It is a very unpleasant position indeed to be above your neck in the
water, with another man holding fast by your collar, especially if it
be by both hands. It may be a friend who has so got you, it may be an
enemy; but the operation comes to pretty nearly the same thing in both
cases; and that the result is not at all an agreeable one, I say it
boldly and without fear of contradiction; for, although drowning is
said to be accompanied by no real pain, and I have heard many
half-drowned persons declare that it is rather pleasant than
otherwise, yet that is only a part of the process, not the result;
then again Sir Peter Laurie can witness, that there are multitudes of
persons, who, after having taken one suffocating dip in Mother Thames,
repeat the attempt perseveringly, as if they found it very delightful
indeed; but still I contend that they have not come to the end of the
thing, and, therefore, can give no real opinion. "To lie in cold
obstruction and to rot," to become the prey of the lean, abhorred
monster death, to separate from the warm tenement in which our abode
on earth has been made, to part with the companionship of all the
senses and sensations, the thrills and feelings, which have been our
friends, our guides, our monitors, our servants, our officers in the
course of mortal existence--this is the result of that tight pressure
upon the cravat or coat-collar which we shrink from, when, with our
head under the water, we feel the fingers of friend or enemy
approaching too near the organs of respiration. If the gentleman
grasps our legs we can kick him off; if he seizes our hands we can
often shake him away; but the deadly pressure upon the chest and neck;
the clinging, grasping energy of those small digits on the throat,
when we find that, half a second more and life is gone, is perhaps as
unpleasant a thing as often falls to the lot of mortal man to feel.
Now Ned Hayward, I have endeavoured to impress upon the reader's mind,
was a brave, bold, determined fellow as ever lived. There was no
danger he would not have fronted, no fate he would not have risked for
a good and worthy object. He was a good swimmer, too; but when after a
headlong plunge into the water he felt himself undermost in the fall,
out of his depth, his feet entangled in a weed, and the fingers and
thumbs of Captain Moreton tight upon his throat, he was seized with an
irresistible propensity to knock him off by any means, even at the
risk of losing his prisoner. The first method that suggested itself
was a straightforward blow at his adversary, and that taking effect
upon his chest was successful with a man half-drowned himself. His
antagonist let go his hold, rose as fast as he could, dashed at the
other bank, gained the ground and was off. Poor Ned Hayward, however,
soon found that if he had freed himself from one enemy, he was still
in the power of another. It is a terrible thing that a strong,
powerful man, instinct with every energy and quality of high animal
life, and, moreover, having an immortal soul, to be kept or parted
with, should every now and then be completely at the mercy of a thin,
pitiful, pulpy weed, which, to all appearances, might be broken or
smashed in a moment. But moments are very important things, and the
_vis inertiæ_ a tremendous power. The weed made no attempt to hold the
young gentleman, it neither grasped his legs, nor clasped his knees,
but it was carried by the current around the ankles of Ned Hayward,
and there, somehow or other, it stuck fast, preventing him from
moving; in fact, it was like many a great politician (in the world's
opinion), who operate many great changes upon their neighbours by mere
_vis inertiæ_, waiting till the tide of circumstances brings them to
action, and then holding fast to a particular point till all
opposition is drowned.
Such had well-nigh been the case with Ned Hayward; for what little
strength he had left was nearly expended in the blow he gave to
Captain Moreton; and when he found that his feet were entangled in the
weed which would not have snapped a single gut-line with a May-fly at
the end of it, his powers did not suffice to tear himself away. This
history, as far as he was concerned, seemed likely to come to a hasty
conclusion, when suddenly he found a strong hand grasp his arm just
below the shoulder, and give his whole frame a vehement impulse
towards the surface of the water. The next instant he saw, heard,
breathed, once more; and before he had time to do either of these
things above a second, he found his right elbow leaning on the bank,
and Mr. Beauchamp, who was not very well aware whether he was dead,
alive, or half-drowned, endeavouring to draw him up on the bank. To
use the words of the poet, in a very indecent episode of a very chaste
and beautiful poem--
One stupid moment motionless he stood;
but the next puff of the right element which went into his lungs
recalled all his activity, and up he jumped on the bank with a spring
which astonished Beauchamp, made Isabella Slingsby draw back, and
brought a faint colour into Mary Clifford's cheek. The glow was
accompanied by a smile, however, which showed that this proof of Ned
Hayward's still active powers was not unpleasant to her.
The first thing the young officer did, however, was to shake Mr.
Beauchamp warmly by the hand, exclaiming,
"Upon my life you were just in time--it was nearly over with me--I
could not have stood it half a minute longer. Every thing was turning
green, and I know that's a bad sign."
