The mansion of Danvers's New Church, when Ralph entered it, seemed
silent and solitary enough. It was too large for a small household,
such as now tenanted it. The steward's apartments were far away, the
rooms of the inferior servants still further distant, and, entering
the small saloon in which he had passed the morning, Ralph felt as if
he were the only inhabitant of the house. The evening light, now
tinged with the gray of night, shone in at the window; the paintings
on the walls had become dim and indistinct; shade after shade came
melancholy over the sky; and the ticking of a clock upon the stairs
would have been the only sound that broke the stillness, had it not
been for the note of a distant blackbird singing from beneath a bush.
Ralph felt his spirits depressed, and was not sorry when one of the
old servants entered the room, bearing two letters in his hand.
"This is for you, sir, I suppose," he said; "Harry has just brought it
back from Lady Di Fullerton, with this other for my lady against her
return."
Ralph took the letter which the man handed to him--a small, delicate
note, perfumed and sealed; but it was too dark by this time even to
read the address, and he had to wait till lights were brought. When
they had been set upon the table, he bade the good man send his
servant to him.
"He borrowed a horse from Mr. Drayton, sir," replied the man, "and
rode away about twelve o'clock. He has not come back yet, I believe."
"I remember--I remember," replied Ralph: "he asked leave to go to see
some of his friends;" and then, turning to the note, he examined the
back, which bore,
"To the Honorable Gentleman at present residing at Danvers's New
Church."
Within were written a few complimentary lines in the French language,
expressing the regret of Lady Diana Fullerton that she could not have
the extreme pleasure of doing the honors of her relative's house to
Lady Danvers's guest, as she had been for some time too seriously
unwell to venture out of her own dressing-room. Plenty of polite and
courtly expressions were employed; but the main fact was, that there
was no chance of Lady Fullerton being able to give her society and
countenance to Hortensia during Ralph's stay at Danvers's New Church.
To say the truth, Ralph did not very much embarrass himself with
reflections upon this derangement of Lady Danvers's plans. He was
young, inexperienced in the world, and a college life of those days
was not at all likely to open the eyes of a young man to the
proprieties of society. He saw no more reason why he should not stay
in the same house with Hortensia than stay in the same street; and it
must be remembered, also, that that horrible cloak of decorum, which
but too frequently covers, like charity, a multitude of sins, was a
thing hardly known in those days, when the phrensied license of the
Restoration was but just giving place to the colder and more covert
debaucheries which succeeded. He quietly tore to pieces Lady Diana
Fullerton's note with very little reverence, and, casting the subject
from his mind, let his thoughts rest again, with some of that
impatience for action which is peculiar to youth, upon the death of
his poor cousin Henry, and the anguish which he knew Margaret must be
feeling both for her brother and for himself, if she believed him
guilty. He longed to fly to her, to console her, to comfort her, to
assure her of his innocence, and of his ever-enduring affection; but
how rarely is it that Fate allows us to do any thing that we long to
do. Had not even the warning of Lady Danvers kept him in inactivity,
he would not have dared either to visit or to write to her whom he so
much loved. He did not know if their attachment to each other had been
really made known or not; for, although he had at first imagined that
the anxiety of the Duke of Norfolk and Hortensia to remove him from
the vicinity of Lord Woodhall was occasioned by a discovery which he
knew would excite the old lord's highest indignation, even without any
of those insinuations which Robert Woodhall was too likely to add, yet
that anxiety was now explained in another manner, and his and
Margaret's mutual love might be still unknown, and their happiness
periled by any indiscreet act.
Thought, so rapid in itself that it can girdle the great earth ere the
leviathan can swim a mile, makes time often pass rapidly along with
it. The evening wore away insensibly, broken by only one solitary
ramble through the galleries and rooms which he had visited the night
before. That ramble, indeed, occupied some time, because there were
many of the pictures which interested him; and more than once he stood
with the light in his hand gazing at the face of departed greatness or
beauty, and comparing what he knew of the life passed away with the
permanent expression of the countenance.
It has always given me a strange sensation to go through an ancient
portrait-gallery, and see the faces of the dead looking down at me
from the wall--living, as it were, again in the spiritual world of
art. Their acts may be recorded on the page of history--their
thoughts, their words transmitted to us even in their own hands; but
these are voices without substance, vague shadows of a name. It is
only the hand of the painter or the sculptor, that can give us the
definite and the clear. On the broad brow, in the liquid eye, in the
curl of the lip, in the dimpled cheek, in the poise of the figure, in
the very fall of the hand, we read more of men's character, or more of
its truths, than in all that they have written--even, than in all that
they have done. Men write for the world, and often act for the world.
