Frank Fairlegh, Part 1 by Frank E. Smedley

“And then, and much it helped his chance—
He could sing, and play first fiddle, and dance—
Perform charades, and proverbs of France.”
—Hood.

“I have often heard this and that and t'other pain mentioned
as the worst that mortals can endure—such as the toothache,
earache, headache, cramp in the calf of the leg, a boil, or
a blister—now, I protest, though I have tried all these,
nothing seems to me to come up to a pretty sharp fit of
jealousy.”
—Thinks I to Myself.

LAWLESS'S penitence, when he learned the danger in which Fanny had been placed by his thoughtlessness and impetuosity, was so deep and sincere that it was impossible to be angry with him; and even Oaklands, who at first declared he considered his conduct unpardonable, was obliged to confess that, when a man had owned his fault frankly, and told you he was really sorry for it, nothing remained but to forgive and forget it. And so everything fell into its old train once more, and the next few days passed smoothly and uneventfully. I had again received a note from Clara, in answer to one I had written to her. Its tenour was much the same as that of the last she had sent me. Cumberland was still absent, and Mr. Vernor so constantly occupied that she saw very little of him. She begged me not to attempt to visit her at present; a request in the advisability of which reason so fully acquiesced, that although feeling rebelled against it with the greatest obstinacy, I felt bound to yield. Harry's strength seemed now so thoroughly re-established, that Sir John, who was never so happy as when he could exercise hospitality, had invited a party of friends for the ensuing week, several of whom were to stay at the Hall for a few days; amongst others Freddy Coleman, who was to arrive beforehand, and assist in the preparations; for charades were to be enacted, and he was reported skilful in the arrangement of these saturnalia of civilised society, or, as he himself expressed it, he was “up to all the dodges connected with the minor domestic enigmatical melodrama”. By Harry's recommendation I despatched a letter to Mr. Frampton, claiming his promise of visiting me at Heathfield Cottage, urging as a reason for his doing so immediately, that he would meet four of his old Helmstone acquaintance, viz., Oak-lands, Lawless, Coleman, and myself. The morning after Coleman's arrival, the whole party formed themselves into a committee of taste, to decide on the most appropriate words for the charades, select dresses, and, in short, make all necessary arrangements for realising a few of the very strong and original, but somewhat vague, ideas, which everybody appeared to have conceived on the subject.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” began Freddy, who had been unanimously elected chairman, stage-manager, and commander-in-chief of the whole affair, “in the first place, who is willing to take a part? Let all those who wish for an engagement at the Theatre Royal, Heathfield, hold up their hands.”

Lawless, Coleman, and I were the first who made the required signal, and next the little white palms of Fanny and Lucy Markham (whom Mrs. Coleman had made over to my mother's custody for a few days) were added to the number.

“Not if you can contrive to do without me,” was the reply. “I did it once, and never was so tired in my life before. I suppose you mean to have speaking charades; and there is something in the feeling that one has so many words to recollect, which obliges one to keep the memory always on the stretch, and the attention up to concert pitch, in a way that is far too fatiguing to be agreeable.”

“Well, as you please, most indolent of men; pray, make yourself quite at home, this is Liberty Hall, isn't it, Lawless?” returned Coleman, with a glance at the person named, who, seated on the table, with his legs twisted round the back of a chair, was sacrificing etiquette to comfort with the most delightful unconsciousness.

“Eh? yes to be sure, no end of liberty,” rejoined Lawless; “what are you laughing at?—my legs? They are very comfortable, I can tell you, if they're not over ornamental; never mind about attitude, let us get on to business, I want to know what I'm to do?”

“What do you say to Matchlock?” inquired I. “You might as well have Blunderbuss while you are about it,” was the reply. “No, both words are dreadfully hackneyed; let us try and find out something original, if possible.”

“Eh? yes, something original, by all means; what do you say to Steeplechase?” suggested Lawless.

“Original, certainly,” returned Freddy; “but there might be difficulties in the way. For instance, how would you set about acting a steeple?”

“Eh? never thought of that,” rejoined Lawless; “I really don't know, unless Oaklands would stand with a fool's cap on his head to look like one.”

“Much obliged, Lawless; but I'd rather be excused,” replied Harry, smiling. “I've got an idea!” exclaimed I. “No, you don't say so? you are joking,” remarked Freddy in a tone of affected surprise. “Stay a minute,” continued I, musing. “Certainly, as long as you and Sir John like to keep me,” rejoined Coleman politely.

