Three chapters to one group of people is almost more than it is fair
to allow; and yet the fact of there being three in the group, as well
as a strong predilection on my own part for chronological progression,
must excuse my remaining attached to Henry Hayley and his fair
companions, at least till that day had reached its close. Now the
period of a day's close may be differently estimated, according as a
man is astronomical, Judaical, ecclesiastical, or chronological. Some
will have it that sunset closes the day; some say midnight is the
day's end--which, of course, is a contradiction in terms; some one
hour, some another; but as men have never been agreed upon the subject
since the beginning of the world, and I am decidedly fond of
paradoxes, I prefer midnight, and therefore declare that, when I say
"the close of the day," I mean neither more nor less than twelve
o'clock at night.
With a light and joyful step Henry Hayley took his way through the
park where he had so often played in infancy and boyhood, towards one
of the two lodges, selecting that one, the gates of which opened upon
the road, near a little village, at which he had left the post-chaise
that brought him from London. The moon, just risen and not far from
the full, showed him many an old familiar sight; and the happiness of
his own heart harmonized so well with the pleasant memories of the
past that he almost fancied himself a boy again, and all the terrible
realities of the last ten years nothing but a painful dream. There was
one thing, indeed, which might have proved to him that it was not
so--that there was a wide interval between the past and the present,
and that was the sensation of passion. Yes, there was now passion in
his bosom--passion which had not been there before--passion which even
at the dawn of morning he had not felt.
Let not the reader marvel. There are certainly such things
occasionally as love at first sight, but with him it was very
different. If the eye which runs over these lines saw the sun rise as
often as mine does--I see him open the curtains of the night, I
believe, more frequently than any man in England, more frequently even
than the matutinal labourer of the fields--if any reader, I say, saw
the sun rise as often as I do, he would understand the whole process
of Henry's love in a moment. Not that it had anything to do with
sunrise, or with sunset, or with the rising, southing, and setting of
the moon; but there is a certain comfortable arrangement which every
early riser practises, or should practise, in the winter, and which
perfectly explains Henry Hayley's case. You direct the housemaid to
take a bundle of dry sticks--called in some places a fagot, in other
parts of the country a bavin: in London men use square bits of
deal--and, laying them artistically, with sufficient spaces between
them to allow the air to pass, to place over them a mass or quantity
of paper: such a manuscript as this would do very well, but a
newspaper is better, for a thousand to one it contains more
inflammable materials. Over all you superinduce a thin and pervious
stratum of bituminous coal; and then in the morning, when you rise,
you put a candle (lighted) to the paper, and the whole mass is in a
blaze in a moment. Now, in Henry Hayley's case, Fate had been the
housemaid; the friendships and affections of youth, piled one above
the other, had been the wood nicely laid. The paper might perhaps be
represented by all the longing, eager memories and fancies of and
regarding the fair companion of his youth during the last long ten
years; a warm, earnest, ardent heart was the inflammable coal at the
top; and the sudden sight, and tender interest, and kindly affection
of Maria were the light which kindled the flame in a moment.
He had, in short, met her that night, loving her very much; and he
left her, loving her as much as it is possible for man to love.
He went through the park, then, with the spirit of the past and the
present on either hand, leading him through paths of fairy flowers to
scenes of imaginary happiness. Ah! that quarter of an hour was well
worth the ten years of suffering.
He could hardly make up his mind to pass the gates; but there was no
use in lingering, and he sped on. Such a frugal dinner as he wanted
was easily obtained at the little public-house--for it did not deserve
the name of an inn; and when it was over, he still sat for a time and
thought of Maria--not of Lady Anne--till his watch, which he had laid
on the table, showed him that it was time to depart for his next
visit. Then, indeed, he turned his mind to her whom he was so soon to
see; but still Henry Hayley was a gentleman--not in manners alone, but
in heart and mind--and a gentleman never misunderstands a woman.
