Family Column.

Wellington Independent, Volume XVII, Issue 1844, 19 March 1863, Page 4

Family Column.

CHRISTMAS TALE.

SOMEBODY'S LUGGAGE,

By Charles Dickens,

HIS BLACK BAG. [The tales found iv " His Boots," and in " His Umbrella," being specimens of the writings, which, when offered for publication, were invariably refused are omitted. — Ed. W. I.]

Creel was a ducal house— a palace almost — in the north of Scotland, and I don't believe that anywhere in the north or the south, the east or the west, a pleasanter place could be found tostav at, or a pleasanter host and hostess than the Duke" and Duchess of Greta, I had known the duchess lo})g before her marriage, and as to her husband, we got on well from the very first day , of my stay at Creel, when I had the good fortune j to land a salmon in a style the duke highly opproved of; an achievement which I followed up by tying a fly with which he himself killed first and last five lar^e salmon, and a dozen grilse, before it came to pieces. Every year I went to itay at Creel, making one of a great society, the castle being big enough to hold a small world within its walls.

The first day of my arrival at Creel on the occasion of which I am writing, 1 found myself seated between old lady Salteith, who is very deaf, and an uncommonly stupid master of fox-hounds, whose voice nobody would ever care to hear unless when it was raised in a melodious tally-ho or uttering words of encouragement to a despondent hound. Exactly opposite to where I sat was the beautiful Miss Crawcour. Of this young lady I had heard a great deal, though 1 had never before found myself in her company. She was placed next to the man of all others for whom, 1 have, I think, the least liking. This was Lord Sneyd, the best match, pecuniarily, and the worst, I should imagine, in every other way, that England had to show. At a glance, I saw w hat was going on. Miss Crawcour was a near relation of the duchess, and the duchess was one of the most inveterate match makers that ever lived. She was at this time about five or six-and-thirty. good-looking, and good-natured to an excess, but uhe had this quality of match-making developed in her nature to an extent that was almost inconceivable, and certainly premature. But the duchess did not stand alone in keeping a watchful eye over this affair. My foxhunting friend, from whom I learnt who the young lady opposite really was, had even his stupid old eye fixed upon Miss Crawcour. Lady Sakeith, deaf, as I have said, and so Bhut out from conversation, watched her with might and main, and so, indeed, more or less, did most of the guests assembled round that great table. I ought, perhaps, to except the duke, who, I think, was insensible to all such matters, bein.if a sportsman and nothing else in the world. The curiosity of the rest of the company was excusable. One of the special beauties of the day, and one of the great matches of the year, were there side by side, and of course everybody wanted to know what would come of it. The beauty of Mary Crawcour was of no ordinary kind, and there was in it a wonderful sense of health and vitality. It was scarcely possible to look at her without feeling inclined to envy her the extraordinary resources and the prosperous future which an organism so complete seemed to promise. What a pity, one could not help thinking—what a pity it would be if anything should occur to mar such a career. And then as v>u looked from her to her neighbor the thought i.umediately followed, " iiow mar a career r.i )ie - utterly than by such an alliance as that ?"

Philip, Earl of Sneyd, was not what some people would call bad looking, though to me I must own that his appearance was most disagreeable. I suppose at the time lam speaking of he wa3 two or three-and-forty, but he was one of those light complexioned men who look less than their age. His features, too, were small and regular. What much uglier men I have seen whom it was pleasanter to look at than this same Lord Bneyd. There was something so utterly unmanly and weak about him. He was so much too soigne in his "get up." His hair was curled and crimped, and so were his whiskers. He affected jewellery, and I have frequently seen him with rings outside his gloves. He always wore, too, such tightlystrapped trousers and such thin lacquered boots. I don't believe he had such a thing as a shooting i jacket or a pair of highlows in his possession. When the other men of the party of which he i made one, were out of doors, he was to be found ! in the drawing room playing on the piano, or, still I better, getting some lady to accompany him while he sang ; for 1 must do him the justice to say that he had a good tenor voice, and performed I upon it in tune and with considerable taste. j 1 looked on then at this game, and I saw, or thought I saw — what ? A used up man, who had never had anything but a pippin for a heart — this aaid pippin having once, however, had some juice and softness in it, but now resembling those of Normandy, which one sees in the grocers' shopsdry, hard, and sadly contracted and pinched about the core. I saw that this man had settled with himself that the young lady beside him was personally and otherwiso suitable to the position of Countess of Sneyd, and that to be the proprietor of such a piece of humanity would be generally agreeable to his inclination, and creditable to his discernment iuto the bargain I saw, too. a young girl, at the very commencement of what might be a bright and glorious existence, about to sacrifice all her happiness, deliberately selling it for money and a coronet, and I thought I saw that this was not done willingly as some girls do such acts, but because she was forced into it.

