And Harry Oaklands?—Well, he did nothing desperate; but after his first transports had subsided into a more deep and tranquil joy, he sat, with her little white hand clasped in his own, and looked into her loving eyes, and for one bright half-hour two of the wanderers in this vale of tears were perfectly and entirely happy.



CHAPTER XLVII — A CURE FOR THE HEARTACHE

"One woman's fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, and an excellent musician." —Much Ado About Nothing.

"YES! they were very happy, Fanny and Oaklands, as they revelled in the bright certainty of their mutual love, and entranced by the absorbing contemplation of their new-found happiness, forgot in the sunshine of each other's presence the flight of moments, whilst I, involuntarily contrasting the fair prospect that lay open before them with the dark cloudland of my own gloomy fortunes, had soon traversed in thought the distance to Barstone Priory, and become immersed in fruitless speculations as to what might eventually be the result of Mr. Vernor's sordid and cruel policy. It was now longer than usual since I had heard from Clara; suspense and impatience were rapidly increasing into the most painful anxiety, and I had all but determined, if the next day's post brought no relief, to disobey her injunctions to the contrary, and once again make an attempt to see her. Oh! it is hard to be banished from the presence of those we love—with an ear attuned to the gentle music of some well-remembered voice, to be forced to listen to the cold, unmeaning commonplaces of society—with the heart and mind engrossed by, and centred on, one dear object, to live in a strange, unreal fellowship with those around us, talking, moving, and acting mechanically—feeling, as it ~379~~ were, but the outward form and shadow of one's self, living two distinct and separate existences, present, indeed, in body, but in the only true vitality—the life of the spirit—utterly and completely absent. From reflections such as these, I was aroused by observing the deepening shades of evening, which were fast merging into night; and collecting my ideas, I remembered that there were many things which must be said and done in consequence of the unexpected turn events had taken. No human being is so completely isolated that his actions do not in some degree affect others, and in the present instance this was peculiarly the case. Sir John and my mother must be let into the secret, and poor Lawless must learn the unsuccessful termination of his suit. But now, for the first time, the somewhat equivocal situation in which chance had placed me presented itself to my mind, and I felt a degree of embarrassment, almost amounting to shame, at having to make my appearance, and confess that I had been lying perdu during the whole of the preceding scene. Accident, however, stood my friend.

"I wonder where Frank is all this time!" exclaimed Harry, in reply to a remark of Fanny's referring to the lateness of the hour: "I want to see him, and tell him of my happiness; I made him almost as miserable as myself this morning; he must be at the Hall, I suppose, but I'm sure your servant told me he was at home."

"She only spoke the truth if she did," said I, entering the drawing-room as coolly as if nothing unusual had occurred.

Fanny started up with a slight shriek, and then, glancing at me with a countenance in which smiles and tears were strangely commingled, ran out of the room to hide her confusion, while Harry Oaklands—well, I hardly know what Harry did, but I have some vague idea that he hugged me, for I recollect feeling a degree of oppression on my breath, and an unpleasant sensation in my arms, for the next five minutes.

"So you have heard it all, you villain—have you?" he exclaimed, as soon as his first transports had a little subsided. "O Frank! my dear old fellow, I am so happy! But what a blind idiot I have been!"

"All's well that ends well," replied I, shaking him warmly by the hand; "they say lookers-on see most of the game, but in this case I was as blind as you were; it never for a moment occurred to me that Fanny cared for you otherwise than as a sister. Indeed, I have ~380~~ sometimes been annoyed that she did not, as I considered, properly appreciate you; but I understand it all now, and am only too glad that her pale looks and low spirits can be so satisfactorily accounted for."

"Frank," observed Oaklands gravely, "there is only one thing which casts the slightest shade over my happiness; how are we to break this to Lawless? I can afford to pity him now, poor fellow I I know by my own feelings the pang that hearing of a rival's success will cost him."

"I don't think his feelings are quite as deep and intense as yours, Harry," replied I, smiling involuntarily at my reminiscences of the morning; "but I am afraid he will be terribly cut up about it; he was most unfortunately sanguine: I suppose I had better break it to him."

"Yes, and as soon as possible too," said Oaklands, "for I'm sure my manner will betray my happiness. I am the worst hand in the world at dissimulation. Walk back with me and tell him, and then stay and dine with us."

"Agreed," replied I; "only let me say half a dozen words to my mother; "and, rushing upstairs, I dashed into her room, told her the whole matter on the spot, incoherently, and without the slightest preparation, whereby I set her crying violently, to make up for which I kissed her abruptly (getting very wet in so doing), pulled down the bell-rope in obedience to the dictates of a sudden inspiration that she would be the better for a maid-servant, and left her in one of the most fearful states of confusion on record, flurried into a condition of nerves which set camphor-julep completely at defiance, and rendered trust in sal-volatile a very high act of faith indeed.

While Oaklands and I were walking up to the Hall, we overtook Coleman returning from shooting wild-fowl. As we came up with him, Oaklands seized him by the shoulder, exclaiming:—

"Well, Freddy, what sport, eh?"

"My dear Oaklands," returned he gravely, removing Harry's hand as he spoke, "that is a very bad habit of yours, and one which I advise you to get rid of as soon as possible; nobody who had ever endured one of your friendly gripes could say with truth that you hadn't a vice about you."

"For which vile pun it would serve you right to repeat the dose," replied Oaklands, "only that I am not in a vindictive mood at present."

"Then you must have passed the afternoon in some ~381~~ very mollifying atmosphere," returned Freddy, "for when I met you three hours ago, you seemed as if you could have cut anybody's throat with the greatest satisfaction."

The conscious half-cough, half-laugh, with which Oaklands acknowledged this sally, attracted Coleman's attention, and mimicking the sound, he continued, "A—ha—hem! and what may that mean? I say, there's some mystery going on here from which I'm excluded—that's not fair, though, you know. Come, be a little more transparent; give me a peep into the hidden recesses of your magnanimous mind; unclasp the richly bound volume of your secret soul; elevate me to the altitude of the Indian herb, or, in plain slang—Young England's chosen dialect—make me 'up to snuff'."

"May I enlighten him?" asked I.

"Yes, to be sure," replied Oaklands; "I'll go on, for I am anxious to speak to my father. Freddy, old boy! shake hands; I'm the happiest fellow in existence!" so saying, he seized and wrung Coleman's hand with a heartiness which elicited sundry grotesque contortions, indicative of agony, from that individual, and, bounding forward, was soon lost to sight in the deepening twilight.

"And so, you see," continued I, after having imparted to Coleman as much as I considered necessary of the state of affairs, a confidence which he received with mingled exclamations of surprise and delight—"and so, you see, we've not only got to tell Lawless that he is refused, poor fellow I but that Fanny has accepted Oaklands; very awkward, isn't it?"

"It would be with anybody else," replied Coleman; "but I think there are ways and means of managing the thing which will prevent any very desperate consequences in the present instance; sundry ideas occur to me; would you mind my being in the room when you tell him?"

"As far as I am concerned, I should be only too glad to have you," returned I, "if you do not think it would annoy him."

"I'm not afraid of that," was the rejoinder; "as I wrote the offer for him, it strikes me I'm the very person he ought to select for his confidant."

"Do you think," he added, after a moment's thought, "Harry would sell those phaeton horses?"

"That's the line of argument you intend to bring forward by way of consolation, is it? Well, it is not such a bad notion," replied I; "but don't be too sure of success, 'Equo ne credite Tueri': I doubt its being in the power ~382~~ of horse-flesh to carry such a weight of disappointment as I fear this news will occasion him."

"Well, I've other schemes to fall back upon if this should fail," returned Freddy; "and now let us get on, for the sooner we put him out of his misery the better."

"Where's the master?" inquired I, encountering Shrimp as we crossed the hall.

"He's upstairs, sir; in his own room, sir; a-going it like bricks, if you please, sir; you can hear him down here, Gents."

"Stop a minute—listen!" said Coleman; "I can hear him now."

As he spoke, the sound of some one running quickly in the room overhead was distinctly audible; then came a scuffling noise, and then a heavyish fall.

"What's he doing?" asked Coleman.

"He's a-trainin' of hisself for some match as must be a-coming off, sir; leastways so I take it; he's been a-going on like that for the last hour and a quarter, and wery well he's lasted out, I say; he'll be safe to win, don't you think, Gents?"

"Out of the way, you imp!" exclaimed Coleman, seizing Shrimp by the collar, and swinging him half across the hall, where, cat-like, he fell upon his legs, and walked off, looking deeply insulted.

"I can't make out what he can be doing," continued Freddy. "Come along!" so saying, he sprang up the staircase, two steps at a time, an example which I hastened to imitate.

"Come in!" cried the voice of Lawless, as Coleman rapped at the door; and anxious to discover the occasion of the sounds which had reached our ears in the hall, we lost no time in obeying the summons. On entering the apartment a somewhat singular spectacle greeted our sight. All the furniture of the room, which was a tolerably large one, was piled on two lines on either side, so as to leave a clear course along the middle; in the centre of the space thus formed were placed two chairs about a yard apart, and across the backs of these was laid the joint of a fishing-rod.



As we entered, Lawless—who was without shoes, coat, or waistcoat—exclaiming, "Wait a minute, I've just done it"—started from one end of the room, and, running up to the chairs in the centre, leaped over the fishing-rod. "Ninety-nine!" he continued; then, proceeding to the other end, he again ran up to and sprang over the barrier, shouting as he did so, in a tone of triumph, "A hundred!" ~383~~ and dragging an easy-chair out of the chaotic heap of furniture, he flung himself into it to all appearance utterly exhausted.

"Why, Lawless, man!" cried Freddy, "what are you doing? Have you taken leave of your senses all of a sudden?"

"Eh! I believe 1 should have, if I had not hit upon that dodge for keeping myself quiet."

"A somewhat Irish way of keeping quiet," returned Freddy; "why, the perspiration is pouring down your face—you look regularly used up."

"Well, I am pretty nearly done brown—rather baked than otherwise," replied Lawless; "let me tell you, it's no joke to jump five hundred times over a stick three feet high or more."

"And why, in the name of all that's absurd, have you been doing it then?"

