Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Google Books
https://books.google.com/books?id=32oWAAAAYAAJ
(Harvard University)
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS.
VOL. CVII.
----------
BEAUCHAMP BY G. P. R. JAMES.
IN ONE VOLUME.
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
By the same Author.
MORLEY ERNSTEIN (WITH PORTRAIT) 1 vol.
FOREST DAYS 1 vol.
THE FALSE HEIR 1 vol.
ARABELLA STUART 1 vol.
ROSE D'ALBRET 1 vol.
ARRAH NEIL 1 vol.
AGINCOURT 1 vol.
THE SMUGGLER 1 vol.
THE STEP-MOTHER 2 vols.
HEIDELBERG 1 vol.
THE GIPSY 1 vol.
THE CASTLE OF EHRENSTEIN 1 vol.
DARNLEY 1 vol.
RUSSELL 2 vols.
THE CONVICT 2 vols.
SIR THEODORE BROUGHTON 2 vols.
BEAUCHAMP;
OR,
THE ERROR.
BY
G. P. R. JAMES.
_COPYRIGHT EDITION_.
LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1846.
BEAUCHAMP;
OR,
THE ERROR.
CHAPTER I.
The Attack and the Rescue.
It was in the reign of one of the Georges--it does not matter which,
though perhaps the reader may discover in the course of this history.
After all, what does it signify in what king's reign an event
happened, for although there may be something in giving to any
particular story "a local habitation and a name," yet there is
nothing, strange to say, which gives one--I speak from my own
experience--a greater perception of the delusiveness of every thing on
earth, than the study of, and deep acquaintance with the annals of a
many-lined monarchy. To see how these spoilt children of fortune have
fought and struggled, coveted and endeavoured, obtained or have been
disappointed, hoped, feared, joyed, and passed away--ay, passed, so
that the monumental stone and a few historic lines from friend and
foe, as dry as doubtful, are all that remains of them--it gives us a
sensation that all on earth is a delusion, that history is but the
pages of a dream-book, the truest chronicle, but a record of the
unreal pageants that are gone.
However that may be, it was in the reign of one of the Georges--I wont
be particular as to the date, for Heaven knows I am likely to be
mistaken in the curl of a whig, or the fashion of a sleeve-button, and
then what would the antiquaries say?
It was in the reign of one of the Georges--thank Heaven, there were
four of them, in long and even succession, so that I may do any thing
I like with the coats, waistcoats, and breeches, and have a vast range
through a wilderness of petticoats (hooped and unhooped, tight, loose,
long, short, flowing, tucked up), to say nothing of flounces and
furbelows, besides head-dresses, in endless variety, patches, powder,
and pomatum, fans, gloves, and high-heeled shoes. Heaven and earth
what a scope!--but I am determined to write this work just as it suits
me. I have written enough as it suits the public, and I am very happy
to find that I have suited them, but in this, I hope and trust, both
to please my public and myself too. Thus I wish to secure myself a
clear field, and therefore do declare, in the first instance, that I
will stand upon no unities of time or place, but will indulge in all
the vagaries that I please, will wander hither and thither at my own
discretion, will dwell upon those points that please myself as long as
I can find pleasure therein, and will leap over every unsafe or
disagreeable place with the bound of a kangaroo. That being settled,
and perfectly agreed upon between the reader and myself, we will go on
if you please.
It was in the reign of one of the Georges--I have a great mind to dart
away again, but I wont, for it is well to be compassionate--when a
gentleman of six or seven-and-twenty years of age, rode along a
pleasant country road, somewhere in the west of England. It was
eventide, when the sun, tired with his long race, slowly wends
downward to the place of his repose, looking back with a beaming
glance of satisfaction on the bright things he has seen, and like a
benevolent heart, smiling at the blessings and the benefits he has
left behind him.
