A Day's Ride: A Life's Romance

While I was turning over the letters and papers in my writing-desk, awaiting her reply, I came upon Buller’s note to his brother, and, without any precise idea why, I sent it by a servant to the Government House, with my card. It was completely without a purpose that I did so, and if my reader has not experienced moments of the like “inconsequence,” I should totally break down in attempting to account for their meaning.

Miss Herbert’s reply came back promptly. She requested that the writer of the note she had just read would favor her with a visit at his earliest convenience.

I set forth immediately. What a strange and thrilling sensation it is when we take up some long-dropped link in life, go back to some broken thread of our existence, and try to attach it to the present! We feel young again in the bygone, and yet far older even than our real age in the thought of the changes time has wrought upon us in the meanwhile. A week or so before I had looked with impatience for this meeting, and now I grew very faint-hearted as the moment drew nigh. The only way I could summon courage for the occasion was by thinking that in the mission intrusted to me I was actually nothing. There were incidents and events not one of which touched me, and I should pass away off the scene when our interview was over, and be no more remembered by her.

It was evident that the communication had engaged her attention to some extent by the promptitude of her message to me; and with this thought I crossed the little lawn, and rang the bell at the door.

“The gentleman expected by Miss Herbert, sir?” asked a smart English maid. “Come this way, sir. She will see you in a few minutes.”

I had fully ten minutes to inspect the details of a pretty little drawing-room, one of those little female temples where scattered drawings and books and music, and, above all, the delicious odor of fresh flowers, all harmonize together, and set you a-thinking how easily life could glide by with such appliances were they only set in motion by the touch of the enchantress herself. The door opened at last, but it was the maid; she came to say that Mrs. Keats was very poorly that day, and Miss Herbert could not leave her at that moment; and if it were not perfectly convenient to the gentleman to wait, she begged to know when it would suit him to call again?

“As for me,” said I, “I have come to Malta solely on this matter; pray say that I will wait as long as she wishes. I am completely at her orders.”

I strolled out after this through one of the windows that opened on the lawn, and, gaining the seaside, I sat down upon a rock to bide her coming. I might have sat about half an hour thus, when I heard a rapid step approaching, and I had just time to arise when Miss Herbert stood before me. She started back, and grew pale, very pale, as she recognized me, and for fully a minute there we both stood, unable to speak a word.

“Am I to understand, sir,” said she, at last, “that you are the bearer of this letter?” And she held it open towards me.

“Yes,” said I, with a great effort at collectedness. “I have much to ask your forgiveness for. It is fully a year since I was charged to place that in your hands, but one mischance after another has befallen me; not to own that in my own purposeless mode of life I have had no enemy worse than my fate.”

“I have heard something of your fondness for adventure,” said she, with a strange smile that blended a sort of pity with a gentle irony. “After we parted company at Schaffhausen, I believe you travelled for some time on foot? We heard, at least, that you took a fancy to explore a mode of life few persons have penetrated, or, at least, few of your rank and condition.”

“May I ask, what do you believe that rank and condition to be, Miss Herbert?” asked I, firmly.

She blushed deeply at this; perhaps I was too abrupt in the way I spoke, and I hastened to add, —

“When I offered to be the bearer of the letter you have just read, I was moved by another wish than merely to render you some service. I wanted to tell you, once for all, that if I lived for a while in a fiction land of my own invention, with day-dreams and fancies, and hopes and ambitions all unreal, I have come to pay the due penalty of my deceit, and confess that nothing can be more humble than I am in birth, station, or fortune, – my father an apothecary, my name Potts, my means a very few pounds in the world; and yet, with all that avowal, I feel prouder now that I have made it, than ever I did in the false assumption of some condition I had no claim to.”

She held out her hand to me with such a significant air of approval, and smiled so good-naturedly, that I could not help pressing it to my lips, and kissing it rapturously.

