“I'm not afraid of that,” was the rejoinder; “as I wrote the offer

for him, it strikes me I'm the very person he ought to select for his

confidant.”

“Do you think,” he added, after a moment's thought, “Harry would sell

those phaeton horses?”

“That's the line of argument you intend to bring forward by way of

consolation, is it? Well, it is not such a bad notion,” replied I; “but

don't be too sure of success, '_Equo ne crédite Tueri_': I doubt its

being in the power ~382~~ of horse-flesh to carry such a weight of

disappointment as I fear this news will occasion him.”

“Well, I've other schemes to fall back upon if this should fail,”

returned Freddy; “and now let us get on, for the sooner we put him out

of his misery the better.”

“Where's the master?” inquired I, encountering Shrimp as we crossed the

hall.

“He's upstairs, sir; in his own room, sir; a-going it like bricks, if

you please, sir; you can hear him down here, Gents.”

“Stop a minute--listen!” said Coleman; “I can hear him now.”

As he spoke, the sound of some one running quickly in the room overhead

was distinctly audible; then came a scuffling noise, and then a heavyish

fall.

“What's he doing?” asked Coleman.

“He's a-trainin' of hisself for some match as must be a-coming off, sir;

leastways so I take it; he's been a-going on like that for the last hour

and a quarter, and wery well he's lasted out, I say; he'll be safe to

win, don't you think, Gents?”

“Out of the way, you imp!” exclaimed Coleman, seizing Shrimp by the

collar, and swinging him half across the hall, where, cat-like, he fell

upon his legs, and walked off, looking deeply insulted.

“I can't make out what he can be doing,” continued Freddy. “Come along!”

so saying, he sprang up the staircase, two steps at a time, an example

which I hastened to imitate.

“Come in!” cried the voice of Lawless, as Coleman rapped at the door;

and anxious to discover the occasion of the sounds which had reached our

ears in the hall, we lost no time in obeying the summons. On entering

the apartment a somewhat singular spectacle greeted our sight. All the

furniture of the room, which was a tolerably large one, was piled on two

lines on either side, so as to leave a clear course along the middle; in

the centre of the space thus formed were placed two chairs about a

yard apart, and across the backs of these was laid the joint of a

fishing-rod.

[Illustration: page382 A New Cure for the Heart-ache]

As we entered, Lawless--who was without shoes, coat, or

waistcoat--exclaiming, “Wait a minute, I've just done it”--started from

one end of the room, and, running up to the chairs in the centre, leaped

over the fishing-rod. “Ninety-nine!” he continued; then, proceeding to

the other end, he again ran up to and sprang over the barrier, shouting

as he did so, in a tone of triumph, “A hundred!” ~383~~ and dragging an

easy-chair out of the chaotic heap of furniture, he flung himself into

it to all appearance utterly exhausted.

“Why, Lawless, man!” cried Freddy, “what are you doing? Have you taken

leave of your senses all of a sudden?”

“Eh! I believe 1 should have, if I had not hit upon that dodge for

keeping myself quiet.”

“A somewhat Irish way of keeping quiet,” returned Freddy; “why, the

perspiration is pouring down your face--you look regularly used up.”

“Well, I am pretty nearly done brown--rather baked than otherwise,”

replied Lawless; “let me tell you, it's no joke to jump five hundred

times over a stick three feet high or more.”

“And why, in the name of all that's absurd, have you been doing it

then?”

“Eh I why, you see, after I had sent our letter, I got into such a

dreadful state of impatience and worry, I didn't know what to do with

myself; I could not sit still at any price, and, first of all, I thought

I'd have a good gallop, but I declare to you I felt so reckless and

desperate, that I fancied I should go and break my neck; well, then it

occurred to me to jump over that stick till I had tired myself out--five

hundred times have I done it, and a pretty stiff job it was, too. And

now, what news have you got for me, Frank?”

“My dear Lawless,” said I, laying my hand on his shoulder, “you must

prepare for a disappointment.”

“There, that will do,” interrupted Lawless; “as to preparation, if my

last hour's work is not preparation enough for anything, it's a pity.

What! she'll have nothing to say to me at any price, eh?”

“Why, you see, we have all been labouring under a delusion,” I began.

“I have, under a most precious one,” continued Lawless--“regularly put

my foot in it--made a complete ass of myself--eh! don't you see? Well,

I'm not going to break my heart about it after all; it's only a woman,

and it's my opinion people set a higher price upon those cattle than

they are worth--they are a shying, skittish breed, the best of them.”

“That's the light to take it in,” exclaimed Coleman, coming forward;

“if one woman says 'No,' there are a hundred others will say 'Yes'; and,

after all, it's an open question whether a man's not better off without

'em.”

“Eh! Freddy boy, our fine letter's been no go--turned out a regular

sell, you see, eh?”

~384~~ “Well, that only proves the young lady's want of taste,” replied

Coleman; “but we had not exactly a fair start. You have more to bear

about it yet; the article you wished for was gone already--the damsel

had not a heart to bestow. Tell him how it was, Frank.”

Thus urged, I gave a hurried outline of the affair as it really stood,

dwelling much on the fact that Oaklands and Fanny had become attached

in bygone years, long ere she had ever seen Lawless--which I hoped might

afford some slight consolation to his wounded self-love. As I concluded,

he exclaimed: “So Fanny's going to marry Harry Oak-lands--that's the

long and short of it all. Well, I'm uncommonly glad to hear it--almost

as glad as if I was going to marry her myself; there is not a better

fellow in the world than Harry, though he has not regarded me with the

most friendly looks of late. I was beginning not to like it, I can tell

you, and meant to ask him why he did it; but I understand it all now.

What a bore I must have been to them both! I declare I'm quite sorry;

why, I would not have done it for any money, if I'd been up to the move

sooner. Oh! I must tell Harry.”

“You certainly are the most good-natured fellow breathing, Lawless,”

said I.

“Eh! yes, take me in the right way, I am quiet enough, a child may guide

me with a snaffle; but stick a sharp bit in my mouth, and tickle my

sides with the rowels, and I rear up before, and lash out behind, so

that it would puzzle half the rough-riders in the country to back me.

I always mean to go ahead straight enough if I can see my way clearly

before me, but it's awkward driving when one gets among women, with

their feelings, and sympathies, and all that style of article. I'm not

used to it, you see, so no wonder if I run foul of their sensibilites

and sentimentalities, and capsize a few of them. I've got pretty well

knocked over myself though this time. Misfortunes never come alone too,

they say; and I've just had a letter from Leatherley to tell me Spiteful

got loose when the groom was leading him out to exercise, and trying to

leap a fence staked himself so severely that they were obliged to have

him shot. I refused eighty guineas for him from Dunham of the Guards

only a month ago; I shall have my new tandem cart home, and no horses to

run in it.”

“How well those chestnuts would look tandem!” observed Coleman

carelessly; “I wonder whether Harry would sell them?”

“By Jove! I shouldn't like to ask him,” exclaimed Lawless quickly; “it

is too much to expect of any man.”

~385~~ “Oh! as to that,” replied Coleman, “I dare say I could contrive

to find it out, without exactly asking him to sell them.”

“My dear fellow, if you would, I should be so much obliged to you,”

replied Lawless eagerly; “if I could but get those horses to start the

new cart with, I should be as happy as a king--that is,” he continued,

checking himself, “I might become so; time, don't you see, resignation,

and all that sort of thing--heigh ho!--By the way, how far is it from

dinner? for jumping over those confounded chairs has made me uncommonly

peckish, I can tell you.”

“He'll do,” said Coleman, as we separated to prepare for dinner.

It was easy to see by Sir John's beaming face, and the hearty squeeze he

gave my hand when I entered the drawing-room, that Harry would not have

to fear much opposition to his wishes on the part of his father. The

dinner passed off pleasantly enough, though even when the meal was

concluded, and the servants had left the room, no allusion was made (out

of delicacy to Lawless) to the subject which engrossed the thoughts of

many of the party. As soon, however, as the wine had gone the round

of the table, Lawless exclaimed: “Gentlemen! are you all charged?” and

receiving affirmatory looks from the company in general, he continued,

“Then I beg to propose a toast, which you must drink as such a toast

ought to be drunk, _con amore_. Gentlemen, I rise to propose the health

of the happy couple that is to be.”

“Umph! eh I what?--what are you talking about, sir?--what are you

talking about?” inquired Mr. Frampton, hastily setting down his wine

untasted, and speaking quickly, and with much excitement.

“Do you see that?” whispered Lawless, nudging me, “he's off on a false

scent; he never could bear the idea of my marrying Fanny, he as good as

told me so one day; now be quiet, and I'll get a rise out of him.” He

then continued, addressing Mr. Frampton: “You're getting a little hard

of hearing, I'm afraid, sir; I was proposing the health of a certain

happy couple, or rather of two people, who will, I hope, become so, in

the common acceptation of the term, before very long”.

“Umph! I heard what you said, sir, plain enough (wish I hadn't), and I

suppose I can guess what you mean. I'm a plain-spoken man, sir, and I

tell you honestly I don't like the thing, and I don't approve of the

thing--I never have, and so once for all--I--umph! I won't drink your

toast, sir, that's flat. Umph! umph!”

~386~~ “Well,” said Lawless, making a sign to Harry not to speak, “you

are a privileged person, you know; and if Sir John and my friend Harry

here don't object to your refusing the toast, it's not for me to take

any notice of it; but I must say, considering the lady is the sister of

your especial favourite Frank Fairlegh, and the gentleman one whom you

have known from boyhood, I take it as particularly unkind of you, Mr.

Frampton, not even to wish them well.”

“Eh! umph! it isn't that, boy--it isn't that,” returned Mr. Frampton,

evidently taken aback by this appeal to his kindly feeling. “But, you

see,” he added, turning to Sir John, “the thing is foolish altogether,

they are not at all suited to each other; and instead of being happy, as

they fancy, they'll make each other miserable: the boy's a very good boy

in his way, kind-hearted and all that, but truth is truth, and he's no

more fit to marry Fanny Fairlegh than I am.”

“Sorry I can't agree with you, Mr. Frampton,” replied Sir John Oaklands,

drawing himself up stiffly; “I thank Mr. Lawless most heartily for his

toast, and drink it without a moment's hesitation. Here's to the health

of the young couple!”

“Well, I see you are all against me,” exclaimed Mr. Frampton, “and I

don't like to seem unkind. They say marriages are made in heaven, so I

suppose it must be all right. Here's the health of the happy couple, Mr.

Lawless and Miss Fairlegh!”

It was now Lawless's turn to look out of countenance, and for a moment

he did appear thoroughly disconcerted, more especially as it was next

to impossible to repress a smile, and Freddy Coleman grinned outright;

quickly recovering himself, however, he resumed, “Laugh away, Freddy,

laugh away, it only serves me right for playing such a trick. I've

been deceiving you, Mr. Frampton; Miss Fairlegh is indeed going to be

married, but she has had the good taste to choose a fitter bridegroom

than she would have found in such a harum-scarum fellow as I am.

So here's a long life, and a merry one, to Fanny Fairlegh and Harry

Oaklands; you won't refuse that toast, I dare say?”

“Umph! Harry Oaklands!” exclaimed Mr. Frampton aghast; “and I've been

telling Sir John he wasn't good enough for Frank's sister--just like me,

umph!”

“My dear Lawless,” said Harry, taking a seat next the person he

addressed, which movement he accomplished during an immense row

occasioned by Mr. Frampton, ~387~~ who was grunting forth a mixed

monologue of explanations and apologies to Sir John, by whom they were

received with such a hearty fit of laughing that the tears ran down his

cheeks--“My dear Lawless, the kind and generous way in which you take

this matter makes me feel quite ashamed of my behaviour to you lately,

but I think, if you knew how miserable I have been, you would forgive

me.”

“Forgive you! eh?” returned Lawless; “ay, a precious deal sooner than

I can forgive myself for coming here and making you all uncomfortable.

Nobody but such a thickheaded ass as I am would have gone on all this

time without seeing how the game stood. I hate to spoil sport; if I had

had the slightest idea of the truth, I'd have been off out of your way

long ago.”

“You are a noble fellow!” exclaimed Harry, “and your friendship is a

thing to be proud of. If there is any way in which I can testify my

strong sense of gratitude, only name it.”

