To free myself from his grasp by a powerful effort was the work of a moment, while almost at the same time I struck him with my full force, and, catching him on the upper part of the nose, dashed him to the ground, where he lay motionless, and apparently stunned, with the blood gushing from his mouth and nostrils.
ALL that passed immediately after the events I have described left but a succession of vague and confused images on my memory. I have some dim recollection of seeing them raise Cumberland from the ground, and of his showing symptoms of returning animation; but I remember nothing distinctly till I again found myself a tenant of the little sanded parlour in the village inn. My first act was to ring for a basin of cold water and a towel, with which I well bathed my face and head; in some degree refreshed by this process, I sat down and endeavoured to collect my scattered senses.
I had succeeded in my immediate object, and suspense was at an end. I had obtained certain proof of Clara's falsehood; with her own lips I had heard her declare that she repented her engagement, and wished to be freed from it; and the person to whom she had confided this was a man whose attentions to her were so marked that even the very servants considered him an acknowledged suitor. What encouragement could be more direct than this? Well, then, she was faithless, and the dream of my life had departed. But this was not all; my faith in human nature was shaken—nay, destroyed at a blow. If she could prove false, whom could I ever trust again? Alas! the grief—the bitter, crushing grief—when the consciousness is forced upon us that one with whom we have held sweet interchange of thought and feeling—with whom we have been linked by all the sacred ties of mutual confidence—with whose sorrows we have sympathised, and whose smiles we have hailed as the freed captive hails the sunshine and the dews of heaven—that one whom for these things we have loved with all the deepest instincts of an earnest and impassioned nature, and for whose truth we would have answered as for our own, is false and unworthy such true affection—oh! this is bitter grief indeed! Deep sorrow, absorbing all the faculties of the soul, leaves no room for any other emotion; and in the one idea, that Clara Saville—Miss Clara Saville, whom my imagination had depicted the simple, the loving, the true-hearted—was lost to me for ever, I forgot for somç time the existence of Wilford or the fact that in my anger I had stricken down and possibly seriously injured Cumberland. But as the first agony of my grief began to wear off, I became anxious to learn the extent of the punishment I had inflicted on him, and accordingly despatched a boy to Peter Barnett, requesting him to send me word how matters stood.
During his absence it occurred to me that, as Wilford had been introduced to her under a feigned name, Clara must be utterly ignorant of the evil reputation attaching to him, and that—although this did, not in any way affect her heartless conduct towards me—it was only right that she should be made aware of the true character of the man with whom she had to deal; therefore, painful as it was to hold any communication with her after what had passed, 1 felt that the time might come when my neglect of this duty might afford me cause for the most bitter self-reproach. Accordingly, asking for pen, ink, and paper, I sat down and wrote the following note:—
“After the occurrences of this morning, I had thought never, either by word or letter, to hold further communication with you; by your own act you have separated us for ever; and I—yes, I can say it with truth—am glad that it should be so—it prevents all conflict between reason and feeling. But I have what I deem a duty to perform towards you—a duty rendered all the more difficult, because my motives are liable to cruel misconstruction; but it is a duty, and therefore must be done. You are, probably, as little aware of the true character of the man calling himself Fleming as of his real name; of him may be said, as of the Italian of old, that 'his hate is fatal to man, and his love to woman'; he is alike notorious as a duellist and a libertine. My knowledge of him arises from his having in a duel wounded, almost unto death, the dearest friend I have on earth, who had saved an innocent girl from adding to his list of victims. If you require proof of this beyond my word, ask Mr. Stephen Wilford—for such is really his name—in your guardian's presence, whether he remembers Lizzie Maurice and the smart of Harry Oaklands' horsewhip. And now, having warned you, your fate is under your own control. For what is past I do not reproach you; you have been an instrument in the hands of Providence to wean my affections from this world, and if it is His good pleasure that, instead of a field for high enterprise and honest exertion, I should henceforth learn to regard it as a scene of broken faith and crushed hopes, it is not for me to rebel against His will. And so farewell for ever!—F. F.”
I had not long finished writing the above when the boy returned, bringing the following missive from old Peter:—
“Honoured Sir,
“The topper as you've give Muster Richard ain't done him no more harm, only lettin' hout a little of his mad blood, and teachin' 'im when he speaks to a gemman to haddress 'im as sich; 'is face is swelled as big as too, and he'll 'ave a sweet pair of black hyes to-morrer, please goodness, which is a comfort to reflect on. Touchin' uther matturs, I've got scent of summut as may make things seeme not so black as we thort, but it's honly in the hegg at present, and may never come to a chickin, so don't go settin' too much on it; but if you've nothin' better to do, ride over agen the day arter to-morrer, by which time I may have more to communicate, “Your humbel servent to command,
“Peter Barnett.”
