ON arriving at the inn, to which I was forced to return to order my horse, I perceived Lawless's tandem waiting at the door, surrounded by a crowd of admiring rustics, with Shrimp, his arms folded with an air of nonchalant defiance, which seemed to say, “Oh! run over me by all means if you choose,” stationed directly in front of the leader's head. On entering the parlour I found Lawless busily engaged in pulling on a pair of refractory boots, and looking very hot and red in the face from the exertion.
“How are you, Fairlegh? how are you? That stupid fool has made 'em too tight for anybody but Tom Thumb, and be hanged to him. Ever read fairy tales, Fairlegh? I did when I was a little shaver, and wore cock-tailed petticoats—all bare legs and bustle—'a Highland lad my love was born'; that style of thing, rather, you know; never believed 'em, though: wasn't to be done even then; eh? Well, this is a puzzler; I can't get 'em on. Where's the fellow they call Boots? Here, you sir, come and see if you can pull on these confounded namesakes of yours, and I'll tip you half a crown if you succeed; cheaper than breaking one's back, eh?”
“Where are you off to, supposing you should ever get those boots on?” asked I.
“Eh? I am going to call on the young woman I set alight at the hop last night, and tell her I'm quite down in the mouth about it; explain that I didn't go to do it; that it was quite a mistake, and all owing to the other young woman's being so fresh, in fact; and then offer to rig her out again, start her in new harness from bridle crupper, all at my own expense, and that will be finishing off the affair handsomely, won't it?”
“I should advise your leaving out that last piece of munificence,” replied I; “she might think it an insult.” “An insult, eh? Oh, if she's so proud as all that comes to I'd better stay away altogether; I shall be safe to put my foot into it there, a good deal faster than I have into these villainous boots—that's it, Sampson, another pull such as that and the deed's done,” added Lawless, patting the human Boots on the back encouragingly.
“I was just going to ride over to inquire after Miss Saville myself,” said I.
“That's the very thing, then,” was the reply. “I'll drive you there instead; it will be better for your scorched fin (pointing to my injured arm) than jolting about outside a horse, and you shall tell me what to say as we go along; you seem to understand the sex, as they call the petticoats, better than I do, and can put a fellow up to a few of the right dodges. I only wish they were all horses, and then I flatter myself I should not require any man's advice how to harness, drive, train, or physic them.”
“The ladies are infinitely indebted to you,” replied I, as I ran upstairs to prepare for our expedition.
A drive of rather less than an hour and a half, during which the thorough-breds performed in a way to delight every lover of horseflesh, brought us to the park gate of Barstone Priory, where Mr. Vernor resided. After winding in and out for some half-mile amongst groups of magnificent forest-trees, their trunks partially concealed by plantations of rare and beautiful shrubs, a sudden turn of the road brought us in front of the Priory—an ancient, venerable-looking pile of building, which had evidently, as its name implied, once belonged to some religious community. The alterations it had undergone, in order to adapt it to its present purpose, had been carried out with more taste and skill than are usually met with in such cases. The garden, with its straight terrace-walks and brilliant flower-beds, contrasted well with the grey stone of which the building was composed, while the smooth-shaven lawn, with an old, quaintly carved sundial in the centre, and, above all, the absence of any living creature whatsoever, imparted an air of severe formality to the scene, which, as the eye rested upon it, seemed to realise all one had read of monastic discipline and seclusion; and one half expected to see a train of dark-veiled nuns or sandalled friars winding slowly forth from the hall-door.
"What a singular old shop!” exclaimed my companion, regarding the structure with a look of displeased criticism; “wretched little windows as ever I saw; they must be all in the dark inside on a dull day, and every day would be dull if one lived there, I should think. It would puzzle a fellow to tell whether that building was clerical or lay, fish or flesh; a castle that had taken a serious turn, or a church out for the day in plain clothes; how people can like to live in such a mouldy, rusty, musty old barn, that looks as full of ghosts as a cheese is of mites, I can't conceive.”
“There certainly is an appearance of gloom and loneliness about the place,” replied I; “but I think it is chiefly owing to the absence of any living object—a herd of deer in the park, a group of children and dogs playing on the lawn—anything to give animation to the picture, would be the greatest improvement.”
