Sir Robert Croyland himself did not return to Harbourne House, till
the hands of the clock pointed out to every one that went through the
hall, that it was twenty minutes past the usual dinner hour; and,
though he tried to be as expeditious as he could, he was yet fully ten
minutes longer in dressing than usual. He was nervous; he was
agitated; all the events of that day had shaken and affected him; he
was angry with his servant; and several times he gave the most
contradictory orders. Although for years he had been undergoing a slow
and gradual change, under the painful circumstances in which he had
been placed, and had, from the gay, rash, somewhat noisy and
overbearing country gentleman, dwindled down into the cold, silent,
pompous, and imperative man of family, yet the alteration during that
day had been so great and peculiar that the valet could not help
remarking it, and wondering if his master was ill.
Sir Robert tried to smoothe his look and compose his manner for the
drawing-room, however; and when he entered, he gazed round for Sir
Edward Digby, observing aloud: "Why, I thought soldiers were more
punctual. However, as it happens, to-day I am glad Sir Edward is not
down."
"Down!" cried Mrs. Barbara, who had a grand objection to dinners being
delayed; "why, he is out; but you could expect no better; for
yesterday you were so long that the fish was done to rags; so I
ordered it not to be put in till he made his appearance."
"I told you, my dear aunt, that he said he might not be back before
dinner," replied her niece, "and, therefore, it will be vain to wait
for him. He desired me to say so, papa."
"Oh yes! Zara knows all about it," said Mrs. Barbara, with a shrewd
look; "they were talking together for ten minutes in the library; and
I cannot get her to tell me what it was about."
It is, indeed, conscience that makes cowards of us all; and had the
fair girl's conversation with her new friend been on any other subject
than that to which it related--had it been about love, marriage, arms,
or divinity, she would have found no difficulty in parrying her aunt's
observations, however mal-à-propos they might have been. At present,
however, she was embarrassed by doubts of the propriety of what she
was doing, more especially as she felt sure that her father would be
inquisitive and suspicious, if the tale the maid had told was true.
Acting, however, as she not unfrequently did, in any difficulty, she
met Mrs. Barbara's inuendoes at once, replying, "Indeed I shall not
say anything about it to any one, my dear aunt. I will manage some
matters for myself; and the only thing I shall repeat is Sir Edward's
last dying speech, which was to the effect, that he feared he might be
detained till after our dinner hour, but would be back as soon as ever
he could, and trusted my father would not wait."
"Do you know where he is gone, and why?" asked Sir Robert Croyland, in
a much quieter tone than she expected. But poor Zara was still puzzled
for an answer; and, as her only resource, she replied vaguely,
"Something about some of the smugglers, I believe."
"Then had he any message or intelligence brought him?" inquired Sir
Robert Croyland.
"I do not know--Oh, yes, I believe he had," replied his daughter,
in a hesitating tone and with a cheek that was beginning to grow red.
"He spoke with one of the soldiers at the corner of the road, I
know;--and, oh yes, I saw a man ride up with a letter."
"That was after he was gone," observed Mrs. Barbara; but Sir Robert
paid little attention, and, ringing, ordered dinner to be served.
Could we see into the breasts of others, we should often save
ourselves a great deal of unnecessary anxiety. Zara forgot that
her father was not as well aware that Sir Edward Digby was
Leyton's dearest friend, as she was; but, in truth, all that he
concluded--either from the pertinent remarks of Mrs. Barbara or from
Zara's embarrassment--was, that the young baronet had been making a
little love to his daughter, which, to say sooth, was a consummation
that Sir Robert Croyland was not a little inclined to see.
In about a quarter of an hour more, the dinner was announced; and the
master of the house, his sister, and Zara, sat down together. Hardly
had the fish and soup made any progress, when the quick canter of Sir
Edward Digby's horse put his fair confidante out of her anxiety; and,
in a few minutes after, he appeared himself, and apologized gracefully
to his host, for having been too late. "You must have waited for me, I
fear," he added, "for it is near an hour after the time; but I thought
it absolutely necessary, from some circumstances I heard, to go over
and see my colonel before he returned to Hythe, and then I was
detained."
