Arthur O'Leary: His Wanderings And Ponderings In Many Lands

Confound him, said I to myself; I must try another tack. ‘We were remarking, Père José, as we came along that very picturesque river, the Château de Bouvigne; a fine thing in its time, it must have been.’

‘You know the story, I suppose?’ said the père.

‘Mademoiselle was relating it to me on the way, and indeed I am most anxious to hear the dénouement.’

‘It was a sad one,’ said he slowly. ‘I’ll show you the spot where Henri fell – the stone that marks the place.’

‘Oh, Père José,’ said Laura, ‘I must stop you – indeed I must – or the whole interest of my narrative will be ruined. You forget that monsieur has not heard the tale out.’

‘Ah! ma foi, I beg pardon – a thousand pardons. Mademoiselle, then, knows Bouvigne?’

‘I ‘ve been here once before, but only part of a morning. I ‘ve seen nothing but the outer court of the château and the fosse du traître.’

‘So, so; you know it all, I perceive,’ said he, smiling pleasantly. ‘Are you too much fatigued for a walk that far?’

‘Shall we have time?’ said Laura; ‘that’s the question.’

‘Abundance of time. Jacob can’t be here for an hour yet, at soonest. And if you allow me, I’ll give all the necessary directions before we leave, so that you ‘ll not be delayed ten minutes on your return.’

While Laura went in search of her hat, I again proffered my thanks to the kind père for all his good nature, expressing the strong desire I felt for some opportunity of requital.

‘Be happy,’ said the good man, squeezing my hand affectionately; ‘that’s the way you can best repay me.’

‘It would not be difficult to follow the precept in your society, Père José,’ said I, overcome by the cordiality of the old man’s manner.

‘I have made a great many so, indeed,’ said he. ‘The five-and-thirty years I have lived in Bouvigne have not been without their fruit.’

Laura joined us here, and we took the way together towards the château, the priest discoursing all the way on the memorable features of the place, its remains of ancient grandeur, and the picturesque beauty of its site.

As we ascended the steep path which, cut in the solid rock, leads to the château, groups of pretty children came flocking about us, presenting bouquets for our acceptance, and even scattering flowers in our path. This simple act of village courtesy struck us both much, and we could not help feeling touched by the graceful delicacy of the little ones, who tripped away ere we could reward them; neither could I avoid remarking to Laura, on the perfect good understanding that seemed to subsist between Père José and the children of his flock – the paternal fondness on one side, and the filial reverence on the other. As we conversed thus, we came in front of a great arched doorway, in a curtain wall connecting two massive fragments of rock. In front lay a deep fosse, traversed by a narrow wall, scarce wide enough for one person to venture on. Below, the tangled weeds and ivy concealed the dark abyss, which was full eighty feet in depth.

‘Look up, now,’ said Laura; ‘you must bear the features of this spot in mind to understand the story. Don’t forget where that beam projects – do you mark it well?’

‘He’ll get a better notion of it from the tower,’ said the père, ‘Shall I assist you across?’

Without any aid, however, Laura trod the narrow pathway, and hasted along up the steep and time-worn steps of the old tower. As we emerged upon the battlements, we stood for a moment, overcome by the splendour of the prospect. Miles upon miles of rich landscape lay beneath us, glittering in the red, brown, and golden tints of autumn – that gorgeous livery which the year puts on, ere it dons the sad-coloured mantle of winter. The great forest, too, was touched here and there with that light brown, the first advance of the season; while the river reflected every tint in its calm tide, as though it also would sympathise with the changes around it.

While the Père José continued to point out each place of mark or note in the vast plain, interweaving in his descriptions some chance bit of antiquarian or historic lore, we were forcibly struck by the thorough intimacy he possessed with all the features of the locality, and could not help complimenting him upon it.

‘Yes, ‘ma foi,’ said he, ‘I know every rock and crevice, every old tree and rivulet for miles round. In the long life I have passed here, each day has brought me among these scenes with some traveller or other; and albeit they who visit us here have little thought for the picturesque, few are unmoved by this peaceful and lovely valley. You’d little suspect, mademoiselle, how many have passed through my hands here, in these five-and-thirty years. I keep a record of their names, in which I must beg you will kindly inscribe yours.’

Laura blushed at the proposition which should thus commemorate her misadventure; while I mumbled out something about our being mere passing strangers, unknown in the land.