There was not one thought in his bosom which could have pained or
offended Lady Anne, if she had seen them all.
"She is a dear, kind, good girl," he said to himself as he walked on,
"and still so like what she was as a child. Happy state!--happy
character!--which changes not with the hard world's experience--which
has no need to change. Mistress of herself, her actions, and her
fortune--armed in honesty of purpose and purity of heart--why should
she bend the finest feelings and the noblest principles to the cold
rules of the world?"
The lodge-gate was soon reached; the grounds were soon passed through;
and when he stood under the portico and stretched out his hand to the
bell, the village clock, clear and musical, struck nine.
"I am to the moment," he thought, "and I am glad of it. I would not
repay such regard with the slightest appearance of neglect."
The servant who opened the door showed no wonder at the sight of a
young and very handsome stranger asking to see Lady Anne at that hour
of the night. All her servants had given up wondering at Lady Arnie
long ago. Giving his name as Colonel Middleton, Henry was at once led
to the drawing-room where she was sitting; and as soon as he had
entered, the door was closed. She at once rose from the book she had
been reading, and advanced to meet him with both her hands stretched
out. He took them affectionately, and to his surprise she raised her
face to his and kissed his check.
"There, Henry!" she said--"now that I have astonished you enough, I
will try and be reasonable; and, first, that you may not think me
anything but very mad, I will tell you something--but first sit down
by me here. Well, I was going to say I have made up my mind that you
are to marry Maria Monkton--I am quite sure of it. There were tears
upon her cheek when I came in, and love enough in your eyes to show me
the whole. Then, again, as I have told Charles Marston, if he asks me
some day when I am in a good humour, I may marry him--it is all
arranged. And now you think me odder, stranger, wilder than ever; and
I believe it is so, for the very great joy of seeing you again, when
every one but myself believed you dead, has carried me quite away."
"And did you not, then, believe me dead, Lady Anne?" asked Henry.
"Do not call me that odious name!" she answered, and then added, "Only
half. I doubted, and so did my poor father till his last hour. Little
reason had we to doubt, it is true; but still, you know, Henry, doubt
is a very clinging plant. Look here!" she continued, raising a light
from the table, and leading the way through chairs and sofas, and
various sorts of furniture, to the other side of the large room: "look
here! Do you know whose picture this is?"
"Mine," answered Henry, with a smile; "what could tempt you to buy
it?"
"I did not buy it," she said: "it was given to me, and I have always
hoped--faintly, fearfully, but still hoped to see that face again--the
face of the brother of my girlhood. I one time thought of giving it to
Maria, for I knew it would be a comfort and a consolation to her, but
I had not the heart; and now, of course, you will have another painted
for her, which will please her better, as it will be more like the
present. That will do well for me: it is the Henry, of my
remembrance."
It must be owned that Henry Hayley was puzzled. He had seen and
observed many women acting in many circumstances; but he had never yet
seen sisterly affection so warmly, so plainly, displayed towards any
one not actually akin to her who felt it. Yet, let there be no
mistake: he did not misunderstand Lady Anne Mellent for an instant. He
did not suppose that she was moved towards him by any feelings but
those which she acknowledged; but he thought, and thought with a sigh,
that those feelings might be misunderstood by others; for the world
rarely, if ever, as he well knew, understands perfect sincerity of
character.
He saw, however, that his love for Maria was not to be concealed from
her, and therefore that there was no use in attempting to hide it, and
he answered--
"You must not suppose, dear lady, that all my hopes and wishes are so
near attainment as to justify me in even dreaming of painted pictures.
There is much to be thought of, much to be considered first. You must
be aware that I am even now in a very dangerous situation; and,
although I need not tell you I am innocent of all that was ever laid
to my charge--though I think I can prove my innocence, and am resolved
to attempt it--yet there is peril even in the attempt."
