“IS your master—is Mr. Vernor at home?” inquired I of the grim-visaged old servant, who looked, if possible, taller and more wooden than when I had last seen him.
“Well, I suppose not, sir!” was the somewhat odd reply.
“You suppose!” repeated I; “if you have any doubt, had you not better go and see?”
“That won't be of no manner of use, sir,” was the rejoinder; “I should not be none the wiser.”
It was clear that the old man was a complete original; but his affection for Clara was a virtue which in my eyes would have atoned for any amount of eccentricity; and as I was anxious to stand well in his good graces, I determined to fall in with his humour; accordingly I replied with a smile, “How do you make out that—did you never hear that seeing is believing?”
“Not always, sir,” he answered, “for if I'd a trusted to my eyesight—and it ain't so bad neither for a man that's no great way off sixty—I should have fancied Muster Wernor was a sitting in the liberrary; but he told me he was not at home hisself, and he ought to know best.”
“Tell him I won't detain him long,” returned I, “but that I am come on business of importance.”
“'Tain't of no manner of use, young gentleman,” was the reply; “he told me he wasn't at home, and he said it uncommon cross too, as if he meant it, and if I was to go to him twenty times he'd only say the same thing.” “What's your name, my good friend?” inquired I. “Peter Barnett, at your service, sir,” was the answer. “Well, then, Peter, we must contrive to understand one another a little better. You have known your young mistress from a child, and have a sincere regard for her—is it not so?”
“What, Miss Clara, God bless her!—why, I love her as if she was my own flesh and blood; I should be a brute if I didn't, poor lamb.”
“Well, then, when I tell you that her happiness is very nearly connected with the object of my visit—when I say, that it is to prevent her from being obliged to do something of which she has the greatest abhorrence that I am anxious to meet Mr. Vernor—I am sure you will contrive that I shall see him.”
As I concluded, the old man, muttering to himself, “That's it, is it?” began to examine me from top to toe with a critical glance, as if I had been some animal he was about to purchase; and when he reached my face, gazed at me long and fixedly, as though striving to read my character. Apparently the result of his scrutiny was favourable, for after again saying in a low tone, “Well, I likes the looks of him,” he added, “This way, young gentleman—you shall see him if that's what you want—it ain't a hanging matter, after all”. As he spoke, he threw open the door of the library, saying, “Gentleman says his business is wery partikler, so I thought you'd better see him yourself”.
Mr. Vernor, who was seated at a table writing, rose on my entrance, bowed stiffly to me, and, casting a withering glance on Peter Barnett, signed to him to shut the door. As soon as that worthy had obeyed the command, he resumed his seat, and, addressing me with the same frigid politeness which he had shown on the occasion of my first visit to him, said, “I am somewhat occupied this morning, and must therefore be excused for inquiring at once what very particular business Mr. Fairlegh can have with me”. His tone and manner, as he spoke, were such as to render me fully aware of the pleasant nature of the task before me; namely, to make the most disagreeable communication possible, to the most disagreeable person to whom such a communication could be made. Still, I was regularly in for it; there was nothing left for me but to “go a-head”; and as I thought of Clara and her sorrows, the task seemed to lose half its difficulty. However, it was not without some hesitation that I began:—
“When you learn the object of my visit, sir, you will perceive that I have not intruded upon you without reason”. I paused; but, finding he remained silent, added—“As you are so much occupied this morning, I had better perhaps enter at once upon the business which has brought me here. You are probably aware that I have had the pleasure of spending the last few days in the same house with Miss Saville.” As I mentioned Clara's name, his brow grew dark as night; but he still continued silent, and I proceeded. “It is, I should conceive, impossible for anyone to enjoy the privilege of that young lady's society, without experiencing the warmest feelings of admiration and interest. Towards the termination of her visit, accident led me to the knowledge of her acquaintance with Mr. Cumberland, who I then learned, for the first time, was your nephew. I would not willingly say anything which might distress or annoy you, Mr. Vernor,” continued I, interrupting myself, “but I fear that, in order to make myself intelligible, I must advert to an affair which I would willingly have forgotten.”
“Go on, sir,” was the reply, in a cold sarcastic tone of voice—“pray finish your account without reference to my feelings; I am not likely to alarm your sensibility by any affecting display of them.”
As the most sceptical could not have doubted for a moment the truth of this assertion, I resumed: “From my previous knowledge of Mr. Cumberland's character, I could not but consider him an unfit acquaintance for a young lady; and, on hinting this, and endeavouring to ascertain the extent of Miss Saville's intimacy with him, I was equally shocked and surprised to learn that she was actually engaged to him, and that you not only sanctioned the engagement, but were even desirous that the match should take place. Feeling sure that this could only proceed from your being ignorant of the character of the class of persons with whom your nephew associates, and the more than questionable reputation he has thereby acquired, I considered it my duty to afford you such information as may enable you to ascertain for yourself the truth of the reports which have reached my ear.”
“Exceedingly conscientious and praiseworthy: I ought to feel infinitely indebted to you, young gentleman,” interrupted Mr. Vernor sarcastically; “of course you made the young lady acquainted with your disinterested and meritorious intentions '?”
“I certainly thought it right to inform Miss Saville of the facts I have mentioned, and to obtain her permission, ere I ventured to interfere in her behalf.”
As I spoke, the gloom on Mr. Vernor's brow grew darker, and I expected an outburst of rage, but his self-control was stronger than 1 had imagined, for it was in the same cold ironical manner that he replied, “And may I ask, supposing this iniquitous engagement to have been broken off by your exertions, is Virtue to be its own reward? will you sit down content with having done your duty? or have you not some snug little scheme in petto, to console the disconsolate damsel for her loss? If I am not mistaken, you were professing warm feelings of admiration for my ward a few minutes since.”
“Had you waited till I had finished speaking, you would have perceived, sir, that your taunt was undeserved. I have no wish to conceal anything from you—on the contrary, one of my chief objects in seeking this interview was to inform you of the deep and sincere affection I entertain for Miss Saville, and of my intention of coming forward to seek her hand, as soon as my professional prospects shall enable me to support a wife.”
“And have you succeeded in inducing the lady to promise, that, in the event of my allowing her to break off her present engagement, she will wait for the somewhat remote and visionary contingency you have hinted at?”
