CHAPTER VI.
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.--CONJECTURE AND ANTICIPATION.
THE day for the public solemnization of our marriage was at length
appointed. In fact, the plan for the future that appeared to me most
promising was to proffer my services to some foreign court, and that of
Russia held out to me the greatest temptation. I was therefore anxious,
as soon as possible, to conclude the rite of a second or public
nuptials, and I purposed leaving the country within a week afterwards.
My little lawyer assured me that my suit would go on quite as well in my
absence, and whenever my presence was necessary he would be sure to
inform me of it. I did not doubt him in the least--it is a charming
thing to have confidence in one's man of business.
Of Montreuil I now saw nothing; but I accidentally heard that he was on
a visit to Gerald, and that the latter had already made the old walls
ring with premature hospitality. As for Aubrey, I was in perfect
ignorance of his movements; and the unsatisfactory shortness of his last
letter, and the wild expressions so breathing of fanaticism in the
postscript, had given me much anxiety and alarm on his account. I
longed above all to see him, to talk with him over old times and our
future plans, and to learn whether no new bias could be given to a
temperament which seemed to lean so strongly towards a self-punishing
superstition. It was about a week before the day fixed for my public
nuptials that I received at last from him the following letter:--
MY DEAREST BROTHER,--I have been long absent from home,--absent on
affairs on which we will talk hereafter. I have not forgotten you,
though I have been silent, and the news of my poor uncle's death has
shocked me greatly. On my arrival here I learned your disappointment
and your recourse to law. I am not so much surprised, though I am as
much grieved as yourself, for I will tell you now what seemed to me
unimportant before. On receiving your letter, requesting consent to
your designed marriage, my uncle seemed greatly displeased as well as
vexed, and afterwards he heard much that displeased him more; from what
quarter came his news I know not, and he only spoke of it in innuendoes
and angry insinuations. As far as I was able I endeavoured to learn his
meaning, but could not, and to my praises of you I thought latterly he
seemed to lend but a cold ear; he told me at last, when I was about to
leave him, that you had acted ungratefully to him, and that he should
alter his will. I scarcely thought of this speech at the time, or
rather I considered it as the threat of a momentary anger. Possibly,
however, it was the prelude to that disposition of property which has so
wounded you: I observe, too, that the will bears date about that period.
I mention this fact to you; you can draw from it what inference you
will: but I do solemnly believe that Gerald is innocent of any fraud
towards you.
I am all anxiety to hear whether your love continues. I beseech you to
write to me instantly and inform me on that head as on all others. We
shall meet soon.
Your ever affectionate Brother,
AUBREY DEVEREUX.
There was something in this letter that vexed and displeased me: I
thought it breathed a tone of unkindness and indifference, which my
present circumstances rendered peculiarly inexcusable. So far,
therefore, from answering it immediately, I resolved not to reply to it
till after the solemnization of my marriage. The anecdote of my uncle
startled me a little when I coupled it with the words my uncle had used
towards myself on his death-bed; namely, in hinting that he had heard
some things unfavourable to Isora, unnecessary then to repeat; but still
if my uncle had altered his intentions towards me, would he not have
mentioned the change and its reasons? Would he have written to me with
such kindness, or received me with such affection? I could not believe
that he would; and my opinions of the fraud and the perpetrator were not
a whit changed by Aubrey's epistle. It was clear, however, that he had
joined the party against me; and as my love for him was exceedingly
great, I was much wounded by the idea.
"All leave me," said I, "upon this reverse,--all but Isora!" and I
thought with renewed satisfaction on the step which was about to insure
to her a secure home and an honourable station. My fears lest Isora
should again be molested by her persecutor were now pretty well at rest;
having no doubt in my own mind as to that persecutor's identity, I
imagined that in his new acquisition of wealth and pomp, a boyish and
unreturned love would easily be relinquished; and that, perhaps, he
would scarcely regret my obtaining the prize himself had sought for,
when in my altered fortunes it would be followed by such worldly
depreciation. In short, I looked upon him as possessing a
characteristic common to most bad men, who are never so influenced by
love as they are by hatred; and imagined, therefore, that if he had lost
the object of the love, he could console himself by exulting over any
decline of prosperity in the object of the hate.
