With a quick step Edgar Adelon pursued his way along the avenue,
through the thicket, by the paths which he knew well, and over the
wall of the park by the stones built into it to form a stile; but it
was the eager beating of his heart which made his breath come fast and
thick, and not the rapidity with which his young limbs moved. He knew
not that he was observed by any one; and with that intensity of
feeling which few are capable of, and which, perhaps, few for their
own happiness should desire, his whole mind and thoughts were filled
with one subject, so that he could give no heed to anything that
passed around him. He walked on down a very narrow, shady lane, which
led by a much shorter way than had been taken by the carriage of Lord
Hadley the night before, to the house of Mr. Clive, and was entering a
meadow upon the side of the hill, without observing that any one was
near, when suddenly a voice called him by name, and turning he beheld
the tall old man himself, and instantly advanced towards him and
grasped his hand eagerly.
"How is Helen?" he said--"how is Miss Clive? Lord Hadley and Mr.
Dudley told us of the accident last night, and I have been in a fever
to hear more of her ever since. They said she was not much hurt; I
hope it is so, but I must go down and see her."
The old man had gazed at him while he spoke with a fixed, steadfast
look, full of interest, but in some degree sad. "She is not much hurt,
Edgar," he answered; "her arm is broken, but that will soon be well.
Otherwise she is uninjured. But, my dear boy, what are you doing? This
cannot go on. You may go down to-day and see her, for you would not
pain her, or injure her, I know; but you must tell your father that
you have been. That I insist upon, or I do not let you go."
"I will, I will!" answered Edgar Adelon; "surely that will satisfy
you. Injure her! I would not for the world; no, not for anything on
earth."
"Well, if your father knows it, Edgar, I have nought to say," rejoined
the old man; "and I will trust to your word that you do tell him. That
which he does with his eyes open is his fault, not ours. All I say is,
I will have no deceit."
"You will hear from himself that I have told him," replied the young
man, with a glowing cheek; "but mark me, Clive, I do not always say
when I go to your house any more than when I go to other places. If
the occasion requires it I speak; but if not, I am silent."
Clive again looked at him steadfastly, as if he were about to add
something more in a grave tone; but then suddenly laying his hand upon
his shoulder he gave him a friendly shake, saying, "Well, boy, well!"
and turned away and left him.
Edgar Adelon pursued his course with a well-pleased smile and a light
step. His conversation with Clive was a relief to him; it was
something which he had long seen must come, which he had dreaded, and
it was now over. Five minutes brought him in sight of the house
towards which his steps were bent; and he paused for a moment, with
joyful beating of the heart, to look at it, as it stood rising out of
its trees upon the opposite side of the dell, as if it were perched
upon the top of a high cliff overhanging the valley; though, in truth,
beneath the covering of the wood was stretched a soft and easy
descent, with manifold walks and paths leading to the margin of the
little stream.
It is no unpleasant thing to pause and gaze into the sparkling wine of
the cup of joy before we quaff it: and such was the act of Edgar
Adelon at that moment, although his whole heart was full of those
tremulous emotions which are only combined with the intense and
thirsty expectation of youth. Then with a wild bound he darted down
the road, crossed the little bridge, and ran up the opposite slope. He
entered the yard of the building at once, and no dogs barked at him. A
small terrier came and wagged his tail, and the great mastiff crept
slowly out of his kennel, and stretched himself in the morning
sunshine. Edgar Adelon must have been often there before. He walked
into the house, too, without ceremony, and his question to the first
woman-servant he met was, "Where is Helen?" but he corrected it
instantly into "Where is Miss Clive?"
The woman smiled archly, and told him where she was; and a moment
after, Edgar was seated beside her on a sofa in the little
drawing-room which I have described. I do not know that it would be
altogether fair or just to detail all that passed between them; but
certainly Edgar's arm stole round the beautiful girl's waist, and he
gazed into her dark eyes and saw the light of love in them. He made
her tell him all that happened, that is to say, all that she chose to
tell; for she refused to say how or why she was out watching upon the
road at a late hour of the evening. He was of a trustful heart,
however; and when she first answered, with a gay look, "I went to meet
a lover, to be sure, Edgar," he only laughed and kissed her cheek,
saying, "You cannot make me jealous, Helen."
"That is, I suppose, because you do not love me sufficiently," said
Helen Clive.
"No, love," he replied, "it is because I esteem you too much." And
then he went on to make her tell him when the surgeon had arrived, and
whether the setting of her arm had pained her much, and whether she
was quite, quite sure that she was not otherwise hurt.
"My foot a little," replied his fair companion; "it is somewhat
swelled; don't you see, Edgar?" And he knelt down to look, and kissed
it with as much devotion as ever a pilgrim of his own faith kissed the
slipper of the pope.