"Pray, who does command your regiment?" asked Mrs. Barbara. But Sir
Edward Digby was, at that moment, busily engaged in taking his seat by
Zara's side; and he did not hear. The lady repeated the question when
he was seated; but then he replied, "No, I thank you, my dear madam,
no soup to-day--a solid meal always after a hard ride; and I have
galloped till I have almost broken my horse's wind.--By the way, Sir
Robert, I hope you found my bay a pleasant goer. I have only ridden
him twice since I bought him, though he cost two hundred guineas."
"He is well worth the money," replied the Baronet--"a very powerful
animal--bore me like a feather, and I ride a good weight."
"Have your own horses come back?" asked the young officer, with a
laugh.
Sir Robert Croyland answered in the negative, adding, "And that
reminds me I must write to my brother, to let Edith have his carriage
to-morrow, to bring her back; for mine are gone--coach-horses, and
all."
"Edith, to-morrow!" exclaimed Mrs. Barbara, in surprise; "why, I
thought she was going to stay four or five days."
"She is coming back to-morrow, Bab," replied Sir Robert, sharply; and
instantly turned the conversation.
During the rest of the evening, Sir Edward Digby remained very
constantly by fair Zara's side; and, moreover, he paid her most
particular attention, in so marked a manner, that both Sir Robert
Croyland and Mrs. Barbara thought matters were taking their course
very favourably. The father busied himself in writing a letter and one
or two notes, which he pronounced to be of consequence--as, indeed,
they really were--while the aunt, worked diligently and discreetly at
embroidering, not interrupting the conference of her niece and their
guest above ten times in a minute. Sir Edward, indeed, kept himself
within all due and well-defined rules. He never proceeded beyond what
a great master of the art has pronounced to be "making love"--"a
course of small, quiet, attentions, not so pointed as to alarm, nor so
vague as to be misunderstood." Strange to say, Zara was very much
obliged to him for following such a course, as it gave an especially
good pretext for intimacy, for whispered words and quiet conversation,
and even for a little open seeking for each other's society, which
would have called observation, if not inquiry, upon them, had not her
companion's conduct been what it was. She thought fit to attribute it,
in her own mind, entirely to his desire of communicating to her,
without attracting notice, whatever he had learned, that could in any
way affect her sister's fate; and she judged it a marvellous good
device that they should appear for the time as lovers, with full
powers on both parts to withdraw from that position whenever it suited
them. Poor girl! she knew not how far she was entangling herself.
Sir Edward Digby, in the meanwhile, took no alarming advantage of his
situation. The whispered word was almost always of Edith or of Leyton.
He never spoke of Zara herself, or of himself, or of his own feelings;
not a word could denote to her that he was making love, though his
whole demeanour had very much that aspect to those who sat and looked
on. Oh, those who sit and look on, what a world they see! and what a
world they don't see! Ever more than those who play the game, be they
shrewd as they may: ever less than the cards would show, were they
turned up. By fits and snatches, he communicated to his fair
companion, while he was playing with this ball of gold thread, or
winding and unwinding that piece of crimson silk, as much of what had
passed between himself and Sir Henry Leyton, as he thought necessary;
and then he asked her to sing--as her aunt had given him a quiet hint
that her niece did sometimes do such a thing--saying, in a low tone,
while he preferred the request, "Pray, go on with the song, though I
may interrupt you sometimes with questions, not quite relevant to the
subject."
"I understand--I quite understand," answered Zara; but it may be a
question whether that sweet girl really quite understood either
herself or him. It is impossible that any two free hearts, can go on
long, holding such intimate and secret communion, on subjects deeply
interesting to both, without being drawn together by closer bonds,
than perhaps they fancy can ever be established between them--unless
there be something inherently repulsive on one part or the other.
