Singleton Fontenoy : a naval novel

Front matter

4 ca, tee

: JAMES

Fifth] Rc , [/ssue.

Chapter I

Malheur a qui du fond de |’exil de la vie,

La nature répugne a la réalité, LaMARTINe.

Our story opens in a quiet and solemn chamber—the librar of a country house, in one of the northern counties of England. The time is the close of the year 183—. The mellow sunlight of an autumn morning ftoats, with a colour like old gold, into the room, touches up, as it were with the hand of a master, a portrait by somebody who knew how to make sallowness sublime, illuminates the vellum, and adorns the calf.

Into this apartment there walked, on the morning in question, a man apparently about thirty-five years of age. He was dressed in black clothes, imperfectly brushed, and a white neckcloth, clumsily put on. His face was at once coarse and thoughtful; his manner awkwardly dignified; his eyes were grey and very vivid, but had a vacant kind of look occasionally, from his habit of mental abstraction. As he walked you became aware of a slight deficiency in his gait.

“ Mr. Trochee—the Reader!”

«The Reader—Mr. Trochee !”

Having duly introduced him, I may add that he appeared in this library as tutor to the family of Mr. Fontenoy, of Heatherby, which at this time consisted only of one son, a youth still in his teens. Mr. Trochee was what Dr. Johnson called a ‘ sound, sullen scholar,” and sprang froma genealogical tree which might fairly be called a tree of knowledge, from the number of pedagogues it had produced. He had a clear head, and no incon: siderable command of that old-fashioned catapult kind of

B sarcasra so much in vogue during the last century. He was indeed exemplary in his way ; and if you had asked him what religio was, he would have replied at once that it was a choriambus !*

He now found the library empty, but he established himself very comfortably at the table with some “scribbling paper” and a book, and in a short time was in the land of day-dreams.

A small door opened noiselessly at a corner of the room, opposite to the side at which he had entered. He did not look up, and consequently did not see the figure which glided in— that of a youth just growing out of boyhood—a youth somewhat “tall for his age,” and certainly handsome: for any age. Singleton Charles Fontenoy had a slim, graceful figure, pleasing in movement, and elegant in repose, which somehow reminded you of a Persian ‘greyhound. His features were classically handsome, and rather dark; but this last effect was agreeably relieved by blue eyes, which contrasted pleasantly with his very black curly hair and eyebrows. The countenance seemed fitted to express courage and decision, but there lingered upon it that shyness which usually accompanies premature thought and early earnestness ; which indeed is but the expression of the confusion of that Eve the soul when it begins to be conscious of its exposure in a strange world, and which Rochefoucauld pronounces preferable to the easy assurance of modish young men.

Singleton, almost immediately on his entry, took hold of the light ladder which rested against the shelves, to the upper of which it was intended to give access (it was a true Jacob’s ladder to him), and proceeded to adjust it with an obvious design on a burly quarto.

As he placed his foot on the lowest step, he glanced round at Mr. Trochee with a curious expression half inquiring, and half contemptuous. The tutor’s eyes were fixed immovably on his book. Singleton moved upwards to grasp the object of his desires. He had placed the ladder rather carelessly, and ascended it so also,—when—unhappy type of the fate of many seekers after knowledge!—he slipped and fell. The quarto, clutched with eager hand at the moment, thundered down after him, inflicting, as it did so, a slight graze on his right temple.

Singleton burst into a loud laugh as he sprung to his feet, and standing upright met the glance of the astonished tutor, scared by the unwonted noise.

“It’s really very odd,” said Mr. Trochee, peevishly, ‘that everything you do, appears to be accompanied by a disturbance !””

“Very,” said the boy, pouting with his fine lip in a sulky

* Viz, thus scanned—Réligid: apparently all some learned men know about it.

manner. Mr. Trochee rose and placed the ladder in what he emphatically called ‘its proper place.”

“ Knocking the books about,” he continued, while Singleton rubbed his forehead with a white pocket handkerchief, diffusin as he did so an odour of violets which more and more irritate our scholastic friend, who would willingly have handed over all who used perfumes to the prosecution of the Sanitary Commission,—‘ neglecting your proper studies to run after works with which you have no business !—where are your Latin hexameters ? where is your Greek prose ?”

