The Complete Prose Works of Martin Farquhar Tupper

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So, then, the moment our guiltless pair of lovers had severally stolen
away to their own rooms, there to feast on well-remembered looks, and
words, and hopes--there to lay before that heavenly Friend, whom both
had learned to trust, all their present joys, as aforetime all their
cares--Mrs. Tracy looked significantly at Julian, and thus addressed her
ever stern-eyed lord:

"So, general, the old song's coming true to us, I find, as to other
folks, who once were young together:

"'And when with envy Time, transported, seeks to rob us of our joys,
You'll in your girls again be courted, and I'll go wooing in my boys.'"

So said or sung the flighty Mrs. Tracy. It was as simple and innocent a
quotation as could possibly be made; I suppose most couples, who ever
heard the stanza, and have grown-up children, have thought upon its dear
domestic beauty: but it strangely affected the irascible old general. He
fumed and frowned, and looked the picture of horror; then, with a fierce
oath at his wife and sons, he firmly said--

"Woman, hold your fool's tongue: begone, and send Emily to me this
minute: stop, Mr. Julian--no--run up for your brother Charles, and come
you all to me in the study. Instantly, sir! do as I bid you, without a
word."

Julian would gladly have fought it out with his imperative father; but,
nevertheless, it was a comfort to have to fetch pale Charles for a
jobation; so he went at once. And the three young people, two of them
trembling with affections overstrained, and the third indurated in
effrontery, stood before that stern old man.

"Emily, child,"--and he added something in Hindostanee, "have I been
kind to you--and do you owe me any love?"

"Dear, dear sir, how can you ask me that?" said the warm-affectioned
girl, falling on her knees in tears.

"Get up, sweet child, and hear me: you see those boys; as you love me,
and yourself, and happiness, and honour--dare not to think of either,
one moment, as your husband."

Emily fainted; Charles staggered to assist her, though he well-nigh
swooned himself; and Julian folded his arms with a resolute air, as
waiting to hear what next.

But the general disappointed him: he had said his say: and, as volatile
salts, a lady's maid, and all that sort of reinvigoration, seemed
essential to Emily's recovery, he rang the bell forthwith: so the
pleasant family party broke up without another word.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE MYSTERY.

Our lovers would not have been praiseworthy, perhaps not human, had they
not met in secret once and again. True, their regularly concerted
studies were forbidden, and they never now might openly walk out
unaccompanied: but love (who has not found this out?) is both daring and
ingenious; and notwithstanding all that Emily purposed about doing as
the general so strangely bade her, they had many happy meetings, rich
with many happy words: all the happier no doubt for their stolen
sweetness.

There was one great and engrossing subject which often had employed
their curiosity; who and what was Emily Warren? for the poor girl did
not know herself. All she could guess, she told Charles, as he zealously
cross-questioned her from time to time: and the result of his inquiries
would appear to be as follows:

Emily's earliest recollections were of great barbaric pomp; huge
elephants richly caparisoned, mighty fans of peacock's tails, lines of
matchlock men, tribes of jewelled servants, a gilded palace, with its
gardens and fountains: plenty of rare gems to play with, and a splendid
queenly woman, whom she called by the Hindoo name for mother. The
general, too, was there among her first associations, as the gallant
Captain Tracy, with his company of native troops.

Then an era happened in her life; a tearful leave-taking with that proud
princess, who scarcely would part with her for sorrow; but the captain
swore it should be so: and an old Scotch-woman, her nurse, she could
remember, who told her as a child, but whether religiously or not she
could not tell, "Darling, come to me when you wish to know who made
you;" and then Mrs. Mackie went and spoke to the princess, and soothed
her, that she let the child depart peacefully. Most of her gorgeous
jewellery dated from that earliest time of inexplicable oriental
splendour.

After those infantine seven years, the captain took her with him to his
station up the country, where she lived she knew not how long, in a
strong hill-fort, one Puttymuddyfudgepoor, where there was a great deal
of fighting, and besieging, and storming, and cannonading; but it ceased
at last, and the captain, who then soon successively became both major
and colonel, always kept her in his own quarters, making her his little
pet; and, after the fighting was all over, his brother-officers would
take her out hunting in their howdahs, and she had plenty of
palanquin-bearers, sepoys, and servants at command; and, what was more,
good nurse Mackie was her constant friend and attendant.