Propinquity is certainly much, in the matter of love; but there are
circumstances, not rarely occurring in human life, which mightily
abridge the process; and such are--difficulties and dangers
experienced together--a common struggle for a common object--but more
than all--mutual and secret communion with, and aid of each other in
things of deep interest. The confidence that is required, the
excitement of imagination, the unity of effort, and of purpose, the
rapid exercise of mind to catch the half-uttered thought, the enforced
candour from want of time, which admits of no disguise or
circumlocution, the very mystery itself--all cast that magic chain
around those so circumstanced, within which they can hardly escape
from the power of love. Nine times out of ten, they never try; and,
however Zara Croyland might feel, she rose willingly enough to sing,
while Sir Edward Digby leaned over her chair, as she sat at the
instrument, which in those days supplied the place of that which is
now absurdly enough termed in England, a piano. Her voice, which was
fine though not very powerful, wavered a little as she began, from
emotions of many kinds. She wished to sing well; but she sang worse
than she might have done; yet quite well enough to please Sir Edward
Digby, though his ear was refined by art, and good by nature.
Nevertheless, though he listened with delight, and felt the music
deeply, he forgot not his purpose, and between each stanza asked some
question, obtaining a brief reply. But I will not so interrupt the
course of an old song, and will give the interrogatory a separate
place:
THE LADY'S SONG.
"Oh! there be many, many griefs,
In this world's sad career,
That shun the day, that fly the gaze,
And never, never meet the ear.
But what is darkest--darkest of them all?
The pang of love betray'd?--
The hopes of youth all fleeting by--
Spring flowers that early, early fade?
But there are griefs--ay, griefs as deep:
The friendship turn'd to hate--
And, deeper still--and deeper still,
Repentance come too late!--too late!
The doubt of those we love; and more
The rayless, dull despair,
When trusted hearts are worthless found,
And all our dreams are air--but air.
Deep in each bosom's secret cell,
The hermit-sorrows lie;
And thence--unheard on earth--they raise
The voice of prayer on high--on high.
Oh! there be many, many griefs,
In this world's sad career,
That shun the day, that fly the gaze,
And, never, never meet the ear."
Thus sang the lady; and one of her hearers, at least, was delighted
with the sweet voice, and the sweet music, and the expression which
she gave to the whole. But though he listened with deep attention,
both to words and tones, as long as her lips moved, yet, when the mere
instrumental part of the music recommenced, which was the case between
every second and third stanza--and the symphonetic parts of every song
were somewhat long in those days--he instantly remembered the object
with which he had first asked her to sing, (little thinking that such
pleasure would be his reward;) and bending down his head, as if he
were paying her some lover-like compliment on her performance, he
asked her quietly, as I have said before, a question or two, closely
connected with the subject on which both their minds were at that
moment principally bent.
Thus, at the first pause, he inquired--"Do you know--did you ever see,
in times long past, a gentleman of the name of Warde--a clergyman--a
good and clever man, but somewhat strange and wild?"
"No," answered Zara, looking down at the keys of the harpsichord; "I
know no one of that name;" and she recommenced the song.
When her voice again ceased, the young officer seemed to have thought
farther; and he asked, in the same low tone, "Did you ever know a
gentleman answering that description--his features must once have been
good--somewhat strongly marked, but fine and of an elevated
expression, with a good deal of wildness in the eye, but a peculiarly
bland and beautiful smile when he is pleased--too remarkable to be
overlooked or forgotten?"
"Can you be speaking of Mr. Osborn?" asked Zara, in return. "I barely
recollect him in former days; but I and Edith met him about ten days
ago; and he remembered and spoke to her."
The song required her attention; and though she would fain have played
the symphony over again, she was afraid her father would remark it,
and went on to sing the last two stanzas. As soon as she had
concluded, however, she said, in a low, quick voice, "He is a very
extraordinary man."
