There was a small party assembled at a large country house not above
three miles, by the high road, from the spot where the last events
which I have recorded took place. It was a very extensive and very
old-fashioned brick building. Old-fashioned! It is a curious term. The
house was little more than a century old; a father might have seen it
built, and a son might have heard it called old-fashioned, for the
savour of earthly things passes away so rapidly, that what our parents
considered the perfection of skill and convenience, we hold to be but
a rude effort towards our own excellence. Yet they were very
convenient buildings, those old houses of the reigns of George the
First and George the Second; solid in their walls, large and yet
secure in their windows, high in their ceilings, broad and low in
their staircases, many in their rooms, and strong in their partitions.
There was little lath and plaster about them, little tinsel and bright
colouring; but there was a sober and a solid grandeur, a looking for
comfort rather than finery, of durability rather than cheapness, which
made them pleasant to live in, and makes them so even to the present
day.
Nothing that tended to comfort was wanting in that house; its solidity
seemed to set at defiance wind, and storm, and time; and its wide
grates laughed in the face of frost and cold, and bade them get forth,
for they could have no abiding there. Turkey carpets covered most of
the floors, even of those rooms which, by a law of the Draco-like
dictator, Fashion, are condemned to bear that sort of carpet called
Brussels, although the town which has given it name probably never in
the world's history produced a rood thereof. The Turks, when they made
them, must have marvelled much at what the Christian dogs could want
with such large carpets; for the one in the room where the party was
assembled--which was called the drawing-room, although it was lined
with books--could not have been less than forty feet in length, by
thirty in breadth, and yet there was a margin between it and the
book-cases. There were four windows on one side of the room, as one
looked towards which there was a door on the right hand leading into
the library, a door on the left leading into the dining-room, and
opposite the windows was another door, which opened into a large
vestibule, separated from a stone hall by a screen filled up with
glass.
In one of the two fire-places which the room contained was a large
blazing fire of wood, and near it was seated in an arm-chair, reading
a book, a very gentlemanly and well-dressed man, a good deal past the
middle age, with his feet, warming themselves at the blaze, crossed
and elevated upon a low stool. The other fire-place was not so well
attended to, but, nevertheless, it was glowing with a tolerable degree
of brightness, and near it were seated two young people, amusing
themselves, as best they might, during an evening which expectation
had rendered somewhat tedious. Sometimes they played at chess
together, and laughed and wrangled good-humouredly enough; sometimes
the one read and the other wrote; sometimes the one drew and the other
read; sometimes they talked in low tones, and laughed gaily as they
conversed. They were very nearly of an age, that is to say, there was
not quite two years' difference between them, but those two years had
been so allotted, as, considering their sexes, to make the difference
of five or six. The lady was the elder of the two. She was very nearly
approaching one-and-twenty, while the young man was a few months
beyond nineteen. They seemed fond of each other, but it was with a
fraternal sort of fondness, although they were not brother and sister;
and yet, for the young man at least, their near propinquity, and
constant communication, had it not been for other circumstances, might
have proved dangerous, for certainly a lovelier or more engaging
creature has seldom been seen than her with whom he then sat in the
unchecked familiarity of near relationship. She was the very opposite,
in personal appearance at least, of the girl we have lately spoken of.
Her hair could hardly be called black, for in certain lights there was
a gleam of rich brown in it, but her eyebrows and eyelashes were as
dark as night, and her complexion, though by no means brown in itself,
and tinged in the cheeks with the rose, was of that shade which
usually accompanies black hair; but her blue eyes were blue; deep
blue, it is true; so much so, that what with the jetty fringe that
surrounded them, and their own depth of hue, many a person thought
that they were black. Yet they were blue--very blue; of the colour of
an Italian sky when the sun has just gone down beyond the highest
hill, and left it full of depth and lustre. In height she was
certainly taller than the Venus de Medici; but yet she did not strike
one as tall, whether it was from the great symmetry of her figure or
some peculiarity in the proportions. But that which most attracted an
observer, and especially those who knew her well, was a sparkling
variety in the expression of her countenance, and a similar variety in
the grace of her movements. When she was reading, or thinking, or
writing, or singing, there was an earnestness, a deep tranquillity in
her aspect, which would have made one suppose her a being of a very
meditative and almost grave disposition; but in conversation, and on
all ordinary occasions, the look was quite different; gay, sparkling,
flashing with cheerfulness and spirit. When she sat still, the lines
of her form fell with such easy grace, and seemed so full of tranquil
beauty, that any one might have thought that the predominant character
was calm repose; but when she moved, especially under any immediate
excitement, the light elasticity of every motion changed her at once
into a different creature.
