The injury which Henry Langford had received was more severe than he
had at first imagined. The extraction of the ball was very painful, and
so much inflammation succeeded that he was confined to his room for
several days. The delay and restraint, in truth, annoyed him as much as
the pain and restlessness which he suffered, for at that time there
were various important objects before him, which he was prevented from
pursuing with the calm but rapid energy of his character. He had one
great consolation, however: that the injury he had sustained was
received in defence of Alice Herbert; he had one great pleasure in the
midst of his sufferings: to feel sure that she was thinking of him, and
thinking of him with interest. Alice Herbert did not attend him as a
lady of romance; she neither dressed his wounds nor sung to lull him to
repose. She did not even show him that care and attention, visiting his
sick chamber often in the day, making cooling drinks with her own hand,
and pressing him to take care of himself, and to follow exactly the
surgeon's directions, which many a lady of that very age would have
done. Nay more, strange as it may seem, she did not display half so
much interest towards him as she might have done towards any person in
whom she was not so deeply interested. She took care, indeed, that
everything should be done for his comfort and convenience; but she did
so seeming to do it as little as possible. She did give up ever thought
to him, and to how he might be best brought back to health especially
during the three first days, while the surgeon shook his grave and not
very sapient head, and declared that the result was doubtful; but she
took great care that nobody should know that her thoughts were so
employed.
When at length he was permitted to leave his room, she received him
with a degree of timidity that was not without its share of tenderness.
It seemed as if she felt that towards him she was placed in a different
relationship to that in which she stood towards any other human being,
and the feeling was strange and new to her, but it was not without its
pleasure. Langford's manner, too, soon dispelled everything that was in
the least embarrassing in such feelings, and left them all their
delight.
With fever and loss of blood he had been greatly weakened, and there
was a degree of languor in his conversation during the first two or
three days which rendered it perhaps more interesting to Alice Herbert
even that it had been before. It was still bright and sparkling; it was
still rich and deep; but there was a softness and a gentleness in it
which were the more winning from the contrast between the power of the
thought and the mildness of the manner. The mind of Alice, too, had
undergone some change, from what reason she scarcely knew. She was
becoming fonder of grave thoughts; she was more pensive; and once or
twice, even when she was alone, she blushed deeply at finding herself
guilty of some little act of absence of mind--a thing she never had
accused herself of before. She blushed, because she was conscious that
on these occasions she was thinking of Henry Langford; her meditations,
indeed, were such as she needed not to have blushed for; they were all
pure, and upright, and good; but it was for their intensity that she
blushed, not for the matter of them.
There was in Langford's manner towards her, however, a tenderness, a
gentleness, an appealingness, if we may use the term, which, without
words, very soon told her that if she thought deeply of him, he thought
no less deeply of her. Her father was about this time a good deal
absent from home; for the attack upon his daughter, at the very gates
of his own park, had raised his indignation to a high pitch; and he
declared that he would not rest, night nor day, till he had rooted out
of the country the band of villains who deprived it of its ancient
peace and security. Meetings of the justices in the neighbourhood were
accordingly held for the purpose of causing the apprehension of the
offenders; and at all these Sir Walter, who was himself an active
though kindly magistrate, was present, taking a prominent part; so
that, as we have said, he was much from home, and Alice Herbert was
left, not alone, but in company with Henry Langford.
Such circumstances seldom lead but to one result, and must have done so
now, had not that result been long before reached by the heart of each.
Langford, however, was extremely careful; he could not, indeed, so far
govern his manner as to prevent it from betraying the growing
tenderness, the daily-increasing love that he felt for Alice Herbert;
but not a word ever escaped his lips to confirm what his manner told
unwittingly. They spoke of all the various matters, on all the
multitude of themes, which are to be found in the treasury of rich and
well-cultivated minds; there was not one fine subject in all the mighty
universe, there was not an object in all the tide of bright and
beautiful things which the God of nature has poured through every
channel of the immense creation, that might not become for them a topic
of discourse, for in all they could find sources for enjoyment and
admiration.
