It is my full and firm belief, that if, on any given day of any given
year, you were, dear reader, to take the accurate history of any five
square miles, not exactly a desert, upon the solid surface of the
earth, and examine with a microscope the acts and deeds, the
circumstances, the accidents, and the fate of the people upon it, you
would find strange romances enough going on to stock a library. Look
into a cottage--what will you find? Perhaps a romance of love and
tenderness struggling with sorrows, difficulties, and penury; perhaps
a broad farce of a quarrelsome wife and a drunken husband; perhaps a
tragedy of sin, crime, and misery. Look into that stately mansion, the
house of a great merchant--what is there? It may be the comedy of
purse-proud affectation; it may be the tale of the tenderest
affections and highest qualities; or it may show that agonizing
struggle which the falling man makes to sustain himself upon the edge
of the precipice at the foot of which he is soon to lie, dashed to
pieces. A romance is but a microscopic view of some half-dozen human
hearts.
The above observations may apparently be wide of the subject; but
still there must be some link of association between them and what is
to follow, as they naturally occurred to my mind when considering how
I could best tell the events which are about to be related. Perhaps it
was that I thought it somewhat strange that, at the very moment when
the conversation took place which has been detailed in the last
chapter, one of the personages therein mentioned was up to the neck,
if I may so express it, in an adventure which, though trifling in
itself, was destined, like many another trifle, to work a great effect
on the destinies of many.
It was a beautiful evening, then, about the twenty-seventh of May. The
spring had been somewhat rainy and boisterous, and the few preceding
days, though clear, had been cold, especially towards the afternoon;
but it would seem that Winter had puffed forth his last blast, for the
summer had got full possession of the day, and held it to the end. The
birds, which had been nearly silent on the twenty-sixth, were now in
full song; the wild-flowers starred the wood-walks and the banks; and
if a cloud came over the blue sky, it was as soft and fleecy as a
lamb's first coat. Under this summer heaven there was a very beautiful
lane--an English country road--running between two banks, on the top
of each of which, keeping parallel with the road, was a paling, above
which again spread the arms of tall trees, holding their broad leafy
fans over the head of the traveller below. By the distance of the
bolls of the old elms and beeches from the fence which guarded them,
it appeared as if there was a good broad walk within the boundary; and
when the banks, at the end of a quarter of a mile, slanted down so as
to bring the paling nearly on a level with the lane, that walk might
be seen, together with a view over the well-rolled gravel, to a green
and shady park dotted with fallow deer. Coming down the lane was a
carrier's cart with the drag on, for there was a somewhat steep
descent, and the road was as smooth as a ball-room floor; and at the
bottom of the hill where the carrier stopped to remove the shoe was a
gentleman, who also paused, and asked him some questions.
In the mean time, somewhat higher up, and within the enclosure, as if
taking an evening walk, was a lady--a young and very beautiful lady,
with some traces of mourning about her apparel, although its general
hue was light. There was a certain harmony between her dress and her
air and expression; for, though the dark hazel eyes and the rich,
glossy brown hair, the warm, healthy cheek, and the arched lips of the
small mouth, had altogether a cheerful look, yet there was a shade of
melancholy thought in Maria Monkton's fair face as she walked through
the scenes where every object that she saw, every step that she took,
was full of memories of early days, and childhood's joys, and friends
departed. They are always melancholy pleasures, those of memory, for
they are the rays of a star that has set.
With her eyes bent down, then, and a slow step, she walked on, took a
little path to the left through the trees till it led her to the more
open part of the park, and then stopped to gaze over the scene. The
broad lands which she saw were all her own; the herds of deer were
hers; that was her mansion, an angle of which peeped over the old
oaks; but yet the sight and the knowledge were not altogether
pleasurable, though it might seem that they ought to have been so.
