What a whimsical thing is that strange composition--man. The very
elements of his nature war against each other, though bound together
by hoops of steel. The spirit and the body are continually at
variance, and the activity of the one often renders the other inert.
Eda Brandon could not sleep after Edgar Adelon left her; her
imagination, ever busy, presented to her continually scenes the most
fearful and the most terrible, where the gibbet, and the axe, and the
deadly shot were seen and heard; and her uncle's form appeared as a
criminal, freed for an hour or two from dark imprisonment, to endure
the torture of a public trial. She judged of all she knew as a woman
judges: with keen foresight and penetration, but without sufficient
experience to make that penetration available. But still her fancy was
busy, and it kept her waking. For more than one hour she did not
sleep; but still she tried hard to do so, for she proposed to rise
early on the following morning, when she knew that those whom she had
determined to consult, as to all the questions before her, would be
up. But such resolutions are vain. Fatigue and exhaustion imperatively
counselled repose; and at length, when her eyes closed,
notwithstanding all her determinations to watch, she went on in a
profound slumber for more than one hour after her usual time of
rising.
A morning of hurry and anxiety succeeded. Dudley had already gone out
with the gamekeepers and Edgar to shoot; Lord Hadley was still in bed;
Mr. Filmer had been summoned to a dying man at daybreak.
Sir Arthur ate his breakfast absorbed in journals and papers; and Eda,
though she loved him, had still doubts and hesitations, which
prevented her from speaking to her uncle on the subject predominant in
her thoughts. At length he looked at his watch, and rose suddenly,
saying, "I must leave you, dear Eda. It is strange that Mr. Norries
has not arrived, as I expected him on business."
No mention was made of the peculiar influence that the one party
possessed over the other; and the tone, too, was so commonplace, that
Eda began to imagine she had been over-penetrating, and had imagined
things that did not exist; so that she saw her uncle depart with
comparative tranquillity, and remained alone for near an hour, trying
to occupy herself with the ordinary amusements of the morning. At the
end of that time, however, her maid opened the door of her own little
sitting-room, saying, "Miss Clive, ma'am," and Helen was soon seated
by Eda Brandon.
"What is the matter, Helen dear," said Eda, as the other, at her
invitation, sat down on the sofa beside her. "You look pale; and
agitated I am sure you are; for however we may hide it, dear Helen,
and however difficult it may be to detect in line or feature, the
anxiety of the heart writes itself upon the face in characters faint
but very distinct. You are anxious about something, Helen. Something
has gone amiss. Tell me, dear Helen; for I think I need not say that
if I can console or help, you have only to tell the how, to Eda
Brandon."
"You are ever kind to your own little Helen, as you used to call me in
my childhood, Eda," replied her beautiful companion. "You were then
but a child yourself, but from that day to this there has been no
change, and it is time that I should try to return the kindness.
Dearest Eda, it is you I am anxious for--at least yours; and I cannot
refrain from telling you what I know, in the hope that you may be able
to avert the danger; but you must promise me first not to mention one
word to any one of that which I am about to say."
"But, my dear Helen, how can I avert danger if I may not mention to
any one the circumstances?" inquired Eda. "I am a very weak, powerless
creature, Helen; and as you say the danger menaces mine more than
myself, if I must speak of it to no one, how can I warn them."
"Listen, listen, Eda!" was the answer. "You must not indeed tell what
I relate, except as I point out; but still you shall have room enough
to warn those you love of the danger their own acts are bringing upon
them. Do you promise, Eda?"
"Certainly, Helen," replied Eda Brandon; "it is for you to speak or be
silent; and I must take your intelligence on your own conditions. Yet
I think you might trust me entirely to act for the best, Helen."
"I must not," said Helen Clive. "What I have to say might involve the
lives of others. Listen, then, Helen. Your uncle, Sir Arthur, is
involved in schemes which will, I am sure, lead to his destruction. He
is going this very evening to a place whence he will not come back
without great guilt upon his head, and great danger hanging over him;
perhaps he may never come back at all; but be sure that if he do go,
peace and security are banished from him for ever. Persuade him not to
go, Eda. That is the only thing which can save him."