"Eh I why, you see, after I had sent our letter, I got into such a dreadful state of impatience and worry, I didn't know what to do with myself; I could not sit still at any price, and, first of all, I thought I'd have a good gallop, but I declare to you I felt so reckless and desperate, that I fancied I should go and break my neck; well, then it occurred to me to jump over that stick till I had tired myself out—five hundred times have I done it, and a pretty stiff job it was, too. And now, what news have you got for me, Frank?"

"My dear Lawless," said I, laying my hand on his shoulder, "you must prepare for a disappointment."

"There, that will do," interrupted Lawless; "as to preparation, if my last hour's work is not preparation enough for anything, it's a pity. What! she'll have nothing to say to me at any price, eh?"

"Why, you see, we have all been labouring under a delusion," I began.

"I have, under a most precious one," continued Lawless—"regularly put my foot in it—made a complete ass of myself—eh! don't you see? Well, I'm not going to break my heart about it after all; it's only a woman, and it's my opinion people set a higher price upon those cattle than they are worth—they are a shying, skittish breed, the best of them."

"That's the light to take it in," exclaimed Coleman, coming forward; "if one woman says 'No,' there are a hundred others will say 'Yes'; and, after all, it's an open question whether a man's not better off without 'em."

"Eh! Freddy boy, our fine letter's been no go—turned out a regular sell, you see, eh?"

~384~~ "Well, that only proves the young lady's want of taste," replied Coleman; "but we had not exactly a fair start. You have more to bear about it yet; the article you wished for was gone already—the damsel had not a heart to bestow. Tell him how it was, Frank."

Thus urged, I gave a hurried outline of the affair as it really stood, dwelling much on the fact that Oaklands and Fanny had become attached in bygone years, long ere she had ever seen Lawless—which I hoped might afford some slight consolation to his wounded self-love. As I concluded, he exclaimed: "So Fanny's going to marry Harry Oak-lands—that's the long and short of it all. Well, I'm uncommonly glad to hear it—almost as glad as if I was going to marry her myself; there is not a better fellow in the world than Harry, though he has not regarded me with the most friendly looks of late. I was beginning not to like it, I can tell you, and meant to ask him why he did it; but I understand it all now. What a bore I must have been to them both! I declare I'm quite sorry; why, I would not have done it for any money, if I'd been up to the move sooner. Oh! I must tell Harry."

"You certainly are the most good-natured fellow breathing, Lawless," said I.

"Eh! yes, take me in the right way, I am quiet enough, a child may guide me with a snaffle; but stick a sharp bit in my mouth, and tickle my sides with the rowels, and I rear up before, and lash out behind, so that it would puzzle half the rough-riders in the country to back me. I always mean to go ahead straight enough if I can see my way clearly before me, but it's awkward driving when one gets among women, with their feelings, and sympathies, and all that style of article. I'm not used to it, you see, so no wonder if I run foul of their sensibilites and sentimentalities, and capsize a few of them. I've got pretty well knocked over myself though this time. Misfortunes never come alone too, they say; and I've just had a letter from Leatherley to tell me Spiteful got loose when the groom was leading him out to exercise, and trying to leap a fence staked himself so severely that they were obliged to have him shot. I refused eighty guineas for him from Dunham of the Guards only a month ago; I shall have my new tandem cart home, and no horses to run in it."

"How well those chestnuts would look tandem!" observed Coleman carelessly; "I wonder whether Harry would sell them?"

"By Jove! I shouldn't like to ask him," exclaimed Lawless quickly; "it is too much to expect of any man."

~385~~ "Oh! as to that," replied Coleman, "I dare say I could contrive to find it out, without exactly asking him to sell them."

"My dear fellow, if you would, I should be so much obliged to you," replied Lawless eagerly; "if I could but get those horses to start the new cart with, I should be as happy as a king—that is," he continued, checking himself, "I might become so; time, don't you see, resignation, and all that sort of thing—heigh ho!—By the way, how far is it from dinner? for jumping over those confounded chairs has made me uncommonly peckish, I can tell you."

"He'll do," said Coleman, as we separated to prepare for dinner.

It was easy to see by Sir John's beaming face, and the hearty squeeze he gave my hand when I entered the drawing-room, that Harry would not have to fear much opposition to his wishes on the part of his father. The dinner passed off pleasantly enough, though even when the meal was concluded, and the servants had left the room, no allusion was made (out of delicacy to Lawless) to the subject which engrossed the thoughts of many of the party. As soon, however, as the wine had gone the round of the table, Lawless exclaimed: "Gentlemen! are you all charged?" and receiving affirmatory looks from the company in general, he continued, "Then I beg to propose a toast, which you must drink as such a toast ought to be drunk, con amore. Gentlemen, I rise to propose the health of the happy couple that is to be."

"Umph! eh I what?—what are you talking about, sir?—what are you talking about?" inquired Mr. Frampton, hastily setting down his wine untasted, and speaking quickly, and with much excitement.

"Do you see that?" whispered Lawless, nudging me, "he's off on a false scent; he never could bear the idea of my marrying Fanny, he as good as told me so one day; now be quiet, and I'll get a rise out of him." He then continued, addressing Mr. Frampton: "You're getting a little hard of hearing, I'm afraid, sir; I was proposing the health of a certain happy couple, or rather of two people, who will, I hope, become so, in the common acceptation of the term, before very long".

"Umph! I heard what you said, sir, plain enough (wish I hadn't), and I suppose I can guess what you mean. I'm a plain-spoken man, sir, and I tell you honestly I don't like the thing, and I don't approve of the thing—I never have, and so once for all—I—umph! I won't drink your toast, sir, that's flat. Umph! umph!"

~386~~ "Well," said Lawless, making a sign to Harry not to speak, "you are a privileged person, you know; and if Sir John and my friend Harry here don't object to your refusing the toast, it's not for me to take any notice of it; but I must say, considering the lady is the sister of your especial favourite Frank Fairlegh, and the gentleman one whom you have known from boyhood, I take it as particularly unkind of you, Mr. Frampton, not even to wish them well."

"Eh! umph! it isn't that, boy—it isn't that," returned Mr. Frampton, evidently taken aback by this appeal to his kindly feeling. "But, you see," he added, turning to Sir John, "the thing is foolish altogether, they are not at all suited to each other; and instead of being happy, as they fancy, they'll make each other miserable: the boy's a very good boy in his way, kind-hearted and all that, but truth is truth, and he's no more fit to marry Fanny Fairlegh than I am."

"Sorry I can't agree with you, Mr. Frampton," replied Sir John Oaklands, drawing himself up stiffly; "I thank Mr. Lawless most heartily for his toast, and drink it without a moment's hesitation. Here's to the health of the young couple!"

"Well, I see you are all against me," exclaimed Mr. Frampton, "and I don't like to seem unkind. They say marriages are made in heaven, so I suppose it must be all right. Here's the health of the happy couple, Mr. Lawless and Miss Fairlegh!"

It was now Lawless's turn to look out of countenance, and for a moment he did appear thoroughly disconcerted, more especially as it was next to impossible to repress a smile, and Freddy Coleman grinned outright; quickly recovering himself, however, he resumed, "Laugh away, Freddy, laugh away, it only serves me right for playing such a trick. I've been deceiving you, Mr. Frampton; Miss Fairlegh is indeed going to be married, but she has had the good taste to choose a fitter bridegroom than she would have found in such a harum-scarum fellow as I am. So here's a long life, and a merry one, to Fanny Fairlegh and Harry Oaklands; you won't refuse that toast, I dare say?"

"Umph! Harry Oaklands!" exclaimed Mr. Frampton aghast; "and I've been telling Sir John he wasn't good enough for Frank's sister—just like me, umph!"

"My dear Lawless," said Harry, taking a seat next the person he addressed, which movement he accomplished during an immense row occasioned by Mr. Frampton, ~387~~ who was grunting forth a mixed monologue of explanations and apologies to Sir John, by whom they were received with such a hearty fit of laughing that the tears ran down his cheeks—"My dear Lawless, the kind and generous way in which you take this matter makes me feel quite ashamed of my behaviour to you lately, but I think, if you knew how miserable I have been, you would forgive me."

"Forgive you! eh?" returned Lawless; "ay, a precious deal sooner than I can forgive myself for coming here and making you all uncomfortable. Nobody but such a thickheaded ass as I am would have gone on all this time without seeing how the game stood. I hate to spoil sport; if I had had the slightest idea of the truth, I'd have been off out of your way long ago."

"You are a noble fellow!" exclaimed Harry, "and your friendship is a thing to be proud of. If there is any way in which I can testify my strong sense of gratitude, only name it."

"I'll tell you," said Coleman, who had caught the last few words—"I'll tell you what to do to make him all right—sell him your chestnuts."

"The phaeton horses?" replied Harry. "No, I won't sell them."

"Ah! I thought he would not," murmured Lawless, "it was too much to expect of any man."

"But," continued Oaklands, "I am sure my father will join me in saying, that if Lawless will do us the favour of accepting them, nothing would give us greater pleasure than to see them in the possession of one who will appreciate their affections as they deserve."

"Nay, they are your property, Harry," returned Sir John; "I shall be delighted if your friend will accept them, but the present is all your own."

"Eh! give 'em me, all free gratis, and for nothing!" exclaimed Lawless, overpowered at the idea of such munificence. "Why, you'll go and ruin yourself—Queen's Bench, whitewash, and all the rest of it! Recollect, you'll have a wife to keep soon, and that isn't done for nothing they tell me—pin-money, ruination-shops, diamonds, kid gloves, and bonnet ribbons—that's the way to circulate the tin; there are some losses that may be gains, eh? When one comes to think of all these things, it strikes me I'm well out of it, eh, Mr. Frampton?—Mind you, I don't think that really," he added aside to me, "only I want Harry to fancy I don't care two straws about it; he's such a feeling fellow is Harry, lie would not be properly jolly if he thought I took it to heart much."