I pondered for some minutes on what this enigmatical document might portend; but a little reflection served to convince me that neither Peter nor any one else could discover aught affecting the only feature of the whole affair which deeply interested me; on that point I had obtained the information of my own senses, and there was nothing more to hope or fear. I had learned the worst; the blow had fallen, and it only remained for me to bear it with what fortitude I might. Accordingly I enclosed my note to Clara in one to Peter Barnett, telling him I could see no reason for coming there again, and that in all probability I should not take the trouble of doing so, adding that if he had anything new to communicate he had better do so in writing; and then, ordering my horse, I rode slowly home, feeling more thoroughly miserable than I had ever done before in the whole course of my life.
The next morning was so fine that all kinds of pleasurable schemes were proposed and acceded to. Oaklands and Fanny rode out together in all the unrestrained freedom of an engaged tête-à-tête. The new dog-cart had arrived, and the chestnuts were to make their début; consequently, Lawless spent the morning in the stable-yard, united by the closest bonds of sympathy with the head-groom and an attendant harness-maker, the latter being a young man whose distinguishing characteristics were a strong personal savour of new leather, hands gloved in cobbler's wax and harness-dye, and a general tendency to come off black upon everything he approached. Sir John and the rest of the party were to fill a britchska, and the place of rendezvous was the ruins of an old abbey about eight miles distant.
Feeling quite unfit for society, I had excused myself on the plea (not altogether a false one) of a bad headache, and having witnessed their departure from the library window, I drew an easy-chair to the fire, and prepared to enjoy the luxury (in my then state of feeling an unspeakable one) of solitude. But I was not fated to avail myself of even this small consolation, for scarcely ten minutes had elapsed when the library door was opened, and Mr. Frampton made his appearance.
“Umph! eh! umph!” he began; “I've been seeing that young fool Lawless start in his new tandem, as he calls it. A pretty start it was too; why, the thing's as high as a stage-coach—ought to have a ladder to get up—almost as bad as mounting an elephant! And then the horses, fiery devils! two men at each of their noses, and enough to do to hold 'em even so! Well, out comes Master Lawless, in a greatcoat made like a coal-sack, with buttons as big as five-shilling pieces, a whip as long as a fishing-rod in his hand, and a cigar in his mouth. 'There's a picture!' says he. 'A picture of folly,' says I; 'you're never going to be mad enough to trust yourself up there Behind those vicious brutes?' 'Come, governor, jump in, and let's be off,' was all the answer I got. 'Thank ye,' says I; 'when you see me jumping in that direction, pop me into a strait-waistcoat, and toddle me off to Bedlam.' 'Eh! won't you go? Tumble in then, Shrimp!' 'Please, sir, it's so high I can't reach it.' 'We'll soon see about that!' cries Lawless, flanking him with the long whip. Well, the little wretch scrambled up somehow, like a monkey; and as soon as he was safely landed, what does he do but lean back, fold his arms, and winking at one of the helpers, squeak out, 'Oh, crickey! ain't this spicy, just!' 'You're never going to take that poor child?' says I; 'only think of his anxious mother! 'Well, sir, if you'll believe it, they every one of 'em burst out laughing—helpers, brat and all—as if I'd said something very ridiculous. 'Never mind, governor,' says Lawless; 'depend upon it, his mother knows he's out,' and catching hold of the reins, he clambers up into his seat, shouting, 'Give 'em their heads! Stand clear! Chut! chut! 'As soon as the brutes found they were loose, instead of starting off at a jog-trot, as reasonable, well-behaved horses ought to do, what do you suppose they did? The beast they tied on in front turned short round, stared Lawless in the face, and stood up on its hind legs like a kangaroo, while the other animal would not stir a peg, but, laying down his ears, gave a sort of a screech, and kicked out behind. 'Pretty, playful things,' said Lawless, flipping the ashes off the end of his cigar. 'Put his head straight, William. Chut! chut! 'But the more he chutted the more they wouldn't go, and began tearing and rampaging about the yard till I thought they'd be over me, so I scrambled up a little low wall to get out of their way, missed my footing, and tumbled over backwards on to a dung-heap, and before I got up again they were off; but if that young jackanapes don't break his neck some of those days, I'm a Dutchman! Umph! umph!”
“Lawless is a capital whip,” replied I, “and the chestnuts, though fiery, are not really vicious. I don't think there is much danger.”
