LITMIR.BIZ

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I was resolved to convict her in an untruth.”

      “Well, now, there is some sense in that, boy; always contradict ill report by personal merit. But what think you of her ladyship? ‘Gad, you know what old Bellair said of Emilia. ‘Make much of her: she’s one of the best of your acquaintance. I like her countenance and behaviour. Well, she has a modesty not i’ this age, a-dad she has.’ Applicable enough; eh, boy?”

      “‘I know her value, Sir, and esteem her accordingly,’” answered I, out of the same play, which by dint of long study I had got by heart. “But, to confess the truth,” added I, “I think you might have left out the passage about her modesty.”

      “There, now; you young chaps are so censorious; why, ‘sdeath, sir, you don’t think the worse of her virtue because of her wit?”

      “Humph!”

      “Ah, boy! when you are my age, you’ll know that your demure cats are not the best; and that reminds me of a little story; shall I tell it you, child?”

      “If it so please you, Sir.”

      “Zauns—where’s my snuff-box?—oh, here it is. Well, Sir, you shall have the whole thing, from beginning to end. Sedley and I were one day conversing together about women. Sid was a very deep fellow in that game: no passion you know; no love on his own side; nothing of the sort; all done by rule and compass; knew women as well as dice, and calculated the exact moment when his snares would catch them, according to the principles of geometry. D——d clever fellow, faith; but a confounded rascal: but let it go no further; mum’s the word! must not slander the dead; and ‘tis only my suspicion, you know, after all. Poor fellow: I don’t think he was such a rascal; he gave a beggar an angel once,—well, boy, have a pinch?—Well, so I said to Sir Charles, ‘I think you will lose the widow, after all,—‘Gad I do.’ ‘Upon what principle of science, Sir William?’ said he. ‘Why, faith, man, she is so modest, you see, and has such a pretty way of blushing.’ ‘Hark ye, friend Devereux,’ said Sir Charles, smoothing his collar and mincing his words musically, as he was wont to do,—‘hark ye, friend Devereux, I will give you the whole experience of my life in one maxim: I can answer for its being new, and I think it is profound; and that maxim is—,’ no, faith, Morton—no, I can’t tell it thee: it is villanous, and then it’s so desperately against all the sex.”

      “My dear uncle, don’t tantalize me so: pray tell it me; it shall be a secret.”

      “No, boy, no: it will corrupt thee; besides, it will do poor Sid’s memory no good. But, ‘sdeath, it was a most wonderfully shrewd saying,—i’ faith, it was. But, zounds, Morton, I forgot to tell you that I have had a letter from the Abbe to-day.”

      “Ha! and when does he return?”

      “To-morrow, God willing!” said the knight, with a sigh.

      “So soon, or rather after so long an absence! Well, I am glad of it. I wish much to see him before I leave you.”

      “Indeed!” quoth my uncle; “you have an advantage over me, then! But, ods fish, Morton, how is it that you grew so friendly with the priest before his departure? He used to speak very suspiciously of thee formerly; and, when I last saw him, he lauded thee to the skies.”

      “Why, the clergy of his faith have a habit of defending the strong and crushing the weak, I believe; that’s all. He once thought I was dull enough to damn my fortune, and then he had some strange doubts for my soul; now he thinks me wise enough to become prosperous, and it is astonishing what a respect he has conceived for my principles.”

      “Ha! ha! ha!—you have a spice of your uncle’s humour in you; and, ‘Gad, you have no small knowledge of the world, considering you have seen so little of it.”

      A hit at the popish clergy was, in my good uncle’s eyes, the exact acme of wit and wisdom. We are always clever with those who imagine we think as they do. To be shallow you must differ from people: to be profound you must agree with them. “Why, Sir,” answered the sage nephew, “you forget that I have seen more of the world than many of twice my age. Your house has been full of company ever since I have been in it, and you set me to making observations on what I saw before I was thirteen. And then, too, if one is reading books about real life, at the very time one is mixing in it, it is astonishing how naturally one remarks and how well one remembers.”

      “Especially if one has a genius for it,—eh, boy? And then too, you have read my play; turned Horace’s Satires into a lampoon upon the boys at school; been regularly to assizes during the vacation; attended the county balls, and been a most premature male coquette with the ladies. Ods fish, boy! it is quite curious to see how the young sparks of the present day get on with their lovemaking.”

      “Especially if one has a genius for it,—eh, sir?” said I.

      “Besides, too,” said my uncle, ironically, “you have had the Abbe’s instructions.”

      “Ay, and if the priests would communicate to their pupils their experience in frailty, as well as in virtue, how wise they would make us!”

      “Ods fish! Morton, you are quite oracular. How got you that fancy of priests?—by observation in life already?”

      “No, Uncle: by observation in plays, which you tell me are the mirrors of life; you remember what Lee says,—

              “‘‘Tis thought

      That earth is more obliged to priests for bodies

      Than Heaven for souls.’”

      And my uncle laughed, and called me a smart fellow.

      CHAPTER XII

THE ABBE’S RETURN.—A SWORD, AND A SOLILOQUY

      THE next evening, when I was sitting alone in my room, the Abbe Montreuil suddenly entered. “Ah, is it you? welcome!” cried I. The priest held out his arms, and embraced me in the most paternal manner.

      “It is your friend,” said he, “returned at last to bless and congratulate you. Behold my success in your service,” and the Abbe produced a long leather case richly inlaid with gold.

      “Faith, Abbe,” said I, “am I to understand that this is a present for your eldest pupil?”

      “You are,” said Montreuil, opening the case, and producing a sword. The light fell upon the hilt, and I drew back, dazzled with its lustre; it was covered with stones, apparently of the most costly value. Attached to the hilt was a label of purple velvet, on which, in letters of gold, was inscribed, “To the son of Marshal Devereux, the soldier of France, and the friend of Louis XIV.”

      Before I recovered my surprise at this sight, the Abbe said: “It was from the King’s own hand that I received this sword, and I have authority to inform you that if ever you wield it in the service of France it will be accompanied by a post worthy of your name.”

      “The service of France!” I repeated; “why, at present that is the service of an enemy.”

      “An enemy only to a part of England!” said the Abbe, emphatically; “perhaps I have overtures to you from other monarchs, and the friendship of the court of France may be synonymous with the friendship of the true sovereign of England.”

      There was no mistaking the purport of this speech, and even in the midst of my gratified vanity I drew back alarmed.

      The Abbe noted the changed expression of my countenance, and artfully turned the subject to comments on the sword, on which I still gazed with a lover’s ardour. Thence he veered to a description of the grace and greatness of the royal donor: he dwelt at length upon the flattering terms in which Louis had spoken of my father, and had inquired concerning myself; he enumerated

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