And thus they went on conversing upon different things, deriving
amusement, and instruction, and employment for imagination from all.
Yes! conversing of indifferent things, but conversing as people who
were not indifferent to each other; speaking of matters which had no
reference to themselves, yet each learning as they spoke but the more
to admire, to esteem, to love the other.
There were looks, too--unintentional looks--that betrayed the secrets
of the heart more than words. When Alice Herbert's eyes were turned
away, Langford would look at her with long and tender earnestness till
she turned towards him, and then he would immediately withdraw his
gaze. But still, more than once, she caught his eyes fixed upon her,
and felt sure that they had been so long. She, too, while working or
drawing, and conversing at the same time on any passing subject that
was before them, would occasionally, when his rich eloquence poured
forth in a current of more than ordinary brightness, raise her eyes to
his face with a look of deep eagerness which made her very heart
thrill.
Thus it went on, as might be naturally expected, and before three weeks
were over, Alice Herbert found that there was but one happiness for her
on earth; and Henry Langford knew that his fate was decided, as far as
intense, and true, and ardent love decides, for weal or woe, the fate
of every man capable of feeling it.
For the last two or three days, however, Alice had remarked that he was
more thoughtful, perhaps more grave, than usual. The magisterial
labours of her father were now nearly at an end. Though none of the
offenders had been taken, he had satisfied himself that their bad
neighbours had been driven from the vicinity; and two or three daring
robberies, which were committed about this time in the next county but
one, confirmed him in the belief. He was therefore much more at home
with Alice, and with him whom we may now call her lover, and the
delight which he took in Langford's society was every day more and more
apparent, and every day more sweet and reassuring to his daughter's
heart. The regard of the old man and the young man was evidently
reciprocal, for Langford was one of those who could feel and estimate
to the full the beautiful and natural simplicity, the straightforward
singlemindedness of the old Knight of Moorhurst.
However, during the two or three days which we have just mentioned, as
having displayed an unusual degree of gravity in Langford's manner, his
eyes would often rest with a sort of doubtful and inquiring look upon
the face of Sir Walter; and Alice also fancied that her father was
pale, thoughtful, and uneasy. Langford, too, though scarcely fully
recovered, had been out several times alone, pleading urgent business;
and, in short it was clear that, in the bosoms of many of the party
tenanting the Manor-House, there were busy thoughts, which from some
reason they concealed from each other.
Such was the state of things just three weeks after the affray with the
robbers; when one evening Alice had walked out alone, in order to think
over all that she felt, and all that she had remarked, without having
her thoughts interrupted even by the conversation of those who were the
objects of her meditation. She had now learned not to go very far from
the house when alone, and she sat down for a moment in a seat at the
end of the bowling-green, which was a small oblong piece of ground,
hollowed out between high banks on every side, which banks, like the
flat little lawn that they surrounded, were covered with smooth green
turf, and were surmounted on three sides by a range of fine yew trees,
cut with exact precision into the form of a high wall. Her father,
before she left the house, had seated himself in his arm-chair in the
library, to take the afternoon nap in which he sometimes indulged; and
Langford, whom she had not seen for nearly an hour, she believed to
have gone to the village.
It was not so, however; and ere she remained long in that spot,
thinking over her situation, and somewhat schooling herself for
feelings which she could not suppress, she heard a rapid footfall
coming from the direction of the house, and the thrill that went
through her heart, the agitation that took possession of her whole
frame, showed the quick memory of love. Had she yielded to her first
impulse, though there was no one upon earth in whose society she felt
so happy as in that of the person who now sought her, she would have
risen and made her escape through the trees behind her. She restrained
herself, however, and sat still, with a beating heart, indeed, and with
her breath almost suppressed, while Langford with a quick step crossed
the bowling-green, and approached her. Although she strove to do so,
although she would have given worlds to appear unconcerned, she could
not raise her eyes to welcome the visitor with her usual smile, and she
suffered him to traverse the whole open space as if she had not seen
him, only looking up with a glance of consciousness, and a deep blush
when he came close to her.
