And what were Ned Hayward and Mary Clifford talking about? Wait one
minute, and you shall hear all about it; but first let me pause to
make only one remark. I have observed during some acquaintance with
life, and a good deal of examination into all its curious little
byways and narrow alleys, that the conversation which takes place
between two people left alone to talk together, without any witnesses
but green fields and bowery trees, is never, or at least very seldom,
that which any one, even well acquainted with them, would have
anticipated from a previous knowledge of their characters. It was an
extremely right, just, and proper view of the case, that was taken,
when people (I do not know who), decided that three forms a
congregation. We all know it: we all feel it instinctively. Three is a
congregation; and when we speak before a congregation, we speak to a
congregation.
But Mary Clifford and Ned Hayward were alone together; and now a word
or two upon the frame of mind in which they met. Ned Hayward, since
first we introduced him to our readers, had taken a great part in many
things where Mary Clifford was concerned. He had first made her
acquaintance in rescuing her gallantly from the brutal and shameless
attempt to carry her off, of a man whom she detested. He had told her
kindly and frankly of her uncle's embarrassed and dangerous situation.
He had without the slightest ostentation offered the means of
relieving him from the most pressing of his difficulties, and had gone
up to London to accomplish what he offered, with a mixture of delicacy
of feeling and gay open-hearted readiness, which doubled the value of
all he did. He had come down again, fought a duel with the man who had
insulted her, received a severe wound, suffered, and put himself to
great inconvenience; and then had been found prepared at the moment of
need, to redeem his given word in her uncle's behalf, without
hesitation or reluctance, though evidently at a great sacrifice.
Nevertheless, all these things might have gone no further than the
mind, even with a calm, gentle, feeling creature like herself.
Gratitude she could not have avoided entertaining under such
circumstances, respect, very high esteem; but she might have felt
nothing more had that been all. There was a great deal more, however.
Ned Hayward had disappointed all Mary Clifford's preconceived ideas of
his character; and had gone on growing upon her regard every hour. She
had found him thoughtful, where she had believed him to be heedless;
feeling, where she had expected him to be selfish; full of deep
emotions, where she had fancied him light; well-informed and of
cultivated tastes, instead of superficial and careless; and being
imperatively called upon to do him justice in her own heart, she went
on and did perhaps something more. But still this was not all; he had
first excited wonder, curiosity, and pleasure, then admiration and
esteem, then interest and sympathy. Tie all these up in a parcel, with
gratitude for great services rendered, and a great number of musings
regarding him in silence and in solitude, and what will be the result?
Day by day after the duel she had thought of him--perhaps, I might
have said, night after night. Then, when she had seen him again, and
knew him to be ill and suffering, she had thought of him with deeper
feelings still, and even oftener than before; and when at length he
came over with reviving health, and took up his abode in the same
house with herself, she returned to her old manner of thinking of him,
with a number of new sensations blending in her meditations; and she
fancied that she was studying his character all the while. What was it
that she compared it to? She thought it was like a deep beautiful
valley, so full of sunshine, that no eye, but one very near, could see
the fair things that it contained. I do not know what all this was,
readers; but I think it looked very like falling in love.
Nevertheless, though these things might cause Mary Clifford to love
Edward Hayward, the reader may suppose that they afforded no reason
why he should love her--but that is a mistake. Love is like a cast and
a mould, where there is an impression upon both, different, yet
representing the same object. Love at first sight--love which springs
merely from the eye, is a thing apart; but love which proceeds from
acts and words and looks, is generally, though not always,
conscientious. The very deeds, which performed towards another, beget
it in that other, beget it also in ourselves. A woman is cherished and
protected. She loves the being who does cherish and protect her,
because he does; and he loves her because he cherishes and protects.
Ned Hayward had thought Mary exquisitely beautiful from the first; but
that would not have been enough--he was not a doll fancier! But her
conversation pleased him, her gentle sweetness charmed him, her
situation and all that it produced between them interested him,
and ... But he had thoroughly made up his mind not to fall in love;
and that was all that was wanting to make the thing complete. There
was only one difficulty or objection. Mary Clifford had, what was
called in those days, a large fortune. The dean, her father, had been
a wealthy and a prudent man; and he had left her about two thousand a
year, her mother's jointure not included. Now, Ned Hayward had, as the
reader knows, very little from the beginning; that little was now
still less; and he had determined to hate all heiresses. Hate Mary
Clifford! Pooh, pooh, Ned Hayward!
