. My plans were interrupted—probably overturned; and I owed my defeat to my ancient enemy. Edward was not to be found; and we despatched Simmonds to place spies upon his movements, and ascertain whether he had visited the cottage since his return. My mind was a perfect chaos, and Lord Eustonby appeared unhappy and chagrined. Suddenly we heard a noise: steps paced the corridor hastily; the folding-doors flew open; and Edward, in great disorder, entered.
A stranger was with him: he advanced deliberately to the centre of the apartment; and one glance at his commanding figure assured me it was General Sarsfield.
For a considerable time we looked on this unexpected visitor in breathless astonishment. Sarsfield alone was perfectly cool and collected, and was the first to break this ominous silence.—"I come here, Mr. De Warre," he said, in a deep, solemn voice, "to discharge a double duty. I owe it to you, sir, as a gentleman; and it is due to me as a father. I have a daughter; and circumstances which have occurred within this hour make this interview unavoidable. You son, sir, has professed an attachment for my child; and his declaration has been, I fear, too favourably received, for the happiness of either."
I had gradually recovered my composure, and felt piqued at the cold manner in which the general alluded to the event which had marred my projects.
"I thank you," said I, proudly; "but for that unwelcome news, I am already debtor to another."
Sarsfield coloured at my observation; but proceeded with wonderful composure—"Your remarks, sir, are neither flattering, nor gentlemanly; but let them pass. I have promised one, who is very dear to me, to learn your sentiments from your own lips. I beg to ask distinctly, have you, sir, been aware, which I was not, of the existence of the attachment I have hinted at; and whether your son would have your full approbation for prosecuting further his addresses to Miss Sarsfield?"
I was burning with rage;—Lord Eustonby seemed lost in amazement, and Edward hung upon my words as if his life was included in my reply.—"General Sarsfield, if such title in reality be yours, allow me to answer you briefly and definitively. Till this morning I scarcely recollected that such a person as Miss Sarsfield existed; and the boundless disparity in rank and fortune between the parties precluded all thought of my son's wise intention of marrying the daughter of a papist, and, for aught I know to the reverse, an Irish refugee and adventurer. I have but to add for your, and for his information, that the moment he unites himself to her, I cast him from me for ever, and my curse—a father's deep, desperate curse, shall attend him to his dying hour."
With ominous calmness Sarsfield listened until my malediction was pronounced. "You have answered me," he said, "in full. You have done more; you have wantonly insulted me, my religion, and my country. For myself, I fling your false and slanderous insinuations back, with the contempt that the offspring of Sarsfield, and the descendant of a line of princes, bestows upon a peasant-born wretch, who strives to veil his lowly origin under a borrowed name. Your insult to my faith, I leave you to settle with God; but for my country, you have my mortal defiance." So saying, he pulled his glove from his hand, and hurled it in my face. "And if craven and coward are not the inheritance of your menial cradle, I shall expect you an hour hence at the three large elm trees, a mile east of the village."
With the utmost dignity he strode from the room. I attempted to follow, but Edward fell in a fit upon the carpet. We carried him to his room. Lord Eustonby endeavoured to calm my passion, and persuaded me to abandon every intention I might have of meeting Sarsfield. Soon afterwards he left me, with an assurance that he would return on the morrow.
The day dragged heavily on. My dinner was removed untasted. I sat in melancholy solitude, brooding over the failure of my schemes, when Simmonds was introduced. His spies had been on the alert, and brought him intelligence that there was unusual bustle among the inmates of the cottage. Trunks were packing, and preparations making for an instant journey; and it was the attorney's opinion that an elopement would take place that night, and that Edward's movements should be closely watched. The information brought by Simmonds was further confirmed, by finding that my son's chamber was deserted, and neither he nor his servant could be found.
I determined to counteract their plans. I ordered horses to be saddled, and despatched messengers to watch the northern road, which I deemed the route most likely to be taken by the fugitives; and muffling myself in a cloak, I set out with Simmonds to observe the movements of my enemy.
It was now quite dark. By a private door in the park wall we came out close to Sarsfield's cottage. Leaving the attorney to watch the road, I crossed into the shrubbery which surrounded the general's house, and favoured by the darkness, stationed myself before a lower window. Within, much confusion was apparent; the furniture was disordered, and the floor covered with trunks and boxes. I was anxiously waiting for the demonstration of what was going forward in the cottage, when suddenly a powerful hand was laid upon my collar, and a pistol presented to my head. I turned round alarmed, and found myself in the grasp of my enemy.
