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CHAPTER XIII. AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR

All my endeavors to ascertain the steps by which I came to occupy my present abode were fruitless, inasmuch as Captain Bubbleton contrived to surround his explanation with such a mist of doubtful if not impossible circumstances, that I gave up the effort in despair, and was obliged to sit down satisfied with the naked fact, that it was by some soldiers of his company I was captured, and by them brought to the guard-house. Strangely enough, too, I found, that in his self-mystification the worthy captain had invested me with all the honors of a stanch loyalist who had earned his cracked skull in defence of the soldiery against the mob; and this prevailing impression gave such a tone to his narrative, that he not only set to work to trace back a whole generation of Burkes famed for their attachment to the House of Hanover, but also took a peep into the probable future, where he saw me covered with rewards for my heroism and gallantry.

Young as I was, I hesitated long how far I dare trust him with the real state of the case. I felt that in so doing I should either expose him to the self-reproach of having harbored one he would deem a rebel; or, by withdrawing from me his protection, give him perhaps greater pain by compelling him to such an ungracious act. Yet how could I receive attention and kindness under these false colors? This was a puzzling and difficult thing to resolve; and a hundred times a day I wished I had never been rescued by him, but taken my chance of the worst fortune had in store for me.

While, therefore, my strength grew with every day, these thoughts harassed and depressed me. The continual conflict in my mind deprived me of all ease, and scarcely a morning broke in which I had not decided on avowing my real position and my true sentiments; and still, when the moment came, the flighty uncertainty of Bubbleton’s manner, his caprice and indiscretion, all frightened me, and I was silent. I hoped, too, that some questioning on his part might give me a fitting opportunity for such a disclosure; but here again I was deceived. The jolly captain was far too busy inventing his own history of me, to think of asking for mine; and I found out from the surgeon of the regiment, that according to the statement made at the mess-table, I was an only son, possessed of immense estates, – somewhat encumbered, to be sure (among other debts, a large jointure to my mother); that I had come up to town to consult the Attorney-General about the succession to a title long in abeyance in my family, and was going down to the House in Lord Castlereagh’s carriage, when, fired by the ruffianism of the mob I sprang out, and struck one of the ringleaders, etc.

How this visionary history had its origin, or whether it had any save in the wandering fancies of his brain, I know not; but either by frequent repetition of it, or by the strong hold a favorite notion sometimes will take of a weak intellect, he so far believed it true that he wrote more than one letter to Lord Castlereagh to assure him that I was rapidly recovering, and would be delighted to receive him; which, whether from a knowledge of the captain’s character, or his indifference as to my fate, the Secretary certainly never took any notice of whatever.

Bubbleton had too much experience of similar instances of neglect to be either afflicted or offended at this silence; on the contrary, he satisfied his mind by an excuse of his own inventing, and went about saying, “I think we ‘ll have Castlereagh down to-day to see Burke,” until it became a cant on parade and a jest at mess.

Meanwhile his active mind was not lying dormant. Indignant that no inquiries had been made after me, and astonished that no aide-de-camp – not even a liveried menial of the Viceroy’s household – had come down to receive the daily bulletin of my health, and somewhat piqued, perhaps, that his own important services regarding me remained unacknowledged, he set about springing a mine for himself which very nearly became my ruin.

After about ten days spent by me in this state of painful vacillation, my mind vibrating between two opposite courses, and seeing arguments for either, both in the matter-of-fact shortness of Miss Bubbleton’s not over-courteous manner, and the splendidly liberal and vast conceptions of her brother, I went to my bed one night resolved that on the very next morning I would hesitate no longer; and as my strength would now permit of my being able to walk unassisted, I would explain freely to Bubbleton every circumstance of my life, and take my leave of him, to wander, I knew not where. This decision at length being come to, I slept more soundly than I had slept for many nights, nor awoke until the loud step and the louder voice of the captain had aroused me from my slumbers.