“I should just think it would,” returned Lawless. “Fancy a pack of hounds under that jolly old oak yonder, the huntsman and whips in their bits of pink, and a field of about fifty of the right sort of fellows on thorough-breds, dawdling about, talking to one another, or taking a canter over the turf, just to settle themselves in the saddle; that would be a sight to make old Vernor look a little better pleased than he did last night, sing out for his boots and buckskins, and clap his leg over the first four-footed beast that came in his way, even if it should happen to be the old cow.”
“I hope I may be there to see if he does,” replied I laughing.
On inquiring whether Mr. Vernor was at home we were answered in the affirmative by a tall, gaunt-looking man-servant, with a stern, not to say surly, countenance, the expression of which was in some degree contradicted by a pair of quick, restless little grey eyes, which in any other face one should have said twinkled merrily beneath the large grizzled eyebrows which o'ershadowed them.
Having, at Lawless's request, procured a nondescript hobbledehoy of indefinite character to stand at the horses' heads (we had left Shrimp behind, by common consent, that he might be no restraint on our conversation), he conducted us across the hall into a kind of morning-room, fitted up with oak panels, and with a very handsome old carved oak chimney-piece reaching half-way to the ceiling. He was leaving the room to inform his master of our arrival when Lawless stopped him by saying:—
“Here, just wait a bit; tell the young woman—that is to say, don't tell her anything; but I mean, let Miss Saville be made aware (I see you're awake, for all your long face), put her up to our being here; don't you know, eh?” “Tip him,” whispered I.
“Eh, stop a bit; you're a very honest fellow, and it's right to reward faithful servants; and—you understand all about it, eh?”
One portion of this somewhat incoherent address he did understand, evidently, for without altering a muscle of his face, he put out his hand, took the money, and left the room with the same unconscious air of imperturbability which he had maintained throughout the whole conference. “Good move that, eh?” exclaimed Lawless, as soon as the door was closed; “that'll fetch her out of her hole, for a guinea. Mind, I shall do my best to cut you out, Master Frank. I don't see why I haven't a right to quite as large a share of her gratitude as you have, for if I hadn't set her on fire you'd never have put her out; so, in fact, she owes it all to me—don't you see?”
“I'm afraid there's a little sophistry in that argument,” replied I; “but we had better wait till we find whether we shall have the opportunity afforded us of trying our powers of fascination before we quarrel about the effects to be produced by them. I cannot say I feel over sanguine as to the success of your somewhat original negotiation with that raw-boned giant in the blue plush sine qua nons, as Coleman calls them.”
“Time will show,” rejoined Lawless, turning towards the door, which opened at this moment to admit Mr. Vernor; and, alas! him only.
His reception of us, though perfectly easy and well-bred, was anything but agreeable or encouraging. He answered our inquiries after Miss Saville's health by informing us, cursorily, that no ill effects had ensued from her alarm of the previous evening. He received Lawless's apologies with a calm, half-ironical smile, and an assurance that they were not required; and he slightly thanked me for my obliging assistance in words perfectly unexceptionable in themselves, but which, from a peculiarity in the tone of voice more than anything else, impressed one with a sense of insult rather than of compliment. Still, in compliance with certain expressive looks from Lawless, who evidently was most unwilling to be convinced of the failure of his little bit of diplomacy, I used every means I could think of to prolong the visit. I first admired, then criticised, the carving of the chimney-piece; I dived into a book of prints which lay upon the table, and prosed about mezzo-tint and line engraving, and bored myself, and of course my hearers also, till our powers of endurance were taxed almost beyond their strength; and, at last, having completely exhausted not only my small-talk, but my entire stock of conversation of all sorts and sizes, I was regularly beaten to a stand-still, and obliged to take refuge in alternately teasing and caressing a beautiful black and tan setter, which seemed the only member of the party thoroughly sociable and at his ease.
At length it became apparent even to Lawless himself that the visit could not be protracted longer, and we accordingly rose and took our leave, our host (I will not call him entertainer, for it would be a complete misnomer) preserving the same tone of cool and imperturbable politeness to the very last. On reaching the hall we encountered the surly old footman, whose features looked more than ever as if they had been carved out of some very hard species of wood.
“I say, old boy, where's the young lady, eh?” exclaimed Lawless, as soon as he caught sight of him; “she never showed so much as the tip of her nose in the room; how was that, eh?”
“If she com'd into the room when gentlemen was calling, master would eat her without salt,” was the reply.