Circumstances control them--events rule them. Few, if any, are not at
some time, if not at all times, acting a part; and even where passion
has spurned all governance, and the fiery deed of love or hate has
seemed in its bright glare to reveal the very inner secrets of the
heart, still no one can tell how that heart may have been affected by
events of which we know nothing--how many motives, sensations,
feelings, passions, accidents, may have prompted and mingled with the
deeds which we only see in their harsh whole. But, upon the face and
form, we are fond to think that Nature has herself written the
description of her handiwork. There, with some experience, and but
very little skill, by indications as small as the letters of a book,
we can read much of the mind, the heart, the character, which no other
page can ever display; and, at the same time, the likeness of the
fleshly tabernacle of the spirit stands before us, so that all which
can be known of the mixed being is at once in presence.
Oh, great Lavater! every one is more or less a physiognomist.
Ralph gazed, then, upon those faces with association very busy in his
mind. Or, again, he would pause before a sunny landscape, and let the
eye rest upon the golden skies, or wander through the far-prolonged
vales, or pause among the deep groves of trees, watching the nymph
bathing in the limpid stream, or the ancient armament sailing up, amid
columns, and trophies, and palaces, to an imagined city; and the
poetry of painting would wake in his heart as many bright images as
ever were called up by verse or the lyre.
Again, he would go on, and, feeling free in the solitude, he ventured
once more into Hortensia's own apartments. But this time he got no
further than her picture. It had certainly something fascinating in
it, for he stood and gazed on that bright face, bursting through the
branches, in its wild, gay youth, and comparing it, line by line, with
the features which memory preserved; and as he did so, imagination was
busy too. He asked himself, what were the events, what the course of
life, which had subdued and chastened the light hilarity there
displayed--what was it that, like Undine's love, had given a soul to
the wild spirit sparkling there? He did not puzzle, though he did not
satisfy himself; he enjoyed the wanderings of his own imagination
round the pleasant theme, and when at length he turned away to retire
to rest, he said to himself, "She must always have been very lovely."
Let us not ask if Hortensia shared his dreams with Margaret. We have
no right to lift up sleep's shadowy curtain, and see the fairy sports
of fancies freed from the control of will and reason. He slept, and
doubtless he dreamed too; but he woke early, ere the sun had so far
climbed the eastern hill as to overtop the wood, and while the slant
rays were still pouring in golden splendor through the branches of the
trees.
As he paused to look through the open window after having dressed
himself, his eye passed over the park to the valley beyond, and, where
the open ground stretched out from the banks of the stream up the
sides of the hills, he was surprised to see a number of horsemen, in
groups of two or three together, cantering lightly hither and thither,
as if in sport. It was no season for hunting; but he thought that
perhaps they might be flying a hawk, and he watched them with some
interest till he convinced himself that that supposition was
incorrect.
A moment after he saw a single figure on horseback riding up the broad
road from the great gates to the house, and as it came nearer he
recognized his servant, Gaunt Stilling, who had been absent since noon
of the day before.
"Perhaps he brings me some intelligence," thought Ralph; and,
descending to the small saloon, he ordered his breakfast to be
brought. Still Gaunt Stilling did not come; and at length, after
having waited ample time for him to tend his horse, his young master
sent for him. When he appeared, Ralph was a good deal struck with
something strange in the man's looks. He seemed worn, fatigued, and
thin, and his apparel was dusty with the road; but that was not all.
He was gloomy, abstracted, more taciturn than usual. Even in the midst
of a sentence he would fix his eyes upon the ground, and seemingly
fall into a deep revery.
"Do you know who those horsemen are, whom I saw just now riding down
in the valley?" asked Ralph, after a few other questions of no moment.
"No, sir," replied Stilling; "I saw them, but did not heed them."
"They seemed at one time to be hawking," said Ralph. "Have you heard
any further intelligence from Lyme, Stilling!"
"None, sir," answered the servant; "I have been forty miles the other
way. I met that scoundrel, Thomas Dare, this morning, who might have
told me, perhaps, but--" and he left the sentence unconcluded,
remaining, as it were, lost in thought.
"But what?" asked his master.
The man started and looked up. "Oh, merely that I was busy with other
thoughts, sir--that the man is a rascal, and that we passed each other
with only 'Give you good-day, Master Stilling'--'Go to the devil,
Thomas Dare.'"
Something had evidently gone wrong with Stilling; but, as he did not
seem inclined to speak of it, Ralph, though he felt interested, merely
said, "I hope you had good news of your family, Stilling?"