“I have never made the attempt, sir,” replied I, drawing myself up proudly, for I began to think that I was carrying forbearance too far, in submitting thus tamely to his repeated insults; “my only desire is to convince you of the necessity of breaking off this preposterous engagement, which is alike unsuitable in itself, and distasteful to Miss Saville; for the rest, I must trust to time, and to the unshaken constancy of my own affection (with which it is only fair to tell you the young lady is acquainted), for the accomplishment of my hopes. Had I the power to fetter your ward by a promise which she might afterwards be led to repent, nothing should induce me to make use of it.”
“Really, your moderation is quite unparalleled,” exclaimed Mr. Vernor; “such generosity now might be almost calculated to induce a romantic girl to persuade her guardian to allow her to marry at once, and devote her fortune to the purpose of defraying the household expenses, till such time as the professional expectations you mention should be realised; and Clara Saville is just the girl who might do it, for I am afraid I must distress your magnanimity by informing you of a circumstance, of which, of course, you have not the slightest idea at present, namely, that if Miss Saville should marry with her guardian's consent, she will become the possessor of a very considerable fortune: what think you of such a plan?”
“Mr. Vernor,” replied I, “I was aware that the communication I had to make to you was calculated to pain and annoy you, and that circumstances obliged me to urge my suit at a moment most disadvantageous to its success; I did not therefore imagine that our interview was likely to be a very agreeable one; but I own I did expect to have credit given me for honourable motives, and to be treated with the consideration due from one gentleman to another.”
“It grieves me to have disappointed such moderate and reasonable expectations,” was the reply; “but, unfortunately, I have acquired a habit of judging men rather by their actions than their words, and forming my opinion accordingly; and by the opinion thus formed I regulate my conduct towards them.”
“May I inquire what opinion you can possibly have formed of me, which would justify your treating me otherwise than as a gentleman?” asked I, as calmly as I was able, for I was most anxious not to allow him to perceive the degree to which his taunts irritated me.
“Certainly; only remember, if it is not exactly what you approve, that I mention it in compliance with your own express request—but first, for I am unwilling to do you injustice, let me be sure that I understand you clearly:—you state that you are unable to marry till you shall have realised by your profession an income sufficient to support a wife; therefore, I presume that your patrimony is somewhat limited.”
“You are right, sir; my poor father was too liberal a man to die rich; my present income is somewhat less than a hundred pounds per annum.”
“And your profession?”
“It is my intention to begin reading for the bar almost immediately.”
“A profession usually more honourable than lucrative for the first ten years or so. Well, young gentleman, the case seems to stand very much as I imagined, nor do I perceive any reason for altering my opinion of your conduct. Chance throws in your way a young lady, possessing great beauty, who is prospective heiress to a very valuable property, and it naturally enough occurs to you, that making love is likely to be more agreeable, and in the present instance more profitable also, than reading law; accordingly, you commence operations, and for some time all goes on swimmingly, Miss Saville, like any other girl in her situation, having no objection to vary the monotony of a long engagement by a little innocent flirtation; affairs of this kind, however, seldom run smoothly long together, and at some moment, when you were rather more pressing than usual, the young lady thinks it advisable to inform you, that in accordance with her father's dying wish, and of her own free will, she has engaged herself to the nephew of her guardian, who strangely enough happens to be an old schoolfellow of yours, against whom you have always nourished a strong and unaccountable feeling of dislike. Here, then, was a famous opportunity to display those talents for plotting and manoeuvring which distinguished Mr. Fairlegh even in his boyish days; accordingly, a master-scheme is invented, whereby the guardian shall be cajoled and brow-beaten into giving his consent, enmity satisfied by the rival's discomfiture and overthrow, and talent rewarded by obtaining possession of the young lady and her fortune. As a first step you take advantage of a lover's quarrel to persuade Miss Saville that she is averse to the projected alliance, and trump up an old tale of some boyish scrape to induce her to believe Cumberland unworthy of her preference, ending, doubtless, by modestly proposing yourself as a substitute. Inexperience, and the natural capriciousness of woman, stand your friend; the young lady appears for the moment gained over, and, flushed with success, the bold step of this morning is resolved upon. Such, sir, is my opinion of your conduct. It only remains for me to inform you that 1 have not the slightest intention of breaking off the engagement in consequence of your disinterested representations, nor, under any circumstances, would I allow my ward to throw herself away upon a needy fortune-hunter. There can be nothing more to say, I think; and as I have some important papers to look over this morning, I dare say you will excuse my ringing the bell.”
“One moment, sir,” replied I warmly, “although your age prevents my taking notice of the unprovoked insults you have seen fit to heap upon me——”
“Really,” interposed Mr. Vernor, in a deprecating tone, “you must pardon me; I have not time for all this sort of thing to-day.”
“You shall hear me!” exclaimed I passionately; “I have listened in silence to accusations calculated to make the blood of any man, worthy to be so called, boil in his veins—accusations which, at the very moment you utter them, you know to be entirely false: you know well Miss Saville's just and deeply rooted aversion to this match, and you know that it existed before she and I had ever met; you know the creditable nature of what you term the 'boyish scrape,' in which your nephew was engaged—a scrape which, but for the generous forbearance of others, might have ended in his transportation as a convicted felon; and this knowledge (even if you are ignorant of the dishonourable and vicious course of life he now leads) should be enough to prevent your sanctioning such a marriage. I pass over your insinuations respecting myself in silence; should I again prefer my suit for Miss Saville's hand to you, it will be as no needy fortune-hunter that I shall do so; but once more let me implore you to pause—reconsider the matter—inquire for yourself into your nephew's pursuits—ascertain the character of his associates, and then judge whether he is a fit person to be entrusted with the happiness of such a being as Clara Saville.”
“Vastly well, sir! exceedingly dramatic, indeed!” observed Mr. Vernor, with a sneer; “you really have quite a talent for—genteel comedy, I think they call it; you would be perfect in the line of character termed the 'walking gentleman'—have you ever thought of the stage?”
“I perceive,” replied I, “that by remaining here, I shall only subject myself to additional insult: determined to carry out your own bad purpose, you obstinately close your ears to the voice alike of reason and of conscience; and now,” I added, in a stern tone, “hear my resolve: I have promised Miss Saville to save her from Richard Cumberland; as the fairest and most honourable way of doing so, I applied to you, her lawful guardian and protector; I have failed, and you have insulted and defied me. I now tell you, that I will leave NO MEANS untried to defeat your nefarious project, and, if evil or disgrace should befal you or yours in consequence, upon your own head be it. You may smile at my words, and disregard them as idle threats which I am powerless to fulfil, but remember, you have no longer a helpless girl to deal with, but a determined man, who, with right and justice on his side, may yet thwart your cunningly devised schemes;—and so, having given you fair warning, I will leave you.”
