“You ask me, Eugene, if I still pursue my botanical researches.

Sometimes I do; but the flower now has no fragrance--and the herb no

secret, that I care for; and astronomy, which you had just begun to

teach me, pleases me more;--the flowers charm me when you are present;

but the stars speak to me of you in absence. Perhaps it would not be so,

had I loved a being less exalted than you. Every one, even my father,

even Ellinor, smile when they observe how incessantly I think of

you--how utterly you have become all in all to me. I could not tell this

to you, though I write it: is it not strange that letters should be more

faithful than the tongue? And even your letter, mournful as it is, seems

to me kinder, and dearer, and more full of yourself, than with all the

magic of your language, and the silver sweetness of your voice, your

spoken words are. I walked by your house yesterday; the windows were

closed--there was a strange air of lifelessness and dejection about

it. Do you remember the evening in which I first entered that house? Do

you--or rather is there one hour in which it is not present to you? For

me, I live in the past,--it is the present--(which is without you,) in

which I have no life. I passed into the little garden, that with your

own hands you have planted for me, and filled with flowers. Ellinor was

with me, and she saw my lips move. She asked me what I was saying to

myself. I would not tell her--I was praying for you, my kind, my beloved

Eugene. I was praying for the happiness of your future years--praying

that I might requite your love. Whenever I feel the most, I am the most

inclined to prayer. Sorrow, joy, tenderness, all emotion, lift up my

heart to God. And what a delicious overflow of the heart is prayer!

When I am with you--and I feel that you love me--my happiness would

be painful, if there were no God whom I might bless for its excess. Do

those, who believe not, love?--have they deep emotions?--can they feel

truly--devotedly? Why, when I talk thus to you--do you always answer me

with that chilling and mournful smile? You would make religion only

the creation of reason--as well might you make love the same--what is

either, unless you let it spring also from the feelings?

“When--when--when will you return? I think I love you now more than

ever. I think I have more courage to tell you so. So many things I have

to say--so many events to relate. For what is not an event to US? the

least incident that has happened to either--the very fading of a flower,

if you have worn it, is a whole history to me.

“Adieu, God bless you--God reward you--God keep your heart with Him,

dearest, dearest Eugene. And may you every day know better and better

how utterly you are loved by your

“Madeline.”

The epistle to which Lester referred as received from Walter, was one

written on the day of his escape from Mr. Pertinax Fillgrave, a short

note, rather than letter, which ran as follows.

“My dear Uncle, I have met with an accident which confined me to

my bed;--a rencontre, indeed, with the Knights of the Road--nothing

serious, (so do not be alarmed!) though the Doctor would fain have made

it so. I am just about to recommence my journey, but not towards London;

on the contrary, northward.

“I have, partly through the information of your old friend Mr.

Courtland, partly by accident, found what I hope may prove a clue to

the fate of my father. I am now departing to put this hope to the issue.

More I would fain say; but lest the expectation should prove fallacious,

I will not dwell on circumstances which would in that case only create

in you a disappointment similar to my own. Only this take with you, that

my father’s proverbial good luck seems to have visited him since your

latest news of his fate; a legacy, though not a large one, awaited

his return to England from India; but see if I am not growing prolix

already--I must break off in order to reserve you the pleasure (may it

be so!) of a full surprise!

“God bless you, my dear Uncle! I write in spirits and hope; kindest love

to all at home.

“Walter Lester.

“P. S. Tell Ellinor that my bitterest misfortune in the adventure I have

referred to, was to be robbed of her purse. Will she knit me another? By

the way, I encountered Sir Peter Hales; such an open-hearted, generous

fellow as you said! ‘thereby hangs a tale.’”

This letter, which provoked all the curiosity of our little circle, made

them anxiously look forward to every post for additional explanation,

but that explanation came not. And they were forced to console

themselves with the evident exhilaration under which Walter wrote, and

the probable supposition that he delayed farther information until it

could be ample and satisfactory.--“Knights of the Road,” quoth Lester

one day, “I wonder if they were any of the gang that have just visited

us. Well, but poor boy! he does not say whether he has any money left;

yet if he were short of the gold, he would be very unlike his father,

(or his uncle for that matter,) had he forgotten to enlarge on that

subject, however brief upon others.”

“Probably,” said Ellinor, “the Corporal carried the main sum about him

in those well-stuffed saddle-bags, and it was only the purse that

Walter had about his person that was stolen; and it is probable that the

Corporal might have escaped, as he mentions nothing about that excellent

personage.”

“A shrewd guess, Nell: but pray, why should Walter carry the purse about

him so carefully? Ah, you blush: well, will you knit him another?”

“Pshaw, Papa! Good b’ye, I am going to gather you a nosegay.”

But Ellinor was seized with a sudden fit of industry, and somehow or

other she grew fonder of knitting than ever.

The neighbourhood was now tranquil and at peace; the nightly depredators

that had infested the green valleys of Grassdale were heard of no more;

it seemed a sudden incursion of fraud and crime, which was too unnatural

to the character of the spot invaded to do more than to terrify and

to disappear. The truditur dies die; the serene steps of one calm day

chasing another returned, and the past alarm was only remembered as a

tempting subject of gossip to the villagers, and (at the Hall) a theme

of eulogium on the courage of Eugene Aram.

“It is a lovely day,” said Lester to his daughters, as they sate at the

window; “come, girls, get your bonnets, and let us take a walk into the

village.”

“And meet the postman,” said Ellinor, archly.

“Yes,” rejoined Madeline in the same vein, but in a whisper that Lester

might not hear, “for who knows but that we may have a letter from

Walter?”

How prettily sounds such raillery on virgin lips. No, no; nothing on

earth is so lovely as the confidence between two happy sisters, who have

no secrets but those of a guileless love to reveal!

As they strolled into the village, they were met by Peter Dealtry, who

was slowly riding home on a large ass which carried himself and his

panniers to the neighbouring market in a more quiet and luxurious

indolence of action than would the harsher motions of the equine

species.

“A fine day, Peter: and what news at market?” said Lester.

“Corn high,--hay dear, your honour,” replied the clerk.

“Ah, I suppose so; a good time to sell ours, Peter;--we must see about

it on Saturday. But, pray, have you heard any thing from the Corporal

since his departure?”

“Not I, your honour, not I; though I think as he might have given us a

line, if it was only to thank me for my care of his cat, but--

‘Them as comes to go to roam,

Thinks slight of they as stays at home.’”

“A notable distich, Peter; your own composition, I warrant.”

“Mine! Lord love your honour, I has no genus, but I has memory; and when

them ere beautiful lines of poetry-like comes into my head, they stays

there, and stays till they pops out at my tongue like a bottle of

ginger-beer. I do loves poetry, Sir, ‘specially the sacred.”

“We know it,--we know it.”

“For there be summut in it,” continued the clerk, “which smooths a man’s

heart like a clothes-brush, wipes away the dust and dirt, and sets all

the nap right; and I thinks as how ‘tis what a clerk of the parish ought

to study, your honour.”

“Nothing better; you speak like an oracle.”

“Now, Sir, there be the Corporal, honest man, what thinks himself mighty

clever,--but he has no soul for varse. Lord love ye, to see the faces

he makes when I tells him a hymn or so; ‘tis quite wicked, your

honour,--for that’s what the heathen did, as you well know, Sir.

“‘And when I does discourse of things

Most holy, to their tribe;

What does they do?--they mocks at me,

And makes my harp a gibe.’

“‘Tis not what I calls pretty, Miss Ellinor.”

“Certainly not, Peter; I wonder, with your talents for verse, you never

indulge in a little satire against such perverse taste.”

“Satire! what’s that? Oh, I knows; what they writes in elections. Why,

Miss, mayhap--” here Peter paused, and winked significantly--“but the

Corporal’s a passionate man, you knows: but I could so sting him--Aha!

we’ll see, we’ll see.--Do you know, your honour,” here Peter altered his

air to one of serious importance, as if about to impart a most sagacious

conjecture, “I thinks there be one reason why the Corporal has not

written to me.”

“And what’s that, Peter?”

“Cause, your honour, he’s ashamed of his writing: I fancy as how his

spelling is no better than it should be--but mum’s the word. You sees,

your honour, the Corporal’s got a tarn for conversation-like--he be a

mighty fine talker surely! but he be shy of the pen--‘tis not every man

what talks biggest what’s the best schollard at bottom. Why, there’s the

newspaper I saw in the market, (for I always sees the newspaper once a

week,) says as how some of them great speakers in the Parliament House,

are no better than ninnies when they gets upon paper; and that’s the

Corporal’s case, I sispect: I suppose as how they can’t spell all them

ere long words they make use on. For my part, I thinks there be mortal

desate (deceit) like in that ere public speaking; for I knows how far a

loud voice and a bold face goes, even in buying a cow, your honour; and

I’m afraid the country’s greatly bubbled in that ere partiklar; for if a

man can’t write down clearly what he means for to say, I does not thinks

as how he knows what he means when he goes for to speak!”

This speech--quite a moral exposition from Peter, and, doubtless,

inspired by his visit to market--for what wisdom cannot come from

intercourse?--our good publican delivered with especial solemnity,

giving a huge thump on the sides of his ass as he concluded.

“Upon my word, Peter,” said Lester, laughing, “you have grown quite a

Solomon; and, instead of a clerk, you ought to be a Justice of Peace,

at the least: and, indeed, I must say that I think you shine more in the

capacity of a lecturer than in that of a soldier.”

“‘Tis not for a clerk of the parish to have too great a knack at the

weapons of the flesh,” said Peter, sanctimoniously, and turning aside

to conceal a slight confusion at the unlucky reminiscence of his warlike

exploits; “But lauk, Sir, even as to that, why we has frightened all the

robbers away. What would you have us do more?”

“Upon my word, Peter, you say right; and now, good day. Your wife’s

well, I hope? and Jacobina--is not that the cat’s name?--in high health

and favour.”

“Hem, hem!--why, to be sure, the cat’s a good cat; but she steals Goody

Truman’s cream as she sets for butter reg’larly every night.”

“Oh! you must cure her of that,” said Lester, smiling, “I hope that’s

the worst fault.”

“Why, your gardiner do say,” replied Peter, reluctantly, “as how she

goes arter the pheasants in Copse-hole.”

“The deuce!” cried the Squire; “that will never do: she must be shot,

Peter, she must be shot. My pheasants! my best preserves! and poor Goody

Truman’s cream, too! a perfect devil. Look to it, Peter; if I hear any

complaints again, Jacobina is done for--What are you laughing at, Nell?”

“Well, go thy ways, Peter, for a shrewd man and a clever man; it is not

every one who could so suddenly have elicited my father’s compassion for

Goody Truman’s cream.”

“Pooh!” said the Squire, “a pheasant’s a serious thing, child; but you

women don’t understand matters.”

They had now crossed through the village into the fields, and were

slowly sauntering by

“Hedge-row elms on hillocks green,”

when, seated under a stunted pollard, they came suddenly on the

ill-favoured person of Dame Darkmans: she sat bent (with her elbows on

her knees, and her hands supporting her chin,) looking up to the clear

autumnal sky; and as they approached, she did not stir, or testify by

sign or glance that she even perceived them.

There is a certain kind-hearted sociality of temper that you see

sometimes among country gentlemen, especially not of the highest rank,

who knowing, and looked up to by, every one immediately around them,

acquire the habit of accosting all they meet--a habit as painful for

them to break, as it was painful for poor Rousseau to be asked ‘how he

did’ by an applewoman. And the kind old Squire could not pass even Goody

Darkmans, (coming thus abruptly upon her,) without a salutation.