The season of the year was one that has served poets and
romance-writers a great deal, and which with very becoming, but
somewhat dishonest gratitude, they have praised ten times more than it
deserves. It was, in short, spring--that season when we are often
enticed to wander forth by a bright sky, as if for the express purpose
of being wet to the skin by a drenching shower, or cut to the heart by
the piercing east wind--that coquettish season that is never for ten
minutes in the same mind, which delights in disappointing
expectations, and in frowning as soon as she has smiled. Let those who
love coquettes sing of spring, for my part, I abhor the whole race of
them. Nevertheless, there is something very engaging in that first
youth of the year. We may be cross with its wild tricks and sportive
mischief, we may be vexed at its whims and caprices as with those of
an untamed boy or girl, but yet there is a grace in its waywardness, a
softness in its blue violet eyes, a brightness in its uncontaminated
smile, a lustre even in the penitential tears, dried up as soon as
shed, that has a charm we cannot, if we would, shake off. Oh yes,
youth and spring speak to every heart of hope, and hope is the magic
of life! Do you not see the glorious promise of great things to be
done in that wild and wayward boy? Do you not see the bright assurance
of warmer and mellower days to come in that chequered April sky?
Youth, and spring, and hope, they are a glad triad, inseparable in
essence, and all aspiring towards the everlasting goal of thought--the
Future.
It was the month of May--now if poets and romance-writers, as we have
before said, have done injustice, or more than justice to spring, as a
whole, never were two poor months so scandalously overpraised as April
and May. The good old Scotch poet declares that in April,
Primroses paint the sweet plain,
And summer returning rejoices the swain,
but rarely, oh, how rarely, do we ever see primroses busy at such
artistical work; and as for summer, if he is returning at all, it is
like a boy going back to school, and lingering sadly by the way. Such,
at least, is the case now-a-days, and if the advice of another old
poet, who tells us,
Stir not a clout,
Till May be out,
would seem to prove that in ancient times, as well as at present, May
was by no means so genial a month, as it has pleased certain
personages to represent it. Nevertheless, we know that every now and
then in May, comes in a warm and summer-like day, bright, and soft,
and beautiful, full of a tempered sunshine, appearing after the cold
days of winter, like joy succeeding sorrow, and entendered by the
memories of the past, such was the sort of day upon which the
traveller we have spoken of rode on upon his way through a very fair
and smiling country. The season had been somewhat early in its
expansion; the weather had been unusually mild in March; frequent and
heavy showers had succeeded in April, and pouring through the veins of
the earth the bountiful libation of the sky, had warmed the bosom of
our common mother to a rich and lovely glow. The trees were all out in
leaf, but yet not sufficiently unclosed to have lost the rich variety
of hues, displayed by the early buds. The colouring would have been
almost that of autumn, so bright and manifold were the tints upon the
wood, had it not been for a certain tenderness of aspect which spoke
of youth and not decay. There was the oak in its red and brown, here
and there mingled with the verdant hue of summer, but beside it waved
the beech, with its long arms robed in the gentlest and the softest
green, the ash pointed its taper fingers in the direction where the
wind was going, and the larch lifted up its graceful spire, fringed
with its grass-like filaments, while its beautiful cones, full of
their coral studs, afforded ornaments, that queens might be proud to
wear. The fields were spangled with a thousand flowers, and every bank
and hedge was jewelled with vegetable stars; not only the pale violet,
and the yellow primrose, but the purple columbine and the white
hawthorn, even the odorous-breathed cowslip, the wild geranium, and a
long list beside, were all spreading their beauty in the evening air,
and glittering with the drops of a shower not long passed by.
Overhead, too, the sky was full of radiance, warm yet soft, deep in
the azure, yet tinted with the evening light, as if the sunbeams were
the threads of a crimson woof woven in with the blue warp of the sky.
But enough of this, it was a very fine evening, of a very fine day, of
a very fine season, and that surely was enough to make any man happy
who had good health, a guinea in his purse, and had not committed
either murder or bigamy. The horseman seemed to feel the influence of
the scene as much as could be expected of any man. When he was in a
green bowery lane, with the wild plants trailing up and down the red
banks, and he could neither look to the right nor to the left, he
whistled snatches of a popular song, when he rose the side of the
hill, and could gaze over the world around, he looked at the green
fields, or the clear stream, or the woody coverts with searching and
yet well satisfied eyes, and murmured to himself, "Capital sport here,
I dare say."
