Will you hear the letter?
.....
This is the motley-minded gentleman that I have before met in the
forest.--As You Like It.
A morning or two after the conversation with which our last chapter
concluded, Clarence received the following letter from the Duke of
Haverfield:--
Your letter, my dear Linden, would have been answered before, but for an
occurrence which is generally supposed to engross the whole attention of
the persons concerned in it. Let me see,--ay, three,--yes, I have been
exactly three days married! Upon my honour, there is much less in the
event than one would imagine; and the next time it happens I will not
put myself to such amazing trouble and inconvenience about it. But one
buys wisdom only by experience. Now, however, that I have communicated
to you the fact, I expect you, in the first place, to excuse my
negligence for not writing before; for (as I know you are fond of
the literae humaniores, I will give the sentiment the dignity of a
quotation)--
“Un veritable amant ne connoit point d’amis;”
[“A true lover recognizes no friends.”--CORNEILLE.]
and though I have been three days married, I am still a lover! In
the second place, I expect you to be very grateful that, all things
considered, I write to you so soon; it would indeed not be an ordinary
inducement that could make me “put pen to paper” (is not that the true
vulgar, commercial, academical, metaphorical, epistolary style?) so
shortly after the fatal ceremony. So, had I nothing to say but in reply
to your comments on state affairs (hang them!) or in applause of your
Italian friend, of whom I say, as Charles II. said of the honest yeoman,
“I can admire virtue, though I can’t imitate it,” I think it highly
probable that your letter might still remain in a certain box of
tortoise-shell and gold (formerly belonging to the great Richelieu, and
now in my possession), in which I at this instant descry, “with many
a glance of woe and boding dire,” sundry epistles, in manifold
handwritings, all classed under the one fearful denomination,--
“unanswered.”
No, my good Linden, my heart is inditing of a better matter than this.
Listen to me, and then stay at your host’s or order your swiftest steed,
as seems most meet to you.
You said rightly that Miss Trevanion, now her Grace of Haverfield,
was the intimate friend of Lady Flora Ardenne. I have often talked to
her--namely, Eleanor, not Lady Flora--about you, and was renewing the
conversation yesterday, when your letter, accidentally lying before me,
reminded me of you.
Sundry little secrets passed in due conjugal course from her possession
into mine. I find that you have been believed by Lady Flora to have
played the perfidious with La Meronville; that she never knew of your
application to her father! and his reply; that, on the contrary, she
accused you of indifference in going abroad without attempting to obtain
an interview or excuse your supposed infidelity; that her heart is
utterly averse to a union with that odious Lord Boro--bah! I mean Lord
Ulswater; and that--prepare, Linden--she still cherishes your memory,
even through time, change, and fancied desertion, with a tenderness
which--which--deuce take it, I never could write sentiment: but you
understand me; so I will not conclude the phrase. “Nothing in oratory,”
said my cousin D----, who was, entre nous, more honest than eloquent,
“like a break!”--“down! you should have added,” said I.
I now, my dear Linden, leave you to your fate. For my part, though I
own Lord Ulswater is a lord whom ladies in love with the et ceteras of
married pomp might well desire, yet I do think it would be no difficult
matter for you to eclipse him. I cannot, it is true, advise you to run
away with Lady Flora. Gentlemen don’t run away with the daughters of
gentlemen; but, without running away, you may win your betrothed
and Lord Ulswater’s intended. A distinguished member of the House of
Commons, owner of Scarsdale, and representative of the most ancient
branch of the Talbots,--mon Dieu! you might marry a queen dowager, and
decline settlements!
And so, committing thee to the guidance of that winged god, who, if
three days afford any experience, has made thy friend forsake pleasure
only to find happiness, I bid thee, most gentle Linden, farewell. HAVERFIELD.
Upon reading this letter, Clarence felt as a man suddenly transformed.
From an exterior of calm and apathy, at the bottom of which lay one
bitter and corroding recollection, he passed at once into a state of
emotion, wild, agitated, and confused; yet, amidst all, was foremost
a burning and intense hope, which for long years he had not permitted
himself to form.
He descended into the breakfast parlour. Mordaunt, whose hours of
appearing, though not of rising, were much later than Clarence’s, was
not yet down; and our lover had full leisure to form his plans, before
his host made his entree.