The youth made no answer, but the dark pupils of his blue eyes distended, and his breathing grew short and quick. He continued to rub his forehead.

* Come, come,” said Mr. Trochee, “ your head stood it pretty well, I have no doubt. Let us get to work.”

“T tell you what,” said Singleton, drawing himself up with an air of weariness and anger, “ Tam tired of this—tired of reading and hearing about what I do not admire or love; tired of pedantry, and sick of being haunted by the ghosts of the dead from day to day. Iam tired of a process of study which can pete compared to that whim of Byron’s—drinking out of a skull.”

Mr. Trochee opened his mouth in astonishment.

‘None of your darling ideas seem to be governing mankind,” added the youth.

“Go on, Scaliger,” cried Mr. Trochee. (This was his notion of irony.)

“T wonder at the coolness with which you can hunt out words in a dictionary,” pursued Singleton, ‘when you know the state of the poor in this very county.”

“ Bravo, Scioppius! My dear boy,” said the tutor, compassionately, ‘I see that you have been led away by the popular vagaries of the day. All the evils which provoke your learned indignation are attributable to one simple cause. But here’s your father.”

In came, as he spoke, a tall and rather stout gentleman, between forty and fifty years of age, dressed in a flowing morning gown, and looking very magnificent about the throat. His manner combined the serenity of middle age, with the dignity of a county magistrate. He bowed graciously to Mr. Trochee and hisson. He usually, indeed, treated his son with much deference; not on thescore of that youth’s own merits, but because he was fis son. But Mr. Fontenoy demands a few lines of deseription. His was a character which, belonging to a common enough class, must yet be repeatedly illustrated till it is thoroughly understood.

= AG Bs

Mr. Fontenoy thought religion—’twas his highest conception of it—a useful engine of state. In his own life, instead of a blessing to himself, it was used rather as a means of annoying other people. ‘

Mr. Fontenoy went to church, and at the name of his Redeemer bowed @ la Talleyrand.

Mr. Fontenoy would attend the funeral of one of his tenants with all the pomp of yeomanry, and having had an imposing salute fired over his grave, to-day, would put an execution in the house of his widow to-morrow.

Mr. Fontenoy preserved his game most rigidly. However, we shall see more of him as we go on.

“You were saying something, I think P” he asked Mr. Trochee.

“ T was just telling your son, sir, that all the evils of Europe” —Mr. Fontenoy drew himself up, with a judicial air—“are attributable to one cause,—the intrusion into political life of half-read men.” This was Mr. Trochee’s favourite term of contempt, and one which he frequently launched at the heads of the agitators of the neighbouring town of Huskdale, where there is a great manufactory of cotton and charges against the Established Church. The calm and vast simplicity of the proposition duly impressed Mr. Fontenoy ; he glanced at his son, who bit his lips-and said nothing.

“What gave rise to the conversation ?”

“T am afraid Singleton has been acquiring some crude notions,” answered Trochee. At that moment, a short, sharp shower pattered against the windows, a few fitful gusts of wind whirled past the leaves as they were driven from the trees to a violent death. Mr. Fontenoy rushed to look out, feeling a pang of terror about the greenhouse, and after exclaiming, with an air of importance, “ this will try Peel’s Currency Bill!” a dictum perfectly unintelligible to Singleton—left the room.

All this time, the quarto which had fallen had been reposing tranquilly on the floor. Mr. Trochee now picked it up, and proceeded to look at the title-page.

“Why, what is this?” he asked angrily. ‘“ What are you doing with this ?”

Singleton blushed, looked confused, and muttered something about “ both sides of the question.”

“Sir,” said Mr. Trochee, “you are too young yet for such writers as Bolingbroke !”

When the son of a landed proprietor begins to read Bolingbroke, and talk about the poor, it is quite clear that something desperate must be done. Mr. Trochee had a long secret consultation with Mr. Fontenoy that evening. ‘I will send him to school,” said his parert. To check a tendency towards intellec-

Ss tual speculation, what could have been better? It was resolved upon. Mr. Trochee received a handsome and honourable dismissal. soon after, and proceeded to London. He found himself thoroughly tired of teaching people, and therefore set up as a writer for the Review, by doing which he effectually secured himself from the possibility of instructing anybody !

