them; they're drawing it in first-rato style, and there's rare lying
in that cover. Now see how the furze shakes--look at their sterns
nourishing; have at him there--have at him; that's right, Tom--cheer 'em
on, boy--good huntsman is Tom Field--there again!--a fox, I'll bet
five hundred pounds to a pony--hark!--a whimper--now wait--a challenge!
another and another--listen to them--there's music--watch the right-hand
corner--that's where he'll break cover for a thousand, and if he does,
what a run we shall have! Look at those fools,” he added, pointing to
a couple of cockney-looking fellows who were cantering towards the very
place he had pointed to, “they'll head him back as sure as fate; hold
hard there--why does not somebody stop them? By Jove, I'll give them a
taste of the double thong when I get up with them, even if it's the Lord
Mayor of London and his brother. Look to your sister, Frank, I'll be
back directly.”
“Wait one minute,” shouted I, but in vain; for before the words were
well out of my mouth, he had driven the spurs into his eager horse, and
was galloping furiously in the direction of the unhappy delinquents who
had excited his indignation. My reason for asking him to wait a minute
was, that just as the hounds began drawing the cover, I had made the
agreeable discovery that the strap to which one of my saddle-girths was
buckled had given way, and that there was nothing for it but to dismount
and repair the evil; and I had scarcely concluded the best temporary
arrangement I was able to effect, when Lawless started in pursuit of
the cockneys. Almost at the same moment a countryman, stationed at the
outside of the gorse, shouted “Tally-ho!” and the fox broke cover in
gallant style, going away at a rattling pace, with four or five couple
of hounds on his traces. In an instant all was confusion, cigars were
thrown away, hats pressed firmly down upon the brow, and, with a rush
like the outburst of some mighty torrent, the whole field to a man swept
rapidly onward.
In the meanwhile Fanny's mare, which had for some minutes shown symptoms
of excitement, pawing the ground with her fore-foot, pricking up her
ears, and tossing her head impatiently, began, as Lawless rode off, to
plunge in a manner which threatened at every moment to unseat her rider,
and as several horsemen dashed by her, becoming utterly unmanageable,
she set off at a wild gallop, drowning in the clatter of her hoofs
Fanny's agonised cry for help. Driven nearly frantic by the ~337~~ peril
in which my sister was placed, I was even yet prevented for a minute or
more from hastening to her assistance, as my own horse, frightened by
the occurrences I have described, struggled so violently to follow his
companions as to render it very difficult for me to hold, and quite
impossible to remount, him, so that when at length I succeeded in
springing on his back, the hounds were already out of sight, and Fanny
and her runaway steed so far ahead of me, that it seemed inevitable
some accident must occur before I could overtake them, and it was with
a sinking heart that I gave my horse the rein, and dashed forward in
pursuit.
The course which Lawless had taken when he started on his wildgoose
chase was down a ride cut through the furze, and it was along this turfy
track that Rose Alba was now hurrying in her wild career. The horse on
which I was mounted was a young thorough-bred, standing nearly sixteen
hands high, and I felt certain that in the pursuit in which I was
engaged, the length of his stride would tell, and that eventually we
must come up with the fugitives; but so fleet was the little Arab, and
so light the weight she had to carry, that I was sorry to perceive I
gained upon them but slowly. It was clear that I should not overtake
them before they reached the outskirts of the common, and then who could
say what course the mare might take--what obstacles might not be in her
way!
On--on we go in our headlong course, the turf reechoing to the muffled
strokes of the horses' feet, while the furze, waving in the wind, seemed
to glide by us in a rapid stream. Onward--still onward; the edge of the
gorse appears a dark line in the distance--it is passed; we are crossing
the belt of turf that surrounds it--and now, in what direction will
the mare proceed? Will she take the broad road to the left, which leads
again to the open country by a gentle ascent, where she can be easily
overtaken and stopped; or will she turn to the right, and follow the
lane, which leads across the terrace-field to the brook, swollen by the
late rains into a river? See! she slackens her pace--she wavers, she
doubts--she will choose the road! No; by Heaven! she turns to the right,
and dashing down the lane like a flash of lightning, is for a moment
hidden from view. But the space of time, short as it was, when her speed
slackened, has enabled me to gain upon her considerably; and when
I again catch sight of her she is not more than fifty yards ahead.
Forward! good horse--forward! Life or death hangs upon thy ~338~~
fleetness. Vain hope! another turn brings us in sight of the brook,
swollen by the breaking up of the frost into a dark, turbulent stream.
Fanny perceives it too, and utters a cry of terror, which rings like a
death-knell on my ear. There seems no possibility of escape for her; on
the left hand an impenetrable hedge; on the right a steep bank, rising
almost perpendicularly to the height of a man's head; in front the
rushing water; while the mare, apparently irritated to frenzy by my
pursuit, gallops wildly forward. Ha! what is that? a shout! and the
figure of a man on horseback appears on the high ground to the right,
between Fanny and the stream. He perceives the danger, and if he dare
attempt the leap from the bank, may yet save her. Oh! that I were in his
place. Hark! he shouts again to warn us of his intention, and putting
spurs to his horse, faces him boldly at it. The horse perceives the
danger, and will refuse the leap. No! urged by his rider, he will take
it yet--now he springs--it is certain destruction. A crash! a fall! they
are down! No; he has lifted his horse with the rein--they are apparently
uninjured. Rose Alba, startled by the sudden apparition, slackens her
pace--the stranger, taking advantage of the delay, dashes forward,
seizes the rein, and succeeds in stopping her; as he does so, I
approached near enough to recognise his features--
[Illustration: page338 Lovers Leap]
Unlooked for happiness! Fanny is saved, and Harry Oaklands is her
preserver!
My first act on joining them was to spring from my horse and lift Fanny
out of the saddle. “Are you really unhurt, my own darling?” exclaimed I;
“can you stand without assistance?”
“Oh yes!” she replied, “it was only the fright--that dreadful
river--but--” and raising her eyes timidly she advanced a step towards
Oaklands.
“But you would fain thank Harry for saving you. My dear Harry,”
continued I, taking his hand and pressing it warmly, “if you only knew
the agony of mind I have suffered on her account, you would be able to
form some slight idea of the amount of gratitude I feel towards you for
having rescued her. I shudder to think what might have been the end had
you not so providentially interposed; but you do not listen to me--you
turn as pale as ashes--are you ill?”
“It is nothing--a little faint, or so,” was his reply, in a voice
so weak as to be scarcely audible; and as he spoke, his head dropped
heavily on his shoulder, and he would have fallen from his horse had not
I caught him in my arms and supported him.
~339~~ Giving the horses into the custody of a farming lad (who had
seen the leap, and run up, fearing some accident had occurred), I lifted
Oaklands from the saddle, and laying him on the turf by the roadside,
supported his head against my knee, while I endeavoured to loosen
his neckcloth. Neither its removal, however, nor the unfastening his
shirt-collar, appeared to revive him in the slightest degree, and being
quite unaccustomed to seizures of this nature, I began to feel a good
deal frightened about him. I suppose my face in some degree betrayed
my thoughts, as Fanny, after glancing at me for a moment, exclaimed,
wringing her hands in the excess of her grief and alarm, “Oh! he is
dead--he is dead; and it is I who have killed him!” Then, flinging
herself on her knees by his side, and taking his hand between both her
own, she continued, “Oh, Harry, look up--speak to me--only one word;--he
does not hear me--he will never speak again! Oh! he is dead!--he is
dead! and it is I who have murdered him--I, who would gladly have died
for him, as he has died for me.” As she said this, her voice failed
her, and, completely overcome by the idea that she had been the cause of
Harry's death, she buried her face in her hands and wept bitterly.
At this moment it occurred to me that water might possibly revive him,
and rousing Fanny from the passion of grief into which she had fallen, I
made her take my place in supporting Oaklands' head, and running to the
stream, which was not above fifty yards from the spot, filled my
hat with water, sprinkled his face and brow with it, and had the
satisfaction of seeing him gradually revive under the application.
As consciousness returned, he gazed around with a bewildered look, and
passing his hand across his forehead, inquired, “What is all this? where
am I? Ah! Frank, have I been ill?”
“You fainted from over-exertion, Harry,” replied I, “but all will be
well now.”
“From over-exertion?” he repeated, slowly, as if striving to recall what
had passed; “stay, yes, I remember, I took a foolish leap; why did I do
it?”
“To stop Fanny's mare.”
“Yes, to be sure, the water was out at the brook, and I thought the mare
might attempt to cross it; but is Fanny safe? Where is she?”
“She is here,” replied I, turning towards the place where she still
knelt, her face hidden in her hands. “She is here to thank you for
having saved her life.”
~340~~ “Why, Fanny, was it you who were supporting my head? how very
kind of you! What! crying?” he continued, gently attempting to withdraw
her hands; “nay, nay, we must not have you cry.”
“She was naturally a good deal frightened by the mare's running away,”
replied I, as Fanny still appeared too much overcome to speak for
herself; “and then she was silly enough to fancy, when you fainted, that
you were actually dead, I believe; but I can assure you that she is not
ungrateful.”
“No, indeed,” murmured Fanny, in a voice scarcely audible from emotion.
“Why, it was no very great feat after all,” rejoined Harry. “On such a
jumper as the Cid, and coming down on soft marshy ground too, 1 would
not mind the leap any day; besides, do you think I was going to remain
quietly there, and see Fanny drowned before my eyes? if it had been
a precipice, I would have gone over it.” While he spoke, Harry had
regained his feet; and, after walking up and down for a minute or so,
and giving himself a shake, to see if he was all right, he declared
that he felt quite strong again, and able to ride home. And so, having
devised a leading-rein for Rose Alba, one end of which I kept in my
own possession, we remounted our horses, and reached Heathfield without
further misadventure.
CHAPTER XLIII -- A CHARADE--NOT ALL ACTING
“And then, and much it helped his chance--
He could sing, and play first fiddle, and dance--
Perform charades, and proverbs of France.”
--_Hood_.
“I have often heard this and that and t'other pain mentioned
as the worst that mortals can endure--such as the toothache,
earache, headache, cramp in the calf of the leg, a boil, or
a blister--now, I protest, though I have tried all these,
nothing seems to me to come up to a _pretty sharp fit of
jealousy_.”
--_Thinks I to Myself_.
LAWLESS'S penitence, when he learned the danger in which Fanny had been
placed by his thoughtlessness and impetuosity, was so deep and sincere
that it was impossible to be angry with him; and even Oaklands, who at
first declared he considered his conduct unpardonable, was obliged to
confess that, when a man had owned his fault frankly, and told you he
was really sorry for it, ~341~~ nothing remained but to forgive and
forget it. And so everything fell into its old train once more, and the
next few days passed smoothly and uneventfully. I had again received a
note from Clara, in answer to one I had written to her. Its tenour was
much the same as that of the last she had sent me. Cumberland was still
absent, and Mr. Vernor so constantly occupied that she saw very little
of him. She begged me not to attempt to visit her at present; a request
in the advisability of which reason so fully acquiesced, that although
feeling rebelled against it with the greatest obstinacy, I felt bound
to yield. Harry's strength seemed now so thoroughly re-established, that
Sir John, who was never so happy as when he could exercise hospitality,
had invited a party of friends for the ensuing week, several of whom
were to stay at the Hall for a few days; amongst others Freddy Coleman,
who was to arrive beforehand, and assist in the preparations; for
charades were to be enacted, and he was reported skilful in the
arrangement of these saturnalia of civilised society, or, as he himself
expressed it, he was “up to all the dodges connected with the minor
domestic enigmatical melodrama”. By Harry's recommendation I despatched
a letter to Mr. Frampton, claiming his promise of visiting me at
Heathfield Cottage, urging as a reason for his doing so immediately,
that he would meet four of his old Helmstone acquaintance, viz.,
Oak-lands, Lawless, Coleman, and myself. The morning after Coleman's
arrival, the whole party formed themselves into a committee of taste, to
decide on the most appropriate words for the charades, select dresses,
and, in short, make all necessary arrangements for realising a few of
the very strong and original, but somewhat vague, ideas, which everybody
appeared to have conceived on the subject.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” began Freddy, who had been unanimously
elected chairman, stage-manager, and commander-in-chief of the whole
affair, “in the first place, who is willing to take a part? Let all
those who wish for an engagement at the Theatre Royal, Heathfield, hold
up their hands.”
