A Story by William Makepeace Thackeray
and hissing after the manner of horseboys; and there she learned
that Mrs. Score had been inventing an ingenious story to have her
out of the way. The ostler said he was just going to lead the two
horses round to the door. The Corporal had been, and they were
about to start on the instant for Stratford.
The fact was that Count Gustavus Adolphus, far from wishing to pick
the wing of a fowl, had risen with a horror and loathing for
everything in the shape of food, and for any liquor stronger than
small beer. Of this he had drunk a cup, and said he should ride
immediately to Stratford; and when, on ordering his horses, he had
asked politely of the landlady "why the d---- SHE always came up,
and why she did not send the girl," Mrs. Score informed the Count
that her Catherine was gone out for a walk along with the young man
to whom she was to be married, and would not be visible that day.
On hearing this the Captain ordered his horses that moment, and
abused the wine, the bed, the house, the landlady, and everything
connected with the "Bugle Inn."
Out the horses came: the little boys of the village gathered round;
the recruits, with bunches of ribands in their beavers, appeared
presently; Corporal Brock came swaggering out, and, slapping the
pleased blacksmith on the back, bade him mount his horse; while the
boys hurrah'd. Then the Captain came out, gloomy and majestic; to
him Mr. Brock made a military salute, which clumsily, and with much
grinning, the recruits imitated. "I shall walk on with these brave
fellows, your honour, and meet you at Stratford," said the Corporal.
"Good," said the Captain, as he mounted. The landlady curtseyed;
the children hurrah'd more; the little horse-boy, who held the
bridle with one hand and the stirrup with the other, and expected a
crown-piece from such a noble gentleman, got only a kick and a
curse, as Count von Galgenstein shouted, "D----- you all, get out of
the way!" and galloped off; and John Hayes, who had been sneaking
about the inn all the morning, felt a weight off his heart when he
saw the Captain ride off alone.
O foolish Mrs. Score! O dolt of a John Hayes! If the landlady had
allowed the Captain and the maid to have their way, and meet but for
a minute before recruits, sergeant, and all, it is probable that no
harm would have been done, and that this history would never have
been written.
When Count von Galgenstein had ridden half a mile on the Stratford
road, looking as black and dismal as Napoleon galloping from the
romantic village of Waterloo, he espied, a few score yards onwards,
at the turn of the road, a certain object which caused him to check
his horse suddenly, brought a tingling red into his cheeks, and made
his heart to go thump--thump! against his side. A young lass was
sauntering slowly along the footpath, with a basket swinging from
one hand, and a bunch of hedge-flowers in the other. She stopped
once or twice to add a fresh one to her nosegay, and might have seen
him, the Captain thought; but no, she never looked directly towards
him, and still walked on. Sweet innocent! she was singing as if
none were near; her voice went soaring up to the clear sky, and the
Captain put his horse on the grass, that the sound of the hoofs
might not disturb the music.
"When the kine had given a pailful,
And the sheep came bleating home,
Poll, who knew it would be healthful,
Went a-walking out with Tom.
Hand in hand, sir, on the land, sir,
As they walked to and fro,
Tom made jolly love to Polly,
But was answered no, no, no."
The Captain had put his horse on the grass, that the sound of his
hoofs might not disturb the music; and now he pushed its head on to
the bank, where straightway "George of Denmark" began chewing of
such a salad as grew there. And now the Captain slid off
stealthily; and smiling comically, and hitching up his great
jack-boots, and moving forward with a jerking tiptoe step, he, just
as she was trilling the last o-o-o of the last no in the above poem
of Tom D'Urfey, came up to her, and touching her lightly on the
waist, said,
"My dear, your very humble servant."
Mrs. Catherine (you know you have found her out long ago!) gave a
scream and a start, and would have turned pale if she could. As it
was, she only shook all over, and said,
"Oh, sir, how you DID frighten me!"
"Frighten you, my rosebud! why, run me through, I'd die rather than
frighten you. Gad, child, tell me now, am I so VERY frightful?"