“Eh, Tom! a good night, my lad? How soundly you sleep! Just like the Lachigong Indians; they go to bed after the hunting season, and never wake till the bears come in next fall. I had the knack myself once; but then I always took six or seven dozen of strong Burton ale first; and that, they said, was n’t quite fair. But for a white man, I ‘d back myself for a thousand to-morrow. But what ‘s this I have to tell you? Something or other was in my head for you. Oh, I have it! I say, Tom, old fellow, I think I have touched them up to some purpose. They did n’t expect it. No, hang it! they little knew what was in store for them; they weren’t quite prepared for it. By Jove, that they were n’t!”

“Who are they?” said I, sitting up in my bed, and somewhat curious to hear something of these astonished individuals.

“The Government, my lad; the Castle; the Private Sec.; the Major; the Treasury; the Board of Green Cloth; the – what d’ ye call them? – the Privy Council.”

“Why, what has happened them?”

“I ‘ll show you what ‘s happened. Lie down again and compose yourself. He won’t be here before twelve o’clock; though, by the bye, I promised on my honor not to say a word about his coming. But it ‘s over now.”

“Who is it?” said I, eagerly.

“Oh, I can’t tell now. You ‘ll see him very soon; and right glad he ‘ll be to see you, so he says. But here they are; here ‘s the whole affair.”

So saying, he covered the bed with a mass of news’ papers, and blotted, ill-written manuscripts, among which he commenced a vigorous search at once.

“Here it is; I’ve found it out. Listen to this: ‘The Press, Friday, August 10. The magnificent ourang-outang that Captain Bubbleton is about to present to the Lady-Lieutenant – ’ No, that is n’t it; it must be in Faulkner. Ay, here we have it: ‘In Captain Bubbleton’s forthcoming volume, which we have been favored with a private perusal of, a very singular account is given of the gigantic mouse found in Candia, which grows to the size of a common mastiff – ‘No, that ‘s not it. You ‘ve heard of that, Tom, though, have n’t you?”

“Never,” said I, trying to repress a smile.

“I ‘m amazed at that; never heard of my curious speculations about the Candian mouse! The fellow has a voice like a human being; you ‘d hear him crying in the woods, and you ‘d swear it was a child. I ‘ve a notion that the Greeks took their word ‘mousikos’ from this fellow. But that ‘s not what I ‘m looking for; no, but here it is. This is squib No. 1: ‘Tuesday morning. We are at length enabled to state that the young gentleman who took such a prominent part in defending the military against the savage and murderous attack of the mob in the late riot in College Green is now out of danger; being removed to Captain Bubbleton’s quarters in George’s Street Barracks, he was immediately trepanned – ‘”

“Eh? trepanned!”

“No, you weren’t trepanned; but Pepper said you might have been though, and he ‘d just as soon do it as not; so I put in trepanned. ‘The pia mater was fortunately not cut through.’ That you don’t understand; but no matter, – hem, hem! ‘Congestion of – ’ hem, hem! ‘In our next, we hope to give a still more favorable report.’ Then here’s the next: ‘To the aide-decamp sent to inquire after the “hero of College Green,” the answer this morning was, “Better; able to sit up.”’ Well, here we go, – No. 3: ‘His Excellency mentioned this morning at the Privy Council the satisfaction he felt at being able to announce that Mr. (from motives of delicacy we omit the name) is now permitted to take some barley gruel, with a spoonful of old Madeira. The Bishop of Ferns and Sir Boyle Roach both left their cards yesterday at the barracks.’ I waited a day or two after this; but – would you believe it? – no notice was taken; not even the Opposition papers said a word, except some insolent rascal in ‘The Press’ asks, ‘Can you tell your readers, Are we to have anything more from Captain Bubbleton?’ So then I resolved to come out in force, and here you see the result: ‘Friday, 20th. It is now our gratifying task to announce the complete restoration of the young gentleman whose case has, for some weeks past, been the engrossing topic of conversation of all ranks and classes, from the table of the Viceroy to the humble denizen of Mud Island. Mr. Burke is the only son and heir to the late Matthew Burke, of Cremore, county of Galway. His family have been long distinguished for their steady, uncompromising loyalty; nor is the hereditary glory of their house likely to suffer in the person of the illustrious youth, who, we learn, is now to be raised to the baronetcy under the title of Sir Thomas Bubbleton Burke, the second name assumed to commemorate the services of Captain Bubbleton, whose – ‘Of course I dilated a little here to round the paragraph. Well, this did it; here was the shell that exploded the magazine. For early this morning I received a polite note from the Castle, – I won’t tell you the writer, though; I like a good bit of surprise. And egad, now I think on ‘t, I won’t say anything more about the letter either, only that we ‘re in luck, my lad, as you ‘ll soon acknowledge. What ‘s the hour now? Ah! a quarter to twelve. But wait, I think I hear him in the next room. Jump up, and dress as fast as you can, while I do the honors.”

