The Chance-Meeting in the Park.
The morning sky was very gray. There was a thin film of vapour over
the greater part of the heavens, retarding, as it were, the advance of
dawn, as a mother keeps back her wayward child struggling forward too
fast upon all the varied ways of life. Yet towards the east there was
a bright streak of gold, which told that the star of light, and
warmth, and genial influences, was coming up rapidly from below the
round edge of the rolling ball. It was a line, defined and clear,
marked out from the vapour, which ended there by an edge of lighter
yellow; and as the strong golden tints became more, and more intense,
the filmy cloud split and divided into fragments of strange shapes,
while the beams streamed through, and, passing across the wide extent
of air, tinted with purple the vapours above. Towards that glowing
streak all things seemed to turn; the sunflower inclined her head
thither; the lark bent his flight in that direction; towards it all
the songsters of the wood seemed to pour the voices of their choir. It
is a strange thing, the east; full of curious associations with all
the marvellous history of man. Every good thing and almost every
bright thing, has come from the east; religion, salvation's hope;
daylight and the seeming movement of the stars and moon; summer and
sunshine and Christianity have sprung thence, as if there were the
fountain of all the best gifts to man. There have all nations risen,
and still the progress is from the East towards the West; as if there
were some law, by which all things on the earth followed the course of
the great light-giver. Nevertheless, how have these blessings been
mingled with many evils! The cutting winds of spring and winter,
pestilence and destruction, earthquakes and wars, have there arisen,
to sweep over the world, and blacken it with grief and mourning. It is
a strange place, the east; and I can never look towards it and see the
rising sun, without a strange feeling of awe and mystery, from the
various associations which exist between it and the wonders of the
past.
The scene from the windows of Tarningham-hall was not a very extensive
one, but it was fine in its peculiar character: the sweeps of the
park; the dewy lawns; the large old trees; the broad and feathery
fern; the stately deer, walking along with unconfirmed steps and
half-awakened deliberation; the matutinal hares, scudding about in the
gray twilight; and the squirrels, rushing from tree to tree; were all
pleasant to the eye that looked upon them, though that eye could only
at one small point, where the break in the wood gave a wider view,
catch any thing beyond the domain, and all that even there was gained,
consisted of a narrow portion of that same streak of yellow light,
which broke the monotonous curtain of the cloud towards the east.
Nevertheless, for several minutes, Mary Clifford gazed upon the whole
with pleasure and interest. She was early in her habits: a familiar
child of the morning; and the dew on the leaves was a delight to her;
the soft gray of the early day, a sort of invitation to contemplation
and enjoyment. After marking the deer, and smiling at the sportive
gambols of the hares, who, as it was forbidden to shoot near the
house, played fearless on the lawns, she turned her eyes towards the
spot where the dawning morning-light was visible, and recollecting
that not far from the house and what was called the terrace, there was
a point whence the whole scene over the country was visible, and where
she could watch, with uninterrupted pleasure, all the effects of the
breaking day upon that beautiful landscape, she sallied forth to enjoy
a peculiar sort of pleasure, which requires a very pure and unsullied
mind, and a heart naturally elevated and devout, to understand it
fully.
The hour was a very early one; for, at that season of the year, Dan
Ph[oe]bus, as the ancient poets call him, shaking off the lazy habits
of the winter, gets up betimes; and, as the servants of good Sir John
Slingsby were not subjected to very severe discipline, not a single
soul in the house was up to give our sweet friend exit. There is
always a curious sensation in walking alone through a house, all the
other tenants of which are still sleeping; there is a deathly feeling
about it; a severing of the ties, which so lately existed between us
and those who are now insensible; but that sensation is most strongly
felt, when the morning sunshine is on the world; when nature has
revived, or is reviving from the trance of night; and other things are
busy in restless activity, though the gay companions of a few hours
gone by are silent and still, as if death had struck them.