"So!" he said, as the cloak fell, "is Mr. De Warre, as he chooses to call himself, come to visit General Sarsfield, not as a manly foe, with his weapon in his hand, and the blessed light of day to witness the result, but in the dark, as best becomes an eves-dropper and the coward?"
I was unable to articulate a word. I felt abased, degraded. Contempt, ineffable contempt, was on the general's lip as he addressed me in bitter scorn. I at last found words to mention the object which had brought me within his premises. "And you feared that the heir of—I really forget your proper appellation—would be trepanned into matrimony with the daughter of the Irish adventurer? Come in, I will relieve your doubts. Nay, fear nothing. I will not harm thee, man; for, God's sooth! thou art utterly beneath my vengeance."
I felt as it were paralysed in his presence, and mechanically followed him. He took a lamp from the hall table, and ushered me into a back apartment in which I had never been before.
The room was evidently intended for study or private devotion. The shelves were filled with books—the table strewn with papers. Beneath a fine oil painting of the Virgin there was a small altar and crucifix. On the former an illuminated missal was lying open, and a small casket beside it. Sarsfield reverently approached, and crossing himself, took up the casket, and returned to where I was standing lost in astonishment. "I visited you this morning, sir. I put a simple question to you, and you answered it with mockery and insult. I am known as General Sarsfield, and you as Mr. De Warre; and now let us see which has the better claim to the title he has assumed."
He paused and unclosed the casket; it appeared filled with jewels and other articles of value. He pointed with his finger to a cross of the order of Maria Theresa, and continued—"That was on my breast when, on the morning of the 14th of June, I carried by assault the village of Marengo; and, but for the unexpected arrival of Dessaix, might have changed that proud day for France into one of mourning and defeat. That medal I wore at Hohenlinden; and this at Bardinetto." He took out a small miniature, richly set with diamonds—"There is a memorial of my youth; it is the likeness of a lovely woman, and a queen. She came to a stranger's court. She was coldly, cruelly welcomed. She was neglected, despised, and slandered. I was but a nameless hussar, but accident made me her champion. I fought Count N——, her deadliest enemy—her implacable and unwearied persecutor. He fell beneath my sword:—that ill-used lady bestowed this portrait on me, and continued my friend and patroness until her death. These," and he uncovered his scarred bosom—"These are memorials of Rivoli and Bassano; and those sabre-cuts"—he turned back his long grey tresses—"I received in the passage of the Mincio; and now, sir are these the tokens of imposture?"
I was silent, and he continued—"You called me traitor too, and now to the proof." He raised the lamp, and turned the light upon two pictures—"These were my sons—my only sons. That was the elder." I looked, as he pointed to a portrait of a young man in a naval uniform.—"He commanded an English frigate, and was convoying some troop-ships. Two French vessels of superior force chased him: one choice was left him—to lose the convoy or himself. He chose the latter, and dared the unequal conflict. Never has England's flag more desperately defended. His masts went over the side, but the thunder of his cannon was unabated. His assailants boarded him together: he drove them back with slaughter. They told him his ship was sinking: he collected the remnant of his men, 'feeble and few, but fearless still,' sprang upon the Frenchman's deck, and died there, while his shattered frigate went down, the English colours flying to the last, for no enemy's hand had touched them!
"And this," continued he, after a pause, "is the likeness of my other boy. He would be a soldier, and, like his brother's, his career was but a short one. He died at Ciudad Rodrigo. His foot was on the breach, his sword was in his hand—he fell—his last breath was a cheer—his last word was—'Forward!' They are gone. I gave them to my country—they sealed their loyalty with their lives. Were they the gifts of a traitor?
"And now, sir, return to your home. You have wrought me much mischief and misery. Before to-morrow's sun sets I shall be far from this spot; and to avoid you and yours, I leave, what was to me, a quiet and happy resting-place. Let not your son presume to follow me: if he does, his blood be on his head. Tell him he knows not the daughter of Sarsfield. Though his portion was a kingdom, Blanche would not wed him, if that union was unhallowed by her parent's blessing. One word, and we part.—I recommend you, charity; and when you next speak of my poor insulted country, remember she has lavishly given you her treasure and her blood; and if you cannot be generous—be just!"
He pointed to the door, led the way with haughty courtesy, and left me at his gate.