Her young companion was very different in every respect. Of a fair and
almost feminine complexion, his light hair waved gracefully over a
fine high brow, his blue eyes were soft and kindly-looking, and his
lips and nose, chiselled with the utmost delicacy, would have suited a
woman's face better than a man's. No beard or whiskers as yet gave
anything masculine to his countenance, and his slight figure and soft
satiny skin made him look still younger than he really was. To look
upon him, one would not have supposed that he had seen more than
sixteen years of age; and yet under that fair and delicate form there
were many strong and generous impulses, firm and resolute purposes,
and even a daring spirit, mingled strangely enough with a tenderness
and devotedness seldom found in the grown and experienced man, and a
degree of simplicity not at all approaching weakness, but depending
upon youth and inexperience.
"I care nothing about it, Edgar," said the lady, in a low tone, in
answer to something which the other had said; "he may come and go
whenever he pleases, without my ever giving the matter two thoughts.
You cannot tease me, cousin, for it is a matter of no interest to me,
I can assure you."
"I know better, little heretic," replied her young companion; "you
would fain have me believe, Eda, that you are as cold as ice, but I
know better. We shall see the fire kindled some day."
"Very likely," said the lady, with a smile; "but you know, Edgar, that
even that curious black stone, which seems to have been especially
given to England for the purpose of drying and warming our damp, cold
climate, smoking our ceilings and dirtying our hands, is as cold as
ice, too, till it is kindled."
"But there may be such things as concealed fires, fair cousin,"
retorted the young man, with a laugh.
The lady's cheek coloured a little, but she instantly changed the
defence into an attack, saying, almost in a whisper, and with a glance
to the gentleman reading by the fire, "I know there are, Edgar. Take
care, you bold boy, take care; for if you make war upon me, I shall
carry it into your own country."
The young man glanced hastily round him, in the same direction which
her eyes had before taken, and his cheek blushed like that of a young
girl at the first kiss of love. The lady saw that she had not missed
her mark, and maliciously sent another shaft after the first. "Where
were you this morning at eight o'clock?" she said, in the same subdued
tone; "and yesterday, and the morning before? Ah, Master Edgar! do not
jest with edged tools, or at least, learn how to use them better, or
you will cut your fingers, dear boy!"
"Hush, hush!" said the young man, in a low voice, and evidently a good
deal agitated; "let us make peace, Eda."
"You began hostilities," replied the lady, satisfied that she had got
that command of her young companion which ladies do not at all
dislike, and by that very means which they are fondest of
employing--the possession of a secret.
Almost at the same moment in which she spoke, the older gentleman by
the fire laid his book upon his knee, and pulled his watch out of his
pocket. "Very extraordinary!" he said, turning round his head; "it is
nearly ten o'clock; I am glad we dined. You see, Eda, there is no
counting upon the motions of young men."
"Especially, my dear uncle," replied the lady, "when combined with bad
roads, bad horses, and high hills. I will answer for it, when Lord
Hadley does come, you will have long tales of broken-down hacks,
together with abuse of lazy postillions and slow ostlers. But hark!
here he comes, or some carriage, at least, for carts are quiet at this
time of night."
"And don't dash along the avenue at such a rate," said her cousin
Edgar; "it is certainly the ship in sight, and we shall soon see the
freight."
The two gentlemen looked towards the door and listened, the lady
calmly pursued the task which occupied her, copying some music from a
sheet of embossed and pink-edged paper; and one of those little
intervals succeeded which take place between the arrival at the door
and the appearance in the drawing-room of an expected guest. It lasted
a minute, or a minute and a half, for there seemed to be some orders
to be given in the passage, and some questions to be asked; and then
the door of the room opened, and a servant, in a well-laced jacket,
announced "Lord Hadley," and "Mr. Dudley."
Had any eye watched the lady's countenance, they would certainly have
thought that some strong emotion was busy in her heart at that moment,
for her cheek first turned very pale, and then glowed warmly; but
it might also have been remarked that it was not at the first name
that the varying hue became apparent. The second name produced the
change, and, at the same time, the pen in her hand dropped upon the
music-paper, and blotted out the note she had just been tracing.
At the name of Mr. Dudley, too, an alteration of aspect took place in
her uncle, but it was momentary; his brow contracted, his face turned
pale, but immediately a placable look returned, and with a courteous
smile he advanced to meet the two gentlemen who entered. They were the
same whom we have seen upon the road, and in the house of Mr. Clive.
The second of the two, also, I must remark, not to give the reader the
trouble of turning back, was the student to whose room at Cambridge I
first introduced him.
Lord Hadley, a young, slight, fashionable man, with a good deal of
light hair always in high gloss and beautiful order, and a profusion
of whisker nicely curled, advanced at once towards the elder
gentleman, and shook him heartily by the hand, calling him Sir Arthur
Adelon. He then extended his hand to the young gentleman, whom he
seemed to know well also, giving as he did so, a glance, but not one
of recognition, towards the face of the lady. Sir Arthur instantly
touched his arm gently, and led him up to her, saying, "Eda, my dear,
let me introduce to you my friend, Lord Hadley--Lord Hadley, my niece,
Miss Brandon."
