I know no more delightful sensation upon earth, than when a being whom
we love, acting beneath our eyes, but unconscious that we are
watching, fulfils to the utmost the bright expectations that we have
formed; while in the deed, and the tone, and the manner we see the
confirmation of all that we had supposed, or dreamed, or divined of
excellence in heart and mind. Charles Dudley loved Eda Brandon, and
all she did or said was of course a matter of deep interest to him;
and although I will not say he watched, yet he observed her conduct
during the morning of which I have been writing, and especially during
their visit to the Grange, as Mr. Clive's house was called. He thought
it was perfect; and so perhaps it was, as nearly as anything of the
earth can be perfect; and perhaps, although there was no great event
to call strong feelings into action, although there was nothing which
would seem to an ordinary eye a trial of character or demeanour, yet
there was much which, to a very keen and sensitive mind, showed great
qualities by small traits. Helen Clive was in an inferior position of
life to Eda Brandon. It may be said that the difference was very
slight: that her father cultivated his own land; that she had
evidently received the education and possessed the manners of a lady;
but yet the very slightness of the difference might make the demeanour
of the one towards the other more difficult--not, perhaps, to be what
the world would call very proper, but to be perfect. It might be too
cold, it might be too familiar; for there is sometimes such a thing as
familiarity which has its rise in pride, and the object of it is more
likely to feel hurt by it than even by distance of manner. But there
was nothing of the kind in the conduct of Eda Brandon. She treated
Helen in every respect as an equal: one with whom she had been long on
terms of intimate affection, and who required no new proof that she
saw no difference between the position of Mr. Clive's daughter and
that of the heiress of Brandon and all its wealth. There was no
haughtiness; there was no appearance of condescension: the haughtiest
mark of pride. It was easy, kind, unaffected, but quiet and ladylike;
and although Helen herself felt a little nervous, not at the station,
but at the number of the guests who poured in, Eda's manner soon put
her completely at ease, and the only thing which seemed at all to
discompose her, was a certain sort of familiar gallantry in the
manners of Lord Hadley, which even pained another present more than
herself.
But it is with Eda and Dudley that I wish particularly to deal just
now; and one thing I may remark as seemingly strange, but not really
so. It was with delight, as I have said, that Dudley observed the
demeanour of Eda Brandon towards Helen Clive; but a saddening
sensation of despondency mingled with the pleasure, and rendered it
something more than melancholy. It was like that of a dying parent
witnessing the success and growing greatness of a beloved child, and
knowing that his own eyes must soon close upon the loved one's career
of glory. He said to himself, "She never can be mine: long years of
labour and toil, struggles with a hard and difficult profession, and
fortunate chances with many long lapses between, could alone put me in
a position to seek her love or ask her hand; and in the mean time her
fate must be decided."
As they had walked down from the house, Lord Hadley had been
continually by her side. He had evidently been much struck and
captivated. A vague hint had been thrown out that a union between
himself and the heiress of Brandon had been contemplated by kind and
judicious friends; and a meaning smile which had crossed the lip of
young Edgar Adelon, when he saw Lord Hadley bending down and saying
something apparently very tender in his cousin's ear, had sent a pang
through the heart of Dudley, which his young companion would not have
inflicted for worlds had he known the circumstances. Again and again
Dudley repeated to himself, "It is impossible. How can I--why should I
entertain any expectation? The warrior goes into the strife armed; the
racer is trained and prepared for the course: I have no weapons for
the struggle, no preparation for the race, although the prize is all
that is desirable in life. I will yield this all-vain contention; I
will withdraw from a scene where everything which takes place must
give me pain. It is easily done. The term of my engagement with Lord
Hadley is nearly at an end; and I can easily plead business of
importance for leaving him here, now that our tour is finished, and
once more betaking myself to my books, wait in patience till the time
comes for that active life in the hard world of realities, which will,
I trust, engross every feeling, and occupy every thought."
