FRANK FAIRLEGH

Part 2

          "How now! good lack! what present have we here?
          A Book that goes in peril of the press;
          But now it's past those pikes, and doth appear
          To keep the lookers-on from heaviness.
          What stuff contains it?"

          Davies of Hereford

This Issue is founded on the First Edition,
published by A. Hall, Virtue, & Co., in the year 1850.

Contents

List of Illustrations

CHAPTER XXXII — CATCHING SIGHT OF AN OLD FLAME

          "Give me thy hand... I'm glad to find thee here."
          The Lover's Melancholy.

          "Half light, half shade,
          She stood, a sight to make an old man young."
          The Gardener's Daughter.

UTTERLY worn out, both in mind and body, by hard reading and confinement, I determined to return to Heathfield forthwith, with "all my blushing honours thick upon me," and enjoy a few weeks' idleness before again engaging in any active course of study which might be necessary to fit me for my future profession. When the post came in, however, I received a couple of letters which rather militated against my intention of an immediate return home. A note from Harry Oaklands informed me, that having some weeks ago been ordered to a milder air, he and Sir John had chosen Clifton, their decision being influenced by the fact of an old and valued friend of Sir John's residing there. He begged me to let him hear all the Cambridge news, and hoped I should join him as soon as Mrs. Fairlegh and my sister would consent to part with me. For himself, he said, he felt somewhat stronger, but still suffered much from the wound in his side. The second letter was from my mother, saying she had received an invitation from an old lady, a cousin of my father's, who resided in London, and, as she thought change of scene would do Fanny good, she had accepted it. She had been there already one week, and proposed returning at the end of the next, which she hoped would be soon enough to welcome me after the conclusion of my labours at the university.

Unable to make up my mind whether to remain where I was for a week longer, or to return and await my mother's arrival at the cottage, I threw on my cap and gown and [251] strolled out, the fresh air appearing quite a luxury to me after having been shut up so long. As I passed through the street where old Maurice the pastry-cook lived I thought I would call and learn how Lizzie was going on, as I knew Harry would be anxious for information on this point. On entering the shop I was most cordially received by the young lady herself, who had by this time quite recovered her good looks, and on the present occasion appeared unusually gay and animated, which was soon accounted for when her father, drawing me aside, informed me that she was going to be married to a highly respectable young baker, who had long ago fallen a victim to her charms, and on whom she had of late deigned to take pity; the severe lesson she had been taught having induced her to overlook his intense respectability, high moral excellence, and round, good-natured face—three strong disqualifications which had stood dreadfully in his way when striving to render himself agreeable to the romantic Fornarina. I was answering their inquiries after Oaklands, of whom they spoke in terms of the deepest gratitude, when a young fellow, wrapped up in a rough pea-jacket, bustled into the shop, and, without perceiving me, accosted Lizzie as follows:—

"Pray, young lady, can you inform me—what glorious buns!—where Mr.—that is to say, which of these funny old edifices may happen to be Trinity College?"

On receiving the desired information, he continued, "Much obliged. I really must trouble you for another bun. Made by your own fair hands, I presume? You see, I'm quite a stranger to this quaint old town of yours, where half the houses look like churches, and all the men like the parsons and clerks belonging to them, taking a walk in their canonicals, with four-cornered hats on their heads—abortive attempts to square the circle, I conclude. Wonderful things, very. But when I get to Trinity, how am I to find the man I want, one Mr. Frank Fairlegh?" Here I took the liberty of interrupting the speaker, whom I had long since recognised as Coleman—though what could have brought him to Cambridge I was at a loss to conceive—by coming behind him, and saying, in a gruff voice, "I am sorry you keep such low company, young man".

"And pray who may you be that are so ready with your 'young man,' I should like to know? I shall have to teach you something your tutors and dons seem to have forgotten, and that is, manners, fellow!" exclaimed Freddy, turning round with a face as red as a turkey-cock, [252] and not recognising me at first in my cap and gown; then looking at me steadily for a moment, he continued, "The very man himself, by all that's comical! This is the way you read for your degree, is it?" Then with a glance towards Lizzie Maurice, he sang:—

          "'My only books
          Were woman's looks,
          And folly all they taught me'.

It's a Master of Hearts you're striving to become, I suppose?"

"Nonsense," replied I quickly, for I saw poor Lizzie coloured and looked uncomfortable; "we don't allow bad puns to be made at Cambridge."

"Then, faith, unless the genius loci inspires me with good ones," returned Freddy, as we left the shop together, "the sooner I'm out of it the better."

Ten minutes' conversation served to inform me that Freddy, having been down to Bury St. Edmund's on business, had stopped at Cambridge on his way back in order to find me out, and, if possible, induce me to accompany him home to Hillingford, and spend a few days there. This arrangement suited my case exactly, as it nearly filled up the space of time which must elapse before my mother's return, and I gladly accepted his invitation. In turn, I pressed him to remain a day or two with me, and see the lions of Cambridge; but it appeared that the mission on which he had been despatched was an important one, and would not brook delay; he must therefore return at once to report progress. As he could not stay with me, the most advisable thing seemed to be that I should go back with him. Returning, therefore, to my rooms, I set Freddy to work on some bread and cheese and ale, whilst I hastened to cram a portmanteau and carpet-bag with various indispensables. I then ran to the Hoop, and took an affectionate farewell of Mr. Frampton, making him promise to pay me a visit at Heathfield Cottage; and, in less than two hours from the time Coleman had first made his appearance, we were seated together on the roof of a stage-coach, and bowling along merrily towards Hillingford.

During our drive Coleman recounted to me his adventures in search of Cumberland on the day preceding the duel, and gave me a more minute description than I had yet heard of the disreputable nature of that individual's pursuits. From what Coleman could learn, Cumberland, after having lost at the gaming-table large sums of [253] money, of which he had by some means contrived to obtain possession, had become connected with a gambling-house not far from St. James's Street, and was supposed to be one of its proprietors. Just before Coleman left town, there had been an exposé of certain shameful proceedings which had taken place at this house—windows had been broken, and the police obliged to make a forcible entrance; but Cumberland had as yet contrived to keep his name from appearing, although it was known that he was concerned in the affair, and would be obliged to keep out of the way at present. "We shall take the old lady by surprise, I've a notion," said Freddy, as the coach set us down within ten minutes' walk of Elm Lodge. "I did not think I should have got the Bury St. Edmund's job over till to-morrow, and wrote her word not to expect me till she saw me; but she'll be glad enough to have somebody to enliven her, for the governor's in town, and Lucy Markham is gone to stay with one of her married sisters."

"I hope I shall not cause any inconvenience, or annoy your mother."

"Annoy my grandmother! and she was dead before I was born!" exclaimed Freddy disdainfully. "Why, bless your sensitive heart, nothing that I can do annoys my mother: if I chose to bring home a mad bull in fits, or half a dozen young elephants with the hooping-cough, she would not be annoyed." Thus assured, nothing remained for me but silent acquiescence, and in a few minutes we reached the house.

"Where's your mistress?" inquired Freddy of the man-servant who showed us into the drawing-room.

"Upstairs, sir, I believe; I'll send to let her know that you are arrived."

"Do so," replied Coleman, making a vigorous attack upon the fire.

"Why, Freddy, I thought you said your cousin was away from home?" inquired I.

"So she is; and what's more, she won't be back for a fortnight," was the answer.

"Here's a young lady's bonnet, however," said I.

"Nonsense," replied he; "it must be one of my mother's."

"Does Mrs. Coleman wear such spicy affairs as this?" said I, holding up for his inspection a most piquant little velvet bonnet lined with pink.

"By Jove, no!" was the reply; "a mysterious young lady! I say, Frank, this is interesting."

As he spoke the door flew open, and Mrs. Coleman [254] bustled in, in a great state of maternal affection, and fuss, and confusion, and agitation.

"Why, Freddy, my dear boy, I'm delighted to see you, only I wish you hadn't come just now;—and you too, Mr. Fairlegh—and such a small loin of mutton for dinner; but I'm so glad to see you—looking like a ghost, so pale and thin," she added, shaking me warmly by the hand; "but what I am to do about it, or to say to him when he comes back—only I'm not a prophet to guess things before they happen—and if I did I should always be wrong, so what use would that be, I should like to know?"

"Why, what's the row, eh, mother? the cat hasn't kittened, has she?" asked Freddy.

"No, my dear, no, it's not that; but, your father being in town, it has all come upon me so unexpectedly; poor thing! and she looking so pretty, too; oh, dear! when I said I was all alone, I never thought I shouldn't be; and so he left her here."

"And who may her be?" inquired Freddy, setting grammar at defiance, "the cat or the governor?"

"Why, my love, it's very unlucky—very awkward indeed; but one comfort is we're told it's all for the best when everything goes wrong—a very great comfort that is if one could only believe it; but poor Mr. Vernor, you see he was quite unhappy, I'm sure, he looked so cross, and no wonder, having to go up to London all in a hurry, and such a cold day too."

At the mention of this name my attention, which had been gradually dying a natural death, suddenly revived, and it was with a degree of impatience, which I could scarcely restrain, that I awaited the conclusion of Mrs. Coleman's rambling account. After a great deal of circumlocution, of which I will mercifully spare the reader the infliction, the following facts were elicited:—About an hour before our arrival, Mr. Vernor, accompanied by his ward, had called to see Mr. Coleman, and, finding he was from home, had asked for a few minutes' conversation with the lady of the house. His reason for so doing soon appeared; he had received letters requiring his immediate presence in London on business, which might probably detain him for a day or two; and not liking to leave Miss Saville quite alone, he had called with the intention of begging Mrs. Coleman to allow her niece, Lucy Markham, to stay with her friend at Barstone Priory till his return, and to save her from the horrors of solitude. This plan being rendered impracticable by reason of Lucy's absence.

[255] Mrs. Coleman proposed that Miss Saville should remain with her till Mr. Vernor's return, which, she added, would be conferring a benefit on her, as her husband and son being both from home, she was sadly dull without a companion. This plan having removed all difficulties, Mr. Vernor proceeded on his journey without further delay. Good Mrs. Coleman's agitation on our arrival bad been produced by the consciousness that Mr. Vernor would by no means approve of the addition of two dangerous young men to the party; however, Freddy consoled her by the ingenious sophism that it was much better for us to have arrived together than for him to have returned alone, as we should now neutralise each other's attractions; and, while the young lady's pleasure in our society would be doubled, she would be effectually guarded against falling in love with either of us, by reason of the impossibility of her overlooking the equal merits of what Mrs. Coleman would probably have termed "the survivor ". Having settled this knotty point to his own satisfaction, and perplexed his mother into the belief that our arrival was rather a fortunate circumstance than otherwise, Freddy despatched her to break the glorious tidings, as he called it, to the young lady, cautioning her to do so carefully, and by degrees, for that joy was very often quite as dangerous in its effects as sorrow.

Having closed the door after her, he relieved his feelings by a slight extempore hornpipe, and then slapping me on the back, exclaimed, "Here's a transcendent go! if this ain't taking the change out of old Vernor, I'm a Dutchman. Frank, you villain, you lucky dog, you've got it all your own way this time; not a chance for me; I may as well shut up shop at once, and buy myself a pair of pumps to dance in at your wedding."

"My dear fellow, how can you talk such utter nonsense?" returned I, trying to persuade myself that I was not pleased, but annoyed, at his insinuations.

"It's no nonsense, Master Frank, but, as I consider it, a very melancholy statement of facts. Why, even putting aside your 'antécédents,' as the French have it, the roasted wrist, the burnt ball-dress, and all the rest of it, look at your present advantages; here you are, just returned from the university, covered with academical honours, your cheeks paled by deep and abstruse study over the midnight lamp; your eyes flashing with unnatural lustre, indicative of an overwrought mind; a graceful languor softening the nervous energy of your manner, and imparting additional tenderness to the [256] fascination of your address; in fact, till you begin to get into condition again you are the very beau ideal of what the women consider interesting and romantic."

"Well done, Freddy," replied I, "we shall discover a hidden vein of poetry in you some of these fine days; but talking of condition leads me to ask what time your good mother intends us to dine?"

"There, now you have spoilt it all," was the rejoinder; "however, viewed abstractedly, and without reference to the romantic, it's not such a bad notion either. I'll ring and inquire."

He accordingly did so, and, finding we had not above half an hour to wait, he proposed that we should go to our dressing-rooms and adorn before we attempted to face "the enemy," as he rudely designated Miss Saville.

It was not without a feeling of trepidation, for which I should have been at a loss to account, that I ventured to turn the handle of the drawing-room door, where I expected to find the party assembled before dinner. Miss Saville, who was seated on a low chair by Mrs. Coleman's side, rose quietly on my entrance, and advanced a step or two to meet me, holding out her hand with the unembarrassed familiarity of an old acquaintance. The graceful ease of her manner at once restored my self-possession, and, taking her proffered hand, I expressed my pleasure at thus unexpectedly meeting her again.

"You might have come here a hundred times without finding me, although Mrs. Coleman is kind enough to invite me very often," she replied. "But I seldom leave home; Mr. Vernor always appears to dislike parting with me."

"I can easily conceive that," returned I; "nay, although, in common with your other friends, I am a sufferer by his monopoly, I can almost pardon him for yielding to so strong a temptation."

"I wish I could flatter myself that the very complimentary construction you put upon it were the true one," replied Miss Saville, blushing slightly; "but I am afraid I should be deceiving myself if I were to imagine my society were at all indispensable to my guardian. I believe if you were to question him on the subject you would learn that his system is based rather on the Turkish notion, that, in order to keep a woman out of mischief, you must shut her up."

"Really, Miss Saville," exclaimed Coleman, who had entered the room in time to overhear her speech, "I am shocked to find you comparing your respectable and [257] revered guardian to a heathen Turk, and Frank Fairlegh, instead of reproving you for it, aiding, abetting, encouraging, and, to speak figuratively, patting you on the back."

"I'm sure, Freddy," interrupted Mrs. Coleman, who had been aroused from one of her customary fits of absence by the last few words, "Mr. Fairlegh was doing nothing of the sort; he knows better than to think of such a thing. And if he didn't, do you suppose I should sit here and allow him to take such liberties? But I believe it's all your nonsense—and where you got such strange ideas I'm sure I can't tell; not out of Mrs. Trimmer's Sacred History, I'm certain, though you used to read it with me every Sunday afternoon when you were a good little boy, trying to look out of the window all the time, instead of paying proper attention to your books."

During the burst of laughter which followed this speech, and in which Miss Saville, after an ineffectual struggle to repress the inclination, out of respect to Mrs. Coleman, was fain to join, dinner was announced, and Coleman pairing off with the young lady, whilst I gave my arm to the old one, we proceeded to the dining-room.

CHAPTER XXXIII — WOMAN'S A RIDDLE

          "Let mirth and music sound the dirge of care,
          But ask thou not if happiness be there."
          The Lord of the Isles.

          "And here she came...
          And sang to me the whole Of those three stanzas."
          The Talking Oak.

          "Yet this is also true, that, long before,
          My heart was like a prophet to my heart,
          And told me I should love."
          Tennyson.

"DON'T you consider Fairlegh to be looking very thin and pale, Miss Saville?" inquired Coleman, when we joined the ladies after dinner, speaking with an air of such genuine solicitude, that any one not intimately acquainted with him must have imagined him in earnest. Miss Saville, who was completely taken in, answered innocently, "Indeed I have thought Mr. Fairlegh much altered since I had the pleasure of meeting him before"; [258] then, glancing at my face with a look of unfeigned interest, which sent the blood bounding rapidly through my veins, she continued: "You have not been ill, I hope?" I was hastening to reply in the negative, and to enlighten her as to the real cause of my pale looks, when Coleman interrupted me by exclaiming:—

"Ah! poor fellow, it is a melancholy affair. In those pale cheeks, that wasted though still graceful form, and the weak, languid, and unhappy, but deeply interesting tout ensemble, you perceive the sad results of—am I at liberty to mention it?—of an unfortunate attachment."

"Upon my word, Freddy, you are too bad," exclaimed I half angrily, though I could scarcely refrain from laughing, for the pathetic expression of his countenance was perfectly irresistible. "Miss Saville, I can assure you—let me beg of you to believe, that there is not a word of truth in what he has stated."

"Wait a moment, you're so dreadfully fast, my dear fellow, you won't allow a man time to finish what he is saying," remonstrated my tormentor—"attachment to his studies I was going to add, only you interrupted me."

"I see I shall have to chastise you before you learn to behave yourself properly," replied I, shaking my fist at him playfully; "remember you taught me how to use the gloves at Dr. Mildman's, and I have not quite forgotten the science even yet."

"Hit a man your own size, you great big monster you," rejoined Coleman, affecting extreme alarm. "Miss Saville, I look to you to protect me from his tyranny; ladies always take the part of the weak and oppressed."

"But they do not interfere to shield evil-doers from the punishment due to their misdemeanours," replied Miss Saville archly.

"There now," grumbled Freddy, "that's always the way; every one turns against me. I'm a victim, though I have not formed an unfortunate attachment for—anything or anybody."

"I should like to see you thoroughly in love for once in your life, Freddy," said I; "it would be as good as a comedy."

"Thank ye," was the rejoinder, "you'd be a pleasant sort of fellow to make a confidant of, I don't think. Here's a man now, who calls himself one's friend, and fancies it would be 'as good as a comedy' to witness the display of our noblest affections, and would have all the tenderest emotions of our nature laid bare, for him to poke fun at—the barbarian!" [259] "I did not understand Mr. Fairlegh's remark to apply to affaires du cour in general, but simply to the effects likely to be produced in your case by such an attack," observed Miss Saville, with a quiet smile.

"A very proper distinction," returned I; "I see that I cannot do better than leave my defence in your hands."

"It is quite clear that you have both entered into a plot against me," rejoined Freddy; "well, never mind, mea virtute me involvo: I wrap myself in a proud consciousness of my own immeasurable superiority, and despise your attacks."

"I have read, that to begin by despising your enemy, is one of the surest methods of losing the battle," replied Miss Saville.

"Oh! if you are going to quote history against me, I yield at once—there is nothing alarms me so much as the sight of a blue-stocking," answered Freddy.

Miss Saville proceeded to defend herself with much vivacity against this charge, and they continued to converse in the same light strain for some time longer; Coleman, as usual, being exceedingly droll and amusing, and the young lady displaying a decided talent for delicate and playful badinage. In order to enter con spirito into this style of conversation, we must either be in the enjoyment of high health and spirits, when our light-heartedness finds a natural vent in gay raillery and sparkling repartee, or we must be suffering a sufficient degree of positive unhappiness to make us feel that a strong effort is necessary to screen our sorrow from the careless gaze of those around us. Now, though Coleman had not been far wrong in describing me as "weak, languid, and unhappy," mine was not a positive, but a negative unhappiness, a gentle sadness, which was rather agreeable than otherwise, and towards which I was by no means disposed to use the slightest violence. I was in the mood to have shed tears with the love-sick Ophelia, or to moralise with the melancholy Jaques, but should have considered Mercutio a man of no feeling, and the clown a "very poor fool" indeed. In this frame of mind, the conversation appeared to me to have assumed such an essentially frivolous turn, that I soon ceased to take any share in it, and, turning over the leaves of a book of prints as an excuse for my silence, endeavoured to abstract my thoughts altogether from the scene around me, and employ them on some subject less dissonant to my present tone of feeling. As is usually the result in such cases, the attempt proved a dead failure, and I soon found [260] myself speculating on the lightness and frivolity of women in general, and of Clara Saville in particular.

"How thoroughly absurd and misplaced," thought I, as her silvery laugh rang harshly on my distempered ear, "were all my conjectures that she was unhappy, and that, in the trustful and earnest expression of those deep blue eyes, I could read the evidence of a secret grief, and a tacit appeal for sympathy to those whom her instinct taught her were worthy of her trust and confidence! Ah! well, I was young and foolish then (it was not quite a year and a half ago), and imagination found an easy dupe in me; one learns to see things in their true light as one grows older, but it is sad how the doing so robs life of all its brightest illusions."

It did not occur to me at that moment that there was a slight injustice in accusing Truth of petty larceny in regard to a bright illusion in the present instance, as the fact (if fact it were) of proving that Miss Saville was happy instead of miserable could scarcely be reckoned among that class of offences.

"Come, Freddy," exclaimed Mrs. Coleman, suddenly waking up to a sense of duty, out of a dangerous little nap in which she had been indulging, and which occasioned me great uneasiness, by reason of the opportunity it afforded her for the display of an alarming suicidal propensity, which threatened to leave Mr. Coleman a disconsolate widower, and Freddy motherless.

As a warning to all somnolent old ladies, it may not be amiss to enter a little more fully into detail. The attack commenced by her sitting bolt upright in her chair, with her eyes so very particularly open, that it seemed as if, in her case, Macbeth or some other wonder-worker had effectually "murdered sleep". By slow degrees, however, her eyelids began to close; she grew less and less "wide awake," and ere long was fast as a church; her next move was to nod complacently to the company in general, as if to demand their attention; she then oscillated gently to and fro for a few seconds to get up the steam, and concluded the performance by suddenly flinging her head back, with an insane jerk, over the rail of the chair, at the imminent risk of breaking her neck, uttering a loud snort of triumph as she did so.

Trusting the reader will pardon, and the humane society award me a medal for this long digression, I resume the thread of my narrative.

"Freddy, my dear, can't you sing us that droll Italian song your cousin Lucy taught you? I'm sure poor Miss Saville must feel quite dull and melancholy."

[261] "Would to Heaven she did!" murmured I to myself. "Who is to play it for me?" asked Coleman. "Well, my love, I'll do my best," replied his mother; "and, if I should make a few mistakes, it will only sound all the funnier, you know."

This being quite unanswerable, the piano was opened, and, after Mrs. Coleman's spectacles had been hunted for in all probable places, and discovered at last in the coal-scuttle, a phenomenon which that good lady accounted for on the score of "John's having flurried her so when he brought in tea"; and when, moreover, she had been with difficulty prevailed on to allow the music-book to remain the right way upwards, the song was commenced.

As Freddy had a good tenor voice, and sang the Italian buffa song with much humour, the performance proved highly successful, although Mrs. Coleman was as good as her word in introducing some original and decidedly "funny" chords into the accompaniment, which would have greatly discomposed the composer, if he had by any chance overheard them.

"I did not know that you were such an accomplished performer, Freddy," observed I; "you are quite an universal genius."

"Oh, the song was capital!" said Miss Saville, "and Mr. Coleman sang it with so much spirit."

"Really," returned Freddy, with a low bow, "you do me proud, as brother Jonathan says; I am actually— that is, positively—"

"My dear Freddy," interrupted Mrs. Coleman, "I wish you would go and fetch Lucy's music; I'm sure Miss Saville can sing some of her songs; it's—let me see—yes, it's either downstairs in the study, or in the boudoir, or in the little room at the top of the house, or, if it isn't, you had better ask Susan about it."

"Perhaps the shortest way will be to consult Susan at once," replied Coleman, as he turned to leave the room.

"I presume you prefer buffa songs to music of a more pathetic character?" inquired I, addressing Miss Saville.

"You judge from my having praised the one we have just heard, I suppose?"

"Yes, and from the lively style of your conversation; I have been envying your high spirits all the evening."

"Indeed!" was the reply; "and why should you envy them?"

"Are they not an indication of happiness, and is not that an enviable possession?" returned I.

"Yes, indeed!" she replied in a low voice, but with such passionate earnestness as quite to startle me. "Is [262] laughing, then, such an infallible indication of happiness?" she continued.

"One usually supposes so," replied I.

To this she made no answer, unless a sigh can be called one, and, turning away, began looking over the pages of a music-book.

"Is there nothing you can recollect to sing, my dear?" asked Mrs. Coleman.

She paused for a moment as if in thought, ere she replied:—

"There is an old air, which I think I could remember; but I do not know whether you will like it. The words," she added, glancing towards me, "refer to the subject on which we have just been speaking."

She then seated herself at the instrument, and, after striking a few simple chords, sang, in a sweet, rich soprano, the following stanzas;—

          I

          "Behold, how brightly seeming
          All nature shows:
          In golden sunlight gleaming,
          Blushes the rose.
          How very happy things must be
          That are so bright and fair to see!
          Ah, no! in that sweet flower,
          A worm there lies;
          And lo! within the hour,
          It fades—it dies.

          II

          "Behold, young Beauty's glances
          Around she flings;
          While as she lightly dances,
          Her soft laugh rings:
          How very happy they must be,
          Who are as young and gay as she!
          'Tis not when smiles are brightest,
          So old tales say,
          The bosom's lord sits lightest—
          Ah! well-a-day!

          III

          "Beneath the greenwood's cover
          The maiden steals,
          And, as she meets her lover,
          Her blush reveals
          How very happy all must be
          Who love with trustful constancy.
          By cruel fortune parted,
          She learns too late,
          How some die broken-hearted—
          Ah! hapless fate!"

[263] The air to which these words were set was a simple, plaintive, old melody, well suited to their expression, and Miss Saville sang with much taste and feeling. When she reached the last four lines of the second verse, her eyes met mine for an instant, with a sad, reproachful glance, as if upbraiding me for having misunderstood her; and there was a touching sweetness in her voice, as she almost whispered the refrain, "Ah! well-a-day!" which seemed to breathe the very soul of melancholy.

"Strange, incomprehensible girl!" thought I, as I gazed with a feeling of interest I could not restrain, upon her beautiful features, which were now marked by an expression of the most touching sadness—"who could believe that she was the same person who, but five minutes since, seemed possessed by the spirit of frolic and merriment, and appeared to have eyes and ears for nothing beyond the jokes and drolleries of Freddy Coleman?"

"That's a very pretty song, my dear," said Mrs. Coleman; "and I'm very much obliged to you for singing it, only it has made me cry so, it has given me quite a cold in my head, I declare;" and, suiting the action to the word, the tender-hearted old lady began to wipe her eyes, and execute sundry other manoeuvres incidental to the malady she had named. At this moment Freddy returned, laden with music-books. Miss Saville immediately fixed upon a lively duet which would suit their voices, and song followed song, till Mrs. Coleman, waking suddenly in a fright, after a tremendous attempt to break her neck, which was very near proving successful, found out that it was past eleven o'clock, and consequently bed-time.

It can scarcely be doubted that my thoughts, as I fell asleep (for, unromantic as it may appear, truth compels me to state that I never slept better in my life), turned upon my unexpected meeting with Clara Saville. The year and a half which had elapsed since the night of the ball had altered her from a beautiful girl into a lovely woman. Without in the slightest degree diminishing its grace and elegance, the outline of her figure had become more rounded, while her features had acquired a depth of expression which was not before observable, and which was the only thing wanting to render them (I had almost said) perfect. In her manner there was also a great alteration; the quiet reserve she had maintained when in the presence of Mr. Vernor, and the calm frankness displayed during our accidental meeting in Barstone [264] Park, had alike given way to a strange excitability, which at times showed itself in the bursts of wild gaiety which had annoyed my fastidious sensitiveness in the earlier part of the evening, at others in the deep impassioned feeling she threw into her singing, though I observed that it was only in such songs as partook of a melancholy and even despairing character that she did so. The result of my meditations was, that the young lady was an interesting enigma, and that I could not employ the next two or three days to better advantage than in "doing a little bit of OEdipus." as Coleman would have termed it, or, in plain English, "finding her out ";—and hereabouts I fell asleep.

CHAPTER XXXIV — THE RIDDLE BAFFLES ME!

          "Your riddle is hard to read."
          —Tennyson.

          '"Are you content?
          I am what you behold.
          And that's a mystery."
          The Two Foscari.

THE post next morning brought a letter from Mr. Vernor to say that, as he found the business on which he was engaged must necessitate his crossing to Boulogne, he feared there was no chance of his being able to return under a week, but that, if it should be inconvenient for Mrs. Coleman to keep Miss Saville so long at Elm Lodge, he should wish her to go back to Barstone, where, if she was in any difficulty, she could easily apply to her late hostess for advice and assistance. On being brought clearly (though I fear the word is scarcely applicable to the good lady's state of mind at any time) to understand the position of affairs, Mrs. Coleman would by no means hear of Miss Saville's departure; but, on the contrary, made her promise to prolong her stay till her guardian should return, which, as Freddy observed, involved the remarkable coincidence that if Mr. Vernor should be drowned in crossing the British Channel, she (his mother) would have put her foot in it. The same post brought Freddy a summons from his father, desiring him, the moment he returned from Bury with the papers, to proceed to town immediately. There was nothing left for him, therefore, but to deposit himself upon the roof of the next coach, blue bag in hand, which he accordingly did, after having spent the intervening time in reviling [265] all lawyers, clients, deeds, settlements, in fact, every individual thing connected with the profession, excepting fees.

"Clara and I are going for a long walk, Mr. Fairlegh, and we shall be glad of your escort, if you have no objection to accompany us, and it is not too far for you," said Mrs. Coleman (who evidently considered me in the last stage of a decline), trotting into the breakfast-room where I was lounging, book in hand, over the fire, wondering what possible pretext I could invent for joining the ladies.

"I shall be only too happy," answered I, "and I think I can contrive to walk as far as you can, Mrs. Coleman." "Oh! I don't know that," was the reply, "I am a capital walker, I assure you. I remember a young man, quite as young as you, and a good deal stouter, who could not walk nearly as far as I can; to be sure," she added as she left the room, "he had a wooden leg, poor fellow!"

I soon received a summons to start with the ladies, whom I found awaiting my arrival on the terrace walk at the back of the house, comfortably wrapped up in shawls and furs, for, although a bright sun was shining, the day was cold and frosty.

"You must allow me to carry that for you," said I, laying violent hands on a large basket, between which and a muff Mrs. Coleman was in vain attempting to effect an amicable arrangement.

"Oh, dear! I'm sure you'll never be able to carry it—it's so dreadfully heavy," was the reply.

"Nous verrons," answered I, swinging it on my forefinger, in order to demonstrate its lightness.

"Take care—you mustn't do so!" exclaimed Mrs. Coleman in a tone of extreme alarm; "you'll upset all my beautiful senna tea, and it will get amongst the slices of Christmas plum-pudding, and the flannel that I'm going to take for poor Mrs. Muddles's children to eat; do you know Mrs. Muddles, Clara, my dear?"

Miss Saville replied in the negative, and Mrs. Coleman continued:—

"Ah! poor thing! she's a very hard-working, respectable, excellent young woman; she has been married three years, and has got six children—no! let me see—it's six years, and three children—that's it—though I can never remember whether it's most pigs or children she has—four pigs, did I say?—but it doesn't much signify, for the youngest is a boy and will soon be fat enough to kill—the pig I mean, and they're all very dirty, and have never [266] been taught to read, because she takes in washing, and has put a great deal too much starch in my night-cap this week—only her husband drinks—so I mustn't say much about it, poor thing, for we all have our failings, you know."

With suchlike rambling discourse did worthy Mrs. Coleman beguile the way, until at length, after a walk of some two miles and a half, we arrived at the cottage of that much-enduring laundress, the highly respectable Mrs. Muddles, where, in due form, we were introduced to the mixed race of children and pigs, between which heads clearer than that of Mrs. Coleman might have been at a loss to distinguish; for if the pigs did not exactly resemble children, the children most assuredly looked like pigs. Here we seemed likely to remain for some time, as there was much business to be transacted by the two matrons. First, Mrs. Coleman's basket was unpacked, during which process that lady delivered a long harangue, setting forth the rival merits of plum-pudding and black draught, and ingeniously establishing a connexion between them, which has rendered the former nearly as distasteful to me as the latter ever since. Thence glancing slightly at the overstarched night-cap, and delicately referring to the anti-teetotal propensities of the laundress's sposo, she contrived so thoroughly to confuse and interlace the various topics of her discourse, as to render it an open question, whether the male Muddles had not got tipsy on black draught, in consequence of the plum-pudding having overstarched the night-cap; moreover, she distinctly called the latter article "poor fellow!" twice. In reply to this, Mrs. Muddles, the skin of whose hands was crimped up into patterns like sea-weed, from the amphibious nature of her employment, and whose general appearance was, from the same cause, moist and spongy, expressed much gratitude for the contents of the basket, made a pathetic apology to the night-cap, tried to ignore the imbibing propensity of her better half; but, when pressed home upon the point, declared that when he was not engaged in the Circe-like operation of "making a beast of hisself," he was one of the most virtuousest of men; and finally wound up by a minute medical detail of Johnny's chilblain, accompanied by a slight retrospective sketch of Mary Anne's departed hooping-cough. How much longer the conversation might have continued, it is impossible to say, for it was evident that neither of the speakers had by any means exhausted her budget, had not Johnny, the unfortunate proprietor of the chilblain above alluded to, seen fit to precipitate himself, head-foremost, into a washing-tub [267] of nearly scalding water, whence his mamma, with great presence of mind and much professional dexterity, extricated him, wrung him out, and set him on the mangle to dry, where he remained sobbing, from a vague sense of humid misery, till a more convenient season.

This little incident reminding Mrs. Coleman that the boiled beef, preparing for our luncheon and the servants' dinner, would inevitably be overdone, induced her to take a hurried farewell of Mrs. Muddles, though she paused at the threshold to offer a parting suggestion as to the advisability, moral and physical, of dividing the wretched Johnny's share of plum-pudding between his brothers and sisters, and administering a double portion of black draught by way of compensation, an arrangement which elicited from that much-wronged child a howl of mingled horror and defiance.

We had proceeded about a mile on our return, when Mrs. Coleman, who was a step or two in advance, trod on a slide some boys had made, and would have fallen had I not thrown my arm round her just in time to prevent it.

"My dear madam," exclaimed I, "you were as nearly as possible down; I hope you have not hurt yourself."

"No, my dear—I mean—Mr. Fairlegh; no! I hope I have not, except my ankle. I gave that a twist somehow, and it hurts me dreadfully; but I daresay I shall be able to go on in a minute."

The good lady's hopes, however, were not destined in this instance to be fulfilled, for, on attempting to proceed, the pain increased to such an extent, that she was forced, after limping a few steps, to seat herself on a stone by the wayside, and it became evident that she must have sprained her ankle severely, and would be utterly unable to walk home. In this dilemma it was not easy to discover what was the best thing to do—no vehicle could be procured nearer than Hillingford, from which place we were at least two miles distant, and I by no means approved of leaving my companions in their present helpless state during the space of time which must necessarily elapse ere I could go and return. Mrs. Coleman, who, although suffering from considerable pain, bore it with the greatest equanimity and good nature, seeming to think much more of the inconvenience she was likely to occasion us, than of her own discomforts, had just hit upon some brilliant but totally impracticable project, when our ears were gladdened by the sound of wheels, and in another moment a little pony-chaise, drawn by a [268] fat, comfortable-looking pony, came in sight, proceeding in the direction of Hillingford. As soon as the driver, a stout, rosy-faced gentleman, who proved to be the family apothecary, perceived our party, he pulled up, and, when he became aware of what had occurred, put an end to our difficulties by offering Mrs. Coleman the unoccupied seat in his chaise.

"Sorry I can't accommodate you also, Miss Saville," he continued, raising his hat; "but you see it's rather close packing as it is. If I were but a little more like the medical practitioner who administered a sleeping draught to Master Romeo now, we might contrive to carry three."

"I really prefer walking such a cold day as this, thank you, Mr. Pillaway," answered Miss Saville.

"Mind you take proper care of poor Clara, Mr. Fairlegh," said Mrs. Coleman, "and don't let her sprain her ankle, or do anything foolish, and don't you stay out too long yourself and catch cold, or I don't know what Mrs. Fairlegh will say, and your pretty sister, too—what a fat pony, Mr. Pillaway; you don't give him much physic, I should think—good-bye, my dears, good-bye—remember the boiled beef."

As she spoke, the fat pony, admonished by the whip, described a circle with his tail, frisked with the agility of a playful elephant, and then set off at a better pace than from his adipose appearance I had deemed him capable of doing.

"With all her oddity, what an unselfish, kind-hearted, excellent little person Mrs. Coleman is!" observed I, as the pony-chaise disappeared at an angle of the road.

"Oh! I think her charming," replied my companion warmly, "she is so very good-natured."

"She is something beyond that," returned I; "mere good-nature is a quality I rate very low: a person may be good-natured, yet thoroughly selfish, for nine times out of ten it is easier and more agreeable to say 'yes' than 'no'; but there is such an entire forgetfulness of self, apparent in all Mrs. Coleman's attempts to make those around her happy and comfortable, that, despite her eccentricities, I am beginning to conceive quite a respect for the little woman."

"You are a close observer of character it seems, Mr. Fairlegh," remarked my companion.

"I scarcely see how any thinking person can avoid being so," returned I; "there is no study that appears to me to possess a more deep and varied interest."

"You make mistakes, though, sometimes," replied [269] Miss Saville, glancing quickly at me with her beautiful eyes.

"You refer to my hasty judgment of last night," said I, colouring slightly. "The mournful words of your song led me to conclude that, in one instance, high spirits might not be a sure indication of a light heart; and yet I would fain hope," added I in a half-questioning tone, "that you merely sought to inculcate a general principle."

"Is not that a very unusual species of heath to find growing in this country?" was the rejoinder.

"Really, I am no botanist," returned I, rather crossly, for I felt that I had received a rebuff, and was not at all sure that I might not have deserved it.

"Nay, but I will have you attend; you did not even look towards the place where it is growing," replied Miss Saville, with a half-imperious, half-imploring glance, which it was impossible to resist.

"Is that the plant you mean?" asked I, pointing to a tuft of heath on the top of a steep bank by the roadside.

On receiving a reply in the affirmative, I continued: "Then I will render you all the assistance in my power, by enabling you to judge for yourself ". So saying, I scrambled up the bank at the imminent risk of my neck; and after bursting the button-holes of my straps, and tearing my coat in two places with a bramble, I succeeded in gathering the heath.

Elated by my success, and feeling every nerve braced and invigorated by the frosty air, I bounded down the slope with such velocity, that, on reaching the bottom, I was unable to check my speed, and only avoided running against Miss Saville, by nearly throwing myself down backwards.

"I beg your pardon!" exclaimed I; "I hope I have not alarmed you by my abominable awkwardness; but really the bank was so steep, that it was impossible to stop sooner."

"Nay, it is I who ought to apologise for having led you to undertake such a dangerous expedition," replied she, taking the heath which I had gathered, with a smile which quite repaid me for my exertions.

"I do not know what could have possessed me to run down the bank in that insane manner," returned I; "I suppose it is this fine frosty morning which makes one feel so light and happy."

"Happy!" repeated my companion incredulously, and in a half-absent manner, as though she were rather thinking aloud than addressing me.

[270] "Yes," replied I, surprised; "why should I not feel so?"

"Is any one happy?" was the rejoinder.

"Very many people, I hope," said I; "you do not doubt it, surely."

"I well might," she answered with a sigh.

"On such a beautiful day as this, with the bright clear sky above us, and the hoar-frost sparkling like diamonds in the glorious sunshine, how can one avoid feeling happy?" asked I.

"It is very beautiful," she replied, after gazing around for a moment; "and yet can you not imagine a state of mind in which this fair scene, with all its varied charms, may impress one with a feeling of bitterness rather than of pleasure, by the contrast it affords to the darkness and weariness of soul within? Place some famine-stricken wretch beneath the roof of a gilded palace, think you the sight of its magnificence would give him any sensation of pleasure? Would it not rather, by increasing the sense of his own misery, add to his agony of spirit?"

"I can conceive such a case possible," replied I; "but you would make us out to be all famine-stricken wretches at this rate: you cannot surely imagine that every one is unhappy?"

"There are, no doubt, different degrees of unhappiness," returned Miss Saville; "yet I can hardly conceive any position in life so free from cares, as to be pronounced positively happy; but I know my ideas on this subject are peculiar, and I am by no means desirous of making a convert of you, Mr. Fairlegh; the world will do that soon enough, I fear," she added with a sigh.

"I cannot believe it," replied I warmly. "True, at times we must all feel sorrow; it is one of the conditions of our mortal lot, and we must bear it with what resignation we may, knowing that, if we but make a fitting use of it, it is certain to work for our highest good; but if you would have me look upon this world as a vale of tears, forgetting all its glorious opportunities for raising our fallen nature to something so bright and noble, as to be even here but little lower than the angels, you must pardon me if I never can agree with you."

There was a moment's pause, when my companion resumed.

"You talk of opportunities of doing good, as being likely to increase our stock of happiness; and, no doubt, you are right; but imagine a situation, in which you are unable to take advantage of these opportunities when [271] they arise—in which you are not a free agent, your will fettered and controlled on every point, so that you are alike powerless to perform the good that you desire, and to avoid the evil you both hate and fear—could you be happy in such a situation, think you?"

"You describe a case which is, or ought to be, impossible," replied I; "when I say ought to be, I mean that in these days, I hope and believe, it is impossible for any one to be forced to do wrong, unless, from a natural weakness and facility of disposition, and from a want of moral courage, their resistance is so feeble, that those who seek to compel them to evil are induced to redouble their efforts, when a little firmness and decision clearly shown, and steadily adhered to, would have produced a very different result."

"Oh that I could think so!" exclaimed Miss Saville ardently: she paused for a minute, as if in thought, and then resumed in a low mournful voice, "But you do not know—you cannot tell; besides, it is useless to struggle against destiny: there are people fated from childhood to grief and misfortune—alone in this cold world"—she paused, then continued abruptly, "you have a sister?"

"Yes," replied I; "I have as good a little sister as ever man was fortunate enough to possess—how glad I should be to introduce her to you!"

"And you love each other?"

"Indeed we do, truly and sincerely."

"And you are a man, one of the lords of the creation," she continued, with a slight degree of sarcasm in her tone. "Well, Mr. Fairlegh, I can believe that you may be happy sometimes."

"And what ami to conjecture about you?" inquired I, fixing my eyes upon her expressive features.

"What you please," returned she, turning away with a very becoming blush—"or rather," she added, "do not waste your time in forming any conjectures whatever on such an uninteresting subject."

"I am more easily interested than you imagine," replied I, with a smile; "besides, you know I am fond of studying character."

"The riddle is not worth reading," answered Miss Saville.

"Nevertheless, I shall not be contented till I have found it out; I shall guess it before long, depend upon it," returned I.

An incredulous shake of the head was her only reply, and we continued conversing on indifferent subjects till we reached Elm Lodge.[272]

CHAPTER XXXV — A MYSTERIOUS LETTER

          "Good company's a chess-board—there are kings,
          Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns.
          The world's a game."
          Byron.

          "My soul hath felt a secret weight,
          A warning of approaching fate."
          Rokeby.

          "Oh! lady, weep no more; lest I give cause
          To be suspected of more tenderness
          Than doth become a man."
          Shakspeare.

THE next few days passed like a happy dream. Our little party remained the same, no tidings being heard of any of the absentees, save a note from Freddy, saying how much he was annoyed at being detained in town, and begging me to await his return at Elm Lodge, or he would never forgive me. Mrs. Coleman's sprain, though not very severe, was yet sufficient to confine her to her own room till after breakfast, and to a sofa in the boudoir during the rest of the day; and, as a necessary consequence, Miss Saville and I were chiefly dependent on each other for society and amusement. We walked together, read Italian (Petrarch too, of all the authors we could have chosen, to beguile us with his picturesque and glowing love conceits), played chess, and, in short, tried in turn the usual expedients for killing time in a country-house, and found them all very "pretty pastimes" indeed. As the young lady's shyness wore off, and by degrees she allowed the various excellent qualities of her head and heart to appear, I recalled Lucy Markham's assertion, that "she was as good and amiable as she was pretty," and acknowledged that she had only done her justice. Still, although her manner was generally lively and animated, and at times even gay, I could perceive that her mind was not at ease; and whenever she was silent, and her features were in repose, they were marked by an expression of hopeless dejection which it grieved me to behold. If at such moments she perceived any one was observing her, she would rouse herself with a sudden start, and join in the conversation with a degree of wild vehemence and strange, unnatural gaiety, which to me had in it something shocking. Latterly, however, as we became better acquainted, and felt more at ease in [273] each other's society, these wild bursts of spirits grew less frequent, or altogether disappeared, and she would meet my glance with a calm melancholy smile, which seemed to say, "I am not afraid to trust you with the knowledge that I am unhappy—you will not betray me". Yet, though she seemed to find pleasure in discussing subjects which afforded opportunity for expressing the morbid and desponding views she held of life, she never allowed the conversation to take a personal turn, always skilfully avoiding the possibility of her words being applied to her own case: any attempt to do so invariably rendering her silent, or eliciting from her some gay piquant remark, which served her purpose still better.

And how were my feelings getting on all this time? Was I falling in love with this wayward, incomprehensible, but deeply interesting girl, into whose constant society circumstances had, as it were, forced me? Reader, this was a question which I most carefully abstained from asking myself. I knew that I was exceedingly happy; and, as I wished to continue so, I steadily forbore to analyse the ingredients of this happiness too closely, perhaps from a secret consciousness, that, were I to do so, I might discover certain awkward truths, which would prove it to be my duty to tear myself away from the scene of fascination ere it was too late. So I told myself that I was bound by my promise to Coleman to remain at Elm Lodge till my mother and sister should return home, or, at all events, till he himself came back: this being the case, I was compelled by all the rules of good-breeding to be civil and attentive to Miss Saville (yes, civil and attentive—I repeated the words over two or three times; they were nice, quiet, cool sort of words, and suited the view I was anxious to take of the case particularly well). Besides, I might be of some use to her, poor girl, by combating her strange, melancholy, half-fatalist opinions; at all events, it was my duty to try, decidedly my duty (I said that also several times); and, as to my feeling such a deep interest about her, and thinking of her continually, why there was nothing else to think about at Elm Lodge—so that was easily accounted for. All this, and a good deal more of the same nature, did I tell myself; and, if I did not implicitly believe it, I was much too polite to think of giving myself the lie, and so I continued walking, talking, reading Petrarch, and playing chess with Miss Saville all day, and dreaming of her all night, and being very happy indeed.

[274] Oh! it's a dangerous game, by the way, that game of chess, with its gallant young knights, clever fellows, up to all sorts of deep moves, who are perpetually laying siege to queens, keeping them in check, threatening them with the bishop, and, with his assistance, mating at last; and much too nearly does it resemble the game of life to be played safely with a pair of bright eyes talking to you from the other side of the board, and two coral lips—mute, indeed, but in their very silence discoursing such "sweet music" to your heart, that the silly thing, dancing with delight, seems as if it meant to leap out of your breast; and it is not mere seeming either—for hearts have been altogether lost in this way before now. Oh! it's a dangerous game, that game of chess. But to return to my tale.

About a week after the expedition to Mrs. Muddles's had taken place, Freddy and his father returned, just in time for dinner. As I was dressing for that meal Coleman came into my room, anxious to learn "how the young lady had conducted herself" during his absence; whether I had taken any unfair advantage, or acted honourably, and with a due regard to his interest, with sundry other jocose queries, all of which appeared to me exceedingly impertinent, and particularly disagreeable, and inspired me with a strong inclination to take him by the shoulders and march him out of the room; instead, however, of doing so, I endeavoured to look amiable, and answer his inquiries in the same light tone in which they were made, and I so far succeeded as to render the amount of information he obtained exceedingly minute. The dinner passed off heavily; Miss Saville was unusually silent, and all Freddy's sallies failed to draw her out. Mr. Coleman was very pompous, and so distressingly polite, that everything like sociability was out of the question. When the ladies left us, matters did not improve; Freddy, finding the atmosphere ungenial to jokes, devoted himself to cracking walnuts by original methods which invariably failed, and attempting to torture into impossible shapes oranges which, when finished, were much too sour for any one to eat; while his father, after having solemnly, and at separate intervals, begged me to partake of every article of the dessert twice over, commenced an harangue, in which he set forth the extreme caution and reserve he considered it right and advisable for young gentlemen to exercise in their intercourse with young ladies, towards whom he declared they should maintain a staid deportment of dignified [275] courtesy, tempered by distant but respectful attentions. This, repeated with variations, lasted us till the tea was announced, and we returned to the drawing-room. Here Freddy made a desperate and final struggle to remove the wet blanket which appeared to have extinguished the life and spirit of the party, but in vain; it had evidently set in for a dull evening, and the clouds were not to be dispelled by any efforts of his;—nothing, therefore, remained for him but to tease the cat, and worry and confuse his mother, to which occupations he applied himself with a degree of diligence worthy a better object. During a fearful commotion consequent upon the discovery of the cat's nose in the cream-jug, into the commission of which delinquency Freddy had contrived to inveigle that amiable quadruped by a series of treacherous caresses, I could not help remarking to Miss Saville (next to whom I happened to be seated) the contrast between this evening and those which we had lately spent together.

"Ah! yes," she replied, in a half-absent manner, "I knew they were too happy to last;" then seeing, from the flush of joy which I felt rise to my brow, though I would have given worlds to repress it, that I had put a wrong construction on her words, or, as my heart would fain have me believe, that she had unconsciously admitted more than she intended, she added hastily, "What I mean to say is, that the perfect freedom from restraint, and the entire liberty to—to follow one's own pursuits, are pleasures to which I am so little accustomed, that I have enjoyed them more than I was perhaps aware of while they lasted".

"You are out of spirits this evening. I hope nothing has occurred to annoy you?" inquired I.

"Do you believe in presentiments?" was the rejoinder.

"I cannot say I do," returned I; "I take them to be little else than the creations of our own morbid fancies, and attribute them in great measure to physical causes."

"But why do they come true, then?" she inquired. "I must answer your question by another," I replied, "and ask whether, except now and then by accident, they do come true?"

"I think so," returned Miss Saville, "at least I can only judge as one usually does, more or less, in every case, by one's own experience,—my presentiments always appear to come true; would it were not so! for they are generally of a gloomy nature."

"Even yet," replied I, "I doubt whether you do not [276] unconsciously deceive yourself, and I think I can tell you the reason; you remember the times when your presentiments have come to pass, because you considered such coincidences remarkable, and they made a strong impression on your mind, while you forget the innumerable gloomy forebodings which have never been fulfilled, the accomplishment being the thing which fixes itself on your memory—is not this the case?"

"It may be so," she answered, "and yet I know not—even now there is a weight here," and she pressed her hand to her brow as she spoke, "a vague, dull feeling of dread, a sensation of coming evil, which tells me some misfortune is at hand, some crisis of my fate approaching. I daresay you consider all this very silly and romantic, Mr. Fairlegh; but if you knew how everything I have most feared, most sought to avoid, has invariably been forced upon me, you would make allowance for me—you would pity me."

What answer I should have made to this appeal, had not Fate interposed in the person of old Mr. Coleman (who seated himself on the other side of Miss Saville, and began talking about the state of the roads), it is impossible to say. As it was my only reply was by a glance, which, if it failed to convince her that I pitied her with a depth and intensity which approached alarmingly near the kindred emotion, love, must have been singularly inexpressive. And the evening came to an end, as all evenings, however long, are sure to do at last; and in due course I went to bed, but not to sleep, for Clara Saville and her forebodings ran riot in my brain, and effectually banished the "soft restorer," till such time as that early egotist the cock began singing his own praises to his numerous wives, when I fell into a doze, with a strong idea that I had got a presentiment myself, though of what nature, or when the event (if event it was) was likely to "come off," I had not the most distant notion.

The post-bag arrived while we were at breakfast the next morning; and it so happened that I was the only one of the party for whom it did not contain a letter. Having nothing, therefore, to occupy my attention, and being seated exactly opposite Clara Saville, I could scarcely fail to observe the effect produced by one which Mr. Coleman had handed to her. When her eye first fell on the writing she gave a slight start, and a flush (I could not decide whether of pleasure or anger) mounted to her brow. As she perused the contents she grew deadly pale, and I feared she was about to faint: recovering herself, [277] however, by a strong effort, she read steadily to the end, quietly refolded the letter, and, placing it in a pocket in her dress, apparently resumed her breakfast—I say apparently, for I noticed that, although she busied herself with what was on her plate, it remained untasted, and she took the earliest opportunity, as soon as the meal was concluded, of leaving the room.

"I'm afraid I must ask you to excuse me till after lunch, old fellow," said Coleman, "you see we're so dreadfully busy just now with this confounded suit I went down to Bury about—'Bowler versus Stumps'; but if you can amuse yourself till two o'clock we'll go and have a jolly good walk to shake up an appetite for dinner."

"The very thing," replied I; "I have a letter to Harry Oaklands which has been on the stocks for the last four days, and which I particularly wish to finish, and then I'm your man, for a ten-mile trot if you like it."

"So be it, then," said Freddy, leaving the room as he spoke.

As soon as he was gone, instead of fetching my half-written epistle I flung myself into an arm-chair, and devoted myself to the profitable employment of conjecturing the possible cause of Clara Saville's strange agitation on receiving that letter. Who could it be from?—perhaps her guardian;—but if so, why should she have given a start of surprise?—nothing could have been more natural or probable than that he should write and say when she might expect him home—she could not have felt surprise at the sight of his handwriting—but if not from him, from whom could it come? She had told me that she had no near relations, no intimate friend. A lover perchance—well, and if it were so, what was that to me?—nothing—oh yes! decidedly nothing—a favoured lover of course, else why the emotion?—was this also nothing?—yes, I said it was, and I tried to think so too: yet, viewing the matter so philosophically, it was rather inconsistent to spring from my seat as if an adder had stung me, and begin striding up and down the room as though I were walking for a wager. In the course of my rapid promenade, my coat-tail brushed against and nearly knocked down an inkstand, to which incident I was indebted for the recollection of my unfinished letter to Oaklands, and, my own thoughts being at that moment no over-pleasant companions, I was glad of any excuse to get rid of them. On looking about for my writing-case, however, I remembered that, when last I made use of it, we were sitting in the boudoir, and that there it had [278] probably remained ever since; accordingly, without further waste of time, I ran upstairs to look for it.

As good Mrs. Coleman (although she most indignantly repelled the accusation) was sometimes accustomed to indulge her propensity for napping even in a morning, I opened the door of the boudoir, and closed it again after me as noiselessly as possible. My precautions, however, did not seem to have been necessary, for at first sight the room appeared untenanted; but as I turned to look for my writing-case a stifled sob met my ear, and a closer inspection enabled me to perceive the form of Clara Saville, with her face buried in the cushions, half-sitting, half-reclining on the sofa, while so silently had I effected my entrance that as yet she was not aware of my approach. My first impulse was to withdraw and leave her undisturbed, but unluckily a slight noise which I made in endeavouring to do so attracted her attention, and she started up in alarm, regarding me with a wild, half-frightened gaze, as if she scarcely recognised me.