“Which fact you were perfectly aware of when you took my tip so quietly just now?”
“In course I was, why should I not be?”
“Done brown for once, by Jove!” muttered Lawless as he left the hall; “a raw-boned old rogue, I'll be even with him some day, though——, we shall see, eh?”
While Lawless was busily engaged in settling some of the harness which had become disarranged the old footman came up to me and whispered, “Make use of your eyes as you drive through the park, and mayhap you'll spy some game worth looking after, young gentleman”.
Surprised at this unexpected address, I turned to question him as to its meaning, but in vain; for no sooner had he finished speaking than he re-entered the hall and shut the door behind him.
What could he intend me to understand, thought I; he evidently wished to imply something beyond the simple meaning of the words “game worth looking after”; could he mean to——no! the thing is impossible—“absurd!” exclaimed I, as a wild idea shot through my brain and I felt myself colour like a girl.
"What's absurd?” exclaimed Lawless, gathering up the reins as he spoke; “what are you talking about? why, you're ranting and staring about you like a play-actor; what's the matter with you, eh, Frank?”
“Nothing,” replied I, taking my seat; “don't drive too fast through the park, I want to look at the view as we go along.”
In obedience to the gaunt domestic's mysterious injunction I made the best use of my eyes as we retraced our way through the park, and for my pains had the satisfaction of beholding a solitary rabbit, half-hidden under a dock-leaf, and sundry carrion crows.
WE had arrived within a quarter of a mile of the gate, and I had just settled to my thorough dissatisfaction that the old footman must be a humorist, and had diverted himself by making a kind of April-fool out of season of me, when, through the trees, which at that spot stretched their huge branches across the road so as to form a complete arch, I fancied I perceived the flutter of a woman's dress; and, in another moment, a turn in the drive disclosed to my view a female form, which I instantly recognised as that of Clara Saville.
Without a minute's hesitation I sprang to the ground before Lawless had time to pull up, and, saying to him, “I shall be back again directly; wait for me, there's a good fellow,” I hastily entered a winding path, which led through the trees to the spot where I had seen the young lady, leaving my companion mute from astonishment. Up to this moment, acting solely from a sort of instinctive impulse which made me wish to see and speak to Miss Saville, I had never considered the light in which my proceedings might appear to her. What right, I now asked myself, had I to intrude upon her privacy, and, as it were, force my company upon her, whether she wished it or not? Might she not look upon it as an impertinent intrusion? As these thoughts flitted through my brain I slackened my pace; and had it not been for very shame could have found in my heart to turn back again. This, however, I resolved not to do; having committed myself so far, I determined to give her an opportunity of seeing me, and, if she should show any intention of avoiding me, it would then be time enough to retrace my steps and leave her unmolested. With this design I proceeded slowly up the path, stopping now and then as if to admire the view, until a turn of the walk brought me in sight of a rustic bench, on which was seated the young lady I had before observed. As soon as she perceived me she rose and turned towards me, disclosing, as she did so, the graceful form and lovely features of my partner of the preceding evening. The morning costume, including a most irresistible little cottage-bonnet lined with pink, was even more becoming to her than the ball-dress; and when, instead of the cold air of constraint which had characterised her manner of the previous evening, she advanced to meet me with a slight blush and the most bewitching smile of welcome that ever set man's heart beating, I thought I had never seen anything so perfectly beautiful before.
“I must ask your forgiveness for venturing thus to intrude upon you, Miss Saville,” began I, after we had exchanged salutations; “but the temptation of learning from your own lips that you had sustained no injury was too strong to be resisted, more particularly after the disappointment of finding you were from home when I did myself the pleasure of calling on Mr. Vernor to inquire after you.”
“Nay, there is nothing to forgive,” replied Miss Saville; “on the contrary,” she continued, blushing slightly, “I was anxious to see you, in order to thank you for the eminent service you rendered me yesterday evening.”
“Really it is not worth mentioning,” returned I; “it is only what any other gentleman in the room would have done had he been in my situation; it was good Mrs. Trottle's shawl saved you; I could have done nothing without that.”
“You shall not cheat me out of my gratitude in that way,” replied she, smiling; “the shawl would have been of little avail had it not been so promptly and energetically applied; and, as for the other gentlemen, they certainly were very ready with their offers of assistance after the danger was over. I am afraid,” she continued, looking down, “you must have repented the trouble you had taken when you found what a thankless person you had exerted yourself to save.”