~388~~ "Umph! if those are your ideas about matrimony, sir," growled Mr. Frampton, "I think you are quite right to leave it alone—puppy-dogs have no business with wives." "Now don't be grumpy, governor," returned Lawless, "when you've had your own way about the toast and all. Take another glass of that old port, that's the stuff that makes your hair curl and look so pretty" [Mr. Framp-ton's chevelure was to be likened only to a grey scrubbing-brush], "we'll send for the new dog-cart to-morrow, and you shall be the first man to ride behind the chestnuts." "Thank ye kindly, I'll take your advice at all events," replied Mr. Frampton, helping himself to a glass of port; "and as to your offer, why I'll transfer that to him (indicating Coleman), 'funny boy,' as I used to call him, when he was a boy, and he doesn't seem much altered in that particular now. Umph!"

This, as was intended, elicited a repartee from Coleman, and the evening passed away merrily, although I could perceive, in spite of his attempts to seem gay, that poor Lawless felt the destruction of his hopes deeply.

On my return to the cottage, the servant informed me that a man had been there, who wished very particularly to see me; that she had offered to send for me, but that he had professed himself unable to wait.

"What kind of looking person was he?" inquired I. "He was an oldish man, sir; very tall and thin, with grey hair, and he rode a little rough pony." "Did he leave no note or message?" "He left this note, sir."

Hastily seizing it, I locked myself into my own room, and tearing open the paper, read as follows:—

"Honoured Sir,—In case I should not see you, has my time will be short, I takes the liburty of writin' a line, and ham 'appy to hinform you, as things seem to me awl a-goin' wrong, leastways I think you'll say so when you 'ears my tail. Muster Richard's been back above a week, and he and the Old Un is up to their same tricks again; but that ain't awl—there's a black-haired pale chap cum with a heye like a nork, as seems to me the baddest of the lot, and that ain't sayin' a little. But there's worse news yet, for I'm afraid we ain't only get to contend hagainst the henemy, but there's a traytur in the camp, and that in a quarter where you cares most. Meet me tomorrow mornin' at the old place at seven o'clock, when you shall 'ear more from, Your umbel servant, to command,

"Peter Barnett, "late Sergeant in the —th Dragoons."

~389~~ Reader, do you wish me a good-night?—many thanks for your kindness, but if you have any hope that your wish will be realised, you must be of a very sanguine temperament, or you have never been in love.



CHAPTER XLVIII — PAYING OFF OLD SCORES

"'Oh most delicate fiend! Who is't can read a woman? Is there more?' 'More, sir, and worse.'" —Cymbeline.

"The Chamberlain was blunt and true, and sturdily said he— 'Abide, my lord, and rule your own, and take this rede from me, That woman's faith's a brittle trust. Seven twelve- months didst thou say? I'll pledge me for no lady's truth beyond the seventh day.'" —Ballad of the Noble Moringer

IT is a weary thing to lie tossing restlessly from side to side, sleepless, through the silent watches of the night, spirit and matter warring against each other—the sword gnawing and corroding its sheath. A weary and harassing thing it is even where the body is the aggressor—when the fevered blood, darting like liquid fire through the veins, mounts to the throbbing brow, and, pressing like molten lead upon the brain, crushes out thought and feeling, leaving but a dull consciousness of the racking agony which renders each limb a separate instrument of torture. If, on the other hand, it be the mind that is pestilence-stricken, the disease becomes well-nigh unbearable, as it is incurable; and thus it was with me on the night in question. The suspense and anxiety I had undergone during the preceding day had indisposed me for sustaining any fresh annoyance with equanimity, and now, in confirmation of my worst fears, that hateful sentence in old Peter's note, warning me of treachery in the quarter where I was most deeply interested, rose up before me like some messenger of evil, torturing me to the verge of distraction with vague doubts and suspicions—fiends which the bright spirits of Love and Faith were powerless to banish. The old man's meaning was obvious; he imagined Clara inconstant, and was anxious to warn me against some supposed rival; this in itself was not agreeable; but I should have reckoned at once that he must be labouring under 390~ some delusion, and disregarded his suspicions as unworthy of a moment's notice, had it not been for Clara's strange and unaccountable silence. I had written to her above a week before—in fact, as soon as I became at all uneasy at not having heard from her, urging her to relieve my anxiety, if but by half a dozen lines. Up to this time I had accounted for not having received any answer, by the supposition that Mr. Vernor had, by some accident, detected our correspondence, and taken measures to interrupt it. But this hypothesis was evidently untrue, or Peter Barnett would have mentioned in his note such an easy solution of the difficulty. Yet, to believe Clara false was treason against constancy. Oh! the thing was impossible; to doubt her sincerity would be to lose my confidence in the existence of goodness and truth on this side the grave! The recollection of her simple, child-like confession of affection—the happiness my love appeared to afford her—the tender glance of those honest, trustful eyes—who could think of these things and suspect her for one moment? But that old man's letter! What did it—what could it mean? His allusion to some dark, hawk-eyed stranger—ha!—and as a strange, improbable idea glanced like lightning through my brain—like lightning, too, searing as it passed—I half sprung from the bed, unable to endure the agony the thought had costume. Reason, however, telling me that the idea was utterly fanciful and without foundation, restrained me from doing—I scarcely know what—something desperately impracticable, which should involve much violent bodily action, and result in attaining some certain confirmation either of my hopes and fears, being my nearest approach to any formed scheme. Oh! that night—that weary, endless night! Would morning never, never come! About five o'clock I arose, lighted a candle, dressed myself, and then, sitting down, wrote a short note to my mother, telling her that an engagement, formed the previous evening, to meet a friend, would probably detain me the greater part of the day; and another note to Oaklands, saying that I had taken the liberty of borrowing a horse, begging him to speak of my absence as a thing of course, and promising to tell him more when I returned. I then waited till a faint grey tint in the eastern sky gave promise of the coming dawn; when letting myself noiselessly out, I took my way towards the Hall. It was beginning to get light as I reached the stables, and, arousing one of the drowsy helpers, I made him saddle a bay mare, with whose high courage, speed, ~391~~ and powers of endurance I was well acquainted, and started on my expedition.

As it was nearly eighteen miles to the place of meeting, I could scarcely hope to reach it by seven o'clock, the time mentioned in old Peter's note; but action was the only relief to my anxiety, and it may easily be supposed I did not lose much time on the road, so that it was but ten minutes after seven when I turned down the lane in which the little alehouse appointed as our rendezvous was situated. I found old Peter waiting to receive me, though the cloud upon his brow, speaking volumes of dark mystery, did not tend to raise my spirits.

"Late on parade, sir," was his greeting—"late on parade; we should never have driven the Mounseers out of Spain if we'd been ten minutes behind our time every morning."

"You forget, my friend, that I have had eighteen miles to ride, and that your notice was too short to allow of my giving orders about a horse over night."

"You do not seem to have lost much time by the way," he added, eyeing my reeking steed. "What a slap-up charger that mare would make! Here, you boy, take her into the shed there, and throw a sack or two over her, wash out her mouth, and give her a lock of hay to nibble; but don't go to let her drink, unless you want my cane about your shoulders—do ye hear? Now, sir, come in."

"What in the world did you mean by that note, Peter?" exclaimed I, as soon as we were alone; "it has nearly driven me distracted—I have never closed my eyes all night."

"Then it's done as I intended," was the satisfactory reply; "it's prepared you for the worst."

"Nice preparation!" muttered I, then added, "Worst! what do you refer to? Speak out, man—you are torturing me!"

"You'll hear it sooner than you like; try and take it easy, young gentleman. Do you feel yourself quite prepared?"

I am afraid my rejoinder was more energetic than correct; but it appeared to produce greater effect than my entreaties had done, for he continued:—

"Well I see you will have it out, so you must, I suppose; only if you ain't prepared proper, don't blame me. As far as I can see and hear—and I keeps my eyes and ears open pretty wide, I can tell you—I feels convinced that Miss Clara's guv you the sack, and gone and taken ~392~~ up with another young man." As he delivered himself of this pleasant opinion, old Peter slowly approached me, and ended by laying his hands solemnly on my shoulders, and, with an expression of fearful import stamped on his grotesque features, nodded thrice in my very face.

"Nonsense!" replied I, assuming an air of indifference I was far from feeling; "such a thing is utterly impossible—you have deceived yourself in some ridiculous manner."

"I only wish as I could think so, for all our sakes, Mr. Fairlegh; but facts is like jackasses, precious stubborn things. Why are they always a-walking together, and talking so loving like, that even the old un hisself looks quite savage about it? And why ain't she never wrote to you since he cum—though she's had all your letters—eh?"

"Then she has received my letters?"

"Oh, yes! she's always had them the same as usual."

"And are you sure she has never written to me?"

"Not as I know on; I've never had one to send to you since she's took up with this other chap."

"And pray who or what is this other chap, as you call him, and how comes he to be staying at Barstone?"

"Well, sir, all as I can tell you about him is, that nigh upon a fortnight ago Muster Richard come home, looking precious ill and seedy; and the wery next morning he had a letter from this chap, as I take it. I brought it to him just as they rung for the breakfast things to be took away, so I had a chance of stopping in the room. Direc'ly he sot eyes on the handwriting, he looked as black as night, and seemed all of a tremble like as he hopened it. As he read he seemed to get less frightened and more cross; and when he'd finished it, he 'anded it to the old un, saying, 'It's all smooth, but he's taken it into his head to come down here. What's to be done, eh? 'Mr. Vernor read it through, and then said in an under tone,' 'Of course he must come if he chooses'. He then whispered something of which I only caught the words, 'Send her away'; to which Richard replied angrily, 'It shall not be; I'll shilly-shally no longer,—it must be done at once, I tell you, or I give the whole thing up altogether'. They then went into the library, and I heard no more; but the wery next day come this here hidentical chap—he arrived in style too—britzska and post-horses. Oh! he's a reg'lar swell, you may depend; he looks something like a Spaniard, a foreigneering style of physiography, only he ain't so swarthy."

~393~~ "Don't you know his name?" inquired I.

"They call him Mr. Fleming, but I don't believe that's his right name; leastways he had a letter come directed different, but I can't remember what it was: it was either—let me see—either a hess or a W; I think it was a hess, but I can't say for certain."

"But what has all this to do with Miss Saville?" asked I impatiently.