"Oh no, your honour, I didn't mean that; only I wasn't thinking to
meet you here, or that you would ride so early at all: for, if you
please, sir, I was going to fetch a chicken for your Lordship's
breakfast, as my mistress said you would like one; and I thought,
instead of going to Farmer Brigg's, down Birmingham way, as she told
me, I'd go to Farmer Bird's, where the chickens is better, sir,--my
Lord, I mean."
"Said I'd like a chicken for breakfast, the old cat! why, I told her
I would not eat a morsel to save me--I was so dru--I mean I ate such
a good supper last night--and I bade her to send me a pot of small
beer, and to tell you to bring it; and the wretch said you were gone
out with your sweetheart--"
"What! John Hayes, the creature? Oh, what a naughty story-telling
woman!"
"--You had walked out with your sweetheart, and I was not to see you
any more; and I was mad with rage, and ready to kill myself; I was,
my dear."
"Oh, sir! pray, PRAY don't."
"For your sake, my sweet angel?"
"Yes, for my sake, if such a poor girl as me can persuade noble
gentlemen."
"Well, then, for YOUR sake, I won't; no, I'll live; but why live?
Hell and fury, if I do live I'm miserable without you; I am,--you
know I am,--you adorable, beautiful, cruel, wicked Catherine!"
Catherine's reply to this was "La, bless me! I do believe your
horse is running away." And so he was! for having finished his meal
in the hedge, he first looked towards his master and paused, as it
were, irresolutely; then, by a sudden impulse, flinging up his tail
and his hind legs, he scampered down the road.
Mrs. Hall ran lightly after the horse, and the Captain after Mrs.
Hall; and the horse ran quicker and quicker every moment, and might
have led them a long chase,--when lo! debouching from a twist in the
road, came the detachment of cavalry and infantry under Mr. Brock.
The moment he was out of sight of the village, that gentleman had
desired the blacksmith to dismount, and had himself jumped into the
saddle, maintaining the subordination of his army by drawing a
pistol and swearing that he would blow out the brains of any person
who attempted to run. When the Captain's horse came near the
detachment he paused, and suffered himself to be caught by Tummas
Bullock, who held him until the owner and Mrs. Catherine c
ame up.
Mr. Bullock looked comically grave when he saw the pair; but the
Corporal graciously saluted Mrs. Catherine, and said it was a fine
day for walking.
"La, sir, and so it is," said she, panting in a very pretty and
distressing way, "but not for RUNNING. I do protest--ha!--and vow
that I really can scarcely stand. I'm so tired of running after
that naughty naughty horse!"
"How do, Cattern?" said Thomas. "Zee, I be going a zouldiering
because thee wouldn't have me." And here Mr. Bullock grinned. Mrs.
Catherine made no sort of reply, but protested once more she should
die of running. If the truth were told, she was somewhat vexed at
the arrival of the Corporal's detachment, and had had very serious
thoughts of finding herself quite tired just as he came in sight.
A sudden thought brought a smile of bright satisfaction in the
Captain's eyes. He mounted the horse which Tummas still held.
"TIRED, Mrs Catherine," said he, "and for my sake? By heavens! you
shan't walk a step farther. No, you shall ride back with a guard of
honour! Back to the village, gentlemen!--rightabout face! Show
those fellows, Corporal, how to rightabout face. Now, my dear,
mount behind me on Snowball; he's easy as a sedan. Put your dear
little foot on the toe of my boot. There now,--up!--jump! hurrah!"
"THAT'S not the way, Captain," shouted out Thomas, still holding on
to the rein as the horse began to move. "Thee woan't goo with him,
will thee, Catty?"
But Mrs. Catherine, though she turned away her head, never let go
her hold round the Captain's waist; and he, swearing a dreadful oath
at Thomas, struck him across the face and hands with his riding
whip. The poor fellow, who at the first cut still held on to the
rein, dropped it at the second, and as the pair galloped off, sat
down on the roadside and fairly began to weep.
