Perhaps the sweetest hour of a sweet season is that which precedes the
setting of the sun upon a May day. All the world is taking holiday,
from the lowing herd that winds slowly o'er the lea to the shard-born
beetle and the large white moth. The aspect of the sky and earth
too--clear, calm, and tranquil--are full of repose. The mistiness of
the mid-day sunshine is away; and the very absence of a portion of the
full daylight, and the thin, colourless transparency of the evening
air, afford that contemplative, but no way drowsy charm which well
precedes, by thought tending to adoration, the hour when, in darkness
and forgetfulness, we trust ourselves unconscious to the hands of God.
The heart of man is but as an instrument from which the great musician,
Nature, produces grand harmonies; and the most soothing anthem that
rises within the breast is surely elicited by the soft touch of that
evening hour.
It had shone calmly over the world in those scenes we have lately
described, and the last moments of the sun's stay above the horizon,
were passing away, while, within one of the rooms of the old Manor
House of Moorhurst Park, the father and the daughter were sitting
tranquilly in the seat of a deep window, gazing over the beautiful view
before their eyes, and marking all the wonderful changes of colouring
which the gradual descent of the sun and the slow passing of a few
light evening clouds brought each moment over the scene. There is in
almost every heart some one deep memory, some one powerful feeling,
which has its harmonious connexion with a particular hour, and with a
particular scene; and as the father and the daughter gazed, and marked
the sun sinking slowly in the far west, one remembrance, one image, one
sensation, took possession of both their bosoms. The daughter thought
of the mother, the father of the wife, that was lost to them for ever.
Neither spoke--both tried to suppress the feeling, or rather to indulge
the feeling, while they suppressed its expression. But such efforts are
vain, at least with hearts untutored by the cold policies of a
superficial world. A tear glistened in the daughter's eye, and she
dared not wipe it away lest it should be remarked. The father's eye,
indeed, was tearless, but his brow was sad; and as he withdrew his gaze
from the scene before him, and turned his looks upon his daughter, it
was with a sigh. He marked, too, the bright drop that still hung
trembling on her eyelid, catching the last ray of the setting sun; and,
knowing the spring whence that drop arose, he cast his arms around her,
and pressed her in silence to his breast.
At that very moment, however--for it is still at the time when the deep
shy feelings of the warmest hearts peep forth to enjoy some cool
secluded hour, that the world is sure to burst upon them like the cry
of the beagles upon the timid hare--at that very moment, one of the
servants opened the door of the chamber, and announced Captain Henry
Langford. Sir Walter Herbert withdrew his arms from his daughter, and
took a step forward; and Alice Herbert, though she felt prepossessed in
their visitor's favour, felt also almost vexed that he had come so soon
to interrupt the sweet but melancholy feelings which were rising in her
father's heart and in her own. She gazed with some interest towards the
door, however, and the next instant, the angler, whose course through
the day we have already traced, entered the apartment. Rod, and line,
and fishing-basket had been, by this time, thrown aside, and he stood
before them well, but not gaily, dressed; with scrupulous neatness
observable in the every part of his apparel, and with his wavy brown
hair arranged with some care and attention.
His air was distinguished, and not to be mistaken--his person was, as
we have before said, eminently handsome; so that, although a stranger
to both the father and daughter, he bore with him a letter of
recommendation of a very prepossessing kind.
As he entered, Sir Walter Herbert advanced to meet him, with the calm
dignity of one who, in former years, had mingled with courts and
camps--who felt within his breast the ease-giving consciousness of a
noble and an upright mind; and he was met by the stranger with the same
bearing.
Sir Walter, though not usually familiar, offered him his hand, saying,
"Captain Langford, I am very glad to see you; and must explain how it
is that I took the liberty of sending you the invitation that has
procured me this pleasure. Without intending to act the part of
eavesdroppers, my daughter and myself overheard, this morning, the
conclusion of a conversation between you and one of my servants,
regarding some birds that float about upon the stream; and the few
words that fell from you on that occasion breathed a spirit which gave
me a temptation too strong to be resisted of seeking your acquaintance,
even at the risk of intruding upon the calm and tranquil solitude which
you, who are, doubtless, a denizen of cities and courts, seek, in all
probability, when you venture into the country."
"It could be no intrusion, sir," replied his guest; "and let me assure
you that, in forbidding me to shoot the wild fowl on the stream, your
servant imposed upon me no hard condition. Those birds have been a sort
of companions to me, during my sport, for these two or three years
past, and I should never have thought of injuring them; but would still
less have wished to do so, when I knew that you took a pleasure and an
interest in them."
"They are associated with past happiness," said Sir Walter; "and,
though I believe it is foolish to cling to things which only awaken
regret, yet I confess I do take a pleasure, a sad pleasure, perhaps, in
seeing them."
