I mentioned the stream--surely I mentioned the stream. Oh dear, yes, I
certainly did, although, in the hurry of telling a story, one is
sometimes apt to forget small particulars. But I know I informed the
reader, in describing The Grange, that there was a small, pleasant
stream, not unconscious of trout, which wandered past the back of the
old house, and then, as if it had a peculiar affection for the place,
made a graceful turn round one of the sides, serving for a fence--even
if there had not been a dilapidated old wall there for that purpose.
It was a very beautiful little river, for it deserved a grander name
than rivulet, seeing that it was at that spot some twelve or fourteen
feet broad; and although the country to the north and east was flat,
yet a number of little hills and eminences, and a general sloping
tendency of the country to the south and west, from which it
descended, had contrived to give it a rapid and hurried motion, which
was accelerated by several miniature cascades and rapids. There were
trees growing by its side, too, and often overhanging it, canopying
its glistening waters with interlacing boughs, and green, shimmering
foliage. Sometimes they swept afar, leaving broad, open meadows, where
the angler might throw his fly with fearless sweep of arm; but
sometimes they crept close to the bank, so close that their great
brown rounded roots would obtrude from the rugged bank, mingling with
the mossy turf and oozy rock, and curl down into the stream with many
a twist and many an aperture, affording fit concealment for the hole
of the water-rat or otter.
On the left-hand bank, however, whether along green meadow or among
the dim, shadowy trees, close to the margin of the stream, and
following all its turns and windings, ran a broad, dry, well-kept
path; and as beautiful and pleasant a walk it furnished for any one
who loved quiet musing, or was studious of the tranquil face of
nature, as could well be found in the wide world. The very bounding,
rush, garrulous boyhood of the stream, as it rushed on, struggling
with the rocks and impediments in its way, overleaping some
difficulties, rushing round other obstacles, and still, in spite of
all, making its way onward, might furnish fancies to a poet and
thoughts to a philosopher. Then the view over some of the open fields,
often, indeed, broken with hedgerows, and often dotted with church
spire, and cottage, and farmhouse, but not unfrequently extending for
miles and miles away over blue fen and dusky moor, had something wide
and expansive in it, which seemed to open the heart and make the
breast heave more freely; and where the trees fringed the stream, the
eye could still wander far, for there was no thick wood, but a mere
belt of planting without undergrowth, leaving smooth banks and grassy
slopes between the old trunks and stems, over which the sight might
range along tracks of sunshine, and often catch a glimpse through the
green avenues of a far-extending distance beyond.
Oh! the homilies of nature, how they pour into the heart of those who
will hear them lessons of peace, tranquillity, and love, which might
well reform this harsh and jarring world if man would but study there.
The characters which man's hand traces, even if spared by the wearing
course of time, whether written on parchment or graved upon the rock,
pass from comprehension--become a riddle or a mystery. The learned
scrutinize, the bold or the wise interpret; but the interpretation is
denied, and the dead man's tongue becomes a matter of dispute and
contention to the living. But the wisdom of the page ever open before
our eyes is written in the universal language, and man has but to look
and read to find himself wiser, better, greater from the permitted
commune with a spirit above his own.
It was a fair and pleasant walk that path beside the stream--pleasant
in the early morning, when dew was upon the grass and flowers, and the
slant rays peeped under the green branches as if the first glance of
the day at the new world were timid and doubtful; pleasant at noon,
when the green boughs afforded shade, and the brief walk across the
meadow rendered the shade more grateful, and the fresh air from the
ever-moving stream more sweet; pleasant at evening, when the rosy
light tinctured leaf and moss, and blade of grass, and painted the old
trunks of trees, and sprinkled the foam with rubies. Pleasant also was
it, most pleasant, when the yellow moon was hanging high in air, and
her beams, weaving themselves with the shadowy branches, spread the
way with a net-work of black and silver. Then how the stream would
seem to dance, and gambol, and leap up, as if to meet the looks of the
Queen of Night; and how every little cascade and rapid would sport
with the shower of diamonds that fell upon it from on high!
Along that path, under the moonbeam, Ralph Woodhall took his way, with
slow and thoughtful pace, while the next step in his future course was
under discussion in his father's house. He paused at the first meadow
and looked up to the broad moon, and then moved on again, sometimes
gazing at the stream and drawing dreamy images from its flashing
waters, sometimes fixing his eyes upon the path and giving up his
whole mind to commune with his own thoughts. They were somewhat sad
and dark--at least the ground-work was so; but still a gleam of hope
stole through, and checkered with brightness the gloom of the untried
future. Onward he went for about half a mile. There the stream
approached the little village, yet it came not too near; but, sweeping
past the foot of the little rise on which it stood, left a single
field dotted with one clump of trees between its bank and the first
house. Ralph paused there and looked up at the church, and strange
fancies passed through his mind. They were like those embodied in
Schiller's song of the Bell, full of association, partly sad, partly
joyful. Oh! how many a scene, and himself an actor in them, all passed
pageant-like before his eyes during the brief moment that he spent
there--all life's great epochs--all their emblems--the cradle--the
bridal ring--the coffin.