"Can you give me any sign by which I should know him?" asked Digby.
"He has now got a number of blue lines traced on his face," answered
Zara; "he went abroad to preach to the savages, I have heard. He is a
good man, but very eccentric."
At the same moment the voice of her father was raised, saying, "I
wish, my dear, you would not sing such melancholy things as that.
Cannot you find something gayer? I do not like young ladies singing
such dull ditties, only fit for sentimental misses of the true French
school."
What was the true French school of his day, I cannot tell. Certainly,
it must have been very different from the present.
"Perhaps Sir Edward will sing something more cheerful himself?"
answered Zara.
"Oh, I am a very bad musician," replied the young officer; "I cannot
even accompany myself. If you will, and have any of the few things I
know, I shall be very happy.--In everything, one can but try," he
added, in a low voice, "still hoping for the best."
Zara looked over her collection of music with him; and at last she
opened one song which was somewhat popular in those times, though it
has long fallen into well-merited oblivion. "Can you venture to sing
that?" she asked, pointing to the words rather than the music; "it is
quite a soldier's song."
Sir Edward Digby read the first line; and thinking he observed a
double meaning in her question, he answered, "Oh, yes, that I will, if
you will consent to accompany me."
Zara smiled, and sat down to the instrument again; and the reader must
judge from the song itself whether the young officer's conjecture that
her words had an enigmatical sense was just or not.
THE OFFICER'S SONG.
"A star is still beaming
Beyond the grey cloud;
Its light rays are streaming,
With nothing to shroud;
And the star shall be there
When the clouds pass away;
Its lustre unchanging,
Immortal its ray.
"'Tis the guide of the true heart,
In field, or on sea;
'Tis the hope of the slave,
And the trust of the free;
The light of the lover,
Whatever assail;
The strength of the honest,
That never can fail.
"Waft, waft, thou light wind,
From the peace-giving ray,
The vapours of sorrow,
That over it stray;
And let it pour forth,
All unshrouded and bright,
That those who now mourn,
May rejoice in its light."
"God grant it!" murmured the voice of Sir Robert Croyland. Zara said,
"Amen," in her heart; and in a minute or two after, her father rose,
and left the room.
During the rest of the evening, nothing very important occurred in
Harbourne House. Mrs. Barbara played her usual part, and would
contribute to Sir Edward Digby's amusement in a most uncomfortable
manner. The following morning, too, went by without any incident of
importance, till about ten o'clock, when breakfast just being over,
and Zara having been called from the room by her maid, Sir Robert's
butler announced to his master, that the groom had returned from Mr.
Croyland's.
"Where is the note?" demanded his master, eagerly.
"He has not brought one, Sir Robert," replied the servant, "only a
message, sir, to say that Mr. Croyland is very sorry he cannot spare
the horses to-day, as they were out a long way yesterday."
Sir Robert Croyland started up in a state of fury not at all becoming.
He stamped, he even swore. But we have got rid of a great many of the
vices of those times; and swearing was so common at the period I speak
of, that it did not even startle Mrs. Barbara. Her efforts, however,
to soothe her brother, only served to irritate him the more; and next
he swore at her, which did surprise her mightily.
He then fell into a fit of thought, which ended in his saying aloud,
"Yes, that must be the way. It is his business, and so----" But
Sir Robert did not conclude the sentence, retiring to his own
sitting-room, and there writing a letter.
When he had done, he paused and meditated, his mind rambling over many
subjects, though still occupied intensely with only one. "I am a most
unfortunate man," he thought. "Nothing since that wretched day has
ever gone right with me. Even trifles combine to frustrate everything
I attempt. Would I had died many years ago! Poor Edith--poor girl--she
must know more sorrow still, and yet it must be done, or I am
lost!--If that wretched youth had been killed in that affray
yesterday, it would have all been over. Was there no bullet that could
find him?--and yet, perhaps, it might not have had the effect.--No,
no; there would have been some new kind of demand from that greedy,
craving scoundrel.--May there not be such even now? Will he give up
that fatal paper?--He shall--by Heaven, he shall!--But I must send the
letter. Sir Edward Digby will think this all very strange. How
unfortunate, that it should have happened just when he was here. Would
to Heaven I had any one to consult with! But I am lone, lone indeed.