"MARCH, you dog!" shouted out the Corporal a minute after. And so
he did: and when next he saw Mrs. Catherine she WAS the Captain's
lady sure enough, and wore a grey hat, with a blue feather, and red
riding-coat trimmed with silverlace. But Thomas was then on a
bare-backed horse, which Corporal Brock was flanking round a ring,
and he was so occupied looking between his horse's ears that he had
no time to cry then, and at length got the better of his attachment.
* * *
This being a good opportunity for closing Chapter I, we ought,
perhaps, to make some apologies to the public for introducing them
to characters that are so utterly worthless; as we confess all our
heroes, with the exception of Mr. Bullock, to be. In this we have
consulted nature and history, rather than the prevailing taste and
the general manner of authors. The amusing novel of "Ernest
Maltravers," for instance, opens with a seduction; but then it is
performed by people of the strictest virtue on both sides: and
there is so much religion and philosophy in the heart of the
seducer, so much tender innocence in the soul of the seduced, that--
bless the little dears!--their very peccadilloes make one interested
in them; and their naughtiness becomes quite sacred, so deliciously
is it described. Now, if we ARE to be interested by rascally
actions, let us have them with plain faces, and let them be
performed, not by virtuous philosophers, but by rascals. Another
clever class of novelists adopt the contrary system, and create
interest by making their rascals perform virtuous actions. Against
these popular plans we here solemnly appeal. We say, let your
rogues in novels act like rogues, and your honest men like honest
men; don't let us have any juggling and thimble-rigging with virtue
and vice, so that, at the end of three volumes, the bewildered
reader shall not know which is which; don't let us find ourselves
kindling at the generous qualities of thieves, and sympathising with
the rascalities of noble hearts. For our own part, we know what the
public likes, and have chosen rogues for our characters, and have
taken a story from the "Newgate Calendar," which we hope to follow
out to edification. Among the rogues, at least, we will have
nothing that shall be mistaken for virtues. And if the British
public (after calling for three or four editions) shall give up, not
only our rascals, but the rascals of all other authors, we shall be
content:--we shall apply to Government for a pension, and think that
our duty is done.
CHAPTER II. IN WHICH ARE DEPICTED THE PLEASURES OF A SENTIMENTAL
ATTACHMENT.
It will not be necessary, for the purpose of this history, to follow
out very closely all the adventures which occurred to Mrs. Catherine
from the period when she quitted the "Bugle" and became the
Captain's lady; for although it would be just as easy to show as
not, that the young woman, by following the man of her heart, had
only yielded to an innocent impulse, and by remaining with him for a
certain period, had proved the depth and strength of her affection
for him,--although we might make very tender and eloquent apologies
for the error of both parties, the reader might possibly be
disgusted at such descriptions and such arguments: which, besides,
are already done to his hand in the novel of "Ernest Maltravers"
before mentioned.
From the gentleman's manner towards Mrs. Catherine, and from his
brilliant and immediate success, the reader will doubtless have
concluded, in the first place, that Gustavus Adolphus had not a very
violent affection for Mrs. Cat; in the second place, that he was a
professional lady-killer, and therefore likely at some period to
resume his profession; thirdly, and to conclude, that a connection
so begun, must, in the nature of things, be likely to end speedily.
And so, to do the Count justice, it would, if he had been allowed to
follow his own inclination entirely; for (as many young gentlemen
will, and yet no praise to them) in about a week he began to be
indifferent, in a month to be weary, in two months to be angry, in
three to proceed to blows and curses; and, in short, to repent most
bitterly the hour when he had ever been induced to present Mrs.
Catherine the toe of his boot, for the purpose of lifting her on to
his horse.
"Egad!" said he to the Corporal one day, when confiding his griefs
to Mr. Brock, "I wish my toe had been cut off before ever it served
as a ladder to this little vixen."
"Or perhaps your honour would wish to kick her downstairs with it?"
delicately suggested Mr. Brock.