“Yes! that will do; come here, Freddy,” added I, and, drawing him on one side, I communicated to him my ideas on the subject, of which, after suggesting one or two improvements on my original design, he was graciously pleased to approve. Of what this idea consisted, the reader will be apprised in due time. Suffice it at present to add, that Fanny having consented to perform the part of a barmaid, and it being necessary to provide her with a lover, Lawless volunteered for the character, and supported his claim with so much perseverance, not to say obstinacy, that Coleman, albeit he considered him utterly unsuited to the part, was fain to yield to his importunity.

For the next few days Heathfield Hall presented one continual scene of bustle and confusion. Carpenters were at work converting the library into an extempore theatre. Ladies and ladies'-maids were busily occupied in manufacturing dresses. Lawless spent whole hours in pacing up and down the billiard-room, reciting his part, which had been remodelled to suit him, and the acquisition of which appeared a labour analogous to that of Sisyphus, as, by the time he reached the end of his task, he had invariably forgotten the beginning. Every one was in a state of the greatest eagerness and excitement about something—nobody exactly knew what; and the interest Ellis took in the whole affair was wonderful to behold. The unnecessary number of times people ran up- and down-stairs was inconceivable, and the pace at which they did so terrific. Sir John spent his time in walking about with a hammer and a bag of nails, one of which he was constantly driving in and clenching beyond all power of extraction, in some totally wrong place, a line of conduct which reduced the head-carpenter to the borders of insanity.

On the morning of the memorable day when the event was to come off, Mr. Frampton made his appearance in a high state of preservation, shook my mother by both hands as warmly as if he had known her from childhood, and saluted the young ladies with a hearty kiss, to their extreme astonishment, which a paroxysm of grunting (wound up by the usual soliloquy, “Just like me!”) did not tend to diminish. A large party was invited in the evening to witness our performance, and, as some of the guests began to arrive soon after nine, it was considered advisable that the actors and actresses should go and dress, so that they might be in readiness to appear when called upon.

The entertainments began with certain tableaux-vivants, in which both Harry and I took a part; the former having been induced to do so by the assurance that nothing would-be expected of him but to stand still and be looked at—an occupation which even he could not consider very hard work: and exceedingly well worth looking at he appeared when the curtain drew up, and discovered him as the Leicester in Scott's novel of Kenilworth; the magnificent dress setting off his noble figure to the utmost advantage; while Fanny, as Amy Robsart, looked prettier and more interesting than I had ever seen her before. Various tableaux were in turn presented, and passed off with much éclat, and then there was a pause, before the charade, the grand event of the evening, commenced. Oaklands and I, having nothing to do in it (Fanny having coaxed Mr. Frampton into undertaking a short part which I was to have performed, but which she declared was so exactly suited to him that she would never forgive him if he refused to fill it), wished the actors success, and came in front to join the spectators.

After about ten minutes of breathless expectation the curtain drew up and exhibited Scene 1st, the Bar of a Country Inn; and here I shall adopt the play-wright's fashion, and leave the characters to tell their own tale:—

Enter Susan Cowslip, the Barmaid (Fanny) and John Shortoats, the Ostler (Lawless).

John. Well Susan, girl, what sort of a morning hast thee had of it? how's master's gout to-day?

Susan. Very bad, John, very bad indeed; he has not got a leg to stand upon; and as to his shoe, try everything we can think of, we can't get him to put his foot in it.

[Extempore soliloquy by Lawless. Precious odd if lie doesn't, for he's not half up in his part, I know.]

John. Can't thee, really? well, if that be the case, I needn't ask how his temper is?

John, Indeed she has, and she be too young and pretty to be used in that manner. Ah! that comes of marrying an old man for his money; she be uncommon pretty, to be sure; I only knows one prettier face in the whole village.

Susan (with an air of forced unconcern). Aye, John, and whose may that be, pray? Mary Bennett, perhaps, or Lucy Jones?

Susan (still with an air of unconsciousness). Let me see, where is there a Susan? let me think a minute. Oh! one of Darling the blacksmith's girls, I dare say; it's Susan Darling!

John (rubbing his nose, and looking cunning). Well, 'tis Susan, darling, certainly; yes, thee be'st about right there—Susan, darling.

Susan (pouting). So you're in love with that girl, are you, Mr. John? A foolish, flirting thing, that cares for nothing but dancing and finery; a nice wife for a poor man she'll make, indeed—charming!

John. Now, don't thee go and fluster thyself about nothing, it ain't that girl as I'm in love with; I was only a-making fun of thee.

Susan (crossly). There, I wish you wouldn't keep teasing of me so; I don't care anything about it—I dare say I've never seen her.

John. Oh! if that's all, I'll very soon show her to thee—come along. (Takes her hand, and leads her up to the looking-glass.) There's the Susan I'm in love with, and hope to marry some day. Hasn't she got a pretty face? and isn't she a darling? (Susan looks at him for a minute, and then bursts into tears; bell rings violently, and a gruff voice calls impatiently, Susan! Susan!)