"Fair and easy; fair and easy; I'm a-coming to her direc'ly—the world was not made in a day; you'll know sooner than you likes, I expects, now sir. Well, I didn't fancy him from the first; he looks more like Saytin himself than any Christian as ever I set eyes on, except Boneypart, which, being a Frenchman and a henemy, was not so much to be wondered at: however, he was wery quiet and civil, and purlite to Miss Clara, and said wery little to her, while Muster Richard and the old un was by, and she seemed rather to choose to talk to him, as I thought, innocent-like, to avoid the t'other one; but afore long they got quite friends together, and I soon see that he meant business, and no mistake. He's as hartful and deep as Garrick; and there ain't no means of inweigling and coming over a woman as he don't try on her: ay, and he's a clever chap, too; he don't attempt to hurry the thing; he's wery respectful and attentive, and seems to want to show her the difference between his manners and Muster Richard's—not worreting her like; and he says sharp things to make Muster Richard look like a fool before her. I can't help larfing to mysolf sometimes to hear him,—Muster Dickey's met his match at last."

"And how does Cumberland brook such interference?"

"Why, that's what I can't make out; he don't like it, that's clear, for I have seen him turn pale with rage; but he seems afraid to quarrel with him, somehow. If ever he says a sharp word, Mr. Fleming gives him a scowling look with his wicked eyes, and Muster Richard shuts up direc'ly."

"And you fancy Miss Saville appears disposed to receive this man's advances favourably? Think well before you speak; do not accuse her lightly, for, by Heaven! if you have not good grounds for your insinuations, neither your age nor your long service shall avail to shield you from my anger! every word breathed against her is like a stab to me." As, in my grief and irritation, I threatened the old man, his brow reddened, and his eye flashed with all the fire of youth. After a moment's reflection, however, his mood changed, and, advancing towards me, he took ~394~~ my hand respectfully, and pressing it between his own, said:—

"Forgive me this liberty, sir, but I honours you, young gentleman, for your high spirit and generous feeling; your look and bearing, as you said them words, reminded me of my dear old master. It can't be no pleasure to me, sir, to blame his daughter, that I have loved for his sake, as if she had been a child of my own—but truth is truth;" and as he uttered these words, the big drops stood in his eyes, unfailing witnesses of his sincerity. There is something in the display of real deep feeling, which for the time appears to raise and ennoble those who are under its influence; and as the old man stood before me, I experienced towards him a mingled sentiment of admiration and respect, and I hastily endeavoured to atone for the injustice I had done him.

"Forgive me, Peter!" exclaimed I; "I did not mean what I said,—sorrow and annoyance made me unjust to you, but you will forgive it?"

"No need of that, sir," was the reply; "I respects you all the more for it. And now, in answer to your question, I will go on with the little that remains to tell, and you can judge for yourself. Miss Clara, then, avoids Mr. Richard more than hever, and talks kind and pleasant like with this Mr. Fleming—walks out with him, sometimes alone—rides with him—don't seem so dull and mopish like since he's been here, and has never hanswered your letters since she took up with him." As he concluded his catalogue of proofs, I threw myself into a chair, and sat with my hands pressed tightly on my brow for some minutes; my brain seemed on fire.

At length, starting up abruptly, I exclaimed: "This is utterly unbearable! I must have certainty, Peter; I must see her at once. How is that to be done?"

"You may well ask," was his reply; "better wait till I can find an opportunity, and let you know."

"Listen to me, old Peter," continued I, laying my hand on his shoulder; "there is that within me this day which can overcome all obstacles—I tell you I must see her, and I WILL!".

"Well, well, don't put yourself into a passion; the only chance as I knows of is to ketch Miss Clara out walking; and then ten to one Mr. Fleming will be with her."

"Let him!" exclaimed I; "why should I avoid him? I have not injured him, though he may have done me foul and bitter wrong; it is for him to shrink from the encounter."

~395~~ "I know what the end of this will be," returned Peter Barnett; "you'll quarrel; and then, instead of off coats and having it out like Britons, there'll be a purlite hinvitation given, as kind and civil as if you was a-hasking him to dinner, to meet as soon as it's light to-morrow morning, and do you the favour of putting a brace of bullets into you."

"No, Peter, you do not understand my feeling on this subject; should you be right in your suspicions (and, although my faith in your young mistress is such that nothing but the evidence of my own senses can avail to shake it, I am fain to own circumstances appear fully to warrant them)—should these suspicions not prove unfounded, it is her falsehood alone that will darken the sunshine of my future life. Fleming, or any other coxcomb who had taken advantage of her fickleness, would be equally beneath my notice. But enough of this; where shall I be most likely to meet her?"

"You knows the seat in the shrubbery walk under the old beeches, where you saw Miss Clara the first time as ever you cum here?"

"Only too well," answered I, as the recollection of that morning contrasted painfully with my present feelings.

"Well, you be near there about eleven o'clock; and if Miss Clara don't walk that way, I'll send down a boy with hinformation as to the henemy's movements. Keep out of sight as much as you can."

"It shall be done," replied I.

Old Peter paused for a moment; then, raising his hand to his forehead with a military salute, turned away and left me.

Eight o'clock struck; a girl brought me in breakfast; nine and ten sounded from an old clock in the bar, but the viands remained untasted. At a quarter past ten I rang the bell, and asked for a glass of water, drained it, and, pressing my hat over my brow, sallied forth. The morning had been misty when I first started, but during my sojourn at the inn the vapours had cleared away, and as, by the assistance of an old tree, I climbed over the paling of Barstone Park, the sun was shining brightly, wrapping dale and down in a mantle of golden light. Rabbits sprung up under my feet as I made my way through the fern and heather; and pheasants, their varied plumage glittering in the sunlight, ran along my path, seeking to hide their long necks under some sheltering furze brake, or rose heavily on the wing, scared at the unwonted intrusion. At any other time the fair scene ~396~~ around me would have sufficed to make me light-hearted and happy, but in the state of suspense and mental torture in which I then was, the brightness of nature seemed only to contrast the more vividly with the darkness of soul within. And yet I could not believe her false. Oh, no! I should see her, and all would be explained; and as this thought came across me, I bounded eagerly forward, and, anxious to accelerate the meeting, chafed at each trifling obstacle that opposed itself to my progress. Alas! one short hour from that time, I should have been glad had there been a lion in my path, so that I had failed to reach the fatal spot.

With my mind fixed on the one object of meeting Clara, I forgot the old man's recommendation to keep out of sight; and flinging myself at full length on the bench, I rested my head upon my hand, and fell into a reverie, distorting facts and devising impossible contingencies to establish Clara's innocence. From this train of thought I was aroused by a muffled sound as of footsteps upon turf, and in another moment, the following words, breathed in silvery accents, which caused my every pulse to throb with suppressed emotion, reached my ear:—

"It is indeed an engagement of which I now heartily repent, and from which I would willingly free myself; but—"

"But," replied a man's voice, in the cold sneering tone of which, though now softened by an expression of courtesy, I had almost said of tenderness, I instantly recognised that of Stephen Wilford,—"but, having at one time encouraged the poor young man, your woman's heart will not allow you to say 'No' with sufficient firmness to show that he has nothing further to hope."

"Indeed it is not so," replied the former speaker, who, as the reader has doubtless concluded, was none other than Clara Saville; "you mistake me, Mr. Fleming; if a word could prove to him that his suit was hopeless, that word should soon be spoken."

"It is not needed!" exclaimed I, springing to my feet, and suddenly confronting them; "that of which the tongue of living man would have failed to convince me, my ears have heard, and my eyes have seen! It is enough. Clara, from this moment you will be to me as if the grave had closed over you; yet not so, for then I could have loved your memory, and deemed that an angel had left this false and cruel world to seek one better fitted to her bright and sinless nature!—Farewell, Clara! may you be as happy as the recollection (which will haunt you at ~397~~ times, strive as you may to banish it), that by your falsehood you have embittered the life of one who loved you with a deep and true affection, will permit!" and overcome by the agony of my feelings, I leaned against the bench for support, my knees trembling so that I could scarcely stand.

When I appeared before her so unexpectedly, Clara started back and uttered a slight scream; after which, apparently overwhelmed by my vehemence, she had remained perfectly silent; whilst her companion, who had at first favoured me with one of his withering glances, perceiving that I was so completely engrossed as to be scarcely conscious of his presence, resumed his usual manner of contemptuous indifference. He was, however, the first to speak.

"This gentleman, whom I believe I have the pleasure of recognising," and here he slightly raised his hat, "appears, I can scarcely suppose, a friend, but, at all events, an intimate of yours, Miss Saville; if you wish me—that is, if I am at all de trop——" and he stepped back a pace or two, as if only awaiting a hint from her to withdraw, while with his snake-like glance riveted upon her features, he watched the effect of his words.

"No, pray do not leave me, Mr. Fleming," exclaimed Clara hurriedly; "Mr. Fairlegh must see the impossibility of remaining here. I am momentarily expecting Mr. Cumberland and my guardian to join us."

"I leave you," replied I, making an effort to recover myself; "I seek not to pain you by my presence, I would not add to your feelings of self-reproach by look or word of mine;" then, catching Wilford's glance fixed upon me with an expression of gratified malice, I continued, "For you, sir, I seek not to learn by what vile arts you have succeeded thus far in your iniquitous designs; it is enough for me that it should have been possible for you to succeed; my happiness you have destroyed; but I have yet duties to perform, and my life is in the hands of Him who gave it, nor will I risk it by a fruitless quarrel with a practised homicide."

The look of concentrated hatred with which he regarded me during this speech, changed again to scornful indifference, as he replied, with a contemptuous laugh, "Really, sir, you are labouring under some singular delusion; I have no intention of quarrelling; you appear to raise phantoms for the pleasure of combating them. However, as far as I can comprehend the affair, you are imputing to me an honour belonging rather to my friend ~398~~ Cumberland; and here, in good time, he comes to answer for himself. Cumberland, here's a gentleman mistaking me for you, I fancy, who seems labouring under some strange delusions about love and murder; you had better speak to him." As he concluded, Cumberland, attended by a gamekeeper leading a shooting pony, came up, looking flushed and angry.

"I should have been here sooner," he said, addressing Wilford, "but Browne told me he had traced poachers in the park; the footsteps can be otherwise accounted for now, I perceive." He then made a sign for the keeper to approach, and, turning towards me, added, "You are trespassing, sir".