Such were his reflections and resolutions as the party, after taking
leave of Helen and Mr. Clive, walked out of the door of the Grange to
return to Brandon House. I often think that all reflections are vain,
and all resolutions worse than vain. The first are but as the games of
childhood--the construction of gay fabrics out of materials which have
no solidity; the second are but shuttlecocks between the battledoors
of circumstances. So, at least, Charles Dudley found them both.
It is necessary, however, before I proceed farther, to say something
of the exact position of the parties as they quitted the house. Eda
and her uncle went first; Dudley followed half a step farther back;
and Lord Hadley and Edgar came next. As Dudley was walking on, with
his eyes bent on the ground, he heard the voice of Sir Arthur's son
exclaim, "Eda, Eda, we are going down by the stream, Lord Hadley and
I, to see the ruins of the priory. Let us all go."
"No, dear Edgar," answered Miss Brandon, "I can't indulge your
wandering propensities to-day. I shall be tired by the time I get
home, and have got a letter to write."
"I can't go either, Edgar," said his father; "for I have a good deal
of business to do."
"Well, Mr. Dudley, at all events you will come," said Edgar Adelon;
but Mr. Dudley replied by informing him that he had passed some time
at the priory already that morning.
"Well, come along, Lord Hadley, then," said Edgar, in a gay tone; "I
never saw such uninteresting people in my life, and you shall have the
treat and the benefit of my conversation all to yourself. I will tell
you the legend, too, and show you what a set of people these Brandons
have been from generation to generation."
Lord Hadley did not decline, and they walked away together down the
course of the stream, whilst Sir Arthur and his niece, accompanied by
Dudley, pursued their course towards Brandon. They were about halfway
between the Grange and the gates of the park, when a quick but heavy
step was heard behind them, and Dudley, turning his head, saw a stout
farm-servant following, somewhat out of breath. The man walked
straight up to Sir Arthur Adelon, and presented a note, saying, "I was
to give you that directly, your honour."
Sir Arthur took the note, and looked at the address without any
apparent emotion; but when he opened it, his aspect changed
considerably, and he stopped, saying, in a hesitating manner, "I must
go back--I must go back."
"Oh! it is but a short distance," said Eda; "we can return with you."
"No, my dear, no," answered her uncle, with what seemed a good deal of
embarrassment in his air; "you had better go on to Brandon. Mr. Dudley
will, I am sure, escort you."
"Assuredly," replied Dudley, gravely; and Sir Arthur adding, "I may
not, perhaps, be back to luncheon, Eda, but do not wait for me,"
turned, and with a quick step hurried along the road towards Mr.
Clive's house.
It seemed as if everything had combined to leave Charles Dudley and
Eda Brandon alone together. If he had laboured a couple of years for
such a consummation it would not have occurred. He did not offer Eda
his arm, however; and although his heart was beating very fast with
feelings that longed for utterance, he walked on for at least a
hundred and fifty yards, without a word being spoken on either side.
Ladies, however, feel the awkwardness of silence more than men; and
Eda, though she was shaking very unaccountably, said at length, "I am
afraid, Mr. Dudley, that what you find here is not so beautiful and
interesting as the scenes you have lately come from. You used, I
remember, to be a very enthusiastic admirer of the beauties of
nature."
Dudley raised his fine eyes to her face, and gazed at her for a moment
with melancholy gravity. "All I admired then," he said at length, "I
admire now. All I loved then, dear Miss Brandon, I love now. It is
circumstances which have changed, not I."
"I did not know that circumstances had changed," said Eda, in a low
and sweet tone, as if she really felt sympathy with him for the grief
his manner implied. "I had heard that a sad, a terrible change of
circumstances had occurred some time before; but I was not at all
aware that any new cause of grief or disappointment had been added."
Dudley again thought before he answered; but it was not the thought of
calculation, or if it was, it was but the calculation of how he should
answer calmly; how he should speak the true feelings of his heart with
moderation and gentleness: not at all a calculation of whether it were
better to speak those feelings or not.