"Kick her! why, the wench would hold so fast by the banisters that I
COULD not kick her down, Mr. Brock. To tell you a bit of a secret,
I HAVE tried as much--not to kick her--no, no, not kick her,
certainly: that's ungentlemanly--but to INDUCE her to go back to
that cursed pot-house where we fell in with her. I have given her
many hints--"
"Oh, yes, I saw your honour give her one yesterday--with a mug of
beer. By the law
s, as the ale run all down her face, and she
clutched a knife to run at you, I don't think I ever saw such a
she-devil! That woman will do for your honour some day, if you
provoke her."
"Do for ME? No, hang it, Mr. Brock, never! She loves every hair of
my head, sir: she worships me, Corporal. Egad, yes! she worships
me; and would much sooner apply a knife to her own weasand than
scratch my little finger!"
"I think she does," said Mr. Brock.
"I'm sure of it," said the Captain. "Women, look you, are like
dogs, they like to be ill-treated: they like it, sir; I know they
do. I never had anything to do with a woman in my life but I
ill-treated her, and she liked me the better."
"Mrs. Hall ought to be VERY fond of you then, sure enough!" said Mr.
Corporal.
"Very fond;--ha, ha! Corporal, you wag you--and so she IS very fond.
Yesterday, after the knife-and-beer scene--no wonder I threw the
liquor in her face: it was so dev'lish flat that no gentleman could
drink it: and I told her never to draw it till dinner-time--"
"Oh, it was enough to put an angel in a fury!" said Brock.
"Well, yesterday, after the knife business, when you had got the
carver out of her hand, off she flings to her bedroom, will not eat
a bit of dinner forsooth, and remains locked up for a couple of
hours. At two o'clock afternoon (I was over a tankard), out comes
the little she-devil, her face pale, her eyes bleared, and the tip
of her nose as red as fire with sniffling and weeping. Making for
my hand, 'Max,' says she, 'will you forgive me?' 'What!' says I.
'Forgive a murderess?' says I. 'No, curse me, never!' 'Your
cruelty will kill me,' sobbed she. 'Cruelty be hanged!' says I;
'didn't you draw that beer an hour before dinner?' She could say
nothing to THIS, you know, and I swore that every time she did so, I
would fling it into her face again. Whereupon back she flounced to
her chamber, where she wept and stormed until night-time."
"When you forgave her?"
"I DID forgive her, that's positive. You see I had supped at the
'Rose' along with Tom Trippet and half-a-dozen pretty fellows; and I
had eased a great fat-headed Warwickshire landjunker--what d'ye call
him?--squire, of forty pieces; and I'm dev'lish good-humoured when
I've won, and so Cat and I made it up: but I've taught her never to
bring me stale beer again--ha, ha!"
This conversation will explain, a great deal better than any
description of ours, however eloquent, the state of things as
between Count Maximilian and Mrs. Catherine, and the feelings which
they entertained for each other. The woman loved him, that was the
fact. And, as we have shown in the previous chapter how John Hayes,
a mean-spirited fellow as ever breathed, in respect of all other
passions a pigmy, was in the passion of love a giant, and followed
Mrs. Catherine with a furious longing which might seem at the first
to be foreign to his nature; in the like manner, and playing at
cross-purposes, Mrs. Hall had become smitten of the Captain; and, as
he said truly, only liked him the better for the brutality which she
received at his hands. For it is my opinion, madam, that love is a
bodily infirmity, from which humankind can no more escape than from
small-pox; and which attacks every one of us, from the first duke in
the Peerage down to Jack Ketch inclusive: which has no respect for
rank, virtue, or roguery in man, but sets each in his turn in a
fever; which breaks out the deuce knows how or why, and, raging its
appointed time, fills each individual of the one sex with a blind
fury and longing for some one of the other (who may be pure, gentle,
blue-eyed, beautiful, and good; or vile, shrewish, squinting,
hunchbacked, and hideous, according to circumstances and luck);
which dies away, perhaps, in the natural course, if left to have its
way, but which contradiction causes to rage more furiously than
that Mrs. Score had been inventing an ingenious story to have her
out of the way. The ostler said he was just going to lead the two
horses round to the door. The Corporal had been, and they were
about to start on the instant for Stratford.