And Singleton meanwhile stayed at home, and read whatever he liked, while his father was looking out for an appropriate school. The blue eyes were dim with poring over black and white. Singleton was just then in an intellectual crisis. He had began to doubt the infallibility of Paley, and had not yet met with the writings of Carlyle!

Chapter II

Puiny THE YOUNGER. Ep. viii. 23.

. ... Rare this in our young men: for how often does any one of them yield either to the age or the authority of another, as his junior? They grow wise at once: know everything at once: reverence nobody, imitate nobody; and are, themselves, their own models !

Tue Lepels had arrived! The Lepels were at Dunreddin! The Lepels were going to give a ball! Such was the news which Mr. Fontenoy’s county welcomed with enthusiasm. Such, too, opens the prospect of a lively chapter to the author, entertaining a natural dread of the growing number of readers, who, the moment they come to the word Virtue, skip; who only patronise writers who convey heartlessness in epigrams,as Hannibal carried poison in a brilliant ring.

The Lepels had been a long tame abroad, and were now about to settle down permanently in their family mansion,—one of those imposing structures, combining the dignity of age with the grace of colour, which take their name from Queen Elizabeth. When you gazed at it, from the broad plains, shaded with noble trees, in which it was situated—when your eye rested on its stately elevation, and the proud escutcheon graven in front—the antique windows—the raised terrace, bounded by the graceful balustrade—you even wondered how people could leave it for a palace on the Grand Canal or a villa on the Bay of Naples. Probably Mr. Lepel’s lawyers could have enlightened you on the point ; but at this time all was right with the family. The estates were not more encumbered than was sufficient to show that the family had made good alliances. All this was very agreeable to Mr. Fontenoy, their neighbour. A link of relationship had joined, in a past age, the two houses, in a way near enough to be interesting, and Mr. Fontenoy and Mr. Lepel had been intimate associates in their youth.

Singleton was at the ball, although some very good judges thought it wrong that so mere a boy should “ go out.” But this was not the opinion of all; for those who looked at him saw | that he was handsome, and those who talked to him found that he was clever. Little Miss Pierrepoint—whom the young Lepel, who was a wit, used to call Sweet P.— pronounced him quite a man, asked him why he never came over to Pierrepont, and said that Heatherby wasa very pretty place. So, indeed, it was; and perhaps that young lady thought upon the subject more than she spoke. Singleton was pleased, shy, confused, and dreamy, perhaps a little sad. He saw all the county people, of whose titles and places he had so often heard before. Mr. Lepel, wishing to ascertain if he had ‘‘ambition,” asked him if he would like to have a commission in the Yeomanry! Then he danced with Augusta Lepel, a girl who had brought away from Italy, in her own person, a face by Guido and a figure by Correggio ; whose tall form undulated gracefully as she moved, like a palm branch carried in a sacred procession, and whose fine forehead and cheeks seemed to be always blushing, as if they were ashamed of being so pretty! Her eyes watched him, as he left her and sauntered down the room, and engaged in conversation with some young gentlemen from Oxford. They had been there to “ finish their education!” Poor boys! They did not know that they had not begun it!

Singleton was leaning at one side of the room by himself, in a fit of meditation, watched by a dumpy little girl, who wondered why he did not ask her to dance. A youth approached him, in whom he recognised the young Lepel to whom he had been introduced. He had just come of age, and was of rather striking appearance. His features were sharp and of great mobility, expressive of the most decided sagacity and energy ; and his forehead somewhat remarkable by the prominence of the ridge over the eyes, which phrenologists pronounce an evidence of the strength of the perceptive faculties. Singleton could not help thinking it a pity that so good a face should be spoiled by spectacles. He would have been surprised if he had known why they were worn. Lepel was a youth of ambition, and there were many peculiarities about him which his friends were a long time in learning to understand. He now commenced a brisk conversation with Singleton, and struck out some rapid, lively sketches of the life which he had seen on the Continent. He was very entertaining and agreeable, partly from his keen and playful satire, partly from his ingenious flattery. This last was original; he would praise a beauty for her wit, and a genius for his beauty. é

* You will devote yourself now to England, I suppose, and begin your career?” said Singleton.

“Career! oh yes, I suppose so! but what is an unpretending man to do, now-a-days P”

“ Politics P ”

«Ah! I should be out of place in such matters.”