"I beg your pardon," I began hastily, "I am afraid I have disturbed you—I came to fetch—that is to look for—my—" and here I stopped short, for to my surprise and consternation Miss Saville, after making a strong but ineffectual effort to regain her composure, sank back upon the sofa, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into a violent flood of tears. I can scarcely conceive a situation more painful, or in which it would be more difficult to know how to act, than the one in which I now found myself. The sight of a woman's tears must always produce a powerful effect upon a man of any feeling, leading him to wish to comfort and assist her to the utmost of his ability; but, if the fair weeper be one in whose welfare you take the deepest interest, and yet with whom you are not on terms of sufficient intimacy to entitle you to offer the consolation your heart would dictate, the position becomes doubly embarrassing. For my part, so overcome was I by a perfect chaos of emotions, that I remained for some moments like one thunder-stricken, while she continued to sob as though her heart were breaking. At length I could stand it no longer, and scarcely knowing what I was going to say or do, I placed myself on the sofa beside her, and taking one of her hands, which now hung listlessly down, in my own, I exclaimed:—

"Miss Saville—Clara—dear Clara! I cannot bear to see you so unhappy, it makes me miserable to look at you—tell me, what can I do to help you—to comfort you—something must be possible—you have no brother—let [279] me be one to you—tell me why you are so wretched—and oh! do not cry so bitterly!"

When I first addressed her she started slightly, and attempted to withdraw her hand, but as I proceeded she allowed it to remain quietly in mine, and though she still continued to weep, her tears fell more softly, and she no longer sobbed in such a distressing manner. Glad to find that I had in some measure succeeded in calming her, I renewed my attempts at consolation, and again implored her to tell me the cause of her unhappiness. Still for some moments she was unable to speak, but at length making an effort to recover herself she withdrew her hand, and stroking back her glossy hair, which had fallen over her forehead, said:—

"This is very weak—very foolish. I do not often give way in this manner, but it came upon me so suddenly—so unexpectedly; and now, Mr. Fairlegh, pray leave me; I shall ever feel grateful to you for your sympathy, for your offers of assistance, and for all the trouble you have kindly taken about such a strange, wayward girl, as I am sure you must consider me," she added, with a faint smile.

"So you will not allow me to be of use to you," returned I sorrowfully, "you do not think me worthy of your confidence."

"Indeed it is not so," she replied earnestly; "there is no one of whose judgment I think more highly; no one of whose assistance I would more gladly avail myself; on whose honour I would more willingly rely; but it is utterly impossible to help me. Indeed," she added, seeing me still look incredulous, "I am telling you what I believe to be the exact and simple truth."

"Will you promise me that, if at any time you should find that I could be of use to you, you will apply to me as you would to a brother, trusting me sufficiently to believe that I shall not act hastily, or in any way which could in the slightest degree compromise or annoy you? Will you promise me this?"

"I will," she replied, raising her eyes to my face for an instant with that sweet, trustful expression which I had before noticed, "though I suppose such prudent people as Mr. Coleman," she added with a slight smile, "would consider me to blame for so doing; and were I like other girls—had I a mother's affection to watch over me—a father's care to shield me, they might be right; but situated as I am, having none to care for me—nothing to rely on save my own weak heart and unassisted judgment—while those who should guide and protect me [280] appear only too ready to avail themselves of my helplessness and inexperience—I cannot afford to lose so true a friend, or believe it to be my duty to reject your disinterested kindness."

A pause ensued, during which I arrived at two conclusions—first, that my kindness was not altogether so disinterested as she imagined; and secondly, that if I sat where I was much longer, and she continued to talk about there being nobody who cared for her, I should inevitably feel myself called upon to undeceive her, and, as a necessary consequence, implore her to accept my heart and share my patrimony—the latter, deducting my sister's allowance and my mother's jointure, amounting to the imposing sum of £90 14s. 6d. per annum, which, although sufficient to furnish a bachelor with bread and cheese and broad-cloth, was not exactly calculated to afford an income for "persons about to marry". Accordingly, putting a strong force upon my inclinations, and by a desperate effort screwing my virtue to the sticking point, I made a pretty speech, clenching, and thanking her for her promise of applying to me to help her out of the first hopelessly inextricable dilemma in which she might find herself involved, and rose with the full intention of leaving the room.

CHAPTER XXXVI — THE RIDDLE SOLVED

          "Think'st thou there's virtue in constrained vows,
          Half utter'd, soulless, falter'd forth in fear?
          And if there is, then truth and grace are nought."
          Sheridan Knowles.

          "For The contract you pretend with that base wretch,
          It is no contract—none."
          Shakspeare.

          "Who hath not felt that breath in the air,
          A perfume and freshness strange and rare,
          A warmth in the light, and a bliss everywhere,
          When young hearts yearn together?
          All sweets below, and all sunny above,
          Oh! there's nothing in life like making Love,
          Save making hay in fine weather!
          Hood.

UPON what trifles do the most important events of our lives turn! Had I quitted the room according to my intention, I should not have had an opportunity of seeing Miss Saville alone again (as she returned to Barstone [281] that afternoon), in which case she would probably have forgotten, or felt afraid to avail herself of my promised assistance, all communication between us would have ceased, and the deep interest I felt in her, having nothing wherewith to sustain itself, would, as years passed by, have died a natural death.

Good resolutions are, however, proverbially fragile, and, in nine cases out of ten, appear made, like children's toys, only to be broken. Certain it is, that in the present instance mine were rendered of none avail, and, for any good effect that they produced, might as well never have been formed.

As I got up to leave the room Miss Saville rose likewise, and in doing so accidentally dropped a, or rather the, letter, which I picked up, and was about to return to her, when suddenly my eye fell upon the direction, and I started as I recognised the writing—a second glance served to convince me that I had not been mistaken, for the hand was a very peculiar one; and, turning to my astonished companion, I exclaimed, "Clara, as you would avoid a life of misery, tell me by what right this man dares to address you!"

"What! do you know him, then?" she inquired anxiously.

"If he be the man I mean," was my answer, "I know him but too well, and he is the only human being I both dislike and despise. Was not that letter written by Richard Cumberland?"

"Yes, that is his hateful name," she replied, shuddering while she spoke, as at the aspect of some loathsome thing; then, suddenly changing her tone to one of the most passionate entreaty, she clasped her hands, and advancing a step towards me, exclaimed:—

"Oh! Mr. Fairlegh, only save me from him, and I will bless you, will pray for you!" and completely overcome by her emotion, she sank backwards, and would have fallen had not I prevented it.

There is a peculiar state of feeling which a man sometimes experiences when he has bravely resisted some hydra-headed temptation to do anything "pleasant but wrong," yet which circumstances appear determined to force upon him: he struggles against it boldly at first; but, as each victory serves only to lessen his own strength, while that of the enemy continues unimpaired, he begins to tell himself that it is useless to contend longer—that the monster is too strong for him, and he yields at last, from a mixed feeling of fatalism and irritation—a sort of [282] "have-it-your-own-way-then" frame of mind, which seeks to relieve itself from all responsibility by throwing the burden on things in general—the weakness of human nature—the force of circumstances—or any other indefinite and conventional scapegoat, which may serve his purpose of self-exculpation.

In much such a condition did I now find myself; I felt that I was regularly conquered—completely taken by storm—and that nothing was left for me but to yield to my destiny with the best grace I could. I therefore seated myself by Miss Saville on the sofa, and whispered, "You must promise me one thing more, Clara, dearest—say that you will love me—give me but that right to watch over you—to protect you, and believe me neither Cumberland, nor any other villain, shall dare for the future to molest you".

As she made no answer, but remained with her eyes fixed on the ground, while the tears stole slowly down her cheeks, I continued—"You own that you are unhappy—that you have none to love you—none on whom you can rely;—do not then reject the tender, the devoted affection of one who would live but to protect you from the slightest breath of sorrow—would gladly die, if, by so doing, he could secure your happiness".

"Oh! hush, hush!" she replied, starting, as if for the first time aware of the tenor of my words; "you know not what you ask; or even you, kind, noble, generous as you are, would not seek to link your fate with one so utterly wretched, so marked out for misfortune as myself. Stay," she continued, seeing that I was about to speak, "hear me out. Richard Cumberland, the man whom you despise, and whom I hate only less than I fear, that man have I promised to marry, and, ere this, he is on his road hither to claim the fulfilment of the engagement."

"Promised to marry Cumberland!" repeated I mechanically, "a low, dissipated swindler—a common cheat, for I can call him nothing better; oh, it's impossible!—why, Mr. Vernor, your guardian, would never permit it."

"My guardian!" she replied, in a tone of the most cutting irony: "were it not for him this engagement would never have been formed; were it not for him I should even now hope to find some means of prevailing upon this man to relinquish it, and set me free. Richard Cumberland is Mr. Vernor's nephew, and the dearest wish of his heart is to see us united."

"He never shall see it while I live to prevent it!" [283] replied I, springing to my feet, and pacing the room with angry strides.

"Oh, it was all plain to me now! when I had fancied her guardian's features were not unfamiliar to me, it was his likeness to Cumberland which had deceived me; his rudeness on the night of the ball; the strange dislike he appeared to feel towards me;—all was now accounted for. His opinion of me, formed from Cumberland's report, was not likely to be a very favourable one; and this precious uncle and nephew were linked in a scheme to destroy the happiness of the sweetest girl living, the brightness of whose young spirit was already darkened by the shade of their vile machinations: but they had not as yet succeeded; and if the most strenuous and unceasing exertions on my part could serve to prevent it, I inwardly vowed they never should. Let Master Richard Cumberland look to himself; I had foiled him once, and it would go hard with me but I would do so again."

Having half thought, half uttered the foregoing resolutions, I once more turned towards Miss Saville, who sat watching me with looks of interest and surprise, and said: "This is a most strange and unexpected affair; but remember, dear Clara, you have appealed to me to save you from Cumberland, and, to enable me to do so, you must tell me exactly how matters stand between you, and, above all, how and why you were induced to enter into this engagement, for I hope—I think—I am right in supposing—that affection for him had nothing to do with it".

"Affection!" she replied, in a tone of voice which, if any doubts still lingered in my mind, effectually dispelled them; "have I not already said that I hate this man as, I fear, it is sinful to hate any human being? I disliked and dreaded him when we were boy and girl together, and these feelings have gone on increasing year by year, till my aversion to him has become one of the most deeply-rooted instincts of my nature."

"And yet you allowed yourself to be engaged to him?" inquired I. "How could this have been brought about?"

"You may well ask," was the reply; "it was folly; it was weakness; but I was very young—a mere child in fact; and they made me believe that it was my duty; then I hoped, I felt sure that I should die before the time arrived to fulfil the engagement; I fancied it was impossible to be so miserable, and yet to live: but Death is very cruel—he will not come to those who pine for him."

[284] "Clara," interrupted I, "I cannot bear to hear you say such things; it is not right to give way to these feelings of despair."

"Is it wrong for the unhappy to wish to die?" she asked, with a calm child-like simplicity which was most touching. "I suppose it is," she continued, "for I have prayed for death so often, that God would have granted my prayer if it had been a right one. When I closed my eyes last night, oh! how I hoped—how I longed—never to open them again in this miserable world—for I felt that evil was at hand: you laughed at my presentiment: it has come true, you see."

"Believe me, you do wrong in giving way to these despairing thoughts—in encouraging these morbid fancies," returned I. "But time presses; will you not tell me the particulars of this unhappy engagement, that I may see how far you stand committed to this scoundrel Cumberland, and decide what is best to be done for the future?"

"It is a long story," she replied; "but I will tell it you as shortly as I can."

She then proceeded to inform me, that her mother having died when she was an infant, she had become the idol of her surviving parent, who, inconsolable for the loss of his wife, lavished all his tenderness upon his little girl. She described her childhood as the happiest part of her life, although it must have been happiness of a tranquil nature, differing greatly from the boisterous merriment of children in general; its chief ingredient being the strong affection which existed between her father and herself. The only guest who ever appeared at the Priory (which I now for the first time learned had been the property of Sir Henry Saville) was his early friend, Mr. Vernor, who used periodically to visit them, an event to which she always looked forward with pleasure, not so much on account of the presents and caresses he bestowed on herself, as that his society appeared to amuse and interest her father. On one of these occasions, when she was about nine years of age, Mr. Vernor was accompanied by a lad some years older than herself, whom he introduced as his nephew. During his visit, the boy, who appeared gifted with tact and cunning beyond his years, contrived so much to ingratiate himself with Sir Henry Saville, that before he left the Priory, his host, who had himself served with distinction in the Peninsula, expressed his readiness to send him, on attaining a fit age, to one of the military colleges, promising to use his interest at the Horse Guards to procure a commission for him. These [285] kind intentions, however, were fated not to be carried out. An old wound which Sir Henry had received at Vimiera broke out afresh, occasioning the rupture of a vessel on the lungs, and in the course of a few hours Clara was left fatherless. On examining the private papers of the deceased, it appeared that Mr. Vernor was constituted sole executor, trustee for the property, and guardian to the young lady. In these various capacities he immediately took up his residence at Barstone, and assumed the direction of everything. And now for the first time did his true character appear—sullen and morose in temper, stern and inflexible in disposition, cold and reserved in manner, implacable when offended, requiring implicit obedience to his commands; he seemed calculated to inspire fear instead of love, aversion rather than esteem. The only sign of feeling he ever showed was in his behaviour towards Richard Cumberland, for whom he evidently entertained a strong affection. The idea of a military career having been abandoned at Sir Henry Saville's death, much of his time was now spent at the Priory. Although he was apparently fond of his little companion, and endeavoured on every occasion to render himself agreeable to her, all his habitual cunning could not conceal from her his vile temper, or the unscrupulous means of which he was always willing to avail himself in order to attain his own ends. He had been away from the Priory on one occasion more than a year, when he suddenly returned with his uncle, who had been in town on business. He appeared sullen and uncomfortable, and she imagined that they must have had a quarrel. She was at that time nearly fifteen, and the marked devotion which Cumberland (who during his absence had greatly improved both in manner and appearance) now paid her, flattered and pleased her; and, partly for this reason, partly because she had already learned to dread his outbreaks of temper, and was unwilling to do anything which might provoke one of them, she allowed him to continue his attentions unrepulsed. This went on for some weeks, and her old dislike was beginning to return as she saw more of her companion, when one morning Mr. Vernor called her into his study, and informed her that he considered she had arrived at an age when it was right that she should become aware of the arrangements he had made for her, in accordance with the wishes of her late father. He then showed her a letter in Sir Henry Saville's handwriting, dated only a few weeks before his death, part of which was to the following effect; "You urge [286] the fact of your nephew's residing with you as an objection to my scheme for your living at Barstone, and assuming the guardianship of my daughter, in the event (which, if I may trust my own sensations, is not very far distant) of her being left an orphan. From what I have seen of the boy, as well as on the score of our old friendship, my dear Vemor, that which you view as an objection, I consider but an additional reason why the arrangement should take place. A marriage with your nephew would ensure my child (who as my sole heiress will be possessed of considerable wealth) from that worst of all fates, falling a prey to some needy fortune-hunter; and, should such a union ever be contemplated, let me beg of you to remember, and to impress upon Clara herself, that had I lived it would have met with my warmest approbation."

Having shown her this letter, Mr. Vemor went on to say that he had noticed with pleasure Richard's growing attachment, and the marked encouragement she had given him, and that, although they were too young to think of marrying for some years, and, as a general principle, he was averse to long engagements, yet, under the peculiar circumstances in which they were placed, he had yielded to his nephew's importunity, and determined not only to lay his offer before her, but to allow her to accept it at once, if (as from her manner he could scarcely be mistaken in supposing) her inclinations were in accordance with his.

Taken completely by surprise at this announcement, overpowered by the idea that by the encouragement she had given Cumberland she had irretrievably committed herself—strongly affected by her father's letter—having no one to advise her, what wonder that the persuasions of the nephew, backed by the authority of the uncle, prevailed over her youth and inexperience, and that the matter ended in her allowing herself to be formally engaged to Richard Cumberland.

Little more remained for her to tell; reckoning that he had gained his point, Cumberland became less careful in concealing the evil of his disposition, and her dislike to him and fear of him increased every day. At length this became evident to Mr. Vemor, but it appeared only to render him still more determined to bring about the match; and when once, nearly a twelvemonth before, she had implored him to allow her to break off the engagement, he had exhibited so much violence, declaring that he possessed the power of rendering her a beggar, and even threatening to turn her out of doors, that she had never dared to recur to the [287]subject. For many months, however, she had seen nothing of her persecutor, and she had almost begun to hope that something had rendered him averse to the match, when all her fears were again aroused by a hint which Mr. Vemor had thrown out as he took leave of her at Mrs. Coleman's, desiring her to exercise great circumspection in her behaviour, and to recollect that she was under a solemn engagement, which she might before long be called upon to fulfil. The letter from Cumberland, she added, spoke of his immediate return to claim her hand, and a few lines from Mr. Vemor ordered her to await their arrival at Barstone.

"And now," she continued, looking up with that calm hopeless smile which was so painful to behold, "have I not cause to be unhappy, and was I not right in telling you that no one could be of any assistance to me, or afford me help?"

"No!" replied I warmly; "I trust and believe that much may be done—nay, everything; but you are unequal to contend with these men alone; only allow me to hope that my affection is not utterly distasteful to you. Would you but give me that right to interfere in your behalf!"

"This is ungenerous—unlike yourself," she interrupted. "Have you already forgotten that I am the promised bride of Richard Cumberland? Were I free, indeed——"

"Oh! why do you pause?" exclaimed I passionately. "Clara, hear me—you deem it ungenerous in me to urge my suit upon you at this moment—perhaps think that I would take advantage of the difficulties which surround you, to induce you to promise me your hand as the price of my assistance. It is true that I love you deeply, devotedly, and the happiness of my whole life is centred in the hope of one day calling you my own; but I would use my utmost endeavours to save you from Cumberland, even though I knew that by so doing I forfeited all chance of ever seeing you again. Tell me, would you wish this to be so—am I to believe that you dislike me?"

As she made no reply, merely blushing deeply, and casting down her eyes, I ventured to continue: "Clara, dearest Clara, do you then love me?"

Well, reader, I think I've told you quite as much about it as you have any business to know. Of course she did not say she loved me—women never do upon such occasions; but I was just as well contented as it was. Mendelssohn has composed songs without words (Lieder ohne Worte), which tell their own tale very prettily, and there have been many eloquent speeches made on a like silent system. [288] Suffice it to add, that the next ten minutes formed such a nice, bright, sunshiny little piece of existence as might deserve to be cut out of the book of time, and framed, glazed, and hung up for the inspection of all true lovers; whilst no match-making mamma, fortune-hunting younger brother, or girl of business on the look-out for a good establishment, should be allowed a glimpse of it at any price.

CHAPTER XXXVII — THE FORLORN HOPE

          "—Cumberland seeks thy hand;
          His shall it be—nay, no reply;
          Hence till those rebel eyes be dry."
          The Lord of the Isles.

FREDDY COLEMAN was cheated of his walk that afternoon; for an old maiden lady in the neighbourhood, having read in a Sunday paper that the plague was raging with great fury at Constantinople, thought it as well to be prepared for the worst, and summoned Mr. Coleman to receive directions about making her will—and he, being particularly engaged, sent Freddy in his stead, who set out on the mission in a state of comic ill-humour, which bid fair to render Mrs. Aikinside's will a very original document indeed, and foreboded for that good old lady herself an unprecedented and distracting afternoon.

I had assisted Mr. Coleman in conducting Clara Saville to the carriage which arrived to convey her to Barstone, and had received a kind glance and a slight pressure of the hand in return, which I would not have exchanged for the smiles of an empress, when, anxious to be alone with my own thoughts, I started off for a solitary walk, nor did I relax my pace till I had left all traces of human habitation far behind me, and green fields and leafless hedges were my only companions. I then endeavoured in some measure to collect my scattered thoughts, and to reflect calmly on the position in which I had placed myself, by the avowal the unexpected events of the morning had hurried me into. But so much was I excited, that calm reflection appeared next to impossible. Feeling—flushed with the victory it had obtained over its old antagonist, Reason—seemed, in every sense of the word, to have gained the day, and, despite all the [289] difficulties that lay before me—difficulties which I knew must appear all but insurmountable, whenever I should venture to look them steadily in the face—the one idea that Clara Saville loved me was ever present with me, and rendered me supremely happy.

The condition of loving another better than one's self, conventionally termed being "in love," is, to say the least, a very doubtful kind of happiness; and poets have therefore, with great propriety, described it as "pleasing pain," "delicious misery," and in many other terms of a like contradictory character; nor is it possible that this should be otherwise: love is a passion, wayward and impetuous in its very nature—agitating and disquieting in its effects, rendering its votary the slave of circumstances—a mere shuttlecock alternating between the extremes of hope and fear, joy and sorrow, confidence and mistrust—a thing which a smile can exalt to the highest pinnacle of delight, or a frown strike down to the depths of despair. But in the consciousness that we are beloved, there is none of this questionable excitement; on the contrary, we experience a sensation of deep calm joy, as we reflect that in the true affection thus bestowed on us we have gained a possession which the cares and struggles of life are powerless to injure, and which death itself, though it may interrupt for awhile, will fail to destroy. These thoughts, or something like them, having entrenched themselves in the stronghold of my imagination, for some time held their ground gallantly against the attacks of common sense; but at length, repulsed on every point, they deemed it advisable to capitulate, or (to drop metaphor, a style of writing I particularly abominate, perhaps because I never more than half understand what it means) in plain English, I, with a sort of grimace, such as one makes before swallowing a dose of physic, set myself seriously to work to reflect upon my present position, and decide on the best line of conduct to be pursued for the future.

Before our conference came to an end, I had made Clara acquainted with my knowledge of Cumberland's former delinquencies, as well as the reputation in which he was now held by such of his associates as had any pretension to the title of gentlemen, and added my conviction, that, when once these facts were placed before Mr. Vernor, he must see that he could not, consistently with his duty as guardian, allow his ward to marry a man of such character. Cumberland had no doubt contrived to keep his uncle in ignorance of his mode of life, [290] and it would only be necessary to enlighten him on that point to ensure his consent to her breaking off the engagement. Clara appeared less sanguine of success, even hinting at the possibility of Mr. Vernor's being as well informed in regard to his nephew's real character as we were; adding, that his mind was too firmly set on the match for him to give it up lightly. It was finally agreed between us, that she was to let me know how affairs went on after Mr. Vernor's return, and, in the meantime, I was to give the matter my serious consideration, and decide on the best course for us to follow. The only person in the establishment whom she could thoroughly trust was the extraordinary old footman (the subject of Lawless's little bit of diplomacy), who had served under her father in the Peninsula, and accompanied him home in the character of confidential servant. He had consequently known Clara from a child, and was strongly-attached to her, so that she had learned to regard him more in the light of a friend than a servant. Through this somewhat original substitute for a confidant, we arranged to communicate with each other.

As to my own line of conduct, I very soon decided on that. I would only await a communication from Clara to assure me that Mr. Vernor's determination with regard to her remained unchanged, ere I would seek an interview with him, enlighten him as to Cumberland's true character, acquaint him with Clara's aversion to the match, and induce him to allow of its being broken off. I should then tell him of my own affection for her, and of my intention of coming forward to demand her hand, as soon as, by my professional exertions, I should have realised a sufficient independence to enable me to marry. As to Clara's fortune, if fortune she had, she might build a church, endow an hospital, or buy herself bonnet ribbons with it, as she pleased, for not a farthing of it would I ever touch on any consideration. No one should be able to say, that it was for the sake of her money I sought to win her.

Well, all this was very simple, straightforward work;—where, then, were the difficulties which had alarmed me so greatly? Let me see—Mr. Vernor might choose to fancy that it would take some years to add to the £90 14s. 6£d. sufficiently to enable me to support a wife, and might disapprove of his ward's engaging herself to me on that account. What if he did? I wished for no engagement—let her remain free as air—her own true affection would stand my friend, and on that I could rely, [291] content, if it failed me, to—to—well, it did not signify what I might do in an emergency which never could arise. No! only let him promise not to force her inclinations—to give up his monstrous project of wedding her to Cumberland—and to leave her free to bestow her hand on whom she would—and I should be perfectly satisfied. But suppose, as Clara seemed to fear, he should refuse to break off the engagement with his nephew—suppose he should forbid mo the house, and, taking advantage of my absence, use his authority to force on this hateful marriage! All that would be extremely disagreeable, and I could not say I exactly saw, at the moment, what means I should be able to employ, effectually to prevent it. Still it was only a remote contingency—an old man like him, with one foot, as you might say, in the grave (he could not have been above sixty, and his constitution, like everything else about him, appeared of cast-iron), must have some conscience, must pay some little regard to right and wrong: it would only be necessary to open his eyes to the enormity of wedding beauty and innocence such as Clara's to a scoundrel like Cumberland—aman destitute of every honourable feeling—oh! he must see that the thing was impossible, and, as the thought passed through my mind, I longed for the moment when I should be confronted with him, and able to tell him so.

And Clara, too! sweet, bewitching, unhappy Clara! what must not she have gone through, ere a mind, naturally buoyant and elastic as hers, could have been crushed into a state of such utter dejection, such calm, spiritless despair! her only wish, to die—her only hope, to find in the grave a place "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest!" But brighter days were in store for her—it should be my ambition to render her married life so happy, that, if possible, the recollection of all she had suffered having passed away, her mind should recover its natural tone, and even her lightness of heart, which the chill atmosphere of unkindness for a time had blighted, should revive again in the warm sunshine of affection.

Thus meditating, I arrived at Elm Lodge in a state of feeling containing about equal parts of the intensely poetical and the very decidedly hungry.

On the second morning after the events I have described, a note was brought to me whilst I was dressing. With trembling fingers I tore open the envelope, and read as follows:—

"I promised to inform you of what occurred on my [292] return here, and I must therefore do so, though what I have to communicate will only give you pain. All that my fears pointed at has come to pass, and my doom appears irrevocably sealed. Late on the evening of my return to Barstone, Mr. Vernor and his nephew arrived. I shall never forget the feeling of agony that shot through my brain, as Richard Cumberland's footstep sounded in the hall, knowing, as I too well did, the purpose with which he was come. I fancied grief had in great measure deadened my feelings, but that moment served to undeceive me—the mixture of horror, aversion, and fear, combined with a sense of utter helplessness and desolation, seemed, as it were, to paralyse me.

"But I know not why I am writing all this. The evening passed off without anything particular taking place. Mr. Cumberland's manner towards me was regulated by the most consummate tact and cunning, allowing the deep interest he pretends to feel in me to appear in every look and action, yet never going far enough to afford me an excuse for repulsing him. This morning, however, I have had an interview with Mr. Vernor, in which I stated my repugnance to the marriage as strongly as possible. He was fearfully irritated, and, at length, on my repeating my refusal, plainly told me that it was useless for me to resist his will—that I was in his power, and, if I continued obstinate, I must be made to feel it. Oh! that man's anger is terrible to witness: it is not that he is so violent—he never seems to lose his self-control—but says the most cutting things in a tone of calm, sarcastic bitterness, which lends double force to all he utters. I feel that it is useless for us to contend against fate: you cannot help me, and would only embroil yourself with these men were you to attempt to do so. I shall ever look back upon the few days we spent together as a bright spot in the dark void of my life—that life which you preserved at the risk of your own. Alas! you little knew the cruel nature of the gift you were bestowing. And now, farewell for ever! That you may find all the happiness your kindness and generosity deserve, is the earnest prayer of one, whom, for her sake, as well as your own, you must strive to forget."

"If I do forget her," exclaimed I, as I pressed the note to my lips, "may I——Well, never mind, I'll go over and have it out with that old brute this very morning, and we'll see if he can frighten me." And so saying, I set to work to finish dressing, in a great state of virtuous indignation. [293] "Freddy," inquired I, when breakfast was at length concluded, "where can I get a horse?"

"Get a horse?" was the reply. "Oh! there are a great many places—it depends upon what kind of horse you want: for race-horses, steeple-chasers, and hunters, I would recommend Tattersall's; for hacks or machiners, there's Aldridge's, in St. Martin's Lane; while Dixon's, in the Barbican, is the place to pick up a fine young carthorse—is it a young cart-horse you want?"

"My dear fellow, don't worry me," returned I, feeling very cross, and trying to look amiable; "you know what I mean; is there anything rideable to be hired in Hilling-ford? I have a call to make which is beyond a walk."

"Let me see," replied Freddy, musing; "you wouldn't like a very little pony, with only one eye and a rat-tail, I suppose—it might look absurd with your long legs, I'm afraid—or else Mrs. Meek, the undertaker's widow, has got a very quiet one that poor Meek used to ride—a child could manage it:—there's the butcher's fat mare, but she won't stir a step without the basket on her back, and it would be so troublesome for you to carry that all the way. Tomkins, the sweep, has got a little horse he'd let you have, I daresay, but it always comes off black on one's trousers: and the miller's cob is just as bad the other way with the flour. I know a donkey—"

"So do I," was the answer, as, laughing in spite of myself, I turned to leave the room.

"Here, stop a minute!" cried Freddy, following me, "you are so dreadfully impetuous; there's nothing morally wrong in being acquainted with a donkey, is there? 1 assure you I did not mean anything personal; and now for a word of sense. Bumpus, at the Green Man, has got a tremendous horse, which nearly frightened me into fits the only time I ever mounted him, so that it will just suit you; nobody but a green man, or a knight-errant, which I consider much the same sort of thing, would patronise such an animal—still, he's the only one I know of."

Coleman's tremendous horse, which proved to be a tall, pig-headed, hard-mouthed brute, with a very decided will of his own, condescended, after sundry skirmishes and one pitched battle, occasioned by his positive refusal to pass a windmill, to go the road I wished, and about an hour's ride brought me to the gate of Barstone Park. So completely had I been hurried on by feeling in every stage of the affair, and so entirely had all minor considerations given way to the paramount object of [294] securing Clara's happiness, with which, as I now felt, my own was indissolubly linked, that it was not until my eye rested on the cold, grey stone of Barstone Priory, and wandered over the straight walks and formal lawns of the garden, that I became fully aware of the extremely awkward and embarrassing nature of the interview I was about to seek. To force myself into the presence of a man more than double my own age, and, from all I had seen or heard of him, one of the last people in the world to take a liberty with, for the purpose of informing hint that his nephew, the only creature on earth that he was supposed to love, was a low swindler, the associate of gamblers and blacklegs, did not appear a line of conduct exactly calculated to induce him, at my request, to give up a scheme on which he had set his heart, or to look with a favourable eye on my pretensions to the hand of his ward. Still, there was no help for it; the happiness of her I loved was at stake, and, had it been to face a fiend instead of a man, I should not have hesitated.

My meditations were here interrupted by a cock-pheasant, which, alarmed at my approach, rose immediately under my horse's nose; an unexpected incident which caused that brute to shy violently, and turn short round, thereby nearly unseating me. Having by this manoeuvre got his head towards home, he not only refused to turn back again, but showed very unmistakable symptoms of a desire to run away. Fortunately, however, since the days of "Mad Bess," my arms had grown considerably stronger, and, by dint of pulling and sawing the creature's apology for a mouth with the bit, I was enabled to frustrate his benevolent intentions, and even succeeded in turning him round again; but here my power ceased—for in the direction of the Priory by no possibility could I induce him to move a step. I whipped and spurred, but in vain; the only result was a series of kicks and plunges, accompanied by a retrograde movement and a shake of the head, as if he were saying, No! I next attempted the soothing system, and lavished sundry caresses and endearing expressions upon him, of which he was utterly undeserving; but my attentions were quite thrown away, and might as well, for any good they produced, have been bestowed upon a rocking-horse. At length, after a final struggle, in which we were both within an ace of falling into a water-course which crossed the park in that direction, I gave the matter up as hopeless; and with a sigh (for I love not to be foiled in anything I have attempted, and, moreover, I could not help looking upon it as an unlucky omen) dismounted, [285] and leading my rebellious steed by the rein, advanced on foot towards the house. As I did so a figure abruptly turned the corner of a shrubbery walk, which ran at right angles to the road, and I found myself face to face with Richard Cumberland!

For a moment he remained staring at me as if he scarcely recognised me, or was unwilling to trust the evidence of his senses, so confounded was he at my unexpected apparition; but as I met his gaze with a cold, stern look, he seemed to doubt no longer and advancing a step towards me said, in a tone of ironical politeness:—"Is it possible that I have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Fairlegh?"

"None other, Mr. Cumberland," returned I, "though I could hardly have flattered myself that my appearance would have recalled any very pleasurable associations, considering the last two occasions on which we met."

"Ah! you refer to that unfortunate affair with Wilford," replied Cumberland, purposely misunderstanding my allusion to Dr. Mildman's. "I had hoped to have been able to prevent the mischief which occurred, but I was misinformed as to the time of the meeting—I trust our friend Oaklands feels no ill effects from his wound."

"Mr. Oaklands, I am sorry to say, recovers but slowly; the wound was a very severe one," returned I coldly. "Well, I will not detain you any longer, it is a lovely morning for a ride," resumed Cumberland; "can I be of any assistance in directing you? the lanes in this neighbourhood are somewhat intricate—you are not perhaps aware that the road you are now following is a private one." "Scarcely so private that those who have business with Mr. Vernor may not make use of it, I presume," rejoined I. "Oh! of course not," was the reply—"I did not know that you were acquainted with my uncle; though now I come to think of it, I do recollect his saying that he had met you somewhere. He seldom receives visitors in the morning;—in fact, when I came out, I left him particularly engaged. Perhaps I can save you the trouble of going up to the house; is there any message I can deliver for you?" "I thank you," replied I, "but I do not think the business which has brought me here could be well transacted through a third person; at all events, I will take my chance of being admitted:"—I paused, but could not refrain from adding, "besides, if my memory fails not, you were a somewhat heedless messenger in days of yore."

This allusion to his embezzlement of Oaklands' letter stung him to the quick: he turned as white as ashes, and [296] asked, in a voice that trembled with passion, "Whether I meant to insult him?"

"I spoke heedlessly, and without deliberate intention," I replied; "but perhaps it is only fair to tell you that for the future there can be no friendly communication between us; we must either avoid each other altogether, which would be the most desirable arrangement, or meet as strangers. The disgraceful conduct of the boy I could have forgiven and forgotten, had not its memory been revived by the evil deeds of the man. Richard Cumberland, I know you thoroughly; it is needless for me to add more."

As I spoke his cheek flushed, then grew pale again with shame and anger, while he bit his under lip so severely that a red line remained where his teeth had pressed it. When I concluded, he advanced towards me with a threatening gesture, but, unable to meet the steadfast look with which I confronted him, he turned abruptly on his heel, and muttering, "You shall repent this," disappeared among the shrubs.

CHAPTER XXXVIII PACING THE ENEMY

          "'Sir,' said the Count, with brow exceeding grave,
          'Your unexpected presence here will make
          It necessary for myself to crave
          Its import? But perhaps it's a mistake.
          I hope it is so; and at once, to waive
          All compliment, I hope so for your sake.
          You understand my meaning, or you shall.'"
          Beppo.

"IS your master—is Mr. Vernor at home?" inquired I of the grim-visaged old servant, who looked, if possible, taller and more wooden than when I had last seen him.

"Well, I suppose not, sir!" was the somewhat odd reply.

"You suppose!" repeated I; "if you have any doubt, had you not better go and see?"

"That won't be of no manner of use, sir," was the rejoinder; "I should not be none the wiser."

It was clear that the old man was a complete original; but his affection for Clara was a virtue which in my eyes would have atoned for any amount of eccentricity; and as I was anxious to stand well in his good graces, I [297] determined to fall in with his humour; accordingly I replied with a smile, "How do you make out that—did you never hear that seeing is believing?"

"Not always, sir," he answered, "for if I'd a trusted to my eyesight—and it ain't so bad neither for a man that's no great way off sixty—I should have fancied Muster Wernor was a sitting in the liberrary; but he told me he was not at home hisself, and he ought to know best."

"Tell him I won't detain him long," returned I, "but that I am come on business of importance."

"'Tain't of no manner of use, young gentleman," was the reply; "he told me he wasn't at home, and he said it uncommon cross too, as if he meant it, and if I was to go to him twenty times he'd only say the same thing." "What's your name, my good friend?" inquired I. "Peter Barnett, at your service, sir," was the answer. "Well, then, Peter, we must contrive to understand one another a little better. You have known your young mistress from a child, and have a sincere regard for her—is it not so?"

"What, Miss Clara, God bless her!—why, I love her as if she was my own flesh and blood; I should be a brute if I didn't, poor lamb."

"Well, then, when I tell you that her happiness is very nearly connected with the object of my visit—when I say, that it is to prevent her from being obliged to do something of which she has the greatest abhorrence that I am anxious to meet Mr. Vernor—I am sure you will contrive that I shall see him."

As I concluded, the old man, muttering to himself, "That's it, is it?" began to examine me from top to toe with a critical glance, as if I had been some animal he was about to purchase; and when he reached my face, gazed at me long and fixedly, as though striving to read my character. Apparently the result of his scrutiny was favourable, for after again saying in a low tone, "Well, I likes the looks of him," he added, "This way, young gentleman—you shall see him if that's what you want—it ain't a hanging matter, after all". As he spoke, he threw open the door of the library, saying, "Gentleman says his business is wery partikler, so I thought you'd better see him yourself".

Mr. Vernor, who was seated at a table writing, rose on my entrance, bowed stiffly to me, and, casting a withering glance on Peter Barnett, signed to him to shut the door. As soon as that worthy had obeyed the command, he [298] resumed his seat, and, addressing me with the same frigid politeness which he had shown on the occasion of my first visit to him, said, "I am somewhat occupied this morning, and must therefore be excused for inquiring at once what very particular business Mr. Fairlegh can have with me". His tone and manner, as he spoke, were such as to render me fully aware of the pleasant nature of the task before me; namely, to make the most disagreeable communication possible, to the most disagreeable person to whom such a communication could be made. Still, I was regularly in for it; there was nothing left for me but to "go a-head"; and as I thought of Clara and her sorrows, the task seemed to lose half its difficulty. However, it was not without some hesitation that I began:—

"When you learn the object of my visit, sir, you will perceive that I have not intruded upon you without reason". I paused; but, finding he remained silent, added—"As you are so much occupied this morning, I had better perhaps enter at once upon the business which has brought me here. You are probably aware that I have had the pleasure of spending the last few days in the same house with Miss Saville." As I mentioned Clara's name, his brow grew dark as night; but he still continued silent, and I proceeded. "It is, I should conceive, impossible for anyone to enjoy the privilege of that young lady's society, without experiencing the warmest feelings of admiration and interest. Towards the termination of her visit, accident led me to the knowledge of her acquaintance with Mr. Cumberland, who I then learned, for the first time, was your nephew. I would not willingly say anything which might distress or annoy you, Mr. Vernor," continued I, interrupting myself, "but I fear that, in order to make myself intelligible, I must advert to an affair which I would willingly have forgotten."

"Go on, sir," was the reply, in a cold sarcastic tone of voice—"pray finish your account without reference to my feelings; I am not likely to alarm your sensibility by any affecting display of them."

As the most sceptical could not have doubted for a moment the truth of this assertion, I resumed: "From my previous knowledge of Mr. Cumberland's character, I could not but consider him an unfit acquaintance for a young lady; and, on hinting this, and endeavouring to ascertain the extent of Miss Saville's intimacy with him, I was equally shocked and surprised to learn that she was actually engaged to him, and that you not only sanctioned the engagement, but were even desirous that the match [299] should take place. Feeling sure that this could only proceed from your being ignorant of the character of the class of persons with whom your nephew associates, and the more than questionable reputation he has thereby acquired, I considered it my duty to afford you such information as may enable you to ascertain for yourself the truth of the reports which have reached my ear."

"Exceedingly conscientious and praiseworthy: I ought to feel infinitely indebted to you, young gentleman," interrupted Mr. Vernor sarcastically; "of course you made the young lady acquainted with your disinterested and meritorious intentions '?"

"I certainly thought it right to inform Miss Saville of the facts I have mentioned, and to obtain her permission, ere I ventured to interfere in her behalf."

As I spoke, the gloom on Mr. Vernor's brow grew darker, and I expected an outburst of rage, but his self-control was stronger than 1 had imagined, for it was in the same cold ironical manner that he replied, "And may I ask, supposing this iniquitous engagement to have been broken off by your exertions, is Virtue to be its own reward? will you sit down content with having done your duty? or have you not some snug little scheme in petto, to console the disconsolate damsel for her loss? If I am not mistaken, you were professing warm feelings of admiration for my ward a few minutes since."

"Had you waited till I had finished speaking, you would have perceived, sir, that your taunt was undeserved. I have no wish to conceal anything from you—on the contrary, one of my chief objects in seeking this interview was to inform you of the deep and sincere affection I entertain for Miss Saville, and of my intention of coming forward to seek her hand, as soon as my professional prospects shall enable me to support a wife."

"And have you succeeded in inducing the lady to promise, that, in the event of my allowing her to break off her present engagement, she will wait for the somewhat remote and visionary contingency you have hinted at?"

"I have never made the attempt, sir," replied I, drawing myself up proudly, for I began to think that I was carrying forbearance too far, in submitting thus tamely to his repeated insults; "my only desire is to convince you of the necessity of breaking off this preposterous engagement, which is alike unsuitable in itself, and distasteful to Miss Saville; for the rest, I must trust to time, and to the unshaken constancy of my own affection (with [300] which it is only fair to tell you the young lady is acquainted), for the accomplishment of my hopes. Had I the power to fetter your ward by a promise which she might afterwards be led to repent, nothing should induce me to make use of it."

"Really, your moderation is quite unparalleled," exclaimed Mr. Vernor; "such generosity now might be almost calculated to induce a romantic girl to persuade her guardian to allow her to marry at once, and devote her fortune to the purpose of defraying the household expenses, till such time as the professional expectations you mention should be realised; and Clara Saville is just the girl who might do it, for I am afraid I must distress your magnanimity by informing you of a circumstance, of which, of course, you have not the slightest idea at present, namely, that if Miss Saville should marry with her guardian's consent, she will become the possessor of a very considerable fortune: what think you of such a plan?"

"Mr. Vernor," replied I, "I was aware that the communication I had to make to you was calculated to pain and annoy you, and that circumstances obliged me to urge my suit at a moment most disadvantageous to its success; I did not therefore imagine that our interview was likely to be a very agreeable one; but I own I did expect to have credit given me for honourable motives, and to be treated with the consideration due from one gentleman to another."

"It grieves me to have disappointed such moderate and reasonable expectations," was the reply; "but, unfortunately, I have acquired a habit of judging men rather by their actions than their words, and forming my opinion accordingly; and by the opinion thus formed I regulate my conduct towards them."

"May I inquire what opinion you can possibly have formed of me, which would justify your treating me otherwise than as a gentleman?" asked I, as calmly as I was able, for I was most anxious not to allow him to perceive the degree to which his taunts irritated me.

"Certainly; only remember, if it is not exactly what you approve, that I mention it in compliance with your own express request—but first, for I am unwilling to do you injustice, let me be sure that I understand you clearly:—you state that you are unable to marry till you shall have realised by your profession an income sufficient to support a wife; therefore, I presume that your patrimony is somewhat limited."

[301] "You are right, sir; my poor father was too liberal a man to die rich; my present income is somewhat less than a hundred pounds per annum."

"And your profession?"

"It is my intention to begin reading for the bar almost immediately."

"A profession usually more honourable than lucrative for the first ten years or so. Well, young gentleman, the case seems to stand very much as I imagined, nor do I perceive any reason for altering my opinion of your conduct. Chance throws in your way a young lady, possessing great beauty, who is prospective heiress to a very valuable property, and it naturally enough occurs to you, that making love is likely to be more agreeable, and in the present instance more profitable also, than reading law; accordingly, you commence operations, and for some time all goes on swimmingly, Miss Saville, like any other girl in her situation, having no objection to vary the monotony of a long engagement by a little innocent flirtation; affairs of this kind, however, seldom run smoothly long together, and at some moment, when you were rather more pressing than usual, the young lady thinks it advisable to inform you, that in accordance with her father's dying wish, and of her own free will, she has engaged herself to the nephew of her guardian, who strangely enough happens to be an old schoolfellow of yours, against whom you have always nourished a strong and unaccountable feeling of dislike. Here, then, was a famous opportunity to display those talents for plotting and manoeuvring which distinguished Mr. Fairlegh even in his boyish days; accordingly, a master-scheme is invented, whereby the guardian shall be cajoled and brow-beaten into giving his consent, enmity satisfied by the rival's discomfiture and overthrow, and talent rewarded by obtaining possession of the young lady and her fortune. As a first step you take advantage of a lover's quarrel to persuade Miss Saville that she is averse to the projected alliance, and trump up an old tale of some boyish scrape to induce her to believe Cumberland unworthy of her preference, ending, doubtless, by modestly proposing yourself as a substitute. Inexperience, and the natural capriciousness of woman, stand your friend; the young lady appears for the moment gained over, and, flushed with success, the bold step of this morning is resolved upon. Such, sir, is my opinion of your conduct. It only remains for me to inform you that 1 have not the slightest intention of breaking off the engagement in [302] consequence of your disinterested representations, nor, under any circumstances, would I allow my ward to throw herself away upon a needy fortune-hunter. There can be nothing more to say, I think; and as I have some important papers to look over this morning, I dare say you will excuse my ringing the bell."

"One moment, sir," replied I warmly, "although your age prevents my taking notice of the unprovoked insults you have seen fit to heap upon me——"

"Really," interposed Mr. Vernor, in a deprecating tone, "you must pardon me; I have not time for all this sort of thing to-day."

"You shall hear me!" exclaimed I passionately; "I have listened in silence to accusations calculated to make the blood of any man, worthy to be so called, boil in his veins—accusations which, at the very moment you utter them, you know to be entirely false: you know well Miss Saville's just and deeply rooted aversion to this match, and you know that it existed before she and I had ever met; you know the creditable nature of what you term the 'boyish scrape,' in which your nephew was engaged—a scrape which, but for the generous forbearance of others, might have ended in his transportation as a convicted felon; and this knowledge (even if you are ignorant of the dishonourable and vicious course of life he now leads) should be enough to prevent your sanctioning such a marriage. I pass over your insinuations respecting myself in silence; should I again prefer my suit for Miss Saville's hand to you, it will be as no needy fortune-hunter that I shall do so; but once more let me implore you to pause—reconsider the matter—inquire for yourself into your nephew's pursuits—ascertain the character of his associates, and then judge whether he is a fit person to be entrusted with the happiness of such a being as Clara Saville."

"Vastly well, sir! exceedingly dramatic, indeed!" observed Mr. Vernor, with a sneer; "you really have quite a talent for—genteel comedy, I think they call it; you would be perfect in the line of character termed the 'walking gentleman'—have you ever thought of the stage?"

"I perceive," replied I, "that by remaining here, I shall only subject myself to additional insult: determined to carry out your own bad purpose, you obstinately close your ears to the voice alike of reason and of conscience; and now," I added, in a stern tone, "hear my resolve: I have promised Miss Saville to save her from Richard [303] Cumberland; as the fairest and most honourable way of doing so, I applied to you, her lawful guardian and protector; I have failed, and you have insulted and defied me. I now tell you, that I will leave NO MEANS untried to defeat your nefarious project, and, if evil or disgrace should befal you or yours in consequence, upon your own head be it. You may smile at my words, and disregard them as idle threats which I am powerless to fulfil, but remember, you have no longer a helpless girl to deal with, but a determined man, who, with right and justice on his side, may yet thwart your cunningly devised schemes;—and so, having given you fair warning, I will leave you."

"Allow me to mention one fact, young sir," returned Mr. Vernor, "which demands your serious attention, as it may prevent you from committing a fatal error, and save you all further trouble. Should Clara Saville marry without my consent, she does so penniless, and the fortune devolves upon the next heir; ha!" he exclaimed, as I was unable to repress an exclamation of pleasure, "have I touched you there?"

"You have indeed, sir," was my reply; "for you have removed the only scruple which stood in my way. No one can now accuse me of interested motives; 'needy fortune-hunters' do not seek to ally themselves to portionless damsels; allow me to offer you my best thanks for your information, and to wish you good-morning, sir."

So saying, I rose and quitted the room, leaving Mr. Vernor, in a state of ill-suppressed rage, to the enjoyment of his own reflections.

On entering the hall, I found old Peter Barnett awaiting me. As I appeared, his stiff features lighted up with a most sagacious grin of intelligence, and approaching me, he whispered:—

"Did ye give it him strong?" (indicating the person he referred to by an expressive jerk of his thumb towards the library door). "I heard ye blowing of him up—but did ye give it him reg'lar strong?"

"I certainly told Mr. Vernor my opinion with tolerable plainness," replied I, smiling at the intense delight which was visible in every line of the strange old face beside me.

"No! Did ye?—did ye? That was right," was the rejoinder. "Lor! how I wish I'd a been there to see; but I heard ye though—I heard ye a giving it to him," and again he relapsed into a paroxysm of delight.

"Peter," said I, "I want to have a little private conversation with you—how is that to be managed? Is there any place near where you could meet me?" [304] "You come here from Hillingford, didn't ye, sir?" I nodded assent. He continued:—"Did you notice a hand-post which stands where four roads meet, about a mile and a half from here?"

"I saw it," returned I, "and even tried to read what was painted on it, but of course, after the manner of all country direction posts, it was totally illegible."

"Well, when you get there, take the road to the left, and ride on till ye see an ale-house on the right-hand side, and stay there till I come to ye."

"I will," replied I, "but don't keep me waiting longer than you can help—there's a good man."

An understanding grin was his only answer; and mounting my unpleasant horse (who seemed much more willing to proceed quietly when his head was turned in a homeward direction), I rode slowly through the park, my state of mind affording a practical illustration, that Quintus Horatius Flaccus was about right in his conjecture that Care sometimes indulged herself with a little equestrian exercise on a pillion.{1}

     1 "Post equitem sedet atra cura."

CHAPTER XXXIX — THE COUNCIL OF WAR

          "Oh! good old man: how well in thee, appears
          The constant service of the antique world!"
          —As You Like It.

          "Now will I deliver his letter; for the behaviour
          of the young gentleman gives him out to be of
          good capacity and breeding."
          —Twelfth Night.

          "Farewell! be trusty, and I'll quit thy pains.
          Farewell! commend me to thy mistress."
          —Romeo and Juliet.

THE place of meeting appointed by Peter Barnett was easily discovered, and having tied up my horse under a shed, which served the double purpose of stable and coach-house, I took possession of a small room with a sanded floor, and throwing myself back in a most uneasy easy-chair, began to think over my late interview, and endeavour to devise some practicable plan for the future. The first thing was to establish some means of free communication with Clara, and this I hoped to accomplish by the assistance of Peter Barnett. I should thus learn Mr. Vernor's proceedings, and be able to regulate my [305] conduct accordingly. If, as I dreaded, he should attempt to force on the marriage immediately, would Clara, alone and unassisted, have sufficient courage and strength of purpose to resist him? I feared not; and how was I effectually to aid her? The question was more easily asked than answered. It was clear that her fortune was the thing aimed at, for I could not believe either Mr. Vernor or his nephew likely to be actuated by disinterested motives;—and it was to their avarice, then, that Clara was to be sacrificed—had she been portionless she would have been free to marry whom she pleased. Of all sources of evil and misery, money appears to be the most prolific; in the present case its action was twofold—Clara was rendered wretched in consequence of possessing it, while the want of it incapacitated me from boldly claiming her hand at once, which appeared to be the only effectual method of assisting her.

My meditations were at this point interrupted by the arrival of my future privy counsellor, Peter Barnett, who marched solemnly into the room, drew himself up to his full height, which very nearly equalled that of the ceiling, brought his hand to his forehead in a military salute, and then, closing the door cautiously, and with an air of mystery, stood at ease, evidently intending me to open the conversation.

"Well, Peter," began I, by way of something to say, for I felt the greatest difficulty in entering on the subject which then occupied my thoughts before such an auditor. "Well, Peter, you have not kept me waiting long; I scarcely expected to see you so soon: do you imagine that Mr. Vernor will remark your absence?"

"He knows it already," was the reply. "Why, bless ye, sir, he ordered me to go out hisself." "Indeed! how was that?"

"Why, as soon as you was gone, sir, he pulled the bell like mad. 'Send Mr. Richard here,' says he. 'Yes, sir,' says I, 'certingly; only he's not at home, sir.' When he heard this he grumbled out an oath, or sumthin' of that nature, and I was going to take myself off, for I see he wasn't altogether safe, when he roars out 'Stop!' ('You'd a said "halt," if you'd a been a officer or a gentleman, which you ain't neither,' thinks I.) 'What do you mean by letting people in when I have given orders to the contrairy?' says he. 'Who was it as blowed me up for sending away a gent as said he wanted to see you on partiklar business, only yesterday?' says I. That bothered him nicely, and he didn't know how to be down upon me; [306] but at last he thought he'd serve me one of his old tricks. So he says, 'Peter, what are you doing to-day'?' I see what he was at, and I thought I'd ketch him in his own trap. 'Very busy a cleaning plate, sir,' says I. This was enough for him: if I was a cleaning plate, in course I shouldn't like to be sent out; so says he, 'Go down to Barnsley, and see whether Mr. Cumberland is there'. 'But the plate, sir?' 'Never mind the plate.' 'It won't never look as it ought to do, if I am sent about in this way,' says I. 'Do as you're ordered, and leave the room instantly,' says he, grinding his teeth reg'lar savage-like. So I took him at his word, and come away to see you as hard as I could pelt; but you've put him into a sweet temper, Mr. Fairlegh."

"Why, that I'm afraid was scarcely to be avoided," replied I, "as my business was to inform him that I considered his nephew an unfit person to marry his ward."

"Oh! did you tho'?—did you tell him that?" cried my companion, with a chuckle of delight; "that was right: I wonder how he liked that!"

"As he did not exactly agree with me in this opinion, but, on the contrary, plainly declared his intention of proceeding with the match in spite of me, it is necessary for me to consider what means I can best use to prevent him from accomplishing his object; it is in this that 1 shall require your assistance."

"And what does Miss Clara say about it, young gentleman?" inquired the old man, fixing his eyes on me with a scrutinising glance.

"Miss Saville dislikes Richard Cumberland, and dreads the idea of being forced to marry him above everything." "Ah! I know she does, poor lamb; and well she may, for there ain't a more dissipateder young scoundrel to be found nowhere than Mr. Wernor's precious 'nephew,' as he calls him, tho' it's my belief he might call him 'son' without telling a lie."

"Indeed! I was not aware that Mr. Vernor had ever been married."

"No; I never heard that he was reg'lar downright married; but he may be his son, for all that. Howsurn-ever, p'raps it is so, or p'raps it ain't; I'm only a tellin' you what I fancies, sir," was the reply. "But what I wanted to know," he continued, again fixing his eyes on my face, "is, what does Miss Clara say to you? eh!"