Down the broad oak stairs, with its narrow strip of carpet, along the
old marble hall with its tessellated floor, Mary Clifford went slowly
and quietly, lighted alone by a skylight overhead, and a large window
over the great doors; but she could hear the gay birds singing
without; the thrush upon the tree top; the woodlark in the shade; the
linnet, with its small, sweet song, and the chaffinch in his spring
dress and his spring notes amongst the bushes. She opened the door of
the library and went in, leaving it unclosed behind her, then unbarred
and unlocked the glass-door, went out and gazed about her. Some deer
that were near the house started and withdrew a few steps, and then
paused to stare at her; but whether it was that they had never seen
any of their companions slaughtered by a being in a woman's dress, or
that they thought she looked, as she really did, sweet and gentle as
the morning, they did not take fright, trotting a few steps farther,
after a long look, and then stopping with their heads to converse over
the matter.
After closing the door, Mary walked on towards the terrace, which was
at the distance of about a couple of hundred yards, climbed the steps
and proceeded towards the end, where the finest view was to be
obtained, at a spot sheltered by six rugged yews, underneath which
there was a seat: and there she paused, for at least ten minutes,
drinking in the beauty of the scene, as if changed to a thousand hues
under the influence of the rising sun. All was still and tranquil; but
at length she heard some voices speaking, and looked in the direction
in which they came.
Some of the grooms, she thought, as her eyes rested on the stables at
some little distance in the rear of the house; and although it was not
at all probable that they would disturb her reveries, yet she prepared
to go back, for one half of the pleasure which she derived from her
early walk lay in its solitude. She was wishing that the grooms had
thought fit to lie in bed for half an hour longer, when she heard
proceeding from the lower ground under the bank of the terrace, the
light and rapid footfalls of some one apparently walking from the
stables to the mansion; and, not at all wishing to meet anyone, she
turned back again towards the yews. At the end of the terrace,
however, the footsteps stopped; there was a momentary pause, and then
they mounted the steps and came along the gravel towards her. Mary
walked on to the end, and then turned, when straight before her
appeared Captain Hayward, coming on with his usual light and cheerful
air, though the sleeve of his coat was cut open, and it was evident
that he had bandages round his arm.
"Good morning, good morning, Miss Clifford," he said, advancing
frankly and taking her hand; "what a magnificent morning! I see you
are as early in your habits as myself. But did you ever see such a
rich dove-colour as has come upon those clouds? I love some of these
calm gray mornings, with a promise of a bright day they give, better
far than those skies all purple and gold, such as are described by
that rhodomontade fellow, Marmontel, in his 'Incas,' which are always
sure to end in clouds and rain. I have always thought those very
bright mornings like a dashing woman of fashion, tricked out in her
best smiles and her brightest colours, promising all sorts of things
with her eyes, which she does not intend to perform, and cold or
frowning before half an hour is over."
"And the gray morning, Captain Hayward," asked Mary, with a smile,
"what is that like?"
"Oh, I don't know," answered Captain Hayward, laughing, "you must not
drive my imagination too hard, dear lady, lest it stumble--perhaps the
gray morning is like a calm, quiet, well brought up country girl, with
a kind heart under the tranquil look that will give a long day of
sunshine after its first coolness is passed."
Mary Clifford cast down her eyes, and did not answer; but, as she was
walking on towards the house, Ned Hayward continued in his usual
straightforward way; "You must not go in yet, my dear Miss Clifford; I
want you to take a turn or two with me upon this delightful terrace.
You must, indeed, for I have got a thousand things to say and I know I
shall find nobody else to say them to for the next two or three
hours."
His fair companion did not think fit to refuse, though some prudish
people might have thought it a little improper to take a walk at five
o'clock in the morning with a young captain of infantry unattached;
but Mary Clifford had only known Captain Hayward six-and-thirty hours,
and therefore she saw nothing in the least improper in it in the
world. Young ladies, who guard so very scrupulously against being made
love to, forget that they show what they expect. She turned,
therefore, with him at once, and replied, "You must, indeed, have a
long series of adventures to tell us; I am delighted to forestall the
rest of the family and to have the news myself three hours before any
one. We were all in great alarm about you last night. My uncle and Mr.
