I will beg leave with the reader to precede the party which was just
setting out from Brandon, and to give one more scene at the house of
Mr. Clive, which took place shortly before their arrival.
About a quarter of an hour after Edgar had turned his steps homeward,
Mr. Clive entered the room where Helen was sitting, and placed himself
in a chair opposite to her. But upon Helen's part there was nothing
like a bashful consciousness; she had been accustomed to her lover's
coming and going for years; their mutual affection had sprung up so
gradually, or rather had developed itself so easily, that she could
hardly mark the time when they had not loved; there had been none of
those sudden changes which startle timid passion, and neither her
father nor Sir Arthur Adelon had ever shown any of that apprehension,
in regard to their frequent meeting, which might have created anxiety,
if not fear, in her own breast. She therefore looked up frankly in her
father's face, and said, "Edgar has been here, my dear father, and
unfortunately Mr. Norries opened the door and came in while he was in
the room; but I am sure there is no cause for apprehension, for I
begged Edgar not to speak of it to any one, and he gave me his word
that he would not."
Mr. Clive cast down his eyes, and thought for several minutes without
reply. But he then murmured some words, more to himself than to his
daughter, saying:--"That is bad; that is unfortunate: not that I doubt
Edgar, my Helen; but I must speak with Norries about it; for he is
somewhat rash, and he may show himself to others not so much to be
trusted. That I do trust Edgar you may well judge, my dear child,
otherwise he would not be so often here."
He spoke, gazing at his daughter with a look of some anxiety, and with
the white eyebrows drawn far over the eyes. "I know not that I am
right, my Helen," he added; "I almost begin to fear not. I feel I
should only be doing right if I were to bid this youth make his visits
fewer and shorter; and yet I would not pain him for a great deal, for
he is kind, and good, and honest; but it must come to that in the end,
Helen."
"Oh! no, my father, no," cried Helen Clive, imploringly. "Why should
you do that?"
"Listen to me, Helen," said her father; "you have not thought of these
things fully. He loves you, Helen."
"I know it," cried Helen Clive, with the ingenuous blood mounting into
her cheek; "I know it, and I love him; but why should that prevent him
from coming? Why should that deprive us of the very happiness which
such love gives?"
"Because it cannot be happy, my Helen," answered her father; "because
he is a gentleman of high degree, and you the daughter of no better
than a yeoman."
"My father," said Helen, rising, and laying the hand that was
uninjured on her father's arm, "have I not heard you say that the
blood of the yeoman Clive is as pure as that of the noble house of
Adelon, and perhaps of older strain? Is not the land you cultivate
your own, as much or more than his that he farms to others? There is
not that difference between us that should be reasonably any bar; but
even suppose it were so, what could you seek by separating us?"
"Your own happiness, my child," answered Clive, gravely.
"By making us both miserable some years, months, or weeks, before we
otherwise might be so," rejoined Helen, eagerly; "that is all that can
be done now. We love as much as we can love, and so long as we are
doing nought that is wrong, violating no duty to you, nor to his
father, surely we may enjoy the little portion of happiness that is
sure, and leave to the future and God's good will the rest."
She spoke eagerly, and with her colour heightened, her eye full of
light, and her beautiful lips quivering in their vehemence; and Clive
could not help feeling a portion of a father's pride rise up and take
part with her. He could not but say to himself, as he gazed at her in
her beauty, "She is worthy to be the bride of the greatest lord in all
the land."--"Well, Helen, well," he said, using an expression which
was habitual to him, "I must trust you both; but remember, my child,
in making over to you the care of your own happiness, I put mine under
your guardianship also, for mine is wrapped up in yours. But hark!
there is Norries pacing to and fro above. I must go and speak with
him. That wild spirit will not brook its den much longer." And walking
to the door, he mounted the stairs to the room which was just over
that where he had been sitting.
"Ah! you are come back at last, Clive," said the strong, hard-featured
man whom I have before described. "Well, what have you heard? Were all
those movements that alarmed you so much last night but mere idle
rumour?"
"No," answered Clive; "but I find you were not the object. A party of
smugglers was taken farther down the coast, and the intimation which
the officer so mysteriously hinted to me they had received, referred
to that affair."
"To be sure," replied his companion; "they all think me in the United
States. No one but yourself has ever known that I was in France the
while."
