MORE WAYS THAN ONE
“This is as strange a thing as e'er I looked on.”--_The Tempest_.
“These news, my lords, may cheer our drooping spirits.”--_King Henry
VI_.
“And liquor, likewise, will I give to thee, And friendship shall
combine, and brotherhood.”--_King Henry V_.
THE week passed away like a dream, and with a beating heart and
throbbing pulse I went through the various examinations, and engaged
with my competitors in the struggle for honours. Anxious in the highest
degree as to the result of my labours, I scarcely ate, drank, or slept,
and, had the necessity for exertion been protracted much longer, my mind
could not have borne the continued strain, and I should probably have
had a brain fever. It was the eventful Friday morning on which the list
was to come out, and in the course of an hour or two my fate would be
known. Utterly worn out by a night which anxiety had rendered sleepless,
I had hastily swallowed a cup of tea, and, turning away from the
untasted eatables, flung myself, wrapped in a dressing-gown, on the
sofa. I had not, however, lain there above a quarter of an hour, when a
tap was heard at the door, and Mr. Frampton made his appearance, attired
as usual in the well-remembered blue coat, with brass buttons, drab
shorts, and gaiters, with the broad-brimmed hat, lined with green, fixed
sturdily on his head, as if it was not made to take off at any time.
~243~~“Umph! found my way up, you see! Fellow you call the gyp wanted to
make me believe you were out--thought I looked too like a governor to
be let in, I suppose; but it wouldn't do, sir; old birds are not to be
caught with chaff; and he spoke with an air of such intense honesty that
I felt sure he was lying, and told him so.--Don't get up, boy, don't get
up; you look as jaded as a hunted antelope. Why, you've never touched
your breakfast; you'll kill yourself if you go on at this rate.”
“It will not last much longer, sir,” said I; “in about another hour or
so my fate will be known. The list comes out this morning. Some of my
friends were to call for me, and we were to make a party to go down to
the Senate House together, for there is sure to be a crowd; but I shall
let them go without me, for I'm in such a state of nervous anxiety that
I feel fit for nothing.”
“Umph! I'll go with them, if they've no objection,” returned Mr.
Frampton. “If I should happen to get knocked over in the scuffle, I
shall want somebody to pick me up again. I shall like to see how near
the tail of the list they stick your name, Frank--umph!”
At this moment the door was flung open, and Lawless, Archer, and one or
two more men of my acquaintance came tumbling over one another into the
room, laughing vociferously at some unknown jest. Owing to the shape of
the apartment, the place where Mr. Frampton had seated himself was not
easily to be seen as you entered, consequently none of them observed
him.
“Fairlegh, old boy!” began Archer--
“Eh! here's such a tremendous go!” broke in Lawless. “Where's the
smelling-bottle? Archer swears he has just seen the ghost of Noah's
great-grandfather, as he appeared when dressed in his Sunday clothes!”
“'Pon my word it's true, and what will you lay it's a lie?” sang Archer.
“Oh! if you had but seen him, Fairlegh; he looked like--hang me if I
know anything ugly enough to compare him to.”
“Was he at all like me, sir?--umph!” inquired Mr. Frampton in his
gruffest tone, putting on the broad-brimmed hat, and rising slowly from
his seat as he spoke.
“The very apparition itself, by Jingo!” exclaimed Archer, starting back
in alarm, half real, half affected, thereby nearly overturning Lawless,
who was just behind him.
~244~~“Hold hard there, young fellow; where are you jibbing to? You'll
smash my panels in a minute, if you don't look out--eh?--why surely
it's the old boy from Helmstone,” continued Lawless aside; “Mr.
Frampton--sir, your most obedient.”
“Same to you, sir,” was the reply; “glad to see your spirits don't seem
likely to fail you, Mr. Lawless--laughing at me, all of 'em, impudent
young dogs--what's t'other one's name, Frank? the one that took me for a
ghost--umph!”
“Allow me to introduce you--Mr. Frampton, Mr. Archer, Mr. Green, Mr.
Lacy, Mr. Richards.”
The individuals named delivered themselves of a series of nods and jerks
as I pronounced their various patronymics, and Mr. Frampton took off
his hat, and made a polite bow to each man separately; then turning to
Archer, he said:--
“Pray, sir, may I inquire when and how you became so intimate with
Noah's great-grandfather as to mistake me for him?--umph!”