Time wore on, and many little incidents of Indian life occurred, which
varied every day indeed, but still left nothing consequential behind
them: there were tiger-hunts, and incursions of Scindian tribes, and
Pindarree chieftains taken captive, and wounded soldiers brought into
the hospital; and often had she and good nurse Mackie tended at the sick
bed-side. And the colonel had the jungle fever, and would not let her go
from his sight; so she caught the fever too, and through Heaven's mercy
was recovered. And the colonel was fonder of her now than ever, calling
her his darling little child, and was proud to display her early budding
beauty to his military friends--pleasant sort of gentlemen, who gave her
pretty presents.

Then she grew up into womanhood, and saw more than one fine uniform at
her feet, but she did not comprehend those kindnesses: and the general
(he was general now) got into great passions with them, and stormed, and
swore, and drove them all away. Nurse Mackie grew to be old, and
sometimes asked her, "Can you keep a secret, child?--no, no, I dare not
trust you yet: wait a wee, wait a wee, my bonnie, bonnie bairn."

And now speedily came the end. The general resolved on returning to his
own old shores: chiefly, as it seemed, to avoid the troublesome
pertinacity of sundry suitors, who sought of him the hand of Emily
Warren for, by this name she was beginning to be called: in her earliest
recollection she was Amina; then at the hill-fort, Emily--Emily--nothing
for years but Emily: and as she grew to womanhood, the general bade her
sign her name to notes, and leave her card at houses, as Emily Warren:
why, or by what right, she never thought of asking. But nurse Mackie had
hinted she might have had "a better name and a truer;" and therefore,
she herself had asked the general what this hint might mean; and he was
so angry that he discharged nurse Mackie at Madras, directly he arrived
there to take ship for England.

Then, just before embarking, poor nurse Mackie came to her secretly, and
said, "Child, I will trust you with a word; you are not what he thinks
you." And she cried a great deal, and longed to come to England; but
the general would not hear of it; so he pensioned her off, and left her
at Madras, giving somebody strict orders not to let her follow him.

Nevertheless, just as they were getting into the boat to cross the surf,
the affectionate old soul ran out upon the strand, and called to her
"Amy Stuart! Amy Stuart!" to the general's great amazement as clearly as
her own; and she held up a packet in her hand as they were pushing off,
and shouted after her, "Child--child! if you would have your rights,
remember Jeanie Mackie!"

After that, succeeded the monotony of a long sea voyage. The general at
first seemed vexed about Mrs. Mackie, and often wished that he had asked
her what she meant; however, his brow soon cleared, for he reflected
that a discarded servant always tells falsehoods, if only to make her
master mischief.

"The voyage over, Charles, with all its cards, quadrilles, doubling the
cape, crossing the line, and the wearisome routine of sky and sea, the
quarter-deck and cabin, we found ourselves at length in Plymouth Sound;
left the Indiaman to go up the channel; and I suppose the post-chaise
may be consigned to your imagination."

CHAPTER IX.

HOW TO CLEAR IT UP.

In all this there was mystery enough for a dozen lovers to have crazed
their brains about. Emily might be a queen of the East, defrauded of
hereditary glories, and at any rate deserved such rank, if Charles was
to be judge; but what was more important, if the general had any reason
at all for his arbitrary mandate prohibiting their love, it was very
possible that reason was a false one.

Meantime, Charles had little now to live for, except his dear forbidden
Emily, any more than she for him. And to peace of mind in both, the
elucidation of that mystery which hung about her birth, grew more
needful day by day. At last, one summer evening, when they had managed a
quiet walk upon the sands under the Beacon cliff, Charles said abruptly,
after some moments of abstraction, "Dearest, I am resolved."

"Resolved, Charles! what about?" and she felt quite alarmed; for her
lover looked so stern, that she could not tell what was going to happen
next.

"I'll clear it up, that I will; I only wish I had the money."

"Why, Charles, what in the world are you dreaming about? you frighten
me, dearest; are you ill? don't look so serious, pray."

"Yes, Emily, I will; at once too. I'm off to Madras by next packet; or,
that is to say, would, if I could get my passage free."

"My noble Charles, if that were the only objection, I would get you all
the means; for the kind--kind general suffers me to have whatever sums I
choose to ask for. Only, Charles, indeed I cannot spare you; do not--do
not go away and leave me; there's Julian, too--don't leave me--and you
might never come back, and--and--" all the remainder was lost in
sobbing.

"No, my Emmy, we must not use the general's gold in doing what he might
not wish; it would be ungenerous. I will try to get somebody to lend me
what I want--say Mrs. Sainsbury, or the Tamworths. And as for leaving
you, my love, have no fears for me or for yourself; situated as we are,
I take it as a duty to go, and make you happier, setting you in rights,
whatever these may be; and for the rest, I leave you in His holy keeping
who can preserve you alike in body, as in soul, from all things that
would hurt you, and whose mercy will protect me in all perils, and bring
me back to you in safety. This is my trust, Emmy."