The fact was that Count Gustavus Adolphus, far from wishing to pick
the wing of a fowl, had risen with a horror and loathing for
everything in the shape of food, and for any liquor stronger than
small beer. Of this he had drunk a cup, and said he should ride
immediately to Stratford; and when, on ordering his horses, he had
asked politely of the landlady "why the d---- SHE always came up,
and why she did not send the girl," Mrs. Score informed the Count
that her Catherine was gone out for a walk along with the young man
to whom she was to be married, and would not be visible that day.
On hearing this the Captain ordered his horses that moment, and
abused the wine, the bed, the house, the landlady, and everything
connected with the "Bugle Inn."
Out the horses came: the little boys of the village gathered round;
the recruits, with bunches of ribands in their beavers, appeared
presently; Corporal Brock came swaggering out, and, slapping the
pleased blacksmith on the back, bade him mount his horse; while the
boys hurrah'd. Then the Captain came out, gloomy and majestic; to
him Mr. Brock made a military salute, which clumsily, and with much
grinning, the recruits imitated. "I shall walk on with these brave
fellows, your honour, and meet you at Stratford," said the Corporal.
"Good," said the Captain, as he mounted. The landlady curtseyed;
the children hurrah'd more; the little horse-boy, who held the
bridle with one hand and the stirrup with the other, and expected a
crown-piece from such a noble gentleman, got only a kick and a
curse, as Count von Galgenstein shouted, "D----- you all, get out of
the way!" and galloped off; and John Hayes, who had been sneaking
about the inn all the morning, felt a weight off his heart when he
saw the Captain ride off alone.
O foolish Mrs. Score! O dolt of a John Hayes! If the landlady had
allowed the Captain and the maid to have their way, and meet but for
a minute before recruits, sergeant, and all, it is probable that no
harm would have been done, and that this history would never have
been written.
When Count von Galgenstein had ridden half a mile on the Stratford
road, looking as black and dismal as Napoleon galloping from the
romantic village of Waterloo, he espied, a few score yards onwards,
at the turn of the road, a certain object which caused him to check
his horse suddenly, brought a tingling red into his cheeks, and made
his heart to go thump--thump! against his side. A young lass was
sauntering slowly along the footpath, with a basket swinging from
one hand, and a bunch of hedge-flowers in the other. She stopped
once or twice to add a fresh one to her nosegay, and might have seen
him, the Captain thought; but no, she never looked directly towards
him, and still walked on. Sweet innocent! she was singing as if
none were near; her voice went soaring up to the clear sky, and the
Captain put his horse on the grass, that the sound of the hoofs
might not disturb the music.
"When the kine had given a pailful,
And the sheep came bleating home,
Poll, who knew it would be healthful,
Went a-walking out with Tom.
Hand in hand, sir, on the land, sir,
As they walked to and fro,
Tom made jolly love to Polly,
But was answered no, no, no."
The Captain had put his horse on the grass, that the sound of his
hoofs might not disturb the music; and now he pushed its head on to
the bank, where straightway "George of Denmark" began chewing of
such a salad as grew there. And now the Captain slid off
stealthily; and smiling comically, and hitching up his great
jack-boots, and moving forward with a jerking tiptoe step, he, just
as she was trilling the last o-o-o of the last no in the above poem
of Tom D'Urfey, came up to her, and touching her lightly on the
waist, said,
"My dear, your very humble servant."
Mrs. Catherine (you know you have found her out long ago!) gave a
scream and a start, and would have turned pale if she could. As it
was, she only shook all over, and said,
"Oh, sir, how you DID frighten me!"
"Frighten you, my rosebud! why, run me through, I'd die rather than
frighten you. Gad, child, tell me now, am I so VERY frightful?"