"I can't help thinking, my good friend," replied Clive, "that it might
have been better for you to have stayed there. You know you are in
jeopardy here, and may be recognised at any moment."
"Well, well, Clive!" answered his companion, "I will not jeopardise
you long; it is my intention to go on this very night, so do not be
alarmed. I thank you much for what you have done, which is as much or
more than I could expect, and am only sorry that poor Helen has been
injured in my cause."
Clive looked at him steadfastly for a moment or two, with his usual
calm, steady, grave expression of countenance, and then replied, with
a faint smile, "It is curious, Norries, how, whenever men are blamed
by their best friends for a foolish action when it is committed, or
warned against a rash action which they are determined to commit, they
always affect to believe that there is some personal feeling actuating
their counsellor, and persuade themselves that his advice is not good,
not by trying it on the principles of reason, but by their own
prejudices. I have no personal fears in the matter; I anticipate no
danger to myself or to my family; neither should you think so. Last
night I was ready to have shed my blood to insure your safety, which I
certainly should not have been likely to do if I were a man full of
the cold calculations you suppose----"
"Well, well, well, Clive!" said Norries, interrupting him, "I was
wrong, I was wrong: think of it no more; but one meets so much cold
calculation in this life, that one's heart gets chilled to one's best
friends. My coming might, indeed, as you say, be what the world would
call rash; but every attempt must be estimated by its object, and till
you know mine, do not judge me hastily. Where I was wrong, was in not
giving you sufficient intimation of my intention, that you might have
prepared and let me know when I could land without risk; but the man I
sent over to you was delayed one whole day for a passage, and that day
made a great difference."
"It did," answered Clive; "for I had barely time to send my own two
men away to a distance, and get others, in whom I could better trust,
to help me. I had no means either of giving you warning that there was
a great movement at Barhampton, and that the officers were evidently
on the look-out for some one on the coast. You only said that you
would land in the cove between nine and ten, and that I must show a
light due east of the cove mouth to guide you, as there was no moon. I
had nothing for it, therefore, but to make ready against attack, in
order that you might get back to the boat if you were the person these
men were looking for. But now, Norries, I am very anxious to hear what
is your object, for it should be a great one to induce you to
undertake such a risk."
"It is a great one," answered Norries, with his gray eyes flashing
under his contracted brow: "no less than the salvation of my country,
Clive. In that last affair, the rash fools of the manufacturing
districts hurried on, against all persuasion, before matters were half
ripe, with the light spirit of the old Gauls: firm in the onset,
daunted by the first cheek, and tame and crouching in defeat. Had they
behaved like men, I would have remained with them to the last, to
perish or to suffer; but there was no shame in abandoning men who
abandoned their own cause at the very first frown of fortune. Now
there is a brighter prospect before me and before England. There are
sterner, calmer, more determined spirits, ready and willing to dig a
mine beneath the gaudy fabric of corruption and tyranny, which has
been built up by knavish statesmen in this land, and to spring the
mine when it is dug. The boasted constitution of England, which
protects and nurses a race of privileged tyrants, and refuses
justice--ay, and almost food--to the great mass of the people, is like
one of the feudal castles of the old barons of the land, built high
and strong, to protect them in their aggressions upon their
neighbours, and in their despotic rule over their serfs. But there
have been times in this and other lands when the serfs, driven to
madness by unendurable tyranny, have, with the mattock and the axe of
their daily toil, dug beneath the walls of the stronghold, and cast it
in ruins to the ground. So will we, Clive; so will we!"
Clive crossed his arms upon his chest, and gazed at him with a
thoughtful and a melancholy look; and when he had done he shook his
head sadly, as if his mind could take no part in the enthusiastic
expectations of his companion.
"Why do you shake your head, Clive?" demanded Norries, impatiently.
"Because I have lived long enough, my good friend," replied Clive, "to
see some hundreds of these schemes devised, perfected, executed, and
every one has brought ruin upon the authors, and worked no
amelioration in the institutions of the land."
"Simply because men are tame under injuries; simply because they
submit to injustice; simply because, out of every ten men in the land,
there is not one who has a just notion of the dignity of man's nature,
or a just appreciation of man's rights," was the eager reply of
Norries. "But their eyes have been opened, Clive; the burden is
becoming intolerable; the very efforts that have been made, and the
struggles that have been frustrated, have taught our fellow countrymen
that there is something to struggle for, some great object for
endeavour. They have asked themselves, what? and we have taught them.