“Indeed, no such idea crossed my mind for an instant; the slight service I was able to render you was quite repaid by the pleasure of knowing that I had been fortunate enough to prevent you from sustaining injury,” said I.
“You are very kind,” was the reply; “but I can assure you I have been exceedingly annoyed by imagining how wholly destitute of gratitude you must have considered me!”
“Lucy Markham told me such would be the case,” replied I, smiling.
“Did she?—a dear warm-hearted girl—she always does me justice!” exclaimed Miss Saville, as she raised her beautiful eyes, sparkling with animation, to my face. She then, for the first time, observed my injured arm, and added quickly, “but you wear your arm in a sling; I hope—that is—I am afraid—-I trust it was not injured last night!”
“It is a mere trifle,” replied I; “he wristband of my sleeve caught fire, and burnt my arm, but it is nothing of any consequence, I can assure you.”
“I am sure you must have thought me sadly ungrateful,” returned my companion; “you exerted yourself, and successfully, to save my life, receiving a painful injury in so doing, whilst I left the house without offering you the thanks due even to the commonest service imaginable.”
“You were not then aware that I had burnt my arm, remember; and forgive me for adding,” returned I (for I saw that she was really distressed at the idea of my considering her wanting in gratitude), “that it did not require any unusual degree of penetration to perceive that you were not altogether a free agent.”
“No, indeed,” replied she, eagerly catching at the idea, “Mr. Vernor, my guardian—he always means to be very kind I am sure; but,” she added, sinking her voice, “he is so very particular, and he speaks so sternly sometimes, that—I know it is very silly—but I cannot help feeling afraid of him. I mention this, sir, to prevent your judging me too harshly, and I trust to your generosity not to take any unfair advantage of my openness; and now,” she added, fixing her large eyes upon me with an imploring look which would have melted the toughest old anchorite that ever chewed grey peas, “you will not think me so very ungrateful, will you?”
“My dear Miss Saville,” replied I, “let me beg you to believe I never dreamt of blaming you for a moment; on the contrary, I pay you no compliment, but only mention the simple truth, when I tell you that I admired your behaviour throughout the whole affair exceedingly; your presence of mind and self-control were greater than, under the circumstances, I could have supposed possible.” As she made no reply to this, but remained looking steadfastly on the ground, with her head turned so as to conceal her face, I continued—“I hope it is unnecessary for me to add, that you need not entertain the slightest fear of my making any indiscreet use of the frankness with which you have done me the honour of speaking to me—but I am forgetting half my business,” added I, wishing to set her at ease again, “I am charged with all sorts of kind messages to you from good Mrs. Coleman and Miss Markham; I presume you would wish me to tell them I have had the pleasure of ascertaining that you have sustained no ill effects from your alarm.”
“Oh yes, by all means,” replied Miss Saville, looking up with a pleased expression, “give my kind love to them both, and tell dear Lucy I shall come over to see her as soon as ever I can.”
“I will not intrude upon you longer, then, having delivered my message,” said I; “I have kept my companion, the gentleman who was so unfortunate as to overturn the candelabrum, waiting an unconscionable time already; he is very penitent for his offence; may I venture to relieve his mind by telling him that you forgive him?”
“Pray do so,” was the reply; “I never bear malice; besides, it was entirely an accident, you know. How thoroughly wretched he seemed when he found what he had done; frightened as I was, I could scarcely help laughing when I caught a glimpse of his face, he looked so delightfully miserable,” added she, with a merry laugh. After a moment's pause she continued—“I'm afraid Mr. Vernor will think I am lost, if he should happen to inquire after me, and I'm not forthcoming”.
“Surely,” said I, “he can never be so unreasonable as to blame you for such a trifle as remaining five minutes too long. Does he expect you to be a nun because he lives in a priory?”
“Almost, I really think,” was the reply; “and now, good-bye, Mr. Fairlegh,” she continued—“I shall feel happier since I have been able to explain to you that I am not quite a monster of ingratitude.”
“If that is the case, I am bound to rejoice in it also,” answered I, “though I would fain convince you that the explanation was not required.”
Her only reply to this was an incredulous shake of the head; and, once more wishing me good-morning, she tripped along the path; and, when I turned to look again, her graceful figure had disappeared among the trees.
