Avaunt and quit my sight--let the earth hide thee!
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
Which thou dost glare with.
Hence, horrible shadow,
Unreal mockery, hence!
*****
You have displaced the mirth, broke the meeting
With most admir’d disorder.
Shakspere.
It is necessary to refer to the position in which Harry Vivian was
placed by the conduct of Mr. Harper’s returned son.
Ejected with brutal coarseness from the establishment in Clerkenwell,
his presence at Highbury was of course, out of the question.
His future was now in his own hands. Most men have latent energies; of
these there is a class who can only have them elicited by the pressure
of dire disaster; there is another class, in whom they spring into
action at the first call of necessity; Harry Vivian was one of the
latter. He had money by him. Mr. Harper had, early in life, taught
him the advantages of spending less than he received; and funding the
residue. This habit was grafted upon him in no miserly spirit; but that
in the most important epoch of his life he should be able to determine
the value of living within his income by the inestimable comfort enjoyed
by all who are never in debt.
One night’s anxious deliberation and his course was clear to him. He
was gifted with remarkable powers of perception. When he erred it was by
accident--it was never by the failing of his understanding. He detected
the right side of a question at the first glance, and though his
decision was not formed without a careful consideration, he rarely had
occasion to ignore his first impression.
He saw mapped out before him the order events would take, if he adopted
an unworthy, clandestine, and mean course with regard to Flora Wilton.
She could be his, and she would be, without her father’s consent, but,
dearly as he wished for such a result, it would never, he felt, be
productive to him or to her of that unalloyed happiness he so ardently
longed to enjoy with her.
He saw clearly enough the probable result of straightforward, honourable
and manly action; for no matter what the pangs they might be called upon
to endure, or the self-sacrifices each might be compelled to make in the
interval, the remainder of their life-companionship would be unclouded
by a reflection that they had, in order to achieve the hope nearest
and dearest to their heart, violated their truth, sullied their open
sincerity, or forfeited their honour.
He saw, in their respective positions, Colonel Mires and the Honorable
Lester Vane, and he examined their prospects as rival candidates for the
hand of Flora Wilton.
The former he feared on no other grounds than that a vehement and
passionate nature might hurry him to some deed of violence, out of his
unbridled desire to make Flora his own. To prevent such an unwished-for
event he resolved should be his especial duty.
Lester Vane he regarded as by far his most dangerous rival; and, from
the first moment he beheld him, when he heard, to his dismay, the warm
greetings of old Wilton, accompanied by his pressing invite to his
mansion, he determined to ascertain as far as possible his antecedents.
He saw that he was handsome, highborn, a welcomed guest, evidently much
struck by Flora’s beauty, and quite ready to form an alliance with her;
while Flora, under the strong pressure of her father’s earnest urgings,
had but small plea to refuse accepting his offer.
“If he be unworthy, and I can prove him to be so,” reflected Hal, “I
may save Flora from becoming the victim of her father’s unhesitating
sacrifice of her to a phantasm, and to the cupidity of a needy
adventurer.”
He did make close and acute inquiries, through a well-qualified agent,
and he had in his possession a report carefully framed, which, at the
proper time, he intended to produce and substantiate, in the strong
expectation that the utter discomfiture of a scoundrel would be the
inevitable consequence.
At the same time, though most ardently attached to Flora, he had no
absurdly romantic imaginings in respect to his own claims to her hand;
nor did he attempt to shut his eyes to the fact that the return of the
younger Harper, coupled with the death of his deeply lamented uncle,
almost completely robbed him of the small chance he had previously
possessed.
His first step, after the night’s deliberation of which we have just
spoken, was to write at length to Flora, to explain honestly and openly
to her the situation in which circumstances had placed him. He detailed
how his natural expectations had been abruptly shattered, and the stern
necessity which henceforward would imperiously call upon him to supply,
by the exercise of his own skill and industry, those resources with
which his late uncle had so liberally and kindly intended to furnish
him.
