The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 996, January 28, 1899

ROY’S IMPRUDENCE.

The letter from Mrs. Fairbank to Colonel Baron, which Roy undertook to read aloud to Denham, was lengthy and verbose. Some extracts may be given from it, the remainder being, in old-fashioned phrase, “left to the reader’s imagination.”

It may be remarked here that much had happened during the last four years in European history, since the Barons had left their own country. Notable among famous events was the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, which crippled for half a century to come the naval power of France.

For three years at least previous to that date, England had been kept on tenterhooks of expectation, incessantly dreading a French invasion. Napoleon had talked largely of such an invasion, and had made preparations for it on no mean scale. England also had made ready for it, had feared it, had laughed at it. And at the last, partly through Continental complications, causing Napoleon to withdraw most of the great military force which had long sat at Boulogne, waiting for a safe chance of crossing the Channel, but much more through the magnificent and crushing victory of Nelson, in the course of which he received his death-wound, England escaped it.

She escaped it, seemingly, by a very narrow margin. But for Napoleon’s pressing need of more soldiers elsewhere, and but for this crowning victory of Nelson’s, the attempt might certainly have been made. As everybody knows, Nelson chased the combined fleets of France and Spain across the Atlantic to the West Indies and back again; and had he, by one little slip, just missed finding those fleets at the critical moment, a landing of French troops might actually have taken place.

Whether Napoleon could ever have done more than land his troops upon the coast, is a question which cannot now be answered. It is not absolutely inconceivable that, through superior numbers and possibly superior discipline,[1] he might have gained one or two small victories, thereby placing himself in a position to march towards London. Even so much is unlikely; and that he could ever in the end have conquered Britain is absolutely inconceivable, despite his own boastful assurance on that point, which lasted or appeared to last until the end of his life.

But that he might have done a large amount of damage, that his soldiers might have pillaged right and left, that villages and towns might have been destroyed, that widespread loss and misery might have been inflicted, of all this there can be small question, at least as to the bare possibility.

These fears, however, were now at an end. Napoleon’s career of conquest on land continued unchecked; but at sea the flag of Great Britain reigned supreme. Nelson’s body lay beneath St. Paul’s Cathedral: but before he went he had done his work. He had saved his country from the iron heel of Napoleon. So Mrs. Fairbank’s letter contained no further descriptions of invasion scares, such as she would have had to write two or three years earlier, though it did contain certain references to the Emperor, not too cautiously worded for a letter on its road to France. Some past hopes of a peace between England and France, now at an end, were alluded to also.

“I’ll read it aloud to you, may I?” asked Roy again, when Captain Ivor had made his appearance, refreshed and smartened as to the outer man, and had been made to sit down to a hastily-prepared meal, to which he failed to do justice. “And,” Roy added, recalling Lucille’s words, “you can get on the sofa, and have a rest.”

Ivor declined to pose as an invalid, and submitted only to being installed in the Colonel’s large arm-chair, while Roy plunged into Mrs. Fairbank’s epistle, wading through it on the whole perseveringly, though not without suggestions of skippings.

“It’s written, ‘Bath, August 4th, 1806,’—ever so long ago,” he remarked as a preliminary. “But she didn’t get it all done in one day—not near. I can leave out the other dates. They don’t matter.

“‘MY DEAR SIR,—Though ’tis somewhat hopeless work writing, under the present aspect of affairs, I will send another letter, wishing that it may by some means reach you in safety. We still look out perpetually, with Constant Anxiety, for any sort of news of yourselves, which indeed but seldom arrives. These passing years are tru’ly melancholy to think upon. Molly is now fifteen, and has not seen Roy for a space of three years and more! Who could have thought——’ O I say, can’t I skip this? She does go on so. Well, I won’t, if you’d rather not; but it’s no good, you know. ‘Who could have thought it, my dear Sir, when you and your wife unhappily decided to make that doleful excursion to France, intending to stay but one fortnight, which resulted in this continued separation? Alas, how little man knows ever what lies Before him, in the Future!’ But what’s the good of her saying all that?

“‘The late tremendous storms about Lon^{n} have caused much Alarm, but these terrors seem to be now somewhat Abating.... I have been to the Pump Room and to the Circulating Library, and find people are not much elevated at the prospect of Mr. Fox concluding a Peace in the present dolorous situation, it being confidently said he cannot live a fortnight, and that he knows his situation.

“‘Mackbeth said Lady Mackbeth Should have died yesterday.’

“‘I presume that you with ourselves greatly lamented the death of Mr. Pitt last spring; a sad event at so critical a period.’ But I don’t see what she means about Macbeth—do you, Den? It’s so funny. O do you know, we got the Times with all about the ‘obsequies’ of Mr. Fox, and a picture of the hearse; and I kept it. I can show it to you by-and-by.