“Will you ride to-day?” said Mordaunt; “there are some old ruins in the
neighbourhood well worth the trouble of a visit.”
“I grieve to say,” answered Clarence, “that I must take my leave of you.
I have received intelligence this morning which may greatly influence my
future life, and by which I am obliged to make an excursion to another
part of the country, nearly a day’s journey, on horseback.”
Mordaunt looked at his guest, and conjectured by his heightened colour,
and an embarrassment which he in vain endeavoured to conceal, that the
journey might have some cause for its suddenness and despatch which
the young senator had his peculiar reasons for concealing. Algernon
contented himself, therefore, with expressing his regret at Linden’s
abrupt departure, without incurring the indiscreet hospitality of
pressing a longer sojourn beneath his roof.
Immediately after breakfast, Clarence’s horse was brought to the door,
and Harrison received orders to wait with the carriage at W---- until
his master returned. Not a little surprised, we trow, was the worthy
valet at his master’s sudden attachment to equestrian excursions.
Mordaunt accompanied his visitor through the park, and took leave of him
with a warmth which sensibly touched Clarence, in spite of the absence
and excitement of his thoughts; indeed, the unaffected and simple
character of Linden, joined to his acute, bold, and cultivated mind, had
taken strong hold of Mordaunt’s interest and esteem.
It was a mild autumnal morning, but thick clouds in the rear
prognosticated rain; and the stillness of the wind, the low flight of
the swallows, and the lowing of the cattle, slowly gathering towards
the nearest shelter within their appointed boundaries, confirmed the
inauspicious omen. Clarence had passed the town of W----, and was
entering into a road singularly hilly, when he “was aware,” as the
quaint old writers of former days expressed themselves, of a tall
stranger, mounted on a neat well-trimmed galloway, who had for the
last two minutes been advancing towards a closely parallel line with
Clarence, and had, by sundry glances and hems, denoted a desire of
commencing acquaintance and conversation with his fellow traveller.
At last he summoned courage, and said, with a respectful, though
somewhat free, air, “That is a very fine horse of yours, sir; I have
seldom seen so fast a walker: if all his other paces are equally good,
he must be quite a treasure.”
All men have their vanities. Clarence’s was as much in his horse’s
excellence as his own; and, gratified even with the compliment of a
stranger, he replied to it by joining in the praise, though with a
modest and measured forbearance, which the stranger, if gifted with
penetration, could easily have discerned was more affected than sincere.
“And yet, sir;” resumed Clarence’s new companion, “my little palfrey
might perhaps keep pace with your steed; look, I lay the rein on his
neck, and, you see, he rivals--by heaven, he outwalks--yours.”
Not a little piqued and incensed, Linden also relaxed his rein, and
urged his horse to a quicker step: but the lesser competitor not only
sustained, but increased, his superiority; and it was only by breaking
into a trot that Linden’s impatient and spirited steed could overtake
him. Hitherto Clarence had not honoured his new companion with more than
a rapid and slight glance; but rivalry, even in trifles, begets respect,
and our defeated hero now examined him with a more curious eye.
The stranger was between forty and fifty,--an age in which, generally,
very little of the boy has survived the advance of manhood; yet was
there a hearty and frank exhilaration in the manner and look of the
person we describe which is rarely found beyond the first stage of
youth. His features were comely and clearly cut, and his air and
appearance indicative of a man who might equally have belonged to the
middle or the upper orders. But Clarence’s memory, as well as attention,
was employed in his survey of the stranger; and he recognized, in a
countenance on which time had passed very lightly, an old and ofttimes
recalled acquaintance. However, he did not immediately make himself
known. “I will first see,” thought he, “whether he can remember his
young guest in the bronzed stranger after eight years’ absence.”
“Well,” said Clarence, as he approached the owner of the palfrey, who
was laughing with childish glee at his conquest, “well, you have won,
sir; but the tortoise might beat the hare in walking, and I content
myself with thinking that at a trot or a gallop the result of a race
would have been very different.”
“I am not so sure of that, sir,” said the sturdy stranger, patting the
arched neck of his little favourite: “if you would like to try either, I
should have no objection to venture a trifling wager on the event.”