Lawless, Coleman, and I were the first who made the required signal, and
next the little white palms of Fanny and Lucy Markham (whom Mrs. Coleman
had made over to my mother's custody for a few days) were added to the
number.
“Harry, you'll act, will you not?” asked I.
“Not if you can contrive to do without me,” was the ~342~~ reply. “I did
it once, and never was so tired in my life before. I suppose you mean to
have speaking charades; and there is something in the feeling that one
has so many words to recollect, which obliges one to keep the memory
always on the stretch, and the attention up to concert pitch, in a way
that is far too fatiguing to be agreeable.”
“Well, as you please, most indolent of men; pray, make yourself quite at
home, this is Liberty Hall, isn't it, Lawless?” returned Coleman, with
a glance at the person named, who, seated on the table, with his legs
twisted round the back of a chair, was sacrificing etiquette to comfort
with the most delightful unconsciousness.
“Eh? yes to be sure, no end of liberty,” rejoined Lawless; “what are
you laughing at?--my legs? They are very comfortable, I can tell you, if
they're not over ornamental; never mind about attitude, let us get on to
business, I want to know what I'm to do?”
“The first thing is to find out a good word,” returned Coleman.
“What do you say to Matchlock?” inquired I. “You might as well have
Blunderbuss while you are about it,” was the reply. “No, both words are
dreadfully hackneyed; let us try and find out something original, if
possible.”
“Eh? yes, something original, by all means; what do you say to
Steeplechase?” suggested Lawless.
“Original, certainly,” returned Freddy; “but there might be difficulties
in the way. For instance, how would you set about acting a steeple?”
“Eh? never thought of that,” rejoined Lawless; “I really don't know,
unless Oaklands would stand with a fool's cap on his head to look like
one.”
“Much obliged, Lawless; but I'd rather be excused,” replied Harry,
smiling. “I've got an idea!” exclaimed I. “No, you don't say so? you
are joking,” remarked Freddy in a tone of affected surprise. “Stay a
minute,” continued I, musing. “Certainly, as long as you and Sir John
like to keep me,” rejoined Coleman politely.
“Yes! that will do; come here, Freddy,” added I, and, drawing him on
one side, I communicated to him my ideas on the subject, of which,
after suggesting one or two improvements on my original design, he was
graciously pleased to approve. Of what this idea consisted, the reader
will be apprised in due time. Suffice it at present ~343~~ to add, that
Fanny having consented to perform the part of a barmaid, and it being
necessary to provide her with a lover, Lawless volunteered for the
character, and supported his claim with so much perseverance, not to say
obstinacy, that Coleman, albeit he considered him utterly unsuited to
the part, was fain to yield to his importunity.
For the next few days Heathfield Hall presented one continual scene of
bustle and confusion. Carpenters were at work converting the library
into an _extempore_ theatre. Ladies and ladies'-maids were busily
occupied in manufacturing dresses. Lawless spent whole hours in pacing
up and down the billiard-room, reciting his part, which had been
remodelled to suit him, and the acquisition of which appeared a labour
analogous to that of Sisyphus, as, by the time he reached the end of
his task, he had invariably forgotten the beginning. Every one was in a
state of the greatest eagerness and excitement about something--nobody
exactly knew what; and the interest Ellis took in the whole affair was
wonderful to behold. The unnecessary number of times people ran up-
and down-stairs was inconceivable, and the pace at which they did so
terrific. Sir John spent his time in walking about with a hammer and a
bag of nails, one of which he was constantly driving in and clenching
beyond all power of extraction, in some totally wrong place, a line of
conduct which reduced the head-carpenter to the borders of insanity.
On the morning of the memorable day when the event was to come off, Mr.
Frampton made his appearance in a high state of preservation, shook my
mother by both hands as warmly as if he had known her from childhood,
and saluted the young ladies with a hearty kiss, to their extreme
astonishment, which a paroxysm of grunting (wound up by the usual
soliloquy, “Just like me!”) did not tend to diminish. A large party was
invited in the evening to witness our performance, and, as some of the
guests began to arrive soon after nine, it was considered advisable that
the actors and actresses should go and dress, so that they might be in
readiness to appear when called upon.
The entertainments began with certain _tableaux-vivants_, in which both
Harry and I took a part; the former having been induced to do so by the
assurance that nothing would-be expected of him but to stand still and
be looked at--an occupation which even he could not consider very hard
work: and exceedingly well worth looking at he appeared when the
curtain drew up, and discovered him as the Leicester in Scott's novel of
_Kenilworth_; the ~344~~ magnificent dress setting off his noble figure
to the utmost advantage; while Fanny, as Amy Robsart, looked prettier
and more interesting than I had ever seen her before. Various _tableaux_
were in turn presented, and passed off with much _éclat_, and then
there was a pause, before the charade, the grand event of the evening,
commenced. Oaklands and I, having nothing to do in it (Fanny having
coaxed Mr. Frampton into undertaking a short part which I was to have
performed, but which she declared was so exactly suited to him that she
would never forgive him if he refused to fill it), wished the actors
success, and came in front to join the spectators.
After about ten minutes of breathless expectation the curtain drew up
and exhibited Scene 1st, the Bar of a Country Inn; and here I shall
adopt the play-wright's fashion, and leave the characters to tell their
own tale:--
Scene I.
Enter Susan Cowslip, the Barmaid (Fanny) and John Shortoats, the Ostler
(Lawless).
John. Well Susan, girl, what sort of a morning hast thee had of it?
how's master's gout to-day?
Susan. Very bad, John, very bad indeed; he has not got a leg to stand
upon; and as to his shoe, try everything we can think of, we can't get
him to put his foot in it.
[Extempore soliloquy by Lawless. Precious odd if lie doesn't, for he's
not half up in his part, I know.]
John. Can't thee, really? well, if that be the case, I needn't ask how
his temper is?
Susan. Bad enough, I can tell you; Missus has plenty to bear, poor
thing!
John, Indeed she has, and she be too young and pretty to be used in
that manner. Ah! that comes of marrying an old man for his money; she be
uncommon pretty, to be sure; I only knows one prettier face in the whole
village.
Susan (with an air of forced unconcern). Aye, John, and whose may that
be, pray? Mary Bennett, perhaps, or Lucy Jones?
John. No, it ain't either of them.
Susan. Who is it then?
John. Well, if thee must needs know, the party's name is Susan.
Susan (still with an air of unconsciousness). Let me see, where is
there a Susan? let me think a minute. Oh! ~345~~ one of Darling the
blacksmith's girls, I dare say; it's Susan Darling!
John (rubbing his nose, and looking cunning). Well, 'tis Susan, darling,
certainly; yes, thee be'st about right there--Susan, darling.
Susan (pouting). So you're in love with that girl, are you, Mr. John? A
foolish, flirting thing, that cares for nothing but dancing and finery;
a nice wife for a poor man she'll make, indeed--charming!
John. Now, don't thee go and fluster thyself about nothing, it ain't
that girl as I'm in love with; I was only a-making fun of thee.
[Illustration: page345 A Charade Not All Acting]
Susan (crossly). There, I wish you wouldn't keep teasing of me so; I
don't care anything about it--I dare say I've never seen her.
John. Oh! if that's all, I'll very soon show her to thee--come along.
(Takes her hand, and leads her up to the looking-glass.) There's the
Susan I'm in love with, and hope to marry some day. Hasn't she got a
pretty face? and isn't she a darling? (Susan looks at him for a minute,
and then bursts into tears; bell rings violently, and a gruff voice
calls impatiently, Susan! Susan!)
Susan. Coming, sir, coming. (Wipes her eyes with her apron.)
John. Let the old curmudgeon wait! (Voice behind the scenes, John!--John
Ostler, I say!) Coming, sir; yes, sir. Sir, indeed--an old brute; but
now, Susan, what do'st thee say? wilt thee have me for a husband? (Takes
her hand.)
(Voice. John! John! I say. Susan! where are you? And enter Mr. Frampton,
dressed as the Landlord, on crutches, and with his gouty foot in a
sling.)
Landlord. John! you idle, good-for-nothing vagabond, why don't you come
when you're called--eh?
Susan. Oh, sir! John was just coming, sir; and so was I, sir, if you
please.
Landlord. You, indeed--ugh! you're just as bad as he is, making love in
corners, (aside, Wonder whether she does really,) instead of attending
to the customers; nice set of servants I have, to be sure. If this is
all one gets by inn-keeping, it's not worth having. I keep the inn, and
I expect the inn to keep me. (Aside. Horrid old joke, what made me put
that in, I wonder? just like me--umph.') There's my wife, too--pretty
hostess she makes.
John. So she does, master, sure-ly.
Landlord. Hold your tongue, fool--what do you know about it? (Bell
rings.) There, do you hear that? run ~346~~ and see who that is, or
I shall lose a customer by your carelessness next. Oh! the bother of
servants--oh! the trouble of keeping an inn! (Hobbles out, driving Susan
and John before him. Curtain falls.)
As the first scene ended the audience applauded loudly, and then began
hazarding various conjectures as to the possible meaning of what
they had witnessed. While the confusion of sounds was at the highest,
Oaklands drew me on one side, and inquired, in an undertone, what I
thought of Lawless's acting. “I was agreeably surprised,” returned I, “I
had no notion he would have entered into the part so thoroughly, or have
acted with so much spirit.”
“He did it _con amore_, certainly,” replied Oaklands with bitterness;
“I considered his manner impertinent in the highest degree, I wonder you
can allow him to act with your sister; that man is in love with her--I
feel sure of it--he meant every word he said. I hate this kind of thing
altogether--I never approved of it; no lady should be subjected to such
annoyance.”
“Supposing it really were as you fancy, Harry, how do you know it would
be so great an annoyance? It is just possible Fanny may like him,”
rejoined I.
“Oh, certainly! pray let me know when I am to congratulate you,” replied
Oaklands with a scornful laugh; and, turning away abruptly, he crossed
the room, joined a party of young ladies, and began talking and laughing
with a degree of recklessness and excitability quite unusual to him.
While he was so doing, the curtain drew up, and discovered
Scene II.--Best room in the inn.
Enter Susan, showing in Hyacinth Adonis Brown (Coleman), dressed as
a caricature of the fashion, with lemon-coloured kid gloves,
staring-patterned trousers, sporting-coat, etc.
Susan. This is the settin'-room, if you please, sir. Hyacinth (fixing
his glass in his eye, and scrutinising the apartment). This is the
settin'-woom, is it? to set, to incubate as a hen--can't mean that, I
imagine--provincial idiom, pwobably--aw--ya'as--I dare say I shall
be able to exist in it as long as may be necessary--ar--let me have
dinnaar, young woman, as soon as it can be got weady.
Susan. Yes, sir. What would you please to like, sir?
~347~~ Hyacinth (looking at her with his glass still in his eye). Hem!
pwetty gal--ar--like, my dear, like?--(vewy pwetty gal!)
Susan. Beg pardon, sir, what did you say you would like?
Hyacinth. Chickens tender here, my dear?
Susan. Very tender, sir.
Hyacinth (approaching her). What's your name, my dear?
Susan. Susan, if you please, sir.