"The worst in the world," replied the man, abruptly. "I thought the
worst had come some time ago, yet this is worse; but, so help me
Heaven--" and again he broke off his speech and relapsed into silence.
This time, however, his silence was not without significance, for he
clinched both his hands tight, as if struggling with some strong
passion.
"I am very sorry to hear this," replied Ralph, in a feeling tone. "Can
I do any thing to assist you, Stilling? I need not tell you that I am
most willing, if it be possible."
The man looked up more brightly, and replied, "Not at present, sir,
but the time may come--Hark! there is Lady Danvers, I suppose; I heard
of her upon the road."
The sounds which had attracted his attention were produced by horses'
feet upon the gravel, and the moment after the great bell rang out
loud. Without taking note of the fact that there had been no sound of
carriage wheels, Ralph rose hastily and ran through the hall to the
door, in order to assist his beautiful hostess as she alighted. He was
surprised to see, however, when he opened the door, a party of some
ten or twelve horsemen, three of whom had dismounted, while another,
far taller and much handsomer than any of the rest, was in the act of
alighting also. One groom held his horse; another supported his
stirrup; and there was something dignified and graceful in his whole
air which instantly attracted Ralph's chief attention toward him. He
wore a star and broad ribbon, and over his heavy riding-boots a pair
of golden spurs, and his whole dress was splendid, though subdued in
coloring by good taste.
Before any questions could be asked, the steward and two or three of
the old servants were by Ralph's side, and finding that he had been
mistaken in his expectations, the young gentleman retired into the
house, leaving Mr. Drayton to reply to any inquiries. Ralph heard a
fine melodious voice, however, ask if Lady Danvers were then in
Dorsetshire, and Mr. Drayton replied in the negative.
"I have a letter for her from an old friend," replied the stranger,
"and would wish to add a few lines myself, if you will furnish me with
materials for writing. Nay, more, I am inclined to tax your
hospitality so far, sir, as to ask for some refreshment for my men and
horses, and some breakfast for myself--you know me, I presume?"
"I do, your grace," replied Mr. Drayton, "and, of course, whatever the
house affords is at your service."
"Well, then, I will walk in here and write," replied the other,
advancing toward the room in which Ralph then was.
Mr. Drayton seemed puzzled how to act; but, before he could decide,
the stranger had entered the room, and stood face to face with Ralph
Woodhall. He bowed courteously, but with a look of some surprise; and
the good steward thought fit to take upon himself the task of
introducing Ralph as "Mr. Woodhall, a friend of my lady's family, sir,
who is staying for a time at the house."
He did not mention the name of the new visitor; but while he hurried
away to procure pen, ink, and paper, the gentleman who had come in
seated himself calmly at the table, and entered easily into
conversation. His very appearance was a recommendation; and his
demeanor was so graceful, that, even had his conversation been less
happy than it was, there would still have been an irresistible charm
about it; but his words were well chosen; his expressions what I may
call picturesque, if not poetical; and there was a touch of that
vivacity which often passed for wit at the court of the second
Charles. He asked a number of questions, but none of them impertinent
or intrusive. He spoke of the house, and the grounds, and the beauty
of the park; said he had been there when he was a boy, but had nearly
forgotten it, and expressed a wish, before he went, to walk over the
house.
"I shall have much pleasure in conducting you, sir," replied Ralph,
"for during the short time of my stay here, I have more than once
wandered over the building, and felt much interest in all that it
contains."
"Then you are not well acquainted with the place?" said the other;
but, without waiting for a reply to what was in reality a question, he
added, "Let us go. Doubtless they will be a long while in finding pen,
ink, and paper. I have always found it so, here in Dorsetshire, since
my return."
They walked out into the hall together, where two or three gentlemen
stood booted and spurred. They uncovered their heads as soon as the
other appeared; and one of them, advancing a step, addressed him,
saying, "It is all clear, your grace, on the way to Taunton, and the
intelligence in that quarter is satisfactory."
"Good," replied the other. "This want of cavalry is inconvenient. What
says Mr. Dare as to the levies about Taunton?"
"He had not yet reached the town, my lord duke, when his messenger
came away," was the reply; "but he promises much--more, I fear, than
he will perform; for his reception in some of the small villages by
the way has been so good, that he looks upon it as a conquered country
already. He is a braggadocio, if ever there was one."
"He is a good creature, notwithstanding," replied the duke; "light and
gay in danger, and cheerful in all circumstances--a little given to
boast and assume, perhaps; but still his gayety and confidence throw a
light upon our expedition, which I wish we had a little more."