There was a feeling of loneliness in it all--of the heart's
loneliness. It was quite a woman's sensation. She would rather have
had all she saw another's, and herself too. Yet it was by no means
that craving after marriage which some women feel, for she certainly
had not been without many an opportunity of gratifying it had she been
so inclined; but she wished that all she saw had been a father's
still--a mother's--anybody's but her own, and that she had not been a
solitary being on the earth, with so much wealth, such great
responsibilities, and so little kindred sympathy. Her thoughts were of
her father and her mother, of the companions and friends of her
childhood, and of every one who had shared those happy hours which,
like the flowers of spring, are far more beautiful than the fruits of
summer; and in the scenes where she had known so much happiness, the
very memory of those whom she had loved seemed dearer to her than the
presence of any whom she still knew.
She felt that her mood was not for the wider scene; and she turned
back into the narrower paths, the green soft shades of which suited
better with the humour of the moment. She had gone on for about a
quarter of a mile, still buried in thought, when she heard a step and
looked up. The path wound a good deal in its course, so that, seeing
no one upon it, and being within ten or twelve yards of the lane, she
fancied that the footfall must have been upon the road. The next
instant, however, just at the turn, within a few feet of her, she
beheld a stranger. Maria was not by nature cowardly, nor what is
vulgarly called nervous; she had no bad habit of screaming at trifles
or jumping at the banging of a door; but she certainly did start at
this sudden apparition, and for a moment hesitated whether she should
go on or turn back. An instant's consideration, however, was
sufficient to make her resolve to follow the former course.
"It is ridiculous to be frightened," she thought, remembering that
there were a stile and one or two gates into the lane: "he has
probably come to see the steward or some of the people at the house."
And after a just perceptible pause she walked on, merely glancing her
eye over the stranger's form as she did so. That glance showed her
nothing to be frightened at; for there is certainly something in air
and mien, and general appearance, which, although devils will take
angels' forms at times, has a powerful effect upon that very
unreasonable thing, human reason. Briefly as her eyes were turned
towards the person before her, they had no time to scan him very
accurately; but still she saw at once three very important facts: that
he was very well dressed, that he had the bearing and look of a
gentleman, and that he was a remarkably handsome man, though very
dark.
In the mean time, what was the stranger about? He too had suddenly
paused, and he looked for a moment irresolute. The next instant,
however, he advanced straight towards the beautiful girl before
him, and, raising his hat with a graceful inclination of the head, he
said--
"I fear I am trespassing. May I ask if these are the grounds of the
Earl of Milford?"
All Maria's little tremor was at an end, and she looked up frankly,
replying--
"No; these are mine. Harley Lodge is on the other side of the road;
but----"
And she stopped and hesitated, not knowing whether to tell the
stranger abruptly of Lord Milford's death or not.
"You were going to add something," said the stranger, after having
waited a moment for the conclusion of the sentence.
"I was merely about to ask who it is you wish to see," replied Maria;
"for I fear you will find nobody there but servants----" And she
blushed a little as she spoke.
"It is-strange!" said the gentleman: "a carrier I met just now told me
that on this side was Harley Lodge, and that the opposite property
belonged to Miss Monkton."
"He was mistaken, I assure you," answered Maria, with a smile at the
doubt he seemed to entertain. "I am Miss Monkton. This is Bolton
Park."
"I did not doubt you, of course," said the stranger: "the man was very
stupid so to mislead me. But, to answer your question--it was the earl
I wished to see, and if not himself, Lady Milford or Lady Anne."
Maria's brow grew dark.
"It is long, I imagine," she said, raising her eyes to the stranger's
very handsome face--"it is long, I imagine, since you have seen any of
the family, sir; and many sad changes take place in a few years----"
The stranger started, evidently alarmed.
"The earl----" he asked--"is the earl----"
"I am sorry to pain you," said Maria, much struck by the agitation he
displayed, "but he has been dead some years, and Lady Milford also."
"How they go out!" said the stranger with a deep sigh; "how they go
out!"
"What go out?" asked Maria, in some surprise.
