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The Recollections of Geoffrey Hamlyn

by Henry Kingsley

TO
MY FATHER AND MOTHER
THIS BOOK, THE FRUIT OF SO MANY WEARY
YEARS OF SEPARATION, IS DEDICATED WITH
THE DEEPEST LOVE AND REVERENCE

Chapter I

INTRODUCTORY.

Near the end of February 1857, I think about the 20th or so, though it
don't much matter; I only know it was near the latter end of summer,
burning hot, with the bushfires raging like volcanoes on the ranges,
and the river reduced to a slender stream of water, almost lost upon
the broad white flats of quartz shingle. It was the end of February, I
said, when Major Buckley, Captain Brentwood (formerly of the
Artillery), and I, Geoffry Hamlyn, sat together over our wine in the
veranda at Baroona, gazing sleepily on the grey plains that rolled away
east and north-east towards the sea.

We had sat silent for some time, too lazy to speak, almost to think.
The beautiful flower-garden which lay before us, sloping towards the
river, looked rather brown and sere, after the hot winds, although the
orange-trees were still green enough, and vast clusters of purple
grapes were ripening rapidly among the yellowing vine-leaves. On the
whole, however, the garden was but a poor subject of contemplation for
one who remembered it in all its full November beauty, and so my eye
travelled away to the left, to a broad paddock of yellow grass which
bounded the garden on that side, and there I watched an old horse
feeding.

A very old horse indeed, a horse which seemed to have reached the
utmost bounds of equine existence. And yet such a beautiful beast. Even
as I looked some wild young colts were let out of the stockyard, and
came galloping and whinnying towards him, and then it was a sight to
see the old fellow as he trotted towards them, with his nose in the
air, and his tail arched, throwing his legs out before him with the
ease and grace of a four-year-old, and making me regret that he wasn't
my property and ten years younger;--altogether, even then, one of the
finest horses of his class I had ever seen, and suddenly a thought came
over me, and I grew animated.

"Major Buckley," I said, "what horse is that?"

"What horse is that?" repeated the major very slowly. "Why, my good
fellow, old Widderin, to be sure."

"Bless me!" I said; "You don't mean to say that that old horse is alive
still?"

"He looks like it," said the major. "He'd carry you a mile or two,
yet."

"I thought he had died while I was in England," I said. "Ah, major,
that horse's history would be worth writing."

"If you began," answered the major, "to write the history of the horse,
you must write also the history of every body who was concerned in
those circumstances which caused Sam to take a certain famous ride upon
him. And you would find that the history of the horse would be reduced
into very small compass, and that the rest of your book would assume
proportions too vast for the human intellect to grasp."

"How so?" I said.

He entered into certain details, which I will not give. "You would
have," he said, "to begin at the end of the last century, and bring one
gradually on to the present time. Good heavens! just consider."

"I think you exaggerate," I said.

"Not at all," he answered. "You must begin the histories of the Buckley
and Thornton families in the last generation. The Brentwoods also, must
not be omitted,--why there's work for several years. What do you say,
Brentwood?"

"The work of a life-time;" said the captain.

"But suppose I were to write a simple narrative of the principal events
in the histories of the three families, which no one is more able to do
than myself, seeing that nothing important has ever happened without my
hearing of it,--how, I say, would you like that?"

"If it amused you to write it, I am sure it would amuse us to read it,"
said the major.

"But you are rather old to turn author," said Captain Brentwood;
"you'll make a failure of it; in fact, you'll never get through with
it."

I replied not, but went into my bedroom, and returning with a thick
roll of papers threw it on the floor--as on the stage the honest
notary throws down the long-lost will,--and there I stood for a
moment with my arms folded, eyeing Brentwood triumphantly.

"It is already done, captain," I said. "There it lies."

The captain lit a cigar, and said nothing; but the major said, "Good
gracious me! and when was this done?"

"Partly here, and partly in England. I propose to read it aloud to you,
if it will not bore you."

"A really excellent idea," said the major. "My dear!"--this last was
addressed to a figure which was now seen approaching us up a long vista
of trellised vines. A tall figure dressed in grey. The figure, one
could see as she came nearer, of a most beautiful old woman.