"You are right, Miss Brandon," he said, "the change of circumstances
had taken place before; but all things have their consequences; and
the results of those material alterations in fortune and station
which had befallen me, were still to be made manifest to, and worked
out by, myself. When first we met, you were very young--not sixteen, I
think--and I was not old. Everything was in the spring-day with me. It
was all full of promise. I had in those days two fortunes: worldly
wealth, and even a greater store of happy hopes and expectations--the
bright and luxuriant patrimony of inexperienced youth. From time to
time we saw each other; till, when last we met, prosperity had been
taken from me, the treasure of earthly riches was gone, and though not
actually beggared, I and my poor father were in a state of absolute
poverty. Still the other fortune, that rich estate of youthful hope
and inexperienced expectation, though somewhat diminished, was not
altogether gone. I fancied that, in the eyes of the noble and the
good, wealth would make no difference. I had never found it make any
difference to me in my estimation of others. I imagined that those
qualities which some had esteemed and liked in me, would still at
least retain my friends. I never for an instant dreamed that it could
or ought to have an influence on the adamant of love. I had almost
said and done rash things in those days; but you went away out of
London, and I soon began to perceive that I had bitterly deceived
myself."
"You never perceived any difference in me," cried Eda, her voice
trembling with emotions which carried away all discretion. "You do not
mean to say, Mr. Dudley, that you saw, or that you thought you saw,
such base weakness in my nature as would render of the slightest value
in my eyes a change of fortune in those I--I----" And extending her
left hand, as if to cast the idea from her, she turned away, and shook
her head sorrowfully, with her eyes full of tears.
"No, no, Miss Brandon!" answered Dudley; "no, no, Eda! I said not so.
It was the world taught me the world's views. Nay, more, I laid the
blame of misunderstanding those views upon myself, not others. I saw
some reason even in those views which debarred me from happiness; I
felt the due value of station and fortune when I had lost them, which
I never felt while they were my own. But listen to me still with
patience for one moment. Expectation was not yet fully tamed. I said
to myself, I will make myself a station, I will regain the fortune
which has been lost; and then, perhaps, love may re-illumine the torch
of hope at its own flame, and all be light once more."
"Love!" murmured Eda, in a low tone, as he paused for an instant; but
Dudley went on:--
"The hardest lesson of all was still to learn: how slow, how
hopelessly slow, is man's progress up the steep hill which leads to
fame and emolument in this world: how vain is the effort to start into
eminence at once! I had to learn all that consuming thought, and
bitter care, and deep disappointment, and hopeless love, and the
anguish of regret, can do to wear the strongest frame, and wring the
firmest heart, and quell the brightest expectations, and batten down
the springs of life and hope beneath the heavy load of circumstances."
"Oh! Dudley, Dudley," cried Eda, "why, why should you yield to such
dark impressions?"
"Eda," said Dudley, "would you have had me hope?"
"Yes, yes," she answered, with her cheek glowing and her eyes full of
tears, as they passed the park gates and entered the avenue. "Hope
ever! ever hope! and let not adverse circumstances crush a noble
spirit and a generous heart. See, there is Mr. Filmer coming down
towards us; I must wipe these foolish tears from my eyes. But let me
add one warning. I have said a generous heart, because, indeed, I
believe yours to be so; but yet, Dudley, it was hardly generous enough
when you imagined that those whom you judged worthy of love and esteem
could suffer one consideration of altered fortunes to make even the
slightest change in their regard or in their conduct. You should never
have fancied it, and must never, never fancy it again. I can hardly
imagine," she said, turning, and looking at him with a bright smile,
as she uttered words of reproach which she knew were not quite
justified, thus qualifying with that gay look the bitter portion of
her speech: "I can hardly imagine that you know what true love is, or
you would be well aware that it is, indeed, as you said yourself, a
thing of adamant: unchangeable and everlasting. On it no calumny can
rest, no falsehood make impression; the storms and tempests of the
world, the labour of those who would injure or defame, the sharp
chisel of sarcasm, the grinding power of argument and opposition, can
have no effect. Such is strong, true love. It must be love founded on
esteem and confidence, but then, believe me, it is immoveable. If ever
you love, remember this."