"Hopes!" said the other, in a tone of such deep melancholy that she
felt there must be some very painful feelings awakened by the words
she had spoken; and she gazed at her companion's face attentively, as
he remained with his eyes bent upon the ground. A sudden fit of
trembling seized her; but the next moment he looked up, and their eyes
met.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Monkton," he said: "I will not detain you
longer, if you will merely tell me which is my best way to reach
Harley Lodge, for I must go up to the house, at all events."
"I will show you if you come with me," said Maria in an agitated tone;
"but there is no one there. Lady Anne is in London."
"I should like to go, at all events," said the other, turning to walk
on by her side.
"I suppose you were well acquainted with the late earl," said Maria,
after a pause, "and I am afraid the news I have had to give you is
very painful."
"I knew him well," replied the stranger, "and have met with many acts
of kindness at his hands. I should be most ungrateful were I not
deeply grieved at hearing of his death. But let me speak of a
pleasanter subject, Miss Monkton. In a few days I shall have the
honour of claiming your acquaintance upon a better foundation than at
present--at least, if I am not mistaken," he added hurriedly, "in
supposing you the daughter of the late Sir Edward Monkton. I have a
letter for you from my friend Charles Marston, and one also for Lady
Fleetwood. Am I right?"
"Oh, yes!" replied Maria. "I shall be very happy to hear from my
cousin. It is seldom he does any one the favour of writing. Have you
seen him lately?"
"About six months ago," answered her companion; "but I must explain
the cause of my long delay in delivering his letters. I then intended
to visit England directly, but other affairs intervened which called
me back to Spain, and I only arrived in this country the day before
yesterday."
"Have you resided long in Spain?" asked Maria.
"Very many years," was the reply, "ever since I came from Mexico, when
I was a mere boy."
Maria looked down upon the path, and fell into deep thought, while the
stranger went on to say--
"I have travelled in other countries, it is true; but Spain I look
upon almost as my native land."
She made no answer, but still walked with her eyes bent down; and the
stranger gazed at her unobserved, with evident admiration; and well
indeed he might, for in whatever lands he had rambled he could not
have seen anything more lovely. After a brief pause, however, as she
still remained silent, he said--
"By-the-way, I have Marston's letter in my pocket-book, and may as
well deliver it at once, to prove to you that your kind courtesy, Miss
Monkton, is shown to a gentleman."
"Oh! I do not doubt it in the least," replied Maria, looking up
brightly; and then she added in a very marked tone, "I never doubt--I
never have doubted or suspected in my life."
The stranger looked full into her eyes, and then he in turn fell into
a fit of thought. An instant after, he roused himself with a start,
and taking out his pocket-book produced the letter he had mentioned.
Maria took it, and read merely the address--"Miss Monkton, by the
hands of Colonel Francis Middleton."
"I will read his epistle by-and-by, Colonel Middleton," said Maria,
stumbling a little at the name. "Have you known my cousin Charles
long?"
"Yes," he answered at once, and then, correcting himself, added, "that
is to say, eighteen months or more; but there are some men easily
known, and Marston is so frank and open that we became intimate from a
very early period of our acquaintance."
"I wonder," said Maria, "that he did not tell you the history of your
friends here, which would have spared me the pain of giving you evil
tidings."
There was again something peculiar in her tone; and her companion's
cheek grew somewhat red, showing more distinctly a scar across his
cheek, which was visible, but that was all, while his face retained
its ordinary dark brown hue.
"It did not occur to me to ask him," he replied, with some degree of
embarrassment; and both he and Maria fell into silence again for a few
minutes.
At length Maria asked--
"Do you intend to visit London soon? I return to town to-morrow, and I
am sure Lady Fleetwood will be most happy to see you."
"I go to-night," replied Frank Middleton; and Maria fell into a
reverie once more.