Dressed I said in grey, with a white handkerchief pinned over her grey
hair, and a light Indian shawl hanging from her shoulders. As upright
as a dart: she came towards us through the burning heat, as calmly and
majestically as if the temperature had been delightfully moderate. A
hoary old magpie accompanied her, evidently of great age, and from time
to time barked like an old bulldog, in a wheezy whisper.

"My dear," said the major; "Hamlyn is going to read aloud some
manuscript to us."

"That will be very delightful, this hot weather," said Mrs. Buckley.
"May I ask the subject, old friend?"

"I would rather you did not, my dear madam; you will soon discover, in
spite of a change of names, and perhaps somewhat of localities."

"Well, go on," said the major; and so on I went with the next chapter,
which is the first of the story.

The reader will probably ask:

"Now, who on earth is Major Buckley? and who is Captain Brentwood? and
last not least, who the Dickens are you?" If you will have patience, my
dear sir, you will find it all out in a very short time--Read on.

Chapter II

THE COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE OF JOHN THORNTON, CLERK, AND THE BIRTH OF
SOME ONE WHO TAKES RATHER A CONSPICUOUS PART IN OUR STORY.

Sometime between the years 1780 and 1790, young John Thornton, then a
Servitor at Christ Church, fell in love with pretty Jane Hickman, whose
father was a well-to-do farmer, living not far down the river from
Oxford; and shortly before he took his degree, he called formally upon
old Hickman, and asked his daughter's hand. Hickman was secretly well
pleased that his daughter should marry a scholar and a gentleman like
John Thornton, and a man too who could knock over his bird, or kill his
trout in the lasher with any one. So after some decent hesitation he
told him, that as soon as he got a living, good enough to support Jane
as she had been accustomed to live, he might take her home with a
father's blessing, and a hundred pounds to buy furniture. And you may
take my word for it, that there was not much difficulty with the young
lady, for in fact the thing had long ago been arranged between them,
and she was anxiously waiting in the passage to hear her father's
decision, all the time that John was closeted with him.

John came forth from the room well pleased and happy. And that evening
when they two were walking together in the twilight by the quiet river,
gathering cowslips and fritillaries, he told her of his good prospects,
and how a young lord, who made much of him, and treated him as a friend
and an equal, though he was but a Servitor--and was used to sit in
his room talking with him long after the quadrangle was quiet, and the
fast men had reeled off to their drunken slumbers--had only three days
before promised him a living of 300L. a-year, as soon as he should take
his priest's orders. And when they parted that night, at the old stile
in the meadow, and he saw her go gliding home like a white phantom
under the dark elms, he thought joyfully, that in two short years they
would be happily settled, never more to part in this world, in his
peaceful vicarage in Dorsetshire.

Two short years, he thought. Alas! and alas! Before two years were
gone, poor Lord Sandston was lying one foggy November morning on
Hampstead Heath, with a bullet through his heart. Shot down at the
commencement of a noble and useful career by a brainless gambler--a
man who did all things ill, save billiards and pistol-shooting; his
beauty and his strength hurried to corruption, and his wealth to the
senseless DEBAUCHEE who hounded on his murderer to insult him. But I
have heard old Thornton tell, with proud tears, how my lord, though
outraged and insulted, with no course open to him but to give the
villain the power of taking his life, still fired in the air, and went
down to the vault of his forefathers without the guilt of blood upon
his soul.

So died Lord Sandston, and with him all John's hopes of advancement. A
curate now on 50L. a-year; what hope had he of marrying? And now the
tearful couple, walking once more by the river in desolate autumn,
among the flying yellow leaves, swore constancy, and agreed to wait
till better times should come.

So they waited. John in his parish among his poor people and his
school-children, busy always during the day, and sometimes perhaps
happy. But in the long winter evenings, when the snow lay piled against
the door, and the wind howled in the chimney; or worse, when the wind
was still, and the rain was pattering from the eaves, he would sit
lonely and miserable by his desolate hearth, and think with a sigh of
what might have been had his patron lived. And five-and-twenty years
rolled on until James Brown, who was born during the first year of his
curateship, came home a broken man, with one arm gone, from the battle
of St. Vincent. And the great world roared on, and empires rose and
fell, and dull echoes of the great throes without were heard in the
peaceful English village, like distant thunder on a summer's afternoon,
but still no change for him.