“Ah young men! young men! you're all foolish alike. I don't know how you'd get on, if you hadn't a few old stagers like me to think for you and give you good advice.—And that puts me in mind that I want to have half an hour's serious conversation with you, Frank. Can you listen to me now?”
“I am quite at your service, sir,” replied I, resigning myself to my fate with the best grace I could command.
“Umph! Well, you see, Frank, I've no chick nor child of my own, and I've taken a kind of a fancy to you from a boy; you were always a good boy and a clever boy, and you've gone on well at college, and distinguished yourself, and have been a credit to the man that sent you there.—By the bye, didn't you ever want to know who it was sent you there?”
“Often and often,” replied I, “have I longed to know to whose disinterested kindness and generosity I was indebted for so great an advantage.”
“Umph! Well, you must be told some day, I suppose, so you may as well know now as at any other time. The man that sent you to college ain't very unlike me in the face. Umph!”
“My dear, kind friend,” replied I, seizing his hand and pressing it warmly, “and is it indeed you who have taken such interest in me? How can I ever thank you?”
“I want no thanks, boy; you did better than thank me when you came out fourth wrangler; why, I felt as proud that day when they were all praising you as if it had been my own son. Say no more about that; but now you've left college, what are your wishes—what do you think of doing? Umph!”
“I had thought of reading for the bar, deeming it a profession in which a man stands a fair chance of distinguishing himself by honourable exertion; I am aware it is somewhat uphill work at starting, but Mr. Coleman has promised to introduce me to several men in his branch of the profession, and to give me all the business he can himself, so I should not be quite a briefless barrister. But if there is anything else you wish to recommend, any other career you would advise me to pursue, I am very indifferent, that is, I am not at all bigoted to my own opinion.”
“Umph! I never had any over-strong affection for lawyers—gentlemen that eat the oysters themselves and leave their clients the shells! However, I suppose there may be such things as honest lawyers to be met with, and it's better for every man to have a profession. Well, now, listen to me, Frank, I—umph!—your sister's going to be married, to be married to a young man for whom I've a very great respect and affection; Sir John Oaklands is a thorough specimen of a fine old English gentleman, and his son bids fair to become just such another, or even a yet higher character, for Harry's got the better headpiece of the two. However, I don't like your sister to marry into such a family without a little money of her own to buy a wedding-bonnet; so you give her this letter, and tell her to mind and get a becoming one. We may trust a woman to take care of that, though, eh, Frank? Umph!”
“Really, sir, your kindness quite overpowers me; we have no possible claim upon your liberality.”
“Yes, you have, boy—yes, you have,” replied Mr. Frampton, “the strongest claim that can be; you have saved me from falling a victim to the worst disease a man can suffer under—you have saved me from becoming a cold-hearted, soured misanthrope; you have given me something to love, some pure unselfish interest in life. And now we are on this subject, I may as well tell you all my plans and wishes in regard to you: I have no soul belonging to me, not a relation in the wide world that I am aware of, and I determined, from the time when I first sent you to college, that if you conducted yourself well and honourably, I would make you my heir.—Don't interrupt me,” he continued, seeing that I was about to speak, “let me finish what I have to say, and then you shall tell me whether you approve of it. You not only came up to, but far surpassed, my most sanguine expectations, and I saw therefore no reason to alter my original intentions. But it is stupid work for a man to wait till all the best days of his life are passed, without funds sufficient to render him independent, to feel all his energies cramped, his talents dwarfed, and his brightest aspirations checked, by a servile dependence on the will and caprice of another—waiting for dead men's shoes—umph! and so, Frank, as I feel pretty tough and hearty for sixty-five, and may live, if it please God, another ten or fifteen years to plague you, it's my wish to make you your own master at once, and I'll either assist you to enter any profession you please, or if you like to settle down into a country gentleman, and can pick up a nice wife anywhere, I can allow you one thousand pounds a year to begin with, and yet have more than I shall know how to spend during the rest of my days in the land of the living. For my own part, this last plan would give me the greatest satisfaction, for I should like to see you comfortably married and settled before I die. Now, what do you say to it? Umph!”