He walked on musing. He came to a low wall, with a stile of hewn stone
and thick trees beyond; and passing over, he followed the path, still
running by the side of the stream. Through the trees the moonlight
could be seen resting upon the open, waving ground, with many a dell
and glade, and here and there a deer lifting up its antlered head at
the sound of a footfall. Presently another sort of light gleamed
between the branches, but more directly on his path--a redder, less
placid beam; and shortly after, a tall, irregular house was seen upon
a terrace, to the foot of which the path approached very close, with a
bright blaze coming forth from three casements on the lower story,
while a ray or two shone out of the lattices above.
The young man took a few steps aside to a spot where the trees
approached nearest to the house, but remained under their shade, and
gazed up at one particular casement with a look intent but sorrowful.
What might be his thoughts and feelings at that moment? What might
they not be? The ringing sound of merry laughter came from the
fully-lighted windows below. There were men there carousing jovially,
but their merriment had no music for his ear. Did he envy them? Oh no!
Perhaps he might think how strangely Fate shaped men's lots; perhaps
he might ask why he, in whose veins flowed the same blood as in some
of those rejoicing there within, who was conscious of as high a mind,
as bold and true a heart, should be placed in comparative poverty,
should be looked upon as in an inferior position, because his father's
great-grandfather, about a couple of centuries before, had chanced,
without his own consent, to be born a younger son. Yet he envied them
not; he coveted not aught that they possessed; nay, of all within
those walls, longed for but one thing; but for that how he did long!
He could not obtain it; and yet the only bar was the lack of that
which those revelers possessed. That thought added to the objects of
desire; but their wealth, their rank, their station were only coveted
as means--means to the great end and objects of all his heart's
desire.
Thoughts came in crowds; but still he fixed his eyes upon the lattice.
A shadow crossed it, and he said to himself, "She knows not I am
gazing here." Then, again, he said, with some bitterness, "If she did,
what would she care?" but the next moment added, "yet I wrong her; she
would care--she would grieve--perhaps she would come forth to cheer
me--at all events, to bid me farewell. Would I could let her know."
He was taking a step forward with some unfixed purpose in his mind,
when a small door at the side of the building, not far from the bright
casements, emitted a momentary light, which was instantly obscured
again. The next instant a figure--a woman's figure, passed along the
terrace, crossing the blaze from the hall, and Ralph advanced a step
or two; but he retreated as rapidly, for the figure turned suddenly
from the sound of the revelry, descended the steps of the terrace, and
approached the very path by which he had come.
Oh how his heart beat at that moment; hers, perhaps, might have
throbbed wildly had she known who was near. But it was quite still,
though somewhat busy, and she took her way on, paused for an instant
to look up at the sky where the moonbeams vailed the stars, and then
entered the path beneath the overhanging boughs. Ralph Woodhall took a
step forward; it fell upon some of the withered leaves of the last
year, and the sound startled her. She stopped suddenly; and, fearful
that she would turn and fly, he pronounced her name.
"Margaret," he said, "Margaret, be not afraid; it is Ralph. I am glad
you have come out, for they seem merry-making at the hall, and I did
not like to go in, though I longed to see you."
Margaret gave him her hand; and whose heart was beating then?
"They are making a terrible noise," she replied; "more than usual, I
think, though perhaps it may be that my head aches, and that makes
their mirth sound louder than at other times. I fancied that the cool
air would do me good, and therefore came out to stroll along by the
stream."
"I will guard you on your walk, Margaret," replied Ralph; "it may be
the last time I can do so for a long time to come."
"The last time!" said the young girl--for she could not be more than
seventeen or eighteen; "you are not going to leave us, Ralph!"
"Yes, indeed, for a time, dear Margaret," he replied; "I am going away
into the wide world to seek my fortune--at least I have asked my
father's leave to do so."
"Fortune!" said Margaret; in a musing tone, walking on slowly along
the path; "what can there be in fortune, that makes men sacrifice so
much to seek it?"
"Nothing in itself," replied Ralph, "but every thing as a means--to
me, at least, every thing."
"I see not why it should be more to you than to others," answered
Margaret; "why is it?"