He made a clean breast, and disguised nothing; but his letter was not
composed in a complaining or whining spirit; and while he dwelt upon his
own ardent love for her, and alluded to the tender acknowledgments she
had made to him, it was rather with a view to suggest to her that the
change in his condition, since her admission of attachment, left her now
free to act in the future disposal of her hand and person. This, he told
her, he felt to be as a matter of justice and of right simply her due;
but it was, also, only fair to himself to state that he did not abrogate
one hope or aspiration in which she had hitherto held the first place.
He bade her be assured that he looked into the future firmly,
confidently, and with unwavering faith. He asked no promise from her
binding her to his future fortunes; he even said that he would think of
her in no angry spirit if, after what had recently occurred to himself,
she accepted the hand of one her equal in rank and wealth, however deep
might be his sense of the loss he should sustain; and finally, that
he should ever do his utmost to prove himself worthy of her favourable
opinion, even as he should strive, by unabated self-exertion, to recover
the position from which he had been so unexpectedly hurled.
The letter despatched, he pursued the course he proposed for himself to
follow. Personal application to the first manufacturing goldsmiths in
London proved to him that his devotion to his art, and the success which
always attends a well-directed perseverance, met its proper reward.
In quarters where he believed himself unknown, his skill in the
manipulation and the finish of his designs was almost a byeword. He was
gratified beyond measure to find that hours withheld from idleness, and
dedicated to his advancement, had won for him a name, as a sculptor in
the precious metal, earlier in life than could have been accomplished by
any other means.
Employment was liberally given to him, and a high scale of remuneration
awarded in payment. So far his affairs went well; but his hopes were but
hopes coloured by a fervid and sanguine imagination. He was unconscious
of the wide gulf which separated him--a young journeyman goldsmith--from
the daughter of the representative of an ancient and wealthy house.
Before his confident and imaginative eyes there did not present itself
that long vista of years, through which, if unaided, he must pass to
achieve the position which he himself felt it was fitting he should
hold, before he could, in honesty and honour, ask Flora Wilton to become
his wife.
He saw not foreshadowed in the task to which it was his intention to
devote himself the incessant application and trying toil essential to
success; he counted not upon exhaustion of energy, repeated and vexing
though common disappointments and retarding circumstances, all to be
surmounted before the goal he longed for could be reached. He saw no
impediment which steadfast faith and unwavering perseverance might not
overcome. He therefore entered upon his mission, not only to win wealth
but to reap laurels, with a bold heart and a firm purpose, keeping ever
in his eyes, as a tutelary spirit, the beautiful form of Flora Wilton,
so that he might ever be conscious of the value of the prize for which
he was contending, and never, never grow faint-hearted or weary while
prosecuting his labour of love.
Flora Wilton received his letter. She perused it many times and with no
little emotion. It came to her as a new opposition to her hopes,
raised up in a most unexpected quarter, and, with womanly instinct, she
perceived the important influence a knowledge of Hal’s sudden reducement
to poverty would have upon her father’s aversion to a union between
them; but she was woman enough, too, to feel that it strengthened her
resistance to her father’s design.
She wept as she considered that this sudden change in his circumstances
must afflict the high spirit of her lover, and she heartily wished that
at the moment she had control of a fortune that she might place it at
his disposal. There was no absolute engagement existing between them; so
far it had been a mutual love-confession, springing out of an accidental
circumstance, but Flora now construed it into one.
“Had he been wealthy and of high standing, what has passed between us
might not be considered actually binding on the free action of either,”
she ruminated “but now misfortune has overtaken him, I cannot in honour
release him if I wished. I do not wish to do so--no, oh no, Hal--I
love you so very, very dearly, I would sooner die now than we should be
separated for ever, and both live on.”
She felt at a loss what steps to take in responding to the contents of
the letter, because she was anxious to take the one which should be
most cheering to him--that should not wound him by condolement--should
express her sympathy and regret, and at the same time assure him that
it should make no difference in the esteem--the profound esteem--she
entertained for him.
She disliked the word “esteem;” it was cold and inexpressive, yet it was
proper to think it as well as use it.
