From the groom to the stable-boy, from the stable-boy to the
kitchen-maid, from maid to maid and man to man, by housekeeper
and old butler, the tale proceeded, till every lad and lass and old
blue-bottle in the family had heard that two men had seized upon
Emmeline, and had only been prevented from carrying her off to a ship
near the coast by the timely arrival and the gallant daring of Colonel
Henry Smeaton, a gentleman well known to Sir John and Master Richard.
True, the story suffered many variations in its course. It was
embellished and improved, and gained, at every stage, as the
play-bills have it, "new scenery, dresses, and decorations." A great
degree of confusion, too, prevailed as usual, in the way in which it
was told. One of the maids in relating it to the housekeeper, either
by the confusion of her own ideas or the inaccuracy of her language,
made Brian, the stag-hound, act a very important and unusual part for
a dog.
"Just at that moment, ma'am," she said, "Brian came rushing up; and,
with his sword in his hand, he cut one of the men a great gash across
the forehead."
"Good gracious!" cried the housekeeper, in considerable alarm and
surprise at this strange phenomenon; "how came Brian by a sword?"
"Lawk, ma'am! I meant the gentleman," said the maid. "He cut the man
upon the head just as the dog came up."
We cannot, however, dwell upon all these variations. They were numerous
and not uninteresting; but we have other things to do. Suffice it to
say, all agreed in the general facts that Emmeline had been attacked
and rescued, that Master Richard, and Bill, the under-groom, with
Bellmouth, the bloodhound, had pursued the assailants to the very top of
Ale Head, but that the latter had contrived to get into their boat and
put to sea. One of the men, who had been long in the family and knew Sir
John Newark's propensity to gather as speedily as possible all the
details of what took place in the house during his absence--a quiet,
thoughtful, secret sort of man--walked out leisurely along the road as
soon as he had collected all the facts, knowing well that his master
would not be long ere he returned from the neighbouring town to which he
had gone in the morning. He met him sooner than he expected, indeed; not
more than a mile and a half from the house. Sir John was evidently
anxious and in haste; for he was keeping his horse and his attendants,
three or four in number, at a very quick trot, even against the breast
of the hill. The man ventured to stop him, however; and the first words
of the knight were--
"The lady--Emmeline? There has been a strange sail seen off the
coast."
"Ay, Sir John," answered the man; "and they had very near carried her
off. Two of the men got hold of her, your worship, not far from the
house either; but just then a gentleman, coming to visit you--one
Colonel Seaton, or Smeaton, or something of that kind--heard her
screams as he was riding along the road, galloped up, and set her
free. They say he cut one of the men terribly across the head. At
least, so Master Richard told me; for he was running to help her too,
and saw the fight, as they did not give the matter up without a tough
struggle."
"Thank God, she is safe!" said Sir John Newark. And, though the
motives which produced this pious exclamation might have been of a
somewhat mixed nature, he certainly did seem to rejoice sincerely.
Pushing his horse on, even faster than before, he rode with great
rapidity to the house, sprang from his horse's back like a young man,
and hurried into the small saloon, where he heard voices speaking.
The whole party within were laughing and talking gaily; but the
agitation and anxiety on Sir John's countenance at once showed them
that he had heard of the events, which they themselves had nearly
forgotten in pleasant conversation, and made Emmeline feel grateful
for the deep and affectionate interest which he seemed to take in her
safety. He shook Smeaton warmly by the hand, saying,
"You have rendered me an inestimable service, Colonel Smeaton, and
added to all I owe you for the gallant defence of my son. I learn,
too, from London, that Lord Stair has, at your demand, dismissed from
his service the ruffian who struck the boy. So it seems you are not
only our good angel, but a very powerful angel too."