Beauchamp, and half-a-dozen servants were setting out to seek you,
upon the report of Stephen Gimlet, as they call him, the father of the
little boy you saved; but your note just arrived in time to stop
them."
"Oh, then, Master Gimlet, I suppose, has told my story for me?" said
Ned Hayward.
"Only very briefly," answered the young lady; "he said you had chased
some man over the common, who had fired at you, and he was afraid had
wounded you; and I fear, from what I see, he was right."
"Oh, it was nothing, nothing at all," replied Ned Hayward; "but I'll
tell you all about it as circumstantially as a newspaper;" and he went
on in a gay and lively tone to give an account of his adventures of
the preceding night, till his arrival at Buxton's inn. Sometimes he
made Mary Clifford laugh, sometimes look grave and apprehensive, but
he always interested her deeply in his tale; and she showed that she
had marked one part particularly by asking, "Then did you know the man
when you saw his face so distinctly in the pit?"
"Up to that moment I thought I did," replied her companion, "but then
I saw I was utterly mistaken. I will acknowledge to you, my dear Miss
Clifford, that, till he turned round I fancied he was one I had seen
before--the same height, the same make--and, under existing
circumstances, I felt that nothing would justify me in giving up the
pursuit, although it was most painful to me, I assure you, to follow,
with the purpose of punishing a young gentleman, in whom, from what
you said yesterday at dinner, I conceive you take a considerable
interest."
"Who? Mr. Wittingham?" exclaimed Mary Clifford, her face turning as
red as scarlet, "Oh, Captain Hayward, you are mistaken, I take no
interest in him, I abhor him; or, at least---at least I dislike him
very much."
Ned Hayward looked puzzled; and he really was so in a considerable
degree. His own prepossessions had done something to mislead him; and
a man never conceives a wrong opinion but a thousand small
circumstances are sure to arise to confirm it. A man may long for
green figs, but in any country but England he will not get them in the
month of March; he may desire grapes but he cannot find them in May;
but if he have a suspicion of any kind, he will meet with, whenever he
likes, all sorts of little traits and occurrences to strengthen it,
for the only fruit that is ripe in all seasons is corroborative
evidence; and, amongst the multitude of events that are ever in the
market of life, it must be a hard case if he do not find enough of it.
After a moment given to consideration, he replied more cautiously than
might have been expected, "I have some how mistaken you, my dear
lady," he said at length, "and such mistakes may be dangerous. I have
no right to force myself into your confidence; but really the whole of
this affair is becoming serious. When first I had the pleasure of
seeing you, I found you subjected to what was certainly a great
outrage. I call it so; for I am perfectly certain that you yourself
must have considered it as such; and there could not even be a
palliation for it except--" he paused an instant, and then added,
gravely, "except love on both sides, disappointed by objections
arising in the prejudices of others."
Mary Clifford coloured deeply, but suffered him to proceed. "I need
not tell you, after, what I have said," he continued, "that I have
recognised and identified the principal person concerned in this
business. At dinner you expressed a very strong desire that the
offender should not be punished; but the former offence was followed
by a very serious crime. A shot was fired last night into your uncle's
dining-room amidst a party of gentlemen quietly drinking their wine,
which very nearly struck the father of the very man who had already
rendered himself amenable to the laws of his country by his attack
upon you. I had suspicions that he was the perpetrator of this crime,
and although he certainly was not the person I pursued across the
moor, yet I have some very strong reasons to think that he was a
participator in the offence. These are all very serious circumstances,
my dear young lady; but I am ignorant of those which have preceded
these events, and if without pain to yourself you could give me any
explanations which might guide my mind to the causes of all that has
occurred, it might be very serviceable in many respects. I am sure you
will answer me frankly, if it be possible, and believe me I am not one
to act harshly, or to abuse your confidence--nay, more, thoughtless as
I may seem, and as I am called, be assured I will do nought without
consideration and forethought."