He seemed to be fond of variety, for sometimes he trotted his horse,
sometimes made him canter, sometimes brought him into a walk, but it
would appear that there was a certain portion of humanity mingling
with the latent motives for these proceedings, inasmuch as the walk
was either up or down a steep hill, the canter over a soft piece of
turf wherever it could be found, and the trot, where the road was
tolerably level. Ever and anon, too, he patted the beast's neck, and
talked to him quite friendly, and the horse would have answered him in
the same tone, beyond doubt, if horses' throats and tongues had been
formed by nature with the design of holding long conversations. Such
not being the case, however, all the beast could do to express his
satisfaction at his master's commendations, was to arch his neck and
bend down his under lip till it touched his chest, and put his
quivering ears backwards and forwards in a very significant manner. It
was a handsome animal, of a bright bay colour, about fifteen hands and
a half high, strongly built, yet showing a good deal of blood, and its
coat was as soft and shining as satin. There was a good deal of red
dust about its feet and legs however, which showed that it had made a
somewhat long journey, but yet it displayed no signs of weariness, its
head had no drowsy droop, like that of a county member on the back
benches at three o'clock in the morning after a long debate. Oh no,
there was muscle and courage for forty miles more, had it been
necessary, and the noble beast would have done it right willingly. The
horseman rode him well--that is to say, lightly, and though he was
tall, muscular, and powerful in frame, many a man of less weight would
have wearied his horse much more. His hand was light and easy, his
seat was light and easy, and his very look was light and easy. There
was no black care sat behind that horseman, so that the burden was not
burdensome, and the pair went on together with alacrity and good
fellowship. The gentleman's dress was in very good taste, neither too
smart nor too plain, well fitted for a journey, yet not unfitted for a
drawing-room in the morning. This is enough upon that subject, and I
will not say another word about it, but as to his face, I must have a
word or two more--it was gay and good-humoured, and though it might be
called somewhat thoughtless in expression, yet somehow--I know not
very well from what cause--when one examined it one was convinced that
the thoughtless look was more a matter of habit than of nature. He was
dark in complexion, but with a healthy glow in his cheeks, and though
certainly his face was not as perfect as that of the Apollo of
Belvidere, yet few would have scrupled to pronounce him a good-looking
man. There was also an easy, almost careless swinging, rapid air about
him, which generally engages kindly feelings, if it cannot secure much
respect; and one could not watch him come cantering over the lea, with
his open, smiling face, without judging he would make an entertaining,
good-humoured companion, with whom any body might pass a few hours
very pleasantly.
Thus he rode along, blithe as a lark, till the sun went down in glory,
showing at the distance of about a couple of miles, the spire of a
small church in a small town--or perhaps I had better call it a
village, for I am not sure that it had grown up to townhood in those
days.
The hint I have given that he could see the spire of the church must
have shown the reader, that at the moment of the sun's setting he was
on the brow of a hill, for there are no plains in that part of the
country, and it was well wooded also. Down from the spot at which he
had then arrived, in a line very nearly direct towards the spire,
descended the road, crossing first a small patch of common, perhaps
not twenty acres in extent, and then entering between deep, shady
banks, as it went down the hill, not only arched over with shrubs, but
canopied by the branches of tall trees. There was quite sufficient
light in the sky to show him the entrance of this green avenue, and he
said to himself, as he looked on, "Wat a pretty approach to the
village; how peaceful and quiet every thing looks."
He was not aware that he had work to do in that quiet road, nor that
it was to be of anything but a peaceful character, but so it is with
us in life, we never know what is before us at the next step. We may
scheme, and we may calculate; we may devise, and we may expect, but,
after all, we are but blind men, led we know not whither by a dog, and
the dog's name is, Fate.