With this the captain bustled out of the room; and, although he banged the door after him, I could hear his voice in the act of welcoming some new arrival.

In spite of the sea of nonsense and absurdity through which I had waded in the last half-hour, the communication he had made me excited my curiosity to the utmost, and in some respect rendered me uneasy. It was no part whatever of my object to afford any clue to Basset by which he might trace me; and although much of the fear I had formerly entertained of that dreaded personage had evaporated with increased knowledge of the world, yet old instincts preserved their influence over me, and I felt as though Tony Basset would be a name of terror to me for my life long. It was quite clear, however, that the application from the Castle to which he alluded could have no reference to the honest attorney; and with this comforting reflection, which I confess came somewhat late, I finished my dressing, and prepared to leave my room.

“Oh, here he comes!” cried Bubbleton, as he flung open my door, and announced my approach. “Come along, Tom, and let us see if your face will let you be recognized.”

I scarcely had crossed the threshold when I started back with affright, and had it not been for the wall against which I leaned, must have fallen. The stranger, whose visit was to afford me so much of pleasure was no other than Major Barton; there he stood, his arm leaning on the chimney-piece, the same cool malicious smile playing about the angles of his mouth which I noticed the first day I saw him in the glen. His sharp eyes shot on me one quick, searching glance, and then turned to the door; from which again they were directed to me as if some passing thought had moved them.

Bubbleton was the first to speak, for not noticing either the agitation I was under or the stern expression of Barton’s features, he ran on: —

“Eh, Major! that’s your friend, isn’t it? Changed a bit, I suppose; a little blanched, but in a good cause, you know, – that’s the thing. Come, Tom, you don’t forget your old friend. Major – what ‘s the name?”

“Barton,” repeated the other, dryly.

“Yes, Major Barton; he ‘s come from his Excellency. I knew that last paragraph would do it, – eh. Major?”

“You were quite right, sir,” said Barton, slowly and distinctly, “that paragraph did do it; and very fortunate you may esteem yourself, if it will not do you also.”

“Eh, what! how me? What d’ you mean?”

“How long, may I beg to ask,” continued Barton, in the same quiet tone of voice, “have you known this young gentleman?”

“Burke, – Tom Burke? Bless your heart, since the height of that fender. His father and mine were schoolfellows. I ‘m not sure he was n’t my godfather, or, at least, one of them; I had four.” Here the captain began counting on his fingers. “There was the Moulah, one; the Cham, two – ”

“I beg your pardon for the interruption,” said Barton, with affected politeness; “how long has he occupied these quarters? That fact may possibly not be too antiquated for your memory.”

“How long?” said Bubbleton, reflectingly. “Let me see: here we are in August – ”

“Three weeks on Tuesday last,” said I, interfering, to prevent any further drain on so lavish an imagination.

“Then you came here on the day of the riots?” said Barton.

“On that evening,” was my reply.

“On that evening, – just so. Before or after, may I isk?”

“I shall answer no further questions,” said I, resolutely. “If you have any charge against me, it is for you to prove it.”

“Charge against you!” said Bubbleton, laughing. “Bless your heart, boy, don’t mistake him; they’ve sent him down to compliment you. Lord Castlereagh mentions in his note – Where the devil did I throw that note?”

“It’s of no consequence, Captain,” said Barton, dryly; “his lordship usually intrusts the management of these matters to me. May I learn, is this young gentleman known in your regiment? Has he been at your mess?”