Langford was agitated too: but the agitation showed itself merely in a
great degree of paleness. His step was firm, his manner calm and
decided.
"I have sought you," he said, as he came up; "I saw you go away from
the house, and thought you had gone to the flower garden."
Alice strove hard to reply as usual, but all that she could say was, "I
thought it would be cooler here;" and there she stopped: she could go
no further.
"We shall be less likely to be interrupted, too," replied Langford,
"and that, with me, is a great object at the present moment, for I wish
much to speak with you--to detain you for half an hour--nay, perhaps,
for a whole hour with me alone."
Alice could now reply nothing indeed; but with eyes bent down, and the
tears ready to rise up in them, she suffered Langford to take her hand
and to proceed.
He seldom did anything like other men, acting upon principles which we
may hereafter pause upon for a moment; and he did not now come at once
to the declaration which Alice felt was hanging upon his lips, but went
on to speak of things apparently of far less interest. "You will give
me this half hour, or this hour, I know, sweet lady; and afterwards you
shall give me more or not as you please. I had some idea of detaining
you before you went out; but I am glad I did not, because I think when
one has anything of great importance to say--anything, I mean, which
deeply interests and moves us, in which the whole feelings of our
hearts are engaged--I think that there is no place we can so well
choose as in the face of nature, under the free canopy of heaven. One's
spirit feels confined and crushed in chambers built by hands; one's
heart has not room to expand; one's soul has not space to breathe forth
at liberty."
He saw that by this time Alice's emotion had a little subsided; she had
even ventured, at the last words, to look up in his face; and he now
went on, coming nearer to the matter of his thoughts. "Alice," he said,
"dear Alice, I would beseech you not to agitate yourself, and yet I
must speak to you on subjects which will create much emotion."
Did Alice think, even for a moment, that he was too confident--that he
was too sure of possessing such great influence over her mind? She did
not; but even if such an idea had presented itself for a moment, it
would have vanished immediately, for he went on: "I know that I must
greatly agitate and move you; for if my brightest and dearest hopes are
true, that heart is too deep and too intense in all its feelings not to
be agitated by the words you must hear, and the words you must speak;
and if those hopes are not true, if, like so many other of life's
illusions, they have given me a moment of brightness but to plunge me
in the deeper night, that heart is too gentle and too kind to tell me
that the whole of the rest of my life is misery, without feeling wrung
and pained. Alice, I have sought you, not to tell you that I love you;
for that you must have known long----"
"Oh no!" she cried, suddenly looking up through a flood of bright and
happy tears, "Oh no! I might think so, but I could not be sure of it!"
Langford smiled, and pressed her hand to his lips. "Do not think me
presumptuous," he answered; "do not think me presumptuous when I say,
that those words and that look have already given a reply, and made me
most happy. Oh no! I am not presumptuous, for I know Alice Herbert too
well not to feel that such words, and such a look, may well spare my
agitating her further, on one subject at least. Yet tell me, Alice, am
I as happy as I dream myself to be?"
For a moment she made him no answer, and he added, "Oh speak!"
"What can I say, Langford?" she murmured, in a low voice; "you, who
know the human heart so well, must have read mine perhaps too deeply."
He gave up a few moments to thanks and to expressions of his joy: but
after that, a graver shade came upon his countenance, and he said,
"There is much, much, my beloved, to be spoken of between us. With that
bright confidence which you shall never find misplaced, you have
yielded your heart and your happiness to one of whose rank and station,
fortune and family, you know nothing."
"I know himself," replied Alice, gazing up in her lover's face, "and I
know that he is everything that is noble and good."