“All alone, Dame, enjoying the fine weather--that’s right--And how fares

it with you?”

The old woman turned round her dark and bleared eyes, but without moving

limb or posture. “‘Tis well-nigh winter now: ‘tis not easy for poor

folks to fare well at this time o’ year. Where be we to get the

firewood, and the clothing, and the dry bread, carse it! and the drop o’

stuff that’s to keep out the cold. Ah, it’s fine for you to ask how we

does, and the days shortening, and the air sharpening.”

“Well, Dame, shall I send to--for a warm cloak for you?” said Madeline.

“Ho! thankye, young leddy--thankye kindly, and I’ll wear it at your

widding, for they says you be going to git married to the larned man

yander. Wish ye well, ma’am, wish ye well.”

And the old hag grinned as she uttered this benediction, that sounded

on her lips like the Lord’s Prayer on a witch’s; which converts the

devotion to a crime, and the prayer to a curse.

“Ye’re very winsome, young lady,” she continued, eyeing Madeline’s tall

and rounded figure from head to foot. “Yes, very--but I was as bonny as

you once, and if you lives--mind that--fair and happy as you stand now,

you’ll be as withered, and foul-faced, and wretched as me--ha! ha! I

loves to look on young folk, and think o’ that. But mayhap ye won’t live

to be old--more’s the pity, for ye might be a widow and childless, and

a lone ‘oman, as I be; if you were to see sixty: an’ wouldn’t that be

nice?--ha! ha!--much pleasure ye’d have in the fine weather then, and in

people’s fine speeches, eh?”

“Come, Dame,” said Lester, with a cloud on his benign brow, “this talk

is ungrateful to me, and disrespectful to Miss Lester; it is not the

way to--” “Hout!” interrupted the old woman; “I begs pardon, Sir, if I

offended--I begs pardon, young lady, ‘tis my way, poor old soul that

I be. And you meant me kindly, and I would not be uncivil, now you are

a-going to give me a bonny cloak,--and what colour shall it be?”

“Why, what colour would you like best, Dame--red?”

“Red!--no!--like a gypsy-quean, indeed! Besides, they all has red cloaks

in the village, yonder. No; a handsome dark grey--or a gay, cheersome

black, an’ then I’ll dance in mourning at your wedding, young lady; and

that’s what ye’ll like. But what ha’ye done with the merry bridegroom,

Ma’am? Gone away, I hear. Ah, ye’ll have a happy life on it, with a

gentleman like him. I never seed him laugh once. Why does not ye hire

me as your sarvant--would not I be a favourite thin! I’d stand on the

thrishold, and give ye good morrow every day. Oh! it does me a deal of

good to say a blessing to them as be younger and gayer than me. Madge

Darkman’s blessing!--Och! what a thing to wish for!”

“Well, good day, mother,” said Lester, moving on.

“Stay a bit, stay a bit, Sir;--has ye any commands, Miss, yonder,

at Master Aram’s? His old ‘oman’s a gossip of mine--we were young

togither--and the lads did not know which to like the best. So we often

meets, and talks of the old times. I be going up there now.--Och! I

hope I shall be asked to the widding. And what a nice month to wid in;

Novimber--Novimber, that’s the merry month for me! But ‘tis cold--bitter

cold, too. Well, good day--good day. Ay,” continued the hag, as Lester

and the sisters moved on, “ye all goes and throws niver a look behind.

Ye despises the poor in your hearts. But the poor will have their day.

Och! an’ I wish ye were dead--dead--dead, an’ I dancing in my

bonny black cloak about your graves;--for an’t all mine

dead--cold--cold--rotting, and one kind and rich man might ha’ saved

them all.”

Thus mumbling, the wretched creature looked after the father and his

daughters, as they wound onward, till her dim eyes caught them no

longer; and then, drawing her rags round her, she rose, and struck into

the opposite path that led to Aram’s house.

“I hope that hag will be no constant visitor at your future residence,

Madeline,” said the younger sister; “it would be like a blight on the

air.”

“And if we could remove her from the parish,” said Lester, “it would be

a happy day for the village. Yet, strange as it may seem, so great

is her power over them all, that there is never a marriage, nor a

christening in the village, from which she is absent--they dread her

spite and foul tongue enough, to make them even ask humbly for her

presence.”

“And the hag seems to know that her bad qualities are a good policy, and

obtain more respect than amiability would do,” said Ellinor. “I think

there is some design in all she utters.”

“I don’t know how it is, but the words and sight of that woman have

struck a damp into my heart,” said Madeline, musingly.

“It would be wonderful if they had not, child,” said Lester, soothingly;

and he changed the conversation to other topics.

As concluding their walk, they re-entered the village, they encountered

that most welcome of all visitants to a country village, the postman--a

tall, thin pedestrian, famous for swiftness of foot, with a cheerful

face, a swinging gait, and Lester’s bag slung over his shoulder. Our

little party quickened their pace--one letter--for Madeline--Aram’s

handwriting. Happy blush--bright smile! Ah! no meeting ever gives the

delight that a letter can inspire in the short absences of a first love

“And none for me,” said Lester, in a disappointed tone, and Ellinor’s

hand hung more heavily on his arm, and her step moved slower. “It is

very strange in Walter; but I am more angry than alarmed.”

“Be sure,” said Ellinor, after a pause, “that it is not his fault.

Something may have happened to him. Good Heavens! if he has been

attacked again--those fearful highwaymen!”

“Nay,” said Lester, “the most probable supposition after all is, that he

will not write until his expectations are realized or destroyed. Natural

enough, too; it is what I should have done, if I had been in his place.”

“Natural,” said Ellinor, who now attacked where she before

defended--“Natural not to give us one line, to say he is well and

safe--natural; I could not have been so remiss!”

“Ay, child, you women are so fond of writing,--‘tis not so with us,

especially when we are moving about: it is always--‘Well, I must write

to-morrow--well, I must write when this is settled--well, I must write

when I arrive at such a place;’--and, meanwhile, time slips on, till

perhaps we get ashamed of writing at all. I heard a great man say

once, that ‘Men must have something effeminate about them to be good

correspondents;’ and ‘faith, I think it’s true enough on the whole.”

“I wonder if Madeline thinks so?” said Ellinor, enviously glancing at

her sister’s absorption, as, lingering a little behind, she devoured the

contents of her letter.

“He is coming home immediately, dear father; perhaps he may be here

to-morrow,” cried Madeline abruptly; “think of that, Ellinor! Ah! and he

writes in spirits!”--and the poor girl clapped her hands delightedly, as

the colour danced joyously over her cheek and neck.

“I am glad to hear it,” quoth Lester; “we shall have him at last beat

even Ellinor in gaiety!”

“That may easily be,” sighed Ellinor to herself, as she glided past them

into the house, and sought her own chamber.

CHAPTER V.

A REFLECTION NEW AND STRANGE.--THE STREETS OF LONDON.--A GREAT

MAN’S LIBRARY.--A CONVERSATION BETWEEN THE STUDENT AND AN

ACQUAINTANCE OF THE READER’S.--ITS RESULT.

Rollo. Ask for thyself.

Lat. What more can concern me than this?

--The Tragedy of Rollo.

It was an evening in the declining autumn of 1758; some public ceremony

had occurred during the day, and the crowd, which it had assembled was

only now gradually lessening, as the shadows darkened along the streets.

Through this crowd, self-absorbed as usual--with them--not one

of them--Eugene Aram slowly wound his uncompanioned way. What an

incalculable field of dread and sombre contemplation is opened to every

man who, with his heart disengaged from himself, and his eyes accustomed

to the sharp observance of his tribe, walks through the streets of a

great city! What a world of dark and troublous secrets in the breast of

every one who hurries by you! Goethe has said somewhere, that each of

us, the best as the worst, hides within him something--some feeling,

some remembrance that, if known, would make you hate him. No doubt the

saying is exaggerated; but still, what a gloomy and profound sublimity

in the idea!--what a new insight it gives into the hearts of the common

herd!--with what a strange interest it may inspire us for the humblest,

the tritest passenger that shoulders us in the great thoroughfare of

life! One of the greatest pleasures in the world is to walk alone, and

at night, (while they are yet crowded,) through the long lamplit streets

of this huge metropolis. There, even more than in the silence of woods

and fields, seems to me the source of endless, various meditation.

There was that in Aram’s person which irresistibly commanded attention.

The earnest composure of his countenance, its thoughtful paleness, the

long hair falling back, the peculiar and estranged air of his whole

figure, accompanied as it was, by a mildness of expression, and that

lofty abstraction which characterises one who is a brooder over his

own heart--a ponderer and a soothsayer to his own dreams;--all these

arrested from time to time the second gaze of the passenger, and forced

on him the impression, simple as was the dress, and unpretending as was

the gait of the stranger, that in indulging that second gaze, he was in

all probability satisfying the curiosity which makes us love to fix our

regard upon any remarkable man.

At length Aram turned from the more crowded streets, and in a short

time paused before one of the most princely houses in London. It was

surrounded by a spacious court-yard, and over the porch, the arms of the

owner, with the coronet and supporters, were raised in stone.

“Is Lord--within?” asked Aram of the bluff porter who appeared at the

gate.

“My Lord is at dinner,” replied the porter, thinking the answer quite

sufficient, and about to reclose the gate upon the unseasonable visitor.

“I am glad to find he is at home,” rejoined Aram, gliding past the

servant, with an air of quiet and unconscious command, and passing the

court-yard to the main building.

At the door of the house, to which you ascended by a flight of stone

steps, the valet of the nobleman--the only nobleman introduced in our

tale, and consequently the same whom we have presented to our reader in

the earlier part of this work, happened to be lounging and enjoying the

smoke of the evening air. High-bred, prudent, and sagacious, Lord--knew

well how often great men, especially in public life, obtain odium

for the rudeness of their domestics, and all those, especially about

himself, had been consequently tutored into the habits of universal

courtesy and deference, to the lowest stranger, as well as to the

highest guest. And trifling as this may seem, it was an act of morality

as well as of prudence. Few can guess what pain may be saved to poor

and proud men of merit by a similar precaution. The valet, therefore,

replied to Aram’s inquiry with great politeness; he recollected the name

and repute of Aram, and as the Earl, taking delight in the company of

men of letters, was generally easy of access to all such--the great

man’s great man instantly conducted the Student to the Earl’s library,

and informing him that his Lordship had not yet left the dining-room,

where he was entertaining a large party, assured him that he should be

informed of Aram’s visit the moment he did so.

Lord--was still in office: sundry boxes were scattered on the

floor; papers, that seemed countless, lay strewed over the immense

library-table; but here and there were books of a more seductive

character than those of business, in which the mark lately set, and

the pencilled note still fresh, showed the fondness with which men of

cultivated minds, though engaged in official pursuits, will turn, in

the momentary intervals of more arid and toilsome life, to those lighter

studies which perhaps they in reality the most enjoy.

One of these books, a volume of Shaftesbury, Aram carefully took up;

it opened of its own accord in that most beautiful and profound passage

which contains perhaps the justest sarcasm, to which that ingenious and

graceful reasoner has given vent.

“The very spirit of Faction, for the greatest part, seems to be no other

than the abuse or irregularity of that social love and common affection

which is natural to mankind--for the opposite of sociableness, is

selfishness, and of all characters, the thorough selfish one--is

the least forward in taking party. The men of this sort are, in this

respect, true men of moderation. They are secure of their temper, and

possess themselves too well to be in danger of entering warmly into any

cause, or engaging deeply with any side or faction.”