But poor Jane bides her time in the old farm-house, sitting constant
and patient behind the long low latticed window, among the geraniums
and roses, watching the old willows by the river. Five-and-twenty
times she sees those willows grow green, and the meadow brighten up
with flowers, and as often she sees their yellow leaves driven before
the strong south wind, and the meadow grow dark and hoar before the
breath of autumn. Her father was long since dead, and she was bringing
up her brother's children. Her raven hair was streaked with grey, and
her step was not so light, nor her laugh so loud, yet still she waited
and hoped, long after all hope seemed dead.

But at length a brighter day seemed to dawn for them; for the bishop,
who had watched for years John Thornton's patient industry and
blameless conversation, gave him, to his great joy and astonishment,
the living of Drumston, worth 350L. a-year. And now, at last, he might
marry if he would. True, the morning of his life was gone long since,
and its hot noon spent in thankless labour; but the evening, the sober,
quiet evening, yet remained, and he and Jane might still render
pleasant for one another the downward road toward the churchyard, and
hand-in-hand walk more tranquilly forward to meet that dark tyrant
Death, who seemed so terrible to the solitary watcher.

A month or less after John was installed, one soft grey day in March,
this patient couple walked slowly arm-in-arm up the hill, under the
lychgate, past the dark yew that shadowed the peaceful graves, and so
through the damp church porch, up to the old stone altar, and there
were quietly married, and then walked home again. No feasting or
rejoicing was there at that wedding; the very realization of their long
deferred hopes was a disappointment. In March they were married, and
before the lanes grew bright with the primroses of another spring, poor
Jane was lying in a new-made grave, in the shadow of the old grey
tower.

But, though dead, she yet lived to him in the person of a bright-eyed
baby, a little girl, born but three months before her mother's death.
Who can tell how John watched and prayed over that infant, or how he
felt that there was something left for him in this world yet, and
thought that if his child would live, he should not go down to the
grave a lonely desolate man. Poor John!--who can say whether it would
not have been better if the mother's coffin had been made a little
larger, and the baby had been carried up the hill, to sleep quietly
with its mother, safe from all the evil of this world.

But the child lived and grew, and, at seventeen, I remember her well, a
beautiful girl, merry, impetuous, and thoughtless, with black waving
hair and dark blue eyes, and all the village loved her and took pride
in her. For they said--"She is the handsomest and the best in the
parish."

Chapter III

THE HISTORY OF (A CERTAIN FAMILY LIVING IN) EUROPE, FROM THE BATTLE OF
TRAFALGAR TO THE PEACE OF 1818, CONTAINING FACTS HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED.

Among all the great old commoner families of the south of England, who
have held the lands of their fore-fathers through every change of
dynasty and religion, the Buckleys of Clere stand deservedly high among
the brightest and the oldest. All down the stormy page of this great
island's history one sees, once in a about a hundred years, that name
in some place of second-rate honour at least, whether as admiral,
general, or statesman; and yet, at the beginning of this present
century, the representative of the good old family was living at Clere
House, a palace built in the golden times of Elizabeth, on 900L. a-year,
while all the county knew that it took 300L. to keep Clere in
proper repair.

The two Stuart revolutions had brought them down from county princes to
simple wealthy squires, and the frantic efforts made by Godfrey
Buckley, in the "South Sea" scheme to retrieve the family fortunes, had
well nigh broke them. Year by year they saw acre after acre of the
broad lands depart, and yet Marmaduke Buckley lived in the home of
his ancestors, and the avenue was untouched by axe or saw.

He was a widower, with two sons, John and James. John had been to sea
from his earliest youth, and James had joined his regiment a year or
more. John had been doing the state good service under his beloved
Collingwood; and on the 19th October 1805, when Nelson and
Collingwood made tryst to meet at the gates of hell, John Buckley was
one of the immortals on the deck of the "Royal Sovereign." And when the
war fog rolled away to leeward, and Trafalgar was won, and all seas
were free, he lay dead in the cockpit, having lived just long enough to
comprehend the magnitude of the victory.

