Penarvon castle lay over the borders of Monmouthshire. Thither, on a
night of frosty moonlight, troops of carriages were hurrying with the
usual freightage for a country ball:--the squire who will not make
himself happy by seeing that his duty to the softer side of his family
must be performed during the comfortable hours when bachelors snooze
in arm-chairs, and his nobler dame who, not caring for Port or tobacco,
cheerfully accepts the order of things as bequeathed to her: the
everlastingly half-satisfied young man, who looks forward to the hour
when his cigar-light will shine; and the damsel thrice demure as a cover
for her eagerness. Within a certain distance of one of the carriages,
a man rode on horseback. The court of the castle was reached, and
he turned aside, lingering to see whether he could get a view of the
lighted steps. To effect his object, he dismounted and led his horse
through the gates, turning from gravel to sward, to keep in the dusk.
A very agile middle-aged gentleman was the first to appear under the
portico-lamps, and he gave his hand to a girl of fifteen, and then to
a most portly lady in a scarlet mantle. The carriage-door slammed
and drove off, while a groan issued from the silent spectator. “Good
heavens! have I followed these horrible people for five-and-twenty
miles!” Carriage after carriage rattled up to the steps, was disburdened
of still more 'horrible people' to him, and went the way of the others.
“I shan't see her, after all,” he cried hoarsely, and mounting, said to
the beast that bore him, “Now go sharp.”
Whether you recognize the rider of Hippogriff or not, this is he; and
the poor livery-stable screw stretched madly till wind failed, when he
was allowed to choose his pace. Wilfrid had come from London to have
sight of Emilia in the black-briony wreath: to see her, himself unseen,
and go. But he had not seen her; so he had the full excuse to continue
the adventure. He rode into a Welsh town, and engaged a fresh horse for
the night.
“She won't sing, at all events,” thought Wilfrid, to comfort himself,
before the memory that she could not, in any case, touched springs of
weakness and pitying tenderness. From an eminence to which he walked
outside the town, Penarvon was plainly visible with all its lighted
windows.
“But I will pluck her from you!” he muttered, in a spasm of jealousy;
the image of himself as an outcast against the world that held her,
striking him with great force at that moment.
“I must give up the Austrian commission, if she takes me.”
And be what? For he had sold out of the English service, and was to
receive the money in a couple of days. How long would the money support
him? It would not pay half his debts! What, then, did this pursuit
of Emilia mean? To blink this question, he had to give the spur to
Hippogriff. It meant (upon Hippogriff at a brisk gallop), that he
intended to live for her, die for her, if need be, and carve out of
the world all that she would require. Everything appears possible, on
Hippogriff, when he is going; but it is a bad business to put the spur
on so willing a beast. When he does not go of his own will;--when he
sees that there are obstructions, it is best to jump off his back. And
we should abandon him then, save that having once tasted what he can do
for us, we become enamoured of the habit of going keenly, and defying
obstacles. Thus do we begin to corrupt the uses of the gallant beast
(for he is a gallant beast, though not of the first order); we spoil his
instincts and train him to hurry us to perdition.
“If my sisters could see me now!” thought Wilfrid, half-smitten with a
distant notion of a singularity in his position there, the mark for a
frosty breeze, while his eyes kept undeviating watch over Penarvon.
After a time he went back to the inn, and got among coachmen
and footmen, all battling lustily against the frost with weapons
scientifically selected at the bar. They thronged the passages, and
lunged hearty punches at one another, drank and talked, and only noticed
that a gentleman was in their midst when he moved to get a light. One
complained that he had to drive into Monmouth that night, by a road that
sent him five miles out of his way, owing to a block--a great stone that
had fallen from the hill. “You can't ask 'em to get out and walk ten
steps,” he said; “or there! I'd lead the horses and just tip up the off
wheels, and round the place in a twinkle, pop 'm in again, and nobody
hurt; but you can't ask ladies to risk catchin' colds for the sake of
the poor horses.”
Several coachmen spoke upon this, and the shame and marvel it was that
the stone had not been moved; and between them the name of Mr. Powys was
mentioned, with the remark that he would spare his beasts if he could.
“What's that block you're speaking of, just out of Monmouth?” enquired
Wilfrid; and it being described to him, together with the exact bearings
of the road and situation of the mass of stone, he at once repeated a
part of what he had heard in the form of the emphatic interrogation,
“What! there?” and flatly told the coachman that the stone had been
moved.
“It wasn't moved this morning, then, sir,” said the latter.
“No; but a great deal can be done in a couple of hours,” said Wilfrid.
“Did you see 'em at work, sir?”
“No; but I came that way, and the road was clear.”
“The deuce it was!” ejaculated the coachman, willingly convinced.
“And that's the way I shall return,” added Wilfrid.
He tossed some money on the bar to aid in warming the assemblage, and
received numerous salutes as he passed out. His heart was beating fast.
“I shall see her, in the teeth of my curst luck,” he thought, picturing
to himself the blessed spot where the mass of stone would lie; and to
that point he galloped, concentrating all the light in his mind on this
maddest of chances, till it looked sound, and finally certain.
“It's certain, if that's not a hired coachman,” he calculated. “If he
is, he won't risk his fee. If he isn't, he'll feel on the safe side
anyhow. At any rate, it's my only chance.” And away he flew between
glimmering slopes of frost to where a white curtain of mist hung across
the wooded hills of the Wye.