For nearly three miles Langford rode rapidly on. His mind was in that
state of confusion and uncertainty which admitted not of any slow
movement of the body; but as he thought again and again of all that had
occurred, he the more deeply regretted that he had ever gone to the
rendezvous with Franklin Gray, although his purpose in there going was
to separate his own proceedings for ever from those of one whose
present pursuits could be no longer doubtful. When Langford had known
him in former years he was a wild and reckless soldier of fortune,
whose bold rash spirit had prevented rather than aided him in rising to
those high grades in the service which his talents might otherwise have
obtained. His heart had ever, as far as Langford had seen it, been
kind, noble, and generous; there were many circumstances which had
connected them closely in our hero's early life; and in himself and his
fate, Franklin Gray had ever taken a deep and affectionate interest.
His hatred of inactivity, his love of enterprise, his daring courage,
his strong and determined resolution, his rapid powers of combination,
and that peculiar talent for command which is a gift rather than an
acquirement, had made him loved and admired by the soldiery under him,
and might have gone far to constitute one of the greatest generals of
the age. But by his fellow officers he had never been loved, and by
those above him he had constantly been used, but had never been trusted
nor liked. In truth, there was a fierce and overbearing spirit in his
bosom, a contempt for other men's opinions, and an abhorrence of the
ordinary littleness of human nature, which prevented him from seeking
or winning the regard of any one, towards whom some peculiar
circumstance, or some extraordinary powers, had not excited in his
bosom feelings either of tenderness or of respect; and for this reason
he had never been loved. Why he had never been trusted was another
matter. He had set out in life depending more upon feeling than upon
principle as his guide; and though, as he went on, he had framed for
his own bosom a sort of code of laws by which he was strictly bound,
those laws did not always very well accord with the ordinary code of
mankind, and if generally acted upon must have been disastrous to
society. Those who disliked him--very often for his superiority to
themselves--were glad to find in his failings a specious excuse for
undervaluing his better qualities, and thus he had been always thwarted
and bitterly disappointed in his progress through life.
Brought up as a soldier from his earliest years, he had ever looked
upon strife as his profession, life as one great campaign, the world as
a battle-field, mankind as either enemies or fellow soldiers. The great
law that he had laid down for himself was, never to measure himself
against any but those who were equal to the strife; and he would just
as soon have thought of injuring the weak, the innocent, or the
defenceless, as he would of murdering the wounded in an hospital. The
proud, the haughty, and the strong he took a pleasure in humbling or
overthrowing, even when bound to the same cause with himself, and the
constant single combats in which he was engaged had raised him up a bad
name in the service.
In other respects, though no one could ever accuse Gray of injuring
the peasant, or taking away a part of the honest earnings of the
farmer--though, even under the orders of his general, he would take no
part in raising contributions from the hard-working and industrious,
and it was in vain to send him upon such expeditions, yet there had
been many a tale current in the camp, of Gray and his troopers sacking
and burning the castles in the Palatinate, driving the cattle from
under the very guns of the enemy's fortresses, and sweeping the wealth
from the palace of the Prince or the Bishop. Thus he had established in
some degree the character of a daring, but somewhat marauding officer,
and any soldier of more than ordinary enterprise and rashness ever
sought to be enrolled in his troop. He had quitted the service of
France in disgust some time before Langford, and they had not met again
till Langford, called suddenly to the death-bed of a parent, found
Gray, who had known her and hers in happier days, tending her with the
care and kindness of a son.
Of what had taken place in the interim Langford was ignorant. From time
to time Gray talked of other lands which he had visited, and more
burning climates which he had known; but he did so in a vague and
obscure manner, which excited curiosity without inviting inquiry.
Langford had made none; and though they had met frequently since, and
dark suspicions and apprehensions--springing from a comparison of
Gray's former poverty and his known prodigality with the wealth he
seemed now to have at command--had from time to time crossed his
friend's mind in regard to the pursuits to which he had dedicated
himself, it was only on the occasion of the present visit to Moorhurst
that Langford had obtained a positive certainty of the painful truth.
As soon as he had obtained that certainty, he determined to warn, to
exhort, to beseech his former friend to quit the dangerous pursuits in
which he was engaged; to offer once more to share with him all his
little wealth, in gratitude for many an act of kindness gone before,
and for a service that Gray was even then anxious to do him, at the
risk of life itself; but on no account to participate in any scheme
conducted by the other, however great and important the object to be
gained for himself.