"Oh no, your honour, I didn't mean that; only I wasn't thinking to
meet you here, or that you would ride so early at all: for, if you
please, sir, I was going to fetch a chicken for your Lordship's
breakfast, as my mistress said you would like one; and I thought,
instead of going to Farmer Brigg's, down Birmingham way, as she told
me, I'd go to Farmer Bird's, where the chickens is better, sir,--my
Lord, I mean."
"Said I'd like a chicken for breakfast, the old cat! why, I told her
I would not eat a morsel to save me--I was so dru--I mean I ate such
a good supper last night--and I bade her to send me a pot of small
beer, and to tell you to bring it; and the wretch said you were gone
out with your sweetheart--"
"What! John Hayes, the creature? Oh, what a naughty story-telling
woman!"
"--You had walked out with your sweetheart, and I was not to see you
any more; and I was mad with rage, and ready to kill myself; I was,
my dear."
"Oh, sir! pray, PRAY don't."
"For your sake, my sweet angel?"
"Yes, for my sake, if such a poor girl as me can persuade noble
gentlemen."
"Well, then, for YOUR sake, I won't; no, I'll live; but why live?
Hell and fury, if I do live I'm miserable without you; I am,--you
know I am,--you adorable, beautiful, cruel, wicked Catherine!"
Catherine's reply to this was "La, bless me! I do believe your
horse is running away." And so he was! for having finished his meal
in the hedge, he first looked towards his master and paused, as it
were, irresolutely; then, by a sudden impulse, flinging up his tail
and his hind legs, he scampered down the road.
Mrs. Hall ran lightly after the horse, and the Captain after Mrs.
Hall; and the horse ran quicker and quicker every moment, and might
have led them a long chase,--when lo! debouching from a twist in the
road, came the detachment of cavalry and infantry under Mr. Brock.
The moment he was out of sight of the village, that gentleman had
desired the blacksmith to dismount, and had himself jumped into the
saddle, maintaining the subordination of his army by drawing a
pistol and swearing that he would blow out the brains of any person
who attempted to run. When the Captain's horse came near the
detachment he paused, and suffered himself to be caught by Tummas
Bullock, who held him until the owner and Mrs. Catherine c
Mr. Bullock looked comically grave when he saw the pair; but the
Corporal graciously saluted Mrs. Catherine, and said it was a fine
day for walking.
"La, sir, and so it is," said she, panting in a very pretty and
distressing way, "but not for RUNNING. I do protest--ha!--and vow
that I really can scarcely stand. I'm so tired of running after
that naughty naughty horse!"
"How do, Cattern?" said Thomas. "Zee, I be going a zouldiering
because thee wouldn't have me." And here Mr. Bullock grinned. Mrs.
Catherine made no sort of reply, but protested once more she should
die of running. If the truth were told, she was somewhat vexed at
the arrival of the Corporal's detachment, and had had very serious
thoughts of finding herself quite tired just as he came in sight.
A sudden thought brought a smile of bright satisfaction in the
Captain's eyes. He mounted the horse which Tummas still held.
"TIRED, Mrs Catherine," said he, "and for my sake? By heavens! you
shan't walk a step farther. No, you shall ride back with a guard of
honour! Back to the village, gentlemen!--rightabout face! Show
those fellows, Corporal, how to rightabout face. Now, my dear,
mount behind me on Snowball; he's easy as a sedan. Put your dear
little foot on the toe of my boot. There now,--up!--jump! hurrah!"
"THAT'S not the way, Captain," shouted out Thomas, still holding on
to the rein as the horse began to move. "Thee woan't goo with him,
will thee, Catty?"
But Mrs. Catherine, though she turned away her head, never let go
her hold round the Captain's waist; and he, swearing a dreadful oath
at Thomas, struck him across the face and hands with his riding
whip. The poor fellow, who at the first cut still held on to the
rein, dropped it at the second, and as the pair galloped off, sat
down on the roadside and fairly began to weep.