“I'll tell you,” said Coleman, who had caught the last few words--“I'll

tell you what to do to make him all right--sell him your chestnuts.”

“The phaeton horses?” replied Harry. “No, I won't sell them.”

“Ah! I thought he would not,” murmured Lawless, “it was too much to

expect of any man.”

“But,” continued Oaklands, “I am sure my father will join me in saying,

that if Lawless will do us the favour of accepting them, nothing would

give us greater pleasure than to see them in the possession of one who

will appreciate their affections as they deserve.”

“Nay, they are your property, Harry,” returned Sir John; “I shall be

delighted if your friend will accept them, but the present is all your

own.”

“Eh! give 'em me, all free gratis, and for nothing!” exclaimed Lawless,

overpowered at the idea of such munificence. “Why, you'll go and ruin

yourself--Queen's Bench, whitewash, and all the rest of it! Recollect,

you'll have a wife to keep soon, and that isn't done for nothing they

tell me--pin-money, ruination-shops, diamonds, kid gloves, and bonnet

ribbons--that's the way to circulate the tin; there are some losses

that may be gains, eh? When one comes to think of all these things,

it strikes me I'm well out of it, eh, Mr. Frampton?--Mind you, I don't

think that really,” he added aside to me, “only I want Harry to fancy I

don't care two straws about it; he's such a feeling fellow is Harry, lie

would not be properly jolly if he thought I took it to heart much.”

~388~~ “Umph! if those are your ideas about matrimony, sir,” growled

Mr. Frampton, “I think you are quite right to leave it alone--puppy-dogs

have no business with wives.” “Now don't be grumpy, governor,” returned

Lawless, “when you've had your own way about the toast and all. Take

another glass of that old port, that's the stuff that makes your hair

curl and look so pretty” [Mr. Framp-ton's _chevelure_ was to be likened

only to a grey scrubbing-brush], “we'll send for the new dog-cart

to-morrow, and you shall be the first man to ride behind the chestnuts.”

“Thank ye kindly, I'll take your advice at all events,” replied Mr.

Frampton, helping himself to a glass of port; “and as to your offer, why

I'll transfer that to him (indicating Coleman), 'funny boy,' as I used

to call him, when he _was_ a boy, and he doesn't seem much altered in

that particular now. Umph!”

This, as was intended, elicited a repartee from Coleman, and the evening

passed away merrily, although I could perceive, in spite of his attempts

to seem gay, that poor Lawless felt the destruction of his hopes deeply.

On my return to the cottage, the servant informed me that a man had been

there, who wished very particularly to see me; that she had offered to

send for me, but that he had professed himself unable to wait.

“What kind of looking person was he?” inquired I. “He was an oldish

man, sir; very tall and thin, with grey hair, and he rode a little rough

pony.” “Did he leave no note or message?” “He left this note, sir.”

Hastily seizing it, I locked myself into my own room, and tearing open

the paper, read as follows:--

“Honoured Sir,--In case I should not see you, has my time will be short,

I takes the liburty of writin' a line, and ham 'appy to hinform you,

as things seem to me awl a-goin' wrong, leastways I think you'll say so

when you 'ears my tail. Muster Richard's been back above a week, and

he and the Old Un is up to their same tricks again; but that ain't

awl--there's a black-haired pale chap cum with a heye like a nork, as

seems to me the baddest of the lot, and that ain't sayin' a little.

But there's worse news yet, for I'm afraid we ain't only get to contend

hagainst the henemy, but there's a traytur in the camp, _and that in a

quarter where you cares most_. Meet me tomorrow mornin' at the old place

at seven o'clock, when you shall 'ear more from, Your umbel servant, to

command,

“Peter Barnett, “late Sergeant in the --th Dragoons.”

~389~~ Reader, do you wish me a good-night?--many thanks for your

kindness, but if you have any hope that your wish will be realised, you

must be of a very sanguine temperament, or you have never been in love.

CHAPTER XLVIII -- PAYING OFF OLD SCORES

“'Oh most delicate fiend!

Who is't can read a woman?

Is there more?'

'More, sir, and worse.'”

--_Cymbeline_.

“The Chamberlain was blunt and true, and sturdily said he--

'Abide, my lord, and rule your own, and take this rede from

me, That woman's faith's a brittle trust. Seven twelve-

months didst thou say? I'll pledge me for no lady's truth

beyond the seventh day.'”

--_Ballad of the Noble Moringer_

IT is a weary thing to lie tossing restlessly from side to side,

sleepless, through the silent watches of the night, spirit and matter

warring against each other--the sword gnawing and corroding its

sheath. A weary and harassing thing it is even where the body is the

aggressor--when the fevered blood, darting like liquid fire through the

veins, mounts to the throbbing brow, and, pressing like molten lead

upon the brain, crushes out thought and feeling, leaving but a dull

consciousness of the racking agony which renders each limb a separate

instrument of torture. If, on the other hand, it be the mind that is

pestilence-stricken, the disease becomes well-nigh unbearable, as it

is incurable; and thus it was with me on the night in question. The

suspense and anxiety I had undergone during the preceding day had

indisposed me for sustaining any fresh annoyance with equanimity, and

now, in confirmation of my worst fears, that hateful sentence in old

Peter's note, warning me of treachery in the quarter where I was most

deeply interested, rose up before me like some messenger of evil,

torturing me to the verge of distraction with vague doubts and

suspicions--fiends which the bright spirits of Love and Faith were

powerless to banish. The old man's meaning was obvious; he imagined

Clara inconstant, and was anxious to warn me against some supposed

rival; this in itself was not agreeable; but I should have reckoned

at once that he must be labouring under ~390~~ some delusion, and

disregarded his suspicions as unworthy of a moment's notice, had it not

been for Clara's strange and unaccountable silence. I had written to her

above a week before--in fact, as soon as I became at all uneasy at not

having heard from her, urging her to relieve my anxiety, if but by half

a dozen lines. Up to this time I had accounted for not having received

any answer, by the supposition that Mr. Vernor had, by some accident,

detected our correspondence, and taken measures to interrupt it. But

this hypothesis was evidently untrue, or Peter Barnett would have

mentioned in his note such an easy solution of the difficulty. Yet, to

believe Clara false was treason against constancy. Oh! the thing was

impossible; to doubt her sincerity would be to lose my confidence in the

existence of goodness and truth on this side the grave! The recollection

of her simple, child-like confession of affection--the happiness my

love appeared to afford her--the tender glance of those honest, trustful

eyes--who could think of these things and suspect her for one moment?

But that old man's letter! What did it--what could it mean? His allusion

to some dark, hawk-eyed stranger--ha!--and as a strange, improbable idea

glanced like lightning through my brain--like lightning, too, searing

as it passed--I half sprung from the bed, unable to endure the agony

the thought had costume. Reason, however, telling me that the idea was

utterly fanciful and without foundation, restrained me from doing--I

scarcely know what--something desperately impracticable, which should

involve much violent bodily action, and result in attaining some certain

confirmation either of my hopes and fears, being my nearest approach

to any formed scheme. Oh! that night--that weary, endless night! Would

morning never, never come! About five o'clock I arose, lighted a candle,

dressed myself, and then, sitting down, wrote a short note to my mother,

telling her that an engagement, formed the previous evening, to meet

a friend, would probably detain me the greater part of the day; and

another note to Oaklands, saying that I had taken the liberty of

borrowing a horse, begging him to speak of my absence as a thing of

course, and promising to tell him more when I returned. I then waited

till a faint grey tint in the eastern sky gave promise of the coming

dawn; when letting myself noiselessly out, I took my way towards the

Hall. It was beginning to get light as I reached the stables, and,

arousing one of the drowsy helpers, I made him saddle a bay mare, with

whose high courage, speed, ~391~~ and powers of endurance I was well

acquainted, and started on my expedition.

As it was nearly eighteen miles to the place of meeting, I could

scarcely hope to reach it by seven o'clock, the time mentioned in old

Peter's note; but action was the only relief to my anxiety, and it may

easily be supposed I did not lose much time on the road, so that it was

but ten minutes after seven when I turned down the lane in which the

little alehouse appointed as our rendezvous was situated. I found old

Peter waiting to receive me, though the cloud upon his brow, speaking

volumes of dark mystery, did not tend to raise my spirits.

“Late on parade, sir,” was his greeting--“late on parade; we should

never have driven the Mounseers out of Spain if we'd been ten minutes

behind our time every morning.”

“You forget, my friend, that I have had eighteen miles to ride, and that

your notice was too short to allow of my giving orders about a horse

over night.”

“You do not seem to have lost much time by the way,” he added, eyeing my

reeking steed. “What a slap-up charger that mare would make! Here, you

boy, take her into the shed there, and throw a sack or two over her,

wash out her mouth, and give her a lock of hay to nibble; but don't go

to let her drink, unless you want my cane about your shoulders--do ye

hear? Now, sir, come in.”

“What in the world did you mean by that note, Peter?” exclaimed I, as

soon as we were alone; “it has nearly driven me distracted--I have never

closed my eyes all night.”

“Then it's done as I intended,” was the satisfactory reply; “it's

prepared you for the worst.”

“Nice preparation!” muttered I, then added, “Worst! what do you refer

to? Speak out, man--you are torturing me!”

“You'll hear it sooner than you like; try and take it easy, young

gentleman. Do you feel yourself quite prepared?”

I am afraid my rejoinder was more energetic than correct; but it

appeared to produce greater effect than my entreaties had done, for he

continued:--

“Well I see you will have it out, so you must, I suppose; only if you

ain't prepared proper, don't blame me. As far as I can see and hear--and

I keeps my eyes and ears open pretty wide, I can tell you--I feels

convinced that Miss Clara's guv you the sack, and gone and taken ~392~~

up with another young man.” As he delivered himself of this pleasant

opinion, old Peter slowly approached me, and ended by laying his hands

solemnly on my shoulders, and, with an expression of fearful import

stamped on his grotesque features, nodded thrice in my very face.

“Nonsense!” replied I, assuming an air of indifference I was far from

feeling; “such a thing is utterly impossible--you have deceived yourself

in some ridiculous manner.”

“I only wish as I could think so, for all our sakes, Mr. Fairlegh; but

facts is like jackasses, precious stubborn things. Why are they always

a-walking together, and talking so loving like, that even the old un

hisself looks quite savage about it? And why ain't she never wrote to

you since he cum--though she's had all your letters--eh?”

“Then she _has_ received my letters?”

“Oh, yes! she's always had them the same as usual.”

“And are you sure she has never written to me?”

“Not as I know on; I've never had one to send to you since she's took up

with this other chap.”

“And pray who or what is this other chap, as you call him, and how comes

he to be staying at Barstone?”

“Well, sir, all as I can tell you about him is, that nigh upon a

fortnight ago Muster Richard come home, looking precious ill and seedy;

and the wery next morning he had a letter from this chap, as I take it.

I brought it to him just as they rung for the breakfast things to be

took away, so I had a chance of stopping in the room. Direc'ly he sot

eyes on the handwriting, he looked as black as night, and seemed all

of a tremble like as he hopened it. As he read he seemed to get less

frightened and more cross; and when he'd finished it, he 'anded it to

the old un, saying, 'It's all smooth, but he's taken it into his head to

come down here. What's to be done, eh? 'Mr. Vernor read it through, and

then said in an under tone,' 'Of course he must come if he chooses'.

He then whispered something of which I only caught the words, 'Send

her away'; to which Richard replied angrily, 'It shall not be; I'll

shilly-shally no longer,--it must be done at once, I tell you, or I give

the whole thing up altogether'. They then went into the library, and I

heard no more; but the wery next day come this here hidentical chap--he

arrived in style too--britzska and post-horses. Oh! he's a reg'lar

swell, you may depend; he looks something like a Spaniard, a

foreigneering style of physiography, only he ain't so swarthy.”

~393~~ “Don't you know his name?” inquired I.

“They call him Mr. Fleming, but I don't believe that's his right name;

leastways he had a letter come directed different, but I can't remember

what it was: it was either--let me see--either a hess or a W; I think it

was a hess, but I can't say for certain.”

“But what has all this to do with Miss Saville?” asked I impatiently.