On the margin of the page was the following note, in the handwriting of

Lord--.

“Generosity hurries a man into party--philosophy keeps him aloof from

it; the Emperor Julian says in his epistle to Themistius, ‘If you

should form only three or four philosophers, you would contribute more

essentially to the happiness of mankind than many kings united.’ Yet,

if all men were philosophers, I doubt whether, though more men would be

virtuous, there would be so many instances of an extraordinary virtue.

The violent passions produce dazzling irregularities.”

The Student was still engaged with this note when the Earl entered the

room. As the door through which he passed was behind Aram, and he

trod with a soft step, he was not perceived by the Scholar till he had

reached him, and, looking over Aram’s shoulder, the Earl said:--“You

will dispute the truth of my remark, will you not? Profound calm is the

element in which you would place all the virtues.”

“Not all, my Lord,” answered Aram, rising, as the Earl now shook him by

the hand, and expressed his delight at seeing the Student again. Though

the sagacious nobleman had no sooner heard the Student’s name, than, in

his own heart, he was convinced that Aram had sought him for the purpose

of soliciting a renewal of the offers he had formerly refused; he

resolved to leave his visitor to open the subject himself, and appeared

courteously to consider the visit as a matter of course, made without

any other object than the renewal of the mutual pleasure of intercourse.

“I am afraid, my Lord,” said Aram, “that you are engaged. My visit can

be paid to-morrow if--” “Indeed,” said the Earl interrupting him,

and drawing a chair to the table, “I have no engagements which should

deprive me of the pleasure of your company. A few friends have indeed

dined with me, but as they are now with Lady--, I do not think they will

greatly miss me; besides, an occasional absence is readily forgiven in

us happy men of office--we, who have the honour of exciting the envy of

all England, for being made magnificently wretched.”

“I am glad you allow so much, my Lord,” said Aram smiling, “I could not

have said more. Ambition only makes a favourite to make an ingrate;--she

has lavished her honours on Lord--, and see how he speaks of her

bounty?”

“Nay,” said the Earl, “I spoke wantonly, and stand corrected. I have no

reason to complain of the course I have chosen. Ambition, like any other

passion, gives us unhappy moments; but it gives us also an animated

life. In its pursuit, the minor evils of the world are not felt; little

crosses, little vexations do not disturb us. Like men who walk in

sleep, we are absorbed in one powerful dream, and do not even know the

obstacles in our way, or the dangers that surround us: in a word, we

have no private life. All that is merely domestic, the anxiety and the

loss which fret other men, which blight the happiness of other men, are

not felt by us: we are wholly public;--so that if we lose much comfort,

we escape much care.”

The Earl broke off for a moment; and then turning the subject, inquired

after the Lesters, and making some general and vague observations about

that family, came purposely to a pause.

Aram broke it:--“My Lord,” said he, with a slight, but not ungraceful,

embarrassment, “I fear that, in the course of your political life, you

must have made one observation, that he who promises to-day, will be

called upon to perform to-morrow. No man who has any thing to bestow,

can ever promise with impunity. Some time since, you tendered me offers

that would have dazzled more ardent natures than mine; and which I might

have advanced some claim to philosophy in refusing. I do not now come to

ask a renewal of those offers. Public life, and the haunts of men, are

as hateful as ever to my pursuits: but I come, frankly and candidly, to

throw myself on that generosity, which proffered to me then so large

a bounty. Certain circumstances have taken from me the small pittance

which supplied my wants;--I require only the power to pursue my quiet

and obscure career of study--your Lordship can afford me that power: it

is not against custom for the Government to grant some small annuity

to men of letters--your Lordship’s interest could obtain for me this

favour. Let me add, however, that I can offer nothing in return! Party

politics--Sectarian interests--are for ever dead to me: even my common

studies are of small general utility to mankind--I am conscious of

this--would it were otherwise!--Once I hoped it would be--but--” Aram

here turned deadly pale, gasped for breath, mastered his emotion, and

proceeded--“I have no great claim, then, to this bounty, beyond that

which all poor cultivators of the abstruse sciences can advance. It is

well for a country that those sciences should be cultivated; they are

not of a nature which is ever lucrative to the possessor--not of a

nature that can often be left, like lighter literature, to the fair

favour of the public--they call, perhaps, more than any species of

intellectual culture, for the protection of a government; and though in

me would be a poor selection, the principle would still be served, and

the example furnish precedent for nobler instances hereafter. I have

said all, my Lord!”

Nothing, perhaps, more affects a man of some sympathy with those who

cultivate letters, than the pecuniary claims of one who can advance them

with justice, and who advances them also with dignity. If the meanest,

the most pitiable, the most heart-sickening object in the world, is the

man of letters, sunk into the habitual beggar, practising the tricks,

incurring the rebuke, glorying in the shame, of the mingled mendicant

and swindler;--what, on the other hand, so touches, so subdues us, as

the first, and only petition, of one whose intellect dignifies our whole

kind; and who prefers it with a certain haughtiness in his very modesty;

because, in asking a favour to himself, he may be only asking the power

to enlighten the world?

“Say no more, Sir,” said the Earl, affected deeply, and giving

gracefully way to the feeling; “the affair is settled. Consider it

utterly so. Name only the amount of the annuity you desire.”

With some hesitation Aram named a sum so moderate, so trivial, that the

Minister, accustomed as he was to the claims of younger sons and widowed

dowagers--accustomed to the hungry cravings of petitioners without

merit, who considered birth the only just title to the right of

exactions from the public--was literally startled by the contrast. “More

than this,” added Aram, “I do not require, and would decline to accept.

We have some right to claim existence from the administrators of the

common stock--none to claim affluence.”

“Would to Heaven!” said the Earl, smiling, “that all claimants were like

you: pension lists would not then call for indignation; and ministers

would not blush to support the justice of the favours they conferred.

But are you still firm in rejecting a more public career, with all its

deserved emoluments and just honours? The offer I made you once, I renew

with increased avidity now.”

“‘Despiciam dites,’” answered Aram, “and, thanks to you, I may add,

‘despiciamque famem.’”

CHAPTER VI.

THE THAMES AT NIGHT.--A THOUGHT.--THE STUDENT RE-SEEKS THE

RUFFIAN.--A HUMAN FEELING EVEN IN THE WORST SOIL.

Clem. ‘Tis our last interview!

Stat. Pray Heav’n it be.

--Clemanthes.

On leaving Lord ------‘s, Aram proceeded, with a lighter and more rapid

step, towards a less courtly quarter of the metropolis.

He had found, on arriving in London, that in order to secure the annual

sum promised to Houseman, it had been necessary to strip himself even of

the small stipend he had hoped to retain. And hence his visit, and

hence his petition to Lord--. He now bent his way to the spot in which

Houseman had appointed their meeting. To the fastidious reader these

details of pecuniary matters, so trivial in themselves, may be a little

wearisome, and may seem a little undignified; but we are writing a

romance of real life, and the reader must take what is homely with what

may be more epic--the pettiness and the wants of the daily world, with

its loftier sorrows and its grander crimes. Besides, who knows how

darkly just may be that moral which shows us a nature originally high,

a soul once all a-thirst for truth, bowed (by what events?) to the

manoeuvres and the lies of the worldly hypocrite?

The night had now closed in, and its darkness was only relieved by the

wan lamps that vista’d the streets, and a few dim stars that struggled

through the reeking haze that curtained the great city. Aram had now

gained one of the bridges ‘that arch the royal Thames,’ and, in no time

dead to scenic attraction, he there paused for a moment, and looked

along the dark river that rushed below.

Oh, God! how many wild and stormy hearts have stilled themselves on that

spot, for one dread instant of thought--of calculation--of resolve--one

instant the last of life! Look at night along the course of that stately

river, how gloriously it seems to mock the passions of them that dwell

beside it;--Unchanged--unchanging--all around it quick death, and

troubled life; itself smiling up to the grey stars, and singing from

its deep heart as it bounds along. Beside it is the Senate, proud of its

solemn triflers, and there the cloistered Tomb, in which as the

loftiest honour, some handful of the fiercest of the strugglers may gain

forgetfulness and a grave! There is no moral to a great city like the

River that washes its walls.

There was something in the view before him, that suggested reflections

similar to these, to the strange and mysterious breast of the lingering

Student. A solemn dejection crept over him, a warning voice sounded

on his ear, the fearful Genius within him was aroused, and even in the

moment when his triumph seemed complete and his safety secured, he felt

it only as

“The torrent’s smoothness ere it dash below.”

The mist obscured and saddened the few lights scattered on either side

the water. And a deep and gloomy quiet brooded round;

“The very houses seemed asleep,

And all that mighty heart was lying still.”

Arousing himself from his short and sombre reverie, Aram resumed his

way, and threading some of the smaller streets on the opposite side

of the water, arrived at last in the street in which he was to seek

Houseman.

It was a narrow and dark lane, and seemed altogether of a suspicious and

disreputable locality. One or two samples of the lowest description of

alehouses broke the dark silence of the spot;--from them streamed the

only lights which assisted the single lamp that burned at the entrance

of the alley; and bursts of drunken laughter and obscene merriment broke

out every now and then from these wretched theatres of Pleasure As Aram

passed one of them, a crowd of the lowest order of ruffian and harlot

issued noisily from the door, and suddenly obstructed his way; through

this vile press reeking with the stamp and odour of the most repellent

character of vice was the lofty and cold Student to force his path! The

darkness, his quick step, his downcast head, favoured his escape through

the unhallowed throng, and he now stood opposite the door of a small

and narrow house. A ponderous knocker adorned the door, which seemed of

uncommon strength, being thickly studded with large nails. He knocked

twice before his summons was answered, and then a voice from within,

cried, “Who’s there? What want you?”

“I seek one called Houseman.”

No answer was returned--some moments elapsed. Again the Student knocked,

and presently he heard the voice of Houseman himself call out, “Who’s

there--Joe the Cracksman?”

“Richard Houseman, it is I,” answered Aram, in a deep tone, and

suppressing the natural feelings of loathing and abhorrence.

Houseman uttered a quick exclamation; the door was hastily unbarred All

within was utterly dark; but Aram felt with a thrill of repugnance, the

gripe of his strange acquaintance on his hand.

“Ha! it is you!--Come in, come in!--let me lead you. Have a care--cling

to the wall--the right hand--now then--stay. So--so”--(opening the door

of a room, in which a single candle, wellnigh in its socket, broke

on the previous darkness;) “here we are! here we are! And, how goes

it--eh!”

Houseman, now bustling about, did the honours of his apartment with a

sort of complacent hospitality. He drew two rough wooden chairs, that

in some late merriment seemed to have been upset, and lay, cumbering the

unwashed and carpetless floor, in a position exactly contrary to that

destined them by their maker;--he drew these chairs near a table strewed

with drinking horns, half-emptied bottles, and a pack of cards. Dingy

caricatures of the large coarse fashion of the day, decorated the

walls; and carelessly thrown on another table, lay a pair of huge

horse-pistols, an immense shovel hat, a false moustache, a rouge-pot,

and a riding-whip. All this the Student comprehended with a rapid

glance--his lip quivered for a moment--whether with shame or scorn of

himself, and then throwing himself on the chair Houseman had set for

him, he said, “I have come to discharge my part of our agreement.”

“You are most welcome,” replied Houseman, with that tone of coarse, yet

flippant jocularity, which afforded to the mien and manner of Aram a

still stronger contrast than his more unrelieved brutality.

“There,” said Aram, giving him a paper; “there you will perceive that

the sum mentioned is secured to you, the moment you quit this country.