"I am sure you will not, Captain Hayward," answered Mary Clifford,
warmly, "quite sure; and I have no hesitation in giving you my
confidence--though, indeed, I have very little to tell. These things
are always unpleasant to speak about, and that is the only motive I
could have for remaining silent; but this gentleman's conduct has been
so very public, that I am saved from all scruples on his account.
About two years ago, I met Mr. Henry Wittingham at the county ball,
danced with him there, and observed nothing in his behaviour which
should make me treat him differently from other new acquaintances. I
did not think him agreeable, but he was not offensive. He asked me to
dance again the same night, and I refused, but, shortly after, he was
formally introduced at our house; my father asked him to dinner, and
was, indeed, very kind, both to him and to Mr. Wittingham, his father,
because he thought that they were unjustly looked down upon and
treated coldly by the county gentry on account of their family. I soon
began to find that--that--I really do not well know how to go on--but
that this young gentleman's visits were more frequent than was
pleasant, and that he always contrived to be near me, especially when
we met in public. His conversation, his manners, as I knew more of
him, became insupportably disagreeable; I tried as much as I could to
avoid him, to check his advances, at first quietly, but decidedly
without speaking to any one else, for I did not wish to produce any
breach between my father and Mr. Wittingham; but, at last, I found
that he made a parade and a boast of his intimacy, and then I thought
it best to speak both to mamma, and my dear father. What was done I
really do not know; but certainly something took place which very much
enraged both father and son, and the latter was forbidden to visit at
our house. The result was any thing but deliverance from his
persecution. From that moment he chose to assume, that the objection
was on the side of my parents, and I cannot tell you how I have been
annoyed. I have not ventured to walk out alone, for although once when
I met him in the village, I told him plainly my sentiments towards
him, he still persisted in the most unpleasant manner, that I spoke
alone from mamma's dictation, and for months he used to hang about the
place, till I really grew nervous at the sight of every human being
whom I did not instantly recognise. This last outrage has been worse
than all; and I will admit that it deserves punishment; but I am
afraid, from various circumstances which accompanied it, that the law,
if carried into effect, would punish it too severely. My uncle
declared he would hang the man if he could catch him; and oh, think,
Captain Hayward, what a horrible reflection that would ever be to me
through life, to think that I had been even the innocent cause of
bringing a fellow-creature to a disgraceful death."
"Painful, indeed, I do not doubt;" answered Ned Hayward, "but yet--"
"Nay, nay," cried Mary, "do not say _but yet_, Captain Hayward. I
could never make up my mind to give evidence against him; and, to
speak selfishly, the very fact of having to appear in a court of
justice, and of having my name in public newspapers, would render the
punishment nearly as great to me as to him. These were my sole
motives, I can assure you, in what I said yesterday, and not the
slightest personal interest in one who has, I am afraid, in all
situations disgraced himself."
For some reason or another, Ned Hayward was glad to hear Mary Clifford
defend herself, and so warmly too, from the imputation of any feeling
of regard for Harry Wittingham; but he took care not to show, to its
full extent, all the pleasure that he felt.
"I thought it strange, indeed," he said, "that you should entertain
any great feeling of esteem for a person who certainly seemed to me
not worthy of it; but there are often circumstances, my dear Miss
Clifford, unseen by the general eye, which endear two people to each
other, who seem the most dissimilar--youthful companionship, services
rendered, old associations--a thousand things build up this between
persons the least likely to assimilate which are stronger than all
opposing principles. I thought that such might be the case with you;
but as it is not, let me tell you what was the end of my adventure
last night; and then you will see what cause I have for suspicion. I
must inform you, in the first instance, that I marked the person of
Mr. Henry Wittingham well on the evening of the attack,
notwithstanding the twilight, and that I saw him yesterday in
Tarningham. His father's unwillingness to enter into the charge, when
made against some unknown person, excited suspicion; but I found
afterwards, from other sources, that Mr. Wittingham and his son had
quarrelled, and were completely at variance; and, in the justice-room,
the young man whispered something to the old one, of which I heard
only two or three words, but they were of a threatening nature. I have
told you that I thought I recognised the figure of the man who fired
the shot, and Stephen Gimlet declared he could swear the horse he rode
was Henry Wittingham's; but I found, as I have said, that the man in
the pit was a stranger. When, after pursuing him as long as I had any
trace, I at length arrived at a place called, I find, Buxton's Inn, I
saw the very horse in the stable in a state which left no doubt that
it had been ridden hard for several hours, and had not been in five
minutes. I inquired for the master, and was told the number of the
room where he was to be found. I walked straight in and found Mr.