"I cannot but think," replied his guest, "that there are some regrets
far sweeter than all our every-day enjoyments. The only real pleasures
that I myself now possess are in memories; because my only attachments
are with the past."
"You are very young to say so, sir," answered Sir Walter; "you must at
an early age have broken many sweet ties."
"But one," replied Langford; "for, through life, I have had but
one--that between mother and son; but of course it broke with the
greater pain from being the only one."
"And your father?" demanded Sir Walter.
"I never knew him," replied the stranger; and, seeing that the
conversation might grow painful, Sir Walter Herbert dropped it; and,
turning to his daughter, presented the stranger to her, which he had
neglected to do before.
It might be that, as the old knight did so, the remembrance of what had
passed not long before, regarding the beautiful girl to whom he was now
introduced, called the colour rather more brightly into Langford's
face; and certainly it produced a slight degree of embarrassment in his
manner, which he had never felt on such an occasion before. She was,
certainly, very beautiful, and that beauty of a peculiar cast. It was
the bright and sunshiny, united with the deep and touching. Her skin
was clear, and exquisitely fair: her lips full, but beautifully formed,
the brow broad and white; and the eyes of that soft peculiar hazel,
which, when fringed with long black lashes, perhaps is more expressive
than any other colour. The hair, which was very full and luxuriant, was
of a brown--several shades lighter than Langford's own--soft and glossy
as silk, and catching a golden gleam in all the prominent lights. She
was not tall, but her form was perfectly well proportioned, and every
full and rounded limb was replete with grace and symmetry.
Langford's slight embarrassment wore off in a moment; and the
conversation turned upon more general themes than those with which it
begun. Sir Walter and his daughter, from the few words they had heard
in the morning, undoubtedly expected to find in their guest high and
kindly feelings, and that grace, too, which such feelings always afford
to the demeanour and conversation of those who possess them. But they
found much more than they had expected--a rich and cultivated mind,
great powers of conversation, much sparkling variety of idea, an
inexhaustible fund of experience, and information regarding many things
whereof they themselves, if not ignorant, had but a slight knowledge,
which he had gained apparently by travelling far and long in foreign
countries, and by mingling with many classes and descriptions of men.
There were few subjects on which he could not speak; and, on whatever
he did speak, there was something more displayed than mere ordinary
judgment. The heart had its part as well as the understanding, and a
bright and playful imagination linked the two together.
Had Sir Walter Herbert and his daughter felt inclined to be distant and
reserved towards the stranger, whom they had invited, they could not
have maintained such a demeanour long; for he was one of those who
applied for admittance to every door of the human heart, and was sure
to find some entrance; but when, on the contrary, they were predisposed
to like and esteem him, even the first slight chilliness of new
acquaintance was speedily done away; and ere he had been an hour in the
house the reciprocation of feeling and ideas had made them far more
intimate with him than with many persons whom they had known for long
and uninterrupted years.
Music was talked of, and painting, and sculpture; and in each,
Langford, without affecting the tone of a connoisseur, displayed that
knowledge which is gained rather by a deep feeling for all that is fine
and beautiful than from an experimental acquaintance with the arts
themselves. He had heard Lulli--had been present when some of his most
celebrated compositions had been first performed; and, though he talked
not of the scientific accuracy of this piece of music or of that, he
spoke with enthusiasm of the effect which each produced upon the mind;
of what feelings they called up; whether they soothed, or inspired, or
touched, or saddened, or elevated.
Then, again, when the conversation turned to the sculpture or the
painting of Florence or of Rome, he did not--perhaps he could not--use
the jargon of connoisseurs: he did not speak of breath, and juice, and
contour, but he told of how he had been affected by the sight, of what
were the sensations produced in his bosom, and in the bosoms of others
whom he had known, by the Venus, or the Apollo, or the Laocoon, or the
works of Raphael, or Guido, or Titian, or Michael Angelo. In short, he
dwelt upon that part of the subject which referred to the mind, the
imagination, or the heart; and in regard to which all those who heard
him could go along with him--feeling, comprehending, and enjoying all
he spoke of or described.
Alice Herbert, though she was not learned in such things, yet had a
natural taste, which was not uncultivated. In the seclusion in which
she dwelt, the ordinary household duties of a young Englishwoman of
that period had not been enough for her; and her mind had been occurred
with much and various reading, with music, as it was then known and
taught, and with drawing; though in the latter art she had received no
instruction but from her mother, who had acquired it herself while in
exile at the court of France. Her father, also, had some taste in, and
much feeling for, the arts, and she joined eagerly in the conversation
between him and Langford, often leading it, with the sportive eagerness
of a young and enthusiastic mind, to a thousand collateral subjects,
which constantly elicited from their new companion remarks full of
freshness and of genius.