When shall that be? Let me entreat haste.”

“Your prayer shall be granted. Before day-break to-morrow, I will be on

the road.”

Aram’s face brightened.

“There is my hand upon it,” said Houseman, earnestly. “You may now rest

assured that you are free of me for life. Go home--marry--enjoy your

existence--as I have done. Within four days, if the wind set fair, I am

in France.”

“My business is done; I will believe you,” said Aram, frankly, and

rising.

“You may,” answered Houseman. “Stay--I will light you to the door. Devil

and death--how the d--d candle flickers.”

Across the gloomy passage, as the candle now flared--and now was

dulled--by quick fits and starts,--Houseman, after this brief

conference, reconducted the Student. And as Aram turned from the door,

he flung his arms wildly aloft, and exclaimed in the voice of one, from

whose heart a load is lifted--“Now, now, for Madeline. I breathe freely

at last.”

Meanwhile, Houseman turned musingly back, and regained his room,

muttering, “Yes--yes--my business here is also done! Competence and

safety abroad--after all, what a bugbear is this conscience!--fourteen

years have rolled away--and lo! nothing discovered! nothing known! And

easy circumstances--the very consequence of the deed--wait the remainder

of my days:--my child, too--my Jane--shall not want--shall not be a

beggar nor a harlot.”

So musing, Houseman threw himself contentedly on the chair, and the

last flicker of the expiring light, as it played upward on his rugged

countenance--rested on one of those self-hugging smiles, with which a

sanguine man contemplates a satisfactory future.

He had not been long alone, before the door opened; and a woman with

a light in her hand appeared. She was evidently intoxicated, and

approached Houseman with a reeling and unsteady step.

“How now, Bess? drunk as usual. Get to bed, you she shark, go!”

“Tush, man, tush! don’t talk to your betters,” said the woman, sinking

into a chair; and her situation, disgusting as it was, could not conceal

the rare, though somewhat coarse beauty of her face and person.

Even Houseman, (his heart being opened, as it were, by the cheering

prospects of which his soliloquy had indulged the contemplation,) was

sensible of the effect of the mere physical attraction, and drawing his

chair closer to her, he said in a tone less harsh than usual.

“Come, Bess, come, you must correct that d--d habit of yours; perhaps I

may make a lady of you after all. What if I were to let you take a trip

with me to France, old girl, eh? and let you set off that handsome face,

for you are devilish handsome, and that’s the truth of it, with some of

the French gewgaws you women love. What if. I were? would you be a good

girl, eh?”

“I think I would, Dick,--I think I would,” replied the woman, showing

a set of teeth as white as ivory, with pleasure partly at the flattery,

partly at the proposition: “you are a good fellow, Dick, that you are.”

“Humph!” said Houseman, whose hard, shrewd mind was not easily cajoled,

“but what’s that paper in your bosom, Bess? a love-letter, I’ll swear.”

“‘Tis to you then; came to you this morning, only somehow or other, I

forgot to give it you till now!”

“Ha! a letter to me?” said Houseman, seizing the epistle in question.

“Hem! the Knaresbro’ postmark--my mother-in-law’s crabbed hand, too!

what can the old crone want?”

He opened the letter, and hastily scanning its contents, started up.

“Mercy, mercy!” cried he, “my child is ill, dying. I may never see her

again,--my only child,--the only thing that loves me,--that does not

loath me as a villain!”

“Heyday, Dicky!” said the woman, clinging to him, “don’t take on so, who

so fond of you as me?--what’s a brat like that!”

“Curse on you, hag!” exclaimed Houseman, dashing her to the ground with

a rude brutality, “you love me! Pah! My child,--my little Jane,--my

pretty Jane,--my merry Jane,--my innocent Jane--I will seek her

instantly--instantly; what’s money? what’s ease,--if--if--” And the

father, wretch, ruffian as he was, stung to the core of that last

redeeming feeling of his dissolute nature, struck his breast with his

clenched hand, and rushed from the room--from the house.

CHAPTER VII.

MADELINE, HER HOPES.--A MILD AUTUMN CHARACTERISED.

--A LANDSCAPE.--A RETURN.

‘Tis late, and cold--stir up the fire,

Sit close, and draw the table nigher;

Be merry and drink wine that’s old,

A hearty medicine ‘gainst a cold,

Welcome--welcome shall fly round!

--Beaumont and Fletcher: Song in the Lover’s Progress.

As when the Great Poet,--

Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detained

In that obscure sojourn; while, in his flight

Through utter and through middle darkness borne,

He sang of chaos, and eternal night:--

As when, revisiting the “Holy Light, offspring of heaven first-born,”

the sense of freshness and glory breaks upon him, and kindles into

the solemn joyfulness of adjuring song: so rises the mind from the

contemplation of the gloom and guilt of life, “the utter and the middle

darkness,” to some pure and bright redemption of our nature--some

creature of “the starry threshold,” “the regions mild of calm and serene

air.” Never was a nature more beautiful and soft than that of Madeline

Lester--never a nature more inclined to live “above the smoke and stir

of this dim spot, which men call earth”--to commune with its own high

and chaste creations of thought--to make a world out of the emotions

which this world knows not--a paradise, which sin, and suspicion, and

fear, had never yet invaded--where God might recognise no evil, and

Angels forebode no change.

Aram’s return was now daily, nay, even hourly expected. Nothing

disturbed the soft, though thoughtful serenity, with which his betrothed

relied upon the future. Aram’s letters had been more deeply impressed

with the evidence of love, than even his spoken vows: those letters

had diffused not so much an agitated joy, as a full and mellow light of

happiness over her heart. Every thing, even Nature, seemed inclined to

smile with approbation on her hopes. The autumn had never, in the memory

of man, worn so lovely a garment: the balmy and freshening warmth, which

sometimes characterises that period of the year, was not broken, as

yet, by the chilling winds, or the sullen mists, which speak to us so

mournfully of the change that is creeping over the beautiful world.

The summer visitants among the feathered tribe yet lingered in flocks,

showing no intention of departure; and their song--but above all, the

song of the sky-lark--which, to the old English poet, was what the

nightingale is to the Eastern--seemed even to grow more cheerful as

the sun shortened his daily task;--the very mulberry-tree, and the rich

boughs of the horse chesnut, retained something of their verdure;

and the thousand glories of the woodland around Grassdale were still

chequered with the golden hues that herald, but beautify Decay. Still,

no news had been received of Walter: and this was the only source of

anxiety that troubled the domestic happiness of the Manor-house. But the

Squire continued to remember, that in youth he himself had been but a

negligent correspondent; and the anxiety he felt, assumed rather the

character of anger at Walter’s forgetfulness, than of fear for his

safety. There were moments when Ellinor silently mourned and pined; but

she loved her sister not less even than her cousin; and in the

prospect of Madeline’s happiness, did not too often question the future

respecting her own.

One evening, the sisters were sitting at their work by the window of

the little parlour, and talking over various matters of which the Great

World, strange as it may seem, never made a part.

They conversed in a low tone, for Lester sat by the hearth in which a

wood fire had been just kindled, and appeared to have fallen into

an afternoon slumber. The sun was sinking to repose, and the whole

landscape lay before them bathed in light, till a cloud passing

overhead, darkened the heavens just immediately above them, and one of

those beautiful sun showers, that rather characterize the spring than

autumn, began to fall; the rain was rather sharp, and descended with a

pleasant and freshening noise through the boughs, all shining in the sun

light; it did not, however, last long, and presently there sprang up

the glorious rainbow, and the voices of the birds, which a minute before

were mute, burst into a general chorus, the last hymn of the declining

day. The sparkling drops fell fast and gratefully from the trees, and

over the whole scene there breathed an inexpressible sense of gladness--

“The odour and the harmony of eve.”

“How beautiful!” said Ellinor, pausing from her work--“Ah, see the

squirrel, is that our pet one? he is coming close to the window, poor

fellow! Stay, I will get him some bread.”

“Hush!” said Madeline, half rising, and turning quite pale, “Do you hear

a step without?”

“Only the dripping of the boughs,” answered Ellinor.

“No--no--it is he--it is he!” cried Madeline, the blood rushing back

vividly to her cheeks, “I know his step!”

And--yes--winding round the house till he stood opposite the window, the

sisters now beheld Eugene Aram; the diamond rain glittered on the locks

of his long hair; his cheeks were flushed by exercise, or more probably

the joy of return; a smile, in which there was no shade or sadness,

played over his features, which caught also a fictitious semblance of

gladness from the rays of the setting sun which fell full upon them.

“My Madeline, my love, my Madeline!” broke from his lips.

“You are returned--thank God--thank God--safe--well?”

“And happy!” added Aram, with a deep meaning in the tone of his voice.

“Hey day, hey day!” cried the Squire, starting up, “what’s this?

bless me, Eugene!--wet through too, seemingly! Nell, run and open the

door--more wood on the fire--the pheasants for supper--and stay, girl,

stay--there’s the key of the cellar--the twenty-one port--you know it.

Ah! ah! God willing, Eugene Aram shall not complain of his welcome back

to Grassdale!”

CHAPTER VIII.

AFFECTION: ITS GODLIKE NATURE.--THE CONVERSATION BETWEEN ARAM

AND MADELINE.--THE FATALIST FORGETS FATE.

Hope is a lover’s staff; walk hence with that,

And manage it against despairing thoughts.

--Two Gentlemen of Verona.

If there be any thing thoroughly lovely in the human heart, it is

Affection! All that makes hope elevated, or fear generous, belongs to

the capacity of loving. For my own part, I do not wonder, in looking

over the thousand creeds and sects of men, that so many religionists

have traced their theology,--that so many moralists have wrought their

system from--Love. The errors thus originated have something in them

that charms us even while we smile at the theology, or while we neglect

the system. What a beautiful fabric would be human nature--what a divine

guide would be human reason--if Love were indeed the stratum of the

one, and the inspiration of the other! What a world of reasonings, not

immediately obvious, did the sage of old open to our inquiry, when he

said the pathetic was the truest part of the sublime. Aristides, the

painter, created a picture in which an infant is represented sucking a

mother wounded to the death, who, even in that agony, strives to prevent

the child from injuring itself by imbibing the blood mingled with the

milk. [Note: Intelligitur sentire mater et timere, ne mortuo lacte

sanguinem lambat.] How many emotions, that might have made us

permanently wiser and better, have we lost in losing that picture!

Certainly, Love assumes a more touching and earnest semblance, when we

find it in some retired and sequestered hollow of the world; when it is

not mixed up with the daily frivolities and petty emotions of which a

life passed in cities is so necessarily composed: we cannot but believe

it a deeper and a more absorbing passion: perhaps we are not always

right in the belief.

Had one of that order of angels to whom a knowledge of the future, or

the seraphic penetration into the hidden heart of man is forbidden,

stayed his wings over the lovely valley in which the main scene of

our history has been cast, no spectacle might have seemed to him more

appropriate to that lovely spot, or more elevated in the character of

its tenderness above the fierce and short-lived passions of the ordinary

world, than the love that existed between Madeline and her betrothed.

Their natures seemed so suited to each other! the solemn and undiurnal

mood of the one was reflected back in hues so gentle, and yet so

faithful, from the purer, but scarce less thoughtful character of the

other! Their sympathies ran through the same channel, and mingled in a

common fount; and whatever was dark and troubled in the breast of Aram,

was now suffered not to appear. Since his return, his mood was brighter

and more tranquil; and he seemed better fitted to appreciate and respond

to the peculiar tenderness of Madeline’s affection. There are some

stars which, viewed by the naked eye, seem one, but in reality are two

separate orbs revolving round each other, and drinking, each from each,

a separate yet united existence: such stars seemed a type of them.