The next thing was to pick up his fishing-rod and tackle, crying, as
he raised them from the ground,
"He has frightened away that big old trout; I should have had him in
another second; I may have to walk half an hour more before I find
such another; I could see him eyeing the fly all ready for a rise."
"But who was the gentleman?"
"What was the quarrel about?"
"Why did you seize him?" demanded Isabella, Mary, and Beauchamp, all
together.
Let the reader remark, that each framed his question differently.
"That is the man who fired the shot into the window last night,"
replied Ned Hayward, looking curiously at the fly upon his hook; and
two of his companions instantly turned their eyes in the direction
which Captain Moreton had taken, with a look of alarm, as if they
feared he would fire another shot from the bushes amongst which he had
disappeared. Beauchamp, for his part, cast down his eyes and said
nothing--not a word! Nay more; he shut his teeth close and drew his
lips over them, as if he were afraid he should say something; and
then, after a moment's pause, he turned to Ned Hayward, saying,
"Had you not better give up this fishing, come up to the house and
change your clothes?"
"Oh dear no," cried Ned Hayward, "on no account whatever; I'll catch
my fish before twelve o'clock yet; and very likely have the very
fellow that our plunge scared away from here. Do you know, Beauchamp,
it is sometimes not a bad plan to frighten a cunning old speckled
gentleman like this, if you find that he is suspicious and won't bite.
I have tried it often, and found it succeed very well. He gets into a
fuss, dashes up or down, does not know well where to stop, and then,
out of mere irritation, bites at the first thing that is thrown in his
way. Come along and we shall see. He went down, I think, for I had an
eye upon him till he darted off."
"But you are very wet, too, Mr. Beauchamp," said Isabella. "If Captain
Hayward is too much of an old campaigner to change his clothes, I do
not see why you should neglect to do so."
"For the best reason in the world, my dear Miss Slingsby," replied
Beauchamp, "because I have no clothes here with which to change these
I have on."
"But there are plenty at the house," replied Isabella, eagerly.
"But I am afraid, they would not fit," replied Beauchamp, laughing; "I
am in no fear, however; for I am as old a campaigner as Captain
Hayward."
"Let us move about, at all events," said Mary Clifford; and following
Ned Hayward down the stream, they watched his progress, as he, intent
apparently upon nothing but his sport, went flogging the water, to see
what he could obtain. Three or four very large trout, skilfully
hooked, artistically played, and successfully landed, soon repaid his
labour; but Ned Hayward was not yet satisfied, but, at length, he
paused abruptly, and held up his finger to the others as a sign not to
approach too near. He was within about twenty yards of a spot where
the stream, taking a slight bend, entered into sort of pass between
two low copses, one on either hand, composed of thin and feathery
trees, the leaves of which, slightly agitated by the wind, cast a
varying and uncertain light and shade upon the water. The river, where
he stood, was quite smooth; but ten steps further it fell over two or
three small plates of rock, which scattered and disturbed it, as it
ran, leaving a bubbling rapid beyond, and then a deep, but rippling
pool, with two or three sharp whirls in it, just where the shadows of
the leaves were dancing on the waters. Ned Hayward deliberately took
the fly off the line and put on another, fixing his eye, from time to
time, on a particular spot in the pool beyond. He then threw his line
on the side of the rapid next to him, let the fly float down with a
tremulous motion, kept it playing up and down on the surface of the
foam, with a smile upon his lips, then suffered it to be carried
rapidly on into the bubbling pool, as if carried away by the force of
the water, and held it for a moment quivering there; the next moment
he drew it sharply towards him, but not far. There was an instant rush
in the stream, and a sharp snap, which you might almost hear. The
slightest possible stroke of the rod was given, and then the wheel ran
rapidly off, while the patriarch of the stream dashed away with the
hook in his jaws. The instant he paused, he was wound up and drawn
gently along, and then he dashed away again, floundered and splashed,
and struck the shallow waters with his tail, till, at length,
exhausted and half-drowned, he was drawn gradually up to the rocks;
and Ned Hayward, wading in, landed him safely on the shore.
"This is the game of life, Miss Clifford," he said, as he put the
trout of more than three pounds' weight into the basket. "Rendered
cautious and prudent by some sad experiences, we shrink from every
thing that seems too easy of attainment, then, when we find something
that Fate's cunning hand plays before our eyes as if to be withdrawn
in a moment, we watch it with suspicious but greedy eagerness, till we
think a moment more will lose it for ever, then dart at it blindly,
and feel the hook in our jaws."