His own wound, and the temporary disappearance of Gray and his
companions from that part of the country, had prevented Langford from
notifying to him this intention fully, after the night of the attack
upon Alice Herbert, though he had done so in general terms twice
before, and he had gone to the rendezvous appointed by Gray, on the
night of which we have just been speaking, supposing that it was to
have preceded, not to have followed, the enterprise proposed. All that
he had seen had been terribly painful to him; and in what had occurred
upon the moor he had too good reason to believe that an act had been
committed which he should not be justified in concealing. Yet, how was
he to reveal it, without the basest breach of confidence, and the
grossest ingratitude towards a man who had been risking all to serve
him? How was he to denounce the crime that had been committed, and
bring to justice the perpetrators thereof, without involving Gray in
the same destruction?
Such were the matters in his thoughts, as he rode rapidly on towards
the Manor House; but by the time he had gone about three miles his mind
had been naturally led to inquire, who was the unfortunate person that
had been attacked; and for the first time an apprehension crossed his
mind that it might be Lord Harold.
"And yet," thought Langford, as he rode along, "he would never go over
the moor at that time of night, and alone. He must have been home long
before, too: nevertheless he set out very slowly; and he seemed to turn
to the right, as if he were going by the moor. He may have loitered by
the way, or visited some cottage, or called at some house. Good God!
this uncertainty is not to be borne. I must, and will go back to the
moor."
As he thus thought, he turned his horse short round, and galloped back
as fast as possible, following the road which led to the piece of water
called Upwater Mere. By the time he reached it, the moon was just
rising, and spreading through the hazy sky, near the horizon, a red and
ominous glare. It served to cast some light upon the road, however; and
Langford, calculating with the keen accuracy of a soldier, had fixed
exactly upon the spot before he reached it, where he had seen the
unfortunate traveller encountered.
When he did reach that spot, the deep gory stains in the sandy road but
too plainly showed him he was right; and he traced the course of the
murderers along by the thick drops of gore, till the track was lost in
the grass beneath the beech trees. The darkness which reigned under
their branches rendered all further search fruitless; and, after having
given up nearly half an hour to the painful, but unsuccessful task, he
once more mounted his horse, and, with feelings of deep gloom and
despondency, took his way back towards the Manor House.
It was nearly eleven o'clock at night ere Langford reached the gates;
and the family generally retired to rest before that hour.
Certain doubts and apprehensions, however, in regard to the affairs of
Sir Walter Herbert--doubts and apprehensions springing from a thousand
minute incidents, which he had noticed while staying as a visitor in
the house--had induced him to inquire farther, from sources whence he
might derive certain information; and the information he had thus
acquired made him now determine to return to the Manor that night,
rather than go to the inn, though the hour was somewhat unseasonable.
He found all the servants up: and there was a look of anxiety and
apprehension in the countenances of all, which led him to believe that
his fears were not unfounded, and that the business in which Sir Walter
had been engaged during the evening was both painful in itself, and
such as could no longer be concealed from his household.
In those days, when difficulties and embarrassments overtook a country
gentleman, the case was much more painful than it is at present. Habits
of luxury and dissipation, ostentatious rivalry with one another, and
many of the other vices which, in the present times, have rendered the
transfer of property from the old gentry of the land but too common,
and burthens upon that which does remain, very general, had then
scarcely reached the country; and though the dissipated inhabitants of
towns, the gay debauched peer, the fopling of the court, and the
speculating merchant, might know, from time to time, every reverse of
fortune, it seldom occurred in those days that the old proprietor of
lands in the country experienced any great and detrimental change,
unless tempted to quit the calm enjoyments of rural life for the more
dangerous pleasures of the town.
Civil wars, indeed, and political strife had brought about, or laid the
foundation for, the ruin of a great number of the country gentry; and
such, in some degree, had been the case with Sir Walter Herbert. His
father had served king Charles both with sword and purse, and had never
received either payment or recompence. The matter had gone on slowly
since, drop by drop, till the cup was nearly full.
Sir Walter had shut his eyes to the fact, and had carefully concealed
from the eyes of those around him difficulties, the whole extent of
which he did not himself know, and which he always hoped to remedy. It
could not be, however, but that reports of embarrassment should get
abroad, and it was well known in the country that, some five or six
years before, he had become security to the amount of ten thousand
pounds for a neighbouring gentleman, who failed to pay the debt, fled,
and left the country. But every one knew, also, that the bond was in
the hands of Lord Danemore, Sir Walter's acquaintance and neighbour:
and every one, when the subject was mentioned, smiled, and declared
that Lord Harold, the son of the peer, and Mistress Alice Herbert,
would find means of cancelling the debt.