‘No matter for that,’ replied the inexorable father, ‘I’ll have your names – ay, autographs too!’

‘The sun seems very low,’ said Laura, as she pointed to the west, where already a blaze of red golden light was spreading over the horizon: ‘I think we must hasten our departure.’

‘Follow me, then,’ said the père, ‘and I ‘ll conduct you by an easier path than we came up by.’

With that he unlocked a small postern in the curtain wall, and led us across a neatly-shaven lawn to a little barbican, where, again unlocking the door, we descended a flight of stone steps into a small garden terraced in the native rock. The labour of forming it must have been immense, as every shovelful of earth was carried from the plain beneath; and here were fruit-trees and flowers, shrubs and plants, and in the midst a tiny jet d’eau, which, as we entered, seemed magically to salute us with its refreshing plash. A little bench, commanding a view of the river from a different aspect, invited us to sit down for a moment. Indeed, each turn of the way seduced us by some beauty, and we could have lingered on for hours.

As for me, forgetful of the past, careless of the future, I was totally wrapped up in the enjoyment of the moment, and Laura herself seemed so enchanted by the spot that she sat silently gazing on the tranquil scene, apparently lost in delighted reverie. A low, faint sigh escaped her as she looked; and I thought I could see a tremulous motion of her eyelid, as though a tear were struggling within it My heart beat powerfully against my side. I turned to see where was the père. He had gone. I looked again, and saw him standing on a point of rock far beneath us, and waving his handkerchief as a signal to some one in the valley. Never was there such a situation as mine; never was mortal man so placed. I stole my hand carelessly along the bench till it touched hers; but she moved not away – no, her mind seemed quite preoccupied. I had never seen her profile before, and truly it was very beautiful. All the vivacity of her temperament calmed down by the feeling of the moment, her features had that character of placid loveliness which seemed only wanting to make her perfectly handsome. I wished to speak, and could not. I felt that if I could have dared to say ‘Laura,’ I could have gone on bravely afterwards – but it would not come. ‘Amen stuck in my throat.’ Twice I got half-way, and covered my retreat by a short cough. Only think what a change in my destiny another syllable might have caused! It was exactly as my second effort proved fruitless that a delicious sound of music swelled up from the glen beneath, and floated through the air – a chorus of young voices singing what seemed to be a hymn. Never was anything more charming. The notes, softened as they rose on high, seemed almost like a seraph’s song – now lifting the soul to high and holy thoughts, now thrilling within the heart with a very ecstasy of delight. At length they paused, the last cadence melted slowly away, and all was still.

We did not dare to move; when Laura touched my hand gently, and whispered, ‘Hark! there it is again! And at the same instant the voices broke forth, but into a more joyous measure. It was one of those sweet peasant-carollings which breathe of the light heart and the simple life of the cottage. The words came nearer and nearer as we listened, and at length I could trace the refrain which closed each verse —

‘Puisque l’herbe et la fleur parlent mieux que les mots,Puisque un aveu d’amour s’exhale de la rose,Que le “ne m’oublie pas” de souvenir s’arrose,Que le laurier dit Gloire! et cyprès sanglots.’

At last the wicket of the garden slowly opened, and a little procession of young girls, all dressed in white, with white roses in their hair, and each carrying bouquets in their hands, entered, and with steady step came forward. We watched them attentively, believing that they were celebrating some little devotional pilgrimage, when to our surprise they approached where we sat, and with a low curtsy each dropped her bouquet at Laura’s feet, whispering in a low silver voice as they passed, ‘May thy feet always tread upon flowers!’ Ere we could speak our surprise and admiration of this touching scene – for it was such, in all its simplicity – they were gone, and the last notes of their chant were dying away in the distance.

‘How beautiful! how very beautiful!’ said Laura; ‘I shall never forget this.’

‘Nor I,’ said I, making a desperate effort at I know not what avowal, which the appearance of the père at once put to flight. He had just seen the boy returning along the river-side with the mule and cart, and came to apprise us that we had better descend.

‘It will be very late indeed before we reach Dinant,’ said Laura; ‘we shall scarcely get there before midnight.’

‘Oh, you’ll be there much earlier. It is now past six; in less than ten minutes you can be en route. I shall not cause you much delay.’

Ah, thought I, the good Father is still dreaming about his album; we must indulge his humour, which, after all, is but a poor requital for all his politeness.