Had anything been wanting to complete Madeline’s happiness, the change

in Aram supplied the want. The sudden starts, the abrupt changes of mood

and countenance, that had formerly characterized him, were now scarcely,

if ever, visible. He seemed to have resigned himself with confidence

to the prospects of the future, and to have forsworn the haggard

recollections of the past; he moved, and looked, and smiled like other

men; he was alive to the little circumstances around him, and no longer

absorbed in the contemplation of a separate and strange existence within

himself. Some scattered fragments of his poetry bear the date of this

time: they are chiefly addressed to Madeline, and, amidst the vows

of love, a spirit, sometimes of a wild and bursting--sometimes of a

profound and collected happiness, are visible. There is great beauty in

many of these fragments, and they bear a stronger impress of heart--they

breathe more of nature and truth, than the poetry that belongs of right

to that time.

And thus day rolled on day, till it was now the eve before their

bridals. Aram had deemed it prudent to tell Lester, that he had sold his

annuity, and that he had applied to the Earl for the pension which we

have seen he had been promised. As to his supposed relation--the illness

he had created he suffered now to cease; and indeed the approaching

ceremony gave him a graceful excuse for turning the conversation away

form any topics that did not relate to Madeline, or to that event.

It was the eve before their marriage; Aram and Madeline were walking

along the valley that led to the house of the former.

“How fortunate it is!” said Madeline, “that our future residence will

be so near my father’s. I cannot tell you with what delight he looks

forward to the pleasant circle we shall make. Indeed, I think he would

scarce have consented to our wedding, if it had separated us from him.”

Aram stopped, and plucked a flower.

“Ah! indeed, indeed, Madeline! Yet in the course of the various changes

of life, how more than probable it is that we shall be divided from

him--that we shall leave this spot.”

“It is possible, certainly; but not probable, is it, Eugene?”

“Would it grieve thee irremediably, dearest, were it so?” rejoined Aram,

evasively.

“Irremediably! What could grieve me irremediably, that did not happen to

you?”

“Should, then, circumstances occur to induce us to leave this part of

the country, for one yet more remote, you could submit cheerfully to the

change?”

“I should weep for my father--I should weep for Ellinor; but--”

“But what?”

“I should comfort myself in thinking that you would then be yet more to

me than ever!”

“Dearest!”

“But why do you speak thus; only to try me? Ah! that is needless.”

“No, my Madeline; I have no doubt of your affection. When you loved such

as me, I knew at once how blind, how devoted must be that love. You were

not won through the usual avenues to a woman’s heart; neither wit nor

gaiety, nor youth nor beauty, did you behold in me. Whatever attracted

you towards me, that which must have been sufficiently powerful to

make you overlook these ordinary allurements, will be also sufficiently

enduring to resist all ordinary changes. But listen, Madeline. Do not

yet ask me wherefore; but I fear, that a certain fatality will constrain

us to leave this spot, very shortly after our wedding.”

“How disappointed my poor father will be!” said Madeline, sighing.

“Do not, on any account, mention this conversation to him, or to

Ellinor; ‘sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.’”

Madeline wondered, but said no more. There was a pause for some minutes.

“Do you remember,” observed Madeline, “that it was about here we met

that strange man whom you had formerly known?”

“Ha! was it?--Here, was it?”

“What has become of him?”

“He is abroad, I hope,” said Aram, calmly. “Yes, let me think; by this

time he must be in France. Dearest, let us rest here on this dry mossy

bank for a little while;” and Aram drew his arm round her waist, and,

his countenance brightening as if with some thought of increasing joy,

he poured out anew those protestations of love, and those anticipations

of the future, which befitted the eve of a morrow so full of auspicious

promise.

The heaven of their fate seemed calm and glowing, and Aram did not dream

that the one small cloud of fear which was set within it, and which he

alone beheld afar, and unprophetic of the storm, was charged with the

thunderbolt of a doom, he had protracted, not escaped.

CHAPTER IX.

WALTER AND THE CORPORAL ON THE ROAD.--THE EVENING SETS IN.--

THE GIPSEY TENTS.--ADVENTURE WITH THE HORSEMAN.--THE CORPORAL

DISCOMFITED, AND THE ARRIVAL AT KNARESBOROUGH.

Long had he wandered, when from far he sees

A ruddy flame that gleamed betwixt the trees.

.... Sir Gawaine prays him tell

Where lies the road to princely Corduel.

--The Knight of the Sword.

“Well, Bunting, we are not far from our night’s resting-place,” said

Walter, pointing to a milestone on the road.

“The poor beast will be glad when we gets there, your honour,” answered

the Corporal, wiping his brows.

“Which beast, Bunting?”

“Augh!--now your honour’s severe! I am glad to see you so merry.”

Walter sighed heavily; there sat no mirth at his heart at that moment.

“Pray Sir,” said the Corporal after a pause, “if not too bold, has your

honour heard how they be doing at Grassdale?”

“No, Bunting; I have not held any correspondence with my uncle since our

departure. Once I wrote to him on setting off to Yorkshire, but I could

give him no direction to write to me again. The fact is, that I have

been so sanguine in this search, and from day to day I have been so led

on in tracing a clue, which I fear is now broken, that I have constantly

put off writing till I could communicate that certain intelligence which

I flattered myself I should be able ere this to procure. However, if we

are unsuccessful at Knaresbro’ I shall write from that place a detailed

account of our proceedings.”

“And I hopes you will say as how I have given your honour satisfaction.”

“Depend upon that.”

“Thank you Sir, thank you humbly; I would not like the Squire to think

I’m ungrateful!--augh,--and mayhap I may have more cause to be grateful

by and by, whenever the Squire, God bless him, in consideration of your

honour’s good offices, should let me have the bit cottage rent free.”

“A man of the world, Bunting; a man of the world!”

“Your honour’s mighty obleeging,” said the Corporal, putting his hand

to his hat; “I wonders,” renewed he, after a short pause, “I wonders how

poor neighbour Dealtry is. He was a sufferer last year; I should like to

know how Peter be getting on--‘tis a good creature.”

Somewhat surprised at this sudden sympathy on the part of the Corporal,

for it was seldom that Bunting expressed kindness for any one, Walter

replied,--

“When I write, Bunting, I will not fail to inquire how Peter Dealtry

is;--does your kind heart suggest any other message to him?”

“Only to ask arter Jacobina, poor thing; she might get herself into

trouble if little Peter fell sick and neglected her like--augh. And I

hopes as how Peter airs the bit cottage now and then; but the Squire,

God bless him, will see to that, and the tato garden, I’m sure.”

“You may rely on that, Bunting,” said Walter sinking into a reverie,

from which he was shortly roused by the Corporal.

“I’spose Miss Madeline be married afore now, your honour: well, pray

Heaven she be happy with that ere larned man!”

Walter’s heart beat faster for a moment at this sudden remark, but

he was pleased to find that the time when the thought of Madeline’s

marriage was accompanied with painful emotion was entirely gone by; the

reflection however induced a new train of idea, and without replying to

the Corporal, he sank into a deeper meditation than before.

The shrewd Bunting saw that it was not a favourable moment for renewing

the conversation; he therefore suffered his horse to fall back, and

taking a quid from his tobacco-box, was soon as well entertained as his

master. In this manner they rode on for about a couple of miles, the

evening growing darker as they proceeded, when a green opening in the

road brought them within view of a gipsy’s encampment; the scene was so

sudden and so picturesque, that it aroused the young traveller from his

reverie, and as his tired horse walked slowly on, the bridle about its

neck, he looked with an earnest eye on the vagrant settlement beside his

path. The moon had just risen above a dark copse in the rear, and cast

a broad, deep shadow along the green, without lessening the vivid effect

of the fires which glowed and sparkled in the darker recess of the waste

land, as the gloomy forms of the Egyptians were seen dimly cowering

round the blaze. A scene of this sort is perhaps one of the most

striking that the green lanes of Old England afford,--to me it has

always an irresistible attraction, partly from its own claims, partly

from those of association. When I was a mere boy, and bent on a solitary

excursion over parts of England and Scotland, I saw something of that

wild people,--though not perhaps so much as the ingenious George Hanger,

to whose memoirs the reader may be referred, for some rather amusing

pages on gipsy life. As Walter was still eyeing the encampment, he in

return had not escaped the glance of an old crone, who came running

hastily up to him, and begged permission to tell his fortune and to have

her hand crossed with silver.

Very few men under thirty ever sincerely refuse an offer of this sort.

Nobody believes in these predictions, yet every one likes hearing them:

and Walter, after faintly refusing the proposal twice, consented the

third time; and drawing up his horse submitted his hand to the old lady.

In the mean while, one of the younger urchins who had accompanied her

had run to the encampments for a light, and now stood behind the old

woman’s shoulder, rearing on high a pine brand, which cast over the

little group a red and weird-like glow.

The reader must not imagine we are now about to call his credulity in

aid to eke out any interest he may feel in our story; the old crone was

but a vulgar gipsy, and she predicted to Walter the same fortune she

always predicted to those who paid a shilling for the prophecy--an

heiress with blue eyes--seven children--troubles about the epoch of

forty-three, happily soon over--and a healthy old age with an easy

death. Though Walter was not impressed with any reverential awe for

these vaticinations, he yet could not refrain from inquiring, whether

the journey on which he was at present bent was likely to prove

successful in its object.

“‘Tis an ill night,” said the old woman, lifting up her wild face and

elfin locks with a mysterious air--“‘Tis an ill night for them as seeks,

and for them as asks.--He’s about--”

“He--who?”

“No matter!--you may be successful, young Sir, yet wish you had not been

so. The moon thus, and the wind there--promise that you will get your

desires, and find them crosses.”

The Corporal had listened very attentively to these predictions, and was

now about to thrust forth his own hand to the soothsayer, when from

a cross road to the right came the sound of hoofs, and presently a

horseman at full trot pulled up beside them.

“Hark ye, old she Devil, or you, Sirs--is this the road to Knaresbro’?”

The Gipsy drew back, and gazed on the countenance of the rider, on which

the red glare of the pine-brand shone full.

“To Knaresbro’, Richard, the dare-devil? Ay, and what does the ramping

bird want in the ould nest? Welcome back to Yorkshire, Richard, my ben

cove!”

“Ha!” said the rider, shading his eyes with his hand, as he returned

the gaze of the Gipsy--“is it you, Bess Airlie: your welcome is like

the owl’s, and reads the wrong way. But I must not stop. This takes to

Knaresbro’ then?”

“Straight as a dying man’s curse to hell,” replied the crone, in that

metaphorical style in which all her tribe love to speak, and of which

their proper language is indeed almost wholly composed.

The horseman answered not, but spurred on.

“Who is that?” asked Walter earnestly, as the old woman stretched her

tawny neck after the rider.

“An ould friend, Sir,” replied the Egyptian, drily. “I have not seen

him these fourteen years; but it is not Bess Airlie who is apt to forgit

friend or foe. Well, Sir, shall I tell your honour’s good luck?”--(Here

she turned to the Corporal, who sat erect on his saddle with his hand on

his holster)--“the colour of the lady’s hair--and--”

“Hold your tongue, you limb of Satan!” interrupted the Corporal

fiercely, as if his whole tide of thought, so lately favourable to the

Soothsayer, had undergone a deadly reversion. “Please your honour, it’s

getting late, we had better be jogging!”