“Allow me to mention one fact, young sir,” returned Mr. Vernor, “which demands your serious attention, as it may prevent you from committing a fatal error, and save you all further trouble. Should Clara Saville marry without my consent, she does so penniless, and the fortune devolves upon the next heir; ha!” he exclaimed, as I was unable to repress an exclamation of pleasure, “have I touched you there?”
“You have indeed, sir,” was my reply; “for you have removed the only scruple which stood in my way. No one can now accuse me of interested motives; 'needy fortune-hunters' do not seek to ally themselves to portionless damsels; allow me to offer you my best thanks for your information, and to wish you good-morning, sir.”
So saying, I rose and quitted the room, leaving Mr. Vernor, in a state of ill-suppressed rage, to the enjoyment of his own reflections.
On entering the hall, I found old Peter Barnett awaiting me. As I appeared, his stiff features lighted up with a most sagacious grin of intelligence, and approaching me, he whispered:—
“Did ye give it him strong?” (indicating the person he referred to by an expressive jerk of his thumb towards the library door). “I heard ye blowing of him up—but did ye give it him reg'lar strong?”
“I certainly told Mr. Vernor my opinion with tolerable plainness,” replied I, smiling at the intense delight which was visible in every line of the strange old face beside me.
“No! Did ye?—did ye? That was right,” was the rejoinder. “Lor! how I wish I'd a been there to see; but I heard ye though—I heard ye a giving it to him,” and again he relapsed into a paroxysm of delight.
“Peter,” said I, “I want to have a little private conversation with you—how is that to be managed? Is there any place near where you could meet me?” “You come here from Hillingford, didn't ye, sir?” I nodded assent. He continued:—“Did you notice a hand-post which stands where four roads meet, about a mile and a half from here?”
“I saw it,” returned I, “and even tried to read what was painted on it, but of course, after the manner of all country direction posts, it was totally illegible.”
“Well, when you get there, take the road to the left, and ride on till ye see an ale-house on the right-hand side, and stay there till I come to ye.”
“I will,” replied I, “but don't keep me waiting longer than you can help—there's a good man.”
An understanding grin was his only answer; and mounting my unpleasant horse (who seemed much more willing to proceed quietly when his head was turned in a homeward direction), I rode slowly through the park, my state of mind affording a practical illustration, that Quintus Horatius Flaccus was about right in his conjecture that Care sometimes indulged herself with a little equestrian exercise on a pillion.{1}
THE place of meeting appointed by Peter Barnett was easily discovered, and having tied up my horse under a shed, which served the double purpose of stable and coach-house, I took possession of a small room with a sanded floor, and throwing myself back in a most uneasy easy-chair, began to think over my late interview, and endeavour to devise some practicable plan for the future. The first thing was to establish some means of free communication with Clara, and this I hoped to accomplish by the assistance of Peter Barnett. I should thus learn Mr. Vernor's proceedings, and be able to regulate my conduct accordingly. If, as I dreaded, he should attempt to force on the marriage immediately, would Clara, alone and unassisted, have sufficient courage and strength of purpose to resist him? I feared not; and how was I effectually to aid her? The question was more easily asked than answered. It was clear that her fortune was the thing aimed at, for I could not believe either Mr. Vernor or his nephew likely to be actuated by disinterested motives;—and it was to their avarice, then, that Clara was to be sacrificed—had she been portionless she would have been free to marry whom she pleased. Of all sources of evil and misery, money appears to be the most prolific; in the present case its action was twofold—Clara was rendered wretched in consequence of possessing it, while the want of it incapacitated me from boldly claiming her hand at once, which appeared to be the only effectual method of assisting her.
My meditations were at this point interrupted by the arrival of my future privy counsellor, Peter Barnett, who marched solemnly into the room, drew himself up to his full height, which very nearly equalled that of the ceiling, brought his hand to his forehead in a military salute, and then, closing the door cautiously, and with an air of mystery, stood at ease, evidently intending me to open the conversation.
“Well, Peter,” began I, by way of something to say, for I felt the greatest difficulty in entering on the subject which then occupied my thoughts before such an auditor. “Well, Peter, you have not kept me waiting long; I scarcely expected to see you so soon: do you imagine that Mr. Vernor will remark your absence?”
“He knows it already,” was the reply. “Why, bless ye, sir, he ordered me to go out hisself.” “Indeed! how was that?”
“Why, as soon as you was gone, sir, he pulled the bell like mad. 'Send Mr. Richard here,' says he. 'Yes, sir,' says I, 'certingly; only he's not at home, sir.' When he heard this he grumbled out an oath, or sumthin' of that nature, and I was going to take myself off, for I see he wasn't altogether safe, when he roars out 'Stop!' ('You'd a said “halt,” if you'd a been a officer or a gentleman, which you ain't neither,' thinks I.) 'What do you mean by letting people in when I have given orders to the contrairy?' says he. 'Who was it as blowed me up for sending away a gent as said he wanted to see you on partiklar business, only yesterday?' says I. That bothered him nicely, and he didn't know how to be down upon me; but at last he thought he'd serve me one of his old tricks. So he says, 'Peter, what are you doing to-day'?' I see what he was at, and I thought I'd ketch him in his own trap. 'Very busy a cleaning plate, sir,' says I. This was enough for him: if I was a cleaning plate, in course I shouldn't like to be sent out; so says he, 'Go down to Barnsley, and see whether Mr. Cumberland is there'. 'But the plate, sir?' 'Never mind the plate.' 'It won't never look as it ought to do, if I am sent about in this way,' says I. 'Do as you're ordered, and leave the room instantly,' says he, grinding his teeth reg'lar savage-like. So I took him at his word, and come away to see you as hard as I could pelt; but you've put him into a sweet temper, Mr. Fairlegh.”
“Why, that I'm afraid was scarcely to be avoided,” replied I, “as my business was to inform him that I considered his nephew an unfit person to marry his ward.”
“Oh! did you tho'?—did you tell him that?” cried my companion, with a chuckle of delight; “that was right: I wonder how he liked that!”