What did I say?—what could I say? I got up, and having once again pressed his hands warmly between my own, began pacing the room, quite overcome by this unexpected liberality, and the conflicting nature of my own feelings. But two short days ago, and such an offer would have been—as I then fondly imagined—the only thing wanting to secure my happiness; possessed of such ample means of supporting her, I could at once have gone boldly to Mr. Vernor, and demanded Clara's hand—nor could he have found just cause for refusing my request; and now, when what once appeared the only insurmountable obstacle to our union was thus removed, the thought that, by her faithlessness and inconstancy, she had placed a barrier between us for ever, was indeed bitter. Surprised by the excess of my emotion, for which, of course, he was totally unable to account, Mr. Frampton sat gazing at me with looks of astonishment and dismay, till at length he broke out with the following interrogatory, “Umph! eh? why, Frank—umph! anybody would think you had just heard you were going to be arrested for debt, instead of having a fortune given you—Umph!”
“My dear, kind friend,” replied I, “forgive me. Your unparalleled liberality, and the generous interest you take in me, give you a father's right over me, and entitle you to my fullest confidence; such an offer as you have now made me would have rendered me, but one short week ago, the happiest of mortals; now, my only chance of regaining anything like tranquillity of mind lies in constant and active employment.”
I then gave him as briefly as I could an outline of my singular acquaintance with Clara Saville, our engagement, and the events which had led to my breaking it off, to all of which he listened with the greatest interest and attention. In telling the tale I mentioned Wilford and Cumberland by name, as he knew the former by reputation, and had seen the latter when a boy at Dr. Mildman's; but I merely spoke of Clara as a young lady whom I had met at Mr. Coleman's, and of Mr. Vernor as her guardian. When I concluded, he remained for a moment buried in thought, and then said, “And you are quite sure she is false? Are you certain that what you heard her say (for that seems to me the strongest point) referred to you?”
“Would I could doubt it!” replied I, shaking my head mournfully.
“Umph!—Well, I dare say—she's only like all the rest of her sex: it's a pity the world can't go on without any women at all,—what is her name?—a jilt!”
“Her name,” replied I, shuddering as he applied the epithet of jilt to her—for, deserved as I could not but own it was, it yet appeared to me little short of profanation—“her name is Clara Saville.”
“Umph! eh? Saville!” exclaimed Mr. Frampton. “What was her mother's name? Umph!”
“I never heard,” replied I. “Her father, Colonel Saville, was knighted for his gallant conduct in the Peninsula. Her mother, who was an heiress, died abroad: her guardian, Mr. Vernor—”
“Umph! Vernor, eh! Vernor! Why that's the fellow who wrote to me and told me—Umph! wait a bit, I shall be back directly. I—eh!—umph! umph! umph!”
And so saying, Mr. Frampton rushed out of the room in a perfect paroxysm of grunting. It was now my turn to be astonished, and I was so most thoroughly. What could possibly have caused Mr. Frampton to be so strangely affected at the mention of Clara's name and that of her guardian? Had he known Mr. Vernor in former days? Had he been acquainted with Clara's father or mother? Could he have been attached to her as I had been to Clara, and like me, too, have become the dupe of a heartless jilt? A jilt—how I hated the word! how the blood boiled within me when that old man applied it to her! And yet it was the truth. But oh! the heart-spasm that darts through our breast when we hear some careless tongue proclaim, in plain intelligible language, the fault of one we love—a fault which, even at the moment when we may be suffering from it most deeply, we have striven sedulously to hide from others, and scarcely acknowledged definitely to ourselves. In vague musings, such as these, did I pass away the time till Mr. Frampton returned. As he approached, the traces of strong emotion were visible on his countenance; and when he spoke his voice sounded hoarse and broken.
“The ways of God are indeed inscrutable,” he said. “Information, which for years I have vainly sought, and would gladly have given half my wealth to obtain, has come to me when I least expected it; and, in place of joy, has brought me deepest sorrow. Frank, my poor boy! she who has thus wrung thy true heart by her cruel falsehood is my niece, the orphan child of my sister!”
In reply to my exclamations of surprise, he proceeded to inform me that his father, a man of considerable property in one of the midland counties, had had three children: himself, an elder brother, and a sister some years his junior, whose birth deprived him of a mother's love. His brother tyrannised over him; and on the occasion of his father's second marriage, he was sent to school, where he was again unfortunate enough to meet with harsh treatment, against which his high spirit rebelled; and having no better counsellors than his own inexperience and impetuosity, he determined to run away and go to sea. A succession of accidents conspired to prevent his return to his native country, until, being taken as clerk in a merchant's counting-house at Calcutta, he was eventually admitted into partnership, and acquired a large fortune. As he advanced beyond middle life, he felt a strong wish to return to England, seek out his family, and revisit the scenes of his boyhood; but on carrying his project into execution, he learned that his father and brother had both paid the debt of nature, while his sister, the only one of his relatives towards whom he had ever entertained much affection, had married a Colonel Saville; and having accompanied her husband to Spain, had died there without leaving any offspring. The last piece of information he had acquired from a Mr. Vernor, to whom he had been recommended to apply. His surprise, therefore, when he heard of the existence of Clara, may easily be imagined. A long conversation ensued between us, with the consequences of which the reader will be better acquainted when he shall have read the following chapter.