John. Let the old curmudgeon wait! (Voice behind the scenes, John!—John Ostler, I say!) Coming, sir; yes, sir. Sir, indeed—an old brute; but now, Susan, what do'st thee say? wilt thee have me for a husband? (Takes her hand.)

(Voice. John! John! I say. Susan! where are you? And enter Mr. Frampton, dressed as the Landlord, on crutches, and with his gouty foot in a sling.)

Landlord. John! you idle, good-for-nothing vagabond, why don't you come when you're called—eh?

Landlord. You, indeed—ugh! you're just as bad as he is, making love in corners, (aside, Wonder whether she does really,) instead of attending to the customers; nice set of servants I have, to be sure. If this is all one gets by inn-keeping, it's not worth having. I keep the inn, and I expect the inn to keep me. (Aside. Horrid old joke, what made me put that in, I wonder? just like me—umph.') There's my wife, too—pretty hostess she makes.

Landlord. Hold your tongue, fool—what do you know about it? (Bell rings.) There, do you hear that? run and see who that is, or I shall lose a customer by your carelessness next. Oh! the bother of servants—oh! the trouble of keeping an inn! (Hobbles out, driving Susan and John before him. Curtain falls.)

As the first scene ended the audience applauded loudly, and then began hazarding various conjectures as to the possible meaning of what they had witnessed. While the confusion of sounds was at the highest, Oaklands drew me on one side, and inquired, in an undertone, what I thought of Lawless's acting. “I was agreeably surprised,” returned I, “I had no notion he would have entered into the part so thoroughly, or have acted with so much spirit.”

“He did it con amore, certainly,” replied Oaklands with bitterness; “I considered his manner impertinent in the highest degree, I wonder you can allow him to act with your sister; that man is in love with her—I feel sure of it—he meant every word he said. I hate this kind of thing altogether—I never approved of it; no lady should be subjected to such annoyance.”

“Supposing it really were as you fancy, Harry, how do you know it would be so great an annoyance? It is just possible Fanny may like him,” rejoined I.

“Oh, certainly! pray let me know when I am to congratulate you,” replied Oaklands with a scornful laugh; and, turning away abruptly, he crossed the room, joined a party of young ladies, and began talking and laughing with a degree of recklessness and excitability quite unusual to him. While he was so doing, the curtain drew up, and discovered

Enter Susan, showing in Hyacinth Adonis Brown (Coleman), dressed as a caricature of the fashion, with lemon-coloured kid gloves, staring-patterned trousers, sporting-coat, etc.

Susan. This is the settin'-room, if you please, sir. Hyacinth (fixing his glass in his eye, and scrutinising the apartment). This is the settin'-woom, is it? to set, to incubate as a hen—can't mean that, I imagine—provincial idiom, pwobably—aw—ya'as—I dare say I shall be able to exist in it as long as may be necessary—ar—let me have dinnaar, young woman, as soon as it can be got weady.

Hyacinth (looking at her with his glass still in his eye). Hem! pwetty gal—ar—like, my dear, like?—(vewy pwetty gal!)

Hyacinth. Vewy pwetty name, indeed—(aside, Gal's worth cultivating—I'll do a little bit of fascination). Ahem! Chickens, Susan, are not the only things that can be tendar. (Advances, and attempts to take lier hand. Enter John hastily, and runs against Hyacinth, apparently by accident.)

John. Beg parding, sir, I was a-looking for you, sir. (Places himself between Susan and Hyacinth.)

John. I ha' rubbed down your horse, sir, and I was a wishin' to know when you would like him fed. (Makes signs to Susan to leave the room.)

Hyacinth. Fed?—aw!—directly to be su-ar. (To Susan, who is going out.) Ar—don't you go.

Hyacinth (aside, Fellar talks as if the animal were a pot of mignonette). Ar—you'll give him some wataar as soon as he's eaten his dinnaar.

Hyacinth (aside, What a bo-ar the fellar is; I wish he'd take himself off). Weally, I must leave the hay to your discwession.

John. Werry well, sir; couldn't do a better thing, sir. How about his clothing? shall I keep a cloth on him, sir? (Winks at Susan, who goes out laughing.)

Hyacinth. Yaas! You can keep a cloth on—ar—and—that will do. (Waves his hand towards the door.)

Hyacinth (indignantly). Ar—leave the woom, fellar! John. Yes, sir; you may depend upon me takin' proper care of him, sir; and if I should think o' anything else, I'll be sure to come and ask you, sir. (Goes out grinning.)