“Tom Burke known among us! Why, man, he ‘s called nothing but ‘Burke of Ours.’ He ‘s one of ourselves; not gazetted, you know, but all the same in fact. We could n’t get on without him; he’s like the mess-plate, or the orderly-book, or the regimental snuffbox.”

“I ‘m sincerely sorry, sir,” rejoined Barton, slowly, “to rob you and the gallant Forty-fifth of one upon whom you place such just value; but ‘Burke of Ours’ must consent to be Burke of mine at present.”

“To be sure, my dear major, of course; anything convivial, – nothing like good fellowship. We’ll lend him to you for to-day, – one day, mark me, – we can’t spare him longer. And now I think of it, don’t press him with his wine; he ‘s been poorly of late.”

“Have no fears on that score,” said Barton, laughing outright; “our habits of life, in his circumstances, are rigidly temperate.” Then, turning to me, he continued, in an altered voice: “I need scarcely explain to you, sir, the reason of my visit. When last we parted I did not anticipate that our next meeting would have been in a royal barrack; but you may thank your friend here for my knowledge of your abode – ”

Bubbleton attempted to interpose here a panegyric on himself; but Barton went on, —

“Here is an order of the Privy Council for your apprehension; and here – ”

“Apprehension!” echoed the captain, in a voice of wonderment and terror.

“Here, sir, is your committal to Newgate. I suppose you’ll not give me the trouble of using force; I have a carriage in waiting below, and request that we may lose no more time.”

“I am ready, sir,” said I, as stoutly as I was able.

“To Newgate!” repeated Bubbleton, as, overcome with fright, he sank back in a chair, and crossed his arms on his breast. “Poor fellow! poor fellow! perhaps they ‘ll bring it in manslaughter, eh? – or was it a bank robbery?”

Not even the misery before me could prevent my smiling at the worthy captain’s rapidly conceived narrative of me. I was in no merry mood, however; and turning to him, grasped his hand.

“It may happen,” said I, “that we never meet again. I know not – indeed, I hardly care – what is before me; but with all my heart I thank you for your kindness. Farewell.”

“Farewell,” said he, half mechanically, as he grasped my hand in both of his, and the large tears rolled down his cheeks. “Poor fellow! all my fault; see it now.”

I hurried after Barton downstairs, a nervous choking in my throat nearly suffocating me. Just as I reached the door the carriage drew up, and a policeman let down the steps. Already my foot was on them, when Bubbleton was beside me.

“I’ll go with him, Major; you’ll permit me, won’t you?”

“Not at present, Captain,” said Barton, significantly; “it may happen that we shall want you one of these days. Good-by.”

He pushed me forward as he spoke, and entered the carriage after me. I felt the pressure of poor Bubbleton’s hand as he grasped mine for the last time, and discovered he had slipped something into my palm at parting. I opened and found two guineas in gold, which the kindhearted fellow had given me; perhaps they were his only ones in the world.

CHAPTER XIV. THE JAIL

From the moment the carriage-door closed upon us, Barton never addressed one word to me, but leaning back, seemed only anxious to escape being recognized by the people, whose attention was drawn to the vehicle by seeing two mounted policemen ride at either side of it. We drove along the quays, and crossing an old, dilapidated bridge, traversed several obscure and mean-looking streets, through which numbers of persons were hurrying in the same direction we were going. At length we arrived at a large open space, thronged with people whose dress and appearance bespoke them from the country. They were all conversing in a low, murmuring tone, and looking up from time to time towards a massive building of dark granite, which I had only to glance at to guess was Newgate. Our pace slackened to a walk as we entered the crowd; and while we moved slowly along, I was struck by the eager and excited faces I saw on every side. It could be no common occasion which impressed that vast multitude with the one character of painful anxiety I beheld.

As they stood gazing with upturned faces at the frowning portals of the jail, the deep, solemn tolling of a bell rung out at the moment, and as its sad notes vibrated through the air, it seemed to strike with a mournful power on every heart in the crowd. In an instant, too, the windows of all the houses were thronged with eager faces, – even the parapets were crowded; and while every sound was hushed, each eye was turned in one direction. I followed with my own whither the others were bent, and beheld above my head the dark framework of the “drop,” covered with black cloth, above which a piece of rope swung back-. wards and forwards with the wind. The narrow door behind was closed; but it was clear that each second that stole by was bringing some wretched criminal closer to his awful doom.