"I will tell you in an instant," replied her companion; "here I am
hardly at home from college, when I wish to go away again, to part
from my father, and you, and all my friends. That is what you would
say, I know, dear Margaret. But if I stay at home, content with the
little that Fate has given me, without an effort to make it more, or
to win honor, and station, and renown, there must come a bitterer
parting still; I must see the one I love best in all the world leave
me for another home, not only deny me her presence, but deny me her
thoughts, bestow heart and hand upon another, and be to me almost as a
stranger."
Margaret trembled, but answered nothing, and Ralph went on: "Shall I
wait tamely, Margaret, and, without an effort, see all this come
rapidly; or shall I, with a strong heart, battle with Fortune, and try
to conquer her for the hope of her I love?"
"Oh, yes; go, go!" cried the girl, eagerly.
"I may not succeed, perhaps," continued Ralph; "all my efforts may
fail--it is very likely. I may have to endure the same pang, to
undergo the same loss, notwithstanding the utmost exertions--that is
in God's hand; but, at all events, I shall have one consolation--I
shall have striven, I shall have labored, I shall have done my part;
and you, Margaret, you will think better of me; you will remember me
and my disappointments with sorrow; you will pity, if you must not
love me."
"I shall always love you, Ralph," she replied, in perfect simplicity;
but then suddenly stopped, adding, with a deep sigh, "I speak
foolishly, I fear; but you will not misunderstand me."
"Margaret," he said, in a tone of deep feeling, "Margaret, we must
fully understand each other. I love you, Margaret; I shall always love
you; I shall never love any but you. Yet hear me, dear girl, and do
not tremble so," he continued, drawing her arm within his; "I seek to
bind you by no tie to one in whose dark fortunes it needs the eye of
eager love to see one spark or hope. I ask of you no promise to be
mine, for I know right well that in my present state it were well-nigh
madness for either you or me to dream of such a far-off bliss. I have
that madness, Margaret, for I still dare to hope; but I would not have
you share it, lest my own bitter disappointment should be doubled by
breaking your heart too. It is well for me to go, and leave you free
to act as your own heart may dictate or circumstances may impel; it is
well for me to go, and to seek with the energy which only love can
give for all those bright jewels of the world which are but too
estimable in the eyes of those in whose hands your destiny must lie.
So long as you are Margaret Woodhall, hope will live, exertion will
continue, and strength will be given me to struggle on; but should I
ever hear of you by another name, the light of life will have gone
out, and, as my father has done, I will sit down to fade in darkness."
"What shall I do? what shall I say?" murmured Margaret, as if speaking
to herself. "Oh, Ralph, if I could add to your hopes, if I could
strengthen your efforts, how gladly would I do it; but my fate is in
the hands of others. I have no right to promise any thing. And yet a
promise might strengthen me myself; it might give me vigor to resist,
should resistance be needful. Still, my father has been very kind to
me and to you. Ought we, Ralph--ought we to do or say any thing that
he would blame and condemn?"
"No--oh no," answered Ralph Woodhall, firmly; "I ask it not, Margaret.
I only ask, let me still hope. Keep your heart and hand for me as long
as may be, and though it may seem wild, rash, insane to dream that in
a few short years I may accomplish enough to lessen the disparity
between your state and mine, yet, so long as the beacon burns before
me, I will go on, let the road be ever so rough and perilous. These
are strange and stirring times, Margaret; changes come suddenly and
often; all men are struggling; let me struggle too; and if Margaret
will but bid me hope, my heart shall never fail."
Margaret laid her fair hand upon his, and, looking up in his face,
replied, "Hope, Ralph! hope--hope all--hope always. I too will hope,
and struggle likewise."
As she spoke the moonlight poured through the branches on her fair
face and lighted her beautiful eyes. The look and the words were too
much to be resisted. Ralph bent his head over her, and their lips met.
"Hark!" said Ralph, after a moment's trembling pause, "I hear
footsteps coming up the path. Let us turn back toward the hall."
"Yes, yes, let us turn back," said Margaret, unclasping his arms from
around her, yet gently, kindly; and then, as if she would not leave
him wholly comfortless, she added, in a low voice, as they walked
onward, "there is at least one thing I may promise, Ralph, I will not
plight my faith to another; I will not yield to any entreaty--nay, or
command--till I have given you notice, and allowed time sufficient for
you to come and deliver me from that which would be a thousand-fold
worse than death, if deliver me you can. But now let us be calm, for I
hear the steps coming quick behind us."