Hyacinth. Howwid fellar—I thought I should never get wid of him—it's evident he's jealous—ar, good idea—I'll give him something to be jealous about. I'll wing the bell and finish captivating Susan. (Rings. Re-enter John.) John. Want me, sir? Here I am, sir—fed the horse, sir.

Hyacinth (waving his hand angrily towards the door). Ar—go away, fellar, and tell the young woman to answaar that bell. (John leaves the room, muttering, If I do I'm blessed. Hyacinth struts up to the glass, arranges his hair, pulls up his shirt-collar, and rings again. Re-enter Susan.) Hyacinth. Pway, Susan, are you going to be mawwied? Susan (colouring). No, sir—a—yes, sir—I can't tell, sir.

Hyacinth. No, sir—yes, sir—ar—I see how it is—the idea has occurred to you—it's that fellar John, I suppose? Susan. Yes, sir—it's John, sir, if you please. Hyacinth. Well—ar—perhaps I don't exactly please. Now, listen to me, Susan. I'm an independent gentleman, vewy wich (aside, Wish I was)—lots of servants and cawwiages, and all that sort of thing. I only want a wife, and—a-hem—captivated by your beauty, I'm wesolved to mawwy you. (Aside. That will do the business.) Susan. La! sir, you're joking.

Hyacinth. Ar—I never joke—ar—of course you consent! Susan. To marry you, sir? Hyacinth. Ar—yes—to mawwy me. Susan. What! and give up John? Hyacinth. I fear we cannot dispense with that sacwifice.

Susan. And you would have me prove false to my true love; deceive a poor lad that cares for me; wring his honest heart, and perhaps drive him to take to evil courses, for the sake of your fine carriages and servants? No, sir, if you was a duke, I would not give up John to marry you.

Hyacinth. Vewy fine, you did that little bit of constancy in vewy good style; but now, having welievedyour feelings, you may as well do a little bit of nature, and own that, womanlike, you have changed your mind.

Susan. When I do, sir, I'll be sure to let you know. (Aside. A dandified fop! why, John's worth twenty such as him.) I'll send John in with your dinner, sir. [Curtsies and exit, leaving Hyacinth transfixed with astonishment.']

Enter Susan with black ribbons in her cap. Susan. Heigho! so the gout's carried off poor old master at last. Ah! well, he was always a great plague to everybody, and it's one's duty to be resigned—he's been dead more than two months now, and it's above a month since mistress went to Broadstairs for a change, and left John and me to keep house—ah! it was very pleasant—we was so comfortable. Now, if in a year or two mistress was to sell the business, and John and me could save money enough to buy it, and was to be married, and live here; la! I should be as happy as the day's long. I've been dull enough the last week though—for last Monday—no, last Saturday—that is, the Saturday before last, John went for a holiday to see his friends in Yorkshire, and there's been nobody at home but me and the cat—I can't think what ailed him before he went away, he seemed to avoid me like; and when he bid me goodbye, he told me if I should happen to pick up a sweetheart while he was gone, he would not be jealous—what could he mean by that? I dare say he only said it to tease me. I ought to have a letter soon to say when mistress is coming back. [Enter boy with letter, which he gives to Susan, and exit.] Well, that is curious—it is from Broadstairs, I see by the post-mark. Why, bless me, it's in John's handwriting—he can't be at Broadstairs, surely—I feel all of a tremble. (Opens the letter and reads.) “My dear Seusan, Hafter i left yeu, I thort i should not ave time to go hall the way to York, so by way of a change i cum down here, where I met poor Mrs., who seemed quite in the dumps and low like, about old master being dead, which is human natur cut down like grass, Seusan, and not having a creetur to speak to, naturally took to me, which was an old tho' humbel friend, Seusan—and—do not think me guilty of hincon-stancy, which I never felt, but the long and short of it is that we was married “(the wretch!)” yesterday, and is comin' home to-morrow, where I hopes to remian very faithfully your affexionate Master and Mrs.

[Susan tears the letter, bursts into tears, and sinks back into a chair fainting—curtain drops.]

CHAPTER XLIV — CONFESSIONS

“....And sure the match Were rich and honourable.”
—Two Gentlemen of Verona.

“We that are true lovers run into strange capers.”
—As You Like It.

“....That which I would discover,
The law of friendship bids me to conceal.”
—Two Gentlemen of Verona.
“Tarry I here, I but attend on death;
But fly I hence, I fly away from life.”

“DEAR me! what can it possibly mean? how I wish I could guess it!” said the youngest Miss Simper.

“I'm sure he does, he looks so delightfully wicked,” added the eldest Miss Simper, shaking her ringlets in a fascinating manner, to evince her faith in the durability of their curl.