"May I ever justify such feelings, Alice," replied Langford; "but
still, my beloved, it is necessary that you should know something of
me, especially as I may have to draw still more deeply upon your
confidence, to call for trust and reliance such as are seldom
justified. During the last three or four days, Alice, my mind has been
in a state of hesitation and doubt as to what course I should pursue. I
felt that under some points of view I ought, in propriety, to
communicate my feelings to your father, in the very first place; and
yet, Alice, as I was sure that you knew that I loved you, as I had
determined to bind you by no promise till your father's full consent
was obtained, and as I had to confide in you, to consult with you, to
ask your advice even upon a matter that must affect the whole course of
my life, my fortune, my station, and everything--a matter which, for
many reasons, I do not wish to communicate to your father at present, I
have judged it best, and determined, to open my whole heart to you at
once."
Alice listened with a slight look of anxiety, for she had entertained
some hopes that Langford had communicated his purpose to her father
before he came to seek her; but still her apprehensions of opposition
from one who loved her so much, and esteemed him so highly, were not
great, and she only replied, "But, of course, you do not wish our
engagements to be concealed from my father?"
"Not _our_ engagements, sweet Alice," replied Langford; "for while I
hold myself bound for ever to you. I ask you to make no engagement, I
suffer you to make none, till you have your father's full consent, and
my love for you shall be told to him immediately. But let me first
inform you how I am situated. The property which I actually possess is
but small; sufficient, indeed, to maintain me in comfort and
independence as a gentleman, but no more. My name and reputation, with
my companions in the field, and with those under whom I have served,
is, I have every cause to believe, fair--may I say it without
vanity?--high. This small fortune, and this good reputation, are all
that I absolutely have to offer; but, at the same time, I tell you that
a much larger fortune, one that would at once place me on a level, in
those respects, with yourself, is withheld from me unjustly, and
cannot, I fear, be recovered by law."
"What matters it?" demanded Alice. "What matters it, Langford? My
father's consent once given, will not his house, his fortune, be our
own? What need of more?"
"To you, perhaps not, Alice," replied her lover. "But to me it would be
painful--it would be the only painful part of my fate to know that a
great disparity existed between your fortune and mine--to have any one
insinuate that my Alice had married a mere adventurer. In regard, too,
to your father's fortune, Alice, I have much, hereafter to say to you;
I have something even to say to him. But of that we will not speak now.
Suffice it that I could bear no great disparity. But, besides," he
added, seeing her about to speak, "I have made a solemn promise, Alice,
to pursue, without pause or hesitation, the recovery of this property."
"But you said," exclaimed Alice, "that it could not be recovered by
law."
"It cannot," replied Langford, "for the papers by which it could be
recovered are withheld from me by one who is both powerful and daring,
and I cannot obtain them by any act which the law would justify."
"Then, give it up altogether," exclaimed Alice. "Do not, do not,
Langford, attempt anything that is not justified by the law."
"But sometimes," replied her lover, "the law is in itself unjust, or
else, as in the present instance, is impotent to work redress, and
would justify the act if it proved successful. The papers are withheld
from me by one, as I have said, who is both powerful and daring. What
mandate of the law can make him give them up? While I, by force, if I
chose to exert it, might take them for myself; and the possession of
them would at once justify the deed by which they were acquired."
"Oh, no, no! do not attempt it, Langford," cried Alice. "Suppose you
were to fail in obtaining them, what terrible consequences might ensue!
He might resist force by force; blood might be spilt, and the man I
love become a murderer."
Langford paused for a moment upon the words, "The man I love;" and,
casting his eyes towards the ground, he fell into a sweet but short
reverie. A moment after, however, he returned to the subject, saying,
"But my promise, Alice, my promise to the dead?"
"Langford," said Alice gravely, and somewhat sadly, laying her right
hand at the same time upon his, in which he had continued to hold her
left, and gazing up in his face with a look of tenderness and regard:
"Langford, I am no great casuist in such matters; but I have always
heard that no promise to do what is unlawful can be binding upon any
man. God forbid that I should hold that it is right to do any evil,
even to the breaking of the slightest promise; but here, Langford, you
are between two evils: the breaking of a promise, and the committing of
an unlawful act. The breaking of that promise can do wrong to no one;
the keeping it may bring misery on yourself, on me, on all who know
you; may be followed by bloodshed, ay! and the loss of your good name."
