"YOU STOP MY TONGUE, AND TEACH MY HEART TO SPEAK."
The tamest lover would hardly endure prolonged severance from his
mistress without making some efforts to see her, were it but for the
briefest space; and although Herrick did not intend to steal the heiress
from her father's custody, he was, on the other hand, determined not to
languish in perpetual absence. By fair means or foul he must contrive a
meeting; and he had by this time placed himself on such a friendly
footing with the gardener's wife, Mrs. Chitterley, that he was sure of
allegiance and help from all her family. So, one fair May morning, there
came a pedlar, with his pack of books on his shoulders and a stout oak
sapling in his hand, thick shoes whitened by dust, a shabby suit of
linsey woolsey, and brown worsted stockings--a pedlar of swarthy
complexion, and eyes obscured by green spectacles in heavy copper rims.
The pedlar turned into the lodge at Fairmile before approaching the
house, and conversed for some minutes with Mrs. Chitterley, who was very
much at her ease with him; for scarcely had he spoken three words before
she discovered that this dusty hawker was the London gentleman, Lord
Lavendale's friend, who had been so liberal in his bounties to her and
her children.
"You knew my voice, Mrs. Chitterley; but do you think the good people up
at the house yonder will recognise me?"
"Not unless they hear you talk, sir; I took you for a stranger when you
came in at the door just now. I never dreamt 'twas you."
"And now if I were to change my voice, and speak so?"
He had excelled as a mimic in days gone by, and now he adopted the
manner of an old college chum, whose peculiar utterance he had been wont
to imitate.
"Lord, sir, nobody will ever know you if you talk like that!"
"Then I'll venture it. But I hope to find Mrs. Bosworth in the garden
with her _gouvernante_, and then I need not go to the house at all."
"She almost lives in the garden, sir, this fine weather."
"Then I'll try my luck," said Herrick, shouldering his pack, which he
had brought from no further than Lavendale Manor, where he had put on
his pedlar's clothes and stained his complexion. He tramped along the
avenue, struck off to the right hand before he reached the house, and
made his way by a by-path to a little gate in a holly hedge, by which he
entered the garden. All Squire Bosworth's old family plate was laid up
in safe keeping at his goldsmith's, and the approaches to Fairmile Court
were not over-jealously guarded. Herrick knew his way about the gardens.
He had walked there last summer in the sweet sunset leisure of after
dinner, when he and Lavendale were the Squire's honoured guests, Mr.
Bosworth never suspecting that his lordship's companion could be his
rival. He knew all Irene's favourite nooks and corners, and where to
look for her.
He found her sitting under a cedar which Evelyn of Wootton had planted
with his own hands, an enduring evidence of that accomplished
gentleman's friendship for Squire Bosworth's grandfather. She was not
alone, but, instead of her usual companion and governess, she had Mrs.
Bridget, the nurse, who was sitting on a little wooden stool, knitting a
stocking, while Irene sat on the grass close by, with an open book in
her lap.
Now it happened that, next to Irene herself, Bridget, the nurse, was the
person whom Herrick most ardently desired to see.
"Can I sell you a book, ladies?" he began in his feigned voice, standing
a little way off, and opening his pack. "Here is _Gulliver's Travels_,
the most wonderful book that was ever written, the book all the great
folks in London were mad about last winter; and here is _Robinson
Crusoe_, and _The History of the Plague_, and--"
But Irene had started, to her feet. Disguise his complexion, hide his
eyes, alter his voice as he might, she knew him. She would have known
him anywhere, and under even stranger conditions. The electricity of
true love flashed from his soul to hers.
"Herrick!" she cried, "it is you!"
Mrs. Bridget also rose with a troubled air; but Irene laid a restraining
hand upon her nurse's arm.
"You won't tell anybody, you'll let us talk to each other a little
while?" she pleaded; and then in her most caressing manner, "you can
hear all we say. I have no secrets from you, dear old Bridget."
"I'll warrant Mrs. Bridget would hardly swear so much on her side," said
Herrick, with a lurking significance in his tone. "When people come to
your nurse's age, Irene, they are apt to have a secret or two, be they
ever so honest."
"Nay, I'll vouch for it, my Bridget has no secrets from me," protested
the girl, hanging on her nurse's ample shoulder.
The nurse turned and kissed her darling, but answered not a word.
"And so you knew me at once, Irene; what an eagle eye you have!"
