"'My heart sank within me.'" (Page 172.) _Frontispiece_]
The Interpreter
A Tale of the War
By
G. J. Whyte-Melville
Author of "Digby Grand," "General Bounce," etc.
Illustrated by Lucy E. Kemp-Welch
New York Longmans, Green & Co.
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. The Old Desk II. The Deserter III. "Par Nobile" IV. Father and Son V. The Zingynies VI. School VII. Play VIII. The Truants IX. Ropsley X. Beverley Manor XI. Dulce Domum XII. Alton Grange XIII. "Lethalis Arundo" XIV. The Picture XV. Beverley Mere XVI. Princess Vocqsal XVII. The Common Lot XVIII. Omar Pasha XIX. "'Skender Bey" XX. The Beloochee XXI. Zuleika XXII. Valerie XXIII. Forewarned XXIV. "Arcades Ambo" XXV. "Dark and Dreary" XXVI. "Surveillance" XXVII. Ghosts of the Past XXVIII. La Dame aux Camellias XXIX. "A Merry Masque" XXX. The Golden Horn XXXI. The Seraskerat XXXII. A Turk's Harem XXXIII. My Patient XXXIV. "Messirie's" XXXV. "The Wolf and the Lamb" XXXVI. "The Front" XXXVII. "A Quiet Night"XXXVIII. The Grotto XXXIX. The Redan XL. The War-Minister at Home XLI. Wheels within Wheels XLII. "Too Late" XLIII. "The Skeleton" XLIV. The Gipsy's Dream XLV. Retribution XLVI. Vae Victis! XLVII. The Return of Spring
THE INTERPRETER
_A TALE OF THE WAR_
CHAPTER I
THE OLD DESK
Not one of my keys will fit it: the old desk has been laid aside foryears, and is covered with dust and rust. We do not make such strongboxes nowadays, for brass hinges and secret drawers have given place toflimsy morocco and russian leather; so we clap a Bramah lock, thatBramah himself cannot pick, on a black bag that the veriest bungler canrip open in five seconds with a penknife, and entrust our notes, bankand otherwise, our valuables, and our secrets, to this faithlessrepository with a confidence that deserves to be respected. But in thedays when George the Third was king, our substantial ancestors rejoicedin more substantial workmanship: so the old desk that I cannot succeedin unlocking, is of shining rosewood, clamped with brass, and I shallspoil it sadly with the mallet and the chisel.
What a medley it holds! Thank Heaven I am no speculative philosopher,or I might moralise for hours over its contents. First, out flies awithered leaf of geranium. It must have been dearly prized once, or itwould never have been here; maybe it represented the hopes, the wealth,the all-in-all of two aching hearts: and they are dust and ashes now.To think that the flower should have outlasted them! the symbol lessperishable than the faith! Then I come to a piece of much-begrimed andyellow paper, carefully folded, and indorsed with a date,--a receipt foran embrocation warranted specific in all cases of bruises, sprains, orlumbago; next a gold pencil-case, with a head of Socrates for a seal;lastly, much of that substance which is generated in all waste places,and which the vulgar call "flue." How it comes there puzzles equallythe naturalist and the philosopher; but you shall find it in emptycorners, empty drawers, empty pockets, nay, we believe in its existencein the empty heads of our fellow-creatures.
In my thirst for acquisition, regardless of dusty fingers, I press theinner sides of the desk in hopes of discovering secret springs andhoarded repositories: so have poor men ere now found thousand-poundnotes hid away in chinks and crannies, and straightway, giddy with thepossession of boundless wealth, have gone to the Devil at a pace such asnone but the beggar on horseback can command; so have old wills beenfished out, and frauds discovered, and rightful heirs re-established,and society in general disgusted, and all concerned made discontentedand uncomfortable--so shall I, perhaps--but the springs work, a falselid flies open, and I do discover a packet of letters, written on thinforeign paper, in the free straggling characters I remember so well.They are addressed to Sir H. Beverley, and the hand that penned them hasbeen cold for years. So will yours and mine be some day, perhaps erethe flowers are out again; _O beate Sexti!_ will you drink a glass lessclaret on that account? Buxom Mrs. Lalage, shall the dressmakertherefore put unbecoming trimmings in your bonnet? The "shining hours"are few, and soon past; make the best of them, each in your own way,only try and choose the right way:--
For the day will soon be over, and the minutes are of gold, And the wicket shuts at sundown, and the shepherd leaves the fold.