"You are eloquent, my Alice," replied Langford, "and I believe that you
are right; but still the temptation is so strong, the matter involved
is so great and so important, the means of obtaining those papers
without force so very doubtful----"
"Oh, if there be means," exclaimed Alice, "if there be _any_ means
employ them. Speak with my father upon it: take counsel with him."
"Alice," replied her lover, "it is impossible. I must not speak with
him, I ought not to speak with him, upon this subject. For his sake,
Alice, for yours, I ought not. Alice, forgive me if I am obliged to use
some mystery for the present. That mystery shall soon pass away, and
you shall know all."
"I seek not to know it, Langford!" she replied, gazing up in his face;
"I am quite satisfied: I am quite sure! Now and for ever my trust is
entirely in you. Tell me what you like: conceal from me what you like.
I know that I shall never hear of your doing what is wrong; and as for
all the rest, I care not."
Langford could not resist such words. He threw his arms round her, and
pressed her to his heart. His lips met hers in the first kiss of love,
and he set her heart at ease by promising to use none but lawful means
to obtain even his right. He still held her gently with one arm thrown
lightly round her, and her left hand locked in his, when the sound of a
footstep met his ear, and he looked up. Alice's eyes were raised too,
and her cheek turned very red and then very pale, for, at the aperture
at the other end of the bowling-green, appeared no other than Lord
Harold, advancing rapidly towards them.
The reader may have remarked that whenever we are interrupted in those
seasons when the shy heart comes forth from the depths in which it lies
concealed, and suns itself for a moment in the open daylight, the
person who breaks in upon us is sure to be the one of all the world
before whom we should least like to display the inmost feelings of our
bosom. Had it been her father who now approached, Alice would have run
up to him, placed her hand in his, hid her face upon his bosom, and
told him all at once. But, both on her own account and on his, Alice
would rather have beheld any other person on the earth than Lord Harold
at that moment. He could not but have seen the half embrace in which
Langford had held her; he could not but know and divine the whole; and
Alice felt grieved that such knowledge must come upon him in so painful
a manner; while--though not ashamed--she felt abashed and confused that
any one should have been a witness to the first endearment of
acknowledged love. Langford's proud nostril expanded and his head rose
high; and drawing the arm of Alice through his own, he advanced with
her direct towards Lord Harold, as if about to return to the house. The
young nobleman's countenance was deadly pale, and he was evidently much
moved, but he behaved well and calmly.
"Your father wishes to speak to you, Alice," he said; "I left him but
now, just awake."
Langford saw that Alice could not reply, and he answered, "We are even
now about to seek Sir Walter, my lord."
"I rather imagine that he has business which may require Mistress
Alice's private attention," replied Lord Harold, in the same cold tone
which both had used; "I have also to request a few moments'
conversation with Captain Langford. I will not detain him long."
Alice suddenly raised her eyes, and looked from one to the other.
"Langford," she said, aloud, "before I leave you, I have one word more
to say."
"I will rejoin you here in a moment, my lord," said Langford, calmly.
Lord Harold bowed; and Langford, with Alice's arm still resting in his,
walked on towards the house. Alice spoke to him, as they went, eagerly,
and in a low voice. His reply, as he left her at the door of the Manor
was, "On my honour!--Be quite at ease!--Nothing shall induce me."
As soon as he had left her, he returned at once to Lord Harold, whom he
found standing, with his arms crossed upon his breast, in an attitude
of deep thought.
"Your commands, sir?" said Langford, as soon as they met.
"By your leave, Captain Langford," replied Lord Harold, "we will walk a
little further, where we are not likely to be interrupted."