“You are right,” said Walter spurring his jaded horse, and nodding his

adieu to the Gipsy,--he was soon out of sight of the encampment.

“Sir,” said the Corporal joining his master, “that is a man as I have

seed afore; I knowed his ugly face again in a crack--‘tis the man what

came to Grassdale arter Mr. Aram, and we saw arterwards the night we

chanced on Sir Peter Thingumybob.”

“Bunting,” said Walter, in a low voice, “I too have been trying to recal

the face of that man, and I too am persuaded I have seen it before. A

fearful suspicion, amounting almost to conviction, creeps over me, that

the hour in which I last saw it was one when my life was in peril. In a

word, I do believe that I beheld that face bending over me on the night

when I lay under the hedge, and so nearly escaped murder! If I am right,

it was, however, the mildest of the ruffians; the one who counselled his

comrades against despatching me.”

The Corporal shuddered.

“Pray, Sir!” said he, after a moment’s pause, “do see if your pistols

are primed--so--so. ‘Tis not out o’ nature that the man may have some

‘complices hereabout, and may think to way-lay us. The old Gipsy,

too, what a face she had! depend on it, they are two of a

trade--augh!--bother!--whaugh!”

And the Corporal grunted his most significant grunt.

“It is not at all unlikely, Bunting; and as we are now not far from

Knaresbro’, it will be prudent to ride on as fast as our horses will

allow us. Keep up alongside.”

“Certainly--I’ll purtect your honour,” said the Corporal, getting on

that side where the hedge being thinnest, an ambush was less likely to

be laid. “I care more for your honour’s safety than my own, or what a

brute I should be--augh!”

The master and man had trotted on for some little distance, when they

perceived a dark object moving along by the grass on the side of the

road. The Corporal’s hair bristled--he uttered an oath, which by him was

always intended for a prayer. Walter felt his breath grow a little

thick as he watched the motions of the object so imperfectly beheld;

presently, however, it grew into a man on horseback, trotting very

slowly along the grass; and as they now neared him, they recognised the

rider they had just seen, whom they might have imagined, from the pace

at which he left them before, to have been considerably a-head of them.

The horseman turned round as he saw them.

“Pray, gentlemen,” said he, in a tone of great and evident anxiety, “how

far is it to Knaresbro’?”

“Don’t answer him, your honour!” whispered the Corporal.

“Probably,” replied Walter, unheeding this advice, “you know this

road better than we do. It cannot however be above three or four miles

hence.”

“Thank you, Sir,--it is long since I have been in these parts. I used to

know the country, but they have made new roads and strange enclosures,

and I now scarcely recognise any thing familiar. Curse on this brute!

curse on it, I say!” repeated the horseman through his ground teeth in

a tone of angry vehemence, “I never wanted to ride so quick before,

and the beast has fallen as lame as a tree. This comes of trying to go

faster than other folks.--Sir, are you a father?”

This abrupt question, which was uttered in a sharp, strained voice,

a little startled Walter. He replied shortly in the negative, and

was about to spur onward, when the horseman continued--and there was

something in his voice and manner that compelled attention: “And I am

in doubt whether I have a child or not.--By G--! it is a bitter gnawing

state of mind.--I may reach Knaresbro’ to find my only daughter dead,

Sir!--dead!”

Despite of Walter’s suspicions of the speaker, he could not but feel a

thrill of sympathy at the visible distress with which these words were

said.

“I hope not,” said he involuntarily.

“Thank you, Sir,” replied the Horseman, trying ineffectually to spur

on his steed, which almost came down at the effort to proceed. “I have

ridden thirty miles across the country at full speed, for they had no

post-horses at the d--d place where I hired this brute. This was the

only creature I could get for love or money; and now the devil only

knows how important every moment may be.--While I speak, my child

may breathe her last!--” and the man brought his clenched fist on the

shoulder of his horse in mingled spite and rage.

“All sham, your honour,” whispered the Corporal.

“Sir,” cried the horseman, now raising his voice, “I need not have asked

if you had been a father--if you had, you would have had compassion on

me ere this,--you would have lent me your own horse.”

“The impudent rogue!” muttered the Corporal.

“Sir,” replied Walter, “it is not to the tale of every stranger that a

man gives belief.”

“Belief!--ah, well, well, ‘tis no matter,” said the horseman, sullenly.

“There was a time, man, when I would have forced what I now solicit; but

my heart’s gone. Ride on, Sir--ride on,--and the curse of--”

“If,” interrupted Walter, irresolutely--“if I could believe your

statement:--but no. Mark me, Sir: I have reasons--fearful reasons, for

imagining you mean this but as a snare!”

“Ha!” said the horseman, deliberately, “have we met before?”

“I believe so.”

“And you have had cause to complain of me? It may be--it may be: but

were the grave before me, and if one lie would smite me into it, I

solemnly swear that I now utter but the naked truth.”

“It would be folly to trust him, Bunting?” said Walter, turning round to

his attendant.

“Folly!--sheer madness--bother!”

“If you are the man I take you for,” said Walter, “you once lifted

your voice against the murder, though you assisted in the robbery of a

traveller:--that traveller was myself. I will remember the mercy--I will

forget the outrage: and I will not believe that you have devised this

tale as a snare. Take my horse, Sir; I will trust you.”

Houseman, for it was he, flung himself instantly from his saddle. “I

don’t ask God to bless you: a blessing in my mouth would be worse than a

curse. But you will not repent this: you will not repent it!”

Houseman said these few words with a palpable emotion; and it was more

striking on account of the evident coarseness and hardened vulgarity of

his nature. In a moment more he had mounted Walter’s horse, and turning

ere he sped on, inquired at what place at Knaresborough the horse should

be sent. Walter directed him to the principal inn; and Houseman, waving

his hand, and striking his spurs into the animal, wearied as it was, was

out of sight in a moment.

“Well, if ever I seed the like!” quoth the Corporal. “Lira, lira, la,

la, la! lira, lara, la, la, la!--augh!--whaugh!--bother!”

“So my good-nature does not please you, Bunting.”

“Oh, Sir, it does not sinnify: we shall have our throats cut--that’s

all.

“What! you don’t believe the story.”

“I? Bless your honour, I am no fool.”

“Bunting!”

“Sir.”

“You forget yourself.”

“Augh!”

“So you don’t think I should have lent the horse?”

“Sartainly not.”

“On occasions like these, every man ought to take care of himself?

Prudence before generosity?”

“Of a sartainty, Sir.”

“Dismount, then,--I want my horse. You may shift with the lame one.”

“Augh, Sir,--baugh!”

“Rascal, dismount, I say!” said Walter angrily: for the Corporal was one

of those men who aim at governing their masters; and his selfishness now

irritated Walter as much as his impertinent tone of superior wisdom.

The Corporal hesitated. He thought an ambuscade by the road of certain

occurrence; and he was weighing the danger of riding a lame horse

against his master’s displeasure. Walter, perceiving he demurred, was

seized with so violent a resentment, that he dashed up to the Corporal,

and, grasping him by the collar, swung him, heavy as he was,--being

wholly unprepared for such force,--to the ground.

Without deigning to look at his condition, Walter mounted the sound

horse, and throwing the bridle of the lame one over a bough, left the

Corporal to follow at his leisure.

There is not perhaps a more sore state of mind than that which we

experience when we have committed an act we meant to be generous, and

fear to be foolish.

“Certainly,” said Walter, soliloquizing, “certainly the man is a rascal:

yet he was evidently sincere in his emotion. Certainly he was one of the

men who robbed me; yet, if so, he was also the one who interceded for

my life. If I should now have given strength to a villain;--if I should

have assisted him to an outrage against myself! What more probable? Yet,

on the other hand, if his story be true;--if his child be dying,--and

if, through my means, he obtain a last interview with her! Well, well,

let me hope so!”

Here he was joined by the Corporal, who, angry as he was, judged it

prudent to smother his rage for another opportunity; and by favoring his

master with his company, to procure himself an ally immediately at hand,

should his suspicions prove true. But for once, his knowledge of the

world deceived him: no sign of living creature broke the loneliness of

the way. By and by the lights of the town gleamed upon them; and, on

reaching the inn, Walter found his horse had been already sent there,

and, covered with dust and foam, was submitting itself to the tutelary

hands of the hostler.

CHAPTER X.

WALTER’S REFLECTIONS.--MINE HOST.--A GENTLE CHARACTER AND A

GREEN OLD AGE.--THE GARDEN, AND THAT WHICH IT TEACHETH.--A

DIALOGUE, WHEREIN NEW HINTS TOWARDS THE WISHED FOR DISCOVERY

ARE SUGGESTED.--THE CURATE.--A VISIT TO A SPOT OF DEEP

INTEREST TO THE ADVENTURER.

I made a posy while the day ran by,

Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie

My life within this band.

--George Herbert.

The time approaches,

That will with due precision make us know,

What--

--Macbeth.

The next morning Walter rose early, and descending into the court-yard

of the inn, he there met with the landlord, who--a hoe in his hand,--was

just about to enter a little gate that led into the garden. He held the

gate open for Walter.

“It is a fine morning, Sir; would you like to look into the garden,”

said mine host, with an inviting smile.

Walter accepted the offer, and found himself in a large and well-stocked

garden, laid out with much neatness and some taste; the Landlord halted

by a parterre which required his attention, and Walter walked on in

solitary reflection.

The morning was serene and clear, but the frost mingled the freshness

with an “eager and nipping air,” and Walter unconsciously quickened his

step as he paced to and fro the straight walk that bisected the garden,

with his eyes on the ground, and his hat over his brows.

Now then he had reached the place where the last trace of his father

seemed to have vanished; in how wayward and strange a manner! If no

further clue could be here discovered by the inquiry he purposed; at

this spot would terminate his researches and his hopes. But the young

heart of the traveller was buoyed up with expectation. Looking back to

the events of the last few weeks, he thought he recognised the finger of

Destiny guiding him from step to step, and now resting on the scene

to which it had brought his feet. How singularly complete had been

the train of circumstance, which, linking things seemingly most

trifling--most dissimilar, had lengthened into one continuous chain of

evidence! the trivial incident that led him to the saddler’s shop; the

accident that brought the whip that had been his father’s, to his eye;

the account from Courtland, which had conducted him to this remote part

of the country; and now the narrative of Elmore leading him to the spot,

at which all inquiry seemed as yet to pause! Had he been led hither

only to hear repeated that strange tale of sudden and wanton

disappearance--to find an abrupt wall, a blank and impenetrable barrier

to a course, hitherto so continuously guided on? had he been the sport

of Fate, and not its instrument? No; he was filled with a serious

and profound conviction, that a discovery that he of all men was best

entitled by the unalienable claims of blood and birth to achieve was

reserved for him, and that this grand dream and nursed object of his

childhood was now about to be embodied and attained. He could not but

be sensible, too, that as he had proceeded on his high enterprise, his

character had acquired a weight and a thoughtful seriousness, which was

more fitted to the nature of that enterprise than akin to his earlier

temper. This consciousness swelled his bosom with a profound and steady

hope. When Fate selects her human agents, her dark and mysterious

spirit is at work within them; she moulds their hearts, she exalts their

energies, she shapes them to the part she has allotted them, and renders

the mortal instrument worthy of the solemn end.

Thus chewing the cud of his involved and deep reflection, the young

adventurer paused at last opposite his host, who was still bending over

his pleasant task, and every now and then, excited by the exercise and

the fresh morning air, breaking into snatches of some old rustic song.

The contrast in mood between himself and this!