"My dear sir, you overwhelm me," replied Smeaton, laughing. "I have no
more merit in the matter than a man who, favoured by good luck, picks
up a purse and restores it to its right owner. As for Lord Stair, I
made a point of seeing him immediately; and, upon due representation
of the man's conduct, vouched for by my word of honour, his own sense
of justice induced him to dismiss him, without any threat or means of
compulsion whatsoever. It seems the Earl was an intimate friend of my
late father in early years; and that consideration, indeed, might in
some degree have influenced him. I trust this fair lady will escape
further danger, whatever may be the cause of the attack made upon her;
and we were considering just now what would be the best means of
protection for her, without subjecting her to the sort of captivity to
which she seems inclined to condemn herself, for the faults of others.
Your son was proposing for her guards a brace of fierce mastiffs, to
go with her wherever she goes; but I contend that he should be, at
least, one of her guards himself; and I doubt not, now he has left
school, you will arm him with a sword in so good a cause."
Smeaton spoke jokingly; but Sir John Newark looked somewhat grave.
"I am afraid," he remarked, "Richard would not know how to manage a
sword. He has never learned to fence."
"Let me have the honour of teaching him," said Smeaton. "I will answer
for it, that, in one week, I will make him a very fair swordsman,
whether it be with the small sword, the broad sword, or any other
weapon of the kind. I have always been reckoned the most expert in my
regiment at those exercises."
Sir John was evidently well pleased, and the boy delighted.
"I trust that he will have the benefit of your kind tuition for more
than one week," said the former; "and it is certainly advisable that
he should accompany his cousin, whenever she goes any distance from
the house. But surely, Colonel Smeaton, you have not come all this way
from London, to spend but a week in our rural scenes?"
"Oh, no," replied Smeaton. "I shall remain in this part of the
country, I dare say, for six weeks; but I cannot intrude upon your
hospitality for so long a period."
"If you quit our house one day before," exclaimed Sir John, warmly,
"we shall conclude that you think our hospitality very cold, or our
house very dull."
His manner was so sincere, and he pressed his invitation so heartily,
that Smeaton accepted it without much hesitation, and again turned the
conversation to young Richard Newark, pointing out the advantage it
would be to him, especially in the somewhat unsettled state of the
country, to learn various manly exercises early.
"They might be of great service," he said, "both to him and to you,
Sir John. As I came through Dorchester, I saw two of the magistrates
of the town taken to the pump in the market-place, and pumped upon
till they were well nigh drowned, because they would not cry 'High
Church and Sacheverel for ever!' Their cowardly lackeys ran away and
left them to their fate; and I did not feel myself called upon to
interfere; but I am convinced that one man, with a little knowledge of
horsemanship and the spadroon, would have dispersed the whole mob, and
saved their worships a wetting."
"It served them right for their thickheadedness," said Sir John
Newark, laughing; "and I can easily guess that you did not find
yourself called upon to interfere. Your observations are none the less
just, however, Colonel Smeaton; and I will send to Axminster,
to-morrow, for a good light sword for Richard. My own are all too
heavy."
"Pardon me," said Smeaton. "I will supply him with a very serviceable
weapon, and as light as he could wish. It was manufactured for the
late Duke of Burgundy, when about your son's age, and fell into my
hands by accident. It is with the remainder of my baggage, which will
be here to-night or to-morrow. You shall get him the less deadly
weapons--a pair of fencing-foils, masks, and spadroons; for we must be
mindful of the old proverb, and not jest with edged tools."
"There, Richard, you are at the height of your ambition," said
Emmeline, to the lad, while Sir John was pouring forth thanks upon
Smeaton; "but I suppose, dear boy, with you, as with others, the
ambition of to-day will not be the ambition of to-morrow; for that
same steep ascent of ambition, the poets tell us, is like the
mountains losing their heads in the sky, where we go on climbing,
never thinking ourselves sufficiently high till we are above the
earth. But what is the matter with you, Richard? You look sad!"
"I do not know why it is, Emmy, dear; but great kindness always seems
to make me sad," replied Richard in a low tone. "If I were with that
man always, I believe I should soon be a man myself. But I fear that
will never be," he added with a sigh. "I feel myself so much younger
than other boys of my own years; and I cannot get things into my head
as they do. This noddle must have some crack in it, Emmy, to let the
thoughts fly out of it as fast as they fly in. It is no better than an
old pigeon-house."