“Fair and easy; fair and easy; I'm a-coming to her direc'ly--the world

was not made in a day; you'll know sooner than you likes, I expects, now

sir. Well, I didn't fancy him from the first; he looks more like Saytin

himself than any Christian as ever I set eyes on, except Boneypart,

which, being a Frenchman and a henemy, was not so much to be wondered

at: however, he was wery quiet and civil, and purlite to Miss Clara, and

said wery little to her, while Muster Richard and the old un was by, and

she seemed rather to choose to talk to him, as I thought, innocent-like,

to avoid the t'other one; but afore long they got quite friends

together, and I soon see that he meant business, and no mistake. He's as

hartful and deep as Garrick; and there ain't no means of inweigling and

coming over a woman as he don't try on her: ay, and he's a clever chap,

too; he don't attempt to hurry the thing; he's wery respectful and

attentive, and seems to want to show her the difference between his

manners and Muster Richard's--not worreting her like; and he says sharp

things to make Muster Richard look like a fool before her. I can't help

larfing to mysolf sometimes to hear him,--Muster Dickey's met his match

at last.”

“And how does Cumberland brook such interference?”

“Why, that's what I can't make out; he don't like it, that's clear, for

I have seen him turn pale with rage; but he seems afraid to quarrel

with him, somehow. If ever he says a sharp word, Mr. Fleming gives him

a scowling look with his wicked eyes, and Muster Richard shuts up

direc'ly.”

“And you fancy Miss Saville appears disposed to receive this man's

advances favourably? Think well before you speak; do not accuse

her lightly, for, by Heaven! if you have not good grounds for your

insinuations, neither your age nor your long service shall avail to

shield you from my anger! every word breathed against her is like a stab

to me.” As, in my grief and irritation, I threatened the old man, his

brow reddened, and his eye flashed with all the fire of youth. After a

moment's reflection, however, his mood changed, and, advancing towards

me, he took ~394~~ my hand respectfully, and pressing it between his

own, said:--

“Forgive me this liberty, sir, but I honours you, young gentleman, for

your high spirit and generous feeling; your look and bearing, as you

said them words, reminded me of my dear old master. It can't be no

pleasure to me, sir, to blame _his_ daughter, that I have loved for his

sake, as if she had been a child of my own--but truth is truth;” and

as he uttered these words, the big drops stood in his eyes, unfailing

witnesses of his sincerity. There is something in the display of real

deep feeling, which for the time appears to raise and ennoble those

who are under its influence; and as the old man stood before me, I

experienced towards him a mingled sentiment of admiration and respect,

and I hastily endeavoured to atone for the injustice I had done him.

“Forgive me, Peter!” exclaimed I; “I did not mean what I said,--sorrow

and annoyance made me unjust to you, but you will forgive it?”

“No need of that, sir,” was the reply; “I respects you all the more for

it. And now, in answer to your question, I will go on with the little

that remains to tell, and you can judge for yourself. Miss Clara, then,

avoids Mr. Richard more than hever, and talks kind and pleasant like

with this Mr. Fleming--walks out with him, sometimes alone--rides with

him--don't seem so dull and mopish like since he's been here, and

has never hanswered your letters since she took up with him.” As he

concluded his catalogue of proofs, I threw myself into a chair, and

sat with my hands pressed tightly on my brow for some minutes; my brain

seemed on fire.

At length, starting up abruptly, I exclaimed: “This is utterly

unbearable! I must have certainty, Peter; I must see her at once. How is

that to be done?”

“You may well ask,” was his reply; “better wait till I can find an

opportunity, and let you know.”

“Listen to me, old Peter,” continued I, laying my hand on his shoulder;

“there is that within me this day which can overcome all obstacles--I

tell you I must see her, and I WILL!”.

“Well, well, don't put yourself into a passion; the only chance as I

knows of is to ketch Miss Clara out walking; and then ten to one Mr.

Fleming will be with her.”

“Let him!” exclaimed I; “why should I avoid him? I have not injured

him, though he may have done me foul and bitter wrong; it is for him to

shrink from the encounter.”

~395~~ “I know what the end of this will be,” returned Peter Barnett;

“you'll quarrel; and then, instead of off coats and having it out like

Britons, there'll be a purlite hinvitation given, as kind and civil

as if you was a-hasking him to dinner, to meet as soon as it's light

to-morrow morning, and do you the favour of putting a brace of bullets

into you.”

“No, Peter, you do not understand my feeling on this subject; should

you be right in your suspicions (and, although my faith in your young

mistress is such that nothing but the evidence of my own senses can

avail to shake it, I am fain to own circumstances appear fully to

warrant them)--should these suspicions not prove unfounded, it is

_her_ falsehood alone that will darken the sunshine of my future life.

Fleming, or any other coxcomb who had taken advantage of her fickleness,

would be equally beneath my notice. But enough of this; where shall I be

most likely to meet her?”

“You knows the seat in the shrubbery walk under the old beeches, where

you saw Miss Clara the first time as ever you cum here?”

“Only too well,” answered I, as the recollection of that morning

contrasted painfully with my present feelings.

“Well, you be near there about eleven o'clock; and if Miss Clara don't

walk that way, I'll send down a boy with hinformation as to the henemy's

movements. Keep out of sight as much as you can.”

“It shall be done,” replied I.

Old Peter paused for a moment; then, raising his hand to his forehead

with a military salute, turned away and left me.

Eight o'clock struck; a girl brought me in breakfast; nine and ten

sounded from an old clock in the bar, but the viands remained untasted.

At a quarter past ten I rang the bell, and asked for a glass of water,

drained it, and, pressing my hat over my brow, sallied forth. The

morning had been misty when I first started, but during my sojourn at

the inn the vapours had cleared away, and as, by the assistance of

an old tree, I climbed over the paling of Barstone Park, the sun was

shining brightly, wrapping dale and down in a mantle of golden light.

Rabbits sprung up under my feet as I made my way through the fern and

heather; and pheasants, their varied plumage glittering in the

sunlight, ran along my path, seeking to hide their long necks under

some sheltering furze brake, or rose heavily on the wing, scared at the

unwonted intrusion. At any other time the fair scene ~396~~ around me

would have sufficed to make me light-hearted and happy, but in the state

of suspense and mental torture in which I then was, the brightness of

nature seemed only to contrast the more vividly with the darkness of

soul within. And yet I could not believe her false. Oh, no! I should see

her, and all would be explained; and as this thought came across me, I

bounded eagerly forward, and, anxious to accelerate the meeting, chafed

at each trifling obstacle that opposed itself to my progress. Alas! one

short hour from that time, I should have been glad had there been a lion

in my path, so that I had failed to reach the fatal spot.

With my mind fixed on the one object of meeting Clara, I forgot the old

man's recommendation to keep out of sight; and flinging myself at full

length on the bench, I rested my head upon my hand, and fell into a

reverie, distorting facts and devising impossible contingencies to

establish Clara's innocence. From this train of thought I was aroused

by a muffled sound as of footsteps upon turf, and in another moment,

the following words, breathed in silvery accents, which caused my every

pulse to throb with suppressed emotion, reached my ear:--

“It is indeed an engagement of which I now heartily repent, and from

which I would willingly free myself; but--”

“But,” replied a man's voice, in the cold sneering tone of which,

though now softened by an expression of courtesy, I had almost said

of tenderness, I instantly recognised that of Stephen Wilford,--“but,

having at one time encouraged the poor young man, your woman's heart

will not allow you to say 'No' with sufficient firmness to show that he

has nothing further to hope.”

“Indeed it is not so,” replied the former speaker, who, as the reader

has doubtless concluded, was none other than Clara Saville; “you

mistake me, Mr. Fleming; if a word could prove to him that his suit was

hopeless, that word should soon be spoken.”

“It is not needed!” exclaimed I, springing to my feet, and suddenly

confronting them; “that of which the tongue of living man would have

failed to convince me, my ears have heard, and my eyes have seen! It is

enough. Clara, from this moment you will be to me as if the grave had

closed over you; yet not so, for then I could have loved your memory,

and deemed that an angel had left this false and cruel world to seek one

better fitted to her bright and sinless nature!--Farewell, Clara! may

you be as happy as the recollection (which will haunt you at ~397~~

times, strive as you may to banish it), that by your falsehood you have

embittered the life of one who loved you with a deep and true affection,

will permit!” and overcome by the agony of my feelings, I leaned against

the bench for support, my knees trembling so that I could scarcely

stand.

When I appeared before her so unexpectedly, Clara started back and

uttered a slight scream; after which, apparently overwhelmed by my

vehemence, she had remained perfectly silent; whilst her companion, who

had at first favoured me with one of his withering glances, perceiving

that I was so completely engrossed as to be scarcely conscious of his

presence, resumed his usual manner of contemptuous indifference. He was,

however, the first to speak.

“This gentleman, whom I believe I have the pleasure of recognising,”

and here he slightly raised his hat, “appears, I can scarcely suppose,

a friend, but, at all events, an intimate of yours, Miss Saville; if you

wish me--that is, if I am at all _de trop_----” and he stepped back a

pace or two, as if only awaiting a hint from her to withdraw, while with

his snake-like glance riveted upon her features, he watched the effect

of his words.

“No, pray do not leave me, Mr. Fleming,” exclaimed Clara hurriedly; “Mr.

Fairlegh must see the impossibility of remaining here. I am momentarily

expecting Mr. Cumberland and my guardian to join us.”

“I leave you,” replied I, making an effort to recover myself; “I seek

not to pain you by my presence, I would not add to your feelings of

self-reproach by look or word of mine;” then, catching Wilford's glance

fixed upon me with an expression of gratified malice, I continued, “For

you, sir, I seek not to learn by what vile arts you have succeeded thus

far in your iniquitous designs; it is enough for me that it should have

been possible for you to succeed; my happiness you have destroyed; but I

have yet duties to perform, and my life is in the hands of Him who

gave it, nor will I risk it by a fruitless quarrel with a practised

homicide.”

The look of concentrated hatred with which he regarded me during this

speech, changed again to scornful indifference, as he replied, with a

contemptuous laugh, “Really, sir, you are labouring under some singular

delusion; I have no intention of quarrelling; you appear to raise

phantoms for the pleasure of combating them. However, as far as I can

comprehend the affair, you are imputing to me an honour belonging rather

to my friend ~398~~ Cumberland; and here, in good time, he comes to

answer for himself. Cumberland, here's a gentleman mistaking me for you,

I fancy, who seems labouring under some strange delusions about love

and murder; you had better speak to him.” As he concluded, Cumberland,

attended by a gamekeeper leading a shooting pony, came up, looking

flushed and angry.

“I should have been here sooner,” he said, addressing Wilford, “but

Browne told me he had traced poachers in the park; the footsteps can be

otherwise accounted for now, I perceive.” He then made a sign for

the keeper to approach, and, turning towards me, added, “You are

trespassing, sir”.

His tone and manner were so insolent and overbearing, that my blood

boiled in my veins. Unwilling, however, to bring on a quarrel in such

a presence, I restrained my indignation, and replied, “I know not what

devil sent you here at this moment, Richard Cumberland; I have been

sorely tried, and I warn you not to provoke me further”.

“I tell you, you are trespassing, fellow; this is the second time I have

caught you lurking about; take yourself off instantly, or--” as he spoke

he stepped towards me, raising his cane with a threatening gesture.

“Or what?” inquired I, at length thoroughly roused; and, drawing myself

up to my full height, I folded my arms across my chest, and stood before

him in an attitude of defiance.

As I did so, he turned deadly pale, and for a moment his resolution

seemed to fail him; but catching the sound of Wilford's sneering laugh,

and relying on the assistance of the gamekeeper, who, having tied the

pony to a tree, was fast approaching the scene of action, he replied,

“Or receive the chastisement due to such skulking vagabonds!” and

springing upon me, he seized my collar with one hand, while with the

other he drew the cane sharply across my shoulders.

[Illustration: page398 A Striking Position]

To free myself from his grasp by a powerful effort was the work of a

moment, while almost at the same time I struck him with my full force,

and, catching him on the upper part of the nose, dashed him to the

ground, where he lay motionless, and apparently stunned, with the blood

gushing from his mouth and nostrils.~399~~

CHAPTER XLIX -- MR. FRAMPTON MAKES A DISCOVERY

“In a tandem I see nothing to induce the leader to keep his

course straightforward, but an address on the part of the

charioteer as nearly as can be supernatural.... And, for my

own part, I think leaders of tandems are particularly apt to

turn short round. And the impudence with which they do it,

in some instances, is past all description, staring all the

while full in the faces of those in the carriage, as much as

to say, 'I must have a peep at the fools behind that are

pretending to manage me'.”

