The Struggle near the River.
Nobody could perceive at the breakfast-table that Sir John Slingsby
had suffered from the strong emotions by which we have seen him
influenced on the preceding night. No one could have conceived that
his state and fortune were in the tottering condition which Ned
Hayward had represented. He was as gay, as happy, as full of jest and
merriment as a schoolboy of seventeen. And as his sister was
peculiarly cheerful, it seemed to excite in him even a more merry and
jocund liveliness. To say the truth, Mrs. Clifford felt that her bond
was broken; that her visit to her brother's house, and her stay with
him, had unlinked one of the chains of cold and formal proprieties
which had been wound round her for so many years. Heaven knows, she
never wished to see, hear, or do, think, or countenance anything that
was evil; but yet her heart felt freer and lighter--it had more room
to expand. In fact the sunshine of early days seemed to be reflected
upon it, and it opened out to the light like a flower. She was gayer
than her daughter, though silent and still, except when called into
conversation by some lively sally; but she smiled, was good-humoured,
and answered even merrily, when a jest passed round, and seemed to
wonder at the more than wonted gravity of her Mary. Isabella was
almost too gay; as gay as the habits of the world and her own sense of
propriety permitted; but, to an observing eye this cheerfulness was
rather assumed than real; and to any one who, like Mary, had the
secret of her heart, it was very evidently affected to cover a deeper
and a graver current beneath.
"Well, what's the news this morning?" said Sir John, as Isabella
poured out the tea and coffee; "a quarter to nine and no tidings
stirring? This seems to promise a dull day. Nobody's mill been burnt
down? Nobody's cat killed? Nobody's wife eloped? Nobody's daughter
gone to Gretna-green? Nobody's house been broken open, game stolen,
hen-roosts been plundered, pocket been picked, or nose been
pulled?--Faith we shall never get through the four-and-twenty hours
without something to enliven us. All the objects of country life
are gone. It seems to me that the world has turned as dead as a
horse-pond, and men and women nothing but the weed at the top, waiting
coolly in green indifference for the ducks to come and gobble them up.
Lack-a-day! lack-a-day! if we had but Ned Hayward here to cheer us up!
What can have become of him?"
"Oh, he has come back, my dear uncle," replied Mary; "I saw him upon
the terrace as I was taking my morning's walk."
"Then why is he not here?" exclaimed Sir John Slingsby, "why is he
absent from his post? What business has he at Tarningham-park, unless
it be like a ray of the summer sunshine to make every thing gay around
him?"
"He told me that he was going down to catch a trout," replied Miss
Clifford; "he has some bet with you, my dear uncle, it seems?"
"The boy is mad! irretrievably gone! Bedlam or Saint Luke's, or some
of those places they call a _private asylum_, is the only place for
him now," exclaimed Sir John Slingsby; "what, gone down to catch a
trout, without pausing to take either rest or breakfast, with his
hands burnt and a shot in his arm--so that fellow Gimlet said, they
tell me."
"He seemed very well," answered Miss Clifford; "and he said he had his
breakfast before he left the inn."
"I don't believe a word of it," answered her uncle; "that's just one
of his old tricks, Mary; if there was any thing to be done, he used
never to mind breakfast, or dinner, or supper, or any thing else; the
matter was always done first, and then he did not mind a good dinner
and a bottle of claret, or even two, as the case might be. I never saw
such a fellow! We used to call him 'thoughtless Ned Hayward;' but the
fact is, he used to think more in five minutes than the rest of us
altogether in four-and-twenty hours, and then he was free for the
whole day--but here come the letters, and papers; we shall have some
news now, and we shall have something to laugh at, with, or because
of."
Thus saying, Sir John took the bag which was brought to him by the
butler, opened it with a key attached to his watch-chain, and drew
forth the articles it contained one by one. First came a newspaper in
its cover--it was, I suppose, the Times, by its bulk--then another and
another. All these were laid down beside him; and next came the small
packet of letters, and then, oh! how eager all were to devour the
contents. Strange and mysterious mixture of old rags and size, what a
world of emotions have you conveyed about this earth! Not the most
terrible stage that has ever represented to the eyes of admiring
thousands the works of the poet, or displayed the skill of the actor,
has produced such deep tragedy as you. How often has the sight of the
thin folded sheet, with its strange, crooked black hieroglyphics,
overwhelmed the lightest and the gayest heart with heaviness and
mourning! how often changed the smile into the tear! how often swept
away the gay pageants of imagination, and memory, and hope, and left
the past all darkness, and the future all despair! But, on the
contrary, how often have ye been the unexpected messengers of
happiness and joy! how often have ye brought sunshine and light into
the benighted breast! how often dispelled in a moment the dark
thunder-clouds of the world's blackest storms,--aye, and sometimes,
too, have closed as with a lightning-flash, the black tempestuous day
of a long sorrowful life, with a gleam of ecstasy, too intense and
potent to survive!