Hyacinth. Vewy pwetty name, indeed--(aside, Gal's worth
cultivating--I'll do a little bit of fascination). Ahem! Chickens,
Susan, are not the only things that can be tendar. (Advances, and
attempts to take lier hand. Enter John hastily, and runs against
Hyacinth, apparently by accident.)
Hyacinth (angrily). Now, fellar, where are you pushing to, eh?
John. Beg parding, sir, I was a-looking for you, sir. (Places himself
between Susan and Hyacinth.)
Hyacinth. Looking for me, fellar?
John. I ha' rubbed down your horse, sir, and I was a wishin' to know
when you would like him fed. (Makes signs to Susan to leave the room.)
Hyacinth. Fed?--aw!--directly to be su-ar. (To Susan, who is going out.)
Ar--don't you go.
John. No, sir, I ain't a-going. When shall I water him, sir?
Hyacinth (aside, Fellar talks as if the animal were a pot of
mignonette). Ar--you'll give him some wataar as soon as he's eaten his
dinnaar.
John. Werry good, sir; and how about hay, sir?
Hyacinth (aside, What a bo-ar the fellar is; I wish he'd take himself
off). Weally, I must leave the hay to your discwession.
John. Werry well, sir; couldn't do a better thing, sir. How about his
clothing? shall I keep a cloth on him, sir? (Winks at Susan, who goes
out laughing.)
Hyacinth. Yaas! You can keep a cloth on--ar--and--that will do. (Waves
his hand towards the door.)
John. Do you like his feet stopped at night, sir?
Hyacinth. Ar--I leave all these points to my gwoom--ar--would you go?
John. I suppose there will be no harm in water-brushing his mane?
Hyacinth (angrily). Ar--weally I--ar--will you go?
John. Becos some folks thinks it makes the hair come off.
~348~~ Hyacinth (indignantly). Ar--leave the woom, fellar! John. Yes,
sir; you may depend upon me takin' proper care of him, sir; and if I
should think o' anything else, I'll be sure to come and ask you, sir.
(Goes out grinning.)
Hyacinth. Howwid fellar--I thought I should never get wid of him--it's
evident he's jealous--ar, good idea--I'll give him something to be
jealous about. I'll wing the bell and finish captivating Susan. (Rings.
Re-enter John.) John. Want me, sir? Here I am, sir--fed the horse, sir.
Hyacinth (waving his hand angrily towards the door). Ar--go away,
fellar, and tell the young woman to answaar that bell. (John leaves the
room, muttering, If I do I'm blessed. Hyacinth struts up to the glass,
arranges his hair, pulls up his shirt-collar, and rings again. Re-enter
Susan.) Hyacinth. Pway, Susan, are you going to be mawwied? Susan
(colouring). No, sir--a--yes, sir--I can't tell, sir.
Hyacinth. No, sir--yes, sir--ar--I see how it is--the idea has occurred
to you--it's that fellar John, I suppose? Susan. Yes, sir--it's John,
sir, if you please. Hyacinth. Well--ar--perhaps I don't exactly please.
Now, listen to me, Susan. I'm an independent gentleman, vewy wich
(aside, Wish I was)--lots of servants and cawwiages, and all that sort
of thing. I only want a wife, and--a-hem--captivated by your beauty, I'm
wesolved to mawwy you. (Aside. That will do the business.) Susan. La!
sir, you're joking.
Hyacinth. Ar--I never joke--ar--of course you consent! Susan. To marry
you, sir? Hyacinth. Ar--yes--to mawwy me. Susan. What! and give up John?
Hyacinth. I fear we cannot dispense with that sacwifice.
Susan. And you would have me prove false to my true love; deceive a poor
lad that cares for me; wring his honest heart, and perhaps drive him to
take to evil courses, for the sake of your fine carriages and servants?
No, sir, if you was a duke, I would not give up John to marry you.
Hyacinth. Vewy fine, you did that little bit of constancy in vewy good
style; but now, having welievedyour feelings, you may as well do a
little bit of nature, and own that, womanlike, you have changed your
mind.
Susan. When I do, sir, I'll be sure to let you know. ~349~~ (Aside. A
dandified fop! why, John's worth twenty such as him.) I'll send John in
with your dinner, sir. [Curtsies and exit, leaving Hyacinth transfixed
with astonishment.']
Scene III.--Front of inn.
Enter Susan with black ribbons in her cap. Susan. Heigho! so the gout's
carried off poor old master at last. Ah! well, he was always a great
plague to everybody, and it's one's duty to be resigned--he's been dead
more than two months now, and it's above a month since mistress went to
Broadstairs for a change, and left John and me to keep house--ah! it was
very pleasant--we was so comfortable. Now, if in a year or two mistress
was to sell the business, and John and me could save money enough to buy
it, and was to be married, and live here; la! I should be as happy as
the day's long. I've been dull enough the last week though--for last
Monday--no, last Saturday--that is, the Saturday before last, John went
for a holiday to see his friends in Yorkshire, and there's been nobody
at home but me and the cat--I can't think what ailed him before he went
away, he seemed to avoid me like; and when he bid me goodbye, he told me
if I should happen to pick up a sweetheart while he was gone, he would
not be jealous--what could he mean by that? I dare say he only said
it to tease me. I ought to have a letter soon to say when mistress is
coming back. [Enter boy with letter, which he gives to Susan, and exit.]
Well, that is curious--it is from Broadstairs, I see by the post-mark.
Why, bless me, it's in John's handwriting--he can't be at Broadstairs,
surely--I feel all of a tremble. (Opens the letter and reads.) “My dear
Seusan, Hafter i left yeu, I thort i should not ave time to go hall the
way to York, so by way of a change i cum down here, where I met poor
Mrs., who seemed quite in the dumps and low like, about old master being
dead, which is human natur cut down like grass, Seusan, and not having a
creetur to speak to, naturally took to me, which was an old tho' humbel
friend, Seusan--and--do not think me guilty of hincon-stancy, which I
never felt, but the long and short of it is that we was married “(the
wretch!)” yesterday, and is comin' home to-morrow, where I hopes to
remian very faithfully your affexionate Master and Mrs.
“John and Betsey Shortoats.”
[Susan tears the letter, bursts into tears, and sinks back into a chair
fainting--curtain drops.]~350~~
CHAPTER XLIV -- CONFESSIONS
“....And sure the match Were rich and honourable.”
--_Two Gentlemen of Verona_.
“We that are true lovers run into strange capers.”
--_As You Like It_.
“....That which I would discover,
The law of friendship bids me to conceal.”
--_Two Gentlemen of Verona._
“Tarry I here, I but attend on death;
But fly I hence, I fly away from life.”
“DEAR me! what can it possibly mean? how I wish I could guess it!” said
the youngest Miss Simper.
“Do you know what it is, Mr. Oaklands?” asked the second Miss Simper.
“I'm sure he does, he looks so delightfully wicked,” added the eldest
Miss Simper, shaking her ringlets in a fascinating manner, to evince her
faith in the durability of their curl.
The eldest Miss Simper had been out four seasons, and spent the last
winter at Nice, on the strength of which she talked to young men of
themselves in the third person, to show her knowledge of the world,
and embodied in her behaviour generally a complete system of
“Matrimony-made-easy, or the whole Art of getting a good Establishment,”
proceeding from early lessons in converting acquaintances into flirts,
up to the important final clause--how to lead young men of property to
propose.
“Really,” replied Oaklands, “my face must be far more expressive
and less honest than I was aware of, for I can assure you they have
studiously kept me in the dark as to the meaning.”
“But you have made out some idea for yourself; it is impossible that it
should be otherwise,” observed the second Miss Simper, who had rubbed
off some of her shyness upon a certain young Hebrew Professor at the
last Cambridge Installation, and become rather blue from the contact.
“Have you?” said the youngest Miss Simper, who, being as nearly a fool
as it is possible to allow that a pretty girl of seventeen can be,
rested her pretensions upon a plaintive voice and a pensive smile, which
went ~351~~ just far enough to reveal an irreproachable set of teeth,
and then faded away into an expression of gentle sorrow, the source of
which, like that of the Niger, had as yet remained undiscovered.
“Oh, he has!” exclaimed the eldest Miss Simper; “that exquisitely
sarcastic, yet tantalising curl of the upper-lip, tells me that it is
so.”
“Since you press me,” replied Oaklands, “I confess, I believe I have
guessed it.”
“I knew it--it could not have been otherwise,” exclaimed the blue belle
enthusiastically.
The youngest Miss Simper spoke not, but her appealing glance, and a
slight exhibition of the pearl-like teeth, seemed to hint that some
mysterious increase of her secret sorrow might be expected in the event
of Oaklands' refusing to communicate the results of his penetration.
“As I make it out,” said Harry, “the first scene was Inn, the second
Constancy, and the third Inconstancy.”
“Ah! that wretch John, he was the Inconstancy,” observed the eldest Miss
Simper, “marrying for money!--the creature!--such baseness 1 but how
delightfully that dear, clever Mr. Lawless acted; he made love with such
_naïve_ simplicity, too; he is quite irresistible.”
“I shall take care to let him know your flattering opinion,” returned
Oaklands with a faint attempt at a smile, while the gloom on his brow
grew deeper, and the Misses Simper were in their turn deserted; the
eldest gaining this slight addition to her worldly knowledge, viz., that
it is not always prudent to praise one friend to another, unless you
happen to be a little more behind the scenes than had been the case in
the present instance.
“Umph! Frank Fairlegh, where are you? come here, boy,” said Mr.
Frampton, seizing one of my buttons, and towing me thereby into a
corner. “Pretty girl, your sister Fanny--nice girl, too--umph!”
“I am very glad she pleases you, sir,” replied I; “as you become better
acquainted with her, you will find that she is as good as she looks--if
you like her now, you will soon grow very fond of her--everybody becomes
fond of Fanny.”
“Umph! I can see one who is, at all events. Pray, sir, do you mean to
let your sister marry that good-natured, well-disposed, harum-scarum
young fool, Lawless?”
“This is a matter I leave entirely to themselves; if ~352~~ Lawless
wishes to marry Fanny, and she likes him well enough to accept him, and
his parents approve of the arrangement, I shall make no objection: it
would be a very good match for her.”
“Umph! yes--she would make a very nice addition to his stud,” returned
Mr. Frampton, in a more sarcastic tone than I had ever heard him use
before. “What do you suppose are the girl's own wishes? is she willing
to be Empress of the Stable?”
“Really, sir, you ask me a question which I am quite unable to answer;
young, ladies are usually reserved upon such subjects, and Fanny is
especially so; but from my own observations, I am inclined to think that
she likes him.”
“Umph! dare say she does; women are always fools in these cases--men
too, for that matter--or else they would take pattern by me, and
continue in a state of single blessedness,” then came an aside, “Single
wretchedness more likely, nobody to care about one--nothing to love--die
in a ditch like a beggar's dog, without a pocket-handkerchief wetted for
one--there's single blessedness for you! ride in a hearse, and have
some fat fool chuckling in the sleeve of his black coat over one's
hard-earned money. Nobody shall do that with mine, though; for I'll
leave it all to build union work-houses and encourage the slave-trade,
by way of revenging myself on society at large. Wonder why I said that,
when I don't think it! just like me--umph!”
“I am not at all sure but that this may prove a mere vision of our own
too lively imaginations, after all,” replied I, “or that Lawless looks
upon Fanny in any other light than as the sister of his old friend,
and an agreeable girl to talk and laugh with; but if it should turn out
otherwise, I should be sorry to think that it is a match which will not
meet with your approval, sir.”
“Oh! I shall approve--I always approve of everything--I dare say he'll
make a capital husband--he's very kind to his dogs and horses. Umph!
silly boy, silly girl--when she could easily do better, too. Umph 1
just like me, bothering myself about other people, when I might leave it
alone--silly girl though, very!”