One success, only one great success, and the enormous multitude of
those who are justly discontented with the foul and corrupt system
which has been established, but who have been daunted by repeated
failures, will rise as one man, and claim that which is due to the
whole human race, sweeping away all obstacles with the might and the
majesty of a torrent. You, Clive, you, I am sure, are not insensible
to the wrongs which we all suffer."
"I am neither unaware that there are many evils tolerated by law, nor
many iniquities sanctioned by law," replied Clive, "nor insensible to
the necessity of their removal; but at the same time, I am fully
convinced that there is a way by which they can be removed--and that
the only way in which they ever will be removed--without violence or
bloodshed, or the many horrors and disasters which must always
accompany anything like popular insurrection. When the people of
England think fit to make their voice heard--I mean the great mass of
the people--that voice is strong enough to sweep away, slowly but
surely, every one of the wrongs of which we have cause to complain."
"But how can it make itself heard, that voice of the people of
England?" demanded Norries; "where can it make itself heard? The
people of England--the many, the multitude, the strength of the land,
the labouring poor--have no voice in the senate, at the bar, on the
bench. The church of the majority is the rich man's church, the law of
the land is the rich man's law, the parliament of the country is the
rich man's parliament. But it is vain talking with you of such things
now; but come and hear us for one single night--hear our arguments,
hear our resolutions, and you will not hesitate to join us."
"No," replied Clive, in a firm tone, "I will not, Norries; I would
rather trust myself to calm deliberate thought than to exciting
oratory or smooth persuasions. In fact, Norries, as you well know, and
as I have known long, I am of too eager and impetuous a nature, too
easily moved, to place myself willingly in temptation. When I argue
tranquilly with myself, I am master of myself; but when I go and
listen to others, the strong passions of my young nature rise up. I
keep myself free from all brawls; I enter into disputes with no man,
for in my past life the blow of anger has too frequently preceded the
word of remonstrance, and I have more than once felt occasion to be
ashamed of myself as an impetuous fool, even where I have not had to
reproach myself as an unjust aggressor."
"You have had enough to bear, Clive," replied Norries; "as I know from
my poor lost Mary, your dear sister--'the oppressor's wrong, the proud
man's contumely, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient
merit of the unworthy takes.' With the old Saxon blood strong in your
veins, the old Saxon freedom powerful in your heart, have not you and
yours, from generation to generation, been subject to the
predominating influence of the Norman usurpers, and are you not still
under their sway? But hark! there are people at the door, and many of
them. Perhaps they have come to seek me."
Clive strode hastily to the window, and looked out, but then turned
round, saying, "No, it is the people from Brandon House--Sir Arthur
Adelon and all the rest--come down, I dare say, to inquire after
Helen, for they are very fond of her, as well they may be."
"Sir Arthur Adelon!" repeated Norries, with a slight smile, "that is
well; let me look at him;" and he too approached the window. "He is
much changed," he continued, as he gazed out, "and perhaps as much
changed in mind as in person--but yet I must have him with us, Clive.
He must give us his support, for it is necessary to have some gilding
and some tinsel even on the flag of liberty."
Clive laughed aloud. "You mistake, you mistake, Norries," he said; "if
you calculate thus rashly, your schemes are vain indeed. Sir Arthur
Adelon is a mere man of the world; kind and good-humoured enough, but
with no energy or resolution such as are absolutely necessary in those
who join in great undertakings."
"It is you who mistake, Clive," replied Norries; "you see but the
exterior. Underneath it there are strong things mingled with weak
ones--passions powerful enough and persevering; and you shall see that
man, with his high station, wealth, and name, shall go with me in that
which I undertake, and shall prove a shelter and defence in case of
need, should anything discover a portion of our schemes before they
are matured. I must see him this very day before I go to Barhampton,
for thither I shall certainly proceed to-night."
"Well, Norries, well, you know best," answered Clive, with a faint
smile; "when I see these wonders, I may have more confidence. Till
then, I tell you fairly, all your plans seem to me to be rashness
approaching to madness. I must go down and receive them, however, for
I hear they have come in. Shall I tell Sir Arthur that you wish to see
him, Norries?"
"No," answered the other, thoughtfully; "I will take my own
opportunity." And Clive departed, leaving him alone.