All eyes turned eagerly to Sir John Slingsby, while he looked over the
letters. The first was in a stiff and clerk-like hand, which he put
down beside him with a low chuckle, which probably indicated an
intention of not reading it at all. The next displayed a scrawl,
written as if with a butcher's skewer, thin, straggling, and
irregular, like the scratching of a hen in the last agony. That met
the fate of the former one. Then came an address in a good, bold,
dashing hand, with a name written in the corner.
"Ah, ah!" cried he, "from Tom South, about the borough of
Twistandskin. Before I stand, I'll see him--Lord bless me, what
was I going to say?" and putting his hand to his mouth, he looked to
his sister with a low laugh; but that letter was put at a little
distance from the two others. "Ah! Mr. Beauchamp, here is one for
you," continued the baronet, "sent up with the postmaster's
compliments!--damn his compliments! who wants his compliments?" and he
gave the letter over to Beauchamp, who was sitting at the opposite
side of the table next his daughter. "My dear Harriet, do try that
pasty, it is excellent; or take something, in the name of
Heliogabalus; this is not a fast-day, is it? There's the best ham that
ever came out of Yorkshire, on the side-board. There, Isabella,
there's an epistle for you, from one of your sweet, maudlin, blond and
satin friends in London, as soft and insipid as a glass of orgeate,
I'll answer for it; full of loves, and dears, and sweet friends, and
languishing for your darling society, and wondering what you can be
doing in the country, spending your beauty on the desert air. Don't
let me hear a word of it; I hate them all; and, if I had my will,
would smother them all to death under eiderdown quilts. Pray read your
letter, Mr. Beauchamp. Every body in this world is anxious to read
their letters but me; and as yours may very likely require an answer,
you had better look at it at once; for one post here goes out at
eleven."
Now, Sir John Slingsby, in the latter part of his speech, showed
himself considerate; for Mr. Beauchamp, during the first part of
breakfast, had borne a very grave and business-like air. He had given
himself up, it is true, to a more cheerful spirit on the day before;
he had been calmly cheerful at dinner; gay in the evening; especially
when he was near Miss Slingsby. But who is not gay in the evening
hours, when the whole nervous fluid seems to have accumulated about
the brain and the heart, when the anticipated, or actual labours of
the day are over, the apportioned task of care and anxiety are done?
The load of the four-and-twenty hours is thrown off, and we snatch at
the brief portion that remains between labour and repose for
enjoyment. Who is not gay, when beauty and cheerfulness pour their
mingled rays upon us, flooding our feelings and our thoughts with a
bright, happy, and congenial stream? Take a glass of iced-water, dear
reader--as cold as you will, so that it be not actually frozen--and
pour into it a merry glass of warm champagne; see how it will sparkle
and dance up to the brim; and, unless the heart of man is a mass of
ice indeed, such will be the effect upon it of mere association with
youth, beauty, and innocent gaiety.
But since then, Beauchamp had slept upon the matter. The night before
he had gone on with the current; and now time had been afforded him to
ask himself how far that current had carried him. He was doubtful
whether he had not been borne too far; there were doubts, hesitations,
apprehensions in his mind; and he was grave--very grave indeed. He had
wished Miss Slingsby good-morning, he had expressed a hope she had
rested well, he had been most gracefully courteous--too courteous; for
very polished surfaces are generally cold; and Isabella, who had come
down with the intention of speaking to him frankly and freely upon
matters that interested her deeply, had shrunk into herself more than
was her wont.
Beauchamp opened the letter, however, with rather a languid and
unexpectant air, but the first words seemed to rivet his attention.
The eye of Isabella, without her will, or rather against it, fixed
upon him. She saw his cheek turn pale, then glow again warmly, and
then a glad and well-satisfied smile curled his lip. He ended the
letter, and, looking towards the ceiling, his lips moved for an
instant, and, folding up the paper, he put it in his pocket, giving
way for a few seconds to thought, which did not seem unsatisfactory.