Then came the account of her deliverance from the perilous situation
in which she had been found. "Do you know," she said, "if I had not
been a great deal frightened and a little hurt, I could have laughed
as I lay; for it was more ridiculous than anything else, to feel one's
self half buried in that way, and not able to move in the least.
Luckily it was the earth fell upon me first, and then the stones upon
that, so that I could only move my arms; and when I tried to do that,
it instantly set some of the stones rolling again, by which my poor
arm was broken; so then I lay quite still, thinking some one must come
by, sooner or later, till I heard a carriage coming up the hill, and
saw by the light of the lamps two gentlemen walking fast before it. I
called to them as loud as I could, and they both ran up. The one was
kind enough, and was going to pull me out at once; but if he had done
so, most likely he and I and his companion would have been all killed,
or very much hurt. The other, however, stopped him, and kindly and
wisely and gently, secured all the fragments of the wall that were
still hanging over, so that he could get me out without danger; and
then he lifted off the stones one by one, and he, and the servants,
and the other gentleman removed the weight of the earth and lifted me
up; and all the time he spoke so kindly to me, and comforted and
cheered me, so that I shall always feel grateful to him till the last
day of my life."
"And so shall I, my sweet Helen," said Edgar Adelon, eagerly; "but
which was it, the dark one or the fair one?"
"Oh! the dark one," replied Helen Clive; "the tallest of the two. I
think the post-boy told my father that it was Lord Hadley."
"No, no," said her lover; "the fair one is Lord Hadley, the dark one
is Mr. Dudley, his tutor, and I am glad of it; first, because I like
him best, and secondly, because I am more likely with him to have an
opportunity of showing my gratitude for what he has done for you, dear
girl. If ever I have, I shall not forget it, Helen."
"You must not, and you will not, I am sure, Edgar," answered Helen
Clive. "I think that men's characters and nature are often shown more
by the manner in which they do a thing, than by the act itself; and
though I felt grateful enough for deliverance, yet I will confess I
felt more grateful still for the kind and gentle way in which he spoke
to me, asked if I were much hurt, told me not to be frightened, that
they would soon release me; and still, while he used the very best
means of extricating me, kept talking cheerfully to me all the time."
"God bless him!" said Edgar Adelon; "I shall love that man, I am
sure."
"Then, too," continued Helen, "when they had put me in the carriage,
and we had gone about half a mile over the down, I asked them to stop
and let one of their servants go and tell my father what had happened
to me; and the young light-haired one called to a servant he named
'Müller,' to go; but the other said, 'No, no! I will go myself. The
man might only frighten your father;' and he opened the carriage door
and jumped out, as if he had a real pleasure in doing all he could do
for a poor girl whom he had never seen before, and a man whom he had
never seen at all."
"That is the true spirit of a gentleman," said Edgar; "a better
coronet, my Helen, than gilded leaves and crimson velvet can make. But
now tell me more about yourself. When does the surgeon say your arm
will be well, and when can you come out again to take a morning's
walk?"
"I can walk quite well," answered Helen Clive; "my foot and ancle are
a little bruised, but that is all. As for my arm, it may be six weeks,
or two months, Mr. Sukely says, before I can use it; so no more
playing on the guitar, Edgar, for a long time."
"Well, we must have patience," answered Edgar Adelon. "It is pleasant,
my Helen, to hear you make sweet music, as the poet calls it, and
warble like a bird in spring; but yet I do not know that the best
harmony to my ear is not to hear the spoken words of that dear tongue
in the tones of love and confidence. But come, we will have our
morning walk; the brightest hour of all my day is that between seven
and eight."
"I will get my bonnet on and come," answered Helen; and she left the
room for the purpose she mentioned.
Edgar, in the meanwhile left alone, gazed for a moment or two at the
pages of the book she had been reading, and was writing a lover's
comment in the margin, when one of the doors of the room opened, and
he started up, thinking that Helen had returned prepared. He was
surprised, however, to see a tall, powerful, broad-shouldered man of
about forty, well dressed, and having the appearance of a gentleman.
His face, however, though intelligent, was not altogether pleasant in
expression; the head was round, the forehead square-cut and massive,
the jaw-bone large and angular, the eyes gray, but sharp and flashing,
the eyebrows bushy and overhanging, and the grayish red hair cut
short, and standing stiff and bristly, while enormous whiskers of the
same hue almost concealed each cheek. The young gentleman, it is true,
got but an imperfect view of him, for the intruder withdrew as soon as
he saw that there was any one in the room, and closed the door. Edgar
felt somewhat surprised and curious, for he had never before seen any
one in Mr. Clive's house at that hour of the morning but himself, his
servants and labouring men, and Helen; and with the rapid divination
of thought, he at once connected the appearance of this stranger with
the events of the night before. He had not much time for reflection
before Helen Clive returned; but then he instantly told her what had
occurred, and inquired who the visitor was.
"Ask no questions, Edgar," replied Helen, "or put them to my father;
but at all events, do not mention to any one else, I beseech you, that
you have seen such a person here."