"Dear Charles, you are always wiser and better than I am: let it be so
then, my best of friends. Seek out good nurse Mackie, I can give you
many clues, hear what she has to say; and may the God of your own poor
fatherless Emily speed your holy mission! Yet there is one thing,
Charles; ought you not to ask your parents for their leave to go? You
are better skilled to judge than I can be, though."

"Emmy, whom have I to ask? my father? he cares not whither I go nor what
becomes of me; I hardly know him, and for twenty years of my short life
of twenty-one, scarcely believed in his existence; or should I ask my
mother? alas--love! I wish I could persuade myself that she would wish
me back again if I were gone; moreover, how can I respect her judgment,
or be guided by her counsel, whose constant aim has been to thwart my
feeble efforts after truth and wisdom, and to pamper all ill growths in
my unhappy brother Julian? No, Emily; I am a man now, and take my own
advice. If a parent forbade me, indeed, and reasonably, it would be fit
to acquiesce; but knowing, as I have sad cause to know, that none but
you, my love, will be sorry for my absence, as for your sake alone that
absence is designed, I need take counsel only of us who are here
present--your own sweet eyes, myself, and God who seeth us."

"True--most true, dear Charles; I knew that you judged rightly."

"Moreover, Emmy, secresy is needful for the due fulfilment of my
purpose." (Charles little thought how congenial to his nature was that
same secresy.) "None but you must know where I am, or whither I am gone.
For if there really is any mystery which the general would conceal from
us, be assured he both could and would frustrate all my efforts if he
knew of my design. The same ship that carried me out would convey an
emissary from him, and nurse Mackie never could be found by me. I must
go then secretly, and, for our peace sake, soon; how dear to me that
embassy will be, entirely undertaken in my darling Emmy's cause!"

"But--but, Charles, what if Julian, in your absence--"

"Hark, my own betrothed! while I am near you--and I say it not of
threat, but as in the sight of One who has privileged me to be your
protector--you are safe from any serious vexation; and the moment I am
gone, fly to my father, tell him openly your fears, and he will scatter
Julian's insolence to the winds of heaven."

"Thank you--thank you, wise dear Charles; you have lifted a load from my
poor, weak, woman's heart, that had weighed it down too heavily. I will
trust in God more, and dread Julian less. Oh! how I will pray for you
when far away."

CHAPTER X.

AUNT GREEN'S LEGACY.

At last--at last, Mrs. Green fell ill, and, hard upon the over-ripe age
of eighty-seven, seemed likely to drop into the grave--to the
unspeakable delight of her expectant relatives. Sooth to say, niece
Jane, the soured and long-waiting legatee, had now for years been
treating the poor old woman very scurvily: she had lived too long, and
had grown to be a burden; notwithstanding that her ample income still
kept on the house, and enabled the general to nurse his own East India
Bonds right comfortably. But still the old aunt would not die, and as
they sought not her, nor heir's (quite contrary to St. Paul's
disinterestedness), she was looked upon in the light of an incumbrance,
on her own property and in her own house. Mrs. Tracy longed to throw off
the yoke of dependance, and made small secret of the hatred of the
fetter: for the old woman grew so deaf and blind, that there could be no
risk at all, either in speaking one's mind, or in thoroughly neglecting
her.

However, now that the harvest of hope appeared so near, the legatee
renewed her old attentions: Death was a guest so very welcome to the
house, that it is no wonder that his arrival was hourly expected with
buoyant cheerfulness, and a something in the mask of kindliness: but I
suspect that lamb-skin concealed a very wolf. So, Mrs. Tracy tenderly
inquired of the doctor, and the doctor shook his head; and other doctors
came to help, and shook their heads together. The patient still grew
worse--O, brightening prospect!--though, now and then, a cordial draught
seemed to revive her so alarmingly, that Mrs. Tracy affectionately
urging that the stimulants would be too exciting for the poor dear
sufferer's nerves, induced Dr. Graves to discontinue them. Then those
fearful scintillations in her lamp of life grew fortunately duller, and
the nurse was by her bed-side night and day; and the old aunt became
more and more peevish, and was more and more spoken of by the Tracy
family--in her possible hearing, as "that dear old soul"--out of it,
"that vile old witch."