She spoke with eager interest, and it was impossible, from her look,
her tone, her whole manner, to doubt for one moment that she was fully
impressed with the truth of what she said. Nor was Eda without her
anxiety; all that she had seen the night before, all that she had
remarked of her uncle's behaviour for several days, not only showed
her that there was foundation for Helen Clive's assertion, but
directed her suspicions aright; and though she paused, it was not in
any doubt, but rather to consider how, without deceit, she could
obtain further information from one who was not disposed to give it.
"I cannot persuade him, Helen," she said, at length, in a sad tone,
"without much more intelligence than you have given: he would only
laugh at me. Nay, perhaps with all that you could give, such would be
the same result. Men are often sadly obstinate, and ridicule the
prophetic fears of woman, who sees the events in which they are called
to mingle, but from which she is excluded, not unfrequently more
justly than themselves, because she is but a spectator. You have
neither told me the place to which he is going, nor the hour, nor the
object, no, nor the inducement. Inducement?" she continued, in a
thoughtful tone, as if speaking to herself; "what can be a sufficient
inducement for my uncle, with everything to lose and nothing to gain
by such commotions, to take part in any of these rash schemes?"
"I see that you have yourself had fears," answered Helen, "and that
those fears have not led you far from the truth. Then as to the
inducement, Eda----"
"Oh! yes, speak of that," replied Miss Brandon; "if I knew what it
was, perhaps I might remove it."
"Perhaps so," said Helen, thoughtfully, and then paused for an instant
to consider. "I think you can, Eda," she continued. "If I know looks,
and can understand tones, you certainly will be able. But there are
several inducements, as I suppose there are in all things. There is
the vanity, I believe, of adhering steadily to opinions once
professed, how much soever the man, the circumstances, or the times
may be changed; but that would have been nothing, had they not led him
on from act to act, and whenever he wavered, whenever he thought of
how much he risked upon an almost hopeless undertaking, still forced
him forward by fears."
"By fears!" exclaimed Eda. "Of what? Of whom? Who has Sir Arthur
Adelon to fear? What can he apprehend?"
She spoke somewhat proudly, and Helen gazed at her with a sad but
tender look, while she replied, in a few brief words, "He whom he
fears is one whom, if generously treated, there is no cause to fear.
His name is Dudley, Eda! What he fears, is the discovery by Mr. Dudley
of some dark transactions in the past--I know not what, for they did
not mention it--the proofs of which these men have in their
possession."
Eda sat before her, silent with amazement, for several moments; but
then she put her hand to her brow, and the next moment a smile full of
hope came up into her face. "If that be the inducement," she said, "I
think it will be easily removed, dear Helen. But you spoke of others;
may they not be sufficiently strong to carry him on in the same course
still?"
"Oh, no!" replied Helen, "that is the great motive. Take that away,
and he will be safe. Speak to Mr. Dudley first, Eda, and get him to
say to Sir Arthur these words, or some that are like them: 'I have
heard of some papers to be returned to me in a few days, Sir Arthur
Adelon, affecting questions long past; but I think it right to say at
once, that I wish all those gone-by affairs to be buried in oblivion;
and I pledge you my word, if those papers are given to me, I will
destroy them without looking at them.'"
"That is much to ask, Helen," exclaimed Eda, with a look of
hesitation; "how can I tell that those papers do not affect his very
dearest interests? I remember well that his father lost a fine
property some years ago, by a suit at law. May not these very papers
affect that transaction; may they not afford the means of recovering
it?"
"They do not, they do not," answered Helen, eagerly; "and if they did,
would he not promise _you_, Eda?"