"If ever I love, Eda?" answered Dudley, gazing at her; "you know too
well that I do love; that I have loved for years."
"I once thought so," replied Eda, in a low tone; "but hush! Dudley,
hush! let us compose ourselves: he is coming near."
"He does not see us," said Dudley; "his eyes are bent upon the ground.
Can we not avoid him by turning through the trees?"
"No, no," answered Miss Brandon; "he sees everything. Never suppose at
any time that because his eyes are bent down they are unused. He is
all sight, and never to be trusted. Is my cheek flushed? I am sure it
ought to be," she added, as her mind reverted to the words she had
spoken: "I am sure it ought to be, for I feel it burn."
"A little," replied Dudley, gazing at her with a look of grateful
love; "but he will not remark it."
"Oh! yes, he will," answered Eda, giving a timid glance towards
Dudley's face, and then drawing down her veil. "Yours is quite pale."
"It is with intense emotions," replied Dudley; "emotions of gratitude
and love."
"Hush! hush!" she said; "no more on that score; we shall be able to
talk more hereafter. What a beautiful day it has been after such a
stormy night. One could almost fancy that it was spring returned, if a
bird would but begin to sing."
"Ah! no," answered Dudley, somewhat sorrowfully; "though there be
browns in both, the colours of the autumn are very different from
those of the spring; the hues of nascent hope are in the one, of
withering decay in the other; and though the skies of autumn may be
glorious, they are the skies of spring which are sweet."
They were now within some twenty or thirty paces of Mr. Filmer, who
was still walking on, calmly and quietly, with his eyes bent upon the
ground, as if absorbed in deep and solemn meditation. The light and
shadow, as he passed the trees, fell strangely upon him, giving a
phantom-like appearance to his tall dark figure and pale face; and
there was a fixed and rigid firmness in his whole countenance which
might have made any casual observer at that moment think him the
veriest ascetic that ever lived.
Eda, who knew him well, and had read his character more profoundly
than he imagined, led the way straight up to him, though they had
before been on the other side of the avenue, as if she were determined
that he should not pass without taking notice of them, and when they
were at not more than three yards' distance, he started, saying, "Ah!
my dear young lady, I did not see you. Why, your party has become
small." And his face at once assumed a look of pleasing urbanity,
which rendered the whole expression as different as possible from that
which his countenance had borne before.
"Edgar and Lord Hadley," answered Eda, "have gone to see the priory,
and my uncle was coming home with us, when somebody stopped him upon
business and carried him off."
"Mr. Dudley and I visited the priory this morning," replied Mr.
Filmer; "and he seemed exceedingly pleased with it, I am happy to
say."
"I was very much so, indeed," said Dudley. "In truth, my reverend
friend, I feel a great interest in all those remnants of former times,
when everything had a freshness and a vigorous identity which is lost
in the present state of civilisation. I forget who is the author who
compares man in the present polished and artificial days to a worn
shilling which has lost all trace of the original stamp; but it has
often struck me as a very just simile. I like the mark of the die; and
every object which recalls to my mind the lusty, active past, is worth
a thousand modern constructions. Even the university in which I have
been educated I love not so much for its associations with myself as
for its associations with another epoch. There is a cloistral,
secluded calm about some of the colleges, which has an effect almost
melancholy and yet pleasurable."
Mr. Filmer replied in an easy strain, as if he had remarked nothing;
but, nevertheless, he had perceived, somehow, without even raising his
eyes, that Eda had dropped the veil over her face as he came near, and
he saw that there were traces of agitation both on her countenance and
on that of Dudley. He remarked, too, that Dudley spoke more and more
eloquently upon many subjects during the rest of the day; that, in
fact, there was a sort of relief apparent in his whole manner, and in
all his words; and he formed a judgment not very far from the truth.