A minute or two after, they reached a little summer-house at the top
of the bank overhanging the fence. Beside it was a small gate in the
park paling, with stone steps descending to the road; and Maria laid
her hand upon the latch, but paused ere she raised it, as if
irresolute. The next moment, however, she opened the gate and pointed
up the road, saying--
"About a hundred yards farther on, you will find a stile which will
lead you by a little path straight to Harley Lodge. You cannot mistake
the way."
Her companion gazed at her earnestly while she spoke, and for a moment
or two after; and then, thanking her for her kindness and apologizing
for his intrusion, in words of course, but with tones that spoke much
more, passed out of the gate, drew it after him, gave her one more
look, as if he would fain have impressed her features on his mind for
ever, and descended the steps.
Maria stood like marble where he had left her, and her cheek had
become like marble too. She trembled, and her eye was strained
eagerly, but sightless, upon the ground. She raised her hand to her
head, as if to still the agitated thoughts within; and then, the next
instant, she stretched out her hand to the gate, and threw it open,
exclaiming, "Henry! Henry!"
The other turned, gazed at her, sprang up the steps, and taking both
her hands in his, replied by the one word, "Maria!"
"Oh, Henry!" sobbed Maria Monkton, overcome by agitation, "I must
speak to you--I must talk to you before--before you act so rashly. For
your own sake--for heaven's sake--think of what you are doing!"
"Angel!" said her companion, gazing at her with deep tenderness; "and
do you still remember me? Do you still take an interest in me--in me,
the outcast, the exile, the friendless, the forlorn--in me, whom you
must, whom you do, believe criminal?"
"No, Henry! no!" exclaimed Maria, a generous glow spreading over her
face. "I do not believe you criminal--I never did--neither did my dear
mother--we knew you better. I am sure you are as innocent as I am."
"Thank God for that!" said Henry Hayley; "there were then some who did
me justice, and they the noblest and the best. Oh, Maria! the most
painful part of a terrible situation has been to think that those whom
I loved and esteemed the most would cast me from their affection, and
look upon me as criminal and dishonoured."
"Oh, no!" cried Maria; "few did, of those who knew you. But I must do
an imprudent thing, Henry, and ask you to go back to the house--for I
am too much agitated to talk to you calmly here; and yet, indeed, I
must reason with you as to what you are going to do."
Henry looked at her with a smile; but he accompanied her without
reply, for it was an invitation that he would not refuse. And yet he
knew that her arguments in regard to his future conduct would be in
vain; for he had made up his mind, and was not one likely to change.
Through the fair scenery amidst which they had so often walked and
played in childhood those two took their way, some object at every
step awakening memories of the hours when they were the happiest; and
more than once Maria looked up to her companion's face and asked, "Do
you remember this?" or, "Do you remember that?" And he ever did
remember right well, and added some incident which showed how clearly
the whole was in his recollection.
Oh! it is very pleasant, when two old and dear friends, long parted,
are reunited, to talk over old times and scenes, and let butterfly
memory flit from flower to flower in the past; but doubly sweet when
the recollections are those of happy childhood, without a stain upon
their white garments which regret might vainly wish to clear away.
Soothing and cheering are such themes; and by the time they reached
the house, Maria felt that she could talk to her companion of almost
anything, without fearing that agitation which had made her seek the
shelter of her own dwelling.
Nevertheless, she thought it better to follow her first plan; and,
though the door was not locked, she rang the bell, and led the way for
her visiter into the library.
The first object which struck his sight was a large picture of Lady
Monkton; and, walking up to it, he gazed at it earnestly for a minute
or two. When he turned round, there was a tear in his fine dark eye,
and, taking Maria's hand, he kissed it, saying--
"She was ever kind to me."
"And to all, Henry," said Maria, her own eyes running over.
"But to me especially," he replied.
"She loved you very much," answered Maria, with a sigh. "But now tell
me," she continued, seating herself, "what you are going to do; for
indeed I feel so terrified at seeing you in this country, that I could
not let you go away without expressing my fears for your safety. At
first I felt so bewildered at finding one living whom I had long
believed dead, that I did not know how to act."