"MARCH, you dog!" shouted out the Corporal a minute after. And so
he did: and when next he saw Mrs. Catherine she WAS the Captain's
lady sure enough, and wore a grey hat, with a blue feather, and red
riding-coat trimmed with silverlace. But Thomas was then on a
bare-backed horse, which Corporal Brock was flanking round a ring,
and he was so occupied looking between his horse's ears that he had
no time to cry then, and at length got the better of his attachment.
* * *
This being a good opportunity for closing Chapter I, we ought,
perhaps, to make some apologies to the public for introducing them
to characters that are so utterly worthless; as we confess all our
heroes, with the exception of Mr. Bullock, to be. In this we have
consulted nature and history, rather than the prevailing taste and
the general manner of authors. The amusing novel of "Ernest
Maltravers," for instance, opens with a seduction; but then it is
performed by people of the strictest virtue on both sides: and
there is so much religion and philosophy in the heart of the
seducer, so much tender innocence in the soul of the seduced, that--
bless the little dears!--their very peccadilloes make one interested
in them; and their naughtiness becomes quite sacred, so deliciously
is it described. Now, if we ARE to be interested by rascally
actions, let us have them with plain faces, and let them be
performed, not by virtuous philosophers, but by rascals. Another
clever class of novelists adopt the contrary system, and create
interest by making their rascals perform virtuous actions. Against
these popular plans we here solemnly appeal. We say, let your
rogues in novels act like rogues, and your honest men like honest
men; don't let us have any juggling and thimble-rigging with virtue
and vice, so that, at the end of three volumes, the bewildered
reader shall not know which is which; don't let us find ourselves
kindling at the generous qualities of thieves, and sympathising with
the rascalities of noble hearts. For our own part, we know what the
public likes, and have chosen rogues for our characters, and have
taken a story from the "Newgate Calendar," which we hope to follow
out to edification. Among the rogues, at least, we will have
nothing that shall be mistaken for virtues. And if the British
public (after calling for three or four editions) shall give up, not
only our rascals, but the rascals of all other authors, we shall be
content:--we shall apply to Government for a pension, and think that
our duty is done.
CHAPTER II. IN WHICH ARE DEPICTED THE PLEASURES OF A SENTIMENTAL
ATTACHMENT.
It will not be necessary, for the purpose of this history, to follow
out very closely all the adventures which occurred to Mrs. Catherine
from the period when she quitted the "Bugle" and became the
Captain's lady; for although it would be just as easy to show as
not, that the young woman, by following the man of her heart, had
only yielded to an innocent impulse, and by remaining with him for a
certain period, had proved the depth and strength of her affection
for him,--although we might make very tender and eloquent apologies
for the error of both parties, the reader might possibly be
disgusted at such descriptions and such arguments: which, besides,
are already done to his hand in the novel of "Ernest Maltravers"
before mentioned.
From the gentleman's manner towards Mrs. Catherine, and from his
brilliant and immediate success, the reader will doubtless have
concluded, in the first place, that Gustavus Adolphus had not a very
violent affection for Mrs. Cat; in the second place, that he was a
professional lady-killer, and therefore likely at some period to
resume his profession; thirdly, and to conclude, that a connection
so begun, must, in the nature of things, be likely to end speedily.
And so, to do the Count justice, it would, if he had been allowed to
follow his own inclination entirely; for (as many young gentlemen
will, and yet no praise to them) in about a week he began to be
indifferent, in a month to be weary, in two months to be angry, in
three to proceed to blows and curses; and, in short, to repent most
bitterly the hour when he had ever been induced to present Mrs.
Catherine the toe of his boot, for the purpose of lifting her on to
his horse.
"Egad!" said he to the Corporal one day, when confiding his griefs
to Mr. Brock, "I wish my toe had been cut off before ever it served
as a ladder to this little vixen."
"Or perhaps your honour would wish to kick her downstairs with it?"
delicately suggested Mr. Brock.