“‘A laughable jest was not long since in circulation here, that Bonaparte intended to compel the Pope to marry his Mother.... There are a society of monied people in Bath, buying all the Houses they can meet with, on Speculation, which raises them and also Lodgings, which, with the taxes, are high beyond any former period, and in the end will be a disadvantage to Bath; for the Keepers of Lodging-houses, if they can’t raise the price of rooms, oblige the strangers to take or at least pay for more than they want. The times do indeed afford a Melancholy Prospect. And still Bonaparte exists![2]

“‘If you have not, do read the Secret History of the Cabinet of St. Cloud.... I have had quite a levee this morning; two ladies quite in a pet that they cannot get genteel Lodgings for themselves and Maids under 80 or 90 pounds a year. Bath fills with Company.... It is rumoured that the Country Bankers are expected to have a run upon them for a little time; on what account I don’t clearly understand; therefore shall endeavour to get as many of their five-pound notes changed as I can at the Shops, by buying store of Candles, Sugar, etc., for they, the Bankers, will not part with any cash....’ O now we’re going to get to something more interesting.

“‘Jack is now with us for a fortnight, and he and Polly went this morning to the Public Library, and heard a Group of Gentlemen’s very serious opinions on the condition of Affairs at the present moment. What a succession of triumphs attends the Corsican, wicked Elf! Poor old England stands alone; but how long——?[2]

“‘General Moore, who as you doubtless are aware is now Sir John Moore, and has been these two years past, continues to Befriend Jack, when Opportunity offers. Jack is sorely Disappointed at not being of the number sent on this Expedition to Sicily. He hopes he may yet be ordered thither, if more troops are wanted. I don’t for my part know precisely what they may be doing there; but doubtless the Government has good Reasons for all that’s done. How much you in your long banishment may hear of Public News we have no means of guessing, my dear Sir, but most heartily do I wish it were over, and the Blessings of an assured Peace once more restored to Europe. Alas, while that persistent Disturber of Peace continues to flourish, what can be looked for but persistent War? ’Tis said that Mr. William Wilberforce declares that Austerlitz was the death-blow to Mr. Pitt.

“‘Polly desires me to send her due Remembrances to Captain Ivor, and her hopes that he continues well in health. She writ him but lately a long letter, tho’ ’tis disheartening work, none knowing if ever the letters sent do arrive. Polly is extremely well, and has her Roses in full Bloom, and is in vastly Good Spirits, albeit she was greatly Disappointed at the failure of the Peace negotiations, on which Mr. Fox built much, but without cause. ’Tis said that she grows a more elegant young woman each year; and for my part I know not if this be not the truth. Molly also is becoming fast a grown-up young woman; and there is in her face—altho’ she is not Handsome—an expression of such fine Moral Sensibility as cannot but gratify the Beholder.’”

Roy made a slight pause when Polly’s name came up, as if wondering whether Denham would say anything; but the break was not taken advantage of, and his still face said nothing. So Roy went on to the end, gabbling rather hurriedly through Molly’s affectionate and prim little composition to himself, which somehow always gave him a sense of stricture in the throat.

“That’s all. Nothing more,” said Roy.

“There may be scores of letters buried in official bureaux,” suggested Mrs. Baron. “From—Polly and all of them.”

Denham was looking steadily down, with an expression which to her as to Roy was inscrutable. No response came. He merely said, after a pause—

“I think that letter should be destroyed, Colonel. Unsafe to keep.”

Colonel Baron made a sound of assent. Home subjects then were dropped, and Denham was plied with questions as to his manner of life at Valenciennes. He had a good deal to tell, and his account of the Commandant there contrasted favourably with their experiences of General Wirion.

The next day was by common consent granted to Roy as a whole holiday. His studies had been carried on partly under the young clergyman, Mr. Kinsland, partly under his father, during the last eighteen months; but a free day seemed only fair, in honour of Denham’s return. The boy was in wild spirits, full of schemes for hunting up old friends in Denham’s company, Denham did not appear at all till after breakfast, just in time to attend appel, and Roy, having been withheld from disturbing him, was off on some business of his own. When, after appel, he rushed in, it was to find Denham in the Colonel’s chair, with a book open which he was not reading, and with the air of a man who would not be easily dislodged. His face told its own tale; and Roy’s look became suddenly blank.

“I’m afraid there is no help for it, Roy. You must give me a day’s grace. I’ve done a good deal of walking, you see;” which was a mild statement of the case.

“I thought you’d be rested by this morning.”

“Ought! but Morpheus declined to be courted.”

“Couldn’t you sleep? And you don’t want to go out again?”

“I don’t think a team of horses could drag me a mile. But you will look up the Curtises for me.”

“Yes, of course. Where are they? O you don’t know. I’ll find out. Is that it?”