"You put home questions, my friend," replied I, colouring slightly; "however, as Miss Saville tells me you are faithful and trustworthy, and as half-confidences are never [307] of any use, I suppose you must hear all about it." I then told him as concisely as possible of my love for Clara, and my hopes of one day calling her my own; pointing out to him the difficulties that stood in the way, and explaining to him that the only one which appeared to me insurmountable was the probability of Mr. Vernor's attempting to force Clara into an immediate marriage with Cumberland. Having thus given him an insight into the true state of affairs, I showed him the necessity of establishing some means of communication between Clara and myself, as it was essential that I should receive the earliest possible information in regard to Mr. Vernor's proceedings.

"I understand, sir," interrupted Peter, "you want to be able to write to each other without the old 'un getting hold of your letters: well, that's very easily managed; only you direct to Mr. Barnett, to be left at the Pig and Pony, at Barstone; and anything you send for Miss Clara, I'll take care and give her when nobody won't be none the wiser for it; and any letters she writes I'll put into the post myself. I'd do anything rather than let that young villain Cumberland have her, and make her miserable, which his wife is safe to be, if ever he gets one; and if you likes her and she likes you, as seems wery probable, considering you saved her from being burnt to death, as they tell me, and is wery good-looking into the bargain—which goes a great way with young ladies, if you'll excuse the liberty I takes in mentioning of it—why, the best thing as you can do, is to get married as soon as you can."

"Very pleasant advice, friend Peter," returned I, "but not so easily acted upon; people cannot marry nowadays without something to live upon."

"Well, ain't Miss Clara got Barstone Priory, and plenty of money to keep it up with? Won't that do to live upon?"

"And do you imagine I could ever feel content to be the creature of my wife's bounty? prove myself a needy fortune-hunter, as that old man dared to term me?" exclaimed I, forgetting the character of my auditor.

"Barstone Priory to live in, and more money than you know what to do with, ain't to be sneezed at neither," was the answer; "though I likes your independent spirit too, sir: but how do you mean to manage, then?"

"Why, Mr. Vernor hinted that if his ward married without his consent, her fortune was to be forfeited."

"Ah! I believe there was something of that nature in the will: my poor master was so wrapped up in old Wernor that he wrote just wot he told him; if he'd only [308] a lived to see how he was going to use Miss Clara, he'd a ordered me to kick him out of the house instead."

"Perhaps that pleasure may be yet in store for you, Peter," replied I, laughing at the zest with which he uttered the last few words, and an involuntary motion of the foot by which they were accompanied; "but this power, which it seems Mr. Vernor really possesses, of depriving Miss Saville of her fortune, removes my greatest difficulty; for in that case, if he should attempt to urge on this match, I can at least make her the offer of sharing my poverty: there is my mother's roof to shelter her, and, if her guardian refuses his consent to our marriage, why, we must contrive to do without it, that is all. So now, Peter, if you will wait a few minutes, I will give you a note for your young mistress, and then get to horse without further loss of time;" and calling for pen, ink, and paper, I hastily scribbled a few lines to Clara, informing her of the events of the morning, and of my unalterable determination to save her from a union with Cumberland; begging her, at the same time, to continue firm in her opposition, to acquaint me with everything that might occur, and to rely upon me for protection in the event of anything like force being resorted to. I then entrusted my note to old Peter, begged him to watch Master Richard Cumberland closely, told him that upon his care and vigilance depended in great measure the happiness of his young mistress's life; tipped him handsomely, though I had some trouble in making him take the money; and, mounting my ill-disposed horse, rode back to Hillingford, on the whole tolerably well satisfied with my morning's work.

I found two letters awaiting my return: one from my mother, to say that she should be at Heathfield Cottage on the following day, and begging me to meet her; the other from Ellis, telling me that at length he hoped Oaklands was in a fair way to recover, it having been ascertained that a piece of the wadding of the pistol had remained behind when the ball was extracted; this had now come away, and the wound was healing rapidly. As his strength returned, Harry was growing extremely impatient to get back to Heathfield; and Ellis concluded by saying that they might be expected any day, and begging me at the same time to remember that from the first he had always declared, in regard to his patient, that it would have killed any other man, but that it could not kill him.

Days glided by, the absentees returned, and matters fell so completely into their old train again that the occurrences [309] of the last eight months seemed like the unreal creations of some fevered dream, and there were times when I could scarcely bring myself to believe them true.

Harry Oaklands had recovered sufficiently to resume his usual habits; and, except that he was strictly forbidden to over-exert or fatigue himself (an injunction he appeared only too willing to obey), he was nearly emancipated from medical control. Fanny had in great measure regained her good looks again; a slight delicacy of appearance, however, still remained, giving a tone of spirituality to the expression of her features, which was not before observable, and which to my mind rendered her prettier than ever: the listlessness of manner which had made me uneasy about her in the autumn had vanished, and her spirits seemed good; still, she was in a degree altered, and one felt in talking to her that she was a child no longer. Like Undine, that graceful creation of La Motte Fouqué's genius, she appeared to have changed from a "tricksy sprite" into a thinking and feeling woman.

One morning Oaklands and Ellis came to the cottage together, the latter in a great state of joy and excitement, produced by a most kind and judicious exercise of liberality on the part of Sir John. About a month before, the grave and pompous Dr. Probehurt had been seized with an illness, from which in all probability he would have recovered had he not steadily refused to allow a rival practitioner to be called in, in order that he might test a favourite theory of his own, embodying a totally novel mode of treatment for the complaint with which he was attacked. Unfortunately, the experiment failed, and the doctor died. Sir John, who had been long anxious to evince his gratitude to Ellis for the skill and attention he had bestowed upon his patient, the moment he heard of the event determined to purchase the business: he had that morning completed the negotiation, and offered the practice to Ellis, stating that he should consider his accepting it in the light of a personal favour, as in that case he would be always at hand, should Harry feel any lasting ill effects from his wound. Ellis's joy was most amusing to witness.

"I tell you what, sir," he exclaimed, seizing me by a button of the coat, "I'm a made man, sir! there isn't a better practice in the county. Why, poor Probehurt told me himself old Mrs. Croaker Crawley alone was worth a hundred pounds per annum to him:—four draughts and two pills everyday—prescription very simple—R. Pil. panis compos, ii. nocte sum.; haust. aqua vitæ 1/2, aqua pura 1/2 [310] saccar. viii. grs. pro re nata. She's a strong old girl, and on brandy-and-water draughts and French-roll pills may last for the next twenty years. Noble thing of Sir John, very; 'pon my word, it has quite upset me—it's a fact, sir, that when Mr. Oaklandstold me of it I sat down and cried like a child. I'm not over tender-hearted either: when I was at Guy's I amputated the left leg of a shocking accident, and dissected the porter's mother-in-law (whom he sold us cheap for old acquaintance' sake) before breakfast one morning, without finding my appetite in the slightest degree affected; but when I learned what Sir John had done, I positively cried, sir."

"I say, Ellis," interrupted Harry, "I am telling Miss Fairlegh I shall make you take her in hand; she has grown so pale and thin, I am afraid she has never recovered all the trouble and inconvenience we caused her."

"If Miss Fairlegh would allow me, I should recommend a little more air and exercise," replied Ellis: "are you fond of riding on horseback?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Fanny, smiling, and blushing slightly at thus suddenly becoming the topic of conversation; "that is, I used to delight in riding Frank's pony in days of yore; but he has not kept a pony lately."

"That is easily remedied," returned Harry; "I am certain some of our horses will carry a lady. I shall speak to Harris about it directly, and we'll have some rides together, Fanny; it was only this morning that I obtained my tyrant's permission to cross a horse once more," he added, shaking his fist playfully at Ellis.

"The tyrant will agree to that more willingly than to your first request. What do you think, Fairlegh," continued Ellis, appealing to me, "of his positively wanting to go out hunting?"

"And a very natural thing to wish too, I conceive," replied Harry; "but what do you think of his declaring that, if I did not faithfully promise I would not hunt this season, he would go into the stables and divide, what he called in his doctor's lingo, the flexor metatarsi of every animal he found there, which, being interpreted, means neither more nor less than hamstring all the hunters."

"Well, that would be better than allowing you to do anything which might disturb the beautiful process of granulation going on in your side. I remember, when I was a student at Guy's——"

"Come, doctor, we positively cannot stand any more of your 'Chronicles of the Charnel-house' this morning; [311] you have horrified Miss Fairlegh already to such a degree that she is going to run away. If I should stroll down here again in the afternoon, Fanny, will you take compassion on me so far as to indulge me with a game of chess? I am going to send Frank on an expedition, and my father and Ellis are off to settle preliminaries with poor Mrs. Probehurt, so that I shall positively not have a creature to speak to. Reading excites me too much, and produces a state of—— What is it you call it, doctor?"

"I told you yesterday I thought you were going into a state of coma, when you fell asleep over that interesting paper of mine in the Lancet, 'Recollections of the Knife'; if that's what you call excitement," returned Ellis, laughing——

"Nonsense, Ellis, how absurd you are!" rejoined Oak-lands, half-amused and half-annoyed at Ellis's remark; "but you have not granted my request yet, Fanny."

"I do not think we have any engagement—mamma will, I am sure, be very happy"—began Fanny, with a degree of hesitation for which I could not account; but as I was afraid Oaklands might notice it, and attribute it to a want of cordiality, I hastened to interrupt her by exclaiming, "Mamma will be very happy—of course she will; and each and all of us are always only too happy to get you here, old fellow; it does one's heart good to see you beginning to look a little more like yourself again. If Fanny's too idle to play chess, I'll take compassion upon you, and give you a thorough beating myself."

"There are two good and sufficient reasons why you will not do anything of the kind," replied Oaklands: "in the first place, while you have been reading mathematics, I have been studying chess; and I think that I may, without conceit, venture to pronounce myself the better player of the two; and in the second place, as I told your sister just now, I am going to send you out on an expedition."

"To send me on an expedition!" repeated I—"may I be allowed to inquire its nature—where I am to go to—when I am to start—and all other equally essential particulars?"

"They are soon told," returned Oaklands. "I wrote a few days since to Lawless, asking him to come down for a week's hunting before the season should be over; and this morning I received the following characteristic answer: 'Dear Oaklands, a man who refuses a good offer is an ass (unless he happens to have had a better one). Now, yours being the best offer down in my book [312] at present, I say, "done, along with you, old fellow," thereby clearly proving that I am no ass. Q. E. D.—eh? that's about the thing, isn't it? Now, look here, Jack Basset has asked me down to Storley Wood for a day's pheasant shooting on Tuesday: if you could contrive to send any kind of trap over about lunch-time, on Wednesday, I could have a second pop at the long-tails, and be with you in time for a half-past six o'clock feed as it is not more than ten miles from Storley to Heathfield. I wouldn't have troubled you to send for me, only the tandem's hors de combat. I was fool enough to lend it to Muffington Spoffkins to go and see his aunt one fine day. The horses finding a fresh hand on the reins, began pulling like steam-engines—Muffington could not hold them—consequently they bolted; and after running over two whole infant schools, and upsetting a retired grocer, they knocked the cart into "immortal smash" against a turnpike-gate, pitching Spoffkins into a horse-pond, with Shrimp a-top of him. It was a regular sell for all parties: I got my cart broken to pieces, Shrimp was all but drowned, and Muffington's aunt cut him off with a shilling, because the extirpated squadron of juveniles turned out, unfortunately, to have been a picked detachment of infantry from her own village. If you could send to meet me at the Feathers' public-house, which is just at the bottom of Storley great wood, it would be a mercy, for walking in cover doesn't suit my short legs, and I'm safe to be used up.—Remember us to Fairlegh and all inquiring friends, and believe me to remain, very heartily, yours, George Lawless.'"

"I comprehend," said I, as Oaklands finished reading the note, "you wish me to drive over this afternoon and fetch him: it will be a great deal better than merely sending a servant."

"Why, I had thought of going myself, but, 'pon my word, these sort of things are so much trouble—at least to me, I mean; and, though Lawless is a capital, excellent fellow, and I like him extremely, yet I know he'll talk about nothing but horses all the way home; and not being quite strong again yet, you've no notion how that kind of thing worries and tires me."

"Don't say another word about it, my dear Harry; I shall enjoy the drive uncommonly. What vehicle had I better take?"

"The phaeton, I think," replied Oaklands, "and then you can bring his luggage, and Shrimp, or any of his people he may have with him."

[313] "So be it," returned I; "I'll walk back with you to the Hall, and then start as soon as you please.

CHAPTER XL — LAWLESS'S MATINÉE MUSICALE

          "I was deep in my tradesmen's books, I'm afraid,
          But not in my own, by-the-by;
          And when rascally tailors came to be paid,
          There'll be time enough for that, said I."
          —Song—The Old Bachelor.

          "Here's a knocking, indeed! Knock, knock, knock.
          Who's there? Faith, here's an English tailor come hither.
          ——Come in, tailor——
          Knock, knock.    Never at quiet!
          What are you?   I had thought to have let in
          Some of all professions.    Anon—anon."
          —Macbeth.

I SCARCELY know any excitement more agreeable than driving, on a fine frosty day, a pair of spirited horses, which demand the exercise of all one's coolness and skill to keep their fiery natures under proper control. Some accident had happened to one of Sir John's old phaeton horses, and Harry, who fancied that, as he was not allowed to use any violent exercise, driving would be an amusement to him, had taken the opportunity of replacing them by a magnificent pair of young, nearly thorough-bred chestnuts; and these were the steeds now entrusted to my guidance. Not being anxious, however, to emulate the fate of the unfortunate Muffington Spoffkins, I held them well in hand for the first three or four miles, and as they became used to their work, gradually allowed them to quicken their pace, till we were bowling along merrily at the rate of ten miles an hour.

A drive of about an hour and a quarter brought me within sight of the little roadside public-house appointed for my rendezvous with Lawless. As I drew sufficiently near to distinguish figures, I perceived the gentleman in question scientifically and picturesquely attired in what might with great propriety be termed no end of a shooting jacket, inasmuch as its waist, being prolonged to a strange and unaccountable extent, had, as a necessary consequence, invaded the region of the skirt to a degree which reduced that appendage to the most absurd and infinitesimal proportions. This wonderful garment was [314] composed of a fabric which Freddy Coleman, when he made its acquaintance some few days later, denominated the Mac Omnibus plaid, a gaudy répertoire of colours, embracing all the tints of the rainbow, and a few more besides, and was further embellished by a plentiful supply of gent.'s sporting buttons, which latter articles were not quite so large as cheese-plates, and represented in bas-relief a series of moving incidents by flood and field. His nether man exhibited a complicated arrangement of corduroys, leather gaiters and waterproof boots, which were, of course, wet through; while, to crown the whole, his head was adorned with one of those round felt hats, which exactly resemble a boiled apple-pudding, and are known by the sobriquet of "wide-awakes," "cos they av'n't got no nap about 'em". A stout shooting pony was standing at the door of the ale-house, with a pair of panniers, containing a portmanteau and a gun-case, slung across its back, upon which was seated in triumph the mighty Shrimp, who seemed to possess the singular property of growing older, and nothing else; for, as well as one could judge by appearances, he had not increased an inch in stature since the first day of our acquaintance. His attitude, as I drove up, was one which Hunt would have delighted to perpetuate. Perched on a kind of pack-saddle, his legs stretched so widely apart, by reason of the stout proportions of the pony, as to be nearly at right angles with his upper man, he "held aloft" (not a "snowy scarf," but) a pewter pot, nearly as large as himself, the contents of which he was transferring to his own throat, with an air of relish and savoir faire, which would have done credit to a seven-feet-high coalheaver. The group was completed by a gamekeeper, who, seated on a low wooden bench, was dividing some bread and cheese with a magnificent black retriever.

"By Jove! what splendid steppers!" was Lawless's exclamation as I drove up. "Now, that's what I call perfect action; high enough to look well, without battering the feet to pieces—the leg a little arched, and thrown out boldly—no fear of their putting down their pins in the same place they pick them up from. Ah!" he continued, for the first time observing me, "Fairlegh, how are you, old fellow? Slap-up cattle you've got there, and no mistake—belong to Sir John Oaklands, I suppose. Do you happen to know where he got hold of them?"

"Harry wanted a pair of phaeton horses, and the coachman recommended these," replied I; "but I've no idea where he heard of them."

[315] "Rising five and six," continued Lawless, examining their mouths with deep interest; "no do there—the tush well up in one, and nicely through in the other, and the mark in the nippers just as it should be to correspond: own brothers, I'll bet a hundred pounds—good full eyes; small heads, well set on; slanting shoulders; legs as clean as a colt's; hoofs a leetle small, but that's the breed. Whereabouts was the figure, did you hear?—five fifties never bought them, unless they were as cheap as dirt, eh?"

"That was about their price, if I remember correctly," replied I. "Harry thought it was too much to give; but Sir John, the moment he saw his son would like to have them, wrote the cheque, and paid for them on the spot." "Well, I'll give him all the money any day, if he's tired of his bargain," rejoined Lawless; "but we won't keep them standing now they're warm. Here, Shrimp, my greatcoat—get off that pony this instant, you luxurious young vagabond. Never saw such a boy in my life to ride as that is—if there is anything that can by possibility carry him, not a step will he stir on foot—doesn't believe legs were meant to walk with, it's my opinion. Why, this very morning, before they brought out the shooting pony, he got on the retriever; and he has such a seat too, that the dog could not throw him, till Basset thought of sending him into the water: he slipped off in double-quick time then, for he has had a regular hydrophobia upon him ever since his adventure in the horse-pond. What, not down yet? I shall take a horsewhip to you, sir, directly."

Thus admonished, Shrimp, who had taken advantage of his master's preoccupation to finish the contents of the pewter pot, tossed the utensil to the gamekeeper, having previously attracted that individual's attention by exclaiming, in a tone of easy familiarity—"Look out, Leggings!"—then, as the man, taken by surprise, and having some difficulty in saving himself from a blow on the nose, allowed the pot to slip through his hands, Shrimp continued, "Catch it, clumsy! veil, I never—now mind, if you've gone and bumped it, it's your own doing, and you pays for dilapidations, as ve calls 'em at Cambridge. Coming, sir—d'rec'ly, sir—yes, sir." So saying, he slipped down the pony's shoulder, shook himself to set his dress in order as soon as he reached terra firma, and unbuckling Lawless's driving coat, which was fastened round his waist by a broad strap, jumped upon a horse-block, and held out the garment at arm's length for [316] his master to put on. The gun-case and carpet-bag were then transferred from the pony to the phaeton, and, resigning the reins to Lawless, who I knew would be miserable unless he were allowed to drive, we started. Shrimp being installed in the hind seat, where, folding his arms, he leaned back, favouring us with a glance which seemed to say, "You may proceed, I am quite comfortable".

"It was about time for me to take an affectionate farewell of Alma Mater," observed Lawless, after he had criticised and admired the horses afresh, and at such length, that I could not help smiling at the fulfilment of Oaklands' prediction—"it was about time for me to be off, for the duns were becoming rather too particular in their attentions. I got a precious fright the other day, I can tell you. I was fool enough to pay two or three bills, and that gave the rest of the fellows a notion that I was about to bolt, I suppose, for one morning I was regularly besieged by them. I taught them a trick or two, though, before I had done with them: they won't forget me in a hurry, I expect."

"Indeed! and how did you contrive to fix yourself so indelibly in their recollections?" asked I.

"Eh! 'though lost to sight, to memory dear'—rather that style of thing, you know. So you want to hear all about it, eh? Well, it was a good lark, I must say; I was telling it to Basset last night, and it nearly killed him. I don't know whether you have seen him lately, but he's grown horribly fat. He has taken to rearing prize bullocks, and I think he has caught it of 'em; rides sixteen stone, if he rides a pound. I tell him he'll break his neck some of these days, if he chooses to go on hunting—the horses can't stand it. However, he went into such fits of laughter when I told him about it, that he got quite black in the face, and I rang the bell, and swore he was in an apoplexy, but the servant seemed used to the sort of thing, and brought him a jug of beer, which resuscitated him. Well, to return to my mutton, as the Mounseers have it—the very day I intended to leave Cambridge, Shrimp came in while I was breakfasting, with a great coarse-looking letter in his hand.

"'Please, sir, Mr. Pigskin has called with his little account, and would be very glad if you could let him have the money.'

"Pleasant, thinks I. 'Here, boy, let's have a look at this precious little account—hum! ha! hunting-saddle, gag-bit for Lamplighter, head-piece and reins to ditto, [317]"racing-saddle for chestnut mare,' etc., etc., etc.; a horrid affair as long as my arm—total £96 18s. 2d.; and the blackguard had charged everything half as much again as he had told me when I ordered it. Still, I thought I'd pay the fellow, and have done with him, if I had got tin enough left; so I told Shrimp to show him into the rooms of a man who lived over me, but was away at the time, and there let him wait. Lo! and behold! when I came to look about the tin, I found that, instead of having ninety pounds at the banker's, I had overdrawn my account some hundred pounds or more; so that paying was quite out of the question, and I was just going to ring the bell, and beg Mr. Pigskin to call again in a day or two, by which time I should have been 'over the hills and far away,' when Shrimp made his appearance.

"'Please, sir, there's ever so many more gents called for their money. There's Mr. Flanker, the whipmaker, and Mr. Smokem, from the cigar-shop, and Trotter, the bootmaker, and—yes, sir, there's a young man from Mr. Tinsel, the jeweller: and, oh! a load more of 'em, if you please, sir.'

"This was agreeable, certainly; what to be at I didn't know, when suddenly a bright idea came across me.

"'What have you done with 'em?' asked I.

"'Put 'em all into Mr. Skulker's rooms, sir.'

"'That's the ticket,' said I. 'Now, listen to me. Look out, and see if there are any more coming;—if there are, show 'em up to the others; take 'em a couple of bottles of wine and some glasses, and tell them I must beg them to wait a quarter of an hour or so, while I look over their bills; and as soon as the room is full, come and tell me.'

"In about ten minutes Shrimp reported that he could not see any more coming, and that he thought 'all the gents I dealt with was upstairs'.

"'That's the time of day!' exclaimed I, and taking out the key of the room, which Skulker had left with me, in case I might like to put a friend to sleep there, I slipped off my shoes, and creeping upstairs as softly as possible, I locked the door. 'Now then, Shrimp,' said I, 'run and fetch me some good stout screws, a gimblet and a screwdriver.' He was not long getting them, and in less than five minutes I had them all screwed in as fast as if they had been in their coffins, for they were kicking up such a row over their wine that they never heard me at work. Well, as soon as I had bagged my game, Shrimp and I packed up the traps and sent them to the coach-office—found a coach about to start in half an hour, booked [318] myself for the box, and then strolled back to see how the caged birds were getting on. By this time they had come to a sense of their 'sitivation,' and were hammering away, and swearing, and going on like troopers; but all to no purpose, for the door was a famous strong one, and they had no means of breaking it open. Well, after I had had a good laugh at the row they were making, I tapped at the door, and 'discoursed' 'em, as Paddy calls it. I told them that I was so much shocked by the want of consideration, and proper feeling, and all that sort of thing, which they had shown, in coming and besieging me as they had done, that I felt it was a duty I owed to society at large, and to themselves in particular, to read them a severe lesson; therefore, on mature deliberation, I had sentenced them to imprisonment for the term of one hour, and to wait for their money till such time as I should further decree, which I begged to assure them would not be until I might find it perfectly convenient to myself to pay them; and I wound up by telling them to make themselves quite at home, entreating them not to fatigue themselves by trying to get out, for that they had not a chance of succeeding; inquiring whether they had any commands for London, and wishing them a very affectionate farewell for some time to come. And then down I ran, leaving them roaring and bellowing like so many mad bulls—got to the office just in time, and tipping the coachman, drove three parts of the way to town, feeling as jolly as if I had won a thousand pounds on the Derby."

"And what became of the locked-up tradesmen?" inquired I.

"Oh! why they stayed there above two hours before anybody let them out, amusing themselves by smashing the windows, breaking the furniture to pieces (one of them was an upholsterer, and had an eye to business, I dare say), and kicking all the paint off the door. However, I have written to Skulker, to get it all set to rights, and send me the bill, so no harm's done—it will teach those fellows a lesson they won't forget in a hurry, and the next time they wish to bully a Cantab, they'll recollect my little 'Matinée musicale,' as I call it. Oh! they made a sweet row, I can assure you, sir."

The chestnuts trotted merrily on their homeward journey, and the noble oaks of Heathfield Park, their leafless branches pointing like giant arms to the cold blue sky above them, soon came in sight.

"You are a great deal too early for dinner, Lawless," [319] said I, as we drove up; "suppose you walk down to our cottage, and let me introduce you to my mother and sister; you'll find Oaklands there most likely, for he talked of going to play chess."

"Eh! your mother and sister! by Jove, I never thought of them; I declare I had forgotten there were any ladies in the case—I can't go near them in this pickle, I'm all over mud and pheasant feathers, they'll take me for a native of the Sandwich Islands, one of the boys that cooked Captain Cook—precious tough work they must have had to get their teeth through him, for he was no chicken; I wonder how they trussed him, poor old beggar. No! I'll make myself a little more like a Christian, and then I'll come down and be introduced to them if it's necessary, but I shall not be able to say half a dozen words to them: it's a fact, I never can talk to a woman, except that girl at old Coleman's hop, Di Clapperton; she went the pace with me, and no mistake. By the way, how's the other young woman, Miss Clara Sav——"

"If you really want to dress before you come to the cottage," interrupted I hastily, "you have no time to lose."

"Haven't I? off we go then," cried my companion. "Here, you lazy young imp," he continued, seizing Shrimp by the collar of the coat, and dropping him to the ground, as one would a kitten, "find my room, and get out my things directly—brush along."

So saying, he sprang from the phaeton, and rushed into the hall, pushing Shrimp before him, to the utter consternation of the dignified old butler, who, accustomed to the graceful indolence which characterised his young master's every movement, was quite unprepared for such an energetic mode of proceeding.

Forgetting that politeness required me to wait for my companion, I threw the reins to a groom, and started off at a brisk walk in the direction of the cottage.

Lawless's concluding words had aroused a train of thought sufficiently interesting to banish every other recollection. Sweet Clara! it was quite a month since I had parted from her, but the soft tones of her silvery voice still lingered on my ear—the trustful expression of her bright eyes—the appealing sadness of that mournful smile, more touching in its quiet melancholy, than many a deeper sign of woe, still presented themselves to my imagination with a vividness which was almost painful. I had received a note from her about a week before, in which she told me that Cumberland had been absent from the Priory for some days, and, as long as this was the case, [320] she was comparatively free from annoyance, but that Mr. Vernor's mind was evidently as much set upon the match as ever; nothing, however, she assured me, should induce her to consent, for much as she had always disliked the scheme, she now felt that death were far preferable to a union with a man she despised; and she ended by saying, that whenever she felt inclined to give way to despair, the remembrance of my affection came across her like a sunbeam, and rendered her happy even in the midst of her distress.—Oh! what would I not have given, to have possessed the dear privilege of consoling her, to have told her that she had nothing to fear, that my love should surround and protect her, and that, under the hallowing influence of sympathy, happiness for the future would be increased twofold, while sorrow shared between us would be deprived of half its bitterness!—in fact, long before I arrived at the cottage, I had worked myself up into a great state of excitement, and had originated more romantic nonsense than is promulgated in a "seminary for young ladies," in the interval between the time when the French teacher has put out the candle, and the fair pupils have talked themselves to sleep, which, if report does not belie them, is not until they have forfeited all chance of adding to their attractions by getting a little beauty-sleep before twelve o'clock.

"Ah, Frank! back already! what have you done with Lawless?" exclaimed Oaklands, raising his eyes from the chessboard as I entered our little drawing-room.

"He will be here shortly," replied I, "but he positively refused to face the ladies till he had changed his shooting costume, so I left him up at the Hall to adonise. But how goes the game? who is winning?"

"As was certain to be the case, I am losing," answered Fanny.

"Well, I won't disturb you," returned I, "and perhaps you will have finished before Lawless makes his appearance; where is my mother, by-the-by?"

"She only left the room just as you returned," replied Fanny quickly; "she has been sitting here ever since Mr. Oaklands came."

"I do not wish to know where she has been, but where she is," rejoined I; "I want to tell her that Lawless is coming to be introduced to her; is she upstairs?"

"I believe she is," was the reply, "but you will only worry her if you disturb her; mamma particularly dislikes being hunted about, you know: you had better sit still, and she will be down again in a few minutes."

[321] "There is no such thing as free-will in this world, I believe," exclaimed I, throwing myself back in an easy-chair; "however, as you do not very often play the tyrant, you shall have your own way this time. Harry, the chestnuts did their work to admiration; Lawless was delighted with them, and talked of nothing else half the way home."

"I don't doubt it—your queen's in danger, Fanny," was the answer.

Seeing that my companions appeared entirely engrossed by their game, I occupied myself with a book till I heard the ominous sounds, "Check! excuse me, the knight commands that square; you have but one move—checkmate!"

"Who has won? though I need not ask. How dare you beat my sister, Master Harry?"

"I had some trouble in doing it, I can tell you," replied Oaklands; then turning to Fanny, he continued, "had you but moved differently when I castled my king to get out of your way, the game would have been entirely in your own hands, for I was so stupid, that up to that moment I never perceived the attack you were making upon me."

"Really I don't think I had a chance of beating you: Frank must take you in hand next, he is a much better player than I am."

"Indeed I am not going to be handed over to Frank, or any one else, in that summary way, I can assure you; I intend to have another game of chess with you tomorrow, after we come in from our ride.—I forgot to tell you that Harris says the little grey Arab carries a lady beautifully—however, 1 left orders for one of the boys to exercise her well this afternoon, with a side-saddle and a horse-cloth, to enact the part of a lady. At what hour shall we ride to-morrow? it is generally fine before luncheon at this time of year, I think."

"Oh! you are very kind," replied Fanny hurriedly, "but I am afraid I cannot ride to-morrow."

"Why not? what are you going to do?" inquired Oaklands.

"I am not going to do anything particularly," returned Fanny, hesitating, "but I don't know whether my habit is in wearable order, and—well, I will talk to mamma about it. By-the-by, I really must go and see what has become of her all this time," she continued, rising to leave the apartment.

"I thought there was nothing my mother disliked so [322] much as being hunted about," rejoined I; "I wonder you can think of disturbing her."

A playful shake of the head was her only reply, and she quitted the room.

CHAPTER XLI — HOW LAWLESS BECAME A LADY'S MAN

     "Doublet and hose should show itself courageous to petticoats.
     Therefore, courage!"
     —As You Like It.

     "From the crown of his head, to the sole of his foot, he is all mirth.
     He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper;
     For what his heart thinks, his tongue speaks.
     "I hope he is in love."
     —Much Ado about Nothing.

"FRANK, I am not at all satisfied about your sister," began Oaklands, as the door closed after her. "She does not look well, and she seems entirely to have lost her spirits."

"I thought as you do before I went up for my degree," replied I; "but since my return I hoped she was all right again. What makes you imagine her out of spirits?"

"Oh! several things; she never talks and laughs as she used to do. Why, all this afternoon I could scarcely get half a dozen words out of her; and she seems to have no energy to do anything. How unwilling she appeared to enter into my scheme about the riding! She evidently dislikes the idea of exertion of any kind: I know the feeling well; but it is not natural for her; she used to be surprisingly active, and was the life and soul of the party. But what, perhaps, has caused me to notice all this so particularly, and makes me exceedingly uncomfortable, is, that I am afraid it is all owing to me."

"Owing to you, my dear Harry! what can you mean?" inquired I.

"Why, I fear that business of the duel, and the great care she and your mother took of me (for which—believing as I do that, under Providence, it saved my life—I can never be sufficiently grateful), have been too much for her. Remember, she was quite a girl; and no doubt seeing an old friend brought to the house apparently dying, must have been a very severe shock to her, and depend upon it, her nerves have never recovered their proper tone. However, I shall make it my business to endeavour to interest and amuse her, and you must do [323] everything you can to assist me, Frank; we'll get all the new books down from London, and have some people to stay at the Hall. She has shut herself up too much; Ellis says she has; I shall make her ride on horseback every day."

"Horseback, eh!" exclaimed Lawless, who had entered the cottage without our perceiving him. "Ay, that's a prescription better than all your doctor's stuff; clap her on a side-saddle, and a brisk canter for a couple of hours every day across country will set the old lady up again in no time, if it's your mother that's out of condition, Frank. Why, Oaklands, man, you are looking as fresh as paint; getting sound again, wind and limb, eh?"

"I hope so, at last," replied Harry, shaking Lawless warmly by the hand; "but I've had a narrow escape of losing my life, I can assure you."

"No; really I didn't know it had been as bad as that I By Jove, if he had killed you, I'd have shot that blackhearted villain, Wilford, myself, and chanced about his putting a bullet into me while I was doing it."

"My dear Lawless, I thank you for your kind feeling towards me; but I cannot bear to hear you speak in that light way of duelling," returned Oaklands gravely; "if men did but know the misery they were entailing on all those who cared for them by their rash acts, independently of all higher considerations, duelling, and its twin brother, suicide, would be less frequent than they are. When I have seen the tears stealing down my father's grief-worn cheeks, and witnessed the anxious, painful expression in the faces of the kind friends who were nursing me, and have reflected that it was by yielding to my own ungoverned passions that I had brought all this sorrow upon them, my remorse has often been far harder to bear than any pain my wound has caused me."

At this moment, my mother and Fanny making their appearance, I hastened to introduce Lawless, who, being greatly alarmed at the ceremony, grew very red in the face, shuffled my mother into a corner of the room, and upset a chair against her, stumbling over Harry's legs, and knocking down the chessboard in the excess of his penitence. Having, with my assistance, remedied these disasters, after stigmatising himself as an awkward dog, and comparing himself to a bull in a china-shop, he turned to Fanny, exclaiming:—

"Delighted to have the pleasure of seeing you at last, Miss Fairlegh; it is several years since I first heard of [324] you. Do you remember the writing-desk at old Mildman's, eh, Frank? no end of a shame of me to spoil it; I have often thought so since; but boys will be boys, eh, Mrs. Fairlegh?"

My mother acquiesced in this obstinate adherence to their primary formation on the part of the junior members of the nobler sex with so much cordiality that Lawless was encouraged to proceed. "Glad to find there's a chance of seeing you out with us some of these days, ma'am; shall we be able to persuade you to accompany us to-morrow?"

"Yes, I think it very likely that I may go," returned my mother, who imagined he was referring to some proposed drive; "in what direction will it be, pray?"

"Direction, eh? Why that of course depends very much on what line he may happen to take when he breaks cover," returned Lawless. My mother, who had been previously advised of Lawless's sporting metaphors, concluding that the "he" referred to Sir John Oaklands, calmly replied:—

"Yes, certainly, I was mentioning the ruins of Saworth Abbey to Sir John yesterday; do you know them?"

"I should think I did—rather," exclaimed Lawless, forgetting his company manners in the interest of the subject. "Why, I have seen more foxes run into in the fields round Saworth than in any other parish in the country. Whenever the meet is either at Grinder's End or Chorley Bottom, the fox is safe to head for Saworth. Oh! I see you're up to the whole thing, Mrs. Fairlegh; we shall have you showing all of us the way across country in fine style to-morrow. 1 expect there'll be some pretty stiff fencing though, if he should take the line you imagine, but I suppose you don't mind anything of that sort; with a steady, well-trained hunter (and a lady should never ride one that is not), there's very little danger—take care to keep out of the crowd when you're getting away; don't check your horse at his fences; have a little mercy on his bellows over the heavy ground; and with a light weight like yours you might lead the field. Why, Frank, you ought to be proud of Mrs. Fairlegh. I tell you what—the first time the hounds meet near Leatherly, I'll have my mother out, whether she likes it or not. I'll stand no nonsense about it, you may depend; she shall see a run for once in her life, at all events. Mrs. Fairlegh, ma'am," he continued, rising and shaking her warmly by the hand, "excuse my saying so, but you're a regular brick—you are indeed!"

[325] The scene at this moment would not have made a bad study for a painter. Oaklands, having struggled in vain to preserve his gravity, was in fits of laughter. Fanny, who had from the first perceived the equivoque, was very little better, while my mother, completely mystified, sat staring at Lawless, whom she evidently considered a little insane, with an expression of bewildered astonishment, not unmixed with fear. As soon as I could contrive to speak (for Lawless's face, when he had discovered the effect he had produced, completely finished me, and I laughed till the tears ran down my cheeks), I explained to him that it was my sister, and not my mother, who was thinking of riding, while the notion of hunting originated wholly and solely in his own fertile imagination.

"Eh? What! she doesn't hunt?—ah! I see, put my foot in it pretty deep this time; beg pardon, Mrs. Fairlegh—no offence meant, I assure you. Well, I thought it was a very fast thing for an old——I—that is, for a lady to do. I fancied you were so well up in the whole affair, too: most absurd, really; I certainly am not fit for female society. I think, when the hunting season's over, I shall put myself to one of those tip-top boarding-schools to learn manners for a quarter; the sort of shop, you know, where they teach woman her mission—(how to get a rich husband, eh, Frank?)—for three hundred pounds a year, washing and church principles extra, and keep a 'Professor' to instruct the young ladies in the art of getting out of a carriage on scientific principles, that is, without showing their ankles. Didn't succeed very well with my sister Julia, though; the girl happens to be particularly clean about the pasterns, so she declared it was infringing on the privileges of a free-born British subject, vowed her ankles were her own property, and she had a right to do what she liked with 'em, and carried out her principles by kicking the Professor's shins for him. Plucky girl is Julia; she puts me very much in mind of what I was when I was her age at Eton, and pinned a detonating cracker to old Botherboy's coat-tail, so that, what between the pin and the explosion, it's my belief he would have found himself more comfortable in the battle of Waterloo, than he felt the first time he sat down. Ah! those were happy days!"

Thus running on, Lawless kept us in a roar of laughter, till Oaklands, pulling out his watch, discovered it was time to return to the Hall, and prepare for dinner. It turned out, on examination, that the habit did require altering, so the ride was put off till the necessary repairs [326] should be executed. As the next day proved too frosty to hunt, Lawless and I, under the auspices of the head-keeper, set to work to slaughter the supernumerary pheasants, Sir John and Harry joining us for a couple of hours, though Ellis would not allow the latter to carry a gun. We had a capital day's sport, and got home just in time to dress, and Sir John having contrived in the course of the afternoon to carry off my mother and Fanny, we were a very comfortable little party. Sir John took my mother down to dinner, and Lawless paired off with Fanny, an arrangement which, as his eccentricities evidently afforded her great amusement, I was not sorry for.

"Why, Fanny," whispered I, when we joined the ladies in the drawing-room, "you are growing quite frisky; what a row you and Lawless were making at dinner-time! I have not heard you talk and laugh so much for many a day."

"Oh! your friend is famous fun," replied Fanny—"perfectly irresistible; I assure you I am delighted with him—he is something quite new to me."

"I am so glad you have asked Lawless here," observed I to Oaklands; "do you see how much pleased and amused Fanny is with him?—he appears to have aroused her completely—the very thing we were wishing for. He'll be of more use to her than all of us put together."

"He seems to me to talk a vast deal of nonsense," replied Harry, rather crossly, as I fancied.

"And yet 1 can't help being amused by it," replied I; "I'm like Fanny in that respect."

"I was not aware your sister had a taste for that style of conversation. I confess it's a sort of thing which very soon tires me."

"Splendid old fellow, Sir John," observed Lawless in an undertone, seating himself by Fanny; "I never look at him without thinking of one of those jolly old Israelites who used to keep knocking about the country with a plurality of wives and families, and an immense stud of camels and donkeys: they read 'em out to us at church, you know—what do you call 'em, eh?"

"One of the Patriarchs, I suppose you mean," replied Fanny, smiling.

"Eh—yes, that's the thing. Noah was rather in that line before he took to the water system, wasn't he? Well, now, if you can fancy one of these ancients, decently dressed in a blue coat with brass buttons, knee shorts and silk stockings, like a Christian, it's my belief he'd be the very moral (as the old women call it) of Sir John; uncommonly [327] handsome he must have been—even better looking than Harry, when he was his age."

"Mr. Oaklands is so pale and thin now," replied Fanny.

"Eh! isn't he just?" was the rejoinder. "Many a man has been booked for an inside place in a hearse for a less hurt than his; and I don't know that he is out of the wood, even yet."

"Why, you don't think him worse?" exclaimed Fanny anxiously. "Nothing has gone wrong—you have not been told—are they keeping anything from me?"

"Eh! no! 'pon my word; Ellis, who is getting him into condition, say's he's all right, and will be as fresh as a colt in a month or two. Why, you look quite frightened."

"You startled me for a moment," replied Fanny, colouring slightly; "any little relapse renders Sir John so uncomfortable that we are naturally anxious on his account."

"I am sure Lawless is boring your sister," observed Oaklands, who had been sitting quite at the farther end of the drawing-room, cutting open the leaves of a new book. "I know that worried look of hers so well:—I shall go and interpose on her behalf.—Lawless," he continued, crossing over to him, "the billiard-room is lighted up, if you like to challenge Fairlegh to a game."

"Billiards, eh?" returned Lawless; "why, really, if you had walked as many miles to-day as I have, I don't think you'd much fancy trotting round a billiard-table. Besides, I'm very well off where I am," he added, with what was intended for a gallant glance towards Fanny; "here's metal more attractive, as the fellow says in the play."

Oaklands' only reply was a slight curl of the lip, and, turning to Fanny, he said, "Are you at all inclined to take your revenge? We shall have time for a good game if we begin at once; will you come into the music-room, or shall I fetch the chess-men here?"

"Is it not rather late?" replied Fanny hesitatingly.

"Not if we begin now," returned Oaklands.

"Mr. Lawless was offering to show me some tricks with cards; as they will not take so long a time as a game of chess, perhaps that would be most advisable this evening."

"Whichever you prefer; I will ring for cards," replied Oaklands coldly. He then waited until the servant had executed the order, and, as soon as Lawless had attracted public attention to his performance, left the room unobserved.

[328] Wonderful things did the cards effect under Lawless's able management—very wonderful indeed, until he showed you how they were done; and then the only wonder was that you had not found them out for yourself, and how you could have been stupid enough to be taken in by so simple a trick: and very great was Lawless on the occasion, and greater still was Ellis, who was utterly sceptical as to the possibility of performing any of the tricks beforehand, and quite certain, as soon as he had seen it, that he knew all about it, and could do it easily himself, and who, on trying, invariably failed; and yet, not profiting one bit by his experience, was just as sceptical and just as confident in regard to the next, which was of course attended by a like result. Very wonderful and very amusing was it all, and much laughter did it occasion; and the minutes flitted by on rapid wings, until my mother discovered that it was time for us to start on our walk to the cottage, a mode of progression of which Sir John by no means approved; he therefore rang the bell, and ordered the carriage. While they were getting it ready Harry's absence was for the first time observed, and commented on.

"Did anybody see when he left the room?" inquired Sir John.

"Yes," replied I, "he went away just as Lawless began his performances."

"Dear me! I hope he was not feeling ill," said my mother.

"Ill, ma'am!" exclaimed Ellis, "impossible; you don't know Mr. Oaklands' constitution as well as I do, or such an idea could never have occurred to you; besides, you can't for a moment suppose he would think of being taken suddenly ill without having consulted me on the subject. I must go and see after him, ma'am, directly, but it's quite impossible that he should be ill;" and as he spoke he left the room with hurried steps.

"My dear Fanny, how you made me jump! I hope you haven't done any mischief," exclaimed my mother, as Fanny, moving suddenly, knocked down the card-box, and scattered the contents on the carpet.

"I am sadly awkward," returned Fanny, stooping to pick up the box; "I do not think it is injured."

"My dear child, it does not in the least signify," said Sir John, taking her kindly by the hand; "why, you have quite frightened yourself, you silly little thing; you are actually trembling; sit down, my dear, sit down—never mind the cards. Frank, if you'll ring the bell, Edmunds will see to that."

[329] "No, no! we'll pick 'em up," exclaimed Lawless, going down on all fours; "don't send for the butler; he's such a pompous old boy; if I were to see him stooping down here, I should be pushing him over, or playing him some trick or other. I shouldn't be able to help it, he's so jolly fat. What a glorious confusion! kings and queens and little fishes all mixed up together!—here's the knave of clubs—hail-fellow-well-met with a thing that looks like a salmon with a swelled face! Well, you have been and gone and done it this time, Miss Fairlegh—I could not have believed it of you, Miss Fairlegh, oh!"

"Mind you pick them up properly," retorted Fanny; "if you really were such a conjurer as you pretended to be just now, you would only have to say 'hocus pocus,' and the cards would all jump into the box again in proper order."

"Then I should lose the pleasure of going on my knees in your service. There's a pretty speech for you, eh! I'll tell you what—you'll make a lady's man of me now, before you've done with me. I'm polishing rapidly—I know I am."

"It's all right!" exclaimed Ellis, entering. "I found Mr. Oaklands lying on the sofa in the library; he says he feels a little knocked up by his walk this morning, and desired me to apologise for his absence, and wish everybody good-night for him. I say, Fairlegh," continued he, drawing me a little on one side, "has anything happened to annoy him?"

"Nothing particular, that I know of," replied I; "why do you ask?"

"I thought he looked especially cross; and he called our friend Lawless an intolerable puppy, and wondered how any woman of common sense could contrive to put up with him—that's all," rejoined Ellis.

"Fanny refused to play chess with him, because she thought it too late in the evening;—that cannot have annoyed him?"

"Oh, no!" was the reply. "I see exactly what it is now: since the granulating process has been going on so beautifully in the side, his appetite has returned, and as he must not take any very active exercise just yet, the liver is getting torpid. I must throw in a little blue pill, and he'll be as good-tempered as an angel again; for, naturally, there is not a man breathing with a finer disposition, or a more excellent constitution, than Mr. Oaklands. Why, sir, the other day, when I had been relating a professional anecdote to him, he called me a 'bloodthirsty butcher,' and I honoured him for it—no hypocrisy there, sir."

[330] At this moment the carriage was announced, and we proceeded to take our departure, Lawless handing Fanny in, and then standing chattering at the window, till I was obliged to give him a hint that Sir John would not like to have the horses kept standing in the cold.

"You've made a conquest, Miss Fan," said I, as we drove off: "I never saw Lawless pay such attention to any woman before; even Di Clapperton did not produce nearly so strong an effect, I can assure you."

"I am quite innocent of any intention to captivate," replied Fanny. "Mr. Lawless amuses me, and I laugh sometimes at, and sometimes with, him."

"Still, my dear, you should be careful," interposed my mother; "though it's play to you, it may be death to him, poor young man! I got into a terrible scrape once in that way myself, when I was a girl; laughing and joking with a young gentleman in our neighbourhood, till he made me an offer one morning, and I really believe I should have been persuaded into marrying him, though I did not care a bit about him, if I had not been attached to your poor dear father at the time: now you have nothing of that sort to save you; so, as I said before, my dear, mind what you are about."

"I don't think Mr. Lawless's heart will be broken while there is a pack of hounds within reach, mamma dear," replied Fanny, glancing archly at me as she spoke.

As we were about to proceed to our several rooms for the night, I contrived to delay my mother for a moment under pretext of lighting a candle for her, and closing the door, I said:—

"My dear mother, if, by any odd chance, Fanny should be inclined to like Lawless, don't you say anything against it. Lawless is a good fellow; all his faults lie on the surface, and are none of them serious; he is completely his own master, and might marry any girl he pleased tomorrow, and I need not tell you would be a most excellent match for Fanny. He seems very much taken with her; and no wonder, for she is really excessively pretty; and when she is in spirits, as she was to-night, her manner is most piquante and fascinating."

"Well, my dear boy," was the reply, "you know your friend best, and if he and Fanny choose to take a fancy to each other, and you approve of it, I shall not say anything against it."

Whereupon I kissed her, called her a dear, good old mother, and carried up for her, in token of affection, her work-box, her reticule, her candle and a basket, [331] containing a large bunch of keys, sundry halfpence and three pairs of my own stockings which wanted mending, a process which invariably rendered them unwearable ever after.

CHAPTER XLII — THE MEET AT EVERSLEY GORSE

          "We'll make you some sport with the fox Ere we case him."
          —All's Well that Ends Well.

          "Oh! for a fall, if fall she must,
          On the gentle lap of Flora;
          But still, thank Heaven, she clings to her seat."
          —Hood.

          "She held his drooping head,
          Till given to breathe the freer air,
          Returning life repaid their care;
          He gazed on them with heavy sigh—
          I could have wished e'en thus to die."
          —Rokeby.

IT had been arranged between my mother and Oaklands, in the earlier part of the evening on which the events described in the last chapter took place, that Fanny should have her first ride on the day but one following, by which time it was supposed that the habit would be fit for service, and the young lady's mind sufficiently familiarised with the idea, to overcome a rather (as I considered) unnecessary degree of alarm which I believe would have led her, had she been allowed to decide for herself, to relinquish it altogether. The only stipulation my mother insisted on was, that I should accompany my sister in the character of chaperon, an arrangement to which, as it was quite evident that Lawless intended to form one of the party, I made no objection. Accordingly, on the day appointed, Oaklands made his appearance about ten o'clock, mounted on his favourite horse, and attended by a groom, leading the grey Arab which was destined to carry Fanny, as well as a saddle-horse for me.

"Bravo, Harry! it does one good to see you and the 'Cid' together again," exclaimed I, patting the arched neck of the noble animal; "how well he is looking!"

"Is he not?" replied Oaklands warmly; "the good old horse knew me as well as possible, and gave a neigh of pleasure when first I spoke to him. Is Fanny nearly ready?"

"She will be here directly," replied I; and the words had [332] scarcely escaped my lips when she made her appearance, looking so lovely in her hat and habit, that I felt sure it would be all over with Lawless as soon as he saw her.

"Why, Fanny," exclaimed Oaklands, dismounting slowly and with effort, for he was still lamentably weak, "I have not seen you in a habit so long, I declare I should scarcely have known you; the effect is quite magical."

A smile and a blush were her only reply; and Oaklands continued, "Will you not like to mount now? Lawless will join us; but he means' to abandon us again when we get near Eversley Gorse, for the superior attractions of a run with the subscription pack."

"Oh, I hope the hounds will not come in our way," exclaimed Fanny; "if you think there is any chance of their frightening my horse, I had better not ride to-day."

"I do not think you need feel the least alarm; though spirited, Rose Alba is perfectly quiet; besides, we are not bound to ride towards Eversley, unless you approve of doing so," replied Oaklands.

As he spoke, Lawless rode up just in time to catch the last few words. He was dressed in an appropriate hunting costume, and sat his horse (a splendid black hunter, whose fiery temper rendered all those in whom the bump of caution was properly developed remarkably shy of him) as easily as if he formed part of the animal. As he checked his impatient steed, and taking off his hat, bowed to Fanny, his eyes sparkling, and his whole countenance beaming with pleasure and excitement, he really looked quite handsome. The same idea seemed to strike Fanny, who whispered to me, "If ever your friend has his picture taken, it should be on horseback".

"Good-morning, Miss Fairlegh!" cried Lawless, as flinging the rein to a groom, he sprang from the saddle, and bounded towards us; "glad to see you in what I consider the most becoming dress a lady can wear—very becoming it is too," he added, with a slight bend of the head to mark the compliment. "What did I hear you say about not riding to Eversley? You never can be so cruel as to deny me the pleasure of your company, and I must go there to join the meet. I would not have hunted to-day, though, if I had known you wished to ride in another direction."

"It was only that Fanny was afraid the hounds might frighten her horse," replied I.

"Oh, not the least danger; I'll take care of all that," returned Lawless; "the little white mare is as gentle as [333] a lamb: I cantered her across the park myself yesterday on purpose to try—the sweetest thing for a lady I ever set eyes on. You have got some good cattle in your stables, Harry, I must own that."

"Hadn't we better think of mounting? Time will not stand still for us," observed I.

"Let me assist you, Fanny," said Oaklands, advancing towards her.

"Thank you," replied Fanny, drawing back: "but I need not give you the trouble; Frank will help me."

"Here, get out of the way!" cried Lawless, as I hesitated, fancying from the shade on Oaklands' brow that he might not like to be interfered with; "I see none of you know how to help a lady properly. Bring up that mare," he continued, "closer—that's it; stand before her head. Now, Miss Fairlegh, take a firm hold of the pummel; place your foot in my hand—are you ready?—spring! there we are—famously done! Oh, you know what you are about, I see. Let me give you the rein—between the fingers; yes—the snaffle will manage her best; the curb may hang loose, and only use it if it is necessary; let the groom stand by her till I am mounted; the black horse is rather fidgety; soh! boy, soh! quiet!—stand you brute!—there's a good boy; steady, steady—off we go!"

As Lawless pushed by me at the beginning of this speech, Oaklands advanced towards him, and his pale cheek flushed with anger. Apparently, however, changing his intention, he drew himself up haughtily, and, turning on his heel, walked slowly to his horse, mounted, and reining him back a few paces, sat motionless as an equestrian statue, gazing on the party with a gloomy brow until we had started, when, suddenly applying the spur, he joined us in a couple of bounds, and took his station at Fanny's left hand. Lawless having appropriated the off side, devoted himself to the double task of managing the Arab and doing the agreeable to its fair rider, which latter design he endeavoured to accomplish by chattering incessantly.

After proceeding a mile or two, Lawless sustaining the whole burden of the conversation, while Oaklands never spoke a word, we came upon a piece of level greensward.

"Here's a famous place for a canter, Miss Fairlegh," exclaimed Lawless; "lean a little more towards me—that's right. Are you ready?—just tickle her neck with the whip—not too hard—jerk the rein slightly—gently, mare, gently!—there's a good horse, that's it! Eh! don't [334] you see she settles into her pace as quietly as a rocking-horse—oh! she's a sweet thing for a feather-weight;" and restraining the plunging of the fiery animal he rode, he leaned over, and patted the Arab's arched neck, as they went off at an easy canter.

I was about to follow their example, but observing that Oaklands delayed putting his horse in motion, it occurred to me that this being the first ride he had taken since his illness, the exertion might possibly be too much for his strength; I waited, therefore, till he joined me, when I inquired whether he felt any ill effects from the unwonted exertion.

"No," was the reply. "I feel an odd kind of fluttering in my side, but it is only weakness."

"Had you not better give it up for to-day, and let me ride back with you? I dare say Lawless would not care about hunting for once, and would see Fanny home."

"I will not go back!" he replied sternly; then checking himself, he added in a milder tone, "I mean to say it is not necessary—really I do not feel ill—besides, it was only a passing sensation, and is already nearly gone."

He paused for a moment, and then continued, "How very dictatorial and disagreeable Lawless has grown of late, and what absurd nonsense he does talk when he is in the society of ladies! I wonder your sister can tolerate it." "She not only tolerates it," returned I, slightly piqued at the contemptuous tone in which he spoke of Lawless, "but is excessively amused by it; why, she said last night he was quite delightful."