As we entered the parlour of the ‘Toison d’Or,’ we found the host in all the bravery of his Sunday suit, with a light-brown wig, and stockings blue as the heaven itself, standing waiting our arrival. The hostess, too, stood at the other side of the door, in the full splendour of a great quilted jupe, and a cap whose ears descended half-way to her waist. On the table, in the middle of the room, were two wax-candles, of that portentous size which we see in chapels. Between them there lay a great open volume, which at a glance I guessed to be the priest’s album. Not comprehending what the worthy host and hostess meant by their presence, I gave a look of interrogation to the père, who quickly whispered —

‘Oh, it is nothing; they are only the witnesses.’

I could not help laughing outright at the idea of this formality, nor could Laura refrain either when I explained to her what they came for. However, time passed; the jingle of the bells on the mules’ harness warned us that our equipage waited, and I dipped the pen in the ink and handed it to Laura.

‘I wish he would excuse me from performing this ceremony,’ said she, holding back; ‘I really am quite enough ashamed already.’

‘What says mademoiselle?’ inquired the père, as she spoke in English.

I translated her remark, when he broke in, ‘Oh, you must comply; it’s only a formality, but still every one does it.’

‘Come, come,’ said I, in English, ‘indulge the old man; he is evidently bent on this whim, and let us not leave him disappointed.’

‘Be it so, then,’ said she; ‘on your head, Mr. O’Leary, be the whole of this day’s indiscretion’; and so saying, she took the pen and wrote her name, ‘Laura Alicia Muddleton.’

‘Now, then, for my turn,’ said I, advancing; but the père took the pen from her fingers and proceeded carefully to dry the writing with a scrap of blotting-paper.

‘On this side, monsieur,’ said he, turning over the page; ‘we do the whole affair in orderly fashion, you see. Put your name there, with the date and the day of the week.’

‘Will that do?’ said I, as I pushed over the book towards him, where certainly the least imposing specimen of calligraphy the volume contained now stood confessed.

‘What a droll name!’ said the priest, as he peered at it through his spectacles. ‘How do you pronounce it?’

While I endeavoured to indoctrinate the father into the mystery of my Irish appellation, the mayor and the mayoress had both appended their signatures on either page.

‘Well, I suppose now we may depart at last,’ said Laura; ‘it’s getting very late.’

‘Yes,’ said I, aloud; ‘we must take the road now; there is nothing more, I fancy, Père José?’

‘Yes, but there is though,’ said he, laughing.

At the same moment the galloping of horses and the rumble of wheels were heard without, and a carriage drew up in the street. Down went the steps with a crash; several people rushed along the little gallery, till the very house shook with their tread. The door of the salon was now banged wide, and in rushed Colonel Muddleton, followed by the count, the abbé, and an elderly lady.

‘Where is he?’ – ‘Where is she?’ – ‘Where is he?’ – ‘Where is she?’ – ‘Where are they?’ screamed they, in confusion, one after the other.

‘Laura! Laura!’ cried the old colonel, clasping his daughter in his arms; ‘I didn’t expect this from you!’

‘Monsieur O’Leary, vous êtes un – ’

‘Before the count could finish, the abbé interposed between us, and said ‘No, no! Everything may be arranged. Tell me, in one word, is it over?’

‘Is what over?’ said I, in a state two degrees worse than insanity – ‘is what over?’

‘Are you married?’ whispered he.

‘No, bless your heart! never thought of it.’

‘Oh, the wretch!’ screamed the old lady, and went off into strong kickings on the sofa.

‘It’s a bad affair,’ said the abbé, in a low voice; ‘take my advice – propose to marry her at once.’

‘Yes, parbleu!’ said the little count, twisting his moustaches in a fierce manner; ‘there is but one road to take here.’

Now, though unquestionably but half an hour before, when seated beside the lovely Laura in the garden of the château, such a thought would have filled me with delight, the same proposition, accompanied by a threat, stirred up all my indignation and resistance.

Not on compulsion, said Sir John; and truly there was reason in the speech.