We have already had occasion to show that such expectations were vain:
and the reports of embarrassments which had reached Langford's ears,
from sources which he could not doubt, had rendered his suit to Alice
Herbert as disinterested as it could be, but had prepared his mind for
what he was about to hear.
"I am afraid something is the matter, Haliday," he said, addressing the
servant who gave him admittance. "What has happened, do you know?"
"I am afraid something has gone wrong too, Captain," replied the
servant, with a sorrowful expression of countenance; "but Mistress
Alice, I dare say, will tell you all about it. She is sitting up in the
library to see you; and begged you would come to her whenever you came
in."
Langford waited for no one to usher him to her presence: but by two or
three rapid steps passed the servant, and opened the library door.
Alice was sitting at a table with a book before her. It were vain to
say that she was reading; for though her eyes had more than once fixed
upon the pages, and had scanned several sentences, so as to make out
the words, of the meaning of those words her mind was very little
conscious. Her eyes were now tearless; but it was clear to Langford
that she had been weeping not long before. The noise of his foot made
her instantly rise, and the colour became a good deal deeper in her
cheek; betraying a part, but a very small part, of the varied emotions
that were going on within.
The heart of her lover was throbbing at that moment with many an
anxiety, it is true; but, strange as it may seem, love and noble pride,
ay, and even joy, engrossed by far the greater part. He guessed--no, he
divined all that she felt, however; the pain, the care, the
apprehensiveness, that burdened her breast, as she rose after waiting
there alone to receive him in order to tell him the tale of her
father's embarrassments; a tale which he well knew she had never
herself heard before that night.
Langford would not have paused a moment under such circumstances for
worlds; and, with a step as quick as lightning, he was by her side: he
took her hand in his; he made her sit down again, and drew a chair near
her; gazing upon her with a look so full of tenderness and affection,
that--though sweet, most sweet to all her feelings--it made the tears
again rise into her eyes. It matters not whether what we drop into a
full cup be earth or a jewel; in either case the cup overflows.
Langford was anxious to speak first himself, and was not sorry that any
emotion not painful in itself should prevent her from commencing the
conversation.
"Alice," he said, "dear Alice, something painful has happened, I know,
and I guess the nature of it; but do not let it affect you too deeply.
If you did but know how common these events are in the gay world of the
metropolis, it would become lighter in your eyes than it is now,
breaking upon you suddenly, and ignorant as you are of all such
transactions."
"Then you have heard?" said Alice, gazing mournfully in his face.
"No, I have not," replied Langford; "but I have divined what is the
matter: I divined long ago."
"Then you were indeed generous," she said, "to wish to link your fate
with mine; for it seems to me an evil one."
"Not so, dearest," replied Langford; "not so! I would say, that all I
ask is to share it, if I had not the vain hope, my beloved, of doing
more, and rendering it a happy one."
"Oh! but Langford, I fear you do not know all," replied Alice; "and
though I waited here on purpose to tell you, I do not know whether I
shall be able to do so distinctly; for I am unacquainted with even the
terms of these things. But I will tell you what happened when I came
home. I found my poor father sitting here, in a terrible state of
agitation, and Lord Danemore's lawyer with him, looking cold and stiff,
and taking snuff, and a very different man, indeed, from what I have
seen him in former days, bowing down to the ground, and scarcely
venturing to sit down in the same room with my father. He it was who
told me, for my father could not, that there was what he called a bond
and judgment for ten thousand pounds and interest, which my father owed
Lord Danemore; and that my father had offered to give him a mortgage on
his estate for it; but that Lord Danemore would not take one, both
because he wanted the money, and because he said that the estate was
mortgaged already up to its value."
"That must be a mistake, I think," said Langford. "You will forgive me,
Alice, for having made some inquiries lately; and will not, I know,
attribute my having done so to any motive but the true one. I have,
however, made such inquiries; and I feel sure that this lawyer of Lord
Danemore's has greatly exaggerated, and has done so for the purpose of
embarrassing your father."
"Oh! I cannot think he could be so cruel," exclaimed Alice, "when he
saw the dreadful state of agitation in which my father was. However, he
made it out, in short, that we had nothing on earth left but the
pictures and the plate, and my poor mother's jewels; and he said, that
all he wanted to know was, first, whether I would be willing to give up
the little fortune that was left me by my aunt, to pay one half of the
debt; and next, when my father would pay the remainder. He said, too,
he had no objection to give him a week to do so."