“As he did not exactly agree with me in this opinion, but, on the contrary, plainly declared his intention of proceeding with the match in spite of me, it is necessary for me to consider what means I can best use to prevent him from accomplishing his object; it is in this that 1 shall require your assistance.”
“And what does Miss Clara say about it, young gentleman?” inquired the old man, fixing his eyes on me with a scrutinising glance.
“Miss Saville dislikes Richard Cumberland, and dreads the idea of being forced to marry him above everything.” “Ah! I know she does, poor lamb; and well she may, for there ain't a more dissipateder young scoundrel to be found nowhere than Mr. Wernor's precious 'nephew,' as he calls him, tho' it's my belief he might call him 'son' without telling a lie.”
“Indeed! I was not aware that Mr. Vernor had ever been married.”
“No; I never heard that he was reg'lar downright married; but he may be his son, for all that. Howsurn-ever, p'raps it is so, or p'raps it ain't; I'm only a tellin' you what I fancies, sir,” was the reply. “But what I wanted to know,” he continued, again fixing his eyes on my face, “is, what does Miss Clara say to you? eh!”
“You put home questions, my friend,” replied I, colouring slightly; “however, as Miss Saville tells me you are faithful and trustworthy, and as half-confidences are never of any use, I suppose you must hear all about it.” I then told him as concisely as possible of my love for Clara, and my hopes of one day calling her my own; pointing out to him the difficulties that stood in the way, and explaining to him that the only one which appeared to me insurmountable was the probability of Mr. Vernor's attempting to force Clara into an immediate marriage with Cumberland. Having thus given him an insight into the true state of affairs, I showed him the necessity of establishing some means of communication between Clara and myself, as it was essential that I should receive the earliest possible information in regard to Mr. Vernor's proceedings.
“I understand, sir,” interrupted Peter, “you want to be able to write to each other without the old 'un getting hold of your letters: well, that's very easily managed; only you direct to Mr. Barnett, to be left at the Pig and Pony, at Barstone; and anything you send for Miss Clara, I'll take care and give her when nobody won't be none the wiser for it; and any letters she writes I'll put into the post myself. I'd do anything rather than let that young villain Cumberland have her, and make her miserable, which his wife is safe to be, if ever he gets one; and if you likes her and she likes you, as seems wery probable, considering you saved her from being burnt to death, as they tell me, and is wery good-looking into the bargain—which goes a great way with young ladies, if you'll excuse the liberty I takes in mentioning of it—why, the best thing as you can do, is to get married as soon as you can.”
“Very pleasant advice, friend Peter,” returned I, “but not so easily acted upon; people cannot marry nowadays without something to live upon.”
“Well, ain't Miss Clara got Barstone Priory, and plenty of money to keep it up with? Won't that do to live upon?”
“And do you imagine I could ever feel content to be the creature of my wife's bounty? prove myself a needy fortune-hunter, as that old man dared to term me?” exclaimed I, forgetting the character of my auditor.
“Barstone Priory to live in, and more money than you know what to do with, ain't to be sneezed at neither,” was the answer; “though I likes your independent spirit too, sir: but how do you mean to manage, then?”
“Why, Mr. Vernor hinted that if his ward married without his consent, her fortune was to be forfeited.”
“Ah! I believe there was something of that nature in the will: my poor master was so wrapped up in old Wernor that he wrote just wot he told him; if he'd only a lived to see how he was going to use Miss Clara, he'd a ordered me to kick him out of the house instead.”
“Perhaps that pleasure may be yet in store for you, Peter,” replied I, laughing at the zest with which he uttered the last few words, and an involuntary motion of the foot by which they were accompanied; “but this power, which it seems Mr. Vernor really possesses, of depriving Miss Saville of her fortune, removes my greatest difficulty; for in that case, if he should attempt to urge on this match, I can at least make her the offer of sharing my poverty: there is my mother's roof to shelter her, and, if her guardian refuses his consent to our marriage, why, we must contrive to do without it, that is all. So now, Peter, if you will wait a few minutes, I will give you a note for your young mistress, and then get to horse without further loss of time;” and calling for pen, ink, and paper, I hastily scribbled a few lines to Clara, informing her of the events of the morning, and of my unalterable determination to save her from a union with Cumberland; begging her, at the same time, to continue firm in her opposition, to acquaint me with everything that might occur, and to rely upon me for protection in the event of anything like force being resorted to. I then entrusted my note to old Peter, begged him to watch Master Richard Cumberland closely, told him that upon his care and vigilance depended in great measure the happiness of his young mistress's life; tipped him handsomely, though I had some trouble in making him take the money; and, mounting my ill-disposed horse, rode back to Hillingford, on the whole tolerably well satisfied with my morning's work.
I found two letters awaiting my return: one from my mother, to say that she should be at Heathfield Cottage on the following day, and begging me to meet her; the other from Ellis, telling me that at length he hoped Oaklands was in a fair way to recover, it having been ascertained that a piece of the wadding of the pistol had remained behind when the ball was extracted; this had now come away, and the wound was healing rapidly. As his strength returned, Harry was growing extremely impatient to get back to Heathfield; and Ellis concluded by saying that they might be expected any day, and begging me at the same time to remember that from the first he had always declared, in regard to his patient, that it would have killed any other man, but that it could not kill him.
Days glided by, the absentees returned, and matters fell so completely into their old train again that the occurrences of the last eight months seemed like the unreal creations of some fevered dream, and there were times when I could scarcely bring myself to believe them true.
Harry Oaklands had recovered sufficiently to resume his usual habits; and, except that he was strictly forbidden to over-exert or fatigue himself (an injunction he appeared only too willing to obey), he was nearly emancipated from medical control. Fanny had in great measure regained her good looks again; a slight delicacy of appearance, however, still remained, giving a tone of spirituality to the expression of her features, which was not before observable, and which to my mind rendered her prettier than ever: the listlessness of manner which had made me uneasy about her in the autumn had vanished, and her spirits seemed good; still, she was in a degree altered, and one felt in talking to her that she was a child no longer. Like Undine, that graceful creation of La Motte Fouqué's genius, she appeared to have changed from a “tricksy sprite” into a thinking and feeling woman.