The emphasis was so strong upon the word "you," that it brought the
colour into Eda Brandon's cheek; for she found that woman's eyes had
seen at once into woman's heart. Still she shrunk from owning the love
that was between Dudley and herself; and she replied, "I had better
ask my cousin Edgar to speak to Mr. Dudley about it."
"Speak to him yourself, Eda," replied Helen, with a faint smile; "your
voice will be more powerful. But let me proceed, for I must be home
without delay. When you have Mr. Dudley's promise to speak as I have
said, then beg Sir Arthur yourself not to go this night where he is
going. Mind not, Eda, whether he laughs or is angry, but do you detain
him by every persuasion in your power."
"But if he should not come home?" said Eda; "such a thing is not
impossible. He has been out very much lately, both by day and by
night, and we are all ignorant of whither he goes on such occasions."
Helen once more paused before she replied, and then said, with evident
hesitation and fear: "You must send some persons down to seek him,
then, dear Eda. Let them go down to a place called Mead's Farm,
half-way between this and Barhampton, about eight o'clock tonight.
There is a large empty barn there; and at it, or near it, they will
find two or three men standing, who will not let them pass along the
path unless they give the word, 'Justice.' Then, if they go along the
road before them, towards Barhampton, they will find the person they
are seeking. But, oh! I trust, Eda, he will be found before that, for
then it will be almost too late."
"Who can I send?" said Eda, in a low tone, as if speaking to herself;
but Helen caught the words, and replied, in an imploring tone, "Not
Mr. Adelon, Eda--not your cousin. He might be led on with his father,
and ruin overtake him too."
Eda smiled sweetly, and laid her hand upon Helen Clive's, with a
gentle and affectionate pressure; but, as she did so, some painful
anticipations regarding the fate of her beautiful and highly-gifted
companion crossed her mind, and she said, with a sigh, "Do you know, I
am almost a Chartist too, Helen!"
Helen started, saying, "Indeed! I do not understand what you mean,
Eda."
"What I mean is, dear Helen," replied Miss Brandon, "that I wish there
were no distinctions upon earth, but virtue, and excellence, and high
qualities."
Helen now understood her, and cast down her eyes with a blush and a
sigh; and Eda put her arm round her neck, adding, "In time of need, my
Helen, come to me. Tell me all and everything, and above all, how I
can serve you; and you shall not find Eda Brandon wanting. But, hark!
there's Lord Hadley's voice in the hall below."
Helen Clive turned pale and trembled. "He will not come here?" she
said, eagerly. "Do not let him come here. Oh! how shall I get away?"
"Why, what is the matter?" asked Eda, in surprise; but before Helen
could answer, another voice, rich and harmonious, but speaking in
grave and almost stern tones, was heard. "My lord, I beg your pardon,
but this is a matter which admits of no delay. I must repeat my
request for a few minutes' conversation with you immediately."
Lord Hadley was then heard answering sharply; and the next moment the
voices ceased, as if the speakers had retired into one of the rooms
below.
"You do not seem to like Lord Hadley, Helen," said Eda, in a
thoughtful tone.
"I abhor him," answered Helen Clive, "and I have cause. But now I must
return to the Grange, and I will ask you as a favour, dear Eda, to
send some one with me by the way. It is very strange to feel afraid at
going out alone for one who has been accustomed, as I have been, to
roam about like a free bird, without one thought of danger or
annoyance; but now I tremble at every step I take, and watch every
coming figure with apprehension."
"And has this young man done this?" asked Eda Brandon. "It is sad,
very sad; but you shall have protection, Helen."
Helen Clive did not reply, and Eda rang the bell, and gave orders that
one of the old servants, who had been attached for twenty years to her
father's house, should accompany Helen back to the Grange.
They then parted, after some more brief explanations; but just as
Helen reached the foot of the stairs, where the servant was waiting
for her, the door of the library was thrown violently open, and Lord
Hadley appeared with a flushed and angry countenance. Mr. Dudley was
standing two or three steps behind him, and his cheek too was hot, and
his brow frowning.