"A week!" exclaimed Langford, "a week! The pitiful scoundrel! Is that
the way he treats his master's friend? However, Alice, he shall find
himself mistaken! Listen to me, my beloved," and clasping her hand in
his, he glided his arm round her waist, and gazed fondly and tenderly
in her face: "I have some means of knowing, Alice, what is taking place
in this neighbourhood, which it is needless to explain: and certain
circumstances induced me to believe that this claim would be made by
Lord Danemore on your father immediately. Alice," he added, with a
meaning look, "you know that there may be motives sufficient to induce
Lord Danemore to entertain some slight feelings of anger towards you
and your father at this moment."
Alice blushed very deeply, and looked up with surprise, saying, "What
motives do you mean, Langford?"
"I mean on account of his son," replied Langford.
"I did not know," replied Alice, ingenuously, "that either you or
anybody else, but my father, knew aught of that business, till
to-night."
"Several persons knew it," replied Langford; "and though I do not mean
to excuse Lord Danemore, yet we must allow something for anger--and I
think that such was his motive."
"Oh, that it certainly was," replied Alice, "for the attorney did not
scruple to acknowledge it; but I did not think myself justified in
mentioning it even to you, Langford."
"I do not mean to excuse Lord Danemore's conduct," said Langford. "It
was unjust and unkind; but, perhaps, it was consistent with human
nature, and certainly was consistent with all I know of his nature,
which is quick, vehement, and passionate, if we may believe one-half of
what is said. But, after all, very likely this lawyer has outdone his
instructions. However, Alice, as I said, he shall be disappointed.
Learning that something of the kind was in agitation, I wrote several
days ago to London, in order to be prepared to meet this matter. By
this time my messenger is at the village, and brings with him a
sufficient sum to discharge your father's obligation to Lord Danemore.
For the last two or three days, Alice, I will acknowledge to you that
my mind has been in a great state of doubt and agitation: the sum for
which I have sent is more than one-half of what I actually possess; but
it was no fear in regard to that which made me at all hesitate. I only
doubted whether I should tell you all I feel towards you before I
offered this little assistance to your father or not. I thought that if
hope had deceived me, and Alice rejected my love, her father would then
refuse to receive any aid from me, however needful it might be to him;
and, therefore, on the one hand, I fancied it might be better to
mention the subject of the money first. But then again, on the other
hand, I thought if I did so it might place my Alice in embarrassing
circumstances, should she find herself obliged to refuse a man who had
come to her father's assistance in a moment of difficulty. I judged it
would seem ungenerous of me even to ask her very soon after. In short,
Alice, I gave way to hope and impatience, trusting that my Alice, by
accepting me, would give me a right both to protect her and to assist
her father."
"In short, Langford," replied Alice, placing her other hand upon his,
"in short, you thought of everything that was generous, and kind, and
noble, and acted accordingly."
"Nay, nay, not so, Alice," replied Langford; "but, of course, you have
told your father what has passed between us."
"Immediately that man was gone," replied Alice, "I felt myself bound to
do so, Langford; the more bound, from all the digressing and agitating
events which had occurred."
"You did quite right, my beloved," he replied. "What did he say?"
"He said everything that was kind and affectionate," replied Alice. "He
said everything that I should like to hear said of one I love; but he
said that he feared you would be disappointed when you heard all this
bad news, and that I was bound in honour to set you free from all
promises, as much as if no proposal had ever been made. On his own
part, he said that he should never raise any objections in regard to
fortune; that he would never have done so even in his most prosperous
days; but there was one question which he wished to ask regarding
birth." Alice blushed, and cast down her eyes as she spoke. Then
raising them suddenly and frankly to Landlord's face, she added, "It is
one of his prejudices, you know, Henry. But even if there should be any
difficulty, his love for me and his esteem for you will make it but the
matter of a moment."
Langford gazed in her face for an instant with a melancholy smile,
which almost made her believe that her father's suspicions with regard
to his history were correct. The next instant, however--whether he
understood her meaning clearly or not--he answered, "Set your mind at
rest, clear Alice; my birth is as good as your own! Is your father gone
to bed?"
"He went up stairs about half an hour before you came," said Alice;
"but he is not asleep yet, I am sure. I sat up both to tell you all
this and to put my mind at ease about you and Lord Harold. You were so
long absent that I was uneasy. If you had not given me your solemn
promise not to quarrel with him, and if my father's grief and agitation
had not occupied so much of my thoughts, I am afraid I should have been
very foolish, and both terrified and unhappy at your not returning."