"I do not think any one but you will recognise me," said Henry Hayley.
"How you came to do so I cannot conceive, for your cousin Charles has
associated with me for months without showing the slightest
remembrance of me."
"That is strange!" replied Maria: "he was your schoolfellow and
friend, too."
"It is true, yet I was much more frequently here, or at the lodge,
than with him," said her companion. "We were in different forms at
school; and, moreover, I believe women's eyes are quicker, and their
memory of friends better than men's."
"Would you not have remembered me?" asked Maria, a little unfairly,
perhaps.
"Anywhere--instantly!" replied Henry, eagerly; "but you are very
little changed, comparatively. This gash upon my cheek, those large
whiskers, and this tanned skin, I thought, would have concealed me
fully."
Maria shook her head, and he went on to ask if she had recognised him
directly.
"No," she answered, "but very soon. Your height and figure being so
much changed, together with the other circumstances you have
mentioned, as well as the conviction that you had been long dead,
blinded me at first; but after a few words, you looked at me as you
sometimes used to do when we were boy and girl; and then a sudden
feeling--for I cannot call it anything else--came over me, that it
must be Henry. For a little time I dared not look at you again; but
when I told you of Lord Milford's death, and you stood gazing on the
ground, with the eyelids drooping over the eyes, I became quite sure,
and trembled so that I could hardly support myself."
They were pleasant words to the ear of Henry Hayley--they were indeed
very sweet. To any man, and under almost any circumstances, they might
well be so; for the deep interest of a beautiful and amiable being
like that could surely never be a matter of indifference, and such
emotions as those words betrayed could not exist without a deep
interest. But in Henry they excited very peculiar feelings. In long,
homeless wanderings--in strange turns of fate and struggles with the
world--in sorrows and reverses, in prosperity and distress--he had
still asked himself, "Do those loved so dearly still remember me with
affection? or do they hate and contemn me? or have they forgotten me,
as amongst the dead?" Amongst those he thought of, when he put such
questions to his own heart, certainly Maria Monkton had ever been
prominent.
As I have shown, when he fled from England, though not yet sixteen, he
was much more manly in thought and feeling than most boys of his age.
He had loved Maria almost as a brother might love: he had thought her
the most beautiful as well as the most amiable of creatures, it is
true; and perhaps he might have gone on only loving her with brotherly
love, if he had never been separated from her. When, however, in after
years he had suffered his mind to rest upon the past--when he had
asked himself, "Does Maria remember me still?" and when he had
wondered what she was like then--there had mingled with such thoughts
tenderer and more imaginative feelings. He had thought, "Perhaps, if I
had remained and all gone well, Maria might have become my wife;" and
then the beautiful eyes that he remembered, and the sweet smile, and
the many affectionate looks of the past would return to the sight,
almost as distinct and clear as if her face were still before him. He
knew not--when to save a father he abandoned his country, and
encountered danger, sorrow, and despair--how much he really loved the
girl who now sat beside him again; but he had discovered it
afterwards; and now, how sweet--how very sweet it was to find that her
bosom could thrill with such emotions on his account.
He gazed on her face while she spoke; but when she paused, he bent
down his eyes again, and let the mind plunge into a sea of memories.
Maria suffered him to think for a few minutes, believing that his mind
was busy with the circumstances of his present situation and future
fate.
She had none of that grasping vanity which makes many a woman believe
that each male companion must be thinking only of her. She had never
asked herself one question as to what might have been Henry's feelings
to her, or hers to him, had he remained in England. She had only
thought of him during his long absence as the dear companion of her
childhood and her early youth--as one excellent, amiable, and noble,
who by some strange, mysterious fate, which she did not try to scan,
had been destined to sorrow, undeserved disgrace, and early death. A
whole crowd of tender regrets, it is true, had gathered round his
memory, like flowers showered upon a tomb; and it is likewise true
that the character of Henry Hayley, as she had conceived it and
decorated it with her own fancies, had served her as a touchstone to
try that of other men; but still she never fancied that she had loved
him otherwise than merely as a brother.
