Vane returned calmly his angry gaze; and, with a most collected manner, replied—
“But for your earnestness, Mr. Wilton, I should imagine you were jesting. Upon my honour I am unconscious of having had the satisfaction of meeting you previous to our introduction here.”
“We met, sir, in Hyde Park one evening——” commenced Mark, rather impetuously.
Vane stayed him.
“Your pardon, Mr. Wilton,” he said; “in what month?”
Mark replied promptly. Vane shook his head coolly, and returned—
“I was not in London; I was in Oxford.”
“In Oxford?” cried Mark, as if he could not believe his ears.
“In Oxford,” repeated Vane, slowly enunciating his words. “I give you my word such is the fact, and if the occasion to which you may refer be of importance to you, I will, in order to set you right on the matter, produce, within a few days, proofs that I am simply stating—what, as a gentleman, I have a claim my bare word should guarantee—the truth.”
Mark swallowed a glass of wine. He could say no more at present. He felt convinced that Vane was the man he had seen in companionship with those who had insulted Lotte, and he determined to pursue the subject until he had either proved him a liar and a debauchee, or confess that, in this instance at least, he was mis taken. He took the first opportunity of excusing himself, and left Vane alone.
Alone to reflect on his position, to examine carefully the opposition he should have to contend with, from what quarter it would proceed, what would be its power, and how it was to be crushed.
“I must learn more before I can proceed upon my course,” he muttered. “One thing is clear: this wilful beauty has given herself, heart and soul, to that fellow Vivian, and I have no other rival to fear. It will not be so difficult to dispose of him if I have time; I must have time. Yet my necessities push me on to a coup-de-main. I will wait and see what to-morrow brings forth. A day may do much. One thing I swear, if I fail she shall never have him—never, never.”
His face assumed a demoniacal aspect. It was but a moment only that it was so ruffled; he heard an approaching footstep, and his features became placid and serene, as though there raged not beneath emotions of carking anxieties, of dread solicitude, and almost despairing apprehension.
Col. Lamb. Hold, sir! not so fast; you can’t pass.
Dr. Cant. Who, sir, shall dare to stop me?
Col. Lamb. Within there! [Enter Tipstaff.
Tipstaff. Is your name Cantwell, sir?
Dr. Cant. What if it be, sir?
Tipstaff. Then, sir, I have my lord chief justice’s warrant against you.
Dr. Cant. Against me?
Tipstaff. Yes, sir, for a cheat and impostor.
—Bickekstaff.
To-morrow brought with it to Lester Vane a long tête-à-tête with Mr. Wilton. Neither Flora nor Mark were visible to him, and Mr. Charlock had gone to London.
During this interview he learned, to his dismay, the whole of Colonel Mires’ proceedings, as Mark had that morning at his request detailed to his father all that had occurred in reference to the abduction of Flora. He learned the particulars of Chewkle’s murderous attempt, and that, in both cases, Harry Vivian had been the hero who had saved father and daughter.
It was information of a startling and a grave kind to him. He was quite enough master of woman’s character to comprehend how securely such acts would establish Vivian in Flora’s heart, and of human nature to know that if Wilton’s stumbling-block—pride—could be removed, he would, in all other respects, delight in Vivian as a son-in-law.
For, although angry and irritated with him for what he considered the presumption of aspiring to his daughter’s hand, yet Wilton never failed to speak of him in all respects as in a high degree worthy his regard and esteem. Lester Vane, therefore, saw that Vivian was his great obstruction, and that he must be cleared from his path before he could himself make the least advance.
He determined, upon reflection, to speak in high terms of him to Wilton, especially to Mark or Flora if he had the chance, and to congratulate Hal himself if he happened to meet with him, though it cost him an apology for his former insolence. He resolved, and wisely, to be governed in all he did by the form circumstances might take, and, without attempting to control them, to guide them into the direction he wished them to pursue. Above all, with grating teeth, he resolved to be effectually rid of his rival; not by the vulgar means of knife or poison—there were other ways of destroying him than that. He hoped to slay his moral character, and that he decided should be his first move when the right moment came to set it in motion.
Old Wilton had to attend at the Town Hall of a neighbouring borough to appear against Mr. Chewkle, and to give his evidence before the magistrates respecting the murderous attack he had made upon him.
He was aware that he should have to meet there Mr. Henry Vivian. To expatiate upon his timely interposition in his favour, to laud him for his pursuit of Colonel Mires, and the rescue of his daughter. He felt as he meditated on this that he ought to be grateful to him, and to display it; but then the exhibition of a generous warmth on his part might raise hopes he was most anxious to repress. So he was bewildered as to the part he ought to play.
Then, too, he was feverish and petulant; he missed Lotte’s gentle attentions.
Ah! in truth he sorely missed her.
From the moment she had quitted him nothing seemed to have gone right. He missed her every-ready offices, always performed so exactly as he wished them to be; he missed her soft voice, which had such power to soothe and allay his peevish fretfulness; and he missed her gentle smile, which had never failed to gladden his heart, and dispose it to a generous sympathy with the world and all whom it contained.
Never since her absence had he missed her so much as on the morning he had to face the fatigue of giving his evidence on the examination of Chewkle. He was so sure he should have been prepared to undergo the exertion by her admirable arrangements, and he was so convinced that she would, by her presence, have sustained him throughout his meeting with Vivian. But he had to do it all without her; for very obvious reasons he declined Flora’s offer to accompany him. He felt assured there was no advantage to be derived from giving her the opportunity of seeing young Vivian, if she did not speak to him—she had, in fact, seen him too often as it was.
So, accompanied by his son Mark and Lester Vane, he went to the Town Hall.
But ere he departed from his library he formed a design respecting Lotte—one he purposed keeping to himself until he could put it into execution.
He made a firm resolve to be no more placed in the predicament in which he felt himself to be that morning.
And so he reached the Town Hall, which was thronged with curious spectators. The attempt on Wilton’s life had been noised all over the county, and the gentry and farmers for miles round came to hear the examination.