The eldest Miss Simper had been out four seasons, and spent the last winter at Nice, on the strength of which she talked to young men of themselves in the third person, to show her knowledge of the world, and embodied in her behaviour generally a complete system of “Matrimony-made-easy, or the whole Art of getting a good Establishment,” proceeding from early lessons in converting acquaintances into flirts, up to the important final clause—how to lead young men of property to propose.

“Really,” replied Oaklands, “my face must be far more expressive and less honest than I was aware of, for I can assure you they have studiously kept me in the dark as to the meaning.”

“But you have made out some idea for yourself; it is impossible that it should be otherwise,” observed the second Miss Simper, who had rubbed off some of her shyness upon a certain young Hebrew Professor at the last Cambridge Installation, and become rather blue from the contact.

“Have you?” said the youngest Miss Simper, who, being as nearly a fool as it is possible to allow that a pretty girl of seventeen can be, rested her pretensions upon a plaintive voice and a pensive smile, which went just far enough to reveal an irreproachable set of teeth, and then faded away into an expression of gentle sorrow, the source of which, like that of the Niger, had as yet remained undiscovered.

“Oh, he has!” exclaimed the eldest Miss Simper; “that exquisitely sarcastic, yet tantalising curl of the upper-lip, tells me that it is so.”

“Since you press me,” replied Oaklands, “I confess, I believe I have guessed it.”

“I knew it—it could not have been otherwise,” exclaimed the blue belle enthusiastically.

The youngest Miss Simper spoke not, but her appealing glance, and a slight exhibition of the pearl-like teeth, seemed to hint that some mysterious increase of her secret sorrow might be expected in the event of Oaklands' refusing to communicate the results of his penetration.

“As I make it out,” said Harry, “the first scene was Inn, the second Constancy, and the third Inconstancy.”

“Ah! that wretch John, he was the Inconstancy,” observed the eldest Miss Simper, “marrying for money!—the creature!—such baseness 1 but how delightfully that dear, clever Mr. Lawless acted; he made love with such naïve simplicity, too; he is quite irresistible.”

“I shall take care to let him know your flattering opinion,” returned Oaklands with a faint attempt at a smile, while the gloom on his brow grew deeper, and the Misses Simper were in their turn deserted; the eldest gaining this slight addition to her worldly knowledge, viz., that it is not always prudent to praise one friend to another, unless you happen to be a little more behind the scenes than had been the case in the present instance.

“Umph! Frank Fairlegh, where are you? come here, boy,” said Mr. Frampton, seizing one of my buttons, and towing me thereby into a corner. “Pretty girl, your sister Fanny—nice girl, too—umph!”

“I am very glad she pleases you, sir,” replied I; “as you become better acquainted with her, you will find that she is as good as she looks—if you like her now, you will soon grow very fond of her—everybody becomes fond of Fanny.”

“Umph! I can see one who is, at all events. Pray, sir, do you mean to let your sister marry that good-natured, well-disposed, harum-scarum young fool, Lawless?”

“This is a matter I leave entirely to themselves; if Lawless wishes to marry Fanny, and she likes him well enough to accept him, and his parents approve of the arrangement, I shall make no objection: it would be a very good match for her.”

“Umph! yes—she would make a very nice addition to his stud,” returned Mr. Frampton, in a more sarcastic tone than I had ever heard him use before. “What do you suppose are the girl's own wishes? is she willing to be Empress of the Stable?”

“Really, sir, you ask me a question which I am quite unable to answer; young, ladies are usually reserved upon such subjects, and Fanny is especially so; but from my own observations, I am inclined to think that she likes him.”

“Umph! dare say she does; women are always fools in these cases—men too, for that matter—or else they would take pattern by me, and continue in a state of single blessedness,” then came an aside, “Single wretchedness more likely, nobody to care about one—nothing to love—die in a ditch like a beggar's dog, without a pocket-handkerchief wetted for one—there's single blessedness for you! ride in a hearse, and have some fat fool chuckling in the sleeve of his black coat over one's hard-earned money. Nobody shall do that with mine, though; for I'll leave it all to build union work-houses and encourage the slave-trade, by way of revenging myself on society at large. Wonder why I said that, when I don't think it! just like me—umph!”

“I am not at all sure but that this may prove a mere vision of our own too lively imaginations, after all,” replied I, “or that Lawless looks upon Fanny in any other light than as the sister of his old friend, and an agreeable girl to talk and laugh with; but if it should turn out otherwise, I should be sorry to think that it is a match which will not meet with your approval, sir.”