Charles, to be sure, was an exception in all this, as he ever was: for
he took on him the Christian office of reading many prayers to the poor
decaying creature, and (only that his father would not hear of such a
thing) desired to have the vicar to assist him. Emily also, full of
sympathy, and disinterested care, would watch the fretful patient, hour
after hour, in those long, dull nights of pain; and the poor, old,
perishing sinner loved her coming, for she spoke to her the words of
hope and resignation. Whether that sweet missionary, scarcely yet a
convert from her own dark creed--(Alas! the Amina had offered unto
Juggernaut, and Emily of the strong hill-fort had scarcely heard of any
truer God; and the fair girl was a woman-grown before, in her first
earthly love, she also came to know the mercies Heaven has in store for
us)--whether unto any lasting use she prayed and reasoned with that
hard, dried heart, none but the Omniscient can tell. Let us hope: let us
hope; for the fretful voice was stilled, and the cloudy forehead
brightened, and the haggard eyes looked cheerfully to meet the
inevitable stroke of death. Thus in wisdom and in charity, in patience
and in faith, that gentle pair of lovers comforted the dying soul.

However, days rolled away, and Aunt Green lingered on still, tenaciously
clinging unto life: until one morning early, she felt so much better,
that she insisted on being propped up by pillows, and seeing all the
household round her bed to speak to them. So up came every one, in no
small hope of legacies, and what the lawyers call "_donationes mortis
causa_."

The general was at her bed's-head, with, I am ashamed to say, perhaps
unconsciously, a countenance more ridiculous than lugubrious; though he
tried to subdue the buoyancy of hope and to put on looks of decent
mourning; on the other side, the long-expectant legatee, Niece Jane,
prudently concealed her questionable grief behind a scented
pocket-handkerchief. Julian held somewhat aloof, for the scene was too
depressing for his taste: so he affected to read a prayer-book, wrong
way up, with his tongue in his cheek: Charles, deeply solemnized at the
near approach of death, knelt at the poor invalid's bedside; and Emily
stood by, leaning over her, suffused in tears. At the further corners of
the bed, might be seen an old servant or two; and Mrs. Green's butler
and coachman, each a forty years' fixture, presented their gray heads at
the bottom of the room, and really looked exceedingly concerned.

Mrs. Green addressed them first, in her feeble broken manner:
"Grant--and John--good and faithful--thank you--thank you both; and you
too, kind Mrs. Lloyd, and Sally, and nurse--what's-your-name: give them
the packets, nurse--all marked--first drawer, desk: there--there--God
bless you--good--faithful."

The old servants, full of sorrow at her approaching loss, were comforted
too: for a kind word, and a hundred pound note a-piece, made amends for
much bereavement: the sick-nurse found her gift was just a tithe of
their's, and recognised the difference both just and kind.

"Niece Jane--you've waited--long--for--this day: my will--rewards you."

"O dear--dear aunt, pray don't talk so; you'll recover yet, pray--pray
don't:" she pretended to drown the rest in sorrow, but winked at her
husband over the handkerchief.

"Julian!" (the precious youth attempted to look miserable, and came as
called,) "you will find--I have remembered--you, Julian." So he winked,
too, at his mother, and tried to blubber a "thank you."

"Charles--where's Charles? give me your hand, Charles dear--let me feel
your face: here, Charles--a little pocket-book--good lad--good lad.
There's Emily, too--dear child, she came--too late--I forgot her--I
forgot her! general give her half--half--if you love--love--Emi--"

All at once her jaw dropped; her eyes, which had till now been
preternaturally bright, filmed over; her head fell back upon the pillow;
and the rich old aunt was dead.

Julian gave a shout that might have scared the parting spirit!

Really, the general was shocked, and Mrs. Tracy too; and the servants
murmured "shame--shame!" poor Charles hid his face; Emily looked up
indignantly; but Julian asked, with an oath, "Where's the good of being
hypocrites?" and then added, "now, mother, let us find the will."

Then the nurse went to close the dim glazed eyes; and the other
sorrowing domestics slunk away; and Charles led Emily out of the chamber
of death, saddened and shocked at such indecent haste.

Meanwhile, the hopeful trio rummaged every drawer--tumbled out the
mingled contents of boxes, desk, and escritoire--still, no will--no
will: and at last the nurse, who more than once had muttered, "Shame on
you all," beneath her breath, said,

"If you want the will, it's under her pillow: but don't disturb her yet,
poor thing!"