--_Thinks I to Myself_.

“But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so

Keen the desire to see his home again,

He thought himself in duty bound to do so.

Lonely he felt at times as Robin Crusoe.”

--_Beppo_.

ALL that passed immediately after the events I have described left but

a succession of vague and confused images on my memory. I have some dim

recollection of seeing them raise Cumberland from the ground, and of

his showing symptoms of returning animation; but I remember nothing

distinctly till I again found myself a tenant of the little sanded

parlour in the village inn. My first act was to ring for a basin of cold

water and a towel, with which I well bathed my face and head; in some

degree refreshed by this process, I sat down and endeavoured to collect

my scattered senses.

I had succeeded in my immediate object, and suspense was at an end. I

had obtained certain proof of Clara's falsehood; with her own lips I

had heard her declare that she repented her engagement, and wished to

be freed from it; and the person to whom she had confided this was a

man whose attentions to her were so marked that even the very servants

considered him an acknowledged suitor. What encouragement could be more

direct than this? Well, then, she was faithless, and the dream of my

life had departed. But this was not all; my faith in human nature was

shaken--nay, destroyed at a blow. If _she_ could prove false, whom could

I ever trust again? Alas! the grief--the bitter, crushing grief--when

the consciousness is forced upon us that one with whom we have held

sweet interchange of thought and feeling--with whom we have been linked

by all the sacred ties of mutual confidence--with whose sorrows we have

sympathised, and ~400~~ whose smiles we have hailed as the freed captive

hails the sunshine and the dews of heaven--that one whom for these

things we have loved with all the deepest instincts of an earnest and

impassioned nature, and for whose truth we would have answered as for

our own, is false and unworthy such true affection--oh! this is bitter

grief indeed! Deep sorrow, absorbing all the faculties of the soul,

leaves no room for any other emotion; and in the one idea, that Clara

Saville--Miss Clara Saville, whom my imagination had depicted the simple,

the loving, the true-hearted--was lost to me for ever, I forgot for

somç time the existence of Wilford or the fact that in my anger I had

stricken down and possibly seriously injured Cumberland. But as the

first agony of my grief began to wear off, I became anxious to learn

the extent of the punishment I had inflicted on him, and accordingly

despatched a boy to Peter Barnett, requesting him to send me word how

matters stood.

During his absence it occurred to me that, as Wilford had been

introduced to her under a feigned name, Clara must be utterly ignorant

of the evil reputation attaching to him, and that--although this did,

not in any way affect her heartless conduct towards me--it was only

right that she should be made aware of the true character of the man

with whom she had to deal; therefore, painful as it was to hold any

communication with her after what had passed, 1 felt that the time might

come when my neglect of this duty might afford me cause for the most

bitter self-reproach. Accordingly, asking for pen, ink, and paper, I sat

down and wrote the following note:--

“After the occurrences of this morning, I had thought never, either by

word or letter, to hold further communication with you; by your own act

you have separated us for ever; and I--yes, I can say it with truth--am

glad that it should be so--it prevents all conflict between reason and

feeling. But I have what I deem a duty to perform towards you--a duty

rendered all the more difficult, because my motives are liable to cruel

misconstruction; but it is a duty, and therefore must be done. You

are, probably, as little aware of the true character of the man calling

himself Fleming as of his real name; of him may be said, as of the

Italian of old, that 'his hate is fatal to man, and his love to woman';

he is alike notorious as a duellist and a libertine. My knowledge of him

arises from his having in a duel wounded, almost unto death, the dearest

friend I have on earth, who had saved an innocent girl from adding to

his list of victims. If you ~401~~ require proof of this beyond my word,

ask Mr. Stephen Wilford--for such is really his name--in your guardian's

presence, whether he remembers Lizzie Maurice and the smart of Harry

Oaklands' horsewhip. And now, having warned you, your fate is under your

own control. For what is past I do not reproach you; you have been an

instrument in the hands of Providence to wean my affections from this

world, and if it is His good pleasure that, instead of a field for high

enterprise and honest exertion, I should henceforth learn to regard it

as a scene of broken faith and crushed hopes, it is not for me to rebel

against His will. And so farewell for ever!--F. F.”

I had not long finished writing the above when the boy returned,

bringing the following missive from old Peter:--

“Honoured Sir,

“The topper as you've give Muster Richard ain't done him no more harm,

only lettin' hout a little of his mad blood, and teachin' 'im when he

speaks to a gemman to haddress 'im as sich; 'is face is swelled as big

as too, and he'll 'ave a sweet pair of black hyes to-morrer, please

goodness, which is a comfort to reflect on. Touchin' uther matturs, I've

got scent of summut as may make things seeme not so black as we thort,

but it's honly in the hegg at present, and may never come to a chickin,

so don't go settin' too much on it; but if you've nothin' better to do,

ride over agen the day arter to-morrer, by which time I may have more to

communicate, “Your humbel servent to command,

“Peter Barnett.”

I pondered for some minutes on what this enigmatical document might

portend; but a little reflection served to convince me that neither

Peter nor any one else could discover aught affecting the only feature

of the whole affair which deeply interested me; on that point I had

obtained the information of my own senses, and there was nothing more to

hope or fear. I had learned the worst; the blow had fallen, and it only

remained for me to bear it with what fortitude I might. Accordingly I

enclosed my note to Clara in one to Peter Barnett, telling him I could

see no reason for coming there again, and that in all probability I

should not take the trouble of doing so, adding that if he had anything

new to communicate he had better do so in writing; and then, ordering my

horse, I rode slowly home, feeling more ~402~~ thoroughly miserable than

I had ever done before in the whole course of my life.

The next morning was so fine that all kinds of pleasurable schemes were

proposed and acceded to. Oaklands and Fanny rode out together in all

the unrestrained freedom of an engaged tête-à-tête. The new dog-cart

had arrived, and the chestnuts were to make their _début_; consequently,

Lawless spent the morning in the stable-yard, united by the closest

bonds of sympathy with the head-groom and an attendant harness-maker,

the latter being a young man whose distinguishing characteristics were a

strong personal savour of new leather, hands gloved in cobbler's wax and

harness-dye, and a general tendency to come off black upon everything he

approached. Sir John and the rest of the party were to fill a britchska,

and the place of rendezvous was the ruins of an old abbey about eight

miles distant.

Feeling quite unfit for society, I had excused myself on the plea (not

altogether a false one) of a bad headache, and having witnessed their

departure from the library window, I drew an easy-chair to the fire, and

prepared to enjoy the luxury (in my then state of feeling an unspeakable

one) of solitude. But I was not fated to avail myself of even this small

consolation, for scarcely ten minutes had elapsed when the library door

was opened, and Mr. Frampton made his appearance.

“Umph! eh! umph!” he began; “I've been seeing that young fool Lawless

start in his new tandem, as he calls it. A pretty start it was too;

why, the thing's as high as a stage-coach--ought to have a ladder to get

up--almost as bad as mounting an elephant! And then the horses, fiery

devils! two men at each of their noses, and enough to do to hold 'em

even so! Well, out comes Master Lawless, in a greatcoat made like a

coal-sack, with buttons as big as five-shilling pieces, a whip as long

as a fishing-rod in his hand, and a cigar in his mouth. 'There's a

picture!' says he. 'A picture of folly,' says I; 'you're never going to

be mad enough to trust yourself up there Behind those vicious brutes?'

'Come, governor, jump in, and let's be off,' was all the answer I got.

'Thank ye,' says I; 'when you see me jumping in that direction, pop me

into a strait-waistcoat, and toddle me off to Bedlam.' 'Eh! won't you

go? Tumble in then, Shrimp!' 'Please, sir, it's so high I can't reach

it.' 'We'll soon see about that!' cries Lawless, flanking him with the

long whip. Well, the little wretch scrambled up somehow, like a monkey;

and as soon as he was ~403~~ safely landed, what does he do but lean

back, fold his arms, and winking at one of the helpers, squeak out, 'Oh,

crickey! ain't this spicy, just!' 'You're never going to take that poor

child?' says I; 'only think of his anxious mother! 'Well, sir, if you'll

believe it, they every one of 'em burst out laughing--helpers, brat and

all--as if I'd said something very ridiculous. 'Never mind, governor,'

says Lawless; 'depend upon it, his mother knows he's out,' and catching

hold of the reins, he clambers up into his seat, shouting, 'Give 'em

their heads! Stand clear! Chut! chut! 'As soon as the brutes found

they were loose, instead of starting off at a jog-trot, as reasonable,

well-behaved horses ought to do, what do you suppose they did? The beast

they tied on in front turned short round, stared Lawless in the face,

and stood up on its hind legs like a kangaroo, while the other animal

would not stir a peg, but, laying down his ears, gave a sort of a

screech, and kicked out behind. 'Pretty, playful things,' said Lawless,

flipping the ashes off the end of his cigar. 'Put his head straight,

William. Chut! chut! 'But the more he chutted the more they wouldn't go,

and began tearing and rampaging about the yard till I thought they'd be

over me, so I scrambled up a little low wall to get out of their way,

missed my footing, and tumbled over backwards on to a dung-heap, and

before I got up again they were off; but if that young jackanapes don't

break his neck some of those days, I'm a Dutchman! Umph! umph!”

“Lawless is a capital whip,” replied I, “and the chestnuts, though

fiery, are not really vicious. I don't think there is much danger.”

“Ah young men! young men! you're all foolish alike. I don't know how

you'd get on, if you hadn't a few old stagers like me to think for you

and give you good advice.--And that puts me in mind that I want to have

half an hour's serious conversation with you, Frank. Can you listen to

me now?”

“I am quite at your service, sir,” replied I, resigning myself to my

fate with the best grace I could command.

“Umph! Well, you see, Frank, I've no chick nor child of my own, and I've

taken a kind of a fancy to you from a boy; you were always a good boy

and a clever boy, and you've gone on well at college, and distinguished

yourself, and have been a credit to the man that sent you there.--By the

bye, didn't you ever want to know who it was sent you there?”

“Often and often,” replied I, “have I longed to know ~404~~ to whose

disinterested kindness and generosity I was indebted for so great an

advantage.”

“Umph! Well, you must be told some day, I suppose, so you may as well

know now as at any other time. The man that sent you to college ain't

very unlike me in the face. Umph!”

“My dear, kind friend,” replied I, seizing his hand and pressing it

warmly, “and is it indeed you who have taken such interest in me? How

can I ever thank you?”

“I want no thanks, boy; you did better than thank me when you came

out fourth wrangler; why, I felt as proud that day when they were all

praising you as if it had been my own son. Say no more about that; but

now you've left college, what are your wishes--what do you think of

doing? Umph!”

“I had thought of reading for the bar, deeming it a profession in which

a man stands a fair chance of distinguishing himself by honourable

exertion; I am aware it is somewhat uphill work at starting, but Mr.

Coleman has promised to introduce me to several men in his branch of the

profession, and to give me all the business he can himself, so I should

not be quite a briefless barrister. But if there is anything else you

wish to recommend, any other career you would advise me to pursue, I am

very indifferent, that is, I am not at all bigoted to my own opinion.”

“Umph! I never had any over-strong affection for lawyers--gentlemen that

eat the oysters themselves and leave their clients the shells! However,

I suppose there may be such things as honest lawyers to be met with, and

it's better for every man to have a profession. Well, now, listen to me,

Frank, I--umph!--your sister's going to be married, to be married to

a young man for whom I've a very great respect and affection; Sir John

Oaklands is a thorough specimen of a fine old English gentleman, and

his son bids fair to become just such another, or even a yet higher

character, for Harry's got the better headpiece of the two. However,

I don't like your sister to marry into such a family without a little

money of her own to buy a wedding-bonnet; so you give her this letter,

and tell her to mind and get a becoming one. We may trust a woman to

take care of that, though, eh, Frank? Umph!”

“Really, sir, your kindness quite overpowers me; we have no possible

claim upon your liberality.”