They came to see, too, Mr. Wilton. His history was well known, as well as his understood successful claim to the Eglinton estates. Great curiosity was evinced to see the rich landed proprietor who had lived for years little better than a beggar in London.
Three was a somewhat anxious desire on the part of the fair sex, too, to have a peep at the young gentleman who had saved Mr. Wilton’s life. Report had declared him to be the very handsomest of fine young fellows; that Miss Wilton had fallen passionately in love with him, and was to be married to him in a month; that she had selected her trousseau, and was looking up her bridesmaids.
There was a very general morbid curiosity also to gaze on Mr. Chewkle.
Mr. Chewkle, whose race was run—Mr. Chewkle, who had possessed such faith in having the luck which was “all.” He possessed it no more: it had deserted him now. He knew it, and looked into the future with a vacant stare and blank despair.
When first made prisoner and incarcerated, he forwarded a letter to Mr. Grahame, in which he briefly stated that events had proved untoward, and called upon him to hasten to release him by some means from his dilemma.
No answer was returned to his epistle.
He wrote again, intimating that, unless his employer made his appearance, revelations would be made.
Still no answer. Chewkle was devoured with sickening anxiety, and dropped a line to his passionately attached friend Jukes, asking him to call upon Mr. Grahame, and wake him up. He gave him a few hints to use which would be likely to terrify the proud man, as coming from a stranger, and he signed himself “Old Chewk.” But Jukes was a rat who skulked from a sinking ship, so he burned the letter, and swore to himself that he had never received it.
Chewkle grew desperate at being thus deserted, and he gave Mr. Grahame, as he said, “one more chance;” in another and last epistle, he spoke out very plainly. He alluded to incitement to murder, of the forgery they had together committed, and he ended by informing Mr. Grahame that if he did not proceed instanter to “do the thing that was right,” he should make a clean breast of all. “And if I am lagged for life,” he said, “you shall go with me, even if we should be in the same gang, and chained together up to our buzzums in water, until one of us turns up his toes.” This more expressive than elegant epistle met with no better fate than the others.
Mr. Grahame was then where no missive or threat of Mr. Chewkle could reach him. Mr. Chewkle hoped against hope until the last moment; then he determined to give up Mr. Grahame’s name, and request of the authorities that that gentleman might be taken into custody. He did so on the morning of the examination, and was then informed that Mr. Grahame was dead, and also that the contents of his notes had been carefully perused before they had quitted the prison-doors.
Chewkle listened to this announcement with a spasm of agony. His future was before him—penal servitude for life, without a hope of escape.
So, when he appeared at the dock with haggard face, bloodshot eyes, shaggy brows, and stubbly beard, people in court shrunk back, and believed him quite capable of the crime with which he was charged.
The examination extended to no great length. Mr. Wilton, who acted the patrician with consummate art, gave his evidence in a somewhat stately and rambling manner; but Vivian, whose looks realised all the expectations of the fair owners of the many bright eyes turned upon him, recounted his share in the transaction with a clear conciseness and a modesty which elicited encomium from the counsel for the prosecution, and a compliment from the magistrates. Other evidence was produced; and Mr. Chewkle—who, under the advice of his solicitor, said nothing, and nothing exculpatory had he to say—was fully committed for trial at the next assizes, which, however, were not due for some two or three months to come. Mr. Chewkle was, therefore, consigned to gaol to await that period; and Mr. Wilton, attended by his son and Lester Vane, returned back to Harleydale Hall.
They did not encounter Mr. Vivian. He was nowhere to be seen—though Mark had looked for him, and Lester Vane too—until he was called upon to give his evidence, then he suddenly rose up in the vicinity of the witness-box, as if by magic, performed the duty required of him, and retired, to be no more visible to the eyes which searched for him that day.
All the way from Harleydale to the Town Hall, Mr. Wilton had been mentally occupied by him. He considered himself slighted—he, so wealthy, holding now such a position—he should be at least deputy-lieutenant for his county before long—and for this Vivian, this boy, not to appear before him and express—-well, Mr. Wilton could not define what sentiments Hal ought to have delivered himself of; he rested with feelings irritated and annoyed at his absence.
He let his feelings at last betray themselves. Mark looked at him with surprise.
“What, sir!” he said, curtly, “did you expect Mr. Vivian to hunt you out to present himself to you, hat in hand, and thank you for the honour of having been permitted to save your life, and Flora from worse than death.”’
“Ahem! Mark, you presume!” rejoined his father, fiercely.
Mark made no reply; and the rest of the journey home was made in silence.
Flora, sure that she should hear all that had transpired from Mark, kept her room on the plea of indisposition—a just one; for she, too, was feverish, excited, and certainly indisposed to meet Lester Vane, and to bevexed by his incessant stare and his unpleasing attention.
Old Wilton, on reaching Harleydale, again missed the face of his little pet-nurse. His house seemed a desert without her. His room seemed gloomy without the sunshine of her eyes or the music of her voice. He said nothing, but he speculated upon her condition.
“She is a young lady in reduced circumstances,” he thought. “I will make this a home for her. Flora will be married and away from me. Mark, among the splendid beauties of an elevated circle, will soon forget the artful sempstress who inveigled herself into his affections—he does not speak of her now, a good sign. He will marry, and have an establishment of his own. Then, then, I will place my little pet to preside over my household; I shall have all my wishes consulted, and all my requirements attended to. I will make an excuse to go to London. Flora knows her address, and I will go to her, and make short work of it. I am weary of this loneliness.”
He, however, wanted not an excuse to go to London. He was electrified by receiving a letter from his solicitor, who informed him that he had been served with a notice from a new claimant to the estates of the late Eglinton, and who was at once about to prosecute his claim, He advanced his title as a lineal descendant from an elder branch of the family, and, upon referring to the genealogical tree, the solicitor said he feared his claim was only too well founded. He, however, begged Mr. Wilton to come to London at once, and confer with him upon the course to be adopted in this singular and unexpected turn of affairs.