So saying, Mr. Frampton walked away, grunting like a whole drove of
pigs, as was his wont when annoyed.
The next morning I was aroused from an uneasy sleep by the sun shining
brightly through my shutters, and, springing out of bed, and throwing
open the window, I perceived that it was one of those lovely winter days
~353~~ which appear sent to assure us that fogs, frost, and snow will
not last for ever, but that Nature has brighter things in store for us,
if we will bide her time patiently. To think of lying in bed on such
a morning was out of the question, so, dressing hastily, I threw on
a shooting jacket, and sallied forth for a stroll. As I wandered
listlessly through the park, admiring the hoar-frost which glittered
like diamonds in the early sunshine, clothing the brave old limbs of the
time-honoured fathers of the forest with a fabric of silver tissue,
the conversation I had held with Mr. Frampton about Fanny and Lawless
recurred to my mind. Strange that Harry Oaklands and Mr. Frampton--men
so different, yet alike in generous feeling and honourable
principle--should both evidently disapprove of such a union: was I
myself, then, so blinded by ideas of the worldly advantages it held
forth, that I was unable to perceive its unfitness? Would Lawless really
prize her, as Tennyson has so well expressed it in his finest poem, as
“Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse”?
and was I about to sacrifice my sister's happiness for rank and fortune,
those world-idols which, stripped of the supposititious attributes
bestowed upon them by the bigotry of their worshippers, appear, in
their true worth-lesaness, empty breath and perishable dross? But most
probably there was no cause for uneasiness; after all, I was very likely
worrying myself most unnecessarily: what proof was there that Lawless
really cared for Fanny? His attentions--oh! there was nothing in
that--Lawless was shy and awkward in female society, and Fanny had been
kind to him, and had taken the trouble to draw him out, therefore he
liked her, and preferred talking and laughing with her, rather than with
any other girl with whom he did not feel at his ease. However, even if
there should be anything more in it, it had not gone so far but that a
little judicious snubbing would easily put an end to it--I determined,
therefore, to talk to my mother about it after breakfast: she had now
seen enough of Lawless to form her own opinion of him; and if she agreed
with Oaklands and Mr. Frampton that his was not a style of character
calculated to secure Fanny's happiness, we must let her go and stay with
the Colemans, or find some other means of separating them. I had just
arrived at this conclusion, when, on passing round the stem of an old
tree which stood in the path, I encountered ~354~~ some person who was
advancing rapidly in an opposite direction, meeting him so abruptly that
we ran against each other with no small degree of violence.
“Hold hard there I you're on your wrong side, young fellow, and if
you've done me the slightest damage, even scratched my varnish, I'll
pull you up.”
“I wish you had pulled up a little quicker yourself, Lawless,” replied
I, for, as the reader has doubtless discovered from the style of his
address, it was none other than the subject of my late reverie with whom
I had come in collision. “I don't know whether I have scratched your
varnish, as you call it, but I have knocked the skin off my own knuckles
against the tree in the scrimmage.”
“Never mind, man,” returned Lawless, “there are worse misfortunes happen
at sea; a little sticking-plaster will set all to rights again. But look
here, Fairlegh,” he continued, taking my arm, “I'm glad I happened to
meet you; I want to have five minutes' serious conversation with you.”
“Won't it do after breakfast?” interposed I, for my fears construed
this appeal into “confirmation strong as holy writ” of my previous
suspicions, and I wished to be fortified by my mother's opinion before
I in any degree committed myself. All my precautions were, however, in
vain.
“Eh! I won't keep you five minutes, but you see this sort of thing will
never do at any price; I'm all wrong altogether--sometimes I feel as if
fire and water would not stop me, or cart-ropes hold me--then again I
grow as nervous as an old cat with the palsy, and sit moping in a
corner like an owl in fits. Last hunting-day I was just as if I was
mad--pressed upon the pack when they were getting away--rode over two or
three of the tail hounds, laid 'em sprawling on their backs, like spread
eagles, till the huntsman swore at me loud enough to split a three-inch
oak plank--went slap at everything that came in my way--took rails,
fences, and timber, all flying, rough and smooth as nature made 'em--in
short, showed the whole field the way across country at a pace which
rather astonished them, I fancy;--well, at last there was a check, and
before the hounds got on the scent again, something seemed to come over
me, so that I could not ride a bit, and kept cranning at mole-hills
and shirking gutters, till I wound up by getting a tremendous purl from
checking my horse at a wretched little fence that he could have stepped
over, and actually I felt so fainthearted that I gave it up as a bad
job, and rode home ~355~~ ready to eat my hat with vexation. But I
know what it is, I'm in love--that confounded Charade put me up to
that dodge. I fancied at first that I had got an ague, one of those
off-and-on affairs that always come just when you don't want them, and
was going to ask Ellis to give me a ball, but I found it out just in
time, and precious glad I was too, for I never could bear taking physic
since I was the height of sixpenny worth of halfpence.”
“Really, Lawless, I must be getting home.”
“Eh! wait a minute; you haven't an idea what a desperate state I'm in; I
had a letter returned to me yesterday, with a line from the post-office
clerk, saying no such person could be found, and when I came to look at
the address I wasn't surprised to hear it. I had written to give some
orders about a dog-cart that is building for me, and directed my letter
to 'Messrs. Lovely Fanny, Coachmakers, Long Acre'. Things can't go on in
this way, you know--I must do something--come to the point, eh?--What do
you say?”
“Upon my word,” replied I, “this is a case in which I am the last person
to advise you.”
“Eh I no, it is not that--I'm far beyond the reach of advice, but what
I mean is, your governor being dead--don't you see--I consider you to
stand _in propria quae maribus_, as we used to say at old Mildman's.”
“_In loco parentis_ is what you are aiming at, I imagine,” returned I.
“Eh! Psha, it's all the same!” continued Lawless impatiently; “but what
do you say about it? Will you give your consent, and back me up a bit in
the business?--for I'm precious nervous, I can tell you.”
“Am I to understand, then,” said I, seeing an explanation was
inevitable, “that it is my sister who has inspired you with this very
alarming attachment?”
“Eh! yes, of course it is,” was the reply; “haven't I been talking about
her for the last ten minutes? You are growing stupid all at once; did
you think it was your mother I meant?”
“Not exactly,” replied I, smiling; “but have you ever considered
what Lord Cashingtown would say to your marrying a poor clergyman's
daughter?”
“What! my governor? oh! he'd be so delighted to get me married at any
price, that he would not care who it was to, so that she was a lady. He
knows how I shirk female society in general, and he is afraid I shall
break my neck some of these fine days, and leave him the ~356~~ honour
of being the last Lord Cashingtown as well as the first.”
“And may I ask whether you imagine your suit likely to be favourably
received by the young lady herself?”
“Eh! why, you see it's not so easy to tell; I'm not used to the ways of
women, exactly. Now with horses I know every action, and can guess what
they'd be up to in a minute; |for instance, if they prick up their ears,
one may expect a shy, when they lay them back you may look out for a
bite or a kick; but, unluckily, women have not got movable ears.”
“No,” replied I, laughing at this singular regret; “they contrive to
make their eyes answer nearly the same purpose, though. Well, Lawless,
my answer is this--I cannot pretend to judge whether you and my sister
are so constituted as to increase each other's happiness by becoming
man and wife; that is a point I must leave to her to decide; she is no
longer a child, and her destiny shall be placed in her own hands; but I
think I may venture to say that if your parents are willing to receive
her, and she is pleased to accept you, you need not fear any opposition
on the part of my mother or myself.”
“That's the time of day,” exclaimed Lawless, rubbing his hands with
glee, “this is something like doing business; oh! it's jolly fun to be
in love, after all. Then everything depends upon Fanny now; but how am I
to find out whether she will have me or not? eh? that's another sell.”
“Ask her,” replied I; and, turning down a different path, I left him to
deliberate upon this knotty point in solitude.
As I walked towards home my meditations assumed a somewhat gloomy
colouring. The matter was no longer doubtful, Lawless was Fanny's
declared suitor; this, as he had himself observed, was something like
doing business. Instead of planning with my mother how we could prevent
the affair from going any farther, I must now inform her of his offer,
and find out whether she could give me any clue as to the state of
Fanny's affections. And now that Lawless's intentions were certain, and
that it appeared by no means improbable he might succeed in obtaining
Fanny's hand, a feeling of repugnance came over me, and I began to think
Mr. Frampton was right, and that my sister was formed for better things
than to be the companion for life of such a man as Lawless. From a
reverie which thoughts like these had engendered, I was aroused by Harry
Oaklands' favourite ~357~~ Scotch terrier, which attracted my attention
by jumping and fawning upon me, and on raising my eyes I perceived the
figure of his master, leaning, with folded arms, against the trunk of an
old tree. As we exchanged salutations I was struck by an unusual air of
dejection both in his manner and appearance. “You are looking ill
and miserable this morning, Harry; is your side painful?” inquired I
anxiously.
“No,” was the reply, “I believe it is doing well enough; Ellis says so;”
he paused, and then resumed in a low hurried voice, “Frank, I am going
abroad.”
“Going abroad!” repeated I in astonishment, “where are you going to?
when are you going? this is a very sudden resolution, surely.”
“I know it is, but I cannot stay here,” he continued; “I must get
away--I am wretched, perfectly miserable.”
“My dear Harry,” replied I, “what is the matter? come tell me; as boys
we had no concealments from each other, and this reserve which appears
lately to have sprung up between us is not well: what has occurred to
render you unhappy?”
A deep sigh was for some minutes his only answer; then, gazing steadily
in my face, he said, “And have you really no idea?--But why should I
be surprised at the blindness of others, when I myself have only become
aware of the true nature of my own feelings when my peace of mind is
destroyed, and all chance of happiness for me in this life has fled for
ever!”
“What do you mean, my dear Harry?” replied I; “what can you refer to?”
“Have you not thought me very much altered of late?” he continued.
“Since you ask me, I have fancied that illness was beginning to sour
your temper,” I replied.
“Illness of mind, not body,” he resumed; “for now, when life has lost
all charm for me, I am regaining health and strength apace. You must
have observed with what a jaundiced eye I have regarded everything that
Lawless has said or done; what was the feeling, think you, which has led
me to do so? Jealousy!”
“Jealousy?” exclaimed I, as for the first time the true state of the
case flashed across me--“Oh! Harry, why did you not speak of this
sooner?”
“Why, indeed! because in my blindness I fancied the affection I
entertained for your sister was merely a brother's love, and did not
know, till the chance of losing her for ever opened my eyes effectually,
that she had ~358~~ become so essential to my happiness that life
without her would be a void. If you but knew the agony of mind I endured
while they wore acting that hateful charade last night! I quite shudder
when I think how I felt towards Lawless; I could have slain him where
he stood without a shadow of compunction. No, I must leave this place
without delay; I would not go through what I suffered yesterday again
for anything--I could not bear it.”
“Oh! if we had but known this sooner,” exclaimed I, “so much might have
been done--I only parted from Lawless five minutes before I met you,
telling him that if Fanny approved of his suit, neither my mother nor
I would offer the slightest opposition. But is it really too late to do
anything? shall I speak to Fanny?”
“Not for worlds!” exclaimed Oaklands impetuously; “do not attempt to
influence her in the slightest degree. If, as my fears suggest, she
really love Lawless, she must never learn that my affection for her has
exceeded that of a brother--never know that from henceforth her image
will stand between me and happiness, and cast its shadow over the whole
future of my life.”
He stood for a moment, his hands pressed upon his brow as if to shut out
some object too painful to behold, and then continued abruptly, “Lawless
has proposed, then?”
“He has asked my consent, and his next step will of course be to do so,”
replied I.