Taking a seat at my side, and with a voice meant to recall me to a quiet and business-like demeanor, she asked me to read over Miss Crofton’s letter. I told her that I knew every line of it by heart, and, more still, I knew the whole story to which it related. It was a topic that required the nicest delicacy to touch on, but with a frankness that charmed me, she said, —

“You have had the candor to tell me freely your story; let me imitate you, and reveal mine.

“You know who we are, and whence we have sprung; that my father was a simple laborer on a line of railroad, and by dint of zeal and intelligence, and an energy that would not be balked or impeded, that he raised himself to station and affluence. You have heard of his connection with Sir Elkanah Crofton, and how unfortunately it was broken off; but you cannot know the rest, – that is, you cannot know what we alone know, and what is not so much as suspected by others; and of this I can scarcely dare to speak, since it is essentially the secret of my family.”

I guessed at once to what she alluded; her troubled manner, her swimming eyes, and her quivering voice, all betraying that she referred to the mystery of her father’s fate; while I doubted within myself whether it were right and fitting for me to acknowledge that I knew the secret soucre of her anxiety, she relieved me from my embarrassment by continuing thus, —

“Your kind and generous friends have not suffered themselves to be discouraged by defeat. They have again and again renewed their proposals to my mother, only varying the mode, in the hope that by some stratagem they might overcome her reasons for refusal. Now, though this rejection, so persistent as it is, may seem ungracious, it is not without a fitting and substantial cause.”

Again she faltered, and grew confused, and now I saw how she struggled between a natural reserve and an impulse to confide the soitow that oppressed her to one who might befriend her.

“You may speak freely to me,” said I, at last. “I am not ignorant of the mystery you hint at. Crofton has told me what many surmise and some freely believe in.”

“But we know it, – know it for a certainty,” cried she, clasping my hand in her eagerness. “It is no longer a surmise or a suspicion. It is a certainty, – a fact! Two letters in his handwriting have reached my mother, – one from St. Louis, in America, where he had gone first; the second from an Alpine village, where he was laid up in sickness. He had had a terrible encounter with a man who had done him some gross wrong, and he was wounded in the shoulder; after which he had to cross the Rhine, wading or swimming, and travel many miles ere he could find shelter. When he wrote, however, he was rapidly recovering, and as quickly regaining all his old courage and daring.”

“And from that time forward have you had no tidings of him?”

“Nothing but a check on a Russian banker in London to pay to my mother’s order a sum of money, – a considerable one, too; and although she hoped to gain some clew to him through this, she could not succeed, nor have we now any trace of him whatever. I ought to mention,” said she, as if catching up a forgotten thread in her narrative, “that in his last letter he enjoined my mother not to receive any payment from the assurance company, nor enter into any compromise with them; and, above all, to live in the hope that we should meet again and be happy.”

“And are you still ignorant of where he now is?”

“We only know that a cousin of mine, an officer of engineers at Aden, heard of an Englishman being engaged by the Shah of Persia to report on certain silver mines at Kashan, and from all he could learn, the description would apply to him. My cousin had obtained leave of absence expressly to trace him, and promised in his last letter to bring me himself any tidings he might procure here to Malta. Indeed, when I learned that a stranger had asked to see me, I was full sure it was my cousin Harry.”

Was it that her eyes grew darker in color as this name escaped, her was it that a certain tremor shook her voice, or was it the anxiety of my own jealous humor that made me wretched as I heard of that cousin Harry, now mentioned for the first time?

“What reparation can I make you for so blank a disappointment?” said I, with a sad, half-bitter tone.

“Be the same kind friend that he would have proved himself if it had been his fortune to have come first,” said she; and though she spoke calmly, she blushed deeply! “Here,” said she, hurriedly, taking a small printed paragraph from a letter, and eagerly, as it seemed, trying to recover her former manner, – “here is a slip I have cut out of the ‘Levant Herald.’ I found it about two months since. It ran thus: ‘The person who had contracted for the works at Pera, and who now turns out to be an Englishman, is reported to have had a violent altercation yesterday with Musted Pasha, in consequence of which he has thrown up his contract, and demanded his passport for Russia. It is rumored here that the Russian ambassador is no stranger to this rupture.’ Vague as this is, I feel persuaded that he is the person alluded to, and that it is from Constantinople we must trace him.”