“Well, sir,” said Archer, who was evidently taken somewhat aback by this
direct appeal, “it is an affair--that is, a circumstance--what I mean to
say is--the thing, as you must see, was completely--in fact it was quite
by accident, and promiscuously, so to speak, that I mistook you for the
respectable antediluvian--I should say, for his ghost.”
“Umph! don't think I look much like a ghost, either. Not that there are
such things in reality; all humbug, sir. A man goes and eats beef and
pudding enough for two, has the night-mare, fancies next morning he has
seen a ghost, and the first fool he tells it to believes him. Well, Mr.
Lawless, not made a ghost of yourself by breaking your neck out of that
Infernal Machine of yours yet. Get his ex-majesty Louis Philippe to go
out for a ride with you in that, and his life would be in greater danger
than all the Fieschis in France could ever put it in. Umph!”
“The horses are in first-rate condition,” returned Lawless, “enough to
pull a fellow's arms off till they've done about ten miles; that takes
the steel out of them a bit, and then a child may guide them. Happy to
take you a drive, Mr. Frampton, any time that suits you--eh?”
“Thank ye, sir, when that time comes I'll let you know; but I hope
to live a few years longer yet, and therefore you'll excuse my not
accepting your kind offer. Besides, if Mr. Archer was to see the ghost
of Noah's great-grand-father ~245~~in a tandem, he'd never get over it.”
Then came the aside: “Umph! had him there, the young jackanapes”.
“Well, Fairlegh, are you coming with us?” asked Lacy; “the list must be
out by this time.”
“No; 'pon my word I can't,” replied I. “I'm good for nothing this
morning.”
“Serve you right, too,” said Lawless, “for refusing the second bowl of
punch last night. I told you no good would come of it, eh?”
“Positively we ought to be going,” interposed Richards; “we'll bring you
some news presently, Fairlegh, that will set you all right again in no
time.”
“I only wish you may prove a true prophet,” replied I. “Umph! if you'll
allow me, I'll accompany you, gentlemen,” said Mr. Frampton; “make one
of your party, umph!”
Several of those thus appealed to exchanged glances of horror, and at
last Archer, who was rather an exclusive, and particularly sensitive to
ridicule, began:--
“Why, really, sir, you must excuse--”
“Umph! excuse? no excuses are required, sir; when you've lived as long
as I have, you'll learn not to care in what company you sail, so as it's
honest company. Noah's great-grandfather found out the truth of
that, sir, when he had to be hail-fellow-well-met with tiger-cats and
hippopotamuses in the ark--hippopotami, I suppose you classical men call
it--though, now I come to think of it, he never was there at all. But
you will let an old man go with you, there's good boys,” continued Mr.
Frampton in a tone of entreaty; “not one of you feels more interest in
Frank Fairlegh's success than I do.”
“Come along, governor,” exclaimed Lawless, taking him by the arm, “you
and I will go together, and if anybody gets in your way, down he goes if
he were as big as Goliath of Gath. You shall see the list as soon as any
one of them, for you're a trump--a regular brick!”
“With a very odd tile on the top of it,” whispered Archer, pointing to
the broad brim.
“Now, then,” continued Lawless, “fall in there. Follow the governor.
To the right about face! March!” So saying, he flung open the door, and
arm-in-arm with Mr. Frampton hurried down the stairs, followed by the
others in double-quick time. When they were all gone I made an effort to
rouse myself from the state of lassitude and depression into which I had
fallen, and ~246~~succeeded so far as to recover sufficient energy
to attempt the labour of dressing, though my hands trembled to such a
degree that I could scarcely accomplish it, and was forced to postpone
the operation of shaving to some more favourable opportunity.
Having made my outer-man respectable, I re-entered the sitting-room, and
waited with impatience for the return of my friends. Oh! the horrors of
suspense! that tooth-ache of the mind, in which each moment of anxiety r
stretched on the rack of expectation, appears to the overwrought senses
an eternity of gnawing anguish!--of all the mental tortures with which I
am acquainted, defend me from suspense!