As we neared the entrance, the massive doors were opened on a signal from a policeman on the box of the carriage, and we drove inside the gloomy vestibule. It was only then, as the heavy door banged behind me, that my heart sank. Up to that moment a mingled sense of wrong, and a feeling of desperate courage, had nerved me; but suddenly a cold chill ran through my veins, my knees smote each other, and fear such as till then I never knew crept over me. The carriage-door was now opened, the steps lowered, and Barton descending first, addressed a few words to a person near him, whom he called Mr. Gregg.

It was one of those moments in life in which every passing look, every chance word, every stir, every gesture, are measured up, and remembered ever after. And I recollect now how, as I stepped from the carriage, a feeling of shame passed across me lest the bystanders should mark my fear, and what a relief I experienced on finding that my presence was unnoticed; and then the instant after, that very same neglect – that cold, cold indifference to me – smote as heavily on my spirits, and I looked on myself as one whose fate had no interest for any, in whose fortune none sympathized.

“Drive on!” cried a rough voice to the coachman; and the carriage moved through the narrow passage, in which some dozen of persons were now standing. The next moment, a murmur of “They are coming!” was heard; and the solemn tones of a man’s voice chanting the last offices of the Romish Church reached us, with the measured footfall of persons crossing the flagged courtyard. In the backward movement now made by those around me, I was brought close to a small arched doorway, within which a flight of stone steps ascended in a spiral direction; and towards this point I remarked that the persons who approached were tending. My eyes scarcely glanced on those who came first; but they rested with a fearful interest on the bareheaded priest, who, in all the trappings of his office, walked, book in hand, repeating with mournful impressiveness the litany for the dead. As he came nearer, I could see that his eyes were dimmed with tears, and his pale lips quivered with emotion, while his very cheek trembled with a convulsive agony. Not so he who followed. He was a young man, scarce four and twenty; dressed in loose white trousers and shirt, but without coat, vest, or cravat; his head bare, and displaying a broad forehead, across which some straggling hairs of light brown were blown by the wind. His eye was bright and flashing, and in the centre of his pale cheek a small crimson spot glowed with a hectic coloring. His step was firm, and as he planted it upon the ground a kind of elasticity seemed to mark his footfall. He endeavored to repeat after the priest the words as they fell from him; but as he looked wildly around, it was clear his mind was straying from the subject which his lips expressed, and that thoughts far different were passing within him. Suddenly his eyes fell upon the major, who stood close to where I was. The man started back, and for a second even that small spot of crimson left his cheek, which became nearly livid in its pallor. A ghastly smile, that showed his white teeth from side to side, crossed his features, and with a voice of terrible earnestness, he said, —

“‘T is easy for you to look calm, sir, at your morning’s work, and I hope you ‘re plazed at it.” Then frowning fearfully, as his face grew purple, he added, “But, by the Eternal I you ‘d not look that way av we two stood by ourselves on the side of Sliebmish, and nothing but our own four arms between us.”

The horrible expression of vengeance that lit up his savage face at these words seemed to awe even the callous and stern nature of Barton himself. All his efforts to seem calm and at ease were for the moment unavailing, and he shrank from the proud and flashing eye of the felon, as though he were the guilty one in the presence of his accuser.

Another stroke of the heavy bell rang out. The prisoner started, and turning round his head, seemed to peer anxiously through the crowd behind him, when his eyes fell upon the figure of a man apparently a year or two younger than himself, and whose features, even in their livid coloring, bore a striking resemblance to his own.

“Come, Patsey,” cried he, “come along with us.” Then turning to the jailer, while his face assumed a smile, and his voice a tone of winning softness, he asked, “It is my brother, sir; he is come up nigh eighty miles to see me, and I hope you ‘ll let him come upon the drop.”