Wilton read and re-read this letter a dozen times. What! was the cup of grandeur to be dashed from his mouth while yet sparkling and bubbling on his lips. New claimant of an elder branch of the family! the very notion made him perspire; for he had at once a dim remembrance that Nathan Gomer had mentioned that fact, but had suggested that the descent was broken, or had disappeared, he could not now recollect, beyond that his singular little friend had assured him there was no occasion to fear any interposition from that quarter.
Yet here it was.
Upon an impulse, he swallowed humble pie, and wrote off to Nathan Gomer, asking him to come down at once to Harleydale, for he much needed the services of his well-tried and proved friend once more.
His letter was returned to him unopened.
What did this mean?
Who, after all, could Nathan Gomer be?
Another letter arrived from his solicitor, more urgent than before, calling for his immediate presence in London, and he had no alternative but to comply with its appeal.
He conferred with Mark, adopting a different manner and language towards him to that which he had lately used, and his son announced his intention to accompany him to London; as Flora could not well be left behind, it was decided that she should go with them too.
Mr. Wilton was, perforce, obliged to inform Lester Vane of the change in their arrangements; but he was warmly requested to make the house in Regent’s Park his own, as it were, while they remained in town.
The change did not suit Vane; he had several private reasons which rendered a return to London especially inconvenient; but he could only submit to the alteration, and offer to journey with them to the great metropolis, which offer Mr. Wilton accepted readily—-it was one which was not a little distasteful to Flora.
Once again their dwelling, adjoining Grahame’s, was tenanted by them, and, with no small pleasure, by two of the family. By Flora, because coming to London was to be where Hal dwelt—to breathe the same atmosphere with him—to be within reach any moment of his presence—to be within sound of his voice, within the beams from his eyes—to feel that she was under the shadow of his protection, and that his glance hovered over her path wheresoever she went—to preserve her from danger, and guard her from insult.
To Mark, the change was delicious, for he was near to Lotte; near to where he might, could, would, should, must see her again, to reason with her, combat her prejudices, and make a lady of her whether she would or no—do her principles a violence that he might, for so long as he should live, prove to her how dearly and devotedly he loved her.
Mr. Wilton’s interviews with his legal adviser, successively taking place day after day, were the reverse of satisfactory to him. He felt the estates he had so much coveted, and the near possession of which had so lifted him out of himself, slipping rapidly out of his fingers.
The new claimant, who seemed to be animated with a vindictive feeling against Wilton, bore the name of Eglinton. He pushed on his claim with all the speed of which the law would admit, and without omitting an opportunity or advantage it gave him. So clear at last did his case appear that Wilton’s own solicitor suggested an arrangement between the parties, by which the enormous expense of going into Court might be avoided.
At first, Mr. Eglinton refused any meeting, and insisted upon prosecuting his full right to the whole of the property; but he deferred the meeting for a fortnight—proceedings being, by mutual agreement, suspended during that period.
In the meanwhile, Lester Vane was a constant guest at Wilton’s residence. He came early in the morning, and seldom left until he could with decency no longer stay.
As Vane was the guest of his father, Mark could not interfere; but he gave that guest very little of his society, notwithstanding, the latter exerted himself with all his cunning to establish himself on a better footing with him. Nor did his well-dissembled conduct to Flora, his quiet hints in favour of Vivian, his deference to her wish, and his careful abstinence from even a show of love-making to her advance him in her good opinion; while, strange enough, old Wilton began to tire of him. He was so enwrapt in the disputed claims to the property he had so fully believed to be his, that it became irksome to him to have to keep up a conversation with Vane on subjects which possessed no kind of interest for him.
One sunny morning, as Vane was seated with Mr Wilton in his library, the servant of the latter brought in two cards upon a silver salver, and handed them to him. He looked at them, and with a sudden flush mounting to his cheeks, said—
“Show them in.”
Two gentlemen immediately afterwards entered the room, and Lester Vane rose to bow to them, as he heard Mr. Wilton say—
“Mr. Riversdale, Mr. Vivian, the Honorable Lester Vane.”
Lester almost fell back in his seat—not that he cared to meet Hal, but he had an instinctive dread of encountering Hugh Riversdale.
The latter had bidden him beware of their third encounter. It had now come to pass; what would be its result?
He clenched his hands firmly, and set his teeth together, but sought to make his face wear a cold, passionless expression.
Mr. Wilton motioned to his visitors to be seated. The eyes of both fell glittering upon Lester Vane; but they made no remark. They took their seats; and Mr. Wilton asked to what he had the honour of attributing the visit of Mr. Riversdale. He added, with a somewhat gracious manner—
“I rather anticipated the pleasure of seeing Mr. Vivian before this. I should have called upon or written to him, but I had not his new address.”
Vivian bowed, but made no reply.
“Mr. Wilton,” said Mr. Riversdale, “you are well acquainted, as a matter of course, with the unhappy circumstances connected with Mr. Grahame’s family; I need not, therefore, allude to them. I have sought you, sir, with a twofold purpose; firstly, to inform you that, as the husband of the late Mr. Grahame’s eldest daughter, I have taken upon myself the task of arranging her father’s affairs. I am aware that all his property is deeply mortgaged, and that he was largely indebted to a gentleman named Gomer, who still holds in possession the next house, and all it contains. Mr. Gomer is, I believe, the mortgagee, and I wish to ask a favour of you”——
At this instant, Lester Vane rose to leave the room, as though the business, being evidently private, it became him not to remain and listen.
Hugh Riversdale rose up too, and, with a stern look and voice, said——
“Be seated, sir. You are one of the objects of my visit here, and I cannot permit you to depart until I have stated it.”
Lester Vane shrugged his shoulders, and reseated himself with an air of nonchalance that he was far from feeling.
What was coming?
Hugh Riversdale continued speaking to Mr. Wilton.
“I am given to understand, sir, that you possess considerable influence with Mr. Gomer!” he said, “and I am here to ask you to bury whatever feeling of animosity you may have entertained for the deceased Mr. Grahame, and to prevail upon Mr. Gomer to meet me, with a view of so arranging his claim that something may be rescued out of the wreck for his son, and for his youngest daughter, Evangeline. In granting me this favour, you will be exhibiting that nobleness of spirit and disposition which distinguishes a Christian gentleman, and which I, on good authority, believe finds a home in your breast.”