Such a judgment, from indications so slight, is not unusual in men who
have been educated as he had been, to mark the slightest peculiarities
of manner, the slightest changes of demeanour, that occur in their
fellow-men, in order to take advantage of them for their own purposes.
In the present instance he continued quietly his observations, without
letting any one perceive that he was watching at all; but not a word,
nor a look, nor a tone of Eda Brandon and Charles Dudley escaped him
during the day.
Turning back with Miss Brandon and her lover towards the house, Mr.
Filmer, or Father Peter, as he was sometimes called by Sir Arthur's
servants, accompanied them to the door, and then proposed that they
should cross the park to a little fountain, covered with its old cross
and stone, which he described as well worthy of Dudley's attention.
Eda confirmed his account of its beauty, but said that she must
herself go in, as she was a good deal fatigued, and had also to write
a letter. She advised Dudley, however, to go and see it; and if the
truth must be told, she was not sorry to avoid the priest's society,
for in his presence she felt a restraint of which she could not divest
herself, even at times when she could detect no watching on the part
of Filmer. She knew that he was observing with the quiet, shrewd eyes
of Rome, and the very feeling embarrassed her.
Dudley had no excuse for staying behind, and he accompanied the priest
on his walk, conversing on indifferent subjects, and not yet fully
aware that every word and even look, was watched by one who let nought
fall to the ground. For nearly a couple of hundred yards the two
gentlemen walked on in silence; but then Mr. Filmer, in pursuit of his
own investigations, observed, in a sort of meditative tone, "What a
sweet, charming girl that is! I think I understood that you had known
her long, Mr. Dudley."
"For many years," replied his companion. "When first I knew her she
was quite a girl, I had almost said a child, and very lovely even
then; but I had no idea that she was the niece of Sir Arthur Adelon."
"Her mother was his sister," replied Mr. Filmer; "and the way in which
she became Sir Arthur's ward was this:--Her father died when she was
quite young, leaving her entirely to the control of her mother, as her
sole guardian and his executrix. She was a very amiable woman, Mrs.
Brandon, though, unfortunately, her husband had converted her to your
church. I believe she was very sorry for her apostacy before her
death, and, at all events, she left Miss Brandon to the guardianship
of her brother, Sir Arthur, with the entire management of her
property."
"Till she comes of age, I suppose?" Dudley replied, as the other made
a short pause.
"Yes; but before that time she will be probably married," answered the
priest.
"To Lord Hadley, perhaps you think?" rejoined Dudley, with very
different feelings from those with which he would have pronounced such
words some two or three hours before.
"Oh, no!" answered Mr. Filmer, calmly; "I do not think that Sir Arthur
would ever consent to her marriage with a Protestant. I know that he
would sooner see her bestow her hand upon the humblest Catholic
gentleman in England."
Dudley was somewhat puzzled. If the assertion of the priest could be
relied upon, why had Sir Arthur Adelon so ostentatiously asked Lord
Hadley there. The priest said it in a natural, easy tone; but Dudley
felt that in some degree he had himself been trying to extract
information from Mr. Filmer, and that the attempt was somewhat
dangerous with a Roman Catholic priest. He did not feel quite sure,
indeed, that he had not betrayed a part of his own secrets while
endeavouring to gain intelligence of the views of others. "I should
have thought that the feelings of Sir Arthur Adelon were more liberal,
especially as he has always yourself beside him," said Dudley, with a
slight inclination of the head.