Langford signified his assent, and they proceeded in silence for some
way till they reached a small glade in the park, where Langford paused,
saying, "This is surely far enough, Lord Harold, to prevent our being
interrupted in anything you can have to say to me, or I to you."
"Perhaps it may be," replied Lord Harold. "I have a question to ask
you, which may perhaps lead to other questions, and I beg you to give
me a sincere and open answer, as it may prevent unpleasant consequences
to us both."
"If I think fit to give you any answer at all, Lord Harold," replied
Langford, "I will give you a sincere one; but I must first know what
your question is before I even consider whether I shall answer it or
not."
"The question is simply this," rejoined Lord Harold, in a somewhat
bitter tone: "Who and what the gentleman is who visits this part of the
country, introduces himself into our families, and calls himself
Captain Langford?"
Langford smiled: "Had I, my lord," he said, "either visited your
property, even as a sportsman, in answer to your lordship's own
invitation, or had I introduced myself into your family, I might have
thought myself bound to give some answer to your question; but, as I
have done neither the one nor the other, I will beg you to excuse me
from replying to it, and I will pardon you for putting it."
"This is all very good, sir," said Lord Harold; "but you do not escape
me by an affectation of dignity. In the first place, sir, you cannot
suppose that I shall conceal from Sir Walter Herbert what I remarked
to-day between yourself and his daughter."
Langford turned very red, but he still replied calmly: "In regard to
that, my lord, you may do as you please. To be a spy upon other
people's actions, or a tale-bearer, in regard to a matter accidentally
discovered, and not intended for his eye, is certainly a pleasant
employment for a gentleman. But all these things depend upon taste; and
if Lord Harold's taste lead him in such a way, Heaven forbid that I
should stop him!"
Lord Harold bit his lip: "I shall not be put out of temper, sir," he
replied, "by your sarcasm; and were Captain Langford known to me as a
gentleman of honour and character, I should--whatever might be my own
personal feelings in this matter--I should be far from betraying a
secret which came accidentally to my knowledge; but when Captain
Langford is totally unknown in this part of the country, when I have
reason to believe that he is not always called by the same name, or
seen in the same character--when, in short, Captain Langford is a very
doubtful personage, and I find him introducing himself into the house
of my oldest and best friend, and, apparently unknown to that friend,
engaging the affections of his daughter--I feel myself bound in honour
to be no party to such a transaction, but to bring the whole matter to
light as soon as possible."
Langford had remained standing while the other spoke, in an attitude of
attention, and with his eyes bent down upon the ground. The moment that
Lord Harold had done, he raised them, and, with a degree of
tranquillity which the young nobleman did not expect, replied,
"Perhaps, my lord, you are in the right. I rather believe, in your
situation. I should act in the same manner."
Lord Harold looked both surprised and confused. "This is very
extraordinary," he said, "and I cannot but believe that there is some
design under it. I must insist, sir, upon having an explanation on the
spot, as to who and what you are; as to what is your title to be in the
society in which I find you, and what are your claims to the hand of
one of the first heiresses in this country."
"Your pardon, my lord," replied Langford; "you are now going too far. I
shall give every explanation that I think fitting to the father of the
lady in question; to you I shall give none, till you show me some right
which you may have to interfere in the affairs of Mistress Alice
Herbert, which, I rather suspect, you cannot do."
Lord Harold again bit his lip; but he replied, almost immediately: "The
right I have, sir, is twofold; that of one of her oldest friends, and
that of an applicant for her hand."
For a moment Langford was about to demand, in reply, whether Lord
Harold meant an accepted or a rejected suitor; but he was generous, and
refrained. "In neither quality," he said, "can I recognise in you any
right to interfere; and you will pardon me if I say, that I will not
only give you no explanation whatever on the subject, but will not
condescend to hear you speak any further on a matter with which you
have no title to meddle."
"Then, sir," replied Lord Harold, sharply, "nothing remains but to draw
your sword. I do you honour in taking it for granted that you are
worthy of mine;" and as he spoke he drew his weapon from the sheath,
and with the point dropped, stood as if in expectation that Langford
would follow his example.