"I gave her credit for better taste," was Oaklands' reply; and striking his horse impatiently with the spur, he dashed forward, and in a few moments we had rejoined the others.

"I hope illness has not soured Harry's temper, but he certainly appears more prone to take offence than in former days," was my inward comment, as I pondered over his last words. "I am afraid Fanny has annoyed him; I must speak to her, and give her a hint to be more careful for the future."

Half an hour's brisk riding brought us to the outskirts of a broad common, a great portion of which was covered by the gorse or furze from which it took its name. Around the sides of this were gathered from sixty to eighty well-mounted men, either collected in groups, to discuss the various topics of local interest which occupy the minds of country gentlemen, or riding up and down in parties of two and three together, impatient for the [335] commencement of their morning's sport; while, in a small clear space, nearly in the centre of the furze-brake, were stationed the hounds, with the huntsman and whippers-in. "There!" exclaimed Lawless, "look at that! Talk about operas and exhibitions! where will you find an exhibition as well worth seeing as that is? I call that a sight for an empress. Now are not you glad I made you come, Miss Fairlegh?"

"The red coats look very gay and picturesque, certainly," replied Fanny; "and what loves of horses, with their satin skins glistening in the sunshine! But I wish Rose Alba would not prick up her ears in that way; I'm rather frightened."

While Lawless was endeavouring to convince her there was no danger, and that he was able and willing to frustrate any nefarious designs which might enter into the graceful little head of the white Arab, a young man rode up to Oaklands, and shaking him warmly by the hand, congratulated him on being once more on horseback.

"Ah, Whitcombe, it's a long time since you and I have met," returned Harry; "you have been abroad, I think?" "Yes," was the reply; "Charles and I have been doing the grand tour, as they call it." "How is your brother?"

"Oh, he's all right, only he has grown a great pair of moustaches, and won't cut them off; he has taken up a notion they make him look killing, I believe. He was here a minute ago—yes, there he is, talking to Randolph. Come and speak to him, he'll be delighted to see you." "Keep your eye on Fanny's mare," said Oaklands, as he rode past me, "she seems fidgety, and that fellow Lawless is thinking more about the hounds than he is of her, though he does boast so much of the care he can take of her. I shall be with you again directly."

"Do you see the gentleman on the bright bay, Miss Fairlegh?" exclaimed Lawless; "there, he's speaking to Tom Field, the huntsman, now; he has got his watch in his hand; that's Mr. Rand, the master of the hounds; you'll see some fun directly. Ah! I thought so."

As he spoke, at a signal from the huntsman, the hounds dashed into cover, and were instantly lost to sight in a waving sea of gorse, save when a head or neck became visible for a moment, as some dog more eager than the rest sprang over a tangled brake, through which he was unable to force his way.

"Oh, you beauties!" resumed Lawless [336] enthusiastically, "only watch them; they're drawing it in first-rato style, and there's rare lying in that cover. Now see how the furze shakes—look at their sterns nourishing; have at him there—have at him; that's right, Tom—cheer 'em on, boy—good huntsman is Tom Field—there again!—a fox, I'll bet five hundred pounds to a pony—hark!—a whimper—now wait—a challenge! another and another—listen to them—there's music—watch the right-hand corner—that's where he'll break cover for a thousand, and if he does, what a run we shall have! Look at those fools," he added, pointing to a couple of cockney-looking fellows who were cantering towards the very place he had pointed to, "they'll head him back as sure as fate; hold hard there—why does not somebody stop them? By Jove, I'll give them a taste of the double thong when I get up with them, even if it's the Lord Mayor of London and his brother. Look to your sister, Frank, I'll be back directly."

"Wait one minute," shouted I, but in vain; for before the words were well out of my mouth, he had driven the spurs into his eager horse, and was galloping furiously in the direction of the unhappy delinquents who had excited his indignation. My reason for asking him to wait a minute was, that just as the hounds began drawing the cover, I had made the agreeable discovery that the strap to which one of my saddle-girths was buckled had given way, and that there was nothing for it but to dismount and repair the evil; and I had scarcely concluded the best temporary arrangement I was able to effect, when Lawless started in pursuit of the cockneys. Almost at the same moment a countryman, stationed at the outside of the gorse, shouted "Tally-ho!" and the fox broke cover in gallant style, going away at a rattling pace, with four or five couple of hounds on his traces. In an instant all was confusion, cigars were thrown away, hats pressed firmly down upon the brow, and, with a rush like the outburst of some mighty torrent, the whole field to a man swept rapidly onward.

In the meanwhile Fanny's mare, which had for some minutes shown symptoms of excitement, pawing the ground with her fore-foot, pricking up her ears, and tossing her head impatiently, began, as Lawless rode off, to plunge in a manner which threatened at every moment to unseat her rider, and as several horsemen dashed by her, becoming utterly unmanageable, she set off at a wild gallop, drowning in the clatter of her hoofs Fanny's agonised cry for help. Driven nearly frantic by the [337] peril in which my sister was placed, I was even yet prevented for a minute or more from hastening to her assistance, as my own horse, frightened by the occurrences I have described, struggled so violently to follow his companions as to render it very difficult for me to hold, and quite impossible to remount, him, so that when at length I succeeded in springing on his back, the hounds were already out of sight, and Fanny and her runaway steed so far ahead of me, that it seemed inevitable some accident must occur before I could overtake them, and it was with a sinking heart that I gave my horse the rein, and dashed forward in pursuit.

The course which Lawless had taken when he started on his wildgoose chase was down a ride cut through the furze, and it was along this turfy track that Rose Alba was now hurrying in her wild career. The horse on which I was mounted was a young thorough-bred, standing nearly sixteen hands high, and I felt certain that in the pursuit in which I was engaged, the length of his stride would tell, and that eventually we must come up with the fugitives; but so fleet was the little Arab, and so light the weight she had to carry, that I was sorry to perceive I gained upon them but slowly. It was clear that I should not overtake them before they reached the outskirts of the common, and then who could say what course the mare might take—what obstacles might not be in her way!

On—on we go in our headlong course, the turf reechoing to the muffled strokes of the horses' feet, while the furze, waving in the wind, seemed to glide by us in a rapid stream. Onward—still onward; the edge of the gorse appears a dark line in the distance—it is passed; we are crossing the belt of turf that surrounds it—and now, in what direction will the mare proceed? Will she take the broad road to the left, which leads again to the open country by a gentle ascent, where she can be easily overtaken and stopped; or will she turn to the right, and follow the lane, which leads across the terrace-field to the brook, swollen by the late rains into a river? See! she slackens her pace—she wavers, she doubts—she will choose the road! No; by Heaven! she turns to the right, and dashing down the lane like a flash of lightning, is for a moment hidden from view. But the space of time, short as it was, when her speed slackened, has enabled me to gain upon her considerably; and when I again catch sight of her she is not more than fifty yards ahead. Forward! good horse—forward! Life or death hangs upon thy [338] fleetness. Vain hope! another turn brings us in sight of the brook, swollen by the breaking up of the frost into a dark, turbulent stream. Fanny perceives it too, and utters a cry of terror, which rings like a death-knell on my ear. There seems no possibility of escape for her; on the left hand an impenetrable hedge; on the right a steep bank, rising almost perpendicularly to the height of a man's head; in front the rushing water; while the mare, apparently irritated to frenzy by my pursuit, gallops wildly forward. Ha! what is that? a shout! and the figure of a man on horseback appears on the high ground to the right, between Fanny and the stream. He perceives the danger, and if he dare attempt the leap from the bank, may yet save her. Oh! that I were in his place. Hark! he shouts again to warn us of his intention, and putting spurs to his horse, faces him boldly at it. The horse perceives the danger, and will refuse the leap. No! urged by his rider, he will take it yet—now he springs—it is certain destruction. A crash! a fall! they are down! No; he has lifted his horse with the rein—they are apparently uninjured. Rose Alba, startled by the sudden apparition, slackens her pace—the stranger, taking advantage of the delay, dashes forward, seizes the rein, and succeeds in stopping her; as he does so, I approached near enough to recognise his features—

Unlooked for happiness! Fanny is saved, and Harry Oaklands is her preserver!

My first act on joining them was to spring from my horse and lift Fanny out of the saddle. "Are you really unhurt, my own darling?" exclaimed I; "can you stand without assistance?"

"Oh yes!" she replied, "it was only the fright—that dreadful river—but—" and raising her eyes timidly she advanced a step towards Oaklands.

"But you would fain thank Harry for saving you. My dear Harry," continued I, taking his hand and pressing it warmly, "if you only knew the agony of mind I have suffered on her account, you would be able to form some slight idea of the amount of gratitude I feel towards you for having rescued her. I shudder to think what might have been the end had you not so providentially interposed; but you do not listen to me—you turn as pale as ashes—are you ill?"

"It is nothing—a little faint, or so," was his reply, in a voice so weak as to be scarcely audible; and as he spoke, his head dropped heavily on his shoulder, and he would have fallen from his horse had not I caught him in my arms and supported him.

[339] Giving the horses into the custody of a farming lad (who had seen the leap, and run up, fearing some accident had occurred), I lifted Oaklands from the saddle, and laying him on the turf by the roadside, supported his head against my knee, while I endeavoured to loosen his neckcloth. Neither its removal, however, nor the unfastening his shirt-collar, appeared to revive him in the slightest degree, and being quite unaccustomed to seizures of this nature, I began to feel a good deal frightened about him. I suppose my face in some degree betrayed my thoughts, as Fanny, after glancing at me for a moment, exclaimed, wringing her hands in the excess of her grief and alarm, "Oh! he is dead—he is dead; and it is I who have killed him!" Then, flinging herself on her knees by his side, and taking his hand between both her own, she continued, "Oh, Harry, look up—speak to me—only one word;—he does not hear me—he will never speak again! Oh! he is dead!—he is dead! and it is I who have murdered him—I, who would gladly have died for him, as he has died for me." As she said this, her voice failed her, and, completely overcome by the idea that she had been the cause of Harry's death, she buried her face in her hands and wept bitterly.

At this moment it occurred to me that water might possibly revive him, and rousing Fanny from the passion of grief into which she had fallen, I made her take my place in supporting Oaklands' head, and running to the stream, which was not above fifty yards from the spot, filled my hat with water, sprinkled his face and brow with it, and had the satisfaction of seeing him gradually revive under the application.

As consciousness returned, he gazed around with a bewildered look, and passing his hand across his forehead, inquired, "What is all this? where am I? Ah! Frank, have I been ill?"

"You fainted from over-exertion, Harry," replied I, "but all will be well now."

"From over-exertion?" he repeated, slowly, as if striving to recall what had passed; "stay, yes, I remember, I took a foolish leap; why did I do it?"

"To stop Fanny's mare."

"Yes, to be sure, the water was out at the brook, and I thought the mare might attempt to cross it; but is Fanny safe? Where is she?"

"She is here," replied I, turning towards the place where she still knelt, her face hidden in her hands. "She is here to thank you for having saved her life."

[340] "Why, Fanny, was it you who were supporting my head? how very kind of you! What! crying?" he continued, gently attempting to withdraw her hands; "nay, nay, we must not have you cry."

"She was naturally a good deal frightened by the mare's running away," replied I, as Fanny still appeared too much overcome to speak for herself; "and then she was silly enough to fancy, when you fainted, that you were actually dead, I believe; but I can assure you that she is not ungrateful."

"No, indeed," murmured Fanny, in a voice scarcely audible from emotion.

"Why, it was no very great feat after all," rejoined Harry. "On such a jumper as the Cid, and coming down on soft marshy ground too, 1 would not mind the leap any day; besides, do you think I was going to remain quietly there, and see Fanny drowned before my eyes? if it had been a precipice, I would have gone over it." While he spoke, Harry had regained his feet; and, after walking up and down for a minute or so, and giving himself a shake, to see if he was all right, he declared that he felt quite strong again, and able to ride home. And so, having devised a leading-rein for Rose Alba, one end of which I kept in my own possession, we remounted our horses, and reached Heathfield without further misadventure.

CHAPTER XLIII — A CHARADE—NOT ALL ACTING

     "And then, and much it helped his chance—
     He could sing, and play first fiddle, and dance—
     Perform charades, and proverbs of France."
     —Hood.

     "I have often heard this and that and t'other pain mentioned
     as the worst that mortals can endure—such as the toothache,
     earache, headache, cramp in the calf of the leg, a boil, or
     a blister—now, I protest, though I have tried all these,
     nothing seems to me to come up to a pretty sharp fit of
     jealousy."
     —Thinks I to Myself.

LAWLESS'S penitence, when he learned the danger in which Fanny had been placed by his thoughtlessness and impetuosity, was so deep and sincere that it was impossible to be angry with him; and even Oaklands, who at first declared he considered his conduct unpardonable, was obliged to confess that, when a man had owned his fault frankly, and told you he was really sorry for it, [341] nothing remained but to forgive and forget it. And so everything fell into its old train once more, and the next few days passed smoothly and uneventfully. I had again received a note from Clara, in answer to one I had written to her. Its tenour was much the same as that of the last she had sent me. Cumberland was still absent, and Mr. Vernor so constantly occupied that she saw very little of him. She begged me not to attempt to visit her at present; a request in the advisability of which reason so fully acquiesced, that although feeling rebelled against it with the greatest obstinacy, I felt bound to yield. Harry's strength seemed now so thoroughly re-established, that Sir John, who was never so happy as when he could exercise hospitality, had invited a party of friends for the ensuing week, several of whom were to stay at the Hall for a few days; amongst others Freddy Coleman, who was to arrive beforehand, and assist in the preparations; for charades were to be enacted, and he was reported skilful in the arrangement of these saturnalia of civilised society, or, as he himself expressed it, he was "up to all the dodges connected with the minor domestic enigmatical melodrama". By Harry's recommendation I despatched a letter to Mr. Frampton, claiming his promise of visiting me at Heathfield Cottage, urging as a reason for his doing so immediately, that he would meet four of his old Helmstone acquaintance, viz., Oak-lands, Lawless, Coleman, and myself. The morning after Coleman's arrival, the whole party formed themselves into a committee of taste, to decide on the most appropriate words for the charades, select dresses, and, in short, make all necessary arrangements for realising a few of the very strong and original, but somewhat vague, ideas, which everybody appeared to have conceived on the subject.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," began Freddy, who had been unanimously elected chairman, stage-manager, and commander-in-chief of the whole affair, "in the first place, who is willing to take a part? Let all those who wish for an engagement at the Theatre Royal, Heathfield, hold up their hands."

Lawless, Coleman, and I were the first who made the required signal, and next the little white palms of Fanny and Lucy Markham (whom Mrs. Coleman had made over to my mother's custody for a few days) were added to the number.

"Harry, you'll act, will you not?" asked I.

"Not if you can contrive to do without me," was the [342] reply. "I did it once, and never was so tired in my life before. I suppose you mean to have speaking charades; and there is something in the feeling that one has so many words to recollect, which obliges one to keep the memory always on the stretch, and the attention up to concert pitch, in a way that is far too fatiguing to be agreeable."

"Well, as you please, most indolent of men; pray, make yourself quite at home, this is Liberty Hall, isn't it, Lawless?" returned Coleman, with a glance at the person named, who, seated on the table, with his legs twisted round the back of a chair, was sacrificing etiquette to comfort with the most delightful unconsciousness.

"Eh? yes to be sure, no end of liberty," rejoined Lawless; "what are you laughing at?—my legs? They are very comfortable, I can tell you, if they're not over ornamental; never mind about attitude, let us get on to business, I want to know what I'm to do?"

"The first thing is to find out a good word," returned Coleman.

"What do you say to Matchlock?" inquired I. "You might as well have Blunderbuss while you are about it," was the reply. "No, both words are dreadfully hackneyed; let us try and find out something original, if possible."

"Eh? yes, something original, by all means; what do you say to Steeplechase?" suggested Lawless.

"Original, certainly," returned Freddy; "but there might be difficulties in the way. For instance, how would you set about acting a steeple?"

"Eh? never thought of that," rejoined Lawless; "I really don't know, unless Oaklands would stand with a fool's cap on his head to look like one."

"Much obliged, Lawless; but I'd rather be excused," replied Harry, smiling. "I've got an idea!" exclaimed I. "No, you don't say so? you are joking," remarked Freddy in a tone of affected surprise. "Stay a minute," continued I, musing. "Certainly, as long as you and Sir John like to keep me," rejoined Coleman politely.

"Yes! that will do; come here, Freddy," added I, and, drawing him on one side, I communicated to him my ideas on the subject, of which, after suggesting one or two improvements on my original design, he was graciously pleased to approve. Of what this idea consisted, the reader will be apprised in due time. Suffice it at present [343] to add, that Fanny having consented to perform the part of a barmaid, and it being necessary to provide her with a lover, Lawless volunteered for the character, and supported his claim with so much perseverance, not to say obstinacy, that Coleman, albeit he considered him utterly unsuited to the part, was fain to yield to his importunity.

For the next few days Heathfield Hall presented one continual scene of bustle and confusion. Carpenters were at work converting the library into an extempore theatre. Ladies and ladies'-maids were busily occupied in manufacturing dresses. Lawless spent whole hours in pacing up and down the billiard-room, reciting his part, which had been remodelled to suit him, and the acquisition of which appeared a labour analogous to that of Sisyphus, as, by the time he reached the end of his task, he had invariably forgotten the beginning. Every one was in a state of the greatest eagerness and excitement about something—nobody exactly knew what; and the interest Ellis took in the whole affair was wonderful to behold. The unnecessary number of times people ran up- and down-stairs was inconceivable, and the pace at which they did so terrific. Sir John spent his time in walking about with a hammer and a bag of nails, one of which he was constantly driving in and clenching beyond all power of extraction, in some totally wrong place, a line of conduct which reduced the head-carpenter to the borders of insanity.

On the morning of the memorable day when the event was to come off, Mr. Frampton made his appearance in a high state of preservation, shook my mother by both hands as warmly as if he had known her from childhood, and saluted the young ladies with a hearty kiss, to their extreme astonishment, which a paroxysm of grunting (wound up by the usual soliloquy, "Just like me!") did not tend to diminish. A large party was invited in the evening to witness our performance, and, as some of the guests began to arrive soon after nine, it was considered advisable that the actors and actresses should go and dress, so that they might be in readiness to appear when called upon.

The entertainments began with certain tableaux-vivants, in which both Harry and I took a part; the former having been induced to do so by the assurance that nothing would-be expected of him but to stand still and be looked at—an occupation which even he could not consider very hard work: and exceedingly well worth looking at he appeared when the curtain drew up, and discovered him as the Leicester in Scott's novel of Kenilworth; the [344] magnificent dress setting off his noble figure to the utmost advantage; while Fanny, as Amy Robsart, looked prettier and more interesting than I had ever seen her before. Various tableaux were in turn presented, and passed off with much éclat, and then there was a pause, before the charade, the grand event of the evening, commenced. Oaklands and I, having nothing to do in it (Fanny having coaxed Mr. Frampton into undertaking a short part which I was to have performed, but which she declared was so exactly suited to him that she would never forgive him if he refused to fill it), wished the actors success, and came in front to join the spectators.

After about ten minutes of breathless expectation the curtain drew up and exhibited Scene 1st, the Bar of a Country Inn; and here I shall adopt the play-wright's fashion, and leave the characters to tell their own tale:—

Scene I.

Enter Susan Cowslip, the Barmaid (Fanny) and John Shortoats, the Ostler (Lawless).

John. Well Susan, girl, what sort of a morning hast thee had of it? how's master's gout to-day?

Susan. Very bad, John, very bad indeed; he has not got a leg to stand upon; and as to his shoe, try everything we can think of, we can't get him to put his foot in it.

[Extempore soliloquy by Lawless. Precious odd if lie doesn't, for he's not half up in his part, I know.]

John. Can't thee, really? well, if that be the case, I needn't ask how his temper is?

Susan. Bad enough, I can tell you; Missus has plenty to bear, poor thing!

John, Indeed she has, and she be too young and pretty to be used in that manner. Ah! that comes of marrying an old man for his money; she be uncommon pretty, to be sure; I only knows one prettier face in the whole village.

Susan (with an air of forced unconcern). Aye, John, and whose may that be, pray? Mary Bennett, perhaps, or Lucy Jones?

John. No, it ain't either of them.

Susan. Who is it then?

John. Well, if thee must needs know, the party's name is Susan.

Susan (still with an air of unconsciousness). Let me see, where is there a Susan? let me think a minute. Oh! [345] one of Darling the blacksmith's girls, I dare say; it's Susan Darling!

John (rubbing his nose, and looking cunning). Well, 'tis Susan, darling, certainly; yes, thee be'st about right there—Susan, darling.

Susan (pouting). So you're in love with that girl, are you, Mr. John? A foolish, flirting thing, that cares for nothing but dancing and finery; a nice wife for a poor man she'll make, indeed—charming!

John. Now, don't thee go and fluster thyself about nothing, it ain't that girl as I'm in love with; I was only a-making fun of thee.

Susan (crossly). There, I wish you wouldn't keep teasing of me so; I don't care anything about it—I dare say I've never seen her.

John. Oh! if that's all, I'll very soon show her to thee—come along. (Takes her hand, and leads her up to the looking-glass.) There's the Susan I'm in love with, and hope to marry some day. Hasn't she got a pretty face? and isn't she a darling? (Susan looks at him for a minute, and then bursts into tears; bell rings violently, and a gruff voice calls impatiently, Susan! Susan!)

Susan. Coming, sir, coming. (Wipes her eyes with her apron.)

John. Let the old curmudgeon wait! (Voice behind the scenes, John!—John Ostler, I say!) Coming, sir; yes, sir. Sir, indeed—an old brute; but now, Susan, what do'st thee say? wilt thee have me for a husband? (Takes her hand.)

(Voice. John! John! I say. Susan! where are you? And enter Mr. Frampton, dressed as the Landlord, on crutches, and with his gouty foot in a sling.)

Landlord. John! you idle, good-for-nothing vagabond, why don't you come when you're called—eh?

Susan. Oh, sir! John was just coming, sir; and so was I, sir, if you please.

Landlord. You, indeed—ugh! you're just as bad as he is, making love in corners, (aside, Wonder whether she does really,) instead of attending to the customers; nice set of servants I have, to be sure. If this is all one gets by inn-keeping, it's not worth having. I keep the inn, and I expect the inn to keep me. (Aside. Horrid old joke, what made me put that in, I wonder? just like me—umph.') There's my wife, too—pretty hostess she makes.

John. So she does, master, sure-ly.

Landlord. Hold your tongue, fool—what do you know about it? (Bell rings.) There, do you hear that? run [346] and see who that is, or I shall lose a customer by your carelessness next. Oh! the bother of servants—oh! the trouble of keeping an inn! (Hobbles out, driving Susan and John before him. Curtain falls.)

As the first scene ended the audience applauded loudly, and then began hazarding various conjectures as to the possible meaning of what they had witnessed. While the confusion of sounds was at the highest, Oaklands drew me on one side, and inquired, in an undertone, what I thought of Lawless's acting. "I was agreeably surprised," returned I, "I had no notion he would have entered into the part so thoroughly, or have acted with so much spirit."

"He did it con amore, certainly," replied Oaklands with bitterness; "I considered his manner impertinent in the highest degree, I wonder you can allow him to act with your sister; that man is in love with her—I feel sure of it—he meant every word he said. I hate this kind of thing altogether—I never approved of it; no lady should be subjected to such annoyance."

"Supposing it really were as you fancy, Harry, how do you know it would be so great an annoyance? It is just possible Fanny may like him," rejoined I.

"Oh, certainly! pray let me know when I am to congratulate you," replied Oaklands with a scornful laugh; and, turning away abruptly, he crossed the room, joined a party of young ladies, and began talking and laughing with a degree of recklessness and excitability quite unusual to him. While he was so doing, the curtain drew up, and discovered

Scene II.—Best room in the inn.

Enter Susan, showing in Hyacinth Adonis Brown (Coleman), dressed as a caricature of the fashion, with lemon-coloured kid gloves, staring-patterned trousers, sporting-coat, etc.

Susan. This is the settin'-room, if you please, sir. Hyacinth (fixing his glass in his eye, and scrutinising the apartment). This is the settin'-woom, is it? to set, to incubate as a hen—can't mean that, I imagine—provincial idiom, pwobably—aw—ya'as—I dare say I shall be able to exist in it as long as may be necessary—ar—let me have dinnaar, young woman, as soon as it can be got weady.

Susan. Yes, sir. What would you please to like, sir?

[347] Hyacinth (looking at her with his glass still in his eye). Hem! pwetty gal—ar—like, my dear, like?—(vewy pwetty gal!)

Susan. Beg pardon, sir, what did you say you would like?

Hyacinth. Chickens tender here, my dear?

Susan. Very tender, sir.

Hyacinth (approaching her). What's your name, my dear?

Susan. Susan, if you please, sir.

Hyacinth. Vewy pwetty name, indeed—(aside, Gal's worth cultivating—I'll do a little bit of fascination). Ahem! Chickens, Susan, are not the only things that can be tendar. (Advances, and attempts to take lier hand. Enter John hastily, and runs against Hyacinth, apparently by accident.)

Hyacinth (angrily). Now, fellar, where are you pushing to, eh?

John. Beg parding, sir, I was a-looking for you, sir. (Places himself between Susan and Hyacinth.)

Hyacinth. Looking for me, fellar?

John. I ha' rubbed down your horse, sir, and I was a wishin' to know when you would like him fed. (Makes signs to Susan to leave the room.)

Hyacinth. Fed?—aw!—directly to be su-ar. (To Susan, who is going out.) Ar—don't you go.

John. No, sir, I ain't a-going. When shall I water him, sir?

Hyacinth (aside, Fellar talks as if the animal were a pot of mignonette). Ar—you'll give him some wataar as soon as he's eaten his dinnaar.

John. Werry good, sir; and how about hay, sir?

Hyacinth (aside, What a bo-ar the fellar is; I wish he'd take himself off). Weally, I must leave the hay to your discwession.

John. Werry well, sir; couldn't do a better thing, sir. How about his clothing? shall I keep a cloth on him, sir? (Winks at Susan, who goes out laughing.)

Hyacinth. Yaas! You can keep a cloth on—ar—and—that will do. (Waves his hand towards the door.)

John. Do you like his feet stopped at night, sir?

Hyacinth. Ar—I leave all these points to my gwoom—ar—would you go?

John. I suppose there will be no harm in water-brushing his mane?

Hyacinth (angrily). Ar—weally I—ar—will you go?

John. Becos some folks thinks it makes the hair come off.

[348] Hyacinth (indignantly). Ar—leave the woom, fellar! John. Yes, sir; you may depend upon me takin' proper care of him, sir; and if I should think o' anything else, I'll be sure to come and ask you, sir. (Goes out grinning.)

Hyacinth. Howwid fellar—I thought I should never get wid of him—it's evident he's jealous—ar, good idea—I'll give him something to be jealous about. I'll wing the bell and finish captivating Susan. (Rings. Re-enter John.) John. Want me, sir? Here I am, sir—fed the horse, sir.

Hyacinth (waving his hand angrily towards the door). Ar—go away, fellar, and tell the young woman to answaar that bell. (John leaves the room, muttering, If I do I'm blessed. Hyacinth struts up to the glass, arranges his hair, pulls up his shirt-collar, and rings again. Re-enter Susan.) Hyacinth. Pway, Susan, are you going to be mawwied? Susan (colouring). No, sir—a—yes, sir—I can't tell, sir.

Hyacinth. No, sir—yes, sir—ar—I see how it is—the idea has occurred to you—it's that fellar John, I suppose? Susan. Yes, sir—it's John, sir, if you please. Hyacinth. Well—ar—perhaps I don't exactly please. Now, listen to me, Susan. I'm an independent gentleman, vewy wich (aside, Wish I was)—lots of servants and cawwiages, and all that sort of thing. I only want a wife, and—a-hem—captivated by your beauty, I'm wesolved to mawwy you. (Aside. That will do the business.) Susan. La! sir, you're joking.

Hyacinth. Ar—I never joke—ar—of course you consent! Susan. To marry you, sir? Hyacinth. Ar—yes—to mawwy me. Susan. What! and give up John? Hyacinth. I fear we cannot dispense with that sacwifice.

Susan. And you would have me prove false to my true love; deceive a poor lad that cares for me; wring his honest heart, and perhaps drive him to take to evil courses, for the sake of your fine carriages and servants? No, sir, if you was a duke, I would not give up John to marry you.

Hyacinth. Vewy fine, you did that little bit of constancy in vewy good style; but now, having welievedyour feelings, you may as well do a little bit of nature, and own that, womanlike, you have changed your mind.

Susan. When I do, sir, I'll be sure to let you know. [349] (Aside. A dandified fop! why, John's worth twenty such as him.) I'll send John in with your dinner, sir. [Curtsies and exit, leaving Hyacinth transfixed with astonishment.']

Scene III.—Front of inn.

Enter Susan with black ribbons in her cap. Susan. Heigho! so the gout's carried off poor old master at last. Ah! well, he was always a great plague to everybody, and it's one's duty to be resigned—he's been dead more than two months now, and it's above a month since mistress went to Broadstairs for a change, and left John and me to keep house—ah! it was very pleasant—we was so comfortable. Now, if in a year or two mistress was to sell the business, and John and me could save money enough to buy it, and was to be married, and live here; la! I should be as happy as the day's long. I've been dull enough the last week though—for last Monday—no, last Saturday—that is, the Saturday before last, John went for a holiday to see his friends in Yorkshire, and there's been nobody at home but me and the cat—I can't think what ailed him before he went away, he seemed to avoid me like; and when he bid me goodbye, he told me if I should happen to pick up a sweetheart while he was gone, he would not be jealous—what could he mean by that? I dare say he only said it to tease me. I ought to have a letter soon to say when mistress is coming back. [Enter boy with letter, which he gives to Susan, and exit.] Well, that is curious—it is from Broadstairs, I see by the post-mark. Why, bless me, it's in John's handwriting—he can't be at Broadstairs, surely—I feel all of a tremble. (Opens the letter and reads.) "My dear Seusan, Hafter i left yeu, I thort i should not ave time to go hall the way to York, so by way of a change i cum down here, where I met poor Mrs., who seemed quite in the dumps and low like, about old master being dead, which is human natur cut down like grass, Seusan, and not having a creetur to speak to, naturally took to me, which was an old tho' humbel friend, Seusan—and—do not think me guilty of hincon-stancy, which I never felt, but the long and short of it is that we was married "(the wretch!)" yesterday, and is comin' home to-morrow, where I hopes to remian very faithfully your affexionate Master and Mrs.

"John and Betsey Shortoats."

[Susan tears the letter, bursts into tears, and sinks back into a chair fainting—curtain drops.][350]

CHAPTER XLIV — CONFESSIONS

          "....And sure the match Were rich and honourable."
          —Two Gentlemen of Verona.

          "We that are true lovers run into strange capers."
          —As You Like It.

          "....That which I would discover,
          The law of friendship bids me to conceal."
          —Two Gentlemen of Verona.

          "Tarry I here, I but attend on death;
          But fly I hence, I fly away from life."

"DEAR me! what can it possibly mean? how I wish I could guess it!" said the youngest Miss Simper.

"Do you know what it is, Mr. Oaklands?" asked the second Miss Simper.

"I'm sure he does, he looks so delightfully wicked," added the eldest Miss Simper, shaking her ringlets in a fascinating manner, to evince her faith in the durability of their curl.

The eldest Miss Simper had been out four seasons, and spent the last winter at Nice, on the strength of which she talked to young men of themselves in the third person, to show her knowledge of the world, and embodied in her behaviour generally a complete system of "Matrimony-made-easy, or the whole Art of getting a good Establishment," proceeding from early lessons in converting acquaintances into flirts, up to the important final clause—how to lead young men of property to propose.

"Really," replied Oaklands, "my face must be far more expressive and less honest than I was aware of, for I can assure you they have studiously kept me in the dark as to the meaning."

"But you have made out some idea for yourself; it is impossible that it should be otherwise," observed the second Miss Simper, who had rubbed off some of her shyness upon a certain young Hebrew Professor at the last Cambridge Installation, and become rather blue from the contact.

"Have you?" said the youngest Miss Simper, who, being as nearly a fool as it is possible to allow that a pretty girl of seventeen can be, rested her pretensions upon a plaintive voice and a pensive smile, which went [351] just far enough to reveal an irreproachable set of teeth, and then faded away into an expression of gentle sorrow, the source of which, like that of the Niger, had as yet remained undiscovered.

"Oh, he has!" exclaimed the eldest Miss Simper; "that exquisitely sarcastic, yet tantalising curl of the upper-lip, tells me that it is so."

"Since you press me," replied Oaklands, "I confess, I believe I have guessed it."

"I knew it—it could not have been otherwise," exclaimed the blue belle enthusiastically.

The youngest Miss Simper spoke not, but her appealing glance, and a slight exhibition of the pearl-like teeth, seemed to hint that some mysterious increase of her secret sorrow might be expected in the event of Oaklands' refusing to communicate the results of his penetration.

"As I make it out," said Harry, "the first scene was Inn, the second Constancy, and the third Inconstancy."

"Ah! that wretch John, he was the Inconstancy," observed the eldest Miss Simper, "marrying for money!—the creature!—such baseness 1 but how delightfully that dear, clever Mr. Lawless acted; he made love with such naïve simplicity, too; he is quite irresistible."

"I shall take care to let him know your flattering opinion," returned Oaklands with a faint attempt at a smile, while the gloom on his brow grew deeper, and the Misses Simper were in their turn deserted; the eldest gaining this slight addition to her worldly knowledge, viz., that it is not always prudent to praise one friend to another, unless you happen to be a little more behind the scenes than had been the case in the present instance.

"Umph! Frank Fairlegh, where are you? come here, boy," said Mr. Frampton, seizing one of my buttons, and towing me thereby into a corner. "Pretty girl, your sister Fanny—nice girl, too—umph!"

"I am very glad she pleases you, sir," replied I; "as you become better acquainted with her, you will find that she is as good as she looks—if you like her now, you will soon grow very fond of her—everybody becomes fond of Fanny."

"Umph! I can see one who is, at all events. Pray, sir, do you mean to let your sister marry that good-natured, well-disposed, harum-scarum young fool, Lawless?"

"This is a matter I leave entirely to themselves; if [352] Lawless wishes to marry Fanny, and she likes him well enough to accept him, and his parents approve of the arrangement, I shall make no objection: it would be a very good match for her."

"Umph! yes—she would make a very nice addition to his stud," returned Mr. Frampton, in a more sarcastic tone than I had ever heard him use before. "What do you suppose are the girl's own wishes? is she willing to be Empress of the Stable?"

"Really, sir, you ask me a question which I am quite unable to answer; young, ladies are usually reserved upon such subjects, and Fanny is especially so; but from my own observations, I am inclined to think that she likes him."

"Umph! dare say she does; women are always fools in these cases—men too, for that matter—or else they would take pattern by me, and continue in a state of single blessedness," then came an aside, "Single wretchedness more likely, nobody to care about one—nothing to love—die in a ditch like a beggar's dog, without a pocket-handkerchief wetted for one—there's single blessedness for you! ride in a hearse, and have some fat fool chuckling in the sleeve of his black coat over one's hard-earned money. Nobody shall do that with mine, though; for I'll leave it all to build union work-houses and encourage the slave-trade, by way of revenging myself on society at large. Wonder why I said that, when I don't think it! just like me—umph!"

"I am not at all sure but that this may prove a mere vision of our own too lively imaginations, after all," replied I, "or that Lawless looks upon Fanny in any other light than as the sister of his old friend, and an agreeable girl to talk and laugh with; but if it should turn out otherwise, I should be sorry to think that it is a match which will not meet with your approval, sir."

"Oh! I shall approve—I always approve of everything—I dare say he'll make a capital husband—he's very kind to his dogs and horses. Umph! silly boy, silly girl—when she could easily do better, too. Umph 1 just like me, bothering myself about other people, when I might leave it alone—silly girl though, very!"

So saying, Mr. Frampton walked away, grunting like a whole drove of pigs, as was his wont when annoyed.

The next morning I was aroused from an uneasy sleep by the sun shining brightly through my shutters, and, springing out of bed, and throwing open the window, I perceived that it was one of those lovely winter days [353] which appear sent to assure us that fogs, frost, and snow will not last for ever, but that Nature has brighter things in store for us, if we will bide her time patiently. To think of lying in bed on such a morning was out of the question, so, dressing hastily, I threw on a shooting jacket, and sallied forth for a stroll. As I wandered listlessly through the park, admiring the hoar-frost which glittered like diamonds in the early sunshine, clothing the brave old limbs of the time-honoured fathers of the forest with a fabric of silver tissue, the conversation I had held with Mr. Frampton about Fanny and Lawless recurred to my mind. Strange that Harry Oaklands and Mr. Frampton—men so different, yet alike in generous feeling and honourable principle—should both evidently disapprove of such a union: was I myself, then, so blinded by ideas of the worldly advantages it held forth, that I was unable to perceive its unfitness? Would Lawless really prize her, as Tennyson has so well expressed it in his finest poem, as

     "Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse"?

and was I about to sacrifice my sister's happiness for rank and fortune, those world-idols which, stripped of the supposititious attributes bestowed upon them by the bigotry of their worshippers, appear, in their true worth-lesaness, empty breath and perishable dross? But most probably there was no cause for uneasiness; after all, I was very likely worrying myself most unnecessarily: what proof was there that Lawless really cared for Fanny? His attentions—oh! there was nothing in that—Lawless was shy and awkward in female society, and Fanny had been kind to him, and had taken the trouble to draw him out, therefore he liked her, and preferred talking and laughing with her, rather than with any other girl with whom he did not feel at his ease. However, even if there should be anything more in it, it had not gone so far but that a little judicious snubbing would easily put an end to it—I determined, therefore, to talk to my mother about it after breakfast: she had now seen enough of Lawless to form her own opinion of him; and if she agreed with Oaklands and Mr. Frampton that his was not a style of character calculated to secure Fanny's happiness, we must let her go and stay with the Colemans, or find some other means of separating them. I had just arrived at this conclusion, when, on passing round the stem of an old tree which stood in the path, I encountered [354] some person who was advancing rapidly in an opposite direction, meeting him so abruptly that we ran against each other with no small degree of violence.

"Hold hard there I you're on your wrong side, young fellow, and if you've done me the slightest damage, even scratched my varnish, I'll pull you up."

"I wish you had pulled up a little quicker yourself, Lawless," replied I, for, as the reader has doubtless discovered from the style of his address, it was none other than the subject of my late reverie with whom I had come in collision. "I don't know whether I have scratched your varnish, as you call it, but I have knocked the skin off my own knuckles against the tree in the scrimmage."

"Never mind, man," returned Lawless, "there are worse misfortunes happen at sea; a little sticking-plaster will set all to rights again. But look here, Fairlegh," he continued, taking my arm, "I'm glad I happened to meet you; I want to have five minutes' serious conversation with you."

"Won't it do after breakfast?" interposed I, for my fears construed this appeal into "confirmation strong as holy writ" of my previous suspicions, and I wished to be fortified by my mother's opinion before I in any degree committed myself. All my precautions were, however, in vain.

"Eh! I won't keep you five minutes, but you see this sort of thing will never do at any price; I'm all wrong altogether—sometimes I feel as if fire and water would not stop me, or cart-ropes hold me—then again I grow as nervous as an old cat with the palsy, and sit moping in a corner like an owl in fits. Last hunting-day I was just as if I was mad—pressed upon the pack when they were getting away—rode over two or three of the tail hounds, laid 'em sprawling on their backs, like spread eagles, till the huntsman swore at me loud enough to split a three-inch oak plank—went slap at everything that came in my way—took rails, fences, and timber, all flying, rough and smooth as nature made 'em—in short, showed the whole field the way across country at a pace which rather astonished them, I fancy;—well, at last there was a check, and before the hounds got on the scent again, something seemed to come over me, so that I could not ride a bit, and kept cranning at mole-hills and shirking gutters, till I wound up by getting a tremendous purl from checking my horse at a wretched little fence that he could have stepped over, and actually I felt so fainthearted that I gave it up as a bad job, and rode home [355] ready to eat my hat with vexation. But I know what it is, I'm in love—that confounded Charade put me up to that dodge. I fancied at first that I had got an ague, one of those off-and-on affairs that always come just when you don't want them, and was going to ask Ellis to give me a ball, but I found it out just in time, and precious glad I was too, for I never could bear taking physic since I was the height of sixpenny worth of halfpence."

"Really, Lawless, I must be getting home."

"Eh! wait a minute; you haven't an idea what a desperate state I'm in; I had a letter returned to me yesterday, with a line from the post-office clerk, saying no such person could be found, and when I came to look at the address I wasn't surprised to hear it. I had written to give some orders about a dog-cart that is building for me, and directed my letter to 'Messrs. Lovely Fanny, Coachmakers, Long Acre'. Things can't go on in this way, you know—I must do something—come to the point, eh?—What do you say?"

"Upon my word," replied I, "this is a case in which I am the last person to advise you."

"Eh I no, it is not that—I'm far beyond the reach of advice, but what I mean is, your governor being dead—don't you see—I consider you to stand in propria quae maribus, as we used to say at old Mildman's."

"In loco parentis is what you are aiming at, I imagine," returned I.

"Eh! Psha, it's all the same!" continued Lawless impatiently; "but what do you say about it? Will you give your consent, and back me up a bit in the business?—for I'm precious nervous, I can tell you."

"Am I to understand, then," said I, seeing an explanation was inevitable, "that it is my sister who has inspired you with this very alarming attachment?"

"Eh! yes, of course it is," was the reply; "haven't I been talking about her for the last ten minutes? You are growing stupid all at once; did you think it was your mother I meant?"

"Not exactly," replied I, smiling; "but have you ever considered what Lord Cashingtown would say to your marrying a poor clergyman's daughter?"

"What! my governor? oh! he'd be so delighted to get me married at any price, that he would not care who it was to, so that she was a lady. He knows how I shirk female society in general, and he is afraid I shall break my neck some of these fine days, and leave him the [356] honour of being the last Lord Cashingtown as well as the first."

"And may I ask whether you imagine your suit likely to be favourably received by the young lady herself?"

"Eh! why, you see it's not so easy to tell; I'm not used to the ways of women, exactly. Now with horses I know every action, and can guess what they'd be up to in a minute; |for instance, if they prick up their ears, one may expect a shy, when they lay them back you may look out for a bite or a kick; but, unluckily, women have not got movable ears."

"No," replied I, laughing at this singular regret; "they contrive to make their eyes answer nearly the same purpose, though. Well, Lawless, my answer is this—I cannot pretend to judge whether you and my sister are so constituted as to increase each other's happiness by becoming man and wife; that is a point I must leave to her to decide; she is no longer a child, and her destiny shall be placed in her own hands; but I think I may venture to say that if your parents are willing to receive her, and she is pleased to accept you, you need not fear any opposition on the part of my mother or myself."

"That's the time of day," exclaimed Lawless, rubbing his hands with glee, "this is something like doing business; oh! it's jolly fun to be in love, after all. Then everything depends upon Fanny now; but how am I to find out whether she will have me or not? eh? that's another sell."

"Ask her," replied I; and, turning down a different path, I left him to deliberate upon this knotty point in solitude.

As I walked towards home my meditations assumed a somewhat gloomy colouring. The matter was no longer doubtful, Lawless was Fanny's declared suitor; this, as he had himself observed, was something like doing business. Instead of planning with my mother how we could prevent the affair from going any farther, I must now inform her of his offer, and find out whether she could give me any clue as to the state of Fanny's affections. And now that Lawless's intentions were certain, and that it appeared by no means improbable he might succeed in obtaining Fanny's hand, a feeling of repugnance came over me, and I began to think Mr. Frampton was right, and that my sister was formed for better things than to be the companion for life of such a man as Lawless. From a reverie which thoughts like these had engendered, I was aroused by Harry Oaklands' favourite [357] Scotch terrier, which attracted my attention by jumping and fawning upon me, and on raising my eyes I perceived the figure of his master, leaning, with folded arms, against the trunk of an old tree. As we exchanged salutations I was struck by an unusual air of dejection both in his manner and appearance. "You are looking ill and miserable this morning, Harry; is your side painful?" inquired I anxiously.

"No," was the reply, "I believe it is doing well enough; Ellis says so;" he paused, and then resumed in a low hurried voice, "Frank, I am going abroad."

"Going abroad!" repeated I in astonishment, "where are you going to? when are you going? this is a very sudden resolution, surely."

"I know it is, but I cannot stay here," he continued; "I must get away—I am wretched, perfectly miserable."

"My dear Harry," replied I, "what is the matter? come tell me; as boys we had no concealments from each other, and this reserve which appears lately to have sprung up between us is not well: what has occurred to render you unhappy?"

A deep sigh was for some minutes his only answer; then, gazing steadily in my face, he said, "And have you really no idea?—But why should I be surprised at the blindness of others, when I myself have only become aware of the true nature of my own feelings when my peace of mind is destroyed, and all chance of happiness for me in this life has fled for ever!"

"What do you mean, my dear Harry?" replied I; "what can you refer to?"

"Have you not thought me very much altered of late?" he continued.

"Since you ask me, I have fancied that illness was beginning to sour your temper," I replied.

"Illness of mind, not body," he resumed; "for now, when life has lost all charm for me, I am regaining health and strength apace. You must have observed with what a jaundiced eye I have regarded everything that Lawless has said or done; what was the feeling, think you, which has led me to do so? Jealousy!"

"Jealousy?" exclaimed I, as for the first time the true state of the case flashed across me—"Oh! Harry, why did you not speak of this sooner?"

"Why, indeed! because in my blindness I fancied the affection I entertained for your sister was merely a brother's love, and did not know, till the chance of losing her for ever opened my eyes effectually, that she had [358] become so essential to my happiness that life without her would be a void. If you but knew the agony of mind I endured while they wore acting that hateful charade last night! I quite shudder when I think how I felt towards Lawless; I could have slain him where he stood without a shadow of compunction. No, I must leave this place without delay; I would not go through what I suffered yesterday again for anything—I could not bear it."

"Oh! if we had but known this sooner," exclaimed I, "so much might have been done—I only parted from Lawless five minutes before I met you, telling him that if Fanny approved of his suit, neither my mother nor I would offer the slightest opposition. But is it really too late to do anything? shall I speak to Fanny?"

"Not for worlds!" exclaimed Oaklands impetuously; "do not attempt to influence her in the slightest degree. If, as my fears suggest, she really love Lawless, she must never learn that my affection for her has exceeded that of a brother—never know that from henceforth her image will stand between me and happiness, and cast its shadow over the whole future of my life."

He stood for a moment, his hands pressed upon his brow as if to shut out some object too painful to behold, and then continued abruptly, "Lawless has proposed, then?"

"He has asked my consent, and his next step will of course be to do so," replied I.

"Then my fate will soon be decided," returned Oak-lands. "Now listen to me, Frank; let this matter take its course exactly as if this conversation had never passed between us. Should Fanny be doubtful, and consult you, do your duty as Lawless's friend and her brother—place the advantages and disadvantages fairly before her, and then let her decide for herself, without in the slightest degree attempting to bias her. Will you promise to do this, Frank?"

"Must it indeed be so? can nothing be done? no scheme hit upon?" returned I sorrowfully.

"Nothing of the kind must be attempted," replied Oaklands sternly; "could I obtain your sister's hand tomorrow by merely raising my finger, I would not do so while there remained a possibility of her preferring Lawless. Do you imagine that I could be content to be accepted out of compassion? No," he added, more calmly, "the die will soon be cast; till then I will remain; and if, as I fear is only too certain, Lawless's suit is favourably received, I shall leave this place instantly—put it on the score of health—make Ellis order me abroad—the German [359] baths, Madeira, Italy, I care not, all places will be alike to me then."

"And how miserable Sir John will be at this sudden determination," returned I, "and he is so happy now in seeing your health restored!"

"Ah! this world is truly termed a vale of tears," replied Harry mournfully, "and the trial hardest to bear is the sight of the unhappiness we cause those we love. Strange that my acts seem always fated to bring sorrow upon my father's grey head, when I would willingly lay down my life to shield him from suffering. But do not imagine that I will selfishly give way to grief—no; as soon as your—as soon as Lawless is married, I shall return to England and devote myself to my father; my duty to him, and your friendship, will be the only interests that bind me to life."

He paused, and then added, "Frank, you know me too well to fancy that I am exaggerating my feelings, or even deceiving myself as to the strength of them; this is no sudden passion, my love for Fanny has been the growth of years, and the gentle kindness with which she attended on me during my illness—the affectionate tact (for I believe she loves me as a brother, though I have almost doubted even that of late) with which she forestalled my every wish, proved to me how indispensable she has become to my happiness. But," he continued, seeing, I imagined, by the painful expression of my face, the effect his words were producing on me, "in my selfishness I am rendering you unhappy. We will speak no more of this matter till my fate is certain; should it be that which I expect, let us forget that this conversation ever passed; if, on the contrary, Lawless should meet with a refusal—but that is an alternative I dare not contemplate.—And now, farewell."

So saying, he wrung my hand with a pressure that vouched for his returning strength, and left me. In spite of my walk, I had not much appetite for my breakfast that morning.[360]

CHAPTER XLV — HELPING A LAME DOG OVER A STILE

     "Marry, I cannot show it in rhyme;
     I have tried.... No, I was not born under a rhyming planet;
     Nor I cannot woo in festival terms."
     —Much Ado About Nothing.

     "Now, let the verses be bad or good, it plainly amounts to a
     regular offer. I don't believe any of the lines are an inch
     too long or too short; but if they were, it would be wicked
     to alter them, for they are really genuine."
     —Thinks I to Myself.

     "We shall have a rare letter from him."
     —Twelfth Night.

IT was usually my custom of an afternoon to read law for a couple of hours, a course of training preparatory to committing myself to the tender mercies of a special pleader; and as Sir John's well-stored library afforded me every facility for so doing, that was the venue I generally selected for my interviews with Messrs. Blackstone, Coke upon Lyttelton, and other legal luminaries. Accordingly, on the day in question, after having nearly quarrelled with my mother for congratulating me warmly on the attainment of my wishes, when I mentioned to her Lawless's proposal, found fault with Fanny's Italian pronunciation so harshly as to bring tears into her eyes, and grievously offended our old female domestic by disdainfully rejecting some pet abomination upon which she had decreed that I should lunch, I sallied forth, and, not wishing to encounter any of the family, entered the hall by a side door, and reached the library unobserved. To my surprise I discovered Lawless (whom I did not recollect ever to have seen there before, he being not much given to literary pursuits) seated, pen in hand, at the table, apparently absorbed in the mysteries of composition.

"I shall not disturb you, Lawless," said I, taking down a book. "I am only going to read law for an hour or two."

"Eh! disturb me?" was the reply; "I'm uncommon glad to be disturbed, I can tell you, for hang me if I can make head or tail of it! Here have I been for the last three hours trying to write an offer to your sister, and actually have not contrived to make a fair start of it yet. I wish you would lend me a hand, there's a good fellow—I know you are up to all the right dodges—just give one a sort of notion, eh? don't you see?"

"What! write an offer to my own sister? Well, of all the quaint ideas I ever heard, that's the oddest—really you must excuse me."

[361] "Very odd, is it?" inquired Coleman, opening the door in time to overhear the last sentence. "Pray let me hear about it, then, for I like to know of odd things particularly; but, perhaps, I'm intruding?"

"Eh? no; come along here, Coleman," cried Lawless, "you are just the very boy I want—I am going to be married—that is, I want to be, don't you see, if she'll have me, but there's the rub; Frank Fairlegh is all right, and the old lady says she's agreeable, so everything depends on the young woman herself—if she will but say 'Yes,' we shall go ahead in style; but, unfortunately before she is likely to say anything one way or the other, you understand, I've got to pop the question, as they call it. Now, I've about as much notion of making an offer as a cow has of dancing a hornpipe—so I want you to help us a bit—eh?"

"Certainly," replied Freddy courteously; "I shall be only too happy, and as delays are dangerous I had perhaps better be off at once—where is the young lady?"

"Eh! hold hard there! don't go quite so fast, young man," exclaimed Lawless aghast; "if you bolt away at that pace you'll never see the end of the run; why, you don't suppose I want you to go and talk to her—pop the question viva voce, do you? You'll be advising me to be married by deputy, I suppose, next. No, no, I'm going to do the trick by letter—something like a Valentine, only rather more so, eh? but I can't exactly manage to write it properly. If it was but a warranty for a horse, now, I'd knock it off in no time, but this is a sort of thing, you see, I'm not used to; one doesn't get married as easily as one sells a horse, nor as often, eh? and it's rather a nervous piece of business—a good deal depends upon the letter."

"You've been trying your hand at it already, I see," observed Coleman, seating himself at the table; "pretty consumption of paper! I wonder what my governor would say to me if I were to set about drawing a deed in this style; why, the stationer's bill would run away with all the profits."

"Never mind the profits, you avaricious Jew," replied Lawless. "Yes, I've been trying effects, as the painters call it—putting down two or three beginnings to find out which looked the most like the time of day—you understand?"

"Two or three?" repeated Coleman, "six or seven rather, voyons. 'Mr. Lawless presents his affections to Miss Fairlegh, and requests the hon....' Not a bad [362] idea, an offer in the third person—the only case in which a third person would not be de trop in such an affair."

"Eh! yes, I did the respectful when I first started, you know, but I soon dropped that sort of thing when I got warm; you'll see, I stepped out no end afterwards."

"'Honoured Miss,'" continued Coleman, reading, "'My sentiments, that is, your perfections, your splendid action, your high breeding, and the many slap-up points that may be discerned in you by any man that has an eye for a horse...'"

"Ah! that was where I spoiled it," sighed Lawless.

"Here's a very pretty one," resumed Freddy. "'Adorable and adored Miss Fanny Fairlegh, seeing you as I do with the eyes' (Why she would not think you saw her with your nose, would she?)' of fond affection, probably would induce me to overlook any unsoundness or disposition to vice...'"

"That one did not turn out civilly, you see," said Lawless, "or else it wasn't such a bad beginning."

"Here's a better," rejoined Coleman. "'Exquisitely beautiful Fanny, fairest of that lovely sex, which to distinguish it from us rough-and-ready fox-hunters, who, when once we get our heads at any of the fences of life, go at it, never mind how stiff it may be (matrimony has always appeared to me one of the stiffest), and generally contrive to find ourselves on the other side, with our hind legs well under us;—a sex, I say, which to distinguish it from our own, is called the fair sex, a stock of which I never used to think any great things, reckoning them only fit to canter round the parks with, until I saw you brought out, when I at once perceived that your condition—that is, my feelings—were so inexpressible that...!'" "Ah!" interposed Lawless, "that's where I got bogged, sank in over the fetlocks, and had to give it up as a bad job."