As the appointed day drew near, Isora's despondency seemed to vanish,
and she listened, with her usual eagerness in whatever interested me, to
my Continental schemes of enterprise. I resolved that our second
wedding, though public, should be modest and unostentatious, suitable
rather to our fortunes than our birth. St. John, and a few old friends
of the family, constituted all the party I invited, and I requested them
to keep my marriage secret until the very day for celebrating it
arrived. I did this from a desire of avoiding compliments intended as
sarcasms, and visits rather of curiosity than friendship. On flew the
days, and it was now the one preceding my wedding. I was dressing to go
out upon a matter of business connected with the ceremony, and I then,
as I received my hat from Desmarais, for the first time thought it
requisite to acquaint that accomplished gentleman with the rite of the
morrow. Too well bred was Monsieur Desmarais to testify any other
sentiment than pleasure at the news; and he received my orders and
directions for the next day with more than the graceful urbanity which
made one always feel quite honoured by his attentions.
"And how goes on the philosophy?" said I: "faith, since I am about to be
married, I shall be likely to require its consolations."
"Indeed, Monsieur," answered Desmarais, with that expression of
self-conceit which was so curiously interwoven with the obsequiousness
of his address, "indeed, Monsieur, I have been so occupied of late in
preparing a little powder very essential to dress, that I have not had
time for any graver, though not perhaps more important, avocations."
"Powder--and what is it?"
"Will Monsieur condescend to notice its effect?" answered Desmarais,
producing a pair of gloves which were tinted of the most delicate
flesh-colour; the colouring was so nice, that when the gloves were on,
it would have been scarcely possible, at any distance, to distinguish
them from the naked flesh.
"'Tis a rare invention," said I.
"Monsieur is very good, but I flatter myself it is so," rejoined
Desmarais; and he forthwith ran on far more earnestly on the merits of
his powder than I had ever heard him descant on the beauties of
Fatalism. I cut him short in the midst of his harangue: too much
eloquence in any line is displeasing in one's dependant.
I had just concluded my business abroad, and was returning homeward with
downcast eyes and in a very abstracted mood, when I was suddenly
startled by a loud voice that exclaimed in a tone of surprise:
"What!--Count Devereux,--how fortunate!"
I looked up, and saw a little dark man, shabbily dressed; his face did
not seem unfamiliar to me, but I could not at first remember where I had
seen it: my look, I suppose, testified my want of memory, for he said,
with a low bow,--
"You have forgotten me, Count, and I don't wonder at it; so please you,
I am the person who once brought you a letter from France to Devereux
Court."
At this, I recognized the bearer of that epistle which had embroiled me
with the Abbe Montreuil. I was too glad of the meeting to show any
coolness in my reception of the gentleman, and to speak candidly, I
never saw a gentleman less troubled with /mauvaise honte/.
"Sir!" said he, lowering his voice to a whisper, "it is most fortunate
that I should thus have met you; I only came to town this morning, and
for the sole purpose of seeking you out. I am charged with a packet,
which I believe will be of the greatest importance to your interests.
But," he added, looking round, "the streets are no proper place for my
communication; /parbleu/, there are those about who hear whispers
through stone walls: suffer me to call upon you to-morrow."
"To-morrow! it is a day of great business with me, but I can possibly
spare you a few moments, if that will suffice; or, on the day after,
your own pleasure may be the sole limit of our interview."
"/Parbleu/, Monsieur, you are very obliging,--very; but I will tell you
in one word who I am and what is my business. My name is Marie Oswald:
I was born in France, and I am the half-brother of that Oswald who drew
up your uncle's will."
"Good Heavens!" I exclaimed; "is it possible that you know anything of
that affair?"
"Hush--yes, all! my poor brother is just dead; and, in a word, I am
charged with a packet given me by him on his death-bed. Now, will you
see me if I bring it to-morrow?"
"Certainly; can I not see you to-night?"
"To-night?--No, not well; /parbleu/! I want a little consideration as
to the reward due to me for my eminent services to your lordship. No:
let it be to-morrow."
"Well! at what hour? I fear it must be in the evening."
"Seven, /s'il vous plait/, Monsieur."
"Enough! be it so."
And Mr. Marie Oswald, who seemed, during the whole of this short
conference, to have been under some great apprehension of being seen or
overheard, bowed, and vanished in an instant, leaving my mind in a most
motley state of incoherent, unsatisfactory, yet sanguine conjecture.