"I have been very busy about other things," replied Langford, the
chilly recollection of all that had passed in the interval, coming back
upon him like a sudden gust of cold wind; "but my conversation with
Lord Harold only lasted ten minutes. I do not mean to say that he would
not willingly have quarrelled with me, but I would not quarrel with
him; and I trust that my reputation for courage does not require to be
sustained by any such silly contests. However, dear Alice," he
continued, suddenly turning the conversation back again to its former
subject--"however, if your father be not asleep, it may put his mind
more at ease to hear that means are provided for meeting Lord
Danemore's claim upon him; and you may also tell him, my Alice, in
order to remove every shade of doubt, that although my fortune be but
scanty, as it at present stands, yet there is good hope of its being
greatly increased, and that my birth is certainly not inferior to that
of her whose hand is already too valuable a gift to need the
enhancement of superior station."
As he spoke, he raised the hand he held, tenderly, but reverentially,
to his lips; for he felt that he was bound to double every outward
token of respect at a moment when Alice announced to him that her own
expectations of high fortune were disappointed, and that the rich
heiress, who had thought a few hours before she had great wealth and
broad lands to give, was now dowerless, except in her beauty, her
virtues, and her gentleness.
So he felt, and so he acted; and Alice saw his feelings and appreciated
them to the full.
She rose then to go, but hesitated a moment as she wished him
good-night, not knowing well how to express all the sensations that his
conduct had produced. "Langford," she said, at length, "how shall I
thank you? I will not attempt to do it now, the time is too short; but
I shall find time, if endeavouring through life to make you happy be
enough."
Langford could not resist it, and for a moment he pressed her to his
bosom, adding--"Good-night, my Alice; good-night, my beloved. Hasten to
your father before he is asleep, and I will remain for a few minutes
here, to write a note to the landlord of the Talbot, bidding him send
up to-morrow morning early the packet, which must have arrived
to-night. I will tell him to address it to you; so that, before your
father is awake to-morrow, you will have in your own hands the means of
freeing him from all apprehension regarding this claim. I trust, too,
dear Alice, that the time will come, when he will so much regard me in
the light of a son, as to permit me to examine into the matter of these
mortgages, and I think I can show him, and others too, that his estates
are far from being as much involved as they have been represented to
be."
They parted; and after Langford had written the note he spoke of, and
had given it to a servant to take to the little town early in the
morning, he retired to rest. He found in his chamber, busily engaged in
laying out his toilet for the night, the old servant Halliday, who,
during the whole time he had been confined in consequence of his wound,
had attended him with the utmost care and attention, springing from a
feeling that he was in some degree paying off a debt of his young
mistress, in whose service that wound had been received. There was now
in his countenance, though his nature was too respectful to suffer him
to put any questions, an anxious sort of inquiringness, which Langford
could not resist. "It is not so bad, Halliday," he said. "Your
excellent master has alarmed himself too much. All will go quite well,
depend upon it."
The man made him a low bow with an air full of gratitude. "I am very
much obliged to you, Captain," he said. "I was frightened, I confess;
for the steward, you see, told me, at least three months ago. But,
however, we servants have no right to be talking about such matters;
and though it is all out of love and regard to Sir Walter and Mistress
Alice, perhaps we had better hold our tongues."
"Perhaps so, Halliday," replied Langford. "And now, good-night; all
will go well, depend upon it."
The man again bowed low and respectfully, and left the room, and
Langford proceeded calmly to undress himself; for--though his mind was
oppressed, and the moment his thoughts were turned from the immediate
subject of Sir Walter Herbert's affairs, they reverted naturally to the
more painful topics with which they had before been engaged---he was
not a man to suffer his feelings to overpower him, or to interrupt him
in his ordinary habits and occupations. He felt deeply and strongly;
but he was too much accustomed to such feelings to suffer the emotions
of his mind greatly to affect his corporeal demeanour. It is those who
feel by fits and starts alone that give full way to sudden emotions.
Langford could feel as poignantly as any one. He did feel so at that
moment; and yet he proceeded with his ordinary preparations for repose
as if nothing had occurred to affect his feelings or to shake his
heart. He ended by kneeling and commending himself and those he loved
to the care of the Great Protector, and then lay down to rest, but not
to sleep. That he could not command; and for many an hour he remained
with his right arm bent under his head, his eyes cast upwards through
the darkness, peopling vacancy with strange shapes, and suffering
imagination to suggest to him many a melancholy and many a painful
image, which, after all, were not so dark and gloomy as the reality
soon proved to be. The sky was beginning to turn grey with the morning
light, when he first closed his eyes. He started up again, however, in
another moment, and then lay awake till it was broad daylight.
Perceiving that such was the case, he was about to rise, but a degree
of drowsiness came over him; and yielding to it for a moment, it took
possession of him quite, and he fell into a deep sleep.