"If you had come as a blackamoor, I should have known you just as
easily," she answered gaily; "and to change your voice too, and speak in
those queer gruff tones, and think to cheat me! What a foolish person
you must be!"
They seated themselves side by side on a rustic bench, while Bridget
resumed her stool and her knitting at a discreet distance.
"What has become of your governess?" asked Herrick.
"She had letters to write to her relations in France--a married sister,
and half a dozen nephews and nieces, who live in the south and whom she
dearly loves, though she has not seen them for ages. So I made her stay
indoors to write her letters, and brought Bridget for my companion. My
father has given strict orders that I am to be looked after, lest you
should find your way to me. But of all people, Bridget is the one I can
trust most confidently. She would cut off her head if she could make me
happy by losing it. And now, tell me everything about yourself, more
even than your dearest letters can tell. Remember how long it is since
we last met."
"Do I ever forget, love? ever cease to count the days and hours that we
are doomed to live apart?"
And then he told her his successes, his dreams and hopes, the
ever-strengthening hope of independence, Sir Robert's favour and
friendship, the world's growing esteem.
"In two years, at most, Irene, I count upon being able to offer you a
home; but it will be a very poor home compared with this, and you will
sacrifice a great fortune if you become my wife."
"I have told you before that I do not value fortune."
"Yes; but shall not I be ungenerous to accept so vast a sacrifice?"
"It will be no sacrifice. I tasted all that wealth can give last winter
in London, and I found no pleasure in fine clothes or fine company,
dances and dinners, except when you were near. I know what the great
world is like, and can renounce it without a sigh. But I should like to
wander with you in that wide beautiful world of mountains, and lakes,
and strange foreign cities, which so few people seem to care about. All
the people I met last winter used to talk as if there were no world
beyond Leicester Fields and St. James's Park--nothing worth living for
but cards and fine company."
"Foolish people, Irene, in whom all natural impulses are stifled by the
close atmosphere of a Court. Yes, we will travel, dearest, when you are
my wife. I will show you some of the loveliest spots on this earth; yet
we will not be mere vagabonds, love; we will not spend our lives in
exile. This little island of ours is worth living in, and worth working
for. We will have our cottage at Chelsea, or our lodgings in London, as
you shall decide; and it shall be your task to fan the flame of ambition
and stimulate your husband to perseverance and earnestness. For the man
who is ambitious and persevering there can be no such thing as failure."
"Let us live in London," said Irene, delighted with a discussion which
seemed to bring their future union nearer. "For in London we need be
seldom parted. I shall hate even the House of Commons if it takes you
from me too often or too long at a time."
"Then we will have a lodging in Spring Gardens, where I can run
backwards and forwards, and spend my life between the senate and my
home."
Childish talk, when union was still so far off; but it was a kind of
talk which made Herrick intensely happy, for it gave him the assurance
of winning his sweetheart for a wife, even though Parson Keith had to
wed them. She who was so willing to fling away fortune for his sake
would not let him languish for ever under her father's ban. The day must
come when she would be ready to forsake that stern father for her
lover's sake. It was for him to make their union easy, by the assurance
of a modest competence.
When they had fully discussed their future dwelling, even to the style
of the furniture and the prospect from the windows, Herrick began to
question Irene about the companion of her infancy, the waif from whom
death had parted her so early.
"I can remember very little," she said. "It is mostly dim, like a dream.
Yet there are hours that I can recall. I have but to close my eyes, and
her face comes back to me, smiling lovingly, so gentle, so sweet. She
must have been fairer than I--I remember a face like alabaster, with
rosebud lips, and hair like pale gold. I have seen just such a face in
pictures of angels. I remember playing with her under yonder cedar. It
was one of our favourite spots. And I remember hide-and-seek in the old
stables the day we both caught the fever. How happy we were that day!
and it is the last I can remember of our play or our happiness. Perhaps
I should remember much more if I had not had that terrible fever; for my
cousins have told me how vividly they can recall their childhood. Mine
seems like a picture half rubbed out, with distinct patches left here
and there upon the canvas."
"Mrs. Bridget must remember your little companion," said Herrick,
glancing at the nurse. "Will you call her here, Rena? I should like to
ask her a few questions."
Irene beckoned, and Bridget came over to the bench.
"I have been talking of the little girl who died, Mrs. Bridget," began
Herrick, with a friendly air. "It has happened to me very curiously
within the last few days to come upon traces of that infant's father,
and of the first year of her life. Now, I know you were very fond of
her, and that you must be interested in anything that relates to her."