Isabella Slingsby was the most straightforward girl in the world, by
nature; and she had but one class of experimental teaching in regard
to concealing her feelings. She could hide, occasionally, how much she
disliked some of her father's guests; she could conceal from him how
painful to her was much that she saw under his own roof. In every
thing else, however, she was as frank as the day; and, seeing Mr.
Beauchamp receive a letter, and look not discontented with it, she
said, somewhat inconsiderately:
"You seem to have had pleasant intelligence, Mr. Beauchamp?"
That gentleman turned his eyes suddenly upon her, and very fine and
lustrous eyes they were, and he gazed at her for an instant with a
smile so blended with many emotions, that Isabella, she knew not why,
cast down her eyes, and coloured. After a brief pause, he replied:
"Not unpleasant, Miss Slingsby; for so strange a thing is the heart of
man, or, rather I should say, so strange a thing is his fate, that, in
the course of years and with the change of circumstances, there will
be pleasure even in the total ending of what were once bright hopes.
The things we coveted and obtained, in the world's variation become
burdensome to us; as, at the end of a long day's journey, we lay down
with relief the weight which, at the outset, we carried with joy or
pride."
"That is because men are so fickle, I suppose," answered Isabella.
"The only constant beings on earth are women and Newfoundland dogs,
Mr. Beauchamp--it is so, I assure you, whatever you may think of it. I
know the wicked world takes a different view of the subject; but the
world is man's; and women might very well say a different picture
would be produced, 'if we lions were painters!'"
"Nay," answered Beauchamp, laughing, "I am not one of those evil
speakers and slanderers. I have had time to observe in the world where
I have been these many years as a mere spectator, watching the
characters of men and women; and I can justly say, that there are, at
least, ten good women for one good man. Circumstances may have
something to do with it; education, opportunity for good or evil; but
still there must be a fine and pure spirit at the heart, teaching to
avoid evil and to seek good."
"I believe, in truth, there is," answered Mrs. Clifford, joining in
the conversation; "and that the bent of almost every woman's mind is
towards that which is right. But if you are the creatures of
circumstances, Mr. Beauchamp, we are, in many, respects, the creatures
of your hands; you give the bent and the direction of somewhat more
than half our thoughts, I am afraid, and are--"
"To be blamed, if you go wrong," exclaimed Sir John Slingsby, with a
loud laugh; "to be sure, to be sure; that is a woman's philosophy, my
dear Harriet; all that she does good is her own, all that she does
wrong is man's; but let me tell you, my dear sister, that there is no
little doubt, in the minds of the best informed, which has the most
influence; man over woman, or woman over man. I am of the last
opinion; and I see it every day in my case and that of others; here
this girl, Isabella, rules me with a rod of iron--does any thing she
likes with me; but, by my faith, for this day I shall abstract myself
from her authority; for I have some business to settle during the
morning; and she must entertain her guests as she can. Mr. Beauchamp,
if you leave my house during the next four-and-twenty hours, it will
be a clear proof that Miss Slingsby does not entertain you properly;
and I shall be very angry with her inhospitality, if I do not find you
at lunch and dinner, tea and supper, and breakfast to-morrow morning;
for I shall be quite sure she has not made my house agreeable."
"An imputation that I should be the last to bring upon Miss Slingsby,"
said Mr. Beauchamp; and in truth he seemed to feel what he said; for
when they rose from the breakfast-table, and the party sauntered to
the window, in that pleasant indolence which generally succeeds the
first meal of the day--that five minutes that succeeds to breakfast,
in short, before we put on the armour of active exertion--he attached
himself closely to Miss Slingsby's side, engaged her in conversation
so light and cheerful, that the whole character of the man seemed
changed. Not that what he said was without thought; for there was a
deep undercurrent of reflection running all the time, which gave it
quite a different tone from what is called small-talk. It was
sparkling, brilliant, even playful; but its principal effect on the
minds of those who heard was to set them thinking. There was a marked
attention in his manner towards Isabella Slingsby, which flattered her
a little. She might have perceived before that he was struck with her
beauty, that he admired her, that he liked her society, when he had
twice or thrice met her at Dr. Miles's. She had thought him
exceedingly agreeable, and had fancied that he thought her so too; but
there had been nothing said or done--not one word, one look, one
gesture, that could set imagination flying any further; and she had
rested satisfied with letting things take their course, without any
other feeling than a slight degree of regret that her father had not
made the acquaintance of one so superior in manners and in mind to the
generality of those around. During the preceding evening, Beauchamp
had appeared in no other character than that of the calm, dignified,
quiet, and well-informed gentleman. But after breakfast his attentions
were more pointed; and Isabella felt a little agitated, and doubtful
of what all this would come to. She was not fond of any thing that
agitated her: and therefore, somewhat more abruptly than was
necessary, she broke through the conversation that was going on
saying:
"Mr. Beauchamp, Mary and I have entered into a compact to go down and
see Captain Hayward win his bet."