Two days elapsed. Sarsfield, faithful to his word, had removed with all his family, leaving a servant in charge of the cottage, with directions to forward his baggage to a distant seaport, where he should receive further orders. I was in a dreadful alarm for my son: we had heard no tidings of him since he left the Hall, when late in the evening an express arrived from his servant, to say that his master was dangerously ill in a neighboring town. I instantly set off, and found him in a brain fever. He raved incessantly of his "lost Blanche;" and my name and Sarsfield's were often mentioned in his delirium. I learned from his servant that he had followed and attempted to interrupt General Sarsfield's journey; but the attempt failed. A distressing interview between him and his mistress had taken place, and they parted in a state bordering on distraction.
Edward recovered slowly—youth prevailed—his strength returned, but his spirits had totally forsaken him. I thought society would dispel his melancholy, and invited Lord Eustonby and a numerous party to the Hall.
On the day when my guests were expected, my son, at a late hour, had not appeared. I felt alarmed, and went in person to ascertain the cause. He was gone; the chamber was deserted, and the bed had not been occupied the preceding night. A note addressed to me was left upon the table. With trembling anxiety I broke the seal;—it informed me that he had left the kingdom. Every thing about the Hall recalled unhappy recollections; and he revolted from the idea of meeting Lord Eustonby, as he attached much of the misery he suffered to him. He assured me that for a time all inquiry after him would be fruitless, for he had changed his name, and adopted other measures to prevent discovery.
And so the result proved; for every exertion to gain any information of himself, or Mervyn, the servant who accompanied him, was abortive.
A year—a miserable year passed, and still no tidings of my absent boy. Europe was convulsed and in arms: the disastrous campaign in Russia robbed France of half her glory, and Napoleon was hurled from this throne. There was joy and exultation throughout Britain. But what were victories and events to one so bereaved as I? Could I have found Edward, I would have gone with him, and humbled myself at the feet of that proud man whom I had once scorned and insulted. I would have sacrificed ambition, and power, and fortune, could they have restored to me a son, a happy son, as mine once was, and would have been, but for my false notions of aggrandizement. I determined to use fresh exertions to learn his fate, and prepared to set out for Ireland, where I imagined he might have gone, under the supposition that Sarsfield would naturally settle in his native country.
Full of this idea, I issued orders to prepare for my departure, when a person from the village inn arrived to tell me that a dying man was there, and anxious to speak to me without a moment's delay; but he had declined to tell the messenger either his name or business. I obeyed the summons, and was conducted to the sick man's chamber. In a feeble voice he requested the others to withdraw, and beckoned to me to approach the bed. I came forward and looked at him:—he was a young soldier, dressed in the uniform of a Saxon lancer, and apparently in the last stage of life. He asked me if I remembered him. I viewed him more attentively: the face was pale and much disfigured by a sword-cut: slowly memory returned—it was Edward's servant.
With evident exertion he succeeded in telling me his disastrous tale. My son assumed another name, and repairing to the theatre of war, entered the Austrian service. Mervyn loved him too well to separate from him, and he enrolled himself in the same corps. They served that sanguinary campaign together, and Edward perished in the streets of Leipsic, in the last furious charge which decided that fearful day. Mervyn lay beside him badly wounded, and received from his dying master a small packet, which, with his last breath, he entreated him to convey to me.
The attached servant faithfully obeyed the wishes of my boy, and used the feeble remnant of departing life to reach the village. Slowly, and with painful exertions, Mervyn communicated his fatal message. The people of the inn, surprised at the silence of the apartment, at last ventured to enter it. They found me stretched across the bed, insensible, and Mervyn a corpse beside me!
* * * * * * * * *
Months rolled on unmarked and unregarded. The world was a blank to me. I retired from it, and refused any intercourse with mankind. Since the day I heard of Edward's death I never left the Hall, but in the gloom of the evening, to wander in some secluded part of the domain, and commune with my own sad thoughts in secret. One evening I ventured earlier than usual on my melancholy walk. I was passing an opening in the thick plantations, where a turn of the high road was for a moment visible. I threw a glance suspiciously forward, to satisfy myself that nothing human would disturb my solitude. I became rooted to the spot;—a funeral was passing. There were tall white plumes waving above the hearse, and one dark carriage carefully closed up, followed it. I felt a creeping at my heart as I looked at that one funeral, and hastened home to brood in silence over my own destitution.
Night came; the library was wrapped in deepest gloom, where, by the sickly light of an untrimmed lamp, I was sitting in melancholy abstraction. I heard the door open, and supposed it to be some of the domestics coming to perform some necessary duty with their accustomed silence. I felt my shoulder gently touched. I raised my eyes; a tall figure in deep mourning stood beside me. Merciful Heaven!—it was Sarsfield: but oh! how altered!—the ruin only, of my once haughty enemy, was now before me; the cheek was sunken and colourless as a marble statue; the fire of that once proud eye was totally extinguished: his silver hair fell in neglected ringlets down his shoulders. The step was humble as a penitent's—the figure bent and emaciated. And was this broken-hearted old man he who had ridden through the red fields of Hohenlinden and Rivoli, and Marengo? God! what is a man—his pride—his pomp—his glory!