One morning Oaklands and Ellis came to the cottage together, the latter in a great state of joy and excitement, produced by a most kind and judicious exercise of liberality on the part of Sir John. About a month before, the grave and pompous Dr. Probehurt had been seized with an illness, from which in all probability he would have recovered had he not steadily refused to allow a rival practitioner to be called in, in order that he might test a favourite theory of his own, embodying a totally novel mode of treatment for the complaint with which he was attacked. Unfortunately, the experiment failed, and the doctor died. Sir John, who had been long anxious to evince his gratitude to Ellis for the skill and attention he had bestowed upon his patient, the moment he heard of the event determined to purchase the business: he had that morning completed the negotiation, and offered the practice to Ellis, stating that he should consider his accepting it in the light of a personal favour, as in that case he would be always at hand, should Harry feel any lasting ill effects from his wound. Ellis's joy was most amusing to witness.
“I tell you what, sir,” he exclaimed, seizing me by a button of the coat, “I'm a made man, sir! there isn't a better practice in the county. Why, poor Probehurt told me himself old Mrs. Croaker Crawley alone was worth a hundred pounds per annum to him:—four draughts and two pills everyday—prescription very simple—R. Pil. panis compos, ii. nocte sum.; haust. aqua vitæ 1/2, aqua pura 1/2 saccar. viii. grs. pro re nata. She's a strong old girl, and on brandy-and-water draughts and French-roll pills may last for the next twenty years. Noble thing of Sir John, very; 'pon my word, it has quite upset me—it's a fact, sir, that when Mr. Oaklandstold me of it I sat down and cried like a child. I'm not over tender-hearted either: when I was at Guy's I amputated the left leg of a shocking accident, and dissected the porter's mother-in-law (whom he sold us cheap for old acquaintance' sake) before breakfast one morning, without finding my appetite in the slightest degree affected; but when I learned what Sir John had done, I positively cried, sir.”
“I say, Ellis,” interrupted Harry, “I am telling Miss Fairlegh I shall make you take her in hand; she has grown so pale and thin, I am afraid she has never recovered all the trouble and inconvenience we caused her.”
“If Miss Fairlegh would allow me, I should recommend a little more air and exercise,” replied Ellis: “are you fond of riding on horseback?”
“Oh, yes!” replied Fanny, smiling, and blushing slightly at thus suddenly becoming the topic of conversation; “that is, I used to delight in riding Frank's pony in days of yore; but he has not kept a pony lately.”
“That is easily remedied,” returned Harry; “I am certain some of our horses will carry a lady. I shall speak to Harris about it directly, and we'll have some rides together, Fanny; it was only this morning that I obtained my tyrant's permission to cross a horse once more,” he added, shaking his fist playfully at Ellis.
“The tyrant will agree to that more willingly than to your first request. What do you think, Fairlegh,” continued Ellis, appealing to me, “of his positively wanting to go out hunting?”
“And a very natural thing to wish too, I conceive,” replied Harry; “but what do you think of his declaring that, if I did not faithfully promise I would not hunt this season, he would go into the stables and divide, what he called in his doctor's lingo, the flexor metatarsi of every animal he found there, which, being interpreted, means neither more nor less than hamstring all the hunters.”
“Well, that would be better than allowing you to do anything which might disturb the beautiful process of granulation going on in your side. I remember, when I was a student at Guy's——”
“Come, doctor, we positively cannot stand any more of your 'Chronicles of the Charnel-house' this morning; you have horrified Miss Fairlegh already to such a degree that she is going to run away. If I should stroll down here again in the afternoon, Fanny, will you take compassion on me so far as to indulge me with a game of chess? I am going to send Frank on an expedition, and my father and Ellis are off to settle preliminaries with poor Mrs. Probehurt, so that I shall positively not have a creature to speak to. Reading excites me too much, and produces a state of—— What is it you call it, doctor?”
“I told you yesterday I thought you were going into a state of coma, when you fell asleep over that interesting paper of mine in the Lancet, 'Recollections of the Knife'; if that's what you call excitement,” returned Ellis, laughing——
“Nonsense, Ellis, how absurd you are!” rejoined Oak-lands, half-amused and half-annoyed at Ellis's remark; “but you have not granted my request yet, Fanny.”
“I do not think we have any engagement—mamma will, I am sure, be very happy”—began Fanny, with a degree of hesitation for which I could not account; but as I was afraid Oaklands might notice it, and attribute it to a want of cordiality, I hastened to interrupt her by exclaiming, “Mamma will be very happy—of course she will; and each and all of us are always only too happy to get you here, old fellow; it does one's heart good to see you beginning to look a little more like yourself again. If Fanny's too idle to play chess, I'll take compassion upon you, and give you a thorough beating myself.”
“There are two good and sufficient reasons why you will not do anything of the kind,” replied Oaklands: “in the first place, while you have been reading mathematics, I have been studying chess; and I think that I may, without conceit, venture to pronounce myself the better player of the two; and in the second place, as I told your sister just now, I am going to send you out on an expedition.”
“To send me on an expedition!” repeated I—“may I be allowed to inquire its nature—where I am to go to—when I am to start—and all other equally essential particulars?”
“They are soon told,” returned Oaklands. “I wrote a few days since to Lawless, asking him to come down for a week's hunting before the season should be over; and this morning I received the following characteristic answer: 'Dear Oaklands, a man who refuses a good offer is an ass (unless he happens to have had a better one). Now, yours being the best offer down in my book at present, I say, “done, along with you, old fellow,” thereby clearly proving that I am no ass. Q. E. D.—eh? that's about the thing, isn't it? Now, look here, Jack Basset has asked me down to Storley Wood for a day's pheasant shooting on Tuesday: if you could contrive to send any kind of trap over about lunch-time, on Wednesday, I could have a second pop at the long-tails, and be with you in time for a half-past six o'clock feed as it is not more than ten miles from Storley to Heathfield. I wouldn't have troubled you to send for me, only the tandem's hors de combat. I was fool enough to lend it to Muffington Spoffkins to go and see his aunt one fine day. The horses finding a fresh hand on the reins, began pulling like steam-engines—Muffington could not hold them—consequently they bolted; and after running over two whole infant schools, and upsetting a retired grocer, they knocked the cart into “immortal smash” against a turnpike-gate, pitching Spoffkins into a horse-pond, with Shrimp a-top of him. It was a regular sell for all parties: I got my cart broken to pieces, Shrimp was all but drowned, and Muffington's aunt cut him off with a shilling, because the extirpated squadron of juveniles turned out, unfortunately, to have been a picked detachment of infantry from her own village. If you could send to meet me at the Feathers' public-house, which is just at the bottom of Storley great wood, it would be a mercy, for walking in cover doesn't suit my short legs, and I'm safe to be used up.—Remember us to Fairlegh and all inquiring friends, and believe me to remain, very heartily, yours, George Lawless.'”