"Shall I give any orders regarding the march to-morrow?" inquired the
other gentleman.
"I think not," said Ralph's companion; "we must wait for these Taunton
levies, or some surer information. It will not do to leave all
resources behind us till we have the certainty of support in advance.
But make yourself easy, gallant friend; time, I trust, will be our
ally, and not our enemy."
There was something uncommonly easy and placable, though confident in
the speaker's tone and manner; and Ralph, though he had divined from
the first that he was speaking with the Duke of Monmouth, began to
doubt whether his supposition was correct, for he had not calculated
accurately how far adversity can tame both the highest and the
lightest spirit.
After this brief conversation, they passed on through the house,
speaking calmly and cheerfully of the various objects which it
presented to their eyes, as if there were no such thing as strife, and
warfare, and bloodshed in the world. The duke walked the suites of
splendid rooms and the long-drawn-out lines of corridors as if he were
treading the drawing-rooms of some peaceful palace, with a calm sort
of meditative gentleness, not unmixed with dignity, which beseemed him
well. In his whole demeanor, carriage, and appearance, he was every
inch a prince; and his very abstinence from all reference to political
topics seemed to Ralph a recommendation of his cause. He appeared as
tranquilly confident of his rights as if nothing more was required
than to show himself to win all hearts in his support. Had he always
maintained this happy trust, he would have been a greater, a happier,
perhaps a more successful man.
The duke asked several questions, however, tending to elicit his young
companion's opinions; and, finding him a stanch Protestant, though of
the Episcopal Church, and a strong enemy of all tyranny, civil or
religious, he ventured gradually to allude distantly to his own
enterprise, and to hint--without asking it--that the assistance of
every gallant gentleman was an object he desired.
Ralph was silent, from very many varied motives. He gave neither
encouragement nor the reverse, judging more sanely than the duke of
the circumstances which surrounded them, and entertaining many doubts
whether, if Monmouth, by one of those strange accidents which
sometimes influence the course of great events, should succeed in
dethroning James, his own elevation to sovereignty would be acceptable
to the great body of the people of the realm. To himself,
notwithstanding the fascination of Monmouth's manner, he felt that
such would not be the case; and he knew that in the hearts of
Englishmen there is a fund of steady, determined loyalty, a hereditary
love for an ancient line of kings, which it requires the insanity of
great oppression to shake or overthrew.
The Duke of Monmouth (for he it was) did not press the subject by any
means far, seeming to feel it beneath him to canvass for the aid of
any individual. He might know, too, that much eagerness displays small
confidence; and at this moment of his career it was a part of
Monmouth's policy to appear full of good assurance.
He returned to the small room below, then, after commenting in the
tone of a connoisseur upon some of the pictures, and in that of a gay
courtier upon others, and finding writing materials ready, sat down
and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, in which he inclosed
another letter he had brought with him. He sealed and then addressed
the whole to "Hortensia, Baroness Danvers;" and then placing it in
Ralph's hand, he said, with a gay smile, "I will trust this to your
good care for speedy delivery, sir. If you be a lover, it comes from
no rival; if you be a friend, it comes from a friend no less sincere;
if you be a relation, there are lines within it from one who has loved
the person addressed as sincerely as any relative could love. Nay, my
good sir," he continued, turning to Mr. Drayton, who entered, followed
by several servants bearing food in a rich service of plate, "you
treat my humble state too royally; but the time may come when I can
acknowledge your courtesy better. Mr. Woodhall, will you partake?"
The duke's breakfast was not half concluded, when one of his
followers, from without, came in suddenly and without ceremony, and
spoke a word to Monmouth in a low tone over the back of his chair.
The duke started up, and gazed at him for an instant with a look of
horror and consternation.
"What!" he exclaimed; "what did you say? shot Thomas Dare--in the
streets of Lyme--on a dispute about a horse?"
"Too true, indeed, your grace," replied the other; "shot him dead; the
ball passed through his brain."
"By the Lord that lives!" cried Monmouth, "these turbulent men shall
find that he who claims to rule a realm like this, can at least rule a
handful who pretend to obey. Have out the horses there! I must not
lose a moment."
Ever energetic, and often right, in purpose, Monmouth hurried to
depart, only to show how weak he could be in act, how amenable to the
weak counsels of others. Brave as a lion in the field--often timid in
the council--not without skill as the general--ever misled as the
politician and the man.
As, about to mount his horse, he turned away from the door, he
looked round to Ralph with a pleasant smile, saying, "Remember my
commission--I trust to you."
"I will not fail, your grace," replied Ralph.
They were few and simple words, but their effects were more important.