“What is in its place, now, I should like to know?” asked Singleton, with a yawn.

* Nothing,” replied Lepel, sharply. ‘This isa manufacturing country, with agricultural institutions.”

“A neat phrase for an address to the electors of Huskdale,” his companion said, with a smile. :

Lepel laughed, and wasvery friendly. ‘* We must see a good deal of each other, my dear Singleton,” he said, looking very intently in his face, and he had a way of doing this which was a flattery in itself. Then he suddenly seized him by the arm Look here, my boy!”

“Who? what?”

* Hush! Colonel Bray, knew him at Paris, on a visit in the neighbourhood. My dear colonel!’ cried the quick Lepel. They were joined at that moment by two people, Colonel Bray and his wife, who marched towards them. The colonel was a tall, military-looking man, with a large mouth, and a narrow, retreating forehead. He had an appearance of decided weakness. Some people would have thought it ridiculous: to Singleton, it was painful, for his organization was of a character which entered into acute and intense sympathy with everything and everybody. Where the mass of people laughed at a person, Singleton suffered for him. This temperament gave him great quickness, but at the cost of great pain. The colonel came grinning up with his wife on his arm. She was a great deal younger than him; a clever-looking, dark-complexioned little woman, with very black hair, and full, purple mouth. She was certainly pretty, but disagreeably pretty, at least Fontenoy thought so. Whether it was a certain sensuality in her face, that conveyed the idea of ripeness without bloom, or not,—he could not analyse the impression at the instant ;—but certainly, he shrunk from her black eyes, decidedly, if indefinably. Her husband came grinning up, as I said, to the two youths, and Singleton fancied that the wife blushed, as if annoyed and ashamed. Singleton was morbidly acute, as I have hinted, and he fancied again, that there was something peculiar in that blush, and that it was excited by a glance of Lepel’s.

“Ah! colonel,” said Lepel, “glad to see you. We're going fe tl a great review of the Yeomanry soon—national defences, e ”

‘National defences” was the poor colonel’s hobby. His was the vast mind which started the “ Anti-Julius-Cesarism Society,’—a body organized for the purpose of arming everybody, for fear we should be destroyed for ever, 7f our continental friends equipped a tremendous army—?f they maintained it— if they could get ships for it—ifit crossed the Channel—if we had no navy—?f there were no gales—if, &c. &e.

Lepel introduced Fontenoy, and added that he was interested in the subject. And then he led off the colonel’s wife to dance: and it seemed to Singleton that there was a certain air of sarcasm which might have been spared in his manner, and that the couple looked back with a certain air of gay triumph at them, as they walked off.

On went the dance—grace keeping time with melody, as the body with the soul. Singleton gazed upon that brilliant company, and sighed; and there was poetry in that sigh. Ah! if the moon’s rays had but souls, what melancholy would they feel, in some scenes where they shine the brightest. Happy rays, that have no soul!

Half the world think they have acquired manner when the have learned to bore each other with politeness. But to be bored, and bear it with grace,—that is a rare accomplishment! Few people could tolerate the colonel—Singleton charmed him. He was so earnest and so kindly, listened so patiently, understood him so well! Only once or twice his eyes wandered away to young Lepel and his partner. How her eyes sparkled, and whata flush!

On went the dance :—it was over. The colonel insisted upon taking Singleton to Mrs. Bray: she was so fond of clever young men! Singleton was left alone with her, for Lepel had moved away. He began to feel that there was a strange fascination about her. He had lost his fluency of speech, and scarcely knew what to say. He noticed that she had a bouquet which he had not seen in her hand before.

“A pretty bouquet that,” Singleton said, innocently.

The lady made a gesture; the bouquet fell—out popped a note !

Singleton’s hand was on it in an instant, to hide it. The lady gave a little, faint, timorous cry, and fainted back on the bench. In an instant there was a crowd round them—‘‘ What’s the matter P How did it happen ?”—and a great rush.

Singleton’s nature seemed to have shot into full growth in that instant, “ Stand back!” he cried, almost fiercely, to the pressing mob. “Air!” He seized a smelling bottle. The lady was revived by the powerful salts; she opened her eyes, and seemed as if she would have spoken. By animpulse, Singleton squeezed her hand hard. Thanks to the cruelty, she said nothing, and in another moment she recovered herself.