With a flushed brow and beating heart (gentle reader, I was barely twenty) I hastened to rejoin my companion, who, as might be expected, was not in the most amiable humour imaginable, having had to restrain the impatience of two fiery horses for a space of time nearly approaching a quarter of an hour.
“Really, Lawless,” I began, “I am quite ashamed.” “Oh, you are, are you?” was the rejoinder. “I should rather think you ought to be, too. But it's always the way with you fellows who pretend to be steady and moral, and all that sort of thing: when you do find a chance of getting into mischief, you're worse a great deal than a man like myself, for instance, who, without being bothered with any particular principles of any kind, has what I call a general sense of fitness and propriety, and does his dissipation sensibly and correctly. But to go tearing off like a lunatic after the first petticoat you see fluttering among the bushes in a gentleman's park, and leaving your friend to hold in two thorough-bred peppery devils, that are enough to pull a man's arms off, for above a quarter of an hour, it's too bad a great deal. Why, just before you came, I fully expected when that mare was plunging about on her hind legs——”
“How lovely she looked!” interrupted I, thinking aloud.
“You thought so, did you?” rejoined Lawless; “I wish you'd just had to hold her; her mouth's as hard——”
“Her mouth is perfect,” replied I emphatically; “quite perfect.”
“Well, that's cool,” muttered Lawless; “he'll put me in a passion directly;—pray, sir, may I ask how on earth you come to know anything about her mouth?”
“How do I know anything about her mouth?” exclaimed I. “Did I not watch with delight its ever-varying expression?—mark each movement of those beautiful lips, and drink in every syllable that fell from them?—not observe her mouth! Think you, when we have been conversing together for the last quarter of an hour, that I could fail to do so?”
"Oh he's gone stark staring mad!” exclaimed Lawless; “strait-waistcoats, Bedlam, and all that sort o' thing, you know;—conversing with my bay mare for the last quarter of an hour, and drinking in every syllable that fell from her beautiful lips—oh, he's raving!”
“What do you mean?” said I, at length awaking to some consciousness of sublunary affairs—“Your mare!—who ever thought of your mare? it's Miss Saville I'm talking about.”
“Miss Saville!” repeated Lawless, giving vent to a long whistle, expressive of incredulity; “why, you don't mean to say you've been talking to Miss Saville all this time, do you?”
“To be sure I have,” replied I; “and a very interesting and agreeable conversation it was too.”
“Well,” exclaimed Lawless, after a short pause; “all the luck in this matter seem's to fall to your share; so the sooner I get out of it the better. It won't break my heart, that's one comfort;—if the young woman has the bad taste to prefer you to me, why, it can't be helped, you know;—but what did she say for herself, eh?”
“She sent you her forgiveness for one thing,” replied I; and I then proceeded to relate such particulars of the interview as I considered expedient; which recital, and our remarks thereupon, furnished conversation during the remainder of our drive.
ABOUT a week had elapsed after the events which I have just recorded, when one morning, shortly before my return to Cambridge, I received a letter from Coleman, detailing the finale of the bellringing affair. It ran as follows:—
"My Dear Frank—Doubtless you are, or ought to be, very anxious to hear how I contrived to get out of the scrape into which you and the Honourable George managed to inveigle me, having previously availed yourselves of my innocence, and succeeded, through the seductive medium of oysters and porter, in corrupting my morals, then leaving me, poor victim! to bear the blame, and suffer the consequences, of our common misdemeanour. However, mine is no pitiful spirit to be quelled by misfortune, and, as dangers thickened around me, I bore up against them bravely, like—like—(was it Julius Cæsar or Coriolanus who did that sort of thing?) but never mind—like a Roman brick, we'll say; the particular brick is quite immaterial, but I must beg you to believe the likeness was something striking. To descend to particulars.—Hostilities were commenced by that old ass, Mayor Dullmug, who took out a summons against me for creating a riot and disturbance in the town, and the first day the bench sat I was marched off by two policemen, and locked up in a little dirty room, to keep cool till their worships were ready to discuss me. Well, there I sat, kicking my heels, and chuckling over a heart-rending little scene I had just gone through with my mother, whose dread of the terrors of the law was greatly increased by the very vague ideas she possessed of the extent of its powers. The punishment she had settled in her own mind as likely to be awarded me was transportation, and her farewell address was as follows: 'If they should be cruel enough to order you to be transported for fourteen years, Freddy, my dear, I shall try to persuade your father (though he's just like a savage North American Indian about you) to get it changed “for life” instead, for they always die of the yellow fever for the sharks to eat them, when they've been over there three or four years; and four years are better than fourteen, though bad's the best, and I'm a miserable woman. I read all about it last week in one of Captain Marryat's books, and very shocking I thought it,'—Having ventured to hint that if I was carried off by the yellow fever at the end of a year or two, the length of my sentence would not signify much to me when I was dead, I was rebuked with 'Don't talk in that shocking way, Frederick, as if you were a heathen, in your situation, and I hearing you your collect every Sunday, besides Mrs. Hannah More, who might have been a saint if ever there was one, or anything else she liked, with her talents, only she was too good for this wicked world, and so she went to a better, and wrote that charming book Colebs in Search of a Wife'.