“Oh! I shall approve—I always approve of everything—I dare say he'll make a capital husband—he's very kind to his dogs and horses. Umph! silly boy, silly girl—when she could easily do better, too. Umph 1 just like me, bothering myself about other people, when I might leave it alone—silly girl though, very!”

So saying, Mr. Frampton walked away, grunting like a whole drove of pigs, as was his wont when annoyed.

The next morning I was aroused from an uneasy sleep by the sun shining brightly through my shutters, and, springing out of bed, and throwing open the window, I perceived that it was one of those lovely winter days which appear sent to assure us that fogs, frost, and snow will not last for ever, but that Nature has brighter things in store for us, if we will bide her time patiently. To think of lying in bed on such a morning was out of the question, so, dressing hastily, I threw on a shooting jacket, and sallied forth for a stroll. As I wandered listlessly through the park, admiring the hoar-frost which glittered like diamonds in the early sunshine, clothing the brave old limbs of the time-honoured fathers of the forest with a fabric of silver tissue, the conversation I had held with Mr. Frampton about Fanny and Lawless recurred to my mind. Strange that Harry Oaklands and Mr. Frampton—men so different, yet alike in generous feeling and honourable principle—should both evidently disapprove of such a union: was I myself, then, so blinded by ideas of the worldly advantages it held forth, that I was unable to perceive its unfitness? Would Lawless really prize her, as Tennyson has so well expressed it in his finest poem, as

“Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse”?

and was I about to sacrifice my sister's happiness for rank and fortune, those world-idols which, stripped of the supposititious attributes bestowed upon them by the bigotry of their worshippers, appear, in their true worth-lesaness, empty breath and perishable dross? But most probably there was no cause for uneasiness; after all, I was very likely worrying myself most unnecessarily: what proof was there that Lawless really cared for Fanny? His attentions—oh! there was nothing in that—Lawless was shy and awkward in female society, and Fanny had been kind to him, and had taken the trouble to draw him out, therefore he liked her, and preferred talking and laughing with her, rather than with any other girl with whom he did not feel at his ease. However, even if there should be anything more in it, it had not gone so far but that a little judicious snubbing would easily put an end to it—I determined, therefore, to talk to my mother about it after breakfast: she had now seen enough of Lawless to form her own opinion of him; and if she agreed with Oaklands and Mr. Frampton that his was not a style of character calculated to secure Fanny's happiness, we must let her go and stay with the Colemans, or find some other means of separating them. I had just arrived at this conclusion, when, on passing round the stem of an old tree which stood in the path, I encountered some person who was advancing rapidly in an opposite direction, meeting him so abruptly that we ran against each other with no small degree of violence.

“Hold hard there I you're on your wrong side, young fellow, and if you've done me the slightest damage, even scratched my varnish, I'll pull you up.”

“I wish you had pulled up a little quicker yourself, Lawless,” replied I, for, as the reader has doubtless discovered from the style of his address, it was none other than the subject of my late reverie with whom I had come in collision. “I don't know whether I have scratched your varnish, as you call it, but I have knocked the skin off my own knuckles against the tree in the scrimmage.”

“Never mind, man,” returned Lawless, “there are worse misfortunes happen at sea; a little sticking-plaster will set all to rights again. But look here, Fairlegh,” he continued, taking my arm, “I'm glad I happened to meet you; I want to have five minutes' serious conversation with you.”

“Won't it do after breakfast?” interposed I, for my fears construed this appeal into “confirmation strong as holy writ” of my previous suspicions, and I wished to be fortified by my mother's opinion before I in any degree committed myself. All my precautions were, however, in vain.

“Eh! I won't keep you five minutes, but you see this sort of thing will never do at any price; I'm all wrong altogether—sometimes I feel as if fire and water would not stop me, or cart-ropes hold me—then again I grow as nervous as an old cat with the palsy, and sit moping in a corner like an owl in fits. Last hunting-day I was just as if I was mad—pressed upon the pack when they were getting away—rode over two or three of the tail hounds, laid 'em sprawling on their backs, like spread eagles, till the huntsman swore at me loud enough to split a three-inch oak plank—went slap at everything that came in my way—took rails, fences, and timber, all flying, rough and smooth as nature made 'em—in short, showed the whole field the way across country at a pace which rather astonished them, I fancy;—well, at last there was a check, and before the hounds got on the scent again, something seemed to come over me, so that I could not ride a bit, and kept cranning at mole-hills and shirking gutters, till I wound up by getting a tremendous purl from checking my horse at a wretched little fence that he could have stepped over, and actually I felt so fainthearted that I gave it up as a bad job, and rode home ready to eat my hat with vexation. But I know what it is, I'm in love—that confounded Charade put me up to that dodge. I fancied at first that I had got an ague, one of those off-and-on affairs that always come just when you don't want them, and was going to ask Ellis to give me a ball, but I found it out just in time, and precious glad I was too, for I never could bear taking physic since I was the height of sixpenny worth of halfpence.”