“Then my fate will soon be decided,” returned Oak-lands. “Now listen
to me, Frank; let this matter take its course exactly as if this
conversation had never passed between us. Should Fanny be doubtful, and
consult you, do your duty as Lawless's friend and her brother--place the
advantages and disadvantages fairly before her, and then let her decide
for herself, without in the slightest degree attempting to bias her.
Will you promise to do this, Frank?”
“Must it indeed be so? can nothing be done? no scheme hit upon?”
returned I sorrowfully.
“Nothing of the kind must be attempted,” replied Oaklands sternly;
“could I obtain your sister's hand tomorrow by merely raising my finger,
I would not do so while there remained a possibility of her preferring
Lawless. Do you imagine that I could be content to be accepted out of
compassion? No,” he added, more calmly, “the die will soon be cast; till
then I will remain; and if, as I fear is only too certain, Lawless's
suit is favourably received, I shall leave this place instantly--put it
on the score of health--make Ellis order me abroad--the German ~359~~
baths, Madeira, Italy, I care not, all places will be alike to me then.”
“And how miserable Sir John will be at this sudden determination,”
returned I, “and he is so happy now in seeing your health restored!”
“Ah! this world is truly termed a vale of tears,” replied Harry
mournfully, “and the trial hardest to bear is the sight of the
unhappiness we cause those we love. Strange that my acts seem always
fated to bring sorrow upon my father's grey head, when I would willingly
lay down my life to shield him from suffering. But do not imagine that
I will selfishly give way to grief--no; as soon as your--as soon as
Lawless is married, I shall return to England and devote myself to my
father; my duty to him, and your friendship, will be the only interests
that bind me to life.”
He paused, and then added, “Frank, you know me too well to fancy that I
am exaggerating my feelings, or even deceiving myself as to the strength
of them; this is no sudden passion, my love for Fanny has been the
growth of years, and the gentle kindness with which she attended on me
during my illness--the affectionate tact (for I believe she loves me as
a brother, though I have almost doubted even that of late) with which
she forestalled my every wish, proved to me how indispensable she has
become to my happiness. But,” he continued, seeing, I imagined, by the
painful expression of my face, the effect his words were producing on
me, “in my selfishness I am rendering you unhappy. We will speak no
more of this matter till my fate is certain; should it be that which
I expect, let us forget that this conversation ever passed; if, on the
contrary, Lawless should meet with a refusal--but that is an alternative
I dare not contemplate.--And now, farewell.”
So saying, he wrung my hand with a pressure that vouched for his
returning strength, and left me. In spite of my walk, I had not much
appetite for my breakfast that morning.~360~~
CHAPTER XLV -- HELPING A LAME DOG OVER A STILE
“Marry, I cannot show it in rhyme;
I have tried.... No, I was not born under a rhyming planet;
Nor I cannot woo in festival terms.”
--_Much Ado About Nothing_.
“Now, let the verses be bad or good, it plainly amounts to a
regular offer. I don't believe any of the lines are an inch
too long or too short; but if they were, it would be wicked
to alter them, for they are really genuine.”
--_Thinks I to Myself_.
“We shall have a rare letter from him.”
--_Twelfth Night_.
IT was usually my custom of an afternoon to read law for a couple of
hours, a course of training preparatory to committing myself to the
tender mercies of a special pleader; and as Sir John's well-stored
library afforded me every facility for so doing, that was the _venue_ I
generally selected for my interviews with Messrs. Blackstone, Coke
upon Lyttelton, and other legal luminaries. Accordingly, on the day
in question, after having nearly quarrelled with my mother for
congratulating me warmly on the attainment of my wishes, when I
mentioned to her Lawless's proposal, found fault with Fanny's Italian
pronunciation so harshly as to bring tears into her eyes, and grievously
offended our old female domestic by disdainfully rejecting some pet
abomination upon which she had decreed that I should lunch, I sallied
forth, and, not wishing to encounter any of the family, entered the hall
by a side door, and reached the library unobserved. To my surprise I
discovered Lawless (whom I did not recollect ever to have seen there
before, he being not much given to literary pursuits) seated, pen in
hand, at the table, apparently absorbed in the mysteries of composition.
“I shall not disturb you, Lawless,” said I, taking down a book. “I am
only going to read law for an hour or two.”
“Eh! disturb me?” was the reply; “I'm uncommon glad to be disturbed, I
can tell you, for hang me if I can make head or tail of it! Here have I
been for the last three hours trying to write an offer to your sister,
and actually have not contrived to make a fair start of it yet. I wish
you would lend me a hand, there's a good fellow--I know you are up to
all the right dodges--just give one a sort of notion, eh? don't you
see?”
“What! write an offer to my own sister? Well, of all the quaint ideas I
ever heard, that's the oddest--really you must excuse me.”
~~361~~ “Very odd, is it?” inquired Coleman, opening the door in time to
overhear the last sentence. “Pray let me hear about it, then, for I like
to know of odd things particularly; but, perhaps, I'm intruding?”
“Eh? no; come along here, Coleman,” cried Lawless, “you are just the
very boy I want--I am going to be married--that is, I want to be, don't
you see, if she'll have me, but there's the rub; Frank Fairlegh is all
right, and the old lady says she's agreeable, so everything depends on
the young woman herself--if she will but say 'Yes,' we shall go ahead in
style; but, unfortunately before she is likely to say anything one way
or the other, you understand, I've got to pop the question, as they call
it. Now, I've about as much notion of making an offer as a cow has of
dancing a hornpipe--so I want you to help us a bit--eh?”
“Certainly,” replied Freddy courteously; “I shall be only too happy, and
as delays are dangerous I had perhaps better be off at once--where is
the young lady?”
“Eh! hold hard there! don't go quite so fast, young man,” exclaimed
Lawless aghast; “if you bolt away at that pace you'll never see the end
of the run; why, you don't suppose I want you to go and talk to her--pop
the question viva voce, do you? You'll be advising me to be married
by deputy, I suppose, next. No, no, I'm going to do the trick by
letter--something like a Valentine, only rather more so, eh? but I can't
exactly manage to write it properly. If it was but a warranty for a
horse, now, I'd knock it off in no time, but this is a sort of thing,
you see, I'm not used to; one doesn't get married as easily as one
sells a horse, nor as often, eh? and it's rather a nervous piece of
business--a good deal depends upon the letter.”
“You've been trying your hand at it already, I see,” observed Coleman,
seating himself at the table; “pretty consumption of paper! I wonder
what my governor would say to me if I were to set about drawing a deed
in this style; why, the stationer's bill would run away with all the
profits.”
“Never mind the profits, you avaricious Jew,” replied Lawless. “Yes,
I've been trying effects, as the painters call it--putting down two
or three beginnings to find out which looked the most like the time of
day--you understand?”
“Two or three?” repeated Coleman, “six or seven rather, _voyons_. 'Mr.
Lawless presents his affections to Miss Fairlegh, and requests the
hon....' Not a bad ~362~~ idea, an offer in the third person--the only
case in which a third person would not be _de trop_ in such an affair.”
“Eh! yes, I did the respectful when I first started, you know, but I
soon dropped that sort of thing when I got warm; you'll see, I stepped
out no end afterwards.”
“'Honoured Miss,'” continued Coleman, reading, “'My sentiments, that is,
your perfections, your splendid action, your high breeding, and the many
slap-up points that may be discerned in you by any man that has an eye
for a horse...'”
“Ah! that was where I spoiled it,” sighed Lawless.
“Here's a very pretty one,” resumed Freddy. “'Adorable and adored Miss
Fanny Fairlegh, seeing you as I do with the eyes' (Why she would not
think you saw her with your nose, would she?)' of fond affection,
probably would induce me to overlook any unsoundness or disposition to
vice...'”
“That one did not turn out civilly, you see,” said Lawless, “or else it
wasn't such a bad beginning.”
“Here's a better,” rejoined Coleman. “'Exquisitely beautiful
Fanny, fairest of that lovely sex, which to distinguish it from us
rough-and-ready fox-hunters, who, when once we get our heads at any of
the fences of life, go at it, never mind how stiff it may be (matrimony
has always appeared to me one of the stiffest), and generally contrive
to find ourselves on the other side, with our hind legs well under
us;--a sex, I say, which to distinguish it from our own, is called
the fair sex, a stock of which I never used to think any great things,
reckoning them only fit to canter round the parks with, until I saw you
brought out, when I at once perceived that your condition--that is, my
feelings--were so inexpressible that...!'” “Ah!” interposed Lawless,
“that's where I got bogged, sank in over the fetlocks, and had to give
it up as a bad job.”
“In fact your feelings became too many for you,” returned Coleman; “but
what have we here?--verses, by all that's glorious!”
“No, no! I'm not going to let you read them,” exclaimed Lawless,
attempting to wrest the paper out of his hand.
“Be quiet, Lawless,” rejoined Coleman, holding him off, “sit down
directly, sir, or I won't write a word for you: I _must see_ what all
your ideas are in order to get some notion of what you want to say;
besides, I've no doubt they'll be very original.”
~363~~
I
“'Sweet Fanny, there are moments
When the heart is not one's own,
When we fain would clip its wild wing's tip,
But we find the bird has flown.
II
“'Dear Fanny, there are moments
When a loss may be a gain,
And sorrow, joy--for the heart's a toy,
And loving's such sweet pain.
III
“'Yes, Fanny, there are moments
When a smile is worth a throne,
When a frown can prove the flower of love,
Must fade, and die alone.'
--“Why, you never wrote those, Lawless?”
“Didn't I?” returned Lawless, “but I know I did, though--copied them out
of an old book I found up there, and wrote some more to 'em, because I
thought there wasn't enough for the money, besides putting in Fanny's
name instead of--what, do you think?--Phillis!--there's a name for you;
the fellow must have been a fool. Why, I would not give a dog such an
ill name for fear somebody should hang him; but go on.”
“Ah, now we come to the original matter,” returned Coleman, “and very
original it seems.”
IV
“'Dear Fanny, there are moments
When love gets you in a fix,
Takes the bit in his jaws, and, without any pause,
Bolts away with you like bricks.
V
“'Yes, Fanny, there are moments
When affection knows no bounds,
When I'd rather be talking with you out a-walking,
Than rattling after the hounds.
VI
“'Dear Fanny, there are moments
When one feels that one's inspired, And... and...'
--“It does not seem to have been one of those moments with you just
then,” continued Freddy, “for the poem comes to an abrupt and untimely
conclusion, unless three ~364~~ blots, and something that looks like a
horse's head, may be a hieroglyphic mode of recording your inspirations,
which I'm not learned enough to decipher.”
“Eh! no; I broke down there,” replied Lawless; “the muse deserted me,
and went off in a canter for--where was it those young women used to
hang out?--the '_Gradus ad_' place, you know?”
“The tuneful Nine, whom you barbarously designate young women,” returned
Coleman, “are popularly supposed to have resided on Mount Parnassus,
which acclivity I have always imagined of a triangular or sugar-loaf
form, with Apollo seated on the apex or extreme point, his attention
divided between preserving his equilibrium and keeping up his playing,
which latter necessity he provided for by executing difficult passages
on a golden (or, more probably, silver-gilt) lyre.”
“Eh! nonsense,” rejoined Lawless; “now, do be serious for five minutes,
and go ahead with this letter, there's a good fellow; for, 'pon my word,
I'm in a wretched state of mind--I am indeed. It's a fact, I'm nearly
half a stone lighter than I was when I came here; I know I am, for there
was an old fellow weighing a defunct pig down at the farm yesterday, and
I made him let me get into the scales when he took piggy out. I tell you
what, if I'm not married soon I shall make a job for the sexton;
such incessant wear and tear of the sensibilities is enough to kill a
prize-fighter in full-training, let alone a man that has been leading
such a molly-coddle life as I have of late, lounging about drawing-rooms
like a lapdog.”