"You do me more than justice, my young friend," replied Mr. Filmer;
"it is very natural in these times, when there is a persecuting and
oppressive spirit abroad, that we should wish to see an heiress of
great wealth, and whose husband must possess great influence, bestow
her hand upon a person of our own religious creed. I may say this can
be felt without the slightest degree of bigotry, or any view of
proselytism. I have none, I can assure you; and indeed you may judge
that it is so when you know that one of my best friends and most
constant companions is the clergyman of the little church the spire of
which you see rising up there just above the hill. My feeling is that
there is not sufficient difference between the two churches--although
yours, I feel, is in some points a little heretical--to cause any
disunion between honest and well-meaning men; and moreover, though
anxious myself to see others adopt what I conceive to be just views,
yet I confess the object of their conversion does not appear to me so
great a one as to hazard the slightest chance of dissension in order
to obtain it."
"Those are very liberal opinions, indeed," said Dudley; "and though I
know that a good many of the laymen of the church of Rome entertain
them, I was not aware that they are common amongst the clergy."
"More common than you imagine, my young friend," answered the priest;
"in fact the heads of the church, itself are not so intolerant as you
suppose. Rules have been fixed, undoubtedly; definitions have been
given; but it is always in the power of the church to relax its own
regulations; and when sincere and devout Christianity, a feeling of
that which is orthodox, and a veneration for those traditions which,
descending from generation to generation through the mouths of saints
and martyrs, may be considered as pure and uncorrupt as the Scriptures
themselves, are perceived in any one, the church is always willing to
render his return to her bosom easy and practicable, by relinquishing
all those formal points of discipline which may be obnoxious to his
prejudices, and by relaxing the severity of those expositions, the
cutting clearness of which is repugnant to a yet unconfirmed mind."
Dudley paused in great surprise, asking himself, "What is his object?"
This is a question which is rarely put by any man to his own heart
without some strong doubt of the sincerity of the person he has been
conversing with.
"What is his object?" thought Dudley. "Does he really hope to convert
me by the mingled charms of his own eloquence, and the fascination of
my dear Eda's fortune?" He resolved, however, not to display his real
opinion of the arguments used, but to suffer the worthy priest to
pursue his own course and expose his own purposes. "He must do it
sooner or later," he said; "and then I shall discover what is the
meaning of this long discourse. In the mean time, he cannot shake
Eda's confidence in me, nor my love for her."
"I am happy to find," continued Dudley, aloud, "that such very just
and liberal views are entertained; for undoubtedly the definitions of
the Council of Trent have been one of the great stumbling-blocks in
the way of those persons who would willingly have abandoned doctrines
of which they are by no means sure, to embrace others emanating from a
church, the principal boast of which is its invariable consistency
with itself."
The priest looked at him with a doubtful and hesitating glance. He was
apprehensive, perhaps, of showing too much of the policy of the church
of Rome; and he stopped, as it was his invariable custom to do when
the expression of his opinions might do injury to the cause he
advocated, and no great object was to be obtained. He thought, indeed,
in the present instance, that something more might be ventured; but
yet he judged it more prudent to wait awhile, calculating that if he
managed well, growing passion might do the work of argument; and after
viewing, with Dudley, the little fountain, he turned back to the
house, directing his conversation to subjects of a totally different
character, grave but not ascetic, round which he threw a peculiar and
extraordinary charm. It was very strange the fascination of his manner
and conversation. When first its power was felt by any keen and quick
mind, one strove to grasp and analyze it, to ascertain in what it
consisted; but like those subtle and delicate essences which chemists
sometimes prepare, and which defy analysis, something, and that the
most important, that which gave efficacy and vigour to the whole,
always escaped. The words seemed nothing in themselves: a little
subtle, perhaps, somewhat vague, not quite definite. The manner was
calm and gentle, the look was only at wide distant moments emphatic;
but yet there was a certain spirit in the whole which seemed to glide
into the heart and brain, unnerving and full of languor, disarming
opposition, persuading rather than convincing, wrapping the senses in
pleasing dreams rather than presenting tangible objects for their
exercise. It was like the faint odours of unseen plants, which,
stealing through the night air, visit us with a narcotic rather than a
balmy influence, and lull us to a deadly sleep, without our knowing
whence they come or feeling the effect till it is too late.