“You are very good,” said Clarence, with a smile in which urbanity was
a little mingled with contemptuous incredulity; “but I am not now at
leisure to win your money: I have a long day’s journey before me, and
must not tire a faithful servant; yet I do candidly confess that I
think” (and Clarence’s recollection of the person he addressed made him
introduce the quotation) “that my horse
‘Excels a common one
In shape, in courage, colour, pace, and bone.’”
“Eh, sir,” cried our stranger, as his eyes sparkled at the verses: “I
would own that your horse were worth all the horses in the kingdom,
if you brought Will Shakspeare to prove it. And I am also willing to
confess that your steed does fairly merit the splendid praise which
follows the lines you have quoted,--
‘Round hoofed, short jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
Broad breast, full eyes, small head, and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs, and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tale, broad buttock, tender hide.’”
“Come,” said Clarence, “your memory has atoned for your horse’s victory,
and I quite forgive your conquest in return for your compliment; but
suffer me to ask how long you have commenced cavalier. The Arab’s
tent is, if I err not, more a badge of your profession than the Arab’s
steed.”
King Cole (for the stranger was no less a person) looked at his
companion in surprise. “So you know me, then, sir! Well, it is a hard
thing for a man to turn honest, when people have so much readier a
recollection of his sins than his reform.”
“Reform!” quoth Clarence, “am I then to understand that your Majesty has
abdicated your dominions under the greenwood tree?”
“You are,” said Cole, eying his acquaintance inquisitively; “you are.
‘I fear no more the heat of the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
I my worldly task have done,
Home am gone, and ta’en my wages.’”
“I congratulate you,” said Clarence: “but only in part; for I have often
envied your past state, and do not know enough of your present to say
whether I should equally envy that.”
“Why,” answered Cole, “after all, we commit a great error in imagining
that it is the living wood or the dead wall which makes happiness. ‘My
mind to me a kingdom is;’ and it is that which you must envy, if you
honour anything belonging to me with that feeling.”
“The precept is both good and old,” answered Clarence; “yet I think it
was not a very favourite maxim of yours some years ago. I remember a
time when you thought no happiness could exist out of ‘dingle and bosky
dell.’ If not very intrusive on your secrets, may I know how long you
have changed your sentiments and manner of life? The reason of the
change I dare not presume to ask.”
“Certainly,” said the quondam gypsy, musingly, “certainly I have seen
your face before, and even the tone of your voice strikes me as not
wholly unfamiliar: yet I cannot for the life of me guess whom I have the
honour of addressing. However, sir, I have no hesitation in answering
your questions. It was just five years ago, last summer, when I left
the Tents of Kedar. I now reside about a mile hence. It is but a hundred
yards off the high road, and if you would not object to step aside and
suffer a rasher, or aught else, to be ‘the shoeing-horn to draw on a cup
of ale,’ as our plain forefathers were wont wittily to say, why, I shall
be very happy to show you my habitation. You will have a double welcome,
from the circumstance of my having been absent from home for the last
three days.”
Clarence, mindful of his journey, was about to decline the invitation,
when a few heavy drops falling began to fulfil the cloudy promise of the
morning. “Trust,” said Cole, “one who has been for years a watcher of
the signs and menaces of the weather: we shall have a violent shower
immediately. You have now no choice but to accompany me home.”
“Well,” said Clarence, yielding with a good grace, “I am glad of so good
an excuse for intruding on your hospitality.
‘O sky!
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak?’”
“Bravo!” cried the ex-chief, too delighted to find a comrade so well
acquainted with Shakspeare’s sonnets to heed the little injustice
Clarence had done the sky, in accusing it of a treachery its black
clouds had by no means deserved. “Bravo, sir; and now, my palfrey
against your steed,--trot, eh? or gallop?”
“Trot, if it must be so,” said Clarence, superciliously; “but I am a few
paces before you.”
“So much the better,” cried the jovial chief. “Little John’s mettle will
be the more up: on with you, sir; he who breaks into a canter loses;
on!”
And Clarence slightly touching his beautiful steed, the race was begun.