“Well,” cried I, “I am ready. I will set out at once.”

“Oh! can I believe you will do us this great service?” cried she, with swimming eyes and clasped hands.

“This time you will find me faithful,” said I, gravely. “He who has said and done so many foolish things as I have, must, by one good action, give bail for his future character.”

“You are a true friend, and you have all my confidence.”

“Mrs. Keats’s compliments, miss,” said the maid at this moment, “and hopes the gentleman will stay to dinner with you, though she cannot come down herself.”

“She imagines you are my cousin, whom she is aware I have been expecting,” said Miss Herbert, in a whisper, and evidently appearing uncertain how to act.

“Oh!” said I, with an anguish I could not repress, “would that I could change my lot with his!”

“Very well, Mary,” said Miss Herbert; “thank your mistress from me, and say the gentleman accepts her invitation with pleasure. Is it too much presumption on my part, sir, to say so?” said she, with a low whisper, while a half-malicious twinkle lit up her eyes, and I could not speak with happiness.

Determined, however, to give an earnest of my zeal in her cause, I declared I would at once return to the town, and learn when the first packet sailed for Constantinople. The dinner hour was seven, so that I had fully five hours yet to make my inquiries ere we met at table. I wondered at myself how business-like and practical I had become; but a strong impulse now impelled me, and seemed to add a sort of strength to my whole nature.

“As Cousin Harry is the mirror of punctuality, and you now represent him, Mr. Potts,” said she, shaking my hand, “pray remember not to be later than seven.”

CHAPTER XLVI. CAPTAIN ROGERS STANDS MY FRIEND

“Constantinople, Odessa, and the Levant. – The ‘Cyclops,’ five hundred horse-power, to sail on Wednesday morning, at eight o’clock. For freight or passage apply to Captain Robert B. Rogers.”

This announcement, which I found amidst a great many others in a frame over the fireplace in the coffee-room, struck me forcibly, first of all, because, not belonging to the regular mail-packets, it suggested a cheap passage; and, secondly, it promised an early departure, and the vessel was to sail on the very next morning, an amount of promptitude that I felt would gratify Miss Herbert.

Now, although I had been living for a considerable time back at the cost of the Imperial House of Hapsburg, my resources for such an expedition as was opening before me were of the most slender kind. I made a careful examination of all my worldly wealth, and it amounted to the sum of forty-three pounds some odd shillings. On terra firma I could, of course, economize to any extent. With self-denial and resolution I could live on very little. Life in the East, I had often heard, was singularly cheap and inexpensive. All I had read of Oriental habits in the “Arabian Nights” and “Tales of the Genii,” assured me that with a few dates and a watermelon a man dined fully as well as need be; and the delicious warmth of the climate rendered shelter a complete superfluity. Before forming anything like a correct budget, I must ascertain what would be the cost of my passage to Constantinople, and so I rang for the waiter to direct me to the address of the advertiser.

“That’s the captain yonder, sir,” whispered the waiter; and he pointed to a stout, weather-beaten man, who, with his hands in the pockets of his pilot-coat, was standing in front of the fire, smoking a cigar.

Although I had never seen him before, the features reminded me of some one I had met with, and suddenly I bethought me of the skipper with whom I had sailed from Ireland for Milford, and who had given me a letter for his brother “Bob,” – the very Robert Rogers now before me.

“Do you know this handwriting, Captain?” said I, draw-, ing the letter from my pocket-book.

“That’s my brother Joe’s,” said he, not offering to take the letter from my hand, or removing the cigar from his mouth, but talking with all the unconcern in life. “That’s Joe’s own scrawl, and there ain’t a worse from this to himself.”

“The letter is for you,” said I, rather offended at his coolness.

“So I see. Stick it up there, over the chimney; Joe has never anything to say that won’t keep.”