There was something in the quiet earnestness of his manner in such a moment that thrilled upon the heart more painfully than even the violent outbreak of his passion; and when I saw the two brothers hand in hand, march step by step along, and then disappear in the winding of the dark stair, a sick, cold feeling came over me, and even the loud shout that rent the air from the assembled thousands without scarce roused me from my stupor.

“Come, sir,” cried a man, who in the dress of an official had been for some minutes carefully reading over the document of my committal, “after me, if you please.”

I followed him across the courtyard in the direction of a small building which stood isolated and apart from the rest, when suddenly he stopped, and carefully examining the paper in his hand, he said, —

“Wait a moment; I ‘ll join you presently.”

With these words, he hurried back towards the gate, where Barton still’ stood with two or three others. What passed between them I could not hear; but I could distinctly mark that Barton’s manner was more abrupt and imperious than ever, and that while the jailer – for such he was – expressed his scruples of one kind or another, the major would not hear him with patience, but turning his back upon him, called out loud enough to be heard even where I stood, —

“I tell you I don’t care, regular or irregular; if you refuse to take him in charge, on your head be it. We have come to a pretty pass. Pollock,” said he, turning to a person beside him, “when there is more sympathy for a rebel in his Majesty’s jail, than respect for a Government officer.”

“I’ll do it, sir, – I’ll do it,” cried the jailer; saying which he motioned me to follow, while he muttered between his teeth, “there must come an end to this, one day or other.”

With that he unlocked a strongly barred gate, and led me along a narrow passage; at the extremity of which he opened a door into a small and rather comfortably furnished room.

“Here, sir,” said he, “you ‘ll be better than where I have my orders to put you; and in any case, I trust that our acquaintance will be but a short one.”

These were the first words of kindness I had heard for some time past. I turned to thank the speaker; but already the door had closed, and he was gone.

The quickly succeeding incidents of my life, the dark destiny that seemed to track me, had given a reflective character to my mind while I was yet a boy. The troubles and cares of life, that in manhood serve only to mould and fashion character, – to call forth efforts of endurance, of courage, or ability, – come upon us in early years with far different effect and far different teaching. Every lesson tit deceit and duplicity is a direct shock to some preconceived notion of faith and honor; every punishment, whose severity in after years we had forgotten in its justice, has to the eyes of youth a character of vindictive cruelty. Looking only to effects, and never to causes, our views of life are one-sided and imperfect; the better parts of our nature will as often mislead us by false sympathy, as will the worst ones by their pernicious tendency.

From the hour I quitted my father’s house to the present, I had seen nothing but what to me appeared the sufferings of a poor, defenceless people at the hands of wanton tyranny and outrage. I had seen the peasant’s cabin burned because it had been a shelter to an outcast; I had heard the loud and drunken denunciations of a ruffianly soldiery against those who professed no other object, who acknowledged no other wish, than liberty and equality; and in my heart I vowed a rooted hate to the enemies of my country, – a vow that lost nothing of its bitterness because it was made within the walls of a prison.

In reflections like these my evening passed on, and with it the greater part of the night also. My mind was too much excited to permit me to sleep, and I longed for daybreak with that craving impatience which sick men feel who count the long hours of darkness, and think the morning must bring relief. It came at last; and the heavy, clanking sounds of massive doors opening and shutting – the mournful echoes that told of captivity and durance – sighed along the corridors, and then all was still.

There is a time in reverie when silence seems not to encourage thought, but rather, like some lowering cloud, to hang over and spread a gloomy insensibility around us. Long watching and much thinking had brought me now to this; and I sat looking upon the faint streak of sunlight that streamed through the barred window, and speculating within myself when it would fall upon the hearth. Suddenly I heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor; my door was opened, and the jailer entered, followed by a man carrying my breakfast.

“Come, sir,” said the former, “I hope you have got an appetite for our prison fare. Lose no time; for there is a carriage in waiting to bring you to the Castle, and the major himself is without.”

“I am ready this moment,” said I, starting up, and taking my hat; and notwithstanding every entreaty to eat, made with kindness and good-nature, I refused everything, and followed him out into the courtyard, where Barton was pacing up and down, impatiently awaiting our coming.