“I comprehend,” said I, as Oaklands finished reading the note, “you wish me to drive over this afternoon and fetch him: it will be a great deal better than merely sending a servant.”
“Why, I had thought of going myself, but, 'pon my word, these sort of things are so much trouble—at least to me, I mean; and, though Lawless is a capital, excellent fellow, and I like him extremely, yet I know he'll talk about nothing but horses all the way home; and not being quite strong again yet, you've no notion how that kind of thing worries and tires me.”
“Don't say another word about it, my dear Harry; I shall enjoy the drive uncommonly. What vehicle had I better take?”
“The phaeton, I think,” replied Oaklands, “and then you can bring his luggage, and Shrimp, or any of his people he may have with him.”
“So be it,” returned I; “I'll walk back with you to the Hall, and then start as soon as you please.
I SCARCELY know any excitement more agreeable than driving, on a fine frosty day, a pair of spirited horses, which demand the exercise of all one's coolness and skill to keep their fiery natures under proper control. Some accident had happened to one of Sir John's old phaeton horses, and Harry, who fancied that, as he was not allowed to use any violent exercise, driving would be an amusement to him, had taken the opportunity of replacing them by a magnificent pair of young, nearly thorough-bred chestnuts; and these were the steeds now entrusted to my guidance. Not being anxious, however, to emulate the fate of the unfortunate Muffington Spoffkins, I held them well in hand for the first three or four miles, and as they became used to their work, gradually allowed them to quicken their pace, till we were bowling along merrily at the rate of ten miles an hour.
A drive of about an hour and a quarter brought me within sight of the little roadside public-house appointed for my rendezvous with Lawless. As I drew sufficiently near to distinguish figures, I perceived the gentleman in question scientifically and picturesquely attired in what might with great propriety be termed no end of a shooting jacket, inasmuch as its waist, being prolonged to a strange and unaccountable extent, had, as a necessary consequence, invaded the region of the skirt to a degree which reduced that appendage to the most absurd and infinitesimal proportions. This wonderful garment was composed of a fabric which Freddy Coleman, when he made its acquaintance some few days later, denominated the Mac Omnibus plaid, a gaudy répertoire of colours, embracing all the tints of the rainbow, and a few more besides, and was further embellished by a plentiful supply of gent.'s sporting buttons, which latter articles were not quite so large as cheese-plates, and represented in bas-relief a series of moving incidents by flood and field. His nether man exhibited a complicated arrangement of corduroys, leather gaiters and waterproof boots, which were, of course, wet through; while, to crown the whole, his head was adorned with one of those round felt hats, which exactly resemble a boiled apple-pudding, and are known by the sobriquet of “wide-awakes,” “cos they av'n't got no nap about 'em”. A stout shooting pony was standing at the door of the ale-house, with a pair of panniers, containing a portmanteau and a gun-case, slung across its back, upon which was seated in triumph the mighty Shrimp, who seemed to possess the singular property of growing older, and nothing else; for, as well as one could judge by appearances, he had not increased an inch in stature since the first day of our acquaintance. His attitude, as I drove up, was one which Hunt would have delighted to perpetuate. Perched on a kind of pack-saddle, his legs stretched so widely apart, by reason of the stout proportions of the pony, as to be nearly at right angles with his upper man, he “held aloft” (not a “snowy scarf,” but) a pewter pot, nearly as large as himself, the contents of which he was transferring to his own throat, with an air of relish and savoir faire, which would have done credit to a seven-feet-high coalheaver. The group was completed by a gamekeeper, who, seated on a low wooden bench, was dividing some bread and cheese with a magnificent black retriever.
“By Jove! what splendid steppers!” was Lawless's exclamation as I drove up. “Now, that's what I call perfect action; high enough to look well, without battering the feet to pieces—the leg a little arched, and thrown out boldly—no fear of their putting down their pins in the same place they pick them up from. Ah!” he continued, for the first time observing me, “Fairlegh, how are you, old fellow? Slap-up cattle you've got there, and no mistake—belong to Sir John Oaklands, I suppose. Do you happen to know where he got hold of them?”
“Harry wanted a pair of phaeton horses, and the coachman recommended these,” replied I; “but I've no idea where he heard of them.”
“Rising five and six,” continued Lawless, examining their mouths with deep interest; “no do there—the tush well up in one, and nicely through in the other, and the mark in the nippers just as it should be to correspond: own brothers, I'll bet a hundred pounds—good full eyes; small heads, well set on; slanting shoulders; legs as clean as a colt's; hoofs a leetle small, but that's the breed. Whereabouts was the figure, did you hear?—five fifties never bought them, unless they were as cheap as dirt, eh?”
“That was about their price, if I remember correctly,” replied I. “Harry thought it was too much to give; but Sir John, the moment he saw his son would like to have them, wrote the cheque, and paid for them on the spot.” “Well, I'll give him all the money any day, if he's tired of his bargain,” rejoined Lawless; “but we won't keep them standing now they're warm. Here, Shrimp, my greatcoat—get off that pony this instant, you luxurious young vagabond. Never saw such a boy in my life to ride as that is—if there is anything that can by possibility carry him, not a step will he stir on foot—doesn't believe legs were meant to walk with, it's my opinion. Why, this very morning, before they brought out the shooting pony, he got on the retriever; and he has such a seat too, that the dog could not throw him, till Basset thought of sending him into the water: he slipped off in double-quick time then, for he has had a regular hydrophobia upon him ever since his adventure in the horse-pond. What, not down yet? I shall take a horsewhip to you, sir, directly.”