She let him think, then, for a short time; but at length she said--
"Well, Henry, what do you intend to do? Is not your presence in this
country dangerous to you? for you must now see that many may recognise
you."
"None but you," said Henry: "no, none but you."
"Oh, yes, indeed!" replied his companion: "there is at least one who
will do so, I am sure. I mean Lady Anne. We have often talked of you
together, and I am quite sure she will at once remember you. Perhaps,
indeed, you intended to tell her, as you were going to her house."
"No, certainly not," answered Henry. "There were only two to whom I
proposed to acknowledge my own name, unless I acknowledged it at once
to all the world--her father and yourself: to her father because, as
the kindest friend I ever had, I intended to ask and follow his advice
as to my conduct; to you, Maria, because I would not have quitted
England again without telling you how I have thought of you, how I
have remembered you, how I have blessed you for all the kindness you
once showed me--for all the happiness you poured upon my happiest
days."
Maria's cheek turned somewhat pale; and after pausing for a moment,
Henry went on, saying--
"Lady Anne Mellent will not remember me, depend upon it."
Maria shook her head.
"You are mistaken," she said: "I am quite sure she will. She has your
portrait, and it is still very like."
"My portrait!" exclaimed Henry Hayley: "impossible, dear Maria! I only
sat for my portrait once, and that was to Saunders--for a miniature
for my poor father."
"She has it, at all events," replied Maria, with something like a
sigh. "Perhaps she bought it at poor Mr. Hayley's sale."
"That is very odd," said Henry. "Under such circumstances, I had
better not call at all. Yet, even if she did recognise me, it could do
no harm. No one now living, dear Maria, knows who I really am but
yourself--no one can prove it but you, to whom I have acknowledged the
fact; and with you," he added, laying his hand gently upon hers, "I
know I am as safe as if the secret still rested in my own breast.
People might suspect--people might feel sure; but yet no one, I
repeat, could prove that I am any but Frank Middleton, an officer in
the service of Spain; and I can prove that I am what I am not, beyond
all possibility of refutation--the son of an English gentleman and a
Spanish lady, brought up in Italy, and serving long in the Spanish
army."
Maria looked bewildered.
"This is very strange," she said; "I do not comprehend it. Every one
here certainly thinks you dead; and indeed I now remember the officer
saw you lying apparently a corpse, and a certificate of your death was
sent over by the consul. I do not wish, Henry, to inquire into
anything that you may wish to conceal; but still----"
"Still, I can have nothing to conceal from you," he answered. "The
strange part of my history is very soon told and explained. First, as
to my innocence, Maria: a few words will clear that up at once;" and
he lowered his voice to a sad tone. "My father forged your uncle's
name--in a moment, I believe--I trust--of madness. He sent me to get
the money for the draft, without my knowing anything of the deed. He
then despatched me on a long journey to seek the means of paying the
sum he had so wrongfully obtained before the draft came due,
furnishing me with several of the notes which had been given him for
the draft, and which were, doubtless, used to prove my guilt. On my
return from the north he told me all, and left me the choice of seeing
him executed as a felon, or flying from the country and bearing the
load of suspicion myself. I hastened on to Ancona; but, having caught
a fever by the way, I was carried, almost insensible, not to the
hospital, but to the Franciscan monastery in the town. There were
several Irish monks in the brotherhood, and one of them nursed me with
the utmost tenderness. I told him all, under a solemn promise of
secresy, and proved to him my innocence. When the officer arrived in
search of me, I was rapidly recovering; but in the same monastery was
the son of a Spanish lady, the wife of a Mr. Middleton, who had
separated from her husband, and who, fearing on her deathbed that her
son would be brought up as a Protestant, had placed him in concealment
with the monks. He had caught the same fever, for it was then raging
in that part of Italy; and on the very night the officer first applied
at the gates, in order to have me delivered up, the poor boy died. The
monks consulted together, and agreed to shelter me against pursuit, in
the hope, I believe, of ultimately converting me. They removed me from
the cell where I had been placed, carried the dead body of the poor
lad thither, and passed it for mine, both upon the officer and the
consul. Thus I escaped pursuit; and in the cemetery at Ancona stands a
little tomb, inscribed with the name of 'Henry Hayley.'"