—Oh! my poor dear mother's queer sentences! I was becoming shockingly tired of my own company, when it occurred to me that it would be the correct thing to carve my name on the Newgate stone à la Jack Sheppard; and I was just putting a few finishing strokes to the N of Coleman, wherewith, in characters at least six inches long, I had embellished a very conspicuous spot over the chimney-piece, when I was surprised 'with my chisel so fine, tra la,' (i.e., with a red-hot poker, which I had been obliged to put up with instead, it being the only implement attainable,) by the officials, who came to summon me, and who did not appear in the slightest degree capable of appreciating the beauties of my performance. By them I was straightway conducted into the awful presence of sundry elderly gentlemen, rejoicing in heads all more or less bald, and faces expressing various degrees of solemn stupidity, who in their proper persons constituted 'the bench'. Before these grave and reverend signiors did Master Dullmug and his satellites
all my heinous crimes, offences and misdemeanours; whereupon the aforesaid signiors did solemnly shake their bald heads, and appear exceedingly shocked and particularly puzzled. Well, at last I was called upon for my defence, and, having made up my mind for some time what line I would take, I cut the matter very short, by owning to have assisted in ringing the bells, which I confessed was an act of folly, but nothing more, and that the idea of its constituting an offence punishable by law was absurd in the extreme. This sent them to book, and, after turning over sundry ponderous tomes, and consulting various statutes of all sorts and sizes, besides whispering together, and shaking their heads once and again, till I began to fear that their necks would be dislocated, they arrived at the conclusion that I was right, or thereabouts. This fact the eldest, most bald, and most stupid of the party, chosen by common consent, doubtless in virtue of these attributes, as spokesman, proceeded to communicate to me in a very prosy harangue, to which he appended a lecture—a sort of stock article, which he evidently kept constantly on hand, with blanks which could be filled up to suit any class of offenders. In this harangue he pointed out the dangers of juvenile tricks, and the evils of dissipation, winding up with the assurance that, as I seemed deeply sensible of the error of my ways, they, the magistrates, would, on my making a suitable apology to that excellent public functionary, the Mayor of Hillingford, graciously deign to overlook my misconduct. During his long-winded address a new idea struck me, and when he had concluded I inquired, with all due respect, whether 'I was to understand that it was quite certain I had committed no offence punishable by law?' To this he replied, 'that I might set my mind completely at ease upon that point; that though, morally speaking, I had been guilty of a very serious misdemeanour, in the eye of the law I was perfectly innocent'. 'In that case, gentlemen,' replied I, 'the liberty of the subject has been infringed; I have been kept in illegal confinement for some hours, and I believe I have my remedy in an action for false imprisonment against Mr. Dullmug. Does not the law bear me out in what I state?' Again they had recourse to their books, and were unwillingly forced to confess that I was right.' Then,' continued I, 'so far from making any apology to Mr. Dullmug, unless that gentleman consents to beg my pardon, and gives me a written apology for the unjust and illegal prosecution to which he has subjected me, I shall at once take the necessary steps to proceed against him.' Oh! Frank, I would have given something to have had you there, old boy! when I announced this determination; there was such a shindy as I never before witnessed: old Dullmug was furious, and vowed he'd never apologise: I declared if he didn't, nothing should prevent me from bringing my action: the magistrates tried to persuade me, but I was inflexible; and (by Jove! I was very near forgetting the best part of it all) my governor, who was in court, the moment he found the law was on my side, turned suddenly round, swore I had been shamefully used, and that if it cost him every farthing he possessed in the world, he would see justice done me. So the end of it was that old Dullmug was forced to write the apology; it now lies in my writing-desk, and I look upon it as one of the proudest trophies man ever possessed. So, Master Frank, considering all things, I think I may reckon I got pretty well out of that scrape.