I had worked myself up into a thorough fever, and was becoming so
excited that I was on the point of rushing out to learn the worst at
once, when sundry shouts, mingled with peals of laughter, reached my
ear--sounds which assured me that news was at hand. And now, with the
inconsistency of human nature, I trembled at, and would willingly have
delayed, my friends' arrival, lest it might bring me the certainty
of failure, to which even the doubt and suspense I had been so lately
chafing at appeared preferable. The sounds grew louder and louder--they
were approaching. Oh! how my heart beat! in another moment they would
be here. Sinking into a chair, for my knees trembled so that I could
scarcely stand, I remained with my eyes fixed upon the door in a state
of breathless anxiety. More shouting! surely that was a cheer--
“Hurrah! hurrah! out of the way there! room for the governor!”--a rush
of many feet up the stairs--more, cheering--the door is thrown open, and
a party of from fifteen to twenty undergraduates come pouring in, with
Mr. Frampton in the midst of them, carried in triumph on the shoulders
of Lawless and another man, and waving a list in one hand, and the
broad-brimmed hat in the other.
[Illustration: page246 Hurrah! Room for the Governor]
“Bravo, Fairlegh! all right, old fellow! never say die! hurrah!”
exclaimed half a score voices, all at once, while both my hands
were seized and nearly shaken off, and I was almost annihilated by
congratulatory slaps on the back from my zealous and excited friends.
“Well,” exclaimed I, as soon as I could make myself audible amidst the
clamour, “I suppose by your congratulations I'm not plucked, but how
high do I stand?” “Silence there!” shouted Lawless. “Order! order! hear
the governor; he's got the list. Fire away, sir.”
~247~~Thus appealed to, Mr. Frampton, who was still mounted on the
shoulders of his supporters, having cleared his throat and grunted
proudly, with an air of majesty read as follows:--
“Kushbrooke, Senior Wrangler--Crosby, second--Barham, third--Fairlegh,
fourth!”
“Nonsense,” exclaimed I, springing up, “the thing's impossible!”
“What an unbelieving Jew it is,” said Archer; “hand him the list, and
let him read it himself. Seeing is believing, they say.”
Yes, there it was, beyond all possibility of doubt; with my own eyes
did I behold it. “Fairlegh, fourth Wrangler!” Why, even in my wildest
moments of hope my imagination had never taken so high a flight. Fourth
Wrangler! oh! it was too delightful to be real. So overcome was I by
this unexpected stroke of good fortune, that for a minute or two I was
scarcely conscious of what was going on around me, and returned rambling
and incoherent answers to the congratulations which were showered upon
me. The first thing that roused my attention was a shout from Lawless,
demanding a hearing, for that “the governor,” as he persisted in calling
Mr. Frampton, was going to make a speech. The cry was immediately taken
up by the others, who for some moments defeated their own purpose by
calling vociferously for “silence for the governor's speech!” Having
at length, from sheer want of breath, obtained the required boon, Mr.
Frampton, waving his hand with a dignified gesture, began as follows:--
“Umph! on this happy occasion, gentlemen--set of noisy young scamps!--on
this happy occasion, I say”--(shouts of encore! bravo! etc.)--“what I
was going to say was--umph!” (a cry of “You have said it,” from a man
near the door, who thought he could not be seen, but was). “Much obliged
to you, sir, for your observation,” continued Mr. Frampton, fixing his
glance unmistakably on the Detected One, “but I have not said it,
nor does it seem very likely I ever shall say it, if you continue to
interrupt me with your wretched attempts at wit.” (Cries of “Hear!
hear! don't interrupt the governor! Shame! shame!” and an aside from
Mr. Frampton, “Had him there, umph!” during all of which the detected
individual was striving to open the door, which several men, who had
perceived his design, held firmly against him.) “What I was going to
say,” resumed the speaker, “when that gentleman who is trying to leave
the room ~248~~interrupted me” (more cries of “Shame!”), “was, that I
beg, in the name of my friend, Frank Fairlegh, to invite you all to a
champagne breakfast in his rooms to-morrow,” (tremendous cheering, and a
cry of “Bravo, governor! you are a brick!” from Lawless), “and in my own
name to thank you all, except the gentleman near the door, who has not
yet, I see, had the grace to leave the room, for the patience with
which you've listened to me,” (laughter, and cries of “It was a shame to
interrupt him,” at which the Detected One, with a frantic gesture,
gives up the door, and, turning very pale, glances insanely towards the
window), “and for the very flattering attentions which you have all
of you generally, and Mr. Archer in particular, done me the honour of
paying me.”