Without a moment's warning nurse Bridget began to cry. Rena made her sit
down between them, and dried her tears, and soothed her with sweetest
caresses.
"Why should you be so broken-hearted about her, you poor old dear soul?"
she said; "you were never unkind to her, I am sure."
"No, I was never unkind to her--I have not that upon my conscience,"
sobbed Bridget; "but I have never forgotten her pretty face and her
sweet little ways, and how loving she was to me, dear soul. And to hear
of her suddenly--O sir, what did you discover about the poor man who was
found dead on Flamestead Common?" she asked, recovering herself with an
effort.
"I heard that he was a man of good birth, by name Chumleigh. I heard
some particulars of his youth and his marriage, and I mean to find out
more. Having got so far upon the traces of his history it will hardly be
difficult to learn the rest."
"But what good will it do to any one, sir," asked Bridget, "since the
child has been dead so many years? There is nobody to profit by your
knowledge."
"Who can say as much as that, Mrs. Bridget? Knowledge is power. I should
like to know the history of Mrs. Bosworth's little companion. It pleases
me to think that she was something better than a beggar's brat--a child
of good birth, and, for all I know, entitled on the mother's side to a
large fortune."
Bridget became suddenly alert and interested.
"A fortune did you say, sir?" she exclaimed. "Do you mean that my
darling had a right to a fortune?"
"I have reason to believe the child's mother had at least the
expectation of wealth; but it was contingent upon the caprice of a rich
father: just like your mistress's fortune, which she may lose if she
disobey the Squire."
"They all said he was a gentleman," remarked Bridget musingly. "I have
heard Farmer Bowman talk about him many a time--he was thin and wasted
with hunger, the farmer said; but he had been a handsome young man, and
his clothes were a gentleman's clothes, though they were worn almost to
rags."
"Were there any papers found upon him?"
"Yes, the Squire brought home a parcel of papers; but there was nothing
among them all to show who he was. I have heard my master say as much."
"Well, it will be my business to find out Mr. Chumleigh's relatives, and
from them I may hear all about his marriage. I have seen the woman who
had care of his motherless baby till within a fortnight of the time she
was brought into this house."
"Indeed, sir! That is very strange."
"Strange indeed, Mrs. Bridget; but this world of ours is a much smaller
place than we think."
"The mother was dead then, sir?"
"Yes, the mother died directly after the child's birth."
"And had the woman been good to her, do you think?"
"Fairly good, I take it; but her first nurse, the woman who took her
from her dying mother's breast, was a careless unworthy wretch."
"As how, sir?"
"An accident of which I was told would prove as much."
Bridget was thoughtful, but did not inquire the nature or the history of
this accident. The recollection of her lost charge seemed to be full of
trouble to her.
Herrick said no more about Mr. Chumleigh or his child. He had said all
he intended to say, and had keenly watched the effect of his revelations
upon nurse Bridget. And now it was time for him to leave this paradise,
lest some servant should pass that way and take note of his presence, or
lest Mademoiselle should come in quest of her pupil. Rena had been
glancing uneasily towards the house, momently expecting the apparition
of her _gouvernante_.
"Wilt thou walk with me as far as the old boundary, dearest, where I
have spent so many a happy half-hour?" pleaded Herrick; "Mrs. Bridget
will keep guard while you go."
"It is near dinner-time, but I will venture," answered Rena, "at the
risk of a scolding."
They rambled together under the interlacing boughs, down to the old
trysting-place, and before they parted Herrick urged Rena to meet him
there now and then, were it only for five minutes' talk stolen from her
gaolers.
"I can usually contrive to send you a line by our juvenile friend at the
lodge," he said. "He is a serviceable little fellow, and has a
precocious sympathy with true lovers. You can hardly be so close watched
that you could not steal this way in your rambles."
"My father has given strict orders against my going out alone," said
Irene, "but Ma'amselle is not a jealous guardian, and I might slip away
from her on some pretext or other--though it seems cruel to cheat such a
trustful duenna."
And so they parted, with the understanding that when Herrick was next at
Lavendale Manor they should contrive a meeting in the old spot, endeared
to them by the remembrance of their first chance encounter and many a
subsequent rendezvous. It would not be often that Herrick would have
such an opportunity, for he had his battle of life to fight, and
business would chain him to London and his solitary lodgings at the back
of Russell Street.