“Eh! wait a minute; you haven't an idea what a desperate state I'm in; I had a letter returned to me yesterday, with a line from the post-office clerk, saying no such person could be found, and when I came to look at the address I wasn't surprised to hear it. I had written to give some orders about a dog-cart that is building for me, and directed my letter to 'Messrs. Lovely Fanny, Coachmakers, Long Acre'. Things can't go on in this way, you know—I must do something—come to the point, eh?—What do you say?”

“Upon my word,” replied I, “this is a case in which I am the last person to advise you.”

“Eh I no, it is not that—I'm far beyond the reach of advice, but what I mean is, your governor being dead—don't you see—I consider you to stand in propria quae maribus, as we used to say at old Mildman's.”

“Eh! Psha, it's all the same!” continued Lawless impatiently; “but what do you say about it? Will you give your consent, and back me up a bit in the business?—for I'm precious nervous, I can tell you.”

“Am I to understand, then,” said I, seeing an explanation was inevitable, “that it is my sister who has inspired you with this very alarming attachment?”

“Eh! yes, of course it is,” was the reply; “haven't I been talking about her for the last ten minutes? You are growing stupid all at once; did you think it was your mother I meant?”

“Not exactly,” replied I, smiling; “but have you ever considered what Lord Cashingtown would say to your marrying a poor clergyman's daughter?”

“What! my governor? oh! he'd be so delighted to get me married at any price, that he would not care who it was to, so that she was a lady. He knows how I shirk female society in general, and he is afraid I shall break my neck some of these fine days, and leave him the honour of being the last Lord Cashingtown as well as the first.”

“And may I ask whether you imagine your suit likely to be favourably received by the young lady herself?”

“Eh! why, you see it's not so easy to tell; I'm not used to the ways of women, exactly. Now with horses I know every action, and can guess what they'd be up to in a minute; |for instance, if they prick up their ears, one may expect a shy, when they lay them back you may look out for a bite or a kick; but, unluckily, women have not got movable ears.”

“No,” replied I, laughing at this singular regret; “they contrive to make their eyes answer nearly the same purpose, though. Well, Lawless, my answer is this—I cannot pretend to judge whether you and my sister are so constituted as to increase each other's happiness by becoming man and wife; that is a point I must leave to her to decide; she is no longer a child, and her destiny shall be placed in her own hands; but I think I may venture to say that if your parents are willing to receive her, and she is pleased to accept you, you need not fear any opposition on the part of my mother or myself.”

“That's the time of day,” exclaimed Lawless, rubbing his hands with glee, “this is something like doing business; oh! it's jolly fun to be in love, after all. Then everything depends upon Fanny now; but how am I to find out whether she will have me or not? eh? that's another sell.”

“Ask her,” replied I; and, turning down a different path, I left him to deliberate upon this knotty point in solitude.

As I walked towards home my meditations assumed a somewhat gloomy colouring. The matter was no longer doubtful, Lawless was Fanny's declared suitor; this, as he had himself observed, was something like doing business. Instead of planning with my mother how we could prevent the affair from going any farther, I must now inform her of his offer, and find out whether she could give me any clue as to the state of Fanny's affections. And now that Lawless's intentions were certain, and that it appeared by no means improbable he might succeed in obtaining Fanny's hand, a feeling of repugnance came over me, and I began to think Mr. Frampton was right, and that my sister was formed for better things than to be the companion for life of such a man as Lawless. From a reverie which thoughts like these had engendered, I was aroused by Harry Oaklands' favourite Scotch terrier, which attracted my attention by jumping and fawning upon me, and on raising my eyes I perceived the figure of his master, leaning, with folded arms, against the trunk of an old tree. As we exchanged salutations I was struck by an unusual air of dejection both in his manner and appearance. “You are looking ill and miserable this morning, Harry; is your side painful?” inquired I anxiously.

“No,” was the reply, “I believe it is doing well enough; Ellis says so;” he paused, and then resumed in a low hurried voice, “Frank, I am going abroad.”

“Going abroad!” repeated I in astonishment, “where are you going to? when are you going? this is a very sudden resolution, surely.”

“I know it is, but I cannot stay here,” he continued; “I must get away—I am wretched, perfectly miserable.”

“My dear Harry,” replied I, “what is the matter? come tell me; as boys we had no concealments from each other, and this reserve which appears lately to have sprung up between us is not well: what has occurred to render you unhappy?”