THE result of my conversation with Mr. Frampton was, that I agreed to ride over on the following day to the little inn at Barstone, see old Peter Barnett, hear his report, and learn from him further particulars concerning Clara Saville's parentage, in order to establish beyond the possibility of doubt the fact of her relationship to Mr. Frampton, who, in the event of his expectations proving well-founded, was determined to assert his claim, supersede Mr.Vernor in his office of guardian, and endeavour, by every means in his power, to prevent his niece's marriage either with Wilford or Cumberland. The only stipulation I made was, that when I had obtained the requisite information, he should take the affair entirely into his own hands, and, above all, promise me never to attempt, directly or indirectly, to bring about a reconciliation between Clara and myself. Not that I bore her any ill-will for the misery she had caused me. On the contrary, my feeling towards her had been from the very first one of grief rather than of anger. But a girl who could possibly have acted as Clara had done, was not one whom I ever should wish to make my wife. I could not marry a woman I despised.
After Mr. Frampton had left me, I sat pondering on the singular train of circumstances (chances, as we unwisely, if not sinfully, term them) which occur in a man's life—how events which change the whole current of our existence appear to hang upon the merest trifles—the strange, mysterious influence we exercise over the destinies of each other—how by a word, a look, we may heal an aching heart or—break it. It is, I think, in a poem of Faber's that the following lines occur—(I quote from memory, and therefore, perhaps, incorrectly):—
Life is, indeed, a fearful and wonderful thing—doubly fearful when we reflect, that every moment we expend for good or evil is a seed sown to blossom in eternity. As I thought on these things, something which Mr. Frampton had said, and which at the time I let pass without reflection, recurred to my mind. He had asked me whether I was certain that the words I heard Clara address to Wilford referred to me. Up to this moment I had felt perfectly sure they did; but after all, was it so certain? might they not equally well apply to Cumberland? was there a chance, was it even possible, that I had misunderstood her? Oh, that I dare hope it! gladly would I seek her pardon for the injustice I had done her—gladly would I undergo any probation she might appoint, to atone for my want of faith in her constancy, even if it entailed years of banishment from her presence, the most severe punishment my imagination could devise; but then the facts, the stubborn, immovable facts, my letters received and unanswered—the confidential footing she was on with Wilford—the—But why madden myself by recapitulating the hateful catalogue? I had learned the worst, and would not suffer myself to be again beguiled by the mere phantom of a hope. And yet, so thoroughly inconsistent are we, that my heart felt lightened of half its burden; and when the pleasure-seekers returned from their expedition, I was congratulated by the whole party upon the beneficial effects produced on my headache by perfect rest and quiet. Lawless and Coleman made their appearance some half-hour after the others, and just as Mr. Frampton had promulgated the cheering opinion that they would be brought home on shutters, minus their brains, if they ever possessed any. It seemed the chestnuts having at starting relieved their minds by the little ballet d'action which had excited Mr. Frampton's terrors, did their work in so fascinating a manner, that Lawless, not being satisfied with Shrimp's declaration that “they was the stunnin'est 'orses as hever he'd sot hyes on,” determined (wishing to display their perfections to a higher audience) that one of the party should accompany him on his return; whereupon Freddy Coleman had been by common consent selected, much against his will. However, “the victim,” as he termed himself, escaped without anything very tremendous happening to him, the chestnuts (with the slight exception of running away across a common, rushing through a flock of geese, thereby bringing a premature Michaelmas on certain unfortunate individuals of the party in a very reckless and unceremonious manner, and dashing within a few inches of a gravel-pit, in a way which was more exciting than agreeable) having conducted themselves (or more properly speaking, allowed themselves to be conducted) as well-bred horses ought to do.
When the party separated to prepare for dinner, I called Fanny on one side, and gave her Sir. Frampton's letter: on opening it a banker's order for three thousand pounds dropped out of it—a new instance of my kind friend's liberality, which really distressed more than it gratified me.
During the course of the evening Harry Oaklands expressed so much anxiety about my ill looks, appearing almost hurt at my reserve, that I could hold out no longer, but was forced to take him into my confidence.