My wife, my sons, my friends,--gone, gone, all gone! It is very sad;"
and after having mused for several minutes more, he rang the bell,
gave the servant who appeared the letter which he had just written,
and directed him to take it over to Mr. Radford's as soon as possible.
Returning to the room which he had previously left--without bestowing
one word upon Mrs. Barbara, whom he passed in the corridor, Sir
Robert Croyland entered into conversation with Sir Edward Digby, and
strove--though with too evident an effort--to appear careless and
unconcerned.
In the meantime, however, we must notice what was passing in the
corridor; for it was of some importance, though, like many other
important things, it was transacted very quietly.
Mrs. Barbara had overheard Sir Robert's directions to the servant; and
she had seen the man--as he went away to get ready the pony, which was
usually sent in the morning to the post--deposit the note he had
received upon an antique piece of furniture--a large marble table,
with great sprawling gilt legs--which stood in the hall, close to the
double doors that led to the offices.
Now, Mrs. Barbara was one of the most benevolent people upon earth:
she literally overflowed with the milk of human kindness; and, if a
few drops of that same milk occasionally spotted the apron of her
morality, which we cannot help acknowledging was sometimes the case,
she thought, as a great many other people do of a great many other
sins, that "there was no great harm in it, if the motive was good."
This was one of those cases and occasions when the milk was beginning
to run over. She had a deep regard for her brother: she would have
sacrificed her right hand for him; and she was quite sure that
something very sad had happened to vex him, or he never would have
thought of swearing _at her_. She would have done, she was ready to
do, anything in the world, to help him; but how could she help him,
without knowing what he was vexed about? It is wonderful how many
lines the devil always has out, for those who are disposed to take a
bait. Something whispered to Mrs. Barbara, as she gazed at the letter,
"The whole story is in there!" Ah, Mrs. Barbara, do not take it up,
and look at the address!--It is dangerous--very dangerous.
But Mrs. Barbara did take it up, and looked at the address--and then
at the two ends. It was folded as a note, unfortunately; and she
thought--"There can be no harm, I'm sure--I won't open it--though I've
seen him open Edith's letters, poor thing!--I shall hear the man pull
back the inner door, and can put it down in a minute. Nobody else can
see me here; and if I could but find out what is vexing him, I might
have some way of helping him; I'm sure I intend well."
All this argumentation in Mrs. Barbara's mind took up the space of
about three seconds; and then the note, pressed between two fingers in
the most approved fashion, was applied as a telescope to her eye, to
get a perspective view of the cause of her brother's irritation. I
must make the reader a party to the transaction, I am afraid, and let
him know the words which Mrs. Barbara read:--
"My dear Radford," the note began--"As misfortune would have it, all
my horses have been taken out of the stable, and have not been brought
back. I fear that they have fallen into other hands than those that
borrowed them; and my brother Zachary has one of his crabbed moods
upon him, and will not lend his carriage to bring Edith back. If your
horses have not gone as well as mine, I should feel particularly
obliged by your sending them down here, to take over my coach to
Zachary's and bring Edith back; for I do not wish her to stay there
any longer, as the marriage is to take place so soon. If you can come
over to-morrow, we can settle whether it is to be at your house or
here--though I should prefer it here, if you have no objection."
There seemed to be a few words more; but it took Mrs. Barbara longer
to decipher the above lines, in the actual position of the note, than
it might have done, had the paper been spread out fair before her; so
that, just as she was moving it a little, to get at the rest, the
sound of the farther of the two doors being thrown open, interrupted
her proceedings; and, laying down the letter quickly, she darted away,
full of the important intelligence which she had acquired.