“Yes, you have, boy--yes, you have,” replied Mr. Frampton, “the

strongest claim that can be; you have ~405~~ saved me from falling a

victim to the worst disease a man can suffer under--you have saved me

from becoming a cold-hearted, soured misanthrope; you have given me

something to love, some pure unselfish interest in life. And now we

are on this subject, I may as well tell you all my plans and wishes in

regard to you: I have no soul belonging to me, not a relation in the

wide world that I am aware of, and I determined, from the time when

I first sent you to college, that if you conducted yourself well

and honourably, I would make you my heir.--Don't interrupt me,” he

continued, seeing that I was about to speak, “let me finish what I have

to say, and then you shall tell me whether you approve of it. You not

only came up to, but far surpassed, my most sanguine expectations, and

I saw therefore no reason to alter my original intentions. But it is

stupid work for a man to wait till all the best days of his life are

passed, without funds sufficient to render him independent, to feel all

his energies cramped, his talents dwarfed, and his brightest

aspirations checked, by a servile dependence on the will and caprice of

another--waiting for dead men's shoes--umph! and so, Frank, as I feel

pretty tough and hearty for sixty-five, and may live, if it please God,

another ten or fifteen years to plague you, it's my wish to make

you your own master at once, and I'll either assist you to enter any

profession you please, or if you like to settle down into a country

gentleman, and can pick up a nice wife anywhere, I can allow you one

thousand pounds a year to begin with, and yet have more than I shall

know how to spend during the rest of my days in the land of the living.

For my own part, this last plan would give me the greatest satisfaction,

for I should like to see you comfortably married and settled before I

die. Now, what do you say to it? Umph!”

What did I say?--what could I say? I got up, and having once again

pressed his hands warmly between my own, began pacing the room, quite

overcome by this unexpected liberality, and the conflicting nature of

my own feelings. But two short days ago, and such an offer would have

been--as I then fondly imagined--the only thing wanting to secure my

happiness; possessed of such ample means of supporting her, I could

at once have gone boldly to Mr. Vernor, and demanded Clara's hand--nor

could he have found just cause for refusing my request; and now, when

what once appeared the only insurmountable obstacle to our union was

thus removed, the thought that, by her faithlessness and inconstancy,

she had placed ~406~~ a barrier between us for ever, was indeed bitter.

Surprised by the excess of my emotion, for which, of course, he was

totally unable to account, Mr. Frampton sat gazing at me with looks of

astonishment and dismay, till at length he broke out with the following

interrogatory, “Umph! eh? why, Frank--umph! anybody would think you had

just heard you were going to be arrested for debt, instead of having a

fortune given you--Umph!”

“My dear, kind friend,” replied I, “forgive me. Your unparalleled

liberality, and the generous interest you take in me, give you a

father's right over me, and entitle you to my fullest confidence; such

an offer as you have now made me would have rendered me, but one short

week ago, the happiest of mortals; now, my only chance of regaining

anything like tranquillity of mind lies in constant and active

employment.”

I then gave him as briefly as I could an outline of my singular

acquaintance with Clara Saville, our engagement, and the events which

had led to my breaking it off, to all of which he listened with the

greatest interest and attention. In telling the tale I mentioned Wilford

and Cumberland by name, as he knew the former by reputation, and had

seen the latter when a boy at Dr. Mildman's; but I merely spoke of Clara

as a young lady whom I had met at Mr. Coleman's, and of Mr. Vernor

as her guardian. When I concluded, he remained for a moment buried in

thought, and then said, “And you are quite sure she is false? Are you

certain that what you heard her say (for that seems to me the strongest

point) referred to you?”

“Would I could doubt it!” replied I, shaking my head mournfully.

“Umph!--Well, I dare say--she's only like all the rest of her sex: it's

a pity the world can't go on without any women at all,--what is her

name?--a jilt!”

“Her name,” replied I, shuddering as he applied the epithet of jilt to

her--for, deserved as I could not but own it was, it yet appeared to me

little short of profanation--“her name is Clara Saville.”

“Umph! eh? Saville!” exclaimed Mr. Frampton. “What was her mother's

name? Umph!”

“I never heard,” replied I. “Her father, Colonel Saville, was knighted

for his gallant conduct in the Peninsula. Her mother, who was an

heiress, died abroad: her guardian, Mr. Vernor--”

“Umph! Vernor, eh! Vernor! Why that's the fellow who wrote to me and

told me--Umph! wait a bit, I shall be back directly. I--eh!--umph! umph!

umph!”

~407~~ And so saying, Mr. Frampton rushed out of the room in a perfect

paroxysm of grunting. It was now my turn to be astonished, and I was so

most thoroughly. What could possibly have caused Mr. Frampton to be

so strangely affected at the mention of Clara's name and that of her

guardian? Had he known Mr. Vernor in former days? Had he been acquainted

with Clara's father or mother? Could he have been attached to her as I

had been to Clara, and like me, too, have become the dupe of a heartless

jilt? A jilt--how I hated the word! how the blood boiled within me when

that old man applied it to her! And yet it was the truth. But oh! the

heart-spasm that darts through our breast when we hear some careless

tongue proclaim, in plain intelligible language, the fault of one we

love--a fault which, even at the moment when we may be suffering from

it most deeply, we have striven sedulously to hide from others, and

scarcely acknowledged definitely to ourselves. In vague musings, such

as these, did I pass away the time till Mr. Frampton returned. As

he approached, the traces of strong emotion were visible on his

countenance; and when he spoke his voice sounded hoarse and broken.

“The ways of God are indeed inscrutable,” he said. “Information, which

for years I have vainly sought, and would gladly have given half my

wealth to obtain, has come to me when I least expected it; and, in place

of joy, has brought me deepest sorrow. Frank, my poor boy! she who has

thus wrung thy true heart by her cruel falsehood is my niece, the orphan

child of my sister!”

In reply to my exclamations of surprise, he proceeded to inform me

that his father, a man of considerable property in one of the midland

counties, had had three children: himself, an elder brother, and a

sister some years his junior, whose birth deprived him of a mother's

love. His brother tyrannised over him; and on the occasion of his

father's second marriage, he was sent to school, where he was again

unfortunate enough to meet with harsh treatment, against which his

high spirit rebelled; and having no better counsellors than his own

inexperience and impetuosity, he determined to run away and go to sea.

A succession of accidents conspired to prevent his return to his native

country, until, being taken as clerk in a merchant's counting-house at

Calcutta, he was eventually admitted into partnership, and acquired a

large fortune. As he advanced beyond middle life, he felt a strong wish

to return to England, seek out his family, and revisit the scenes of his

boyhood; but on carrying ~408~~ his project into execution, he learned

that his father and brother had both paid the debt of nature, while

his sister, the only one of his relatives towards whom he had ever

entertained much affection, had married a Colonel Saville; and having

accompanied her husband to Spain, had died there without leaving any

offspring. The last piece of information he had acquired from a

Mr. Vernor, to whom he had been recommended to apply. His surprise,

therefore, when he heard of the existence of Clara, may easily be

imagined. A long conversation ensued between us, with the consequences

of which the reader will be better acquainted when he shall have read

the following chapter.

CHAPTER L -- A RAY OF SUNSHINE

“When you shall please to play the thief for a wife, I'll

watch as long for _you_.”

--_Shakspeare_.

“Hold! give me a pen and ink! Sirrah, can you with a grace

deliver a supplication?

--_Titus Andronicus_.

THE result of my conversation with Mr. Frampton was, that I agreed to

ride over on the following day to the little inn at Barstone, see old

Peter Barnett, hear his report, and learn from him further particulars

concerning Clara Saville's parentage, in order to establish beyond the

possibility of doubt the fact of her relationship to Mr. Frampton, who,

in the event of his expectations proving well-founded, was determined

to assert his claim, supersede Mr.Vernor in his office of guardian, and

endeavour, by every means in his power, to prevent his niece's marriage

either with Wilford or Cumberland. The only stipulation I made was, that

when I had obtained the requisite information, he should take the

affair entirely into his own hands, and, above all, promise me never to

attempt, directly or indirectly, to bring about a reconciliation between

Clara and myself. Not that I bore her any ill-will for the misery she

had caused me. On the contrary, my feeling towards her had been from

the very first one of grief rather than of anger. But a girl who could

possibly have acted as Clara had done, was not one whom I ever should

wish to make my wife. I could not marry a woman I despised.

After Mr. Frampton had left me, I sat pondering on the singular train

of circumstances (chances, as we unwisely, if not sinfully, term them)

which occur in a ~409~~ man's life--how events which change the whole

current of our existence appear to hang upon the merest trifles--the

strange, mysterious influence we exercise over the destinies of each

other--how by a word, a look, we may heal an aching heart or--break it.

It is, I think, in a poem of Faber's that the following lines occur--(I

quote from memory, and therefore, perhaps, incorrectly):--

“Perchance our very souls

Are in each other's hands.”

Life is, indeed, a fearful and wonderful thing--doubly fearful when we

reflect, that every moment we expend for good or evil is a seed sown to

blossom in eternity. As I thought on these things, something which Mr.

Frampton had said, and which at the time I let pass without reflection,

recurred to my mind. He had asked me whether I was certain that the

words I heard Clara address to Wilford referred to me. Up to this moment

I had felt perfectly sure they did; but after all, was it so certain?

might they not equally well apply to Cumberland? was there a chance, was

it even possible, that I had misunderstood her? Oh, that I dare hope it!

gladly would I seek her pardon for the injustice I had done her--gladly

would I undergo any probation she might appoint, to atone for my want of

faith in her constancy, even if it entailed years of banishment from her

presence, the most severe punishment my imagination could devise; but

then the facts, the stubborn, immovable facts, my letters received and

unanswered--the confidential footing she was on with Wilford--the--But

why madden myself by recapitulating the hateful catalogue? I had learned

the worst, and would not suffer myself to be again beguiled by the mere

phantom of a hope. And yet, so thoroughly inconsistent are we, that my

heart felt lightened of half its burden; and when the pleasure-seekers

returned from their expedition, I was congratulated by the whole party

upon the beneficial effects produced on my headache by perfect rest and

quiet. Lawless and Coleman made their appearance some half-hour after

the others, and just as Mr. Frampton had promulgated the cheering

opinion that they would be brought home on shutters, minus their brains,

if they ever possessed any. It seemed the chestnuts having at starting

relieved their minds by the little _ballet d'action_ which had excited

Mr. Frampton's terrors, did their work in so fascinating a manner, that

Lawless, not being satisfied with Shrimp's declaration that “they

~410~~ was the stunnin'est 'orses as hever he'd sot hyes on,” determined

(wishing to display their perfections to a higher audience) that one of

the party should accompany him on his return; whereupon Freddy Coleman

had been by common consent selected, much against his will. However,

“the victim,” as he termed himself, escaped without anything very

tremendous happening to him, the chestnuts (with the slight exception of

running away across a common, rushing through a flock of geese, thereby

bringing a premature Michaelmas on certain unfortunate individuals

of the party in a very reckless and unceremonious manner, and dashing

within a few inches of a gravel-pit, in a way which was more exciting

than agreeable) having conducted themselves (or more properly speaking,

allowed themselves to be conducted) as well-bred horses ought to do.

When the party separated to prepare for dinner, I called Fanny on one

side, and gave her Sir. Frampton's letter: on opening it a banker's

order for three thousand pounds dropped out of it--a new instance of my

kind friend's liberality, which really distressed more than it gratified

me.

During the course of the evening Harry Oaklands expressed so much

anxiety about my ill looks, appearing almost hurt at my reserve, that I

could hold out no longer, but was forced to take him into my confidence.

“My poor Frank!” exclaimed he, wringing my hand warmly, as I finished

the recital, “to think that you should have been suffering all this

sorrow and anxiety, while I, selfishly engrossed by my own feelings, had

not an idea of it; but you ought to have told me sooner.”

“Perhaps I should; but it has been, from the very beginning, such a

strange, melancholy affair, so unlikely ever to turn out happily, that I

have felt a strong repugnance to speak of it to any one; and even now I

must beg you not to mention it to Fanny, at all events till my last act

in the business is performed, and Mr. Frampton takes the matter into his

own hands.”

“After all,” rejoined Oaklands, “I feel there must be some mistake; she

never can be false to you--never love that villain Wilford. Oh, Frank!

how can you bear to doubt her?”

“It is indeed misery to do so,” replied I, sighing deeply; “and yet,

when one's reason is convinced, it is weakness to give way to the

suggestions of feeling.”

“If Fanny were to prove false to me, I should lie down and die,”

exclaimed Oaklands vehemently.