Brave old Marmaduke was walking up and down the terrace at Clere uneasy
and impatient. Beside him was the good old curate who had educated both
the boys, and wearily and oft they turned to watch down the long vista
of the ancient avenue for the groom, who had been despatched to
Portsmouth to gain some tidings of the lieutenant. They had heard of
the victory, and, in their simple way, had praised God for it, drinking
a bottle of the rarest old wine to his Majesty's health and the
confusion of his enemies, before they knew whether they themselves were
among the number of the mourners. And now, as they paced the terrace,
every moment they grew more anxious and uneasy for the long delayed
intelligence.

Some trifle took them into the flower-garden, and, when they came back,
their hearts leapt up, for the messenger was there dismounted, opening
the gate. The curate ran down the steps, and taking a black-edged
letter from the sorrowful groom, gave it into the trembling hands of
the old man with a choking sob. He opened it and glanced over it, and
then, throwing it towards his friend, walked steadily up the steps, and
disappeared within the dark porch.

It was just three hasty lines from the great Collingwood himself.
That brave heart, in the midst of the din of victory, had found time to
scrawl a word to his old schoolmate, and tell him that his boy had died
like a hero, and that he regretted him like a son.

The old man sat that evening in the western gallery, tearless and
alone, brooding over his grief. Three times the curate had peeped in,
and as often had retreated, fearful of disturbing the old man's solemn
sorrow. The autumn sun had gone down in wild and lurid clouds, and the
gallery was growing dark and gloomy, when the white figure of a
beautiful girl entering silently at the lower door came gliding up the
darkening vista, past the light of the windows and the shadow of the
piers, to where the old man sat under the high north window, and knelt
at his feet, weeping bitterly.

It was Agnes Talbot, the daughter of his nearest neighbour and best
friend, whom the curate had slyly sent for, thinking in his honest
heart that she would make a better comforter than he, and rightly; for
the old man, bending over her, lifted up his voice and wept, speaking
for the first time since he heard of his bereavement, and saying, "Oh,
my boy, my boy!"

"He is gone, sir," said Agnes, through her tears; "and gone the way a
man should go. But there is another left you yet; remember him."

"Aye, James," said he; "alas, poor James! I wonder if he knows it. I
wish he were here."

"James is here," said she. "He heard of it before you, and came posting
over as fast as he could, and is waiting outside to know if you can see
him."

The door at the lower end of the gallery opened, and a tall and
noble-looking young man strode up and took his father's hand.

He was above the ordinary height of man, with a grand broad forehead
and bold blue eyes. Old Marmaduke's heart warmed up as he parted his
curling hair, and he said,

"Thank God, I've got one left still! The old house will not perish yet,
while such a one as you remains to uphold it."

After a time they left him, at his own request, and walked out together
through the dark rooms towards the old hall.

"Agnes, my beloved, my darling!" said James, drawing his arm round her
waist; "I knew I should find you with him like a ministering angel. Say
something to comfort me, my love. You never could love John as I did;
yet I know you felt for him as your brother, as he soon would have
been, if he had lived."

"What can I say to you, my own?" she replied, "save to tell you that he
fell as your brother should fall, amongst the foremost, fighting for
his country's existence. And, James, if you must go before me, and
leave me a widow before I am a bride, it would render more tolerable
the short time that would be left me before I followed you, to think
that you had fallen like him."

"There will be a chance of it, Agnes," said James, "for Stuart, they
say, is going to Italy, and I go with him. There will be a long and
bloody war, and who knows how it will end? Stay you here quiet with the
old man, my love, and pray for me; the end will come some day. I am
only eighteen and an ensign; in ten years I may be a colonel."

They parted that night with tears and kisses, and a few days afterwards
James went from among them to join his regiment.

From that time Agnes almost lived with old Marmaduke. Her father's
castle could be seen over the trees from the windows of Clere, and
every morning, wet or dry, the old man posted himself in the great
north window of the gallery to watch her coming. All day she would
pervade the gloomy old mansion like a ray of sunlight, now reading to
him, now leading him into the flower-garden in fine weather, till he
grew quite fond of flowers for her sake, and began even to learn the
names of some of them. But oftenest of all she would sit working by his
side, while he told her stories of times gone by, stories which would
have been dull to any but her, but which she could listen to and
applaud. Best of all she liked to hear him talk of James, and his
exploits by flood and field from his youth up; and so it was that this
quiet couple never tired one another, for their hearts were set upon
the same object.