Lord Hadley bowed, and the lady curtsied gravely; but there was
evidently no emotion upon her part, at the introduction. In the mean
time, Mr. Dudley had remained in the most unpleasant occupation in the
world, that of doing nothing while other people are taken notice of. A
moment after, however, Sir Arthur Adelon turned towards him, and with
a courteous though somewhat formal how, said, "I am very happy to see
you, Mr. Dudley; allow me to introduce you to my son and my niece."
"I have already the pleasure of Miss Brandon's acquaintance," said the
tutor; and advancing towards her, he shook hands with her warmly. If
she really felt any strong emotions at that moment, she concealed them
well; and Mr. Dudley, turning again towards the baronet, finished with
graceful ease what he had been saying. "I was not at all aware, Sir
Arthur, that Miss Brandon was your niece, or it would have added
greatly to the pleasure I had in accompanying Lord Hadley, which
pleasure is more than perhaps you know, for it affords me the
opportunity of expressing my gratitude to an old friend and benefactor
of my poor father."
The gentleman to whom he spoke was evidently embarrassed from some
cause, though what that was did not fully appear. His face again
turned somewhat pale, and he hesitated in his reply. "Oh! really!" he
said; "then you are the son of Mr. Dudley of St. Austin's? Well, I am
very happy, indeed, to see you;" and he shook hands with him, but it
was not warmly, adding, as he did so, "but you are late, gentlemen. We
waited dinner for you an hour, and had even given up the hope of
seeing you to-night."
"I am really very sorry we detained you," replied Lord Hadley; "but we
have had two adventures, or rather, one impediment and one adventure.
First, at Dorchester, we found all the post-horses gone to some
review, or races, or archery-meeting, or one of those many tiresome
things, I don't well know what, which take post-horses away from the
places where they ought to be; and then, not far from this place, we
found a young lady who had contrived to get herself nearly crushed to
death under a wall, which had fallen, and carried a whole bank of
earth along with it."
Instant exclamations of surprise and interest followed; and the young
nobleman, who did not dislike attracting a little attention, proceeded
with his tale. After describing the spot where they discovered the
poor girl, he proceeded, in a frank, dashing way, to say, "She owes
her life, in truth, to my friend Dudley; for I, with my usual
thoughtlessness, was going to draw her from under the rubbish that had
fallen upon her as fast as I could; but he stopped me, showing me that
if I attempted it, I should bring down the whole of the rest of the
stones; and then he set to work, as if he had been bred an engineer,
and secured her against any fresh accident in the first place. She was
not so much hurt as might have been expected, though, I am sorry to
say, her poor little arm was broken."
On the old gentleman the tale had produced little impression; in Eda
Brandon it had excited feelings of compassion and interest; but it had
affected young Edgar Adelon very much more perceptibly. Luckily, no
one was looking at him; and he had not voice to attract any attention
towards himself by asking even a single question, though there was one
he would have given worlds to put.
"But what did you do with her?" demanded Eda Brandon, eagerly. "You
should have brought her on here, if the place was not far distant; we
could easily have sent for a surgeon, and we would have taken good
care of her."
"We knew neither the way nor the distance, Miss Brandon," said Mr.
Dudley; "but we did what was probably the best under any
circumstances. We took her to her father's house, and Lord Hadley
kindly sent on one of the post-boys to seek for some one to set her
arm."
"It is doubtless Helen Clive he speaks of," said a voice just behind
Mr. Dudley; so peculiar in its tones, so low, so distinct, so silvery,
that no one who heard it once could ever forget it.
Dudley turned quickly round, and beheld a middle-aged man, dressed in
a long, straight-cut black coat, with a black handkerchief round his
neck, and no shirt-collar apparent. His beard was closely shaved, and
looked blue through the pale skin. His eyes were fine, the brow large
and fully developed, but the mouth small and pinched, as if that
feature, which, together with the eyebrow, is more treacherous in its
expression of the passions than any other, was under strong and
habitual command. He stooped a little from the shoulders, either from
weakness or custom, and indeed he seemed by no means a strong man in
frame; but yet there was something firm and resolute in his aspect; a
look of conscious power, as if he had been seldom frustrated in life.
The gray eyebrow, too, hanging over the dark eye, and seeming to veil
its fire, gave an expression of inquiring perspicacity to the whole
face, which impressed one more with the idea of intelligence than of
sincerity. No one had seen or heard him enter, except, indeed, Sir
Arthur Adelon, whose face was towards the door, but yet he had been
standing close to the rest of the party for two or three minutes
before attention was attracted to himself by the words he uttered.