Mary Clifford smiled, and then looked grave; and Isabella laughed,
exclaiming,
"The moral of fly-fishing! And a good lesson, I suppose, you mean for
all over-cautious mammas--or did you mean it was a part of your own
history? Captain Hayward, retrospective and prophetic, or was it a
general disquisition upon man?"
"I am afraid man is the trout," said Beauchamp; "and not in one
particular pursuit, but all: love, interest, ambition, every one
alike. His course and end are generally the same."
"That speech of yours, fair lady, was so like a woman," said Ned
Hayward, turning to Miss Slingsby; "if it were not that my hands were
wet, I would presume upon knowing you as a child, and give you a good
shake. I thought you had been brought up enough with men, to know that
they are not always thinking of love and matrimony. You women have but
one paramount idea, as to this life's concerns I mean, and you never
hear any thing without referring it to that. However, after all,
perhaps, it is natural:
"Man's love is of man's life a thing apart.
'Tis woman's whole existence."
"Too sad a truth," replied Mary Clifford, thoughtfully; "perhaps it is
of too little importance in man's eyes; of too much in woman's."
"And yet how terribly she sometimes trifles with it," said Beauchamp,
in a still gloomier tone.
"Perhaps, you think, she trifles with every thing, Mr. Beauchamp,"
rejoined Isabella; "but men know so little of women, and see so little
of women as they really are, that they judge the many from the few:
and we must forgive them; nevertheless, even if it be true that they
do trifle with it, it is not the least proof that they do not feel it.
All beings are fond of sporting with what is bright and dangerous: the
moth round the candle, the child with the penknife, and man with
ambition."
"All mankind," said Ned Hayward, "men and women alike, get merrily
familiar with that which is frequently presented to their thoughts.
Look at the undertaker, or the sexton, how he jests with his fat
corpse, and only screws his face into a grim look when he has the
world's eye upon him; then jumps upon the hearse and canters back, to
get drunk and joyous at the next public-house."
"Hush! hush! Captain Hayward," cried Isabella, "I declare your figures
of speech are too horrible; we will have no more of such sad
conversation; can we not talk of something more pleasant as we go
back?"
"I don't know," said Ned Hayward, "I am in a moralising mood this
morning."
And as Isabella and Mr. Beauchamp walked on a little in advance to
pass the narrow path, which only admitted two abreast, he continued in
a somewhat lower tone, saying to Mary Clifford,
"I cannot get my spirits up this morning. The dangerous circumstances
of my good old friend, Sir John, vex me much. Have you spoken to your
cousin about them? She seems wonderfully gay."
"I have," answered Miss Clifford; "but it would need a heavy weight,
Captain Hayward, to sink her light heart. She promised to mention the
matter to Mr. Beauchamp, too; but I rather imagine from what has
occurred, that she had not done it."
"Oh, she has done it, depend upon it," replied the young officer; "and
that is what makes her so gay. But I must speak with Beauchamp myself,
and make the matter sure."
In the meantime, Beauchamp had walked on with Isabella; and there
could be little or no doubt, in the minds of any one who came behind
them, that he was making love. Not that they heard a word that was
said, no, not a single syllable, but there is a peculiar gesture
associated with the making of love, by a gentleman at least, which
distinguishes it from every other process. Beauchamp, as we have
described him, was above the middle height; but Isabella was not below
it; and there was not the slightest occasion for him to bend down his
head, in order that she might hear him distinctly, unless he had
something to say which he did not wish others to hear likewise. He did
bend down his head, however, and said what he had to say in a very low
tone; and, although he did not stare her rudely in the face, yet from
time to time he looked into her eyes, as if he thought them the
crystal windows of the heart. Isabella, on her side, did not bend her
head; she held it a little on one side, indeed, so as in the least
perceptible degree to turn the fine small ear to the words that were
poured into it; generally, however, she looked down, with the long
fringes veiling the violet of her eyes, though from time to time she
raised them at something that he said; and when her look met his, they
fell again. They had to cross over a little brook, and Beauchamp took
her hand to help her over. He drew it through his arm when he had
done, and there it rested for the remainder of the walk.
Involuntarily, and almost unconsciously as they marked this, Mary
Clifford and Captain Hayward turned to each other with a smile. The
impulse with each was to see if the other had remarked it--a very
simple impulse--but when their looks met, it made a more compound
phrase; and the anagram of the heart might read thus:
"May we not as well make love too?"
It was a sore temptation; but the next instant Ned Hayward's
countenance became exceedingly grave, and the warm healthy glow in his
cheek grew a shade paler.