His tone and manner were so insolent and overbearing, that my blood boiled in my veins. Unwilling, however, to bring on a quarrel in such a presence, I restrained my indignation, and replied, "I know not what devil sent you here at this moment, Richard Cumberland; I have been sorely tried, and I warn you not to provoke me further".

"I tell you, you are trespassing, fellow; this is the second time I have caught you lurking about; take yourself off instantly, or—" as he spoke he stepped towards me, raising his cane with a threatening gesture.

"Or what?" inquired I, at length thoroughly roused; and, drawing myself up to my full height, I folded my arms across my chest, and stood before him in an attitude of defiance.

As I did so, he turned deadly pale, and for a moment his resolution seemed to fail him; but catching the sound of Wilford's sneering laugh, and relying on the assistance of the gamekeeper, who, having tied the pony to a tree, was fast approaching the scene of action, he replied, "Or receive the chastisement due to such skulking vagabonds!" and springing upon me, he seized my collar with one hand, while with the other he drew the cane sharply across my shoulders.



To free myself from his grasp by a powerful effort was the work of a moment, while almost at the same time I struck him with my full force, and, catching him on the upper part of the nose, dashed him to the ground, where he lay motionless, and apparently stunned, with the blood gushing from his mouth and nostrils.~399~~



CHAPTER XLIX — MR. FRAMPTON MAKES A DISCOVERY

"In a tandem I see nothing to induce the leader to keep his course straightforward, but an address on the part of the charioteer as nearly as can be supernatural.... And, for my own part, I think leaders of tandems are particularly apt to turn short round. And the impudence with which they do it, in some instances, is past all description, staring all the while full in the faces of those in the carriage, as much as to say, 'I must have a peep at the fools behind that are pretending to manage me'." —Thinks I to Myself.

"But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so Keen the desire to see his home again, He thought himself in duty bound to do so. Lonely he felt at times as Robin Crusoe." —Beppo.

ALL that passed immediately after the events I have described left but a succession of vague and confused images on my memory. I have some dim recollection of seeing them raise Cumberland from the ground, and of his showing symptoms of returning animation; but I remember nothing distinctly till I again found myself a tenant of the little sanded parlour in the village inn. My first act was to ring for a basin of cold water and a towel, with which I well bathed my face and head; in some degree refreshed by this process, I sat down and endeavoured to collect my scattered senses.

I had succeeded in my immediate object, and suspense was at an end. I had obtained certain proof of Clara's falsehood; with her own lips I had heard her declare that she repented her engagement, and wished to be freed from it; and the person to whom she had confided this was a man whose attentions to her were so marked that even the very servants considered him an acknowledged suitor. What encouragement could be more direct than this? Well, then, she was faithless, and the dream of my life had departed. But this was not all; my faith in human nature was shaken—nay, destroyed at a blow. If she could prove false, whom could I ever trust again? Alas! the grief—the bitter, crushing grief—when the consciousness is forced upon us that one with whom we have held sweet interchange of thought and feeling—with whom we have been linked by all the sacred ties of mutual confidence—with whose sorrows we have sympathised, and ~400~~ whose smiles we have hailed as the freed captive hails the sunshine and the dews of heaven—that one whom for these things we have loved with all the deepest instincts of an earnest and impassioned nature, and for whose truth we would have answered as for our own, is false and unworthy such true affection—oh! this is bitter grief indeed! Deep sorrow, absorbing all the faculties of the soul, leaves no room for any other emotion; and in the one idea, that Clara Saville—Miss Clara Saville, whom my imagination had depicted the simple, the loving, the true-hearted—was lost to me for ever, I forgot for somc time the existence of Wilford or the fact that in my anger I had stricken down and possibly seriously injured Cumberland. But as the first agony of my grief began to wear off, I became anxious to learn the extent of the punishment I had inflicted on him, and accordingly despatched a boy to Peter Barnett, requesting him to send me word how matters stood.

During his absence it occurred to me that, as Wilford had been introduced to her under a feigned name, Clara must be utterly ignorant of the evil reputation attaching to him, and that—although this did, not in any way affect her heartless conduct towards me—it was only right that she should be made aware of the true character of the man with whom she had to deal; therefore, painful as it was to hold any communication with her after what had passed, 1 felt that the time might come when my neglect of this duty might afford me cause for the most bitter self-reproach. Accordingly, asking for pen, ink, and paper, I sat down and wrote the following note:—

"After the occurrences of this morning, I had thought never, either by word or letter, to hold further communication with you; by your own act you have separated us for ever; and I—yes, I can say it with truth—am glad that it should be so—it prevents all conflict between reason and feeling. But I have what I deem a duty to perform towards you—a duty rendered all the more difficult, because my motives are liable to cruel misconstruction; but it is a duty, and therefore must be done. You are, probably, as little aware of the true character of the man calling himself Fleming as of his real name; of him may be said, as of the Italian of old, that 'his hate is fatal to man, and his love to woman'; he is alike notorious as a duellist and a libertine. My knowledge of him arises from his having in a duel wounded, almost unto death, the dearest friend I have on earth, who had saved an innocent girl from adding to his list of victims. If you ~401~~ require proof of this beyond my word, ask Mr. Stephen Wilford—for such is really his name—in your guardian's presence, whether he remembers Lizzie Maurice and the smart of Harry Oaklands' horsewhip. And now, having warned you, your fate is under your own control. For what is past I do not reproach you; you have been an instrument in the hands of Providence to wean my affections from this world, and if it is His good pleasure that, instead of a field for high enterprise and honest exertion, I should henceforth learn to regard it as a scene of broken faith and crushed hopes, it is not for me to rebel against His will. And so farewell for ever!—F. F."

I had not long finished writing the above when the boy returned, bringing the following missive from old Peter:—

"Honoured Sir,

"The topper as you've give Muster Richard ain't done him no more harm, only lettin' hout a little of his mad blood, and teachin' 'im when he speaks to a gemman to haddress 'im as sich; 'is face is swelled as big as too, and he'll 'ave a sweet pair of black hyes to-morrer, please goodness, which is a comfort to reflect on. Touchin' uther matturs, I've got scent of summut as may make things seeme not so black as we thort, but it's honly in the hegg at present, and may never come to a chickin, so don't go settin' too much on it; but if you've nothin' better to do, ride over agen the day arter to-morrer, by which time I may have more to communicate, "Your humbel servent to command,

"Peter Barnett."

I pondered for some minutes on what this enigmatical document might portend; but a little reflection served to convince me that neither Peter nor any one else could discover aught affecting the only feature of the whole affair which deeply interested me; on that point I had obtained the information of my own senses, and there was nothing more to hope or fear. I had learned the worst; the blow had fallen, and it only remained for me to bear it with what fortitude I might. Accordingly I enclosed my note to Clara in one to Peter Barnett, telling him I could see no reason for coming there again, and that in all probability I should not take the trouble of doing so, adding that if he had anything new to communicate he had better do so in writing; and then, ordering my horse, I rode slowly home, feeling more ~402~~ thoroughly miserable than I had ever done before in the whole course of my life.

The next morning was so fine that all kinds of pleasurable schemes were proposed and acceded to. Oaklands and Fanny rode out together in all the unrestrained freedom of an engaged tete-a-tete. The new dog-cart had arrived, and the chestnuts were to make their debut; consequently, Lawless spent the morning in the stable-yard, united by the closest bonds of sympathy with the head-groom and an attendant harness-maker, the latter being a young man whose distinguishing characteristics were a strong personal savour of new leather, hands gloved in cobbler's wax and harness-dye, and a general tendency to come off black upon everything he approached. Sir John and the rest of the party were to fill a britchska, and the place of rendezvous was the ruins of an old abbey about eight miles distant.

Feeling quite unfit for society, I had excused myself on the plea (not altogether a false one) of a bad headache, and having witnessed their departure from the library window, I drew an easy-chair to the fire, and prepared to enjoy the luxury (in my then state of feeling an unspeakable one) of solitude. But I was not fated to avail myself of even this small consolation, for scarcely ten minutes had elapsed when the library door was opened, and Mr. Frampton made his appearance.

"Umph! eh! umph!" he began; "I've been seeing that young fool Lawless start in his new tandem, as he calls it. A pretty start it was too; why, the thing's as high as a stage-coach—ought to have a ladder to get up—almost as bad as mounting an elephant! And then the horses, fiery devils! two men at each of their noses, and enough to do to hold 'em even so! Well, out comes Master Lawless, in a greatcoat made like a coal-sack, with buttons as big as five-shilling pieces, a whip as long as a fishing-rod in his hand, and a cigar in his mouth. 'There's a picture!' says he. 'A picture of folly,' says I; 'you're never going to be mad enough to trust yourself up there Behind those vicious brutes?' 'Come, governor, jump in, and let's be off,' was all the answer I got. 'Thank ye,' says I; 'when you see me jumping in that direction, pop me into a strait-waistcoat, and toddle me off to Bedlam.' 'Eh! won't you go? Tumble in then, Shrimp!' 'Please, sir, it's so high I can't reach it.' 'We'll soon see about that!' cries Lawless, flanking him with the long whip. Well, the little wretch scrambled up somehow, like a monkey; and as soon as he was ~403~~ safely landed, what does he do but lean back, fold his arms, and winking at one of the helpers, squeak out, 'Oh, crickey! ain't this spicy, just!' 'You're never going to take that poor child?' says I; 'only think of his anxious mother! 'Well, sir, if you'll believe it, they every one of 'em burst out laughing—helpers, brat and all—as if I'd said something very ridiculous. 'Never mind, governor,' says Lawless; 'depend upon it, his mother knows he's out,' and catching hold of the reins, he clambers up into his seat, shouting, 'Give 'em their heads! Stand clear! Chut! chut! 'As soon as the brutes found they were loose, instead of starting off at a jog-trot, as reasonable, well-behaved horses ought to do, what do you suppose they did? The beast they tied on in front turned short round, stared Lawless in the face, and stood up on its hind legs like a kangaroo, while the other animal would not stir a peg, but, laying down his ears, gave a sort of a screech, and kicked out behind. 'Pretty, playful things,' said Lawless, flipping the ashes off the end of his cigar. 'Put his head straight, William. Chut! chut! 'But the more he chutted the more they wouldn't go, and began tearing and rampaging about the yard till I thought they'd be over me, so I scrambled up a little low wall to get out of their way, missed my footing, and tumbled over backwards on to a dung-heap, and before I got up again they were off; but if that young jackanapes don't break his neck some of those days, I'm a Dutchman! Umph! umph!"