Without seeing Helen, and, indeed, in the blind fury of passion,
without noticing any one else, the young nobleman turned before he
left the library, and with a menacing gesture, said to Mr. Dudley:
"Your insolence, sir, shall not go without notice. Don't suppose your
rash and mercenary pretensions have escaped my eyes. Be you sure they
will be treated with the contempt they merit; but I will take care
that they shall be pursued no farther, for they shall be exposed to
Sir Arthur Adelon this very day."
Dudley took a step forward and replied, with a stern look, "Your
lordship had better take care what use you make of my name in your
discourse, for depend upon it, if you treat it disrespectfully I shall
know how to punish you for so doing."
It is probable that more angry words would have followed, but at that
moment two other persons were added to the group, by the advance of
Mr. Filmer from the outer hall, and by the appearance of the butler
from the side of the offices, carrying a tray with letters.
"Two letters for your lordship," said the servant, advancing in a
commonplace manner, as if he observed nothing of the angry discussion
which was going on. "A letter for you, sir," he continued, addressing
Dudley, as soon as Lord Hadley had taken what he presented.
The young nobleman gave a hurried glance around; and the slight pause
which had been afforded was sufficient to allow reflection to come to
his aid. By this time Mr. Filmer was speaking to Helen Clive, and both
she and the priest were moving fast towards the great doors of the
house; but the presence of the two servants was now enough to restrain
Lord Hadley's impetuous temper; and without opening the letters he
hurried away towards his bed-room, leaving Dudley alone in the
library. The butler shut the door and retired to tell the housekeeper
and some of his fellow-servants all that which he had seen and heard,
but which he had affected not to observe.
Dudley, in the mean time, laid down the letter on the table, and
stood in bitter thought. Although a man of strong command over
himself--command gained during a long period of adversity--he was
naturally of a quick and eager disposition, and a severe struggle was
taking place in his bosom at that moment to maintain the ascendancy of
principle over passion.
"No!" he said, at length--"No. I will make one more effort to reclaim
him. I will not dwell upon his insulting conduct towards me; but I
will point out the wickedness and the folly of the course he is
pursuing, and endeavour to call him back to honour and to right." The
very determination served to calm him; and looking down upon the
letter on the table, he took it up, saying, "I wonder who this can be
from? I do not know the hand. I must see, for the seal is black." And
opening it, he found the following words:--
"Dear Sir,
"We have the melancholy task of informing you of the sudden decease,
last night, at half-past nine o'clock, of our much respected friend
and client, the Rev. Dr. Dudley, which took place at St. John's, just
as he was about to retire to rest. Although we know that you will be
greatly grieved at this sad event, we are forced to intrude some
business upon your attention under the following circumstances. About
a fortnight ago, our late respected client, having felt some
apoplectic symptoms, judged it right to send for Mr. Emerson, of our
firm, in order to make his will, which was in due form signed, sealed,
and delivered. He therein appointed you his sole executor, having
bequeathed all his property, real and personal, to yourself, with the
exception of a few small legacies. He has also requested you to make
all the arrangements for his funeral as you may think proper, merely
directing that it should be conducted in a plain and unostentatious
manner. It is therefore very necessary that you should return to
Cambridge as soon as possible, or that you should send your directions
by letter. In the mean time we will take all proper steps in the
matter, and trust to be honoured with your confidence, as we have been
with that of your lamented relative for many years."
The letter was signed by a well-known law firm in Cambridge.