“My poor Frank!” exclaimed he, wringing my hand warmly, as I finished the recital, “to think that you should have been suffering all this sorrow and anxiety, while I, selfishly engrossed by my own feelings, had not an idea of it; but you ought to have told me sooner.”
“Perhaps I should; but it has been, from the very beginning, such a strange, melancholy affair, so unlikely ever to turn out happily, that I have felt a strong repugnance to speak of it to any one; and even now I must beg you not to mention it to Fanny, at all events till my last act in the business is performed, and Mr. Frampton takes the matter into his own hands.”
“After all,” rejoined Oaklands, “I feel there must be some mistake; she never can be false to you—never love that villain Wilford. Oh, Frank! how can you bear to doubt her?”
“It is indeed misery to do so,” replied I, sighing deeply; “and yet, when one's reason is convinced, it is weakness to give way to the suggestions of feeling.”
“If Fanny were to prove false to me, I should lie down and die,” exclaimed Oaklands vehemently.
“You might wish to do so,” replied I; “but grief does not always kill; if it did, in many cases it would lose half its bitterness.”
A look was his only answer, and we parted for the night.
Daylight the next morning found me again in the saddle, and I reached the little inn by eight o'clock. On my arrival, I despatched a messenger to old Peter Barnett, telling him I wished to see him, and then, determining that I would not allow myself to hope, only again to be disappointed, I rang for breakfast, and set resolutely to work to demolish it; in which I succeeded very respectably, merely stopping to walk round the room and look out of the window between every second mouthful. At length my envoy returned, with a message to the effect that Mr. Barnett would come down in the course of the morning, but that I was by no means to go away without seeing him, and that he hoped I would be careful not to show myself, as the enemy were out in great force, and all the sentries had been doubled.
“What does he mean by that?” inquired I of the boy who delivered the message—an intelligent little urchin, who was evidently well up in the whole affair, and appeared highly delighted at the trust reposed in him, to say nothing of the harvest of sixpences his various missions produced him.
“Vy, sir, he means that the gamekeeper has had two extra assistants allowed him since you vos there the other day, sir, and they has strict orders to take hup anybody as they finds in the park, sir.”
“They need not alarm themselves,” replied I; “I shall not intrude upon their domain again in a hurry. Now look out, and let me know when Peter Barnett is coming.”
So saying, I gave him the wished-for sixpence, and with a grin of satisfaction he departed.
With leaden feet the hours crawled along, and still old Peter Barnett did not make his appearance; when, about twelve o'clock, a horseman passed by, followed by a groom. As he rode at a very quiet pace, his face was easily recognised, and I saw at a glance it was Mr. Vernor. Fortunately he never looked towards the window at which I was standing, or he must have seen me. Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed, when old Peter arrived, breathless from the speed at which he had come; his grotesque but expressive features gleaming with delight and sagacity, while his merry little eyes danced and twinkled as if they would jump out of their sockets. Reassured, in spite of myself, by his manner, I exclaimed, as I closed the parlour door behind him, “Well, Peter; speak out, man—what is it?”
“Oh! my breath!” was the reply, “running don't suit old legs like it does young uns. I say, sir, did ye see him go by?”
“I saw Mr. Vernor pass a few minutes since,” replied I.
“Ah! that's what I've been a-waiting for; we're safe from him for the next four hours: he didn't see you, did he?”
“No,” returned I, “he was fortunately looking another way.”
“Well, it's all right then, everything's all right; oh! lor, I'm so happy.”
“It's more than I am,” replied I angrily; for feeling convinced that nothing could have occurred materially to affect the position in which Clara and I stood towards each other, the old man's joy grated harshly on my gloomy state of mind, and I began to attribute his excessive hilarity to the influence of the ale-tap. “You will drive me frantic with your ridiculous and unseasonable mirth. If you have anything to communicate likely to relieve my sorrow and anxiety, in the name of common sense speak out, man.”