Mr. Wilton gave a gulp.
The want of nobleness of spirit had lost him the friendship and countenance of Gomer.
Clearing his throat, he said—
“I sympathise most deeply with the misfortunes of Mr. Grahame’s family. Unhappily between us both a deadly feud existed, and Mr. Grahame fell in the struggle. If I can in any way repair or alleviate the evil which has fallen like a destroying thunderbolt upon his house, command me; but, I grieve to say, I now possess no influence over Mr. Gomer, if I ever did—in truth—I—a—there is a difference between us just now and we do not meet. I am sorry, therefore, I cannot help you in the quarter you wish; in any other I shall only be too happy.”
Hugh Riversdale thanked him warmly, and said—
“I may yet require your services, and I shall avail myself of them without fear.”
“Or favour,” added Wilton.
Making a suitable acknowledgment, Hugh then fixed upon Lester Vane a fierce glance of hatred, and addressing Mr. Wilton, while he pointed to the former, said—
“I now, sir, come to the second purpose of my visit. It identifies itself with that person seated by your side.”
Wilton turned with surprise, and looked first at Vane and then at Riversdale.
The face of Lester Vane was blanched, otherwise it exhibited no emotion whatever. A slight smile of defiance only curled his upper lip.
“He is a suitor for your daughter’s hand, and under your promise of its bestowal upon him?” commenced Hugh.
Wilton, with elevated eyebrows, assented.
“Sir, he is the son of a lord. Granted. But it is fit you should know that his father has for years lived abroad.”
“I am aware of that,” exclaimed Wilton, sharply.
“Are you also aware that it is because he cannot show his face to his creditors here in England; are you aware that your intended son-in-law is worse than a beggar; that he is far beyond his depth in debt, that he has already raised money upon your daughter’s expected dowry?”
Lester Vane’s face grew whiter, and his lips trembled. Hugh—keeping his bright eye fastened upon him—went on—
“Are you conscious, Mr. Wilton, that the Honorable Lester Vane is a blackleg, a sharper, with cards and false dice—a debauchee—a scoundrel—who, while he was professing the warmest attachment to Miss Wilton, strove, by the most infamous proposals, to ruin the daughter of the man at whose house he had been received with cordial hospitality—that he is a wretch so contemptible that words fail to express his true character? Are you aware, sir, that such is the man you have honoured with a place beneath your roof, and to whom you are eager to entrust the future happiness of your child?”
Mr. Wilton placed his hands to his forehead, bewildered.
He turned to Lester, and in a choking, gasping voice, he said—
“What—what have you to answer to these tremendous charges?”
“That they are, from first to last, false!” answered Vane, striving by a mighty effort to retain a cool self-possession; “wholly, abominably, maliciously false! The truth of the matter is, Mr. Wilton, some time—long before I saw your sweet daughter—the lady, now the wife of that fellow, betrayed a preference for me, which is the secret of”——
“Scoundrel! dare to breathe one word respecting that lady through your foul lips, and, notwithstanding Mr. Wilton’s presence, I will fling you through yon window down to the place beneath.”
“Mere vaunting braggadocio!” returned Vane, with a tremendous effort to appear cool. “Mr. Wilton, I shall commence an action of libel against this infernal slanderer; that will be my best answer to his lying-assertions.”
“There—there should be some proofs adduced to support such terrible charges,” observed Mr. Wilton to Hugh Riversdale, who was labouring under the most painful excitement.
“I am prepared to substantiate many of them by the very clearest evidence!” exclaimed Hal, producing a small packet of papers.
“A disinterested witness, truly!” exclaimed Vane forcing a laugh. “A concocted scheme, as you may perceive, Mr. Wilton; surely you are not prepared to condemn me upon such an infamous machination as this?”
The door at this moment opened, and Nathan Gomer entered, followed by a sturdy looking man.
He pointed to Lester Vane.
“There is your man, officer!” he exclaimed.
Lester Vane uttered an exclamation of fright; he darted from his chair and made for the open window. The height was something, but he paused not to think of it, and leaped out to the ground below.
“Villain! you shall not thus escape my rightful vengeance!” shouted Hugh Riversdale, and dashed after him.
The officer, however, sprang upon him, and seizing him by the collar, detained him.
“Hold, sir!” he cried; “there is a man below to prevent his escape. Besides, he must have broken his limbs, if he has not his head.”
Gomer stood watching excitedly the movements of Vane and Hugh, at the elbow of Wilton. The latter, with a sudden faintness, clutched at Gomer’s arm.
“Support me, or I shall swoon!” he exclaimed.
“No!” said Gomer, brusquely.
He pushed Hal towards him, adding—
“Here is the proper person.”
Mr. Wilton, almost insensible, sank on to the breast of Harry Vivian.
If this austere, unsociable life
Change not your offer made in heat of blood;
If frosts and fasts, hard lodging, and thin weeds,
Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love,
But that it bears this trial, and last love;
Then, at the expiration of the year,
Come challenge me.
—Shakspere.
The deadly faintness which had overcome Old Wilton, when he fell into the arms of Harry Vivian, increased, until it deprived him of all consciousness of what was passing around him.
Alarmed by an unusual disturbance in the house, both Mark and Flora hastened to the library in time to witness a scene to them incomprehensible.
Mr. Riversdale was struggling in the arms of an officer; Nathan Gomer was, as usual, unexpectedly present, giving instructions to a servant; Lester Vane had disappeared; and, oh! strangest sight of all, their father was leaning on the breast of Hal Vivian.
Yet an instant, and the whole scene was changed as at the stroke of a magician’s wand. Riversdale, officer, Nathan Gomer, and the servant, had disappeared from the room at one moment, and Hal Vivian was alone left to explain. Both hurriedly inquired of him what had happened; but he tenderly placed old Wilton in his library chair, and begged for some restoratives on the instant, for it was painfully apparent that the old man was in a swoon.
Flora hastened to obtain them, while Mark, in compliance with suggestions rapidly made by Hal, descended to the garden.