"Hush, hush! You must not think so," said Emmeline. "You will do very
well, Richard, if you will but attend and be a little less heedless."
"I cannot attend," said the boy. "I never could; and I am less
heedless than you think, Emmeline."
Then, leaving her, he went up to Smeaton's side, as he stood talking
with Sir John near the window, and, laying his hand upon the Colonel's
arm, said, with all the eager impatience of a Child, "When shall I
have the sword?"
"To-night or to-morrow," replied Smeaton, with a smile; "but, before
you wear it, you must learn how to use it. The first time that you can
parry three lunges running, you will be fit to wear the sword."
The boy seemed satisfied, and left the room. The conversation between
the master of the house, Smeaton, and Emmeline, then turned for a few
minutes to other subjects, such as the eclipse, the beauty of the
scenery, the agitated state of the country; but gradually worked
itself round to the strange attack which had been made upon Emmeline.
Sir John asked both her and Smeaton a number of questions as to the
appearance and height of the men, what they had said, and whether she
had seen them long before they seized her. As to their appearance,
Emmeline could give very little information; but Smeaton described
them more accurately, saying:
"One was nearly as tall as myself; and it struck me that I had seen
him somewhere before--perhaps in France or Spain; but he was cleverly
disguised, his hair or a wig brought far over his face, and an
enormous cravat tied in front. He will not be able to disguise himself
so easily again, I think; for, though I only contrived to reach him
with the point of my sword, it scored his forehead pretty deeply, as I
felt it grate upon the bone."
Emmeline gave a slight shudder; and Smeaton added:
"Pardon me, dear lady, for speaking of such horrible subjects; but
what I did, depend upon it, was necessary; for they seemed two
desperate ruffians, determined not to give up their object without
bloodshed. I trust they will never repeat the attempt."
"I think they will not," replied Sir John Newark, musing. "They have
had a lesson. But they must have been well informed; for, if the
fishermen had been at home, they would not have dared to land. All the
men have gone round the point, however; and the wind would not serve
to bring them back speedily, even if the appearance of a strange
vessel had excited suspicion. I heard of her coming upon the coast
this morning, when I was ten or twelve miles distant; and I hastened
back with all speed."
"Then had you any cause for alarm?" asked Smeaton.
"Oh, no, not particularly," replied Sir John, with a certain degree of
embarrassment; and then immediately added--"But let me show you the
apartments prepared for you, Colonel Smeaton. Everything is ready, I
know, though, fearful of any disappointment, I would not give my fair
ward the hope of a great pleasure of which she might be deprived."
With this courteous speech, he led the way out of the room, leaving
Emmeline musing, and not altogether satisfied.
There is a feature in insincerity which always betrays itself. I know
not well in what it lies, this error of demeanour, which shows us that
there is something very different flowing on under an apparently calm
and clear stream of conversation. But so it has ever been; and it is
hardly possible to deceive any one well practised in the world's ways,
as to the ingenuousness or disingenuousness of the persons with whom
he is brought into contact. The object may not be discerned; the
thoughts, the passions, the motives, the wishes, the plans, may all
remain hidden; but what we see is that the surface and the depth are
different.
In the present instance, however, I must add, for the reader's
information, that, in many respects, Sir John Newark's words and
demeanour towards Smeaton were sincere. He was truly glad to see him
at Ale Manor; he was unaffectedly grateful to him both for delivering
Emmeline and for defending his son; he was really anxious, also, that
he should remain for some time at Ale Manor. But yet a good deal was
concealed; and Smeaton, perceiving this last fact, doubted, in some
degree, all the rest. At all events, he said to himself,
"That is not a sincere man. It is clear that what the people in London
told me of him is true."