Sitting there opposite, and having little to do in the way of conversation myself, I heard many scraps of dialogue between Miss Crawcour and her neighbour. The young lady was attentive to what Lord Sneyd said, certainly, but always with a grave attention She never smiled, or relaxed A great dinner ! What a wondrous jumble of sound, what a queer mixture of words and

thoughts ; of observations made aloud and ob

serrations made in secret. What scraps .overheard. What nonsense. If sound and thought and action oould bo photographed ■ caught in 6ome camera obscura, and retained, what would be the result of the process ? In the case with which we have now to do — something of this sort. Quick ! The instrument is set, the elide withdrawn, and the sensitive, and prepared, plate exposed. (The " dinner sounds," not being essential to the tale, are omitted for want of apace.) When that long " banquet scene " was at an end, and the ladies left the room, I found mj'self, by the retirement of oM Lady Salteith, next my hearty straightforward manly friend Jack Fortegcue, with whom I had already exchanged a nod behind the old lady'a back. I was very glad to see him. We talked about all sorts of things ; and presently got upon the subject which had been occupying me so much during dinner. I was rather anxious, I must own, to lead to it, having heard a rumour somewhere or other, that my friend Jack himself was smitten with Miss Craw-

cour. I don't know when I heard it, or where,

Those things seem in some societies to circulate in the air.

To my surprise, I found Fortescue very uncommunicative about this matter, and still more, to my wonder, I observed a tendency in him rather favorable to this match. He even Bought to defend Lord Sneyd against my attacks. "Oh, he's not such a bad follow," he said, " when you come to know him. He's affected, you know, and pretends to-be wonderfully refined, and to be a petit-maitre, and all that, but he has his good points. We fellows who are always shooting, fishing, or riding over stone dykes, are apt to undervalue a man of quieter tastes, and more sedentary pursuits. Sneyd goes in, you know, for being a sort of artißt. By-the-by — talking of artists — did you see the portrait of the duche3s in the Academy this year — wasn't it good ?''

I saw that my friend wanted to get away from the subject,' so of course I did not attempt to pureueit. I was not enlightened by anything that occurred in the drawing-room after dinner. Miss

Orawcour and Fortescue hardly exchanged a dozen words, and Lord Sneyd was in attendance

Upon the young lady throughout the evening. In the smoking-room afterwards, Lord Sneyd re-

fused cigars, and smoked some infernal perfumed composition out of a hookah. Heaven knows what it was. Opium, perhaps ? — Nothing wholesome, I'll warrant. •

It was on the day succeeding that of my arrival at Creel, that I sought the billiard -room, the usual refuge of the unemployed. I had remained at home that morning, having some letters to ! write and other things to do in my own room. These finished, I had still half an hour or more on my hands before luncheon, so I thought I would wend my way to the billiard-room. If I found any one to play with, so much the better. If not, I would practise difficult cannons for half an hour or so, and in that way get- through the time. Two people were in the room. A gentleman and a lady. Jack Fortescue and Miss Crawcour. They were standing together at the further end of the table. Both had cues in their hands, and the balls were on the board, but at the moment of my entrance they were certainly not playing. Miss Crawcour's back was to the light, but a glance showed me beyond a shadow of doubt that she had been crying, was crying even, when I entered tho room. What was I to do ? Fortescue was my friend. The room was public to everybody in the castle. If I retired, it would be a marked act, showing that I felt I had interrupted some scene which did not requiro witnesses. " Are you having a game, or only practising ?' I said to Fortescne, merely to break the awkward silence. " Oh, it's a game," he answered, making a great effort, but not speaking then in his proper voice. " And it's my stroke. Look," he said to me quickly, " is that cannon possible ? " and he made it almost as he spoke. Two or three more followed. Then a hazard. At last a bad shot, and it was time for Miss Crawcour. She came to her place at the table, find made a violent effort to collect herself. I did not look at her, but pretended to be absorbed in marking Fortescue's score. I heard her cue strike the ball in an uncertain way. There was no subsequent sound indicating the contact of her ball with one of the others. It was a miss. The moment she had made it, she placed her cue against the wall, and saying something indistinctly about not being able to play, and about my finishing the game instead of her, left the billiard-room, closing the door after her. As soon as s'le was gone, Fortescuo came up to where I stood.

" After what you've seen," he said, " it's no use my attempting to make a secret of whac has been

going on between Miss Crawcour and myself."

"My dear Fortescue, I have no wish to force niyself on your confidence. Whafc I have seen, can be for ever as if I had not seen it, if you wish

it. You know that." " No, no, I don't wish it," he answered quickly " But come outside with me for half a minute. We can't talk here."