Henry Wittingham sitting quietly at supper. Some conversation ensued,
in the course of which I told him the cause of my intrusion; and his
whole manner was confused and agitated. He swore violently at the idea
of any body having ridden his horse, and affected not to believe it;
but I made him come down to the stable, when, of course, his mouth was
closed."
"But who did ride it then?" exclaimed Miss Clifford.
"Nay, that I cannot tell," answered Ned Hayward; "but I resolved to
wait at the inn and see if I could discover anything. I was shown into
a very neat little sitting-room, and wrote a note to your uncle, Sir
John, while they were getting my coffee. It was now nearly ten
o'clock, and there was a room apparently similar to my own on each
side of me, with a door of communication with either. I suppose they
were locked so as to prevent the passage of any thing very fat or
corporeal from one room into the other, but certainly were not so
well closed as to exclude all sound. It may seem a strange thing for
me, my dear Miss Clifford, to give you an account of the sitting-rooms
of an inn; but so much depends in this world upon what is called
juxta-position, that very important events have depended upon the
keyhole of a door. You must not suppose, however, that I made use of
either of the keyholes in my room for the laudable and honourable
purpose of eavesdropping; on the contrary, I spoke loud enough to the
waiter to give sufficient notice to my neighbours, if I had any, that
voices were distinguishable from one room to the other; and it would
seem that Mr. Henry Wittingham, who was on the left-hand side, was
determined to impress me not only with the same fact, but also with a
notion that he was in a towering passion on account of the usage his
horse had met with; for he cursed and swore very severely, to which
the waiter, or whosoever he spoke to, did not reply. There seemed to
be nobody on the other side, for about half an hour, when, as I was
sitting at my coffee, after having despatched my note, I heard steps
come up from below, a door open, and the voice of the waiter say most
respectfully, 'I will tell the captain you are here, Mr. Wharton.'"
"It is Mr. Wharton, the lawyer, then?" exclaimed Mary, with some
degree of eagerness.
"I really cannot tell," answered Ned Hayward; "but I suspect it was,
from what passed afterwards. All was silent for about three minutes,
except when I heard a step walking up and down the room. As your uncle
had mentioned Mr. Wharton's name more than once in the course of
yesterday, I fancied he might have come upon business to some one,
which there was no necessity for my hearing; and, therefore, I rattled
the cups and saucers, moved about the chair, tumbled over a footstool,
and left them to take their own course."
"Mr. Wharton is a very shrewd man," said Mary Clifford, "and one I
should think a hint would not be thrown away upon."
"He did not choose to take mine, however," replied Ned Hayward; "for,
at the end of a few minutes, some one seemed to join him, saying in a
loud and familiar tone, 'Ha! how do you do, Wharton?--Very glad to see
you again! I hope you have brought me some money.'"
"Was it Mr. Wittingham's voice?" asked Miss Clifford.
"Oh, dear no," replied Captain Hayward; "one quite of a different
tone; a good deal of the same swaggering insolence in it, but, to my
fancy, there was more bold and dogged determination. Every now and
then there was a small pause, too, before a word was pronounced, which
one generally finds in the speech of a cunning man; but yet there was
a sort of sneering persiflage in the words, that I have more generally
met with in the empty-headed coxcombs of fashion, who have nothing to
recommend them but impertinence and a certain position in society.