“Unvexed loiterer by the world’s green ways” struck forcibly upon

him. Mine host, too, was one whose appearance was better suited to his

occupation than his profession. He might have told some three-and-sixty

years, but it was a comely and green old age; his cheek was firm and

ruddy, not with nightly cups, but the fresh witness of the morning

breezes it was wont to court; his frame was robust, not corpulent; and

his long grey hair, which fell almost to his shoulder, his clear blue

eyes, and a pleasant curve in a mouth characterized by habitual good

humour, completed a portrait that even many a dull observer would have

paused to gaze upon. And indeed the good man enjoyed a certain kind of

reputation for his comely looks and cheerful manner. His picture

had even been taken by a young artist in the neighbourhood; nay, the

likeness had been multiplied into engravings, somewhat rude and somewhat

unfaithful, which might be seen occupying no inconspicuous or dusty

corner in the principal printshop of the town: nor was mine host’s

character a contradiction to his looks. He had seen enough of life to be

intelligent, and had judged it rightly enough to be kind. He had passed

that line so nicely given to man’s codes in those admirable pages which

first added delicacy of tact to the strong sense of English composition.

“We have just religion enough,” it is said somewhere in the Spectator,

“to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another.” Our good

landlord, peace be with his ashes! had never halted at this limit. The

country innkeeper might have furnished Goldsmith with a counterpart to

his country curate; his house was equally hospitable to the poor--his

heart equally tender, in a nature wiser than experience, to error,

and equally open, in its warm simplicity, to distress. Peace be with

thee--Our grandsire was thy patron--yet a patron thou didst not want.

Merit in thy capacity is seldom bare of reward. The public want no

indicators to a house like thine. And who requires a third person to

tell him how to appreciate the value of good nature and good cheer?

As Walter stood, and contemplated the old man bending over the sweet

fresh earth, (and then, glancing round, saw the quiet garden stretching

away on either side with its boundaries lost among the thick evergreen,)

something of that grateful and moralizing stillness with which some

country scene (the rura et silentium) generally inspires us, when we

awake to its consciousness from the troubled dream of dark and unquiet

thought, stole over his mind: and certain old lines which his uncle,

who loved the soft and rustic morality that pervades the ancient race of

English minstrels, had taught him, when a boy, came pleasantly into his

recollection,

“With all, as in some rare-limn’d book, we see

Here painted lectures of God’s sacred will.

The daisy teacheth lowliness of mind;

The camomile, we should be patient still;

The rue, our hate of Vice’s poison ill;

The woodbine, that we should our friendship hold;

Our hope the savory in the bitterest cold.”

--[Henry Peacham.]

The old man stopped from his work, as the musing figure of his guest

darkened the prospect before him, and said:

“A pleasant time, Sir, for the gardener!”

“Ay, is it so... you must miss the fruits and flowers of summer.”

“Well, Sir,--but we are now paying back the garden, for the good things

it has given us.--It is like taking care of a friend in old age, who has

been kind to us when he was young.”

Walter smiled at the quaint amiability of the idea.

“‘Tis a winning thing, Sir, a garden!--It brings us an object every day;

and that’s what I think a man ought to have if he wishes to lead a happy

life.”

“It is true,” said Walter; and mine host was encouraged to continue

by the attention and affable countenance of the stranger, for he was a

physiognomist in his way.

“And then, Sir, we have no disappointment in these objects:--the soil

is not ungrateful, as, they say, men are--though I have not often found

them so, by the by. What we sow we reap. I have an old book, Sir, lying

in my little parlour, all about fishing, and full of so many pretty

sayings about a country life, and meditation, and so forth, that it does

one as much good as a sermon to look into it. But to my mind, all those

sayings are more applicable to a gardener’s life than a fisherman’s.”

“It is a less cruel life, certainly,” said Walter.

“Yes, Sir; and then the scenes one makes oneself, the flowers one plants

with one’s own hand, one enjoys more than all the beauties which don’t

owe us any thing; at least, so it seems to me. I have always been

thankful to the accident that made me take to gardening.”

“And what was that?”

“Why, Sir, you must know there was a great scholar, though he was but a

youth then, living in this town some years ago, and he was very curious

in plants and flowers and such like. I have heard the parson say, he

knew more of those innocent matters than any man in this county. At that

time I was not in so flourishing a way of business as I am at present. I

kept a little inn in the outskirts of the town; and having formerly been

a gamekeeper of my Lord--‘s, I was in the habit of eking out my little

profits by accompanying gentlemen in fishing or snipe-shooting. So, one

day, Sir, I went out fishing with a strange gentleman from London, and,

in a very quiet retired spot some miles off, he stopped and plucked some

herbs that seemed to me common enough, but which he declared were most

curious and rare things, and he carried them carefully away. I heard

afterwards he was a great herbalist, I think they call it, but he was a

very poor fisher. Well, Sir, I thought the next morning of Mr. Aram, our

great scholar and botanist, and thought it would please him to know of

these bits of grass: so I went and called upon him, and begged leave to

go and show the spot to him. So we walked there, and certainly, Sir, of

all the men that ever I saw, I never met one that wound round your heart

like this same Eugene Aram. He was then exceedingly poor, but he never

complained; and was much too proud for any one to dare to offer him

relief. He lived quite alone, and usually avoided every one in his

walks: but, Sir, there was something so engaging and patient in his

manner, and his voice, and his pale, mild countenance, which, young as

he was then, for he was not a year or two above twenty, was marked with

sadness and melancholy, that it quite went to your heart when you met

him or spoke to him.--Well, Sir, we walked to the place, and very much

delighted he seemed with the green things I shewed him, and as I was

always of a communicative temper, rather a gossip, Sir, my neighbours

say, I made him smile now and then by my remarks. He seemed pleased with

me, and talked to me going home about flowers, and gardening, and such

like; and after that, when we came across one another, he would not shun

me as he did others, but let me stop and talk to him; and then I asked

his advice about a wee farm I thought of taking, and he told me many

curious things which, sure enough, I found quite true, and brought me

in afterwards a deal of money But we talked much about gardening, for

I loved to hear him talk on those matters; and so, Sir, I was struck

by all he said, and could not rest till I took to gardening myself, and

ever since I have gone on, more pleased with it every day of my life.

Indeed, Sir, I think these harmless pursuits make a man’s heart better

and kinder to his fellow-creatures; and I always take more pleasure in

reading the Bible, specially the New Testament, after having spent the

day in the garden. Ah! well, I should like to know, what has become of

that poor gentleman.”

“I can relieve your honest heart about him. Mr. Aram is living in--,

well off in the world, and universally liked; though he still keeps to

his old habits of reserve.”

“Ay, indeed, Sir! I have not heard any thing that pleased me more this

many a day.”

“Pray,” said Walter, after a moment’s pause, “do you remember the

circumstance of a Mr. Clarke appearing in this town, and leaving it in a

very abrupt and mysterious manner?”

“Do I mind it, Sir? Yes, indeed. It made a great noise in

Knaresbro’--there were many suspicions of foul play about it. For my

part, I too had my thoughts, but that’s neither here nor there;” and the

old man recommenced weeding with great diligence.

“My friend,” said Walter, mastering his emotion; “you would serve me

more deeply than I can express, if you would give me any information,

any conjecture, respecting this--this Mr. Clarke. I have come hither,

solely to make inquiry after his fate: in a word, he is--or was--a near

relative of mine!”

The old man looked wistfully in Walter’s face. “Indeed,” said he,

slowly, “you are welcome, Sir, to all I know; but that is very little,

or nothing rather. But will you turn up this walk, Sir? it’s more

retired. Did you ever hear of one Richard Houseman?”

“Houseman! yes. He knew my poor--, I mean he knew Clarke; he said Clarke

was in his debt when he left the town so suddenly.”

The old man shook his head mysteriously, and looked round. “I will tell

you,” said he, laying his hand on Walter’s arm, and speaking in his

ear--“I would not accuse any one wrongfully, but I have my doubts that

Houseman murdered him.”

“Great God!” murmured Walter, clinging to a post for support. “Go

on--heed me not--heed me not--for mercy’s sake go on.”

“Nay, I know nothing certain--nothing certain, believe me,” said the

old man, shocked at the effect his words had produced: “it may be better

than I think for, and my reasons are not very strong, but you shall hear

them.

“Mr. Clarke, you know, came to this town to receive a legacy--you know

the particulars.”

Walter impatiently nodded assent.

“Well, though he seemed in poor health, he was a lively careless

man, who liked any company who would sit and tell stories, and drink

o’nights; not a silly man exactly, but a weak one. Now of all the idle

persons of this town, Richard Houseman was the most inclined to this

way of life. He had been a soldier--had wandered a good deal about the

world--was a bold, talking, reckless fellow--of a character thoroughly

profligate; and there were many stories afloat about him, though none

were clearly made out. In short, he was suspected of having occasionally

taken to the high road; and a stranger who stopped once at my little

inn, assured me privately, that though he could not positively swear to

his person, he felt convinced that he had been stopped a year before on

the London road by Houseman. Notwithstanding all this, as Houseman had

some respectable connections in the town--among his relations, by the

by, was Mr. Aram--as he was a thoroughly boon companion--a good shot--a

bold rider--excellent at a song, and very cheerful and merry, he was not

without as much company as he pleased; and the first night, he and Mr.

Clarke came together, they grew mighty intimate; indeed, it seemed as if

they had met before. On the night Mr. Clarke disappeared, I had been on

an excursion with some gentlemen, and in consequence of the snow which

had been heavy during the latter part of the day, I did not return to

Knaresbro’ till past midnight. In walking through the town, I perceived

two men engaged in earnest conversation: one of them, I am sure, was

Clarke; the other was wrapped up in a great coat, with the cape over his

face, but the watchman had met the same man alone at an earlier hour,

and putting aside the cape, perceived that it was Houseman. No one else

was seen with Clarke after that hour.”

“But was not Houseman examined?”

“Slightly; and deposed that he had been spending the night with Eugene

Aram; that on leaving Aram’s house, he met Clarke, and wondering that he

the latter, an invalid, should be out at so late an hour, he walked

some way with him, in order to learn the cause; but that Clarke seemed

confused, and was reserved, and on his guard, and at last wished him

good-b’ye abruptly, and turned away. That he, Houseman, had no doubt

he left the town that night, with the intention of defrauding his

creditors, and making off with some jewels he had borrowed from Mr.

Elmore.”

“But, Aram? was this suspicious, nay, abandoned character--this

Houseman, intimate with Aram?”

“Not at all; but being distantly related, and Houseman being a familiar,

pushing sort of a fellow, Aram could not, perhaps, always shake him off;

and Aram allowed that Houseman had spent the evening with him.”

“And no suspicion rested on Aram?”

The host turned round in amazement.--“Heavens above, no! One might as

well suspect the lamb of eating the wolf!”

But not thus thought Walter Lester; the wild words occasionally uttered

by the Student--his lone habits--his frequent starts and colloquy with

self, all of which had, even from the first, it has been seen, excited

Walter’s suspicion of former guilt, that had murdered the mind’s

wholesome sleep, now rushed with tenfold force upon his memory.

“But no other circumstance transpired? Is this your whole ground for

suspicion; the mere circumstance of Houseman’s being last seen with

Clarke?”

“Consider also the dissolute and bold character of Houseman. Clarke

evidently had his jewels and money with him--they were not left in the

house. What a temptation to one who was more than suspected of having

in the course of his life taken to plunder! Houseman shortly afterwards

left the country. He has never returned to the town since, though his

daughter lives here with his wife’s mother, and has occasionally gone up

to town to see him.”