Out in the open air, the rooks cawing aboul. the tree- lops as their nests waved to and fro in the wind, he spoke again, as we lay on the grass. " I dare say you have heard my name and Mi?s Crawconr's spoken of together? — You have. I don't know what right any one has had to talk about either of us. However, that can't be helped." He paused, and did not seem al>le to go on. " I hate speaking of things of this sort,' 1 he continued, afler a moment, and in an impatient tone, " one's words sound like words in a valentine or a trashy novel. Well— it can't be helped. I love Uiis girl, Mary Crawcour. I would do anything for her " 41 And yet you could speak yesterday about her marrying that man Sneyd." " Ton were not then in ray confidence. To the world I must seem to favour that marriage. I am pledged to do so."

" Pledged ? To whom ?" " To the duchess." My dear Fortescue, how, in Heaven's name, could you enter into so rash an engagement?" " How ? How could I do otherwise, you mean ? You know my position. I have two hundred. a year and my pay. Can I marry that girl, accustomed to the life she is accustomed to on that? Have I a right to fetter her with, a long engage moot, on the remote possibility of my becoming possessed of property between which and myself there are half a dozen lives? Have I a right to stand in the way of such a marriage as that with Sneyd ? What could 1 say when the duchess put these questions to me ?"

" Do you believe that Miss Crawcour would be happy in such a marriage f " "I don't know," answered Fortescue, almost desperately. " I have seen such misery come from poverty in married life "

" Depend on it," I answered, " it is not the worst evil, by many degrees. Fortescue." I continued, after a moment's pause, "does Miss Crawcour love you ?"

" I think po," he sail

id, speaking in a low voice

" Then depend on it you are doing wrong. You are acting as you think rightly, and with a great and noble self-denial. But you are mistaken,

cruelly,) terribly mistaken, if you have pledged j'ourself to favour this match with Sneyd and to give up your own hold on that young lady's love." " I am pledged," Fortoscue answered. "To what?" " To do nothing that is calculated to hinder the marriage with Sneyd, and not to press my ow suit by word or deed, for a period of five years — by which time, of course, all chance will be over." 14 And this was what you were telling Miss Crawcour just now ?■' " Something of it. She followed me to the billiard-room. Sho seems desperate, reckless. She swears she will not have him. I entreated her to leave me — you saw the rest." I said, after a moment's pause, " The conduct of the duchess surprises me in this thing, I own. She has such good points, I know. She is kindhearted — hospitable— " Yes, she is all that, 1 ' said Fortescuo, interrupting me, " but phe is touched by the world like everybody else. Why, you don't know what the notions of thefie people are. The things that are necessaries of life to them — real necessaries of life — require a fortune to provide them. To a woman like the duchess, the existence which such means as mine imply, seems what the workhouse or absolute starvation appears to you. When the duchess puts the case so to me, I tell you, I am speechless. 1 ' " Fottescue," I said, after a long silence. " These things being so, and this most rash and miserable pledge being given — what do you do here ?" " I go to-morrow." " Have you told Miss Crawcour thai?" " No, I have told no one. I mean to tell no one. When the party goes out riding to-morrow morning, I shall excuse myself, and— and luave this place, most likely for ever. There is a row in India I hear — perhaps I shall get rid of my life there, lt'a at anybody's service." Again there was a pause. I knew what that careless tone meant, and for a time I could not speak. 44 Fortescue," 1 said at last, " I have one more thing to ask. Has Sneyd spoken yet ?" 4 ' No," answpred my friend rising to lead the way to the house ; " but he is certain to do so to - day — or to-morrow ." in. That afternoon a party, of which Fortescue and I formed two, went out cover shooting in the neighborhood. I never paw my friend shoot so ill . Indeed, the poor fellow seemed entirely bewildered, and unfit for anything. I think he only joined the party to get away from the house, Miss Crawcour did not appear at dinner. She was suffering from a headache, the duchess said, and preferred remaining in her room. Lord Sneyd professed as much interest as would comport with his languid manner. I could see in Fortescue's face, carefully as he had drilled it, how much he suffered additionally at not spending this, hia last evening, in Miss Crawcour's society.

The next day came, and I was again prevented, by certain literary labours to which I was obliged to devote myself, from going out in the early part of the day. I spent the morning in my room, which was situated in one of the round towers which flanked the entrance of the castle, one on each side.