When he saw that he was so near the village, he slackened his pace,
and proceeded at a walk, wishing, like a wise and experienced
equestrian, to bring his horse in cool. At the first trees of the road
a deeper shade came into the twilight. About half a mile farther it
became quite dark under the boughs, whatever it might be in the open
fields; the darkness did not make him quicken his pace, but the minute
after he heard some sounds before him which did. It is not very easy
to explain what those sounds were, or by what process it was, that
striking upon the tympanum of his ear, the two or three air-waves
conveyed to his brain a notion that there were people in danger or
distress at no great distance. There was a word spoken in a sudden and
imperative tone, and that was the first sound he heard, and then there
was a voice of remonstrance and entreaty, a woman's voice, and then
something like a shriek, not loud and prolonged, but uttered as if the
person from whose lips it came caught it as it was issuing forth, and
strove to stifle it in the birth; some loud swearing and oaths were
next heard, mingled with the noise of quick footfalls, as if some one
were running fast towards the spot from the side of the village, and
the next moment the horseman perceived, at the first indistinctly, and
then clearly, a number of objects on the road before him, the largest,
if not the most important of which was a carriage. At the head of the
horses which had drawn it stood a man with something in his hand which
might be a pistol. At the side of the vehicle were two more, with a
saddled horse standing by, and they were apparently dragging out of
the carriage a lady who seemed very unwilling to come forth, but from
the other side was hurrying up, as hard as he could run, another
personage of very different appearance from the three other men. By
this time he was within ten yards of them, and our horseman, from his
elevation on his beast's back, could see the head and shoulders of him
who was approaching, and judged at once that he was a gentleman.
I have said that under the trees it was quite dark, and yet that he
could see all this, but neither of these is a mistake, whatever the
reader may think, for just at that part of the highway where the
carriage stood, it was crossed by another road which let in all that
remained of the western light, and there the whole scene was before
his eyes, as a picture, even while he himself was in comparative
darkness. Impulse is an excellent thing, and a great deal more
frequently leads us right than reason, which in cases of emergency, is
a very unserviceable commodity. It is only necessary to have a clever
impulse, and things go wonderfully well. The horseman stuck his spurs
into his horse's sides: previously he had been going at a trot, since
the first sounds struck his ear, now it became a canter, and two or
three springs brought him up to the carriage. He was making straight
for the side, but the man who was at the horses' heads seemed to
regard his coming as unpleasant, and shouting to him in a thundering
voice to keep back, he presented a pistol straight at him with a
sharp, disagreeable, clicking sound, which, under various
circumstances, is peculiarly ungrateful to the human ear, especially
when the muzzle of the instrument is towards us, for there is no
knowing what may come out of the mouth at the next minute. But the
horseman was quick, active, and not accustomed to be daunted by a
little thing like a pistol, and therefore, holding his heavy
riding-whip by the wrong end, though in this instance it proved the
right one, he struck the personage opposite to him a thundering blow
over the arm. That limb instantly dropped powerless by his side, and
the pistol went off under the horse's feet, causing the animal to rear
a little, but hurting no one. In an instant the horse was turned, and
amongst the party by the carriage; but that party was by this time
increased in number, though not fortified by unanimity, for the person
who had been seen running up, was by this time engaged in fierce
struggle with one of the original possessors of the ground, while the
other kept a tight grasp upon the lady who had just been dragged out
of the carriage. With the two combatants our horseman thought it best
not to meddle in the first instance, though he saw that the object of
one of them was to get a pistol at the head of the other, who seemed
neither unwilling nor unable to prevent him from accomplishing that
object, but they were grappling so closely, that it was difficult to
strike one without hitting the other, especially in the twilight; and
therefore, before he interfered in their concerns, he bestowed another
blow, with the full sweep of his arm, upon the head of the man who was
holding the lady, and who seemed to take so deep an interest in what
was going on between the other two, as not to perceive that any one
was coming up behind him. He instantly staggered back, and would have
fallen, had not the wheel of the carriage stopped him, but then
turning fiercely round, he stretched out his arm, and a flash and
report followed, while a ball whistled past the horseman's cheek, went
through his hair, and grazed his hat.
"Missed, on my life," cried the horseman; "take that for your pains,
you clumsy hound." And he again struck him, though, on this occasion
the person's head was defended by his arm.
"H--l and d--n," cried the other, seizing his horse's bridle and
trying to force him back upon his haunches, but another blow, that
made him stagger again, showed him that the combat was not likely to
end in his favour, and darting past, he exclaimed, "Run, Wolf, run.