“And Aram--he also left Knaresbro’ soon after this mysterious event?”

“Yes! an old Aunt at York, who had never assisted him during her life,

died and bequeathed him a legacy, about a month afterwards. On receiving

it, he naturally went to London--the best place for such clever

scholars.”

“Ha! But are you sure that the aunt died?--that the legacy was left?

Might this be no tale to give an excuse to the spending of money

otherwise acquired?”

Mine host looked almost with anger on Walter.

“It is clear,” said he, “you know nothing of Eugene Aram, or you would

not speak thus. But I can satisfy your doubts on this head. I knew the

old lady well, and my wife was at York when she died. Besides, every one

here knows something of the will, for it was rather an eccentric one.”

Walter paused irresolutely. “Will you accompany me,” he asked, “to the

house in which Mr. Clarke lodged,--and indeed to any other place where

it may be prudent to institute inquiry?”

“Certainly, Sir, with the biggest pleasure,” said mine host: “but you

must first try my dame’s butter and eggs. It is time to breakfast.”

We may suppose that Walter’s simple meal was soon over; and growing

impatient and restless to commence his inquiries, he descended from his

solitary apartment to the little back-room behind the bar, in which he

had, on the night before, seen mine host and his better-half at supper.

It was a sung, small, wainscoated room; fishing-rods were neatly

arranged against the wall, which was also decorated by a portrait of

the landlord himself, two old Dutch pictures of fruit and game, a long,

quaint-fashioned fowling-piece, and, opposite the fireplace, a noble

stag’s head and antlers. On the window-seat lay the Izaak Walton to

which the old man had referred; the Family Bible, with its green baize

cover, and the frequent marks peeping out from its venerable pages; and,

close nestling to it, recalling that beautiful sentence, “suffer the

little children to come unto me, and forbid them not,” several of those

little volumes with gay bindings, and marvellous contents of fay and

giant, which delight the hearth-spelled urchin, and which were “the

source of golden hours” to the old man’s grandchildren, in their respite

from “learning’s little tenements,”

“Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound,

And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.”

--[Shenstone’s Schoolmistress.]

Mine host was still employed by a huge brown loaf and some baked pike;

and mine hostess, a quiet and serene old lady, was alternately regaling

herself and a large brindled cat from a plate of “toasten cheer.”

While the old man was hastily concluding his repast, a little knock at

the door was heard, and presently an elderly gentleman in black put his

head into the room, and, perceiving the stranger, would have drawn back;

but both landlady and landlord bustling up, entreated him to enter by

the appellation of Mr. Summers. And then, as the gentleman smilingly

yielded to the invitation, the landlady, turning to Walter, said: “Our

clergyman, Sir: and though I say it afore his face, there is not a

man who, if Christian vartues were considered, ought so soon to be a

bishop.”

“Hush! my good lady,” said Mr. Summers, laughing as he bowed to

Walter. “You see, Sir, that it is no trifling advantage to a Knaresbro’

reputation to have our hostess’s good word. But, indeed,” turning to the

landlady, and assuming a grave and impressive air, “I have little mind

for jesting now. You know poor Jane Houseman,--a mild, quiet, blue-eyed

creature, she died at daybreak this morning! Her father had come from

London expressly to see her: she died in his arms, and, I hear, he is

almost in a state of frenzy.”

The host and hostess signified their commiseration. “Poor little girl!”

said the latter, wiping her eyes; “her’s was a hard fate, and she felt

it, child as she was. Without the care of a mother,--and such a father!

Yet he was fond of her.”

“My reason for calling on you was this,” renewed the Clergyman,

addressing the host: “you knew Houseman formerly; me he always shunned,

and, I fancy, ridiculed. He is in distress now, and all that is

forgotten. Will you seek him, and inquire if any thing in my power can

afford him consolation? He may be poor: I can pay for the poor child’s

burial. I loved her; she was the best girl at Mrs. Summers’ school.”

“Certainly, Sir, I will seek him,” said the landlord, hesitating; and

then, drawing the Clergyman aside, he informed him in a whisper of

his engagement with Walter, and with the present pursuit and meditated

inquiry of his guest; not forgetting to insinuate his suspicion of the

guilt of the man whom he was now called upon to compassionate.

The Clergyman mused a little, and then, approaching Walter, offered his

services in the stead of the Publican in so frank and cordial a manner,

that Walter at once accepted them.

“Let us come now, then,” said the good Curate--for he was but the

Curate--seeing Walter’s impatience; “and first we will go to the house

in which Clarke lodged; I know it well.”

The two gentlemen now commenced their expedition. Summers was no

contemptible antiquary; and he sought to beguile the nervous impatience

of his companion by dilating on the attractions of the antient and

memorable town to which his purpose had brought him;--

“Remarkable,” said the Curate, “alike in history and tradition: look

yonder” (pointing above, as an opening in the road gave to view the

frowning and beetled ruins of the shattered Castle); “you would be at

some loss to recognize now the truth of old Leland’s description of that

once stout and gallant bulwark of the North, when he ‘numbrid 11 or 12

towres in the walles of the Castel, and one very fayre beside in the

second area.’ In that castle, the four knightly murderers of the haughty

Becket (the Wolsey of his age) remained for a whole year, defying the

weak justice of the times. There, too, the unfortunate Richard the

Second,--the Stuart of the Plantagenets--passed some portion of his

bitter imprisonment. And there, after the battle of Marston Moor, waved

the banners of the loyalists against the soldiers of Lilburne. It was

made yet more touchingly memorable at that time, as you may have heard,

by an instance of filial piety. The town was greatly straitened for want

of provisions; a youth, whose father was in the garrison, was accustomed

nightly to get into the deep dry moat, climb up the glacis, and put

provisions through a hole, where the father stood ready to receive them.

He was perceived at length; the soldiers fired on him. He was taken

prisoner, and sentenced to be hanged in sight of the besieged, in order

to strike terror into those who might be similarly disposed to render

assistance to the garrison. Fortunately, however, this disgrace was

spared the memory of Lilburne and the republican arms. With great

difficulty, a certain lady obtained his respite; and after the conquest

of the place, and the departure of the troops, the adventurous son was

released.”

“A fit subject for your local poets,” said Walter, whom stories of this

sort, from the nature of his own enterprise, especially affected.

“Yes: but we boast but few minstrels since the young Aram left us. The

castle then, once the residence of Pierce Gaveston,--of Hubert III.--and

of John of Gaunt, was dismantled and destroyed. Many of the houses we

shall pass have been built from its massive ruins. It is singular, by

the way, that it was twice captured by men of the name of Lilburn, or

Lilleburn, once in the reign of Edward II., once as I have related.

On looking over historical records, we are surprised to find how often

certain names have been fatal to certain spots; and this reminds me, by

the way, that we boast the origin of the English Sibyl, the venerable

Mother Shipton. The wild rock, at whose foot she is said to have been

born, is worthy of the tradition.”

“You spoke just now,” said Walter, who had not very patiently suffered

the Curate thus to ride his hobby, “of Eugene Aram; you knew him well?”

“Nay: he suffered not any to do that! He was a remarkable youth. I have

noted him from his childhood upward, long before he came to Knaresbro’,

till on leaving this place, fourteen years back, I lost sight of

him.--Strange, musing, solitary from a boy! but what accomplishment of

learning he had reached! Never did I see one whom Nature so emphatically

marked to be GREAT. I often wonder that his name has not long ere this

been more universally noised abroad: whatever he attempted was stamped

with such signal success. I have by me some scattered pieces of poetry

when a boy; they were given me by his poor father, long since dead; and

are full of a dim, shadowy anticipation of future fame. Perhaps, yet,

before he dies,--he is still young,--the presentiment will be realized.

You too know him, then?”

“Yes! I have known him. Stay--dare I ask you a question, a fearful

question? Did suspicion ever, in your mind, in the mind of any one, rest

on Aram, as concerned in the mysterious disappearance of my--of Clarke?

His acquaintance with Houseman who was suspected; Houseman’s visit to

Aram that night; his previous poverty--so extreme, if I hear rightly;

his after riches--though they perhaps may be satisfactorily accounted

for; his leaving this town so shortly after the disappearance I refer

to;--these alone might not create suspicion in me, but I have seen the

man in moments of reverie and abstraction, I have listened to strange

and broken words, I have noted a sudden, keen, and angry susceptibility

to any unmeant excitation of a less peaceful or less innocent

remembrance. And there seems to me inexplicably to hang over his heart

some gloomy recollection, which I cannot divest myself from imagining to

be that of guilt.”

Walter spoke quickly, and in great though half suppressed excitement;

the more kindled from observing that as he spoke, Summers changed

countenance, and listened as with painful and uneasy attention.

“I will tell you,” said the Curate, after a short pause, (lowering his

voice)--“I will tell you: Aram did undergo examination--I was present at

it--but from his character and the respect universally felt for him, the

examination was close and secret. He was not, mark me, suspected of

the murder of the unfortunate Clarke, nor was any suspicion of murder

generally entertained until all means of discovering Clarke were found

wholly unavailing; but of sharing with Houseman, some part of the jewels

with which Clarke was known to have left the town. This suspicion of

robbery could not, however, be brought home, even to Houseman, and Aram

was satisfactorily acquitted from the imputation. But in the minds

of some present at that examination, a doubt lingered, and this doubt

certainly deeply wounded a man so proud and susceptible. This,

I believe, was the real reason of his quitting Knaresbro’ almost

immediately after that examination. And some of us, who felt for him

and were convinced of his innocence, persuaded the others to hush up the

circumstance of his examination, nor has it generally transpired, even

to this day, when the whole business is well nigh forgot. But as to his

subsequent improvement of circumstance, there is no doubt of his aunt’s

having left him a legacy sufficient to account for it.”

Walter bowed his head, and felt his suspicions waver, when the Curate

renewed.

“Yet it is but fair to tell you, who seem so deeply interested in the

fate of Clarke, that since that period rumours have reached my ear that

the woman at whose house Aram lodged has from time to time dropped words

that require explanation--hints that she could tell a tale--that

she knows more than men will readily believe--nay, once she was even

reported to have said that the life of Eugene Aram was in her power.”

“Father of mercy! and did Inquiry sleep on words so calling for its

liveliest examination?”

“Not wholly--on their being brought to me, I went to the house, but

found the woman, whose habits and character are low and worthless, was

abrupt and insolent in her manner; and after in vain endeavouring

to call forth some explanation of the words she was reported to have

uttered, I left the house fully persuaded that she had only given vent

to a meaningless boast, and that the idle words of a disorderly gossip

could not be taken as evidence against a man of the blameless character

and austere habits of Aram. Since, however, you have now re-awakened

investigation, we will visit her before you leave the town; and it may

be as well too, that Houseman should undergo a further investigation

before we suffer him to depart.”

“I thank you! I thank you--I will not let slip one thread of this dark

clue.”

“And now,” said the Curate, pointing to a decent house, “we have reached

the lodging Clarke occupied in the town!”

An old man of respectable appearance opened the door, and welcomed the

Curate and his companion with an air of cordial respect which attested

the well-deserved popularity of the former.

“We have come,” said the Curate, “to ask you some questions respecting

Daniel Clarke, whom you remember as your lodger. This gentleman is a

relation of his, and interested deeply in his fate!”

“What, Sir!” quoth the old man, “and have you, his relation, never heard

of Mr. Clarke since he left the town? Strange!--this room, this very

room was the one Mr. Clarke occupied, and next to this,--here--(opening

a door) was his bed-chamber!”