However, a certain undefinable sensation of being very far gone in
love--the perception of feeling she had never experienced before, had
made him very sad and uneasy for the last five or six days. He would
have run away if he could; for he thought there was only safety in
flight. But he could not go. He was not well enough to take a long
journey; and he had promised Beauchamp to stay for his marriage. But
marriage is an infectious disease; and even in its incipient stages,
it is catching. Ned Hayward thought a great deal of marriage during
those five or six days, of what a lucky man Beauchamp was, and of how
happy he would be if he had only a tithe of his wealth--with Mary
Clifford. But Ned Hayward was not a man to find himself in a difficult
and dangerous situation without facing it boldly. He felt, that he had
suffered himself to be entangled in a very tough sort of the tender
passion, and he resolved to break through the net, and, in fact, quit
Tarningham-house as soon as possible. But a few days remained to be
passed ere that appointed for Beauchamp's marriage; and he fancied he
could very well get through that short period without any further
danger or detriment. "He would see as little of Mary Clifford as
possible," he thought; "he would employ himself in reading, in walking,
in riding out with Sir John, as soon as he was strong enough;" and
thus, as usual with all men, he proposed to do a thousand things,
that he never did at all; and consoled himself with resolutions that
could not be executed.
On the day of Beauchamp's departure for London, Ned Hayward rose
early, breakfasted with his friend, saw him off, and then, according
to the plan he had proposed, walked out into the fine sunny morning
air, intending to spend the greater part of the summer day in some of
the cool and more retired parts of the park.
It was, at least, two hours before the usual time of breakfast;
he had not an idea that any of the family was up; and thus pursuing
one of the gravel walks away from the house, he went in among the
chestnut-trees, and strolled on, fancying himself perfectly alone in
the woods, when suddenly, in taking a turn, the path showed him the
fair face and graceful form of Mary Clifford advancing towards him at
the distance of about fifty or sixty paces. To avoid her, of course,
was quite out of the question; but Ned Hayward resolved, that he would
only speak to her for a moment, and then go on. But, Heaven knows how
it happened; in about two minutes he might be seen turning round with
her; and their walk continued for nearly an hour and a half.
"Well, Miss Clifford," he said, with as gay a look as he could
command, "Beauchamp is gone. Have you been taking a long walk?"
"No, not very far," answered Mary, "I saw some strange people crossing
the park; and ever since that adventure which first made us acquainted
with each other, I have become very cowardly. I therefore turned back;
otherwise I should have much enjoyed a ramble for I have a slight
headache."
What could Ned Hayward do under such circumstances? He could not avoid
offering to escort and protect Miss Clifford--he could not even
hesitate to propose it. Mary did not refuse; but her yes, was timidly
spoken; and, instead of turning back with Ned Hayward through the wild
wood walks, she made him turn back with her, and led him to the more
open parts of the park, where the house was generally in sight.
A momentary silence had fallen over both before they issued forth from
under the chestnut-trees; and each felt some awkwardness in breaking
that silence: the surest possible sign of there being very strong
feelings busy at the heart; but Mary felt that the longer the silence
continued, the more awkward would it become, and the more clearly
would it prove that she was thoughtful and embarrassed; and therefore
she spoke at random, saying,
"What a beautiful day it is for Lord Lenham's journey. I envy him the
first twenty miles of his drive."
"I envy him in all things," answered Ned Hayward; "his life may, and,
indeed, seems likely to be made up of beautiful days; and I am very
sure that mine is not."
"Nay, Captain Hayward," said Mary, raising her eyes gently to his
face, and shaking her head with a smile, "you are in low spirits and
unwell, otherwise you would never take so bright a view of your
friend's fate, and so dark a one of your own. Many a fair and
beautiful day may be, and ought to be, in reserve for you. Indeed,
they must be; for your own heart lays up, by the acts it prompts, a
store of sunshine and brightness for the days to come."
"May it not rather lay up, by the feelings it experiences, a store of
bitterness and sorrow, of clouds and darkness?" asked Ned Hayward, in
a tone so different from that he commonly used, that Mary started,
gazed for a moment at him, and then, letting her eyes fall again as
they met his, first coloured slightly, and then turned pale. By the
marks of emotion which she displayed, Ned Hayward was led to believe,
that he had spoken too plainly of what he had never intended to touch
upon at all; and he hastened to repair the error.
"What I mean is simply this, my dear Miss Clifford," he said; "a man
who enjoys himself very much--as I do--feels pain in the same
proportion, or perhaps more keenly. Every source of pleasure is an
inlet to pain, and as we go on continually in this world, losing
something dear to us, day by day, I am occasionally inclined to envy
those cold phlegmatic gentlemen who, with a very tolerable store of
pleasures, have few pains but corporeal ones. I never pretend to be a
very sentimental person, or to have very fine feelings, or any thing
of that sort; but now as an instance of what I was speaking of, I
cannot think of quitting this beautiful spot, and all the friends who
have shown me so much kindness, as I must do on Monday next, without a
sort of sinking at the heart, which is very unpleasant."