"Ah! but tell me more, Henry," exclaimed Maria--"what became of you
then?"
"Does it interest you?" he asked, with a sad smile. "Well, then, I
will sketch out all. I remained in that monastery three months
longer--the good monks instructing me diligently in the Roman Catholic
faith."
Maria's countenance fell, but Henry went on:--"At length there came a
letter from the uncle of Mrs. Middleton, in Spain, demanding his
niece's child should be sent to him, with a promise that he would
provide for it. The monks accordingly sent me, with instructions to
personate the poor boy; but I had resolved what to do; for, although
their ideas did not permit them to see any evil in the deceit, which,
they said, would confer much happiness on the uncle, as well as ensure
my own safety, yet I could not make up my mind to benefit by a cheat.
The old man received me most kindly, but was surprised to find how
little Spanish I knew, for I had only learned the mere rudiments in
the convent; and, as he could speak no other tongue, I was obliged to
wait for more than six months ere I could tell him the whole, as I had
resolved to do. During that time he conceived the greatest affection
for me, sent me to a college, treated me as his heir, and lavished
every sort of kindness upon me. It was all terribly painful; but, at
length finding myself sufficiently master of the language to tell my
tale, I took an opportunity when he was alone, brought him every
present he had made me--money, jewels, trinkets, all--and then
informed him of the facts. He was struck, and very much affected, and
for some minutes seemed not to know how to act; but at length he threw
his arms round me and said, 'Dear boy: you shall not suffer for your
honesty. Say not a word of this to any one, and be still to me a
son.'"
"And did you become a Roman Catholic?" asked Maria, somewhat sadly.
Henry gazed at her for a moment with a look which she found difficult
to interpret. There was something almost reproachful in the
expression, and yet something joyful, too. It might perhaps have been
interpreted, "Do you doubt me? and yet your very doubt shows that you
do take a deep interest in my fate."
"No, Maria--no!" he answered; "had I done so, I might have been now
one of the wealthiest men in Spain. Almost the first question asked me
was regarding my faith. You are not perhaps aware that no very strict
religious notions of any kind had prevailed in my poor father's house,
and I had obtained but little religious instruction there. Neither was
my new, my adopted father a bigot; but still he was a Roman Catholic;
and when I told him that I had been brought up as a Protestant, he,
like the good monks, insisted that I should receive instruction in his
own faith. Of course, to that I could not object; but the instruction
was interrupted. He was obliged to go to Mexico, and took me with him;
but I had learned to inquire for myself, and my inquiries left no
doubt. I had at first a difficulty in obtaining books on any side but
one; but at Lima, whither we afterwards went, I found several
Englishmen, from whom I got all that was needful. I took the Bible and
common sense, and I could not be a Papist. South America was at that
time in a state of great confusion, and we returned to Spain when I
was about eighteen years old, or a little more. My adopted father
reached his native land, but with shattered health, and a few months
after he felt that he was dying. At that last solemn moment, he
required me to tell him whether, in sincerity and truth, I could now
embrace and keep the Roman Catholic faith. I answered him sincerely;
and, though grieved, he was not offended. He pointed out to me,
however, that he could not leave the bulk of his fortune to a heretic;
in fact, that his doing so might prove dangerous to myself, by calling
attention to facts, regarding my opinions, which had hitherto passed
unnoticed. He made his will the same night. Great wealth thereby
passed to very distant relations, who had every right to it, and a
more humble, but still an ample, share of his fortune came to me. Why,
he did not explain; but, probably, in order to gain me good repute
amongst the ecclesiastics of his own church, he left several large
sums to be distributed by me to religious establishments in Madrid and
Toledo; and, as I took care to comply with his instructions in a
liberal spirit after his death, no inquiries were made at the time as
to my religious views, nor any observations upon my neglect of the
forms of the Romish religion. I had entered the Spanish army before my
kind friend's death, and ever since have been actively employed, till
political changes and some rumours respecting my creed, which might
have become dangerous, induced me to go to Italy, where my first visit
was to the monks of Ancona. I found that the good brother John, who
had been so kind to me, was dead; but he had left with another of my
countrymen in the monastery the papers necessary to prove my real name
and birth, should it be necessary. I have them safe; but there is no
copy of them, and thus there is no one living but yourself who can
prove that Frank Middleton is Henry Hayley."