Every care and attention had been bestowed upon the preparations for
Smeaton's comfort; two rooms in Ale Manor had been arranged for him;
for the house had abundant space for its inmates; and the good
old-fashioned furniture, ponderous but convenient, had been freshly
dusted and arranged, the windows thrown open, and free air and sunshine
admitted, so that the whole bore a cheerful and pleasant look. The
outer chamber had been arranged as a sort of sitting-room; the inner
contained an enormous four-post bed, with blue velvet hangings; and
the small quantity of baggage, which Smeaton had sent on with his
servant, was already deposited in the first chamber, and spread out
ready for his use. A hand-bell stood upon the table; and, on
introducing him into his apartment, Sir John observed,
"I am sorry to say that, in this part of the house, there are no bells
hung, but your servant has been placed on the opposite side of the
court, so that, by just opening the casement at any time, you can
summon him by that instrument on the table."
Thus saying, he left him, giving him notice of the hour of dinner,
which was now approaching; and, even before proceeding to change his
traveller's dress, Smeaton sat down in one of the large easy chairs,
to meditate over his present situation and his prospects.
I shall not pause, however, to analyze his thoughts, but carry him at
once to the dining-room. Nor will I dwelt upon an English dinner of
the olden time, though it had curious features. Suffice it that it
passed pleasantly, and that Smeaton's easy manners and varied
conversation soon removed from the mind of Emmeline the feeling of
restraint produced by freshness of acquaintance. As soon as dinner was
over she rose and retired. Richard Newark did the same, for there were
yet many hours of daylight left, and his rambling habits seldom
suffered him to remain long in any one spot. Sir John Newark pressed
the wine upon his guest, according to the fashion of the day, but
Smeaton announced at once his very moderate habits, saying that he
feared the school in which he had been brought up did not qualify him
to compete with Englishmen in the use of the bottle. He had remarked,
too, that during dinner Sir John Newark, while conversing with the
utmost apparent frankness, had dropped in questions with regard to
foreign countries and to Smeaton's own adventures, which he could not
help thinking had a sinister object. He was, therefore, in some
degree, upon his guard; but he soon found that his companion knew more
than he had imagined.
During the space of about five minutes after the dessert was set upon
the table, one or other of the servants came in from time to time, to
put more wine on the _buffet_, to carry away this piece of plate or
that; but, when the last of them departed, and the door seemed finally
closed, Sir John Newark stretched himself back in his chair, and said,
with a very peculiar smile,
"Now, my dear Lord, we shall be able to talk more at our ease, though
I suppose it will be better for me to keep up the habit of treating
you as Colonel Smeaton, rather than as the Earl of Eskdale?"
Whatever he might feel, Smeaton did not suffer the slightest look of
surprise to come upon his countenance. In truth, no sooner had he
heard that Bolingbroke had named him to Sir John Newark, than he came
to the conclusion that his present worthy host had acquired a great
deal of true, and probably a great deal of false, information
concerning him. He was not, however, very anxious to correct any false
impressions that Sir John Newark might have received; for there were
various reasons which induced him to wish that the notions of the
knight regarding him should be as vague and undefined as possible, and
he was well aware that nothing serves to puzzle and confuse the minds
of very shrewd and cunning people so much as half knowledge. It is
worse than ignorance, for it encumbers the ground. He was resolved,
then, on his part, neither to tell nor explain any thing; but to let
Sir John pursue his own course, and make any assumptions which he
chose.
After a moment's seeming consideration, Smeaton said, "Perhaps, Sir
John, it would be better to avoid my title both in public and in
private. The name of Colonel Smeaton gives me quite as much dignity as
I can well carry in this country, for the time being."
"Lord Bolingbroke informs me--and I was very sorry to hear it,"
continued Sir John Newark, after a pause to consider how he should
pursue the attack, "that her Ladyship was very unwell when he wrote."
"She was so when I left her," replied Smeaton. "But my last letters
informed me she was much better. Otherwise, I should not have ventured
to protract my stay in this country."
Let it be remarked that Smeaton hesitated for a moment, at the very
first word of the sentence which I have just reported. The original
expression which first sprang to his lips, was "My mother;" but, for
some reason, he changed it to the words _she_; and, after pausing for
an instant, he added,
"Pray, what did Lord Bolingbroke say of her health?"
Sir John Newark took a letter from his pocket, and read as follows:
"The Countess of Eskdale has been very unwell, nearly at death's door.