Upon Flora’s return, she, assisted by Vivian, applied some ammoniacal salts to her father’s nostrils, and bathed his temples with eau-de-cologne and water. In a short time the application proved successful; Wilton recovered sufficiently to gaze vacantly around him and utter a few incoherent remarks.
Flora twined her arms about his neck, and, with fond words and soothing tenderness, succeeded in calming down the violent perturbation which succeeded the recovery from his swoon.
Then he gazed, almost wildly, round him in search of the actors in the scene which had perfectly electrified and overwhelmed him.
They were gone.
The old man gave an involuntary groan, accompanied by a sudden shudder, then he asked—
“Where is Nathan Gomer?”
“Mark has just quitted the library to seek an interview with him,” replied Flora. “He will return with him, I have no doubt.”
“No, no,” said Wilton, soliloquizing. “He will come back no more—no more! From afar he will contemplate the destruction of hopes he assisted to raise, only the more completely to hurl them to the dust.”
“Dear sir!” exclaimed Flora, softly, “you have been startled and shocked by what has happened. Mr. Gomer, though strange in his manner, is at heart generous and noble; you wrong him, if you imagine he entertains any hostile feelings towards you.”
“How, can you tell?” inquired her father, sharply. “You know not who he is; you cannot, more than myself, even conjecture what influences have animated him in appearing as my friend, and acting as—as——”
He really could not get his lips to shape the word “enemy.”
“Acting still as your friend, I hope and believe,” observed Vivian, as the old man paused.
Wilton turned quickly, and gazed upon him with an air of surprise. He had not yet collected his scattered memories.
“Why are you here, sir?” he asked with knitted brow.
“Dear papa!” ejaculated Flora, with an appealing aspect, for she was grieved at the harshness of his tone of voice and the sternness of his manner. She remembered how much both were indebted to Vivian.
“Silence!” said her father, brusquely.
“Have you so soon forgotten the object of the visit of Mr. Riversdale and myself?” interrogated Vivian, gently.
Old Wilton placed his hands on his brow and reflected.
“True, I remember now,” he exclaimed, sarcastically. “You came hither to oust a rival”—he looked around the library—“and I presume you have succeeded to your satisfaction.”
“And to yours, I hope, sir,” responded Hal, calmly.
“To mine?—oh, of course to mine; to be sure, to mine and my daughter’s. You forgot her, did you not, Mr. Vivian?” he asked with a sneer.
“No, sir,” replied Hal, emphatically. “Miss Wilton was my first consideration in performing the duty I undertook.”
“Ah! to be sure; I had forgotten that,” said the old man, in the same jibing tone. “I ought to remember that you were not wholly disinterested in the part you have played.”
“Sir!” exclaimed Vivian, with dignity; “you would only do me justice if you were to charge me with being deeply interested in what I have performed; but, at the same time, I hope you will acquit me of being selfishly so. I hold the happiness of Miss Wilton, and the honour of yourself and house at too high a value to permit it to be shattered and degraded by so debased and so unworthy a scoundrel as the person who, guarded by officers, has so recently been conveyed hence. But do not misunderstand me, sir. I build up no claim to your consideration in what I have done; I ask for no acknowledgment or elevation to your favour in saving yourself and daughter from the machinations of an infamous schemer. Your good-will I will accept only when it is the offspring of your free inclination; I have not sought, nor would I ever seek, to purchase it at any other price. I love Miss Wilton, sir, I candidly admit—-most devotedly love her, and shall do so while I have life—but I never have, I never desired, and never would attempt to crawl by stealth or by any secret or unworthy agency into an alliance with her. I hold her in too high respect, and possess, sir, a too well-defined consciousness of what is due to my own honour, to be guilty of acts which bring their own punishment with them. Your unprincipled friend, Colonel Mires, did not scruple, while charging me with a basely underhand attempt to win your daughter’s affections, to arrange, and carry almost to fulfilment, a devilish scheme, which, if successful, would, while it utterly destroyed the happiness of your child, have ruined the plans you had formed and looked forward to complete. Then, he whom you had selected for the distinguished honour and inestimable happiness of receiving your daughter’s hand, is a worthless, depraved and penniless swindler. Sir, at least the very strictest and closest scrutiny into my nature and habits will absolve me from being capable of the baseness of the one, or guilty of the depravity of the other. It has been my great good fortune to rescue you in both instances; on the one hand from the agony of a shameful bereavement; on the other, from an awakening to a knowledge of the infamy brought upon your name, and the misery entailed upon your daughter by an alliance which henceforward the thought of having ever desired to contract will make your cheek burn with vexed mortification. In having performed this office, I hope to be understood as not having been influenced by one selfish thought, but animated only by a desire to guard and protect Miss Wilton from dangers she could scarcely avert from herself, and your name from the obloquy which would have fallen upon it. In achieving this I have been most importantly aided by Mr. Nathan Gomer, and to him your acknowledgments are due for the share he has taken in obtaining success. For myself, as I have said, I ignore them; and when I come forward, as I hope at no distant day to do, and ask of you your consent to sanction my union with your daughter, I trust, sir, you will then do me the justice to admit that while, in respect to income, I am not unjustified in preferring a claim, that I have not resorted at any time, or under any influences, to surreptitiously obtain that which you are free to give or to withhold.”
“Um! you admit that?” exclaimed Wilton, who had listened attentively to all that fell from his lips, and caught at the last expression.
“I can conscientiously acquit myself of having at any time attempted to subvert that right,” returned Vivian.
Old Wilton drew along breath, and then covered his face with his hands, in which attitude he sat for a few minutes, evidently plunged in a profound reverie.
Both Flora and Hal watched him attentively and anxiously; at length he raised his head, and, addressing Hal, he said—
“I cannot conceal from myself that I am indebted to you for my life; I am equally conscious that I must look upon you as the saviour of my daughter’s life and honour. They are heavy debts, and very difficult to repay”——
“Spare me acknowledgments, I beg of you,” interrupted Hal, a little impetuously. “I have told you, sir, already, that I neither desire nor claim them; and I most earnestly assure you, that the only reward I looked for I have reaped—my grateful satisfaction at having been successful.”