Lord Hadley turned, as well as his tutor, and looked at the new-comer
with some curiosity. "Yes," he replied, "her name was Clive, and I
think the old gentleman called her Helen."
"If her name was Clive," rejoined the man whom he had addressed, "it
was assuredly Helen Clive; for there is but one Mr. Clive in this
neighbourhood, and he has but one child."
"Really, sir, I am delighted to find you know so much about him," said
Lord Hadley; "for both he and his daughter, to tell you the truth,
have excited in me a good deal of interest and curiosity."
"Why?" was the stranger's brief question; and it was put in a somewhat
dry and unpleasant tone.
"Oh! simply because we found that she had been out upon the high road
at nine o'clock at night, sitting under an uncemented stone wall,
watching for something or somebody," was the first part of Lord
Hadley's reply, for he thought the stranger's tone rather impertinent.
"So much for my curiosity," he continued. "Then, as for my interest:
in the first place, my dear sir, she was exceedingly pretty; in the
next place, wonderfully ladylike, considering the circumstances in
which we found her; then, she had broken her arm, which, though
perhaps not as poetical as some other accidents, was enough to create
some sympathy, surely; and moreover, Dudley found her father sitting
upon the top of the cliff, looking over the sea, with a cocked pistol
in his hand."
"As to her beauty," replied the stranger, "with that I have nothing to
do. The interest you feel is undoubtedly worthy and well-deserved; and
as to the wonder, sir, you may depend upon it, that whatever Helen
Clive was doing, she had good reason for doing, and motives which, if
she chose to explain them, would quiet your surprise very speedily."
Mr. Dudley, who had taken no part in the conversation, smiled slightly
to hear a perfect stranger to Lord Hadley assume at once that tone of
calm superiority which he knew was likely to be most impressive with
his pupil.
The young nobleman was about to reply, however, when Sir Arthur Adelon
interposed, saying, "My lord, I should have introduced to you before
now our friend, the Reverend Mr. Filmer--Mr. Filmer, Lord Hadley." The
young lord bowed, and the other gentleman advanced a step, when, as he
passed, Mr. Dudley perceived that a small spot, about the size of a
crown piece, on the top of his head, was shaved, and recognising at
once the Roman Catholic priest, he gained with rapid combination some
insight into several things which had before been obscure.
The priest's manner softened. In a few moments he, with Lord Hadley
and their host, were in full conversation. With timid hesitation young
Edgar Adelon drew near and joined them; and Dudley, approaching the
table near which Miss Brandon was still standing, spoke a few words
with her in perhaps a lower tone than is quite customary on ordinary
occasions. They neither of them knew that they were speaking low; but
the emotions of the heart have immense mastery over the tones of the
voice; and though the words that they uttered were little more than
commonplace sentences of surprise and pleasure at their unexpected
meeting, of question and explanation of what had occurred to each
since they had last seen each other, they were certainly both a good
deal moved by the unspoken eloquence of the heart. In a short time,
just as Lord Hadley was about to retire to his room to put his dress
in order, supper was announced, and postponing his toilet, he offered
his arm to Miss Brandon, and led her into the adjacent room. Sir
Arthur Adelon and Mr. Dudley followed, and the priest lingered for a
moment or two behind, speaking to the baronet's son, and then entered
the supper-room with a quick step. He then blessed the meal with every
appearance of devotion; and Dudley's eye, which was marking much,
perceived that Sir Arthur and his son made the sign of the cross, but
that Eda Brandon forbore; and he was glad to see it.
The meal became very cheerful: as it went on, the first strangeness of
new arrival wore off with the two guests. Jest and gaiety succeeded to
more serious discourse, and topic after topic was brought forward and
cast away again with that easy lightness which gives a great charm to
conversation. The master of the house was somewhat stiff and stately,
it is true; but the three young men did not suffer his dignified air
to chill them. The priest was a man of great and very various
information, had seen, studied, and penetrated not only all the
ordinary aspects of society, but the hearts and spirits of thousands
of individuals. There was not a subject that he could not talk upon,
whether gay or grave; from the green-room of the theatre or
opera-house, to the cabinets of statesmen and the saloons of monarchs.
His conversation was graceful, easy, flowing, and becoming; and
although there was a point of sarcastic wit in it which gave it, in
the opinion of Dudley, almost too great a piquancy, yet when that
gentleman recollected what had been said, he could not find one word
that was unfitted to the character of a well-bred man and a priest. It
was all so quietly done too: the stinging gibe, the light and flashing
jest, that the young tutor sometimes thought the whole must have
received point and peculiar application from the manner; but yet he
could not recollect emphasis laid upon any word; and he carried away
from that table, when he retired to rest at night, much matter for
thought upon all that he had seen, and many a deep feeling re-awakened
in his heart, which he had hoped and trusted had been laid asleep by
the power of reason, and the struggle of a strong mind against a warm
and enthusiastic heart.