She felt herself to be in an embarrassing position. Her impulses
suggested to her to write a long and loving letter to Vivian, but she
was conscious of other considerations, which forbade her consulting only
self in the matter.
Now it happened about this time that Mark Wilton made the discovery that
no inconsiderable portion of his time was occupied in conjuring up
the face and form of Lotte Clinton, and in framing small dramas, the
incidents of which were strikingly romantic, and in which he and she
played the principal parts. For many years Mark’s path in life had been
rough hewn, and he had been compulsorily self-reliant. He could by no
means brook trammels. He, therefore, acted as impulse directed, never
believing that his father could or ought to have any further control
over him. So, after making an imaginary better acquaintance with Lotte,
passing through a number of visionary love-scenes, in which the young
lady was supposed to display a vast deal of fond confidence, and to
give faint utterance to the most pleasing open confessions, it is hardly
surprising that he should come to the conclusion that she was precisely
the person to become Mrs. Mark Wilton, and precisely the person who
should become Mrs. Mark Wilton.
He had, nevertheless, his misgivings. They would obtrude, unwelcome
enough in all conscience, and did not altogether agree with his proud,
free sense of independence.
After the scene in which Hal Vivian was denied an alliance with his
sister Flora, and forbidden to entertain in future any hope of her hand,
he could hardly help perceiving that his father would insist upon having
a voice respecting the admission of other new members to his family. He
might, in spite of Mark’s assertion of his right to do as he pleased,
in the grave and important act of choosing a wife, object to receive a
needle, woman as a daughter-in-law, even though he had been in humble
circumstances for a time himself, and, as was very likely he would,
exhibit a very strong feeling in the matter, and deliver a no less
strong opinion upon it. But though Mark felt this, he determined not to
be guided by it. He had heard it said that, in the dance of life, it was
a man’s duty to choose his own partner, and he believed in the truth of
the aphorism--at all events, he did not want any M.C. to perform that
office for him. He had funds of his own, independent of his father’s
property, and he resolved that, all things agreeing, he would marry
Lotte, in spite of his father’s opposition--always presuming that
opposition rested solely on considerations of her previous position in
life.
It may be understood that with these sentiments he sympathised with
his sister, and after some communing with her, during which, with rosy
cheeks and downcast eyes, she made frank acknowledgments, he undertook
to proceed to London, ostensibly to convey a message from her to his
early friend Harry Vivian, but really to “kill two birds with one
stone,” the other bird being Lotte Clinton; though if he attempted to
kill her at all, the only murderous weapon he intended to use would be
kindness.
He only wanted an excuse for a journey to London, and his sister Flora
afforded it to him.
Now he was very warmly attached to Hal Vivian. “They had been friends
in youth,” when the brightest side of prosperity was turned towards Hal
Vivian, but that fact had only seemed to render the latter more generous
and self-sacrificing to Mark Wilton. Their friendship had, indeed, on
both sides been characterised by the nobler qualities of human nature;
unworldly, unselfish, and romantic in its constitution, and, framed of
the materials to render it lasting, it was not of a kind to be lightly
disturbed.
Mark knew his sister to be lovely, amiable, well-born, and richly
dowered, but he knew no man whom he would sooner see her husband than
Hal Vivian. Unaffected by the claims of rank and station, he bowed to
those of sterling worth, embodied in high qualities of heart and mind.
He believed the happiness of life to be associated with them, and as it
was his intention to appeal to them to ensure him a passage to immortal
life, through elysian fields on earth, he was well disposed to interest
himself to bring about a marriage between Flora and Hal, even though his
father was at present averse to it.
He went to London from Harleydale, with what result has been shown.
Previous to his departure from the Hall, Lester Vane, with the promise
of an early return, had quitted it. Colonel Mires was also gone, and
Nathan Gomer, with a few words of condolence to Flora, couched
in mysterious language, had also disappeared from the house and
neighbourhood. So at least both Flora and Mark concluded, for though
there had been no leavetaking he was no longer visible in house or
grounds.