“Well, then, let us begin at once,” said Freddy, seizing a pen; “now,
what am I to say?”
“Eh! why, you don't expect me to know, do you?” exclaimed Lawless
aghast; “I might just as well write it myself as have to tell you; no,
no, you must help me, or else I'd better give the whole thing up at
once.”
“I'll help you, man, never fear,” rejoined Freddy, “but you must give
me something to work upon; why, it's all plain sailing enough; begin by
describing your feelings.”
“Feelings, eh?” said Lawless, rubbing his ear violently, as if to arouse
his dormant faculties, “that's easier said than done. Well, here goes
for a start: 'My dear Miss Fairlegh'”.
“'My dear Miss Fairlegh,'” repeated Coleman, writing rapidly, “yes.”
“Have you written that?” continued Lawless; “ar--let me think--'I
have felt for some time past very ~365~~ peculiar sensations, and have
become, in many respects, quite an altered man'.” “'Altered man,'”
murmured Freddy, still writing. “'I have given up hunting,'” resumed
Lawless, “'which no longer possesses any interest in my eyes, though
I think you'd have said, if you had been with us the last time we were
out, that you never saw a prettier run in your life; the meet was at
Chorley Bottom, and we got away in less than ten minutes after the
hounds had been in cover, with as plucky a fox as ever puzzled a
pack--'”
“Hold hard there!” interrupted Coleman, “I can't put all that in; nobody
ever wrote an account of a fox-hunt in a love-letter--no, 'You've given
up hunting, which no longer possesses any interest in your eyes'; now go
on.”
“My eyes,” repeated Lawless reflectively; “yes: 'I am become indifferent
to everything; I take no pleasure in the new dog-cart, King in Long Acre
is building for me, with cane sides, the wheels larger, and the seat, if
possible, still higher than the last, and which, if I am not very much
out in my reckoning, will follow so light--'”
“I can't write all that trash about a dog-cart,” interrupted Freddy
crossly; “that's worse than the fox-hunting; stick to your feelings,
man, can't you?”
“Ah! you little know the effect such feelings produce,” sighed Lawless.
“That's the style,” resumed Coleman with delight; “that will come in
beautifully--'such feelings produce'; now, go on.”
“'At night my slumbers are rendered distracting by visions of
you--as--as----'”
“'The bride of another,'” suggested Coleman.
“Exactly,” resumed Lawless; “or, 'sleep refusing to visit my----'”
“'Aching eye-balls,'” put in Freddy. “'I lie tossing restlessly from
side to side, as if bitten by----'”
“'The gnawing tooth of Remorse;' that will do famously,” added his
scribe; “now tell her that she is the cause of it.”
“'All these unpleasantnesses are owing to you,'” began Lawless.
“Oh! that won't do,” said Coleman; “no--'These tender griefs' (that's
the term, I think) 'are some of the effects, goods and chattels'--psha!
I was thinking of drawing a will--'the effects produced upon me by----'”
~366~~ “'The wonderful way in which you stuck to your saddle when the
mare bolted with you,'” rejoined Lawless enthusiastically; “what, won't
that do either?”
“No, be quiet, I've got it all beautifully now, if you don't interrupt
me: 'Your many perfections of mind and person--perfections which have
led me to centre my ideas of happiness solely in the fond hope of one
day calling you my own'.”
“That's very pretty indeed,” said Lawless; “go on.”
“'Should I be fortunate enough,'” continued Coleman '“to succeed in
winning your affection, it will be the study of my future life to
prevent your every wish--'”
“Eh! what do you mean? not let her have her own way? Oh! that will never
pay; why, the little I know of women, I'm sure that, if you want to come
over them, you must flatter 'em up with the idea that you mean to give
'em their heads on all occasions--let 'em do just what they like. Tell
a woman she should not go up the chimney, it's my belief you'd see her
nose peep out of the top before ten minutes were over. Oh! that'll never
do!”
“Nonsense,” interrupted Freddy; “'prevent' means to forestall in that
sense; however, I'll put it 'forestall,' if you like it better.”
“I think it will be safest,” replied Lawless, shaking his head solemnly.
“'In everything your will shall be law,'” continued Coleman, writing.
“Oh! I say, that's coming it rather strong, though,” interposed Lawless,
“query about that?”
“All right,” rejoined Coleman, “it's always customary to say so in these
cases, but it means nothing; as to the real question of mastery, that
is a matter to be decided post-nuptially; you'll be enlightened on the
subject before long in a series of midnight discourses, commonly known
under the title of curtain-lectures.”
“Pleasant, eh?” returned Lawless; “well, I bet two to one on the grey
mare, for I never could stand being preached to, and shall consent to
anything for the sake of a quiet life--so move on.”
“'If this offer of my heart and hand should be favourably received
by the loveliest of her sex,'” continued Coleman, “'a line, a word, a
smile, a----'”
“'Wink,'” suggested Lawless.
“'Will be sufficient to acquaint me with my happiness.'”
“Tell-her to look sharp about sending an answer,” exclaimed Lawless; “if
she keeps me waiting long after ~367~~ that letter's sent, I shall go
off pop, like a bottle of ginger-beer; I know I shall--string won't hold
me, or wire either.”
“'When once this letter is despatched, I shall enjoy no respite from the
tortures of suspense till the answer arrives, which shall exalt to the
highest pinnacle of happiness, or plunge into the lowest abysses of
despair, one who lives but in the sunshine of your smile, and who now,
with the liveliest affection, tempered by the most profound respect,
ventures to sign himself, Your devotedly attached--'”
“'And love-lorn,'” interposed Lawless in a sharp, quick tone.
“Love-lorn!” repeated Coleman, looking up with an air of surprise;
“sentimental and ridiculous in the extreme! I shall not write any such
thing.”
“I believe, Mr. Coleman, that letter is intended to express my feelings,
and not yours?” questioned Lawless in a tone of stern investigation.
“Yes, of course it is,” began Coleman.
“Then write as I desire, sir,” continued Lawless authoritatively; “I
ought to know my own feelings best, I imagine; I feel love-lorn, and
'love-lorn' it shall be.”
“Oh! certainly,” replied Coleman, slightly offended, “anything you
please, 'Your devotedly attached and lovelorn admirer'; here, sign it
yourself, 'George Lawless'.”
“Bravo!” said Lawless, relapsing into his accustomed good humour
the moment the knotty point of the insertion of “love-lorn” had been
carried; “if that isn't first-rate, I'm a Dutchman; why, Freddy, boy,
where did you learn it? how does it all come into your head?”
“Native talent,” replied Coleman, “combined with a strong and lively
appreciation of the sublime and beautiful, chiefly derived from my
maternal grandmother, whose name was Burke.”
“That wasn't the Burke who wrote a book about it, was it?” asked
Lawless.
“Ah! no, not exactly,” replied Coleman; “she would have been, I believe,
had she been a man.”
“Very likely,” returned Lawless, whose attention was absorbed in
folding, sealing and directing the important letter, “Miss Fairlegh”.
“Now, if she does but regard my suit favourably.”
“You'll be suited with a wife,” punned Coleman.
“But suppose she should say 'No,'” continued Lawless, musing.
“Why, then, you'll be non-suited, that's all,” returned the incorrigible
Freddy; and making a face at me, which (as I was to all appearance
immersed fathoms deep in ~368~~ Blackstone) he thought I should not
observe, he sauntered out of the room, humming the following scrap of
some elegant ditty, with which he had become acquainted:--
“'If ever I marry a wife,
I'll marry a publican's daughter,
I 'll sit all day long in the bar,
And drink nothing but brandy-and-water'”.
Lawless having completed his arrangements to his satisfaction, hastened
to follow Coleman's example, nodding to me as he left the room, and
adding, “Good-bye, Fairlegh; read away, old boy, and when I see you
again, I hope I shall have some good news for you”.
Good news for me! The news that my sister would be pledged to spend her
life as the companion, or, more properly speaking, the plaything, of a
man who had so little delicacy of mind, so little self-respect, as to
have allowed his feelings (for that he was attached to Fanny, as far as
he was capable of forming a real attachment, I could not for a moment
doubt) to be laid bare to form a subject for Freddy Coleman to sharpen
his wit upon; and to reflect that I had in any way assisted in bringing
this result about, had thrown thorn constantly together--oh! as I
thought upon it, the inconceivable folly of which I had been guilty
nearly maddened me. Somehow, I had never until this moment actually
realised the idea of my sister's marrying him; even that night, when
I had spoken to my mother on the subject, my motive had been more to
prevent her from lecturing and worrying Fanny than anything else. But
the real cause of my indifference was, that during the whole progress of
the affair my thoughts and feelings had been so completely engrossed
by, and centred in, my own position in regard to Clara Saville, that
although present in body, my mind was in great measure absent. I had
never given my attention to it; but had gone on in a dreamy kind of way,
letting affairs take their own course, and saying and doing whatever
appeared most consonant to the wishes of other people at the moment,
until the discovery of Oaklands' unhappy attachment had fully aroused
me, when, as it appeared, too late to remedy the misery which my
carelessness and inattention had in a great measure contributed to bring
about.
The only hope which now remained (and when I remembered the evident
pleasure she took in his society, it appeared a very forlorn one) was
that Fanny might, of her own accord, refuse Lawless. ~369~~ By this time
the precious document produced by the joint exertions of Lawless and
Coleman must have reached its destination; and it was with an anxiety
little inferior to that of the principals themselves that I looked
forward to the result, and awaited with impatience the verdict which was
to decide whether joy should brighten, or sorrow shade, the future years
of Harry Oaklands.
CHAPTER XLVI -- TEARS AND SMILES
“Our doubts are traitors;
And make us lose the good we oft might win,
By fearing to attempt.”
--_Measure for Measure_.
“'Well, every one can master grief but he that has it.'
'Yet say I he's in love.'
'The greatest note of it is his melancholy.'
'Nay, but I know who loves him.'”
--_Much Ado About Nothing_.
“Joy, gentle friends! joy, and fresh days of love,
Accompany your hearts.”
--_Midsummer Night's Dream_.
READING law did not get on very well that day. De Lolme on the
Constitution might have been a medical treatise, for aught I knew to the
contrary; Blackstone a work on geology. After a prolonged struggle to
compel my attention, from which I did not desist until I became suddenly
aware that, for the last half-hour, I had been holding one of the
above-named ornaments to the profession the wrong way upwards, I
relinquished the matter as hopeless, and, pulling my hat over my
brows, sallied forth, and turned my moody steps in the direction of the
cottage. Feeling unwilling in my then humour to encounter any of its
inmates, I walked round to the back of the house, and throwing open the
window of a small room, which was dignified by the name of the study,
and dedicated to my sole use and behoof, I leaped in, and closing
the sash, flung myself into an easy-chair, where, again involuntarily
resuming the same train of thought, I gave myself up a prey to
unavailing regrets. On my way I had encountered Freddy Coleman going
to shoot wild-fowl, and he had accosted me with the following agreeable
remark: “Why, Frank, old boy, you look as black as a crow at a funeral;
I can't think what ails you all to-day. I met Harry Oaklands just now,
seeming as much down ~370~~ in the mouth as if the bank had failed; so I
told him your sister was going to marry Lawless, just to cheer him up a
bit, and show him the world was all alive and merry, when off he marched
without saying a word, looking more grumpy than ever.”
“Why did you tell him what was not true?” was my reply.
“Oh! for fun; besides, you know, it _may_ be true, for anything we can
tell,” was the unsatisfactory rejoinder.