"Lawless is a capital whip," replied I, "and the chestnuts, though fiery, are not really vicious. I don't think there is much danger."

"Ah young men! young men! you're all foolish alike. I don't know how you'd get on, if you hadn't a few old stagers like me to think for you and give you good advice.—And that puts me in mind that I want to have half an hour's serious conversation with you, Frank. Can you listen to me now?"

"I am quite at your service, sir," replied I, resigning myself to my fate with the best grace I could command.

"Umph! Well, you see, Frank, I've no chick nor child of my own, and I've taken a kind of a fancy to you from a boy; you were always a good boy and a clever boy, and you've gone on well at college, and distinguished yourself, and have been a credit to the man that sent you there.—By the bye, didn't you ever want to know who it was sent you there?"

"Often and often," replied I, "have I longed to know ~404~~ to whose disinterested kindness and generosity I was indebted for so great an advantage."

"Umph! Well, you must be told some day, I suppose, so you may as well know now as at any other time. The man that sent you to college ain't very unlike me in the face. Umph!"

"My dear, kind friend," replied I, seizing his hand and pressing it warmly, "and is it indeed you who have taken such interest in me? How can I ever thank you?"

"I want no thanks, boy; you did better than thank me when you came out fourth wrangler; why, I felt as proud that day when they were all praising you as if it had been my own son. Say no more about that; but now you've left college, what are your wishes—what do you think of doing? Umph!"

"I had thought of reading for the bar, deeming it a profession in which a man stands a fair chance of distinguishing himself by honourable exertion; I am aware it is somewhat uphill work at starting, but Mr. Coleman has promised to introduce me to several men in his branch of the profession, and to give me all the business he can himself, so I should not be quite a briefless barrister. But if there is anything else you wish to recommend, any other career you would advise me to pursue, I am very indifferent, that is, I am not at all bigoted to my own opinion."

"Umph! I never had any over-strong affection for lawyers—gentlemen that eat the oysters themselves and leave their clients the shells! However, I suppose there may be such things as honest lawyers to be met with, and it's better for every man to have a profession. Well, now, listen to me, Frank, I—umph!—your sister's going to be married, to be married to a young man for whom I've a very great respect and affection; Sir John Oaklands is a thorough specimen of a fine old English gentleman, and his son bids fair to become just such another, or even a yet higher character, for Harry's got the better headpiece of the two. However, I don't like your sister to marry into such a family without a little money of her own to buy a wedding-bonnet; so you give her this letter, and tell her to mind and get a becoming one. We may trust a woman to take care of that, though, eh, Frank? Umph!"

"Really, sir, your kindness quite overpowers me; we have no possible claim upon your liberality."

"Yes, you have, boy—yes, you have," replied Mr. Frampton, "the strongest claim that can be; you have ~405~~ saved me from falling a victim to the worst disease a man can suffer under—you have saved me from becoming a cold-hearted, soured misanthrope; you have given me something to love, some pure unselfish interest in life. And now we are on this subject, I may as well tell you all my plans and wishes in regard to you: I have no soul belonging to me, not a relation in the wide world that I am aware of, and I determined, from the time when I first sent you to college, that if you conducted yourself well and honourably, I would make you my heir.—Don't interrupt me," he continued, seeing that I was about to speak, "let me finish what I have to say, and then you shall tell me whether you approve of it. You not only came up to, but far surpassed, my most sanguine expectations, and I saw therefore no reason to alter my original intentions. But it is stupid work for a man to wait till all the best days of his life are passed, without funds sufficient to render him independent, to feel all his energies cramped, his talents dwarfed, and his brightest aspirations checked, by a servile dependence on the will and caprice of another—waiting for dead men's shoes—umph! and so, Frank, as I feel pretty tough and hearty for sixty-five, and may live, if it please God, another ten or fifteen years to plague you, it's my wish to make you your own master at once, and I'll either assist you to enter any profession you please, or if you like to settle down into a country gentleman, and can pick up a nice wife anywhere, I can allow you one thousand pounds a year to begin with, and yet have more than I shall know how to spend during the rest of my days in the land of the living. For my own part, this last plan would give me the greatest satisfaction, for I should like to see you comfortably married and settled before I die. Now, what do you say to it? Umph!"

What did I say?—what could I say? I got up, and having once again pressed his hands warmly between my own, began pacing the room, quite overcome by this unexpected liberality, and the conflicting nature of my own feelings. But two short days ago, and such an offer would have been—as I then fondly imagined—the only thing wanting to secure my happiness; possessed of such ample means of supporting her, I could at once have gone boldly to Mr. Vernor, and demanded Clara's hand—nor could he have found just cause for refusing my request; and now, when what once appeared the only insurmountable obstacle to our union was thus removed, the thought that, by her faithlessness and inconstancy, she had placed ~406~~ a barrier between us for ever, was indeed bitter. Surprised by the excess of my emotion, for which, of course, he was totally unable to account, Mr. Frampton sat gazing at me with looks of astonishment and dismay, till at length he broke out with the following interrogatory, "Umph! eh? why, Frank—umph! anybody would think you had just heard you were going to be arrested for debt, instead of having a fortune given you—Umph!"

"My dear, kind friend," replied I, "forgive me. Your unparalleled liberality, and the generous interest you take in me, give you a father's right over me, and entitle you to my fullest confidence; such an offer as you have now made me would have rendered me, but one short week ago, the happiest of mortals; now, my only chance of regaining anything like tranquillity of mind lies in constant and active employment."

I then gave him as briefly as I could an outline of my singular acquaintance with Clara Saville, our engagement, and the events which had led to my breaking it off, to all of which he listened with the greatest interest and attention. In telling the tale I mentioned Wilford and Cumberland by name, as he knew the former by reputation, and had seen the latter when a boy at Dr. Mildman's; but I merely spoke of Clara as a young lady whom I had met at Mr. Coleman's, and of Mr. Vernor as her guardian. When I concluded, he remained for a moment buried in thought, and then said, "And you are quite sure she is false? Are you certain that what you heard her say (for that seems to me the strongest point) referred to you?"

"Would I could doubt it!" replied I, shaking my head mournfully.

"Umph!—Well, I dare say—she's only like all the rest of her sex: it's a pity the world can't go on without any women at all,—what is her name?—a jilt!"

"Her name," replied I, shuddering as he applied the epithet of jilt to her—for, deserved as I could not but own it was, it yet appeared to me little short of profanation—"her name is Clara Saville."

"Umph! eh? Saville!" exclaimed Mr. Frampton. "What was her mother's name? Umph!"

"I never heard," replied I. "Her father, Colonel Saville, was knighted for his gallant conduct in the Peninsula. Her mother, who was an heiress, died abroad: her guardian, Mr. Vernor—"

"Umph! Vernor, eh! Vernor! Why that's the fellow who wrote to me and told me—Umph! wait a bit, I shall be back directly. I—eh!—umph! umph! umph!"

~407~~ And so saying, Mr. Frampton rushed out of the room in a perfect paroxysm of grunting. It was now my turn to be astonished, and I was so most thoroughly. What could possibly have caused Mr. Frampton to be so strangely affected at the mention of Clara's name and that of her guardian? Had he known Mr. Vernor in former days? Had he been acquainted with Clara's father or mother? Could he have been attached to her as I had been to Clara, and like me, too, have become the dupe of a heartless jilt? A jilt—how I hated the word! how the blood boiled within me when that old man applied it to her! And yet it was the truth. But oh! the heart-spasm that darts through our breast when we hear some careless tongue proclaim, in plain intelligible language, the fault of one we love—a fault which, even at the moment when we may be suffering from it most deeply, we have striven sedulously to hide from others, and scarcely acknowledged definitely to ourselves. In vague musings, such as these, did I pass away the time till Mr. Frampton returned. As he approached, the traces of strong emotion were visible on his countenance; and when he spoke his voice sounded hoarse and broken.

"The ways of God are indeed inscrutable," he said. "Information, which for years I have vainly sought, and would gladly have given half my wealth to obtain, has come to me when I least expected it; and, in place of joy, has brought me deepest sorrow. Frank, my poor boy! she who has thus wrung thy true heart by her cruel falsehood is my niece, the orphan child of my sister!"

In reply to my exclamations of surprise, he proceeded to inform me that his father, a man of considerable property in one of the midland counties, had had three children: himself, an elder brother, and a sister some years his junior, whose birth deprived him of a mother's love. His brother tyrannised over him; and on the occasion of his father's second marriage, he was sent to school, where he was again unfortunate enough to meet with harsh treatment, against which his high spirit rebelled; and having no better counsellors than his own inexperience and impetuosity, he determined to run away and go to sea. A succession of accidents conspired to prevent his return to his native country, until, being taken as clerk in a merchant's counting-house at Calcutta, he was eventually admitted into partnership, and acquired a large fortune. As he advanced beyond middle life, he felt a strong wish to return to England, seek out his family, and revisit the scenes of his boyhood; but on carrying ~408~~ his project into execution, he learned that his father and brother had both paid the debt of nature, while his sister, the only one of his relatives towards whom he had ever entertained much affection, had married a Colonel Saville; and having accompanied her husband to Spain, had died there without leaving any offspring. The last piece of information he had acquired from a Mr. Vernor, to whom he had been recommended to apply. His surprise, therefore, when he heard of the existence of Clara, may easily be imagined. A long conversation ensued between us, with the consequences of which the reader will be better acquainted when he shall have read the following chapter.



CHAPTER L — A RAY OF SUNSHINE

"When you shall please to play the thief for a wife, I'll watch as long for you." —Shakspeare.

"Hold! give me a pen and ink! Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver a supplication? —Titus Andronicus.