However, it could not be Mr. Wittingham, for him this lawyer must have
known very well, and his reply was,--'Indeed, Captain Moreton, I have
not; but I thought it better to come over and answer your note in
person, to see what could be done for you.'"
"Captain Moreton!" cried Mary; "I know who it is very well--not that I
ever saw him, as far as I can remember; for he quitted this part of
the country ten or twelve years ago, when I was quite a child; but I
have often heard my father say that he was a bad, reckless man, and
had become quite an adventurer, after having broken his mother's
heart, ruined his other parent, and abridged poor old Mr. Moreton's
days also. He died quite in poverty, three years ago, after having
sold his estate, or mortgaged it, or something of the kind, to this
very Mr. Wharton, the attorney."
"Indeed!" said Ned Hayward, "that explains a great deal, my dear young
lady. Where did this property lie?"
"Just beyond my uncle's, a little way on the other side of the moor,"
replied Miss Clifford.
Ned Hayward fell into a fit of thought, and did not reply for some
moments; at length he said, with a laugh, "Well, I do not know that
their conversation would interest you very much, though, in spite of
all I could do I heard a great part of it, and as for the rest, I must
manage the best way I can myself."
"You are very tantalising, Captain Hayward," said his fair companion,
"and you seem to imply that I could aid in something. If I can, I
think you are bound to tell me. Confidence for confidence, you know,"
and when she had done she coloured slightly, as if feeling that her
words implied more than she meant.
"Assuredly," replied Ned Hayward; "but I only fear I might distress
you."
"If what you say has reference to Mr. Wittingham," the young lady
answered, raising her eyes to his face with a look of ingenuous
frankness, "let me assure you, once for all, that nothing you can say
will distress me if it do not imply that I feel something more than
the coldest indifference."
"Nay, it does not refer to him at all," replied Ned Hayward, "but to
one you love better."
"Indeed!" exclaimed his companion, her lip trembling with eagerness,
"tell me--tell me, Captain Hayward! After what you have said, I must
beg and entreat that you would."
"I will, then," answered Ned Hayward, gazing upon her with a look of
admiration blended with sorrow at the pain he was about to inflict. "I
believe, Miss Clifford I am about to commit an indiscretion in
mentioning this subject to you at all; for I do not know that you can
assist materially; and yet it is something to have one to consult
with--one, in whose generosity, in whose kindness, sympathy, ay, and
good sense too, I can fully trust. Besides, you know, I dare say, all
the people in the neighbourhood, and may give me some serviceable
hints."
"But speak--speak," said Miss Clifford, pausing in their walk up and
down the terrace, as she saw that he fought round the subject which he
thought would distress her, with a timid unwillingness to do so; "what
is it you have to tell me?"
"Why, I very much fear, my dear young lady," answered Captain Hayward,
"that your uncle is very much embarrassed--nay--why should I disguise
the matter?--absolutely ruined."
Mary Clifford clasped her hands together, and was about to answer with
an exclamation of sorrow and surprise; but I do believe that no person
on earth was ever permitted to give an explanation uninterrupted. The
Fates are against it: at least they were so in this instance; for just
as Ned Hayward had uttered the last very serious words, they heard a
light step tripping up behind them, and both turning suddenly round,
beheld Miss Slingsby's French maid.
"Ah, Ma'amselle," she said as soon as she reached them, "I saw you out
in this early morning without any thing on, and so have brought you a
shawl."
"Thank you, thank you, Minette," replied Mary, and as she was well
accustomed to early walks, was about to decline the shawl; but,
judging the quickest mode of getting rid of the maid would be to take
it, she added, "Very well--give it to me," and cast it carelessly
round her shoulders.
The maid would not be satisfied with that arrangement, however,
adjusted it herself, showed how the ladies of Paris shawled
themselves, and occupied full ten minutes, during which her poor
victim remained in all the tortures of suspense.