Harry is off!" And before our friend on the bay horse could strike
another blow at him, he had sprung upon the back of the beast that
stood near, and without waiting to put his feet into the stirrups,
galloped off as hard as he could go. In regard to the other two who
were wrestling, as we have said, in deadly strife, the game they were
playing had just reached a critical point, for the gentleman who had
come up, had contrived to get hold of the barrel of the pistol, and at
the very instant the other galloped away, the respectable person he
called Wolf received a straightforward blow in the face, which made
him stagger back, leaving his weapon in the hand of his opponent.
Finding that his only advantage was gone, he instantly darted round
the back of the carriage to make his escape up the other road.
"Jump down and stop him, post-boy," cried the horseman, pursuing him
at the same time without a moment's pause, but the post-boy's legs,
though cased in leather, seemed to be made of wood, if one might judge
by the stiff slowness with which they moved, and before he had got his
feet to the ground, and his whip deliberately laid over the horse's
back, the fugitive finding that the horseman had cut him off from the
road, caught the stem of a young ash, swung himself up to the top of
the bank, and disappeared amongst the trees.
"Hark, there is a carriage coming," said the horseman, addressing the
stranger, who had followed him as fast as two legs could follow four.
They both paused for an instant and listened, but to their surprise
the sound of rolling wheels, which they both distinctly heard,
diminished instead of increasing, and it became evident that some
vehicle was driving away from a spot at no great distance.
"That's droll," said the horseman, dismounting; "but we had better see
after the ladies, for I dare say they are frightened."
"No doubt they are," replied the other, in a mild and musical voice,
leading the way round the carriage again. "Do you know who they are?"
"Not I," answered the horseman, "don't you?"
"No, I am a stranger here," answered the other, approaching the side
of the carriage, to which the lady who had been dragged out had now
returned.
She was seated with her hands over her eyes, as if either crying with
agitation or in deep thought; but the moment the gentleman who had
come up on foot addressed her, expressing a hope that she had not been
much alarmed, she replied, "Oh, yes, I could not help it, but my
mother has fainted. We must go back, I fear."
"It is not far, I think, to the village, Madam," said our friend the
horseman, "and we will easily bring the lady to herself again; but it
is a pity she fainted too. These things will happen, and if they have
not got your money there is no great harm done."
"I am better, Mary," said a voice from the other side of the carriage,
faint and low, yet sweet and harmonious. "Are they gone--are you quite
sure they are gone?"
"Oh, dear, yes, Madam," replied the horseman, while the lady next him
laid her hand tenderly upon her mother's. "One of the worthies
scampered off on horseback after he had fired at me, and the other was
too quick for us all, thanks to your stiff-jointed driver. What became
of the other fellow I don't know."
"You are not hurt, Sir, I hope," said the younger of the two ladies,
gazing timidly at him through the half light.
"Not in the least," he replied. "The man missed me, though it wasn't a
bad shot after all, for I felt it go through my hair--but an inch one
side or the other makes a wonderful difference--and now, ladies, what
will you do?"
A. murmured consultation took place between the two tenants of the
carriage, while a whispered conference was held by the gentlemen who
came to their assistance. It is wonderful how often in this world
several parties of the good folks of which it is composed, are all
thinking, ay, and even talking, of the same thing, without any one
group knowing what the other is about.
"I'm doubtful of that post-boy," said the gentleman on foot to the
gentleman who had been on horseback.
"Ay, and so am I," replied the other. "He's in league with them,
depend upon it. All post-boys are so. Their conscience is like the inn
leather breeches, wide enough to fit any thing. I wonder how far these
two ladies are going?"
"I cannot tell," answered the other, "but it will be hardly safe for
them to go alone."
"Can I speak to you, Sir, for a moment," said the voice of the younger
lady from the carriage, and the horseman advancing a step, leaned
against the doorway, and put his head partly in, bending down his ear,
as if he were perfectly certain that he was going to hear a secret.
"My mother thinks, and so do I," continued the younger lady, "that the
man who drives us must have been bribed by those people who attacked
us, for he drove very slowly as soon as ever he came near this spot.