"You do not mean to say you are going on Monday!" exclaimed Miss
Clifford, pausing suddenly, with the colour varying in her cheek.
Ned Hayward was surprised and pleased; for there was no attempt to
conceal that his staying or going was a matter of interest to her. He
answered, however, gravely, even sadly,
"I fear I must."
"But you have forgotten your promised visit to us at Hinton," said
Mary, reproachfully, and deadly pale; "you promised to come, you know;
I have counted upon that visit as affording an opportunity of settling
how and where, when I come of age, which will now be in a few months,
the money you so generously lent me, can be repaid.--Indeed," she
added, earnestly, "you must come there for a few days, even if you do
not stay here."
There was a tenderness, a tremulous softness in her tone, a slight yet
sufficiently marked agitation in her manner, which made Ned Hayward's
heart beat.
"Can I be beloved?" he asked himself. "Can she return the feelings she
has inspired? I will soon know!--My dear Miss Clifford," he replied,
"I fear that visit would prove more dangerous to me than this has
been; and, therefore, however unwillingly--however great would have
been the delight, I must decline it."
Mary Clifford looked down without uttering a word; but her cheek
remained pale, her lip quivered as if she would fain have given voice
to some reply; and though her arm was not in his, he could feel that
she trembled. Ned Hayward's heart beat too; but there was, as we have
often seen before, a frankness, a straightforward simplicity in his
habitual course of action, which overleaped many a difficulty that
would have baffled other men.
"Let me explain," he said, but Mary made a slight motion with her
hand, saying,
"Oh, no, no!" in a faint tone, and then she repeated the word
"dangerous!"
"Yes," he said, "more dangerous, dear Miss Clifford! Can you not
conceive how and why?--In a word, then, I cannot and must not stay
with you longer. I must by as speedy a return as possible to other
occupations, make an effort to forget that I have ever seen one, whom
I fear I have already known too long for the peace of my whole life."
He paused for a moment with a sigh, raised his head high the next
instant, and then added, "I have but one favour to ask you, which is
this--not to let what I have just said make any difference in your
demeanor towards me, during the short period of my stay. I had no
intention of troubling your ear with such things at all; but your own
question brought forth what I would willingly have concealed--perhaps
in this I have been wrong; but believe me, I am very well aware that
difference of fortune has placed a barrier between us which cannot be
overleaped. This is the only favour, then, dear lady--do not alter
towards me--let me see you ever the same as I have yet beheld you; and
when I go away for ever, let me carry with me the remembrance of Mary
Clifford as a picture of all that deserves love and admiration upon
earth.--Do not, do not change, notwithstanding my rash confessions."
Mary Clifford looked up in his face, and a varying light played in her
eyes, as if, at one moment, it was about to break forth sportively,
and at another would have drowned itself out in tears.
"I must change, Hayward!" she said at length, with a bright smile upon
her lip, "indeed you ask too much. How can you expect that I should
live in the same house with you, and know that you love me, without
showing in some degree what is passing in my own breast?"
"Mary! Mary!" he exclaimed, laying his hand upon her arm, and gazing
in her face, "you would not--oh, I am sure you would not trifle with
me--"
"Not for the world," she answered. "Edward, I am incapable of trifling
with any man; but with you, to whom I owe so much, it would be base
indeed!"
"But the great disparity of fortune," said her lover, with the shade
again upon his brow. "Oh, Mary, how can it ever be? You, I have heard,
are wealthy--they call you 'the heiress'--and I know myself to be
poor. Are you aware--surely I told you, that all I had saved out of
the wreck of my father's fortune, only amounted at first to--"
"Will you pain me?--Do you wish to grieve me?" asked Mary Clifford,
"if not, do not mention such matters as in any way likely to affect my
feelings or conduct; and yet I do not wish you to consider me as a
romantic girl, for I am not. I have always thought that a competence
must be possessed to render the lives of any two people happy; but
surely it matters not on whose side that competence comes. We shall
have enough, Edward, for happiness, and though I know it would have
been more pleasure to yourself if the greater part of our little
fortune had been brought by you, yet I am very glad that _I_ have it,
as you have not."
"But your mother--your guardian, Mary?" said Ned Hayward, still in a
doubtful tone.
Mary laughed, but with a slight touch of vexation in the tone; and she
exclaimed,
"I do believe he will not have me, even when I have almost offered
myself to him!"
But Ned Hayward would not lie under that imputation, and he cast his
arms round his fair companion, assuring her that if she had the wealth
of the world, the only portion he would value would be herself.
Mary freed herself gently from his embrace; and suffering him to draw
her arm through his, walked on with him till the breakfast hour was
fully come.