If there was a struggle in his breast, it was brought to an end in
about five minutes; for, just as they were climbing the side of the
hill again, they were met by joyous old Sir John Slingsby, whose whole
face and air generally bore with it an emanation of cheerful content,
which is usually supposed, but, alas! mistakenly to be the peculiar
portion of the good and wise. Thoughtlessness, temperament, habit,
often possess that which is the coveted possession of wisdom and
virtue; and often in this world the sunshine of the heart spreads over
the pathway of him who neither sees his own misfortunes lying before
him, nor thinks of the sorrows of others scattered around.
"Ah, boys and girls, boys and girls!" cried the baronet, laughing,
"whither have you wandered so long? I have done a world of business
since you have been gone, thank Heaven; and, thank Heaven, have left a
world undone; so I shall never, like Alexander, that maudling,
drunken, rattle-pate of antiquity, have to weep for new worlds to
conquer. Ned Hayward, Ned Hayward, I have a quarrel with you. Absent
from evening drill and morning parade without leave! We will have you
tried by a court-martial, boy; but what news have you brought? did you
overtake the enemy? or was he too much for you? whither is he
retreated? and last, though not least, who and what is he?"
"On my life, Sir John, I do not know who he is," answered Ned Hayward.
"We have had two engagements, in which, I am fain to confess, he has
had the advantage, and has retreated in good order both times. I shall
catch him yet, however; but at present I have not time to give full
information; for--"
"Not time, not time!" cried the baronet; "what the devil have you done
with all your time, not to have half an hour to spare to your old
colonel?"
"In the first place, my dear Sir, I am wet," replied the young
officer, "for I have been in the water, and must change my clothes;
but I have won my bet, however; I promised to catch the best trout in
the river before noon; and there he is; match him if you can."
"Before noon," exclaimed Sir John Slingsby, taking out his watch;
"twenty minutes past twelve, by Jove!"
"Ay, but he has been caught twenty minutes," said Ned Hayward, "I will
appeal to all persons present."
"Well, granted, granted," exclaimed the baronet, "the bet's won, the
bet's won. You shall change your clothes, make yourself look like a
gentleman, and then tell the reverend company your story."
"Impossible," answered Ned Hayward, shaking his head; "I have forty
things to do."
"Forty things!" cried Sir John; "why I have finished two hundred and
fifty, upon a moderate computation, within an hour and ten minutes."
"Ah, my dear Sir," said the young gentleman, "but I have got to change
my clothes, write a letter, speak two words to Beauchamp, talk for a
quarter of an hour to Ste. Gimlet about his boy's education, pack up
some clothes, and be down at Tarningham in time for the coach to
London, as well as to induce your butler to give me some luncheon and
a glass of the best old sherry in your cellar."
"Pack up some clothes!--coach to London!" cried Sir John Slingsby, in
a more serious tone than he had yet used; "the boy is mad; his head is
turned! Ned Hayward, Ned Hayward, what the devil do you mean, Ned
Hayward?"
"Simply, my dear Sir John, that some business of importance calls me
to London immediately," rejoined his young friend; "but I shall be
down again to-morrow, or the next day at the furthest; and, in the
meantime, I leave you horse and gun, fishing-tackle and appurtenances,
which I give you free leave and licence to confiscate if I do not keep
my word."
"Well, well!" exclaimed the baronet, "go along, change your clothes,
and come and get some luncheon. I always thought you a great donkey,
Ned, and now I think so more than ever, when I see you quit
comfortable quarters for a dull stagecoach. Go along, I say, go
along; there's the door, which is always better said on the outside of
a house than in the in."
"Thank you, Sir John; but I must just speak a word with Beauchamp
first," replied Captain Hayward; and taking his new friend's arm, he
drew him a little on one side, while the baronet and the two ladies
entered the house.
"I have got a favour to ask you, Beauchamp," said Captain Hayward:
"matters have got into a complication between myself and this young
Wittingham, which may require a pistol-shot to unravel it. The fellow,
who fired through the window last night, certainly rode his horse; I
walked straight into his room, thinking I might find the man there. I
told him the occasion of my coming; he was insolent; and I informed
him civilly what I thought of him; he demanded satisfaction; and I
replied, that if there was a gentleman in the county that could be
found to act as his friend, I would do him the honour of meeting him.
Business, which one of the two ladies will give you a hint of, if they
have not done so already, calls me immediately to London. I have
written to tell him so, but that I shall be down the day after
to-morrow. In the meantime, I shall tell the people at the White Hart,
if any one comes from him, to refer them to you. Arrange the affair,
therefore, for me, should such be the case, and, remember, the
earliest possible time and the quietest possible manner--I'll bring my
pistols--but we must break off, here comes Sir John Slingsby again;
not a word to him on any account, there's a good fellow; and now let
us talk of something else."