There was a long and harrowing silence: the deep tones of the mourner at last broke it. "De Warre," he said, "I am childless! The last of that proud name I gloried in, now stands before you. My last child to-night is laid in the village cemetery." I was utterly overwhelmed. I sunk upon my knees; I implored him to have mercy—to have pity, and to pardon me. I sobbed convulsively—"I too am childless!"
"Yes, De Warre, we have been both to blame; your false ambition and my erring pride wrought ruin to those we loved best. I am here to obey the last wishes of a departed angel—to interchange forgiveness with the father of him she died for."
"And did she hear of Edward's death?"
"She did: her heart broke; and she never smiled again. At her own request I brought her remains here; for here the first tale of mutual love was told. De Warre, I come to say farewell!"
I gasped—"Oh! stay—stay here—live here—die here—and let us wear out our miserable existence together!"
"No, De Warre; we never meet again in this world;—may we meet in another and a better one! My last earthly tie is snapped, and my few remaining days are dedicated to Heaven. De Warre, farewell—for ever! accept this pledge of my forgiveness"—stooping, he laid his trembling lips on my cheek—"God comfort you—and me!"
He then gathered his mourning cloak around him, and with noiseless steps glided through the gloom of the chamber. I remained in speechless agony. Next moment I heard the wheels of his carriage—and never saw him more!
* * * * * *
The bells were tolling a death-peal from the old tower of the village church; the pulpit was covered with black cloth, and over the pew of the De Warres there hung an escutcheon, charged with their numerous and ancient bearings. The last of that name was gone:—died childless, and there was no heir to inherit his extensive possessions.
A funeral entered the churchyard gate: there was but one mourner, and a few of the villagers had followed it from curiosity. The stranger's face was buried in his sable cloak, while the corpse was committed to the earth; but the customary service for the dead was omitted. The last turf was placed on the grave, as the gates of the domain of the De Warres were flung open, and along train of mourners and attendants issued forth.
The sable stranger raised his head quickly, and inquired, "whose was that funeral possession?" They told him. "Then is my message useless," he muttered;—"there was but little time between them. Mother of mercy, pardon them their sins!"
He hurried from the spot, and mounted a horse which was in waiting. Rapidly, however, as he rode off, there were some in the crowd who recognised the man:—he was the follower and foster-brother of General Sarsfield.
The colonel ceased reading just as his servant entered to say there had been some mistake about the apartments; for, on investigation, there appeared to have been no accommodation reserved for the soldiers, but a portion of a wretched sort of barrack-room, in which one of the beds was already tenanted by a sick traveller. Mine host was instantly summoned; and when the worthy man, with considerable danger, had clambered up the steep stairs to the presence, it was discovered that he could not render any assistance in removing the difficulty, having just attained that respectable state of drunkenness, when the power of articulation ceases.
In vain Hilson remonstrated, and Kennedy stormed. Beds, excepting cribs in the sick man's chamber, were not to be procured; and no alternative was left, but sleeping on the floor, or sitting up quietly till morning.
The latter proposition was made by Captain Mac Carthy, who appeared to bear his disappointment with laudable equanimity. The regiments were to move by the first light next morning; and as the night was now far advanced, the party resolved to pass away, as they best could, the few hours that remained.
"Frank," said the dragoon, "finish that bottle: order supper—it will kill time; and as we have a leisure hour, and are a little melancholy after that sombre story, will you favour us with your history? which no doubt will be sufficiently farcical, to make us forget that deep tragedy we have listened to, of love, and Heaven knows what."
"Farcical! God help thee, Mac! The wisest can hardly escape the urchin archer, and how should Frank Kennedy? Ah! Maurice, I too have been a butt for Cupid's arrows."
"You!" exclaimed the dragoon, with a loud laugh. "You!—Oh! for your tenderest adventure; and compared with it, 'Billy Taylor' would be German sentiment."
"Stop, Maurice," said the commander; "let us hear and judge. Come, Frank, that gloomy tale has dispirited us, and yours must divert our melancholy."
"Divert melancholy!—why mine is a most calamitous narrative; but, if you please, such as it is, you shall have it;" and filling his glass, which example his friend Mac Carthy faithfully followed, the captain of grenadiers commenced his story.
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Stories of Waterloo
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