“Nevertheless, I feel that I owe to you something,” continued Wilton; “and in one way I can do a little towards confessing my obligation to you—and that is, by being candid with you. The world is full of disappointments—the sun resting on a valley field makes it appear a rich expanse of golden grain, but when we reach it, we find it a poor piece of grass land, thin, weedy, and worthless. Of such are some of our glowing expectations; they burn brightly in the eye of hope, but, like a brilliant flame consuming a flimsy material, realise nothing but ashes. I have had great hopes, high dreams, and proud anticipations—they have become nothing but dust. Now, Mr. Vivian, in the position in which I have been and am living, it is but natural, in suing for my daughter’s hand, you should expect with her at least a moderate fortune. She would have had a liberal dowry, but that expectations I have entertained will, to an almost inevitable certainty, not be realised. She will, therefore, have nothing from me upon her marriage—not a shilling. While she remains with me, of course she will share the comforts of the luxurious style in which we now live; but if she quits for a humbler position, she must accept its trials and its troubles, for no aid must she or her husband expect from me. One moment, Mr. Vivian,” he exclaimed, as Hal was about eagerly to offer some observation—“one moment more. I am informed your uncle’s son has returned from abroad, and has taken possession of everything—no will having been found—to the utter destruction of all the expectations you entertained of succeeding to his business and property. Is this true?”
“It is quite true!” replied Hal, firmly.
“You have, then, to depend alone upon your own exertions for the future?” continued Wilton.
“Entirely so,” responded Hal.
“How far, then, does the disinterested character of your love for my daughter extend?” inquired Wilton, fixing a steadfast look upon him.
“Thus far, sir: that as she, in all her sweet and pure integrity, is the only prize I covet, I shall be infinitely prouder and happier in taking her to my heart as my own beloved wife, dowerless, than did she have the settlement of a princess.”
How gratefully and fondly Flora’s eyes beamed on Hal’s animated face, as he, with enthusiastic emphasis, uttered those words.
“That I can well believe,” said Wilton, dryly. “The romance of youth is capable of all that; but, Mr. Vivian, can you transplant her to such a home as this or Harleydale? Can you provide her with a town house and a carriage, with a country mansion, with its well-ordered garden, spacious parks, surrounded by upland and dell, by sloping vales, meandering streams, by all the charming accessories and beauties of English landscape? Are you, I say, prepared to do this?”
Flora stole to her father’s side, and, placing her hand upon his shoulder gently, said, with a face of rosy hue—
“Papa, dearest, to me all those beauties would be as nothing if not shared by one—I—by—by those I—to whom I am attached!”
Her face, brilliant with blushes, sank upon his shoulder.
Mr. Wilton waved his hand.
“My proposition was to Mr. Vivian, and not to you!” he exclaimed. “Answer me, Mr. Vivian.”
“I cannot, sir, now do this,” replied Hal, firmly.
“Then how, sir, can you call your love for my daughter other than selfish?” cried Wilton, with apparent triumph. “Out of your exaggerated liking for her, you would remove her from a sphere in which she enjoys all the luxuries of comparative wealth into one in which they are all denied to her. You would transplant her from competence and ease, to surround her with wants, privations, and care. This is disinterested love, indeed, to sacrifice the everyday peace and comfort of the woman for whom you profess attachment in order that you may call her your own. Go to, sir, true love seeks to secure the entire happiness of the object of affection, it sacrifices its own wishes and aspirations, rather than a cloud should hang upon the loved one’s brow, a tear dim her eye, or the smile fade from her cheek. It elevates, sir—never seeks to reduce her chances of happiness; and rather frets itself out in silence and secrecy, than it would, by the gratification of its inclinations, jeopardise her future peace and contentment.”
“I admit, sir,” replied Hal, “the force of your argument, but I deny the truth of its intended conclusion. I yield to no being in the world in the disinterestedness of my passion for Miss Wilton. I would sacrifice my love and myself a thousand times rather than occasion her one moment’s care or privation. It is not, sir, because I cannot at first place her in the sphere she now so fairly and brightly adorns, that I must necessarily conduct her to a hovel in a bye-street. Something is due to my own sense of her worth and my own pride in preparing for her—if I were to be so blessed as to call her mine—a home as fitting to her beauty and goodness, as to the station she quitted to pass her life with me. I should, indeed, be wanting in true love if I did not endeavour to make the change as slight as indomitable perseverance and unflagging industry could accomplish. I agree, sir, that true love seeks to elevate the being it worships; but requited love will make a palace of a prison and gild the roof of a humble cottage, as though it were the fretted ceiling of a palace. Love sees through love’s eyes and with love’s urgings, and it seldom finds room for discontent if the heart it prizes remains true, faithful, and devoted to it. The great secret of a loving woman’s happiness, sir, consists not in the halls she treads, the terraced flower-garden she may pace, the high sphere in which she may have been born and lived, the accessories of wealth, its gaieties, or its pleasures. It is the discovery that the idol she was first induced to worship is not molten brass, but the pure gold for which she first accepted it. That her trusting faith has not been abused, that the ardent manner of him who won her heart has not waned, that the beaming look of fond affection remains unchanged, that the soft word has not grown harsh, and that the ever-watchful solicitude for her happiness remains as intact as when it first moved her gentle heart to respond to its generous tenderness. That loving, trusting heart that you would chain to its own sphere, would pine itself into the grave if, upon such a plea, it were confined to its halls, its gardens, parks, and extended landscape; but, believe me, it would not grieve if its lot, though cast in a lower sphere, rested on a manly, faithful, truthful nature, which never swerved from the deep and passionate affection it once professed. However, sir, at best we are but theorizing—I am content to abide the issue. I will not, I pledge my honour—my dearest possession—ask your permission to woo Miss Wilton until I am fairly in a social position which will give me some title to do so. Further, sir, if it be your wish, great as may be the pain and privation to me, I will not attempt to visit, or to see, or to speak with her in any manner which may infringe upon the relation in which we now stand to each other in the eyes of the world—acquaintances. I will not, if unprepared to urge my own claim, interfere with any offer which may be made for the honour of Miss Wilton’s hand, if that offer is in accordance with your wishes and not opposed to her future happiness. More I scarcely expect you will wish me to say; less, sir, I feel would be inconsistent with my own sense of what is just and honourable.”