THE result of my conversation with Mr. Frampton was, that I agreed to ride over on the following day to the little inn at Barstone, see old Peter Barnett, hear his report, and learn from him further particulars concerning Clara Saville's parentage, in order to establish beyond the possibility of doubt the fact of her relationship to Mr. Frampton, who, in the event of his expectations proving well-founded, was determined to assert his claim, supersede Mr.Vernor in his office of guardian, and endeavour, by every means in his power, to prevent his niece's marriage either with Wilford or Cumberland. The only stipulation I made was, that when I had obtained the requisite information, he should take the affair entirely into his own hands, and, above all, promise me never to attempt, directly or indirectly, to bring about a reconciliation between Clara and myself. Not that I bore her any ill-will for the misery she had caused me. On the contrary, my feeling towards her had been from the very first one of grief rather than of anger. But a girl who could possibly have acted as Clara had done, was not one whom I ever should wish to make my wife. I could not marry a woman I despised.

After Mr. Frampton had left me, I sat pondering on the singular train of circumstances (chances, as we unwisely, if not sinfully, term them) which occur in a ~409~~ man's life—how events which change the whole current of our existence appear to hang upon the merest trifles—the strange, mysterious influence we exercise over the destinies of each other—how by a word, a look, we may heal an aching heart or—break it. It is, I think, in a poem of Faber's that the following lines occur—(I quote from memory, and therefore, perhaps, incorrectly):—

"Perchance our very souls Are in each other's hands."

Life is, indeed, a fearful and wonderful thing—doubly fearful when we reflect, that every moment we expend for good or evil is a seed sown to blossom in eternity. As I thought on these things, something which Mr. Frampton had said, and which at the time I let pass without reflection, recurred to my mind. He had asked me whether I was certain that the words I heard Clara address to Wilford referred to me. Up to this moment I had felt perfectly sure they did; but after all, was it so certain? might they not equally well apply to Cumberland? was there a chance, was it even possible, that I had misunderstood her? Oh, that I dare hope it! gladly would I seek her pardon for the injustice I had done her—gladly would I undergo any probation she might appoint, to atone for my want of faith in her constancy, even if it entailed years of banishment from her presence, the most severe punishment my imagination could devise; but then the facts, the stubborn, immovable facts, my letters received and unanswered—the confidential footing she was on with Wilford—the—But why madden myself by recapitulating the hateful catalogue? I had learned the worst, and would not suffer myself to be again beguiled by the mere phantom of a hope. And yet, so thoroughly inconsistent are we, that my heart felt lightened of half its burden; and when the pleasure-seekers returned from their expedition, I was congratulated by the whole party upon the beneficial effects produced on my headache by perfect rest and quiet. Lawless and Coleman made their appearance some half-hour after the others, and just as Mr. Frampton had promulgated the cheering opinion that they would be brought home on shutters, minus their brains, if they ever possessed any. It seemed the chestnuts having at starting relieved their minds by the little ballet d'action which had excited Mr. Frampton's terrors, did their work in so fascinating a manner, that Lawless, not being satisfied with Shrimp's declaration that "they ~410~~ was the stunnin'est 'orses as hever he'd sot hyes on," determined (wishing to display their perfections to a higher audience) that one of the party should accompany him on his return; whereupon Freddy Coleman had been by common consent selected, much against his will. However, "the victim," as he termed himself, escaped without anything very tremendous happening to him, the chestnuts (with the slight exception of running away across a common, rushing through a flock of geese, thereby bringing a premature Michaelmas on certain unfortunate individuals of the party in a very reckless and unceremonious manner, and dashing within a few inches of a gravel-pit, in a way which was more exciting than agreeable) having conducted themselves (or more properly speaking, allowed themselves to be conducted) as well-bred horses ought to do.

When the party separated to prepare for dinner, I called Fanny on one side, and gave her Sir. Frampton's letter: on opening it a banker's order for three thousand pounds dropped out of it—a new instance of my kind friend's liberality, which really distressed more than it gratified me.

During the course of the evening Harry Oaklands expressed so much anxiety about my ill looks, appearing almost hurt at my reserve, that I could hold out no longer, but was forced to take him into my confidence.

"My poor Frank!" exclaimed he, wringing my hand warmly, as I finished the recital, "to think that you should have been suffering all this sorrow and anxiety, while I, selfishly engrossed by my own feelings, had not an idea of it; but you ought to have told me sooner."

"Perhaps I should; but it has been, from the very beginning, such a strange, melancholy affair, so unlikely ever to turn out happily, that I have felt a strong repugnance to speak of it to any one; and even now I must beg you not to mention it to Fanny, at all events till my last act in the business is performed, and Mr. Frampton takes the matter into his own hands."

"After all," rejoined Oaklands, "I feel there must be some mistake; she never can be false to you—never love that villain Wilford. Oh, Frank! how can you bear to doubt her?"

"It is indeed misery to do so," replied I, sighing deeply; "and yet, when one's reason is convinced, it is weakness to give way to the suggestions of feeling."

"If Fanny were to prove false to me, I should lie down and die," exclaimed Oaklands vehemently.

"You might wish to do so," replied I; "but grief does ~411~~ not always kill; if it did, in many cases it would lose half its bitterness."

A look was his only answer, and we parted for the night.

Daylight the next morning found me again in the saddle, and I reached the little inn by eight o'clock. On my arrival, I despatched a messenger to old Peter Barnett, telling him I wished to see him, and then, determining that I would not allow myself to hope, only again to be disappointed, I rang for breakfast, and set resolutely to work to demolish it; in which I succeeded very respectably, merely stopping to walk round the room and look out of the window between every second mouthful. At length my envoy returned, with a message to the effect that Mr. Barnett would come down in the course of the morning, but that I was by no means to go away without seeing him, and that he hoped I would be careful not to show myself, as the enemy were out in great force, and all the sentries had been doubled.

"What does he mean by that?" inquired I of the boy who delivered the message—an intelligent little urchin, who was evidently well up in the whole affair, and appeared highly delighted at the trust reposed in him, to say nothing of the harvest of sixpences his various missions produced him.

"Vy, sir, he means that the gamekeeper has had two extra assistants allowed him since you vos there the other day, sir, and they has strict orders to take hup anybody as they finds in the park, sir."

"They need not alarm themselves," replied I; "I shall not intrude upon their domain again in a hurry. Now look out, and let me know when Peter Barnett is coming."

So saying, I gave him the wished-for sixpence, and with a grin of satisfaction he departed.

With leaden feet the hours crawled along, and still old Peter Barnett did not make his appearance; when, about twelve o'clock, a horseman passed by, followed by a groom. As he rode at a very quiet pace, his face was easily recognised, and I saw at a glance it was Mr. Vernor. Fortunately he never looked towards the window at which I was standing, or he must have seen me. Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed, when old Peter arrived, breathless from the speed at which he had come; his grotesque but expressive features gleaming with delight and sagacity, while his merry little eyes danced and twinkled as if they would jump out of their sockets. Reassured, in spite of myself, by his manner, I exclaimed, as I closed the parlour ~412~~ door behind him, "Well, Peter; speak out, man—what is it?"

"Oh! my breath!" was the reply, "running don't suit old legs like it does young uns. I say, sir, did ye see him go by?"

"I saw Mr. Vernor pass a few minutes since," replied I.

"Ah! that's what I've been a-waiting for; we're safe from him for the next four hours: he didn't see you, did he?"

"No," returned I, "he was fortunately looking another way."

"Well, it's all right then, everything's all right; oh! lor, I'm so happy."

"It's more than I am," replied I angrily; for feeling convinced that nothing could have occurred materially to affect the position in which Clara and I stood towards each other, the old man's joy grated harshly on my gloomy state of mind, and I began to attribute his excessive hilarity to the influence of the ale-tap. "You will drive me frantic with your ridiculous and unseasonable mirth. If you have anything to communicate likely to relieve my sorrow and anxiety, in the name of common sense speak out, man."

"I beg your pardon, sir; I was so happy myself, I was forgetting you: I've got so much to tell you, I don't know where to begin rightly; but, however, here goes—to the right-about face! March!" He then proceeded to give me, with much circumlocution, which I will mercifully spare the reader, the following account. After he had left me at the conclusion of our last interview, feeling, as he said, "more wretcheder" than he had ever done before, in going through the park, he observed two persons, a man and a woman, in close conversation; on his approach they separated, but not until he had been able to recognise Wilford, and one of the female servants, Clara's personal attendant. "This," as he continued, "set him a-thinking," and the result of his cogitations occasioned the mysterious hint thrown out to me in his note. On receiving my letter for Clara, he found an opportunity of delivering it in person, inquiring, when he did so, both when she had last heard from, and written to, me; at the same time informing her that he had a very particular reason for asking. He then learned what he had more than suspected from the interview he had witnessed in the park, namely, that since Wilford had been in the house, she had not only never received one of my letters, but had written to me more than once to ascertain the ~413~~ cause of such an unaccountable silence. These letters she had, as usual, given to her maid to convey to Peter Barnett; and the girl, cajoled and bribed by Wilford, had evidently given them to him instead. This induced Peter, as he expressed it, "to open his heart to his young mistress," and with deep contrition he confessed to her the suspicions he had entertained of her fickleness, how he had communicated them to me, and how circumstances had forced me to believe them. Clara, naturally much distressed and annoyed by this information, blamed him for not having spoken to her sooner, assured him that he had wronged her deeply in imagining such things, and desired him somewhat haughtily to lose no time in undeceiving Mr. Fairlegh. He then inquired whether she wished to send any answer to my note; on which she read it through with a quivering lip, and replied, "Yes, tell him, that as he finds it so easy to believe evil of me, I agree with him that it will be better our acquaintance should terminate". She then motioned to him to leave the room, and he was obliged to obey; but, glancing at her as he closed the door, he perceived that she had covered her face with her hands, and was weeping bitterly. He next set to work with the waiting-maid, and by dint of threats of taking her before Mr. Vernor, and promises, if she confessed all, that he would intercede with Clara for her forgiveness, he elicited from her the whole truth—namely, that by the joint influence of bribes and soft speeches, Wilford had induced her to hand over to him her mistress's letters, and that he had detained every one either to or from me. "Well, sir," continued he, "that was not such a bad day's work altogether, but I ain't been idle since. Mr. Fleming, or Wilford, as you says he is, started off the first thing this morning for London, and ain't cumming back till the day after to-morrow; so, thinks I, we'll turn the tables upon you, my boy, for once—that ere letter dodge was very near a-ruining us, I wonder how it will hact the t'other way: and a lucky thought it was too, Muster Fairlegh, for sich a scheme of willainy as I've descivered all dewised against poor dear Miss Clara—"

"A scheme against Miss Saville!" exclaimed I; "what do you mean?"