Otherwise, she would have gone over to England too, I doubt not; for
they have some lands to claim, and other matters to settle, which
might require her presence also. However, she was too ill to go and
perhaps it is quite as well that she should not go, as it would only
have embarrassed his proceedings."
Smeaton listened quietly while this was read, and then only observed,
somewhat drily, that the noble Lord had taken more interest in his
affairs than he had been aware of.
"I have had later letters," he added, "since then, and am happy to say
that all danger is past."
"Then do you think," demanded Sir John Newark, "that her Ladyship is
likely to come over?"
"Assuredly not," replied Smeaton. "She would not venture upon such a
journey, without my company and protection."
Whatever there might be in this conversation of a satisfactory kind,
and in whatever degree it might affect Sir John Newark personally,
certain it is that it had considerable effect upon him. He seemed more
frank and free in his whole demeanour from that moment; to put a
greater degree of confidence and trust in his guest; and even to be
more anxious for his prolonged stay. He had been everything that was
courteous before; but now he was warm and pressing.
I need not detail all that look place farther that night. The
potations of the host and his guest were neither deep nor strong; and
the dinner closed with a walk through the park and neighbourhood in
the bright evening air, rather than with bottle upon bottle, as was
too much the custom in those days.
Emmeline was not to be found at the moment they set out; Richard
was rambling, no one knew where; and, during the course of their
_tête-à-tête_ walk, Sir John Newark tried hard, and not unsuccessfully,
to converse agreeably on indifferent subjects with his young guest. He
himself seemed delighted with the Earl's whole demeanour and
conversation; and, before the hour of repose, he had found a moment to
tell Emmeline that Colonel Smeaton was one of the most charming and
distinguished men in the world, laughingly adding,
"You must not fall in love with him, however, my dear child; for he is
a married man."
Nothing could have been a greater relief to the mind of Emmeline than
this announcement; for she was just at that age when an instinctive
inclination to fly from those who are likely to pursue seizes upon the
heart of woman; when a dread of the new and undeveloped sensations
which are soon to take possession of her makes her shrink shyly and
timidly from all that can give them birth. It is only when woman, in
very early life, at least, can say to herself, as Emmeline now thought
she could say, in regard to Smeaton, "There is no danger with him,"
that she is in peril of rushing rashly into love. Love is like all
great things, affecting us with awe when we first see it from a
distance, but soon growing familiar by habit and near approach.
Brought up in perfect seclusion, with few of her own sex to converse
with, having none whom she could look upon as a companion, acquainted
with no one near her own age, or with those feelings which produce
harmony between mind and mind, often bewildered, as I have shown, by
her own thoughts, and longing to pour them forth, she was ready--I
must not say, she longed, because there was no premeditation--to give
her whole confidence, with the guileless heart of youth, to any one
who seemed to seek it worthily.
Sir John Newark could be no companion for her. True, he was not
without abilities and powers of conversation; but all his thoughts
were different from hers. He was a complete man of realities; and, if
he had any thing like imagination or fancy at all, the only purpose to
which he could dream of applying such faculties was to the devising of
schemes for the promotion of his own interest or ambition. There was
something about him, too, she knew not well what--perhaps it might be
this very difference of thought and character, this want of harmony
between their two minds--but still there was something which forbade
confidence. It was not so with Smeaton. Even in his look there seemed
to her a very winning expression. His clear hazel eyes, not without
fire, nor even keenness, appeared to beam with high and generous soul;
and, in his whole demeanour and carriage, was that sort of chivalrous
aspect which had generally, in former days, distinguished the party
called Cavaliers; with a slight touch of their free and careless
gaiety, but no appearance of their reckless licentiousness. There were
moments, as we have shown, when he could be calm, thoughtful, and
grave enough; but the general tone of his conversation was gay, and
even playful, with no touch of satire or _persiflage_--one of the
great vices of the day. Much dignity, at times, was evident, but never
any haughtiness of demeanour. It gave one the idea that, confident in
himself, satisfied with his own position, accustomed in all things to
decide rapidly, and habituated from youth to act with ease and grace
in any circumstances, he was never thinking at all of himself or his
own manner; and that always gives an additional elegance. It was all,
evidently, unstudied; and, assuredly, when fair Emmeline lay down to
sleep that night, she not only thought Smeaton one of the handsomest
and most agreeable men she had ever seen, but, lurking at her heart,
was a conviction that, of all beings on earth to whom she could pour
out her thoughts freely, such a man would be the foremost.