“Ever your affectionate,
“F. C.
“P.S.—What have you said or done to render old Vernor so bitter against you? Clara Saville tells Lucy, that, when she informed him of her having met and conversed with you alone in the park that day, he flew into such a rage as she had never seen him in before, and abused you like a pickpocket; and she says she feels certain that, for some cause or other, he entertains a strong personal dislike to you. Entre nous, I don't think the fair Clara seems exactly to sympathise with him in this feeling. Considering that you had somewhat less than half an hour to make play in, from Lucy's account you do not seem to have wasted much time. Ah! Master Frank, you are a naughty boy; I can't help sighing when I reflect, how anxious your poor dear mother must feel about you, when she knows you're out.”
“Still the same light-hearted merry fellow as ever,” exclaimed I, as I closed the letter; “how long, I wonder, will those buoyant spirits of his resist the depressing effect which contact with the harsh realities of life appears always sooner or later to produce? Strange, what he says about that Mr. Vernor; I am not conscious that I ever met the man till the evening of the ball, and yet I fancied there was something which seemed not utterly unfamiliar to me in the expression of his face. Vernor! Vernor! I don't believe I ever heard the name before—it's very odd. Of course, what he says about Miss Saville is all nonsense; and yet there was something in her manner, which made me fancy, if I had time and opportunity—pshaw! what absurdity—I shall have enough to do if I am to imagine myself in love with every nice girl who says, 'Thank you' prettily for any trifling service I may chance to render her. Î am sure she is not happy, poor thing! Seriously, I wish I were sufficiently intimate with her to be able to afford her the advice and assistance of a friend, should such be ever required by her. I should take the liberty of asking old Vernor what he meant by his extraordinary behaviour towards me, were I to see much more of him; there's nothing like a little plain speaking. But I need, not trouble my brains about the matter; I shall probably never meet either of them again, so what does it signify? She certainly is the loveliest girl I ever saw, though! heigho!” and, with a sigh, for which I should have been somewhat puzzled rationally to account, I took up my gun, and set off for a day's shooting with Harry Oaklands.
TIME, that venerable and much-vituperated individual, who, if he has to answer for some acts savouring of a taste for wanton destruction—if he now and then lunches on some noble old abbey, which had remained a memorial of the deep piety and marvellous skill of our forefathers—if he crops, by way of salad, some wide-spreading beech or hoary patriarchal oak, which had flung its shade over the tombs of countless generations, and, as it stood forming a link between the present and the past, won men's reverence by force of contrast with their own ephemeral existence—yet atones for his delinquencies by softening the bitterness of grief, blunting the sharp edge of pain, and affording to the broken-hearted the rest, and to the slave the freedom, of the grave;—old Time, I say, who should be praised at all events for his perseverance and steadiness, swept onward with his scythe, and cutting his way through the frost and snow of winter, once more beheld the dust of that “brother of the east wind,” March, converted into mud by the showers of April, and the summer was again approaching. It was on a fine morning in May, that, as Oaklands and I were breakfasting together in my rooms at Trinity, we heard a tap at the door, and the redoubtable Shrimp made his appearance. This interesting youth had, under Lawless's able tuition, arrived at such a pitch of knowingness that it was utterly impossible to make him credit anything; he had not the smallest particle of confidence remaining in the integrity of man, woman, or child; and, like many another of the would-be wise in their generation, the only flaw in his scepticism was the bigoted nature of his faith in the false and hateful doctrine of the universal depravity of the human race. He was the bearer of a missive from his master, inviting Oaklands and myself to a wine-party at his rooms that evening.
“I suppose we may as well go,” said Oaklands; “I like a positive engagement somewhere—it saves one the trouble of thinking what one shall do with oneself.”
"You can accept it,” replied I, “but it would be a waste of time which I have no right to allow myself; not only does it make one idle while it lasts, but the next day also, for I defy a man to read to any purpose the morning after one of Lawless's symposia.”