"In fact your feelings became too many for you," returned Coleman; "but what have we here?—verses, by all that's glorious!"

"No, no! I'm not going to let you read them," exclaimed Lawless, attempting to wrest the paper out of his hand.

"Be quiet, Lawless," rejoined Coleman, holding him off, "sit down directly, sir, or I won't write a word for you: I must see what all your ideas are in order to get some notion of what you want to say; besides, I've no doubt they'll be very original."

          I

          "'Sweet Fanny, there are moments
          When the heart is not one's own,
          When we fain would clip its wild wing's tip,
          But we find the bird has flown.

          II

          "'Dear Fanny, there are moments
          When a loss may be a gain,
          And sorrow, joy—for the heart's a toy,
          And loving's such sweet pain.

          III

          "'Yes, Fanny, there are moments
          When a smile is worth a throne,
          When a frown can prove the flower of love,
          Must fade, and die alone.'

—"Why, you never wrote those, Lawless?"

"Didn't I?" returned Lawless, "but I know I did, though—copied them out of an old book I found up there, and wrote some more to 'em, because I thought there wasn't enough for the money, besides putting in Fanny's name instead of—what, do you think?—Phillis!—there's a name for you; the fellow must have been a fool. Why, I would not give a dog such an ill name for fear somebody should hang him; but go on."

"Ah, now we come to the original matter," returned Coleman, "and very original it seems."

          IV

          "'Dear Fanny, there are moments
          When love gets you in a fix,
          Takes the bit in his jaws, and, without any pause,
          Bolts away with you like bricks.

          V

          "'Yes, Fanny, there are moments
          When affection knows no bounds,
          When I'd rather be talking with you out a-walking,
          Than rattling after the hounds.

          VI

          "'Dear Fanny, there are moments
          When one feels that one's inspired, And... and...'

—"It does not seem to have been one of those moments with you just then," continued Freddy, "for the poem comes to an abrupt and untimely conclusion, unless three [364] blots, and something that looks like a horse's head, may be a hieroglyphic mode of recording your inspirations, which I'm not learned enough to decipher."

"Eh! no; I broke down there," replied Lawless; "the muse deserted me, and went off in a canter for—where was it those young women used to hang out?—the 'Gradus ad' place, you know?"

"The tuneful Nine, whom you barbarously designate young women," returned Coleman, "are popularly supposed to have resided on Mount Parnassus, which acclivity I have always imagined of a triangular or sugar-loaf form, with Apollo seated on the apex or extreme point, his attention divided between preserving his equilibrium and keeping up his playing, which latter necessity he provided for by executing difficult passages on a golden (or, more probably, silver-gilt) lyre."

"Eh! nonsense," rejoined Lawless; "now, do be serious for five minutes, and go ahead with this letter, there's a good fellow; for, 'pon my word, I'm in a wretched state of mind—I am indeed. It's a fact, I'm nearly half a stone lighter than I was when I came here; I know I am, for there was an old fellow weighing a defunct pig down at the farm yesterday, and I made him let me get into the scales when he took piggy out. I tell you what, if I'm not married soon I shall make a job for the sexton; such incessant wear and tear of the sensibilities is enough to kill a prize-fighter in full-training, let alone a man that has been leading such a molly-coddle life as I have of late, lounging about drawing-rooms like a lapdog."

"Well, then, let us begin at once," said Freddy, seizing a pen; "now, what am I to say?"

"Eh! why, you don't expect me to know, do you?" exclaimed Lawless aghast; "I might just as well write it myself as have to tell you; no, no, you must help me, or else I'd better give the whole thing up at once."

"I'll help you, man, never fear," rejoined Freddy, "but you must give me something to work upon; why, it's all plain sailing enough; begin by describing your feelings."

"Feelings, eh?" said Lawless, rubbing his ear violently, as if to arouse his dormant faculties, "that's easier said than done. Well, here goes for a start: 'My dear Miss Fairlegh'".

"'My dear Miss Fairlegh,'" repeated Coleman, writing rapidly, "yes."

"Have you written that?" continued Lawless; "ar—let me think—'I have felt for some time past very [365] peculiar sensations, and have become, in many respects, quite an altered man'." "'Altered man,'" murmured Freddy, still writing. "'I have given up hunting,'" resumed Lawless, "'which no longer possesses any interest in my eyes, though I think you'd have said, if you had been with us the last time we were out, that you never saw a prettier run in your life; the meet was at Chorley Bottom, and we got away in less than ten minutes after the hounds had been in cover, with as plucky a fox as ever puzzled a pack—'"

"Hold hard there!" interrupted Coleman, "I can't put all that in; nobody ever wrote an account of a fox-hunt in a love-letter—no, 'You've given up hunting, which no longer possesses any interest in your eyes'; now go on."

"My eyes," repeated Lawless reflectively; "yes: 'I am become indifferent to everything; I take no pleasure in the new dog-cart, King in Long Acre is building for me, with cane sides, the wheels larger, and the seat, if possible, still higher than the last, and which, if I am not very much out in my reckoning, will follow so light—'"

"I can't write all that trash about a dog-cart," interrupted Freddy crossly; "that's worse than the fox-hunting; stick to your feelings, man, can't you?"

"Ah! you little know the effect such feelings produce," sighed Lawless.

"That's the style," resumed Coleman with delight; "that will come in beautifully—'such feelings produce'; now, go on."

"'At night my slumbers are rendered distracting by visions of you—as—as——'"

"'The bride of another,'" suggested Coleman.

"Exactly," resumed Lawless; "or, 'sleep refusing to visit my——'"

"'Aching eye-balls,'" put in Freddy. "'I lie tossing restlessly from side to side, as if bitten by——'"

"'The gnawing tooth of Remorse;' that will do famously," added his scribe; "now tell her that she is the cause of it."

"'All these unpleasantnesses are owing to you,'" began Lawless.

"Oh! that won't do," said Coleman; "no—'These tender griefs' (that's the term, I think) 'are some of the effects, goods and chattels'—psha! I was thinking of drawing a will—'the effects produced upon me by——'"

[366] "'The wonderful way in which you stuck to your saddle when the mare bolted with you,'" rejoined Lawless enthusiastically; "what, won't that do either?"

"No, be quiet, I've got it all beautifully now, if you don't interrupt me: 'Your many perfections of mind and person—perfections which have led me to centre my ideas of happiness solely in the fond hope of one day calling you my own'."

"That's very pretty indeed," said Lawless; "go on."

"'Should I be fortunate enough,'" continued Coleman '"to succeed in winning your affection, it will be the study of my future life to prevent your every wish—'"

"Eh! what do you mean? not let her have her own way? Oh! that will never pay; why, the little I know of women, I'm sure that, if you want to come over them, you must flatter 'em up with the idea that you mean to give 'em their heads on all occasions—let 'em do just what they like. Tell a woman she should not go up the chimney, it's my belief you'd see her nose peep out of the top before ten minutes were over. Oh! that'll never do!"

"Nonsense," interrupted Freddy; "'prevent' means to forestall in that sense; however, I'll put it 'forestall,' if you like it better."

"I think it will be safest," replied Lawless, shaking his head solemnly.

"'In everything your will shall be law,'" continued Coleman, writing.

"Oh! I say, that's coming it rather strong, though," interposed Lawless, "query about that?"

"All right," rejoined Coleman, "it's always customary to say so in these cases, but it means nothing; as to the real question of mastery, that is a matter to be decided post-nuptially; you'll be enlightened on the subject before long in a series of midnight discourses, commonly known under the title of curtain-lectures."

"Pleasant, eh?" returned Lawless; "well, I bet two to one on the grey mare, for I never could stand being preached to, and shall consent to anything for the sake of a quiet life—so move on."

"'If this offer of my heart and hand should be favourably received by the loveliest of her sex,'" continued Coleman, "'a line, a word, a smile, a——'"

"'Wink,'" suggested Lawless.

"'Will be sufficient to acquaint me with my happiness.'"

"Tell-her to look sharp about sending an answer," exclaimed Lawless; "if she keeps me waiting long after [367] that letter's sent, I shall go off pop, like a bottle of ginger-beer; I know I shall—string won't hold me, or wire either."

"'When once this letter is despatched, I shall enjoy no respite from the tortures of suspense till the answer arrives, which shall exalt to the highest pinnacle of happiness, or plunge into the lowest abysses of despair, one who lives but in the sunshine of your smile, and who now, with the liveliest affection, tempered by the most profound respect, ventures to sign himself, Your devotedly attached—'"

"'And love-lorn,'" interposed Lawless in a sharp, quick tone.

"Love-lorn!" repeated Coleman, looking up with an air of surprise; "sentimental and ridiculous in the extreme! I shall not write any such thing."

"I believe, Mr. Coleman, that letter is intended to express my feelings, and not yours?" questioned Lawless in a tone of stern investigation.

"Yes, of course it is," began Coleman.

"Then write as I desire, sir," continued Lawless authoritatively; "I ought to know my own feelings best, I imagine; I feel love-lorn, and 'love-lorn' it shall be."

"Oh! certainly," replied Coleman, slightly offended, "anything you please, 'Your devotedly attached and lovelorn admirer'; here, sign it yourself, 'George Lawless'."

"Bravo!" said Lawless, relapsing into his accustomed good humour the moment the knotty point of the insertion of "love-lorn" had been carried; "if that isn't first-rate, I'm a Dutchman; why, Freddy, boy, where did you learn it? how does it all come into your head?"

"Native talent," replied Coleman, "combined with a strong and lively appreciation of the sublime and beautiful, chiefly derived from my maternal grandmother, whose name was Burke."

"That wasn't the Burke who wrote a book about it, was it?" asked Lawless.

"Ah! no, not exactly," replied Coleman; "she would have been, I believe, had she been a man."

"Very likely," returned Lawless, whose attention was absorbed in folding, sealing and directing the important letter, "Miss Fairlegh". "Now, if she does but regard my suit favourably."

"You'll be suited with a wife," punned Coleman.

"But suppose she should say 'No,'" continued Lawless, musing.

"Why, then, you'll be non-suited, that's all," returned the incorrigible Freddy; and making a face at me, which (as I was to all appearance immersed fathoms deep in [368] Blackstone) he thought I should not observe, he sauntered out of the room, humming the following scrap of some elegant ditty, with which he had become acquainted:—

          "'If ever I marry a wife,
          I'll marry a publican's daughter,
          I 'll sit all day long in the bar,
          And drink nothing but brandy-and-water'".

Lawless having completed his arrangements to his satisfaction, hastened to follow Coleman's example, nodding to me as he left the room, and adding, "Good-bye, Fairlegh; read away, old boy, and when I see you again, I hope I shall have some good news for you".

Good news for me! The news that my sister would be pledged to spend her life as the companion, or, more properly speaking, the plaything, of a man who had so little delicacy of mind, so little self-respect, as to have allowed his feelings (for that he was attached to Fanny, as far as he was capable of forming a real attachment, I could not for a moment doubt) to be laid bare to form a subject for Freddy Coleman to sharpen his wit upon; and to reflect that I had in any way assisted in bringing this result about, had thrown thorn constantly together—oh! as I thought upon it, the inconceivable folly of which I had been guilty nearly maddened me. Somehow, I had never until this moment actually realised the idea of my sister's marrying him; even that night, when I had spoken to my mother on the subject, my motive had been more to prevent her from lecturing and worrying Fanny than anything else. But the real cause of my indifference was, that during the whole progress of the affair my thoughts and feelings had been so completely engrossed by, and centred in, my own position in regard to Clara Saville, that although present in body, my mind was in great measure absent. I had never given my attention to it; but had gone on in a dreamy kind of way, letting affairs take their own course, and saying and doing whatever appeared most consonant to the wishes of other people at the moment, until the discovery of Oaklands' unhappy attachment had fully aroused me, when, as it appeared, too late to remedy the misery which my carelessness and inattention had in a great measure contributed to bring about.

The only hope which now remained (and when I remembered the evident pleasure she took in his society, it appeared a very forlorn one) was that Fanny might, of her own accord, refuse Lawless. [369] By this time the precious document produced by the joint exertions of Lawless and Coleman must have reached its destination; and it was with an anxiety little inferior to that of the principals themselves that I looked forward to the result, and awaited with impatience the verdict which was to decide whether joy should brighten, or sorrow shade, the future years of Harry Oaklands.

CHAPTER XLVI — TEARS AND SMILES

         "Our doubts are traitors;
         And make us lose the good we oft might win,
         By fearing to attempt."
         —Measure for Measure.

         "'Well, every one can master grief but he that has it.'
         'Yet say I he's in love.'
         'The greatest note of it is his melancholy.'
         'Nay, but I know who loves him.'"
         —Much Ado About Nothing.

         "Joy, gentle friends! joy, and fresh days of love,
         Accompany your hearts."
         —Midsummer Night's Dream.

READING law did not get on very well that day. De Lolme on the Constitution might have been a medical treatise, for aught I knew to the contrary; Blackstone a work on geology. After a prolonged struggle to compel my attention, from which I did not desist until I became suddenly aware that, for the last half-hour, I had been holding one of the above-named ornaments to the profession the wrong way upwards, I relinquished the matter as hopeless, and, pulling my hat over my brows, sallied forth, and turned my moody steps in the direction of the cottage. Feeling unwilling in my then humour to encounter any of its inmates, I walked round to the back of the house, and throwing open the window of a small room, which was dignified by the name of the study, and dedicated to my sole use and behoof, I leaped in, and closing the sash, flung myself into an easy-chair, where, again involuntarily resuming the same train of thought, I gave myself up a prey to unavailing regrets. On my way I had encountered Freddy Coleman going to shoot wild-fowl, and he had accosted me with the following agreeable remark: "Why, Frank, old boy, you look as black as a crow at a funeral; I can't think what ails you all to-day. I met Harry Oaklands just now, seeming as much down [370] in the mouth as if the bank had failed; so I told him your sister was going to marry Lawless, just to cheer him up a bit, and show him the world was all alive and merry, when off he marched without saying a word, looking more grumpy than ever."

"Why did you tell him what was not true?" was my reply.

"Oh! for fun; besides, you know, it may be true, for anything we can tell," was the unsatisfactory rejoinder.

In order the better to enable the reader to understand what is to follow, I must make him acquainted with the exact locale of the den or study to which I have just introduced him. Let him imagine, then, a small but very pretty little drawing-room, opening into a conservatory of such minute dimensions, that it was, in point of fact, little more than a closet with glazed sides and a skylight; this, again, opened into the study, from which it was divided by a green baize curtain; consequently, it was very possible for any one to overhear in one room all that passed in the other, or even to hold a conversation with a person in the opposite apartment. Seeing, however, was out of the question, as the end of a high stand of flowers intervened—purposely so placed, to enable me to lie perdu in the event of any visitors calling to whom I might be unwilling to reveal myself. On the present occasion, the possibility of any one in the drawing-room seeing me was wholly precluded, by reason of the curtain already mentioned being partially drawn.

I had not remained long in thought when my reverie was disturbed by some one entering the outer room and closing the door. The peculiar rustle of a lady's dress informed me that the intruder was of the gentler sex; and the sound of the footstep, so light as to be scarcely audible, could proceed from no other inmate of the cottage but Fanny.

Even with the best intentions, one always feels a degree of shame in playing the eaves-dropper; a natural sense of honour seems to forbid us, unnoticed ourselves, to remark the actions of others; yet so anxious was I, if possible, to gain some clue to the state of my sister's affections, that I could not resist the temptation of slightly changing my position, so that, concealed by a fold of the curtain, and peeping between two of the tallest camellias, I could command a view of the drawing-room. My ears had not deceived me; on the sofa, up to which she had drawn a small writing-table, was seated Fanny; her elbow was supported by the table before her, and her head rested [371] on one of her little white hands, which was hidden amid the luxuriant tresses of her sunny hair. Her countenance, which was paler than usual, bore traces of tears. After remaining in this attitude for a few moments, motionless as a statue, she raised her head, and throwing back her curls from her face, opened the writing-case and wrote a hurried note; but her powers of composition appearing to fail her before she reached the conclusion, she paused, and, with a deep sigh, drew from a fold in her dress a letter, which I instantly recognised as the remarkable document produced by the joint talents of Lawless and Coleman. As she perused this original manuscript, a smile, called forth by the singular nature of its contents, played for an instant over her expressive features, but was instantly succeeded by an expression of annoyance and regret.

At this moment a man's footstep sounded in the passage, and Fanny had scarcely time to conceal her letter ere the door was thrown open, and Harry Oaklands entered.

The change of light was so great on first coming into the room out of the open air, that, not until the servant had withdrawn, after saying, "You will find Mr. Fairlegh in the study, sir," was Harry able to perceive that, excepting himself, Fanny was the sole occupant of the apartment.

"I hope I am not disturbing you," he began, after an awkward pause, during which his cheek had flushed, and then again grown pale as marble. "The servant told me I should find Frank here alone, and that you and Mrs. Fairlegh were out walking."

"Mamma is gone to see the poor boy who broke his leg the other day; but I had a little headache, and she would not let me go with her." "And Frank?"

"Frank went out soon after breakfast, and has not yet returned; I think he said he was going to the Hall—he wanted to find some book in the library, I fancy—I wonder you did not meet him."

"I have not been at home since the morning; my father carried me off to look at a farm he thinks of purchasing; but, as Frank is out, I will not interrupt you longer; I dare say I shall meet him in my way back. Good—good-morning!"

So saying, he took up his hat, and turned abruptly to leave the room. Apparently, however, ere he reached the door, some thought came across him which induced him to relinquish this design, for he stood irresolutely for a [372] moment, with the handle in his hand, and then returned, saying in a low voice, "No, I cannot do it!—Fanny," he continued, speaking rapidly, as if mistrusting his self-control, "I am going abroad to-morrow; we may not meet again for years, perhaps (for life and death are strangely intermingled) we may meet in this world no more. Since you were a child we have lived together like brother and sister and I cannot leave you without saying good-bye—without expressing a fervent wish that in the lot you have chosen for yourself you may meet with all the happiness you anticipate, and which you so well deserve."

"Going abroad?" repeated Fanny mechanically, as if stunned by this unexpected intelligence.

"Yes; I start for the Continent early to-morrow morning: you know I am always alarmingly hasty in my movements," he added, with a faint attempt at a smile.

"It must be on account of your health," exclaimed Fanny quickly. "Ah!" she continued, with a start, as a new and painful idea occurred to her, "the fearful leap you took to save me—the exertion was too much for you; I knew—I felt at the time it would be so; better, far better, had I perished in that dark river, than that you should have endangered your valuable life."

"Indeed, it is not so, Fanny," replied Oaklands kindly, and, taking her hand, he led her to the sofa, for she trembled so violently it was evident she could scarcely stand; "I am regaining strength daily, and Ellis will tell you that complete change of scene and air is the best thing for me."

"Is that really all?" inquired Fanny; "but why then go so suddenly? Think of your father; surely it will be a great shock to Sir John."

"I cannot stay here," replied Harry impetuously, "it would madden me." The look of surprise and alarm with which Fanny regarded him led him to perceive the error he had committed, and, fearful of betraying himself, he added quickly, "You must make allowance for the morbid fancies of an invalid, proverbially the most capricious of all mortals. Six weeks ago I was in quite as great a hurry to reach this place as I now am to get away from it—"

He paused, sighed deeply, and then, with a degree of self-control for which I had scarcely given him credit, added, in a cheerful tone, "But I will not thrust my gloomy imaginings upon you; nothing dark or disagreeable should be permitted to cloud the fair prospect which to-day has opened before you. You must allow me," he [373] continued, in a calm voice, though the effort it cost him to preserve composure must have been extreme—"you must allow me the privilege of an old friend, and let me be the first to tell you how sincerely I hope that the rank and station which will one day be yours—rank which you are so well fitted to adorn—may bring you all the happiness you imagine."

"Happiness, rank and station! May I ask to what you refer, Mr. Oaklands?" replied Fanny, colouring crimson. "I may have been premature in my congratulations," replied he; "I would not distress or annoy you for the world; but under the circumstances—this being probably the only opportunity I may have of expressing the deep interest I must always feel in everything that relates to your happiness—I may surely be excused; I felt I could not leave you without telling you this."

"You are labouring under some extraordinary delusion, Mr. Oaklands," rejoined Fanny, turning away her face, and speaking very quickly; "pray let this subject be dropped."

"You trifle with me," replied Oaklands sternly, his self-control rapidly deserting him, "and you know not the depth of the feelings you are sporting with. Is it a delusion to believe that you are the affianced bride of George Lawless?"

As he spoke, Fanny turned her soft blue eyes upon him with an expression which must have pierced him to the very soul—it was not an expression of anger—it was not exactly one of sorrow; but it was a look in which wounded pride at his having for a moment believed such a thing possible, was blended with tender reproach for thus misunderstanding her. The former feeling, however, was alone distinguishable, as, drawing herself up with an air of quiet dignity, which gave a character of severity to her pretty little features of which I could scarcely have believed them capable, she replied, "Since Mr. Lawless has not had sufficient delicacy to preserve his own secret, it is useless for me to attempt to do so; therefore, as you are aware that he has done me the honour of offering me his hand, in justice to myself I now inform you that it is an honour which I have declined, and, with it, all chance of attaining that 'rank and station' on which you imagined I had placed my hopes of happiness. You will, perhaps, excuse me," she added, rising to leave the room; "these events have annoyed and agitated me much."

"Stay!" exclaimed Oaklands, springing up impetuously, "Fanny, for Heaven's sake, wait one moment! Am I [374] dreaming? or did I hear you say that you had refused Lawless?"

"I have already told you that it is so," she replied: "pray let me pass; you are presuming on your privileges as an old friend."

"Bear with me for one moment," pleaded Oaklands, in a voice scarcely audible from emotion. "You have not refused him out of any mistaken notions of generosity arising from difference of station? In a word—for I must speak plainly, though at the risk of distressing you—do you love him?"

"Really—" began Fanny, again attempting to quit the room, and turning first red, then pale, as Oaklands still held his position between her and the door.

"Oh! pardon me," he continued in the same broken voice, "deem me presuming—mad—what you will; but as you hope for happiness here or hereafter, answer me this one question—Do you love him?"

"No, I do not," replied Fanny, completely subdued by the violence of his emotion.

"Thank God!" murmured Oaklands, and sinking into a chair, the strong man, overcome by this sudden revulsion of feeling, buried his face in his hands and wept like a child. There is no sight so affecting as that of manhood's tears. It seems natural for a woman's feelings to find vent in weeping; and though all our sympathies are enlisted in her behalf, we deem it an April shower, which we hope to see ere long give place to the sunshine of a smile; but tears are foreign to the sterner nature of man, and any emotion powerful enough to call them forth indicates a depth and intensity of feeling which, like the sirocco of the desert, carries all before it in its resistless fury. Fanny must have been more than woman if she could have remained an unmoved spectator of Harry Oaklands' agitation.

Apparently relinquishing her intention of quitting the room, she stood with her hands clasped, regarding him with a look of mixed interest and alarm; but as his broad chest rose and fell, convulsed by the sobs he in vain endeavoured to repress, she drew nearer to him, exclaiming:—

"Mr. Oaklands, are you ill? Shall I ring for a glass of water?" Then, finding he was unable to answer her, completely overcome, she continued, "Oh! what is all this? what have I said? what have I done? Harry, speak to me; tell me, are you angry with me?" and laying her hand gently on his shoulder, she gazed up in his face with a look of the most piteous entreaty.

[375] Her light touch seemed to recall him to himself, and uncovering his face, he made a strong effort to regain composure, which, after a moment or two, appeared attended with success; and taking her hand between his own, he said, with a faint smile:—

"I have frightened you—have I not? The last time I shed tears was at my mother's funeral, and I had never thought to weep again; but what pain of body and anguish of mind were powerless to accomplish, joy has effected in an instant. This must all seem very strange to you, dear Fanny; even I myself am surprised at the depth and vehemence of my own feelings; but if you knew the agony of mind I have undergone since the night of that hateful charade—Fanny, did it never occur to you that I loved you with a love different to that of a brother?"

As she made no reply, merely turning away her head, while a blush, faint as the earliest glance of young-eyed Morning, mantled on her cheek, he continued, "Yes, Fanny, I have known and loved you from childhood, and your affection has become, unconsciously as it were, one of the strongest ties that render life dear to me; still I frankly confess, that till the idea of your loving another occurred to me, I was blind to the nature of my own affection. To be with you, to see and talk to you daily, to cultivate your talents, to lead you to admire the beauties that 1 admire, to take interest in the pursuits which interested me, was happiness enough—I wished for nothing more. Then came that business of the duel, and the affectionate kindness with which you forestalled my every wish; the delicate tenderness and ready tact which enabled you to be more than a daughter—a guardian angel—to my father, in the days of his heavy sorrow—sorrow which my ungoverned passions had brought upon his grey head—all these things endeared you to me still more. Next followed a period of estrangement and separation, during which, as I now see, an undefined craving for your society preyed upon my spirits, and, as I verily believe, retarded my recovery. Hence, the moment I felt the slightest symptoms of returning health, my determination to revisit Heathfield. When we again met, I fancied you were ill and out of spirits."

"It was no fancy," murmured Fanny in a low voice, as though thinking aloud.

"Indeed!" questioned Harry; "and will you not tell me the cause?"

"Presently; I did not mean to speak—to interrupt you."

[376] "My sole wish and occupation," he continued, "was to endeavour to interest and amuse you, and to restore your cheerfulness, which I believed the anxiety and fatigue occasioned by my illness to have banished; and I nattered myself I was in some degree succeeding, when Lawless's arrival and his openly professed admiration of you seemed to change the whole current of my thoughts—nay, my very nature itself. I became sullen and morose; and the feeling of dislike with which I beheld Lawless's attentions to you gradually strengthened to a deep and settled hatred; it was only by exercising the most unceasing watchfulness and self-control that I refrained from quarrelling with him; but so engrossed was I by the painful interest I felt in all that was passing around me, that I never gave myself time to analyse my feelings; and it was not until the night of the charade that I became fully aware of their true character; it was not till then I learned that happiness could not exist for me unless you shared it. Conceive my wretchedness when, at the very moment in which this conviction first dawned upon me, I saw from Lawless's manner that in his attentions to you he was evidently in earnest, and that, as far as I could judge, you were disposed to receive those attentions favourably. My mind was instantly made up; I only waited till events should prove whether my suspicions were correct, and in case of their turning out so, feeling utterly unfit to endure the sight of Lawless's happiness, determined immediately to start for the Continent. Prank, who taxing me with my wretched looks, elicited from me an avowal of the truth, told me Lawless was about to make you an offer; Coleman (probably in jest, but it chimed in too well with my own fears for me to dream of doubting him) that it had been accepted. The rest you know. And now, Fanny," he continued, his voice again trembling from the excess of his anxiety, "if you feel that you can never bring yourself to look upon me in any other light than as a brother, I will adhere to my determination of leaving England, and trust to time to reconcile me to my fate; but if, by waiting months, nay years, I may hope one day to call you my own, gladly will I do so—gladly will I submit to any conditions you may impose. My happiness is in your hands. Tell me, dear Fanny, must I go abroad to-morrow?"

And what do you suppose she told him, reader? That he must go? Miss Martineau would have highly approved of her doing so; so would the late Poor-law Commissioners, and so would many a modern Draco, who, with [377] the life-blood that should have gone to warm his own stony heart, scribbles a code to crush the kindly affections and genial home-sympathies of his fellow-men. But Fanny was no female philosopher; she was only a pure, true-hearted, trustful, loving woman; and so she gave him to understand that he need not set out on his travels, thereby losing a fine opportunity of "regenerating society," and vindicating the dignity of her sex. And this was not all she told him either; for, having by his generous frankness won her confidence, he succeeded in gaining from her the secret of her heart—a secret which, an hour before, she would have braved death in its most horrible form rather than reveal. And then her happy lover learned how her affection for him, springing up in the pleasant days of childhood, had grown with her growth, and strengthened with her strength; until it became a deep and all-absorbing passion—the great reality of her spirit-life; for love such as hers, outstripping the bounds of time, links itself even with our hopes beyond the grave;—how, when he lay stretched upon the bed of suffering, oscillating between life and death, the bitter anguish that the thought of separation occasioned her, enlightened her as to the true nature of her feelings; how, as his recovery progressed, to watch over him, and minister to his comfort, was happiness beyond expression to her;—how, when he left the cottage, everything seemed changed and dark, and a gulf appeared to have interposed between them, which she deemed impassable;—how, in the struggle to conceal, and, if possible, conquer her attachment, she studiously avoided all intercourse with him, and how the struggle ended in the loss of health and spirits;—how, during his absence, she felt it a duty still to bear up against these feelings of despair, and to endure her sad lot with patient resignation, and succeeded in some degree, till his return once again rendered all her efforts fruitless;—and how she then avoided him more studiously than before, although she saw, and sorrowed over the evident pain her altered manner caused him;—how, always fearing lest he should question her as to her changed behaviour, and by word or sign she should betray the deep interest she felt in him, she had gladly availed herself of Lawless's attentions as a means of avoiding Harry's kind attempts to amuse and occupy her—attempts which, at the very moment she was wounding him by rejecting them, only rendered him yet dearer to her;—and how she had gone on, thinking only of Harry and herself, until Lawless's offer had brought her unhappiness to a climax, by adding self-reproach to [378] her other sources of unhappiness. All this, and much more, did she relate; for if her coral lips did not frame every syllable, her tell-tale blushes filled up the gaps most eloquently.

And Harry Oaklands?—Well, he did nothing desperate; but after his first transports had subsided into a more deep and tranquil joy, he sat, with her little white hand clasped in his own, and looked into her loving eyes, and for one bright half-hour two of the wanderers in this vale of tears were perfectly and entirely happy.

CHAPTER XLVII — A CURE FOR THE HEARTACHE

     "One woman's fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am
     well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces
     be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich
     she shall be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous,
     or I'll never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look on her;
     mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of
     good discourse, and an excellent musician."
     —Much Ado About Nothing.

"YES! they were very happy, Fanny and Oaklands, as they revelled in the bright certainty of their mutual love, and entranced by the absorbing contemplation of their new-found happiness, forgot in the sunshine of each other's presence the flight of moments, whilst I, involuntarily contrasting the fair prospect that lay open before them with the dark cloudland of my own gloomy fortunes, had soon traversed in thought the distance to Barstone Priory, and become immersed in fruitless speculations as to what might eventually be the result of Mr. Vernor's sordid and cruel policy. It was now longer than usual since I had heard from Clara; suspense and impatience were rapidly increasing into the most painful anxiety, and I had all but determined, if the next day's post brought no relief, to disobey her injunctions to the contrary, and once again make an attempt to see her. Oh! it is hard to be banished from the presence of those we love—with an ear attuned to the gentle music of some well-remembered voice, to be forced to listen to the cold, unmeaning commonplaces of society—with the heart and mind engrossed by, and centred on, one dear object, to live in a strange, unreal fellowship with those around us, talking, moving, and acting mechanically—feeling, as it [379] were, but the outward form and shadow of one's self, living two distinct and separate existences, present, indeed, in body, but in the only true vitality—the life of the spirit—utterly and completely absent. From reflections such as these, I was aroused by observing the deepening shades of evening, which were fast merging into night; and collecting my ideas, I remembered that there were many things which must be said and done in consequence of the unexpected turn events had taken. No human being is so completely isolated that his actions do not in some degree affect others, and in the present instance this was peculiarly the case. Sir John and my mother must be let into the secret, and poor Lawless must learn the unsuccessful termination of his suit. But now, for the first time, the somewhat equivocal situation in which chance had placed me presented itself to my mind, and I felt a degree of embarrassment, almost amounting to shame, at having to make my appearance, and confess that I had been lying perdu during the whole of the preceding scene. Accident, however, stood my friend.

"I wonder where Frank is all this time!" exclaimed Harry, in reply to a remark of Fanny's referring to the lateness of the hour: "I want to see him, and tell him of my happiness; I made him almost as miserable as myself this morning; he must be at the Hall, I suppose, but I'm sure your servant told me he was at home."

"She only spoke the truth if she did," said I, entering the drawing-room as coolly as if nothing unusual had occurred.

Fanny started up with a slight shriek, and then, glancing at me with a countenance in which smiles and tears were strangely commingled, ran out of the room to hide her confusion, while Harry Oaklands—well, I hardly know what Harry did, but I have some vague idea that he hugged me, for I recollect feeling a degree of oppression on my breath, and an unpleasant sensation in my arms, for the next five minutes.

"So you have heard it all, you villain—have you?" he exclaimed, as soon as his first transports had a little subsided. "O Frank! my dear old fellow, I am so happy! But what a blind idiot I have been!"

"All's well that ends well," replied I, shaking him warmly by the hand; "they say lookers-on see most of the game, but in this case I was as blind as you were; it never for a moment occurred to me that Fanny cared for you otherwise than as a sister. Indeed, I have [380] sometimes been annoyed that she did not, as I considered, properly appreciate you; but I understand it all now, and am only too glad that her pale looks and low spirits can be so satisfactorily accounted for."

"Frank," observed Oaklands gravely, "there is only one thing which casts the slightest shade over my happiness; how are we to break this to Lawless? I can afford to pity him now, poor fellow I I know by my own feelings the pang that hearing of a rival's success will cost him."

"I don't think his feelings are quite as deep and intense as yours, Harry," replied I, smiling involuntarily at my reminiscences of the morning; "but I am afraid he will be terribly cut up about it; he was most unfortunately sanguine: I suppose I had better break it to him."

"Yes, and as soon as possible too," said Oaklands, "for I'm sure my manner will betray my happiness. I am the worst hand in the world at dissimulation. Walk back with me and tell him, and then stay and dine with us."

"Agreed," replied I; "only let me say half a dozen words to my mother; "and, rushing upstairs, I dashed into her room, told her the whole matter on the spot, incoherently, and without the slightest preparation, whereby I set her crying violently, to make up for which I kissed her abruptly (getting very wet in so doing), pulled down the bell-rope in obedience to the dictates of a sudden inspiration that she would be the better for a maid-servant, and left her in one of the most fearful states of confusion on record, flurried into a condition of nerves which set camphor-julep completely at defiance, and rendered trust in sal-volatile a very high act of faith indeed.

While Oaklands and I were walking up to the Hall, we overtook Coleman returning from shooting wild-fowl. As we came up with him, Oaklands seized him by the shoulder, exclaiming:—

"Well, Freddy, what sport, eh?"

"My dear Oaklands," returned he gravely, removing Harry's hand as he spoke, "that is a very bad habit of yours, and one which I advise you to get rid of as soon as possible; nobody who had ever endured one of your friendly gripes could say with truth that you hadn't a vice about you."

"For which vile pun it would serve you right to repeat the dose," replied Oaklands, "only that I am not in a vindictive mood at present."

"Then you must have passed the afternoon in some [381] very mollifying atmosphere," returned Freddy, "for when I met you three hours ago, you seemed as if you could have cut anybody's throat with the greatest satisfaction."

The conscious half-cough, half-laugh, with which Oaklands acknowledged this sally, attracted Coleman's attention, and mimicking the sound, he continued, "A—ha—hem! and what may that mean? I say, there's some mystery going on here from which I'm excluded—that's not fair, though, you know. Come, be a little more transparent; give me a peep into the hidden recesses of your magnanimous mind; unclasp the richly bound volume of your secret soul; elevate me to the altitude of the Indian herb, or, in plain slang—Young England's chosen dialect—make me 'up to snuff'."

"May I enlighten him?" asked I.

"Yes, to be sure," replied Oaklands; "I'll go on, for I am anxious to speak to my father. Freddy, old boy! shake hands; I'm the happiest fellow in existence!" so saying, he seized and wrung Coleman's hand with a heartiness which elicited sundry grotesque contortions, indicative of agony, from that individual, and, bounding forward, was soon lost to sight in the deepening twilight.

"And so, you see," continued I, after having imparted to Coleman as much as I considered necessary of the state of affairs, a confidence which he received with mingled exclamations of surprise and delight—"and so, you see, we've not only got to tell Lawless that he is refused, poor fellow I but that Fanny has accepted Oaklands; very awkward, isn't it?"

"It would be with anybody else," replied Coleman; "but I think there are ways and means of managing the thing which will prevent any very desperate consequences in the present instance; sundry ideas occur to me; would you mind my being in the room when you tell him?"

"As far as I am concerned, I should be only too glad to have you," returned I, "if you do not think it would annoy him."

"I'm not afraid of that," was the rejoinder; "as I wrote the offer for him, it strikes me I'm the very person he ought to select for his confidant."

"Do you think," he added, after a moment's thought, "Harry would sell those phaeton horses?"

"That's the line of argument you intend to bring forward by way of consolation, is it? Well, it is not such a bad notion," replied I; "but don't be too sure of success, 'Equo ne crédite Tueri': I doubt its being in the power [382] of horse-flesh to carry such a weight of disappointment as I fear this news will occasion him."

"Well, I've other schemes to fall back upon if this should fail," returned Freddy; "and now let us get on, for the sooner we put him out of his misery the better."

"Where's the master?" inquired I, encountering Shrimp as we crossed the hall.

"He's upstairs, sir; in his own room, sir; a-going it like bricks, if you please, sir; you can hear him down here, Gents."

"Stop a minute—listen!" said Coleman; "I can hear him now."

As he spoke, the sound of some one running quickly in the room overhead was distinctly audible; then came a scuffling noise, and then a heavyish fall.

"What's he doing?" asked Coleman.

"He's a-trainin' of hisself for some match as must be a-coming off, sir; leastways so I take it; he's been a-going on like that for the last hour and a quarter, and wery well he's lasted out, I say; he'll be safe to win, don't you think, Gents?"

"Out of the way, you imp!" exclaimed Coleman, seizing Shrimp by the collar, and swinging him half across the hall, where, cat-like, he fell upon his legs, and walked off, looking deeply insulted.

"I can't make out what he can be doing," continued Freddy. "Come along!" so saying, he sprang up the staircase, two steps at a time, an example which I hastened to imitate.

"Come in!" cried the voice of Lawless, as Coleman rapped at the door; and anxious to discover the occasion of the sounds which had reached our ears in the hall, we lost no time in obeying the summons. On entering the apartment a somewhat singular spectacle greeted our sight. All the furniture of the room, which was a tolerably large one, was piled on two lines on either side, so as to leave a clear course along the middle; in the centre of the space thus formed were placed two chairs about a yard apart, and across the backs of these was laid the joint of a fishing-rod.

As we entered, Lawless—who was without shoes, coat, or waistcoat—exclaiming, "Wait a minute, I've just done it"—started from one end of the room, and, running up to the chairs in the centre, leaped over the fishing-rod. "Ninety-nine!" he continued; then, proceeding to the other end, he again ran up to and sprang over the barrier, shouting as he did so, in a tone of triumph, "A hundred!" [383] and dragging an easy-chair out of the chaotic heap of furniture, he flung himself into it to all appearance utterly exhausted.

"Why, Lawless, man!" cried Freddy, "what are you doing? Have you taken leave of your senses all of a sudden?"

"Eh! I believe 1 should have, if I had not hit upon that dodge for keeping myself quiet."

"A somewhat Irish way of keeping quiet," returned Freddy; "why, the perspiration is pouring down your face—you look regularly used up."

"Well, I am pretty nearly done brown—rather baked than otherwise," replied Lawless; "let me tell you, it's no joke to jump five hundred times over a stick three feet high or more."

"And why, in the name of all that's absurd, have you been doing it then?"

"Eh I why, you see, after I had sent our letter, I got into such a dreadful state of impatience and worry, I didn't know what to do with myself; I could not sit still at any price, and, first of all, I thought I'd have a good gallop, but I declare to you I felt so reckless and desperate, that I fancied I should go and break my neck; well, then it occurred to me to jump over that stick till I had tired myself out—five hundred times have I done it, and a pretty stiff job it was, too. And now, what news have you got for me, Frank?"

"My dear Lawless," said I, laying my hand on his shoulder, "you must prepare for a disappointment."

"There, that will do," interrupted Lawless; "as to preparation, if my last hour's work is not preparation enough for anything, it's a pity. What! she'll have nothing to say to me at any price, eh?"

"Why, you see, we have all been labouring under a delusion," I began.

"I have, under a most precious one," continued Lawless—"regularly put my foot in it—made a complete ass of myself—eh! don't you see? Well, I'm not going to break my heart about it after all; it's only a woman, and it's my opinion people set a higher price upon those cattle than they are worth—they are a shying, skittish breed, the best of them."

"That's the light to take it in," exclaimed Coleman, coming forward; "if one woman says 'No,' there are a hundred others will say 'Yes'; and, after all, it's an open question whether a man's not better off without 'em."

"Eh! Freddy boy, our fine letter's been no go—turned out a regular sell, you see, eh?"

[384] "Well, that only proves the young lady's want of taste," replied Coleman; "but we had not exactly a fair start. You have more to bear about it yet; the article you wished for was gone already—the damsel had not a heart to bestow. Tell him how it was, Frank."

Thus urged, I gave a hurried outline of the affair as it really stood, dwelling much on the fact that Oaklands and Fanny had become attached in bygone years, long ere she had ever seen Lawless—which I hoped might afford some slight consolation to his wounded self-love. As I concluded, he exclaimed: "So Fanny's going to marry Harry Oak-lands—that's the long and short of it all. Well, I'm uncommonly glad to hear it—almost as glad as if I was going to marry her myself; there is not a better fellow in the world than Harry, though he has not regarded me with the most friendly looks of late. I was beginning not to like it, I can tell you, and meant to ask him why he did it; but I understand it all now. What a bore I must have been to them both! I declare I'm quite sorry; why, I would not have done it for any money, if I'd been up to the move sooner. Oh! I must tell Harry."

"You certainly are the most good-natured fellow breathing, Lawless," said I.

"Eh! yes, take me in the right way, I am quiet enough, a child may guide me with a snaffle; but stick a sharp bit in my mouth, and tickle my sides with the rowels, and I rear up before, and lash out behind, so that it would puzzle half the rough-riders in the country to back me. I always mean to go ahead straight enough if I can see my way clearly before me, but it's awkward driving when one gets among women, with their feelings, and sympathies, and all that style of article. I'm not used to it, you see, so no wonder if I run foul of their sensibilites and sentimentalities, and capsize a few of them. I've got pretty well knocked over myself though this time. Misfortunes never come alone too, they say; and I've just had a letter from Leatherley to tell me Spiteful got loose when the groom was leading him out to exercise, and trying to leap a fence staked himself so severely that they were obliged to have him shot. I refused eighty guineas for him from Dunham of the Guards only a month ago; I shall have my new tandem cart home, and no horses to run in it."

"How well those chestnuts would look tandem!" observed Coleman carelessly; "I wonder whether Harry would sell them?"

"By Jove! I shouldn't like to ask him," exclaimed Lawless quickly; "it is too much to expect of any man."

[385] "Oh! as to that," replied Coleman, "I dare say I could contrive to find it out, without exactly asking him to sell them."

"My dear fellow, if you would, I should be so much obliged to you," replied Lawless eagerly; "if I could but get those horses to start the new cart with, I should be as happy as a king—that is," he continued, checking himself, "I might become so; time, don't you see, resignation, and all that sort of thing—heigh ho!—By the way, how far is it from dinner? for jumping over those confounded chairs has made me uncommonly peckish, I can tell you."

"He'll do," said Coleman, as we separated to prepare for dinner.

It was easy to see by Sir John's beaming face, and the hearty squeeze he gave my hand when I entered the drawing-room, that Harry would not have to fear much opposition to his wishes on the part of his father. The dinner passed off pleasantly enough, though even when the meal was concluded, and the servants had left the room, no allusion was made (out of delicacy to Lawless) to the subject which engrossed the thoughts of many of the party. As soon, however, as the wine had gone the round of the table, Lawless exclaimed: "Gentlemen! are you all charged?" and receiving affirmatory looks from the company in general, he continued, "Then I beg to propose a toast, which you must drink as such a toast ought to be drunk, con amore. Gentlemen, I rise to propose the health of the happy couple that is to be."

"Umph! eh I what?—what are you talking about, sir?—what are you talking about?" inquired Mr. Frampton, hastily setting down his wine untasted, and speaking quickly, and with much excitement.

"Do you see that?" whispered Lawless, nudging me, "he's off on a false scent; he never could bear the idea of my marrying Fanny, he as good as told me so one day; now be quiet, and I'll get a rise out of him." He then continued, addressing Mr. Frampton: "You're getting a little hard of hearing, I'm afraid, sir; I was proposing the health of a certain happy couple, or rather of two people, who will, I hope, become so, in the common acceptation of the term, before very long".

"Umph! I heard what you said, sir, plain enough (wish I hadn't), and I suppose I can guess what you mean. I'm a plain-spoken man, sir, and I tell you honestly I don't like the thing, and I don't approve of the thing—I never have, and so once for all—I—umph! I won't drink your toast, sir, that's flat. Umph! umph!"

[386] "Well," said Lawless, making a sign to Harry not to speak, "you are a privileged person, you know; and if Sir John and my friend Harry here don't object to your refusing the toast, it's not for me to take any notice of it; but I must say, considering the lady is the sister of your especial favourite Frank Fairlegh, and the gentleman one whom you have known from boyhood, I take it as particularly unkind of you, Mr. Frampton, not even to wish them well."

"Eh! umph! it isn't that, boy—it isn't that," returned Mr. Frampton, evidently taken aback by this appeal to his kindly feeling. "But, you see," he added, turning to Sir John, "the thing is foolish altogether, they are not at all suited to each other; and instead of being happy, as they fancy, they'll make each other miserable: the boy's a very good boy in his way, kind-hearted and all that, but truth is truth, and he's no more fit to marry Fanny Fairlegh than I am."

"Sorry I can't agree with you, Mr. Frampton," replied Sir John Oaklands, drawing himself up stiffly; "I thank Mr. Lawless most heartily for his toast, and drink it without a moment's hesitation. Here's to the health of the young couple!"

"Well, I see you are all against me," exclaimed Mr. Frampton, "and I don't like to seem unkind. They say marriages are made in heaven, so I suppose it must be all right. Here's the health of the happy couple, Mr. Lawless and Miss Fairlegh!"

It was now Lawless's turn to look out of countenance, and for a moment he did appear thoroughly disconcerted, more especially as it was next to impossible to repress a smile, and Freddy Coleman grinned outright; quickly recovering himself, however, he resumed, "Laugh away, Freddy, laugh away, it only serves me right for playing such a trick. I've been deceiving you, Mr. Frampton; Miss Fairlegh is indeed going to be married, but she has had the good taste to choose a fitter bridegroom than she would have found in such a harum-scarum fellow as I am. So here's a long life, and a merry one, to Fanny Fairlegh and Harry Oaklands; you won't refuse that toast, I dare say?"

"Umph! Harry Oaklands!" exclaimed Mr. Frampton aghast; "and I've been telling Sir John he wasn't good enough for Frank's sister—just like me, umph!"

"My dear Lawless," said Harry, taking a seat next the person he addressed, which movement he accomplished during an immense row occasioned by Mr. Frampton, [387] who was grunting forth a mixed monologue of explanations and apologies to Sir John, by whom they were received with such a hearty fit of laughing that the tears ran down his cheeks—"My dear Lawless, the kind and generous way in which you take this matter makes me feel quite ashamed of my behaviour to you lately, but I think, if you knew how miserable I have been, you would forgive me."

"Forgive you! eh?" returned Lawless; "ay, a precious deal sooner than I can forgive myself for coming here and making you all uncomfortable. Nobody but such a thickheaded ass as I am would have gone on all this time without seeing how the game stood. I hate to spoil sport; if I had had the slightest idea of the truth, I'd have been off out of your way long ago."

"You are a noble fellow!" exclaimed Harry, "and your friendship is a thing to be proud of. If there is any way in which I can testify my strong sense of gratitude, only name it."

"I'll tell you," said Coleman, who had caught the last few words—"I'll tell you what to do to make him all right—sell him your chestnuts."

"The phaeton horses?" replied Harry. "No, I won't sell them."

"Ah! I thought he would not," murmured Lawless, "it was too much to expect of any man."

"But," continued Oaklands, "I am sure my father will join me in saying, that if Lawless will do us the favour of accepting them, nothing would give us greater pleasure than to see them in the possession of one who will appreciate their affections as they deserve."

"Nay, they are your property, Harry," returned Sir John; "I shall be delighted if your friend will accept them, but the present is all your own."

"Eh! give 'em me, all free gratis, and for nothing!" exclaimed Lawless, overpowered at the idea of such munificence. "Why, you'll go and ruin yourself—Queen's Bench, whitewash, and all the rest of it! Recollect, you'll have a wife to keep soon, and that isn't done for nothing they tell me—pin-money, ruination-shops, diamonds, kid gloves, and bonnet ribbons—that's the way to circulate the tin; there are some losses that may be gains, eh? When one comes to think of all these things, it strikes me I'm well out of it, eh, Mr. Frampton?—Mind you, I don't think that really," he added aside to me, "only I want Harry to fancy I don't care two straws about it; he's such a feeling fellow is Harry, lie would not be properly jolly if he thought I took it to heart much."

[388] "Umph! if those are your ideas about matrimony, sir," growled Mr. Frampton, "I think you are quite right to leave it alone—puppy-dogs have no business with wives." "Now don't be grumpy, governor," returned Lawless, "when you've had your own way about the toast and all. Take another glass of that old port, that's the stuff that makes your hair curl and look so pretty" [Mr. Framp-ton's chevelure was to be likened only to a grey scrubbing-brush], "we'll send for the new dog-cart to-morrow, and you shall be the first man to ride behind the chestnuts." "Thank ye kindly, I'll take your advice at all events," replied Mr. Frampton, helping himself to a glass of port; "and as to your offer, why I'll transfer that to him (indicating Coleman), 'funny boy,' as I used to call him, when he was a boy, and he doesn't seem much altered in that particular now. Umph!"

This, as was intended, elicited a repartee from Coleman, and the evening passed away merrily, although I could perceive, in spite of his attempts to seem gay, that poor Lawless felt the destruction of his hopes deeply.

On my return to the cottage, the servant informed me that a man had been there, who wished very particularly to see me; that she had offered to send for me, but that he had professed himself unable to wait.

"What kind of looking person was he?" inquired I. "He was an oldish man, sir; very tall and thin, with grey hair, and he rode a little rough pony." "Did he leave no note or message?" "He left this note, sir."

Hastily seizing it, I locked myself into my own room, and tearing open the paper, read as follows:—

"Honoured Sir,—In case I should not see you, has my time will be short, I takes the liburty of writin' a line, and ham 'appy to hinform you, as things seem to me awl a-goin' wrong, leastways I think you'll say so when you 'ears my tail. Muster Richard's been back above a week, and he and the Old Un is up to their same tricks again; but that ain't awl—there's a black-haired pale chap cum with a heye like a nork, as seems to me the baddest of the lot, and that ain't sayin' a little. But there's worse news yet, for I'm afraid we ain't only get to contend hagainst the henemy, but there's a traytur in the camp, and that in a quarter where you cares most. Meet me tomorrow mornin' at the old place at seven o'clock, when you shall 'ear more from, Your umbel servant, to command,

"Peter Barnett, "late Sergeant in the —th Dragoons."

[389] Reader, do you wish me a good-night?—many thanks for your kindness, but if you have any hope that your wish will be realised, you must be of a very sanguine temperament, or you have never been in love.

CHAPTER XLVIII — PAYING OFF OLD SCORES

     "'Oh most delicate fiend!
     Who is't can read a woman?
     Is there more?'
     'More, sir, and worse.'"
     —Cymbeline.

     "The Chamberlain was blunt and true, and sturdily said he—
     'Abide, my lord, and rule your own, and take this rede from
     me, That  woman's faith's a brittle  trust.  Seven twelve-
     months didst thou say? I'll pledge me for no lady's truth
     beyond the seventh day.'"
     —Ballad of the Noble Moringer

IT is a weary thing to lie tossing restlessly from side to side, sleepless, through the silent watches of the night, spirit and matter warring against each other—the sword gnawing and corroding its sheath. A weary and harassing thing it is even where the body is the aggressor—when the fevered blood, darting like liquid fire through the veins, mounts to the throbbing brow, and, pressing like molten lead upon the brain, crushes out thought and feeling, leaving but a dull consciousness of the racking agony which renders each limb a separate instrument of torture. If, on the other hand, it be the mind that is pestilence-stricken, the disease becomes well-nigh unbearable, as it is incurable; and thus it was with me on the night in question. The suspense and anxiety I had undergone during the preceding day had indisposed me for sustaining any fresh annoyance with equanimity, and now, in confirmation of my worst fears, that hateful sentence in old Peter's note, warning me of treachery in the quarter where I was most deeply interested, rose up before me like some messenger of evil, torturing me to the verge of distraction with vague doubts and suspicions—fiends which the bright spirits of Love and Faith were powerless to banish. The old man's meaning was obvious; he imagined Clara inconstant, and was anxious to warn me against some supposed rival; this in itself was not agreeable; but I should have reckoned at once that he must be labouring under [390] some delusion, and disregarded his suspicions as unworthy of a moment's notice, had it not been for Clara's strange and unaccountable silence. I had written to her above a week before—in fact, as soon as I became at all uneasy at not having heard from her, urging her to relieve my anxiety, if but by half a dozen lines. Up to this time I had accounted for not having received any answer, by the supposition that Mr. Vernor had, by some accident, detected our correspondence, and taken measures to interrupt it. But this hypothesis was evidently untrue, or Peter Barnett would have mentioned in his note such an easy solution of the difficulty. Yet, to believe Clara false was treason against constancy. Oh! the thing was impossible; to doubt her sincerity would be to lose my confidence in the existence of goodness and truth on this side the grave! The recollection of her simple, child-like confession of affection—the happiness my love appeared to afford her—the tender glance of those honest, trustful eyes—who could think of these things and suspect her for one moment? But that old man's letter! What did it—what could it mean? His allusion to some dark, hawk-eyed stranger—ha!—and as a strange, improbable idea glanced like lightning through my brain—like lightning, too, searing as it passed—I half sprung from the bed, unable to endure the agony the thought had costume. Reason, however, telling me that the idea was utterly fanciful and without foundation, restrained me from doing—I scarcely know what—something desperately impracticable, which should involve much violent bodily action, and result in attaining some certain confirmation either of my hopes and fears, being my nearest approach to any formed scheme. Oh! that night—that weary, endless night! Would morning never, never come! About five o'clock I arose, lighted a candle, dressed myself, and then, sitting down, wrote a short note to my mother, telling her that an engagement, formed the previous evening, to meet a friend, would probably detain me the greater part of the day; and another note to Oaklands, saying that I had taken the liberty of borrowing a horse, begging him to speak of my absence as a thing of course, and promising to tell him more when I returned. I then waited till a faint grey tint in the eastern sky gave promise of the coming dawn; when letting myself noiselessly out, I took my way towards the Hall. It was beginning to get light as I reached the stables, and, arousing one of the drowsy helpers, I made him saddle a bay mare, with whose high courage, speed, [391] and powers of endurance I was well acquainted, and started on my expedition.