Langford remained, however, with his arms crossed upon his chest, and a
somewhat melancholy smile upon his countenance. "Once more," he said,
"you must pardon me, Lord Harold: neither in this matter can I gratify
you; not alone because it is a stupid and contemptible habit, only
worthy of cowards, or of boys who have no other way of showing their
courage, but--"
"Well said, Master Harry," cried a voice close beside them: "Well said,
well said! I think, my little lordling, you had better put up your cold
iron, and go your way home to your father. To think of a man wishing to
bore a hole in his neighbour, like Smith, the house-carpenter, with his
long gimlet! Let us look at your skewer in a handle, my lord;" and as
he spoke. Silly John, the half-witted man of the village, whom we have
before described, advanced, extending his hand to take hold of the
blade of Lord Harold's sword. The young nobleman pushed him sharply
aside, however, bidding him begone, with an angry frown.
"Well, I'll begone," replied the half-witted man; "but I'll be back
again in a minute, with more hands to help me;" and away he ran in the
direction of the stream and the village.
"Now, sir! quick!" exclaimed Lord Harold. "If you would not have me
suppose you both a coward and an impostor, draw your sword, and give me
satisfaction at once."
"Your lordship may suppose anything that you please," replied Langford;
"having done nothing that can reasonably dissatisfy you, I shall
certainly do nothing to give you any other sort of satisfaction."
"Then, sir, I shall treat you as you deserve," replied Lord Harold,
"and chastise you as a cowardly knave;" and putting up his sword, he
advanced to strike his opponent.
But Langford caught his hand in his own powerful grasp, and stopped
him, saying, "Hold, Lord Harold, hold, I _will_ give you one word of
explanation! If, after having heard that, you choose to draw your sword
and seek my life, you shall do so; but remember, as you are a man of
honour, to none--no, not to the nearest and dearest, must you reveal
the import of these words;" and, drawing him closer to him, he
whispered what seemed to be a single word in the young nobleman's ear.
Langford then let go his hold; and, pale as ashes, with a quivering lip
and a straining eye, Lord Harold staggered back. His companion turned
upon his heel, and walked away; either not hearing, or not choosing to
attend to the young nobleman's entreaty to speak with him one word
more.
Langford took his way direct to the Manor House; but upon entering the
door which stood open to the park, he perceived a good deal of bustle
and confusion amongst the servants; and on asking if Sir Herbert were
in the library, the reply was, "Yes," but it was added, that he and
Mistress Alice were both busy with a gentleman, on matters of deep
importance. "While he was speaking with the servant, Langford, through
a door which stood open at the end of a long passage, and afforded a
view into the court, perceived Lord Harold come in, with a quick step
and a somewhat disordered air, and mounting his horse, which was held
by one of Sir Walter's grooms, ride slowly away, without even
attempting to enter the house.
"I am about to walk to the village," continued Langford, speaking to
the servant. "Will you tell Sir Walter so, when he is visible; for I
expect a messenger from London, and may not be back to supper, if I
find letters which require an answer."
He then proceeded through the house, gained the road which led over the
bridge, and was proceeding towards the village, in the twilight, which
was now beginning to fall, when he thought he recognised a form that
was advancing towards him, though still at some distance. It proved to
be that of the same fair-haired boy, named Jocelyn, whom we have more
than once had occasion to mention, he spoke not a word when he came
near, but placed a letter in Langford's hands, which the other tore
open, and read, though with some difficulty, from the obscurity of the
light.
"There is scarcely time," he said, after he had made out the contents
of the epistle, which was very short. "There is scarcely time.
Nevertheless, tell him I will be there: but say also, good Jocelyn,
that my resolution is the same as when we last met. I will not try it!"
"I will tell him," was the boy's only reply; and leaving Langford, he
ran down the road by the stream, with a rapid pace.