Mr. Wilton extended his hand to Hal, saying—
“You have spoken frankly, and—and—a—I may as well say it as think it—nobly, Mr. Vivian. I am well satisfied and fully appreciate those sentiments which you have just uttered, and which I shall test, I honestly tell you. The result is for the future. Take, at present, your farewell of Flora; when we next meet, it will be as friends. Heaven shall decide whether it will be by a nearer and dearer title.”
Hal shook the extended hand warmly.
“I will not abuse any confidence you may be pleased to place in me, sir,” he replied. “But I, too, honestly tell you, that it will be the object of my most incessant perseverance and ardent ambition to change the title of friend into one nearer and dearer.”
Hal walked up to Flora. She was not contented with giving him one hand, but she placed both in his, and she looked up in his face with trusting confidence, and a sweet, loving expression in her eyes. A beaming aspect of hopefulness shone in her very lovely features which communicated its cheerful, sanguine anticipations to Hal.
“It shall go hard, dear Flora, but I win the wealth which shall make you mine,” he ejaculated, in fervent tones.
“Love gilds the humble roof, dear Hal,” she murmured; “anywhere, anywhere in the wide world, with your unfading, faithful love.”
“My undying, ever, ever faithful love,” he responded. “With my undying, ever, ever faithful love,” she echoed, as she pressed his hand, making him thrill with happiness.
And so they parted.
The ice about Mr. Wilton’s heart, in respect to their union, had begun to crack.
He gazed upon them very intently while they were conversing together, and he thought them certainly a very handsome young couple; and if personal attributes alone, were needful, a more fitting match could hardly be conceived.
Soon after Hal had quitted the house, Mark Wilton returned to the library to furnish his father with a brief narrative of what had taken place without the house, as well as in it, relative to the Honorable Lester Vane.
The miserable schemer’s affrighted leap had been attended with desperate results; fractured legs and arms attested the fearful violence with which he came to the ground; and he was conveyed, as soon as he was picked up, senseless to the nearest hospital, still in custody of an officer.
He was the mortgagor of an estate to Nathan Gomer, which had been already twice mortgaged to more than its value. The title-deeds he handed over were fresh ones he had had copied from the original draft, and were therefore fraudulent. The sight of Nathan Gomer, with an officer at his elbow, revealed to him the discovery that had been made; and, in his intense alarm, he leaped out of the window, in the hope of escape, but only to succeed in making himself a maimed cripple for life.
No one would desire to “break a butterfly on a wheel;” and by this event Hugh Riversdale considered his wife, Helen, avenged.
Mark introduced Nathan Gomer to Hugh, and they together left Wilton’s house for the residence of the deceased Grahame.
Wilton listened to the account of Lester Vane’s iniquity, and to his terrible accident, with a chastened spirit-He called Flora to him, and pressed her to his heart. “I have wronged you, Flo’, my darling,” he said with emotion. “I have been bitterly punished. Well, well; we will see if we cannot reward you with a young handsome fellow you would like better; well, well, we shall see how he behaves himself.”
“Dear, dear father,” murmured Flora, her eyes glistening with happiness at his words.
Old Wilton gazed fondly on her face, upturned to his; a gleam of pride shot forth from his eyes as he perused her exquisite features.
“Upon my word,” he said, with a chuckle, “that young fellow, Vivian, is a cunning dog, with excellent taste. He might journey many a weary mile ere he found a prettier face than yours, Flo’. Except,” he added, reflectively, “that he were to encounter my little pet nurse on his way. Hem! she had a pretty face that kind young friend of yours, eh, Flo’?”
“A dear, dear face!” responded Flora, warmly. She turned to Mark with an expressive twinkle in her eyes, and said, “you think so too, don’t you, Mark?”
“He!” ejaculated his father, with a kind of depreciatory grunt—“he’s but a poor judge.”
“Judge enough, at least,” cried Mark, rather hotly, “to think the face of your little pet nurse, as you call her, the brightest, sweetest, pleasantest, the most loveable under heaven.”
He looked fiercely and defiantly both at his sister and father, as though to challenge them to disprove him if they could. Flora smiled roguishly at him; and Wilton with evident satisfaction, for he little dreamed that the subject of his son’s encomium was that very “low-born beggar” he had so sternly objected to receive into his family.
“Why, Mark,” he exclaimed, with a chuckle, “you have more discrimination and taste than I gave you credit for. In this matter you judge justly, and with a very clear perception of the truth. I say, that when she comes before you, her face greets you like a burst of sunshine, it is radiant with a galaxy of glories, for it is cheerful, amiable, placid, gentle, good, generous, patient, unselfish—everything, in fact, that is estimable, and can make the female face divine.”
“Everything?” echoed Mark, emphatically.
“Everything?” repeated Flora, reflectively.
“Yes; every one of those beautiful qualities I have named beam in her fascinatingly expressive face!” exclaimed Wilton.
“And in her clear, earnest eyes?” said Mark.
“And in her eyes!” echoed his father.
“And in her smile!” suggested Flora.
“And in her smile,” repeated Wilton, slightly elevating his voice.
“Aha!” chuckled Mark—“Aha! aha!”
He was on the eve of making a great disclosure, but he restrained himself. He, however, rubbed his hands briskly with intense gratification; while Mr. Wilton felt his resolution to carry out his cherished and secretly formed design considerably strengthened by the very apparent good feeling entertained by his children towards the object of his hidden purpose.
The pleasure diffused by that conversation, somewhat further extended, seemed to compensate for the pain the previous incidents of the morning had occasioned.
Truly, the little episode was very agreeable—not the less so, perhaps, because the actual relation in which the subject of it stood to father and son did not transpire.