Nevertheless, she slept soon, and she slept well. Nothing in the
slightest degree agitated her feelings. She was not even the least
little bit in love with him; and, though, towards morning, a dream
visited her pillow which disturbed her much, and from which she awoke
with a beating heart, it was only memory re-enacting, with very slight
variations, the scene of the preceding day, in which she had been
seized by strangers, and rescued by Smeaton.
The same sensations, perhaps increasing a little in power, went on
during the next three days. She became, of course, more intimate with
her guardian's guest, lost the timidity and restraint of first
acquaintance, laughed and talked with him easily, and saw, or thought
she saw, more of his mind and character; and every thing she _did_ see
only tended to strengthen her first impressions. But during those
three days she was never alone with him, even for a moment. Sir John
Newark was always present, and his presence--it is a curious fact, but
so it was--always checked anything like free and confiding intercourse
in whatever society he might happen to be. Man has his instincts, as
well as the brute creation, and it seemed to be by instinct that
people felt Sir John Newark was not to be trusted.
On the day after Smeaton's arrival, the whole party rode over to a
town in the neighbourhood, to purchase what was needed for the
instruction which Smeaton had promised to give Richard Newark. The gay
exercise, the free air, the little occupations of an hour, all made it
a pleasant ride; and the morning passed over easily enough, although
there was a little bustle and excitement in the town, caused by the
apprehension of a man for drinking the health of King James the Third,
which was construed into a treasonable act by the worthy magistrates
of the place. Their reading of the law, indeed, did not seem much to
please the people, who made more than one attempt to rescue the
prisoner; but magistrates, in other parts of the country, went
somewhat farther, and were known to commit a man for refusing publicly
to drink the health of King George. It is strange, that some of the
most tyrannical acts upon record have accompanied every movement in
behalf of liberty.
On the return of the party to Ale Manor, they found that the rest of
Smeaton's baggage had arrived; and, reading the lad's eagerness in his
eyes, Smeaton hastened to the room where it had been deposited, and
took from a long coffer, which formed one of the packages, a very
beautiful sword, light, and easily wielded, with a richly chased hilt
of silver and gold intermixed. Carrying it in his hand back to the
little saloon in which Richard Newark was still waiting, as if
anticipating his intention, the young Earl presented him with the
weapon, saying, in a jesting tone, but with some earnestness of
words--
"Here, my young friend, I give you a sword which once belonged to a
great prince; but I must exact from you a promise, such as was exacted
from the knights of old, that you will never draw it, except in the
defence of a cause which you think just and righteous; for, depend
upon it, if you do, though the blade is of the finest steel, and of
the highest temper, it will snap asunder in your grasp."
The boy caught his hand, and kissed it; and Smeaton went on, more
lightly, saying--
"To-morrow, you shall have your first lesson in the art of using it."
"Oh, let me come and see," cried Emmeline, eagerly.
"Nay, I must refuse you," answered Smeaton. "Every one is awkward in
his first essays, and you must not see your young cousin exhibit till
he is somewhat of a master in the art of fence. Am I not right, Sir
John?"
"Perfectly, perfectly," replied Sir John Newark. "You must content
yourself, Emmeline, with listening to the stamping, only thankful if
it does not bring the old house down; for I can assure you an _assaut
d'armes_ is no joke in a peaceable dwelling."
The lesson was given, and certainly Richard Newark was awkward enough;
but he was proud and pleased, and the rest of that second day was
spent in rides about the country. The third day passed much in the
same manner, without any event of note; but, as the proceedings of the
fourth day will require somewhat more detail, I shall reserve them for
the following chapter.