“I beg your pardon, sir; I was so happy myself, I was forgetting you: I've got so much to tell you, I don't know where to begin rightly; but, however, here goes—to the right-about face! March!” He then proceeded to give me, with much circumlocution, which I will mercifully spare the reader, the following account. After he had left me at the conclusion of our last interview, feeling, as he said, “more wretcheder” than he had ever done before, in going through the park, he observed two persons, a man and a woman, in close conversation; on his approach they separated, but not until he had been able to recognise Wilford, and one of the female servants, Clara's personal attendant. “This,” as he continued, “set him a-thinking,” and the result of his cogitations occasioned the mysterious hint thrown out to me in his note. On receiving my letter for Clara, he found an opportunity of delivering it in person, inquiring, when he did so, both when she had last heard from, and written to, me; at the same time informing her that he had a very particular reason for asking. He then learned what he had more than suspected from the interview he had witnessed in the park, namely, that since Wilford had been in the house, she had not only never received one of my letters, but had written to me more than once to ascertain the cause of such an unaccountable silence. These letters she had, as usual, given to her maid to convey to Peter Barnett; and the girl, cajoled and bribed by Wilford, had evidently given them to him instead. This induced Peter, as he expressed it, “to open his heart to his young mistress,” and with deep contrition he confessed to her the suspicions he had entertained of her fickleness, how he had communicated them to me, and how circumstances had forced me to believe them. Clara, naturally much distressed and annoyed by this information, blamed him for not having spoken to her sooner, assured him that he had wronged her deeply in imagining such things, and desired him somewhat haughtily to lose no time in undeceiving Mr. Fairlegh. He then inquired whether she wished to send any answer to my note; on which she read it through with a quivering lip, and replied, “Yes, tell him, that as he finds it so easy to believe evil of me, I agree with him that it will be better our acquaintance should terminate”. She then motioned to him to leave the room, and he was obliged to obey; but, glancing at her as he closed the door, he perceived that she had covered her face with her hands, and was weeping bitterly. He next set to work with the waiting-maid, and by dint of threats of taking her before Mr. Vernor, and promises, if she confessed all, that he would intercede with Clara for her forgiveness, he elicited from her the whole truth—namely, that by the joint influence of bribes and soft speeches, Wilford had induced her to hand over to him her mistress's letters, and that he had detained every one either to or from me. “Well, sir,” continued he, “that was not such a bad day's work altogether, but I ain't been idle since. Mr. Fleming, or Wilford, as you says he is, started off the first thing this morning for London, and ain't cumming back till the day after to-morrow; so, thinks I, we'll turn the tables upon you, my boy, for once—that ere letter dodge was very near a-ruining us, I wonder how it will hact the t'other way: and a lucky thought it was too, Muster Fairlegh, for sich a scheme of willainy as I've descivered all dewised against poor dear Miss Clara—”
“A scheme against Miss Saville!” exclaimed I; “what do you mean?”
“You opened the letter!” exclaimed I.
“In course I did; how was I to read it if I hadn't? all's fair in love and war, you know—the blessed Duke of Wellington served Bony so many a time, I'll be bound; besides, hadn't he opened Miss Clara's, the blackguard? Well, sir, I read it, and it's lucky as I did; oh! he's a bad un, he's a deal wickeder than Muster Richard hisself, and that's saying something—it's from a Captain —”
“Really, Peter, I cannot avail myself of information obtained in such a manner,” interrupted I.
“Ah! but you must though,” was the reply, “if you want to prevent this black willain from carrying off Miss Clara, and marrying her, nolus bolus.”
“Carrying off Miss Clara! what do you mean?”
“I was a-going to tell you,” returned old Peter, with a cunning grin, producing a crumpled letter, “only' you wouldn't listen to me.”
As I (not being prepared with a satisfactory answer) remained silent, he smoothed the letter with his hand, and read as follows:—
“My dear Sir,—I was unfortunately out of town when your letter arrived, and it had to be sent after me; but I hope you will get this in time to prevent your having to come to London., which is unnecessary, as I have been able to carry out all your arrangements as you would wish. A carriage, with four horses, will be kept in readiness, so that it can be brought to any point you may direct at half an hour's notice. I presume you and I, with Wilson [that's his valet], are sufficient to carry off the girl—young lady, I mean, even if there be any papa or brother in the case, who would be the better for a little knocking down; but if you like more assistance, I can lay my hand on two or three sprightly lads, who would be very glad to make themselves useful. You are flying at high game this time. Do you really mean matrimony, or is it to be the old scheme, a mock marriage? I ask, because in the latter case I must look out for somebody to play parson. Wishing you your usual luck,
“I remain, yours to command,
“Ferdinand Spicer, “Captain in the Bilboa Fencibles.”
“Spicer!” I exclaimed, as he concluded; “I knew a Captain Spicer once, who was a person likely enough to lend himself to a scheme of this vile nature. Well, Peter, the information is most important, however questionable the means by which it has been acquired. The matter must be looked to; but first, I want to learn a few particulars about Miss Saville's relations on the mother's side.” I then proceeded with a string of questions furnished me by Mr. Frampton, by the answers to which I ascertained, beyond a doubt, that Clara was indeed his niece, the orphan child of his favourite sister. Having established this point to my own satisfaction, and the unbounded delight of Peter Barnett, who at length began to entertain a not unreasonable hope that his pet daydream of kicking Mr. Vernor out of Barstone Priory might, at some time or other be realised, I said, “Now, Peter, I must somehow contrive to see your young mistress, and try to obtain her forgiveness; but as I cannot say I managed the matter over-well the other day, I will put myself into your hands, to be guided by you entirely”.