A perfect tornado of cheers and laughter followed Mr. Frampton's speech,
after which I thanked them all for the kind interest they had expressed
in my success, and begged to second Mr. Frampton's invitation for the
following day. This matter being satisfactorily arranged, certain of
the party laid violent hands on the Detected One, who was a very shy
freshman of the name of Pilkington, and, despite his struggles, made him
go down on his knees and apologise in set phrase to Mr. Frampton for his
late unjustifiable conduct; whereupon that gentleman, who enjoyed the
joke, and entered into it with as much zest as the veriest pickle among
them, sternly, and with many grunts, rebuked and then pardoned him.
The champagne breakfast on the following morning who shall describe!
What pen, albeit accustomed to the highest nights imaginable, may
venture to depict the humours of that memorable entertainment! How,
when the company were assembled, it was discovered Mr. Pilkington was
missing, and a party, headed by Lawless, proceeded to his rooms, which
were on the same staircase, and brought him down, _vi et armis_, in
a state of mind bordering on distraction, picturesquely attired in
a dressing-gown, slippers, and smoking-cap, of a decidedly oriental
character; and how, when they had forced him into a seat of honour at
Mr. Frampton's right hand, that gentleman discovered in him a striking
likeness to his particular friend the Rajah of Bundleoragbag, which
name, being instantly adopted by the company, he was invariably
addressed by ever after. How, as the champagne circulated, the various
members of the party began to come out strong, according to their
several idiosyncrasies, every man who had a peculiarity exhibiting it
for the benefit of the others; while those who had not ~249~~were even
more amusing, either from their aping the manners of somebody else, or
from the sheer absurdity of uttering insipid commonplaces in such an
atmosphere of fun and frolic. How, later in the day, after healths had
been drunk, and thanks returned, till every one, save Pilkington, was
hoarse with shouting, that individual was partly coaxed, partly coerced
into attempting to sing the only song he knew, which proved to be, “We
met”; in which performance, after making four false starts, and causing
a great many more meetings to take place than the author of the song
ever contemplated, he contrived, in a voice suggestive of a sudden
attack of cholera, to get as far as the words, “For thou art the cause
of this anguish, my mother,” when he was interrupted by such a chorus of
laughter as completely annihilated him for the rest of the day.
[Illustration: page249 Shy Young Gentleman]
How Mr. Frampton, without giving the slightest warning of his intention,
or there being anything in the subject of the conversation generally
to lead thereunto, began to relate his adventure with the tiger of
Bundleapoor; while Lawless favoured the company with a full, true and
particular account of a surprising run with the royal stag-hounds; and
Archer, who had grown sentimental, with tears in his eyes, entered into
a minute detail of certain passages in a romantic attachment he had
conceived for a youthful female branch of the aristocracy, whom he
designated as Lady Barbara B.; and how these three gentlemen continued
their various recitals all at one and the same time, edifying the
company by some such composite style of dialogue as the following:--
“So, sir, Slingsby roused me by a kick in the ribs, saying
--umph!”--“Fairest, loveliest of thy sex,”--“Shove on your boots and
buckskins, stick a cigar in your mouth, and clap your leg over,”--“An
elephant half as high again as this room; take a couple of
double-barrelled rifles, and”--“Slap at everything that comes in your
way; no craning, ram in the persuaders, and if you do get a purl”--“Look
upon it as the purest, brightest gem in your noble father's coronet, for
true affection”--“Flung him clean into the tiger's jaws, sir, and the
beast”--“Drew her handkerchief across her eyes, and said, in a voice
which quivered with emotion, 'Love between two young creatures, situated
as we are, would be utter madness, Charles'. To which I replied,
'Barbara, my own sweet girl,'”--“Mind your eye, and look out for
squalls, for that's a rasper, and no mistake”.
How all this took place, together with much more notable merriment, not
many degrees removed from “tipsy mirth and jollity,” we will leave to
the fertile imagination of the reader to depict. Suffice it to say that,
ere we broke up, Mr. Frampton had distinctly pledged himself to ride one
of Lawless's horses the next hunting-day, and to accompany Archer on
a three weeks' visit to the country seat of Lady Barbara B.'s noble
father, with some ulterior views on his own account in regard to a
younger sister.~250~~
FRANK FAIRLEGH
Part II.
CHAPTER XXXII -- CATCHING SIGHT OF AN OLD FLAME
~250~~
“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.”
[Illustration: page266 An Unexpected Reverie]
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!”
[Illustration: page281 The Discovery]
“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.