Thus admonished, Shrimp, who had taken advantage of his master's preoccupation to finish the contents of the pewter pot, tossed the utensil to the gamekeeper, having previously attracted that individual's attention by exclaiming, in a tone of easy familiarity—“Look out, Leggings!”—then, as the man, taken by surprise, and having some difficulty in saving himself from a blow on the nose, allowed the pot to slip through his hands, Shrimp continued, “Catch it, clumsy! veil, I never—now mind, if you've gone and bumped it, it's your own doing, and you pays for dilapidations, as ve calls 'em at Cambridge. Coming, sir—d'rec'ly, sir—yes, sir.” So saying, he slipped down the pony's shoulder, shook himself to set his dress in order as soon as he reached terra firma, and unbuckling Lawless's driving coat, which was fastened round his waist by a broad strap, jumped upon a horse-block, and held out the garment at arm's length for his master to put on. The gun-case and carpet-bag were then transferred from the pony to the phaeton, and, resigning the reins to Lawless, who I knew would be miserable unless he were allowed to drive, we started. Shrimp being installed in the hind seat, where, folding his arms, he leaned back, favouring us with a glance which seemed to say, “You may proceed, I am quite comfortable”.
“It was about time for me to take an affectionate farewell of Alma Mater,” observed Lawless, after he had criticised and admired the horses afresh, and at such length, that I could not help smiling at the fulfilment of Oaklands' prediction—“it was about time for me to be off, for the duns were becoming rather too particular in their attentions. I got a precious fright the other day, I can tell you. I was fool enough to pay two or three bills, and that gave the rest of the fellows a notion that I was about to bolt, I suppose, for one morning I was regularly besieged by them. I taught them a trick or two, though, before I had done with them: they won't forget me in a hurry, I expect.”
“Indeed! and how did you contrive to fix yourself so indelibly in their recollections?” asked I.
“Eh! 'though lost to sight, to memory dear'—rather that style of thing, you know. So you want to hear all about it, eh? Well, it was a good lark, I must say; I was telling it to Basset last night, and it nearly killed him. I don't know whether you have seen him lately, but he's grown horribly fat. He has taken to rearing prize bullocks, and I think he has caught it of 'em; rides sixteen stone, if he rides a pound. I tell him he'll break his neck some of these days, if he chooses to go on hunting—the horses can't stand it. However, he went into such fits of laughter when I told him about it, that he got quite black in the face, and I rang the bell, and swore he was in an apoplexy, but the servant seemed used to the sort of thing, and brought him a jug of beer, which resuscitated him. Well, to return to my mutton, as the Mounseers have it—the very day I intended to leave Cambridge, Shrimp came in while I was breakfasting, with a great coarse-looking letter in his hand.
“'Please, sir, Mr. Pigskin has called with his little account, and would be very glad if you could let him have the money.'
“Pleasant, thinks I. 'Here, boy, let's have a look at this precious little account—hum! ha! hunting-saddle, gag-bit for Lamplighter, head-piece and reins to ditto, "racing-saddle for chestnut mare,' etc., etc., etc.; a horrid affair as long as my arm—total £96 18s. 2d.; and the blackguard had charged everything half as much again as he had told me when I ordered it. Still, I thought I'd pay the fellow, and have done with him, if I had got tin enough left; so I told Shrimp to show him into the rooms of a man who lived over me, but was away at the time, and there let him wait. Lo! and behold! when I came to look about the tin, I found that, instead of having ninety pounds at the banker's, I had overdrawn my account some hundred pounds or more; so that paying was quite out of the question, and I was just going to ring the bell, and beg Mr. Pigskin to call again in a day or two, by which time I should have been 'over the hills and far away,' when Shrimp made his appearance.
“'Please, sir, there's ever so many more gents called for their money. There's Mr. Flanker, the whipmaker, and Mr. Smokem, from the cigar-shop, and Trotter, the bootmaker, and—yes, sir, there's a young man from Mr. Tinsel, the jeweller: and, oh! a load more of 'em, if you please, sir.'
“This was agreeable, certainly; what to be at I didn't know, when suddenly a bright idea came across me.
“'What have you done with 'em?' asked I.
“'Put 'em all into Mr. Skulker's rooms, sir.'
“'That's the ticket,' said I. 'Now, listen to me. Look out, and see if there are any more coming;—if there are, show 'em up to the others; take 'em a couple of bottles of wine and some glasses, and tell them I must beg them to wait a quarter of an hour or so, while I look over their bills; and as soon as the room is full, come and tell me.'
“In about ten minutes Shrimp reported that he could not see any more coming, and that he thought 'all the gents I dealt with was upstairs'.
“'That's the time of day!' exclaimed I, and taking out the key of the room, which Skulker had left with me, in case I might like to put a friend to sleep there, I slipped off my shoes, and creeping upstairs as softly as possible, I locked the door. 'Now then, Shrimp,' said I, 'run and fetch me some good stout screws, a gimblet and a screwdriver.' He was not long getting them, and in less than five minutes I had them all screwed in as fast as if they had been in their coffins, for they were kicking up such a row over their wine that they never heard me at work. Well, as soon as I had bagged my game, Shrimp and I packed up the traps and sent them to the coach-office—found a coach about to start in half an hour, booked myself for the box, and then strolled back to see how the caged birds were getting on. By this time they had come to a sense of their 'sitivation,' and were hammering away, and swearing, and going on like troopers; but all to no purpose, for the door was a famous strong one, and they had no means of breaking it open. Well, after I had had a good laugh at the row they were making, I tapped at the door, and 'discoursed' 'em, as Paddy calls it. I told them that I was so much shocked by the want of consideration, and proper feeling, and all that sort of thing, which they had shown, in coming and besieging me as they had done, that I felt it was a duty I owed to society at large, and to themselves in particular, to read them a severe lesson; therefore, on mature deliberation, I had sentenced them to imprisonment for the term of one hour, and to wait for their money till such time as I should further decree, which I begged to assure them would not be until I might find it perfectly convenient to myself to pay them; and I wound up by telling them to make themselves quite at home, entreating them not to fatigue themselves by trying to get out, for that they had not a chance of succeeding; inquiring whether they had any commands for London, and wishing them a very affectionate farewell for some time to come. And then down I ran, leaving them roaring and bellowing like so many mad bulls—got to the office just in time, and tipping the coachman, drove three parts of the way to town, feeling as jolly as if I had won a thousand pounds on the Derby.”
“And what became of the locked-up tradesmen?” inquired I.
“Oh! why they stayed there above two hours before anybody let them out, amusing themselves by smashing the windows, breaking the furniture to pieces (one of them was an upholsterer, and had an eye to business, I dare say), and kicking all the paint off the door. However, I have written to Skulker, to get it all set to rights, and send me the bill, so no harm's done—it will teach those fellows a lesson they won't forget in a hurry, and the next time they wish to bully a Cantab, they'll recollect my little 'Matinée musicale,' as I call it. Oh! they made a sweet row, I can assure you, sir.”