“Ah! I thought what was a-coming; well, that is speaking sensible-like for once; but do you think you could write anything as would persuade her to meet you? She's precious angry, I'm afraid, with us both, and small blame to her either; for hit ain't over-pleasant to be suspected when one's innocent, and she has a high spirit, bless her!—she wouldn't be her father's own daughter if she hadn't.”
“I can write a few lines to her, and try,” replied I mournfully, for the old man's words sounded like a death knell to my hopes.
“Come, don't be out of spirits, and down-casted-like, sir,” urged Peter; “suppose she did make up her mind she'd give you the cold shoulder, she'd be sure to change it again to-morrow, women is such wersytile creeturs; besides, she couldn't do it if she wanted to; it would break her heart, I know. I wonder where she'd find such another sweetheart?” continued he, sotto voce, as he turned to get the writing materials; “good-looking, high-spirited, uncommon pleasant to talk to, six foot one if he's an inch, and as upright as if I'd had the drilling of him myself.”
With an eager, yet trembling hand (for I was in such a state of agitation that I could scarcely write), I snatched a pen, and hastily scrawled the following words:—
“Clara, will you—can you forgive me? It is of the utmost importance that I should see you and speak to you without delay, if but for five minutes; strange and unexpected things have come to light, and it is necessary for your happiness, nay, even for your very safety, that you should be made acquainted with them. Clara, dearest Clara, grant me this boon, if not for my sake, for your own; if you knew the misery, the agony of mind I have endured for the last two days, I think you would pity, would pardon me.
“F. F.”
“There,” said I, as I hastily sealed it, “I have done all I can, and if she will not see me, I shall be ready to go and blow Wilford's brains out first, and my own afterwards. So, my good Peter, be off at once, for every moment seems an hour till I learn her decision.”
“Wait a bit, sir,—wait a bit; you haven't heard my plan yet. You can't set your foot in the park, for there's the keeper and two assistants on the look out; and if you could, you dare not show your nose in the house, for there's Muster Richard with his lovely black hyes a-setting in the liberary, and he's got ears like an 'are, besides two or three of the servants as would tell him in a minute. No, this is the way I means to manage—Miss Clara generally rides a-horseback every day, and I rides behind her; and before I came out, I ordered the horses as usual. So, if she's willing to come, we'll go out at the back gate by the great oak, a quarter of a mile farther down this lane, and when we've got out of sight of the park paling, you've nothing to do but set spurs to your horse, and join us;—therefore, if you hears nothing to the contrairy, when I've been gone half an hour, you mount your nag, ride quietly up the lane, and keep your hyes open."
OH! that tedious half-hour! I should like to know, merely as a curious matter of calculation, how many minutes there were in that half-hour—sixty-five at the very least; the hands of my watch stuck between the quarter and twenty minutes for full a quarter of an hour, and as for the old Dutch clock in the bar, that was worn out, completely good for nothing, I am certain, for I ordered my horse round to the door above ten minutes too soon by that, and I'm sure I didn't start before my time,—it would have been folly to do so, you know, because it was possible old Peter might send at any moment before the expiration of that half-hour. But at last even it came to an end—and no message had arrived; so, burning with impatience, I sprang into the saddle, and with difficulty restraining myself from dashing off at a gallop, I reined in the mare, and proceeded at a foot's pace up the lane.
After riding about a quarter of a mile, I perceived a small hand-gate just under a magnificent oak, which I at once recognised as the tree old Peter had described. Unwilling to attract the notice of the gamekeeper and his myrmidons by loitering about in the lane, I discovered a gap in a hedge on the other side the road, and, after glancing round to see that I was unobserved, I rode at it, and leaped into the opposite field, where, hidden behind a clump of alders, I could perceive all that passed in the road. But for a long time nothing did pass, save a picturesque donkey, whose fore-feet being fastened together by what are called “hobbles,"{1} advanced by a series of jumps—a mode of progression which greatly alarmed the sensitive nerves of my mare, causing her to plunge and pull in a way which gave me some trouble to hold her.
After I had succeeded in quieting her, I dismounted, and, tightening the saddle-girths, which had become loosened during her struggles, got on again; still no one came. At length, just as I was beginning to despair, I heard the