In order the better to enable the reader to understand what is to
follow, I must make him acquainted with the exact _locale_ of the den
or study to which I have just introduced him. Let him imagine, then, a
small but very pretty little drawing-room, opening into a conservatory
of such minute dimensions, that it was, in point of fact, little more
than a closet with glazed sides and a skylight; this, again, opened
into the study, from which it was divided by a green baize curtain;
consequently, it was very possible for any one to overhear in one room
all that passed in the other, or even to hold a conversation with
a person in the opposite apartment. Seeing, however, was out of the
question, as the end of a high stand of flowers intervened--purposely so
placed, to enable me to lie perdu in the event of any visitors calling
to whom I might be unwilling to reveal myself. On the present occasion,
the possibility of any one in the drawing-room seeing me was wholly
precluded, by reason of the curtain already mentioned being partially
drawn.
I had not remained long in thought when my reverie was disturbed by some
one entering the outer room and closing the door. The peculiar rustle of
a lady's dress informed me that the intruder was of the gentler sex;
and the sound of the footstep, so light as to be scarcely audible, could
proceed from no other inmate of the cottage but Fanny.
Even with the best intentions, one always feels a degree of shame in
playing the eaves-dropper; a natural sense of honour seems to forbid us,
unnoticed ourselves, to remark the actions of others; yet so anxious
was I, if possible, to gain some clue to the state of my sister's
affections, that I could not resist the temptation of slightly changing
my position, so that, concealed by a fold of the curtain, and peeping
between two of the tallest camellias, I could command a view of the
drawing-room. My ears had not deceived me; on the sofa, up to which
she had drawn a small writing-table, was seated Fanny; her elbow was
supported by the table before her, and her head rested ~371~~ on one of
her little white hands, which was hidden amid the luxuriant tresses of
her sunny hair. Her countenance, which was paler than usual, bore traces
of tears. After remaining in this attitude for a few moments, motionless
as a statue, she raised her head, and throwing back her curls from her
face, opened the writing-case and wrote a hurried note; but her powers
of composition appearing to fail her before she reached the conclusion,
she paused, and, with a deep sigh, drew from a fold in her dress a
letter, which I instantly recognised as the remarkable document produced
by the joint talents of Lawless and Coleman. As she perused this
original manuscript, a smile, called forth by the singular nature of its
contents, played for an instant over her expressive features, but was
instantly succeeded by an expression of annoyance and regret.
At this moment a man's footstep sounded in the passage, and Fanny had
scarcely time to conceal her letter ere the door was thrown open, and
Harry Oaklands entered.
The change of light was so great on first coming into the room out of
the open air, that, not until the servant had withdrawn, after saying,
“You will find Mr. Fairlegh in the study, sir,” was Harry able to
perceive that, excepting himself, Fanny was the sole occupant of the
apartment.
“I hope I am not disturbing you,” he began, after an awkward pause,
during which his cheek had flushed, and then again grown pale as marble.
“The servant told me I should find Frank here alone, and that you and
Mrs. Fairlegh were out walking.”
“Mamma is gone to see the poor boy who broke his leg the other day; but
I had a little headache, and she would not let me go with her.” “And
Frank?”
“Frank went out soon after breakfast, and has not yet returned; I think
he said he was going to the Hall--he wanted to find some book in the
library, I fancy--I wonder you did not meet him.”
“I have not been at home since the morning; my father carried me off to
look at a farm he thinks of purchasing; but, as Frank is out, I will
not interrupt you longer; I dare say I shall meet him in my way back.
Good--good-morning!”
So saying, he took up his hat, and turned abruptly to leave the room.
Apparently, however, ere he reached the door, some thought came
across him which induced him to relinquish this design, for he stood
irresolutely for a ~372~~ moment, with the handle in his hand, and
then returned, saying in a low voice, “No, I cannot do it!--Fanny,” he
continued, speaking rapidly, as if mistrusting his self-control, “I am
going abroad to-morrow; we may not meet again for years, perhaps (for
life and death are strangely intermingled) we may meet in this world
no more. Since you were a child we have lived together like brother
and sister and I cannot leave you without saying good-bye--without
expressing a fervent wish that in the lot you have chosen for yourself
you may meet with all the happiness you anticipate, and which you so
well deserve.”
“Going abroad?” repeated Fanny mechanically, as if stunned by this
unexpected intelligence.
“Yes; I start for the Continent early to-morrow morning: you know I am
always alarmingly hasty in my movements,” he added, with a faint attempt
at a smile.
“It must be on account of your health,” exclaimed Fanny quickly. “Ah!”
she continued, with a start, as a new and painful idea occurred to her,
“the fearful leap you took to save me--the exertion was too much for
you; I knew--I felt at the time it would be so; better, far better, had
I perished in that dark river, than that you should have endangered your
valuable life.”
“Indeed, it is not so, Fanny,” replied Oaklands kindly, and, taking
her hand, he led her to the sofa, for she trembled so violently it was
evident she could scarcely stand; “I am regaining strength daily, and
Ellis will tell you that complete change of scene and air is the best
thing for me.”
“Is that really all?” inquired Fanny; “but why then go so suddenly?
Think of your father; surely it will be a great shock to Sir John.”
“I cannot stay here,” replied Harry impetuously, “it would madden me.”
The look of surprise and alarm with which Fanny regarded him led him to
perceive the error he had committed, and, fearful of betraying himself,
he added quickly, “You must make allowance for the morbid fancies of an
invalid, proverbially the most capricious of all mortals. Six weeks ago
I was in quite as great a hurry to reach this place as I now am to get
away from it--”
He paused, sighed deeply, and then, with a degree of self-control for
which I had scarcely given him credit, added, in a cheerful tone, “But
I will not thrust my gloomy imaginings upon you; nothing dark or
disagreeable should be permitted to cloud the fair prospect which to-day
has opened before you. You must allow me,” he ~373~~ continued, in a
calm voice, though the effort it cost him to preserve composure must
have been extreme--“you must allow me the privilege of an old friend,
and let me be the first to tell you how sincerely I hope that the rank
and station which will one day be yours--rank which you are so well
fitted to adorn--may bring you all the happiness you imagine.”
“Happiness, rank and station! May I ask to what you refer, Mr.
Oaklands?” replied Fanny, colouring crimson. “I may have been premature
in my congratulations,” replied he; “I would not distress or annoy you
for the world; but under the circumstances--this being probably the only
opportunity I may have of expressing the deep interest I must always
feel in everything that relates to your happiness--I may surely be
excused; I felt I could not leave you without telling you this.”
“You are labouring under some extraordinary delusion, Mr. Oaklands,”
rejoined Fanny, turning away her face, and speaking very quickly; “pray
let this subject be dropped.”
“You trifle with me,” replied Oaklands sternly, his self-control rapidly
deserting him, “and you know not the depth of the feelings you are
sporting with. Is it a delusion to believe that you are the affianced
bride of George Lawless?”
As he spoke, Fanny turned her soft blue eyes upon him with an expression
which must have pierced him to the very soul--it was not an expression
of anger--it was not exactly one of sorrow; but it was a look in which
wounded pride at his having for a moment believed such a thing possible,
was blended with tender reproach for thus misunderstanding her. The
former feeling, however, was alone distinguishable, as, drawing herself
up with an air of quiet dignity, which gave a character of severity to
her pretty little features of which I could scarcely have believed them
capable, she replied, “Since Mr. Lawless has not had sufficient delicacy
to preserve his own secret, it is useless for me to attempt to do so;
therefore, as you are aware that he has done me the honour of offering
me his hand, in justice to myself I now inform you that it is an honour
which I have declined, and, with it, all chance of attaining that 'rank
and station' on which you imagined I had placed my hopes of happiness.
You will, perhaps, excuse me,” she added, rising to leave the room;
“these events have annoyed and agitated me much.”
“Stay!” exclaimed Oaklands, springing up impetuously, “Fanny, for
Heaven's sake, wait one moment! Am I ~374~~ dreaming? or did I hear you
say that you had refused Lawless?”
“I have already told you that it is so,” she replied: “pray let me pass;
you are presuming on your privileges as an old friend.”
“Bear with me for one moment,” pleaded Oaklands, in a voice scarcely
audible from emotion. “You have not refused him out of any mistaken
notions of generosity arising from difference of station? In a word--for
I must speak plainly, though at the risk of distressing you--do you love
him?”
“Really--” began Fanny, again attempting to quit the room, and turning
first red, then pale, as Oaklands still held his position between her
and the door.
“Oh! pardon me,” he continued in the same broken voice, “deem me
presuming--mad--what you will; but as you hope for happiness here or
hereafter, answer me this one question--Do you love him?”
“No, I do not,” replied Fanny, completely subdued by the violence of his
emotion.
“Thank God!” murmured Oaklands, and sinking into a chair, the strong
man, overcome by this sudden revulsion of feeling, buried his face in
his hands and wept like a child. There is no sight so affecting as that
of manhood's tears. It seems natural for a woman's feelings to find vent
in weeping; and though all our sympathies are enlisted in her behalf, we
deem it an April shower, which we hope to see ere long give place to the
sunshine of a smile; but tears are foreign to the sterner nature of man,
and any emotion powerful enough to call them forth indicates a depth and
intensity of feeling which, like the sirocco of the desert, carries all
before it in its resistless fury. Fanny must have been more than woman
if she could have remained an unmoved spectator of Harry Oaklands'
agitation.
Apparently relinquishing her intention of quitting the room, she stood
with her hands clasped, regarding him with a look of mixed interest and
alarm; but as his broad chest rose and fell, convulsed by the sobs he in
vain endeavoured to repress, she drew nearer to him, exclaiming:--
“Mr. Oaklands, are you ill? Shall I ring for a glass of water?” Then,
finding he was unable to answer her, completely overcome, she continued,
“Oh! what is all this? what have I said? what have I done? Harry, speak
to me; tell me, are you angry with me?” and laying her hand gently on
his shoulder, she gazed up in his face with a look of the most piteous
entreaty.
~375~~ Her light touch seemed to recall him to himself, and uncovering
his face, he made a strong effort to regain composure, which, after
a moment or two, appeared attended with success; and taking her hand
between his own, he said, with a faint smile:--
“I have frightened you--have I not? The last time I shed tears was at my
mother's funeral, and I had never thought to weep again; but what
pain of body and anguish of mind were powerless to accomplish, joy has
effected in an instant. This must all seem very strange to you, dear
Fanny; even I myself am surprised at the depth and vehemence of my own
feelings; but if you knew the agony of mind I have undergone since the
night of that hateful charade--Fanny, did it never occur to you that I
loved you with a love different to that of a brother?”
As she made no reply, merely turning away her head, while a blush, faint
as the earliest glance of young-eyed Morning, mantled on her cheek, he
continued, “Yes, Fanny, I have known and loved you from childhood,
and your affection has become, unconsciously as it were, one of the
strongest ties that render life dear to me; still I frankly confess,
that till the idea of your loving another occurred to me, I was blind to
the nature of my own affection. To be with you, to see and talk to you
daily, to cultivate your talents, to lead you to admire the beauties
that 1 admire, to take interest in the pursuits which interested me, was
happiness enough--I wished for nothing more. Then came that business of
the duel, and the affectionate kindness with which you forestalled my
every wish; the delicate tenderness and ready tact which enabled you to
be more than a daughter--a guardian angel--to my father, in the days of
his heavy sorrow--sorrow which my ungoverned passions had brought upon
his grey head--all these things endeared you to me still more. Next
followed a period of estrangement and separation, during which, as I now
see, an undefined craving for your society preyed upon my spirits, and,
as I verily believe, retarded my recovery. Hence, the moment I felt
the slightest symptoms of returning health, my determination to revisit
Heathfield. When we again met, I fancied you were ill and out of
spirits.”
“It was no fancy,” murmured Fanny in a low voice, as though thinking
aloud.
“Indeed!” questioned Harry; “and will you not tell me the cause?”
“Presently; I did not mean to speak--to interrupt you.”