Sometimes her two sisters, noble and beautiful girls, would come to see
him; but they, indeed, were rather intruders, kind and good as they
were. And sometimes old Talbot looked round to see his old friend, and
talked of bygone fishing and hunting, which roused the old man up and
made him look glad for half a day after. Still, however, Agnes and the
old curate were company enough for him, for they were the only two who
loved his absent son as well as he. The love which had been divided
between the two, seemed now to be concentrated upon the one, and yet
this true old Briton never hinted at James' selling out and coming
home, for he said that the country had need of every one then, more
particularly such a one as James.

Time went on, and he came back to them from Corunna, and spending
little more than a month at home, he started away once more; and next
they heard of him at Busaco, wounded and promoted. Then they followed
him in their hearts along the path of glory, from Talavera by Albuera
and Vittoria, across the Pyrenees. And while they were yet reading a
long-delayed letter, written from Toulouse at midnight--after having
been to the theatre with Lord Wellington, wearing a white cockade--he
broke in on them again, to tell them the war was well-nigh over, and
that he would soon come and live with them in peace.

Then what delightful reunions were there in the old gallery window,
going over all the weary campaigns once more; pleasant rambles, too,
down by the river-side in the sweet May evenings, old Marmaduke and
the curate discreetly walking in front, and James and Agnes loitering
far behind. And in the succeeding winter after they were married, what
pleasant rides had they to meet the hounds, and merry evenings before
the bright wood-fire in the hall. Never were four people more happy
than they. The war was done, the disturber was confined, and peace had
settled down upon the earth.

Peace, yes. But not for long. Spring came on, and with it strange
disquieting rumours, growing more certain day by day, till the
terrible news broke on them that the faithless tyrant had broke loose
again, and that all Europe was to be bathed in blood once more by his
insane ambition.

James had sold out of the army, so that when Agnes first heard the
intelligence she thanked God that her husband at least would be safe at
home during the storm. But she was soon to be undeceived. When the news
first came, James had galloped off to Portsmouth, and late in the
evening they saw him come riding slowly and sadly up the avenue. She
was down at the gate before he could dismount, and to her eager
inquiries if the news were true, he replied,

"All too true, my love; and I must leave you this day week."

"My God!" said she; "leave me again, and not six months married? Surely
the king has had you long enough; may not your wife have you for a few
short months?"

"Listen to me, dear wife," he replied. "All the Peninsular men are
volunteering, and I must not be among the last, for every man is wanted
now. Buonaparte is joined by the whole army, and the craven king has
fled. If England and Prussia can combine to strike a blow before he
gets head, thousands and hundreds of thousands of lives will be spared.
But let him once get firmly seated, and then, hey! for ten years' more
war. Beside the thing is done; my name went in this morning."

She said, "God's will be done;" and he left his young bride and his old
father once again. The nightingale grew melodious in the midnight
woods, the swallows nestled again in the chimneys, and day by day the
shadows under the old avenue grew darker and darker till merry June was
half gone; and then one Saturday came the rumour of a great defeat.

All the long weary summer Sabbath that followed, Agnes and Marmaduke
silently paced the terrace, till the curate--having got through his
own services somehow, and broken down in the "prayer during war and
tumults,"--came hurrying back to them to give what comfort he could.

Alas! that was but little. He could only speculate whether or not the
duke would give up Brussels, and retire for reinforcements. If the two
armies could effect a union, they would be near about the strength of
the French, but then the Prussians were cut to pieces; so the curate
broke down, and became the worst of the three.

Cheer up, good souls! for he you love shall not die yet for many long
years. While you are standing there before the porch, dreading the long
anxious night, Waterloo has been won, and he--having stood the
appointed time in the serried square, watching the angry waves of
French cavalry dash in vain against the glittering wall of bayonets--
is now leaning against a gun in the French position, alive and well,
though fearfully tired, listening to the thunder of the Prussian
artillery to the north, and watching the red sun go down across the
wild confusion of the battle-field.

But home at Clere none slept that night, but met again next morning
weary and harassed. All the long three days none of them spoke much,
but wandered about the house uneasily. About ten o'clock on the
Wednesday night they went to bed, and the old man sleeps from sheer
weariness.