“Oh dear!” cried the colonel, who had come up at the dissturbance. ‘‘ My carriage, my carriage!” he kept saying vaguely .to pean round about him.

epel was soon there, with an unwonted flush on his cheeks. The colonel led away his wife, who fixed her eyes on Singleton, as she bowed good night to him, with an expression which he long remembered. Away went the colonel, so anxious about the defence of the nation—so careless of himself !

The guests were preparing to go, and Singleton was agitated and thoughtful. And then, he had concealed the note !

Lape came up to him.

“You are to stay here to-night, Singleton,” he said, in a friendly, and rather excited tone.

“* How so?”

“Oh! it’s all right—do. Your father has gone. They will send you whatever things you want from Heatherby in the morning.”

“Very well—you’re very kind,”’ Fontenoy answered. He knew what this meant, and he marked Lepel’s agitation.

They ascended the stairs to his private rooms: there was a very comfortable fire burning there. Frederick (that was his Christian name) lighted a lamp, and began to talk lightly away, to put himself at ease.

“A recular Tusculum—eh, Singleton? See—what a meerschaum! This belonged to a poor fellow I knew at Bonn—a great radical. He’s in Spielberg now. Here are my books. Horace, you see: I like him. Gentlemen read Horace!” And he went on, turning over books and pamphlets very nervously and rapidly. ‘ Here’s the best novel in the English language, ‘Tristram Shandy,’—a copy with Sterne’s autographin it. Fine, bold, sharp hand he wrote, didn’t he?” Then he ran off a few of Shelley’s lines :—

Arethusa arose

From her couch of snows,— and came to a dead stop. Singleton was nervous, silent, and embarrassed.

“That was a strange affair,’ Lepel began, looking up into Fontenoy’s eyes, in his peculiar way.

Fontenoy’s eyes dropped.

“Tt was lucky you were the person it happened to. You are young, but wise.’ Fontenoy remained silent.

“It may be talked about. People wid/ ask questions, but men of the world know how to deal with them. ‘They know how to answer!”

“Not how to lie!” said Singleton, drawing himself up proudly.

Lepel’s pale face flushed. ‘‘ Nobody lis, of course. At least, nobody allows any one to tell him so!—This pure world,” he added, with a bitter sneer, “‘makes the distinction, and dubs it Honour !”

* Lepel,” said Singleton, ‘let us be candid with one another. I have discovered a secret of yours, in a most painful way. But I have nothing to do with it, but to regret and forget it. I am no moralist, I am sorry to say, but I love virtue as I love flowers, or a blue sky. It is sweeter to see, and purer to mix with.—Come, come,” added Fontenoy, smiling kindly, and looking very pleasing, as he deserved to do, from his good intentions,—‘‘behold a juvenile Mentor! Let us devote this little white creature to the infernal gods !” —Here, he pulled out the fatal note. ‘ Let us putit in the fire!”

Lepel started, as he saw it, then laughed. ‘“Beitso! You are my good genius.”

They dropped the note into the flames, where it perished in an instant.

“So dies a martyr!” said Lepel, gaily—And they dropped the subject.

Lepel then rang the bell, and with the promptitude of the slaves of the lamp, a servant brought up some supper, and at this very late banquet, they were joined by some Oxonians who were guests at the house. ‘There was a lively gentleman from Exeter, a dandy from Christ Church, and two speculative youths from Oriel.

“ This is the eve of St. Kilderkin,” said Bones, of Oriel.

*‘ Indeed,” said Lepel, ‘‘ what did he do?”

“ He built an abbey.”

“Did he pay for it P” asked Lepel.

“This is an age without faith,” said Bones, opening a pie.

* And without the divine element at all,” said his fellow-student of Oriel, pouring out some hock.

Fontenoy looked curiously up. Something of thissorthad floated through his serious mind at times. He had begun to feel the want of the age ;—a sense of loneliness in life’s journey had visited him oceasionally. He turned to Mr. Bones.

“You express ideas 1 have sometimes thought of,” he said.