"What bet?" asked Beauchamp, who had forgotten all about it.
"To catch the largest trout in the river before twelve o'clock,"
replied Isabella; "will you escort us? My dear aunt, won't you come
too?"
"No, my dear," answered Mrs. Clifford; "I have letters to write, too,
like your father."
"I have no letters to write," exclaimed Sir John Slingsby, somewhat
petulantly; "I wish I had nothing less pleasant to do; but I have to
see the steward and a damned lawyer about business--the greatest bores
on earth. I wish to Heaven Peter the Great had been but autocrat of
England for a bare month. Heaven and earth! how he would have thinned
the roll of attorneys!--or if we could but bring them under the
cutting and maiming act, what hanging and transporting we should have.
I am sure they cut up our time and our comforts, maim our property,
and cripple our resources. But the devil never abandons his own; and
so they slip out of every noose that is made to catch them. There's
that fellow, Stephen Gimlet, can make, they say, springes that will
catch woodcocks and snipes, hares, pheasants, partridges, ruffs, and
rees; hang me, if I don't ask him if he has not got any trap that will
strangle an attorney."
"If he fails, ask Ned Hayward," said Isabella, half jokingly, half
earnestly; "I have no doubt he would furnish you with what you want."
"Perhaps he would, perhaps he would," answered Sir John; "not a bad
thought, Bella; but hang it, I must go and see the steward before that
fellow Wharton comes. So good bye, good bye, for the present. Mind the
luncheon time; and if Ned loses and does not bring me home a trout of
at least three pounds, we'll drink his health in a bottle of the old
hermitage--get your shawls and bonnets, get your shawls and bonnets;
and now, Harriet, if you want to send over to your place, be quick
with your letters, for I have got a man going to Tarningham at
twelve."
Mrs. Clifford left the room with her brother, and was followed
immediately by her daughter and niece. Beauchamp walked out into the
hall, and got his hat, gave some directions to one of the servants in
regard to sending up some of his clothes from the inn at Tarningham,
when any body was sent down to the town; and then returned to the
window of the breakfast-room. There he paused and looked out,
revolving various things in his mind, and coming to the half-muttered
conclusion, at length: "It must be so, it is quite clear--it is
certain." But when any one determines that a thing is quite clear, is
certain, before we agree with him in opinion, we should know what
other trains of thought are going on in his mind at the moment,
jostling this idea and that out of their right places, leaving others
far behind, and stimulating others again to run at lightning speed,
the Lord knows whither, to win their race. It is not at all
impossible, that if you or I, dear reader, could see into Mr.
Beauchamp's mind at this moment, we might come to a very different
conclusion on the premises, and think that the proposition was any
thing but, _quite_ clear, the result not at all _certain_.
However that might be, there he stood with his hat in his hand, in
very good spirits, when Miss Slingsby and her cousin appeared.
Isabella was rather fluttered, as we have said, about something or
another; she felt a timidity that was not usual with her, and she got
her cousin between herself and Mr. Beauchamp before they reached the
door, as if she intended that he should offer Mary Clifford his arm.
Beauchamp man[oe]uvred so skilfully, however, that before they were
through the door and down the steps, he was by Isabella's side again,
and, as she had two sides, one of which was certain to be unprotected,
while that side was almost certain to be the point of attack to a
dexterous enemy, she gave up the battle at once, and let things take
their course.