When those steps were nearer still, Margaret was more calm than her
lover, for such is woman's nature. Perhaps he had been less deeply
moved than she had been--he could not be more; but the stronger
spirit, like the deeper water, when once in motion, remains longer
agitated.
"Ah ha! Mister Ralph," said the voice of Doctor M'Feely behind them a
moment after, "upon my life and soul, this is my country's way of
taking a solitary ramble. You go out to walk alone with a companion,
eh? Why, fair Miss Margaret, does my lord know of your night roaming?"
"Quite well," replied Margaret, with very little sign of emotion; "I
often walk through the park in the moonlight, doctor, but do not often
have such good luck as to-night in meeting Ralph to keep me company.
Ralph loves books better than the moon, I fancy."
"He loves a pretty face wherever he can find it, I fancy, be it the
moon's or not," replied the chaplain.
"As to my solitary ramble, doctor," said Ralph, "I believed, when I
set out, it would be solitary enough; but I can not say it has been
less unpleasant for not being so."
"Ay, devil doubt you," said M'Feely to himself; "but moonlight walks
are pretty dangerous things, as I know to my cost; there was the widow
Macarthy--but no matter for that. The moon is considered a cold
planet, but, on my faith, I think she has a greater knack of scorching
than any sun I ever saw."
All this was uttered in an under tone, so that no distinct sense was
conveyed to the two by whose side he now walked. It was evident,
however, that his suspicions were excited, and Ralph, somewhat
impetuous in disposition, and ever ready to confront a danger, asked
boldly, "What are you talking to yourself about, doctor?"
"Oh, nothing at all, but some of the queer freaks of nature, my boy,"
replied the other; and Margaret interposed, saying, "Ralph has been
telling me of a queer freak of his, doctor. He says he is going to
travel, and leave us all here in this dull place. He has not been home
from college a month, and is weary of us already. Can not you persuade
him to stay a little, if but for civility's sake?"
"By my conscience, but that is the last thing I shall do," replied
Doctor M'Feely; "it is the best thing for him to go and see the world,
and may be just as well for other people too. No, no, I have promised
the old gentleman to get my lord, your father, to give him letters to
all the great folks he knows, who may help him on in life, and the
sooner they are given the better."
"Well, I do not know what I shall do when he is gone," said Margaret,
following unconsciously a policy almost instinctive in woman's heart,
and showing a portion in order to conceal the whole; "I shall have no
one to talk to but you, doctor, and no one to draw me out of the river
if I fall in, as Ralph did when I was a little girl, for you would
never wet your cassock for my sake."
"Wouldn't I, though, darling?" cried the jolly priest; "I can help you
at a pinch, and will, depend upon it; and as to conversation, mine
will do you a world more good than that of any young scape-grace in
the land. But now, as to asking my lord about these letters, can it be
done to-night? is he in a fit state to be talked to, Mistress
Margaret? There was an array of bottles on the table when I left, and
the Bordeaux was none of the worst."
"Fit to be talked to!" cried Margaret; "fy, doctor, to be sure he is.
Would you have me tell papa that you think he gets tipsy every night?"
"No, no! For Heaven's sake not such a word, or there goes the living!"
cried Doctor M'Feely. "Oh, you little fox, so you have turned the
tables upon me! Well, you shall see how discreet I can be, and you be
discreet also, and don't say a word. We'll keep one another's counsel;
and mind, my darling, when you have an opportunity, speak a good word
for me about the living. I have been ten years in the house--ever
since you were a little thing not up to my knee--and not a benefice
has been offered me but that horrid marshy hole of Agueborough cum
Flushing-gap, where I should have had to read prayers to
yellow-bellied frogs, and preach to the seamews. I shall never be a
bishop at this rate, and I am resolved to comfort my arms in lawn if
it be possible. But now we are coming near. You trot up to your own
room, Mistress Margaret, and I and Ralph will go in; then the old lord
will never be a bit the wiser as to your moonlight rambles."
"On the contrary, I shall go straight in," said Margaret, boldly,
"that is to say, if all these drunken sots are gone, and will ask my
father for the letters for Ralph myself. You are altogether mistaken,
my reverend friend, if you suppose that I care about my father knowing
where I have been, or that I met Ralph accidentally. Only take care
not to put any wrong construction upon my walk, doctor," she added, in
a warning tone; "for the plain truth, I fear not."
When they reached the house, however, it was found that the party in
the Hall had not yet broken up, and the sounds that issued forth
warned Margaret that it was no scene for her to appear in. Doctor
M'Feely judged, also, that his presence would not be acceptable, and
the three parted at the door. It can not be said that Ralph's fingers
did not press more warmly on Margaret's hand than on that of the
chaplain as he bade them severally adieu.