A deep sigh was for some minutes his only answer; then, gazing steadily in my face, he said, “And have you really no idea?—But why should I be surprised at the blindness of others, when I myself have only become aware of the true nature of my own feelings when my peace of mind is destroyed, and all chance of happiness for me in this life has fled for ever!”

“Since you ask me, I have fancied that illness was beginning to sour your temper,” I replied.

“Illness of mind, not body,” he resumed; “for now, when life has lost all charm for me, I am regaining health and strength apace. You must have observed with what a jaundiced eye I have regarded everything that Lawless has said or done; what was the feeling, think you, which has led me to do so? Jealousy!”

“Jealousy?” exclaimed I, as for the first time the true state of the case flashed across me—“Oh! Harry, why did you not speak of this sooner?”

“Why, indeed! because in my blindness I fancied the affection I entertained for your sister was merely a brother's love, and did not know, till the chance of losing her for ever opened my eyes effectually, that she had become so essential to my happiness that life without her would be a void. If you but knew the agony of mind I endured while they wore acting that hateful charade last night! I quite shudder when I think how I felt towards Lawless; I could have slain him where he stood without a shadow of compunction. No, I must leave this place without delay; I would not go through what I suffered yesterday again for anything—I could not bear it.”

“Oh! if we had but known this sooner,” exclaimed I, “so much might have been done—I only parted from Lawless five minutes before I met you, telling him that if Fanny approved of his suit, neither my mother nor I would offer the slightest opposition. But is it really too late to do anything? shall I speak to Fanny?”

“Not for worlds!” exclaimed Oaklands impetuously; “do not attempt to influence her in the slightest degree. If, as my fears suggest, she really love Lawless, she must never learn that my affection for her has exceeded that of a brother—never know that from henceforth her image will stand between me and happiness, and cast its shadow over the whole future of my life.”

He stood for a moment, his hands pressed upon his brow as if to shut out some object too painful to behold, and then continued abruptly, “Lawless has proposed, then?”

“He has asked my consent, and his next step will of course be to do so,” replied I.

“Then my fate will soon be decided,” returned Oak-lands. “Now listen to me, Frank; let this matter take its course exactly as if this conversation had never passed between us. Should Fanny be doubtful, and consult you, do your duty as Lawless's friend and her brother—place the advantages and disadvantages fairly before her, and then let her decide for herself, without in the slightest degree attempting to bias her. Will you promise to do this, Frank?”

“Must it indeed be so? can nothing be done? no scheme hit upon?” returned I sorrowfully.

“Nothing of the kind must be attempted,” replied Oaklands sternly; “could I obtain your sister's hand tomorrow by merely raising my finger, I would not do so while there remained a possibility of her preferring Lawless. Do you imagine that I could be content to be accepted out of compassion? No,” he added, more calmly, “the die will soon be cast; till then I will remain; and if, as I fear is only too certain, Lawless's suit is favourably received, I shall leave this place instantly—put it on the score of health—make Ellis order me abroad—the German baths, Madeira, Italy, I care not, all places will be alike to me then.”

“And how miserable Sir John will be at this sudden determination,” returned I, “and he is so happy now in seeing your health restored!”

“Ah! this world is truly termed a vale of tears,” replied Harry mournfully, “and the trial hardest to bear is the sight of the unhappiness we cause those we love. Strange that my acts seem always fated to bring sorrow upon my father's grey head, when I would willingly lay down my life to shield him from suffering. But do not imagine that I will selfishly give way to grief—no; as soon as your—as soon as Lawless is married, I shall return to England and devote myself to my father; my duty to him, and your friendship, will be the only interests that bind me to life.”

He paused, and then added, “Frank, you know me too well to fancy that I am exaggerating my feelings, or even deceiving myself as to the strength of them; this is no sudden passion, my love for Fanny has been the growth of years, and the gentle kindness with which she attended on me during my illness—the affectionate tact (for I believe she loves me as a brother, though I have almost doubted even that of late) with which she forestalled my every wish, proved to me how indispensable she has become to my happiness. But,” he continued, seeing, I imagined, by the painful expression of my face, the effect his words were producing on me, “in my selfishness I am rendering you unhappy. We will speak no more of this matter till my fate is certain; should it be that which I expect, let us forget that this conversation ever passed; if, on the contrary, Lawless should meet with a refusal—but that is an alternative I dare not contemplate.—And now, farewell.”

So saying, he wrung my hand with a pressure that vouched for his returning strength, and left me. In spite of my walk, I had not much appetite for my breakfast that morning.

CHAPTER XLIII — A CHARADE—NOT ALL ACTING

CHAPTER XLIV — CONFESSIONS