He stopped, too, the moment they called to him."
"Perhaps not bribed, my dear Madam," replied the gentleman, "all these
post-boys, as they are called, favour your honest highwaymen, either
in hopes of a part of the booty, or merely out of fellow feeling. They
are every one of them amateurs, and some of them connoisseurs of the
arts of the road. You must have some protection, that's certain, and I
think it would be better for you to turn back and get some people from
the village to accompany the carriage."
"I'm afraid that can hardly be," said the elder lady. "We are already
very late, and this has delayed us. My brother may be dead ere we
arrive, for I'm going on a sad errand, Sir, he having been suddenly
seized with gout in the stomach, and sent to call me to him in his
last moments; however, it is not very far, and I trust that nothing
more will happen."
"No, no, Madam, you must not go without protection," replied the
gentleman in a good-humoured tone. "I will ride with you and see you
safe--how far is it?"
"About five miles, I am afraid," answered the lady.
"Oh, that's nothing, that's nothing," cried their companion. "It will
but make me an hour later at supper." And turning to the other
gentleman, he continued, "I wish, Sir, if you pass the inn called the
White Hart--"
"I lodge there myself," returned the stranger.
"Then pray tell the people there to have me a chicken ready in an
hour. It will be roasting while I am riding, so that will be one way
of killing time, and not losing patience."
Thus saying, with a gay laugh, he sprang upon his horse's back, and
addressing the post-boy, exclaimed, while the other gentleman shut the
door, and bade the ladies adieu, "Now, boy, into the saddle, and
remember, if these ladies are interrupted again, the first head that
is broken shall be yours."
The man made no reply, but got up with more alacrity than he had got
down, and was soon trotting along the road at a rapid rate.
The horseman kept close to the carriage all the way, and after a ride
of about five-and-thirty minutes, through pleasant lanes and fields,
they came to what seemed the gates of a park, but the porter's lodge
was dim and unlighted, and the post-boy gave the horseman a
significant hint that he had better get down and open the gates, as
there was nobody there to do it for him. The gentleman, however,
managed the feat dexterously without dismounting, and the carriage
rolled through and entered a long avenue of magnificent chesnuts.
Between the boughs of the trees, every here and there, were to be seen
glimpses of soft green slopes, studded with wild hawthorns, and masses
of dark wood beyond, and at the end of about three quarters of a mile
more, appeared a fine old stone house, with a somewhat flat but
imposing-looking face, like that of an old country gentleman, with a
great idea of his own importance.
As the horseman looked up to the house, however, which was raised upon
a little terrace, and approached by a gentle rise, he could not help
thinking, "That does not look very much like the dwelling of a man
dying of gout in the stomach; it looks more like that of one getting
up a good fit;" for three windows on the ground floor, having very
much of a dining-room aspect about them, were thrown up to admit the
air, and in addition to a blaze of light, there came forth the sounds
of merry laughter, and several persons talking.
The post-boy drove up to the great door, however, and the horseman,
springing to the ground, rang the bell, after which, returning to the
side of the carriage, he leaned against it, saying,
"I trust your relation is better, Madam, for the house does not seem
to be one of mourning."
The lady did not reply directly to his words, but she said, "I hope if
you remain in this part of the country, Sir, you will give me an
opportunity of thanking you, either here, or at my own house, for the
great service you have rendered me. The people of the inn will direct
you, for it is only ten miles on the other side of Tarningham."
"I shall certainly have the honour of waiting on you to inquire how
you do," replied the horseman, and then adding, "these people do not
seem inclined to come," he returned to the bell, and rang it
vigorously.
The next moment the door was opened, and a capacious butler appeared,
and the stranger, without more ado, assisted the ladies to alight,
remarking as he did so, that the younger of the two was a very pretty
girl, some nineteen or twenty years of age.
"How is my brother now?" demanded the elder lady, who wore a widow's
dress.
"Quite well, Ma'am, thank you," answered the butler, in the most
commonplace tone possible, and before she had time to make any more
inquiries, the stranger who had come to her rescue, wished her and her
daughter good night, and mounting his horse, rode down the avenue
again.