The walk, as Isabella managed it, was an exceedingly pleasant one. In
the first place, there were the beauties of nature. To what heart,
under what circumstances, do the beauties of nature fail to bring
sweet feelings? There is something in the universe, of which we have
no definite conception; perhaps, it is too universal, too wide, too
vast, to submit itself to any thing like demonstration. We all feel
it, we all know it, we all enjoy it. The ancients and some of the
moderns have deified it and called it Pan. It is, in fact, the
universal adaptation of one thing to another: the harmony of all God's
works; the infinite music of an infinite variety. It is figured in
music--faintly figured; for music is only the image of the whole by a
part; the sequence of bright things is the melody of creation; their
synchronous existence, the harmony of God's Almighty will. But in
this, as in all else, woe be unto those who have worshipped the
creature of the Creator, and who have mistaken this grand harmony in
the infinity of created things, for the Godhead itself. It is but one
of the expressions of Almighty love, and those expressions are as
infinite as the love from which they emanate. It is our finite, our
contracted, our exceedingly minute view of all things, that constantly
keeps us down from the contemplation and the conception of the
immeasurable to that which is within the ken of our own microscopic
vision. If creation itself is infinite, the infinite harmony thereof
is but a part of creation, and is in itself a proof of that
intelligent Providence, which man denies, because he does not see.
The walk was an exceedingly pleasant one, coming in varied scenes upon
the mind, each contrasted with the other, yet each harmonising
beautifully. After about a hundred and fifty or two hundred yards of
short turf they entered a glade, where tall trees, backed by deep
shrubs, cut off the sunbeams, except where here and there they
struggled through an open spot. Tall beeches, more than a century old,
crossed their arms above to give shade to the ground below, and though
the walk, nearly fifty feet in breadth from bole to bole of the old
trees, was mown along its whole extent, yet a little to one side and
the other the wild flowers appeared gemming the earth like stars upon
a firmament of green. There was the purple columbine and the blue
periwinkle, and the yellow primrose, and the pale bending anemone; the
hyacinth and the violet; and if art had had any share therein, the
arrangement of the flowers was so skilfully managed, that all seemed
owing but to nature's hand. The deep branches of the beech, and the
green shade that they cast through the air, gave a solemn and
elevating tone to the whole. The flowers and the occasional bursts of
sunshine, the rich colours of the moss, yellow and brown, and green,
enlivened the scene, and made the solemn stillness of the long avenue
seem like a thoughtful countenance brightened by a smile. Then
suddenly, when they had walked on for about a quarter of a mile, they
turned to the left through a wide break in the alley, and all was
wonderfully changed. Shade and melancholy was gone; and they stood
upon the edge of a round sloping descent of some three or four hundred
feet covered with green short turf, and marked out, at short
distances, by chumps of birches and hawthorns. On the right was the
woody crest of the hill, concealing in its bosom the continuation of
the avenue, which they had just quitted; but on the left, wide over
the tree tops and waving ground beyond, stretched out an extensive
prospect in the sunshine, all light and loveliness. It was one of the
bright days of early summer. Scarcely a cloud was in the sky, and yet
there was a softening effect in the atmosphere, which mellowed the
lights and shades into each other, and suffered the sight to pass
softly and gently from each line of the distance to that which
succeeded with a sort of dreamy pleasure, vague and indefinite, but
very sweet, like the sounds that sometimes come upon our sleeping ears
in the visions of the morning.
Skirting along the hill with a gradual descent, the broad gravel-walk
plunged into the valley, and there all was altered once more. A wide
and uncultivated wood swept round, a small sparkling rivulet dashing
on towards the broader stream amidst bushes and shrubs and water
plants; a willow here and there bending down its long pliant branches
over the glittering stream, and a patch of tall bulrushes raising
their long green stems, where any occasional interruption occasioned
the water to spread out. The trees were far apart, though the ground
was broken and uneven, and the flapping wing of a heron, with his gray
shadowy form rising up at some fifty or sixty yards' distance, added
to the saddening and sombering effect. It was like a discord in a fine
piece of music: just protracted long enough to make what had gone
before and what followed after more delightful, and the next minute
they issued forth upon the warm green meadows, gilded with buttercups,
that lay by the side of the wider river.
Heaven only knows what Isabella meant in bringing Beauchamp by that
path, if she did not intend him to make love to her. She could have
taken him round by the other side of the house, and the straight
horse-road to the bridge, or down over the turf through the open parts
of the park, amongst the deer and fern to the farther end of the
river, where it issued out of the grounds. But no, whether from
something that was going on in her own bosom, which made her
instinctively choose the scenes that most assimilated with her
feelings, or from accident, caprice, or design, she led him through a
path, full of the sense of love. There was one too many for a
declaration, it is true; and she knew she was so far guarded; but yet
it was a very dangerous walk for any two people, whose hearts had no
better security than the simple presence of another, to stray along
upon such a day as that.