As it was nearly eighteen miles to the place of meeting, I could scarcely hope to reach it by seven o'clock, the time mentioned in old Peter's note; but action was the only relief to my anxiety, and it may easily be supposed I did not lose much time on the road, so that it was but ten minutes after seven when I turned down the lane in which the little alehouse appointed as our rendezvous was situated. I found old Peter waiting to receive me, though the cloud upon his brow, speaking volumes of dark mystery, did not tend to raise my spirits.

"Late on parade, sir," was his greeting—"late on parade; we should never have driven the Mounseers out of Spain if we'd been ten minutes behind our time every morning."

"You forget, my friend, that I have had eighteen miles to ride, and that your notice was too short to allow of my giving orders about a horse over night."

"You do not seem to have lost much time by the way," he added, eyeing my reeking steed. "What a slap-up charger that mare would make! Here, you boy, take her into the shed there, and throw a sack or two over her, wash out her mouth, and give her a lock of hay to nibble; but don't go to let her drink, unless you want my cane about your shoulders—do ye hear? Now, sir, come in."

"What in the world did you mean by that note, Peter?" exclaimed I, as soon as we were alone; "it has nearly driven me distracted—I have never closed my eyes all night."

"Then it's done as I intended," was the satisfactory reply; "it's prepared you for the worst."

"Nice preparation!" muttered I, then added, "Worst! what do you refer to? Speak out, man—you are torturing me!"

"You'll hear it sooner than you like; try and take it easy, young gentleman. Do you feel yourself quite prepared?"

I am afraid my rejoinder was more energetic than correct; but it appeared to produce greater effect than my entreaties had done, for he continued:—

"Well I see you will have it out, so you must, I suppose; only if you ain't prepared proper, don't blame me. As far as I can see and hear—and I keeps my eyes and ears open pretty wide, I can tell you—I feels convinced that Miss Clara's guv you the sack, and gone and taken [392] up with another young man." As he delivered himself of this pleasant opinion, old Peter slowly approached me, and ended by laying his hands solemnly on my shoulders, and, with an expression of fearful import stamped on his grotesque features, nodded thrice in my very face.

"Nonsense!" replied I, assuming an air of indifference I was far from feeling; "such a thing is utterly impossible—you have deceived yourself in some ridiculous manner."

"I only wish as I could think so, for all our sakes, Mr. Fairlegh; but facts is like jackasses, precious stubborn things. Why are they always a-walking together, and talking so loving like, that even the old un hisself looks quite savage about it? And why ain't she never wrote to you since he cum—though she's had all your letters—eh?"

"Then she has received my letters?"

"Oh, yes! she's always had them the same as usual."

"And are you sure she has never written to me?"

"Not as I know on; I've never had one to send to you since she's took up with this other chap."

"And pray who or what is this other chap, as you call him, and how comes he to be staying at Barstone?"

"Well, sir, all as I can tell you about him is, that nigh upon a fortnight ago Muster Richard come home, looking precious ill and seedy; and the wery next morning he had a letter from this chap, as I take it. I brought it to him just as they rung for the breakfast things to be took away, so I had a chance of stopping in the room. Direc'ly he sot eyes on the handwriting, he looked as black as night, and seemed all of a tremble like as he hopened it. As he read he seemed to get less frightened and more cross; and when he'd finished it, he 'anded it to the old un, saying, 'It's all smooth, but he's taken it into his head to come down here. What's to be done, eh? 'Mr. Vernor read it through, and then said in an under tone,' 'Of course he must come if he chooses'. He then whispered something of which I only caught the words, 'Send her away'; to which Richard replied angrily, 'It shall not be; I'll shilly-shally no longer,—it must be done at once, I tell you, or I give the whole thing up altogether'. They then went into the library, and I heard no more; but the wery next day come this here hidentical chap—he arrived in style too—britzska and post-horses. Oh! he's a reg'lar swell, you may depend; he looks something like a Spaniard, a foreigneering style of physiography, only he ain't so swarthy."

[393] "Don't you know his name?" inquired I.

"They call him Mr. Fleming, but I don't believe that's his right name; leastways he had a letter come directed different, but I can't remember what it was: it was either—let me see—either a hess or a W; I think it was a hess, but I can't say for certain."

"But what has all this to do with Miss Saville?" asked I impatiently.

"Fair and easy; fair and easy; I'm a-coming to her direc'ly—the world was not made in a day; you'll know sooner than you likes, I expects, now sir. Well, I didn't fancy him from the first; he looks more like Saytin himself than any Christian as ever I set eyes on, except Boneypart, which, being a Frenchman and a henemy, was not so much to be wondered at: however, he was wery quiet and civil, and purlite to Miss Clara, and said wery little to her, while Muster Richard and the old un was by, and she seemed rather to choose to talk to him, as I thought, innocent-like, to avoid the t'other one; but afore long they got quite friends together, and I soon see that he meant business, and no mistake. He's as hartful and deep as Garrick; and there ain't no means of inweigling and coming over a woman as he don't try on her: ay, and he's a clever chap, too; he don't attempt to hurry the thing; he's wery respectful and attentive, and seems to want to show her the difference between his manners and Muster Richard's—not worreting her like; and he says sharp things to make Muster Richard look like a fool before her. I can't help larfing to mysolf sometimes to hear him,—Muster Dickey's met his match at last."

"And how does Cumberland brook such interference?"

"Why, that's what I can't make out; he don't like it, that's clear, for I have seen him turn pale with rage; but he seems afraid to quarrel with him, somehow. If ever he says a sharp word, Mr. Fleming gives him a scowling look with his wicked eyes, and Muster Richard shuts up direc'ly."

"And you fancy Miss Saville appears disposed to receive this man's advances favourably? Think well before you speak; do not accuse her lightly, for, by Heaven! if you have not good grounds for your insinuations, neither your age nor your long service shall avail to shield you from my anger! every word breathed against her is like a stab to me." As, in my grief and irritation, I threatened the old man, his brow reddened, and his eye flashed with all the fire of youth. After a moment's reflection, however, his mood changed, and, advancing towards me, he took [394] my hand respectfully, and pressing it between his own, said:—

"Forgive me this liberty, sir, but I honours you, young gentleman, for your high spirit and generous feeling; your look and bearing, as you said them words, reminded me of my dear old master. It can't be no pleasure to me, sir, to blame his daughter, that I have loved for his sake, as if she had been a child of my own—but truth is truth;" and as he uttered these words, the big drops stood in his eyes, unfailing witnesses of his sincerity. There is something in the display of real deep feeling, which for the time appears to raise and ennoble those who are under its influence; and as the old man stood before me, I experienced towards him a mingled sentiment of admiration and respect, and I hastily endeavoured to atone for the injustice I had done him.

"Forgive me, Peter!" exclaimed I; "I did not mean what I said,—sorrow and annoyance made me unjust to you, but you will forgive it?"

"No need of that, sir," was the reply; "I respects you all the more for it. And now, in answer to your question, I will go on with the little that remains to tell, and you can judge for yourself. Miss Clara, then, avoids Mr. Richard more than hever, and talks kind and pleasant like with this Mr. Fleming—walks out with him, sometimes alone—rides with him—don't seem so dull and mopish like since he's been here, and has never hanswered your letters since she took up with him." As he concluded his catalogue of proofs, I threw myself into a chair, and sat with my hands pressed tightly on my brow for some minutes; my brain seemed on fire.

At length, starting up abruptly, I exclaimed: "This is utterly unbearable! I must have certainty, Peter; I must see her at once. How is that to be done?"

"You may well ask," was his reply; "better wait till I can find an opportunity, and let you know."

"Listen to me, old Peter," continued I, laying my hand on his shoulder; "there is that within me this day which can overcome all obstacles—I tell you I must see her, and I WILL!".

"Well, well, don't put yourself into a passion; the only chance as I knows of is to ketch Miss Clara out walking; and then ten to one Mr. Fleming will be with her."

"Let him!" exclaimed I; "why should I avoid him? I have not injured him, though he may have done me foul and bitter wrong; it is for him to shrink from the encounter."

[395] "I know what the end of this will be," returned Peter Barnett; "you'll quarrel; and then, instead of off coats and having it out like Britons, there'll be a purlite hinvitation given, as kind and civil as if you was a-hasking him to dinner, to meet as soon as it's light to-morrow morning, and do you the favour of putting a brace of bullets into you."

"No, Peter, you do not understand my feeling on this subject; should you be right in your suspicions (and, although my faith in your young mistress is such that nothing but the evidence of my own senses can avail to shake it, I am fain to own circumstances appear fully to warrant them)—should these suspicions not prove unfounded, it is her falsehood alone that will darken the sunshine of my future life. Fleming, or any other coxcomb who had taken advantage of her fickleness, would be equally beneath my notice. But enough of this; where shall I be most likely to meet her?"

"You knows the seat in the shrubbery walk under the old beeches, where you saw Miss Clara the first time as ever you cum here?"

"Only too well," answered I, as the recollection of that morning contrasted painfully with my present feelings.

"Well, you be near there about eleven o'clock; and if Miss Clara don't walk that way, I'll send down a boy with hinformation as to the henemy's movements. Keep out of sight as much as you can."

"It shall be done," replied I.

Old Peter paused for a moment; then, raising his hand to his forehead with a military salute, turned away and left me.

Eight o'clock struck; a girl brought me in breakfast; nine and ten sounded from an old clock in the bar, but the viands remained untasted. At a quarter past ten I rang the bell, and asked for a glass of water, drained it, and, pressing my hat over my brow, sallied forth. The morning had been misty when I first started, but during my sojourn at the inn the vapours had cleared away, and as, by the assistance of an old tree, I climbed over the paling of Barstone Park, the sun was shining brightly, wrapping dale and down in a mantle of golden light. Rabbits sprung up under my feet as I made my way through the fern and heather; and pheasants, their varied plumage glittering in the sunlight, ran along my path, seeking to hide their long necks under some sheltering furze brake, or rose heavily on the wing, scared at the unwonted intrusion. At any other time the fair scene [396] around me would have sufficed to make me light-hearted and happy, but in the state of suspense and mental torture in which I then was, the brightness of nature seemed only to contrast the more vividly with the darkness of soul within. And yet I could not believe her false. Oh, no! I should see her, and all would be explained; and as this thought came across me, I bounded eagerly forward, and, anxious to accelerate the meeting, chafed at each trifling obstacle that opposed itself to my progress. Alas! one short hour from that time, I should have been glad had there been a lion in my path, so that I had failed to reach the fatal spot.

With my mind fixed on the one object of meeting Clara, I forgot the old man's recommendation to keep out of sight; and flinging myself at full length on the bench, I rested my head upon my hand, and fell into a reverie, distorting facts and devising impossible contingencies to establish Clara's innocence. From this train of thought I was aroused by a muffled sound as of footsteps upon turf, and in another moment, the following words, breathed in silvery accents, which caused my every pulse to throb with suppressed emotion, reached my ear:—

"It is indeed an engagement of which I now heartily repent, and from which I would willingly free myself; but—"

"But," replied a man's voice, in the cold sneering tone of which, though now softened by an expression of courtesy, I had almost said of tenderness, I instantly recognised that of Stephen Wilford,—"but, having at one time encouraged the poor young man, your woman's heart will not allow you to say 'No' with sufficient firmness to show that he has nothing further to hope."

"Indeed it is not so," replied the former speaker, who, as the reader has doubtless concluded, was none other than Clara Saville; "you mistake me, Mr. Fleming; if a word could prove to him that his suit was hopeless, that word should soon be spoken."

"It is not needed!" exclaimed I, springing to my feet, and suddenly confronting them; "that of which the tongue of living man would have failed to convince me, my ears have heard, and my eyes have seen! It is enough. Clara, from this moment you will be to me as if the grave had closed over you; yet not so, for then I could have loved your memory, and deemed that an angel had left this false and cruel world to seek one better fitted to her bright and sinless nature!—Farewell, Clara! may you be as happy as the recollection (which will haunt you at [397] times, strive as you may to banish it), that by your falsehood you have embittered the life of one who loved you with a deep and true affection, will permit!" and overcome by the agony of my feelings, I leaned against the bench for support, my knees trembling so that I could scarcely stand.

When I appeared before her so unexpectedly, Clara started back and uttered a slight scream; after which, apparently overwhelmed by my vehemence, she had remained perfectly silent; whilst her companion, who had at first favoured me with one of his withering glances, perceiving that I was so completely engrossed as to be scarcely conscious of his presence, resumed his usual manner of contemptuous indifference. He was, however, the first to speak.

"This gentleman, whom I believe I have the pleasure of recognising," and here he slightly raised his hat, "appears, I can scarcely suppose, a friend, but, at all events, an intimate of yours, Miss Saville; if you wish me—that is, if I am at all de trop——" and he stepped back a pace or two, as if only awaiting a hint from her to withdraw, while with his snake-like glance riveted upon her features, he watched the effect of his words.

"No, pray do not leave me, Mr. Fleming," exclaimed Clara hurriedly; "Mr. Fairlegh must see the impossibility of remaining here. I am momentarily expecting Mr. Cumberland and my guardian to join us."

"I leave you," replied I, making an effort to recover myself; "I seek not to pain you by my presence, I would not add to your feelings of self-reproach by look or word of mine;" then, catching Wilford's glance fixed upon me with an expression of gratified malice, I continued, "For you, sir, I seek not to learn by what vile arts you have succeeded thus far in your iniquitous designs; it is enough for me that it should have been possible for you to succeed; my happiness you have destroyed; but I have yet duties to perform, and my life is in the hands of Him who gave it, nor will I risk it by a fruitless quarrel with a practised homicide."

The look of concentrated hatred with which he regarded me during this speech, changed again to scornful indifference, as he replied, with a contemptuous laugh, "Really, sir, you are labouring under some singular delusion; I have no intention of quarrelling; you appear to raise phantoms for the pleasure of combating them. However, as far as I can comprehend the affair, you are imputing to me an honour belonging rather to my friend [398] Cumberland; and here, in good time, he comes to answer for himself. Cumberland, here's a gentleman mistaking me for you, I fancy, who seems labouring under some strange delusions about love and murder; you had better speak to him." As he concluded, Cumberland, attended by a gamekeeper leading a shooting pony, came up, looking flushed and angry.

"I should have been here sooner," he said, addressing Wilford, "but Browne told me he had traced poachers in the park; the footsteps can be otherwise accounted for now, I perceive." He then made a sign for the keeper to approach, and, turning towards me, added, "You are trespassing, sir".

His tone and manner were so insolent and overbearing, that my blood boiled in my veins. Unwilling, however, to bring on a quarrel in such a presence, I restrained my indignation, and replied, "I know not what devil sent you here at this moment, Richard Cumberland; I have been sorely tried, and I warn you not to provoke me further".

"I tell you, you are trespassing, fellow; this is the second time I have caught you lurking about; take yourself off instantly, or—" as he spoke he stepped towards me, raising his cane with a threatening gesture.

"Or what?" inquired I, at length thoroughly roused; and, drawing myself up to my full height, I folded my arms across my chest, and stood before him in an attitude of defiance.

As I did so, he turned deadly pale, and for a moment his resolution seemed to fail him; but catching the sound of Wilford's sneering laugh, and relying on the assistance of the gamekeeper, who, having tied the pony to a tree, was fast approaching the scene of action, he replied, "Or receive the chastisement due to such skulking vagabonds!" and springing upon me, he seized my collar with one hand, while with the other he drew the cane sharply across my shoulders.

To free myself from his grasp by a powerful effort was the work of a moment, while almost at the same time I struck him with my full force, and, catching him on the upper part of the nose, dashed him to the ground, where he lay motionless, and apparently stunned, with the blood gushing from his mouth and nostrils.[399]

CHAPTER XLIX — MR. FRAMPTON MAKES A DISCOVERY

     "In a tandem I see nothing to induce the leader to keep his
     course straightforward, but an address on the part of the
     charioteer as nearly as can be supernatural.... And, for my
     own part, I think leaders of tandems are particularly apt to
     turn short round. And the impudence with which they do it,
     in some instances, is past all description, staring all the
     while full in the faces of those in the carriage, as much as
     to say, 'I must have a peep at the fools behind that are
     pretending to manage me'."
     —Thinks I to Myself.

     "But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so
     Keen the desire to see his home again,
     He thought himself in duty bound to do so.
     Lonely he felt at times as Robin Crusoe."
     —Beppo.

ALL that passed immediately after the events I have described left but a succession of vague and confused images on my memory. I have some dim recollection of seeing them raise Cumberland from the ground, and of his showing symptoms of returning animation; but I remember nothing distinctly till I again found myself a tenant of the little sanded parlour in the village inn. My first act was to ring for a basin of cold water and a towel, with which I well bathed my face and head; in some degree refreshed by this process, I sat down and endeavoured to collect my scattered senses.

I had succeeded in my immediate object, and suspense was at an end. I had obtained certain proof of Clara's falsehood; with her own lips I had heard her declare that she repented her engagement, and wished to be freed from it; and the person to whom she had confided this was a man whose attentions to her were so marked that even the very servants considered him an acknowledged suitor. What encouragement could be more direct than this? Well, then, she was faithless, and the dream of my life had departed. But this was not all; my faith in human nature was shaken—nay, destroyed at a blow. If she could prove false, whom could I ever trust again? Alas! the grief—the bitter, crushing grief—when the consciousness is forced upon us that one with whom we have held sweet interchange of thought and feeling—with whom we have been linked by all the sacred ties of mutual confidence—with whose sorrows we have sympathised, and [400] whose smiles we have hailed as the freed captive hails the sunshine and the dews of heaven—that one whom for these things we have loved with all the deepest instincts of an earnest and impassioned nature, and for whose truth we would have answered as for our own, is false and unworthy such true affection—oh! this is bitter grief indeed! Deep sorrow, absorbing all the faculties of the soul, leaves no room for any other emotion; and in the one idea, that Clara Saville—Miss Clara Saville, whom my imagination had depicted the simple, the loving, the true-hearted—was lost to me for ever, I forgot for somç time the existence of Wilford or the fact that in my anger I had stricken down and possibly seriously injured Cumberland. But as the first agony of my grief began to wear off, I became anxious to learn the extent of the punishment I had inflicted on him, and accordingly despatched a boy to Peter Barnett, requesting him to send me word how matters stood.

During his absence it occurred to me that, as Wilford had been introduced to her under a feigned name, Clara must be utterly ignorant of the evil reputation attaching to him, and that—although this did, not in any way affect her heartless conduct towards me—it was only right that she should be made aware of the true character of the man with whom she had to deal; therefore, painful as it was to hold any communication with her after what had passed, 1 felt that the time might come when my neglect of this duty might afford me cause for the most bitter self-reproach. Accordingly, asking for pen, ink, and paper, I sat down and wrote the following note:—

"After the occurrences of this morning, I had thought never, either by word or letter, to hold further communication with you; by your own act you have separated us for ever; and I—yes, I can say it with truth—am glad that it should be so—it prevents all conflict between reason and feeling. But I have what I deem a duty to perform towards you—a duty rendered all the more difficult, because my motives are liable to cruel misconstruction; but it is a duty, and therefore must be done. You are, probably, as little aware of the true character of the man calling himself Fleming as of his real name; of him may be said, as of the Italian of old, that 'his hate is fatal to man, and his love to woman'; he is alike notorious as a duellist and a libertine. My knowledge of him arises from his having in a duel wounded, almost unto death, the dearest friend I have on earth, who had saved an innocent girl from adding to his list of victims. If you [401] require proof of this beyond my word, ask Mr. Stephen Wilford—for such is really his name—in your guardian's presence, whether he remembers Lizzie Maurice and the smart of Harry Oaklands' horsewhip. And now, having warned you, your fate is under your own control. For what is past I do not reproach you; you have been an instrument in the hands of Providence to wean my affections from this world, and if it is His good pleasure that, instead of a field for high enterprise and honest exertion, I should henceforth learn to regard it as a scene of broken faith and crushed hopes, it is not for me to rebel against His will. And so farewell for ever!—F. F."

I had not long finished writing the above when the boy returned, bringing the following missive from old Peter:—

"Honoured Sir,

"The topper as you've give Muster Richard ain't done him no more harm, only lettin' hout a little of his mad blood, and teachin' 'im when he speaks to a gemman to haddress 'im as sich; 'is face is swelled as big as too, and he'll 'ave a sweet pair of black hyes to-morrer, please goodness, which is a comfort to reflect on. Touchin' uther matturs, I've got scent of summut as may make things seeme not so black as we thort, but it's honly in the hegg at present, and may never come to a chickin, so don't go settin' too much on it; but if you've nothin' better to do, ride over agen the day arter to-morrer, by which time I may have more to communicate, "Your humbel servent to command,

"Peter Barnett."

I pondered for some minutes on what this enigmatical document might portend; but a little reflection served to convince me that neither Peter nor any one else could discover aught affecting the only feature of the whole affair which deeply interested me; on that point I had obtained the information of my own senses, and there was nothing more to hope or fear. I had learned the worst; the blow had fallen, and it only remained for me to bear it with what fortitude I might. Accordingly I enclosed my note to Clara in one to Peter Barnett, telling him I could see no reason for coming there again, and that in all probability I should not take the trouble of doing so, adding that if he had anything new to communicate he had better do so in writing; and then, ordering my horse, I rode slowly home, feeling more [402] thoroughly miserable than I had ever done before in the whole course of my life.

The next morning was so fine that all kinds of pleasurable schemes were proposed and acceded to. Oaklands and Fanny rode out together in all the unrestrained freedom of an engaged tête-à-tête. The new dog-cart had arrived, and the chestnuts were to make their début; consequently, Lawless spent the morning in the stable-yard, united by the closest bonds of sympathy with the head-groom and an attendant harness-maker, the latter being a young man whose distinguishing characteristics were a strong personal savour of new leather, hands gloved in cobbler's wax and harness-dye, and a general tendency to come off black upon everything he approached. Sir John and the rest of the party were to fill a britchska, and the place of rendezvous was the ruins of an old abbey about eight miles distant.

Feeling quite unfit for society, I had excused myself on the plea (not altogether a false one) of a bad headache, and having witnessed their departure from the library window, I drew an easy-chair to the fire, and prepared to enjoy the luxury (in my then state of feeling an unspeakable one) of solitude. But I was not fated to avail myself of even this small consolation, for scarcely ten minutes had elapsed when the library door was opened, and Mr. Frampton made his appearance.

"Umph! eh! umph!" he began; "I've been seeing that young fool Lawless start in his new tandem, as he calls it. A pretty start it was too; why, the thing's as high as a stage-coach—ought to have a ladder to get up—almost as bad as mounting an elephant! And then the horses, fiery devils! two men at each of their noses, and enough to do to hold 'em even so! Well, out comes Master Lawless, in a greatcoat made like a coal-sack, with buttons as big as five-shilling pieces, a whip as long as a fishing-rod in his hand, and a cigar in his mouth. 'There's a picture!' says he. 'A picture of folly,' says I; 'you're never going to be mad enough to trust yourself up there Behind those vicious brutes?' 'Come, governor, jump in, and let's be off,' was all the answer I got. 'Thank ye,' says I; 'when you see me jumping in that direction, pop me into a strait-waistcoat, and toddle me off to Bedlam.' 'Eh! won't you go? Tumble in then, Shrimp!' 'Please, sir, it's so high I can't reach it.' 'We'll soon see about that!' cries Lawless, flanking him with the long whip. Well, the little wretch scrambled up somehow, like a monkey; and as soon as he was [403] safely landed, what does he do but lean back, fold his arms, and winking at one of the helpers, squeak out, 'Oh, crickey! ain't this spicy, just!' 'You're never going to take that poor child?' says I; 'only think of his anxious mother! 'Well, sir, if you'll believe it, they every one of 'em burst out laughing—helpers, brat and all—as if I'd said something very ridiculous. 'Never mind, governor,' says Lawless; 'depend upon it, his mother knows he's out,' and catching hold of the reins, he clambers up into his seat, shouting, 'Give 'em their heads! Stand clear! Chut! chut! 'As soon as the brutes found they were loose, instead of starting off at a jog-trot, as reasonable, well-behaved horses ought to do, what do you suppose they did? The beast they tied on in front turned short round, stared Lawless in the face, and stood up on its hind legs like a kangaroo, while the other animal would not stir a peg, but, laying down his ears, gave a sort of a screech, and kicked out behind. 'Pretty, playful things,' said Lawless, flipping the ashes off the end of his cigar. 'Put his head straight, William. Chut! chut! 'But the more he chutted the more they wouldn't go, and began tearing and rampaging about the yard till I thought they'd be over me, so I scrambled up a little low wall to get out of their way, missed my footing, and tumbled over backwards on to a dung-heap, and before I got up again they were off; but if that young jackanapes don't break his neck some of those days, I'm a Dutchman! Umph! umph!"

"Lawless is a capital whip," replied I, "and the chestnuts, though fiery, are not really vicious. I don't think there is much danger."

"Ah young men! young men! you're all foolish alike. I don't know how you'd get on, if you hadn't a few old stagers like me to think for you and give you good advice.—And that puts me in mind that I want to have half an hour's serious conversation with you, Frank. Can you listen to me now?"

"I am quite at your service, sir," replied I, resigning myself to my fate with the best grace I could command.

"Umph! Well, you see, Frank, I've no chick nor child of my own, and I've taken a kind of a fancy to you from a boy; you were always a good boy and a clever boy, and you've gone on well at college, and distinguished yourself, and have been a credit to the man that sent you there.—By the bye, didn't you ever want to know who it was sent you there?"

"Often and often," replied I, "have I longed to know [404] to whose disinterested kindness and generosity I was indebted for so great an advantage."

"Umph! Well, you must be told some day, I suppose, so you may as well know now as at any other time. The man that sent you to college ain't very unlike me in the face. Umph!"

"My dear, kind friend," replied I, seizing his hand and pressing it warmly, "and is it indeed you who have taken such interest in me? How can I ever thank you?"

"I want no thanks, boy; you did better than thank me when you came out fourth wrangler; why, I felt as proud that day when they were all praising you as if it had been my own son. Say no more about that; but now you've left college, what are your wishes—what do you think of doing? Umph!"

"I had thought of reading for the bar, deeming it a profession in which a man stands a fair chance of distinguishing himself by honourable exertion; I am aware it is somewhat uphill work at starting, but Mr. Coleman has promised to introduce me to several men in his branch of the profession, and to give me all the business he can himself, so I should not be quite a briefless barrister. But if there is anything else you wish to recommend, any other career you would advise me to pursue, I am very indifferent, that is, I am not at all bigoted to my own opinion."

"Umph! I never had any over-strong affection for lawyers—gentlemen that eat the oysters themselves and leave their clients the shells! However, I suppose there may be such things as honest lawyers to be met with, and it's better for every man to have a profession. Well, now, listen to me, Frank, I—umph!—your sister's going to be married, to be married to a young man for whom I've a very great respect and affection; Sir John Oaklands is a thorough specimen of a fine old English gentleman, and his son bids fair to become just such another, or even a yet higher character, for Harry's got the better headpiece of the two. However, I don't like your sister to marry into such a family without a little money of her own to buy a wedding-bonnet; so you give her this letter, and tell her to mind and get a becoming one. We may trust a woman to take care of that, though, eh, Frank? Umph!"

"Really, sir, your kindness quite overpowers me; we have no possible claim upon your liberality."

"Yes, you have, boy—yes, you have," replied Mr. Frampton, "the strongest claim that can be; you have [405] saved me from falling a victim to the worst disease a man can suffer under—you have saved me from becoming a cold-hearted, soured misanthrope; you have given me something to love, some pure unselfish interest in life. And now we are on this subject, I may as well tell you all my plans and wishes in regard to you: I have no soul belonging to me, not a relation in the wide world that I am aware of, and I determined, from the time when I first sent you to college, that if you conducted yourself well and honourably, I would make you my heir.—Don't interrupt me," he continued, seeing that I was about to speak, "let me finish what I have to say, and then you shall tell me whether you approve of it. You not only came up to, but far surpassed, my most sanguine expectations, and I saw therefore no reason to alter my original intentions. But it is stupid work for a man to wait till all the best days of his life are passed, without funds sufficient to render him independent, to feel all his energies cramped, his talents dwarfed, and his brightest aspirations checked, by a servile dependence on the will and caprice of another—waiting for dead men's shoes—umph! and so, Frank, as I feel pretty tough and hearty for sixty-five, and may live, if it please God, another ten or fifteen years to plague you, it's my wish to make you your own master at once, and I'll either assist you to enter any profession you please, or if you like to settle down into a country gentleman, and can pick up a nice wife anywhere, I can allow you one thousand pounds a year to begin with, and yet have more than I shall know how to spend during the rest of my days in the land of the living. For my own part, this last plan would give me the greatest satisfaction, for I should like to see you comfortably married and settled before I die. Now, what do you say to it? Umph!"

What did I say?—what could I say? I got up, and having once again pressed his hands warmly between my own, began pacing the room, quite overcome by this unexpected liberality, and the conflicting nature of my own feelings. But two short days ago, and such an offer would have been—as I then fondly imagined—the only thing wanting to secure my happiness; possessed of such ample means of supporting her, I could at once have gone boldly to Mr. Vernor, and demanded Clara's hand—nor could he have found just cause for refusing my request; and now, when what once appeared the only insurmountable obstacle to our union was thus removed, the thought that, by her faithlessness and inconstancy, she had placed [406] a barrier between us for ever, was indeed bitter. Surprised by the excess of my emotion, for which, of course, he was totally unable to account, Mr. Frampton sat gazing at me with looks of astonishment and dismay, till at length he broke out with the following interrogatory, "Umph! eh? why, Frank—umph! anybody would think you had just heard you were going to be arrested for debt, instead of having a fortune given you—Umph!"

"My dear, kind friend," replied I, "forgive me. Your unparalleled liberality, and the generous interest you take in me, give you a father's right over me, and entitle you to my fullest confidence; such an offer as you have now made me would have rendered me, but one short week ago, the happiest of mortals; now, my only chance of regaining anything like tranquillity of mind lies in constant and active employment."

I then gave him as briefly as I could an outline of my singular acquaintance with Clara Saville, our engagement, and the events which had led to my breaking it off, to all of which he listened with the greatest interest and attention. In telling the tale I mentioned Wilford and Cumberland by name, as he knew the former by reputation, and had seen the latter when a boy at Dr. Mildman's; but I merely spoke of Clara as a young lady whom I had met at Mr. Coleman's, and of Mr. Vernor as her guardian. When I concluded, he remained for a moment buried in thought, and then said, "And you are quite sure she is false? Are you certain that what you heard her say (for that seems to me the strongest point) referred to you?"

"Would I could doubt it!" replied I, shaking my head mournfully.

"Umph!—Well, I dare say—she's only like all the rest of her sex: it's a pity the world can't go on without any women at all,—what is her name?—a jilt!"

"Her name," replied I, shuddering as he applied the epithet of jilt to her—for, deserved as I could not but own it was, it yet appeared to me little short of profanation—"her name is Clara Saville."

"Umph! eh? Saville!" exclaimed Mr. Frampton. "What was her mother's name? Umph!"

"I never heard," replied I. "Her father, Colonel Saville, was knighted for his gallant conduct in the Peninsula. Her mother, who was an heiress, died abroad: her guardian, Mr. Vernor—"

"Umph! Vernor, eh! Vernor! Why that's the fellow who wrote to me and told me—Umph! wait a bit, I shall be back directly. I—eh!—umph! umph! umph!"

[407] And so saying, Mr. Frampton rushed out of the room in a perfect paroxysm of grunting. It was now my turn to be astonished, and I was so most thoroughly. What could possibly have caused Mr. Frampton to be so strangely affected at the mention of Clara's name and that of her guardian? Had he known Mr. Vernor in former days? Had he been acquainted with Clara's father or mother? Could he have been attached to her as I had been to Clara, and like me, too, have become the dupe of a heartless jilt? A jilt—how I hated the word! how the blood boiled within me when that old man applied it to her! And yet it was the truth. But oh! the heart-spasm that darts through our breast when we hear some careless tongue proclaim, in plain intelligible language, the fault of one we love—a fault which, even at the moment when we may be suffering from it most deeply, we have striven sedulously to hide from others, and scarcely acknowledged definitely to ourselves. In vague musings, such as these, did I pass away the time till Mr. Frampton returned. As he approached, the traces of strong emotion were visible on his countenance; and when he spoke his voice sounded hoarse and broken.

"The ways of God are indeed inscrutable," he said. "Information, which for years I have vainly sought, and would gladly have given half my wealth to obtain, has come to me when I least expected it; and, in place of joy, has brought me deepest sorrow. Frank, my poor boy! she who has thus wrung thy true heart by her cruel falsehood is my niece, the orphan child of my sister!"

In reply to my exclamations of surprise, he proceeded to inform me that his father, a man of considerable property in one of the midland counties, had had three children: himself, an elder brother, and a sister some years his junior, whose birth deprived him of a mother's love. His brother tyrannised over him; and on the occasion of his father's second marriage, he was sent to school, where he was again unfortunate enough to meet with harsh treatment, against which his high spirit rebelled; and having no better counsellors than his own inexperience and impetuosity, he determined to run away and go to sea. A succession of accidents conspired to prevent his return to his native country, until, being taken as clerk in a merchant's counting-house at Calcutta, he was eventually admitted into partnership, and acquired a large fortune. As he advanced beyond middle life, he felt a strong wish to return to England, seek out his family, and revisit the scenes of his boyhood; but on carrying [408] his project into execution, he learned that his father and brother had both paid the debt of nature, while his sister, the only one of his relatives towards whom he had ever entertained much affection, had married a Colonel Saville; and having accompanied her husband to Spain, had died there without leaving any offspring. The last piece of information he had acquired from a Mr. Vernor, to whom he had been recommended to apply. His surprise, therefore, when he heard of the existence of Clara, may easily be imagined. A long conversation ensued between us, with the consequences of which the reader will be better acquainted when he shall have read the following chapter.

CHAPTER L — A RAY OF SUNSHINE

     "When you shall please to play the thief for a wife, I'll
     watch as long for you."
     —Shakspeare.

     "Hold! give me a pen and ink! Sirrah, can you with a grace
     deliver a supplication?
     —Titus Andronicus.

THE result of my conversation with Mr. Frampton was, that I agreed to ride over on the following day to the little inn at Barstone, see old Peter Barnett, hear his report, and learn from him further particulars concerning Clara Saville's parentage, in order to establish beyond the possibility of doubt the fact of her relationship to Mr. Frampton, who, in the event of his expectations proving well-founded, was determined to assert his claim, supersede Mr.Vernor in his office of guardian, and endeavour, by every means in his power, to prevent his niece's marriage either with Wilford or Cumberland. The only stipulation I made was, that when I had obtained the requisite information, he should take the affair entirely into his own hands, and, above all, promise me never to attempt, directly or indirectly, to bring about a reconciliation between Clara and myself. Not that I bore her any ill-will for the misery she had caused me. On the contrary, my feeling towards her had been from the very first one of grief rather than of anger. But a girl who could possibly have acted as Clara had done, was not one whom I ever should wish to make my wife. I could not marry a woman I despised.

After Mr. Frampton had left me, I sat pondering on the singular train of circumstances (chances, as we unwisely, if not sinfully, term them) which occur in a [409] man's life—how events which change the whole current of our existence appear to hang upon the merest trifles—the strange, mysterious influence we exercise over the destinies of each other—how by a word, a look, we may heal an aching heart or—break it. It is, I think, in a poem of Faber's that the following lines occur—(I quote from memory, and therefore, perhaps, incorrectly):—

         "Perchance our very souls
          Are in each other's hands."

Life is, indeed, a fearful and wonderful thing—doubly fearful when we reflect, that every moment we expend for good or evil is a seed sown to blossom in eternity. As I thought on these things, something which Mr. Frampton had said, and which at the time I let pass without reflection, recurred to my mind. He had asked me whether I was certain that the words I heard Clara address to Wilford referred to me. Up to this moment I had felt perfectly sure they did; but after all, was it so certain? might they not equally well apply to Cumberland? was there a chance, was it even possible, that I had misunderstood her? Oh, that I dare hope it! gladly would I seek her pardon for the injustice I had done her—gladly would I undergo any probation she might appoint, to atone for my want of faith in her constancy, even if it entailed years of banishment from her presence, the most severe punishment my imagination could devise; but then the facts, the stubborn, immovable facts, my letters received and unanswered—the confidential footing she was on with Wilford—the—But why madden myself by recapitulating the hateful catalogue? I had learned the worst, and would not suffer myself to be again beguiled by the mere phantom of a hope. And yet, so thoroughly inconsistent are we, that my heart felt lightened of half its burden; and when the pleasure-seekers returned from their expedition, I was congratulated by the whole party upon the beneficial effects produced on my headache by perfect rest and quiet. Lawless and Coleman made their appearance some half-hour after the others, and just as Mr. Frampton had promulgated the cheering opinion that they would be brought home on shutters, minus their brains, if they ever possessed any. It seemed the chestnuts having at starting relieved their minds by the little ballet d'action which had excited Mr. Frampton's terrors, did their work in so fascinating a manner, that Lawless, not being satisfied with Shrimp's declaration that "they [410] was the stunnin'est 'orses as hever he'd sot hyes on," determined (wishing to display their perfections to a higher audience) that one of the party should accompany him on his return; whereupon Freddy Coleman had been by common consent selected, much against his will. However, "the victim," as he termed himself, escaped without anything very tremendous happening to him, the chestnuts (with the slight exception of running away across a common, rushing through a flock of geese, thereby bringing a premature Michaelmas on certain unfortunate individuals of the party in a very reckless and unceremonious manner, and dashing within a few inches of a gravel-pit, in a way which was more exciting than agreeable) having conducted themselves (or more properly speaking, allowed themselves to be conducted) as well-bred horses ought to do.

When the party separated to prepare for dinner, I called Fanny on one side, and gave her Sir. Frampton's letter: on opening it a banker's order for three thousand pounds dropped out of it—a new instance of my kind friend's liberality, which really distressed more than it gratified me.

During the course of the evening Harry Oaklands expressed so much anxiety about my ill looks, appearing almost hurt at my reserve, that I could hold out no longer, but was forced to take him into my confidence.

"My poor Frank!" exclaimed he, wringing my hand warmly, as I finished the recital, "to think that you should have been suffering all this sorrow and anxiety, while I, selfishly engrossed by my own feelings, had not an idea of it; but you ought to have told me sooner."

"Perhaps I should; but it has been, from the very beginning, such a strange, melancholy affair, so unlikely ever to turn out happily, that I have felt a strong repugnance to speak of it to any one; and even now I must beg you not to mention it to Fanny, at all events till my last act in the business is performed, and Mr. Frampton takes the matter into his own hands."

"After all," rejoined Oaklands, "I feel there must be some mistake; she never can be false to you—never love that villain Wilford. Oh, Frank! how can you bear to doubt her?"

"It is indeed misery to do so," replied I, sighing deeply; "and yet, when one's reason is convinced, it is weakness to give way to the suggestions of feeling."

"If Fanny were to prove false to me, I should lie down and die," exclaimed Oaklands vehemently.

"You might wish to do so," replied I; "but grief does [411] not always kill; if it did, in many cases it would lose half its bitterness."

A look was his only answer, and we parted for the night.

Daylight the next morning found me again in the saddle, and I reached the little inn by eight o'clock. On my arrival, I despatched a messenger to old Peter Barnett, telling him I wished to see him, and then, determining that I would not allow myself to hope, only again to be disappointed, I rang for breakfast, and set resolutely to work to demolish it; in which I succeeded very respectably, merely stopping to walk round the room and look out of the window between every second mouthful. At length my envoy returned, with a message to the effect that Mr. Barnett would come down in the course of the morning, but that I was by no means to go away without seeing him, and that he hoped I would be careful not to show myself, as the enemy were out in great force, and all the sentries had been doubled.

"What does he mean by that?" inquired I of the boy who delivered the message—an intelligent little urchin, who was evidently well up in the whole affair, and appeared highly delighted at the trust reposed in him, to say nothing of the harvest of sixpences his various missions produced him.

"Vy, sir, he means that the gamekeeper has had two extra assistants allowed him since you vos there the other day, sir, and they has strict orders to take hup anybody as they finds in the park, sir."

"They need not alarm themselves," replied I; "I shall not intrude upon their domain again in a hurry. Now look out, and let me know when Peter Barnett is coming."

So saying, I gave him the wished-for sixpence, and with a grin of satisfaction he departed.

With leaden feet the hours crawled along, and still old Peter Barnett did not make his appearance; when, about twelve o'clock, a horseman passed by, followed by a groom. As he rode at a very quiet pace, his face was easily recognised, and I saw at a glance it was Mr. Vernor. Fortunately he never looked towards the window at which I was standing, or he must have seen me. Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed, when old Peter arrived, breathless from the speed at which he had come; his grotesque but expressive features gleaming with delight and sagacity, while his merry little eyes danced and twinkled as if they would jump out of their sockets. Reassured, in spite of myself, by his manner, I exclaimed, as I closed the parlour [412] door behind him, "Well, Peter; speak out, man—what is it?"

"Oh! my breath!" was the reply, "running don't suit old legs like it does young uns. I say, sir, did ye see him go by?"

"I saw Mr. Vernor pass a few minutes since," replied I.

"Ah! that's what I've been a-waiting for; we're safe from him for the next four hours: he didn't see you, did he?"

"No," returned I, "he was fortunately looking another way."

"Well, it's all right then, everything's all right; oh! lor, I'm so happy."

"It's more than I am," replied I angrily; for feeling convinced that nothing could have occurred materially to affect the position in which Clara and I stood towards each other, the old man's joy grated harshly on my gloomy state of mind, and I began to attribute his excessive hilarity to the influence of the ale-tap. "You will drive me frantic with your ridiculous and unseasonable mirth. If you have anything to communicate likely to relieve my sorrow and anxiety, in the name of common sense speak out, man."

"I beg your pardon, sir; I was so happy myself, I was forgetting you: I've got so much to tell you, I don't know where to begin rightly; but, however, here goes—to the right-about face! March!" He then proceeded to give me, with much circumlocution, which I will mercifully spare the reader, the following account. After he had left me at the conclusion of our last interview, feeling, as he said, "more wretcheder" than he had ever done before, in going through the park, he observed two persons, a man and a woman, in close conversation; on his approach they separated, but not until he had been able to recognise Wilford, and one of the female servants, Clara's personal attendant. "This," as he continued, "set him a-thinking," and the result of his cogitations occasioned the mysterious hint thrown out to me in his note. On receiving my letter for Clara, he found an opportunity of delivering it in person, inquiring, when he did so, both when she had last heard from, and written to, me; at the same time informing her that he had a very particular reason for asking. He then learned what he had more than suspected from the interview he had witnessed in the park, namely, that since Wilford had been in the house, she had not only never received one of my letters, but had written to me more than once to ascertain the [413] cause of such an unaccountable silence. These letters she had, as usual, given to her maid to convey to Peter Barnett; and the girl, cajoled and bribed by Wilford, had evidently given them to him instead. This induced Peter, as he expressed it, "to open his heart to his young mistress," and with deep contrition he confessed to her the suspicions he had entertained of her fickleness, how he had communicated them to me, and how circumstances had forced me to believe them. Clara, naturally much distressed and annoyed by this information, blamed him for not having spoken to her sooner, assured him that he had wronged her deeply in imagining such things, and desired him somewhat haughtily to lose no time in undeceiving Mr. Fairlegh. He then inquired whether she wished to send any answer to my note; on which she read it through with a quivering lip, and replied, "Yes, tell him, that as he finds it so easy to believe evil of me, I agree with him that it will be better our acquaintance should terminate". She then motioned to him to leave the room, and he was obliged to obey; but, glancing at her as he closed the door, he perceived that she had covered her face with her hands, and was weeping bitterly. He next set to work with the waiting-maid, and by dint of threats of taking her before Mr. Vernor, and promises, if she confessed all, that he would intercede with Clara for her forgiveness, he elicited from her the whole truth—namely, that by the joint influence of bribes and soft speeches, Wilford had induced her to hand over to him her mistress's letters, and that he had detained every one either to or from me. "Well, sir," continued he, "that was not such a bad day's work altogether, but I ain't been idle since. Mr. Fleming, or Wilford, as you says he is, started off the first thing this morning for London, and ain't cumming back till the day after to-morrow; so, thinks I, we'll turn the tables upon you, my boy, for once—that ere letter dodge was very near a-ruining us, I wonder how it will hact the t'other way: and a lucky thought it was too, Muster Fairlegh, for sich a scheme of willainy as I've descivered all dewised against poor dear Miss Clara—"

"A scheme against Miss Saville!" exclaimed I; "what do you mean?"

"I'm a-going to tell you, sir, only you're in such a hurry, you puts me
out. After the thought as I was a-mentioning cum into my head, off I w
 [414] with you, ain't ye?' 'Let's look, my man,' says I, peeping
over him as he sorted the letters. Presently he cum to one as seemed to
puzzle him. 'W. I. L.,' says he, 'W.I. L. F.—' 'Oh!' says I, 'that's
the gent as is a-stay-ing at our 'ouse, give us 'old on it.' 'And here's
one for Mr. Wernor, and that's all,' says he, and he guv me the letter
and walked off. 'That's right, Peter,' says I to myself, 'we shall know
a little more of the henemy's movements, now we've captivated some of
their private despatches, by a coo-dur-mang, as the Mounseers call it;
'so I locks myself into the pantry, and sits down, and breaks the seal."

"You opened the letter!" exclaimed I.

"In course I did; how was I to read it if I hadn't? all's fair in love and war, you know—the blessed Duke of Wellington served Bony so many a time, I'll be bound; besides, hadn't he opened Miss Clara's, the blackguard? Well, sir, I read it, and it's lucky as I did; oh! he's a bad un, he's a deal wickeder than Muster Richard hisself, and that's saying something—it's from a Captain —"

"Really, Peter, I cannot avail myself of information obtained in such a manner," interrupted I.

"Ah! but you must though," was the reply, "if you want to prevent this black willain from carrying off Miss Clara, and marrying her, nolus bolus."

"Carrying off Miss Clara! what do you mean?"

"I was a-going to tell you," returned old Peter, with a cunning grin, producing a crumpled letter, "only' you wouldn't listen to me."

As I (not being prepared with a satisfactory answer) remained silent, he smoothed the letter with his hand, and read as follows:—

"My dear Sir,—I was unfortunately out of town when your letter arrived, and it had to be sent after me; but I hope you will get this in time to prevent your having to come to London., which is unnecessary, as I have been able to carry out all your arrangements as you would wish. A carriage, with four horses, will be kept in readiness, so that it can be brought to any point you may direct at half an hour's notice. I presume you and I, with Wilson [that's his valet], are sufficient to carry off the girl—young lady, I mean, even if there be any papa or brother in the case, who would be the better for a little knocking down; but if you like more assistance, I can lay my hand on two or three sprightly lads, who would be very glad to make themselves useful. You are flying at high game this time. Do you really mean matrimony, or is it to be the [415] old scheme, a mock marriage? I ask, because in the latter case I must look out for somebody to play parson. Wishing you your usual luck,

"I remain, yours to command,

"Ferdinand Spicer, "Captain in the Bilboa Fencibles."

"Spicer!" I exclaimed, as he concluded; "I knew a Captain Spicer once, who was a person likely enough to lend himself to a scheme of this vile nature. Well, Peter, the information is most important, however questionable the means by which it has been acquired. The matter must be looked to; but first, I want to learn a few particulars about Miss Saville's relations on the mother's side." I then proceeded with a string of questions furnished me by Mr. Frampton, by the answers to which I ascertained, beyond a doubt, that Clara was indeed his niece, the orphan child of his favourite sister. Having established this point to my own satisfaction, and the unbounded delight of Peter Barnett, who at length began to entertain a not unreasonable hope that his pet daydream of kicking Mr. Vernor out of Barstone Priory might, at some time or other be realised, I said, "Now, Peter, I must somehow contrive to see your young mistress, and try to obtain her forgiveness; but as I cannot say I managed the matter over-well the other day, I will put myself into your hands, to be guided by you entirely".

"Ah! I thought what was a-coming; well, that is speaking sensible-like for once; but do you think you could write anything as would persuade her to meet you? She's precious angry, I'm afraid, with us both, and small blame to her either; for hit ain't over-pleasant to be suspected when one's innocent, and she has a high spirit, bless her!—she wouldn't be her father's own daughter if she hadn't."

"I can write a few lines to her, and try," replied I mournfully, for the old man's words sounded like a death knell to my hopes.

"Come, don't be out of spirits, and down-casted-like, sir," urged Peter; "suppose she did make up her mind she'd give you the cold shoulder, she'd be sure to change it again to-morrow, women is such wersytile creeturs; besides, she couldn't do it if she wanted to; it would break her heart, I know. I wonder where she'd find such another sweetheart?" continued he, sotto voce, as he turned to get the writing materials; "good-looking, high-spirited, uncommon pleasant to talk to, six foot one [416] if he's an inch, and as upright as if I'd had the drilling of him myself."

With an eager, yet trembling hand (for I was in such a state of agitation that I could scarcely write), I snatched a pen, and hastily scrawled the following words:—

"Clara, will you—can you forgive me? It is of the utmost importance that I should see you and speak to you without delay, if but for five minutes; strange and unexpected things have come to light, and it is necessary for your happiness, nay, even for your very safety, that you should be made acquainted with them. Clara, dearest Clara, grant me this boon, if not for my sake, for your own; if you knew the misery, the agony of mind I have endured for the last two days, I think you would pity, would pardon me.

"There," said I, as I hastily sealed it, "I have done all I can, and if she will not see me, I shall be ready to go and blow Wilford's brains out first, and my own afterwards. So, my good Peter, be off at once, for every moment seems an hour till I learn her decision."

"Wait a bit, sir,—wait a bit; you haven't heard my plan yet. You can't set your foot in the park, for there's the keeper and two assistants on the look out; and if you could, you dare not show your nose in the house, for there's Muster Richard with his lovely black hyes a-setting in the liberary, and he's got ears like an 'are, besides two or three of the servants as would tell him in a minute. No, this is the way I means to manage—Miss Clara generally rides a-horseback every day, and I rides behind her; and before I came out, I ordered the horses as usual. So, if she's willing to come, we'll go out at the back gate by the great oak, a quarter of a mile farther down this lane, and when we've got out of sight of the park paling, you've nothing to do but set spurs to your horse, and join us;—therefore, if you hears nothing to the contrairy, when I've been gone half an hour, you mount your nag, ride quietly up the lane, and keep your hyes open."[417]

CHAPTER LI — FREDDY COLEMAN FALLS INTO DIFFICULTIES

          "I am he that am so love-shaked,—
          I pray you, tell me your remedy."
          —As You Like It.

          "I am sprighted with a fool, frighted, and angered worse."
          —Cymbeline.

OH! that tedious half-hour! I should like to know, merely as a curious matter of calculation, how many minutes there were in that half-hour—sixty-five at the very least; the hands of my watch stuck between the quarter and twenty minutes for full a quarter of an hour, and as for the old Dutch clock in the bar, that was worn out, completely good for nothing, I am certain, for I ordered my horse round to the door above ten minutes too soon by that, and I'm sure I didn't start before my time,—it would have been folly to do so, you know, because it was possible old Peter might send at any moment before the expiration of that half-hour. But at last even it came to an end—and no message had arrived; so, burning with impatience, I sprang into the saddle, and with difficulty restraining myself from dashing off at a gallop, I reined in the mare, and proceeded at a foot's pace up the lane.

After riding about a quarter of a mile, I perceived a small hand-gate just under a magnificent oak, which I at once recognised as the tree old Peter had described. Unwilling to attract the notice of the gamekeeper and his myrmidons by loitering about in the lane, I discovered a gap in a hedge on the other side the road, and, after glancing round to see that I was unobserved, I rode at it, and leaped into the opposite field, where, hidden behind a clump of alders, I could perceive all that passed in the road. But for a long time nothing did pass, save a picturesque donkey, whose fore-feet being fastened together by what are called "hobbles,"{1} advanced by a series of jumps—a mode of progression which greatly alarmed the sensitive nerves of my mare, causing her to plunge and pull in a way which gave me some trouble to hold her.

After I had succeeded in quieting her, I dismounted, and, tightening the saddle-girths, which had become loosened during her struggles, got on again; still no one came. At length, just as I was beginning to despair, I heard the

     1 Query, whether so called because they oblige the wearer to
     hobble ?

[418] sound of horses' feet, and old Peter, mounted on a stout cob, rode to the wicket-gate, and heldit open, while Clara on a pretty chestnut pony cantered up, and passed through it.

Oh! how my heart beat, when, reining in her pony, she glanced round for a moment, as if in search of something, and then, with a slight gesture of disappointment, struck him lightly with her riding-whip, and bounded forward. Old Peter seemed still more puzzled, and looked up and down the road with an air of the most amusing perplexity, before he made up his mind to follow his mistress. About a hundred yards from this spot, the lane turned abruptly to the left, skirting a second side of the square field in which I had taken up my position; by crossing this field, therefore, I conceived I should cut off a great angle, and regain the road before they came up.

Setting spurs to my horse then, I rode off at speed, trusting to find some gate or gap by which I might effect my exit. In this calculation, however, I was deceived; instead of anything of the sort, my eyes were greeted by a stiff ox-fence, with a rather unpleasantly high fall of ground into the lane beyond,—a sort of place well fitted to winnow a hunting-field, and sift the gentlemen who come out merely to show their white gloves and buckskins, from the "real sort," who "mean going," and are resolved to see the end of the run. However, in the humour in which I then was, it would not have been easy to stop me, and holding the mare well together, I put her steadily at it. Fortunately, she was a first-rate fencer, and knew her work capitally, as she proved in the present instance, by rising to the leap, clearing the fence in beautiful style, and dropping lightly into the lane beyond, without so much as a stumble, just as Clara and her attendant turned the corner of the road and came in sight. My sudden appearance frightened Clara's pony to a degree which justified me in riding up and assisting her to reduce it to order. Having accomplished this not very difficult task, I waited for a moment, hoping she would be the first to speak, but finding she remained silent, I began, "Really, I am most unfortunate; I had no idea you were near enough for me to startle the pony,—I hope I have not alarmed you".

"How can you risk your life so madly," she replied, in a tone of reproach, "and for no reason, too?"

"Is my safety indeed an object of interest to you?" inquired I; then, unable to restrain myself any longer, I continued, "Clara, dearest Clara, have you forgiven me? Indeed, I have been punished sufficiently; I have been so utterly, so intensely miserable."