“Call it supper, my dear boy,” returned Oaklands, stretching himself; “why do you take the trouble to use a long word when a short one would do just as well? If I could but get you to economise your labour and take things a little more easily, it would be of the greatest advantage to you;—that everlasting reading too—I tell you what, Frank, you are reading a great deal too hard; you look quite pale and ill. I promised Mrs. Fairlegh I would not let you overwork yourself, and you shall not either. Come, you must and shall go to this party; you want relaxation and amusement, and those fellows will contrive to rouse you up a bit, and do you good.”
“To say the truth,” I replied, “that is one of my chief objections to going. Lawless I like, for the sake of old recollections, and because he is at bottom a well-disposed, good-hearted fellow; but I cannot approve of the set of men one meets there. It is not merely their being what is termed 'fast' that I object to; for though I do not set up for a sporting character myself, I am rather amused than otherwise to mix occasionally with that style of men; but there is a tone of recklessness in the conversation of the set we meet there, a want of reverence for everything human and divine, which, I confess, disgusts me—they seem to consider no object too high or too low to make a jest of.”
“I understand the kind of thing you refer to,” answered Oaklands, “but I think it's only one or two of them who offend in that way; there is one man who is my particular aversion; I declare if I thought he'd be there to-night I would not go.”
“I think I know who you mean,” replied I; “Stephen Wilford, is it not? the man they call 'Butcher,' from some brutal thing he once did to a horse.”
“You're right, Frank; I can scarcely sit quietly by and hear that man talk. I suppose he sees that I dislike him, for there is something in his manner to me which is almost offensive; really at times I fancy he wishes to pick a quarrel with me.”
“Not unlikely,” said I; “he has the reputation of being a dead shot with the pistol, and on the strength of it he presumes to bully every one.”
“He had better not go too far with me,” returned Oaklands, with flashing eyes; “men are not to be frightened like children; such a character as that is a public nuisance.”
“He will not be there to-night, I am glad to say,” replied I, “for I met him yesterday when I was walking with Lawless, and he said he was engaged to Wentworth this evening; but, my dear Harry, for Heaven's sake avoid any quarrel with this man; should you not do so, you will only be hazarding your life unnecessarily, and it can lead to no good result.”
“My dear fellow, do I ever quarrel with anybody? there is nothing worth the trouble of quarrelling about in this world; besides, it would be an immense fatigue to be shot,” observed Harry, smiling.
“I have no great faith in your pacific sensations, for they are nothing more,” rejoined I; “your indolence always fails you where it might be of use in subduing (forgive me for using the term) your fiery temper; besides, in allowing a man of this kind to quarrel with you, you give him just the opportunity he wants; in fact you are completely playing his game.”
“Well, I can't see that exactly; suppose the worst comes to the worst, and you are obliged to fight him, he stands nearly as good a chance of being killed as you do.”
“Excuse me, he does nothing of the kind; going out with a professed duellist is like playing cards with a skilful gambler; the chances are very greatly in his favour: in the first place, nine men out of ten would lose their nerve entirely when stationed opposite the pistol of a dead shot; then again, there are a thousand apparent trifles of which the initiated are aware, and which make the greatest difference, such as securing a proper position with regard to the sun, taking care that your figure is not in a direct line with any upright object, a tree or post for instance, and lots of other things of a like nature which we know nothing about, all of which he is certain to contrive to have arranged favourably for himself, and disadvantageously for his opponent. Then, having as it were trained himself for the occasion, he is perfectly cool and collected, and ready to avail himself of every circumstance he might turn to his advantage—a moment's hesitation in pulling the trigger when the signal is given, and he fires first—many a man has received his death-wound before now ere he had discharged his own pistol.”
“My dear boy,” said Harry, “you really are exciting and alarming yourself very unnecessarily; I am not going to quarrel with Wilford or anybody else; I detest active exertion of every kind, and consider duelling as a fashionable compound of iniquity, containing equal parts of murder and suicide—and we'll go to Lawless's this evening, that I'm determined upon—and—let me see—I've got James's new novel in my pocket. I shall not disturb you if I stay here, shall I? I'm not going to talk.”
Then, without waiting for an answer, he stretched himself' at full length on (and beyond) the sofa, and was soon buried in the pages of that best of followers in the footsteps of the mighty Wizard of the North—Walter Scott—leaving me to the somewhat less agreeable task of reading mathematics.