But, indeed, before I could reply, the attention of all was drawn towards Laura herself, who from laughing violently at first had now become hysterical, and continued to laugh and cry at intervals; and as the old lady continued her manipulations with a candlestick on an oak table near, while the colonel shouted for various unattainable remedies at the top of his voice, the scene was anything but decorous – the abbé, who alone seemed to preserve his sanity, having as much as he could do to prevent the little count from strangling me with his own hands; such, at least, his violent gestures seemed to indicate. As for the priest and the mayor and the she-mayor, they had all fled long before. There appeared now but one course for me, which was to fly also. There was no knowing what intemperate act the count might commit under his present excitement; it was clear they were all labouring under a delusion, which nothing at the present moment could elucidate. A nod from the abbé and a motion towards the open door decided my wavering resolution. I rushed out, over the gallery and down the road, not knowing whither, nor caring.

I might as well try to chronicle the sensations of my raving intellect in my first fever in boyhood as convey any notion of what passed through my brain for the next two hours. I sat on a rock beside the river, vainly endeavouring to collect my scattered thoughts, which only presented to me a vast chaos of a wood and a crusader, a priest and a lady, veal cutlets and music, a big book, an old lady in fits, and a man in sky-blue stockings. The rolling near me of a carriage with four horses aroused me for a second, but I could not well say why, and all was again still, and I sat there alone.

‘He must be somewhere near this,’ said a voice, as I heard the tread of footsteps approaching; ‘this is his hat. Ah, here he is.’ At the same moment the abbé stood beside me. ‘Come along, now; don’t stay here in the cold,’ said he, taking me by the arm. ‘They’ve all gone home two hours ago. I have remained to ride back the nag in the morning.’

I followed without a word.

‘Ma foi!’ said he, ‘it is the first occasion in my life where I could not see my way through a difficulty. What, in Heaven’s name, were you about? What was your plan?’

‘Give me half an hour in peace,’ said I; ‘and if I’m not deranged before it’s over, I’ll tell you.’

The abbé complied, and I fulfilled my promise – though in good sooth the shouts of laughter with which he received my story caused many an interruption. When I had finished, he began, and leisurely proceeded to inform me that Bouvigne’s great celebrity was as a place for runaway couples to get married; that the inn of the ‘Golden Fleece’ was known over the whole kingdom, and the Père Jose’s reputation wide as the Archbishop of Ghent’s; and as to the phrase ‘sous la cheminée’, it is only applied to a clandestine marriage, which is called a ‘mariage sous la cheminée.’

‘Now I,’ continued he, ‘can readily believe every word you ‘ve told me; yet there’s not another person in Rochepied would credit a syllable of it. Never hope for an explanation. In fact, before you would be listened to, there are at least two duels to fight – the count first, and then D’Espagne. I know Laura well; she ‘d let the affair have all its éclat before she will say a word about it; and, in fact, your executors may be able to clear your character – you ‘ll never do so in your lifetime. Don’t go back there,’ said the abbé, ‘at least for the present.’

‘I’ll never set my eyes on one of them,’ cried I, in desperation. ‘I’m nigh deranged as it is; the memory of this confounded affair – ’

‘Will make you laugh yet,’ said the abbé. ‘And now good-night, or rather good-bye: I start early to-morrow morning, and we may not meet again.’

He promised to forward my effects to Dinant, and we parted.

‘Monsieur will have a single bed?’ said the housemaid, in answer to my summons.

‘Yes,’ said I, with a muttering I fear very like an oath.

Morning broke in through the half-closed curtains, with the song of birds and the ripple of the gentle river. A balmy gentle air stirred the leaves, and the sweet valley lay in all its peaceful beauty before me.

‘Well, well,’ said I, rubbing my eyes, ‘it was a queer adventure; and there’s no saying what might have happened had they been only ten minutes later. I’d give a napoleon to know what Laura thinks of it now. But I must not delay here – the very villagers will laugh at me.’

I ate my breakfast rapidly and called for my bill. The sum was a mere trifle, and I was just adding something to it when a knock came to the door.

‘Come in,’ said I, and the père entered.

‘How sadly unfortunate,’ began he, when I interrupted him at once, assuring him of his mistake – telling him that we were no runaway couple at all, had not the most remote idea of being married, and in fact owed our whole disagreeable adventure to his ridiculous misconception.

‘It’s very well to say that now,’ growled out the père, in a very different accent from his former one. ‘You may pretend what you like, but’ – and he spoke in a determined tone – ‘you’ll pay my bill.’

‘Your bill!’ said I, waxing wroth. ‘What have I had from you. How am I your debtor? I should like to hear.’

‘And you shall,’ said he, drawing forth a long document from a pocket in his cassock. ‘Here it is.’