[419] "And have I been happy, do you think? Frank, it was cruel of you to doubt me—you, to whom I have told everything—you, who of all the world should have been the last to mistrust me; I never could have doubted you."

"It was cruel; it was ungenerous in the extreme, I own it—and yet, believe me, dear Clara, I did not doubt you lightly; proofs, that to my short-sightedness appeared incontrovertible, were brought against you; the letters I wrote, entreating you if but by a line or message to relieve, my anxiety, remaining unanswered—letters which I was assured you had received—your sudden intimacy with that hateful Wilford—"

"Stay!" she exclaimed, interrupting me, "let me explain that at once; it is easy to show you how that is to be accounted for—"

"Indeed, Clara, it is unnecessary," I began.

"If not for your satisfaction, at least for my own, let me explain how this sudden good understanding with one so lately a stranger to me arose:" she continued, "Richard Cumberland, on his return, seemed resolved to throw off all disguise, and determined to make me feel that I was in his power; his attentions became most intolerable, and all my endeavours to repulse him appeared but to increase the evil. This went on till I was obliged to remain in my own room the greater portion of every day, and actually dreaded the approach of dinner-time, when I knew I should be forced to endure his society. The arrival of Mr. Fleming, or Wilford, as you say his real name is, was therefore a great relief to me. Cumberland, for some reason or other, appears most anxious to keep on good terms with him—why, I cannot tell, for I am much mistaken if he does not both hate and fear him. Mr. Wilford, who, whatever his real character may be, possesses great tact and penetration, and can behave like a most refined and polished gentleman, appeared to discover by intuition that Cumberland's attentions were distasteful to me, and contrived in a thousand different ways to relieve me from them, always doing so with the most perfect sang-froid and apparent unconsciousness. Although, from the first moment I saw him, I felt an instinctive mistrust and fear of him, I could not but feel grateful for the delicate tact with which he came to my assistance; and as the only effectual way to distance Richard Cumberland appeared to be conversing with Mr. Wilford, I can well understand even a more intelligent observer than my faithful old Peter fancying that I gave him encouragement. I was [420] further induced to admit his society from the fact, that he never attempted in the slightest degree to take unfair advantage of the unusual intimacy which circumstances had produced between us. He had never even alluded to Cumberland's attentions (though he must have been long aware of them, and of the annoyance they occasioned me) till that unfortunate morning when the encounter took place between you in the Park.

"At the breakfast-table that day, some scheme had been proposed which would have involved my riding alone with Mr. Cumberland; on my endeavouring to avoid doing so, provoked beyond endurance, he forgot his usual caution, and made some brutal allusion to the time when his will, and not my caprice, would be the law, doing so with such coarse violence that I left the room in tears. Mr. Vernor summoned me shortly afterwards to walk with him, in order, as I believe, to lecture me; but his purpose was frustrated by Mr. Wilford's joining us. Just before we met you, my guardian was accidentally called away, when Mr. Wilford expressed his indignation at the scene which had taken place at breakfast, and his surprise that I found it possible to endure such insolence, adding, that he had ventured to remonstrate with Mr. Cumberland on the subject, but had been angrily repulsed. I really felt obliged to him for what I deemed his disinterested kindness; and, in the course of conversation, allowed him to elicit from me an account of my early engagement to Richard Cumberland; and the words which you so strangely overheard, referred, as you may easily believe, to that."

"Of course they did," exclaimed I. "What a self-tormenting idiot I have made of myself! However, I was only rightly served for ever having doubted your faith; but, dearest Clara, you must be subject no longer to the insolent attentions of Cumberland, or the sinister designs of Wilford; and it is at length my happiness to possess the power, as well as the will, to save you from further molestation; strange things have come to light."

I then informed her of the existence of Mr. Frampton, and his relationship to her; told her of his generous intentions in my behalf, and how, thanks to these circumstances, her consent was the only thing wanting to our immediate union. With mingled surprise and pleasure she listened to my recital; and with downcast eyes and most becoming blushes, gave ear to my entreaties for pardon, and hopes that she would not throw any unnecessary delay in the way of our marriage. Before [421] I left her, I had received full forgiveness for my unjust doubts and suspicions, and was allowed to indulge in a not unfounded hope that Mr. Frampton's recovery of his niece would only prove the precursor to my obtaining a wife. It was agreed that, on the following day but one, Mr. Frampton—who had to go to London to consult with his lawyer touching the legalities of the affair—should come to Barstone, and, bearding Mr. Vernor in his den, establish his claim. As Wilford was not to return till the same day, and as I proposed accompanying Mr. Frampton, I thought I should be alarming Clara unnecessarily if I were to inform her of Wilford's designs. I therefore merely cautioned her against him generally, begging her never to trust herself with him alone, and adding, that I hoped she would see nothing more of him before she was placed under the protection of her uncle, of whom I drew—as he so well deserved at my hands—a most favourable picture, though I did not attempt to conceal his eccentricities either of manner or appearance, considering it better she should be prepared for them beforehand. So we rode on side by side, happy in each other's society, the bright sunshine, which threw its golden mantle over the gnarled limbs and wide-spreading branches of the old trees beneath which we passed, being scarcely brighter or more genial than the joy which shed its sunlight on our hearts, replacing the dreary shadows of the past with fair hopes and gladsome prospects for the future; and when we parted, which was not till we had ridden a circuit of some miles, and exercise had brought back the rose to Clara's pale cheeks, and joy the smile to her lip, we did so in the full assurance that, after our next meeting, man's self-interest and injustice should be powerless to interfere further with our happiness. Were these bright hopes ever fated to be realised?

After cautioning old Peter to watch over his young mistress as a mother over her child, telling him I should return in time to frustrate any plan Wilford might devise, and begging him, if anything unexpected should occur, instantly to despatch a messenger to me, I took leave of Clara with one of those lingering pressures of the hand which tell, better than words, of full hearts, to which it is indeed grief to separate; and setting spurs to my horse, I rode back to Heathfield as different a being from what I was when I left it, as though I had literally "changed my mind" for that of some other individual.

My first care on reaching the Hall was to relieve Mr. Frampton's anxiety, and when he learned that his niece [422] was not the jilt he had deemed her, but quite perfection (for that was what I stated, with the same quiet certainty of promulgating an incontrovertible fact, with which I should have declared twice two to be four), his delight knew no bounds, and the way in which he shook my hands, and slapped me on the back, and told me, with many grunts, that I should "marry the girl," even if he had to thrash old Vernor with his own hand in order to obtain possession of her for me, was enough to do any one's heart good to witness. I had no lack of talking to get through myself either; first Harry Oaklands had to be told the successful issue of the day's adventure, then Fanny was to be taken into our confidence; and next, the greatest caution was to be observed, and many deep and politic schemes concocted, in order to bring my mother to a proper comprehension of the whole matter without completely overwhelming her—all which cunning devices were frustrated by Mr. Frampton, who got at her surreptitiously, and told her the entire affair in a short, sharp and decisive harangue, which completely upset her for the rest of the evening, and left a permanent impression on her mind, that somehow or other I had behaved very ill. Early on the following morning Mr. Frampton went off to town to consult his lawyer, promising to return in time for dinner, if possible, but at all events so as to be ready to start on our Barstone campaign the first thing the next day, that no time might be lost in freeing Clara from the disagreeables, if not positive dangers, which surrounded her. As I was crossing the hall after seeing Mr. Frampton off, Lawless seized me by the arm, and drawing me on one side, began: "I say, Frank, I want a word with you; there's something gone wrong with Freddy Coleman. I never saw him so down in the mouth before; there's a screw loose somewhere, depend upon it."

"Something wrong with Freddy," repeated I, "impossible! why I was laughing with him a quarter of an hour ago; he was making all sorts of quaint remarks on the chaise that came for Mr. Frampton, and poking fun at the post-boy. Where is he?"

"Eh? wait a bit, I'll tell you directly; he had a letter brought him just as Governor Frampton started, and as he cast his eye over it, he first got as red as a carrot, then he turned as pale as a turnip, and bolted off into the library like a lamplighter, where he sits looking as if he had been to the wash, and come back again only half-starched."

"That's better than if he were 'terribly mangled,' to carry on your simile," returned I; "but didn't you ask him what was the matter?"

[423] "Eh? no, I've made such a mess of things lately, that I thought I'd better leave it alone, for that I was safe to put my foot in it one way or other, so I came and told you instead."

"Well, we'll see about it," replied I, turning towards the library; "perhaps he has received some bad news from home: his father or mother may be ill."

On entering the room we perceived Coleman seated in one of the windows, his head resting on his hand, looking certainly particularly miserable, and altogether unlike himself. So engrossed was he that he never heard our approach, and I had crossed the room, and was close to him, before he perceived me; consequently, the first word I uttered made him jump violently—an action which elicited from Lawless a sotto voce exclamation of, "Steady there, keep a tight hand on the near rein; well, that was a shy!"

"Freddy," began I, "I did not mean to startle you so; but is anything the matter, old fellow?"

"You've frightened me out of six months' growth," was the reply; "matter! what should make you think that?"

"Well, if you must know," returned Lawless, "I told him I thought there was a screw loose with you, and I haven't changed my mind about it yet either. Any unsoundness shown itself at home, eh? I thought your governor looked rather puffy about the pasterns the last time I saw him, besides being touched in the wind, and your mother has got a decided strain of the back sinews."

"No, they're well enough," replied Freddy with a faint smile.

"Then you've entered your affections for some maiden stakes, and the favourite has bolted with a cornet of horse?"

"That's more like it," returned Coleman, "though you've not quite hit it yet—but I'll tell you, man, if it's any satisfaction to you to hear that others are as unlucky as yourself, or worse, for what I know. I'm not greatly given to the lachrymose and sentimental, in a general way, but I must confess this morning to a little touch of the heartache. You see, Frank," he continued, turning to me, "there's my cousin Lucy Markham, the little girl with the black eyes—"

"You forget that she was staying with us last week," interrupted I.

"To be sure she was," resumed Freddy; "this vile letter has put everything out of my head—well, she and [424] I—we've known each other since we were children—in fact, for the last four or five years she has nearly lived with us, and there's a great deal in habit, and propinquity, and all that sort of thing. 'Man was not made to live alone,' and I'm sure woman wasn't either, for they would have nobody to exercise their tongues upon, and would die from repletion of small-talk, or a pressure of gossip on the brain, or some such thing; and so a complication of all these causes led us in our romantic moments to indulge in visions of a snug little fireside, garnished with an intelligent household cat, and a bright copper tea-kettle, with ourselves seated one in each corner, regarding the scene with the complacent gaze of proprietors; and we were only waiting till my father should fulfil his promise of taking me into partnership, to broach the said scheme to the old people, and endeavour to get it realised. But lately there has been a fat fool coming constantly to our house, who has chosen to fancy Lucy would make him a good fooless; and although the dear girl has nearly teased, snubbed, and worried him to the borders of insanity, he has gone on persevering with asinine obstinacy, till he has actually dared to pop the question."

"Well, let her say 'no' as if she meant it," said Lawless; "women can, if they like, eh? and then it will all be as right as ninepence. Eh! don't you see?"

"Easier said than done, Lawless, unfortunately," replied Coleman; "my fat rival is the son of an opulent drysalter, and last year he contrived to get rid of his father."

"Dry-salted him, perhaps?" suggested Lawless.

"The consequence is," continued Coleman, not heeding the interruption, "he is as rich as Croesus; now Lucy hasn't a penny, and all her family are as poor as rats, so what does he do but go to my father, promises to settle no end of tin on her, and ends by asking him to manage the matter for him. Whereupon the governor sends for Lucy, spins her a long yarn about duty to her family, declares she'll never get a better offer, and winds up by desiring her to accept the dolt forthwith; and Lucy writes to me, poor girl! to say she's in a regular fix, and thinks she'd better die of a broken heart on the spot, unless I can propose any less distressing but equally efficient alternative."

"What does your governor say? that she'll never have a better offer?" asked Lawless.

"Yes," replied Freddy, "and, in the common acceptation of the term, I'm afraid it's a melancholy truth."

"Hum! yes, that'll do," continued Lawless [425] meditatively. "Freddy, I've thought of a splendid dodge, by which we may obtain the following advantages. Imprimis, selling the governor no end; secundis, insuring me a jolly lark—and 'pon my word I require a little innocent recreation to raise my spirits; and, lastly, enabling you to marry your cousin, and thus end, as the pantomimes always do, with a grand triumph of virtue and true love over tyranny and oppression! So now, listen to me!"

CHAPTER LII — LAWLESS ASTONISHES MR. COLEMAN

     "'Now, all your writers do consent that ipse is he; now,
     are you not ipse, for I am he?' "'Which he, sir?' "'He,
     sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you clown,
     abandon—which is, in the vulgar, leave the society—which,
     in the boorish, is company of this female—which, in the
     common, is woman—which together is, abandon the society of
     this female; or clown.... I will o'errun thee with policy;
     therefore tremble, and depart.'"
     —As You Like, It.

"AS far as I understand the matter," said Lawless, nodding sapiently, "the great obstacle to your happiness is the drysalter, and the chief object you desire to attain is his total abolition, eh?"

Coleman assenting to these premises, Lawless continued, "Supposing, by certain crafty dodges, this desirable consummation arrived at, if you could show your governor that you had four or five hundred pounds a year of your own to start with, one of his main objections to your union with this female—young woman would be knocked on the head?"

"My good fellow," returned Freddy with a slight tone of annoyance, "I'm as fond of a joke as any man, but when I tell you that I am foolish enough to take this matter somewhat deeply to heart—that if Lucy is forced to marry the brute, she'll be wretched for life, and I shall not be much otherwise—I think you'll choose some other subject for your mirth."

"Why, Freddy, old boy, you don't suppose I'm poking fun at you, do you? Why, I would not do such a thing at any price—no! 'pon my honour, I'm as serious as a judge, I am indeed; but the best way will be to tell you my plan at once, and then you'll see the logic of the thing. In the first place, your governor says that Lucy is to [426] marry the drysalter, because he's the best offer she's ever likely to have, doesn't he?"

"Yes, that's right enough, so far," replied Freddy.

"What's the drysalter worth? whereabouts is the figure?"

"Two thousand a year, they say," returned Freddy with a sigh.

"And I shall come into nearer five, in a month's time," returned Lawless; "got the whip hand of him there, and no mistake."

"You!" exclaimed Coleman, astonished.

"Eh, yes! I, my own self—the Honourable George Lawless at your service, age five and twenty—height five feet nine—rides under ten stone—sound wind and limb—five thousand per annum, clear income and a peerage in perspective—ain't that better than a drysalter, eh?"

"Why, Lawless, you are gone stark staring mad," interrupted I; "what on earth has all that got to do with Freddy and his cousin?"

"Don't stop him," cried Coleman, "I begin to see what he is aiming at."

"Eh! of course you do, Freddy, boy," continued Lawless; "and it's not such a bad dodge either, is it? Your governor lays down the broad principle that the highest bidder shall be the purchaser, and on this ground backs the drysalter; now if I drive over this morning, propose in due form for your cousin's hand, and outbid the aforesaid drysalting individual, the governor must either sacrifice his consistency, or accept my offer."

"Well, and suppose he does, what good have you done then?" asked I.

"Eh, good?" returned Lawless, "every good to be sure; and first and foremost knocked over the drysalter—if I'm accepted, he must be rejected, that's a self-evident fact. Well, once get rid of him, and it's all plain sailing—I find a hundred reasons for delaying to fulfil my engagement; in a month's time I come into my property (the jolly old aunt who left it me tied it up till I was five and twenty—and the old girl showed her sense too, for ten to one I should have made ducks and drakes of it when I was young and foolish); very well—I appoint Freddy agent and receiver of the rents—(the fellow that has it now makes five hundred a year of it, they tell me); and then suddenly change my mind, jilt Miss Markham, and if Governor Coleman chooses to cut up rough, he may bring an action of 'breach of promise,' lay the damages at five thousand, and so get a nice little round sum to buy [427] the young woman's wedding clothes when she marries Freddy. That's the way to do business, isn't it, eh?"

"'Pon my word it's a grand idea," said Coleman; "how came you ever to think of it? But, my dear Lawless, are you really in earnest about the receivership?"

"In earnest? to be sure I am; I always intended it."

"I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you," replied Freddy, in a tone of grateful surprise; "it's the kindest thing in the world; but about the first part of your plan, I don't know what to say."

"You never can think of carrying out such a mad scheme," remonstrated I; "I thought, of course, you were only in jest."

"Can you propose anything better, eh?" asked Lawless.

"Why, I don't know," returned I, musing. "Suppose Freddy were to go and tell his father of his attachment, and say that the receivership, with a small share in the business, would enable him to support a wife comfortably—how would that do?"

"No use," said Freddy; "as long as that aggravating drysalter, with his two thousand per annum, is in the field, my father would consider it his duty to say 'No'."

"Eh? yes, of course," rejoined Lawless, "fathers always do consider their duty to be intensely unpleasant on all such occasions, and it's a duty they never neglect either—I will say that for them. No! depend upon it, mine is the only plan."

"Really, Frank, I don't see what else is to be done," urged Freddy; "the danger from the drysalter is great and imminent, remember."

"Well, you and Lawless can settle it between you: you are a pair of eccentric geniuses, and know how you like to manage your own affairs better than a sober-minded man such as I am."

"I tell you what, Mr. Sober-minded-man, I mean to take you with me on my expedition; I shall want somebody to pat me on the back—besides, your proper, well-behaved manner will give an air of respectability to the affair."

"Really you must—" began I.

"Really I won't," retorted Lawless; while Coleman, seizing me by the arm, drew me on one side.

"Frank, without any joke, I think this freak of Law-less's may enable me to get rid of my rival—this Mr. Lowe Brown—and I should take it as the greatest kindness if you would go with him, and keep him in order; of course I must not be seen at all in the matter myself."

[428] "Well, if you are really in earnest, and want me to go, I'll do it," replied I; "though I don't see that I shall be of much use."

"Shall I write and put Lucy up to it, or not?" rejoined Coleman meditatively.

"If you take my advice, you will not," replied I; "in fact, the success of your scheme depends very much on keeping her in the dark as to Lawless's not being a bona fide offer. Either her simple woman's mind would dislike the trickery of the thing altogether, or she would excite suspicion by falling into the plot too readily. I would merely write her a cheering note, telling her that you were likely to get an appointment which would enable you to marry; urging her to be firm in her refusal of your abomination, Mr. Brown; hinting that a broken heart would be premature, if not altogether superfluous, and giving her a few general notions that the affair would end happily, without touching upon Lawless at all."

"Perhaps it would be as well," replied Freddy; "at all events it will add greatly to the fun of the thing."

"And let me tell you, that's a consideration by no means to be lost sight of," put in Lawless, who had overheard the last remark. "Depend upon it, it's a man's duty—partly to himself, partly to his neighbour—never to miss an opportunity of recruiting his exhausted and care-worn frame, and all that sort of thing, by enjoying a little innocent recreation: 'nec semper'—what do ye call it?—'tendit Apollo,' eh?"

"That's quite my view of the case," said Freddy, whose elastic spirits were fast recovering their accustomed buoyancy. "I hate the dolefuls—Care killed a cat."

"If that's the worst thing Care ever did, I'll forgive her, eh?" said Lawless, "for cats are horrid poaching varmints, and make awful havoc among the young rabbits. Well, Fairlegh, have you made up your mind?"

"Yes," replied I, "I am at your service for this morning; but understand, I merely go as a spectator of your prowess."

"As you like, man. I'll order the chestnuts—go and polish up a little—and then for walking into Governor Coleman, and bowling out the drysalter."

The chestnuts whirled us over to Hillingford in less than an hour. Lawless, delighted at being allowed to put his project into execution, was in wild spirits, and kept me in fits of laughter the whole way, by his quaint remarks on men and things.

"Is the governor visible, John?" was his address to the [429] footman who answered the door, and who, apparently not being favoured by Nature with any superfluous acuteness of intellect or sweetness of disposition, merely stared sulkily in reply.

"The fellow's a fool," muttered Lawless, "and can't understand English. Hark ye, sirrah," he continued, "is your master at home?"

As the hero of the shoulder-knot vouchsafed an affirmative reply to this somewhat more intelligible query, we alighted, and were straightway ushered into the drawing-room, where we found Mr. and Mrs. Coleman, and, as Lawless afterwards expressed it, "a party unknown," who was immediately, with much pomp and ceremony, introduced to us by the name of Mr. Lowe Brown, an announcement which elicited from my companion the whispered remark, "The drysalter himself, by jingo! this looks like business, old fellow; there's no time to be lost, depend upon it".

"Ah I Mr. Lawlegh," exclaimed Mrs. Coleman, shaking hands cordially with Lawless, "I thought we were never going to see you again, and I'm sure I was quite delighted, though the servant kept you so long waiting at the gate, till I got Mr. Brown to ring the bell; and Mr. Fairless too, so kind of him, with those beautiful chestnut horses standing there catching cold, in that very high gig, which must be so dangerous, if you were to fall out, both of you."

"No fear of that, ma'am," replied Lawless; "Fairlegh and I have known each other too long to think of falling out in a hurry—firm friends, ma'am, as your son Freddy would say."

"Poor Freddy," returned Mrs. Coleman affectionately, "did he send any message by you, to say when he is coming home again? We shall have some good news for him, I hope—for he was always very fond of his cousin Lucy."

"Family affection is a fine thing, ma'am," said Lawless, winking at me, "and ought to be encouraged at any price, eh?"

"Very true, Mr. Lawlegh, very true; and I am glad to find you think so, instead of living at those nasty clubs all day, turning out wild, smoking cigars like a German student, and breaking your mother's heart with a latchkey, at one o'clock in the morning, afterwards, when you ought to have been in bed and asleep for the last three hours. Good-bye, and God bless you."

The six concluding words of Mrs. Coleman's not [430] over-perspicuous speech were addressed to Mr. Lowe Brown, who rose to take leave. This gentleman (for such I presume one is bound to designate him, however little appearance might warrant such an appellation) was a snort, stout, not to say fat personage, with an unmeaning pink and white face, and a smug self-satisfied manner and look, which involuntarily reminded one of a sleek and well-conditioned tom-cat. Old Mr. Coleman rose also, and shaking his hand with great empressement, left the room with him in order to conduct him to the door with due honour.

"Look at the servile old rogue, worshipping that snob's two thousand pounds per annum," whispered Lawless; "we'll alter his tune before long. Fascinating man, Mr. Brown, ma'am," he continued, addressing Mrs. Coleman.

"Yes, I'm glad you like him; he's a very good quiet young man, and constantly reminds me of my poor dear aunt Martha, who is a peaceful saint in Brixton churchyard, after this vale of tears, where we must all go, only she hadn't two thousand pounds a year, though she was so lucky at short whist, always turning up honours when she liked."

"Trump of a partner she must have been, and no mistake!" said Lawless enthusiastically. "I suppose she didn't leave the recipe behind her, ma'am?"

"No, Mr. Fairless, no! at least I never heard she did, though I've got a recipe of hers for cherry-brandy, which she was so fond of, and a very good one it is, poor thing! But Mr. Brown, you see, with his fortune, might look so much higher, that, as Mr. Coleman says, it's a chance she may never have again, and it would be madness to throw it away, in her circumstances too."

"Did Mr. Brown think of marrying your aunt, then, ma'am?" asked Lawless with an air of would-be innocence.

"No, my dear—I mean, Mr. Lawlegh, no—she died, and he went to Merchant Tailor's School together, that is in the same year; we were making it out last night—no, it's Lucy, poor dear, and a famous thing it is for her, only I'm afraid she can't bear the sight of him."

At this moment Mr. Coleman returned, and Lawless, giving me a sly glance, accosted him with a face of the most perfect gravity, begging the favour of a few minutes' private conversation with him, a request which that gentleman, with a slight appearance of surprise, immediately granted, and they left the room together.

During their absence, good Mrs. Coleman confided to [431] me, with much circumlocution, her own private opinion, that Lucy and Mr. Brown were by no means suited to each other, "because, you see, Mr. Fairless, my dear, Lucy's clever, and says sharp funny things that make one laugh, what they call piquante, you know, and poor Mr. Brown, he's very quiet and good-natured, but he's not used to that sort of thing; and she, what you call, laughs at him"; ending with a confession that she thought Freddy and Lucy were made for each other, and that she had always hoped some day to see them married.

Dear, kind-hearted, puzzle-headed little woman! how I longed to comfort her, by giving her a glimpse behind the scenes! but it would have entailed certain ruin; she would have made confusion worse confounded of the best laid scheme that Machiavelli ever concocted.

When Lawless and Mr. Coleman returned from their tête-à-tête, it was easy to see, by the nattered but perplexed expression discernible in the countenance of the elder, and a grin of mischievous delight in that of the younger gentleman, that the stratagem had succeeded so far, and that a cloud had already shaded the fair hopes of the unconscious Mr. Lowe Brown.

"Ah—a—hem! my dear Mrs. Coleman," began her spouse, his usually pompous manner having gained an accession of dignity, which to those who guessed the cause of it was irresistibly absurd.

"A-hem—as I am, I believe, right in supposing Mr. Fairlegh is acquainted with the object of his friend's visit—"

"All right, sir!" put in Lawless; "go ahead."

"And as I am particularly requested to inform you of the honour" (with a marked stress on the word) "done to a member of my family, I conceive that I am guilty of no breach of confidence in mentioning that Mr. Lawless has proposed to me, in due form, for the hand of my niece, Lucy Markham, offering to make most liberal settlements; indeed, considering that the fortune Lucy is justified in expecting at her father's death is very inconsiderable—an income of four hundred pounds a year divided amongst thirteen children, deducting a jointure for the widow, should my sister survive Mr. Markham—"

"Never mind the tin, Mr. Coleman," interrupted Lawless, "you don't catch me buying a mare for the sake of her trappings. In the first place, second-hand harness is never worth fetching home; and in the next, let me tell you, sir, it's your niece's good points I admire: small head well set on—nice light neck—good slanting shoulder [432] —pretty fore-arm—clean about the pasterns—fast springy action—good-tempered, a little playful, but no vice about her; and altogether as sweet a thing as a man need wish to possess. Depend upon it, Mr. Coleman," continued Lawless, who, having fallen into his usual style of speech, was fairly off, "depend upon it, you'd be very wrong to let her get into a dealer's hands—you would indeed, sir; and if Mr. Brown isn't in that line it's odd to me. I've seen him down at Tattersall's in very shady company, if I'm not much mistaken; he's the cut of a leg, every inch of him."

Want of breath fortunately obliging him to stop, Lawless's chief auditors, who had gleaned about as much idea of his meaning as if he had been haranguing them in Sanscrit, now interposed; Mrs. Coleman to invite us to stay to luncheon, and her husband to beg that his niece Lucy might be summoned to attend him in his study, as he should consider it his duty to lay before her Mr. Lawless's very handsome and flattering proposal.

"And suppose Lucy should take it into her head, by any chance, to say Yes" ("Never thought of that, by Jove!—that would be a sell," muttered Lawless, aside),—"what's to become of poor dear Mr. Lowe Brown?" inquired Mrs. Coleman anxiously.

"In such a case," replied her lord and master, with a dignified wave of the hand, pausing as he left the room, and speaking with great solemnity,—"in such a case, Mr. Lowe Brown will perceive that it is his duty, his direct and evident duty, to submit to his fate with the calm and placid resignation becoming the son of so every way respectable and eminent a man as his late lamented father, my friend, the drysalter."

CHAPTER LIII — A COMEDY OF ERRORS

          "Content you, gentlemen,
          I'll compound this strife.... He of both
          That can assure my nieces greatest dower,
          Shall have her love."
          "I must confess your offer is the best,
          And let your father make her the assurance,
          She is your own."
          —Taming of the Shrew.

POOR pretty little Lucy Markham! what business had tears to come and profane, with their tell-tale traces, that bright, merry face of thine—fitting index to thy warm heart and sunny disposition! And yet, in the quenched [433] light of that dark eye, in the heavy swollen lid, and in the paled roses of thy dimpled cheek, might be read the tokens of a concealed grief, that, like "a worm i' the bud," had already begun to mar thy sparkling beauty. Heed it not, pretty Lucy—sorrow such as thine is light and transient, and succour, albeit in a disguise thou canst not penetrate, is even now at hand. As the young lady in question entered the luncheon-room, returning Lawless's salutation with a most becoming blush, the thought crossed my mind, that in his position I should be almost tempted to regret I was destined to perform the lover's part "on that occasion only". Such, however, were not the ideas of my companion, for he whispered to me, "I say, Frank, she looks uncommon friendly, eh?—I don't know what to make of it, I can tell you; this is getting serious".

"You must endeavour by your manner to neutralise your many fascinations," replied I, striving to hide a smile, for he was evidently in earnest.

"Neutralise my grandmother!" was the rejoinder; "I can't go and be rude to the young woman. How d'ye do, miss?" he continued gruffly; "how d'ye do? you see, we left Fred—" (here I nudged him, to warn him to avoid that subject)—"that is, we left Heathfield,—I mean started early—Let me help you, Mrs. Coleman;—precious tough customer that chicken seems to be—elderly bird, ma'am, and no mistake—who'll have a wing?"

"Really, Mr. Lawless, you are very rude to my poor chicken; it's out of our own farm-yard, I assure you; and the turkey-cock, his sister, that's Lucy's mother, sent him here; she has thirteen children you know, poor thing, and lives at Dorking; they are famous for all having five toes, you know, and growing so very large, and this must be one of them, I think."

"They were Dorking fowls mamma sent you, aunt; you don't keep turkeys," interposed Lucy, as Lawless fairly burst out laughing—an example which it was all I could do to avoid imitating.

"Yes, to be sure, my dear, I said so, didn't I? I remember very well they came in a three-dozen hamper, poor things, and were put in the back kitchen because it was too late to turn them out; and as soon as it was light they began to crow, and to make that noise about laying eggs, you know, so that I never got a wink of sleep after, thinking of your poor mother, and all her troubles—thirteen of them, dear me! till Mr. Coleman [434] got up and turned them out, with a bad cold, in his dressing-gown and slippers."

"Freddy begged me to tell you that he would write to you tomorrow," observed I, aside to Lucy; adding the enigmatical message, that "he had some good news to communicate, and that matters were not so bad as you imagined."

"Ah! but it doesn't—he can't know—Mr. Fairlegh," she added, looking at me with an earnest, inquiring glance; "you are his most intimate friend; has he told you the cause of his annoyance?"

"Allow me to congratulate you, Mr. Fairlegh, on the very excellent match your sister is about to make—the Oaklands family is one of the oldest in the county," said Mr. Coleman with an air of solemn politeness.

"Oh! yes, we are all so glad to hear of it, your sister is so pretty, and we had been told there was some young scamp or other dangling after her."

"Um! eh? oh! that's rather too much, though," said Lawless, turning very red, and fidgeting on his chair; "pray may I ask, Mrs. Coleman, whether it was a man you happened to hear that from? because he must be—ar—funny—fellow—ar—worth knowing—ar—I should like to make his acquaintance."

"Why, really!—let me see—was it Jones the grocer, or Mrs. Muddles when she brought home the clean linen? I think it was Jones, but I know it came with the clean clothes, and they had heard it from some of the servants," returned Mrs. Coleman.

"I'll boil Shrimp alive when I get back," muttered Lawless, "and have him sent up in the fish-sauce."

"Yes," replied I to Lucy, as soon as the conversation again became general, "Freddy gave me an outline of the cause of his disquietude; but from a hint Lawless dropped in our way here to-day, Mr. Lowe Brown is likely to have a somewhat powerful rival, is he not?"

"Oh! then you know all, Mr. Fairlegh," she replied; "what am I to do? I am so unhappy—so bewildered!"

"If you will allow me to advise you," returned I, "you will not positively refuse Lawless; on the contrary, I should encourage him so far as to ensure the dismissal of Mr. Brown, at all events."

"But would that be light? besides, I should be forced to marry Mr. Lawless, it I once said Yes."

"I should not exactly say Yes," replied I, smiling at the naïve simplicity of her answer; "I would tell my uncle that, as he was aware, I had always disliked the [435] attentions of Mr. Brown, and that I begged he might be definitely informed that it would be useless for him to attempt to prosecute his suit any farther. I would then add, that it was impossible for me to agree to accept at once a man of whom I knew so little as of Lawless, but that I had no objection to his visiting here, with a view to becoming better acquainted with him. By this means you will secure the positive advantage of getting rid of the drysalter, as Freddy calls him, and you must leave the rest to time. Lawless is a good-natured, generous-spirited fellow, and if he were made aware of the true state of the case, I do not think he would wish to interfere with Freddy's happiness, or annoy you by addresses which he must feel were unacceptable to you."

"But what will Freddy say if I appear to encourage Mr. Lawless? you don't know how particular he is."

"If you will permit me, I will tell him exactly what has passed between us to-day, and explain to him your reasons for what you are about to do."

"Will you really be so kind?" she answered, with a grateful smile; "then I shall do exactly as you have told me. How shall I ever thank you for your kindness?"

"By making my friend Freddy a good wife, and being married on the same day that I am."

"That you are! are you joking?"

"Never was more serious in my life, I can assure you."

"Are you really going to be married? Oh! I am so glad! Is the lady a nice person? do I know her?"

"The most charming person in the world," replied I, "and you know her intimately."

"Why, you can't mean Cla——"

"Hush!" exclaimed I, as a sudden silence rendered our conversation no longer private.

"Lucy, my dear, may I request your company for a few minutes in my study?" said Mr. Coleman, holding the door open with an air of dignified courtesy for his niece to pass out. She had acquired double importance in his eyes, since the eldest son of a real live peer of the realm had declared himself her suitor.

"Allow me, governor—ar—Mr. Coleman, I mean," said Lawless, springing forward, "it's for us young fellows to hold doors open, you know—not old reprobates like you," he added in an undertone, making a grimace for my especial benefit at the retreating figure of the aforesaid irreverently apostrophised legal luminary.

"Ah!" said Mrs. Coleman, by whom this by-play had been unobserved, "I wish all young men were like you, [436] Mr. Lawless: we see very little respect to grey hairs nowadays."

"Very little indeed, ma'am," returned Lawless, winking furiously at me; "but from a boy I've always been that way inclined: I dare say that you observed that I addressed Mr. Coleman as 'Governor' just now?"

"Oh yes, I think I did," replied Mrs. Coleman innocently.

"Well, ma'am, that's a habit I've fallen into from unconsciously giving utterance to my feelings of veneration. To govern, is a venerable attribute—governor signifies one who governs—hence my inadvertent application of the term to your revered husband, eh?"

"Ah!" returned poor Mrs. Coleman, thoroughly mystified, "it's very kind of you to say so, I'm sure. I wonder whether I left my knitting upstairs, or whether it went down in the luncheon-tray."

In order to solve this important problem, the good lady trotted off, leaving Lawless and myself tête-à-tête.

"I say, Frank," he began, as the door closed after her, "did you put the young woman up to trap at all? I saw you were 'discoursing' her, as Paddy says, while we were at luncheon, eh?"

"No," replied I, "it was agreed that she was not to be let into the scheme, you know."

"By Jove! then all those kind looks she threw at me were really in earnest! I tell you what, I don't half like it, I can assure you, sir! I shall put my foot in it here too, if I don't mind what I'm at. Suppose, instead of marrying Freddy, she were to take it into her head she would like to be a peeress some day, what would become of me, eh?"

At this moment Mr. Coleman returned, his face beaming with dignity and self-satisfaction. Approaching Lawless, he motioned him to a chair, and then, seating himself exactly opposite, gave one or two deep hems to clear his throat, and then began:—

"I am empowered by my niece, standing as I may say in loco parentis—(for though her parents are not positively defunct, still they have so completely delegated to me all control and authority over their daughter, that they may morally be considered dead)—I am empowered, then, by my niece to inform you, in answer to your very flattering proposal of marriage, that although she has not had sufficient opportunity of becoming acquainted with your character and general disposition, to justify her in at once ratifying the contract, she agrees to sanction your visits [437] here in the character of her suitor." (Lawless's face on receiving this announcement was as good as a play to behold.) "In fact, my dear sir," continued Mr. Coleman, warming with the subject, "as my niece at the same time has signified to me her express desire that I should definitely and finally reject the suit of a highly amiable young man of fortune, who has for some time past paid his addresses to her, I think that we may consider ourselves fully justified in attributing the slightly equivocal nature of her answer to a pardonable girlish modesty and coyness, and that I shall not be premature in offering you my hearty congratulations on the successful issue of your suit—a-hem I—" And so saying, Mr. Coleman rose from his seat, and taking Lawless's unwilling hand in his own, shook it with the greatest empressement.

"Thank ye, gov—that is, Mr. Coleman—uncle, I suppose I shall soon have to call you," said Lawless, with a wretched attempt at hilarity; "it's very flattering, you know, and of course I feel excessively, eh 1 uncommon, don't you see?—Get me away, can't you?" he added in an angry whisper, turning to me, "I shall go mad, or be ill, or something in a minute."

"I think the tandem has been here some time," interposed I, coming to his assistance; "the horses will get chilled standing."

"Eh! yes! very true, we must be cutting away; make ourselves scarce, don't you see?" rejoined Lawless, brightening up at the prospect of escape.

"Let me ring for the ladies," said Mr. Coleman, moving towards the bell.

"Eh! not for the world, my dear sir, not for the world," exclaimed Lawless, interposing to prevent him—"Really, my feelings—your feelings, in fact, all our feelings, have been sufficiently excited—steam got up—high pressure, eh?—some other day—pleasure. Good-morning. Don't come out, pray."

And so saying, he fairly bolted out of the room, an example which I was about to follow, when Mr. Coleman, seizing me by the button began:—

"I can see, Mr. Fairlegh, that Mr. Lawless is naturally uneasy and annoyed at Mr. Brown's attentions: but he need not be—pray assure him of this—Mr. Brown is a highly estimable young man, but his family are very much beneath ours in point of rank. I shall write to him this afternoon, and inform him that, on mature deliberation, I find it impossible to allow my niece to contract a matrimonial alliance with any one in trade—that will [438] set the matter definitely at rest. Perhaps you will kindly mention this to your friend?"

"I shall be most happy to do so," replied I, "nor have I the slightest doubt that my friend will consider the information perfectly satisfactory." And with many assurances of mutual consideration and esteem we parted.

Oh! the masks and dominoes of the mind! what mountebank ever wore so many disguises as the heart of man? If some potent spirit of evil had suddenly converted Elm Lodge into the palace of Truth, the light of its master's countenance would have grown dark as he read the thoughts that were passing in my breast; and instead of bestowing upon me the attentions due to the chosen friend of the wealthy suitor to his portionless niece, he would have done his best to kick me down the steps as an impostor plotting to marry his son to a beggar. When will men learn to value money at its real worth, and find out that warm loving hearts and true affections are priceless gems that wealth cannot purchase!

We drove for some time in silence, which was at length broken by Lawless, who in a tone of the deepest dejection began:—

"The first tolerably deep gravel pit we come to, I must trouble you to get out, if you please".

"Get out at a gravel pit! for goodness' sake, why?" inquired I.

"Because I intend to back the tandem into it, and break my neck," was the unexpected answer.

"Break your neck! nonsense, man. Why, what's the matter now? Hasn't your mad scheme succeeded beyond all expectation?"

"Ah! you may well say that!" was the rejoinder. "Beyond all expectation, indeed! yes, I should think so, rather. If I'd expected anything of the kind, it's thirty miles off I'd have been at the very least by this time—more, if the horses would have done it, which I think they would with steady driving, good luck, and a feed of beans."

"Why, what is it you fancy you've done, then?"

"Fancy I've done, eh? Well, if that isn't enough to make a fellow punch his own father's head with vexation. What have I done, indeed! why I'll tell you what I've done, Mr. Frank Fairlegh, since you are so obtuse as not to have found it out by your own powers of observation. I've won the heart of an innocent and unsuspecting young female,—I've destroyed the dearest hopes of my particular friend,—and I've saddled myself with a [439] superfluous wife, when my affections are reposing in the cold—ar—what do you call it, tomb, eh? of the future Lady Oaklands—If that isn't a pretty fair morning's work, it's a pity, eh?"

"My dear Lawless," replied I, with difficulty repressing a laugh, "you don't really suppose Lucy Markham means to accept you?"

"Eh! why not? Of course I do, didn't Governor Coleman tell me so? an old reptile!"

"Set your mind at ease," replied I; and I then detailed to him my conversation with Lucy Markham, and convinced him that her partial acceptance of his proposal, which had been made the most of by Mr. Coleman, was merely done at my suggestion, to ensure the dismissal of Mr. Lowe Brown. As I concluded, he broke forth:—

"Ah! I see, sold again! It's an easy thing to make a fool of me where women are concerned; they're a kind of cattle I never shall understand, if I were to live as long as Saint Methuselah, and take Old Parr's life pills twice a day into the bargain. Anything about a horse, now—"

"Then you'll postpone the gravel-pit performance ad infinitum?" interrupted I.

"Eh? yes! it would be a pity to go and sacrifice the new tandem, if it is not absolutely necessary to one's peace of mind, so I shall think better of it this time," was the rejoinder.

"By the way," resumed Lawless, as we drove through Heathfield Park, "I must not forget that I've got to immolate Shrimp on the altar of my aspersed reputation—call his master a 'scamp,' the amphibious little reprobate? a brat that's neither fish, flesh, nor fowl, nor good red-herring—that spent his pitiful existence in making mud pies in a gutter, till I was kind enough to—"

"Run over him, and break his arm," added I.

"Exactly," continued Lawless, "and a famous thing it was for him too. Just see the advantages to which it has led; look at the education I have given him; he can ride to hounds better than many grooms twice his age, and bring you a second horse, in a long run, just at the nick of time when you want it, as fresh, with that featherweight on its back, as if it had only just come out of the stable; he can drive any animal that don't pull too strong for him, as well as I can myself; he can brew milk-punch better than a College Don, and drink it like an undergraduate; he can use his fists as handily as—Ben Caunt, or the Master of T——y, and polish off a boy a head taller than himself in ten minutes, so that his nearest [440] relations would not recognise him; and he won five pounds last year in a Derby sweepstakes, besides taking the long odds with a pork-butcher, and walking into the piggycide to the tune of thirty shillings. No," continued Lawless, who had quite worked himself into a state of excitement, "whatever follies I may have been guilty of, nobody can accuse me of having neglected my duty in regard to that brat's education; and now, after all my solicitude, the young viper goes and spreads reports that a 'scamp,' meaning me, is about to marry your sister! I'll flay him alive, and put him in salt afterwards!"

"But, my dear Lawless, out of the host of servants at Heathfield, how do you know it was Shrimp who did it?"

"Oh, there's no mischief going on that he's not at the bottom of; besides, a boy is never the worse for a flogging, for if he has not done anything wrong beforehand, he's sure to make up for it afterwards; so it comes right in the end, you see."

Thus saying, he roused the leader by a scientific application of the thong, dashed round the gravel-sweep, and brought his horses up to the hall-door in a neat and artistlike manner.

CHAPTER LIV — MR. VERNOR MEETS HIS MATCH

         "If thou dost find him tractable to us,
         Encourage him, and tell him all our reasons.
         If he be leaden, icy cold, unwilling,
         Be thou so too."
         —Richard III.

         "For the intent and purpose of the law,
         Hath full relation to the penalty,
         Which here appeareth due."
         "Tarry a little, there is something else."
         —Merchant of Venice.

         "Your looks are pale and wild,
         and do import some misadventure."
         —Romeo and Juliet.

ANY tender-hearted reader who may feel anxious concerning the fate of the unjustly suspected Shrimp, will be glad to learn that this hopeful candidate for the treadmill (not to mention a more airy and exalted destiny), escaped his promised castigation, for, the moment we alighted, Freddy Coleman dragged us into the library, and Lawless, in the excitement of relating the morning's adventure, entirely forgot his threatened vengeance. Lawless's account of the affair was, as may well be imagined, [441] rich in the extreme, worth walking barefoot twenty miles to hear, Freddy Coleman declared afterwards; and an equally laborious pilgrimage would have been quite repaid by witnessing the contortions of delight with which the aforesaid Freddy listened to him.

"So you have positively settled the drysalter, and stand pledged to marry my cousin Lucy, if she approve of you on further acquaintance? What will you give me to hand her over to you?"

"Give you, eh? the soundest thrashing you ever had in your life—one that will find you something to think about for the next fortnight, and no mistake. The idea of putting the young woman's affections up to auction! why, you're worse than your old governor, he only wants to sell her to the highest bidder."

"Well, he's been sold himself this time, pretty handsomely," replied Freddy; "I only hope it will be a lesson to him for the future."

"It strikes me he'd be all the better for a few more lessons of the sort, eh? go through a regular 'educational course,' as they call it. Governors nowadays get so dreadfully conceited and dictatorial—they know best—and they will have this—and they won't have that. It's no joke to be a son, I can tell you.—'Latchkey, sir! only let me hear of your daring to introduce that profligate modern invention into my house, and I'll cut you off with a shilling.'"

"'The most unkindest cut of all,'" quoted Freddy. "Worse than 'cut behind' for the small boys, who indulge their locomotive propensities by sitting on the spikes at the backs of carriages, eh?" said Lawless. "Sharp set they must be, very!" put in Freddy. "Well, of all the vile puns I ever heard, that, which I believe to be an old Joe Miller, is the worst," exclaimed I. "Not to subject myself any longer to such wretched attempts, I shall go and dress for dinner."

"By way of obtaining re-dress! Well, I hope we shall be better suited when we meet again," rejoined Freddy, fairly punning me out of the room.

Mr. Frampton returned from town late that evening, but in high health and spirits, having been closeted for some hours with his legal adviser, who had given him clear instructions as to the course he was to pursue to obtain possession of his niece on the following day.

When I retired to my room that night, I was too much excited to sleep, but it was excitement of a pleasurable nature. I lay picturing to myself the next day's scene— [442] the surprise and anger of Mr. Vernor—the impotent fury of Cumberland's disappointed avarice—the grotesque joy of old Peter Barnett—and, above all, the unspeakable delight of rescuing my sweet Clara from a home so unfitted to her gentle nature, and removing her to an atmosphere of kindness and affection; and with such pleasant thoughts wandering through my brain, towards morning I fell into a sound sleep. The sun was shining brightly when I again unclosed my eyes, and, hastily dressing, I hurried down to the breakfast-room, where I found Mr. Frampton already engaged in discussing a very substantial meal.

"Umph! I didn't expect you would have turned lie-abed this morning, of all the days in the year, Master Frank," was his salutation on my entrance.

"I really am ashamed of myself," replied I, sitting down to the breakfast-table; "but my thoughts were so busy, and my mind so filled with anticipations of coming happiness, that I did not contrive to get to sleep till quite morning."

"Umph! serve you right—you never should anticipate anything; depend upon it, it's the surest way to prevent what you wish for coming to pass. When I was in the Mahratta country, I anticipated I was going to marry the Begum of Tincumrupee—splendid woman! kept forty-two elephants for her own special riding, and wore a necklace of pearls as big as hazel nuts. What was the consequence? Instead of fulfilling my expectations, one fine morning she changed her mind, took up with a tawny, and ordered me to be strangled, only I got timely notice of her benevolent intentions, and lost no time in putting myself under the protection of my old crony, Blessimaboo, the Rajah of Coddleafellah. Umph!"

"Let me give you another cup of coffee, since the lady with the unpronounceable name did not succeed in her amiable design of destroying your swallowing powers for ever," returned I.

"Umph! I won't say No—there's nothing like serving out good rations to your men before they go into action; I've seen campaigning enough to know that."

"On the strength of which argument I shall cut you another slice of ham," rejoined I, suiting the action to the word. At length even Mr. Frampton's excellent appetite appeared exhausted, and he declared himself ready to face old Vernor if he should prove as cantankerous as a rhinoceros in hysterics; after which statement we proposed to start on our expedition. During his visit to [443] town on the previous day, Mr. Frampton had purchased a very handsome light travelling carriage, which, with post-horses, was now in waiting to convey us to Barstone. On our way thither, my companion informed me of the particulars of his interview with his legal adviser, and the powers with which he was invested, and which were to be brought to bear upon Mr. Vernor, if, as was to be expected, he should attempt to resist the claim. As the effect of the information thus acquired will appear in the course of this veritable history, I need say no more concerning the matter at present. We then proceeded to lay down the plan of operations, which embraced an innocent little stratagem for more effectually taking "the change" out of Mr. Vernor, as Lawless would have termed it. It was agreed, in pursuance of this scheme, that I should open the conversation, by informing Clara's guardian that, owing to an unexpected change in my fortunes, I was now in possession of means amply sufficient to maintain a wife, and had therefore come to renew my suit for the hand of his fair ward, merely introducing Mr. Frampton as a friend of mine, who was prepared to furnish proof of the truth of my statement, if Mr. Vernor were not satisfied with my bare assertion. According to the way in which he should behave when this communication was made to him, were we to regulate our after conduct. I now learned for the first time that Frampton was not my benefactor's real name, but one which he had adopted when he commenced his wanderings, and which he determined to retain on learning, as he imagined he had done indisputably, that his family was extinct. This accounted for the otherwise strange fact, that Mr. Vernor should have remained in ignorance, up to the present period, of the existence of his ward's uncle. Lady Saville's maiden name, as I had been previously told, was Elliot, and my companion's real title, therefore, was Ralph Elliot. So occupied were we in discussing these interesting topics, that we had reached the gates of Bar-stone Park before our conversation began to flag; but the sight of the old quaintly built lodge, realising, as it did, the object of our visit, raised a host of varying thoughts and feelings too powerful for utterance; and, by mutual consent, we finished our drive in silence.

A servant, whose face was unknown to me, answered the door; and replying in the affirmative to my inquiry whether Mr. Vernor was at home led the way to the library.

"What name shall I say, sir?"

[444] "Merely say, two gentlemen wish to see Mr. Vernor upon business," was my reply; and in another moment I was once again face to face with Clara's guardian. He looked older and thinner than when I had seen him before, and care and anxiety had left their traces even on his iron frame: he was less erect than formerly, and I observed that, when his eyes fell upon me, his lip quivered, and his hand shook with suppressed irritation. Still his face wore the same cold, immovable, relentless expression as ever; and when he spoke, it was with his usual sarcastic bitterness.

"I cannot imagine under what possible pretext Mr. Fairlegh can expect to be regarded in this house in any other light than as an unwelcome intruder, after his late outrageous conduct," was the speech with which he received me.

"If you refer, sir, to the well-merited chastisement I inflicted on your nephew, I can only say, that Mr. Cumberland alike provoked the quarrel and commenced the attack; if you have received a true account of the matter, you must be aware it was not until your nephew had struck me more than once with his cane that I returned the blow."

"Well, sir, we will not discuss the affair any farther, as I presume it was scarcely for the purpose of justifying yourself that you have come hither to-day."

"You are right, sir," returned I; "and not to prolong a conversation which appears disagreeable to you, I will proceed at once to the purport of my visit. You have not, I imagine, forgotten the occasion of my former intrusion, as you termed it?"

"No, sir," he replied angrily, "I have not forgotten the presumptuous hopes you entertained, nor the cool effrontery with which you, a needy man—not to use any stronger term—preferred your suit for the hand and fortune" he added, laying a strong emphasis upon the last word, "of my ward, Miss Saville."

"That suit, sir, I am now about to renew," replied I, "but no longer as the needy fortune-hunter you were pleased to designate me. My friend here is prepared to show you documents to prove, if you require it, that I am, at this moment, in possession of an income amply sufficient to support a wife, and that, should my proposal find favour with your ward, I am in a position to offer her an establishment embracing not only the comforts but the refinements of life, and am prepared to make as liberal settlements as can reasonably be required of me: [445] her own fortune I wish to have placed entirely under her own control."

As I spoke his brow grew dark as night, and rising from his chair, he exclaimed, "I'll not believe it, sir! This is some new trick—I know your scheming talents of old; but, however," he continued, seeing, no doubt, from my manner, that I was in a position to prove the truth of my assertions, "rich or poor, it makes no difference in my decision; I have but one answer to give—I have other prospects in view, other intentions in regard to the disposal of my ward's hand, and, once for all, I finally and unhesitatingly reject your offer."

"I believe, sir," replied I, restraining by an appealing glance Mr. Frampton, whose zeal in my cause was becoming almost ungovernable, and who was evidently burning to be at him, as he afterwards expressed it— "I believe, sir, I am right in imagining Miss Saville is of age, in which case I must insist upon your laying my proposal before her, and on receiving her decision from her own lips."

"She is of age, sir, but her late father, knowing how liable girls are, from their warm feelings, and ignorance of the ways of the world, to become the prey of designing persons, wisely inserted a clause in his will, by which it is provided, that in case of her marrying without my consent, her fortune shall pass into my hands, to be disposed of as I may consider advisable. I need scarcely add, that in the event of her marrying Mr. Fairlegh, she will do so without a farthing."

"Umph! eh? perhaps not, sir—perhaps not; you seem to me to look upon this matter in a false light, Mr. Vernor—Umph! a very false light; and not to treat my young friend with the degree of courtesy which he and every other honourable man has a right to expect from any one calling himself a gentleman. Umph! Umph!"

"Really I cannot be expected to discuss the matter farther," replied Mr. Vernor, with greater irritation of manner than he had yet suffered to appear. "I have not formed my opinion of Mr. Fairlegh hastily, nor on insufficient grounds, and it is not very probable that I shall alter it on the representations of a nameless individual, brought here for the evident purpose of chorusing Mr. Fairlegh's assertions, and assisting to browbeat those who may be so unfortunate as to differ from him. You must find such a friend invaluable, I should imagine," he added, turning towards me with a supercilious smile. "Umph! nameless individual, sir—nameless [446] individual, indeed! Do you know who you are talking to?" Then came the aside, "Of course he does not, how should be? Umph!"

"I think you must by this time see the folly of attempting to prolong this absurd scene, Mr. Fairlegh," said Mr. Vernor, addressing me, without noticing Mr. Frampton's observation otherwise than by a contemptuous glance; "I presume we have come to the last act of this revival of the old comedy, 'A Bold Stroke for a Wife,' and I think you are pretty well aware of my opinion of the performance."

"Umph! eh?—I fancy you'll find there's another act before the play is ended yet, sir," returned Mr. Prampton, who was now thoroughly roused; "an act that, with all your cunning, you are not prepared for, and that even your unparalleled effrontery will be insufficient to carry you through unmoved. You say, sir, that by the will of the late Sir Henry Saville, his daughter's inheritance descends to you in the event of her marrying without your consent. May I ask whether there is not a certain contingency provided for, which might divert the property into another channel? Umph!"

"Really, sir, it is long since I looked at the will," exclaimed Mr. Vernor, for the first time dropping his usual tone of contemptuous indifference, and speaking quickly and with excitement—"May I inquire to what you refer?"