A few days subsequently, Mr. Wilton was startled by a note from Mr. Charlock. It had reference to the proposed meeting between Mr. Wilton and his solicitor, and the new claimant and his solicitor. It stated that Mr. Eglinton, having ascertained beyond a doubt the indisputable character of his claim, failed to see, upon reflection, any advantage in the suggested arrangements; he therefore announced his intention of withdrawing from it, and of leaving the legal proceedings to take their legitimate course. Mr. Charlock appended to this communication from the opposite party his own private opinion that, after a very keen and subtle examination of the new claims by a consultation of eminent counsel, there was no prospect of successfully resisting them; and, in the strict and conscientious performance of his duty, he advised, to save the enormous cost of going to trial, that Mr. Wilton should abandon those he had for years so pertinaciously urged.
Mr. Wilton perused this letter with much dissatisfaction, and without at all being convinced by its reasoning. No man, who for years has nursed a claim to property, real or fancied, is ready to yield it up on representations such as Mr. Charlock made to Mr. Wilton. If there is one thing in life’s transactions he clings to with more unyielding tenacity than another, it is a claim at law to property. To prosecute his claim, he will suffer himself to be denuded of all he possesses; he will part with everything he can lay his hands on—try solicitor after solicitor—abandon trade, profession, comparative independence—exhaust his means—yield up everything, in fact—but his claim; and when, after successive defeats, all possibility of continuing the struggle longer is taken from him, he has still faith in his right still an unshaken belief that he has not had justice dealt out to him, that judge, jury, and lawyers have been feeed, and have entered into a conspiracy to defraud him of what is lawfully his.
Old Wilton was no exception to the rule. It is true he had a misgiving about this claim, of which he had first heard from Nathan Gomer, but that individual had told him it was one which was never likely to be preferred, and he had, therefore, troubled himself no more about it. Nathan Gomer had spoken in very light terms about it, and no doubt justly. He began to surmise that Mr. Charlock was falling into his dotage when he recommended a client to resign claims acknowledged to be most powerful to property so large and valuable. He quickly found many reasons why he should contend for the prize, and, whether founded on sound conclusions or not, he adopted them. Who was this Mr. Eglinton who had so suddenly appeared? Where had he sprung from—where hidden himself—how could he identify himself? Ha! that was a point of very great importance! Had not he, Wilton, for years been kept from the enjoyment of his property, because of the difficulty of proving that he actually was the person he represented himself to be. In such manner did he argue the question with himself, and ultimately determine at any sacrifice to proceed in his suit, even if he had to change his “man of business” to accomplish his resolve.
First, however, he resolved upon a reconciliation with Nathan Gomer. He had at best but a hazy notion of the actual cause of difference existing between them. He, however, felt that he had himself been to blame, and from him the amende honorable ought to come. He determined that it should; but how communicate with Nathan. He had already had one letter written to him returned unopened. He was not anxious to repeat the experiment.
He luckily remembered that Flora stood very high in Nathan’s favour, that he had always evinced a nervous anxiety for her happiness; and therefore it was extremely probable that if she were to address to him a few lines requesting him to come again to visit the family on the same footing as of old, and convey a hint that her father regretted any unconsidered behaviour of his own which had tended to produce a rupture in the amiable relations in which they had always stood to each other, he would comply with her solicitation.
After carefully considering the point over, he sought his daughter, Flora, and conveyed to her his desire that she should write a note to Nathan Gomer, inviting him to return to his old position in their family. Wilton left to Flora the entire wording of the epistle. He merely wished her to express his own desire to meet Nathan again, and his regret that any misunderstanding should have occasioned their separation.
Flora was quite unconscious of the result attending this communication. If she had been, it is very probable that she would have infused into it all the ardour and fervour of which her nature was capable. As it was, she had a deep respect for the little man, and great faith in his promise to procure for her future life as much happiness as he might have it in his power to control.
Thus she composed her note to Nathan Gomer with sufficient eloquence and warmth to assure him that she was solicitous to see him again; and he was shrewd enough to comprehend also Wilton’s anxiety, by the medium he had employed to convey his wishes. In his dreary, dull old chamber he sat alone, and pondered over Flora’s note the long night through; and the following day she received a short but kind reply, to tell her that he yielded to her solicitation, and he would join them at dinner that day.
He came to his appointment. His manner and appearance exhibited no apparent difference to what they ordinarily wore. Yet Flora fancied she could detect an expression of satisfaction, if not pleasure, in his eyes, an evidence that he was no less gratified at the reunion than all present were.
When the cloth was cleared, and the servants had quitted the room, Wilton cleared his throat, and said—
“Ahem—a—Mr. Gomer—a—I take an early moment to say—a—that with no desire to intrude upon your time, which I—a—I know to be very valuable—I—a should be most glad of a little of your counsel and experience on a matter which very intimately and deeply—a—concerns my future prospects.”
“I shall be very happy, Wilton, to afford you any advice or assistance,” replied Nathan Gomer, gravely; “but before I attempt to do so, there are two points, I think, ought to be settled. First, who I really am, and by what right I have taken upon myself to interfere in your family affairs——”
Flora and Mark looked hard at each other; if ever here was a question possessing a vivid interest to them both, this was one.
“And, secondly,” continued Nathan Gomer, “that I consider my advice, if worth asking for, to be worth following. I therefore distinctly decline to give it unless you, having faith in the deep concern I entertain for your welfare and interests, pass to me your word of honour as a gentleman that you will accept it and carry it out.”
The first was a subject of eager curiosity to Wilton, and he was only too glad that Nathan had himself mooted it: but the second was a poser. Suppose he should advise as Charlock had done?
A rapid retrospective reflection, however, caused Wilton to believe that he might rely upon the sincerity of Nathan Gomer’s counsel, for he had proved its truth and its profound sagacity; so he assented, with a graceful manifestation, which Nathan accepted at pretty much its proper value.
“First, then,” he exclaimed, “to reveal to you who I am, and why I therefore have taken upon myself to advance your interests, and ensure the happiness of yourself and children.”
He drew a deep breath and placed his hand over his eyes.
Wilton, Mark, and Flora regarded him with breathless attention.
For a minute or so a profound silence reigned, broken only by the heavy inspirations of Nathan Gomer.