"I suppose that my fears proceed from inexperience," said Maria
thoughtfully; "but yet I cannot feel so well assured as you seem to
be, Henry; and, oh! how I wish that you could boldly proclaim and
clearly prove your innocence, and take once more your place amongst us
all, free from even a suspicion!"
"I have had thoughts of attempting it," he replied; "and upon that
very subject it was that I intended to consult the Earl of Milford. My
poor father, before I went, furnished me with a paper in case I should
be captured, which he believed would be sufficient to exculpate me
fully. But I have looked at it often since, and doubt that it would
have the effect. He therein takes the guilt upon himself, and solemnly
declares that I was perfectly ignorant of the whole transaction; but
the paper wants form, and, drawn up at a moment of terrible agitation,
the handwriting has little resemblance to his usual, clear and
business-like hand. Will you be my adviser, Maria, as I cannot obtain
counsel of the earl?"
"Willingly, willingly would I," she replied, "if I had judgment and
knowledge enough to render my advice worth having. But I shall see you
again soon in London, I suppose."
"There we may have no sweet private moments, such as we have here," he
answered, with a voice shaken by some strong emotions. "In the record
of ten long years, I have much, very much, to tell to the only one in
all the world to whom the thoughts, and feelings, and actions--ay, and
fancies, and dreams--of all that period can be told. Oh, Maria! you
can form no idea of what has been the solitude of my heart during
those long, long ten years. I have mingled with the world, I have
taken an active part therein, I have associated with many, had
acquaintances and friends, such as the world gives; but in my own
breast I have been lonely. With all around me there has been no one
link of sweet association, no memory in common, no interchange of
early sympathy. I could never refer to the sweet hours gone by. I
could never talk of those I had loved. It was as if I were a creature
of two existences--one for the world in which I moved--active, eager,
bustling, full of enterprise, and danger, and adventure, but cold,
hard, inanimate; the other for myself alone--still, silent,
motionless, confined to my own bosom, but full of memories and
visions, kindly sympathies, aspirations, hopes, loves--all still
living, but entombed."
Maria was very pale, and her bright eyes were cast down; but over her
cheek, as he ended, a drop like a diamond rolled slowly. She would not
wipe it away; she hoped he did not see it; but he did, and it was hard
to restrain himself from kissing it off that fair cheek.
"Hark!" cried Maria, starting up--"there is a carriage coming. Who can
it be?"
"Compose yourself, dear girl," he answered; "be calm, Maria--be calm!
Remember, I have brought you a letter from your cousin; and, oh,
Maria! remember also that you have given me an hour of the purest
happiness my chequered life has ever known. Let that tranquillize the
sad feelings which the sight of Henry Hayley has awakened."
"Ah! but," she said, holding out her hand to him, "they are not all
sad, Henry."
He pressed his lips upon the hand she gave; and then she hurriedly
opened Charles Marston's letter, and wiped the tear from her cheek.
The next moment the door was opened, and Lady Anne Mellent announced.