Julian's rude hand had already thrust aside the lifeless, yielding head,
and clutched the will: the father and mother--though humbled and
wonder-stricken at his daring--gathered round him; and he read aloud,
boldly and steadily to the end, though with scowling brow, and many
curses interjectional:

"In the name of God, Amen. I, Constance Green, make this my last will
and testament. Forasmuch as my niece, Jane Tracy, has watched and waited
for my death these two-and-twenty years, I leave her all the shoes,
slippers, and goloshes, whereof I may happen to die possessed: item, I
leave Julian, her son, my '_Whole Duty of Man_,' convinced that he is
deficient in it all: item, I confirm all the gifts which I intend to
make upon my death-bed: item, forasmuch as General Tracy, my niece's
husband, on his return from abroad, greeted me with much affection, I
bequeath and give to him five thousand pounds' worth of Exchequer bills,
now in my banker's hands; and appoint him my sole executor. As to my
landed property, it will all go, in course of law, to my heir, Samuel
Hayley, and may he and his long enjoy it. And as to the remainder of my
personal effects, including nine thousand pounds bank stock, my Dutch
fives, and other matters, whereof I may die possessed (seeing that my
relatives are rich enough without my help), I give and bequeath the
same, subject as hereinbefore stated, to the trustees, for the time
being, of the Westminster Lying-in Hospital, in trust, for the purposes
of that charitable institution. In witness whereof, I have hereunto set
my hand and seal this 13th day of May, 1840.

"CONSTANCE GREEN."

"Duly signed, sealed, and delivered! d----nation!" was Julian's brief
epilogue--"General, let's burn it."

"You can if you please, Mr. Julian," interposed the nurse, who had
secretly enjoyed all this, "and if you like to take the consequences;
but, as each of the three witnesses has the will sealed up in copy, and
the poor deceased there took pains to sign them all, perhaps--"

This settled the affair: and the discomfited expectants made a
precipitate retreat. As the general, however, got vastly more than he
expected, for his individual merits; and seeing that he loved Emily as
much as he hated both Julian and his wife, he really felt well-pleased
upon the whole, and took on him the duties of executor with
cheerfulness. So they buried Aunt Green as soon as might be.

CHAPTER XI.

PREPARATIONS AND DEPARTURE.

Charles's pocket-book was full of clean bank notes, fifteen hundred
pounds' worth: it contained also a diamond ring, and a lock of silvery
hair; the latter a proof of affectionate sentiment in the kind old soul,
that touched him at the heart.

"And now, my Emmy, the way is clear to us; Providence has sent me this,
that I may right you, dearest: and it will be wise in us to say nothing
of our plans. Avoid inquiries--for I did not say conceal or falsify
facts: but, while none but you, love, heed of my departure, and while I
go for our sakes alone, we need not invite disappointment by
open-mouthed publicity. To those who love me, Emmy, I am frank and
free; but with those who love us not, there is a wisdom and a justice in
concealment. They do not deserve confidence, who will not extend to us
their sympathy. None but yourself must know whither I am bound; and,
after some little search for curiosity's sake, when a week is past and
gone, no soul will care for me of those at home. With you, I will manage
to communicate by post, directing my letters to Mrs. Sainsbury, at
Oxton: I will prepare her for it. She knows my love for you, and how
they try to thwart us; but even she, however trustworthy, need not be
told my destination yet awhile, until 'India' appears upon the
post-mark. How glad will you be, dearest one, how happy in our
secret--to read my heart's own thoughts, when I am far away--far away,
clearing up mine Emmy's cares, and telling her how blessed I feel in
ministering to her happiness!"

Such was the substance of their talk, while counting out the
pocket-book.

Charles's remaining preparations were simple enough, now his purse was
flush of money: he resolved upon taking from his home no luggage
whatever: preferring to order down, from an outfitting house in London,
a regular kit of cadet's necessaries, to wait for him at the Europe
Hotel, Plymouth, on a certain day in the ensuing week. So that, burdened
only with his Emmy's miniature, and his pocket-book of bank notes, he
might depart quietly some evening, get to Plymouth in a preconcerted
way, by chaise or coach, before the morrow morning; thence, a boat to
meet the ship off-shore, and then--hey, for the Indies!

It was as well-devised a scheme as could possibly be planned; though its
secresy, especially with a mother in the case, may be a moot point as to
the abstract moral thereof: nevertheless, concretely, the only heart his
so mysterious absence would have pained, was made aware of all: then,
again, secresy had been the atmosphere of his daily life, the breath of
his education; and he too sorely knew his mother would rejoice at the
departure, and Julian, too--all the more certainly, as both brothers
were now rivals professed for the hand of Emily Warren: as to the
general, he might, or he might not, smoke an extra cheroot in the
excitement of his wonder; and if he cared about it anyways more
tragically than tobacco might betray, Emily knew how to comfort him.