The chestnuts trotted merrily on their homeward journey, and the noble oaks of Heathfield Park, their leafless branches pointing like giant arms to the cold blue sky above them, soon came in sight.
“You are a great deal too early for dinner, Lawless,” said I, as we drove up; “suppose you walk down to our cottage, and let me introduce you to my mother and sister; you'll find Oaklands there most likely, for he talked of going to play chess.”
“Eh! your mother and sister! by Jove, I never thought of them; I declare I had forgotten there were any ladies in the case—I can't go near them in this pickle, I'm all over mud and pheasant feathers, they'll take me for a native of the Sandwich Islands, one of the boys that cooked Captain Cook—precious tough work they must have had to get their teeth through him, for he was no chicken; I wonder how they trussed him, poor old beggar. No! I'll make myself a little more like a Christian, and then I'll come down and be introduced to them if it's necessary, but I shall not be able to say half a dozen words to them: it's a fact, I never can talk to a woman, except that girl at old Coleman's hop, Di Clapperton; she went the pace with me, and no mistake. By the way, how's the other young woman, Miss Clara Sav——”
“If you really want to dress before you come to the cottage,” interrupted I hastily, “you have no time to lose.”
“Haven't I? off we go then,” cried my companion. “Here, you lazy young imp,” he continued, seizing Shrimp by the collar of the coat, and dropping him to the ground, as one would a kitten, “find my room, and get out my things directly—brush along.”
So saying, he sprang from the phaeton, and rushed into the hall, pushing Shrimp before him, to the utter consternation of the dignified old butler, who, accustomed to the graceful indolence which characterised his young master's every movement, was quite unprepared for such an energetic mode of proceeding.
Forgetting that politeness required me to wait for my companion, I threw the reins to a groom, and started off at a brisk walk in the direction of the cottage.
Lawless's concluding words had aroused a train of thought sufficiently interesting to banish every other recollection. Sweet Clara! it was quite a month since I had parted from her, but the soft tones of her silvery voice still lingered on my ear—the trustful expression of her bright eyes—the appealing sadness of that mournful smile, more touching in its quiet melancholy, than many a deeper sign of woe, still presented themselves to my imagination with a vividness which was almost painful. I had received a note from her about a week before, in which she told me that Cumberland had been absent from the Priory for some days, and, as long as this was the case, she was comparatively free from annoyance, but that Mr. Vernor's mind was evidently as much set upon the match as ever; nothing, however, she assured me, should induce her to consent, for much as she had always disliked the scheme, she now felt that death were far preferable to a union with a man she despised; and she ended by saying, that whenever she felt inclined to give way to despair, the remembrance of my affection came across her like a sunbeam, and rendered her happy even in the midst of her distress.—Oh! what would I not have given, to have possessed the dear privilege of consoling her, to have told her that she had nothing to fear, that my love should surround and protect her, and that, under the hallowing influence of sympathy, happiness for the future would be increased twofold, while sorrow shared between us would be deprived of half its bitterness!—in fact, long before I arrived at the cottage, I had worked myself up into a great state of excitement, and had originated more romantic nonsense than is promulgated in a “seminary for young ladies,” in the interval between the time when the French teacher has put out the candle, and the fair pupils have talked themselves to sleep, which, if report does not belie them, is not until they have forfeited all chance of adding to their attractions by getting a little beauty-sleep before twelve o'clock.
“Ah, Frank! back already! what have you done with Lawless?” exclaimed Oaklands, raising his eyes from the chessboard as I entered our little drawing-room.
“He will be here shortly,” replied I, “but he positively refused to face the ladies till he had changed his shooting costume, so I left him up at the Hall to adonise. But how goes the game? who is winning?”
“As was certain to be the case, I am losing,” answered Fanny.
“Well, I won't disturb you,” returned I, “and perhaps you will have finished before Lawless makes his appearance; where is my mother, by-the-by?”
“She only left the room just as you returned,” replied Fanny quickly; “she has been sitting here ever since Mr. Oaklands came.”
“I do not wish to know where she has been, but where she is,” rejoined I; “I want to tell her that Lawless is coming to be introduced to her; is she upstairs?”
“I believe she is,” was the reply, “but you will only worry her if you disturb her; mamma particularly dislikes being hunted about, you know: you had better sit still, and she will be down again in a few minutes.”
“There is no such thing as free-will in this world, I believe,” exclaimed I, throwing myself back in an easy-chair; “however, as you do not very often play the tyrant, you shall have your own way this time. Harry, the chestnuts did their work to admiration; Lawless was delighted with them, and talked of nothing else half the way home.”
“I don't doubt it—your queen's in danger, Fanny,” was the answer.
Seeing that my companions appeared entirely engrossed by their game, I occupied myself with a book till I heard the ominous sounds, “Check! excuse me, the knight commands that square; you have but one move—checkmate!”
“Who has won? though I need not ask. How dare you beat my sister, Master Harry?”
“I had some trouble in doing it, I can tell you,” replied Oaklands; then turning to Fanny, he continued, “had you but moved differently when I castled my king to get out of your way, the game would have been entirely in your own hands, for I was so stupid, that up to that moment I never perceived the attack you were making upon me.”
“Really I don't think I had a chance of beating you: Frank must take you in hand next, he is a much better player than I am.”
“Indeed I am not going to be handed over to Frank, or any one else, in that summary way, I can assure you; I intend to have another game of chess with you tomorrow, after we come in from our ride.—I forgot to tell you that Harris says the little grey Arab carries a lady beautifully—however, 1 left orders for one of the boys to exercise her well this afternoon, with a side-saddle and a horse-cloth, to enact the part of a lady. At what hour shall we ride to-morrow? it is generally fine before luncheon at this time of year, I think.”
“Oh! you are very kind,” replied Fanny hurriedly, “but I am afraid I cannot ride to-morrow.”
“Why not? what are you going to do?” inquired Oaklands.
“I am not going to do anything particularly,” returned Fanny, hesitating, “but I don't know whether my habit is in wearable order, and—well, I will talk to mamma about it. By-the-by, I really must go and see what has become of her all this time,” she continued, rising to leave the apartment.
“I thought there was nothing my mother disliked so much as being hunted about,” rejoined I; “I wonder you can think of disturbing her.”
A playful shake of the head was her only reply, and she quitted the room.