~376~~ “My sole wish and occupation,” he continued, “was to endeavour
to interest and amuse you, and to restore your cheerfulness, which
I believed the anxiety and fatigue occasioned by my illness to have
banished; and I nattered myself I was in some degree succeeding, when
Lawless's arrival and his openly professed admiration of you seemed to
change the whole current of my thoughts--nay, my very nature itself. I
became sullen and morose; and the feeling of dislike with which I beheld
Lawless's attentions to you gradually strengthened to a deep and settled
hatred; it was only by exercising the most unceasing watchfulness
and self-control that I refrained from quarrelling with him; but so
engrossed was I by the painful interest I felt in all that was passing
around me, that I never gave myself time to analyse my feelings; and
it was not until the night of the charade that I became fully aware
of their true character; it was not till then I learned that happiness
could not exist for me unless you shared it. Conceive my wretchedness
when, at the very moment in which this conviction first dawned upon
me, I saw from Lawless's manner that in his attentions to you he was
evidently in earnest, and that, as far as I could judge, you were
disposed to receive those attentions favourably. My mind was instantly
made up; I only waited till events should prove whether my suspicions
were correct, and in case of their turning out so, feeling utterly unfit
to endure the sight of Lawless's happiness, determined immediately to
start for the Continent. Prank, who taxing me with my wretched looks,
elicited from me an avowal of the truth, told me Lawless was about to
make you an offer; Coleman (probably in jest, but it chimed in too well
with my own fears for me to dream of doubting him) that it had been
accepted. The rest you know. And now, Fanny,” he continued, his voice
again trembling from the excess of his anxiety, “if you feel that you
can never bring yourself to look upon me in any other light than as a
brother, I will adhere to my determination of leaving England, and
trust to time to reconcile me to my fate; but if, by waiting months,
nay years, I may hope one day to call you my own, gladly will I do
so--gladly will I submit to any conditions you may impose. My happiness
is in your hands. Tell me, dear Fanny, must I go abroad to-morrow?”
And what do you suppose she told him, reader? That he must go? Miss
Martineau would have highly approved of her doing so; so would the late
Poor-law Commissioners, and so would many a modern Draco, who, with
~377~~ the life-blood that should have gone to warm his own stony
heart, scribbles a code to crush the kindly affections and genial
home-sympathies of his fellow-men. But Fanny was no female philosopher;
she was only a pure, true-hearted, trustful, loving woman; and so she
gave him to understand that he need not set out on his travels, thereby
losing a fine opportunity of “regenerating society,” and vindicating
the dignity of her sex. And this was not all she told him either; for,
having by his generous frankness won her confidence, he succeeded
in gaining from her the secret of her heart--a secret which, an hour
before, she would have braved death in its most horrible form rather
than reveal. And then her happy lover learned how her affection for
him, springing up in the pleasant days of childhood, had grown with her
growth, and strengthened with her strength; until it became a deep and
all-absorbing passion--the great reality of her spirit-life; for love
such as hers, outstripping the bounds of time, links itself even with
our hopes beyond the grave;--how, when he lay stretched upon the bed of
suffering, oscillating between life and death, the bitter anguish that
the thought of separation occasioned her, enlightened her as to the true
nature of her feelings; how, as his recovery progressed, to watch over
him, and minister to his comfort, was happiness beyond expression to
her;--how, when he left the cottage, everything seemed changed and dark,
and a gulf appeared to have interposed between them, which she deemed
impassable;--how, in the struggle to conceal, and, if possible, conquer
her attachment, she studiously avoided all intercourse with him, and how
the struggle ended in the loss of health and spirits;--how, during his
absence, she felt it a duty still to bear up against these feelings
of despair, and to endure her sad lot with patient resignation, and
succeeded in some degree, till his return once again rendered all her
efforts fruitless;--and how she then avoided him more studiously than
before, although she saw, and sorrowed over the evident pain her altered
manner caused him;--how, always fearing lest he should question her as
to her changed behaviour, and by word or sign she should betray the deep
interest she felt in him, she had gladly availed herself of Lawless's
attentions as a means of avoiding Harry's kind attempts to amuse and
occupy her--attempts which, at the very moment she was wounding him by
rejecting them, only rendered him yet dearer to her;--and how she had
gone on, thinking only of Harry and herself, until Lawless's offer had
brought her unhappiness to a climax, by adding self-reproach to ~378~~
her other sources of unhappiness. All this, and much more, did she
relate; for if her coral lips did not frame every syllable, her
tell-tale blushes filled up the gaps most eloquently.
And Harry Oaklands?--Well, he did nothing desperate; but after his first
transports had subsided into a more deep and tranquil joy, he sat, with
her little white hand clasped in his own, and looked into her loving
eyes, and for one bright half-hour two of the wanderers in this vale of
tears were perfectly and entirely happy.
CHAPTER XLVII -- A CURE FOR THE HEARTACHE
“One woman's fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am
well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces
be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich
she shall be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous,
or I'll never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look on her;
mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of
good discourse, and an excellent musician.”
--_Much Ado About Nothing_.
“YES! they were very happy, Fanny and Oaklands, as they revelled in the
bright certainty of their mutual love, and entranced by the absorbing
contemplation of their new-found happiness, forgot in the sunshine of
each other's presence the flight of moments, whilst I, involuntarily
contrasting the fair prospect that lay open before them with the dark
cloudland of my own gloomy fortunes, had soon traversed in thought
the distance to Barstone Priory, and become immersed in fruitless
speculations as to what might eventually be the result of Mr. Vernor's
sordid and cruel policy. It was now longer than usual since I had heard
from Clara; suspense and impatience were rapidly increasing into the
most painful anxiety, and I had all but determined, if the next day's
post brought no relief, to disobey her injunctions to the contrary, and
once again make an attempt to see her. Oh! it is hard to be banished
from the presence of those we love--with an ear attuned to the gentle
music of some well-remembered voice, to be forced to listen to the cold,
unmeaning commonplaces of society--with the heart and mind engrossed by,
and centred on, one dear object, to live in a strange, unreal fellowship
with those around us, talking, moving, and acting mechanically--feeling,
as it ~379~~ were, but the outward form and shadow of one's self, living
two distinct and separate existences, present, indeed, in body, but in
the only true vitality--the life of the spirit--utterly and completely
absent. From reflections such as these, I was aroused by observing the
deepening shades of evening, which were fast merging into night; and
collecting my ideas, I remembered that there were many things which must
be said and done in consequence of the unexpected turn events had taken.
No human being is so completely isolated that his actions do not in some
degree affect others, and in the present instance this was peculiarly
the case. Sir John and my mother must be let into the secret, and poor
Lawless must learn the unsuccessful termination of his suit. But now,
for the first time, the somewhat equivocal situation in which chance
had placed me presented itself to my mind, and I felt a degree
of embarrassment, almost amounting to shame, at having to make my
appearance, and confess that I had been lying _perdu_ during the whole
of the preceding scene. Accident, however, stood my friend.
“I wonder where Frank is all this time!” exclaimed Harry, in reply to a
remark of Fanny's referring to the lateness of the hour: “I want to see
him, and tell him of my happiness; I made him almost as miserable as
myself this morning; he must be at the Hall, I suppose, but I'm sure
your servant told me he was at home.”
“She only spoke the truth if she did,” said I, entering the drawing-room
as coolly as if nothing unusual had occurred.
Fanny started up with a slight shriek, and then, glancing at me with a
countenance in which smiles and tears were strangely commingled, ran out
of the room to hide her confusion, while Harry Oaklands--well, I hardly
know what Harry did, but I have some vague idea that he hugged me, for I
recollect feeling a degree of oppression on my breath, and an unpleasant
sensation in my arms, for the next five minutes.
“So you have heard it all, you villain--have you?” he exclaimed, as soon
as his first transports had a little subsided. “O Frank! my dear old
fellow, I am so happy! But what a blind idiot I have been!”
“All's well that ends well,” replied I, shaking him warmly by the hand;
“they say lookers-on see most of the game, but in this case I was as
blind as you were; it never for a moment occurred to me that Fanny cared
for you otherwise than as a sister. Indeed, I have ~380~~ sometimes been
annoyed that she did not, as I considered, properly appreciate you; but
I understand it all now, and am only too glad that her pale looks and
low spirits can be so satisfactorily accounted for.”
“Frank,” observed Oaklands gravely, “there is only one thing which
casts the slightest shade over my happiness; how are we to break this
to Lawless? I can afford to pity him now, poor fellow I I know by my own
feelings the pang that hearing of a rival's success will cost him.”
“I don't think his feelings are quite as deep and intense as yours,
Harry,” replied I, smiling involuntarily at my reminiscences of the
morning; “but I am afraid he will be terribly cut up about it; he was
most unfortunately sanguine: I suppose I had better break it to him.”
“Yes, and as soon as possible too,” said Oaklands, “for I'm sure my
manner will betray my happiness. I am the worst hand in the world at
dissimulation. Walk back with me and tell him, and then stay and dine
with us.”
“Agreed,” replied I; “only let me say half a dozen words to my mother;
“and, rushing upstairs, I dashed into her room, told her the whole
matter on the spot, incoherently, and without the slightest preparation,
whereby I set her crying violently, to make up for which I kissed her
abruptly (getting very wet in so doing), pulled down the bell-rope in
obedience to the dictates of a sudden inspiration that she would be
the better for a maid-servant, and left her in one of the most fearful
states of confusion on record, flurried into a condition of nerves
which set camphor-julep completely at defiance, and rendered trust in
sal-volatile a very high act of faith indeed.
While Oaklands and I were walking up to the Hall, we overtook Coleman
returning from shooting wild-fowl. As we came up with him, Oaklands
seized him by the shoulder, exclaiming:--
“Well, Freddy, what sport, eh?”
“My dear Oaklands,” returned he gravely, removing Harry's hand as he
spoke, “that is a very bad habit of yours, and one which I advise you to
get rid of as soon as possible; nobody who had ever endured one of your
friendly gripes could say with truth that you hadn't _a vice_ about
you.”
“For which vile pun it would serve you right to repeat the dose,”
replied Oaklands, “only that I am not in a vindictive mood at present.”
“Then you must have passed the afternoon in some ~381~~ very mollifying
atmosphere,” returned Freddy, “for when I met you three hours ago,
you seemed as if you could have cut anybody's throat with the greatest
satisfaction.”
The conscious half-cough, half-laugh, with which Oaklands acknowledged
this sally, attracted Coleman's attention, and mimicking the sound,
he continued, “A--ha--hem! and what may that mean? I say, there's some
mystery going on here from which I'm excluded--that's not fair, though,
you know. Come, be a little more transparent; give me a peep into the
hidden recesses of your magnanimous mind; unclasp the richly bound
volume of your secret soul; elevate me to the altitude of the Indian
herb, or, in plain slang--Young England's chosen dialect--make me 'up to
snuff'.”
“May I enlighten him?” asked I.
“Yes, to be sure,” replied Oaklands; “I'll go on, for I am anxious
to speak to my father. Freddy, old boy! shake hands; I'm the happiest
fellow in existence!” so saying, he seized and wrung Coleman's hand with
a heartiness which elicited sundry grotesque contortions, indicative
of agony, from that individual, and, bounding forward, was soon lost to
sight in the deepening twilight.
“And so, you see,” continued I, after having imparted to Coleman as much
as I considered necessary of the state of affairs, a confidence which he
received with mingled exclamations of surprise and delight--“and so, you
see, we've not only got to tell Lawless that he is refused, poor fellow
I but that Fanny has accepted Oaklands; very awkward, isn't it?”
“It would be with anybody else,” replied Coleman; “but I think there
are ways and means of managing the thing which will prevent any very
desperate consequences in the present instance; sundry ideas occur to
me; would you mind my being in the room when you tell him?”
“As far as I am concerned, I should be only too glad to have you,”
returned I, “if you do not think it would annoy him.”