She listened, well pleased--something more than well pleased, struck
and surprised: and from that night's interview she bore away matter for
deep thought and meditation--the most favourable effect that man can
produce when he wishes to make an impression on the heart of woman.
Did Langford seek to produce such an effect? Perhaps not, or most
likely, he would not have succeeded so well, but he was pleased
himself: he, too, was struck and surprised: and, carried away by his
own feelings, he took, unconsciously, the best means of interesting
hers.
But the interview ended not so soon; and they had scarcely sat down to
the evening meal when a fourth person was added to the party. He came
in unannounced, and seemed to be a familiar and a favoured guest.
Young, handsome, and prepossessing, with a frank and noble countenance,
an air full of ease and grace, and an expression, in some degree,
thoughtful, rather than sad; his coming, and the hour and manner in
which he came, seemed to Henry Langford a warning, that if there were a
day-dream dawning in his bosom, in regard to the sweet girl by whom he
sat, it would be better to extinguish it at once. But feelings such as
he had never experienced before came across his bosom; an eager and
irritable anxiety, an inclination to retire into himself, and to watch
the conduct of those around him; a tendency, whether he would or not,
to be ungracious, not alone towards the stranger, but towards all; such
were the strange and new sensations which he experienced. There is no
stronger indication of a new passion having begun to take a hold of our
heart, than a change in our ordinary sensations, in regard to things
apparently trifling. Langford was a great inquisitor of his own bosom,
and by that inquisition had, through life, saved himself from much
pain. The examination, in the present instance, was made in a minute;
and before the stranger had come round, and had been introduced to
himself, he had asked his own heart more than one keen question. He had
demanded, why he felt displeased at any addition to their party? why he
felt disposed to deny to the stranger those graces of person and manner
which he certainly possessed, and which were at once discernible? why
he watched so eagerly the manner in which Sir Walter received him? why
he gazed so intently upon Alice Herbert's cheek, to see if the
tell-tale blood would rise up in it, and betray any secret of the
heart? He asked himself all these questions in a moment, and suddenly
felt that he had been dreaming--ay, dreaming sweet dreams, without
knowing it. He banished them in a moment.
Sir Walter received the stranger kindly and familiarly, though with a
slight degree of stateliness, which was from time to time observable in
his demeanour to all. It was a stateliness evidently not natural to
him, for his character was frank and kindly, and this, perhaps, was the
only little piece of affectation that shaded--for it did not stain--a
mind all gentleness, and warmth, and affection. He shook hands warmly
with the young man, called him Edward, and suffered him to go round to
shake hands with his daughter before he introduced him to their guest.
While he did speak with Alice Herbert we have said that Langford's eye
was fixed upon her cheek. It betrayed nothing, however--the colour
varied not by a shade; and, though the lips smiled and the eye sparkled
as she welcomed him, there was no agitation to be remarked.
Langford was accustomed to read other hearts as well as his own, and
the translation he put upon the indications he beheld was--not that
there was no love between the stranger and Alice Herbert--but that the
period of emotion was past. He was not usually an unskilful reader of
hearts; but in interpreting that book it is necessary to take care that
no passion in our own breast puts a false gloss upon the text. Whether
such was the case in the present instance will be seen hereafter; but,
at all events, the knowledge Langford speedily obtained of what his own
feelings might become, taught him to regulate and restrain them. He
resolved that the coming of the stranger should produce no change in
his demeanour; that he would not forget the suavity of his manner, nor
let any one around remark an alteration which, to them, would be
unaccountable, and which he never could have an opportunity of
explaining.
After having given his visitor an opportunity of speaking for a moment
to his daughter, Sir Walter Herbert introduced him to Captain Langford,
saying, "Captain Langford, Lord Harold, the son of our good neighbour
on the hill. Edward, Captain Langford, one whom I know you will
esteem."
Langford gazed upon the new guest earnestly; but, whatever were his
first thoughts, his mind almost immediately reverted to Lord Harold's
situation in regard to Alice Herbert. The words in which the young
nobleman's introduction to himself was couched, even more than what he
had seen before, made him say in his own heart, "The matter is settled.
Idle dreams! idle dreams! I thought I had held imagination with a
stronger rein."
Lord Harold unslung his sword, and, giving it to one of the servants to
hang it up behind the door, he sat down to supper with the party, and
the conversation was renewed. The new guest looked at Langford more
than once with a keen and scrutinising expression, though his
countenance was not of a cast with which that expression suited, the
natural one being of a frank and open character, with somewhat of
indecision about the mouth, but an air of sternness, perhaps of
fierceness, upon the brow. There was nothing in it, however, either
very shrewd or penetrating; but, nevertheless, such a look was not
uncalled for, as, the moment that Langford resumed his seat, after
bowing to Lord Harold on their introduction, he turned deadly pale, and
remained so for several minutes.