When Mark left, therefore, old Wilton was once more alone with his
daughter.
By tacit consent, no allusion was made to the subject of their interview
in the library. When they met she was pale, silent, and abstracted;
he moody and stern. He spoke to her in sharp, short sentences, and she
answered him mostly in monosyllables.
They scarcely met but at meals; he confining himself, with but few
exceptions, to his library, and she to visits to the glen where she
had confessed to Hal her love for him, or to the solitude of her own
chamber, that she might think only of him and those deep eyes which he
had bent upon her so earnestly and so lovingly when last they parted.
There were, however, two arrivals in the vicinity of Harleydale after
the departure of Mark, in the persons of Colonel Mires and Mr. Chewkle.
Both were bent on mischief.
The latter, during the little affair of the benefit society, in which
his personal liberty was at some hazard, had contracted the vice of hard
drinking. He was always addicted to the “glass that inebriates” when it
passes the “cheering” point, but it was an occasional indulgence only
which had a very passable interval of sobriety; but now he carried a
bottle--a bottle which he filled as soon after it was empty as possible,
and emptied as soon after it was filled with a celerity remarkable as an
accomplishment, but not, as such, commendable.
Mr. Chewkle, freely indulging his new habit on his way to Harleydale,
arrived at his destination upon the eve of an attack of _delirium
tremens_, which fit duly came off on the first evening of his arrival,
in the parlour of the village inn, in the presence of a small assemblage
of nightly frequenters, and resulted in great damage to visitors and
furniture.
Mr. Chewkle, who had been engaged for a considerable portion of the
evening in emptying glass after glass of brandy and water, suddenly
fastened a fiery eye upon a gaunt tailor, who was employed in trying how
long he could make a tumbler of gin and water last. In a little while
he began to mutter inarticulate words of suppressed rage. Presently he
leaped to his feet with an unearthly screech, and made a dash at the
tailor. The latter, intensely horrified, threw a summersault, scrambled
under the table, and so out at the door.
A tremendous uproar ensued. Everybody in an agony of fright made an
effort to get out of the doorway at the same moment, and a jam resulted.
Mr. Chewkle actively employed himself upon the body of fugitives
with his chair, until the centre was forced, and the two sides burst
outwards, leaving Chewkle in triumph to commit mad riot upon everything
breakable within the room, until he fell in horrible convulsions upon
the ground, after successive efforts to effect a breach through the wall
with his head.
It was not until he remained perfectly motionless, giving no sign of
life, save by a dreadful stertorous breathing, that it entered into the
head of the frantically amazed landlord to send for a doctor.
Upon the arrival of that skilled personage the truth was revealed, and
Mr. Chewkle was placed in bed; and as, on examining his pockets, a
good round sum was found, a nurse was provided to attend on him. The
landlord, upon considerations of safety as he suggested, took possession
of the money, leaving the empty purse in Chewkle’s pocket, and did not
forget immediately afterwards to take an inventory of the damage done by
his infuriated guest.
Mr. Chewkle, during his illness, raved about Mr. Grahame and Mr. Wilton;
frequently acting as though he had the throat of the latter gentleman
compressed between his hands and was squeezing life out. He called on
Mr. Grahame to pay him well for “the job,” and threatened, unless he
received “more bunce,” that he would provide him with a hempen collar at
Newgate.
All these ravings were treated as such, and taken no heed of by those
who heard them, though they were remembered afterwards.
Mr. Chewkle, after a few days, became conscious of his position; within
a week he had a rough notion of the havoc he had committed, from the
landlord, who dropped in to see how he was getting on.
The devil’s money never does anyone any good.
Mr. Chewkle reflected upon the bill he should have to pay for breakage,
for attendance, and lodging at the inn, for the doctor’s professional
services, and for “extras,” the extent of which he could not foresee.
As a principle he determined not to pay a farthing for one solitary
item.
How to get out of it?