Lady Anne smiled gaily. "I do indeed know you are innocent," she said,
"and my dear father knew you were innocent. He told me so himself,
upon the bed of death," she added, a grave shade spreading over her
fair face. "He saw Mr. Hayley for some hours, as soon as he had
recovered from a terrible accident he met with, and from his lips he
heard and knew the whole. But now, Henry, sit down and tell me all
your history; for, satisfied that you are here, living and well, I
have hitherto asked you no questions. But still there must be a
strange tale to be told; for even Mr. Hayley himself was fully
convinced of your death till his own last hour. After you have done, I
have something to give you which my father left you, if ever you
should appear again. He gave me other directions also, which I ought
to have acted upon before; but which--whether fortunately or not, I
cannot say--I have not acted upon, in my thoughtless levity, as yet.
They were to make public what I knew of your innocence, and of the
circumstances which cast suspicion upon you, as soon as Mr. Hayley was
dead. But I have been absent from England, roaming about, and since my
return I forgot it all."
"I am glad you have not as yet said anything upon the subject,"
replied Henry, thoughtfully. "Your unsupported testimony of what your
kind and excellent father believed would do little legally to
establish my innocence; and I should wish to make every preparation
before I discover myself. At present I am so far safe. Although I now
see that those who knew me well may recognise me more easily than I
had imagined, no one can prove my identity with Henry Hayley, while I
can establish, by proofs which cannot be controverted, that I am Frank
Middleton, the son of an English gentleman and a Spanish lady. Step by
step, from infancy to manhood, I can show my identity with that
person, without, by one word from my own mouth, violating truth in the
slightest degree. The Spanish consul-general, now in London, would at
any time swear that I am the son of Mrs. Middleton, having seen me
many times at the house of her uncle, recognised as her son by all the
family. This character I shall certainly keep up for some time, till I
have carefully sought for and arranged all the evidence that is yet to
be found regarding that transaction which condemned me to ten years of
exile and disgrace. Nay, listen; for depend upon it such things are
not so easily proved, to the satisfaction of a court of law, as kind
and inexperienced hearts, like yours and dear Maria's, are willing to
believe. Nevertheless, I do think my innocence can be established;
for, in corroboration of a paper which my father gave me,
acknowledging the act as his, and exculpating me, some of the
innkeepers at whose houses I staid, while seeking your father in
Northumberland and in Wales, must still be living, and can show that I
was not, as has been asserted, flying from justice with the money
obtained by forgery, but eagerly following a nobleman of unimpeached
honour, upon business of importance. I think it will not be difficult,
in short, to prove every step of my course, so as to bear out fact
after fact of the plain and simple tale I have to tell. I must also
seek and find my poor aunt as soon as possible; not only for
affection's sake, but because I feel almost certain that sooner or
later my father must have told her the truth. I will therefore beseech
you, dear Lady Anne, to keep my secret with the utmost care for some
weeks to come, and not to betray any recognition of me as Henry
Hayley, by a word, a look, or a sign."
"That I will promise, and faithfully perform, Henry," replied Lady
Anne, with a smile; "but still we have much to talk of--and first,
tell me all your history, and then I will tell mine in return."
The same tale was told by Henry to his present auditor as had been
told to Maria Monkton, though not exactly in the same words. Though
somewhat drier in the details, and though more a relation of mere
facts than of facts and feelings mingled, as it had been to Maria, yet
it took long in telling, and before it was concluded the sound of a
carriage driving up hurried him to the end.
"That is Mrs. Brice, my old governess, who lives with me still," said
Lady Anne. "Henry, there is much more to be said. You must come to me
to-morrow evening, in London; I will contrive to get rid of her there.
Here, perhaps, I could not manage it without paining the good
creature, and awakening her attention too closely to yourself. Come
and dine with me _tête-à-tête_ at seven, and tell Maria not to be
jealous."
Henry promised, and the next moment Mrs. Brice entered the room.
After an introduction to that lady by Lady Anne, delivered in an easy,
commonplace tone, the visiter took his leave, and in half-an-hour
after was on his way back to London.