"Kick her! why, the wench would hold so fast by the banisters that I
COULD not kick her down, Mr. Brock. To tell you a bit of a secret,
I HAVE tried as much--not to kick her--no, no, not kick her,
certainly: that's ungentlemanly--but to INDUCE her to go back to
that cursed pot-house where we fell in with her. I have given her
many hints--"
"Oh, yes, I saw your honour give her one yesterday--with a mug of
beer. By the law
clutched a knife to run at you, I don't think I ever saw such a
she-devil! That woman will do for your honour some day, if you
provoke her."
"Do for ME? No, hang it, Mr. Brock, never! She loves every hair of
my head, sir: she worships me, Corporal. Egad, yes! she worships
me; and would much sooner apply a knife to her own weasand than
scratch my little finger!"
"I think she does," said Mr. Brock.
"I'm sure of it," said the Captain. "Women, look you, are like
dogs, they like to be ill-treated: they like it, sir; I know they
do. I never had anything to do with a woman in my life but I
ill-treated her, and she liked me the better."
"Mrs. Hall ought to be VERY fond of you then, sure enough!" said Mr.
Corporal.
"Very fond;--ha, ha! Corporal, you wag you--and so she IS very fond.
Yesterday, after the knife-and-beer scene--no wonder I threw the
liquor in her face: it was so dev'lish flat that no gentleman could
drink it: and I told her never to draw it till dinner-time--"
"Oh, it was enough to put an angel in a fury!" said Brock.
"Well, yesterday, after the knife business, when you had got the
carver out of her hand, off she flings to her bedroom, will not eat
a bit of dinner forsooth, and remains locked up for a couple of
hours. At two o'clock afternoon (I was over a tankard), out comes
the little she-devil, her face pale, her eyes bleared, and the tip
of her nose as red as fire with sniffling and weeping. Making for
my hand, 'Max,' says she, 'will you forgive me?' 'What!' says I.
'Forgive a murderess?' says I. 'No, curse me, never!' 'Your
cruelty will kill me,' sobbed she. 'Cruelty be hanged!' says I;
'didn't you draw that beer an hour before dinner?' She could say
nothing to THIS, you know, and I swore that every time she did so, I
would fling it into her face again. Whereupon back she flounced to
her chamber, where she wept and stormed until night-time."
"When you forgave her?"
"I DID forgive her, that's positive. You see I had supped at the
'Rose' along with Tom Trippet and half-a-dozen pretty fellows; and I
had eased a great fat-headed Warwickshire landjunker--what d'ye call
him?--squire, of forty pieces; and I'm dev'lish good-humoured when
I've won, and so Cat and I made it up: but I've taught her never to
bring me stale beer again--ha, ha!"
This conversation will explain, a great deal better than any
description of ours, however eloquent, the state of things as
between Count Maximilian and Mrs. Catherine, and the feelings which
they entertained for each other. The woman loved him, that was the
fact. And, as we have shown in the previous chapter how John Hayes,
a mean-spirited fellow as ever breathed, in respect of all other
passions a pigmy, was in the passion of love a giant, and followed
Mrs. Catherine with a furious longing which might seem at the first
to be foreign to his nature; in the like manner, and playing at
cross-purposes, Mrs. Hall had become smitten of the Captain; and, as
he said truly, only liked him the better for the brutality which she
received at his hands. For it is my opinion, madam, that love is a
bodily infirmity, from which humankind can no more escape than from
small-pox; and which attacks every one of us, from the first duke in
the Peerage down to Jack Ketch inclusive: which has no respect for
rank, virtue, or roguery in man, but sets each in his turn in a
fever; which breaks out the deuce knows how or why, and, raging its
appointed time, fills each individual of the one sex with a blind
fury and longing for some one of the other (who may be pure, gentle,
blue-eyed, beautiful, and good; or vile, shrewish, squinting,
hunchbacked, and hideous, according to circumstances and luck);
which dies away, perhaps, in the natural course, if left to have its
way, but which contradiction causes to rage more furiously than