“You might wish to do so,” replied I; “but grief does ~411~~ not always

kill; if it did, in many cases it would lose half its bitterness.”

A look was his only answer, and we parted for the night.

Daylight the next morning found me again in the saddle, and I reached

the little inn by eight o'clock. On my arrival, I despatched a messenger

to old Peter Barnett, telling him I wished to see him, and then,

determining that I would not allow myself to hope, only again to be

disappointed, I rang for breakfast, and set resolutely to work to

demolish it; in which I succeeded very respectably, merely stopping

to walk round the room and look out of the window between every second

mouthful. At length my envoy returned, with a message to the effect that

Mr. Barnett would come down in the course of the morning, but that I was

by no means to go away without seeing him, and that he hoped I would be

careful not to show myself, as the enemy were out in great force, and

all the sentries had been doubled.

“What does he mean by that?” inquired I of the boy who delivered the

message--an intelligent little urchin, who was evidently well up in the

whole affair, and appeared highly delighted at the trust reposed in him,

to say nothing of the harvest of sixpences his various missions produced

him.

“Vy, sir, he means that the gamekeeper has had two extra assistants

allowed him since you vos there the other day, sir, and they has strict

orders to take hup anybody as they finds in the park, sir.”

“They need not alarm themselves,” replied I; “I shall not intrude upon

their domain again in a hurry. Now look out, and let me know when Peter

Barnett is coming.”

So saying, I gave him the wished-for sixpence, and with a grin of

satisfaction he departed.

With leaden feet the hours crawled along, and still old Peter Barnett

did not make his appearance; when, about twelve o'clock, a horseman

passed by, followed by a groom. As he rode at a very quiet pace, his

face was easily recognised, and I saw at a glance it was Mr. Vernor.

Fortunately he never looked towards the window at which I was standing,

or he must have seen me. Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed, when old

Peter arrived, breathless from the speed at which he had come; his

grotesque but expressive features gleaming with delight and sagacity,

while his merry little eyes danced and twinkled as if they would jump

out of their sockets. Reassured, in spite of myself, by his manner, I

exclaimed, as I closed the parlour ~412~~ door behind him, “Well, Peter;

speak out, man--what is it?”

“Oh! my breath!” was the reply, “running don't suit old legs like it

does young uns. I say, sir, did ye see _him_ go by?”

“I saw Mr. Vernor pass a few minutes since,” replied I.

“Ah! that's what I've been a-waiting for; we're safe from him for the

next four hours: he didn't see you, did he?”

“No,” returned I, “he was fortunately looking another way.”

“Well, it's all right then, everything's all right; oh! lor, I'm so

happy.”

“It's more than I am,” replied I angrily; for feeling convinced that

nothing could have occurred materially to affect the position in which

Clara and I stood towards each other, the old man's joy grated harshly

on my gloomy state of mind, and I began to attribute his excessive

hilarity to the influence of the ale-tap. “You will drive me frantic

with your ridiculous and unseasonable mirth. If you have anything to

communicate likely to relieve my sorrow and anxiety, in the name of

common sense speak out, man.”

“I beg your pardon, sir; I was so happy myself, I was forgetting you:

I've got so much to tell you, I don't know where to begin rightly; but,

however, here goes--to the right-about face! March!” He then proceeded

to give me, with much circumlocution, which I will mercifully spare the

reader, the following account. After he had left me at the conclusion of

our last interview, feeling, as he said, “more wretcheder” than he had

ever done before, in going through the park, he observed two persons, a

man and a woman, in close conversation; on his approach they separated,

but not until he had been able to recognise Wilford, and one of the

female servants, Clara's personal attendant. “This,” as he continued,

“set him a-thinking,” and the result of his cogitations occasioned the

mysterious hint thrown out to me in his note. On receiving my letter for

Clara, he found an opportunity of delivering it in person, inquiring,

when he did so, both when she had last heard from, and written to, me;

at the same time informing her that he had a very particular reason

for asking. He then learned what he had more than suspected from the

interview he had witnessed in the park, namely, that since Wilford had

been in the house, she had not only never received one of my letters,

but had written to me more than once to ascertain the ~413~~ cause of

such an unaccountable silence. These letters she had, as usual, given to

her maid to convey to Peter Barnett; and the girl, cajoled and bribed by

Wilford, had evidently given them to him instead. This induced Peter,

as he expressed it, “to open his heart to his young mistress,” and with

deep contrition he confessed to her the suspicions he had entertained

of her fickleness, how he had communicated them to me, and how

circumstances had forced me to believe them. Clara, naturally much

distressed and annoyed by this information, blamed him for not having

spoken to her sooner, assured him that he had wronged her deeply in

imagining such things, and desired him somewhat haughtily to lose no

time in undeceiving Mr. Fairlegh. He then inquired whether she wished

to send any answer to my note; on which she read it through with a

quivering lip, and replied, “Yes, tell him, that as he finds it so

easy to believe evil of me, I agree with him that it will be better our

acquaintance should terminate”. She then motioned to him to leave the

room, and he was obliged to obey; but, glancing at her as he closed the

door, he perceived that she had covered her face with her hands, and was

weeping bitterly. He next set to work with the waiting-maid, and by

dint of threats of taking her before Mr. Vernor, and promises, if she

confessed all, that he would intercede with Clara for her forgiveness,

he elicited from her the whole truth--namely, that by the joint

influence of bribes and soft speeches, Wilford had induced her to hand

over to him her mistress's letters, and that he had detained every one

either to or from me. “Well, sir,” continued he, “that was not such a

bad day's work altogether, but I ain't been idle since. Mr. Fleming, or

Wilford, as you says he is, started off the first thing this morning for

London, and ain't cumming back till the day after to-morrow; so, thinks

I, we'll turn the tables upon you, my boy, for once--that ere letter

dodge was very near a-ruining us, I wonder how it will hact the t'other

way: and a lucky thought it was too, Muster Fairlegh, for sich a scheme

of willainy as I've descivered all dewised against poor dear Miss

Clara--”

“A scheme against Miss Saville!” exclaimed I; “what do you mean?”

“I'm a-going to tell you, sir, only you're in such a hurry, you puts me

out. After the thought as I was a-mentioning cum into my head, off I w

~414~~ with you, ain't ye?' 'Let's look, my man,' says I, peeping

over him as he sorted the letters. Presently he cum to one as seemed to

puzzle him. 'W. I. L.,' says he, 'W.I. L. F.--' 'Oh!' says I, 'that's

the gent as is a-stay-ing at our 'ouse, give us 'old on it.' 'And here's

one for Mr. Wernor, and that's all,' says he, and he guv me the letter

and walked off. 'That's right, Peter,' says I to myself, 'we shall know

a little more of the henemy's movements, now we've captivated some of

their private despatches, by a _coo-dur-mang_, as the Mounseers call it;

'so I locks myself into the pantry, and sits down, and breaks the seal.”

“You opened the letter!” exclaimed I.

“In course I did; how was I to read it if I hadn't? all's fair in love

and war, you know--the blessed Duke of Wellington served Bony so many

a time, I'll be bound; besides, hadn't he opened Miss Clara's, the

blackguard? Well, sir, I read it, and it's lucky as I did; oh! he's a

bad un, he's a deal wickeder than Muster Richard hisself, and that's

saying something--it's from a Captain --”

“Really, Peter, I cannot avail myself of information obtained in such a

manner,” interrupted I.

“Ah! but you must though,” was the reply, “if you want to prevent this

black willain from carrying off Miss Clara, and marrying her, _nolus

bolus_.”

“Carrying off Miss Clara! what do you mean?”

“I was a-going to tell you,” returned old Peter, with a cunning grin,

producing a crumpled letter, “only' you wouldn't listen to me.”

As I (not being prepared with a satisfactory answer) remained silent, he

smoothed the letter with his hand, and read as follows:--

“My dear Sir,--I was unfortunately out of town when your letter arrived,

and it had to be sent after me; but I hope you will get this in time to

prevent your having to come to London., which is unnecessary, as I

have been able to carry out all your arrangements as you would wish. A

carriage, with four horses, will be kept in readiness, so that it can be

brought to any point you may direct at half an hour's notice. I presume

you and I, with Wilson [that's his valet], are sufficient to carry off

the girl--young lady, I mean, even if there be any papa or brother in

the case, who would be the better for a little knocking down; but if you

like more assistance, I can lay my hand on two or three sprightly lads,

who would be very glad to make themselves useful. You are flying at high

game this time. Do you really mean matrimony, or is it to be the ~415~~

old scheme, a mock marriage? I ask, because in the latter case I must

look out for somebody to play parson. Wishing you your usual luck,

“I remain, yours to command,

“Ferdinand Spicer, “_Captain in the Bilboa Fencibles_.”

“Spicer!” I exclaimed, as he concluded; “I knew a Captain Spicer once,

who was a person likely enough to lend himself to a scheme of this

vile nature. Well, Peter, the information is most important, however

questionable the means by which it has been acquired. The matter must

be looked to; but first, I want to learn a few particulars about Miss

Saville's relations on the mother's side.” I then proceeded with a

string of questions furnished me by Mr. Frampton, by the answers to

which I ascertained, beyond a doubt, that Clara was indeed his niece,

the orphan child of his favourite sister. Having established this point

to my own satisfaction, and the unbounded delight of Peter Barnett,

who at length began to entertain a not unreasonable hope that his pet

daydream of kicking Mr. Vernor out of Barstone Priory might, at some

time or other be realised, I said, “Now, Peter, I must somehow contrive

to see your young mistress, and try to obtain her forgiveness; but as

I cannot say I managed the matter over-well the other day, I will put

myself into your hands, to be guided by you entirely”.

“Ah! I thought what was a-coming; well, that is speaking sensible-like

for once; but do you think you could write anything as would persuade

her to meet you? She's precious angry, I'm afraid, with us both, and

small blame to her either; for hit ain't over-pleasant to be suspected

when one's innocent, and she has a high spirit, bless her!--she wouldn't

be her father's own daughter if she hadn't.”

“I can write a few lines to her, and try,” replied I mournfully, for the

old man's words sounded like a death knell to my hopes.

“Come, don't be out of spirits, and down-casted-like, sir,” urged Peter;

“suppose she did make up her mind she'd give you the cold shoulder,

she'd be sure to change it again to-morrow, women is such wersytile

creeturs; besides, she couldn't do it if she wanted to; it would break

her heart, I know. I wonder where she'd find such another sweetheart?”

continued he, _sotto voce_, as he turned to get the writing materials;

“good-looking, high-spirited, uncommon pleasant to talk to, six foot one

~416~~ if he's an inch, and as upright as if I'd had the drilling of him

myself.”

With an eager, yet trembling hand (for I was in such a state of

agitation that I could scarcely write), I snatched a pen, and hastily

scrawled the following words:--

“Clara, will you--can you forgive me? It is of the utmost importance

that I should see you and speak to you without delay, if but for five

minutes; strange and unexpected things have come to light, and it is

necessary for your happiness, nay, even for your very safety, that you

should be made acquainted with them. Clara, dearest Clara, grant me

this boon, if not for my sake, for your own; if you knew the misery, the

agony of mind I have endured for the last two days, I think you would

pity, would pardon me.

“F. F.”

“There,” said I, as I hastily sealed it, “I have done all I can, and if

she will not see me, I shall be ready to go and blow Wilford's brains

out first, and my own afterwards. So, my good Peter, be off at once, for

every moment seems an hour till I learn her decision.”

“Wait a bit, sir,--wait a bit; you haven't heard my plan yet. You can't

set your foot in the park, for there's the keeper and two assistants

on the look out; and if you could, you dare not show your nose in the

house, for there's Muster Richard with his lovely black hyes a-setting

in the liberary, and he's got ears like an 'are, besides two or three of

the servants as would tell him in a minute. No, this is the way I means

to manage--Miss Clara generally rides a-horseback every day, and I rides

behind her; and before I came out, I ordered the horses as usual. So, if

she's willing to come, we'll go out at the back gate by the great oak,

a quarter of a mile farther down this lane, and when we've got out of

sight of the park paling, you've nothing to do but set spurs to your

horse, and join us;--therefore, if you hears nothing to the contrairy,

when I've been gone half an hour, you mount your nag, ride quietly up

the lane, and keep your hyes open.”~417~~

CHAPTER LI -- FREDDY COLEMAN FALLS INTO DIFFICULTIES

“I am he that am so love-shaked,--

I pray you, tell me your remedy.”