Edgar mused, and walked out with her, perhaps in a more meditative
mood than he had ever experienced in the society of Helen Clive
before. It soon passed away, however; and they wandered on, side by
side as usual, in conversation too deeply interesting to them to be
very interesting to a reader of a work like this. But all bright
things will come to an end, and that sweet hour, which perhaps they
too often indulged in, terminated all too soon; and the impassioned
boy took his way back to Brandon full of wild and glittering visions
of love and happiness. He had somewhat outstayed his time; and when he
reached the house, he found the whole party sitting down to breakfast.
"Why, why, where have you been, Edgar?" asked Sir Arthur; "you have
been an early wanderer."
"Oh! I often am," answered Edgar; but remembering his promise to Mr.
Clive, he added, "I have been down to Knight's-hyde Grange, to see
poor Helen Clive after the accident of last night."
Sir Arthur Adelon seemed neither surprised nor displeased. "How is
she?" he inquired. "Not much hurt, I hope?"
"Not much," replied Edgar, encouraged by his father's manner; "the
dear girl's arm is broken, and her foot a little bruised, but that is
all." His cheek flushed a little as he ended, for he saw not only the
deep blue eyes of his beautiful cousin fixed upon him, but those of
the priest also.
Sir Arthur took no notice, however, but merely said, "Did you see Mr.
Clive, also?"
"Yes, I met him," replied the young man; "he was coming up this way."
"I must see him to-day, myself," said the baronet; "and I suppose, in
gallantry, I ought to go down and ask after your fair playfellow, too,
Edgar;" and turning towards Lord Hadley, he added, "they were children
together, and many a wild race have they had in the park, when my poor
brother-in-law Brandon was alive. Clive and he were related; for there
is no better blood in the country than that which flows in the veins
of this same farmer-looking man whom you met last night."
"Let us all go down and visit them, my dear uncle," said Eda Brandon.
"I have not seen Helen for a long time."
The party was agreed upon, and the breakfast proceeded; but to one at
least there present, the cheerful morning meal seemed not a pleasant
one. Mr. Dudley ate little, and said less; and yet there seemed to be
no great cause for the sort of gloom that hung upon him. Everybody
treated him with the utmost courtesy and kindness; he was seated next
to Sir Arthur Adelon, between him and Mr. Filmer. Lord Hadley, in big
good-humoured way, never seemed to look upon him as the tutor, but
called him on more than one occasion, 'My friend Dudley;' and there
was a warmth, mingled with reverence, in the manner of young Edgar
Adelon, when he spoke to him, which must have been gratifying.
Could the cause of the sort of melancholy which affected him, be the
fact that Lord Hadley was seated next to Eda Brandon, and that his
eyes and his manner told he thought her very beautiful?
However that might be, as soon as breakfast was over, and the party
rose, Dudley retired at once to his room, and when he had closed the
door, he stood for a moment with his hands clasped together, gazing on
the floor. "This is worse than vain," he said at length; "this is
folly; this is madness. Would to God I had not come hither; but I must
crush it out, and suffer myself to be no longer the victim of
visionary hopes, which have no foundation to rest upon, and feelings
which can never be gratified, and which it is madness to indulge." He
sat himself down to read, but his mind had lost its usual power, and
he could not bend his thoughts to the task. Perhaps three quarters of
an hour had passed, when some one knocked at his door, and Edgar
Adelon came in.
"They are all ready to go, Mr. Dudley," he said. "Will you not come
with us?"
"I think not," replied Dudley; "I am not in a very cheerful mood. This
day is an anniversary of great misfortunes, Mr. Adelon, and it is not
fair to cloud other people's cheerfulness with my grave face."
"Oh! cast away sad thoughts," said Edgar; "if they are of the past,
they are but shadows; if they are of the future, they are morning
clouds."
"Clouds that may be full of storms," replied Dudley, sadly.
"Who can tell?" cried the young man, enthusiastically; "and if they
be, how often do the rain-drops of adversity water the field, and
advance the harvest of great future success. I have read it, I have
heard of it, I am sure that it is true. Come, Mr. Dudley, come; for
the man who gives himself up to sorrow makes a league with a fiend
when there is an angel waiting for him. Hope is energy, energy is
life, life is happiness if it is rightly used. We wound the bosom of
the earth to produce fruits and flowers, and heaven sometimes furrows
the heart with griefs to produce a rich crop of joys hereafter."
Dudley grasped his hand warmly. "Thanks, thanks, my young friend," he
said; "I will come. I certainly did not think to receive such bright
lessons, and such wise ones, from one so young."
"The philosophy of youth," answered Edgar, with a laugh, "is, I
believe, the best, for it is of God's implanting. It is an instinct to
be happy; and where is the reason that is equal to instinct?"
"Nowhere," answered Dudley, taking his hat, with a smile; "and I will
follow mine."