At first his horse, which was a remarkable stepper, as the modern
Messrs. Anderson and Dyson would say, greatly gained the advantage. “To
the right,” cried the ci-devant gypsy, as Linden had nearly passed
a narrow lane which led to the domain of the ex-king. The turn gave
“Little John” an opportunity which he seized to advantage; and, to
Clarence’s indignant surprise, he beheld Cole now close behind, now
beside, and now--now--before! In the heat of the moment he put spurs
rather too sharply to his horse, and the spirited animal immediately
passed his competitor, but--in a canter!
“Victoria!” cried Cole, keeping back his own steed. “Victoria! confess
it!”
“Pshaw,” said Clarence, petulantly.
“Nay, sir, never mind it,” quoth the retired sovereign; “perhaps it was
but a venial transgression of your horse, and on other ground I should
not have beat you.”
It is very easy to be generous when one is quite sure one is the victor.
Clarence felt this, and, muttering out something about the sharp angle
in the road, turned abruptly from all further comment on the subject by
saying, “We are now, I suppose, entering your territory. Does not this
white gate lead to your new (at least new to me) abode?”
“It does,” replied Cole, opening the said gate, and pausing as if to
suffer his guest and rival to look round and admire. The house, in full
view, was of red brick, small and square, faced with stone copings,
and adorned in the centre with a gable roof, on which was a ball of
glittering metal. A flight of stone steps led to the porch, which was of
fair size and stately, considering the proportions of the mansion: over
the door was a stone shield of arms, surmounted by a stag’s head; and
above this heraldic ornament was a window of great breadth, compared to
the other conveniences of a similar nature. On either side of the house
ran a slight iron fence, the protection of sundry plots of gay flowers
and garden shrubs, while two peacocks were seen slowly stalking towards
the enclosure to seek a shelter from the increasing shower. At the back
of the building, thick trees and a rising hill gave a meet defence from
the winds of winter; and, in front, a sloping and small lawn afforded
pasture for few sheep and two pet deer. Towards the end of this lawn
were two large fishponds, shaded by rows of feathered trees. On the
margin of each of these, as if emblematic of ancient customs, was a
common tent; and in the intermediate space was a rustic pleasure-house,
fenced from the encroaching cattle, and half hid by surrounding laurel
and the parasite ivy.
All together there was a quiet and old-fashioned comfort, and even
luxury, about the place, which suited well with the eccentric character
of the abdicated chief; and Clarence, as he gazed around, really felt
that he might perhaps deem the last state of the owner not worse than
the first.
Unmindful of the rain, which now began to pour fast and full, Cole
suffered “Little John’s” rein to fall over his neck, and the spoiled
favourite to pluck the smooth grass beneath, while he pointed out to
Clarence the various beauties of his seat.
“There, sir,” said he, “by those ponds in which, I assure you, old Isaac
might have fished with delight, I pass many a summer’s day. I was
always a lover of the angle, and the farthest pool is the most beautiful
bathing-place imaginable;--as glorious Geoffrey Chaucer says,--
‘The gravel’s gold; the water pure as glass,
The baukes round the well environing;
And softe as velvet the younge grass
That thereupon lustily come springing.’”
“And in that arbour, Lucy--that is, my wife--sits in the summer evenings
with her father and our children; and then--ah! see our pets come to
welcome me,” pointing to the deer, who had advanced within a few yards
of him, but, intimidated by the stranger, would not venture within
reach--“Lucy loved choosing her favourites among animals which had
formerly been wild, and, faith, I loved it too. But you observe the
house, sir: it was built in the reign of Queen Anne; it belonged to
my mother’s family; but my father sold it, and his son five years ago
rebought it. Those arms belonged to my maternal ancestry. Look, look
at the peacocks creeping along: poor pride theirs that can’t stand the
shower! But, egad, that reminds me of the rain. Come, sir, let us make
for our shelter.” And, resuming their progress, a minute more brought
them to the old-fashioned porch. Cole’s ring summoned a man, not decked
in “livery gay,” but, “clad in serving frock,” who took the horses with
a nod, half familiar, half respectful, at his master’s injunctions of
attention and hospitality to the stranger’s beast; and then our old
acquaintance, striking through a small low hall, ushered Clarence into
the chief sitting-room of the mansion.