--_As You Like It_.

“I am sprighted with a fool, frighted, and angered worse.”

--_Cymbeline_.

OH! that tedious half-hour! I should like to know, merely as a

curious matter of calculation, how many minutes there were in that

half-hour--sixty-five at the very least; the hands of my watch stuck

between the quarter and twenty minutes for full a quarter of an hour,

and as for the old Dutch clock in the bar, that was worn out, completely

good for nothing, I am certain, for I ordered my horse round to the door

above ten minutes too soon by that, and I'm sure I didn't start before

my time,--it would have been folly to do so, you know, because it was

possible old Peter might send at any moment before the expiration of

that half-hour. But at last even it came to an end--and no message had

arrived; so, burning with impatience, I sprang into the saddle, and with

difficulty restraining myself from dashing off at a gallop, I reined in

the mare, and proceeded at a foot's pace up the lane.

After riding about a quarter of a mile, I perceived a small hand-gate

just under a magnificent oak, which I at once recognised as the tree old

Peter had described. Unwilling to attract the notice of the gamekeeper

and his myrmidons by loitering about in the lane, I discovered a gap

in a hedge on the other side the road, and, after glancing round to see

that I was unobserved, I rode at it, and leaped into the opposite field,

where, hidden behind a clump of alders, I could perceive all that passed

in the road. But for a long time nothing did pass, save a picturesque

donkey, whose fore-feet being fastened together by what are called

“hobbles,”{1} advanced by a series of jumps--a mode of progression which

greatly alarmed the sensitive nerves of my mare, causing her to plunge

and pull in a way which gave me some trouble to hold her.

After I had succeeded in quieting her, I dismounted, and, tightening the

saddle-girths, which had become loosened during her struggles, got on

again; still no one came. At length, just as I was beginning to despair,

I heard the

1 Query, whether so called because they oblige the wearer to

_hobble _?

~418~~ sound of horses' feet, and old Peter, mounted on a stout cob,

rode to the wicket-gate, and heldit open, while Clara on a pretty

chestnut pony cantered up, and passed through it.

Oh! how my heart beat, when, reining in her pony, she glanced round for

a moment, as if in search of something, and then, with a slight gesture

of disappointment, struck him lightly with her riding-whip, and bounded

forward. Old Peter seemed still more puzzled, and looked up and down the

road with an air of the most amusing perplexity, before he made up his

mind to follow his mistress. About a hundred yards from this spot, the

lane turned abruptly to the left, skirting a second side of the square

field in which I had taken up my position; by crossing this field,

therefore, I conceived I should cut off a great angle, and regain the

road before they came up.

Setting spurs to my horse then, I rode off at speed, trusting to find

some gate or gap by which I might effect my exit. In this calculation,

however, I was deceived; instead of anything of the sort, my eyes were

greeted by a stiff ox-fence, with a rather unpleasantly high fall of

ground into the lane beyond,--a sort of place well fitted to winnow a

hunting-field, and sift the gentlemen who come out merely to show their

white gloves and buckskins, from the “real sort,” who “mean going,” and

are resolved to see the end of the run. However, in the humour in which

I then was, it would not have been easy to stop me, and holding the

mare well together, I put her steadily at it. Fortunately, she was a

first-rate fencer, and knew her work capitally, as she proved in the

present instance, by rising to the leap, clearing the fence in beautiful

style, and dropping lightly into the lane beyond, without so much as a

stumble, just as Clara and her attendant turned the corner of the road

and came in sight. My sudden appearance frightened Clara's pony to a

degree which justified me in riding up and assisting her to reduce it to

order. Having accomplished this not very difficult task, I waited for a

moment, hoping she would be the first to speak, but finding she remained

silent, I began, “Really, I am most unfortunate; I had no idea you were

near enough for me to startle the pony,--I hope I have not alarmed you”.

[Illustration: page418 The Reconciliation]

“How can you risk your life so madly,” she replied, in a tone of

reproach, “and for no reason, too?”

“Is my safety indeed an object of interest to you?” inquired I; then,

unable to restrain myself any longer, I continued, “Clara, dearest

Clara, have you forgiven me? Indeed, I have been punished sufficiently;

I have been so utterly, so intensely miserable.”

~419~~ “And have I been happy, do you think? Frank, it was cruel of you

to doubt me--you, to whom I have told everything--you, who of all the

world should have been the last to mistrust me; I never could have

doubted you.”

“It was cruel; it was ungenerous in the extreme, I own it--and yet,

believe me, dear Clara, I did not doubt you lightly; proofs, that to my

short-sightedness appeared incontrovertible, were brought against you;

the letters I wrote, entreating you if but by a line or message to

relieve, my anxiety, remaining unanswered--letters which I was assured

you had received--your sudden intimacy with that hateful Wilford--”

“Stay!” she exclaimed, interrupting me, “let me explain that at once; it

is easy to show you how that is to be accounted for--”

“Indeed, Clara, it is unnecessary,” I began.

“If not for your satisfaction, at least for my own, let me explain

how this sudden good understanding with one so lately a stranger to

me arose:” she continued, “Richard Cumberland, on his return, seemed

resolved to throw off all disguise, and determined to make me feel that

I was in his power; his attentions became most intolerable, and all my

endeavours to repulse him appeared but to increase the evil. This went

on till I was obliged to remain in my own room the greater portion of

every day, and actually dreaded the approach of dinner-time, when I knew

I should be forced to endure his society. The arrival of Mr. Fleming,

or Wilford, as you say his real name is, was therefore a great relief to

me. Cumberland, for some reason or other, appears most anxious to keep

on good terms with him--why, I cannot tell, for I am much mistaken if

he does not both hate and fear him. Mr. Wilford, who, whatever his real

character may be, possesses great tact and penetration, and can behave

like a most refined and polished gentleman, appeared to discover by

intuition that Cumberland's attentions were distasteful to me, and

contrived in a thousand different ways to relieve me from them,

always doing so with the most perfect _sang-froid_ and apparent

unconsciousness. Although, from the first moment I saw him, I felt an

instinctive mistrust and fear of him, I could not but feel grateful for

the delicate tact with which he came to my assistance; and as the only

effectual way to distance Richard Cumberland appeared to be conversing

with Mr. Wilford, I can well understand even a more intelligent observer

than my faithful old Peter fancying that I gave him encouragement. I was

~420~~ further induced to admit his society from the fact, that he

never attempted in the slightest degree to take unfair advantage of the

unusual intimacy which circumstances had produced between us. He had

never even alluded to Cumberland's attentions (though he must have been

long aware of them, and of the annoyance they occasioned me) till that

unfortunate morning when the encounter took place between you in the

Park.

“At the breakfast-table that day, some scheme had been proposed

which would have involved my riding alone with Mr. Cumberland; on my

endeavouring to avoid doing so, provoked beyond endurance, he forgot his

usual caution, and made some brutal allusion to the time when his will,

and not my caprice, would be the law, doing so with such coarse violence

that I left the room in tears. Mr. Vernor summoned me shortly afterwards

to walk with him, in order, as I believe, to lecture me; but his purpose

was frustrated by Mr. Wilford's joining us. Just before we met you, my

guardian was accidentally called away, when Mr. Wilford expressed his

indignation at the scene which had taken place at breakfast, and his

surprise that I found it possible to endure such insolence, adding, that

he had ventured to remonstrate with Mr. Cumberland on the subject,

but had been angrily repulsed. I really felt obliged to him for what I

deemed his disinterested kindness; and, in the course of conversation,

allowed him to elicit from me an account of my early engagement to

Richard Cumberland; and the words which you so strangely overheard,

referred, as you may easily believe, to that.”

“Of course they did,” exclaimed I. “What a self-tormenting idiot I

have made of myself! However, I was only rightly served for ever having

doubted your faith; but, dearest Clara, you must be subject no longer

to the insolent attentions of Cumberland, or the sinister designs of

Wilford; and it is at length my happiness to possess the power, as well

as the will, to save you from further molestation; strange things have

come to light.”

I then informed her of the existence of Mr. Frampton, and his

relationship to her; told her of his generous intentions in my behalf,

and how, thanks to these circumstances, her consent was the only thing

wanting to our immediate union. With mingled surprise and pleasure

she listened to my recital; and with downcast eyes and most becoming

blushes, gave ear to my entreaties for pardon, and hopes that she would

not throw any unnecessary delay in the way of our marriage. Before

~421~~ I left her, I had received full forgiveness for my unjust doubts

and suspicions, and was allowed to indulge in a not unfounded hope that

Mr. Frampton's recovery of his niece would only prove the precursor to

my obtaining a wife. It was agreed that, on the following day but

one, Mr. Frampton--who had to go to London to consult with his lawyer

touching the legalities of the affair--should come to Barstone, and,

bearding Mr. Vernor in his den, establish his claim. As Wilford was

not to return till the same day, and as I proposed accompanying Mr.

Frampton, I thought I should be alarming Clara unnecessarily if I were

to inform her of Wilford's designs. I therefore merely cautioned her

against him generally, begging her never to trust herself with him

alone, and adding, that I hoped she would see nothing more of him before

she was placed under the protection of her uncle, of whom I drew--as he

so well deserved at my hands--a most favourable picture, though I

did not attempt to conceal his eccentricities either of manner or

appearance, considering it better she should be prepared for them

beforehand. So we rode on side by side, happy in each other's society,

the bright sunshine, which threw its golden mantle over the gnarled

limbs and wide-spreading branches of the old trees beneath which we

passed, being scarcely brighter or more genial than the joy which shed

its sunlight on our hearts, replacing the dreary shadows of the past

with fair hopes and gladsome prospects for the future; and when we

parted, which was not till we had ridden a circuit of some miles, and

exercise had brought back the rose to Clara's pale cheeks, and joy the

smile to her lip, we did so in the full assurance that, after our

next meeting, man's self-interest and injustice should be powerless to

interfere further with our happiness. Were these bright hopes ever fated

to be realised?

After cautioning old Peter to watch over his young mistress as a mother

over her child, telling him I should return in time to frustrate any

plan Wilford might devise, and begging him, if anything unexpected

should occur, instantly to despatch a messenger to me, I took leave

of Clara with one of those lingering pressures of the hand which tell,

better than words, of full hearts, to which it is indeed grief to

separate; and setting spurs to my horse, I rode back to Heathfield

as different a being from what I was when I left it, as though I had

literally “changed my mind” for that of some other individual.

My first care on reaching the Hall was to relieve Mr. Frampton's

anxiety, and when he learned that his niece ~422~~ was not the jilt he

had deemed her, but quite perfection (for that was what I stated, with

the same quiet certainty of promulgating an incontrovertible fact, with

which I should have declared twice two to be four), his delight knew no

bounds, and the way in which he shook my hands, and slapped me on the

back, and told me, with many grunts, that I should “marry the girl,”

even if he had to thrash old Vernor with his own hand in order to obtain

possession of her for me, was enough to do any one's heart good to

witness. I had no lack of talking to get through myself either;

first Harry Oaklands had to be told the successful issue of the day's

adventure, then Fanny was to be taken into our confidence; and next, the

greatest caution was to be observed, and many deep and politic schemes

concocted, in order to bring my mother to a proper comprehension of

the whole matter without completely overwhelming her--all which cunning

devices were frustrated by Mr. Frampton, who got at her surreptitiously,

and told her the entire affair in a short, sharp and decisive harangue,

which completely upset her for the rest of the evening, and left a

permanent impression on her mind, that somehow or other I had behaved

very ill. Early on the following morning Mr. Frampton went off to

town to consult his lawyer, promising to return in time for dinner, if

possible, but at all events so as to be ready to start on our Barstone

campaign the first thing the next day, that no time might be lost in

freeing Clara from the disagreeables, if not positive dangers, which

surrounded her. As I was crossing the hall after seeing Mr. Frampton

off, Lawless seized me by the arm, and drawing me on one side, began:

“I say, Frank, I want a word with you; there's something gone wrong with

Freddy Coleman. I never saw him so down in the mouth before; there's a

screw loose somewhere, depend upon it.”