The first emotion in the mind of Edward Dudley was that of deep
grief--grief, simple and unalloyed, for the loss of one whom he had
truly loved; but the next was a feeling of bereavement. His staff was
broken, his support gone, The only one in all the world who had acted
a kindly, almost a parental part to him, for long, long years, was no
more. He felt, as I have said, bereaved; for although the love of Eda
Brandon, that love which had been cherished in secret by both, was a
great consolation and a comfort, yet it was so different, both in kind
and in degree, from the affection entertained for him by his own
relation, that they could not be brought at all into comparison the
one with the other. New attachments never wholly compensate for old
ties. They fill a different, perhaps a larger place, but they leave
the others vacant. He mourned sincerely then; and it was some time
before the thought--which would have presented itself much earlier to
a worldly mind, came even to his memory--the thought that the riches
of the earth, which can never compete, in a generous heart, with those
affections which are above the earth, but which influence so much the
course of human life and mortal happiness, were now his. That he was
no more the impoverished student, seeking by hard labour to recover
the position which his family had once maintained. That he was not
only independent, but wealthy; and though perhaps not exactly upon a
par in point of fortune with the heiress of large hereditary
possessions, still no unportioned adventurer, seeking to mend his
condition with her gold. He knew that his father's first cousin had
himself inherited a very fair estate. He knew that he had held rich
benefices and lucrative offices; and he also knew that, though a
liberal and a kindly man, he had been also a very prudent one, and had
certainly lived far within his income. Thus he was certain of more
than a moderate fortune; but although it would be folly to deny that
such a conviction was a relief to his mind, still sincere grief was
predominant, and he felt that the wealth he had acquired by the loss
of a friend could in no degree compensate for the bereavement.
While he thus meditated, he heard a quick but heavy step upon the
stairs, the glass doors between the hall and the vestibule bang with a
force which might almost have shaken the panes from the frame, and the
moment after he saw the figure of Lord Hadley pass the windows of the
library. Dudley instantly took up his hat, darted out and looked
around; but the young nobleman had disappeared, and seeing one of the
gamekeepers who had been out with him and Edgar in the morning,
walking slowly away from the house, he stopped him and asked which way
the young nobleman had taken. His manner was quick and eager, and the
cloud of grief was still upon his brow, so that the man looked at him
for a moment with some surprise before he answered. He then pointed
out the way, and Dudley was turning at once to follow it, when the
butler came out upon the terrace, saying, with a low bow, "Miss
Brandon wishes to speak with you for a few moments, sir, if you are
not otherwise engaged."
"If the business is not of great importance," said Dudley, "I will be
back in ten minutes."
"It is nothing particular, I believe, sir," answered the man; "she has
just had a note from Sir Arthur to say he won't be back to dinner. I
fancy that is all."
"Then say I will wait upon her in ten minutes," replied Dudley; "I
wish to catch Lord Hadley for a moment before he proceeds farther. We
have something to speak about which must be settled at once." And he
sped upon the way, as the gamekeeper had directed. It was in the
direction of the Grange.
Ten minutes elapsed, and Dudley had not returned. A quarter of an
hour, half an hour, an hour; and when he came back he was evidently a
good deal excited. He calmed himself down, however, as much as
possible, and immediately requested an interview with Miss Brandon,
who came down and joined him in the library, remaining with him nearly
till dinner-time. They were at last interrupted by the priest, who
came in search of a book, and shortly after the dressing-bell rang. At
the dinner-table, Lord Hadley, who appeared very late, was gloomy and
thoughtful. He never addressed a word to Mr. Dudley, and spoke but
little to Eda or the priest, who took one end of the table. Edgar
Adelon did not at all seek to converse with him; and when any words
passed between them, they were as sharp as the customs of society
would permit. Dudley was very grave, and if he still took any interest
in Lord Hadley's conduct he might not be altogether satisfied to see
him drink so much wine. As soon as Eda had quitted the room, however,
Dudley rose, saying that, with Mr. Filmer's permission, he would
retire, as he was obliged to go out for a short time; and after
emptying two more glasses, Lord Hadley also left the table, and the
party broke up.
The young peer took his hat in the vestibule, and walked out upon the
terrace, asking one of the men who were in the hall if he had seen
which way Mr. Dudley took. The man replied, "Up the avenue, my lord;"
and Lord Hadley pursued the same path. It was never to return.