“This absence of faith—do you think it merely temporary, or the natural result of the exhaustion of traditions, and the prelude to a new organization of spirituality P”

“Exhaustion of traditions!” exclaimed Bones, pausing horrified, in the dissection of a partridge, and holding the entire bird on his fork, suspended in air.‘ God bless me! Read St. Kilderkin, born a.p. 960, died a.p. 1019! We have published him in ten folio volumes.” —Here Bones made a motion to cross himself, and the bird tumbled on his plate.

s “Hang all mysticism,” said the Christ Church man, comprehensively. ‘Stick to the good old school. I’m for our regular institutions, and God save the King!”

“Science has destroyed credulity,” said Lepel, “and reason has put down fanaticism. Organise labour and increase production, and let those who want ‘spirituality’ pay for it, i they like.”

he time-piece on the mantle-piece struck five.

CHAPTER IIl.

2 « » Who knows not Circe P Comvs.

Ir was the evening after the ball. Singleton was sauntering down the main street of Huskdale. He had ridden over on a mission from Miss Lepel, who wanted some tickets for a sacred concert. Huskdale is a maufacturing town, but it combines the most opposite characteristics, and may be said to be in a state of permanent civil war. It returns one Chartist and one Pros tectionist to Parliament ; it has a high and dry rector, and an Anti-State Church Association; it has a Mechanics’ Institute, and an Archery Club; it has a church with an organ and a

ainting, and a common for a field congregation. It ought to ee a temple of Janus, and most assuredly, if it had, its doors would never be closed!

It was within an hour of sunset, and the chill breezes of the twilight time were beginning to creep about. Troops of little factory girls were hastening from their dreary prisons to their dreary homes, divided into knots and twining their arms round each other’s necks, in unconscious imitation of the wild flowers which they never see! The bells of one or two chapels were noisily beating the air. Singleton enjoyed all that he saw, as he went along, and swung about in his hand a big bunch of the last roses of the year, which he had bought for the purpose of scenting some of his favourite books with the leaves.

He had turned round a corner, and was proceeding towards the inn where he had put up his pony, when he heard a sharp tapping against a window, which made him involuntarily start suddenly and look round (for he mused rather absently as he walked, after the manner of idealists in general), but not seeing what had caused it, he marched forward again. He had, perhaps, gone another hundred yards, when a figure came running up behind him. Turning round, a young girl almost ran against him; her bonnet had fallen back, her hair was dishevelled, her cheeks flushed. Our young friend was embarrassed.

In the presence of Cleopatra, Singleton would have been easy and graceful; in the presence of the young lady’s-maid, who now spoke to him, he was awkward and shy.

“TI beg your pardon, sir,” said the damsel, growing more confused in her turn (she did not expect to find him so good looking), “‘my mistress wishes to see you.”

“Who?”

“A friend of yours, sir,’ she said. There was something very modest in her manner; so Singleton intimated that he would attend her. Otherwise, he abominated intrigue, and everything that had the look of it.

They stopped at the door of a handsome enough house. He went upstairs to the drawing-room, and found there—Mrs. Colonel Bray !

She was sitting upon a sofa as he came in, and rose up to receive him as the door closed. There was a slight agitation in her manner, which was very graceful. Singleton bowed. He began again to feel the fascination of her presence. The air seemed warmer in it!

“What must you think of me?” she said, in a pretty little tremor, and with a slightly foreign accent, which Fontenoy had not before noticed. ‘How kind you were! What tact, what grace you showed!” Here she clasped her little white hands together in an oratoricalmanner. ‘You soyoung, too! It was genius! It was inspiration!”

Singleton did not entertain so high an opinion of his last night’s exploit, and he could not help smiling. The fair Circe (such was her classic name) was wonderfully put at her ease by it. She continued, “I am very unhappy. We women are sacrificed by a false society. They sell us, and violate nature’s harmonies. The fair ought to be given only to the young!” Here Circe looked tenderly at Singleton and adjusted her heavy black hair. Singleton was modest, virtuous, and high-principled ; he was also young and “tall for his age.”

Just then there was a great noise on the stairs. ‘ Oh ciel,” exclaimed Circe; ‘“‘the colonel comes! Perfidious man! He said he would not be in till-nine! Let me hide you here,” and she opened a door.

« No,” said Singleton, and in came the Colonel.

“How are you, sir?” said Singleton, quietly, and with a facility of manner which, under the circumstances, raised him very much in Circe’s estimation. “I just came in to see how Mrs. Bray was; she seemed ill last night.”