It might be that there was a struggle going on within to overcome
himself, which none of those present knew or understood; but the
outward expression thereof was quite sufficient to call the attention
of the whole party; and it was, as we have said, some time before he
had sufficiently mastered himself to resume the conversation with spirit.
Even when he did so, there was a tone of sadness mingled with it,
which rendered it quite different from what it had been before. It was
no longer the gay, the sparkling, the playful; it was no longer the
mountain current, rushing over a clear and varied bed, now eddying
round every larger object in its course, now rippling brightly over the
pebbles, which it seemed to gild as it flowed amongst them; but it had
become a deep stream, strong, powerful, and, though still clear and
rapid, yet calm, shady, and dark, from its very depth.
Lord Harold took his part in the conversation well and gracefully. A
high education, and an early acquaintance with the court, which had
polished but not spoilt him, acting upon a heart originally good,
feeling, and generous, had improved what powers of mind he possessed as
far as possible. His talents were, however, evidently inferior to those
of Langford; and though he himself, apparently, was as much struck with
the charm of the other's conversation as either Sir Walter or his
daughter had been, yet he felt he was far surpassed by the new guest at
the Manor House; and besides that sensation, which is in itself a heavy
burden to be borne by those who seek to please, there was an
indescribable something in Langford's presence which put a restraint
upon him, and even made him bend down his glance before that of the
stranger. It was late before any one prepared to depart, and the first
who did so was Langford. He took leave of Sir Walter with graceful
thanks for his hospitality and kindness, and the old knight expressed a
hope that they should see him several times again before he left the
country; adding, "Of course you do not mean to limit your angling to
one day?"
"I really do not know," replied Langford, with a somewhat melancholy
smile; "I may be summoned to the capital at a moment's notice; but, at
all events, I shall not fail to pay my respects here before I go. I
will take your hint, Sir Walter, as a permission to continue my
depredations on the trout."
"As often and as much as you please," rejoined the old knight. "The
stream, as far as my manor extends, shall always contribute to your
sport."
"I hope," said Lord Harold, taking a step forward with graceful
courtesy, "that Captain Langford will not make Sir Walter's manor the
boundary. Our lands march, and the stream which flows on beyond, my
father will make as much at his service as that in Sir Walter's
property is already."
Langford thanked him, though somewhat coldly; but after he had taken
leave of Miss Herbert, he turned to Lord Harold, and advanced as if to
shake hands with him, then suddenly seemed to recollect himself, and,
wishing him good night in a more distant manner, quitted the apartment.
Lord Harold remained behind for nearly an hour; and the conversation
naturally rested on him who had just left them. The young nobleman
praised him with a sort of forced praise, which evidently sprang more
from candour and the determination to do justice, than from really
liking him. Sir Walter spoke of him warmly and enthusiastically,
declaring he had seldom met any one at all equal to him. Alice Herbert
said little, but what she did say was very nearly an echo of her
father's opinion. After his character his appearance, his manners, and
his talents had been discussed, his state of fortune and history became
the subjects of conjecture. Lord Harold was surprised when he heard
that the Knight of Moorhurst had invited an unknown angler to his
table, and had introduced him to his daughter; and, though he said
nothing, yet Sir Walter marked the expression of his countenance, and
was somewhat nettled that the young man, even in thought, should
comment on his conduct.
Lord Harold, however, soon obliterated any evil impression from the
mind of the kind-hearted old knight; and turning the conversation to
other things, his spirits seemed to rise after Langford was gone, and
he found opportunity of whispering a word or two in Alice Herbert's
ear. Whatever words those were, they seemed to take her much by
surprise, for she started, turned pale, then coloured highly; and,
after a few minutes passed in what seemed uneasy silence, she rose and
retired to rest. Lord Harold gazed for a moment or two upon the ground,
then looked earnestly at Sir Walter, as if there had been something
that he would fain have spoken; but in the end, apparently irresolute,
he took down his sword, gave orders to a servant to have his horse
brought round; and, taking leave of the good knight, mounted and
galloped away, followed by two attendants.
The moon had just gone down, but the night was clear, and the heavens
sparkling with a thousand stars. Lord Harold's way lay through some
thick woods for about two miles, and then descended suddenly to the
bank of the stream, where the trees fell away and left the bright
waters wandering on through a soft meadow. As the young nobleman issued
forth from among the plantations, he saw a tall dark figure standing by
the river, with the arms crossed upon the chest, and the eyes
apparently bent upon the waters. The sound of the horses' feet caused
the stranger to turn; and although the darkness of the night prevented
Lord Harold from distinguishing his features, the whole form and air at
once showed him that it was Langford. He wished him good evening, as he
passed, in a courteous tone, and was pulling up his horse to have added
some common observation; but Langford did not seem to recognise him,
and merely wishing him "Good night" in answer to his salutation, turned
away and walked down the stream.