About half.pasfc eleven I heard the voices of some of the men who were staying in the castle as they lounged about the door, gossiping and talking. Soon after, I heard the clatter of horses' hoofa ia the distance, and soon the same sound accompa-

nied by the scattering of gravel, and the ' Wo mare !" and " Steady horse I" of the grooms. 1 looked out from behind my curtains ; I am always easily diverted from my work. The riding party was all assembled. Three or four men; among them, for a wonder, Lord Sneyd. He had his own horse, a nasty long-tailed white brute, that cost, I dare say, a mint of money, and that no man worth twopence would get across. The duchess and Miss Crawcour were the ladies of the party. The duke came to the door to see them off. He was not going with them, having all sorts of things to arrange with that important minister the gamekeeper. " Where's Foitescue?" maid some one. "Oh, he's not going this morning," the duke answered. "He is writing letters." Ho was helping Miss Crawcour into tho saddle as he spoke. It may have been the exertion of mounting, or it may not, but I could see that she blushed deeply.

I did not like the look of the animal on which ' Miss Crawcour was mounted. As far as beauty went, certainly there was nothing to complain of. A handsomer mare I never saw. But the movements of the ears were too incessant and violent, and there was more white to the eye shown than I like to see in connexion with a riding-habit The mare had been difficult to hold while Miss Crawcour was being lifted on, and, now that the young lady was fairly on tho brute's back, ir became exceedingly restive, almost unmanageable.

" Are you afraid of her at all, Mary ?" the duke asked, as he stood at tho door; sha seems unusually frisky this morning." 11 No, not in the least. She's always like this at starting." This was Mis 3 Crawcour's answer, but I thought phe looked pale. Perhaps it was the reaction after that blush I had noticed. The duke spoke again. This time to the head groom : " Has that mare been exercised this morning , Roberts ?"

The man hesitated just half a moment, and lookei at the mare.

11 Yes, your grace," he said, touching his hat,

" You're sure. Mary," the duchess said, " that you're not afraid? Do let them take her back and bring you another mount."

" Yes. yes, much better," added the duke " Roberts, send that mare back, and saddle Robin Hood for Miss Crawcour.''

" Beg your pardon, your grace, but tho horse is in physic ; he's not been very well for a day or two."

" Well, then, tha brown mare, or Bullfinch, or "

"No, no, no, no," Miss Crawcour called from the saddle. •• I like this mare best of all. Let her go,' she said to the groom who was holding the cursed brute's head. And off she cantered, the mare plunging and kicking.

" lteally," said Lord Sneyd, with his foot in tho stirrup, " Miss Crawcour ought not to be allowed to ride that ferocious animal. Can nobody stop her? "

" You ride after her, Sneyd," said the duke, smiling, " and try if you can't bring her back " Lord Sneyd was in the saddle by this time, and cantered off at a regular rocking-horse pace. His groom behind him on a thorough-bred.

That was the last I saw of the cavalcade. The duke retired! immediately to the gun-room ; and I went back to. my writing table, but I could not help feeling a certain sonse of uneasiness, the look of that mare not being at all to my liking, and the manner of the groom having left an impression on my mind that the animal had not really been out before that morning.

All the events of that da}' are very fresh in my memory. The next room to mine was a boudoir. There was a piano in it, and some of the ladies of the party was playing on it. I don't know what she was playing, though I should recognise the air now in a moment if I heard it. It was what is called a " piece," and had a wonderful plaintive beauty about it. As the performer played it many times over, I suppose she was learning it.

I went on writing, and what I wrote seemed in a sort of way to be inix:d up with this tune. Presently I heard the sound of wheels, and some light vehicle drove up to the door. I went again to the window. It was Ja dog* c wt, driven by one of tho duke's grooms and it drew up before the door. Some servants brought out & portmanteau, some gun-cases, and other luggage, and placed them in the vehicle. Almost at the samtj momeut my door opened, and Fortoscue entered the room. I never saw anything more dreadful than the suppressed agony in his face.

" Good-by, old fellow," he said, with a miserable ghastly smile. I'm off, you see. Will you take charge of this note for the duchess ? I've explained to Greta that I find my letters this morning require my presence in London. Good-by ! I've only just time to catcli the train."

11 Stay," I said ; " where can 1 write to you." 11 London, to-morrow After that Chatham. Good-by again, dear old fellow, good-by !" He was gone. In a minute more I saw the duke come with him to the door, and after shaking him warmly by the hand and pressing him to return whenever he possibly could, they parted, and the dog cart disappeared rapidly behind that angle of the castle round which I had seen Miss Crawcour pass so short a time before.

Poor fellow ! what a departure. What an episode in the gay story of the life at Creel.

I went back to my desk. And still from the next room came that same plaintive air, and still it aeemeil to belong to what I wrote, and to be an inseparable part of the day and its events.

(To be continued.)