He handed me the paper, of which the following is a transcript: —

NOCES DE MI LORD O’LEARY ET MADEMOISELLE MI LADY DE MUDDLETON.

FRANCS.

Two conversations – preliminary, admonitory, and consolatory 10 0

Advice to the young couple, with moral maxims interspersed 3 0

Soirée, and society at wine 5 0

Guide to the château, with details, artistic and antiquarian 12 0

Eight children with flowers, at half a franc each 4 0

Fees at the château 2 0

Chorus of virgins, at one franc per virgin 10 0

Roses for virgins 2 10

M. le Maire et Madame ‘en grande tenue’ 1 0

Book of Registry, setting forth the date of the marriage —

‘The devil take it!’ said I; ‘it was no marriage at all.’ ‘Yes, but it was, though,’ said he. ‘It’s your own fault if you can’t take care of your wife.’

The noise of his reply brought the host and hostess to the scene of action; and though I resisted manfully for a time, there was no use in prolonging a hopeless contest, and, with a melancholy sigh, I disbursed my wedding expenses, and with a hearty malediction on Bouvigne – its château, its inn, its père, its maire, and its virgins – I took the road towards Namur, and never lifted my head till I had left the place miles behind me.

CHAPTER XVI. A MOUNTAIN ADVENTURE

It was growing late on a fine evening in autumn, as I, a solitary pedestrian, drew near the little town of Spa. From the time of my leaving Chaude Fontaine, I lingered along the road, enjoying to the utmost the beautiful valley of the Vesdre, and sometimes half hesitating whether I would not loiter away some days in one of the little villages I passed, and see if the trout, whose circling eddies marked the stream, might not rise as favourably to my fly as to the vagrant insect that now flitted across the water. In good sooth I wished for rest, and I wished for solitude; too much of my life latterly had been passed in salons and soirées; the peaceful habit of my soul, the fruit of my own lonely hours, had suffered grievous inroads by my partnership with the world, and I deemed it essential to be once more apart from the jarring influences and distracting casualties which every step in life is beset by, were it only to recover again my habitual tranquillity – to refit the craft ere she took the sea once more.

I wanted but little to decide my mind; the sight of an inn, some picturesque spot, a pretty face – anything, in short, would have sufficed. But somehow I suppose I must have been more fastidious than I knew of, for I continued to walk onward; and at last, leaving the little hamlet of Pepinsterre behind me, I set out with brisker pace towards Spa. The air was calm and balmy; no leaf stirred; the river beside the road did not even murmur, but crept silently along its gravelly bed, fearful to break the stillness. Gradually the shadows fell stronger and broader, and at length mingled into one broad expanse of gloom; in a few minutes more it was night.

There is something very striking, I had almost said saddening, in the sudden transition from day to darkness in those countries where no twilight exists. The gradual change by which road and mountain, rock and cliff, mellow into the hues of sunset, and grow grey in the gloaming, deepening the shadows, and by degrees losing all outline in the dimness around, prepares us for the gloom of night. We feel it like the tranquil current of years marking some happy life, where childhood and youth and manhood and age succeed in measured time. Not so the sudden and immediate change, which seems rather like the stroke of some fell misfortune, converting the cheerful hours into dark, brooding melancholy. Tears may – they do – fall lightly on some; they creep with noiseless step, and youth and age glide softly into each other without any shock to awaken the thought that says, Adieu to this! Farewell to that for ever!

Thus was I musing, when suddenly I found myself at the spot where the road branched off in two directions. No house was near, nor a living thing from whom I could ask the way. I endeavoured by the imperfect light of the stars, for there was no moon, to ascertain which road seemed most frequented and travelled, judging that Spa was the most likely resort of all journeying in these parts; but unhappily I could detect no difference to guide me. There were wheel-tracks in both, and ruts and stones tolerably equitably adjusted; each had a pathway, too – the right-hand road enjoying a slight superiority over the other in this respect, as its path was more even.

I was completely puzzled. Had I been mounted, I had left the matter to my horse; but unhappily my decision had not a particle of reason to guide it. I looked from the road to the trees, and from the trees to the stars, but they looked down as tranquilly as though either way would do – all save one, a sly little brilliant spangle in the south, that seemed to wink at my difficulty. ‘No matter,’ said I, ‘one thing is certain – neither a supper nor a bed will come to look for me here; and so now for the best pathway, as I begin to feel foot-sore.’