It seemed strange to him that he had not been asked for any money; that
was a fact which, though singular, was advantageous and cheering, and he
determined if a proposition to pay, as he went on, should be made by the
landlord, that he would show him his gold and silver, but make an excuse
for not parting with a shilling until he was convalescent.
In less than a fortnight he felt himself to be so. The landlord seemed
still good-humoured and confiding--most confiding--and Chewkle, by his
boasts and promises, endeavoured to keep him so.
One night, Mr. Chewkle, finding the household buried in sleep, rose
silently and dressed himself. He felt hastily in his pocket to see
whether his purse was there, and chuckled as he felt it, for he was at
the moment unconscious that there was nothing in it.
By the aid of the small night-lamp which burned in his room, he looked
about for portable articles of value, but found none worth the taking.
Leaving the light burning he then stole to the window, which was a
lattice, opened it, and carefully got without, resting his toes on the
stout stems of an old ivy which covered the walls. He closed the window
after him, and descended with very little noise to the ground.
It was light enough to see Harleydale Woods in the distance, and for
them he made swiftly, trusting to fortune for chances of encountering
Wilton alone.
He felt uneasy at the delay occasioned by his illness, for he knew that
Wilton’s death, under all the circumstances which had come to his ears,
was of hourly importance to Grahame. He knew not, indeed, but that the
lapse of time might have rendered his task useless, still he resolved to
go on, and if he encountered the old man alone to address him, to elicit
from him Grahame’s actual position, and then act as circumstances might
dictate. He gained Harleydale Woods without being seen, chuckling at his
successful escape, unconscious, in the midst of the hilarity with which
he reflected on having done the landlord, that he had skilfully done
himself.
Colonel Mires was at the same moment of time hiding in the woods,
located at no great distance from Chewkle. His object, though baneful,
was of a very different character to that of Grahame’s agent. His
passion for Flora had brought him to spend the long nights watching at
her window, and the days in vain search of her in hope of meeting her
alone.
At first he had a scarcely defined purpose in this. He had a vague
notion of declaring his passion to her, of imploring her upon his
knees, even with tears, to grant to him her coveted hand. He conjured
up promises he would make to her--an offer to be her devoted slave,
to scour the earth to gratify her lightest wish, to minister to her
pleasures, her caprices, her comforts, and secure to her constant
happiness at any self-sacrifice. To proffer, indeed, impossibilities
with unscrupulous recklessness, unheeding whether one of these inflated
propositions would or could be realized, so that he induced her to
become his--only his.
These intangible impressions conducted him to the vicinity of Flora’s
dwelling; but in the secrecy arid solitude to which he for a time
devoted himself he had the opportunity of reflection, and to separate
the impossible from the probable.
His situation he found to be just this. He was inflamed with a passion
for a girl who loved another, and whose father, if opposed to his
daughter’s giving her hand to the man she loved, would certainly be
averse to her bestowing it upon him. Especially as he had himself
selected for her husband one of station, wealth, youth, and handsome
exterior. It was simply assuring him that he had no chance of success
whatever by fair means. Had he been in the western provinces of India,
where he was for many years stationed, he would soon have settled
the matter; as it was, he was in England, and abductions are not easy
matters in this country.
Yet abduction seemed to be the only course open to him.
He bent his energies to the task of framing a plan, and he believed at
last that he had succeeded in forming a scheme which was not susceptible
of failure.
While Mr. Chewkle was raving in bed, he quitted Harleydale, to make and
perfect arrangements, and having completed them, he returned to the wood
to effect, if possible, a secret interview with Flora and carry out his
project.
He had been two days on the watch, when Chewkle arrived in the wood
from the inn. In the course of that morning they came, during a stealthy
stroll, suddenly face to face.
Instantly their eyes met each seemed to feel the other was there for an
improper purpose.
“Good mornin’, sir,” exclaimed Chewkle, with a playful nod.
The Colonel eyed him sternly.
“What are you here for?” he asked in a sharp tone.
Chewkle bent a keen glance upon him.