"I'm a-going to tell you, sir, only you're in such a hurry, you puts me out. After the thought as I was a-mentioning cum into my head, off I w ~414~~ with you, ain't ye?' 'Let's look, my man,' says I, peeping over him as he sorted the letters. Presently he cum to one as seemed to puzzle him. 'W. I. L.,' says he, 'W.I. L. F.—' 'Oh!' says I, 'that's the gent as is a-stay-ing at our 'ouse, give us 'old on it.' 'And here's one for Mr. Wernor, and that's all,' says he, and he guv me the letter and walked off. 'That's right, Peter,' says I to myself, 'we shall know a little more of the henemy's movements, now we've captivated some of their private despatches, by a coo-dur-mang, as the Mounseers call it; 'so I locks myself into the pantry, and sits down, and breaks the seal."

"You opened the letter!" exclaimed I.

"In course I did; how was I to read it if I hadn't? all's fair in love and war, you know—the blessed Duke of Wellington served Bony so many a time, I'll be bound; besides, hadn't he opened Miss Clara's, the blackguard? Well, sir, I read it, and it's lucky as I did; oh! he's a bad un, he's a deal wickeder than Muster Richard hisself, and that's saying something—it's from a Captain —"

"Really, Peter, I cannot avail myself of information obtained in such a manner," interrupted I.

"Ah! but you must though," was the reply, "if you want to prevent this black willain from carrying off Miss Clara, and marrying her, nolus bolus."

"Carrying off Miss Clara! what do you mean?"

"I was a-going to tell you," returned old Peter, with a cunning grin, producing a crumpled letter, "only' you wouldn't listen to me."

As I (not being prepared with a satisfactory answer) remained silent, he smoothed the letter with his hand, and read as follows:—

"My dear Sir,—I was unfortunately out of town when your letter arrived, and it had to be sent after me; but I hope you will get this in time to prevent your having to come to London., which is unnecessary, as I have been able to carry out all your arrangements as you would wish. A carriage, with four horses, will be kept in readiness, so that it can be brought to any point you may direct at half an hour's notice. I presume you and I, with Wilson [that's his valet], are sufficient to carry off the girl—young lady, I mean, even if there be any papa or brother in the case, who would be the better for a little knocking down; but if you like more assistance, I can lay my hand on two or three sprightly lads, who would be very glad to make themselves useful. You are flying at high game this time. Do you really mean matrimony, or is it to be the ~415~~ old scheme, a mock marriage? I ask, because in the latter case I must look out for somebody to play parson. Wishing you your usual luck,

"I remain, yours to command,

"Ferdinand Spicer, "Captain in the Bilboa Fencibles."

"Spicer!" I exclaimed, as he concluded; "I knew a Captain Spicer once, who was a person likely enough to lend himself to a scheme of this vile nature. Well, Peter, the information is most important, however questionable the means by which it has been acquired. The matter must be looked to; but first, I want to learn a few particulars about Miss Saville's relations on the mother's side." I then proceeded with a string of questions furnished me by Mr. Frampton, by the answers to which I ascertained, beyond a doubt, that Clara was indeed his niece, the orphan child of his favourite sister. Having established this point to my own satisfaction, and the unbounded delight of Peter Barnett, who at length began to entertain a not unreasonable hope that his pet daydream of kicking Mr. Vernor out of Barstone Priory might, at some time or other be realised, I said, "Now, Peter, I must somehow contrive to see your young mistress, and try to obtain her forgiveness; but as I cannot say I managed the matter over-well the other day, I will put myself into your hands, to be guided by you entirely".

"Ah! I thought what was a-coming; well, that is speaking sensible-like for once; but do you think you could write anything as would persuade her to meet you? She's precious angry, I'm afraid, with us both, and small blame to her either; for hit ain't over-pleasant to be suspected when one's innocent, and she has a high spirit, bless her!—she wouldn't be her father's own daughter if she hadn't."

"I can write a few lines to her, and try," replied I mournfully, for the old man's words sounded like a death knell to my hopes.

"Come, don't be out of spirits, and down-casted-like, sir," urged Peter; "suppose she did make up her mind she'd give you the cold shoulder, she'd be sure to change it again to-morrow, women is such wersytile creeturs; besides, she couldn't do it if she wanted to; it would break her heart, I know. I wonder where she'd find such another sweetheart?" continued he, sotto voce, as he turned to get the writing materials; "good-looking, high-spirited, uncommon pleasant to talk to, six foot one ~416~~ if he's an inch, and as upright as if I'd had the drilling of him myself."

With an eager, yet trembling hand (for I was in such a state of agitation that I could scarcely write), I snatched a pen, and hastily scrawled the following words:—

"Clara, will you—can you forgive me? It is of the utmost importance that I should see you and speak to you without delay, if but for five minutes; strange and unexpected things have come to light, and it is necessary for your happiness, nay, even for your very safety, that you should be made acquainted with them. Clara, dearest Clara, grant me this boon, if not for my sake, for your own; if you knew the misery, the agony of mind I have endured for the last two days, I think you would pity, would pardon me.

"F. F."

"There," said I, as I hastily sealed it, "I have done all I can, and if she will not see me, I shall be ready to go and blow Wilford's brains out first, and my own afterwards. So, my good Peter, be off at once, for every moment seems an hour till I learn her decision."

"Wait a bit, sir,—wait a bit; you haven't heard my plan yet. You can't set your foot in the park, for there's the keeper and two assistants on the look out; and if you could, you dare not show your nose in the house, for there's Muster Richard with his lovely black hyes a-setting in the liberary, and he's got ears like an 'are, besides two or three of the servants as would tell him in a minute. No, this is the way I means to manage—Miss Clara generally rides a-horseback every day, and I rides behind her; and before I came out, I ordered the horses as usual. So, if she's willing to come, we'll go out at the back gate by the great oak, a quarter of a mile farther down this lane, and when we've got out of sight of the park paling, you've nothing to do but set spurs to your horse, and join us;—therefore, if you hears nothing to the contrairy, when I've been gone half an hour, you mount your nag, ride quietly up the lane, and keep your hyes open."~417~~



CHAPTER LI — FREDDY COLEMAN FALLS INTO DIFFICULTIES

"I am he that am so love-shaked,— I pray you, tell me your remedy." —As You Like It.

"I am sprighted with a fool, frighted, and angered worse." —Cymbeline.

OH! that tedious half-hour! I should like to know, merely as a curious matter of calculation, how many minutes there were in that half-hour—sixty-five at the very least; the hands of my watch stuck between the quarter and twenty minutes for full a quarter of an hour, and as for the old Dutch clock in the bar, that was worn out, completely good for nothing, I am certain, for I ordered my horse round to the door above ten minutes too soon by that, and I'm sure I didn't start before my time,—it would have been folly to do so, you know, because it was possible old Peter might send at any moment before the expiration of that half-hour. But at last even it came to an end—and no message had arrived; so, burning with impatience, I sprang into the saddle, and with difficulty restraining myself from dashing off at a gallop, I reined in the mare, and proceeded at a foot's pace up the lane.

After riding about a quarter of a mile, I perceived a small hand-gate just under a magnificent oak, which I at once recognised as the tree old Peter had described. Unwilling to attract the notice of the gamekeeper and his myrmidons by loitering about in the lane, I discovered a gap in a hedge on the other side the road, and, after glancing round to see that I was unobserved, I rode at it, and leaped into the opposite field, where, hidden behind a clump of alders, I could perceive all that passed in the road. But for a long time nothing did pass, save a picturesque donkey, whose fore-feet being fastened together by what are called "hobbles,"{1} advanced by a series of jumps—a mode of progression which greatly alarmed the sensitive nerves of my mare, causing her to plunge and pull in a way which gave me some trouble to hold her.

After I had succeeded in quieting her, I dismounted, and, tightening the saddle-girths, which had become loosened during her struggles, got on again; still no one came. At length, just as I was beginning to despair, I heard the

1 Query, whether so called because they oblige the wearer to hobble ?

~418~~ sound of horses' feet, and old Peter, mounted on a stout cob, rode to the wicket-gate, and heldit open, while Clara on a pretty chestnut pony cantered up, and passed through it.

Oh! how my heart beat, when, reining in her pony, she glanced round for a moment, as if in search of something, and then, with a slight gesture of disappointment, struck him lightly with her riding-whip, and bounded forward. Old Peter seemed still more puzzled, and looked up and down the road with an air of the most amusing perplexity, before he made up his mind to follow his mistress. About a hundred yards from this spot, the lane turned abruptly to the left, skirting a second side of the square field in which I had taken up my position; by crossing this field, therefore, I conceived I should cut off a great angle, and regain the road before they came up.

Setting spurs to my horse then, I rode off at speed, trusting to find some gate or gap by which I might effect my exit. In this calculation, however, I was deceived; instead of anything of the sort, my eyes were greeted by a stiff ox-fence, with a rather unpleasantly high fall of ground into the lane beyond,—a sort of place well fitted to winnow a hunting-field, and sift the gentlemen who come out merely to show their white gloves and buckskins, from the "real sort," who "mean going," and are resolved to see the end of the run. However, in the humour in which I then was, it would not have been easy to stop me, and holding the mare well together, I put her steadily at it. Fortunately, she was a first-rate fencer, and knew her work capitally, as she proved in the present instance, by rising to the leap, clearing the fence in beautiful style, and dropping lightly into the lane beyond, without so much as a stumble, just as Clara and her attendant turned the corner of the road and came in sight. My sudden appearance frightened Clara's pony to a degree which justified me in riding up and assisting her to reduce it to order. Having accomplished this not very difficult task, I waited for a moment, hoping she would be the first to speak, but finding she remained silent, I began, "Really, I am most unfortunate; I had no idea you were near enough for me to startle the pony,—I hope I have not alarmed you".



"How can you risk your life so madly," she replied, in a tone of reproach, "and for no reason, too?"

"Is my safety indeed an object of interest to you?" inquired I; then, unable to restrain myself any longer, I continued, "Clara, dearest Clara, have you forgiven me? Indeed, I have been punished sufficiently; I have been so utterly, so intensely miserable."