"Was there not a clause to this effect, sir?" continued Mr. Frampton sternly; and, producing a slip of paper, he read as follows:—

"'But whereas it was the firm belief and conviction of the aforesaid Clara Rose Elliot, afterwards Lady Saville, my late lamented wife, that her brother Ralph Elliot, supposed to have perished at sea, had not so perished, but was living in one of our colonies, I hereby will and direct, that in the event of the said Ralph Elliot returning to England, and clearly proving and establishing his identity, three hundred pounds per annum shall be allowed him out of my funded property, for his maintenance during the term of his natural life; and I further will and direct, that in the event of my daughter, Clara Saville, by disobedience to the commands of her guardian, Richard Vernor, forfeiting her inheritance as, by way of penalty, I have above directed, then I devise and bequeath the before mentioned funded property, together with Barstone Priory and the lands and rents appertaining thereunto, to the aforesaid Ralph Elliot, for his absolute use and behoof '."

As he listened to the reading of this portion of the will, Mr. Vernor's usually immovable features assumed an expression of uneasiness which increased into an appearance of vague and undefined alarm; and when Mr. Frampton concluded, he exclaimed hurriedly, "Well, sir, what of that? The man has been drowned these forty years."

"Umph! I rather think not," was the reply, "I don't look much like a drowned man, do I? Umph!"

So saying, he strode up to Mr. Vernor, and, regarding him with a stern expression of countenance, added: "You were pleased in your insolence, just now, to term me a 'nameless individual'; these papers," he continued, producing a bundle, "will prove to you that Ralph Elliot was not drowned at sea, as you imagine, but that the nameless individual whom in my person you have treated with unmerited insult, is none other than he".

"It is false!" exclaimed Mr. Vernor, turning pale with rage. "This is all a vile plot, got up in order to extort my consent to this marriage. But I'll expose you—I'll—"

At this moment the library door was thrown violently open, and old Peter Barnett, his face bleeding and discoloured, as if from fighting, and his clothes torn and muddy, rushed into the centre of the apartment.

CHAPTER LV — THE PURSUIT

          "Let not search and inquisition fail to bring
          again those... runaways."
          —As You Like It.

          "Fetch me that handkerchief,
          My mind misgives."
          —Othello.

          "Sharp goads the spur, and heavy falls the stroke,
          Rattle the wheels, the reeking horses smoke."
          —The Elopement.

ON the sudden appearance of old Peter in the deplorable condition described in the last chapter, we all sprang to our feet, eager to learn the cause of what we beheld. We were not long kept in suspense, for as soon as he could recover breath enough to speak, he turned to Mr. Vernor, saying, in a voice hoarse with sorrow and indignation:—"If you knows anything of this here wickedness, as I half suspects you do, servant as I am, I tells you to your face, you're a willain, and I could find in my heart to [448] serve you as your precious nephew (as you calls him) and his hired bullies have served me".

"How dare you use such language to me?" was the angry reply. "You have been drinking, sirrah; leave the room instantly."

"Tell me, Peter," exclaimed I, unable longer to restrain myself, "what has happened? Your mistress—Clara—is she safe?"

"That's more than I knows," was the reply; "if she is now, she won't be soon, without we moves pretty sharp; for she's in precious unsafe company. While we was a-looking after one thief, we've been robbed by t'other: we was watching Muster Wilford, and that young scoundrel Cumberland has cut in and bolted with Miss Clara!"

"Distraction!" exclaimed I, nearly maddened by the intelligence; "which road have they taken? how long have they been gone?"

"Not ten minutes," was the reply; "for as soon as ever they had knocked me down, they forced her into the carriage, and was off like lightning; and I jumped up, and ran here as hard as legs would carry me."

"Then they may yet be overtaken," cried I, seizing my hat; "but are you sure Wilford has nothing to do with it?"

"Quite certain," was the answer; "for I met him a-going a-shooting as I cum in, and he stopped me to know what was the matter: and when I told him, he seemed quite flustered like, and swore he'd make Cumberland repent it."

"Mad, infatuated boy!" exclaimed Mr. Vernor; "bent on his own ruin." And burying his face in his hands, he sank into a chair, apparently insensible to everything that was passing.

"Now, Peter," I continued, "every moment is of importance; tell me which road to take, and then get me the best horse in the stable, without a moment's delay. I will bear you harmless."

"I've thought of all that, sir," rejoined Peter Barnett. "It's no use your going alone; there's three of them besides the postboys. No! you must take me with you; and they've knocked me about so, that I don't think I could sit a horse, leastways not to go along as we must go, if we means to catch 'em. No! I've ordered fresh horses to your carriage, it's lighter than the one they have got, and that will tell in a long chase; you must take me to show you the way, Muster Fairlegh."

"Well, come along, then. Mr. Frampton, I'll bring you your niece in safety, or this is the last time we shall meet, for I never will return without her."

[449] "Umph! eh? I'll go with you, Frank; I'll go with you."

"I would advise you not, sir," replied I; "it will be a fatiguing, if not a dangerous expedition."

"Ain't I her uncle, sir? umph!" was the reply. "I tell you I will go. Danger, indeed! why, boy, I've travelled more miles in my life, than you have inches."

"As you please, sir," replied I; "only let us lose no time." And taking his arm I hurried him away.

Glancing at Mr. Vernor as we left the library, I perceived that he still remained motionless in the same attitude. As we reached the hall-door, I was glad to find that Peter's exertions had procured four stout horses, and that the finishing stroke was being put to their harness as we came up.

"Who is that?" inquired I, as my eye caught the figure of a horseman, followed by a second, apparently a groom, riding rapidly across the park.

"That's Mr. Fleming, sir," replied one of the helpers; "he came down to the stable, and ordered out his saddle-horses in a great hurry; I think he's gone after Mr. Cumberland."

"What are we waiting for?" exclaimed I, in an agony of impatience. "Peter!—Where's Peter Barnett?"

"Here, sir," he exclaimed; making his appearance the moment after I had first observed his absence. "It ain't no use to start on a march without arms and baggage," he added, flinging a wrapping greatcoat (out of the pocket of which the butts of a large pair of cavalry pistols protruded) into the rumble, and climbing up after it.

"Now, sir," exclaimed I; and half-lifting, half-pushing Mr. Frampton into the carriage, I bounded in after him: the door was slammed to, and, with a sudden jerk, which must have tried the strength of the traces pretty thoroughly, the horses dashed forward, old Peter directing the postboys which road they were to follow. The rocking motion of the carriage (as, owing to the rapid pace at which we proceeded, it swung violently from side to side) prevented anything like conversation, while, for some time, a burning desire to get on seemed to paralyse my every faculty, and to render thought impossible. Trees, fields and hedges flew past in one interminable, bewildering, ever-moving panorama, while to my excited imagination we appeared to be standing still, although the horses had never slackened their speed from the moment we started, occasionally breaking into a gallop wherever the road would permit. After proceeding at this rate, as nearly as [450] I could reckon, about ten miles, old Peter's voice was heard shouting to the postboys, and we came to a sudden stop. "What is it?" inquired I eagerly; but Peter, without vouchsafing any answer, swung himself down from his seat, and ran a short distance up a narrow lane which turned off from the high road, stopped to pick up something, examined the ground narrowly, and then returned to the carriage, holding up in triumph the object he had found, which, as he came nearer, I recognised to be a silk handkerchief I had seen Clara wear.

"I didn't think my old eyes could have seen so quickly," was his observation as he approached; "we was almost over-running the scent, Muster Fairlegh; and then we should 'a been ruined—horse, fut, and artillery. Do you know what this is?"

"Clara's handkerchief! It was round her neck when I met her two days ago."

"Ay! bless her!" was the old man's reply. "And she's been clever enough to drop it where they turned off here, to let us know which way they have taken her. Lucky none of 'em didn't see her a-doin' it."

"How fortunate you observed it! And now where does this lane lead to?"

"Well, that's what puzzles me," returned Peter, rubbing his nose with an air of perplexity. "It don't lead to anything except old Joe Hardman's mill. But they're gone down here, that's certain sure, for there was that handkerchief, and there's the mark of wheels and 'osses' feet."

"Well, if it is certain they have gone that way," continued I, "let us lose no time in following them. How far off is this mill?"

"About a couple of miles out of the road, sir," replied one of the postboys.

"Get on then," said I; "but mind you do not lose the track of their wheels. It's plain enough on the gravel of the lane."

"All right, sir," was the reply; and we again dashed forward.

As we got farther from the high road, the ruts became so deep that we were obliged to proceed at a more moderate pace. After skirting a thick wood for some distance, we came suddenly upon a small bleak desolate-looking common, near the centre of which stood the mill, which appeared in a somewhat dilapidated condition. A little half-ruinous cottage, probably the habitation of the miller, lay to the right of the larger building; but no signs of [451] Carriage or horses were to be perceived, nor, indeed, anything which might indicate that the place was inhabited.

As we drew up at the gate of a farmyard, which formed the approach both to the mill and the house, Peter Barnett again got down, and having carefully examined the traces of the wheel-marks, observed, "they've been here, that I'll take my Bible oath on. The wheel-tracks go straight into the yard. But there's some fresh marks here I can't rightly make out. It looks as if a horse had galloped up to the gate and leaped hover it."

"Wilford!" exclaimed I, as a sudden idea came into my head. "We have not got to the truth of this matter yet, depend upon it. There is some collusion between Wilford and Cumberland."

"Umph! rascals!" ejaculated Mr. Frampton. "But 'they shall both hang for it, if it costs me every farthing I possess in the world."

"It's Mr Fleming's black mare as has been hover 'ere," said one of the postboys, who, I afterwards learned, was a stable-helper at Barstone, and had volunteered to drive in the sudden emergency. "I knows her marks from any hother 'orse's. She's got a bar-shoe on the near fore-foot."

"Is there nobody here to direct us?" asked I. "Let me out. Who is this miller, Peter?" I continued, as I sprang to the ground.

"Well, he's a queer one," was the reply. "Nobody rightly knows what to make of him. He's no great good, I expects; but good or bad, we'll have him out."

So saying, he opened the gate, and going to the cottage-door, which was closed and fastened, commenced a vigorous assault upon it. For some time his exertions appeared productive of no result, and I began to imagine the cottage was untenanted.

"We are only wasting our time to no purpose," said I. "Let us endeavour to trace the wheel-marks, and continue our pursuit."

"I'm certain sure there's some one in the house," rejoined old Peter, after applying his ear to the keyhole; "I can hear 'em moving about."

"We'll soon see," replied I, looking round for some implement fitted for my purpose. In one corner lay a heap of wood, apparently part of an old paling. Selecting a stout post which had formed one of the uprights, I dashed it against the fastenings of the door with a degree of force which made lock and hinges rattle again. I was about to repeat the attack, when a gruff voice from within the house shouted, "Hold hard there, I'm a-coming," and [452] in another minute the bolts were withdrawn, and the door opened.

"What do you mean by destroying a man's property in this manner?" was the salutation with which we were accosted.

The speaker was a short thick-set man, with brawny arms, and a head unnaturally large, embellished by a profusion of red hair, and a beard of at least a week's growth. The expression of his face, surly in the extreme, would have been decidedly bad, had it not been for a look of kindness in the eye, which in some degree redeemed it!

"What do you mean by allowing people to stand knocking at your door for five minutes, my friend, without taking any notice of them? You obliged us to use summary measures," replied I.

"Well, I wor a-laying on the bed when you cum. I slipped down with a sack of flour this morning, and hit my head, so I thought I'd turn in and take a snooze, do you see;" and as he spoke he pointed to his face, one side of which I now perceived was black and swollen, as if from a blow.

"That's a lie, Joe! and you knows it," said Peter Barnett abruptly.

"You speaks pretty plainly at all events, Master Barnett," was the reply, but in a less surly tone than he had hitherto used.

The man was clearly an original; and it was equally evident that Peter knew how to deal with him, and that I did not. I therefore called the former on one side, and desired him, if bribing was of any use, to offer the miller fifty pounds, if through his information we were enabled to overtake the fugitives. Upon this a conversation ensued between the pair, which appeared as if it would never come to a termination; but just as my patience was exhausted, and I was about to break in upon them, Peter informed me that if I would engage to pay Hard-man fifty pounds, and to protect him from Wilford's anger, he would tell me everything he knew, and put me on the right track. To this I agreed, and he proceeded to give me the following account:—

In the course of the previous day, a vagabond of his acquaintance, who called himself a rat-catcher, but was a professional poacher and an amateur pugilist, came to him, and told him that a gentleman who had a little job in hand wanted the use of the cottage, as it was a nice out-of-the-way place, and that, if he would agree, the gent would call and give him his instructions. He inquired [453] of what the job consisted; and on being told that a girl was going to run away from home with her sweetheart—that being, as he observed, merely an event in the course of nature—he agreed. In the evening he was visited by Wilford, and a man who was addressed as Captain. They directed him to have a room in the cottage ready by the next morning for the reception of a lady; and at the same time a sealed paper was handed to him, which he was directed to lock up in some safe place, and in the event of the lady and her maid-servant being given into his custody unharmed, he was to deliver up the paper to a gentleman who should produce a signet ring then shown him. This being successfully accomplished, he and his friend the poacher were alike to prevent the lady's escape, and protect her against all intrusion, till such time as Wilford should arrive to claim her; for which services the worthy pair were to receive conjointly the sum of twenty pounds.

In pursuance of these instructions, he had locked up the paper, and prepared for locking up the lady. About half an hour before we made our appearance, a carriage had arrived with four smoking posters; it contained two females inside; the Captain and a gentleman (whom the miller recognised as Mr. Cumberland of Barstone Priory) were seated in the rumble, while his friend the poacher was located on a portmanteau in front.

Cumberland and his companion alighted, and the former immediately asked for the paper, producing the ring, and saying that the plan had been changed, and that the lady was to go on another stage. Joe Hardman, however, was not, as he expressed it, "to be done so easy," and positively refused to give up the paper till the lady was consigned to his custody. A whispered consultation took place between Cumberland and the Captain, the carriage door was opened, and the lady and her maid requested to alight. Joe then ushered them into the room prepared for them, the windows of which had been effectually secured, locked them in, and leaving the poacher on guard, hastened to get the paper, which, on receiving the ring, he delivered up to Cumberland. No sooner, however, had Cumberland secured the document than he made a signal to the Captain; they both threw themselves upon Hardman, and endeavoured to overpower him. He resisted vigorously, shouting loudly to the poacher for assistance, an appeal to which that treacherous ally responded by bestowing upon him a blow which stretched him on his back, and damaged his [454] physiognomy in the manner already described. Having put him hors de combat, they took the key from him, released the lady, forced her and her maid to re-enter the carriage, and drove off, leaving him to explain her absence as best he might.

They had not been gone more than ten minutes when Wilford and his groom rode up at speed, and on learning the trick which had been played upon him swore a fearful oath to be avenged on Cumberland, and after ascertaining which direction they had taken, followed eagerly in pursuit.

He added, that his chief inducement for making this confession, was his conviction that something dreadful would occur unless timely measures were taken to prevent it. He declared Cumberland's manner to have been that of a man driven to desperation; and he had noticed that he had pistols with him. Wilford's ungovernable fury, on being informed how he had been deceived, was described by Hardman as enough to make a man's blood run cold to witness. Having, in addition, ascertained the route they had taken, and the means by which we should be likely to trace them, we returned to the carriage,—my heart heavy with the most dire forebodings,—and inciting the drivers, by promises of liberal payment, to use their utmost speed, we once again started in pursuit.

CHAPTER LVI — RETRIBUTION

          "Fell retribution, like a sleuth-hound, still
          The footsteps of the wicked sternly tracks,
          And in his mad career o'ertaking him,
          Brings, when he least expects it, swift destruction,
          And with a bitter, mocking justice, marks
          Each sin that did most easily beset him.
          The eye that spared not woman in its lust,
          Glaring with maniac terror, sinks in death.
          The homicidal hand, whose fiendish skill
          Made man its victim, crushed and bleeding lies.
          The crafty tongue, a ready instrument
          Of that most subtle wickedness, his brain,
          Babbles in fatuous imbecility."
          —Holofernes, a Mystery.

          "We meet to part no more."
          —Amatory Sentiment.

AFTER proceeding about a mile, at a pace which consorted ill with the fever of impatience that tormented me, we came once again upon the high road; and having got clear of ruts and mud-holes, were enabled to resume [455] our speed. Half-an-hour's gallop advanced us above six miles on our route, and brought us to the little town of M—. Here we were compelled to stop to change our smoking horses, and had the satisfaction of learning that a carriage, answering to old Peter's description of the one we were in pursuit of, had changed horses there about twenty minutes before our arrival, and that a gentleman and his groom had since been observed to ride at speed through the town, and to follow the course taken by the carriage without drawing bridle. Whilst making these inquiries, four stout posters had been attached to our vehicle, and we again dashed forward. Another half-hour of maddening suspense followed, although the postboys, stimulated by the promise of reward, exerted themselves to the utmost, till the carriage swung from side to side with a degree of violence which rendered an overturn by no means an improbable contingency. No signs of the fugitives were to be discerned, and I was beginning to speculate on the possibility of their having again attempted to deceive us by turning off from the high road, when an exclamation from Peter Barnett (who, from his exalted station, was able to command a more extended view than ourselves) attracted my attention. We were at the moment descending a hill, which from its steepness obliged the postilions to proceed at a more moderate pace. Thrusting my head and shoulders out of one of the front windows, and raising myself by my hands, I contrived to obtain a view of the scene which had called forth Peter's ejaculation. Rather beyond the foot of the hill, where the ground again began to ascend, a group of persons, apparently farming labourers, were gathered round some object by the wayside, while almost in the centre of the road lay a large dark mass, which, as I came nearer, I perceived to be the dead carcase of a horse; another horse, snorting with terror at the sight of its fallen companion, was with difficulty prevented from breaking away by a groom, who, from his dark and well-appointed livery, I immediately recognised as a servant of Wilford's.

With a sensation of horror, such as I do not remember ever before to have experienced, I shouted to the postboys to stop, and, springing out, hastened to join the crowd collected by the roadside. They made way for me as I approached, thereby enabling me to perceive the object of their solicitude. Stretched at full length upon the grass, and perfectly motionless, lay the form of Wilford; his usually pale features wore the livid hue of death, and his [456] long black hair was soaked and matted with blood, which trickled slowly from a fearful contused wound towards the back of the head. His right shoulder, which was crushed out of all shape, appeared a confused mass of mud and gore, while his right—his pistol arm—lay bent in an unnatural direction, which showed that it was broken in more places than one. He was perfectly insensible, but that he was still alive was proved, as well by his hard and painful breathing, as by a low moan of agony to which he occasionally gave utterance. "How has this happened?" inquired I, turning away with a thrill of horror.

"Well, as I make out, the mare crushed him when she fell upon him; but he knows best, for he saw it all," replied one of the countrymen, pointing to the groom, who now came forward.

On questioning the servant, I learned that Wilford, before he went out shooting that morning, had ordered his saddle-horses to be ready for him at a certain hour, adding, that the black mare, of which mention has been so often before made in this history, was to be saddled for his own riding. Immediately after Peter Barnett had returned with the news of Miss Saville's abduction, Wilford had called for his horses in great haste, told the servant to follow him, and ridden off at speed, through fields and along by-lanes, till he arrived at Hardman's mill. There he was made acquainted (as I knew from the miller's confession) with the deception which had been practised upon him, and, muttering imprecations against Cumberland, he started in pursuit, riding at such a pace that the groom, although well mounted, had the greatest difficulty in keeping up with him. At length they caught sight of a carriage with four horses descending the steep hill already mentioned, and proceeding at a rate which proved that time was a more important consideration than safety to those it contained. Regardless of the dangerous nature of the ground, Wilford continued his headlong course, and overtook the fugitives just at the bottom of the hill. Riding furiously up to the side of the vehicle, he shouted to the drivers to stop, in a voice hoarse with passion. Intimidated by his furious gestures, and uncertain whether to obey or not, the postboys, in their irresolution, slackened their speed, when Cumberland, urged apparently to desperation, leaned out of the window with a cocked pistol in his hand, ordered the drivers to proceed, and turning to Wilford, desired him to give up the pursuit, or (levelling the pistol at him as he spoke) he would blow his brains [457] out. Wilford, taking no notice of the threat, again shouted to the postilions to stop, and was about to ride forward to compel their obedience, when Cumberland, after hesitating for a moment, suddenly changed the direction of the pistol, and aiming at the horse instead of the rider, fired.

Simultaneously with the report, the mare plunged madly forward, reared up till she stood almost erect, pawed the air wildly with her fore-feet, and then dropped heavily backwards, bearing her rider with her, and crushing him as she fell. The ball had entered behind the ear, and passing in an oblique direction through the brain, had produced instant death. Without waiting to ascertain the effect of his shot, Cumberland again compelled the postboys to proceed, and by the time the groom reached the scene of action the carriage was rapidly getting out of sight. The servant being unable to extricate his master from the fallen horse, was about to ride off for assistance, when some labourers, attracted by the report of the pistol, had come up, and by their united efforts had succeeded in freeing the sufferer, but only, as it seemed, to die from the serious nature of the injuries he had sustained.

"Umph! eh!—the man's a dead man, or next door to it," exclaimed Mr. Frampton, who had joined me while the groom was giving the above recital. "Nevertheless, we must do what we can for him, scoundrel as he is. How's a doctor to be obtained. Umph?"

"Where does the nearest surgeon live?" asked I.

"There ain't none nearer than M——" was the reply, naming the town through which we had passed.

"I must leave you to settle this matter," continued I; "too much time has already been lost for me to attempt to overtake Cumberland with the carriage; I must follow them on horseback. Take off the leaders and shift the saddle on to the led horse; he seems the freshest."

"Umph! go and get shot, like the wretched man here," put in Mr. Frampton. "You shan't do it, Frank."

"With his fate before me, I will be careful, sir," replied I; "but think of Clara in the power of that villain! Your niece must be rescued at all hazards; still, even for her sake, I will be cautious.—Is that horse ready?"

"If you please, sir," said one of the postilions, a quick, intelligent lad, who, while we were speaking, had removed the saddle from the dead mare to the back of the off leader, "if you will take me with you, I can show you how to stop them." He then explained, that about five miles farther on there was a turnpike at the top of a long hill, which a heavy carriage must ascend slowly, and that [458] he knew a short cut across some fields, by means of which, if we made the best of our way, we might reach the turnpike in time to close the gate before those of whom we were in pursuit should arrive. This plan appeared so sensible and comparatively easy of execution, that even Mr. Frampton could offer no objection to it, and, mounting our horses, we again resumed the chase.

And now, for the first time since I had heard of Clara's abduction, did I at all recover my self-command, or venture to hope the affair would be brought to a favourable issue. But the change from inaction to vigorous exertion, and the refreshing sensation of the cool air as it whistled round my throbbing temples, tended to restore the elasticity of my spirits, and I felt equal to any emergency that might arise. After following the high road for about a mile, we turned down a lane on the right, and leaving this when we had proceeded about half a mile farther, we entered a large grass field, which we dashed over in gallant style, and making our way across sundry other fields, and over, through, and into (for the post-horses, though not by any means despicable cattle in their degree, were scarcely calculated for such a sudden burst across country as that to which we were treating them) the respective hedges and ditches by which they were divided, we regained the high road, after a rattling twenty minutes' gallop. The point at which we emerged was just at the top of a very steep hill, up which the road wound in a serpentine direction.

"Are we before them, do you think?" inquired I of my companion, as we reined in our panting steeds.

"I'm sure as we must be, sir, by the pace we've come. I didn't think the old 'osses had it in 'em; but you does ride slap hup, sir, and no mistake—pity as you ain't on the road, your honour."

"If I pass behind those larch trees," asked I, smiling at the postboy's compliment, "I can see down the hill without being seen, can I not?"

His reply being in the affirmative, I advanced to the spot I had indicated, and, to my delight, perceived a carriage and four making its way up the hill with as great rapidity as the nature of the ground rendered possible. Turning my horse's head, I rejoined my companion, and we rode on to the turnpike.

Half a dozen words served to convey my wishes to the turnpike-man, as many shillings rendered him my firm friend, and half the number of minutes sufficed to close and effectually bolt and bar the gate.

[459] The postboy having by my orders tied up the horses to a rail on the other side of the gate, we all three entered the turnpike-house, where, with breathless impatience, I awaited the arrival of the carriage. In less time than even I had imagined possible, the sound of horses' feet, combined with the rattle of wheels, and the shouting of the drivers, when they perceived the gate was shut, gave notice of their approach.

"Wait," exclaimed I, laying my hand on the boy's arm to restrain his impetuosity, "wait till they pull up, and then follow me, both of you; but do not interfere unless you see me attacked, and likely to be overpowered."

As I spoke, the horses were cheeked so suddenly as to throw them on their haunches, and, amidst a volley of oaths at the supposed inattention of the turnpike-man, one of the party (in whose coarse bloated features and corpulent figure I at once recognised my ci-devant acquaintance of the billiard-room, Captain Spicer) jumped down to open the gate. This was the moment I had waited for, and bounding forward, followed by my satellites, I sprang to the side of the carriage. A cry of joy from Clara announced that I was recognised, and with an eager hand she endeavoured to let down the glass, but was prevented by Cumberland, who was seated on the side nearest the spot where-! was standing. In an instant my resolution was taken: wrenching open the carriage door, and flinging down the steps, I sprang upon him, and seizing him by the coat-collar before he had time to draw a pistol, I dragged him out head foremost, an I, giving way to an ungovernable impulse of rage, shook him till I could hear all the teeth rattle in his head, and threw him from me with such violence that he staggered and fell. In another moment Clara was in my arms.

"Clara, dearest! my own love!" whispered I, as, shedding tears of joy, she rested her head upon my shoulder, "what happiness to have saved you!"

There are moments when feeling renders us eloquent, when the full heart pours forth its riches in eager and impassioned words; but there are other times, and this was one of them, when language is powerless to express the deep emotion of the soul, and our only refuge is in silence. Clara was the first to speak.

"Frank—tell me—what has become of Mr. Fleming—the pistol-shot—that maddened plunging horse—I am sure something dreadful has happened."

"He is indeed severely injured by the fall," replied I, wishing the truth to break upon her by degrees; "but [460]I was unable to remain to learn a surgeon's opinion—and this reminds me that I have still a duty to perform; Cumberland must be detained to answer for his share in this transaction;" and leading Clara to a bench outside the turnpike-house, I proceeded to put my intentions into practice.

But whilst I had been thus engrossed, affairs had assumed a somewhat different aspect. The turnpike-man was actively engaged in a pugilistic contest with Captain Spicer, who, on his attempting to lay hands on him, had shown fight, and was punishing his adversary pretty severely. Cumberland's quick eye had perceived the horses the moment he had regained his feet, and when he saw that I was fully occupied, he had determined to seize the opportunity for effecting his escape. Springing over the gate, he untied one of the horses, and striking down the boy who attempted to prevent him, rode away at a gallop, at the moment I reappeared upon the scene; while the second horse, after struggling violently to free itself, had snapped the bridle and dashed off in pursuit of its retreating companion. This being the case, it was useless to attempt to follow him; and not altogether sorry that circumstances had rendered it impossible for me to be his captor, I turned to assist my ally, the turnpike-man, who, to use the language of the "Chicken," immortalised by Dickens, appeared in the act of being "gone into and finished" by the redoubtable Captain Spicer. Not wishing to have my facial development disfigured by the addition of a black eye, however, I watched my opportunity, and springing aside to avoid the blow with which he greeted me, succeeded in inserting my fingers within the folds of his neckcloth, after which I had little difficulty in choking him into a state of incapacity, when he submitted to the indignity of having his hands tied behind him, and was induced to resume his seat in the rumble as a prisoner, till such time as I should learn Mr. Framp-ton's opinion as to the fittest manner of disposing of him. I then replaced Clara in the carriage, which by my orders had turned round, rewarded the turnpike-man, as well as the boy to whose forethought and able guidance I was mainly indebted for my success, and taking my seat beside my prisoner, we started on our return.

One naturally feels a certain degree of awkwardness in attempting to make conversation to a man, whom only five minutes before one has nearly succeeded in strangling, however thoroughly the discipline may have been deserved—and yet silence is worse; at least I found it so; and [461] after clearing my throat once or twice, as if I had been the person half-throttled rather than the throttler, I began:—

"It is some years since we have met, Captain Spicer".

The individual thus addressed turned round quickly as I spoke, and favoured me with a scrutinising glance—it was evident he did not recognise me.

"Have you forgotten the billiard-room in F—— Street, and the way in which your pupil and associate, Mr. Cumberland, cheated my friend Oaklands?"

The captain, on having this somewhat unpleasant reminiscence of bygone hours forced upon him, turned—I was going to say pale, but that was an impossibility—rather less red than usual ere he replied:—

"I beg pardon, Mr. Fairlegh, but I'd quite forgotten you, sir; 'pon my conscience I had. Ah, that was a foolish piece of business, sir; but Mr. Cumberland, he always was a bad un."

"The man who encouraged and assisted him, not to mention working on his fears and godding him to desperation, is scarcely the person to blame him," replied I sternly.

"Ah! you don't know all, sir; he was a precious sight worse than you're awake to yet, Mr. Fairlegh. I could tell you things that would surprise you; and if I thought that you would save yourself the trouble of taking me any farther than M——, which is, I believe, the nearest place where I can pick up a coach to London, I don't know that I should mind explaining matters a bit. What do you say, sir? you are lawyer enough to know that you can't do anything to me for this morning's work, I dare say."

"I am not so certain of that," replied I; "abduction and manslaughter are legal offences, I believe."

"I had nothing to do with the last job," was the reply; "I could not have prevented Cumberland shooting the mare if my own brother had been riding her."

This I believed to be true, and I was far from certain that, although morally guilty, Captain Spicer had committed any offence for which he could be punished by law; moreover, as he had been a good deal knocked about in his conflict with the turnpike-man, and I had more than half-strangled him with my own hands, I felt leniently disposed towards him. I therefore replied:—

"Tell me, truly and honestly, supposing you can for once contrive to do so, all you know about this business; and if, as I imagine, you have only been the tool of others [462] in the affair, it is possible my friend, Mr. Frampton, may be induced to let you off ".

Upon this hint, the captain having prevailed upon me to remove his extempore handcuffs, and passed his word not to attempt escape, proceeded to give me the following particulars:—

About a year or so before he had acted in some mysterious capacity at a gambling-house, of which Cumberland was part proprietor, and which was one of Wilford's favourite resorts. The debts which, as a boy, Cumberland had begun to contract, had increased till he became deeply involved; and after availing himself of every kind of subterfuge to postpone the evil day, was on the point of being arrested by his principal creditor, a money-lender, to whom he owed seven hundred and fifty pounds. Shortly before the day on which he had promised to meet the demand, Spicer, getting a cheque cashed at a banker's in the city, was present when an agent of Wilford's paid in to his account two thousand pounds, which circumstance he mentioned to Cumberland. That evening Cumberland induced Wilford to play picquet; they played high, but fortune varied, and at the end of the game Cumberland rose a winner of eighty pounds, for which Wilford wrote him a cheque. On examining his banker's book shortly afterwards, Wilford discovered that a cheque for eight hundred pounds had been presented and duly honoured, which proved, on minute inspection, to be the cheque written for Cumberland, and of course a forgery. For reasons of his own, one of which no doubt was to obtain absolute power over Cumberland, Wilford refused to prosecute. When, some months after this transaction, Spicer was summoned to assist in carrying off Clara, Cumberland sought him out, told him that he had a scheme to frustrate Wilford and gain possession of Clara, and proved to him that he had by some means obtained five thousand pounds in specie, of which he offered him one thousand pounds if he would assist him, his object being to escape to America, and live there upon Clara's fortune. Captain Spicer, tempted by the magnitude of the sum mentioned, aware that his character was too well known in London to render that city a desirable place of residence, and having a strong idea that he could turn his talents to account among the Yankees, stipulated that, in addition to the sum proposed, Cumberland should pay his passage out, and agreed to the plan. The further details of the plot have been already partially explained. Aware of Wilford's predilection for keeping up appearances, and [463] conducting his intrigues with so much cunning as in many instances to divert suspicion into some other channel, Cumberland sought him out, and telling him that he had observed his passion for Clara, professed that her money was his only object, spoke of his desire to reside in America, and wound up by offering, if Wilford would give up the forged paper, and agree to allow him a certain sum quarterly out of Clara's fortune, to run off with her, and hand her over to him. To this Wilford, relying on Spicer, and determining to retain the forged cheque as a guarantee for Cumberland's fidelity until Clara was placed in the hands of Hardman, agreed. With the results of this arrangement the reader is already acquainted.

As my disreputable companion came to the end of his recital we drove up to the door of the principal inn of the little town of M——.

CHAPTER THE LAST — WOO'D AND MARRIED AND A'

          "''Tis a strange compact, still I see no better,
          So by your leave we'll sit and write this letter."
          Ye Merrie Bacheloure.

          "The ancient saying is no heresy,
          Hanging and wiving goes by destiny."
          Merchant of Venice.

THE heart of the wandering Swiss bounds within him at the sound of the "Ranz des Vaches,"—dear to the German exile are the soul-stirring melodies of his fatherland; but never did the ear of German or of Swiss drink in with greater delight the music that his spirit loved than did mine the transport of grunting by which Mr. Frampton welcomed his niece, the daughter of his childhood's friend, his fondly remembered sister.

"Umph! eh! so you've let that rascal Cumberland slip through your fingers, Master Frank? Umph! stupid boy, stupid. I wanted to have him hanged."

"I am afraid, sir, the law would scarcely have sanctioned such a proceeding."

"Umph! why not, why not? He richly deserved it, the scoundrel—daring to run off with my niece. Dear child! she's as like her poor-umph—umph! the Elliots were always reckoned a handsome race. What are you laughing at, you conceited puppy? It's my belief that [464] when I was your age I was a great deal better looking fellow than you are. Some people admire a snub nose; there was the Begum of Cuddleakee, splendid woman—Well, what do you want, sir, eh?"

The last words were addressed to Captain Spicer, to whom (as since our late truce he had become all amiability) I had entrusted the commission of ascertaining Wilford's state, and who now appeared at the door, and beckoned me out of the room.

"I shall be with you again immediately," said I, rising; and, replying to Clara's anxious glance by a smile and a pressure of the hand, I hastened to obey the summons.

"Wilford is in a sad state, Mr. Fairlegh," he began, as I closed the door behind me; "dreadful, 'pon my life, sir; but here's the surgeon, you'd better speak to him yourself."

In a little ante-room adjoining the chamber to which Wilford had been conveyed, I found the surgeon, who seemed an intelligent and gentlemanly person. He informed me that his patient had not many hours to live; the wound in the head was not mortal, but the spine had received severe injuries, and his lower extremities were already paralysed; he inquired whether I was acquainted with any of his relations; adding, that they ought to be sent for without a minute's delay.

"Really I am not," replied I; "I never was at all intimate with him; but I have heard, that even with those whom he admitted to his friendship, he was strangely reserved on such subjects."

"Better question the servant," suggested the surgeon; "the patient himself is quite incapable of giving us any information; the concussion has affected the brain, and he is now delirious."

The only information to be gained by this means was, that the servant believed his master had no relations in England; he had heard that he had been brought up in Italy, and therefore imagined that his family resided there; he was able, however, to tell the name of his man of business in London, and a messenger was immediately despatched to summon him. Having done this, at the surgeon's request I accompanied him to the chamber of the sufferer.

As we entered, Wilford was lying in bed supported by pillows, with his eyes half shut, apparently in a state of stupor; but the sound of our footsteps aroused him, and opening his eyes, he raised his head and stared wildly [465] about him. His appearance, as he did so, was ghastly in the extreme. His beautiful black hair had been shorn away at the temples to permit his wound to be dressed, and his head was enveloped in bandages, stained in many places with blood; his face was pale as death, save a bright hectic spot in the centre of each cheek, fatal evidence of the inward fever which was consuming him. His classical features, already pinched and shrunken, their paleness enhanced by contrast with his black whiskers, were fixed and rigid as those of a corpse; while his eyes, which burned with an unnatural brilliancy, glared on us with an expression of mingled hate and terror. He seemed partially to recognise me, for, after watching me for a moment, his lips working convulsively, as if striving to form articulate sounds, he exclaimed in a low hoarse voice:—

"Ha! on the scent already! The staid sober lover—let him take care the pretty Clara does not jilt him. I know where she is?—not I—that's a question you must demand of Mr. Cumberland, sir. I beg your pardon, did you say you doubted my word?—I have the honour to wish you good-morning—my friend will call upon you. What! Lizzy Maurice! who dares to say I wronged her?—'tis false. Take that old man away, with his grey hair—why does he torment me?—I tell you the girl's safe, thanks to—to—my head's confused—the 'long man,' as Curtis calls him, Harry Oaklands, handsome Harry Oak-lands. What did I hear you mutter? that he horsewhipped me?—and if he did, there was a day of retribution—ha! ha!—Sir, I shot him for it; shot him like a dog—I hated him, and he perished—the strong man died—died! and what then?—what becomes of dead men? A long-faced fool said I was dying, just now—he thought I didn't hear him—I not hear an insult! and I consider that one—I'll have him out for it—I'll"—and he endeavoured to raise himself, but was scarcely able to lift his head from the pillow, and sank back with a groan of anguish. After a moment he spoke again, in a low, plaintive voice, "I am very ill, very weak—send for her—she will come—oh yes, she will come, for she loves me; she knows my fiery nature—knows my vices, as men call them, and yet she loves me—the only one who ever did—send for her—she will come, it is her son who wishes for her". Then, in a tone of the fondest endearment he continued, "Lucia, bella madre, il tuo figlio tia chiama".

"He has been speaking Italian for some time," observed the surgeon in a whisper.

[466] "That man Spicer told me he thought he was of Italian extraction," replied I.

Low as were our voices, the quick ear of the sufferer caught the name I had mentioned.

"Spicer," he exclaimed eagerly; "has he returned? Well, man, speak! is she safely lodged? Cumberland has done his part admirably then. Oh! it was a grand scheme!—Ha! played me false—I'll not believe it—he dares not—he knows me—knows I should dog him like his shadow till we met face to face, and I had torn his false heart out of his dastardly breast. I say he dares not do it!" and yelling out a fearful oath, he fell back in a fainting fit.

Let us draw a veil over the remainder of the scene. The death-bed of the wicked is a horrible lesson, stamped indelibly on the memory of all who have witnessed it. Happy are they whose pure hearts need not such fearful training; and far be it from me to dim the brightness of their guileless spirits by acquainting them with its harrowing details.

Shortly after the scene I have described, internal hemorrhage commenced; ere another hour had elapsed the struggle was over, and a crushed and lifeless corpse, watched by hirelings, wept over by none, was all that remained on earth of the man whom society courted while it feared, and bowed to while it despised—the successful libertine, the dreaded duellist, Wilford! I learned some time afterwards that his father had been an English nobleman, his mother an Italian lady of good family. Their marriage had been private, and performed only according to the rites of the Romish Church, although the earl was a Protestant. Availing himself of this omission, on his return to England he pretended to doubt the validity of the contract, and having the proofs in his own possession, contrived to set the marriage aside, and wedded a lady of rank in this country. Lucia Savelli, the victim of his perfidy, remained in Italy, devoting herself to the education of her son, whom she destined for the Romish priesthood. Her plans were, however, frustrated by the information that the earl had died suddenly, leaving a large fortune to the boy, on condition that he never attempted to urge his claim to the title, and finished his education in England. With his subsequent career the reader is sufficiently acquainted. On hearing of her son's melancholy fate, Lucia Savelli, to whom the whole of his fortune was bequeathed, retired to a convent, which she endowed with her wealth.

[467] As Barstone was out of our way from M——to Heath-field, and as Clara was too much overcome by all she had gone through to bear any further agitation, we determined to proceed at once to my mother's cottage, and despatched Peter Barnett to inform Mr. Vernor of the events of the day, and communicate to him Mr. Frampton's resolution to leave him in undisturbed possession of Barstone, for a period sufficiently long to enable him to wind up all his affairs and seek another residence.

The return to Heathfield Cottage I shall not attempt to describe. Clara's tears, smiles and blushes—Fanny's tender and affectionate solicitude—my mother's delighted, but somewhat fussy, hospitality—and my own sensations, which were an agreeable compound of those of every one else—each and all were perfect in their respective ways. But the crème de la crème, the essence of the whole affair, that on which the tongue of the poet and the pen of the romance-writer must alike rejoice to expatiate, was the conduct of Mr. Frampton; how he was seized, at one and the same moment, with two separate, irresistible, and apparently incompatible manias, one for kissing everybody, and the other for lifting and transporting (under the idea that he was thereby facilitating the family arrangements) bulky and inappropriate articles which no one required, all of which he deposited, with an air composed of equal parts of cheerful alacrity and indomitable perseverance, in the drawing-room, grunting the whole time as man never grunted before; a wild and unlooked-for course of proceeding which reduced my mother to the borders of insanity. Finding that argument was not of the least avail in checking his rash career, I seized him by the arm, just as he was about to establish on my sister's work-table a large carpet-bag and an umbrella, which had accompanied him through the adventures of the day, and, dragging him off to his own room, forced him to begin to prepare for dinner, while I turned a deaf ear to his remonstrance, that "It was quite absurd to—umph! umph!—prevent him from making himself useful, when there was so much to be done in the house. Umph!" Having promulgated this opinion, he shook me by the hand till my arm ached, and, declaring that he was the happiest old man in the world, sat down and cried like a child.

Worn out by the fatigues and anxieties of the day, we gladly followed my mother's suggestion of going to bed in good time, although I did not retire for the night till I had seen Harry Oaklands, and given him an account of [468] our adventures. Wilford's fate affected him strongly, and, shading his brow with his hand, he sat for some moments wrapped in meditation. At length he said, in a deep low tone, "These things force thought upon one, Frank. How nearly was this man's fate my own! How nearly was I being hurried into eternity with a weight of passions unrestrained, of sins unrepented of, clinging to my guilty soul! God has been very merciful to me." He paused; then, pressing my hand warmly, he added, "And now, good-night, Frank; to-morrow I shall be more fit to rejoice with you in your prospects of coming happiness; to-night I would fain be alone—you understand me". My only reply was by wringing his hand in return, and we parted.

Reader, such thoughts as these working in a mind like that of Harry Oaklands, could not be without their effect; and when in after years, having by constant and unceasing watchfulness conquered his constitutional indolence, his voice has been raised in the senate of his country to defend the rights and privileges of our pure and holy faith—when men's hearts, spell-bound by his eloquence, have been turned from evil to follow after the thing that is good, memory has brought before me that conversation in the library at Heathfield; and, as I reflected on the effect produced on the character of Oaklands by the fearful death of the homicide Wilford, I have acknowledged that the ways of Providence are indeed inscrutable.

I was roused from a deep sleep at an uncomfortably early hour on the following morning, by a sound much resembling a "view halloo," coupled with my own name, shouted in the hearty tones of Lawless; and, flinging open the window, I perceived that indefatigable young gentleman employed in performing some incomprehensible manouvres with two sticks and a large flint stone, occasionally varying his diversion by renewing the rough music which had broken my slumbers.

"Why, Lawless, what do you mean by rousing me at this unreasonable hour? it's not six o'clock yet. And what in the world are you doing with those sticks?"

"Unreasonable, eh? well, that's rather good, now! Just tell me which is the most unreasonable, to lie snoring in bed like a fat pig or a fatter alderman, such a beautiful morning as this is, or to be out and enjoying it—eh?"

"You have reason on your side, so far, I must confess."

"Eh? yes, and so I always have, to be sure. What am I doing with the sticks, did you say? can't you see?"

[469] "I can see you are fixing one in the ground, taking extreme pains to balance the stone on the top of it, and instantly endeavouring to knock it off again with the other; in which endeavour you appear generally to fail."

"Fail, eh? It strikes me that you are not half awake yet, or else your eyesight is getting out of condition. Six times running, except twice, when the wind or something got in the way, did I knock that blessed stone off, while I was trying to wake you. Epsom's coming round soon, don't you see, so I'm just getting my hand in for a slap at the snuff-boxes. But jump into your togs as fast as you can, and come out, for I've got such a lark to tell you."

A few minutes sufficed to enable me to follow Lawless's recommendation, and long before he had attained the proficiency he desired in his "snuff-box practice," I had joined him.

"There!" he exclaimed, as he made a most spiteful shot at the stone, "that's safe to do the business. By Jove, it has done it too, and no mistake," he continued, as the stick, glancing against the branch of a tree, turned aside, and ruining a very promising bed of hyacinths, finally alighted on a bell-glass placed over some pet flower of Fanny's, both of which it utterly destroyed.

"Pleasant that, eh?—ah, well, we must lay it to the cats—though if the cats in this part of the country are not unusually robust and vicious, there's not a chance of our being believed."

"Never mind," remarked I, "better luck next time. But now that you have succeeded in dragging me out of bed, what is it that you want with me?"

"Want with you, eh?" returned Lawless, mimicking the half-drowsy, half-cross tone in which I had spoken; "you're a nice young man to talk to, I don't think. Never be grumpy, man, when I've got the most glorious bit of fun in the world to tell you, too. I had my adventures yesterday as well as you. Who do you think called upon me after you set out? You'll never guess, so I may as well tell you at once; it was—but you shall hear how it happened. I was just pulling my boots on to try a young bay thoroughbred, that Reynolds thinks might make a steeple-chaser—he's got some rare bones about him, I must say. Well, I was just in the very act of pulling on my boots, when Shrimp makes his appearance, and squeaking out, 'Here's a gent, as vonts to see you, sir, partic'lar,' ushers in no less a personage than Lucy Markham's devoted admirer, the drysalter."

[470] "What! the gentleman whose business we settled so nicely the day before yesterday? Freddy Coleman's dreaded rival?"

"Eh? yes, the very identical, and an uncommon good little follow he is too, as men go, I can tell you. Well, you may suppose I was puzzled enough to find out what he could want with me, and was casting about for something to say to him, when he makes a sort of a bow, and begins:—

"'The Honourable George Lawless, I believe?'

"'The same, sir, at your service,' replies I, giving a stamp with my foot to get my boot on.

"'May I beg the favour of five minutes' private conversation with you?'

"'Eh? oh yes, certainly,' says I. 'Get out of this, you inquisitive little imp of darkness, and tell Reynolds to tie the colt up to the pillar-reins, and let him champ the bit till I come down; that's the way to bring him to a mouth;' and, hastening Shrimp's departure by throwing the slippers at his head, I continued, 'Now, sir, I'm your man; what's the row, eh?'

"'A-hem! yes, sir, really it is somewhat a peculiar—that is a disagreeable business. I had thought of getting a friend to call upon you.'

"'A friend, eh? oh! I see the move now—pistols for two, and coffee for four; invite a couple of friends to make arrangements for getting a bullet put into you in the most gentlemanly way possible, and call it receiving satisfaction,—very satisfactory, certainly. Well, sir, you shall soon have my answer: no man can call George Lawless a coward; if he did, he'd soon find his eyesight obscured, and a marked alteration in the general outline of his features; but I never have fought a duel, and I never mean to fight one. If I've smashed your panels, or done you any injury, I am willing to pay for repairs, and make as much apology as one man has any right to expect from another; or, if it will be a greater ease to your mind, we'll off coats, ring for Shrimp and Harry Oaklands' boy to see fair play, and have it out on the spot, all snug and comfortable; but no pistoling work, thank ye.'

"Well, the little chap didn't seem to take at all kindly to the notion, though, as I fancied he wasn't much of a bruiser, I offered to tie my right hand behind me, and fight him with my left, but it was clearly no go; so I thought I'd better hold my tongue, and leave him to explain himself. After dodging about the bush for some time, he began to get the steam up a little, and when he [471] did break cover, went away at a rattling pace,—let out at me in style, I can tell you. His affections had been set on Lucy Markham ever since he had had any, and I had been and destroyed the happiness of his whole life, and rendered him a miserable individual—a mark for the finger of scorn to poke fun at. Shocking bad names he did call himself, to be sure, poor little beggar! till 'pon my word, I began to get quite sorry for him. At last it came out, that the thing which chiefly aggravated him was, that Lucy should have given him up for the sake of marrying a man of rank. If it had been any one she was deeply attached to, he would not have so much minded; but it was nothing but a paltry ambition to be a peeress; she was mercenary, he knew it, and it was that which stung him to the quick.

"Well, as he said this, a bright idea flashed across me, that I could satisfy the little 'victim,' as he called himself, and get my own neck out of the collar, at one and the same time; so I went up to him, and giving him a slap on the back that set him coughing like a broken-winded hunter after a sharp burst, I said, 'Mr. Brown, I what the females call sympathise with you;—your thing-em-bobs—sentiments, eh? are perfectly correct, and do you credit. Now listen to me, young feller;—I'm willing to do my best to accommodate you in this matter, and, if you're agreeable, this is the way we'll settle it. You don't choose Lucy should marry me, and I don't choose she should marry you;—now if you'll promise to give her up, I'll do the same. That's fair, ain't it?' 'Do you mean it really?' says he. 'Really and truly,' says I. 'Will you swear?' says he. 'Like a trooper, if that will please you,' says I. 'Sir, you're a gentleman—a generous soul,' says he, quite overcome; and, grasping my hand, sobs out, 'I'll promise'. 'Done, along with you, drysalter,' says I, 'you're a trump;' and we shook hands till he got so red in the face, I began to be afraid of spontaneous combustion. 'There's nothing like striking when the iron's hot,' thinks I; so I made him sit down there and then, and we wrote a letter together to old Coleman, telling him the resolution we had come to, and saying, if he chose to bring an action for breach of promise of marriage against us, we would defend it conjointly, and pay the costs between us. What do you think of that, Master Frank? Eh?"

"That you certainly have a more wonderful knack of getting into scrapes, and out of them again, than any man I ever met with," replied I, laughing.

[472] Before we had finished breakfast Peter Barnett made his appearance. On his return to Barstone, he was informed that Mr. Vernor had been seized with an apoplectic fit, probably the result of the agitation of the morning. He was still in a state of stupor when Peter started to acquaint us with the fact, and the medical man who had been sent for considered him in a very precarious condition. Under these circumstances, Mr. Frampton immediately set out for Barstone, where he remained till the following morning, when he rejoined us. A slight improvement had taken place in the patient's health; he had recovered his consciousness, and requested to see Mr. Frampton. During the interview which ensued, he acknowledged Mr. Frampton's rights, and withdrew all further opposition to his wishes.

After the lapse of a few days, Mr. Vernor recovered sufficiently to remove from Barstone to a small farm which he possessed in the north, where he lingered for some months, shattered alike in health and spirits. He steadily refused to see either Clara or myself, or to accept the slightest kindness at our hands; but we have since had reason to believe, that in this he was actuated by a feeling of compunction, rather than of animosity. Nothing is so galling to a proud spirit, as to receive favours from those it has injured. In less than a year from the time he quitted Barstone Priory, a second attack terminated his existence. On examining his papers after his decease, Peter Barnett's suspicions that Richard Cumberland was Mr. Vernor's natural son were verified, and this discovery tended to account for a considerable deficiency in Clara's fortune, the unhappy father having been tempted to appropriate large sums of money to relieve his spendthrift son's embarrassments. This also served to explain his inflexible determination that Clara should marry Cumberland, such being the only arrangement by which he could hope to prevent the detection of his dishonesty.

Reader, the interest of my story, always supposing it to have possessed any in your eyes, is now over.

Since the occurrence of the events I have just related the course of my life has been a smooth, and, though not exempt from some share in the "ills that flesh is heir to," an unusually happy one.

In an address, whether from the pulpit or the rostrum, half the battle is to know when you have said enough—the same rule applies with equal force to the tale-writer. There are two errors into which he may fall—he may say too little, or he may say too much. The first is a venial [473] sin, and easily forgiven—the second nearly unpardonable. Such, at all events, being my ideas on the subject, I shall merely proceed to give a brief outline of the fate of the principal personages who have figured in these pages ere I bring this veritable history to a close. Cumberland, after his flight from the scene at the turnpike-house, made his way to Liverpool, and, his money being secreted about his person, hastened to put his original plan into execution. A vessel was about to start for America, by which he obtained a passage to New York. In the United States he continued the same vicious course of life which had exiled him from England, and, as a natural consequence, sank lower and lower in the scale of humanity. The last account heard of him stated that, having added drinking to the catalogue of his vices, his constitution, unable to bear up against the inroads made by dissipation, was rapidly failing, while he was described to be in the most abject poverty. The captain of an American vessel with whom I am slightly acquainted, promised me that he would gain more particulars concerning him, and, if he were in actual want, leave money with some responsible person for his use, so as to ensure him against starvation. The result of his inquiries I have yet to learn.

Old Mr. Coleman was, as may be imagined, dreadfully irate on the receipt of the singular epistle bearing the joint signatures of Lawless and Mr. Lowe Brown, and was only restrained from bringing an action for breach of promise by having it strongly represented to him that the effect of so doing would be to make himself and his niece ridiculous. Freddy and Lucy Markham had the good sense to wait till Mr. Coleman had taken the former into partnership, which he fortunately inclined to do almost immediately; being then, with the aid of Lawless's receivership, in possession of a very comfortable income, the only serious objection to the marriage was removed; and the father, partly to escape Mrs. Coleman's very singular and not over-perspicuous arguments, partly because he loved his son better than he was himself aware, gave his consent.

George Lawless is still a bachelor. If questioned on the subject, his invariable reply is, "Eh, married? Not I! Women are a kind of cattle, don't you see, that I never did understand. If it was anything about a horse now—" There are some, however, who attribute his celibacy to another cause, and deem that he has never yet seen any one calculated to efface the memory of his sincere though eccentric attachment to my sister Fanny.

[474] It was on a bright summer morning that the bells of the little church of Heathfield pealed merrily to celebrate a triple wedding; and fairer brides than Fanny, Clara and Lucy Markham, or happier bridegrooms than Harry Oaklands, Freddy Coleman and myself, never pronounced the irrevocable "I will". There were smiles on all faces; and if there were a few tears also, they were such as angels might not grudge to weep—tears of pure, unalloyed happiness.

Years have passed away since that day—years of mingled light and shade; but never, as I believe, have either of the couples then linked together shown, by thought, word or deed, that they have failed in gratitude to the Giver of all good things, who in His mercy had granted them the rare and inestimable blessing of sharing the joys and sorrows of this world of trial with a loving and beloved companion.

Clara and I reside at Barstone Priory, which is also Mr. Frampton's home, when he is at home; but his wandering habits lead him to spend much of his time in a round of visits to his friends; and Heathfield Hall and Cottage, Leatherly and Elm Grove, are in turn gladdened by the sound of his kindly laugh and sonorous grunts.