“I have as much right here as him--he’s after no good,” thought he. A
rogue detects a rogue pretty-much as a detective does a thief, by the
eye; and Chewkle after his inspection felt a little more at ease.
Mires repeated his question.
“That’s tellings,” answered Chewkle, putting his tongue in his cheek;
“what are you here about, eh?” he inquired, somewhat impudently.
“Insolent scoundrel, how dare you put such a question to me?” exclaimed
the Colonel, angrily.
“Oh!” returned Chewkle quickly, “I only returned the compliment. Look
here, mister, I am old on the town and have forgotten more than a great
many people will ever know, but I know this, that you are up to some
dodge here”----
“Fellow!”
“Ah, yes! that’s very good acting, but it ain’t natural enough to
satisfy me that I am wrong. Now I don’t mind dropping to you that I _am_
down here on a spec, and, if it comes off right, it will be the making
of me. So you see we had better try and help each other, than kick up a
row, and bring about our ears a swarm of people we don’t want to see.”
There was something in what Chewkle said, as well as in his manner,
which attracted the attention of Colonel Mires. He saw before him a
fitting instrument for the commission of any act of rascality, and he
came promptly to the conclusion that it would be better to enlist his
services than to make an enemy of him. He, therefore, determined to
fence with his questions for a short time before he came to an open
understanding with him; and directly he proceeded to do this, Chewkle
felt satisfied and at his ease. He parried the Colonel’s questions with
the greatest ease, and artfully contrived to extract an admission from
him which caused him to say----
“So you’ve come after young Miss Wilton, have you? You found another
before you, eh? and you want to get hold of her on the sly, don’t you?”
The Colonel eyed him curiously, somewhat staggered at the observation,
and said, quickly--
“You know the fellow Vivian, I suppose?”
“Vivian,” thought Chewkle, “Vivian--Wilton, Wilton--Vivian.” He rubbed
his chin; presently he said--
“What, you mean Harper the goldsmith’s nevy?”
“The same.”
“I do--what then?”
“I presume you have come down on his business?”
“Well, you ain’t far out. He wants to get hold of Miss Wilton, too, you
know.”
This was the merest surmise on the part of Chewkle. He knew that Harry
Vivian was acquainted with the Wiltons; it was not difficult to guess
pretty near the truth.
“I am aware of his insolent pretensions, as I am of the impossibility of
their realization. I presume, as a man of the world, that service suits
you best which pays you best.”
“A conjuring freelogonist couldn’t have told you my weakness better if
he had his fingers on my bumps. That _is_ my system.”
“Abandon the service you have undertaken, and serve me. Tell me what you
receive, and I will double it.”
“You?”
“I will.”
“I am your humble servant.”
Chewkle rubbed his hands with ecstacy. He became a confirmed follower in
the belief that “it is better to be born fortunate than rich.”
“Luck’s all,” he ejaculated, in a soliloquy, “and I’ve got it, I have.”
He at once proceeded to tell Colonel Mires a host of lies respecting his
mission to Flora. Improbable, and exaggerated as they were, the Colonel,
in his raging jealousy and passion, believed them, and readily responded
to Chewkle’s request for an earnest of payment before he took a step in
his service.
As soon as gold was once more in his purse, the unscrupulous agent
declared himself ready to perform anything required of him, and the
Colonel drew him by a circuitous path towards the narrow glen Flora was
accustomed to visit. He pointed it out to him, and directed him how he
might gain access to it unseen.
He had hardly done so when he clutched Chewkle by the arm, and pointed
to the pathway leading to it--
“Look!” he exclaimed. “By Heaven, Miss Wilton is proceeding there.
Hasten by the route I have described to you, and when she is seated,
steal suddenly upon her so as to startle her, then tell her you are from
Mr. Vivian’s aunt, and give her this letter. I know what the result will
be--she will faint. I will be on the spot, and the rest is provided for.
Quick! quick! follow that path, away with you!”
Chewkle, a little bewildered, took the letter and stole cautiously
to the spot pointed out to him, while Colonel Mires, with an agitated
manner, darted off in a different direction.