The letter, which Beauchamp had received at breakfast, had evidently
either pleased, or entertained, or relieved him; but the effect was,
that he was infinitely gayer when he set out than he had ever been
since we have first met with him. He crossed the open ground by
Isabella's side with a firmer and more elastic step, with his head
high and his shoulders back, he gazed over the wide-spread park
scenery around, and seemed to snuff the air like a horse about to
start upon a race. He commented upon the loveliness of such views,
remarked how very English they were--how very seldom one ever saw any
thing similar in any other land--and seemed to enjoy the whole so
highly, as to leave an impression that the pleasure of the walk was
heightened by the society in which it was taken. When he came under
the shade of the tall trees his tone was somewhat changed, it became
softer, more serious, more earnest; and so he went on, his thoughts
seeming to receive a colouring from the scenery through which he
passed, without losing their general character, or particular train at
the moment. It was evident through all that he was thinking of
Isabella Slingsby; and though, with finished courtesy, he divided his
conversation very equally--not quite--between her and her cousin, yet
even when he was speaking to Mary Clifford, it was very evident that
his words, or at all events, his thoughts, were addressed to Isabella.
Mary said little, except just to keep up the conversation and deprive
it of any thing like awkwardness; but she felt, and indeed nobody
could help feeling, that Mr. Beauchamp's manner towards her cousin was
too marked and particular to be mistaken. Isabella, on her part, gave
way to all the gaiety of her heart, sometimes with bright and laughing
sallies playing round Beauchamp's more earnest and deep-toned
thoughts, sometimes yielding to the impulse which she imparted, and
venturing into the deep waters of feeling and reflection, whither he
led her, till startled at herself she took fright and retreated. She
was very happy, too; secure in Mary's presence from any thing that
might agitate or alarm, she felt that she could give way to the
pleasure of the moment; and even the knowledge of her father's
situation and of the dangers and difficulties that beset him acted but
as a softening and subduing power, which brought down her spirits from
their habitual gaiety, and rendered her heart more susceptible of
tenderer and deeper impressions.
Beauchamp felt that he was listened to, that he pleased, that he might
be beloved. He had seen nothing coquettish about Isabella; he had
heard a high character of her; he had been told by one, who had known
her from childhood, that she seemed lighter than she really was; that
if there was any thing assumed, it was the gaiety; that all the more
profound things, that occasionally appeared in her character, might be
trusted and relied upon; and that the seemingly high spirits were but
as the breeze, that ruffles the tree tops without touching the depth
of the forest. He felt sure, therefore, that she would not sport with
him, if she believed he was in earnest, and he took care, that upon
that subject she should have little doubt.
Thus passed away their walk; and though Mary Clifford would have given
a great deal, had she dared to venture, to make Mr. Beauchamp a sharer
in the secret of Sir John Slingsby's affairs, and asked the advice and
assistance of one who had evidently gained much experience of the
world, without being spoiled by the world, yet she knew not how to
begin; a feeling of timidity came over her that stopped her; and the
course of the conversation--its sparkling rapidity at some times, its
deep and intense feelings at others--gave no opportunity of
introducing a subject entirely discordant, without forcing it in a
manner both harsh and discourteous. She determined, therefore, as they
approached the river, to leave the matter to Captain Hayward, whose
frank straightforwardness, she thought, would soon either find or make
an opportunity.
When they reached the bank, however, Captain Hayward was not to be
seen; but Isabella pointed to an elbow of the wood, which concealed a
turn in the stream, saying that he was most likely higher up, and
accordingly they walked on. As they were passing through the little
path that cut through an angle of the woodland, they heard suddenly a
loud exclamation, then a very ungentlemanly oath, and the next moment,
as they issued forth, they saw Ned Hayward grappling with a tall,
powerful man, in what may be called a semi-military dress. The two
were, apparently, well matched, though few, either in strength,
activity, or skill, could match our friend. But the stranger, whoever
he was, practised a trick, which he thought likely to free himself
from his adversary, even at the risk of his own life. He struggled
hard, and in the struggle drew towards the brink. Ned Hayward made a
violent effort to resist the impulse, and most likely would have been
successful; for, if any thing, he was the stronger man of the two. But
a part of the green turf gave way, undermined by the course of the
current, and both plunged in together into a deep pool, and
disappeared for an instant in the water.