“Something wrong with Freddy,” repeated I, “impossible! why I was

laughing with him a quarter of an hour ago; he was making all sorts of

quaint remarks on the chaise that came for Mr. Frampton, and poking fun

at the post-boy. Where is he?”

“Eh? wait a bit, I'll tell you directly; he had a letter brought him

just as Governor Frampton started, and as he cast his eye over it, he

first got as red as a carrot, then he turned as pale as a turnip, and

bolted off into the library like a lamplighter, where he sits looking as

if he had been to the wash, and come back again only half-starched.”

“That's better than if he were 'terribly mangled,' to carry on your

simile,” returned I; “but didn't you ask him what was the matter?”

~423~~ “Eh? no, I've made such a mess of things lately, that I thought

I'd better leave it alone, for that I was safe to put my foot in it one

way or other, so I came and told you instead.”

“Well, we'll see about it,” replied I, turning towards the library;

“perhaps he has received some bad news from home: his father or mother

may be ill.”

On entering the room we perceived Coleman seated in one of the windows,

his head resting on his hand, looking certainly particularly miserable,

and altogether unlike himself. So engrossed was he that he never heard

our approach, and I had crossed the room, and was close to him, before

he perceived me; consequently, the first word I uttered made him

jump violently--an action which elicited from Lawless a _sotto voce_

exclamation of, “Steady there, keep a tight hand on the near rein; well,

that was a shy!”

“Freddy,” began I, “I did not mean to startle you so; but is anything

the matter, old fellow?”

“You've frightened me out of six months' growth,” was the reply;

“matter! what should make you think that?”

“Well, if you must know,” returned Lawless, “I told him I thought there

was a screw loose with you, and I haven't changed my mind about it

yet either. Any unsoundness shown itself at home, eh? I thought your

governor looked rather puffy about the pasterns the last time I saw him,

besides being touched in the wind, and your mother has got a decided

strain of the back sinews.”

“No, they're well enough,” replied Freddy with a faint smile.

“Then you've entered your affections for some maiden stakes, and the

favourite has bolted with a cornet of horse?”

“That's more like it,” returned Coleman, “though you've not quite hit

it yet--but I'll tell you, man, if it's any satisfaction to you to hear

that others are as unlucky as yourself, or worse, for what I know. I'm

not greatly given to the lachrymose and sentimental, in a general way,

but I must confess this morning to a little touch of the heartache.

You see, Frank,” he continued, turning to me, “there's my cousin Lucy

Markham, the little girl with the black eyes--”

“You forget that she was staying with us last week,” interrupted I.

“To be sure she was,” resumed Freddy; “this vile letter has put

everything out of my head--well, she and ~424~~ I--we've known each

other since we were children--in fact, for the last four or five years

she has nearly lived with us, and there's a great deal in habit, and

propinquity, and all that sort of thing. 'Man was not made to live

alone,' and I'm sure woman wasn't either, for they would have nobody to

exercise their tongues upon, and would die from repletion of small-talk,

or a pressure of gossip on the brain, or some such thing; and so a

complication of all these causes led us in our romantic moments

to indulge in visions of a snug little fireside, garnished with

an intelligent household cat, and a bright copper tea-kettle, with

ourselves seated one in each corner, regarding the scene with the

complacent gaze of proprietors; and we were only waiting till my father

should fulfil his promise of taking me into partnership, to broach the

said scheme to the old people, and endeavour to get it realised. But

lately there has been a fat fool coming constantly to our house, who

has chosen to fancy Lucy would make him a good fooless; and although the

dear girl has nearly teased, snubbed, and worried him to the borders of

insanity, he has gone on persevering with asinine obstinacy, till he has

actually dared to pop the question.”

“Well, let her say 'no' as if she meant it,” said Lawless; “women can,

if they like, eh? and then it will all be as right as ninepence. Eh!

don't you see?”

“Easier said than done, Lawless, unfortunately,” replied Coleman; “my

fat rival is the son of an opulent drysalter, and last year he contrived

to get rid of his father.”

“Dry-salted him, perhaps?” suggested Lawless.

“The consequence is,” continued Coleman, not heeding the interruption,

“he is as rich as Croesus; now Lucy hasn't a penny, and all her family

are as poor as rats, so what does he do but go to my father, promises to

settle no end of tin on her, and ends by asking him to manage the matter

for him. Whereupon the governor sends for Lucy, spins her a long yarn

about duty to her family, declares she'll never get a better offer, and

winds up by desiring her to accept the dolt forthwith; and Lucy writes

to me, poor girl! to say she's in a regular fix, and thinks she'd

better die of a broken heart on the spot, unless I can propose any less

distressing but equally efficient alternative.”

“What does your governor say? that she'll never have a better offer?”

asked Lawless.

“Yes,” replied Freddy, “and, in the common acceptation of the term, I'm

afraid it's a melancholy truth.”

“Hum! yes, that'll do,” continued Lawless ~425~~ meditatively. “Freddy,

I've thought of a splendid dodge, by which we may obtain the following

advantages. _Imprimis_, selling the governor no end; _secundis_,

insuring me a jolly lark--and 'pon my word I require a little innocent

recreation to raise my spirits; and, lastly, enabling you to marry your

cousin, and thus end, as the pantomimes always do, with a grand triumph

of virtue and true love over tyranny and oppression! So now, listen to

me!”

CHAPTER LII -- LAWLESS ASTONISHES MR. COLEMAN

“'Now, all your writers do consent that _ipse_ is he; now,

are you not _ipse_, for I am he?' “'Which he, sir?' “'He,

sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you clown,

abandon--which is, in the vulgar, leave the society--which,

in the boorish, is company of this female--which, in the

common, is woman--which together is, abandon the society of

this female; or clown.... I will o'errun thee with policy;

therefore tremble, and depart.'”

--_As You Like, It_.

“AS far as I understand the matter,” said Lawless, nodding sapiently,

“the great obstacle to your happiness is the drysalter, and the chief

object you desire to attain is his total abolition, eh?”

Coleman assenting to these premises, Lawless continued, “Supposing, by

certain crafty dodges, this desirable consummation arrived at, if you

could show your governor that you had four or five hundred pounds a year

of your own to start with, one of his main objections to your union with

this female--young woman would be knocked on the head?”

“My good fellow,” returned Freddy with a slight tone of annoyance, “I'm

as fond of a joke as any man, but when I tell you that I am foolish

enough to take this matter somewhat deeply to heart--that if Lucy is

forced to marry the brute, she'll be wretched for life, and I shall not

be much otherwise--I think you'll choose some other subject for your

mirth.”

“Why, Freddy, old boy, you don't suppose I'm poking fun at you, do you?

Why, I would not do such a thing at any price--no! 'pon my honour, I'm

as serious as a judge, I am indeed; but the best way will be to tell

you my plan at once, and then you'll see the logic of the thing. In

the first place, your governor says that Lucy is to ~426~~ marry the

drysalter, because he's the best offer she's ever likely to have,

doesn't he?”

“Yes, that's right enough, so far,” replied Freddy.

“What's the drysalter worth? whereabouts is the figure?”

“Two thousand a year, they say,” returned Freddy with a sigh.

“And I shall come into nearer five, in a month's time,” returned

Lawless; “got the whip hand of him there, and no mistake.”

“You!” exclaimed Coleman, astonished.

“Eh, yes! I, my own self--the Honourable George Lawless at your service,

age five and twenty--height five feet nine--rides under ten stone--sound

wind and limb--five thousand per annum, clear income and a peerage in

perspective--ain't that better than a drysalter, eh?”

“Why, Lawless, you are gone stark staring mad,” interrupted I; “what on

earth has all that got to do with Freddy and his cousin?”

“Don't stop him,” cried Coleman, “I begin to see what he is aiming at.”

“Eh! of course you do, Freddy, boy,” continued Lawless; “and it's

not such a bad dodge either, is it? Your governor lays down the broad

principle that the highest bidder shall be the purchaser, and on this

ground backs the drysalter; now if I drive over this morning, propose

in due form for your cousin's hand, and outbid the aforesaid drysalting

individual, the governor must either sacrifice his consistency, or

accept my offer.”

“Well, and suppose he does, what good have you done then?” asked I.

“Eh, good?” returned Lawless, “every good to be sure; and first and

foremost knocked over the drysalter--if I'm accepted, he must be

rejected, that's a self-evident fact. Well, once get rid of him, and

it's all plain sailing--I find a hundred reasons for delaying to fulfil

my engagement; in a month's time I come into my property (the jolly old

aunt who left it me tied it up till I was five and twenty--and the old

girl showed her sense too, for ten to one I should have made ducks and

drakes of it when I was young and foolish); very well--I appoint Freddy

agent and receiver of the rents--(the fellow that has it now makes five

hundred a year of it, they tell me); and then suddenly change my mind,

jilt Miss Markham, and if Governor Coleman chooses to cut up rough,

he may bring an action of 'breach of promise,' lay the damages at five

thousand, and so get a nice little round sum to buy ~427~~ the young

woman's wedding clothes when she marries Freddy. That's the way to do

business, isn't it, eh?”

“'Pon my word it's a grand idea,” said Coleman; “how came you ever to

think of it? But, my dear Lawless, are you really in earnest about the

receivership?”

“In earnest? to be sure I am; I always intended it.”

“I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you,” replied Freddy, in a tone of

grateful surprise; “it's the kindest thing in the world; but about the

first part of your plan, I don't know what to say.”

“You never can think of carrying out such a mad scheme,” remonstrated I;

“I thought, of course, you were only in jest.”

“Can you propose anything better, eh?” asked Lawless.

“Why, I don't know,” returned I, musing. “Suppose Freddy were to go and

tell his father of his attachment, and say that the receivership, with

a small share in the business, would enable him to support a wife

comfortably--how would that do?”

“No use,” said Freddy; “as long as that aggravating drysalter, with his

two thousand per annum, is in the field, my father would consider it his

duty to say 'No'.”

“Eh? yes, of course,” rejoined Lawless, “fathers always do consider

their duty to be intensely unpleasant on all such occasions, and it's

a duty they never neglect either--I will say that for them. No! depend

upon it, mine is the only plan.”

“Really, Frank, I don't see what else is to be done,” urged Freddy; “the

danger from the drysalter is great and imminent, remember.”

“Well, you and Lawless can settle it between you: you are a pair of

eccentric geniuses, and know how you like to manage your own affairs

better than a sober-minded man such as I am.”

“I tell you what, Mr. Sober-minded-man, I mean to take you with me on my

expedition; I shall want somebody to pat me on the back--besides, your

proper, well-behaved manner will give an air of respectability to the

affair.”

“Really you must--” began I.

“Really I won't,” retorted Lawless; while Coleman, seizing me by the

arm, drew me on one side.

“Frank, without any joke, I think this freak of Law-less's may enable me

to get rid of my rival--this Mr. Lowe Brown--and I should take it as the

greatest kindness if you would go with him, and keep him in order; of

course I must not be seen at all in the matter myself.”

~428~~ “Well, if you are really in earnest, and want me to go, I'll do

it,” replied I; “though I don't see that I shall be of much use.”

“Shall I write and put Lucy up to it, or not?” rejoined Coleman

meditatively.

“If you take my advice, you will not,” replied I; “in fact, the success

of your scheme depends very much on keeping her in the dark as to

Lawless's not being a _bona fide_ offer. Either her simple woman's mind

would dislike the trickery of the thing altogether, or she would excite

suspicion by falling into the plot too readily. I would merely write her

a cheering note, telling her that you were likely to get an appointment

which would enable you to marry; urging her to be firm in her refusal

of your abomination, Mr. Brown; hinting that a broken heart would be

premature, if not altogether superfluous, and giving her a few general

notions that the affair would end happily, without touching upon Lawless

at all.”

“Perhaps it would be as well,” replied Freddy; “at all events it will

add greatly to the fun of the thing.”

“And let me tell you, that's a consideration by no means to be lost

sight of,” put in Lawless, who had overheard the last remark.

“Depend upon it, it's a man's duty--partly to himself, partly to his

neighbour--never to miss an opportunity of recruiting his exhausted

and care-worn frame, and all that sort of thing, by enjoying a little

innocent recreation: '_nec semper_'--what do ye call it?--'_tendit

Apollo_,' eh?”

“That's quite my view of the case,” said Freddy, whose elastic

spirits were fast recovering their accustomed buoyancy. “I hate the

dolefuls--Care killed a cat.”